Let's do the time warp again!
Mission location: Absalom
Meeting Letter: None, yet
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Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your Peril.
- DYRIANNA OF AVENSTAR, Archbishop of Absalom, Vicar of Menotherian, Supreme Vigilante of the Faith and Dominant of the Submissives of Calistria.
Luisila reads the fatwa issued by her High Priestess, which politely requests her to attend the Pleasure Salon at her earliest convenience, to explain how an experienced cleric of a perfect goddess could mistake a Grand Lodge messenger boy with a sworn enemy of the faith.
The half-elf gives the matter serious consideration – for all of three milliseconds – before reaching a decision.
Sod that! I’ll just go into hiding until VC Valsin posts me overseas. I mean, what are the chances my next mission will be in Absalom?
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"Ah, Cassomir!" Linnea exclaims as she struts down the pier towards the city. As she walks, she glances down at a scrap of paper, mumbling to herself. "Hmm... Flaxseed Lodge... Well, he better be there!"
She adjusts her pack and sets off down the main thoroughfare, looking around at all the people and establishments. Finally, she finds her destination.
Upon entering the lodge, Linnea is overcome by the hustle and bustle of the place.
She finds her way to the the intake desk, and politely inquires, "'Scuse me, but I'm wondering if Field Agent Ernest Kalthet is in?"
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The halfling Venture-Captain looks up from his desk and sets aside his spectacles next to a well-worn fedora. "Agent Linnea Joculus, right? Yes! Welcome to the Flaxseed Lodge! You are speaking with the Venture-Captain Trotter Flaxseed himself, of course, but I'm afraid my good friend Ernest isn't here at the moment. Ernest is in Absalom, going on about some kind of 'practical research' and researching alchemist contacts."
"I suppose he's got some mission in mind for you, eh?" Trotter asks. "Well, it sounds like you'd best be going to Absalom to catch up with him. If you need, I can get one of our wizards to cast a teleportation spell to get you there in a hurry. I know someone who is quite the specialist in that sort of magic." Trotter turns his head to the side. "Oh cousin Silh! Are you here? I need a favor...."
Trotter goes off to find his magically-inclined cousin who gladly casts a teleportation spell on Linnea to get her on the right track.
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"'I'll try,' says a small woman, 'but you have to promise not to hit me on the head with the bottle.'"
Panfalcon laughs with a sinister sneer as the three Osirian women giggle politely at the sorcerer's drawn out joke. One rubs his neck and shoulders, while one is giving him a manicure and the last is performing a pedicure. He could have two more girls working on the unattended hand and foot, but such sensory overload makes it difficult to unwind.
Panfalcon sits in a private booth within the Isis's Flower which is located in the Foreign Quarter. The Living God tries to make a stop in when ever he visits the City at the Center of the World. He commands a private booth because he does not wish to enrapture any by-standers with his heavenly glory. And while the Pleasure Salon could offer the same services, Panfalcon prefers servants that know their trade. Such establishments typically present some trumped-up harlot that calls herself a "masseuse". Leaving his hands and fingers, tools of life and death mind you, in the care of a call-girl would be foolish. Panfalcon has heard stories of such women nibbling on fingers and toes. Outrageous to even think of defacing such works of art.
After the trio of women are finished with their duties, another woman bows before Panfalcon. She calls herself Jasmine. How original. Jasmine escorts Panfalcon into the back steam room for his mud bath and nap. Is that the smell of chocolate? The nap may have to wait.
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Each of you has traveled to Absalom, be it because it is your home, you are tracking a bumbling wizard, or because they’ve got the wide selection of “assistants” you seek. Regardless of the reason, everyone who sleeps at night is awoken by a knock in the dead of night; night owls simply get a very late delivery at the same, dark hour. Slipped underneath the door, delivered via the front desk of your “entertainment establishment” of choice, or other convenient place is available is a sealed missive. Contrary to faction missions of days gone by, these letters bear no seals or official-looking stamps. In fact, they only bear the name of their intended recipient written on the front. The inside contains a missive written on the plainest of parchment one can find, though the letter itself has a seal shared between Venture Captains to authenticate letters.
The Lodge urgently requests you to take part in a mission of utmost secrecy. Just beyond the walls in the direction of Gest’s gaze, a carriage will wait for your arrival within the hour of midnight, as I must speak with you and other trusted associates of a matter concerning security of the entire Society. You must trust my guard to thoroughly hide my location from you and your allies, as knowing my location may put you in excessively more danger than needed. I recommend you burn this letter and discuss it with no one as a precaution once you have internalized the message.
The line about Gest’s gaze is likely referring to the 20-ft tall statue of Durvin Gest, Pathfinder extraordinaire, located to the west of Skyreach.
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Linnea shrugs her sholders and steps through the magical portal back to Absalom.
Much later...
After a particular good comedy routine, a late-night courier finds Linnea and delivers the missive.
She follows the suggestion and burns the letter before stopping by her dorm and picking up her gear.
She then heads to the statue of Durvin Gest to meet the carriage.
I guess I'll just try to find Ernie after this...
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Luisila has just managed to drift off to sleep, when the messenger’s knock on her Grand Lodge dorm room door, wakes her with a start.
Worried about Dyrianna’s next move and missing her younger room-mate, who is away on a mission, the half-elf hasn’t been sleeping well.
“Just a minute.”
Grabbing a kimono to cover herself, Luisila clutches one of Smine’s best as she negotiates with the courier through the locked door.
“Just slide the note under the door, please.”
Deciding the message is likely on the up-and-up, the priestess dresses in her usual battledress, before secreting the paper in her Pathfinder pouch. As she passes the statue of Durvin Gest, Luisila fondly remembers an evening a couple of Foundations Days ago, when she spent the night in Durvin’s arms.
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While reclining at the Hunting Lodge in Absalom, he receives the missive. He rolls the missive into a piece of kindling, lights the end in the fire, then brings the lit end to his pipe. As he exhales and tosses the remainder in the fire, he smiles broadly and heads out into the night to meet that carriage.
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A cloaked figure is the last to join the party beneath the gaze of Gest.
At the end of his approach, the man peals his hood away a bald man with a sharply cut VanDyke beard with glowing green eyes..
"Greeting mortals. I am the Sandtiger, Panfalcon Dryadson. It has been some time since I have done a bit of the 'cloak and dagger' for the Society. I hope they do spring for a decent carriage this time. The last one I rode in seemed to find ever pot hole in the city."
Slightly before the stroke of midnight, a pair of average-looking men (in reference to Pathfinder muscle-oriented work) flash their Wayfinders and gesture for you to follow. If inquired, they inform you that they are here to take you on "a sudden date to meet with Nigel Aldain", which is a common turn-of-phrase about the always-dreaded impromptu meeting with Drendle Dreng late at night. Whether this means Dreng waits for you at the end of the carriage ride. The carriage is of standard make, nothing that would be out-of-place at any meeting place, though the strangest thing is that the goons insist upon wearing Dakar Brand Burlap Sack of Audible and Visual Senses, or else they are instructed to deny access to the carriage. Whomever bought these bags thought to buy the bags in velvet, however, likely so the wearer is slightly more comfortable in their sensory deprivation zone.
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A carriage ride lasting roughly 10 minutes ends with a short, daisy-chain assisted walk of no more than 40 paces. A finely decorated room is revealed as a calloused, wrinkled hand removes the smooth, black velvet hood from each party member while the men who brought you here act the part of bouncers at the singular door. After everyone is unmasked, he speaks; "I am sorry for all the secrecy, but unfortunately, someone is trying to kill me." The figure makes his way about the room unmasking everyone, his unkempt gray hair and bushy eyebrows framing milky-white eyes that suggest the onset of cataracts; it is Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. He walks past several covered easels to a plush, zebra-patterned chair, where he painfully creaks into an awkward sitting position. As he straightens his spine, a series of loud pops protest, and he looks up and pleads, "Pathfinders, I need your help."
"While I know many individuals have designs on my life, I cannot figure out how this particular killer benefits from my passing." Dreng leans forward, looking suddenly more serious. "What I am going to ask of you may seem unorthodox, but I need you to capture this assassin and bring him to me. Use caution, for the accused has a very powerful father in the Society. The killer's name is Sidri, and right now he's hiding behind his father's power in one of the Grand Lodge's outbuildings. Go there and accost Sidri with as little violence as possible, and I shall contact you regarding what to do next."
Dreng looks from side to side, as if someone might be listening in and whispers, "I fear this may have something to do with the Shadow Lodge, the Aspis, or whomever it is Torch is poising to backstab at the moment. Do nothing to attract attention to yourselves-avoid being seen by locals and Pathfinders alike. Be careful, be stealthy, and bring me Sidri. I would know why he has designs on my life-it's possible that his father has them and is instructing his son to kill me, but I can't be too sure. Whatever you do, be cautious, Pathfinders."
Dreng leans back and reaches in the folds of his black garment, taking out an amulet. "Here, take this. I can contact you easily as long as it's in your possession. Any questions?"
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The goons insist upon you wearing … velvet bags over your heads.
Luisila *shrugs* “Nothing new for me, darling.”
“… he's hiding behind his father's power in one of the Grand Lodge's outbuildings.”
Luisila screws up her face in amazement. “Sidri’s dad’s power is in one of the GL’s outbuildings?!? Are you seriously trying to tell us you’re scared of a plumber?”
The priestess curls up her upper lip as she thinks. “What can you tell us about this Sidri guy, VC Dreng? Is he actually a member of the Society? If he was to join, would he likely be a Sword, Scroll or Spell? … And who is his Father anyway?”
"How did he try to ..." Luisila runs a finger across her throat. "Do you in, Venture-Captain? Also, you called him a 'killer.' Does that mean he's already murdered someone?"
Dreng starts to nod off a little in the middle of the first question, but seems to absorb the dialogue once he is accused of some sort of Plumber Phobia. "Eh? I think you got 'outhouse' and 'outbuilding' confused, though I suppose a shed wouldn't be the last place I'd cross that line. I think 'an almost active volcano' is the worst place for that, and that's speaking from experience."
"As for the family, let's start at the top. "His name is Nordris Kalm, and he's a half-elven venture-captain in Diobel. He's a shepherd of people and information, as one might put it. Be careful not to alert him to your investigations; I'm not entirely sure who to trust nowadays and I don't want to add to this danger. Having any blood on my hands, especially any that is shed in lieu of mine, is the worst of sorts." Declan shakes his head sadly at the thought.
Dreng scratches his head, "I suppose would-be killer is a better title. Anyone else my age would be buried already, but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve." Dreng laughs himself into a minor coughing fit only a few deep chuckles in, and continues. "Sidri is a Pathfinder agent of your stature, and... Well... a good way to put it is that he takes a more physical approach to the social graces his father. It is still nothing short of finesse, but in a 'Hidden dagger between the ribs' finale than his father's 'We'll be mailing your wife these ledger entries if we're not getting into the tombs' modus operandi. Half-elf, male, dark hair, like his father."
"His attempts were straightforward. Dagger in the crowd and the other was an attempted break-in. Pretty clumsy, so he must be either getting my guard down or is getting impatient." Declan amuses himself with his next comment, "Must be trying to beat Pharasma to the punch, eh heh heh. Once you bring him in, I'm sure we'll figure it out."
Dreng pauses a moment, thinking. He seems to forget where he is, but then amends his previous statement. "You know, now that we've discussed where Sidri's talents lie, I'm pretty sure he's probably killed someone at some point." Dreng shrugs, "But then again, who in this room hasn't killed something?" Dreng smiles with his broken piano teeth. He gets serious again, joints noisily readjusting to his serious pose. "Nobody's died yet on my watch in this incident yet and I plan to keep it that way. Hopefully that clearly answers those questions. Anything else?"
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Don’t follow me into a shed …
Luisila looks to Elysium, closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Thank-you so much for sharing that, O, Captain, My Captain.”
“Would it be reasonable to think the fine art of poisoning would be a part of Master Sidri’s repertoire?”
The half-elf looks at Huscarl Stollufsen. “Sounds like we can’t use lethal force against Sidri and his compatriots just yet, Cleaver. Though I guess any constructs, outsiders and the like are fair game? In self-defense of course, VC Dreng.”
"Has there been any dust up with Sidri within Pathfinder circles? Is there anybody he is close to within the Society? And I hate to bring this up Captain Dreng, but do you gain any advantage to see Sidri removed from public view or for him to use as a bargaining chip with his father?"
"Nothing more than any normal squabbles of in-party disagreement; nothing on the tier of 'Dreng; why'd you schedule that Paladin Against Undead with Necromancy Nancy to go into the Blakros Museum... again?!?'" Dreng nods, commending the second question after it is asked. "No, please ask; Despite how much I'm talking of distrust, I need you to trust me that this is a legitimate threat and not some power grab. In fact, I requested most of you here specifically because of how often you work together. If theirs is more than one traitor amongst us, we need to be certain they're not in the discovery party." He looks to Anders, "Well, except for you, Ander. The typical party's pit mage hasn't checked into the lodge in a while, and you, uhh... were the highest-esteemed arcane individual available on such short notice." Dreng leans down to his desk to await further questions, his sleeves resting next to an up-to-date roster of mages in the lodge, listed alphabetically with the first one being stricken out. (Said listing reading Ander Jotum). The rest of the list looks untouched.
"Thank-you so much for sharing that, O, Captain, My Captain. Would it be reasonable to think the fine art of poisoning would be a part of Master Sidri's repertoire? ... constructs, outsiders and the like are fair game? In self-defense of course, VC Dreng."
"No problem," the elderly venture captain goofily responds to the thanking, as if not detecting the sarcasm. "But let's just say that the Cleaver being here isn't an oversight in team selection; While I hope force won't be needed, when has that ever been the case? I trust your judgment as a team, and know you've got my resources if any kind of destruction is necessary." He thinks for a moment, scratching his balding head, "Not that that's an endless supply of money, but replacing a few doors and paying a few doctors isn't outside of logic. Raising the dead, though, is well outside the budget. I just want answers, not some kind of vengeance."
"As for his skills, his dossier implies he's more of a meathead ambush type than his father would like, but with the situation as it is, I can't say with 100% certainty he hasn't been getting some extra credit elsewhere." *beat* "I suppose I could just give you the dossier, huh?"
Dreng pushes a folder containing a lot details of less-than helpful medical records, akin to what one would consider a modern background check and medical record. Other than a bout with magical lice from Belkzen, nothing is very out of the ordinary. Good marks in Blades training and trap functionality & management; not so much in the Scrolls departments.
Panfalcon is already aware of his martial affinity and that he is of the sort reliant on flanking and finesse. His father was the one who paid for the training he needed to get into the Society.
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Dreng, having possibly forgotten Luisila's name, nods and repeats Varg's name for the Cleric. "Yes, best of luck, hot stuff. But because of the dangers I face, I can’t let you see your way back out." Dreng gestures to the burly men. "They’re going to put your masks back on and gently put you in a carriage, dropping you off near the Grand Lodge. I will contact you in 48 hours to get a progress report. Good hunting and be safe, Pathfinders."
There's some time for quick late-night purchases (if desired) and the only subtle lead to go on is the lodge's outbuildings. The easily-found outbuildings are essentially glorified sheds that act as temporary homes for the more transient Pathfinders that lack self-owned housing. They are made of thin wood. They're simple, one-story, one-room, single-room structures. The door is locked and there are no windows.
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“Aye...let's get after it, hot stuff.”
Fearing an ambush, Luisila will first silently listen at the doorways of all of the outbuildings and outhouses for suspicious activity inside them and check for traps. She will also look to see if she can discern what's in the fallen barrel.
If she doesn’t uncover anything out of the ordinary, she will motion Ander over to Sidri's residence, touch his shoulder lightly and mime turning a key in a lock with a rapid twisting motion of her right hand.
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Panfalcon allows his minions to perform their skullduggery as he casts a few spells. He also allows Luisila to carry his Breath of Life scroll for him in case of a ... mishap.
Mage Armor on himself.
Protection from Elements (Fire) on himself. 80 points of damage
Protection from Elements (Fire) on Cleaver. 80 points of damage
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As they leave Dreng’s carriage, Luisila hands Cleaver her clear spindle ioun stone for his wayfinder once again.
She raises an eyebrow as she accepts the superior sorcerer’s scroll of breath of life, before exclaiming in an incredulous tone. “But Mighty Sandtigger, this implies you accept the possibility of your own death! How can perfection personified possibly fail to prevent that from happening?”
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Panfalcon barely acknowledges Luisila question as if he's answered this question a hundred times.
"Fear not, child. Only a fool would not take precautions that the Mother of Monsters herself would try to challenge us in a guise of a lesser being. Those are the dangers you all may face when you choose to adventure with Greatness. For only a god can undo another god, look only at legends for those truths.
Many feel that Breath of Life is to prevent death. For me, it is to keep my divinity attached to my physical presence when the spiritual strings have weakened. There will be a time for me to shed my mortal coil, but that is not any time soon. For when I ascend, a great Rapture shall fall upon the Inner Sea with a Judgement across the lands. There is much work that needs to be done before then however.
So think of it like this: That scroll is not to prevent me from dying, but to delay the Rapture occurring in your lifetime."
The act of casting betrays stealth only somewhat, as these walls (while thin) are effectively the thickness of standard doors when it comes to hearing anything, and making some distance before casting the longer-term buffs makes anyone hearing these spells a non-issue. Fortunately, none of these are Invisibility which is actually illegal in Absalom, as of a the last half-decade (thanks to a series of heists from illusion-based burglars )
Luisila finds that all but Sidri's house are occupied by one individual each (two males and two females) and that the outhouses are without occupants. Only the one in the house #4 is awake and sounds to be humming a tune (poorly) and chopping some kind of meat. The smell indicates fish. The female occupant of #5 sleeps extraordinarily loudly.
The barrel contains a now-cornered cat with a long cream point coat in what appears to be a makeshift bed that consists of an upside-down tattered hat that is held off the ground by fishing wire, obviously set up by someone trained in wilderness survival and a desire to give a cat a bed. It has no identification tags and seems unhappy to be cornered in the barrel. It will requiring use of the art of Handling an Animal or other similar ability/spell to approach closer without startling it. It is not outwardly hostile, but most definitely appears to be attempting to find a path to escape its current house.
She motions to Ander toward Sidri's residence and bestows Guidance as above.
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The barrel contains a now-cornered cat ...
I wonder if the tasty tuna treat is meant for … (c’mon, Luisila! Think of a cool cat’s name...) Isis here. No matter, I believe we have bigger fish to fry.
For no particular reason, the capricious cleric whispers her farewell to the feline in the Galtan dialect. “Adieu ma petite et bonne chance.”
The lock is easily popped open after Ander rechecks for traps
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Linnea listens to Panfalcon's pontification with ever-decreasing interest. Adventuring with Greatness...? Okay.
She follows Luisila around to the barrel. "Oh, a kitty!" she whispers, realizing (perhaps too late) that she needs to keep quiet.
Quickly, she makes her way back over next to Ander as he works his mojo on the lock. She has her whip drawn in readiness.
Several yellowed pieces of parchment litter the creaking floorboards of this modest structure. Three large Absalom city maps dominate the north wall. A ratty leather chair offers the only place to sit, and a dusty blanket rests in the southeast corner.
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While Ander works on the door, Luisila pulls a scroll of invisibility purge from its case in her efficient quiver.
Once the elf has the door open, Luisila make another quick search for traps, before casting the spell and poking her head through the doorway.
“O Lady in the Room, reveal this one’s secrets.”
all awa
No highly-illegal invisi-burglars are revealed, though the cat does watch the party, head poking out of the northeast entryway of his barrel-house. Spoilered below (moreso for cleanliness, less for secret-y secrets) are a number of things you might say if we were talking face to face. Look at the thing if you do the thing! Maybe roll some things?
Ander finds no coinage or clues on the chair, though does find a grisly mask made questionable leathers hidden inside the ratty chair.
Mini-lesson: The odd thing about Norgorber is that his church is divided into 4 aspects and the quarters do not interact very often and sometimes even conflict directly. His 4 aspects are as follows:
Father Skinsaw: Aspect of Murder
Blackfingers: Aspect of Poison
Reaper of Reputation: Aspect of Secrets (in the blackmail variety usually)
Grey Master: Aspect of Thievery.
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"Hey, this mask looks familiar. Well the left cheek does...and the chin. But I don't recognize the upper lip or forehead. You know...cause it's made of people? Get it?"
You guys find Linnea hilarious. She shares the information that she knows about the skinsaw mask.
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Luisila searches papers, maps, floorboards and blanket for clues, before looking askance at the comedienne with the crop. “Lin, that’s just gross ... and speaking of gross, can you make out anything about this splotch on the blanket?”
“On the map there’s a building in the Ascendant Court that’s red-ringed. I can’t place it though. Building shapes always look weirdly different to me in a top view.”
She *casts* detect magic.
“Norgorber’s cult is all about deception. I’d say the Dreng we met was the real deal. Besides, I don’t think anyone can act that well.”
The circled location is "The Black Mask," a costume shop.
The splotch could act as both a nice blue-green dye and one-half of an arsenic compound (were one to possibly find and apply the other half somehow. As it exists now, it's harmless.)
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“Sounds like a front for Father Skinsaw’s people. I guess it’s the only lead we have at the moment.”
“Do we want to try and break into the place stealthily or maybe just bluff our way through the front door?”
Luisila thinks for a while before saying. “We could enter the shop and Linnea could tell the clerk ‘S’ sent us and that we’re seeking revenge after almost being expelled from the Society for complaining about wrong information from an Aram Zey briefing, that nearly got us all killed.”
“If Lin manages to convince them we’re possible clients or converts and we get admitted to the inner sanctum, we sort out any cultists and then interrogate them about Sidri – assuming he’s not already there.”
“Whotcha think?”
Still considering an ambush to be likely, Luisila keeps a sharp lookout for hidden threats when the party is ready to leave Sidri’s dive.