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A woman, a thin frame, with fiery red hair walks in. Strapped to her is leather armor, and a shortsword hangs at he hip. A few darts lay around her waist, it is hard to tell if they are for show or for "work".
Wel met indeed. Well aren't you a handsome devil, almost as beautiful as I. The name is Voarima, pleasure to meet you. I hope the Society has more people coming, it would be a shame to not have a proper party
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Entering presently is an older man, easily middle aged, wearing brown leather pants and a heavy, open jacket over a chain shirt. He wears numerous small holy symbols around his neck and carries a long pole bearing a hooked blade at the end. A few other weapons hang within his jacket and vicious spikes adorn his bracers. His thick, unkempt hair hangs loosely over his head much as his jacket hangs on his person. He seems steady and confident as he speaks.
"My name is Ruford. I've been a laborer, a street performer, a caravan guard, and now it seems I'm a Pathfinder. And from my experience, if you're looking for a proper party, the Pathfinder Society may not be right for you."
You have been stationed at the Grand Lodge in Absalom, awaiting assignment for a mission of utmost importance. Things finally seemed in motion when Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng sent out a summons for available agents. Specialized in the history of Absalom, Dreng is known for putting off-duty agents to work on sundry tasks when he finds them resting within the city’s limits. Coming to the meeting place—an odd choice of venue, as it is a street corner far from the Grand Lodge—a lone beggar garbed in baggy robes approaches. The only figure visible in the constant drizzle, the beggar sticks out his hands for currency. “Have you any coin to spare, fine folk?”
The question hangs in the air for only a scant moment before the figure pulls back his hood to reveal the wizened face of Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. He gives a crooked smile, soaked head to toe from his unprotected time in the rain. His clothes smell faintly of cabbage.
“Sorry about that,” he says with a wink. “I always like to play a little joke on agents when I stumble across them during my jaunts into town. Now, why did I summon you fine folk here again…?” Dreng shakes his head from side to side, as though trying to knock water out of his ears, despite the constant downpour.
“Ah yes, the Wounded Wisp! I’m undercover now and can’t stray far from the site I’m watching, but I need someone to retrieve a package for me from that fine establishment. It’s among Absalom’s most storied taverns, you see, and one that holds a special place of privilege in the Society’s lore as the place where the organization began. Well, I could drone on and on about it, but standing out in the rain is doing none of us any favors.” As if anticipating agreement, the bedraggled venture captain produces a small slip of folded paper from one of his many stitched pockets. Dreng quickly shows a glimpse of the page’s contents: a map detailing the location of the Wounded Wisp bar.
“The bartender is a woman by the name of Heryn Gale, a fine lady who came to own the Wisp after the passing of her father from—oh, bah, it’s really getting too cold for me to give a proper history lesson! If you could just go to the Wisp, and tell Heryn you’re there to pick up my parcel, it would be most appreciated. I’ll be around here for several more hours at least.”
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Ruford uses his hands to brush and squeeze the water from his coat lining, cursing the rain under his breath by every god he even considers revering. When Dreng finishes talking, Ruford speaks up.
"Is this package dangerous to transport? Do any other interested parties know about it? And if you're not here when we return, where should we deliver it?"
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The young half elf stands in the rain as it splatters off of his hooded cloak, contemplating the matter.
Beside the man is another cloaked figure hidden beneath the cloak. All hat is seem is a sharp toothy smile and long sharp clawed hands that seem to be more bone than skin on purplish flesh.
Zartel looks to his cloaked companion as his shoulders slump.
"Is this package dangerous to transport? Do any other interested parties know about it? And if you're not here when we return, where should we deliver it?"
“Before you judge, despite my current attire, I’m still a man of taste. The parcel is actually a special vintage of wine from the cellar of the Wounded Wisp. I’ve been sampling their finer wines in descending order of bottling. I dare not disappear from my current role in this district, but I also would appreciate some comfort items. After all, I doubt anyone would judge a supposed beggar sipping from a bottle of wine.”
"We can trust this Gale woman well enough, right? Anything we need to be on the lookout for?"
"Oh absolutely! Old friend."
"And if we can't find you, where do we take this package?"
"Don't worry, we'll find each other sooner or later."
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The smell of smoke and spilled ale assails the senses in this wide-open area. Walls of dark-stained wood make up the sides of the Wounded Wisp, while well-used wooden tables are spread throughout the space. A raised area in the back of the establishment houses several additional tables and eating areas for groups seeking more than just a good drink. An austere bar supported by kegs instead of wooden panels commands the northern end of the room. A stained-glass cabinet stands behind the bar, its dark panes cracked in several spots, yet not so opaque as to conceal the several dozen types of hard liquor within.
As you arrive, a handful of different groups are already relaxing around the bar, enjoying drink and food offered by the Wisp’s staff.
Heryn Gale works the bar of the Wounded Wisp, catering directly to those sitting on stools while simultaneously preparing drinks for those at tables and coordinating the wait staff. The current talk of the bar is that Sir Reinhart of Kenabres, a Mendevian crusader who recently arrived from the north, plans on attempting the Test of the Starstone, the legendary trial by which one might ascend to godhood.
Some of you may recognize the halfling Janira Gavix from your Confirmation; she is currently sitting at a table entertaining new recruits.
A Keleshite man who is clearly a devotee of Sarenrae sits at another table enjoying his meal.
Two half-orcs, a male and female, sit at another table trading crude jokes.
Some of you may recognize the military historian Yargos Gill
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Ruford hangs his dripping jacket and looks around the Wisp. He sees Delio headed to the bar, so he himself takes a detour and wanders over to the halfling telling stories to a group of ragged would-be adventurers. He listens for stories he might recognize as well as tales of places and happenings he does not.
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Zartrel and Skivane both hang their cloaks on the peg as they wander to the bar.
Two Ales please! Zartrel says as he hands a tankard to Skivane.
Leaning against the bar he looks to his Eidolon. Well shall we go speak with some of the patrons while we wait for this package?
Zartrel and Skivane head over to the two orcs.
Might we be able to join you?
"Janira…good to see you again!" Jon exclaims before remembering how many new recruits she must meet. "Jon Hawthorne…we had some business with Gillmen and an angry minotaur not to long ago." It wouldn't surprise me if I need to be even more specific.
Janira remembers Jon exactly and is excited to see him again. "Oh yes! That was quite exciting! I hope you're well. As you can imagine, I'm always busy with the recruits of the Society! Another Confirmation coming up soon, in fact!"
Zartrel and Skivane head over to the two orcs.
Might we be able to join you?
You sit down with the half-orcs and discover that they are twins named Garl and Shrade. They continue trading stories. "Haha! Oh yeah, then there was that lass we rescued from a cave somewhere in Varisia. F%#+ing necromancer holding her hostage, trying to turn her into a zombie but she was still f#*+ing alive! Well, there's nothing an axe can't fix as we always say!"
The pause from their stories to explain, "We've been with the Society for 3 years now, but only been on a handful of missions. I guess we don't have the finesse the higher-ups are always looking for, hahaha!"
feels slightly out of place in a bustling tavern, she is usually one to avoid large crowds. She mills around from bar to various table, she stops at the table with the Keleshite man, and make small talk.
So, what brings you to this fine little establishment?
The man introduces himself as Aram bin Kaleel, a merchant and devotee of Sarenrae. "I have been a Pathfinder for some years now and like to come here to catch up with my fellow agents every few weeks. It is good to have connections with friends in the Society, yes? And being prepared for anything that may lie ahead is the of the upmost importance to a Pathfinder. Make sure you are ready for anything!"
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The bartender Heryn Gale’s replacement finally arrives and takes over her duties. Heryn then gathers you and escorts you to the cellars below, where she leads you to where Drandle Dreng’s requested vintage is stored. She takes great care in warning you about the treacherous footing in the cellar, noting that she plans on having the wooden board replaced . "Let's just take it one at a time and move slowly so no one gets hurt," she warns.
Beyond is the chamber is where the Wounded Wisp keeps its supply of specialty wines and ales for important occasions. The particular bottle you seek (a vintage from a year preceding the creation of the Society) sits alone on its own shelf. Heryn Gale points it out to you.
Eventually one of you moves forward and tries to pick up the bottle. However, your tug is met only with resistance at first until the bottle, rather than lifting from the rack, instead shifts up like a lever. The wine rack suddenly slides back into a short stone tunnel that leads deeper in to some forgotten room. . . .
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"Misled by a venture captain? Hmm, how unexpected." Ruford shrugs and crosses the board carefully. "So what room is this, Heryn?"
-Posted with Wayfinder
Heryn shakes her head. "I didn't know that was there. I don't think anyone knew that was there."
A sturdy silver chain jutting from the ceiling ends in a glowing orb that radiates yellow light across the rectangular room. A simple desk of polished wood, stacked with documents and scattered notes, shelters a pair of wooden chests against the south wall. A series of cracks along the eastern and western walls form makeshift entrances into exposed caverns.
As you step into the room to examine it further, a pair of giant spiders steps into the light from the side tunnels!