The Rise of the Runelords

Game Master DEWN MOU'TAIN

Golzar thinks he might hear something. "Shh," he hisses. "D'you hear that?" He strains, trying to make sense of whether it was a false alarm or something significant.

Neari kept an ear out while she looked about for anything suspicious.

Faaaaaaaine. She turns heel, sets her sword the two final inches back into its sheath and heads in to look for Ameiko. She takes special care not to catch the gaze of any nobles, largely ignoring their presence and pressing through the crowd to find the inn's proprietor.

She began to stand at the halfling’s behest when Ameiko’s own table erupted in yelling. Titus began to verbally attack Corrin despite warning from several of his peers.
Loxley herself was ready to come to her companion’s defense when Ameiko’s voice cut in, and even she could feel the icy razor’s edge the innkeeper’s tone carried.
She knew she never wanted to be on the receiving end of it.

Bethana’s quiet urgency brought her attention around from Corrin’s response and she looked down at her, a little unsure.
”is something the matter?”
She whispered with some concern, but she let the smaller women start to lead her away from the table.

"Be safe Sazzat" Zeldana told him. "May the shadows be your friend..."

Golzar frowns. "Did someone...abandon their post...to..." He grits his teeth. "Hal 'ant sakhif tamzah maei?!" he swears in Kelish.

He pauses, leans against the gate, and rolls his eyes. "Yes, a clear crisis in management and carrying out orders," he says in a low, temperamental voice. "The guards here can't keep it in their pants long enough to get through a shift."

Bethana tugs on her hand and Loxley Ruben’s to look at her in obvious confusion.
What? What is going on?”
She asks in a hushed tone, but the halfling only tells her that she’s in trouble and Zel was taking her away.

Loxley looks at Zeldana expectedly, obviously looking for some kind of explanation.

"You trust me yes?" Zeldana asked as she held out her hand.

The nobles around the table nod and grunt out vague pleasantries. Titus looks once at Ethram, opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it closed. Snarling softly, he grasps his wine glass and stalks away towards the darkened sublevel of the commons.
Are you ok? Ayame leans over and asks Corrin, her hand rubs softly while her tone is filled with concern. Father never liked that man, would often mutter dark things about Lord Titus. Terrible mannerisms he has. Lord Titus i mean, not my father. Although my father... she trails off.
Well said, Ethram Lord Deverin says around his glass.
Ethram looks like he is going to say something, but another wet cough stops him.

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21

There were previously three men with her... are the other entrances secure?

Reflecting some more, she thinks

Nobles' affairs and events seem to become like hostile border crossings...
------------

Once those two began to move forward, he caught Bandit as it jumped down to him and then darted across the street at an angle (moving Northeast) where again he tossed Bandit softly atop the building's roof to his right (East) and flattened up against the wall and waited for Zeldana to look around corner while making sure this area, that was technically not a street, seemed safe to traverse. Upon spotting Zeldana, he again Messages her indicating the way was safe. Then moved back to the left side and moved north until he got to next corner and looked back to his left (West) to make sure it was clear.

He glanced back to see that Zeldana and Loxley had rounded the corner and was about to Message Zeldana when Bandit emotions set off an alarm bell in his head. He immediately looked up to the roof to see if Bandit was moving in his direction or was caught in something or by someone. If he does not see Bandit, he Message Zeldana to hide. Then he will move quickly to see what is going on, looking around the corner first, then making it to the roof top if he spots nothing at the ground level.

Thinking on her feet, Zeldana scanned the nearby houses to see if any on them had candles lit.

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

For now, she could only follow Zeldana’s lead. She caught the woman glancing from house to house as they hurried. And somewhere ahead she thought she caught sight of Sazzat. The man and his fuzzy little companion looked like they were scouting ahead of the women.
Loxley fell silent as they passed by the houses along the street. She felt even more guilty. They could all be enjoying an evening back at the inn if not for her and her troubles, she thought as she ran.

If it had reach the point they were spiriting her away out the back of the Rusty Dragon, perhaps she was right to leave. Putting Sandpoint behind her would save everyone from more trouble. She would just need to retrieve her bags from her room.
She was glad she thought to pack them ahead of time.

"Hehe, still wishing we had run off elsewhere?"

Golzar's bandage-wrapped face doesn't give for much in the way of expression, but even that lack does not prevent him from lacing his response with venom. "Yes," he responds. "This is a waste of our time."

"I'm coming! I'm coming! Just a second! One moment longer."

I see what you did there.

"Father Zantus will hear about this one way or the other," Golzar says, holding up his own holy symbol, matching Neari's. "Whether his impression is more kind to you or not depends entirely on how you respond now."

Intimidate, to aid Neari: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (5) + 8 = 13

It’s known locally as Lassiter’s rock. A simple, odd rock marked with a crude stonemasons symbol set into the wall, no higher than a man’s hip. Made of a gray solid rock, it holds upon it an odd rounded protrusion that was never removed before the rock was set in mortar some 80 odd years before. The rock’s namesake, Lassiter, was the settlement's single drunkard. He hailed from Magnimar, at least that is what he claimed. His accent placed him further to the east, yet no one could say where. Yet, when your building a new settlement, and first order is to build a source of protection against the uncivilized natives that surrounded your land choice, the community at large didnt care that the stonemason, or fake stonemason, was a drunkard. Only that he could lay stone. And he did lay stone well, when he had a few ales in him.
On that day though, 80 odd years before, he had gone past the “few” and began the “many”. The mortar, with lime and sand mixed at it’s proper ratio, and the other field stones wetted for adherence, held fast the stone, no matter the state of the stonemason’s mind. Lassiter stacked and slapped, stacked and slapped. Stacked, drank, and slapped. Stacked, slapped, and drank. Drank, drank, stacked and slapped. Each layer going higher and higher, the mortar thicker and thinner, each stone laid upon the last. Higher and higher, the wall grew. Yet it was the last stone, the stone with the odd round protrusion, that took Lassiter’s life. Lassiter, drunker than a skunk, had set the stone in haphazard mortar mix. The mix was equal parts sand and lime slurry, a mixture for a wharf, not for a building. The man weaved and bobbed, the sway only a drunk can achieve, a pale mimicry of a great masted ship in a tropical storm far out at sea. He swayed and leaned, left and right, and when he looked upon the stone, he gave a great cry. No one knows what he was going to say, for the last sway tumbled him hard, and he connected the round stone to between his bright blue eyes. The stone took it’s mason’s life, yet it wasnt the last.

A cell was built around this same stone, yet no stonemason that came after lassiter would dare chisel the protrusion free of it’s base. Instead, it was worn down by the cell residents as they paid their time. Yet, every so often, guilt would set upon the man, depression upon the woman, desperation for the captured, that release would be desired. Every few years, an inmate, a convict, a felon would take their own life. More and more would Lassiter’s rock drink blood, consume souls, and soon the cell would take upon a depressing feel all its own. The guards would feel it as they made rounds, and would swing wide of the cell doors, albeit unconsciously so. Their arms would itch, their heads would ache, and theyd complain to their fellow guardmates. Many years after the setting of the stone, yet before the couple would step into the cell, the order was made to use the cell as a last resort, and that any that would be housed were to be kept under direct watch. However, despite the most vigilant of watches kept, Lassiter’s rock still drew it’s bloody take. And always the same way, with a stumble and a fall.

It was this same rock that drove into the man’s hip, its desire to feast fervently and prescient. The rock went deep into the man’s side, punching through trousers and skin. Red blood spurted forth from the wound, yet it is the pain that provides the distraction, the return of will.
“I’m better than her. Your girlfriend” her voice whispered into his ears, the sweetest of honey’s given voice, his soul quivered in harmony with her breathy exhale. Yet the pain shot through as she pressed into him, driving Lassiter’s rock further into his hip. He lolled his head back, his eyes rolling as well. The desire to mate was an iron spike set into stone, her every movement a hammer’s blow setting it home. The pain, it drove the desire back, to the back of his mind. It attacked the lust that made the greatest of forge’s seem cold by comparison, it drove it back, beat at it. The pain focused his mind, each gyration from the woman who held him only deeped the pain in his side, only focused his mind more and more. It provided the concentration, the desire to break away, to remove this wretch from his possession.
No longer did he want to be with her, to be in her. He wanted her gone, to be removed. He wanted to resist. To break contact. His desire burned with a fury, a fury now that he knew if he gave in to it, just once, he was gone. He would burn away, consumed by unnatural desires.
“The things i can do to you, with you, upon you….” she purred, her tongue licking across his neck flared his desire to the max, to the brink! He held at the edge, the tips of his nails dug into a cliff face, he clung to the pain. He had to cling to that! The pain was him! Was his desire! He desired the pain! He had to have more pain! The pain was him! He was his pain!
He drove more of the rock into him, now he could feel real pain. It slashed at this unnatural desire that scorched his mind. It gave him clarity.
“I, on top of you, here, now” she whispered. Her perfume assailed his nose, unnaturally sweet seductions promising great rewards of the flesh; he need only submit to her. He felt her hands unclasp around his neck, and slowly caressed his chest. The touch-The touch! It wasnt nearly as potent as before. The desire was fading. “Mmm youd be in me, soo deep in me. My first” this last is whispered ever so slightly that it barely registers in his hearing.
He felt his heart hammering harder and harder in his chest, trying to drive itself out of his ribcage, or worse, through his spine. Hot, lust filled blood surged throughout his body, and part of it began to warm his thigh from the pointed rock burrowed into his hip. An odd thought suddenly swims across his mind, that of when the menagerie visited sandpoint not 10 years before. Catch the swine was the game, and the winner took home the pig. He and 12 other boys had all leaped at the chance to be the one to win, to take home the prize pig. The pig was released, and the boys quickly found out that the pig itself was slickened with a thick layer of blubber. He struggled hard, trying to catch the swine, yet his hands would just slip and slide off the body. Yet, it was his teeth that sunk into the pigs ear that enabled him to catch the pig.
What he was experiencing now was worse than that. Yet, he dug deep into his determination, desperation lending mental strength to push through the carnal craving, and was able to sink his teeth into the pain.
His thoughts cleared! His desires were cooled! It was as if he was dunked into the coldest pond on the coldest day of midwinter! His heart, hammering, now suddenly shuddered to a stop.
She had appeared, almost out of nowhere. A stranger. What was she doing down in the dungeon? Said she was there to see Father Zantus. But he had stepped away. She had to have seen him. He- he-
Her name.
Her name!
It wasnt her name.
It was different. A jumble. A- a-, what’s that word? An anagram!
Her name was an anagram!
“I know who you are.” he suddenly says in a cool tone, and he feels her grow still.
“I’ve known you for years.” he continues. “You, your sister, your father. Youve changed.”
The heavy smell of blood fills his nostrils as his thigh grows more wet. His heart, calm and cool, now began to hammer again, this time in fear.
One moment he was breathing quickly, his body craving air and his lungs provided it.
The next moment, he couldnt breath. He couldnt take that breath! He coughed, and felt a thick liquid splash out of his mouth. He coughed a second time, a third, a fourth. His whole body shook as it tried desperately to clear whatever was filling his lungs from within.
Whatever… his mind registers the taste
blood
his blood
The woman suddenly backs away, her face, hair, chest, dress, all drenched in the man’s blood. He drops to the floor and lands wetly upon his side. He coughs more and more, gurgling on his own blood as it splashes out from his mouth.
The woman squats down in front of him, and watches, her eyes now black, blacker than obsidian at night. She speaks, but in a disjointed tone, as if she had 10 different voices speaking through her.
She took everything from me, Jorn. My life, my future…my children. It is time for her to suffer the same. It is time for Zeldana to suffer like she has caused me to. Die now, Sherrif Jorn, and know that the both of you will spend eternity searching for the other.

"Nine Hells! What are you?"

Golzar sneers, baring his teeth as his upper lip curls. He knew his appearance was frightening to some, and was more than happy to use that to his advantage, but the presentation of "what" instead of "who" was reminiscent of the othering he had experienced as a Keleshite. Magnimar wasn't the most racist place in the Inner Sea, or indeed in Varisia, but there were certainly plenty who saw anyone of anything other than pure Chelaxian stock as less-than. Varisians and Shoanti got enough of it, but they were at least recognized as indigenous. Foreigners, even if they had been born and raised in the country and among the culture, were another step removed still.

So Golzar rattles the gate and snarls, "Open up!" not willing to dignify the man's muttered question with a response. "Chelb," he curses as he strides in. "Stay on shift or you'll regret it. Come on."

Perception: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (17) + 11 = 28

"In truth my lady I did not thing about the fact your son and I are courting when I came knocking, that was very rude of me as I am sure Jorn would have liked to introduce us properly... I am afraid I was more overcome with worry for my friend." Zeldana clarified. "Tea would be lovely, but I don't wish to put you out."

Just as she approaches the final corner to turn, she slows down and half draws her (current) sword. She peeks around...

She glanced around nervously as her companion knocked and the duo waited. It felt like an eternity, but only a few moments actually passed before the door opened. The older women that answered their late night call was familiar looking, but Loxley couldn’t place a name. She managed a polite nod and a-
”Good evening.”

The woman radiated warmth and familiarity. Loxley was sure she must have been very pretty in her youth. One of those girls all the man tried to court.
As Zeldana made introductions she nodded in understanding.
”Ah, I see. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Aibhnichean.”
She gave the older woman small respectful bow.

”Tea would be lovely.”
She agreed, trying to be polite despite her nerves being on edge.

He asked tilting his head dark thoughts of flaying danced through his head.. he scowled his hands slid to his lap away from tugging his mask down. He wasnt proposing to murder the man... was he? a challenge sure but... He looked over to the young woman shaking his head slightly so much was going on already.. maybe he should just slip upstairs and grab his spears.... or a spear... or something.
"i dont get the human customs here i mean... in my tribe to the east if say a potter died and no family was there to take his wares the elders would assign them to a member of the community... he deemed worthy is that how it works here?