Vivian moves to ward the fallen evil mage, and strikes before he acts
The attack is spot on, but the blade simply does not penetrate.
The necromancer casts another spell, providing Vivian with an attack of opportunity.
A noxious cloud of yellowish gas appears, surrounding Vivian and Niculae, moving towards the rest of you.
*coughs*
*coughs*
*coughs*
Sophie's grandfather moves to the necromancer and strikes at him...
for
Sophie casts another spell, and a ghostly chain appears in the cloud beside Vivian and tries to yank the Necromancer into the cloud.
for
Sophie's great-grandfather summons a magical chain that hooks into the necromancer and pulls him into his own cloud of death. Coughing and sputtering, he turns a sickly green color.
Pontia gives an uncharacteristically exultant smile as the necromancer drifts down. "Oh, no. You're not going to get away that easily." Then she begins another conjuration spell while her lantern archons continue their attacks.
With a dramatic flourish and a hacking cough, Niculaie ends his performance, the final notes lingering in the air with the poisonous cloud. He runs through the deadly fog, past Vivian and out into what he hopes is cleaner air, before turning back to fire an arrow at the necromancer.
.
Poor Vivian can't catch a break, or her breath, despite Niculae best efforts
I accept my Fate, Pharasma. But you could have shown some mercy.
Niculae's arrow bounces off the mage, due to DR, however, the light archons have no such problem. Between the two that hit, it is enough to bring him to 0 hp.
Sophie tries to peer into the cloud...
Smiling tightly, Pontia strides forward to the edge of the cloud, whispering to the fallen necromancer in a strange language before he goes unconscious. Her lantern archons hover over and slightly behind her, their glow not illuminating her face.
Once the immediate danger has passed, Niculaie casts detect magic and looks around for magic items or lingering spell effects, then checks the necromancer's gear.
"Pontia, do you have any idea what he was trying to accomplish out here by himself? What was he doing when we interrupted him?"
Once the necromancer is unconscious, Pontia seems to return to her previous self. "He wasn't by himself. There were--and probably still are--other members of the cult here in Feldgrau. I'll have to examine his effects to determine exactly what he was doing, though."
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When the necromancer dies, the magic powering the poisonous cloud dies with him, causing it to quickly dissipate.
The quarterstaff is just a +1 weapon.
Also on his decayed remains, you find a lesser silent metamagic rod, wand of animate dead (10 charges); amulet of natural armor +1, cloak of resistance +2, ring of protection +1, spellbook (contains all prepared spells, all 0-level spells, plus arcane eye, create undead, mirror image, and 1d6 random spells of levels 1–5), spell component pouch, Whispering
Way amulet.
A locked chest sits nearby.
You also find a leather satchel beneath the table, which contains several pages of cryptic notes and an elaborately carved bone scroll tube. The scroll tube contains an enigmatically macabre poem. The notes are written in a strange code.
Upon the ashen pathways tread
Softly, as the whispered dead.
As mortal flesh doth rot and fail
To leech and maggot, ebbing frail.
Unhallowed words cannot be spoken,
With whispered oath, death lies broken.
Shed fear, shed life, shed pain, shed time,
Eternity seized shall soon be thine.
First spirit torn from Grave-Lady’s grasp
Be rent and sown as soured ash.
Soft the spiral song reverses,
Judgment lost, damnation surges.
Keeper of the damned’s soul take,
With packlord’s heart the beast shall wake
And flesh be wrought in disarray—
Stillborn cocoon, to blessed decay.
A hundred slain lie innocent,
Grind bone and marrow to cement.
Craft now a skull of splintered graves,
Unmake life, unmake the slave.
Where history churns dream to blister,
Necrophagous secrets whisper
Through chronicles of Raven’s tongue—
A legacy of fear unspun.
Blood spilt atop the Iron Thorn
Invokes that which cannot be born.
Arise the Tyrant now unbound,
Bearer of the Carrion Crown!
Pontia peruses the papers, jotting down notes and occasionally consulting with Nic. "These are orders to Vrood--" She practically spits the name. "--from someone who appears to be his superior. Unfortunately, they didn't sign their name. He was instructed to steal the Packlord's heart, make a skull from bones found in Feldgrau, send the Seasage Effigy--" Here, she looks quizzically around at the folks who've been at this the longest. "I don't know what that is--do any of you? Anyway, he was supposed to send it to the town of Thrushmoor in trade for some unspecified object. Finally, he was supposed to be raising an undead army in the Furrows and awaiting instructions on what to do with it."
The redhead gets het tools out, and works on the locks.
It took some time, but her expertise isn't to be denied.
Thanks for your help, Niculae.
When all the items are identified, Vivian asks seriously
I'd like to be allowed to destroy every item that can create undead. It's blasphemous to my faith, and dangerous for everyone.
Pontia smiles slightly, shaking her head. "That silver dust has many other uses. It would be fitting, somehow, if the Pharasmins made blessed water with it. The onyxes, though--" Her smile fades. "I know of no magical use for them that isn't necromancy, and if they were sold as mundane gems I'm afraid they'd make their way back into a necromancer's hands in short order."
Pontia smiles slightly, shaking her head. "That silver dust has many other uses. It would be fitting, somehow, if the Pharasmins made blessed water with it. The onyxes, though--" Her smile fades. "I know of no magical use for them that isn't necromancy, and if they were sold as mundane gems I'm afraid they'd make their way back into a necromancer's hands in short order."
Niculaie nods, his expression even more somber than usual. "Unless we can find a Pharasmin church that wants to reward us to take them off our hands, I agree."
"Shall we interview his spirit?" Sophie asks
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The savage Kellid peoples of prehistoric Ustalav have long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing civilization, but rumors persist
of queer ceremonies and obscene rites that have survived to the modern day in isolated fishing villages and remote farming hamlets throughout this shadowed land. For aeons, the eldritch powers and beings from beyond once venerated by those ancient barbarians have been content to simply wait and observe, but the time is nigh for them to make their return, and the whole of Golarion will soon shudder to the tread of their alien footsteps.
—Galicius Thwaite, The Unnatural History of Ustalav and the North
Book 4 - Part One: Thrushmoor
The adventure begins as the you arrive in the town of Thrushmoor in pursuit of the Whispering Way riders from Feldgrau. On the way, you pass by (or may even visit) the city of Carrion Hill.
On the shores of Lake Encarthan, the town of Thrushmoor squats where the Danver River flows into Avalon Bay. The county seat of Versex, Thrushmoor
enjoys some prosperity thanks to trade on the lake. The town sprawls along the lakeshore and upon a handful of soggy islets, its buildings weatherworn and rugged. A handful of Drumish mercenaries armed with crossbows look down from the towers of decrepit Fort Hailcourse, home of Thrushmoor’s erstwhile mayor, Magistrate Tillus Padgett, but no one challenges you (unless you cause trouble).
Knowing only that the Dark Riders from Feldgrau were sent to Thrushmoor, you will likely need to ask around to find the riders’ whereabouts.
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Stopping for a few days in the largest town on the way, Pontia will accompany Niculae to a jeweler's shop. "You should choose your own circlet, my friend. After all, you'll be the one wearing it, hm?" She then obtains appropriate supplies, along with parchment for the replacement scroll.
At the inn, she requests a room at the end of the hall, with the rest of the party rooming between her and any other guests. "We don't want to draw undue attention, I should think." For the next several days, she remains closeted in her room, only emerging to take meals and socialize over dinner. Occasional odd smells drift out under the door, along with snatches of chanting. After lunch on the third day, she calls Niculae over and presents him with the circlet, a faint gleam about it the only indication of the arcane power now residing in the metal. "Here you are. May it serve you well! Ah, yes--and here's your new scroll. Now I'd better clean up a bit before the maid comes in, or there may be questions."
Sophie asks around about the Dark Riders.
the skillful, quick-witted redhead always manage to find a way into people's heart (and sometimes into people's homes (or purses) too, but that's another story)
Feeling at ease in the seedy bars of town, in the town markets chatting with local matrons, or at the temple, Vivian weaves her web, and collect the information from numerous sources
Sophie manages to find a man who seems willing to talk. "Two riders matching that description came through town a day or so ago, but they didn’t stay long."
Niculaie finds himeself an interesting curio and book shop, and learns a few things of the area. town a day or so ago, but they didn’t stay long.
Illmarsh is a little swamp town that lies down the coast from Thrushmoor. Its residents are strange folk, and natives of Thrushmoor call them “musties” on account of the distinctive unpleasant odor Illmarshers carry about them.
Illmarsh is just a little fishing and logging town. It’s nothing much to speak of, and doesn’t even have a legitimate militia—just a local sheriff and a few half-trained deputies for handling the town drunk or the occasional vandal. The House of Undiomede used to rule the town, before that line died out. Now a mayor runs it, Greedle by name, appointed by the count to make sure the taxes come in on time.
Taking Sophie's information and using her skills, Vivian manages to coax out even more information about the riders. One man recalls, "Two taciturn, dark-cloaked strangers swapped their horses for fresh mounts at the livery stable a day ago. One of them headed out of town down the coast road toward Illmarsh. The whereabouts of the other rider are... well, who knows?" The man shrugs.
Another dark figure overhears this last bit, and offers some advice for the cost of a drink. "If that rider headed down to Illmarsh, it’s the end of the line for him unless he takes a boat or grows wings. Beyond Illmarsh is nothing but the near-impassable swamps of the Soddentimbers and the deep and swift Detstach River."
"I'd like to know where that other rider went, but unless one of you is a better tracker than I've ever heard of, it sounds like we'll need to follow the rider to Illmarsh. "
While she works on the circlet of persuasion for Niculae, Pontia puts in a request with a local glassblower for a small and delicate job: a pair of glass disks formed to fit over a sphere. With the circlet complete, she collects the disks and more arcane supplies.
This effort only takes her a little over a day, unlike the previous one, and at its end she presents Vivian with a small case and a vial of clear liquid. "Putting them in can be a little tricky--you want to do them both at once, if possible, and even with the magic in them they're going to feel strange until you get used to them. The first few times you put them in, wet them with a few drops of this. Oh, and take them out before you go to sleep."
Worried about picking something that won't look ridiculous with the magical headband he already wears, Niculaie selects a very simple silver circlet. "Thank you, Pontia," he says, handing it over to the wizard. ”I know our mission is an important one, but I have to admit that I am glad for this break we’re taking, even if it’s only a few days. It’s hard to remember that it has only been a few months since that morning we met in Ravengro and began riding like the wind for Schloss Caromarc to catch up with our comrades on this quest. It feels like we have been chasing these cultists for most of a lifetime.”
"Is there more to do here? I'm itching to get to Illbranch and find our quarry there. Though if he is staying a while, perhaps we should try to track down the other rider first."
Pontia ponders the news. "I'm torn...who knows what devilry either of them will be up to? On balance, though, I think we should stay here and try to find out what the riders traded the Seasage Effigy for before we follow to Ilmarsh."
“I think I agree with Pontia, it’s probably worth nosing around Thrushmoor a bit longer. If nothing else, it might be important for us to learn who in town is willing to trade with these cultists and traffic in stolen artifacts depicting ancient godlike malevolences, even if the knowledge does not directly advance our quest.” Niculaie’s stomach rumbles. “But first, the owner of the antiquarian bookshop where I spent the morning spoke well of the menu at pub nearby. Perhaps we should continue this discussion over lunch?”
Varian drops a note with the innkeeper, along with a few coins. "For the young redhead with the quick tongue, please."
The old codger gives the half-elf a grin and a wink. "She's a fine one, eh? Well, don't worry, I'll help ya out. Good luck ta ya!"
Varian lets out a chortle. "With my luck, she'll leave town this morning. Appreciate the help." And he walks away.
* * *
As the assembled group conspires to plan their next steps, an envelope appears under their door, sealed with wax. Upon opening, a note written in an elegant, precise hand reads as follows.
Dear Vivian,
Your appearance in this fair town was like the fiery red sun rising in the East, impossibly beautiful and dangerous to stare at. Yet did I truly overhear that you pursue of a pair of dark riders who came through this town but a few nights ago? It is a dangerous game for a damsel to play alone, even a Pharasmin who by appearances would be deadly when catching a foe unguarded. Should you need my sword, and some information besides, come to the pub and find the half-elf whose rapier is never far from his grip.
Yours faithfully,
Varian
Vivian reads the letter, before giving it to the rest of the group
Oh no, not HIM again...
Listen, I know that man, that Varian. We can trust him, I think. He's more than a capable fighter, and he always have a few special tricks up his sleeves. We have been... how can I say that? He always had a .. deep interest in me, and I must admit I fueled his flames once or more. Not the wisest thing to do, maybe, but not relevant to today's story. So I think we can at least meet him, have a meal and a few drinks at the tavern, and let him pick the tab.
Pontia nods a little tentatively. "As long as you can vouch for him...we're going up against some very dangerous and clever people, after all."
Sophie chuckles to herself after reading the letter and hearing Vivian's spiel. "Well we can't not meet him after all of that. Let's go."
Niculaie agrees. "That's a more compelling recommendation than the bookseller's. Of course we should meet your friend."
As the group arrives at the pub, they indeed see a well-armed young half-elf sitting at the bar, nursing a drink. He turns and smiles as his eyes land on Vivian. And then his eyes open in surprise as he sees Pontia, Sophie, and Niculaie follow behind her. He raises an eyebrow and his smile fades momentarily. He downs the rest of his drink and gets up.
"My dear Vivian, a pleasure to see you again." He looks around at their surroundings. "The best pub in town. I hadn't realized it'd be a party, though." He offers a hand to shake each of those he hadn't met before. "The name's Varian," he says. "Are you all here for the same reason?"
The old woman with wrinkled, sagging skin and disturbingly long nails looks at Varian, then at Vivian, then back at Varian and then answers "I'm not so sure, boy."
Let's say we all serve a greater purpose, and as my mommy dearest would say, "Fate bring us together", even if we don't all worship Pharasma. Let me introduce to you Sophie, Pontia and Niculaie. But yes, in a way you can say we are here for the same reason: aggravate your tab at the pub. Drinks are on you, Varian.
The mischevious redhead smiles
Do you happen to have a private room here or in town, Varian? Not for anything indecent, just to be able to talk without being afraid of anyone hearing.
He leans in at Vivian's last words, responding quietly whispering. "Oh, shouldn't we enjoy a nice meal before retiring to my private quarters?"
Varian smirks, then gestures toward an open table for the whole party to be seated. "A pleasure to mean you all. A celebration, then, of the Lady of Fate bringing us together!" He sits down himself, then looks for some service. "Everything's good here, though my favorite is the lamb--they serve the finest cuts."
Pontia is a tall, slender woman with close-cropped dark hair and pale skin, signs of Chelaxian descent that match her name, although her accent as she introduces herself is close to that of the local Ustalavans. She wears somewhat travel-stained robes. "I'm Pontia Canario, Master Varian." She extends an ink-stained hand to the occultist. "Vivian has spoken well enough of your discretion, at least."
The slender man carefully pulls back his hood by a fraction, to avoid drawing unnecessary notice in the pub.
He reveals pallid skin and white hair stretched over a tall, thin frame. His hands are more calloused than one might expect from the oddly whimsical accordion hanging from a strap slung over his shoulder, but the longbow and large scythe carried across his back suggest some familiarity with more physical labor.
He slips his hood and cloak back into place. The unspoken social contract in much of Ustalav discourages its citizens from looking too closely at strangers for signs of their potential heritage, but Niculaie has no desire to test the good people of Thrushmoor unnecessarily.
Testing Vivian's friend, on the other hand ... Better to know now, if this Varian is going to cause a problem.
"Niculaie Pavlencas. So long as we can find a table that's dimly lit and a bit out of the way, I have no objection to eating before we find a more private location. As for the lamb, I prefer mine rare." Niculaie flashes a deliberate smile, lips parted enough that his fangs are visible, but briefly enough that anyone noticing will be left wondering if those long, pointy teeth were real or just a trick of flickering torchlight.
"A pleasure, Pontia," says Varian, shaking the ink-stained hand firmly. "I take it you're a scholar, perhaps a mage? There is much to study in these lands."
He's certainly taken aback as the pale, white-haired Niculae flashes his appearance momentarily. He instinctively glances at Vivian--was she in trouble? But the woman betrays no surprise. "Yes, I can imagine that rare meat would best suit your tastes," he says dryly.
Finally, he looks once more to the seemingly ancient lady that had come with them. "Your friends are as colorful and diverse as ever," chimes the half-elf.
"Has Vivian told you of our first meeting? It was also at a pub, and a gorgeous redhead walks in, creates her own stage from a table, and breaks out into song! I thought she'd had one too many--little did I know that was just Vivian being herself. Anyway, some idiot drunk came up and started getting handsy with the lady. Couldn't let that happen, so I got the man to pay attention to my fists instead. And, well, the rest is history! Right, m'lady?"
Varian, it seems, fancies himself as a rescuer of damsels in distress.
Pontia smiles a bit wistfully at Varian's question. "I'm a wizard, yes. Trained in Cheliax, at the Arcanamirum, and at the Magaambya. Perhaps someday I'll be able to return to simple scholarship again. And what do you do, when you're not punching intrusive drunks?"
Sophie watches the young man with amusement. "Did you know the professor?" she interjects
Pontia looks back from the lampshade she'd been admiring. "Come on, Sophie. How likely is it that a random, ah, friend of Vivian will know Professor Lorrimor? That would be quite the coincidence, don't you think?"