Silas Gribb is seething. Seething, firstly, with frustration: he has a contract to get his caravan to Faldamont within the next six days; miss the deadline, he’ll forfeit half the money and have run the enterprise at near to a loss. And seething, secondly, with anger. Someone clearly wants or needs him to fail. The guards he hired in Cassomir have disappeared, paid off by some unknown saboteur. And so he’s stuck here, in a one horse, one pub town (or village, or really a hamlet, truth be told) called East Linsea, a couple of days from his origin along the Sellen River, yet to even make it to the Verduran Fork.
He stands and glares at the caravan while he figures out his next move. There are four wagons, three of goods (mainly salted meats, fairly tightly packed and a constant source of concern) and one of passengers. Having spent the last couple of days in their company, he’d cheerfully convert the passengers to meat for easier passage, but sadly that’s not allowed. At the tops of the wagons, he has his drivers, and seats for the guards. Seats now sadly empty. The route’s not particularly treacherous, but there’s always some level of risk (and it’s clear to him right now that somebody has it in for him) and also if he doesn’t hire the guards, the passengers will, quite rightly, protest, and thereby become even more difficult company. And of course, and to be fair, there is always some kind of risk, as there is on just about any road in the Inner Sea, let alone one at the northern end of the declining glory that is Taldor and not so far - not far enough - from the internecine bloodbath that is Galt.
Silas swivels on his heel to take in the view of the only real building in this gods-forsaken place: an inn called The Horse and Fare. It’s now early evening and he can see the light of a promising fire burning inside. He can’t believe that there’ll be that many - even anywhere like enough - potential useful replacements in there. But he can guarantee that anyone in there will want - or need - to escape.
With a final, I’ve-no-choice-anyway sigh, he throws himself forward and into the main bar of the tavern. ”All right, gentles! I have a caravan, bound for Faldamont at dawn. I’ll pay for up to six guards, no questions asked, minimal experience needed. The ride is free and you’ll get to wave goodbye to this dump. Who’s with me?”. He puts on his best smile and looks around expectantly.
If you’re with him, you can sign on as a guard with Silas’ caravan, or else you can be one of the existing passengers, a new passenger or even a stowaway. It just needs to get you to Belhaim, where things will take an unpredictable turn.
Prologue 2: Before the Gates of Belhaim:
It’s two days since the caravan left East Linsea and Silas can see the blessed chimney smoke of Belhaim in the distance. He looks back over the rag tag procession, from his position on the lead wagon, next to his driver, Rokel. Behind him are the two goods wagons, driven by Guthran and Valdir respectively, then the passenger wagon, driven by Caedmon, and sitting alongside Caedmon is Lensing Gray, about the only person nearby he feels he can really trust in a fight. The Andoran acknowledges his look with a knowing gesture, then returns her attention to the road alongside, tensely gripping her bow with the air of someone who expects to have to fight a last stand any minute now.
The guards he picked up at the tavern would be a mixed bag if any of them only impressed him. There are the two taciturn half-orcs, Garrek and Roet, who at least for a short time might hold their own in a brawl, though both seem lacking in experience. He put them on the middle wagons, so that if the caravan was to be temporarily separated each vehicle would at least have someone to help until it reassembled. Then there’s Friar Marquez - probably of little use in most fights (unless something happened to crawl out of some forgotten crypt as the wagons rolled by) but helpful in cleaning up afterwards; he sat the priest in with the passengers, since that was where most blood was likely to be shed. Den, the strange, ascetic druid with the weird tiger-like dog, he put with the half-orcs. And the remaining one, Pip, the little gnomish tale teller, whom he has for no apparent reason kept sitting beside him, is on what is probably his hundredth tall story of the day and with no apparent off switch.
The evenings are the low points. Since the first night, when they rolled the wagons together to make camp, and the passengers emerged, he’s developed almost as great a sense of irritation for his living cargo as they have for each other. The fulcrum around which the irritation pivots seems to be the strange performing wizard, Avogadro, master of a thousand pointless rabbit tricks, a prize charlatan if ever one crossed Silas’ path. Teryn, the halfling whiskey merchant from Faldamont, seems harmless, apart from the gratingly high pitched laugh, apparently reserved for Avogadro’s dumb tricks and Pip’s never ending stories. M. Dukas-Kort, the imperial civil servant from Cassomir, with his very important imperial message in his very important bag, both of which must very imperially arrive in Faldamont on time, or “there will be a reckoning”, has been getting Silas’ goat since day one, but all the others roundly hate him, apart from perhaps the demure L. Komenos, a genuine aristocrat and an imperial officer’s wife to boot, with her perpetual headaches and her I don’t speak to the lower classes looks. Dukas-Kort, who very much knows his place and everyone else’s, is perpetually kissing up to her, something Silas regards as almost a capital offence. Lensing quietly suggested on the second day that if the caravan was to be ambushed she would throw Dukas-Kort to the bandits as a distraction and “kill two birds with one stone”. Finally, at the bottom of the social heap, there’s Esmerelda, a Varisian in her early twenties, who was seen off from Cassomir by some kind of Calistrian “we don’t like you any more” farewell party and hasn’t smiled since; not that anyone has tried to cheer her up, L. Komenos and M. Dukas-Kort in particular treating her like some kind of unpleasant smell.
Silas sighs deeply. After Belhaim the road to Faldamont is quieter, easier and safer. The difficult part will be over and he’ll be less worried about the likelihood of his precious cargoes ending up in the crossfire between his inexperienced guards (though he comforts himself with the thought that at least one of the passengers might yet die in an unfortunate accident). As the caravan rounds the last corner and the gates of Belhaim present themselves before him, he comforts himself with the thought of a night in a proper bed at the Wise Piper Inn, a decent meal and a rest from stories and tricks.
The caravan stops; he descends and marches towards the gate. “Open up! Gribbs’ Caravan from Cassomir, bound for Faldamont, with a cargo of goods and people!” he shouts, in the vague direction of the the guard tower.
GM Policy:
Dice Rolling (stolen from http://paizo.com/people/GMDamo)
The following PC rolls will always be made by me to keep things moving:
1. Initiative
2. Perception
3. Sense motive
4. Saving throws
5. Group diplomacy*
Player dice rolls of these types will be ignored, unless specifically requested by me.
I may make the following where appropriate, but you may request to make these yourself (let me know if you prefer to roll these yourself):
1. Knowledge checks
2. Survival checks
3. Individual diplomacy*
Further, I may make a roll of any kind on your behalf if there's a long and unexpected break in posting (see below on "Moving Along").
* Where the group is involved in a diplomatic action and a diplomacy roll is required, I will roll using the PC with the highest modifier for the group as the primary roll and the next highest modifier for an assist. Depending upon roleplaying and other circumstances, I may allow multiple assists also, or require someone other than the PC with the highest modifier make the primary roll. Otherwise, the players roll these individually.
Spoilers
Sometimes I'll post text in spoilers - these will sometimes be pointed at specific characters (e.g. "For Illya"); sometimes it might be a translation of a language you may or may not know; and sometimes it might be relevant to specific rolls (e.g. "DC 15"). You're encouraged not to look if it doesn't apply to you (though to be honest I don't mind, if you can separate in your mind your role as a character from that of someone observing the game) and more importantly I'll assume if it doesn't apply to you then you haven't read it. For example, if it's a translation of a language you don't understand, for your character to see the translation, someone who does understand it needs to tell you about it.
If it's genuinely secret to a player (which I'm not expecting in this first scenario at any rate) then I'll PM it.
Moving Along
I'm assuming people are posting on weekdays about once a day, maybe less so over a weekend or a public holiday. If you're going to be away a while, let me know and we'll work something out.
Let me and the rest of the party know if/when you're ready to move along. I don't want to smother RP and conversations, equally I want to make sure we don't get bogged down (dungeons are notorious for this in PbP).
My general assumption is that, outdoors and en route to somewhere, you talk while you walk, so you're still moving.
Having Fun
And let me know by PM if you're not enjoying yourself, and why. I'll do my best to do something about it. It's the point of all this, after all.
