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A tall woman walks into the room. Her dress is ermine and sable dyed indigo with white-gold trim. A slim long knife rests at her side, next to a pouch.
Her bearing proud; her attitude cold and aloof. Her blue-silver hair shines in the sunlight; her pale skin set off by piercing ice-blue eyes. Her high sharp cheek bones betray her Jadwiga heritage.
"Hello. I am Anya Polina, a Daughter of Winter." Her not un-thick Northern accent does nothing to hide her mellifluous voice. She waits, expecting the rest of the group to know who she is.
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A human woman stomps into the room, clearly upset at something. Angrily, she shoves her pack and equipment to the floor causing a most unceremonious racket.
Her shoulder length brown hair is unkempt.
"THAT PIG, AMBRUS VALSIN, THINKS HE CAN SEND ME ON A MISSION?"
She spits at a nearby bucket
and the spit lands in the bucket with a satisfying splat.
"I WON'T SUPPORT TURNING THE PATHFINDER SOCIETY INTO A MORE PATRIARCHAL ORGANIZATION! I WON'T STAND BY IT! I MAKE MY OWN CHOICES!!!"
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The noise awakens a hunched over man in the corner. He looks around with eyes that betray a bottomless despair. He adjusts his ratty hide armor and stands up. And up. And up until he's towering over those already gathered at nearly 7 feet tall.
"H'lo. My name's Declan Dumpernickle. Most people just call me Downer.
He offers his hand, but you get the sense that he's not sure he should bother.
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In walks in a dwarf who appears to be muttering to himself about "Not signing up for this." He continues in undercommon then plops himself in a chair where his feet can't reach the floor. He appears to have several holy symbols on his person of a war hammer. He notices that he is being watched. He hops down from the chair and says "I am Drungaard" He then climbs back into the chair. Only to say "Oh yeah" Hops down "Praise be Torag" and back up into the chair.
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You hear a loud slam against the door, as if steel toe has met mahogany. Moments later it swings open wide, slamming against the back wall in the process. A stout Dwarf with unkempt hair held in a tight pony tail and worn and dirty gear steps through. Even her armor and weaponry seem less clean one would expect, clearly having gone through the paces and having seen better days. Most curiously though is the rusty iron holy symbol worn around her neck.
She takes a long look at the rag-tag group of the room, examining the features of every person with an intense gaze. You can sense her sneer grow deeper as she assesses who will be traveling with her. The only more unsettling thing is the raven on her shoulder, whose black eyes pierce everything to the core.
When she speaks, it's deeper than expected, and filled with an unexpected level of seething, "I'm Sigríðr Jǫrðhamarr. I'm certainly not happy about what I see here, but at least half this group will have what it takes."
She thrusts a dirty thumb at the bird, "This is Hrafn. You hurt me, he pecks your eyes out."
She nods with what can almost, just barely, be perceived as a smile to the two humans. Her voice is less gruff as she speaks, "You two must certainly have names. Perhaps it's good to know what the brains of this group refer to themselves as."
The moment of respite is short lived though. What she says next is clearly directed towards the Dwarf and Half-Orc, "How about you two? I'd hate to have to call you Papaya Man or Dirty Loud Dwarf because you don't listen and forget to tell me who you are. Here, let me just make my life easier - Hunchy and Torag Following Moron. Now if you don't tell me I'm set."
Without even stopping she continues the tirade, "And since I'm sure we're going to be sent out to some godsforsaken ruin, let's be clear now on the ground rules. You will not order me around. You will not 'protect me'." She holds up a set of air quotes with the statement. "You will not call me Siggy. You will listen to me, and the advice of your two colleagues over there. You will simply do your job, and most importantly, you will let me do mine, and you'll respect that I can do it. You remember these rules, and we will have a much better trip than if you don't."
She doesn't even seem winded as she walks to the corner and props herself up against a bookcase, knocking a few books over in the process.
The bird looks directly at the other dwarf in the room and lets out a "KAW!"
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"THIS SIGRID IS VERY WISE. SHOULD ANYTHING GUIDE OUR ADVENTURE, ONE WOULD HOPE IT TO BE THE FLAWLESS REASONING OF WOMAN'S INTUITION. I FOLLOW ZARTA DRALNEEN FOR JUST THAT REASON AND YOU SHOULD TOO."
She grumbles.
"JOIN THE DARK ARCHIVES, LADIES! DON'T LET A MAN REPRESENT WHAT YOU STAND FOR IN YOUR STRUGGLE! THIS IS OUR TIME!"
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A tall, thin Oread enters, spellbook at his side, with a green gem in a silver amulet set around his neck. A sagging backpack doesn't seem to hold much equipment, though he does have a crossbow hanging from his side. His simple robes are dark, neutral tones, reflecting his personality as he enters - bland, plain, and unimpressive.
"Hello everyone. I'm Sithy. I'm uhh.. supposed to be the spellcaster for your group - Ithink," he smiles an uncertain smile for a split second. "I'm a specialist, really. I mean really, I just, I just do what I have a knack for, and that's changing things. So.. yeah. That's what I do." Another smile of 'grin-and-bear-it' and a partial wave to the party is all he seems to have to offer.
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Anya looks at the oread. "Did your mother have a lisp?"
She looks at the other two "women" sitting in the office. Her head shakes. "Ladies. Please. Indoor voices. I am able to help you learn how to navigate polite society if you so choose."
Wonderful. A depressed savage, a rage fueled something, a walking dirt moron, and an ugly dwarf with matching attitude. The sooner this is over the better. Why did I ever leave Irrisen?
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"I'M SORRY, BUT THIS IS MY INDOOR VOICE. I HAVE TO SPEAK THIS LOUDLY SO I CAN HEAR MYSELF OVER THE DEAFENING PATRIARCHY THAT PERVADES OUR SOCIETY. I SUPPOSE I CAN FORGIVE VALSIN THIS TIME FOR SENDING OUT A GENDER NEUTRAL PARTY."
Despite her volume and obvious teen angst, Elizabeth's tone is slightly friendly.
"BUT IF YOU'RE FROM IRRISEN, YOU'RE USED TO LIVING IN A UTOPIA WHERE WOMEN ARE MORE EQUAL THAN MEN! I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I READ IT IN A BOOK ON IRRISEN TITLED "BABA YAGA: HERSTORY OF IRRISEN"!"
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Sigríðr looks a little aghast at Betty's outburst, "Let's deal with the real problems here. Problems like the fact I still have no idea who any of you are and why we were called here. Is the lack of any real information just some dumb Pathfinder thing? Do I need to ask all the questions rather than being told what's important from the get-go? But, since this seems to be happening yet again I'll let you know your new names from here on out. It'll just save us time. If you don't like it, I'd urge you to correct the problem yourself."
"You," she says more loudly than anyone would like, but not as loudly as Betty. She points at Anya, "...have at least given yourself a title, so Daughter of Winter it is."
She glowers at the orc, the clear racial hatred obtained from the Core Rulebook itself as a class ability billowing out, "You can keep your filthy hand to yourself, but since it's all I have to go on, you're now called Shakes."
Her finger darts to Sithy, "This one, listened. Amazing! Sithy it is. What a dumb name, you make that up with some kind of name generator? At least it doesn't have an apostrophe in the middle, those are the worst."
Betty gets the next round of attention, "While you seem to think yourself an equal, I'm several decades your elder. We're here, get over it, we've got a job to do, so prove you can do it, nuff' said. You though, you're now just called Miss Shouts A-Lot".
And as if waiting for last she turns to Drungaard, "Listen, rules state I have to cooperate with you. I think it's on page 17 of our handbook. So I will. But I'm watching you, Captain Torag." She points her index and middle fingers at her eyes, and then points them at Drungaard.
After she's completed her introductions of everybody to their new nicknames, Sigríðr crosses her arms triumphantly and waits for the briefing.
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A sweet smile grows as Anya holds onto the proffered canteens.
"Parlor tricks but one I see is appreciated."
Anya looks at the smug dwarf with the same sweet smile. "My dear Ms. Jǫrðhamarr, my name is Anya Polina, which you would have known had you been on time to the briefing. Please do take care to not be late in the future. I am positive Venture Captain Valsin has spoken to you of this fault, has he not? Anya's head moves a tiny bit. "Alas, since you are set in your very traditional dwarven ways, calling me Daughter of Winter is acceptable."
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"Miss Daughter of Winter," you can sense a growing tension in the room, "just because you're early doesn't mean I'm late. I'm not late until whoever's going to send us to our deaths due to incomplete information is here."
Sigríðr looks proud in her statement as you can just barely hear her mumble under her breath, "Probably going to be early to her own death and accuse me of dying too late too."
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The squabbling Pathfinders are lead into the office of Venture Captain Silbeg Cailean. "Pathfinders, good to see you here! Help yourself to an ale!" His current "lodge" is located in a "temple" of Cayden Cailean in Almas, though there are notes all over his desk about his permanent facility being built near Oregeant. "The finest Imperial Vudrani Pale Ale that I've found anywhere in the Inner Sea! Try it, I assure you it is quite refreshing!"
A pair of pitchers of an effervescent golden beverage sit on a table near his desk, with six finely crafted glasses sitting neatly next to them. The smell of malt and hops can clearly be smelled coming off of the pitchers, and condensation can be seen forming on the outside of the glass.
"I've called you all here for a mission far to the north. Recently, we sent some agents to the town of Thornkeep, in the Echo Woods, to investigate some strange happenings going on underneath the town. One interesting thing that the agents reported was that there was a second Azlanti ruin not too from the Thornkeep... one that may hold even greater mysteries than the first." He sits back, sipping his beer, watching the reactions of the agents in front of him.
"So, first of all, we were asked by the lovely Iliara Starcloak of the Goldenfire Order to see if we could find out where two members of her order went missing... apparently they were investigating the ruins, known only as The Emerald Spire. Given the help that she gave our teams that went into the ruins below Thornkeep, I thought it would be the right thing to do."
"So, your mission is to make your way up to the River Kingdoms, into the Echo Woods, and to explore the ruins of the Emerald Spire. Now, be warned. Rumor has it that they ruins had once been one of the strongholds of the Kingdom of Zog, a goblin kingdom that was destroyed 500 years ago. I only say this, because apparently the goblins of Thornkeep have taken to chanting the name 'Zog' for hours on end every night, and holding aloft a sword that was recovered from the ruins belowe their town."
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"Wait. If our mission is to not make our way up to the River Kingdoms, into the Echo Woods, and to explore the ruins of the Emerald Spire, then what is our mission?"
"Huh? It is to do exactly that. Miss Polina, you confuse me."
To the half-orc guzzling the 10% ABV beer, Declan, you should really drink that in moderation. It is a bit stronger than most beers. Enjoy its hoppy goodness!"
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Sigríðr liberates a chalice from the tray and fills it to the brim with ale. She takes one large gulp which she promptly spits out over the book that fell from the shelf earlier, "What is this swill? You call this beer? This tastes Taldan. It has to be Taldan. I think the word 'beer' in Taldane translates loosely to the Dwarven word for 'orc piss'."
She looks at Silbeg after wiping her mouth using the pages torn from another book, "So somebody can't keep their group under control. Likely, I'm not even going to guess who's in charge of that mess. I already have my ideas. Go kill goblins and enact furious vengeance on those that hit your friend's colleagues. Simple 'nuff."
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Drungaard takes his time to enjoy his ale. Knowing that where they will be going to will have little chance of good ale. Drungaard makes a mental note to bring some ale with him. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and says "Just point us in the right direction Laddie and we will make short work of 'em....Paise be Torag."
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The young venture captain shakes his head at the half orc, not believing what he is hearing. "Ah, my friend, have you not heard of the word 'moderation'? But if it must be, perhaps you'd like some Chelish Pepper Whisky? If you can stomach it, that is!"
He sets out an binder, which seems to be stuffed with papers. "These papers have bills of passage on ships that take you upriver along the Sellen, and then up the West Sellen to Daggermark. From there you can make your way overland to Thornkeep... please check in with Lady Starcloak and see if she has any other news. A quick check in with the goblins there, to see if they know anything would be appropriate..." He pauses a moment, looking at the crew assembled.
"Well, maybe not. Let's leave the little bastards alone... they are citizens of Thornkeep, and I would want any... incidents." He just shakes his head at this.
"Once you have your bearings, head into to the Echo Wood, and find the Emerald Spire. Clear enough?"
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"We leave tomorrow afternoon," says Sigríðr, knowing full well the plan is to leave the next morning, but secretly hoping that Drungaard doesn't know and stays behind.
"Anybody need any gear? I'm not carrying your dead bodies back here after. So bring what you need, and stay alive so I don't have to listen to your families piss and moan about it."
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"WE HAVE THE WHOLE NIGHT?!
Elizabeth storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. About 15 seconds later, the door is swung open wildly and Elizabeth re-enters the room.
"I FORGOT MY STUFF."
She makes a beeline to her equipment and gathers it before exiting (peacefully), grumbling all the while.
When she returns in the morning, she appears noticeably exhausted. She wears different armor and her equipment seems to be of higher quality.
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The team makes their way up the Sellen River to Daggermark, and from there, makes their way to Thornkeep. Rooms have been reserved for them at the Greenforest Inn. The proprietor, a human man by the name of Shandar Tulman has been expecting you. Innkeeper Tulman is a balding, middle aged man with a mustache like a bristle brush.
"Good day, Pathfinders, I have been expecting you! Rooms have been arranged... as well as meals. I have word that Wizard Iliara Starcloak is waiting to hear from you at her Goldenfire Tower. If you have need of gear, you should head to the Thornkeep Mercantile... pretty sure the gangs haven't burned it down again. Best grocer.. well the only grocer... is Nessa Greenfoot's Provisions. And Echo Wood Arms has a decent bladesmith... especially if you go for lighter blades."
He looks the group over, and then says, "Just be careful going out into the Echo Woods. Thelsterex, the green dragon that lives in the western woods, has been getting a little uppity as of late. Some folks round here think he's about to shed his skin and grow, or something like that."
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"Well I hope they're private rooms. There's no way in the Nine Hells I'm going to be locked in a room with either of those two." Sigríðr thumbs at Drungaard and Declan.
The next morning Sigríðr is up and ready to go at the break of dawn, banging loudly on each of her fellow Pathfinder's doors while yelling loudly, "GET UP! The Dungeon calls. We have jobs to do, now get your lazy asses out of bed and out here where it belongs. We don't have time for your lollygagging."
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At breakfast, you are met by Iliara Starcloak, who asks you to be on the lookout for the two wizards that have gone missing from her order. Sigríðr looks the elf wizard over, but has nothing constructive to add, and the group trundles over to the Emerald Spire.
As travelers emerge from the Echo Wood underbrush, they find themselves staring up at a ruined keep guarding a broken central tower, all made of smooth, green glass. It’s obvious that a grand battle took place here any years ago, and the clearing around the ruin lies barren, with sickly weeds struggling to rise from the magic-blasted earth. Melted chunks of twisted glass pepper the ground, lending a green hue to the clearing’s light. Despite the damage, however, the glass of the keep itself seems to have avoided the ravages of time, with those pieces that survived the initial cataclysm unmarred by pitting or cracking, clean of moss and other clinging debris.
At the top of a steep dirt path winding up through the rubble, a doorway opens onto darkness, its entrance seeming to steal light into its inky depths. You make your way up to this entrance.