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A single, dim lantern sheds uncertain light in the cabin of Venture-Captain Retief van Schuyver. The deck of his ship, the Maelstrom, sways and rocks with the gentle swells in the predawn darkness off the coast of Rahadoum. The captain scratches his patchy beard as he speaks.
“I’m not sure how much you know about the nation of Rahadoum. Its position on the mouth of the Inner Sea keeps it prosperous enough, I think, but the strangest thing about the nation has nothing to do with trade. You may already know this, but they’re not too keen on the gods. Any of ’em. Not Desna, nor Abadar, nor Gozreh, much less the bleaker crew like Asmodeus or Lamashtu. Them Rahadoumi want nothing to do with them—had a war over ’em, in fact. Even Sarenrae can’t get her foot in the door!”
The captain leans back, turns, and spits tobacco juice into a brass spittoon.
“Despite all that, Rahadoum is a peaceful nation, eh. Education is highly valued, and civic duty held in high esteem. At least it hasn’t had to deal with any religious wars in a long time. But turnin’ your back on the gods has its downside. Famine always looms on their horizon. The desert claims more and more of their farmland every year, it seems. And, worst of all, plagues wreak stark havoc among ’em. Thousands die every year from one ailment or another for want of a decent cleric. They have no power, no divine will, to stem the tide of disease, and they struggle and they starve and they die so dreamlessly, knowin’ that when they enter the Boneyard, there’ll be no deity to meet ’em there with open arms, no paradise waiting on the other side."
"Just lately, things have been much worse. A new plague sprang up several weeks ago in the outlying villages around Manaket—Rahadoum’s center of learning. They call it the Night Plague, and it’s a killer. Very few infected have recovered from it but the handful who made it across the borders or out through the ports have been easily cured by clerical magic. This Night Plague’s a killer, but it doesn’t have to be."
"That brings me to why we’re bobbing here off Rahadoum’s coast in the dead of night. Despite Rahadoum’s current social agenda, it’s an ancient, storied land. There’re a lot of secrets buried in those forgotten sands. As a result, let’s just say that the Pathfinders have ‘assets in place’ in the area not ‘officially’ associated with the Swordmeet Lodge in Manaket and leave it at that. But with plague striking the area, and those assets having no clerical support, they are now in jeopardy. We’ve got to protect our people and their research, and to do that we’ve got to get a handle on this plague before it becomes epidemic, or at least shield our folks before they’re exposed to it.” He looks up, his eyes dark and fierce. “So we’re going to give Rahadoum a little help… whether they like it or not.”
He gestures behind him to a shadowed figure sitting on a sea-chest. “This is Agosa Agion, a holy hand of Sarenrae and Pathfinder field operative.”
A human male rises from his seat and bows low. He wears a desert dweller’s robes on his slender frame and a green turban around his angular head. His forked beard is golden-colored and dyed with henna at its tips.
Captain van Schuyver clears his throat and continues. “Agosa normally serves as a healer in the Sothis Lodge and his expertise should serve him well as a plague doctor. I don’t intend for you folk to play nursemaid to a bunch of plague victims, that’s what we’ve got Agosa here for, but getting him into the country and to the action is where you come in."
"Your job is to sneak him into Rahadoum and get him to the village of Wadi al-Hesr, avoiding the nation’s priest-hunting military forces—they’re called the Pure Legion—and taking care of any ‘entanglements’ that you may run into along the way. For all the gods’ sakes, don’t let them know you’re even in the country! Right now, we’re anchored just off Rahadoum’s northern coast near the Qassabah Heb Amar. As far as the Rahadoumi government knows, it is the home of Bey Sarkris El Makkra, jefe of several of the local villages. The truth is, the good bey uses his stronghold as a secret smugglers’ port. Tonight, you are the smugglers, and Agosa here is your contraband. Get him into the tunnels where you’ll meet one of the bey’s servants; he’ll direct you from there."
"Don’t mess this thing up. Once you get Agosa to Wadi al-Hesr—only a few miles from the bey’s fortress—he’ll know where to go. Questions? If not, then get to the tunnels before the tides change. Someone from the bey’s staff is surely already waiting.”
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Glen Fiddich furrows his brow as he ponders what Venture-Captain Retief van Schuyver has just told them about their mission and their destination. He's a red-haired, green-eyed half-elf, just shy of six feet and just over eleven stone. His mithral breastplate and elven curve blade are polished and well-maintained, a sharp contrast to his casual manner and otherwise unkempt appearance.
"Cap'n, I'd like to visit the Maelstrom's quartermaster and purchase a few items. A disguise kit would be useful for most of us; it's only 50gp. And I'll pick up some sleeves of many garments for 200gp. Should help blend in."
Glen eyes the priest Agosa Agion with a calculating gaze. "If you've got one in stock, I'd spend 1000gp to purchase a Pathfinder pouch. The Seranite can use it to stow his holy symbol and anything else that might reveal his nature. If Agosa doesn't need it, I'll use it."
Glen fingers the mug hanging at his belt. "Cayden Cailean's a practical god. Nobody'll question a man with a mug. Unless, these Rahadoumi are teetotalers, too?"
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"I wouldn't both, another priest of the flame says with a gentle smile, his own holy symbol tattooed over his face, "as I doubt such a pouch would help too much."
Salubri bows his head towards Agosa Agion, a fellow Osirioni and Sarenrite, though one that walks a somewhat different path, before introducing himself. "I am Salubri, the Prophet." says the not entirely human man dressed as an ascetic monk. "We shall manage, somehow. A way shall present itself when the time has come. . ."
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A man with skin the color of burnished bronze, Tien features and loose robes, and a physique that speaks to enjoying his food, sits cross-legged in the cabin listening thoughtfully to the explanation of the mission. From his seated position, he bows slightly to Agosa Agion. "Sir. A pleasure," he says, speaking with an accent that is in line with his origins on the eastern side of the world.
He looks at Salubri with a sort of crooked smile. "Ah, so, the open declaration of your faith written upon your skin will make deception a path strewn with poisonous snakes. A difficulty. My own faith in the Master of Masters will be no more welcome in Rahadoum, but it is not written on my skin, at least.
"The way that shall present itself is perhaps what brother Glen has proposed: the tricks of pigments and waxes and paints, to cover your skin? The gods help those who help themselves, I believe, and we must at times create the way the gods would have us walk.
"Forgive my manners, friends! I am Brother Guang. It will be my humble duty to stand before you and enemies, to the best of my ability, and to protect you, and Master Agosa, with my person."
Guang turns to look at the captain again. "Captain van Schuyver, do we have a map of the path which we shall take to Manaket? And I second Brother Glen's request to see the quartermaster stock, if permitted. These disguise kits would be an exceptional idea."
Guang taps his chin, looking to the other agents in the cabin. "Are any of us skilled in the arcane arts?"
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"Indeed. If so, I would be most appreciative if anyone might use this wand on me in times of need." offering up a Wand of Mage Armor.
"Other might also benefit from it, should they wish."
"As for my face, I believe I have a solution that might be of assistance, though it was not intended for,. . . concealment." Digging into his pack, he grabs a facemask he had only recently gotten, , and places it over his head. It does not fully conceal the tattoo, but does make it difficult to identify.
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The small gnome, smelling faintly of soot and chemicals, almost goes unnoticed sitting in shadows in one corner of the room. He seems to avoid drawing anyone's attention, more out of habit then any sense of shyness... in fact, when you do finally notice him, he is glaring openly at everyone, and everything, as if it all has offended him in some way.
Dressed in functional, well-worn tradesman's garb, with a shock of orange hair on the top of his head, he would barely stand out at all in most places. All you get is a muttered "Milo" by way of introduction at first, as he says nothing else for the longest while, as everyone gathers in the cabin and the Venture-Captain and his guest eventually speak.
"Rahadoum prigs probably got the right a it." he mutters. "Few less gull chokers thumpin' readers, is like to shine flush on all a us some."
"So if we're sportin' a leg, what happens when it all gets knackered?" He asks suddenly. He glances at the other and frowns. "Bludgers'll granny these gobs quick."
When all he gets in return for his question are confused stares, he glares back with annoyance, and shuts up once more, fuming angrily.
Eventually, he speaks up again, as the question of arcane knowledge crops up.
"Can throw the hokum a titch." He offers. "Mostly glim, a little glow, some shine." He shrugs slightly.
"Total slum at sharpin' though, and viewin'" He adds, with a glare.
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A half orc, his skin covered in thousands of tiny red scales rub his chin contemplatively as he listens to the venture captain's tale. As he exhales faint wisps of smoke and the smell of sulfur escape his nostrils. His clothing consists of a robe of deep blue embroidered with dragons that have long tusks protruding from their jaws. He appears to carry no weapons nor wear armor, but a tangible field of force surround him.
It seems to me like the gods have left this nation to deal with the consequences of their folly. I am no holy man myself, but I can see the wisdom in begrudging tolerance at a minimum.
To Glen he responds, My spells are limited to those that my blood as granted me, but I can always supplement them with scrolls in a pinch if we need something specific.
Answering the prophet, Salubri, he says, Stow your wand, prophet. You should have little need of it while you travel with me.
Pulling out a long rod, he weaves a spell with his free hand covering the prophet in armor of force.
Anyone else need one? The name is Lurgh by the way. I am said to be a descendant of the Sixth King of the Five Kings Mountains, but please do not hold that against me. I am as much a product of nurture as nature.
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"And a grand master of irony as well, it seems, Lurgh." The half-elf extends a hand in greeting. "Welcome to the party. Can I get you an adult beverage?"
Glen passes his hands over a tankard and a glass, mutters an orison, and creates ale in the former and wine in the latter. He offers Lurgh both.
"I'm Glen Fiddich, inquisitor of Cayden Cailean. Pleased to meet you."
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Guang places his hands at his chests and bows, smiling, towards each of the others who come. "Ahhh, yes, you are a student of the arcane, Brother Lurgh? Then may I be asking that you activate this wand and direct the energies from it into this small stone, here? It would be most thankful! And if you are so kind as to spare your protections you have cast upon our prophet there upon myself as well, this too should be most appreciated."
At Milo's words, Guang blinks. Cautiously, he says to the orange-haired gnome, "I am being very humbly sorry, but my using the language here in the west is not always so good, Brother Milo. It is certainly because I am foreign and the fault is mine, but I have not understood most of what you have said. Will you please sit by me, so that I can better hear you, to learn?"
Guang beams a little at the Prophet's mask. "An ingenious solution. For now!"
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“Head straight for shore from the Maelstrom and you’ll see three lights—two from the main keep towers atop the cliff and one from the lower bastion. When the three lights form a face—two eyes and a nose—you’ll know you’re at the right angle to row straight toward them. This will bring you into the shore at an angle hidden from the towers. Hug the cliff face and row to the west on the inside of several small rocky sea stacks and shoals until you reach a sea cave at the base of the cliff upon which Qassabah Heb Amar sits. The cave will lead them to a smuggler’s haven beneath the stronghold.”
"From there you’ll be met on a small beach in the caves by Masur the Ill-favored, one of the bey’s servants. He’ll guide you through the stronghold and provision you with camels for the overland journey to Wadi al-Hesr.”
"And while you're out there, the good priest is to be kept safe at all costs. While he is a Pathfinder, he usually serves as a healer far from direct danger. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? You done dawdling and ready to hit the water?"
When you are ready to depart, the party boards their lighter, a flat-bottomed boat used for off-loading freight. The stronghold looms high upon a sheer cliff above the benighted ocean, the crash of waves against the stone edifice carrying across the water. Three lighted windows gleam above the waves, and as the lighter moves in closer to shore, the windows align as a sort of face—two at an equal height like eyes and one below and between them like a mouth or nose. Now only jagged rocks, hidden shoals, and towering cliffs lie between the lighter and the smuggler’s caves beyond.
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"I am ready to go. There are many in need of our man's aid, and the quicker we can get him there, the more chance to save them we have."
"While I am not particularly strong, physically, I'll take a turn at rowing. It will be a good work out, and help to keep me centered, my meditations off of smiting this evil country into which we are expeditioning. I shall consult the flame for guidance. . ."
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When they are shown the boat they have to take to the rendezvous point, Milo scowls at it like he'd rather light it on fire then get in it.
"Been lagged on enough carked punts." He mutters in annoyance, clearly not a fan of boats at all... his annoyance inversely proportional to the size of the boat. "What barmy toffer grannied this?"
"Can bear up a little hoodoo." He mutters absently. He stands there, glaring at the boat for a moment longer, then begins to recite arcane words in gnomish.
The shadows around him start to waver and shift, until they all draw together to form a second figure that looks vaguely like the Venture-Captain himself.
He looks at it with a frown and shrugs. "Mostly flam." He explains, "But flush enough."
He then mutters a few more arcane spells, directed at himself.
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"But there are many, how do you say, dialects," Guang says placidly in response to Milo's indignant insistence he is speaking the same language as everyone else. "In the country where this humble servant was being born, one could ride the horse for one day and not understand the words said in the new place, though the language is still being called Tien! Truly a language is like a rose that is having one thousand colors. This unworthy creature asks your patience with me, Brother Milo."
Guang looks on at the roiling waves and the traverse with less than perfect enthusiasm himself, but smiles after a moment. "If there is no trial there is no achieving the perfection. Ah, what a clever means by which to be steering, brother Milo!"
Guang will settle into the boat and take an oar, the cold rain bearing down on his shaved head.
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Glen chuckles as he grabs an oar, "We had a pretty little barmaid talked like that at the Grog Pit, when I was the bartender. Mother dropped her on her head when she was a baby."
He grins at the gnome wizard, "Like any fine blunderbuss, we just need to keep you pointed up and down range, right Milo?"
Glen cringes as he takes a seat in a puddle of water, his breeches soaked through, and his mirth washed away by the chill wind and driving rain.
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Lurgh ignores what to him sounds like overly-fussiness over incessant prattle and goes where he thinks he would be of most use on a ship, manning the oars. He had strength going for him, a lot of it. He could conjure a bit of magic to make himself stronger for a little while, but there seemed little use for that now.
Well, if someone can point the way, I think I can figure out how to row well enough. Though if there are several of us rowing, who here can help us keep our strokes together?
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(-1 in bright light)
After piling aboard the lighter, Milo conjures a silent, shadowy helmsman to man the boat's tiller. As you make your way towards land, everyone spots the telltale froth of the water signaling a pair of submerged boulders directly in your path. The spectral driver does his best to avoid hitting them dead on, but the Pathfinders still need to use their oars to push off the rock and get them safely clear of it.
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The small gnome starts cursing colorfully in orcish as three of their four rowers get washed over the side. Luckily the one that remains understands the litany of swearing just fine.
Milo braces himself on the sides as he reaches over and touches Agosa, giving him the magical ability to breath, even if he falls in the water.
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The Pathfinders thrown overboard react quickly enough, grabbing the nearby rock just enough to brace themselves back into the lighter. With the help of Glen and the spectral driver, they're able to get themselves away from submerged boulders.
(-1 in bright light)
Not far ahead, Guang and Milo spot an underwater shoal, and relay the information to the phantom just in time for it to steer the rowboat safely clear of the danger.
As the lighter is almost at the mouth of the smuggler's cave, Glen and the Prophet notice the telltale sign of a whirlpool about to form. Their shadowy driver is quick to react to the news though, and easily maneuvers the boat around the troubled area, and into the calm waters of the cave. The water is shallow and the floor sandy and smooth, and you can make out a small sandy beach ahead. This sandy beach is covered with footprints and drag marks from the boats of other smugglers, and a stairway can be see ahead in the darkness. But there is no sign of the contact you're supposed to meet up with.
(-1 in bright light)
As they begin to drag the lighter ashore and tie it off to the large iron rings, the Prophet and Milo also notice a hidden passage in the rocks to the rest.
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Milo gets off the boat, dripping wet, and not happy about it... though you've come to realize he's rarely happy about anything. He glares at the boat for a moment, as if pondering lighting it on fire. The spectral driver sits motionless at the tiller, its job done.
"Where's the gob what's pointin' us straight?" Milo mutters, noticing their guide is nowhere to be seen. "Less the rozzers hooked him." He adds, with a scowl.
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As Agosa regains his composure from the boat ride, he speaks up as the other work on securing the lighter. "Where in the the nine hells is our contact? He's supposed to be here to lead us through the castle safely. I understand that you're all in charge, but might I suggest we explore this smuggler's passage first? He has to be here somewhere."
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"Brother Milo, thank you for your excellent 'hokum' with the ship's sailor," Guang says sincerely, as he considers the two paths before them. "I am not knowing much of how to sail!"
He laces his fingers over his prosperous belly and studies the two options. "Both are potentially interesting. Brother Agosa, if you suggest we look for our contact in the main tunnel, this humble one is willing to follow your wisdom. Perhaps we should open this door that is secret first to see if it contains a small chamber, something easy to be searched? Or that it is not holding an enemy! But if it is holding a long path and no ambushing, then perhaps we seek our contact along the likelier main route, yes?"