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The fellow wears the clothes of a sailor, though well made and cut from good cloth - his brocade coat, equally well tailored, suggests he is probably doing quite well as a naval merchantman. The tattoos and earrings suggest a more 'vigorous' seafaring past. One leg flesh the other of wood, he leans on a well crafted darkwood cane, the head of which is carved to resemble a squid-like head.
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Wrapped snuggly in his wool cloak is the second of the Dark Archives. A toothy grin and charming word are offered to those who great him. By the looks of his mundane belongings it is clear that this is his first outing, though he'd be happy to say as much if asked.
Accompanying him is a young woman with notably milky eyes - a trait shared in part by him. The two talk in earnest amongst themselves.
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Another brawny tattooed man enters the room. His broad, bare chest proclaims for all to see that: This Ink Don't Run. His other tattoos though are less distinctive. They cover most of his trunk an arms, like scales. A closer inspection reveals them to be tiny unintelligible glyphs or kanji as if someone from some alien land had scrawled book upon him.
His hair is as white and tangled as sea-foam along a rocky beach, his eyes a hard ice-blue. He uses those eyes to appraise his company, scowling at each in turn but none so much as the peg-legged man. There's definitely something shifty about that one.
He hawks a huge gout of spit on the floor.
"Who's the skirt?" Agirran asks of the man closest to her as if she wasn't even there to ask herself. Then he points his thumb as if there might have been a question as to whom he was talking about.
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"A Varisian fortune teller" replies Bosbain as he matches the Ulfens sultry demeanor with his own mischievous smile.
"'Avail yourself of the future, friend, lest you find yourself unguarded against the whims of fate.' At least, that's the sales pitch."
He draw closer to Agirran: "Personally, I think it fills the head with too many unnecessary...details." he offers out a bony hand "My name's Bosbain. Delighted to make your acquaintance."
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"A Varisian fortune teller" replies Bosbain as he matches the Ulfens sultry demeanor with his own mischievous smile.
"'Avail yourself of the future, friend, lest you find yourself unguarded against the whims of fate.' At least, that's the sales pitch."
"Bah!" He waves off the suggestion.
He draw closer to Agirran: "Personally, I think it fills the head with too many unnecessary...details." he offers out a bony hand "My name's Bosbain. Delighted to make your acquaintance."
Agirran spits in his dirty palm and offers a firm (if moist) return handshake.
"You've got some grip with those bony old man's hands, Bosbone." He adds approvingly along with a hearty slap on the back.
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Venture-Captain Drandle Drenge, a stout and hardy Taldan with thin, graying hair and a thick, bushy mustache, unfurls a map on his butcher-block table and places a meaty finger on the parchment. “The abandoned district of Beldrin’s Bluff was once the gem of Absalom’s Precipice District—now it is but a weathered crag of broken rock at the edge of the roiling sea. When the great quake hit ten years ago, entire blocks of the Bluff sheared from the mainland. Cliffside tearooms and exclusive estates fell into the waves and carried hundreds of nobles to a watery grave. An elite academy, called the Tri-Towers Yard, remained on the mainland, but sank wholesale into the earth. Children unfortunate enough to survive the quake lay pinned under debris as sewer water slowly rose from the ground and drowned them. Nearly every student perished.
“Today, crumbled stone walls and weed-filled lots sprawl where gentlemen’s clubs once filled with pipe smoke and hobnobbing lords. The Drownyard—er, that’s what the ill-mannered call the school these days—lies behind a fence of black iron pikes, constructed by the families of the dead to discourage morbid trespassers.
“Even respected archaeological groups have been denied official access. Our own Society has itched to explore the site ever since the quake—that is, ever since we discovered that the school fell through the roof of a lost necropolis. Unfortunately, the emotional trauma attached to the school has remained fresh. But finally, after ten years of mourning, the politically-connected families of dead students have sanctioned our delve request.” With a toothy smile and a clap, Drenge says, “I’m pleased to announce that I’ve selected your team for the delve. I want you to find a way into the necropolis, document your findings with professional detail, and recover artifacts of historical significance. The Society is interested in one artifact in particular—a two-finger ring topped with a ruby salamander.”
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"No doubt heaving with the undead, and what's worse, probably some darling scions of high society"
"Turns out it is that the sea takes what she chooses, but it is what she gives back that you have to worry about"
Mumbly gets ready to depart, "I'll go see what else the ill mannered might be calling the place"
He groans a little at the effort of standing back up, and adjusts himself back on his peg leg whilst clutching his cane.
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Two sets of yellow eyes lay upon the map laid out by the venture captain. The set belonging to the giant reptile cock to the side, swivel around at some unheard noise and leave, leaving the blue skinned woman to stare at it intently. "What is the importance of the ring Venture Captain? Should we be worried of others who attempt to retrieve it for their own ends?"
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Two sets of yellow eyes lay upon the map laid out by the venture captain. The set belonging to the giant reptile cock to the side, swivel around at some unheard noise and leave, leaving the blue skinned woman to stare at it intently. "What is the importance of the ring Venture Captain? Should we be worried of others who attempt to retrieve it for their own ends?"
“In ancient times, a wealthy merchant cut a ruby salamander ring from the hand of young cat burglar named Horastian. Horastian later became a renowned information broker and art collector. The Pathfinder Society hopes to magically locate the long-dead thief and his fabled hoard by using the ring as a divination focus.”
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“Today, crumbled stone walls and weed-filled lots sprawl where gentlemen’s clubs once filled with pipe smoke and hobnobbing lords. The Drownyard—er, that’s what the ill-mannered call the school these days....”
Agirran looks offended.
Mumbly gets ready to depart, "I'll go see what else the ill mannered might be calling the place"
Agirran turns to Peggy with a look that says "Ooh, you did not just say that."
Before he can attempt to shove the man through the nearest window...
“In ancient times, a wealthy merchant cut a ruby salamander ring from the hand of young cat burglar named Horastian. Horastian later became a renowned information broker and art collector. The Pathfinder Society hopes to magically locate the long-dead thief and his fabled hoard by using the ring as a divination focus.”
"It's always about the coin."
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Another Varisian walks in, this one a tall, athletic man of mixed elven blood. His clothes are heavily road-and-dust-stained, and he carries a double-pack on his back. He’s got enough tattoos to rival Agirran’s, though his own are of a more traditional Varisian style … well-crafted, multi-colored, expensive things that cover much of his exposed skin as well as crawling down into his clothes.
He nods in a familiar way to the half-elven religious man (Tophor) and gives the Varisian woman a questioning glance as he sets his packs down, rolling his shoulders and readjusting the curved Tien blade slung across his back. Then he settles in just in time to hear Dreng’s mission briefing.
He follows the ensuing conversation, then raises his eyebrows at Agirran. ”Nothing wrong with looking for a bit of coin, *cara. Society’s gotta be funded to pay for your …” he looks the man up and down, then gives a grin and a wink, ”… whatever it is you do for fun.”
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"Probably a good thing considering how much gold has been used to decorate those skins" Mumbly looks at his own sailor tattoos and all the ink everyone else is sporting.
"Better seeking a legitimate coin from those who no longer require it than to take it from those who might be wanting to object, and as our friend Jal here points out, things need to be funded, and coin is the wind that fills an adventurers sails. If we find some arcane curiosities too that would be nice. "
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Drandle Drenge pulls an iron key from his waistcoat and hands it to Jal. “I leave you with the key to the Drownyard gate. Remember, the Drownyard is a deeply personal site for many powerful Inner Sea families. You will tread upon the graves of their children. Be sure to give the site the respect it deserves.”
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"How delightfully macabre!" comments Bosbain as he rises from his seat. With an offered arm he prepared to exit the meeting with his companion "Certainly a fitting beginning to our little venture. Ah, yes, that has put me in high spirits. I look forward to seeing you again so, my wonderful compatriots!"
With that he'll leave the office of the Venture Captain to make the necessary preparations for his trip to the Drownedyard.
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Jal returns Rika's nod with a hard, flat look. Then he pockets the iron key and gives the Venture-Captain a final nod as he follows the team out the door.
When the note is offered and read, he shrugs. "The only time I enjoy dealing with rich folk is when we're sitting at a gambling table." he shakes his head, "Ah, well ... maybe there'll be some good food there. And hey, at least I have the proper clothes for once."
Sure enough, when the time comes, the Varisian shows up in some fancy Taldan courtier's clothes complete with expensive rings on both fingers and in ears. Despite the expensive clothes, he keeps his blade on his back and his multi-color kapenia around his throat.
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Rika frowns, deep in thought. "What is correct dress for occasion?" Suddenly, realization dawns in her eyes. "Please waits here, I return."
When she does return, a set of translucent armbands are wrapped on eeither arm. She tugs at them and asks: "Please help find good clothes for obligatory dinner."
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"Ha! You stick it to'em." responds Jal with a shake of his head, "They invited you, right?"
"No this lady is trying to extort me with the memory of her own dead daughter whom I've never met, and then belittle me by inferring I don't mix in her rarefied company. She'll be lucky if all I do is smack her by the end of the night. And Devil-Girl you just wear whatever the hells you want to."
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Tophor steps forward calmly, raising his hands in a mollifying gesture.
"No this lady is trying to extort me with the memory of her own dead daughter whom I've never met, and then belittle me by inferring..."
“We’ve endured far worse for the sake of the Society. Surely we can cooperate with their wishes, as price of admission to the ruins of the Tri-Towers Yard?”
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"Sensible to hear her out, perhaps she has some information that may be of use. No point us going into the drownyards and finding ourselves hitting reefs that could have been easily avoided. Dress as you will though, for I suspect we will be looked down upon regardless of finery and you may as well be comfortable whilst being disdained. Even the Venture Captain here is dismissive of the common folk. Oh well, no point carrying on and making a fuss, just adjust your sails and set a course and we can navigate the challenges easy enough. Be polite, be friendly, but leave none of their bottles un-emptied"