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Walking along at a slow pace, Kembe keeps himself close at hand to his brother Sejiri, unconsciously taking slower strides to slow his movement to match his. "Its good to be back on another mission. Idle time is good in small amounts but one can only go through personal training and meditations so long before needing something extra." He shifts his temple sword on his back a bit, still not used to the slightly different scabbard that came with this well made blade.
"Can we help you Sir?" He asks the downtrodden man, before he quickly sees who hides beneath the hood. "Quite clever, and smart. Best to keep everyone on their toes."
After listening to the man, and nodding slowly at the trivial request, Kembe remembers back to his idle time after their last adventure, speaking at length with Janira about the history of the Society.
He fondly recounts her stories in his head to see if anyone else had been listening or just nodding along.
The Wounded Wisp was a bar once frequented by the original members of the Pathfinder Society before the Society was even formed. Inside the Wisp, acquaintances would share stories about their adventurous exploits with one another.
Many volumes of the Pathfinder Chronicles came together under the Wisp’s roof. Famous Pathfinders like Eando Kline and the Seeker Osprey often stopped by for a drink while they relaxed in Absalom between assignments. Though not officially affiliated with the Society, the bar maintains good relations with Pathfinders, offering discounts and prompt service. The owners have always kept themselves and the Wisp afloat through the generosity of Society agents who spend coin at the establishment.
Selmius Foster was one of the founding members of the Pathfinder Society, known to have frequented the Wisp often and occasionally taken up residence in a spare room between his travels. His celebrated exploits first appeared in Volume 1 of the Pathfinder Chronicles.
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Forvenniel sighs. "Wine.. drink of the gods. Well, of one of them anyway."
She casts her eyes upward, a slow smile crawling across her face as she sees the moon overhead. "The moon sees you Drandle Dreng. She wonders who you are hiding from?"
I'm sure mum said something about this place.
"Wasn't the Wounded Wisp frequented by the original members of the Pathfinder Society before the Society was even formed? I heard that inside the Wisp, acquaintances would share stories about their adventurous exploits with one another - with the tales growing taller by the glass."
She smiles at the old man. "My uncle told me that many volumes of the Pathfinder Chronicles came together under the Wisp’s roof. Famous Pathfinders like Eando Kline and the Seeker Osprey often stopped by for a drink while they relaxed in Absalom between assignments."
She lowers her voice as she tells the group "Though not officially affiliated with the Society, the moon knows that the bar maintains good relations with Pathfinders, offering discounts and prompt service. The owners have always kept themselves and the Wisp afloat through the generosity of Society agents who spend coin at the establishment. "
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Sejiri wracks his brains for any pertinent information Janira, Kembe, or anyone else has imparted, coming up with nothing. He starts at the sudden appearance of Drandle Dreng, but quickly recovers and grins. "I heard tell there was a VC who went about dressed as a beggar. Either way, good to make your acquaintance and to have another mission. Seems simple enough, shouldn't be much of a problem. We will complete this task to the best of our abilities."
The halfling starts once again when Norril's arm finds his head. Still jumpy. "Oh, hello, Norril, everyone. Looks as if the gang's back together!"
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The Venture-Captain winks at the half-elven woman, "Seems you know your history, lass. But you don't need to know what I'm doing or who I'm watching, and neither does the moon!"
Dreng takes a sniff of Norril's wine, then passes it back. "I'll wait for the good stuff. You're bringing me a particularly special vintage from one of the best wine cellars in Absalom."
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"A good vintage? From Absalom? Mr. Dr...I mean, you must be joking. Everyone knows that the best wine comes from Cheliax..." Lord Arthur looks around himself, clearly expecting to find some simpathy in his companions. When he finds none, he shrugs and rolls his eyes. Ah, I keep forgetting that I'm not adventuring in the company of fellow bearded...
Despite his apparently light words, the Pathfinders around Arthur have already started to learn when the young noble is just diverting the attentions. A nod confirms that Arthur has understood the details of them mission, and also registered in his mind the stories told from Forvenniel.
With a smirk, Arthur takes his leave after his companions. He makes a little bow to Drandle Dreng and then follows Norril to the Wisp.
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Norril remembers seeing the Wounded Wisp in the Foreign Quarter, not far from the Grand Lodge. Built from dark, discolored wood, the exterior is the image of an iconic dive bar. Stained and barred windows obscure any view of the interior, though ruddy yellow light bleeds from a window in the front hall.
Inside, the smell of smoke and spilled ale assails the senses in this wide-open area. Walls of dark-stained wood make up the sides of the Wounded Wisp, while well-used wooden tables are spread throughout the space. A raised area in the back of the establishment houses several additional tables and eating areas for groups seeking more than just a good drink. An austere bar supported by kegs instead of wooden panels commands the northern end of the room. A stained-glass cabinet stands behind the bar, its dark panes cracked in several spots, yet not so opaque as to conceal the several dozen types of hard liquor within.
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Kembe stands to admire the high level of 'character' this building possesses. "Quite the sight here. I'm not sure its very welcoming to strangers such as us. The windows have bars on them Norril... but I will take your word for it." He heads inside staying within arms reach of Sejiri.
Once inside he wrinkles his nose a bit at the strong smells that flow out of the open door. He gives a worried look at Norril before heading inside. Before heading to the bar he takes a moment to have a look around the tavern to see whats there.
Afterwards he heads up to the bar. "Hello there Miss. We're here to collect a bottle of wine for a Mr Dreng? He said it was a very fine vintage."
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Forvenniel sniffs at the thick smoky air within the... lets be honest.. dive.
"No fresh air, no moon." she looks vaguely sad. Casting her eyes around the room the half elf tries to spot anyone she knows, but takes care to not get separated from her fellow team members.
"Hard to believe anything started here." she sighs.
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Arthur’s expectations about the Wounded Wisp are quickly disappointed as soon as his eyes contemplate the poor condition of the exterior of the tavern. O’ old, dear Absalom! Thousands of years of history, and you still have not learned how to valorize the symbols of your history!
The Pathfinder enters the Wounded Wisp last, following his companions. He tries not to give away his feelings, which are, however, pretty clear from the look on his face. A smirk of disgust ripples his lips, and his nose is wrinkled from the stench of alcohol and sweat. When his companions direct themselves to the bartender, the Pathfinder happily follows them, and lets Norril and Kembe do the talk. When the bartender looks at him, waiting for his input, Arthur shrugs. “You suppose you also serve something better than dirty martini in this…this…” Arthur takes a long breath in and smiles. He makes no effort to conceal the hypocrite nature of his smile. “…lovely tavern, so full of history and tales to tell that one risks to suffocate…”
The Pathfinder wrinkles his nose once again. “I would like to solve this matter as soon as possible, if you don’t mind”, he cuts short, turning to Norril and the bartender at the same time. “You must have understood the nature of our task. We need to retrieve a particular bottle of wine on behalf of a particular man. Can you please give it to us so that we can deliver it in time?” Arthur shrugs. “I suppose your vices can wait, Norril. I’m sure you will get back here and drink all the dirty martini one could dream of once we’ll be done. But in the meantime, please, do not lose time. I can’t stand this place. And there’s no moon here either, so let’s make it quick” Arthur blinks at Forvenniel, trying to break the ice with the standoffish elf. But he already expects a bad reaction.
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The bartender pours a drink for everyone, including two martinis in dirty glasses. "First round is on the house, seeing as you'll have to wait until my replacement gets here. Can't be letting the customers dry out while I take you down to the cellar.
"Anyways, why don't you mingle a bit. It'll make the wait seem shorter."
Most of the patrons seem caught up in their conversations, but you do spot a few tables that might welcome company. The first is Janira, whom you already know, while in the corner is a quiet man who made eye contact and nodded when you entered. In the center of the room are a couple of half-orcs drinking and shouting stories, not even bothering to sit at a table. The last appears to be a scholar with his face buried in books, however the absence of any books in front of the other chairs reveals his secret desire for company.
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Not feeling particularly comfortable in here Kembe isn't sure what to do so he follows Norril, taking his drink and smelling it, wrinkling his nose a bit. "This is for drinking? It smells like I should be using it to clean wounds..." He does take out the olive and eat that happily, at least until he tastes it and discreetly spits it back into his drink.
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As Norril and Kembe walk up, the female half-orc moves around the furniture to clear some space, while the male orders a half dozen ales. Seeing the newcomers, the female smiles at them, "You joining the game? I'm Shrade, he's Garl.
"Rules are, you gotta drink as much ale as you can while lifting the biggest piece of furniture that you can above your head."
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Kembe looks at Norril with an unfazed glare "I am not some gullible schoolboy that makes a fool of himself for the entertainment of others. I believe I'll go speak with Janira. It was good to meet you both; Shrade and Garl."
With that Kembe heads over towards Janira and has a look around for Sejiri.
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The two half-orcs watch Kembe walk away, then shrug to each other. "His fear is understandble," Garl says.
"Completely," Shrade responds, "No weak human could beat us!"
They both smile at Norril, though. "Uglies! Why, your jaw is so weak even tusks wouldn't be enough to strengthen it!"
One after the other, each half-orc grabs the table in one hand, two handles in the other . . . and neither even gets the table off the ground! Shrade turns to her brother, hanging her head, "It wasn't possible until just now, but maybe we've already had enough to drink. Losing to this scrawny one!"
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Kembe glances back to see the uproar and hear the disparaging words of the half orcs. I will not stoop to their level, I have more control than that. His eyes do grow wide a bit at the sight of Norril winning the challenge handily.
He heads to Janira's table and reintroduces himself. "Good morning Janira, I am Kembe if you have forgotten my name. I hope your wounds have all healed since your brave battle with the Minotaur?"
He shortly follows up this question with one of a bit more relevance "What can you tell me of a Mr Drandle Dreng? He's sent us on an errand for a bottle of wine."
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"Why, yes, I did offer the Society my assistance in that matter. You're a truly educated woman!" Yargos puts some papers in his book to mark the page, then closes the cover and leans in toward Forvenniel, "Eight hundred years ago, Taldor tried to conquer the Isle of Kortos. Their plan was simple, but deadly: when the misty weather of Desnus took hold, infiltrators known as the Black Echelon would weaken strategic defense points from within and destroy Absalom’s warning system. Then an armada hiding in the mists like a thousand hungry locusts would descend on Absalom."
Yargos rattles on, oblivious to whether the elf is even listening, "Prearranged signal lights were prepared for each phase of the offensive. But when the mists of Desnus descended, the leaders of the Black Echelon infiltration cell were discovered and assassinated by brave heroes of Absalom. The signal lanterns lay dark, and several hours later the fleet’s hiding place was discovered. A quick counterattack by Absalom’s navy ambushed the would-be invasion force and destroyed Taldor’s armada to the last mast. In the coming weeks, Absalom’s constabulary rooted out the remaining hidden members of Black Echelon and put every single one to the sword.
"This would have been just one more of the many failed invasions of Absalom, save for one crucial detail: prior to entering Absalom, each member of the Black Echelon cell swore an ancient oath, known as the Binding Word. Black Echelon pledged to fulfill their duties, no matter the barrier, no matter the cost."
Yargos pauses to make sure Forvenniel catches the next part, "And that is where history becomes important, and where we--the Pathfinder Society and myself--make history. Not even death can break the Binding Word. Almost a decade ago, the Black Echelon rose from the grave to attack Absalom. It was only through my dedicated archaeology to find the original codebook, and my detailed study of the book under pressure, that the Pathfinders were able to abort the invasion and prevent the undead Taldan souls from murdering thousands of citizens."
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Sejiri hovers about, a mite thirsty but unwilling to pull out his waterskin for fear of being impolite. He thus stays about equidistant from all the people, save Janira, who he shies away from. The halfling does, however, take interest in the story Yargos is telling near the end of it. He pulls up a chair next to Forvenniel and the man and asks, "Are such things somewhat common in the Society? I was recently Confirmed, and have been told by others much is not what it seems, as well as that the opportunities being plentiful and much more exciting than simple research."
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The elf looks on, her gaze interested, even as he mind starts to slip away.
He is so like uncle Valandil. If wonder if they have ever met.
Eventually she nods "So... that makes you quite the hero! The moon so loves the heroes she gazes down upon. And lovers, who meet under who her gaze, or write to each other in pale moonlight."
Her hair moves slightly, as if buffeted by a non existent breeze.
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"Simple research?" Yargos sputters at Sejiri's remark "There is nothing simple about good research!
"As to your question: I much prefer to do my own research, and don't read your Chronicles very often, so I can't really say whether such things are common for Pathfinders. Truly though, things are not always what they seem."
The old man stares up at the corner of the ceiling a moment, then smiles, "Why, I once found a matching set of books written in Abyssal and Celestial. After days of study, I determined that they were summoning instructions. But wouldn't you know it, they were actually extra-dimensional prisons!
"The instructions were for releasing outsiders from the imprisonment!"
Yargos looks at Forvenniel, confused, "Lovers? Yes, yes. Young lovers often meet beneath the full moon. Sure."
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Shrade laughs at Norril's question, "Wise words, eh? Yes, don't let Drandle Dreng catch you not working. Ever."
Then Garl chimes in, "And don't talk back to Ambrus Valsin. Ever!
"Master Farabellus is great though. He knows how to swing an axe. But what about yourself? They given you any good missions, yet?"
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The door to the Wounded Wisp opens slowly as a young half-elf peers into the bar and looks around squinting at each of the patrons for a moment before his eyes widen in recognition.
"Ah, Janira!" He says loudly waving a tattooed arm towards the halfling as he finishes entering the bar. A squat skunk waddles in after him, keeping pace with the half-elf as the two make their way across the bar.
"Haven't seen you since my Confirmation, Zev, if you recall. Been up to anything exciting? I haven't, of course, just performing on street corners waiting for another assignment." He shrugs and looks back toward the way he came. "Nearly tripped over Dreng in some awful costume while I was working the streets, he told me he'd sent a few Pathfinders this way on some assignment and informed me that I should catch up. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
He takes another look around the bar, straightening his purple and green checkered vest while he does. "Really, it could be any of these guys, or all of them?" He continues to mumble to himself while waiting for the halflings answer.
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Kembe turns to the newcomer with a questioning look in his eye "Tell me Zev, why would a Pathfinder wear such... interesting clothes?" He asks as he looks him up and down, his expression not showing much.
"I am Kembe, one of these Pathfinders you seek. As are these others here." He points everyone out one by one.
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"Interesting clothes?" Zev looks at his outfit and shrugs. "I'm a Varisian at heart, I like to keep a bit of color on me! Green for wisdom, violet for inspiration, blue for youth and vigor and orange for happiness." He points to his pants, blue on one leg, orange on the other, as he finishes his explanation. "More than a bit of color I guess!" He laughs as he turns and inspects the rest of the Pathfinders, waving hello at any that may be facing their direction.
"What's the assignment by the way? Drendle just told me to meet you all here. Didn't say much after that."
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"Ah, yes. That is an interesting proposition. If only it were a practical one too." Yargos smiles at Forvenniel's suggestion. "Unfortunately, I've found that knowledge is much harder to come by in the real world. But fortunately, I'm quite good at that hard work!"
The old man leans in and winks before continuing, "I don't mind a good piece of gossip too, though. Like this Mendevian knight who wants to take the Test of the Starstone. Have you heard anything of him?"
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"If you really want a dangerous mission?" Shrade asks Norril, and winks at Garl.
Picking up on her twin's thoughts, the sister continues, "You could try to become a god, just like that acolyte Sir Reinhart of Kenabres is about to do. Almost everyone dies in the attempt, but if you don't . . . "
Shrade effortlessly picks up the line, "Well then, you become a god! Just like Aroden."
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"A bottle of wine!?" Zev looks at the halfling with wide eyes as he shakes his hand. "That's what I was stopped for? I was making money!" Shaking his head he turns back to Janira, who had all but ignored him and shrugs.
"Well I found my group, good talk I guess..."
His ear picks up what sounds like a good story and wanders over to where Forvenniel speaks with the older man.
"When is he taking this test? If he succeeds that would be quite the story to tell! If he fails it might be worth a few coins anyway, as long as he does so in spectacular fashion."
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"I assume he is human, after all most of the crusaders are. I don't really know, though" Yargos answers Forvenniel, then turns to the newcomer, "This afternoon, I believe. Though he'll need much more than a few coins if he doesn't succeed. The Failed aspirants all die. The gods Aroden, Norgorber, Cayden Cailean, and Iomedae are the only ones to survive the Test of the Starstone."
Just then, Heryn Gale approaches Norril, "Gather your companions, and meet me behind the bar. I'll need help finding Drandle's bottle in the cellar."
As you depart, your new friends all offer their assistance, should you ever need it.
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"The coins aren't for the knight old timer." Zev says with a smile. "They're for me when I tell his tale!"
His turns his attention to the bartender as she approaches the group and he raises an eyebrow when she requests their help, but he doesn't say anything about it, just follows the rest toward the cellar.
He eyes the plank warily and laughs when Norril speaks.
"You've got that right! I'm not so sure I'm willing to walk that thing. In fact, I think I'll take a page from Sejiri's book. Bevole, come to me little one."
He whistles his pet skunk over, and in an instant the creature becomes a swirling mist of magical energy that drifts towards Zevs arm and seems to merge with his skin, leaving a tattoo of a content skunk where there only was bare skin before.
Zev steps over to the ledge, moving quickly and takes a small leap, not as impressive as the Paladins, but as successful.
"Well, that wasn't so bad. Whose next?"
He reaches out a hand to assist the next person to cross.