Time in a desert flows differently. Perhaps the fault for this lays upon the dunes. It's a sea of sand for miles and miles with just the sky above and drifting clouds for entertainment. The man leading you, Garavel, is not much of a talker and takes things far too literal and has killed man a joke with his analytic wit and logical deductions. When accused he claimed he understood comedy and the benefit of a hardy belly laugh, but nobody would believe him. None of you five can claim to have seen him laugh. In fact, you're at a loss to count a time when he even smiled. However, he is not without morality or his humanity.
Rising over the last dune your destination is finally seen on the horizon: Sultan's Claw. It's aprtly named, With 5 immense, mostly leafless branches, the growth looks more like a giant skeletal talon than living wood. Clustered around this distinctive tree are a half-dozen wagons and one large tent. Camels in a nearby pen prance in nervous agitation and a clutch of confused goats and other livestock wander the grounds of the wagons. Suddenly, there is a whoosh and a burst of bright orange. A dozen men and women scatter, shouting. Some reach out to collect the animals while others race to fill pails of water as one of the wagons was now surrounded on fire.
Lush orange and red flames have engulfed an elaborate wooden wagon emblazoned with painted moons andstars. A gout of smoke poursfrom the open door, and as you rapidly approach an ill wind blows a number of colorful fortune-telling Harrow cards from inside. The breeze played with one card like a leaf.It rose and fell gracefully, at first rising but then diving abrutly only to be twirled onward until it planted itself in the half-elf's cleavage, in the cleft of her 'heaving' breasts. Once plucked the wind reclaims it and loses it among the others.
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Sorry, but you used 'heaving' in your entrance in the recruitment thread and that just might be a running gag for me. So, maybe I'm not sorry. Anyway, the card you had in your cleavage, you noticed, was "THE CYCLONE". It portends war, destruction, and destructive plans/planning.
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Soon the whole of Sultan's Claw erupts into brilliant blaze!
The central flap of the ornate tent flies open and a regal looking woman strides out into the firelit night.
"Douse that fire!" she commanded to the men surrounding the wagon before turning in your direction. "Ah, Garavel!" she smiled, even though her brow was creased with concern. "And just a moment later than the nick of time, as usual." Looking past her major-domo and directly at you, the woman you assume is Almah, barks a simple order before running towards the fire.
"Don't just stand there! Help!"
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OOC
And there you have it, the beginning to this adventure. Now, here is where you can help, there are four options. There is a benefit to each one but there isn't doing them in turn. All four items are happening at the same time, so your choice is important.
[1] Put out the fire
[2] Pull the wagon out of the way
[3] Heal the wounded firefighters
[4] Deal with the frightened animals
If you hesitate you will get assigned!
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Below I have given you some homework. As we progress I'm likely going to pass on assignments like this to keep everyone moving.
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[-]Tie in how you have met Garavel and how he recruited you. Think of him as a mixture of Saruman and Spock, logical to a fault but yet sagely and wise. He does look a lot like Christopher Lee. This was something I had planned on doing for you, and I have decided not to this time as I see it removing you from the story and the creativity. That would be sinful. And it is alright to include some unexplainable events, but don't make it too vague. For example, a friendly butcher gave you a sausage, but when you turned around the corner there was a small pack of wild dogs that chased you away into Garavel. After taking the sausage from your hand and throwing it to the dogs, he invites you to join. I'm sure what you will create will be 100% more awesome!
[-]Also, on a sheet of lined paper right down twelve details about your character. It shouldn't be outrageous or something terribly secret but fun interesting facts like what her favorite color is or if she likes chicken over fish. Perhaps even her dress size. This is going to be a chart the other PCs have learned about your PC over the course of the week of traveling. You each roll a 1d12 4 times, one for each character. Then you PM each other the results. Think of it like an itty-bitty Christmas. Please do the rolls in the discussion thread.
Cresting yet another dune Lark takes a moment to examine his surroundings, the hot wind brushing over his skin as he holds up his shield to give himself some shade. Around him the foreign landscape shifted and twisted, as if a particularly fussy god was forever reshaping the land. The sea of sand confused him to no end and proved impossible to keep out of his clothes. But the inconvenience aside he couldn't deny the majesty around him.
Quietly the caravan leader brushes past him, Garavel was a stern man but decent if lacking in joviality. Still the man's balanced demeanor did him credit and Lark was more than happy to walk in silence with him. Not that his other companions were one for silence. Given their destination and goal he was more than eager to join in with them, even appreciating the beauty of a his female companions, though he had not yet approached any of them. Given the circumstances of the mission his thoughts for the most part were focused on the battles to come. The thought reminds him of how he came to be gallivanting through the middle of a desert.
He'd been making a pilgrimage to Solku to pay his respects to the Iomedean Paladins who had helped to save the city when he had been approached by Garavel with an offer he couldn't refuse.
Help retake a village from murderous Gnolls and restore order to the surrounding land. He was sure the Paladins' spirits or Iomedae wouldn't mind to much if he shelved the pilgrimage to contributed to a worthy cause.
And after he had punched that one slaver who had been beating his slave in the street in his smug face, he was looking for a way out of the city anyway.
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As they finally crest the last dune Lark takes a moment to examine the surroundings, sweltering in his armor feeling parched from his trek. Sand and more sand, Iomedae help me what I wouldn't give for a tree right now. He thinks as he pokes his head over the lip and sees the camp's namesake. Ah, well I suppose that counts. Still it's not like this journey hasn't been without it's sights. He thinks, resist the urge to turn around and inappropriately ogle the half elf, again.
Suddenly a flash ignites one of the wagons, one painted with tacky stars. His better nature over taking him he rushes down the dune, as he does a swarm of harrow cards carried by the breeze rushes past. Instinctively raising his shield to protect himself, Lark turns his head to see one of the cards lodge itself in one of his companions rather prominent bosom. The sight is absurd enough to momentarily distract him when a call for help strikes a cord in him.
Unable to resist a request for help Lark's mind rapidly shifts out of the reverie it was in and into combat mode. His eyes flick around the scene before him. His first thought is to rush into the burning wagon and search for survivors, but a glance at the state of the wood quickly dispels that thought. By the time he could reach it anyone in there would be long dead.
Frightened animals, scared but no danger to anyone. We have wounded, I have no way of healing them, Inheritor lend them strength. Wagon on fire, efforts to douse it underway. One of the wagons is being pulled, it's close to the fire, if we move it away from the other wagon it can burn itself out. What else is it going to set on fire? The desert?
Quickly going over his thoughts he bursts into action to help with moving the wagon.
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Without warning the little whip came around, just painful enough to sting, but not to leave another scare and the time for rest was over.
"I did not buy your worthless hide so that you can sleep! Distribute the meal, then clean my armor, and be warned, any spot and you will be soo very sorry. What are you standing there like a daft mule. OFF to work." It quite a lot of time to get all chores done, but in the end Faffnyr was done and standing guard with the other slave-soldiers. Marching through the heat. But that was her live, and the gods had willed it so. At least the sultan´s claw was in sight. Taking a swig of water from her water-bottle, whirling the first slosh in her mouth before spitting it out. Only then she began drinking from her flask. The dawnflower be blessed for her faith in me. With the powers invested in her no one was without enough water in this dry heat. About to take another drink a bang was heard. Faffnyr quickly closed the bottle and ran to the center of the noise. The fire was spreading and wounded people were everywhere. Seeing the pain and hearing the crys Faffnyr took the symbol of her faith, a battered old piece of wood and suddenly a wave of healing energy erupted from her.
Isadriewen places a hand over her eyes to block the searing light of the mid day sun. The day is no time to travel in the desert. The ibex forages at night. The desert wren hunts only under the moon. And yet our guide leads us into the wastelands while the sun is still at its zenith. The price for such mistakes in the desert can be death. What do I know of Garavel? Can he be trusted?
Isadriewen scans the desert scape in front of her. The symmetry of the dunes is beautiful. No where in Golarion can dunes like this be found. If only I had my easel ... "
The half elf thinks back to the beginning of the journey. She had been looking for a guide to take her into the the wastes. Isadriewen was an artist and her muse was the desert. Her livelihood depended on finding new scenes to paint.
It was coincidental then that Garavel had stepped into her studio. He had feigned interest in her paintings before letting it be known his knowledge of the surrounding lands and his expertise as a guide. Perhaps her friends had shared her plans with him. Or perhaps the man had deeper designs for her. A man with an agenda was nothing new for Isadriewen.
Isadriewen was tempted to follow her instinctive wariness of strangers until the man described the Sultan's claw. The image of the giant tree rising against the backdrop of the endless sand dunes intrigued her. Such unique scenes were the stuff of great art. Perhaps this would be her masterpiece.
Isadriewen wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and sparingly sipped from her diminishing water skin. She used the moment to evaluate her traveling companions with an artist's eye. An armored fighter, a half orc priest, and two secretive humans. What possibly could have brought them into the desert. Hopefully they have better motives than your fool muse! Isadriewen smiled and then continued her slow, plodding march through the dunes.
Ahead, a claw shaped tree became visible in the wavering desert air. A mirage? No, this must be the tree. As Isadriewen's eyes came into focus she now saw the wagons in the distance. Something is burning! Isadriewen broke into a sprint.
The wind that pushed against her felt like a blast furnace. Burning debris pelted her and her traveling companions. Suddenly a cartwheeling harrow card came flipping at her and lodged itself in her exposed, heaving cleavage. Isadriewen pulled the card out. "It is the cyclone. It portends war and destruction. This is a dire omen!"
Isadriwen looks at the burning wagon and does not hesitate. Fire, my old friend, I've come to visit you again. She then moves to grab a blanket to help put out the flames. She attempts to organize the onlookers around her to assist in the effort. "Smother the flames! Quickly, before they spread!"
As he rushes over to move the cart Isadriwen's words catch up with him and an idea comes to him.
"Faffnyr! He calls out as he pivots and begins racing to gather up blankets. "Can you drench these blankets with your magic?" Sand kicking up around his feet as he races around. "Try dunking some in the water barrel, if you can't make enough water, hurry we haven't much time!"
Okaris watches the pandemonium for a second, hearing Isadriewen's dire portent, he is spurred into action. He quickly comes to a decision racing toward the Wagon. The others are dealing with the fire and the wounded, he thinks as he lowers his center of gravity trying to push the wagon out of the way. "Move!" He grunts with the effort.
As he exerts himself he worries, Hurry get that fire out.
What did you get me into this time, old man? Arian thinks as the fire explodes out of the wagon. I owe you for getting me out of Okeno before the slavers caught me in our delicate little game of mutual hunting, but did you really have to drop me in a burning oasis? If you've decided this is a joke, you really are devoid of a sense of humor like they say.
The entertainer rushes across the dunes, pulling one of her cloth scarves close across her mouth to keep out smoke and sand. As Okaris slams into the back of the wagon, she races to the front and pulls. Her wiry arms flex with surprising muscle and she grits her teeth with the effort as she attempts to help get the wagon out of the way.
@Isadriewen & @Okaris
Like a wave of ants, the fire climbs up in waves over the skin the distinguished tree. It stood there like a lich's hand gnarled and boney, and its eerieness was doubled by the fire. The bright orange glow made it look angry and full of vengeance. Two of the four soldiers were frozen in awe with their jaws slacked, hanging open.
"Move." Garavel snapped his fingers and those men came to life and ran to the large barrel of water. They, along with Garavel and Almah, grabbed a pail and filled them. Then they would run to the fire, dump the contents onto the blaze, and repeat the actions.
"Quick! Grab a bucket and move! we need to hurry!" Almah shouted.
***
@Adrian & @Lark
Four big strong mercenaries rush to the wagon to move it: two push while the others pull. They grunt and take turns shouting directions to each other. One of them with large eyebrows and a dimpled chin looked rather impressed when Adrian did her part. For a short second his eyes moved over her frame, her arms and then her face.
"Be careful," he said with a chuckle. "Be a shame to get those dainty fingers and your pretty face full of soot and splinter." Lark just got a curious look from the others but as they needed the help they wouldn't judge. However, one did give him an encouraging pat on the rump.
***
@Faffnyr
An older halfling with a huge beard turned from two burned victims to grab hold of your wrist. He has quite a grip for a person the size of a man's thigh.
"I can only handle healing one at a time. You take care of Kallien while I tend to Trevvis," he said and dropped back to his knees. A halo of light surrounded his body as he laid his hands on his patient's chest.
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OOC
Hello heroes.
Now, for the sake of sanity and organization let's see which one of those four actions you are doing.
[Lark] Looks like you are running off to assist with moving the wagon. Good.
[Faffnyr] You are healing people, that is awesome. Many will come to you blistered and full of burns.
[Okaris] Is stopping the fire.
[Isadriewen] Is smothering the fire.
[Adrian] Is moving the wagon. Heav ho!
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Dropping about arm load of blankets at Isadriewen's feet as he races over to the wagon,Lark ignores the odd looks and slap on the but.
"Push, move this wagon! All together now!" He says as he puts his back into it.
As he pushes he feels it begin to give slightly. "Almost! keep it up!" He yells encouragingly.
Arian pulls with all her might. Her feet slip in the sand for a moment, then she lower her stance. "HnnnngghghAAAAHHHH!" her grunt turns into a scream as she starts the wagon moving.
(includes +8 from the mercenary assists)
Arian pulls with all her might. Her feet slip in the sand for a moment, then she lower her stance. "HnnnngghghAAAAHHHH!" her grunt turns into a scream as she starts the wagon moving.
1d20+10 (includes +8 from the mercenary assists)
Okaris rushes over to the barrel of water, noticing the haphazard approach everyone is taking. In his most authoritative voice he advises, "Form a line and pass the buckets down it will be quicker." Once everyone lines up he starts the process of passing the buckets up and down the line.
Isadriewen will continue to smother flames until she can get Okaris's attention. "The bucket brigade may be too slow to keep up with the flames! Should we dump the whole barrel to quench the growing fire?"
If Okaris agrees, she will assist him in moving the barrel.
Okaris Considers Isadriewens idea on lifting the barrel replying, "I'm not sure if I can lift it." He squats, wrapping his arms around the barrel and lifts. It teeters for a second, almost tipping over. In a flash Isadriewen is there to help stabilize the tilting barrel. Together the two move slowly towards the flames with their precarious cargo.
The black smoke billowed off the Sultan's Claw laid like a cloud on the camp, conjuring an atmosphere of loneliness as it blinded you from each other. However, thanks to you, nobody lost heart and kept their courage. Arian's hard work lead the mercenaries and Lark to heave up the wagon and turn it before pulling it from the danger. The mercenary that eyed Arian earlier looked impressed that such a woman could muster up such strength. However, he said nothing. Instead when he passed her gave her butt a congratulatory slap and moved on into the madness to help someone else.
Also showing a great amount of power is Okaris and Isdriewen. Working together hoisted up the barrel of water and carefully, slowly, crab-walked towards the blaze. With a loud grunt both threw the barrel at it. There was the splash followed by the loud hissing
of the fire drowning. The people cheered and hooted. Faffnyr, with the blessing of her goddess, healed those wounded and thankfully it was not too many. Tonight, you five have earned your keep and here is why.
There was an NPC(or NPCs) with each of your groups. Now that you have successfully helped them their attitudes have changed. Arian and Lark had impressed the 4 mercenaries and their attitudes have changed from meh(indifferent) to friendly. Plus, Arian got a spanking and that's always a good sign. Am I right?
Okaris and Isdriewen are now heroes to Almah and Garavel. plus the 4 soldiers that were part of the bucket line. Their thought about these two are up from indifferent to friendly as well.
Faffnyr has 3 NPCs who are now friendly to her: Father Zastoran, the halfing cleric, Kallien and Trevvis.
However, the astrologer, the owner of the harrow deck that blew away is dead.
***
After a brief time of congratulating each other, Almah is seen rummaging through what's left of the wagon.
Almah does not seem rather upset about the loss of her astrologer. She just goes through the wreckage as if it was always empty. In other words, she shows no concern.
Garavel watched Almah wander the burnt remains for a long moment.
"His name was Elois," he said suddenly. "He was the fortune teller and he divined with a deck of cards known as the harrow. Let's go and see what else we can find." and with a sweep of his cape, Garavel leads you to what remains of the wagon.
Arian glances at the mercenaries with a serious expression for a moment, then follows Garavel. "I hope the damage is minimal," she says with an unhappy expression. "We can ill afford to lose any supplies in the midst of the desert." She pokes about the wreckage of the wagon and says, "A shame about Elois. It seems he had some talent for locating a lush oasis." She gives a knowing stage glance at Isadriewen's cleavage.
Coughing slightly from the smoke Lark watches Almah wander through the wreckage he shakes his head. "Can't imagine what's going on in her head." He says sadly, his thumb idly running over his sword hilt as he joins Arian and pokes about the wreck.
"I just hope we have enough water," Lark follows Arians gaze, earning a chuckle from the pale man. "Bountiful they may be, I doubt Isadriewen can refill our water supplies."
"One hopes that the devout and holy might call forth water at need," says Arian as she waves some of the ash and smoke away.
While poking at the rubble with a long, pointed weapon - where did that come from? Oh right, she arrived with it, it just seems so incongruous for an entertainer - she makes up a silly verse:
"Some men like olives
Some favor pomegranates
And some love the ripest of melons.
Some men like all of them
Some women too!
To nibble, to touch, the avellan.
Firm apples, pert plums
Orange squeezed into cruets
But the men who don't like them
Are the ones we call 'fruits.'"
Okaris looks down at his clothes hoping they haven't been ruined by the chaotic events. He begins to absentmindedly stroke his goatee saying, "Nice job Isadriewen, I couldn't have done it without you. He begins brushing off his clothes obvious to what's going on around him.
A piece of burned wood on the door frame crumbles softly at his touch, the wet soot staining the armor around his fingers black as Lark pushes his way into the wagon. A momentary grimace washes over him as the charred remains of the fortune teller lay spread out on the floor, the powerful aroma of burned flesh hits his senses with a mighty blow.
I should give this man's soul it's last rights, what were the words again?
Silently taking a moment to try and recall the last right's of Pharasma's church, the words slip his mind. Inheritor, grace this poor soul with some measure of peace. He prays instead.
His spiritual duties discharged, Lark scans his eye over the interior but nothing stands out. Just more reminders of the blaze that was consuming the wagon not long ago. Dejected he takes his leave and goes back to Arian in time to catch her verse.
"Witty," He says, the joke coaxing a smile forth. "I'm sure a couple of the fine men from earlier wouldn't mind a taste of yours." He says jovially before leaning in, whispering in a low voice.
Arian mumbles to Lark,
She pokes a chunk of charred wood with the end of her hooked polearm and says, "My apples are not for sale, but treat me right and you might have a bite." She smirks only for a moment and then says, "But seriously. We must discern what happened here lest it happen again."
Tilting his head in agreement, he whispers back.
"Well after that display of heroics I'm sure you wont be short of good company." He says with a smirk before whispering again.
"A woman of my means can afford to be choosy about her company," Arian says idly.
"Agreed, I'm sure some of our fine colleagues will be heart broken to learn that." Lark replies.
"Though if none here match your standards then I am sure you will find my company most pleasant."
Arian makes an exaggerated pantomime of waving her hand in front of her face and says, "After a day in the sun wearing that heavy metal armor of yours? It's a bit more... pungent." Then she says, "The obvious solution, of course, being to doff the armor and don something cooler and more comfortable."
The mention of his hygiene draws a very real scowl from Lark. "Believe me it irks me as well. But as mush as I would like to wear something more comfortable I would rather be wearing armor if we were to be attacked." He says, fidgeting with his collar. "Though...a few minutes of cool air couldn't hurt. If you were to help me with removing it that would be much appreciated." He muses. "However the only clothes I possess are from my homeland are, I regrettably have not gotten around to purchasing any of your native garments yet."
As he leans over to begin removing his armor Lark whispers.
"Sirrah, do they not have baths from whence you come? Nay, that sauce-can is my only protection from your odor. Let it lie until we have a chance to draw you a proper pool of water," says Arian - incidentally giving Lark an excuse to keep his armor on in case a new danger arises.
She turns on her heel as if miffed and returns to the group of mercenaries. "Do you know aught of the fortune-teller?" she asks. "Seems an unlikely tragedy."
Arians response earns an eye roll from Lark, though the meaning is understood. Readjusting the straps on his armor, Lark quickly follows after the Keleshite.
As he approaches the group a friendly smile spreads over his face and he stands just behind Arian as he looks over the rowdy men. "A foul turn of events indeed, I was hoping you lads could help me out. We've only just got here so anything you can tell us about the fortune teller and what happened here will be greatly appreciated."
As he speaks he looks out for any signs of deceit from the men.
Isadriewen will help the others search the burned wreckage. Upon seeing the dead fortune teller, she pauses and turns away. "There is so much death in these lands. Life seems to be fleeting in the desert. Why did this man have to die? What dark prophecy did he foretell before the flames engulfed him?"
Isadriewen's mind wanders back to the harrow card that came whipping from the flames. The cyclone ... a portent of war and destruction.
Isadriewen says a prayer to Shelyn for the fallen man and then leaves to speak to her new friends, Almah and Garavel. "What started the fire? did you see anything? Please help me ask the others."
Isadriewen will speak to each of the soldiers and will attempt to recount what they saw in the moments before the fire.
It's as expected, the wagon is a true mess. Where the paint wasn't dulled brown or black by the fire has curled and it simply smells. Occasionally a whiff of incense or scented oil wafts up but it only lasts long enough to be noticed. After a snort it vanishes.
Arian, you rolled a sense motive. I am assuming that's for the mercenary that's looking at you. He is not hiding that he is intrigued by you. You've shown that you are more than a demure entertainer and a pretty face. However, you hear a tiny voice in the back of your head remind you that men seldom like stronger women. However, that's in your mind. There is nothing in his body language that suggests that he dislikes what you've done. Lastly, kudos on getting a paladin to chat about 'apples'.
Lark, you rolled for sense motive too. The mercenaries are not ignorant about paladins of your faith, and none of them chat it up with you but you can tell that they are grateful for your assistence. More importantly, you've gained their respect. Also, they like "apples" too and have been looking between the three women.
Looks like you rolled for sense motive too Okaris. You have earned the respect of those you worked with. However, you noticed that Arian glanced at Isadriewen's chest. And there's a sudden a catchy poem / limerick about fruit.
Isadriewen, you talked to the Caravan Guards.
"We didn't see what caused the fire with the wagon, but we did see Dashki skulking about by a tree. He's obsessed about Almah and was likely trying to get a peep at her at the tent." He pointed at the tree and shrugged. "Not exactly close to the wagon."
Faffnyr, Father Zastoran will nods his head and smile at you.
"Of course! A proper burial will ensure that he'll stay rested. Now go and do what's needed by you."
As for everyone with a DC 20 on your perception checks, you find Eloise. It's a sad sight. His skeleton lays in the middle of the wagon. Nothing, aside that everything is burned is out of place. There are no signs of a struggle or violence. Apparently, even astrologers cannot predict their way out of Death's boney grasp. For those that did not succeed, Eloise's charred remains blend in with the rest of the damage.
A DC 16 reveals this.
From the corner of your eyes a sudden movement catches your attention. At first you thought it was a shadow causing your imagination to run away but after a second look there he is. He is a tall man, decently muscled wearing dark clothes. his hair looks greasy and he holds his shoulders forward.
Also, you do not need to roll knowledge religion to do prayers of your own faith.
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Speaking a quick prayer to Pharasma Faffnyr carefully moves anyone away from the remains. Putting her hand lightly on head and heart she looks around for a blanket, but nothing in this charred mess is useable. Undoing her cloak she puts it on the floor.
"Sir Lark, could you help me get the body out of this mess. I think we have to gather a shovel and bury her. With respect!" After hearing Isadriewen speak the half-orc shrugs. "I heard fortune telling and all other forms of prophecy went bad with the dead of some god."
"Of course," Lark replies as he heads over to help, collect a shovel from the other wagon. "Though you shall have to preform the ceremony, I wouldn't want to offend the spirit."
"Yes, the Age of Lost Omens as it has been taken to being called. I am keenly familiar with it, any follower of the Inheritor should be. After all that's why Iomedae is called the Inheritor after all." As he digs he settles into a rhythm. "Aroden, the god of Man, Last of the First Men and the first Ascended. Iomedae was the greatest of his mortal servants and when she ascended he took her as his herald and in the wake of his death she has taken his mantel as protector of mankind."
As the others find the body of the fortune teller in the charred ruins of the wagon Okaris catches Arian looking as Isadriewen's chest. He is about to say something and thinks better of it, thinking, The biggest fruits are often the sweetest.
Upon seeing Lark and Faffnyr going to take care of the remains Okaris silently joins them.
Arian leans easily on the haft of her pole arm as she speaks to the mercenaries. "Bad luck, eh? Ever seen anything like that?"
You've made an impression. With only a little nudge from Garavel you've managed to step up and do the right thing by Eloise. Lark and Faffnyr took care of Eloise's body and giving him a proper, restful afterlife. And since they're already so burned he's halfway cremated already.
And while you ready Eloise's remains Garavel breaks away to have a short, quiet conversation. Their eyes keep flitting towards you. Finally, Almah nods and Garavel returns.
"We've talked," he said plainly. His voice was low, rich, and articulate. "And since you are the only ones we know are innocent of doing this it has been decided that you will explore how this has happened.Start by interviewing the others and see what they know."
Garavel just simpy stood there and watched you, his face void of any emotion.
OOC
And here is where it gets fun. We can spend a lot of days interviewing people, asking questions and havea great time doing that, but to keep things moving just give me a list of things that you want your character to do. What I will do then is put everything together into a post and continue on. Sound good?
Faffnyr will first ask the others for their opinion.
She will ask who would have gained anything from this.
Ask who was close of those present.
This was a grisly thing to do if it was on purpose.
Someone REALLY must have hated her.
Be just a bit more precise on what she wants to do. Like, who do you want to ask and when. And, Eloise is a man. Strange name.
Lark will first talk to Almah and Garvel about Eloise, getting information on his role, how others in the group treated him. After that he'll repeat the process with the Merc's one by one, comparing the stories mentally, and he'll ask if any one could of held a grudge with Eloise.
Once he's completed that he'll corroborate his findings with Arian.
Isadriwen will continue her conversation with Almah, "What's your story? Why are you here? What do you know of Eloise? Did he have any enemies in the camp? What can you tell me of Dashki? How long has he been stalking you?"
She will also talk to Garavel, "Why are these people here? What do you know of them? What can you tell me of the Sultan's Claw?"
Arian spends a while fraternizing with the mercenaries, getting a feel for their reasons for coming on the job - money? adventure? something else? - Arien excuses herself and takes the opportunity to meet the bearded halfling who used healing magic, Father Zastoran. She chats with the cleric about the unfortunate loss of life and asks if Eloise ever had anything like this happen in the past - weird events and strange hazards, possibly around the time that the fortune-teller used his Harrow deck.