Leinathan's Council of Thieves PbP (Inactive)

Game Master leinathan


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What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

In 4606 ar, Aroden, god of humanity, innovation, and history, died. No city in all of Golarion was wracked more fundamentally by this catastrophic event than Westcrown. The capital of Cheliax—an entire country sworn to the god of humanity’s worship at the time—Westcrown was
the expected site of Aroden’s return and had spent decades preparing for the event. A massive plaza known as the Arodennama, complete with a towering statue of the god, stood ready to receive the deity, yet after his death, it took only a few short years for the church of Aroden to fall. The Arodennama was abandoned, and the entire country found itself in the grips of a civil war with fierce diabolists. The rise of the Thrice-Damned House of Thrune saw Westcrown’s further descent. After a brutal 30-year civil war, the diabolical House of Thrune seized control
of Cheliax. One of their first acts as the nation’s new government was to move the capital and royal court north to the city of Egorian, emptying Westcrown of much of its affluence and prestige. Those nobles who remained behind were largely old families rooted in their traditions
and their pride, content to rot in their declining home. While still a vibrant and important port, the splendor that had typified Westcrown for centuries swiftly waned, and without the noble court many commoners and
merchants who had previously made a living pandering to the country’s elite were forced to move on, leaving whole blocks abandoned. Westcrown faded to a pale shadow of its former glory and became a playground for vultures eager to pick the royal carcass.

Today, daily life is as can be expected in a major city of a large empire. The cosmopolitan nature of the city brings in all sorts, and the city is alive with the vigor of humanity. At least, it is during the day. During the night, terrible shadow beasts stalk the night, enforcing a sort of brutal curfew. Families lock their doors and blind their windows at night in fear of what lives in the darkness. Not only that, but banditry is up and rumours that the city's thieves guild, the long-believed-extinct Council of Thieves, is operating once again, fill the streets.

Jessnen:

You've stopped feeling the barstool under your butt, it's been so long that you've been sitting here. You vaguely notice that there are four empty cups in front of you, and no full ones. The bartender taps you on the shoulder. How...? Oh, he's standing next to you, not behind the bar. "Friend, I've just remembered somebody stopped in earlier with something for me to give you."

He hands you an envelope.

Black Addie:

Life alone has settled into monotony, and you're sitting at your hovel's table, grinding herbs, when there's a rustling noise from outside your door. A common matter, of course. Life is convenient when the Witch of Rego Cader is well-provided for, and so people frequently leave offerings. Your assumption is correct, of course, when you go to check it, for the most part. It is, in fact, a basket of fruits and vegetables, but nestled into the food is an envelope.

Celia:

It's quite easy to imagine you're striking a real Hellknight as you slash a training dummy at the local barracks with your longsword. Those bastards could do with a lesson on the distinction between "justice" and "justness", and a swift kick in the pants until they decide on the right one. Eventually, of course, your arms tire and you head back to retrieve your scabbard and head home, but you find something wedged into the empty scabbard of your sword - an envelope.

Shannon:

Having the run of the family house is quite nice when you're by yourself...right up until you need to cook and clean and maintain everything by yourself. Eh, those things can wait, you think, as you run yourself a nice, hot bath. Emerging nearly an hour later, scrubbing your soft hair with an equally soft monogrammed towel, you find your house squeaky and shiny clean, and a single apple resting as a paperweight on an envelope.

The Letter:
Greetings potential associates!

It has come to my attention that you (unfortunately among many others) have been having particularly troublesome...troubles with the House of Thrune and associates lately. Please, if you wish to do something for the good of Westcrown, come to a place named Vizio's tavern. I am holding a meeting of idealists and concerned citizens who wish to return Westcrown to its former glory and make it a better place for everybody living here. Please, we need all of the help that we can get.

Of course, do not show this letter to anybody, and burn it if you think it necessary to keep the secret.

Hoping to see you,
Janiven

Knowledge (local) DC 10:
Janiven is a name that is not unknown in Westcrown. She’s worked for several guilds and mercantile interests, sometimes as a caravan guard but more often as a city guide and bodyguard for visiting merchants and business partners that the guilds want to keep out of trouble with local thugs or the shadow beasts that patrol the streets at night. Janiven has a reputation of being a bit rash (for example, she recently dragged her charge half-dressed out of a whorehouse when he refused to head back to a safer part of town before sundown) but quite trustworthy nontheless.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

Only when the water begins to steam does Shannon enter the large bath in his childhood home. His toes curl with delight at the painful warmth, and his milky calves and thighs tingle at the water's kiss.

A shadow of a summer long ago crosses his closed eyelids as he lowers himself and his waist sinks below the surface. A slight pain between the legs. A sickness that strikes the belly button and deeper still. And then a concerted effort of will to move past the old pain and enjoy his small luxuries. The home was in desperate need of a cleaning, but he could not blame his mother, he thinks, letting his legs be buoyed in the great basin like driftwood. She had not been expecting the guests who invited themselves to the home that evening, presented their boots at the door, and escorted her into the street. They had allowed her to wear her best (an evening dress Shannon had never seen before, buttressed in blue and violet in such a way that made her aging curvature graceful) for this night on the town, at least.

The responsibility to clean up the mess fell upon him. Not because it was right. Not because he wanted it. But just because there wasn't anyone else, was there?

His mind wanders for minutes. An hour. Maybe more than an hour, from the pruning of his fingers and toes. Instead of removing himself from the bath, he draws it yet again, hotter than before, hot enough to match the heat burning behind his eyes, and lays back again to let the cloying moisture steal his breath way. His breath becomes ragged until he coughs and then with abandon sings one of many favorite arias, first in chest voice.

Ultimately, when the distraction swept him up and he stood in the bathtub, eyes closed and arms spread to the audience, singing at the top of his lungs in the empty house, the evidence of his trauma exposed to none but an imaginary theater of sympathetic and tearful Wiscrani, his voice went entirely into the head with a controlled brutality. The kind a rose has when it draws blood, or a mother who smothers her baby with a loving embrace.

Silence reigns in the wake of his performance. He steps out of the bath. The coldness sinks in, unnoticed. Leaving wet footprints in his wake, towel monogrammed with his initials wound about his hair and towel with his mother's initials dangling over his left shoulder above the breast, he strolls through the empty halls. The kitchen looked immaculate. Well, at least there was that, though he could have sworn he'd left the telltale signs of his breakfast scattered across the table.

The parlor seemed void of dust, he notices, since he doesn't sneeze.

Hadn't he left a parasol upside down in the hallway after having trouble closing it?

"Ah!" he cries in surprise when he sees a bright red apple on the velvet ottoman. Immediately he covers his nakedness - unlike a nymph caught streaking through the woods or a naiad behind the waterfall, Shannon knows shame - and looks all around.

"Hello?" he calls out, hearing only his own voice in response. "Fiodor? Fiodor, are you playing games?"

But there was no response. Only the apple and the letter. Opening it and reading the contents, he frowns.

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25

Janiven? That firebrand Fiodor swore he would one day bed? Is she truly so mad? This is...executionable!

He stokes the hearth to life to accompany his drying process and, once having done so, throws the invitation into the flames, intending to give it no further thought. He bites into the apple in consternation. It was sweet and juicy. And tart. He slumps down into the chair and props his feet upon the ottoman, staring disconsolately at the fireplace. What would he even wear to the occasion? What was the appropriate attire? It was a lower part of town. A dangerous part of town to be caught in after dark. If this was a dinner she intended, it would need to be a short one, not one of the long all-night parties he often attended, even if only more as entertainment than as guest. But this was an engagement that was certain to draw the wrong kind of attention. It was the crime his mother never committed.

It was the crime he wanted to believe his mother never committed.

A burning ember drifts out of the fireplace. He whisks his hand around the firefly. The motion causes the frail ember to stick to the palm of his hand. The heat stung, but he watched the ember fade. It was a piece of the letter. The word Westcrown, written in Janiven's ink.

Consumed in flame until it was ash.

Seconds later, he stood up and threw open his wardrobe. Tailored cream and opal vest. White cravat. White silk undershirt, no frill. Mother of pearl leggings and sheepskin boots. He suddenly knew exactly what to wear.


Addie picks up the basket of fruit and glances up and down the narrow street through her black mourning veil for any sign of those who left it on her stoop. With a shrug she turns and re-enters her abode, only noticing the letter nestled among the fruit as she places the basket on the table. Glancing back toward the door she removes the letter and reads the words inscribed therein.

leinathan wrote:

Greetings potential associates!

It has come to my attention that you (unfortunately among many others) have been having particularly troublesome...troubles with the House of Thrune and associates lately. Please, if you wish to do something for the good of Westcrown, come to a place named Vizio's tavern. I am holding a meeting of idealists and concerned citizens who wish to return Westcrown to its former glory and make it a better place for everybody living here. Please, we need all of the help that we can get.

Of course, do not show this letter to anybody, and burn it if you think it necessary to keep the secret.

Hoping to see you,
Janiven

DC 10 Knowledge (local) check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13

"So. Janiven," Addie muses, recalling what she has heard regarding the bodyguard and guide bearing that name. "I remember Ol' Meg speaking of her. A bit rash, but trustworthy, so I doubt this is some Hellknight trap. And she wants to make Westcrown a better place, which is a goal I can support. It may be worth going... To hear what she has to say, if nothing else. Let's see if Mother's cards can provide any elucidation."

The young woman goes over to her sleeping pallet and sits. Clearing her thoughts, she removes a small pouch from a pocket within the multi-colored scarf draped about her shoulders (the only bit of color about her person). She opens the pouch and removes an ancient set of cards. She shuffles the cards, pauses reverentially, then begins to lay out a spread for a Harrow reading on her worn blanket. Her eyebrows arch in surprise as she studies the pattern revealed by the cards.

Black Addie's Harrow Spread:
Card Placements:

Positive Past: The Empty Throne (lawful good, Charisma) (TRUE MATCH). The Empty Throne has a sense of loss that is palpable. The ghost signifies that those who are gone will always be with us. They taught us important lessons, if only we choose to listen. This card can bring information from a far-off or ancient source.
Unclear Past: The Locksmith (lawful neutral, Dexterity) (TRUE MATCH). The Locksmith presents the subject with the keys she needs to unlock her destiny. He grants the tools to access a new location, clue, or treasure. He does not grant insight into how or where to use the tools granted. This card often represents a strange, ancient, or magical object.
Negative Past: The Winged Serpent (lawful good, Wisdom) (Partial Match, MISALIGNED). The Winged Serpent is a powerful being. Knowledge and prudence are separate keeps bridged by understanding. The couatl represents this bridge, knowing whether now is the time to strike. Misaligned, this card means either not seizing a moment or doing so ill-advisedly.

Positive Present: The Hidden Truth (lawful good, Intelligence) (Partial Match). The Hidden Truth symbolizes the ability to see past the obvious and the banal to a greater truth within. Sometimes this discovery is an esoteric one, sometimes it is a literal find, such as an item revealed within a room. Regardless, it is a card with the power to reveal secrets.
Unclear Present: The Theater (neutral good, Charisma) (Partial Match). The Theater is the card of true prophecy. The puppets act out a scene, just as the prophet acts out a scene in which she has no part. The prophet is the audience and the prophecy is the show. She has no influence on what she sees, and its importance is often not recognized until too late.
Negative Present: The Demon's Lantern (chaotic evil, Dexterity) (Partial Match). The Demon’s Lantern is the card of traps and tricks, sleight of hand and sleight of mind. These will-o’-wisps and the man who sought their light represent an impossible or intractable situation.

Positive Future: The Paladin (lawful good, Strength) (Partial Match). The Paladin symbolizes standing strong in the face of adversity. The Paladin does not back down under any circumstances. This card usually indicates the need to stay the course or do what one knows is right, even if it takes a heavy toll.
Unclear Future: The Peacock (neutral, Dexterity) (Partial Match). The Peacock is a creature of astonishing beauty, but it is a beauty that can only be retained if frozen like a cockatrice’s statues. Smarter people accept the passage of time and dance out of The Peacock’s way. Its appearance always signifies a sudden personal shift in attitude or societal change.
Negative Future: The Dance (lawful good, Dexterity) (OPPOSITE MATCH, MISALIGNED). The Dance is a rich and delicate framework that, like the universe itself, requires everyone within it to abide by its rules, lest the entire construct collapse. It advises staying in perfect step, knowing your place in the greater good. Those who step out of the pattern do so at their peril. Misaligned, that pattern might be hypnotic, but not to the good of all.

"The Theater in the central Present shows that this is a True Prophecy, although its true meaning is unclear," Addie muses. "Now the Past... two True Matches! The Empty Throne signifies those who are gone who taught us important lessons. Could it mean Ol' Meg, who taught me the ways of witchcraft and introduced me to The Gentleman? Or maybe my real mother, who left me this very Harrow deck? Who knows what this deck's history may be? Maybe that's what the True Match of The Locksmith signifies: a strange, ancient, or magical object that is the key to unlocking my destiny?"

"Now for the other cards of the Present, The Hidden Truth and The Demon's Lantern," she continues to study the lay of the cards. "On the negative side, The Demon's Lantern: an impossible or intractable situation. Well, that describes life here in Westcrown with the way things have been for the past eighty years! On the positive side, The Hidden Truth: the ability to see past the obvious and the banal to a greater truth within; a card with the power to reveal secrets..." Addie pauses and looks toward the letter on the table. "A secret, greater truth... possibly related to this secret meeting of Janiven's. Perhaps she knows of some way to actually bring about the end of the tyranny and lies of the Asmodeans here in Westcrown?"

"So what does this mean for the Future? The most glaring card is The Dance, a Misaligned Opposite Match in the Negative position! The hypnotic pattern requires everyone within it to abide by its rules, but it is not for the good of all. That can only signify the current state of affairs under the Asmodean leadership. The Peacock in the Unclear position signifies a sudden change in society. Maybe that change will be brought about by The Paladin, standing strong in the face of adversity in the Positive position! But at what cost to the people trying to bring about that change?"

Addie stares into space for several moments, pondering the possibilities revealed by the ancient cards. "Well, there's only one way to find out," she decides, gathering her cards and placing them back in their pouch, which she then tucks back into her scarf. She picks up the letter and whispers a mystical phrase, causing the parchment to burst into flame and quickly burn to ash. "Come on, Your Lordship," she calls to the large black cat sprawled upon the windowsill. "Looks like you and I are going out." The black cat opens one golden eye and studies the young woman impassively as she packs a few of her possessions into a battered backpack. The black cat yawns widely, revealing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth, hops down from the windowsill, and follows the young witch out the door.


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Jessnen's day had been long. Up and down the avenue of an ill-used market street, he had been lugging massive barrels of grain from a broken down cart to the baker nearly twenty-three blocks away. Down on his luck, the baker preferred to pay Jess's bar tab for a few nights rather than a carpenter for a hasty job. It had not been an easy day for it either. With the heat of the sun nearing it's apex in the sky when the baker found him within the confines of the Harper's Call Inn, Jess worked up and down the nearby drive through the hottest hours of the day. It would've been hard enough if his employer hadn't started pointing out where he wanted the wagon placed, broken wheel and all. Strong as some dragons twice his size, Jess dragged the entire thing down the street and managed to do as he was asked, though considerably more exhausted for the effort.

Hours later now, most of the other patrons on the Harper's Call have left for their beds. Jess stared down the empty tankards littering the counter-top in front of him, trying to focus in. He can't quite recall whether these are the only one's he's downed, though he highly doubts it. Most nights he's lucky to get away with a half dozen mugs. Belching softly to himself, he wonders vaguely how long it is to curfew. He absentmindedly reaches down to rub his knees, though they stopped aching a few hours ago. "huphh" He snorts loudly and takes a long draft to drain his half-full mug. People could stare all they wanted, whisper "drunk" behind his back, he didn't care. At least it made the aching reminders of his age disappear, along with his awareness of time. He could just sit here for hours, ignoring his enflamed muscles, talking with the friendly bartender he'd been getting to know.

"Speaking of which, where the hell is that sonnofawhore? He's usually so good about keeping me drinking." It's then that he recognizes the vague sensation on his shoulder as someone trying to get his attention. He turns to his right and sees the familiar face of the bartender, slightly out of focus. "Friend, I've just remembered somebody stopped in earlier with something for me to give you." Only then recognizing the envelope outstretched towards him, Jess stares through it for a moment. He then reaches out and takes the note. "Th...*swallows a hiccup*...anks. He say anything else?" Not really waiting for an answer, he tries to clumsily open the envelope as a sober man may. After about ten seconds of continued failure, he snarls in frustration and rips the letter in half, pulling the respective halves out of each side and piecing the two together on the table, smoothing them evenly as he can.

Knowledge(Local): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14

In his stupor, the name only vaguely rings a bell, but at the moment, he is too busy frowning in skepticism to think on it too hard. "What kind of a fool would think there's anything that can be done. Then he remembers why the name seems familiar. "Janiven...that rash young woman who always seems to be calling attention to herself. Of course, the curfew is an important item to respect, but dragging a client out of a whorehouse? Why would you let them go in if the curfew loomed so near in the first place?! Young mistakes..." And then it occurs to him. "Perhaps her youth is what makes her so renowned. Maybe it's her youthful spirit and hope that keeps her around. Maybe...maybe that's something I resent her for losing myself..."

Strength Check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23

Standing up suddenly, Jess slams several coins on the table unnecessarily hard, making one wedge deep between two planks on the counter. "Thhhanks, Foli. Have a nice night." Turning from the bar, Jess walks back out the door, dunks his head deep into the rainbarrel outside, and shimmies the water from his unkempt, chocolate mane of hair. Standing upright, he looks down the road towards the tavern: his new destination.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Celia stares at the letter, open in her hands. She reads the name.

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

"Who?"

Going back and re-reading the letter, Celia's facial expression transforms from confused to consternation to horror. "Idealists?" she thinks in a huff, and throws the letter to the ground.

Slick with sweat and angry from her brush with old memories, Celia empties a small decanter of water over her arms and head, her short brown hair thickening under the stream. The water passes over old scars and knots in her skin, rippling before pattering against the dirt floor beneath her. Sliding her gauntlet from her hand is painful-- her hands are brilliant red, welted over from her overzealous assault on her imaginary hellknight.

She curses under her breath and undoes the thick leaden apron hanging around her neck and across her shoulders, heavy like a dead-weight drunk. It was important to mimic the weight of armor when practicing with a sword or else you'd be thrown off balance during the real act. Was she going to wear her scale mail while sweating away beating a dummy? Of course not. It was important to have rules, to keep yourself cleanly and presentable. To walk from battle a hundred times worse than this straight into a meeting with the devil himself, standing tall and strong, implacable like a symphony of angels.

She was starting to sermonize herself, now. That's where she was. Celia's head hurt and she regretted ever memorizing scripture for a moment before she felt... heavy. She dropped on the floor, tumbling down into a sit. After what she'd did, her heart was still pounding in her ears, and she sat there for a moment, panting. It was her and the letter, side by side, and eventually curiosity won out. This time she'd read it-- and really read it.

Irian had given her a boon by allowing her to use this training room when the other members of the dottari weren't. Perhaps this was her fate-- to slowly ingratiate herself to the city guard until they had accepted her as one of their own and took her in like a ragged dog, to pity and protect. This letter seemed to suggest otherwise. It was pithy idealism, exactly what they declared. These people would be hanging from the gallows by the end of the week. Forced to swallow water until their confessions sang through the Citadel. Burned on the side of the face by a sword...

Who'd want to have that happen again?

She rethought it again after upending the vase over herself in the private garden. The freezing deluge interrupted her. The chill of the water combined with the nagging fear that someone could see her, half-naked in the yard of an abandoned barracks, made her skin crawl. Parego Dospera teemed with life and the sounds of the city all around her, people calling out in Infernal and in Taldane up and down the street. Only a thin and crumbling brick wall stood between her shame and a street full of peddlers.

Dressing quickly, her mind wandered back to the letter for the fourth time. How many times would it take for her to finally summon up the willpower to simply banish the thought from her mind? She wasn't going. She wasn't going. She was going to go home and sleep and think about what she wanted to eat in the morning and have a distant conversation with her eldest brother where he would try his hardest not to look at her face...

She was going.

Dressing in her scale mail, Celia sheathes her sword on her hip and hangs a red cloth tabard over her armor. One day, Westcrown would be free-- one day, Celia could flip the tabard and reveal the holy symbol of Iomedae, and no one in the city would say a damn thing.

Perhaps this was the first step towards that day.

Preparing mentally to run for her life if this was a trap, Celia set out towards Vizio's Tavern.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Departing from routine, each of the men and women drawn together by the letter departs for the tavern in mid-afternoon. Arriving at the tavern, they each find it to be out-of business. The windows are boarded shut, although the door is curiously open.

Knowledge (local) DC 10:
This tavern was named after the family that used to run it, although fairly recently, the family patriarch passed away and the rest of the members of the family moved out of Westcrown to live with other family members.

Knowledge (local) DC 15:
The tavern was actually recently bought by a human woman and a half-elven man, although they seem to be having trouble getting it off of the ground and it's not open for business yet.

The PCs arrive one-by-one, with Black Addie arriving first, followed by Jessnen, then Celia, and finally Shannon. The inside of the tavern is largely empty, although clean and serviceable with tables and chairs and a bar seemingly ready for business. There are no people, although sounds can be heard from the kitchen. A note rests on the largest table in the common room. "Please wait, dinner will be ready shortly, and then we can discuss our association."


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Knowledge (Local): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 2 = 16

After stumbling over his own feet a few times, Jessnen is determined to come across as more clear-minded than feels when he finally arrives. He know's it can't be far now, as it used to be one of his favorite drinking haunts before the patron died. "Most untimely. I was just a few days away from getting him to share some of that damned 'special brew' he'd been on about for months." Death and disappearances are so common nowadays, Jess rarely thinks anything beyond what it does for him. Something, he reminds himself as the boarded windows come into focus, that he might think to change.

More falling through the front door than walking, Jess straightens up and takes in the empty room. Spotting Addie on the second sweep of the room, he chortles. "I expected a few more people to be here than one, young gypsy. Maybe Janiven's more foolish than I thought." Losing interest in his 'professional' appearance, Jess pulls out his flask and takes a draught, heading for a chair.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19 - Capped at 10!

Heading far south from the northern part of Westcrown, from the Rego Crua to the Rego Sacero, Celia finds herself at the front of the tavern staring up at the boards and empty windows. She sighs and almost turns around, berating herself for her idiocy when she sees that the door is open-- and voices are coming from inside.

Making her way to the interior, Celia glances around, staying on point to minimize the chance someone had to, perhaps, kidnap her here and now. She unashamedly draws her sword just before she enters.

She's met with a nice looking tavern, a peasant Varisian girl and a washed-up drunk.

Celia eyes both of them warily for signs of... she didn't know, aggression? before putting away her sword with a leathery sound. "Which one of you is Janiven?" she says, holding up the letter in one hand.


Untrained DC 10 Knowledge (local) check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

leinathan wrote:
The PCs arrive one-by-one, with Black Addie arriving first... The inside of the tavern is largely empty, although clean and serviceable with tables and chairs and a bar seemingly ready for business. There are no people, although sounds can be heard from the kitchen. A note rests on the largest table in the common room. "Please wait, dinner will be ready shortly, and then we can discuss our association."

Addie pauses in the doorway, glancing around the tavern's empty common room. She considers leaving, but the decision is taken out of her hands by His Lordship. The large black cat saunters across the common room as if he owns the tavern and hops up onto a table against the far wall. Sitting on his haunches, he stares back at Addie with his unblinking golden eyes as if to ask why she hasn't already taken her seat.

Addie sighs and moves across the room to the table upon which His Lordship rests, taking a seat with her back to the wall. Without a word, she removes the pouch containing her mother's Harrow deck and shuffles the cards once before placing them in her lap, out of sight beneath the table top.

Jessnen Daersic wrote:
More falling through the front door than walking, Jess straightens up and takes in the empty room. Spotting Addie on the second sweep of the room, he chortles. "I expected a few more people to be here than one, young gypsy. Maybe Janiven's more foolish than I thought." Losing interest in his 'professional' appearance, Jess pulls out his flask and takes a draught, heading for a chair.

Addie arches one eyebrow quizically behind her black mourning veil at the drunkard's statement, but chooses to remain silent. Glancing down at her lap, she draws a card from the top of the Harrow deck and studies it carefully.

Jessnen's Card:
Suit: 1d6 ⇒ 6; Card: 1d9 ⇒ 8 = The Betrayal

"The Betrayal. Normally a card of ill-omen. But it's upside down, indicating a misalignment, meaning self-sacrifice or turning away from the material world and its temptations." Addie glances again at the newcomer, narrowing her eyes as she considers him again. "He certainly has the air of someone who's trying to turn away from something, but it appears to have only led him deep into the bottle. Perhaps whatever Janiven has to say will help him find his way back out and set him on a more worthy path," she muses as she replaces the card at the bottom of the deck

Celia Anetta Azurra wrote:

She's met with a nice looking tavern, a peasant Varisian girl and a washed-up drunk.

Celia eyes both of them warily for signs of... she didn't know, aggression? before putting away her sword with a leathery sound. "Which one of you is Janiven?" she says, holding up the letter in one hand.

"Neither," the veiled Varisian woman seated against the far wall replies mysteriously, nodding toward the note resting on the largest table in the common room. The black cat perched on the table in front of the Varisian woman stares back at Celia with unblinking golden eyes.

Addie again glances down at her lap as she draws another card from the top of the Harrow deck.

Celia's Card:
Suit: 1d6 ⇒ 6; Card: 1d9 ⇒ 9 = The Liar

"The Liar. Another card that is usually of dire portent. And yet this one is upside down as well - another misalignment - indicating the beginning of a new relationship, although disguised as something much less beautiful. She has the bearing of the dottari, but Janiven invited her to this meeting... I wonder what she's hiding?"

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

I love your character. Never stop doing that.

Celia gives her an odd look before walking further inside, taking stock of her surroundings.

"Guess you're both here for the same reason I am then." She folds the letter and sticks it back into the neck of her armor.

Celia sees the black cat sitting on the table in front of the Varisian girl and approaches it, smiling. "Afternoon, signore."

She looks to the girl and the deck. "Nice to meet you. Name's Celia. You've got a gorgeous cat." Nodding the same greeting to the disheveled drunken man, she's at a lack of words to find anything complimentary about him so she simply gives him a curt smile.

The pretty woman with the massive sword tattoo her face sits down at the table across from the pretty Varisian girl with the veil across her face. "By the deck, you're a... fortune teller?"


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Eyelids drooping slightly, Jess jolts when the next female enters the room armed. When the weapon sheathes, Jess continues to look warily at the newcomer.

Addie wrote:
Celia eyes both of them warily for signs of... she didn't know, aggression? before putting away her sword with a leathery sound. "Which one of you is Janiven?" she says, holding up the letter in one hand.

Jess keeps his mouth pursed tight. Though this new youth seems to hold a demeanor much more palatable than the veiled woman, she bears a little too much resemblance to the guards he avoids to merit a vocal response. Bad memories. However, when she smiles curtly at him, he responds in like with a curt nod and a "Humh."


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

Dressed to impress, but not with so much extravagance as to be out of place in this district, Shannon pauses at a four-way intersection to get his bearings. He glances in the direction of the waterfront he had boated across to get here, and remembers the tavern's facing. He heads a bit further south down the road until he comes upon the wall of what he thinks used to be a cobbler's shop before he was forced to shut it down and move to the countryside. The boarding up of the door and windows was soon joined by several other wooden boards being wedged up against the side of the building to form a crude public noticeboard littered with papers new and old.

A faded yellow playbill catches his eye, advertising a production he'd performed in locally a few months ago, The Gilded Prince. An artist had rendered his silhouette well with the bobby cut he'd had to wear for his role. Someone had taken bootblack and blotted out the i in "Gilded" and smeared a crude e above it.

In a fit of sudden black rage, Shannon brandishes his smoothed nails and tears the playbill from the board, crumpling its midsection in his palm, either end sticking out like the wings of a bow tie. He walks the rest of the way to the entrance of Vizio's Tavern with some of that old ink staining his hand.

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (7) + 7 = 14

Though he could have sworn this place had been out of business, suffering the same fate as the cobbler, it stood to reason there must be new owners. He opens the door and steps inside and sees...not much. A few patrons, boarded-up windows, no staff in sight. So as not to seem too awkward, he backs out of the door and takes another look up at the sign over the door, the fading sunlight making his creamy-white clothes sparkle. Just to make sure he has the right place.

He does.

After reentering, his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. Heavily lidded with an affected absence of concern, that affection wears off when he sees the woman with the sword tattoo across her face. She was in armor and wore a tabard. Dottari whispered behind Shannon's ear and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Was this their doing? A setup?

The singer stands poised near the doorway for several seconds, on the verge of flight that looks like a mild case of indecision. When Celia doesn't manacle him immediately, he lifts his eyebrows to all of those gathered in a kind of greeting and slowly unwravels the white chantilly lace scarf around his neck. He drops the playbill from his hand on the table just to be rid of it. Nobody here was Janiven, that much he knew. He craned his head to the side to read the letter on the table, and then sighed through his nostrils.

Knowledge (local): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (3) + 7 = 10

The only person in the room who gets longer than a subtly coquettish glance is the Varisian girl and her Harrow spread. She seems familiar to him. He should know her, her knows it, but cannot place her, being too often out of Westcrown on tour. "Signore," he nods his head to her in greeting, and also, a bit more distantly, to Celia.

"Signor," is his greeting to Jessnen, whom he sits down across from (after lightly brushing off the seat of the chair to remove any dirt that might stick to the seat of his leggings). Moments later he casually covers his upper lip with the chantilly scarf wound about his ink-darkened hand. The man reeks of liquor, and Shannon is too polite to call attention to it.

Beyond that he doesn't say much to those gathered. Not because he is a shy violet, but because it seemed foolhardy to implicate himself in any sedition just yet...


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

As the last individual walks into the tavern with uncharacteristic quiet, a woman emerges from the kitchen with a huge platter in hand, and another huge platter in the other hand. She very precariously balances them as she walks to the large table in the middle of the room to put them down. Pulling off the covers reveals a large chicken on one, and six mugs of ale on the other. With a huff, she sits down.

"Hello all, thank you for coming.", she says. Janiven (and this is her) is actually a fairly attractive woman, despite her rough attire and lack of effort into her appearance. She stands a mere 5'4'' tall, with curly brown hair, angular features, adorned head to toe in arms and armor.

"I see you got my invite, of course. I hope it didn't catch any of you at a particularly inconvenient time? You weren't doing anything particularly pressing?"

She begins to cut up the chicken with a long-bladed knife and hands each person a mug of ale.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

"You're Janiven? Evening's greetings."

She watches the armored woman cut food like a trained barmaid and simply waits, studying the woman over with the scrutiny of the dottari she was sure all of these people thought she was.

Celia receives the ale, smells it and sets it aside. "No. Whoever ghosted me is skilled, though."

"So," she says, and palms the letter flat onto the table. "Explain?"


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception
Shannon wrote:
"Signor," is his greeting to Jessnen, whom he sits down across from (after lightly brushing off the seat of the chair to remove any dirt that might stick to the seat of his leggings). Moments later he casually covers his upper lip with the chantilly scarf wound about his ink-darkened hand. The man reeks of liquor, and Shannon is too polite to call attention to it.

Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12

Intended to notice Shannon's subtle play to cover his nose. In his inebriation, it goes completely unnoticed.

Thoughts elsewhere when he's greeted by this new stranger, Jess starts slightly when he's joined. Time has passed, and his head feels ever so slightly less foggy, but nevertheless it takes him a few full seconds to take in the ostentatious display in front him. Tame to some, anything more than his tunic was considered flashy to Jess, and by that standard this new fellow was outright flamboyant.

Racking his brain for something to say, Jess finds himself thankful that another person enters the room:

Leinathan wrote:
As the last individual walks into the tavern with uncharacteristic quiet, a woman emerges from the kitchen with a huge platter in hand, and another huge platter in the other hand. She very precariously balances them as she walks to the large table in the middle of the room to put them down. Pulling off the covers reveals a large chicken on one, and six mugs of ale on the other. With a huff, she sits down.

Rising from his place and beckoning his new sitting partner, Jess calls out a little louder than intended, "Finally, someone who knows how to make an entrance!", indicating the free food and ale. And with a sloppy swipe, he grabs a mug and heaves himself down next to Janiven.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

"No, Miss Janiven. And thank you." He gingerly sets the mug of ale down on the table and otherwise leaves it untouched for now. "Have you purchased this property? What do you think are its prospects for a turnaround in this community?"

The question is one thing on the surface, but quite another just below it, and Shannon waits to see how Janiven answers.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

"Evenings' greeting to you as well." she says with a smile. She pushes the envelope back towards you. "Later. First, dinner. I promise I won't keep you past dark so you can get home."

She sets plates in front of each of the attendees and serves them each a cut of chicken. Blushing a bit at Shannon's question, she admits that "Yes, an associate of mine and I purchased the property together, which makes it the perfect place for us to talk, but we're just being a bit sluggish with getting it off of the ground. I think it will do fine once we get it open."

"And you? Have any of you been doing things of note lately?"

Sense Motive DC 15:
Janiven seems worried about something, and periodically glances at the front window as if she's waiting for someone. She does, however, seem to be being upfront and forthright so far.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

"Just debating what to do with the old house," he says with a note of gravity. As infamous as his family's exploits have been, he just assumes Janiven, and maybe others at the table, too, know exactly what he is referring to. "A lot of memories there. More memories than property value..."


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 2 = 16

Jess has resumed his role of silence for the moment, apparently eating intently. He is interested in what these others have to say, but prefers to wait to weigh in. "A talkative bunch. Besides, no reason to share until there's something worth saying." Thus, when asked about his activities, Jess shrugs, trying to come off nonchalant, though possibly just coming off as stupid. Anyone paying attention, though, notices a bit more

Upon Closer Inspection:
Jess notices the way Janiven's eye's dart around, and recognizes the airily casual tone as something potentially more sinister, though not from her intention. Upon recognition, Jess makes a horrified realization: his mace and shield are sitting propped up against the bar in the Harper's Call. Feeling naked without it, Jess's eyes start darting to inanimate objects around the room, identifying the best potential weapon, shoulders tensed and brow slightly furrowed.
Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13

"Well, fine and suit yourself," Celia says, a bit offended at being brushed off. Hunger outweighs her pride and she takes off her gauntlets, laying them across her lap. Thin yet calloused fingers pick at the chicken set out in front of her.

"Training. Praying. Working. It's hard to take a woman seriously in this town, apparently. Perhaps you feel that, like I do."

Celia didn't want to reveal too much, but maybe that was what was hamstringing the conversation. "I see the looks you're giving me and I'll put you at rest by saying I'm not a dottari. The holy symbol of Iomedae is on the other side of this tabard; you don't have to be afraid of me."

She eats politely. "And if you all don't mind, names perhaps? I'm Celia."


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception
Celia wrote:
She eats politely. "And if you all don't mind, names perhaps? I'm Celia."

Without altering his scanning eyes and through a mouthful of chicken, Jess responds with, "Jessnen Daersic...". Shortly, after swallowing his mouthful, he follows it with, "Call me Jess."


Celia Anetta Azurra wrote:
Celia sees the black cat sitting on the table in front of the Varisian girl and approaches it, smiling. "Afternoon, signore."

The black cat continues to watch Celia impassively, its golden eyes never leaving her face... As if it were assessing her very soul.

Celia Anetta Azurra wrote:

She looks to the girl and the deck. "Nice to meet you. Name's Celia. You've got a gorgeous cat." Nodding the same greeting to the disheveled drunken man, she's at a lack of words to find anything complimentary about him so she simply gives him a curt smile.

The pretty woman with the massive sword tattoo her face sits down at the table across from the pretty Varisian girl with the veil across her face. "By the deck, you're a... fortune teller?"

"Good day to you, Celia," the veiled Varisian returns the tattooed woman's greeting. "I am known as Addie. And yes, I suppose you could say I am something of a fortune teller. Would you like a reading?"

Addie's eyes shift from Celia to the latest newcomer as he enters, exits, and then enters the room again.

Shannon Rhys wrote:
The only person in the room who gets longer than a subtly coquettish glance is the Varisian girl and her Harrow spread. She seems familiar to him. He should know her, her knows it, but cannot place her, being too often out of Westcrown on tour. "Signora," he nods his head to her in greeting, and also, a bit more distantly, to Celia.

Addie nods silently to acknowledge his greeting. Placing the card she drew when Celia entered at the bottom of the deck, she draws a new card from the top.

Shannon's Card:
Suit: 1d6 ⇒ 5; Card: 1d9 ⇒ 2 = The Midwife

"The Midwife. One of the more benevolent cards. The conduit of creation, although she does not create her own. The key that lets new life or information into the world; whose heart can see the good in even the worst situation," Addie glances up to study the newcomer again, noticing the crumpled playbill on the table before him. "A conduit of creation who does not create his own... A performer, perhaps? An actor or a singer, someone who conveys another's creation to the masses. A devotee of Shelyn, no doubt, who can see the good in people even when others cannot. A kind soul."

Addie's ruminations are interrupted by their hostess, Janiven, as she enters bearing a tray of food and ale.

leinathan wrote:
"I see you got my invite, of course. I hope it didn't catch any of you at a particularly inconvenient time? You weren't doing anything particularly pressing?"

Addie simply shakes her head in the negative in response to Janiven's questions as she accepts the proffered mug, placing it on the table before her without taking a sip. She nods her thanks as she accepts the plate of chicken, and hands a choice morsel to the black cat before taking a bite herself.

DC 15 Sense Motive check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 4 = 17

Addie studies their hostess as she speaks, noting that the woman seems forthright but worried. When Janiven looks again toward the door Addie glances that way as well, noticing that the drunkard - Jess - also observed their hostess' behavior. "Perhaps not as drunk as he seems," she thinks to herself, and then notices his eyes frantically darting about the room. "Looking for another exit? Or a weapon?"

Perception check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (8) + 4 = 12


Celia Anetta Azurra wrote:
"I see the looks you're giving me and I'll put you at rest by saying I'm not a dottari. The holy symbol of Iomedae is on the other side of this tabard; you don't have to be afraid of me."

Addie nods almost imperceptibly at Celia's announcement. "So that is her lie. One of the Inheritor's faithful hiding amongst the dottari. 'Disguised as something much less beautiful' indeed. She takes a great risk to reveal such a dangerous secret about herself to total strangers."

"My name is Addie," the veiled Varisian introduces herself. "In the northern part of the city I am known as Black Addie, the Witch of Rego Cader. And this is His Lordship," she says nodding toward the black cat on the table.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

"Shannon," the singer answers. "Rhys."

Even those who do not follow the cultural pulse of the Chelaxian theater might at least recognize the family name. Most recently, the Lady Rhys, once a grand soprano of the stage, was dragged from her home in Westcrown by the Hellknights, given a hasty trial that marked her not only as a notorious madame but as a seditious information broker who traded ill-gotten state secrets for luxuries. The bloodstains on the cobblestone streets from her execution have not yet fully faded.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

"Jess," she repeats, and commits it to memory-- Jessnen Daersic.

"Addie," she says, and then to her cat: "His Lordship; Ser signoria." A witch? Interesting that she would call herself that.

Celia stares strangely at the feminine man for a moment before nodding along blankly. She gets the feeling that she should have heard of him-- and she remembers why. Not him-- a her. An executed opera singer. Even she knew that. "Ser Rhys-- My deepest condolences," she says, and bows her head for a moment. She doesn't want to tread any further, so she becomes quiet for a moment before changing the subject.

"In the Parego Dospera, I'm a washer woman. No fancy titles or family history to share, I'm afraid. I'm aspiring to be a hand of the Inheritor. If you have an issue with that, best say so now." She handles the open challenge with disparate aloofness, like it was every day news. It was, almost-- in Cheliax, other religions were hardly tolerated. She'd earned a few meaningful threats in the days when she wore her holy symbol, and she'd earned double that now with a sword, the mark of Iomedae, tattooed on her face. Celia comes from a part of town that is, by all means, completely ruined and utterly ransacked. Slave markets and back-alley illegal deals happen daily. She was as far from Ser Rhys's opera as one person could get.


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception
Celia wrote:
"In the Parego Dospera, I'm a washer woman. No fancy titles or family history to share, I'm afraid. I'm aspiring to be a hand of the Inheritor. If you have an issue with that, best say so now."

Jess chuckles, still scanning the room, and only stops briefly on Celia. "No need to get excited, signora. As long as you've no love of the dottari, you won't find a fight from me."

He briefly takes in the faces of the others before falling on the cat. He inclines his head ironically. "Yer Highness."


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Janiven's smile continues to grow at the discussion between the people she's gathered here, especially at Celia's admission of being an Iomedae proponent. "I think you'll find me more than happy to accept your beliefs," she says, picking at her chicken and putting a piece into her mouth. "My mentor and the leader of my little movement is actually a proponent of Iomedae...and I don't understand why he isn't here... No matter, we're running out of time."

She gets up and walks to the door, locks it, and then draws the curtains closed. Spinning on her heel to face you all, she begins speaking while walking around the table.

"Okay, thank you all once again for coming here. I gathered us all here today because we've all suffered in a singular way, myself included, under the House of Thrune or the current situation in Westcrown. I have lived in Westcrown my whole life, and although I love this city, I must admit, as must you, that despite our peace and prosperity, we continue to suffer. Fear should not be an expected part of life, and yet each night brings fear to our doorsteps. Yes, Westcrown has been safe from war and famine for nearly seventy years, and yes, our businesses has prospered—but this safety and prosperity has been bought
in the coinage of fear and prayers to Hell. Other lands live free from tyranny. Other cities do not fear the night. Other governments do not cede the streets to monsters of the infernal shadows. Westcrown was once such a place, and she wants to be such a place again. Westcrown is not only her buildings and canals and docks and history—she is also her people. Westcrown is our friends and neighbors, our mothers and fathers, our siblings and cousins, our sons and daughters! With but a small group of supporters and dedicated brothers and sisters, we can earn the trust and admiration of those people. A Westcrown free of these shadowy beasts that stalk our streets is one step closer to a Westcrown free of the devil that is the Thrice-Damned House of Thrune!”

When she finishes, there is silence in the tavern for a few moments. Each of you, especially Shannon, has heard of someone that you know getting dragged away for a quick trial followed by execution for saying words half as treasonous.


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Jess has finally stopped his scanning of his surroundings and given his full attention to Janiven, giving her a shrewd, calculating stare. "What in the Nine Hells is she playing at? This good and well may be a friendly room with locked doors and boarded windows, but even a fraction of that speech to the wrong ear would get every living thing in the room hanged. Well, maybe not the cat...In the very least, Janiven's expected company was friendly. Not exactly fond of being invited to an expected ambush."

Jess breaks the silence first. "Pretty speech, you get my respect for your nerve...only one question. Other than getting us all killed, what's the point of it all? How do four downtrodden peasants make a difference against the might the dottari, the Hellknights, and every cutthroat lowlife that can swing a stick? This isn't exactly what you could refer to as a militia.", gesturing to the other three audience members and himself.

He thought this woman had a point in the injustices, but it didn't seem to make any sense. There was an entire army out there, and unless this was one of a hundred different meetings Janiven had been holding, there wasn't enough power in the ideal to hold water. Unless there was something he was missing, some secret plan she hadn't yet shared, she was indeed as foolhardy as he had initially thought. Despite his doubts, though, his declaration to the room seems more a challenge to prove him wrong, laced with some hope that someone had his answer. It seems foolish to him, but it still sparks a small fire in his belly.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Janiven walks to the table where she was sitting, but remains standing, but instead puts her hands on the table, leaning forward. "The point isn't to DEFEAT the dottari, or the Hellknights, although defeating lowlife brigands is always a start. The point is to just make things a little easier for the people of Westcrown. Defeating brigands without being Hellknights will show the people there is power someplace other than Hell, finding and defeating the shadow beasts of the night will release our people from fear of the darkness, and banding together in such acts will give the people of Westcrown some confidence that there is hope for the future."

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

"I'm not downtrodden and he's not a peasant," Celia says, gesturing to Shannon.

Janiven makes good points. "One percent better, right?"


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

The chicken looks wonderful. Greasy. Home-cooked in its own juices. With some surgical precision, Shannon removes the incredibly tempting skin from the white meat and sets it aside. He then peels strings of meat off and chews with his mouth closed. Unlike most other men his age, his metabolism simply did not handle the luxuries well, and too much of a good thing quickly developed on his hips and under his chin.

He eventually does, both as a friendly gesture and to avoid waste, offer the tasty chicken skin to the hearty Jessnen, indicating that he was welcome to help himself to it by pushing the plate a little forward and pointing to it with a knife.

Janiven's diatribe stole much of the singer's appetite, however. As she spoke, his face flushed red with anger at how this kind of talk on the lips of others had brought down his mother and thrust the meager remains of her estate, and the Rhys family legacy, into his own hands. But not all of that anger was towards her; even more of it was directed, deep down, to those supposed leaders Janiven now cajoles.

After taking some time to compose himself, he speaks. "It is apparent you have thought these thoughts for some time now. But how many of them have you put into action? The dottari micromanage every district in this town, and the mayor and his son are more than happy to look the other way whenever the crown sends her Hellknights in to make example of the kind of people who profess the very same things you do. And most importantly, what in the world can we even do about it? You've high hopes and wishes aplenty, but..."

Something occurs to him, and he corrects himself. "I do not mean to imply that the others you have invited here are incapable. You have faith on your side and appear to be a competent and trained warrior. And more importantly, you have experience with keeping things clean," he tells Celia. "You are a respected member of the community with access to a network of neighbors, Witch of the Rego Cader. And you are so at the very least because of your otherworldly gifts." He quirks his lips at Jessnen. "You I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, and I wager neither would anyone else who wanted to oppress an uprising."

"I suppose then I should reframe the question...what do you think I can do? With everything hanging over my family name?"

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Celia looks at the witch with the black veil over her face and the honestly unnerving cat, the drunkard and then at her own reflection in her spoon-- the burn marks layered with a red tattoo that ran the length of her face.

"Well, if we're talking about us, you're the one that talks to people without scaring them."


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

"You?" says Janiven with a wry smile. "I think Celia makes a good point. Everybody needs a spokesperson, and someone with such a public image as you could certainly be a boon to a group looking to earn the respect of the public. Not only that, but I've heard you have some burgeoning magical abilities."


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception
Celia wrote:
"I'm not downtrodden and he's not a peasant," Celia says, gesturing to Shannon.

Jess inclines his head in a half-sincere apology. "Begging your pardon, I only assumed from the company kept, the scar on your face, and the defense nature you're so quick to rush to, your life was as full of hardship as the next." Then, turning to Shannon, adds, "Nor did I mean to belittle your houses renown, merely making a nod to the current fall of your fortune." At this, he raises his mug. "May your mother rest peacefully in the realms beyond.", and drains his mug. Placing it back on the table, he pulls Shannon's offering towards him and downs the chicken skin, unfazed by the fellow's disinterest in it.

Janiven wrote:
"The point isn't to DEFEAT the dottari, or the Hellknights, although defeating lowlife brigands is always a start. The point is to just make things a little easier for the people of Westcrown. Defeating brigands without being Hellknights will show the people there is power someplace other than Hell, finding and defeating the shadow beasts of the night will release our people from fear of the darkness, and banding together in such acts will give the people of Westcrown some confidence that there is hope for the future."

Jess seems satisfied with this answer, but still skeptical. He's defensive, but obviously still interested. He seems to be making a habit of the waiting game, listening to the others and waiting to make his point. As if to exemplify his already less-than-agreeable attitude, he is starting to feel himself coming down from his inebriation, despite the beer he just finished. A slight nausea and headache seem to be coloring his interaction with the group.

At Shannon's quip about himself in an alley, he raises an eyebrow and cracks his neck, though flexing his thick biceps slightly despite himself. She had a point, after all. As did Celia; Shannon did appear to be the only approachable face in the room.


Addie listens quietly to Janiven and the others, considering all that they say. The young witch takes out her Harrow deck from under the table, shuffles the ancient cards, and silently lays them out for a reading. Behind her veil, her eyebrows arch in surprise at the pattern revealed. "A perfect match for my earlier reading! How is that possible?" she wonders to herself.

"The Harrow confirms Janiven's words," Addie says cryptically. "Unless we stand strong in the face of adversity, and make a change in the attitudes of ourselves and the people of the city, Westcrown will be consigned to continue its current dance toward corruption and damnation."

With those words, the veiled Varisian gathers her cards, reverently placing the deck back its pouch and tucking it within a hidden pocket in her multi-colored scarf. Then she scratches the black cat behind its ears, eliciting a rumbling purr of contentment from the feline.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Displeased by Jess's quick and simple deconstruction of her lie, Celia grumps while eating. Finishing up, she slips her gauntlets back on while watching the witch lay out cards. All she catches is the snake-lady with the bouquet, and raises an eyebrow at it. But who's she to judge? They were both praying, just to different ideals.

"Wise words," she says, and tips her mug to Addie. Now was the time for drinking.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

"With all due respect, signora," he says respectfully to Addie, "the Harrow is just as cryptic as this idea. In words, in concept, it sounds..." he sighs, wistfully. "Like a dream come true. But how? Is it actionable? And even though you say I can speak to an audience, something I'm used to doing, what then keeps my face from being known and then the same thing happening to me that happened to my mother? Is this just a pipe dream, or do you have a plan in place to make it a reality?" he asks Janiven.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

"The point is to become heroes. Not to make your identities known to all, but to show all that there are people willing to stand up for them. Westcrown has been s@~@ on for far too long."

Janiven opens her mouth and takes another breath, and almost looks like she's about to start another idealistic speech, when hurried knocking on the door interrupts her. Her face changing to a mixture of worry and annoyance, she walks to the door, looks through the peephole, and then opens it to let in an out-of-breath young boy. "What is it, Morosino?"

The boy leans on his knees for a moment to catch his breath, and then says "They've captured Arael! He was in another meeting and the Hellknights came out of nowhere and got him. They're coming here, too, you've got to get out of here!"

At the mention of the name 'Arael', her eyes grow wide and she even bites her nails for a moment before catching herself and spinning to the gathered people here. "I have a way out, but you have to just trust me for now. We can make it to our hideout."


Male Human (Ulfen) Level 1 Barbarian; AC 14, 12 touch 12 flat-footed; HP 15/15, Fort +4, Ref +1, Will +2; +4 Initiative, +2 Perception

Jess swears loudly, but does not continue into any sort of speech. He's far too aware of what happens when he lets his temper get any sort of a head of steam going, and if there was any chance the Hellknights were coming, this was not a time to be thinking unclearly. Taking a deep breath, Jess rises and moves directly to the nearest table, placing a foot on the top of the table and grabbing the nearest leg, pulling hard to part it from the rest of the table.

Strength Check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (10) + 4 = 14

Crudely, he parts the leg from the table, and brandishes the splintered end towards Janiven, saying in a voice dripping with suppressed emotion, "For all of our sake, I hope you know what you're doing.", and stands ready for further instruction.

Hope the Strength check was ok to assume worked, I can revise if necessary.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Oh, that's fine, you can have your improvised weapon. :D


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

The singer blanches at the sudden news. It was to be expected. Eyes and ears everywhere!

But what was Janiven doing involving children? No sooner does Shannon think the question as he answers it, too: maybe the enemies of this city weren't so depraved as to kill children. Capture them. Beat them. Terrify them. But not kill them.

The wooden chair legs squeal against the floorboards as he sits up rapidly, crossing to Morosino and taking his arm in hand to help him to his feet. Even when the boy stands, Shannon remains near. He tries to peer through the cracks between the boards over the windows to see if he can see anything of the street outside. "Breathe in and out. Slower. Catch your breath, then tell me, how far behind you were the Hellknights?"

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Celia stands quickly, planting the mug back down on the table. With a clumsy motion, she draws her sword. "I'm not going back to the Citadel. You said you had a way out? Then I advise we take it-- now."


"The Peacock fans his feathers. Do we continue to Dance to the pattern of the Demon's Lantern, or allow the Paladin to guide us to the Hidden Truth?" Addie murmurs under her breath as the others jump up at the announcement of the approaching Hellknights. His Lordship turns his head to give the witch a knowing look, yawns widely and stretches, and then hops off the table.

Addie calmly picks up her pack and stands to join Shannon and Morosino at the window. The veiled woman glances out the window as the singer calms the young man.

Perception check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (11) + 4 = 15


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Janiven opens her mouth and starts to say something to Jessnen tearing apart her table, but thinks better of it. The Hellknights would probably tear apart the room anyway. She walks quickly to a back corner of the room, where a wardrobe rests. Opening the wardrobe, the feels around the corners of the wardrobe's bottom until she finds a catch. The bottom of the wardrobe pulls aside, and she says "Down here, into the tunnel. Who's first?"

Morosino, still out of breath but following Janiven like a duckling, he says "I- I don't know. We might have a few-" but then is interrupted by a hurried hammering on the front door. "OPEN UP IN THERE!"

Janiven turns at that, curses, and pulls out a tanglefoot bag. "Get down there!" she yells, as she moves to the front door.


Male Human (Chelaxian) Bard (Chelish Diva) (HP 11/11 | AC 11 | T 11 | FF 10 | CMD 10 | F +0 | R +4 | W +4 | Init +1 | Per +6)

No sooner does the boy start to answer the question than the hammering begins. In a turnaround, Shannon puts his finger to Morosino's mouth to hush him. If the bard can see through the cracks between the boards and has line of sight to the street, and ideally an alleyway...

Shannon sets his vocal cords in the way a singer does, mentally visualizing their tensity and position and then physically positioning them before he begins to move air from his lungs. This time, instead of mentally visualizing a pitch and matching his vocals, he mentally visualizes an explosion of glass and frightened bootfalls in an auditorium...no, an alleyway, but with acoustics like an auditorium. His turns his left palm up and puts the index and middle fingers of his right hand together, pointed down into the palm.

First, he puffs his lips and blows. A sound like glass windows being shattered open sounds from across the street, in an alleyway. Then he wiggles his fingers like legs running, and four distinct sets of fleeing bootfalls echoes outside, getting fainter in the opposite direction of the tavern, as though subversives were breaking out of a building and running away, desperate not to be caught.

Ghost Sound (DC 14 Will Save to disbelieve)..again, provided Shannon even has LOS to some small point outside on the street.

Afterwards, he does not linger. "Take my hand and don't let go," he tells Morosino as calmly as he can, leading the lad in a hurried pace into the tunnel.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

Armiger Will: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (17) - 1 = 16
Leader Will: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 2 = 8

From outside the door, muffled a bit by the intervening wall, a short argument happens. "Behind us, subversives are escaping!" yells an imperious voice. "But, sir, that was only an illusion." responds a younger, chirpy voice. "Boy, you'll learn to curb your attitude of defiance real quick in this order. Do what I say, investigate that alley!"

Booted feet move quickly away from the door, although they're sure to return once they've found no physical evidence of anyone escaping to anywhere, Shannon's bought them some time.

Janiven nods in thanks as she drops the tanglefoot bag on the door. The black goo from inside the bag quickly seals the door shut, making it much more difficult to open.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

From the window, Addie can see a group of about 18 armored and armed large men tromping away from the tavern and towards an alley across the street.

Shannon is first into the tunnel, dropping straight down into a small crawlspace in which one must stoop to fit. Morosino is soon after him, and whispers "Its just up ahead, about fifteen feet. The entrance into the sewers."


Addie gives Shannon a nod and small smile of approval at his masterful deception of the Hellknights. "Well done. Now let's leave before they realize they've been duped," she whispers as she heads toward the secret tunnel.

Dark Archive

Female Human Cleric of Iomedae 2; AC 16, 10 touch 16 flat-footed; HP 13/18, Fort +4, Ref +0, Will +7; +1 Initiative, +3 Perception

Celia is outright amazed. "That was brilliant," she whispers, and slips into the tunnel after Addie and Shannon. Ducking low, she tries to find the space to lead the way if possible, longsword drawn and not of great use here.


What? Half-Elf Writer 1 / Dancer 1 / Chemist 1

There isn't sufficient room to maneuver in the small tunnel, as Celia finds when failing to move past the people in front of her, but therte is more than enough room to accomodate everybody in the tunnel. The last to drop in, Janiven spends some time trying to close the wardrobe. "Move ahead without me!" she whispers, and the party moves forward, slowly, through the tunnel.

First in line, Shannon is the one to open a small door at the end of the fairly short tunnel, and the first to see a sewer passageway. The door is at an intersection, and a rock right by the intersection bears a white painting of a sword - Iomedae's symbol, to any familiar with it. One by one, the party crawls out of the tunnel and into the sewers where there's more than enough room for everybody to stand by each other and stand up straight.

The sewers of Westcrown are masterfully designed to not need maintenance, and so people aren't around to see them intruding.

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