"She says she's in your debt, Hektir. It looks like a pretty nice debt to call in."
Zephtyr, who is well aware of the generous curves of the fuzzy woman from the generous helpings of blood he slathered upon them, offers a good airy wink in return at the offer. He nods thanks to Pems for the translation.
"Tell her that I'll see if she's available for some victory 'sharing' after we have won this battle," Zephtyr says, knowing that his manly magnitism has this effect on women.
He spits and zips to the his next destination.
Pems grins and calls back to the woman in draconic, relating Hektir's words as exactly as the translation allows.
Malavarius strokes his beard as he considers the general's request. "Well, there's also the matter of the bear. Where'd you suggest it might be, Quinn? Ivorywindow or some such? Perhaps the good general here might be willing to help us further if we help them further?" Malavarius arches one eyebrow inquisitively as he looks to Pharamol.
Mal's words jog Quinn's memory. "I don't suppose the settlement of Tuskvanity is nearby?"
Pharamol turns to Tsin with a furious look on his face:
"What do you have to gain? Your life, woman. What do you think? To escape through the army besieging this place? To sit here and wait and hope that we emerge victorious while you huddle in safety, to escape after, assuming victory is indeed ours?! And what if we lose, will you expect to just sit safely while they invade the fortress, and hope that they choose not to harm you?! You agreed to help, in return for the bird thing you wished. Do you now renege?"
His eyes flash with rage as he glares at the former butcher's apprentice.
He is briefly distracted by the interplay among the swordswoman's companions.
"I know little of what you speak of, but Ivory is familiar to me. Ivoryglass is the stronghold of the dragon warlord Yrax, whose army is now besieging Spurhorn."
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Pems clears his throat. "Sir, it's not that we don't sympathize with you, but this place, it's not our place sir. It's not our home and it's not even our planet, is it Mister Malavarius? I mean, we feel for you, truly we do. Freedom is worth fighting for, but our freedom was taken from us by a witch who has compelled us to seek her through dungeons and across the stars. We want only to free our home of the scourge of the ice that covers our summer. And now we're here, in the middle of war we really don't understand, fighting for a side we're not sure is the one we ought to be fighting for, all to get an eagle that might take us onward to our next destination, which is hopefully home, sir. A home we haven't seen in a long time. We're tired, sir. Mister Malavarius got turned to stone fighting for you and I nearly died. We're not backing out, but sir, we're not exactly your patriots either. We're just travelers, a long way from home."
Tsin stares back at Pharamol, examining his shoulder muscle. Different circumstances, and we'd cross more than words. I've faced kokogiaks. I'll not be cowed by the likes of you. 'Huddle'? 'Renege'? Speak the words against us, before we use them against you? Yes, different circumstances would be nice right now.
Understanding from her time with Hektir that men only puff up and bluster when they're standing on weak ground, Tsin doesn't try to argue with the Commander, letting Pems settle fragile nerves.
Well said, master Pemsworth. Let the Commander whine about his inevitable loss without our support. If he's unwilling to part with the eagle now, he'll need worry about it if he fails to honor his agreement when we return from the tower.
Malavarius nods at Pemsworth, affirming the halfling's recollection that Triaxus is not Golarion at all. He adds softly as the small man gracefully addresses the triaxian general, "Why yes, that's quite right, Pemsworth."
He adds once Pemsworth has finished, his tone both helpful and hopeful, "We're also looking for my good hat, if you've seen it by any chance."
"Very well. If you are too tired, you may return to the quarters we've provided you. Remain there, and if we are victorious, you may leave after the battle. You may take your prize for the help you have rendered to this point, but you shall have nothing else of us. If you wish to fulfill your deal, however, you have your orders."
He turns his back to you, looking again at the incoming reports from the battle, as you realize all motion had briefly stopped in the room.
Zephtyr, as stated, will continue to fight, alone or with others. It's time to prove himself, his manhood, his worth, on the field of battle. If people choose to sit it out, that's fine, but Zeph is ready to fight.
Zeph goes to the tower to wait further orders.
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Quinn shoots Tsin a venomous stare and hisses as her, "That attitude will never gets us a mug of cider or mulled wine!" Disappointed at the dry outcome of their meeting, the cleric joins Hektir for the conclusion of their brave, and cider earning, heroics.
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Seeing Quinn and Hektir ready to fight, Pems pulls himself to his full height, all three feet of it. "We will fight. We will fight them on the battlements. We will fight them in the halls. We will fight them in the moat, in the courtyard or in the air. We will fight and we will never never never surrender!" Having completed this speech he grabs a cigar, hoists his bunny and stalks after Quinn.
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As the group departs for the tower and more violence, Malavarius wonders quietly to Zeno, yet still loudly enough for his companions to hear, "That Pharamol chap is full of surprises, isn't he Zeno? How that man understood Tsin; good heavens that was unexpected."
Zeno's tone is sharp and impatient, the trouble with the dracolisks still fresh in his mind as they rush off toward more conflict.
"Well, how did Pharamol understand the language? I doubt they see too many folk from Golarion here to have learnt it."
"Triaxian you say? Good grief. How in the blazes did I understand her then? I've only understood them when they speak in draconic!"
Zeno sighs, deflating into the bowl of Malavarius' hat as he second guesses his efforts in destatue-ifying the wizard.
Tsin hears their chance to collect the eagle come and go in the moment, listens to the men seek to play heroes so shortly after the near deaths of Pems and Malavarius, and chooses to bite her tongue. She feels the pulse and the pressure of the Midnight Rider's curse, even now. It seems to affect the men very little, as they champion everything but the True Course. It seems that only sheer luck will keep them from losing their way.
Seeing Tsin's disapproval in her steely scowl, Malavarius offers, "You know, my dear, that Pharamol chap was right in one sense. We've been seen, quite clearly I should think, bringing our own might to bear against these invaders. In their eyes," he waves his hand toward the outer wall, indicating the attackers beyond, "we've already made our bed. Half measures won't avail us much now, especially given how unfamiliar this blasted planet is to us." He strokes his beard thoughtfully, then shrugs with a helpless shake of his head, "If we only needed that strange two-headed eagle, it might be different. But the second key is in that Ivoryglass place, where or whatever that might be."
He sighs, in the way that only very old men really can. "Having Pharamol's help will undoubtedly make getting that other token much easier. And look at it this way, at least the side we're on now showed us some manners when we first met. That's more than can be said for those rude sots in that tent!"
You make your way to the tower's heights, where you can see the battle rage all around you. As the day draws to a close -- the distant sun's light again growing weak and making it hard to see -- a lethal dance of wing and claw plays out in the skies above Spurhorn. Drakes and dragonkin slash and tear at each other’s wings to knock their foes from the skies. Mortally wounded dragons fall to their deaths, their shattered bodies lying broken and bleeding upon Spurhorn’s battlements. You sally forth on more than one occasion, saving lives and stopping enemy pushes, though none as dangerous as the one that nearly killed Pems and Mal.
Finally, out of seeming nowhere, a great roar envelops the fortress, thousands of voices crying out in cheer, as you realize the battle has come to an end, with victory for the defenders. The only dragons in the sky belong to Spurhorn's forces, the Drakelands' army retreating to its camp far below.
Eventually word reaches you that Commander Pharamol plans to call a meeting of his commanders the next day, and hopes you will attend, but you have time to rest and recover before then.
Pems finds a bed as soon as he can and crashes, hard. He sleeps until the next meeting, happy to be alive and feeling oddly depressed that he wasn't able to be more useful.
WAR
0 level - ray of frost, detect magic, light, message
1st level - snowball ()(), ray of enfeeblement ()()(), chill touch
2nd level - resist energy (cold) ()(), flurry of snowballs ()(), cure mod wounds
3rd level - fly ()(), lightning bolt ()()
4th level - black tentacles, phantasmal killer ()(), wall of ice
5th level - baleful polymorph, cone of cold, feeblemind
When the battle is over, Hektir goes to find the 'maiden' that he rescued earlier. He assumes that a flask of 'shine and his manly natural form is enough to re-kindle the interest, but he's happy to change into something more appropriate for the 'lady. He doesn't speak much, but uses the language of primal lust to communicate his intentions (IYKWIM).
After a night of romance and 'victory mating', he will return to the party with a spring in his step.
"Hey Quinn," Hektir says with a big smile. He keeps smiling at Quinn. "Guess where I was. Guess." He's smiling.
"You know, my dear, that Pharamol chap was right in one sense. We've been seen, quite clearly I should think, bringing our own might to bear against these invaders. In their eyes, we've already made our bed. Half measures won't avail us much now, especially given how unfamiliar this blasted planet is to us. If we only needed that strange two-headed eagle, it might be different. But the second key is in that Ivoryglass place, where or whatever that might be."
"Having Pharamol's help will undoubtedly make getting that other token much easier. And look at it this way, at least the side we're on now showed us some manners when we first met. That's more than can be said for those rude sots in that tent!"
Tsin stares daggers into Pharamol's back as he turns it to them, while listening to Malavarius's counsel. "He is an ingrate. I detest having to petition him for what is rightfully ours. Any of the keys to the Hut's command. They are ours, ordained by the Rider. That Baba Yaga scattered them so haphazardly... We will surely fail, like the Rider did... the task is too much, Malavarius. We have paid too high a price. No one should have been saddled like we have been saddled." Tsin's lips tighten, as they head to the Tower.
...
Grateful for another rinse of healing from Quinn's ministrations, Tsin hears once more that Pharamol calls for a meeting on the morrow, and she only imagines that he will still try to tie strings for what they've unfairly earned. Here is your eagle, my mutts. Now, if you only do one more thing for me, I'll consider your debt to me paid. Just one more thing...
Tsin retreats to a comfortable enough quarters, and waits for the night to pass. She reviews her equipment for wear and tear, and speaks quietly to Pharasma, regarding her remaining time in this world, let alone this planet.
"...No one should have been saddled like we have been saddled."
"Hey Quinn," Hektir says with a big smile. He keeps smiling at Quinn. "Guess where I was. Guess." He's smiling.
"I think Tsin answered that question yesterday, and I've learned better than to ask what you were up to with barmaids the night before." Quinn replies with a display of his wisdom. "And for some reason it looks like you're shedding? Wait, wait, no, that's not your hair." Quinn scowls in disappointment, "I knew I should have never taken that bet with you, I didn't think it possible that you would find a lover more hirsute than yourself. Well, bet's a bet, next bottle of 'shine is on my tab."
The evening ends up being pleasant for most of you, though most of all for Hektir, who delights in taunting Quinn about his latest conquests -- even if he's not 100 percent sure after the long, enjoyable evening that it wasn't he who was the conquered.
Despite the many losses, the forces of Spurhorn are celebratory, and an air of confidence abounds, with many greeting you warmly -- though it is clear from their reactions that some have heard about the heated dispute with Pharamol in the afternoon and are even less forgiving than him.
It is in that air the next evening that Commander Pharamol calls a council meeting of the surviving Dragon Legion officers in Spurhorn’s conference room.
"Spurhorn may have resisted the Drakelands attack," he says, "but the enemy leader, General Malesinder, survived. As long as she lives, Spurhorn faces the possibility of another siege. I propose while they're disorganized that a bold counterattack could smash their leadership and break the invasion force for good.
"I will lead a large force of legionaries in a feint against their ’ main supply depot in the encampment northwest of Spurhorn, destroying as much as we can and drawing out forces from the other encampments. Though I'm sure she'll have heard stories, I don't think Malesinder will know what to make of you. If you're willing, you can use that opportunity to attack Malesinder’s command post in the southeastern encampment and kill her," he says.
Tsin glares at Commander Pharamol, but says nothing. One more thing, you ask? You fear another siege, even now. You have no honor. Having defeated your enemy, you would have her hunted down, like a wounded animal. But what is this? You'd like to attack her supply? Unwilling to finish the job yourself?
She continues to glare at Pharamol, and waits for her boys to squeal at the possibility of winning another chance to hump hairy whores. If she answers at this point, they're likely to become unwitting allies of Malesinder herself.
Pems looks at the daggers that Tsin is shooting at Pharamol and wisely decided that silence is the better part of not getting his tail chewed on. Still, he stares at Hektir, wondering what a half human- half fuzzy child would look like - would it only be half fuzzy? Would it be fuzzy on the top or bottom half? Is THIS where satyrs come from?
"...and that's when I realized it wasn't me moaning," Hektir explains to Quinn, recounting various things that happened last night. He takes another swig of victory 'shine and passes the jar back to Quinn. "As it turns out, it was the sound they make when...blahblahblah...but not when upside down, only when...blahblahblah...can fit an onion or two, but...blahblahblah...squirting all over the place...blahblahblah...and, yeah, not sure where my underwear is."
* * *
"You want us to do what now?" Hektir asks, wondering if they have their agreed reward yet from Pharamol. "Just to confirm, have you paid us for helping you in this last battle yet? I've been out doing *stuff* and might have missed that...you know...because..." Hektir smiles big, remembering.
"The creature that you asked for is your payment, if you recall," the commander replies, his voice becoming as chill as a Triaxian night.
Malavarius raps Hektir atop the head with his staff, "Be quiet, you dundering, horny fool!" Shaking his head in a mixture of frustration and disgust, Malavarius steps forward to address Pharamol.
"Yes, general, we recall the strange bird was the agreed upon exchange. That is neither forgotten nor are we looking to alter anything. Forgive me for traveling with such young fools, I had little choice in the matter." Frowning with a brief glance back over his shoulder at grumpy Tsin and glowing Hektir, he huffs then offers Pharamol an apologetic bow.
"We'll deal with this Malesinder as you suggest. Have you any means of disabling the magics around Spurhorn that impede teleportation? If not disabling, then perhaps allowing individuals to bypass it? We could pop over to this Malesinder's tent and pop back before they knew what hit them."
"The source of those magics are long lost to history, and there's little we can about them. I know you have the ability to fly, so I don't want to give offense, but I can have some of my dragonkin transport you down if that's easier."
Quinn accepts the jar of victory moonshine as he listens to Hektir's tale. "Why is it always onions? I don't think you should make the trail stew anymore."
When it's time for the assault or departure with the eagle, Quinn is ready to fly.
Hektir rubs his scalp where he was be-bonked by Mal.
"I was just making sure. So...if we've been paid for what we done did, what are we being paid for doing this? Sheesh, it's a question. We're pro-hutta mercenaries now, working for things. Might as well get paid for fighting if we can."
Pems nods at Hektir. "He's right, General. We agreed to help with the siege, but an assault on the enemy camp is above and beyond. And any aid you can provide will only enhance our chances of victory."
"Mercenaries. I see," Pharamol says with distaste. "What is customary among your kind? Will whatever you can loot from the camp be enough? That should guarantee you do not cut and run as soon as the battle begins. If not, then I think our work is done here. You may leave with your prize once we launch our attack -- no sooner -- and we shall be quit of each other."
They(the ravens in the attic) pick several items off the shelves and drop them in front of you: a stuffed two-headed eagle, then an iron and a drinking beside it. Next, they take an elephant tusk and a small hand mirror and drop them atop a bearskin rug.
Tsin strains to remember lo these many days since they walked from the Hut's garden, into the attic of the garden's house, where they encountered the Ravens once more.
In hindsight, she can picture the iron spur, and the drinking horn coming together, rebus-style, to point to the two-headed eagle, which is now at their feet, figuratively. All they need do is put their collective foot down, take what is rightfully theirs, and abandon the Commander to his own responsibilities. Unlikely, but it would be simpler, and they would no longer be subject to the man's insolent judgment of their presumed status as 'mercenaries'.
Now, she pictures the combination of bearskin rug, elephant tusk, and mirror, trying to piece together their relationship. Which ones point to the location, and which one is the key?
Tsin leans down to whisper to the halfling. "Pemsworth- inquire for us. If Pharamol is at all likely to help us ascertain our next location and acquisition(the bearskin rug, the hand mirror, and the elephant tusk), we'll continue our involvement here. If they have nothing further to offer us, I suggest we leave now."
Pems nods to Tsin. "Does a tusk made from ivory or a hand mirror or a bearskin rug mean anything to you?" He asks Pharamol, ignoring his distaste at mercenaries.
"Mercenaries. I see," Pharamol says with distaste. "What is customary among your kind? Will whatever you can loot from the camp be enough? That should guarantee you do not cut and run as soon as the battle begins. If not, then I think our work is done here. You may leave with your prize once we launch our attack -- no sooner -- and we shall be quit of each other."
Hektir begins to bristle at Pharmol's attitude.
"You're the general? And you're surprised that mercenaries exist? Or are you surprised we won't fight for you for free? No offense, but if you've ever sought to inspire us to your cause, or help us understand why you fight, I've missed it. If you're the commander here, then your men either fight for a cause or for money. Since you have shown us no cause, then we'll take a payment," Hektir offers a spit, having to explain how to lead to a general.
"We'll take gold, gem, women, booze, or magic. It's up to you since you can't explain why this is important and why we should care."
"I don't know what a bear is," he says, jaw clenched as he glares now at Pems.
Hektir spits again.
"I like fighting. I like drinking. We'll do this and we'll take the loot we wish."
"Are you afraid to face Malesinder yourself?" Quinn asks curiously in draconic. "Is that why you were hiding in this fort and hired us 'mercenaries' to protect you?"
Switching back to common, he turns to the party, "What do you think, gang, should we take our eagle and split and let Fairyman face Malesinder himself so his troops can see what kind of disrespectful, non-cider-pouring leader they follow?"
Tsin shakes her head, steeling herself to address the Commander. "The dragonkin will accompany us, as you've offered. They will also stay and fight at our sides, as Malesinder is likely still going to be heavily defended by a personal guard." Tsin looks to Hektir for confirmation. She turns back to Commander Pharamol. "We are not doing this for the love of fighting, or drinking, Commander. We're doing this to ensure that we have your support, however begrudging, when our time comes to travel to Ivoryglass. It appears that we are both means to an end for each other."
It takes all her will to suppress her blatant dislike of Pharamol, picturing what it would have been like, had Malesinder not turned them away in the camps.
Malavarius, infuriated by the lack of manners and overwhelming thuggishness of his young hangers on, throws his hands up in disgust and storms out of the room. "You lot are so smart and don't care to listen to an old man? Fine! Want to keep insulting these good people who have offered strangers like us shelter while they were under a blasted siege?! FINE! Figure this mess out yourselves!"
He storms down the hall, muttering and grumbling loudly enough for his complaints to still be plainly heard for a long while after his departure. "Mercenaries! Rude and thoughtless nincompoops is more like it! Thrice damned impatient fools and their crass tongues, well they can cram it all up their-"
The old mage's rant continues for some time.
Pems giggles when Mal's rant reaches his scatalogical description of where things might be crammed. "It's like he's heard your tales, Hektir..."
Cantrips Prepared (4): dancing lights, detect magic, prestidigitation, read magic
Level 1 Prepared (4+2+1): endure elements [X], feather fall [ ], identify [ ], protection from evil* [ ], mage armor [ ] [ ], shield [ ]
Level 2 Prepared (4+2+1): glitterdust [ ] [ ], resist energy* [ ] [ ] [ ], scorching ray [ ] [ ]
Level 3 Prepared (4+1+1): dispel magic* [ ], fireball [ ] [ ], haste [ ] [ ], magic weapon (greater) [ ]
Level 4 Prepared (3+1+1): dimensional anchor [ ], protection from energy** [ ] [ ], stoneskin* [ ] [ ]
Level 5 Prepared (2+1+1): break enchantment* [ ] [ ], dismissal [ ] [ ], life bubble [ ]
Level 6 Prepared (1+1+1): greater dispel magic* [ ] [ ], legend lore [ ]
Hektir nods along with Tsin's words, while trying to pretend he doesn't even know the angry sputtering coot who he disagrees with.
Hektir will return to Zephtyr's form for the trek to Maleficient's castle. He whispers something to Quinn.
Zephtyr will buff a bit before flying out, then again when they get closer to the battlefront.
As you prepare, you're greeted by Bescaylie and Efrixes, the Triaixian woman giving you a nod.
"I hear you've been causing some trouble. I'm glad you've chosen to accompany us, though."
Pems grins at the furry woman. "Trouble is basically all we're good for, miss. Can you give us a ride to attack the General?"
...whispers foul somethings (as opposed to sweet nothings)
"Gross, can you image what those kids will look like?"
I hear you've been causing some trouble.
Quinn beams brightly at the complement. "Yes, yes we have, Cayden would be proud of the chaos we've sowed," then with a side glance to Hektir, "some of us literally."
Tsin watches as Malavarius storms out and away from present company. She smooths her robe, nodding stiffly to the Commander, before taking the old wizard's lead, and following him out. Catching up to him, she waits until he's said his grumbly peace, before answering to him.
"We will meet their demands with our own, reasonable demands, master Malavarius. How soon you forget your near sacrifice. They would not mourn your death, as we would, because they care very little for our well-being, only winning this war, which means nothing to me, other than impediment to securing Baba Yaga's crumb trail. Be careful not to invest your heart in these Triaxians, Mal. The path is still long, and difficult. We could have as easily taken that eagle, and departed for Ivoryglass. The only thing Pharamol is good for here is his cannon fodder army, and any strikes against the next bread crumb."
Tsin braces for more berating.
...
When the time comes, Tsin is ready to leave, on dragonback. If there are supplies to be afforded them (arrows, alchemist fires, and the like), she helps herself to the outlay.