RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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It is only by light of the moon that the duskblossom—nymphaea noctis blooms. Perched cross-legged atop a mossy rock, a young halfling woman—Janira Gavix—observes a field of these water-born flowers floating atop the shallow pools of brackish water from where the nearby river meets the sea shore. The lapping waves of a receding tide crash nearby, though far enough that Janira cannot smell the sea-spray. As the moon comes into view from behind dark clouds, Janira keenly watches the duskblossoms begin to move, one-by-one unfolding their petals to reveal luminous stamen within that glitter with starlight pollen. She sketches their form in the moleskin journal set out across her lap, but finds herself unable to effectively capture their otherworldly beauty.
A sudden splashing and sloshing sound coming from the shore causes Janira to sit upright, her focus immediately moves from the flowers to the rocky shoreline. Her brerath hitches in the back of her throat when she hears another deliberate splash-slosh, this time noticeably closer. SLipping one leg out from under herself, Janira levers herself off the rock and crouches down beside it at the edge of the tidal pool, clutching her journal to her chest as the sounds of something emerging from the water draws closer.
Peering over the top of the rock, Janira watches something rise up out of the river; a dark, though vaguely humanoid, silhouette in the night. Swallowing tensely, Janira creeps a bit further around the rock, watching this creature move. It's body glistens in the moonlight, draped in a woven cloak of purplish fabric and kelp-green plant matter that clings tightly to its frame. The creature's flesh is dark gray in coloration, and as it surveys the riverbank, Janira gets a clear look at its faintly luminous violet eyes.
A gillman, Janira realizes as some of her fear subsides, replaced by curiosity. Watching the aquatic man slink away, Janira scrambles towards another cluster of rocks, keeping behind the cover to observe in silence. The waterlogged figure moves a few more paces, then holds aloft both hands to the moon.
"," the gillman utters in a wet, sibilant verse that is strangely tone-deaf. Then, anointing itself with water from the river, the gillman continues to follow the riverbank inland. All the while, Janira keeps her distance, having forgotten her backpack and other gear entirely back by the water.
After following the gillman for nearly a mile, the wooden riverside opens into a grassy clearing at a rocky butte that breaks up the hilly land. The river snakes around the butte, and the gillman seems most interested in this geological formation, approaching its side that is cast in shadow by the moon. As Janira watches from the foliage, she finds herself transfixed on the figure's motions.
Then, as the gillman approaches the shadowed cliff face, he simply disappears into the darkness, as if the night swallowed him whole. Janira's breath hitches again in a staunched gasp, quickly followed by a hasty approach from the treeline. Her little, bare feet carry her across the grassy floor of the clearing to the cliff. Though once she steps into the shadow of the butte, the truth becomes clear to her. For cut in the side of the rock face is a narrow keyhole cave, from which a cool, damp breeze blows.
Cautiously approaching the cave mouth, Janira holds one hand out to feel the air blowing against her palm, then uses her hand to feel the cave wall as a guide until she is wholly submerged in darkness. Don't be an idiot, she warns herself, before anxiously backing out of the cave.
Standing there, one hand still in the darkness, Janira's lips curl into a delighted smile.
A mystery!
Pathfinder Society: Year of the Demon
The invitation delivered last night through the Grand Lodge of Absalom was remarkably simple, especially given the importance of the occasion: “Start where it all began. Meet us at the Pig’s Paunch one hour before dawn.”
The Pig’s Paunch is an inauspicious run-down building in the shadow of much less storied structures in Absalom, with a faded sign of a large pig standing on its hind legs, arms folded above a corpulent belly. Inside, the air is thick with the scents of human sweat, stale tobacco, and leftover food. Tables are filled with all manner of travelers from the lower rung of society; a greasy-haired half-orc sits at a table with four Varisian men engaged in a game of cards, while a pair of halflings sit at the bar sharing a pint of dark ale with a blonde-haired halfling woman. Flies buzz around from table to table, shooed off by both patron and barmaid alike.
In the center of the tavern floor, surrounded by inebriates sleeping off their revelries, a familiar elven man stands high upon top of a large round table. His blonde hair flows down over his shoulders, dark eyes reflecting the lantern-light like tiny blue-black marbles.
“Welcome! Welcome, my students!" He greets at the arrival of the fellow Pathfinders-in-training. "Please, have a seat!” With that, Kreighton Shaine, the Pathfinder Society’s Master of Scrolls, nimbly drops down to sit cross-legged on the table before looking about the tavern with a sense of reverent wonder. “Can you believe it? It all started here years ago—well, over four hundred of them at least. Under this very roof the Pathfinder Society was born."
As the group coming in to the Pig's Paunch make their way over to the table, Kreighton offers each of them a wry smile as he drums his fingertips on the table's surface, gesturing to the chairs not occupied by the unconscious revelers from the night prior.
“Today you will begin your Confirmation! Master Farabellus, Master Zey, and I all agree you each have shown your worth and dedication to the Society, so there’s no better time to see if you can handle becoming full field operatives. Allow me to introduce you to Janira Gavix,” he says as he motions for an excitable halfling woman to approach from where she was at the bar. As she approaches, Janira slings a large backpack over her shoulder laden with all manner of tools, from small lanterns to shovels, pots and pans. Pouches and scroll cases hang around her waist, and a distinctive blue-violet flower with jet black stamen is pinned in her hair.
Shaine continues, saying, “Janira here will be going with you on your Confirmation. She was one of my brightest pupils and will no doubt be an invaluable resource on your journey, for she discovered the caves you are about to explore during her own Confirmation.”
Janira waits for the Pathfinders to settle themselves, then speaks up in an enthusiastic and cheerful voice, “Greetings, aspiring Pathfinders! Six months ago, while I was mapping cave entrances in the foothills of the Kortos Mounts, I witnessed a lone gillman entering a concealed cave. I thought little of it at the time, but I saw another one enter the cave again a month later as my Confirmation stretched on. A few days later, after I completed my assigned task of cataloging plants, I entered the cave system, but was unable to find the gillmen...”
Master Shaine hops to his feet. “Initiates, for your Confirmation, you will travel to these caves to explore and document its many passages. Additionally, and most importantly, you are to learn what the gillmen are up to in there. Oh, and you really do need to come back alive as well.” With these parting words, the Master of Scrolls jumps off the table and ambles a few feet away, hands folded behind his back as he observes each of the Pathfinders one by one.
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A heavily tattooed half-orc sits with a small songbird perched upon his shoulder. He watches and listens to the table-seated elf and halfling with unveiled amusement. As Kreighton Shane finishes his rundown of the mission, the half-orc bows towards him, then turns towards his fellow Initiates.
"If anyone has the intention of not coming back alive, please say so now. Might be I could fake an illness and take the test 'nother time," the half-orc states in a mock serious tone.
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From the other side of the table, Helgoron breaks a fanged grin at the half-orc's comment - the massive tiefling with glowing eyes and fiery hair displays Iomedae's symbol casually around his neck, while himself looking a veritable implement of warfare, weapons arranged all about him, with a longsword prominently at his waist - his manner is calm and well spoken - "I definitely intend to survive and return to tell the tale, Inheritor willing - even though shedding Light where there is none is more important that one's life" - he offers - "I am Helgoron" - he adds.
Turning to Kreighton Shane and Janira, he continues - "And it will be an honor to follow through with such endeavour - not only for the necessary confirmation of our capacity as Pathfinders, but also to detail what is the purpose for this creature's activities" - he nods - "Will Miss Gavix be accompanying us, and addressing the mappng needs? Or shall we take the necessary measures to its completion? I inquire for the necessity of purchasing adequate scribing materials, which I currently do not possess"
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”Map some caves. Take some notes,” grunts a shaven-headed, blunt-and-scarred faced Chelaxian a few seats down from Rahk. Then he gives a scarred-lipped, dumb-looking grin over at the half-orc's comment, ”And don’t die. Seems easy enough.”
The man—who’d be considered tall in most other company—gives a flippant, off-hand salute to the gathered Pathfinder initiates, ”Name’s Mors.” He looks at Rahk, then Helgoron, his dark eyes lingering on the tiefling’s holy symbol of the Inheritor with a look of fleeting, dull interest before moving on.
Everything about the over-thirty looking Chelaxian screams ‘thug’ ... from his thick, long-limbed build to his work-a-day clothes and battered arms and armor to the thick-lipped grin on his not-too-bright-looking face. A beat up and oft-stitched back together pack rests between his own boot and his chair leg.
His pool of words exhausted, the Chelaxian lapses back into silence, waiting to hear the elven man’s response to Helgoron’s questions.
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A lanky Tiefling lounges near the Chelaxian with a book, seemingly ignoring the entire conversation. However, he chimes in after Mors' quip without missing a beat.
"Easy, indeed. Let's just hope it's not so easy as to bore us to death. I am left wanting for stimulating diversion."
Snapping the book shut, he examines the room's occupants. His horns glint in the dim light, true to his name. "Thaddeus Silverhorn, at your service."
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The half-orc closes his eyes briefly after each introduction, as if to fix the names and faces in his mind.
"And my name," the half-orc gives a heavy sigh, "is Rahk Gravelfist. And no, I do not have any sort of special affinity for earth magic. That's what comes from people being named by parents and not choosing their own names. Though I suppose if people chose their own we'd have an abundance of people naming themselves 'Jatembe' or 'Sirian Aldori'."
"And this is Flitwing," Rahk adds, gesturing to the songbird. "She speaks the common tongue, but I wouldn't bother listening to her; it's most all nonsense." At Rahk's words the thrush perched on his shoulder ruffles her feathers in an attempt to look offended.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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"I like that one," Shaine notes of Rahk at his sentiments about coming back alive. There's a wryness to the Master's tone, and a smirk that does not leave his face as he quietly dismisses himself from the tavern, seeing that Janira seems to have everything under control. She, in turn, watches Master Shaine depart and settles down on a tall stool around the party's table, though it still fails to bring the halfling up to eye level with most of the group.
"Quite the diverse team," Janira notes with a studious look at each of the gathered Pathfinder initiates seated around the table. "Diversity is a hallmark of the Pathfinder Society and part-and-parcel with the nature of our work. We're a diverse lot with diverse goals, especially from region to region under the different Masters and Venture Captains and Lieutenants."
As she talks, Janira quietly removes a moleskin journal from her backpack, setting out out in her lap. "We all also have unique and diverse reasons for becoming Pathfinders. As much as it is our duty to understand our assignments by investigating and questioning, it is also our responsibility to understand ourselves and each other." Withdrawing a thin charcoal pencil from between the pages of her journal, Janira makes a note of something after glancing at Mors, then closes the journal.
"For example, take me," Janira notes as she gestures to herself with one hand. "I was born and raised here in Absalom. My father was—still is—a porter, running carts all around the city. I'd aspired to become a Pathfinder since I was little."
"Well," she grimaces, "little-er."
"Since my Confirmation, I've been on several assignments for the Society, but I consider myself an educator above all else. While I enjoy field work, I'm just as at home in a classroom or doing instructional assignments like this." Running one hand through her short, blonde hair, Janira takes a moment to consider her company. "Some of you look seasoned, others... I'm guessing this might be your first assignment. It all brings to mind the most important question a Pathfinder can ask: Why?"
Furrowing her brows, Janira sits up straight on her stool and opens her journal again. "What made you all want to do this? Have you all been training for three years, or is this the result of a field-commission for some of you?"
______________________
Mount Kortos
The Kortos Mounts are a range of mountains rising up from the center of the isle of Kortos, north of Absalom. Your assignment will take you to these mountains foothills. Curiously, there are no known gillman settlements that far inland.
Gillman
Also known as the Low Azlanti, the gillmen are an amphibious humanoid race believed to be the last descendants of the ancient Azlanti people.
During Earthfall, the Starstone struck Golarion and destroyed the human empires of Thassilon and Azlant. It is said that gillmen’s ancestors survived the cataclysmic event because they received the blessing of an
aquatic entity that allowed them to breath underwater.
Most scholars believe the terrifying aboleths were responsible for the gillmen’s transformation. Any alliance between them appears to have fallen apart over the millennia, however, and the gillmen are now an independent people.
Biologically, gillmen are aquatic humanoids that are dependent on water submersion, daily, to avoid painful and debilitating drying out. They have a resistance to enchantment magic, save for enchantments from an aboleth source.
Yeah, youse looks like da sort oi kin blen din wif. Dis where we gets are mem'erships?
Brox takes a last tear at the ham hock in his hand and drops the bone to the floor. Beady orange eyes appraise each person at the table as he wipes a greasy hand on the front of his leather jerkin. As his eyes rest on Rahk he whispers:
lalDanyaS ghaH 'ej Duvan
Name is Brox. (heh) Mebbe youse might'a 'eard o' me
His oddly inflected speech says he might hail from far Varisia...most likely Riddleport.
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Rahk answers the other half-orc in Taldane, "Sadly, no. Tried my hand at it once. My current tally puts me at 8th worst healer in the world. Wait, no, Edwin "the Jokemaker" slipped down the stairs on his own grease spell a few weeks back. Guess it's down to 7th, then. I'm not the kind of person you want doing shaman business, is my point. Likely to do more harm than good."
Rhak stands to face Janira. His tone shifts from casual to serious. "In any case, the why is a long story, so I'll give the short version: The world went to crock ever since Aroden went. Was probably crock before, I'd wager. I've got no grand designs about fixing it all, but if I can leave the world a bit better than the one I was born into, that's a victory of sorts.
"Problem is, it's hard to influence the world with neither contacts nor power. I studied magic at the Magaambya but knowledge and practice are different. Would be good to gain some field experience, and might be I'll do some good in the process.
"Side benefits of seeing the world and getting paid," Rahk adds as his voice loses its edge, and retakes his seat.
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Listening to the orcs with half an ear, Thaddeus nods to the newcomer. His eyes light up and the hint of new and curious information. "Ah, yes the Kortos Mounts - but there were no Gillmen settlements near those foothills. Not any any map I've seen. Perhaps this cave of yours provides the wet environment they need to survive?"
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Mors sets his drink down as Janira makes her charcoal note, craning his neck in an obvious but unsuccessful attempt to see what she wrote. A question looks like its slowly forming on his thick lips, but Brox’s appearance steals the moment.
Both Brox’s introduction and Thaddeus’s revelation about mountains, gillmen, and waters bring only a mute look of vague non-comprehension from Mors, and Mors is saved from the necessity of commenting dully on either by Rahk’s reply to the diminutive pathfinder’s question of motive.
Mors nods along when Rahk speaks of a world gone to crock and leaving the world a bit better. His dark eyes take on a thoughtful look. He picks up where Rahk leaves off, struggling to put to words the thoughts accumulating behind his eyes.
”A man can wake up one day and realize his over thirty winters of living amount to crock. Nothin’ to show. Nothin’ to his name. No real direction except the one takin’ him to the noose.” He pauses, taking a sip of his ale to buy enough time to figure out how to complete the thought. His dark eyes cut briefly to Thad before they go back to Janira, ”I was lucky enough to get a second chance and a piece of good advice. Rahk is right … sometimes a man needs a place to put his skills to good use.” He settles back in his chair, apparently tired from the strain of stringing together so many words. With a final shrug, he finishes, ”… regardless of what the skills are.”
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Helgoron seems slightly taken aback by the straightforward question, as he shuffles in place. He allows the others to speak their piece, either by education, or simply because he is taking the time to formulate his own answer
As a short silence follows Mors' answer, he grabs the opportunity with a voice sounding grave and solemn - "What I do is a recognition of what one has done for me not that long ago, though it feels like an eternity. This person was a friend, a confidant and a mentor, lost in the most dire of situations in the darkest of places, amidst desperation - not hers, but mine" - he pauses momentarily, his face a mask except for the fire in his eyes that flickers somewhat stronger than usually.
"In the same place I lost Talian, the Inheritor found me - in that dark hole a path was carved for me... I wonder if it was set already when I was but a demon child, fleeing across the sewers of Westcrown..." - he seems to be pondering to himself, absent - "What I do..? I try to repay all that has been done for me" - he lifts his eyes back to Janira - "And that my actions make a difference - the Society offers me that opportunity"
As Helgoron tells his story, Brox drags a stool to the table, sitting down heavily. He grabs a waitress firmly by her flank, spins her around once and seats her on his lap.
Mug of yer ale, anna bowl uv wate'er yer got onna fire luv
A pinch on her backside and two silver coins on her tray causes a squeal of laughter as she flounces away.
Welly welly well we got us some rare in'ividjools t'day. Good 'nuff fer y'uns as I'm da bestest lock op'ner, second-story man and roughneck dis side o' Magnimar. After a winnin piece o' woik in Riddleport I decided to set da wind to me back an opened me sails 'eaded 'ere. Figgered bein a roit proppa Pat'finner adds an air o' respectability ter me odderwise "nefarious deeds" har har! 'Nuff fer y'uns t' know I never betray a team, an' I don lif' no klank offa team neither.
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As Brox finishes his charming soliloquy, Thaddeus fidgets in his chair, twirling his empty whiskey glass on the table top. Finally, he interjects in the trailing silence with a weary sigh. He "I'm bored."
Detecting a lack of understanding among the others present, he points a finger at Rahk, elaborating in a patronizing tone. "Influencing the world. Making it less crock."
His finger tracks over to Mors, Helgoron and Brox in turn. "Second chance at a new... career. Overall do-gooding and what-not. Respectablility." Bringing his hands back to indicate himself in a mild shrug, the investigator's tone turns flat."Bored."
Gesturing to the barkeep for more whisky, he returns his attention to the group. "I'm tired of playing nursemaid to these well-intentioned imbeciles of the local militias and government officials - straw men with sword and pen." His eyes, like burning coals, take on a more intense gleam. "Real mysteries! Challenges! Discoveries! There must be more to the world that what's been chronicled in the books of the great libraries..."
Sitting back in his chair, he returns to spin his empty glass on the table, mumbling to himself. "There must be - I've read all of those books. Twice."
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Rahk listens attentively to everyone's reasons for joining the Society. As Thaddeus takes his chair, Rahk coughs politely. "Well, it's doubtful we'll find the trip boring," Rahk emphasizes the last word, directing it toward Thaddeus. "At least two interesting stories are begging to be told on the road," he says, pointing two fingers at Mors and Helgoron and wiggling them.
"Interesting to me, anyway, always liked stories," the half-orc says pensively, then gives a slight shrug. "Speaking of, how long is the road to the...Quortos? Chordos Mountains?"
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Mors shrugs, his tone long-suffering, "You'd be surprised what Thad thinks is borin'." He pauses then, his face scrunching up, "Hells, you'd be surprised what Thad thinks is interesting." He downs his ale, pushing the mug back away from him on the table. "Helgoron's story is probly better'n mine, anyway. Well, maybe 'cept for the part about the three halfling girls. And the four fingered gnome." He looks over at Thad with a slow grin, "Then there was the drunken cow at that Tian's party. That was arright."
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Listening to each of the group and quietly taking notes as she does, Janira seems content to let the Pathfinders about to go on their Confirmation to explain their motivations—both to her, and to one another. After a few minutes of talking, Janira closes her journal and gives a slow, thoughtful nod. Thaddeus' question is only answered then, as of Janira had belatedly recalled that one had even been asked, swept up in the conversation as she was. "Perhaps. There's a river nearby to the cave and the air coming out of it is quite moist, so it's highly possible the cave is watery in some regard, or may even connect to an aquifer."
Flipping through a few pages of her journal, Janira gets to the meat of the meeting, such as it were. There, in pages of tightly packed script, are Janira's personal field reports about her own investigation of the region surrounding the cave. "On to the details of the mission at hand," Janira says with an eager grin. "[b]After reviewing my mission reports personally, Master Shaine believes it is no coincidence that each time the gillmen entered the caves it was during a full moon, so it is also no coincidence that you have been called here now, just a day before the moon is full again. We both believe that tomorrow night is our best chance to find out why these caves are important and what exactly the gillmen are doing in there."
"The caves we’ll be travelling to lie under the base of the Kortos Mounts. We’ll need to spend every minute of daylight possible to reach the caves by foot, crossing over the Cairnlands, taking the paths to Diobel, and finally making our way through the wilderness. With any luck we won’t run into any of the local inhabitants." At that, Janira grimaces and scratches at the back of her neck. "Once in the caves, we’ll need to work together to explore and determine whether any gillman are present or have been recently. Keep an eye out for any other clues that might hint at the caves’ significance, too."
"Now, before we head out, if there aren’t any more questions, we should take a moment to go through your gear and make sure nothing important gets left out." That said, Janira reaches down into her backpack and withdraws six leather-bound journals, each with the seal of the open road embossed in the cover, and a charcoal pencil attached to a rawhide bookmark that is bound to the spine.
One by one, Janira hands the journals out to the Pathfinders gathered at the table. "These are for record-keeping on your Confirmation. Please take not of anything you find of interest, or anything that may seem important. You never know what is going to be significant, or what might make it into the next Pathfinder Chronicle! It'd be embarrassing to say you were on the expedition that uncovered some famed Azlanti ruin, but you didn't get in the history books because you failed to file a report!"
Tucking her own journal into her backpack, Janira considers Rahk's question about the distance. "It's going to take us until tomorrow night to trek all the way to the Kortos Mounts," she enunciated the range's name clearly for the half-orc. "Which means we're going to need to set out sooner, rather than later. We've a few hours to spare to gather last minute supplies. We'll be camping out in the wild, so I hope you remember to bring a bedroll. Not all the rocks are comfortable to sleep on!"
Sliding off of her stool, Janira shoulders her backpack and looks around at the Pathfinders, fond of the entourage that she'll be leading out into the wild and eager to see how each of them cooperates with one another—or doesn't cooperate, as sometimes happens. That notion causes the petite halfling to chew on her bottom lip, pensively, and eye the group one last time.
"I'll meet you all at the city gate outside of the Wise Quarter in two hours." Resettling the shoulder-strap of her bag over one shoulder, Janira takes a few steps away from the table and gives the team an approving nod.
"Gather up the supplies you need, and be prepared for quite the journey!"
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Several hours into the day as the warm summer sun shines brightly overhead the sky is swathed with fluffy, white clouds. A cool breeze blows in from the west, and over the rolling hills of the Carnlands, Janira Gavix leads an entourage of aspiring Pathfinders on foot. Ever since they left Absalom, Janira has been a constant source of conversation, hardly able to keep too long a pause between her stories. Most are retellings of famous Pathfinder adventures from the likes of Durvin Gest, tales of high adventure and fantastical discoveries from half a world away.
Janira stops, every so often, to point out interesting landmarks of note, from old siege towers now overgrown with ivy and moss, to crumbling statues of rampant horses rising up from the hills. Janira also finds plenty of time to stop and inspect a curious flower or copse of trees, making sketches in her journal and keeping pressings of petals and leaves, added to her already prodigious collection. While the halfling is small, she keeps a brisk and steady pace, clearly eager to reach her predetermined campsite on schedule.
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By the time the sun sets on the western horizon, Janira has led the group up to a scenic overlook atop a high hill in the northern Carinlands where leafless, twisting trees grow up around an old, sundered stone tower. The windswept hilltop bristles with scrub grass and vibrant dandelions. Dragonflies buzz and flit between the taller stalks of grass and the yellow flowers, while sea birds turn and wheel overhead on their way from the west shore to the south.
Climbing up a few crumbling steps into what little remains of the tower, Janira sets an oil lantern down next to an ancient stone-walled fire pit, kneeling down to light the lantern with a tindertwig. "Mors, would you take Brox with you and gather up some firewood? I'd like to get this going before too long," she notes with a gesture to the fire pit.
"Rahk, Thaddeus, take a minute and scout around the tower perimeter. Don't go too far, just make sure there isn't anything here I might've missed on my initial scouting foray." With those orders given to a handful of the Pathfinders, Janira settles down by the fire and opens up her bag, removing iron bars and a cooking pot, setting up a spit to prepare tonight's dinner on.
"The rest of you, feel free to set up your bedding. I've got some fresh vegetables I picked up before we left and some marvelous spices. I'll cook us up a nice, spicy soup to give us the strength we'll need to get back on the road tomorrow." Pleased with how things have turned out thus far, Janira continues setting up.
"Seems like our luck has held out so far!"
_______________
Brox picks up the book and looks it over front and back first, then opening and flipping through the pages.
So dis 'ere is fer any'ting we fin intrestin, roit? We gonna be quizzeded on it later? Or izzit jes fer fun? I aint much fer writin...'cept mebbe maps an stuff like dat.
Brox is mostly silent during the day's travel. His wide brimmed travelling hat pulled down low over his eyes.
"Mors, would you take Brox with you and gather up some firewood?
At this Brox's eyes narrow suspiciously but he nods and grunts in acquiesence and lumbers off.
After <A GM determined amount of time> Brox returns with an armload of dried branches, twigs, and leaves. Hunkering down, he takes off his crimson gloves and arranges the leaves on the bottom, then the twigs and finally a cone of branches in the fire pit. He then withdraws and takes out his Journal, penning the notes mentioned above while rummaging about the ruins
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Mors stands mutely staring up at the broken, old tower … looking like the crew’s pack mule with his hands holding the straps of the bulging pack on his back. It looks like when the pack wouldn’t admit any more content, Mors had begun strapping more gear and equipment to its sides and external … giving him an ungainly, hunchbacked silhouette. He’d quietly carried the equipment the full trip, never complaining despite the combined gear looking like it could weigh as much as a full grown human man.
Whatever’s going through his dull mind is interrupted by Janira’s request. He gives a nod, sparing a few moments to unload some of the bulk from his pack before standing back up and resettling the now-lighter gear … which has a bulk now closer to that of an adolescent human girl. He gives Thaddeus a nod towards the equipment he left on the ground, then heads off with Brox in search of firewood.
As they walk away from Janira’s lantern-light, Mors draws the dagger from the bandolier crossing his chest. A look of absolute concentration comes over his face as he whispers a simple prayer. The blade answers with a reluctant glow, and Mors's thick lips split into a thrilled smile. He looks over at Brox and gives a self-conscious shrug, ”What? We’re not all half-orcs.” He slips the blade back into its sheath, leaving nearly an inch bare to shed light.
Without an axe, Mors spends the time necessary to gather a (large) armful of twigs, branches, or anything else that looks like it could be ripped from the trunk of any nearby trees. He’s not particularly quiet about it, but he keeps a wary eye and ear on the surrounding area.
When the big man returns, he waits until Janira tells him where to drop the firewood. ”Need anything else … Pathfinder Janira?” If nothing is asked, he finds an out-of-the-way spot, pulls out his blades and a whetstone, and fills the night air with the soft, rhythmic tsssssssk tsssssssssk of weapons being honed.
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After making the proper preparations, Rahk returns to the Pig's Paunch. He seats himself in the far corner of the room, orders a pint of godsbrew, and flips open his new journal to its first page. The half-orc inhales deeply through his nose, taking in the musk of the tavern and the fresh scent of the unused journal. He rummages through his backpack before producing a small charcoal pencil, and begins to write.
Rahk frowns at the incomplete entries, then closes the journal with a light snap before placing it delicately inside his backpack. He leaves a generous tip to the bartender for leaving him almost completely alone, and departs for the city gate outside the Wise Quarter.
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Rahk drops his pack, turns towards Thaddeus, and makes a small gesture with his head towards the tower perimeter. After walking a short distance, the half-orc utters a soft incantation, and four small orbs of light fade into being. The orbs begin to slowly circle the camp, illuminating the areas through which they pass.
"See anything of import, Flitwing? Thaddeus?" Rahk asks quietly.
Taking twenty to carefully search the interior area of the tower for hidden or otherwise secret entrances.
Mebbe dere'sa hidd'n place unner da tow'r
Search= 27
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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The ruins, it appears, are as safe as they are old. After a sweep of the perimeter, nothing dangerous or noteworthy aside from the weathered stone is discovered. At the campsite in the ruined tower, Janira prepares a hearty vegetable soup for the group, seasoned with a mixture of spices imported from Quadira, purchased off of a street-vendor in Absalom.
While she cooks the soup in a portable pot over the crackling fire, the halfling spins a yarn about the starlight night sky, telling the Pathfinders about the cosmic caravan—the broad name of each of the constellations of the night's sky—and assists in pointing out which of the constellations are visible this night. Though the story is a long one, it has a kernel of useful wisdom to it, wisdom of being ever-wary for unseen dangers, and ever-ready to stand strong (and united) in the face of overwhelming odds.
As the night goes on, Janira is content to dole out soup, tell tall tales of Pathfinders of old, and enjoy the peaceful night that has been afforded to them all.
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The smell of food cooking draws Brox away from rooting around in the back corners of the ruined tower. He hands off his mess kit bowl to Janira, who fills it and hands it back. As he takes the bowl from Janira he crouches slightly and snarls, showing teeth.
The snarl fades as he looks into the bowl and swishes the stew around a bit. Then he dips a finger into the stew and stirs it a little.
Oh wot? No meat? psssh...
As he sits down at the edge of the fire Brox reaches into his pack and pulls out a filthy rag and unwraps it's contents. Three small sausages rest inside the cloth which he cuts up using a wickedly barbed dagger.
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Helgoron lifts an eyebrow at Thaddeus claims for boredom, but remains silent, eyeing him with curiosity, as he goes on with his tirade.
"Helgoron's story is probly better'n mine, anyway. Well, maybe 'cept for the part about the three halfling girls. And the four fingered gnome." He looks over at Thad with a slow grin, "Then there was the drunken cow at that Tian's party. That was arright."
With a fanged smile, the tiefling nods at the big man - "Not sure if comparisons are in order, but I can assure you there are no drunken cows in mine"
As the group parts, he finishes his drink and pays for it - much like the others, he too grabs the opportunity to stock on some probably useful supplies.
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During their trek, the tiefling keeps mostly to himself, but pays particular attention to the details, landmarks and recounts vehiculated by Janira, following her swift pace along.
As they make camp, and given no particular task is requested of him, Helgoron prepares his bedding, then sets about for a short patrol of the perimeter, making sure the area is safe, and also looking for any distinguishable markings on the structure itself before joining the others, sitting down and penning some notes on his journal.
As he does so, he turns to their guide - "Tell me Janira, do you know any details about this ruined building - what its purpose or allegiance might have been?"
As the soup is served, he smiles - "Thank you - the taste is quite uncommon, and different from what I have tasted" - taking in the meal, his longsword resting next to him. He turns his attention to the weapon once the meal is ended, cleaning it thoroughly, honing its edge, and offering a short prayer to Iomedae.
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Falvreb quietly steps up to the fire after putting his journal away and extends his mess bowl to Janira, thanking her when she hands it back filled. He then moves to the edge of the camp, close enough to listen, but on the edge of the light. As he eats, Jorun, his dinosaur companion, comes up to the ruins and around the edge of the building to settle down near him, apparently tired from the journey.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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As the group makes their scouting circuit around the tower and firewood is brought to the top of the ruin to feed the hearth, Janira watches with a pleased smile at the work of the Pathfinders-in-training. Settled cross-legged in front of the fire, unpacking the foodstuffs necessary to make her promised soup. A gathering of fresh vegetables and spices collected from in and around Absalom's markets and, unfortunately for Brox, no meat to be seen.
"This old tower," Janira notes in answer of Helgoron's earlier question, "dates back to the rising of Absalom, when the Last Azlanti pulled the isle of Kortos from the bottom of the sea. There are dozens of ruins such as these dotting the shores of Kortos, and some even still below the tides." Looking to the tower's crumbling walls, her brows furrow. There was something Brox had seen in his search of the tower environs that made this claim seem all the more likely, as these towers are—in places—crusted in old, brittle barnacles.
"The towers were here when Aroden pulled the island up from the ocean, which means they may have been sunken during the fall of the old empires when the Starstone plummeted to Golarion." Shrugging with resigned ignorance, Janira looks down into the crackling fire. "Unfortunately, who built them and why is unknown."
With that story told, Janira continues cooking and the night goes by uneventfully. No dangers to be seen in the wilderness, nothing but fireflies dancing and flickering on the distant fields like stars that came down to visit the world's surface for an evening. The stars above, however, tell different stories all together as they trace their way across the heavens.
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Ancient trees rise up with thick, mossy trunks and create a canopy of dense foliage so thick that it blocks out much of the mid-day sun overhead. After having traveled for some five hours past the ruined tower, the Pathfinders found themselves entering the Kortos Woods which lie on the border of the mountains. Here, where sunlight comes through as dappled swaths of gold across fields of brown pine needles and deadfall, the sounds of buzzing insects and chirping birds fills the air.
Leading the way at a brisk pace for her size, Janira eagerly hope from deadfall log down onto the dead leaves underfoot, using a fallen branch she'd picked up along the way as a walking stick. "So then, with the wooden sword in hand Ulzhan's eyes gleamed. She lowered the sword. "You're a strange man, Bors Kaskyrbai." She said in a firm voice, "But you would have made a fine husband." Swiftly, she stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, then pulled back a few inches to meet his gaze. "Don't come back," she warned with a kindness unexpected."
Janira has been telling this story for the last couple of hours, a tale of intertwined fates and lost loves, the kind of story that gets her starry-eyed and filled with wonder. Though the tale of Horse and Rabbit, as she called it, is an atypical one it is a story that has helped pass the time of long travel afoot.
"Bors laughed. "Don't w—"" Janira stops her story, pausing in mid-stride with a single hand raised at her back to signal the others to stop moving. Quietly, she scans the forest with a single brow raised and lips parted in an expression of uncertainty. Bird calls, the buzzing of cicadas, the occasional snap and pop of distant branches, what else could she hear?
The others hear it too once she stops her storytelling, the sound of splitting wood. It comes from behind the group, and soon the shadow of a tumbling tree comes into view. Rahk leaps back with enough time to allow the tree to come crashing down beside him, hammering the forest floor and kicking up a cloud of dust and old, dried leaves. The sound echoes through the woodlands, sending birds scattering from the branches of higher trees.
But birds are not the only things disturbed by this fallen tree, as a pair of enormous dog-sized insects land from higher trees with a sickening snap-crack of mandibles. These tan, hunch-backed bugs are bulbous beady-eyed, with flickering jaws and long, bent legs that look to carry all of the power of a tightly-wound spring in them.
"Do not fear!" Janira shouts, "prepare to defend yourselves! These predators look agitated!"
<< | | | : Kortos Woods >>
Reacting quickly, Janira scuttles out of the way of the greener Pathfinders, ensuring that she does not interfere too greatly in their Confirmation's challenges. "Remember the strength of Bors of the Horse Tribes, remember that in the face of great adversity he would not back down and instead stand valiantly against all odds! Yours are the stories soon to be told to other Pathfinders on their confirmation! Yours are the stories that will be legends, do not let these pests rob you of that destiny that is within your grasp!"
With her inspiring words said, Janira watched with wide-eyed wariness as the horrible, shelled creatures slowly scuttle closer, chittering and shrieking angrily!
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KNOWLEDGE (NATURE)
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At the appearance of the creatures, Thaddeus's eyes light up in the first genuine excitement of the journey. With a big smile, he gestures toward the insects with his spear.
"Fascinating! Those insects are giant specimens of order Siphonapt... er, FLEAS! I've read that they can leap almost a full acre, and carry all manner of hideous disease with their bite. Those hard shells will hold up against budgeons and piercing weapons, and mind-altering spells have no effect on their primitive brains. Perhaps we could dissect one for further study... presuming we survive, of course."
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Mors - Round 1
Mors’s appreciation for the travel-friendly story (which is doubly appreciable given the name of the male lead) is cut short by the crash of trees and appearance of ridiculously-sized fleas. The man reacts with a surprising quickness given is bulk. His longsword rasps clear of its backsheath as he yanks a dagger free of its home in a reverse grip … all the while stepping between the noisy northern bug and the group.
”Cut ‘em. Got it.” His dark eyes flash over to the heavily-armored tiefling, ”I’ll get on this one, Helgoron.”
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Less talkin' an' more killin' ya plonker!
I'll move around it to get a good flank on the nearest if possible, drawing both glads as I go. (at work and cannot open the map)
I really thought they would move in to attack and not wait...whoops.
Drop into stealth instead
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"I hate things like this. A real plague they can be." With a loud cry he stepped to the side, wrapping his hand tightly around the chain of the dorn-dergar. He slid his grip on the chain with his left hand so that he could wield it at the extent of the chain.
Standing beside Rahk with a bit of space between them, he waited for the flea to approach closer so he could smash it to a pulp.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Mors’s appreciation for Janira's travel-friendly story (which is doubly appreciable given the name of the male lead) is cut short by the crash of trees and appearance of ridiculously-sized fleas. The man reacts with a surprising quickness given is bulk. His longsword rasps clear of its backsheath as he yanks a dagger free of its home in a reverse grip, all the while stepping between the noisy northern bug and the group.
At the appearance of the creatures, Thaddeus's eyes light up in the first genuine excitement of the journey. With a big smile, he gestures toward the insects with his spear.
"Fascinating! Those insects are giant specimens of order Siphonapt—er, FLEAS! I've read that they can leap almost a full acre, and carry all manner of hideous disease with their bite. Those hard shells will hold up against budgeons and piercing weapons, and mind-altering spells have no effect on their primitive brains. Perhaps we could dissect one for further study... presuming we survive, of course."
”Cut ‘em," Mors notes, "Got it.” His dark eyes flash over to the heavily-armored tiefling, ”I’ll get on this one, Helgoron.”
As the shorn-skull thug takes position before him, Thaddeus readies his spear. "Ah, just like that time in Pezzack, eh, Mors?"
"I hate things like this," Falvreav grouses "A real plague they can be." With a loud cry he steps to the side, wrapping his hand tightly around the chain of the dorn-dergar. He slides his grip on the chain with his left hand so that he can wield it at the extent of the chain.
As he moves, Falvreav gives a quick gesture to his leathery companion, and the bipedal creature bounds across the leaves and hops over the fallen tree, landing beside its master with a snap of its jaws and a flick of its sinuous tail. Standing beside Rahk, with a bit of space between them, Falvreav and his beast wait for the flea to approach closer so he can smash it to a pulp.
While the others get into position, Brox moves into cover behind one of the towering trees and presses up against it, shielding himself from one of the fleas' line of sight so as to ambush it.
The two fleas scuttle and shift in the dirt, mandibles clicking and clattering. One crouches down, then springs forward with a sudden burst of speed, validating Thaddeus' claim of their leaping ability. As it charges through the air towards Mors, the broad-shouldered warrior whirls his sword around and slices the creature square in half with a single motion, and the bisected flea lands with wet slaps to the forest floor at his side.
"Yes! Yes!" Janira cheers at the first flea is slain, "Mors! Show these insects who has an endoskeleton here!" The other flea, edging out from behind the large tree it dropped from, hisses loudly and flares chitinous plates on its back to make itself look bigger, getting into position to strike.
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Round 1
Helgoron lumbers forward while retrieving the massive polearm from his back, his eyes burning with inner fire - "These are but vermin" - he comments - "But today is not their day" - he adds decisively, setting his weapon in front of him, ready for a possible incoming charge.
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Rahk's eyes flicker over towards where Mors had, in an instant, drawn a weapon and cut down one of the fleas even before the half-orc had time to consider which spell to cast. The wizard's mouth splits open into a wide grin.
"Heh," Rahk chuckles, "No sense wasting any magical energy on these vermin, then." He removes his crossbow from its sling and affixes a bolt to the lath. The crossbow makes a light clicking sound as he pulls back the lever, drawing the bow taut.
If the flea charges Rahk I'll move to flank and stabbity stab