The sun is hot and high above when you arrive in Sothis, in the nation of Osirion. Your throats are dry and your skin red by the time you step into the cool shadows of the Pathfinder Lodge and avail yourselves of a drink of cool water from a covered urn just inside the door. As soon as you are refreshed, a man in simple white clothes bows to you.
"Honored Pathfinders, I am Manka. I serve the Pathfinders of this Lodge and will show you to your accommodations. However, Venture-Captain Balentiir has requested you be shown to his office as soon as you arrive. If you will please follow me?" He leads up through the hall and up a stone stair to the second floor, where an open office awaits. Inside two men await. One of them is a younger blond man, Ulfen of blood by his look, who stands near the open window and fans himself with a piece of parchment. The other one is an older man, Osirion by his look, and wearing a large puffy hat of local origin and embroidered robes. He sits, looking somewhat amused and calmer than the blond man. Manka clears his throat, bows and announces, "Venture Captain Balentiir, your guests have arrived."
Balentiir smiles, but it's a tight and rushed look. "Excellent, on time. Come in and have a seat. Now, who did the Decemvirate see fit to send me?"
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The beefy dwarf saunters into the room, his long dark beard wet with the remnants of the water he had just been guzzling. He wasn't a fan of this oppressive heat, but it beat that last sea voyage he took, that's for sure. His Greatsword was the most impressive thing about him at first glance. A holy symbol of Gorum flopped on a chain around his neck, a sure indicator he knew how to use that sword.
"Call me Hagrym! Pleasure to meet'cha. If you have anything you need chopped, I'm just the fella for ya. Can't help wondering, have anything stronger than that water out there?"
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An older man, with weathered skin, his hair and long, flowing mustaches both solid white, bows.
"Sir Quinton Eirador, of Castle Hill and Little Scurry, at your service, my good man, at your service. What have you for us? Another trip down to Holomog? I've not been there in quite some time. Lovely lady I met there the one time, and I'd quite like to see her again. I'm sure she remembers me."
Couple whippersnappers here, looks like. Still, if it's a chance for another trip south, I suppose I could use some company. That short one has a lovely beard.
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"Kurvast of Shiikirri-Quah was I born," announces a long, sinewy human as he lowers a cup from his mouth. Dark green ink crosses his otherwise bare scalp in claw-like shapes. "When I walked the Cinderlands, they called me Soles Like Iron."
He does ill to hide the smile that splinters across his face, the opportunity to speak his tribal honorific being perhaps his favorite piece of meeting new faces. He turns to the other occupants.
"Be received, Manka, Hagrym, Karos, and Sir Quinton."
After a moment of watching you banter, Balentiir shutters off the windows in his second-story office overlooking the lodge’s tranquil gardens and seats himself behind his writing desk. He nods and introduces a thin, aging Garundi man in an ornately bejeweled and feathered turban. “This is Amenopheus, the Sapphire Sage. I trust most of you know of him already. If you don’t, know that he has served both the Ruby Prince and the Pathfinder Society for many years, uncovering vast troves of lore from Ancient Osirion and mentoring some of our finest agents. He recently approached my colleagues and me with a request for assistance, and the Society has agreed to step up and aid its ally. The arrangement is, in fact, rather mutually beneficial.” He nods to Amenopheus, signaling the elder man to speak. “Faithful servants of the past, I bid you greetings,” the wizened sage says with a shallow bow. “Our esteemed ruler, the Ruby Prince, recently released me from his service, which has freed me to learn more about a little-known organization to which I belong: the Jeweled Sages, protectors of Osirion’s history and chroniclers of its past glories. Quite by accident, I found myself initiated into this group, and have long believed myself to be its sole surviving member. Each sage in the group possesses a unique jewel—a priceless artifact that contains memories of Osirion’s golden age.” He pauses as if considering how to express his thoughts “For many years, I have sought news of any other members of the Jeweled Sages. My agents recently learned of the Diamond Sage, whom they traced to the city of Eto in the Osirian Desert. At the same time, I received word from a reliable source that several other jewels in the vicinity. I ask that you travel to Eto, negotiate with my contact in the city for his assistance, and then use what you learn to find the Diamond Sage and these lost jewels.”
Venture-Captain Balentiir frowns and adds, “This contact has tried to remain anonymous, but we suspect he is none other than Grandmaster
Torch. If you’ve heard of him—or worse, met him—you may know trading favors is his signature. Regardless of Torch’s past treacheries, we need you to deal with him fairly for the information. There is a caravan leaving for Eto in a few hours, so don’t delay.”
"Any questions?"
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Sir Quinton thinks for a moment.
"Ah, yes, memories and stories are indeed great treasures. In fact, there was one time I started to tell a story and the noble I was traveling with was so concerned about its secrets getting out that he paid me not to tell it. That was quite a situation. It's why I like to say that in Druma, a man's word can be worth a fortune.
"But this Diamond Sage? You wish us to bring him back or are we simply supposed to take his jewel? Can you tell us anything more of him or her?"
Amenopheus smiles at this story. "I wish you to find the Diamond Sage; when you have, this will allow you to contact me." He pulls a fist sized spherical rock from his robe's pocket and suddenly cracks it on the chair arm. It splits into two hemispheres, revealing a geode. He hands one of the halves to you, Quinton. "If you find one of the jewels of my order or the person known as the Diamond Sage, I ask that you contact me. Concentrate on the stone and speak a message of a few dozen words. I will hear you and respond with further instructions. It will only work once, so keep it safe."
Venture-Captain Balentiir sighs heavily. “The man is a charming devil to be sure. He always plays one side of a deal against the other, and usually ends up ahead. You’ll recognize him by his burn scars. He suffered some injury that never seems to heal. Whatever you do, never fully trust him.”
Amenopheus nods at this. "My sources tell me he is staying at the House of the White Uraeus, a fancy inn that caters to those in need of healing and rest."
Amenopheus says, “No, he will be expecting you. Remind him of the favor still owed to me for past assistance in his grand endeavor. He will know what you mean.”
Venture Captain Balentiir claps his hands. "Alright, if there's nothing else, you have a caravan to meet. You should be able to make it to the caravanserai if you hurry. Get to Eto, meet Torch and get that information. And be quick about it!" He begins gesturing you out of the office.
The caravan is mounting up when you arrive at the location the Venture Captain has given you. You take your places and the long train of camels, wagons and men take off into the desert. The travel is mostly uneventful, though a sandstorm threatens you on the evening of the second day.
The immense rock walls that ring Eto rise from the horizon like a shimmering mirage that gradually sharpens into focus. The city sits inside an elevated crater with sheer, weathered sides broken only in two places by heavily guarded gates. Long lines of caravans wait in a meandering queue awaiting entrance as officials search their cargos for contraband and calculate taxes. Water sellers, food vendors, and guides march up and down the lines peddling their wares and services to the visitors. Beyond the gates, the main thoroughfares fan out around the various districts of the city before dwindling into the dozens of pathways that flow through the bazaar like the delta of the great River Sphinx.
As your caravan approaches the officials, you are shunted into a line where a Gurundi man with greying beard and a weary bored look waits. "State your names and business, travelers."
The man's eyes narrow. "And where are you from and where are you bound, oh Hargrym who is seeking respite at the Inn of the White Uraeus?"
The man smiles at the bow. "My, my, my. I'm blessed by nobility, am I? And where are you going, SIR Quinton?"
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"Where am I going? I'm afraid I've got no specific destination, but rather am being blown on the desert winds, like a leaf. Though I suppose leaves are rarely actually blown on desert winds, as there are so few plants in the desert. Except cactuses. But of course cactuses don't have leaves, as they say, except for those strange marsh cactuses you hear about sometimes in Ustalav. Did you know those things are actually intelligent? I once ran into one on the border with Numeria, that said it was fleeing for fear of being turned into a were-cactus!"
The aged knight stops for a moment to take a breath as he speaks with completely sincerity.
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Rekgar bows.
"Peace with you. I am Rekgar Boulderstep. Dwarven monk of Torag. I have come to this city seeking someone or someone I hope who help me in my search. I know not the length of the task but should you have any suggestions. This one would be glad to know of it." Rekgar's voice is smooth and a rich baritone. His bronze skin tanned from the desert sun. He bows once more and waits for the reply.
The official smiles. "Well now, seekers of truth, are we? And itinerants? Well, not the first ones to blow into Eto, I suppose. I am Mahu of Eto, friend Boulderstep. I know this town well enough; what do you seek? As for the rest of you, I will need to inspect your belongings for contraband. Please open your packs for inspection."
Mahu riffles through your belongings, making noncommittal noises, until he pulls forth the geode. "Hmmm..." he murmurs while he looks at it closely. "This appears to be of Osirian origin. Trafficking in artifacts and items of ancient Osirion is a very serious crime. How did you come by it?"
Mahu's eyes narrow. "A gift? My my my. And did this companion of yours have a name?"
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"A name? I'm sure he did. But ... I'm afraid I can't think of it at the moment. How odd. I'm afraid I've lost some of my memories, I had a dreadful run-in with this walking dead and ..." Sir Quinton shudders.
Despite the lack of conviction as he begins the speech, oddly his voice seems to grow more firm toward the end, as if that part weren't made up simply to fool a guard.
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"Ha! Be not bashful, Sir Quinton," Kurvast roars, stepping forward to clap his companion on the back.
"A run in he had, and dreadful it was, from the state we found him in the next morning," the tribalist explains to the guard. "He drew the attentions of a Sothan woman at the inn of our last lodging, and her claws were like that of your sphinx."
"This rock, she gave him as a token. He keeps it, the noble man, but you see how the memory cows his gaze. I am sorry for the tale, Sir Quinton, but our man drew it out." Kurvast shrugs at the guard, his face a well of sympathy.
Mahu tries to fight a grin, but he can't do it so well. "Very well, I know too well the women of Sothis myself! Had to visit the temple of Sarenrae to relieve myself of that particular malady! Alright my good Sir, here's your memento back. Best to avoid Sothis for a time; those women have long memories!" He hands the geode back to Quinton. "Alright, you're in order. Is there someplace I can point you to?"
"Well, if healing's what you seek, the House of the White Uraeus is what you need. It's just past the fountains there..." Mahu points out the route to the White Uraeus. "Very well, safe journeys to you, my friends and I wish you luck in your seekings!"
Finding the White Uraeus with Mahu's directions proves quite easy. It's a lovely two-story white washed structure in one of Eto's more upscale districts. The sign shows a snake with two "necks" that branch off, each with its own head.
Inside is well-appointed, and a rather out-of-place half-orc is the only occupant you see in the lobby. He looks you up and down, then grunts and says, "Pathfinders?"
"Huh. Follow me." the half-orc grunts and beckons you to follow. Although its exterior is unassuming, the interior of the White Uraeus is richly decorated with panels of gold-veined marble and bubbling fountains in secluded courtyards. Cool breezes carry the scent of blooming desert flowers throughout the clean halls. Two half-orcs keep watch outside one set of closed doors. After a moment inspecting the visitors, they pull open the doors to reveal a tiled bathing chamber beyond.
“Welcome to Eto, Pathfinders,” rasps Grandmaster Torch as he lounges in a steaming tub. “I didn’t imagine we would meet again under such heart-warming circumstances, yet the White Uraeus certainly knows how to make a traveler comfortable. What can a humble secret monger such as I do for you?” he asks as he leans forward in the tub and flashes a knowing smile.
Torch's eyes light up. "So the old sage has told you who you're dealing with! Hmph, perhaps he treats common agents better than the Decemvirate. Did the old man tell you what the costs were?"