[PFS] GM Granta's The Wounded Wisp (#6-10) (Inactive)

Game Master Granta

Dot here.

dot

Dotting.

"Scuse me fellers." Says a guy in a wizard get up carrying a saddle. He looks so grizzled that he might well be from the Elemental Plane of Rawhide and Jerky. Rain patters off his wide-brimmed pointy hat soothingly as he approaches the fourth wall. "You know where can a feller find hisself a descent sarsaparilla in this big ol' town?"

Lightning strikes and he looks up to the turbulent skies over Absalom.
His old eyes grow misty under the hat like he's looking back through time and space and he says.

"Ya know that reminds me o somethin. Way out west there was this fella... fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Geoffree le Bouescki. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Mr. le Bouescki, he called himself "The Dude". Now, "Dude" - that's a name no one would self-apply where I come from. But then there was a lot about the Dude that didn't make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise. But then again, maybe that's why I found the place so darned interestin'. They call Magnimar the "City of Monuments." Like a graveyard. I didn't find it to be that, exactly. Too noisy and cutthroat. I'll allow there are some nice folks there. 'Course I can't say I've seen Multhune, and I ain't never been to Nirmathas. And I ain't never seen no Queen Domina in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I'll tell you what - after seeing Magnimar, and this here story I'm about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin' every bit as stupefyin' as you'd see in any of them other outside planes. And in Common, too. So I can die with a smile on my face, without feelin' like the gods gypped me. Now this here story I'm about to unfold took place back in the early 4700s - just about the time of our conflict with Karzoog and them stoner giants. I only mention it because sometimes there's a man... I won't say a hero, 'cause, what's a hero? But sometimes, there's a man. And I'm talkin' about the Dude here. Sometimes, there's a man, well, he's the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that's the Dude, in Magnimar. And even if he's a lazy man - and the Dude was most certainly that. Quite possibly the laziest in Varisia, which would place him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide. But sometimes there's a man, sometimes, there's a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought here. But... aw, hells. I've done introduced him enough. He's right over there. Ya'll should say 'hi' er somethin'. You might hit it off. I need to get me to a drink. This stuff is suede you know."

... That's my dot, and I'm sticking to it.

"F~+!! What hells did I just step in?"

If anyone is still looking, the old man with the saddle pauses, and shakes his head before rounding the corner out of sight.

An aging, grey haired, wrinkled elf with a third eye in the middle of her forehead wanders in, holding a compass in one hand, and a frying pan in the other.

"Oh dear!" she exclaims, looking at the compass. "I think I'm late! My souffle could be ruined! Now, what was I going to cook in this?" She looks in her frying pan, as if trying to remember. She shrugs, puts down the pan, and starts pulling food out of a saddle pack on her mule to put in the pan, humming gently to herself.

From her behavior, it's not obvious whether or not she's even noticed that anyone else is here.

A large pale skinned man approaches, his hair gone grey far too soon, splashes over his broad shoulders. He's dressed in a simple grey robe with a backpack and a greatsword sheathed across his back in a black scabbard. Other armnaments of battle can be seen hanging from his frame, including a morningstar and a pouch of javelins, as he strides towards the group. A silver chain necklace hangs down behind his robes.

"I am Mort" He says in a measured and deep voice. "Its been willed for me to aid you in this... endeavor." He says as he looks between the addled old woman and the small unkempt man. "By the looks you'll be needing it." He then stands ominously waiting for the others.

Noranti looks at Mort, and tells him, "You're so pale! Almost like a drow, but without the pointy ears."

"You need something to eat", she declares, without waiting for any sort of response. Reaching into her saddle pack again, she pulls out something and holds it out to him. "Here, have one of these muffins I baked this morning. A young man like you needs to keep up your strength."

Who doesn't like muffins?

Mort comes over and retrieves the muffins. "Its true, it takes many meals to stay full. I gained this pale skin and hair years ago. The hot summer sun does me no favors thanks to it. But some day it won't matter..." He trails off and as he takes down a muffin.

Tamriel leans back, taking everything in. Hmm, this wait is nothing compared to what I endured while following the rangers back home, but I was under the impression that this world moved faster than that. Well, I'll call it a learning experience.

....the small unkempt man.

The Dude is actually quite a sizeable (Jeff Bridges-scale) man prone to man-splaying, in his open front robe, short colorful pants, and hemp sandals--all of which look as though he slept in them the night before.

"Man! Will you look at this?" Says the man who seems to be a mix of unwashed laundry and hair. He's standing on one hairy leg, with one hand on a nearby wall for balance. His other leg is bent parallel to the ground so that he can see the underside of his sandal. "I mean f*#*in' a man, people gotta learn to curb their horses! Or carry a sack or something! Just look at that s&#&, man! They were almost new, too!"

After a moment or two's work with a stick, he straightens up and says: "Oh hey! I'm Dude."

"In life's long journey, you eventually learn to look where you step. Here, have a muffin." Noranti tosses a muffin that almost goes over Dude's head.

All three of her eyes glance down at Dude's sandal. "And that didn't come from a horse. People ride such interesting mounts here in Absalom!"

She then turns to face Tamriel, seemingly forgetting the previous conversation. "Are you from Jinin? You don't look like you're from Jinin. Maybe Kyonin or somewhere closer to this part of the world."

"In life's long journey, you eventually learn to look where you step. Here, have a muffin." Noranti tosses a muffin that almost goes over Dude's head.

All three of her eyes glance down at Dude's sandal. "And that didn't come from a horse. People ride such interesting mounts here in Absalom!"

"You don't think it dangerous do you?" He says though a mouthful of muffin, looking at his stick.

Ya I suppose Jeff is a big fella. I guess I made an assumption based on physical stats, that and I didn't know how else to describe him.

Mort mostly watches the group interact, almost like he's studying their habits, that and eats muffins.

At least you didn't just realize he wasn't a dwarf (I blame the beard)

"Actually, I believe that is rather poisonous if exposed too long, I'd burn the clothes if I were you," Despite implying there is no immediate danger, Tamriel stays well away from the soiled clothes.

sense motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6

"Holy s!#&, man!" The Dude starts to disrobe. "Here man, hold these." He hands Tamriel his robe, and soiled stick. Then the dirty over-tunic, then his....

Mort sighs. "Just be sure to do it downwind. We don't want the smoke spoiling the souffle." He looks to the old woman in hopes to jog her memory.

"I said long term exposure! You have plenty of time to find some privacy!" Tamriel cries, mortified, as he refuses to take the clothes.

Completely ignoring most of what's going on around her, Noranti's attention is grabbed by the mention of food.

"Souffle? Would you like me to make one? I don't think I'll have time, if we're supposed to leave soon. Though I think I may have left one in the oven back at the Lodge..." she trails off, a worried expression on her face.

Mort expression doesn't really change, but he does sigh once more "I guess something quick would do... a handful of fried eggs or bacon would do for now."

I'm kind of offended (not really) by the fact that you thought he should be rolling Sense Motive there.

"Did nobody else see... You know what, the fewer people who know about this, the better," Tamriel says, now as exasperated as he is mortified.

"Don't contaminate me with your physical insecurities, man. We're all naked underneath it all." He says shaking the bundle at Tamriel.

"Contaminate you?! Physical insecurities?! You're lucky I'm not one of the Kyonian rangers or you would be tasting my blades right now!" Tamriel is getting angry now, if it isn't obvious.

That aside, that was an awesome statement.

This is going to be fun :-D

As you approach the appointed meeting place, a hooded, hunched beggar bumps into The Dude and starts to pat him down, "Have you any wine to spare? Come now, share and share alike!"

A moment later, the figure doffs his hood and you realize this senile face must be Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng, "Sorry about that. I always like to play a little joke on agents when I stumble across them during my jaunts into town. Now, why did I summon you fine folk here . . .?"

Dreng scratches himself in several places before continuing, "Ah, yes, the Wounded Wisp! I'm undercover now and can't stray far from here, so I need someone to retrieve a bottle of wine for me from that fine, fine establishment. It's one of Absalom's most storied taverns, you know, and one that holds a special place in the hearts and lore of the Pathfinder Society."

"The bartender is a woman named Heryn Gale, a fine, fine lady who inherited the Wisp after her father passed away from--oh, bah, I'm going to break my cover giving you a history lesson! If you could just go to the Wisp and tell Heryn you're there to pick up my bottle of wine, it would be most appreciated. I'll be around here for several hours at least, but try to hurry," then he stares at The Dude for a bit, "And don't open that bottle without me!"

I'm just going to assume you had forgotten that The Dude never put his clothes back on until later in your post...

"Wait, he called us here for wine?!" Tamriel sighs. "Let's get going then, shall we?"

The enormous, baby-faced half-orc seems amused by the Dude abiding. He twirls his Lucerne hammer in one hand as he walks along the streets of Absalom.

He stands agape at the bizarre introduction from Dreng. "What kind of wine is it?" Not that Krudenk knows anything about wine.

"Eyes up here man. And not everything has to be about the Pathfinder Society. We could just go bowling when you're off."

The Dude shakes the rain from his hair, takes a deep breath, and transitions into a strange, vaguely martial arts, dance pose. "You gotta learn to be present."

After a long minute the Dude wrings his clothes out, and puts them back on.

Mort rolls his eyes at the mention of a hunt for wine. "Sending us to a bar for some wine.. If you insist." This calling is most absurd.

Mort mutters under his breath as they head towards the bar "The world's going to end and he's worried about his favorite wine... drunkard."

"Ah, Captain Dreng, so nice to see you again! Do you want something to eat with your wine? I could whip you up a nice..." Noranti looks around and notices that her companions are already wandering away.

"Well, I'll just see what type of wine it is and improvise something. See you later!" She says as she strolls after the others, and starts to hurry to keep up.

You find the Wounded Wisp easily, and walk into a busy common room. Only one employee is visible, a woman standing behind the bar. "Welcome to the Wisp. What can I get for you?"

Upon hearing your mission, she introduces herself as Heryn Gale and asks if you've heard all the fuss about Sir Reinhart of Kenabres, the Mendevian crusader who plans on attempting the Test of the Starstone.

This bears the feeling of a pass phrase. I hope someone else knows the proper response.

Noranti wanders into the Wounded Wisp and looks around the place, seemingly forgetting why she's there. Her three eyes look over the various patrons, while letting her allies talk to the bartender.

Mort moves along with the group on the way to the Wisp, staying silent for the most part, eyes moving back and forth throughout the group, always watching, always judging.

Upon arrival he heads into the bar with the group, taking a quick look around before heading to speak with the lone bar tender. "We're here as errand boys for a Drunkard's favorite wine... Dreng's his name." He looks her up and down, trying to get a feel for her.

Study target, then sense motive.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 4 + 1 = 18

You find the Wounded Wisp easily, and walk into a busy common room. Only one employee is visible, a woman standing behind the bar. "Welcome to the Wisp. What can I get for you?"

"Yeah, I'll have the house special, and the complimentary peanuts, and if you've got it fried kale. Anybody got a light?"

Upon hearing your mission, she introduces herself as Heryn Gale and asks if you've heard all the fuss about Sir Reinhart of Kenabres, the Mendevian crusader who plans on attempting the Test of the Starstone.

"What's the odds on this guy? Is he like the real deal--all stigmata and stuff?"

You find the Wounded Wisp easily, and walk into a busy common room. Only one employee is visible, a woman standing behind the bar. "Welcome to the Wisp. What can I get for you?"

"Yeah, I'll have the house special, and the complimentary peanuts, and if you've got it fried kale. Anybody got a light?" He says pulling out a dry, hand-rolled cigar.

Upon hearing your mission, she introduces herself as Heryn Gale and asks if you've heard all the fuss about Sir Reinhart of Kenabres, the Mendevian crusader who plans on attempting the Test of the Starstone.

"What's the odds on this guy? Is he like the real deal--all stigmata and stuff?"

"Ah, you must mean Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. I can't leave the bar until my other girl get here, but drinks are on the house while you wait," Heryn pours everybody a tankard of house ale and hands The Dude some matches and an ashtray, "Why don't you mingle with some of the other Pathfinders until I'm ready?"

As you look around the room, most of the tables give the sense of private groups, but four do seem open to interruptions.

The first is a halfling animatedly telling stories from the Pathfinder Chronicles to a group of young men and women. The second is a middle-aged man with a holy symbol of Sarenrae round his neck. His eyes constantly scan the room, and he nods to several of you when your eyes meet. The third is a pair of half-orcs who have already challenged several people to drinking contests since you got here. Alas, nobody seems interested in accepting their offer. The fourth is a scholarly looking old man who hasn't looked up from the book he's reading since you arrived. His table is covered in books, but curiously, there is a book-free space in front of every chair at the table.

Heryn points to the half-orcs and tells The Dude, "Those two can give you all the gossip on Sir Reinhart."

Krudenk approaches the old scholar. "Do you mind if I use your chair while I wait for a bit?" He sits quietly for a few beats and then says, "What's that you're reading?"

Mort accepts the ale, raises a toast to the barkeep and takes a drink, washing down the last of the muffin stuck in his teeth. "That hits the spot, thanks." He takes another drink and sets the mug down and leans in to speak more with Heryn. "Venture-Captain you say. He's not the serious type it would seem." He shakes his head absentmindedly.

"Watch out this old woman doesn't end up back in your kitchen, she's not all there, but at least her muffins are decent. Top me off if you would, I'll go have a chat with these orcs, I don't know much about this Test." He nods in thanks and heads over to the orcs.

Orcs

Mort strides over to the pair of orcs, standing tall and making his presence known as he eyes them up before introducing himself. "I'm Mort, Heryn says you two are up on this Reinhart and some sort of test he's about to attempt." He takes a look at their beer mugs and hollers back to the bar. "These orcs look thirsty, someone grab some more ale."

Tamriel eyes the beer disdainfully. "You would not happen to have any decent elvish wine, would you?" he asks the woman. "I've yet to find any to match that of my homeland."

"Elvish wine?" Noranti eyes Tamriel. "You don't look like a pure breed. Why so snobby? You remind me of those samurai who drove me out of Jinin."

Yup, she's a very chaotic elf from the lawful good elven nation in Tian Xia.

She takes one of the offered beers and takes a sip. "Oh, this is good stuff. Would go well with the chowder I made earlier."

1d4: 1d4 ⇒ 4
Noranti follows Krudenk to the scholarly looking man with all the books. "Hello, young man. Read any interesting books lately?"

Yargos smiles at Krudenk and Noranti, "Keeping Dead Languages Alive: An Etymological Historiography of Ancient Osiriani by Razmani Ptolemy. He makes a rather persuasive argument about the ways in which Ancient Osiriani was expressively superior to our modern language, and details several ways in which we could import limited components of the ancient dialect into its descendant. He argues that this would increase the power of the language, thus improving Osiriani poetry, fiction, scholarship--really everything about Osirian life. Listen to me! What about yourselves, are you familiar with Razmani's work?"

. . .

The male half-orc speaks first, "Garl Boartusk. Nice to meet you, Mort. This is my sister, Shrade. Keep buying those drinks and she could be your wife!" Shrade punches Garl in the face, rocking his head hard enough to audibly crack his neck. "Don't listen to this drunk fool. I'm not giving up adventuring for no man. I might give up other things though, for the right man!"

"Sir Reinhart, huh?" Garl continues, "Shrade's sweet on the knight, thinks he might make it. I think she just likes his shiny armor. Me? I say he's going to ride that huge stallion straight down the chasm, make himself one of those failed martyrs. Never understood why they built a shrine for failed gods. That make any sense to you, Mort?"

. . .

Heryn snorts at Tamriel, "Not for free, I don't. But you got the gold, I've got a Lirgen Shiraz from 4605--that's the last year ever. They got wiped out before the next season."

. . .

"Ah, you must mean Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. I can't leave the bar until my other girl get here, but drinks are on the house while you wait," Heryn pours everybody a tankard of house ale and hands The Dude some matches and an ashtray, "Why don't you mingle with some of the other Pathfinders until I'm ready?"

The Dude sighs heavily. "F%&@. Seriously. You too? I mean it's not like every little thing in the whole world is tied to the Pathfinder Society. I mean I could say 'cow' and the first words out of Dreng would be about the f%%#ing Pathfinder Society. You folks gotta loosen up, or you'll go paranoid, and the next thing you know you'll be seeing conspiracies everywhere. It's not healthy man. That's how cults start." He takes a long drag of his cigar and blows it out in puff of white smoke. "Hey, are those complimentary pretzels?"

Linguistics: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (18) + 9 = 27

"I've heard of Razmani's work, yes. But I don't really study dead languages much myself. I prefer talking to people who can talk back. I've never been to Osirion. I've lived in Tian Xia most of my life, originally from Jinin."

"Sir Reinhart, huh?" Garl continues, "Shrade's sweet on the knight, thinks he might make it. I think she just likes his shiny armor. Me? I say he's going to ride that huge stallion straight down the chasm, make himself one of those failed martyrs. Never understood why they built a shrine for failed gods. That make any sense to you, Mort?"

Mort takes another slug of ale and listens attentively to the siblings, even raising an eyebrow at Shrade's comment. But he keeps his thoughts to himself until the knight is brought up. "Everyone wants to be remembered, in this life or the next. The shrine encourages people to try... their names etched in stone for all to see." He takes another sip of beer and plays with his chain necklace absentmindedly "Or maybe they're just looking for a way out. A way to avoid the end of times. Maybe it'll work... but not likely."

"Hmmm... I'll pass, I've heard of that stuff, it's more potent than I'd like for a mission, even one such as this."

"A rather morbid sentiment," Tamriel says, going over to Mort and the half-orcs. "But you may have a point, I'm almost certain you do about the first part. On Sir Reinhart, I somehow feel trying to ride a horse you aren't in some way bonded to into such as trial may well be the death of him. The trial is designed to push the mightiest of heroes to their limits, a mundane horse could not be relied on."

"We will see, perhaps a God is born this day or perhaps a stoneworker takes home an extra gold piece for the Knight's efforts. I wonder if the steed gets etched a place in history." Mort finishes his ale and lightly sets down his mug. "When is the attempt? It would be worth watching, I'm sure these trials aren't common."

"From the way the rangers back in Kyonin talked of human recklessness, you'd think such trials were a daily affair. I've learned that many of their teachings were in error in such regards."

Krudenk listens to his elders discussing ideas and people and things he has never heard of before. He nods along, acting like he understands. "Yes, I believe I've heard that before too."

Heryn smiles at The Dude and pats his hand atop the bar, "I understand. I'm sure you just haven't had your chance yet, but don't worry. I know you'll prove your worth first chance you get, and be confirmed as a Pathfinder. The way you feel is perfectly normal . . . and yes, the pretzels are complimentary."

. . .

"Tian Xia? I've never been that far. Please, please. Tell me about Jinin. How long ago was your country formed? Was it a revolution, a colonization or something else? Yargos leans toward Noranti, almost tipping over his glass of wine.

. . .

Garl hefts his axe, "This is the only thing a warrior should be remembered for, fighting enemies. That silly god stuff is for meddlers and magicians. Say, that's a big sword. You ever swing aa good axe instead?"

. . .

Shrade laughs at Tamriel's comment, "Have you seen the chasm? It's 30 feet wide! No horse is charging across that gap without powerful magic. I'm sure Sir Reinhart rides a magical beast."

. . .

Seeing Krudenk off to the side, Garl thrusts a flagon of ale into each of his hands, "Drink up, friend! I find it helps most things. And the few it doesn't, this does!" Garl lifts an axe above his head and spins it around with one hand.

"I've trained with axes yes, but I prefer the feel of the great sword for now. I enjoy the sharp edge on both sides, it makes for a more consistent cut. I also find it inspires fear in an opponent on the battlefield. Only an experienced warrior wields a large sword, but a simple farmer can be found swinging an axe." He then adds after a moment "Not that you are a farmer with that weapon handling, nor is your sister a housewife. When the end of days come, no one will be remembered." With that he gets up and heads to the bar for more ales.