Only a moment ago, six Pathfinders were standing in the courtyard of the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinder Society with the blessed warmth of Sarenrae shining upon their faces. Half a moment ago a wizard completed his utterances, arcane words that melted away the walls of the Grand Lodge. In the space of the beat of a hummingbird's heart, those walls reformed into docks and the Pathfinders found themselves a thousand miles away, in Nidal.
Now, a light rain falls in the port city of Nisroch, darkening the already dusky sky. The light of Sarenrae's golden orb is dulled by the clouds, and perhaps something more, something that gnaws at the edge of the senses. Its only a passing sensation, though, soon overwhelmed by the quiet murmur of the crowd, the smell of the sea, and sight of plain, gray stone buildings.
People give a start and move back quickly as these six souls appear out of thin air. Most of the crowd disperses with a look of fear and surprise in their eyes, but a legless beggar is braver. He directs them to the Tiboros manner atop a hill.
As the six move down the alleyways they pass pale-skinned, plainly clothed men with fetters around their necks and pupil-less eyes. They may have been Tien, Mwangi or Hallit once, but some dark sorcery has drained all color from their skin. They silently eye the travelers as they past, opening their mouths to hiss with crippled tongues in accusation. They are the Silent Shroud, the monks who enforce the laws of this city. But for all their wordless protest they do not molest the travelers, and the six are free to make their way up to the gates of the Tiboros manner. As they wind their way up the hill, the six finally find a moment to talk, having been hastily gathered by their masters only a short while before.
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Baldwyn shudders in his armour, causing the full plate to clatter against itself for a moment. "If that's teleportation, I'd rather take a run-down cart on a rocky road with a lame draft horse." He runs his fingers through his close-cropped hair, inadvertently accentuating the streak of grey running through it, before readjusting two polearms on his back. His third, a lucerne hammer, he uses as a walking staff. If the Silent Shroud has anything to 'say' about it, he'll reluctantly stow it on his back.
"Baldwyn Doucas, at your service. I'll do what I can to keep you standing. Just don't 'spect me to be all talkative. I talk with force, usually applied to someone's tender bits, hahaha. I wonder if we'll meet any worthy foes to test our mettle..." You get the feeling the 'we' he speaks of may be him and his weaponry as he starts to ponder slightly.
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A tall slim man adjusts his spectacles and pulls his dark cloak around himself to ward off the rain. His companions notice that despite the plain black cloak, he wears a fairly fashionable outfit underneath.
"My name's Baldwin too, sir. Guilford Baldwin, to be precise. Pleased to make your acquaintance. My friends call me Gil, and I'd be happy if all of you did the same. I'm a magic user myself, specializing in the art of transmutation, if that means anything to you. I've got spells for protection, increased power in battle and of course a few spells for striking my enemies."
"Baldwyn, I do hope that you are more than a match for any foes we face, though I swear to do my best to support our efforts in any way that I'm able."
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A young Garundi woman who weighs in at a paltry 4'8" and 112 pounds with standard tanned skin and black hair for the race, the hair braided into a more Mwangi style. She carries some standard travel gear (as well as a shield) on her back. On her belt hang a number of scroll tubes, wands, and a heavy pick with a skull running through the adjoining area. Embedded into the belt are a large number of Onyx stones, held in with leather straps to be removed with only minor fiddling. A nasty-looking bite scar circles her face as if there were a string running through her half-open eyes.
Entirely unable to see the buildings around, Kris is less jilted by the teleportation. "The sun and sounds feel more bleak. This place is more... real... than Absalom. Like an ocean of the foul truths of life. How nostalgic."
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Kris, taking the informational initiative, speaks with the beggar. "Thank you, sir," she notes, removing 5 gold coins. "May you see past the falsehood of misplaces hope."
Rejoining the group for the Baldwin-Baldwyn discussion, Kris interjects. When she speaks she doesn't quite make true eye contact with anyone in particular. "Greetings, though I admit, I am not a Baldwin of any sort. I am Christine Gerntern, but please, call me Kris."
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A Varisian man in his early fifties, wrinkles starting to cover his bald head. He has a large rune tattoed on his forehead, . Many other tattoos cover his body, including another rune on his chest, matched by the medallion he's wearing around the neck. He is with his chest bare, a red varisian scarf around his waist and breeches covering his legs.
Sniffing the air of the shadowy city, the varisian elder grins. I sense... opportunity. This land is ripe with magic. This place is a unique occasion for one not afraid to taint his soul with power. I never fear.
Turning to his new companions, the sorcerer meets the eyes of every one of them, eager to see who will avert his gaze - like a challenge of wills. He doesn't appear to be one to bow or to speak pleasantries.
I am Shandor Arvandru, but most call me "the Beast".
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"Power," Kris responds when given the stare-down, "is hardly ever a taint. Were not men considered 'good' also seen as 'powerful?'" She stares back, but only with half-opened eyes and more into the distance than Shandor's gaze. "History was merely written by the winner, and such victors do not wish to see anyone new rise to power. Thus, they make such soul-damning claims, lest the Fall of Aroden happen again."
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"Pharasma reminds us that all things end. History shows us that those who seek power tend to end messily. Those things whose time has come and gone should be left dead. They can, and should, be remembered, but remembered and wielded are different things."
The broad half-orc looks about their new location. "This place is in decay. It is moving towards an ending. Without such endings, though, there would not be room for new things, new opportunities, and new expressions of life. I am Chuurock bin Ausk, historian of the Society, rememberer of things which have passed, and priest of Pharasma. I hope that we can see things through to their proper ends."
He turns and focuses on Kris. "The documents of history were written by the victor, true. The Society seeks to find the truth, not the propoganda. We do this using the things left behind by all sides. Our employer is not well-served by claims that power defines right."
He seems to ignore the Beast's attempt to establish dominance, which is not the same as accepting it, a difference someone of the Beast's age should recognize, though the youths who normally play those specific dominance games never do.
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"Indeed, to witness all things from every angle is of utmost importance." She looks towards the sky, "Though I find the ideology of all life being a cycle to be a flaw. If an end is needed for a beginning to start, then why can the end of a life be reversed? Wouldn't this cause the new start to peter out? I feel that life is more than just a circle, unless that circle is a Ghoulette wheel; It is purely a game of chance."
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A tall, wiry framed elf with short cropped hair and angular features. He carries two elven curve blades on his back and a longbow strung over his shoulder. He wears mithral mail under his clothing.
Leastrie watches with a slight look of bemusement as the "youngsters" vie for dominance. Giving a stiff bow. "I am called Leastrie. You can call me Leastrie. I would call myself a protector of the knowledge the Society gains. Whether it is knowledge of the winner or the loser, all knowledge is a precious thing." Leastri finishes as he scans the area with his deep violet eyes.
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Gil smiles at Baldwyn's question.
"Why, yes I am old bean. In fact, on a recent assignment inside the Chelaxian embassy I was able to enlarge one of our warriors so that we could defeat a guardian construct."
To the others: "I too enjoy collecting lost knowledge, or perhaps facts if you prefer. As for enlightenment, I continue to find it in the teachings of the Dawnflower. Yes, I am both a wizard and a religious man! In my experience, arcane power is only good so far as it is applied with wisdom. I hope to do the same."
The six walk towards the Tiboros estate as they talk of the intersection of fate, power and knowledge. Soon, the fresh smells of the sea fade away and the streets narrow to a single cart-width. In the narrow alleyways, the sound of boots against the cobblestone echoes loudly off drab-faced stone buildings. From the facades of these stone buildings gruesome gargoyles leer down, standing guard against any imagined trespass.
Eventually the labyrinth of alleyways gives way to more open streets with manor houses behind high-walls. Purple-leafed beech trees poke their heads above the walls in places, and ravens happily caw among the leaves. Guards in house livery patrol the streets, but the streets are mercifully free of the Silent Shroud. You pass a town square where a thin crowd is gathered to watch a loin-clothed man tied to a post being whipped for some unknown crime. The crowd murmurs reverentially as each lash stroke lands. "Praise be to the Midnight Lord..." "May the pain set you free..." There appears to be no end in sight to the lashings.
Passing this spectacle, a half-mile later the band of Pathfinders finds a gate bearing the livery of the Tiboros family. Announcing their presence, they are escorted inside by the guard. The inside of the compound feels like a burst of life compared to the stony streets, with hedges of red roses and lady's mantle flanking the path to the manor house. Once inside the drawing room, the six are seated and brought a beverage of their choosing. Eventually, a tanned, grey-haired man with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed beard walks in. He wears a naval uniform, and on his left hip is strapped a cutlass.
"Greetings, I am Strom Tiboros. Please accept my hospitality." He waves his arm in a sweeping gesture as the servants bring drinks and food in. He makes a bow to Kris, taking some pain to avoid her gaze.
After introductions are made he explains his request. "I am glad my missive to Count Jeggare has not gone unheeded by your society. I know that you do not have many dealings in our lands, but I am glad you are willing to indulge an old man and his worries none-the-less. Our beloved youngest daughter, Anya, was married one year ago to the Lord Stepan Boroi. His family is not of great stature but it was a good marriage for a fourth daughter. His landholdings are substantial and he recently inherited his estate, so his fortunes are bound to rise. Anya wrote to us every week from Karpad and seemed happy. She was with child and due for ephemeral joy of childbirth three weeks ago. Yet since then we have heard nothing, and we worry. Anya always takes great care to write to us, the raven always comes every seven-day."
"I would go investigate the matter myself but my post has recently been under scrutiny. The Umbral Court considers me too progressive, too open with foreigners. Certain elements within the court seek some sign of scandal or weakness to use against me and I cannot afford an absence at this time. I would ask you to investigate the matter, and am willing to give you a sum of 5000 gold sails immediately to discreetly attend to this manner."
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Kris' gaze proves as unreliable as ever, as her half-open lids wander around the room.
"We live to serve the Captains, so to speak." She chuckles and continues, pausing between questions for time to respond . After the briefing, she begins the inquiries. "What else can you tell us of this Karpad and it's current land-owner? Also, your daughter; what does she look like?"
"The Boroi family is an old one; they are known as distant scions of the great generals Dimar and Geron of ancient Nidal. Their branch of the family made their fortune exporting hardwoods from their land, as their lands border the Uskwood. They would float the trees down the river Dimar's Way, and from there down the great Usk and to the shipyards of Nisroch. But Dimar's Way shrank a hundred years ago... perhaps the work of the albino druids of the Uskwood?" He looks around superstitiously as he says the words.
"Now, it is a farming village with some industries of note, including a chandler if my memory serves. They have a decent country temple to the Midnight Lord there; it is where we saw our daughter married."
"Stepan is the third son, so he is lucky to have inherited. His father and his brother all took ill and passed on to the shadowed lands a decade ago; all very tragic. He is a bookish lad, and he occasionally hides in his library when he should be entertaining, but I am still proud to call him my son."
He gestures to a portrait of his daughter on the wall, nestled among others of his family. All of his daughters are skinny and pale looking - at least in the portraits - with dark red hair.
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Guilford eyes the man closely, taking careful stock of his words.
"Sir, it indeed sounds like a most fortuitous match. But does his family, or yours, have any enemies? I've heard that in some nations the peerage are often in conflict with one another. Would your Umbral Court dare go so far as to use your daughter as a tool to ensure your obedience?"
If he lets out an exasperated sigh. "I suppose anything is possible when obedience is desired. However, using my daughter would be quite an extraordinary measures. My political opponents often use drastic measures to make their moves, but they limit themselves to the boundaries of law. Criminal actions in Nidal are dealt with in a manner that is painful... " he pauses to shudder for a moment "...and both creative and prolonged. They are not so foolish as to risk that fate."
He pauses for a minute and strokes his beard.
"There is one other thing of note, I suppose. There is a large population of fetchlings there. Rather odd if you ask me. Pitiable creatures, always lurking around in the shadows. Lord Boroi gives them his protection and allows them gainful employ, only the darkness knows why."
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"Or perhaps just not foolish enough to do it themselves. People with wealth can always buy someone to do something on the down low. For good or ill.
"So these... fetchlings, you say? If they attack us, we can strike back? Or should we try to talk past them?" He says the last bit with a downtrodden tone.
Lord Tiboros looks sourly at the burly fighter.
"If anyone assaults you I would hope you would have the sense and skill to defend yourself. The Fetchlings are certainly subhuman, but I cannot speak to their rights on Boroi's land. You might take the matter up with him."
"If you ask me of the matters of ships or politics, I could tell you a great deal. These fetchlings? I can only tell you they look to be drained of color, and in the evening it is hard to make them out when your eye falls upon them. The same is true of half the creatures that stalk the Uskwood... or the streets of Nisroch at night."
"Are there any more questions? I admit after three daughters married off one does not scrutinize the husband of the fourth perhaps as much as one should. I fear you are reaching the limits of my knowledge regarding Lord Boroi. He is a country lord, after all, and I a navy man."
"If not I can have servants show you to quarters and you may enjoy the splendors of Nidal, such as they are, for the rest of the evening. I would not venture far beyond the markets of the foreign quarter for your own safety. I can return at noon with the agreed upon sum and then will have traveling papers drawn up for your party. You should be able to seek passage at the docks on the morrow, although you may wish to arrange passage today as the ship captains tend to leave at first light."
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"I merely have a few things to purchase, but I believe I am as prepared as possible to enact Captain Jeggare's wishes. Say I were to desire some things of magical nature. How would one of my degraded senses find them?"
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"I will be shopping for magical supplies, as well Kris. I'd be more than happy to assist you in finding what you need. But please, sir, if you could recommend some reliable businesses to us we'd be most grateful. Thank you for your help. I do hope we can discover what has happened quickly and hopefully deliver happy news before long."
"One of my estate guards will escort your party about the city my lady. The Dusk Hall keeps a small store here where they sell the labors of their arcane students, and you may barter with the priests at the Cathedral of Bone for items of of made by the hand of cleric. Given that you are foreigners I believe the clerics there will allow you to pay in gold instead of their usual fee."
The fingers of the Pathfinder Society are long. Even here in Nisroch Guilford is able to find a visiting wizard, Isiem, who owes the pathfinder society a favor. He procures the desired oil of daylight for the transmuter.
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"I understand this is an emotional topic, but I'm afraid it needs to be asked. Is there a family history, in either family, of difficult births? Your daughter could be recuperating from an unusually difficult event, and that would explain her lack of writing, wouldn't it?"
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"I think maybe we should plan on booking passage tonight, and meeting a ship at or before dawn, then, in order to stay on our captain's good side."
He nods towards Chuurock. "No, there is no such history. All my sons and daughters are strong and have born children without incident. They are children of Nisroch; they are strong, they are survivors."
Strom considers for a moment. "Many of foreigners here are Chelish, and they prefer to patronize the club Dusk, if they wish to experience the joys of the Midnight Lord. The more crude go to Red Rodamyre's Burlesque, where they simply torture performers without any hint of reverence. If find all of it a bit barbaric myself; I prefer my services to be private and practical."
"More learned folk may wish to listen to some of our poets; their sonnets can be quite enlightening. If you have any men of medicine among you, you may wish to visit the Morbidium in the cemetary. It is a house of learning which specializes in reshaping the flesh, both living and dead. The Screaming Wall is also an unforgettable visit if you can stomach both it and traveling among the paupers in the south of the city. It is made of the petrified bodies of Desnans. Their cults are always a thorn in the side of the Umbral Court, and that particular cult was rounded up in one of the yearly Culling.."
He turns to Kris. "It is plain to see that you use some sort of magic to overcome your infirmity, but I would wear a hood and perhaps take a carriage around town. If the Silent Shroud become aware of your blindness I am not sure the traveling papers will preserve your safety. Those of Nisroch with a weakness such as yours are usually destroyed."
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"Thank you for the warning. To ride in a carriage was my intent all along. After all, we will be traveling for some time, presumably not in such an area of exotic luxury and learning," she notes, thinking of the Morbidium. "I will have to see their techniques and see if mine still carry into this land."
The excesses of the more morally decrepit among the six that evening are perhaps best left out of any Pathfinder Chronicle. Suffice it to say that the good of heart among the group felt a deep illness of the spirit, while those more enamored of the concepts of power and pain found things that shocked even their blasé tastes. Without a doubt, flesh and suffering are the currencies of choice in Nisroch.
During the stillness of the night, sleep comes only uneasily as the wind moans through stone channels cunningly carved into the largest of the stone buildings that dominate Nisroch. The sound is nothing so much like the moaning of the restless dead.
In the muted light of early dawn, the party meets with one Captain Avon, whom they had booked passage with the night before, a quiet man owning a cargo trow. His Taldane is poor; he speaks with the thick, hissing tongue of one raised on Shadowtongue. Over the course of the next two weeks he says no more then a dozen words as the boat makes its passage up the slow moving, broad Usk. Each night the boat stops, seeking shelter and safety at one of the small riverside inn's that dot the Usk. Still, as the light grows low in the evening skies hackles raise on necks as glowing eyes peer from the forest edge. Avon knows his trade, however, and you are unmolested by beast for the duration of the journey.
The same cannot be said of man. Ships bearing the Silent Shroud signal you to halt often, and to them Avon meekly complies. They come aboard to inspect the vessel for spies and infidels, but the seals of authority on your papers prove to a powerful deterrent against their noiseless violations.
Eventually you find your way past the Uskwood, and Avon allows you to disembark at the beginning of a road he calls "Geron's Way" - a road barely wider then a cart which parallels the sickly flow of the river Dimar's Way. After a day of walking West, you find yourself coming into small vale. A stone manor sits atop a hill overlooking a village with houses of wood and stone and thatched roofs. On the western edge, a large cemetery and stone church can be seen. Across the river you can make out what would appear to be a smaller, mirror village; but it is far smaller and drabber then the main village. Perhaps most noticeable of all is the fact that numerous torches and bonfires are lit all over the village, even though it is yet early in the afternoon.
As you approach the city center you see a sizable crowd gathered. In the center of the square there is a platform erected around a round a tree where three bone-white skinned humanoids stand with loose nooses hanging at the ready around their throats. By the stage a somewhat rotund man with white skin and grey hair paces back and forth, shouting something you cannot quite make out at this distance, although it is certain his words are not friendly. He wears a mace and chainmail, clearly a man of some authority among the peasant crowd.
As you come closer, what you at first took to be a double chin proves to be some tremendous form of goiter. Although there are no skilled healers among the six, the swollen throat looks enormous. Nor is large man the only one; a number of folk in the crowd suffer from a similar affliction.
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In an effort to keep below the suspicions of the Silent Enforcers, Kris expends no onyx from her belt for any more permanent keepsakes.
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Upon the group stopping to see the town center, Kris looks around. "What's going on? I hear loud people, I think." Should they approach within 60 feet of one of these people, Kris thinks about anything she may have seen like this.
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The man bellows again. "...these... THINGS... claim to be farmers. We can tell what they really are! MURDERERS! Yesterday, they took my dear sweet Olga, I am sure of it... to what end I do not now. Maybe my sweet child was murdered for their EVIL SPELLS... or... or... maybe she was sold to NIGHT HAGS a food." At this the crowd howls in an animalistic fury.
"Who knows what these FREAKS have done with her, or your many other friends, husbands, and wives who have vanished these last few weeks! They likely the ones who brought this terrible curse upon us!" He grasps his throat and looks despairingly. At this the crowd cries in fury again.
Coming closer, you make out the three noosed folk; the must be the Fetchlings that Lord Tiboros mentioned earlier. They are dressed in peasant garb, and everyone with sight makes two of them out to be females and third male. One of the females is clearly much younger then the other two.
"Stepan has done nothing to stop these MURDERERS ... if his father were here, he woulda done something. As duly represented Sheriff of this town it is time for me to take action into my own hands!". He stops his pacing and starts moving toward the stage.
The male speaks up in a hoarse voice. "Master Lucian... mercy please! We did not even see your daughter yesterday! Kill me but do not kill my family, I beg you!" At this the older fetchling woman starts crying.
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Nodding agreement with Baldwyn, Chuurock moves forward. "Sheriff? I am confused. I would have thought discovering the truth of what has happened to your loved ones would be more important than simply punishing anyone you can blame. I recognize the appeal of punishing someone. Really, I do. But I find knowing the truth to be better. Surely you wish to know the truth?"
"And by the great darkness who are you? Some sort of orc that thinks he talks reason! I've not seen you around here before, nor the rest of you. Don't you know this town is under quarantine?" You notice that this Lucian has stopped his advance towards the stage momentarily to digest the sudden presence of six outsiders. He eyes your weapon and absent-mindedly hovers his hand over his own mace.
You also notice that with this interruption some thirty odd pairs of eyes have turned to look at you; more then a few simply stare at Chuurock and Shandor, as though looking at something freakish and exotic. A few are have knots in their brows as they consider Chuurocks words.
The Sheriff bellows again, sweat beading on his brow. "The TRUTH is that I know these creatures to be damned by Zon-Kuthon himself, and they've always been nothing but trouble for generations. Everybody knows that they're cursed kids, conceived under a bad moon and with nothing but a rotten heart! Isn't that true?" The words come out in angry fits and starts but most of the crowd murmurs in assent none-the-less.