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Berosius finds a fine linen napkin, reaches into his haversack and withdraws 100 gold coins. He places them in the napkin and hands them to Lady Morilla. ”I don’t give two figs for ‘nobility’ and costs almost nothing to bury someone. It is living without a loved one that is hard. That’s for his poor mother.”
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There are two ways to know about this. (Though, not the exct number.) (1) This scenario portrays many of the same events as the first part of War for the Crown, but from another POV. Someone could find it out there. (2) At the start of this scenario, if you make a Nobility check about Exaltation Day or ask the V-C.
Either way, Kalbio's family is in debt for 1,000 GP to send him here for Exaltation.
Here's the exact text: "The recipient of this year’s exaltation is a simple man from a hamlet called Breezy Creek. He is Kalbio, and his story is one of family sacrifice: his parents accrued considerable debts to educate their son and ensure he had the requisite coin to make the journey to Oppara and secure appropriate attire for the important event."
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Still in Seattle, but wanted to post something. Your characters are "unlocked" if you need to play something else.
I'll be back to a normal schedule on Wed or Thu and should have your chronicles soo thereafter. Thanks, again, everyone!
Because you help Kalbio's family, you get the "Always Welcome in Breezy Creek" boon.
Primary Success Condition--Check!
The PCs’ primary goal in this scenario is to put an end to Earl Calhadion Vernisant. So long as the PCs defeat the earl in combat at the end of the scenario, each PC earns 1 Prestige Point. In addition, each PC earns the Glorymane Resplendent boon.
Secondary Success Conditions -- check!
To fulfill their secondary goals, the PCs must succeed at two of the following four conditions. Doing so earns each PC 1 additional Prestige Point.
• Successfully negotiate with Chamberlain Eckhart to avoid fighting the constructs in area A2 -- Check!
• Retrieve the documents from Calhadion Vernisant’s villa without activating the fail-safe in area A4
• Avoid using an area of effect spell that damages the crowd while battling against Karina Deckland (see Event 2) -- check!
• Fulfill the conditions to earn the Always Welcome in Breezy Creek boon (see Conclusion) -- check!
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Mareq slowly watches the swirl of magic flowing about in the aether, from him to the Lion of Wind and Sky. Unfortunately, the spell granting him magical sight sputters out before Mareq can notice his stein wherein he imprisons his thrall, Husarq. Rapidly sucking in power, it morphs back into the shape of a lamp.
His sight returned to normal, Mareq watches the Lion Blades wrap up the debacle that was the Grand Exaltation. He stares at Berosius as he speaks of Kalbio and the man's family.
"Of course, we shall... shall help... hel..."
Mareq's face drops, as if he can't find the words to speak. His tongue seizes in his mouth, his intellect failing. A bit of drool slips from the corner of Mareq's mouth, dripping to the ground.
"I... Yndri... Warned..."
Inside his little prison, perfidiously shaped like a well-furnished bedroom, Husarq sharpens Al-Saif. The blade's flames, ignited, flicker about Husarq's hands.
He looks about his prison cell, watching the walls glow like magma. He becomes unusually (?) impatient. The efreeti bey (Bey? Yes, he remembers, he was a bey of the City of Brass!) stands and swings his scimitar back and forth.
"Yes. " he says in a growing voice. The walls of his prison drink power from his captor, his upstart, traitorous, bastard, half-human son, Mareck Bolthune. The walls grow molten, molten, ever more molten.
When the stone walls of his cell begin to slump and slag, Husarq al-Shamiri's fanged mouth contorts in a rictus of terrible, otherworldly glee. His eyes slowly brighten with intellect and hate. Woe unto he who is the target of that malicious attention!
He deliberately draws the burning edge of Al-Saif across his chest, his red skin parting and fiery blood oozing forth. With one, two, three strokes, his scimitar carves the bloody Ignan rune for "Thrall" into his bare chest.
he shouts and charges the wall, striking a mighty blow against it with his scimitar! It explodes outward in a blinding light!
Mareq, standing catatonic, drools. A single drip falls upon the lamp at his waist. Ssssssss, it hisses and evaporates into steam.
Suddenly, the lamp EXPLODES in a blast of fire and brimstone! When the smoke clears, standing amidst the lingering flames is Husarq al-Shamiri, his chest bleeding and burning and a frightening grin upon his face.
Small, molten remains of his lamp prison rest in his hand. He looks at them and then at his traitorous son. "No need for this anymore, I think. Hehe," he laughs an unfunny laugh. He squeezes the pieces of lamp and they hiss away into superheated, gaseous brass steam.
His forked tongue licks this red lips as he surveys the carnage that is the Senate room.
"So sorry I missed this bit of fun," he pouts. He looks at Mareq's fellow Pathfinders and then tips his head up to the sky. "What now, friends? What now, o' Master of the Universe?"
His Eminence Husarq al-Shamiri sits his half-breed son down on a broken chair. He pulls Mareq's satchel from him and starts going through it. He looks at each scroll, before throwing each to the ground.
"No. No. Whatever. Maybe. Ah ha! No need for THIS one!" he says, gripping a scroll of Final Sacrifice in his hands until it puff catches fire and burns away to ash.
"I'll take this," he mutters, pulling the cloak from Mareq's insensate shoulders.
"And this," snatching the circling cracks mulberry ioun stone from its orbit about Mareq's head.
He looks carefully at the headband encircling Mareq's brow. "A waste, surely," he says with a small chortle as he wipes the drool from Mareq's mouth. He flicks his finger and the drool lands on Mareq's nose. "Not very alluring now. Or charismatic, eh? We'll have to get something else. I'm sure I can find some fool azer sorcerer who will want this for a few bits of copper."
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"No," says Berosius to Husarq. "Put those down. They're not yours. Whatever your issues with Mareq, you'll have to resolve them when you're both standing up. I'm not going to let you loot our friend."
"Husarq, I've not been pleased with the way Mareq treats you, and I've told him so. I'm even glad you seem to have found your freedom. You've been a good companion in several tight spots. But you don't get to loot Mareq or harm him. Put his things back and we'll see to helping him."
"You know me, Husarq. Please don't push this. I don't want to fight with you. You're my friend, too. If you know what happened to him, tell me, please."
"No," says Berosius to Husarq. "Put those down. They're not yours. Whatever your issues with Mareq, you'll have to resolve them when you're both standing up. I'm not going to let you loot our friend."
"Husarq, I've not been pleased with the way Mareq treats you, and I've told him so. I'm even glad you seem to have found your freedom. You've been a good companion in several tight spots. But you don't get to loot Mareq or harm him. Put his things back and we'll see to helping him."
"You know me, Husarq. Please don't push this. I don't want to fight with you. You're my friend, too. If you know what happened to him, tell me, please."
"Ah, Spirit Talker, I barely remember you from the haze of my thralldom. You are like a dream that I struggle to remember when I awake in my burning bed in Bayt Shamir after a night of too many delights," Husarq says, not unkindly... at first.
"These things, you say?" he gestures to the pile of ash in his hand. "These are nothing to him anymore. But their destruction is delectable to me." He licks his hand, a red, forked tongue slithering through the ash of the scroll of Final Sacrifice. A soft moan of pleasure, quite disturbingly obscene, escapes from the efreeti as he swallows the ash.
"As for my traitorous half-breed bastard... my thrall, he does not need these things in his state."
A look of gleeful, nay malicious, intent flashes across Husarq's face, quickly masked by one of utter sincerity.
"He must be taken care of in this state. He needs me to protect him. And he needs you, too. He needs all those who care about him to help him get through this state. For this, I will need to be my best self, my most puissant, to guard him and protect him. This is why I take his cloak and his magic. Only temporarily, of course." The last is said with saccharine sweetness.
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"No, Husarq. You must give up his things. And you must tell us what is wrong with Mareq. I'm not concerned with your fight with him. But you don't get to pursue that fight, right or wrong, until he is at least awake and aware and able to defend himself. You can stay to watch over him if you will, but I'll take those things now and hold them in trust for him. Your memory isn't so fuzzy that you don't know I can be trusted. Hand them over, please."
The little halfling holds out his hand.
[dice=Sense Motive]1d20+11
"No, Husarq. You must give up his things. And you must tell us what is wrong with Mareq. I'm not concerned with your fight with him. But you don't get to pursue that fight, right or wrong, until he is at least awake and aware and able to defend himself. You can stay to watch over him if you will, but I'll take those things now and hold them in trust for him. Your memory isn't so fuzzy that you don't know I can be trusted. Hand them over, please."
The little halfling holds out his hand.
"Heh heh, Berosius, there is nothing wrong with Mareck Bolthune. He is just my thrall."
Husarq snaps his fingers and gestures at Mareq. The ifrit stands at Husarq's gesture.
"Mareck, thrall, are you OK? Tell Berosius here that you are OK."
Mareq turns to Berosius. "I am OK."
"And I, your Master, should take care of you and take care of your things, which you purchased on my behalf. Since I am better able to protect you by using them." Husarq smiles at Berosius and Mareq.
"My Master is correct. He is better able to take care of me by using these magical items, which I only purchased and retained on his behalf."
Mareq's attitude is somewhat wooden, but betrays a tinge of acceptance. Like somebody who is resigned to a difficult fate.
"We are a team, isn't that right, thrall?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. We are a team."
"What now, oh Pathfinders? Is there another 'evil' Baron to be killed? Better yet, perhaps an entire army of naughty minions who need slaughtering? That would be fun," Husarq opines, smiling nostalgically. "So long since I've bathed in the blood of more than one or two at a time."
"THRALL!" he suddenly shouts at Mareq. "Negotiate! Use your smooth words to arrange another adventure for me!" Husarq waves his hand at Mareq and then turns to the giant swath of blood left by the battle with Calhodion. He approaches and uses his new cloak to sop up some of the blood. "Mmm. Tasty."
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"Perhaps it would be best if we-- you, were to discuss with the local Venture Captain and find a... suitable adventure I could present to my Master," suggests Mareq to Berosius. He eyes dart over his shoulder to Husarq. "I believe he would be... ill-suited to a mundane task such as choosing our next mission and how we <ahem> achieve its objectives."
Mareq, although speaking on his own recognizance now, seems to struggle making his body act smoothly and naturally. His words flow, but his body remains like a marionette who's strings are manipulated by a particularly amateurish puppeteer.
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Oh, my! I guess Husarq will be taking over.
The current game has been reported. Credit should now be associated with your characters.
Chronicle sheets are here. Please let me know if you want anything changed. (I trust you all with your day job rolls.)
What scenario do y'all want to play next? Maybe #9-20: Fury of the Final Blade?
(Apologies for the delay. I don't travel well, and my sleep schedule is still off.)
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PFS #9-20: Fury of the Final Blade
A grim-faced Ambrus Valsin summarily recruits you to this mission, remarking only that “it’s a complicated situation that will take too long to explain. Petulengro will fill you in,” before presenting the gathered PCs to one of the Pathfinder Society’s spellcasters. A few moments later, the PCs watch the Grand Lodge slide away as they are teleported nearly a thousand miles north.
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OK. This mission is important enough and time-sensitive enough that the society teleported you to your destination.
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The village of Rosehaven is the very picture of an idyllic countryside hamlet, its residents going about their business of farming and crafting with peaceful purpose as the sun sinks through the hazy sky. Snippets of conversation and song drift on the breeze mixed among the lowing of cows and chatter of chicken flocks.
“Peaceful, isn’t it? And to think that a few hours’ travel down the river, one of our own is starting an international incident.”
The speaker is a woman dressed for travel, her long red hair bound back into a practical braid and a worn pack slung over one shoulder. She draws a wayfinder from a pocket and smiles wearily. “Pathfinders, welcome, and thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m Venture-Captain Eliza Petulengro. I’m sorry for the strange choice of meeting places. This village is as close as I dare get to Isarn, and we haven’t the time to spare traveling upriver from Woodsedge.”
She gestures to a circle of log benches along one edge of the village square and seats herself, easing her pack to the ground with a sigh. “I’m going to be blunt. A few weeks ago, Colson Maldris kidnapped a troupe of corrupt, high-ranking Andoran citizens and brought them here to Galt. Whatever plan he had in mind backfired, and now they’re all scheduled to be executed tomorrow morning with a final blade—Colson included. Needless to say, Andoran’s government won’t take kindly to either the Pathfinder Society or the Gray Gardeners taking the law into our own hands and interfering with their internal affairs. Moreover, this could set a precedent for the Red Revolution to spread beyond Galt’s borders, which would be a disaster for several nations. So I need you to mount a rescue mission.”
The venture-captain rummages through her pack, pulling out a wrapped parcel, a folded letter, and a handful of vials. “Have some raisin cakes, they were made fresh this morning at the lodge. This is the letter Colson sent me when he realized his plan was falling apart. And Rosehaven’s priest brewed a potion for each of you to shake off the fatigue; I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night. You’re to travel from here to Isarn, find out where the Andoren citizens are being held, and get them out of there. If you can bring Colson with you and it won’t endanger your escape, then do—but the Decemvirate has granted us the latitude to abandon him if necessary to secure the civilians. They’re our top priority. We’ll have a boat at the Isarn docks waiting to get you all to safety. Do you have any questions?”
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I write you out of desperation.
Some weeks ago, I arranged for several of Andoran’s most morally bankrupt elites to be taken to Galt to be tried at the hands of the Gray Gardeners and the Galtan people. I knew I was going above the law of the people, and it galled me to do so. Yet Andoren law had failed the people again and again by allowing them to stay in power, where they would remain unless forcibly removed.
Now, though, it seems I have been betrayed, and the situation has escalated beyond what I am able to solve on my own. Despite our original agreement to provide a trial at the hands of the people and protect the Andorens from Galt’s terrible final blades, the Gray Gardeners have now decided to violate both terms: the captives are scheduled for public and rather permanent execution. I have beseeched my contacts within the Gray Gardeners to stay their plans, but I have so far been ignored, and I fear I am soon to become a target of their justice.
I had hoped to avoid sullying our agents’ reputations with my rash actions, yet events have gone far beyond my ability to predict or control. Corrupt or not, if these Andorens are executed, Andoran may well declare war upon Galt, and I regret that my involvement in the situation means the Pathfinder Society will face terrible reprisals throughout the region. I beg you to send aid—not for my sake, but for the Society, and for all free people whom open war would crush.
My confidante and assistant in this plan has been a colleague named Eylara Deleios. She may be able to provide information and aid to any agents you send. In our days among the Eagle Knights, we spent our off-duty hours in the sophomoric habit of seeking out the cheapest tavern we could find with a bird in its name, and it has been our strategy for finding one another ever since. If you seek her aid, that’s how you will find her.
Most Humbly,
Colson Maldris
"The Colonel again," sighs Berosius, long familiar with Colson Maldris. "He can't leave well enough alone and it seems he increasingly does not trust the People or the law. How can such a good man be so foolish?"
"Good men are always foolish. I believe that is a natural byproduct of being 'good'. Hehehe," chuckles Husarq when he hears Berosius lamenting Madris' actions. "Good. Evil. Two sides of a coin. But the point is not to flip the coin, choosing a side. The point is to OWN the coin."
Husarq laughs again. The Pathfinders are so blind, he thinks. Madris simply watched while my weakling son enslaved me. It served his purpose, so he allowed it to continue. A hypocrite to the core. I wonder if this Venture-Captain Petulengro knew of my captivity? Her blood would look fine burning on the edge of Al-Saif... But then the rest of these fools would need to attack me. Meh. Too tiring. Maybe I can arrange to have Madris killed by one of these final blades and take his soulless head with me as a souvenir? That might be nice.
"Come, let us find Madris. I am amused to aid the abolitionist-hypocrite. Hopefully the nearest bird-themed brewhouse will have something stouter than the swill Golarion calls ale."
He turns to Mareq. "Thrall! Use your smooth tongue to find us the appropriate ale house. And stop falling simpering, you weakling."
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Kelson frowns "Husarq...he is NO hypocrite! He has long put the cause of freedom at the front of his work in the Pathfinder society. The way yiu treat your thrall, I see why you aren't so happy about his work"
Eliza Petulengro: "Moral proclivities of these individuals aside, if the Gray Gardeners execute high-ranking Andoren citizens, they’re going to start a war between Andoren and Galt. More, it gives the Gray Gardeners an opening to continue taking their own form of ‘justice’ into other countries, which could destabilize Taldor and any number of other places. Worse, since it’s one of our own who started this, it would tarnish the Pathfinder Society’s reputation with nearly every organized government in the Inner Sea region. We could lose access to entire nations."
Kelson frowns "Husarq...he is NO hypocrite! He has long put the cause of freedom at the front of his work in the Pathfinder society. The way yiu treat your thrall, I see why you aren't so happy about his work"
Husarq looks at Kelson. Is that anger in his eyes, or some weird sort of humor? So hard to tell with an efreeti.
"I have a joke. A riddle, actually. 'What do you call an abolitionist who condones the enslavement of an efreeti?'"
Husarq waits a moment, before delivery the punchline: "Colson Madris."
"You all seem to have some moral quandary, here. As if slavery was bad. It isn't. I don't have a philosophical quandary with Colson Madris, or any of his cronies, for allowing slavery where it suits them, or for kidnapping government officials and spiriting them away to another country to be killed."
He pulls Al-Saif from its sheath and draws it across his forearm, drawing blood which quickly blooms with fire.
"I have a personal issue with Madris and his ilk: my enslavement. Being blown up. Being killed. Being tortured. Being eaten alive. Being slashed to pieces by demons. Being the barrier between my weakling son and his rightful death. And then being resurrected the next day. To. Do. It. All. Over. Again."
Husarq licks the burning blood from his arm, before cutting his other arm and watching the fiery blood drip to the ground. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Have you died, Kelson the Bard? I have. Many times. Oh sooo many many times." He turns his eyes on Mareq, who begins to quake at the insanity shining in Husarq's eyes. Full blown, murderous insanity.
"Slavery isn't wrong. I have owned slaves. I own one NOW. I will own thousands when I regain my place in the City of Brass. I just don't like BEING the slave. The time-honored response to that personal issue, to your own enslavement is simple: revenge for past servitude and strength to prevent more."
He smiles at Mareq and says, " I will punish any who attempt to make a thrall of me." Mareq shrinks from the smile, appearing even more frail than previously. It is as if the smile is siphoning strength from the ifrit with each second. As Mareq shrinks, his efreeti father's eyes regain their sanity.
"Come, my weakling bastard. Let us proceed. Some foolish mortals require saving. I can only hope there is blood to spilled along the way. Heh. Otherwise, why bother?"
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His logic is crazed. Something wrong with his mental faculties, thinks Mareq to himself. Perhaps I shouldn't have allowed him to be killed so many times. Obviously, death has done something to him.
The ifrit summoner is utterly oblivious to the irony, not remembering his own bouts of insanity where Husarq was concerned.