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You are summoned to Skyreach, the great five towered fortress that is the heart of the Pathfinder Society, and can been seen for miles around, one of the greatest landmarks of the great city of Absalom. From here the Decemvirate rules and make its rare pronouncements beneath the enchanted skylights of the Great Hall in the central tower, and both resident and visiting Pathfinders sequester themselves in cozy lounges to study, socialize, and plot future missions.
Venture-Captain Alissa Moldreserva, a fiery red-headed woman who climbed from the depths of Galtan revolution to become one of the Society’s finest (and most well-connected) Venture-Captains, stands in the great meeting hall. She stares down her hawkish nose and sighs.
"I ask for the best and they send me you. Lucky me. The Society’s best contact in Osirion, Grand Ambassador Dremdhet Salhar, informed me this morning that his lovely Chelish wife, the Lady Anilah Salhar, was kidnapped and sold into slavery." She shakes her head as her cheeks tint the color of her hair. “Normally, I wouldn’t care a bulette’s eyeball about who was or was not enslaved in Absalom, but Salhar is the Society’s best avenue for acquiring all of the necessary official paperwork to make our frequent delves into the tombs of Osirion, cheap and legal. This is a relationship we want to preserve and since the Ambassador made it clear that our status is in jeopardy, I’ve been instructed to send our best agents to find her and return her safely to Salhar."
She looks over the party again. "I guess you’ll do," She says with a sigh. "Salhar hasn’t sat idle since his wife was taken—his own agents are prowling the streets and dug up one possible lead. A one-eyed Andoren, a grit junky named Fredrik, is known for selling or helping to sell nobility into foreign markets that desire house slaves. Being enormously illegal, this trade makes Fredrik a fair bit of coin that Salhar’s agents assure me all go straight into the pockets of the Second Chance, a grit den dockside in Puddles. That’s all I have to get you started. Go quickly. The fate of our Osirian exploits is in your hands.”
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Returned by a night of fun at the Docks ("fun" that involved seducing an all too willing maiden, pummelling her enraged fiancee unconscious, running away from the aforementioned maiden and a mob composed by the families of the "happy couple", furious because Rogar would not allow a man to beat a woman, narrowly escaping, and then drinking himself to stupor), little did Rogar expect to find himself summoned at Skyreach, just a couple of day after dealing with that nasty Necropolis business. Normally the taldan would have been overjoyed to be chosen for a mission, as it meant he was finally making a name for himself. After such a night he wasn't so sure though... his head did REALLY hurt, he felt mildly sick in the stomach, and the Venture Captain attitude wasn't helping:"Look who got out of bed from the wrong side... And everyone knows slavery is an abomination! Something suited for the likes of the Quadirans! In Taldor we never praticed such an abominable trade! It's why civilized people have serfs, after all!"
All things considered if the night had been positively nightmarish the upcoming day had the potential to turn into hell on earth... Now, he could just walk away now and spare himself the pain... and probably say goodbye to any hope of a successful career in the Pathfinder's Society.
With something between a sigh and a yawn, Rogar resolved himself to endure the day and succeed once more.
"Now... if only this headache was to disappear I could concentrate on finding these vile kidnappers and teach them how us Taldans treat those who can't respect women... Mmmmh maybe this mission HAS something to look forward to, after all..."
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Unused to being the second most fair maiden in teh room, Alafair is a bit non-plussed when the Galtan Venture Captain made her entrance. "Blasted revolutionaries, also have to out do their betters." she thought testily.
Looking at her countryman and sometimes companion, she whispered under her breath to Rogar: "Looks like you have a an interesting evening. You look (and smell) very much like that ghast we saw in the Necropolis last week. I'm sure there's a broken heart in this story somewhere..."
Turning her attention to the briefing by the pretty lady, she wonders about who would buy noblewomen on the slave market, it's not as if they were experts at hard work or anything, perhaps they had other comforts in mind...
Having toured the city several times, Alafair considers what she knows of this grit tavern, The Second Chance or any rumors or stories she's heard of the slave trade of Absalom.
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Alafair relays to the group that grit is an expensive drug that has caused alarm in Absalom in recent years for the lengths its addicts will go to get the coin to feed their habits. Few grit addicts live long. She also recalls that slavery is legal in Absalom, but selling nobles into slavery certainly is not, typically slaves are brought in from other places or taken from the condemned, criminals, or debtors.
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Suddenly realizing Alfair is going to be part of the team, Rogar morale falls further:"Perfect... with everything going on all I needed was a proper Taldan lady witnessing my conditions... Cayden! Why do you hate me so much? All I wanted was some innocent fun!!!".
With all of his strength of will Rogar smiles at Alfair (something akin a grimace actually) and bows his head:"Lady Alfair... always a pleasure! No broken hearts... some broken bones, maybe... but don't worry I'll be fine momentarily"
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Thovar stands to the side, absentmindedly fiddling with a plain wooden key on a leather strap that normally hangs around his neck. His brows furrow at the mention of slavery. "Harrumph!" he exclaims when the Venture-Captain finishes with the briefing, "no wonder you asked for a priest of Abadar! The Master of the First Vault looks kindly upon those who engage in trade... but not this sort of trade!" He turns to the others and gives a curt nod. "We should be off as soon as possible. Unless you need more rest, sir...?" he eyes Rogar up and down, assessing the man's state of inebriation.
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The group head out making there way through the thronging streets of Absalom to the dilapidated, flooded district now ubiquitously as Puddles. The Second Chance, looks like Rock Bottom would have been a more appropriate name, it is a run-down one room tavern-turned-grit-den located dockside, shouts and crashes can be heard from within. With little else to be done they decide to head in.
Inside dimly lit by cheap oil lamps sputtering on the walls by painted-over windows, the Second Chance reeks of unwashed humanity and pungent ash. Threads of sickly sweet smoke drift like smog from tin hookahs. Ale kegs lurk in each corner, and cheap clay mugs hang from nails on the walls.
The place seems to have erupted in an all out brawl as you enter. By the bar a thick scowling Kelshite grips a bloody scimitar in one fist blocking one of the den's rear doors. At his feet lies a fresh corpse, blood slowly seeping into the floorboards from the dead man's slashed form,
"One rule! No weapons! Do not make me explain again!" The Keleshite bellows furiously, brandishing his scimitar as he says the word "explain".
In the centre of the room standing atop a rickety table a skinny one-eyed wretch in tattered clothing is frantically kicking out at several drug addled thugs trying to pull him down.
The Keleshite watches on brandishing his scimitar threateningly, but not moving to engage anyone.
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As it becomes clear the party is heading for the puddles Rogar moans:"Wonderful, the one district I could live without seeing today... well, this AND the docks of course...".
Entering the den of iniquity known as the Second Chance (not quite Rogar kind of place, despite his ways) Rogar scoffs:"A brawl! Just what I needed! Nothing beats breaking heads to help you clear YOUR head!"
So saying the taldan advances towards the thugs sieging the small fellow on the table, swinging at the one on his right.
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Having exchanged pleasantries, Thovar walks with the others to the Second Chance. Uncharacteristically of a dwarf, he manages to keep pace with his longer-legged companions.
...and we arrive just in time, it seems! he thinks to himself as they interrupt the brawl.
"If you want to sell the boy off, you'll have to get through us! This is your only chance to surrender--you won't get a second one!"
He hefts his hammer menacingly at the thugs.
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As soon as Tromos throws his bomb, the swarthy thickset Kelshite roars and moves forward with his scimitar, and putting two fingers in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle,
"Get him Slobber!"
Tromos's bomb sends the addict to the floor covered in a thin layer of frost, literally out cold. In his drug addled state the thug Alafair targets barely seems to react to the bright light.
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The addicts surge at Rogar bellowing, two snatching up crude clubs from within their filthy garb. Three of the wild blows do nothing, but one man's fist connects with Rogar's jaw.
The dog, Slobber, shoots forward at his master's command and launches himself at Tromos sinking his teeth into the elf's thigh and tearing away a bloody hunk of flesh as he tries to drag the alchemist from his feet. But Tromos is able to rip himself away.
The furious scimitar wielding Keleshite advances darting around Thovar with astounding nimbleness and then slashing out at the dwarf, but cutting only empty air.
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The elf half-shouts, half-shrieks as the hound leaps forward and tears at his leg.
"Get away, beast!" he shouts, leaping back.
Glancing about the tavern, the alchemist determines that despite Slobber's taste for elf thighs, the thugs surrounding the man on the table pose the greater threat. He draws another chambered flask at whips it toward the floor between two of the brawlers.
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Tromos downs one of the thugs assailing Rogar, the other stays standing.
Slobber continues to follow his master's last command and advances upon Tromos again sinking his teeth into the alchemist again, and tearing away with more blood and flesh as he attempts to drag the elf down.
The two remaining grit thugs, addled beyond sense or reason swing at Rogar with their crude clubs. One manages to hit, but the blow glances of the Taldan's armour, the other is closer to injuring himself than his foe.
Rogar's fist downs another foe, just connecting, but more than enough to finish off another grit addict.
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Tromos groans, trying to divert his thoughts away from the missing hunks of his thigh and toward the healing wand hidden up his sleeve.
The sooner we put down the rest of these mongrels, he decides, the sooner I can mend these wounds.
Drawing an arrow, he steps to the side to gain a clearer view of the surviving thug. The power and reach of the longbow would likely be overkill in these close quarters, Tromos knows, but with the gushing woulds in his leg, he isn't concerned with taking prisoners.
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Lia skewers the last thug, though Fredrik is certainly no help, and he collapses. Victorious the party are left with only Fredrik, though there are a large number of less aggressive addicts sprawled around in varying states of delerium.
Seeing the last thug downed Fredrik makes a frnatic break for the door, cackling to himself, but trips over a chair and lands sprawling at Rogar and Alafair's feet staring up with his single remaining eye.
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Pull him to his feet, Rogar!. This man has some explaining to do. Let's take him outside where we don't have to worry about this riff-raff." she inclines her head at the other addicts.
Once outside, Alafair gets in the face of the grit addict.
"Tell us what you know of the sale of the Lady Salhar to slavery. It is well known you deal in slaves, and while it is not against the law, selling noblewomen is!. Unless you want a whole heap of trouble on you, speak about her whereabouts. You will tell us, one way or another. So make it easy, and spill."
She motions for the others to make their most threatening stances to aid in her Intimidate.
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Fredrik his eyes wide with intoxication, his teeth a tragedy in dental form, gives a woozily smug grin and says,
"Hey, I got paids to kidnaps her! It was a sweetheart deal, oh my yes! Fredrik grabs some snotty Lady and Fredrik gets paid! Fobbed her off to Pardu Pildapush, ahahahaha, at 'is office in the Pits. 'Nough gold for a whole week o' grit! Hahahahaha! Wow, Lady you're somekind of pretty! Come on boys we can sell her! I'll split it with you we'll all be rich!"
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Gritting his teeth at the man's comments, Thovar nonetheless maintains a calm demeanor and says, "listen here, man, where you're going when we report you to the city guards for abduction, there won't be any grit. But, if you cooperate with us, we might be able to make sure you get help with your condition. Take my meaning? Now tell us, who is this Pardu Pildapush and where can we find his office?"
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Alafair, having no knowledge of the Pits, looks to aid the diplomatic carrot offered by the Abadarian cleric.
"You think I'm pretty eh? Well we could certainly spend some more time together, if you wanted to tell a little more about this Pildapush and The Pits. Is he the man who put you up to the kidnapping of the Lady?"
Alafair uses her womanly charms on the man to assist in her effort to get information, but he clearly sees through her charade as she wrinkles her nose in disgust if she gets to close to him.
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Lia and Tromos both recall that the Pits, must mean Absalom's Misery Row, the elevated street which is the only place in Absalom it is legal to sell slaves, the Pits being sunk into the street below to hold the unfortunate merchandise.
Virtually ignoring your words in his haze Fredrik attempts a new tack, "Hey Elmo's got a strongbox behind the bar! All the money from a days grit sales, I'll share it with you!"
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"You'll share with us..." Rogar almost chokes on his words hearing the fool making such an arrogant proposal:"listen, idiot... stay silent and you might possibly survive a couple of days more, keep this up and I think someone here will put you out of your misery..." finishes the Taldan with a slap on the man's head.