Smoke and merriment fills the air of the Pathfinder Lodge today. There are excited mutterings about a group returned from Riddleport - having recently solved the murder of a certain elven ambassador. Discussions still continue with the Mordant Spire Elves regarding the opening of the ancient ruins of Azlant.
Though a rather boisterous half-orc is currently off exploring his roots, some of the very same group of pathfinders have decided to meet here at this lodge on this day to reminisce.
The taproom is full and crowded, but a watchful person would catch a glimpse of a familiar feline tail swaying to and fro as drinks appear swiftly and gracefully in front of the Lodge's patrons. A reserved table sits off to the side somewhat, but still near enough to the bar and kitchens. The sign on the table, written in alluring catlike scrawl, reads:
Cyrus the Flea, Party of Six
|Cyrus the Flea|
"What's going on around here?"
'I hope that Trask character I've heard of doesn't show up here... he's a real bastard!'
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus saunters over to the table, smiling ear to ear when he sees the note, and in particular, the handwriting.
I hope Sirena isn't working tonight as well, otherwise my head may explode...
He sits down at the table, flinging a gold coin in the area with the markings of the Mordant Spire, one of many little collectables he brought back from the long trip, and catching it again. He looks around at the patrons and the ambiance of the place, smiling at the niche he has grown into.
I better be careful to not let all of this success go to my head... wait, what am I talking about, why wouldn't I? Might help the ladies not notice how awkward I am...
"Hey, Cutie! How are you doing tonight?" the voluptuous Varisian asks, as she slinks her way over to Cyrus and Gunari. "Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me!"
Sorry... couldn't help myself!
"Gunari ... it has been a while. I trust all is ... well with you? Still drinking too much. Yes I see, ... wonderful. Cyrus, please do the a favor and spy on the kitchen. Please tell me it is not the ... infernal dwarf cooking. I could really use a decent... meal. One that includes ... vegetables. It seems the pirates ate like they ... smelled. Often and always. Ahhh, Sirena. Glass of Chelish red if you wouldn't mind. One from the stock that Sheeba...pulls from."
Finarin produces another silken rag from his sleeve, wipes down the chair, and proceeds to swap stories with Gunari.
Sheeba growls at Sirena, "Find your own table, Sirena, or I'll carve the directions to one on your back," she says in a low, even voice. The catwoman pops a claw from the end of her index finger as if to say "think I wont? try me".
Sheeba smiles at the assembled trio, "Sheeba's special Chelish red for Lord Moonstep," she purrs, with none of the condescension present when others refer to Finarin as "Lord", "And may I interest you boys in some Essence of Razmir from the Isle of Terror? We're practically giving it away for 3 silver a shot. I don't know, it kills one halfling and all of a sudden no-one wants it anymore..."
"Ha, Amaranti was wrong. Better in Absalom than weeks at sea. Gunari, good to see beer-priest again!" the Garundi greets and falls to a chair.
"Sheeba, pretty, bring me ale! And food! Not fish, food! No more fish, ever."
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus' head begins to spin as both his worst fear and greatest excitement comes true when the two ladies meet at the table.
Oh great, so either these two are going to fight over me, or I am doing to do something stupid and make them both lose any interest they may have had... Maybe I should have a few extra drinks... He thinks, his palms now sweaty and face slightly flushed with anxiety.
"Its a W*a*nd," His heart sinks when his voice cracks, annoyed at himself, "a wand, *ahem*, but I am happy to see youuuuu Sheeba, hello! H*i*!"
Two cracks in one sentence? You are in trouble...
"Umm... I'll take whatever you have to offer Sheeba, Essence sounds like an interesting adventure."
Plus the side affect of death might just be ok...
He furtively glances between the two alluring and seductive women, unsure what to do, or what might happen next.
Totally going to play this up selfishly like Cyrus is the only reason for all the attention, he is oblivious to the possibilities of seductive waitresses working harder for tips, as well as the possibility that they might actually be 'interested' in someone else...
"And like Amaranti here, please no food that lives in the sea... I have had enough fish for a lifetime as well..."
|Ibid. Oxley Abel|
"Hello, big man," says Sheeba to Amaranti, "Tall dark and... so well muscled. You won't back down from an Essence of Razmir will you? Is that Ibid I hear tapping underneath the table? I'll make that four."
Sheeba turns slowly, glaring at Sirena as she does so, and then pushes past the human waitress. Sirena jumps forwards a little in shock shortly afterwards. The assembled are sure they caught a glimpse of Sheeba whipping her workmate in the rear.
|Cyrus the Flea|
Hrmm... I couldn't tell if Sirena enjoyed that or not... "Interesting..."
"Ahem! Aaahh... So, Finarin and Amaranti! So nice to be off that crazy oversized bath toy right? If I don't see another night on a ship in this lifetime, it will be too soon."
Then in a lower voice, "So, if Sirena keeps stopping by, you think there will be a cat fi.... never mind. Too easy."
Cyrus can't help but chuckle to himself at his own terrible joke.
"Nothing to get all excited about, Sheeba" Sirena says, big smile on her face. She walks behind Cyrus, letting her hand linger on his shoulder, "I would never deign to infringe on your tips, dear." Cyrus noticeably shivers as she drags it across the back of his neck.
She leans down next to Cyrus's shoulder, giving the rest of the table a rather pleasant view, "I am sure we could find something more entertaining than that"
With that, the sultry Varisian leaves the table with a wink and a sway.
"Essence of what? Killed a halfling? We'll they aren't always the strongest folk, so I am sure I am safe. A round for the table, my dear!"
Gunari turns to Finarin, "It isn't too much until you can't see straight... and then you just aim for the orc in the middle! Ha ha ha!!" Gunari is obviously impressed by his own joke. "Took you all long enough to get back! Five months? Must have been quite the adventure! You HAVE to tell me what happened!" He leans back, considers putting his feet up on the table, until he notices Sheeba "innocently" picking her teeth with an extended claw, and thinks the better of it.
"Me, I was doing GLORIOUS things! Worked in an orphanage for a while. Amazing things that kids pick up these days. Well, that ended when the matron caught me giving the little rascals some of Cayden's finest. What an old bat! Why, where I grew up, my blessed mother would give me a little brandy every night, just so I could go to sleep."
He looks around the table, gauging his audience, and continues anyway. "From there, I was supposed to be sent on a mission, but, unfortunately, I missed the boat on that one. Quite literally... the boat sailed at first light, and as you can imagine, I was not on it... because no one in their right mind would be up at first light. Well, from there I got reprimanded, and our esteemed Venture Captain Valsin had me work as a TA for the Master of Scrolls for a while...."
"Who killed a Halfling, eh?" Miro chuckles as he walks into the bar. "The Halfling was the only one who played it safe on our last adventure, as I recall, Cyrus!"
Sheeba brings around a tray of little one ounce glasses filled with Essence of Razmir. She turns her nose up at the overpowering aroma of what you hope is alcohol.
To the surprise of everyone here, Sheeba chants some words of magic and the glasses burst into flame, "Drrrink up boys, but be quick - otherrrwise all the fun will be gone, and it will just searrr yourrr lips." None of the assembled companions are quite sure why Sheeba resumes her alluring purring now that Sirena out of earshot. Perhaps it is coincidence.
Make me a DC 12 fortitude save if you drink, please.
Fort Save: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20
Miro tosses back the flaming liquid nearly at once, wincing as the drink burns it's way down. He grins as he slams the glass down, face flushed, a clear challenge to the others.
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus nearly falls over at the overt flirting of Sirena, his words stuck in his throat. He is snapped from his trance at Miro's words,
"Huh? I... yea, I'm not entirely sure if I got carried away, or if I was just having too much fun..."
Eyeing the alluring feline and voluptuous varisian, Cyrus isn't quite sure what to do. His head spins with possibilities, all likely to end up in flames, much like the drink he quickly pours down his throat.
Fort Save: 1d20 ⇒ 15
Wonder what I need to do to get another look at that cleavage... Do cats have cll.... uahaa.... Claws? Of course they have claws, why wouldn't they? What am I thinking? What a dumb question. This Essence really kicks in fast!
Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Good thing I caught that one when I did, that could have been ugly...
The wiley Sheeba, alas, misses nothing. She leans in close, but from behind. Unlike Sirena, she lets her warm breath, deep voice and Cyrus' imagination do the flirting for her.
"Why yes, we do have cll... 'claws'," she purrs in an almost impossibly deep voice, "But it's not likely a little man like you would be able to find one... even if I everrr let you trrry."
"Really gentlemen? Last time we ... overindulged, I believe we had an ... enlarged, enraged half-orc to deal with. I guess this lot will never . learn." Finarin pushed his shot glass to Amaranti, eying him warily.
"So Gunari, it was quite the adventure between Lort and Cyrus ... losing their armor, and Ibid and I were almost cooked by ... the cook. Haha." Finarin glances at his companions to see if they caught his attempt at humor. "Miro and Amaranti came in the ... nick of time to save us. I am just glad to drink ... proper wine again after so long. Truly Sheeba, I am ... blessed to have you take such great care of me"
Finarin raises the glass, swirls the deep-red liquid around the goblet, watching the legs slowly drip down the glass. He inhales deeply, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Yes that's the ... one' He places a gold coin on the table for Sheeba.
"I don't know about you gentlemen, but I'm ready for a brief respite, myself. Being on board a ship for weeks with nobody around but you fellows and a bunch of surly crewmates, well, besides for Azuretta, anyway, made for quite a long, boring trip. Then all that fuss at the end really was quite tiring." He motions to Sheeba for another of the flaming drinks, grin on his face. "As a matter of fact, I aim to get rested up before any other adventures, and I can think of no other rest-enhancer. Bottoms up!" He tosses another of the drinks down.
Fort: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13
Gunari chuckles, and quickly downs his drink.
Fort: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19
He then notices that Finarin hasn't touched his, 'Silly noble-y elf. Doesn't know how to have a good time!' He asks, "You gonna drink that?" as he grabs it, and pounds it down as well. Fort: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (4) + 5 = 9 (oops!)
Gunari immediately feels hammered. It is an unusual feeling for the warpriest of Cayden Cailean, but for the next 1d10 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4 minutes he is unable to articulate himself clearly or refuse another drink of... anything.
Sheeba picks up the gold coin, deliberately brushing up against Finarin as she does so, "Why thank you, Lorrrd Moonstep. Therrre arrre so many ways I can take carrre of someone as rrrefined as yourrrself," she purrs. The sultry catwoman stands, her tail casually stroking Finarin's arm as she addresses the others, "Well done, boys. Rrround two?"
In his stupor, Gunari can only nod. But nod he does!
Miro has already slopped down round 2, but nods at the frisky feline waitress anyway. It was time to relax and celebrate before they were sent off to work again.
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus crinkles his nose as the cat-woman lavishes attention on the elf, and unconsciously scans the room for the varisian.
Don't get jealous dummy, she keeps toying with you anyways... toying with all of us actually. Both of them are toying with all of us... Tips! They sure are good at it... Just enjoy it!
Cyrus shakes his head and the smile returns to his face, and he slips a gold coin onto the table as Sheeba returns with the second shot.
As the buzz turns into a fuzz in his brain, he can't help but slip back into thoughts about the recent voyage the group made.
"I still can't believe I scared those aquatic elves as much as I did. Come to think of it, I still can't believe I actually said all those things, and was that convincing!"
Wonder why that was so easy... I wonder if I should worry about why that was so easy...
"I'm just glad I didn't have to make good on the threat." He says, shaking his head, his vision sloshing every so slightly as he does. Yea, glad I didn't have to find out if there was any truth to the last bit about enjoying it...
EDIT: "To the rest and relaxation in between the adventures!" He says, lifting his glass to the table. His eyes scan the room again for the sultry barmaids, "And to the sights that bring life to weary hearts." He says again, winking at Sirena and Sheeba in turn.
Sheeba returns Cyrus' wink as she returns with a fresh round of six flaming Essence of Rezmir shots.
Once the tray is on the table, she places a hand on Cyrus' chest, parting his shirt to do so. She rubs it gently for a moment. A claw pops out to prick him ever so slightly, drawing a small bead of blood. Without a word, she smiles slyly and slides away into the crowd.
Fort saves are now DC 13 for those who have had 1 shot, 14 for those who have had 2.
Miro takes it, flames still dancing, and tosses the third one back. Things went well in threes, was the prevalent saying, so he'd stop after this one. He already had a nice, fiery sensation in his belly, and a nice, buzzy sensation in his head. One more would put him in just the right spot.
Fort Save Let's go 3 for 3!: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10
For the next 1d10 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4 minutes Miro is unable to articulate himself clearly or refuse another drink of... anything. Gunari can understand him perfectly, however, and Miro can likewise understand the formerly incoherent warpriest.
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus jumps at the scratch to his chest, with a smile that he isn't sure is from the drink or the tease.
"Thats not exactly the clea...aawww I had in mind..." He squeaks out.
His head spinning, he quickly dumps the flaming drink down his throat and cringes a bit as he swallows hard.
Fort Save: 1d20 ⇒ 16
"To da dunken herosh! he says, as he downs another.
fort save: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18 The room is definitely spinning, but Gunari is having a wonderful time!
"Hey... she... she cut you! If I could shee schtraight, I would heal you... but maybe i would casht da wrong schpell?"
"Ah gentlemen. I guess since Lort is ... resting. Cheers my friends."
Ever so slightly relaxing, the elf quickly downs the shot, followed by an obscene amount of coughing and spurting.
Fort: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (12) + 4 = 16
Finarin's cough sprays a fine mist of the potent drink out towards the table. It actually lights up on some of the residual flames in his glass, giving the effect of Lord Moonstep breathing fire.
Some may say that this is something that is far too cool not to be attempted again on purpose.
Others may instead say that curiosity killed the halfling.
For sure re-up resistance train, and guidance on Hamilton before proceeding, if we decide to go in
|Cyrus the Flea|
"Ooohhhh...." Cyrus says as he sees the fiery display.
Am I buzzed enough to try that? Wait... would it matter?
With a crooked smile on his face, Cyrus eagerly waves Sheeba over to ask for another round.
"Finarin, if that was your magic you just did that with, please don't tell me. It will ruin the fun to see if I can do it myself..."
After a moment's pause, he adds, "Yes Finarin, Lort is off exploring his roots, and the view is far to spectacular to not relax and enjoy the evening, especially after that trip we just had. Amaranti, does Kaisharga drink? I think she deserves one after that excursion as well..."
I need to get a few of these in Ibid, I wonder what else the old man would tell me about pops...
|Ibid. Oxley Abel|
Outside the pathfinder lodge, the old man stands pulling the collar of his jacket to shield his neck from the breeze. Through the panes of the dust covered window, the cheerful sounds of merrymaking, music, and the warm inviting light of multiple fires find their way to senses of the old man. He stands for a moment, his eyes straining to see through the grime covered glass, watching his companions and the feline matron, and their awe at the once proper and straight-laced elf breathing fire.
With one hand Ibid pulls off his old, weatherworn hat and gently wipes his brow with the sleeve of the jacket, recalling his long hidden confessions to the young Cyrus, knowing they would be utterly detrimental to their friendship. Luckily, in the confusion following the storm at sea, their investigation, and the attack of the traitorous first mate and cleric of Besmara, the young rogue and old man had not spoken.
I can't bear to face any more of Cyrus' questions for a while.
Replacing his hat and straightening its brim by sliding his finder along its length, the old man turned a walked off down the street as the heartfelt laughter and jests his companions gradually faded into a heavy silence.
Another round of flaming beverages appears on the table, but Sheeba is nowhere to be seen. A furtive scan around the taproom reveals the sly catwoman slinking away back towards the bar. Keen observers may note a patch of burnt fur on her lower back that wasn't there before... well, before the shipment of Essence of Razmir arrived.
Aww crud - posted on wrong thread Sorry - the drink made me have multiple identities.
Thousands of miles away, some time ago...
A freezing wind blows through the beard and long hair of the half-orc. He breaths deeply, the spittle at the edges of his mouth briefly becoming frosted before the massive warrior's body heat warms it to liquid once more. "This is where I belong, says Lort to no-one in particular. After weeks of walking and climbing, solitude and no small amount of altitude sickness, Lort has taken to saying his thoughts out loud.
The view from the mountaintop is spectacular. This particular mountain range ran right across the north of Varisia, separating it from the Lands of the Linnorm kings. Sure, Lort could have traveled by sea, but Kurgess was keeping up his end of the bargain. Overland was a much better way to go, even if it did involve climbing mountain after mountain. A collection of varisian furs and the pelts of beasts he caught himself keeps Lort warm (and smelling incredibly ripe). Many predators thought to claim this rot-covered half-orc, but the did so to their peril. "More furs to add to my warmth," Lort thought at the beginning of each battle. Truth be told, he wasn't enjoying the cold as much as he had expected. His Ulfen blood did indeed need refreshing.
Just a few hundred miles more and Lort would reach Jol, the home of his grandfather Jort the Insane. Heart swelling in anticipation, the half-orc puts one foot in front of the other then repeats the process. "Come on, there must be some kind of creature out here to put the warmth of battle in my veins, a fresh meal in my belly and some extra skins to my cloak."
|Cyrus the Flea|
Where is that old man anyways? No way he gets away from my next set of questions... He has to turn up sometime.
Cyrus says, for once not scanning the room for the curvy and sultry waitresses, instead looking out the darkened windows. The light from the fires inside the room spilling out overpowers any light coming in from the outside, creating what appears to simply be black squares along the wall, instead of a visual portal to the outside. It doesn't look like he could see anything if someone was standing right next to the window.
Unable to contain himself, he turns to his companions at the table, subconsciously trusting them perhaps more than he might have only a year ago, a side effect of the trials they have already gone through together.
The question comes out of nowhere for those sitting at the table, but the train of thought in Cyrus' busy mind is uninterrupted. "Why would they bring the mine down on purpose?" He says to those gathered, yet no one in particular. "Don't get me wrong, I still don't think anyone should have been trying to dig into that tomb anyways. That was before the society got involved with Osirion, at least from what I have gathered. But what purpose would they have to bring it down? It just doesn't make sense. And if they were doing it on purpose, why did Ibid make it out, and my dad didn't? You would think if they were doing it on purpose, they would have had an escape plan. Why was he still in there when it came down?"
The young rogue's train of thought slows to a halt as he sees the next round of drinks coming out, and the fuzz in his head readjusts to focus on the flaming drink, and the ball of fire he hoped to create.
Miro giggles as the next round of flaming drinks arrives. He was hoping to spew fire like his companions, and tries to as best he can when he tosses his drink back.
Miro fort save, DC 10: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21
Miro reflex save, DC 15: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26
Suspecting that quick reflexes are involved in some way, the inebriated Miro says, "Whrrschlaaaaarggrrrr*!" before tossing back the beverage. Instants later he forces a throaty belch into his still-flaming glass.
The results are spectacular. Several of Miro's companions have their eyelashes singed as a ball of fire blasts the opposite side of the table. In a flash it is gone, leaving behind a could of smoke and heavy vapors.
I'm not joking, there has got to be something to this GM Damo "roll-good". It's incredible.
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus whoops and laughs as he sees the small halfling belch a gout of fire.
"Lets kick this up a notch, eh?" Cyrus folds a napkin up into a tight ball, holding it in his right hand. He quickly tips the drink back, and tries his best to replicate the flaming burst that Finarin and Miro have so deftly displayed. As he does, he tosses the napkin into the air, bent on it's fiery destruction.
Reflex Save DC-?: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24
Once the plume of flame finishes its dazzeling display, he swallows the rest of the shot down, and collapses back into his chair.
Fort Save DC-?: 1d20 ⇒ 2 Uh oh...
Or at least what he thought was his chair.
"ਕਿਸ ਹੈ, ਜੋ ਕਿ ਵੱਧ ਉੱਥੇ ਪ੍ਰਾਪਤ ਕੀਤਾ ਸੀ?"
Google Translate, Punjabi. Seemed like the appropriate name of a language...
|Dave the Giant|
Dave the Giant moves closer to the table that he may better observe, and if necessary, control the folly occurring there.
One wrong move and I'll show them a real fiery display. At least that moron half-orc isn't there. Gods but I want to crush his skull.
Meanwhile, at the table Cyrus suddenly understands what Miro and Gunari are talking about. It all makes sense now. So does another round!
Now come on, someone fail two saves!
- Cyrus <= drank 3, failed 1
- Gunari <= drank 3, failed 1
- Miro <= drank 4, failed 1
- Finarin <= drank 1, failed 0
- Ibid <= Emo Holmes
- Amaranti <= ???
"Well since we are all enjoying each others .... company. Sure, I suppose another is in order." Finarin glances at the giant.
"Sir, no need to worry. I .... personally vouch for all my .... comrades' behavior. Except for the beer priest." Grinning broadly Finarin attempts a feeble punch in the Garundi's arm.
"To ... brothers!"
Finarin again takes a shot, again sputtering and coughing.
Fort: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 4 = 17
|Cyrus the Flea|
Cyrus is unable to resist the toast, though he isn't quite sure if he wanted to resist anyways. Thoughts of the questions he was asking were beginning to dampen his mood, and raise his ire again, especially since Ibid hadn't shown up yet.
What is he doing? Where in the world is he?
He forces the thoughts out of his head, determined to drown them in beverage, and with a little luck, cleavage. He raises his glass along with Finarin, flashing a gigantic smile, though not understanding a single word he just said.
Fort Save: 1d20 ⇒ 3 LOL - Here we go!
"ਜਦ Sirena ਵਾਪਸ ਆ ਰਿਹਾ ਹੈ? ਮੈਨੂੰ ਉਸ ਨੇ ਪਿਛਲੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਨਾਲ ਫਲਰਟ ਸੀ. ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇੱਕ ਮੌਕਾ Gunari ਹੈ ਸੋਚਦੇ ਹੋ?"
Miro laughs, admonishing his companions. "I think you all need to play catch-up!" Of course, he proceeds to toss back another drink after that, ensuring their catch-up doesn't happen.
Fort: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (11) + 3 = 14