Finarin's coughing unfortunately doesn't replicate the spectacular results of last time. He would need to try this belching thing that his friends seem to have mastered in short order.
Miro looks down at his hands, they seem a little translucent. He reaches for another glass but his hand passes through the glass.
Cyrus hears Sheeba's heart beat as she approaches the table. All that delicious life essence pumping through her perfectly formed veins. He licks his lips. The catwoman puts a glass of blood in front of one of the heads of cattle sitting at the table. Unable to help himself, Cyrus grabs the glass from him and drinks heavily from it. Warm blood dribbles down his front as he exults in the sensation of... is it? yes, it is... elven blood filling his belly. The cravings subside, for now.
While completely freaky, for some reason Gunari doesn't seem to feel motivated to attack these newly-formed undead. This is not normal, but at the same time, it is nothing to be alarmed about. Perhaps some of this flaming beverage will help...
Miro reaches forwards and knocks a flaming glass to the floor. Fire flares briefly from the spill before burning out. Miro looks at his hand and says, "Woah!" as though something amazing just happened.
Cyrus then rubs his belly as though hungry, and licks his lips lewdly as Sheeba brings Finarin another Chelish Red. Before the elf can even thank the waitress, Cyrus leans over, grabs his wine and drinks greedily from the glass. The Kelleshi ninja spills far too much of the delicate and expensive beverage down his front.
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"Sheeba, draga mea. Bate inima ta, tot cu atâta pasiune, foc în vene, o căldură rafinat Trebuie să am pentru a potoli setea mea nesățioasă.
Hei, de ce nu pot vedea fața mea frumos solidă în acea oglindă?
Este că Sirena? Atât de mult pasiune. Inimile lor bate pentru mine, pot să-l aud! Tu nu se poate nega! Înscrieți-vă pe mine, amândoi, împreună trei dintre noi poate conduce lumea!"
Hey, why can't I see my ruggedly handsome face in that mirror?
Is that Sirena? So much passion. Their hearts beat for me, I can hear it! You cannot deny it! Join me, both of you, together the three of us can rule the world!"
Cyrus stands up, and attempts to use his chair as a step to eventually stand on the table. He fumbles around, knocking over one chair and bumping into another patron behind him. By the way he continues to move you might be inclined to think that he actually thinks he is standing on the table by the end of his declaration, as he strikes a dashing pose, hands outstretched, expectantly waiting for a response he is already convinced is destined to happen in his mind.
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Miro stares at his hand in amazement, eyes wide as he grasps his new state of evolution. Then he reaches forward, his hand passing through Cyrus's face just as it had with the glass. Grinning, he starts prowling around the room, randomly putting his hand and feet through things and people, making strange sounds to try to spook all the folks around him. "Whooooo...whooooOOOOO"
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Amaranti sits on the table, sipping his beer, and watching the performance presented by Cyrus and Miro. Quickly he gulps down his beer, and motions for Sheeba. "One like they have!" He stares at the flaming shot with amazement, and then down it goes.
Amaranti's face keeps rather still, but the ones sitting nearby can see his nostrils flaring. "ANOTHER!" he says, followed by deep coughing.
This time the drinking is followed by some visible shaking of the body.
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As the Pathfinders enter various states of fantasy, a new sound emerges form where Finarin is sitting. There, face buried in his hands, the stoic elf is sobbing heavily. Water trickles through his fingers, and his body sporadically heaves as he blubbers. "I .... love ... her. She ... will ... never ... love ... me. My ... ears ... are .... too ... big"
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Gotta have one bad drunk in this party. Tell me you didn't know this person in college.
Cyrus turns to Finarin as he blubbers, "Nu vă faceți griji prietenul meu, ea va înțelege. Știi ce se spune despre oameni cu urechi mari, nu?
Ei au nevoie de pălării mari!"
They need big hats!"
He laughs a maniacal laugh that has his back arched and his head back, looking at the ceiling.
As Miro slowly creeps around the taproom knocking things over and walking up to bar patrons and doing his best spooky hands while saying "Whooooo" in their faces, the not-so-inebriated notice that a crowd has formed a ring around their table. Dave the Giant at first seems to be doing a good job of keeping them back, but closer inspection reveals that he is in fact taking money from some of the members of the crowd.
"ALRIGHT, WHO HAD GHOST?" some of the companions hear him ask in the distance as he hands out some money, "NO, HE IS NOT A GHAST... NO, A GHAST WOULD BE TRYING TO DRAIN THEIR ENERGY, HE'S JUST ACTING SPOOKY... LOOK, HE'S A GHOST... HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE?"
As Jaender continues to talk, Dave rubs his chin, "OKAY, I'M CALLING IT AT VAMPIRE... YES, VAMPIRE... HE'S TRYING TO TALK THE WAY THEY DO IN USTALAV... YES, I KNOW THAT'S MOSTLY LICHES, BUT HE'S KELLESHI AND THEY ALL THINK USTALAV IS RUN BY VAMPIRES... I CALLED IT, OKAY... VAMPIRE, BETS ARE OVER... COLLECT IT IF YOU HAD IT." Dave and the crowd continue to eye the other companions, waiting for them to act strangely.
Unbeknownst to Cyrus, Sheeba slips a note in his tunic. He'll see it as it falls out the next time he disrobes to bathe (or whenever he decides to just get naked).
The waitress looks more concerned than amused as she too watches the companions with interest. There are now enough shots of Essence of Razmir on the table to keep even Amaranti satisfied for a good while.
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It was only a few hours ago that Lort strode into the encampment, and yet the entire tribe seemed arrayed against him. How was I to know that they hated Jort the Insane? the beset half-orc asks himself, And even then, hated him so much that they created folk tales to warn the children of him? I guess if you're a human man and you marry and bed an orc woman you're going to get some people who don't look so kindly upon it... but it's over fifty years later! Still, I perhaps should have given it some more thought before showing up. I am, after all, a very stark reminder of his depravity - so to speak.
"Git oot o' thar vill'ge or we'll slay ye whare ye stand, abomination!" screams the tribal chieftain, Tarl. Or is it Dorl? Their accent is maddening. Trust them to pronounce 'abomination' correctly, though.
Lort withstands the onslaught of words and waits for the chorus of cheers and jeers to die down before bellowing, "The blood of the Rednar tribe flows through my veins. By your own admission, I am fathered by the tribe," begins Lort, remembering that the paternal link is all that mattered to these savages, "I will stand for my ancestor's crimes and demand trial by the gods." Trial by combat, in other words. The crowd grows deathly silent and the chieftain looks genuinely shocked. My trip to Jol, at least wasn't wasted. I knew books were good for something... and growing up in Absalom left my knowledge of tribal lore a little lacking. It's not like great-grandfather Jort imparted anything to grandfather Nort.
"Lort th' Mighty, f'r so ye've pr'claimed yerself, a' chieftain o' th' tribe, I, Torl the Wanderer," - Ah! It was 'Torl' - "Accept y'r challenge. On mine b'half, Tharg th' Merciless w'll fight ye!" Cheers erupt.
The cacophony eventually forms itself into a chant: "Tharg! Tharg! Tharg!' An extensively-tattooed, enormous example of a man strides forwards. Muscles cover his frame, along with a goodly portion of fat. Oh, good. I'd be amazed if he wasn't at least quarter hill giant. 'The strongest and most skilled eat the most,' is that what the book said? The tribe's shaman steps up to Tharg and chants some words that Lort doesn't recognize. A glowing blue nimbus surrounds the massive barbarian, though, and that Lort does understand: magic is allowed.
Lort says his own prayers to Kurgess: "эກլÅຈົ້ğэ ¶эຈົ້§φກ". The crowd is shocked into silence one more time as the large half-orc grows larger still, towering over even the enormous Tharg. Lort grins a broad grin as he notes the open-mouthed spectators.
"Slain me many giants bigger'n ye, cross breed," sneers Tharg as he readies his massive greataxe. Who's this fücking giant-spawn calling a cross breed? balks Lort.
Seconds later, battle is joined.
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Gunari gives the haughty elf a smack back. "I vouch me for anyone who wants to give me a what did I mean where are we can I have another of those flaming wow who burned the ass on Sheeba?" He gathers his thoughts, or at least tries, and then pounds down another of the drinks.
"You silly people drinks are for drinking not for spraying did you do that to Sheeba why are you wasting drinks all Hail the Drunken Hero where did my drink go?" he says, looking at his glass.
The betting continues, several folk look carefully at Gunari. Several disappointed looks follow once they realize he still believes himself to be living.
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The battle between the two massive Ustalavans is over in under a minute. Tharg the probably half-giant gets in the first blow, striking Lort solidly in the chest with his oversized axe. Lort staggers backwards, bleeding profusely. The serrations at the top of the blade had torn mercilessly at his flesh, Sweet Kurgess but that hurt! Push through the pain and remember: you’re bigger than he is… now. Use that hurt feeling to focus.
”Ha!” exults Tharg, ”You are outmatched, half-breed! I cannot deny your bravery, though. Most of you southerners tend to wear shields. Run away, and see that people don’t mistake your bravery for stupidity!”
Lort wears a look of newfound respect for his foe, Coming from a huge brute like that, it is truly intimidating talk. I really have to figure out my banter.
”The difference between stupidity and bravery is luck…” begins Lort, coming in high first, and then low under Thrag’s guard, ”… or skill!” The half-orc’s greatsword punctuates his last statement, carving a long line across Tharg’s arm.
The two back slowly away, both bloodied by the exchange. Glaring at eachother in silence, waiting for the inevitable charge. Lort keeps his guard deliberately low as he back-steps, Go for my head, you big lunk. Hearts pounding in each of the warriors' chests, they pause for a minute. The crowd cheers noisily, but the only sound the two opponents hear is the icy wind whistling past their own ears.
Their feet pound the cold earth in time with one another. Both bring weapons back for a blow, and muscles snap the massive chunks of sharpened metal forwards at the same time. Tharg’s blow goes well above Lort’s head, much to the tribesman’s surprise. Lort skewers the barbarian through his midsection, runs past him and finally manages to stop some distance away. Both fighters turn to face the other. Tharg’s face seems to say “how?” just before he falls forwards, bleeding heavily into the frozen terrain. He doesn’t notice then, just as he didn’t notice before, that the priest of Kurgess had dismissed his spell of enlargement as he charged.
Without even thinking about it, Lort rushes to his side and calls upon Kurgess once more:
”כµຈົ້э լḯğ‡† ₩φµກ∆§”
The defeated brute’s wounds visibly close, and he seems to splutter to life once again. The crowd gasps almost in unison. One lone voice can be heard to say, ”Healer!" Then that voice turns into a chorus of tribesmen yelling, ”Healer! Healer! Healer!”
Miro shouts "Whoooooooooooo!" and smashes into a wall. He lies on his back, nose bleeding, and looks for all the world like a turtle as he flails his limbs around as though swimming - clearly under some delusion that he is either undersea or flying through the air. Although, perhaps he hit his head too hard and is now spasming.
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"Eu sunt încă sete..."
Cyrus begins to look around at the those who have circled around him to worship his mighty power over the night.
"Cine va voluntar pentru a fi nava mea?"
Cyrus looks around with a hunger that borders on lust, and eyes a lithe, if plain, woman in the back of the crowd. He walks slowly as the people part, making way for him to pass. Upon reaching his target, she is already turned to the side, as if waiting expectantly. Cyrus wraps one arm around her waist before deftly dipping her low, and clamping his lips onto her neck.
"SEE, I TOLD YOU HE THOUGHT HE WAS A VAMPIRE, says Dave the Giant smugly in the background as Cyrus attempts to drain the blood from a nearby barstool.
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Gunari looks around the table for another drink. Seeing that his table has mysteriously been emptied of drinks, he tries to conjure himself some beer. . "Cayden drunken person me stuff want drink now why no beer?" he calls out, but nothing happens.
"Sheeba!" he bellows. "Drunk now need more! Glass not full drinks gone!" He is obviously getting frustrated, and has focused his blurry attention on getting another drink. "Heal ass now if drink now come to drink my table!"
He sits back, smugly thinking he's made perfect sense.
Someone (not Sheeba, perhaps Sirena?) brings a fresh tray of Essence of Razmir for the adventurers. Somwhere in the background an enterprising giant grins.
Gunari slams down one then a second shot... things go very badly for the warpriest from then onwards. He tries to belch fire, but just ends up dribbling onto the table instead.
The warpriest's thirst is replaced by hunger, hunger for human flesh. Hunger for the soft part that makes them smart.
"Brrrraaaaains..." he manages with a totally deadpan groan.
"Brrrraaaaains..." he manages with a totally deadpan groan.
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Cyrus looks around and sees his crowd of worshippers pressing in on him. It appears as though they may be turning on him, terrified of his powers where they once were in awe. It was time to get out of here. Folding his cloak around his body, he wills himself to assume the form of a large bat. With a few flaps of his wings, he darts down, snaring another drink from the table with his outstretched claws, then careening through and around patrons effortlessly to zip out the door into the dark night sky. As soon as he is clear, he melds back to his humanoid form, quaffs the final drink, and makes his way to his room.
Cyrus' new skeletal feet clank noisily against the wooden boards on his way up the stairs. Gunari entertains the crowd by raising his arms in front of himself and wandering around the room groaning. "ZOMBIE!" cries Dave, "NO, MUMMIES DON'T MOAN 'BRAINS'... NO, HE DID NOT SAY 'GRAINS', AND MUMMIES DON'T LIKE THOSE ANYWAY..."
Eventually, the barkeep grows tired of the frivolity and ends things (though Dave swears it's because he picked ghast for Gunari). Those who haven't already done so are escorted to their rooms by the giant bouncer.
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Sheeba's note falls out of Cyrus' clothing as he strips for bed. The Kelleshite finds it when he wakes in the morning (with the biggest hangover he has ever had).
My dearest Flea,
I don't know when you will find this note, but it is important to me that you (and also your friends) know I had nothing to do with the betting that went on. The Essence of Razmir has strange effects, true, but I was unaware that this batch was full strength. We usually dilute it with ethyl alcohol. That will be Dave's doing, no doubt. He had quite the betting ring going on.
If you can forgive me, I would like to make it up to you, privately. I stay at 302 Gold Row in the Coins District, about halfway between Hackamore House and the Saucy Wench. See me tomorrow night if you would.
Yours,
Sheeba.
Sheeba answers the door in a light dress. The silky fabric brushes gently against her body, revealing a slim body accentuated by gentle curves that moves with a feminine grace that even Callistria herself would be jealous of. Cyrus is perhaps a bit disappointed to see the table set for dinner. His spirits lift a little, however, when he realizes she has made him a traditional Kelleshi feast. The food tastes as good, if not better, than it did back home. The catwoman is a truly accomplished cook. Cyrus cannot help but eat delicious morsel that is placed before him. He feels he may burst, and is grateful when Sheeba finally takes away his plate and returns to her seat empty handed.
"Now that the food is gone," says Sheeba, her tail swishing casually from side to side as she leans forwards in her seat and slides her tongue slowly over her fangs, "It's time for desserrrt..."
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The past months spent with the Rednar Tribe were some of the hardest and most fulfilling in Lort's life. Two young acolytes of Kurgess, Yart and Durnt, had followed the half-orc in all his travels. Lort knew that he had to leave eventually, and the Rednars trained with sharp swords, uncovered hammers and whatever else they use against the real enemy. Nay, Lort corrects himself, the weapons that the real enemy uses against them. Life for this tribe of the Frozen North was harsh and unforgiving. It had probably never even occurred to them to use anything less than actual weapons. How better to be prepared when true battle occurs?
While sound in theory, this strategy had its drawbacks: injuries. Many, many injuries. Some superficial, but many were quite severe. Since their last cleric, Gar the Incredulous, died fighting a frost giant single-handedly, the tribe's training methods had proven disastrous. Fully two thirds of the tribe's warriors were recovering in bed at any given time. That is, until Lort came. But now, it was time to go.
"I leave you in the capable hands of Yart the Pious and Durnt the Thick," says Lort to the assembled well-wishers. Even Tharg, who made it clear he still hated the half-breed, had made his way to into the center of the encampment with the rest of the crowd - albeit at the back. "I thank each and every one of you for welcoming the sons of Jort the Insane back into the tribe. I will carry the strength of the Linnorm Kings back with me to Absalom," Lort pauses and glances to the snow-capped mountains in the distance, "My former life awaits, but my heart will ever look to the north."
"Th' blood o' th' Rednars flows strong 'n yer veins," says Chief Torl the Wanderer, "'n' fer bringin' back th' blessin' o' th' gods, ye'll ne'er be f'rgot. Trav'l well, Lort th' Mighty. Now, a gift..." Torl waves to Tharg at the back of the crowd. The enormous barbarian single-handedly pulls forth a massive cart.
Lort pulls back the skins to uncover the bounty beneath. "Blunted weapons," explains Tharg, a man of few words but his accent is somehow less thick than his chief's, "Portable pavilion. Wheels." Lort looks puzzled at the last, but then looks down at the base of the cart. Skis. Of course, he'd need to attach wheels when he left the snow-covered north.
"What is all this for?" asks Lort, still confused by it all.
"Shrine. Kurgess," replies Tharg, "Tharg make. Lort take."
Lort is rendered speechless. A portable shrine to Kurgess? A place for warriors to compete wherever I should go? Knowing not what else to do, Lort punches Tharg as hard as he can in the big man's chest. Tharg smiles broadly, as friendly as Lort has ever seen him. Alas, Lort does not see his fist until too late.
When Lort regains consciousness, the tribe is gone. A dwarf mammoth has been harnessed to the cart. Grinning happily as he pushes his left-top incisor back in place, Lort jumps up upon the cart and slaps the reigns against the mammoth's shaggy back. "Great," says a still stationary Lort, "Now how do I get this smelly thing to actually move?"
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Amidst his ceaseless crying and general complaining, Finarin feels a new wetness, this time on his head. He turns to see Gunari licking his lips, looking happily towards his head. Not understanding the situation, "On Gunari, you .... like me. You ... really like me. It is so good to have a .... friend right now. One that ... likes me. I fear she will never .... like me. I hope you understand how ... good it feels to have someone that cares for ... me."
Finarin wraps both arms around the priest, and continues sobbing into his shoulder, "Why doesn't she .... like me? It is because I am .... rude to people? Is it because I am ... and elf? It is my .... ears? Right? I knew it. If I cut them off, she will .... like me? Do you have a ... dagger?"
As the gigantic waves rock the ship, the storm raging outside, the assembled Pathfinders have naught to do but reflect while they await the return of Venture-Captain Calistro Benarry. The night of the mass delusion where the undead pathfinders unleashed their might upon the Grand Lodge taproom has become a distant (if perhaps still sore) memory. Miro still has several large bumps on his head from "walking through" things, Finarin has almost got the spit out of his hair, Gunari has almost got the last of the elf hairs out of his mouth, Amaranti stands there stoic as ever, Ibid is still avoiding Cyrus and Cyrus can't seem to get an enormous grin off his face for some reason - even though he seems to be the most injured of all: scratches cover his neck and face (and probably more areas besides), he strongly favors his right leg and some kind of animal seems to have bitten a large piece off his ear. The ever-smiling Cyrus has, up to now, refused magical healing.
Finally, the cheerful Venture-Captain Benarry comes downstairs. As they see the half-orc leader of the Arcadian Mariner's Lodge reappear, the assembled silently muse - and not for the first time - that they couldn't think of a better match for Lort. She is broad shouldered, fully half a head taller than most humans (taller even than Amaranti) and speaks of exploration and battle in much the same way their former companion does: she damn-well loves it.
As the Grinning Pixie lurches and sways in the storm, Benarry grins widely (a grin that could easily be mimicking Lort's, save that the two have never met) as she slides a clay jug of strong Sargavan rum across her table. Only the hardy Amaranti, the worried-sober Ibid and the insatiable drunk Gunari's stomachs don't turn at the thought of more alcohol.
Much like her unmet counterpart, the intimidating half-orc speaks with an almost childlike excitement in her husky voice, “My apologies for all the secrecy,” she says, “I had to make sure some pirate rascal didn’t catch wind of our mission. Now that Drenchport’s a week behind us and we’re hugging the Eye of Abendego, it’s time to give you lubbers the full run-down.”
Benarry waits for the jug to make its way back to her, then takes a long swig. “I mentioned in Drenchport that the Society wants you to explore a recently discovered ruin somewhere north of the Shackles. Well, that was partly true, but it wasn’t exactly the whole story,” Benarry’s eyes narrow and her grin becomes unsettlingly sharklike, “We’re actually sending you to the Gloomspires, to Old Sevenfingers’s tomb.” Chuckling softly, she slides the jug back across the table to Amaranti and Gunari, “Here, have another nip. Looks like you need it.”
Everyone sits back and has a think about what they know of the area...
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Amaranti looks drowsily around. "A ship! How the hell I get to ship again!!? "
Finally getting used to the idea of yet another trip with weeks on the ship, Amaranti gives up, and picks up the mug of rum and drink deep.
"Ok, Amaranti calm now. Gloomspires, never heard. No matter, you take us there, and we do mission. What we must do?"
The Venture-Captain smiles a tusky smile at the Garundi, "First, tell me what all of you already know about Sevenfingers and the Gloomspires. Then we'll work from there." She leans back, produces another jug, and waits patiently for the pathfinders to impress her - or not.
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Set 1
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Set 2
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"I believe the Gloomspires are some hollow columns rising out of the ocean. Lots of different people and things have repurposed them to their own desires. There's some kind of weird reality-distortion going on. Apparently the columns can change location, and teleportation magic can be aggravating."
Miro thinks some more before continuing, "Sevenfingers was a terrible pirate from a few centuries ago. He lost at least one finger playing knives. He had a small fleet of pirate ships that he augmented with some truly foul company."
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"Well Venture-captain, Seven fingers was also a ... necromancer. A wizard that deals with ... undead. Horrible business really. He also favored using .... cannibals, and madmen to board ships. What a pleasant ... fellow. I think that I will enjoy sliding my rapier into his .... well whatever goes for a heart in him."
As the jug comes around, the pale elf's faces turns a slightly greenish shade.
"No, none for me thank you. Ships make my stomach ... queasy"
Why is it always ships? When this business is over I need a rest in Kyonin's woods. He thinks and not for the last time.
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Cyrus has no base of knowledge with which to draw from about Seven fingers or the Gloomspires, so he waits patiently as his companions begin with what they do know.
"Ibid should know, he seems to know everything. You might have to lash him to a mast and sail through a squall to get him to tell you anything though. Even then, who knows if he will tell you everything." Cyrus quips, sarcasm dripping from his words.
Cyrus had attempted to approach Ibid several times since the storm that nearly took down the Throaty Mermaid, but to no avail. It was obvious that Ibid had been avoiding him, or flat out ignoring him.
He crosses his arms defiantly, accentuating his pouty attitude. As he does, he winces from a line of scratches on his side, and his mind begins to wander. His pout turns into a smile as he is unable to control his reaction to the memories the scratches bring to the surface. He subconsciously reaches for the missing piece of his ear.
I wonder how I can use this curing wand, and still make sure this bit doesn't grow back... Still have to find a priest who can answer that. To bad Lort isn't here, though I imagine he might have knocked the poor messenger out cold if he had read orders to board another ship for his next mission. I can't believe any of us are on this bath toy to begin with...
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Ibid's eyes shift toward Cyrus when the young rogue voices his snarky comment, but a moment later Ibid is looking back to the halfline and elf, as if Cyrus was not in the room.
"You two know as much as I do on the subjects of the Gloomspires and Sempet Sevefingers," Ibid says to Miro and Finarin.
"I will say, based on the historic dealings Sempet Sevenfingers had with necromancy, evil outsiders, and entities from beyond the Dark Tapestry, we should keep a weary eye out at his tomb because there is no telling what we may find."
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Miro nods, relatively unconcerned. Hopefully Ole Sevenfingers had been taking a dirt nap for the past few centuries and wouldn't cause them any grief. Miro grins as he enjoys the briny air. His companions seemed to have grown an aversion to boats since their escapades on The Throaty Mermaid. The halfling didn't pin it on the ship, but the abysmally picked crew, and therefore retains his adventurous spirit while with these different, hopefully better crew mates.
Venture-Captain Calistro Benarry leans back in her chair, and gives the Pathfinders a genuine smile, "Very impressive, Miro, Finarin and Ibid. Your combined educations must be an incredible asset to this group. I must correct you slightly, though, Finarin. Sempet Sevenfingers is dead. His tomb has been set into one of the Gloomspires. While I appreciate your verve when you express desire to kill him, unless you are better informed than me on the Gloomspires (which I sincerely doubt) he is not remade as a member of the undead. Even if he were, there is one important fact to remember: Sempet Sevenfingers was one of the most powerful necromancers on Golarion and a force to be reckoned with and he would easily slay us all in moments.
"Still, may I say that I find it refreshing to see a set of Pathfinders who not only stick (mostly) together, but who also makes room in its ranks for such accomplished scholars. Well done all."
There is a pause while her praise settles in, Valsin would never be so openly impressed, before Benarry leans forwards excitedly, “I’ve been researching the Gloomspires for a very long time. Before I sailed to Absalom and joined the Society, I was a Free Captain here in the Shackles. Back then I learned about the Gloomspires, Old Sevenfingers (who many still refer to as 'Eightfingers', and all the treasure and secrets the old devil took with him when he sealed himself in his tomb.”
A long, rumbling growl of thunder makes Benarry pause and she takes the opportunity to wet her lips with another swig of rum before she continues, “Since joining the Society, I’ve been able to learn even more about the Gloomspires. Most importantly, I’ve discovered that they’re tied to certain alignments of the stars, and that twice each year - beginning on the nights of the summer and winter solstices - the columns cease moving for exactly three days.
“So, tomorrow’s the summer solstice. Now that you know the ‘where’ and the ‘when’ of this little caper, you need to know why the Society’s sending you.”
Benarry pauses before leaning forwards and continuing in a more conspiratorial voice, her grin unabated, “I recently came into the possession of a logbook once owned by the pirate captain, Mazzer Thrennt. Before Thrennt ended up as lusca-bait seven years back, he was a moderately successful pirate who shared my obsession with the Gloomspires. It turns out his log contains an inventory of the plunder he liberated over the years, including the loot he found in Sevenfingers’ tomb. One item on Thrennt’s list immediately got my attention: his log described with perfect accuracy a relic from lost Lirgen called the Orb of Stars. I’m certain that this device can manipulate the alignments of the stars - or at least how we perceive them - and historical accounts suggest we could also use it to trick the Gloomspires into thinking that the solstice lasts more than just a day.
"The Society and I both want that orb. It’s going to look really good to the folks back home if you’re able to secure it. Here,” she says, passing a sheet of parchment across the table, “I’ve written down some of the particulars.”
The parchment Venture-Captain Benarry passes you reads:
Reefs surround the Gloomspires, so big boats like the Pixie can’t get close. You’ll need to use my magical folding rowboat.
At dusk, when the columns cease moving, make your way to the column containing Sevenfingers’ tomb - it’s the one with the shipwreck wrapped around its base. Climb aboard the wreck, and you’ll see a set of narrow stone steps that wind their way to the top of the column. Once up top, find a way inside the tomb and then find the Orb of Stars.
Thrennt’s log claims he hid the Orb in a side chamber connected to what he called the ‘hall of the flesh eaters’ and then collapsed the entrance to keep it safe. So, I’m giving you some picks and shovels since you might need to do some digging.
I’m certain there are multiple levels to this tomb, so keep good notes, and document anything you find that might help future expeditions. Check around the top level, but don’t go any deeper than you have to to find the Orb. Remember, you only have three days to do this before the columns start moving again.
The Orb of Stars is a solid sphere made of a dull copper-colored metal inlaid with dozens of star-shaped moonstones, rubies, and blue sapphires that mimic the stars of the Cosmic Caravan
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I must correct you slightly, though, Finarin. Sempet Sevenfingers is dead. His tomb has been set into one of the Gloomspires. While I appreciate your verve when you express desire to kill him, unless you are better informed than me on the Gloomspires (which I sincerely doubt) he is not remade as a member of the undead. Even if he were, there is one important fact to remember: Sempet Sevenfingers was one of the most powerful necromancers on Golarion and a force to be reckoned with and he would easily slay us all in moments.
Ears turning read, Finarin thinks: Again I show my lack of knowledge and embarrass myself in front of a venture-captain. It is only a matter of time before they catch on.
"Venture-captain, you didn't see how well Ibid and I fared against the mighty .... ship's cook. We are quite the force to be reckoned with. In addition to ... Thrennt's loot log, did he keep a ...ship's journal that detailed any of the challenges that we might ... encounter? Are there any supplies here that we might ... find useful before departing?
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Gunari seems more interested in the rum than the briefing, at least at first. When the Venture Captain leans forward, he has something else to attact his attention. The priest of the Lucky Drunk, for once, doesn't have anything to add, so he just sits back, listens, and observes.
When no one asks the obvious question, he asks, "Flesh eaters? What might they be? With a necromancer, I'm thinking zombies or ghouls, but what else could it be?"
Venture-Captain Benarry ponders the questions thoughtfully, choosing to answer Gunari first, "You have a keen mind for someone who enjoys their drink so well, Gunari. I've given much thought to flesh eaters. Ghouls or perhaps zombies do seem a likely explanation. However, Sevenfingers also use cannibals to augment his pirate crew and boarding parties, so I wouldn't discount that possibility either.
"As for supplies," she begins, turning to Finarin, "The Pixie's quartermaster has many items you may find useful. You will find his store well stocked. I will also give you fifty gold pieces of credit each with him. Any surviving items will need to be returned, however. Oh, and if you need digging equipment - picks, shovels and the like - you may help yourself to ours. We have anything you could possibly want for mining and digging."
Benarry grows serious, though, as she talks about Mazzer Thrennt, "Regarding challenges you might face, Thrennt mentioned his exploration of Sevenfingers’s tomb and a few of the other Gloomspires in his journal. Unfortunately, though, the old goat was careful not to map or describe the Gloomspires’ interiors or describe any of the monsters or traps he and his crew encountered. His log contained an inventory of the treasures he found, which included a description of what I believe is the Orb of Stars. Thrennt claimed to have left the Orb in a side chamber connected to the ‘great Hall of the Flesh Eaters’ - a name long associated with the uppermost level of Sevenfingers’s tomb. He also claimed that he collapsed the tunnel leading to the chamber with the intention of returning later with digging tools to retrieve it.
"Now, if you don't have any further questions, you'd best be underway. The three day window is a small one indeed, and there is no time to waste! We should be through the storm in about an hour," she glances out the porthole, "Maybe two. We'll weigh anchor as soon as it's over and you'd best be ready to depart when that happens. I'll be making my own preparations, too: there is such a small window for exploration, and I have other projects that need attention. I can't risk running out of time for an an entire year in the case you are unable to retrieve the Orb (or that it doesn't work as expected). Also, you don't want me looking over your shoulders the whole time. You have proven yourselves very capable - and I trust you to do your utmost to get it back! Remember the Pathfinder Society's motto: Explore, Report, Co-operate. Do us proud."
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Cyrus helps himself to a pick and shovel, a couple extra coils of rope, and as many bags of caltrops as are available. He also grabs a pair of plain leather gloves, trying them on to make sure there is a snug, comfortable fit.
we must be begging to drown, taking a folding rowboat out on the open sea? I never thought I would miss the desert sand so much...
-Posted with Wayfinder
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"Well met Quatermaster. I require some supplies for our upcoming .... exploration. I believe there is a ... credit. Yes? Here is a list of the supplies I will require ... if you please."
- Air Bladder
- Block and Tackle
- Chronicler's kit - to make a map
- Drill
- Common Dungeoneering Kit
- Miner's Pick
- Shovel
- waterproof bag
- whetstone
- wire for a trip wire trap