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Medda opens her mouth to answer, but Anok steps forward defensively and proudly announces,“Medda is the current guardian of Ivvora’s hilt. It has been passed from keeper to keeper for generations—or for her, from parent to child. She is the first evening’s daughter in decades,” he boasts, earning him a withering look from Medda before he adds, “And it is she who can sense and wield the hilt’s power properly.”
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Oiur raises thin eyebrows and frowns exaggeratedly, the universal expression of "oh dang, that's legit"
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Medda shoots Anok a scolding glare before explaining. “An evening’s child is one who realizes and expresses their true identity later in life. I am an evening’s daughter because when I was born, my tribe mistook me for a male child. My connection to our ancestral spirits has helped me transform in body, not just soul. As you are strangers, I would rather leave it at that.”
Anok pales to a rosy hue before muttering an apology: “I misspoke, Medda. I forget that few are as open as I am about one’s past lives.”
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"But, but," Retorts Babine," If, in the past, I was in the wrong body and now i am in the right one, I would be enthousiastic and so happy!
I would feel like I am free from a nightmare that plagued my life everyday!"
Babine retires from the group for a little time. He is silent with his eyes closed and his arms crossed. He seems to think more about the situation than he is pouting.
When he returns, he gives his excuses to Medda."Sorry, I was being insensitive toward you. I am just a stranger like you said."
-Posted with Wayfinder
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The crowd of guards, onlookers, and concerned citizens outside the Blakros Museum quiets as Venture-Captain Ambrus Valsin approaches a woman clad in furs exiting the museum. “My Pathfinder agents tell me that you are Medda of the Twinhorn following, is that correct?”
“Yes, I speak for the following.” Medda glares at Nigel Aldain, “I have come to reclaim what is rightfully ours. His agents stole our most sacred relic after we refused to sell it. We have traveled through dangerous lands to claim it back, and still he refused—”
“My agents claim they bought it,” Nigel protests. “I’m not going to just give it to you because you stomp into my office demanding priceless artifacts.”
Valsin interjects, “Nigel, let us listen to her story and decide how to proceed. Medda, tell us about this relic. Why is it so important to you?”
Medda takes a deep breath. “Over 900 years ago, a powerful warrior named Ivvora came into our camp. She spoke of an angel named Vildeis who guided her hunt for a great dark evil she called Eshimka. Several of our scouts had recently disappeared, later found ripped into pieces. The elders insisted that we help banish this evil and ensure the safety of our following. They laid a trap for the evil spirit, luring it to our sacred standing stones on the winter solstice. There, Ivvora and the great dark evil, Eshimka, fought a mighty battle that raged for hours. Just as the night was darkest, Ivvora dealt Eshimka a telling blow, digging her dagger deep into its flesh. The creature tried to escape, but it only snapped off the blade and then collapsed on the center stone. The elders finished their ritual and destroyed it completely.
“Ivvora rested with us for the winter before departing to eradicate more evil from the world, but not before leaving us the hilt of her weapon.” Medda withdraws a bundle of bloody cloth from her bag, then unwraps it to reveal a small hilt with a bloody fragment of black metal. “She told us to bring the hilt back to the standing stones every year at the winter solstice to keep evil away. We’ve had to travel for so long to retrieve the hilt, I’m afraid we won’t make it back in time for the solstice. Please, let me leave now.”
Ambrus Valsin contemplates Medda’s story for a moment, then nods, his brow furrowed. “Nigel, you should send for the Blakros agents who ‘obtained’ the hilt and hear what they have to say. Medda, I’m going to send as many Pathfinder agents as you deem necessary to travel with you and your following. I want to ensure we return this relic to its proper place.” Nigel starts to protest, but Valsin cuts him off. “Nigel, you wanted my help; you are getting it. I’m helping you fix a mistake your agents made. As for your museum,” Valsin takes a moment to survey the heavily damaged museum, ”I’m told most of the damage was done by your own security, not Medda and her following.
“Pathfinders, prepare to head north to the Realm of the Mammoth Lords.”
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Medda and Ambrus Valsin discuss long into the night how the Society might help the Twinhorn following. By the morning they have concluded that while teleportation magic might take the Kellids and Pathfinders as far as Lastwall, Medda insists that Ivvora’s hilt has lost some of its spiritual strength since being stolen. She believes the only way to restore its power is to walk the same path that Ivvora took into the Twinhorn’s land after the Shining Crusade—and that path leads straight through the Hold of Belkzen, an unforgiving land controlled by orcs!
Society mages gather to transport small groups at a time to Lastwall, and from there, the convoy of Kellids, Pathfinders, and supply wagons set off north. For all their brutal reputation, the orcs have become somewhat more welcoming of caravans at the urging of Grask Uldeth, one of the strongest orc chieftains and the ruler of the de facto capital Urgir. Those who stop at the Table of Ralock can purchase safe passage in the form of special tokens from tribal representatives. It remains to be seen whether the Pathfinders can secure enough.
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You have a chance to interact with one of several different orc tribe ambassadors. By impressing them or doing favors for them, you can obtain the tribal tokens you need to continue traveling northward.
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Orc leaders:
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Having been in awe of this faraway land ever since they teleported in, Alphonze stares at everything he finds new and exiting. Having had precious little time to read up on these lands, he finds himself unnerved by tales of vampires, orcs and demons. "But Medda, won't following from the shining crusade to your lands mean passing straight through the world wound? I've heard many a tale of the dangers in those lands..."
He drifts off and, to keep his thoughts off beasts and dangers, sits down to chat with one of the orks (Bukog). Despite Alphonze's lack of knowledge of metal, he argues that with a solid hilt, even a dull blade becomes a fine weapon of war.
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Having heard of Borbus's malaise, Oiur tracks them down at a tavern. They approach them with a flagon in each hand.
"You look thirsty and bored. I might be able to help with both, if you don't mind?"
If the orc is amenable, Oiur sits, pushes a drink towards them, and tells them a tale.
"I've got a friend. Works for the Pathfinder Society, just like me."
Oiur holds their flagon with both hands, gazing into it as if searching for something.
"His... chainmail's missing a few links, if you catch my meaning."
They look across the table at Borbus, emerald eyes a shade darker than usual. "Acting as a Society agent has been an interesting job. More violent than I'd like, on occasion—that's where my friend comes in."
"This friend. Big fella. Has an invincible bird—whole 'nother story—and biceps the size of your head. Broad shoulders. Dense guy." Oiur makes a fist and beats the tabletop in mock footsteps, smiling. "Easy to tell when he's about to knock on your door. Anyways."
"He, myself, and some others get woken up in the middle of the night. Get told we're headed to Isger, that there's probably going to be goblinoids involved.”
”Wait, first." Oiur holds up a slender finger. "Do you know what golf is?" They raise their eyebrows, tilt their chin down and to the side, and fix Borbus with an I doubt it look.
"Ok, regardless, quick run down. You have a big field—hugely impractical game—full of holes. You have a weighted stick. You take the weighted stick, and you hit a little ball into the holes. But they have to be the right holes," Oiur clucks their tongue and pantomimes swinging something with one hand, "in the right order." They gently tap the rim of their flagon, and with the other hand, trace the parabolic path of an imaginary ball that lands in their drink.
They shrug. "Strange game. Like I said, hugely impractical. Anyways."
They lean back in their seat. "So my friend. He gets the idea, based on a few very minor things our employer's said, that he's going to be able to line up a bunch of goblins and take them out in one swing." Oiur grins from ear to ear. "And what does he call this activity?" They lean close to the table and whisper exaggeratedly.
"Golfblin."
They shake their head, still grinning, then sit up straight. "Right. So my friend's convinced that he'll get to play golfblin. We go to Isger. That's a long trip, and does he forget about his new game?" Oiur taps their knuckles on the table twice for emphasis. "No. Way."
"We get to Isger, meet up with a caravan we're supposed to escort. We head into the Chitterwood—big forest, supposedly full of goblins—and we're heading along the path. See some mounds in the road, holes someone’s dug, or maybe something burrowing." They smile again. "Remember what I said about needing the right holes for golf? Well, my friend, he's still thinking about golfblin. He decides these must not be the right holes. Must've been made by gophers!" Oiur chuckles. "And when skeletons, actual, animated bones, come tearing out of the holes, what does he do?"
Oiur sits up straight in their seat, pushes their drink to the side.
"He takes his naginata." They square their shoulders and act like they're gripping a long pole.
"He pulls it way back." Oiur stands and lifts their imaginary polearm up and to their side.
"And he swings."
They slice the invisible weapon in a huge arc, barely avoiding Borbus, the table, and the establishment's other patrons.
They sit, grinning once again from ear to ear. "Bones. Go. Everywhere." They dance their fingers across the tabletop in a chorus of tapping. "Sounds worse than an apprentice's session at an Opparan tambourine academy. And what," Oiur starts laughing, unable to continue for a moment, "sorry, and what does he yell?" Their eyes light up.
"Fore!"
They draw the syllable out for dramatic effect, then dissolve into laughter for a good ten seconds.
"Oh, stars and spires. Excuse me there." They wipe at the corners of their eyes and compose themself. "'Fore' is one of those things they yell in golf. Anyways. Golfblin's everything he thought it would be. He's having a great time. Complains about skeletal gophers. We do, in fact, find some actual golfblins, which he does just like he did the skeletons.”
”And, I'll be honest, that's... not the most pleasant visual." They grimace. "But here's my point."
"My big, enthusiastic friend, few links short that he is, takes that dangerous, uncertain situation, and brightens it." Oiur smiles and shakes their head.
They spread their arms over the table. "He takes a few little words, standard part of our briefing." They pinch the fingers of their right hand, picking invisible crumbs from the scored and stained wod one by one. "And he turns them into a… a spice, a seasoning, that makes the whole grim business so much easier to manage.” Oiur holds out their left hand, sprinkling it with immaterial flavor from their right.
”Something that should have been hard to swallow—hells, I could have died of supernatural thirst brought on by the echo of a neglect so powerful it bound departed soul to material existence—something violent and taxing, and brightens it.”
Oiur relaxes. They sit quietly for a few heartbeats, then perk up and lean in, smiling at yet another memory.
”So we get through the forest, we protect the caravan, we do what the Society needed us to do. We’re at the end of things.” Their eyes go to a distant forest glade. Their nostrils twitch at the ephemeral smell of loam and woodsmoke and browning butter. ”I get some supplies together, and I make goflblin pancakes. Little batter club, little batter hobgoblin with a detachable head.” They sigh. ”It was wonderful. Through all that, to take what your friends’ve done, to turn it all into a moment of camaraderie and happiness amidst a forest torn apart by war and predation.” They sigh again, smiling.
Their eyes refocus on Borbus. ”So, I know I’m a nobody who just sat down and gave you a free drink. Not quite sure what came over me. But you know what?”
They take a drink from their neglected flagon.
”This could be the start of a great story. And really, that’s why I’m in this Pathfinder business. Hearing stories, experiencing my own, and weaving the whole mess together.”
”And I’ll tell you what.” They wink at the orc. ”It’s certainly never boring.”
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"But Medda, won't following from the shining crusade to your lands mean passing straight through the world wound? I've heard many a tale of the dangers in those lands..."
”The Solstice Stones lie at the foot of the Tusk mountains, in the southern part of the land you call The Realm of the Mammoth Lords. Our journey will keep us on the western side of the mountains, well away from the Worldwound.”
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Alphonze meets Bukog in the smithy and strikes up a conversation about weapon design. The orc is grumpy and frustrated, and initially unimpressed with Alphonze’s knowledge of blades. After a while, however, Alphonze is able to show him some techniques for constructing better hilts and sheaths, raising the value of Bukog’s weapons significantly. Bukog is grudgingly thankful, and rewards Alphonze with a handful of the coveted tokens.
Oiur, meanwhile, heads to the fest hall. They find an open seat across from a bored-looking orc and strikes up a conversation. They relate a humorous story about a friend of theirs and a modified game of golf. The orc lets out a raucous laugh and slaps his hand on the table. They share several drinks, and when the orc gets up to leave, he drops a handful of tokens on the table in front of Oiur.
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Stonelance and Haska, interested in the surrounding area, walk around the outskirts of the city, taking in the local scenery. As they return, they wander into a cartographer's tent on the edge of town. There they find the orc Gekgaro, frustrated and arguing with the map-maker as he tries to make sense of what's shown. They join the conversation, chiming in with observations about the surrounding biome and asking astute questions that help the orc to identify several suitable locations nearby. In thanks, the orc hands the a small pouch of spare tokens.
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JUSTICE FLAME! watches the sparring for a while without speaking. He can see Kardook's growing frustration at his inability to find a challenging sparring partner or anyone that can teach him something new. As the orc's patience weans, his blows become more vicious. Before he can do serious damage to his hapless sparring partners, JUSTICE FLAME! speaks up as he steps into the ring. "If it's a challenge you seek, then let I, JUSTICE FLAME! provide it to you!"
With each successful blow he lands, the vigilante sends a withering glare at the orc.
Finding even himself shrinking from JUSTICE FLAME!'s gaze, the orc smiles. Finally! Something new in the ring! After their match is over, the orc claps Justice on the back (a little too hard). "You are a fine warrior and a worthy opponent! If my warriors can learn to frighten their opponents as you do they shall be mighty indeed!
Take these, so the other tribes know you are not one to be trifled with." With that, Kardook hands Justice a pouch of tokens and walks out of the ring.
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Haska approaches Bukog, "I think you are looking for an edge in technology." "I have just the thing I would like to show you." "They can be tricky, but they are useful when done right and employed with a little cunning." Haska goes on to briefly describe a thunder stone and how it can be used as a signal and to deafen/stun others.
"I could show you how to make one and with practice you might be able to make one." " I don't have the materials but I can explain each and how it is used."
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At Urgir, Babine doesn't speak very much. He awaits an attack from the orcs all the time. They have such a bad reputation and most of the stories he heard put them as vilains or minion of the big bad.
After looking at his compagnions who bargain safe passage, he understands that Orcs are like those bandits at Thornkeep's in the Rivers kingdoms. They favor those who they see as strong. The big chieftain is strong enough to crush any of the tribe easily and it is almost impossible to do an alliance with the other tribes because of the risk of backstabbing. So for now, they do what he said.
Babine comes close to Blunta.
You are doing this all wrong! They need love! Not anger! Anger and fear work for a time but If you have just a moment of weakness, they will attack you! Love will grant you their eternal loyalty because you will have some valor to them!
He walks toward the Gorthek.
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After assiting Haska in located a suitable camp, Stonelance wonders over to Graffa.
"You know I learned a trick or two from my youth. Every village had to send two youths to participate in the Festival Games at each harvest. Many of the games incorporated lavish obstacle courses and survival challenges. I was a two time winner until an Catfolk family moved into the next village and Catmiss Evergreen upstaged me. Still say she cheated...but that doesn't matter. Let me show you a thing or two. "
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Blunta looks very skeptically at Babine when he mentions loving the animals, rather than scaring them. Typical human weakness. Bah! You must command respect! When he demonstrates his technique, though, her eyebrows raise. "Perhaps you speak some truth, human. Your results are impressive. Here, take these, you may need them." With that, she hands Babine a fistful of tokens and goes off to practice his technique with the animals.
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Stonelance wanders over to Graffa, and tries to demonstrate some moves. "It sounds to me, human, that you lost because you were inadequate. Your skills might work for a while, but are not truly worthy of a champion, at least from what I've seen."
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Haska approaches Mirtgog and listens to his needs concerning intrigue and clandestine operations over ale. "I am no spy, but I do know a thing or two about getting through locks and around clever harmful devices. " Haska goes over his approach to evaluate a device, then the tool he would use and how to employ it. He demostrates on a few lessor observed locks in the area if Mirtgog has the time. "The key though is practice, practice, practice."
Disable device taking 10 +8 for 18.
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Graffa raises an eyebrow and chuckles. "Heh, perhaps I have underestimated you, human. Your skills are impressive indeed." She quickly moves through the obstacle course, easily mimicking the techniques that Stonelance showed her. As she flips from the final bar, she chucks a small bag the length of the course, which lands at Stonelance's feet. "Those should help you dodge trouble as nimbly as you move about my course."
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Haska finds Mirtgog skulking around behind a large building. When he offers to demonstrate some lock-picking techniques in exchange for tokens, Mirtgog smiles and points to a nearby door. "Show me". When Haska has the door open, Mirtgog steps past and closes the door behind him. After a moment, he opens it again and tosses a bag of tokens at Haska's feet, saying "Here you go, pointy-ears. Don't tell no-one you saw me here, y'understand?"
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Having traveled for more than a week through the harsh lands of Belkzen, the Twinhorn warriors grow excited as they come within a few days’ travel of their homeland.
As the sun dips behind the Smokespur mountains, the sound of drums start to echo off the rocky canyon walls, starting slowly at first, but quickly increasing in pace. Medda turns from her lead position in the caravan and shouts “Look out! Ambush!”
The drumming continues as a boulder hurtles from the mountain and lands on the lead wagon, sending splinters flying in all directions. Clouds of dust billow off the mountainside as dozens of orcs surge from the foothills and chant to the beat of the drums. Arrows and boulders begin to rain from the slopes.
Medda calls out, “Pathfinders, someone is willing to risk Uldeth’s ire by attacking us! I need some of you to meet their vanguard, others to guard the caravan, and a third group to take out their archers.”
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There was a tribe we forgot i suppose.
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A mass of orcs and their monstrous allies charges down the foothills. Remnants of an ancient dwarven outpost provide cover and an obstacle in their path; it is the most defensible position from which to confront the enemy vanguard.
An orc warrior with three yipping coyotes at his heel come straight at you, shouting “For the glory of Gutrattle!”
These coyotes are smaller than their wolf cousins. They grin with sharp teeth, and they look hungry and perhaps abused.
For every 5 that you beat the DC, you may ask for one piece of information from this list.
A typical orc warrior on the warpath. Orc ferocity is well known, and they will remain fighting after being mortally wounded, long after most humanoids would fall unconscious from the pain.
For every 5 that you beat the DC, you may ask for one piece of information from this list.
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Roll-Off:
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Round 1:
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Babine notices the wounds on the coyotes. Remembering Blunta's "training" method, he deduces that the poor animals must have being abused by this orc.
It is too late to save them now. If release, they will be just like a stray dog. They will kill all who they see.
Their death will the end if their suffering.
His mind in sorrow, Babine throw a javelin to Pink.
