RD's PbP Campaign (Inactive)

Game Master Rene Duquesnoy

An eagle appears and poops as it flies over Absalom

Arrgh, right in my eye! I *hate* it when that happens.

Pull out my bow and shoot at it...1d20 + 0 ⇒ (2) + 0 = 2

Stupid 0-level commoner PC...

(for players, only post in here with your character, as your avatar now shows up on the character tab. We all knew Mike is a caricature.)

Sgt. Hobbes heads out the door of his home in Eastgate.

For fourteen years, he had served in Absalom's City Watch; he'd made the seventeen-block from this house to the watch station every single day.

He mustered out of the Watch last year, but everyone still calls him Sergeant, or Sarge...even his wife. He hadn't intended on leaving the Watch -- it was a good job, even if it was moderately dangerous on the rare occasion.

A year ago, he and his squad had been on patrol, on the night watch, when they came upon an old man who was facing down a half-dozen thugs. Hobbes charged in, just as the old guy started beating the tar out of the thugs. This surprised Sgt. Hobbes, since the old guy looked like he was a long-term user of recreational herbs, and didn't look capable of even standing up straight, much less defending himself. The sergeant knocked out one thug with his truncheon, but, by then, the old guy had taken care of the other five.

The coot introduced himself as Drandle Dreng. He told Sgt. Hobbes that he was impressed with the guardsman's initiative, and wondered if he might consider a different, more lucrative use for his skills...as a Pathfinder. Sgt. Hobbes was skeptical -- he *liked* the Watch, and Pathfinders had a reputation for being treasure-hunting freaks.

But, the more he thought about it, the more Sgt. Hobbes realized that he'd done pretty much the same thing, every day, for the past fourteen years. He was comfortable. But, "comfortable" is a synonym for "halfway to dead". If he was going to ever do something different with his life, this might be his only chance.

So, Sgt. Hobbes handed in his resignation. His captain in the watch let him take an older suit of scale armor with him, and he then spent six months in training with the Pathfinder Society. Most of his cohorts in the training class were half his age, and years of less-than-strenuous duty in the watch had made the Sergeant heavy around the middle, but he managed to survive the training regimen.

And, now, he'd finally gotten word that Venture-Captain Valsin had a mission for him. He'd squeezed into his armor, strapped his greatsword to his back, kissed his wife good-bye, and headed out the door, towards the Grand Lodge.

The golden aegis of the sky warmed the pale grey skin of the armored hulk proudly marched down the Avenue of the Hopeful. His direction a contrast to the hundreds, if not thousands of pilgrims visiting the Ascendent Court in hopes of paying homage at the Starstone.

Beneath his scale armor, the tusked maw of Ausk could barely contain a grin. So much had happened in the past few years. His liberation from Belzken, his anointment as a Paladin of the Inheritor and now this, an appointment to the famed Pathfinders. Truly, Ausk was proving the nobility of his race.

As he passed through the Archway that separated the Ascendent Court from the Foreign Quarter, he turned back to look at his Lady's temple. Mouthing a silent prayer for strength, he continued on his way toward the Grand Lodge. Brother Francois, the Cleric who trained Ausk, had arranged a meeting with the Venture Captain Valsin.

It took the better part of an hour to push his way through the eclectic and exotic denizens of the Foreign Quarter, before finally reaching his destination. The building was larger and stranger than he had imagined. Still, this was his calling and he would not flinch in the execution of Iomedae's will.

Reaching up, he gave the pommel of the great, curved blade upon his back a reassuring pat, took a breath and pressed open the doors.

Sitting in the lobby of the Grand Lodge sipping a glass of water, Chusynd Karkota mused over the events leading to this historic day. A short and skinny fellow, he looked very nearly like a human to those around him; only his turquoise eyes and and his shiny, golden hair betrayed his heritage to those who could tell. To the unaware, he was not an aasimar -- merely an oddity.

Chusynd liked it that way, too. There were so many parts of his past he'd like to wash away like the waters of the Inner Sea. Born to parents who were hand-picked to join the project to perfect humanity on Hermea, he'd never bought into the stifling structure of the land; when he came of age, his rebellious soul refused to even take the Hermean test for citizenship, instead stowing away on a trade ship the day before he was to take the trial.

The ship was making its way toward Magnimar when Chusynd was discovered and nearly dumped into the sea; only his quick thinking and diplomatic words saved him from a violent end in the waters of the Steaming Sea.

Nevertheless, he found himself unceremoniously dumped ashore once the vessel came into harbor. Fate crossed his path with Doolun's Lads, a group of Sczarni ruffians from the streets of Magnimar, who seemed intent on robbing him but who, within minutes, soon found themselves treating him as a friend and laughing at his stories.

Circumstances necessitated Chusynd's hasty departure from his associates in Magnimar; the Sczarni families used the act of sparing the aasimar from the lawbringers of Hermea to their full advantage, business trips propelling him along first to Pezzack, then Ostenso in Cheliax, and finally to Absalom itself.

The Hermean agents showed surprising tenacity, however, and eventually Guaril Karila himself had to pull some strings, "vouching" directly for Chusynd to the Pathfinder Society, which ultimately found him conscripted into the relative safety of the Society and set through an accelerated training session and confirmation mission -- not quite on the level of a field commission, but rare in any case.

With the equivalent of Pathfinder boot camp behind him, Chusynd got word this morning that the renowned stuffed shirt Ambrus Valsin had a mission for him. Wonderful, he said to himself, shaking his head. Of all the people...

The only thing worse would be the pontificating Andoran Maldris or maybe the goody-goody paladin Zadrian. Oh, well -- it might be good to get out for a while, after so long cooped up in the Grand Lodge.

Watching carefully as others entered the lodge, Chusynd reminded himself of the parts he would share with others. Just another green dreamer, hailing from the coast of Varisia, he thought. No one need know any more than that.

Somehow, Blunttusk, Loegnir, Sgt Hobbes, Thujone, and Chusynd all happen to be in the same place. You are in the Pickled Badger, a typical pub in Absalom's Westgate district. The pub is full, and you all happen to be sitting at a large table together, although none of you have ever met before. At a table next to yours, you hear a loud man speak to his group. Yah. Rawknar slice up thems Aspis peoples many times. I seen things from Oppara to Tien. Even been in a diff'rent dimension fightin' da Fellnight Queen. I tell ya, it great bein a Pathfinder

The heroes look at each other, not knowing what a Pathfinder is. Over the course of the evening, you learn more about the Pathfinder society, and you also become acquainted with one another. Should you join the society? That is still up for debate. The night is young, and the ale is cold.

RP go!

Thujone is confused. He's not entirely sure how we got here, or who these people are sharing the table with him. This is not unusual for Thujone, as Thujone is a drunk. He believes this loud man is challenging him somehow.

"Challenge accepted! You think you're a Pathfinder? I'll show you a Pathfinder! I graduated at the top of my class in the Acadamae--yes, THE Acadamae, and five years early, to boot! I'll join your little club, and I'll be one of your Decemberites within the year!"

Thujone was indeed enrolled in the prestigious academy for wizards in Korvosa. However he didn't so much "graduate" as he was expelled. He was subsequently enrolled in increasingly less prestigious academies. His only real achievement in his years of schooling was masking his innate ability and passing it off as prepared magic. Even that's not much of a feat, as the only reason he was able to convince others he was not a sorcerer was his utter lack of charm.

"And you lot are coming with me! Another round for me and my fellow Fathpinders!"

Oh my...the Sorcerer No One Can Stand, perhaps inspired in part by Clinton Boomer. ;-) (Only in part, though, cos Booms is likeable whether drunk or sober.) Challenge accepted, indeed. Bring it ON! :-D

Incidentally, Rene: are you happier with your Google doc of our PCs, or do you wanna go with the header format we used in the other PBP (shown in Chusynd's tagline), or perhaps a variant thereof?

Now back to your regularly scheduled RPing...

Chusynd looks at the overserved elf and asks, to no one in particular, Is he always like that?

Google doc is fine. I have it open always.

BTW..this is the get to know each other time, and find out a reason to join the pathfinders.

Sgt. Hobbes glances at Chusynd with a shrug. "Got me...I only met him three ales ago."

"Pathfinders, huh. I've run into them...or, at least, adventurers who claimed to be Pathfinders...a couple of times, while I was on patrol. Always struck me as troublemakers, probably at the center of a bunch of bleeding bodies."

He rubs the stubble on his chin.

"But, I've also heard that they tend to be well-paid. Better paid than a City Watchman, for certain."

Believing in all things in moderation—save for divine wrath, of course—Ausk raises just his 6th tankard.

"More importantly, the Pathfinders," Pausing for a drink. "Make the areas they explore better through trade and containment of dangerous artifacts."

I am unfamiliar with these "pathfinders" or "fathpinders" or whatever. I'm certain I've never heard of them before. Bluff 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19

Would someone -- he looks at Thujone and pauses a bit before continuing -- perhaps someone sober -- be willing to indulge me with some details?

"Don't have any interest in being a saint Blunttusk...Gold on the other hand..."

"You've got to think bigger than that, my friend. Power. Influence. These lunkhead grave robbers and mercenaries know not the real value of the artifacts they uncover.

Thujone glances carefully at Blunttusk as he says this, seemingly aware that he may be crossing a line. He may be more sober than he's letting on

"Why run around in the service of gods...when you can become one?"

Thujone laughs and downs his ale

"Or at least die trying. Right, gents? Next round's on me!"

Chusynd sits back in his chair and ponders a moment.

Can't say I'm fond of the "die trying" part, but the "becoming" a god part, now that has merit.

"I didn't realize I was sharing a table with a buncha lads intent on the Starstone." Sgt. Hobbes chuckles. "All I can say is, I wish you the best of luck. Just remember us little folk kindly when you ascend to godhood."

He then glances at the elf. "Someone's buying next round? Could be a good evening, after all."

A fresh drink in hand, the sergeant turns to Blunttusk. "But, who's to say that the Pathfinders are the right ones to be holding those dangerous artifacts?"

"Well clearly the Pathfinders may not be the "right" ones, but their better than the alternatives," Ausk replies between sips. "Can you imagine what Nidal would do with an Azlanti relic or what my cousins in Belzken might do with a Sword of Sin? Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Ausk takes another long drink and slams down the tankard for effect.

"Nay, I say if all the Pathfinder's do with their finds is store them in museums, then we're better off than being in the hands of mad men or aspiring Gods."

An accusing glance met Thujone and Chusynd as he said the last part.

"Fair point, I suppose. Still not sure I trust 'em much, but yeah, it might beat the alternative."

He takes another drink.

"At any rate, name's Hobbes. Sergeant Hobbes, of the City Watch. Good to meet ya." He extends a thick hand to Blunttusk.

Thujone sniffs

"I would be a just and merciful god.

"Well...just, at least.

"Regardless, we can worry about my inevitable descent into corruption and madness another time. Today, we enlist!"

Chusynd claps the half-orc on the back. Now, now, friend -- I won't speak for the generous drink-buying elf here, but as for myself, I have no visions of replacing Iomedae, in her temples or in your heart. And I heartily agree that allowing more malevolent forces to hold the treasures of ages past is unwise.

The aasimar pulls out coin out from his belt pouch to pay for the next round. Besides, history tells me that when you give a being too much power, he will start to believe he can do no wrong. I know my own experience suggests that. He drains his mug of water.

There aren't many who wouldn't make a lousy god anyway -- the Ascendent Knight being a notable exception.

The gentleman from the other table seems to have been listening for a little while, and comes over. [b]Evenin' friends. Rawknar think you should try the Pathfinder society. Go to the lodge and talk to Ambrus Valsin. Tell him Rawknar sent yous.[b] Then he pays your tab and walks out.

Chusynd watches the man who has identified himself as Rawknir in the third person walk out the door. Then he looks at his table companions and thinks, They'll do all right, I suppose -- a sellsword, a holyman, an apothecary, and a -- well, whatever Thujone might turn out to be. A place for arrows to go besides my skin, if nothing else. He rises to his feet.

Come along, then. For those of you who haven't had the displeasure of Ambrus Valsin's company yet, you're in for quite the "treat."

From the nearby corner of the bar, a halfling approaches the table, slides up a stool and promptly sits. He has charm and honest eyes, which perhaps betray a craving for excitement and danger.

"Excuse me gents, but I couldn't help overhearing all this talk of gold and gods. Thistle's me name and singing's me game. If there are no objections, I'd like to tag along with you all and meet this Valsin character. I'm always looking for new inspiration and this Pathfinder society might be exactly what I need to get out of my recent song-writing funk."

Thujone sizes up the halfling
"A mascot! How wonderful! Or perhaps an Aspis Consortium agent sent to infiltrate our ranks and stab us all in the back. Either way, at least there will be music!"

He claps Thistle on the back

"One more for the road!"

Thujone gulps down one last drink and grabs his spellbook

"I never object to having somebody around that I can outrun if there's trouble."

I assume you head to the lodge to meet Ambrus the next morning.

After filling out the required paperwork to join the society (tax forms, non-disclosure agreements, etc), and going through a very strict security evaluation (via divination), you are lead to a large office. Sitting inside the office is a muscular human man. He looks up from his desk and begins speaking to you. All right, Pathfinders! Listen up. I know you are new recruits eager to make names for yourselves in the organization, but first we need to make sure you are up to snuff and won’t get yourself killed out there. I have a number of small assignments for you and your team, and it would be best if you could
finish them before the day’s end.

He takes a sip from his coffee, and continues. Every day we get some doe-eyed hopeful or some sniveling bootlicker willing to do anything
to join up with the Pathfinders. Most of them are good kids, but not all of them have the salt to make it in a world like this. It’s rough out there and I’m not just talking about the ruins, tombs, and wilderness Pathfinders find themselves in on missions. We’ve got people who look
down their noses at us, folks who think we squander our resources, and agents who want to take everything we have collected. This wealth of knowledge and these items of lore make us the most powerful organization on the planet. That said, since we are fractured and widespread, it’s difficult for that power to light on anything for too long. For every friend of the Society, there are two enemies.

Ambrus toots a little fart, has a split-second of embarrassement, then finishes. Your first mission, to test your mettle and loyalties, sends you to meet a few people important to the Society living here in Absalom. These are other venture-captains or close allies of our organization, so follow their orders as you would mine. I’ve prepared a list of things I want you to do. They’re not arranged in any particular order of importance, but I want them all completed as quickly as possible. Only report to me once you complete them all. Included in the envelope you hold in your hands is the list, complete with the name of your contact, and directions to the meeting location.

Done copy/pasting the boring

Ambrus also hands you a map of the 10 districts in Absalom. (here)

After receiving Rawknir's invitation in the tavern, Sgt. Hobbes gives the others at his table a long look.

"Pathfinders? Well, why the hell not?"

He finishes his ale.

"I suppose I should get home and let the missus know. She's always made sure my life insurance policy is paid up...this might be what leads to her collecting."

********

After Ambrus's briefing, the sergeant looks over the to-do list. He reads somewhat slowly, his lips moving as he does.

"Interesting list. Not what I expected."

The pale skinned Paladin snorts at the list.

"Every organization starts you up with busy work. With the Order, I had to clean the stables of the Holy Mounts," Ausk grunts. "Let me tell you, horse chips, is horse chips. Divine creature or not."

His eyes catch the item involving the delivery of aid to the Shining Star and his demeanor changes.

"Though, it seems that not every task is without worth,"

What Chusynd hears as Valsin is talking: blah blah blah Pathfinders blah blah blah missions blah blah blah most powerful organization on the planet ...wait, what? Then Valsin flatulates and Chusynd is overcome with a fit of giggles and misses the rest of the briefing.

After a moment getting his composure back, he reads a bit over Sarge's shoulder.
Cousin Guaril! Oh, we should definitely go there first!

Thujone's eyes light up at the mention of an item from the vaults

"Surely our priority should be in aiding the Paracountess with the retrieval of this item from the Pathfinder vaults. It would be perilous should such an artifact fall into the wrong hands."

Thujone senses he may have betrayed his eagerness.

"Or we could head to the docks. I am an avid reader and quite interested in seeing these books."

Bluff : 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 4 = 18

Sgt. Hobbes' eyes narrow as he looks at the list for a second time.

"The Pickled Imp...that really sounds familiar. Oh, yeah, I remember...the Watch had heard they were fencing stolen goods there. Never could prove anything, though."

He then looks at Chusynd. "You say he's a cousin of yours?"

"Sounds like a lot of busy work if you ask me! Which, of course, no one did. Then again, halfling opinions are rarely taken into account. Possibly due to the fact that people oft find it difficult to take seriously a people so small. But then, I DID choose to become an entertainer, so maybe it is my own fault that no one values my opinion. OR! It COULD be that my unconscious desire to be undervalued led me to my chosen profession, which in turn feeds the stereotype that all halflings are not to be taken seriously! In that case, my trivialized position is my very own doing! Furthermore, the only way for me to reassert my position and claim the lost power that has been denied my people over countless generations of racial..."

Suddenly snapping back to reality, Thistle notices that the rest of the party has wandered several paces away, obviously paying his tirade no heed. Thistle then hurriedly catches up with the party and, in an attempt to save face, agrees with the last opinion that was voiced.

"I agree with the elf! A set of rare books might be the perfect place to find a little inspiration!"

Thistle gives Thujone a smile and a wink.

"Nice work, Thistle" He mutters to himself. "Making friends with the Elf is the surest way to be taken seriously!"

Sgt. Hobbes' eyes narrow as he looks at the list for a second time.

"The Pickled Imp...that really sounds familiar. Oh, yeah, I remember...the Watch had heard they were fencing stolen goods there. Never could prove anything, though."

He then looks at Chusynd. "You say he's a cousin of yours?"

Wellll... the aasimar began, whipping up a cover story as he drew out the word, not exactly a close relative. He's a fourth -- maybe a fifth cousin. Twice removed. On my father's side. Bluff 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19 Which was patently untrue, or at least unknown to Chusynd, as he'd never met his father's family, or his mother's for that matter.

But tell me of *your* family, Sarge; I should like to hear about the world from which you've come. Diplomacy 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12

"Ahhh, distant relation, sounds like." [Sense Motive modifier is only +1]

"Well, I'm from Absalom. Born and raised in the Eastgate district. My folks are gone now. My wife Jeryn is a seamstress. We have one daughter; she's 15. I joined the City Watch when I was 20, almost 15 years ago now. Work the Night Watch, for the most part."

I think you are going to the pickled imp right?

You make your way to the Docks district, and are able to locate the Pickled Imp. This creepy shop contains various odds & ends. There is an odd assortment of creature parts in jars on a shelf. A greasy-haired man with a thin mustache pops his head up.

Ah yes. The Pathfinders are here. I'm glad Ambrus was able to lend me some of his new meat to help me.

The man looks around then ushers you in. Well met. I am Guaril Karela. A friend of mine has a warehouse near here and he received a parcel on behalf of me and some of my associates. Unfortunately, Master Gelbane had to leave in a hurry. I need you to retrieve the packages. There is a box with 3 big crows on it. There are papers in there that I need. If things work out, I'd be glad to talk with you on future endeavors. I'm good at returning favors. He winks, and then gives you directions to the warehouse.

"Raising a family is a noble profession, as is the Watch," The Half-Orc interjects. "There are great rewards for noble acts, both here and in the next life. What better way to start out our walk as Pathfinders than by performing a truly noble task and aiding the Orphans of the Shining Star and ensuring that their Ward is up to the task of caring for them?"

The Half-Orc smiles, his dulled tusks gleaming white, in a facsimile of a human grin that would almost be ridiculous if it wasn't so terrifying. Sensing that the group, however, had made a decision, he sighed and added.

"But books are ok, I guess."

Thujone looks around carefully

"This world is nearly as unstable as I am. We'd best be off to this warehouse. I'll assume we're to let ourselves in when we get there."

Perched on the end of a long pier fifteen feet above the water, the warehouse appears to struggle against its own roof, threatening to sag into the bay below. No light shines from the building’s windows and only the movement of gulls and pelicans stirs the scene.

Place yourselves on the dock leading to the warhouse. link

"Then it's off to the warehouse! Excellent."

Thistle is suddenly struck with inspiration.

"I think I know a song about a warehouse! Or maybe it was a were-rat... Hmm, I may have to change some of the wording...but it's an entertaining tune none the less! Feel free to jump in when we get to the chorus!"

Thistle begins to sing the song to himself as he walks towards the Pickled Imp's door.

Thistle's facial expression make no effort to hide his complete distrust for the structural integrity of the warehouse as he speaks.

"Looks like a nice enough place, eh? Why don't I just knock and see who's home?"

Thistle pushes himself to the front of the group, clears his throat several times, and gives the door a few brusque yet apprehensive knocks.

Ausk steps up next to the small bard and looks to see if he notices anything unusual.

Perception 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

Chusynd looks at the paladin and bard side-by-side and muses over an old joke: A bard and a paladin walk into a warehouse...

Almost to himself, he wonders aloud, Is that boat tied up? Maybe we can sell it...

Sgt. Hobbes looks up at the warehouse as the group approaches it.

"Hrrm. Looks like it's about to fall into the harbor."

He moves up behind Thistle as the bard knocks on the door.

Loegnir remains surly and let's others walk into potential trouble before him while remaining alert for anything out of the ordinary.

Perception d20+6=15+6=21

Loegnir can hear the faint sound of something moving inside the warehouse. The boat is tied up, and looks sturdy for a short ride, but nothing longer.

Ausk turns back to his companions.

"Anybody see or hear anything," He asks. "If not I think I'm going to try the door and see if it's locked."

The half-orc grips the handle of the door and waits for his companions before he acts.

Perception 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21 Haha, same 21 Zach got.
Sounds like something might be moving in there, but otherwise I don't hear anything except the squawking gulls and Thujone's liver crying out in agony.

"Elven physiology requires alcohol to function properly. Why do you think we invented it?"

Bluff: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7

Thujone tries to remember whatever he can about Master Gelbane and/or Guaril Karela

Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 17