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“Money money! Suck those dice, ya fiend suckin’ horn-beast!”
Such was the declaration of the sailor, gambling at the tavern you stopped into for the night. The barkeep, placing your food down in front of you, laughs at the man.
“Alright, keep it down Shin. Actually, why don’t you pack it in? I think you’ve spent up all your luck for the night,”
The sailor shakes his head.
“No way. No way Desna’s going to stop givin’ be her love!”
With that, he deposits his whole purse on the table in front of the tiefling his is competing with. The barkeep crosses his arms and shakes his head.
“You don’t have the luck of Desna, just the love of greed pushing you forward. You can’t keep doing this forever!”
“You bet I can! Just you watch Jim. I’m going to get all the money from this devil!”
The tiefling smiles as Shin roles the dice. They bounce over the wooden grain of the table, rolling, turning…
Snakes Eyes.
The barkeep laughs.
“Told you Shin. You can’t be greedy forever!”
As the sailor curses, you see the scene in front of you become blurry. Your head spins. The barkeep puts his hand on your shoulder.
“You okay stranger?”
As your head hits the table, and the world goes black, you here a voice.
“Damn drunks. I’ll throw this one at back for ya Ji---”
Funny thing is…
You didn’t even have anything to drink.
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You dream.
In front of you is a leaning monument to the district’s pain, this four-story courthouse is a crumbling marvel of cracked plaster and chipped marble. Once a testament to justice wrought in shining white stone, the courthouse is now a crushed dream. Rainwater from a recent downpour mixed with mulch oozes from ruptures in the rock like pus bubbling from a wound. The structure of the eastern wing of the upper floor buckled long ago, and now the bell tower tilts perilously, appearing as though it might careen to the ground below at any moment. Two massive pillars frame the heavy oak doors of the court. The pillars’ surfaces run with cracks and fissures like so many burst veins. The doors sag in their archway like the drooping eyes of a madman. The surrounding structures long ago fell in upon themselves in supplication to the creaking courthouse.
A salt wind blows up the precipice and rakes across the tangled weeds out in front. The whole building groans as the wind blows, its tortured lamentation fading to a rasping hiss as the wind ebbs. This croaking murmur never completely fades away. The sun sets in the west, the last slivers of twilight painting the courthouse blood red as darkness creeps closer.
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Your head pounds.
Baaboom.
Baaboom.
You hear some commotion, and realize that you aren’t where you were.
“Oh my god! Where are we?”
“This…this is the old courthouse!”
“No!”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll get us through this,”
You look about, stiff all over, your head still pounding.
Baboom.
Baboom.
This does indeed look like a courthouse, and this, this must be the courtroom. Rows of dusty benches, several askew or knocked over, are lined behind a waist-high partition separating spectators from trials. A dusty wooden jurors’ box, rickety from generations of termites and time’s cruel fangs, stands against the south wall. A high bench covered in muslin rests against the east wall. Two thick tables once stood facing the bench, but now, one has been smashed to kindling. An evidence table rests against the south wall.
You sit in a juror's chair. Around you are several other people, all who seem to be as, if not more, confused than you, and most of them look terrified. You aren’t sure about all them…and with your head pounding…you can only make out a few details about some of them…
A Half-Orc with a pierced nose.
A nasty looking gnome with face paint and a jester’s cap.
A very attractive looking human wearing a gorgeous dress and a necklace made of the finest gems.
An attractive human with wearing all white, white hair, a handlebar mustache, and a white top hat.
A powerful looking hobgoblin with burning orange eyes and multiple piercings on his torn up ears.
A mean looking man with grey hair, wearing full armor adorned with the holy symbols of Iomedae.
A very attractive Halfling woman in a red tumbler’s outfit.
A grizzled old dwarf, who looks like he has toughened up after years of hard work.
Your head begins to level out. The headache is now like the memory of a bad dream, and you find yourself wishing that this was a bad dream that would just would go away...
After looking around, Demaiv's hand instantly goes to his necklace, breathing a sigh of relief if it's there.
After having done a quick one-over of his equipment, Demaiv begins to look around, taking stock of the courtroom first. He's looking for any hint of where he might be.
Perception:
After having been removed from people for so long, Demaiv almost forgets that there are others around him in the same predicament. To an outside observer, it might seem like he's intentionally ignoring them.
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Demaiv would find that while he still had his worn equipment and crossbow (and bolts), his spear and backpack were missing! Oddly enough, his notebook and writing tools were placed neatly at his feet.
The only other thing to note is a crumbling ceiling mural of Iomedae fighting Asmodeus, and a very large, blood covered axe is embedded in the evidence table.
Demaiv is a little worried at the fact that his spear and backpack are missing, but upon noticing his notebook and writing tools on the ground, he promptly picks them up and tries to find a place to store them safely for the time being. Eventually he decides to simply stuff them in between a couple layers of his robe and hopes they stay there.
Knowledge (History):
Demaiv almost jumps when he remembers there are people all around him, and slowly looks around. Demaiv thinks he recognizes one of the Varisian women as a girl that frequented Sandpoint often... what was her name again? Started with a Z...
There were only two things Torme truly disliked in the world; everything, and hangovers. While this wasn't strictly speaking a hangover, it certainly fit somewhere close by- close enough that Torme's first instinct on swimming back to conciousness was to find something squishier than himself and push his thumbs through its eyes.
He'd dreamt - if it could have been said to be a dream - of the bleak and beautiful wasteland of his home. Of Clan Cerwyn and his uselessly stupid father, whom he loved dearly.
"Where are we?" Torme called out to the others around him, almost immediately regretting the question. He was Dorne's son after all, it seemed. "Nevermind."
The Ulfen stood, uncoiling from the ground like a lanky hillock with a beard. It would be an overgenerous assessment to call him graceful. Torme's back popped and he grunted, rubbing at one shoulder.
"Who are you..." he paused, then gestured vaguely. Torme disliked speaking in Common. It never rolled easily off his tongue, and there were enough people that assumed he was a dumb Ulfen brute as was. Not that he was doing the stereotype any favors right now. "...all. You all. Us."
Torme gave up, flumping down to sit on the ground and stifle a yawn.
Awakening with a yawn, Zella sits up and stretches out as she looks around and realizes that though she is no stranger to waking up in odd places, this doesn't seem right. She also doesn't recall drinking with any of the people with her now.
Zella stands up and searches for her backpack and an exit, taking time to reply to the large man, "My name's Zelladania, I don't suppose anyone has a clue as to how we got here?"
Zelladania! That was her then. Finding it difficult to pull his eyes away from her, Demaiv stepped forward and introduced himself: "Hello Zelladania, my name is Demaiv Neikar. I wish I could enlighten you, but I am also at a loss, so I will let someone else who may have some idea speak."
Stopping her search for a moment, Zella smiles up at Demaiv. "It's nice to meet you Demaiv."
Sholloch is confused. He tries to piece together what happened, closing his eyes to the scene before him, closing his eyes to the conversation between the short thin woman and the tall and beefy man, he reaches into his mind.
but finds no more information forthcoming.
Opening his eyes and ear again, Sholloch focuses on the room.
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Demaiv isn’t quite sure, but he vaguely remembers hearing about a courthouse in Magnimar, haunted by the vile spirit of a brutal murderer named Jarbin Mord, who was the last man to swing on its gallows. Jarbin had killed his wife and son with a huge axe, and then he swung from the very gallows he tended to as executioner for nearly ten years.
As Torme tries remembering his dreams, he is suddenly hit with a vision…
A hulking man is hunched over in this dark dreary corridor of cold flagstone, his back to you. His right hand works feverishly, sawing away at something unseen with a blood-slick shortsword as he gibbers: “Show me the way, Sashrala, you can do it. Use your magic to show me out of here. I love you. I love you so much. Just please show me the way!” With a final wet snap of sinew, blood pools at the man’s feet and he hefts the gory head of a beautiful elven woman. “Thank you, Sashrala. I love you.” The man cries and laughs at once as he kisses her still-working lips and then thrusts her head forward like a lantern. The poor woman’s eyes still blink in disbelief; you get the horrid sense she can still see as her mouth trembles out a vain and silent plea for mercy. Her body lies in a pool of blood flowing freely from her hacked neck. Her right arm is outstretched, her finger pointing toward something beyond the darkness.
The man with the handlebar mustache smiles and puts out his hand to Torme.
“You okay stranger? Killian Paltreth is the name. Pleasure to meet you stranger, even though the circumstances could be better. As to where we are…well, I believe it is the old courthouse. Nasty place, this. Lots of bad memories,”
The grizzled old dwarf scoffs.
“Not that bad Killian. We helped a guilty man swing. Nothing wrong with that. This is probably just…a practical joke,”
The armored man scowls.
“Some joke,”
As Zella looked around, she saw boarded up windows on the east and south walls, a set of tall, wide wooden doors on the western wall. Nowhere were any signs of her backpack, quiver, or shortbow…although, her thieves tools were neatly placed at her feet.
Hearing the comments about the courthouse, Sholloch remembers a story about an old haunted courthouse in Magnimar that a band of adventurers, led by Father Kelgaard of the Church of Sarenrae, braved five years ago. Despite initial fanfare to the expedition, only one of his band survived: a burly human named Grisom Twin-Axe, and his mind was shattered by the harrowing experience.
Sholloch realized that he didn’t have his crossbow or backpack, but at his feet were his candles and flint and steel, all bundled up.
Zella bends over and picks up her bundle of tools and looks over to the doors. "I think that I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible. Has anyone tried those doors over there yet? Also, I'd really like to know where my backpack went. My favorite dancing outfit was in it." Zella frowns as she thinks of what is now missing.
Zella will walk over to the doors herself and try to open them. If they appear locked she will try to pick the lock.
Demaiv knew when it was time for action, and when it was time for study. Retrieving his writing implements from his robes, he sat down at one of the benches, and immediately started making a sketch of the table, with it's embedded axe. The time for action could wait.
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Sholloch gathers up his remaining gear and puts them in the pockets of his sash. He is distressed at the fact he has lost his crossbow and backpack he is at least comforted that he still has his wand and daggers.
He ears perk up at the Dwarf's comments.
Stuttering he asks: Y...you were on the jury for a case here? Piecing it together slowly...And i will assume it had to do with that Axe over there?
As people start to look at him Sholloch's nervous tendencies grab hold and he reaches up to pinch his lips to keep from talking.
"M'fine." Torme grunted, shaking the others hand. "Name's Torme Cerwyn, son of Dorne the Whitewyrm."
The image still rattled around in his head. Blood and butchery. Not his kind, either. The Ulfen flexed his calloused hands, eyes drifting to the ax. A big ax. A big ax could help. Torme didn't know much, but he knew axes and how to swing them.
"There's somethin' magick-y going on here. Dead guy killed his wife- well, not her head. That he took." Torme said. He wasn't very good at explaining things. The Ulfen tapped the side of his head. "Just saw it. Think that's his ax."
With a graceless lope, Torme ambled over to the ax, grabbing hold of it and giving it a solid yank to try and free it.
"No honor in the dead bloke. Best return his ax to him. Blade first."
Or at least, that is what Torme the Ulfen would have done, had it not been for the eye-piercing scream that filled the room, causing the sword of Iomedae in the crumbling mural to suddenly fall out of the ceiling and crash down upon the evidence table and Torme, causing the end of the table with the ax to bounce up, freeing the bloodied weapon, which then flies wildly, straight towards Demaiv!
The room is eerily silent, as it is filled with kicked up dust. Just as you realize that the sword of Iomedae was only in fact the ceiling mural, and not truly a sword, another scream fills the room, coming from the women in the red dress. The gnome and halfling are nowhere to be seen.
"We're all going to die! We're all going to die!"
Zella finds that the doors open with a hard shove.
Now is the time for action! Demaiv makes sure he grabs his notebook before attempting to dive out of the way!
Reflex Save:
After having successfully dived out of the way, Demaiv shuts his notebook, places in back in his robes, and says "Alright, that's it, it's getting dangerous in here." He grabs his amulet and begins whispering, almost a prayer, making the casting motions with his free hand.
That being done, Demaiv attempts to calm people down, shouting over anyone who might be talking. "Let's not panic! I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for what's going on. It looks like Ms. Zelladania has the door open, so let us simply leave."
Diplomacy:
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Demaiv had jumped out of the way of the flying ax, but hadn't moved far enough.
Thankfully, only the handle smacked him on the side.
The dwarf laughed as he slapped Demaiv on the place he got struck.
"Ha! That was impressive boy! Name's Tablark Hammergrind. Now, I agree, let us get out of here. When we get back ta town, I'll buy you a pint!"
The dwarf walked into the hall, followed by the others , except for the halfling and gnome, who you still don't see.
Zella could clearly see into the hall. Eight enormous marble pillars fill this great, probably 100 feet long and 50 feet wide hall, holding aloft grand balconies. Years of dust cover the floor, and muslin coverings are draped over the railings of baroque staircases curling like lazy serpents up to the raised landings above. A rusted chandelier above sheds the dim light of a few guttering candles. An impressive grandfather clock more than ten feet tall rests against the center of the western wall, its face decorated with guilty souls suffering Asmodeus’ torments: evisceration, force-feasting of coals, scalding blades tearing them apart, and other less savory punishments. The clock stands between a set of impressive oak doors and a lone oak door of equitable splendor, identical to another set across the hall. The largest set of doors is at the south end of this long hall. They are barred against the night.
Suddenly, the old grandfather clock goes berserk, tolling and clanging dissonantly, assaulting your sanity.
Half-Orc:
Gnome:
Woman in the red dress:
Killian Palreth:
Hobgoblin:
Armored Man:
Halfling:
Tablark:
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Zella, as you hear the awful sounds coming from the clock, you are struck with a vision:
A cloaked figure enters a small attic. A voluptuous woman with dark features sits in a rocking chair, swaying as she hums and knits a sweater
for a small child. She looks up, alarm on her face, as the figure closes, its back to you as it advances toward her. Slowly the alarm changes to horror as the figure looms over her.
You shake the vision away, but the memory of it fills you with dread, dread that won't soon leave you.
Zella puts her hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the sounds of the clock as a look of fear crosses her face.
Back in the courtroom, Demaiv had greeted Talbrak's firm slap with a wince and a smile.
Demaiv, seeing a similar vision to Zella, stops cold in his tracks, turning as white as a sheet, struggling with himself for a moment. His instinct is to run from the vision screaming, but he has enough of his mind left to refrain... for now.
Sholloch watches are the Ulfen strides to the axe...he reaches out his hand and is about to call out for the northerner to stop...too late. His arms fly up to block his face from shrapnel, but he sees the axe fly across and strike the Varisian youth.
.....
Sholloch casts a spell that will help him Anticipate Peril and follows the rest of the group into the hallway.
As the grandfather clock goes wild Sholloch calls out....BY THE HORNS OF CELESTIA!!!
As the din subsides Sholloch face redden in embarrassment to his calling out...
As the grandfather clock went berserk, Adanel would sit straight up in the chair he currently presided in. His eyes were wide as he first came to, but that would last for but a moment as the clanging assaulted his senses. With a growl brought forth from discomfort and pain, Adanel's face would go into a scowl as he brought his hands to his ears in an attempt to dull the noise.
Torme was no seer, but he knew a sign when it fell on him. Hard. Hard enough to send him reeling back, the taste of blood filling his mouth from where he'd bitten into his tongue. Reflexively, the Ulfen lashed out, shattering more of the table further with a bootstrike. He lashed out again for good measure, then moped over to where the ax had landed, scooping it up.
Then the noise. Then the vision.
It wasn't Torme's day.
Höd opens his eyes on an empty courtroom. Scanning quickly around, he sees the last of the group head through the door and a Half-Orc (Adanel) walking up near him.
"Move Orc! We need to be out of here."
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Höd Ronoakson stands 6'3" and is therefore on the shorter end of his kin. He has a light brown/dirty blond mess of hair and a matching beard. Höd is 27 years old and weighs 189 lbs. His hazel eyes are now as pale as his skin thanks to his curse.
Höd wears a maroon tunic with 3 quarter sleeves under an exquisite coat of burnished, silver, steel scales edged in polished brass. Around his shoulder's he wears a handsome blue cloak trimmed in yellow. Its hem is slightly frayed from travel. Höd's loose black trousers end tucked into fine brown leather boots. A beaten wooden shield is slung across his back.
Höd carries several weapons: A masterly crafted greatsword named Fenrir. He carries twin hand axes made especially to be thrown in addition to see use in hand to hand combat.
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Höd scoops up his gear in one arm and tucks it away as he tears after the fleeing jury. Right as he catches up in earnest, an old clock goes berserk in the grand hallway.
Höd feels the icy hand of fear clutch at his heart, but thoughts of his mother melt it away and he stands firm, ready for what is surely coming.
As the horrid sound assaulted the ears of Sholloch, Torme, and Höd, they were able to grit their teeth against it, and didn't receive a vision.
As Höd tried picking up his gear, he realized that he did not have his backpack, greatsword, throwing axes, shield, signal horn, bedroll, or waterskin.
The armored man went to the door and tried to lift the wooden bar holding the door closed.
"Let me get you civvies out of here. I've always meant to come back here and remove the evil that dwells here,"
With that he put his shoulder to the wood and lifted.
An audible crack could be heard...but it was probably from the man's back, not the door.
"Aah!"
The half-orc walked up.
"Let me help you my Lord,"
Diplomacy
But the man seemed unmoved.
"No, no, I can do this. Iomedae will give me strength,"
The man tried again.
The wooden bar continued to not bung.
"The damnable bar won't move!"
The man now stood with a slight hump. The dwarf walked over.
"Are you okay? Looks like ya threw out yer back!"
"I'm fine"
Demaiv, still a bit stunned from the vision , Demaiv shakes his head, trying to clear it. The man attempting to open the door... he said something about Iomedae. Well, if you count on an inferior god for your strength, what can you expect? Demaiv decides to assist the man, and walks over to him.
"Perhaps I can assist you... I have a spell which will be able to increase your strength, temporarily. It is... a little beyond my ability to cast, but I've had instruction on how to control the arcane energy.
"Just take the help so we can get out of this cursed place."
"I will help you."
"Allow me to lend my assistance."
Demaiv begins attempting to cast Bull's Strength on Hod, as he seems to be the stronger of the two men.
CL Check:
Having succeeded in the casting, Demaiv feels elation. Obviously Apsu is smiling on him today, despite the knock he took from the axe. Demaiv moves to lend a hand with the door.
Strength Check (Aid Another):
Höd adjusts his grip and heaves again.
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The woman in the red dress smiled and walked over to the armored man, placing her hands on his arm.
"Sir Rekkart, I know you wish to show us your strength and youthfulness, but we should really be gone from this place. Why not help someone else open the door?"
The armored man blushed, but shook his head.
"Nonsense, I can get this,"
Meanwhile, the hobgoblin muttered under his breath.
"Why won't it move? Has anyone even considered that?"
The dwarf rolled his eyes.
"You shut yer dirty mouth Malgrim! No one asked fer a goblin's opinion!"
"Besides, it is clear that wood has become swollen from years of disuse. You might be better served takin' an ax to it, or removing the bolts holding the wood in place,"
His willpower slipping, Adanel would let out another growl as he turned his gaze to take in the rude man. However, upon seeing the man armored man, he would hold back any retort as his mind turned towards his possessions.
Quickly he would start to search about for his own gear as he could clearly not sit in a backed chair with his sword and bow on. As his eyes swept the immediate area, his hands would slip to the small of his back to feel for his bedroll.
Clenching his fists, Adanel would turn his eyes to the group with suspicion. Glancing over each as he cautiously made his way through the layout of chairs and towards the rest of the group. Taking his time to make sure none of them held any of his possessions. Luckily most of it was quite large so he should have had no trouble finding them, however they were no where to be seen.
Upon entering the adjoining room, Adanel would stop within the threshold of the door as he took his time searching the room for any lurking dangers or items of interest.
Torme hefted his new ax, lips set in a thin line. Somewhere in his chest burned the Cerwyn temper that he worked so hard to keep under control. It had its uses - generally around the times when sharp thing A was required in squishy thing B - but right now, clarity of thought seemed to be the name of the game. The crooked-teeth Ulfen plodded over to the door they'd been trying to budge.
"Y'need an ax? I've got an ax." he said, pointedly placing the sharpened edge to the door. "Arms to swing, too. Clear away."
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Adanel didn't see anything of note.
As Torme set his ax, most everyone backed up.
Everyone but Sir Rekkart.
"What? Oh no, I've got this son. No need to destroy this door,"
Unless he swung right where Sir Rekkart stood, Torme stood no chance of hitting Rekkart; the doors, together, were twenty feet wide.
"Who cares if the door is destroyed? Let's just get out of this place." Zella is cleary frustrated by the mans continued refusal of help.
"Or maybe just take the axe to one of the boarded up windows."
Demaiv is also slightly fed up. Usually he was a patient person but this place was getting to him. "I'll just melt these doors, and we'll be on our way." Focusing for a moment on his charm, Demaiv casts the spell, and reached out and touches the center of the door.
Sense Motive:
Perception:
Sholloch is confused by the knights refusal for assistance, and for his concern for the door on an unused building. So he starts to watch his actions a little more closely.
With a determined look on her face, Zella moves to the side of the door and examines the hinges and bolts holding it in place. Then she'll begin to remove them.
She will move to whichever side that man is not on if needed and will not move unless he physically moves her.
"Agreed!" Demaiv was quick to act on the lady in red's words, pushing the door open.
As everyone files out the door:
"Pardon, but is anyone else missing possessions, and if so, where might they be found?"
Adanel would look at the large man as he spoke before adding in his agreement with a simply put, "Indeed." Once spoken, he would make his way out of the threshold to the previous room they had awoken in to see what the newly opened entryway would lead to.