Shadows in Westcrown: A Council of Thieves Campaign

Game Master Briccone

Westcrown is a dark and dour place. Everything and everyone is what and who they should be, or they regret it. Sooner, or later.

Or that's what they tell you. It's what they told me. So I was good. Well, I was dutiful. I was also good, but that wasn't what they had meant.

Where was I? Oh yes, dutiful. I was dutiful.

I had dutifully stood and glowered, unreadable, unthreatening, but obviously armed, and ready, in the brothel where I lived. Where I was raised, perhaps born. You don't ask questions, when they aren't answered. You just do your job. Mine was to glower, to watch, and if there was trouble, to get there first. And I was good at it. Until I wasn't.

It was the dutiful thing, you see. When a helmeted Hellknight says you're to come answer questions, you go. Maybe not if you're expecting trouble, but the sun was still rising, there would be no business, let alone trouble, for hours. So I went, dutifully. And when the Hellknight found some other infraction on the way there, and sent me ahead to the garrison, I went. And when I got there, well, for Hellknights, you wait. Eventually, they get tired of scowling at you, and somebody asks. And you wait some more, until the Hellknight doesn't show, and they suggest you leave. Go home, they said.

So I went. Home, I guess. I guess it was home. No, it was. It was definitely home.

And now it's gone. They were all gone. Not missing, but dead. Fast. It was fast. Like they didn't...

It was fast.

And the dog was there, leashed still behind the desk out front, like nothing happened. Oh, he knows something happened, he knows we're not there anymore, I can tell he misses them...

So, anyway, Westcrown is a different kind of place, now. Not everyone is doing what they should be.

I don't know who they are. I don't know, if it's the helmeted Hellknight, or the Shelynite with his little carvings, or... I don't know.

But I will. And they'll regret it. Sooner, or later.

By the Waters
Can a hound mourn? Can a devil?

-----

"By-y-y-y, the wa-a-aters, the wa-a-aters...", the tiefling sang* softly, mournfully, as he worked. The black hound followed, and occasionally matched a broken note with a woeful whine. The only other sounds in the Westcrown predawn were the tiefling's steps, and the occasional whine, sharper than the dog's, from the springs of the cart, with each new burden the tiefling added.

* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTnspbSjKVc

-----

"We lay down and we-ept, and we-ept...", the tiefling sang softly, dutifully, as he dug the graves. The black hound lay nearby, softly whining, perhaps to match the tiefling's song, or the cart's infrequent springsong, punctuating each lessening of its load.

-----

"We remember thee, remember thee, remember thee...", the tiefling sang tiredly, his voice rough with his labors and the repeated song. The shovel's clatter into the cart had roused the hound, and it now stood next to him, while he sang, his voice growing rougher, without the balancing burden of the work to be done.

"By the waters, the waters, the waters
Beneath Bellcrown
We lay down and wept, and wept
For these our young
We remember thee
Remember thee
Remember these our young
We remember thee
Remember thee
Remember these our young."

At the end, the voice was just a growl; it could have come from man or beast. Except the beast was whining.

A promising and competent member of the Rootcrush kobold tribe, Draxwile was born with innate magical powers so great, he couldn't help, but be held above the rest - he was in line to be a leader of the tribe. But sadly, the Hellknights put a stop to his plans in their effort to root out the 'vermin' from Westcrown's surrounding lands, purging anything unwanted, including Draxwile's tribe. Despite his best efforts, Draxwile could not save his kind, and was forced to flee while the rest were slaughtered, as he believes. If any survived, he has yet to locate them.

Since then, Draxwile has been honing his skills, his magical prowess, and his knowledge of both the arcane arts and Westcrown's nobility. Taking up residence in the city sewers, Draxwile plots beneath the very noses of those who would happily see him wiped out of existence. In particular, he hopes to gather enough strength to purge the Hellknights as they tried to exterminate his own kind.

However, he understands that he cannot do this alone. He needs aid if he is to see Westcrown's authority suffer for its crimes. As such, he has occasionally run across and lent support to the 'concerned citizens' of Westcrown, from swiping the odd item to setting up magical traps for those accursed Hellknights. Every seed of chaos he sews now will bloom into a full scale backlash against those who have wronged him. If he plays his cards properly, he may even fall in favor with the new ruling group of Westcrown, perhaps setting up a new tribe right in the very sewers he navigates today.

Draxwile is consumed with thoughts of revenge against the Hellknights, while simultaneously interested in starting a new tribe of kobolds right under Westcrown. As he currently seems to command the sewers with his latent arcane powers, he hopes that his aid now will result in those above ground seeing how useful, orderly and protected kobolds can make such terrible conditions out to be.
Draxwile (or 'Drax' as some of the children he's flitted past have come to call him) takes great care in laying things out in a very quick and quiet manner, while maintaining a good line of sight on things. If Draxwile begins to start laying down traps and barriers in an area, it's a wise idea to join him in his tasks, as he's likely spotted something he considers dangerous. Draxwile is a dedicated team player, and is always ready with a back-up plan if things go south; Draxwile stays in the back of a fray not because he's afraid, but because he knows the value of keeping your options open. A sound retreat is never a bad move, and a well prepared battle-line can mean the difference between things going well, or sorely sour. That isn't to say Draxwile will flee at the slightest hint of things turning bad - he is the last one to admit that a defeat may be inevitable. But luring someone into traps or a false sense of security, and having a well defending backside, is all part of the bigger plan for victory.
While Draxwile is certainly one who enjoys a challenge of the mind, his body is not so willing to comply. It's rare to see him enter the fray of battle, and as such, as no issue with letting others do the heaving lifting and dirty work. And, unfortunately, he is not above sacrificing others if it means securing victory, as kobolds are wont to do at times. But he understands that the alliance of larger races is a great asset, and will do all in his power to make sure such losses are a last resort.

Corbould looks down at the wayfinder and thinks of his parents. Dust and cobwebs and just the right hints of dark magic separates him from the Lodge. That and the Watch patrols.

"You don't have what is needed now, Corbould. Go back to House Darius before you're missed."

He slips the instrument into his pack and says nothing. Milroy scratches at his beard and gives a nudge. "Let's move."

Corbould backs into the alleyway and turns as soon as he can no longer see the last guard. Milroy is close behind, his gnomish legs doing well to keep up with his human counterpart. "What news from the City?"

"Your father sends his congratulations."

"Is he going back to the Embassy next month?" Corbould signals for silence as they arrive at the next corner. After determining it's clear he continues. "Or will he seek further study?"

"With you at Emile's side, there's little reason for him to return. Your employers are lenient if anything."

Corbould grunts. "He's older. More like they see him as too old to continue his post."

"Will you continue?" Milroy takes that tone which the other finds quarrelsome.

He stops short and rounds on the other. "I keep my word, Milroy. Doubt all you want, but my parents raised me well."

The gnome holds up his hands and smiles nervously. "Have to check, now. Things are going to get worse before..." Milroy drops his hands and shrugs. [b ]"To be honest, they're just going to get worse until we can get in there."[/b]

Courbold's brown eyes leave the gnome and go back the way they came. "Too much at stake, I know." He looks back to Milroy. "I won't falter. You can tell them that for me."

"You can't be sure she's in there...so much time has passed..." Milroy's hands go up of their own accord as he hurriedly continues, whispered words like rushing wind. "She disappeared from the city. You know the rumors, so many are taken and never seen again. Aurelia may not have gone in..."

"You know as well as I that if she'd been taken, they'd have come for me by now." Courbold's hands knot into fists, his feet shifting his weight as the Drifting Tree stance of his posture expresses his conviction and readiness. "If she's not in there, then I honor her and my father by following their work."

Milroy simply nods and gestures towards the south. "Go on then. I'll meet you again next month."

Corbould relaxes his stance and his fists. "So be it. Leave word with Marcum in the Fiddler's Works this time. Lilliar is going to be moving to the north soon."

Without waiting Corbould departs into the Chelish night and for the banners of House Darius. Tomorrow Emile and Staeven would be going to the docks to oversea shipments. It would be up to Corbould to see that Emile continued his training.

.

Corbould Portos is the son of a Chelaxian man and a Absalom woman. His father is part of a line of Irori monks charged with the training of House Darius in the art of for sonar combat. In return, the minor nobility brings these instructors to the temple in Absalom to perfect their own training while the noble house conducts business via the Chelish Embassy.

It was during one of these periods in Absalom that Courbold's father Heluo met his mother Aurelia. The former there at the temple of Irori, the latter in the same location as part of a project for the Forae Logos. When speaking of their meeting, his father would say, "such moments in life are like resonance of rain upon a parched land."

Time and the tolerance of his noble employers saw Heluo and Aurelia married and returning to Cheliax. He continued in the service of the House as Aurelia continued her work as a scholar and writer.

But years later, his mother's past emerged. While truly in love with Heluo, her old loyalties also to called her. In her youth, she'd been a part of the Pathfinder Society, something she'd kept secret from husband and son. Now in Westcrown, Aurelia had proximity to the Delvehaven, the long ago restricted Lodge which had been the center of her studies back in Absalom.

Heluo had a choice; support his wife and risk their family's destruction at the hands of the authorities. Or not support her, even turn her in, and risk the destruction of their family from within.

The choice was not easy, but there was little he could do but respect his duty as a father and a husband. He chose to aid her when he could, but it could never be to jeopardize House Darius or their family.

Years later, when it came time for Corbould to assume the position of a trainer in House Darius, his mother disappeared. Months of searching yielded nothing. It was assigned though she'd simply left.

Long after hope had departed and Corbould had journeyed to Absalom for training as dictated by House tradition, the Pathfinders sought him out. There offer, to aid in the search for his mother, and in return, he would aid their people in Westcrown in gaining entrance into Delvehaven.

Duty is everything to Corbould, a quality ingrained in him by his parents and honed by his training in the temple of Irori. His code allows for nothing less than total honesty to himself, knowing that allowing self deception is a fool's gambit. He would help the Pathfinders and honor his parents.

------

Basic concept is a monk who is part of a long line of trainers tied to a minor Chelish house. If it's okay, I put a twist on the Campaign Trait Pathfinder's Exile to tie in his obsession with the Delvehaven.

.
He is driven by an internal code of stringent honor. Family is always first in his eyes, then duty to Temple, then to House Darius who's seen their way to being benefactors of a train sending able warriors to the service of Irori.

He sees the perfection of his body as perfection of the spirit. Without seeking this perfection, he cannot seek to accomplish his obligations. Always Always at his core is the desire to find out what happened to his mother. Did she allow her obsession with Delvehaven to claim her life?

Corbould must know...

He is quiet for the most part but prone to drawing conclusions too quickly. This personal fault has lead him to focus on grappling in his martial studies. This way, with an opponent subdued, he had more time to apply proper discernment.

Corbould Portos
Human (Chelaxian) Monk 1
LN
Init +8; Senses Perception +7
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 17, touch 17, flat-footed 13 (+4 Dex, +3 Wis)
hp 11 (1d8+3)
Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +5
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft.

Melee
darkwood quarterstaff +3 (1d6+3)
. . handaxe +4 (1d6+2/×3)
. . handaxe +4 (1d6+2/×3)
. . unarmed strike +4 (1d6+2)

Ranged
Shuriken +4 (1d2+2)

Special Attacks
flurry of blows
stunning fist (1/day, DC 13)
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 14
Dex 18
Con 14
Int 10
Wis 16
Cha 12

Base Atk +0; CMB +2 (+4 grapple); CMD 19 (21 vs. grapple)

Feats
Crushing Blow[UC]
Improved Grapple
Improved Initiative
Improved Unarmed Strike
Stunning Fist
Weapon Finesse

Traits
the pathfinder's exile
wisdom in the flesh

Skills
Acrobatics +8
Knowledge (history) +4
Knowledge (religion) +7
Perception +7
Profession (teacher) +7
Sense Motive +7
Stealth +8

Languages
Common
Chelish

SQ
ac bonus
stunning fist (stun)
unarmed strike

Combat Gear
caltrops (2); Other Gear darkwood quarterstaff, handaxe, handaxe, shuriken (10), backpack, masterwork, grappling hook, impossible papyrus, iron spike (2), scroll case, silk rope (50 ft.), waterskin, 283 gp, 9 sp

--------------------
Special Abilities
--------------------
AC Bonus +3
The Monk adds his Wisdom bonus to AC and CMD, more at higher levels.

Crushing Blow (-3)
Stunning Fist reduces target's AC

Flurry of Blows -1/-1 (Ex)
Make Flurry of Blows attack as a full rd action.

Improved Grapple
You don't provoke attacks of opportunity when grappling a foe.

Improved Unarmed Strike
Unarmed strikes don't cause attacks of opportunity, and can be lethal.

Stunning Fist (1/day, DC 13)
You can stun an opponent with an unarmed attack.

Stunning Fist (Stun) (Ex)
At 1st level, the monk gains Stunning Fist as a bonus feat, even if he does not meet the prerequisites. At 4th level, and every 4 levels thereafter, the monk gains the ability to apply a new condition to the target of his Stunning Fist.

The Pathfinder's Exile
Receive a magic compass (+2 survival to avoid being getting lost, light on command)

Unarmed Strike (1d6)
The Monk does lethal damage with his unarmed strikes.

Wisdom in the Flesh (Knowledge [religion])
Knowledge (religion) becomes a Wisdom-based, class skill.

Mera is in the flower of her youth. She has the black hair, black eyes and light skin common to Chelaxians, combined with the carefully cultivated beauty of a daughter of a lesser house. While she is comfortable enough wearing normal clothes, she tends to default to wearing her entertainer's outfit; a dress befitting an aspiring Chelish diva of the opera. This is part habit, and part cold calculation. Mera knows she looks stunning in the dress, and she will use any advantage she can get.

In Cheliax, the House of Thrune rules. It is a mighty house, a dark house, an evil house of many scions, and it was such even before the death of Aroden. The Wist-Thrunes are probably an unavoidable result of having so many noble youngsters running around at the same time. To put it kindly, the first Wist-Thrune was born on the wrong side of the sheets.

Since the founding of this lesser 'House', the Wist-Thrunes have been struggling to get in good with their mightier cousins. The occasional intermarriage has occurred, but mostly the Wist-Thrunes have lent their full support to whatever the House of Thrune was doing, hoping to benefit from their cousins' largesse afterwards. By and large, the family has prospered; they have never been recognized as a major noble house, but they have grown wealthy from business contracts handed down to them as a reward for their loyalty, and they have gained a modest claim to fame by becoming sponsors of the arts, especially the Opera.

Mera Wist-Thrune is the fifth daughter born to her parents; she is the youngest and last child, having four older sisters and five brothers. After all of that, her mother had a quiet word with her father, and they agreed to have no more offspring. Mera is not from a prominent branch of the Wist-Thrunes, but she distinguished herself in early childhood with her talent for singing and her keen interest in her studies. Her parents set her up with the best teachers they could afford, and were delighted to see her singing talent improve year after year. As elder Wist-Thrunes took note, the quality of Mera's teachers improved and so did her singing, until she was formally apprenticed to the Opera at the tender age of fourteen. The Wist-Thrunes were expecting great things from her, and congratulated themselves on producing another fine little gem to shine in their crown. They were mistaken, however.

Mera had always enjoyed the luxuries afforded to her as a member of her House. Being able to grow up in a palace, wearing beautiful clothes and having all the fine food and drink she needed was nice. Having access to such fine education was even better! She genuinely likes to sing, and was flattered and thrilled by all the attention she received for this talent. While she did not care too much for the hard discipline required of her as she grew older and her teachers grew more and more famous, she kept up her training to win her family's approval and to bring a bit more honour and glory to their noble name.

Mera enjoyed the other aspects of her education - swordsmanship, magic, and studies of various subjects - a great deal as well, and wished sometimes that she might be allowed to focus on other subjects as strongly as her parents were pushing her to do with her music. Still, she persevered, using her free time to learn about such wonderful, distant places as the Mwangi Expanse, the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, Tien Xia and others. Perhaps someday, she would be allowed to travel and sing in one of those far-flung locales for the glory of her house!

The day Mera was first sent from home to apprentice at the Opera was both thrilling and saddening. She had been a pampered little princess in some ways, a child playing games and studying, and she keenly felt the separation from her family and her old life. Still, she persevered, excited by the prospect of the wider world opening up before her. At first, life at the Opera was a new, grand adventure. Mera learned the art of stealth so she could spy and listen in on the lives of the other performers; she made friends and enemies, and enjoyed the social whirl of her new life.

Then she had her first role in a major performance, one attended by some members of the House of Thrune, and her new world came crashing down around her feet. The Wist-Thrunes are a minor House, completely loyal to the House of Thrune. Mera had never seen a devil before; there was no need for her family to be intimidated by her cousins. Any 'special' visitors that were sent as envoys took on pleasing guises, and all were kept away from the house's children to prevent "misunderstandings" from occurring.

When Mera saw the unearthly creatures sitting in the Opera house's boxes as honored guests, some of them mingling with her distant Thrune cousins, she was afraid she might vomit with fear and loathing. It was a minor miracle that she managed to sing as well as she did. After the performance and the encore, Mera hid in the deepest, darkest corner of the Opera House that she could find and curled up into a ball, shivering in a blind panic until dawn came.

Mera resolved to grow stronger. She was a representative of her family, after all; she must bring honor to the family name and make her relatives proud of her. She trained hard, and trained herself not to pay attention to the leering visages and glowing eyes in the boxes during performances. Her teachers were well-pleased with her progress and she was given progressively more prestigious roles.

Then the letter came for her, the letter whose envelope was sealed with the seal of the thrice-cursed house of Thrune. A lesser scion of that house, one Tertius Thrune, had seen her perform, had heard her perform. He honored her by addressing her as 'cousin' and was inviting her for a private party at his mansion! It should have been Mera's finest moment.

It really should have been.

When Mera arrived at Tertius' manor-house, she was introduced to some of the finest, richest people of Cheliax -- and to Tertius' good friend, Seoghal, a famous composer and tutor in the musical arts. From the moment the man kissed her fingertips, Mera knew Seoghal for what he was, deeply tainted somehow by the evil that the House of Thrune had embraced. When Tertius 'kindly' offered to have Seoghal teach her, in order to refine her voice and increase her chances of success, Mera's blood ran cold; she could see things in Seoghal's eyes, unspeakable things... For her family's sake, however, she dared not refuse. The party passed in a haze of growing fear and the need for pretense; a fake smile, pleasant words murmured in response to compliments and questions.

Mera returned to the Opera House, but things just weren't the same. Seoghal really did come to tutor her, and while Mera's superiors in the Opera House were all aflutter with joy, she dreaded each meeting with the tainted man. He was forever touching her; her hands, her face, and her waist. Quick, fleeting touches that put her in mind of a man acclimatizing a horse to his physical presence before breaking it to the saddle and bridle.His smiles and glances left no question in her mind as to what Seoghal's feelings for her were. He was forever inviting her to this or those functions; services in the church of dread Asmodeus, private dinners, fox hunting... It was increasingly difficult to put him off without insulting him outright. Then came the final blow; Seoghal slyly informed her that he had gotten wind of a wonderful business opportunity, one which could make some lucky minor noble house wealthy enough to rise to the middle nobility, and he was quite willing to share his knowledge with the family of...

…his future bride.

Quite a few possibilities here, leaving this up to the GM. The ones that are obvious are ones in the operatic scene, Tertius, Seoghal, various minor house members she would have acquaintances with all the way up to people she may have performed for in House Thrune itself.

Her current motivation is to find a way to get away from Seoghal. Disgusted and appalled by the thought of becoming his wife, she is looking for any way out of her current predicament. She is considering leaving town and running away, but she is having a hard time thinking of giving up the good life that she has been living up until now. Having finally reached the breaking point, she is ready to jump at the first opportunity that comes her way that looks like it will save her future.

'''Mera'''<br/>
Female human (chelaxian) bard 1<br/>
NG Medium humanoid (human)<br/>
'''Init '''+3; '''Senses '''Perception +4<br/>
----
'''Defense'''<br/>
----
'''AC '''16, touch 13, flat-footed 13 (+3 armor, +3 Dex)<br/>
'''hp '''10 (1d8+2)<br/>
'''Fort '''+2, '''Ref '''+5, '''Will '''+2<br/>
----
'''Offense'''<br/>
----
'''Speed '''30 ft.<br/>
'''Melee '''rapier +3 (1d6+2/18-20)<br/>
'''Special Attacks '''bardic performance 9 rounds/day (countersong, distraction, fascinate [DC 15], inspire courage +1)<br/>
'''Bard Spells Known '''(CL 1st; concentration +6)<br/>
:1st (3/day)—cure light wounds, ear-piercing scream[UM] (DC 16)<br/>
:0 (at will)—daze (DC 15), detect magic, light, lullaby (DC 15)<br/>
----
'''Statistics'''<br/>
----
'''Str '''14, '''Dex '''16, '''Con '''14, '''Int '''12, '''Wis '''10, '''Cha '''20<br/>
'''Base Atk '''+0; '''CMB '''+2; '''CMD '''15<br/>
'''Feats '''Spellsong^UM, Weapon Finesse<br/>
'''Traits '''child of infamy, operatic (chelaxian)<br/>
'''Skills '''Bluff +9, Diplomacy +9, Disguise +9, Intimidate +9, Linguistics +5, Perception +4, Perform (dance) +9, Perform (sing) +10, Sense Motive +4, Spellcraft +5, Stealth +6<br/>
'''Languages '''Abyssal, Azlanti, Common<br/>
'''SQ '''bardic knowledge +1<br/>
'''Other Gear '''studded leather, rapier, 105 gp<br/>
----
'''Special Abilities'''<br/>
----
'''Bardic Knowledge +1 (Ex)''' Add +1 to all knowledge skill checks.<br/>
'''Bardic Performance (standard action, 9 rounds/day)''' Your performances can create magical effects.<br/>
'''Operatic (Chelaxian)''' +1 bonus on Perform (sing) checks; +2 bonus to decipher Azlanti.<br/>
'''Spellsong''' Combine spellcasting and bardic performance<br/>

'Prod and pull,' the old woman was saying, 'It’s the way of the Queen, as like the gods themselves.' She leaned to one side and spat, then brought a soiled cloth to her wrinkled lips. 'Three husbands and two sons I saw off to war.'

The fishergirl's eyes shone as she watched the column of mounted soldiers thunder past, and she only half listened to the hag standing beside her. The girl's breath had risen to the pace of the magnificent horses. She felt her face burning, a flush that had nothing to do with the heat. The day was dying, the sun's red smear over the trees on her right, and the sea's sighing against her face had grown cool.

'That was in the days of the King,' the hag continued. 'Pharasma roast the bastard's soul on a spit. But look on, lass. Abrogail scatters bones with the best of them. Heh, she started with his, didn't she, now?'

The fishergirl nodded faintly. As befitted the lowborn, they waited by the roadside, the old woman burdened beneath a rough sack filled with turnips, the girl with a heavy basket balanced on her head. Every minute or so the old woman shifted the sack from one bony shoulder to the other.

With the riders crowding them on the road and the ditch behind them a steep drop to broken rocks, she had no place to put down the sack.

'Scatters bones, I said. Bones of husbands, bones of sons, bones of wives and bones of daughters. All the same to her. All the same to the Empire.' The old woman spat a second time. 'Three husbands and two sons, ten coin apiece a year. Five of ten's fifty. Fifty coin a year's cold company, lass. Cold in winter, cold in bed.'

The fishergirl wiped dust from her forehead. Her bright eyes darted among the soldiers passing before her. The young men atop their highbacked saddles held expressions stern and fixed straight ahead. The few women who rode among them sat tall and somehow fiercer than the men. The sunset cast red glints from their helms, flashing so that the girl's eyes stung and her vision blurred.

'You're the fisherman's daughter,' the old woman said. 'I seen you afore on the road, and down on the strand. Seen you and your dad at market. Missing an arm, ain't he? More bones for her collection is likely, eh?' She made a chopping motion with one hand, then nodded. 'Mine's the first house on the track. I use the coin to buy candles. Five candles I burn every night, five candles to keep old Rigga company. It's a tired house, full of tired things and me one of them, lass. What you got in the basket there?' Slowly the fishergirl realized that a question had been asked of her. She pulled her attention from the soldiers and smiled down at the old woman. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'the horses are so loud.'

Rigga raised her voice. 'I asked what you got in your basket, lass?'

'Twine. Enough for three nets. We need to get one ready for tomorrow. Dadda lost his last one—something in the deep waters took it and a whole catch, too. Ilgrand Lender wants the money he loaned us and we need a catch tomorrow. A good one.' She smiled again and swept her gaze back to the soldiers. 'Isn't it wonderful?' she breathed.

Rigga's hand shot out and snagged the girl's thick black hair, yanked it hard.

The girl cried out. The basket on her head lurched, then slid down on to one shoulder. She grabbed frantically for it but it was too heavy. The basket struck the ground and split apart. 'Aaai!' the girl gasped, attempting to kneel. But Rigga pulled and snapped her head around.

'You listen to me, lass!' The old woman's sour breath hissed against the girl's face. 'The Empire's been grinding this land down for a hundred years. You was born in it. I wasn't. When I was your age this was a country. We flew a banner and it was ours. We were free, lass.'

The girl was sickened by Rigga's breath. She squeezed shut her eyes.

'Mark this truth, child, else the Cloak of Lies blinds you for ever.'

Rigga's voice took on a droning cadence, and all at once the girl stiffened. Rigga, Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch who trapped souls in candles and burned them. Souls devoured in flame—Rigga's words carried the chilling tone of prophecy. 'Mark this truth. I am the last to speak to you. You are the last to hear me. Thus are we linked, you and I, beyond all else.'

Rigga's fingers snagged tighter in the girl's hair. 'Across the sea the Queen has driven her knife into virgin soil. The blood now comes in a tide and it'll sweep you under, child, if you're not careful. They'll put a sword in your hand, they'll give you a fine horse, and they'll send you across that sea. But a shadow will embrace your soul. Now, listen! Bury this deep! Rigga will preserve you because we are linked, you and I. But it is all I can do, understand? Look to the Lord spawned in Darkness; his is the hand that shall free you, though he'll know it not—'

'What's this?' a voice bellowed.

Rigga swung to face the road. An outrider had slowed his mount. The Seer released the girl's hair.

The girl staggered back a step. A rock on the road's edge turned underfoot and she fell. When she looked up the outrider had trotted past.

Another thundered up in his wake.

'Leave the pretty one alone, hag,' this one growled, and as he rode by he leaned in his saddle and swung an open, gauntleted hand. The ironscaled glove cracked against Rigga's head, spinning her around. She toppled.

The fishergirl screamed as Rigga landed heavily across her thighs. A bead of crimson spit spattered her face. Whimpering the girl pushed herself back across the gravel, then used her feet to shove away Rigga's body. She climbed to her knees.

Something within Rigga's prophecy seemed lodged in the girl's head, heavy as a stone and hidden from light. She found she could not retrieve a single word the Seer had said. She reached out and grasped Rigga's woollen shawl. Carefully, she rolled the old woman over. Blood covered one side of Rigga's head, running down behind the ear. More blood smeared her lined chin and stained her mouth. The eyes stared sightlessly.

The fishergirl pulled back, unable to catch her breath. Desperate, she looked about. The column of soldiers had passed, leaving nothing but dust and the distant tremble of hoofs. Rigga's bag of turnips had spilled on to the road. Among the trampled vegetables lay five tallow candles.

The girl managed a ragged lungful of dusty air. Wiping her nose, she looked to her own basket.

'Never mind the candles,' she mumbled, in a thick, odd voice. 'They're gone, aren't they, now? just a scattering of bones. Never mind.' She crawled towards the bundles of twine that had fallen from the breached basket, and when she spoke again her voice was young, normal. 'We need the twine. We'll work all night and get one ready. Dadda's waiting. He's right at the door, he's looking up the track, he's waiting to see me.’

She stopped, a shiver running through her. The sun's light was almost gone. An unseasonal chill bled from the shadows, which now flowed like water across the road.

'Here it comes, then,' the girl grated softly, in a voice that wasn't her own.

A soft-gloved hand fell on her shoulder. She ducked down, cowering. 'Easy, girl,' said a man's voice. 'It's over. Nothing to be done for her now.'

The fishergirl looked up. A man swathed in black leaned over her, his face obscured beneath a hood's shadow. 'But he hit her,' the girl said, in child's voice. 'And we have nets to tie, me and Dadda—'

'Let's get you on your feet,' the man said, moving his long-fingered hands down under her arms. He straightened, lifting her effortlessly. Her sandalled feet dangled in the air before he set her down.

Now she saw a second man, shorter, also clothed in black. This one stood on the road and was turned away, his gaze in the direction the soldiers had gone. He spoke, his voice reed-thin. 'Wasn't much of a life,' he said, not turning to face her. 'A minor talent, long since dried up the Gift. Oh, she might have managed one more, but we'll never know will we?'

The fishergirl stumbled over to Rigga's bag and picked up a candle. She straightened, her eyes suddenly hard, then deliberately spat on to the road.

The shorter man's head snapped towards her. Within the hood seemed the shadows played alone.

The girl shrank back a step. 'It was a good life,' she whispered. 'She had these candles, you see. Five of them. Five for—'

'Necromancy,' the short man cut in.

The taller man, still at her side, said softly, 'I see them, child. I understand what they mean.'

The other man snorted. 'The witch harboured five frail, weak souls. Nothing grand.' He cocked his head. 'I can hear them now. Calling for her.'

Tears filled the girl's eyes. A wordless anguish seemed to well up from that black stone in her mind. She wiped her cheeks. 'Where did you come from?' she asked abruptly. 'We didn't see you on the road.'

The man beside her half turned to the gravel track. 'On the other side,' he said, a smile in his tone. 'Waiting, just like you.'

The other giggled. 'On the other side indeed.' He faced down the road again and raised his arms.

The girl drew in a sharp breath as darkness descended. A loud, tearing sound filled the air for a second, then the darkness dissipated and the girl's eyes widened.

Seven massive Hounds now sat around the man in the road. The eyes of these beasts glowed yellow, and all were turned in the same direction as the man himself.

She heard him hiss, 'Eager, are we? Then go.' Silently, the Hounds bolted down the road.

Their master turned and said to the man beside her, 'Something to gnaw on Abrogail's mind.' He giggled again.

'Must you complicate things?' the other answered wearily.

The short man stiffened. 'They are within sight of the column.'

He cocked his head. From up the road came the scream of horses.

He sighed. 'You've reached a decision, Cotillion?'

The other grunted amusedly. 'Using my name, Ammanas, means you've just decided for me. We can hardly leave her here now, can we?'

'Of course we can, old friend. just not breathing.'

Cotillion looked down on the girl. 'No,' he said quietly,'she'll do.'

The fishergirl bit her lip. Still clutching Rigga's candle, she took another step back, her wide eyes darting from one man to the other.

'Pity,' Ammanas said.

Cotillion seemed to nod, then he cleared his throat and said, 'It'll take time.'

An amused note entered Ammanas's reply. 'And have we time? True vengeance needs the slow, careful stalking of the victim. Have you forgotten the pain she once delivered us? Abrogail's back will be against the wall. She might not fall without our intervention. Where would be the satisfaction in that?'

Cotillion's response was cool and dry. 'You've always underestimated the Queen. Hence our present circumstances… No.' He gestured at the fishergirl. 'We'll need this one. Abrogail's raised the ire of Moon's Spawn, and that's a hornet's nest if ever there was one. The timing is perfect.'

Faintly, above the screaming horses, came the shrieks of men and women, a sound that pierced the girl's heart. Her eyes darted to Rigga's motionless form on the roadside, then back to Ammanas, who now approached her. She thought to run but her legs had weakened to a helpless trembling. He came close and seemed to study her, even though the shadows within his hood remained impenetrable.

'A fishergirl?' he asked, in a kindly tone.

She nodded.

'Have you a name?'

'Enough!' Cotillion growled. 'She's not some mouse under your paw, Ammanas. Besides, I've chosen her and I will choose her name as well.'

Ammanas stepped back. 'Pity,' he said again.

The girl raised imploring hands. 'Please,' she begged Cotillion, 'I've done nothing! My father's a poor man, but he'll pay you all he can. He needs me, and the twine—he's waiting right now!' She felt herself go wet between her legs and quickly sat down on the ground. 'I've done nothing!' Shame rose through her and she put her hands in her lap.

'Please.'

'I've no choice any more, child,' Cotillion said. 'After all, you know our names.'

'I've never heard them before!' the girl cried.

The man sighed. "With what's happening up the road right now, well, you'd be questioned. Unpleasantly. There are those who know our names.'

'You see, lass,' Ammanas added, suppressing a giggle, 'we're not supposed to be here. There are names, and then there are names.' He swung to Cotillion and said, in a chilling voice, 'Her father must be dealt with. My Hounds?'

'No,' Cotillion said. 'He lives.'

'Then how?'

'I suspect,' Cotillion said, 'greed will suffice, once the slate is wiped clean.' Sarcasm filled his next words. 'I'm sure you can manage the sorcery in that, can't you?'

Ammanas giggled. 'Beware of shadows bearing gifts.'

Cotillion faced the girl again. He lifted his arms out to the sides. The shadows that held his features in darkness now flowed out around his body.

Ammanas spoke, and to the girl his words seemed to come from a great distance. 'She's ideal. The Queen could never track her down, could never even so much as guess.' He raised his voice. 'It's not so bad a thing, lass, to be the pawn of a god.'

'Prod and pull,' the fishergirl said quickly.

Cotillion hesitated at her strange comment, then he shrugged. The shadows whirled out to engulf the girl. With their cold touch her mind fell away, down into darkness. Her last fleeting sensation was of the soft wax of the candle in her right hand, and how it seemed to well up between the fingers of her clenched fist

Cato has three main connections from which plots could be drawn: his family's "friend" that forced him into slavery, his former master, and, if the Pit-Touched bloodline is allowed, the devil with whom he made a deal.

More related to the AP itself, Cato would also have general connections to many citizens of Westcrown. I would think that he would know a few Hellknights that ran a sort of protection racket on his farm and tavern. It is conceivable that some Hellknights leveled his tavern prior to the events of the AP (it would give him a motivation to hate them, as well as a reason that he begins without a gold advantage over the other PCs).

He could potentially know a few random slaves and nobles in or near various Chelish cities.

Kiriko was born as the only child of a exiled Ninja from Minkai. She has never met her Father, whom her Mother only described as a Stranger with a „beautiful fire“ in his eyes. Once she was old enough her mother started to train her in the secret arts of her clan.

As a teenager tragedy befall the small family, Kirikos mother died of an mysterious illness. All alone in the world Kiriko was forced to life on the Street, surviving (barely) with the skills her mother taught her. After long years of living hand to mouth she was blessed with a chance, while getting caught stealing from a rich merchant, who was impressed with her skills, she was offered Work, getting rid of a rivaling merchant.

After realizing just how much money her skills are worth, she now lives by killing rich idiots for other rich idiots. Even having enough money to by good food, witch she relishes having starved for so long, Kiriko is unsatisfied by her current lifestyle. The quiet, young woman, still having questions about the mysterious illness that killed her mother, seeks answers and a live that is more fulfilling than killing just for money.

Male Kobold Witch 1
LE Small humanoid (reptilian)
Init +11; Senses Darkvision (60 ft.), Perception +7,

DEFENSE
AC 17, touch 14, flat-footed 14 (+2 armor, +3 Dex, +1 natural, +1 size, )
HP 8 (1d6)+2
Fort +1, Ref +3, Will +4

OFFENSE
Speed 20 ft.
Melee Dagger (small) +1 (1d3/19-20)
Ranged Dagger (small/thrown) +4 (1d3/19-20)
Ranged Crossbow (light) (small) +4 (1d6/19-20)
Prepared Spell List
Witch (CL 1st):
1st - mage armor (DC 15) , unseen servant
0th - detect magic , putrefy food and drink (DC 14) , stabilize (DC 14)

STATISTICS
Str 10, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 18, Wis 14, Cha 8
Base Atk +0; CMB -1; CMD 12
Feats Alertness, Extra Hex
Skills Appraise +4, Bluff -1, Climb -3, Craft (Untrained) +4, Diplomacy -1, Disguise -1, Fly +2, Heal +2, Intimidate -1, Knowledge (Arcana) +8, Knowledge (History) +8, Knowledge (Nature) +8, Perception +7, Perform (Untrained) -1, Sense Motive +4, Spellcraft +8, Stealth +8, Survival +2, Swim -3,
Languages Common, Draconic, Dwarven, Gnome, Undercommon
SQ Armor, Cackle, Cantrips, Crafty, Darkvision, Evil Eye, Hex, Normal Speed, Trickery Patron, Witch's Familiar, Witch Patron Spells,
Possessions dagger (small); outfit (peasant's/small); leather (small); Pouch (Belt/Small) ; Backpack (Small) [ Bedroll (Small); Candle (x10); Chalk (1 Piece) (x10); Flint and Steel; Ink (1 oz. Vial); Inkpen; Pot (Iron); Mess Kit; Soap (per lb.); Torch (x10); Rations (Trail/Per Day/Small) (x5); Waterskin; Wand of Cure Light Wounds; Crossbow (Light) (Small); Spell Component Pouch

Male Familiar Scorpion (Greensting) Vermin 1
TN Tiny animal/magical beast
Init +3; Senses Darkvision (60 ft.), Perception +5,

DEFENSE
AC 19, touch 15, flat-footed 16 (+3 Dex, +4 natural, +2 size, )
HP 4 (1d8)+2
Fort +4, Ref +3, Will +2
Defensive Abilities Improved Evasion

OFFENSE
Speed 30 ft.
Melee claw +5/+5 (1d2-4)
Melee sting +5 (1d2-4)
Special Attacks Poison (DC 14),

STATISTICS
Str 2, Dex 16, Con 14, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 2
Base Atk +0; CMB +1; CMD 7 (19 vs. trip)
Feats Weapon Finesse
Skills Acrobatics +3, Bluff -4, Climb +1, Diplomacy -4, Disguise -4, Escape Artist +3, Fly +7, Intimidate -4, Knowledge (Arcana) +1, Knowledge (Nature) +1, Perception +5, Perform (Untrained) -4, Ride +3, Sense Motive +1, Spellcraft +1, Stealth +16, Swim -4,
Communication Empathic Link,
SQ Darkvision, Share Spell

It was the eighth day of recruiting and Staff Sergeant Aragan sat blearyeyed behind his desk as yet another whelp was prodded forward by the corporal. They'd had some luck here in West Pool. Fishing's best in the backwaters, West Pool 's Captain had said. All they get around here is stories. Stories don't make you bleed. Stories don't make you go hungry, don't give you sore feet. When you're young and smelling of pigshit and convinced there ain't a weapon in all the damn world that's going to hurt you, all stories do is make you want to be part of them.

The old woman was right. As usual. These people had been under the boot so long they actually liked it. Well, Aragan thought, the education begins here.

It had been a bad day, with the local captain roaring off with three companies and leaving not one solid rumour in their wake about what was going on. And if that wasn't bad enough, Abrogail's Inquisitor arrived from Engorian not ten minutes later, using one of those eerie magical Gates to get here. Though he'd never seen her, just her name on the hot, dry wind was enough to give him the shakes. Mage killer, the scorpion in the Imperial pocket.

Aragan scowled down at the writing tablet and waited until the corporal cleared his throat. Then he looked up.

The recruit standing before him took the staff sergeant aback. He opened his mouth, on his tongue a lashing tirade designed to send the young ones scampering. A second later he shut it again, the words unspoken. West Pool 's Captain had made her instructions abundantly clear: if they had two arms, two legs and a head, take them. The Inner Sea campaign was a mess. Fresh bodies were needed.

He grinned at the girl. She matched the Fist's description perfectly.

Still. 'All right, lass, you understand you're in line to join the Cheliax Marines, right?'

The girl nodded, her gaze steady and cool and fixed on Aragan.

The recruiter's expression tightened. Damn, she can't be more than twelve or thirteen. If this was my daughter…

What's got her eyes looking so bloody old? The last time he'd seen anything like them had been outside Mott Forest, on Sagava—he'd been marching through farmland hit by five years' drought and a war twice as long. Those old eyes were brought by hunger, or death. He scowled. 'What's your name, girl?'

'Am I in, then?' she asked quietly.

Aragan nodded, a sudden headache pounding against the inside of his skull. 'You'll get your assignment in a week's time, unless you got a preference.'

'Revolution campaign,' the girl answered immediately. 'Under the command of General Dujek Onearm. Onearm's Host.'

Aragan blinked. 'I'll make a note,' he said softly. 'Your name, soldier?'

'Sorry. My name is Sorry.'

Aragan jotted the name down on his tablet. 'Dismissed, soldier. The corporal will tell you where to go.' He looked up as she was near the door. 'And wash all that mud off your feet.' Aragan continued writing for a moment, then stopped. It hadn't rained in weeks. And the mud around here was half-way between green and grey, not dark red. He tossed down the stylus and massaged his temples. Well, at least the headache's fading.

==//==

High General Dujek marched back to Jack's side, his hard expression softened slightly with relief. From the trapdoor, voices rose in argument. 'They've arrived,' Dujek said. 'Giving your new recruit an earful about something—and don't tell me what because I don't want to know.'

Jack's momentary relief was shattered by what he only now realized was the secret hope that Sorry had deserted. So his men had found her after all, or she had found them. Either way, his veterans did not sound happy to see her. He couldn't blame them. Had she tried to kill Hubert? That seemed to be the suspicion of Ben and Alam.

Alam was doing most of the bellowing, putting more into his role as corporal than was warranted, and Dujek's searching glance at Jack was enough to push him towards the trap-door. He came to the edge and glared down into the room below. Everyone was there, standing in a menacing circle around Sorry, who leaned against the ladder as if bored by the whole proceedings.

'Quiet!' Whiskeyjack roared down. 'Check your supplies and get up here, now!' He watched them scamper, then gave a satisfied nod and returned to where the High General waited.

Dujek was rubbing the stump of his left arm, frowning distractedly.

'Damn this weather,' he muttered.

'A healer could ease that,' Jack said.

'Not necessary,' Dujek replied. 'I'm just getting old.' He scratched his jaw. 'All of your heavy supplies have been delivered to the drop point. Ready to move, Sergeant?'

Jack eyed the ridged saddles on the horses, then nodded sharply.

They watched as the squad members emerged from the square doorway, each wearing a raincape and burdened with a heavy pack. Some were engaged in a whispering argument, casting a glare back at the barbarian who'd trodden on their heels. The barbarian had attached his entire collection of charms, trinkets and trophies to various parts of his burly body, looking like a bedecked leadwood tree during the Kanese of the Scorpions. The recruit, Sorry waiting at the horses. Her satchel was no bigger than a bedroll, and the raincape she wore was more like a cloak—not standard issue—reaching down to her ankles. She'd raised the hood. Despite the dawn's burgeoning light her face remained in shadow. This is all I have left. Jack sighed.

Dujek asked quietly, 'How is she doing, Sergeant?'

'Still breathing,' Jack replied stonily.

The High General slowly shook his head. 'So damn young these days . . .'

A memory returned to Jack as he considered Dujek's words.

On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Sageva Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog. He'd watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they'd taken prisoner in Greydog—ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that. Not an act of expedience. He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins. He remembered meeting Alam's gaze, and the desperate gesture that sent the black man surging forward, knives bared. Alam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men's throats. And then came the moment that still twisted Jack's heart. In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Alam.

Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon, then walked away.

Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they would probably do so until the day they died. There was a meaning there, and Jack understood it well. Recruits were not brothers. The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds. Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the army burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad. And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

As all of this flashed through Jack's thoughts, his usually impassive expression failed him. In his head, he replied: Young? No, you can forgive the young, you can answer their simple needs, and you can look in their eyes and find enough there that is recognizable. But her?

No. Best to avoid those eyes, in which there was nothing that was young—nothing at all.

'Let's get you moving, to Westcrow.' Dujek growled. 'Mount everyone up.' The High General turned to say a few last words to the sergeant, but what he saw in Jack's face killed those words in his throat.

Inspiration
Vibrant and aloof this seemingly demure woman of Ustalavic blood bears dull red eyes and messy black hair. She covers her pale figure with a heavy dark gothic dress, a blend of Ustalavic and Varisian styles, though she wears slacks underneath incase the need for movement is called for.

Around those she doesn't know she prefers to pass herself off as a demure and soft spoken lady, deferring to the imposing stoic form of her brother as if he might be her boss, or to those who are aware of his condition, a malevolent spirit possesing her. In truth she is very energetic, outspoken, and curious and loves to drop that charade of meekness the moment she feels she can confide in others. This stems out of a desire to make others let their guard down around her as much as it is due to her general mischievousness. Growing up in Ustalav she always had an appreciation for the occult but after her awakening as a Spiritualist she devours any hint of supernatural related knowledge, despite her abhorrence towards studying. Even when perfectly mundane reasons are presented for events she prefers to see supernatural machinations behind every door abd curtain.

Never one to resist a good story or rumour Monday was always the child that would stick her head down a snake hole to see what lie beyond, sometimes not always figuratively. While collecting tidbits of occult and paranormal knowledge that would hopefully reveal more insight into her brother's condition in Cheliax the whsipers of goings on, both supernatural and mundane, in Westcrown prick upon her ear, causing her to stride headstrong towards wherever the source the rumours sprouted from.

Growing up in Ustalav the fraternal twins Monday and Tuesday were an oddity among Daud siblings in that they could stand to be in the same room as one another without one trying to kill the other. This mutual affectation blossomed as they proved to an effective team at hunting and tracking in the dark forests of their homeland, so much so that when a hydra had made a mess of the nearby farmer's livestock and family they were among the youngest asked to join along on the hunt for the creature. It was supposed to be so simple really, find the beast, let loose a volley of pitch covered arrows and then thoroughly chop up whatever was left. But no plan, no matter how well thought out, survives contact with reality. They and the dozens of other hunters and proclaimed monster hunters found the beast easily enough, slumbering in a fen. They set up easily enough, lured it easily enough, and killed it easily enough. It's mate on the other hand was a completely different matter.
One of the last things Monday remembers from that night amidst the cheering and drinking of a succesful hunt is a painful piercing vice clamping down on her side and freeing her from the ground. Everything seemed to move so slow. She saw the other hunters trying to run, for safety or to the pitch arrows they had left over. She saw Tuesday running towards her with an axe drawn. She saw a great green blur swipe at her brother's neck in passing. And she saw the red plume out from where his neck used to be right after. The last thing she remembers before her eyes closed was her brother crumpling tot the ground, his arms not outstretched towards his wound leaking out his life, but towards her. With tears running down her face she reached her hand out towards him, and then there was darkness.
She never found out what happened to the hydra or the other hunters. Just over her few bouts of consciousness that came next she recalls being held, being cradled, being carried through the woods. When she finally did wake for good she found herself in an unfamiliar bed, a healer's she would later find out, with no sign of whoever had saved her. When she asked those around her they couldn't give her a solid answer, for no one saw the man leave, or really, if he had been there in the first place. And so for the first time in her life, she was truly alone. Yet she did not feel alone.
Returning to the home she had shared with her brothers and sisters her whole life the manifestations began. They started out small over the next couple of weeks, tiny things she was searching for seeming to come to her or find themselves in her pockets, even if someone else had currently been using them. The door to her room proving steadfast in it's resistance to anyone trying to come in, even if she had not locked them. And her dreams, instead of visions of terror and snakelike monstrosities her brother was always waiting for her on the other side of the waking world, ready with a smile and a hug to engage in the games they played so happily in the days before. And then one morning when she awoke there he sat across from her, wearing a faint smile. Her brother had come back to her.
Putting affairs in order she and Tuesday soon left Ustalav (and hydras) behind, lest a curious necromancer or Pharasmin inquisitor seek them out. Searching all over for a "cure" to his condition, or really any tangential information that could prove of use they have traveling ever since. Together.

Inspiration
Covered in desaturated leathers this loss of colors extend to the creature's body as well, being traces of white, black, and silver draped over in gray. Standing at nearly 7' feet tall this quiet guardian cuts an intimidating figure, the only emotion being the res and black scarf covering his mouth and neck, or what's left of it. From the jaw to the beginning of the chest there is nothing, giving any who can see a clear view of the inner workings of his throat and spine. Any other details are hard to pin down, almost being forgotten the moment the man is no longer in sight.

Wherever Monday goes he willingly follows.

Quiet and introspective, Tuesday prefers to let his much more vibrant sister do all the talking. He's just there to keep her safe he tells himself, not to entertain the living.
Has a weakness for sweets.