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Mely's attention jumps between the rambling Tyce and Razka's slightly drunken responses. She's clearly confused, and despite giving Tyce a rather narrow-eyed stare it doesn't seem to help her figure out what he's been saying. Defeated when it comes to the whole event, she gives Razka an admiring nod. "How are you able to understand him? I don't recognize the language at all. It's rather quite foreign." Though a lot of things were for her.
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"In vino vertebrae...in wino winterbrake...if you get drunk you know things," Razka replies with a grin at Mely as he salutes her with his chalice.
"Drink a little more and you'll be able to understand my pal Ruhidoon here, too. Isn't that right, Ruhidoon?" Razka declares, giving his new, incomprehensible pal a good pat on the back.
"And it's worth it, too. He's saying some really deep stuff, like how we're all just lights and lights are like...bright and so we're also smart, too, but don't always know it."
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Mely's frown deepens when Razka spouts off his alcoholic academics, and the salute has her doubting his suggestion. If Tyce didn't keep speaking and appear to be having a full conversation with the sorcerer she likely wouldn't have believed his words. "That really works? Very well, I'm willing to try this trick of the tongue... or ear, as the case may be."
She leans across her table and grabs an abandoned bottle of unmarked liquor which she gives a good whiff that leaves her coughing. With one dubious look for the bottle she takes an unladylike swig that causes her tail to curl and her face pinched up like she swallowed something vile. She lets out a breath and stares at Tyce. "Gaaaah, okay now say something, please. I will see if this worked."
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"Theoabfe is right, my fine finned friend," Razka says with a grin. "That wasn't nearly enough for you to understand him. You can't sip a potion and expect to fly. You have to drink it all."
"And you should probably start with something a little more palatable. You have to learn to walk before you run."
He blinks a couple times then looks at her tail then laughs uproariously for half a minute.
"Now where is that guy who makes the fruity drinks?" he asks, mostly himself as he wipes tears from his eyes and looks around.
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A grippli with perfectly manicured fingers and a pink bowtie on her head steps in. "Did you hear?!? Did you hear?! I'm just sooOooo totally excited about this seventh 'Game Day' gathering! Do you think they're going to award those super cool gifts when recording our chronicles like last time? If so, there'd better be Sparkly Pink Rhinestone Slippers to be won!" Her eyes widen to the size of a wizard's dancing lights. "Oh my, I can see it now! Tiffany, the most fabulous of all grippli, prancing through Absalom, her millions of fans in tow, hitting the local markets for some even more gorgeous glamour! A little glitter, perhaps? A cute summery dress to go with the shoes? Ugh! Too. Many. Choices!!"
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Mely stares hard at Tyce as his words continue to be little more than a jumble of unintelligible syllables that pair rather poorly with the taste in her mouth. "Oh... I'm sorry Mr. Tyce, it appears I'm... bleh, not very good at this." She gives the bottle what could be an offended look when Razka suggests she needs to drink more to have any hope.
When the sorcerer starts laughing at his joke she's left to her own devices for a moment, faintly blushing from his choice of words. Then Sirius starts vomiting... loudly, and she gives her own bottle one more glance before subtly pushing it further from herself. With some efforts she tries to hide her own desire to gag. "I don't think this is going to work very well... I don't think I could drink it all."
Then after a moment. "But I do like a good fruit juice. We will figure this out, Mr. Theoabfe. And then I shall greet you properly." There's a grippli in here as well, and she has to fight being distracted by the new conversation. There were a lot of curious people at this lodge.
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A young half-orc with long, thick scars on both cheeks walks into the bar, water streaming off of him from the downpour outside. His cloak looks new, albeit drenched, but the rest of his clothes are simple and well-worn. He peers around the room for a minute, then stalks over to a table by the fire, stopping at the bar only to order a tankard of warm mulled wine to take the edge off of the cold and wet.
He drops his pack onto the table and collapses into a chair. He pulls his boots off one by one, dumping water out of them onto the floor, then casts a cantrip to start them drying before using the same magic - over and over - to pull the worst of the damp from his clothes. By the time the barkeep brings over his wine, the half-orc is mostly dry and beginning to warm up from the fire. He pulls a small book out of his pack, takes a long swallow of the warm wine, and begins to read.
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Seeing the half-orc pull out a book by the fireplace, Wulthur rises from his seat and heads in the direction of the apparent scholar.
"Have you not been warned about what you should be reading?" Wulthur asks. The glow of the fire accents the scars that cross the man's face--the effect renders his face looking not unlike that of a lava field. It almost as if molten rock was seeping forth from fissures on his face. The effect makes Wulthur appear somewhat sinister. "Doing so can be quite dangerous, particularly in public."
The Andoran peers at the half-orc trying to gage his response, before adding with a smile, "How else do you think it is that I got these scars?"
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A half-orc woman enters the lodge and quietly approaches the bar, her eyes darting around the room as if making sure she knows where are the exits are. Give me something cheap and strong she says to the bar maid in a quiet and gruff voice.
Following closely behind the woman is a cheetah dressed in studded leather armor. After getting her drink she mutters Come on Tuk, lets see if we can find a nice spot and see what the evening has in store for us.
A lanky Elven man dressed in dirty traveling clothes enters the room, scanning the varied crowd before announcing loudly "Friends, SharrowSmith Exports seeks brave souls willing to travel the Bandu hills. All interested parties should see the captain of The Sharrowsmith's Wake at the
eastern end of the docks. We aim to arrive in Nantambu before the 13th of Arodus.
With his message delivered the Elf departs as quickly as he arrived.
"Hello, I'm running PFS Scenario #05-08 The Confirmation."
This is great for 1st time players or 1st level characters but it is tier 1-2
"Happy gaming!"
Marcos Farabellus sets the correspondence he was reading upon his desk and folds his arms, deep in thought. This one will be tricky.
Over the Master of Sword’s shoulder, a well-dressed half-elf speaks. “Well, this is quite a mission. Who shall we send?”
Farabellus turns to the half-elf. ”I know of some capable agents who could do the job...”
The half-elf shakes his head. ”You and I both know that this runs far deeper than it seems, we need agents capable of handling themselves. Besides, despite not having a lodge yet, I AM the Venture-Captain of that area, so it’s my jurisdiction.” The half-elf pulls out multiple dossiers from a satchel and hands them to the Master of Swords. ”And I know just the agents.”
As Farabellus reads his eyes widen. “Seekers?!”
The half-elf nods. ”This could change the Inner Sea Region for years to come, AND affect how the city views the Society; we need our best.”
Marcos sighs. ”You’re right,” he hands back the dossiers. ”Take these to Thuvia, Kahlvet, and I’ll get the agents here, wherever they are.”
The half-elf takes the dossiers and leaves. Marcos Farabellus turns to his desk, inkpen in hand, and begins to write the first of the correspondences.
Azra, I have a spot in my game.
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Victoria walks into the tavern, her hips rythmically swaying as they always do, though she never seems to realize it. She takes a seat at the bar and adjusts the finely crafted rapier at her side.
Wow, it's been far too long since I've been here! The church had me running all over the place over the last year! I'm so glad they finally gave me a break so I can get back to my duties for the Pathfinders!
She looks around at the crowd and giggles.
So many new faces! I wonder if any of my old friends are still around?
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A three-foot-three halfling with unkept hair and a smile that barely fits on her face strolls back into an old haunt from her younger days, footsteps creating a beat that she unconsciously raps over in a slangy mix of Common and Halfling tongue.
"Jilly-to-the-T, back from the dead
Took a step back to get clear in the head
Ground I walk on, mammoths fear to tread
Pay me in gold and I'll paint Aspis in red.
Back for a taste of the Flaxseed Ale
Peep these rhymes while I'll tell the tale
Three-Three halfling, rhymes never stale
Skills like these mean I never fail
To impress the best lest they confess
JT singin' so effortless, yes~
Stand tall on any precipice
Accept no other, Jill-Tenn, no less!"
Does this mean the return of Diri is nigh?
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Does this mean the return of Diri is nigh?
"As with all probabilities on any half-open interval continuously increasing with respect to the assumed-to-be-constant progression of time the incidence probability of further research on and investigation into the logical and ethical terminuses of thermodynamics and conflagrational theory have a recurrence factor which asymptotically approaches one."
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A small ratfolk smelling of motor oil and isopropyl alcohol pulls out a notepad and sketches for a bit before tugging on Diri's coat to get her attention. She withdraws a few vials of acid and alchemist's fire from her cheeks before answering.
"So... if what you say is right, then if you attend to a fixed number of conflagration-related investigations... we'll call that n... over a fixed period of time... which we'll call t... and the probability of a follow-on investigation uses this same increase in probability that you indicated..."
She thinks and scratches more notes...
"Does that mean that if I pick any interval... lets say 2 weeks... I should be able to estimate how many conflagration investigations you're likely to undertake? If my estimates are correct... the probability of you undertaking a new fixed number of conflagration investigations... we'll call that P(k)... would be equal to n divided by t... the quotient of which is multiplied by itself k times... then all of that needs to be..."
This goes on for a while....
"Step over here into this dark, quiet, secluded booth, and let me hear all about it friend." says a smiling half-orc.
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"Do not fret young lady" says Aldebert as he combs through his mustache with an ox-horn comb. "It would seem as if there are some minor activities taking place outside. Stay put as I do, and you should be fine; unless of course fog, gerbils, a stealth force of elite duegar or operation "Silent Tide" are in play. In which case, we should prepare to defend this apocryphal lodge and or taproom. But I am certain it will pass, much like that case of hair lice during the Taldane summer campaign of 4692."
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Lynn leaned over the counter and looked at Aldebert with a bit of confusion. "The Taldane summer campaign you say, did you yourself participate or are you just speaking from tales? Can't say i've read much about it but a lice epidemic would certainly cause a bit of issue in an army."
She orders a small cup of wine for herself and the man bringing them both over and pulling a notebook from her waist along with a piece of charcoal, after having a sip from the mulled berry wine. "Any information would be useful if you're willing to share sir...?"
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"I was a participant my dear! Aldebert Dunitee, of the highland Dunitees. Late of the third Legion, fifth Cohort of the invincible Taldane Phalanx. And it was a minor inconvenience; members of the Phalanx are well known for their incredible vigor. Only a few minor cases of sunstroke due to the lack of hair after command had us shave it all off.We were in tip top fighting shape only mere weeks, nay, days after the outbreak. No matter what the treacherous historians will tell you" replies the man bombastically.
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"Facinating, remakable that your enemies didn't attempt to taint the lice further with disease and it is good to hear that the Taladane Phalanx are hearty fighters indeed." She scribbles down in her booklet a bit jotting down some details. "You know i've participated in a large campaign like that once. Well I suppose it wasn't quite as grand as anything that went down in actual history books, but who knows, maybe someone is writing about the siege on the society."
She placed the charcoal lightly on the table and took another sip at the wine, "I'm sure a man with such a grand title as yourself has many epic and harrowing adventures to tell about yes?"
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"But I am certain it will pass, much like that case of hair lice during the Taldane summer campaign of 4692."
"Bertie, did 4692 find you and the Phalanx on the Qadiran front combing lice out of your hair at the time King Aspex the Even-Tongued declared Chelaxian independence?"
A warrior in black full plate removes her helm, looking confused but eager to get storytime rolling.
"Maybe you could tell her how bravely you primped and shaved while Cheliax liberated Andoran, Galt and Isger?"
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"Of course not, you mean-spirited moldering hag! Cheliax stole our rightful dominions long before that, you sub-standard Abadarian substitute; and do not get me started on bravery, you prune-brained tart: the Empire bravely took on the scourges from the East AND stoically accepted the losses treacherously inflicted upon it in the West. You didn't see US succumbing to devil-worship, or whatever morbid pastime you Chelish boors have come up with of late" sputters and seethes the man, shaking at the implied insults and going a distinct shade of red in the face as a result. Turning to the other woman, he continues: "Do not pay any mind to anything agent Navhelan has to say in any capacity; she holds a position in the society only due to hardened nepotism, luck, and an admirable ability to carve people in twain, and the capacity to inflict that outcome repeatedly."
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"The Empire ... stoically accepted the losses treacherously inflicted upon it in the West."
"True." The young warrior's head bobbles up-and-down like her neck is spring-loaded.
"If there's one thing you Taladans are good at, it's losing."
"You didn't see US succumbing to ... whatever morbid pastime you Chelish boors have come up with of late"
"It's called 'drinking beer', Bertie. Or 'bere birra' in Old Chelish."
Eadie continues nodding sagely. "Old Chelish being the basis for the language you call Taldane."
"Uh oh, Eadie. I think you made him mad."
"Yeah, for some reason I always have that effect on him, Gunner."
Eadie *clinks* glasses with the priest and sighs. "No idea why."
"Maybe you oughta buy him a drink?"
"Good idea, Gunner. COME HAVE A DRINK WITH US, BERTIE! Hopefully the ale isn't too cold for you and you'll be able to keep up."
She pulls out a chair hospitably. "And as Cayden teaches, what you said before is spot on, Bertie."
Eadie takes a long pull of ale, covering her upper lip with froth. "I'd much rather be lucky than good."