With a careful eye, Malgrim surveys for weakness and rot in the bridge, pointing out the places with a low "Do not step here" as he demonstrates the path to take.
A step made in faith is far more perilous than any made on the ground.
"Malgrim! Thank the gods you were here, I almost put my foot exactly there..." Arimar affects a queenly voice as he pats his friend on the back.
Arimar sidles up to the king, surveying the damage to his shoulder, "Your Highness, I think this is holding you up somewhat... let me have look at it to see if I can't staunch the bleeding and provide you with some kind of makeshift sling."
Arimar pulls out some bandages from his healing kit, along with some sterile adhesive. "This is going to hurt..." he cautions softly before applying the glue to the cut.
"Olmstead! Move your arse!" he yells back, still in his feminine, queenly voice, "You'll get overtaken if you don't do something... and now!"
|
Benaiah smiles a sinister smile as he sees the guards hesitate to approach the giant guarding the entry to the bridge. With the precious seconds gained, he spins and quickly closes the gap between himself and the group struggling to make ground with the wounded king. His bulk acts as a rear-guard of sorts, though internally he knows that means he is likely going to take the first arrow that comes from behind, or the first spear point should the overwhelming company of guards catch them.
"I've got 'em!" Benaiah shouts grabbing Olmstead by the collar and dragging him along. "He's trying to do that thing again! With his mind! Or his eye! I don't even know... But it worked last time!"
I never know... but I know it usually works! he grins as the strange man with the top hat limply flops over Benaiah's shoulder, eyes rolled back in his head as he communes with some spirits, or whatever it is the haunted man does.
The finely crafted top hat suddenly flies off Olmstead's head, but the oddly nimble reflexes of the giant man are quick enough to catch it. He plops the cranial decoration on his own head, grinning a stupid, childish grin as it suddenly grows in size to match his giant stature.
Shuffling the royal family along, the group digs deep to use all their available skills. It seems that Arimar's disguise is working as he draws most of the fire from the gnolls, and none can dispute Benaiah's fearful presence.
Malgrim combines his deft maneuvers and quick eye to keep the group moving in the swiftest direction, while Arimar does some fast field dressings. Benaiah's brute strength also greatly aids their flight.
"Olmstead, whenever you're ready!" Arimar yells out, "Who do these freaks worship again?" Seeing that the man is hell bent on using his mind's eye to scout things out, Arimar sighs and wracks his own mind for the information.
"Lamashtu, right? Mother of madness and monsters, that fits..." Arimar muses more to himself than anyone in particular.
Arimar turns, keeping his face hidden beneath the hood of the queen's cloak and traces the symbol of a three-headed Jackal over his heart - the symbol of Lamashtu. He hopes the gnoll a will recognize this common gesture of their religion and give pause when they see this queen is apparently aligned with their evil goddess.
|
|
With the guards far enough behind to not be enough of a threat, Benaiah scrambles back ahead of the entourage, He looks up at some of the rope stringers that help support the rickety bridge from the ceiling far above their heads. Suddenly an arrow pierces one of the support ropes, causing the bridge to shudder and sway slightly.
"On it!" Benaiah doesn't hesitate, scrambling to climb a nearby support. He reaches over and grabs the fraying strands to keep it from snapping cleanly apart, allowing the weight to transfer through his strong grip and up the good rope he now hangs from.
The gnolls constant pull and release of arrows abates for the briefest of moments as Arimar pantomimes the holy symbol of their god before a beefy gnoll yells from behind. Their momentary lull ends as quickly as it begun, and the gnolls go back to their ceaseless hail of arrows.
Benaiah lunges for the cut rope only to overbalance and tip towards the chasm below. He windmills his arms to remain upright, but in the process he looses both ropes and sets the bridge to a gentle sway that makes the groups going a bit more challenging.
Malgrim feels the bridge lurch under his feet, and looks back to see Benaiah struggling to maintain his balance. Snatching up one of the falling ropes, he climbs then nearest support as nimble as a spider, and attempts to help reattach it, though the already destabilized bridge lurches against him.
Malgrim stretches out and is able to ascend the rope without a problem.
The bridge secured, the royal family is able to safely exit the small chasm and proceed to safety.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Like a pack of curs they descend, Malgrim mutters to himself, slowly limbering his arms as the motley band of cutthroats that had been dogging him through the back alleys finally materializes. One, two, three, four: Weasel-face, Half-Blood, the Kid, the Alpha; the hobgoblin counts them out as his pursuers emerge from the shadowy maze of the city. Not the sort of friends he wished to make prior to his meeting with Arimar and the others. With grim determination, he orients his hooded head towards the apparent leader, calmy stating in a deep resonating voice "Can we not be civil?"
The man, broken-nosed and bearing the scars of countless conflicts, bursts into laughter, which is quickly echoed by the rest of the pack. "Ey, now, the freak wants to be civil? the human mockingly laughs to his crew. "Well, gobo, you picked the wrong alley... We don't take kindly to your filth." Turning back to the others, the man jeers, "Let's see if he bleeds green, boys!" as he fires off a concealed hand crossbow straight at Malgrim's head.
With well-trained reflexes, the hobgoblin attempts to evade the quarrel, twisting his face so that it slashes across his cheek instead of his eye. The quarrel draws a thin line of green-tinged blood... that quickly hardens as Malgrim throws back his hood revealing a wave of gray that encloses over every inch of his skin in a carapace of solid rock. Welling up deep within he feels a familiar power burning like gravel within his veins, keeping beat to a familiar song in his mind.
Hello violence, my old foe
Once again we've come to blows
As the victims of your reaping
Come like specters while I am sleeping
And the visions they've seared into my brain
Still remain within the scars of violence
With a stomp on the ground, the kineticist causes a small spray of cobblestone and dirt to rise up and harden, separating himself from the majority of the pack. Taking grim satisfaction in the muffled shout from the cutthroats, Malgrim wheels around a double-handed swing by Weasel-face that crashes against the stone wall behind him. A ferocious rumble of rocks belies the dispassionate look on the hobgoblin’s face as he whirls his empty hand in a return blow; from palm erupts a blade of solid stone the cuts down the hapless bandit with the force of a greatsword and a spray of crimson.
This bloodstained path I walk alone
Bowed by a burden forged of stone
'Neath the fallout of a cavern's crack
Trapped in a crucible of earth and black
When my eyes were stabbed
In the gasp of the dying light
That split the night
Drowned in the fall of violence
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
"Sahala, my name is Sahala," whispers the perky waitress as she leads Arimar to the bed. Her chamber is sparse, but the few items she has kept here are either for comfort or to add allure. Simple and elegant. Urgathoa would be most displeased.
"I never asked your name," Arimar says peevishly, and sends her a disarming smile immediately afterwards, "But I suspect you were fishing. My name is Arimar."
"Is that Riddleport I detect in your accent?" asks Sahala, sitting down on the bed and turning to unlace Arimar's tunic for him, "When were you last there?"
Arimar is surprised at how perceptive this simple waitress is. He downs the rest of his wine in one gulp. Benaiah had said many times in the past that this vintage was an excellent drop, but Arimar could not tell it apart from the Juju juice. "A year or two," he answers at last, "It eventually grew too... cloying... for me."
"How long were you there?"
"A little over seventy years," Arimar replies as his tunic is pulled over his head to reveal his skeletal frame. As with every time he is revealed, Arimar feels a flush of shame that he has not managed to engage in holy overindulgence. The waitress looks shocked, but Arimar cannot tell if it is at his figure or his age. He opts to believe the latter, "Yes, seventy years. I am an aasimar. This silvery sheen on my skin does come naturally - though I have to avoid the sun like the plague to avoid the more typical golden glow. Nothing I can do about my golden locks, though, so I shave them off."
"Why?" the waitress is taken aback, "Why would anyone not want to have such a lovely aura?"
"The visible aura should match the internal one," Arimar answers straight away, though it is the first time he has even pondered this notion, "My childhood on the streets of Riddleport was a bitter one, and my dark thoughts did not suit the typical coloring of my kind. Luckily, years living literally underground dulled the light."
Sahala seems torn between offering pity and curiosity. In the end, curiosity inevitably wins. "Why were you underground?"
"The priests who saved me took me there to hide me when I was six," Arimar leaves out the part where the priests were hiding themselves also. No-one responded well to being told he was an Urgathoan, "I had special abilities that made me hated on the streets - yes, even those of Riddleport. I was safe from those who would pursue me and kill me. The clergy of Pharasma had the patience of the dead, and would be ever vigilant for my return. I am lucky they did not kill me when they caught me the first time." Arimar was used to the doubtful looks, such as Sahala was favoring him with now. Most saw Pharasma as a benign deity, impassive and judgemental at the same time. He knew the truth, however. He knew first hand how harsh her judgement was. He had no desire to relive that moment, though, so he instead focused on the latter part of his life.
"I went to the surface seldom, and then mostly at night," Arimar continues while Sahala finishes undressing him, "I had a significant natural talent for... well, the things that my saviors valued. They nurtured that talent all through my long life, but I was not the best disciple. The Pharasmans are to blame for that. They mutilated me and deprived me of my goddesses most valuable senses. Eventually, the leader of our congregation could cover for me no longer, and bade me leave. I know seventy years should be more than enough time to grow up and be ready to leave your parents - especially an adoptive father - but as a long lived Aasimar, I am still more akin to a human teenager. My instincts to cling to my father figure were still strong... and I felt betrayed. Even though Pharasma's f*%+ing hounds were no longer on my trail, I left Riddleport. Nothing was there for me anymore.
"I threw myself into worship at first, but eventually I needed money to continue both my devotions and for sustenance. That's when I fell in with Benaiah - who you met earlier. He's a questionable individual, but a great mercenary. More than once, he's saved me from some pretty dire circumstances," Arimar muses, yawning slightly, I did not realize how tired I was, "We've worked for some pretty interesting individuals, including a king and queen of... now, isn't that interesting? I cannot remember which country... they..."
"A touching tale," Sahala interrupts Arimar's tale as his britches hit the floor, her voice losing the warmth and inviting depth of before, "But it appears you are not the one I was looking for. Are your eyelids becoming heavy yet? You are more resilient than your appearance would have me believe."
As if on cue, Arimar's world becomes blurry and he falls to one knee, inches short of the comfortable bed and the alluring, half-naked waitress... or whatever her profession really was. The wine, she must have put something in the wine. I wonder if she knew about my lack of taste and smell... I wonder if she bothered to mask the flavor and scent of the poison... With that last thought, Arimar's naked body flops onto the hard, wooden floor of Sahala's boudoir.
|
|
Benaiah’s body lies almost motionless on the bed, with numerous red lines over his back and shoulders. A shattered bottle of a 4692 Chelish Red vintage lays in a small puddle of the wasted liquid, thankfully most of the precious fruit of the vine is coursing through the large man’s system. Slowly his chest raises and lowers, indicating that he still breaths, though his mind is far from conscious thought.
Across the room a blonde woman gathers up a few things and winks to the red head who is currently searching Benaiah’s belongings diligently.
”I know the boss said to just put him to sleep, but there isn’t any harm in having some fun with the boy first right?” With a sly smile, the blonde ducks out the door.
The redhead smirks, tossing mundane valuables across the room in her haphazard search for something of real value. ”Ah-ha” she says with a sinister grin, pulling out the leatherbound journal. She flips it open to a random page. The letters appear to be scrawled with near artistic precision, though clearly with rather crude writing utensils and… ”is that blood? For ink?” she crinkles her nose, trying not to think about it as she reads.
|
|
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
16 Gohzran , 4712 AR
I write about this day because it was the last that I enjoyed the free air of Cheliax, my homeland. After years of research, practice, and experimentation, I believed I had finally done it. I had finally created the elixir that would unlock the man inside of me. I was able to manage to explain away the explosions and other mishaps along the way, but this new elixir was the pinnacle of all of my studies.
The whispers inside my mind were encouraging, despite the seemingly constant conflict with this alternate personality. The hidden man who yearns to be unlocked is as overbearing as my father. The moment of truth came that evening when I finally drank down that elixir. I felt the surge of power, much like that first moment my father had drugged me. The haze of anger was still there, but different this time. And it lasted much longer than those few fleeting moments.
I was filled with pride and illusions of grandeur swept through my mind. It was time to confront my father. If he wouldn’t give my manhood to me, I would prove that I had taken it for myself. When I went before him, he was seated on his self-styled throne of our family. I informed him of my breakthrough, and that I would be taking my inheritance to build my own empire in the family’s name and honor. I expected him to be equally proud, and to elevate me beside him, an unstoppable force of father and son. But that was not how it would happen.
It was that same pride which my father harbored, but not pride in his son. It was pride in himself, I believe. Instead of seeing me as an equal, he only saw a threat to his political and military power. I expected and longed for affirmation and acceptance, but what I got was wrath and jealousy.
What followed was a whirlwind. Two of the guardsmen were killed in my blind rage when they moved to arrest me. The throng eventually subdued me, clapping me in manacles. My father’s political pull was immense, and he managed to call for a judgement immediately, claiming I was steeped in heresy and that my actions and research were a threat to the Hellknight order, the royalty, and the laws of Cheliax.
Only a fool would believe that any of this was a righteous process. The procedure was dripping with hypocrisy, bribery and privilege. This was a statement to protect my father’s name, to head off any whispers or gossip of lawlessness and demon worship in his household. I came to realize that in my father’s eyes, I was already damaged goods. It was safer for him to discard me to protect himself.
I barely remember the proceedings, only that it was brief, filled with precise procedures and documents and seals and me being dragged off to a dark dungeon, branded a heretic in the eyes of the Hellknights.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Dreams...
Caerador hesitated to think of them as nightmares. The visions playing out were ever so familiar and held no anxiety or fear for him. Though in his four hour nightly reverie he began his rest with focused trance and meditation, his thoughts always wandered and his subconscious was hijacked by these haunted memories. As if the first century of his life was not long enough, he seemed cursed to relive his youth nightly, four hours at a time. Curses... yes, that was a better description than dreams.
Curses...
Stale air and the macabre conjoining of lingering death and centuries-old books would have assaulted the senses of any normal person, but they had long since become the standard for a young, pale elven boy. Then, he still had the exuberance of youth; still longed for play and friends. However, these ideas were just that; ideas that he had stolen from glimpses during infrequent visits to the slave markets or in the pages of stories in the recounting of the lives of countless wizards and nobles. His spirit was not yet broken, though his father, Lord Caeradwyn Grimualt, piled weight on his soul daily like too many books on a rickety table. Lord Grimualt sired this boy with an elven noble from a nearby elven citadel positioned in the Mwangi Expanse. Though Castle Grimualt was in Geb, it's lord sold the idea of an arranged marriage to strengthen the ties between the two bordering strongholds. Once the marriage was complete, Lord Grimualt sent a strike force of assassins to murder the family of the woman he had married and locked down his keep. Caerador had never knew his mother, as his father had her killed shortly after his birth. He only knew of her by his father's proclamation that he was of noble birth. This was important to Caeradwyn as he dreamed of his son being a grand and terrible elven noble wizard who would take his place as lord and master of Castle Grimualt.
Once he was old enough to read, he was thrust into the expansive library inside the inner keep. Ghasts under Caeradwyn's control kept the place organized and orderly. Caerador's charge was to study, to fill his mind with as much information and history as he could. Months turned to years, which turned to decades. Still he studied, and still the ghasts brought more and more librams and tomes for him to begin anew. It was endless, and as he felt like he was reliving it...
SNAP!
Consciousness defeated the cursed vision and Caerador's eyes snapped open. Though it was still in the dead of night, Caerador had "rested" as long as he could stomach. He lit a half dozen candles on the simple round table in his room in the inn and stroked the black leather cover of his spellbook. This was the only book that didn't make him feel uneasy; this book made him strong. He cracked the book open and began to study the arcana that would be his passenger today as his journey to Absalom to answer a summons by a Mistress Lanvi was near to fruition.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The intrepid group of adventures once again takes a seat across from Venture-Captain Ambrus Valsin. Stacks of papers in varying heights form paper crenelations around his desk. On the floor are stacks of scrolls laid out like tinder to start a fire. An assortment of odd implements of an arcane nature are shelved in cubbies around the room.
The mustachioed man's eyes bore into each one of the assembled individually.
"You had one, primary mission. And you couldn't even accomplish that. So what that you were under prepared. So what you didn't have the correctly enchanted crossbow. You are PATHFINDERS! You are supposed to know! Bah! I continue to waste my time on you lot. How you all passed your Confirmation I will never know.
"Since you walked in here a year and a half ago, I knew you lot were trouble. Sleeping in Master Zey's class, doodling in Master Shaine's class, the horsing around in Master Farabellus's class. I tried to pull in as many favors as I could to block your admittance, but despite my astute judgment, they saw fit to admit you.
"But today, I get my wish. All of those silent supporters have vanished like dust in the wind. When you are successful, they were more than happy to turn a blind eye to your methods. Now that you have failed, they scurried like rats abandoning a sinking ship." Pausing to catch his breath, his fierce look softens into one of gleeful superiority.
"Your time here has ended. You are hereby dismissed from the Society. Place your Wayfinders on the desk and leave. These senior agents will escort you out." He waves a dismissive hand at you.
The sounds of many footsteps approaching can be heard.
|
|
Oi all those times I fantasized about putting my fist in this man's face, and now I might get my chance...
Benaiah stands up to his full height, puffing out his chest. He balls up his hands into tight fists, veins beginning to show through his skin for his flexed efforts. His eyes turn a slight shade of red as he gleefully lets the adrenaline and anger build inside him, and a wicked smile creeps across his face.
"Maybe you shoulda waited for your croonies to get here before you told me I can't get kicked out for kicking you square in the balls, you pompous, over-paid windbag."
It is only then that the volume of footsteps in the hallways gives him pause.
A voice floats through Benaiah's mind. It is not the first time he has heard it, and he knows it certainly won't be the last. It is dark and raspy, conniving and cunning. It is not the voice of his thoughts, but the voice of some other part of him. He has always thought of it as the man he was supposed to become, trapped and suppressed by his father. The voice seems to remain locked in his head, encouraging and guiding in some moments, chastising and rebuking in others. Mercifully, this time, the voice is soothing and instructive. "Now is not the time, my boy. Yes yes, we will measure your manhood by your strength of arm, but I am here with you because if you beat the snot out of everyone who rubbed you the wrong way we would be dead. You be the braun, I'll be the brains. Stand down for now. We may yet get our chance to put Valsin in his place."
Benaiah slowly relaxes his clenched fist and begins to breath a little slower, waiting the interminable seconds before the contingent of Pathfinder guards arrives.
He sure didn't mind our methods when we stopped that wizard from unleashing the construct forge in the coins district, or when we 'convinced' that Aspis agent to talk so freely about the snake's smuggling operation in Geb.
"Heh. Hey Arimar. Maybe he's just salty because your Ghast stuck its tounge in his ear. Heheheheheheh" Benaiah's not-so-childish giggle has a sinister ring to it as he stares right back at the venture captain.
"The pleasure was ours, Ambrus. I will find my own way out."
Caerador had never dared use Venture-Captain Valsin's first name, but it hardly mattered now. Though his time with his companions as a Pathfinder was helpful to him as he finds his own personal and moral path, Caerador couldn't agree more that this arrangement with this stuffy society was not the right path for him.
As he takes his first strides towards the Venture-Captain's office, he is swept up by a wave of Pathfinders, and the rough hands of his "brothers" not five minutes ago secured him and with an approving nod from Valsin remove him and his companions from the office.
There was one thing he knew; Arimar, Benaiah, and Malgrim were stout companions. Between Caerador and the three of them, their methods were unique; especially for Pathfinders. Work was always available in Absalom and these four would have no trouble finding trouble.
I wonder how long it will be before some intrepid Pathfinders are sent by Valsin to apprehend or erase us? I pity their nightmares when we have finished with them.
Caerador straightens his traveling robes and adjusts the weight of his pack as he looks at his companions each in turn.
"Well, it is not as if we did not see that coming. Question now is, what to do next?"
Why did I even join up with these arse holes in the first place? Arimar wonders to himself, It's like the end of a long dream. It doesn't seem real. Stupid idea, and a fitting stupid ending.
Arimar mentally goes through his spells. Nothing that will do any lasting harm to Valsin, and nothing that won't get him killed if he uses it against a venture-captain in on of the august offices of the Grand Lodge. "Fie," he curses aloud.
"Don't worry about the ghast, Benaiah, you should hear what I've got planned next," Arimar decides to completely ignore the stuffy Valsin, "It involves a fast zombie, several castings of gentle repose, a cunningly disguised magic mouth and a heater for her thighs. One of Valsin's next drunken pick-ups - he won't know which - could turn him into a necrophile."
Unlikely that he would ever be so fooled, but it might at least ruin his next few nights out... and he gets precious few of those!
"What next, Caerador?" Arimar walks over to Valsin's desk - not meeting the man's eyes - flings his wayfinder onto it and absent-mindedly riffles through some paperwork, "Whatever the f&&& we like, my friend. Whatever the f+*+ we like." Arimar suddenly topples the stack of carefully arranged papers onto the floor.
"Whoops," he says, deadpan.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Waiting in the Venture Captain’s study, Malgrim’s thoughts turn the night before, an appropriate homecoming to the failed mission he and his compatriots returned from:
With a shower of debris, the half orc’s giant axe obliterates the flimsy wall of stone as he and the Kid rejoin the fray, their leader nowhere to be seen. Malgrim’s stony eyes quickly scan the dark alley for the alpha, but his search is interrupted as the greataxe pierces his defenses scores a hit on the hobgoblin’s side. Accepting the blow impassively, Malgrim thinks to himself, The folly of rage as he takes advantage of the half orc’s over extension and lashes out with spear of stone that hamstrings the halfblood.
And in the dying light I saw
Ten thousand people stare in awe
People shouting without speaking
People running without escaping
People begging gods
Their voices raised in prayer
Yet none were spared
From a hymn sung in a psalm of violence
The kid circles into the melee with more caution, his longsword held defensively. His partner, though, has lost himself to the song of rage, bellowing and spitting out a mixture of froth and blood. Malgrim dances back a step, almost kneeling to the ground as he carves a boulder from earth half the size of his chest and hefts it as if it were a feather. Halfblood utters two more inarticulate shouts, ”Ah! Ahhhh!”, before charging towards the hobgoblin.
The alley rocks with an explosion as every speck of loose dirt and stone rattles and flies up a second, obscuring the combatants in the middle of the half orc's charge. Amidst the shower of debris, the boulder comes sailing through the air, causing yet one more explosion as it collides into the half orc with lethal force.
"Seer" I heard, "So now you know
How the tide of violence grows
Heed my words that I might teach you
Let the lessons of the earth reach you"
And the walls of my stony prison fell!
And echoed in a surge of defiance!
From the rooftops above, a crossbow bolt catches Malgrim in the shoulder, taking with it a sliver of stone and drawing gravelly blood. The Alpha, clearly not wanting to get his hands dirty, had found his perch and chosen to rejoin the fight. On the ground, the hobgoblin and young human circle each other, trading blows of steel and stone. Despite his age, barely more than a child, the Kid is an accomplished swordsman and there is no way that Malgrim would win the battle of attrition with the occasional crossbow shot raining from above.
With resignation, Malgrim begins a flurry of blows, blades of earth arcing like stone lightning, each heralded by a reverse thunderclap that rocks the alley. The young man attempts to mount a defense against the assault but slips on the unsettled stone and is pierced by one of the stony strikes and falls to the ground.
And so with reforged faith I prayed
To this task may I be remade
Yet stones rang out with this warning
In cryptic words they were forming
Standing over the bleeding body of the Kid, Malgrim is rocked back by another crossbow bolt that crashes against his back, battering but not piercing his stone skin. Alone with the Alpha, he finally has time to seek out his attacker perched up on the eaves above the alley of stone buildings. With powerful strides, the hobgoblin deftly dodges the crossbow shots, shattering one against his stone wrist before leaping straight at the sheer wall.
Improbably his grip adheres to the stone and his fingertips sink in slightly to find purchase. Climbing the featureless wall like it was a ladder, he finally comes face to face with the Alpha. The hobgoblin can smell the man’s fetid breath and see the fear etched across the Alpha’s broken features for a moment before he lunges up and grabs him by the leg and displaces him with a quick tug. Malgrim maintains his grip on the wall and ankle alike for a brief second, hesitating before letting his screaming assailant fall to the ground below. With deep breaths, Malgrim seeks calm to wash the thrill of battle from him. The dull ache from his Burden weighs heavier than his wounds as he regards the gristly scene around him and…
Returning to the present Malgrim lets Valsin’s words crash around him like wind on a stone plinth, eyes closed and unflinching. When the man finishes his tirade, Malgrim quietly returns his own, using probably more words strung together than the party has heard in some time.
”All we are is dust in the wind, Venture Captain. Even you. I accept your sentence, though your words of prejudice prove you unfit as an authority. Time and time again we have been sent ill-advised and underprepared to further the Society’s goals.. Now I wonder if this is incompetence within the organization, or a product of your malice.” Despite his impassive voice and appearance, the paperweights holding down scrolls on the Venture Captain’s desk rattle with the weight of the Stoneseer’s annoyance.
”Perhaps the Grandmaster Torch was right, after all. We will forge our own path, without a Society that subsides on the sacrifice of its own.”
The stones said
"The Path of the Prophet
Is not found within Familiar Walls
or Comfort's Halls
But witnessed in a world of violence"
Their time in the Pathfinder Society ended, their wayfinders returned, the companions find themselves both unemployed, and unexpectedly free. Exiting the gates of Skyreach, they make their way out of the Grand Lodge. The walkway may be short to exit this monstrous structure, but the amount of memories and deep emotions make it feel like an eternity.
The walkway, bordered by the famous rows of phoenix trees with their orange tipped leaves, terminates at two steel doors. The gates, almost always kept open in recent times, is bordered by a few guards that stand milling about, most likely new initiates or debtors to the society. The guards give the passing group nary a glance as they exit.
Past the arched gate, they all pause and turn around. Spying the Glyph of the Open Road, they take a deep breath, and continue on their way.
Now that they are outside the white walls of the Grand Lodge, the towering image of Skyreach doesn't seem to diminish at all as they make their way from the Foreign District towards the Coins District, and a stiff drink. Fears of what will come next turn their bowls icy; yet being free from the shackles of the Society bring an optimism that they did not realize was there. Unsure of their future, the intrepid group remain mostly silent, introspective in their thoughts.
They approach Saucy Wench with a heavy heart. Where will their next copper come from? What are they to do?
These questions can wait till morning, for now a bottle or red and too much Juju are all they can think about.
As they revel in their new found freedom, the have seemed to have celebrated a bit too much. At a nearby table is seated one of the most beautiful woman that they have ever seen, and a very, very large man next to her.
The woman flicks her finger in their general direction and the man nods. Pushing back from the table, he walks over an paces his meaty hands on Arimar and Benaiah's shoulder. "My mistress wants me to kick your ass. I always do what she wants."
|
|
Benaiah slows up as the group walks out the front gates, allowing the others to walk ahead. He looks around, taking in the sights, smelling the air one last time. He hardly notices the group guarding the gates, having already put his time in for that lowly position, and seeing them as well beneath his status, even if his status had just been taken from them.
Just as they clear the gates, Benaiah turns around. He does his best to make sure the others can't see the redness around his eyes, and the moisture rimming them.
All I wanted was great adventures. Is that really to much to ask?
"Are you crying" The voice in his head suddenly asks.
No. Dammit. The road is dusty.
The large man coughs a few times, rubbing his face vigorously before turning around and catching up with the others.
"Holy balls! I've seen bears with prettier faces than you!" Benaiah laughs heartily, slapping Malgrim on the back at his terrible joke which is at the expense of the bold man leaning over their table. Eventually he looks over at the seductive woman, liking very much what he sees.
"You tappin that? I'd hit that. Always doing what she wants has got to get a little boring between the sheets though, you know? Give me a few minutes with your mistress and I'll have her begging for whatever I want, right? Right!? Ha!"
Benaiah has another good laugh, reaching for his JuJu and tipping another shot back. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and lets out a gasp as the wicked liquid burns down his throat.
"Don't let him talk to you like that. Nobody talks to us like that. He treats you like a boy. Like you are worthless. Show him we are no little whelp to be pushed around." The voice hisses inside Benaiah's addled mind.
Pushing away from the table carefully, Benaiah stands up, touching his barrel chest with the newcomer to the table and putting his nose close to the other man's. He puffs his chest and flares his shoulders and neck like a peacock, strutting his stuff.
"Get your $&%*in hands off me."
Arimar stands next to Benaiah and notes where his gaze lingers. 'Worry not, friend," he tries to sound assuring, "It's like any other bad relationship. It hurts when it ends, but eventually, you'll feel relief and then joy at the newfound possibilities. The Society was not for us. Time to make our own way in this thrice-cursed world."
"You always do what she wants? Not much point talking to you, then, is there?" Arimar looks casually past the meat-head and speaks directly at the woman, "We meant no disrespect. It's been a hell of a day and we're here to forget our problems. The Saucy Wench is always good for eye-candy, and I guess we forgot that you're only supposed to eyeball the wait staff. Please call off your loyal companion here and we'll find another table."
Benaiah might be drunk and spoiling for a fight, but Arimar had barely finished his second glass - quite the effort for the man, but still not enough to make Urgathoa proud - and wanted nothing more than to have this whole day over with. Mind you, she would make a very good zombie-bait corpse to seduce Valsin with...
"A few minutes is about all you could last anyway, eh Benaiah?" The river of melancholy that usually engulfs Caerador is, for the moment, dammed by the effects of too much wine, hinting at a jovial personality buried somewhere in the riverbed. "And don't you worry, lass. He might brag of giving you twelve inches and making it hurt, but he would have to bed you three times and punch you in the face to make good on that promise! Ha ha ha!!!" Caerador almost laughs himself to tears as he sways slightly before grabbing the table; his pale face flushed red as he takes another large pull from his flagon. Fun at the expense of his friends was a trait he had learned from his father. He knew better, but the thick, sweet red liquid in his belly thwarted his better judgment and though he thinks he is helping Arimar smooth over Benaiah's offense, he is likely just making it worse.
Malgrim barely touches the alcohol, keeping his hood up to hide his goblinoid heritage. He is lost in thought, regarding the path he and his friends might take going forward, when the brute approaches the table and intrudes on the party's reveling.
Letting the other prattle on a moment, he slowly pushes back his chair and stands. "Today is a day marked by disappointment. Seek out your validation elsewhere, lest you be added to its litany."
I wonder, is this man over-reacting to some imagined slight, or a test of some kind?
|
|
Benaiah scowls at Caerador over his shoulder, but still sees the good-natured humor in the jest. Who wouldn't jest in good humor at a time like this. They were about to get in a fight!
Fighting, Drinking, $*%&ing. Arimar was right earlier. It's going to be a good day after all.
"Ha! Well it'd be the best 30 seconds of her natural life!" He shouts in response to Caerador, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him.
"And the shortest," Arimar grins, nudging Caerador in the ribs with a grin on his face. Arimar winces when the movement causes the big man's grip to twist his shoulder uncomfortably. Pain was something he was used to... but the alcohol in his system was hindering him from hiding it properly.
The beautiful lady sitting by them just gives her man and the assembled a wiry grin.
With that, the man's face splits in a toothy grin. "Sissys. Should make quick work."
After delivering his rousing soliloquy, the man balls up a fist and swings at Arimar.
"Ha ha ha ha!" Arimar laughs maniacally as blood runs out of his nose and down his lip, "You call that a punch? I could barely feel it. Malgrim's last fart hurt more than that did.
"As for you, bɨtch," Arimar turns his slate grey eyes upon the woman, "I know how tools work, even ones with hands. Someone has to wield them... and there's little point breaking the tool if you can take down the wielder. You'd best prepare yourself."
The man is a burly specimen. Though not quite as tall as Benaiah, he is well muscled and moves with a fighter's grace. He is clad in loose fitting clothes that fit well over what the companions guess is some protective armor. His close cropped, black & grey hair, screams veteran of many battles. A longsword is, for the time being, strapped to his leg.
The woman, despite Arimar's dire warnings, is still reclining comfortably in her chair. She is a dusty, curvaceous woman who is dressed in very fine clothes. Thought the primary function of her clothing is to extenuate her statuesque frame, there is an economy of design that would prove advantageous should the combat make its way to her.
The patrons scrape their chair backwards, and tip some of their tables in their haste to retreat from the melee. It seems that none are interesting in entering the scrape on either side.
Through their periphery, they can see the barkeep send a waitress scrambling out the back on some unknown errand.
Malgrim steps forward lightly, uttering in a low voice "Quick work, this shall be." As he closes with their assailant, he feels a burning rise within his veins and his skin takes on a stony cast, his fist becoming a slab of stone as he backhands the bar brawler.
Caerador turns his barstool to face the gathering around Arimar, Benaiah, and the brutish man. A smirk cracks the corner of his lips and he calls for a fresh glass of wine.
I just love watching these barfights! As I am physically rather weak, usually my job is to watch for enemy agents or fellow Pathfinders who might report our misdoings but, as that isn't an issue now, I think I will enjoy the show!
Caeradwyn scrapes a splatter of Arimar's fresh blood from the tip of his left boot with the heel of his right, crosses his legs and leans back against the bar while sipping the freshly filled wine flute.
Ducking the swinging stone hands of Malgim, Raim stares at the metamorphosed metacarpus.
"Death! Death to god lovers! You will die." Drawing his sword in a smooth motion, he advances towards the hobgoblin.
From behind, they can all hear the voice of the woman, "Raim you idiot, you are not to kill them!"
"No mistress, they shall pay for their insult."
She shakes her head, "Idiot. I have been called far worse more times than I can count. But please, continue with your foolishness." "Be careful, he is deadly. And we have much to discuss .... after." she encourages the companions.
Raim slashes out at the hobgoblin twice, one cut low, the other aimed for the head.
Raim is no stranger to the workings of a longsword and in short order opens two gashing wounds on Malgrim, a fierce look in his eyes.
Warm blood splashes over Caerador's face and flute, ruining the newly poured wine.
His disobedience and her assertions that they will talk afterwards cause Arimar to pause slightly in his machinations. "Fie," he curses as he makes his final decision. I am too soft.
He quickly steps back away from the brute and goes through the motions of a spell:
"Ray of sickening," he chants, spewing forth a bolt of necromantic energy to strike the hulking man attacking Malgrim.
|
|
Benaiah's mirth melts away in an instant with the blood spattered smack of the burly man's fist against Arimar's face. His blood begins to boil and his face turns a deep shade of crimson. For a moment he is caught in the haze of his own mind, almost not noticing that the man has now drawn a blade, and has cut Malgrim.
Almost.
"Now is the time! Show them that this pathetic excuse is a weakling!" the voice in his head screams.
"Tremble before my might!" Benaiah shouts, finishing the conversation in his head while his muscles bulge and veins pop from his forehead.
Demanding attention, the rager takes a swing.
For
Enraged, Benaiah swings but stumbles over an overturned chair and misses widely.
Arimar, knowing how serious a situation they are in, steps back from the melee and sends a ray of magic at Raim. They ray hits the man squarely in the chest, but he shakes off the magic like a dog drying its coat.
Staring at the necromancer, Raim declares, "You are next, little man."
"'Little'? Ha. Clearly you haven't seen my cock," Arimar winks at the woman who sent this beast after them. Why did you say that? Is Benaiah having an influence on you now?
Taken aback immediately, Caerador spits the awkward concoction of Chelish Red and Sanguine de la Hobgoblin out of his mouth and sets a serious tone. He steps off the barstool, kicks the seat away from his postion, and as he mutters eldritch words and makes arcane flourishes, he bellows to the armed brute in a menacing tone.
"You have not yet lived to see the horrors we can inflict upon you. Flee now or forfeit your soul!!"
Cause Fear (Arcane Resevoir Augmented) DC 16
Malgrim recoils slightly, the brutal attacks shattering his usual stoic resolve (as well as his supernaturally hardened defenses). He kneels a moment and draws strength from the earth with a riotous crash, before swinging towards the brute's face with an uppercut of stone!
The furrows of stone rush up into the man and dissipate after they pummel into him.
Caerador's spell has no effect on the man, whose eyes go wide. "More god lovers! I shall kill you all!!"
The blow from Malgrim wizes inches wide, before Raim adjusts.
Hopping over broken bits of chair, he slashes out at Arimar, a look of pure pleasure on his face.
His first strike was aimed straight at Arimar heart. Only a twist in the nick of time saved the man's life. Raim instead plunges his longsword deep into Arimar's shoulder. After removing the sword, the wound steams and hisses as it digs into the man's flesh. Raim smiles. "You and all your god loving friends will soon be dead heretic!"
His second slash cuts a shallow line across Arimar's midsection opening a red smile on the mans gaunt belly.
|
|
Benaiah's malice grows as he watched his friends get cut from this unknown assailant. The fact that the brute just called him by his unwanted title is lost in his haze of rage.
The spatter and spray of blood unlocks a desperation inside of the man, unexplained and laced with fear. Fear of losing something important to him. In a flash, Benaiah's scythe is in his hands, and murder is in his eyes.
"You will wish you had a god to pray to!"
For
-Posted with Wayfinder
Arimar is glad for the clearing of the room, but his next shot needs to be close in. He defensively goes through the motions of what he hopes looks like a vampiric touch spell as he sacrifices a casting of animate dead for inflict moderate wounds. As he lashes out, he tries to maneuver into a position that is more advantageous for him and Benaiah.
"Who are you calling god-lover, freak?" Arimar does his best to make the syllables of his wounding prayer to sound like a sorcerer's necromantic casting. Hopefully, the wounds that spring up over his body will seem like the appropriate amount of life being drained from him.
Benaiah noticing how serious this fight has become readies his scythe, and swings out. Unfortunately the close quarters make his weapon unwieldy and he misses.
Arimar recovers from Raim's blow to reach out to drain some of the man's energy. Lightly resting his hand upon Raim's breast, he speaks works that the more enlightened recognize as arcane, and the astute recognize as divine, but this tavern is filled with the former rather than the latter.
Raim screams in rage, "God lover touched me and cursed me with his god magic! I will rip your innards out and hang you till your face is purple!"
Arimar's spell successfully sucks some of Raim's life force ebbs out. Raim's face lightens to an odd shade of grey before reverting back to his rose-hued face.
I really need to animate some friends to help out in these combat situations... perhaps you will be the first, brute.
Have to get through his armor... or being kicked out of the Pathfinders is going to be the least of our concerns
Malgrim punches the empty air ahead of him, causing a popping thu-thu-thunk sound as a boulder flies towards Raim... that sadly merely impacts on the surface of his armor. He then springs over the table to close with the assailant.
Caerador curls his lip as the dim-witted longswordsman seems utterly unaffected by his magic.
Time to put this fool down before he hurts someone...
Caerador digs deeply into his mind and musters all the magical strength he can. Ice and snow begins to form in front of his hands and grows larger until it is the size of a small boulder. Just before the Arcanist looses the snowball at an incredible velocity towards his foe, his robe seems to shimmer and the snowball begins to resemble a large skull.
Snowball (+1 CL from Arcane Resevoir, +1d4 dmg from Volatile Conduit, Grave touch added from Sorceror Robe)
DC 15 Fort Save or Staggered (Snowball) and Shaken (Grave Touch) for 1 round
Malgrim once again strikes out with an earthen swing, and again fails to connect.
Caerador pulls from his arcane reservoir and conjures a snowball in the middle of the temperate room. The snowball strikes Raim right in the face, temporarily covering the man in a frosty exterior.
Unfazed, Raim shakes the flakes off like a dog drying himself, and once again resumes attacking, this time the hurler of snowballs, Caerador.
Grinning in ecstasy, Raim sees both his blows land on the man in front of him.
Arimar pulls away slightly and decides that beefing up Malgrim will be the best option.
He takes a step away and to the side, and does his best to hide this casting as a sorcerous one.
"Bull's strength," he chants, placing a hand on Malgrim's shoulder.
"Get him, Malgrim," grins Arimar, "Show this fool why we are feared throughout Varisia."