It all began with dreams.
At first it was just dreams of fire, of bright lights followed by darkness. Then it was dreams of screams, of terror, feelings of loss and entrapment, of peril and pain. The thing was, EVERYONE had the dreams. Even the elves, who sleep only rarely and never for long, had the dreams.
Then came the sound. Every day, a long drawn out keening sound, as if the sky was being rent in twain. It happened at the same time, everywhere, echoing from here and there.
Then came the dragons. Flights of dragons, all converging in the sky to talk. Deadly enemies, longtime foes, all came to speak on the omens it portended.
Last came the rips, tears in space that vomited forth strange creatures and strange men who spoke of other worlds and other places, of things that had never been and places that no longer existed: of Azlant Victorious, of the flying cities of Garund, of the lost city of Absolom, or the Disappearing Trails of Old Cheliax. Of cataclysms, catastrophes and things even worse.
The world began to buzz with talk of the ending of this age and whether a new one would arise. The fey began to speak of the Third World, a refuge to flee to when this world was no more. In the midst of all this talk, a meeting was convened by a little old man who called himself Prester Gallowsmith. You've been a message, delivered by a thrush, that invites you to come to Absolom, to the home of Prester Gallowsmith in one month's time to discuss the end of the world. The letter is signed with a signature and a sigil: three interlocking circles with a spiral at the center. It's not a symbol you're familiar with, but it seems to evoke a sense of familiarity none the less.
Against your doubts, or perhaps because of them, you've decided to attend. You choose your travel methods carefully, but you know that you may never pass this way again.
In the year 4712, in the Age of Lost Omens, on the leapday of 32 Arodus, a gathering was held in the home of Prester Gallowsmith in the city of Absolom. It was attended by men and women of all races, of all walks of life, with no particular connection. It begin with an argument and ended with the everything changed. It began a new age. - Book of Endings, author unknown
The house was modest by the standards of the city, an older manse, its glory fading, its paint peeling. It smells faintly of roses and soap, a pleasant enough smell for such a foreboding day. In the sky above, clouds swirl around one of the Great Rifts, a rip in the sky that reveals another sky beyond, one with two suns perilously close to Golarion, even at night. The heat radiating from the rift has lead to a sweltering summer and the people of Absolom have taken to wearing as little as is modest, preferring the threat of the sight of flesh to the heat stroke which has become too common.
The door of the home is open and voices can be heard inside. As you stand upon the threshold, a mouth appears from the stone of the wall, small and magical. An old man's voice pipes out from it in a pleasant tenor. "Come in, my friends. We have much to discuss. There are food and drink for you inside. Make yourself comfortable, I will be joining you presently."
A tall man in patched Varisian dress enters through the portal. Disdaining the removal of his hooded cloak despite the heat, he takes a goblet of wine and paces the room fitfully. Gods the very air is afire and rampant. Unlimbering the spirit and choking the mind in equal measure.
Taking a deep draught of wine he attempts to calm his shaking hands.
Following Gethric closely comes a shorter Varisian man, dust and mud covering his well-worn boots. He carries a large pack, and has emulated the locals in stripping down to a short tunic and light trews. The top of his balding head is sunburned and peeling, with flakes of skin falling off when he idly scratches his scalp. He takes a glass of wine, but waters it heavily before quaffing it in a single gulp and pouring himself more. "Faugh! This heat, it bakes your throat 'til all's dust! And what we see i' the heavens--I ask you, how are we to interpret two suns?" He fixes Gethric with an intense, rather manic gaze. "How? The Song, She is silent for us."
A tall Osiriani man enters the room. He has distinctively white hair, in stark contrast with his black skin. He wears a chain shirt and a blue mantle with silver decorations. A large round shield is strapped to his back, half of it white, the other half black. He looks worried, absent minded, almost imbarassed to be there. He stands in silence for a moment, his pointed helm in hand, then he clears his throat and speaks: Thank you, mister Gallowsmith. My name is Yeronimous Nethysborn. I bear the name of my Master, Rentellion, your collegue and friend I believe. He passed away last week, we could do nothing about it. He pauses for a second, then continues. I was his servant and apprentice during his final years. While I don't know why my Master's presence was requested in such grave times, and my capabilities are humbled by his, I will try to honour your call myself, as I believe this would have been my Master's will.
To Zeldones: "I cannot hear the song, but the very threads that bind us become frayed and threaten to break" he closes his eyes a moment, feeling into the air surrounding them and drinking the chaos unbound that floods through the sky-rents. A cold shiver runs through Gethric as he kens the power suffusing the air "It matters not, unless something is done to check this chaos, we shall all be cast to the boneyard."
"Events are coming to an interesting end, aren't they." A tall, lithe man walks through the door, taking a moment to adjust his cloak. Appearing as a sun-burnt half-elf, his sarcastic tone very difficult to miss. He takes off the cloak, folding it over one arm. He leaves his hat on, what looks to be a handcrafted straw hat. He walks over, taking a moment to grab some chilled wine. "I am most interested in what our host has to say."
A Half-Elven male walks through the door next, his body swathed in an all-encompassing red and gold cloak. The clink of armor can, however, be heard from underneath.
"Ah. I see that I am not the only one to have answered this summons. Charles Beecroft, at your service."
He bows deeply, and with a flourish, removes his cloak, hanging it on a peg by the door.
Doing so reveals that there is more to him than meets the eye, for he has a second pair of arms, situated at mid-thoracic level, which end in hands tipped with wicked claws...
As if all of this was perfectly normal, he casually moves over to the beverage tray, and pours himself a glass of crystal-clear, chilled water, before turning to the others again, with a smile.
"Tell me, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
As the guests arrive, they see no sign of the host yet. The food is laid out on the outside of a large (around 40 feet across) open to the second story circular courtyard within the mansion. Tables are arranged on the outside of the circle, between several doorways that head into other parts of the house. So far you've seen no servants, but as the wine is poured, a rush of air moving past quickly fills it. Clearly the host is an arcanist of some sort.
There is an odd smell to the room, a scent of ocean water and fish. It's not overpowering, but much like the ocean as smelled on the breeze from far off.
In the center of the room is an open circle around 20 feet across. It is covered with a mosaic of small tiles arranged in precise shapes to depict the legend of the drowning of Old Azlant. Odd fishy shapes encircle the image, and the water depicted on the mosaic seems almost to move, but only from the corner of your eye.
A voice, the same one you heard from the magic mouth at the door, fills the room with no discernible source. "Welcome friends. Enjoy your respite; we will speak of weighty matters soon enough, once more of our guests have arrive. Here you may eat and drink safely. I pledge no harm shall come to you while you reside beneath my roof. I will join you shortly; as you guess, there is much to prepare."
Nodding to Charles, the second Varisian says, "Zeldones am I, priest of Desna, from Magnimar and many other places."
Following Zeldones' greeting Gethric snaps out of his introspection and stands to attention before bowing while saying "My apologies, I am Gethric Orted. I dabble in the arcane ways of the past, and uncertain present."
Briar nods. "I am Briar Uumeaonna, a traveller, fighter, and speaker of Words." He nods toward Gethric, taking a sip of chilled wine. "What things arcane do you study?"
Gethric turns to look at Briar and states "Ways that are lost, ways that burn, and those that tap into the primal energy that courses through this world." His face is flushed with excitment at his words and it is as though a small fire burns behind his eyes.
Yeronimous turns to Gethric, with an interested look on his face. Primal energy, you say. That's exactly what my Master studied, and most likely these studies are the reason he died. May I ask you if you knew him, or if you are part of the same conclave he presided over? Maybe we already met each other, and my memory is playing tricks on me.
Another arcanists who dabbles in the primal forces of reality. thinks Yeronimous. Probably that's related to the reason why we are here. Maybe I should show him my Master's notes? Perhaps he could make something of it.
"I doubt our paths have crossed prior Osiriani, I do not subscribe to any conclave - nor do I spend long in study." said matter of factly and without rudeness. "I find that learning through action is more expedient, though not without risk" as he absent-mindedly rubs at the left side of his ribcage.
A large Tian enters the courtyard looking about as he does at those gathered. Bowing slightly he says, "I apologize for my late arrival, but my command was not quick in my release from the front. We were attacked by some bizarre creatures shortly after the message to arriveat this place was recieved. I am Suburo Silan. Now that I am here why is that I have been summoned?"
Zeldones executes a rather more florid bow in return. "Our host has called us together, I believe, to tell us of a solution to the problem that so vexes the world. At least, I surmise a solution is involved; 'twould be a cruel jest, otherwise, to bid us risk the perils of travel only to tell us all hope is gone."
"All hope is indeed not lost, my guests." The voice comes from the mosaic, as the tiles seem to rearrange themselves to form a human male, who rises from the floor, seemingly made of the tiles themselves. His voice is the same as the one you heard earlier. His hair is the white of sea-foam and his robes the blue of the ocean. He is clearly older, but stands straight and tall.
"I am Prester Gallowsmith. Please forgive my appearance here; there is much to be done and many leagues between us to do it in. Allow me to tell you a story, my children."
I am a member of a brotherhood of men who study the planes and the stars and the space between. For many years we have met quietly to share our insights and to speak of the knowledge that we have gathered. The death of Aroden changed everything. Suddenly all the omens and prophecies ceased to function, and even basic divinations could not be trusted. It was in that moment that a brother of mine observed a strange occurence heretoforth unknown to us. During a simple teleportation effect, he observed that the Golarion of his destination was not the Golarion of his departure. Fortunately he was not stranded on that strange shore and was able to return to us with his findings. From that moment, we were able to make several discoveries. Bear with me; the path ahead is not a clean one.
He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "We have discerned that every major event in the history of our world holds a certain temporal energy. It permeates the planar boundaries and as we found out, alters them. You see, every major event or keystone moment creates a potential for an equal and opposite outcome. The very energy that causes history to hinge upon that moment creates its opposition. When this occurs, a new Golarion is produced, divergent from our Golarion in that moment. If the event is strong enough, that Golarion continues, evolving in its new path separate from our path, spawning its own alternates. If it is weak, it will die, usually within a few days, but we have seen such realities persist for longer before fading. Indeed, in Pharasma's Boneyard, there may well be a graveyard of such realities. But I digress. In this garden of forking paths, there is a always a prime path, a Golarion from which all others sprang. Our world is that world. However, it seems as if the weight of these other realities is becoming too much for this world to bear. The rifts are the result of this stress. They are the tears where one reality intersects with another, and if they are allowed to continue, they will eventually cause all realities to collapse in upon each other, destroying them all. We know not why or where this threat comes from, but we believe we may have a way to stop the collapse."
Gallowsmith pauses and the mosaic tiles composing him rearrange to form a sort of network of roots. "In each reality, we have identified a keystone, a place or person or thing upon which that reality rests. These things have become lacking in some way and must be rectified if that reality is to be shored up against the collapse." A portion of the root lights up, and as it glows, you see a tomb, lost in the desert, sitting between two gigantic statues of lions with the claws and tails of scorpions. "In this reality, this tomb houses the consciousness of a great arcanist that is once more awakening. He must not be allowed to awaken. If his evil is stopped, his reality will be shored up and the threat against all of us is lessened by the weight of a single grain of sand. Minor, perhaps, but taken in total with others and it is enough to destroy us all."
"You must have questions. Ask them and I shall answer as I may."
Zeldones stretches slightly, stiff from standing still while listening. "If I take your meaning correctly, we--or others--must travel to each of these other worlds and undertake some sort of action which, presumably, you have identified. How is this journey to be essayed, and how do we return once our task is complete?"
"A good pair of questions. Another question, equal in worth: Who is this Arcanist that should not re-awaken, and how do we stop such an event?" Briar pauses for a moment before continuing. "I confess to not knowing the location, either. Geography was not my strength."
"Are these other worlds as beset by primal forces as our own?"
Charles raises an eyebrow, and then frowns.
"Whilst it is gratifying to hear that we live on Golarion Prime, I must admit to being concerned by all of this. To clarify my understanding, we will be traveling to alternative realities, where we will be accomplishing some 'minor' task to stabilize that reality, which in turn, shores-up the walls of our own, correct? Also, will it be safe to enlist allies from amongst the 'native' populace, or is it essential to try keep them ignorant of our true origin?"
"I need only know the way to this man and my sword will end this problem in but a single stroke." the hulking Tian says with an aire of supreme confidence.
Charles smirks, and takes a sip from his wine glass.
"From what our benefactor has said, the Arcanist exists in his tomb as a Consciousness; how do you plan to strike him down if he does not have a body, per se?"
He then sighs, before drawing himself to attention.
"Nonetheless, I would be happy to do whatever I can. I rather like this reality; it would be a shame to lose it."
Entering late is a tall battle scarred giant of a man, his face a criss cross of lines reminders of battles past. His face rough as sandpaper, bright eyes peer out from under black bushy eyebrows, above a nose squashed and broken. The black stubble surrounding his thick lips parts revealing yellowing teeth, as he speaks to the first person he sees. "Did I miss anything? don't move as fast as I used to. Me names Darc, I was invited." He shoulders a heavy sack to the floor, dumping it with a puff of dust. As the weight is lifted, he stands to his full height, impressive muscles ripple under his light shirt and short legged pants.
He walks forward, limping severely. A wound on this right thigh is visible, wrapped in a dirty gray cloth, from which a hardened yellow substance has congealed as it dripped from the bandage. He pays the wound no thought, as though part of his very being. His clothes are brown and gray caked in the dust of a traveler. strapped to his belt, the only object you could see that is well cared for, a red leather handled flail, it's deadly metal orbs would sparkle, were it not for the layer of earth covering them and the man.
Smiling he looks around at the gathered throng, from under his long matted black hair. His rough hands fondle the weapon. He bends his head and listens, as the group discuss the end of things and the meanings of the omens. Making his way to the table of food and refreshments, a gruff word is spoken, "Drink" ....
He hears the conversations with many words, until he blurts out, "Walk with the gods, put right what is undone, I do that. I a mercenary to their whims. Tell me what we do?"
Narrowing his eyes at Beecroft's snide remark, Suburo says,"I'll bring down as easily as I would any man as frail as yourself. If it can affect this world, I can affect it."
Charles raises all three of his hands in a sign of amelioration.
"Pax, Suburo. I meant no specific slight. I was merely trying to indicate that a blunt force approach might not be best; we will probably have to learn about the situation, and apply our... skills... surgically."
His mouth then quirks into a smile.
"We can schedule some arm-wrestling for once we are successful."
Gethric views the posturing with a wry smile upon his countenance. Ones so easily sparked to anger could prove useful in this endeavor
Zeldones extends a hand to the newcomer. "Well met, Darc. Zeldones am I, and here are many others who can no doubt speak for themselves."
The mosaic tiles swirl and Gallowsmith returns. "Our calculations indicate that not every world must be reinforced to keep the whole from crumbling. Only key worlds need be reinforced. It is our intent to assemble teams from those gathered here to head forth into the multiverse of Golarions to begin the process. I am assured by my colleagues that other Golarions have come to similar conclusions and have dispatched agents as well. The task is not as daunting as it may seem. As for the Arcanist, his name is unknown to us. He has gone to great lengths to obscure it against all divination. Evidence of it may exist in the tomb, but I cannot penetrate its defenses."
"It is a great thing we ask and those of you who fall may never make it into song or even memory. But if we succeed, we do so knowing that our very existence and the existence of everyone who is to come will depend upon it."
"Have I answered your questions?"
At the mention of other teams, Gethric grows wary "Is it possible that we may meet these other groups? It comes to mind that not all may wish the worlds re-ordered..."
You have. But I am afraid that those answer lead to even more questions. Who or what is causing the instability? How does the reinforcement of a certain world would take place? What is our, and indeed the rest of world's, destiny if we fail? Yeronimous is actually astonished by Gallowsmith's revelations. If only his Master had such a vital amount of information, perhaps things would have gone much differently. I understand that this is a matter of the utmost importance for our very reality. It is a great responsability, the one we are facing right now, something that is probably beyond our earthly abilities. But for what is worth, I will not stand down. And if I won't be able to stop this catastrophe myself, maybe my shield will protect someone who can. He takes a step foward, looking at all the others in the room. I volounteer to go into this tomb, and I would be glad to go with whoever wants to follow.
Briar nods as he looks at Yeronimous. "I add three more questions to the stack. First, how much time do we have till this Golarion Prime collapses on our heads? Secondly, did you have a set group for heading into the tomb? Or are we to sort that on our own?" Briar turns toward the newcomer, performing a double-take on Darc's leg wound. "You must have moved quickly and quite hard. Have you had a chance to see a healer yet?"
Clapping Beecroft on the shoulder with a larger hand, he says with what appears to be an attempt at a smile,"I look forward to this contest. I must now ensure you make it till then, hahaha!" and with that he turns to face the mosaic man. "When do we depart? I am sure every moment we spend in this place time conspires to defeat us."
Charles grins at Suburo.
"I will do my best to return the favor."
His face then becomes much more solemn, as Gallowsmith's explanation unfolds.
"Well then, it sounds as if we should begin, post-haste. The sooner we get this mess sorted out, the better."
Darc nods at Zeldones, "A strange clan this, much noise." He extends his hand, big and strong to Zeldones, "Zeldones, friend." He scans the others as they appear to squabble over the meaning of what they are asked to do, he closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, his mind wandering into his past. A look of contentment and peace takes the face, as the muscles relax. a long sigh escapes, before his eyes flicker open again.
The sound of another's voice breaks into reveries, as he looks down to see a sun burnt human or elf asking about his leg. "Gorrum's gift, no can cure it, Gorrum wills it. It nothing." Leaning over he adjusts the bandage. He continues, "I Darc, you?"
"Briar Uumeaonna. I apologize for misunderstanding." Briar pauses, looking intently at Darc. "I must confess, I don't recognize your accent. Have you traveled far?"
"Once I hero in place, Hold of Belkzen you call it. Gorrum take me. Now fight for Gorrum. Where you?...you fight?" He looks at the strange elven features, wondering how such slight races can survive. As Briar tries to understand his words, he finishes with "Briar, friend." and holds out his hand.
Briar pauses before shaking Darc's hand, but eventually does do so. "Thank you Darc. I don't have a home I fought at, though I am from a small farm about a week's journey by boat and foot of here, by the river Iseld. Its near the border of Isger and Cheliax." Briar pauses, almost unsure of himself. "I hope I can live up to your friendship."
A smile crosses the face of the grimy man, "Fight well, we good." he says at the elf. He fingers the handle of his flail absentmindedly, in the silence pause in conversation. A hand reaches to the table, removing a leg of cooked fowl, its browned skin tasty as his yellow teeth sink through the meat and rip it off the bone. He continues to eat, tearing meat and crewing noisily. When he finishes, you see the meat has only been eaten from the most obvious places, where the meat is thick and easy to get too. Darc burbs letting a fowl air escape through his mouth and drops the remains of the leg on the floor. He speaks to Briar, "Nice, you want?" as he leans across to take more meat from the spread.
Once he has some more meat, he offers some to Briar, before eating more and speaking with his mouth full to Briar, spraying little bits of meat in Briar's direction, "Others, friends? Talk much, who?"
Charles sniffs delicately as he regards the (to his eyes at least) rather uncouth half-orc, but then rallies, and bows, greeting him with a smile.
If we are to survive this, I dare say we will need all of the help we can muster.
"My name is Beecroft, Charles Beecroft."
With a slight nod of his head, Silna adds,"Suburo."
Mine is Yeronimous. I'm glad to make everybody's acquaintance. So, how do we reach this tomb? Do anyboby have any idea of where it is exactly?
Surprised by those gathered suddenly around him, he tries to take in the names that come flying at him. He bows his upper torso awkwardly, "Friend, Beecroft Charles Beecroft.", holding out a hand greasy from the recently devoured fowl. At the other two he turns his head and nods, "Friends" he beams a smile made crooked by his scars at them both. "Me Darc, we fight together." He takes his time to look each one up and down, taking in their frame, physique and weapons. "Yes, fight side by side, the way for glory. We overcome our enemies." His mighty hand beats against his chest in salute to all around as he holds his shoulders and head high.
At the scarred man's announcement,Silna gives an approving nod and a "Hrmph." of agreement. The stoic visage on his face show a countenance of respect for one who has weathered the worst of storms.
Zeldones likewise nods in approval. "With hands, arms, and minds together and the Song to guide us, who will stand against?"
The image smiles, happy but tinged with sadness. "If I have answered your questions, I will leave you to your heroics. Would that I could accompany you, but I would only be a hindrance to you. I will send you with this, the best adviser that I can offer." The mosaic image swirls and a small circle of light appears. A small golden winged helmet flies through the gap, glowing slightly.
"This is Besmarial. Besmarial has been a valued helper to me and privy to many of our discussions and has an excellent memory. He may offer words of advice and information that you will need. Keep him safe and he will do his best to do the same for you. Now, Besmarial will counsel you further. Fare well my friends and may you succeed. For if you fail, the fate of all will fall with you."