To Those of Faith (Inactive)

Game Master JDPhipps

"Perhaps we should summon some of the First Guard?"

Zeph thanks Korihor and Kierana for their efforts in patching him up. Feeling much better he joins in with the discussion, "I can't help but worry that if we alerted the First Guard they may see us as a threat to the order of Absalom. After all, we are the ones left standing here. Still, if we can find some kind of evidence of their guilt on these men... It is something to consider," with that he starts to search the dead.

"The Powers-That-Be in Absalom can't be trusted anyways. Everyone has a price, including the law."

"That's comforting." Korihor mumbles, watching Twist out of the corner of her eye.

"Even if I told you, you wouldn't know his name. He holds at least as much power in Absalom's underworld as Lady Galdrin and her friends at the Black Mask." Twist starts moving towards town, waving the group behind him. "Listen, I was told to try talking to a man by the name of Graham? Never met him myself, but I heard he's something of a local scholar. Let's pay him a visit, shall we?"

"At this point, we're the hunted. We need to learn something about our hunters if we're going to seize the upper hand in this. If Twist is out to betray us, he's working a long, slow angle. He's already had several opportunities to do us in. We're no worse off for going along at this point, and honestly, I don't have any better suggestions."

I agree. At least visiting this Graham is something to go off of.

"Yes, we are flying blind and we need a tailwind in the right direction. Twist's suggestion may be just the wind we need." Feeling much better with a destination in mind Zeph leaps to his feet gracefully, ready to follow Twist.

"Yes. Lets."

Twist leads the party through one of Absalom's many back streets, constantly looking over his shoulder or around corners, obviously more cautious than usual. "I doubt they'd have more people after us right away, but better safe than sorry..." he mutters, still favoring his right side after prying an arrow from his rib cage. Perhaps an hour or two later, he finally leads them to an unassuming abode, and knocks several times upon the door. "Seems an odd place for a scholar to live, wouldn't you think?"

Any characters that know Aemon and where he lives and obviously identify this as his home.

Pyrrha stays behind, still searching over the fallen bodies of her attackers....

"Aemon is an odd fellow. Perfectly charming."

"The man who lives here is a good friend, I've known him for years." Zeph mentions, happy to see the scholar is someone he can trust.

"That's reassuring," Ahto replies.

From inside the apartment, a voice calls out, "Yes, yes, I'm coming!"

The door swings open to reveal a dark-skinned, middle-aged man. When he sees Twist he starts visibly, and he takes a half-step back from the door before he notices the rest of the group.

"Oh," he says, his gaze flicking from face to face, taking in their ragged and battered states. "Oh, damn."

He glances up and down the street before stepping aside and holding the door open. "Inside, quickly. And, please, try not to bleed on any of my furniture."

Korihor steps quickly inside with the rest of the group.

Kierana ducks inside as well, debating internally for a moment before waving Acharn in behind her. Sorry, I hope you don't mind. She'll be no trouble. Unless it turns out I need her to be. So you're the scholar, then? Graham, was it?

Ahto steps inside as well, giving a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anyone followed them.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Zeph follows the others, clapping Aemon on the shoulder as he enters, "Not the best circumstances, but it is good to see you my friend."

"Seems Absalom's a smaller city than I thought." Twist says, eyeing the group as many of them say their hellos. "Now that that's done, I hear you're something of a local scholar. What have you heard of this 'Last Disciple' fellow?" Not waiting for a reply, Twist plops himself into a chair, holding his side as he lowers himself. "Much as it might seem like it, this ain't a social call. Here on business, lives at stake, all that."

Ahto, you don't see anyone as you enter the house. Pyrrha, the men are all wearing either chain-mail or studded leather, and carry average weaponry, from longswords to bows. However, one of them, you imagine the leader of the group, has a note on his person, detailing the location of the farm and their instructions; capture Korihor, kill the rest of you, regardless of resistance."

My apologies for forgetting you were searching the bodies. You can catch up with the group if you'd like.

Aemon shuts and latches the door before turning to the motlew crew assembled in his apartment.

"In the first place," he says, glowering at the tiefling, "I distinctly remember saying something about blood and my furniture. Stand up until I can put something down that I don't mind you bleeding on."

He walks away, deeper into the apartment, talking over his shoulder.

"Secondly, before I answer any questions from people I don't know, I want to know what the Hell is going on! I already know there was some kind of mess near the Naughty Nymph that involved explosions and lightning bolts, so feel free to start from there."

He returns with an armload of shabby towels and blankets and begins covering the furniture with them.

"When that's done, we'll see about your question. I'm not sure what I can tell you about the Disciple, but I'll have a look through my notebooks and share what I know."

Aemon's apartment is small, but not cramped, and cluttered, but not messy. It is made up of only two rooms, a larger front room with two couches and two chairs, and a smaller back room where a bed is visible through the door.

There are a few cabinets and shelves in the front room, and nearly every visible surface has something placed on it. Books, scrolls, neat stacks of loose paper, and an eclectic collection of knick-knacks including a Varisian Harrow deck, a set of tarnished silver bells in varying sizes, a Shoanti klar, an assortment of antique rings, and a rapier in the umbrella stand. None of these things look remotely valuable.

Kierana lets out a short bark of a laugh. Darling, no one would like the answer to that question more than us. She gives the small apartment a cursory glance. Curiosities for sure...and none of it looks valuable at all. I wonder what their significance is...perhaps sentimental.

With a small sigh, she continues. We were all at that dust-up with the Disciple's followers yesterday. Korihor was being handled roughly and unjustly by the guard, so we talked her way out of it. We went to the Naughty Nymph for refreshment, and while we were there we met Twist. Shortly after that, two men created a distraction and grabbed the girl.

I've just had a thought, though - what if the guards were working with the ones who came after us last night and today? Trying to detain her for the same person? You said yourself, Korihor, they had no reason to do it apart from supposedly seeing you cast a single spell, which you denied.

She lets out another frustrated huff. That's all we know, unless someone wants to fill in anything I've missed.

"I was...yes. I cast the - I didn't mean to -" Korihor grimaces in frustration, and looks at her feet, then glances back up at Aemon. "Fancy meeting you here, you old fox," she chuckles nervously. "You wouldn't happen to have a nice Oldlaw scotch for me? I'd even settle for a Chelish Pepper whiskey right now."

Ahto's eyes widen momentarily at Korihor's statement.

"You know him, too?"

Aemon shrugs at Ahto's comment. "It's not so strange, if you think about it. I'd wager the only person in this room who knows Absalom's taprooms better than Korihor and I is you. Incidentally," he says, amusement in his dark eyes, "You might not recognize me, but I certainly recognize you. I owe you more than a few drinks for the money I've won betting on your fights. And, of course," he adds, nodding to Kierana, "I'd recognize you as a Handmaiden even without your companion. My name is Aemon Grahame, and you are both welcome in my home."

He turns to Korihor, giving her an appraising look.

"Kidnapping, mysterious associates, secret magics and a mystical tattoo? It sounds like you've gotten yourself into quite the Taldan drama, my dear."

He strokes his beard thoughtfully, then gestures to one of the cabinets. "Left side, second shelf. The Oldlaw is gone, I'm afraid, but there's a bottle of Taldan Fire-Brandy that I think you'll agree is quite excellent. Got it at an estate sale. The man didn't have a clue what it was, practically gave it away."

Korihor walks over to the shelf, rummaging around inside. "This is no Taldan self-obsessed romantic drivel. It's much more the 'Six Trials of Larazod'."

She pulls out the bottle of Fire-brandy, and sighs, mumbling. "Well..you've let one of your suitors drink most of this as well. Likely some lithe Vudrani."

Pyrrha is staring at Twist with a cloud of gloom over her head as the others prattle on. It is not hard to tell she is more than angry with him, but she says nothing to interrupt the discussion.

Ahto extends a friendly hand in greeting to Aemon. "I thought you looked familiar, somehow. I probably saw your face many a time, but just didn't have a name to put with it. Glad I could win you a few rounds every now and then!" he says, heartily. After a moment, his eyes shift to follow Korihor's hands as they retrieve the liquor bottle, and he reflexively licks his lips.

Korihor pulls out an intricately made tarnished silver cup. It's small, no more than two shot-glasses, but it has the remains of gold inlay in etchings in the shapes of lions. A three-horned goat makes up the handle. She raises it querulously towards Ahto. "You want one?"

Ahto approaches and takes the cup from Korihor's hand. "Thanks, I'm parched."

He puts the cup to his mouth and tips it up sharply, draining the contents in barely more than a single swallow.

Zeph rubs the bridge of his nose almost furiously as he hears their story put into words, it sounds so simple put that way, but nothing here is simple at all. "So now that you know our story, what can you tell us Aemon?"

Kierana responds with a small bow. We thank you for your hospitality, Aemon. May all your deeds be repaid as they deserve. Observes the niceties with grace...he's one I could get to know. I tend to get saddled with the less refined ones so often, as the newest at the Salon...

She tugs uncomfortably at the high collar of her borrowed dress, then gravitates toward one of the cluttered shelves. Any knowledge you may be able to share would be more than we have at the moment, and Twist gives a good impression of your skills. Certainly your knick-knacks display a certain level of worldliness. You must have done a fair deal of traveling, to amass such a curious collection.

Aemon gives Kierana a slightly sad smile as he crosses the room towards Korihor.

"I'm afraid I haven't been abroad in over 30 years. All of my possessions come from right here, in Absalom. I find them in pawn shops, at estate sales, from Pathfinders if they can't sell their finds to a museum. They display others' worldliness, not mine. I buy them because I like their stories, though. This, for instance," he says, plucking the strange cup from Ahto's hand, "was an integral part of ancient Kelesh birthing rites. I'll spare you the details, but it's not a good cup to use for drinking." He sets it down and pulls a stack of smooth and polished wooden cups from inside the cabinet, handing one to Ahto before setting the rest on top of the cabinet. "Use these instead."

"As for what I know, I think I remember a few things I've got written down. Give me a moment with my notebooks."

He steps into his bedroom, then returns with a few small pocket-sized journals.

"Let me see . . . Ah, here. This is my first record of him, a little over two months ago. 'A brawl broke out today in the Avenue of the Hopeful when a man claimed in his sermon that Aroden was alive and coming back. Apparently he has gathered something of a following, as the fight was quite intense. The man, who is calling himself the Last Disciple (presumably of Aroden?), was visibly upset by the conflict, appearing nearly in tears as he begged his followers to stop fighting.'"

He flips through a few pages, then begins to read again.

"A few days after that, here. 'The Last Disciple today became a topic of conversation in some of my learned company. He is, in these circles, viewed as nothing more than a petty fraud. Nobody here can tell me who he was before he began preaching, or know much about his claims, but one says that his first attempted convert was none other than Genedair the Faithful, steward of the Seventh Church and High Priest of the Inheritor herself! He was, of course, spurned as a fraud. They also tell me that his works are undoubtedly arcane sorceries designed to fool the common folk, much like liar-priests of Razmir.'"

He sets this journal aside and picks up another.

"This one is from a few weeks ago. 'An intriguing development. Multiple sightings and tests have confirmed beyond reasonable doubt that the Last Disciple's miracles show no hint of arcane magicks or trickery, and truly are a gift from some higher power. Whether or not these powers come from Aroden is still in question. Still, combined with his own apparent faith and ardor, his miracles certainly have many people convinced. His congregation grows daily.'"

He picks up the last journal, flipping to a page near the end.

"And then this, from a few days ago. 'I now have something of the man's story, pieced together from his followers. He claims he was a sailor whose ship was storm-wrecked near the remains of Azlant, and that he was saved, nurtured, and returned to Absalom by the grace of Aroden. From what I have gathered, nothing he has taught is false doctrine when compared to Aroden's original teachings. Furthermore, it appears he has a very convincing convert in the form of a truly ancient blind man. While I cannot confirm his name, it seems that this man is one of the last surviving priests of Aroden before his fall. His belief in the Last Disciple has garnered much attention, though I cannot help but wonder if it is nothing more than an old man clinging to one last ray of hope.'"

He looks up from his journal, looking pointedly at the teifling.

"That's what I know about him. Does any of that sound like what you were looking for?"

Korihor looks sheepishly at the wooden cups, and smiles at Ahto.

"So...the Last Disciple was shipwrecked and found an ancient blind man, who is supposedly still a Priest of Aroden? But the blind man follows the Last Disciple now, the man who was shipwrecked, not the other way round?"

If that's the case - that that blind man is the Disciple's servitor now - then this Disciple's got to be quite compelling. Unless, as you commented, Aemon, it's nothing more than an old man grasping at straws, trying to keep his old hopes alive. Indeed, I've assumed much the same about the Disciple's followers from the start - men pining after their glory days of yore, and hungry for anyone who offers a chance at humanity's former splendor. It's not so different from what I do, after all, being paid to make men believe what they want to believe.

But this about the Disciple's magics showing no trace of arcane influence - it intrigues me. I'd assumed much the same as your esteemed associates, Aemon, that this was some sort of trickery like you see from the Razmirans. It would even have provided some excuse for Korihor's kidnapping - assuming the Disciple was behind it, which we don't yet know. He could have been looking for a way to gain the innate gifts she's got, to aid in his deception, or a way to siphon the magical gift from her to increase his own power. But if he truly draws his miracles from some sort of divine power...

"Looking for arcane influence seems pointless to me. Why would it not be some other Planar Being empowering the situation? Iomedae herself, or something. And if they want my gifts, they can have them." Korihor pours a small amount of amber liquid into one of the wooden cups. "Either that, or the blind man had some kind of prophecy or something, and was waiting for the Last Disciple to arrive, as had been foretold. You said he was 'truly ancient', Aemon?"

Pyrrha interjects, "First, what gifts? Second, where did I miss what this has to do with Korihor?" Pyrrha is still looking at Twist with gloom.

"She's right. Why do they...whoever they are...want me?

It's a question of power, no doubt. They want it, and somehow you're their key to getting it. I just wish I had the slightest idea of who they are...

Kierana throws a bemused smile toward Aemon. It seems your answers have only begotten more questions, good scholar - as all the best answers do. Still, you've proven knowledgeable so far, Master Aemon. Any chance you wish to continue investigating the matter with us? She scans her companions, taking in the hand Twist presses to his bloody side, the cut still visible across Zeph's cheek, the bruises mottling her own skin. I give my solemn vow, on pain of my Lady's pursuit - it won't be dull.

"What do they want with you? I've got no bloody f*cking idea, alright? My best bet is that tattoo of yours, but that's all I've got. It's magic, even I can tell that much. I can't even be positive these people are working for the Last Disciple; I'm going on a hunch. I'm just trying to step ahead of them, you get me?" Twist mulls over what Aemon tells him for a moment or two, scratching his chin with his good hand. "You said he's got an old priest of Aroden following him now? Not a lot of them left, we could probably narrow it down. We could try and get an audience with that Iomedean steward, though I couldn't tell you how much luck we'd have with that."

At Aemon's insistence, Twist finally stands up, doing his best not to drip any blood onto the furniture. He fills himself a cup, downing it with tremendous speed. "Or Hells, if you can think of anything better, I'm willing to bite."

"It would be nice to speak to someone close to this Last Disciple before confronting the man himself. Though if this old priest truly is servitor to him then it may be difficult to get him alone. " Zeph considers quietly for a moment, searching his thoughts for information on the old priest.

Knowledge Religion: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21

"But do we really even know that this has a thing to do with this...Disciple fellow?" Korihor looks around the room at everyone in turn. "I was detained, and then pursued. But we don't know if it was the Last Disciples followers, the Inheritors followers, someone posing as one of them or a completely unrelated party." She takes a good sized swallow of the Fire-brandy, and coughs.

"Pyrrha...you searched the bodies at the farm, yes?"

"Korihor is right... There was nothing signifying that the mercenaries that attacked us were of any affiliation. No surprise that Twist admits that he is blowing smoke up our rear ends now; it stinks to hell. We're better off pursuing leads based on the original crew that escaped from the botched kidnap attempt and not hunches and wild guesses by a half fiend with personal agendas and mysterious employers."

Pyrrha stands up from leaning against the wall and holds up her index finger, "Someone give me at least ONE logical reason that I'm wrong. ONE." She then points that to the door. "Or that's where I'm going. I'm not going to lie down for mysterious overlords pulling strings and having goons come after me wherever I go without fear of retribution." Pyrrha lowers her hand and shrugs crossing her arms, "Or maybe I take what money I have left and run. Still a better option than waiting to get blown up waiting in line to see a Prophet and/or liar. It's not like I have anything here worth fighting for anymore, I'm no better than the mercenaries hired to kill us. I'd have done the same to the right person for the right price." A stray hair falls over her face which she blows away with a puff and goes back to leaning against the wall glowering.

"If you'd rather follow up on the two of them, we can try. But did you get good looks at their faces? Could you pick them out of a crowd, if not dressed the way they were? The two thugs who bludgeoned me half to death were wearing masks." Twist glowers at Pyrrha, pointing at her with his own hand not holding his wound. "If you've mentioned to perfectly recollect what those two sell-swords looked like, by all means, let's go find ourselves some kidnappers! If not, we'll be poking around bars and dark alleys until one of them ends up slitting our throats."

After a moment, Twist steps back, realizes now that his voice has raised to a yell. "Look, I'm not sending us off on half-baked guesses. But honestly, if you remember anything about how they look beyond 'well-armed and angry', we can try and find them. Do any of you remember what the two of them looked like?"

All of you make an Intelligence or Wisdom check, whichever is higher, assuming you were at the kidnapping scene.

Korihor looks around into the uncomfortable silence as Pyrrha and Twist stare everyone down.

"I...I have need of you...to-to stay. P-Pyrrha." She nervously licks her lips, the cuts from the night before still fresh on them. "You know magic. I don't. I need help understanding how to control this."

"Sister Kierana," Aemon says, setting aside his notebooks and giving the priestess a smirk, "if it wasn't for all the lovely and lonely young women in this city, I'd never leave my books and trinket-hunting. This business, though . . ."

He shakes his head, his face turning grim.

"I don't like people trying to kill my friends. I have few enough of those. I'll see this through until Zeph and Korihor are out of harm's way."

He stands and rests a hand on Korihor's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze.

"I have to ask, though, why aren't you taking this to the Graycloaks? You'll have to deal with them sooner or later. Most of you were recognized outside the Naughty Nymph, and you can bet they'll want answers about that mess, not to mention that apparently there are a few fresh corpses near Zeph's family's home. That's not exactly the kind of thing that just disappears."

Int check: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (19) + 3 = 22

"Thank you for that." Korihor squeezes Aemon's hand and smiles up at him. Much too loud, she whispers, "I still won't have sex with you, though."

Pyrrha cracks a smile almost laughing at Korihor's remark to Aemon.