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The bard shakes his head with a slight sardonic smile as he realizes what he has to do. Typical. Then he approaches the woman. He doesn't look at her directly, but instead signals the barkeep. Once he has the publican's attention, he passes over appropriate coinage. "One for her--whatever she wants."
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"Oh, you shouldn't have..." says Arvida. "I'll take a linnorm mead, a tall one if you don't mind." The barkeep pours the honey wine for the woman, and asks if Chamius wanted one for himself and his friends, giving pretty much the entire party the stink eye.
[/spoiler
[spoiler=Sense Motive DC20]
As with many of the folk you have met here, they seem less than pleased that you are here, and are not Ulfen. But, at least you aren't Irrisini.
Arvida says, “I heard about an Ulfen warrior named Hjort—don’t know his family name—who came here a while back after his entire village was slaughtered on the Arcadian coast. People say his rage toward the Pathfinder Society burns bright, as they were the ones who slaughtered his people—a people, I heard, that he was destined to be the jarl of. Those traditional warriors from the coast are serious brutes—I wouldn’t want to be one of their targets.”
The next person you track down is Kadlin Helge, a female Ulfen warrior. You have heard that she is not amused by silly behavior, regarding those who do so as nothing more than children...
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Kadlin rolls her eyes at Bon Jon and Jordun for reasons only Chamius understands.
“A dark-haired Chelish woman, family name of White, has been seen about the market recently. She’s hiring mercenaries and low-life thugs for Gorum-knowswhat. If you’re looking for her to right some wrong, I’d bring a dozen more of you—she was cornered in one of the market’s darkest corners by some of Trollheim’s biggest miscreants, and just when they thought they had gotten the drop on her, she called to her god and blasted them with holy fire. She’s tough, that one, and not someone I’d mess with.”
The next person Chamius tracks down is Ludin Swordsmith. Ludin is an old man with a thick, well-trimmed gray beard and a shiny bald head. His body is covered in dozens of sheaths and scabbards of various sizes, all filled with various knives, daggers, and shortswords, and he moves more like a winter wolf and less like a man of many years. Ludin is quick to laugh, quick to brag, and quick to display and discuss the fine craftsmanship of his many blades, all made by him.
You should complement him on his weapons to get on his good side.
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Wow, those are some excellent blades you have there... Sven says in quiet reference, examining the blades from a safe distance. Are they all crafted by you? I'd love to give one or two a couple good swings, if that would be ok with you...
Truly enraptured by the craftsmanship of the blades, it does take some time before Sven brings up the actual reason for their coming to speak with the man, but he gets there eventually.
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Ludin responds to Sven's comments about her craftsmanship. As he swings the blades, it is apparent that they are of exceptional quality. “Yeah, I know those two. They approached my friends and me and offered us a ridiculous sum to work for them. No way was I going to work for a washed-up Ulfen warrior and a foreign she-devil from the south. Hjort’s eyes told all the story I needed to know: he wasn’t doing whatever he was doing for profit—he was doing it for revenge. That business has only one path, and it leads straight to Pharasma’s ample bosom. And Runa? Well, she’s a foreigner, ain’t she?”
Chamius's searching then locates another townsperson by the name of Rafarta Rannveig, who is a member of the city watch. Rafarta is young and strong and, at odds with her profession, quite attractive. She does bear a few small scars on her chin and cheeks, but they seem to only add to her beauty rather than detract from it.
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Chamius realizes that the woman would not react well to complements on her physical beauty. She’s always wanted to serve the people of Trollheim as a protector and guardian, and though women warriors are treated the same as male warriors in Linnorm society, Rafarta still finds it hard to do her job with the leers, stares, and off-hand remarks about her anatomy that are made daily in her presence.
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As the party approaches the guard, Jordun clashes his club against his breastplate in salute. "Rafarta Rannvieg, we seek your counsel. We have heard you see much that transpires here in your guardianship of the community. A man named Hjort disturbs the peace and we would see him brought to justice. Have you word of him, or of his companion, the Chelish woman?"
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A glare in her eye, she answers Jordun, “Can’t say as I remember the name of the place, but when they tried to hire my cousin, they told him to meet them at some hole in the market. You’d best do your poking around there and stop pestering the peaceful folk of Trollheim before they decide to yank your entrails out from your mouth and strangle you with them.”
Chamius has gained information on yet another resident, Thorngrin Brightbeard, male gnome outcast. Thorngrin is in way over his head. As a poor, uneducated, and often sick gnome, Thorngrin has wandered pitifully throughout Avistan looking for a way to restart his life. Though his health is failing and his presence in Trollheim is incredibly difficult (drunk Ulfen warriors have many uses for a down-on-his luck gnome), Thorngrin is still cheerful, positive, and curious most of the time. The gnome outcast has been in Trollheim for nearly a year, and though he dreams of leaving, the harsh weather always seems to prevent that from happening. As a result, he knows a great deal about the locals, especially anyone residing or working in the market.
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"Well, we've got a gnome to talk to. He's not exactly thrilled to be here, so perhaps we can take him back to Absalom with us when we finish here. I'll do the talking, at least to start with. Something tells me that he might be put off by a bunch of fierce fighters, hey? Unless one of you speaks Sylvan?"
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"Ewch yn ôl yma ar unwaith yr eiliad hon!"
An irritated chitter follows Sunlight Under Stone's exclamation as both leshy and stone dinosaur glare at each other from across different rooftops. Ancient Stone Glider flaps its wings of frozen soil before suddenly collapsing into a pile of rapidly-softening mud that drips down the wall of the longhouse.
"I think they might have scared an old man over there," the leshy explains as they reach the ground themselves. "Not that I can really blame them - it's so cold and boring up here. So, what are we doing?"
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Sunlight Under Stone looks around the marketplace for someone about their height, a sulking dinosaur occasionally flying up to a rooftop before falling back apart into frozen dirt and gravel. The two eventually find the gnome picking through rubbish in an alleyway and coughing terribly.
"Nid ydych chi'n edrych yn dda," the leshy says, holding out a hand. "A allwn ni helpu? Rwy'n gwybod ychydig am feddyginiaeth a ffisioleg pobl cnawd." If the gnome accepts, they pull out a small bag of herbs. Over their shoulder, Ancient Stone Glider chirps and nuzzles a packet of red powder. "No, that will make it worse," the leshy lectures, causing their companion to hang their head. Crushing a leaf into a handful of snow, they add a few drops of liquid from a bottle before putting the whole mixture in a cloth and passing it to the gnome. "Rhwbiwch hwnnw ar eich brest a dylai helpu'r peswch brifo llai," they instruct, sitting in the snow and petting Ancient Stone Glider's frozen form absentmindedly.
"Rydym yn bobl o'r tu allan yn chwilio am ffrind a gafodd ei dŷ wedi'i losgi i lawr, felly nid wyf yn credu y byddwn yn aros yma'n hir," the leshy continues after a bit. "Os ydych chi am ddod gyda ni, mae yna le a bwyd o amgylch ein tân."
"Rub that on your chest and it should help the cough hurt less."
"We're outsiders looking for a friend who had their house burned down, so I don't think we'll stay here long. If you want to come with us, there's room and food around our fire."
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In general, Thorngrin Brightbeard just looks worn down and hungry. He's had a hard time up here, but it hasn't yet affected his cheery outlook.
"Thank you, friend. I truly am not doing that badly, just need to collect some funds to get out of here." says the gnome.
“Hjort and Runa, you say? Yeah, I know ‘em. I drink a beer and punch a guy in the face every night down at the Horned Helm, and they’ve been there for weeks—months maybe. I tell ya, that Hjort can throw a punch, and don’t get Runa started about religion—she’s likely to talk about it long enough it starts a fight and the way she ends fights ain’t fair, ain’t right, and just ain’t normal. Runa is a dark-haired woman from Cheliax, and Hjort is a large brute with red hair, a red beard, and a scar across his left cheek.”
Sorry, there was a diplo or local check, that you would get a significant bonus for if you did something. But, since i led you astray, I will roll with it.
hours.
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The Horned Helm is a low-slung, two-story building of questionable construction leaning heavily over a shoddy corner of mud and brick in the dankest, filthiest parcel of land in all of the market. It has no windows, as they've all been broken and boarded over; its only door looks like a simple plank of wood covered in scratches, burns, and probably blood stains. Noise, heat, and smoke pour out from under that door and rise to a staggering crescendo of laughter as the door swings lazily open and two bodies are unceremoniously dumped into the rutted, frozen mud streets outside. A battered sign hangs above the door, swinging on two chains, one shorter than the other. It bears the faded image of an Ulfen helm with two ridiculously large horns.
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Sunlight Under Stone’s face brightens. ”Ooo, I do enjoy a good stick,” they say as they tap Bon Jon repeatedly.
”There you go!” The leshy happily hands the stick back to the human. ”Now we go inside? It’s dangerous to travel in smaller groups here - easier to ambush.” If none of the Pathfinders stop them, Sunlight pushes open the flimsy door and walks inside.
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Inside the Horned Helm, you find an unfriendly crowd. The crowd immediately starts up cat calls and hurling drunken insults your way. The bartender is the worst. This enormous, bearded man wearing leather armor and conspicuously missing his right arm is the loudest and most vile—every insult he slings is met with raucous laughter from the crowd, who in turn insult the bartender’s insults and then hurl more at you.
The temperature inside the Horned Helm is stiflingly hot—nearly 100° F. This is because of two enormous iron furnaces crammed full of coal, wood, and anything else flammable that radiate the scorching fires of Hell themselves. Most of the crowd are sweating excessively, which only adds to the room’s dank stench.
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Bon Jon laughs mockingly at the jeering crowd. "Really? You think to intimidate us? Did I not sit through every lecture in the monastery's Grand Month of Lectures? Did I not sing every note of the Chant of Ten Thousand Notes? Have I not recited every verse of the Scripture That Knows Not Its Name? When one has bested challenges such as these, a mere tavern crowd is hardly worthy notice. Perhaps you have a champion that I could school in the true fighting arts? Or is pointless yabbering all you know?"
He stretches lazily and takes a deep breath of the smoldering air. "And why do you keep it so chilly in here? Perhaps a few more logs on the fire? Let's make it nice and cozy, shall we?"
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"Uuuuh, hey." he says, getting much more nervous. "You know you got the wrong guy, right? I'm not really Hjort. Um... I..."
At this teo Ulfen men stand up in the bar, drawing axes. Many more of the patron rush for the doors, or dive under their tables. This includes the man who claims not to be Hjort!
Several other men, wearing cestus, also stand, as does an older man by the door, wearing the holy symbol of Gorum.
2
7
4
6
3
1
5
8
9
- => Sven
- => Bon Jon Bovi
- => Sunlight
- => Jordun
- Old Man
- Ktasha
- Chamius
- thugs
- brawlers
U = Unconscious S = Surprised D = Delay
Conditions:
Grunt: 24/34
Ktasha: 29/33
Enemies?
Black:
Yellow:
Red
Orange:
Green:
Teal:
Denim:
Blue: