Lybram skips past the whole argument happening in the back of the inn, perhaps wanting to address what seems to be the issue directly instead of asking anyone what's going on, and heads for the stairs up to the turret. As he reaches the top of the stairs, the cleric discovers a shattered egg
on the uppermost stair. It is about the size of chicken’s eggs, with brown speckles and a leathery surface.
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As half her party marches directly to and up the stairs, Yangrit watches incredulously, her hands pointing back and forth between the stairs and the raised voices toward the back of the inn. With an exasperated sigh and an even more deeply furrowed scowl, she turns to follow Graff to find out what the *people* have to say about all this. Who knew the orc would have more sense than the rest of them? It is people we are trying to save from this "threat" (if it is even real), not animals.
Graff, Yangrit, and Hannar follow the sound of shouting through the hallways toward the southern end of the lobby. Small placards beside the doors along this hallways indicate that the first two rooms are guest rooms, while the one nearest the kitchens is identified as servants' quarters. The trio eventually find their way to the source of the shouting in the kitchen.
This well-appointed kitchen is in disarray. Several nervous cooks and other kitchen workers linger at the sides of the room, watching the loud argument unfolding in front of them.
"--would not DARE to serve my lady such common fare! We did not travel here from Taldor to eat your Varisian peasants' food," shouts one of the men, who is dressed in what seems like chef's attire, though with fine accents that would seem to indicate his high standing.
The other man, also dressed as a chef and looking much more in line with the other staff crowded around the edges of the room, shouts back in turn, "Your lady will not be disappointed in my cooking, good sir! She has not requested a special dish for her meal this morning, and so she shall receive what the kitchen has prepared!"
"What your so-called kitchen has prepared is slop not fit for my lady's dogs to eat!"
The other man is just about to respond again when he spots the trio of Pathfinders standing in the doorway. "Who are you? What are you doing in here? Agh, enoug of this! I'm getting Mister Cadmion."
The chef bustles past you, refusing to answer any questions as he pushes for the door.
As the local chef hurries away, the more decorated chef sidles over to the group and asks, "So...are you here about the little beasties? You know, based on all this racket, I think one of these pseudodragons is really a true dragon that has yet to grow to its full size! What a ridiculous place!"
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Graff isn't particularly feeling the need to wait for the man to explain himself.
He sets his axe slowly. Oh so slowly in front of the man, its twin butterfly blades resting on the spiked tip attached to a sturdy haft on the floor in front of the man as he blusters.
"I." he begins.
"Am wondering what are you not telling me." his eyes bore into the man.
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Miriel carefully picks up the egg pieces. "Broken, without any good reason, and it would have been such a beautiful creature", she mourns the destroyed egg.
She follows Lybram down the stairs, and joins the others downstairs. "Seems like we have discovered the reason for the pseudodragons' distress" she says, showing the egg pieces.
Yangrit isn't able to put together anything based on the off feeling she has about the chef, except perhaps that he truly does find the house chef's cooking to be inadequate for his noble patron. When Graff very menacingly "axe"s him a question though, and Miriel enters with a shattered egg in her hands, he seems to fall apart completely.
"Wh-where did you get that," he says, his eyes glued to the egg, even as he backs swiftly away from the party. "Th-that was meant to be part of my mistress's breakfast! Only the best for the Lady Qualstair, that is all I wanted. Simply to serve her a meal that truly stood out from all the humdrum fare this sty has to offer. But those ghastly beasts, of course they caused a fuss when I went to collect the ingredients. All of this is their fault, really it is!"
Just then, then chef notices that the inn's owner and the local chef have come in through the kitchen's other door. He yelps at the look of fury on the owner's face. "Well I am certainly glad to Lomen came to bring this my attention when he did," says the owner, who looks more than a little flustered. "What is the meaning of this, Craik?! You say you stole the pseudodragons' eggs? But how could you? Don't you know that they are intelligent creatures? It's not like taking a chicken's egg, you barbarous fool!"
He then turns, taking in the appearance of the party of strangers gathered by the kitchen door. Moving toward the party, he extends a hand to greet each of you hurriedly, "Ah! you must be the dragon experts I requested from the Acadamae! Good, I'm glad you're here. I'm the inn's owner, Oliver Cadmion. Listen, we obviously understand what has my dragons upset now--flying into guests' rooms, destroying their belongings, it's a catastrophe! They're normally docile, you know, and thank goodness for that, or else I fear someone might've been hurt by now. But I fear that if this goes on much longer, they may become violent—or worse, move out, which would be a disaster for my business! So here is what I propose, if you can calm my dragons without killing them or driving them away, I will gladly pay you. Do you think you can do it?"
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"They are smart? So that makes these", she says holding the broken eggs, "their children?" She starts to flare up on this realization: "Taking eggs is theft, but this is murder! I will... She stops herself when meeting the gaze of people around her, places the broken eggs on a table and goes to the back, breathing heavily and facing the wall.
"I am peaceful. I come with a rose", she recites the tenets of her god, and a moment later comes back, holding her feelings together and keeping her voice calm. "The situation seems to be more serious than expected, and the pseudodragons' distress is very much understandable. I am not aware of all the rights the creatures hold here, but in any case, the conflict does not actually concern the owner of this establishment, but the pseudodragons. The first step would be to request their attendance, and if they are willing negotiate an agreement here. If not, then the issue must be raised to whatever are the legal proceedings between magical creatures and people in the city."
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"Mr. Chef, have you told us all we need to know about this situation? You snuck up to the roost and stole an egg to cook, but all we found as the shell. What the heck did you do with the would be dragon yoke? Do you have the innerds hidden on your person? Or do you have another of the eggs you were planning to cook?"
Lybram is not the smartest around but it seemly like there might be another egg still at large and waiting to be put in a pan.
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The image of messy guts gumming up the hoity-toity chef's pockets immediately pops into Yangrit's mind. She shoves it away with brutal force, refusing to find amusement in this ridiculous and deplorable situation. Those words and others bounce around in her head as these events unfold: Reprehensible, disgraceful, lamentable, wretched, tragic, contemptible... Still, her expression remains as if carved from stone. Cold, hard stone that is, with a permanent "Resting Grouch Face".
It occurs to her that the conversation has gotten off topic. In an attempt to nudge/shove it back so they can get this farce over with, she asks the owner: "You say the pseudodragons are intelligent? Do you know if they understand or speak Common, or any other languages besides Draconic?" If not, we may be ill suited to this task. Perhaps we could go up there with an offering of food...
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"I still hear 'eggs'. We have one broken egg. Where is the egg you are or were going to use as ingredients?" "AND it had better be in one piece and undamaged!"
Lybram walks to stand very close to the pompous chef. "Perhaps if we gave them one of the remaining eggs it would go a long way to settling them down too."
He whispers to the chef, "All I got to do is say a word and Graff here will ... 'find' it on you. It will be in one piece but you might not." "You get my meaning, you, callous cook?"
The terrified chef, Craik, shrieks, "They're here! Here in the kitchen! Please don't kill me, it's just a couple eggs!"
The owner, amazed on the sudden news, turns to Yangrit. "The pseudodragons can communicate with people telepathically. They don't talk to me much, but then, they usually keep to themselves. I'm sure you're right, it would help appease them a great deal if you were able to bring them their recovered eggs."
Oddly enough, it's surprisingly hard to find eggs in this kitchen. But eventually, Darksid'lous finds two eggs hidden in the back of a cupboard containing specialized pans and trays. They are the size of chicken’s eggs, with brown speckles and a leathery surface, perfectly matching the broken egg Miriel and the others brought down from the turret tower.
"Excellent, you've found them," Cadmion exclaims, "Now, if you think you could just smooth things over with the pseudodragons, I would be most grateful!"
Try as she might, Darksid'lous can't think of a single precedent of a case in which a defendant was prosecuted for stealing and destroying the eggs of a magical creature. Apparently, Kintargan case law hasn't caught up with what seems like it should.
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Now that the eggs have been found, Yangrit treads up to Craik and grabs his shirt near the neckline. "You. Are coming with us." She then unceremoniously yanks him along with her toward the stairs, curtly barking orders. "Darksid'Ious! You go first with the eggs. I'll bring the pompous idiot behind you. Graff, stay close in case Mr. Stupid tries anything. Someone bring up the rear so this dufus does cannot flee."
She switches to a menacing growl directed at Craik: "Do not try anything. You have been embarrassed by your own incompetence enough already. Now, you are going to apologize to the pseudodragons, and remember that they are clearly more intelligent than you are. You had better be sincere, for if they can communicate telepathically it is plausible that they could read your thoughts as well. If you are not sorry, the pseudodragons will no doubt wish to deal with you more harshly than otherwise. I cannot say that I blame them."
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Darksid'Ious, the eggs in his hands, climbs up to see the Pseudodragons.
Once where they live, he calls in a strange voice, that everyone can understand Dear, inhabitants of this place, we've found some of your missing eggs and the culprit behind their disparition.
Please, feel free to determine his punition and please, forgive the owner of this fine establishment who wasn't aware of the felony of one of his guest.
Darksid'lous races up stairs, while Yangrit and the others drag Craik up along behind him, the portly and pretentious chef kicking and screaming the whole way.
Designed to emulate Castle Korvosa’s Seawatch Tower, this turret is cramped but has a high ceiling, with wooden rafters crisscrossing overhead. Slim windows offer breathtaking views of the city and beyond. The furnishings are covered with drop cloths, which are themselves bedaubed with many seasons’ worth of dragon droppings.
As the stoic half-elven warrior bursts through the door, eggs in hand, a pair of sounds greet him. First, the squalling of a fledgling pseudodragon echoes down from the rafters 20 feet above the center of the room. Second, a bird-like sound of surprise resounds from an alcove to the east. Casting his gaze in that direction, Darksid'lous sees a fascinating yet somewhat familiar creature rising from a pile of assembled sheets and straw. A head like that of a falcon rises from an equine body, while large wings lay folded along the creature's back. At the end of its forelegs, large taloned feet scrape against the wooden floors of the turret.
"No no no," shouts Craik, "You've disturbed it! It's hideous! It's monstrous! It's going to kill us all!"
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It's a young hippogriff!
Says Darksid'Ious in a melodious tone, before starting to inspire his companions.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
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Dragging and shoving the melodramatic Craik up the stairs of the narrow tower has pushed Yangrit's patience nearly to the breaking point. Grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him down to her eye level, she gives him a rough shake and barks: "Stay calm, you churlish fool! You have caused enough trouble as it is; therefore you are NOT permitted to speak unless directly addressed! STAY STILL AND BE SILENT!"
She stays where she is and makes sure the squirmy Craik doesn't try to flee.
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Lybram comes up the stairs a little late and sees the hippogriff.
"Woah!" "What the heck is that?" "A horse eagle? "But I don't think is really wants to hurt us." Hopefully it understands common."
"Hey there, fella. We don't want to hurt you we just want to return some eggs... to you dragon friends." Lybram croons at the hippogriff
"Just take it easy. We are not here to fight. Just we need to return eggs."
The hippogriff does not seem to understand the party's attempts to calm it . With a short running start and a flap of its wings, it takes to the air, flying over the tarp-covered furniture until it reaches Miriel. It pulls up short of bowling straight into the half-elf, raising its forelegs up like a rearing horse and lashing out with one of its taloned feet as it lets out a high-pitched cry.
Just as the creature is striking out with its talon against the Shelynite priestess, three pseudodragons--these ones apparently adults--fly in through the open windows. One of them telepathically calls out to as it rises toward the ceiling. "The egg thief! Go away, egg thief and friends of egg thief!"
The hippogriff turns and sees the pseudodragons that have flown into the room and gives another loud cry.