GM supervillan's Feast of Ravenmoor [PFS Gameday VIII] (Inactive)

Game Master supervillan

You return to the Ravenmoor ferry. The old ferryman stands there, alone.

"Leavin' already, strangers? Ye like our little town so well, d' ye?"

Two ramshackle shacks flank the Lampblack here, sheds to house a flat-bottom ferry. Tightly drawn ropes cross the river, part of a cranked pulley system that draws the barge across the black water.

Jeskit eyes the man, We're looking for information on a man that was here not too long ago. Man name of Eliaz. Red hair. Would have been here on business with the Mayor. Seems like he'd have to come through you to leave. You remember that type leaving town?

"Is tha' right?" the old ferryman scratches his chin and looks thoughtful. "I 'member th' fellow arrivin.' Rude an' ungentlemanly 'e were. Didn' see 'im leave tho'. Mayhap 'e slipped away in th' night? If'n 'e left by water, th' wolf prob'ly got 'im."

A wolf or THE wolf? Jeskit responds quizzically.

Gronkh's ears perk up. "Ye ain't never seen 'im leave? Is there another way out o' town aside from your ferry? Anyone else run it asides from you?"

"THE wolf-in-the-water. I tell ye about th' creature not a couple o' hours ago when ye arrive. 'Tis a vicious, ravenous beast. Swallow a grown man whole, it can. Yer man's dead as dead If'n 'e tried to get away by water. if'n e'd a used th' ferry I'd a found it on th' wrong side, wouldn' I? An I didn'. 'E might've gone overland, tried t' make it through the swamps. Then disease'd get 'im. Nah, I reckon th' Wolf got 'im."

"Ah, yes, I recall. The affair with Applesauce was foremost in our minds, of course. Please, if you could tell us, what manner of beast is the wolf-in-the-water? I have seen any number of horrid creatures, over the years, but I must say I am unfamiliar with this one."

Angela nods at the man's words, before asking, "Hrmm anyway we can check if he got eaten by 'The Wolf' short of catching the thing or getting eaten ourselves? Also this has been piquing my curiosity since earlier but why call it 'The Wolf?' Reason would dictate that a living creature in the water would not garner being called a wolf readily."

"So, we have gone from a fishing expedition to simply discusing fishing." mutters Golthwur, contributing little and seeming to pout that the party has come to ferry rather than follow his suggestion.

Yagaji thinks it's a bit silly to worry about a wolf in the water...even if the thing didn't drown, it'd move much slower and likely be quite easy to lance from the shoreline... But he keeps his opinion to himself, for fear of giving offense.

"Wasn' I as named it, miss. I seen it once tho', when I were a lad. Sleekit beast, all fur and fang it were. Las' time I went skinny dippin' in th' Lampblack." the ferryman gives you a lascivious grin, as he recalls his youth. "Ye wan' go lookin' fer yer man's bones in th' river, 's yer funeral."

Though paying the words of the rustic peasant little attention during what he considers a mundane exercise in wasting time, the old man's ears catch mention of the phrase "skinny dippin'", thereby causing Golthwur to momentarily focus and register the words that preceded its mention.

Knowledge (arcana): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (9) + 10 = 19

"You speak of a bunyip, sir. What of it?" the elderly wizard inquires. Having heard little of the conversation before, Golthwur is intrigued that this uncivilized town might somehow attract a creature of magical origin. The wizard casts detect magic and begins looking around the docks and their environs.

Gronkh isn't much interested in the tales of the watery wolf - he figures that if need be it'll die like anything else - but he's intrigued by the realization that there's a good chance that their quarry never left the hamlet at all. "Ye say he weren't gentlemanly? Anything specific ye can recall that he mighta did? Any friends ye saw him with 'round the town? 'N I well know it's thirsty work answering so many questions! Here's a small something to help ye buy yeself a drink or three." Gronkh drops a gold piece into the ferryman's hand.

"A bun-what now?" the ferryman squints at Golthwur.

The wizard detects no magical auras save those on the pathfinders.

"Thank ye kindly, sir" the ferryman accepts Gronkh's gold. "Yer man didn' make no friends here, sir. Went aroun' like 'e was Mayor, orderin' folk about when 'e 'ad no business to. I's right sorry I don' know more 'n that, sir."

Jeskit rummages in a bag as the conversation reaches a dead end. He cracks off a bit of dried bread and feeds it to his familiar, Tetch. This bunyip should be investigated. Whether our collector ran afoul of it by accident or was fed to it, it's a possibility we must eliminate.

"Fed t' it? I don' like what yer suggestin'. 'S ungentlemanly. Now if'n ye wan' go huntin' the wolf, yer's got th' whole river t' search. Is y' lizard-folk good swimmers?"

The ferryman looks offended, and scowls.

"I believe we have learned all we need to here." declares Golthwur, his scowl and offended looks matching those of the ferryman. "Lest you are of a mind to fish out a bunyip to examine its stomach contents. In all likelihood, our taxman was too cognizant of the dangers to have risked a deadly swim or a boat ride by any other than our distinguished ferryman."

"May I suggest that we visit the good lady at the supply store?"suggests the wizard, thoughts of flay leaf on his mind.

"Sounds good. Lead on, funny man."

"Aye, let's head over there. We thank ye," Gronkh says, nodding at the old ferryman.

Jeskit is not comfortable with a monster roaming around killing people. He'll keep an eye out for the safety of the team.

Leading the way to the shop, Golthwur once again enters the establishment. "Good shopkeep!" he cries upon crossing the threshold of the seller's door. His tone is that of an old acquaintance of the storeowners, despite having only first stumbled into the trading post scant hours ago.

"I, Golthwur Strath, Patron of Prominence and Consumer of Consequence, have returned. And, in this instance, I have brought with me an entourage of entities." he says, pointing to the other adventurers in his party, before explaining,"And, thus, more persons for portering."

"Now, have you any more tobacco for sale?" asks the old man, as he begins to look around, muttering ancient syllables and gesturing in unusual manners.
Casting detect magic.

"Oi, 'Master of Magic' or whate'er ye are! Quit wi' th' spellcastin' and keep yer hands where I can see 'em!" the blacksmith shouts over to Golthwur whilst waving a large hammer in the air.

"Now, Saul, mind yer temper!" his wife, the shopkeep, replies. "It's not very likely that this old gentleman would be conjurin' demons to spirit our beloved Shel away, I'm sure 'e''s jus' interested in the baccy. Speakin' o' which, sir, we've a variety of leaf for ye here. Mostly home-grown. Ol' Davor's 'Winter Spice' is popular right now - only 1 gold piece per pound, sir!"

Golthwur detects no magic auras in or around the smithy and store.

Golthwur, surprised by the man's remarks is initially defensive, "Why sir a wizard such as I Golthwur Strath, the most Innocuous of Incantors and Well-Meaning of Warlocks, intended no wrong in my casual casting. But, to ask me to 'quit spell castin'' as you so colorfully criticised is a near impossiblility. You would more easily convince a fish to cease its swimming or a rooster to forego the use of it's crow."

"Now " he says, counting the number of able-bodied Pathfinders in his presence. "we would like six pounds of tobacco."

Yagaji will stroll over near the smith and watch his work appreciatively. If the opportunity presents itself, he'll try and help out--working the bellows, fetching a tool that's not immediately at hand.

"Fine work, you're doing. Skilled hands are both a gift and a wage well-earned."

Gronkh also moves to watch the work of the smith, while considering whether Horace might possibly need a new set of horseshoes.

The smith opens his mouth to further admonish Golthwur, but his wife shoots him a withering glance and he thinks better of it and instead grunts towards Yagaji - "Bring me that lump of iron" he instructs.

Gronkh does not spy any evidence of horseshoes, but such things could certainly be made here.

"There ye go, sir. We don' see many wizards about Ravenmoor, ye understan.' Saul's jus' nervous an' overprotective" the shopkeep glowers at her husband.

"Now will it be Davor's Winter Spice leaf sir? Tis t' Mayor's preferred smoke, and a mos' agreeable companion t' flayleaf. Six gold fer six pounds, sir." The shopkeep weighs out the tobacco.

The old wizard shoots the smith a glance, but says nothing more on the matter.

"Yes, the 'Mayor's preferred' will do just fine." Golthwur continues, reaching for six coins. "Tell me, madam. The six gold price you just quoted, that does not include any tax correct? After all, I had heard word that a collector had been in town recently and that the town's debt remains unpaid. I would very much dislike departing here, thinking that I had paid in full and settled the matter, only to find myself accosted by a taxman upon leaving the town's limits."

Jeskit finally nods at Golthwur instead of scowling. Good idea, old man.

Slick!

Gronkh too grunts in appreciation. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea bringing this "wizard" along after all...

"Ain't no sales taxes in Ravenmoor, sir" the shopkeep says. Then it dawns on her that Golthwur is being clever with her, and her eyes narrow. "What's ye insinuatin' there, eh? We paid that taxman, but 'e buggered off in t' night. Dun't think there's anythin' more t' tell."

Golthwur considers responding with a furious retort akin to his typical bluster, but then thinks the better of it. He gives a final look around the establishment for another out of the ordinary for a trading post.
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (7) + 5 = 12

Satisfied that there appears to be nothing more of interest at the store, Golthwur drops the six coins and gestures for both of the nagaji to carry the recently purchased tobacco.

"I certainly did mean to bring offense in bringing up the subject of tax or taxmen." the wizard finally says to the shopkeep, as he strokes the hairs of his crystal white beard. "I had no realized that it was such a sore subject. In future relations in this town, I shall endeavor in my manner to be more delicate."

"Yes, I shall try to be more delicate from here on out." Golthwur concludes, "As delicate as gossamer."

With that, Golthwur considers the shopkeep and his wife a final time.
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13

I believe the mill is the last circled location on the map that we have yet to visit.

will post again later to move you on.

The weaver's place is the last of the four marked locations on the map you found. Do you want to go there?

Yes, let's go to the weaver's place. "Maybe my saddle cover is ready..."

"I say, well done, Golthwur." Byron says with genuine admiration.

You return to the weaver's stall, just across the square from the smithy. The old crone is selling ribbons to a group of children, who snicker when they see you and run off towards the festival ground.

"Back again, m' dears?" enquires the crone.

At the sound of snickers, Yagaji leans in close to Golthwur and whispers. "It seems your reputation as a comedian is starting to spread."

"I say, well done, Golthwur." Byron says with genuine admiration.

"Yes, well..." Golthwur begins, clearly pleased to receive at least a modicum of the praise that he believes he so richly deserves, "I would not intend to do things in any other manner."

"It seems your reputation as a comedian is starting to spread."

"I am no 'medium', no matter what the local peasantry may be saying about me. Indeed, one of my abilities and skill is more properly referred to as a wizard or, perhaps as is more fitting, a mage." The elderly Golthwur says by way of correction after the nagaji's words fall upon his aged ears, before adding, "Though I suppose all forms of magic seem equally unfathomable to the mundane."

"Back again, m' dears?" enquires the crone.

"My lady, I do not yet believe that you have had the pleasure, but allow me to introduce myself. I am Golthwur Strath, Entwiner of Enchantments and Sower of Sorcery." begins the wizard or, perhaps as is more fitting, the mage. "I believe that you are a weaver, one who handles strands of mere fabric and cloth. I, on the other hand, am a knitter of knowledge-one who seeks to stitch together strands of information. It is to that end that I have come to ask if you have heard word of a tax collector that was last seen in these parts. Have you had any encounter with such or know where he may now be found?"

As he listens for an answer, Golthwur begins to cast detect magic.

The elderly weaver watches Golthwur with a grin, before answering: "O ye great and powerful mage, mayhap ye be in need of more potent divinations, for then ye would know tha' yer friend there" she points at Gronkh with a bony finger "was talkin' t' me 'bout the same fella not more th'n two hours ago. In't nothin' of note changed since then."

Golthwur detects no magic auras.

Gronkh nods to the crone in acknowledgment. "Aye, I ain't 'xpect much would have changed, but yer weaving was most impressive t' me, 'n I thought me friends here might like to have a looksee themselves. Always nice to bring home a soovenyear or two, wouldn't ya say?"

"But now that ye mention the tax fellow, it reminds me, ye said he weren't too charming, not like meself, 'n I'm wondering what ye meant? I ain't met the fellow meself, least not yet I ain't, but his sister tells us he's the little darling of her apple of her eye." Gronkh pauses for a moment, as if he's not sure what the words he's just said might mean. "But to hear ye talk, sounds like he weren't no charmer 't'all, 'n now I'm wonderin' if perhaps the lad we're lookin' fer never even made it here in the first place..."

"Well now, I can't be certain th' fella I'm thinkin' of is the' same fella yer thinkin' of, m' dear. But the fella I'm thinkin' of was here aroun' a month past. Homely, 'e was. Red hair. I s'pose 'e 'ad a face a mother'd love, if ye unnerstan' m' meanin.' Manners t' match. Came roun' shoutin' th' odds, callin' folk all kinds o' names. Not like ye, sir.

Does yer frien's wish t' purchase m' wares them?"

At the old woman's invitation, Golthwur heads over to what appear to him to be a set of the finest cloth in the store. Reaching out, he grabs hold of the edge of some fabric and gently rubs the material between a pair of wrinkled fingers.

Looking up, he comments to the woman. "Finely woven. Indeed, it feels rather delicate. Almost like...gossamer." As punctuation to his statement, he turns to consider the woman's response.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15

"Oooh, I sees ye needs no magic t' unnerstan' quality craft, sir" the crone answers, "Please pardon my poor jest jus' now."

She gives a little bow towards the old mage.

"Shouting at people? How odd. Do you remember what he shouted?"

"'Hooteninnies'. 'E shouted 'Hooteninnies'. I dun't know what 'e meant by tha', but 'e weren't polite at all. I think 'e went t' see th' mayor."

If nobody has any more questions or comments for the weaver, we'll proceed to the Festival - unless you decide you want to do something else - I'll post in another 24 hours or so.

I can't think of anything else to ask or investigate, either here or in other places.

having a tough time contributing, skill wise. Fine to move on.

"I believe the term refers to a gathering at which folk singers entertain often with the audience joining in." Golthwur attempts to elucidate. His hat sags once again.

"Good day, then." states the wizards as he turns and exits the shop.

To the festival grounds!

"How strange, sir." answers the crone.

You take your leave and head for the festival grounds. As you depart, the weaver shuts up shop behind you.

It seems that the whole village has turned out for the festival! Tables have been set up, there are small pavilions, picnic quilts, and even a makeshift stage. Piles of wood for bonfires stand around the field’s perimeter, and an open space in the centre is cleared and ringed with benches for the festival’s games and competitions.

Pet stirges seem to be quite common - both children and adults are accompanied by the creatures, often but not always held on lengths of cord. Accordion music drifts across the field, giving the occasion a sense of simple merriment.

You take in some of the 'attractions':

One of the bonfires has been lit, and a group of villagers take it in turns to leap over the flames. An old man gets his behind singed, and his fellows applaud and laugh. "Oh, ye'll have good luck Orlov, the Tender's flame a' touched ye!"

In the central competition area, several stacks of hay have been placed at varying distances from a line laid out in hemp rope. Saul Lupescu, the smith, stands at the line with a group of villagers. The smith holds a battered wooden box reverently.

'Ladies an' Gen'lemen, boys 'n' girls, th' Ravenmoor Classic is on! Match num'er one is Clawfoot versus Foolscap! Place yer bets now!" In a circle marked out for the occasion a raven fight is about to begin. The locals place small bets on the outcome.

"Three-legged-race! Three-legged-race! Who's got th' speed 'n' th' grace t' prevail! More 'mportant th'n tha', who's tied to who?"

In addition to these contests, smoked stirge and roasted tick legs are on offer.

Would you like to compete?