Lady Gloriana is clearly quite taken with the acumen of the new Pathfinder Initiates. She nods approvingly as Dorrance and Manahath speak, a pleased smile on her face, and says, ”Oh, how promising! That the newest class of Pathfinders understands the nuances of statecraft! We must indeed look far and wide, as well as to the lessons of the past, to ensure a glorious future!” As if on cue, Darlinger begins to play “The Sword of the Senate”, a march from Taldor’s golden age, that some say dates back to the Third Army of Exploration. Hearing the rousing tune from Taldor’s past along with the surprising wisdom of the new Initiates seems to fill Gloriana with dreams of ever-greater grandeur, her eyes lifted high as she breathes deep…and Gorm seizes the moment to take a few steps away, waving a quick hand for the party to follow.
”Well, that was nicely done!” he exclaims. ”She is truly accomplished, and I could learn a great deal from her stories and experience, but all she wants to talk about is keeping Eutropia safely on the throne. I thank you for so deftly giving me an exit! In return, I’d like to give you a little chance at adventure, and perhaps learning while you’re at it.”
Collecting his thoughts a moment, Gorm continues, ”I’d like you to go to the Flotsam Graveyard. A sunken ship has recently washed up on a reef there, not far from Absalom. I’ve heard there are some smugglers that have taken to using it as a safe house, and that they’re involved in smuggling texts - and possibly living creatures - from Nex. Now, the books are likely valuable enough that I doubt they’d be left lying around. But still, I’m interested in any information you can find about the smugglers’ methods.”
He’s about to say his farewells when he pats his pocket, pulls out a set of scrolls, and says, ”Thank heavens you got me a moment to think, else I’d have forgotten to offer you this! I know it’s always useful to have a spell or two in your back pocket – figuratively and literally.”
As the party bids goodbye to Gorm, Janira pops out of nowhere and says, ”You should go say hello to Fola Barun! She’s been by the entrance greeting all the new Initiates, but you guys made such a beeline for Eando Kline you must have gone right by her.”
Making their way towards the great double doors, the party soon finds themselves being warmly greeted by the dark-skinned elf woman who leads the Envoys’ Alliance. ”Well, hello!” she says, her tone friendly indeed. ”I should say, I have been a very strong supporter of the Society’s effort to bring in new members, and you represent the very reason why! Please, tell me a bit about yourselves. What brought you to the Pathfinder Society, and what are you most excited about doing now that you’re agents in your own right?”
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"I, uh, well..." Dorrance stammers. "I guess there's no point in being secretive about it. I used to be in the Aspis Consortium. A job is a job, right? But eventually I just couldn't live with what I was doing anymore. I was just ready to quit when we tangled with some Pathfinders, and I surrendered when the fight went south. I figured I'd end up in jail, but instead I got a job offer. I'm glad to be part of a group now that actually tries to do the right thing."
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"You, of course, are familiar with my tale, Ms. Barun, as you played a large part. Still, I suppose I should share my tale with my new allies here." Turning to the rest of you, Chumwi continues. "My story is similar, though a bit less violent, to the one you just heard. I was a member of the Saltroot Druid circle in Bloodcove, and worked closely with the Aspis Consortium for a time, including with Silvernail here. As I became increasingly aware of the damage the Consortium was doing to my home in their quest for dangerous relics, I became less and less comfortable with our cooperation. I tried to convince our leaders to end the arrangement, but was unsuccessful until a group of Pathfinders presented them with some very convincing evidence. Realizing that these Society agents were more than the sharp swords and plundered tombs the Aspis claimed they were, I resigned my place among the Saltroots and accompanied Ms. Barun back to Eleder, where I joined the Society. I am looking forward to doing good, for a change."
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"You may note from my clothing that I am originally from Jalmeray. My tale is not as bloody these others. I wished to explore. Jalmeray is lovely, but small, and the world is so much larger. I met some Pathfinders many years ago when they were in Jalmeray, and I finally got the courage up to leave and join, so that I can explore and see the world!"
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Fola is clearly delighted by what the new Initiates have to tell her, practically clapping her hands with glee as she replies, ”Oh, nothing could please me more that you all came to the Society from such different backgrounds – some darker than others – simply because you met Pathfinders and wished to follow their example!”
Before she can continue, a slender lizardfolk steps out from behind a potted fern and says, without preamble, ”A man trapped on a cliff face, with a displacer beast below and a phase spider above, spotted a wild cozberry growing out of the stone beside him. Clinging to the cliff with one hand, he reached out and plucked the berry. How sweet it tasted!”
”Oh, is Urwal still there? I thought he’d gone to philosophize somewhere else,” Fola says quietly to herself. Raising her voice a bit, she turns to Valeros, Manahath and Jaqard and says, with a touch of desperation in her voice, ”And you? Do tell me something of how you came to the Society, and where you hope to go!”
Fola nods along to Manahath’s story of becoming a Pathfinder, and breathes a sigh of relief as the eager new Initiates engage Urwal on his own somewhat bizarre terms. ”How to get into such a position?” the lizardfolk replies eagerly to Darlinger, as his long tongue extends and licks a speck of dust off of one of his golden eyes. ”So wise, to seek the root, as it were! Travel the world, and find yourself in many strange positions, you will. But you must enjoy the cozberry along the way, no? I see you have found the essence of my tale.”
He seems less interested in Dorrance and Manahath’s framing of things, but Chumwi’s question sets Urwal thinking a moment. ”Are we not all seeds on the wind, seeking fertile soil? Some find it on a rocky cliff and live a life of danger, and others land in a peaceful meadow full of sunshine, with a comfortable life to follow. Ask yourself which path you have chosen, Initiate.” With a deep bow to Darlinger, followed by a quick nod to the others, Urwal disappears once again behind the fern.
”Impressive,” Fola observes, ”you handled that deftly indeed. I believe that most situations can be resolved with the spoken word, even if those words must be strongly worded or slightly deceptive at times – that is still better by far than physical blows. With that in mind, I’d like you to have this with you while you undertake a little task for me, if you’re willing.”
She hands one of the party a small vial, then continues speaking, ”Here is what I would ask of you. A recent Pathfinder Society recruit who’s still in training lost a relative who tried sneaking into a famed haunted house to learn its secrets. The house, in the Precipice Quarter here in Absalom, has since been slated for demolition, given the number of injuries and casualties that have occurred there. I promised the recruit I would make sure their relative was laid to rest properly, and I need you explore the site and retrieve the body. My hope is there will be just one body there, but the easiest way to identify the relative is by the spiral-shaped religious symbol of Pharasma that he wears. I wish you the best of luck.”
Valeros looks up from the mug of ale he's finishing, and nods, clearly not paying much attention. "... just grab one of these for the road..." he mutters, deftly swapping the empty mug for a full one from a passing server's tray. "There. All ready!"
On their way to Westgate, the party pauses from time to time to ask directions to Statue Street, and see if they can learn what’s going on there. It takes a couple of hours to really get the story straight, but it appears that a crowd opposed to liberating the naga has gathered near the petrified creature. Strangely enough, the rumors suggest that there are three people riling up the crowd – a snooty-faced barrister, a burly blacksmith, and some drunk fellow.
Armed with this information, the newly-christened Pathfinders reach Westgate. For several blocks, the quiet lanes of this district’s residential neighborhoods feature small houses, low-key cafes and taverns, and the occasional specialty shop. The fragrant scent of tended flower gardens in the warm sunlight blends with the low hum of distant conversation over what would normally be a pleasant boulevard. But the stone statues—at first appearing only here and there, like odd decorations—now number several per block, and the otherwise plain square ahead is outright cluttered with stone figures. They take countless forms, from humans and halflings to orcs, lizardfolk, and even stranger, all forever frozen in acts of desperation, defiance, or despair. The quaint, statue-filled square is also filled with people; several dozen townsfolk shout and argue, their voices somehow out of place among the silent statues. The large form of the petrified naga can be seen quite near the gathered crowd.
Atop a raised platform around a fountain in the middle of the square, the three leaders of the mob shout and gesture, each in their own way. A fiery-haired woman waves a heavy hammer with ease and calls out, ”We should smash the statue, before it can be brought back to harm us!” A sour-faced fellow in black robes with a white collar cries shrilly, ”This is unlawful, what they propose to do! The naga was subject to proper legal proceedings – or at least proceedings that were legal at the time she was subject to them!” And a lanky fellow holding a large earthenware jug, a hat planted precariously on his head, wobbles a bit on his feet and shouts with great energy, ”Yeah! What they shaid! Shmash th’ legal prosheedings!”
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Manahath sighs as the smile melts away. He approaches the barrister. His body language is open, calm, and disarming.
"My good sir. It is truly saddening to me to see such a display here. Surely the reputation of the people here is worth taking a step back to protect. Mob rules? Tyrannical vigilantism? I say, when the story is told, they'll make you out to be a Grey Gardener, and the people here the fanatics of Galt.... how gauche! Now, perhaps we can retreat from this cliff, and all relax and grab a round." He leans in with a falsetto whisper, pointing to the drunk, "But maybe not as many as that guy."
The smith seems too intent on smashing to heed Dorrance's words. Likewise, Darlinger's legal argument seems to carry little weight with teh sour-faced barrister - but Manahath's point about the reputation the barrister could gain from this situation seems to hit home. "Well, there are still legal considerations at play...but I suppose one must consider the larger picture," the barrister says, before moving to the far side of the fountain, away from the crowd.
Valeros raises his fist and addresses the redhead. "Yes! Go ahead, smash it! Don't worry about the fact that you've never seen a naga this closely before, or that you have a chance to study its form in detail! Forget about ever casting naga statuettes to sell -- who'd want perfectly-wrought snake-forms anyhow? Never mind what people say about your willingness to destroy such a perfect rendition this close..."
Though his grammar is lacking finesse, it's clear that the young man is trying to get the metalsmith to think a little more deeply about her decision.
The drunk fellow happens to pause in his shouting at the crowd just long enough to hear some of Jaqard's threat, but not to hear it clearly. From the horrified expression on the drunkard's face, it's clear he has mis-heard the message, and has perhaps heard Jaqard confess to a deep and abiding love for sweet pickles or some other abomination.
The smith regards Valeros quizzicaly, replying, "Even if I wanted to make naga statues - which I don't - how would I carefully study the statue if you've turned it back into a monster to menace our families?"
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"You good and jolly drunk sir! Come hither. I am Manahath, chosen acolyte of Cayden Cailean himself. Let me tell you that Cayden empties the cup of those who rile, and fills the cup of those who celebrate. I can see in your 'aroma' that he's going to empty your cup! Fear not though. Go home and drink two beers as penance. All will be well!"
Dorrance appeals to the smith’s reputation as a craftsperson, and her words clearly resonate. ”Well, not many in this crowd carry my work,” she replies, ”but I guess the way to change that is to get back to work, instead of shouting at ‘em here.” With no further ado, she turns and walks briskly away.
The drunk man’s attention is caught by Manahath, who smells faintly of alcohol himself from his regular visits to the temple of his deity. ”Empty my cup?” the man says, his eyes wide as he considers this grave fate. ”Thash no good! An’ if I go home and drink a coupl’a beers, it’ll be okay? I dunno where to get penansh beer, but maybe if I drink more’n two it’ll be shufficink…suffishish…sunfishing…er, it’ll be good enough.” In the way of drunkards, the man stands silent for a long moment staring into space, a barely perceptible wobble causing him to sway in a tight circle around an actually upright position. He reaches out to one side to set his jug on an imaginary table and lets go of it. As the jug smashes on the dais and spills a last few drops of its contents, the drunkard makes his weaving way out of the square.
With their rabble-rousing leaders gone, the rest of the mob begins to break up, dispersing fairly quickly. A few folk can be heard muttering about how the younger generations have no respect for the way things used to be, but no one causes any further trouble.
The stone naga stands in watchful silence over the now peaceful square.
Once the salve is applied to the stone naga, cracks begin to appear on its surface, and thin stone sheets slough off as she begins to move very, very slowly, like a stone coming to life. She seems unaware of the world around her for a moment, until her eyes widen suddenly and she inhales sharply in alarm. ”Where is it? Is the gorgon still loose?” she cries out, her head snaking around in all directions. A brief explanation by the Pathfinders helps her understand that she did not escape the gorgon’s power, but that she is now free, thanks to Calisro Benarry’s intervention, and the party’s quick thinking.
”There are no words to properly express my thanks, but I’d have you know I feel a great debt of gratitude to you for freeing me,” the naga says with great sincerity. ”Having been in prison, I have very little to give, but I wish to show my appreciation. Please, take this.” She slips a sinuous hand into a small pouch on her belt and draws out a beautiful necklace of pearls, handing it to the nearest party member.
”There is no cause to thank me, Pathfinder, as I owe you my life,” the naga says to Manahath, before turning her attention to the square around her. She seems to drink in the scene with a great thirst, now that her eyes are no longer stone. She departs, and somehow even those who have never seen a naga in the flesh can tell she is slithering with great joy.
Agreeing amongst themselves that they’d like to get the mission in the Precipice Quarter out of the way, the party sets off, once again asking for directions and information as they cross the city. Chumwi, Manahath and Valeros each find someone along the way who says they’d never go into that place, it was once occupied by alchemical experimenters trying to create an elixir of youth, and there’s no telling what horrors they got up to in their zeal. Puzzlingly, Jaqard meets a nervous young man who tells him that the house could be full of undead – or at least smell something awful inside – because a group of gangsters used the place to dispose of bodies.
Suitably well-informed about what lies ahead, the Initiates reach the house, which they’ve learned was once called Mavedarus Manor. This old home might have once commanded the respect and envy of its neighbors, but the single remaining story is cracked and crumbling. Whatever upper stories it might have once had have long collapsed, scattering stone and debris across gardens grown wild and weedy. Two curving staircases lead to a broad veranda bereft of its railings. Two openings that might have once been doors lead into the faint remnants of a solarium, while two more doors lead further into the creaking house itself. A whiff of rot and decay seeps from the structure.
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The half-orc warily sniffs the air, grimacing at the telltale whiff of decay. Each journey begins and ends, he says quietly, and the journey through life also begins and ends. I do not wish this to be our end, however. He is guarded as he makes his way up the steps to the left, trying to move silently.
Reaching the top of the creaky stairs, the party can see that the decrepit solarium holds nothing more than some crumbling furniture and a few potted plants gone feral. From the solarium, double doors lead into the house proper, and there is a single door off the porch. Both doors are faded and warped with age and exposure to the elements, but closed.