The letter you received was short and simple: Meet me at the Red Herring tackle shop in Oppara the day before the next full moon - GM
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"For me!? Well wasn't that so kind of someone a beautiful note with my name on it and everything! I wonder what it says?" says the gnome with hair so bright pink that it would indicate a high toxicity to a would-be predator. Mostly, she is speaking to herself, but she's hoping for some interest from her partner and mount Vinegar, a big, grey, northern wolf who seems more interested in the butterflies fluttering around the tops of the tall grass, and sweeping vistas all around them in the Greenbelt region just south of Brevoy. This is big sky country, and today the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue.
"Are you even listening to me? Hmph." says the gnome. With no response from her friend she opens the note and reads it aloud. "Meet me at the Red Herring tackle shop in Oppara the day before the next-" and grows bored with it at just about that point.
"The Red Herring, that's right next to McGuffin's Rare, and Usually Dangerous Antiques! Let's go!"
She digs her heels into the pony-sized wolf's flanks and the two are off like a shot, leaving the fluttering butterflies, and slowly tumbling letter in the dust of their wake.
Five minutes, and about a mile-and-a-half later.
"Say Vinegar, do you remember who we are supposed to meeting at the Herring?"
If only wolves could shrug.
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Bocke composes a reply on a piece of parchment.
Dear sir or madam, I believe you have me confused with someone else. i have never been to the Red Herring, or even Oppara.
He pauses and notes there's no return address anyway.
Sighing, he puts his scribe equipment away and takes his trusty longbow off its mount on the wall. He tightens the strings and checks all of his arrows to make sure none have warped in the wet Absalom air.
I miss Osirion sometimes, he thinks. Then he remembers the Tomb of the Living and banishes the thought.
He arrives in Oppara a few days early to try the local cuisine.
A man of prodigious size, Vosk is reading while hunched over a sturdy, mahogany desk when a letter is tossed across it. Glancing up from his book, he flips a coin to the urchin and waves him off. Discretion pays.
Snapping the book closed, sliding open a drawer, deft yet thick and well-manicured hands procure a silver letter-opener to slice the envelope open. Dart across the words, his eyes go wide. Oppara? Without even so much as a street address? A juicy lead then. Standing up from his chair, which groans with relief as it shifts back to it's natural shape, he pulls a large map from the ceiling.
Oppara, Oppara... Ah ha! Tracing a meaty finger from Varisia to Taldor, he frowns. I hate boats. Never any room to live life.
With a sigh, he tosses the note into a sooty, glass jar, incinerates its contents and in the same motion shoulders his bag. Pushing open the door of his modest establishment, he wades into the throngs of tourists to Kaer Maga's Hospice District and sets out.
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What a day the old Professor has had! First she finalized her registration as a Pathfinder Agent at the Lodge, followed by a leisurely few hours at the library. Very few tomes were unknown to her, but there were some mildly interesting alternate translations. To cap the day, her first summons is waiting upon her return to her lodgings. She is both impressed at peeved at the brevity of the note. No superfluous words: check. Good. Not enough detail: check. Bad. She frowns, the hard line deepening the time-worn grooves in her aged skin.
Well, there is no time like the present. Staring at the wall will answer nothing. Go. She packs her bag immediately, checks out of the establishment, and is on her way to the rendezvous point post haste.
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Gorrig glances at the signature first. Not recognizing the initials, he calls out to the errand boy. "Oh, no, I think you have the--" Too late. The boy was out of sight.
He sighs and reads the note. The Red Herring Tackle Shop? It didn't sound familiar. Then again, Society missions often came in cryptic notes such as this one, so perhaps it would be worth his while to check it out. Especially if it really was meant for him.
A few days later, a burly half-orc shouldered his pack and headed for the Red Herring.
One by one, the Pathfinders travel from all corners of the world to the jewel of Taldor, the capital city Oppara. Amid the noise and bustle of the busy streets, a weathered sign sporting faded red paint hangs above a similarly worn-down shop.
The middle-aged shopkeeper watches with interest as six people (and one wolf) browse his wares, trying occasionally to recommend a particular type of bait or a newly-developed lure. Once everyone is inside, he calmly makes his way to the front door and peers both ways down the street. Seemingly satisfied, he closes the door and flips the sign in the window from "Open" to "Gone Fishing".
"This way," he whispers, flipping a switch under the counter to reveal a hidden door. On the other side, a warm fireplace is a welcome change from the damp morning air blowing in from the sea - as are the plethora of comfortable chairs strewn around the room. The room's sole occupant, a woman in a beautiful grey silken gown, rises with a smile as the Pathfinders enter.
“I appreciate your answering my call,” Venture-Captain Muesello says with a subdued smile as he closes the room’s curtains and clears away an unfinished wayfinder to make space. “Some of you may already know Lady Gloriana Morilla, and I shall explain why she’s joined us momentarily. First, let us remember that General Arnisant, hero of the Shining Crusade, is one of the most highly regarded figures in Taldor’s history. Arnisant’s hometown of Ridonport has always been especially proud of him, and nearly nine centuries since his death, his home’s still preserved as a museum. The Society regularly submits requests to the museum to examine the historical artifacts there. Usually we get a polite and curt ‘no.’ Most recently, though?”
Muesello tilts his head from side to side as if considering his words. “This time the curator, Cincia Reviamo, wrote that she cannot help because the local lord, Earl Calhadion Vernisant, has been taking undue liberties with the museum and its collection - apparently taking whatever he wants from it, claiming he has the right because he’s a direct descendant of General Arnisant. Taking priceless relics is one thing, but there’s another angle that Lady Morilla can explain better.”
Gloriana Morilla picks up where Muesello left off. “Taldor has many great legacies, but there are some traditions better left in the past. The practice of primogeniture dictates that Taldor’s crown only passes to male heirs, yet the laws have been amended over time to allow women to inherit land and titles in some circumstances.
“Even so, the Lion,” Morilla states, motioning that the animal has special significance, “has no male heir and seems utterly against his young Lioness leading the pride. It’s a stubborn stance that could condemn Taldor to civil war. I have spoken to many senators who also believe it’s time to update the empire’s inheritance laws. The Lion and his loyalists view this growing equality movement as a personal attack, even a coup. Among these is the Earl Vernisant, who would readily vote against reform just to become part of the Lion’s inner circle.
“Count Orlundo Zespire, however, is an undecided senator. Exports from his lands travel through Vernisant’s region, yet along the way many of the goods go missing as a result of canal piracy. Zespire suspects his colleague is at least negligent in allowing these crimes to transpire in his town—and possibly worse. It seems this isn’t the first misunderstanding between the two, and the count has informed me that he would be in the Lioness’s debt were she able to arrange someone to resolve the matter. If that also involves finding evidence that ties Vernisant to criminal elements, making that evidence public would cause the earl considerable distress and bring the count considerable joy. Just keep in mind that no matter what evidence you find, you’ll need to convince Ridonport’s citizens to trust you before they’ll take your word over that of General Arnisant’s descendant.”
Muesello clears his throat before adding, “Just to be clear, the Society’s interest is in stopping Vernisant’s relic-pilfering and getting in the curator’s good graces. It so happens that Lady Morilla’s and the Society’s aims overlap nicely. Visit the museum, talk to the curator, figure out how to protect the collection, and investigate the earl’s alleged misdeeds. Any questions?”
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"FIRST!" cries the small cavalier.
"I am Squire Droo Nettlezum." says the neon fuchsia-haired gnome to the other agents as they arrive. She wears a gleaming breastplate that she casually buffs her fingernails upon. "I got here first."
When invited in, Droo climbs up into one of the seats and kicks her feet through the air seemingly incapable of sitting still.
“Even so, the Lion,” Morilla states, motioning that the animal has special significance, “has no male heir and seems utterly against his young Lioness leading the pride. It’s a stubborn stance that could condemn Taldor to civil war. I have spoken to many senators who also believe it’s time to update the empire’s inheritance laws. The Lion and his loyalists view this growing equality movement as a personal attack, even a coup. Among these is the Earl Vernisant, who would readily vote against reform just to become part of the Lion’s inner circle.
"WAIT! There's a lion!" Droo leans forward and looks about in sudden excitement until she realizes, "Ooooh. That lion."
She falls back into her seat, and returns to kicking her feet. She looks more than a little bored for a moment, but then 'piracy' is mentioned and the small knight is suddenly leaning forward as engaged as anyone on an hours-long espresso bender.
“Just keep in mind that no matter what evidence you find, you’ll need to convince Ridonport’s citizens to trust you before they’ll take your word over that of General Arnisant’s descendant.”
"Oh, I can be very convincing. LET'S GO!" Droo stands on her chair ready to leap off, and into action.
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Gorrig finds the place at last and walks in. His traveling clothes are jet-black and loose-fitting, designed for mobility. A wooden holy symbol of Sarenrae bounces against his chest. His only visible weapon is a curved sword at his waist. He wears no armor except a pair of metal bracers, painted as black as his clothing. He keeps his backpack on his shoulders as he meanders the store.
It's a Society mission, all right, he thinks as he sees the types of people who appear to have been similarly summoned.
"I got here first."
Gorrig smiles. "So you did! And not alone, it seems," he adds, nodding toward her canine companion. "I'm Gorrig, traveling priest."
* * * * *
"So let me see if I have this right," he says with his brow furled, trying to keep the names straight. "Earl Calhadion Vernisant has been claiming artifacts from this Arnisant museum, and the Society wants him stopped. He also may or may not be involved with canal pirates, and this Lioness, who's after her father's crown, wants us to uncover proof of this to curry favor with a Count Orlundo Zespire, who hasn't yet declared for her father. Unlike Earl Vernisant, who already has.
"Is the Earl really a direct descendant? Wouldn't he have kept the same family name if he was?".
"Would it be possible to speak to the count directly at some point?"
Muesello frowns. "That seems unlikely - his lands are a ways outside of Ridenport, and thus quite a ways from the museum whose artifacts the Society is trying to gain access to."
"He was the third-born child of his noble family," Lady Morilla notes, "which meant he had little chance to inherit anything of consequence. He instead entered Taldor’s military and served in far-flung peacekeeping contingents with distinction, earning him his new title and lands when he returned home. By all reports, he has continue to serve Taldor honorably, and many soldiers still speak fondly of him as ‘the Iron Gar,’ a nickname he earned while combating outlaws in the River Kingdoms.”
"Earl Calhadion Vernisant has been claiming artifacts from this Arnisant museum, and the Society wants him stopped. He also may or may not be involved with canal pirates, and this Lioness, who's after her father's crown, wants us to uncover proof of this to curry favor with a Count Orlundo Zespire, who hasn't yet declared for her father. Unlike Earl Vernisant, who already has."
"You're mixing up cause and effect there," the venture-captain corrects. "The Society wants access to study the museum's collection, and the curator would be deeply grateful if we could put a stop to the Earl's 'liberties' with the items. It just so happens that the most expedient way to do that happens to line up nicely with the Lioness's goals, as evidence of wrongdoing by the earl will both distress him and please the Count - perhaps enough to look favorably on the Lioness."
"Is the Earl really a direct descendant? Wouldn't he have kept the same family name if he was?"
Lady Morilla smiles and shakes her head. "If only it were that simple. Suffice it to say that in Taldor, family names can vary significantly."
"Are there any other questions we can answer for you?" Muesello asks. "I can see that one of your number is eager to be off, but a prepared agent often comes back to the Lodge, as they say."
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"I am Squire Droo Nettlezum." says the neon fuchsia-haired gnome to the other agents as they arrive. She wears a gleaming breastplate that she casually buffs her fingernails upon. "I got here first."
Lovely. The spare, elderly elven woman peers disdainfully down her nose at a gnome who reminds her of so many irritatingly over-eager students. Her reply is clipped, perfectly enunciated, and dismissive. "Congratulations. You may address me as Professor Masaendri." She turns away to assess the other "patrons".
Sitting ramrod straight in the cushioned chair she selected for its proximity to the fireplace, the Professor listens with a calculating expression to the dialogue. Yes, it is most certainly foolish to prevent capable women from ruling. How much war and grief could have been avoided had women be allowed to rule, inherit, etc.?
Ah. Wise woman. The Professor gives Lady Morilla a nod of respect. Later she gives a stern glare at Squire Droo's eagerness to run off without proper preparation.
"Where are Earl Vernisant's lands? As he is pilfering historical artifacts, one must wonder where he is keeping them. However unlikely our success may be, we would be negligent if we do not attempt to verify that he indeed still has those artifacts, at least. If piracy is involved, perhaps he is doing more than merely collecting them in his parlor."
Vosk nods with approval at the steps his hosts take in maintaining discretion. Now these are some people to work for!
Upon entering the hidden room, he makes his way around for introductions. Clasping each person's hand within both of his, he pulls them in for a warm hug followed by a kiss for each cheek. "Vosk Lazav, here to cater to all of your needs." Anyone who resists is left alone, but still given his verbal introduction.
Standing in the room attentively (for none of the chairs look quite sturdy enough to handle his girth), is a towering man with clean, balding hair, the remainder of which is pulled back into a neat ponytail. As the briefing continues, he inscribes key details in an encrypted shorthand into a brown, leather booklet. What an opportunity to make connections and cause a little stir!
"What a web of intrigue," he begins, smiling, "I think we are quite up for this situation. Of course, we could be even more prepared if the transferal of a few items could be arranged." Consulting his notes, he numbers off a few items on his fingers.
"First, handwriting samples of anyone who is anyone on Earl Vernisant's retainer. Second, any samples of official letters. Seals, stamps, signatures, the works. Third, locations of import or any other tips you have collected to date," he lists. Finally with a sigh, he concludes, "Failing this, I suppose pointing us in the right direction and arranging our travel will have to suffice."
Once the briefing has more or less concluded, he turns to his latest companions and spreads his arms wide. "We're traveling companions now! And the best ones know what the other can do and who they are. So," he says, looking at the nearest Pathfinder, "Where do your skills lie?"
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"Where are Earl Vernisant's lands? As he is pilfering historical artifacts, one must wonder where he is keeping them. However unlikely our success may be, we would be negligent if we do not attempt to verify that he indeed still has those artifacts, at least. If piracy is involved, perhaps he is doing more than merely collecting them in his parlor."
"I would advise against seeking out the Earl - or his estate," Muesello cautions. "I would not be sending some of the finest agents I've seen in years if I did not trust Cincia Reviamo's account of what is happening. And I would hate to have to pay to get you out of jail should you be discovered someplace where you're not supposed to be."
"First, handwriting samples of anyone who is anyone on Earl Vernisant's retainer. Second, any samples of official letters. Seals, stamps, signatures, the works. Third, locations of import or any other tips you have collected to date."
Lady Morilla catches each Pathfinder's eyes and holds them. "I want to stress that we must operate legitimately and within the law. We have the moral high ground and I trust you to hold it. It would do terrible and lasting damage to our cause if you resorted to, for example, assassinating a public figure, or tried to fabricate evidence." The steel of someone who plays politics between nations shows behind her still-pleasant smile.
"Can I help clarify anything else for you before you depart?" Lady Morilla asks pointedly.
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"I am Squire Droo Nettlezum." says the neon fuchsia-haired gnome to the other agents as they arrive. She wears a gleaming breastplate that she casually buffs her fingernails upon. "I got here first."Lovely. The spare, elderly elven woman peers disdainfully down her nose at a gnome who reminds her of so many irritatingly over-eager students. Her reply is clipped, perfectly enunciated, and dismissive. "Congratulations. You may address me as Professor Masaendri." She turns away to assess the other "patrons".
"Oh I don't usually write people mail." Droo says waving off the invitation.
Once the briefing has more or less concluded, he turns to his latest companions and spreads his arms wide. "We're traveling companions now! And the best ones know what the other can do and who they are. So," he says, looking at the nearest Pathfinder, "Where do your skills lie?"
Droo considers, then seems struck by an epiphany. "Over there." she says pointing to a large grey wolf laying in the corner, and warily watching Bocke Reed.
"Where are Earl Vernisant's lands? As he is pilfering historical artifacts, one must wonder where he is keeping them. However unlikely our success may be, we would be negligent if we do not attempt to verify that he indeed still has those artifacts, at least. If piracy is involved, perhaps he is doing more than merely collecting them in his parlor.""I would advise against seeking out the Earl - or his estate," Muesello cautions. "I would not be sending some of the finest agents I've seen in years...."
Droo puffs out her chest at the compliment.
Lady Morilla catches each Pathfinder's eyes and holds them. "I want to stress that we must operate legitimately and within the law. We have the moral high ground and I trust you to hold it. It would do terrible and lasting damage to our cause if you resorted to, for example, assassinating a public figure, or tried to fabricate evidence." The steel of someone who plays politics between nations shows behind her still-pleasant smile.
"Can I help clarify anything else for you before you depart?" Lady Morilla asks pointedly.
Droo looks about the room, waiting for someone make a move. She herself seems like a tensed spring ready to go the second that Lady Morilla gives the word like a sprinter at the starting line waiting for the signal to begin.
Vinegar readies himself to bound to his partner's side and then break for the exit at her signal.
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"Where do your skills lie?"
The Professor's body language is stiff and professional as she replies with reserve. "My skills lie in academia and the arcane." (She certainly stopped Mr. Lazav's earlier hug attempt with firm resolve.)
"I would advise against seeking out the Earl - or his estate," Muesello cautions. "I would not be sending some of the finest agents I've seen in years if I did not trust Cincia Reviamo's account of what is happening. And I would hate to have to pay to get you out of jail should you be discovered someplace where you're not supposed to be."
"Understood. We appreciate your clarification of our parameters."
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While not nearly reaching Vosk's height or girth, the soldier that arrives last is still imposing. It seems he has made no attempt to 'clean himself up' for the meeting. His breastplate is scratched and rent in several places, and his cloak is filthy with caked on mud. His long beard hangs unkempt to the middle of his chest and sunken, bloodshot eyes stare out from under his helm.
The grizzled human nods at the others gathered. "Theld" is all the man's offers to any greeting. He accepts Vosk's hand at introduction, but holds a firm hand up at the thought of an embrace. He stands stoically at the mission briefing, taking in the others as they process the information.
- apparently taking whatever he wants from it,
During a pause in the conversations, a deep, raspy voice asks quietly, "What was stolen?"
During a pause in the conversations, a deep, raspy voice asks quietly, "What was stolen?"
"Cincia didn't say," Muesello muses.
"Likely to avoid even a hint of accusation," Lady Morilla replies thoughtfully. "In case the message fell into unfriendly hands, no doubt."
The venture-captain claps his hands briskly. "Well, if there are no further questions, I've charted a boat to take you up the Jagged Saw to Ridonport. I would advise doing any shopping you need here in Oppara before you depart. Best of luck, agents, and I look forward to hearing of your success."
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The Pathfinders find themselves back on Oppara's busy streets as Muesello closes the shop door behind them and turns the sign in the window back around to "Open". The sun has warmed the chill air enough to burn away the morning mist, but still has at least a few hours until it reaches its zenith (judging from its current position).
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As the sun begins to set, the Pathfinders reconvene at the docks near a worn, single-masted boat that bears the inscription "The Beautiful Maiden" in faded gold lettering on the prow and the strong scent of herring everywhere else. "Let's move it, people! I ain't got all day for you to stand around like eels at low tide!" a older human woman with more frown lines on her face than teeth in her mouth yells from the deck. "That boy promised y'all'd be crewing the ship, so less gawking and more working! Y'can start by carrying those crates inside - and don't even think about droppin' 'em or y'll be getting those clams back out of the harbor by hand! Let's move it! Tide's already turning 'ere!"
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Gorrig inhales deeply under the midday sun. "Praise Sarenrae! It just invigorates you, doesn't it?" he asks no one in particular.
At the dock, he picks up a crate without protest and carries it onto the ship. "I should probably mention," he tells the stern woman, "I've, uh, never crewed a ship before."
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"Ridonport, Ridonport. That was the port with big stone archway, and weird sky blot thingie, right? WAIT! NO! It's that place that other port sued for some sort of name infringement, and had to change their name! It's on the Musical Saw, or something. Bone Saw? Reciprocating Saw, Cole Slaw? Maybe it was Hammer...? Anyhow, I know where it is." Droo beams.
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Theld threatens and cajoles other citizens until he uncovers the fact that the area is useful for logging more so than farming. The canal makes the task even easier. There was also political unrest nearly a decade ago. Theld smiles as he recounts how Grand Duke Forath Bozbeyli was "Torn to pieces." by the common folk after they found out he lied to them.
When out of sight of the Venture-Captian, Vosk rolls his eyes. Like I'd resort to something as blasé as murder. A few pieces of paper with the right scribbles of ink simply open many doors and mouths. Yeesh.
He puts a smile on though when it comes to his turn to talk about his skills. "I peddle information and connect people with goods that other, lesser merchants, wouldn't be able to provide," he says proudly, but with a hint of deviousness. Hopefully a few of my skills work in our favor on this little adventure.
As the old lady orders him about, he defiantly stands his ground and scowls back. "I don't move crates," he says simply, before attempting to walk aboard the ship empty handed. Even more so when someone as salty as you orders me to. I've spent many gold pieces on ointments to keep my skin lusciously soft as well. She can get as sour as she wants. I hate ships.
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The Professor prefers to do her own research, and soon enough has discovered some tidbits about the region.
She arrives punctually at the dock. The elderly elf is surprised to be ordered to be a pack mule, especially considering her advanced age and far-from-buff physique. However, she is adventuring out in the world to learn that which can only be learned from experience. After a moment of consideration, she briskly nods to herself, selects the lightest crate she can find, bends at the knees, and...
...successfully manages to lift it without throwing out her back! With awkward, shuffling steps she heaves it on board and heads back for another. As she passes Vosk, she admonishes him as she would a disappointing student: "Sloth does not represent the Society well, Mr. Lazav. I expect more out of you."
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As the sun begins to set, the Pathfinders reconvene at the docks near a worn, single-masted boat that bears the inscription "The Beautiful Maiden" in faded gold lettering on the prow and the strong scent of herring everywhere else. "Let's move it, people! I ain't got all day for you to stand around like eels at low tide!" a older human woman with more frown lines on her face than teeth in her mouth yells from the deck. "That boy promised y'all'd be crewing the ship, so less gawking and more working! Y'can start by carrying those crates inside - and don't even think about droppin' 'em or y'll be getting those clams back out of the harbor by hand! Let's move it! Tide's already turning 'ere!"
"Well, shiver the timbers, is this our ship? Arrr you the Captain!?" Droo asks the woman "I'm Droo and this is my scurvy, sea dog, Vinegar. We're reporting for duty. Which way to the lido deck?"
Droo sings to herself as she sets to work as a porter (with Vinegar's aid of course), but is nonetheless disappointed to find out that the Maiden doesn't have a pool.
"Do we get to sit at your table for the dinner banquet?" she asks the Captain.
The journey along the Jagged Saw to Ridonport passed uneventfully - if one could call hoisting sails, rowing with broken oars, scraping barnacles off the rudder, slipping on a wet ladder rung and dumping buckets of seawater on one's self before an unfortunately-familiar voice peeled a bit more varnish off the ship's timbers, and eating primarily herring (smoked or pickled, depending on the time of day) for every meal. When the ship finally docked in the port city, the Pathfinders were all too ready to put "The Beautiful Maiden" behind them. They might never get the smell of oily fish out of their clothes though...
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Perhaps the most striking landmark near the docks was the enormous statue of a military figure in the city's main square. A placard at its base declares the figure above to be General Arnisant, leader of Taldor's armies that pushed the Whispering Tyrant back to the Gallowspire and sealed him there. Numerous old homes sit clustered around the square - one in particular with the front door open and a sign out front saying "Welcome to the museum!"
Inside the spacious, single-story stone house, the variety of wall styles and shades of stone suggest dozens of renovations over the years (some parts looking more overdue for another round than others). Aging furnishings decorate the large sitting room, though they are clean and free of dust, and the walls are crowded with portraits, framed letters, and genealogical charts. Several glass cases protect more fragile items, such as what looks to have once been a letter written on fraying parchment and several faded paintings of snowy mountains and storm-tossed seas. On the right side of the doorway hangs a nearly-life-sized painting of a man in blue and green livery looking dramatically into the distance before nodding at the visitors, the crown-and-lion standard of Taldor waving behind him. Only the distant sounds of the docks to be heard.
Vosk takes the opportunity to look about for anything unusual and scanning for magic. "Glad to be off of that ship and back on land!" he says to the others while they wait for the curator to appear. Learning more about these tidbits might be useful as well. If not now, then one day. Pulling a book from his cloak, he takes quick notes on the type of items around the museum.
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A faint crash followed by indecipherable swearing drifts through the open door from down the street - along with a faint whiff of smoked fish.
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The journey along the Jagged Saw to Ridonport passed uneventfully - if one could call hoisting sails, rowing with broken oars, scraping barnacles off the rudder, slipping on a wet ladder rung and dumping buckets of seawater on one's self....
"That was fun! We should do it again! Though maybe more deck chairs next time."
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Perhaps the most striking landmark near the docks was the enormous statue of a military figure in the city's main square. A placard at its base declares the figure above to be General Arnisant, leader of Taldor's armies that pushed the Whispering Tyrant back to the Gallowspire and sealed him there. Numerous old homes sit clustered around the square - one in particular with the front door open and a sign out front saying "Welcome to the museum!"
"Just look at that sign! I bet you a real, live engineer put that up there! I've got an eye for these things. Just ask anyone."
Inside the spacious, single-story stone house, the variety of wall styles and shades of stone suggest dozens of renovations over the years (some parts looking more overdue for another round than others). Aging furnishings decorate the large sitting room, though they are clean and free of dust, and the walls are crowded with portraits, framed letters, and genealogical charts. Several glass cases protect more fragile items, such as what looks to have once been a letter written on fraying parchment and several faded paintings of snowy mountains and storm-tossed seas. On the right side of the doorway hangs a nearly-life-sized painting of a man in blue and green livery looking dramatically into the distance before nodding at the visitors, the crown-and-lion standard of Taldor waving behind him. Only the distant sounds of the docks to be heard.
"Hey, did you see that? That guy in the painting just nodded at me. Obviously he knows quality when he sees it."
A faint crash followed by indecipherable swearing drifts through the open door from down the street - along with a faint whiff of smoked fish.
"Shh! Do you smell that?" Droo hops on Vinegar, and races off in the direction of the cursing fish!
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Hmm. They certainly think well of this man. The service he performed--with the help of countless unnamed others, of course--was certainly greatly beneficial to all of Golarion.
While Professor Masaendri would infinitely prefer to examine the animated painting--(Truly fascinating!)--she is loathe to be left behind. The painting will, presumably, still be at the entrance to the museum upon their return, but whatever is happening over yonder presents a limited-time-only opportunity to learn something new. With an exasperated sigh at the impulsiveness of youth and poor timing, she pursues the group post-haste with a brisk nudge to Vosk. "Come along, Mr. Lazav. Time waits for no one."
The source of the noise - and smell - is quite apparent. Two carts (one carrying wooden beams and planks, the other fish) seem to have collided, with the fish-cart losing and falling over in shock. Several barrels of smoked whitefish and salmon roll on the ground, their contents strewn across the street, while the cart drivers yell at each other. Judging from the redness of their faces and the colorfulness of their insults, they might come to blows shortly. A third man crawls out from underneath the ship and joins in.
"Get outta here, Rulsak! You're blocking Rillod from dropping off my deliveries!"
"Oi, better if your mother'd 'ad a blocked delivery when she 'ad you, Rasvelg!"
"'Ow 'bout I deliver one o' these poles straight into your mouthy gob, Rulsak!"
A human woman stands in an interior doorway of the museum, one arm full of scrolls and the other leaning heavily on a cane. She squints at the three visitors over a pair of reading glasses, then sighs and pushes a stand of curly black hair out of her face with the end of a scroll.
"Visitors? Can't say we get too many folks here nowadays for anything else. What brings you to the home of General Arnisant? Oh, please don't forget to sign the guest book." She points towards a ledger opened to a blank page with a quill and inkpot nearby, then heads towards one of the display cases to set down her load.
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"Oh! Well, we're from the Pathfinder Society, and, um--" Gorrig glances at the door through which Droo had just left. I'm sure the others will be fine. "I understand the Earl Vernisant has been claiming items from here. And not everyone is happy about it." Unsure what this woman's opinion of the Earl might be, he decides to play it safe. He signs her guestbook "Black Gorrig of Cliffvalley."
Fascinating, they've practically immortalized the man. Maybe I can get an animated portrait of myself for when I'm away. Will just need to figure out how to reliably take orders... Vosk is pulled from his thoughts when the Professor nags him again.
"Quite, and perhaps I wish time would continue to pass as I remained here and you went on your way," he jabs, before returning to the delicate task of identifying magical auras. My the manners on that one. Can't she see I am busy? Slow learner too, I do things on my own time. Obviously.
At the greeting, Vosk turns to the woman and spreads his arms wide as he walks confidently towards her. "Hello, it is so wonderful to see you! We have traveled far to explore this museum and meet with the curator. But where are my manners, I am Vosk Lazav. Who might you be, my dear?" he asks while extending a hand to relieve her of her scrolls.
After an introduction, he heads over to the guestbook. People must know my name, but a paper trail of my travels would be unwise. However... Quickly, he flips through the pages to find any names he recognizes before scrawling a fake name on an old page and turning back to the latest.
________
"Oh! Well, we're from the Pathfinder Society, and, um--"
"Oh, you're the agents!" The woman shakes her head. "Of course you are - who else would bother coming to see the museum in this state otherwise? Oh, my manners - I am Cincia Reviamo, historian and curator. I prepared several rooms for your use during your stay here, though it looks like I was mislead on the number of people coming...?"
Quickly, he flips through the pages to find any names he recognizes before scrawling a fake name on an old page and turning back to the latest.
"Mr. Vosk, would you be so kind as to sign the guest book on today's page? You can't just go tampering with a historical record like that."
"Now then, why I," she pauses to sigh, "in a moment of weakness offered the invitation to your Society is that the museum owns the contents and operates mostly on donations - but that doesn’t stop Earl Vernisant from treating it as his personal property. He sends his people to take anything he likes from the collection, but I almost prefer that to when he adds things. Have you met his painting? That’s just one example, but there are more. Here we have the genealogy exhibit, which Vernisant commissioned when he found out that the mortal Iomedae spent some time with General Arnisant during the Shining Crusade. The earl added this chart to the display, and it’s the only document I’ve ever seen that suggests the Inheritor is one of his ancestors. That she and General Arnisant...then children...it’s not even...” Cincia struggles to voice her dismay, finally settling for a frazzled groan that she ends with, “I have questions.”
She motions to another display. “The mannequins - I managed to assemble four full sets of armor to represent Taldor’s major armies in the Shining Crusade: the Phalanx, the Horse, the Navy, and the Knights of Ozem. Unfortunately, Vernisant learned that the Knight of Ozem’s helmet is magical, so he had it relocated to his private collection for ‘study.’
“If you want this museum to be a useful source of anything other than propaganda, we’ll need to keep Vernisant away from it. So what are you going to do?" She crosses her arms and looks at the three Pathfinders expectantly.
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"Oh, please don't forget to sign the guest book."
Professor Masaendri waits behind Vosk to sign the guestbook, arching an eyebrow judgmentally as he deliberately defies the obvious custom of signing guest books in order. Some people.
As the curator recounts the liberties taken by Earl Vernisant on the museum's collection, the Professor's intellectual outrage boils. "What ridiculous hubris! To add information that has not been independently and properly verified by at least one respectable, impartial party? Preposterous! We were aware that he was taking items, but adding unsupported information? Propaganda indeed! Now. Mr. Gorrig. Mr. Lazav. What do you think our first steps should be?" Taking the role of the teacher forcing her pupils to think of the answers themselves comes naturally to her, thankfully. She is too outraged at the audacity of the Earl to come up with a useful course of action at this time. Stalling is a useful tactic.
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"What are you smirking at, Theld? We're supposed to be on a big, important mission here. Looking like grave robbers just found the booby-trapped wall decor in your home in the Tomb of Horrors, isn't going to help." Droo says and prods Theld with the tip of her lance from the back of her wolf.
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"An Iomedaean might even call that blasphemy." Though he doen't venerate the Inheritor overmuch, he does have a healthy respect for her and her righteous followers. He purses his lips in thought. "I hope there's more than just the helmet sitting in the Earl's private collection; we need to talk to him." He decides not to mention the pirates; no sense besmirching a public official's good-- or at least popular-- name without proof. "How often does he come here?"