GM MattMorris Doom of Cassomir (Inactive)

Game Master ChesterCopperpot

Venture-Captain Hestia Themis put out a call from the Cassomir lodge in Taldor, seeking Pathfinder agents to solve the recent troubles threatening the city’s resurgence. You decided to answer that call.

Today, you're waiting for Themis in the conference room of the lodge, observing your fellow agents.

A golden-scaled kobold saunters in, looking around as if sizing up everyone else in the room. He may be the shortest person there, but it's quite clear he thinks he's the biggest (and probably baddest).

He gives a toothy grin that's a little difficult to tell if it's meant to be menacing or friendly. He's certainly dressed for trouble, wearing leather armor -- with a scale pattern matching his own, and an embossed dragon's head on the cuirass -- and a rapier and main-gauche hanging at his hip.

"Good news," he announces. "Pyrexius is here for this mission. With The Golden Dragon on your side, you will have nothing to worry about!"

A slim Kellid man enters the conference room, betrayed before his arrival by the clack of his heels on the floor; he makes no attempt to conceal his approach.

The man has dark skin, dark hair, and amber eyes rimmed in a small amount of dark kohl makeup. His face seems permanently tired. He wears a long coat over a leather jerkin, and a tattoo of thorns and leaves is barely visible rising up toward the left side of his neck. The backs of his hands are similarly tattooed, with a rose on one and a lily on the other. A rapier hangs from his swordbelt, and his heavy backpack might as well contain his entire life.

He sets his pack on a chair and leans against the wall by the door, waiting silently for the remainder of the Pathfinders to arrive before he introduces himself.

"Mirza," he says with a half smile, raising one hand in a small wave or salute.

The door creaks open—slowly, as if pushed tentatively, though it only draws out the creaking sound—and a small gnome slips in quietly, looking around a bit anxiously before setting down her pack and finding a chair to climb up into. Once seated, she glances around again, allowing you to get a better look at her.

The gnome's long black hair is put up into thick twintails, and her face is made up very pale; makeup in shades of black and violet contrasts against the powdered paleness and makes her wide purple eyes seem even more vibrant. She wears an elaborate and fancy-looking dress of black lace, silk, and satin, and set at her side in the chair is a fine black parasol, completing her Gothic image. No weapons or armor seem in evidence.

"U-um... hello. I'm, um, Majet of Geb. But, um, you can call me Ink." Her voice trembles with nervousness, but there is a silken smoothness to her tone that suggests a practiced speaker. Sensing the need for additional details, Ink adds, "Er... I'm, um, a poet and occultist. I shall do my best to keep everyone in shape and well informed. And, uh, speak to anyone whom needs speaking to."

With that, the little gnome pulls out a small book and writing set, quickly becoming engrossed in her writings.

Still slightly ajar from Ink's cautious entry, the door slams wide open as a small, green-scaled kobold bursts into the room. They whirl around in a set of localized chaos, twirling a trident in one hand and slashing the air with a hatchet using the other. Hyah! Hyah! H-YAH! Containing all the excitement of a child playing knight with sticks, the kobold spins in arcs, in a self-invented combat routine against an imaginary enemy. Through expert control or pure luck they manage not to strike the occupants of the room, though it is impossible to tell which it was that avoided an accidental slashing.

Coming to a dramatic stop with one final thrust up with the trident, the kobold lowers their weapons and bows in a sincere imitation of an Aldori swordlord. "I'm Izkazk, the Ankle Slasher. Remember it! I'm the kobold that will make the Pathfinder Society famous! Well... more famous than it already is... Just you see!" They wave a reproachful finger at the assembled party before settling into the biggest chair they can find in the room.

An stately gnomish man appears in the doorway, dressed in a charcoal gray shirt, black vest, and heavy brown trousers. His thick hair splashes upward like a half-bloomed dandelion the color of a magpie feather. One hand holds the strap of a heavy backpack; the other raises a cane topped with steel knob carved like an eye. He gently taps the door and the doorknob, notes the sounds, and enters.

He surveys the room's inhabitants, giving a pleasant, crow's feet-topped smile to anyone who makes eye contact. He ambles over to Mirza's side of the room—stopping briefly to examine the claw marks left by Izkazk's exuberant entrance—and collapses into a chair. A leather apron with old, dark stains slides partially out of his jostled pack.

He runs his fingers across his long eyebrows, then perks up at the sight of Mirza's tattoos. He greets the man in his rich, precise voice.

"Good day. Doryg, pleasure to meet you." He gestures to the man's neck with the head of his cane. "I hope I'm not too forward, but in my experience, every tattoo has a story—I'd be most interested to hear yours!"

Pyrexius' jaw drops as Izkazk enters, spinning and slashing. The golden-scaled kobold sputters furiously for a few moments before finally finding his words.

"That is NOT how you fight!" he snaps. "There isn't even anyone there! If you fought Pyrexius, the Golden Dragon would teach you how to use a blade!"

He hesitates, as if he were going to say something about making the Pathfinder Society famous, but then snaps his mouth closed like a steel trap, clearly having decided it wasn't worth it, or that he has other concerns.

A real dragon doesn't care about fame!

Mirza's eyes follow two kobolds, and he smiles in amusement at their competition before his attention moves to Doryg. He lifts his hands, palms facing himself, affording the gnome a better look at the tattoos on them; he elects not to take his shirt off to better expose the inked vines at his neck, however.

"Very true, Mister Doryg," he says after giving the gnome a silent moment to examine them. "These are religious. The holy symbols of the Everbloom," he turns his right hand slightly, indicating the rose tattoo, "and the Red Queen," indicating his left hand with the lotus.

Doryg makes small appreciative noises as he inspects the tattoos. He then sits back in his chair, places his cane across his knees, and begins stroking his right eyebrow pensively.

"Well, that certainly sounds like a story! I can't say I've encountered many Pathfinders who appreciate both Milani and the Unyielding. Is it the strength and stalwartness of each you admire? Their martial acumen? I'm sure our friend," he bends the tip of the eyebrow to point at Izkazk, "would identify with the latter aspect. Or is it the-"

Doryg's fingers halt suddenly and his eyes snap back from the middle distance. His wrinkled face flushes slightly. "Very sorry! Pondering about something very personal, no doubt. I like learning the 'why' and 'how' of things, you see, and it occasionally, ah..." He traces a circuitous line through the air with his cane. "Sends me down paths without considering my fellow travelers, as it were. Best stick to tapping doors to hear what they sound like." One corner of his lip twists in a lopsided smile, and he dips his head in apology.

"Curiosity's not a fault," the Kellid man says with a small shrug. He smiles again, though this time with a small, sardonic twist to the corner of his lips.

"Steady and strong in admirable degrees, certainly, but not the target of specific personal significance, no. Infernal Cheliax mistreats most of her subjects, with little regard for how tall they'd have grown in other fields."

Doryg’s shoulders slump. “No, Infernal order doesn’t make for a flourishing spirit. Presumably you’re tilling fields of your own choosing, now?”

Just as you've settled in to the conference room, a tall human woman strides in the door. Her eyes sweep over the group, measuring you up in seconds.

"Welcome to Cassomir, Pathfinders! I couldn't be happier to have you in our fair city. I am Hestia Themis, venture-captain of the lodge here." Her speaking voice is commanding and fills the space around her. She keeps her dark black hair pinned back and wears fashionably functional clothing. "Come! Let me show you around."

Turning on her heel, she heads for the door of the lodge, beckoning you to follow.

Outside, the streets bustle and a sea breeze eases the discomfort of working your way through a press of bodies on the busy city streets.

"We're quite proud of Cassomir's recent economic recovery," Themis says to you over her shoulder as you wind your way through a busy market square. "It is a city with a rich history, and the rest of Taldor has recently begun to appreciate us again."

She point out the a new construction site, "If you look there, you can see that people are flocking to invest in the city, these days."

Her tour of Cassomir leads through the commercial district and past the city's busting shipworks. Your guide points out the efficiency of production here, and notes every new building and busy construction site.

As you make your way into the city's southeast district, you notice that the buildings become markedly more run down, and the streets degenerate from even cobbles into muddy thruways.

Hestia Themis sighs, and says, "Welcome to Admiral’s Fen. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but not too long ago this was the best part of the city. I spent my childhood running up and down these streets, but it has been years since the streets of Admiral’s Fen were clear of mud. Some bad years and poor city planning strangled the life out of this place. Each year, more and more of the neighborhood sinks into Blackwood Swamp. Even my childhood home has been swallowed up by the hungry bog."

"But something here is amiss, more dangerous than the common petty crime and vandalism. The rest of the city is enjoying a remarkable turnaround, but mysteriously, Admiral’s Fen is growing only more dangerous. Recently, a wave of violent attacks and murders have plagued the neighborhood, far more than could be considered normal. I have my suspicions, but no definite proof."

"The citizens of Admiral’s Fen deserve better. If these attacks can be stopped, perhaps the district can finally make a real comeback. It also wouldn’t hurt to strengthen the relationship between the Pathfinder Society and the new Taldan regime by quelling the derelict district’s woes. I want you to find out who or what is behind these attacks and put a stop to them. I’ve arranged for your lodgings at The Sinking Ship, one of the few remaining inns still operating in Admiral’s Fen. Blend in, get to know the people, and ask around. Someone knows something, we just have to find them."

She turns and waits, hands on hips, to see if you have any questions.

Pyrexius scratches his head. If he were behind this, or a dragon, he would just raze the place to the ground. Perhaps a drake? They're not strong enough to do that themselves, so might resort to this.

"Why would someone want to wreck this part of town? Is there buried treasure?" he asks, wracking his brain. It certainly doesn't look like there's anything valuable here.

Mirza picks his pack back up and hoists it over his shoulder, hanging back in the conference room and making sure the other, shorter Pathfinder agents follow the Venture-Captain first; he falls into line at the back of the tour, keeping half an eye on the gnomes and the kobolds while they're shown through the city.

He looks around when they enter Admiral's Fen, paying attention to the types of people they see in the neighbourhood.

"Who lives in Admiral's Fen now?" Mirza asks, wondering how the Venture-Captain sees the district's current residents.

Izkazk wiggles their clawed toes in the muddy slop of the street. The muck reminds them of the sewers in Absalom and they think of home.

"Dirt can hide things people have forgotten about. Could there be treasure or something important still in the Fen?"

Hestia smiles at the question about treasure in the Fen. "I think the treasure here is the potential of the people. The neighborhood was beautiful, once, and it could be so again. Many hard-working people live here, as they always have. Most of the families who live here now either stay out of loyalty to the neighborhood they grew up in or simply do not have the means to move to a section of town with more opportunity."

Some of you may know more about the current situation in the area as well. Make a Society check, if you wish.

Doryg is alert as they move through the city, his dark eyes flitting about like birds that alight on every detail. That’s Andoran granite and lumber there, which means someone has an interesting business connection. There’s a load of Opparan brasswork, interesting item to have in that sort of establishment. Maybe I’ll circle back and ask...

They arrive in the Fen and he observes his companion’s reactions to the change in economic prospects—one kobold’s in particular. Hestia’s words draw Doryg’s attention away from Izkazk’s wriggling toes. He frowns and tugs at an iridescent shock of hair. ”An old story, and one I don’t expect we’ll stop telling anytime soon. Inequity creeps up through there streets like bog water, and the folks who most need dry feet can’t get them.”

Ink has thus far remained largely quiet, first watching her new allies with wide and wary (yet curious) eyes, then worrying about keeping up with the Taldan venture-captain whilst keeping mud off her dress and the sun out of her eyes. Now, though... the gnome looks around, curiosity plain to see in her gaze.

"Hmm..." Ink murmurs, half to herself. "It rather reminds one of the Quick districts. Same inequality, same poor life expectancy. Only far more damp."

Shuffling forward, Ink shyly clears her throat to attract the venture-captain's attention. "Um... what is the nature of these attacks, these murders? Do they seem as though the violence of human against human? Or are there... other signs?" The gnome fidgets uncomfortably for a moment before elaborating. "The absence of victims', um, blood or portions of their flesh, for example. As if vital fluids or sapient meat were taken to sate, um... other appetites."

Ink does not, in fact, actually have Society. She's like a little Gebbite stilyagi. She does have Undead Lore, though, and is perhaps a little too keen to presume its relevance...

Doryg eyes Ink with newfound interest. I hope this isn't turning into an abattoir as well as a swamp. But she's right to ask the questions. Very astute, cuts to the chase. He shifts his attention to the Venture-Captain and her reaction to the grisly line of thought.

Themis takes Ink's questions in stride, barely batting an eyelash. "Nothing so obvious, I'm afraid. It's terrible to say it, but if some creature was feeding on the residents, at least we would know the cause and have some better idea how to put a stop to it."

The venture-captain pauses for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, or recollection. "We aren't even totally sure that the attacks are connected. The attacks are limited to Admiral’s Fen and the outskirts of the neighboring districts. The strangest thing is, there doesn’t seem to be any connection among the victims: old or young, rich or poor, Taldan or guest. Anyone could be next."

"Some were stabbed, some clubbed. Few of the victims carried anything of value, so it is unlikely robbery was the motive. Most victims were walking alone when the attack happened."

"Some people have survived?" Pyrexius asks. "Maybe we can find them and ask them what they saw."

Also untrained in Society, so not going to attempt. Also, undead are probably more likely than dragons/drakes, so... :)

Mirza hung back and let the others field questions, happy with the ones they chose. He listened to Hestia's answers while he let his attention wander to the city streets around him, taking note of the type of people, the attention and attitude toward their group, and the kind of attention or caution the Fen's citizens gave each other.

Mirza, the venture-captain's words jog loose some memories for you.

Themis nods at Pyrexius, "That's what I've heard. You'll have to ask around.If you can find one of these survivors, it might be a good lead."

”Do you know of anyone who can help us make connections with these survivors? I doubt strangers marching in asking about attacks are particularly likely to get answers. But if we know someone who can bend some ears, that makes things much more likely to succeed.”
Doryg rubs his thing over the cane head’s eye as he thinks things through.

"I recommend that you talk to Tamara Reed, at her inn, The Sinking Ship. It's one off the few remaining places where people from the district gather. I've paid for three days of lodging and meals for you. The place is hard to miss--it's shaped like the bow of a ship."

Themis points in the direction of the inn. "It was built as a homage to our shipbuilding by an eccentric architect from Wispil. It's become a bit run down of the years, but it's still an interesting place to stay, and well run by Tamara."

Ink nods, dutifully making a note of this. "Um, understood, Venture-Captain," the poet says, before turning to her new companions. "Shall we proceed—" Ink surveys the human, fellow gnome, and kobold duo that comprise her team of allies for the day. "—gentlemen?" Ink finishes smoothly, barely missing a beat.

With that, the gloomy gnome turns and begins daintily making her way through the muddy streets, leading the Pathfinders to the door of the eye-catching structure and pushing it open.

I didn't realize until this post that Ink is the only girl here. Also, the broken faction-mark links are really messing with me.

Yeah, I really wish they'd fix those broken faction marks. Or I had more Horizon Hunters characters.

Pyrexius nods and saunters into the neighborhood. He avoids his usual strut, so he doesn't draw attention, after the suggestion to keep a low profile from the Venture-Captain.

He looks around as he goes, ready in case whatever's attacking people decides to make the mistake of challenging him next.

"Don't worry, Ink, Doryg, Izkazk, you're under The Golden Dragon's protection, and I'll make sure nothing bad happens!" he assures them.

"The Ankle Biter needs no protection! But I think you forgot about the tall one..."

Izkazk motions to Mirza that he should follow too.

"Thank you, Venture-Captain Themis." Mirza nods to her in parting, then turns and follows after the other Pathfinders.

"If monsters are behind some of the attacks, there's a swamp nearby they might be coming from. Otherwise... well, the people here are just getting poorer while the rest of the city grows."

”As much as the golden dragon’s protection makes me feel like sauntering into the swamp...” Doryg lifts his cane to rap on the door but choked up on the grip, thinking better of it, ”I think Ink has the right of it. Let’s enter the boar and get the lay of the land, shall we?”

If no one opens the door, he does so, holding it open and bowing slightly as his companions as they pass.

It's time for me to remind you to slot boons if you have them. Everyone starts with 1 hero point.

It is just after noon when you enter The Sinking Ship, and a crowd has gathered for the lunch rush. A tall, red-hair woman darts among the residents, taking orders and shouting commands to her staff. When you enter, she barely breaks stride, saying "Welcome! Sit wherever you would like!"

The furniture inside the inn was once high quality, but is now streaked with dried mud and shabbily mended where broken.

After you settle in and wait for about ten minutes, the woman comes to the table. "Welcome to the Sinking Ship. I'm Tamara, and I'll be helping fill your bellies today! We've got our usual--the most popular entrée--fish stew. Today's fresh catch in our signature tomato broth. Just a single copper piece. For discerning visitors like you, might I suggest today's special? Cavedano al forno, a flaky baked fish served on a bed of noodles for 1 silver."

Doryg’s lip twitches upward at the mention of the special. He lets the others order first.

”Just the stew is fine for me, Tamara. But I’ll still pay the silver if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions about the neighborhood.”

Diplomacy to make an impression: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

Mirza enters the establishment and looks around, slipping into a seat that won't put his larger frame in the way of his companions. He watches the others in the restaurant, keen to see what types of people were there and how they interacted with each other.

He smiles when Tamara comes to their table, quickly moving his attention onto her. "I'll take that special, miss."

Pyrexius smiles, pulling out a silver piece.

"I will take the best meal, of course," he says, flicking dirt away from where he is sitting.

He waits to see what the woman's reply is to Doryg's bribe, looking around at who else might be in the room with them. Perhaps one of them is the killer, though that seems a little too easy.

Ink glances around a little uncertainly, weaving through the crowd semi-expertly and climbing into a seat alongside the others. As the proprietress makes her appearance, the gnome gives her best smile.

"The special for me, Lady Reed, and a bit of the stew besides," the poet chirps. "And something fine to drink as well, if you please." Ink pulls out a bit of extra coin; struggling folk like this need all the help they can get. She sets five silver on the table. "Keep the spare, but if anyone comes in hungry, maybe pay it forward. There's few can go without food."

Diplomacy to Make An Impression: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

At Doryg's mention of 'questions about the neighborhood', Ink nods in agreement. "I'd like to know more about the locality as well, please. Current events, gathering places, any recent mysteries or major stories..."

Ink flashes a glance among the others. Do we want to state our business plain as day?

Doryg and Ink seem to have made quite an impression on the innkeeper.

Food appears quickly on the table and Tamara sticks around to chat, as the crowd appears to have thinned out a bit.

"Curious visitors from out of town, eh? Well, I hope you're here to help. Things are bad in Admiral's Fen."

Tamara starts counting on her fingers as she lists some of the issues currently facing the town. "Well, there's the general sinking of the town, that street preacher, Dalimus, bothering everyone with his doomsaying, and the King's Closet burnt down recently--I can't tell you how strange that is in this damp berg."

"The King's Closet? What's that?" Pyrexius asks, idly amusing himself for the moment with the vision of Stavian for some reason keeping some of his robes here instead of in Oppara. "And this Dalimus? Can you tell us more about them?"

"The King's Closet was the pride of what was left of the neighborhood.
Kinaunen ran it, and that stubborn gnome prided himself on selling fashionable clothes at modest prices. The King’s Closet managed to stay in business for years by pivoting its brand and catering to the new residents of the district."

"That building stood perfectly upright! Kinaunen prided himself on his craftmanship. All that's left now are ashes and blackened boards. PRetty suspicious if you ask me. It's usually too damp for anything to burn around here."

"Dalimus is an angry, bitter man. He spends most days in front of Falling Moon, the old temple to Aroden. He preaches doom and harangues people about the end times, but I think his perspective is skewed by years of gambling and hard luck."

Tamara is obviously enjoying her conversation with you and lingering around your table. "Why the interest in our district? We see little enough, these days."

"We're mighty heroes!" Izkazk pipes up. Reigning their enthusiasm back a bit, they squint at the table in thought before continuing. "Something bad is trying to keep the Fen from being happy. I want to see this King's Closet. Maybe I can pick up some tracks."

"Yes, tracks," Pyrexius agrees, realizing that should be his focus, rather than the waste of fine fashions he's sure he would have looked amazing in. "We should go there.

"Is it safe?" he suddenly asks Tamara, though he can't quite manage to pull off a look of concern. "We have heard rumors of worse crimes than arson."

"Well...I wouldn't normally say anything, but three days ago, I found Nogliss Maro collapsed in the mud, bleeding profusely. I was able to get him to a healer in time to save his life. He has been on bed rest since the attack." She provides directions to Maro's home, in case you want to follow up with him.

"He owes you a great debt," Mirza says, smiling to her gently. "Can you tell us where he was when you found him, and what healer you took him to?"

"I found him in an alleyway on the edge of town, just where the swamp is taking over. I had one of my friends come to his home to patch him up a bit."

”Hmm, yes. All very suspicious given the situation in the borough.”

Doryg’s eyes focused on something unseen. ”Damp, which means a certain quantity of fuel and sufficient accelerant. No easy feat to make wet timber burn on that scale. And these attacks, what’s the motive? What to gain in the Fens?” He strokes a long eyebrow as he mutters to himself.

At Mirza’s question, he snaps back to the present moment. ”Yes, speaking with Mr. Maro sounds most helpful. And perhaps knowing someone is pursuing justice on his behalf will help him rest easier.”

He turns to his fellows, eyebrows raised. ”Shall we finish our meals and get to it? First to speak with Mr. Maro, acquire something much-needed context, then to the site?”

He takes up his spoon and attacks his fish stew with gusto.

This is a bit harder in an investigation, but I usually do Rule of 2 in PBP: As soon as 2 players agree on a course of action, we go for it. (Unless there's a decision where consensus is very important.)

Works for me.

Pyrexius nods, agreeing talking to the survivor first makes some sense.

"If he was near the swamp, maybe whatever's attacking dwells in there," the gold-scaled kobold says, hoping he won't have to go into the muck. That would truly be an indignity!

Nogliss Maro's home is a small building in a row of uniform homes that you can easily imagine were built to rent. Maro lives in the middle of the row; the house on the far end sits visibly askew, as its foundations have shifted down into the mud.

A broad-shouldered man with pale skin and thin black hair flattened down with pomade stands in the front yard, awkwardly attempting to sweep his walk with one hand. His other arm is in a sling at his side. He pauses frequently to grimace and stroke his luxuriant mustache.

Ink approaches the gentleman daintily, peering up at him from under her parasol. "Pardon me... Master Maro, I presume? U-um... we'd like to speak with you for a short while, if we may, and ask you some questions about the circumstances of your injury. If you'd like, I can also provide a touch of magic that might soothe your pain... it looks as though your injury troubles you still."

Sorry about being slow to post. It's looking like a busy week, but I'll be in when I can. Rule of Two sounds just fine to me, though. ^_^

Pyrexius admires the man's mustache.

He must be of some importance, and should be treated with respect, the kobold thinks, nodding in a gracious sign of accord. He waits to see how he reacts to Ink.

Mirza hangs back and watches the neighbourhood for trouble, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be concerned about a group of outsiders speaking to Maro.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20