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Every year, the Pathfinder Society inducts new classes of recruits into their ranks. The three deans of the Society's schools, the Spells, Scrolls, and Swords, are responsible for ensuring that the new recruits have the basic skills and experience necessary to thrive in the field. PCs participating in this adventure will get to meet all three of the Society's deans and undergo their unique challenges, proving their worth and fitness to join the Pathfinder Society!
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Poog pets his lucky toad, Dogfinder before entering the lodge.
“Poog will need luck this day. Iomedae sends Poog Dogfinder, and Dogfinder will bring him this luck.”
A smile always upon his face, Poog stands tall for a goblin and is usually humming a tune of some kind. He makes a living singing in a local bar, although his songs are mostly an acquired taste that the innkeeper seems to enjoy, even if his patrons do not. You can also find this same singing in battle as Poog inherited his father’s propensity for overconfidence in battle. This confidence has given him a withering stare that has been known to stop people cold.
He enters the lodge looking at the field commission he’d gotten from Gorm Greathammer himself. ”Today is going to be Poog’s day. Iomedae declares it herself.”
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Even for a Hobgoblin, Kralgang's pale ash-blue skin is unusual and unnerving, as if somehow frozen between the realms of life and death.
"Much is yet owed to this Pathfinder Society and I will always pay my debts. If the Lady of Graves wills me to be here, such is my destiny. I will endure any trials you put before me."
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With one eye green and the other violet, Morgan's heterochromia has dogged her most of her life. The short woman stands a few paces away from the other Pathfinders. The prominent display of a drinking cup, a sure sign of a devotee to the Lucky Drunk, reminds her that she may struggle once more to find acceptance. And the hobgoblin's skin is a sign of a duskwalker. The mention of Pharasma too is potentially problematic. These two will not appreciate my skills. If not, it is not I who is the fool.
Taking a deep breath, she brushes aside a lock of raven black hair and approaches. Her dark robes rustle slightly, alerting them of her presence. She nods her head respectfully, and speaks. "Greetings, fellow Pathfinders," she says, her voice sounding low and raspy. "I am Morgan Titchwillow. I suppose I am summoned here as the more 'bookish' person. I have extensively studied herbs and understand the arcane fairly well."
Morgan looks each of them over, noting all of the weapons and armor. "I have to ask: will all these armaments be necessary?"
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To the other Pathfinders gathered:
"If this is the day that the Lady of Graves has chosen to take you, know that her will is inexorable. I will do my best to protect and aid you otherwise, as is my duty."
Listening to a voice nobody hears...
Iomedae tells me she’s fairly certain that we’ll make it through this day relatively unscathed. Or maybe scathed but alive. Well, most of us, at least. She seems to be uncertain about Dogfinder.” With the last word Poog takes his lucky frog out of his belt pouch and pushes him forward. There’s a 50/50 chance he takes out one of the previous “lucky” frogs he’s had named Dogfinder.|
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Taking a deep breath, she brushes aside a lock of raven black hair and approaches. Her dark robes rustle slightly, alerting them of her presence. She nods her head respectfully, and speaks. "Greetings, fellow Pathfinders," she says, her voice sounding low and raspy. "I am Morgan Titchwillow. I suppose I am summoned here as the more 'bookish' person. I have extensively studied herbs and understand the arcane fairly well."Morgan looks each of them over, noting all of the weapons and armor. "I have to ask: will all these armaments be necessary?"
Poog curtsies again.
”It is wonderful to meet you. You don’t seem like the usual things that get summoned but I am glad they did. Always great to have bookish people on the trip. As for armaments, Poog has always found that having them and not needing them is better than needing the, and not having them. Much like teammates. Wouldn’t you agree with Poog?”
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"Yes, I suppose you are right. Help, regardless of shape or form, is valuable in accomplishing one's goals," she says to Poog.
Recognizing too that the maligned last name is what passes for humour with some, Morgan asks, "And just what are you drinking to? Especially so early in the day, and I expect not to excess?"
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"Well, this happens to be a concoction of my own, it's like a cross between a bloody Mary and River Kingdom coffee. I have to say, it's not very good. It's a combination I won't make again. Too busy."
He looks at Poog, "Your explanation is crystal clear little buddy, I won't mistake you for the wrong Poog again!"
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”Not that Poog has anything against Poog. Poog was fond of his time with Poog and speaks highly of Poog often, Poog does. But Poog does not approve of Poog being in the Pathfinder Society and Poog has brought shame to Poog for Poog’s actions that bring him quite often into contact with dogs and horses. Which Poog has no problem with but Poog definitely has a big problem with.”
Poog trickled off near the end there as even he had to pause to make sure he understood what he was saying.
”Perhaps you would like this drink better.”
Poog combines Argo Isle rum with pickle juice from his fish head preserves, and pours this over a glass full of ice.
”I call it the Longshank island iced tea.” and hands him the glass.
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"I do not object to your good spirits. When one has been reborn countless times and can no longer feel the embrace of Pharasma, it can be hard to recall such things. Joy, love, mirth. Finding such memories is like poking through the ashes of an ancient fire.
But do not allow me to dampen your spirits for what little time you have been given."
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That's right! says a strong voice emerging from an approaching oversized rodent. Life is short, and time precious. Might as well make the most of what you're given, no? He brashly grabs Manahath's flask, draining it, and then returns it to the Caydenite with one hand while snagging Poog, Son of Poog's concoction in the other, draining that as well. The latter makes his eyes bulge out a bit.
Wiping his mouth with his stained sleeve, he performs a grand, sweeping bow. Call me Two-Eye. Everyone does.
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The adventure begins with you all attending a meeting in a briefing room in Skyreach, the primary fortress of the Pathfinder Society’s Grand Lodge in the city of Absalom.
Banners adorn the walls of this impressive meeting room. Symbols of dozens of groups emblazon the banners, but overshadowing them all is an enormous tapestry at the hall’s front depicting the Pathfinder Society emblem: the Glyph of the Open Road.
Venture-Captain Ambrus Valsin, steward of the Grand Lodge, saunters into the room from a door at the opposite end of a large table. He doesn’t bother taking a seat at the table, instead pacing around while he speaks.
“Welcome. I’ll keep this brief; I don’t have a field assignment for you, but I do have some requests from the three deans. Given that you’re all in-between missions, the deans have requested that you take part in some training upkeep trials. Nothing serious, mind you. We just want to make sure those skills of yours don’t get too dulled!” Valsin ends with a brief chuckle, as though joking to himself.
“You’ll want to go see each of the deans at your convenience. In case you’ve forgotten, that would be: Kreighton Shaine, the Master of Scrolls; Sorrina Westyr, the Master of Spells; and Marcos Farabellus, the Master of Swords. I place you in their capable hands, and may fortune be with you all.” With his delivery complete, Valsin makes way for the exit.
“Oh... yes, you’ll find the deans in their respective offices. If you don’t know where those are, then just ask around.”
The three masters oversee initiate studies, alongside a group of instructors and senior Pathfinders. Time is split between three schools: Scrolls, which promotes academic mastery and the study of languages; Spells, which teaches eldritch skills and how to disrupt hostile magic; and Swords, which focuses on tactics and physical skills like disarming traps and vaulting obstacles.
The three masters oversee initiate studies, alongside a group of instructors and senior Pathfinders. Time is split between three schools: Scrolls, which promotes academic mastery and the study of languages; Spells, which teaches eldritch skills and how to disrupt hostile magic; and Swords, which focuses on tactics and physical skills like disarming traps and vaulting obstacles.
Deans? Schools? Why do you bother?
Pathfinder Society training. Just one more time for you to have been disparaged and not understood.
The three masters oversee initiate studies, alongside a group of instructors and senior Pathfinders. Time is split between three schools: Scrolls, which promotes academic mastery and the study of languages; Spells, which teaches eldritch skills and how to disrupt hostile magic; and Swords, which focuses on tactics and physical skills like disarming traps and vaulting obstacles.
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The Pathfinders decide that their best bet is to start with the Master of Scrolls. Kreighton Shaine awaits you in his office in Skyreach. Shaine quickly stands and bows in a formal greeting. He then quickly steps forward and ushers you follow. He leads you out of Skyreach to carriages waiting outside.
Kreighton Shaine speaks as the carriages get underway. “We’re off to a facility in Absalom that the Society rents out and uses for training purposes. The location was formerly the domicile of a conjurer with some rather unpleasant plans. That got all sorted out, of course, but it’s
still conducive to summoning magic!” As Shaine continues his explanation by going into detailed history of the building’s previous owners and their relatives, the carriages come to a halt outside an abandoned locksmith’s shop in the Coins district of Absalom. Shaine exits the carriage and quickly unlocks the front door, gesturing to a dusty glass-fronted cabinet in the main room, which opens to reveal a descending staircase.
The Master of Scrolls steps briskly down the stairwell into a worked stone dungeon. Ambient light comes from two glowing patterns on the floor, but Shaine doesn’t pause for these curiosities. After a short trip northeast and down another flight of stairs, he halts in a long chamber containing more of the glowing circles. Two circles rest at either end, with others in nooks along the northern wall. The circles come in five colors; red, blue, green, yellow, and violet, with each of the five nooks featuring a different color.
“This whole dungeon is really an interesting place, and it’s worth exploring in full sometime, but that’s not what this trial is about. No, I’m not interested in seeing you untangle traps and unlock doors. This isn’t about what you can do or your physical skills. I’m grading you on what you know. Each of the northern circles is a two-way teleportation device. Four of them, all but the green one in the center, are currently active. Stepping inside an active circle brings you to a matching circle else where in this dungeon, and waiting in the vicinity of each of these is a summoned creature. Four creatures, of four different types. Each of them has an amulet you have to retrieve for me. But this isn’t just a brute- force test of forcing them to hand it over! No, no. This is the Trial of Scrolls, and we do things with more... finesse.”
The Master of Scrolls pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket, and reads it out loud. “One of our subjects is a protean, a creature of the Maelstrom that thrives on raw entropy. Proteans are interested in acts of both creation and destruction.”
He then sits down on the floor, and pulls an improbably large book out of his little belt pouch, and starts reading.
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Lovely. Just another chance for disparaging misunderstanding. Morgan sighs, but follows the others to see the Master of Scrolls.
She listens to Shaine as he escorts them to their trial. When presented with choices, she says, "Let's be methodical here and start with the left-most. We may learn of a pattern, but if this practice makes sense for delves in dungeons, we should try it here."
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Guardians of disorder and natives of the primal plane of chaos known as the Maelstrom, proteans consider it their calling to spread bedlam and hasten entropic ends. The most powerful proteans are demigods known collectively as the protean lords, although they are mysterious entities whose cults on the Material Plane tend to be obscure and secretive.
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Manahath looks at Kralgang, then at Shaine. "It's a good question, but I didn't read all those Pathfinder Journals and not learn a little something about being prepared. There's nothing worse than a free round and not having your mug." He draws his "mug" which is actually his rapier. He gives a wink to everyone before breaking out into a smile.
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Kralgang follows.
"So do I understand correctly that we are not to slay these beasts?"
Kreighton Shaine looks up from his tome. "No, this is not a test of your martial prowess. I am sure Master Farabellus will take care of that. This is a test of your knowledge and your wits. I am sure that you will do fine."
You make your way to room #1, following Kito. As soon as Kito's foot steps on the colored ring he disappears! Luckily, this was expected from the description given to you by the Master of Scrolls, so you all follow after him.
A moment later you are at the end of a hallway standing on another purple colored circle. A ways away from you hovers a tiny red flying creature with an amulet hanging on her neck.
"Well, good day, Pathfinders. How may I be of service? My name is Ygracix, and am very happy to see you!"
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"Trials? Yeah, ol' elfie made me some deals, tellin' me not to be a'givin you this fancy amulet."
You don't have any real idea what this thing is.
This is not a protean, but rather an imp, which are devils! Imps are infiltrators and corruptors who, despite their diminutive stature, are more than capable of subtly influencing a weak-willed individual into performing increasingly evil acts over time. An imp will often agree to serve a mortal and act docile and loyal in a long-term plot to eventually damn its master’s soul to Hell. Imps are born directly from Hell itself, rather than from mortal souls, and thus they serve outside the usual diabolic hierarchy, granting them leeway to pursue their specialties. Despite standing a mere 2-feet tall, imps can be vicious combatants, flying out of reach and turning invisible to escape should the odds turn against them.
This is not a protean, but rather an imp, which are devils!
This is some type of otherworldly critter.
This is not a protean, but rather an imp, which are devils!
Not a clue what this might be.
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Morgan, a little faster on the draw, reveals what Manahath surmised, "Be careful even listening Morgan. An imp will often agree to serve a mortal and act docile and loyal in a long-term plot to eventually damn its master’s soul to Hell. He might be little, but he's awful tough, and if we try to take the amulet, I'm guessing he'll turn invisible and stay out of reach."
"Look Ygracix." The acerbic consonants of Infernal roll off Manahath's tongue a bit too easily for a simple servant of The Laughing Drunk. "I'm guessing that this gig isn't exactly what you had in mind when Hellfire and brimstone mixed together to make you. Give us the details of the deal, how we can get the necklace, and we'll get you back so you can do something a bit more.... hellish."
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"The deal is really simple. I offer you a boon, and if you die within the next hour, I get to bring your soul to my Master in hell. Given you're wandering around here, I hardly expect that I'll be able to collect, but you never know?" says Ygracix.
"The boon is one of good fortune, since you were probably going to ask that next."