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You have been stationed at the Grand Lodge in Absalom, awaiting assignment for a mission of utmost importance. And waiting... and waiting.
It has been two freaking weeks, did they forget about you? Most of you finished up orientation and training with ease and expected an assignment almost immediately. But the message is the same every morning, Nothing today agent, please check back tomorrow. Feel free to fill your day with training or side jobs.
So that's what you do, day after day. And today seems no different. A drizzling rain beats down upon your heads. With an exasperated sigh, you pop into the lodge and head to the desk.
The usual charming dwarf Jed greets you in your native tongue (unless you traded that away for the ability to kill someone with just your left thumb), {"Morning (inserts your name). Dreng dredged up a mission for ya. Probably just make-work, but who knows with him. Either way, it's an official mission. Meet him at the alley between these two addresses."}
And with that, you are off!
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'Bout time...one can only make so many cartridges before going a bit batty... a dour(for a dwarf) says as he heads to the lodge. His long gun shows signs of abuse, wear and tear and even a few axe dings in it. He wears a pair of goggles on his head as he heads to the alley. He lights up a big cigar and smokes it as he goes, not caring if the smoke makes others cough or complain.
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Perhaps one of the most slender dwarfs you have met introduced himself as 'The Magi'. In addition to his black and charcoal hued garb, he constantly wears an Oni mask, reminiscent of the ogre magi of the far east. Thus far, he has been tight-lipped about his past or family. When engaged in conversation, his answers are usually short and pointed. Perceptive observers note that his responses are perfunctory at best, as if he has not spent much time interacting in a group setting.
When notified that there is finally an assignment, he merely nods and heads off toward the briefing.
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A sandy-haired dwarf peeks his head up from a table full of scrawled notes. There are at least half a dozen pages, in various states of completion, and half of them seem to end in the middle of a word. "Work? Gotcha." he responds to Jed as he gathers up his notes. He then turns to no one in particular and says, "Looks like we'll have to take a rain check on this... and from the looks of it, emphasis on the rain." He rolls up his papers, placing them untidily into a scroll case, and gathers up his gear to depart the Lodge.
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It's been a long two week and Dran has just about given up trying to teach the local tavern owners how to brew a proper stout. It's too watery, or its too sweet, or they burn the hops, or the color is off, or it tastes like mule piss, or it lacks the proper kick. It's almost like these human's don't want ta learn proper brewing from a dwarf. Its been a long two weeks.
As Dran enters the Grand Lodge he is pleases to see a gathering of other dwarves. He wears a holy symbol prominently about his stout nexk and the same symbol is painted on a shield on his back. He is armed with a greatsword carrying the blade with one hand almost like he is reluctant to release it. A flail of black metal hangs at his belt. And he clanks as he walks due to the scale mail he wears. Well met cousins. he greets, perhaps a little too loud. Has it finally happened? Are we to be givin something ta do worthy of a song?
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Grunigon walked wearily into the room. It had been a hard day pumping bellows and fetching tools for the smithy. Crap work for a dwarf but he'd never taken the time to learn metal work like a proper dwarf. He avoided eye contact mostly and simply got a mug of ale to ease his dry throat and wait. Could there be word today? Some task worthy of a proud dwarf, even one not worthy of the pride that he kept hidden. Everything about him is average, for a human he'd be near invisible in a crowd. Among dwarves, he looks odd, dirty leather armor and light weapons, head down. Sitting quietly in a corner he drinks slowly and listens.
Hearing the greeting from the holy warrior, likely to other than himself Grunigon barely nods. If the dwarf knew him he certainly wouldn't be calling him cousin....
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"Isn't 'Magi' in the plural? Where are the rest of you?" A woman with a Garundi accent asks the masked dwarf, bluntly.
"I am called Halali. Sky-seeker. Let's go outside yes? The job's not going to do itself."
So saying, Halali steps out into the rain. "Ahhh. That feels better!" She pulls down her hood, revealing a weathered brown face marred by a large burn-scar, and lets the rain wash over her. "The wind and the rain! This is auspicious. Our endeavour is blessed."
Halali checks her pack and her weapons - a three-sectioned-staff at her waist, a small axe looped through her belt. Her more observant colleagues no doubt notice several steel spikes woven into the braids of her hair. She wears no armour.
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Yet another dwarf turns up for the mission. This one is wearing a sturdy suit of scale mail, with traditional Dwarven weapons, a Warhammer and a battle axe. His shield is strapped to his back and a hold symbol most of the group would recognize hangs at his neck, Torag, or course.
He was smoking a cigar as well, but unlike some of the other dwarves, this one actually seems to have a smile of his face. His red beard gleamed with several shiny rings tied into it at various places. ”Greetings, all. Looks like we’ve finally been blessed with a mission?! Hopefully we get to smash some evildoers,” he grins.
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Grunigon starts to grin at the words of the new dwarf, but remembers himself and turns back to his mug and drains it. If he was invited along with this mission it was probably something like hunting rats in the sewers.... Sadly he remembers doing exactly that not too long ago, and he remembers the infected wounds that he had gotten from that work. The pay had barely covered the chirurgeon's pay to treat those wounds. Maybe he should have tried to learn how to treat wounds?
Coming to the meeting place—an odd choice of venue, as it is a street corner far from the Grand Lodge—a lone beggar garbed in baggy robes approaches. The only figure visible in the constant drizzle, the beggar sticks out his hands for currency.
“Have you any coin to spare, fine folk?”
The question hangs in the air for only a scant moment before the figure pulls back his hood to reveal the wizened face of Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. He gives a crooked smile, soaked head to toe from his unprotected time in the rain. His clothes smell faintly of cabbage. “Sorry about that,” he says with a wink. “I always like to play a little joke on agents when I stumble across them during my jaunts into town. Now, why did I summon you fine folk here again…?” Dreng shakes his head from side to side, as though trying to knock water out of his ears, despite the constant downpour.
“Ah yes, the Wounded Wisp! I’m undercover now and can’t stray far from the site I’m watching, but I need someone to retrieve a package for me from that fine establishment. It’s among Absalom’s most storied taverns, you see, and one that holds a special place of privilege in the Society’s lore as the place where the organization began. Well, I could drone on and on about it, but standing out in the rain is doing none of us any favors.” As if anticipating agreement, the bedraggled venture captain produces a small slip of folded paper from one of his many stitched pockets. Dreng quickly shows a glimpse of the page’s contents: a map detailing the location of the Wounded Wisp bar.
“The bartender is a woman by the name of Heryn Gale, a fine lady who came to own the Wisp after the passing of her father from—oh, bah, it’s really getting too cold for me to give a proper history lesson! If you could just go to the Wisp, and tell Heryn you’re there to pick up my parcel, it would be most appreciated. I’ll be around here for several more hours at least.”
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Well, here ya go...a few copp....er..what? Ander says as he almost drops his cigar when he sees who the panhandler is. He listens intently as the Venture Captain gives a rundown. He fishes out a few copper coins to keep his cover intact.
Go get yerself a hot meal...and maybe a bath... he says with a wink.
"You're sending a bunch of dwarves to a tavern? Isn't that a little on the nose?"
Dreng squints through the rain, than releases a big guffaw!
"HAH! Oh those buggers at the lodge sure do have a sense of humor. An all-dwarf pack, hilarious. Where the hell did they dig you all up from?"
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Halali leaves her hood down, and smiles as the rain runs down her hair and her scarred face. Soon enough she is soaked through and it only seems to make her happier. She walks with a spring in her step.
"Don't curse the rain" she tells V-C Dreng with quite inappropriate firmness. "It is a blessing. A good omen for our quest."
"You need not bother with the lesson. I will tell the others all about the Wisp on the way."
Halali recalls quite a bit, but is holding her tongue until they are away from the VC.
Many volumes of the Pathfinder Chronicles came together under the Wisp’s roof. Famous Pathfinders like Eando Kline and the Seeker Osprey often stopped by for a drink while they relaxed in Absalom between assignments. Though not officially affiliated with the Society, the bar maintains good relations with Pathfinders, offering discounts and prompt service. The owners have always kept themselves and the Wisp afloat through the generosity of Society agents who spend coin at the establishment.
Selmius Foster was one of the founding members of the Pathfinder Society, known to have frequented the Wisp often and occasionally taken up residence in a spare room between his travels. His celebrated exploits first appeared in Volume 1 of the Pathfinder Chronicles.
Ander wracks his brain a bit about the name.
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He said the "Wounded Wisp" right? Did he get the name right? I know there's a place with a similar name...but it sure isn't a tavern...that's for sure. Maybe he's mistaken... Ander says as he scratches his head after they leave Shaine to his panhandling. He takes a long puff off his cigar, making sure it's still lit with the rain coming down. he blows out a huge cloud of blue smoke.
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Grunigon watches and listens. He considers what he knows of the Wounded Wisp.... a little, and shrugs. It could hardly matter for the 'mission'. But why would he need a pack of.... He glances around the room, seven dwarves to go and pick up a package?
"Nobody wants to ask the obvious question? Why does it take seven dwarves to pick up a package? That's gotta be a very interesting package!" He gulps the last.... well, he tips up his mug and drains the last few drops, then sets it back on the table. Shouldering his pack he starts for the door. "Are we going?"
Dreng chuckles at Halali's defense of the weather, "I suppose you are right. It does allow certain activities to be easier. Always use the weather to your advantage."
He shrugs at the 'obvious question', "Hey, I didn't pick you lot. I figure they just wanted to get seven dwarves out of..." He trails off as an eight dwarf appears, though this one is a bit less substantial.
"Damn, you all better get outta here before the alley fills up."
The VC disappears into the rain muttering, "Those bastards are gonna get it. I ask for a couple newbies to do a simple fetch mission and they give me all the damn dwarves in the city!"
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Grunigon trudges with the others into the street. Nobody had reacted to him being included and he wasn't going to change that. Maybe there'd be better ale at the Wisp, if they had time to try it?
"Time's wasting! Maybe this will be slightly interesting! I wonder why they didn't just check to see if any agents might already be there and just have them retrieve.... Nah! Don't need to be thinking on that question."
Hearing Halali's question he asks, [b]"What's an Alkenstar weapon? Oh! Firearms. The really noisy slug shooters? Heard of them but never seen one work. Could be interesting."
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”Yep. I never ‘got’ the whole firearms thing. Probably trickier than a simple crossbow. Just not for me, y’know. Never was interested in anything more complicated than an axe or a hammer. If a hammer is good enough for Torag, should be fine enough for one such as me, I figure,” Kaz grins as he walks with the group to the Wisp.
But while Ander doesn't recall the exact establishment, he easily uses the map to put them on the right block.
Built from dark, discolored wood, the exterior of the Wounded Wisp is the image of an iconic dive bar. Stained and barred windows obscure direct vision into the establishment, though ruddy yellow light bleeds from a window in the front hall. The only distinguishing feature on the Wisp's exterior is a thick wooden sign hanging from above the bar's entrance. A brass ring fitted onto the sign anchors a lantern, dancing in the gusting wind like a will-o-wisp.
Looking just inside the door, the first to enter sees a long wooden hallway heading north into the building itself. The walls are covered in numerous decorations and trophies left by successful Pathfinders who’ve donated minor paraphernalia to the bar.
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Yeah, they started in Alkenstar, if I remember correctly. Not too sure about the history. But a few of the smarter ones figgered out how to make the powder that makes these things go boom. I can make it, but the process isn't foolproof. Get a bad batch of the stuff, and your weapon's as useful as a sword made of yarn. I always think of it as an updated crossbow, just load and pull the trigger. But, crossbows don't blow up in yer face...which has happened the odd time...hence the goggles... he says as he taps the eyewear on his head.
Now...about that drink... he says as he heads right for the bar.
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The smell of smoke and spilled ale assails the senses in this wide-open area. Walls of dark-stained wood make up the sides of the Wounded Wisp, while well-used wooden tables are spread throughout the space. A raised area in the back of the establishment houses several additional tables and eating areas for groups seeking more than just a good drink. An austere bar supported by kegs instead of wooden panels commands the northern end of the room. A stained-glass cabinet stands behind the bar, its dark panes cracked in several spots, yet not so opaque as to conceal the several dozen types of hard liquor within.
Halali and Ander head straight up to the bar to order ales and figure things out about each other.
A drunk at one of the tables dives for cover as the insubstantial dwarf phantom drifts right through him. He jumps up, looking for a fight but his friends quickly calm him down. No one is actually sure or not if the whispy dwarf is friend or foe or just their boozemagination, but it seems to be headed to the bar at least.
The bartender puts one finger up to Kaztor, "Let me serve these thirsty dwarves, then I can help with that." She pours two mugs of a frothy beverage, drops them in front of the two dwarves on a date, "First two on the house plus y'all look like pathfinders. We like their kind here."
She steps back to the corner and leans in towards the straightforward paladin, "I got the package for Dreng, but as you can see we are busy. I can't leave the bar to go get it and I can't let anyone down there without an employee present. But if you can wait about an hour, my replacement will show and I'll take you down. For now though, you can have some ale on the house and mingle. A lot of the society regulars are here today if you want to chat them up. It never hurts to network, that's how I got this job."
The Magi finds a few clippings from pathfinder chronicles and a couple relics that are probably duplicates of the real thing. He spends a few minutes reading a story about Carlosss the Invincible, the first Vishkanya pathfinder in society history who singlehandedly defeated a lich and saved an entire city, before retiring to open his own magic college in the lich's keep. It's probably mostly BS, but the story was captivating.
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Grunigon listens while the bar tender explains things. As usual hurry up and wait seems to be the phrase of the day.
Glancing around for a place out of the way where he can cool his heels he notices a couple people that he recognizes. Not interested in trying to drink half orcs under the table, or constantly looking up for conversation with either human he casually moves over to the female halfling. "Would you mind if I take a seat here? Sounds like I've an hour to kill and I'd prefer doing it with pleasant conversation rather than drinking in a corner. My name is Grunigon, but I have to sadly admit that I don't recall your name. ??"