The monk walked into the space. He looked around…
Im sure this is the right place. With great serenity and patience the monk smoothly sank to the floor. He pulled his legs into a lotus and began to wait. After some time he pulled a tiny stove from his knapsack and then a pot. He lost himself in the simple task, meditating as he started brewing.
Having tea ready for new comrades is a proper greeting.
Seeing light from the stove a tall, muscular and very scarred man in dark full plated armor calmly walks into the light. His hand seems to be missing, ripped from his body in between the elbow and wrist area. He has a very nice looking prosthetic limb strapped around his shoulder with a leather belt. A overly large greatsword is strapped to his back. One that no one man should be able to carry, let alone wield. "You have room for one more?"
Yes, come sit warrior. He speaks Common/Taldane well enough but his Tien accent is noticeable. The monk gestures next to him. He also tries to hand the man a warm beverage in a little cup. Careful, its hot.
They sit in comfortable silence for a bit just sipping their tea. Then the Tian man turns and speaks. I am called Nakapan, I have been on a quest for enlightenment for many years. But please, tell me of yourself. You are clearly very strong and skilled to wield such a great sword with only one hand…
Crowley grabs ahold of the metal tin with his prosthetic hand, unable to feel the heat or pain. "I'm Crowley. Enlightenment huh? How do you know when you have found it?" He looks back at the sword, undoing the strap as it falls with a clang to the ground. "This takes both hands. I'm afraid I'm not that strong." He smiles and takes a sip of the tea as he sits back and relaxes. "Thanks for the drink and warmth. [b]"I have been on the move for quite some time now." His face looks somber. "I was headed back home when the Whispering Tyrant broke free. It is all Gravelands now..."
A man holding a porcelain teacup approaches. It’s Sadlark — at least, that’s his pen name. He’s locally known as a former poet, turned esotericist and fortune-teller.
His hair is so dark as to be almost blue. He dresses simply in a faded grey jacket, plain trousers, and a red belt. His high cloak collar is lined with threadbare fox fur that once must have must been quite luxurious.
Sadlark takes a seat and avails himself to some tea. The teacup is badly chipped. ”Of course it’s you.”
Crowley looks over at Nakapan, "He talking to us or the cup?"
The monk smiles at the newcomer and gives him a slight bow as he pours tea.
Crowley looks over at Nakapan, "He talking to us or the cup?"
Nakapan ponders for a moment. Hmm... A philosophical question? I do my best to study, but its not really my strong suit. The monk wears traditional blue robes of Irori. This has his right arm bare all the way to the shoulder. He flexes a little as he says the word strong. While he lacks the massive size of Crowley, the man still looks quite fit and muscular.
Sadlark contemplates his battered teacup for so long it gets uncomfortable. Ah. How interesting.
He produces a sheet of parchment covered in wild handwriting. These are a few lines of the verse that led me here; the spirit guiding my quill:
”this empire a grace,
her respite a magic,
her grimace a peer.
greet the ripe chasm
with arm, azure tea.
scares old queen? no.”
He gesture at the Crowley‘s prosthetic and Nakapan’s Iroran robes. I have my own interpretation but the spirits are cryptic. What do you think?
Crowley scooches a bit away from Sadlark. "Spirits huh? They following you?" He looks down at his arm, flexing the fingers on metallic cables within. Undoing the strap he lays the prosthetic onto the ground revealing a gruesome and decayed stump. "I did what I could to save some of my people when the Tyrant came through. I was knocked out and when I cam to some of the undead were checking up through my hand and into my arm."
While something one wouldn't normally speak about immediately, the Whispering Tyrant's forces and gruesome acts were quite commonplace and talked about throughout the world.
Crowley scooches a bit away from Sadlark. "Spirits huh? They following you?"
"I follow them. These entities are my Instructors."
Sadlark sips his tea and nods appreciatively at the clever prosthetic. He peers again at the page of scribbled words. "The trauma of Queen Ileosa's evil lingers, and we stand together at the edge of a something terrible, something ready to come into our world. But what is it?"
"Perhaps… would you like your fortunes told?"
Crowley scooches a bit away from Sadlark. "Spirits huh? They following you?" He looks down at his arm, flexing the fingers on metallic cables within. Undoing the strap he lays the prosthetic onto the ground revealing a gruesome and decayed stump. "I did what I could to save some of my people when the Tyrant came through. I was knocked out and when I cam to some of the undead were checking up through my hand and into my arm."
While something one wouldn't normally speak about immediately, the Whispering Tyrant's forces and gruesome acts were quite commonplace and talked about throughout the world.
This Tyrant is undead yes? It is an awful but necessary thing to put the undead back into the ground where they belong. Nakapan looks at the man's stump of an arm. While there might be a touch of sadness, it is not pity. You did well to survive. Not every fight can be won. The monk leans forward and offers to refill his cup.
Crowley scooches a bit away from Sadlark. "Spirits huh? They following you?""I follow them. These entities are my Instructors."
Sadlark sips his tea and nods appreciatively at the clever prosthetic. He peers again at the page of scribbled words. "The trauma of Queen Ileosa's evil lingers, and we stand together at the edge of a something terrible, something ready to come into our world. But what is it?"
"Perhaps… would you like your fortunes told?"
The monk ponders this for a moment. What method of divination do you use? The 64 hexagrams of the Yee-Shing? That is somewhat common where I am from. Some of the elders set great store in it.
Nakapan waves the strange poet closer. He offers him more tea. Perhaps an oracle can bring us guidance. I do not know of this Queen and her evil that lingers.
My method differs from the casting of hexagrams; it is one that has been practiced in this region for some time. First, I perform a séance and attempt to contact the entities who exist all around us in a timeless eternity. If successful, I enter a hypnotic state, loosely holding a writing utensil above a piece of parchment. These entities may then guide my pen, revealing hidden truths about the past, present, and the future.
I have published books of these prophesies, and have even befriended one such entity, who calls themself "Angannan of Nybor." One might even call them my "muse." They have instructed my in ways to plumb the depth of the subconscious and recall forgotten truths. Let us see if I can do so now, to tell you something interesting about Queen Ileosa Arabasti's cruelty. Sadlark closes his eyes and touches his temples; pale light glows from his fingertips.
Such words as “seance” and “muse” are foreign and have little meaning to Nakapan. The Tian man sits politely waiting for Sadlark’s strange divination.
He glances over at Crowley to see how he reacts to this.
Crowley looks on fearfully, though with a small bit of curiosity to see if it actually works. He never much trusted in the arcane magics and even less so in the dead. His mouth stands agap and his eyes even wider.
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In the days after her beheading it came to light that she had been collecting the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands of virgins in her hunt for power. The Thassilonian magic which powered her blood rite made her practically invulnerable. It took the combined might of all of the Upturned Cup, their cohorts, and a fair bit of extraplanar back up to bring her down.
It is known that Thorgrym of Korvosa[url] [url=https://paizo.com/campaigns/DungeonMasterSsCurseOfTheCrimsonThrone/gameplay&page=258]dealt the killing blow with an intelligent blade of impossible and august power.
The blood of virgins made her nearly invincible.
Nearly.
Sadlark, with eyes closed, relates all this in a trancelike cadence — one that’s much deeper than his own voice.
He opens his eyes. The spirits feel it. The pain of atrocities on such scale lingers here… and will for generations. He shivers, and sips his warm tea.
The cheerful monks turns quite somber. Blood magic… He shakes his head as if he cant understand how people could use such horrid rites. Yes, that could indeed leave a shadow behind. He sadly shakes his head again.
He refills his own tea cup and starts another pot of tea.
It is some time before he speaks again. The sad and somber monk is gone. The cheerfulness is back in his eyes. He looks to Sadlark, Perhaps this is a call for heroes. It has been some time since I have felt the call to action. He pauses a moment. But where to start…
"At the beginning would be my suggestion," a woman's voice calls out, her presence presaged by the sound of her armor. When she steps into the light the others see a warrior decked out in half-plate, a longsword sheathed at her side. The symbol of Iomedae features on the clasp of her cloak and is also emblazoned on the crossguard to her blade. A blade that, as far as the others can tell, was used to cut her hair.
She holds a teacup in her hand.
"I admit I did not understand why the Inheritor saw fit to send me to a tea party," she says, holding up the cup. "But I at least came prepared."
"I am Esmereza Rano, devotee of Iomedae and knight-errant. I have been wandering some time now since Lastwall's destruction, searching for a cause. It is Iomedae, the Lady of Valor, who brought me here today," she looks around for a space to sit. "May I join you?"
Crowley stiffens as he hears the voice. He had been so enraptured keeping his eyes on the spirits that he hadn't expected others to join from the darkness. "Esmereza... I hadn't expected many survivors from Lastwall." He reaches down and reattaches his prosthetic limb to the stump on his arm. "You may not remember me, I was from Lastwall as well. Not a kNight mind you but a guard in the town nearby."
Still standing, Esmereza takes a moment to study the big man. She takes even longer to study the mutilation of his arm. "I remember you, Crowley. I wish I could have done more for you. There were so many bodies..."
Her voice trails off as she is briefly lost in memory. When she returns to the present she says, "I'm glad to see that you are otherwise healthy. Where have you been since Lastwall?"
The smiling monk waves the newcomer forward. He gives her a deeper bow than he did the others. Nakapan can sense her connection to Heaven. He smoothly fills her cup. Hail warrior. I think we are all being brought together for purpose. Though Im still not sure what it is. The monk sits back and quietly tends the 2nd teapot while the other two talk.
"Traveling, trying to escape my memories and life in general. It is quiet out here. The busy cities are alright during the day but at night the noise gets to you when you are all alone ya know." He holds a cup of tea out for Esme. "But enough of those times, lets focus on the here and now."
Esme nods, accepting this information at face value. "Agreed. To the here and now," she says, raising her filled teacup in a salute.
She looks over at Sadlark, a glimmer of recognition crossing her face. "Are you the writer behind Visions, the tome about Angannan of Nybor? You look very much like the man on the jacket art."
If we're going to have tea, a gruff voice chimes in, we'd best have scones, no?
The voice comes from a scrawny half-orc, roughly five and a half feet tall, garbed in an amalgam of once-fine but now-threadbare clothing mixed with immaculately-maintained attire. Several baubles are visible on his personage and he grasps a staff taller than he — leans on it, really — tapered at the base and carved into a ruby-hued twist at the top. In his left hand he bears a cloth, unfolded to show a half-dozen scones baked to perfection, proffered to the tea drinking group.
Dhougal. Black Dhougal, he says smoothly, a merry smile on his green face. I primarily deal in, ah...acquisitions and procurement.
Greetings Dhougal Black. The monk waves him forward and offers a cup of tea. Im familiar with scones. I lived on a barge in the river kingdoms where the halfling cook made them every day. The monk is full of questions about the food, wanting to know the recipe and such.
Esme nods, accepting this information at face value. "Agreed. To the here and now," she says, raising her filled teacup in a salute.
[dice=Society/Occultism, DC 20]1d20+13
She looks over at Sadlark, a glimmer of recognition crossing her face. "Are you the writer behind Visions, the tome about Angannan of Nybor? You look very much like the man on the jacket art."
I am the student of Angannan of Nybor, yes. Much leaner after self-financing the venture, and much less fashionable among the haut monde. He bushes his once-fine cloak. Clearly, Visions was ahead of its time.
He helps himself to a scone. Everyone is well-prepared. This is an auspicious sign.
The monk is full of questions about the food, wanting to know the recipe and such.
Dhougal nods. Would that I were talented in such a way, ha! No, no, I grabbed these from Grains 'n Things, up in the Shingles. They're warmed up with a bit of magic, but the real magic is in the baking. These currants are a delight!
my friend! How fortunate to find you!
Heads turn to the entrance, where an elf in light robes is standing with a big smile. As he approaches, his staff makes a light thumping sound on the wood floor. He is neat, clean...fastidious, even. He walks with his head high and his chest out, proudly displaying the lovely embroidery of the swirling symbol of Phrarasma over his heart. His gait is a bit weird, but it seems to be in order to accomodate the hooded bird--a raven--pearched on his shoulder.
He stops an arm's length from the group, meeting each set of eyes briefly but clearly, and keeping a sincere smile. Moving closer to Esmereza, he lays a hand on her shoulder jovially. I hope you saved a scone for me! Introduce me to your friends?
He glances at the cloaked human, narrows his eyes a bit, and leans in conspiratorially. An auspicious sign for what, I wonder, sir?
Esmereza reaches for a scone, smelling it. She smiles. "Oh, that is nice. I-"
She drops the scone into her tea when her name is shouted, splashing the hot liquid on her armor. "Tully? Is that you? I did not expect to see you again, nevermind so soon from last we met."
The devotee of Iomedae stands, taking a second to wipe the tea off her. "May I introduce you to Antull'hier Voronwe," she says the name with care, making an effort to pronounce it right. "An elf without peer, and one who cannot be categorized despite my own best efforts."
She smiles at her newly arrived friend. "I was just getting to know some of the people assembled folk, though Crowley and I were both in Lastwall at its fall. And Sadlark here has his own fame, which you may be familiar with," Esmereza gestures at each. "And the other two are Black Dhougal and Nakapan, who are new to me and you, I am sure."
Tully nods firmly at each introduction. He stands at near attention and faces Crowly, his expression darkening. Sir, I am very sorry you experienced Lastwall and the horror of the Whispering Tyrant. He puts his right hand on his heart and gives a shallow, but sincere, bow.
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Nakapan seems to pull an endless number of tea cups from his pack. He fills the cups from the fresh tea pot and stands to offer it to the newest person. Greetings Ant… The monk struggles with the complex elven name. He gives up and bows, then finishes with simply saying Tull-Lee
For the last two years the Tian man has travelled around the Avistan continent and has learned to speak Taldane well enough. He has met very few elves. He finds their language extremely difficult. Though perhaps it makes sense for such a long lived race. Living for centuries they must develop complexities for many aspects of their lives.
The monk studies the group for a moment. The large human warrior wounded from Lastwall. The holy woman, a warrior who also has also faced the horrors of this Soft Spoken Tyrant. A strange poet who performs “say onzs” and listens to moos. The orc blooded man who is surely a sorcerer of sorts. And this last person. An elf of arcane power.
The monk wonders where and how he will fit in.
Probably with fist and foot…
A man enters the room. He's jovial looking, with a belly just large enough to hold whilst laughing. He's got a well trimmed beard, and his fingers are decked out in golden rings. He saunters up to your table. "HA! Well I'll be damned. I told the king this would take me all night! Well.... it still might if I have a few pints!"
He pulls a stack of letters from a haversack, digging his whole arm into the thing. You get the impression that he's showing off a bit, "I've..." he sifts through them, shuffling them like a harrow deck, "Got one for the each of" he "deals" them like poker card, "you."
He gives a belly laugh, your suspicions as to his laughing gestures are correct, he holds his belly, "I'm Harold the Herald of his majesty, Odric I, the Stout! Read up, and don't be late!"
He then leaves you to read.
Religion, Assurance: 32
Esme takes a moment to read the short missive. "Well now, that's interesting. I wonder how we might be of service?"
Crowley looks over the letter. "I have no clue." He looks to Harold. "You know what this is about Harold the Herald?"
Hmm, King Odric summons, and we must needs obey, Dhougal says. It's healthier that way.
The monk offers Harold a cup of tea…
Religion
Sadlark lets his new friends poke around. I have an inkling about the meeting already.
Hmm, King Odric summons, and we must needs obey, Dhougal says. It's healthier that way.
And best not to ruin one's appetite with a tea-scalded tongue and a bellyful of scones. Sadlark closes his eyes; his outfit ripples like water and he's wearing a fine but somber-hued suit that's appropriate for dining with a king.
This is most likely about Korvosa’s high priestess of Pharasma, Bishop Keppira d’Bear, who died a few days ago...
The clocks of Korvosa ring their sixth bell as you approach the royal seat. A pair of castle guards usher you into the castle. King Odric I meets you not in the castle’s throne room, but in a spacious, well-lit room anchored by a broad, polished, round table. A detailed map of Korvosa spreads across the table with tidy stacks of documents collected along the edges. Odric invites you to join him at the chairs surrounding the table.
He expresses his thanks as he motions you to sit.
He looks at you expectantly. The King was definitely a "act then think" adventurer if the stories are true.
The stories are most definitely true. Rumor has it the only time he prepped before anything was before a fight, when he insisted on warming up with good dynamic stretches.
“The situation is a bit delicate, and it’s come at an inopportune time. I’m sure you’re familiar with the legacy of the city’s previous ruler, Ileosa. Well, recently, an alarming number of sightings of her ghost—or specter, or phantom—have been reported throughout the city. Old fears and hatreds linger, and these rumors are stirring them all back up. At first, we thought it was a student prank or the ravings of a drunk that grew out of control, but the most recent manifestation appeared here in Castle Korvosa."
“Normally, I’d look to the church of Pharasma for help in a situation like this. But since we just lost Bishop Keppira a few days ago, the church has its hands full planning today’s funeral procession as an event worthy of her memory. So, here we are. I'll cut to the chase. I might be a king, but I'm a doer more than a planner. Will you investigate these disruptions and track down their source? You will, of course, be well compensated for your services.”
"I'm not an adventurer any more. What say you? Are you up to the task?
I'll pay you EACH 1,000 gold up front to cover any preparations you need to make, and I've arranged for you to lodge in Castle Korvosa’s barracks if they don’t already have a local base from which to work. In addition to this payment, I will award you an additional 1,500 gold if you discover the source of the manifestations, or 3,000 gp if you also successfully eliminate it... with evidence, of course!"
"What say you?"
"Here. Look at these. Here are the places she has been seen."
"The first appearance took place two weeks ago in Kendall Plaza during the Crimson Festival, an annual event celebrating Queen Ileosa’s downfall. You know, the day that Thorgrym took that b##+&'s head! (We all helped mind you.) ANYWAY, an Acadamae student took responsibility for this manifestation, claiming it was a joke in poor taste. Given the other sightings since then, I doubt the student’s claim and can’t help but wonder why he made the confession if, indeed, it was false. I know the headmasters there, but he's a weirdo, despite being one of my closest friends."
"The second credible sighting occurred on the Jeggare Bridge to Old Korvosa seven days ago—a site where Ileosa’s Gray Maidens maintained a guard post once the northern island’s other bridges were burned during the previous queen’s rule.
The third report of Ileosa’s ghost took place five days ago in Longacre Building, Korvosa’s courthouse and jail, and the building Ileosa turned over as a headquarters for her Gray Maidens.
The most recent appearance occurred.... HERE... in the throne room in Castle Korvosa only two days ago. A ghostly image of the late queen appeared on the Crimson Throne itself as writing in blood manifested on the walls. The chamber has been avoided since the event. Nearly s+@% myself when it happened."
The king wants us to chase ghosts? S%~$...
"What makes you think this isn't just more people getting in on the prank to scare folks? Ghosts scare the blazes out of me!" Crowley says. "I suppose we can look into it for that amount of coin. You mind if we start looking around here since we are already here?" He isn't quite sure if he should bow or not and offers an awkward, jerky half-bow.