Cinematic Opening
It’s been a discouraging trip to Absalom for you. After applying for the illustrious Pathfinder Society at the Grand Lodge, you’ve been gathered into a rather nondescript room by a lieutenant you haven’t seen before, a Garundi woman in a trim and officious outfit. ”It is my deepest regret to tell you all that the Pathfinder Society has chosen to not admit you as Initiates,” she says in crisp tones, to an answering chorus of grumbles and moans. You can tell that there’s something misfit-like about the group you’re part of, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. ”However, if you are interested, we do have a limited term of opportunity working at Sharrowsmith’s Exports. A barque for Nantambu leaves in three days; please sign here if you are interested. Please understand this is a limited opportunity…” The rest of her warnings are ignored as you and others eagerly sign up.
You notice that several barques leave for Nantambu, each of them relatively small. Is this...insurance? In case one barque sinks?
On the voyage to the Mwangi Expanse, you and your shipmates hear a rumor that an Aspis lodge in Oppara has fallen…and possibly a Pathfinder lodge? But these are quickly forgotten as you head up the reddish, churning waters of the Vanji River, heading steadily to Nantambu. Along the way you see a burnt out ruin, and deckhands hiss in surprise. ”That was Whitebridge…more Aspis getting taken out,” says one of them, and spits off into the water.
As the ship continues to plow upstream, you find yourself wondering…just what in Golarion have you gotten yourself into?
7 Pharast, 4719 AR
It's a warm day in the Expanse, much like most days, and the slight breeze is keeping insects away. You're a little ways out from Whitebridge; not far to Nantambu now. There are few other Pathfinder rejects on the barque; it's mainly crew, who are reasonable and friendly most of the time, although one or two have given Pickle Tooth the old 'Solku stare' on this day of the Night of Tears.
You can smell and feel the jungle all around you, suffusing the air with life, death, decay, floral fragrance, sudden sharp odors, too many to count or keep track of. Crocodiles slip into the water suddenly, monkeys howl and chatter, the river bustles with boats large and small, carrying all number of supplies, and people you've rarely seen--Ekujae elves, only seen on deck when they wish to be seen, bizarre constructions of plant and stone someone mentions as "conrasu", giant zinza birds, fruits of every color and shape. Even for those familiar with Garund and the Expanse, the Vanji River traffic in and out of Nantambu is a sight to behold.
"I've never seen so many fruits," Dorgrum remarks to his fellow new recruits and he takes a big bite of something. "Up in the mountains, we had some berries once in a while but most of the food we grew was potatoes, parsnips, and other hearty things from inside the earth. And mushrooms, of course. I could get used to these sweet things though."
He winces slightly as he watches a crocodile snatch some kind of pig-like creature from the shore nearby and then adds, "I'd never left the Five Kings Mountains until I made the journey to Absalom to apply at the lodge- either of you ever been this far south before?"
"No," Pickle Tooth began, "Pickle is from a small village in Katapesh. This one travelled north to Absalom." The gnoll absentmindedly strummed the lute in his hands as he spoke. His brow furrowed for a moment before he started laughing and he added, "Funny how this one wanted to get away from the heat and they sent Pickle further south!"
He cut his laughter short when he noticed some of the crew eyeing the gnoll from across the deck. Cayden forbid this one enjoys himself, he thought.
"Plenty of strange things for you, no?"Pickle asked Dorgrum. "More than just what can fill your belly, I hope!"
Ethel listens and multitasks, filing away at a foot callus while cleaning her gun. She was as close as she could ever be to a "good mood" after having seen the abandoned lodges.
"Dad was from Mwangi. Probably nowhere near here, though, but f+@% me if I know. First time outside Absalom, though."
She raises her head, looks at a colourful bird, frowns.
"Hell you want, you fancy chicken? Shoo, go shit on one of those staring pissers," she gestures towards the Katapeshi.
The crewmen growl at Ethel and busy themselves elsewhere.
Various canals begin to appear, with locals punting along them, or crossing delicately arched bridges of olivine streaked with other minerals, and overlaid with glimmering lines of copper and cobalt alloys that shimmer blue, red, and purple. The breeze is stronger here, and you see various tinkling glass chimes, and whirling fans of metal and glass that glint as they spin. In the distance, you can see the unmistakable terraces and buildings that mark Magaambya, Golarion's oldest school of arcane learning.
You have reached the outskirts of Nantambu.
Dorgrum drops his half eaten mango on the deck for his pet badger to finish and helps himself to some other exotic (to him) piece of fruit. "You've both got connections to the continent then," he answers with a nod as fruit juice dribbles down into his beard. "That could prove helpful, maybe. Either of you know what 'fancy chicken' tastes like? I wonder if they'll have that on the menu around here or if we'll be eating crocodile..."
The dwarf notices some sudden chatter among the crew and turns to see the Magaambyan academy rising above the trees. "Well, that's not a bad looking building, is it? And old too. Is that some kind of dwarven outpost down here?"
Ethel finishes putting on her boots and reloads her pistol, then walks to Dorgrum's side. It turns out she's not that much taller than him.
"Hope we get to shoot some of the rich clowns who live there. That would be very fine. Anyone know what's next? That sausage-face lady didn't say much about what would happen after we got out of this thing."
She squints, looking for a harbour or some other place where they would stop their barges.
"It is a pretty building, no?” Pickle Tooth said, then added, with a thoughtful look, "Peacock is a fancy chicken.” The gnoll stuck one foot out to block his hyena cub, Cactus, from attempting to snatch the bit of mango from the dwarf’s badger.
"Shoot. Cut. Stab. Bite. It all has the same result: The Pathfinders give us praise and let us join. Would you cut it out, Cactus?” Pickle knelt and scooped up the cub. "That one would surely win in a fight over food.”
Pickle Tooth turned his attention back to the building rising in the distance. Most of the voyage, he had been wondering what kind of work the Sharrowsmith’s Exports would give them. So many rumors about various attacks on organizations. But rumors were just that…most of the time.
Pickle furrowed his brow and muttered something about being the best group of misfits for the job but it was hard for him to look all too serious with a squirming hyena cub in his arms.
after another span of time--less than an hour, and truly interesting in terms of sightseeing--you arrive at the docks leading to Sharrowsmith's Emporium. The deckhands unload the other supplies they've been tasked to bring, working deftly to transfer to the waiting ranks of the dockhands. Nantambu is bustling, and alive with all kinds of creatures and folk. A gnoll waves to Pickle Tooth and points to the Katapeshis. "Boo! Two charklers!" This makes the deckhands scowl. 'Charkler' is a slur for gnoll in Eastern parts of Garund.
A strange creature with many eyes and an elaborate mask walks by, snubbing everyone and tugging on its cloak. Birds squawk, apprentice mages keep everything sparking as soon as an animal leaves dung, wealthy patrons walk a leopard...with wings? The air crackles with magic as a Magaambyan initiate dressed in bright greens and blues surveys a corner--no need for a City Watch or even an army when spellcasters number so many in Nantambu. It's all too much to take in.
A young boy in tailored red clothes beckons to you. "From Absalom, yes? Sharrowsmith's is this way." He turns to walk up the busy streets, winding up the hill, without a backward glance.
"Join? Joining those arrogant pricks is not the goal anymore. I want to make them eat dirt." Ethel is momentarily distracted by all her memories of serving disgusting blobs of food-like substances during her time in the Lodge. There was probably some sort of cruel joke here, but she does not let the thought linger long enough to appreciate it.
"That's our ride," she tells the others whilst ungently tapping them on the shoulder. "Boy, how long you work for this Sharrowsmith's thing? Are you their errand boy or something?"
Dorgrum looks in wonder at the great variety of people hustling and bustling in the busy streets. “I could wear my badger face here and nobody would even notice,” he remarks. “I think I’ll still wear my dwarf face though… it might help if we meet other dwarfs.”
somehow I doubt we’ll run into too many other badgers…
The dwarf grabs one more piece of fruit for the road and then moves to follow the kid who’d been sent to fetch them.
The youth looks at Ethel's impolite finger, then at her, and smiles, his eyes blazing golden light. "I am as much their errand boy as you are their errand girl," he says calmly. "You've toiled for a long time, haven't you."
Then he turns around and proceeds at a pace.
In a few minutes you have crossed several bridges of filigreed blue and green and shining metals, several topped with wind chimes, and wind chime vendors waving and greeting you, but the boy does not stop, even when tapping his hand to his chest, or hand to hand and issuing familiar words to what must be friends or acquaintances as he passes them, be they Zenj, Bonuwat, tall Bas'o, a rare Taralu dwarf, a Song'o leading a Vidrian envoy procession, or a gleaming automaton walking with a Ghoran.
After this bewildering passage of things and places you come to Sharrowsmith's Emporium, a cheery and expansive storefront with objects from all around Golarion in its large oval window. A scarlet circular door rolls back from the darker crimson building, which is set into the bedrock of the hillside, and various footpaths lead up to other storefronts and finally, to what must be houses and even lookouts and spires.
A woman who is clearly the boy's mother steps forward. She is dressed in golden weave and makeup to match her glowing eyes. "Please, come in. I am Aya Allahe, owner of Sharrowsmith's."
She motions you in and she and her son exchange a brief embrace and smile.
You stand in a beautifully maintained showroom of fineries; skymetals, unusual artwork, liqueurs from far away places, and on a perch, a pseudodragon preening its iridescent wings. The room positively crackles with magic. A delicious scent of chiles and rice comes from some far off chamber, and many doors are seen in the dimmer back of the room past an impressive slab of zinc and ebony that appears to serve as an inspection bar for prospective buyers, most likely with snacks and honey wine.
She looks at you in turn, and you get the impression that she has read quite a bit about each of you. "I am glad you came. Ethel Ayabu of Absalom, Pickle Tooth of the Bronze Hills, and Dorgrum of the Stonebreaker Clan. I regret to say that Nieford Sharrowsmith will not be greeting you today."
She turns her eyes to a portrait of a young adventurer bearing a wayfinder on one wall. "That's Sharrowsmith when he was young. As you may know from the Grand Lodge, he kept this as a secret Pathfinder Lodge, with the Exports as a mask for prying eyes. This arrangement worked for many years, but it ended with several factors." She extends one long, golden-nailed finger with each point.
"One. Sharrowsmith is dead. This is not common knowledge, and we wish you to keep it within these walls. The Society was most embarrassed at his demise. Two. Some number of forces, we aren't sure who, are attacking Aspis Consortium strongholds, and a number of Pathfinder agents as well. Three--and this is the trickiest..."
She looks each of you dead in the eye. "This Lodge has left the Pathfinder Society entirely. The woman you spoke with and all other persons invited this way are in a completely different employ--mine. We are aligned with other groups, which I cannot tell you much about at this juncture, who feel that the Pathfinder Society and the Decemvirate have gone far, far astray. They are, to not mince words, rapacious thieves who steal from all parts of Golarion, and take sacred artifacts and wealth from Garund, Vudra, and Tian, and the downtrodden and forgotten people of Golarion, to finance their own interests."
Her Mwangi accent grows a bit stronger, and her eyes blaze hotter, as she finishes her last sentence.
"But--we have not forgotten the Society. We intend to work parallel to them, sometimes with persons within their ranks--whom you do not need to know at this time--in order to keep them from succumbing entirely. We envision a more equitable organization, where artifacts are kept by their home countries, where wealth isn't merely funneled to Absalom and Avistan. We will remain small, fleet, and discrete in our actions. Your assignments may not always make sense to you, but I assure you that all of them are for the good of Garund and the common folk of Avistan, not the coin counters and the Decemvirate. You may not find fame, nor fortune, but you will find a salary, and the satisfaction that you aren't compromising your morality for some veiled group of lords. If you agree to this, I welcome you to Sharrowsmith's Recovery Services. If you do not, you need only walk through that door and the barque will return you to Absalom." She gestures with a glittering hand at the red door.
Dorgrum listens attentively to the woman’s speech, but, knowing almost nothing about how the Pathfinder’s operate, he doesn’t understand much of it. Still, when given the opportunity to leave he shrugs and answers, “getting paid to work for the good guys sounds good to me.”
“For a long time,” Pickle Tooth begins, “this one wanted little more than to go on a grand adventure. To have a purpose. The Pathfinder Society closed the door on what could have been the last opportunity.”
Pickle took a moment to look at Dorgrum and Ethel before speaking again, “Regardless of whether what you say is true, this one accepts. Though all fo this is true, would that not put us at odds with several powerful, and possibly, well hidden people?”
"To be painfully honest, we are too insignificant for anyone to take notice of, for the time being," says Aya with a wink to Pickle Tooth. "Perhaps in time. However, at that point we will be stronger, and prepared for conflict."
"Don't try to scam me, boy. I have one silver to my name, and it's probably a fake," Ethel says in answer to the kid's "wise fortune-teller" act. Feeling, as she so often does, that any further interaction was a waste of her time, Ethel remains silent for the rest of the walk. When they reach the Emporium, she is almost polite in how she keeps quiet, with one hand near her gun and the other protecting her single coin in what may or may not be a den of con artists.
Her demeanour changes significantly when Aya Allahe reaches the part of her speech where she calls out the Pathfinders.
"Damn right! Finally someone who gets it. These Pathfinders are just a bunch of arrogant pricks. No respect for anyone. Just take what they want, think they're all fancy and adventurous. I tell you again, no respect. Trust me, you're better off without them, gnoll. But, yeah, I'm in. I'm all for whatever racket you're running, lady."
Aya nods as if bowing and looks placidly satisfied. "We had hoped so, Sister Ayabu. Well, then, welcome, all of you."
She motions with one hand and one of the many doors in the back opens. She leads you down a dimly lit hallway made of the same crimson stone of the front chamber, although more roughly hewn, with markings on it that look truly ancient and sacred. Pinholes in the left hand wall project images that combine on the right hand wall, oddly enough, upside down: the busy bazaar that lies to the left of the Exports, although no sound gets through the thick stone and, no doubt, earth of the hillside itself. It's an impressive production of completely non-magical scrying.
You pass through the projection-wall area into another hallway that has regular entrances into something that looks like an enormous underground arena, lit with twining green vines that are studded with softly glowing bluish and orange flowers. The arena appears to be subdivided into a hedge maze of a material that you can't quite identify--clay, maybe, but there is moss growing on it.
"The Gauntlet. This was built long, long ago. Not to be confused with that other Gauntlet outside of Absalom...Taldans, so plain with their names. We call it Iruniloju, the Testing Maze. It isn't active--at the moment. Don't step inside, though."
After much delving into what must be the heart of the hillside, you finally arrive in an airy, spacious room with a grand, domed skylight. You can't recall going uphill, not even Dorgrum, and you don't recall seeing anything near the upper storefronts and houses that resembled this dome on the outside, but here you are. Enormous double gates lead out of this room to who knows where. Sharrowsmith's Lodge is clearly more of a hidden underground fortress than a mere emporium with a few back rooms.
Seated before you are an elf of Kyonin, an Ekujae, a dwarf, a druid most likely of Northern Avistan, and a lizardfolk dressed in the robes of a stargazer. Aya takes the central chair.
"We wished to congratulate you in person. I am afraid I cannot introduce my companions by name, but suffice to say, we are happy you have chosen to join us." The lizardfolk and the druid smile and wave, but the elves do not crack a smile, and the dwarf appears to be steaming silently in her armor. Nevertheless, they each raise a goblet to you and drink.
Aya passes each of you a scroll case. "This is a single use item--similar to a Slate of Distant Letters. When you are finished with your assignment, write to us. You can only write twenty-five words. Do not write to us before you are done."
The dwarf and the lizardfolk bow and leave.
Aya continues.
"Here is your assignment. The Pathfinder Society has gotten word that an unknown being called "The Mosquito Witch" has been plaguing a small town in The River Kingdoms. Several independent explorers have traveled to this town, by the name of Shimmerford. Those who did not disappear into the woods entirely were found on the outskirts of Shimmerford, completely drained of blood. This, however, is due to something other than the supposed Mosquito Witch; there is a swarm of stirges that have taken up residency in the woods, in addition to the mosquitoes."
She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Consider this to be more of a test mission. We don't believe there is any Mosquito Witch. Find out why the stirges have descended on the town, and get rid of them. If we can do this faster than the Society and with less...avaricious bumbling...then we truly have something."
The elves and the druid stand up.
"Now, tell me your questions."
”Uh, why was the dwarf-lady so upset?” Dorgrum asks with some concern.
Aya laughs like the tinkling of bells. "Oh, that's just how she is. She had other business elsewhere. Only my friends here need to stay, in order to provide you with tree-passage." She indicates the two elves (who also look upset, or impassive, depending on one's point of view) and the druid.
"F#%+ing hate mosquitoes. What if we find this witch b*$!@? Should we off her? And what if we find any Pathfinders? Are they fair game?"
Ethel looks at the scroll case as if it were a discount bin frying pan, then takes an appraising look at her new colleagues, the dwarf and the gnoll.
"I don't see any sawbones, but we'll need to patch up after things get nasty—I can sew people and stuff, but I was too broke to buy a kit. Do you have some of those healing potions?"
“Superstitions are often based in reality,” the gnoll noted. “Yet you do not think The Mosquito Witch is real?” Pickle paused to process the last thing Aya said. “Tree passage? These ones will not be sailing back to the River Kingdoms?” Then added, “I have never heard of Shimmerford. Does this place have a history of dealings with this WItch?”
Pickle Tooth took Ethel’s look as permission and scooped up the magic scroll.
”Oh,” Dorgrum exclaims when healing is mentioned, “I was actually taught to heal some—not magically, mind you, just with bandages and salves and whatnot—but I don’t have the tools for it… if you have a healer’s kit we can borrow that would be helpful I bet.”
"We do have healing draughts; 4 lions each...that's 4 scarabs or measures to you, and a healer's kit." says Aya.
The druid speaks in a mellifluous baritone. "I will be sending you via our tree network to your location, as will my compatriots." The two elves nod silently.
"Shimmerford has entertained many stories, none of them verified, about the Witch," says Aya. "If she is real, I would not engage; she is most likely extremely powerful. However, her existence is unconfirmed and could very well be local rumor. As for Pathfinders and anything else, you are authorized to kill, but only if utterly necessary. Unlike the Society, we are not neutral, but strive towards the greatest good. Likewise, if there are treasures that belong in hands other than our own, bring them here and we shall see that they are properly rematriated."
She winks. [b]"We're not above taking some coin for our troubles, especially if it means keeping it out of the Grand Lodge or the Consortium.
After a brief moment making a few silent calculations, Ethel shrugs.
"Meh. I was fishing for a freebie.
"About these stirges, never heard of them. Do we need to prepare something special against them? I have a couple of fire bombs here, do they burn well?"
The druid nods. "They burn."
Pickle chewed on the information before asking one final question.
"Someone must've asked for help, no? Someone who first asked the Pathfinders for help?"
"No one asked the Pathfinders for help," says Aya Allahe. "A Venture-Captain by the name of Holgarin Smine is interested. He's a thief, always sniffing out buried treasure to loot, and leaving ruined tombs in his wake. This is a rare show of altruism on the part of Ser Smine," she concludes, her eyes flashing gold.
Dorgrum fishes out two gold coins and sighs. "It seems I don't have enough for the healer's tools," he remarks. Looking to his two traveling companions he somewhat tentatively proposes, "I'd be glad to use them on either of you if you get hurt, if, by chance, you happen to have a little spare coin to help purchase them?"
Ethel sighs, rolls her eyes.
"Fine."
She opens her backpack and begins taking out pots, pans, a spice rack, prongs, wooden cutlery, and a set of bowls. After a couple of long minutes of clanking, a few curses, and one tray falling on the ground millimetres away from someone's foot, she has put a full cooking set in front of Aya.
"There. What? I don't have gold on me! It's new! I barely used it! You can sell this for good money!"
In a similar fashion as Ethel, Pickle Tooth pulled a pair of vials from his pack, the contents of both bubbles and sizzled. He held both out then quickly stashed one away again.
"This one can contribute. But we may need something like this so it will keep one."
Aya chuckles and leads you through a much shorter route to the bazaar. Under her son's guidance, who haggles like an expert, you are swiftly a few coin richer.
You return to the shadowy expanses of the Emporium...or Recovery Services...and are directed to a room off of the skylight chamber, that is literally formed by the roots of an enormous tree.
"This is Tsaugam, the Lion's Tail. It has been here since the days of Ghol-Gan. We will pass you through Tsaugam to a great willow not far from Shimmerford, but out of sight enough that you won't startle anyone when you emerge. You're to start by finding a gnome woman named Galia. She's the one expecting Pathfinders. Walk along the river north and you'll find her waiting at the docks for you. She'll ask if you've been sent by Smine; you say yes. She won't ask any proof from you. She'll probably offer you a Mosquito Witch doll--they are sold in Shimmerford as...talismans, or something." Aya looks mildly disdainful.
You suddenly remember a scrap of information about the Mosquito Witch, something two visitors said at the Grand Lodge once--the Witch was last seen 60 years ago, on a forested knoll called Witchtop Hill. The observers were several youths.
”A gnome named Galia, and we were sent by Smine. Got it,” Dorgrum answers almost confidently as he looks through his new healer’s tools. With his 2 gold left on the table, he begins stowing tools and bandages in various pockets.
”Does it hurt to travel through trees?” he asks one of the elves when he finally looks up again.
Ethel smacks her thigh, the noise somewhat muffled inside the tree room.
"F!&!, so that's where I heard about it. A couple of annoying bastards at the Grand Lodge were discussing this mosquito lady once. Last time anyone mentioned the b+$*! was 60 years ago. Bunch of stupid kids saying they saw her in some Witchtop Hill."
The Kyonin elf looks to the Ekujae, who says nothing, and then looks to Dorgrum and speaks gently in clipped and precise Dwarven.
"Child of Torag, passing through a tree does not hurt."
Dorgrum nods with satisfaction at the elf's answer. "Trees must be softer than I thought, then, because it seems like getting pulled through one would hurt, but you two are the elves, you'd know more about trees than I would. So, when do we leave?"
Pickle Tooth scooped up Cactus, "A witch who comes back after sixty years of absence? That's a long hibernation." The gnoll mused as the hyena cub nuzzled into his arms.
"We leave now, yes? Using magic to keep from any splinters," he offered a toothy smile to Dorgrum with extra emphasis on the word "magic."
Aya nods. "Yes, you leave now. Remember, the scrolls should only be used when you have completed your task. They can only be used once. If we need an extraction--"
She pauses.
"It will only occur at the willow. A portal will open for anyone present. So...unless you know precisely when you'll be at the willow, it's best for you to send the message when you are already at the willow."
She looks at each of you in turn. "We wouldn't be sending you if we didn't think there was risk. We also wouldn't be sending you if we didn't think that you could handle it. This isn't a trip to Sarkoris or the Darklands. That said--be safe, and be careful. Do not rush into danger. I expect to see you all again."
There is steel in her voice; you get the impression she has said this before...perhaps even to people who never returned.
With that, you are led to an ogre-sized knee of a baobab root. The druid and elves cast spells, and portals open for each of you.
***
Through Tsaugam's Tangles
You each step through and experience a mild disorientation, but it soon dissipates to a sensation of warm, honeyed, slow darkness that is somehow red, like closing your eyelids under the hot sun. You are connected to an ancient living presence, like a heartbeat that does not beat, hanging suspended, and from that heart (not really a heart) you can sense thousands of other trees, scattered around Golarion. It's too much to take in, but the willow tree has been 'tagged' in your mind's eye by the druid (or Tsaugam?) as a spot of not-gold, not-light that shines clearly for you. Ignoring all the other interesting pathways, you move toward the not-light, and step out into a cool meadow, your skin instantly developing goosebumps from the rapid change in temperature.
Despite the cooler air, the earth and grass and rushes swarm with writhing, almost solid clouds of insects. You can hear the East Sellen fork burbling some steps away, through the trees. Behind you, the willow's portals close silently, bark and xylem mending together without a scar.
You know Shimmerton lies north up the Sellen River--and the mosquitoes, gnats, midges, mayflies, and big ugly horseflies seem to get thicker as you look northward.
Ethel looks up and down at her tree portal for a moment. She spits on the ground, whispers an expletive and enters it expecting the worst experience of her life so far. When she steps out of the tree, she makes a rude gesture towards it.
"Creepy ass tree."
She takes a moment to take in the sights.
"Is this a joke? People actually live somewhere in this dump? Guess it's that woman's way of making sure we get the job done, imagine being stuck in this dank hole. You two ready?"
Pickle closed his eyes for a few beats during the…transition? He tried to imagine the secrets that only these trees knew. Ancient ruins. Forgotten legends. Secret loves. There were so many possibilities.
He let out a sigh when the group was deposited in the meadow. No time to wonder about “what ifs.”
“Dump?” Pickle said as he set Cactus down on the grass, “This one does not see a dump. Just a place that is alive and not a dried up desert. Let us be going.”
Pickle took a step forward and spied the swarms of insects ahead. Then said, with a dejected tone, “We are going that way, aren’t we?”
"Yea. Told you. Dump. Dwarf, you alive? Let's go swat some mosquitoes."
She adjusts the bits of leather armour she wears over her dress and draws her gun, just in case anything nasty starts getting funny ideas.
Dorgrum looks up at Ethel and blinks slowly as his mind begins to clear from the strange transition. “Alive… yes…” he mutters grinding his boots into the ground. “That actually really wasn’t bad at all, although it is nice to have solid ground beneath my feat again.”
The dwarf adjusts his pack and makes sure his weapons are still where they belong then nods and says, “lead the way.”
You trudge a bit up the river, swatting at gnats and skeeters as you go. The air is damp and cool and smells of mud. Shimmerford appears to you--the houses and establishments are lit with torches, but the streets are almost empty save for the occasional resident scurrying from door to door, waving smudge sticks and cursing quietly. Mosquitoes chase each other over every puddle, and there are plenty of puddles in the desolate town.
The first house on the right is a tiny cottage festooned with colorful lights and candles on the outside (a fire hazard if it weren't such a rainy...season? year? Age?). A gnome in the apron and cuffs of a barber explodes out of the cottage. She has hair the color of ripe blueberries and copper skin. She rushes over to hail you, waving her arms partly in greeting and partly to drive away the mosquitoes.
"“Oh, thank goodness! Oh, thank goodness! You actually came! Smine actually sent someone! You must be them, right? No one comes here a-anymore unless they’re planning to help! Do you want to talk inside? My house is mostly mosquito free! Can I get you anything? My beet juice is also mostly mosquito-free! Would you like to sit down? A fresh haircut,
maybe? Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Shoo! Shoo!” (these last comments are for the mosquitoes)
She ushers you towards her door, which is, fortunately, big enough for the 'big folk'.
Pickle Tooth swatted at a particularly annoying mosquito.
“Smine. Yes. To investigate this Witch. You must be Galia, no?" Driven by the swarms, Pickle strode right into the open door.
"But this one will have to pass on the haircut...and the beet juice. We Kholo are strict carnivores.”
Pickle glanced at his partners hoping neither of them would out him, given their shared meals on the ship.
Ethel enters the house and sits on the first chair she sees, letting a loud noise of satisfaction as she does so.
"What? No, it looks gross," Ethel says when offered the beet root juice. "Listen, lady, this is not a social visit or anything. What's been going on in this place? Heard some people gone missing, turned up later dry as a stick."
"Some beet juice would be great," Dorgrum answers cheerily. "I always knew you could trust a gnome to appreciate the value of pulling food up from the dirt. Thank you. Besides, something sweet to sip on won't slow down our conversation about the stirges any, will it?" The dwarf follows the gnome inside and takes whatever seat she might have to offer.