You have been in the city of Hajoth Hakados in Numeria for over a week, assisting Venture-Captain Dagur Hawksight with preparing the Pathfinder lodge to receive an important guest: Kevoth-Kul, Numeria’s ruler. Dagur has arranged for Hajoth Hakados’s leader, Lady Altouna to participate in the event. Preparations have been going well up until this point, and Kevoth-Kul is expected to arrive the following morning.
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A several centuries old elf, in full plate regalia, stands straight as a pole. His pure white hair forms like a halo around his sunburned face. A sinister look give him an air of grim determination and regal authority.
Strangely, with his pristine armor, decorated with flying dragons, he wears a lots of bits and bolts packed; broken holy symbols, scrap metal of diverse origins... On one side, a weapon who seems to be burning, as smoke gets out of its scabbard and on his hand a magnifiscent scepter with the head like the one of a golden dragon.
With a voice softer than expected, he presents himself after a short bow.
Greeting, I'm Elonded Firehand, servant of Ragathiel.
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Melting out of a shadowy corner, a half elf with charcoal grey skin, black hair and eyes, and dressed head to toe in black steps forward and replies in a flinty voice: "I'm Nal." She has no idea if Ragathiel is a person or a god, but she's not about to risk being subjected to a fervent waxing-eloquent soliloquy by asking.
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A sandy-haired halfling wanders up to the group, licking jelly off of his fingers as he does. One can see pans sticking out of his backpack and utensils hanging from his belt where weapons and other more 'adventurous' equipment ought to be. He is above-average in height... almost 40 inches... and clearly eats very well. In fact, after he quickly washes his hands, he pulls out two more jelly tarts, holding them out to the others with a grin.
"Hi! I'm Armin. ... Almost got turned around getting here. Well okay, I turned around to go back for one more dessert is more accurate." He giggles. "Anyway, I'm very curious what kinds of tasks the venture captains might have for us."
A moment later, a wolfhound catches up with the little man and bumps her head against his shoulder. After only a second, she does this again, and Armin instinctively shoves his hand into a pouch and quickly produces a bone that the canine happily takes in her teeth and, sitting obediently next to her master, begins gnawing on.
"Oh, and this is Shelly. Isn't she cute?"
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During the long week of preparations, everyone had the opportunity to learn a bit more about Armin. He happily talks at length about food, and makes an effort to provide each person's favorite snacks to go along with whatever work the venture captain assigns. "Food is life," he frequently says and it's fair to say he's practically and figuratively bursting with it.
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A goblin, in a draconic jump-suit approaches the forest encampment, ducking under and around the taller workers. He spots the agents assembled so far.
Hey! I'm Arfsnarf! Fortune-teller extraordinaire! My clacky rock can tell us what may become of this mission. So far it has never let me down! Oh, hi Nal!
He retrieves a multi-faceted, round'ish object roughly the size of his fist and lets it roll onto the ground and into the midst of the forming team. It lands on one of the flat sides, such that one face shows clearly at the top to present a number.
Uh oh...
He quickly retrieves it and stows it away before others can ask about what the result foretells.
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The half-drow, who has devoted himself all this week to training and honing punches, discreetly greets everyone arriving. Name's Zizarc Misraria. However, he will even smile slightly at Nal. It seems that our communication turned out a little strange last time, but is a second chance being given?
In general, this is clearly a strong, wiry warrior who obviously prefers unarmed combat, but does not wear weapons and armor. I specialize in murders and libraries. I prefer both the first and the second in silence. He says it with a half-smile when someone asks him how he will be useful to the squad and it is not clear whether he is joking or not.
Vanis Mercuria, Hawksight’s assistant, comes to find the Pathfinders. Vanis gives them brief nod before speaking.
“We of the Hajoth Hakados Lodge thank you for your willingness to contribute in this politically sensitive endeavor. Our attentions cannot be diverted from other matters presently. I shall be brief. Our scribe, a gnome named Zatqualmish, has gone missing as of this morning, along with several necessary documents. We suspect foul play, potentially from an internal element, as the documents were magically hidden. A preliminary search has given us nothing conclusive, but you are welcome to investigate any areas or staff of the lodge you feel may help.”
They gather their sheaf of notes and hold out a silver compass. “Take this, should you need something to give you a bit of authority with the locals.” They had you a wayfinder, the suggest you speak with the staff of the lodge.
"Zatqualmish live sin the lodge, and his room serves as his office as well. I will open the room so you can examine it."
Within the room, you can easily find that a cold, half-finished breakfast for one is laid out on a mall table. While messy, the room shows no obvious signs of a struggle. The desk and cabinets seem to have hastily stripped of quills, inkpots, and other scribing tools, though none of the drawers and wardrobes seem touched.
The staff are too busy for in depth interviews, but they do tell you that the gnome kept to his rooms for the most part, but often spoke with the lodge cook, Miro Loamgarden, who is currently in the markets looking for ingredients.
The scribe's workload is, as far as anyone can tell, entirely mundane. He prepared and copied documents for the lodge, and his office and work were available for inspection at any time.
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The total absence of any writing implements and tools piques Nal's interest. "Why are all of the writing things gone? Surely a scribe had a bunch of backups and could afford to leave at least one set here before going off somewhere. Unless he didn't plan to come back." Her eyes narrow with suspicion, and she gives the room another thorough search.
"Huh. 'The forest.' Oh-kay. Not a lot of scribing to be done in a forest, usually." She remarks skeptically.
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"Unless you received a missive in the middle of breakfast - an invitation of sorts - and had to run off for an important meeting. One that you decided to bring everything to in case there was a lot of writing to be done. You are going to a forest, as you say."
Armin searches the drawers and the wardrobes.
A search of the room yields nothing unusual. If the scribe had anything incriminating here, it has already been taken. The Pathfinders head into town.
The Homeshore District’s markets are buzzing with activity. Some peruse at their whims, pointing out odds and ends, while others move with focused purpose to exact stalls and prepare to haggle. While it seems impossible to find anyone here, an obvious path of disgruntled citizens winds its way
around stalls and storefronts.
Once in the markets, the party can easily recognize lodge chef Miro Loamgarden haggling with a merchant near the entrance for a very large quantity of tubers.
Milo seems as rushed as the others at the lodge, but spares a few moments to answer questions. After you explain the disappearance, he responds, "Zatqualmish always orders a meal an hour after breakfast of fresh coffee and jam pastries, but today, he didn’t place that order. That usually happens only when he plans to travel because 'jam disagrees with a nervous belly'. Zatqualmish is a coward who does everything he can to avoid conflict, so it’s unlikely that he would do anything that could cause blowback to himself, so he was most likely coerced into whatever mess he’s in. I don't know where he's gone, but I know some people who might." Miro points the Pathfinders towards three likely sources of information.
Orin Blackfingers is a busy gnome shopkeeper fussing over his stall of quills and inks, moving jars back and forth and making minute adjustments to his display to ensure all his products line up in neat right angles.
Bia Blazebane, a dwarf supervisor, is resting with her construction crew, who are enjoying their lunch break.
The goblin Neesquix is the leader of the local Ash Callers gang and is adjusting his prosthetic leg near an alleyway as a taller, more muscular goblin holds an umbrella out to cover the boss’s head from the sun.
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Henri approaches the busy gnome and greets him. "Good day. I would like to buy a quality writing set, do you have one?" he asks. He then looks around. "I am actually looking for a certain Zatqualmish, and leads we have are pointing us here. Do you happen to see them come here recently or go somewhere?"
After that, he goes to help the dwarf supervisor move some timber.
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Elondel go sees Orin with Henri. Please Master Blackfinger. We need your help and if your works is a of quality of your knowledge of the whereabouts of Mister Zatqualmish is will be a delight to hear what's is going on about him.
Then once talked to the gnome he continues toward Neesquix.
Ignoring the muscular goblins around he talks directly to the boss, drawing his smoking sword and making it ablaze!
I'm sure you know about Dragons and how they are able to breath Fire! It happens that have the honor to met one of the most famous Gold Dragon in Golarion, Mengkare. I could tell you more about it if we can talk about Zatqualmish.
The Pathfinders have no issues making an impression on each of their contacts.
Orin reveals that a gnome indeed ran through the markets in an unheeding rush only a few hours ago, heading for the district of condemned alchemical and blacksmithing workshops known as the Crafters’ Quarters.
Bia adds that she saw a harried and frantic gnome enter an old building in the Crafters’ Quarters, Morgan’s, a long-since abandoned potion shop.
Neesquix recalls that, though the scribe came to the market alone, when he got to Morgan’s, he was joined by a number of slowly moving humanoid figures who followed his every command and who occasionally twitched as sparks flew from bits of metal in their flesh.
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"Sparks from metal in their flesh?! I was just reading about something that does that. Technic zombies. They're living creatures reduced to zombie-like complacency using implanted electronics--those are tech. Rare in most of the world, but not in some parts. ... That's...troubling news. Which way did they go?" Did those people choose those implants freely? Or was it forced on them?
The Pathfinders make their way to the indicated building.
The miraculously attached sign creaking above the barred door reads “Morgan’s,” the only thing making this squat building distinguishable from the other warehouses crumbling around it. A firmly nailed placard states that the proprietor can now be found at the outskirts of town if needed. The few sooty windows near the ceiling are more for ventilation than passing perusal and are an unlikely point of entry.
Both doors see a surprising amount of use for a seemingly abandoned building, but the one to the north was used most recently. It has both small and medium humanoid tracks leading to it.
Zizarc finds no traps on the door, but they are both barred and locked. He has no trouble unlocking them, though.
Piles of boxes give the warehouse a maze-like interior. While it is not in good condition, it is certainly used more than the outside would lead you to believe. You can hear an exasperated female voice from the opposite side of the building.
“This affair has taken entirely too long and you have drawn far too much attention to yourself,” a woman grumbles imperiously, her rasping growl cutting through static pops and crackles. “Maybe you’ve had second thoughts. I would consider just where that would leave you.”
A cowardly squeak and pleading murmurs are the only response, the words too slurred to understand.
“Get it done, Zatqualmish. I would suggest expediently.”
The only other sounds inside are shuffling feet, the soft crackles of electricity, and the feverish scratching of quills.