On the cusp of completing a grand project that would wow audiences and build solidarity between the five squabbling cities of Thuvia, a trio of renowned artists suddenly go missing. Who could be behind such treachery—and why?
Thuvia is a complex tapestry of influences, geography, and culture. While even educated and open-minded outsiders often see the nation as little more than the producer of the sun orchid elixir, those who live there or spend time in its lands find a country rich with history, culture, and beauty. Standing on the southern edge of the Inner Sea and possessing a relatively small band of fertile land, Thuvia relies on imports of food to sustain those in the population centers. Merchants from Osirion to the east, Rahadoum to the west, and numerous trade partners who ply the Inner Sea have brought their influences with them to Thuvia, forming a cosmopolitan nation that possesses to many of its own long-standing traditions. The deep deserts also contain a myriad of unexpected political boundaries and threats. Aside from the nomads practicing traditional ways of life, there are numerous creatures and factions: the Water Lords who control many oases, the ever-present divs, scattered cells of Usij cultists, and the ancient blue dragon drug lord, Deyrubrujan, just to name a few.
Modern Thuvia owes its existence to a single export: the sun orchid elixir. This remarkable potion can reverse the effects of aging, making it perhaps the single most valuable product in the entire Inner Sea. The six vials sold each year make up the bulk of Thuvia’s annual income. The five city-states of Thuvia—Merab, Aspenthar, Lamasara, Pashow, and Duwwor—share a rotating schedule of the sale, but each of these places possesses its own history and culture; they’re each far more than just an auction site for the sun orchid elixir.
Hmmm, this looks like it might by interesting...
The stout woman walked into the room. While her blue hair immediately marked her as a gnome, she was almost the size of a small dwarf. She wore a brightly marked breastplate and armor. It was hard to tell if her body underneath was fat, muscle, or just generous curves. But she certainly wasnt slim or skinny.
A frailer-looking elderly woman sits at home. The shutters wide open to allow in the cool breeze and sunlight. Not only does she appreciate it but her plants within seem to as well as they slowly move about and sway in the sunlight. Each strong gust of wind makes them stronger and stronger.
Eleanor sips her tea as one of the larger plants wraps a vine around the chairleg and slides itself closer. She reachers a hand down and shoves the plant back. "Not now Holly."
Midnight. The desert moon hangs over the Thuvian city of Lamasara, its light touching both the beauty and the blemishes—even at this hour street performers and fortune tellers ply passerby walking the twinkling river esplanade; the theaters are running bloody dramas dedicated to Desna, who offers protection for nighttime performances; an young man wanders out from a smoking parlor in a haze of waking dreams; the pleasure-barges in the docks district, tied loosly to the piers for a quick getaway if needed, bustle with raucous tunes and clinking coins; the alabaster tower of the Serene Spire, Pharasma's temple, points at the moon like a bleached fingerbone; in the mazes of the poets' quarter broken glass glitters.
Tonight the moonlight seeps into the Café Kahwa — the bistro where, even at this hour, notable patrons gather to drink and hear poetry. The intricate lemon-yellow and icy blue tilework on the floor is hatched by sharped shadows. Voices murmur in the smoky air.
Spiced drinks warm the hands of certain notables. Lord Zhakfar, with the receding brow and rotting orchards South of the city, hunches secretively over a table. Majid the derelict poet sits in a corner fingering his knife and his last two small coins. Avazeh the socialite and her friends crowd the bar. Zridi, dark-haired patroness of the arts who funded the famous poet Valls’s second volume of his epic trilogy From League to Legends (third volume delayed) sits at the back near the door. Tahar, a clean-shaven dwarven merchant who's also associated with the poet Valls, is dressed in fine white robes accented with gold and sits near the stage. Vinn Gharban, clockworks academy director associate of Lord Yamthar (the Queen of Lamasara's brother), fiddles with a small device while he waits for the performance to begin.
Of course, poseurs and failures are here too, wiling midnight away in the security of their own bitter fellowship.
Matsimela the poet will be on stage in a few moments, to read from her new collection of ghazals. She's quite popular, so you find yourself and your friends seated at a table with strangers near the front of the stage.
There's a moment to order a drink and introduce yourself before the performance begins!
Eleanor finds an empty seat and orders oe of the warm spiced drins as she seats herself in a dark corner. She rarely took trips like these but needed to get away from Pashow but needed to several times a year as her allergies tend to get away from her.
She brings Holy along for companionship as it is the one plant that isn't activily attempting to kill her with an allergic reaction.
She sips on her drink a bit as she settles in. She won't likley stay awake for the entire peotry reading as it is well past her bedtime and 4:30 dinner. That and these warmed spices with make her even sleepier but she needs the much overdue relaxation.
Hopefully no routy youngsters join the empty seats at her table.
Iksha's quills nearly quiver in excitement as she takes her seat. She couldn't believe her luck. Not only were there still seats available, but they were close enough to the stage to ensure not a single precious word would be missed! Perhaps it was the midnight hour? Iksha had noticed that most outsiders preferred to do business when the sun was high.
Their loss, her gain. Grinning widely, (and showing off tiny white fangs in the process), Iksha peruses the menu while she waits for the performance to start. "I'll take a glass of jallab, please." The sweet refreshing drink would be perfect for a warm evening.
Sipping on her drink she eyes the other people at her table. There was only one thing bothering her; a question of etiquette that she had gotten wrong before. "Excuse me. Do you know if we are all expected to perform at some point in the evening? Or are we allowed to listen without providing anything in exchange?"
Sipping on her drink she eyes the other people at her table. There was only one thing bothering her; a question of etiquette that she had gotten wrong before. "Excuse me. Do you know if we are all expected to perform at some point in the evening? Or are we allowed to listen without providing anything in exchange?"
Iksha feels a gentle tap on her arm from behind. She turns and sees a large blue-haired gnome. No, you dont have perform here.
The gnome takes a moment to drag her chair over from a different table and sit closer to Iksha. Sometimes they do invite people from the crowd to come up afterwards and read their own poetry. But you dont have to. I suck at writing poetry, nobody wants me to go up there and read anything. . The gnome pauses for a moment. Then boldly reaches out to gently touch the quills on Iksha’s arm. She leans in to study them. Wow! These are really interesting. I dont think Ive seen anything quite like this before. I love new experiences and new people.She pauses a moment to look up at the investigator’s eyes and smile. My name is Zephrena. Or Zeph. Some people called me Zephyr or Zephy. The gnome points to her silver necklace w/ a stylized bird on it. Im a follower of Shelyn.
Through the door enters a colorful persona. His bright clothing is accompanied with a mandoline carried on his back. His furry head is wraped with bandana, and on his belt he carries nasty dagger. His smile if filled with sharp teeth and he enters giggling loudly. He moves through the patrons patting some of them on their shoulders. He exchanges with them barely one or two sentences, throwing a joke or raising a mug of ale. He slowly makes his way towards Zephrena, Iksha and Eleanor.
"Eleanor! Where is that fern of yours?" he says jovially sitting next to Eleanor Sage, then he spots the plant and giggles
"I must say, you have found a way to catch others attention Eleanor! Who are your companions?"
He looks at Itska and Zephyr listening to what they are speaking of "You don't have to perform, but why would you not want to?! The only way for art to advance is when it is presented!"
Eleanor sips her spiced herbs and shakes her head. "Don't know dear. I just arrived myself." She nudges Holly. "Holly is right under the chair. She just started blooming small berries this year."
She listens to the others excitedly talk about performing and presses a tight smile. "I will not be performing, I come to listen and get a small nap in." She gives a curt nod. "I am much too old for this....this new bardic poetry. I just don't understand it."
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"Thanks for telling me. The first time I attended a similar event I assumed I would need to provide something in exchange. There was a lull in the performance and no one was on stage so I went up. I was told it was an 'intermission' and thrown out of the venue for being disruptive." Iksha frowns. "But other events I've attended have encouraged everyone to share information. It's difficult for me to determine which is which so now I just ask beforehand."
She doesn't object as Zephrena studies her quills. In fact she turns her arm so the gnome can get a better look. "Well met Zephrena. I'm Iksha, a Shisk formerly of the Makan tribe. My people don't travel much and I've noticed very few outsiders have quills. Which is probably for the best. You like far too many different styles of clothing to be able to work around them." Iksha's own clothing, a backless sleeveless dress, has obviously been chosen to avoid cloth pressing against the quills. "As a follower of Shelyn, is there a particular type of art you favor?"
Her head swivels as the gnoll approaches and begins talking with Eleanor. "I enjoy performing; I just don't want to give offense by doing so when it's not allowed." Her smile drops for the first time as Eleanor says she'll be taking a nap. "Napping? While someone's freely performing for you?" Her tone is equal parts astonished and horrified. "I rarely understand outsider poetry either, Shisk poetry tends to be far more practical and meant to aid in the memorization of information, but that's all the more reason to pay attention!"
"As a follower of Shelyn, is there a particular type of art you favor?"
b]
The gnome enthusiastically nods. I really like painting but Im not terribly gifted. She points to her own breastplate. It looks part abstract and part picture of a sun set with bright reds and oranges on clouds. But I think I like music the best. I dont sing that well but I am a skilled dancer! Even sitting in her chair she shakes her hip a little.
Eleanor doesn't let it bother her. "When you get to be my age, yu find yourself falling asleep mid-conversation sometimes." She waves it off. "Small things tend to not bother you anymore either."
"That is one of the reasons why I love performing when you are around Eleanor. You are tough crowd, If I can't move you and keep you awake the poem or song is not good enough."
He smiles with his gnoll face and say
"Barker at your service. Poet, bard and adventurer. Once to find inspiration I allowed myself to join crew of pirates, but it did not end well."
"Barker at your service. Poet, bard and adventurer. Once to find inspiration I allowed myself to join crew of pirates, but it did not end well."
The gnome stands for a moment at the gnoll's polite introduction. She waves from the other side of the table. Hi! I'm Zephrena, a follower of Shelyn. She gives a slight bow. I bet your pirate fiasco is a good story. Are you THAT kind of a bard? A story teller? She also eye's his mandolin. She hopes to hear some of his music at some point in the future. Maybe it will be somthing I can dance to...
She nudges Holly. "Holly is right under the chair. She just started blooming small berries this year."
The gnome looks in surprise at the strange plant under Eleanor's chair. She has trouble keeping her curiosity to herself. She first politely bows to woman as befits her elderly status. Goodevening, I'm Zephrena. She pauses only a moment not sure exactly how to broach the subject, but she dives in anyway. Do you always bring a plant with you? What kind is it? Is it special? While the questions might be considered rude from others, there is something about her inquisitiveness and honesty that makes it okay.
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Eleanor looks down briefly. "It is a Hippomane Macinella. Though I call her Holly." Her wrinkled hand carresses the vine wrapped around the back of her chair. "Only one not to affet my allergies." She plucks off one of the small bright red berries and hands it to Zephrena. [b]"They also make a good pie.
"Nice to meet you Barker, Eleanor." Iksha turns her head towards the stage to make certain the main performer wasn't arriving before continuing the conversation. (Talking during a performance was rude. This was one of the few things Shisk and outsider culture had in common). "I too would be very interested in hearing about this pirate fiasco. I currently know almost nothing about pirates." She considers which of her own stories might make a fair exchange. "I could tell you about the disaster that was my first time attempting to create an alchemical elixer in return, if that's something that would interest you."
She leans back and eyes the vine. "Eleanor, I'm also curious about how quickly your plant has wrapped herself around your chair. Does she always grow that quickly?"
"She does. A little sunlight, water and TLC goes a long way with this one." She thinks it is funny that everyone is so interested in her plants, but answers their questions anyways. After all she did like the attention and got to rarely speak to much of anyone.
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The gnome stands for a moment at the gnoll's polite introduction. She waves from the other side of the table. Hi! I'm Zephrena, a follower of Shelyn. She gives a slight bow. I bet your pirate fiasco is a good story. Are you THAT kind of a bard? A story teller? She also eye's his mandolin. She hopes to hear some of his music at some point in the future. Maybe it will be somthing I can dance to...
"Barker at your service. Poet, bard and adventurer. Once to find inspiration I allowed myself to join crew of pirates, but it did not end well."
"My poetry and songs do tell a tale. 90% of which is truth!" He giggles and takes a drink for his tankard
He listens to Iksha also expressing interest in his story and he jumps on his legs grabbing his mandolin. When ...
Eleanor looks down briefly. "It is a Hippomane Macinella. Though I call her Holly."
"Manzanas de la muerte"
He lowers his mandolin and looks at the plant yet again
"I heard of plant so deadly that they call it Manzanas de la Muerte. The sap from that plant can be used as a most potent poison. Some alchemists would pay fortune for that specimen..."
Since he was already standing he begin to sing, leaving for now the topic of the plant
Eleanor looks down briefly. "It is a Hippomane Macinella. Though I call her Holly." Her wrinkled hand carresses the vine wrapped around the back of her chair. "Only one not to affet my allergies." She plucks off one of the small bright red berries and hands it to Zephrena. "They also make a good pie.
The gnome's eyes light up. She reaches out for the berry. [b] Ohh, many thanks. She doesn't hesitate and pops it into her mouth. Zephrena smiles and enjoys the fresh taste in her mouth for a moment before swallowing.
I don't think I've ever something like that before. Double thanks!| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
While not overly brainy, the gnome is gifted with languages. She fluently speaks more than half a dozen and is knowledgable in the root words of many others. She suddenly chokes a bit at Bark's mention of "manzanas" and "muerte". Ahh! Goddess, did the old bat just poison me?!?!? I knew my curiosity would kill me one day...
The gnome bowed her head and waited for death. However, she still felt fine. Her belly felt warm and nurished from the little berry. She would have almost sworn it was magical.
By the time the gnoll began singing his song, Zeph decided that live or die she would dance while she could. She stood, moving her feet and shaking one hip in time w/ the music. Music and song is better than poetry anyway!
Eleanor lightly taps her foot to Barker's song, though she does in a manner she tries to not let anyone notice as she sips her tea. She also grabs a berry and pops it in her mouth. The soft crunch followed by the burst of juice reminded her of her favorite fruit snack as a kid. I believe they were once called fruit gushers.
A speaker comes to the stage. The reading begins in a few minutes.
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The wind whispers.
How long had it been, since the last call? Longer than most, shorter than some.
All it meant was he was needed for something, something only his patron knew, something he would find out in due time.
The hands of the clock tick on.
---
The tilework of the floor was well done, in his opinion. Probably looks washed out in bright light, but the dim of the night covers that up. Looking about, there seems a few open seats, but only one close to the stage, where he should probably be.
"Is this seat taken?" The tall lankiness of the half-orc looms over the open seat. Dressed in traveling leathers over rough working clothes, his hands hold the chair back lightly, missing callouses of rough work and hinting at more of an artisan's dexterity.
A speaker comes to the stage. The reading begins in a few minutes.
Hearing that Barker stops singing and heads to the table. Hearing Rhys quesiton he nods eagerly
"By all means! Take a sit, we are all here for arts and fun. I am Barker, this is Eleanor, Iksha and Zephrena."
Barker sets his mandolin next to the table and takes another sip of his ale...
Yes, sit down big green guy. says a large gnome. I think things are about to start. Are you a local to here? She asks cheerfully
Iksha looks around nervously when Barker starts singing. Is this one of the events where you get thrown out for performing unexpectedly? Fortunately no one seems to mind so she can relax and enjoy the song. She is a little confused by the choice of theme though. Was the Billy O'Tea the pirate ship Barker was on?
Her nervousness and confusion are forgotten when the speaker comes to the stage. "Oh, it's about to start! You're just in time." She smiles at the half-orc. "Please have a seat."
"What art are we here for?"
As if on cue Matsimela the poet steps onto the stage. Her hair is cinched under a blue headscarf and her silk kaftan is tied with a golden belt. The crowd hushes. She begins her reading without any introduction.
"My longing for your roses' beauty was so dear to me
I turned to blood to show your spring what's dear to me.
Just as wine within the glass is sipped from it
My soul is in my body, but is not a part of of me.
Intoxicated always, with a wine that does not fail
rose-red wine and singing blood are one to me
I think an end has come to—
The doors crash open. Lord Zhakfar drops his dolma on the floor and splutters. Zridi smirks into her glass. Tahar spins in his chair and shoots a nasty look at the men who've so rudely disrupted the performance.
The poet tries to continue…
—to—to all the helplessness of life…
Four men push through the crowd. They circle Tahar's table (next to yours), and stare down at him with avid, empty eyes. Their faces in the moonlight look like they've been molded from impure wax. Their leader holds a sack; inside is something about the shape and size of a large melon.
"…In loving you, I kneel before…"
The poet trails off and the room falls silent.
The man speaks slowly and in an weird cadence, as if he's forgotten the meaning of words. “Amity… the dream … no … longer!
He drops the sack on the table with a thud. Matsimela fidgets on the stage. Majid the derelict poet, sitting in the back of the room, curses loudly and then laughs like a hyena.
The strange man at Tahar's table continues. "Open. A message. Meaning. Open it."
Tahar stands and draws a knife. "I most certainly will not! I shan't be bullied!"
Five scimitars slither out of scabbards and point at Tahar. The crowd moves back but the patron of the arts is surrounded and cannot escape. "You will receive … this … message. You will know… Amity … is … dead."
Barker looks at the scene with a mixture of concern and fear. After a second he looks at the others sitting at the table and sings softly
"Friend in need is friend indeed, friend with sword is better! We should do something."
He turns to Iksha "Any idea what those are? Lend me an ear and I sing you a song, I will try to pass some knowledge along..." and he plays a tune
Iksha, empowered by barker's etude, thinks for a moment. She believes these are Usij Cultists. The Usij cult is not one organization, a variety of small and scattered cabals that worship Ahriman, the divs as a whole, or a specific div. Many of these cultists are outcasts seeking revenge against society, or maniacs who work towards the destruction of all things.
One of them points his scimitar at Barker and laughs. Amity is dead!
Iksha's head swivels between the new arrivals and the stage. In a low whisper she asks, "Is this all part of the performance?" Previous poetry readings haven't been anything like this, but some of the plays she's attended have involved "audience interaction."
When a sharp-looking scimitar gets pointed at Barker though that idea vanishes. Her quills bristle instinctively. "Usij cultists I presume? You have the look. Whatever destruction you seek you will not find it here, unless it be your own. I suggest you leave. Now."
One of the cultists chuckles. Must we kill you to give this dwarf our message? Amity is dead. Things grow tense as Rhys gathers power.
Rhys' screaming jolts Eleanor from her nap as she snorts.
Always a loud young one sitting at my table.
She scowls and gives a stern look as she raises her voice. "I said be quiet!" Her voice carries to the cutists as she tended to be quite cranky when rudely awakened. She points a finger to the door. "Leave now, so I can get back to my nap. It is 6:30 at night!" She motions her hand to get going, keeping her stern look.
The gnome is upset that anyone would draw blades in this situation. I really wanted to hear this tonight… Zephrena unslings the shield from her back. Its a heart shaped shield painted with a pair of beautiful unicorns on a grassy plain. The unicorn’s spiral horns actually come out of the picture as shield spikes. The gnome also draws her weapon but keeps it hidden behind the shield.
She narrows her eyes and pitches her voice low but loud enough to be heard by the scimitar wielding men. We dont want any violence here, please. Go now and leave in peace. For if you stay, Shelyn’s Champion will stand against you.
Intimidation
Barker takes a half step back when scimitar is aimed at him, he grabs his mandolin and hit the strings, the music starts to flow and get rougher notes and is getting louder
The man's eyes go wide at Iksha and Rhys, and Eleanor's sudden crankiness. Zephira's threat seals the deal. Nihilist he may be but the wrath of grumpy old ladies and angry Shelynites is another thing altogether. Maybe he isn't ready to die yet.
Amity … is dead!
They melt back into the crowd, and away into the night. The crowd murmurs, gossip about this incident already spreading.
Tahar falls into his seat. His hands are shaking. He looks at the mysterious package, and then at you. "Thank you, kind strangers. Do you think I should open it? I must admit I am curious, but also afraid. Apprehensive. Amity being dead sounds like something terrible has happened."
Barker looks after the four attackers leaving and changes the tone to be sounding more victorious. He smiles wildly and chuckles patting Zephrena on her shoulder
"Nicely done! Nicely done."
Turning to Tahar "We are fellow artists or fans of arts. When someone disturbes poetry we couldn't just sit there. Who is Amity?"
I see! I am very lucky to have sat next to you. I am no artist myself; I am but a mere patron of the arts.
Tahar thinks for a moment. I do not know who — or what — Amity is. He looks own at the sack on the table and starts trembling again.
The gnome keeps her shield out for a bit longer making sure there will be no further trouble.
Finally her curiosity gets to her. She looks to the beardless dwarf. I dont know Amity is either? Does it have to be a person, maybe its a thing? She shrugs her shoulders.
But go ahead and open that package. Id like to know what is inside.
Yes and yes; let's go to the table in the corner, where it's quiet.
He picks up the sack with distaste and you make your way through the crowd. It looks like the poetry reading might resume but all the eyes follow you. Zridi, the dark-haired patroness of the arts makes her way over.
As you move through you make introductions.
Tahar, darling! What a frightening ordeal you've just had! I insist on joining you! She smiles at he lot of you.
Of course. Zridri this is Eleanor, Iksha, Barker, Rhys, and Zephrena. Zridri here is another patron of the arts. An old friend. We've funded a few of the same projects over the years.
She smiles. Our heroes. How delightful.
You sit at the table and gather around the sack. Tahar looks inside and frowns.
He reaches inside and pulls a metallic head out from the sack. Precious metals line its cheeks and cranium; wires and tubes hang from its neck, as if it had been violently torn from a mechanical body. The jaw hangs open as if caught mid-scream. The thing's irises are made from clever apertures that are, at the moment, shut tight.
Tahar drops it onto the table like a snake. It rolls onto its side, revealing a wind-up key is on the back of its neck.
Zridi leans over it, morbidly curious. Is this amity? Nor a handsome fellow, I must say. She places a hand on Tahar's shoulder. Please, Tahar, darling, wind it!
The dwarf stares at it. I don't know. I don't know what this is about. Even looking at the thing makes me feel ill. He makes a sign to The Eternal Rose for protection. What if it speaks a curse upon us? Or spews poison from its lips? Or explodes? Zridri rolls her eyes.
Rhys finds no traps. He can tell the device is clearly clockwork. Whoever crafted it was highly skilled, their work durable yet elegant. There’s a key slot for winding the device, and a there might have been a socket at the base that allowed it to be properly attached to another piece; however, it appears the head was violently removed, and many of these connections are damaged.
Iksha follows the group to the table, trying to process what had just happened. "Amity might not be a person. They could literally mean amity, as in a friendly relationship. Although I don't think Usij cultists have any friendly relationships. They don't even always get along with each other." She rests her chin on her hands. "Also, did it seem to anyone else like they were learning how to speak as they went? The first few things they said weren't full sentences, just jumbled collections of words. As they kept talking the sentences became clearer. Strange. Very strange."
Despite saying that Amity might not be a person she'd been half-expecting a real head to be in the bag. The clockwork head is not what she expected. Relieved, she joins Rhys in closely studying it. "Either the head is the message or the head is going to deliver the message when wound. Presumably the latter. Of course an explosion could be considered a message..." She eyes the head suspiciously. "That we're not seeing any traps doesn't mean there aren't any. I'd recommend not winding it here. Too crowded. Does anyone know Mage Hand or another way that we could wind it from a safe distance?"
The gnome thinks for a moment about the cultists and their strange “melted wax” faces, Hmm, can I recall anything about that or what they worship?
Religion
Zeph is clearly fascinated with the clockwork head. She gently shoulders her way through to peer closely at it. Unless anyone stops her she reaches out to touch the head and study it closer. She even pulls out her tool to see what she can do.
Engineering Lore
Crafting