The streets of the Shipyard district swelter in the sultry heat of the Augustana summer, and all around you the industry of the Shipyard District rumbles. As you climb the hill, you can see not only the largest shipyard in the inner sea, but also beyond it to the deep blue waters and tall ships of the Great Salt Harbor.
Up ahead is your destination, the Brine Shark Bistro. The sign features a shark rising triumphantly out of the sea foam with a crab in its mouth. Smells of frying crab waft towards you as you get closer. Not only is this restaurant famous for its crabcakes, but it's where you expect to get your mission briefing from Venture-Captain Brackett.*
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The large and Eminently Respectable figure of an Ulfen warrior stands upon the hill. Of course, eminently respectable is somewhat in the mind of the beholder, and while it is obvious that the figure considers himself such, others might note that the cloak is perhaps last years fashion. In Osirion. And made for someone of slightly less generous proportions than the man himself.
Not that it makes it look any less respectable. And certainly the Large Sword strapped to his back would perhaps make anyone foolish enough to consider pointing this out to him... consider a second time.
His gaze rests on the restaurant as he ponders the others approaching it. "Ulvard Wonders." he booms out loud to anyone in the not-too-distant vicinity. "What type of shark does not live in Brine. Ulvard has never heard of Fresh Water Sharks."
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Looking left, then right, for it is common knowledge that privateers of any order intermingle with the locals of any respectable dive bar (even ones that claim the title 'bistro'), our proud General (of an army that probably does not yet exist) ponders this auspicious day.
A crude but merciless-looking bow strapped to his back, our hero dismounts his steed - some particularly pungeant breed of "horse" with yak-like horns - and tying it to the hitching post in a nearby barn stall.
"Quqotengir, stay"
"PBHBHBHK!" the beast snuffles, shaking dirt and grime from it's unruly auburn mane, it wriggles a moment, displaying inborn feral traits, before some deeper level of training snaps into place, where, like a soldier at attention, it bears out it's chest, and comes to stand erect and alert.
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"Good" he feeds the creature a treat - some kind of food-condensed "bar" made of vegetable and grain. Remains a moment to watchit finish the snack, and turns to leave.
Making his way with light feet to the Brine Shark, he sneaks up to the bar, and orders a rice wine, placing exact change on the table. No tip.
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Clarence hears a familiar voice. His face breaks into a grin and he hurries, following the voice. Rounding the bend, he notices a familiar figure standing in front of a restaurant, stating to no one in particular that he's never heard of fresh water sharks.
"Ulvard also has been to a salon but not having his hair done!" the half-orc booms across the way. "What say, warrior? Shall we impress our fellow travelers () by seeing who makes the biggest splash?!"
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"Perfect..."
Clasping his hands in a sort of prayer position in front of his chest, Hisaki makes an unconsciouss "wave" flowing motion with his fingers as they make and break gentle contact with eachother. He examines the two brutes before him, trying to evaluate which between them has more brains than the other, and coming up empty.
When his rice wine arrives, our egotistical hero tosses it back with a practiced technique, and places the glass upside-down back onto the bar, vacating the seat he had occupied for no longer than the time it took to make contact, order, and consume the spirit. He strides between the dromaar - dwarfed by them in physical height but not overall presence - and introduces himself.
"Brave warriors, I see that you have heeded the call" to be discreet, he flashes his wayfinder, hoping both of them will be able to infer that:
#1: Hisaki is a Pathfinder
#2: Hisaki is correctly guessing that they are, too, and
#3: That the act of flashing the wayfinder rather than explicitly stating his factional affiliation is an intentional measure taken to hide his employer's plans from possible (Chelaxian) spies!
"We have a lot of work to do, and I look forward to a fruitful collaboration. My name is Commander Hisaki" neither saluting them nor extending his hand, instead, Hisaki keeps his words direct, his posture upright, his expression serious. And adds a piece of advice, looking around, quietly:
"There is no instance of a nation benefitting from prolonged warfare”
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"Oy!" An old halfling woman marches up to Hisaki. "Who do ye think ye are? First you order rice wine, like we would have that stuff instead of good honest Sauerton Red, and then ye sneak off and ye leave no tip for my poor grandson. Now... Here's what ye'll do. Ye'll read the menu and think about our delicious food. Ye can't beat the crabcakes, but the rest of the seafood is grand as well, and ye'll order somewhat else than yer rice wine, and ye'll tip me poor grandson who is working two jobs to support his ailing grandparents."
Then she nods, and says, "Good lads. Glad we had this talk."
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Clandestine were not his mission, our suddenly-accosted Commander holds both prongs of his proverbially-forked tongue, sliding them into the back of his throat, for fear of unleashing additional spectation and speculation were they not to be forcefully leashed. Indeed, as it is best not to lose a war before stepping onto the battlefield, the egotism that drives our hero runs deep enough to allow for shrewd self-reflection, allowing him to assign concomitant value in proportion to what "battles" are ones he chooses to eventually win, decisively.
Marching back over to the abandoned seat, he places a customary tip on the counter, obeying the woman, as well as an additional amount for the crabcakes, also replete with customary tip. Casting the old lady a passing bow if he might catch himself in her sights, imagining that she be monitoring his compliance from a vantage point superior to his own, it is without obstentation that Hisaki intends to slip away from her fixation with his redirected behavior, purchasing his deliverance in coin.
Returning to the more malleable company of his incumbent squadmates nonplussed, he continues his conversation, eagerly awaiting the rest of his squadron to take it's shape...
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Ulvard turns at the sound of Clarence's voice.
"Clarence!" he yells, even as he starts charging toward his old friend. While many people might take the sight of a charging Ulvard as something to be worried about, no such thought enters his mind as he launches himself into a massive chest bump.
Eyeing up his fellow warrior he nods approvingly. "Clarance has Grown!" he announces. Before realising that there are others also present. Although obviously lacking presents. Or his own Presence. Taldane is such a strange language."I hope there are no Presences nearby!" he says, looking around suspiciously for oddly closely located graveyards, hanging trees or sites of execution. Such is the Mind of Ulvard.
"I am Ulvard! he Declares to Hisaki and the old halfling. "You have likely Heard of Me!"
Slowly the words of the others sink into him. When Hisaki flashes his wayfinder, the barbarians nods knowingly. "Ulvard understands Subtly!" he says, slightly less loudly than before, but still at something that would happily carry across a not too large battlefield. "Somewhere Ulvard has old ...." he scratches his head for a moment trying to figure out the right word. "Compass."
To the halfling he adds "Ulvard will have Two. Of Everything!", in what passes for a conspiratorial whisper to Clarence he adds "Ulvard must keep up Strength." he gestures toward the sea with a Knowing Look.
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Clarence glances at the "Commander" and has no idea what was just said. He does however, listen to the old halfling talk about the best-selling food.
"Ale, if you have it. If not, then maybe I'll have that Sauerton Red you're so proud of! And the crabcakes too!"
He follows Ulvard's gaze to the ocean. "Shall we work up an appetite?" he asks.
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"Food?"
Aside from the speech, there's something about the way the dog carries himself that sets him apart from a normal animal. The look of his eyes is particularly striking.
Of course, the first clues are probably the armor, and the greatsword strapped to his back.
Also perched on his back is a small cat. The cat is also clearly atypical, a paw holding open a large leather book as the other adjusts her spectacles. She nearly loses her book as the dog hops up onto a chair. She hops up to perch on the back.
"I'm Artemios," the dog says. He doesn't refer to himself as "the Radiant," but it is somehow obvious that it is part of his name all the same. "I'm a warrior. And this is Nadia, my Chronicler. Oh! This is the Pathfinder group, right? I'm a Pathfinder!"
The crab cakes that Hisaki ordered arrive swiftly. They're hot, crispy and served with dips and a bed of greens that are the perfect counterpoint.
Then the two of everything that Ulvard ordered starts to arrive and overflow the table. There's hot buttered bread rolls and clam dip, bowls of creamy chowder, grilled shark, crab boils, about fifty different types of sushi rolls, and other assorted seafood dishes.
It's all excellent, and it all keeps coming.
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"Ulvard will make the Biggest Splash!" says the Very Happy barbarian. He Eats with Gusto. Although an enthusiastic eater, he takes care to mind his manners, passes dishes politely and only goggles slightly at the sight, or perhaps it is the sound, of the talking dog.
"Greetings Artemios!" he says. "Ulvard has not met a Talking Dog before." He peers closer "Nor a reading cat" he admits.
Then he looks into his ale mug, sniffs at it cautiously as if having just heard what he himself said. He gently pokes Clarence. "Is Ale off, or is Artemois really a talking dog?"
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Producing his own personal set of handsome handcrafted wooden chopsticks, Hisaki resigns himself to the custom of sharing a meal before talking business, expertly pinciring each crab cake and plunking it with a gentle wrist to distribute an upside down dollop of dip before placing it before his mouth to consume cleanly and without spilling.
As Ulvard’s food begins to arrive, he hastens his pace, finishing with the bed of greens and sipping his sake, clearing space exactly in time as one last dish wouldn’t otherwise have been able to deploy itself onto their table surface. It does.
He considers the talking dog, wondering silently if it was trained and if it ever had a master - for an affirmative in both cases would expedite some of the exercises he had intended to subject the group to! - but instead of opening his mouth and vocalizing the indecent line of questioning, our calculating hero leans back to assist digestion. Wouldn’t want a disturbed stomach to interfere with their mission ahead.
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Clarence looks at Artemios with equal parts wonder and shock. He, too, sniffs the ale. "I don't know..." is all he can say, "But like you, I have seen many things as a Pathfinder. I have even heard of a talking plant with a pumpkin as a head. His name is Jackpot, though I wonder where he got a name like that!"
Seeing the food, he dives in with gusto, matching Ulvard mouthful for mouthful. "Prvv it!" he says, trying to talk with a mouthful of food, "Youvv lmmsst the lsst mnn!" he says, spraying bits of food everywhere. He washes it all down with ale and belches, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You lost our last contest, Ulvard!"
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The door of the tavern opens carefully as whoever does this is respectful of Tavern's owner.
But this small widening crack is already enough for the first people close to the door to be, for a better word, surprised.
Diamond. Ruby. Sapphire. Emerald. Multiple types of gems of color and forms are fused together creating a bony structure. A skull emerges, also created by this fusion, radiating a smile that it doesn't actually have.
Wearing the flashiest, but trendiest shirt with puffy sleeves, coat, thigh breeches and high boots, he wouldn't be out of the place in a pirate horror story. Regardless,the rainbow illuminating nature of his bones counteract a lot of this scariness.
The other acro on the "abendago" style is a silver light hammer gleaming with magical runes that he wears on the side.
Together, it creates a presence. Unapologetic. Hypnotic. But mostly eye-catching. Some patrons aren't even sure that this thing is a skeleton.
He looks around, sees the table obviously made of Pathfinders and walks toward it with a resolute but graceful pace.
Then, he bows with his feathery hat and says with a suave voice that is clearly trained:
" Hector Horizon from Ustalav, protector of the widow and the orphan.
Did the waiter has already taken the order?"
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"Ulvard will not lose again. Ulvard has been Practicing!" he announces.
While Clarence may match him for volume of consumption, the barbarian is a Civilised Man. He only sometimes forgets his manners. Of course when Clarence is at the table he is perhaps not under the most direct scrutiny and the quick of eye may catch the occasional use of hands clutching chicken legs rather than cutlery.
As the door opens, Ulvard decides the time has come to Cultivate a Civilised Personae. "Come! Ulvard has ordered for All!"
Quietly, well as quietly as a barbarian in the middle of a feast can be, he points out the figure to Clarence, between Swigs of Ale. "That one looks odd too. Think he is One Of Us as well?"
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"Is this the spot for the meeting?" a skeleton that clearly used to be a dwarf (based on the stocky build and wispy beard that still clings to the jawbone) asks as he approaches the already-loaded table. "I heard this was a good place for seafood, but since I've already been sleeping with the fishes, I..."
He does a double-take as he spots Hector. "Well, I don't think I've seen another of my kind. Above ground, that is." He offers a bony hand to the flamboyant skeleton. "Bláinn Váfriðrfaðir, at your service. Though if you don't mind my saying, you look more like something my ancestors - or descendants, at this point - would have dug up. Definitely an improvement over these old bones, though."
"So, did you all already get the speech about what spells would be a really bad idea to use on us?" he continues, turning to the others at the table. "I'd imagine dying once is enough for most people; I prefer not to do so a second time just yet."
He then walks around the table, shaking the hands of the other agents, revealing a vaguely humanoid pile of purple goo. "Oh, this is Bob. He will be joining us, and would also appreciate not getting the standard restorative magic."
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Hisaki looks around the table "It appears you are the only one who uses spells, Lieutenant Váfriðrfaðir"
He clasps his hands together: Commander of an Undead Army! Maybe I should change my name to Hisaki-Baphon! Joking with himself, he is careful not to express the likely-insensitive thoughts out load.
Leaning back before the table of food, seeing a 7th, Hisaki rises "Here - take my seat. I will proceed to lookout for Venture-Captain Brackett. Once we have our briefing, we have much work to do"
...somewhere outside, a burly beast emits a noxious gas...
...a few of the other mounts back away...
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"Ulvard will not lose again. Ulvard has been Practicing!" he announces.
While Clarence may match him for volume of consumption, the barbarian is a Civilised Man. He only sometimes forgets his manners. Of course when Clarence is at the table he is perhaps not under the most direct scrutiny and the quick of eye may catch the occasional use of hands clutching chicken legs rather than cutlery.
As the door opens, Ulvard decides the time has come to Cultivate a Civilised Personae. "Come! Ulvard has ordered for All!"
Quietly, well as quietly as a barbarian in the middle of a feast can be, he points out the figure to Clarence, between Swigs of Ale. "That one looks odd too. Think he is One Of Us as well?"
"How perceptive, follow Pathfinder! Your deductible skills are as strong as those muscles that you wield. Yes, Hector Horizon Explore, Report and Cooperate. He made his apprenticeship on the Grinning Pixie, something he wouldn't think would be possible for someone like him."
He takes a chair.
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"Ulvard too has been on Grinning Pixie!" smiles Ulvard, a smile that quickly vanishes from his face when the skeleton walks into the room. His hands quickly head for his sword, but he pauses.
"Come Clarence. I need Ale and Cannonballs." he says, rather rudely.
He looks out the window to work out the best way down to the harbor. :Ulvard will return Champion!" he states before checking the position of the sun. "We have Time!"
Clarence and Ulvard race down to the docks where they run off and do cannonballs! The dock workers are at first surprised, but then they start laughing and cheering for the two jumping warriors.
Today, Ulvard makes the biggest splash. The water is cold, but on this sweltering day, the chill salt water feels refreshing and delightful.
Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, Ulvard's two of everything keeps arriving at the table. One of the servers looks at the hobgoblin, two skeletons, and talking dog and quietly asks... "Um... Are you part of the Patchfiller group that we're expecting?"
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"Hurrah!" calls out Ulvard, red from The Bomb which soaked the nearby ship workers as well as himself. Or maybe it is the chilly salt water making him red. He seems to care not at all, but be delighted to outsplash Clarence this time.
"Food! Ale!" he cries, in what passes for Ulvard-Heaven.
"What is Good in the World? To make a Splash! To Eat! And to Drink with Friends!" His good mood extends even to the somewhat horrific view of the skeletons at the table.
"Ulvard wonders what happens if You Drink?" he ponders out loud.
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Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, Ulvard's two of everything keeps arriving at the table. One of the servers looks at the hobgoblin, two skeletons, and talking dog and quietly asks... "Um... Are you part of the Patchfiller group that we're expecting?"
"No," says Artemios, taking some fish, "He ordered this for everyone, right? I've never heard of them! We're the Pathfinder group."
"Emissary? No, I'm Howie the bartender. You tipped me earlier, remember?" The young server blinks then looks at the notes in front of him. "Pathfinders? Not Patchfillers?" He squints again. "Grannie's handwriting is the worst."
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Clarence and Ulvard race down to the docks where they run off and do cannonballs! The dock workers are at first surprised, but then they start laughing and cheering for the two jumping warriors.
[dice=Clarence the Hunter's Athletics (E)]1d20+11
[dice=Ulvard!'s Athletics (T)]1d20+9Today, Ulvard makes the biggest splash. The water is cold, but on this sweltering day, the chill salt water feels refreshing and delightful.
Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, Ulvard's two of everything keeps arriving at the table. One of the servers looks at the hobgoblin, two skeletons, and talking dog and quietly asks... "Um... Are you part of the Patchfiller group that we're expecting?"
"Exactly, we are Pathfinders. To be honest, i wonder who else would hire us." says with a point of irony.
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"Emissary? No, I'm Howie the bartender. You tipped me earlier, remember?" The young server blinks then looks at the notes in front of him. "Pathfinders? Not Patchfillers?" He squints again. "Grannie's handwriting is the worst."
"Don't despair Howie, you noble bartender! You shall vainquish one day this terrible abomination that is Grannie's handwriting!"
Howie looks at the friendly skeleton that is chatting him up, gulps, and then takes a deep breath. "Well then, you must be the folks that have a meeting in our private dining room. Er... If you could all follow me?"
★ --- ★ --- ★ --- ★
Howie leads all of you, including both Ulvard and Clarence who are dripping and covered in seaweed, into the private dining room that Venture-Captain Brackett rented. The room has a compelling view of the docks and tall warships of the Great Salt Harbor.
“Excellent, you're all here,” Venture-Captain Brackett says as he gestures to seats around a large wooden table in this private dining room. “I have two people you need to meet. They're responsible for fulfilling the Pathfinder supplies that you equip yourselves with before each mission. First, is our head quartermaster, Kitsch.”
He points to an ysoki woman using a full toolkit, including various pliers, saws and picks, to dismember a large crab carcass. Kitsch's overalls are liberally smeared and spattered with both grease and shell bits. She glances up, waves, and then returns her focus to trying to break apart the crab shell without saying a word.
Then Brackett points out a tall mwangi man in an elegant tunic unsuccessfully trying to stay out of spatter range. “And this man is our Head of Procurement, Immaculate-Weaving-Under-Moonlight Nairaba.”
“Please, that is such a long mouthful,” the man says as he passes out napkins and cleaning cloths. “Feel free to call me, Nairaba. Tell me, what are you called?”
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"I am Ulvard!" announces Ulvard.
"You have probably heard of me." he adds in a slightly quieter roar.
He jumps up and down, trying to get water out of his ear. Then noticing the table, sits and adds some seaweed to the plate before him.
"Ulvard has worked up an appetite!" he explains, before offering a nod to the other two. "And is pleased to meet Nairaba and Kitsch."
He gazes at the table, though how any mortal could consume more food after what he has already put away is one of those small miracles that it is better not to question. "And also to meet your table." he adds, piling up his plate.
"Come, sit." he says to Clarence. "Standing at table is rude in southlands." he adds knowingly.
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"Clarence" says Ulvard's companion, just as loudly. "Ulvard got lucky today doing Cannonballs! But I will best him next time!" Taking his cue from Ulvard, Clarence also plops into a chair. He violently shakes his head, trying to get the water out of his hair. He manages to look embarrassed as the gesture is met with startled cries hard looks. "Oops. Sorry."
Nairaba nods encouragingly at all the Pathfinders and then calls out to Hisaki, "And you are?"
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"I am Commander Hisaki. And these are my men" he gestures around the room "Soon enough, we will be able to constitute an effective taskforce, as it will be my pleasure to deliver whatever objectives, within reason, you desire, by extension of this implement" he bows deeply to the Head of Procurement.
"Well met, Commander Hisaki." Nairaba bows deeply back.
While you talk, waiters bring in wine, savory crab cakes and yet more seafood dishes. Nairaba pours wine for everyone and then tastes it, nearly spitting it out. “Oh my, has this gone off? It may be more suitable as cleaning solvent than as a beverage.”
Hector recognizes the vintage as Sauerton Red, a local Andoren vintage known for being both cheap and nearly undrinkable to those unused to its acidic aftertaste.
Kitsch glances furtively around for waitstaff, then dumps the bottle of Sauerton Red into a drooping plant. She holds up her hands for a moment and pulls three bottles of wine out of her cheek pouches. The moment she empties her pouches she says, “Sometimes the secret to a good supply chain is knowing when you need to smuggle things in. I think you'll find these bottles are much better, Nairaba.”
“Thank you.” Nairaba carefully wipes each bottle down before passing them around; they are an excellent Galtan vintage with a smooth finish.
A few minutes later, Brackett closes the door firmly so that no other waitstaff can invade. “Now that you've all been sufficiently wined and dined,” he says, “it's time to explain why we've scheduled this little excursion to Augustana. Cheliax has never embraced the Society, even at the best of times. They made Pathfinders illegal within their country. Then a few months ago, they burnt Greensteeples, the secret lodge we had there.”
“But since the Battle of Hellknight Hill, they've grown positively restless,” Nairaba says. “We've always had Chelaxian smugglers and the like willing to deal with the Society, but now they're all treating us like pariahs, and some have told us that the Chelaxian military is requisitioning all the supplies they would normally sell to us.”
Brackett nods. “Immediately after the battle, Zarta Dralneen warned us that Cheliax does not forgive slights. Since Isger is under the protection of Cheliax, Queen Abrogail will want revenge. With an Inner Sea war brewing, the Society's leadership believes that we need more ships for our naval defenses.”
Kitsch leans forward. “So that's why Nairaba and I are here,” Kitsch says, “This is the biggest shipyard in the Inner Sea. But Nairaba and I aren't warriors -- not like you lot." Kitsch eyeballs the group. "That's why we're asking you to escort us and look for signs of trouble.”
“No one believes that Cheliax will do anything direct without a formal declaration of war,” Brackett says coldly. “But that doesn't mean that they won't try indirect and underhanded methods.”
Kitsch looks at the group. "At this point, you probably have questions. So... Go ahead and ask them, alright?"
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“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting” our Commander perks up a bit, naming his adages with didactic enthusiasm “Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate!”
He looks to Nairaba and Kitsch, sizing them up, and infers "What is it that we are supposed to "Procure"?"
"Warships. We're here to tour, inspect and hopefully purchase some." Nairaba says. “Let us worry about the money,” Nairaba says gently, “but we will welcome your feedback on the ships we see. Do tell us what you think of them.”
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Ulvard belches loudly, proclaiming his satisfaction with the meal.
"Ulvard is ready!" he adds to his earlier proclaimation.
"Well, fed. Well watered." here he removes an errant trail of seaweed from his beard. "Well aled!" he adds, not wanting to forget this also important feature of his wellness.
"And well ready to Defend Nairaba and Kitsch!"
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Clarence has a sip of the Galtan wine. Although the taste is pleasant, it's not as strong as ale. Chugging down another tankard, he gives a satisfied belch, rivaling that of Ulvard.
"So we are to look at boats?!" he asks disdainfully. "I came to fight! Where is the glory in looking at boats?"