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This is a PFS Core campaign game. Please be sure you are playing a Core PC in this game.
Reports of a demonic army mobilizing in the Cairnlands reached Absalom several days ago, and the city has been preparing for a siege ever since. Wynsal Starborn — District Seat of the Grand Council and retired Captain of Absalom's First Guard — has been appointed Siege Lord, tasked with overseeing the city's defenses. The Pathfinder Society is lending its support to the First Guard by gathering intelligence, reinforcing siege defenses, and helping civilians retreat behind the city walls.
You move briskly through the grounds of the Grand Lodge, where Venture-Captains are mustering Pathfinders into small teams. Your group of six is among them — one of many now being called upon to aid in the city's defense.
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A fit blonde female ulfen wearing a chain shirt and armed with bow and arrows, dagger, longsword and throwing axes stands around looking at all the movement. Older pathfinders can tell she is fairly new to this profession. She notices the others standing around her and just nods saying in a thick northern accent "I am Skajja."
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Standing before you is a young adult gnome. She isn’t very noticeable, at least as far as gnomes go. No flashy hair or extreme colors. Just pale skin (not bleached) and dirty blonde hair. I don’t mean the color, her hair is ratty and streaked with dirt. She doesn’t seem to care.
She wears patched old clothes and gear. Obviously picked up at a secondhand store or out of the garbage. You recognize the shortbow to be a hunting version (though quite high quality looking) and her dagger is more of a skinning knife. She doesn’t stink, so a bath must have been recent and her clothes must be clean at least.
She is staring daggers at a nearby picnic table, "Why didn't they just leave the tree? It provides shade, you can sit in the branches and some of them even make fruit. Stupid."
Turning to Skajja she gives a head nod, "Fern. Don't mind the tired eyes, I was up late last night. We had an... opportunity." A yawn breaks her words, "Anyway, what's this about an invasion?"
Master of Swords Marcos Farabellus stands on a low platform in front of the assembly. “Pathfinders, our beloved Absalom faces the threat of invasion and needs our help. Just as Absalom has been our Society’s home for centuries, so does it fall to us to aid in its defense. Find the group to which you’ve been assigned, lend a hand as the city prepares for the siege, and be ready for more instructions.”
Hundreds of Pathfinders stand waiting at the Grand Lodge for news of the coming battle, and a murmur of anticipation has risen from the nervous crowd. Master of Swords Marcos Farabellus takes the lectern, raises his hand for attention, and speaks:
“Pathfinders, thank you for answering my call. It has been two days since we received news of an army of demonic abominations building a siege castle in the Cairnlands north of Absalom. Today, the Grand Council of Absalom announced they have invoked an old wartime law, according to which a Siege Lord must be appointed to oversee the city’s defense. They’ve made an excellent choice: Wynsal Starborn, District Seat on the Grand Council and retired Captain of the First Guard."
“He has already organized scouting forays and evacuations of the outer towns in preparation for a siege. The Pathfinder Society has pledged to help the Siege Lord with the preparations. All of you have been assigned to teams, and if you have already found the other members of your team, you should get started. Go now, but be ready to return here when you hear the signal horn.”
USEFUL GOSSIP:
You can ask around about recent events.
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URGENT REPAIRS:
Your group helps repair a wagon that tipped over while carrying alchemical goods and other important supplies.
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RECONNAISSANCE:
Your group partakes in a quick scouting mission to spy on the army gathering in the Cairnlands.
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Something akin to a mobile boulder, clad in a simple robe, and wearing a jade mask bearing the snarling image of a tiger, bows, covering one fist with his other hand as he does so.
"Greetings. My name is Xuan. Don't let my body fool you - I am confident when it comes to even minute control of my form. I will do my best to ensure we all live through the siege."
To prove his point, stoic as the stone itself, Xuan attempts to help with the cart...
...and gratefully accepts the proffered potions.
"Normally, assistance is its own reward, but in troubled times like this, we must all work together. Thank-you."
He then goes off on a scouting mission...
...returning later, covered in twigs, moss, and dirt.
"The army consists of various kinds of creatures stitched together from demonic flesh: constructs, oozes, and undead. However, the army’s field commanders are all minotaurs and that there are true demons among the army’s ranks. I have also managed to track down some special supplies."
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Galandir is a generally quiet half-elf who strongly favors his elven heritage in his features. He carries a short sword and heavy shield, and wears a chain shirt.
"I am Galandir. Good to see you again, Fern. Welcome, Xuan and Skajja."
He begins by asking around about recent events.
Not the greatest at such investigations, he is fortunate enough to come up with some information.
He shares his findings.
"Something is up.
People have been complaining that the local bread and water taste funny today.
A strange fog rising in the Flotsam Graveyard and at sea beyond the bay. Maybe even ships in the fog.
I don't know what it is, but we should be on our toes."
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A red-haired half-elf wearing a shiny new breastplate power walks past the group. On her body you can see an assortment of weapons: a light crossbow with bolts, a scimitar, a kukri, a dagger, a sap, a morningstar and a spiked gauntlet. After ten seconds she stops and musters the groups of pathfinders around her, then turns around and checks your group.
Ah. Looks like I already passed the meeting point.
She quickly walks back to you and extends a hand to everyone.
"Hi. I'm Cordula."
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Cordula returns from the tasks and missions, hanging her head in shame.
I was more in the way then helping! And I didn't gather any new information on my own, either!
Luckily, there were (and still are) more experienced Pathfinders in her team.
"Thanks for your help with these tasks, fellow Pathfinders. My efforts were completely fruitless. I hope I can make myself more useful on the battlefield!"
She then looks at the potions and projectiles offered and reluctantly chooses the three that might benefit her the most.
"These items will certainly be useful. Thank you again!"
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The bard follows Galandir around but her feeble tired attempts to help fall on deaf tall ears.
But at least provides one useful suggestion regarding the wagon, ”Lift and… pivot! There ya go.” Being helpful seems to invigorate her. Or it’s the second coffee.
Unfortunately while scouting she keeps kicking rocks around, though her small stature at least means they don’t clatter very far.
Succeeding at their previous tasks, the Pathfinders find that they have more tasks to do before the siege.
CATCHING A SPY:
You chase a spy across the rooftops of Absalom, hoping to gain some useful information about the coming attack.
jumping) or Climb:
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DEFENSIVE WARDS:
Your group helps spellcasters set up defensive wards.
Magic Device:
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EVACUATION NOTICE:
Your group must persuade stubborn people to abandon their homes and retreat behind the city walls. This involves traveling into
the neighborhoods of Copperwood, Dawnfoot, Shoreline, and Westerhold outside of Absalom.
new result.
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Fern sighs as the parkouring spy flips and jumps away before slowly climbing down, ”I’ll try to cut him off wherever he is heading.”
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She tries to help after commenting, ”Magic is in our blood. I usually just have to look at an aura and it makes sense…”
”…and that doesn’t make ANY sense.”
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A shrill voice calls out from the streets, ”Get your asses out of this area or so help me I will send you to the gods myself!”
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Cordula tries to assist with the spy catching and with the evacuation of stubborn citizens. She has no clue how to help with the set up of defensive wards. This time, she is way more successful.
"The spy did fall to his death. With his last breath he said that we're no match for the demon-flesh army his liege commands. Also, a symbol resembling a bull’s head was branded on his skin."
"You know, once the people reached the safety of the walls, they regretted their initial stubbornness regarding the evacuation and become thankful."
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Galandir helps in chasing the spy.
He is nimble, even in his armor and shield.
He also tries to wrestle some reluctant citizens out of their homes and into evacuation wagons for transport.
"It's for your own good, quit being so difficult..."
He's quite good at that, too, as he is pretty strong for an elven thief.
But he's garbage at magic. No head for it, and no training.
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A sturdy looking fellow with long dark hair drifts along in the energetic wake of the others. Based on the shadowy circles beneath his eyes, the ornamental tankard that hangs at his belt and the light scent of ale that surrounds him like an aura, you suspect a long night of libation is the cause for his sedate steps.
"Here now, think of the story you'll tell over a mug or three at the alehouse tonight. I bet they'll buy you a round to keep you talking. Won't that be fun? There we are now, heads low and follow me to safety."
The chase is desperate and breathless — through winding alleys and across rain-slicked rooftops near the market square, the group pursues their quarry with everything they have. In the end, the spy's luck runs out before theirs does. He falls, and does not rise again. Yet the chase was not without reward; the dead man's secrets did not die entirely with him, and the group walks away with hard-won intelligence that may yet prove its worth.
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Stubbornness, it turns out, is no match for conviction. The group faces down frightened, defiant citizens —people who would sooner die in their own homes than abandon them— and finds the words to move them anyway. One by one, the holdouts relent, filing at last through the city gates to safety. Once behind the walls, the fear in their eyes gives way to something else: the quiet, grateful recognition that they are still alive to argue about it.
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Zachorius brightens as he greets his comrade in Skald, "Heil, Skajja! Well and merry met indeed." He holds up a finger, prompting her to wait a moment as he snaps a tankard free from his belt and pours from a small ale barrel he pulls from his pack. "Fortification, perhaps? A toast to fair Absalom, long may she stand." He says, offering Skajja the drink.
Zachorius moves with purpose, and the others fall into step behind him. Under his direction while working with the mages of the Grand Lodge, the Pathfinders fan out across the city's most vulnerable points — archways, gate foundations, crumbling sections of wall — weaving protective wards into the very bones of Absalom. Runes flare to life and settle into a quiet, watchful glow, sealing what had been gaps in the city's defenses against whatever darkness is marching across the Cairnlands. When the last ward locks into place, Zachorius surveys the work with a critical eye — and finds nothing wanting.
Absalom stands a little stronger than it did this morning.
Heavy clouds are gathering above Absalom, and the city is tense with anticipation of the coming battle. Suddenly, bright light patterns flash from atop Skyreach. A few minutes later, the sound of an explosion rumbles through the city as an old wooden granary erupts in flames. A little farther away, a stone bridge collapses, dropping a group of soldiers to their deaths. Soon the air is alive with frightened screams, the sound of hurried footsteps, and moments later, the booming blare of a brass horn that rises above the din of a city in chaos. A messenger runs past, shouting: “The horn! Everyone, gather at the Grand Lodge! Let’s go!”
Several agents assist in marshaling Pathfinders as Marcos Farabellus unfurls several maps of Absalom’s districts. Once a crowd has gathered, he straightens to address the assembled Society. “Pathfinders, Absalom is under attack. We have received many reports of undead saboteurs attacking armories, granaries, water supplies, and guard outposts—targeted strikes to undermine our city’s infrastructure. Absalom is losing key resources, and enough people are panicking that it’s difficult to organize an effective defense.”
Zarta Dralneen, head of the Dark Archive faction, steps forward and interjects. “I have learned someone—someone who knows our home well—has stolen the Black Echelon codebook from our archives. A force of Taldan agents attacked Absalom long ago while following those encoded orders, and with the right combination of illuminated signals, one could draw these oathsworn operatives from beyond the grave to continue their attack.”
Farabellus narrows his eyes. “That explains the acts of sabotage. Absalom’s First Guard is struggling to restore order, and they need our help. Pathfinders, stand by for instructions!”
Ollysta Zadrian of the Silver Crusade raises her sword high, announcing, “We must not wait—Absalom needs us now!”
Clasping the paladin’s other hand with her own and raising it, Lady Gloriana Morilla adds, “Each of us has accumulated considerable influence and resources in recent years, and now is the time for us to lend Absalom our strength in its hour of need. We may call ourselves factions, but today we act as one!”
Nodding with approval, Marcos Farabellus calls out to the assembled Pathfinders. “It’s decided. Pathfinders, we’re deferring to the specialized expertise of these seven organizations to rally Absalom. Seek out the leaders for instructions, and make the city proud.”
It has been decided. The factions of the Pathfinder Society will coordinate the Society’s efforts to help Absalom survive from the attack. Each faction has identified a task ideally suited to its strengths and its agents’ skills, so choose your missions wisely. Most of you are best equipped to serve the needs of your own factions, but there are considerable opportunities to help Absalom by assisting other factions directly. Now is not a good time to be selfish—you’re all in this together!
DEATH DEALERS’ GAMBIT (THE EXCHANGE)
Trade Prince Aaqir al'Hakam stands at the center of the room, eyes fixed on a missive in his hands. Behind him, Guaril Karela reads over his shoulder, the Varisian entrepreneur's expression unreadable. As you enter, al'Hakam looks up and turns his attention to you.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent acts of sabotage. Among the undead saboteurs’ first targets was one of the First Guards’ main armories, and without proper equipment, Absalom’s defenders are at a disadvantage. I’ve identified the best source of replacements for the Siege Lord: the city’s arms dealers, who have proven quite unhelpful. According to our informants, many weapon merchants are meeting in secret, planning to hide their wares so that they can sell them at usurious prices. The Siege Lord has deputized us to free up those weapons for use, and I want you to see that it happens. I’ll let you decide whether you want to negotiate with them or cow them into following the Siege Lord’s orders and accepting his compensation.”
Guaril Karela chimes in. “We have a document here that proves you have the Siege Lord’s backing. What my colleague has not mentioned is that this parchment also authorizes you to kick in the door and seize the wares if necessary—a practice that is more becoming of common thieves, which,” he clears his throat suggestively, “is a practice of which no court would ever find us guilty. Thankfully we have the city’s blessing. In the interest of maintaining our neighbors’ ongoing goodwill, though, avoid destroying the merchandise or harming witnesses.”
Aaqir al’Hakam shoots Guaril Karela a concerned look, to which the Varisian amends, “Or bystanders,” before mischievously curling his moustache around one finger.
Guaril Karela hands you a folded document and leans in to give you directions to a clandestine meeting of merchants currently underway in the Docks district.
The document is an official purchase order, bearing the Siege Lord's authority. It offers a fair price for a large quantity of weapons needed for the city's defense — and makes clear that if the sellers refuse, Absalom is authorized to seize what it needs by force.
The meeting is being held in a lavishly decorated house near the docks. Inside, a heated argument is already in progress — merchants squabbling over a scheme to hide their stock and drive up prices while the city prepares for siege.
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Zac seems somewhat appalled by the whole situation. "They would deny arms to their own defenders? For the sake of price gouging? One may not spend coin from the bellies of an undead horde... Surely they have not thought this through. We will just explain, yes?"
When they arrive, Zachorius prays for guidance over all the party and greets the merchants with a smile and freely offers libation and the blessings of the Lucky Drunk. "Tell me, what are your plans for after the siege breaks? You must be quite confident of our victory this day to sit here on a cache of weaponry while the First Guards stand unarmed. Perhaps you have some ambition that the Society can further?
"While we appreciate your faith in Absalom's guardians. We must appeal to your good sense. There are undead and demons out there, my friends. Help us to help you. We will stand between you and them but your defenders need these arms to hold the evil outside the gates."
ARMS DEALERS’ MEETING (THE EXCHANGE)
You slip inside and find a room full of nervous, arguing merchants — bolts of tension running high as coin purses. At the head of the table, the ringleader silences the room as you enter, eyes narrowing. "You have something to say? Then say it. You have our attention — for now."
ARMS DEALERS’ MEETING (THE EXCHANGE)
The ringleader watches Zachorius with the careful eyes of a man who has survived a lifetime of bad deals and worse partners. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to remind everyone in the room who holds the cards — then accepts the offered cup with a slow, deliberate nod.
"The Lucky Drunk, is it," he says, more to himself than anyone else. He takes a long drink, sets the cup down, and leans back in his chair. "I'll admit, priest — you're not what I expected them to send."
He rises slowly, cup in hand, and begins to pace the length of the table — eyes moving deliberately from face to face among the other Pathfinders.
"Your friend makes a compelling case. Demons. Undead. The gates. Yes, yes." He waves a hand, not dismissively, but thoughtfully. "But I've heard pretty words before, and I've watched pretty words get people killed."
He stops and turns to face the group squarely.
"So I'll ask the rest of you, since your priest here has said his piece. Convince me. Any of you." His gaze settles on the nearest Pathfinder, cool and appraising. "Why should I trust that Absalom is worth the cost of my stock? Give me something I can believe."
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The gnome steps up and begins speaking, ”Absalom is home to all sorts of peoples. Those at the top and those at the bottom like me. I expect you all are somewhere in the middle. But the point of this city isn’t that we all coexist or live together or face the challenge together. It’s that this city gives an opportunity to anyone willing to take it. And you have a chance right now to put your mark on the city, nay, the whole region. You miss this chance… there may not be another like it.”
The ringleader had been watching the gnome with the particular wariness of a man who has been fooled before by someone he underestimated. Small. Scruffy. Half asleep, by the look of her.
But when she speaks, the room goes quiet.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead he turns the cup slowly in his hands, staring into it like the dregs might tell him something useful. Around the table, a few of the other merchants exchange glances — the kind that mean she has a point and we all know it.
"Put our mark on the city," he repeats quietly, tasting the words.
He looks up at Fern with something new behind his eyes. Not warmth exactly — but recognition. The look of one opportunist sizing up another.
"You know what I like about you?" he says, almost to himself. "You didn't come in here and tell me it was my duty. You didn't wave that document in my face and talk about honor." A short, genuine laugh escapes him. "You talked about opportunity. In my language."
He sets the cup down and straightens, scanning the rest of his associates with a calculating eye.
"Keep talking, Pathfinders. I'm not sold yet," a faint smile crosses his face "but I'm listening a lot harder than I was."