Acre's page

"Hopefully we will be seeing you again shortly, Doctor Aparna. Perhaps a few days from now..." the halfling waves goodbye to the odd companion, but still not having developed a particularly close bond with the samsaran, refrains from embracing him. "That is, assuming we can find a way befriend this Elyas without too much incident. You remain here, and we'll be sure to tell you all that happened upon our return."

Turning to her companions, "I'm in agreement that it's best to start by making contact with Elyas," she begins. "But based on what we've heard, I still don't know how we will actually go about befriending him."

"For lack of a better plan, not knowing anything we can use to ingratiate ourselves..." she says with a sigh. "We may simply have to travel to his side of the mountain and then see what he has in store for us, and how he reacts to our presence."

"Play it by ear, as it were."

I do have a poster of Samwise Gamgee on my bedroom wall. But its got this weird factory defect because the image has the lips worn off...

Though sometimes I look at it longingly, wishing I was Frodo.

Frodo: I need you on my side.

Sam: I'm on your side, Mr Frodo.
Frodo: I know you are, Sam.

Planning to crash a party...

When the group has some time to themselves, the halfling gathers the others around her. Producing a large sheet of parchment and a quill with ink from her bag, she nods to a nearby table, an unspoken request for Benaiah to clear its contents and make room. Once a wide enough space is revealed on the surface, Gwendolyn unrolls the parchment with one flick of her wrist, the sheet unrolling itself as it skitters and bounces across the table. Using a few empty bottles from Benaiah's already consumed concoctions, the corners of the paper are secured and the halfling sets to quickly sketching.

A large blocky shape begins to form, roughly the shape of capital 'A', only with its top-most peak severely flattened.

"This..." she begins, nodding to the rouch sketch. "Is the Versade Villa. Here's what I know so far from paying vagabonds, roustabouts, and street urchins for information on the place..."

Feel free to listen to this (to set the mood) as you read the next section: heist planning theme music

Along the underside of the shape, basically what would be up inside the crotch of the 'A', the halfling quickly scrawls a few stars. "This is the entrance to the Villa. I'd expect four bouncers at the door..." she begins, then adds one final star-shape which is much larger than the rest. "And their captain to also be stationed here, probably checking invitations. This captain, he's a tough son of a b~%&*, named Dalton, so please don't fool yourselves into thinking we should fight him at any cost."

"Now," she continues, pointing to both the left and right sides of the structure as drawn. "On both the west and east side of the house there will be four guards patrolling. They'll be split into teams of two. Each of their loops will take about two minutes to walk. And I mean two minutes tops. So that leaves a maximum open window of one minute before their patrol covers the same ground again."

"Next, on the north side of the Villa," Gwendolyn now motions toward the flattened peak of the 'A' shaped structure on the parchment. "Along the north edge of the building there will also be two guards on patrol, but... their path should take them about five minutes to complete a circuit. This means even if they split up, there is a worst case open window of two and half minutes. And best case scenario... closer to five minutes."

"One trouble point, though, I don't know if there are any points of ingress near the ground level... So, if we chose a stealthy approach, we may have to scale up and enter the building through the top. Plus, even though their rounds may take them a bit to complete, I'm not sure what cover is offered that close to the house to hide within or behind..."

"Lastly, the Versade Villa seems to be divided into about seven wings... and I'm sorry to say I don't yet know in which wing the party will be taking place, or if its the spread throughout the entire villa."

"As my little, flighty birds see more and report back, I'll let you know..."

Now, with the Mouth...

The halfling stirs in her bed, hearing movement about the room, near the shutters, but does not at first see the changing light. As the morning begins to brighten the room, and Arimar responds to the newcomer from the doorway, she withdraws the covers hiding her frame, unluckily timed so that she cannot help but take her eyes from the uncouth act of Benaiah relieving himself into the pot. As the time seems to stretch on and on, the towering form of Benaiah still releasing his stores into the chamber pot, Gwendolyn takes a moment the pat down her hair and rub the sleep from her eyes.

As the conversation continues to over and over reference the nearly mythic Collector, the halfling cannot help expressing a pleased and knowing smile. Her thoughts drift off for a moment while the others continue, imaging what it would be like to meet such a being. She had so many questions for the Collector, so many things that even now ate away at her for the not knowing.

Why hire an orginization as expensive and complex as the Conservatory, so that you might have a someone wrangle the wills of a random, unimportant halfling in the Shackles? That was my first assignment, graduating and being sent to Slipcove, with the sole purpose of making a seemingly unimportant lute player fall in love with me, and then to somehow convince him to join up with a ship's crew headed for the Eye... But why? Why waste so much time and effort on someone who was neither strong, nor skilled in magic, or a fighter of note... She thinks these questions to herself and fantasizes for the briefest of moments as to what the answers coming from the Collector might be.

Now her countenance softens, even replacing the smile with a look fully of sadness. Oh Wrigley, I wish your carefree heart and willingness to accept adventure in the name of love had not swayed my heart... I never told you how I truly felt about you, and now your lost forever, and soon to be sailing into a perpetual hurricane from which no one ever had a hope of returning...

But for what?!

Why did I let the Collector, and the Conservatory, control my own free will, and allow me to convince an innocent and lovely halfling to presumably sail to his death? Gwendolyn laments the thought and looks up, speechless.

One day, I will find the Collector... and I will know why...

Just before the companions leave the bedroom where Keoki lays...

"Fast freinds,"Keoki utters in his normal manner of speech, his own voice having returned. The spirit that had only a short time ago seeped into every corner of his being, even subtly changing his features and mannerisms, now showed no sign of holding any sway over the tribesman.

"This one be feeling like he soon take the long... dark nap," he speaks slowly, the words beginning to fall out of him half pronounced and broken. "You all be fast friends of this one. Great thanks on each of you..."

Reaching up with one arm, the tattoed man can barely move the limb, but manages to signal the towering form of Benaiah. "Big man with many scars, this one be having request of you," he begins, but pauses briefly to suppress a fit of coughing, and then winces in pain at the effort. "One day... you please be going to Enya. To Keoki own home island. This one ask you am find Akikonu, great king of Fifty Father's Throne. You, Big Man with Many Scars, you find king of Enya and you beat him in fight. Tell him, Keoki be sending you." For a moment the tribesman looks off, his eyes glancing away from contact with the others, and for a moment it seems as though the tribesman is holding back tears, and perhaps does fear the long, dark nap ahead of him.

"This one be hearing Akikonu calling. Be hearing father. He calling this one home... on a journey that never again happen," there is now a glistening in corners of tattooed man's eyes just now. "This one am letting Akikonu down. This one never return upon Enya. Never being king..."

"You, Big Man with Many Scars, you am doing this for Keoki. You were to be advisor... but Keoki be taking long, dark nap... You go and being king for Keoki."

The tribesman now lays motionless for a few moments, and breathes raggedly, seeming to struggle at the simple task of drawing breath. "Friend, Arimar," he now begins, his voice now fainter than it had been moments before. "Your time be coming. Wait. Being patient. You be the one to lead big man with many scars," the tattooed man looks deeply at Arimar now, and their eyes are locked. It is clear to the aasimar that Keoki means- When the time comes for big man with many scars to die, you should be the one to raise him and control him.

"You stronger than Keoki... you be having more magic..." the tribesman speaks softly, and his tone is filled with honesty and kindness toward the necromancer. "You earn... be deserving... control over big man with many scars..."

"Use him if needing be for you to sit on Fifty Father's Throne..." a small smile creeps across the tribesman's lips as he looks upon the necromancer.

Now, at last, the tribesman turns to face Malgrim. "Friend, Malgrim," he says, still maintaining the smile. "You be having biggest request. Most important request to this one..."

"This one be asking you to honor me," he states calmly. "Keoki be moving toward them long, dark nap. Me be gone soon. From world. From life. But This one be asking you am honor me when me am gone."

"You know what Keoki be asking of you," his voice is now deadly serious. "You may be then carrying some spot of this one with you always."

At this, the last bit of strength the tattooed man struggled to keep at last gives out, and he falls fast asleep. His skin is pale and looks on the verge of death as others shuffle from the room.

Beyond the brink...

The powerful arm of the king stretches down to rest upon Keoki's shoulder, and the child glances up to see his father looking down with a smile. The pair strides beneath the reaching boughs of the jungle around them, the air exceedingly hot, stagnant, and so thick with humidity that it seemed to have its own weight. At least the overlapping canopy of thick, green leaves yawned and sprawled above them, creating some much appreciated shade.

"One day, son," Akikonu, the mighty and powerful king spoke to his child, his voice was deep and rumbling. Their words if heard by any civilized people would have been considered oddly disjointed with what seemed random changes in inflection and pitch, and always punctuated by many pregnant pauses. "You will rule this land. But you are not ready. Not yet. There is much more of this world that you must know of. Many dangers you must face. And much help to gather."

"You cannot hope to rule, justly and honorably, without help," Akikonu paused then as the two came upon a clearing. Ahead a cluster of native Enyans worked to carve out a particularly slender trunk into what would become a sleek canoe. Nearby to these workers, another group was set to mixing a paste of some kind, and peeking above the edges of earthen jar was a liquid gleaming scarlet in the sun that would soon paint the vessel. "You will go now and this will carry you far from here."

"You have already collected two of those who will advise you. The tian thief and the chelish ship captain. But you must find more,"

"Always keep a weather-eye open for the strongest, most knowledgeable, and most charismatic people you can. I find that varisians taste the best, but you will find out for yourself where your tastes fall."

"When your journey is over and you have found your champions... your advisors. I pray you will return to me."

"Only then can we fight to the death to see if you are worthy to sit upon the Fifty Father's Throne..."

Now...

The tribesman opens his eyes with a start as the healing magic rushes into him and surges to every corner of his body. He can feel the very essence of life flowing into him where once the cold, tightening grip of death held fast.

I find it hard to believe this man is a follower of Sarenrae... Keoki thinks, continuing to let Arimar exchange words with the would-be-stranger. There were so many questions rolling around in his mind, each thought sharpened and honed by the guiding presence of Lady Gwendolyn Warwick, bringing focus and clarity to his usual internal meanderings.

"But when you thwarted us, well some felt that you should be dealt swift justice. And they hired the hadozee. But not me. I knew you where just ignorant. I can give them to you, for revenge."

A follower of Sarenrae offering up members of his own faith to Arimar for revenge... Keoki's sharp-reading eyes stare ahead at Ahriman, sizing up the man, questioning his motivations and intentions.

Turning now the stoic tribesman looks to Arimar, at last registering the man's words about raising his friends as mindless, or even mindful, undead. Arimar might be surprised... when it comes to it... if this one first honors Arimar and brings him back to Enya as an advisor.

I made the same mistake of thinking of could best this cannibal... and now I'm stuck here, forced to haunt this tattoed body when called upon, the woman's voice laments from within Keoki's head, as an automated and unthinking smirk parts the cannibal's lips.

The tribesman watches the exchange between Arimar and Mistress Lanvi with interest, beholding the dance of two exchanging threatening words, veiled secrets, and impassioned retorts.

Perhaps these two be in love, the tattooed man thinks, watching the aasimar and Mistress Lanvi leaning in ever closer while exchanging heated words filled with restrained rage yet latent pleas.

"Me not be as invested in either them one Collector or Miss Lanvi," Keoki says at last, but it directed more toward Malgrim and Benaiah than the two exchanging words. He knows better than to interject himself between those two while they are working out their restrained passions. "This one looking for advisors, and either seem can help with such task."

Plus you three... he thinks silently to himself, while looking to Arimar, Benaiah, and Malgrim. Be making good advisors for Enya. Now all me be needing doing is convince you...

The tribesman looks to each of his companions with a knowing smile.

Dropping his supplies nearby to the gathering group of card players, Keoki deftly pulled up a chair, spinning it with a flick of his wrist, causing the twirling chair to sit backward against the table. Straddling the seat-back, the tribesman leaned forward, resting his elbows confidently upon the table.

"Deal me in you pale terror," the tattooed man jokes with Arimar, holding out his hand expectantly. There is a strangeness that cannot be suppressed at seeing a genuine kuru tribesman, tattooed and muscular, but superimposed with such feminine features. Even Keoki's voice was set just higher in pitch and held an almost disturbingly tender quality. "It's been ages and ages since I've tried my luck at cards."

Reaching into his bag, Keoki pulls free a hand full of coins and piles them upon the table. "Let's see what luck you boys have," he laughs, smiling at the others.

Being in a tavern, Keoki has performed a seance to call up his trickster spirit. In doing so, he now has the profession(gambler) skill at max ranks. Also, he's inhabited by the spirit of Scarlet Shiv Rai, a (female) rogue from tian xia :0

Inside the Trotting Unicorn, as Arimar begins to setup a card table, the tattooed man also moves quietly to a table of his own. After a moment of bustling, he unloads his belongings, piling them, one atop another, at his feet. Using the still sheathed katana, he brushes aside a small candle sat in the center of the table. His tattooed body, strewn with many black geometric glyphs, reinforces the oddity of the foreign and exquisite blade held by what seems no more than a savage.

Hailing a nearby barmaid, the tribesman asks for a cook-pan to be brought to him, the hotter the better, requesting it still glowing red from the ovens of the tavern. At his feet he fumbles through is belongings and pull a small wrapping of cloth. From within the folds, the tribesman pull free a square-shaped morsel of dried and preserved meat, no more than an inch square. With the desiccated piece of meat sat before him on the table, he lays both palms flat and closes his eyes.

Seconds stretch into minutes, gathering to become nearly an hour. At some point, the tribesman had begun mumbling to himself, though to those around him, it was unclear when exactly this had begun, the sound never having grown to more than a faint whisper. He did not form words exactly, at least not that any nearby could understand, but there still was a hint of intelligence and structure to the ramblings.

As Koeki sat meditating, it was no surprise that most within the Trotting Unicorn gave this odd stranger a wide birth.

After an hour, the tattooed man opened his eyes to see a scalding pan resting upon a plentifully-high pile of cloth, securing the red hot dish from marring the table upon which it sat. When the utensil had been brought to him the tribesman didn't rightly know, but he smirked at its proximity to his resting hands and was grateful he had moved not an inch and inadvertently saved himself from a cruel set of burns.

In his periphery, he could now see the towering form of Benaiah leaning in to watch the ritual, and the tribesman began to speak as he first doused the pan with a few glugs of oil before dropping in the morsel, as well.

"Me be saying before that Enya have gold mines and shiny jewels, hiding away in winding caves. They tunnel through much of me father's lands," he begins, though does not look to benaiah, for whom the words were obviously meant. As the meat sears upon contact with the dish, a wafting, sweet aroma rises into the air.

"There be people that come upon Enya, wanting treasures for them own-selves. Them even raid resting places of Keoki's family. Even them which have sit on Fifty Father's Throne," with his bare hand he reaches in and flips the searing meat, releasing it before any lasting damage is done to his fingertips.

"Once," the tribesman says, pausing to inhale through is nose, letting the mouthwatering smell fill his senses. "Keoki trap such robber. She tian. She fight bravely. She worthy foe."

"But in end, she lose. And like me be saying before, this one sometime have troubles resisting blood queen's gift," he says, his eyes staring at morsel that is now properly seared. "To honor her, Keoki carry some 'dis thief with him on his travels..."

In one quick motion he reaches into the pan once more, plucks the seared meat free, and moves it to his mouth.

I said usually. Hell, with the way my dice were rolling, I couldn't even challenge you all. Of course, you were playing at an APL of almost 9 in a 7-11, so that should have been expected. :P

It would have been even easier if Steve's toon had flipping pulled his own weight in combat.

Seriously, learn how to make an optimized character, Steve :0

Nodding to Arimar's words, the tattoed man looks on in awe at the vast stores of knowledge and intellect of his strange new friends. As the aasimar continues, Keoki smiles warmly and welcomes the lessons. Being sure not to interrupt and lose any focus on what is said, he rallies his concentration, even still it is difficult for the tribesman to fully grasp what is being talked about. There was still so much history he did not know.

"...At least tell me you've heard of the Last Azlanti!"

"Azlanti..." Keoki begins, prouncing words awkwardly as if the words were almost alien to him. "Me thinks so. Though not know about them in past. How they was. Maybe they was great, once," he adds honestly, seeming not to notice, or perhaps acknowledge, Benaiah's endearing replication of his manner of speaking. "But in Enya, we not dealing with them as they was... but deal with them as they be now... Mighty tumble from grace..."

"Is it be your people call them gillman?" he asks, wondering if they are speaking of the same race.

"You really don't know any of this, do you? Where do you hail from?"

Taking a moment to think, the tribesman contemplated as his eyes drift away from contact and toward thoughts of his home. "Keoki be coming from the Aeyio sea," he begins, saying the odd name in some form of a native, tribal language, then turning and pointing south-west, as if his finger traced an arcing path over many miles, kingdoms, and landmarks, somewhere off beyond the distant horizon to some unfathomably far flung vista. "It be the Womb of the World. A source of life. Teeming is with creatures, men, and gods. Flowing over with possibilities and dangers."

"You be calling it, the shack-les," he then pronounces the name with exceedingly hard consonants, now replicating his impression of their, strange to him, speech.

Keoki then relays to his friends a brief history of his people, the kuru, that had originally come from a massive island, which was named the spine of the world mother, a place from which all life native to this world had originally crawled. North from here was another unimaginably massive island, this named the mantle of the world father. After a few minutes of speaking it was clear the tribesman was simply referring to the very continents of Garund and Avistan, only by the names of his people.

Continuing along further, the tribesman described how his people, the kuru had spread far and wide across the sea, what the invaders and conquerors would later name the shackles. The kuru were a peaceful people, and over the years as sargava was colonized, and the shackles inhabited, these simple, tribal-peoples were forced further and further west.

There was a fear amongst this group of an ancient being from beyond this world, hailing from a place outside. It was what their people called a horla, and it inhabited the westernmost island of the shackles. A place they dared not tread. In the end though, these kuru were forced to this place by those flocking to the shackles, and once there, the kuru were never the same.

The kuru became cannibals, driven by the orgiastic frenzies to consume everything, but especially the flesh of intelligent races. This horla, the damned thing that hailed from outside all known spheres within the universe, became known as the blood queen. And this queen gifted upon her unwilling, but powerless subjects, the malign indifference of utter freedom. The kuru were made to be like their queen in their lustful urges; free and wild and beyond good and evil, with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and reveling in joy.

But how had Keoki escaped this fate? He mused the question to them. It was not through the clashing of mighty armies or battles of good versus evil, he explained. His home was simply small enough to be overlooked by those that conquered the shackles. And, he further explained with an eerily hungry sparkle in his eyes, the call of the blood queen was not totally lost on him and his people. The people of Enya grappled with the same urges, wanting all of Golarion to flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom. He and his people were simply born far enough from the source so as to not to receive all of the horla's devouring will, and so, most of the time, could manage to restrain their cravings.

The child sits in a slump, resting on her knees with the pale and motionless body of her elder brother propped against her small frame. Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight had worked feverishly trying to bring Jorvik back from beyond, back from wherever his soul and fled after the onslaught of the monstrosity. She should have been surprised, elated even, when her brother's body had moved and stirred, but she didn't trust what was happening. Aoife couldn't trust that he was coming back, or if he'd even be the same if he did return. Around her, the others had each said their kind words and vows of love, pledging their friendship and respect to the last, and even as Jorvik's body showed another fresh sign of movement his eyes had become different, becoming a shade of blue that seemed to mirror his state of unlife. Her brother seemed between worlds now, maybe lost forever, maybe never to return.

Raising a hand now, the child strokes his face and gazed into the deathly blue orbs that should have been his eyes. "You're gone... somewhere far from here," she mutters to Jorvik. "If this place truly is a dream... I hope you are in someplace better..."

"I have no magic about me," she states, looking at the dirt and grime caked hand brushing the man's face. "I wish I could save you... but I'm too weak... I don't know what to do... If the other's magic and spells could not return you to us, then what can I do..."

Leaning forward now, the child presses her head against his and cries. There isn't much noise that escapes the child, the only real sign of her emotional shattering is the repeated rise and fall of her shoulders as she weeps, letting the hopelessness and darkness swallow her whole.

She had felt something this crippling break before, a feeling that had crushed her soul and changed her outlook forever, and it had happened when she lost another in her life. It was then that Aoife realized just how much this friend, this brother, meant to her. Jorvik's passing was tearing her soul apart just as her father's death had. This thought caused her to weep all the harder.

I'm glad this hurts so much, she confesses to herself. I need to be sad and hurt and lost... because it means our friendship was as meaningful and important to me as anything has ever been. You were Jorvik the Bloodspeaker... You were my friend... You were my brother...

Still stroking his face, the child reaches her other hand to her backpack and fishes around for a moment. Her head rises but her eyes remain locked on Jorvik's. After its fumbling search, Aoife's hand pulls two small crumpled lumps into view. She takes both hands and wipes them on her pants, ungracefully clearing the blood and tears from her skin. Then she uncrumples the flesh colored wads, and begins to mold them and apply one to each of her ears.

Looking back to Jorvik now, the child's ears are pointed, resembling that of her favorite half-elf. She hadn't worn or seen her fake ears since the last time she had presented them to Jorvik.

His words echoed in her mind...

Take these ears back, keep them safe, always remember that Jorvik the Bloodspeaker was your true friend, and always will be...

She stares into his cold eyes, "You were and are my friend. And will be forever..." the words can barely be understood through her crying. "I don't have any magic about me and can make you come back.."

"So I'll just keep asking you," she pleads. "Please come back, Jorvik. Please come back," the now pointy eared child continues to beg.

"Please..."

Even as the thundering foot steps echo off the walls and shake the very floor of the chamber surrounding the Eon pit, Aoife cannot bring her eyes to stray from the form of Jorvik laying still on the ground. Tears still flow down her face, mixing with the dirt and grim caking her cheeks. Sniffing in vain, she cannot stop the streaming tears, not even the booming voice of the eternity-imprissoned giant.

She can barely manage it, but drags her feet along the chamber toward the giant and her companions standing in defiance against it. As she approaches, the towering behemoth brings down his mighty hammer and a moment later her guardian is covered in a coffin of ice.

Still the child drags herself closer, transferring the blade to her off hand, and reaching back with her right. The fingers of the massive gauntlet close, one by one, forming a fist many times too big for a mere child to form. Then, she punches the encasing ice and drives the leather glove through the thick shards. The impact causes a spider web of cracks to propagate outward, encircling the frozen shield that holds Ishbaad.

As a faint popping sound rises from the weakened ice, with each moment showing new and ever spreading cracks, she turns away from the giant. Again her feet carry her, sluggishly and with great effort. Walking step by step, away from the others and away from the giant, the child's muffled and pain-wracked voice can be heard.

"Kill him..." she mutters. "End his prison sentence... His punishment is now death..."

The greatsword then drops from her hands, clanking to the chamber floor as the child continues to walk away from it. Eventually her feet bring her to the still form of Jorvik, and she drops to her knees. With her teeth, she bites down on a few of the leather gauntlet's fingers, and uses her mouth to pull her hand free. After the second is removed, she reaches down and with great, struggling effort manages to scoop her elder brother in her arms.

"I couldn't protect you big brother..." she pulls his head into her chest, and leans her own head against his. "I left you alone when you needed me... It's my fault... I'm afraid I killed you... But you're not here to forgive me... or comfort me anymore... You're gone forever... because of me..."

"You were good... kind... loving..." she continues to mumble quietly, uncaring to what is happening behind her.

"If you're gone... I don't want to go on..."

If you're gone... I'll find a way to wake myself up...

The child sees the brutal onslaught brought down upon her elder brother, and she cannot help from crying out in agony and thrusting an outstretched hand in a futile attempt to reach him. "Jorvik, nooooo!" her shout echoes off the chamber walls, funneling down and reverberating its way back up the dreaded eon pit. Tears are already in her eyes as she takes one labored step forward and can do naught but release a pathetic whimper.

It's only a dream. It's only a dream, she chants to herself forming a mantra that does little to reassure the child. He can't die in a dream. He will just wake up. The real Jorvik, I've never even met him. He's safe somewhere... far from here.

This can't be true. He can't be dead, she continues her silent chant to herself. As her eyes fall upon the pitiful form of her her elder brother the tears begin to flow fully, running down her face as the massive sword in hand nearly falls from her grasp.

He can't be...

With one arm she wipes her face and takes a deep breath, feeling the feuling anger bolster her resolve and turns her sadness into a desperate want for vengeance. Her grip retightens on the blade and before she knows it, her legs are carrying her swiftly for the beast. It's towering form yawns above her own tiny frame. It could kill her, she didn't care any longer. If it was all a dream and this demon could help her awake at last. If this wasn't all a dream, and she died for real, she didn't care either. She did want to go on living if her brother was truly gone. He meant too much to her now.

All that mattered was that this thing perish with her.

Releasing a terrible scream of her own, the child crosses the last few steps to the beast, waiting for its blows to rain down upon her, and then she swings with all her strength for its belly.

Though the demon towers before her, her eyes only see Jorvik kneeling before her, and smiling, with a hand resting lovingly on her shoulder.

Free Action: Enter Rage
Move Action: move 40-feet, ending next to Vsevilod (presumably drawing AoO for moving through threatened area)
Standard Action: Attack w/ +1 cold iron fey bane greatsword w/ power attack and weapon focus

Attack (+2 fey bane, +1 weapon focus): 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (20) + 18 = 38
Damage: 1d10 + 16 + 2 + 2d6 ⇒ (7) + 16 + 2 + (6, 5) = 36

Possible critical. For Jorvik.

Attack (+2 fey bane, +1 weapon focus): 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (15) + 18 = 33
Damage: 1d10 + 16 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 16 + 2 = 21

The child recoils away from the dissembodied voice rising from within the strange bottle. She is hearing the voice that is warm, inviting and kind, but her mind reels in disbelief. "That is really... her?" she asks aloud, as the sound of her own voice trails off. "That is really... Baba Yaga..." There is an underpinning of awe held steady in her tone, as if the words falling upon her ears cannot be truly real.

They had travelled so long, and so far, even venturing between entire worlds. Now, to her astonishment, the very voice of the woman, or god, or whatever she was, they had been searching for was speaking to them directly. Even with everything they had seen and experienced to reach this point, hear the true voice of Baba Yaga did not seem real.

"It makes more sense to me now," she says, the awe and wonder at hearing Baba Yaga still clearly evident in her words. "She foresaw what would happen... She is the one who set the keys for us to find... She knew we would come... Knew what would happen... Set us upon the path..."

Again the child could feel the chains of fate weighing heavily upon her, once more coming at a time when she felt they had overcome impossible odds of their own free will.

Looking at the potion handed to her by her younger brother, Aoife stares for a moment before speaking. "Thank you, Ice Melts Quietly in the Sunlight," she begins, but then hands the potion back. "But being big and strong is not really me. As far as we've travelled, I've always felt more comfortable being smaller than those we've faced."

The unearthly roar of shattering boulders falling around them sets Aoife's ears to ringing and causes her hands to cup the sides of her head in a motion of instinctual fear and panic. Her eyes shut for a moment, but her feet can still feel the tumultuous thunderclaps of exploding stone and terrible vibrations propagating through her feet and up her legs. Her teeth gnash together as her frame drops slightly, beginning to cower.

Through the darkness now engulfing her, as her eyes shut out sight of the surrounding world, Aoife is surprised to catch a glimpse of something in the gloom. The more she looks, the shifting point of light begins to focus until she is at last looking upon her house nestled atop the small hill beside the rivalwood forest. Through the panes of glass, she even catches the briefest sight of her parents passing from one room to the next.

That is the real world, she thinks, feeling her grip on the sides of her head beginning to loosen. This place is the dream... it has to be...

I'm asleep there, in my bed, her thoughts continue. ... and if I die here, I'll wake up at last.

You can't truly die in a dream...

The child's eyes shoot open as her small frame bounds across the room, following a few paces behind the form of her guardian. As she moves, one of Jorvik's arrows whistles through air overheard, and Aoife keeps herself crouched low as her hands pull Eternity's End from her back.

Looking up she sees an arrow jutting from its chest, and then the same giant topple to the ground after a precise swing from her uncle's blade. The beast is not dead, however. As it remains doubled over, resting one knee on the ground, and one arm braces its weight while the other fumbles stupidly with the arrow lodged in its gut. The child jumps up and bounds off the creature's outstretched foot and uses her colossal gauntlet to grab hold of its tattered clothing to pull herself fully onto its back. As the giant reacts to feeling something scurry across its body, Aoife can feel the thing stir beneath her.

Starting to stumble as the giant tries to stand once more, the child skids to stop on its back, hoping she is just above where its heart should be, that is... if it has heart, then drives the blade straight-down through its rough, hardened skin.

With Jadrenka...

"Vengeance does the heart good," Jadrenka puts a hand on Aoife's shoulder, "But do not let it blind you to your surroundings." The warden of Artrosa taps on the reverse side of the card, where the indecipherable symbols are written there. This time, though, they seem a little more familiar. Like she's seen them before now, but since the last time she looked at the card.

Turning her gaze to follow the form of Jadrenka's long, slender finger, Aoife watches as the woman taps upon the unknown glyphs scrawled onto the back of the tattered harrow card. The child had carried the Queen Mother for so long, ever since Madam Enfer had read their fortune's so mysteriously and so long ago, and Aoife had even raised up this very piece of fraying parchment countless times for everyone to see. Yet, the youth had forgotten the harrow card, as alien and mysterious as its purpose was, still had one further secret to tell. The indecipherable symbols, plainly inked with care on the back-face of the card had not been there when Madam Enfer first read their fortunes, but later, the first time Aoife had taken the time to examine her treasure after fleeing Heldren with the prize had revealed those odd, foreign symbols that did seem entirely of their world. The thought sent a shiver racing across her body, wondering if the fortune teller had known Aoife would return to steal the trinket, had even allowed the child take it. Had Madam Enfer put ink to paper and revealed yet another glimpse at fate's design for her and her family?

It seemed hard to believe that fate could still govern their actions any longer, those having stood against unbeatable odds, stoked the fires of rebellion, and fled across the vast gulfs between worlds. Yet, they almost seemed a slave to the design at all time, their chains becoming evident just when they thought their actions were their own. Their lives seemed the paradoxical meeting of the threads of fate, as if invisible, ethereal tendrils tethered them all to fate's grand tapestry, but the child was unsure if she, and her companions, were the source of its weaving or unraveling.

Later...

"Kuragin!" she cries, running to the witches side. Behind her the towering form of Ishbaad wrenches upon the beast, but Aoife does not hear the sound of its spine cracking into pieces as she dives upon her friend. Squeezing the man tightly, Aoife looks him over and holds her gloved-hands upon the wound. "You'll be ok," she says, trying to comfort him. "I won't let anything happen to you..."

She stays with Kuragin, following closely at his side to be sure he indeed alright, and so is very close when the man examines the runes some time later. Within the bowl nearby, Aoife watches as the witch looks upon the four small wooden figures, and reaches in for herself to grab the form of the maiden, sitting but looking upward.

"She was looking at the crescent moon," Aoife adds, now holding the figure in her massive gauntlet, and referring to the last time they saw these images. In her other hand, the small key gifted by Jadrenka is still clasped tightly. "Though... I don't know what that means for us or what we should do."

She holds the key up for the others to see, but does not know of the lock which it opens.

"Please, wake up from her spell," Aoife's voice calls to her friends. There is an odd resoluteness backing the youth's words that she has not been known possess as of late.

Lifting her blade, Aoife looks over the sharp edge at the bloody smear still spread over the length of the cold iron. For a few moments she stares at the remnants of the thing's life force that even now drips in slow, ghastly clumps from the weapon, then moves her glance to the unmoving form at her feet, and lastly looking to the garishly colored lump a few yards away. With an exaggerated motion the child swings the blade fully around herself in large arc, causing Eternity's End to whistle slightly as it passes through the air before each of her companions.

Each of the men is speckled with a fine mist, the remains of an arterial spray that coats the blade. The blood flies free in the form of a thousand tiny droplets and rains down accusingly upon her male companions.

"She meant to hurt you," she states, watching as Ishbaad still fumbles with is breeches. "Or worse..."

"None of you are allowed to get hurt," she adds at last, her tone now softening. "I don't know what I would do if any of you left me."

A child's perspective...

Tighearnán's arms wrap around the child, encircling her within a protective barrier that no evil or hurt could pass. In her mind, there was a dull roar that thundered in the distance, but subdued and dulled, rolling in the background like a steady moan from the ether. The sound shifted and rose in pitch until it was her father's own voice, struggling and exclaiming with mock effort that he was squeezing her as tightly as his arms would allow. Then Tighearnán took Aoife and shook her lovingly, nearly spinning her full-circle within his arms, though to the child it almost felt as a jarring vibration that propagated through his grasp and into her.

A moment later it was as if her eyes opened suddenly after a long sleep. She could see the chamber surrounding her, and the collosal, twisted tree and her companions battling to save the creature tangled fast in its writhing roots and branches.

It took a moment of standing dumbfounded before Aoife realized she must still be sleeping. Her father would be waiting for her when she awoke next. Her mother too would be there, just down the hall from her bedroom. She would just need to pass through this strange dream first.

And what a strange dream it was. Traveling through space to different dimensions. Phasing between different planes of existence. Fighting witches, and witch queens. Slaying trolls and angering dragons. Leading rebellions and losing the one thing she loved the most. But was as meaningful in this dream was being brought into a group of uncanny friends that were beyond trustworthy, loving, and reliable... they were family.

The tree burst into a halo of fire, and Aoife stared at the odd, winged and webbed creature standing before it. The goblin was speaking to the thing in a language she did not understand, and their words were fluid and lyrical.

It was then that Aoife finally realized the truth and gracious gift the hut had given her. This place and this life, with the companions that had become family, was not real. Baba Yaga's hut had shown her a glimpse of her true life and allowed her gaze to pierce through the invisible and perfectly hidden walls of sleep that mimicked a real world, where she watched and again saw her life in the small house sat upon the hill in the middle of the forest. Her real life was with her mother and father, and she was asleep in that place at this very moment. Here, in some distant and ancient prison that both existed and didn't exist at the same time, was only the dream of a child, and she knew she would wake from it eventually. Why the dream had lasted this long, she could not tell. Maybe there was something which kept her from waking. But whatever the reason, she would figure it out in time. What was important to her was realizing at last what was truly real.

With a smirk spreading across her face, Aoife realized she was right after all. There was a link between where her parents were and this place. It was not the forest, like she originally thought, it was the hut. Somehow, she would find a way to use the hut to either wake from this dream or escape the confines of this reality and find her parents waiting for her in that house on the small hill.

Stepping forward, Aoife can feel the soft, spongy texture of the floor beneath her feet. Each steps brings her closer, bit by bit, toward the base of the tree. One at a time she grabs each cuff of the gauntlets, and gives them a pull to ensure they are seated as tight as possible, as she knows she will soon need to dig hastily through the roots.

It is there, I know it is, she thinks, looking on and tilting her head curiously to the side. She cannot help the crooked smile which has begun to spread, reaching wide across her face. It will all be over soon. I will finally be at peace. Just a moments worth of digging, and I will be whole again.

It's just like digging in mom's garden... from my second childhood. At the base of the trees near sunderglen creek, with Toad watching, Aoife's mind races at the pleasant thoughts filling her mind as she continues to step forward.

I can't wait to see them again...

As the hut shakes, tossing Aoife about the interior of the room, she watches as Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight manipulates the egg. With each of his motions upon the egg the hut responds accordingly, shuttering and causing all manner of items about the room to topple and crash down around the child.

Taking a few steps forward, closer to the table, she watches as her eye-line is no longer level with its flat surface, and that she was continues to drop shrink beneath it. She takes a few quick steps forward, already feeling that she has crossed far less of the room than she would have only moments before, and jumps for the table. In the small span of time that she drifted through the air she watched as the room continued to expand.

Where before Aoife would have been able to easily jump upon the table, now she could barely manage to grasp its edge. There she hung, her legs dangling many feet above the floor of the room. No, wait, she thinks, looking past her boots at the sheer drops to the planks below. That's impossible...

I should be taller than this... but that drop is bigger than Uncle Ishy's height...

Suddenly, her grip began to slip on the edge of the table, which she knew should not be happening. With her father's gauntlets, she should have the strength to hang for hours without so much as tiring, but as her body slipped, inch by inch toward toppling to the ground she knew this was no longer the case. Looking up now, Aoife could see her arms resting within the enormous gloves. Where once the gauntlets had been colossal, the hem of the cuff coming all the way to her elbow, now the gloves were many times bigger, so large, in fact, that her body could fit wholly inside of either and with room to spare for a horse.

It was then that she realized that as she shrank, or the room grew, the gauntlets were changing with the room and not with her. Her grip was slipping because she was no longer wearing the gloves, but simply hanging her hands inside of them. Her grasp was too small to even clutch the edge of the table, she was grasping at the leather of the gauntlets alone.

"Umm..." she mumbled in a confused tone. "A little help here, please!"

Then she fell, fumbling backward, kicking her legs as she tipped in the air and bouncing painfully off the floor. As her watering eyes looked up through the pain the child caught sight of the gauntlets both falling through the air toward her. As each came down they blanketed her, covering every inch of her body.

The cauldron room, receiving gifts...

Aoife takes the small, intricately carved ring with the scaled dragon wrapped in on itself to create its circular form. At first the child does not say anything and holds the precious bauble before her eyes, taking in the wonder and exquisite craftsmanship of its making. Through her fingertips she can feel a faint thrumming of latent, eldritch power seeping into her skin that felt like the not unpleasant prickling of static energy. Moving to put the ring on her finger, Aoife found that it was well too big for her small, delicate form and only then realized that she was not wearing her father's gauntlets. She could not remeber taking them off, or even where they were at that moment, as to her it had been years since she had last worn them.

Dropping her pack to the floor, she pulled open the cinched drawstrings and revealed the supple leather gloves crammed unceremoniously into the confined, tightly packed space. Now rising again and replacing her bag, the child stood motionless as if contemplating even putting the gauntlets on once more. After a few moments of deliberation though Aoife slid on each of the colossal gloves, and was again surprised and confused how her hands could manipulate such massively oversized things.

Now the child took the ring and fished the beautiful trinket over the leather finger of the gauntlet, though it was a bit of struggle to fit the almslt now too small piece of jewelry, though eventually the ring was secured snuggly on her glove's index finger. With a slight hesitation the child held up her gloved hand and looked upon her new prize, she even forgot about the frustrations he felt toward her guardian in that moment, and could feel the flow of powerful magics bolstering her strength and resolve.

Next she draws the sword from her back and looks upon the etchings that had previously meant so much to her. In honor of Nadezhda, the words carved into the blade's surface pained her to see, the worth and meaning confused with all that has happened between the child and her mother. There were so many questions she had for her mother, especially after the passing of her beloved father, but she would first have to survive this current undertaking and then perhaps, one day, Aoife could set out to find Nadezhda. When Uncle Ishy had first asked for this carving, Aoife has been overjoyed and was looking forward to proving her worth, the folly in thinking that somehow, some way, her mother would know of her daughter's accomplishments. Now, after reading of her mother's unforgivable acts in the journal, the carving and meaning behind the etchings held little value for Aoife. Though even this fact directly contradicted the loving memories Aoife still held, and remeber as if they were truly real, from her second childhood, and so at all moments her mind grappled with understanding how she actually felt about Nadezhdal.

Taking hold of the magical greatsword, sized perfectly for her, the child's eyes were wide with wonder at the blade. She carefully moved the blade through air, in slow arcs simulating swings, and then looked back up to her guardian.

"Thank you very much, Uncle Ishy. This means a lot to me," she says, her tone clearly honest and greatful.

"You once told me that all great swords have names..."

"Since I left you all in your time of need, I will do my best to make it up and protest you all in the future." The child thinks of the cat's comments regarding the First Worlders and their imortailty within their native plane, but also that they cannot be trusted. This had left an epic impact on her, fearing for the safety of her now family. It was then that the youth realized this was how she could protect her companions, by using this blade to guard against the fey and their infinite lifetimes, and therefore distorted view of reality and the worth of life.

"I will call it," she says, looking first to Ishbaad and then to the strange, fey newcomers to clearly establish her meaning toward them. "Eternity's End."

In the attic...

The child listens intently to her brother, nodding ever so slightly to Jorvik's loving words. As the man holds out his hands to shake hers, she slaps his palms away and lunges forward to embrace him. She squeezes Jorvik with all her strength, unable to hold back a few welling tears.

"I missed you..." she says the words quietly, her voice cracking and on the verge of failing. Though not intended to be a whisper, this seems to be loudest Aoife is able to speak at that moment. To her own surprise, she finds that she has almost missed another of her companions, in spite of her own brooding anger at him. The child holds the hug longer than her brother expects, almost uncomfortably long, before at last letting go.

Later...

As the others discuss the mysterious First World, Aoife cannot help but think of a memory of her second childhood and that strange forest which sprawled beyond the creek beside their house. Her mother, in that life, had said it was like another world entirely, and crossing that small line of water was as a gateway. There was a brief glimmer of hope within her that she quickly washed away, that maybe this First World was one in the same with the rivalwood forest from her second childhood, and that maybe, just maybe, through the First World she could find her way to the creek and the small house that sat upon the small hill. The house where her parents were waiting for her.

The child does not speak to the odd cat creature, and remains standing very close behind Jorvik. It is clear she is confused about what is happening, in addition to being lost miles within her our twisting, labyrinthine thoughts, which is causing her fragile mind to ache at processing the destruction of one world, returning to another, and next stepping through a gateway to a third.

The child had already travelled far this day, and seemed to have much further to go.

Childhood continued... (#4)

Aoife and her parents stood on the shore of the river amidst the towering, gnarled trunks that twisted over the water. To the child the creek had never seemed to babble, but felt as though it were whispering with great care and measured purpose in an eon-forgotten language that was as old as the world was itself, it was just that people didn't understand its words any longer. Tighearnán shifted his weight, stepping on the scattered, technicolor bed of fallen leaves that blanketed the riverbank and all of the forest floor. Overhead, Aoife's father watched as the thin, leafless branches swayed and shuddered in the cool fall gusts. Beyond the trembling boughs, which seemed to reach upward, finger-like toward the heavens, a thousand pinpoints of light twinkled faintly above in the dark, cloudless sky.

On the opposite side of sunderglen creek every tree in the ancient forest somehow retained their leaves, though all were garishly colored, showing a spectrum of scarlet, yellow, and orange. On their family's side of the water, not one leaf still clung to any branch, the last of which had fallen days before. Tighearnán could never get an exact answer from his wife, but he knew this dealt with the fact that Nadezhda only ever referred to the forest on the opposite side of sunderglen creek as rivalwood. The forest surrounding their house was safe, and simply a woods like any other, but on the opposite of the creek it was another place entirely. The flowing waters of the small river might as well have been the banks of a great, endless ocean. Nadezhda always insisted that while only separated by a few feet, the two halves of this forests were worlds apart.

This was probably also the reason that Nadezhda was insistent that neither Aoife, nor her father, ever cross over the shallow water and into rivalwood unless she, or toad, was with them. Like an ocean, the ancient forest was safe for though who knew its secrets, and more importantly, held the proper amount of fear of it. But as like an ocean, those unprepared could venture too far into its depths and never return.

As Tighearnán stood and pondered these things, his attention was finally drawn to Nadezhda poised at the water's edge. She stood motionless, as if waiting for something. On the opposite side of the creek, the purple colored form of the bullfrog, toad, appeared and took a few casual hops across a dense patch of clustered lily pads.

Before Aoife or her father had realized what was happening, they were beckoned to follow Nadezhda, and what was more, they watched as the woman skipped easily across upon the lily pads herself. There were moments spent in contemplation and hesitating before eventually Aoife and her father tried the same, and found, to their surprise, that each lily pad supported their weight as if it were a solidly placed stone.

Hand in hand in hand the three moved from the shore and into rivalwood forest, passing beneath the colored boughs deeper into the woods. Their path turned and wound, up small hills and through densely packed glens, yet in spite of the setting beneath the darkened sky, all three laughed and spoke merrily as they travelled. They were together, and that was all that mattered to them in that moment.

Entering a clearing, Aoife paused for a moment as her eyes fell upon wide circle of standing stones tucked just inside the tree-line. Indeed, the entire glade sat within the encircling border of those elder stone sentinels. In the center of the expanse, the three collapsed in the dewy grass and looked at the stars above, each still clasping one another's hands. Again they found themselves giggling and laughing, telling stories until the child could not tell how much time had passed.

Raising a hand toward the sky, Nadezhda traced the shape of a seven starred constellation, the mother, and remarked of its resemblance to a cauldron. Next, she pointed to the close standing, clustered grouping of the patriarch and the bridge, and described how one of these patterns meant a great journey for the other. Nadezhda ended her lesson with the five stars composing the follower and its resemblance to that of a human skull. To the child these stars seemed to tell a story, but one she could not grasp or could not remember properly. She felt that if it were a story, she had indeed heard it before, but where or when that might have been was lost to her now.

From the north the wind began to rise, and Nadezhda's grip tightened on the others, it was clear there was a sense of excitement rising within her. She muttered quietly under her breath that it was coming, and that it would be here soon. The trees sheltering the glen began to rock now, swaying in the mighty breeze that to Aoife seemed to carry a bitter, stinging cold. As her jaw began to chatter, set into the motion by the dropping temperature, a final gale swept across the ancient forest, and the sudden tempest unmistakably carried pristine, white flakes of snow with it. In unison, every leaf within the rivalwood forest ceased their clinging to the twisted, gnarled trees and took to the air as one mass of kaleidoscopic color.

Aoife clenched her parents' hands in fear and wonder.

Childhood continued... (#3)

Along the bumpy road the wagon wheels bounced through potholes and ruts, while ahead the steady incline was at last beginning to level out. To each side, the sweeping landscape was yawning out in all directions when the close standing forest covering began to fall away as they neared the balding hilltop. The two horses pulling the wagon seemed to be tiring, and almost looked pleased to see the path ahead was smooth, flat and open to allow a free flowing breeze to sweep over across the grass. Tighearnán and Nadezhda sat at the front the cart, their discussion stopping for a moment while the picturesque vista materialized from behind the receding forest. Aoife was laying behind her parents in the bed of the wagon, sprawled amidst a collection of their belongings and using a half-opened bag of her mother's clothes as a pillow. Above the child, the sun's rays struggled to weave through dense boughs still reaching out over the cart and providing Aoife with a gentle and welcomed shade.

Nadezhda gracefully outstretched an arm and pointed to the dense sea of trees that reached as far as their eyes could see. Mr. Clip-Clop and Dwayne slowed their pace as Aoife's father pulled gently on their reins. The wagon came to gradual stop and allowed the sounds of nature to once more be heard, previously drown out by the din of rolling wheels and creaking wood. As the family dismounted and took a few steps out onto the grass, each stretched and looked up the sky, taking in the sun's rays.

Far to the south, and just beginning to start their trek up tiring switchbacks of Lucian's Rise, a convoy of wagons followed along the same path that Aoife and her family had traversed nearly two hours before. The column of horse-drawn carts were only dark specks sliding along a finger-wide stripe of dirt amidst the far reaching swath of green. Tighearnán had called in nearly every favor he was owed and recquisitioned a surprising amount of the local pathfinder lodge's supplies in order to get this many goods and builders this far out into the wilderness. He did not care or worry much to this fact, and who could worry when these favors meant a veritable army of worker and enough supplies to have their house built within the week.

Pulling her husband's attention from the convoy following in their wake, Nadezhda pointed to the sprawling forest to the west, and traced with her fingertip an exaggerated, meandering bend in the river splitting the forest below. Almost encircled by the arcing path of the river, a smaller hill than where they currently stood sprouted up from within the forest, and was bordered on three sides by the winding creek. Nadezhda's finger was superimposed on the smaller, treeless hilltop in the distance as she explained that their house would built on that exact spot. There was a sense of awe in her voice as Aoife's mother talked about this nearly endless woods, and how their house would be bordered by a section of the forest that had always been there... before men or elves or dwarves had even set foot in this world, even before the great calamity had fallen from the sky. Rivalwood Forest had always been there, and would always be there, standing a few hundred yards from their doorstep, waiting for her on the opposite side of sunderglen creek.

And Nadezhda would be able to visit rivalwood whenever she wanted.

When the horses were rested, the family continued on, eventually winding their way down the opposite side of Lucian's Rise and making their way toward the bend in the creek Nadezhda had pointed out. Within a few hours their wagon had reached its destination and the family eagerly stood where their house would soon be built.

They waited for the convoy to arrive, but first the floor plan had to be created.

Tighearnán took a sizable branch and drug it along the earth, directed by both his wife and Aoife, tracing an outline and creating the basic schematic of what would soon become their house. When enough detail was put into the perimeter, Nadezhda encouraged Aoife to grab a stick of her own and map out where she wanted her own room to be, and more importantly, how big. Nearby to the child, as she drug the dulled end of the broken branch through the dirt, her parents laughed as they too sketched the plans for what would be their bedroom, whispering loving but secret things to one another. Once the basic outline of the house was drawn, the family spent hours detailing out where every stick of furniture would go, and then passed the time waiting for the convoy to arrive sitting in the living room, before the walls were ever built.

Childhood continued... (#2)

The child opened her eyes, but it took a moment to focus on the room around her due to the golden light streaming in through collosal bedroom window. While the room was still fuzzy to her gathering senses, Aoife sat up, pulling off the thick covering of blankets and reached toward the foot of her bed for the sleeping form of the aged dog. To her surprise, Deputy was gone and as her vision began to focus she could make out that he was not in the room at all.

As she sat, staring at the empty indentation upon the bed where the dog had been, a muffled shout made its way through walls and fell upon her ears as a faint grumbling hum. A moment later, another distant cry found its way through the walls of her bedroom, a slightly different pitch than the first, but a bellowing yell nonetheless. It was then that she realized this sound was what must have awoken her and had probably been what drew Deptuty from the room only moments before.

Cautiously the child stepped into the hallway as another booming yell shook the house, now much louder as it funneled down the hallway directly at her. It was then that Aoife could at last distinguish that her father's voice composed one of those yelling, and that he must have been shouting with all his might, though the child could not make out any of Tighearnán's words. Following her father's exclamation, there was an unintelligible and muffled discussion, apparently back and forth between Aoife's mother and father, then followed by her mother shouting in turn.

Back and forth the cries rang out, echoing throughout the house, intercut with muffled discussion and then followed by another fresh set of shouts.

When at last Aoife's cautiously sliding feet carried her slowly, reluctant step after reluctant step, to the living room, the child came to the source of the noise. Her eyes could not fully make out the scene unfolding before her. Sight of her parents was blocked by an interposing column of the morning's light that flowed through the eastern set of windows and laid at an angle to the room around it, setting a thousand tiny motes of dust alight. The beam of glowing air appeared to give the golden shaft density and weight, and laid like a tangible thing jutting through the center of the space. Beyond the pillar of light, Tighearnán and Nadezhda seemed to stand facing each other, their chest's heaving as each took in ragged gulps of air while each kept their feet planted and ready to cry out again at any moment.

After passing through the glowing column, and just as she caught full sight of her parents, Aoife could see with surprise that both were grinning from ear to ear and on the verge of laughter. Tighearnán placed one hand on his torso and simulated the rise and fall of his chest. He explained that no one would ever be frightened by his lovely wife's battlecry if she did not learn to gather the power of her shout from deep within herself. Continueing, he described his meaning in an intentionally silly way, that newborn pups growl from their throat, but truly scary beasts release their roars from someplace deeper.

Tighearnán demonstrated again, and Aoife could not help but picture a lion in her mind's eye, recalling their family's visit to a zoo in Oppara the year before. Taking careful mental notes, Nadezhda collected her composure, then released a surprisingly feral and terrifying shout of her own. It was then that her parents noticed Aoife standing nearby, and both encouraged the youth to try as well. As the child roared, her father explained that one should never underestimate the importance of a powerful, monstrous battlecry, and that just such a shout has saved his life on more than one occasion.

Round and around the family went, each calling, yelling, and shouting. After each set of cries, the three would laugh and giggle, even encouraging Deptuy to join in, having found the old dog looking on from the corner of the room with his head tilted in confusion.

Later, Madame Jar of Pickles wandered into the house, finding the family shouting with all their might at one another, and in a fit of frustration made all them, even the adults, sit at the table to have breakfast.

No one dared disobey the nanny's orders.

As the nanny set about the preperations of cooking, she rallied and complained aloud to herself, detailing that it was bad enough to be led each morning to a basket of eggs near the creek by an odd, purple frog, but to have a family acting so much like barbarians on top of it would one day drive her mad. She continued on with her complaints, centered on the fact that that they had all built this house together, but questioned why they could not act more normal within its walls.

Aoife and her parents each exchanged satisfied smirks with one another and tried their best to contain laughter while Madame Jar of Pickles continued her seemingly unending list of complaints about the Limerick family.

Childhood...

The child crept along the winding, meandering waters of the crick, a few paces from the bank. From behind came the muffled sniffing of an old dog, its shoulders stooped and nose hovering just above the muddy shore. With one arm, Aoife reached forward and leaned against the gnarled trunk of a twisted tree which diverted the trickling, babbling waters around and through its massive, sprawling roots. Taking a moment, she reached back and petted the dog's wet coat, whispering for Deputy to keep quiet.

Looking up to meet her gaze, the dog did not reply.

Her tiny, fragile fingers found their way between the craggy fissures of weathered bark and braced her weight as she peered further down the stream. As her head craned forward the darkness of the night was momentarily brightened by a pulsing glow that floated interspersed throughout the forest. Recoiling slightly, Aoife waited for the glow to fade and could not help but look up and see a squadron of pumpkin-sized fireflies drift lazily by on a current of night air. When darkness returned and the passing lights had faded the child peered onward.

Ahead, the child could see a woman crouched on the edge of the bank, leaning forward over the water. Ahead of the woman an enormous bullfrog sat perched atop a lily pad that should not have been able to support the creature's weight yet somehow stayed afloat in the gently flowing waters. Its skin held a faint purple hue that was noticeable even in the dim light, as were the oddly sized blue splotches that dotted its body. On its back was a small pair of wings that would never be strong enough to lift it from the ground.

The child watched as her mother sat, nearly tucked into a ball, and either stared or conversed with the creature. Overhead there was another gradual brightening as a lone firefly passed through the boughs of the forest above Nadezhda and her amphibious friend. As growing light fell upon Aoife's mother, she turned slowly and cast a smile in Aoife's direction.

Aoife could not help but smile back at her mother. Somehow Nadezhda was the only one who could ever get close to the wily bullfrog which they lovingly deemed Toad. Ahead, Aoife mother continued to smile at her daughter, then stood and walked in the opposite direction. As Nadezhda moved away, Toad's attention followed her, and the woman left a lingering, hidden gesture that only Aoife could see. Nadezhda's signal was for Aoife alone, and it clearly meant that now was the time for her daughter to at last catch the creature.

Not more than ten paces away from the bullfrog, Aoife watched as her mother was scooped into the arms of her father, and held her aloft while the two twirled together in the moonlight. Slowly their motion stopped as Nadezhda pointed aloft toward the stars above, drawing Tighearnán's attention toward a pattern of faint pinpoints of light dotting the heavens. As the man gazed up, Nadezhda gently described to her husband that his people would call the geometric constellation the daughter, and that it would forever be special to him.

Looking back to the bank, Aoife could see the bullfrog was also watching her parents, and the child took the opportunity to bound around the tree and rush toward Toad. In a splashing clatter of steps she ran through the crick. As the bullfrog turned toward the sound of her approaching steps the child leapt, diving face first in an explosion of water and mud.

She could feel the brilliant chill of the cool waters rush over her skin, even atop her entire body, and Aoife burst up through the surface with a gasp. She was soaking wet but the creature was nowhere to be seen. As another warm glow fell upon her, a courteous spotlight from another passing family of fireflies, Aoife looked up to see the unmistakable scowl of Toad looking down from an impossibly high perch in the tree's branches.

As she stood in the creek looking into the boughs at her escaped prey, with Deputy splashing around her and howling into the night, Tighearnán called for his daughter. Up the grassy hill, Aoife could see her parents laying on a blanket, gazing up and pointing at the stars. Her mother would only have picnics at night and under a full moon, it had always been this way, and Aoife loved this about Nadezhda.

Moments later the child was wrapped tightly in her own blanket and laying between her parents, snuggled and comforted by their warmth. As the night's chill began to leave her, Aoife looked on as her mother's fingertip traced a set of fourteen stars forming the faintest resemblance of a man on horseback.

The last thing Aoife heard before her eyes were too heavy to keep open was her mother describing to Tighearnán that his people called this cluster the rider, and that it would...

Before she could hear the last of her mother's words, Aoife fell into slumber.

Round 13

The child stirs on the ground, after the curative and healing magic falls upon her. She groans for a moment, but every few seconds feels more and more life being restored to her. "Thank you," she coughs the words, raising one arm to gently touch the impact site of the deadly weapon.

Round 14

"I guess you all were right," she says, feeling further twinges of disappointment and embarrassment for herself. She has nearly died just now, and the same could easily have happen when she first climbed the tower, as well, but somehow she has been so cavalier about the dangers, protected by the paper thin, imaginary shield of Youth's expected importantly. She could not help by feel like a fool. "It was far too dangerous for me to come into here alone, when I climbed the tower. If these trolls had found me, I would surely have cook and eaten."

"I understand now what I mistake it was..."

Round 15

As the last of the healing magic closes the wound, the child continues. "Thank you, again," she says, shaking her head and trying to focus on the tast at hand. She leaves the greatsword strapped to her back, and continues back to the foyer and door to the stairwell with her hands free. "I'll follow you leads from here on out."

"And I'm sorry for all the bickering, Jorvik," she adds, walking toward the foyer.

Round 16

Finally arriving at the door to the stairwell, Aoife once again takes her place before the portal, ready to seize anything coming through or rush up the stairs, herself, if directed by her companions.

Aoife takes her position near the door to the stairwell *token not yet moved*

Listening to the words of Aliyas Ardenvaugh, and her interactions with the others, he cannot help but gaze at her ghostly form in the center of the geometric circle.

knowledge(planes), DC 24: 1d20 + 13 + 1d6 ⇒ (18) + 13 + (1) = 32

Aliyas is in fact a prana ghost, a type of incorporeal, good-aligned outsider.

Looking at her closer, he sees the ornament around her neck.

Knowledge(religion), DC 15: 1d20 + 12 + 1d6 ⇒ (1) + 12 + (6) = 19

The ornament around her neck is the holy symbol of Aroden, the dead god of innovation, history, and human culture.

He recaps quickly for the others what he has gleaned from the situation, but knows it will not help much in the situation at hand. At the very least, perhaps, they might feel more comfortable allowing this figure to help them and trust her, knowing that in all likelihood she is not evil.

"I am ready, as well," Ibid says, raising the bow in one hand. He glances back at the cloak on his back, and hopes it will protect him from whatever is to come. "I know not what we'll find, but we had best make haste. Let's hope our prey is slowed by knowing that we are after her, as will happen when fleeing in dreams..."

Gylibi's Rare Books - Absalom

"Rii are Those Left Behind..." Mr. Gylibi reads the title of the fable aloud. "Well, it does not sound familiar to me..." he takes a moment longer looking over the cover, but when he next places his hand upon the book he feels a surge of power stir deep within its pages, which passes through his finger, up his arm, and resides like an ardent, resilient warmth in his chest. With a surprised jump, the book seller unintentionally recoils away from the book, even though the sensation was not unpleasant, and casts a look of surprise at the customer.

Looking back across the counter toward the book seller, Olmstead only raises an eyebrow and flashes a knowing smile, but does not speak in reply.

"May I?" Mr. Gylibi asks, motioning to the book. Olmstead nods in agreement, allowing the expert to further look over and delve into the pages of the tome.

There is again rush of warm, soothing energy that infests the book seller as his skin contacts the book, but this time he manages to remain calm and accept the pleasurable sensation. Gently, and ever slowly, Mr. Gylibi flips the item over and sees a faded block of text covering the back cover in the spare places where grime and burn marks do not reach.

The book seller leans in close and begins to read, his eyes scanning side to side and his mouth moving slightly, uttering unintelligible words here and there. While he waits for the book seller, Olmstead reaches into pack and pulls free a small sheet of parchment, now crumpled due to how unceremoniously the old man pulled its hiding place. Next he pulls a few small vials of thick, sludgy liquid, each its own vibrant, lively color. With a small paintbrush, Oldstead begins to swipe here and there with the brush and dole out a few splotches of brilliant orange onto the creased piece of parchment. As he waits, he continues to paint and pass the time.

A little while later, Mr. Gylibi looks up having finished reading the back cover of the book. He initially looks on, oddly watching as Olmstead continues to paint as a large orange sphere begins to take shape on the sheet.

"Rii are Those Left Behind," the book seller begins. "It appears to be fable or warning for children about listening to one's parents and expresses, quite heavy handed, the need to fit in with your family. The importance of trying to work together and for each person to be thankful for what you have. Apparently this author chose the route of trying to scare children in order to capture these young reader's attention by creating the image of a lonely, nameless creature that will gather and collect the unsatified children by luring them away. It seems, drawn to their wishes for better mothers... fathers... siblings."

"It seems to imply that if they stray too far from their family, this nameless thing hears their unspoken thoughts and comes for them to fill its own loneliness. It is forever alone but tires quickly of its playthings once collected, and forever searches for more friends. Thus the fable scares children into being content with what they have."

"I've never heard of this tale before," he admits. "It doesn't sound particularly well written or even teach a particular useful lesson..." Mr. Gylibi continues on, mumbling about the book as he flips it right-side-up, the gently opens the cover to the first page.

Olmstead continues to paint and nods along in agreement with the book seller's words.

Gylibi's Rare Books - Absalom

A well dressed man pushes open the door of the small, quaint shop in a fluid motion, dipping his head to keep his tall, chimey pot hat from hitting the upper sill. A few wordless steps later and he his standing before the overweight, though very well put together man behind the counter, who raises his nose from deep within a book to greet to new customer.

"Greetings, sir," says the man behind the counter. "Welcome to Gylibi's Rare Books... I'm Walter Gylibi, the owner. What can I help you with?" his voice is cheerful and honest, and does not seem to be bothered by the interruption to his reading.

The new arrival is well dressed in collared shirt and tie, overcoat, and stove pipe hat. Oddly, showing beneath his overcoat, but above his dress shirt, is an exquisitely crafted, bordering even on fashionable, suit of beautiful chainmail. Another oddity of the man's dress is the casual manner in which he wears it, dress shirt with a few buttons undone, tie loosened and uncinched, shirt untucked, and top hat tilted at a rakish angle. Even the dark stubble, casting the hint of a dark shadow across his face relays the same impression as his dress, he is simply wearing the clothing of a noble in order to pass off as one.

He adjusts the rapier at his side and opens his coat enough to reveal an old book, patched and rebound, clearly on the verge of tatters, which is strapped to himself by means of leather cords holding it securely and safely to his person. After a moment spent fiddling with the cords, the book is released and the newcomer sets it gently on the counter. As the book touches the table, he turns and the shopkeeper sees what looks to be a paper wrapper with a cherry inside, which the stranger raises to his lips in a flash. A moment later, the stranger is chewing on something and with a wave of his hands the wrapper is gone from sight.

"Good evening, Sir," the stranger says, tipping his hat. "I would like to know if you've seen this book before, or any others like it," he says as his eyes peer strikingly at the shopkeeper. As he speaks, the book seller finally realizes the man before him is quite old, and not some young, foppish royal like he had previously thought.

"Yes, of course," Mr. Gylibi starts, but pauses before looking at the book. "Mr. ... erm.... ahh..."

The new comer stands silent for a moment, a hint of anger flashing across his face at why the must exchange names. Either the shop keep knows something or he does not, knowing each other's name shouldn't change that fact in the slightest, would be the obvious thought behind his gaze.

"Olmstead," says Olmstead, trying and failing to mask his annoyance.

"Great, Mr. Olmstead. Pleasure to meet you, now let's have a look," Mr. Gylibi says, lowering his gaze to the book, all the while still smiling and unperturbed by the unsocialized actions of Mr. Olmstead. His hands trace along the cover of book, and feel the ragged edges of the pages underneath. It is clear this book is decently old, but not ancient nor particularly valuable looking. It has clearly been rebound at least a few times and by a very unskilled hand that in all actuality probably caused more damage to the tome than good. What is further still, it appears to some kind of children's book or fable.

Rii are Those Left Behind...

The book seller reads the title then finds his eyes focusing on the faded image of young girl standing alone amidst of darkened copse of trees. From one hand hangs the sad form of a stuffed bear, and her back to the viewer, as if she is starring off or possibly waiting for something's approach.

The youth turns from the others, watching what should have been an empty corner of the room, if there were truly such things as corners in this place, swirl and coalesce into the faintest effigy of two figures, the forms each sitting on opposite sides of a cell door.

"It smells like hot garbage down here," calls a voice from the freer side of the cell door. The form sits down outside the bars and regards his imprisoned companion, "I am sorry, my friend, I had not realized you were still in here. I see you have killed a rat. This is good. I will call upon my mistress to grant it life and break you out of here. Do not object," the figure holds up a hand to forestall prisoner, "This won't take but a moment."

The figure still with its freedom prays and the intention is obvious to any who would care to pay attention, though the arcane words he mutters are pure gibberish. He rubs his amulet as he chants and suddenly, the rat speaks! "I am the demon Rattus," it says, "Kiss me and I will save you from this place!"

The youth stumbles back and turns, spinning to scan the room. Instantly the effigy of the two men divided by a cell door disappears. "Why have you shown me this, Archivist?!" he calls in anger, questioning the intention and peril of what such a vision could mean.

Aoife looks up to the wall strewn with dark red splotches forming the ungraceful arcs of massive letters. The child cannot help but cast a smile in the direction of the message, emblazoned proudly on the theater's entrance, as the scarlet letters seem to beam back at her with mischievous satisfaction.

Turning now, she sees her guardian looking strangely at her which causes Aoife to narrow her eyes in a nonverbal and confused reply...

Sense Motive( DC 7 ): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (10) - 1 = 9

With a start, her eyes widen and she then takes a moment to stuff her gloves into her pack and bury one hand in the deep pocket of her heavy, winter coat. Her free hand takes a moment to wind the long scarf around her face which covers much of her skin, though her eyes continues to gaze up at the wall with hint of enjoyment.

"I wonder who could have done that," she mumbles awkwardly. "It must have been a giant or something, to reach that high..."

"Well, I guess it is a theater," she adds, trying to hide a sarcastic tone. "Perhaps it's the title of a new play..."

I'm cool with all of that, Ibid is protected in most cases.

--------------------

"Hey, right nut," says left nut.
"Hey, left nut," says right nut.
"Who's the Ibid in the middle?" the nuts ask in unison.

A father's journal... (#5)

Later that night, after stirring into existence a possibly doomed goblin rebellion, the child returned to their hideout. In a corner with none in sight, or nearby to bother her, Aoife once more pulled free Tighearnán's journal. Her eyes looked over the cover while one hand rested warmly on the bound pages. The child's hand even quivered, seeming to hold the book in such a gentle, tender grasp that it was as if she were holding another's hand.

Mother hurt him so, she thinks, pausing to rub her eyes roughly with a forearm. He never talked about her and avoided my every mention of her name... but now I understand why. She deserved to be forgotten.

I'm sorry I would not let you forget her, father. I am truly sorry I reminded you of her.

Aoife cannot help but think of how terrible her mother had been, to willingly leave her own one year old daughter to die in the snow. She also could not keep away the thought that her father had to be reminded of this terrible woman every time he looked upon his own daughter. Aoife realized, with a revelation that surprised even her, that she was glad to not remember her own mother's face. It was true she had once found a picture of her mother in the attic, tucked away and hidden, but at least Aoife could not remember looking upon the flesh of a woman so vile. She tried in vain to draw comfort form this thought.

There was hint of blasphemy hiding behind her own brutal thoughts about her mother, as if deep down Aoife didn't believe her own outlandish justifications for hating Nadezhda, and was in all actuality simply trying to reinforce her resolve and defenses against the fact she did, in fact, still miss her mother and was only trying to hide behind an easily built wall of anger.

An old man's life...

There was a red hue that hung like a partition, a blurred, scarlet shape woven behind the buildings and always laying beneath the brilliant and subdued blue of the sky.

His first memory...

Then he was told, what was most important in life was learning, but what mattered more, was managing to make this learning special and meaningful to himself. Like knowing that nearly all castles were constructed so that the stairs, sitting just inside the protective walls, always wound upward and clockwise. Always the same, up and clockwise. Why? Because it was not too long ago that nearly everyone was forced to wield a sword right-handed, even if you were born favoring your left hand, you forced to learn to wield it as a righty. Then, if you ever stormed a castle, somehow managed to scale the ramparts, and aimed to descend the stairs on the other side, you would find a solid wall resting just to your right and that you were unable to swing your sword freely. But those lucky defenders, also all trained to use their right hands, could rise up the stairs where nothing was on their right except a beautiful open space through which to swing. Oxley had always known so much, he thought as a child, though he still believed it to be true.

But as he thought Oxley and castles, the sea rolled and swelled beyond the ship's railing, and above there was faint glow of red. A churning swirl of color dancing behind the blackened storm-clouds overhead. A spear of flame pierced the clouds and collided with the sea, engulfing the teenager in a cataclysm of steam as the vessel went up in flames. Skin on fire and alight with living flame, the boy hit the water which quenched his melting flesh.

Unable to swim to the surface, he floated for a moment then rose up through the waves as a lifeless, unmoving fish. A wave washed over his face at the surface and his back could barely make out the feel of wet sand supporting him. A family of three looked down upon him, and said they could help though there was a hint of mischief behind their eyes. As the warm blankets slid up to his neck, covering and comforting him, he turned and could see a red face lined with small horns, countless scrolls draped across its shoulders, and a knowing smile on its face.

There were talk of three and a price.

A smile that only a boy oblivious to his doomed fate could have. Yes, the old man thought, resting a hand on Darius' shoulder. I will use a wish so the boy might live. But the devil already knew he was trying to buy his way back into the good graces of favorable gods. And the devil laughed at him, but took his second payment all the same.

On the beach again, the boy laughed and played. He was better now, healed and lively. Darius knelt with the boy in the surf, writing a string of words with his finger in the sand as a wave briefly receded. It was so strange, Darius said it was the most important thing he would ever give his son. But the water has already washed the words away... And he is too young to even remember them... Darius only smiled and said that he hoped that were true.

Cyrus was growing quickly and becoming a brazen thief. With any luck he could get Cyrus to follow his own path, to be confirmed as a pathfinder. It was the only way to teach the boy about a mission of the gravest importance, without allowing Cyrus to know he would be spending his life in preparation and training. If he were lucky, Cyrus would never know what happened or that there ever had been a secret mission, but, god's forbid, if he did find out what happened to his father, he would be well prepared and knowledgeable enough to maybe, just maybe, see his father again.

It would require help, Cyrus could never do it alone. And he, himself, could not help the boy forever, he was an old man already. Or, he had been an old man. He wouldn't be around forever. He might already be gone. But perhaps the nimble, ever practiced and death-dealing strike of the elf, Finarin, could be persuaded to help. And Gunari, a man to never know fear but that was keenly aware of the fact that all problems could be fixed simply with a sip of the right beverage. Or Lort, the mighty and powerful, brave and deadly, but nearly brimming with such power that he risked hurting even himself every strike. And Amaranti, stalwart and sturdy, not so much a quiet man or even a man of few words, but a man that said precisely the what needed to be said without getting lost in the dribble of useless speech, and one that could impale an oak with a single blow. Amaranti had a worm too...

But friends had been lost.

Miro would be remembered. No one would ever forget the halfling. His honeyed words and cheerful manner were missed, even if no one would admit it. The only person the old man had ever known to be able to talk his way out of every situation. His stories were legend, and his was the very voice of legend.

But perhaps none of it mattered. The old man could only help train and guide the youth. Then it was his time to move on. He wished the boy luck, and was sorry he could not be there help any longer. He wasn't sure how he knew that he could no longer help, but something within him knew it to be true.

If Cyrus ever found out the truth about his father, there would be hell to pay.

The red-faced thing was smiling at him once more.

Smiling and grinning with anticipation, its horns and scrolls called up a feeling like sickness, except the old man didn't feel the sensation of a body to even justify the feeling. Welcome, old man. the creature spoke gently to him. beckoning him to follow. I have a friend that would like to see you again. The smiling red face moved from his sight and what started as a blurry shape began to take the form of a person. If he could breathe at that moment, he would have gasped, but the rise and fall of his chest had stopped some time ago, that is, if he had ever had a chest. And so he looked ahead, not with eyes, but with a sense of something approaching and he accepted his fate, preparing to greet an old friend.

A peel of thunder and rush of light overwhelmed his senses, and the forming figure was gone, replaced by countless shades gathered all around. He squinted and tried to look upon them, but could not make out anything except their smiles falling upon him. Tears formed in his eyes as he could feel the inward rush of air as his lungs filled. He coughed a few times and rolled over, he wanted to say so much to them, but could not find the words. There was much to say, but there would be time for that later. He knew they had more time together.

Time was important. Together... this was important.

He would appreciate them. He had left them and in so doing never felt more alone. But now he was back, and possibly for the first time it felt like being home. This was precisely where he wanted to be.

Aoife stands still and watches the woman embrace, unable to get over the surprise that they already know each other. She had expected to be introducing Bella to the others, especially Solvveig, but now that seems wholly unnecissary.

"Well, Mrs. Solveig," the child begins to explain in answer to her question. "Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight and I went to Logrivich's tower. We were going to look around and try to scout ahead. When we got there we found the front door was not only unclocked but open too. So..."

The child continues with her story, speaking of getting separated from her goblin friend, and trapped inside the structure when a troll left his quarters to sharpen a cleaver. Then she describes the smell of the kitchen on the second floor and the voice amidst the crates and boxes, that she believed had to be a doll. Next she describes hearing Bella's voice on third floor, and what Logrivich's liar looked like after he flew away from some unknown reason, later revealed to be the tragic death of Ice Melts Quietly in Sublights friends. Lastly, Aoife ends her tale with the rescue of Bella and fleeing for her life from Granny Nan.

After telling her tale, she turns to Jorvik, a blazing anger in her eyes. "You are right, as always, big brother," the child says, though there is underlying tone of betrayal lacing her words. "It probably was stupid of me to climb so high up the tower. And I feel so terrible that Icy's friends have been lost becuase of me... becuase they were helping me, in a way... And that is something I will have to live with, it is not something you will. But I appreciate you making sure I know they died for me and becuase of me..."

She takes a moment, catching her breath and letting the anger calm enough, allowing her to continue.

"I did not ask for the goblins to give their lives for me," she says, colder than intended. "And I would not have entered Logrivich's lair had he not left in the first place, nor would I have tried to save Bella unless I knew he was gone from that place."

Now Aoife pulls from her pack the tattered Winter Guard uniforms she took from the tower and throws them at Jorvik'a feet in a messy pile. Then Aoife turns and walks across the room, pausing for a moment beside Bella.

"Apparently, I am to be sorry for helping you leave that place," she says to Bella, her words still angry and seething for the reactions of the others. She was so sure she has done some good this day, and thought her companions would be proud of her, but now she felt betrayed and even more like a stranger in these cruel lands where nothing made sense and all love and compassion was seemingly treated with disdain. "If it is cruel or evil of me, because I am not sorry, then let me be a villain."

"I do not regret helping..."

At that, Aoife turns and begins to quit the room, taking her leave of the others.

Logrivich's tower

Gusts of freezing snow pelt the child's face as she peers out through the glowing aperture of light that is the missing clockface of the east wall. The dull, diffused light of the clouded sky is far brighter than the dim interior of the dragon's lair, and this spotlight effect mixed with the driving snow blinds Aoife as she looks through the opening to the far flung sky. She cannot make out any dark shape of the approaching dragon, but fears it is bearing down on her all the same.

Turning now she looks toward the pile of treasures, its value is beyond her wildest imagining. Even still the fear of the winged-death still weighs heavily upon her mind, but her eyes cannot help widening in covetous wonder. There was so much wealth and magic piled before her, enough even to make her and her companions a powerful threat to the Queen. It is then that her eyes catch sight of the greatsword, splendid and powerful, strewn and covered by baubles worth more than a king's ransom. She wonders if this blade would give her some great power and the ability to strike out at the those who had taken her father away. Maybe this blade could give the child the strength to help slay the Queen's monstrous pet, Logrivich. With these treasures, she cannot help but fantasize, perhaps she could avenge Thora...

Thora... the memory of the doomed girls collides with Aoife's lust for the treasure.

Her mind is cast back to the fragile broken body of Thora, and the recollection causes Aoife to stumble back away from the pile of riches. It is then she feels a twinge of disgust with herself for even thinking of grabbing one of these trinkets before trying to save whomever was trapped on the floor below. Her desire for riches made her sick, if she let a child die so that she could steal some trinket that might even be cursed anyway, like everything else in this frozen land, Aoife would never forgive herself. The thought of the ailment struck upon Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight comes to mind.

A moment later the child has crawled back through hatch, moving down the ladder enough to firmly close the portal above her, then silently moves to the door from which the singing was emanating.

Stealth: 1d20 + 16 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 16 + 10 = 43

I failed to save you, Thora, she thinks as she reaches the threshold, reaching out an arm to swing the door open quickly. Teasures do not matter... It is life that matter...

I will save him in memory of you, Thora... the child opens the portal.

The old man steps off the elevator and catches the briefest glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Some distance away there is a blur of movement and suddenly a shockwave of sapping weakness and warmth washes over Ibid. He can barely stand as his knees begin to wobble and nearly give out, and although he knows he is deadly peril, the first sensations of pain have not yet reached his brain.

Ahead of the old man, the creature with an unmistakable reddish tinge moves once more and its oddly shaped, jutting outline causes Ibid's memory to harken back. There is a familiar yet dreaded smell in his nose that seems to coalesce, forming the fragment of something from his past he hoped to long ago forget, but that would continue to haunt him until the end of his days. Something unfelt collides with his chest, only registered for Ibid by a violent tremor that grips his body, at that instant his vision is blotted out by utter darkness as the forming memory simultaneously comes to life before his unseeing eyes.

Ibid falls ungracefully to the ground, as in his mind the image of the red creature actually standing before him takes on the visage of ancient foe with scarlet skin and draped in countless sheets of tangled parchment, each worth price of a mortal's soul.

Logrivich's tower

Craning her head toward the thin aperture, little more an a sliver of air between the frame and foor, the rolling, low tones of the troll's singing reaches her ears. Though the words are unknown to her, a shudder runs the length of her spine, propagating a tingling wave to the far reaches of her limbs. Now she shakes slightly, not from the cold so clearly evident by her ghostly breath forming in the air, but in a vain effort to slough off the rising feelings of fear and repulsion.

It was a voice she wished she could cut short with might swing of steel.

As a further clatter resounds from the room beyond the door, echoing off the frozen walls and indecently piercing the natural silence of the still, cold air, Aoife cannot help but turn and peer up the twisting stairs. Turning back toward the cacophonous romp of an ungraceful troll, the child knows she cannot yet run back across the main foyer to join Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight for fear of being seen. At last she takes a step closer to the stairs, feeling the escalating beat of her small, fierce heart.

She mounts the first step slowly, and creeps up the incline in a crab-like posture, all the while grateful her father's precious gauntlets protect her hands from the chilled floor. She doesn't know what she will find ahead, and can't even place the urge within herself pressing to move forward into certain danger, but whatever the reason or driving force, it feels right in this moment.

stealth, if needed: 1d20 + 16 + 10 ⇒ (5) + 16 + 10 = 31

The old man looks on as the zealous half-Orc searches in his own unique way, but cannot help but cringe at the chaotic, haphazard pile and assortment of possibly broken artifacts. "Shall I help you put those books, at the very least, back on the shelf, when you are done searching through them, Lort?" intentionally ignoring the fact that the half-orc has proceeded down such a messy path on purpose. "Or perhaps, I'll just do it myself and save you the trouble, so you can... ahh... do something else you might like."

"I'd at least like to replace them on the shelf in alphabetical order, if not chronological, if there is time," Ibid continues on, crouching next to Lort's pile of items and books. Reaching out, the old man grabs a few old volumes and gives them a quick inspection.

Pathfinder Society Journal: Kuru migration patterns due to Shackles expansion, Ibid reads a random book cover then thumbs through a few pages. He wishes there was more time to sit and read everything here.

Looking at the pathfinder society journal dedicated to the Kuru, Ibid wonders what had ever become of the relatively unknown, tiny island kingdom of Enya with its sparse, yet oddly civilized population of kuru cannibals. It had been ruled by Akikonu, the might Cannibal King, who sat upon something known as the Fifty Father's Throne, that is, if Ibid's own ancient memories from his schooling in Promise could still be trusted to be correct.

Stirred form being lost in thought and closing the pathfinder journal, he continues on. "So, yeah... Lort... why not just let me clean up this pile for you?"

The child holds up her hands from the opposite side of the threshold, motioning for Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight to remain where he is. Motioning again, she conveys that she will continue inside but that he should remain, rooted in place, but to make a commotion if he needs her to return. She also mimes that she will be ok, and that there is nothing to worry about. Finally adding, through a series of sincere by complicated gestures, that she will return if there is any signs danger at all, so it would be best for Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight to keep one of his explosive concoctions at the ready.

Even she is impressed she has conveyed so much without saying a single word.

From her pack she pulls free an elixir of hiding that she has a sneaking suspicion her guardian would insist on her taking. After replacing the empty bottle into her backpack, Aoife stalks across the floor toward the eastward door and peers through the ajar frame.

Aoife's previous stealth roll was a 31 total, if the elixir of hiding applies now, the grand total would be 41

Here it is!

I finally found this post from July. I have been struggling to figure out how much gp Aoife is supposed to have on hand right now and the above link really helps with determining it.

In case it helps anyone besides me, I'll write it out. Up to this point, each character has earned the following amount of gp from selling items in party treasure:

gp per character, not including purchases: 2401 + 862 + 145 + 1286 + 618 + 60 = 5372

In addition, each player may be selling specific items they are carrying to add more cash for personal purchases, but I think this is the baseline from selling party treasure items. At least, I'm pretty sure this is correct. Please let me know if I'm way off base here.

I'm not sure if this will help anyone, or just me, but I also wanted to time stamp how much gp each of us had at this point in the game in case I need to look back on it at a later date.

Anyway, don't mind my ramblings...

Edgar wipes the spittle of stout from his face, and looks up to Vorathan and Glarifyur. "... I said what?" The youth shakes his head and sighs, a scarlet flush of embarrassment darkening his cheeks, then he grabs his drink and gulps it down. "I meant to say, 'that's why I can't stand snakes'..."

"Oh bother..." he sighs again after finishing his Katapeshi sandstorm, then moves to drain his water.

The youth looks around uncomfortably, made all the more awkward as only his eyes are visible above the bright yellow scarf wrapping and covering the lower part of his face, and loudly orders a Katapeshi sandstorm from a passing server, quickly following this request with another for water with ice. As he waits for the drinks to arrive, he slides his chair a little closer to the table with the beautiful whirling dancer, raises a hand and then hesitates.

Again Edgar picks his chair up then positions it closer still, looks the dizzying twirl of the woman's entrancing scarfs, then moves himself uncomfortably close to her.

"Well..." he says, his eyes glancing up to behold the gorgeous woman so close at hand. "Let's see if I can show you all how this done..."

Edgar sets a few coins on the table then, holds one arm up, his fingers waggling in the air as his eyes watch and time a strike for the tantalizing buttons...

Uncomfortably close: +4 to melee touch attack, reflex save = DC 18
Button Grab #1, Uncomfortably close, AC 17: 1d20 + 1 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 1 + 4 = 18
Reflex #1, DC 18: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (18) + 6 = 24

He looks toward his hand and see the precious button pinch defly between his fingers. "Well, that wasn't so hard," he laughs as he raises his arm again and prepares to reach between the darting snakes. "I think I'm getting the hang of this! Sorry, my friends, this game is all but over...". The youth's hand reaches forward one more time.

Button Grab #2, Uncomfortably close, AC 17: 1d20 + 1 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 1 + 4 = 20
Reflex #2, DC 18: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17

As he tries to pull his hand back one of the incredibly quick snakes lashes out and strikes him. Perhaps taken by everyone seeming to speak dwarven so readily around him, the youth cries out in a tongue he does not understand in the slightest.

"айқын маймыл сэндвич таяқ!"

Nursing his red hand, holding pressure on the two dots each trickling a small crimson stream, he waits for his drinks to arrive.

Upon hearing the others and their plan to proceed, Aoife cannot help but imagine her father, stoic and powerful, pacing the same room concocting a strategy. She remembered that he always walked when thinking deeply, usually murmuring to himself small snippets of the volumes of thought racing through his mind. As she thought about him, standing before her, planning just as she and her companions were doing, she also could not make herself forget that even for all his planning her father had perished.

"I hope you can convince Greta to speak to winter wolves on our behalf," Aoife says abruptly, turning to look at Ishbaad. Her face is calm and emotionless, but her mind is racing at the thought that this step was something her father had not pursued. Perhaps, she hoped, this extra step would give them the edge that her father did not have.

If Greta will not help us, the child thinks to herself. Then I will sneak off to their Last Howl to plead our case... Aoife does not voice this thought aloud, knowing the others, especially her guardian, would probably try to stop her.

A short while later, the child wanders away from the others, looking for a window to the outside world that she might peer out onto the city of Whitethrone. Aoife had travelled so long to reach this place, that shutting herself within a bathhouse and not at least looking upon the surrounding city seemed a crime. There was also the small fact that she did not feel like talking much to the others. She knew there was not anger or frustration toward her dear friends, but she felt like cutting herself off would save them the trouble of dealing with her in such a dreadful state.

When at last Aoife could find a small window, she lifted the Queen Mother before her eyes. Since her time in the north, she was starting to understand more of the strange yet mystical language that her precious Jorvik and imposing Kuragin spoke so eloquently, and she hoped that this understanding might help with one more task. Holding the Queen Mother harrow card up to the diffused light pouring through the frosted glass, the child looked upon the odd symbols inked onto the back of the thick paper. When Madame Enfer had read their fortune, Aoife was sure this writing was not upon the card. After the child had crept along and stolen the card away, the unfamiliar script had been already penned, but to what purpose Aoife did not know.

What the script meant was entirely unknown, but she knew it had to be important in some way, and when the time was right, she would learn the words and secret meaning.

The child remains silent as much of the conversation seems directed her way, with the occasional arm gesture or look falling upon her. To Aoife, the other seem so passionate about their opinions regarding her, her safety, and, troubling most, her rapidly ending childhood. After they have said their part, she steps forward and clears her throat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Solveig," the child says, steps nearer to the woman. "Thank you for your kind words, and thinking of me. I don't want you to feel bad that I have come so far. I don't want you to feel bad for what I have seen."

"I don't want you to feel bad for me at all..."

"I miss my father, I probably always will. But I have to believe his gauntlets found their way to me for a reason. If I hadn't come on his journey, I wouldn't even know father had died. I wouldn't have made these friends, who are now the only family I have. I wouldn't have been able to help the people of Waldsby free themselves from the evil rule of the Pale Tower," she tries to explain but cannot seem to find her way to a point. "I have my father's gauntlets now, and am taking up what he started. I don't care about fate, or prophecy, or pledges to black rider's nearly so much as doing right by the only father I'll ever have."

"You speak of Milani... embracing her human side... a zest for life and a willingness to sacrifice herself to achieve great things with what short lifespan she was given, all for the sake of the generations to come," she explains. "I am not special, but I was given these-" she opens her backpack and wrestles to pull free the enormous, leather gloves.

"So that I can follow in my father's footsteps and avenge him. So I can I can be the strength for other children of the north, like Thora, that have no power themselves."

"Please do not feel bad for me," she pleads. "I am just trying to do the best with the short time that is given to me..."

"Nazhena Vasilliovna," Aoife says the name slowly, pronouncing each syllable with a hard edge. "She is looking for six foreign travelers..." The child turns to look upon each of her friends as memories of rushing through the Pale Tower, room by room, removing Vasilliovna's foothold of power from Waldsby briefly flashes in her mind. The child had missed her meeting with the baroness in Waldsby, but she hoped, wished even, that she would be able to regale Nazhena soon with a particular tale of a poor child left in her care.

So that Aoife could make the baroness remember her dear friend, Thora.

The old man looks on in shock at learning of their betrayal. Of course it made sense to him after processing the revelation, but that did not stop it from stinging deeply and angering him beyond measure. "We have been betrayed," Ibid states the obvious and shakes his head in exasperation. "Our anger rises. We've already risked so much to help your people, only to learn that our struggles were a set up."

"Having learned that we have been betrayed," he says, tightening his grip on the longbow in hand. "We are not in a position to back down."

"Lower your own weapons and walk away. There is no need for us to fight this day, because you will die if our conversation escalates to that. We will find who betrayed us, and lay waste to anyone that attempts to stop us."

"Walk away and live," his eyes look coldly on at the Pure Legion soldiers, at that moment not caring if they flee or choose to die.

intimidate(aid): 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (15) - 1 = 14