Even for the most adept local fisherman or hardened riverman, the shock of life at sea days away from the confines of a friendly port would have been inconceivable. For Vorya, it bordered on blasphemous - especially the crew privvies. There were two in the bow of the ship, of which the crew queued up, weather permitting. The latrines themselves were nothing more than holes in the bowsprit, open to the elements and to anyone waiting in line, and the urine and excrement deposited into them dropped into the waters of the Fever Sea, which jaded by his time aboard the Jenivere Vorya was, even he had to admit were stunning; an evermoving, at times roiling mass of water that stretched out as far as the eye could see, and depending on the time of day glistened with a thousand points of sunlight or loomed unseen in the darkness below, something to be heard but definitely not experienced up close.
But, back to the crew bathrooms, such as they were - the most horrid thing, however, was the ropes that dangled into them; the frayed end of the rope dangled into the sea, and could be hauled up to wipe oneself clean. Most of the seamen did not bother however; the rope, starting from the deck and leading into the privy, and on down their lengths into the water, were streaked with dung. Flies crowded the latrines as if they were refuse pits on land, and Vorya learned quickly the wisdom of standing upwind of the ropes when he went above decks for a constitutional.
Mercifully, the situation in the Great Cabin were better. The Jenivere was one of the few passenger ships plying the route between Sargava and the north, and it was distinguished as being one of the best. The passengers’ Great Cabin was a long room, perhaps 30 feet from end to end, and flanked by five small cabins to each side, each a narrow room with a porthole window, a comfortable cot, and a small chest and bureau for possessions.
And the food! The head cook (also surgeon, if needed), one Pilts, last name unknown, was a veritable marvel, the large man able to work miracles in the galley. Vorya found the passage of time was marked by these meals, served three times a day, except to the passenger in cabin three, who was served - according to Gelik Aberwhinge, a spry gnome with blonde hair and a neat goatee, and who had a facility for gossip that belied his small size - only two meals a day, and the same as what the crew ate at that. The passenger in cabin three had become a sort of game to pass the time, or rather their identity was the game, for the passenger had been brought aboard in the dead of night when the Jenivere docked at Coentyn, and their passenger locked within, stayed quiet (or constrained). Gelik was sure they were a vampire; the noblewoman Bellet merely snorted and said, ”Someone’s enemy.” Ishirou, the rough Tien man from Bloodcove guessed they were a dangerous criminal, and Sasha, she of the perpetually tousled hair and missing finger, theorized there was no sentient being in cabin three at all; the food was an act, and something else, incredibly valuable or dangerous, lay within.
But, back to the meals! The ship’s senior officers often dined with the Jenivere’s passengers, for who could pass up the best part of the voyage; the pewter plates and tin spoons, napkins and tablecloths, and even passable wine, served by the cabin boys. Preserved meats and salted fish were common, usually accompanied by a tasty sauce spiked with liquor, butter, or even one evening, juiced oranges. Occasionally, the passengers and ship’s officers were treated to fresh meat; a small pen topside kept a few live chickens, goats, and guinea pigs, and a companion low-roofed little hutch known as the bovenhut served as a sort of greenhouse where Pilts and his assistants grew a few spindly vegetables.
The crew was not so lucky of course; they subsisted off of cask meat, legumes, and hard tack. Grog was their drink of choice. But, that was their lot in life after all, and Vorya and his companions, along with the goods in the hold, made such a life possible at all. Such was their fortune to be able to serve their betters, Vorya can imagine the Lady Bellet saying, her measured, warm voice rebound through his head as clearly as if she were whispering in his ear.
Hi all! Thanks for being interested in this game. CotCT is one of the best, perhaps even the best APs that Paizo put out. That said, there's always room for improvement. We'll be changing the structure of acts I, IV, and V for sure, and the metaplot will be a bit different, so even if you've played this campaign before it should be at least somewhat fresh.
We'll work here in the discussion thread on character creation and once I have a good idea of your PCs I'll start introductions with them in gameplay.
Feel free to ivisi-dot in the gameplay thread so this game shows up in your campaign tab!
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Dark rises over Korvosa, and a brisk wind blows off of Conqueror's Bay. It is not unusual for this time of year, where the temperature can still plunge below freezing at night, and temperamental weather lashes the Varisian coastline. This evening, the wind brings in a wintery mix; rain and sleet slick Korvosa’s silent streets. The cobblestones grow dangerous in such weather, and the city’s denizens take refuge around warm hearths and tavern fireplaces. Even the running battles of pseudodragons and imps, high-altitude acrobatic acts of violence, take a pause. For the most part, Korvosa is as quiet on these nights as she ever is.
High atop the Grand Mastaba, a young queen sits at the bedside of her husband, she wrapped in a fine shawl of imported Ustalavec wool, he bundled in blankets, unable to shake off the chill. This night, as many before it, King Eodred Arabasti II is feared by all the right people. His rule is steady. He has navigated the rocks and shoals of Chelish diplomacy and earned Korvosa favorable trade agreements with the Old Empire. Rumors swirl of course, as they do of all royals, some of them as entrenched in Korvosa as those damnable imps:
Eodred’s insatiate appetites have drained the city’s coffers; the king is a womanizer and a spendthrift, hence the moniker The Stirge King given by the low classes, for Eodred has sucked their future dry.
Despite his fondness for the soft touch, the king has produced no heir to date, the latest in a long line of rulers afflicted by the Curse of the Crimson Throne, said to manifest in infertility and premature death.
Lately a new rumor has flourished in Korvosa’s gaming halls and tavern rooms: the King has not been seen in weeks. Why of course, is where the rumor gets vague. Foreign perfidy? Years of womanizing and drink come to collect their due? A young queen scorned one too many times?
The king coughs. A pinch of worry crosses the queen’s face, and she wraps her shawl tighter. It was no surprise that when Eodred finally wed, it was to a woman barely a third his age, and it was no surprise that she was hauntingly, classically beautiful, with fiery hair the color of a Vudrani sunset, and alabaster skin the envy of any Chelish noble. Which, surprisingly, Queen Ileosa was, having made the trip from sophisticated Westcrown four years previous. At first, Korvosa’s nobles worried about a Chel being a step or a heartbeat from the Crimson Throne, but as the years went on, Ileosa’s interest in the city seemed secondary to life a luxury, and with the more-than-competent Seneschal Neolandus Kalepopolis guarding Castle Korvosa’s interests, those worries were pushed aside as new schemes were borne.
But, enough has been written of nobles to fill a million skalds’ sagas, and this is not Eodred and Ileosa’s story, exactly. Over twenty thousand souls live in Korvosa; Chels, Empties and Gaters, Moths, and Horsers. And they all have their ways of coping with the blustery Gozren nights.
A young artist gathers her brushes and rinses them in the washbasin of her studio/apartment, smiling as she looks out the window of her small flat, twinkling lights from candle-lit windows stretching into the deeping night’s darkness. Even this part of town was beautiful, in its way, seen through the right eyes. And besides, once the artist's new patron became known, she could finally move up the hill, perhaps to Cliffside or maybe even Citadel Crest, the toniest neighborhood in the city.
Nearby, an old Shoanti shaman leans heavily on his walking stick, a reinforced length of wood and polished femur from some giant beast, crowned with an imposing skull. The shaman’s eyes are milky and his skin papery thin, and he preaches patience to his grandson as wind gusts through their clapboard shack high in the Shingles.
A fortune teller’s tidy residence on Lancet Street sits empty, its owner gone. The scent of perfume lingers in the home's air.
At the Chelish Ambassador’s mansion in Cliffgate, an argument ensues. His half-Moth daughter pulls her cloakhood over her curly black hair and slips into the rain, while across town her brother takes another hit of Crush and slips further down the wall he was propped against. The Ambassador sighs and nods, apologetically to his patient wife, a saint of a woman who barely tolerates visits from his bastard daughter when they aren’t fighting. The ambassador retreats to tome-laden study, for the Old Empire's demands are never sated.
At a well-kept manor, a single torch lights the practice room of a swordsman, who feints and twirls as the rain and sleet patter against the nearby windows, providing cadence as he steps, thrusts, steps.
A meeting commences in an shadowy, candlelit room, where water slicks the walls and drips from the ceiling. A group of men in red cloaks arrive with a corpse, much to the delight of a young man with hollow features. It is not the why of the corpse that brings the man delight, but the how.
In old Korvosa, an Empty, barely fourteen year-old girl curses as her chalk won’t take to the slick cobbles in the rain. Pocketing the chalk into a tattered satchel, the girl presses herself into a doorway and stairs into the alley’s darkness. It was too dangerous to sleep unaccompanied in Old Korvosa.
A few blocks distant, a family settles down to dinner. Red-soaked goblets are clinked, servants deposit steaming platters of lamb and saffron rice onto the long table. The conversation is at once syllabent and eubilent, in a tongue rarely heard on Korvosa’s streets. Schemes within schemes hatch and tumble, some near fruition, some yet to begin. All look beyond the city.
At Eel’s End, domain of Gaedran Lamm, King of Spiders, even the chilling spring nights can’t keep the crowd at bay. Lovers of vice - drugs, sex, gambling, even violence, for Eel’s End caters to all - converge on the five boats moored there. Fortunes will be lost, perhaps even a life or two tonight. Messengers are dispatched, for Lamm wants and audience, and that audience always comes, promptly, if the summoned value their lives and loved ones.
Many lives, all navigating this blustery eve. This is not their story either, though they will all play a part. And even in Korvosa’s darkest places, like Eel’s End, there can light a spark. A spark of hope, a spark of heroism. Korvosa, she'll need it.
Dark rises over Korvosa, and a brisk wind blows off of Conqueror's Bay. It is not unusual for this time of year, where the temperature can still plunge below freezing at night, and temperamental weather lashes the Varisian coastline. This evening, the wind brings in a wintery mix, rain and sleet slick Korvosa’s silent streets; the cobblestones grow dangerous in such weather, and the city’s denizens take refuge around warm hearths and tavern fireplaces. Even the running battles of pseudodragons and imps, high-altitude acts of pest extermination, pause. For the most part, Korvosa is as quiet on these nights as she ever is.
High atop the Grand Mastaba, a young queen sits at the bedside of her husband, she wrapped in a fine shawl of imported Ustalavec wool, he bundled in blankets, unable to shake off the chill. This night, as many before it, King Eodred Arabasti II, is feared by all the right people. His rule is steady. He has navigated the rocks and shoals of Chelish diplomacy and earned Korvosa favorable trade agreements with the Old Empire. Rumors swirl of course, as they do of all royals, some of them as entrenched in Korvosa as those damnable imps: Eodred’s insatiate appetites have drained the city’s coffers; the king is a womanizer and a spendthrift, given the moniker The Stirge King by the low classes, for Eodred has sucked their future dry. Despite his fondness for the soft touch, the king has produced no heir to date, the latest in a long line of rulers afflicted by the Curse of the Crimson Throne, said to manifest in infertility and premature death. Lately a new rumor has flourished in Korvosa’s gaming halls and tavern rooms: the King has not been seen in weeks. Why of course, is where the rumor gets vague. Foreign perfidy? Years of womanizing and drink come to collect their due? A young queen scorned one too many times?
The king coughs. A pinch of worry crosses the queen’s face, and she wraps her shawl tighter. It was no surprise that when Eodred finally wed, it was to a woman barely a third his age, and it was no surprise that she was hauntingly, classically beautiful, with fiery hair the color of finest Vudrani silk and alabaster skin the envy of any Chelish noble. Which, surprisingly, Queen Ileosa was, having made the trip from sophisticated Westcrown four years previous. At first, Korvosa’s nobles worried about having a Chel a step or a heartbeat from the Crimson Throne, but as the years went on, Ileosa’s interest in the city seemed secondary to life a luxury, and with the more-than-competent Seneschal Neolandus Kalepopolis guarding Castle Korvosa’s interests, the worries of nobles were pushed aside as new schemes were borne.
But, enough has been written of nobles to fill a million skalds’ sagas, and this is not Eodred and Ileosa’s story, exactly. Over twenty thousand souls live in Korvosa; Chels, Empties and Gaters, Moths, and Horsers. And they all have their ways of coping with the blustery Gozren nights.
A young artist gathers her brushes and rinses them in the washbasin of her studio/apartment, smiling as she looks out the window of her small flat, twinkling lights from candle-lit windows stretching into the deeping night’s darkness. Even this part of town was beautiful, in its way, seen through the right eyes. And besides, once the artist's new patron became known, she could finally move up the hill, perhaps to Cliffside or maybe even Citadel Crest, the toniest neighborhood in the city.
Nearby, an old Shoanti shaman leans heavily on his walking stick, a reinforced length of wood and polished femur from some giant beast, crowned with an imposing skull. The shaman’s eyes are milky and his skin papery thin, and he preaches patience to his grandson as wind gusts through their clapboard shack high in the Shingles.
A fortune teller’s tidy residence on Lancet Street sits empty, its owner gone this evening, misfortune recently visited on her family. The scent of perfume lingers in the home's air.
At the Chelish Ambassador’s mansion in Cliffgate, an argument ensues. His half-Moth daughter pulls her cloakhood over her curly black hair and slips into the rain, while across town her brother takes another hit of Crush and slips further down the wall he was propped against. The Ambassador sighs and nods, apologetically to his patient wife, a saint of a woman who barely tolerates visits from his bastard daughter when they aren’t fighting. The ambassador retreats to tome-laden study, for the Old Empire's demands are never sated.
At a well-kept manor, a single torch lights the practice room of a swordsman, who feints and twirls as the rain and sleet patter against the nearby windows, providing cadence as he steps, thrusts, steps.
In old Korvosa, an Empty, barely fourteen year-old girl curses as her chalk won’t take to the slick cobbles in the rain. Pocketing the chalk into a tattered satchel, the girl presses herself into a doorway and stairs into the alley’s darkness. It was too dangerous to sleep unaccompanied in Old Korvosa.
A few blocks distant, a family settles down to dinner. Red-soaked goblets are clinked, servants deposit steaming platters of meat and saffron rice onto the long table. The conversation is at once syllabent and eubilent, in a tongue rarely heard on Korvosa’s streets. Schemes within schemes hatch and tumble, some near fruition, some yet to begin. All look beyond the city.
At Eel’s End, domain of Gaedran Lamm, King of Spiders, even the chilling spring nights can’t keep the crowd at bay. Lovers of vice - drugs, sex, gambling, even violence, for Eel’s End caters to all - converge on the five boats moored there. Fortunes will be lost, perhaps even a life or two tonight. A brickhouse of a man watches over the crowd to make sure nothing too untoward happens - for his boss, at any rate. The man’s face is flattened and misshapen from years of fighting, as are his fists. He passes his gaze over the partiers and scowls, though the man’s thoughts are elsewhere tonight - drifting always like flotsam on the Jeggere River, in one direction: towards a friend in peril.
Many lives, all about to be irrevocably changed. This is not their story either, though they will all play a part. And even in Korvosa’s darkest places, like Eel’s End there can be the spark. A spark of hope, a spark of heroism. Korvosa will need it.
Hello!
Sorry I'm just getting to this now, but back in August of 18, during the internet issues that were happening with the web platform, I created a PBP game and had trouble with players posting in the gameplay thread. I ended up creating two gameplay threads, neither of which were ever used. A third thread worked fine, and we use that thread linked up to the original discussion thread.
I believe that in general you're not in the practice of deleting threads, but since these gameplay threads were not able to be used by my players, I wouldn't think they would have much value. Would it be possible to get them deleted?
The threads are here and here.
Thank you!
Kelmarane. It sits at the foothills of the Brazen Peaks like a scab, its buildings largely in ruins, and abandoned by the peoples of Katapesh - well, until recently. Less than a year ago, a group of heroes reclaimed the city town from the gnoll slavers, human bandits, and disreputable brigands that had sacked and occupied Kelmarane, and soon after, the most opportunistic and desperate citizens of the Great Kingdom of Katapesh had staked their claims, intent on making this town once again a prosperous trading post.
First came the canvas roofs; many of which still adorn the tops of the broken adobes that were once tidy homes, and now serve as temporary lodgings for the work crews rebuilding the town, or the nascent businesses you now pass by, wooden signs with crudely carved pictures scribing their intent - cooper, tavern, brothel.
Opportunistic or desperate... Which are you, anyways? Suppose you'll find out soon enough, according to how your meeting with Lady Kamisora Vord goes. Her retainer found you all in the battle market in Bronze Hook, just to the east along the Pale River, and said you'd looked suitably rough and tumble for a job, one that was light on the details, if laden with the promise of silver.
And so you find yourself standing in front of the church, the second-largest structure in Kelmarane, easy enough to find off the town's main square, a large expanse of red clay brick, baking in the midday heat. In the doorway to the church, a man in black robes lounges under a wide-brimmed hat, taking some respite from the blazing sun overhead. He straightens as you approach, stepping in front of you to block the church's entrance, stuttering a bit in a thick foreign accent - Ustalevic, from the sound of it.
"I-I'm sorry to say that the c-church is closed to tourists for the foreseeable future."
Tourists? Your shirt is soaked through with sweat and caked with dust. To the east and south, a cloudless blue sky stretches to the horizon. To the north and west, the Brazen Peaks tower, shades of brown atop brown, as if a godling child had turned the earth in a fit of pique.
The relentless heat seems to have scrambled this foreigner's brains. As if this town at the edge of nowhere would be crawling with tourists.
Hi All,
First thing to do is to develop the party. Everyone should probably pick different classes and maybe even roles. The adventure has the following suggestions:
LEVEL
Each PC should be 4th level.
BACKGROUNDS
Each player should choose a background from those listed on pages 38–39 of the Pathfinder Playtest Rulebook.
LANGUAGES
Inform the players that three languages—Auran, Gnoll, and Ancient Osiriani— might open up additional role-playing or investigatory opportunities in this chapter, and that they have access to those languages. However, knowledge of these languages isn’t required to complete “In Pale Mountain’s Shadow.”
PURCHASING GEAR
Each character begins with one 3rd-level item, two 2nd-level items, one 1st-level item, and 300 sp to spend on additional items. As the GM, you determine which items the PCs can start with, but they should have access to at least all common items of their level or lower. The characters already know each other, so they can pool their money to buy items.
PC CONSIDERATIONS
This adventure also makes use of exploration mode, so one or more PCs with wilderness skills are mandatory.
Hi Customer Service folks! Please cancel my Pathfinder Roleplaying Game subscription. Thank you!
Hello, I've been somehow dropped from this game. I'm not getting updates about posts, nor does the game show up in any of my campaign tabs.
Thank you for your assistance!
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Hi everyone. Here's the discussion thread.
I'm still a little ways out from getting a gameplay post up, but feel free to dot there if you'd like. In the meantime, introductions, character concepts, how gameplay is going to work, NPCs, and the like can be discussed here.
For ease of reference, the wiki link is here.
I'm going to crib Darkness Rising's post format for the Gameplay thread, because it is really easy on the eyes, and creates a more "narrative" look to everything. All dice rolls go in a spoiler marked "Mechanics" and all OOC comments go in a spoiler marked "OOC". To quote, Darkness Rising "It's a bit fiddly, but it does mean you get the game narrative without being distracted by dice functions, rules queries and player chat."
I'm going to steal from another campaign the below format for vital stats. Please make sure your character is in compliance:
How to Post Vital Stats
When you edit the profile for your alias, anything that appears these fields will appear on your tagline in posts on a PbP thread (in this order):
1. Gender
2. Race
3. Classes/Levels
All you need to do is put your vital stats in these three fields and you are good to go.
For this campaign, post your vital stats using this template. Please add a space at the start of both the race and classes/levels lines; it's very important for clarity!
Race:
| HP: 13/13| AC: 12 (12 Tch, 10 Ff) | CMB: +1, CMD: 13 | F: +1, R: +2, W: +4 | Init: +2 | Perc: +1, SM: +1
Classes/levels:
| Speed 30ft | Elemental Ray: 7/7 | Spells: 1st 5/5| Active conditions: None
Gender:
CG Male Half-Orc(taldan) Sorcerer(arcane) 2
or [ url=http://website.com/image.jpg]CG Male Half-Orc(taldan)[/url ] Sorcerer(arcane) 2 if you have an image you'd like to link with your character!
Questions? Comments? Concerns? I'd like to hear them!
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