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Doryg pokes at the tear Little Zura's tusk left in his trousers with a curious index finger.
A puzzled look settles onto his face, and a long eyebrow twitches. "Which leaves something missing. I know Groetans are an erratic bunch, but I don't see how they jump from 'embrace the end, for a fancy human and a grinning moon await us in paradise' to 'let's actively tear down our neighborhood.'" His eyes slowly slide into the middle distance as he becomes lost in thought. "Curious, curious... There was that eye peering at the meeting house—perhaps that's related?"
"Little Zura there's the one that doused this place in slime - be careful." At Ink's incantation, the shadows shift and Doryg's pulse steadies. He scuttles past her, nodding in thanks, as he climbs the stairs and taks up a position in the hallway opposite Mirza. "Admiral's Fen needs hope, not nihilism. Show yourself, demagogue, and maybe we can end this without your making an early appointment with Groetus!" He pushes Little Zura's grumbling and slurping aside, his eyebrows and ears twitching as he strains his senses for the unseen Ahksiva.
Action 3: Seek:
Doryg snorts in bemusement. "Grandiosity and ego. How disappointingly ordinary; I thought your unique theology might make for a different kind of demagogue." Startled by the cultist's attack, he turns around to aid Pyrexius with a sword drawn hastily from his cane, but he can't get a good angle on the attacker.
Action 3: Recall Knowledge on Little Zura:
Doryg hangs back in the alleyways, keeping an eye on the comings and goings. If he gets the chance, he makes unintrusive conversations with passers-by, attempting to surreptitiously suss out if people overhear conversations between cultists. They're clearly building up materiel for something, but why the attacks? It doesn't seem like they're robbing people to add to their stockpiles.
Doryg hangs back next to the tallest Pathfinder, his curious eyes flitting over the crowd and the sorts of people who find such ramblings of interest. "You know, Mirza, there's some small number of Groetan gnomes. The Bleaching and all that, accept the inevitability of dissolution, etcetera etcetera. I'm not unsympathetic, but it seems a shame."
Doryg paces around the wreckage, sniffing burned bits, knocking on charred beams, and sifting through the ashes with the tip of his cane. ”Hrmm. Now look here, see this bit? Very strange, wouldn’t expect this in a normal fire.”
Perception to investigate the wreckage, +1 circumstance bonus from my Lead:
Doryg looks intrigued. "Aroden? Not often you find folk still devoted to him. I don't suppose you know if the King's Closet had any links to such a sect, adoring or otherwise." "If he's amenable, maybe we could tail him as leaves work next. See if lightning strikes twice, catch these attackers in the act," he mutters, just loud enough for any of his close-by companions to hear.
”Hmm, yes. All very suspicious given the situation in the borough.” Doryg’s eyes focused on something unseen. ”Damp, which means a certain quantity of fuel and sufficient accelerant. No easy feat to make wet timber burn on that scale. And these attacks, what’s the motive? What to gain in the Fens?” He strokes a long eyebrow as he mutters to himself. At Mirza’s question, he snaps back to the present moment. ”Yes, speaking with Mr. Maro sounds most helpful. And perhaps knowing someone is pursuing justice on his behalf will help him rest easier.” He turns to his fellows, eyebrows raised. ”Shall we finish our meals and get to it? First to speak with Mr. Maro, acquire something much-needed context, then to the site?” He takes up his spoon and attacks his fish stew with gusto.
”As much as the golden dragon’s protection makes me feel like sauntering into the swamp...” Doryg lifts his cane to rap on the door but choked up on the grip, thinking better of it, ”I think Ink has the right of it. Let’s enter the boar and get the lay of the land, shall we?” If no one opens the door, he does so, holding it open and bowing slightly as his companions as they pass.
”Do you know of anyone who can help us make connections with these survivors? I doubt strangers marching in asking about attacks are particularly likely to get answers. But if we know someone who can bend some ears, that makes things much more likely to succeed.”
Doryg is alert as they move through the city, his dark eyes flitting about like birds that alight on every detail. That’s Andoran granite and lumber there, which means someone has an interesting business connection. There’s a load of Opparan brasswork, interesting item to have in that sort of establishment. Maybe I’ll circle back and ask... They arrive in the Fen and he observes his companion’s reactions to the change in economic prospects—one kobold’s in particular. Hestia’s words draw Doryg’s attention away from Izkazk’s wriggling toes. He frowns and tugs at an iridescent shock of hair. ”An old story, and one I don’t expect we’ll stop telling anytime soon. Inequity creeps up through there streets like bog water, and the folks who most need dry feet can’t get them.” Society:
Doryg makes small appreciative noises as he inspects the tattoos. He then sits back in his chair, places his cane across his knees, and begins stroking his right eyebrow pensively. "Well, that certainly sounds like a story! I can't say I've encountered many Pathfinders who appreciate both Milani and the Unyielding. Is it the strength and stalwartness of each you admire? Their martial acumen? I'm sure our friend," he bends the tip of the eyebrow to point at Izkazk, "would identify with the latter aspect. Or is it the-" Doryg's fingers halt suddenly and his eyes snap back from the middle distance. His wrinkled face flushes slightly. "Very sorry! Pondering about something very personal, no doubt. I like learning the 'why' and 'how' of things, you see, and it occasionally, ah..." He traces a circuitous line through the air with his cane. "Sends me down paths without considering my fellow travelers, as it were. Best stick to tapping doors to hear what they sound like." One corner of his lip twists in a lopsided smile, and he dips his head in apology. |
