The kitchen seems to be in moderate disrepair, with nothing of interest.
Chrysa, Mila, and Tikroch all spy faint colored lights winking off and on, under the doors that are adjacent to the northern hallway.
Senna senses no magic within the area.
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The party moves down into the basement, and finds that the room must have been the kitchens. Large clay and stone ovens fill the far wall, and the open hall has long tables for preparing food and basins for washing. Crocks once filled with knives, long spoons, and other kitchen supplies have spilled their contents onto the countertops, which are covered with a film of dust and debris. Split by a narrow dividing wall, there are exits to the north, which seem to lead to a long, double row of small sleeping chambers, and to the west, towards a wine cellar, accessed by descending a short, stone staircase.
Donovan realizes that his hunch is vaguely correct. It does not appear that there's anything like that in the building they've been in.
The party, when stepping up the stairs towards Chrysa, notices she has a jagged white scar on her neck where there was none before, as if some vicious wound had healed.
After a brief look around, there is nothing of interest in any of the rooms on this floor.
The moment passes and there is no threat.
The party, led by Chrysa, heads up the narrow staircase to the top floor of the chapel. This room holds a desk engraved with the icon of a wine cup, perhaps indicating the study of a leader of the order. A large and quite old bloodstain mars the floor to the south.
[spoiler=Chrysa]
When Chrysa reaches the top floor, she seems to stop, and clutches at her neck, as if trying to stop something from cutting her throat.
A drawer in a narrow desk against the west wall contains the librarian’s personal journal, a small
The party creeps slowly up the stairs, watching for danger.
The second story of the small chapel appears to be an old library. Many moldering books and scrolls sit on the sagging wooden shelves that line the walls of this chamber. Another stairwell curves up to the floor above, while a wooden double-door hangs open to the south to reveal a small bedroom.
A number of hooks sit on the wall of this abandoned vestry; heaps of ancient cloth are piled on the floor below.
Judging by the broken basins, this must have once been a washroom and lavatory. When Chrysa looks at one of the basins, she doesn't see any traps, but for a moment, it seems like the basin is filled with water. Taking a second look, the water seems to disappear.
The herald seems to not take heed of anyone's words, still obviously traumatized. Gaetane seemly opens up again with some difficulty, "no - I'm not going to tell you about me. But there are contingency plans, friend, against you." He gestures towards Naomi, then laughs harshly, "of course, maybe they're also a trap!" and the rheumy eyes of the wererat glimmer mischieviously, "the capitol will go into lockdown. He has some weretigers, filthy beasts if you ask me... trolls, that brute Villamor, and some other allies he didn't tell me of." He grins at Naomi, baring his teeth, "he also said was going to try to get some renegade cloud giants - they can be fickle - to guard against aerial incursions. And his palace is trapped - and designed to confound even the cleverest invader. He is a magician of no small prowess, after all." To Chrysa, he waves his hand dismissively.
He continues, "Anyway, if the attack on Tri Firinnean is successful or not, he intends to push, hard, into the border, within the next few months. Where Drelev was." He gestures vaguely to the southeast, "just a matter of mobilization. I'm sure you know of Avinash Jurrg." "Well, he commands a regiments - regular warriors, armored trolls, and loyal wyverns, as well as a few hill giants. Scores of enemies. Some will be held back for protection, but most will be brought against Gliocas soon" He points northeast, "and shadowfall. He wagered he has enough forces to make it hard to protect such a large border." Coughing, he laughs, "your fool of a ruler expanded too quickly, he thinks. It won't be possible to defend the entire Narlmarches. And even if he loses in the attack, it'll be a grievous blow to her aspirations, he thinks he can maneuver her into a stalemate of 'peace' which would eat into the forest, her richest source of resources." After he calms himself down, he shrugs, "you know, we could go to Daggermark, together, Naomi. There is work there enough, and I could guard you, if you'd like..." he trails off, shaking his head slightly, as if confused. "Neither country will stand long, I think. Look around, even old churches are cursed. This entire land is cursed. Everywhere. You, plant creature, can't you feel it?" He gestures towards the sargassum fiend. "It'll come to a bad end. I want out, and I recommend you all get out while you still can. Plenty of adventures to be had elsewhere."
The herald ignores Senna’s words completely. She remains standing, defiantly staring into space. After a moment, she only looks down at the ground at the charred remains of her friends and then up.
It doesn’t appear much will sway the herald, other than magic. Either she has some sort of fervor that precludes her from listening to Naomi or the argument is unpersuasive, it isn’t clear. When she isn’t immediately killed, she attempts to stand up straight as long as possible, obviously waiting for her death, as she tries not to look at the charred corpses of her friends. The wererat shrugs, and explains only to Naomi, while giving the others sidelong looks with veiled hostility, ”of course, you’re entitled to know what I know. This was a trap, as you figured out. Irovetti thought you would take it, and I guess you underestimated him.” He gestures vaguely at the chapel, ”there’s nothing here other than the ruins. Cursed ruins. This entire place is cursed, it is unnatural. Your druid friend can feel it, I’m sure.” He shrugs, ”the supplies here are just glass bottles and dyed water. No poison.” He scratches his long nose, which twitches slightly, ”he said he expected you to betray him and if you showed up that it would be confirmation enough - and here you are.” He growls, ”not my favorite employer, as a bounty hunter, but not the worst either. Fair pay. Honest with me at least. And the plan might have worked, if not for that sorceress.” He chuckles to himself, ”he also hoped to draw them away from that country for the attack, which I suppose you mentioned - timing was a bit off though. And as for these soldiers -“ and he grimaces, ”well, they know that Gliocas attacked some Pitaxian border town, Clover Hollow, or something. Burned it to the ground. No survivors.” At mention of this name, the surviving herald stiffens slightly. Gaetane continues, ”you may have been his spymaster - but he had others in his employ. He kept things from you, and didn’t trust you completely. How he did all this, I don’t know. Maybe he used magic on YOU to make you forget.” He chuckles darkly, ”ironic, sort of. He may have manipulated you just as you manipulated me.”
He grimaces, and says, to the others, ”anyway, my name is Gaetane, and I think that’s enough for you to know.” He smiles slightly, ”what’s next? Where do we go from here?”
The woman says nothing, and it is clear she has no interest in speaking with Senna or the party.
The herald stares at Naomi, bafflement which curdles into hatred. She looks down at her fallen friends and says only, "Irovetti was right. You people are sick," and then points at Naomi, "and you - you betrayed him to side with these scum." She seems to hold herself back, but spits towards Naomi disrespectfully. The wererat lowers his bow, and puts his hand on her shoulder, saying his his raspy voice, "come now. That isn't any way to treat our friend." She struggles to get away and finally succeeds, standing up proudly, "you idiot - she charmed you" She juts her chin out towards Senna, "just kill me too - you've already killed everyone I care about. I'd rather die that be subject to her mind games..." A tear falls down her cheek as she stands up proudly, before she closes her eyes and waits for whatever happens to her to happen. The wererat shakes his head, "so immature..." and he turns to Naomi, "well, I suppose I was wrong about you. You're a better person than Irovetti said,." He raises his bow, "but I was hired to do a job, and you're with my other targets so..." He looks a little confused about what to do.
All of the arrows which fire towards the wererat fly upward, clattering into the roof by sudden gusts of wind. Reflex Saves:
One by one the pitaxian forces are killed by the firey snake until there is little left beyond their charred corpses, having roasted within their armor.
A thick, raspy voice eminates from the rear of the chapel. "You must be Naomi. Irovetti told me about you - he bet me that you wouldn't come on your own - that you were too much of a coward." He laughs, a short, nasally bark, "looks like he was wrong." From around one of the columns is a svelte-looking half-rat, half-human being with a longbow. The rat-man wears sturdy clothing, if well-worn, and it seems that he's using an even finer bow. If anyone could immediately determine what sort of activities he seems to excel in, it is archery. A fact which is absolutely not lost on Mila. "I've been hunting your kind long enough, even a shapeshifted form doesn't matter, this is going to hurt." And he raises his bow and fires a fusilade of arrows at Tikroch. Attacks:
Seeing the druid on his last legs, the sneering voice calls out, "ready to surrender? Irovetti promises a fair trial, which is better than your Gliocan filth gave to the fine people of Pitax." Sense Motive DC 24:
You get the impression that this rat fellow doesn't quite believe what he's saying re: the accusation.
One of the wardens is obviously confused and tries to drop Chrysa.
The weapon out of his hand and stuck to Tikroch's plant form, the confused warden lashes out ineffectively with a mailed fist. The warden sees their compatriot drop to the ground, and with tears in their eyes, lashes out at Chrysa, saying "you attacked our farms, you attacked our families! You won't get away with it - not without a fight! Gliocas will pay!" There is desperation and anger in his face and voice.
His own greatsword is gone, stuck to the sticky form of the climbing plant. He looks around and shouts, "they have magicians - these fey tricksters - gird yourselves, shake off the confusion! Get to her, friends!" And he points at Naomi.
As if on command, one of the heralds, from behind, moves to attack the one acting 'normally', swinging her longsword.
One of the heralds hurts themselves.
An enemy appears in front of Senna, one of the Wardens, and attacks her.
If Naomi thought she was safe in the backline, the appearance of formerly invisible foe adjacent to her seems to immediately dissuage her of this, as a screaming enemy appears and swings a greatsword at her.
Even more enemies spring up around Naomi and Mila,
A pair of lightly armored heralds step out from the far end of the hall and attack Tikroch, who is the most obvious target.
But they both miss.
Mila can only see a little bit of Senna's target, but does her best to take a shot.
But Mila only connects with a mirror image. There's a flurry of magic, as a few obvious haste spells are applied, and two of the pitaxian heralds step out from the debris, and there is discordant sound which blasts from the pitaxian heralds as they try to disable the party. One shouts, "for Pitax! We must stop the villains!"
There's faint shuffling and in response to Senna's statement, a few enemies appear and immediately attack, viciously sweeping at Chrysa and Senna with large greatswords. The one in the front looks upset, and screams at Senna, "you will all pay for your crimes!"
The invisible one who slipped past Chrysa seems to be trying to cut through Senna.
Initiative:
Chrysa/Senna/Mila are up
As Tikroch approaches, he can hear the shuffling of movement, and barely sees the presence of medium-sized humanoids in the room in the nooks on either side, nestled between the barrels in the room, and the barrels pressed against the alcoves.
There's a flurry of sounds in the room as it looks like a number of spells go off and people prepare for combat.
The room ahead is shrouded in dim light, and the curtain is quite difficult for the mage hand to pull aside, but some vague details become apparent in the gloom. This long, colonnaded hall is marked by rounded bays that run along either side, each containing dusty old barrels. Piles of wood mark where kneeling benches have long since fallen to ruin. Above, wooden rafters may form a complex network of supports for the roof, while below, numerous bedrolls and what may be… alchemical supplies? of obviously recent manufacture sit on the floor.
The party approaches the main door of the church, and pushes the doors open, which creak loudly as if protesting against being moved. Spiral stairways curve down to the west and up to the east in this entry room. The walls and ceiling are tiled in branching vine patterns, but beyond the entryway corridors branch to either side, while a heavy curtain shrouds the sanctuary.
The woman is badly hurt by Chrysa, and then knocked unconscious easily by Senna. She’s thrown back into the wall of the tower, and slumps to the ground, bleeding from her nose and ears, as well as the stab wounds in her midsection.
Chrysa’s flies rapidly to the belltower. A trio of fallen iron bells lies amid a pile of broken beams on the floor within this partially collapsed stone tower. Chrysa only:
When she enters the tower, Chrysa hears the soft sound of bells pealing, as if from some vast distance. The sound does not seem to diminish, though it is quiet enough not to be distracting or annoying. She slips up into the open window at the top where she sees one of the ‘heralds’ from Pitax appears to be looking out towards the hill. She looks a little uncomfortable, in the humidity, and is humming quietly to herself. She looks to be in her early 20s, and has clear River Kingdoms/Brevian ancestry. She’s sitting on a stool.
Upon passing the low stone wall, everyone in the party observes that, after taking a moment to concentrate, it’s clear that vegetation shifts and writhes at times without an apparent breeze and it seems weeds have grown to excessive size and strength in patches on the hill in various places. Tikroch spots an excessively large spider (the size of a small cat) creeping towards a grasshopper the size of a terrier, and pouncing on it. A few moments of observation makes it clear that the various “vermin” of a typical garden seem to be oversized in some way, much like the large, writhing weeds.
Tikroch turns into a rough-legged hawk and starts to fly from the area nearby towards the hill. Tikroch: Once Tikroch crosses from the hills past the low stone wall, the biome changes markedly. On the other side of the wall, the air feels strangely thick and humid, almost as if the hill were under an immense greenhouse rather than on the slopes of a temperate mountain range. There are no other negative effects. Tikroch flies around a bit and gets a sense that winery to the west and guest house to the southeast are ruins, with the roofs having collapsed inwards. The abbey on the hill seems to have all the buildings intact.
Tikroch’s sense of navigation is excellent and it doesn’t take long before the party crests one of the low hills and spies their destination. Whiterose Abbey is located atop a foothill on the southern slopes of the Branthlend Mountains in the shadow of the great Mount Branthlend itself, about 80 miles northwest of Fort Drelev. As the party approaches, they see that patches of white roses still grow on parts of Whiterose Hill. Thick swaths of kudzu-like vegetation grow on the hill, and the wide path that once led up the hill to the abbey itself is now little more than an overgrown trail. A low stone wall encircles the hilltop, built decades ago by the priests to delineate the land granted them by the church. Few signs remain of the expansive vineyards that once surrounded the hill, although here and there, overgrown posts and tangles of wild grapes hint at the region’s past. Three partially collapsed buildings slump near the wall to the southeast of the hill’s peak, once guest lodgings, a stable, and a wagonhouse, respectively. To the west of the hill against a steep, vine-covered slope stands the ruins of the winery itself, while at the hill’s peak looms the stone abbey. The stone abbey has a tall, separated belltower and the primary building seems to have multiple floors above the Narthex, and there are contemplation quarters set in a low building to the west of primary abbey sanctuary.
The city walls, which did not exist until very recently, surrounding Tri Firinnean, are incredibly thick knotted wood that seem to have grown up out of the ground. Running along the top is a rough walkway of cut timber which allows passage, but the wall itself is verdant and leafy, as if it were covered in ivy. Hidden from view under the leaves are half-inch long curved thorns that serve as a painful deterrent for anyone inclined to try and scale the wall. The gate arches over the northern entrance which serves as the largest and most prominent of the city, as most of the commerce runs from the other states, the most prosperous being the secretive underground kobold society of Silvermine. The gate itself is a pair of three - two steel gates which drop from the ceiling above the entrance, and a pair of removable double doors constructed from greenwood and banded with some silvery steel which open up outward when they are hung by one or another of the few giant citizens. The emblem that Senna has seen the sheriffs and even Sophiel wearing, the spiral-inlaid golden triangle that points down seems to have been knocked off of where it hung above the gate. In their haste to retreat the attackers neglected to steal it as a “spoil”, and the battered crest lays forlornly at the foot of the gate. Many civil servants have, by this point, managed to rescue the surviving soldiers, and Senna now sees that the population is plurality human but not just chrlaxian and Taldor, but a smattering of other far-flung folk. Mixed in with these are a substantially higher proportion of the ‘half’ ancestries of orcs and elves than Senna has seen before in most cities, as well as a large number of gnomes. Most curiously, Senna observes elfin and more exotic beings she must assume are fey in staggering numbers compared to what she’s seen before. Walking around openly, wearing clothes like a typical humanoid, and conversing with the other people nearby, they seem to take their tasks as seriously as the humanoids and are rendering aid and working on the recovery along side the other citizens. This recovery, curiously, even includes helping and rescuing any Pitaxian soldiers who may have survived. Once disarmed, the poor wretches, many of whom seem to have been brought back from the brink of death, sit in neat rows outside the gate. A hill giant that Chrysa recognizes, the father she sent to Shadowfall, salutes Chrysa and nods at her, when he sees her, though otherwise is standing guard over the prisoners, holding no weapon other than a pair of brass knuckles. These prisoners are tended to by a few kindly fey women - small women with shears in their back pockets - who are handing out soup and water, and trying to console them. The remainder of the enemy dead are being collected in wagons for burial, and the sheriffs and citizens seem to be trying to figure out, person-by-person, if any of them had specific holy-symbols they wore, seemingly trying to sort them. A small number of priests stand by to apparently give ‘last rites’ as appropriate, before the dead are to be disposed of. The mood is somber and as the citizens of the city set on their grim tasks, many are weeping quietly, or must have been recently. This sorrow is not reserved for the losses of the Gliocas, but also their enemies. The priests try to console them, and Senna gets a sense that the people of this country are as sad for the death they have suffered as they death they have inflicted. ******************** As Naomi speaks, even the taciturn Galgra softens her stance to the young woman. While it’s clear that the Dwarven priestess is not particularly friendly with Naomi, this seems to be borne of the fact that Galgra isn’t particularly friendly anyone, and it’s all the more remarkable when the middle-aged dwarf says, ”aye, leave her be. She tried to help you. It was only chance that she didn’t get here in time. But we managed to persevere anyway, eh? If Miss Sophie has good enough judgement to keep us safe, trust her judgement in who she associates with.” The most ‘goonish’ of the assembled (though Naomi notices that these types of people are few and far between) seem to be embarrassed at their behavior and the crowd disperses, with many people approaching Naomi sadly, apologizing for thinking the worst of her.
Naomi knows from previous experience that while Trinity is an academic institution little rivaled in this part of Avistan, and there are plenty of academics who know everything about lycanthropes, the only chance to know about specific ‘packs’, especially in areas like Pitax - which is hundreds of miles away, would come from scouts who might have given reports to the Marshal or Warden of Gliocas. Otherwise, just asking in taverns might in normal circumstances get more information. At the moment, the restaurants and inns are largely closed to the public, seemingly serving as makeshift garrisons and food production centers. Naomi spends a few hours asking around, and while she can’t identify how reliable the sources are, she does manage to talk to a few of the half-orc wardens, some of whom mention that they’ve heard from other contacts in the wilds, who have heard from others, that Irovetti has in his employ feline lycanthropes who serve as mid-level commanders in his armies. As this is not relevant to the Abbey, specifically, Naomi keeps asking around about any others that may have been anywhere nearby, and learns that there’s werebears in the Narlmarches forest, werewolves in the Thousand Voices forest and Glenborn uplands, and a small number of werebats in the Tors of Levenies. Or were there, historically at least. In the vicinity, she knows they’re generally quite rare in Brevoy, and elsewhere in the River kingdoms, other than a substantial number of wererats in Daggermark. Unfortunately, she does not know much about what abilities any of these creatures have, nor much about where these places are.
Sophiel nods at Chrysa and moves to retrieve some clerics from Shadowfall. When she returns, she says to Chrysa, with the others not in earshot”your cohort and a few others are all that could be spared. It appears your aunt has not taken well to your turning on her. The situation with Irovetti must be resolved soon.” She adds, ”At this point, I think there is value in explaining the situation to everyone. It is not productive to have any more secrets, but the decision is up to you, ultimately.” After some internal discussion, the party decides to stay in the city for at least long enough to rest and regain their powers. The party wakes up late the next morning after resting in their own places, or given spartan apartments. Sophiel praises Senna effusively for her efforts, noting ”even if had no cause you trust you, you’re at the very least not aligned with Pitax, so if the others in the group would have you - I have no objections.” She does little else other than shepherding, in two trips, the remainder of the party into a robust cypress tree, seeming to reference an older book on geography written by a naturalist, Jubilost Narthropple, who seemed to reference such trees in that general location. ”The abbey is in that vicinity, but as you were resting - I consulted various sources and discovered that this was not all of Irovetti’s army. Had I not the teleportation, you all would be hard pressed to pass one of his many armies. So you may find yourself pressed on a few sides. Whatever is there, I recommend stealth. You may be powerful, but thousands of archers can still kill you…” Hoping her warning is heeded, she leaves them in a large hilly field after pointing a general ‘direction’ for the party to head, based on her best guess and she departs.
Before Marcanth departs, they nod at Tikroch graciously, ”we have beasts but all are smaller than you can be. If you wouldn’t mind doing some sort of…” they wave vaguely, ”elephantine being? Or perhaps some huge ape? You may know these things better…” Having his train of thought derailed, he remembers ”erm, yes, some sort of huge being it would likely help tremendously around the city. There’s much debris to move, and you and Madam Sophiel are the only druids with sufficient power to get that big, I think?” Notably, as Senna is zooming around, some of black scaled kobolds are staring in awe and cheering for her. Having departed with Marcanth, Naomi, Mila, and Chrysa to her office, Sophiel moves to sit down in her chair and offers seats to anyone who would be so inclined. Marcanth stays standing, eying Naomi with an air of obvious suspicion. Sophiel looks down at her desk for a long moment before collecting herself. ”Shyka might attest that time is relative, but tonight is it is short. Please, explain what happened.” She dismisses any objections about the time, adamantly wanting a rundown. When Naomi chimes in, she interrupts, and says ”please, explain quickly. Marcanth will, with your permission, verify if you are lying.” She waits for the woman to acquiesce, Naomi feels her own mind gently probed by the stern-looking gathlain. It’s quite clear that this is some sort of lie detection only, as common to a typical inquisitor.
When her confidants and the former Pitaxian finish explaining what happened. Sophiel purses her lips and leans back, ”I need a few minutes to concentrate. Magdh has seen fit to give me advice about the consequences of various actions. I just need time.“ She clears off her desk and retrieves a few mystical doodads and incense, and starts burning one of the sticks. The pleasant smell fills the room, slightly otherworldly, and Sophie starts chanting quietly to herself and closes her eyes. Her irises disappear when she opens them, and a glowing, third eye, made of light, opens on her forehead as she keeps gesturing and chanting.
She continues this for ten minutes and the rhythmic gesture and quiet whispering keeps continuing, and it looks like Sophiel’s open eyes are searching, as if she sees something invisible to everyone in the room, and she intermittently seems to comment, [smaller]”…no… no…. yes… hmm…” The spell tapers off, and she blinks and her vision returns to normal, her third eye disappearing. Sophiel puts away her divination tools, and sighs, ”signs point to a threat of some type there, but also some opportunity. Whether that is a weapon or not, I don’t know, but I do not think you have to go today. If you all would like a day to recuperate, it would give me a chance to go over a few things and give you a chance to prepare. There seem to be odd signs of the type of enemies. Undead and lycanthropes? Why or how would Pitax have these to guard a weapon? It is curious, but that is my best guess. Do you have any questions before I get back to recovery?”
Tri Firinnean: Seemingly very tired, Sophiel gives the briefest nod of thanks to Chrysa and Tikroch as they help, and glances down at the Pitaxian standing in the corner of the courtyard. Ignoring Naomi, she keeps her attention on the remainder of the wyverns, shouting ”they’re all over the city,” and gritting her teeth amidst the maelstrom, of elementals and swirling wind. She salutes Sootscale, who salutes back and then elevates himself, surveying the carnage. Quickly, the little kobold musters the city’s commanders to finish off the rest of the enemies on the ground. With the courtyard managed as well as possible, Sophiel points with three fingers to Tikroch and Chrysa, and herself, as if to say spread out and it’s clear that she wants them, as higher level characters, to go after whatever other wyverns that might be within the city. Swiftly, Sophie moves in one direction, expecting her companions to go elsewhere.
Returning back to the castle, the pair return and watch as Sophie drops out of the sky clumsily, breathing heavily, the wind around her having died down. Whatever wounds she must have suffered seem to have disappeared, though she’s covered in her own blood as well as detritus and the dark blood of trolls and wyverns. By this point, Sootscale has dispatched the rest of the enemies in the courtyard, and mustered the guard to start a sweep of the city. The baliff, a sewer troll in a formerly neat, but now somewhat tattered policeman’s outfit, seems to lead the charge. Sophiel waves them off and moves to sit down, drinking water, and watches as the sheriffs bring back people to consciousness with poultices. One of them, a dwarf, approaches her quickly, and says, ”miss, that boy has wyvern poison,” and points towards a young man, pale and shaking, who seems to have been pulled in, ”our spells are only staving off the damage, can you clear it?” The prime minister scrambles up, rushing towards the young guard and tries to draw the poison out of him. It seems to work, and she keeps an eye out for anything else that comes up, but the worst of the situation seems managed. Blinking, she seems to remember something, and she calls out to Beldame and Melianse, ”the fires, we have the firefighters and sheriffs, but they may need help, folks should be looking to do just that, so start knocking on doors to let them know the danger is passed - folks may need rescuing and… and…” She sniffs, and rubs her eyes, and the bridge of her nose. The old witchy woman and fey look at each other briefly before moving off, taking charge of directing more of the recovery, including the rest of the advisors to fan out and get the city cleaned up and account for the losses. Sophiel’s mouth is a thin line, and she drinks some water and she takes big, gulping breaths, until she settles herself down. Until she sees Naomi again. She inhales, and walks over, ”Miss Ravasz, how kind of an envoy of Pitax to join us.” She seems tired and angry, but not necessarily at Naomi, she has no other Pitaxian outlet to express her frustration. She seems to gain a measure of composure and follows up, ”sorry. Your king has killed many of my people today.” She takes a deep breath, ”obviously, you had nothing to do with this, or you would not be here. And no foreknowledge, lest you would have told me, of course.” He voice is bitter, and not accusatory, but there is a wariness still, laden with a heavy threat towards something. A promise of violence from a woman whose has run out of patience. She looks towards Chrysa and Tikroch, ”quickly - what happened?”
Chrysa, Tikroch, Naomi: The small group approaches the main western gate and finds that while it is in poor shape and has a few holes in the wood, it seems to be intact. There are corpses of a number of armored trolls scattered on this side of the wall, seemingly having died to some violent and high-temperature explosions. The holes appear to have been boarded up on the other side, and the gate is closed.
The archers, a fair contingent who appear to be members of the half-orc ranger militia, are firing into the air, and with some regularity seem to connect to some figure or another swooping in and out of eyesight. Those figures, after a few moment’s observation, appear to be drake or draconic, and they are joined by other, much smaller creatures that fly nimbly through the air wielding some sort of polearm. The rangers notably avoid shooting at these figures. When Chrysa elevates above the ground and moves to fly over the wall, suddenly dozens of bows are trained on her, but soon a command is given to stand down, and the door creaks open, allowing Naomi and Tikroch to enter the city. Tikroch and Chrysa don’t seem to recognize anyone particularly, though behind the wall they do recognize sheriffs tending to people, but there are not many folks on the street. It looks like the only people are injured soldiers and sheriffs, and for the first time it becomes immediately clear who the other flying creatures were. Clad in fine armor and wielding shining glaives, a few fey creatures with wooden wings lay wounded, having their bleeding staunched by motley druids. They are bloodied and bruised, but mostly alive - save a handful of slight figures that lay under stained sheets - the permanent cost of war. They seem to regard Tikroch somewhat warily, having been told to stay clear of him, but are certainly relieved to see more support in the capitol. It is only a few minute walk towards the city center to the east, and the fires seem to die down, as does the immediate sound of fighting, as the party gets closer and closer to the castle. The half-party sees some citizens peeking out from behind curtains, in darkened apartments and homes, but the faces soon disappear into the depths of the building when spied. Trinity University and its extravagant architecture seem largely untouched by the fighting, and soon it becomes clear that this is because dozens of spellcasters are on the roofs of various buildings. Whenever one of the flying creatures seems to approach, dozens of rays of energy and other spell effects seem to be directed towards the foe, and invariably the winged creature is driven off. Though not particularly close to the street, the party’s keen eyes are able to spy one of the leaders: a black bear with a straw hat, pointing a claw and shouting hoarsely towards the sky along. She and the other fantastical teachers seem to have rallied students to defense of their school. It does not take long to finally reach the site of the former Stag Lord’s castle, since rebuilt with dark stone and greenwood into verdant, towering edifice. The sounds of fighting are heard before they are seen, and as the little group rounds a corner they’re finally able to see into the courtyard of the castle, and there can finally be found the leaders and advisors in a significant battle with a sizable number of human warriors, bedecked in fine gear, and a number of trolls, all who seemingly were able to get into the city somehow. Sophiel’s advisor Marcanth, the spectacled gathlain, hovers above the fray with their bow. Governor Sootscale is also present, cackling heartily as he peppers the trolls with alchemist fire, seemingly having run out of his most potent bombs. Kesten Garess is not present, but Melianse the nereid is tending to the wounds of the fallen, Andrea Brightdawn stands in combat against a half-dozen warriors, her blazing sword shining brightly as she resolutely stands with her wife Sila, the Belzken refugee, and the Erastilian priest Jhod, who are also eppering enemies with arrows. Old Beldame stand near the entrance to the castle itself with Tyg and Perlivash, the witch, the sprite, and the faerie dragon seemingly the last line of defense against incursion that so far appears to be managed by the others, along with three cyclops that have interposed themselves between the soldiers and the witch, and are gamely battling five soldiers each, though with each swing of their weapon, the cyclops seem to sweep away another warrior. This is not sufficient for one of the cyclops, who is overwhelmed by a lucky blow from a warrior, and winks out of existence before Old Beldame puts him down with a sleep hex and Tyg and Perlivash pounce on the soldier, knocking him out. Notably there is also a hill giant locked into a fight with a troll, seemingly aided by a half-dozen black-scaled kobolds that are doing everything in their power to distract the hulking brute. The giant seems to have the upper hand, and he wrenches the troll’s head off, and his kobold friends leap on the body with torches and other flaming doodads. A peal of thunder and a flash of light make it clear that there is a fight in the smoke above. It clears and about a hundred feet in the air is Lady Sophiel Medvyed - in battle against the winged creatures. Finally able to take a good look at the beasts, it becomes apparent that these are no mere animals but wyverns. A half dozen in various states of health are circling Sophie, who seems to be surrounded by a swirling storm of wind and crackling lighting. In fact, her own eyes seem lit up with electricity, and as she concentrates, a bolt descends from the heavens and blasts one of the wyverns as it approaches her, causing the drake to shudder, stall, and crash into the courtyard below. Shuddering, and breathing heavily, the prime minister snarls, in a booming voice, in draconic. The other wyverns, driven by bloodlust, and seeking to take advantage of her lapse in concentration, seem to take no heed as one dives forward with their poison tail, embedding the tip deep in Sophiel’s shoulder. The woman seems to merely grunt, slightly in discomfort.
It isn’t easy pushing through the throngs of congratulatory onlookers and people who wish to talk to the party, but eventually Tikroch spies a nearby oak tree. Dislodging themselves from the gawkers and hangars-on, he and Naomi, Luca and Chrysa enter, and he searches the network of trees until he finds something suitably close to the capitol of Gliocas. While it may be tempting, please only read this if you are Chrysa, Naomi, or Tikroch:
Successfully, he finds one, seemingly unable to locate the trees in the greenhouse. Upon emergence from the tree, those who went on the trip immediately are hit with the smell of smoke, and see light coming from the capitol of Gliocas. Firelight. Not from cheerful lanterns, or lit houses, but from buildings. Winged figures - large and small- cut in and out of the smoke in the air, and the clash of swords and cries of the dead echo throughout the city. The city wall, recently finished, has dozens of archers manning the top, firing into the air. This seems to be the most productive behavior now, since field in front of the wall is strewn with corpses and siege equipment. Ladders and tall shields, spears and bows, all lay scattered in the mud. This is true of for many of the soldiers, though an equal number smolder, or are crushed under boulder, or seem to be subject to some elemental catastrophe. Scattered among the humans are a handful of dead trolls, but the damage to the gates show their handiwork was more successful than not. The gates are broken, scores on the wood and bent mental demonstrating the strength of the troll’s assault as the gates stand closed - it seems they were unable to get in.
Prompted by Donovan, the party looks around for any Pitaxians. There are plenty, but they all seem to be typical guards and heralds, and they are just directing the foot traffic out of the coliseum. Iorvetti’s retinue seems to have gone, possibly to the royal pavilion.
When Chrysa accepts the prize… nothing happens. She notices it’s quite heavy. Irovetti doesn’t seem like he’s upset or annoyed, and he says, ”congratulations. Please, send my wishes to your… Queen? Whatever she is. I think eventually she will find that a firm grasp over her people is necessary, and her fanciful notions of ‘liberalism’ and ‘freedom’ have a short shelf-life in the stolen lands.” Unlike earlier conversations, this has no malapropisms, the speech is not amplified, and in fact, seems to be entirely directed only at the party. With a crooked smile, he continues, ”should you or she find yourselves overextended, or wishing for the protection of Pitax from your enemies, I am certain we could come to an arrangement - a suitably balanced arrangement.” He claps his hands together and his loud voice resumes, carrying throughout the coliseum. and he leads the entire audience in a rousing cheer for the party, until he lowers his hand for quiet and finishes, ”a final word: Pitax has hosted the tournament for fifty years, and has won most of the tournaments in this time. I hope that you will honor us with your attendance next year, and my personal wish is that our modest nation regain the crown at that time - with a better and grander show than even this year, rest assured Pitax will take the podium then. In fact, I can almost guarantee it!” His citizens cheer heartily, and the others clap politely, as the king inclines his head slightly, and respectfully at the party. He turns to Naomi, ”please, see them off - we will depart for Pitax within the hour, we have matters to attend to.” He smiles at the woman, and he departs with the rest of his entourage towards the pavilion, disappearing around a corner as he strides away, chatting and conferring with his other advisors. The rest of the crowd starts filing out, many feeling jovial and jolly at the ends of the games, with many still drunk. The competitors from the other countries move to congratulate the party, but Annamede and of course, Villamor Koth, appear to not be among the group. They all seem respectful and gregarious except for a few of the Daggermark competitors who seem a little standoffish.
Irovetti, his entourage, and the announcer approach a raised dais where the party is assembled, and the King retrieves a thick metal rod with a flanged ball at the end, and six buttons along the length. He raises it to the crowd, his voice amplified, ”this year, the prize is an Numerian artifact that I discovered during my adventures. We found it is a powerful magic item in its own right, but this is a quiescent prize for any river kingdom. I present - a Numerian Rod of Lordly Might!” When he and the announcer approach the dais, the announcer takes over the duties, saying ”the strange magic of the numerians suffuses this item. My king will demonstrate all the odd functions it has”. The king approaches the center and gestures for the others to back up, and begins swinging the item around, the announcer saying ”in its natural state, it functions as a magical light mace,” and as Irovetti hefts it it’s clear it has some magical enchantment. knowledge arcana DC 20, Geography DC 15, or craft alchemy dc 20:
The weapons appear to have edges or blades of numerian metal, and they function as adamantine weapons. He pushes button 2, and the rod becomes a scythe, a wide blade springs forth from the ball, and the whole weapon lengthens to 7 feet. It’s obvious that the magical enhancement is quite significant, and the air shimmers as he swings, almost as if he’s cutting through it. He pushes button 1, and the existing blade folds in itself, a blade springs from the ball, with the ball itself becoming the sword’s hilt. The weapon stretches to an overall length of 4 feet. The blade then alights, clearly a flaming longsword. A moment passes, and the blade is wreathed in frost. Another moment, and the blade drips with acid. He pushes button 3, a spear blade springs forth, the longsword retracting, and the handle can be lengthened up to 12 feet (wielder’s choice) for an overall length ranging from 6 feet to 15 feet. At its 15-foot length, the rod is suitable for use as a lance. In any configuration, the end of the spear crackles with electricity. Grabbing it, he lengthens the spear and whirls it around his head, expertly, and slows, and then jokingly pretends to stab towards the Gliocans, laughing as he does, and then stepping away. He hefts the item, and aiming at the sky, throws it hard. If the party didn’t realize before, Irovetti is very strong, much stronger than he looks. The spear flies from his hand, which he keeps open, until it springs back a moment later. The crowd laughs, nervously. He pushes button 4, and a short blade extends from the end, but the blade seems to be made of light. He swings it around and it lights up, brightly. He stops and pushes button 4 again, and the spear retracts. ”they may discover the other functions in their own time, but they are quite a boon to any adventurer, or a beautiful piece of art for any museum.” Holding it in his hand, he inclines his head respectfully, and raising it says, ”my sincere congratulations. A prize well earned and well-deserved.” He presents it for someone to take.
King Irovetti listens carefully as he watches the development, but his face and expression are only visible to Naomi. Handsome, the man raises an eyebrow ”failure? What failure is it if they cheated? I think it’s plain that only subterfuge could have brought Gliocas such success recently.” He studies her face, and his voice drops low ”no matter - between our armies’ movement and the new weapon that is almost finished at Whiterose Abbey, their victory will be short.” He smiles wryly”in fact, upon their return - they will find their capitol little more than a smoking ruin. To think a bunch of intellectuals could ever measure up to Pitax”. He turns away from Naomi after watching her reaction, and brushes off his pants. A moment later, the king stands, and in a loud voice proclaims, ”Friends - it has been a great tournament, and my own people of Pitax have a competitive spirit which should be commended. In this case, while we all know Gliocas has resorted to underhanded tactics other times this week, I’m afraid that as judge, I can find no fault which would disqualify their ‘champion’.”[.b] He inclines his head towards Mila, and then turns his attention to Villamor. [b]”Villamor Koth, you struck well, but today is not your day. Stand down. There are always other times.” Villamor fumes for a moment before clipping his axe to his back, hopping back onto his horse quickly, and riding off without another word. Irovetti raises his voice again, ”such as the next Rushlight Festival” He grabs the attention back from Koth, seemingly entirely through his oratory, as murmurs go through the crowd and the tension disappeared. He raises his hands, An awkward but eventually great cheer erupts and he and the master of ceremonies descend from the pavilion with their troupe of advisors and hangars on, and he claps as the Gliocasans assemble.
Villamor grins, ”is everyone in that dump of a country a noodle-armed egghead, or just the women?” He spits to the side, ”I know you’ve been using magic and trickery and I’m going to catch you, b*$@$.” He gestures rudely at her and then nimbly hops on his huge horse, also forgoing a shield.
Villamor enrages as he approaches Mila on his large horse, and strikes first, Koth’s lance aiming for Mila’s midsection with a quick slash that seeks to wound the bard
Despite seeming to miss badly, nearly fumbling his lance, he manages to control himself well enough to keep the tip steady, and he flicks it up towards Mila’s neck.
It seems Villamor Koth is aiming to kill Mila in one blow, and it’s only her toughness and luck which stays death’s hand. He seems proud of himself, the 280 lb brute bearing down on Mila, but the overconfidence is his undoing, as Mila’s own, blunt lance, connects with his midsection, and he loses his balance, barely, sliding off the horse onto his feet. Snarling, he roars, ”cheater!” he fumes, though it seems not particularly borne of any evidence beyond disdain, and draws his Greataxe a moment after Mila passes, and from about 50 feet away roars, ”come on, let’s f$!#ing go!” He beckons from the ground, having landed on his feet, his stance wide, the barbarian seems ready for a real fight if Mila wants one. But there’s a severe puncture wound in Mila, and it seems like the force that nearly kills the young woman was the only thing that kept her on her horse (beyond her boots which seemed to root her into the stirrups), as the sharp lance just went through muscle and tissue of her shoulder instead of knocking her off. She slows Tikroch down and wheels, around as the barbarian is taunting her on the other side of the jousting pitch. Despite the fact that he’s lost - he cuts an intimidating figure. Curiously, Tikroch realizes that horse met his eyes during the charge, and the horse seemed to have a malign intelligence charging almost straight at Tikroch until the last moment, when it swerved out of the way. It’s almost as if the horse itself was trying to stare down Tikroch, to intimidate him. The crowd has grown somewhat subdued and confused. Irovetti seems be watching carefully, leaning forward. Everyone is waiting to see what Mila will do.
The final round is exciting, as the crowd is on their feet when Khristel’s lance fails to dislodge Mila, striking first, and her own lance catches on a corner and knocks the fighter off. Laughing, and shaking his head, the now only barely drunk competitor dusts himself off and stands up, ”Milady, you have the blood of a swordlord.” He bows, and there is a momentary interlude. The barbarian, Villamor Koth is visible where he’s been stalking around as he watches the competition. He seems angry about how the competition has gone so far, but the enormous man (not as enormous as Armag, of course), moves off and heads to the stables. The announcer begins their penultimate announcement of the games, ”a thrilling victory for Gliocas, setting up what was unlikely until it became inevitable. The bard, Mila Ekanheart, has bested the greatest riders in the River kingdoms, and the small, upstart country must now prove that its earlier success was not a fluke!” He smiles at her, and the crowd, and says ”but her foe in this matter is no ordinary competitor, it is Pitax’s own Villamor KOTH!” There is a cheer, but compared to the first day, it seems to have muted somewhat in the last few days, as the tide seems to be shifting against Pitax. Irovetti stands up, and smiles cheerfully, calling out loudly without aid of the microphone, seemingly augmenting his own voice, ”fortuitous! A true competition! We are blessed to have a new competitor of this caliper, but it was a shame their illustrious leader, the lady Medvyed, could not come. She did send her best, though, and for that we can all be grateful.” He looks down at the competitors and grins. ”May the best man win!” He raises his hands, and putting them together, shakes them gregariously. There is a cheer, and the announcer takes over again, ”for those who are new to the Rushlight festival, on the last joust, competitors are permitted to use their own horse, should they have them, but as always are not permitted to cast spells on themselves in advance. The final joust, the Midnight Joust commences in ten minutes!” Naomi:
Naomi knows Irovetti well enough, at this point that Irovetti is insinuating something in his speech, some knowledge that he has which few others would have, and that at the moment - despite facing a loss in the festival, he exudes confidence. He seems to think he will win, or has won, something already. His malapropisms usually crop up whenever he’s feeling confident and he wishes to make the others around him bow to his interpretation of what words mean, what reality means. He uses them to try to catch people who are not loyal. For the best measure of loyalty is subservient to the king over the truth, is it not?
Within 5 minutes, Villamor arrives on a horse much larger and stronger than a typical one. He is fully armed and armored, and his mount has chainmail barding. Somehow, if such a thing were possible, the horse looks at the party with disdain. Villamor tightens his gauntlets and rides over crisply, and from behind a heavy helmet, the hulking brute of a man says in a deep baritone, ”you won’t take this one from me, little girl.”
The man seems confused about the exchange with Senna, and obviously embarassed, and even more confused at Mila’s response, ”sorry miss, I didn’t mean anything by that”, he mumbles, ”in Mivon half the swordlords are women? What are…?” he shakes his head ”no matter, the same to you as well.” He bows and puts his helmet back on. He mounts his horse and wheels around to strike Mila.
The pair fail to unseat each other, their lances connecting but glancing off the shields.
The only two competitors left are Mila and Khristel Cotoio, a male human fighter from Mivon. Mivon, of course, is the refuge of the Aldori swordlords who refused to bow to Choral the Conqueror and managed to avoid getting killed by his red dragons. The Aldori of Brevoy tend to look down on the Mivon as ‘cowards’ in some sense, though something must be said for the fact that many historians consider the Mivon Aldori to have better kept the traditions of the swordlords than their distant cousins who stayed behind and bent the knee. The rulers are largely swordlords with the surname Aldori, and are all masters of the Aldori dueling sword, with the mayor and ruler of the small state being the best duelist, at the moment Raston Selline. Khristel has his Aldori dueling sword at his hip during all the passes, and the young man seems to be a formidable rider with a lot of experience jousting, though perhaps less than some of the other already-eliminated riders. The man takes off his helmet, his hair matted with sweat, and bows to Mila, respectfully, ”you’ve more than held your own, milady. You should be commended, but I won’t go easy on you. “ He wipes his forehead, ”my apologies. This is my first midnight joust, is it yours?” Like every other competitor, he seems genially soused, and the effects have not yet worn off.
Joust 7:
16 11 29 vs CMD 36, unseated 31
36
32
22
13
Growing frustrated again, the reigning champion Villamor orders that the elite guards be brought in to compete. Joust 8:
21 9 29 vs CMD 22, unseated 31
26
19
22
29
Finally, another person is unseated, one of the favorites, when a warden gets a lucky strike, and Chantal is knocked onto her back. Villamor and Irovetti seem satisfied.
Joust 6:
12 15 15 vs CMD 36, fail 25 vs CMD 20, unseated 25
35
35
22
13
Nothing happens other than wardens getting knocked out, again, even with the sober wardens.
Joust 5:
15 17 24 vs CMD 36, fail 32 vs CMD 20, unseated 30
29
23
28
19
19
Damonjot is eliminated finally after a grueling duel with a warden, and the crowd becomes more boisterous as the competition this.
Joust 4:
14 24 27 vs CMD 36, fail 24 vs CMD 20, unseated 34
34
27
18
28
18
26
20
13
Sir Briannel is the first eliminated, which everyone cheers him for, as people were also starting to get bored.
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