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"We thank you for showing us your village and sharing with us its history. Will the village be alright, without your new faith? If you wish to travel to our homeland and see many more Pathfinders, it could perhaps be arranged..." The thought of leaving the villagers to a near-certain destruction when the tapestry unravels doesn't cause Iason a GREAT deal of angst, but it does, at least, cross his mind.
"Sit down," Iason says with a shake of his head at his injured servitor, even if he has some wounds of his own. Etrigan chuckles, and promptly plops down on the ground like a child at recess. With magical speed bolstering him, Iason gets to where he has a clean line of sight on the last of the incorporeals and throws a very tiny spell at it.
The demonic form capers and laughs, seeming to care little for the pain that had briefly wracked it. "I spit on your peace and your calm and your so-called serenity
Iason grimaces as he inspects the wounds the plant-thing left on him. "Yes, yes, we know."
Iason growls from his position on the ground. "Etrigan. KILL THAT." "Master, the enchantment promises pain
"What are you talking about? Of course you will!" Etrigan laughs merrily-- and attacks the creature.
Iason adopts a defensive posture and carefully stands up.
The demonic creature.... calms down. It seems to go against its very nature-- it snarls to itself, mutters snatches of rhyme... "What... trickery... this? What sorcery ill?
Rather than fight, the demonic form lies there, a dopey grin on its face. Iason frowns. "This may be one of the more disturbing things I've seen you from you, Etrigan. Get up. That is an order." The creature siiiiighs... hunches its cloak around itself... and gets to its feet.
Iason mutters a spell, hurries forward on hasted feet, and reaches out to touch his servitor. The eidolon is now even more protected.
"I appreciate you trying not to get my servant in your blast, Master Wadi, but feel free to rain fire as much as you like around him. He won't suffer at all from it. As for your own woes, I'll assist as soon as I can."
Iason curses darkly and hurriedly casts a spell. His allies all find themselves moving much faster.
Etrigan laughs with delight, throwing back his hood and chortling. "Something to DO! Something to chew!
The hasted demon tears off towards the plant creature.
The demon leads with teeth.
Iason pulls back away from the threatening incorporeal creatures.
"That would seem to be a sufficient explanation for the 'visions' of evil spirits... as well as her conviction that Aram Zey is speaking to her," Iason says in response to the Professor's in-depth explanation. "The bigger question becomes what to do about it, hm? Our mission is to collect the pollen. Do we also feel the need to disabuse these people of their faith in a false god? We were instructed to retain 'good relationships' with the people-- having a village that thinks 'Pathfinder' is a sacred calling and that react to a wayfinder with bows and adoration rather than wary suspicion is not, necessarily, a bad thing for the Society's overall goals."
Iason frowns, crossing his arms. More to the point, he thinks, if this woman is receiving visions or communications now, who is sending them? Because he is quite sure it is not Aram Zey. But it doesn't seem politic to question her faith, under the circumstances, and it's a little risky to raise the question with his other Pathfinders until they can be sure not to be overheard. "May we examine this flower? If it is sacred to Aram Zey, then as Pathfinders, we would love to learn more about it. And these evil spirits you say you see over us-- could you describe them? I am reasonably familiar with various manners of spirits, celestials, devils and others-- perhaps knowing what they look like would give us some clues....? As fellow Pathfinders."
Iason joins the others and steps through, gazing up at the scene around them. His servitor lopes at his side, knuckles and claws dragging the ground with his gait hunched. "They heard Aram Zey's words to Pathfinders, and took them as divine inspiration," Iason observes with a sort of dry amusement, staring up at the overhead apparition. "I suppose there's worse things to worship." The demonic creature chuckles. "What IS divine? Tis any creature's guess.
The old woman looks at Etrigan and shudders. She then shouts at Iason. “Did you not listen!!! I will call the guards!! We insist that you do not defy the teachings of our faith!! Go!!!“ "Of course, grandmother," Iason says, taking deliberate steps away. "We wouldn't dream of defying your faith. I was only making my apologies before leaving." He offers her a bow of apology, and walks away with his servant in tow. Once out of earshot of the villagers, the demon chuckles low. "Let me sneak in, master, and see what it is hidden
"You're not wrong," Iason mutters with a snort. "But you're also not subtle, Etrigan. And now they'll be on our guard against you trying to sneak in. Perhaps if I made you invisible... but let's go confer with the others, first, and tell them of the situation." On rejoining the other Pathfinders, Iason relates the issue of the 'forbidden' house. "They're extremely paranoid of anyone getting inside. Clearly, something is being concealed from us," he says, brushing a bit of imaginary dust from one sleeve. "But a more silver tongue than mine might be needed to convince them not to call the guards..... or, someone skilled in the art of moving unnoticed, to scout the building out. "In a worst case situation, I could create a magical door to enter, but that's always risky, without knowing the exact layout inside."
"Ah, no offense was intended, only curiosity," the Chelish man say with an attempt at a placating smile, his hands raised and empty.
"My master speaks true-- yet if ruin awaits
Iason gestures his servitor to follow him through the streets. When the opportunity presents itself, they sidle together towards the abandoned, boarded-up house, interested to see why this one building should be such an outlier. Master and eidolon together approach the foreboding structure, looking for what might be seen.
After listening intently to the animal traditions, Iason finds his servant loping towards him. "Scared people, did you," he asks drily. "The barracks master was made of sterner stuff
Iason snorts, and proceeds to walk the village thoughtfully, his eyes and ears attuned to what is going on at present.
As a summoner of eldritch and infernal creatures, Iason keeps his awareness tuned for any sense of planar energies present. His companion, innately FROM those other planes, discourses with him on the energies around.
Etrigan chuckles at the man's words of demons helping, and bows theatrically to the trainer. "To my ally here, I leave the blade
Etrigan flashes Tarragon a wink, and ambles off to find his master.
Iason maintains a polite, business-like approach, admiring the horses and bringing up animals he's seen in the western countries-- both horses and more exotic beasts.
Iason considers the description of the village, then nods. "I'd like to check out the stables-- I know a little bit about horses. Etrigan... go observe the children practicing their swordplay, see if you can learn anything. Return to me at once if you are making the villagers uncomfortable." The infernal-looking creature bows once, smiling mockingly.
"Perhaps we ought actually ask to speak to their leader?" Iason says drily. "I think the only one being fetched just now is the father of those children, there." He clears his throat and nods towards the woman clutching her broom. "We are here in peace. Perhaps you could direct us to the chief, or wise elders, of your home?"
Iason inclines his head at the others, then nods once at the Professor. "If you can convince recalcitrant students, then I'm sure you can manage with some isolated villagers, Professor. And no doubt Mr. Ahk'kolon can assist if needed. Hopefully we won't need to scare them, Mr. Terragon. "Well. Shall we start down there, then?"
As they pass through, Iason passes a bottle off to his companion, who wordlessly quaffs it. As he surveys the village ahead, Iason says, "Are any of us particularly gifted at soothing speech? I'm not the worst, but many Pathfinder agents are much better than I am."
"I could speak, master," his servant grins. "And guarantee disaster? No, I think not."
"I'll obtain another scroll of tongues, to simplify matters of speech should matters go longer than expected," Iason muses. "I will also purchase... some incense, I think; small, valuable, likely difficult for people in a tapestry to obtain. As a gift. Etrigan, go to market, will you...?"
Studying his comrades a moment, Iason nods to Terragon. "I expect that should danger threaten, you are the sort to stand in the thick of things. In such an event, would you appreciate a magic to double your height and extend the reach of those muscular arms of yours?"
"If not, perhaps you might like your skin armored as stone? That one is a bit costly--- I only carry enough of the valuable materials for that to manage for my own needs, generally, but if you wished to obtain some crushed granite and diamond, I could do such a thing for you, as well."
"I acknowledge the existence of both luck and deities, but I make it a habit to not depend on either. Instead I put my trust in science and my fellow pathfinders." "A fine sentiment, and yet fallacious "For many of your agent corps"Gain power through those gods audacious "And cannot on their own wings soar," murmurs the gravelly voice of Iason's servitor. "So roundabout, by definition
Iason rolls his eyes and waves his 'bodyguard' to silence with one hand. "Yes, yes, nobody wants to hear your views on theology, Etrigan."
This Chelish man has dark red hair with a striking white streak in it, and is probably in his forties. His clothing is of fine make, and favors black silks with red accents-- and the red accents are, if one looks closely, in the shape of Asmodean pentacles as often as not. Another pentacle glows faintly on his brow. "Mister Terragon. Good day. And Professor, how do you do," he says with a once-over of the physically formidable half-orc, as well as the impeccably-groomed ratfolk. The latter earns a slight nod of his approval for his well-kept person. "Iason Blaise, of Cheliax; a less exotic clime than fabled Akiton to be sure. I dabble in the arcane arts; my bodyguard shall be of use should we be in direct combat." There's the briefest hint of a nod at a muscular figure who stands at the edges of the group, wearing a hooded cloak that reaches all the way to the ground but doesn't entirely conceal a pair of red eyes that burn in the shadows of the hood. "His name is Etrigan. I apologize in advance for his tiresome speech. "But as to relevant matters: so, we go into Hao Jin's pocket world, eh? Mister Terragon here has an altruistic but sensible question: our mission is only to retrieve this flower, and not evacuate the tribal peoples? Very well, then. Have we a physical description of this flower, and do we know of any particular dangers surrounding this village? What language is spoken there-- some form of Tien, I imagine? I'm afraid I don't speak the tongue, but of course, there are magical ways to get around that." Iason's 'bodyguard' stands silent, but appears to listen with keen interest to all that is said.
By his features, the man who comes into the room is a westerner, not native to the Dragon Empires. His clothing is of fine quality, favoring black silk with red accents-- accents, notably, that tend to be in the shape of discreet-but-visible Asmodean pentacles. His hair is a dark red with a prominent white streak in it, and a small red glyph is visible on one brow, occasionally glowing with a dull ember-red light. The figure that follows him into the teahouse is shrouded in a concealing cloak of deep, dark indigo. The cloak has a hood that is pulled low and obscures the man(?)'s face, but doesn't entirely hide a muscular body mass. "You'll wait by the door," the man says in a mutter. "I prefer to meet my colleagues without your accursed interjections." A low chuckle rumbles from beneath the hood. Anyone close enough to hear might pick up a gravelly voice answering: "Oh, I prithee, say you are not shamed
"I'm just sure. To be quite clear, I am ordering you to stay be the door, and be silent. Lest you take my 'preference' as a loophole." "Ah, no danger of that, my dear, dear master
"See that you do," the man says curtly, and strides forward through the crowd of soldier tengu, keeping an eye out for his likely Pathfinder colleagues.
Iason is somewhat insufferable about the mighty power of Asmodeus, as displayed when it comes to getting them out of this pit, but after the villagers have all been reunited and the accolades dispensed, he pauses to shake the hand of any in the group who are willing, at least. "You're a skilled group of fellow Pathfinders and I am pleased to have journeyed with you," he says with a nod. "Should you need my services in the future, simply ask at the Lodge, hm?" Etrigan, resummoned once more, offers a more mocking bow to the others. "May your road lead to your destination
Iason shrugs at the skum. "Suit yourselves, of course. If you're confident you can dig your way out, it is your own affair; I myself am not so patient. Best of luck, and hail the Prince of Law." He sloshes back through the caverns towards the base of the Iris by which they entered, with the others in tow. Once there, he calls up a great bat with ten-foot wingspan, which appears in a burst of sulfur and brimstone. "Ferry service," Iason says drily. "And I don't even charge two coppers..."
Iason merely arches a lazy brow at Eshshah. "Yes-- I have a method to get everyone out. In service of Asmodeus is strength... and many, many solutions," he says smoothly. He sends Etrigan 'home' with a snap of his fingers. "We'll return to the base of the shaft by which we dropped, at which point I can call up an enormous bat, large enough to carry a man. It will serve us by ferrying us out of this underground complex." He looks over at the skum. "Unless you fine fellows know some other method to exit? Surely the dead magician wasn't climbing up and down that pit all the time."
"Mohl'omog?" Iason echoes. "Hmmm... a prison? Are you speaking of the aboleth back in the other room?" he gestures. "If so that creature is dead as well. I cannot speak to your... debt or your ancestry, but you need not stay or labor here unless it is your own will that you do so. Of course, as subjects within the boundaries of Imperial Cheliax, your labors can likely be put towards more fitting ends." Etrigan grins.
Iason nods in satisfaction as the creature is taken out of the battle. He brushes off his hands, looking around the room with the useful cantrip to find magic. "Ah, some magical liquid here... and a wand. Hmm... a formulae on these copper sheets, it would seem..."
He studies the sheets a moment, frowning. "Hmm. Does anyone else have any skill with the arcane? I specialize in planar magics, not alchemy or whatever this is. Master Mollok, perhaps?"
Iason frowns some more. "Well, I suggest we take it all back to the Society; they'll be able to identify and sort it all out eventually, I imagine." He opens his haversack and starts putting in the liquids, directing Etrigan to catch the hovering copper plates. "Unfortunately, we've found no other passage out yet. I might have to fly us out with the aid of outsiders."
Iason peers through a wall and looks around at the room with a frown, nose wrinkled. He orders Etrigan to fetch a section of the husk from within the room, the devil simply scaling along the walls to do so, his claws digging in. When Etrigan has returned with the foul shreds, Iason wrinkles his nose at the stench. "That corpse in there is the body of an aboleth," he says with a frown. "Deeply unpleasant..."
"Hmm... if there's slaves digging here, and slaves digging outside," Iason muses, trying to piece it together, "..perhaps they're excavating some subterranean complex further down-- hold on, what's this?" Etrigan too stops, and snarls at the wall idly. Iason squints. "An illusion? Careful-- that patch of wall there seems to be flickering."
Etrigan plunges back into the murky water, grinning; he emerges a few seconds later covered in muck but holding up a fist-sized red gem. "Flame calls to flame
"No," Iason answers shortly, and takes the gem from the beast. "Hmmm. A fire elemental gem. That could be useful; would anyone like to carry it?" Etrigan sulks. Once the gem is sorted and any healing dispensed as needed Iason gestures his servitor forward into the next chamber. "Stop sulking; go see what's in there."
Etrigan gleefully races forward as soon as there's a spot next to "An endless yield the sea has brought!
"What?" Iason says sharply. "That doesn't even-- sushi served hot wouldn't be sushi-- oh, why am I even bothering..." Etrigan chuckles and lays into the beast before him.
Iason sends a tiny orb of acid into combat, a mere afterthought compared to the enormous bite of carapace that Etrigan has just dealt.
Clearly he's so irritated by Etrigan's abuse of language for (dubious) rhyme's sake that it makes him miss.
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