Ishara of Yled's page

Ishara picks up the topmost book from the stack Alana places on the table and opens the cover as she sends a reprimanding look at the girl's back. Her look changes to one of sympathy as she offers a slight smile across the table to Kendra. "Thank you, Kendra. I'm sure I speak for us all in saying that we will treat your father's effects with respect they deserve."

As those intending to go into town prepare to take their leave, Ishara spares them no glance, but wishes them well in her own way. "Take care with what you tell the sheriff and how you approach him. Three strangers showing up to inquire about an event they ought not to have any awareness of will look suspicious to the least paranoid of people."

Ishara answers Alana's grin with a smirk over her own, flashed over the rim of her coffee cup. "That was the point I was trying to make. After all, what better way to learn what the Professor knew than to look at what books he's been reading." As an afterthought, she turns to Kendra and adds, "That is, if you are amenable to that idea, Kendra. No one here would blame you if you would rather not have us strangers going through your father's effects."

"Good morning," Ishara greets those present as she takes her seat at the table, warm though not particularly enthusiastic. She favors Kendra with a small smile and a sedate Yes, please at the mention of breakfast, but her face falls a little on seeing the breakfast spread. Where is the rest of it? Bread and cheese can't be all she means to feed us. I'll be dead before the month is over. As she thinks about whether she ought to take her meals at the inn or perhaps even offer to cook meals herself, Ishara helps herself to a healthy portion of the fare laid out as only a follower of Urgathoa can.

As the conversation turns toward their plans for the day, Ishara gives a derisive snort at Alana's suggestion of finding a library. "I think we would have encountered a different class of people in the Restlands yesterday if this town had a library." As if realizing that her comments about Petros' funeral might sound callous, the witch clears her throat before adding, "Meaning no offense, Kendra. What I mean to say is that I wouldn't be surprised if that-" she points to the sitting room "-was the closest this town had to a proper library."

Her criticism of the townsfolk out of her system for the time being, Ishara returns to her meal, only to mention some moments later, "Once everyone else has joined us, I think we ought to decide on whether or not to divulge our findings to Father Grimburrow and seek his permission to enter the crypt."

After hanging her cloak up to dry and leaning her scythe in an empty corner, Ishara takes a seat at the sitting room table, her eyes going over the various tomes laid out as the conversation goes on around her. "You bring up a valid point, Daviana. I may have been a bit rash earlier, suggesting we sneak into the Restlands." And I clearly underestimated the Professor's ability. You were just full of surprises, weren't you, Old Man? Continuing on, she explains, "I may not care much of the opinion the townsfolk hold of me, but the same may not be able to be said of Kendra. ...Perhaps next time we should seek permission from the Church to explore their crypt," she suggests, sounding very nearly pained at the very thought.

Her piece spoken, Ishara turns her attention to the book that had drawn her attention earlier, Serving Your Hunger, and begins to thumb through it.

Ishara watches from the foot of the stairs, peering up at the barely discernable figures of her companions and waiting for some sort of signal. "Yes, I think we ought to," she says in response to Alana's suggestion. Although her voice is pitched low, it seems more out of respect for the corpses around them and less an effort to be secretive. "As exhilarating as this has been, I think it's time we cut our losses."

"If this is the place Petros wrote of, then it would seem he was a man of more talents than I gave him credit for." Ishara briefly scans the remaining alcoves for anything of note before giving a rather defeated-sounding sigh. "Was there nothing else that seemed to beg further investigation up above? If not, I would suggest that we had back to the Lorrimor House lest we press our luck too far this night."

Ishara's certainty that they had found the false crypt written about in the Professor's journal evaporates with each step she takes into tomb. When Dragomir echoes her own suspicions, she gives a quiet sound of assent. "I was beginning to suspect the same. This looking less and less like a false crypt. And while I can't claim to know everything about the faithful of Pharasma, leaving the dead in this state strikes me as going against their customs."

Ishara steps over to the nearest alcove to inspect one of the headless skeletons and the vaguely humanoid phantasm trails silently behind her, shedding just enough light to see by. "The Professor wrote that the current clergy likely has no knowledge of the weapons cache, correct? Well, if we are in the right place, we may need to search for loose stones or more hidden mechanisms. This place seems too well-visited for there to be any obvious hiding spots."

Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

Ishara allows herself to feel a grudging sort of respect for the Pharasmins' ingenuity for a moment before grabbing her scythe once more and bringing up the rear with Nicodemus. She briefly considers trying to reseal the entrance to avoid any patrolling acolytes of The Grey Lady from discovering their late-night "misdeeds", but with no way to be certain that the tomb can be opened from within, risking discovery seems the better alternative. The witch speaks an ancient incantation, and a faintly luminescent specter appears next to her, shedding enough light to guide her descent into the dark depths. (Casting dancing lights.)

Ishara steps over to the tomb at Drago's signal, her amber eyes focused curiously on the decoration that sits atop the lid. Her eyes are drawn to the muddy ground when the self-proclaimed monster hunter points out the footprints, and she takes care not to obscure them as she moves to stand beside the stone resting place. "Well, let's have a look, shall we?" The witch leans her scythe against one side of the tomb before taking up a stance to try to move the slab covering it. As accustomed to living a life of comfort as she had become, the priestess is no slouch when it comes to physical tasks, and after securing her footing on the rain-slicked ground, Ishara pushes with all her strength, trying to unseal the mysterious tomb.

Strength Check: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23

Ishara's eyes sweep the darkened graveyard for any signs of a false crypt, but her attention is clearly divided. As they search the Restlands, the priestess tries to recall what traditions the Pharasmans have kept to when burying their dead, and if, perhaps, such customs have significantly changed over the years.

Knowledge (Religion): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (17) + 9 = 26
Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 1 = 12
Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5
Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

Ishara gives the third tome, Serving Your Hunger, a long and meaningful look before pulling up the hood of her cloak and stealing out into the night. Though she is not particularly skilled in the art of skulking about unnoticed, between the driving rain and night now having fallen around the town, she feels as if she's become merely another of Ravengro's many shadows. With her scythe clutched tightly in her right hand, her hooded figure looking like the personification of Death itself, she hopes the townsfolk's superstitious natures will keep them fearfully inside by their hearths should anyone be unfortunate enough to spot her.

Stealth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17

It comes as no surprise to Ishara that the Professor had been studying The Whispering Way; the secretive organization worked closely with the Church of Urgathoa in Geb, and Petros had come seeking what little information she could divulge about their comings and goings on more than one occasion. But regardless of their affiliation with the Church, if members of The Whispering Way in Ustalav were responsible for the Professor's demise, she would personally give each of them, living and unliving, a final death.

"If we mean to follow in the Professor's footsteps, now is the moment to do so," the witch suggests, indicating the worsening weather conditions with a pointed look outside. "There should not be very many people milling about outside at this time. A few of us might be able to find this false crypt the Professor spoke of and take what tools we need without being spotted." Ishara reclaims her wickedly sharp scythe from the darkened corner it's rested in all night before casting a critical glance at those gathered. "Who will stay and watch over Kendra, and who will join me in the Restlands?"

The funeral of Professor Lorrimor having taken a heavier toll emotionally on the witch than she had expected, Ishara gratefully accepts the wine Kendra hands to her before moving to settle in an armchair in one of the far corners of the drawing room. Councilman Vashian's arrival and words of condolence are met with a courteous nod. She had not given much thought to Kendra's declaration back in the Restlands that she, along with the other assembled mourners, had been named in Petros' estate. Though she is curious now to hear of what the Professor had to share with them, and thus gain some insight into the departed scholar's relationship with those gathered, the final words he had penned to others make her feel as though they ought to have been conveyed in a more private manner. Perhaps this is simply another of their strange funerary customs. Intimate moments spoken of openly in order to share in each other's pain. Uncomfortable listening to sentiments she feels were not meant for her ears, Ishara busies herself with gazing out of the window at the darkening skies, only half listening to the councilman for mention of her own name.

The moment comes sooner than she had anticipated, and her attention swivels back to Vashian with a tight smile that clearly betrays her unease. She fears that Petros' parting words to her would be an admonishment of her in some way. Although she isn't far from the mark, that his warning stems from a place of concern rather than a moral ground touches the witch, who swipes away quickly the tear that threatens to fall at Petros' last words to her before drinking deeply from her wineglass.

A wry smile twists the woman's lips at the final part of the will is read. Forsaking her duties as a priestess for an entire month was not something that was likely to sit well with the higher clerics of the Church, but, if Ishara wasn't overestimating her usefulness to them, it is something she feels confident they will learn to bear with the same grudging resignation that they do her many other so-called indiscretions.

When the Councilman departs, Ishara sets down her now empty goblet on a stand before moving to crowd around the table at Dragomir's request, her brows furrowed in consternation at the seemingly urgent message scratched into the face of the book.

Having helped escort the Professor's body to its final resting place, Ishara draws her hood down and takes her place among the bereaved. The priest's offer to speak on Petros' behalf strikes a chord with priestess, who promptly turns her head to the side to stare off into the rolling hills and grave markers of the Restlands. Death is not so somber an occasion where she hails from; in Geb, when a person dies, their family either brings them back in undeath or turns over the decedent's remains to the government so that they may be raised to serve the nation's interests. Not for the first time, Ishara wishes for that detached objectivity she's grown accustomed to feeling when dealing with death.

But Lorrimor... Petros was the only living person I had allowed myself to get close to since childhood. Now he's gone, the fool! And what am I left with? She has no fond memories to share of her times with Lorrimor, discussing necromantic rites or what the cults which worked closely with the Church might be scheming. Nor did she have any comforting platitudes to offer the grieving Kendra, nor any warm prayers to send up to the dispassionate Gods on Petros' behalf. All Ishara has is the oppressive pain that's threatened to leave her breathless since she received word of Lorrimor's passing.

May you know no peace until I do.

Ishara's bronzed fingers turn pale at the knuckles as her grip on Lorrimor's coffin tightens in agitation. While the delay is vexing, to say the least, her ire stems less from the townsfolk and their misunderstanding of Petros' study of undeath and more from the opinion her fellow pallbearers seem to have of the necromantic arts. Professor Lorrimor may have disagreed with her on a great many things, but at least he seemed to respect her view that necromancy, as with all magic, could be used for good or ill. Although she was no fool to believe she would find much acceptance in Ustalav, Ishara had hoped that at least his closest associates might have been similarly enlightened. Perhaps a demonstration might be in order, the dark witch considers, but another time, and away from the eyes of these suspicious fools. The people of Ravengro have already shown themselves to be well past any hope of enlightenment; while they might be convinced that Lorrimor was no necromancer, 'consorting' with one was likely as offensive to them, and she had no desire to see her old friend's remains disturbed or his daughter run out of town on her account.

Showing a level of restraint the witch was not often one to exercise, Ishara quietly bears the heavier weight of the coffin and allows the others to attempt to persuade the mob to leave peacefully.

Oh, I wasn't sure what the regional language would be for someone from Geb, but if Osiriani is free, I guess I'll take Kelish. ...Or maybe Ancient Osiriani. It's always fun to learn a dead language. I assume.

Although surprised at Daviana's statement, Ishara manages to hide her confusion behind a placid smile. Was the Professor not dedicated to the destruction of the undead? Had so much time past since I last met with him that he was beginning to come around to my point of view at last? She notes that the woman's skin is cold to the touch, much as she expected, but she is somewhat disappointed to find that it is merely the chill of Ustalav that clings to her flesh, not the chill of undeath. Hmm, so she must be half-mortal, then. Still, it is better than most could ever hope to attain. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Daviana," says Ishara with a deferential nod. Her amber eyes flick down to lock briefly with the intelligent eyes of the Lady's companion, Nicodemus. Most animals, with the exception of vermin, tended to react poorly when they felt the cold brush of Ishara's aura. But, given his mistress's condition, the witch supposes that the wolf's tolerance of her presence shouldn't be all that surprising. "Such a handsome creature. And so well-trained, too."

Kendra's introduction brings a slow smile to Ishara's lips. She had meant to keep her origins hidden until she was able to get a proper feel of those in attendance--the best laid plans--but, if everyone discovered her dark gift sooner rather than later, that suited her just fine as well. "Garundi," she gently corrects after Nasrin's question. "But it is a welcome sight to see another from a land as faraway as my own. The Professor truly did inspire people of all backgrounds." Although Ishara wears no symbol of her faith herself, she knows it is but a matter of time before the follower of the Dawnflower realizes her affiliation with the Church of Urgathoa. Not that the prospect worries her much; the adherents of Sarenrae, to her knowledge, were far more likely resort to sermons rather than swords when they came across Urgathoa's "faithful". Not like these fanatical Pharasmins.

Ishara nods her greetings to the others, and when Kendra asks her favor of them, she responds with a sympathetic smile. "The honor would be mine, Kendra."

Petros... If there was anyone deserving of eternal life, it was you. To think of what you could have accomplished with so much time. You were wonderful in life, but you would have been magnificent in undeath.

Her reverie is broken by a knock at the front door, and she nods her head to Kendra as the woman excuses herself to answer it. Ishara remains seated by the fire, her tall wicked-looking scythe resting in the shadowed corner behind her. She nurses the glass of liquor that she had poured herself shortly after arriving. Under ordinary circumstances, this would not be the priestess' first glass, but such excess and indulgences were reserved for celebrating life, not for mourning the loss of one. As her thoughts turn once more to Professor Lorrimor and the void his death has created, a presence at once alien and familiar makes brushes along the edge of her awareness, just outside of her necromantic influence.

Setting down her glass, Ishara gracefully rises from her seat and smoothes her hands down her black silken gown as the two women enter the room. Her amber eyes alight on the pale newcomer, and, in spite of the somber mood, a small, sharp smile breaks Ishara's grim demeanor on overhearing Kendra's remark on the woman's age; a smile she promptly hides from the grieving daughter. "Yes, we should all aspire to live a life as free from the ravages of time as the Lady clearly has."

The witch steps forward to introduce herself, and the shadows seem to move with her. The light of the hearth dims around her, and the heat from the fire struggles to penetrate the sudden chill of her presence. "I am Ishara," she says, extending her hand toward the woman. When Kendra quits the room momentarily to answer the door again, Ishara uses the opportunity to speak privately to Lady Soldavaso. "I must say, it is a bittersweet surprise to find that the Professor counted one such as yourself among his friends."

I chose Dodge. Every little bit of AC helps with d6 HD.

Welcome everyone! It's nice to have such excellent additions rounding out the party.

That actually doesn't sound like too much of a sacrifice to me. I don't think most of the hexes are going to be very effective in this game, since a lot of the good ones require a will save or a fortitude save (or a will save, then a fortitude save). And familiar advancement isn't an issue since a Gravewalker replaces their familiar for a spell poppet. Looks like I have something to think on...

I'm leery about multiclassing right now; I only started playing Pathfinder a few months ago, so my confidence in building an effective single class character is shaky at best. But I appreciate the tips! For now, when Ishara starts lagging behind in melee, I'll either stick with spells & hexes or possess an undead creature if the situation allows and use it in melee instead. Now if only skeletons had Martial Weapon Proficiency.

I just love the imagery of a necromancer witch fighting with a scythe. With the witch's abysmal BAB, I'm sure it'll only just barely be feasible for the first couple of levels or so, but I fully intend to enjoy it while it lasts. Maybe I'll build a Gravewalker witch/slayer for the next gestalt recruitment I see.

Anywho, if you still want to say our characters know (of) each other, Ishara would have joined the Professor on a few lectures in things like morality or necromancy, if Nasrin is the type who would have attended those. Probably not the latter.