I am on a vacation of sorts and have a really limited internet and posting time. I will still attempt to post once a day, but I may end up missing some days
Kal'ryon listens to Setare's account without interrupting, turning the port in his hands. The stone interests him. The absence of anyone coming to investigate the noise interests him more.
A construct guardian hidden in the archive of a lodge that was supposedly abandoned for forty years. And not a single servant came to see what collapsed.
He sets the bottle down and rises."I vote the great room first," he says. "If she is not there, we try upstairs. Eliza Petulengro strikes me as a woman who would want to know about this before the ceremony, not after- and we have," he checks the angle of the light through the window, "perhaps thirty minutes before six."
He picks up the port again. There is no reason to leave a good bottle in a room with rubble in it.
"Amaranti, can you call your companion back on the way? I would rather have your full complement of resources available before we walk into a room where three senior Pathfinders have been sitting quietly through all of that."
Kal'ryon finds them by following the noise that combat seems to generate.
He steps through the library door and takes in the scene: rubble, a Lillend he does not recognize, Setare standing over something in the wreckage, Amaranti looking pleased with himself, and the particular silence that follows something collapsing.
The port is tucked under his arm.
She punched it apart. Of course she did. The motes drift quickly at his edges.
"I was gone for twenty minutes," he says... He holds the bottle aloft, turning it to read the label. "4537 Stavintower Gardens Port. Reasonable tannins, assuming it has been stored properly- which I have my doubts about, given it was sharing a pantry with preserved onions." He looks back at the rubble. "The pantry was otherwise unremarkable. I see you were not similarly bored."
He pulls a chair from the nearest wall and sits, setting the bottle on the table. "Someone start from the beginning."
Kal'ryon emerges from the kitchen corridor with the port tucked under one arm, the search behind him and one good bottle to show for it.
No passage. Or none that survived forty years of revolution and neglect. He turns the thought over without particular disappointment. The Pasha's information may simply be old.
He finds Xilt where he left him and settles back into his chair, setting the bottle on the table between them with the quiet ceremony of a man presenting evidence.
"4537 Stavintower Gardens Port," he says. "The cellar was a pantry and the pantry was a disappointment, but this survived it." He reaches for a glass. "The ceremony is in twenty minutes. I suggest we make good use of them." And he opens up the bottle with a long black fingernail in place of a corkscrew.
I took the liberty of removing fog of war and moving Kal. If I did that wrong, I apologize for overstepping
The servant closes the door and Kal'ryon stands alone among shelves of things and food stuffs.
A pantry, not a cellar... Close, but not quite.
He takes a slow and unhurried look around the room- interested in not just what is on the shelves but what might be behind them. His hand trails along the wall as he moves, fingers reading the stone beneath the plaster.
Old houses keep their secrets in the floor and the walls...
He picks up a jar of something preserved and examines it with apparent interest, setting it down, moving further along the room's perimeter.
"There has to be something here worth drinking..." he says quietly, to no one, maintaining the apperance for any ears that might be close to the door.
I would like to take 20, if able but I will wait for your ruling in terms of time necessary to do that vs the time available. If limited he would search the floors first, then the exterior walls.
I will fast forward a little bit, to after the conversation with Xilt. In regards to that, I would be happy to continue the RP and don't want to leave it behind.
Kal'ryon sets his empty flute down with the mild dissatisfaction of a man who has been patient long enough and only just holding back his frustration.
"The wine is acceptable," he says, to no one in particular delivering a verdict that falls noticeably short of praise. "Which is to say it is not good. Someone has gone to considerable trouble with the furnishings in this room and the VIP invites... and then entirely neglected the cellar."
He rises, straightening his cuffs, and catches the eye of the nearest masked servant with an easy confidence of someone accustomed to being attended to.
"I would like to select something myself before this evening's ceremony. A lodge of this history ought to have something worth drinking buried somewhere- and I mean that rather literally. Old cellars in old houses have a way of surprising you." The motes drift easy at his edges. "Would you be so kind as to show me where they keep the good bottles? Assuming there are any. No, No, no need for you to come- just tell me where the cellars are and I will see to it."
Diplo:1d20 + 14 ⇒ (8) + 14 = 22
There are tunnels here, or there were. Forty years of revolution is a long time to leave a useful passage alone.
He follows the servant with a lazy stride, just a man whose only concern is finding something worth drinking. We will see what else we find along the way.
"About myself..." He turns the question over once, unhurried, then reaches for his cup.
"About myself..." He repeats it, as though checking whether the question improves on reflection. "You have seen most of what is worth seeing, Xilt. I hit things. The things fall down. Occasionally they do not fall down immediately, and I find that much more interesting."
He picks something from the nearest platter, eats it, and appears satisfied.
"I am Ganzi, which means chaos quite literally runs in my blood. I have always been a little better than most at knowing what is about to happen but struggle to explain why I know it. In the Tapestry you saw it work, I think. I find it more useful than a spell most days, and it requires considerably less reading." The motes of energy drift easy at the edge of his form. "I find Galt interesting, by the way. A revolution that never ends. All that energy with nowhere to go. You would think someone would have made something of it by now. But if that were the case, there wouldn't be chaos. And we already covered my personal views on chaos..."
He glances at Xilt sideways.
"That is all, of course, deflection... in case you missed it." He holds his glass aloft, in a toast-like gesture as a smile crosses his face. He turns the questions back to the wizard.
"The mephit... How long? To be honest, it seems a strange fit from my vantage point" and he laughs a genuine laugh.
Kal'ryon takes one of the flutes from a passing servant before the tray has fully cleared the doorway. He holds it up briefly to the light, inspects the color, and takes a deep drink.
Not bad. Better than the ribbons suggested.
He watches the masked servants move through the room, cataloging their movement. The white porcelain and red at the throat... Petulengro's face and care when she explained all of it.
A whole nation running on grief and theater. The masks protect them and while also reminding everyone why they need protecting. He sets that thought somewhere. He may or may not come back to it.
He claims a chair near the fire, close enough to the finger-foods to be convenient, and settles in with his glass and a clear decision that two hours is enough time to enjoy himself before whatever this evening turns out to be.
"Xilt," he says, without turning his head. "You have that look about you. Whatever you are about to go off and research, it can wait until six." He gestures loosely toward the chair nearest him. "Sit. Drink something. Hestram's ceremony will require us to be present. It will not require us to arrive having done homework."
Kal'ryon's eyes move over Hestram as though enjoying a reunion. The smile is genuine enough. The man is hard not to like.
Though I could have sworn we left you in Absalom. The thought arrives quiet and does not leave. The shimmer at his edge of his form goes still.
"Adril Hestram," he says warmly. "You move quickly for a man your size. We only just arrived ourselves, and here you are, ahead of us and asking after the merchandise before we have so much as wiped the road off our boots."
He leaves the observation buried inside the welcome. His weight settles slightly balancing between the balls of his feet, the guisarme still resting against his shoulder.
"The blade is Setare's to carry and the Lady-of-the-Lodge's to receive. The Ten were specific about the wall to hang it on, too." The corner of his mouth lifts, taking the edge off without dulling the point. "I am sure a man of your standing understands the value of delivering a thing exactly as instructed. We have come a long way to do precisely that. Is Captain Petulengro available?"
Kal'ryon unrolls his own copy of the orders again, reading it through a second time with what appears to be mild attention.
Escort the sword. Deliver the sword. Ensure it arrives safely. No mention of who we are meant to meet, or what we are meant to find, or why four of us. He lets the scroll curl shut.
"Xilt makes a fair point," he allows. "If the Ten wanted us to stumble into something on the road, they have a strange way of saying so. Which is to say, they have said nothing at all."
He glances at the disguised blade, then back to the others.
"The orders ask for one thing. The sword arrives, and it arrives whole. There is no Venture-Captain waiting to tell us the rest, no second envelope, no clever hint anyone has found. So either the road is the point and they trusted us to figure that out... or the road is simply a road, and the work is the delivery."
The motes settle quiet at his edges. He has already decided.
"I vote we trust the wizards and the faster method. If something on the way to Galt wants the Pale Maiden badly enough to ambush four Seekers, it will find a way to come to us regardless of how we travel." The corner of his mouth lifts. "And the sooner this blade is hanging on the Lady of the Lodge's wall, the sooner I am back on a terrace with something worth drinking."
Kal'ryon's gaze settles on the sword the moment the illusion gives way, lingering longer than idle curiosity might explain. A blade that has outlived the man who made it famous.
The motes drift slow at his edges.
"Routes and teleportation are a question for the people who read more than I do," he says, with a glance toward Xilt that carries like a man volunteering someone else for work. "Which is most of you. I have never found the shortest path to be the interesting one, but I am told other people value such things."
He shifts the guisarme against his shoulder and looks at the disguised blade in Setare's hands once more.
"What I will say is this. Someone went to the trouble of making that look worthless. That tells me the road is expected to be watched, and us potentially to be targets. So whichever way we go..." He lets the thought settle without finishing it, the meaning plain enough. "...we should assume we are not the only ones interested in where it ends up."
"I am sure it does," Kal agrees regarding his reputation, entirely untroubled by the immodesty of it. "Though I find reputations are like wine. They travel better than they keep in your personal cellar, and the vintage is rarely as good as the label promises." The motes flicker around the edges of his form, apparently as amused as he is. "In my case the label undersells. But you would have to see for yourself."
He inclines his head to Setare with easy courtesy. His gaze drifts to Amaranti, the wine, the recliner, the wurm folded in the corner. Something in him approves of the man on principle. A summoner who has made peace with comfort. There are much worse philosophies.
"A famous sword, a long road, and four Seekers the Ten could not be bothered to brief properly." He lets the guisarme down off his shoulder, planting its butt against the floor with a soft sound. "Either this is beneath us and they are being polite, or it is going to go very wrong somewhere past the border and they would rather not say so out loud."
He looks around the gathered company, a grin spreads across his face.
"To be clear, I am content with either."
The Grand Lodge is loud just like it always is, full of agents with somewhere to be and opinions about how to get there.
Kal'ryon moves through it without hurry, guisarme resting across one shoulder, the motes trailing faint at his edges. He has been told nothing about who he is working with, which means the pleasure of finding out is still ahead of him. He has always preferred surprises he can see coming.
He follows the noise... and the particular smell of a building that houses too many wizards, and somewhere in the spread of it he catches a familiar shape at a familiar distance: a half-orc with small tusks and the posture of a man who would rather be reading.
Well. There is a face the road remembers.
"Xilt Sphinx," he says, pitched to carry but not to disturb. The corner of his mouth lifts. "Either the Ten have a sense of humor, or they have run out of competent people and started reusing the old ones. I am choosing to be flattered. I think you should too."
He does not wait for permission to close the distance. He has bled beside this one before. That is its own kind of introduction.
"Tell me they gave you a real reason to leave your books, and not just a sword that needs walking somewhere."
He watches her go until the sound of her footsteps fades below the terrace lip. Then he looks back out at the sea for a moment, cup in one hand, scroll in the other.
Rarely easy but always important. At least, thats what they like to say... Sometimes easy but important. His annoyance shows on his face for the briefest of moments. Very helpful, Diya.
The motes drift at his periphery, catching the last of the afternoon light. He sets the cup down, breaks the seal, and reads.
------
He reads it once, then again, slower.
An escort? A sword and a long road mindless travel. He sets the scroll down on the table beside the ruined lunch and considers it like most things that are wrapped in more ceremony than they seem to warrant.
The motes drift quiet at his edges. He picks the cup back up.
The Ten do not send Seekers to carry luggage. So either the sword is more than a sword, or the road is more than a road... or someone expects the package to be argued over before it arrives. He considers the possibilities over without any obvious urgency.Likely all three.
He finishes the wine. It would be a pity to leave good wine, and a worse thing to arrive in Galt sober.
"Well," he says, to the sea and the empty terrace. "I suppose it's better than paperwork."
He rises, collects the guisarme from the railing, and goes to find out who the Ten have decided he is working with.
Kal'ryon does not stand immediately. He takes a long drag from his glass and glances back off to the horizon. Only then does he set the cup down, with a degree of unhurriedness that comes from having decided that whatever *this* is, it is not more important than finishing his pour.
Then, almost absently, he looks at the seal.
The Ten themselves... The motes of possibility, at the edges of his form, still briefly, in a way they do not usually do. This is so beyond his Ganzi control of reality that he had not seen in his future... in any future.
He takes the scroll from Diya with two fingers, studying the seal for a moment before looking back up at her. His hair drifts at his temples, this time the absence of an inciting breeze is evident.
"Exceedingly rare," he repeats, tasting the phrase. "Diya. You came all the way out here yourself. Should I be flattered or concerned?"
The corner of his mouth does something that is almost a smile. He does not open the scroll yet.
The wine is Chelaxian, Kal'ryon made sure of it. And a good vintage too.
He has taken a table on the terrace of a rented villa... nothing extravagant, only the best the cliffside had to offer... and has spent the better part of the afternoon doing precisely nothing of consequence. The Inner Sea stretches out below, catching the late light in the way only an ocean can, and the small motes drifting at the edges of his form catch it the light too, briefly, before settling.
He is dressed in white linen, loose at the collar, blue piping tracing the cuffs and the line of his shoulders. The fabric moves well in the sea breeze. He has opinions about fabric that moves well in a sea breeze. His guisarme leans against the terrace railing within easy reach- adamantine head, shaft carved and engraved with patterns that catch the eye if you look long enough- the kind of weapon that suggests its owner regards it as both tool and personal statement. Which is accurate.
The remains of lunch occupy the far corner of the table. Something with shellfish, something with preserved lemon, a small dish of things he could not identify and ordered specifically because of that. The plate is largely demolished. The lemon thing was exceptional. Worth finding out where they source it.
Seeker. He turns the word over again, the way he has been doing since the ink dried on the commission. It fits. He is not particularly surprised it fits... he has been doing the work of a Seeker for long enough that the title feels less like elevation and more like paperwork catching up with reality. Still, there is something satisfying about finally being named correctly.
Below the cliff, a fishing vessel makes its slow way across the water. He watches it until it rounds the headland and disappears, then refills his cup. His hair drifts at the edges in the sea wind. Or, perhaps, independent of it. He stopped tracking the difference some years ago.
The afternoon is good. The wine is good. The sea below is doing exactly what a sea should do.
He is mid-pour when he hears footsteps on the terrace stairs...
With some of my other pbp's, there has been mixed success with utilizing a discord chat in addition to the forums here. In the worst cases, the chat has had no benefit. Are there any opposed to this addition?
FWIW I have flipped almost entirely to play by discord, as I really enjoy the more real time interactions that format encourages. And the discord dice bot does some really neat things (but has a heck of a learning curve)
It's been a long time since I played Kal! I will have to re-work out his voice and character. As an aside, its been >2 years since I played PF1e so I might make a few mistakes along the way. Please forgive me!
Kal is a Dragon Disciple/Bloodrager reach build. He is a pretty low skill build (other than Diplomacy) but a pretty brawler.
I wanted to give a big, and public, thank you for running this.
EbonFist has been running this campaign for more than 5 years now, spanning 25-ish scenarios, most of them having to do with the Hao Jin Tapestry. I was a random signup during GameDay VIII in 2019 (!), with Kal'Ryon as one of the other PCs (!!). Of the 61 PFS1 scenarios I've played or GMed, 23 have been as a PC in this series.
I really appreciate the time and commitment you (EbonFist) have taken, and you've been one of my inspirations to run more "informal series" scenarios, both in PFS1 (the Valais Durant scenarios, the Blakros scenarios, and the Nidal scenarios) and PFS2.
It's been a fun ride.
I couldn't agree more. Kal is the only pf1 character I have taken > level 8... entirely because of this long running campaign. A consistent and enjoyable game for >5 years is quite the accomplishment and that is all on the GM.
Kal allows a small trickle of smoke to leak out the side of his mouth before he yaws and reveals a small pilot light of flame in the back of his throat, before he swallows it.
"And what, per-say, is wrong with burning? Personally, I enjoy the smell of a nice barbecue. But that is neither here nor there- I am quite confident that you can trust a hellknight and a cleric. Certainly the God's will keep them in line and hold us accountable"
Positioned in the room, Kal continues to swipe and pummel at the red creature in front of him- the world slowing down and the spindles of possibility spreading with each heart beat. Kal focuses on the outcomes, willing the results to its most favorable conclusion. Rage
Fort, DC 26:1d20 + 19 ⇒ (16) + 19 = 35
Swirling with his guisarme, Kal takes two swipes before stepping in to get a little more personal with the threat.
"Dang it, that smarts...", the smoke swings and moves, but he can feel the creature out there- just out of sight. He levels his blade and swings at where things should be. He sets his focus on warping reality to his whims Rage
Hit > 21:1d100 ⇒ 9 Blind-Fight Reroll Hit > 21:1d100 ⇒ 92
Blind-Fight:
Benefit: In melee, every time you miss because of concealment (see Combat), you can reroll your miss chance percentile roll one time to see if you actually hit.
An invisible attacker gets no advantages related to hitting you in melee. That is, you don’t lose your Dexterity bonus to Armor Class, and the attacker doesn’t get the usual +2 bonus for being invisible. The invisible attacker’s bonuses do still apply for ranged attacks, however.
You do not need to make Acrobatics skill checks to move at full speed while blinded.
Normal: Regular attack roll modifiers for invisible attackers trying to hit you apply, and you lose your Dexterity bonus to AC. The speed reduction for darkness and poor visibility also applies.
Special: The Blind-Fight feat is of no use against a character who is the subject of a blink spell.
Kal produces the thin rod one more time, and a second small wooden wand- that flashes light before settling a thin, protective barrier about the Ganzi.
"Now is as good a time as ever" and he strides into the unknown.
Taking his cue from the subtle nods of his companions, Kal'ryon reaches for the slender, almost nondescript rod tucked securely in his belt. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he activates the artifact, murmuring the incantation taught to him by his mentor. The air around him shimmers momentarily as the spell takes effect, reinforcing his scaled skin with the toughness of forged iron.
Extended Iron Skin. Duration 20 mins. +5 Natural Armor, AC 27
As the door appears- Kal stops his poking around the cracks house and turns his attention to new found doorway.
Though his ears do not hear any of the sounds that the others relay, he quickly positions himself at the front of the line before the door opens. He checks the grip in his pole arm unconsciously.
Intimidate:1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24
"Best be moving back to where you came from, Folks. I'd hate to have the clear this space in a more... efficient... manner. Don't you worry, we'll be stopping by to talk to you though"
