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"Shall I bring you stew, to go with those tarts? And would you rather Kane knock on the door, and need your light, or... will you be coming to dinner?" "I'll get it to him," the dwarf responds, "and I can find the stew if I want it later. The problem's with my breath; I haven't lost my legs," he ribs gently. Still carrying an increasingly squirmy kitten, Gristav returns to the residential wing.
"He'd not be the first magician, with no better option, to find space under your roof." Larur's unseen grunt has a touch of grudging humor. "I was gruff with him earlier. Wasn't his fault. I'll see to the key."
"No, lad," the dwarf grunts slowly. "Go about your business. Keep an eye on ... things. I have some paperwork to look over." An exaggerated rustle of parchment announces his ability to do just that, despite the darkness. The ruined voice stops Gristav before he can exit the office. "That stray giant you took in, he wants his own key. Any good reason he should or shouldn't have it?"
"Why are you so eager to get a key?" Larur snaps hoarsely. "So you can let a gang of thieves and ruffians in to ransack the place? I won't just hand out keys to my home and business to any Thorin, Dwalin, or Ori who happens along." Still scowling, he pushes his way past the man in the doorway and stalks down the hallway.
Smiling, Gristav magics a mote of light into being, and lets the kitten see it. As 'Hero' gives chase, Gris says, "A familiar wouldn't fall for that." "Oes, oni bai ei fod yn gwybod ein bod yn sôn am y peth ac yn ceisio taflu ni i ffwrdd," Larur grumbles as he locks the cat in. "Oh, aye," he elaborates, meeting Gristav's questioning eye, "you'll learn the language of folk on the other side of the world who walk around upside down but not the good, solid Dwarven tongue." He gives a nod and heads back to his office to put away the extra key.
"A familiar I believe, not merely a ferret. I've seen the like before. Though it's not the ferret, I have in mind, but the mind in the ferret. We suspect Lil's thrush, is a similar creature." Gristav sets the saucers beneath the chair at the foot of Samaritha's bed, while Larur frowns. "How do we know this cat's not a familiar then? It could be spying on us ... or be some sort of inside man like the damned Sczarni Saul hired."
"Bah," the dwarf responds as he heads toward the guest rooms. "Entrust it to the Sczarni moll, and she'll have a new fur tippet before the morning; see if she doesn't. You don't suppose it's that new man you found on the road? He had a weasel of some sort already." He waits for Gristav to unlock Samaritha's door and shoves the kitten in quickly. "You'd better give me back that key once you've locked it up," he advises. "Women don't usually like to find men with keys to their doors, unless it was their idea to give it."
"Now, about our wee hero, witnessing the scraps, somebody intended he remain... she? remain? I confess I wouldn't know how to tell." Larur unceremoniously scoops up the kitten in his broad hand and upends it. "How you haven't come to grief in a dimly-lit tavern somewhere I don't know," he grumbles. "It's a tom. Which at least means it won't be drowning us in unwanted cats in the future. If you won't put it out in the alley, then shut it in your room until you find out how it got in. We don't want an animal loose in the same room with food we intend to eat and serve."
"Set a freeloader to catch a freeloader," Larur grumbles wryly as he watches her go before turning back to the cat in Gristav's hand with a frown. "Don't like it. This isn't a barnyard. Where'd it come from?"
She appears not to notice Larur as he stumps up behind them with a mace in his hand. "'Set a thief to catch a thief,'" he grumbles, with a sidelong glance at the Varisian woman.
Larur's eyes meet Gristav's. "First spiders, now rats?" he queries incredulously. "Who delivered these?"
Larur's face darkens as Gristav lists the ways his carefully-laid plans could be thwarted, and he glances toward his lower drawer nervously, as if no longer as certain as he once was that his legacy is secure.
Larur goes to the cabinet on the wall, removes a key, and hands it to Gristav. "Signed, sealed, and airtight," he replies with a grim satisfaction, gesturing back to the lower drawer, "half the profits to the Felden clan of Janderhoff, so long as the Gold Goblin is in operation. Silent partnership. Saul has the right to buy them out, but they get to set the price. And in case of fire, flood, or highway robbery, Gravin Goldhammer's got a second copy hidden away. All goes well, it won't be needed, but no man's ever regretted having an escape tunnel just because the main shaft didn't cave in."
"So tell me what you want. Whatever I'm going to do here, let me do it well. And if you don't know yet, tell me when you figure it out." The dwarf sighs. "Lad, there's no coded orders here. I told you flat out the only thing I asked of you: to deliver word to my family when the time comes." He pats the lower drawer of the desk where he's placed the packet addressed to his brother. "Apart from that, I only want to see this place succeed. Ill-suited as I may be for the entertainment industry, at least I've a head for numbers; as long as the Gold Goblin remains in operation, half the profits will belong to my family. I'll hold my head higher in Torag's Domain if this ridiculous dream of Saul's can earn as much for them as if I'd completed my tour in the Gas Forges. The rest of Riddleport can go to hell and is well advanced on its journey, as far as I'm concerned. If none of the bosses knew who the hell any of us were or ever thought to ask, I'd be a happier man."
"'Regret.' Don't talk to a dwarf about regret. That's an elvish affectation, sighing for centuries over spilt milk. What's done is done, and it's only a fool wastes his time wishing it done differently instead of making the best he can of it," he grumbles, ruffling through a sheaf of parchments on his desk, then stops and sighs. "What's done is done," he repeats, his ruined voice sounding tired, "and this is the best I can make of it. Torag preserve me from falling under the influence of the Debt Minder, but they say he paid her court himself before settling down with Bolka." He peers across the desk at Gristav. "Any dwarf who sets pick to stone and stops digging before striking a vein of ore isn't worth his beard. If I quit now, it's as good as an admission that Zincher beat me."
Larur stares at Gristav for a long moment. "Gods, what you get up to. Is it like this in every town you have business in? I'm proud to say that for more than a century, I avoided becoming entangled in murder cults, Sczarni plots, and police business alike." He frowns. "Until I joined up with Saul, at any rate."
Having taken his leave from Tendal, Gristav crosses the dim casino floor, lit only by the stripes of indirect sunlight from the tall windows beneath the verandah, to Larur's office. There is no light shining from beneath the door, but he knows both that the dwarf has no need of it and that he would consider it a scandalous waste of coin to burn unneeded oil. Knocking, he waits for Larur's grunt of invitation before opening the door. "Hm? Larur glances up from beneath his heavy brow. "Oh, it's you, lad. What in the Nine Hells went on in Rotgut? The tall fellow you brought in off the road the other night said there was some sort of trouble with Sczarni."
"I'm telling you," the dwarf is saying to Saul in his raspy voice as he gestures with his fork for emphasis, "I'd feel easier with someone out there keeping an eye on that dance floor. Dranngvit knows what someone might do to a slab of wood, but if they can think of something that'll hurt us, they're like to do it. Nine hells, if they just get after it with a handaxe Starday night, they'll cause us trouble trying to get it fixed before opening."
"I paid them extra to make it worth their time. I like to see working men well rewarded...Now to business. What are my duties?" "Duties? Well...," he hems and haws. "I suppose in the future it'll be you that deals with the suppliers and the performers ... though if you're going to negotiate a low rate and them pay them extra to get the work done, I don't see how that saves us any money." He gives the gnome a pointed glance. "But for this week, everything should be already arranged for." He glances at Gristav. "If they're meeting with the general, perhaps you'd better go along with them. We don't want any trouble with the Gendarmes." Piccolo: The Gendarmes are the face of law and order in Riddleport, or what passes for it. In reality, they answer only to the Overlord and generally deal only with such disorder that threatens the balance of power. Most of the businessmen of Leeward District contract privately with Boss Croat, the leader of the local half-orcs, for "protection" rather than count on the Gendarmes to protect their lives and property in a timely manner. The head of the Gendarmes, known by the title of General, is Anton Mescher.
Larur arrives on the tall man's heels. "How'd you convince them to move the furniture upstairs?" he asks of Piccolo. "I thought we'd have to do it ourselves after they'd gone."
"Why is there furniture being moved in here and who's the gnome?" "Ask Saul," he replies with a short laugh, moving out into the queueing area where he can oversee the floor. "Another of his hires. The furniture was the halfling's idea: Thought we'd attract more of his size folk if they'd somewhere to sit and have a drink." He frowns in consternation. "Well, they're moving it now," he says, mostly to himself. "How did he convince them to do that?" He sets out across the floor toward the trio at the bar.
Snake can only sigh. "Okay, you're gonna want to sit down for this one. By the way, how's your morning? Because ours wasn't anything to write home about. To make a long story short: We headed to Rag's end looking for a priest, we found a drug dealer and his thugs. We fought, several died - none of our own - including the priest who was the leader of 'em all. After that, Raccoon got angry with Gristav over a church or something, not real sure what that was about. You know, as far as I'm concerned, these people would be a lot better off worshiping none of them. It works for me." He finds himself getting off track before steering himself back on. "Anyway, he left vowing he would not reside in the same building as Gristav. And he left with a halfling named Chrysanthemum. Which your probably wondering how that's pertinent. Well I'll tell you - it is because the people on the other end of the drug deal is one Marzo Sczarni and that's who she's working for. So if Raccoon hasn't made his way back here, I'm willing to bet Marzo's probably got him a new member." The dwarf's frown only deepens as he tries to follow Snake's narrative, a process interrupted but not halted by a start of dismay when the witch confesses his own impiety. "Sczarni? Sczarni are outlawed in Riddleport. Wait, you said he left with a woman? Probably some Calistrian affair that I'm glad isn't connected with the premises. But if you've got a complaint against the halfling, take it up with Saul; he's Saul's hire, not mine."
"Yeah, sure, no problem. We'll take care of it. Anyway, I'll get to the news in a moment. But for right now, I need to know if you've happen to see the Raccoon around. You know, the halfling with the mustache. He didn't happen to pass by you just recently, did he?" The mention of the halfling does nothing to quell Larur's unease. "Haven't seen him since breakfast. Didn't he leave with you?"
Snake glances at the gnome in discussion with one of the workers before, "Not here. Let's take this to your office if you got a moment. Or I guess it can wait until...," he looks around curiously at all the furniture being moved, "until whatever you got going on here is done." "Nay," the dwarf replies, "there's no one worth talking to here." He gives the workman one last scowl, then stalks off toward his office, leaving Piccolo behind and motioning Snake to follow. When he has entered the small, dark room, he sighs, letting his frown melt into resignation. "Damn it, we're going to have to move that extra furniture upstairs ourselves. You think the lot of you can handle it? I wouldn't count on Saul's wizard lending a hand, and the women are flat out, and the two half-elves make one whole man between them, not to talk about the whole elf who hasn't come back yet. Suppose we could get Saul to throw in Bojasc; damned sullen clod he is, but you can't deny he has muscle." He looks up at Snake. "What is it, then? Bad news of some sort, I'm guessing."
"You got a second, bub? We need to talk," he tells the dwarf, glancing at the gnome as he speaks. "Eh?" the dwarf asks, dividing his scowl between the delivery man and the witch. "What about?"
Piccolo: "Great crawly vermin," he explains. "Cleg Zincher hid them in a box along with a delivery we were expecting. They were all over the damn bar and up the chimney. Here now," he breaks off to address the furniture movers. "Those table and chairs and things need to be carried upstairs. We don't want them out on the floor."
Piccolo: "Aye, aye," he replies, smoothing his beard distractedly. "It's heartening, at least, to hear Saul's hiring someone to handle normal business instead of more muscle. Starting to feel like we're running a gang with a casino on the side," he grumbles. "It's not the gamblers causing problems, though; it's the damned Sczarni ... and the Calistrians ... and Zincher's spiders. Larur Felden," he belatedly introduces himself, offering a broad hand.
You know that the Sczarni are outlawed in Riddleport proper, one of the reasons for the existence of Lubbertown outside the gates. The largest and most influential religious institution in town is the temple of Calistria, and its high priestess, Shorafa Pamodae, is a powerful member of the Council. Cleg Zincher, of course, is Saul's particular enemy and also runs the arena for blood sports.
Piccolo: "Saul hired you?" the dwarf repeats in a strangled whine. "Can the man go a day without picking up another hanger-on?" He looks you up and down. "Suppose you look more like a talker than a fighter. That had better be some tongue, if it's all that stands between you and the business end of a hammer, though."
Piccolo: The dwarf jumps to find himself addressed by a strange voice near his elbow. "What the--? Where'd you come from? You're not with the carpenter's men, surely?"
His voice is a shock. Where most dwarves possess a gruff growl or booming baritone, this one's voice instead comes out as a raspy wheeze, little more than a whisper. It must be the result of some sickness or injury.
"A bonus?" Larur protests. "When they're filling their pockets like highwaymen already?"
The dwarf puffs up with indignation; one can almost see the hairs on his chin getting bristlier. "'More?'" he demands, in what ought to be an outraged bellow but comes out instead as a hoarse wheeze. "You're already making what I worked my way up to in the Gas Forges after near a decade of experience! You think we're made of coin?"
Larur frowns at Saul's words, and his hand goes to the pocket where Arnando Rolf's bill is stowed. "That reminds me, Saul," he struggles to make himself heard over the table. "I'm going to need to get into the vault today for some coin."
"Gristav's talking about searching out some priest in Rotgut," Larur tells Saul flatly, dropping his tray on the table. "Temple called Rag End. You heard of it?"
Gris's explanation is enough to distract Larur's attention from the barkeep's receipt. "In Rotgut, you mean?" he asks, shoving the paper in a pocket. "What kind of holy man sets up his shingle in Rotgut? Priest of brigands and pickpockets? I'm not sure it's a good idea to go into that kind of neighborhood. Not alone, anyway. There'll be gangs on the prowl looking for those sleeping off last night's drink and unable to defend themselves." He gestures to Gristav to carry the basket of baked goods upstairs, while he gathers other breakfast-related bits and pieces.
Larur glares at him. "Make yourself useful and carry it upstairs then. Saul's up there so you'll be making the trip anyway."
Larur takes the receipt from Gristav, unfolds it, and frowns. Parsimonious soul that he is, he is so distracted by the bill for services rendered that he is only half listening to Gristav's final words. "Hm? Rag End? Where's that?" As he is speaking, Snake finds his way into the kitchen, directed across the dark casino floor by the glimmer of light and sound of voices.
Gristav knows from long association how hard it is to be up before Larur, whose circadian clock has no reference to the sun. As he reaches the kitchen, he can already hear the familiar rattle of the battered lid of the dwarf's ancient coffee pot as it is coming to a boil. As he enters through the swinging doors, Larur turns a little warily then grunts a welcome. "Morning, lad. Check the back porch, if you don't mind, and see if the baker's boy's been here yet?" He gives the half-elf a second glance. "You're looking mighty pleased with yourself this morning."
Larur's scowl fails to clear. "I'm not having you poking around odd corners of the place," he tells Snake firmly. "You're still here on approval. You can talk to Saul about the spiders in the morning. They're not getting any deader before then. Or ... less dead. Whichever."
"But I'm still gonna need those bodies, dwarf. Should we take care of that now or in the morning? Either is fine with me." Larur scowls. "I don't even want to know why you'd want damned overgrown spiders in your room overnight, alive or dead, but I'll not be fetch-and-carrying them for you. You can get them yourself in the morning, if you're desperate enough for coin to lug them through the streets."
"Hells if I know," he growls. "The redhead dealt with him. Said a sailor had a delivery to be left with whoever answered the door at the Gold Goblin. By the time she came upstairs and told us the tale, he was long gone. Come and see." Taking the lamp from the desk, he leads them across the floor to a card table near the cashiers' cage. The oil light reveals an odd trio of children's toys: a yellow snake, a mauve raccoon with a purple mask, and a butterfly with wings of indigo and silver. Two scrolls lie on the table as well, along with two lengths of string. "That one was tied to the snake," Larur jabs his finger suspiciously, "and that one to the butterfly. It's someone trying to send a message, no doubt, but if it's for me, he's too clever by half; I haven't a clue what it means. Saul claims to be in the dark as well." Letter tied to the toy snake:
Serpe,
There may be a man in Lubbertown called Pitivo Vitteri... a travelling merchant of tincture and oil. He may pay for a chance to draw liquid foul from the mortos oito besta pernas. Make use of this or not, it is the only time it will be mentioned, Mapache Halfling (snake message):
Letter tied to the toy butterfly:
Bolboreta,
If the two new guests are now unwelcome, you could seek out Wilfrid Piggens (of him the badger likely knows). A chance they could be exchanged for gold, with little risk of the change being noted by the blade. Make use of this or not, it is the only time it will be mentioned, Mapache Halfling (butterfly message):
"Who's that?" Larur demands, then, as his dwarven eyesight answers his own question, goes on, "About time you got back here. Lad, you feeling stronger?" he asks Gristav with concern. "I went by the Publican this afternoon, and he said you'd been there and he'd set you right, but he didn't know where you'd gone from there. Oh," he goes on, his tone darkening, "any of you expecting a parcel? Some sailor turned up earlier with an odd delivery." He turns suspicious eyes on Snake. "There's a snake involved."
Braddon, Gristav, and Snake take their leave of the rest of the Goblin staff and head out into the city streets. The boxed spiders are left to Bojasc to deal with; Covey is unboxing the rest of the crates, a bit trepidatiously; and Tendal, Thuvalia, and Daynadrian are awaiting Samaritha's return before departing themselves for Lubbertown. The dwarf accompanies them to the back door to see Gristav off with visible anxiety. "I'd come along with you," he apologizes, "only it's time Goldhammer and the boys are like to be having a drink at the end of their shift." He's clearly uncomfortable at the thought of meeting his former associates. The men make their way to the ferry and quickly across the Velashu, any laborers who might cross the river for their jobs having already done so. Once on the western shore, they pass by the empty warehouses and the few functioning businesses of the River District to arrive at the Publican House where they are greeted by Arnando and Lalie. As on Braddon and Malkith's first visit, the rectangular table nearest the door in the morning room is occupied by a handful of dwarves; however, the round table where the group of sailors sat that morning is empty, and the corner Lil occupied is pointedly vacant.
"Gristav needs a healer," Larur puts in protectively. "He oughtn't to be traipsing about the Wharf District in his condition."
"Spiders aren't daggers," the dwarf replies. "Now, lad, I know," he heads off Gristav's interjection, "you think it'd be a fine thing to pay Zincher back in the same coin, and I don't blame you. Of all of us, you bore the brunt of this. But it's like I told the halfling: Vengeance escalates. They draw a knife, we draw a sword; they send one of us to the healer, we send one of them to the Boneyard: That's the Riddleport way, and it ends with both sides weakened and those smart enough to stay out of it picking over the pieces. I'm with the card-shuffler," he nods to Malkith. "We've got a business to run."
Larur steadies Gristav with his broad shoulder. "You need a drink, lad. At the Publican. Have Rolf take a look at you. If there's a bill to pay, we'll manage to scrape it up. You wouldn't still be in Riddleport to be bit by spiders if it weren't for me."
"Aye, lad, you're not well," Larur points out. "Have a seat and a drink. You say you've seen these kinds of spiders before?" he asks Covey with a touch of worry. "Is he going to be all right?"
"What?" Larur demands in an outraged wheeze. "He'd brazenly attack us and then charge us for the privilege?"
"One in the box," Larur tells him, "and one up the chimney. That all?" he turns back to those who witnessed the unboxing.
"We got a box meant for the arena," Larur explains gruffly. "Some don't think it was by accident."
"There's a grate at the top of the flue," Larur tells Gristav. "This is Riddleport, after all; no one's going to leave a half-dozen back doors open on their rooftop for thieves to come down. Unless it's rusted through since we bought the place, it ought to be stuck in there."
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When will SFS 1-16: Dreaming of the Future and SF AP 004: Dead Suns, Part 4: The Ruined Clouds be added to the reporting system? Also, when will The Ruined Clouds be added to the SFS Additional Resources page? I've scheduled both of these products at my store in July but have been unable to list them on the Event page. I would like to know if I should reschedule The Ruined Clouds if it's not legal for SFS play by mid-July.
All the other spellcasting classes appear to have it on their spell list; why not Bloodragers? In terms of scrolls, without Read Magic it makes the DC to decipher them very difficult unless someone is willing/able to spend the gold/ability points required to increase her Spellcraft skill. Was this an oversight, or was it done intentionally to add balance to the game?
We're pleased to announce the return of Pathfinder Society to the SF Peninsula Bay Area Saturdays 6:00pm - 10:00 PM at Heretic Games in San Bruno, CA starting November 15th! Register and sign up for games here: Heretic Games on Warhorn Entry Fee: $5 (returned in as a $5 store credit.) DM's get a $5 store credit for volunteering to run a table. Come join us! Pathfinder Society games are held on Saturdays at 6:00 p.m. Beginners are always welcome. Also, please join the Bay Area Pathfinder Society Group for more information about Society games throughout the Bay Area as well as information regarding local conventions. Our November lineup: 11/15
11/22
11/29
Heretic Games
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