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~ EPILOGUE ~

And then he turns to Toff "Ye owe me the Hammer as promised" which was the whole reason he got wrangled into this mess.

Grymwold's blunt reminder of practical matters brings the argument to a close, at least for the moment. In the bloody aftermath of the Breaching Festival, the outcome of the contest had nearly been forgotten. The planned award banquet and other less formal festivities around the city are unsurprisingly cancelled, but there are dues to be paid. As soon as Toff Ornelos is under lock and key and the crowd has been cleared off, Dean Vost escorts the victors—at least those that chose to remain—to the headmaster's study in Ornelos Hall. Using a key secured from the headmaster's person, as well as the intonation of a series of complex arcane formulas, she opens a magically concealed and heavily trapped extraplanar safe behind one of the bookshelves. Out spills a number of gold coins, a great deal of jewellery, and a number of precious gems—as well as the ancestral hammer of Grymwold's clan, wrapped neatly in a still-bloodied war-banner of ancient make.

Though outwardly impressive, a closer enumeration reveals that the treasure amounts to precisely 98,230 gold sails in value—much lower than the accumulated prize pool of 153,000 gold sails one would expect. After a few awkward hours of going through the headmaster's accounts, it becomes clear he had been funding personal projects from the cache for decades, under the irresponsible assumption that no one would ever win the contest. It seems he never intended to pay the group in full, even if they did succeed. Vost apologises profusely for Ornelos' mismanagement of funds, promising that the difference will be compensated in the form of whatever magic items or services the heroes deem fit. Of course, material rewards are only a part of the prize—the victors are now celebrities, in Korvosa and beyond.

~

Queen Ileosa—ruling on behalf of her ailing husband, King Eodred II—plainly cares little for the investigation that ensues, only wishing to see the Acadamae remain a status symbol for the city. She orders the whole affair handled swiftly and judiciously, leaving the city’s Arbiters free to investigate without too much royal meddling, as long as they produce quick results. While the process leads to relatively few executions, Bayard soon finds himself overseeing the arrests of—and serving as warden to—many a highborn prisoner, being one of the few people within the Korvosan judicial system that is considered to be above the petty politics of the nobility.

Eventually deemed guilty of a conspiracy to commit mass murder (as well as corruption, endangerment of the public, and other less serious charges), Toff Ornelos is forced to resign his post as headmaster and abdicate his noble titles, which are given to family members deemed loyal to the Crimson Throne. House Ornelos seethes at the loss of their prestige and, most importantly, their long institutional dominion over the Acadamae. In order to avoid more bad publicity, they comply with the Arbiters' investigation. Some cousins, nieces and nephews are thrown under the proverbial cart, being directly or indirectly tied to Toff's mismanagement.

However, it is Toff's eventual confession that produces the most controversy: he claims continuous contact with his great-uncle, Lord Volshyenek Ornelos, the founder of the Acadamae, who was thought to have been killed by devils a century prior. According to Toff's testimony, the Immortal Lord kept his survival a secret from everyone but the current head of the family—a post which has coincided with the leadership of the Acadamae more often than not. Ostensibly, he demanded to be consulted on school administration, contributing to the rise of diabolism—and most importantly, he insisted the continuation of the Breaching Festival. However, as shocking as this revelation proves to be, no physical evidence of the Ornelos' long-lived patriarch is ever uncovered: even under magical compulsion, no one but Toff himself ever admits to having seen Lord Volshyenek. Most of his kin brand Toff a madman, and for the most part, the public seems content with this conclusion.

Within the halls of the Acadamae, however, signs of infernal meddling are taken very seriously—as the Acting Headmistress, Messida Vost keeps a close eye on unusual happenings within the school walls, should Lorthact the Unraveller seek to reclaim his dominion. Certainly, House Ornelos is already seeking to regain control by applying economic and political pressure on the institution, but whether they act on behalf of an immortal puppet-master remains to be seen...

~

Vindicated by the Arbiters' probe (and thoroughly vetted by Viridel, personally) Dean Vost does not make it a secret that she is after the post of headmaster on a more permanent basis. However, while she is as power-hungry as one would expect from an Egorian-born diabolist, she makes conscious efforts to distance herself from the previous administration's open authoritarianism: she is willing to call for decanal votes on important matters and put into place various reforms limiting the headmaster's power. From here on, the headmaster is to be chosen by vote for a six-year term, with the possibility of being voted out if they overstep their bounds.

During the next few years, the Acadamae takes a couple of wary steps towards being more open and less cruel. While the taint of diabolism is hard to expunge completely—especially given its dominant position in the Chelish cultural sphere—Viridel's patient guidance does bear fruit: hidden Ornelos loyalists (both fiends and mortals) are weeded out, and the practice of general conjuration slowly becomes more prevalent. As a result, many die-hard diabolists and devil-worshippers relocate south to Cheliax. As a side effect of the elf's presence, the status of the Hall of Seeing is greatly improved, bringing the traditionalist wizards closer to abandoning the ways of Old Thassilon and accepting divination as a school of magic worthy of serious study, rather than a simple tool or the purvey of flighty universalists.

~

Back at the Everglow residence, a bittersweet reunion leads to an uneasy conciliation: filled with regret over his son's fate, Elasaril uses his considerable influence to hire the best healers in Varisia and beyond. The elf even turns down a discreet offer by Vost to take over as the Dean of Abjuration, instead choosing to focus on making amends with his children. While he never recovers fully from his hellish ordeal, Wolfe is eventually able to function more normally, and even continue his studies into magic. Understandably, he is quite reluctant to return to the Acadamae or travel too far elsewhere. Maganrad, keeping in touch with Laree, offers to home-tutor the younger wizard—of course, while his offer is genuine, the enchanter might have ulterior motives for wanting to regularly visit the household...

~

Upon his much-anticipated homecoming, Grymwold is hailed as a true hero, worthy of the tales of old. Clan-Friend Viridel, too, is toasted many times over as the Shieldstorm regales his kinsmen with stories of their exploits: the stone halls ring with cheers as he describes their various victories over vicious fiends, and with solemn murmurs as he tells of the Thrice-Cursed Chelaxians and the terrible price of their blasphemous folly. On the following morn, in a more sober ceremony, the Forgefather's Hammer is re-consecrated by the priests of Torag and enshrined in a place of honour within the High Fane. Long oaths are sworn upon beard-rings, each member of the clan bound together in one promise: to never let the sacred relic fall into the wrong hands again.

~

Anethra returns home to Cheliax, her contract fulfilled and the last mistakes of her youth eradicated. After all, a provincial backwater such as Korvosa has little to offer a priestess of her stature, and soon other schemes and responsibilities occupy her time—yet, more than once does she find her thoughts drawn back to Belzeragna. Some visions are too potent not to linger in the mind’s eye, and to have witnessed first-hand the powers of an Infernal Duke—the ability to bend reality, to twist space and time to one's will, to command whole legions of the damned, and to enslave of souls in the thousands—certainly leaves an impression, even if all these sublime wonders are merely a trifling fraction of the Dark Prince's own might. What could an enterprising mind accomplish with all that potential? Now that an advantageous position has been established, perhaps it might be enlightening to make contact and see what kind of deal a desperate, exiled Duke might be willing to strike...

Thank you, everyone! Wrap-up post coming up as soon as humanly possible.

Given his particular distaste for Arcane casters, Grymm is quite ready for Toff to try escaping via magic rather than face the consequences of his actions

As soon as Grym hears the hint of an arcane syllable pass through Toff's lips he smacks a beefy hand over the Mage's mouth No No NO! We're having a conversation here. Not polite to disappear while others are talking. Agreed?

Grym keeps an iron grip on the Mage's mouth waiting for him to nod yes. Absolutely expecting outrage and willing to withstand this test of wills with the patience and discipline instilled in him through long years of life and faith.

Ornelos can do little but struggle feebly in Grymwold's grasp. For all his magical might, the wizard is not very physically imposing.

"You are to be just as potentially guilty as the headmaster. In fact more so," she explains with raised voice toward Vost, hoping to bring to a stop the fear in Toff that makes him wish to flee. "You are the Dean of Conjuration, aren't you? And it is your responsibility to ensure that the students and challengers face the school of conjuration when designing and setting up traps for us. Did you cast any spells in the Hall of Summoning? Is not the very spell that would carry us to such a tormented place a conjuration spell of exceeding difficulty? When I lay blame on the headmaster, I see the horror in his eyes that he would be responsible for something like this. Fright is there, yes, but more like a cornered animal. I believe he is at fault for suspecting something and turning a blind eye, and for that alone I blame him, but I do not believe he is the one responsible for all of this. I wish to hear all of your testimony," she now directs her speech to the other school senior staff who helped set up the Hall of Summoning. "Did she or the headmaster cast any spells upon the door to the Hall of Summoning in preparation for this event? It is by touching that door, we were brought to that hellish plane."

The target of the Breaching is the Hall of Wards, which is the school of abjuration, but I'll run with it.

Vost maintains her composure admirably well, even in the face of personal accusations. "Of course, all staff members—myself included—must be thoroughly investigated before the inauguration of the next headmaster. However, as a daughter of one of our best instructors, you should know how the Acadamae operates. The participation of me and my colleagues was solely at the discretion of Headmaster Ornelos and the Dean of Abjuration—in practice, we consult on locks or traps requiring our particular field of expertise, and even then we worked under constant supervision. We had little room to improvise. The word of the headmaster is absolute, and to go against it is to court not just censure, but death itself. As for Dean Cangi..."

Vost glances at the swooning matron of the Hall of Wards, who has been sat down and is being fanned by her subordinate abjurers. "...I do not believe she had any foreknowledge of this conspiracy. Whether or not her gullibility makes her fit to serve in her post is another matter entirely."

She now directs her speech to the other school senior staff who helped set up the Hall of Summoning. "Did she or the headmaster cast any spells upon the door to the Hall of Summoning in preparation for this event? It is by touching that door, we were brought to that hellish plane."

The other deans and instructors, quickly falling in line with Vost's coup, also disavow any knowledge of the plot. For the most part, they seem truthful—many had vague suspicions of the headmaster abusing his position for personal gain, but nothing this ambitious. For the most part, no one has anything bad to say about the Dean of Conjuration, even staff members like the Dean of Enchantment Heresta Tarlan, who Maganrad can identify as being Vost's main rival.

The Dean of Transmutation, Elgin Remorri, steps forward to offer a more even-handed testimony. The eccentric old man is the most senior member of the staff, with years of service beyond even those of the already quite venerable Toff Ornelos. "Did both of them have opportunity to do as you insinuate? Certainly. Did either of them actually commit the deed? Not to my knowledge. However, I am inclined to believe that Ornelos acted to cover up the truth of the Breaching Festival, whether he was the mastermind or—as Master Viridel seemed to imply—inherited this conspiracy from his predecessors. I have seen many headmasters come and go. Most of them were his kin, after all, and they have always had a keen interest in maintaining the tradition..."

"She is right, it is not the fault of one man," Viridel says. "No matter how attractive, or convenient, it is to scapegoat him. This realm was timeless, yes, but the Breaching Festival has been here for longer than the Headmaster's tenure. We all here bear witness, that in the hellish realm we entered, it was the Immortal Lord, Volshyenek Ornelos, who made that pact with the hidden Devil of the Breaching Festival--not Archmagi Toff. This conspiracy runs deeper than you know."

This revelation sends waves of murmurs across the gathered crowd, carried to even those outside the soft-spoken diviner's vicinity. The legend of Lord Volshyenek is still well-known across the city, enshrined in the annals of Korvosan history alongside colonial heroes as Keyra Palin, Waydon Endrin, and Jakthion Korvosa himself.

"Very wolfish, Archmage Vost," Viridel said, an ancient calm setting over his elven face. "Yet, is it not you, after all, who wishes to expand the scope of the school's dominion from merely devils to all kinds of fiends? If Lawful Hell broke loose in the Academae, what would the Chaotic Abyss do? What would the denizens of the Unfettered Plains of Abbadon do? A mere promise of investigation is not sufficient enough response as the 'acting headmistress'."

Vost's answer is very concise and self-confident—she must have been prepared for such accusations, even if she did not expect them to come from Viridel. "I am quite capable of separating my personal interests from those of the school. My colleagues can attest that I have always sought to ensure the continuity of school tradition, even when it limited my own research, and used my position to curb Ornelos' worst excesses where possible."

The dean sighs. "If it must be put in plain terms: I have no intention of introducing demoniacism to the curriculum."

"Now, it is not unusual for an elf to advise the younger races, but this time it might be welcomed," Viridel adds. "Perhaps what you have is an institutional problem within the Academae--one that requires an institutional solution...perhaps from a body outside the Academae? Is it not time for the Academy of Secrets to be dragged into the light and brought before the people of Korvosa, and all things to be revealed?"

Vost dips her head in reverence—a calculated gesture, but not necessarily ingenuine. "There are secrets which are obscured for a reason—to protect the uninitiated from knowledge they are not prepared to receive. However, I am not opposed to accepting consultation from an expert such as yourself, Master Viridel. You are more than welcome to take part in faculty meetings and offer insight. Obviously, there is need for some... institutional reform."

The last two words are said with some hesitation, but not outright disgust. "For example, the method in which a headmaster is inducted and how they may be removed from power is deeply flawed. Ornelos should have been ousted years ago, but he and his family were far too entrenched in the system. The school will no doubt suffer for the loss of their financial contributions, but such is the price of scientific integrity."

Note: Viridel's voice doesn't usually carry far due to his Anxious drawback, but maybe the conditions allow him to speak.

Thankfully, the audience is quite motivated to listen closely.

While she does take a measure of cold comfort in having avenged her boss, Finch is more than ready to leave this backwater and all its small problems behind her. Free booze does wonders to placate the little clown for the remainder of her stay, though she does make it clear the feast is to be in addition to the agreed-upon monetary compensation. "This is a circus, not a charity! Unitin' disparate communities is eligible for paid overtime."

The small-town wholesomeness of the celebrations is not entirely to her tastes, but the constant flow of refreshments lightens Finch up enough to ignore the her colleagues' "freebies." She might have even partaken in some pro bono tomfoolery herself—though she would never admit to such waste after the fact...

Finch spits on the well-kicked corpse of the succubus, wobbling dangerously from the loss of vital energy. "Urgh. That mayor best be feelin' up to payin' a premium for effort, 'cause it's gonna to take at least two well-paid professionals to smooch some life back into these bones."

Will: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (18) + 6 = 24

Finch looks incredulously at the scene beyond the gate, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as Pandir and Katala start fawning over the obviously suspicious stranger. She kicks Katala on the shin, hissing, "Oi, snap out of it—you know about magical f*ckery. Don't listen to this iffy b*tch!"

The clown turns to menace the shady figure with her dirks. "I'm not bein' paid to rescue you, so you can f*ck right off. Besides, you're definitely the leader of this here demon cult, and most probably a demon yourself—one of those sucky-buses that humps people in their sleep. Best go do that elsewhere."

Intimidation: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (4) + 9 = 13 ~ Hero Point
Intimidation: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (9) + 9 = 18

"Speak quickly, then," Viridel spat. "What 'deal' do you offer?"

The devil bows his head slighly in gratitude, without taking his gleaming eyes off the group. "There is a multitude of things I could offer you: anything your hearts desire. The return of lost friends, lovers, pupils... But, as you request, I shall cut to the heart of the matter: exit from Belzeragna is forbidden to mortal souls; it has never been done before. However, working together, we might be able to find a... loophole... through which your valiant troupe could slip out. I simply ask you to negotiate for your release—what do you have to lose? Only time, and here in Belzeragna, time is an abundant resource. If the drafted contract is not to your liking, you can always leave it unsigned, and turn your blades on me then..."

The devil flashes a knowing grin. You do not think he is privy to your telepathic communication, but clearly he realises you are plotting something.

I'm going to fill my empty spell slots, I wasn't ready to move on yet. It will take a couple of minutes due to Fast Study.

Before Viridel proceeds, he casts Telepathic Bond (5 people, main party) before we proceed, Communal Protection from Energy (Fire), up to 120 hit points of fire damage, and Heightened Awareness on himself

Sure. Unless otherwise specified, I'll assume intra-party chatter is done through telepathy.

Anethra takes in the environs with an appreciative eye, and considers the devil with something akin to remorse.

"It is a true honor to meet such a being as yourself, Grand Phistophilus Chyvvom. Would that this were another occasion, and you and I had time to deliberate with decorum. Alas, the company that I keep is most adept at tearing obstacles apart with their bombs and weapons. This conversation shall be short lived."

"Your prowess is most impressive," admits Chyvvom, his confidence unshaken, "for mortals, at least. Do you seek to intimidate me? I do not fear obliteration. To fail in my duties, my very purpose, is a far greater terror."

Chyvvom suddenly points at Wolfe, who has crouched into a ball and pressed his hands overs his ears. The great fiend turns to address Bayard and Grymwold in particular. "This is what awaits you, should you slay me. An eternity of torment with no escape—nothing would be solved; no-one would be saved. Fortunately, I am here to offer you an alternative, should you prove cunning enough to seize it."

”Reveal to us the logic of this place, Dark One”, Viridel says. “Is this trap realm known by the Headmaster? For what end is this place for?”

"I am under no obligation to reveal anything," retorts the devil, somehow managing to sound both mockingly snide and apologetically contrite at the same time. "However, I shall answer your questions in the interest of demonstrating my... goodwill. You ask of the headmaster's complicity? Bah! Young Toff is a master of nothing. The wretch has no true knowledge as to what occurs here, though he must suspect. My lord alone mandates these games, and the headmaster obeys, sending his lambs to the slaughter out of blind fear. Nothing happens in the Acadamae without my lord willing it."

"As for the purpose of Belzeragna... Ah, what a question to ask a True Son of Hell! There is one end alone that holds any true meaning: the accumulation of quintessence through the methodical harvest of mortal souls."

The clown smirks. "Well, it figures you'd prefer a litter-box."

I've been trying to find a moment of free time when I'm not completely exhausted in order to post, but it's been difficult. If you guys want to call it here, that's completely fine by me. There's not too much left in the module, and I can streamline some of it. However, I can't promise I'll be able to post any more regularly than I do now.

Can we roll a knowledge check to determine what manner of foe kills in this manner?

A stick of incense burns between two of his fingers, saturating the room.
He spends minutes in focus, mumbling phrases and prayers and invocations--before speaking out, eyes opening.

The rest of you have 40 minutes while Viridel casts his spell, if there's anything time-consuming you'd like to do.

Finch eyes the priest sceptically, wiping blood and goop from her motley. "Wait a second, how do we know you're not worms? Or the mayor? What if everyone in this town is worms!? I'm not getting paid enough for this sh*t..."

Finch cringes as Grog is pummelled. Vandalising Abadaran holy places and desecrating graves is all in good fun, but this is unacceptable! Whether or not the halfling is capable of feeling anything deeper than possessiveness toward her fellow mortals, she does consider any mistreatment of Grog to be a personal affront. In a fit of mixed panic and stubborn pique, she rushes to help, running around the pews as fast as her little feet can carry her.

Stride ◆, Stride ◆, Stride ◆

I have a feeling throwing knives aren't going to cut it (pun unintended), so I can't do much else but move. At least that should provide flanking for Pandir.

>:)

Finch pipes up from her hiding place. "Oh, you've really not thought this through. We can do so much worse than kill you. Maybe we'll break all your limbs and dunk you in barrel full of cold water—leave you steamin' there for a couple of weeks. Believe you me, I've a lot of ideas..."

"Also, by the by," she adds in a chillingly nonchalant tone, "before you open your stupid mouth to threaten me again... Hostage-Takin' 101: they only work if the other side cares about whether they live or die—I couldn't give less of a sh*t, so long as we can haul back whatever charred-to-bone mangled mess is left. Now, I'll give you one chance to get the f*ck outta here before we come up there and I start gettin' creative. What'll it be?"

Intimidation: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

Gemariah has little affection for Abadarans, even if they do occasionally make for good patrons—their god's focus on material wealth and legalism is quite beyond his elven sensibilities. Still, he does not seek to avoid them on his way, instead walking directly towards the Gertwright estate while presenting his holy symbol to anyone who might approach him. Shelyn has little authority in legal matters, but he trusts identifying himself as a goodly priest will dissuade the Brotherhood from thinking him a ruffian.

"Excuse my trespass," he explains firmly but apologetically, "but there is an urgent spiritual emergency I must attend to."

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18

If the others want to use this as a distraction to sneak by, that's just fine. Valtyra's presence would probably make the whole "Shelynites of Shelynite business" spiel a bit more believable, however.

At some point the tiefling draws close to the scarred, lean woman, to encircle her slowly, looking up and down her frame with clear, overt approval. She reaches out to trace the contours of her boiled leather jerkin, the corner of her lips rising into a salacious smile.

"What have we here? A young mortal girl, placed upon the anvil of life and beaten into a ready instrument of pain and license. What events shaped you, girl, what abuses molded your mind? Your loyalties - would they be the same were you given another chance, a means to control your life, and not dance to another's tune?"

Illia flinches at Anethra's touch, her immediate reaction somewhere between revulsion and temptation. At that moment of vulnerability, the priestess can read that many of her words have struck home: clearly, this person carries a lot of unprocessed regret and trauma. In the core of her being is an emptiness, a yearning—and a deep-rooted suspicion, born from harsh experience. The Varisian is quick to raise her defences anew, re-assuming her mien of stony impassiveness.

"Loyalties?" she near-whispers, her voice raspy from smoking—the red tint on her teeth suggests flayleaf. "F*ck that. This is Korvosa: if you're not a Chel and you ain't got no money, you're worth less than nothin'. But I'm not lookin' to sell my soul to a devil-worshipper, savvy? There's mountains of dosh, right 'ere."

The burglar points at the Hall of Wards. She exudes a sense of cool, professional confidence—there is no doubt in her mind she can break any lock.

(Chel = a mildly derogatory term for a Chelaxian in many parts of the world [though Korvosans of Chelaxian heritage tend to consider it a vicious ethnic slur])

"Hi---," the two of them greet Maganrad in a coy manner. "Laree..." she states as though it weren't obvious from the booming voice announcing her name a moment ago. "This is Elann. We just wanted to wish you good luck."

The enchanter continues to smile and nods graciously at Laree's encouragement, twisting one of his braids around his finger. His build is slight, though his frame suggests a great potential for brawn: it is not hard to imagine an alternative reality where this man is a dashing warrior-poet, riding south on the prow of a raiding ship.

"I am Maganrad," he says, his Taldane revealing only a tantalising hint of a northern lilt, "ostensibly the son of Agmundr—not that he can be given too much credit after the fact. You, on the other hand, are the daughter of Master Elasaril. A most brilliant abjurer; I have benefitted greatly from his tutelage."

He regards Elann appraisingly, his eyes flashing with a bluish shimmer. "And this charming thing is your... creation? So very life-like! You really should have enrolled, with talents like that. Though I do admit, such a wonderful imagination might have been wasted on a wizard..."

Maganrad's smile tilts into a disarmingly self-deprecating smirk.

Telias, keeping his promise to not let all the best wine be drunk before him materializes into the office with a fresh glass already. His grin never once wavering. He wasn't wanted here after all.

"You're more than skilled enough to figure out which is which without my fumbling hands Gemariah."

The elf goes about his inspection with a furrowed brow, glancing sharply at Telias and his wine-glass.

"Laziness is unbecoming of the young," he muses, "and age does not guarantee wisdom. Frankly, I do not know what to make of this beyond the fact that it is magical—there is something to affect the mind, and something to call a thing into being... that is all I can say for certain. Come now, take a look."

Looking between the two men with narrowed eyes that rather quickly widen before filling with tears. Grabbing the back of a chair and moving to sit quickly, "Asheron's dead.."

Rubbing at his eyes, "Why? Why go after him? Or me?"

Gemariah strokes his chin thoughtfully. His expression is not entirely without sympathy for the grieving man—however, for better or worse, he has trained himself to not allow the deaths of humans to affect him overmuch. "I was hoping you might shed light on the issue. Did you and Mister Coyl have any enemies in common? Are there any other associates that you believe could be targeted? We must be away soon, to keep up with that scoundrel, but he is likely a mere errand boy. Your aid might help us save more lives this night, so I beg you to think on it."

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27 ~ Just in case he's faking it or hiding something.

Bayard pays close attention to the Hall of Shaping. Transmutation is a school he is not unfamiliar with, and this hall strikes him as the most interesting, if rather too chaotic for his tastes.

The Hall does present a more tangible challenge than some of the others: navigating the corridors feels almost like being in the wild, climbing over rocky hills (some of which do quite literally feature in the more eclectic parts of their architecture) and choosing the easiest path to travel based on both intuition and the careful consideration of the terrain at hand. Bayard feels confident enough he can traverse the patchwork interior without too much issue.

Viridel follows Vost and his companions as they explore the grounds. His hawk familiar rises up after the confinement of the Hall of Summoning, flying over the campus and interacting with any other natural (or familiar-bound) avians, letting out a screech at long intervals.

After a brief but unpleasant encounter with a roving gang of imps, Asniroth limits his circling to the group's immediate proximity.

Viridel's attention is naturally drawn to the Hall of Seeing. This structure, so woven with the mists of time, must hold some secrets that would help him. He takes a deep breath, absorbing into his being the essence of time, prophecy, and the wisdom of the ancient seers of Man.

He lets out the breath, feeling the world has held still.
An ozone-like scent reached his nose--the same before a moment of destiny. Great things have happened here--and many more great things will come to pass.
Sensing his master's visions collecting around him, Asniroth lands on his master's staff, and grips it tightly, before Viridel lets go of it, both hands outstretched towards the Hall of Seeing. The hawk cries out before the glass-domed structure, the call resonating against the misty presence of the Hall in Reality.
But it is not his nose that aids him--it is his eyes. His eyes, so strange and unusual for elves (sky-blue, far removed from the usual black), that have always marked him as unusual and guided his life. His eyes turn up, seeing all the fading and moving spirits and visions, moving too fast that one might think him possessed.

The act of reaching out and touching the Spirit of the Hall is much like peering into a crystal ball—the true kind, carved and polished from the purest quartz and then imbued with living magic, not the dead sort employed by charlatans. Indeed, the dome on the roof is much like an orbuculum in its construction, though even more potent than its immense size might suggest: the images flashing across its surface are not merely far-away events, but those shrouded by the mists of time itself, the future and past intermixed with the here and there. For a fleeting second all the secrets of the school of divination are revealed to Viridel as they have been seen by generations of wizards, condensed into a single moment of prescience. Though such immensity of experience is too much for one mind to hold indefinitely, there is still enough there to navigate the twisting corridors with a sense of preternatural confidence. But that is not all he sees...

It is in the Hall of Lies, however, that she seems to become truly focused; she mutters words of arcane power, and then takes her time scrutinizing the environs, her expression severe, her gaze fiercely intent.

Seen through the Eclipsing Eye of Dis, much of the Hall's trickery is laid bare–though not all. Even as the various figments and glamers cloaking the otherwise plain walls are reduced to vague shadowy outlines, there are phantasms that cloud the mind itself, rather than simply confounding the senses. This does make it easier to pick out these false impressions, however, even if the Hall is constantly trying to convince Anethra to turn in the wrong direction or walk around in endless circles.

While Grym finds many aspects of Arcane spellcasting distasteful, who likes can possibly like necromancers after all, he truly despises the type of magic practiced in the Hall of Charms. Controlling another persons thoughts, feelings, and actions is truly despicable. A Fireball thrown in his direction feels like a clean display of magical might that he can grudgingly respect. Having someone control his own thoughts and actions was a violation so deep that it can NEVER be forgotten!

Grym pays special attention to the Hall of Charms

After shaking off a couple of mostly harmless—even petty—enchantments (mostly having to do with making a visitor to behave a given way, such as by forcing them to wipe their feet before entering, or react in a certain manner, such as by making otherwise unimpressive decorations elicit near-religious awe), Grymwold begins to get the hang of where they are usually placed, and as such he knows to steel himself whenever he might be so insidiously distracted from his goal. Remembering well the tales passed down from honoured ancestors, he knows not to underestimate such bewitchments: a spell that compels one to stare at a portrait might not seem too dangerous, until it leads one to die of thirst or hunger in their singular obsession, or slay one's companions to keep its beauty only for oneself.

Each of the halls speaks to their creators and truly mirror the schools of magic in which they host. In the Hall of Whispers, its menacing appearance causes the young Laree to be hyper-alert. Even Elann lingers closer to her master. The lost souls of possibly the very students she thought of earlier in their tour likely possess the majority of these haunts.

The scent of decay is nothing new to her, as in fleshcrafting, she would often have to experiment with long passed bodies to see the results, as she would refuse to work on unwilling subjects like those others within her school. The eyes of the alchemist focus on various alchemical fluids and determine what indeed is being used and for what purposes. Her own proclivities of her self mummification process in purifying her body of flaws have derived from such sciences.

Laree and Elann mutter to themselves about various sights they see, working out the potential experiments being worked on in such a place.

Based on the general ambiance of the Hall, most of the unquiet spirits are probably conglomerate haunts rather than discrete incorporeal undead, though Laree does notice a few traces of ectoplasm consistent with such beings, as well. There are hallways and empty tooms which seem to elicit an unnatural feeling of dread, which may be signs of more powerful hauntings, possibly set up intentionally to keep out intruders. There are little signs of corporeal undead, save for a glimpse of a class full of students observing the vivisection of what appears to be a still-animated ghoul (who does not seem to mind the process), and one side-room filled with ominously rattling coffins. Obviously, if there are undead moving about, they are relatively few and kept on a short leash.

Elann notes that not all of the whispers seem to be malicious, and indeed, they sometimes attempt to offer guidance: by following such instructions—or choosing to ignore them when they seem to be leading one astray—might be the key to most effectively navigating the Hall.

It might be self-evident, but both Laree and Elann very much agree that they wouldn't like to be stuck in the Hall after sundown!

~

The late afternoon sun gilds the grounds with a deepening yellow, and the students are beginning to transition from curricular activities to such recreation as they are permitted: some gather in small groups on benches around the grounds to collaborate their homework assignments, while others are filtering towards their dormitories and gossiping amongst themselves about the Breaching Festival—someone named 'Maganrad' sounds to be the contestant most favoured by the Acadamaeans themselves. The preparations around the Hall of Wards continue even as the other schools quiet down for the evening.

After you have exited the last Hall, Vost turns to you and clears her throat.

"Our tour is now concluded," she declares. "I have been instructed to offer the school's guest quarters for your use, should you be willing to remain confined there until tomorrow, but you are of course free to remove yourself from the Acadamae until the start of the competition. For reasons of both safety and the spirit of fair sportsmanship, you are not to move about the grounds without an escort. Any unauthorised surveyal will result in disqualification."

The dean hesitates for a moment, but then nods. "For whatever it is worth, you have piqued my interest. I do not entirely approve of the headmaster's... tampering.... but at least his chosen tools are sharp. This year's Breaching is sure to be memorable, in one way or another..."

You're now free to do whatever preparations or planning you want do until tomorrow morning. It is about 17:00 PM at the end of the tour, which leaves you with ~7 hours of awake-time, assuming you want to get a full night's sleep (as the Breaching Festival starts right at the break of dawn).

Without as much as a second's hesitation, Finch throws her entire comical arsenal behind Katala's show of "Magical Might." The clown prances around and punches the air in time to each of the shots, and laughs and mocks the enemy mercilessly when the quarrels hit their mark. She really tries to get the audience to join in, to keep to the Celestial Menagerie off balance and preferably drive them out to an accompaniment of jeers and rotten vegetables.

Performance (comedy): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (4) + 9 = 13 ~ Nuh-uh, Hero Point!
Performance (comedy): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (20) + 9 = 29

I am the best hype-woman! THE BEST!

The Kedzierskis look at the illusion with apparent surprise, and in the case of Ruxandra, the bitter sting of old grief. She wipes at the corner of her eye and sniffles in spite of herself, clearly not one for showing weakness openly. "This isn't the first time I've tried to break into the Forgotten Track. My husband, Szilveszter, died in there years ago, and I couldn't stop it. I was young and stupid back then—we both were. He was a leader in the resistance, if you can even call 'em that. Melcat is long gone, and it's no coming back. How can you hope to dethrone a god?"

"Desna is with us," declares Andrzej, his face set into an expression of stubborn defiance. "As long as the stars shine, there's hope. Besides, we've just proven that Razmir isn't anywhere near all-powerful. We'll get revenge for Sly, and everyone else who's been trod under the 'Living God's' heel. It's just a matter of time. Speaking o' which, friend Raveen, I was just 'bout to ask you if you'd like to—"

Pike trundles over and pokes Andrzej on the arm, pointing over her shoulder at the now-harnessed horse. The Varisian blinks sheepishly. "Uh, right. I s'pose we should put a few miles between us and that blasted hole, afore we get too ahead of ourselves. I think everyone here can agree on that much, yea?"

Ruxandra nods grimly and hops onto the driver's seat, while Pike more or less steps up and over the cart's edge and then helps pull Andrzej aboard. Myrna comes up with her bag, climbing timidly up and taking her place at a slight remove from the others, especially the suspicious glares of the elder Kedzierski.

Andrzej offers you a calloused hand and a smile. "Whatever comes next, let's pray it doesn't involve hacking away at rocks all day!"

"She clearly has some talent enough to draw the creature from the Beyond using but one scroll," The seer says, reverting to his natural calm. "The binding is clearly very flawed, but her use of scrolls is decent."

"She might not be entirely hopeless," Vost reluctantly admits, "though I could not begin to guess how she managed to pass her entrance exams without the slightest bit of common sense. Hopefully, her punishment will serve to instil some of that virtue where it is so evidently lacking."

"I'm sure," she answers Anethra in regards to this being none of their concern. "You are right of course, but she did almost perish in infernal terror from such a stupid mistake. That can very well be her punishment. We don't blame a toddler for getting into a cupboard that we hadn't secured as parents. At that point, it isn't the toddler's fault, but the parent's."

The dean raises an eyebrow at Laree's barb, but retains her composure. "You can rest assured that whoever left their tools unsecured will also be duly reprimanded. However, that does not absolve Miss Imintar of her guilt. This is not simply a matter of individual punishment—an example must be made, lest other students emulate such behaviour. Jandar, escort the girl to the dormitories and confine her in her quarters. I will deal with this later..."

One of the senior students—a lanky young man with a premature bald spot—bows deeply, grabbing the inconsolable Seska by the shoulder and leading her out of the room. The other students and the instructor likewise incline their heads and disperse, returning to their various duties.

Nodding at the group of you with newfound respect, the dean heads for the door. "Now, let us continue."

For the sake of expediency, I'll give you a general description of each Hall—I'll further detail the interiors if/when you choose to enter them during the Breaching. Again, these won't played out as dungeon crawls, but there's a challenge (read: an encounter) hidden in each one. Since these will be shorter tours and there is a lot to look at, each of you can pick one Hall to pay special attention to, and roll a relevant skill check to shorten the time it will take you to navigate it during the Breaching. Two people can inspect at the same building to further speed up the search later, though you might want to divide your attentions somewhat.

Shadowed by a modest observatory tower, the glass dome of the Hall of Seeing (A2) frequently swirls with clouds, stars, and ephemeral images of people and places. Entry is gained through a pair of doors displaying giant harrow cards, which change to reflect the future and past of the last person to touch the doors. Unlike most doors in the Acadamae, these are not opened by invisible servants, forcing each visitor to receive an omen (see the spoiler at the bottom). The maze-like interior is cluttered with crystal balls, scrying pools, and mirrors, and the corridors wind in maze-like patterns further obfuscated by the various reflective surfaces. Since divination is not considered an independent subject, the students walking its near-empty halls come from all different schools, and there are not many dedicated teachers. Those few that do have permanent positions in the Hall wear orange chasubles.

The Hall of Induction (A4) is also known among the inhabitants of the school as "the Cube," and quite aptly so: this building of iron—with smooth walls on three sides, and riveted plates forming the front wall—contains little more than a spiral staircase and five floors empty of class-rooms, chalkboards, or even furniture. This is a place of practical experimentation, rather than books and theory. The ground floor has a few enclosed laboratories for brewing reagents, while the higher levels of the Hall have no walls save for translucent barriers of magical force, erected by instructors to keep errant spells from obliterating unsuspecting bystanders. The gruff students of evocation tend to smell of smoke and bear yellow badges on their robes.

The much-rumoured Hall of Wards (A5) is relatively mundane when compared to its siblings, looking much like the town-house of some middling merchant. Its plain exterior gives little evidence of it being the best-guarded building in Korvosa. The unassuming building is presently surrounded by tiefling guards and senior students bearing purple badges, who keep out anyone not involved in the abjurers' preparations. Your guide also prohibits examining the building's auras in advance.

Any description of the Hall of Lies (A6) would be out-dated by the following dawn. Each morning, the ever-shifting school of illusion changes its appearance, though not by any conscious action of its inhabitants—the magic that cloaks the structure decides the appropriate look for the day. Currently the Hall appears to be the palace-temple of an Osirian pharaoh. Within the building itself, one's own senses cannot be trusted: even though everything looks right at the surface, below lies confusion. Vost assures you that she guided you out the same way you went in, but try as you might to puzzle it out, you are still unsure as to the interior layout. The leery students coming and going through the corridors (sometimes appearing out of thin air or from apparently solid walls) have green badges.

Unlike the fickle but consistent trickery of the Hall of Lies, there is little rhyme or reason to the mish-mash of architectural styles that make up the Hall of Shaping (A6): stately domes and minarets clash with thatched roofs and weather vanes in an unbalanced jumble that seems defy gravity itself. Over the years, hundreds of would-be graduates from the school of transmutation have altered the Hall as part of their final examination—the goal of which is to transfigure, in some way, the building without causing its collapse. The interior is a similar hodge-podge of indecisive edification, not so much labyrinthine as it is physically laborious to navigate. Indeed, the cyan-badged students have to resort to levitation in order to bypass the worst of the obstacles.

One cannot help but to admit that the Hall of Charms (A6) is the most beautiful building on the campus, with gleaming walls of pearlescent marble, high-arched windows of painted glass, and delicate pillars that are nearly elven in their gracefulness. It is also by far the most elegantly decorated and furnished of all the buildings, almost making the grand Hall of Summoning appear base and gauche by comparison. However, there is something uncanny about the immaculate perfection of it all. There is a certain sense of exclusivity to the Hall: its blue-badged students are, as a rule, inexplicably attractive and fashionable, and they seem to stick together in tight-knit cliques, while the other Acadamaeans tend to give the building and its deceptively charming inhabitants a wide berth.

The dread Hall of Whispers (A6) is quite sinister in appearance, even more so than normal for the Acadamae. The building is undeniably haunted: you often hear whispers or scratching behind the walls, the temperature dips randomly, and every so often you see vague shapes moving at the edges of your vision. Many of the class-rooms look more like operating theatres or morgues, and the faint smell of death and decay is ever-present beneath the stifling alchemical stench of embalming fluid. The students moving through the corridors are much like ghosts themselves, grim and silent—their badges are pale violet in colour.

Though they are not a part of the Breaching or the search for the key-lights, Vost also points out the Halls of Crafting (A11), newer buildings dedicated to the fabrication of various magical items, as well as the staff quarters (A10), opulent apartments which house the teachers and researchers of each of the schools, the chief instructors in the Halls of Crafting, and the captain of the tiefling guard. Students have barrack-like dormitories (A12), segregated by school and partially housed in the thick, imposing outer walls of the school—the seniors have the luxury of windows, while the juniors have to live in cramped cells devoid of natural light.

Rather than engaging in further word-play, Finch launches into a bout of tumbling and aggressive pantomime, effectively forcing the Ransome to be her unwilling co-actor in an improvised slapstick routine. Whoever could guide the flow of the performance and become the audience favourite (be it through humiliating the other or by making one's humiliation more entertaining) would be the winner—breaking character would, of course, mean forfeiting the duel. Being the smaller of the two, Finch tries to assume the role of the antagonist, circling and tormenting the other clown like a stinging insect.

Performance (comedy): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12 ~ Ugh, Hero Point to reroll...
Performance (comedy): 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (12) + 9 = 21

@Viridel: That's a lot more detailed than I expected! I'll read it in full once I have a moment, but I'm already excited.

I see the difference between elven and human magical traditions more as a difference in method: elves approach magic like artists, being magical creatures that have an instinctual, deeply personal grasp of how it flows through existence, and seek to guide it and nudge it in the wanted direction; humans approach it more like a science, attempting to codify and categorise and impose a replicable system, which can then be used by future generations, since they don't have centuries to learn everything from the ground-up. There is an underlying "language" of magic that both seek to access, but they come at it from different angles. Viridel's approach is already quite mystical as compared to the formal stuffiness of Acadamae, so it fits in perfectly.

Since the mechanics don't limit who can pick what spells (save for a few race-exclusive options), there's not a whole lot of mechanical difference between, say, an elven and a human abjurer, so it comes down to narrative differences. Divination being excluded from the Thassilonian model for categorising magical schools (which the Acadamae uses) is the biggest lore detail I've tried to underline here, but the difference would probably come across best in the way you describe your spells.

@Anethra: A very minor nit-pick, but a marilith is a demon, not a devil.

@Laree: Just so that you know, Chelish is not a language. I suppose I didn't catch that when I was going through your character sheet before. Chelaxians speak a dialect of Taldane (i.e. Common). Of course, you could still be flexing by presenting Anethra with a perfect Chelaxian accent, or something like that. Or maybe Infernal would be a better replacement for the situation at hand, not wanting to retcon the conversation in full.

@Everyone: I'm loving the roleplay! There's more than enough time to have conversations and whatnot—both amongst yourself and with the dean—as you're walking around the campus, so don't feel the need to hurry. I'll move things along as the conversation seems to be slowing down.

The mere sight of the rival troupe—the willing minions of a petty tyrant—on what she considers to be her turf awakens in Finch an uncontrollable urge to strike out, to hurt someone... if not with sharp objects, then equally pointed words might do the trick.

"Watch out, good folk of Abberton!" shouts the halfling, who is once again using Grog as a climbing post. "I hear that big 'un is nearly as flea-ridden as the mangy cat that runs the circus, and the hand that wields the whip is prone to being whipped itself unless the beast is fed a steady diet of human children! And the fire-breather, surely you've heard he's wanted in Galt for multiple counts of arson? Yes, that Galt—what does that say about him? Of the clown's dreadful repertoire I shudder to even speak, but believe me when I say, his jokes bring shame to all respectable practitioners of the noble art of harlequinade! Beset as you may be by earthly wretchedness, you will know no blight more horrid than Miserable Dusklight's C-List Mediocrities!"

Deception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (16) + 9 = 25

The fresh air stabbed at his lungs as he first breathed in, stepping away from the crane, passing Andrzej. Clapping him back on the shoulder, and handing him the vial of his own memories.

"You might find this enlightening," he says, before moving away from the gathering.

Andrzej is dumb-struck by the strange offering, humming and hawing over it for a moment, though you can hear Ruxandra begin to elucidate as you walk away (in between curses and exhortations to stop slacking). After a while you hear the sound of cracking glass, and then another spitfire argument in Varisian.

"This is not all that was taken from you," Raveen says softly. "Some were beyond my power to bring--and some memories might be too horrific to awaken. It is, however, your right to know the truth."

He pauses, thinking of the weight of accepting responsibility for his actions, and then says, "Truth--often brings no relief. Often, it brings misery or anger--but it is the truth nonetheless. To live in shadows and ignorance might be comforting for a time, but therein lies fear and doubt. With truth comes courage."

His gray eyes meet Myrna's. "Break the vials if you wish to know the truth and what was lost. If you do not, seal them away, bury them...commit them to the furthest hole you might find, and let it trouble you no more."

Myrna flinches away from the vessels, as if the mere sight of them stirred an unpleasant recollection. She takes them nonetheless, shifting them around in her fingers before raising one to her face. "Yes, this is... me. I... I think I attacked you. That's what I used to do—kill people on command. That's who I was, for so long."

She looks to you, one eye peering through the glass. "I have no idea what to do next, but... I don't want to be that person anymore. Part of me thinks I should forget, so that I could start anew. But no. I deserve to remember, to carry that burden. How else can I know to avoid making the same mistakes?"

The half-elf lowers the tube, but does not break eye contact. She looks tired and weak, a far cry from the staunch healer you have learned to know. Perhaps there is something in your expression that cannot be communicated in words, because after a while you can see a tiny spark, a faint ghost of determination light up her gaze.

"Perhaps there's a middle way," she decides, crouching down to slip the vessels into her bag. "Truth can be a bitter pill to swallow, in the best of times. Along the way, I'll make new memories—something sweet to make the medicine go down easier."

Can I roll a Religion check to see what rank this would be?

Probably a higher-tier clergy member...? A golden mask would, by common evaluation, denote a worthier rank than Rastagar's silver.

"Elith," Raveen murmured. The rush of memories was disorienting to say the least. But now at least he knew where he stood.

"The Black Book," he said out loud. He must find it--but his master came first.
He considered counseling Gweledydd...but it is best to show good will for now. He collected several other vials--seeking Myrna's, Pike's, and Andrzej, and sought any scrolls, wands, and magical items of any type, such as weapons, armor, or wondrous items--as well as any coin and correspondences.

Your compatriots' memories (a quarter-full tube of faint recollections for Andrzej, and nothing for Pike) are fairly easy to recover, though you note that some of Myrna's older memories seem to have been disposed of—perhaps they were no longer useful, or they do not store interminably. There are still more vessels assigned to her than any other inmate. You also find a wide assortment of magical knick-knacks, some currency and valuables, and, perhaps more importantly, some correspondence and notes that seem to mention Nalutari. You stash these away for later perusal and hurry back to the central shaft.

The rioting has grown even fainter, replaced by the sounds of celebration and looting. Some of the prisoners have even dared the upper levels, though none have yet reached the very top. In the ceiling you see a perfectly round aperture, and beyond it an overcast sky. There is rope, which appears to be connected to a pulley-operated crane aboveground. Pike waits at the bottom, and soon begins herding you towards the rope with her spear.

As you reach the surface, you find yourself in a temperate valley: grassy plains interspersed here and there by rocky outcroppings. Right next to the entrance are the faint remains of a ruined farmstead, mostly comprised of a stone foundation and a half-collapsed chimney, with a somewhat more preserved barn to which the crane is attached. From a distance, the pulley system looks just as decrepit as everything else, though it is obviously still in functioning condition.

Nearby you see Andrzej and—as you will soon learn—his older sister Ruxandra, who are bringing a horse-drawn wagon out of the barn. "Travers" has finally been discarded, leaving the false Priest wearing a practical suit of darkened leather, with a pair of wickedly curved daggers hanging from her belt. Pike joins them as soon as she comes up behind you, though she pauses to address you with a grunt and a shove towards Myrna, who is standing in the middle of the swaying grass and staring off into the distance. Her greying hair is unbound, tussled gently by the wind. Her expression is hard to read.

"It's going to rain soon," the healer—or poisoner—says vaguely. "At least, I think it used to smell like this, before it poured down."

Finch appears to be struck by an existential crisis, staring off into the distance as Grog has uttered his one-liner. She goes about the house with glazed eyes, clearly preoccupied. Only after minutes of ineffectually looking through the house does she finally burst into a fit of laughter, seemingly at random.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13

Other than one last once-over, I'd like to inform the mayor and the folks at the circus about where we're going, just in case.

24 Desnus, 4707 AR

The Breaching Festival is traditionally held on the last Sunday of the month of Desnus, when spring is in full bloom. Korvosa has been abuzz for the whole week leading up to the competition. People gossip about the potential contestants, the dangers they are about to face, and re-air most of the old rumours that surround the Acadamae. As is the case with most festivals, the celebrations do not end at the grounds: all of the local inns and taverns from high-scale hotels and restaurants to dockside watering holes are looking forward to the occasion, and have readied special devil-themed drinks and decorations to attract locals and tourists alike. As it becomes clear that the ailing King Eodred II is fast succumbing to the so-called curse of the Crimson Throne—soon to be one more in a line of monarchs to die without producing an heir—there is plenty of anxiety in regards to the royal succession. A distraction might be just what the city needs.

On the Starday before the festival, each of you receives a peculiar invitation...

The spoilers above are there mainly for ease of reading, not to hide anything. You are free to leave any them unread (save for your own, of course), if you'd rather separate in-character and out-of-character knowledge, but you are under no compulsion to do so. Feel free to expound on your character's morning routine and their surroundings, if you'd like, and narrate your reaction to the invitation. Once everyone is ready, we'll move on to the meeting with the headmaster.

Also, Korvosa is in Varisia, not Cheliax (though it is a Chelish colony).

A little (okay, not so little) tangent, just because I think Korvosa's relationship with Cheliax is very interesting: obviously, its geographic location is in Varisia and not Cheliax proper, though at the time of its founding, it wasn't that far off the Chelish border, since Nidal was also part of the empire. The city was founded by Chelaxian colonists and thus became a part of Imperial Cheliax. De jure, it has never declared independence or otherwise broken off the motherland—she simply ceased to care about her colony after the death of Aroden and the civil war. De facto, it's a wholly independent city state governed by its own king, with its own army, and though they maintain their original imperial charter, it has since been heavily amended.

The House of Thrune still regards Korvosa as a part of the empire, but they don't think it's important enough to manage more directly (however, they have not recognised the monarchy, or even the nobility of the Arabasti line). The city is culturally Chelish, and the majority of its inhabitants are ethnic Chelaxians. Most of the people are okay with the status quo, with a sizable minority that want to return to fold and embrace their heritage more fully, diabolism and all (good example of this leaning would be the previous queen, Domina, who tried to attract Chelish attention by building a temple to Asmodeus and a castle for the Hellknight Order of the Nail); basically no one wants to actually declare independence, since that might force Cheliax to intervene militarily in fear of losing face (think IRL Taiwan/PRC). As long as Varisian goods keep showing up at Chelish ports, things are likely to remain as they are.

tl;dr: For a foreigner, it's completely natural to state that Korvosa is "in" [the Empire of] Cheliax, especially if they're of a longer-lived people and haven't been paying close attention to how the Chelish borders and internal politics have changed in the last century.

I believe duergar are immune to poison.

Just as soon as Grog is done chasing out the last of the wasps, Finch sprints into the house, clambering up the half-orc's back and up to the empty nest. She cuts it off the timbers with glee, and then runs back out to toss it in the river, to the sounds of manic laughter. "F*ck off, you pissy pests!"

The clown returns slightly more composed, though still giggling under her breath. "Heh. Uh, what's this about spiders?"

Finch throws up her arms in exasperation. "Of course the place is haunted, to boot! What, are we supposed to be exorcists as well as exterminators?! Are we supposed to thin out the repellent with holy water?! Burn godsdamned incense with the pitch oil?!"

"This gig is a mouthful of troll's b*llocks," she grumbles. "Let's go fetch some kinda bug-killing juice and be done with this...."

Pandir Gorah wrote:

"Oh! You will also help, shopkeeper Tave?" Pandir begins ruffling through her foliage before pulling out 5 gold pieces. "You need... motivation, yes?" She gives a confused look to Miss Finch. "Uh, is this how it works?"

Pruana smiles, surprised.

“Y’all actually gonna pay it? Hells, they must be promising you some serious gold.” She pockets the coins and shakes Pandir’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. You’ll hear back from me soon. Now scram, go do your thing.”

Finch opens her mouth as if to object, but decides against it. "Well, as long as it's not my gold..."

Pandir approaches one of the doors and then stands still. "Cousin Barley once told me about Badem Mill. He told me the owner was a medium of some kind who wanted to help Abberton with its crops and general woes. Medium Seirah is still trying, she will be a delight to meet."

"Medium Seirah is very important to the town. If the water mill were to suffer damage, or Medium Seirah were badly injured, every farmer in Abberton would probably leave. She's quite vital around here."

Society: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

The clown squints at the mill. "Hmm. Very important, you say?"

"Sounds like an ideal target for... THE CULT."

Grog stands before the mill. He looks up to the noon sun, blinking in the light and then staring down at the mill.

"Shou'd we go?" he asks. He cracks his shoulder muscles, and moves to close his large hand over the door, testing the lock.

"Gimme a moment," says Finch. "I'll try the window at the back while you... knock on the front."

The halfling slinks off and circles the building, hugging the wall below window level.

Stealth: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (10) + 7 = 17
Thievery: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21

...for sneaking and picking the lock, if necessary. Obviously, I'll take a quick peek in first.

Is the incline so steep as to require an Athletics check?

GM Neirikr I have been looking into how I wanna do the ritual since I will need be blood of a fresh aberration. But we already have the voidglass blades, right?

You have various voidglass weapons looted from the grioths. Having the alchemical expertise, Nisany could have preserved the yangethe's blood for the ritual (it being an aberration), or she could have Vibenia and Dusk hunt down a chuul from the swamp—whatever you'd like. It's totally doable.

Question: did we miss anything major? Not figure out any key details, or skip over any key plot points? Or even minor but fun things? I feel like we were pretty thorough, but would be curious to know.

Thorough, indeed! Save for the basement of the monastery, I think we covered most of what's in the module. Aside from a couple of grioth clerics of Nyarlathotep, there wasn't really anything of interest down there for non-Irorans. There's also some implied stuff and room for extrapolation based on Belhaim's many residents, but all of that is superfluous.

I think most of the omissions and streamlining I had to do towards the end was material that I myself had added to the module (such as the bust + Arnholde's curse, as well as some Bernard/Hunclay-related stuff having to do with the shadow demon). Of course, some of this was due to losing players that said material was for.

Was there any thought on another module or game? This is a wonderful group :)

I can't really promise anything, since I'm not quite certain where my introspection will take me. If I do decide to continue running (which I more than likely will), I might want to shuffle people around to keep things fresh. You're all definitely on my short list of preferred players, but there's some other folks I'd like to run for, too.

With that said, if there's someone else here who’d like to run a game and keep this group going, I'd definitely be interested in playing for a change! :)

Light filled the miserable and dark hole, heavy with the weight of forgotten and lonely souls. Pure and radiant sunlight that belonged not in the prison--in fact seemed antithetic to it. In the center of the aura, a figure stood, slim, and shadowed.

The brilliance would have caused the eyes to tear, for the soul to quake, and for the fallen to rise. To see such a sight was not to see with the eye, but with the spirit, as if in a waking dream or nightmare turned bright. The brightness would pierce closed eyes and dimmed minds, and burn away all fear and despair.

The light was hollow, despite all that it inspired.

A shell, a mask upon a mask upon a mask. Yet, masks have power.

The man in the radiance observed the woman who has forgotten the light, and spoke.

"I have come with the sun."

As the half-elf wheels around, you note two key details: firstly, Myrna is holding a small knife, the blade of which has been smeared with a bluish substance; and secondly, her eyes are glazed over and her face slack in a manner that signals overt mind-control. However, as her gaze meets the brilliance of the sun—the sun which she scarcely remembers—something changes. Grasping at her temples, she staggers back, dropping her knife and upending a couple of jars from her little desk. Her face twists, going from an expression of desperation to that of placidity and back again, changing as she struggles to escape her conditioning. It is obvious that she is not going to win the battle, but you nonetheless cannot help but to admire her persistence in fighting it—this is no mere charm she is attempting to shake.

Rastagar's assassin mutters through gritted teeth, "I must... bring you... to the warden..."

"No!" hisses the healer, almost without pause. "Not again... This is... This is all wrong! Help... me...."

Reaching out with the power of the mask, you feel a sudden coldness brush up against your being—like first winds of winter shaking at the leaves of an autumnal tree, seeking to tear away the last of its yellowed foliage. As soon as you have made the connection between it and Myrna, you instinctively cut it away. Wherever that wind blows, or whatever gulf of nothingness breathed it, you know it was shaking at the very tatters of your eternal soul.

The results are immediate: Myrna ceases her rambling and looks up at you with an expression of both anguish and relief.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I... I think I deserve this."

After that she goes silent, her eyes dropping to the floor. Slowly, unless you move to support her, she curls into a fetal position on the floor. Though she does not answer to you verbally, she appears to obey your instructions and follows your lead if you guide her by the hand.

Thanks for playing, everyone! I know the final stretch was a bit of a drag, but even more so, I'm glad all of you stuck with me until the finish line—I hope you enjoy the closure as much as I do. Looking back at the campaign as a whole, even with the loss of players and the lag at the end, I'm still quite happy with the story we managed to tell.

I'll be taking the rest of the month off, so that I can focus on work and reorient myself a little. PbP has been an important creative outlet for me, but as I've finished my thesis, graduated, and tried to find my feet in working life, I've never had the chance to really figure out how this hobby fits into all of that. Once I've had a chance to adjust, I'll likely be back to running.

As for the epilogue, I'll give each of you a chance to write out your own before I mark the campaign as inactive. I gave all of you a hook, but don't feel obligated to bite. Also feel free to ask me about whatever! I'm sure I managed to miss some minor NPC from my write-up.

~ The Epilogue ~

When you return Belhaim in triumph, you find a population prepared for the worst—it turns out the dragon's roars had been heard for miles around the monastery, and with nothing else to guess on, the outcome of the final confrontation had been entirely unclear. Once they realise you are victorious, the townsfolk shower each of you with adulation, and the beleaguered village soon takes on the air of a festival. For as long as you stay, be it days or years, there is nary a night in Belhaim that someone does not attempt to invite their saviours for dinner in their homes or lavish them with modest, home-made gifts.

Lady Origena bestows her rewards upon you as well, though anything monetary she might offer pales in comparison to the treasures you have already recovered. More uniquely, she also offers knighthood to anyone who desires it, elevating them into the lowest rung of Taldan aristocracy with the title of Dame or Sir, as well as a plot of arable land to call their own. With your newfound wealth, this would be more than enough to elevate you to the ranks of true gentry. Of course, this honour comes at the price of swearing loyalty to the soon-to-be baron, Arnholde, as well as a pledge to remain in Verduran Fork region to aid in its defence as needed.

Rima soon gives birth to healthy twins, who she and Azmur insist on naming after Bernard and Vibenia, the most local of the local heroes. The druid continues to struggle with his guilt over the coming years, but his wife and their children give him a reason to carry on. The adherents of the Green Faith are especially grateful for the safe return of their spiritual leader, who soon has his hands full with the usual blessing of crops, the healing of sickened livestock and, other assorted duties.

With Marcus Chance safely in custody, Baccus takes over as the sole blacksmith in Belhaim, his reputation further bolstered by his role as the personal armourer of the Patchwork Knight. Though Chance had recently come under the influence of a possessing demon, a full investigation reveals that his unlawful actions in undermining his competitor's business were done under no such compulsion. He is soon tried and delivered to Swift Prison in Cassomir to serve out his sentence. Baccus, in the meanwhile, "adopts" his remaining apprentices, giving them a real chance at bettering themselves.

Soon after the dragon's death, the Mason's Guild (as consulted by Khardir) moves forward with their plan to unflood the quarry. Working closely with the expert delvers of the Bloodvow tribe, the project is completed far ahead of the original schedule. Chief Nighttail and her people become a common sight in town, and though such a drastic change is not without its tensions, the kobolds' role in the renewed prosperity of Belhaim is enough to smooth over the worst misunderstandings.

With all of the different faiths working in unison, the re-opening of the quarry is done in such a way that it does not affect the beauty and delicate balance of the forest. Indeed, the New Quarry becomes a symbol of Belhaim's newfound unity. As the young Arnholde of House Devy comes of age and assumes the full privileges and responsibilities of the Baron of the Verduran Fork, his seat is more stable and wealthy than it has been for generations. Of course, with no living relatives other than his mother, his curse of premature senescence is still a factor, leaving the future of the baronial line in question...

Bassy is beyond excited to write the next chapter of Belhaim's history, now from a contemporary perspective. The Dragon's Demand proves to be her magnum opus, published in smaller volumes over a period of years—the series proves to be especially popular in Cassomir and Oppara, spreading word of your deeds far and wide. The gnome regularly approaches each of you for additional details, as well as your continued consent for including you in her dramatisation of the events.

"Not that Ol' Bassy has to spruce things up overmuch, eh?" she laughs.

The following spoilers are meant to avoid clutter, not to hide anything—read all of them at your leisure.

With a flick of her wrist, Finch produces one of her throwing knives out of her sleeve and twirls it around in her fingers. She cranes her neck upwards with a half-sweet, half-deranged smile on her painted lips. "Oh, I think I'll bother whomsoever I godsdamned please. Do you really wanna be first in line, you pointy-eared tub of lard? Unless you're keen on moppin' up your own juices, you'd best wobble the f*ck outta my way..."

Intimidate: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (19) + 7 = 26

Whew. Those were some close rolls on Syksy's part, and indeed quite crucial—thankfully, Aeteperax had just charged her. Maybe a bit anticlimactic, but the dragon would have 100% killed Syksy with a full attack, so I'm mostly relieved. :D

Anyway, congratulations for not putting up with the Dragon's Demand(s)! We're at the end of the module. I'll come up with a proper epilogue as soon as I have a moment to sit down and write it out. In the meanwhile, feel free to roleplay out the immediate aftermath of the fight and divvy up the choicest loot, if you'd like. Put some thought into what your characters would like to do with their lives after the adventure is over, but please save that for after the epilogue.

Vibenia's carefully aimed bolt lands near her last, further proving the import of a skilled archer in dragon-hunting. Though the lesser projectile's effects are not quite as dramatic as those of the last hit, it nonetheless burrows deep as if thirsty for draconic blood, spraying the verdant ground with dark red. At the other side of Aeteperax, Dusk sinks her fangs into the tendon at the heel of the enemy's hind leg and tears, further adding to the crimson torrent.

Revitalised and driven forth by Nisany's burst of life-giving energies, Syksy calls upon the dragon's true name and raises Lady Tula's sword to cleave into the building-sized monstrosity in front of her—once again, the ancient hero's blade tastes the blood of a would-be tyrant, cutting through iron-hard scales, flesh, and bone like they were nothing but loam, vines and twigs loosely strung together into the shape of a reptilian titan. For a moment, it looks as if the beast is going to fall on the armiger in a final fit of fury, but its once-prodigious strength soon wanes, and the dragon falls to its knees with a roar of fear and impotent rage.

As the beast crumples, thrashing around violently and gnashing its teeth, Bernard rushes in and sinks Sir Pelle's burning blade deep into his eye socket, like a smith quenching a piece of red-hot steel in a barrel of cold water. There is a cloud of acrid steam, one more bout of struggle, and the beast finally lies still. For a moment, Azmur waits in tense silence, ready to call on the storm if needed. However, as soon as the dragon twitches his last, the druid seems to forget it altogether, hurrying with weightless steps over the lake at the southern end of the cavern. He shouts hoarsely along the way: "Rima? RIMA?!"

There is a faint answer to his calls from somewhere in the dark, and soon the sounds of a tearful reunion.

We're out of initiative!

Once everyone has caught their breaths after the mercifully short-lived confrontation, the group follows Azmur using the more roundabout route along the rocky shelf which runs around the cavern, finally reaching the relatively small, twenty-foot high nook at its southern edge. As you make it over the water, you find the Kells embracing each other at the far shore, forehead to forehead, whispering intently to each other. Rima is a pale, dark-haired woman of Kellid blood, presently clad in filthy rags and very, very pregnant. She still clutches a mithral dagger of elven design, plainly stolen from the dragon's hoard in a desperate bid for freedom.

And what a hoard it is! There is a large mound of furs, ranging from bears and wolves to more exotic animals such as lions and hyenas, and even magical beasts, like the well-preserved skin of a chimera (worth 800 gp). It looks as if Rima has used them for a bed. There is a series of lockers filled with hundreds of rare books (worth a total of 12,000 gp), some having been recently looted from the monastery, and more from the far reaches of Golarion—most of them deal with the darker side of astronomy and various occult topics, bearing names like Codex of the Ebon Depths, Grimoire of Impossible Secrets, Kargeth's Blackest Encyclopædia, and so on.

Five smaller chests hold the bulk of Aeteperax's more valuable treasures, including mounds of coins minted in a dozen different kingdoms, both past and present (making up a total of 8,940 cp, 5,100 sp, 2,300 gp, and 93 pp). There is a small silver cauldron with carvings of wolverines on the side (worth 120 gp), a gold scarab engraved with the symbol of Nethys (worth 75 gp), a silver hand mirror with a darkwood frame (worth 120 gp), a silver bowl (worth 75 gp) with six tiny jade statuettes of panthers inside (each statuette is worth 20 gp), a platinum holy symbol of Abadar (worth 500 gp), a masterfully crafted darkwood flute (worth 300 gp), a painting of Queen Abrogail II on black velvet (worth 1,500 gp), a pouch of a dozen flawed garnets (worth 20 gp each), and a six-pound lump of raw voidglass (worth 600 gp).

Amongst these wondrous objets d'art and other valuables you find trinkets of a truly magical provenance, ranging from simple elixirs (potion of good hope and potion of water breathing) and scrolls (scroll of chaos hammer) to arms, armour and other accoutrements: there a suit of catoblepas-skin cuir bouilli (masterwork leather armour), a small bronze shield of ancient Taldan make (+1 light fortification buckler), a Desnan holy weapon with Varisian inscriptions (+1 returning starknife), a jewel-studded duelist's foil (masterwork rapier), a one-handed crossbow with burnished brass fittings (+1 flaming burst hand crossbow), a gilded sceptre-like mace (+2 light mace), a handful of black iron crossbow bolts with blood-red fletching (6 screaming bolts), wands of willow-wood (wand of longstrider [44 charges]) and notched tin (wand of remove paralysis [38 charges]), a simple wooden ring carved with entwined weasels (ring of animal friendship), a broad girdle with an iron buckle depicting a battle between a lion and a bison (belt of physical might +2 [Strength and Constitution]), a cloak of pearlescent silk (cape of the mountebank), a pair of leather sandals with feathery designs (winged boots), and a tiara of silver arrayed with gemstones in all the colours of the rainbow (circlet of persuasion).

”Huh, what was that Szangi? I couldn’t quite hear you over there.” Syksy calls out in an aloof stage voice as she watches the dragon flap his wings.

That's the ticket! For transparency: the first taunt is a freebie, but he'll get a Will save from now on to determine if he can ignore the name-calling.

To Finch he simply shrugs.

“And people usually think halflings are all jolly and good natured, but they are not always right, are they? There’s a reason why I’m here and not wasting away doing some military drills in Hunthul.”

Finch looks as if she is going to launch back a barbed rejoinder about her own utter delightfulness, but subsequently has a sudden flash of self-consciousness.

"Most of 'em are," she insists, somewhat defensively. "Poor sods just don't know any better. But point taken."

Bernard's fearless charge appears to confuse the dragon, at least for a few seconds—he watches the former guardsmans' approach with a mixture of disbelief and indignation. A wave of pure, atavistic terror makes Bernard shake to his core, but it comes mingled with a sudden surge of confidence: you have pierced "mighty Aeteperax's" disguise, taken away his lieutenants as well as his minions, and defied him at every turn. Blood glitters on his scales from where the grioths struck him. He is not invincible, no matter how much he might boast—a formidable threat, but not an unbeatable one.

Azmur keeps back. He calls out a now-familiar incantation, causing dark clouds to gather near the ceiling of the cavern. He reaches up towards the storm and pulls down, causing a bolt of lightning to strike the Aeteperax in the back—the dragon twitches, letting out an ear-shattering roar:

"You would betray me, Azmur!? Even after I spared your miserable life!? For this affront, you shall live to see your mate and offspring devoured in front of your very eyes!"

The druid grits his teeth and looks pleadingly to the rest of the group, though he continues to stand firm.

Since you've gotten rid of all the lieutenants, you are—for the duration of this encounter—immune to Aeteperax's frightful presence.

All of you are up! Bernard's run takes up his turn this round.

Right. I'll get a post in ASAP. I'm assuming you lower Dusk into the cave and then rappel down using multiple ropes.

Azmur casts air walk, barkskin and resist energy on himself before zig-zagging down.

I think this is the first kill against a sentient creature for most characters.

Well, some of us are hardened murderers, thank you very much. :P

Finch staggers back, slumping into a pile of tangled ropes with a grunt. "F*ck me, that was close! Like, way, way too godsdamned close. Like... a gnat's dick away from gettin' minced and fed to a bunch of rats. She was just a li'l too full of herself, and we got lucky. Man, what a sh*t-show..."

She lies motionless for a good while, breathing heavily and rubbing her burned hand. Quietly to herself, she thanks the Silent Blade for the chance to attack from hiding, and prays for the swift deliverance of her fellow halfling to whatever afterlife Gozreh's flock considers the most unpleasant.

Eventually, the clown raises her painted head from the bed of ropes. "I don't know much anythin' about whatever daddy's girl was blatherin' about earlier. Whatcha call 'em, Gozreh-ans? Gozreh-ites? What're the chances she wasn't just a lone looney? Is this a cult situation?"

The upper-to-middle levels of the Track are still in disarray. Disguised as one Acolyte amongst dozens, it is a relatively simple matter to swipe a key and enter your former cell without anyone batting an eye. The accommodations seem to be unoccupied, and look much as you left them previously: cold and damp air, rough-hewn stone walls, empty save for the pile of rags and straw on the floor. There are carvings on the walls, left by previous tenants:

"Long live Melcat!
Long live the Duke!"

[Preceded by an etching of the holy symbol of Iomedae:]
"O Lady of Valour
protect thy humble servant
guide me to righteousness
for as long as I walk
in the Light of the Sword
the darkness holds no fear"

"SAY WHAT YUO YOU WILL,
I LIVE FREE!!"

[Written hastily in Varisian:]
"if you can read this,
DESNA bless you!
please, if you go free
my wife RUXANDRA is in
JANOYT
she is with child
tell her i lo–"

There is also a small inscription written in the hodgepodge tongue of the halflings: four short lines—discrete sentences, perhaps—written one above the other, at human knee-level. Next to the text are the faint outlines of a flower, drawn in blue chalk.

And of course, there is the orb—cold and unbearably bright, still aglow near the ceiling.

Now that you have access to all your senses, you take a moment to inspect the auras surrounding the brilliant globe. At first, you are confused by the powerful presence of illusion magic. There are, of course, figments and glamers that have the outward likeness of true illumination, but actual light demands evocation in order to produce the requisite energy. Moreover, you notice the tell-tale signs of shadowcasting.

As soon as you realise this paradox of light and shadow, you find yourself in darkness—indeed, the cell was never truly lit in the first place.

I'm using the Knowledge (arcana) check you rolled earlier in the discussion thread. To sum it up in mechanical terms: the mirror has been modified so that when opened, instead of continual light, it emits a permanent shadow evocation effect, which in turn reproduces the effects of a daylight spell until disbelieved.

With all your equipment, you can retrieve the mirror if you so wish.

Meanwhile, Azmur gets a better roll on his CMW than he did while casting CSW on Nisany. :P

@Vibenia: How's Dusk after the channel? She can retroactively take her actions for last round is she's back to positive HP.

Well, if the only rewards for performances are more performances, a successful one should at least work towards the success of the subsequent ones. Based on previous APs, I was sort of expecting a system for improving the circus (buying better equipment, training troupe-members, etc.) or even a separate "character sheet" to go along with it—not that I necessarily want things to be that granular, mind you. I get that the circus needs funds to run, but we should at least have a say in how that money gets allocated. Right? Without a mechanical benefit to go along with the system, we might as well just narrate shows without a need for an organised framework (though I suppose it does a good enough job making things run smoothly).