"She's facedown, why, what's that got to do with it?" Jerrek's explanation gets an enthusiastic 'oh' and raising of eyebrows "So you're saying she fell forward, she was trying to leave." Well that's... ominous.
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"Also that he could have made it out on his own if he was only this far in." Pasquot waits to see if anyone else has the training in life sciences to see if this half-orc died by causes other than something enormously obvious, but now that they're up here... "There are some big glowing beetles up here, too. Harmless, I assume. Unless someone wants to poke them with a stick? I saw some bio-luminescence that might be interesting to study, but I can't imagine they'd be useful for anything further than underwater light."
"No arguments her... Let's keep to our left where possible, Fixer. Lead on." Blade drawn, the center of light, he lets the rogue drift ahead to his comfort zone and tries to eye-ball the paces, letting the trapfinder move in low light while they alert everything that can see the glowing hallway of their presence.
The beetles do not immediately register as a threat, and Pasquot heads to back up Fixer, getting the man situated in the front and looking him over quickly for any missed straps or lost items. His own bandoleer is a nightmare of possibly lost little doohickies, after all. With blade drawn he casts one more look about the room while whispering to the rogue "How much space do you need?"
With enough room to look and maneuver, Pasquot clears the water's edge and pauses momentarily to unpack his bags, shaking out the wet, waterproof sacks, and leaving them hanging near the sooty beach. He shines the light of his chest-borne spell into the shadows of the stalagmites, peering helplessly at the overwhelming dark as he draws his blade. No use for it, yet, but better safe than sorry, especially considering that he hasn't the slightest chance of seeing anything truly stealthy in these dark crevices. He even hazards to look up before shuffling to the head and holding there, waiting for Jarek to be dressed and ready to take the lead. "Creepy and treacherous here... but your armor should hold us in good stead. Let's take a moment for this queasiness to pass... That water is truly foul. Zane, did you want Jerrek up front, or Fixer?" I hold the center, who holds the front? Do we rely on resilience or awareness?
Without hesitating, getting it all over with in a single abrupt go, Pasquot dips under the water and darts into the tunnel. He clambers hand over hand, feeling his way with the knuckles of his right hand (which holds his sword) and his open left, and despite the waterbreathing spell, he really tries to hold his breath. It's probably more instinct than anything, since actually breathing water is... A jarring experience. With the assumption that he makes it entirely through to the other side, he returns his sword to his back, and sets his wet waterproof bag up on the edge where it won't fall back in. He then turns around to shine his chest-light down the tunnel, helping the next person through with his hands and sort of 'handing them off' past him. He'll stay in the water to help each person out past him until the whole party is through, leaving much of the room in dim light as his 'pool light' keeps the water lit for those coming through the (frankly terrifying) underwater passage.
Pasquot pauses to thank the priest prodigiously, and then it's a left turn, out of the temple, and a right at the foot of the Black Hill. It's a simple matter to follow the road along the water's edge, and divert left into the edge of the water at the Weeping Pool, where Pasquot pauses again for the party to gather and ready themselves. He removes his backpack and digs out a series of waterproof bags, four in total. One he puts his alchemist kit in, including his book, and those are put back into his backpack, then the backpack goes into a waterproof sack which he readies to take with him into the water, the tarry, sealed burlap stinking of pitch. "I have two more of these if no one else has thought to purchase one. They'll keep the water off your equipment for... about a minute? Good for brief submersion, nothing more. Does anyone have a light spell? Cast it here, on my chest, and we'll be good to start." He unlashes his sword, holding blade and sheathe in his hand so he can scoot it ahead of him in the water without getting hung up on any theoretical narrow points in the underwater tunnel.
"Mind... your father was clearly an ass." Pasquot points out in passing, falling into step with Illya as the group comes back out the door. "There's no further I can think of at the moment, either, with my limited funds, that will help us to enter this underwater chamber, so long as one of us has access to magical light. Between that and this promised water breathing spell we have immediate access to the chamber past the Weeping Pool!" He glances over his shoulder at the town hall they rapidly leave behind, turning right around the edge of the block for the short walk to the Temple of Brigh. "I've never -seen- such a chest of gold... She said that there's a great metal door down in the chamber past the Weeping Pond. Glaucite is the same metal my sword is made of... Very strong, very heavy. Beyond will be whole cooridors made of the stuff. It's not valuable, hard to work, but beyond the door we may find another Star God... That is how the Bauga ended." There's both apprehension and excitement on the warrior's chemical-stained face, and he squeezes his hand over the hilt of his blade reflexively, squeezing it till it creaks and grinding his fingertips against the yellow leather.
After the introduction, Pasquot gets the nine hells out of the way. The last thing he wants to be mistaken for is a 'talky person'. He will, in fact, wait near the doorway, watching Illya with that eerie, yellow-eyed intensity of his.
"Did you not hear my introduction in the Foundry to Rowland, then? I am Pasquot of the Bauga. We lived on the blasted plain east of the Silver Mount for all my young life before we ran afoul of the Technic League. As far as I know, I am the last Bauga." There's a little pain in it, but it's like prodding at a sore tooth. It comes up so often that the pain becomes a part of your character, and you can't help but stick your tongue in it every day. --- At the council hall, Pasquot bows his head to the Dwarf. "No trouble, we're here to help. We're with Rowland and Fixer. This is Illyasaviel, Honored Elder. She has questions that may help us in retrieving Master Baine."
Pasquot ends his food in perfunctory fashion, organizing and reorganizing while he chews, and occaisionaly referring to a small, flat book he keeps in the back of his case. He drops the lid with a final sounding *clunk* and nods as the Dragpire stands. "I'm with you. Let's go." He's ready to move much more quickly this time, and swings himself off the bench to head for the door. "If I had time I could cook up some soothe syrup to ease our way through the water, but I keep imagining the man bleeding up on a ledge somewhere with dire rats scrabbling around below chewing on his severed foot..."
Once everyone starts moving, Pasquot is surprised to see them heading back towards the tavern. His head tilts curiously and he bites his lower lip, considering his place, revising his estimations, before finally pulling Zane's arm to speak to him in a brief aside. "You should see if Val or Fixer knows how to get inside the Black Hill. And I suggest we all eat our fill. If you've never gone a week without food... well... Simply assume this may be the last meal we eat. We don't know why the others have not returned from beneath the Torch, we don't know why Khonnaire Baine, ostensibly a fairly talented wizard, hasn't returned either. There may be a deadfall, or dangerous creatures. He may be alive but injured, trapped, or he may be dead and we're simply searching for a body. If he is alive -now-, I would hate to arrive only a handful of hours after he expired." Throwing himself down on the bench he sighs and untangles his alchemy kit again, mucking with his bottles as he waits for food to come round to him.
Pasquot nods faintly. "Or we could see the council -now- and go looking for Khonnaire Baine -now- before he expires from thirst, wherever he may be laying. The plan is yours, Master Sorcerer."
Fixer has dropped the thing in three seconds, and Pasquot is already too late to interfere. When he comes around the outside of the building towards the workshop it looks more like someone has thrown a box of tools over a tent-frame and all of it has fallen into a heap of scrap metal all at once. He looks back and forth from the blade in his hand to the metal manufactory on the ground and sees the similarities. "Steel, copper, glaucite, crystal... it's one of the star creatures. 'Robots'. The League hoards them jealously." With one last look around, the big pale Kellid tucks his blade back into its sheathe, setting it crossways on his back again. He nods his hello to Val, having met her earlier when he went asking about the spy, the missing councilman, and who he could collaborate with to hunt the cave below the black mountain.
Thirty seconds behind, Pasquot finally catches up with the group at a jog, with the screaming and the broken window, though, he unleashes his blade and holds it down at his side, tip lowered but the sharpened piece of metal ready and waiting. He -says- nothing, but keeps his wits about him and his eyes sharp, looking for trouble as he makes his way through the front door to back Rowland up.
Pasquot doesn't immediately register the scream, or seems disinclined to move from his spot. When Fixer finds his feet and is already moving, though, the alchemical warrior packs his things, lagging behind by the time he's left the tavern.
He first turned his attention back to Pasquot, "I don't see that those desires will split our paths any time soon, friend. As for talking...I doubt you'll be doing much studying beneath the Torch." He grinned good-naturedly at the bald man before swiveling towards Illya. Pasquot barks a sharp laugh at that, and smirks bitterly but he tosses his hand up and bows his head, lank hair hanging around his face. "You have me there." He carefully stows his whetstone and draws the sheathe from around his back to strap the glaucite blade back down, letting it hang in easy reach for a side-draw on his right side. Once the sword is stowed his hands move almost reflexively, unfastening one of the loops across his chest to retrieve another bottle. The mason-stopper is levered off and hangs on the side as he takes a little swig, and then digs in his pack for another piece of accoutrement, a flattish wooden case bound in leather that he unfolds to reveal rows of glass jars, one of which he swirls and holds up to the light to reveal a honey-like ooze in the bottle, some unidentifiable bits floating within. He goes about levering the wired lid on that as well, and produces a small strainer from in the case, which he uses to strain some of the thick plasma into the original green glass bottle he wore on his chest, refilling it bit by bit but keeping whatever debris is in the main jar out of whatever he'll be drinking. By the time he has put it all away, he's missed shaking hands with Zane (but given a salutory wave at any rate) but had time enough to catch a few details about the others gravitating towards them. Adventurers. He nods at Fixer "Ah, you'll be Val's boyfriend then? Cal?" He smirks and quirks a thin brow at the Half-Elf "When I was asking about Councilman Baine's circle of friends she spoke about you with great affection." He's wry and dry, but is that sarcasm or teasing?
He watches the somewhat dim Nexian go around the table with his introduction and repeats his name and clan for him, before settling on another adress. "For now, Illyasviel, I think we need a single leader, and Zane has my vote. And Rowland has the right of it. The bounty on Councilman Baine is too high to ignore, the town is desperate, we need to keep them from folding under League rule." He flicks his yellowed eyes over Rowland "I don't suppose one of those books tells you how to get us beneath the Black Hill?" and to Fixer "Or that Baine told you how to get below the Torch? Our first question is simply how to manage our ingress."
Bare headed in the description as in 'not wearing a hat'. The picture is actually pretty accurate!
"Abyssium, Adamantine, Djezet, Horacalcum, Inubrix, Noqual, and Siccatite." He pats the blade in his lap with a dull *thunk* "And of course Glaucite." More quick agreement from Pasquot to Zane "I would prefer a single point of leadership. A good leader knows how to take the ideas of his companions to make the best of knowledge, intuition, and creativity." He continues to scrape softly, reserving his judgement for a moment as he regards Illya curiously, the deliberate, conscious stress of his actions making him seem either overly serious, or just slightly stoned. "I am Pasquot of the Bauga. Almost a decade ago, the Bauga were wiped out by the Technic League for daring to settle in one of the star-mounds, in the fields of fire. We found a small god there, and made it ours, and it made us strong. I was a very young man, and I was not able to fight to save my people when the League came. I could only cower, as I listened to those I loved and rely on die, screaming. Not even Katrull's great metal arms could defeat them. This..." He touches the sword again, reverently, the cobbled together thing a makeshift weapon so well worn it functions like it was crafted for war "... was a piece of our sky fortress. I have devoted my life to learning these Skymetals, and the years since my orphanage testing how they affect my body in any dose, solution, or tincture I can manage. The Noqual has done the worst. Rotting flesh white and staining my hair, burning my eyes and making me vomit blood. I have recovered, time and again, but I have never discovered how to reproduce Katrull's great metal arms, or the legs of Quick D'bagi. But one day I will..." Scraping the stone along the metal again, his voice rasps like the coaxing whetstone, sharpening his words and his resolve "And when that power is mine... I will carve the Black Sovereign from the Silver Mount, and slay every gearsman, murder every metal magician who wears the gear of the League. I will avenge my brother, and my mother, my father, and my grand-father. I will see them rest easy, at last. Is that a burden you can shoulder? Is that an oath you can remember? Can you walk ahead of me knowing that I can see that goal, and will never stop marching towards it, and will never let my pursuit end? That I will carve a life out of sand and blood and nothing, and a destiny out of sinew and Skymetal?" Pasquot makes a little cut on the back of his thumb and hisses softly, frowning at the sharpened blade in his hand. "And will you do all the bothersome talking so I can focus on my study?" he pops his thumb in his mouth and suckles the shallow cut, his brow furrowed in annoyance. The sword is probably sharp enough now.
"I'm not interested in having -fun- with the League." Pasquot draws his thumb across his throat for emphasis. "I have more than a week's worth of food in my pack, too. With the way the Weeping Pool fills, it's a safe bet to assume that there's a spring below this town with sufficient water to access from anywhere under the hill. She could be down below, still. With friends. Or smart enough to wear a hood after making an impression like she did." Dragging the curious, dark-grey shard of metal off his back, the bleached Kellid lays it across his lap before rummaging through his pack to find a whetstone. The fine grain of the slate makes a satisfying hiss as he draws it across the piece of star-metal alloy, sharpening the last foot or so all along its single edge. "Likewise, bandits don't interest me. They're not likely to serve as much of a challenge at any rate. Not against the likes of these big swords." He gestures idly at the collection of blades slowly amassing in their group. "The only place I can think of to start looking for that agent would be beneath the Black Hill. "We're all new to working in a unit, it seems. Lots of strong opinions. Do we elect a leader? How will we deal with coin and star-metal we draw together in our endeavors? Everything in its full value to whoever takes it? Bids? Assignment? -Con-signment? ... Votes? Now seems as good a time as any to bash this out." The soft rhythmic scrape continues as he works the stone along the edge, pausing once to add a few drops of something from his bandolier onto the stone, the thick green bottle stoppered again quickly and returned to its assigned pouch with a familiarity and speed that belies drilling to know exactly where every loop, button, and snag is on his ratty gear.
"I never heard she left suddenly..." The bleached Kellid looks Illya up and down with a curious kind of appraisal. His people, the people of this land, are almost universally of dusky skin and dark hair, of hard features and solid build. Something about her is as off as it is about him, and it draws the intensity of his sallow eyes. "In fact, I'd be willing to put coin on her waiting for us somewhere in the hill, where the heart of the Torch lies. He'll also nod his quick assent, agreeing with Zane "Four -thousand- gold coins is a powerful sum. Split between us it's still enough to keep us in food and lodging for nearly a year, and a good life at that. One share of that would buy a small house..." Fishing at his belt, he fumbles one of the pouches up and digs out a gold coin, holding it in his loosely cupped hand. "My hunch lies with the Junkmaster holding a replacement that will repair the torch even if the original heart is taken." he shines the gold so it catches the torchlight [b]"These bandits... they'd be carrying one coin to the rest of my pouch of coins, when you compare it to the value of the town's bounty on Khonnir Baine. Are you so low on coin, beautiful, that you'd take this one over the promise of a fat purse later? And a chance to piddle in this violet haired cow's soup, as well?"
The tall, gaunt man pauses in the doorway out of the flow of traffic to apply a few stinging yellow drops to his jaundiced eye. He sniffs heavily and shakes his head, shoulders shivering as the sensations of the drops race into his bloodstream. He strokes fingers through his discolored hair and drops the small glass bottle back into his pouch, and absently smears the yellow tears across his cheek. When the shine of his eyes focus finally on the main room of The Foundry, he focuses on Rowland, and weaves through the tables to spin a chair and settle on it reversed, leaning his crossed arms across the back. "You're the one that is Baine's apprentice, yes?" The sound of Hallit will forever remain thick in his throat, and the fetish-cloaked barbarian jangles softly as he steadies himself on the seat. "I have confirmed several rumors... The first is this purple haired woman, I believe her to be one of the League's spies. I believe she may have stolen the power of the Torch. It is possible that the Junk Yard Keeper, the Junkmaster, has a comparable source of power we may use to repair it. It is possible that tunnels may enter the black hill through the Weeping Pool, the Junkyard, or even somewhere through the Warehouse district. Did your master ever mention a mode of ingress that might have led beneath the flame? Something that would lead to the heart of the magic the Technic League craves?" The sneer is audible in his voice, and he sniffs after the question, the corner of his eye twitching in restrained hatred at the memory of these agents of discord, these bastards of casual tyranny that ply their rule so cruelly from the Silver Mountain.
^ That. XD 3 str, 1 bab, +4 to hit. With the right traits you can get +5 stat, +1 bab, +1 feat, +1 MW weapon for a +8 to hit, but you're sacrificing insane stuff to do that at first level. That said, wait until Pasquot gets his mutagen on, and Weapon Training, and then I can move up to a Large bastard sword for 2d8 damage plus (an estimated) bajillion. It really gets to be worth vital striking then. Or hitting someone with a splash weapon from 10' away and then stepping up and skewering them with Opening Volley.
(Bloop.) |