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The Taldan shakes his head as his swirls his wine glass. Dora. How "nice" to see you. Proof once again that Flaxseed will let anyone in here.
I like wine, says a familiar voice, as Viscount Rosham Bowe the Wellbourne emerges from the throng. He does not say please or thank you, but holds forth an opulent goblet to Pandora. Well, I see you have all survived. I'm er...I'm not especially good at the praise part of the equation, but eh...well done, and all that.
As Kalendir finishes speaking, his last word is interrupted by a feeble trumpet blast as a wizened man garbed in fancy but faded clothes rigidly tucks said trumpet under his left arm as his right pulls out a roll of parchment. With a great flourish, he unrolls it and clears his throat. In a reedy voice, he calls out, Presenting...*ahem*...the honorable and illustrious...Viscount Rosham Bowe...the *ahem* Wellborne. He then rerolls the parchment and stands unflinchingly as a solidly-built Taldan male, about five-foot-eight with shoulder-length dark hair, steps forward. The Taldan wears a meticulously-maintained russet colored braidcoat and flowing black breeches with ankle-high black boots. You can spot a glistening chain shirt beneath his coat and an ornate blue sash about his waist, with a broad, curved blade, fashioned of some black metal and bearing a hilt in the shape of a roaring lion's head. He waves at the old man dismissively. Yes, yes. That will be all, Pryor. He glares at each of you, periodically glancing at a note in his hand. You must be Sareth, Sarenrae's stooge. Hmpf. With your fellow devout, Kalendir, lackey to Erastil. Mmm-hmm. He turns to Artian. And this must be Artian, oracle of something or another. Divine caster, they say. With an exasperated eye roll, he moves on. Pandora. At least you can cast real spells, unlike these three. Still...a bard. Ugh. He says nothing at all to Merisiel, only a curt nod. He finishes with Roary, at whom he simply shakes his head. They'll let anyone into the Sovereign Court these days, it seems. He looks once more at the note, grimaces, and tucks it away in a pouch. Fine. May I start by saying how thrilled we are to have you here. We are such fans of your endeavors. I'm not speaking of YOUR endeavors personally, of course. No. Nor am I saying that *I'm* a fan, necessarily. I don't know any of you, frankly. More a figure of speech. But generically, the whole Pathfinder field agent thing. Good times. He looks about the grounds of the Grand Lodge, sighs heavily, and continues. I suppose I'd best show you about. We can get inside. Look around. Get it over with. And then move on with my life, while you lot return to your...relatively intolerable ones. Right, then. Off we go.
Taldor is thriving! All "evidence" to the contrary is the result of lies and deceit by the enemies of the Empire. Indeed! When Taldor is returned to her rightful place atop the Inner Sea pretenders, our once-and-future colonies will rue the days they spent trying to pluck the rose from the Lion's maw!
The Oppara Buyers' Club?We do not invoke that horrible, tone-deaf, self-congratulating film. I'm unfamiliar with the film, but I take personal umbrage at the comparison of the shining jewel that is Oppara with...well, any other city, really, but Dallas in particular. We do not have a Central Deathway!* *: Claim may not be valid for members of the Qadiran military.
"Yuck! I can't imagine anything less inviting than getting slug all over me!" Oh, I can, Rosham says casually. Any speech from that blowhard Andoran Colson Maldris, for instance. A single moment spent in Qadira, as well. Also, spending any more time than necessary talking with this fool. It's tempting to just let the uncouth green one go to town on him just to get him to be quiet. The Taldan pauses, considering the man with the club. Turning back to Sabas, he asks, What's the story with that one? I presume you mind controlled him.
What a dump, Rosham says, casting unseen servant and directing it to clean the room. As the spell takes effect, he pulls out his wand of infernal healing and uses it on himself as he calls out to Alie. The good Baron has the right of it, my dear Alie. Our quarry is taking a little nap, and the, ah, half-orc has demonstrated all the makings of a circus performer, should he be so inclined. Looking at the servant between wand charges, he continues. Do use a kerchief when you get up here, though. The servants haven't kept it up well at all.
With a final look about, Rosham sighs audibly. Well. Back to town, then? On the way out, he directs Pryor, his herald (and general flunkie) to take meticulous notes about the location and the general state of disrepair. He gives Pryor a verbal thrashing about the sloppy penmanship and the overall lack of elegance to the missive before pressing his signet ring on the seal of the real estate purchase offer to be delivered to Grand Prince Stavian on behalf of House Bowe. With a shake of his head as the hapless Pryor scuttles off, he absently says to Maximo, Best there was, they said. Won't regret it a day in your life, they said. Gracious.
Remaining his inimitable self even with three arrows in his flesh, Rosham responds derisively, On the contrary, my dim-witted fool: I think we're understanding precisely how this goes — you attempt to chide us, then follow it up with a bad decision...and you each pay for it with your lives. The Taldan Magus casts haste on the group, then moves around the right side of the stones to the spot on the map, drawing his falcata along the way.
Rosham helpfully adds his own thoughts to the matter. Why should I pretend that I don't know who you are when I actually don't know who you are? There is no 'Wager' in the annals of Taldan nobility, and that is all I need to know. To pretend that I don't know someone so insignificant would be plainly absurd. Nor do I know this Baran you mention — since I presume you do not mean the good Baron Maximo here — and what you suppose to guess is ultimately irrelevant to us. I assure you, I personally couldn't play dumb if I tried (though I don't know why anyone would try); I should commend you on how you've mastered it so well. Better than our acquaintance Wreck here! The Viscount gives nothing but a withering look to Ignatious for his Taldan crack, though he noticeably softens when Maximo surmises it to be sarcasm. Ah, yes, the stage is the place for this one. Also, far away from us.
Now see here, nebulous voice that has too much cowardice to show itself, the Viscount states plainly, striding forward lest Wreck decide to continue shouting (and make Rosham's headache worse). The Baron and the Lady and I, along with our associates, are on official Taldan matters, and I strongly suspect it's no business of yours. So stand aside.
Rosham casts prestidigitation to clean the annis hag ichor of him and his blade, then summons his unseen servant to fetch a wand of infernal healing from his porter Reynard, spending five charges to heal himself. Now then, Tribune Bourtze, pray tell us: what was the nature of your affiliation with those...things? As the nobleman speaks, he will use a pearl of power 2 to recall his glitterdust spell.
Ho, indeed, Baron! Besides which, it's harder to see in here than the point of some damn fool Andoran's speech! Rosham draws his falcata (move), activates Arcane Strike (swift), chooses to use his spellguard bracers to (hopefully) ensure he gets his spell off, then casts an Intensified shocking grasp defensively!
He then attempts to deliver that via spellstrike!
"As for one's opinion of the great nation of Taldor, we are all allowed them. In fact, I have heard it said that opinions are like backsides, everyone has one!" Quite agree, quite agree, haha, the Taldan nods with a forced laugh. The poor fool is entitled to be wrong at the top of his lungs, I suppose. Darius sighs.. "Now that all the chest puffing is overwith can we get on with it?" Rosham eyes Darius coolly. Hmpf. Varisians. He polishes off his brandy, then carelessly tosses the glass aside. He then fits an odd metal helm, vaguely conical and emblazoned with the Lion of Taldor, upon his head. No need to tarry any longer. REYNARD! Get to it, man, and carry these drawings for the Baron.
Just after the PCs settle in, a blood-spattered man throws the inn’s front door open and storms into the common room. Clad in a blood-spattered heraldic surcoat bearing blue stars on a golden field, this man is the Tribune of Evondemor, Makarius Bourtze. The frantic nobleman gasps out, “Bar the doors! They’re right behind me!” and the inn’s twelve patrons scatter in panic. While silently taking note of how better to make a dramatic entrance, the Viscount rises to his feet at once. Tribune Bourtze! This way, man! He will move between Bourtze and the door, then cast prestidigitation to clean the nobleman up.
"Back to the matter at hand though: investigate all that he has to offer if possible. Just keep a look out for anything that his wife might stumbled across in her last hours-something that could have caused her demise, I mean. If you find such a thing, be sure to get ahold of it before someone even more irresponsible does." After which, of course, Rosham says, turning to Maximo with a wry grin, we should turn it in to him, who has shown himself to be ever so responsible. With a wave of his hand, a small metal box floats up, from which he reaches a pinch of snuff and uses it, offering a dose to the good Baron. Clearly, even the Society can no longer reliably secure good help these days.
This outburst of indignation erupts from the doorway, where a a solidly-built Taldan male stands, some five-foot-eight with shoulder-length dark hair and wearing a meticulously-maintained russet colored braidcoat and flowing black breeches with ankle-high black boots. A glistening chain shirt is visible beneath his coat and an ornate blue sash about his waist, with a broad, curved blade, fashioned of some black metal and bearing a hilt in the shape of a roaring lion's head. A fanciful glass half-filled with Taldan fire-brandy in his hand. I usually tolerate you well enough, Zey, but the Baron has the right of it; disparaging noble Oppara is inexcusable, especially from the likes of a commoner. The brash newcomer takes a pointed sip from the glass, then walks over to have a look at the drawings Maximo holds.
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