The Cat Who Dwells In The Dark's page

"...out loud, that is."

He leans across his desk. "See, there's a very good reason Delvehaven hasn't been re-opened for the Pathfinder Society, and it's unlikely to be re-opened for the forseeable future. It's not just the bureaucrats giving them the runaround..."

His voice drops to a whisper. "...I think the Asmodeans are interested in the place, somehow. Might have something to do with the troubles Westcrown is facing."

"I... I'm sorry for all of this. I was hoping to speak with you about something other than letter illumination--ideally, without a reminder of the shadows around here being so dangerous."

"Good luck."

Some indistinct grousing comes from the other side of the door.

Then the telltale sounds of the door being unlocked.

She absentmindedly pats her pocket. "...by the Inheritor... what has this city come to, that shadows can... do that even by day?"

"...Roak, are you sure this is where you saw him? There's nobody here." A softer voice says.

"Trave, I know I did. Mercutio's never been that good at covering his tracks--he's here." A harsher voice responds.

"Roak, it's a damn cemetery. Nobody comes here unless they're grieving or writing weird poetry."

"Just shut up and look around. Mercutio's here."

"Ugh. Fine. I'll... I'll see if the shrine's open."

There's the sound of footsteps coming up to the doors, followed by the door rattling as it's tugged on.

"Locked."

The eyes focus on you in turn.

They tilt at an angle, as if studying you.

They blink.

Then they vanish, and the shadow goes with them.

The alley brightens considerably.

"on the contrary... is there a counter petition for it. I would like to see one in every district..."

"There isn't one, sir. Besides, the proper permits for a zoning project of that size would take years to be processed--" The man behind the desk starts before looking up at you.

"--oh. That was a joke." He says, blinking in surprise.

"I am a scholar trained under the wizard Seldarine from the north, he once brought up a book on exotic fauna locat43ed within the Old Delvehaven building. I was told this was the place to acquire a permit to enter?"

"Yes, this would be the place to make the proper inquiries." The clerk responds, his eyes darkening at the mention of Delvehaven. "You aren't the first person to have asked that question. The Pathfinder Society of Absalom has made multiple requests to reopen Delvehaven and to re-establish its Wiscrani branch."

--only to suddenly stop for a moment, staring into the alley.

In that unnatural bank of blackness, there's a pair of eyes staring back.

They're orange.

It's at this moment a loud call comes from outside the shrine.

"MERCUTIO! We know you're here somewhere! Come on out!"

The tiefling's face blanches. "...oh no... oh no, they've found me already?!"

Seated behind the desk is an officious-looking man with greying hair, a lining of grey stubble and a pair of filthy-looking eyeglasses adorning his face. His soft yellow garb looks well-cleaned, but obviously suffering from the day's humid air. "If you're here to protest the opening of Baleria's Bordello of Beauties, the petition for its closure is right there." He grumbles, pointing a gnarled finger (without even looking up from his work) at a long, yellowed piece of parchment with a list of signatures on it.

A soft, whispering hiss follows the two of you as you step outside. Though the sun shines in the sky, the surrounding street feels a little bit darker...

...especially in the alley next to your shop.

”…I, um…” He starts, staring into his cup. ”…it’s a long story.”

”I’ve lived in Westcrown all my life, but everyone who isn’t immediate family sees me as either someone to be avoided or a threat to be warded off. I’ve had to sneak about in the shadows and steal from those who could afford to lose it ever since I saw my eleventh winter.” Mercutio blinks and takes a sip of his cup, still reluctant to meet your eyes. ”Couldn’t even get work on the docks—not even the dangerous jobs.”

”Palaveen was… he’s the man who recruited me into his gang.” He sighs. ”He had me do some simple burglary jobs—nothing too big. Then he started having me target more…er, more normal folks. People who barely had enough to begin with.”

You eventually find the ivy-covered building after questioning a couple of people—it’s as stately as a two-story red brick building that hasn’t seen a professional gardener in a long time can be. Withering green and brown ivy entwines itself on the building’s eastern face, with some vines straying across the yellow brick steps leading up to the building’s weathered oaken doors.

You notice that most people seem to be avoiding this place—you’re one of perhaps three souls in the building’s immediate vicinity.

"As to my budget, I--"

Before the young woman can finish her sentence, the shadows in the room seem to deepen, and a chill passes through the air. Amaya's face pales and she glances about, her hands beginning to wring together.

"...thank you." He sighs, sitting down at the small end table in the corner. "I... um, I'm Mercutio."

”And since Arael is not known for being polite with his critiques, well…” She sighs.

”I will be blunt—I think Arael is in danger. I need you to find him before disaster strikes him."

"What do you say we meet up at Vizio's when you're done there? It's a little place nearby--a lot quieter than this place."

Her expression shifts to a more business-like frown. ”Yes, Arael is something of a troublemaker—at first, his sermons were good for rallying the smallfolk against the cursed darkness plaguing Westcrown.”

”Then, his diatribes began criticizing how Mayor Arvanxi is handling—or, rather, not handling—Westcrown’s sorry state. The shadow curse was a bad enough problem by itself, but lately there’s been an increase in violent crime throughout the city—and neither the Mayor nor the Dottari or even Citadel Rivad are doing anything about it.”

"Would there be much of a difference in pricing between vellum and parchment?"

Arael the Swordbearer is a half-elven man, a newly-minted priest of Iomedae. He's developed a reputation of being something of a firebrand within the church of The Inheritor, being outspoken about the lamentable state of Westcrown--especially about how no one seems to be doing anything to change things for the better.

The young man nervously swallows and steps forward, into the shadow of Pharasma's statue. "...I don't know--I'm trying to... I'm trying to stay hidden."

"I don't want to be a burglar anymore--I'm trying to go into an honest trade now." He shakes his head. "My uncle Jacovo has offered to take me in, but... I'm afraid that if I take him up on it, Palaveen will hear--"

He starts to hyperventilate.

She fumbles in her pockets before producing what looks like a rolled up piece of parchment. "I, um, I have a letter here that needs to be sent off to the Umberto estate--and, the thing is, they're the sort of 'new money' family that insists on everything they have being, well..." She shrugs. "...ostentatious."

"I have to ask--do you charge a specific rate for such commissions? Or is there a price to be negotiated?"

He looks back to you. "...does... does this place offer sanctuary?" He asks, his voice beginning to tremble.

"Are you familiar with the name Arael the Swordbearer, perchance?"

"...actually, that might not be a bad idea." She sets her mug down and smooths out a wrinkle in her violet, star-embroidered blouse. "Heaven knows I've made enough of an ass of myself about this; you might just look like some other guy with no Pathfinder connections."

She smiles as the door opens. "Greetings. My name is Selene--I've been told you're someone who handles missing persons cases?" She extends her hand for a handshake.

”Oh! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t, um, I—“ She stammers. ”I was told that this is an… illumination shop?”

”AH! Er, hello!” He forces a smile onto his face as his eyes struggle to stay on yours. ”Are you the priestess on duty here?” He stumbles through his words.

She seems to be waiting for the door to open.

She chugs a draft of her drink.

Partway through your workday, the sound of your door opening cuts through the listless air.

Today, you have a visitor to the shrine: a young man with pale skin, red hair and a pair of nubby horns is standing at the foot of the shrine’s statue of Pharasma.

There’s been reports of pickpockets being arrested and interrogated, only to find their masters long gone. Couple that with the current problem of shadow monsters after dark, and there’s too many coincidences. There’s something bigger behind them.

There’s a knock at the door of your office.

Sitting at the bar next to you is a recent acquaintance: a Pathfinder by the name of Aelia Ghontasavos. Her dark shoulder-length hair is matted from the humidity in the air. She’s been trying to make progress on reopening the old Pathfinder Lodge of Delvehaven, with no luck.