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"Hello nephew," says Uncle, wondering once again if he ever had as much energy as Inzo exudes on a constant basis. "...and hello, nephew's friend, who he didn't actually introduce by name, but I assume has one. A pleasure I'm sure, your patience is appreciated and, I'm certain, must be mined from a very expansive vein." He snags an hors d'oeuvre from a passing plate with a smooth flick of his tail. "Serve the Pathfinder Society? Of course, of course, that's why we're all here."
"I certainly do know. It still concerns me that dwarves are subject to such stereotypes, but they have taken such prejudices and made them their own, thus robbing them of power." He sighs, his mood shifting to a momentary gloom. "Suckled from a teat of stone indeed. But I suppose my own people found acceptance via the same path of ridicule, and one day may well be as respected as dwarves." He brightens up again. "Usually I'm copying music, not text, but my penmanship is excellent and I'm certain I'm up to the task. Nothing like a good mystery. Nidal though? No good tunes out of there for centuries."
Uncle Nazgub is not very comfortable at this high-society event, and so he naturally gravitates to the thing he's most comfortable with: the band. This is somewhat to the detriment of the poor band leader, though, who finds his music choices being Bardsplained to him while he conducts and politely weathers the fountain of unasked for Musical Lore being sprayed across him. "No no no that's a Brevoy formal courting song, it's supposed to be light and airy, you're playing it like a Saga Lands war march, you might as well just kick your violinist to death with plate boots!" The violinist looks a little nervous at this, and the piper isn't much happier. After several minutes of Uncle failing to take the hint, the conductor waves his wand unseen over's Uncle's head at a page to get that page's attention, then points it downwards. The page grabs a second page as reinforcement and the two firmly grasp Uncle by his upper arms with white-gloved hands and usher him away from the band. Pausing for a moment by the food table, they spot another Frostfur goblin and manoeuvre Uncle neatly into the circle of conversation next to him. "Oh, hello nephew." He peers at Gorm, and hums a few bars of the dwarven mining tune "Diggy diggy hole" to himself. "Who is this then?"
Uncle holds his head in his hands. "No, I rather don't think I'm all right, that was quite the mental assault! The monolith's energies have subsided, but I rather think Orla may have had more to do with that than I did." He plays a quiet, somber tune and casts Soothe on himself.
He distractedly starts to pack up his tools, his hands rather shaky, glancing at the leshy crafter.
Uncle crouches down behind the monolith, takes off his pack and gets out his artisan's tools before shouldering the pack again. Orla's efforts are going well but he's not sure if he's going to be drawn on to deface the monolith and he wants to be ready if that's necessary. He takes a closer look at the monolith's writing, now that he's so close, deciding which symbols would be important to strike out should it be necessary.
Uncle starts by singing a peppy little tune. "This one's for you, Orla." It's a halfling harvest song and, coincidentally, a tongue-twister. Uncle clearly doesn't speak halfling and has learned it phonetically. His performance is...
Despite this, the tune puts a spring in everyone's steps.
Almost as an afterthought, Uncle taps once on Gabros' sword with the tip of his tail in time with the music.
Uncle starts the day, as he always does, with a session of oiling and tuning and repair for the gnomophone. He can't switch up spells or anything so what he's got, he's got... and once he's done with his preparation he's good to go. He hums merrily as he works, chewing on a rabbit bone and wrapped up in his efforts.
Uncle Nazgub attempts to use his knowledge of the Occult to help Cenenviel with the records research. "I've spent much time in the academies of Golarion, seeking out information. Usually about songs, but I'm sure I can be of assistance, if I can just ignore the noise outside..."
Uncle really does not have much to offer in the Kaana conversation ... he doesn't even carry a weapon, relying on his tail in close quarters!
Uncle takes the proffered slug and rubs it carefully on the inflammation caused by the poison explosion. "Thanks, nephew. None for Bert though, no matter how much it would help, using that much slug would cause him to hallucinate." He peers thoughtfully at Bert's visage. "Well... perhaps a little for the worst of it." He offers Bert the slug. "This one still has lots left, just a little on your face where you feel it most, definitely none for your lips or eyes." He replies to the sentry. "Thank you, we had seen much of this for ourselves, as our scars will attest, although only accidental fire and not self-immolation." (some time passes and the lizardfolk arrives) "But the light of knowledge outshines the sun," replies Uncle to the lizardfolk's observation. He performs quick introductions and moves on to his report. "Plant spirits, heedlessly expending their own essences of fire sap and poison to cause havoc. Destroying their own habitat with unchecked flame. Madness of unclear source."
Uncle digs heartily into the offered food, throwing that much energy into his spells has left him hungry and he likes rabbit. As the sentry returns, he calls out,
He's seen for himself some of the threats but is interested if there's other things in the area.
Unable to be of further magical assistance except to attack, Uncle eyes Bert with concern and frustration at his own lack of ability to assist further. He rushes across the battlefield, skirting the fight and slipping past Orla, Bert and Jaidan, to take cover behind another tree but near the flames. Panting, he steels himself to take on the role of Amateur Goblin Firefighter next round.
Uncle peers thoughtfully at the tree-ish creatures and then Hammick's axes. He smiles, steps around the tree to next to Hammick, and then plays a little ditty on the gnomophone. Reaching out with his tail he taps on the head of one of the axes and it starts to resonate with a gentle humming vibration.
"Go, cut them down, so we can get to Bert."
Uncle steps down from the wagon, his tail swinging as a counterbalance, its tip wrapped in a bandage. He stretches the kinks out of his back and rebalances the gnomophone on his hip, testing the newly repaired strap's anchor mount gingerly as it takes the load. He adds his contribution to the discussion about the letter. "The signs and portents called out are a little troubling. If the Protector's influence is to be felt soon, that implies protection is needed, and there is a threat. What is more, The Stranger has ties to the cyclopses... the cyclopii... the, uh, one-eyed giant civilisation local to the region, so maybe they're related and something is awakened again."
He nods in agreement with Orla's observation. "Although anyone could have stumbled across that artifact, I don't know why people insist on calling out the Dragonskulls each time it comes up," he grumbles.
Uncle knows a song relevant to this caravan. Let me sing you a song that will fill you with dread
Stop here if you've not played Fall of Plaguestone: Now 15 years pass, but our story is still melancholy As a caravan pulls into the village of Etran's Folly Among their number a contracted guard A veteran soldier, with a face most hard Telling tales of acidic wolves in the wood And next thing you know there's poison in the food I do not have breath to detail all that came to pass But this hard mans actions reedemed him at the last His bow and pick and martial skill helped protect his new band Dealing with all the evil deeds that rampaged across the land And when the Witch behind it all met her time to die... It was with an arrow from Black Pavel's bow buried deep within her eye For his actions in the war he had found no excuse Years hiding in a swamp had made him a recluse But a man cannot find redemption from deep in a mire So out he had come to find good deeds, himself to inspire And despite the death of the architect Witch there's one thing that he knew A walking vile bomb marched on Etran's Folly, none to stop it before it blew So he chased it down and loosed a shaft, an arrow for its head A massive crash and venting gas and when the cloud settled, Black Pavel was dead He walked a hard road, with good intentions it was paved And with his final act the entire town was saved So listen to my story, no matter who you are, you can atone And let us all raise a drink to Pavel, the Saviour of Plaguestone
Uncle lies on the bench recovering, but looks up at Bert. "I am but a humble goblin from Irrisen, my bearded friend. I do not know why Desna chose to reach down and touch me with her musical gifts but when she did, she surely set me on a path unique among my kind. I have devoted my life - such a span as a goblin can have, anyway - to the pursuit of musical knowledge. I have spent nearly 4 decades after leaving my homeland traveling around Golarian, finding tunes and tidbits where I can. I've studied, well, everywhere and what I hear," he knocks on his head with one fist after the other, "it sticks in here and stays with me. Haunts me, even. Desna communicates in dreams, after all, and where do they live if not in your noggin." He glances over at Inzo. "I know this is not typical, and I'm an outsider among even my own outsider kind. And yes, I also studied the art of the forge, although at the side of a gnomish master, not a dwarven one." Uncle pauses a moment, looking wistful, emotions rubbing up against a memory, then glances at the gnomophone, sighs, and continues. "I learned the hammer songs after, not before, and in an academy, not a citadel, although the teacher was a dwarven songsmith of the highest caliber. But where music is found, well, I cannot help but mine that vein, if I may be forgiven that expression. So I could tell you about songs from most any race, or culture, but it is all borrowed, not owned." He shivers, and sits up. "Aside from the goblin songs, of course. Such simple, stupid things, yet they are the only ones I can truly lay proper claim to."
"Of course of course, no harm done, we're all friends here, I did not mean to offend by inquiring. You probably know a song or two without knowing why they sound like they do! Hammer music is known as such because the beat is derived from the cadence of a hammer striking metal on an anvil. It is quite regular in beat." He leans back on the wagon's bench and starts tapping with his tail on his drum in a quite fast regular rhythm and mimes hammering with one hand in time with the music. "A hammer song is actually very clever. The verse is of a specific length, as is the chorus, and they're timed to help smiths manage the heat in the metal - hammer the metal during the verse, heat it again in the chorus, and if you get it right it's at the correct working temperature all the way through. As a smith myself I've found them invaluable. The song aligns with the metal being used, and how fast it cools, and whether you're using a heated anvil or a cold one. Also..." He realises that the intersection of his skillsets has him rambling a little, and reels himself in. "This is my favourite, The Forgemaster's Daughter, it has a long verse because it's for adamantium."
He plays the piece competently, although he just plays the notes and doesn't sing, and lets the song drift away after the first chorus. "Uh, pick music is very different in tempo." The beat of his tail on the drum changes into a slower 1-pause-2-3 rhythm and he mimes again, this time expansive up and down two-handed gestures. "It evokes the action of mining. The pick is brought down to strike on one, sliding your hands together on the pick's shaft in the appropriate fashion, then lifted over your head to set in position on two. On the third beat you slide your hands back to spread position, and then come down on the surface again on one. Again there are different songs with slight differences if you're striking at different heights. This is the Gleam of Fresh Silver Ore"
The wagon goes over an unexpected bump and Uncle grabs at his instrument just as he starts to play. The leather strap holding it in place parts suddenly from the body of the instrument and with a resounding crash it falls hard on the floor, with his tail caught squarely underneath. With a shriek he leaps off the bench and yanks his tail out, then dances around in circles with his tail held between two hands and squealing imprecations in Jotun.
Uncle makes himself at home during the trip, sitting atop the wagon when the weather supports it and trying to play songs from whatever regions the crew are from to keep their cheer up during the slow days of travel. He has a surprisingly deep library of songs and loves to show it off. His bardic training is rooted in the Occult and he muses on the subject of the signs and portents in the note. "Flesh and flower, I don't like the sound of that. A romantic tragedy waiting to happen if those two mingle, I suspect. But if auspices are indeed good for protectors we can fill that role and perhaps navigate with the currents of fate on our side. The Stranger, though, in Iobaria? Could the influence of Old Koloran be felt again, even today? I fear our entanglements with the past are not yet over." He also has a small supply of dates he brought from the desert and is carefully rationing himself to not go through them too fast, savouring a couple (once again dunked in tea) after the evening meal. Uncle is still nagged at by the comment Bert made about his playing all that time ago back in the desert ruins, and tries to engage him about his musical tastes during a quiet moment. "Master Haaland, I do have to ask. I know a fair few songs of your folk and I'm sure I could find something in my repertoire that is suited to your taste. Of the dwarven style, do you prefer Pick music or Hammer music?" |
