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Is he insane, delirious, or both?
Coming to a stop at the bottom of the group's elevated camp, the man stares dumbfoundedly at Garik for a long moment. Slowly, he reaches a hand up to his beard, which is impressively bushy, especially given the added twigs jutting out of it here and there. Suddenly the hand flies to his scalp, and he begins violently turning about and flailing around, sending murky water everywhere as he gibbers loudly and incoherently. The mood seems to swing from elation to anger and he appears to have actual tears streaming freely from his eyes. His wild gesticulations, done almost as soon as they started, end with him blubbering and holding a significant hank of his long hair, freshly torn out. He shakes the hair indignantly at the group, as if blaming them for the loss.
The journey eastwards continues uninhibited by anything living - in fact, without seeing any moving thing. The disgusting drizzle continues, and by the evening the group has witnessed at least three nearby 'lightning' strikes, though the bolts were dark and lacked any sort of flash. An unfortunate tree was blown to splinters by the first, though. Though it's overcast, the light finally wanes enough that it becomes apparent that it's time to camp, and the weather worsens as if to insist upon it. The group sets watches and sleeps through a miserable, wet night on a slight hillock in what has advanced from lowland to full swamp. In the morning, the group is wakens to a man trudging towards them through the muck, with his arms raised high and bearing no obvious weapons. About six feet tall, with a tangle of long, dirty red hair and a long red beard, he wears tattered, hole-ridden clothes soaked through with mud and stained black in many places. Even before he gets close, his stench precedes him—it’s not only as though he hasn’t bathed in years, but that he seems to have actually gone out of his way to cover himself in the most horrible smells the Isle of Terror has to offer: a blend of rotten eggs, human waste, and decaying organic matter. An arrow is lodged in the back of his right leg, but seems to cause him no pain as he sloshes through the waters of the swamp. Suddenly he stops.
I just wanted to restate this, since most of you weren't here when it was originally agreed upon and you've had no chance to really observe the norm, I think; Garik's original player couldn't do weekends, and that pretty much became a standing tradition even after he left. Since I've been back in school, that's also when I do a fair chunk of my work, so don't expect posting on Saturday and Sunday.
Amadea's arrows fly true, one embedding itself in the neck of the one Drosk had already wounded and the second catching the beast next to it in the side, felling it. The pair of dwarven barbarians, already charging as the first pair falls, redirect their attacks to the other two, Garik wading just a little into the muck to hit the alpha. Their axes make short work of the remaining mutant wolves. As the dark blood stains the lowland water, the omnipresent dark clouds overhead seem to let loose with a dark, almost oily drizzle.
As Erastil's warmth pours over Amadea, there is still a tinge of cold left by the strange appearance of these mutant, unnatural wolves. Drosk launches another rock, striking one of the wolves guarding the wounded alpha a solid blow. The pack takes this as cause for an assault, moving at top speed through the brackish water to take up positions just on the other side of the muck. The alpha remains slightly behind, dark blood staining the water. INIT: Round 3 21 Wolf Pack (W1: 10 HP damage W3: 3 HP damage)
Rolls: Drosk Attack
As the men prepare themselves for the onslaught, Amadea lets fly a pair of arrows, one sinking deep into the flanks of the apparent alpha wolf, the other being narrowly dodged by his companion. Drosk draws his sling and takes a shot that sails hopelessly wide. The alpha emits a hideous sort of yelp with an almost otherworldly, high-pitched tone, causing hairs to stand on end. The wolves, seeing their leader injured, come bounding up and snarl, hackles raised but apparently undeterred. They form up around it, preventing Amadea from getting a clear shot. All of them seem wary for another ranged attack and seem to be ready to mount their own across the brackish water.
INIT: Round 2 21 Wolf Pack (W1: 10 HP damage)
Rolls: Drosk Sling:
It looks like Drosk will not be rejoining us, in part due to illness. I have kicked Bolkin in the rear and he will hopefully be posting not long after this post, and from there we can hopefully regroup.
Scanning the horizon, it's pretty clear that there's not a rapid enough elevation close enough to cause any hindrance in a charge. There is, however, the opposite - an elongated pool of brackish water not too far north off the trail. Though only about twenty feet wide, it seems to be a slough making its way gently downhill for quite some distance. The party is able to slosh through well ahead of the wolves and set up defensive positions, though the beasts quickly realize they've been seen and give up any pretense of stealth. The barrier is long enough that the wolves would have to make a hopelessly long detour to make their way around the water. The group the ground stands on is slightly muddy, as though there were a recent flood, but it shouldn't be hard to keep traction in a fight. The water, while just over knee deep, has a treacherously muddy bottom. Turning after their scramble through the mud, they find the first pair of wolves just arriving at the opposite side of the muck, and they take a few steps up and down, panting heavily. The other pair is several feet behind. With a moment to contemplate the creatures closer, they are revealed to be not quite wolves. Their fur is jet black, and the apparent alpha has a curious, bulbous hunch in its back. The others all drool black ichor, and one seems to have an odd, mangled limb slung under its belly. This is the first sign the group has seen, apart from the nervewracking storms, that the Isle of Terror lives up to its name.
INIT: Round 1 21 Wolf Pack
Rolls: Wolves: Bolkin: Drosk:
I appreciate everybody's, ah, tenacity for lack of a better word. I feel somewhat better about the mess and hopefully going forward I'll be a bit less ashamed of it. This week marks the end of the first major test/project-due-all-at-once period for the semester, so hopefully I'll get things rolling with combat tomorrow or Friday and try to keep the pace going. As for Bolkin, he and I have known each other for years and I'm in contact with him practically every day. While it's certainly not wholly his fault, many delays have been because of awaiting his participation. Unfortunately we have a bit of a dynamic of avoidance regarding this kind of thing so I've mostly let it lie. I'll bring it up and try to get him to actually commit or let me know he's out (at least for the time being; a formalized temporary departure would be fine with me as well). Again, I appreciate ya'lls reassurance, and I'll try to step up and shape up.
I suppose that's as good a segue as I'm likely to get; communication is key and I haven't really done enough of it myself. I missed another promised deadline (by a week, no less), and I could hardly blame anybody for just sort of gently bowing out as such. (Or it's possible Max simply hasn't noticed; standard practice would be to send a PM). It took me a while to realize I'd missed it, and while there was a valid real-life excuse this time, there've been several times where I just shirked responsibility entirely. The game is basically a psychological malaise for me, a cycle of procrastination, guilt, and eventually posting that I find enjoyable. I've been debating myself all weekend whether or not to pull the plug on the game. I'm honestly uncertain as to whether or not the effort put into this is worth the enjoyment I get out of it. The mentioned guilt over my stilted posting and lack of communication is certainly a tax on it. So basically, - how invested are the three of you who remain in the game? How do you feel about the pace? I won't promise any improvements if we do go on, but I feel that getting this out of the way would help things. I know that if I were playing in the game I'd be more than a little concerned and it certainly wouldn't be meeting my expectations; your opinions may differ, so I'd like to know them. I should probably be able to infer your feelings from the fact that you're here despite everything, and I appreciate that you all have hung on this long regardless.
Wary of the wolves, the group continues on its way. Having covered significantly more tracks along the way, Garik figures that it's been roughly three days since the cultists passed this way. There's no sign that they've even attempted to cover their path, so apart from high winds and rain nothing has much altered the tracks. About ten minutes after the Garik first sighted the wolves, the group notes that the pack splits up, one pair speeding up and heading off the path through some scrub brush. The remaining pair start to speed up as well, keeping low and apparently believing they are out of sight. There's little doubt that they're going to attack shortly. The surrounding area is dominated by light brush and slightly muddy ground; the landscape seems to be trending towards a marshy low-land, though the ground is still reasonably solid at the current location.
Garik doesn't find much remarkable as he ambles around, until he begins to focus on tracks. There's a fairly clear trail leading through the ruined fort and out beyond it to the east. It's also clear that there are quite a few cultists - more than a dozen at the very least. Losing two was no major setback, likely. The party, with no better clues, make their way to the east, Garik easily following the tracks. The weather remains gloomy but quite nice given the stories - the deeply overcast sky is reminiscent of twilight despite the early hour, and only an occasional gust of wind indicates anything like a storm. Perception DC 16: About a mile's travel from Fort Landing, it becomes evident that there seems to be a pair of wolves shadowing the group. Even from this distance, there seems to be something unsettling about them.
I enjoy a good museum probably more than the next fellow, but I couldn't read much more than 'fossil record' than going into shutdown (I have an evolutionary psychology class this semester, which'd be grand if the first week didn't cover a lot of the cut-and-dry stuff I learned in basic biology). Another belated apology for tardiness but labor day weekend and general re-acclimatizing to 30-minute hikes in 100 degree muggy Texas heat has left me more scatter-brained than usual. At the least I've managed to get the adventure read more-or-less cover-to-cover, so we should be good.
Garik doesn't have a lot of work to do - the graves are shallow enough that it's reasonable to think they aren't too old, at least if the island is home to any remotely natural scavengers. The bodies are wrapped in traveling cloaks, and were lain to rest in the now-all-too-familiar iron masks of the Razmiri faith. There's no doubt that some of Iramine's underlings met a gruesome fate here, as even a casual examination shows numerous lacerations. That that fate befell them within easy sight of where they likely started from is a bit unnerving. DC 15 Heal or Survival:
The wounds were clearly inflicted by animals, the wounds typical of tooth and claw. It seems likely that they were wolves, though judging by the sheer number of wounds, perhaps more than just wolves...
The party crosses to the fort, with Garik and Amadea examining the site. The tracks, such as they are, are of absolutely no help to Amadea. It's uncertain whether there were few people in the party, they attempted to cover their tracks, or if the site has been left behind long enough that the isle's fierce, unpredictable weather has wiped away most of the signs. The fort itself is a maze of ruins; there's a little shelter from the wind thanks to the height of the walls, but there are few sections of roof remaining. As the two look around, they discover some recently-dug earth under one such overhang. By Amadea's guess, they're likely a pair of graves.
That looks fine to me; was hoping to actually get Bolkin to finish up his stuff but we are yet being conspired against. I'm going to start being more pro-active in posting instead of constantly waiting on someone; take that as both a promise in a warning, though I won't be punitive about it if I can help it.
Reginar nods. "Time is of the essence, yes. Gods be with you," the man says as he steps back. Captain Walren ushers the group aboard, the barge seeming larger now that the party has shrunken some. There are cots in the cabin again, and the space is shared with Walren and his taciturn Kellid deckhand, Ewem. The first five days are slow and uneventful travel along the southern shore of the lake, with the captain explaining that his barge isn't a true lake craft; he would prefer to stay close to shore until it's absolutely necessary. At breakfast of the sixth day, the Captain announces they're turning north, and that the party would be best served by remaining in the cabin. He indicates some buckets set aside should anybody feel unable to keep their meal down. The waters quickly prove tumultuous, the barge riding high on one wave only to crash into the valley of the next. Despite the rough waters and dark skies, there doesn't seem to be an actual storm brewing as yet. A full day and night of this and the barge comes along the island, which mostly consists of high sea-cliffs. The waters start to calm as the sky grows gradually brighter through the cloud cover, and a half-moon bay comes into sight. "Aroden's Landing," Walren says, more than a hint of relief in his voice. He brings the barge as close as he can and directs the group to a smaller boat. "Too rocky to risk the barge. We'll have to cross in that." Fortunately, the waters are calm enough that the passage is less arduous than the journey on the barge itself. As they reach the white-sand beach, Walren explains as the group disembarks. "I can only wait ten days for you, I'm sad to say. You make two fires, a couple hundred feet apart, and that'll be the signal for me to come pick ya up. Want to make sure I won't be sailing in to find some cultists should things go south," he says his tone serious. "All the luck on Golarion to you. You'll need it." A chill wind picks up from the east as the Captain rows back out to his barge. A few hundred feet from the beach is a small stone fortress, sand-blasted and partially collapsed. Still, it is the most obvious shelter within sight. The remains of a firepit just within the walls can be seen clearly from the group's current vantage. Let me know how you approach.
At the end of the meal, Reginar urges the group to take a day to rest, recuperate, and restock for the journey ahead. He also asks them to meet him at dawn at the docks on the day after that. On the appointed day, the group arrives to find Reginar pacing back and forth before a familiar flat-bottomed river barge. The Pathfinder catches sight of them almost immediately and waves the party over. "Not long ago, I'd say that it was a shame that young folks like yourselves would be sent to the gods-forsaken hole that is the Isle of Terror. After how you handled yourself with the cultists, well..." he sighs heavily. "It's still likely one of the most dangerous things you will ever do. I took the time to read all of what was left behind by Iramine, and learned what I could about what the Society knows. There isn't much, but it's the best I could do." He assumes a slightly different posture and tone of voice, a rolling cadence that allows him to speak quickly without sacrificing clarity. "The amulet Iramine has reassembled is evidently a key to Xin-Grafar, the City of Golden Death. This was actually the treasure-city of the Whispering Tyrant, thousands of years ago, when he was but a mortal wizard-king. Like much of his territory, he acquired it through conquest, and he used the knowledgeable arcane scholars there to devise a trap for Aroden. He created a gaping pit to the Negative Energy Plane, which remains open to this day. That is why it is called the Isle of Terror." He returns to his former style of speech, the history lesson over. "Several Pathfinders have gone to the Isle, but few have returned. What we do know is that the landscape is twisted, the animals mutated and the plants poisonous due to the massive planar breach. There are horrific storms much of the time, extending far enough out into the Lake that few dare even pass near it." "I don't know what you'll find, but I know that it will be dangerous. Iramine must be brought to justice, and we cannot let her have whatever is in the city." A familiar dwarf approaches, having come out of the barge's cabin while Reginar spoke. Captain Walren gives a great smile and offers his hand to whomever will take it. "It'll be a pleasure to be takin' you wherever you're needin' to go," he says. "I've you to thank for my own safety, not to mention that of the Black Mist." Reginar regards him with a grim expression. "You'll be taking them to Fort Landing." The dwarf is clearly taken aback, but his shock is only momentary. He strokes his beard thoughtfully before saying, "The Isle of Terror, eh? Why not? I hear this lot's doing well for themselves. Ewem and I can get you there, rest assured. We're ready to leave anytime." Reginar nods. "If you have any more questions, preparations, or concerns, now is the time."
Remind me to never simply add one day to the time I think it'll take; apart from the fact I didn't get a proper Internet connection sorted out until yesterday and that Paizo was down when I finally sat down to post, my feet are absolutely killing me, and due to some weird grandfather clause I have no fire extinguisher actually inside my apartment. Plus some of the strangest appliance placements I've ever had the displeasure to be annoyed by. I might have a post up tonight, if I can manage to keep a coherent train of thought going; otherwise I'll endeavor to have one up by tomorrow afternoon (though I can't guarantee I won't sleep-crash and throw that schedule back a little). Bolkin remains under the weather, too, unfortunately. Drosk's purchases look good to me, so the only bits left undone (and correct me if I'm wrong) are Bolkin in his entirety and Amadea's gear selection.
I misunderestimated how much time would be eaten by this move and to top it off unexpected visitations have eaten two precious days. Don't expect much from me until Wednesday, August 7th, most likely. Should be ready to roll sometime shortly after that, though.
Everything looks good (including upgrading from masterwork -> +1, of course). Tamran's a capital city so I'm not gonna pull any unavailability shenanigans unless someone's after an artifact or something. (not that you could afford it) Just as a couple of FYIs, Bolkin is apparently sick as a dog at the moment, so he may be a while. I've also got business today and tomorrow (and may wind up using Tuesday for recovery), so I might be slow in responding.
Evidence in hand, the group makes their way out of the temple to find a heavy city guard presence just outside. Several glum-faced, white-robed individuals are partially illuminated by the street lamps at the edge of the square the temple sits on. Most bear at least some resemblance to the youth Evlar, likely suckered in much as he was. A few seem to be nursing minor wounds, and while none are bound, the group is watched over by a handful of armed guardsmen who look equally uneasy. A quartet of gray-robed men sits, bound, not far from this group. The group is quickly noticed and approached by a similarly armed group and an officer with a large, droopy black moustache, short cropped hair, and a somewhat haggard demeanor. Explanations are quickly made and evidence proffered; the man shakes his head. "This makes some things make all too much sense. I may be getting a promotion I didn't really want once we get all this sorted out." One of the guards checks Egarthis' bonds and leads him off to join the others. The black robed man gives Amadea one last glance, the expression on his face unreadable. He offers his own explanations, saying that an elf and a sorceress showed up at a nearby station and summoned them. By the time they arrived they caught several priests emerging from the inn across from the temple, one of whom quickly folded. Evidently the group Egarthis sent to find the 'invaders' discovered Krant's death and fled through a secret tunnel connected to the inn (which is likely how the group was transported once drugged) A short time afterward several of the white robed initiates emerged, many of them seeking help and sharing stories of mistreatment, imprisonment, and coercion to remain with the cult. The watchmen were debating how to approach the problem when the group emerged. "I'm sorry you had to be a part of this," the mustachioed guardsman says. "Tamran's always seeing bad times, and we all saw that there was a lot of coin flowing out of the Razmiran's pockets and into the city. Through legal ways too, I mean. Just... didn't know where it come from," he says, shaking his head again. "We're gonna try and get most of this stuff back where it belongs, but you all certainly deserve a reward as well." The guards question the group a little more before saying they're free to go. A familiar face calls to them from the doorway of The Ranger's Lament. Reginar, the Pathfinder contact who suggested they look into the temple, waves them over and inside. He gestures to a table where he has an array of beverages and food set out. "The owner of this place was in on it the whole time, it seems. Everything belongs to the city, now, and I don't think they'll mind if you help yourselves." He takes the leg from some fowl and helps himself, swallows, and adds, "I promised it's not poisoned this time." Looking it over, the fare does look like leftovers of what the group had eaten earlier in the day. Reginar eats slowly, spending much of his time listening to the story intently. Once it's shared, he pushes his plate away and leans forward. "I confess, you did more and quicker than I ever could have. I - and the Pathfinders - can't thank you enough. Coin's not enough to express that, but it's a start," he says as he throws some heavily-laden bags on the table. "The guard out there's a good man - word's going to be reaching Forest Marshal Gavirk soon. Razmir's foul cult should be outlawed by morning, and if we find anybody else not in custody, we'll fix that." He leans back again, grabbing a napkin to clear his hands of grease. "If you're looking to chase down Iramine, I'm afraid to say my part in this is through - you've got more intel than I could have, and my personal opinion is she's already dead or way out of my league. My concern is going to be redistributing what they took and, some day, trying to check their expansion into the other nations around Lake Encarthan." He breathes deeply and finishes. "Honestly, I won't rest easy until I know for sure that the b+%*~ who started all this is dealt with. If you find her and get back from the Isle of Terror alive, I'd like to know. Erastil, Torag, and whomever else might be watching be with you if you do decide to go."
We handle HP the same way Pathfinder Society does; 1/2 the hit dice, rounded up. So 7 for Morthos and Garik, 6 for Bolkin and Amadea, and 5 for Drosk. The sheer amount of cash you get from this adventure seems nuts (especially since a lot of it is 'art stuff') and I don't know how to properly handle it in-game, so I'm just going to furiously wave my hand and let you guys know you've each got 4500 gp to spend as you see fit (within reason of course) on equipment. (I don't think this quite meets the WBL, but it is split five ways after all) Level-ups look good, and thanks for showing them in that format.
Drosk's first bash just mars the wood, but the second neatly pops the desk's frame, and the rest is easily pried away, bypassing the lock. Within is a leather pouch overflowing with platinum pieces (50 in total), a small, clear glass bottle containing a transparent liquid, and an intricate silver figurine of a raven. Egarthis, slumped morosely against the wall, lets out a dry laugh at Amadea's comment. "Turn it over to the watch and who knows where it'll go; they were certainly receptive enough to us."
Dotting for interest. I've got a character in mind whom I've wanted to play mechanically for a while now and should be able to scrape together the rest in a couple of days. Basically she'll be a Fighter (the Polearm Master archetype from the APG) with a focus on interrupting enemy movement. Characterwise, the gist is chipper, naive farmgirl with an adventurous streak (primarily due to an absentee father). I'll actually flesh this out and setup an alias tomorrow or Wednesday, probably. I confess to knowing as good as nothing about Greyhawk, though.
As Morthos and Garik examine the room, at first little seems to be out of place. The liquor proves to be Andoren brandy - perhaps not tailored to the dwarven palate, but still the sort that commands a price in keeping with the rest of the room. Garik systematically checks the desk drawers, finding little more than parchment and quills until he reaches the last one at the bottom right, which proves to be locked. No keys from the various rings they've acquired fit; it's likely that Iramine is the only one with a copy. Without Telperion's deft hands the lock is unlikely to be defeated, but the desk probably can't withstand even a mild clobbering. Morthos turns his attentions to the bookshelf, and after pulling out a few volumes realizes that some rows are double-stacked. A thorough search uncovers three ledgers hidden the back row - they catch the eye, seeming to be the best shot at some hard evidence of the cult's doings. The first is a sort of accounting ledger, dictating every copper piece brought into the temple as well as its method of acquisition. Amongst actual donations, alms, and the like are several less savory means of income. Protection rackets, blackmail, drugs, and even slave trafficking - all illegal in Nirmathas. The second is even more damning, as it accounts for all of the cult's expenditures. Amongst standard entries are numerous purchases of illegal goods and, most telling, several bribes to city officials and watchmen. With the amount of money going through the organization, it's not surprising, though disappointing, how they were able to operate like this. As Egarthis had said, much of the money was sent back to Razmiran as tribute to the Living God. For Bolkin, Garik, and Drosk, the third ledger is a little like reliving the past. It contains detailed notes about the expedition in the Crypt of the Everflame, including the recruiting of several outsiders - the zombies whose ultimate fate came at the group's own hands - the theft of Kassen and Asar's amulets, and a final note confirming what Egarthis had said. Now that I have the completed amulet, I shall return to the City of Golden Death to finish what was started all those years ago. At the time, I thought Kassen was a fool for insisting that we abandon such wealth, but now I must thank him. The treasure shall enrich the Living God, so that he will never die. Such is the price of immortality. Now I must return to the Isle of Terror, and I cannot say that my journey will be without terrible danger. May Razmir protect me. It seems that, whatever her character in Kassen's time, Iramine has given herself entirely to the Cult of the Living God. The corruption doesn't seem to be widespread - with the truth brought to light, several heads will roll, at least metaphorically. Tamran will be a better place without this cult operating within it.
The party makes their way up the stairs, Egarthis in tow. At the top of the stairs is an unsettling yet undeniably beautiful stained glass window depicting a golden mask, not dissimilar to the ones the cultists wear but markedly more ornate. Opposite the grand mask stands a pair of tall double doors, made from shining silver. Carved into their surface is the symbol of Razmir, beneath which dozens of supplicants are portrayed holding up piles of coins, jewels, and other wealth to the icon of the Living God. Egarthis indicates the specific key that opens the doors and warns that touching the door without it will set off a magical trap. The room beyond has many doors, three on each side and a pair of double doors opposite the entrance. In the center of the chamber, a twostep dais serves as a base for a sculpture made up of dozens of masks, carefully forged into a humanoid shape. Quite suddenly, a voice booms out from the chamber asking, “Who are the true gods?” Just as suddenly as the voice came, all is silent. Egarthis replies, "Money and power." He then gestures to the double doors. "Those are Iramine's quarters. Unlocked, and untrapped, as far as I know. I haven't been inside since she left." Within, a large plush bed on the south wall, facing a carved oak desk on the north side, furnishes the large and opulently decorated quarters of the priestess. In the center of the room, a large carpet, woven with the mask of the Razmir at its center, spreads across the floor. A bedside table holds a whip and a few bottles of spirits and perfume. The desk is clean, but the bookcase over the working area seems likely to have evidence. There are a few drawers in the desk as well.
"Up the stairs and through the two sets of double doors; it's difficult to miss," Egarthis replies. "I sincerely do not know if Iramine has any traps in there, but there is one in the Herald's quarters. The password is 'money and power'. Or you can take me with you, if you still don't trust me."
Gonna be a bit busy today but I'll do my best to move the game along in the evening.
Egarthis gives the half-orc a quizzical look. "The Isle of Terror. It lies at the center of Lake Encarthan, surrounded by torrential seas and storms, plagued by undead. It's a deathtrap, but apparently there lies an ancient city and its riches. If you wish to get there, you'll have to find an incredibly stupid or foolish boat captain, I imagine." He looks away and adds, "I only hold back on personal matters that are of no concern to you. Suffice it to say any... illusions I have about my relationship with the High Priestess have been quite thoroughly shattered." He looks back, his mien a little softer, and adds, "It would be in both our interests for you to let the matter lie, in any case. Going to the Isle of Terror is suicide; chasing Iramine there even moreso."
Ugh, weird hours, Internet sporadically not working, and everything takes longer than expected. So unfortunately business as usual.
"I am only reluctant to share what I know insofar that Iramine would likely be cross with me. I'm sure you'll find out, anyway; there's documentation. As for your other questions... Iramine is the High Priestess of this temple. She founded this it, with the blessings of the church, and most of our policies were her own ideas, so have no illusions about the nature of the woman you're dealing with." He pauses a moment to take a breath. "I'm afraid I don't know anything about her past; but she is an elf, and an old one, I believe. And she's absolutely ruthless. She spent a great deal of our resources - perhaps too many, even for her station - on acquiring some amulet. She believes it opens some treasure vault on the Isle of Terror. She wouldn't take that risk without being certain. She set out just a few days ago." "As for her return..." he shrugs. "She... May not. It's an uncertain venture, in any case." He lapses into silence, and seems to be looking somewhere far away.
Egarthis glares for a while, then sucks in air through his teeth. "You're right. There's no point in continuing the charade; it was only through coercion, bribes - Tamran's own corruption - that we could act as we did. Now, everything exposed - well, the system will do its work. I grew careless, letting a group this large in without carefully observing them first. I daresay," he says with a mirthless chuckle, "I deserve my fate. Lady Iramine would be displeased." He looks at Morthos, and sneers. "There are three kinds of acolytes - the loyal, whom have fallen, the meek, who will raise no hand against me, and those who did not fully comprehend Razmir's teachings and fled for personal safety. In any case," he continues with a grim smile, "I regret only that I was caught. I will help you, where I am able, of course - I know when I am beaten. For that same reason, I think, you won't be mistreating me too badly." "Much of what we took was sent to Razmiran, but there is a treasury hidden within the temple. I can show you to it, but I am afraid I do not have the keys to the chests; Iramine trusted only herself with the key to the treasury." He shifts a bit, fruitlessly seeking to make himself a tiny bit more comfortable, and adds, "If there is anything else you wish to know, all you must do is ask."
Road trip tomorrow and then I've got a weekend of house clean-up to pitch in with, but I'll try to keep with the interrogation and hopefully we'll be past this lump soon-ish.
With his gag removed, Egarthis becomes all hate and venom, launching into a tirade before anyone can begin to interrogate them. "What purpose have you in doing this? Is it some crusade against our god? Your crimes here will not soon be forgiven by the city watch!" Despite his imperious tone, it seems even Egarthis does not truly believe that his church will be found to be in the right, not once what happens behind closed doors comes to light. "Am I alive because of some mercy, or do you actually need something from me? Perhaps the High Priestess? You seek to eliminate us when she is out, then perhaps spring a trap upon her return?" One can almost see the wheels turning in the schemer's head.
The priest takes a moment, at least putting on the act of giving the non-choice a consideration, and nods once.
Egarthis is quick to come around, and seems to assess the situation just as rapidly. He gives a cursory struggle against his bonds, awkwardly surveys the room as best he can from the ground, and glares at Amadea, his pale green eyes making it more than clear that, if he could, he would be spitting at her. He does manage to make some sort of noise around his gag, though anything he was attempting to communicate is completely lost.
A thorough search indicates little that would have done the prisoners much good. None of the lower priests have anything more than their standard equipment, but Egarthis has three significant magic items - a brooch, a ring, and a wand. It seems he used any tricks he had during the fight - that collar that summoned the hounds comes to mind - or simply didn't have time to collect them. There are also two potions of cure moderate wounds and a potion of cure light wounds scattered amongst the fallen. Detect Magic:
Each of these emits an aura of faint abjuration. Spellcraft DC 20 (Ring):
This is a ring of protection +1. Spellcraft DC 16 (Brooch):
This is a brooch of shielding. Spellcraft DC 16 (Wand): This is a wand of shield, with 42 charges remaining.
After Drosk's ministrations, the priest Garik felled is still frightfully pale, but seems like he'll live. Tying him and his still-conscious companion up is easy. The only barrier to binding Egarthis is the look of sheer malice on the man's stern features. This is somewhat alleviated by the addition of a gag. Curiously, the doors, manned dutifully by Bolkin, are not assaulted, even though it's hard to imagine those that went through failed to notice the commotion upstairs, with raging dwarves and baying hounds. Torag's aid is a welcome relief to the party, torn and seared flesh flowing back to its natural state, flushing red with a pleasant heat. Know: Religion (DC 15):
It seems not entirely unlikely that, put in a tight spot, followers of Razmir might abandon their brothers if the situation seems dire enough. The 'hooligans' might have escaped through a secret passage, or be hiding, especially after finding the fallen Krant. The current head of the local cult and two of his lackeys lay unconscious on the steps, awaiting interrogation.
The priest immediately drops to his knees without regard for the fact he's standing on stairs, which results in a headlong pitch-forward that winds up with him, appropriately, on the ground. His only verbal response is a whimper.
With Garik distracting the beast, Drosk gives the hound a good whack, and the beast disappears in a puff of oily smoke. Morthos rushes past the lesser threats, cleaving at Egarthis and striking a telling blow. The lower priest's rapier manages to strike him somewhere along the way, stinging a bit. Amadea's shot is deflected by a field of shimmering force around the priest's more vital parts. Bolkin pushes past Morthos and is quite surprised to see a fist flying his way. The caster, surprisingly, was able to launch the attack without leaving himself open. Garik rushes forward and hews down the wounded priest, leaving only two opponents remaining. . Egarthis sways on his feat as he carefully, methodically casts a spell, careful to not leave himself open to his attackers. "From hell's heart," he mutters as he unleashes a cone of brilliant, scintillating light at Morthos, the dazzling display causing quite a lightshow in the front pews. As the spell dies down, Egarthis is a crumpled heap posed awkwardly on the stairs, and Morthos stands, blinking, but none the worse for wear. The remaining priest's hands are raised roof-ward, his nerve quite plainly gone. The chapel falls silent, for the moment.
Dice: AoO vs Morthos Egarthis AoO Stunning Fist vs Bolkin
Casting Defensively
oh right Garik
Morthos Will
Drosk's incantation causes the head priest's iron mask to glow a dull orange. Egarthis quickly throws the item to the ground, grimacing in pain, but not much the worse for wear. The man's face is solid, square, and difficult to take seriously with the rose-colored blush from the heat. "No quarter!" he yells, though his remaining underlings don't seem to acknowledge the order amidst the chaos of combat. To underscore the futility of the statement, an arrow whizzes into his shoulder and nearly causes him to fall backwards onto the stairs. Morthos strides over the fallen priest delivers a terrific blow to the living companion's midsection, leaving him reeling. Bolkin attempts to trip the crossbow-wielding priest, but fails to get the frightened man off his feat. Garik retaliates against the remaining hellhound, giving it a good conk across the head for its trouble. Egarthis commands "Shoot the archer!" even as he turns his own attention to the incoming dwarven threat, launching another searing beam, which this time turns the dwarf's formidable stone plate into a sort of pressure cooker. The crossbow-wielding priest seems to get the idea, and steps backwards onto the steps to reload and let fly a bolt at Amadea. It manages to nick her shoulder, though the wound is almost superficial. The priest Morthos nearly downed attempts to drive his blade into a joint, and just narrowly fails to penetrate. The hound makes a solid lunge at Garik, but comes short of actually getting in another bite. INIT Round 2 (Map) 23 Amadea (22/31 HP) (17+7-2)
Dice: Egarthis Reflex
Scorching Ray P1 DECISION P2 HH
Reply to Drosk:
Well, strictly reading the rules, I'd say it wouldn't work; in the spirit of them, though, it's not like you're intentionally trying to target, say, his armor to bypass the save.
Basically, yes, I'll allow it. Amadea's arrow flies true, and this time Egarthis bleeds from the wound. Apart from that involuntary reflex, he remains seemingly unperturbed. Morthos turns on one of the new arrivals, striking a powerful blow that leaves the hellish creature unsteady on its feet. Beside him, Bolkin waves his flail around and before anyone is sure quite what happened, the priest is empty-handed, blade and shield on the ground*. Meanwhile, Garik draws both his axe and mace across the body of the hound that attacked him, which causes it to abruptly disappear to wherever it came from. Egarthis utters something, extends his hand, and sends a burning ray across the room, striking Amadea squarely in the midsection. The priest Bolkin disarmed steps back and draws his crossbow, still more afraid of the raging dwarf than anything, apparently. Somehow the man manages to graze Morthos' head. His companion follows up with an ineffectual jab from his rapier, which is turned aside by the dwarven stone plate. The priest also steps back. The remaining hound bounds backwards, rears back, and unleashes a cloud of fire at Morthos and Garik, which scalds both dwarves.
Dice:
Garik's Action
Egarthis P1 P2 Hound + Saves Back in Morthos Garik INIT Round 2 (Map) 23 Amadea (17/31 HP)
Amadea opens the fight with an arrow that strikes the forearm of the priest on the stairs. A gentle shimmering seems to indicate some sort of ephemeral armor, and while the arrow clearly pains him, there is no blood. Whether it's the dwarf's sheer rage, the priest's own ineptitude, or simply the shock of seeing a mess of tumbling stone and flesh, the party will never know why the priest failed to block, parry, or dodge; in an instant, the only authority on the matter lies in a crumpled heap on the floor (less the bits smeared across the blade of Morthos' greataxe) The remaining priests, surging adrenaline, manage to block Bolkin and Garik's assaults. One could almost swear that the mask of the one Garik attacked has blanched, though. The two junior priests left standing throw literally everything they have at Morthos, both their rapiers and their shields. The onslaught proves difficult to dodge, as somehow a blade works its way past his armor, narrowly missing a vital spot, and a shield catches him about the brow. Though hard to make out, those in the vicinity hear a comment something to the effect of "I think we only made him angrier." Egarthis touches his throat, and there's a slight jangling snap, like that a thin chain breaking. "Such a pity," he laments, holding up a piece of leather with two small rubies imbedded. "Iramine feared someone might try something while she was gone; I'm gladdened that she took out an insurance policy." He casts the item to the ground, and after a slight sucking of air and an odd pop, a pair of massive, slathering dogs appears behind the party's line, each as tall as the dwarves, their fur reddish-brown, and their eyes glowing like fire. Garik soon finds that the eyes aren't just for show, as snarling fangs break past his armor, burning his flesh even as it's pierced. Bolkin manages to narrowly avoid a bite from the hound flanking him. Rolls:
Priest 1 Priest 2 CRIT confirmation Priest 1
Damage
Hellhounds (v Bolkin / v Garik)
INIT Round 1 (Map 23 Amadea (nat 20!)
The three priests make their way down the steps in haste, though Egarthis seems to take a more leisurely pace. Though it's hard to guess just where his gaze lies, it becomes apparent fairly quickly. "I am not certain who you are, what you think you know, or why you are here, but I believe you would have made - or may yet make - good disciples of Razmir. Whatever transpires here will be regrettable. They must not escape, but do not kill them," he orders the three priests. They draw their weapons and prepare to move forward.
INIT Round 1: > 23 Amadea (nat 20!)
Spoiler: Amadea Garik Morthos Bolkin Drosk Egarthis & Co:
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