“One of our number has fallen.” Venture-Captain Adril Hestram lets the grave words hang in the air before continuing. It’s difficult to imagine a large man like Adril defeated, but in light of this grim news his shoulders slump; he is a man who suffered a loss.
“Targos Min-Katheer, esteemed venture-captain, is dead. His last wishes are simple: he wants his mortal remains to take one last trip along the Silken Way to his home city of Katheer, there to rest with his ancestors. He was one of our finest and we aim to honor his request. It is for this reason I’ve called you all together.”
Adril points one sausage-thick finger at the map on the table, tracing a line from Absalom to the mouth of the Pashman River, then snaking up the river to the oasis city of Lopul.
"Here is where you can gather up his remains and join the silken caravan, one of the only caravans daring the harsh journey across the desert from Lopul to Katheer. This mission is simple, joyride really, but we insist you give it the attention it deserves. A few weeks in the sun, seeing the sights of the desert. A dream assignment.”
Adril has a way of making every assignment sound like a sweet deal, but the last few weeks traveling by boat up the Pashman River and then hiking the short distance to the oasis city have been grueling to the extreme. A poisonous river snake claimed one of your guides; you remember his last gasps well, and how his face bloated to twice its usual size within seconds of the bite.
Before you now lies Lopul, the great caravan city, erected around the crystal life-giving waters of the Pool of Sihbon, the largest oasis for over one hundred miles. Mud brick houses baking in the sun and great canvas tents crowd the central copse of palm and date trees.
Lopul is a caravan-city ruled by the Sheikh Samraf Al Hadari, humble servant to the padishah emperor of Kelesh. The settlement’s population fluctuates wildly with the comings and goings of trade caravans, but usually has at least a thousand locals and travelers in residence at any one time. Most of the city is comprised of tents and temporary dwellings erected by merchants and caravan masters, with only about a quarter of the city’s structures being permanently built around the Pool of Sihbon itself. Among these permanent structures are a half dozen caravanserai, the fortress of the sheikh, and twoscore domed dwellings constructed of mud brick. One such dwelling is the former residence of Targos Min-Katheer. All that remains is to collect his body and join the silken caravan.
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'A dream assignment' the venture-captain said. A 'joyride'! I'll have to remember never to take on a job that Adril Hestram calls challenging. Still, I'd not wish to deny a man his last wishes, particularly one like Min-Katheer.
Terrill looks at his travelling companions, still not well known to him even after weeks of travel. They haven't really been tested together, and he hopes they're able to work together when a real challenge arises.
Terrill is a relatively short half-elf, though one corded with muscle. He wears a full suit of finely-crafted chainmail, dull silver in color, and a beautifully-made curving blade runs across his back. He is young, but surprisingly serious and intent in his demeanor. In spite of this, one side of his mouth lifts in a slight smile as considers the next steps that lie ahead of them. Addressing his fellow Pathfinders, he says, "Well, now we just need to find Min-Katheer's house, collect the body, convince whoever's got it that we're supposed to take it away, and get it across the desert before it rots away. Simple. A joyride, in fact."
Lifting his eyes to the heavens, he says quietly, "Lady Luck, smile on us as we take on this task."
Speaking to his companions once again, he says, "Where should we start?"
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A young woman, late teens, early 20s looks up. A scar covering her left eye. Her eyes bright green. Long hair, black, tied into a ponytail, at the top, and bottom. Her clothes seem a bit warn, even her weapon, a musket seems as if it might fall apart any second.
A trip is a trip is a trip. As long as we get this done, i don't care
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A tall dark haired, blue eyed, Ulfen man listened intently to the Venture-Captain. Now standing in Lopul, gaping at the throng of humanity, shakes his sweat drenched head and mumbles to himself. Just an easy job he said. Let's get this thing done. Its too hot here for my liking.
With just a quick glance to see if his companions are following, Jarlgur begins weaving his way through the masses toward Min-Katheer's former abode.
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Well said, let's get this done with. Do you know where the VC's house is sir?
If not, i'll ask around. A Venture-Captain must be well-known, so we will easily find his house. I'm Linark by the way.
Who talks is a almost 6-feet-tall man, wearing a Scale Mail with a Nodachi (very long Katana) at his back. He has brown hair and eyes, many scars in the arms and two in the face, and probably the best word you can describe his expression is "stubborn".
After a little asking around the party is directed toward Min-Katheer's home.
A small mud-brick, domed dwelling lies at the end of a humble, sandy street here in the heart of the caravan city. The scent of the nearby oasis still reaches you, and a hive of bees, attracted by the nearby water, hangs from a date palm next to the house. The wails of mourners and cries of women and children reach your ears, and you can see a small crowd gathered outside the house’s single door, its members crying and tearing their garments. Whether professionally hired mourners or sorrow-filled residents outpouring legitimate grief for the loss of a local hero is unclear, but the emotion seems genuine enough.
Knocking at the front door brings an answer in the form of a man in sackcloth with ashes poured over his freshly shaved head. His face is sickly pale under the coating of ashes, and part of one ear if missing. His hands are wrapped in dirty bandages.
He looks over the party briefly, nods, and then steps aside allowing the party entrance.
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Terrill accompanies the party as they weave their way through the ephemeral city, wondering what it's like when the trading season is over and all but a few souls have moved on. The quiet he imagines is a distinct contrast to the wailing and sobbing that greets them at the house of Min-Katheer.
As they step through the door, Terrill looks at the man in disgust for a moment, then changes his expression, thinking, Poor soul, he's trapped in that sick body just as sure as a man may be trapped in prison. But his only hope of breaking out lies in death, or healing beyond his wealth.
He says, "Thank you, sir," quite respectfully to the leper, and enters the house behind Jarlgur.
Inside the main room of the structure several other lepers stand or kneel in reverence for the fallen Pathfinder. A dense beaded curtain at the rear of the room hangs down concealing the building's bedroom.
A moment after the party enters, a man wearing priestly robes and a black jackal death mask emerges from behind the curtain. He nods in greeting to each member of the party.
"Greetings. I am Ben-Garri", he explains in a voice muffled by the ornate mask. "You were friends of good Targos Min-Katheer?"
The masked man nods.
"My associates and I are tasked with preparing Min-Katheer's remains for transport. I am afraid the work is not quite complete. Please return in the evening. He will be ready by then."
The man shuffles in place.
"A goddess of my people. Her name will not be familiar with you foreigners - no offense intended. She is charged with guarding the dead on their way to Pharasma."
Ben-Garri hisses from beneath his mask.
"Bah! Too learned for your own good. Slay them my brothers!"
As the masked man howls his command the lepers filling the room look to each other in confusion.
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Terrill is surprised by the speed of Jarlgur's judgment, but any hesitation he feels is banished by the strange priest calling out to the lepers to attack.
He draws his curved blade off his back in a smooth movement and calls out to the lepers around them, "My friend is right, save what lives you have left and begone, or die on my blade!"
It's unclear if it's due to Jarlgur's kind words or Terrill's simple threat, but several of the lepers break and run from the building (assuming those in their way make no efforts to stop them).
Others prove dedicated to Ben-Garri and square off against the party before swinging bandaged fists and knees.
As Aldrea levels her exotic weapon, the closest leper takes a swing at her.
But she easily bats the man's flailing limp aside and fires her weapon. The alchemically-powered lead ball slams into the leper's chest blowing a hole in his bandaged torso. The diseased attacker goes limp and drops to the ground in a bloody heap.
Linark and Terrill easy cut down the remaining lepers leaving Ben-Garri alone. The masked man tears away the robes covering his torso revealing pale diseased flesh with the holy symbol of Lamashtu branded into his chest. He cackles in glee.
"Feel her power!"
The masked diseased man reels but fights off the spell.
"Ha ha ha! Die outsiders!"
Ben-Garri continues to laugh as Terrill's blade misses him but is quickly silenced as Aldrea's gunfire tears a hole in his leperous flesh.
"You'll pay for that whore!" he hisses.
Linark’s divinely empowered blow connects, splintering bone and splattering the small room in gore. Ben-Garri’s diseased form crumbles to the ground in death.
The lepers all fled but the mourners have approached the building, some in fear and others in curiosity.
”What has happened?” one asks.
”By the gods! There’s blood everywhere!” another cries.
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She laughs,
My dear Linark , i do believe i should thank you. But, i have been called worse. My background I've dealt with people who like calling me names, not to mention where i grew up. But i do appreciate the help and the kindness
Her scarred face had a smile, and now with her hat off, there seem to be more scarring. Almost like fire burns, covering half her face. One could almost imagine how she use to look like
She thanks him as her latest injury heals
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Terrill accepts Jarlgur's offer of healing.
He then turns to the approaching mourners and attempts to calm them, particularly after Linark's shouting at them. "Please, keep calm and wait outside. The priest who was preparing the body was an impostor and attacked us. We're not sure what exactly he was up to, and we need some time to make sure all is well. Again, please keep calm and have patience."
Hoping this will suffice to keep things under control, Terrill steps into the curtained-off room where Min-Katheer's body is supposed to be.
The curious mourners recoil in fear from the fearsome paladin. Many nervously flee but Terrill’s soothing words calm a few.
Stepping behind the curtain, Terrill finds himself in an even smaller room. A simple bed fills most of the space with an opened chest at its foot. Min-Katheer’s prepared remains lay atop the bedding.
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Terrill moves toward the bed and takes a look at the the Venture-Captain's body to assess what Ben-Garri may have done to it. He then looks into the opened chest, and as he does so a thought occurs to him.
In a low voice, so the mourners outside won't hear, he calls through the opening into the next room, "Would one of you make a quick search of that impostor priest? There's an open chest in here and I want to make sure he hasn't taken anything important."