{IC} From the Dark

[Saskia]

OOC (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?362538-OOC-From-the-Dark&p=17790832#post17790832)

A bitter wind blows in from the east. The old barn, half-charred and half overgrown with woody vines, at least provides some shelter from the howling cold. But this is the place. It's got to be.


We know.

-S

The only message on the lilac-scented card, with only a date, a time, and brief instructions to this old, burned-out homestead on the reverse. Just after sundown, the last day of the month of Aryth, and by the looks of it the year's first winter storm is rolling in, and whoever S is, they're already a half-hour late. Suspecting the other four got the same strange message only fuels the unnatural tension.

[King Tius]

Thianin stands with his arms clasped behind his back, facing the cold wind head on. Being from the desert, the cold is something he's rarely encountered and the newness and thrill of it has yet to subside. He takes a deep breath of the wind, feels it burning inside his lungs, and exhales noisily. Turning to the four other strangers gathered in the skeleton of the barn, he holds his arms out at his side and asks with a laugh.

"So what is it they know? These theatrics don't impress me and if someone doesn't explain themselves or start swinging a blade at me, I fear I will grow very bored."

[Diful Takveh]

Simon leans against the eastern side of the barn, letting the wind play through his hair as he keeps an eye to the east. His sleeves and pants fully open, he lets the wind blow through his clothes as it had on many a windy day in Cyre. Eventually, the chill of winter starts to bother him, so he pulls his hands apart and utters an unintelligible incantation under his breath. Almost immediately, his shirt begins to warm, and he aids it by pulling the drawstrings to tighten the sleeves about his wrists, tying them off before repeating the action with his pant legs. He takes one last look to the east before picking up his bag and staff and heading inside.

He looks at the gathered strangers, strangers to him at least and judging by their lack of inclination to speak to or stay near one another, strangers to one another. Simon was no exception to this rule, so he sits on an unused barrel and pulls three stones out of his pocket. He tosses them into the air one at a time and passes control over to the spell he had cast earlier, juggling them with magic where a circus performer might use his hands. Among other things, the spell was an accurate timer, and if the stones fell, it just meant that he had wasted an hour of his time.

Confident in his ability to keep the stones in motion without looking at them, he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall of the barn. In this position, he wonders what sort of secrets these people might have that would bring them out here on such a night. In the end, it is the same, however; they all had something they wanted to keep to themselves, and someone had to spoil an otherwise perfect evening by sending an entirely too vague note.

Then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe such a note was sent to a much wider range, and he and the four others were the only ones who felt threatened by those two simple words. It didn't matter. He was here, and the sender did not appear to be. Right now, all that mattered was juggling those stones.Cast Prestidigitation.

[RaggedAngel]

When the others had arrived, Fix had already been sitting in the barn, quietly working on her crossbow. The warforged seemed quite ordinary; perhaps especially well-made, if one paid close attention, but her belts and tools obscured that fairly well. She was tall and strong, built like a soldier, but she carried scrolls at her hip and she bore no weapons other than the bow. As each other person arrived, she watched them for a several long minutes before returning to her efforts. After a while working on the crossbow she switches to her own left knee, then she takes out a scroll and studies it for damage, then she re-attaches a belt buckle that had become loose. Constantly working, and moving, and never speaking.

Until finally the party was a group of five, and someone finally spoke up; the warrior elf with the double-bladed weapon. She tightens her belt, stands, and walks over to Thianin. The movement is quite threatening, at first; she is the tallest person in the room, built of stone and metal and wood, with an inscrutable expression. But she offers her three-fingered hand to shake, and when she speaks her voice is surprisingly high and articulate. She sounds like a student at an academy, not a tough warforged warrior. "I have been impolite, I am sorry. My name is Fix, and I prefer female pronouns. Are you here to kill me?"

[King Tius]

The loosely-garbed elf spares a sidelong glance at the twirling stones but his eyes focus intently on the warforged as she approaches. His demeanor is that of relaxed readiness, always prepared to leap into action but not anxiously set like a coiled spring. It's the same feeling one gets from seeing the larger species of cats; even when they're licking their paws they are ready to strike. He makes no move for his weapon when Fix approaches and takes her offered hand firmly. "Thianin of the Valiant Spears. I've yet to be hired to kill anyone here, but if you'd like to do the deadly dance, I am always happy to oblige." He bows slightly at the waist during his introduction, a subtle gesture of courtesy without being overly dramatic.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix rubs the back of her head, clearly a nervous gesture. She takes a slight step back from Thianin, giving the elf some more personal space. "I am not exactly eager to die, don't misunderstand me. But I received a message today from someone who claims that they 'know', and the only thing I have ever done is run away. So I assumed that the person I ran from has found me."

She looks over the occupants of the room again, narrowing her eyes slightly. "But it seems that everyone here is waiting for someone. We have all been given a message by someone who signed their name with an 'S', is that correct? I do not see what qualms my maker would have with each of you. Have any of you associated yourselves with House Cannith in the past?"

[Diful Takveh]

So, the warforged, Fix as it had introduced itself--as she had introduced herself, rather, had run away from House Cannith. Interesting. If that was the case, then at least two of the five gathered had broken a contract with the house, and Simon had a sinking suspicion that the other three might have as well. He looks them over again: a gnome who looks to be more at home in a library than out here in this barn; an elf, Thianin by name, who looks to be from Valenar, given his attire; and the human woman who, like the elf, seems to be more of a warrior than a craftsman. Given the latter two, Simon relaxes slightly. It didn't appear that Cannith was the instigator behind this. Now, he could sit here and speculate, or...

No, he would wait until someone else denied their connection with House Cannith. If he spoke up now, he would be put in the awkward position of having to defend his position using words as yet unspoken by his peers, and when asked why he didn't use his own lack of dealings with Cannith, it would force out truth that otherwise might remain hidden and safe. Until he knew what S knew, he wouldn't go spouting off secrets that might cast a less-than-favorable light on him.

Simon adds pulls another three stones from a pouch at his belt and starts juggling them in the same manner, perpendicular to and completely within the first ring.

[Crinias]

Maria stands impassively near the side of the barn, one hand holding a card like everyone else. She faces away from the wind, arms crossed, tapping a finger idly to pass the time. She seems expressionless, simply waiting. She doesn't mind the cold, or for that matter, the somewhat sinister circumstances of this group's meeting.

When it first arrived, the letter was just surprising. She had thought of the possibility of being found, but not in this manner. Could Mina have had friends looking for her? Another lover? Maria had tried to think of all possibilities. It was unlikely to be a local member of the Watch (or however the local security force was called in Aundair) - a cryptic message seemed more secretive and personal. A vigilante or the like seemed right out as well. If someone wanted revenge on her, alerting her seemed rather counterproductive. She could have run away if she wanted to - unless 'S' expected her to just go to this location of her own will, like a meal jumping upon a silver plate, ready to be killed?

It would have been very fitting, considering what she had done to Mina... But no, she got the impression that if someone wanted her dead, she already would be. Upon further consideration, the message was also rather vague. The more she had thought about it, the less sense it made. That thought calmed her. She could either leave town, get away from whoever thought to give her this message... or she could face it head-on, and not run away.

And frankly, that was better than just aimlessly wondering. Now, she had a direction. So she had come to this place, even if it did mean possibly walking into a trap.

When the other four people came here, she'd been assured of what she'd thought. She hadn't been the only one to receive this message. Between that and other things, she felt rather calm, if uncomfortable. The conversation between the elf and the warforged piqued her interest, however.

She shakes her head at Fix. "I've no association with the Cannith, as far as I know. I wouldn't jump to conclusions, if I were you," she says, holding up her card. "A message as simple as this could apply to almost everyone. Surely everyone holds secrets or things they don't want revealed... I'd say it is possible that whoever sent this isn't related to us, and sent it to attract our attention, for some reason."

Maria takes a good look at Fix then, and tilts her head in Thianin's direction. "You asked him if he was here to kill you, and then if anyone here had a relation to House Cannith. But that seems strange - if House Cannith wanted to find you or see you dead, surely they would have enough resources to do so more... efficiently?"

Maria ponders this before realizing something. "Ah, I forgot my manners. I'm Maria, by the way."

[Diful Takveh]

A moment of patience payed off. With a few words, the woman, Maria, had crossed off one thing this S person might have known, or at least moved it down the list of the most probable reasons for being out here. It didn't really mean much. There were plenty of secrets he would like to keep, many of them he would choose to keep, even if it meant revealing his dealings with House Cannith.

Continuing to twirl the stones, Simon looks up at the warforged, Fix, and affirms what Maria had said, "The statement itself is generic and relies upon the reader to complete it with pertinent information. It is likely that whoever sent these notes does not, in fact, know that which his brought us out here, and is utilizing trickery in order to put the five of us in a room together. The reason we are here is in the off chance that this S actually knows whatever it is we thought of when we read these cards."

He keeps his eyes closed and his head against the wall. There was no point in introducing himself if this was indeed a scam, and if it wasn't, there would be time to do so later after this potential blackmailer told them what was wanted. No need to worry yet. He shifts the path of the second trio of stones, so they rotate in the same plane as the first in a smaller, faster orbit opposite of the outside ones.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix frowns, or at least she approximates a frown. Her face seems to have a little more articulation than is common among warforged, but it still pales in comparison to an organic expression. "I understand what you are saying, and I see the duplicity. By leaving their statement open ended, it allows each of us to fill in the unknown information with what is closest to our minds. Is that how deception works? I will remember that." She seems almost excited to have been tricked; or at least, her interest in the new information outweighs any other feelings.

"So, then, shall we dissemble the meaning behind us being here? We could prepare for our eventual encounter with the note-sender. I am working from the assumption that we were not brought together to be killed or captured, as that would be easier to accomplish one at a time. Additionally, we seem to be disparate individuals; we are of several different races and our clothing and items were all manufactured in different regions by different craftsmen."

She looks out at the surrounding area. "And... we are probably being watched. Why else leave us alone for so long? If they have the faculty to put a note inside one of my pouches, they certainly have the wherewithal to come to an appointment on time." Fix's eyes light up- literally, though it is subtle. "A group of individuals with seemingly different skills and areas of expertise and who respond to strange messages? Merrix did not allow me to read many history books, but I have seen this pattern before. We are going to be offered a job."

Now watch her be utterly wrong. Secretly Saskia's just going to kill us all off and cackle madly while holding a fluffy white cat. :smallwink:

[Diful Takveh]

Not really thinking, Simon answers one of her rhetorical questions, "They could also be trying to prove a point. By making us wait, they are implying that they are confident that we will remain here, despite their being late, and when they do arrive, they will likely give a false apology for being late in the expectation that we will accept it and move on because they have some piece of knowledge that kept us here for so long, and something like that will keep us in line. People are strange like that, using inefficiency to prove that they have some measure of power."

[King Tius]

Thianin nods in Simon's direction, agreeing with his statement. "I have not been in your lands long, but in my brief time here I have seen that you humans posture at one another like preening birds. In the desert your merit is measured by your blade." He sighs wistfully as he reaches a hand up behind him and runs his finger along one of the blades of his double scimitar. "The Talenta understand this well. Never underestimate a man by his size. He smiles in the direction of the curious gnome who has yet to speak. "It has been too long since I've fought someone worthwhile, regardless of their height."

[OMG PONIES]

Dr. Phinneas Kessler

"Shh."

The feeble protest for quiet comes from a huddled figure with his collar pulled up around his head. He pulls it in tight, finding little solace against the wind. He clutches the paper in his hands, turning it over and over. With each pass, he squints and studies the paper intently.

[roll0]


Youth, always flapping their gums about their own self-aggrandizing theories and whatever strikes their fancy. Never taking any time to think before they speak, that's the problem with them these days. If they could just quit their yapping, I could get a quiet minute to try re-attacking this thing. Could it be that simple? A simple letter substitution? What if S was not a signatory or even a pseudonym, but the key? It's so simple! Then the letter would translate to "Ow Cfgo." So not Common, but could it be any other tongue? None I know of have phonotactics that would call for a C-F-G. Gnomish has a few F-G clusters, but none with the C prefix. A stacking cipher is unlikely, given the brevity of the note.

Perhaps it's best to take it at face value? Anyone could have been in that classroom, could have seen what happened with that poor girl. Nothing worth writing home about, though; it certainly wouldn't be the first time someone ascribed phenomenal significance to coincidental happenings. It was coincidental, of course. Had to be. No other explanation.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, it seemed that the letter wasn't encoded. Instead, they had all been gathered because something was known about them. The warforged had already admitted that it had gone off-program and run from its creator. Phinneas scoffed at the idea of calling such a contraption by the same pronouns he'd use for a living thing. The elf was chatty enough that, given time, he'd probably spill each and every bean he had--it already sounded like he had taken on the yoke of a sellsword for at least a time in his life. The two humans seemed like typical magicians--hucksters and street performers. One was trying to pull the old "floating rocks" gag, but Phinneas narrowed his eyes to darts and tried to make out the thin strings that were often used to conjure up such an effect.

While it was barely sentient, the warforged hadn't floated a half-bad idea. Phinneas arches his eyebrows and postulates, "A job, eh? Hmph. Plausible enough--if you recall, many a society in Eberron first formed with such clandestine meetings, from the Red Watchers to the Chamber. In fact, some have theorized that Galifar II held such cloak-and-dagger meetings, eventually leading to the multiplicity and backroom dealings that eventually did him in. You see, his Minister of Information was highly involved with the inner workings of a few of the more nefarious elements in play at the time.

I must be entirely honest, though, I'm afraid that I wouldn't be well-suited for the type of chicanery that seems well within your respective wheelhouses. I'm simply waiting for this S fellow to give him a good tongue lashing and be on my way. This is taking away valuable time from my most recent dissertation." The last sentence seemed like more of a question than a statement, the inflection of the angry gnome's voice practically beggin the listener to inquire as to the subject of said dissertation.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix listens to the old gnome with a faintly fascinated expression; he is one of the first she has interacted with, though she had heard much about the skills and techniques of the gnomish people during her training. "Dissertation? What is it about, may I inquire? And, curious, do you know anything about elemental binding? It's a bit of a puzzle even for Merrix, and though he says that he knows how it works he's never actually accomplished it for himself. But even if it utilized a magical nature unique to gnomes, such a thing should still be possible to duplicate by a skilled artificer. Quite the mystery."

She catches herself chattering and flinches back, as if she expects to be hit. When nothing strikes her she relaxes a bit and continues, abashed."I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask questions like that; magical secrets are not the kind of things to tell to strangers. I was being... rude? Nosy? Overly inquisitive."

[Crinias]

Among the warforged's words, Maria can't help but think she's misheard something. She's never thought much of their kind, but she could tell Fix was very unusual even by their standards. For one, she seemed to have greater clarity of speech alongside a boldness that was rare among them. For another, with her self-confessed escape from her masters, she was obviously unused to society, but seemed to adapt very quickly to any concepts explained to her.

But Fix mentioned a name that made Maria make a double-take. She casually said it, so Maria thought she might be mistaken. However, when talking to the gnome, she said it again. Once can be a coincidence, but two times surely isn't.

"Sorry," said Maria bluntly, not answering her question, "but when you say 'Merrix', surely you're not referring to the Merrix d'Cannith, are you?" Maria seems slightly agitated when asking this. "Because if you are, I think being rude or inquisitive should be the least of your concerns."

[OMG PONIES]

"Dissertation? What is it about, may I inquire?"

The gnome's face beams at the request. "It's quite simple, actually. I've conducted a thorough linguistic study of the dragon-worshipping human barbarian tribes of Argonessen and compared their dialectical differences as juxtaposed against a history of the use of cryptography among the dragons of The Chamber. I've actually found a correlation between coded language among the dragons and increased glottal stops throughout the languages of these human tribes. Vis a vis the Draconic Prophecy, though, the implications are fascinating. I'm going to contend in this dissertation the possibility that the actual content of the Prophecy is a gloss, carefully constructed to mask the true meaning of the Prophecy (which is hidden behind one or more layers of ciphering in the original Draconic language). The next stage of research would be to acquire some of the older extant manuscripts and spend some time in the original Draconic to try out a few angles on deciphering..." Phinneas catches himself in the midst of his self-aggrandizement and scoffs a bit. "Heh, but here I am going on, and to a machine, no less." He says the M word with a layer of disdain that he makes no efforts to conceal.


"And, curious, do you know anything about elemental binding? It's a bit of a puzzle even for Merrix, and though he says that he knows how it works he's never actually accomplished it for himself. But even if it utilized a magical nature unique to gnomes, such a thing should still be possible to duplicate by a skilled artificer. Quite the mystery."

"Now see, that's the type of thing I'd expect a machine to show interest in. The Technical Guilds know more of the minutiae, but I'd hardly call it 'magical,'" Another "M" word is spat out of his mouth like lukewarm coffee. "It's a question of finding a way to siphon the energy from elemental creatures. For example, if one wishes to bind a fire elemental the main requirement is heat shielding. Confine a creature of pure fire within a sphere of resilient material, and there you have an unending supply of heat you can tap as you see fit. 'Magic...'phooey.

Not surprised that Cannith boy couldn't crack it, though, he's always so caught up on innovation that he misses issues of infrastructure. Just like his father, that one. Did you know Arren was so focused on giving the appearance of sentience to your kind that he completely ignored research into energy efficiency that could have increased your functionality exponentially? Of course you didn't; they didn't program you to remember that. Merrix, Sr. never would have stood for such frivolity. When he forged the first of you, it was purely a matter of utility. Now look at how far we've come--a warforged asking about manners!"

[roll0] for knowledge on the Cannith clan
[roll1] Trivial Knowledge


She catches herself chattering and flinches back, as if she expects to be hit. When nothing strikes her she relaxes a bit and continues, abashed."I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask questions like that; magical secrets are not the kind of things to tell to strangers. I was being... rude? Nosy? Overly inquisitive."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to strike you. After all, I don't kick my endtables or bash my bookcases, now do I? There's no such thing as being overly inquisitive; burn that into your receptors and don't let anyone tell you differently." Despite his outmoded view of warforged as objects, he seems to be warming ever-so-slightly to this particular model.


Don't know how they managed to program gumption into them, but it's not half bad. Almost sounds like talking to a living thing, even. But a focus divided is more a pair of spectacles than a magnifying glass. Focus, Phin. S. A corporate identity of some sort? Sarlona, The Seven Caves, most items beginning with "S" were place names. Instead, we're looking for a group. Sivis? The Soldorak Clan? Those damned avaricious dwarves, it could be. The Stillborn?

A shiver goes up Phinneas' spine at the thought that he could have been summoned here by a band of death-obsessed elves allied with the Blood of Vol. It was probably the worst case scenario, but Dr. Kessler had learned long ago that always expecting the worst allowed one to frequently be pleasantly surprised. It was when you started following silly notions like "hope" and "optimism" that things started to disappoint you. For an old cynic like him, things were either exactly as he expected or better.

[roll2] for possible information on a group that starts with "S" and trades in secrets
[roll3] Trivial Knowledge
[roll4] if more appropriate
[roll5] Trivial Knowledge

[RaggedAngel]

Fix seems a little taken aback by Dr. Kessler's discussion; partially because it was more of an angry rant. She glances back to Maria when the gnome has subsided. "I believe people can share first names, so there may be multiple Merrixes of the House Cannith. Mine lived in... Sharn, was the name. Beneath the city, in a large laboratory and magical facility. He is the true scion of the house; or at least, that was what he always told me, and his researchers agreed. I am no longer certain of anything he told me."

She leaves that thought, as if she had said nothing of importance, and looks back to Phinneas. "Excuse me, sir, but I think you may be partially mistaken about the nature of warforged. An, um, about the nature of elementally bound items, but I will ignore that for now. Just to clarify, I don't actually have any moving components, so I do not fit many definitions of machine; my brain, for example, is a crystal matrix made primarily of psionically resonant crystal, for apt mental function, with tracery elements of dragonshards, to help stimulate my magical potential. I would expound on the nature of living constructs, but I believe the others are either nervous or anxious about the person who contacted us, and would not appreciated more technical chatter."

[King Tius]

Thianin stands listening to the two babble away about magic and can't help but yawn. He turns to Maria and regards the scimitar on her hip. He nods towards it as he crosses his arms. "I am glad to see I am not the only one who prefers to solve my problems with steel instead of sorcery."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix turns on her heel to address Thianin, her attention apparently on the entire room, and eager to talk with people. "Oh, I'm more of a maker than a spellcaster. Infusions aren't like arcane or divine magic; they're a little more pure than that. But if you care about armor and weapons, I can make all sorts of things for you. Don't even need a forge for most things. Did you make your blade yourself?"

Fix is not exactly used to conversation.

[King Tius]

Thianin smiles at Fix as he draws the blade from his back. "I did. My people treat battle as art, and every painter should know how to make their own brushes." He gives his blade a quick twirl before handing it over to the warforged for inspection. Giving up one's weapon to a stranger might seem foolish, especially for an outsider like the Valenar, but Thianin has a healthy respect for the walking weapons that are the warforged. Besides, if these people wanted to kill him, they would have done so already. All of his enemies rode dinosaurs and were very far away from here. He has nothing to fear.

[Crinias]

Maria all but boggles at Fix, and then at the gnome, who is clearly both slightly mad and very well-read. She only managed to understand a portion of that conversation. Her training had involved the study of Khorvaire's basic history, but not many. Some bits she could reason out from context, but for the most part the two might as well be speaking in Draconic.

"Ooh, these two are saying really outrageous things with straight faces," Maria says at no one in particular, while covering her face with one hand.

At Thianin's words, and Fix's interest in his weapon Maria finds herself nodding, and manages to calm down. Solve problems with steel... well, she'd certainly done that in the past.

Psst, Ragged - Phinneas hasn't actually said his name yet.

[Diful Takveh]

Well then, the gnome, like himself, had yet to give his name. Maybe he was being cautious, or maybe he just forgot his manners. The latter seemed more likely as he didn't seem to hold his tongue about anything else or his prejudice for that matter. His disdain for the warforged and magic seemed so tangible that it could be wielded as any other weapon. It certainly wasn't the kind of attitude one would expect from a scholar; this kind of hostility generally led to stale and dogmatic thoughts and beliefs, the bane of any real researcher.

The warforged--Fix, Simon quickly reminds himself--like the scholar seems to be quite unique in her personality, and that fact is quite refreshing. In fact, she reminds him of his gnomish instructor, always curious, always ready to create something. He smiles as he recalls his time as her student: she always seemed to have something new, and when Simon tried to understand and copy it, she hit him over the head with a book (despite the height difference) and told him to make something new.

Bored with juggling, Simon instead starts stacking the rocks floating down to form a tower on the ground in front of him, a tower six rocks high, and with the rocks he pulls from his side pouch, soon grows to seven then eight and continues on from there. One rock floats to the top of the tower at a time.

Still, what Fix had said earlier about a job... there was a high ratio of intellectuals to non-intellectuals in the room: three or more to two, well, two and a half. The gnome's dogmatic vision might prove to cloud his mind, but on the other hand, he might be more open to other thoughts. But more to the point, were they a prospective research team? If so, it was bound to be dangerous in some aspect or another as there were two who seemed to be more like bodyguards than scholars. At the same time, it was likely not going to be too dangerous as there were only two. Then again, maybe the reason someone had formed this group was because in the end it was disposable.

The tower had grown to eleven, but at this time, the second stone slipped out, leaving what would have been the twelfth stone floating in the air. It floats gently downward to become the new second stone, and the tower starts to grow again. He doesn't need to be thinking about stuff like that.

[RaggedAngel]

Whoops about the name. Fixed my post. (Pun sort of intended?)

Fix takes the offered blade delicately, her three-fingered hands somehow as deft as any humans; more so, when holding the weapon. She isn't familiar with its use, but she holds it like someone comfortable with blades. As she does, a pair of faint lines under her eyes shimmer slightly, and a faint bluish tinge rises in front of her eyes. The effect looks distinctly like a pair of half-moon spectacles. She inspects the grip of the double-blade, balancing it on one finger perfectly for a moment, then running the edge of the blade against her 'thumb'.

She then hands the blade back, presenting it properly with the blades to the side and the grip untouched. "This is a difficult sort of weapon to make. The balance must be very hard to get right, and you did an excellent job. The steel you used is slightly carbon-heavy for the purpose, but that is difficult to control without magic or an industrial forge. The leather-weave of the grip is ingenious, by the way; it seems like it grants a lot of additional grip often lacked by leather, while being easier on the hands than wire."

She clearly knows what she is talking about; not surprising, given the fact that she is made out of wood and metal. "If we aren't killed or captured here, I would be happy to show you some of the things I have learned. You have the potential to make some really impressive weapons, and your projected life span means that you will have plenty of time to practice and perfect your craft." Her tone remains perfectly cheerful, even when she discusses being captured.

[OMG PONIES]

She leaves that thought, as if she had said nothing of importance, and looks back to Phinneas. "Excuse me, sir, but I think you may be partially mistaken about the nature of warforged. An, um, about the nature of elementally bound items, but I will ignore that for now. Just to clarify, I don't actually have any moving components, so I do not fit many definitions of machine; my brain, for example, is a crystal matrix made primarily of psionically resonant crystal, for apt mental function, with tracery elements of dragonshards, to help stimulate my magical potential. I would expound on the nature of living constructs, but I believe the others are either nervous or anxious about the person who contacted us, and would not appreciated more technical chatter."

Phinneas raises an eyebrow at the precocious construct. "So you're more of a sculpture than a machine?" he asks, completely missing the point of Fix's words. "But I digress. I agree that we shan't belabor the point; we're all intrigued to know more about the matter of this letter."


Bored with juggling, Simon instead starts stacking the rocks floating down to form a tower on the ground in front of him, a tower six rocks high, and with the rocks he pulls from his side pouch, soon grows to seven then eight and continues on from there. One rock floats to the top of the tower at a time...The tower had grown to eleven, but at this time, the second stone slipped out, leaving what would have been the twelfth stone floating in the air. It floats gently downward to become the new second stone, and the tower starts to grow again. He doesn't need to be thinking about stuff like that.

Phin scoffs to himself as he watches the business with the stones. Hmph, combining the old invisible string with a few simple balancing tricks, now are we? he muses silently to himself.

[Saskia]

"Apologies for the wait, my friends." The dark and melodious voice comes from a tall man with deep-set eyes and a long, snug coat, an elf, by his figure, appearing from nowhere in the group's midst as if the space around him wrenched itself free of him. He brushes the sleeves of his coat off and adds "And I apologize for the ridiculous means of contacting you fine people, but my employer insists on all this skulking and sorcery. My name is Sevruul, and the lady of steel is quite correct, at least in one respect. I am here to make an offer, but not something as base as a job. What I offer is an opportunity." As if the refined gentleman with the unmistakably Cyran accent seemed not quite out of place enough, he snaps his fingers with a fluid motion, causing a smoking pipe to materialize in much the same fashion as he and fall into his hand. "The last war devastated much of Khorvaire. Obviously we all know that, and failing that knowledge, the landscapes dotted with these burned-out husks are evidence enough. I am sure that we also all sense the growing tension that this family or that principality feel as though they were treated unfairly in the Treaty of Thronehold. Failure to recognize independent states by the remaining Four Nations is a mistake that will cost everyone when nobody recognizes the vulnerable governments and organizations manipulated into proxy wars, and everyone worships Galifar the Great now even more than ever. You'd think he pissed rivers of gold, the way people yearn for days long past."

As another frigid gust blows in, Sevruul leans against a post holding up what remains of the loft and lights his pipe. "Certain groups are looking to exploit this tenuous peace, but you all know that. Followers of the Dark Six are among them, and we have reason to believe one of their merry band cultivates itself around Fairhaven even as we speak." He pauses to savor a long drag from his pipe; whether to sate substance addiction or compulsion for dramatic flair is difficult to tell. "You will, of course, be heroes. Fury-followers are not well-loved, and this particular congress does not appear to be especially organized or dangerous—not yet, anyway."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix seems unperturbed by the sudden teleportation into the middle of the group; if anything, the display of magic simply perks her interest. She listens expressionlessly; not a difficult feat for a warforged. When Sevruul finishes she waits a beat, looking around the room to see if anyone is willing to speak first. After a moment or two it becomes clear that she has managed a rare feat for warforged by being the most personable person in the room.

"Good evening, Sevruul," she begins, pacing slightly to put herself beside the others, so that Sevruul can face them all at once. "I am generally aware of the destabilizing effects of the Last War, though what I know may be false in part or totality. I know about the Dark Six, however, and I understand that the threat of cultists in a populated area cannot be understated."

She looks to the others around her, shrugs, and then looks back to Sevruul. "I am not sure how to put this politely, but if we were to, as you said, be heroes, it implies that our actions would carry an inherent risk to our health and safety. What compensation can we expect?"

Spellcraft, for the teleport: [roll0]

Spellcraft, for the pipe: [roll1]

That's right. Helping people is cool and all, but Fix was raised to care about personal profit.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon stands, letting his tower of rocks tumble to the ground, a silent affair as he uses magic to catch each the instant before it strikes the ground. It was customary to stand when someone entered a room, and in addition, would serve to help him blend in with the others more. There were many more questions Simon had about this man than answers, and he would prefer to shift that balance before he spoke. The latecomer, Sevruul (possibly an alias but matched the note nonetheless) of Cyre (unless he was faking his accent), employed by some unknown figure to contact five individuals, who seemed to have no connection with one another beyond this burned-out building, and have them attack a not-yet-dangerous group of cultists. Given his sudden appearance and further actions, it would seem he had some command over magic (certainly more than Simon had) or some magical implement that facilitated such displays. If it was the former, Sevruul's time would likely be better spent going after the cultists himself, and in either case, Sevruul's employer would likely have enough funds to-- Simon almost berates himself for a moment of sheer stupidity-- hire some mercenaries. It did raise the question: Why them? They weren't mercenaries (or at least he wasn't). Why not a pre-established force?

[Crinias]

Maria's head jerks back an inch in surprise at the sudden appearance of the man, but as he starts speaking, Maria feels inwardly relieved. Her suspicions were right, in the end. This man and his message have nothing to do with the personal lives of anyone in this room. The only remaining question was why this man's employer wished to contact five complete strangers and offer them an 'opportunity'.

To be frank, she'd been wandering enough over the past few weeks that if approached in a more honest and straightforward manner, she'd probably have immediately agreed. She needed something to do, some direction to take.

But something about this whole situation seemed odd . Unfamiliar as she was with arcane matters, this elf's magic was more than anything she'd ever seen before. He had said that Fix's suspicions were right, which implied that he had been watching the group for the past few minutes. Between that and his appearance, it indicated some great level of skill, or great resources. And finally, that name - Servuul. Unless her studies failed her, here was a notorious member of House Phiarlan, sprung out of a history book.

Maria watches him impassively. Something is up here. "Can you tell us more? Surely you can't expect us to go along with your offer without more information and details. For starters, who is your employer, and why did they choose to contact us in this manner?"

[OMG PONIES]

"Phiarlan," Phinneas says with a chuckle. "His employer is House Phiarlan, the elder elven bearers of the Mark of Shadow." The gnomish professor's eyes bounce back and forth between Sevruul and the letter; something here wasn't quite matching up. "What of the letters, then, Sevruul?" the gnome asks. "Initial analysis of the retrograde slant of the letters tells me it was written with the left hand, while you hold your pipe in your right. Also, the flourish in the bottom whirl of the 'S' indicates that the script was written by a female. So who in the House wrote these letters, and what do they claim to know?

You see, I'm always happy to prevent the spread of the Dark Six, but for more pragmatic reasons. The spike in crime rates around Wildnight, for instance, are despicable. It all came to a head about threescore years ago with the murder of the Alvarez sisters. Crying shame, that was...but I digress. I am leery about a war criminal stepping out of the shadows to offer me a quick path to heroism. It reminds me of a certain Brelish trade embargo you circumvented to the detriment of the entire nation and the fledgling House Thuranni. If I recall correctly, you initially presented the Brelish with a bevy of promises that turned out to be hollow, so forgive me if I'm slow to trust this opportunity."

[RaggedAngel]

Hot damn, OMG. That is what 20 Int should look like.

Fix flicks her attention away from the mysterious human to the gnome, reevaluating the little man. He was profoundly misinformed on the nature of warforged, but it seemed that his knowledge of mortal affairs was almost uncanny. She made a mental note to interrogate him further, once the excitement of the evening was over. If nothing else, she would be able to tell how much of what Merrix had told her was truth, and how much of it was tale.

[Saskia]

Sevruul smiles broadly as he takes another drag on his pipe. "I expected five bodies here, Miss Solyenov, with only two words to guide you. The power of mystery is a force far more compelling than threats of exposure. But combined..." He takes a relaxed step toward Phinneas with his pipe in his hand. "And I understand your perspective. Difficult decisions seem callous, even black-hearted to those who don't face them. Maybe you don't recall, but King Kason had lost his grip. Calling demons to meddle in the affairs of mortals never ends well. Kason had to die; not just for Cyre's or Phiarlan's benefit, but for Breland, too. My influence simply forced his hand before he was ready. The alternative was assassination, and making martyrs out of madmen is a careless way to operate. Thuranni suppression was a fortuitous byproduct, and we certainly played off of the opportunity, but that was not the goal." He pauses and, ever so slightly, shrugs. "Wars aren't pretty, Phinneas. I'd like to avoid another." Sevruul looks off through what's left of the front bay doorway to the ruined farmhouse nearby. "I am unable and unwilling to offer anything that could be construed as payment. However, if the accolades of your people are insufficient I can tell you that the priest of this dark parish is the closest thing to a threat, and he's stockpiling weapons and cash. His congregation is about thirty, but most of them are weak and cowardly refugees, just bitter about the fate of our home. I don't blame them, but it's no excuse. My agent estimates the stockpile's value around three thousand. You can have their cache, I just want them killed or dispersed and to find out who's funding them."

Sevruul sighs as the wind bites again. "And it was my assistant. She wrote the cards. My penmanship is abhorrent."

I thoroughly enjoyed that, Ponies. I'm reminded of Benedict Cumberbatch's incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, and at least for me, that's very high praise. 10 points for Griffindor!

I mean, 30 XP for Phinneas.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix looks to the others, running quick numbers in her head. She could produce, based on the construction of a suit of full plate armor, an equivalent value of around thirty-two gold pieces per day, given materials and a forge. Roughly three thousand divided by the five of them equated to a reward of six hundred gold apiece; roughly twenty days of labor.

Besides, that wasn't taking into account the valuable experience and contacts she could gain during the course of the assignment; balanced, of course, by the fact that she could be killed. She looks up, nodding as she does. "The mathematics is in your favor, it seems; unless your estimate of their stockpiled resources is far off the mark, this should provide value equal to nearly a month's worth of highly skilled labor. I, personally, am willing to proceed. I will require more information, however, and I will not proceed unless at least two of the others are also willing."

[Crinias]

Maria considers Sevruul. Between what he and the old gnome had said, getting involved with this elf might be risky. She'd known he was associated with House Phiarlan, but not many details of what he had done before. Now, however, it seemed more likely that he did know what she'd done. Someone with that kind of history would surely know every trick in the book, and might have all sorts of ulterior motives.

There was too much that seemed unlikely about this. Why them? Why make them do this? Why not do it himself? Maria got the impression that these questions would mostly fall on deaf ears, considering his overall demeanor. She could take this shady offer, unaware of what might happen, or leave and possibly be blackmailed for her crime. She wouldn't put it past Sevruul to do that, despite only knowing him for a minute or so.

So in the end, what should she do? Maria thinks it over and over in her head, until she reaches a conclusion. "I can't say I want to be famous," she begins, "but I'll also go along with this. I might be skilled with the sword, but I don't think I want to see war. I'll second what Fix said, as well: we're going to need more information and at least another person to help."

What she'd said aloud was perfectly true, even if it wasn't why she had really accepted. Regardless of Sevruul's intentions, she now had something to do. All that was left was following this path to its end, wherever it may lead.

[OMG PONIES]

"And I understand your perspective. Difficult decisions seem callous, even black-hearted to those who don't face them. Maybe you don't recall, but King Kason had lost his grip. Calling demons to meddle in the affairs of mortals never ends well. Kason had to die; not just for Cyre's or Phiarlan's benefit, but for Breland, too. My influence simply forced his hand before he was ready. The alternative was assassination, and making martyrs out of madmen is a careless way to operate. Thuranni suppression was a fortuitous byproduct, and we certainly played off of the opportunity, but that was not the goal."

Phinneas is lost in the history Sevruul mentions, clearly more comfortable discussing what had already happened ad nauseum than deciding anything about what was yet to come. "Ah, so it seems Ignelia's treatise was right on that one. You dangled a carrot before ir'Wynarn, and when he lunged for it you let him fall. Elegant, in a devious vein. And of course, this high-minded noble path just so happened to be most beneficial to your kin by matter of happenstance. Mmm, indeed." Phinneas raises a knowing eyebrow and nods in appreciation of the subtle deception of the plan.


"Wars aren't pretty, Phinneas. I'd like to avoid another."

"Heh, unless there's a profit to be turned," the gnome mutters under his breath.


"I am unable and unwilling to offer anything that could be construed as payment. However, if the accolades of your people are insufficient I can tell you that the priest of this dark parish is the closest thing to a threat, and he's stockpiling weapons and cash. His congregation is about thirty, but most of them are weak and cowardly refugees, just bitter about the fate of our home. I don't blame them, but it's no excuse. My agent estimates the stockpile's value around three thousand. You can have their cache, I just want them killed or dispersed and to find out who's funding them."

The professor's smirk widens as he says, A wise elf once told me that making martyrs out of madmen is a careless way to operate...or at least a wise-acre elf. Do you not fear the surge of zealotry that would arise should the priest be murdered, ostensibly in defense of his cause? Or do you assume that among the thirty there are not surely at least five willing to take up the banner of their dark gods?" Even as he speaks, Phinneas divides up the potential spoils among the group.


"The mathematics is in your favor, it seems; unless your estimate of their stockpiled resources is far off the mark, this should provide value equal to nearly a month's worth of highly skilled labor. I, personally, am willing to proceed. I will require more information, however, and I will not proceed unless at least two of the others are also willing."


"I can't say I want to be famous," she begins, "but I'll also go along with this. I might be skilled with the sword, but I don't think I want to see war. I'll second what Fix said, as well: we're going to need more information and at least another person to help."

"All right, all right," Phinneas says, shooing away a buzzing insect that wasn't there, "quit your remonstrating. I'm in...but only for the opportunity to conduct primary-source analysis of the Dark Six." With current events being what they were, it didn't behoove Phinneas to turn down any opportunity to study the magic of the divine. Phinneas had to find out what the source of his newfound powers were, even if it meant getting into bed with war profiteers, magical hucksters, and worst of all--warforged. "But I echo the need for information. Which clergyman are we after? Marcellus? Horatio? Or perhaps a clergywoman--are we after Cassandra?"

[Diful Takveh]

Well, the last few moments have been rather enlightening to say the least. House Phiarlan, a house known to trade in knowledge at least as much as it did in gold, was behind those notes. Of all the possible scenarios, this was likely the worst as this man likely knew everything he had done, not just the one or two things he was most worried about. He scowls, not at anyone or anything in particular, a feature brought on by concentrated thought on a rather undesirable subject.

As the elf had said, he was not offering a job. A job would imply he was paying, and he isn't, outside of the pseudo-payments of blackmail and potential spoils of the expedition. A stick and a carrot. A reason not to refuse and another to accept and see it through. Still, it would be unwise to take what House Phiarlan or one of its members does at face value.

On the other hand, he had said "our home" implying that the cultists were Cyreans or predominantly Cyrean. Around thirty of them, so there could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, depending on his rounding, so that meant, with at least a majority being Cyrean, at least thirteen of them. That was, above all other reasons, why he must go. These were strangers, and while he hoped none of them would instigate violence against the cultists as a whole, he wasn't certain of that fact.

He sighs, shaking his head. He had hoped to speak with his professors about the prospect of curing his disease or circumventing it at the very least.


"I'll go."

Two simple words that would alter his plans for the near future. Oh well, maybe these people would be able to give him some ideas. Maybe a mechanical heart was an option, or maybe that gnome was well-versed in medical theory. Maybe there was something more to those fighters. It didn't matter. He was going, and that was all there was to say about that.

[King Tius]

Thianin's eyes narrow ever so slightly when the elf appears among the group. The Valenar have a tenuous relationship with other elves in Khorvaire...especially those who have forsaken their ancestors and live among the quick races. Still, Thianin is not nearly as judgmental and xenophobic as his kin, which is one of the many reasons he is standing in a burnt out building in the cold instead of riding down halflings out in the desert. This elf was clearly not one of his Aerenal cousins but the flair for the dramatic remained. His words seem particularly aimed at pleasing Thianin with all the talk of recognizing independent states...wasn't that the goal of the Valenar after all?

The desert warrior lets a smile slip onto his face as he folds his arms in front of him and nods. He responds in his desert-accented Elven, partially to make a statement, but mostly because he's convinced all these bookish types around him will have no trouble understanding. The quick races might disdain the elves for their long lives, but they are certainly eager to learn the ancient tongue.

<"War is an art, one the young races have yet to masters. Battle can be a beautiful dance."> He nods towards Sevruul. <"I have no stomach for shadow and intrigue, but even a dancer can appreciate the artistry of the painter."> He walks towards Sevruul and offers his hand. <"I will help with these cultists. Guarding caravans has been terribly boring.">

[Saskia]

A wide smile spreads across Sevruul's face, and he nods. Another snap of his fingers and a roll of parchment appears and falls into his hand, which he promptly tosses to Simon, and takes Thianin's outstretched hand. <"Rest assured, brother, this will not bore you.">

"And you might want to search the house over there. There might be something of use." He scans the group with a raised eyebrow. "I'll be in touch," he says, and disappears the way he arrived, as if the fabric of space itself folds around him, consuming him.



As Simon unrolls the parchment it crackles and sparks with magical energy, and he feels an odd sensation in his hands.

The same delicate script as on the card graces the page in artfully aligned paragraphs.


For the Benefit of the arranged Party, a Warning that this Page will consume itself with unquenchable Flame ten Minutes after opening.

One Cassandra Volink, a known Priest of The Fury, is riling the Tensions of the Disenfranchised in the Areas surrounding Fairhaven. She passes herself as Cyran, but she is not. She has a Family in Korth, consisting of three younger Brothers (of whom two were the Casualties of the War), two Sisters (one the Junior and one the Senior), her Mother, and a Husband, but leveraging familial Ties seems unlikely to yield any Benefit, as the Reason for her Departure from her former Life is unknown She is wanted or suspected in Fairhaven and surrounding Towns and Villages for several Crimes, including multiple Counts of Burglary, three Counts of Arson, and for inciting Violence. It is worth Mention that S and Associates have tested Fairhaven's Prison extensively, and believe the Facility and its Guards more than capable of holding a Priest of her Stature regardless of what Magic she has prepared, should the arranged Party find that Path more preferable than other Alternatives.

Regarding the Members of the Cult, they number 27 at last Count, but some within the Cult believe they should do more than talk, while most seem interested only in release of their Frustrations and are reluctant to engage in Violence. Schism appears inevitable, but even if a direct Approach is determined most Members are unlikely to Fight.

An Agent of S may be found in the Inn by the name Sword and Board in the lower Quarter of the City, though as one might expect, his Presence at any given Time or Date is not guaranteed. It is not recommended to meet with him as a Group, as it might raise Suspicions and compromise his Position. You will recognize him by a Brand on his Forearm of the rising Sun of Dol Arrah, connoting what he claims is former Service as a Priest. This is not the Case, and as a Priest of Dol Dorn he will be a valuable Asset for this Operation. Further Intelligence will come from him as the Need arises.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon glances at the top line, weighs his options quickly, and settles on reading the note aloud in its entirety after notifying his peers, "The note says it will ignite at the end of ten minutes, so I will read this for everyone to hear." As he goes through the note, he notes that each noun is capitalized, but rather than focus on that during the reading, he does his best to finish as quickly as he can before turning the finished letter over to the gnome, whose name he doesn't seem to have heard, "Here, I don't believe I caught your name, but I feel this might interest you. All the nouns in this are capitalized; do you think it's just the writer's quirk or does it have some deeper meaning?"

The note given, Simon bides the time until its combustion by digging a small pit with the still active spell. The flames created might not be quenchable but that isn't any reason to let them spread to the already mostly burned barn. There could be any number of dry materials around, and with this wind, he didn't want to take any chances.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix moves to look over the gnome's shoulder once he is handed the letter, an easy task considering the fact that she outsizes him by over two feet. She mutters to herself as she commits the message to memory. "FBPWPFMOCVPTFTDAFSCSFKBCWSJSMHTBRDLSFTVCCBCAVMSAFP FGPSMPPARMCCCFVSAMFAASISBQCPTDGSPBFSDASPCPDDAOFIN. .."

After a moment thinking she looks up, shaking her head. "It's simply a habit of the writer. Any sentence you could form out of ninty-nine letters would require an unfathomable amount of time to unscramble, even for a draconic intellect. Merrix's Razor applies to this situation; 'if presented two options, the unnecessarily overcomplicated one is almost certainly wrong.'"

Moving away from the soon-to-be-aflame note, she looks towards the indicated house. "I'm a fair hand at searching areas and disarming traps, thought the majority of my knowledge is theoretical. Shall we go look the place over?"

[Crinias]

Maria stands over the gnome's other side, opposite Fix, and reads the message as well. House Phiarlan sure did a good work investigating this Cassandra, she thinks to herself. It's overkill to list her family members and where they live, however. Would it take just our word to convince any of her followers of her true nationality, that she's a Karrnathi? It seems unlikely, and even then, it might not help. Everything else seems solid, though. We could incite more internal conflict within the cult with little effort, and even if it came to violence, of those 27 followers, few are likely to fight, or even be trained in combat.

Maria nods at Fix's suggestion. "He wouldn't mention it if it weren't important. Let's go."

[King Tius]

Thianin sighs as the elf disappears and leans back against a wall as the letter is read. When Simon finishes he waves his hand in front of his face and frowns as if he were batting away a fly. He doesn't bother switching out of Elven since nobody has complained and it's the kind of arrogant thing he'd do. <"If there are only twenty seven of them and they are more likely to flee than fight, let us gather this false priest ally and be rid of them in one stroke. This woman is a wanted criminal, but perhaps her kin can give us information on how to track her down. If she has been charged with arson, I imagine we are standing in her handiwork."> He turns and starts walking towards the house, leading the way. <"Let's see if we can catch our prey's scent.">

[RaggedAngel]

Fix switches to Elven as well, her accent flat and uncultured, but technically accurate. <"Do we all speak the tongue of Aerenal? That will facilitate matters, I suppose, since it is relatively uncommon, particularly amongst uneducated cultists."> If anyone objects, she will switch back to Common.

<"And I will add that twenty-seven is a large number, no matter how untrained they may be. Do you know what a Warforged Charger is? They are very large and made primarily of adamantine; despite that, I once watched one all but laid low by weaker foes due to numbers. I would not consent to a belligerent charge against this group without proper preparation and foreknowledge."> She follows Thianin, unconsciously checking her belts and bandoliers for her various tools and scrolls, reassuring herself that they are all in place.

[OMG PONIES]

Dr. Phinneas Kessler

As Simon reads the letter, Phinneas subconsciously fact-checks everything covered on the page. Part of him couldn't help it--the aftereffect of decades in academia. Another part of him, though, a much larger part, reveled in the ability to bring his tremendous portfolio of obscure knowledge to bear. "<Speak it?>" he asks Fix in a flawless Aereni tongue. "<Of course. Enjoy it? Hardly.>"

[roll0]
[roll1] Trivial Knowledge re-roll, if needed
[roll2]
[roll3] Trivial Knowledge re-roll, if needed
[roll4]
[roll5] Trivial Knowledge re-roll, if needed

"Give me that, would you?!" Phinneas practically barks at Simon at the same moment the mage moves to give the professor the letter. "Hmm, not a keypad code, nor letter swap. It could be a process known as overtfuscation; quite simple, actually. The encoder puts an obvious (but false) tell in the cipher in order to send the decoder's focus in the wrong direction. Much like when one sees a common trickster perform his 'feats,'" he says with a sarcastic eye roll. "A bit of flash keeps the crowd looking in exactly the wrong direction. If there's any code to be found, it is more likely hidden--obfuscated, if you will--in what does not stand out. Or it could be a case of eisogesis, with us reading a hidden meaning into the text not intended by the original author. Let's have a look..."

[roll6]

[Crinias]

"<Elven isn't that uncommon,>" says Maria nonchalantly. She has no noticeable accent, but is clearly unused to speaking it. "<As a matter of practicality, you're more likely to use it than other languages in your everyday life.>"

She takes a moment to pass a hand through her hair. "<Whether we can take them all on our own or not, rushing things usually doesn't lead to good results. We're not pressed for time, so let's take things as they come, and gather information before acting.>"

[Diful Takveh]

Simon sighs. At least one, and by what they had said, probably two of his companions saw the 27 as a mere number of bodies that must be overcome if they were to turn on the group. Understandable. If one hadn't lost one's homeland in some freak act of magic and subsequently been turned away from almost everywhere, made to feel unacceptable, one might not think of these people as more than potentially dangerous cultists. Truly, he was one of the lucky children of Cyre, as both he and his immediate family were outside of the nation on the Day of Mourning, but many of the people he had known from childhood had simply disappeared, and those who had not were now eternally foreigners in lands that only accepted them begrudgingly. In this societal unacceptability, his people had banded together in an effort to once more be accepted.

Cassandra, however, had abused this need of acceptance and brought them together in a cult in worship of the Dark Six. She was likely continuing to manipulate them: inciting outrage, giving misinformation in both the form of falsehoods and the withholding of information. Each of the 27 minus Cassandra were hostages until proven otherwise and even then were to be treated with care, but Cassandra and those supporting her behind the scenes, they needed to suffer. He tabulates his resources: 11 gold, 13 silver, and 20 copper pieces (allocating two gold for living until the cult had been dismantled, that left the equivalent of ten and a half for anything he might need); four companions; an assortment of known spells; a--

It occurs to Simon that he doesn't even know if he wants to kill Cassandra or to let her continue living in a torment of his own invention. Until then, it was in his best interests to integrate himself into the group as best he could. The warforged: Fix, Fix was her name, seemed to be the most inquisitive of the group, so he walks over to her with a friendly smile on his face and extends his hand for her to shake, "I do believe that I've neglected to introduce myself. My name is Simon Rensley,"<And I do speak the language of the elves.>

[RaggedAngel]

Fix stares at Simon's proffered hand for only a moment before she accepts it, though very delicately. Her three-fingered grip feels strange to Simon, and she holds his hand several beats longer than a usual handshake should last. She seems to be in quite the good mood, and she gestures for Simon to accompany her to the soon-to-be-searched house. "It is good to meet you, Simon. I noticed that you cast a Prestidigitation spell earlier. May I inquire as to the general nature of your spellcasting ability? Most of what I do revolves around making, you see, and many spellcasters have unique perspectives on the fabrication of magic items or the structure of spells themselves."

[Diful Takveh]

It is... odd, the feeling of wood and metal contracting and expanding under the control of a sentient entity. Nevertheless, no matter how strange it might have been or how long it might have lasted beyond the norm, it was a firm grip, and that was all that mattered for the moment. Based on her previous conversation, her reference to herself as female, her firm handshake, her innocent disposition, her inquisitiveness, and any number of less predominant features, she was unlike any of the warforged that Simon had met in his life. Sadly, this meant she was less likely going to willingly assist him in dealing with Cassandra. Oh well. He pushes the plot to the back of his mind, adding "time" to his list of assets.

Now, more focused on the present, he addresses Fix's question, "What I deal in is the study of life and its various forms and stages." Simon pauses, both in his talking and in his walking, lost in thought for a moment. Before long, he starts back, catching up to Fix if she didn't wait for him, "You know, for all I've learned, the anatomy and physiology of warforged is beyond me, partly due to my inexperience with magical creations in general, but mainly due to the lack of accessible text pertaining to the subject, what with the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold. I have no desire to start a war or anything of the like, but," He pauses to find the right words, "Warforged are unique among all forms of life in the world, and I don't know much about them outside of reports of their combat efficiency." Those are most certainly not the best words he could have used. Oh well, she would likely understand, and if not, he could apologize for offending her.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix seems to understand where Simon is going with his questions, and she attempts to smile to put him at ease. "You're curious about my internal functioning? Believe me, if I had a thorough understanding of my own internal workings I would be a very wealthy 'forged indeed. Warforged are created with an artifact called a creation forge. They are like schema, but more powerful by ten orders of magnitude. While the person operating the creation forge must have a strong understanding of artifice, they do not actually dictate the specifics of the final creation."

She taps her head, making a faint metallic sound. "For example, while I have a complex thought-structure in my head, the actual functionality of the crysteel and dragonshards and miscellany are not understood. Merrix has opened up more than a few of my kin, but we begin to degrade as soon as we take a certain amount of damage; and that decay cannot be stopped or reversed by any known spell or infusion. We cannot be reanimated, either, which simply adds to the complexity."

She shrugs. "I am not a very powerful artificer. I have a lot of knowledge, but very little practical experience, and I cannot infuse much energy; not even enough to make a potion. That is only temporary, however. One day I will be powerful, and I will break the mystery of the creation forges, and I will answer your questions." She seems very confident in her vision of the future. "But I am curious about your work, Simon. Tell me, what is eating like? Why is it so important?"

[Diful Takveh]

We cannot be reanimated.

Out of everything Fix had said, these words stood out the most. It wasn't so much the fact that they couldn't be reanimated, but what that fact implied. Resurrection techniques work by repairing the body and reattaching the soul to it. As such, an inability to be raised-- reanimated, she had used the word reanimated which could refer to raising as undead or simple repair. He would have to clear that up later, right after he answered her question.

"Eating is a bodily function in which animals and people extract and process different chemicals from the food they ingest to provide energy to the body. The primary organs for the extraction of these nutrients resides in the lower torso, below the ribs. The nutrients then enter a suspension and are dispersed throughout the body by a network of interconnected vessels powered by the heart which in turn is fueled by these nutrients. When these nutrients reach their destinations, generally around the muscular areas of the bodies, they are either used or stored as fat until used. In addition to these nutrients, the body requires air for muscular function which is why we breathe so often."

"I guess the simplest analogy would be a forge. If it is not given fuel and air, it will die. Animals and people are fairly similar except on a much smaller scale."

"As for what it is like, I don't know a good way to explain it to someone who has neither eaten nor had the drive to eat. Hunger is like a focused drive. Those experiencing hunger almost instinctively switch into a mode where their thoughts predominantly lie with abating the pain in the lower torso, and a combination of the focus and the pain generally causes some sort of irritability. The actual experience of eating, the taste and feel of food, is, as far as I can tell, impossible to explain in words without a frame of reference. Hmm... I am not certain if this applies to you, but humanoid fingertips are much more sensitive to tactile sensations than most of the body. The tongue," Simon opens his mouth to show her (if it isn't too dark to see), "Is even more sensitive to such sensations but also senses in a different way. Think of something as infinite in variety and combination as color but in a form that can be perceived by only the nose and the tongue."

Simon finishes, not really the best explanation in the world, but hopefully it was adequate, and if not, he was certain Fix would ask questions. But now it was time to sate his curiosity, "You mentioned that you couldn't be reanimated. Do you mean reanimated as undead, repaired, raised as though by a cleric, or any combination of those things? I also noticed that you don't seem to breathe, and I can assume you don't eat or drink. Do you have to do any sort of maintenance outside of repairs, or is it unnecessary?"

[RaggedAngel]

Fix listens with rapt attention; Simon gets the impression of a student at the first day of lecture, rapidly scribbling notes. In her case, however, it seems that notes are unnecessary. She begins nodding along once he makes the forge analogy; it is clearly a topic that is close to home for her. "Alright, so the intake of food drives chemical reactions, providing energy and materials for the body. That is how you grow from children to adults, correct? Fascinating. Warforged seem to have the problem of getting something for nothing; perpetual motion, as Merrix called it. However, it was eventually determined that we draw energy from the same ambient magic that an arcane or divine spellcaster would, through a non-magical process. At least, the process works in an antimagic field."

"And when I say reanimated, I mean 'turned into undead'. Warforged cannot become undead or deathless, nor do we leave behind a ghost or shade. However, we can be raised and resurrected, though the number of times that someone has paid to resurrect one of my people can be counted on one hand." She holds up her three-fingered hand, to emphasize the point.

"A warforged that has been damaged to the point of unconsciousness experiences nothing until such time they are restored to function. However, past a certain point of damage we cannot be repaired by any means, and must instead be restored to life. But other than repairing damage, we are entirely self-sustaining. We can imbibe magical potions and gain their effects, but a warforged who ate humanoid food would merely reek of rotting organic matter for a week or so. Though I appreciate the sense analogy; perhaps one day I will find a tracker mask and gain a sense of smell. You are very knowledgeable, Simon. I am glad to have met you."

[Diful Takveh]

Simon nods. So it was indeed possible to bring a warforged back to life, albeit at the same expense as normal mortals, something outside of the group's current price range.

Simon looks down for a moment before turning back to the warforged with a smile, "And I'm glad to have met you." Truly, he was. It had been ever so long since he had had a decent conversation with anyone, and certainly longer since someone had been interested in his field of study.

"Hmm... I suppose that spells designed to reanimate flesh and bone would not readily work on wood and metal. From a purely practical standpoint, I suppose those raising armies of undead would see researching a spell that would specifically reanimate warforged as a waste of time as other bodies are just as readily available. Were it an actual impossibility... that could mean any number of things, actually."

Simon shakes his head. There were far too many potential explanations: it could be that reanimating a warforged would be almost as difficult as creating it, that the bodies of warforged were not compatible with negative energy, or possibly that warforged did not possess an animus, a set of instructions for the warforged to follow in the absence of a soul. Seeing how warforged didn't really need anything, at least physically, they might lack an animus entirely. It would be difficult to tell, potentially difficult to explain. He would need time to think about this (and devise a proper experiment).

It is around this time that Simon realizes he has been silent for too long, so he asks, "Anyway, what do you think of all this?" He doesn't feel a need to, but he emphasizes this with a hand gesture toward the farmhouse and the first note from Sevruul that hovers in the air in front of them.I know, I know. I'm taking fluff from a 4e sourcebook (Open Grave; p.9; on Body, Soul, and Animus), but it stuck out in my mind, and by the time I had realized that it was from 4e, I had already mostly finished writing this.

[OMG PONIES]

"Yes, yes, fascinating," Phinneas adds in a droll monotone as he continues to study the letter. His eyes don't leave the page for piddly things like eye contact; instead, he is locked into solving a puzzle that may or may not be present. "Should we do a spot of multitasking and move this conversation to the house Sevruul pointed out? I've found that those in his position rarely make non sequiturs."

[Saskia]

The bitter trek to the old, burned out farmhouse feels somehow longer than a hundred-odd yards, but the party, minus one construct of stone and steel, gain a great sense of relief when finally sheltered from the wind.

From the front the more architecturally savvy can tell the house is built in a style common in antebellum eastern Aundair; a massive, two-level construction with a floor plan open to the western wind that so commonly prevails in the Summer. This house seems to have belonged to a particularly well-heeled family, as it seemed, once upon a time, to have possessed great windows as large as doors along the east and west facades, though time and whatever tragedy befell the plantation and its residents has taken the once-massive (and very expensive) glass panes and shattered them and scattered their remains irreverently around the grounds.

Fix, cautious and meticulous as ever, finds no hint of traps or ill construction in the burned-out old house, and given the owners' evident moneyed status seems quite ordinary: Fine but tarnished silverware lay beneath half-destrolyed porcelain tableware, jewelry left untouched in a hidden alcove to ward against would-be thieves, and a library stocked with soot-coated literary classics and half-ruined philosophical treatises. However, beyond a locked door in the library, a door which Fix easily bypasses in its unfortunate state but which she is sure was once a formidable barrier, lies what appears to be a room looking more to be built for one of Aundair's famed warrior wizards than simply a wealthy yeoman. Within a chamber about fifteen feet on a side lie shelves stocked with tomes of recondite arcane knowledge which Simon recognizes as being largely necromantic in form but still quite unfamiliar, spoiled spell components, and not-so-spoiled resins and powdered catalysts and inks used in the creation of magical items and scribing of spells. On the central table rests a map of what one can only assume is the plantation grounds in what was at one time a magical laboratory. Upon closer inspection, the map bears about thirty blue dots, with names hovering above the aged paper.

Torin Garinfield; Deceased.
Judith Garinfield; Deceased.
William Holliday; Deceased.
Bradley White; Deceased.

A name for every dot, about half of them in a line a hundred or so yards from the house; all labeled "Deceased". Looking even more carefully one sees red dots bearing no name, of which twelve are centered on the house.

"Cyril!" a voice calls excitedly. "You finally got that ****in' doo-"

A young human man steps into view, blanching when he sees the party, and, dagger in hand, stammers to call out for his friends! "H-hey boys, we got a problem!"

Okay, so initiative is a pain. That's why I'm rolling it, but if anyone really objects to me rolling initiative that's fine by me, but barring that this is just an easier way to do it.

Simon [roll0]
Fix [roll1]
Maria [roll2]
Phinneas [roll3]
Thianin [roll4]

Now, for the other thing. It's a huge pain to do individual initiative counts for groups. This is doubly so when most of those combatants are commoner array mooks who don't really know what they're getting into. So, for things like this, I break enemies into groups for their initiative. Most often I break enemies up into one group, though.

Lurks [roll5]

So it's

Thianin
Phinneas
Simon
Maria
Them Dudes What Found Ya
Fix

So everyone who goes before, please post your actions. Everyone who goes after (that's you, Angel :smallwink:) please wait until I update next. Then we'll be working where everyone posts one post per round. I don't do after-every-action betweeny posts because that ends up confusing me on the order of actions and who's initiative is what and where. Since these are combat posts and I've got the map template done, these updates shouldn't be literally two weeks apart. Sorry about that yall, and thanks for bearing with me between hour changes, inspection month at work, and the start of classes again :smallbiggrin:


http://i.imgur.com/v3oTDU5.png

[King Tius]

Thianin turns at the sound of the man entering the room and pulls his double-bladed scimitar off his back. He steps through the doorway and gives the two young men a smile. "He nods towards the man's dagger as he twirls his twin swords. "Mine are bigger. Even with all your friends and their little daggers, doesn't seem like it will be a fair fight."

Combat Actions:

Five foot step to G6
Move Action: Draw Weapon
Standard Action: Ready an attack for anybody that comes into range
Scimitar Attack (two-handed): [roll0]
Crit confirm: [roll1]
Damage: [roll2]

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas sighs at the intrusion. "What the elf means, young man," he scolds the intruder as if he were a disruptive student, "is that it would be more profitable for you and your kith to vacate the premises." As the professor speaks, he draws his crossbow with shaky hands. "W-w-we've a defensible position," he says to the others in a quieter voice with a bit of fear in his voice. Though his words are those of a general, Phinneas' hands are those of a child scared by a ghost story.

Move action: Draw crossbow.
No action: activate Knowledge Devotion
Standard action: ready crossbow attack if the lurkers take hostile action.

[roll0] Dark Knowledge: Tactics
[roll1] Dark Knowledge: Tactics

[roll2] Knowledge Devotion
[roll3] Knowledge Devotion

[Diful Takveh]

Well, there is good news and bad news. The good news is that it is unlikely that those outside the room saw him, and he would likely not have to fight unless it was absolutely necessary. The bad news is that he is entirely unprepared for this sort of confrontation, so if he had to fight, he wouldn't be of much use.

On the other hand, these were not ordinary looters, or they would have started by taking the jewelry and other more easily obtained valuables. There was something in this room that they were trying to get (judging by a quick glance, the map on the table), and either they didn't want to disturb anything else or they were ordered not to do so by a superior.

Simon pulls a scroll from the scroll case on his belt. These men were dangerous, and though he would prefer not to use it as it would mean he would have to replace it, likely with funds earmarked for Cassandra's surprise, he will if it seems he has to.Knowledge(arcana): [roll0] Take 13 for 21 on map.
Move action: Draw Scroll of Mage Armor from Scroll Case.
Standard: If any of the lurkers approach Simon, he will cast mage armor. No use in wasting it if he doesn't have to.

[Crinias]

All thoughts except those of combat leave Maria's head. Her mind processes the facts of the situation, and leaves them for later. The purpose that this house holds can wait. That strange map on the table can be analyzed in detail later. The blue dots helpfully indicate deceased people, so the red ones must indicate the living. Counting her, there are five people in her group, meaning that there must be seven enemies in total...

None of that really matters. She doesn't care. Maria throws away irrelevant and more civilized thoughts. Ignoring Phinneas as she passes by him, Maria follows Thianin out of the door while drawing her shield, and then her scimitar. Locking eyes with the closest looter she sees, she says nothing, but anyone looking at her can clearly tell that there is some intense bloodlust in her.

Swift action: Activate Blood on the Water stance.
Move action: Move to F6. While moving, ready my shield as a free action.
Move action: Move to H5. While moving, draw my sword as a free action.

This isn't an optimal movement, but for now it'll have to do.

[Saskia]

Clearly the young man who spoke hadn't been in many fights, and evidently hadn't much survival instinct either. He charges at Maria but loses his footing on the broken floor. The other at least has a bit of sense and takes a more reasonable position behind a book case and throws a knife at Thianin. It doesn't stick, and in fact pings harmlessly of his armor, inspiring an unusual pairing from Thianin's assailant as he ducks back behind the case.

Simon notices on the map that as his compatriots and the move, corresponding red dots move along with them, and apparently the other five individuals still milling around are fleeing in different directions. Magic of this sort is often used in military installations and banks to track the comings and goings of personnel and others, and they're generally linked to some sort of alarm in the event of trespass. Given the condition and age of the property, however, it seems unlikely that anyone would recognize the signal, if it even still functions.

http://i.imgur.com/k61mACj.png

[King Tius]

Thianin strides forward, intent on showing this little whelp who's the boss. "Hiding will not save you, boy." One of his blades twirls through the air and arcs towards the cowering lad. Thianin moves around the bookcase since he's reasonably sure the lurk didn't draw a new weapon


Move to H8
Attack Lurk 2: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Crit Confirm: [roll2]
Crit Damage: [roll3]

[RaggedAngel]

Fix looks up from the map, much slower on the uptake than the rest of her companions. She hears the sounds of combat from the next room, and without further thought she heads to the doorway, looking back to the little gnome. "Be careful, professor; perhaps you should remain in here. We should be able to take care of this."

She takes out her crossbow, sightlessly inspecting the weapon as she draws it. It was already loaded, of course; the stress caused by keeping it loaded was easy to mitigate, and Merrix had told her to alway be prepared for violence.

Move to G6.

Draw Crossbow.

[Crinias]

Maria looks down upon the man beneath her. She notes the floor's fragile structure. Moving recklessly like this man won't do her any good, she supposes. She doesn't have enough time to take a good look at him, but she imagines that he must be regretting that decision. After all, it's a terrible position to be in, tactically. Even if Maria didn't have any combat training, she would know that.

Stepping to his side, Maria swiftly raises her scimitar and brings it down as hard as she can, disregarding her defenses to all except her target.

Five-foot step to I6.

Standard action: Steely Strike + 1-point Power Attack
Attack roll [roll0] (+1 BAB, +2 Str, +4 Steely Strike, -1 PA)
Damage roll [roll1]

In case of critical:
Attack roll: [roll2]
Damage roll: [roll3]

Due to Steely Strike, for this round Maria's AC suffers a -4 penalty when attacked by anyone except the man she just attacked.

[OMG PONIES]

"And sit here with my back against a wall, waiting patiently to die?" the gnome complains. "Not likely." He takes a deep breath, picks up his crossbow, and moves to the door. As the professor sees one of the men peeking out from behind a bookcase, he hugs the wall and lets a bolt fly. However, the projectile nests itself firmly into the wood.

Move action: move to G7.
Standard action: fire crossbow at Lurk 2.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles. It seems that these people weren't the sort to stick around when the going got tough. Oh well, fewer enemies was closer to the zero he had anticipated, and if he could lower that number by scaring the rest off, that would be even better.

To this end, he walks to the door, leaving his quarterstaff leaning against the door-frame to free his hands, and he sees that Maria seems to have taken care of one of their opponents, the one who had blindly charged in. A less than intelligent move, charging toward someone with a longer weapon like that. Oh well, he got what was coming to him. The other was hiding behind a bookcase. It was to him that Simon calls out, "You, hiding behind the bookcase. We have already dealt with your companion here, and the other five who were with you fled from here as soon as they heard there was trouble. I suggest you join them, or who knows what might happen to you." To accentuate his point, Simon levitates one of the surgical knives in front of him and slowly drags it through the air as though slicing through flesh.Intimidate: [roll0]
Move to doorway (cross of F5-G6)
Standard: Intimidate or whatever

[Saskia]

Maria cuts down the man before her easily. If he still lives, it's not by much. Gut wounds are notoriously bloody affairs, and already she can see the color fade from his skin.

The other one feints with his short sword; the weapon he had sense enough not to throw away, and is convincing enough and his movements fast enough that Thanin finds himself unable to guard a powerful thrust through his armor and well into his flank for 7 damage. Thianin returns the strike with a critical attack, dropping him in an instant.

What's this? An update, with less than a week between! What witchery is this?!

Anyway that's 90 experience points for a 1st-level commoner, which Maria brought to 0 HP, and a 1st-level fighter, which I just decided to roll attack rolls against figuring everyone would gang up on him next round anyway to save time, but then Thianin scored a 13 damage critical. Welcome to one-shot town. It's worth mentioning that if Simon hadn't succeeded on his intimidate, that 7 damage threat would have confirmed for 15 total damage. Never underestimate the power of fear effects :smallwink:

Lurk 1 is in no condition to resist; he's got a dagger, thieves' tools, a largish benitoite carefully inscibed with what looks like a heraldic crest which Phinneas suspects is worth about 400 gp, but which Fix believes to be worth considerably less; around 250.

Lurk 2 had a masterwork short sword, wore a light coat of studded leather, and a bandoleer which holds up to six throwing knives, of which five are in their holsters. The one on the ground is still in acceptable condition. It looks like the bandoleer could easily be concealed with conservative formal attire, too.

And for the record, yes; Lurk 2 was, in fact, a poorly optimized fighter with combat expertise, improved feint, and quick draw.

The two men on the ground will die soon if not treated, and judging by the map on the table their five cohorts aren't all that interested in doubling back; they continue to flee in different directions, and save the shuddering, raspy breaths of Maria's prey, already entering circulatory shock, falls quickly and eerily silent against the howling wind outside.

[King Tius]

Thianin grabs hold of his side as blood gushes from his wound. Despite his near-fatal wound, he has a smile on his face. <"Well-fought, lad."> he chuckles, coughing and grimacing at the same time afterwards. A look of determination takes over as he stands and holds his scimitar firmly in both hands and closes his eyes. He mutters something under his breath before drawing his blade across the dying man's throat in a quick, clean stroke. His ceremonial duty completed, he finds a seat to take before starting to take off his armor to bandage his wounds.

[OMG PONIES]

"Could I help you with that?" Phinneas asks Thianin.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix goes back to check the map, crossbow still in hand, though she holsters it once she ascertains that they are alone in the house. "Why were they here, I wonder? If they're simple bandits it implies there is something of value here." She looks down at the two men on the ground.

"Perhaps we should keep one of them alive? They would be able to explain their motivations in coming here. Though I'm not sure how exactly bleeding works, it may be too late to save them. And we should probably keep Thianin from bleeding out before we deal with those two."

[King Tius]

Thianin gives Phinneas an appraising look before nodding silently. He continues to take his armor off and allows the professor access to his wound. It's obvious that being tended to by another person makes him uncomfortable, but he's hardly in a position to argue.

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas appraises the wound, but it's clear that he's a historian and not a physician. He dresses it with a loose bandage that doesn't do much except stop Thianin's blood from getting everywhere, and the old professor's about to call it a day when his hands start glowing with a bright warmth. "Oh bugger," the sad old gnome sighs as positive energy starts coursing through his veins and a faint whistling undertone invades his eardrums. "Not this mess again."

With a sigh of exasperation, Phinneas stands motionless and studies his own hands as the mote of positive energy transfers from him to the elf. "Terribly sorry, chap," he apologizes to Thianin. No apology is in order, though, as his wounds begin to mend themselves slowly but surely. "Afraid to say I've got a bit of an anomaly on my hands...quite literally, too." The gnome smiles at the subject of his healing magic, but it is the resigned smile of a comedian who knows their joke bears little humor.

Phinneas casts Lesser Vigor on Thianin, who gains fast healing 1 for the next 11 rounds.

[RaggedAngel]

Spellcraft: [roll0]

Fix turns around in time to watch Phinneas cast a healing spell, and she throws her hands up, indignant. "That was magic! You just cast a spell! Divine, meaning you're channeling it from something." She shakes her head, clearly a little frustrated with the gnome.

[OMG PONIES]

The old gnome sighs and responds to Fix. "Now, I haven't quite figured out exactly what this is," he admits, "but magic isn't necessarily the only explanation. You and I both know there are plenty of things that claim to heal organic beings, from physical sciences to acupuncture." Phinneas glazes over this, fully aware that even the practitioners of acupuncture don't see their hands glowing. "My working hypothesis deals extensively with the refraction of light focused to a point producing a miniature cauterization effect but..." The gnome pauses before continuing, but his shoulders sink and he adds: "...but I'm becoming afraid that I can't entirely rule out this supposed magic nonsense. I've been doing quite a bit of study, and I'll admit that divine magic is the option that continues to present itself. I'd just like to do some additional research before making any definitive statements."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix tilts her head, still confused. She's never met someone like Phinneas before, though the list of people she has met is rather short. "That particular spell was Lesser Vigor, unless I am quite mistaken. It induces a rapid healing effect in biological tissue, equivalent to a night's sleep every second."

Fix muses for a moment, then looks around the room. "We can discuss this in detail later; we could even scribe a scroll of Lesser Vigor together, which I suspect you could then use. But for now, we should continue to search this place. There's clearly something of value here to draw those humans."

[OMG PONIES]

"Then you're mistaken!" Phinneas snaps. "Damnable machine needs to go in for calibration." The second that passes is exceedingly awkward, and causes the old professor to realize that he was misdirecting his frustration. If this machine had been around Merrix d'Cannith, she probably knew every trick of the trade when it come to all this highfalutin' "magic" nonsense. If anyone could identify one of their supposedly supernatural contraptions at play, it would be her. Rather than sheepishly apologize, though, Phinneas finds it more fitting to ignore his own rudeness and soldier on.

"Lesser Vigor?" he asks, incredulous. "You mean I just created the same effect as that supposed 'healing balm' snake oil those Jorasco bastards have been peddling?" The gnome shakes his head; while this caused him a great bit of consternation, it wasn't something he could refute after the whole display that had just overtaken him. "Here I thought their potions were just rosewater with a touch of ginseng and a whole lot of hucksterism. Most disconcerting..." Phinneas takes a scrap of parchment from a folio in his sack and scrawls a few quick notes:


Radiant hands=Lesser Vigor? vis a vis House Jorasco healing
cf: religious texts of the Host re: channeling divine energies
That is, if you take a machine's word for it...

He tucks the scrap back into his folio and gives a smug smirk to Fix and the rest of the group. "Yes, shall we carry on?" he asks, clearly uncomfortable with devoting any more thought to what he had just done with his hands and the healing.

[Crinias]

Maria zones out and keeps quiet in the moments after the fight has ended, but before she realizes this fact. Eventually it becomes clear no more enemies are coming, and she gradually calms down. She sets down her shield and pulls out a cloth to calmly wipe the blood from her scimitar, keeping an eye on the man she just slashed.

"Whoever used to live here probably made that map over there. If that could be answered, perhaps everything would be more clear. And I think this one here could probably be convinced to talk." She leans closer to the man, her face cloaked in shadows. "Right?"

She keeps quiet during the discussion of magic, as well. It's not her place to say anything, and she doesn't wish to come off as ignorant. She just silently listens to them talk, watching until Phinneas suggests moving on.

"Yes, let's continue searching. We don't know when this man's friends will come back, or if at all."

[Diful Takveh]

Simon sighs as the fight finishes without too much difficulty. He didn't realize how tense he had become, but when he goes to grab his staff, it takes a moderate amount of will to move his feet. It becomes easier when his staff is in hand, but he still takes a moment to sit down and get the fight out of mind. He doesn't even notice Phinneas using magic, much less what it is.

[Saskia]

Closer examination of the map reveals to Fix that it's resistant to moving, but not to being rolled up, at which point it can be easily lifted from the table. Beneath it there is an unlocked hatch to a hidden compartment in which there are six glass phials with faintly luminous fluids inside; four blue, one red, and one alabaster white. They bear no labels, but it's commonly known that paranoid alchemists and wizards regularly apply dyes to identify their personal potion and oil stashes without allowing unwelcome eyes to determine what is what. The remains of the magical equipment is too far gone to get a reliable read on what magic the phials might contain.

Searching the rest of the room yields 43 gp in value worth of unspoilt scribing inks and reagents. It's more stock than most wizards would need in their lifetimes, suggesting the individual was quite powerful, or perhaps just well prepared, and ten books (3 pounds each) that could have some resale or research value, though what exactly the combined value might be nobody can be sure. That two of them are a wizard's spellbooks is difficult o dispute however, and spellbooks rarely have trouble selling.

After a few minutes with the map in her possession, Fix hears a strange voice.

"Forgive my impatience, Mistress, but you've been long away and haven't yet told me where you'd like to go today."

The rest of the house contains little of any value. Either this group was thorough, or they weren't the first. And, in all likelihood, they wouldn't be the last.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix is able to carry the map and the potions, but the books would be enough to slow her down. She impresses them on the tougher members of the party, particularly the spellbooks. No sense leaving behind what amounts to easy money, after all.

"I would like to note that once I have determined the contents of the potions I will be more than happy to redistribute them properly. For now, however, there is a chance they have gone bad. Or, worse, wizards will occasionally prepare potions of harmful spells and mix them into their stock to get back at someone robbing their home, like we are doing."

She is pleased with the scribing equipment, and she makes a note to show the professor the process of scrollmaking. Perhaps, she muses, if he is able to see the scientific rigor of the process he will come to appreciate it a bit more.

"It seems that we have found all that is of use or value here. Would you like to retire to a safer location? We can look over the texts more carefully, and see if there is something to be learned from them."

[OMG PONIES]

"Indeed," Phinneas agrees. "There is always something to be gained from rigorous textual analysis, and I'd much prefer to not be assailed by common vagrants more than once in a day."

[King Tius]

Thianin rubs his newly-closed wound thoughtfully before donning his armor again. He nods to Phinneas as if to say "job well done" but otherwise says nothing. Once he's back into his armor he regains his feet, going to stand near a door so he can keep an eye out for anyone coming their way.

<"I am still new to these parts, so I differ to you all as to where we should go. With that map we could easily fortify ourselves here, or did you have somewhere more civilized in mind?">

[RaggedAngel]

Suddenly, Fix looks up, surprised. She frowns, considering, and then she stares at the map in her hand.

The warforged does her best to project her thoughts at the map, though she is uncertain if she should simple address it aloud. "It has been a long time, yes. As a test of functionality, can you please describe your own capabilities succinctly?"

UMD just in case, potentially to emulate a race or class: [roll0]

[OMG PONIES]

"What is it, warforged?" Phinneas asks (though force of habit makes it sound more like scolding). "Come then, out with it. We haven't all day..."

[Saskia]

The map in Fix's hands seems to anyone who cares to look to fade slightly before quickly rewriting itself in intricate detail. It looks like some sort of fortress or bunker, with narrow hallways, about a meter across if the map is to be believed, leading to largish chambers in a multi-level floor plan obviously designed to be as compact and efficient as possible. For some unknown reason there seem to be smaller chambers floating around the edges with no connecting corridors.

Some of the chambers are labeled, others are not. Others are labeled only vaguely.
"I draw upon your deepest memories and recount with perfect clarity the paths you've walked, whether you remember them perfectly yourself or not. Merrix' compound, for example, and left alone for a week or more I can track the comings and goings of people, as my more mundane cousins. My functionality is complete, Mistress. Well, unless my memory is faulty, not that I could tell you if there was a problem with something I don't recall." þhe map does its best impression of a pensive hum within your mind, and adds "And I see you've been playing the enchantress card well. I'm seeing quite a few wealthy estates in here. Can I assume we'll be getting another expansion to the compound, then?"

[RaggedAngel]

Fix is silent for another moment, staring at the map. Then she speaks, carefully and deliberately. "This map is magical, obviously, but it seems to have an intelligence of its own. Inherently dangerous, of course, as any magic item with an intellect can have an agenda. We need to be wary with it." She seems to be unaware of the irony.

"However, it seems to have a significant degree of mapping capability. It has reproduced an accurate display of Baron Merrix's compound beneath Sharn, including the chambers only accessible through teleportation. He would be... unhappy to learn that this reproduction is possible. Whoever made this map was an extremely skill artificer, as evidenced by the reagents we located."

She looks to Thianin, tilting her head in thought. "We could hole up here. I do not sleep, and you only require four hours of trance; between the two of us we could easily keep watch over the map, which would alert us to any potential threats. Or, we could go elsewhere, to an inn or something. What are the requirements of sleep? Are beds a necessary component to the process?"

I love roleplaying someone who's inhuman. It's just so interesting to get inside her head.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon remains seated but looks up at Fix, "Beds are not strictly required, but they are welcome, especially after days of strenuous activity, physical or otherwise." He looks to his bag and opens it, pulling out his spellbook, "I would advise not remaining here through the course of the night as the looters may return, potentially with reinforcements, and as much advantage as this room may provide, both in its defensibility and in the tactical knowledge provided by the map, a force of enough size could easily overwhelm us."

He opens his spellbook, and as he turns the pages, he continues, "I wouldn't mind staying here for a few minutes in the off-chance that we missed something. Besides, I am rather curious as to what we might learn from those books."Preparing Scholar's Touch. 15 minutes.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix recognizes the act of spell preparation, though she does not require it herself. She lays the map back out on its table, and looks to the others. "While Simon prepares his spell, we may as well test a few capabilities of this map."

She lays her hands on either side of it, concentrating. "Can you show me the interior of a location I have not personally see? How about the interior of the entrance hall of Morgrave University? Or, perhaps, could you display the local area with the closest inns marked with stars?"

Just let me know if Spellcraft or UMD would be helpful. :smallsmile:

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas had half a mind to crack wise about the machine talking to a map. However, given what he had started to experience himself, he thought better of it.

[Saskia]

The map once more fades slightly before an unseen hand again redraws its contours, this time appearing to be a map of the area around Fairhaven; incomplete away from roads, but marking four roadside hostels and an inn between the farm Fairhaven. The inn and one hostel are within four hours' walk.

"No, Mistress, not if you have not been there. I have no recall of any terrain or maps myself, and I can only draw upon what you have seen, and relying on other maps I will only be as reliable as the cartographer. A security feature to keep me from being useful to the enemy, or so you told me.

"Are you sufficiently pleased with my functions recall, Mistress? Shall we go?"

Also, no, no UMD needed.

Oh I love that one. It's a lot of work as a DM, but I love that spell. For brevity's sake I'll say the ones which appear to have the most promise are these:


ON THE APPLICATIONS OF NEGATIVE ENERGY IN THE HEALING ARTS
BY
ARDRYL D'JORASCO, M.A.A.

Simon recognizes the author as a respected Karrnathi necromancer and prominent member of House Jorasco, some of whose works are common materials in schools of necromancy and medicine alike.


OF THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING
BY
CORINTH OF STARILASKUR

Thumbing through, the book appears to be a manual for autodidacts, written by a prominent thinker on education and politics who died just before the Great War.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix stares at the map silently for another moment before looking around to the others. "The map is limited to what we have personally seen. Even so, it looks like there are some safe inns about four hours walk from here. I understand the reservations about waiting here; if we are to set out, we should probably do so immediately."

"Excellent, thank you for the clarification. Before I stow you away, is there anything you would like to be called? I wouldn't want to refer to you as an inanimate object, seeing as you possess an intellect."

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles as he looks at the titles, more so with the book of necromancy than the one on self-learning. Though he would very much like to learn that which he can about necromancy, he also knows that he will likely want to study it more in depth at a later date. Knowing that, he takes the book on self learning, and, holding a crystal disk in his left hand, lets the pages turn quickly as the spell transfers knowledge directly from the pages to his mind. When he has finished that, he puts it on the table, quickly thumbing through to find any form of notes, whether written in the margins or written on an inserted piece of paper, that may not have been included in the transfer. If he finds such, he notes down the pages containing such notes.

[OMG PONIES]

"You see, that's one of the problems with tricksters and magicians," Phinneas laments to nobody in particular. "Even the art of research has been replaced by a casual flick of the wrist and a muttered incantation. No thank you, sir. If a few hours of reading are the price to pay for the smell of freshly pressed pages and the sound of a new binding cracking for the first time, I'll gladly pay up."

He'd probably keep complaining, but Fix's suggestions interrupt his diatribe in its nascent stages. "A hostel?!" Phinneas says indignantly, "do I look like some scraggly undergraduate student? We should head to the inn."

[Crinias]

Maria looms over Phinneas. "Either a hostel or an inn is fine to sleep. Either option is perfectly respectable for our purposes. But more importantly, I see no real reason to stay here. If this map is one of the reasons Sevruul sent us here, that's fine and well, but we haven't found anything else. If it's hiding more secrets, then it can surely reveal them elsewhere."

Sorry I haven't posted lately, but I couldn't find a moment where I thought Maria wouldn't stay quiet.

I think at this point we all want to move on, though.

[OMG PONIES]

"Agree to disagree, I suppose," Phinneas says with a scowl that suggests he's not agreeing on much of anything. "Absolutely deplorable conditions, drunken adolescents, and bedbugs the size of your fist. Sleep in the hostel if you're clutching coppers, but I'm going to the Inn."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix shrugs, looking between the two. "You should talk to Merrix. He would rant about having to sleep at all, and he only needed to sleep two hours each night, which I have learned is unusual. But I don't see why we can't go to the inn. I can take us there, the map of the area was simple enough to memorize."

With that she strides out the door, crossbow in hand.

Take us away, captain. :smallwink:

[Saskia]

"Hmm," the map coos thoughtfully. "Do I? Or do I possess just a close enough semblance of intelligence to fool lookers-on?" Regardless of prodding, the map fails to offer anything it might prefer as a name.

The Tabard lies at a crossroads, in the center of a village called Cottonwood some four hours from the farmhouse, and another four from Fairhaven. Walking there is miserable business, with biting cold and howling wind, and only gets worse when snow starts to fall. After what feels like eternity (at least, for those who can conceive of their time on the frigid road as a measurable and irretrievable fraction of what time they have left to live) the group arrives at the large, two-story building, projecting from the windows not only welcoming golden light on the fresh snowfall but the restful quiet of the lone pair of occupants not sleeping who can be seen playing cards near a window.

The heavy oak door swings open slowly against the wind, seeming to have been made for business more rugged than guarding a tavern entrance, and quickly the group is in.

"Hail and welcome, friends," says a tall and lithe young man at the table with a warm and relaxed demeanor. He gives off an aura not unlike that of an insufferably early riser. When he looks up his compatriot, a plump but still pretty young woman, looks the group over and leaps to get chairs to place around the large and surprisingly barren hearth. It doesn't seem anyone's paying for meager accommodations tonight. "Harry, dear, get their coats, I'll go fetch some cider and gammon." With her off, the man stands and directs the party toward the hearth. "My wife has the right of it. I apologize. I had assumed you were from the village when the door opened." As he speaks he places two more logs on the fire. "What are you folks doing out at this hour? Did something happen to your caravan?"

From exposure,
Simon has 2 nonlethal damage,
Fix has 6 (if warforged take damage from exposure; I haven't found anything that says),
Maria is feelin' fine, like a champ,
Phinneas has 4, and
Thianin is at 2 nonlethal.

By RAW, you would still recover nonlethal damage at a rate of character level per hour even while in the environment that caused the damage in the first place. That seems silly to me, but I'm also woefully ignorant when it comes to any biology more advanced than butchering game animals, so for all I know that could be totally legit and just unlikely rather than physiologically impossible so we'll just roll with it.

Everyone is exhausted (http://www.d20srd.org/srd/conditionSummary.htm#exhausted) except Maria who took 1, then recovered. Because science, or something.

Hazard specs by hour. Severe cold warrants saves every ten minutes except for characters dressed for the cold, and everyone knew what they were getting into so I'm assuming even if it's not on your sheet your character would have thought to bundle up.


Hour
1
2
3
4


Fort DC
15
16
17
18


Damage
4
1
3
6



And saves, also by hour.


Simon
23
19
9
21


Fix
18
26
24
8


Maria
20
14
26
27


Phinneas
9
16
8
21


Thianin
17
16
8
20

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles, taking off his cloak, shaking it to get as much snow off as he could by the door before handing it to Harry to do with as he pleases, trusting the innkeeper to properly hang it when he had the chance. Simon hadn't thought of anything to say regarding this evening's happenings. How to put this delicately? Would it be better to lie completely or tell as much truth as possible? Simon doesn't know what to say, so he decides to avoid the question, "No, just the four of us. We were on our way to Fairhaven, and we thought we would arrive sooner if we rested on the road between villages. That's when it started snowing, and we got here as fast as we could."

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas ignores the questions of the couple running the place, clearly used to being dismissive toward those in the service industry. "A stick of cinnamon in mine, if you will," he mutters before using the last of his strength to clamber into a chair near the hearth. He reaches down for his satchel to retrieve a book, but gives up when his short gnomish arms refuse to reach to the ground without bending down.

[King Tius]

Thianin is content to let Simon do the talking for the group. He was mostly just grateful that these people had a warm fire and no ill-will towards him. He stands as close to the fire as possible without setting his clothes alight. He mutters under his breath as he stands there stoically trying not to shiver. <"I would let a thousand halflings dance on my balls if I could be back in the desert right now.">

When the woman brings him some cider, Thianin takes it with a nod and muted smile. The cold seems to have dulled his warrior's edge a bit, though perhaps he just has a friendlier side for people who are clearly not a threat. For the first time in hours, he switches back to the common tongue to address the group. "I am not used to the winters of your land. Up until I reached Aundair I spent most of my nights sleeping outside. I must confess that I am nearly copperless, save one, and cannot afford to pay to stay here. Still, there is more than one way to pay a debt. In exchange for paying for my accommodations for the foreseeable future, I offer my services. If you have anyone you need protected or killed outside the bounds of our current engagement, we can enter into an arrangement."

[Saskia]

Coats hung, Harry follows suit and takes a seat. The melodic knocking of wooden cups and bowls assures that the Missus is true to her word, effortlessly balancing four cups and a pitcher, as well as four bowls of rice, each with a sizable bit of meat. She hadn't missed Phinneas' request for cinnamon, either, though judging by the smell cinnamon was already steeping in the hot brew. "Don't you worry, now, we wouldn't be very good Vassals if we were going to throw you out into the cold just because you're short on money. Here, now, mulled cider with gammon and rice; a perfect winter meal, like my great-grandmother used to make. When she was young and pretty, in the early days of the war, they still quartered soldiers in peoples' homes, you know, and the men quartered with my grandparents always loved her. Because of her cooking, my grandfather said. Quite a few of the village men, too, but especially the soldiers. I guess most people aren't used to good Cyran cooking, and boy was she good. Funnily enough, Grandfather hated all those men—every last one. Must have wanted all the lovely food she'd cook all for himself." She pauses, almost mercifully, to giggle vapidly at herself, but continues, having directed her attention mostly toward Maria. "The cardamom for the cider is just so expensive, but I think it's worth the price. It's so versatile, and good for the throat, too, you know; those Jorasco tuberculosis retreats make tea from the seeds, and my mother's third husband would make a wonderful julekake before he was killed in the war, Dol keep him. He was such a nice man. My mother was never very lucky; three times a widow..."

As his wife chatters on, Harry stares intently at Simon, a sharp-eyed gaze conveying concern, as well as perhaps suspicion, and by context suggesting in terms not so vague that a wide gulf exists between the two hosts' faculties. "Just the five of you? While Mad Cass is still a ghost in the wind?" He looks the group over with a shake of his head. You folks just don't scare, or what?"

[RaggedAngel]

Fix has remained by the door, taking her stock of the room. She is clearly a bit uncomfortable, and the more astute members of the party may realize that she is entirely unfamiliar with inns and the etiquette that surrounds them. She looks between the members of the party for a moment before nodding to the young couple. "Good evening, my name is Fix. Thank you for your hospitality. I have some money, but I believe that my services are worth significantly more in terms of value. I can repair any minor damaged objects you may have, even something like a broken pane of glass that cannot be repaired by mundane means. If you have no repair needs I could also emulate the casting of a first-order spell, though I prefer fixing things. I was named after that inclination, actually."

[Crinias]

Though chilly from the journey, Maria is in very good state, better even than Fix. If one didn't know better, it'd be easy to think that she was just taking a short stroll around town. Much like Thianin, she lets Simon do the talking for her. Taking her coat off, she gratefully accepts the cider offered to the group, letting its warmth spread through her hands.

As the woman talks on, Maria tries to keep up, nodding in agreement on some points, joining in whenever she feels the need. She wonders about the woman's grandmother as she does so - it must have been rough on her to house so many people. Deeper inside, a cynical part of her wonders if the grandfather's husband had other reasons to be jealous beyond sharing his wife's cooking... But the thought passes quickly. The woman's company is pleasant and calming.

Her attentions are drawn to Harry, however, when he asks the group a direct question. "What's that, some old story? What is there to be scared of?" she asks, as if to tempt fate.

I'm going to assume Maria's Knowledge check isn't enough to know who 'Mad Cass' is; if that's not the case, let's just say her memory needs some jogging to remember.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon walks over to the fire, loosening the collar of his shirt and sleeves. While he doesn't bend down to bask in its warmth, it is welcome after the hours spent walking through the cold and snow. "We do scare, just for things that are frightening, and even then I can only speak for myself. It's just that most bandits tend to focus on the present rather than the future, so they would be unlikely to show their heads on nights like these when they are more likely to contract hypothermia than get a good haul, and cultists generally aren't much different, at least those lower on the totem pole. As for our day travel, what we lack in numbers, we make up for in maneuverability." Even though he just wants to curl up in front of the fire and rest, remaining standing should help exude more of a confident air which would make their story more believable. He does, however, put his bag on the ground to make standing a little easier. When food is served, he respectfully takes the food and sits down, preferably in one of the chairs near the fire with a side table and leisurely but respectfully eat his fill, but if none is to be had, he would rather sit farther from the fire in a proper chair than on the floor, in which case, he would finish his food as quickly as respectfully possible to return to a standing position by the fire.

[Saskia]

The young woman motions for Fix to sit. "Come, now, dear, we aren't those sorts of village folk; at least not me and Harry. I just thought your people couldn't eat; I'll go get you some, too, if you like." By the time she's finished speaking she's already up and on her way back to retrieve more food.

Harry offers a small nod in agreement, and motions to the empty chair, suddenly looking very tired, like an old man confronting bitter memories, at the prompting of Maria's question. "An old story? Well, yes and no. Mad Cass heads a Fury cult of displaced Cyrans and shellshocked veterans who got the shaft after their discharge. It always happens after a war; a spike in poverty, unemployment, and crime while everyone tries to readjust. That much is rehashed from every other war, but now you throw in lifetimes of conflict leading up to the armistice. The aristocracy have been throwing us at each other over who gets to sit in Daddy's special chair for over a century now; you've got to go to the Holds to find somebody who knows what actual 'civilian life' is supposed to look like, and Mad Cass takes the most damaged and maladjusted to mold them into murder machines. So they rape and burglarize, they beat people to death in the street... Hell, last night they hung some poor girl's flayed corpse from the fountain in front of the cathedral. Not the old haunted one, either; the Sovereigns' Palace they're building in Barvette's Square, over in the clean part of town." He leans forward in his chair and looks at Maria. "If that does't scare you, this has been going on for a year, and all the Queen's wizards and spies still can't find her." Harry leans back again, and his chair creaks quietly. The Missus returns with a cup for Fix, though judging by how quickly she found something else to do, that she's not pleased with the direction the conversation went doesn't seem to be a stretch. As she's walking away Harry manages to pull his eyes off her and look between the group again. "So is Cass some terrible khybervittel just toying with her prey, or are the Royal Eyes really that woefully incompetent? Take your pick, but I think the worst part is knowing that Phiarlan or Thuranni agents could disappear the problem in a week, if Aurala wasn't too busy trying to prove something."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix accepts the cup cheerfully, and she takes a tentative sip. Some of the liquid dribbles out of the side of her mouth, and she dabs it away quickly, embarrassed. She inspects the cup again, drinking again carefully; this time she does so without spilling a drop. "Warm," she comments before turning her attention back to Harry and the others.

"I have a question that will probably seem foolish," she says carefully. "When someone acts in the way that this Cass has been acting, is it considered incorrect to disable or dismantle them? I know that part of the reason she is considered evil is the fact that she kills, but it seems like the easiest way to definitively stop her would be that same action."

Warforged can drink and eat, they just don't need to. Don't ask where it goes.

[Crinias]

Maria walks over to Harry and sits in the empty chair. She listens in silence to what he has to say. She's surprised to hear of the things Cassandra has done. But more than surprise, she feels suspicion. It is as Harry says: surely the Queen's forces could handle Cassandra quickly on their own. But instead... Maria flashes back to Sevruul and his knowing smile. Why did he make them do this? He surely had the capacity to do it himself, or the money to actually hire more skilled people. So why...?

She mulls it over as she drinks her cup, frowning as she does so. Under these circumstances, it practically wouldn't be surprising if there was corruption or in-fighting preventing the Queen or the Houses from directly stopping Cassandra. And if that was the case, then Sevruul hiring them, a group of nobodies, might indicate that he doesn't want any of that coming back to him.

She continues to think over it, until a nagging thought makes its way into the front of her mind. I wonder how difficult it is to flay a corpse.

Shaken out of these thoughts at Fix's question, she turns towards her, and licks her lips while considering her words. "People like Cassandra are a danger to society as a whole, so we label those actions as criminal. It is the job of officials to restrain criminals, and deal out punishment to them corresponding to the harshness of their crimes." She doesn't add: Criminals like myself.

She takes another drink. "The problem isn't that Cassandra kills people. After all, soldiers and guards fight and kill people as part of their job, and we don't recriminate them. The same goes for people who kill in self-defense. They do so for a justified reason, after all. But Cassandra doesn't, so she must be stopped. I don't think 'dismantling' her would be the right way to go at it, though. Simply killing her or imprisoning her would be enough."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix listens with rapt attention, eager for information. "I suppose 'dismantle' is a bit of an insensitive term. If I recall, organic creatures place importance on bodies even after death. But to return to the point of killing, I think I need to clarify some things. Let us postulate that I come across this Cassandra in a neutral setting, and she is not actively doing incorrect actions. Is it still correct to attempt to detain or kill her, knowing what she has previously done? And, in another situation, if I am attacked and respond with lethal force is that a crime? I do not want to commit crimes."

[OMG PONIES]

"It's a bit more...nuanced than that," Phinneas says from his seat by the fire. "Plenty of precedents fall both ways on both issues, leaving it without a clear answer. I'm afraid that justice isn't an equation that's easily balanced, Fix. Responding defensively with lethal action would be justified in most municipalities in Khorvaire, but the question of the neutral encounter is one dependent upon the ruling body of the locality and what they have deemed lawful apprehension. It's quite beautifully illustrated in the case of Pellenfrantz v. The Citadel Elite..." the old gnome continues speaking, regardless of whether he has answered the warforged's question or whether anyone is still listening.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix simulates a coughing sound to cut off Phinneas, a habit she must have picked up from one of her Cannith tutors. "Apologies, but I believe I have gathered sufficient information on the subject for now. I will contemplate this tonight when you are all recharging."

"Which reminds me, Maria, Harry; I can do something productive for you during the night. I am a trained armor and weaponsmith, and I can also make simple blacksmith goods like horseshoes and nails. Also, as I mentioned before, I can repair broken things that might be irreparable by mundane means. Is there any way I can be of service?" You get the sense that she's very eager to be helpful.

[Crinias]

Maria tenses up for a moment, but then relaxes. Slowly, a small smile appears on her face. "It's ok, there's no need to do anything. I can't speak for Harry, but at the moment we don't really need anything. If you insist, I guess you could sharpen my sword while we rest and get our energies back."

[King Tius]

Thianin mostly sits and nurses his mug of warmth in silence, content to listen to the others talk. However, he can't help but scoff loudly when Harry mentions the elven dragonmarked houses. The Valenar shakes his head with a wry smile as he takes a big gulp from his cup. "What the dragonmarked could do in a week, the Valenar could do in a day. Those tattoos turned the Phiarlan into dwarves."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix nods, placated, and she unattaches a thick leather bundle from the back of her belt. Sitting down she unrolls the bundle, which turns out to be a dizzying array of mundane tools. Hammers, chisels, and other less recognizable implements are all fastened and tucked into the leather case with gnomish efficiency. She takes out a few tools and begins to fiddle with her own knee, quietly scratching and adjusting some unseen piece. "I suppose we should settle down for the night, then. We will have much to do come morning."

Fix then turns, looks at the DM, and winks. :smallwink:

[Diful Takveh]

Simon listens, creating something of a profile from her cult's actions. Most importantly, her method of operation: was it a standard cult structure where most of the group met at a singular location (which might change every time)? Probably not. If there were large gatherings of psychologically damaged individuals, someone would have noticed. Besides, groups whose goals are solely chaos and destruction tend to be prone to infighting, and such a group would generally not survive a year. Which left two main possibilities: either Cass had some ability to control her followers, possibly some agenda, or the cult itself wasn't centralized.

As he starts to think about how to find Cassandra, he hears fix say something about dismantling them, and he starts to think of the possible ways to dismantle people. There were always the various systems of the body: skeletal, muscular, cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, etc. Well, technically, dismantling the skeletal system would require the same to be done to the muscular. Then again, dismantling was not generally the most efficient method of immediately stopping someone, unless you count the slicing of blood vessels and crushing of organs dismantling...

And his mind was wandering. He tries to focus on the conversation, but by the time he does so, Fix had just suggested they got to sleep. It was probably for the best. He sighs, hoping he didn't miss anything pertaining to their current mission. If he had, he would likely find out in the morning.

[Saskia]

If that's the case, you might put in a word with them. Plenty of rich folks willing to put up for professionals. If the Harry nods for Fix to follow him, and doesn't seem overly concerned with her unfamiliarity with accepted moral norms. "If you're that handy, then you can absolutely help. I'm not sure if you need sleep or not, so don't feel obligated, but I've got a few broken chairs I keep trying to get Groran to fix, he's just been busy with the new cathedral and all. The Tabard takes good care of us, but I'm not sure I could pay you the going rate for magical repairs, so I'm not sure if you should even bother yourself with the work." The mentioned chairs, of which there are about a half-dozen, are robust in construction but look like they've seen war. They're unusable as chairs, obviously, and broken in strange and wondrous ways, but nothing a decent carpenter couldn't repair with a lathe and a day or two of dedicated work.

Harry calls for his wife to bring bedding so the stone hearth, warm as it is, might not be so hard and unwelcoming. The night passes uneventfully; apparently few enough are willing to brave the frigid cold. The wind howls ever more violently as the night progresses, rattling the windows as if enraged all the more by the heavy door's refusal of its will, but with the coming of dawn the weather calms considerably. With still no other patrons in sight, Harry mentions offhandedly that a minor lord and his company had been in the previous night, and left before the group awoke. Though she may not have even noticed, from the way he speaks Harry seems to have been displeased with their rudeness toward Fix; it's not easy to tell however whether it's because he broadly accepts the personhood of warforged, or because he objects to poor treatment of his customers.

With a bid of farewell, the group sets out over the freshly-powdered road. The building across from the Tabard carries the sign of a dry goods store, and a general goods store beside it, along with an apothecary-alchemist, carpenter, and a blacksmith, whose hammering can be heard up the street. Judging by the looks, the village seems quite prosperous and populous for its size. Despite the cold, a gnome in a red coat sits on a barrel on the street corner with her hurdy gurdy playing a vibrant, exotic tune, seeming to stave off the cold with the warmth of her music, and thanking passers-by who toss coppers into her instrument's case in an almost comedically emphasized Zil accent. Overall, one doesn't get the sense that the village has much in the way of fear regarding a murderous psychopath and her followers, but at the same time, this is Aundair, and business won't conduct itself.

If anyone needs to buy anything, it's available as long as it's mundane and not more than 650 gp, and they've probably got the money to buy anything you guys might want to sell. Anything else, it's a crap shoot. Gathering information, chatting people up generally, or whatever is cool too. If y'all prefer not to bother, we can go ahead and move on, too.

I'm also not sure how Fix intends to repair the chairs, if she intends to. A straight craft check using only the conventional approach would require a DC 13 carpentry check, and three hours per chair without a lathe, and there are 5. He'll pay 6 gp per chair.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles when Harry calls for bedding to be brought in front of the fire. Though he did his best not to show it on the surface, he was chilled to the bone. Not to mention, a warm environment was probably best for his toad's comfort and well being. Exhausted from the day's travels, he falls asleep quickly. Upon waking but before getting up, he scans the corners of the ceiling for spider webs, chastising himself for having been carried away by thoughts on the mysterious note and later events of the night that he hadn't collected any of the insects that likely lived in the burned out barn and abandoned house. If he sees any, he collects enough for his toad to eat, but if not, he doesn't make a fuss about it; he'd replace it with some of his breakfast or possibly some rations.

As he eats his breakfast, Simon contemplates the fight from the night before. It had certainly gone in their favor, but Simon couldn't help but think that he was rather useless. Even considering the fact that he hadn't been prepared for combat, he knew his utility in those aspects was sub-par. Of course he could hit things with his walking stick, but it just felt too clumsy to be of any use. Not to mention, if it broke, that meant he was down a walking stick. What he needed was a knife, not one of his surgical knives that, while sharper than blades made for combat, weren't built to fight. He was certain that, with his extensive knowledge of human anatomy, a small blade would be deadlier in his hands than in any warrior's. I mean, how hard could it be to hit some idiot with a knife? With that thought, he heads over to the village blacksmith to find the perfect knife.Checks for finding spider webs:
Search: [roll0]
Spot: [roll1]
Prepared Spells:
0: Touch of Fatigue (School Spec), Message, Detect Magic, Read Magic. Remaining slots: 0
1: Mage Armor, Chill Touch (School Spec), Scholar's Touch, Inflict LW (Dragonmark). Remaining slots: 0

[RaggedAngel]

Night, at the Inn

Fix looks upon the chairs with concern, the way a human might look on a litter of bedraggled and hungry kittens. She looks to Harry, then back to the chairs, trying not to let her emotions show. Easier done than said, since her face isn't half as expressive as a human's. "I've heard what most spellcasters charge for their magic, and I can tell you plainly that it is a sham. Spells and infusions are a limited resource, to be sure, but it will cost me little to do this for you; why, then, should I expect a great reward? I will accept whatever you would pay a mundane craftsman and no more."

She then sets to her work, inspecting each of the old chairs as if it were of consequence, giving them all careful attention. She mutters quietly to herself as she does, nudging fittings and frowning at signs of abuse. Her perusal over, she lays her hand on the first chair. Fix closes her eyes, feeling for a moment the place inside her where she draws her magic. It is a literal place, not a figurative one; a matrix in the center of her chest near where a human heart would be. Veins of energy flow from the matrix, supplying her with vitality. The power of her infusions was different from that life-energy, but it came from the same ultimate source: the ambient magic of Eberron, which usually went unharnessed. She felt the power flow from her heart to her arm, then her hand, and finally into the simple wooden chair. The infusion was one of order and patterns, the first once she had learned and her favorite to use. True to her name, the crushed supports under the chair snap back into place, restoring it to perfect health.

The second chair she infuses is fixed imperfectly; it had been a long day, and she is unable to properly restore the rusted bolts and fittings. It would be easier to repair in the future, however, and she left it be. The third chair drinks her last infusion greedily, but she manages to return it to working order. After that she spends some time working with her hands on the fourth chair, and it is time well spent; it takes an hour or two, but she manages to return it to working order as well.

She spends another couple hours on the final chair, but it is simply too damaged for to to repair without the proper tools. She turns instead to the six potions the group had recovered from the old house. She measures their acidity, viscosity, and texture carefully, recalling all the various magical liquids she has worked with in the past. Fix currently lacks the magical power to brew potions, and the lack of personal experience limits her ability to identify them. She is able to discern the identify of the blue potions with some confidence, but the red and white ones remain a mystery.

Finally, she settles down with the spellbooks for a good night of reading. The markings beneath her eyes glow a soft, clear blue as she reads, and she makes slow but steady progress through both books, identifying a decent number of the spells contained within. She make a few mental notes, and when she has done all she can she takes out one of the mundane books, the one on necromancy. Fix has kept the fire at a reasonable size all night, and she reads quietly by its warming light as her companions sleep away the stresses of the day.

Gosh, I completely forgot about the scrollmaking reagents we found, and the potions we found. It was due to player error, but I'm happy to let the accident become a character thing. Fix is cold and tired and wants to help a nice human more than spend the night painstakingly crafting a magic item. It's her art, and she loves it, but no sentient being can work constantly without a little relaxation.

Actions:
She'll use her three infusions right as/before everyone goes to sleep, to avoid penalties the next day. As per the rolls in the OOC, she'll repair three chairs 8, 3, and 6 damage. She then makes a successful Craft check to repair another one, and indeed succeeds by a full 11 points. Go Fix. She doesn't have much luck with the last chair, but she has potions to look at.

There are six potions; four blue, one red, one white. It's a DC 25 to identify a potion, with no retry allowed. Whichever potions she can't identify she'll give to the other Spellcraft-y people in the party to look at tomorrow.
Blue 1: [roll0]
Blue 2: [roll1]
Blue 3: [roll2]
Blue 4: [roll3]
Red: [roll4]
White: [roll5]

She is also going to make an attempt at deciphering both spellbooks. Since I don't know how many spells each book contains, I'll request you roll her checks. Her modifier is a +12, or +14 if this counts as scrollwork. The DC is 20 + spell level, and it takes a full round action. This can be retried any number of times, but only once per day.

I'm a sleepy angel. I'll do the daytime bit in another post.

[King Tius]

Thianin beds down as close to the hearth as possible. It isn't the dry heat of the desert sun, but it's certainly welcome. As Fix studies her books she might notice Thianin occasionally muttering in his sleep. As always, he dreams of things remembered yet not entirely understood. Like so many dreams he'd had before, he's riding across the Talenta plains, chasing down a band of halflings on their swiftfoot dinosaurs. When his quarry turns to defend themselves, they twist horribly and grow into great, grotesque creatures with crablike claws and alien faces. It is half memory, half nightmare as a favored memory quickly turns into a strange assault on his mind. The dreams have been getting steadily worse since he'd left his homeland, though he still has no way to make any sense of them.

In the morning, despite his troubled sleep, he maintains his pleasant yet aloof demeanor. He has no money to spend on any goods or services, so he waits with thinning patience for something interesting to happen. He finds the hospitality of the innkeeper comforting and makes a point to remember their faces, chubby and pale as they seem to his harsh elven eyes.

OOC: In other words, I have nothing to buy, so I'm ready to move along!

[Crinias]

Maria sleeps without much worry. To be accurate, she sleeps fitfully, without nightmares, despite having many things to worry about. Upon waking up, she stretches and exercises for a few minutes, practicing her techniques before putting her armor back on.

"We should find that false priest of Dol Arrah which the letter mentioned," she says, once they have left the inn. "The more we know about all of this, the safer I will feel."

[Saskia]

The snow out along the trail makes the morning feel somehow alive. Aundair's winters might dip into deep darkness and bitter temperatures, but a fresh blanket of white snow fills the air with Dol Arrah's light in a way that the balmy summers, verdant fields, and biting bugs simply can't; perhaps blinding daylight is Winter's concession for shorter days.

In any case, unlike the night before the party's thick furs and cloaks are enough for the quiet trek into the city to be tolerable, though still not comfortable. A handful of wagons pass by; some carriages with important, or at least rich, people, and some with tradesmen. A few nod in greeting, but most seem focused on the miserably cold wind, significantly worse atop a fast-moving carriage.

After what feels like an interminable trek through mostly knee-deep snow, somehow made no better by the passage of horsemen and wagons. When the limestone gates of Fairhaven finally come into view, between the snow, white gatehouse, and the white city walls discourteously blinding travelers with their brilliant shine, the last league of the journey feels even longer than the first. With only a mile or so left, another wagon passes by on its way into town, with a blonde gnome in a red coat sits on the back and waves.

"Morning, folks," the bearded gate sentry says from the back of his horse once the gate approach is finally finished. His mail is in good condition, and his grooming is immaculate; he has the look and bearing of a man who might play kings on stage. "Business or pleasure?"

Again, sorry everyone for the delay. Hopefully quality makes up for quantity, but life is awfully hectic right now. Still :smallyuk: Better than being unemployed and homeless though, so I can't complain too much :smallamused:

The three blue potions you could identify are cure light wounds, CL 1st.

[RaggedAngel]

The cold can damage Fix, but it doesn't feel painful like it does for her flesh and blood companions. The snow is a bit annoying, making her legs sodden and slick, but she otherwise enjoys the sight. The bowels of Sharn were usually quite warm, and she had never imagined something like snow could exist before she saw it for herself. It was solid water, clearly, but why it looked so different from regular ice was a mystery to her. She filed that away for future investigation.

Once the party arrives at the gate she looks to the others, and sensing a moment of hesitation, decides that she will speak for the party. "Good morning to you! Business, though pleasure is never out of the question. Myself, Professor Kessler, and Simon," she gestures to Phinneas and Simon, "are traveling scholars who have come to buy and sell scrolls, spells, and spellbooks. Maria and Thianin," she indicates the pair, "agreed to travel with us as protection. We had hoped the precaution was unnecessary, but we were assaulted along the road only yesterday. It is good to arrive in one piece. Is there any news worth hearing?"

I suppose I might be shooting myself in the foot, but Fix does not have Identification Papers. In fact, she has never heard of them. Merrix didn't see the need to inform her of such things, in case she attempted to escape.

[King Tius]

Thianin keeps his winter furs wrapped tightly around him, doing his best to warm himself with memories of the desert sun. He lets the double-bladed scimitar on his back serve as proof enough that he's hired muscle, but he does take an interest in the man's horse. He gives the beast a thorough inspection, nodding slightly in appreciation as he does so.

"That's a fine steed you have there. How does he handle in the thick of battle?"

[Saskia]

He nods to Thianin and pats his horse on the neck, eliciting a snort from the beast. "Hengroen's been with me nearly ten years now. Sometimes I think he's dumb as a bag of hammers, but he's fierce as any stallion. I think he killed more than I did at the Third Battle of Fairhaven, but he minds when I need him to. He's fast, too. There's no way he could keep up with your boys' horses, but he's damn fast for a destrier."

The soldier looks over the group and nods. "I'm glad you survived, though. Normally the scum don't leave survivors. Bandit attacks have been increasing, but we're increasing our patrols to compensate, and the Crown has assigned us diviners to ferret out their hovels. Still, I'll need you to file a report at the stationhouse." He looks out along the snowy field and sighs. "Everyone's talking about the Wild Hunt though, today. As if looking for myths in stormclouds is more important than death cults and highwaymen that actually threaten us every day."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix decides to ask about the Wild Hunt at another time, and internally kicks herself for mentioning that there was trouble on the road. She hoped that it would inspire pity, but she should have suspected that the lawman would want a report with details. Still, he was being more pleasant than she could have hoped for, and she keeps her voice cheerful. "A report will not be a problem; just show us where we need to go. And, out of curiosity, our innkeeper mentioned something about a death cult. Is there truth to the rumors? If anyone would know the truth of what's going on, I would imagine it would be you and your peers."

Good old fashioned untrained Diplomacy: [roll0]

EDIT- Golly gee willikers, Batman, I think I just made him helpful.

[Saskia]

The man dismounts with a nod and a wave to his compatriot to take his spot and leads the group into the city. Where the village was defenseless and bustling, the massive walls of Fairhaven seem cold comfort to its denizens. The street chatter is hushed, and people walk quickly around heavily patrolled streets, giving the impression that the city might again face trebuchets and cavalcades of griffoners pouring over the walls. "They're out there. We prefer calling them bandits, though. It makes them sound less organized, and keeps people from panicking, but that illusion might not hold much longer. This morning my son found a young woman hung by the fountain in front of the Sovereigns' Palace. He took it well though, for being his first day. He wouldn't tell me much more than that, though, and the Eyes are still investigating so they won't tell us much, either." He takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm Grant, by the way."

The walk is short, and ends at an unassuming two-story a stone-and-brick building. The sign indicates that it's a jail, but the prisoners seem more like rowdy drunks and others who simply disturb the peace, than hardened and truly dangerous criminals. This is often the case in Aundair where belligerent drunkenness, or other minor offenses if you can't afford the fine, yield a night or two in the hands of watchmen. Grant takes your names and professions, and when he prompts for traveling or identification papers he's unsurprised by hesitant responses. Instead, he nods knowingly. He tells the group that bandits often steal identification papers to sell to forgers, since it's easier to alter existing papers than replicate the magical watermarks, and that they can be replaced for a nominal fee at the city hall, or an embassy.

Maria easily finds out where the Sword and Board Inn is located asking a few people, and leads the group to the dingy waterfront tavern. Its furnishings are as robust as its patrons are loud, as might be expected of an establishment catering to sailors and dockworkers, and listening carefully one can hear a dozen stories of varying plausibility simultaneously in the large common room. Whatever the tensions outside, it seems not to have seeped into these walls, even if a few people are talking about the murder. One of the men stands out with a large and brightly-colored tattoo of Dol Arrah's rising sun on his broad shoulder, listening to a stout woman tell one of the more dubious stories to be heard, involving her ship and an undead Karrnathi sea monster. In one corner, a well-dressed elven man who looks to be waiting for somebody, and looks as if he'd rather be waiting in the middle of a volcano, and in another corner a pretty gnome deals a card game to her table, expertly flicking cards around the table made for people far larger than she.

"You can take a seat wherever, I'll be with you in a minute!" The voice comes from a young-looking half-elf waitress who's made a proud display of her ample cleavage as she carries a pile of dishes to the kitchen. Two tables sit empty, and many others are half-filled.

If anyone feels the need to lie to Grant about who they are, cool. Fix managed to improve his disposition, so he's indifferent to her, and friendly to all the real people :smallcool:

Likewise, if anyone is not going with Maria (who I'm assuming is going to find the place immediately), that's cool too.

Again, sorry for taking so long.

[RaggedAngel]

The man dismounts with a nod and a wave to his compatriot to take his spot and leads the group into the city. Where the village was defenseless and bustling, the massive walls of Fairhaven seem cold comfort to its denizens. The street chatter is hushed, and people walk quickly around heavily patrolled streets, giving the impression that the city might again face trebuchets and cavalcades of griffoners pouring over the walls. "They're out there. We prefer calling them bandits, though. It makes them sound less organized, and keeps people from panicking, but that illusion might not hold much longer. This morning my son found a young woman hung by the fountain in front of the Sovereigns' Palace. He took it well though, for being his first day. He wouldn't tell me much more than that, though, and the Eyes are still investigating so they won't tell us much, either." He takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm Grant, by the way."
Fix can't flush or pale or shudder, but she casts her eyes down when the guard speaks of the hanging. She understands killing from a technical perspective, she knows how to do it, she has defended herself with lethal force; but killing someone out of a fight has a hideous note of wrongness that scrape against her senses. Morality has always been a loose concept for Fix, likely due to her upbringing. Even so, she makes the quiet decision to never take a life outside of a fight; sentient lives are infinitely easier to break than they are to restore.


The walk is short, and ends at an unassuming two-story a stone-and-brick building. The sign indicates that it's a jail, but the prisoners seem more like rowdy drunks and others who simply disturb the peace, than hardened and truly dangerous criminals. This is often the case in Aundair where belligerent drunkenness, or other minor offenses if you can't afford the fine, yield a night or two in the hands of watchmen. Grant takes your names and professions, and when he prompts for traveling or identification papers he's unsurprised by hesitant responses. Instead, he nods knowingly. He tells the group that bandits often steal identification papers to sell to forgers, since it's easier to alter existing papers than replicate the magical watermarks, and that they can be replaced for a nominal fee at the city hall, or an embassy.
At this turn Fix promptly shuts her mouth and moves to the back of the party, letting the others do the talking. When pressed for papers she admits that she has never heard of such a thing, and that she does not own anything proving an official identity. She says that she will visit a Brelish embassy or a House Cannith outpost as soon as she can. Until then, she recommends that the man record her identifying mark, a slightly stylized hashmark.


Maria easily finds out where the Sword and Board Inn is located asking a few people, and leads the group to the dingy waterfront tavern. Its furnishings are as robust as its patrons are loud, as might be expected of an establishment catering to sailors and dockworkers, and listening carefully one can hear a dozen stories of varying plausibility simultaneously in the large common room. Whatever the tensions outside, it seems not to have seeped into these walls, even if a few people are talking about the murder. One of the men stands out with a large and brightly-colored tattoo of Dol Arrah's rising sun on his broad shoulder, listening to a stout woman tell one of the more dubious stories to be heard, involving her ship and an undead Karrnathi sea monster. In one corner, a well-dressed elven man who looks to be waiting for somebody, and looks as if he'd rather be waiting in the middle of a volcano, and in another corner a pretty gnome deals a card game to her table, expertly flicking cards around the table made for people far larger than she.

"You can take a seat wherever, I'll be with you in a minute!" The voice comes from a young-looking half-elf waitress who's made a proud display of her ample cleavage as she carries a pile of dishes to the kitchen. Two tables sit empty, and many others are half-filled.
Fix then proceeds with the group, making a note to the others that she will need to go get an official identity whenever it becomes convenient. She is not exactly sure how that will work, but she knows for a fact that she shouldn't go anywhere near a House Cannith representative without the group to back her up; Merrix is jealous of his possessions, and she does not want to consider how angry he will be at her betrayal of his trust and subsequent flight.

She surveys the bar with inquisitive eyes, taking in the patrons. "The letter," she murmurs, "said to look for a man with a, and I quote, 'Brand on his Forearm of the rising Sun of Dol Arrah'. That man has a tattoo of what I assume to be the same sun on his shoulder. A mistake in the letter, or the wrong man? How common are such tattoos?"

[Crinias]

Maria listens casually to Grant. The body in the fountain... again, Maria wonders just how difficult it must be to flay a corpse. She says nothing, however, and just nods at his words. An eerie air is all around town as she looks it over. Without wasting more time, she heads straight for the indicated inn with Fix.

Sitting down, Maria casually adapts to the place's atmosphere. It's not very difficult, considering she doesn't like to stand out in most kinds of situations. She starts to pay attention to some smudge of dust on the back of her hand, so as to not seem suspicious. As she does so, she considers Fix's question.

"I have not studied theological matters extensively," she says in a low tone, "but the faith of Dol Arrah is pretty common throughout Khorvaire. A particularly faithful person getting such a tattoo wouldn't be that odd. This is quite ambiguous..."

Then she frowns, and thinks back to Sevruul. "I don't think that elf would have made such a trivial mistake, however. Wrong man, perhaps; we should wait and see."

And then, to not pass the time in complete silence: "...I take it Merrix didn't care to teach you of religion?"

[RaggedAngel]

Fix frowns for a moment, thinking about what she's been told. She is growing more aware with each passing day that the information groups "what is true" and "what Merrix told me" are not necessarily identical. "I know a lot of objective information about divine magic, positive and negative energy, and the planes of existence. I know about outsiders, and I do know the names of each member of the Sovereign Host, the Dark Six, and a few of the other divine sources such as the Silver Flame. Merrix has used the word 'gods', often as a part of an expletive, and he has mentioned that The Traveler is the only one that seems to enact his will on the world. But religion in and of itself? Worship? I don't understand it. It has something to do with asking these powerful outsiders for favor, I take it?"

[King Tius]

Thianin nods with appreciation when Grant describes his destrier, taking that as permission to approach the beast and give it a caring stroke as he sizes it up some more. Though the man is certainly right about this horse being a far cry from the mighty steeds of Thianin's homeland, seeing a fine horse nevertheless improves Thianin's mood substantially. He even manages to start smiling despite the cold weather. When asked for his papers, he laughs haughtily.

"The Valenar need no papers and keep no embassies. The last time I tried to get papers the halfling working the desk nearly lost his head. Perhaps I should let someone else do the talking for me around the short ones."

At the Sword and Board Thianin walks in and surveys the scene with the wary eye of a warrior. After sizing the place up, he strides straight towards the uncomfortable-looking elf and practically shouts at him in their native tongue.

<"By the grace of my forefathers, if I have to listen to another squawking human, I might have to fall on my own sword. What are you drinking?">

OOC: Based on how the elf is dressed, can Thianin get a feel for what flavor of elf he is?

[Diful Takveh]

As he looks upon the familiar walls, Simon half-smiles. This had been his home, for however short a time, and it was good to see the walls again. He begins to wonder how the city had changed in the years he had been away, but these thoughts were short-lived as he remembered what was going on in the city. There was a mad woman inciting what were to an undamaged mind, almost unimaginable crimes. On an intellectual level, he could picture what was happening, but simply being in the city had made both the threat of a homicidal cultist and a worry for the people of Fairhaven more concrete.

Rather than go with Maria to the tavern, Simon sticks around at the jail. Before the others go, Simon pulls Maria aside and tells her, "We might be watched, so I think it best we don't all go to the tavern together. I'll be in touch if I find anything." Simon hopes he made the right decision to trust Maria. Fix and Thianin didn't much seem like people used to mild deception, and Phinneas, well, he probably would have scoffed at his stating of possibilities that he had already thought through in that way that arrogant-- not helpful. Whatever the case, he remains at the jail, and asks Grant, "I used to live here, around the end of the war. Have they been able to identify her? I'm just worried that it might be someone I know."[roll0] Bluff
Also Know (Local) +4 for 17 on laws and such about homelessness, criminal investigations, city leaders, and governmental style (democracy, theocracy, etc. and liberal vs. conservative) in the city. Mostly interested in the first 2 as they will have the most sway on immediate actions.

[Saskia]

The elven man looks at Thianin and his mood suddenly shifts. Though he's dressed in a conventional Cyran manner, he wears a a bright orange sash under his vest, indicating his status as a veteran Valenar lancer.

<"The serving girl called it an Imperial pilsener, but I think it came from the latrine. I'd rather suck a halfling's tit."> He raises an eyebrow and looks back to the busty waitress as she walks by again. <"I could do with hers, though."> He smiles as he offers his hand in greeting. <"My name's Kanyo, brother. What brings a friendly face to this festering rock pile?">

The girl returns as promised to the fresh table, apparently having inherited her elven ancestors' hearing over the loud place. "Host's hooks, don't let Turisas hear you ask about 'faith', he'll talk 'til the dragons come." She shakes her head and laughs uncomfortably. "Sorry. He's a good guy, but you know how those academy priests are. If you aren't one of them you might as well be worshiping Khyber for how wrong you're doing it." She surveys the arms and armor of her table, and asks "We got the militia here for booze, food, or both?"

Fairhaven is mostly run by the same standards as other cities. It has a body of aldermen and a mayor, all elected by the city's property owners which, while being moderately liberal, places emphasis on being friendly to business and the rich. Despite highly punctuated social and economic inequality, Fairhaven is a very prosperous city overall with greater social mobility than many other major cities. Homelessness and vagrancy aren't crimes in and of themselves, but several activities connected with homelessness—sleeping in public, pandhandling (without a license), and carrying "unusual" amounts of baggage—are. It's even illegal to share food with the homeless in public, and That an ordinance exists with nearly identical wording that forbids the feeding of feral or wild animals within the city has become common knowledge.

These laws are not new, but they are unpopular, being seen by many as criminalizing poverty after a century of incredibly destructive war. The council has maintained for years that the law applies to everyone equally, but the sense among most people is that to the extent that this is true, it's trivial; as the Aundairian journalist Anatole Franco famously noted, "The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich, as well as the poor, to sleep under bridges."

Criminal proceedings follow the Code of Galifar: The accused are presumed innocent until proven otherwise, and are tried by a jury of peers chosen jointly by the barristers of the defense and the accusation, and that if the prosecution does not submit a written accusation within a certain period of time (usually a year for serious offenses), the accused has to be released. Criminal investigations are generally launched by the city constabulary, but larger investigations involving more serious crimes or crimes that extend past Fairhaven itself are also overseen by the Royal Eyes' Bureau of Civil Peace.
Grant nods. "Yeah. Aurora ir'Lain. She is, or was I suppose, Lord Darro's favorite niece. She was a graduate student at Wynarn University. Studying what, I don't know; certainly something above my pay grade, but I hear she was working on a really important project." He lights a cigar and sighs deeply. "You know, any old bastard can learn to swing a sword. A dozen young men could take my place when I die, and some of them might even live to be as good. A great wizard can't be replaced so easily."

[OMG PONIES]

Its furnishings are as robust as its patrons are loud, as might be expected of an establishment catering to sailors and dockworkers, and listening carefully one can hear a dozen stories of varying plausibility simultaneously in the large common room. Whatever the tensions outside, it seems not to have seeped into these walls, even if a few people are talking about the murder. One of the men stands out with a large and brightly-colored tattoo of Dol Arrah's rising sun on his broad shoulder, listening to a stout woman tell one of the more dubious stories to be heard, involving her ship and an undead Karrnathi sea monster. In one corner, a well-dressed elven man who looks to be waiting for somebody, and looks as if he'd rather be waiting in the middle of a volcano, and in another corner a pretty gnome deals a card game to her table, expertly flicking cards around the table made for people far larger than she.

"You can take a seat wherever, I'll be with you in a minute!" The voice comes from a young-looking half-elf waitress who's made a proud display of her ample cleavage as she carries a pile of dishes to the kitchen. Two tables sit empty, and many others are half-filled.


Phinneas climbs up the side of one chair like it was a ladder, teetering slightly as he makes his way up. He finally settles into his seat and breaks out a thicky, musty tome. Ignoring the commotion around him, he draws his reading lenses from within his robe and looks down his nose at the text, beginning to soak it in. However, it seems less like pleasure reading than a nervous habit to distract him from the chaos of the place.


"The letter," she murmurs, "said to look for a man with a, and I quote, 'Brand on his Forearm of the rising Sun of Dol Arrah'. That man has a tattoo of what I assume to be the same sun on his shoulder. A mistake in the letter, or the wrong man? How common are such tattoos?"

"Common enough among the fiercely devout," Phinneas muses aloud without looking up from his book. "I'd imagine him to be an academy priest, were I a more whimsical gnome. Were that the case, I'd imagine the man we're looking for is a superior in the order. You see, the tattoos function as a form of self-flagellation, and one on the forearm is a more painful statement and thus a larger banner to be waved. But again, I don't engage in such frivolous speculation." He continues reading, but his ears perk up and he lends an arched eyebrow to Fix's following words.


"I know a lot of objective information about divine magic, positive and negative energy, and the planes of existence. I know about outsiders, and I do know the names of each member of the Sovereign Host, the Dark Six, and a few of the other divine sources such as the Silver Flame. Merrix has used the word 'gods', often as a part of an expletive, and he has mentioned that The Traveler is the only one that seems to enact his will on the world. But religion in and of itself? Worship? I don't understand it. It has something to do with asking these powerful outsiders for favor, I take it?"

"More like an attempt to find easy answers to questions that have none," Phinneas snarls a bit. "But you have information about divine magic? You don't say, Fix...we'll have to chat sometime. It would be nice engaging in scholarly inquiry without being proselytized at all the while." He closes his book and makes eye contact with the warforged; for the first time he seems to regard her as an individual. He even forgets to call her a machine.


The girl returns as promised to the fresh table, apparently having inherited her elven ancestors' hearing over the loud place. "Host's hooks, don't let Turisas hear you ask about 'faith', he'll talk 'til the dragons come." She shakes her head and laughs uncomfortably. "Sorry. He's a good guy, but you know how those academy priests are. If you aren't one of them you might as well be worshiping Khyber for how wrong you're doing it." She surveys the arms and armor of her table, and asks "We got the militia here for booze, food, or both?"

"Neither for me," Phinneas says with an air of haughtiness, "just a spot of tea. You say that gentleman is an Academy priest?" He looks around the table, full of smug pride that his intuition had been accurate.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix notices Phinneas's interest, and she nods. "I would be happy to discuss any kind of magic. I know more about magic than just about anything else, though I don't know much compared to true scholars. I just haven't had the time. Even operating at all hours, I've only had around a year to learn, and there is much more information than that in the world. I daresay one could not even learn everything there is to know about Cure spells in a year, let alone all of divine magic."

When the waitress addresses the group Fix shakes her head politely. "I do not think I can eat or drink, though I suppose I have never tried. Could I have a glass of water? I will experiment with a relatively nonreactive substance and progress from there." She speaks as if such experimentation is completely typical and reasonable. "And I suppose you would know better than we do; have you seen a man in here with a tattoo like that, but on his forearm? We were told he could help us..." She trails off when she recalls that perhaps she should not divest their secrets to an open room.

High Int, high Cha, low Wis. My very favorite combination. :smallwink:

[Diful Takveh]

Well, that was certainly a name that he knew, would have known even if he hadn't studied at Wynarn. So what had seemingly been simply a horribly grotesque assault could now be construed as an attack on a political power's family. Now all one could do is wait to see what Darro's reaction was going to be. Would he give some public speech to show that a person can stand firm, even against such a demented mind, or would he proceed directly into using the Knights Arcane to find the people who killed and flayed his niece? If he were to give a speech, no doubt Cass would be there, listening to the man writhe in emotional turmoil even as he stood as a beacon of hope for his people. Or she might use the time to carry out even more crimes.

"Yeah, I knew her, or at least of her, though I doubt there are many at the college who hadn't heard of her, prodigy that she was and all that. Never really met her; though, I'm certain our paths crossed at some point. It's just... well... hard to imagine. I mean she was going somewhere, going to be someone important, already was to an extent, but to have that future cut short like that..." He shakes his head, "I'm assuming her uncle knows or you wouldn't be telling me. Do you know if he's decided how he's going to proceed?"

[King Tius]

Thianin's smile is the widest it's been since he was last barreling down on a pack of halflings. He returns Kanyo's handshake and can't help but laugh.

<"By the bones of my ancestors, it must be my lucky day. I'd just assumed you were one of those doughy and dragonmarked city-dwellers."> He points across the room to his companions. <"I'm offering my services as a guard to a band of research-types. They quibble about the roots of magic while I freeze my balls off. What about you? From your clothes it looks like you've gone native.">

[Saskia]

Kanyo laughs and nods, and gestures for Thianin to sit down. <"All the better to blend in, friend. There's an idiot Vadalis boy who doesn't understand the Valenar or the horses we count as our comrades-in-arms. He thinks he can ride in with some thugs, harry our herds, and make off with the horses so he can breed them with Vadalis lines, and somehow he thinks he'll make out better than his ancestors. It's like they value their ancestors' failures as much as we value ours' successes. My instinct is the kid deserves what comes to him."> he pauses, and gingerly he places a white-and-brown object from his vest on the table, which Thianin recognizes it as the bones of an elven finger, bleached white with time and lashed together with leather and animal sinew. <"But when she tells me my instinct is wrong, I don't argue. I have a meeting with the kid when his barge comes downriver. He thinks I'm wanting to join him, but hopefully I can convince the boy he'll only be throwing his life away. Failing that, even she agrees he's done it to himself, but in her honor I have to try, and hope he's not as dumb as I'm afraid he is.">

The waitress smiles at Fix, amused and disarmed, and leans against the weighty table. "Sure thing, hon, water and tea. Now you're looking for a priest with that tattoo on his forearm, you are looking for Turisas. He's academy trained, but he's doing dockwork now. He says it's so he can understand the working class or some horse**** like that." She looks to the door momentarily and smiles at a trio of gruff-looking men walk in, looking very much like they fit right in. "He's been staying here the last few weeks. He's usually back about nine or so in the evening if you want to come back, or if you want to hang around for a while I can get that tea and water. Maybe something else? Stewed beef and rice to warm the soul? It's walleye season, how about some fish to feed that brain, Doc? Not that salted crap either, my beau fished a bunch up out of the river just last night. Still got'em live in the barrels, waiting to be filleted."

++++++++++

"No," Grant says, shaking his head. "But if I was to hazard a guess I'd say he's got a few plainclothes knights on the hunt already. I know I would, anyway." He ashes his cigar onto the floor and looks at Simon curiously. "You and your posse aren't here for a symposium. If you're here to bring her in, I can't tell you not to, but I really don't advise it. They're bad, bad folks."

[OMG PONIES]

"Just the tea, thank you," Phinneas mutters dismissively to the barmaid. Clearly, etiquette was not the subject of the book he was nose-deep in.

[Crinias]

Maria holds back a deep, instinctive, and above all human urge to press the palm of her hand to her face. There was something rather antisocial about this group, on the whole. Perhaps she should have considered going with Simon instead, given that everyone else went with her. There was such a thing as not drawing attention, after all.

"Thank you, I'll take the stewed beef and rice, and some water besides" she says to the waitress, almost apologetically. And then, in another attempt to keep up a semblance of a conversation and avoid more silence, she thinks of something.

"...Something a professor of mine once told me was that one of the more important things about religion is that as a whole, it's as much of a motivating force for people and nations as politics or economics. People individually can find some meaning in their lives by seeking a connection to a great power outside themselves."

She pauses to collect her thoughts, and watch her companion's reactions, before continuing in a lower tone. "I can't say I find the appeal, but for many that's something important to consider. It can be something people turn to in times of trouble... much like Cassandra's followers probably have."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix nods her thanks to the waitress, and then she listens to Maria intently. After a moment's pause, she replies. "I work with raw magic, like all artificers. I can see it in the air, if I look hard enough, and I can bind it to myself or to objects if I exert a portion of my personal energy to do so. More powerful artificers can do more than that; they can create true magic items, constructs, and with a creation forge they can even create life. They can create people, like me."

She looks to the general population of the bar. "If I didn't have that power? If I knew that I had no way of changing the world other than my by muscles and my words? It would make me feel limited. Constrained. It is easy to imagine that I would want to know that something with power cared about me. That something would enact the changes in the world that I otherwise could not."

She shrugs. "Enough of that, we have tasks to attend to. There are a number of hours before our contact arrives. How important are identification papers? Is it worth going to the Brelish embassy to purchase one?"

[Diful Takveh]

Well, they had been found out. Great job, Simon. He wasn't trying to hide the fact that they were going after Cassandra, but given the ease with which he was discovered, he might have to rethink his infiltration plan. He shakes his head, "Much that I would prefer a symposium..." he sighs, letting the rest of the statement speak for itself. "I was thinking of infiltrating the group, but I guess I'm more of the open book type." He shrugs, "I guess I'll just have to think of some other way to find her."

[King Tius]

Thianin's smile fades to a more solemn expression when Kanyo presents the finger bone. <"You honor her greatly by heeding her words. Would you like me to stick around for the meeting? As you say, hopefully the boy is not an idiot, but he may bring his thugs with him."> Thianin nods back over his shoulder to the vertical blade of his double-scimitar. <"Even if I don't take her dancing, she's sure to send a strong message.">

[Crinias]

Maria nods as Fix lays herself out. There was a certain quality in her that made that answer very pleasant, somehow. Maybe it was her inexperience or innocence, or maybe that certainty. Whatever the case Maria found herself liking her more than she'd expected. Not by much, but enough that she didn't feel like a stranger anymore.

"It's relatively important, and it should not cost much, but you can get by without one. We don't have anything else to do besides waiting, so we might as well. Still..."

She takes a long look at Fix's body. "Considering who made you, it might be best to not to go to pains to identify yourself. If you still feel you have to, at least pick an alias."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix nods, glancing down at herself. "They shouldn't have any method of determining my real identity; after all, the only records of my existence are in my maker's personal laboratory, and if that has been breached we all have more concerns than merely being identified. Having official documentation could prove to to be quite useful or important in the near future; it wouldn't do to be detained at the gates of another town or city if time was of the essence."

She taps her small leather coinpurse. "I have enough for a document, as well as a few alchemical reagents that could prove to be useful. Maria, after we've finished our drinks would you go with me? We shouldn't be gone for long, and after we return I can start working on a scroll. Might as well use our time productively."

[Saskia]

Kanyo nods. <"I would appreciate that. I'm still an ace in the saddle, but..."> He raps his knuckle on his leg, <"Even with magic, some injuries don't heal quite right."> As he stares at the beer on the table, it's as though it taunts him, and with a grimace he takes the earthenware mug and chugs its contents defiantly. <"Eat, drink. Your friends, too; it's on me. I just advise something else to wet your throat.">

As quick as she's gone, the bored elf Thianin has been talking to waves the maid over, and on her return (with the clear water and tea) she taps the table twice. "If you change your mind, Kanyo over there said he's buying." And with that she's off again.

++++++++++

Casually, Grants stands to close and lock the doors. "I have a meeting at half past midnght with a guy who claims to be one of them. He says he wants to rat them out, but as a badge I can't claim the bounty." He turns over the day's issue of The Crier, a well-respected and popular left-leaning newspaper, on his desk:



THE NINTH MURDER
_________________
and the
____________
FIRST NOBLE
____________
now, finally a
_________________
BOUNTY FOR MAD CASS



Additionally, the story's first two lines begin to lay out a case that the Fairhaven Bounty Council, whose membership has always been drawn from noble and merchant families, is perhaps more class-conscious than they admit to; historically a source of bubbling resentment among Fairhaven's working class, and a claim the Council emphatically denies.

"If you want to bring your people to this meeting as my security team, though, that wouldn't be breaking any rules. The bounty's four thousand alive, half dead. Just posted this morning. You bring me her, or her corpse, and my friend identifies her, and you get paid. And maybe you give me a little under-the-table gift, maybe four-fifty. I can't post the broadsheet yet, but I can give you a copy tonight, if you're interested."

[Crinias]

Once Fix explains the situation, Maria nods again. "If that's the case, it's fine. It shouldn't be a problem. And like you say, we really don't have anything to do other than waiting."

[Diful Takveh]

Simon's eyes widen. Now, he wasn't an expert on bounties; he didn't even know what the going rate for them was, but whatever the case, 4000 subtract 450 for this fine gentleman, maybe 50 or 100 for a finders fee or whatever for the person wanted to out Cass, and that left 700 or so for each member of the group. He nods to Grant, "I'll see what I can do. I'll see you here at midnight then." With that, he turns and exits out into the street. Now, all he needed was to send a message, but to whom should it be sent? Well, Phinneas seemed to enjoy decoding Sevruul's incendiary letter, so he probably had some sort of background with codes. He didn't seem to be one to take a hobby though. Well, off he went to the library to research codes as well as he could. Something simple would probably suffice, but who knows what evil hands this letter might fall into.

[King Tius]

Thianin smiles and gives Kanyo a strong pat on the back. <"I will return your generosity as soon as I have the coin to do so. Tell me, Brother, when is this little runt due in?>

Thianin glances over towards the table of his comrades and raises his not-so-fantastic beer in a silent cheers, a sly grin sliding across his face briefly before he returns his attention to his new best friend.

[OMG PONIES]

As the barmaid turns to leave, Phinneas raises a finger (still without looking up from his book). "Miss?" he asks, showing interest for the first time. "It would be inadvisable of me to pass over complimentary potables. Perhaps a splash of peach brandy would complement the earthiness of the tea leaves, yes?" Looking up from his reading, it seems that Phinneas has found something else of greater interest to him--whether or not it's of any interest to anyone else. "Funny things, homophones," he muses aloud and chuckles, an uncharacteristic sound for the tiny academician. "What a difference a vowel makes..."

When the proffered alcohol arrives, Phinneas pours a small amount into his mug as the tea steeps. Then a medium amount. Then a large amount. "Sláinte!" he calls to the elf chatting with Thianin. It is only then that he notices the gnomish card dealer in the corner. "By Syrania's skies," he mutters to the barmaid, "what kind of tomfoolery has that gnome gotten herself into? Wasting time with idle games? One would expect more from a properly disciplined gnome," he says with an air of superiority before taking a large swig from his mug and returning to his reading.

[Saskia]

She looks back at the gnome that raised Phinneas' ire, and back. "Aria? She's an astrologer, or wizard or something. Every time she comes in she walks away with piles of money. She said it's how she funds her research."

Kanyo shrugs. <"Two hours? More, or less maybe; it depends on how drunk the stevedores are. You know humans, can't drink but to numb the pain of their short lives. The charm of the drink means nothing."> He raises his cup and calls back to Phinneas, "Sláinte mhòr, old man!"


For Maria and Fix, the Brelish embassy is easy enough to find. It sits a half-hour's walk from the Sword and Board, and just a stone's throw from the palace. The masonry building looks like it used to be an armory or barracks; simple and unadorned, built for strength and for the very narrow purpose of holding quite a lot of something, and construction crews milling about laying stone and timbers suggest the Brelish embassy is getting an upgrade.

Inside, the building is quite cozy. Its decor is very obviously Brelish to the core; almost hokey in its artistic affectations of bears, mattocks, and hammers, but unmistakably the home of Brelish nationals abroad. A trio of Brelish soldiers clad in mail armor greet the two by politely asking for weapons to be surrendered for the duration of the visit. The receptionist, however, just stares dumbly at Fix like a deer caught in a lantern's light.

++++++++++

On his way out, Grant shakes Simon's hand, leaving in his palm a hastily scrawled address. The number Simon doesn't recognize, but he knows Riverfront Plaza; a street aptly-named for its lines of shops and warehouses along the docks. "Tonight, then."
--
Despite the Royal Library's utilitarian name, its appearance is anything but. The old building was largely destroyed during the Last War by a freak lightning storm. Nobody would mistake it as a rival for the Library of Korranberg, but as Queen Aurala said regarding its reconstruction, breakage is the best excuse for upgrade and it's a widely accepted second best, at least as far as publicly available libraries go. The facade's colossal windows are reinforced with stone, and probably magic. The foyer's marble floor bears a boldly colored inlay of the royal crest of Aundair, flooded in the morning sun. A young librarian directs Simon to the cryptology section, but tells him that without proper identification as a citizen of Aundair, he'll have to search manually, and reminds him that it is preferable for the librarians' sake if researchers leave books on their tables rather than put them back, and that mundane writing materials can be purchased at the front desk, should he need them.

[OMG PONIES]

"Hmph, a proper huckster is what she is..." Phinneas stews in his seat and sips his tea. Whether he's bolstered by the spirit in him or the spirits in his mug, he eventually finds the courage to leave his seat. The tiny old man hops down to the floor and scurries over to Aria's game. While she's clearly in the middle of something, Phinneas makes the executive decision that it's something worth getting out of the middle of.

*aHEM* Phinneas loudly clears his throat in the most pedantic way possible.

No response.

"I do say, young lady," he starts into his tirade, "I am Dr. Phinneas Herringbone Mathersby Kessler of Morgrave University, and as a proper gnome I would ask you to cease this hornswoggling immediately. Surely you have more productive ways to be spending your time?" The lecture has begun, invigorating Phinneas but sapping the energy from everyone around him.

[RaggedAngel]

As an interesting aside, Aria is the name of the only PC I enjoy playing more than Fix. My Aria is an Illumian (or sometimes human) Truenamer who managed to outlive her original (and very high-quality) game, and has recently been reborn in another rather excellent game.

I can hear the question, for those of you who care enough to read this far. "Wow, Angel, you mostly play classes like Artificers, Archivists, Warblades and Druids. You know. Brokenly good ones. Why play a Truenamer?"

It's simple; because Aria is a badass despite her brokenly bad mechanics, and I fell in love with her when I didn't know any better.

This has been a RaggedAngel Service Announcement. We will now return you to your regular broadcast.

Fix hands over her crossbow without a second thought; 'disarmed' is a very loose term for both warforged and artificers, and an impossibility for warforged artificers. She looks to the receptionist and does her best to imitate a human smile. Mostly she just opens her mouth a little and squints her eyes. Note to self, she muses as her face returns to normal. Learn to better emulate organic body language and facial expressions.

"Good afternoon!" She says aloud, cheerfully. "I have recently learned what identification papers are, and I decided that they are important to have. I am of Brelish origin, and consider myself loyal to Breland before any other nation or any mercantile house. How do I obtain proper proof of identity?" She finds herself surprised by her own words. A bit of introspection determines that she does consider herself loyal to Breland before other countries. Odd, since her only memories of the country were of Merrix's laboratory/lair and of her escape. Even so, it was where she was born. Not a perfect reason for loyalty, but better than nothing, and if not logical, it at least wasn't illogical.

[King Tius]

Thianin nods to Kanyo, taking a swig of his beer and wincing slightly at its taste. <"Well then, looks like we've got two hours to kill."> Thianin turns around so he can rest his back against the bar as he leans back and surveys the room. <"Let me tell you about the time I killed two halflings with a single stroke...>" Thianin proceeds to spend the next two hours shooting the breeze and swapping war stories wtih Kanyo.

[Crinias]

Right alongside Fix, Maria follows. Trying not to seem reluctant, she gives her morningstar, her scimitar, and her dagger to the guards, feeling somewhat vulnerable without them.

She follows her companion to the receptionist, before attempting an apologetic smile behind Fix's back.

"And I lost mine some weeks ago, before I noticed it was gone. What is the proper procedure in these situations?"

She might have actually lost it while traveling, but from an OOC perspective I never actually bought one for her at the start of the game.

[Saskia]

The young gnome listens to Phinneas with a dry, unamused gaze as her compatriots leave the table, seemingly grateful for an excuse to leave with their dignity and their money.

"Doctor Aria Whitmond Millstone Lyrriman d'Sivis, she says plainly, with a tone in every way the equal of her expression. "I'm working on a joint research project with members of House Sivis, the Library, and a transmuter-alchemist at Wynarn, who I'm killing time waiting on while she deals with the investigation. That gold you drove off just now? Twenty Galifars. That's a month's worth of my travel expenses. Do you plan on ruining the custom Cannith orrery servos I'm to pick up, too?"

Kanyo listens with interest to Thianin's stories, and trades some of his own. Thianin picks up that his drinking buddy is actually not particularly fond of violence, and despite his amusement at Thianin's stories thinks the animosity between Talenta and Valenar is entirely counterproductive; it's clear that he, through his own patron ancestor, feels certain lost ancestors should not hold places of honor.

__________

Shakenly, the young woman stands and leads the two women to an office where a man of middling age and stately bearing reads and explains the issue, rather missing some important details; namely, that the warforged in the room isn't the only one with issue. "Breland is a land of industry and productivity," he says after a rather lengthy discussion of Fix's situation, and adds that he is himself a magewright mason by trade, and presumes that she ought fit in quite well. It seems that, since the Thronehold Accords, obtaining citizenship for warforged is artificially easy in the Four Nations to accommodate the artificial difficulty they otherwise face. A stamped writ declaring her citizenship is all she needs, with the signatures of the petitioner, the assigning magistrate, and one witness.

For Maria, he hands her an envelope and a handful of forms to fill out; name and date of birth; names and dates of birth of parents; address with town or county of their property, rental, or crop share, or in the case of itinerant merchants or the like, the last property where they paid tax or rent; employer or institution of learning... suffice it to say, it seems the details required in obtaining lost identification are not brief abroad as they are at home.

I understand now why most masters' and doctoral programs in most universities require a no job contract. Sleep is for the weak.

Also, Diful, I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for for ciphers or codes or whatever.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix is as polite and grateful as she can be; she is rather relieved that the embassy did not pry into her age or maker. Fix knows how to lie, technically speaking, but she doesn't have any practice at it and doesn't know if she can accomplish it or not.

After signing the appropriate form and making a note of her identification mark, (which looks a bit like a hash #), she pats her purse. "Thank you for making this such a painless process. How much do I owe you for the forms and papers? It's, what, two to five gold, something around there?"

[OMG PONIES]

The young gnome listens to Phinneas with a dry, unamused gaze as her compatriots leave the table, seemingly grateful for an excuse to leave with their dignity and their money.

"Doctor Aria Whitmond Millstone Lyrriman d'Sivis, she says plainly, with a tone in every way the equal of her expression. "I'm working on a joint research project with members of House Sivis, the Library, and a transmuter-alchemist at Wynarn, who I'm killing time waiting on while she deals with the investigation. That gold you drove off just now? Twenty Galifars. That's a month's worth of my travel expenses. Do you plan on ruining the custom Cannith orrery servos I'm to pick up, too?"

"Only if you plan on lousing about to collect them," Phinneas says dryly. "There used to be a day when a proper scholar would be content to travel on two Galifars a month, sleeping on sofas with a quill in one hand and a sheet of parchment in the other, ready to begin notations at the first breaking of dawn. Nowadays, the coin is got by gambling and our intellectuals have time to kill?" he asks rhetorically. "Well, I've never heard such a despicable proposition in my life. It's an affront to proper scholarship, as well as proper Gnomish work ethic. You should be ashamed, Miss. Rather than dealing cards, perhaps one could sort out their bibliography or do some basic proofreading? Or does the House just take care of those pesky administrative details for you?" Phin had not consumed that much brandy, but it was clear that the bit he had splashed in his tea had emboldened him enough to let some of his disdain for House Sivis show.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles as he takes in the smell of the library, a smell that signaled this place to be a second home for himself. He thanks the librarian before turning to the shelves and browses the titles, trying to find any books on elementary cryptography. He knew the gnome would be fussy if he sent a note without some form of subterfuge, so, after composing his letter with a pencil he kept with him, he ran it through a simple code, something similar to a letter-replacement, re-writing it in pen before sealing it and sending it via a messenger boy.

It reads (after decoding), "Dear Dr. Kessler:
I am glad that you have taken me on as a student of cryptography. It is certainly a most fascinating subject, and as you can see, I am eager to put your lessons into practice; though, I did have to rely on a reference book. Unfortunately, after research, I have determined that treatment of your condition is more expensive than I had originally thought. Tonight, I am meeting with Dr. Grant, an acquaintance of mine who is well-versed in the disease and its potential treatments. You may join me if you like, as I plan to stay at the library until I meet him at his home; however, I might step out for a bite to eat as he isn't available until later at night.

All the best,
Simon"

Simon decides that the best way to spend his time is to brush up on this cryptography thing. It might come in handy to deal with people like Sevruul, plus this way Phinneas would know where to look for him.

[OMG PONIES]

Dr. Kessler joins Simon in the library, carrying the young man's note marked with annotations, commentary, and general ramblings in his trademark crimson ink. "Effective, my boy, if not a bit rudimentary." He places the cipher down in front of Simon and chuckles, "next up I'll have to show you proper book codes. It's not the fullness of modern cryptography, and admittedly its crucial vulnerability is tangibility reliance, but it's a step up from the A=Z swaps used by smitten schoolchildren. That won't secure your information; it'll just take up more of your valuable time. Still, you've proven that you've a mind for this work, so we can discuss more as we continue working together."

Phinneas paused for a moment at the initiative shown by his young ingenue, pleased to see that the old art didn't go completely unappreciated in a world full of mechanical people and hedge wizards. All that, and he respected Phinneas' developing condition to boot? Perhaps the old gnome had been too dismissive at first. "So, this doctor...Grant, you say?" Phinneas says, doing an awful job at feigning casual disinterest. "Has his work been peer reviewed and validated against an appropriate sample size? I won't be a footnote in a dissertation or a test case, mind you..." While the words hold the professor's traditional air of pretense, the tone conveys more worry and fear than anything else.

[Crinias]

Maria looks over the small hill of paperwork in front of her and sighs. She borrows a nearby quill and starts filling out the paperwork with patience. Many names, and dates, and numbers, and nothing really difficult, if tiresome.

"Well, we still had some time to kill before going about our business, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait for me," she says to Fix after paying the price, apologetically.

God, I can't believe I took so long with this post for such a small post. I've been a bit sick for the past two days but even then it's been a bit over a month since my last post.

I'm assuming we have to fill the forms here and now?

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas keeps rambling, blithely unaware of the confused look on Simon's face until the mental cogs dust themselves off and click into place for the old academician. "Ah, right right, Grant...he was the gentlemen we met previously, of course," Dr. Kessler says. While he looks frustrated, the frustration is directed inward, rather than at Simon. The gnome silently scolds himself for forgetting a name; it had gotten worse recently, especially with the unfortunate development of his...condition. Kessler puts aside thoughts on the matter and turns his attention back to Simon with a dry chuckle, "A bit of plain sight double talk obfuscated within a cipher of its own? Even should one decode the characters, they'd have to understand the cast of characters in our little drama to illuminate the true significance. Clever, Simon, very clever indeed...I suppose I can see the merits of that approach, though I personally would have gone with more of a basic steganography, wherein the first letter of every word spells out the true message. There are many options; we can review some of the simpler ones together as time allows." Phinneas beams at the younger man as if the backhanded compliment was to be taken as a badge of honor.

[Saskia]

As an interesting aside, Aria is the name of the only PC I enjoy playing more than Fix. My Aria is an Illumian (or sometimes human) Truenamer who managed to outlive her original (and very high-quality) game, and has recently been reborn in another rather excellent game.

I can hear the question, for those of you who care enough to read this far. "Wow, Angel, you mostly play classes like Artificers, Archivists, Warblades and Druids. You know. Brokenly good ones. Why play a Truenamer?"

It's simple; because Aria is a badass despite her brokenly bad mechanics, and I fell in love with her when I didn't know any better.
Hah. Aria was one of my first characters. She was a gnome illusionist, because if you're a gnome wizard in 2e, you're an illusionist. She got super good rolls, but since I had no idea what I was doing she was really supbar with her spell and non-weapon-proficiencies. I didn't have much opportunity to gain new spells most of the game, so in order to be even a little bit useful I really had to tax my creativity with the crap hand I dealt myself. She was a blast to play, though, for exactly that reason.

The young gnomish woman shakes her head and picks up her pack. "The man who thinks arcane magic is alchemy lectures a proper wizard on intellectual rigor. There just aren't words." With that, she hops off the table and walks quite irritatedly out the door.

Kanyo points out the exchange to Thianin with some amusement. <"Never get in an spat with a gnome. They can have a dozen arguments at once. It's no wonder Sivis created their speaking stones; quickest way they could find to tell each other how wrong they are."> He smiles and takes another drink, this time a pitcher of tea he asked for a few minutes past. <"Tell me, Thianin. As one Tairnadal to another, what purpose do you see for us in Valenar? In Khorvaire?">

______________________

Half an hour's worth of papers and two silvers each, and the ladies are on their way; one with fresh papers after an unexplained loss, and the woman of steel and stone a newly minted citizen of the highly industrious Breland. What they wish to do now, is a matter for their own choosing.

______________________

The wind suddenly picks up outside, blasting frigid gales throughout the morning's otherwise calm air, accompanied by a blaring, magically-enhanced horn; an affair anyone familiar with life on the water recognizes as the arrival of a Lyrandar vessel. At the Sword and Board, the gusts are enough to rattle the windows and howl through the door jamb, and most of the men get up from their tables, leaving only coins and empty cups, and a few sparse individuals to populate the dive. "Gonna be a ****ty day unloading this ****er," one of the men comments. Outside the barge in question shows itself to be unusually large, and indeed bears the stylized lightning bolt of the Windwrights' Guild—"Shipping at the speed of thought"—and men are lined up along the bank, readying cranes and rope at the behest of their foremen. Given the size of the barge, unloading it will probably take the dockworkers' union most of the day.

<"Well,"> Kanyo says, <"As you were saying, before the interruption."> He takes another drink from his cup.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix will return to the tavern where the group is waiting for their informant. After ascertaining the situation she will ask her companions how to rent a room, and then do so. Once she has a room she takes out some of the materials obtained over the past day and begins to scribe a scroll of Protection from Evil. She isn't sure if she'll really need it, but given no information about their targets other than "mad cultists" she figures that it's better than nothing. Besides, every moment she isn't working on something is a waste of the one resource that money can't buy: time.

Use Magic Device: [roll0] to replicate Protection from Evil. She'll get another try at the end of the spell if this fails.

I picked this one because it's kind of a generically handy buff spell. Not the most optimized choice, but it'll never be useless.

[Crinias]

Maria accompanies Fix to the tavern and helps her rent a room. Then, after telling Fix her intention, she goes back to the first room of the tavern and patiently waits for their contact to arrive.

[King Tius]

Thianin throws back his head and gives a hearty laugh at Kanyo's speaking stone joke. He gives the lancer a solid slap on the back for it as his laughter turns to a quieter, more drawn out chuckle. Something seems to release inside Thianin after that. It's a slight easing of the shoulders and a widening of his smile. For the first time in countless months, The Valenar feels like he can actually relax.

<"Well, if Shaeras has his way, I suspect our role is to slowly conquer this continent in the name of reclamation. I think he has a point. The Undying Court has grown lethargic in its eternal lounging. We fought our way tooth and nail from the clutches of the giants, and now we are content to let the humans scurry over everything and meddle in things that are best left alone. They've proven they can't be trusted when they nearly blew the whole continent away on the Day of Mourning. We are here to put elves back on the map.">

[Diful Takveh]

Simon takes the compliment, and, if Phinneas had no further need for him, he would dismiss himself to go to Riverfront plaza, browse a bit here, maybe buy something that caught his eye, and, of course, scope out the building bearing the address given to him by Grant.

[OMG PONIES]

Dr. Kessler gives the younger cryptographer a quizzical look over the rim of his bifocals--one that turns obstinate in a hot minute. "Well, go on," he sneers. "When I said 'as time allows,' that wasn't a code. When we have leisure time, I'd love to discuss further. But now is hardly leisure time--work to do, work to do..."

[Saskia]

A walk between academicians can be a truly fascinating thing, for members of the same field. For everyone else, however, little attention is paid to the erudites as they progress toward the address given to Simon, more interested it seems with getting back to the warmth of their hearths. The only interaction anyone spares them is a cautious, none-too-friendly nod from a young man of maybe sixteen years sitting in front of the sliding bay doors securing the warehouse Grant had indicated. After noticing the pair, he seems to have trouble focusing on his book, which Phinneas recognizes as a text he's used for his own students. Galifar: Father of a Continent, a book noted as one of the more comprehensive and important works of historical literature, documenting not only the life and beliefs of the old emperor to an astonishingly well-referenced degree, but also how his policies affected the economy, religion, and overall culture of the Five Kingdoms and the rest of Khorvaire. The young man reading it, however, hasn't got the look of the sort who would be reading such a book, though neither does he look entirely at home with the look of an unwashed peasant with a well-worn coat. Certainly he doesn't appear pleased about the weather. The building itself is large and austere, with a bay door sufficient to allow two carriages to enter comfortably (not to mention store many more inside), and a man-sized door beside it. It seems likely to have a loft, or even a second floor, as Phinneas notices, judging by the positions and spacing of large timbers most likely serving as floor joists about twenty feet up. It doesn't appear to have been especially well-maintained, but solid construction can do wonders for a neglected structure.

_________________________________________________

Kanyo turns his wooden cup on the table idly while listening. He begins to speak, but is interrupted by the loud entrance of a posse of well-dressed men in leathers and furs, all carrying swords. Not uncommon among nobility, but these men don't look like strangers to roughness like most nobles. <"We should continue this another time. That's our boy."> Kanyo waves the group over with a smile, and the leader is revealed as the one who looks the youngest of the group, perhaps in his early twenties, and the rest follow him to the table. The young leader is the only one who sits, however. It seems clear they expect trouble, and it's hard to tell if Kanyo is excited or amused. In either case, he doesn't appear concerned.

"Mister Lancer, I presume. I'd expected lamellar and a patchy beard, but here you are, looking almost civilized! I understand you have some choice words for me?" Though he's a rugged man, clearly well-acquainted with hard work, there's an air of triviality with which he jokes. Perhaps he doesn't understand how seriously the Valenar take the bond with theirhorses.

"Very perceptive, Mr. d'Vadalis." Kanyo says with a smile. "Take a seat."

The large Vadalis lord sits down and leans on his arm attentively and loomingly. Kanyo is rather large by rugged Valenar standards, but this human looks the size of two of him. "Alright..." His lackeys grumble and mutter to each other, but seem to await a cue from their boss, though the keen hearing of Thianin's ancestors confirms they're just impatient and want to get home already instead of listen to endless blather from some old man.

Again, Kanyo pulls the bound fingerbones from his vest and turns the relic in his hands. "Do you know anything about the Valenar and our honored ancestors, Johannes? From an early age we're encouraged to study and emulate the lives of a certain honored ancestor. Mine spent her days helping people in need; killing bandits, helping people to survive in a harsh, new land." He pauses for a moment and stares intently at the man, Johannes. "Killing horse thieves. Meiliki had a personal code, though: Parlay before violence. Not everyone necessarily knows what they're getting into." Almost on cue, Fix and Maria walk through the door, thankfully evening the odds that are looking increasingly hostile.

"Are you threatening me, Lancer?" Kanyo offers only a noncommittal shrug.

Johannes shakes his head with a sigh. "You try, and you try, and it's always something." He leaps up, heaving the heavy table over onto Thianin!

His men are obviously shocked by the outburst. One decides this isn't to his speed and runs out the door, while the other three nervously draw their weapons.
_________________________________________________

There's not much conversation fodder on the cold walk back from the embassy, but the women manage. The blasting horn off an arriving barge is in fact the only thing to rile the cold, quiet air, though it doesn't seem to bother the regular denizens of the city; what few there are out on the streets.

The return to the inn is oddly quiet, too; Thianin, with his new friend, and five other armed men, of whom one sits with them at the table.

"Are you threatening me, Lancer?"

The man, a giant of a man taking up more than his share of chair, shakes his head and leans back. He says something quietly, but with his back turned it's hard to hear, but his intent is clear when he violently heaves the table at Thianin, and a shriek escapes the young khorovar serving girl as his men draw their weapons and her cups fall to the floor.

Reflex for Thianin! We'll say the DC to avoid the table is 12, with a +2 bonus because you successfully sensed motive (I consider actions like that to be similar enough to a feint to get a sense motive as a bonus against it, and for brevity's sake I rolled it for you.) [roll0] damage if you fail the save. It's big, but not an effective weapon. Yay for DM fiat powers!

Also: [B]Initiatives!

Map incoming. I mean, when I get it done. Probably the next day or so.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix raises her fists, their stone-and-metal construction making them as effective as any club or knife. She mutters to Maria, slightly alarmed. "Is this a fight? Are we fighting?"

Initiative: [roll0]

[King Tius]

Reflex: [roll0]
Initiative: [roll1]

Stiff from the cold, Thianin takes the brunt of the table's impact. He's quick to shake it off, though, and draws his double scimitar off his back in one fluid motion as he stands. If he's within a five foot step of an enemy he surges forward, whirling his blades and attacking. If he's got nobody in range, he'll ready an attack for the first poor soul who tries to square off with him. Seeing Fix and Maria at the door, he calls out in a harsh and commanding elven <"Don't let him get away!">


Scimitar Attack: [roll2]
Scimitar Damage: [roll3]
Crit Confirm: [roll4]
Crit Damage: [roll5]


Current HP: 5/8

[Crinias]

Maria's body instinctively tenses at the scene that unfolds before them. She nods to Fix, surprised, but a bit excited. "It appears so."

Initiative: [roll0]

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas & Simon


The only interaction anyone spares them is a cautious, none-too-friendly nod from a young man of maybe sixteen years sitting in front of the sliding bay doors securing the warehouse Grant had indicated. After noticing the pair, he seems to have trouble focusing on his book, which Phinneas recognizes as a text he's used for his own students. Galifar: Father of a Continent, a book noted as one of the more comprehensive and important works of historical literature, documenting not only the life and beliefs of the old emperor to an astonishingly well-referenced degree, but also how his policies affected the economy, religion, and overall culture of the Five Kingdoms and the rest of Khorvaire. The young man reading it, however, hasn't got the look of the sort who would be reading such a book, though neither does he look entirely at home with the look of an unwashed peasant with a well-worn coat. Certainly he doesn't appear pleased about the weather.

The old professor, upon noticing the text, is entirely distracted from the task at hand. "ah, Parsifal's Galifar!" he calls out to the young man. "An exquisite history, almost makes weather like this somewhat bearable. A text I've used quite extensively in classes I've taught throughout the years. Actually caused quite the stir for poor Parsifal when it was first published, especially regarding his views re: Galifar's foreign policy amendments juxtaposed with his commentary on the changes in Khorvarian theology at the time. Tell me, are you a student at University?"

[Saskia]

For a moment, the young man looks hard at Phinneas. "Yeah. Really interesting, I never realized Galifar was so revolutionary in religion. Things we'd have believed in religion without ever questioning it a thousand years ago would be heresy now. And his handling of the Merchants' Rebellion sounds too insane to have been a real thing. I'm more interested in economics and ethics than history, but I'm starting to think you can't know anything about anything without knowing about history first. Uni's a real mind expanding place." He sighs and closes the book in his lap and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Wizardry's just a license to print money, my father always told me. I like money, I like learning, and I hate hard labor, so I decided to take him up on his advice. I got locked out of my apartment, though. Just waiting on the landlord now, but she's gonna be a few more hours. You know, I didn't realize it got so damn cold in Aundair; what are you good folks up to in this blasted weather?"

_____________________________________________

The table screeches to a halt on the wooden floor as Thianin retaliates like lightning in true Valenar form, slashing in an upward arc and catching him under the shoulder. Johannes falls to the ground shrieking in agony, still a giant but . Two of his men rush to his aid, one lunging at Thianin and catching him in the flank for 2 damage, and the other finding home in Kanyo's unprotected thigh. He grunts in pain, but when he counters his blade is stopped by a mail shirt concealed under the assailant's coat. "Mail! They've got mail under their coats!"

The last henchman turns to face Maria and Fix, but he doesn't seem to know where to even swing to hurt a woman made from stone and iron, and his weapon clangs harmlessly against her plating.



http://i.imgur.com/zRpbhCl.png

[Crinias]

Though she would not like to admit it, Maria does not really mind the opportunity for violence. It's not right, but she just likes fighting. Her instincts are honed to it, and she lets it show through her body language - it shows her hunger for blood.

"Get behind me, Fix, she says, while moving around the warforged, while drawing her scimitar. When she's in position, her blade lashes out, a very focused blow above her normal ability, one that leaves her defenses momentarily open to everyone but him. Thankfully, she judges that the others would be too busy to get close to her. She could only hope Thianin could hold on for a little while longer.

Swift action: Activate the Blood in the Water stance.
Move action: Move to E8, and while doing so she draws her scimitar.
Standard action: Attack M3 with Steely Strike. It gives my attack a +4, but everyone other than the guy I just attacked gets a +4 to attacks against me this round.
Attack: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[RaggedAngel]

Fix takes a step back from the thug, barely registering Maria's words. She draws her crossbow, pointing it in the man's general direction. "Why are you attacking us?" She shouts.

She also pulls the trigger, acting on instinct rather than reason. It's an odd feeling, and not one she's very fond of.


Shift to G10.

Draw crossbow as a move action.

Shoot as a standard action: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Welp, that was a bit lame. As powerful as they can be at higher levels, level 1 Artificers are not exactly a force to be reckoned with in combat.

[King Tius]

Thianin feels the searing pain and the hot slick of blood on his clothes. It brings a cruel smile to his face that he hasn't worn in many months. Standing on death's door was where he belonged, after all. Now on his feet with his weapon in hand, he whirls his double-bladed sword end over end, delivering a pair a slices in rapid succession at the man who stabbed him.

<"They came dressed to die. Let's not disappoint them!. For Valenar!">


1st Scimitar Attack: [roll0]
1st Scimitar Damage: [roll1]
1st Crit Confirm: [roll2]
1st Crit Damage: [roll3]

2nd Scimitar Attack: [roll4] Crit!
2nd Scimitar Damage: [roll5]
2nd Crit Confirm: [roll6] Confirm?
2nd Crit Damage: [roll7]


Current HP: 3/8

[OMG PONIES]

"...but I'm starting to think you can't know anything about anything without knowing about history first. Uni's a real mind expanding place."

Phinneas beams at the young man in a way that borders on creepy, all other thought drowned out by the boy's words. Snapping back to reality after a moment, Phinneas says "Bully, young man, you'll do well with that head on your shoulders and fire in your heart."

[Saskia]

A crossbow is a dangerous thing indoors. Though her target looks in horror at his shoulder, Fix' bolt itself catches the steel embedded in his coat, flinging itself between Kanyo's head and that of his opponent in a wild spin before clattering harmlessly to the floor. Still, the distraction provides the crippled Valenar the opportunity he needs to disarm his opponent in a violent splash of blood and agonized wailing. Thianin, in turn, fells another foe as ruthlessly as one might expect of the fabled Valenar. The one remaining neither dead nor dismembered, drops his weapon and holds his hands aloft, pleading with the woman who just caught his flank with her sword in mixed awe and terror, perhaps hoping she's the most likely to see reason.

"You got us, we're done, for Dol's sake! We're just doing our job, we ain't got a cut in this beef! I dunno what history yous guys got together, but he never gone nuts and done that before with us around!" His accent is clearly not Brelish; maybe South Karrn. It's hard to tell.

Behind the counter, the khorovar serving girl peers out from behind the bar, eyes as wide as dinner plates, before another half-elf, probably her father by the looks of him, pulls her back down to safety. Kanyo simply sheathes his weapon, laying hands on the wounded to staunch the loss of blood.

3 HP for Thianin.
_______________________________________________

The young man smiles. "Thank you, sir. I hope to do my family proud. You two have something of a professorial look, what are you doing out here? It's ass-chewing cold, and the murderers are still out there. I certainly wouldn't be out here if I had a choice. Did you two know that girl? Have her as a student, or a research associate?"

[King Tius]

Thianin whirls in the heat of battle to go for the last assailant. When the thug drops his weapon and cries mercy, the Valenar pulls up short, a scowl of distaste on his face. He spits on the man's weapon with a deep and resentful <"coward"> before wiping his blades on the nearest corpse and sheathing his weapon. When Kanyo heals him, Thianin's eyes widen in slight surprise as a smile creeps onto his face. <"It seems I'm not the only one who receives an answer when I pray. Take care of that leg wound, I'll get rid of the bodies.">

Thianin straightens and takes in the room, pointing at Fix. "Help me clean up this mess, will you?" He refuses to even look at the surrendered thug.

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas turns his attention from doting on the young historian before him to his surroundings. He hugs his tweed jacket closely around himself, hoping that it can provide some additional solace from the weather. It doesn't.

"I say, should have stayed back at that inn. Horribly dirty place, but at least it was warm. And quiet. I hope the others are enjoying their leisure time."

[roll0] to check out his surroundings before tonight's meeting.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix stares, wide-eyed, as the man crumples to the ground. She hadn't been the one to kill him, but she had tried. She had seen death, and would continue to see it, but that didn't mean she had to like it, or be comfortable with it.

Thianin's words startle her out of her reverie, and she puts her crossbow away carefully. She moves to his side wordlessly, and then helps him lift and move the body. As she does, she finds herself unconsciously patting the man down for valuables. Practicality had been hammered into her from the day she was forged, after all, and no amount of good-nature'dness could keep her from being efficient.

She stands afterwards, looking to the barmaid. "I'm sorry about the disturbance; we had to defend ourselves and our companion here, but I'm sorry that it had to happen inside your establishment. Is everyone alright?"

Quickly search the body(ies?) for valuables. [roll0]

[Saskia]

Part of the loft's woodwork conceals what very obviously had once been a door; above the former door a heavy wooden beam protrudes, complete with pulley wheel. Phinneas recalls that most of the warehouses at the University had multiple such loft doors for lifting cargo, usually one or two in both front and back. Snow has begun to fall once more, however, and the winds have picked up again as the clear blue sky retreats from a tide of dull gray. The shutters on the second floor have certainly seen better days, and could probably be ripped off with little effort, if one could get up the sheer wood-and-brick walls.

"Well, don't let me keep you." He shifts and looks up and down the street. "Like I said, I wouldn't be out here if I didn't have a job to do."

___________________________________________

The last man standing sheepishly begins laying out his comrades in the street at Thianin's command, not realizing it wasn't meant for him.

"Those men attacked you," the young woman says dumbly. The man rises from behind the bar, rumbling something to the girl too low to make out. She hops over the bar with a nod and walks out the door, stopping briefly to look back at the blood and severed body parts.

"Those men attacked you." The man echoes his daughter. His gravelly voice sounds like a landslide, and his hair and beard give him the look of a lion dipped in tar. A human man. "But why?"

Kanyo reaches into his vest and walks stiffly over to the bar, producing an envelope and a brass badge. "The short of it is that he's a horse thief and barn burner, and I'm a marshal. If it's all the same, I'll explain to you and the watch at the same time. I presume that's where you sent your girl."

"I'd rather know now, sir knight. With all due respect, it's my tavern that's bloodied up, and it's me who's gonna have a reputation for hosting a bloodbath."

Kanyo sighs. "True enough. But I think you mean 'the man who volunteered his tavern for the very dangerous job of catching a murderous, thieving, barn burning villain", milord taverner. I have two broadsheets and a warrant here. Their leader is wanted for conspiracy to commit theft and for thefts already committed of dragoons' mounts used by the Brelish and Zil militaries, felony murder, and for burning at least four barns while stealing horses." He raps his knuckle twice on the unfolded parchment for effect. "That's a hanging list, my friend, even in Zilargo. I lured him here with written correspondence as proof, complete with his signet, the ignorant fool, with the promise of horses to steal from some imaginary cohorts of mine that he could take back to Vadalis breeders. I convinced him to come here specifically because entrapment laws for capital offenses in Fairhaven are agreeably relaxed. Naturally, you will be properly compensated for damages to your establishment. For your valiant cooperation in the apprehension of vicious criminals, you see."

The taverner hums a thick, molten hum as he reads the broadsheets and warrant.

Ever the pragmatist, Fix searches the bodies and seizes surrendered weapons, yielding three longswords, and four short swords, along with 15 gold and 47 silver. The leader carried a masterwork longsword with a red leather grip and a double fuller, and the Vadalis crest etched into the ricosso. If she wants to take the time, two suits of mail armor can be recovered, and two more that can be repaired with a couple of days' work.

Also among the fallen she finds a tarnished silver locket. A woman of a worldly disposition might recognize the locket's dated baroque design, but cleaned up it might still be pretty, in a white lace kind of way. Inside, she finds a rich lock of honey-blonde hair and the likeness of a young woman so beautiful one might be forgiven for thinking her some long-lost love goddess. Opposite the picture, an inscription reads "I shall protect you always". Turning the locket in her hands to examine its quite competent craftsmanship more closely, Fix feels the faint hum of magic radiating from the locket.

[RaggedAngel]

I was about to roll Artificer Knowledge, but then I realized that's what let me know the locket was magical in the first place. :smallredface:

Fix doesn't bother with the armor, both due to the hassle of getting off the dead men and the impropriety of the act. She doesn't mind going through their pockets, but she feels like removing their clothing may be a step too far.

She gathers the re-sheathed swords into a bundle carefully, tying them up with a couple belts to make them easier to carry. She tucks the locket carefully into a pouch, with the plan to properly Identify it later. Standing up straight, she listens to Kanyo's explanation carefully, nodding along. "I'm glad to hear that we were working on the side of the law, not just getting involved with a common scuffle. I will say, however, that your methodology is imperfect. Those men were rather dangerous, and could have killed any number of patrons of this establishment had we not arrived when we did, or if we had not been ready for a confrontation."

She holds up a hand in a mollifying gesture. "I mean no offense; just be aware that this could have gone much, much worse for everyone involved." The matter settled in her mind, she lifts the bundle of swords. "I'm going to find a place to sell these off. They're too heavy to just carry around, and other than this nice Vadalis longsword I think they would serve us better as gold pieces. Does anyone want this longsword, or should I sell it too?"

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas begins making his way back to the inn, cursing his bad luck at the falling snow.

[King Tius]

Thianin drags the looted bodies outside with the help of the remaining thug. He piles them in a heap at the back of the tavern, not wanting to create any additional trouble for the barkeep. When the work is done, he grabs the last thug by the front of his shirt and growls at him, oblivious to the fact that Kanyo might want the bodies for something.

"Go find someone to get rid of these bodies, or dig the graves yourself. If I find they aren't disposed of or if I SEE your ugly face again come morning, you'll join them."

Thianin half-shoves, half-releases the man, dusts his hands off, and spits on the ground, trying to get the taste of Common out of his mouth. He makes his way back into the bar, already sick of the cold.

[OMG PONIES]

"Dreadful," Phinneas finally raises his voice beyond mumbled profanities. "Meanwhile the others are stretched out by the fire. I swear, I feel the life draining from my extremities every step. They'd better thank their lucky stars they didn't come on this trip, my boy."

OOC: Can I assume a safe return to the inn?

[Crinias]

Maria is quiet as the fighting dies down and the enemies surrender. That was... remarkably faster than she expected. It ended as quickly as it started. Fights usually lasted very little time in her experience, but even then it had seemed like far too little. She had wanted the fight to happen, hadn't she? She'd have wanted it to continue. She liked violence. She could accept it. But it was still wrong.

To defend oneself by fighting is one thing; but it is wrong to hunger for the end of other's lives. It's a natural animal instinct, she thinks, but humans are more than just animals.

She keeps quiet and taciturn as Kanyo (not that she knows that's his name) tells the innskeeper of his plan. She considers speaking up along with Fix - it really was reckless. Unless he was very good with a blade, he was under danger of being easily outnumbered. Would things have gone so well if they hadn't arrived at that moment? Maybe Thianin would have been good enough, but she'd never know for certain.

But she only nods, not trusting her tongue to do her any favors. She only speaks up once Fix considers going and selling the swords of the bandits: "Fix, I should inform you that stealing from bandits in plain daylight is in bad taste and possibly illegal. I'm just saying, because I know you're inexperienced." There, that should make it clear that Fix isn't being intentionally criminal, in case someone calls her out on it.

And later, once they're alone, and because Maria is also pragmatic: "If you're going to do it, I'd suggest doing so quietly, when there is little risk that anyone would know. I could use that sword, if you don't mind."

Sorry for the delay, this game completely skipped out of my mind.

[Saskia]

The aging elf stands up straight and adjusts his vest. "You're right, 'forged. I misjudged my quarry, and the lesson is not lost on me. I owe you and your friends more than a drink." He picks up his papers and badge with a nod to the window and sighs. <"I love killing bad guys,"> he says to Thianin in their native tongue, <"But I ****ing hate the paperwork.">
______________________________________________

Out in the wide streets around the city squares, the wind nips at Phinneas and Simon like fleas. Mercifully, the arduous trek through the silent city yields the soft glow of a fireplace dancing through the windows upon the falling snow outside the Sword and Board. The constabulary seems to have taken an interest in the place, however, as the busty young khorovar the two recognize as the one serving tables before talks outside with two constables, slowly rubbing her arms with her hands but otherwise showing little sign that she's bothered by the cold. Or, anything, for that matter. Simon recognizes the long, unfocused gaze, monotonous tone, and apparent insensitivity to the cold immediately: shellshock. It's a condition regularly treated among soldiers spending prolonged time on the front lines, but acute cases are occasionally observed in civilians who experience intense violence of some kind.

"—threw it at the younger elf, Sir Warren, and—"

"I'm not a knight, Miss, it's just officer."

"Sorry. No, the marshal was talkin'. If it ain't too immodest, I couldn't help but eavesdroppin'. He was talkin' like the big man stole some horses, and that he wanted to give the chance to amend hisself afore they came to blows." She sighs deeply and shakily. As the watchman writes, she looks to the gray skies for a moment. "Reckon his folks'll be mortified to hear he died startin' a fight in a bar with a Five Nations Marshal an' 'is deputies."

Approaching closer, the two academics can see what might be two bodies laid out along the wall, covered in blankets, one of the constables walks closer to shoo them away, but is immediately dissuaded by the elf Thianin was talking with earlier, large brass badge and papers in hand, and he nods as the two approach.

"You've deputized a lot of people to apprehend these men, Marshal. Why didn't you tip us off? We could have helped."

"Serial murderers and barn burners are not villains I'm keen to underestimate, Constable, especially with the influence a dragonmark brings." His refined accent contrasts starkly against that of the half-elf girl. "I don't imply any corruption, but Sasik has the same mark as Johannes, and that makes for a conflict of interest in the chain of command. My role exists to pursue crimes like murder. I bring in the bodies and stay far away from great house politics to do it."

[OMG PONIES]

"Pardon me, gentlemen," Phinneas says to the Marshal and the watchman. However, he is not attempting to interrupt their conversation. Rather, he is only seeking to break up their conversation for a moment to sidle past them and into the warmth of the inn. As he goes, though, he can't help but wonder about the names he's hearing though--it must be the Gnomish curiosity in him.

The names aren't as heavy as the rain or as bitter as the cold, though. First, tea. Then, intrigue.

[roll0] Any of those names familiar to Phinneas?

[King Tius]

Thianin smiles at Kanyo and goes to fetch his beer. <"I'll help you kill anything you tell me to, brother, but you're on your own with the paperwork."> The smile fades from his face as Thianin thinks hard for a moment. <"When you've finished wrapping things up with the local constabulary, I need to speak with you about an important matter you might find interesting."> He taps Kanyo's badge for emphasis. <"I'm on the trail of some unsavory types myself, and perhaps you can return the favor of me saving your life in that fight."> Thianin's grin cracks wide open as he gives Kanyo a playful wink to accompany the jab.

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas, fluent in Elven, listens to the conversation between Thianin & Kanyo with an arched eyebrow. Granted, that arched eyebrow is hidden behind a large mug of tea.

[Saskia]

The old lancer looks at his badge and back to Thianin. <"Well, then, friend."> He waves on the guardsmen as the coroner's men arrive, and the collection of officials collect the bodies; it's been common knowledge since before Galifar that corpses harbor disease, and every city during the Last War learned quickly to dispose of them efficiently. <"My position has its advantages.">

Back inside, Phinneas sees his cup exactly where he left it, though it is no longer steaming after the long interlude. On the other side of the common room, obvious signs of a brutal fight; blood sprayed violently on the walls and furnishings, and smeared along the floor as from dragging blood-soaked corpses, and a few crossbow quarrels stuck in the walls and a table. The Leonian taverner is happy to take Phinneas' copper for some more tea, mumbling a half-hearted joke that it might be the last business he gets for a while, and puts to work a minor spell to clean and dissipate the congealing mess; clumsily cast for a cantrip, as some members of the assembled notice, but at least it works.

"You have my rapt attention," he says, switching back to his stilted, overly-formal common for the benefit of those around. His pleasantly lilting accent seems to juxtapose starkly with the mess of violence cleaning itself up all around. "What is your mark? Where does your beast make its lair? I should like to know as much as possible before we set out to slay it.">

[OMG PONIES]

"We're seeking out a priestess of the Fury known as Cassandra Volink, marshal," Phinneas shares as he finishes his tea. "She may be stirring up some regional zealotry from Cyrans by claiming to share in their lineage, and we all know how quickly nationalism can burn into bigotry when one stokes the fires of religious ideology. Care to help us?"

[Diful Takveh]

As Simon approaches the inn, he notices the inn girl's condition and wonders what could have caused it. The blanketed corpses and the mention of the elf's deputizing some group of people to apprehend them is another piece of the puzzle, but it really doesn't click until he sees the elf (and Fix and Maria if they're still there) by the fire. He realizes that he is traveling with a group of people who are insanely efficient at turning other people into corpses, something that he would do best to remember. At least Phinneas and the warforged didn't seem predisposed to violence.

Rather than go to over to the fire, he sits at the bar to wait for the shellshocked khorovar, knowing that it would be all too rude to interrupt the constabulary's interviewing of her while at the same time believing he should help facilitate a return to normalcy for her. He is fully intent on ordering soup, stew, or whatever's cooking at the time in as normal a way as possible while not bringing up anything that seems to have just transpired.

[King Tius]

Thianin crosses his arms and nods along with Phinneas, backing up what the man is saying. He throws an inquisitive eyebrow at Kanyo. "No paperwork with this one, I promise."