Pathfinder -- The Unraveling Group Two

[R-Group]

Dear Sir,

On the western side, just where the edges of Lowtown meet with the Jettings by the whaling yard, in three days' time a riot shall break out among the laborers of the whaling industries. That night, the dockmen will finally have drunk enough to actually be courageous, and intend to build a simple barricade across a main street leading toward a market square. Their bravado will spill over, as it always does, into violence—we expect that within an hour of their beginning they will have set fire to several buildings in the area, and have begun looting whichever market stalls are readily within arm’s reach. Their grievance is a rather simple one: several weeks earlier there was a practically universal cutting of pay, a result of the major Boreshead Whaling Company trading hands. Yet another trust has been formed, this time joining the ranks of whalers to the shipbuilders and the upstream lumber mills.

We do not expect the monger's small uprising to achieve anything—more likely than not many will be killed before the night is over. We are, however, interested in your own observations of the event, and how you yourself respond to the sights of a city at war with itself. Please, at our bequest, take a visit to the docks and bear witness to what, exactly, the Grand Design of Pseudepas is.


We’ll be watching,


The Order

The rain pulverizes the shoddy planks of the docks, spattering further splashes of fetid water in a tumultuous cascade of grime. Even then, the deluge alone is not the only cause for the waves of filthy liquid showering the improper structures of Jettings. The soup-like river below thrashes with the winds, and surges over the embankments. The howls of drunkards accompanies the cacophony of squalls, as booted workmen stomp about. From behind the implacable impossibility of teetering barricades, built from barroom tables and old barrels, curses are hurled alongside empty wine bottles.

As if in oblivious disregard for the storm itself, buildings the whole street across alight with blazing fires; fed with heavy cast-iron pots of kerosene, and whale oil. The fires spurt constantly, constantly defeated by the driving rain only to be readily restored by eager rioters. They grin stupidly wide, as though they have achieved something significant through defiance, against the gale—and the Watch.

Across the wide street, out of the range from thrown projectiles, a thin line of mailed Watchmen rest upon their shields. The pelting rain rebounds off from their brimmed helms with a resounding ping, audible some distance away. Just as much as anyone caught in such despicable weather, the normally well-kept uniforms are sodden and discolored; deep blue jerkins ruined black by the weight of the muck. These men chat more calmly among themselves, ignoring the rabble less than thirty yards away—they practically yawn. You make note of the distinct differences between the two halves of the courtyard: the rioters are clearly acting under the thick haze of alcohol’s influence, their shouts and stumbling poorly masking the stink of cheap wine, or rum. Opposite them, on the others side of the intersection, laze the guardsmen, barely responding to the uproar. Even the crowds that gathered to watch are livelier.

Gawking, shouting offhand encouragement to the rioters: men and woman from all across the district have braved the elements, choosing to ruin caps and cheap parasols rather than miss the spectacle. Their glances turn nervous whenever they drift back towards the Watchmen. Perhaps it was only curiosity that made you heed the note’s call, or ambivalent disinterest; though no matter your decision to actually appear—you are here now. Around you the mostly unaffiliated crowds murmur incessantly, spouting their opinions to whomever will attempt to listen beneath the roar of the rain.

You can only guess as to how long the standoff might last, since at the moment it does not appear as though either side is attempting any sort of maneuver beyond waiting. The murmurs of the crowds grow in volume.


The Market Yard is a somewhat prominent locale for the sale of fisherman's wares, and the delivering of the whaling companies products. Of the whaling companies prevalent along the Jettings, the Boreshead was the most prominent for some time, with many successful voyages to its name.

The Yard itself is a large intersection of two main streets, with an open circular space in connecting them. When viewed from overhead, the road leading north heads deeper into Lowtown, though this area is close to the Shelf. It is on this road that the Watchmen wait. The southern road, which ends in a dead stop after only fifty feet, leads directly into the Boreshead shipping yard, where the all the company's vessels are tethered. On the left side of this street is a large empty storehouse containing offices and chop-spaces where catches are separated for the valuables.

The crowds of onlookers are filling the Eastern and Western streets of the intersection, though they are hanging back roughly ten feet form entering the circular space within. That space, too, is filled with deserted stalls and supplies left from when the laborers abandoned their positions earlier in the evening.

[fanta5m1c]

Amrit felt more uneasy in this part of the city than he usually did in big cities, which was saying something, as he slogged through the muddy gravel path that ran through a gap in the buildings. Someone had been watching him, and had boldly announced as much when they invited him to "observe" the building rebellion. He was used to drawing attention to himself simly by wearing his armor, but that was fleeting attention one gives any curiosity in passing. This was different. Someone was apparently actively stalking him with the intention of gathering information about him. He wondered what they had already learned and, more importantly, what on earth they could possibly want. Hopefully, they had only been watching since he came to the city a week ago.

The soft squishing of his muddy boots finally gave way to crisp footsteps as he stepped onto a main street and turned West toward the market yard. However, the path appeared blocked by a wall of enthusiastic onlookers that had spread from building to building in their vying for a good view of the mess being made by the drunken looters.

Deciding that he wasn't going to come out here for nothing, Amrit began shuffling through the crowd toward the front, which quickly parted to let him through after the first few people got themselves poked by his armor. He couldn't withold a chuckle at the new use he'd found for his armor as he stepped past the invisible line that the spectators dared not cross. A few steps later, he stopped and looked between the two groups.

The rioters were behaving as expected: looting, drinking themselves blind, and burning down whatever they couldn't steal. No matter how humble or lofty a mob claimed it's motivations were, the end result always looked the same. Amrit felt a dull urge to rush the shoddy "barracade" and knock the sense into, or the life out of, the roudier of the rioters, but there was something more important about the situation that drew his attention away from those breif thoughts.

The watch were not behaving as expected. At least not in the way that any watchman swears he will as part of his duty. As usual, though, there were signs that the city watch might be behaving more like an organized theives guild than exemplars of law and order. Not that he liked it much better when they acted like letter-of-the-law hard-asses, but at least then they weren't walking on the backs exploited people held in chains of debt and fear.

After a few moments of introspection, he decided that it would be best to A) move from the middle ground, and B) go learn something about the city watch. He approached them calmly, and several feet out he gave a wave while calling out in a pleasent tone "Good evening weary guardsmen. May I ask what injuries frustrate your efforts to protect the people of your city from the thugs and arsonists down the street? Perhaps I could offer a spell of healing to get you back on your feet, good sirs."

[JBarca]

Before going out, Claude is in the habit of manifesting Inertial Armor (Fully Augmented) and Conceal Thoughts on himself. I'm assuming these are both active, and is Psionically Focused.

Among the crowd there is a man. He stands out not at all; his wide-brimmed hat and thick scarf obscure most of his face, and what remains visible is as ordinary as one could imagine. The man wears well-fitting clothes, though this is not exactly obvious, given the weather. He looks on the proceedings with vague, detached interest, blending in to the crowd as much as "humanly" possible. Anyone looking closely, though, might well realize that the "detached interest" is merely affected, and that the man's eyes are staring intently at both the guards and the rioters, as if studying their actions and faces.

Using Autohypnosis (Taking 10) to memorize the faces of each of the rioters and the Watch.

Note to self: Journal entry on riots and their appropriate consequences. Now... The proper response here would likely be the arrest of the individuals engaged in the illegal activities, but the Watch are failing on that count. Perhaps if I- Oh. What's this?

Claude watches with interest as a figure detaches itself from the group of onlookers and steps out into the no-man's land between Law and Chaos.

Armor? Perhaps a member of the Watch? He's waving at them; not a member. Interesting. What are you planning?

Attempting to move inconspicuously, Claude heads in the direction of the Watch, keeping his eyes on the looters. He stops fifty feet from the group and opens his mind.

Manifesting Read Thoughts with no display (I can't fail the Concentration check). the Watch and the man speaking to them (Assuming they're all within a 60ft cone of my position) need to make Will saves, DC 22. On failure, Claude is privy to their surface thoughts. He will maintain concentration on this power and watching the proceedings from this distance for a couple of minutes, barring changed circumstances.

[fanta5m1c]

I'm just going to roll my will save for now. Hopefully I have the roller working right.
[roll0]

[Smileybastard]

Tamyr

At the crossroads Tamyr stands as he has for hours, before the rioters or the city watch arrived. He stands balanced on one leg, the other bent at the knee with his foot on the other thigh, his odd staff in his hands. The staff formed of some wood worn smooth with cupped hands at the end, bells hanging from it, completely still. His hair tied back in a braid and his eyes taking in everything. He seems more a statue than a man ... other than his eyes.

A crow lands on the stand, only for a moment, until it notices the movement of his eyes, then flaps away again. He has not received any alms for a long time. People know what is coming and stay away, but Tamyr stands in the middle, where they shall meet.

Acrobatics take 20+17=37 to stay balanced.
Perception [roll0] to watch for anything unusual
Sense Motive [roll1] to notice anyone acting out of place

[R-Group]

Amrit Baines
The watchmen take a moment to notice your presence, dragging the action out with unnecessary scoffs and shuffles. Turned about, you make note of many stupidly cruel faces glaring back at you from beneath riveted helms and hoods. A few begin to mutter something amongst themselves, unwilling to separate from their clusters, intent to focus on the dismal warmth of a few shoddy lamps.

After another pause, one of their number steps forward a pace towards you. His jaw is wide and his nose twisted (from multiply breaks most likely); he searches you with piggish eyes before finally responding to your offer, without the hint of gratitude.

“Naw, we ain’t tired or wounded, sir,” he drawls lazily, leaning back on his spear’s haft, “Them bastard cross the street can have their fun so long as they like. More they muck about, the softer they get once it’s time to sweep the streets, aye?”

He stop to fish a cheap cigar from his shabby pockets, lighting the greasy member on a nearby lamp, the metal brim of his wide cap shielding the smoke from the rain. “Besides, we’re waiting on the bigger artillery. No reason to waste effort on pulling down even that pile of crap when we can get it done for us.” He extends a hand smeared with oil and sweat. "Sergeant Vigour, at your service. I take it your new about here, then? This sort of rabble ain’t all that uncommon near the docks or the factory districts. Most folks love to watch a good tussle, ‘specially when one side’s been slighted, or so they say.” Apparently satisfied, the Sergeant returns his attention to the unseemly barricade, his eyes squinting with evident distaste.


~~~~~~~~~~

Claude Freyin
The driving rain does nothing to impede the processes with which you ply the Aether, and your sense expand beyond the simply material, giving you perception of even the minds of others around you. In this intense state of concentration, you alien mind begins to form complex mental diagrams of all who are present, locking away their visage and posture for later review. Within moments, the entire standoff has been recreated within the vault of your mind.


None of the watchmen have an intelligence above 12 (the Sergeant speaking with the armored man), most vary between 9 and 11. The crowd is much the same. Among their thoughts, the variety increases though not especially much. The watchmen are universal in their disinterest and apathy, uncaring for the situation at hand. All are bored with the long day, and would rather be elsewhere—only the Sergeant is paying any attention to the actions of the rioters across the square. The crowd is clamoring for a fight, with some furtively wishing for the success of the rioters while other want to see them crushed.


~~~~~~~~~~

Tamyr
So far, you have been left unobstructed: neither the watchmen nor the rioters have taken notice of our vigil. A few members of the crowds have mentioned among themselves that there is still a beggar monk within the square, but as of yet you are paid no mind.

[fanta5m1c]

A veritable wellspring of anger bubbles just beneith Amrit's calm exterior, held in check with practiced ease as he scrutinizes the soldiers. You might note that he often feels like he's being watched, though that's probably only sensible since there are indeed several people watching him from the many seperate crowds.

"Amrit..." He replies stiffly as he tentatively shakes the sargeant's hand. "Indeed, I am new to this city. Perhaps I just don't know how things work around here, but I'm curious what you mean by bigger artillary and what warrents it's use against such a shabby band of larrikins as this within your own city walls? Surely you don't mean an actual artillary piece?" He asks while tilting his head quizzically. He wasn't sure if he'd be more or less surprised if that was what they meant, but he had already made the assumption that they had called for a mage rather than a cannon. "Regardless of what help is coming, do you not care that those idiots will destroy the lives and livelyhoods of many while you huddle around your lamps and wait? Would you let a man beating an infant tire his arm for your convieniance before intervening on behalf of what pulp remains?" He asks, becoming more demanding (not to be read as hostile or visibly angry, just... insistant) with each question. "Tell me that that the watch are not so craven and weak..."

[JBarca]

Claude nods to himself as he "listens in" on the surface thoughts of the arguing figures.

Inefficient watchmen and an overactive tourist. Note to self: Journal Entry: Amrit. New to the city, seeks order, apparently. Angry at incompetence/laziness/cruelty. No respect for chaos. Temper. Potential ally.
Now...

The man turns and walks away from the armed men and toward the rioters, staying focused on his ability. When he comes within sixty feet of the barricade, he stops and waits, feeling through the minds of the rabble rousers, seeking motivations and names, knowing that such useful information is a long shot.

So as to not appear particularly focused, he leans toward the best-dressed person in his immediate vicinity, and, with one eyebrow raised in an amused expression, he murmurs, "Lovely weather for a brawl, isn't it?"

[R-Group]

Amrit Baines
The sergeant shifts his weight from foot to foot with a tired experience and casts upon you with the same bleary squint that scoured the rioters moments before. The stinking cigar practically wobbles in the stormy air, as if battered by the wind, as its chewed end shuffles from one end of his wide mouth to the other. He smacks his lips before responding, exhaling a wide breath of smoky fog with the same motion. "Orders are orders, son. If you're gon' live in Pseudepas, you'll eventually have to accept it. 'Sides, we ain't stationed here for any worker's sake; we're jus' making sure that lot over yonder doesn't overstep their boundaries. They gotta have some freedom of expression, aye? Right to protest and all that...jus' no killing. Anyway, that's no need to make it personal."

A wry smile covers the man's face as he turns his attention back to the rioters. "Give it a chance and stick around; maybe you'll end up enjoyin' the show afterall. Not too often these folks get to see somethin' special. That's the only reason they're bearing the rain, mind you."


~~~~~~~~~~

Claude Freyin
A poshly dressed young woman, her arm held tight by a parasol-clad attendant, giggles with out of place glee at your offhand comment. The thick drops of rain splatter off her bodice, though her eagerness is unimpeded by the soiling of her once fine garments: clothe of a fine blue now thoroughly drenched into a sordid brown. As she turns to face you, your superior mind pierces her thoughts in a sharp flash, offering insight towards her immediate emotions. The new-found knowledge strikes you in a sudden pulse of memory, as through the unexpected recollection of a long sought-after detail...


The young woman feels an unexpected amount of excitement, surprising even herself, as well as a great deal of apprehension. She is evidently waiting for something to occur, though she has found herself dreading the event just as much as she wishes to witness whatever it may be.


"Isn't it just, though?" she babbles, "It's not often that the Watch turns to any of their specialty detachments when the Regulars are enough, but the afternoon Newsprint had some candid rumors winking about them bringing out something unique for this little affair! Tension was building all through the last work week, so maybe they're wanting to finish the business quickly and cleanly? A few friends of mine took bets over tea yesterday, and I'm expecting that we'll see the Street Sweepers, though they were leaning more on the Spectators to make a showing. Either way, isn't it exciting!"

The woman speaks in a hastened rush, her words trailing off into an innocuous babble of tea parties and ladylike gambles. Evidently, her nerves and excitement have gotten the best of her; though she is not the only of the crowd affected. The other onlookers alike are clearly unnerved is some manner or another, which you can only assume is a regular affectation of gawkers. Listening in to their conversation provides the same claims as the woman gave, all discussing which branch of the Night Watch might be called upon to end the riot.


~~~~~~~~~~

Tamyr
Though it is unlikely that any of the three great crowds—civilians, rioters, or the Watch—have noticed your presence amid the center square, if they have then they are yet to actively challenge your position. As such, you are far enough from the clamor to be unaffected by its distraction, or that of the driving rain. Your perfect stance does not sway in the wind, nor do your feet slip despite the muck below them; your senses remain sharp despite all the surrounding attempts to impede your focus.

Likely then, it is thanks to your concentration that you are the first of the crowds to notice the sound of wagon wheels beneath the rain. You recognize the creak of wooden wheels over cobblestone, arising faintly from beyond the picket of Watchmen opposite the rioters.

[JBarca]

As the woman babbles, Claude presents a genuinely curious facade, Not that she'll notice, naturally. and turns his attention toward the mob, searching for their thoughts. He idly considers what Ms. Rambles here mentioned about the various groupings in the Watch.

Knowledge Local: [roll0]
What does Claude know about the Watch? What do the specialist divisions do? The Street Sweepers and Spectators, in particular?

When the lady pauses for breath, Claude asks, "Madame, if I may be so bold, do you know any of these rapscallions by name? Not by association, naturally. I, for instance, recognize that man there-" Claude points vaguely to the barricade. "-as Thomas, brother to my sister's washerwoman. I merely ask for a... For a journal of mine I'm keeping. He winks as he finishes, as though there is some clever little pun or reference hidden in his speech.

Bluff Check on our dear friend "Thomas." [roll1]
Assuming, of course, she's paying enough attention to care.