Rowan Volker, the Last Lorehunter [IC]

[Byunny]

The Lorehunter


“Four Crimson beasts of ink and whisper,
Bear the One in Red.
Four slumbering souls in stygian deep,
Know where their maker rests.”


Chapter One

On Forgotten Lore

Salt’s Harbor is a fishing town and minor trade port, respite for what captains are foolhardy enough to cross the savage seas to the White Isles to buy and sell exotic goods. The channel is plagued with wild storms and serpentine Scrivenings; it leaves a few rich and many dead and drowned.

The folk of Salt’s Harbor are a self-sufficient lot. Their militia, armed with net, torch and harpoon, usually have little trouble driving lesser Scrivenings back into the sea, especially with the support of the sorceress Marian Cooke. The mayor’s wife is powerful - for a human practitioner - and her tempestuous magic proves a potent defense for the town. Salt’s Harbor has not needed the aid of the Lorehunters in a very long time.

And indeed, the port is merely a stop along the way to your true destination. Salt’s Harbor lies upon an estuary of the Serpentongue River, which coils toward the city of Ironspire. It is there that the tattered tome - taken from a fallen manse - has directed you. The book is well-preserved but bears evidence that pages have been torn from its spine. But the sigil on the back cover provides a clue: the sigil of Morrigan’s Keep, a now-abandoned Lorehunter stronghold near your destination. Perhaps there, you’ll find more information on these Crimson.

The Crimson are a myth, as far as you’ve known. They are the legendary firstborn children of the Scrivener, wrought from ink red as the malefactor’s own coat rather than the black of their lesser kindred. They are the stuff of fireside tales, told to frighten Lorehunters-in-training. But then again, you have spent a lifetime hunting imaginary things…

As you follow the beaten path into Salt’s Harbor, you find the town oddly subdued. The townsfolk glance at you uneasily as they go about their business, keeping their heads low. None seem keen on interacting with the stranger in their midst.

[Athaleon]

Rowan stalked along the street, lost in his own thoughts. He ignored the looks of the people around him, easy with years of practice. He thought back to the encounter at the manse, and the creature that had come for him. He had no idea what it was. It was like nothing he'd ever seen or heard of. The alchemical Darkvision did nothing to help him make out what it actually looked like, beyond a vague impression of a bestial biped, horned and clawed. On top of all that, the fear that had driven him half-mad was beyond anything he'd felt before, though Rowan had been afraid plenty of times. He'd be a fool not to, with some of these creatures. Maybe the night, and surprise, heightened the element of fear. Or maybe the creature itself was doing it somehow, that was certainly a possibility.

Rowan had been so lost in his thoughts that it took him a while to perceive the mood in the town. It was more than just people hushing up and avoiding him as he walked past, something had them spooked. He decided to head for a tavern to rest a moment, plan the next leg of his journey, and maybe put his finger to the pulse of the town.


Diplomacy (Gather Information): [roll0]

Also, how many days' journey is it to Morrigan's Keep? Is there another town on the way?

[Byunny]

Taverns are valuable sites for Lorehunters. Near everyone - locals and outsiders alike - finds their way there occasionally, and the warmth of strong drinks and crackling fires tend to loosen tongues. Such establishments often provide a wealth of information for those hunters of dangerous beasts... and a much needed rest from the rigors of the road.

A hour's quiet listening and questioning leaves you at the "Port in the Storm", a local watering hole favored by sailors and travelers. You've gleaned that the town's resident sorceress has given birth to a Scrivening, something that should by all rights be impossible. It was to be kept secret, so of course the midwife told her brother, who told his fishing buddies, and so on and so forth until now: the whole town is discussing the scandal in hushed whispers.

You've gotten a feel for the mood of Salt's Harbor. Cooke has her supporters - she's protected the townspeople for many years - but longstanding fear and ignorance about magic is beginning to swell into hatred. A few sharp voices in particular would like nothing more than a witch hunt, to see Marian Cooke burned and her fell spawn slaughtered. A slightly too drunk circle of men in the corner of the Port in the Storm are discussing just that, muttering about rounding up a few good folk to bring riot to the mayor's door.

Ironspire is about three days' ride on a lightly laden horse and ten days' walk, but the most direct route requires travel through a dangerous no-man's land, inhabited by an unknown predatory Scrivening. Skirting around it will make the journey a five day ride, or fifteen days' walk. You'll run into another human settlement on the way. The journey up the winding Serpentongue River by barge takes longer - about eight days' sail - but is comparatively safer and passes by two other settlements along the water.

[Athaleon]

Rowan sighed as he weighed up whether or not he should intervene in the drunkards' plans. In the end he decided against it: They weren't ready to see reason in their state, and they might round on the nearest target of their fear and anger. The Lorehunter could defeat them all handily, but there was always the chance one of them might get in a lucky hit. And it would do nothing to improve the town's attitude (let alone Rowan's personal safety) if word got out that a tattooed mage had murdered some men in a tavern for talking about taking action against Marian Cooke.

He decided to slip out of the tavern, and pay the sorceress a visit at her home. If the rumors were true, and a human had birthed a Scrivening, it would turn a great deal of well-established theory on its head, and may signal some new development in the long struggle. He would also inquire about taking a barge upriver once his business here was done.

[Byunny]

Your exit from the Port in the Storm is impeded by one of the drunkards, a thin, hawkish man. He stumbles at you, clasping your shoulder in one bony hand. "Oi stranger, a word?" He looks nervously back at his fellows before continuing. "A few of us dis-earning gentlemen noticed your arrival in Salt's Harbor, and... yer a monster hunter, ain't you?" He leans in conspiratorially, the smell of liquor heavy on his breath. "Because I think we have a monster for you to hunt. Work fit for a hunter and... and well paid work."

The thin man jingles a leather purse. "This is how the business works, yeah?" he whispers. "We need you to slay a witch and her hellspawn. She's, uh, disguised herself as the mayor's wife. You've got to stop 'er, master hunter, afore she brings about the ruin of us all!"

[Athaleon]

Rowan stood back a bit from the man, in a show of affected courtesy, when really all he wanted was to have slipped out unnoticed. Should have made more of an effort. "Good eye. I am a monster hunter, just got into town, as it turns out." He matched the man's low whisper, as though confiding in a fellow conspirator, and motioned for them to move to an empty corner of the tavern. "I was already on my way to check out this business with the mayor's wife. I'd heard rumors, but you say a monster is disguised as her? That makes things tricky, I'll have to move carefully." He motioned for the man to put his coin purse away. "I won't take your coin up front. Just tell me where to find you when the deed's done. One more thing, try to talk your friends out of starting a riot. Any monster's liable to slip away in the chaos." Great. I'm committed now.

[Byunny]

The man tilts his head to the side, taking a little too long to consider your proposition. Finally, he nods. "Aye, master hunter. That... that makes sense. Seek us out at the docks... or at the Port here when the deed is done." He clumsily salutes you before returning to his fellows; that's one problem resolved, if perhaps only temporarily.

Now, the sorceress' home - and the mayor's house - is beside the central plaza, near the heart of Salt's Harbor. The town seems to darken the closer you get, and it isn't just the mood of the townsfolk. The sky itself is darker and thick with cloud-cover and the wind claws at you with a little more vigor with every step. When you alight onto the plaza, you spot the house in question, a pleasant but remarkably humble manse for the local authority. A pair of guards have been posted outside the door, leaning uneasily on their spears and fiddling with the nets and bolas hanging from their waists. They don't seem to have noticed you yet.

[Athaleon]

Rowan approached the guards and introduced himself when challenged. "Rowan Volker, Lorehunter." He indicated the tattoos visible on his face and hands. "Heard there was a... delicate matter, to which I could lend some assistance to the mayor, and his wife."

[Byunny]

The militiamen look to each other, their eyes flitting across your person. They linger on your esoteric tattoos for a few moments too long. "We were instructed not to allow anyone entry?" one says to his companion.

The other responds, "This may be an exception." He looks to you "You said you were a Lorehunter?"

Make a Diplomacy, Intimidate, etc. check please; whatever you feel is applicable!

[Athaleon]

"I did. You're right to be wary, given what I've heard in just the short time I've been in town. Let me do my work, and see if we can't dispel these vicious rumors."


Let's try Diplomacy: [roll0]

[Byunny]

The guardsmen look to one another again briefly, then nod. One of them pulls a key from his belt, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. "Follow me."

The house looks for all intents and purposes to be a pleasant abode, well but not lavishly furnished with decor fitting a seaside port; pearl, seashell and coral make up most signs of wealth. There is, however, a dry static to the air which easily jumps to any metal objects with a low crack. After a brief moment's journey into the house, the militiaman stops you before a door. He knocks, clearing his throat. "There is a... Lorehunter, here to see you ma'am."

"Come in."

The sorceress Marian Cooke is a stern-looking woman, with ash-grey hair and strong features, though lined with age. Yet her eyes - a vibrant, electric blue - imply an ageless sense of youth. Her expression is one of irritation, though it seems more general than directed at the moment. She gestures for you to sit in an old chair placed before her hardwood desk, where a pair of weathered tomes lie open before her.

A barrel sits in the corner of the office - a rather jarring object that doesn't seem to belong - from which an ominous splashing noise emanates. The militiaman salutes the sorceress - ever so slightly nervously - before exiting back to his post.

Marian speaks coolly, "A Lorehunter, hmm? It has been a long time indeed since one of the Inkskin graced our town with their presence. But can you prove your identity, O slayer of beasts?"

[Athaleon]

"If you're looking for a badge of office, I can tell you we don't have one. We have the tattoos, which are easy enough to replicate, but I can't think of any reason for someone to want to impersonate us. If you don't believe me, or don't trust me, I'll go peaceably and leave you and your town to it. But it's a tinder box out there, in case you didn't already know. They're already talking 'riot' in the taverns, and it's still early in the day."


Diplomacy? [roll0]

[Byunny]

Marian's face darkens, her mouth twisting into a scowl. "I know full well what envenomed words fill the streets, sir. And I ask because we've had impersonators, peddling fake charms and potions to the scared and weak, taking advantage of the fact that so few true hunters remain. I have defended these people for years without the aid of the Lorehunters; I am neither ignorant peasant nor simpering maidservant, and I will not have you patronize me!"

The air crackles with a buzzing, tingling static as her voice rises, quickly subsiding as the storm sorceress calms herself. "The aid of a true Lorehunter would be welcome - and at the very least, you've a well-made costume - which is why I have decided to meet you and have not already demanded you leave my presence. So, master hunter, have you any more valuable counsel?"

Ouch, the nat 1! Even though skill checks don't automatically fail, the result's low enough that Marian Cooke's definitely a tad miffed.

[Athaleon]

Rowan's temper began to flare up to match Marian's, but he suppressed it. She'd been through a lot lately, so he could forgive her for being short with him. It still felt incredibly awkward. "Oh, good, I was afraid we'd gotten off on the wrong foot. Before anything else, I have to ask: Are the rumors true? I would have dismissed them as nonsense, an impossibility for a number of well-known reasons. Yet, I had a hunch that this was something worth checking out. If nothing else, the word of a Lorehunter—and an outsider, unlikely to share any vested interests with you—might convince some people and help things calm down."


Sorry about the slow rate of posting, will pick up next week once exams are done.

[Byunny]

Cooke is silent for a moment, then she gestures to the brine-smelling barrel in the corner of room. "See for yourself."

The barrel has no lid, and upon inspection its contents are easily surveyed. It is filled around halfway with seawater, within which a curious creature splashes and burbles quietly. The thing is shaped and vaguely colored like a human infant, but closer inspection reveals it is anything but. When its small limbs reach out of its pool of brine, they are shiny and slick with mucus like a frog's, and its too-large eyes glow an unnatural shade of blue, with odd wavy pupils.

"Aye, the creature is my child. And before you ask, I did not lie with some beast. The babe's father is the mayor - my husband - who is currently bedridden, I'm afraid. He has not been well, and I fear the shock has laid him low," Cooke says. She speaks in a clipped tone, efficient and largely free of emotion. "Have you ever encountered such a thing?"

No worries! I've actually been busy the last few days, so that works out well.

Roll Knowledge (Arcana) and (Nature) if you'd like to glean more information here.

[Athaleon]

Rowan was struck speechless for a moment. "No, never. Such a thing shouldn't even be possible," he breathed dully. "Lot of theories to throw out, and legends to reconsider." The Lorehunter wracked his memory for any knowledge of something similar, or any conjecture as to how such a thing came about.


Arcana: [roll0]
Nature: [roll1]

[Byunny]

You have little specific knowledge on the matter. As far as you understand from your studies, Scrivenings are not natural beasts, made of a different kind of fundamental material. They do not reproduce like natural creatures, and could not be compatible with humans or even animals. The actual mechanism of Scrivening reproduction is, as far as you know, unknown other than the fact that the Scrivener could create them.

You know blackest magic can corrupt humans into creatures resembling Scrivenings. Vampires are famed for it in particular, turning their favored victims into thralls with similar characteristics to their masters, like photophobia and hematophagy. Such creatures are not actually Scrivenings - their blood runs human red and cannot be used to bind Scrivening Tattoos - but they are often just as dangerous. The Lorehunters rarely hesitated to slay such fallen souls; general belief was that it was better to put the damned out of their misery. A similar thing may have occurred to this creature.

Yet the infant monster resembles a creature you've seen before in an unsubstantiated text penned by a hunter now long dead. You remember the knowledge of the Lorehunter Hiram the Blue, considered a madman for his obsession with chasing some creatures of the ocean's abyss that were seeking to infiltrate humanity with their spawn. Hiram was slain by his fellows decades ago for murdering innocents that he believed to be the children of the "deep ones" - having become as dangerous to regular folk as a Scrivening - but perhaps he had been right all along...

[Athaleon]

Rowan spoke again after a long pause to reconsider what he knew. "Lying with a Scrivening creature wouldn't do this. Of that, I think, I can still be certain. They do not mate and multiply like natural creatures, they're not even made of the same matter as us. What is possible, is magic permanently warping a mortal man into monstrous form. A babe in the womb might be particularly vulnerable. Maybe... did you get hit with a spell, or cast one on yourself, after you'd conceived but before you knew it?" Rowan speculated.