Finding the Spark (Pathfinder 1E Quest)

9th of Rova 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

As far as you understand the workings of the crew the man before you is second in importance, if not prestige, only to the captain. True, Menkir isn't the one who would take over command of the White Eagle should the captain be lost in 'a squall', but he is the one who decides what everyone, captain included, has for dinner, whether the ship gets rope and bolt for the balistas, pitch for the hull, and grog for the sailors' bellies. One might be tempted to think a one-eyed man might make a poor appraiser of goods too, but there are others ways to read that. Either the captain's keeping him on despite the loss of an eye for some other reasons, or he's still the best at the job despite the lack. You'd wager on the latter, not that this is someone you want to make a wager with. Barely glancing over from his books he kicks a stool in Cob's direction with just enough force that the goblin can arrest its motion by sitting himself down, then asks plainly: "Alright, lets see the goods."


Seeing no reason to dally you unroll one of the hellhound hides, doing your best not to flinch at the pungent smell. Raw hide isn't the most pleasant thing to smell at the best of time, and the peculiar aroma of Hell does nothing to improve it. "Four of these and one head to mount above a door, a crossroads, or above a bar."

"Most folk don't have the braggadocio to advertise dead devils, and the ones that do can kill their own," he counters you easily.

"Grind up, snort up, sprinkle-scatter," Cob offers, his speech a lot blunter than you know it to be. "Strong magic inside, fire-kill, use it to burn enemies, use it to banish more scary-reds."

He is not playing the fool, exactly, more like an master at his craft who doesn't know his way with words as much as he might, which just makes him sound more of an expert. For all you know an alchemist can do all that with ground devil, but that is not the point, convincing the quartermaster that a great trade's about to walk off is.

"If I may be blunter than a pale-belly's knife, goodman..." that expression still feels bizarre on the lips, to imply one knows the character of a stranger would be cause for a grudge not just among your old tribe, but even in a place as free dealing as Cauldron. "It wasn't easy getting these away from our scaled companion. His people place great worth on trophies and are worth more than most things that walk over the ridge of the world, or under it."

"Wearing something like that is a quick way to end up in front of the Admiralty Court as a Chelixian spy if the watch doesn't know you for name or deeds," Menkir answers with seeming sincerity. Mayhap it is even genuine, but that does not mean he's not seeking to profit off the meeting.

"Our deeds speak for themselves," you shrug and name your price, just this side of absurdly high.

He names one that would not have been out of place buying a brace of rat skins and the skull of a common skulker, but your efforts to pass off as just oblivious enough to take the goods off the table and walk in the end work.


"Nine hundred and seventy seven sails for the lot, as high as I'll go."

Concealing a smile you nod sharply. "That's enough for our purposes, right Cob?"

As you glance towards him you find him seemingly mesmerized by a spider descending on its web so close as to almost bite his rather voluminous nose. You'll take that as a yes.

Lost 4x Hellhound pelts and 1 Vengeance Devil head
Gained 977 gp

There is a satisfying clink of coins as quartermaster Menkir pushes the payment across the desk towards you, but then a thoughtful look enters his eye and he places his hand above the bag. "Could I interest you in a trade in kind instead?" So saying he takes out an old leather-bound book from his other pocket and flips it open, seemingly at random, to reveal dense uneven writing and the sketch of...

A storevault, not just an ordinary one with rations and weapons against beasts and wild men, a military topographic base, now almost drowned. The door at the end leading into the armory is still marked as barred, sealed, airtight. The carving of a broken serpents' fang features prominently on the floor. This place had not been built wholly by the hands of the old ones. It had been taken from the zyss and garrisoned.

Akorian Lore (Azlanti): 1d20+5 = 22 (Success)

"The locals call this place 'Claes Redout' after their own village, a place to retreat to when Ulfen Raiders down from the north or Yellow Sails out of the Eye come a-reaving, but the man who made this journey delved deeper, came back richer, and lived longer than most, but he never did go back into the fortress, even though some of the doors are marked as sealed. Lost his nerve I think. I don't think you and your friends will balk at exploring the deep places of the world."

"Turn the pages, seven forward, three back, then six back again," you say the first numbers that come to mind. He can't show you the whole thing if it's genuine of course, information's what's on sale, but this should help you spot any forgery.

The drawings seem genuine, there's a boule's ring on the finger of a corpse, some local elder sheltering in the fortress, and the incinerated remains of a war-mage recognizable only by the True Silver bracers which had survived the conflagration intact.

Attacked, but not ransacked, it seems clear to you. "How much?"

"Three hundred and fifty gold," Menkir answers and he does not seem to be in a haggling mood anymore after you and Cob had given him the run-around.

What do you do?

[] Buy the Explorer's Journal (Cost 350 gp)

[] Do not buy the Explorer's Journal

OOC: Your luck was a lot better this time around, fancy seeing if you can push it?

9th of Rova 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

You hesitate a moment, not out of dearth of desire for the journal, it's as genuine as memories at least, but out of concern the others might think you heavy-handed with the gold. Ah, it's not like they didn't know where you were going or what for, a trade left hanging is as dead as meat on a hook as they say. So you take the deal and take the lessened coin pouch, still more gold than you had brought out of Nar Voth.

Lost 350 gp

Far from objecting to the purchase Mina sets about translating the journal into something you can all read, a good task to while away the days with while in the grip of the sea and, she confesses, to quiet her nerves. She's never been to one of the bustling southern ports of the Inner Sea. The first thing uncovered by Mina's translations is the name of the author: Nemiziah Sparn. He is, or by the dates, was, a former tinker and sellsword who settled in the small seaside village to get away from the troubles of a life lived a bit too close to the edge of the blade. From the looks of things fishing hadn't quite been enough keep hand, mind, and soul busy so he'd taken to 'casting his hook' into the deeper parts of the redoubt.

Gained Nemiziah Sparn's Exploration Journal


11th of Rova 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

As for Gorok, he has more important concerns on his mind. You are admittedly startled when on the next morning, as you are about to head to 'break-fast', that to you is find-fast, you find him wearing a pair of black feathers in the corner of his mouth like an odd mustache.

"Ravens' greeting, the proper way to talk to a stranger on his own hunting ground," he says simply, going on to explain that he does not think the crew would know or care, but that it is a comfort to the trio of iruxi warriors who had followed him at a time when they do not even have land underneath their feet.

Iolda at least seems to take the custom in stride, even when it is explained to her that the reason for it is to mark the place as under the shadow of battle-birds, maybe-battle yet-to-come. Caulker, on the other hand, had been sampling more of his wine, eyes puffy and red, a poor start to any sort of negotiations, except those in which one party robs the other blind and leaves them for the sloppers.

"Alright ye big lizard, lets talk lizard, only not real'y talk 'zard since I can't spe'k it." You are starting to suspect the reason the grog ration tastes so foul has less to do with Menkir being cheap or light in the pouch, and more with the unfortunate consequences of trying to steer the fragile contraption of boards, beams, rope, and cloth across the vastness of the sea in that state.

"You claim Andoran welcomes all, would they welcome the iruxi?" your friend asks, bluntly.

"Sure sure, you can find all kinds of work in Augustana, 'specially fighting work with those claws," the captain replies, flapping a meaty hand in the air either in the direction of the city or in imitation of how said claws are meant to be used, it's hard to tell.

"We of the scaled folk, of the old blood, do not wish to be meat in your wars, claws in your hand," the words are spoken without the rancor most would have poured into them, but you know the iruxi well. Gorok will not be moved in this. His fellow warriors know this as well, they snap their approval in their swift, sharp language. "We wish for land to call our own, land with beasts and forage, under trees or without them, but with shelter from the winter."

"Can you...? Cayden's balls, I shou'd not have polished off that bottle o' '97 Egorian Red." Mina blushes, translating that one for some reason. "How much land are we ta'king about?"

There is a bit of confusion since, Mina's gift for words does not extend to units of measure, but in the end you manage to work it out. Alas, the results are not as hopeful as Iolda had lead you to believe they'd be.

"That's a knight's gra't that is, not that we 'ave landed knights no more, but it's a fair chunk of land. Still gets handed out for meritorious service to the People. You stick with me and you'll have those letters of repute in no time. Or you could do the other thi'g. Find some Kobolds or some goblins and..." he trails off, looking at Cob guiltily. It's not hard to fill in what he was about to say.

Unit Conversion (DC 10) Mina/Cob/Akorian: 8, 7, 15 (Failure, Failure, Success)

Caulker Will Save Against Drunkenness: 1d20+3 = 8 (Failure)

"Right," Iolda says with an apologetic look. "I think we've heard enough."

"Enough lies," your friend snaps, the ends of words vibrating with a dangerous hiss. "Drown yourself in soured fruit-leavings in silence!"

Gorok Wisdom: 1d20+2 = 3 (Critical Failure)

What do you do?

[] Storm out with Gorok, you would rather take Sirim's deal than accept this sort of insult

[] Try to shame the captain into some kind of better offer with tales of iruxi valor you make up on the spot (Bluff DC 25)

[] Write in

OOC: If Gorok had not crit failed his reaction Iolda would have time to roll diplomacy, but he did so... You guys have either very good luck or very bad luck, nothing in between it seems.