Finding the Spark (Pathfinder 1E Quest)

4th of Lamashan 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

"We could use some more supplies, clothes to better blend in as well," you say, cutting the tension in the room.

From his reaction to your proposition you guess Gavhaul wasn't expecting so prosaic an answer. He flicks a hand. "You can discuss that with my factotum at the docks. I'm sure we can find something in..." he throws a critical look over Cob's head. "All sizes."

You wonder how Burnlanders do not get stabbed more often, truly you do.

He and the dwarf then fall into discussing the dealings in the capital, Almas, and how he is to redeem his letter of credit with the alliteratively named Portside Procurers. You get the sense that they are not too keen on their intentions and destination being known to city authorities, though it is only later that Sirim informs you why... taxes. The concept isn't altogether foreign of course, the duergar are great lovers of extracting tributes in gold or in the person of the debtor cast in chains, but you had never quite understood just how complex the process can be. The very notion of a 'permit' makes you almost break out in a cold sweat, having to admit where you are going, when, why, and that it is being recorded on a piece of parchment known to Warding-Dark-knows how many faceless scribes... No wonder neither of your employers is too keen on making their payments in Almas.

Regardless, the six of you taking your leave is hardly noticed among very serious grumbling and tsking of the tongue as you make your way back to Fleet. It is there under pendants edged in silver, not quite a noble's crest you are assured, a portly fellow with bags under his eyes so heavy you could smuggle Pepper in them takes in your requests.

"No one ever requisitions things on time, always the last moment," he sighs deeply as he hoists himself up from his seat and calls on his own thinner sprier underlings. "No one ever requisitions things properly anymore."

"I'm sorry...?" Mina trails off, half questioningly. "We're just here to buy things."

"Aren't we all, lass. Buy and sell, that's what we do."

Speaking of selling, Gorok also decides to get rid of Cob's old shirt, the pots and pans you'd scavenged from the old mine, the cloak tent, and the old blankets you had gotten in Cauldron. It hardly makes a dent in the purchases, but it does lighten your packs and even with the magic bag now tied around Cob's waist that's worth it.



Lost 197 gp , 14 sp -> Now at 1,462 gp 5 sp 21 cp

The only one who isn't excited about the prospect of actual spices, not just salt with your food, you notice is Sirim, and that is when it occurs to you that you had never seen him eat. You do not even know if his form allows him to, not that you can think of a way to ask without coming off like a rockfall on a sleep-spot either. What would it take to restore him to kayal-form you wonder? Vague images of shimmering metal tubes, mithril like Cob's new shirt, you think, alike in form though not in function to the escape pods you'd helped launch, dance through your mind, but you cannot pin a name to them before they vanish like the sound of water echoing through deep places.

Akorian Lore Azlanti (DC 20/25): 1d20+9 = 19 (Failure)


5th of Lamashan 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

The following day you join Cob and Gorok in the taproom, nursing a sour beer in the corner as you try to better your grasp of Taldan. It would help if the other patrons talked about something less arcane than the city's 'elections'. The peculiar interactions of council, guild, and mayor mean less to you than the patterns of migrating birds, though you do gather that the present mayor, Radas Menadian, is unlikely to be reelected unless he can bring the killer of the Veylen patriarch to justice. His opponent is calling into question her dedication to the ideals of 'order and civic responsibility', which you gather are very important in Andoran. "It's all that keeps us from going the way of those lunatics in Galt," a woman pontificates, motioning with her ale mug. You'd be sorry for the waste normally, but that's even worse than the stuff you're drinking.

As you meander your way up the stairs you are startled at the sight of Mina's door edged in golden light. "What's...!"

"We are studying sorcery," Sirim replies before you can get the whole word out, and little wonder he is the one to do it. The inkeeper is sour enough about the prospect of providing you with a roof without also being informed he's running a magic school for two. In an inversion of their ruse from yesterday Sirim had been doing most of the learning and Mina a bit of the teaching, scrolls unrolled over the deep windowsill that served as the room's only table while the wizard floats in place, his smoky form occasionally trailing into echoes of the rune's he is consigning to memory.

Sirim Spellcraft (Learning Spells): 20, 31, 23, 22 , 19 (Five Successes)
Mina Spellcraft: 28 (Success)


When had you gotten comfortable enough with him to be sharing the spoils of past adventures like this? You wonder, but can't name any one moment. Had it been when he had agreed to help break into Ergriso's tomb? When he barred the construct's sight with illusion? When he snared the thief before he could escape with the soul cage, or just yesterday when he had helped you slip into the deal with Urgor and Gavhaul and got hit with an axe for his troubles? The answer slips between one's fingers, fitting for a snake, you think with fondness he knows what to do with as little as you would in his place most likely.


6th of Lamashan 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

Crossing over Market Bridge on the way to the Pathfinder Lodge on the following morning, the early morning light thankfully veiled by clouds again, you spy what at first seems a like body floating towards the Fresh Harbor, fine blue green hair splayed out around it.

Then it's... his eyes open, shimmering grey, and a voice just enough like the Old Tongue to be understood speaks: "Hail cousin, how have you cme to be this far into the light?"

As the others realize you had stopped and follow suit you pay more attention to the strange sea-man's garb, shark-skin pants and a spear thrower strapped to his back. What you had taken for just some weeds caught on the body is actually a belt-pouch of woven fibers on a belt woven of still burnished steel chains.

How do you reply?

[] Greet the strange being gladly

[] Be wary, even if what he says is in some way true, you already know how a much closer kindred treated you

[] Write in

OOC: The encounter roll for that last bit is hidden for obvious reasons, but I will say it was not middling.

6th of Lamashan 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)

The word 'kin', little spoken among the people of your birth, for all of you were blood and raised to common good, or so at least the stories went. For you they had been lied. "Who are you to name me so, sight unseen?"

The figure floats in place as some of his hair flies up to shroud the lower half of his face, perhaps hiding a blush upon skin so pale a bluish tint catches the sun. "But... I thought... why would you be here if you don't know?"

"Stop talking in riddles," you snap. The band of silver around your temples grows warm, almost as though it wants to be used, to pry the answers from his mind, this stranger who had come upon you unbidden and reminded you of things best left to dead and dusty memories.

"We Azarketi of the Deep House of Izenti have visited these shores long before there was a city at the mouth of the Arthfell. I'm Cozut by the way. Anyway where was I? Ah yes, we were here before the first settlers of Old Taldor dared the depths of the Verduan, even before the skies had cleared, cousin." He smiles again. "It is rare to see those who fled into thr earth this far south, and rarer still to see you walking around under the light of day. I had assumed, wrongly it seems, that you were a dancer come to trade tales."

"Dancers, those who pass tales and news from clan to clan, the echo riding, are known to you?" Having never heard of such a thing you almost name him a liar, but if the long journey here has taught you anything it's that there still many things you do not know, under sky or stone.

"From the Shadow Caverns above the hanging city..."

'Shadow Caverns', you practically snort in disgust at the made up name. The words already echo each other near perfectly in the tongue of the People. Calling someplace that would be akin to calling a water-course the Wet Stream. Whatever this fellow's game is you don't have the time to deal with him.

"I think maybe he's like goblin with unbitten ear, small-young," Cob cuts in.

You are so surprised to realize he understands the tongue of the People that you forget your anger and then consider the words. Unlined skin, hands that had barely seen any callouses, and a face that hadn't quite shed all of its child-like roundness. The man in the water, boy really, can't be more than fifteen. Maybe he had misunderstood the name of these Shadow Caverns.

Akorian Sense Motive(DC 17): 1d20+12 = 16 (Failure)... Cob Aid Another (DC 10) = 1d20+2 = 16 (Success) -> Akorian Sense Motive: 16+2 = 18 (Success)

"Above the Court of the Ether?" he adds a familiar name, though one of dark repute. Queen Frilogarma is one of the few beings in Nar Voth able to match a drow matriarch in malice and magic. It is also the place Mina would have been sold had you not intercepted that slaver caravan.

Who can say anything about the naming conventions of a tribe mad enough to ally with her? Then again, even if the boy, Cozut, speaks truth those are hardly trustworthy recommendations to invoke. "Well now you see that I am not from that realm, nor was I called to a dancer's steps, a tale spinner's words. What of it?"

"I wanted... that is I wished to formally invite you to my wedding," he blurts out... in the Taldan tongue, causing Mina to giggle, Cob to look confused, and Sirim to fix him with the kind of look the boy is probably better off not knowing he had ever been the focus of. Before anyone else, even you, can speak he goes on to explain that he hates being the center of attention, but that it's more or less inevitable on the day he and his new bride 'share breath', though the presence of a calegini dancer would likely at least distract everyone.

"A wedding on the shore?" You prompt, motioning to the smooth side of your neck where he has gills.

"Oh, don't worry about that, I can get someone to cast a spell on you..." he looks around at the others, as the others bar the still lurking Sirim, you correct yourself, remembering how much grief that already gave you with the dwarfs. "Your friends too if they wish to come. Not like we are getting anyone else from the city."

"Who else were you meant to fetch, really?" you prompt, catching the meaning behind he frustrated tone.

"Someone from the mayor's office and the temple of Gozreh," he mumbles.

What do you say?

[] Agree to go to the Azerketi wedding, it is the first time anyone's ever invited you to a gathering on purpose, much less one under the sea

[] Politely Refuse, you do not have the time and speaking sincerely you do not trust them enough for any such thing when you could drown if the magic were made to fail

[] Suggest that you might be able to get someone of note to accompany him. See if you have any pull with the Temples of Desna and Pharasma as well as the Foresters' Endowment

[] Write in

OOC: The Azarketi did not forget who they are and where they came from, at least most of them did not. It's in the name so it would make some sense for the two major Azlanti derived cultures in the region to have some connection, especially since the Gilmen are broadly known as allies of Andoran.