ripleycat

The Silver Ravens aren't alone. The band of freedom fighters has labored hard to gather talented agents and formidable allies, and that work has paid off. The Asmodeans are the most dangerous foe the Ravens have yet encountered, but the rebels have ways to tip things in their favor. (You may pick 2 of the below.) Reconnaissance: Fighting agents of the Asmodean Church is unlike anything the Silver Ravens have attempted so far. It would be unwise to go in blind. The Fushi sisters are quick and quiet, and know how to move unremarked and ignored around dangerous people, given their harrowing stories of growing up around pirate-infested Riddleport. They can safely scout the Fantasmagorium and provide the PCs with the layout of the sprawling building before the mission begins, and perhaps make note of some of its dangers or opportunities. Diversion: There are plenty of people in an increasingly restive and restricted Kintargo who are happy to throw a brick at the back of a Chelish Citizen’s head. The list of those willing to tussle with the unholy agents of the Prince of Darkness himself is much shorter. Fortunately for the Silver Ravens, Forvian Crowe and his sell-swords owe them one hell of a favor, and Forvian would love to pay the Asmodean Church back for his brutal treatment at Kossrani's hands. Crowe can hit the Fantasmagorium just before the PCs arrive, drawing off some of the sentries and settling some old scores. (This is a reward much like the Pathfinder raid over in WFTC, winnowing down the mooks you’ll have to claw through.) Sabotage: The redactors and Asmodeus-knows-who-else have been laboring in the Fantasmagorium and the mysterious passages below it for weeks. It’s become routine. They’ve gotten complacent, let their guard down. And that’s exactly when you slip in close and give ‘em a good cosh on the back of the skull, see what they’ve got in their pockets. The Red Jills have changed their aim towards those who deserve it, and who deserves it more than the Church of Asmodeus? Ada Drummond and the Jills will set up a powerful booby trap near the Fantasmagorium’s front entrance: Known and easily avoided by the Silver Ravens, not so much the redactors. (Powerful, yes… the sort of power that could end a bossfight that’s giving you trouble.) Discord: Barzillai’s belief in the vital importance of this operation has led him to draw on all of the resources available to him, as both a High Inquisitor of Asmodeus and Paracount of House Thrune. In practice, this has lumped together several factions of the arrogant and haughty Asmodean Church, House Thrune’s brutish loyalists, and the strict mercenary iron of the Hellknights. Your foes do not always get along. This friction and distaste can be easily kindled into open dissent, disobedience, and even violence. All you need to do is push the right buttons, whisper in the right ears, tweak the right tempers. Vendalfek and Blosodriette really need to get out of the Wasp Nest and stretch their legs, after all…

Rexus turns the idea over in his head, grimacing. "If we dressed it up properly, you could get donations of varying generosity from about half of the families in the Greens. Ten crowns a month is easily reachable. Baron Jhaltero's a good soul. He wouldn't make a fuss about it, either. The Aulamaxas would. They love courting public opinion. Treat it like a hobby. They'd do it up grand, turn it into a festival, not a soup kitchen. The archbaroness would fund a spread simply to hear what the crowd had to say about her funding the spread." "Your best bet would be Baroness Belcara Jarvis, simply because she's the best of them in general. She's bright and kind, and she loves this city, and on some level, at least, understands what people must be going through - she actually works for a living - I know, the scandal." Rexus allows himself a deadpan smile. "The rest... the rest are greedy, or cruel, or both. Simpering at Thrune's heels. Not the sorts we'd want to get involved in the first place."

It's a comedy of errors as the students are met with magically bad luck in the presence of the gremlins, flailing and stumbling around the room, and missing their stumpy little targets like they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn from the inside, which proves momentarily true. The pugwampis cackle, the shock of Ras's column of flame beginning to wear off. One shoves a bottle off the top shelf, and Cecilia finds herself doused in something slick and pungent - garlic oil? Whatever it is, it coats the floor as well, and despite her quick reflexes, she ends up on her ass, to the hooting delight of the pugwampis. Nyoka's wild charge, however, has the immediate desired effect. The nearest pugwampis flee from the ringing bell like they've been hit with hammers, cowering in nearby corners and wailing in despair, even if the students can't understand their actual words. They make no attempt to fight back, though the one Adalet has miraculously captured struggles mightily against the net, without success, for the moment. Despite the chaos, the students do discover one other thing of note: How the pugwampis likely got into a building in the middle of campus in the first place. It would be much harder to see without the glow of spilled sunrods right on top of it, but the sharp-eyed can see the edges of a hatch in the storeroom floor... OOC Roll20 updated. The pugwampis are all Frightened 1. Cecilia fails her Reflex save and falls Prone. Everyone but Ras makes the Perception check to spot the trapdoor. Nyoka hits on one of the more direct solutions here: These pugwampis have an almost pathological fear of metal bells. They avoid attacking anyone holding metal bells; if all the heroes do so, the gremlins don’t attack at all. Any hero holding metal bells gains a +2 circumstance bonus on Intimidation checks against them. A pugwampi that is Demoralized from someone holding bells can’t reduce its frightened condition as long as it can see the person holding the bells, and it’s fleeing for as long as it’s frightened (and likely just keeps running, even if it recovers). The trap door is the outlined square just below Ras on the roll20 map. You can herd them back into the tunnel, or out through the main doors. The effect is the same.

With the key in hand, decoding the surviving letters takes less time than the vast trove the Silver Ravens left behind, but word-by-word, it's still agonizingly slow, and it's several days before Rexus calls everyone together to announce his findings. He's rather haggard, and only Maria's unyielding influence has gotten the man to sleep and eat and look after himself. “I think my mother Porcia is still alive. I think she escaped the assault on our manor, and has been in hiding, in the stronghold of the Sacred Order of Archivists. Maybe… maybe even my father as well.” Rexus leaves that thunderbolt hanging in the air for a moment as he collects his thoughts. This seems a stretch, a forlorn hope. You’ve all seen the state of the Victocora home, and frankly, the state of Rexus lately. But the discovery of the Sacred Order’s hideout is important regardless, and he’s certainly aware of that as well. “If nothing else, I’d like to see what’s there. There could be personal effects - e-everything I’d cherish from her is in that tiny little coffer I showed you all in the bookstore, what feels like an age ago. Everything in our home went up in the fire. Some of the Sacred Order’s work might have survived, banned books, unredacted histories, lost knowledge. If any other members survived, they’d be invaluable allies as well. It all seems worthy of investigation to me.” “And! I solved an ancient personal mystery. This” - a bit of his wry humor resurfaces as he holds up the platinum key recovered from the manor, unaware its twin is still securely in Star’s possession - “is not an heirloom after all, but the key to the Sacred Order’s headquarters, what they call the Many-Steps Monastery. We’ll need it.” As a mark of trust, he slides the key forward, for whichever of the more “active” agents wants the responsibility. “It’s cunningly hidden. I never would have found it without their letters. It’s right in the middle of the city, but underground, apparently, somewhere underneath a local museum of oddities, Hocum’s Fantasmagorium. I admit, I’ve never been there. It’s in Redroof, apparently?” “I’ve been there.” Laria chimes in with an encouraging nod. “That makes good sense, actually. The Fantasmagorium’s been closed for years, but nobody’s done anything with it since it’s such a sprawling mess. Good cover.” You've heard of the place, at least, if you haven't seen it in person while out and about. It's rather hard to miss. Long-time Kintargo natives like Star and Kyla may have even visited back when it was a proud and functioning tourist trap. Even the remains of Guy-Arist Lavigne have faint echoes of familiarity. The Fantasmagorium was the passion project of an irrepressible but not particularly talented stage magician and salesman by the name of Braedan “Hocum” Azperex. Begun in the dark years after the Civil War, with the goal of “bringing whimsy and joy back to Kintargo,” his plan was to have the Fantasmagorium serve as a museum of fantastic oddities and “authentic'' magical phenomena. Hocum’s charm and showmanship transformed the bizarre concept into a minor success for many years, but when the exhibits (many of which were either grossly exaggerated or utter hoaxes) began to lose some of their novelty, the Fantasmagorium struggled to make ends meet. It finally went out of business a decade ago, and Hocum died not long thereafter - the building has remained shut down and something of an eyesore ever since. “Well, it was good cover, right? The Asmodeans know about it now.” Morgar throws another bombshell into the middle of the meeting, looking surprised that he's the source of important news for once. “I saw ‘em crawling around the place a few days ago. Not dotties or Citizens, the real deal, priests and redactors from the Church. If they haven’t found the way down yet, they soon will. Best get to work if we’re gonna beat ‘em to it, yeah?” OOC All of you, even the zombie, passed the Society check to know about the Fantasmagorium. 😀

Ada's pistol looks to have come from Alkenstar with its owner, a beautifully, confidently made device of polished brass and steel, but it is a flintlock, the unwieldy "standard" mechanism for most firearms, regardless of where they come from. "More reliable than... No, a cap-lock? I could count what I've heard about on one hand and have fingers left over." Ada doesn't try to hide her enthusiasm for Temperance's proposal, or her weapon. She bounces up like a giddy schoolgirl. "Probably be the only one in all of Cheliax. Could I... take a look?" She unholsters her weapon and offers it to Temperance butt-first, in momentary trade. In her excitement, Ada hasn't completely forgotten Kjersti. She mulls the proposal over in silence for a moment before granting her approval with a nod. "That's fair." Ada seems a bit surprised that Kjersti's first offering is so even-handed. "I'm used to hard-nosed bartering. You're serious about all this, ain't ya? We can pick at the Citizens, sure. Everyone needs a hobby, right? They come into neighborhoods where they're not welcome too easy, these days. Most of the Jills will be happy to remind 'em to be afraid again." "We've got a couple of hidey-holes like this where someone can lay low when things get hot. Nothin' big, but you're welcome to 'em. Not much else to offer on our end, 'sides thievin', but if we come across a dagger to stick in Thrune's back, we'll pass it along. Lots of things that'd be useful to you that a fence won't take."

"Evenin', Kjersti. And friend. I never did get your name, gunslinger." The outlaw nods at her guests, flipping and catching her coin one more time before sitting herself down on one of the many stacks of crates. It's a motion of trust, though she can still draw her gun readily enough. "Peace offering?" There's a fancy decanter of whiskey, and a matching set of crystal glasses sitting nearby, fine enough that it's obvious Ada didn't buy it. "Help yourselves." "You've honored the truce, which counts for a lot. State the Jills were in, you probably could have run us all to ground, but you let us be. Now, not stepping on each others' toes is a good start, but you've got grand goals and high hopes, and from what you said a week ago, it'd be in your interest to get us all tied up in your crusade. Now, I've got no love for your Thrunes and their devils, but Scarplume talked a big game too, and look where that got her. Business end of a breechloader." "I've got no interest in being someone's cannon fodder, and that goes double for all the spooked cats I've got to herd to keep the Red Jills together. But you seem like sensible sorts, and I'm more than willing to hear you out. So how do we meet in the middle, here? What arrangement lets both our bands profit, and maybe even walk away to enjoy that profit?"

The storeroom has two sets of shelves, one 3 feet off the ground and one 7 feet off the ground. Though the room has no windows, a trio of sunrods have spilled out of a gnawed barrel, illuminating the chamber with bright light. Several broken jars and a great deal of trash litter the floor. As the sign warned, there are gremlins. Four pugwampis, small, stout, and rather ugly doglike creatures with lolling tongues and short black fur, hide on the top shelves of the storage room, cowering behind the clutter on the shelves to shield themselves from Ras's column of flame. They are armed, with short swords and small bows, but make no moves to use them in the face of the terrible magics, and they wince at the sound of the bells. They chatter animatedly between themselves, but none of the students can make sense of the trills and barks. For the moment, it is a strange stand-off. OOC Map (and your tokens) up on roll20. The pugwampis are hiding behind clutter on the shelves and have partial cover right now (+2 AC). The pugwampis can speak, but only speak Gnoll and Undercommon, which I don't believe any PC has. They are currently 2.

"If there's trouble comin' to my door, wouldn't I be safer with a big tough gal around to help handle it?" Setrona's words are playful and innocent. The gaze over the top of her teacup is not. Much to the smaller redhead's disappointment, Kjersti and Setrona's heart to heart is suddenly interrupted by a flying guest landing on the back of one of the chairs with an inquiring hoot. Flapping wings have become much more familiar since joining the Silver Ravens, but the farmgirl turns to find that the new arrival isn't one of the revolution's metallic messengers, but a very real (and very small) owl, a handful of brown feathers with white speckles, tilting its head as it regards Kjersti with enormous yellow eyes. An elf owl, a type she recognizes from pest-catchers on the farm. They don't actually have anything to do with elves, so far as Kjersti knows. Setrona seems to know this particular owl, reaching up to give it scritches without much fear of losing a fingertip. "Linna, what are you doing here, little thing?" "Wait, why are you here? Hells..." After a moment, the barkeep hops upright with alarm, scanning the rest of the Tooth and Nail with speed and suspicion. "Bellis? You in here still? Sing out, or I'll make you pay your tab." In one of the booths in the far corner of the tavern, apparently missed by everyone the first time around, sits a somewhat rumpled halfling man with weary, grey eyes, dark, disheveled hair and an impressive mustache. Setrona's expression could kill an ox, but it softens just a bit as she gives Kjersti's arm a reassuring pat. "We're safe enough. He's one of the troublemakers, immigrant from the Badger. Lots of big words that amount to telling Thrune where he can shove it. No trouble, I don't think. Could be eyes and ears. Maybe more? Knows some stripe of magic..." She stomps over to confront the unintentional eavesdropper, arms crossed. "So, how much did you hear, Bellis?"

"Oh, I've never seen one in person. That devil business comes straight from Octavio talking about what he had to go through. His mother would never allowed him to join up if she knew the truth of it. But the signifiers, the hellknight summoners and mages, I guess they can call beasts like that to the mortal plane, so maybe grab a book about the hells and have a look, huh?" "...Eyes. Hrm." It's Setrona's turn to be reluctant, hemming and hawing about revealing something she probably shouldn't, but Kjersti is trustworthy, in a real, true way few people are. "Yeah, I know where to find you some eyes. Doesn't come in here as much as he used to, but few blocks up, in the big market, go talk to Hetamon Haace. He's a tailor. Tiefling, you'll know him when you see him. Shop right in the middle of things. Where all these lovely lawbreaking pieces come from. I'm not the one to tell the tale, it's his, but I've seen things that are awfully hard to explain. Divine things. True and honest signs from the gods. You can trust him."

Rexus was closer to his beloved parents than many scions of the high nobility, but there was still a veritable laundry list of teachers, tutors, nurses and nannies present for all of his upbringing. One gentle but uncompromising word was all it took. He never stood a chance. "Hm? Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Apologies, madam. Please." His belated realization that Maria is waiting for him to be a gentleman brings some color to his cheeks, not for the last time that evening, but he does know the steps of this dance, in the end. "You know, it's actually been quite a long time since I've sat down to a proper meal like this. I've been... I mean, I may be a bit rusty. Please excuse any slips of etiquette." It's easy to get the resident linguist and scholar to start talking. It requires a firm hand like Maria's to get him to shut up, but Rexus is a kind heart, and he does not talk over others, at least not intentionally, and his genuine interest in others encourages Maria to share her own stories and unusual background, and to bring him up to date on things. As enthusiastic as he can be, even Rexus will admit that battles and rescues are rather more exciting than decoding pages of old parchment. He's amused, and just a tiny bit miffed at being told to go to bed. "Am I to wash my face and hands as well?" He doesn't dare refuse, though, and ends up doing just that. The exhausted man is fast asleep long before Maria's ten minutes passes. The evening dinners quickly become a restorative, and something he obviously looks forward to. His attempts to help are well-meaning, but Rexus's cooking skills are distinctly "dirtbag bohemian student hovel" and not "pride of the Greens", and quickly become limited to helping with setup and cleaning, for everyone's good humor (and health). Rexus, to his credit, takes the very personal question in stride with an airy wave and a smile. "Oh! Well, I was a girl at the time, of course. Lady Docur is not the exception-making sort." Realizing that probably doesn't explain things as well as Maria expected, he continues. "I was raised for years as, admittedly, a rather fiery and exuberant young lady, thanks to the circumstances of my birth. As I grew older, it felt a bit hollow, wrong, clothes that didn't fit, but my parents grumbled all the time, about all the grating aspects of noble life, and the oppression and lockstep of life in Cheliax keeping them from doing as they really wished, so I thought it was simply how things were for everyone. Nobody's happy. Bah!" "I finally put words to how I felt, finally realized my future was far more moldable than I'd ever considered after meeting a new music tutor. They were an elf, a Shelynite, who migrated between genders as other people might migrate between nations. That insight led to a 'growing up' I’d always coveted but never imagined was really practical or possible for someone in my position. Knowing a number of talented mages did bear some real benefits." "But, I was half right. My parents embraced their newly revealed son immediately, bless them, but the news absolutely scandalized their stodgy social circles. Well, that's unfair. The ones worth staying close with, like the Jarvises, were lovely about it. Lady Docur was the soul of kindness, but of course, did point out that I would need to transfer to the Alabaster Academy now. The others... well, I don't have to tell you what most proper, diabolic, nobles in Cheliax think of such things. Lost a great many contacts and friends who had never been anything of the sort, and started down the long road to... well, here." He waves his hands about to indicate they were having dinner in the underground base of a militant revolutionary cell, after all. "I started very softly. Generic good feelings, I suppose. I wanted nothing more than for everyone else to experience the relative safety of an aristocratic upbringing. No one should ever worry where their next meal would come from, or whether walking home by night would be a life-ending mistake." "But discarding Nahia Victocora and living as Rexus meant discarding much of my social circle, and picking up a new and much more interesting one. Musicians, servants, students, street urchins. For all their energy and thoughtfulness, my new friends endured worse on a daily basis than any insecurity I'd been exposed to. And that was intolerable. What exactly I could do about it escaped me for a long time. I was an intolerable dilettante in my adolescence and my Academy days. I must have stumbled through a dozen different causes with a dozen different ideologies. I finally settled on the one that had been sitting in front of me the whole time, the Sacred Order of Archivists, as my parents had. It had barely been a week since I'd informed them of my intentions. I came over for a family dinner, and I saw the smoke in the distance..." "Barzillai Thrune has made most of my decisions rather easier now, though I couldn't have imagined they'd have led me here, or here." He indicates the little table and Maria with his second 'here'. "The Silver Ravens have proven to have silver linings. Maybe with some fortune, we'll all come out into a better place in the end."

Zea wrestles with her thoughts, how much to share, and how much the corpse would even understand if she did. The worries common to all who lived in the Devil’s Nursery. How often the cruelties of life in Cheliax intruded on the supposedly “better”, “hopeful” Kintargo. How often the bodies of urchins and beggars turned up, how rare understanding or justice or simple closure could be. What she feared became of those who vanished into Thrune’s dungeons, what she knew became of those who fell victim to the back-alley diabolists and the street-corner demagogues and the hateful mobs. The broken child the corpse himself had retrieved from the tooth fairies, the black atrocity Star hid so well. Had she told the other Silver Ravens that horrible tale yet? The plaintive voice that barely belongs to the dead man shakes her loose like the Devil’s Bells had chimed, and she understood the heartrending truth behind what had seemed a very strange request. “They’re yours…” With well-warranted caution, Zea stands and reaches out with what she hopes will be understood as a gentle, comforting hand, a soft touch on the creature’s charred shoulder. “Yes.” “We will do everything we can to find them, and if we do, they will be the safest children in Kintargo. I can promise that, at least.”

“You think I’m not wrapped up in this already? You think I’m not lettin’ the rabble-rousers stay because I agree with ‘em? That the Rack aren’t gonna kick that door in and invite me to the Holding House for a chat the moment my cousin gets the top spot on Thrune’s shit-list?” Setrona’s response is quicker than Kjersti might have expected. “But, I mean..." Setrona can't find the right word for once, and exhales through her teeth. "You’re talking about recruiting people, which means you’re talking about rebellion, not just grumbling in the back of a tavern, but really taking a swing at the big man. You really thought that through, what it would take to get away with that? Big man's got a lot of mean friends on his side. Got the devil’s church in his pocket. Got all his relatives in the ruling family.” Setrona glances at the cheap, crooked portrait of Abrogail II and snorts. “Well, she might join you, from what I’ve heard. Guess there are worse cousins to have show up for dinner than mine.” "I mean, I support you, wherever it might go. Recruit away. Just, well, be smart about it, yeah? Knock some supports out first, poke some holes in his ego. Don't fight a straight fight. He'll win, and there'll be bits of you hanging above each gate. The Order of the Rack are stupid, hidebound bullies, but even the most pathetic armiger, the one peeling potatoes and shoveling shit out of the latrine, still spends his days training against summoned devils. To make Hellknight proper, no matter your order, you have to get in the ring one on one and kill one of those ugly spiky brutes, barbazus. The Test, they call it. How many people on your side could kill a bearded devil, do'ya think? 'Cause I sure can't."

"Don't need to worry about making it home, deep in your cups or not. You could stay the night. I've got room." Setrona's characteristic boldness hasn't gone anywhere. She doesn't shy away as she meets Kjersti's gaze, but it quickly softens into quiet agreement. "Tea sounds nice, though. Been a long day. Rosehip, hm? Let me see. Might have to filch those from next door. Be a moment. Grab one of those good chairs with the cushions by the fireplace." The expedition is a success, and Setrona returns with a fistful of fat red fruit for the kettle. While the tea boils, she settles in next to Kjersti and considers the quiet, ominous request. "I know I paid you for last time, but that got a bit bigger than some silver. I figure I owe you a favor already. I'm intrigued, an' listening. Lay it out for me."

As the corpse manages to add "horns" to the description of Isolde Lavigne, Zea's eyes go wide as she realizes why the dead man came to the Cloven Hoof for help, and she's galvanized into immediate action. She grabs the nearest scrap of paper and a pencil, so the laboring corpse isn't forced to repeat himself. "Brown hair, spots, hooves, horns, a tail... about five years old... A babe of about a year..." "That's an unusual look. It doesn't match any kids I've seen in the Nursery lately. I will ask everyone who comes in. I will add her to list of the missing. If-if anyone has seen her, I will let you know." "Is the baby a tiefling?" Zea asks, slowing down for the zombie's benefit, carefully pantomiming rocking a child in her arms at "baby" and tapping her horns at "tiefling".

The Tooth and Nail looks and feels better than it did when Maria and Kjersti first wandered in. That stale beer smell is never coming out, and the sputtering yellow lamps still give off their light like they’re being forced to glow at gunpoint, but the broken fixtures and furnishings have been repaired or replaced, and there’s a homey, pleasant feeling in the warm old building compared to the tension of Vendalfek’s misguided “excitement.” The same applies to the owner. Setrona is still breaking the 4th proclamation, in a gaudy turquoise tunic trimmed with gold thread, and she still has a few “taxes” from breaking up fights, including a new and impressive black eye, but the deep bags under her eyes are gone - she seems to have transferred them to Kjersti - and she’s not falling asleep on her feet. The snarling tell-off the interloper was about to receive dies on her lips, transformed into a lopsided grin. “Mmm. I don’t make a habit of servin’ dangerous lawbreakers out after curfew, but I suppose I can make an exception for my best bouncer, just this once. And she’s our bouncer, Insome, if anyone official pokes their head in, understand?” She reminds the faithful bartender before turning her attention back to the night’s last customer. “What’s your pleasure? You look like you could use something fortifying. And what brings you back in here, lookin’ like death warmed over, Ms. Volden? You’ve been in a war, lass. Hope you won.”