Through the Shards of Memory... Part 5

Part V - Family

My father was from House Lebeda, my mother from House Medvyed. I was a fourth generation Judge Arbiter for the Crown. My father was as consummate a sword master as any that bore our name. A dashing, chiseled and cosmopolitan bachelor of high birth and title that could have had his choice of almost any maiden in the city, but his parents demanded he marry a girl from House Medvyed. . . The less polite in court would call it Clan Medvyed to disparage it as being a collection of tribal country bumpkins. Mother always held her head high though, and my paternal grandparents knew what they were doing, they chose a woman of the highest caliber to be my mother.

My father was a staunch follower of Abadar, this caused him to be regimented and rigid at times, my mother on the other hand paid her respects to The Holder of the Golden Key in public, but held the ways of Erastil close to her heart. House Medvyed held to the old ways. How I loved spending parts of my childhood summers and winters with them in their mountain holds. I learned the way of the woods and the bow. There was a warmth among the people there that missed those dwelling in the tight confines of the city. . . My father complained that the visits eroded my studies and took away from my swordsmanship. In truth it was my fathers frequent absence from home due to his position that had more to do with that than anything.

Listening to my thoughts one might think I had no love for my father, or he for us, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. My mother's devotion to the marriage was returned by him. In time they grew to respect, then love one another and three sons were born to them.

My father was good to us and spent as much time with my brothers and I as the world and his position would allow. He always saw to it that we were well taken care of and instructed. My eldest brother was destined to be the next family head. He was better with words than weapons, and spent much of his time with my grand sire learning the affairs of state. The youngest of us had been divinely gifted. Only I mastered the blade enough to earn the right to wear the black jacket, which left me to inherit my father's sword and title if not his land and possessions.

Funny though isn't it that my family motto is "Success Through Grace" but I always subscribed to the Medvyed's motto of "Endurance Overcomes All" . . .

Through the Shards of Memory...Part 4

Part IV - Darkness

Darkness has a smell doesn't it . . . You know that smell well . . . Don't you . . .

The two children fled before them, they were maybe two or three years old, their bodies covered with feces and rat bites. Karl remembers how the fresh blood mixed with the old and the green puss and the somehow clear fluids run together and flick from their bodies to be absorbed on the cobbles and dirt as they continued along their path directly into the morning court traffic.

The father in Karl wanted to go after them, but he had his own problems at the moment. He was fighting the man that had done the things to them. His men were pursuing his accomplice whom had fled in a wagon taking the team of horses directly through the stalls in order to escape Karl.

Karl realized he would have to leave the children's fate to his fellow citizens, of whom he was becoming less and less confident in.

When he finally put the man down he descended into the basement. It was indescribable, but he had been in places like this more times than he cared to count. Feces literally covered the floors and walls in overlapping patterns of children's small hands. There was refuse an vermin everywhere and they clung to his boots. The food they had been feeding the babies was even left alone by the rats and mice. . .

I found three more children that day. Their skeleton arms reaching for me, their voices and eyes pleading with me. They just wanted to be picked up, their small minds fractured by the fear of the rats that literally ate at them in the cages they were held in. I can never forget the eyes... And the amazement that they could still reach out with innocent hope and happiness to a stranger they had just met.

It's strange how your mind picks out small details to fixate on. The old crone who was held down there with them had done her best to care for them. She sat outside in the sun while my men gathered matrons to remove the children. She had seen horrors, but she was smiling and reveled in the feel of the sun on her face...

She died the next day.

Deeper Wells of Meaning

The group divides, attempting to act on the information provided by the mysterious information broker Marcum.  The halfling's key was just the beginning.

Word in Dog's Teeth is a dwarf named Stigion has been throwing his weight around. In fact, it's this very dwarf who originally consigned the services of Linkah and his brethren to bring back the oddly clockwork key.

Then there is the connection to Farn's Tannery where in the Stag Heralds hold the kidnapped members of Lavios Daleborn's village.  Stigion and his confederates walking among a gang of slavers.  Why?

The party is intent on answers. Lavios, Karl and Drogan head into the tunnels beneath Dog's Teeth in the hopes of finding more information on this dwarf Stigion...perhaps take a chance on freeing the imprisoned villagers.  In the tunnels they uncover a darker secret. A bargain of unimaginable evil struck between a ghastly denizen of the tunnels and Stigion that pits the adventurers against vile predators and barbarian dwarves.

Meanwhile,  Nosatrub and Beckett head into the Admiral's Fen to locate a crooked Port Authority official named Hektor Lenz.  The man is identified by Marcum as providing the Stag Heralds with a ship on which to ferry the captured villagers to Absalom. Once there, they would be most likely sold on the open markets in Misery Row.  Expecting a clear picture of the evil willing to sell out innocent people, Nosa and Beckett find a man bound in addiction and a protector of noble intentions.  Even more, they may have stumbled upon a new ally in their mission.

The picture broadens, broad strokes becoming finer details that call to the separate pasts of the adventurers. Will they be able to conquer their demons in order to face the ones they've uncovered?

Through the Shards of Memory...Part 3

Part III - Puzzles

"Yes . . . Puzzles were Yolan's specialty. . .

I thought about heading home. Elsa and the kids would be home and preparing for their midday meal, but duty won out and I headed for my offices at the court instead.

Something told me I would need to report the events of the last few hours to the Marquis and besides, I wanted to see what Yolan thought about the body.

Once inside the gates to the court, I dismissed my guards, with the exception of Lord Bashar and headed for the Inquisitors’ Hall. Yolan was waiting in one of the holding cells. Alastar’s body was laid out on a table, his clothes removed. Yolan had done a thorough examination of the body looking for any wounds we may have missed. I had great respect for the old Inquisitor. he was one of a very few men that I trusted implicitly. I greatly valued his judgment, as my father had done before me.

As I entered Yolan waved me closer to the body. There was a broad smile on his face, which meant he had found something of interest, something new or something he rarely saw. . . "Great, not going home anytime soon."

“Karlton, come closer and see what I’ve found. This was no simple murder, the man was an artist. Look at where the body was cut. The killer avoided the major arteries and cut deep into the chest. I’m fairly certain this young man was alive as his heart was removed.” . . . Yolan could call me Karlton, he'd earned that right.

I trusted his opinion, but needed to flesh out the idea. “Why, wouldn’t it have been easier to just carve the dead body to get to the heart? Was it just to inflict more pain?”

The old man knew what I was asking. Men could be kept alive for days while tormenters were slowly flaying away their skin and removing body parts making them suffer long after they had given up the information they held. I thanked the gods that I and those under me did not use torture, but there were plenty of others in the city who did, not to mention the various cults and killers that inhabited dark corners. Yolan had gathered his experience over decades of service. He had seen a lot.

"I wasn't sure until I saw the cuts in the veins leading to the heart. Look here, see how cleanly they’re cut; the blood was still warm when they were made. The killer wanted a still living, still beating heart."

I tried to think through what use the killer could have for a living heart, and doubt started to enter my mind. If he was killed by a jealous rival, why go through all that effort? “What would they gain from a living heart?”

He leaned back a small frown on his face, even the old man was stumped, "No use I can see. Dead is dead." 

He shrugged. "However . . . there are two other things I’ve found. The first are cuts in both of his arms. See? Look how the cuts are shallow. I think they slowly drained away his blood as they cut into his chest. They wanted more then just his heart, they also wanted his blood.” I screwed up my face, but before I could ask another question, he held up his hand and pointed toward Alastar’s ankles. “The marks on the wrists and ankles were probably not made by ropes, my best guess is very fine chains; you can still see the ligature impression of the links on his ankles.”

My hopes for a simple revenge killing melted like snow on hot iron. The removal of the heart I could see, but not the blood. I had thought that the body had been dumped in the northern slums due to the lack of blood at the site, but maybe I had been wrong. "Could he have been killed where we found the body? The limited amount of blood led me to believe he was killed elsewhere?”

“I can’t tell without seeing the site, but you won’t find much blood wherever he was killed. If you can provide me with an escort I’ll go to look at the site myself.”

The old man’s enthusiasm helped ease my concerns. I had a feeling I would need more help from him before this case was over. “Thank you, Lord Bashar will see to it, but before you go, have someone repair the body. The family is expecting it and I don’t want them know that the heart was removed. It is too late to have him raised anyway, no need to cause unnecessary grief."

There was nothing left to learn, so I took my leave. With a heap of unanswered questions and an incredibly improbable motive for murder, I went to report what little I had to the Marquis. . .

Marcum is in the Details

The group departs the common room of the Scarlet Knuckle, fading into the darkness of the Admiral’s Fen. Agidor the bard suggests moving north along the main tributary separating the Dog’s Teeth then crossing over to make a run straight for Marcum’s shop. Outside the night sends a chill through cloak and armor. The rain, showing no signs of slowing, threatens small lakes on every narrow street and alley of the Fen. Even the plethora of boards and scrap doors lay out as makeshift bridges between walkways does little to keep mud and water out of the group’s boots. Through the haze of rain it seems too many eyes rest upon their shoulders. Music coming from a passing tavern sounds oddly out of tune and sends chills up their backs and gives strange pattern to the dancing shadows cast by the occasional street lantern.

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Meanwhile, Lavios and Jak are already in the mud of Dog's Teeth.  From the shelter of a boarded up shack, the driving rain giving them generous cover, they survey Farn's Tannery.  According to Jak's sources this is the place the Stag Heralds call home.  It isn't long before they observe a strange gathering of name-giver races beneath the bobbing lights of hooded lanterns. Dwarfs and humans and half-orcs converse among the shadows and make secret pacts.

But it's not the only surprise the evening holds for the Inquisitor, for Gozreh has provided new allies to the effort.  A half-elf named Helios and his friend, an elf named Hal'dorel also have business with the Stag Heralds.  The two, along with a human barbarian named Kheegan, and the Squire Nosatrub Shieldarm, had tracked the bandits to this location after their raid on Southridge days earlier.  It was there they knew several innocents had been taken.  The very same villagers Lavios Daleborn sought.

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It isn't long before both groups are locked in a struggle against another group of Stag Heralds.  The mud and rain and blood mix at their feet. The roar of battle fills their ears, but soon all that's left is the rain.  Their enemies felled, the band of unlikely strangers arrive at the door of Marcum. Inside they seek answers to why the separate lines of their fate lead to one man's shop.

They opens the door, and with the wide framed entryway all feel a wash of warm air and the smell of a fireplace. Inside, the shop’s walls are lined with shelves holding odds and ends, the occasional book or scroll but mostly tools and parts. Three quarters of the way into the shop a merchant’s counter rests, its maple bulk housing a display case. Behind the counter, a human stands; short to the point of nearly dwarven height, shoulders narrow and misshapen, head devoid of most of its hair and thick glasses resting on his nose and arrested by a piece of twine looped around his neck.

Over a tense conversation where motivations are plumbed and new goals aligned, Marcum reveals that indeed, Lavios' villagers are being held in the tannery.  Worse still, the key which Linkah had dutifully delivered would be going to one of the dwarfs Lavios had observed.  This dwarf bears a resemblance to one Drogan Anvilsong knows all too well.

And the questions continue to mount.

So with one door being shut, a new opens and sees the party bound to a new quest; free the people of Southridge before they're sold into slavery in two day's time.

Through the Shards of Memory...Part 2

1 Lamashan 4691

. . . Where do I take this pain of mine?. . .

. . . I rarely dealt with their families. I usually left it to an underling to deliver the body and question the family of the deceased, but Alastar was a noble and his family had influence with the army. I had no choice but to go personally.

. . ." I should have been more . ."

I had little time or sympathy for grief back then, especially for someone who provided little and probably deserved to be soundly beaten or killed for sleeping with another man’s wife. Revenge and retribution were things I understood.

The al-Cashan’s would want justice I couldn't provide if I found that the killer was a highly placed noble. If he was deeply entrenched clergy, he would also likely be likely be beyond my reach. I could pass the information up the chain, the Marquis would have to decide to act on it or not.

I went directly from the where we found the body to the al-Cashan estate. It was early, barely the first hour after dawn when I arrived. I was unshaven and my eyes were dark from lack of sleep. I thought it would work to good effect; they would know I was working all hours to find the killer.

The servants roused the household and I was offered breakfast. It amused me to watch the al-Cashan elders try to demand information while treating me as my rank required. They knew my family was favored and that through my office I could make them suffer. Still, they were the aggrieved party and I was the officer of the court who was supposed to protect them.

Without providing many of the details, I told them that Alastar had been dead for at least a day and roughly where the body was found. I also told them that the body would be returned to them after my office had finished examining it and preparing it for them. That comment sparked a few respectful questions that I was able to deflect by stating that I hoped to find out more about the killer by how Alastar had been killed. I was not going to tell them about the state of the body and the missing heart.

The body would be repaired as best as possible and if need be, I would disguise the wounds. There were informers everywhere and the less known about the murder the better.

I fulfilled the basic courtesies then I began to ask my questions. I was blunt. I wanted to know who Alastar had been seeing and who might object to his various activities. The information began to flow.

Alastar had his sights set high, with women from most of the major houses, to include a younger daughter of the leading family. Alastar came and went as he pleased. He fancied himself good with both sword and dagger so he often went without guards. . . That was foolish, as the desperate in City could live for the better part of a year by selling the clothes Alastar wore. . .

The family knew of no reason why he would be north of the city. They had no property or business in that district. After two hours of guarded and often uncomfortable conversation, I took my leave. Had the trip been worthwhile, probably not. The proper form and concern had been shown and the family confirmed that the list of potential killers was very long. Alastar’s movements would be difficult to track and I was really no closer to determining when he died. I did get the impression that the al-Cashans would not let the killing pass without action. If I didn’t find the killer quickly, they would act against whoever they believed killed Alastar. They really had little choice. . .

If members of their family could be killed without risk, their family was finished. More blood would flow among the noble families unless I exposed the killer. There would be long days ahead.
I had no idea how long. . . No idea.

Through the Shards of Memory...Part 1

From the Journal of Karl Marsh...

1 Lamashan 4691

Much of my duty was routine, dealing with petty criminals and traitors to the realm. As my father said many times, a thorough investigation, threat or use of force and knowing when to turn a blind eye, protects both you and the crown.

When I heard the pounding on my door before first light on that fateful day, I expected something out of the ordinary. I didn't realize then just how dangerous the case would be. Fortunately, some hidden intuition led me to put down my notes on paper. I must have sensed even on that first morning that the case would involve the truly powerful in the city. The notes were written partially to gather my thoughts but also as my guarantee that even if I was somehow removed, the guilty would still be punished. . .

Looking back at my notes, it’s surprising how much I missed. The signs were there. Toward the end several people of power suspected who the murderers were before I did and purposefully kept information from me. If I'd had that information even a day earlier . . .

It’s not to say that I’m blameless; I ignored many of the events that lead up to the first murder that would end up being vital clues. If I had started my investigation earlier and not been blinded by events happening to the lower classes, I would have been better prepared and able to focus on a much smaller list of suspects.

Elsa, please believe me . . . I did my best with the information I had. . .

I still see it clearly . . . all of it. . . I arrived at the murder scene just as the first hint of dawn. Between Lord Bashar’s men and the local watch, there were almost twenty men, most with torches surrounding the body. The building at one time may have been a warehouse. All four walls were still mostly intact, but the roof had fallen years ago and the rumble had either been dragged away or used for other buildings. Except for the body, there was no sign that anyone had used the building recently. It was a good place to dispose of a body . . .

. . . He was spread eagle on a stone slab, about three feet off the ground. I could smell the body, so he’d been dead for more than a day. It was a cool morning to help preserve the body. I tried to ignore the . . . Oh gods no stop this . . .

I examined his skin, it was waxy but hadn't begun blister or slip. dead no more than three days. I was sure that once we talked to his family we could nail down a closer time of death.

It was dark . . . I had the torches brought close so I could see clearly and to drive away the vermin that had already gathered to feast . . . I had lost my revulsion to the stench of the dead long ago, but I still didn't the flies. Alastar had been cut straight down his chest from his throat to his stomach. The skin had been pulled away and the ribcage sawed open. The killer had methodically dissected Alastar. His heart was gone. . .

I didn't know any better then. I was blissfully innocent.

The missing heart confirmed my first impression, that he was killed by a jealous noble who had probably already delivered Alastar’s heart to an unfaithful wife. These kind of things happened more than those in polite society care to know. There are ways to punish and force submission through fear of one you would have love you . . . Sick, but effective.

Before I left the body, Lord Bashar showed me the bruising around Alastar’s wrists and ankles. He had been bound and was alive when the killer started to carve into him. There were no signs of whatever restrained him and there was very little blood at the site. I thought this supported the theory that he was killed elsewhere and dumped here.

I would need to return the body to the family, so I ordered it brought back. Before I gave it to the al-Cashan’s there was someone else I wanted to see it, Yolan, an Inquisitor who worked for my father for forty years. He knew more about the human anatomy and torture then any man alive. If there was something I missed, he’d find it. . .

- written by Karl Marsh

This will be an ongoing serial, so stay tuned!

Into the Dog's Teeth

A clue extracted from a member of the Stag Heralds leads to the Dog's Teeth.  Lavios and his new confederate journey into the hive of Tarik the Unclean in search of the kidnapped villagers.

In the pouring rain and dark of night, things are not always clear.  Dwarves and half-orcs and humans gather in the shadows cast by hooded lanterns.  Elves and half-elves prowl the darkness.

Who is the Inquisitor of Gozreh to trust when family is on the line?

Across the marsh in the Admiral's Fen, a group of strangers navigate the waters of an alliance centered on the desperate actions of a halfling.  Freedom for Linkah and his brethren lay on the other side of a delivery.  The mysterious key in his possession must go to the information broker Marcum.

The Journey South & the Beating Drum

Highhelm

There are many beginnings in the land of Golarion, and quite a few get their impetus from the call to adventure.  Others seek the fortunes far afield while others look only to the possibility of glory.  Drogan Anvilsong's story holds these things, but the first beats of the drum hold the rhythms of an error.  One that sees a dwarf stepping away from the duties of an Archivist in Highhelm to take up the more unlikely mantle of Traveling Bard.  Drogan's heart is bent towards singular goal, but along the way if he can spread the legend of the dwarves...and his own exploits, so be it.

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Drogan's initial meeting with Agidor engenders a curiosity about the human guitarist that the dwarf finds hard to deny. Ever the hunter of grand, sweeping arcs traditional to dwarven lore, the intricacies of Agidor’s personality and history is like running his eyes over the finely carved lines of his ancestral drum.  These were the kinds of stories he'd hoped to find outside Highhelm.  That and the book...

So Agidor, a human of entertaining persuasions, convinces the dwarven bard to accompany him on his performances in the Admiral’s Fen for the next month. In doing so it becomes readily apparent that the human could gain audience with just about any establishment in the cleaner districts. The question in Drogan’s mind is ‘why’, and the first mystery about the man. Why does he insist upon staying in the wretched warrens of Admiral’s Fen? Time reveals much. Drogan, an observant dwarf by nature, is lent an eye into Agidor Lim'ehl’s life in the Fen. There are very few in the sodden slums that don’t know him, and few taverns that are willing to turn him away at the offer of a performance. In fact the accommodations while in Agidor’s company are downright clean...a boon if ever there was one to be had in the Fen.

If pushed into a position where his words and charms can’t extricate him, Agidor’s good in a fight. He keeps a short sword handy, hidden in his pack among sheet music and tools to care for his guitar. And he’s got the knack of producing a dagger or two from up his sleeves in a pinch. Those occasions when combat is necessary have been in the exclusive purview of Agidor’s ‘other’ job. The bard traffics in information, serving as an equal opportunity merchant when it comes to local scum or the destitute eking out an existence in town or in the surrounding serfdoms. The men and women of ill-repute need information on the movements of Taldan Phalanx...and while Agidor somehow provides this he exacts a price not in gold, but in equal service. A bandit group avoiding a patrol may encounter notions of the next shipment of hard tack or cotton and provide a few names friendly to the beardless half-castes of society on how to acquire a bit for themselves.

Cassomir

Drogan quickly knew Agidor was a good performer, a virtuoso with a stringed instrument and a gravely tenor perfect for the sometimes darker and baudier songs requested by their audiences. But the dwarf wondered at how well the man danced socially. The human walked a fine line of danger, making sure one side didn’t think he was betraying the other by reassuring them he was simply a broker...a middle man...and conduit.

The days and nights pass in the Fen. Drogan coming to acquaint himself with the strange ethos of the district. He marvels at the number of halflings and gnomes that populate the area and comes to an unfortunate realization that there’s not a good number of dwarves with the ranking example being the owner of the Scarlet Knuckle, the foul mouthed (in more than one sense) Outhouse. Other’s he’s run across seem keen to keep to their own, a behavior Drogan continues when it comes to his secretive past. That he doesn’t press or pry is a characteristic Drogan enjoys about Agidor.

30 days is a long time spend with someone. Time enough to know a person’s quality, and in the Fen, time enough to know he’ll stick by you in a fight. A particularly nasty group of human sailors found that out the hard way after getting a bit zealous on their estimations of Drogan’s heritage. One lost an eye, another a hand...and well the duo gave a lot more than they got by the end of that little vignette.

Now, the two are performing in the Scarlet Knuckle for the second time in the month. A few of the faces are familiar, two in particular belonging to another human named Karl Marsh - a hardcase and a foul-tongued loner but someone Agidor indicates can be trusted. The second a Halfling with more than his fair share of human pragmatism to mix with his innate guile and wits name of Linkah. Both of which are now seated at a table with Linkah’s brother and a newcomer, another human of steady gate and steadier gaze.

Earlier in the evening, Agidor had told Drogan that he’d managed to gain a meeting with Marcum who had a line on a few individuals looking to deal in small carvings and books, the end goal being to ship something to Absalom. Agidor also mentions that this Marcum has found a person in the City at the Center of the World who is willing to take on a few students and even make an opening into the White Grotto should they prove themselves worthy. And Agidor has made the extra effort to ensure Drogan - should he be up for it - is included in the ‘travel plans’.

But Agidor warns in his customary full disclosure, that the arrangements for travel to Absalom will come with a price not of coin, but of service. So before they agree, they should hear out the offer Marcum has concocted. This Marcum, he cautions, treads a more dangerous line than even Agidor, for he also must balance the waxing and waning violence of the Dog’s Teeth and its ruler, Tarik the Unclean.

Drogan taps along the hide surface of his drum and considers the possibilities...

Soon the dwarf finds himself plunging into the dredges of Cassomir, a dark quarter called the Dog's Teeth.  He's joined by an unusual band of companions with the task of escorting Linkah to Marcum's Shop.  There, Drogan hopes to find answers to a few questions of his own.

For the Lady of Valor, I Stand

Nosa rests a hand on the on river boat’s rail.  It’s rough to the touch, full of splinters and the occasional jagged nail seeking to nibble at the paladin’s flesh.

"Ya see any gobbers?”

He raises an eyebrow and glances down at the deckhand as he lifts a crate from one side of the boat to the other.

"Goblins, ya see any goblins?” The man...well, to be honest 13 years does not a man make.  But to Nosa’s eyes the deckhand works harder than most adults back home.  "C’mon, big fella such as yourself had to’ve clove a gobbers or two, eh?”

Nosa simply nods and looks back to the passing trees off the riverbank.  According to the boatman, they’d entered the Verduran Forest a few miles back.  The sheer density of the forest was staggering given what little he knew of Taldor.  Apparently it made a good profit from the sale of lumber.  But to see the forest from the river you’d think nary a tree had been felled.  Add to it, the trees here were unlike the ones from his dark homeland.  They seemed somehow possessed of a wicked life in Ustalav.

"I knew, sure I did.”  He reaches down and begins coiling some rope and stacking it near the mizzen.  "I wasn’t spyin’ er nuttin but I caught a shine o’ yer armor in yon pack. I knew you was a fighter...”

The big man didn’t do anything to correct the deckhand. But he wasn't in the practice of putting his possessions on display.  Such things only bred pride and invited others to challenge.  Nosa smiles at the memory of his father's admonition even as he unconsciously rests a hand on the hilt of his sword.  His thumb presses over the raised winged-symbol on the pommel, a quick mental prayer to his goddess.  Though he offers no tales, Nosatrub Shieldarm’s journey thus far had proven an interesting story to tell.  If he were a lesser man and prone to self aggrandizement, there was gold to be made in trading on his skills and exploits.

As a caravan guard he’d seen the vanquishing of would-be brigands, fighting alongside sellswords with little or no honor but holding himself to the higher standard set forth by his goddess.  Though he never spoke of it or attempted to brandish his faith, Nosa worked towards being an example of an honor-bound man.  The merchant caravans provided him with a place to sleep, a horse to ride and food to eat and even a bit of gold besides.  But soon he found himself on the road alone once more as he journeyed south.

There was the evening when a gypsy encampment had given him shelter from a passing storm, asking nothing in return.  Nosa sat down and heard their stories and ate their food.  His normally quiet self gave him time to observe them and appreciate their lives and their honor system.  Unlike the locals in the area, he had none of the prejudices when it came to the traveling people.  After all, half of those in the camp were from his homeland.  So when the trio of rogue goblins had beset them, he’d put his sword and shield to the defense of the gypsies.  The irony lay in the amount of money the gypsies had provided when he left their midst a week later.  Nearly twice as much as given by the successful merchants he’d sworn to protect a month before.

His mind returns to the present and the passing trees off the river's banks.  All his accomplishments are something he looked forward to passing on to his father.  But all the things his sword arm had accomplished, all of the negotiations and successes along the road belonged to his goddess.  "All my glory belongs to the Inheritor…” He intones to himself.  Nosa believes the words at his very core, knowing that to cloud his eyes with glory would be to blind himself to Iomedae’s direction.

Under his other hand, where it still rests upon the boat rail, he feels a building vibration akin to a heavy object being dragged along.

"Rocks!!”  Two of the crew and the helmsman shout simultaneously.

"Spill the sails you useless buckets of puss!!” The captain bellows, stomping his way towards the bow as his crew set about fulfilling his command.

But the damage has already been done.  The boatswain emerges from the single deck below, his booted feet leaving a trail of puddles behind him as he runs to the captain.  "We’re takin’ on water, blood and coins if we’re not, captain!”

There are three people on the boat besides Nosa who have exchanged coin for passage to Cassomir.  Nosa doesn’t speak, but one of the other three can’t help himself.  "What will we do?”

The captain’s glare silences the man who’d called out.  "You’ll keep your useless bilge shut while I cogitate!  That’s what you’ll be doing!”

It’s not long before the captain orders the boat to the Sellen’s eastern banks.  Putting into a small port village for repairs.  Over the shouts of orders and scurrying crewmen, Nosa overhears the questions of how the captain was going to afford the taxes for using the wood needed to make repairs.  Add to that the description of their destination as a ‘village’ is a title to favor where they actually put to shore. 

A 15 ft dock is supported by sturdy but aged pylons juts out of the shore like a broken tooth.  Around the dock is a clearing with room enough for a pair of shanties and a larger log cabin. It takes them a long time to pull the riverboat close to the dock and longer still to find a plank long enough to reach it for disembarking.  Nosa remains and observes his surroundings, realizing that the ship’s deck is the highest point in the area.  There’s not a lot of distance between the river bank and the treeline, but over the canopy he sees a column of smoke rising like a message to the heavens.

"A fire nearby,” Nosa mentions to the boatswain as he passes by.

He pauses long enough to peer out and see it for himself, but he shrugs.  "Seven hells, mate, whatdya want I should do, eh?  I look like fire brigade?”  Another pause as he spits a brown mass of tobacco chew on the deck near Nosa’s feet.  "Ya feelin’ froggy, mate?  Go checks it on your onesies.  I’ve got a ship ta repair.”

Rudeness aside, Nosa does just that, beginning with the locals in the village.  He readies himself to leave the boat, but stops himself short. To the north, along the banks of the Sellen he sees a narrow road, a dust plume showing the faint indications of riders approaching.  The paladin reaches down and grabs up his possessions, shrugging the pack with his shield affixed over his shoulder before making his way down the steeply angled plank.

"Ya gots some coppers ta share?” An old man with fewer strands of hair than he has teeth wipes his bulbous nose and coughs.  The stink of his breath is a wreath of old liquor and tobacco around his head.  "Ya gots no coppers, ya thumper, I don’t sees it as my business.”

Nosa is taken aback by the response. Apathy isn't that shocking, but to trade the possibility someone needs help for coins is offensive to say the least.  The paladin worries that perhaps this filthy man is the truer picture of the people he will be seeing in Absalom.  If not the appearance, but the heart.  Instead of trying to parry the man’s hardened heart with shame, Nosa simply moves on to the next person available.  One eventually reveals a village, half a day’s ride south east named Southridge that is in the region.  They say it’s probably just a forest fire.  But Nosa has seen far too many villages burned along the border of his beloved Ustalav. The color of the smoke, blacker than gray means a different sort of burning than a forest fire.

But around him, no one wants to help. Nosa feels the prompting of his goddess in the situation.  Perhaps the chance for her young servant to show what community truly means.  Especially in such a remote area where it could be the difference between life and death.  He sets about donning his armor and conveys to the good captain he’d like to parlay a trade.  A solid map of the overland journey to Cassomir in exchange for keeping his full payment for the river passage. The captain is more than happy to agree.  Even having one of his deckhands return with a map out of his own collection. It didn’t have as much detail as would be truly needed, but Nosa unfortunately didn’t know enough to ask for a better one.  It had directions, landmarks and even notations on areas to avoid and to stick close to something called the Blackwood Causeway.

In the time it takes for him to prepare, the cause of the dust plume he’d seen earlier arrives in the form of three riders, two remounts in tow.. The group is strange in Nosa’s eyes; what looks like an elven ranger, a half-elf with a lute case across his saddleback, and a massive mountain of a human garbed in chain armor, a wicked looking greataxe across his lap.

"What word of the fire?” The half-elf asks a passing local.  But he’s met with the same apathy afforded to Nosa earlier.

The paladin studies the newcomers, watching their faces and wondering at their intent.  The elf is similar to the ones he’d seen traveling the roads near Greengold, but he notices that this one also bears a lute case across his saddle back, the hardened leather case matching that of the one in the half-elf’s possession. Then there is the human in the trio, a grim visage Nosa had witnessed on the faces of his father’s order. His eyes and his calloused hands and his ax had seen their share of battle.  Last was the half-elf, a friendly faced man to be sure, but a determination and passion in his eyes that Nosa would only truly understand many years into his adulthood.

You have once again set the lamp to my feet, great goddess!  Nosa steps forward, realizing that his goddess had placed him in this place at that time for a purpose.  Nothing is left to chance.  Especially if the appearance of these three were any indication.  "Southridge it is called. I am on my way there now to offer what aid I can muster."

There is disappointment in the eyes of the human, not for Nosa but for the shame the young paladin heaps upon the locals or their lack of honor.  He guides his horse forward, gripping the leads to the two remounts in his left hand.  "Then you will ride with us, and we will see if that armor of yours needs tempering."  His accents are strange to the paladin’s ears, a mixture of the Five Kings Mountains and even a bit of the Lake Encartha region.  But up close, Nosa locks eyes with the massive warrior. In them, he notes the barely restrained fury.

"He’s called Kheegan, stranger,” the elf offers. Despite his serene and serious countenance, his tone carries a measure of fondness for the human, akin to a brother’s affection. 

"Helios,” greets the half-elf, his horse frisking a bit as he spins him about.  Nosa notes the basket hilt of a rapier at his hip.

"Hal’dorel,” the elf states, his words adding an accent to the name that slips like silk over the breeze.

Nosa accepts the reins with gratitude and swings himself into the saddle.  "I am Nosatrub Shieldarm, son of Veras, squire to the Knights of Ozem and paladin of her most blessed Lady of Valor.”

The half-elf restrains a smirk, instead inclining his head out of appreciation.  "Forgive my instinct to sarcasm,” he apologizes to the young paladin. "I mean no disrespect.  But titles in this land are a worth a copper pence, and I noticed only late that you are not of Taldor.  Good, we can use a touch of righteousness.”  He gives Nosa a smile and signals for them to ride.

They ride the rest of the day and soon find the decimated village of Southridge. Nearly all of the buildings and huts are burned to the ground.  A modest temple to Gozreh still stands where an elderly man sees to the wounded within its stacked-log walls.  The quartet hears the story of a band reavers who’d passed through the village in the early morning darkness. They’d made off with several of the villagers, an amalgamation of youth and women.  The old priest says one of their own, a young man named Lavios Daleborn had gone in pursuit.  Witnesses mentioned the reavers saying Absalom...perhaps their destination.

Nosa’s midsection stirs with anger and indignation.  What sort of monsters…?  He closes his eyes and offers a prayer to Iomedae, but before he opens them memories of his own youth come flooding back. The razing of his village, the pestilence left behind…

But these are not undead.  No, these are people with hearts just as dark and evil.

Helios listens to the descriptions of those taken, then mutters to himself and the other three, “Slavers, that’s my bet.  If they’re going to Absalom, then they’ll have to go through Cassomir.”

"That means the Causeway.” Kheegan observes, already pointing his horse towards the southwest.

They set off in pursuit.  Nosa soon learns that Helios and the others are part of a larger network of people dedicated to the plight of the underprivileged in Taldor. Though Helios was the only one from the region, the other two had found themselves bound to the cause of those called the Beardless, the poor and the laborers who constantly found themselves receiving short shrift. Either they were paid useless wages or they were caught in the middle of the little wars fought between noble houses.

The more he hears of them, the more Nosa sees the men in his father’s service...and the more he knows he’d made the right choice to leave the river boat.

After investigating the reavers’ methods and gathering information along the road they learn the name of those reavers, the Stag Heralds.  The quartet makes the perilous journey of the Blackwood Swamp causeway, arriving in Cassomir a week later...  

Shadows at my Heels

Lavios Daleborn was hired on by a pair of traveling merchants to protect their cart and a family paying for passage.  Not a weighty assignment save for the fact they'd be traveling the Blackwood Causeway alone.  But the passengers were desperate.  The head of the family - Gorin - has a job in Cassomir that can't wait any longer.  While the merchants were glad to have some kind of cargo instead of making the journey to the city empty handed...it was still the Blackwood.  And judging by the light seeping through the storm-swollen clouds above, they'd still be on the last leg of the journey after nightfall. But greed overrode sense when it came to the merchants.  That character flaw bothered Lavios little considering the bandits may be close to hand.

So they set off into the late afternoon, setting a fast pace in the hopes of bleeding every scrap of daylight they could from the day.  But with several leagues behind them, they come upon the form of a dead man in the road.  Further inspection reveals the now familiar tattoo of the bandits holding Lavios' mother.  It's a macabre but solid piece of evidence proving he's on the right track.

In the midst of their investigation, the soul-chilling cyprus trees closing about the causeway like a shadowed fist, several creatures loose fearful howls of ravenous hunger.  The mud and foliage all around them explode with noise and the terrified travelers seek a quick exit from the scene.  Before they can make their escape, hideous creatures out of nightmare burst upon the road and set about devouring the dead man's body.  They bay to the growing night and engender such fear in the wagon's occupants that the driver is willing to break the horses just to get away.  One of the unholy fiends tears itself away and give chase, horrifying speed given it by arms too long for any normal person to possess.

Calling upon great gozreh to give his servant aid, Lavios looses a crossbow bolt and sends the pursuing aberration crashing to the road.  The blessed shot gives the wagon the breathing room to escape.  But the howls of the shadowed creatures from the swamp will stay with the wagon's occupants for a very long time.

In appreciation for his brave stand, Lavios is connected with a man in Cassomir by the name of Jak.  A constable for the Cassomiri government, Jak drifts among the criminal element of Admiral's Fen under a cover of subterfuge.  He's just the man to bring more information to Lavios and put the young Inquisitor on the trail.  He's already gained the name of the bandit group.  The Stag Heralds...

The Past and Mr Marsh

Karl Marsh sits in his customary table in the common room of the Scarlet Knuckle, the stench of blood and sour ale and gods knew what else permeating the place.  His hair is dark, save for the hints of gray at the temples, and kept short.  A Halfling name of Kiggins Petson sees to it periodically with a blur of scissors and a grin for one of the few humans who stood up for him and his kin.  Although Karl is known as a hard-case among the folk in and around the tavern, among the diminutive race he is known as Ard deartháir - Tall Brother in the Halfling tongue.

Rumors swirl around Marsh like the smoke rings of a gnomish pipe.  Though older, maybe in his 40s, he bears himself as a warrior. At the very least, the blue-gray eyes of his tell a history of fighting and of deep pain.  Local cut-purses say he peels you like an onion with them.  Most think that enough, electing not to know what he can do with the sword at his hip.

Ah, that sword.  You'd think Marsh had mowed down a dozen would-be troublemakers with it to hear the stories it spawns.  Claims he is an assassin of such reputation that even those who call the local underworld home only call on him in desperation. 

"How can he be an assassin?"  some would ask in a whisper.  "I ain't heard of 'im."

"Exactly!"

Perhaps less ridiculous rumors - at least more believable - is that Marsh may be a disgraced lord, forced to shave his beard and exiled to the Fen.  Or he may be a fallen paladin.  Looking at his sword, perhaps the emblem on the pommel could quash the stories and squeeze out truth.  But none are willing to get close enough to see nor bold enough to ask without enough ale in them.

He doesn't do anything to correct the rumors.  In the long run they help him maintain a quiet life in the middle of the Admiral's Fen, which is all he wants.  The occasional lending of his presence to quell difficulties in the tavern even keeps him on the slim good side of the owner's notorious ill temper.

It also means he stays several steps ahead of a past he's spent a long time forgetting.

But like so many things in the Fen, hopes and dreams can be quickly swallowed by the swamp.  Karl Marsh already started breaking his own rules by getting involved in the schemes of a Halfling named Linkah.  The industrious fellow is close to sealing a deal to free himself and his comrades from the clutches of a deviously crafted ship contract.  But it means dealing with a man in Dog's Teeth Karl would just assume avoid.

Even worse, he won't be helping the halflings alone...

The Scarlet Knuckle

There is a foulness most establishments can only dream to attain, a richness of character that stains the most seasoned walls and brings to mind the worst representations of the lower strata of society. Depending on your point of view, Scarlet Knuckle is all the worst and all the best in quality for a proper tavern in the Admiral's Fen. Past the heavy, oaken doors of the 2-story establishment, the miasma of smells and filth can be overwhelming for those not from the area. But then again, the stench of the swamp is waiting just outside like a drunk collapsed on your doorstep in a puddle of his own vomit. Scattered amongst the round tables of the common room, the denizens are dock workers, most coming off a day-lighter and ready to drink or gamble their wages in one of the more notorious taverns in Admiral's Fen.

There are dice games, assorted card games ranging from Rook to a clutch of older men in a corner table with a Harrow deck for an ancient game of Towers. 

Amid the stink and the drink and the laughter and the curses there is no shortage of weaponry. Short-swords hang openly along with cudgels and daggers, a rusty cutlass or two on the hips of bravados, over in the corner a crossbow leans against one table where three men and a Halfling play a game of cards. Even the five serving girls carry knives with the history among them for taking a finger or two from those men unwilling to guard themselves from straying. So being unprepared for a fight is frowned upon.

The proprietor is a particularly foul-tempered dwarf, his hair and beard the deep colors of flame to match. Those outside his hearing call him Outhouse, not for the unfortunate face Torag had forged at his anvil, but for the rancid odors wafting from his curse-ridden mouth. His given name is Rivens Cogsetter and his best friend is the heavy Ash, iron-banded cudgel at his hip he calls Bruiser. That weapon receives all the affection the surly tavern owner can manage to squeeze out of his blackened heart. All his other emotions dwell within the till behind the bar. It’s not in the black, he makes sure there’s red on the floor.

Anything strike your fancy?  Well, if you survive the night, maybe we can talk business.

The Halfling's Tale

Safe aboard the Lamprey, a modestly sized galleon out of Korvosa, Beckett and his mentor - Lord Valdur Bromathan - find themselves among friends when they learn of the ship's Halfling contingent and their worship of Sarenrae.  As the last hours of their journey unfold, cleric and student lead the halflings in a sermon to welcome the dawn. But in the light of the Dawnflower, Beckett comes to understand the less than fair contract that binds the attendees to the Lamprey and her captain.  After careful deliberation, Beckett accepts the request of Linkah to aid the halflings in buying out their contract.

But this means journeying to the darkened alleys of the Admiral's Fen.  A home to vagabonds, cutthroats and rascals that could put Korvosa to shame.  Linkah requires that the young Inquisitor protect him as he delivers something of great value.  What that object is, only time and a watchful eye will tell...

Of Storm and Sky

Gozreh is a fickle god.  The storm and sky answer his call, providing both gentle breeze and gusting torrent by turns.  Upon his winds the gull and hawk can take flight or be smashed against the rocks should his temper flare.  Yet there are many adherents to the god who existed long before the skies above. They cast their lots to the sky and the land nourished below by the rain and the sun peaking behind cloud.

Deep within the great expanse of the Verduran Forest, Lavios Daleborn grew up under the wisdom of loving parents and a village dedicated to the of nature and sky.  But into this village a storm of unimaginable ferocity blew, bringing the sword and ax and fire with it.  The young Lavios saw his father felled, and his mother and fellow villagers taken by the bandits who saw the village as one more obstacle to be burned.

The fire of Gozreh's anger swirled in his core.  Armed by with his father's sword and the wisdom of a village elder, Lavios set his shoulders to the wind.  Broken and humbled, all that remained in the young man was vengeance and the desire to see his mother safe.  His prayers for wisdom and strength cast to the winds of his god, Lavios assumed the mantle of Inquisitor and departed for Cassomir.  The bandits, branded each with a tattoo of a stag holding a horn in his mouth, were going to the port city with the goal to find passage to Absalom.

Here and there, in passing farm houses or an occasional traveler, Lavios has heard rumors of a group of rough characters.  Rumor of the same tattoo and the proclivities of kidnapping.  The larger mass of this band of half-castes and filth kept to the clearings and the smaller roads off the main.  But on occasion, they do sent smaller groups into towns for supplies.  For the most part, they pay , intimidating sundry shops to lower their prices.  But one tale unfolds a battering of a blacksmith in Glimmervale a few days past.  The blacksmith, a well-muscled man of stout frame called Reph, said they accosted him late in the evening.  A group of eight ruffians roused him from his sleep and set about pummeling him until he agreed to show a string of horses.  But in Reph's account Lavios has garnered the first draught of solid information in weeks.  The group had wanted horse shoes better suited for soft ground.

His connection to nature told Lavios that this meant the bandits sought the refuge of the Blackwood Swamp.  An insane prospect given what the young Inquisitor knew of the place.  But with regular patrols along the main road, it made sense.  Could Lavios intercept them before they reached Cassomir?

Lavios has sought passage on a lone cart traveling for Cassomir along the causeway, the main road through the Blackwood. It is here where our story continues...

The Coming Dawn

Beckett Foxglove is a man haunted by a singular nightmare. It hounds his sleep and gives only obscured hints to the event that gave it life. But he does not let the horror define his future.  Instead, time and trial have seen him commit unwavering submission to the cause of Dawnflower.  He is an Inquisitor of Sarenrae, his life dedicated to the downfall of anything that would shade the dawn from the eyes of the innocent. 

But still the nightmare of his past follows and goads.  The terrors in the dark of sleep still stalk, but the night always gives way to the dawn.  And his fears give way before the iron will to see his duty through. 

Beckett Foxglove sails with his mentor to Cassomir, the largest port of Taldor.  There he will find passage on the Prince Rhineholdt bound for Absalom, City at the Center of the World.