Ravex spends his time in the market scanning the wares with a shrewd eye, as well as keeping an eye out for thugs or purse-snatchers that he can take out the last nights frustrations on.

Looking for an Amulet of Protection and healing potions.

Antillios finishes reading through the notes with Quinn.  Nothing particularly dangerous in here, if you can believe it, and they'll probably be as useful to the gardener.  The foreign word rolls of Antillios' tongue in a strange way.

I'll meet you there in two hours.  I've some family business to take care of.  He hops down from the bench, looking for some kind of guide or adventurer.

<orange>OOC:hunting for someone to send a message to Antillios' family, and then potentially a magic amulet (for bonus to for/ref/will) for 160 gp or less

20:35, Today: Antillios rolled 74 using 1d100. Shopping Roll. (which is kind of good, or kind of bad...)

"I understand." Matwau lies, backing away from Chester and giving him an awkward wave goodbye.

Redolent of gnoll sweat, Quinn's arcane ablutions notwithstanding, you, the erstwhile warlock included, troop the long walk back to the ladder leading to the garden, passing the four-sided monolith with its promises of skeletons and sun-side palisades.  With one long reach after another, you grab rung after rung till you pause, hearing the clang of hammers and the curses of dwarves.  Cautiously, you edge your way along the last 100 feet to the top of the ladder.  There you learn the origin of the sounds: workmen resetting panes of glass, hammering nails into loose boards, and dredging the bog-pond.  They take no notice of you as you pass by, bemused at the restoration of the greenhouse.

Just outside the greenhouse, you pass a tidy plot of graves, one adorned with bronzed sunflowers, another with lime-green hydrangeas, and the last with crimson orchids.  It's here that Faedran cordially greets you, waving off your fevered questions with a hand.  He explains that he slipped out of the garden, the gardener head over stem in a menage a fleur.  From there, he reported his former mentor's transgressions to the Loudwater ecumenical authorities.

"And, that was that; what they did with him, I don't know," he finishes.  "We'll have to talk again," he adds, leaving you to supervise the construction.

Shrugging, you lug yourselves to the Emperor's Crown.  No resisting its indoor hot springs, the hallmark of any "full-service" hotel, after the last few days.  Chester checks you in crisply and efficiently and Aloitious serves you honeyed whiskey with cream, perhaps a bit heavy with the dairy.  And with that you collapse.

You lounge about a few days till trouble finds you one morning after your breakfast of 100-cheese omelets and twice-creamed porridge, trouble in the form of a chosen of Erathis.  His blood-shot eyes bespeak days of ill rest or hard drinking or both.  Wiping his greasy hair off of his greasier forehead, he nearly crashes into your table in his haste to speak to you.

"You're the ones that killed the grell, yes?  the singular orb of the abyss?  You must help me.  You must help Erathis!" he says, the words spilling forth.

~~~
*Post in the Loudwater thread for your errands and such.

Feet up on a convenient chair Quinn is lounging back and sipping on a glass of wine as he flips through his spellbook.  At the man's approach he doesn't look up, however tiny silver head of his familiar emerges from amongst his hair and studies the man, the miniature dragon tasting the air and the hissing in disgust.  "Why?  We're already clearing out a den of monsters under the town, so we're somewhat busy."

Last night there had been slightly disturbing chanting from Quinn's room, however the glowing "do not disturb" sign hovering in front of it had persuaded everyone that it might be unhealthy to interrupt him in the middle of the ritual.  When he came downstairs in the morning a miniature silver dragon had been perched on his shoulder, head weaving form side to side as it studied everything with a curious glint in its eye.  Apart from mentioning that it was his new familiar, and that they were still arguing about a name, Quinn remained remarkably closed mouthed about where it had come from.

Gethin thanks Faedran sincerely for his aid and trudges along silently to the Emperor of Curd.  The brethren at the Temple where he was raised were good, honest men.  They had their flaws, of course, but on the whole were entirely trustworthy.  But if even a divine as exalted as Brother Griffon could fall so terribly, who among them was safe?

His mind keeps wandering back to the bloodthirsty relish with which he dispatched Griffon's hag.

His victim or his seductress?  Did it matter?

So he spends a few weary days in a funk of late mornings and more alcohol than what's good for him.

Sitting with Quinn in the common room on one of the few mornings he bothered to get up for breakfast, Gethin starts in surprise as a silver lizard head snakes around Quinn's neck and flicks its tongue at Gethin's eggs.  "Hold still, Quinn, you've got a--"

Gethin swallows the last words (along with the bite of omelet through which they were spittled) at the mage's steady gaze.

The approach of the chosen of Erathis saves him from further embarrassment.  "Yes, we're busy, but from the look of this man, his task may be urgent."

And it doesn't involve dispatching the ghosts of a holy man's victims.

"Sit, friend.  Once you've regained your breath, tell us the matter."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:17, Tue 01 Sept 2009.

Axum spends his days out looking for his arm and his evenings with his new drinking buddy.  Humans though always seem to have the same problem as children.  Six or seven beers and they start walking funny.  The reality that Gethin could probably use a friends conversation more than another beer is mostly lost on the dwarf.  It may be genetic or cultural, but Axum is used to dealing with bad news differently than his friends.

In the morning, he finds himself sitting at the table trying to determine what he's supposed to do with this abomination called a queche.  It's a a pie, but the top is open, so you can't put it in your pocket and take it with you to work.  It's made from chicken eggs, white goats milk, and two two types of swine flesh, but it's got green bits of plants and is full of air bubbles.  You could eat it, and be hungry again in just a few hours.  The Grell was bad, but at least you knew where you stood with him.

When the man rushes in and Gethin offers him a seat, Axum sees his opening.  You look hungry. he commands and pushes the plate over.  We are the ones you are looking for.

OOC:Does this guy look like a holy man?

Ravex, for his part, appears quite fulfilled; he's had his victorious bloodbath, and came away all the richer for it. He even feels a sense of moral satisfaction at having vanquished a small zoo of evil creatures. Though usually he spends his time pounding the skulls of two-bit criminals and toughs, the fact that he'd helped slay something actually dangerous gave him an unusual high.

When the man comes crashing in with his emergency, it was all Ravex could do not to immediately jump from his chair and declare that he'd kill anything the man desired. Instead, the fighter sat still in his chair, taking a sip of water. "Yeah. Tell us the matter." He rumbles.

Matwau spent his nights on the roof of the hotel, still fearful of the citythings called "blankets" that were known to give his people a horrible sickness. For many hours he watched the stars wondering if his tribesmen supposed him dead by now. Some had been against his quest to go to cityman lands to learn their ways of war and tactics. They said the citymen made sicknesses of the brains as well as the body. He would become like them and forget his home. Hmm. He was already wearing boots. Angrily he pulled them off and tossed them over the roof.

-next day-

Matwau climbs down the building with renewed determination to his quest. When he finds the man asking their help and telling their tales, he watches him curiously. How did he know they slew the grell? Was it the scene at the market where Matwau tried to trade its hide for more arrows?

The man's gauntness, let alone his state of agitation, precludes his acceptance of Axum's offer of topless cheese pie.  Ravex's invitation, though, to tell you all about it, he accepts.

Unable to sit, he paces around your table, the darting of his eyes matching the fidgeting of his dactyls.  They alternately caress and then spurn his brass gears, either rubbing them betwixt his fingers or pushing them away.

"I am Cog Turner Josephus, a chosen of Erathis, chosen, I thought, for a humble life of blessing mutually agreeable trade accords.  I'll have you know that I wielded my stamp with effortless efficiency.  No, not a deal could be sealed in Relkingham without my sanction.  And Relkingham's no hamlet, no; it's the most prosperous municipality within the principality of Deloren on account of it not only being a port town but also being propitiously situated on a land bridge between two continents.  While it's true that the laws are enacted in Wyllea under the auspices of Founder Neelani, that's just a small government town..."

With no one saying "Yes, tell me more about the local government," he adjusts his holy robes and says, "I've been having these dreams, you see.  Well, really, the same dream again and again:

I'm at the club, we've been enjoying our gin and tonics, when we finally get down to business.  The matter, you see, of Farmer Dell's stall had to be resolved with the erstwhile farmer having expired and his seed, as we all know, never having sprouted.  So I was entertaining two worthy practitioners of land husbandry vying for his stall.  They both had their samples.  This is the way you know.  They bring their best to me, and I look for signs of my deity's favor.  Like reading tea leaves...but more profitable.

Now, by this time I've tied more than one if you know that I mean.  I'm not seeing too clearly.  I reach for one basket from the berry-man.  I gather in the other basket--it's from the plantain-man.  I'm just sticking in my mitts now, one in each basket, gonna get some good handfuls, first tastes you know, the virgin scoops.  But it doesn't feel right.  The berries, they're round all right, but they're too wet, and the plantains, they've got the right slope, but they've got these sharp edges.

I looked at the farmers and they just grinned at me, raising their gin and tonics.  So I stuffed my face with an offering from each basket.  Seemed to taste pretty good at first, the juice of the berries and the warmth of the fried plantains.  I felt some things stick between my teeth, so, my mouth still half-full, I stuck a finger in and plucked them out. It was an eyelash and a bone sliver.  I awoke vomiting.  I've been vomiting for the last fortnight.

He looks at all of you, his orbs blinking.  "You think it has something to do with the edict?" he asks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:01, Thu 03 Sept 2009.

The disappointment on Ravex's face obvious and distressing, if only because it shouldn't be possible for his reptilian features to contort that much. "Another crazy fool." The dragonborn shakes his head and leans back in his chair. "Let me know he gets to the point."

Flipping a page Quinn continues to study his spellbook, ignoring the corrupt priest.  "That's nice.  Now go away."  He waves a a hand towards the door as his familiar grins and shows a mouthful of razor sharp teeth.  "There are monsters below this quiet town that need to be dealt with.  For prophetic dreams go and talk to one of your seniors within your order."

Gethin frowns in a way that could be interpreted as sympathy with the priest's plight, but is really apprehension at working with another licentious priest who seems on the verge of madness.

Still, he is a bit embarrassed by the rudeness of his comrades, which leads him to ask, in a reluctantly encouraging tone, "What edict?"

OOC: Maybe the guy just had a bad trip.

Religion check: Is it customary for Erathites of Relkingham to consume mind-altering fruits and berries ("Now, by this time I've tied more than one if you know that I mean.  I'm not seeing too clearly.") in the course of their duties?  Roll = 27.

Matwau can only take this as proof that the cityman's gods are the road to madness. Surely Gethin will one day arrive at this fate and become insane... the tribal resolves to begin a subtle campaign to convert his priest friend to elder worship and away from the maddening influence of imaginary deities.

But for now: "Yes. Which edict?" he coughs. "And what is an edict?"

"The edict," Josephus exclaims, astonished.  He raises his hand to his mouth for a swig, realizes his cup is empty, and before he can even motion for Aloitious to refill it, the barkeep is at his side, decanting a bottle of whiskey.

"The edict, you see, was a tariff that Founder Neelani was considering at the urging of her vizier, Avonathemon.  It was a simple sacrifice tariff: small parties wishing to access the Relkingham Waterway would donate no more than a hand or an eye.  Larger parties should be prepared to donate, as they say, the entire kit and caboodle, the whole kettle of fish.  She thought this would curry the favor of Erathis and he'd end our drought.  Likely story, right?"

"But the mayor of my town, Relkingham, and its citizens objected to this rather standard transportation levy.  As for me, I thought, if it's good for business, it's good for Erathis.  I've never been too excited about the particulars.  Then I started having those dreams...the mayor entreated me to find people like you to meet with him.  He thinks you might be able to convince Neelani to destroy the edict."

He drains his whiskey, the lurching of his eyes momentarily subdued.

~~~
It is not customary for Erathites to consume magic mushrooms.  The natural assumption that he was receiving dream visions is fair enough.
~~~
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:48, Sat 05 Sept 2009.

"Wait!" Matwau interrupts with an incredulous look on his face. "You citymen think sacrificing a hand or an eye will end a drought?! I am very sorry but that is just superstition. The only way to end a drought is a raindance... watch"

Matwau squatted down on his haunches, stuck his arms in the air and started kicking his legs wildly while shouting:

"HOO! HAA! HOO! HAA! HOO! ... well..." he says, standing up again. "I will not do the whole thing or the town will be flooded. But my friends, I think we should take up this quest. We will show Founder Neelani the rain dance and she will see there is no need for this sacrifice, and the people will keep their hands."

Yes, lets.  People are always strange when it comes to tariffs.  He stands up out of his chair and walks around, ending up behind the priest.  And we can all stay.. together.  To keep out of trouble.

Quinn finally finishes reading the page, closing the book with automatic care as he looks up at the babbling priest with a censorious expression.  "What kind of payment are we talking about here?  Keeping in mind there will be a significant surcharge depending on how annoying and or cryptic you are.  Call it an annoyance tariff."  He looks around at his companions.  "I do not believe any of us are worshipers of Erathis, and to be honest I'm developing the urge to just roll a ball of fire trough both this Founder and her vizier."

Cog Turner Josephus answers Quinn crisply, "1000 gold to convince the Founder to renounce her support for the edict.  Additional consideration should you find and destroy the edict having achieved the first goal."

The language of commerce, it would seem, he speaks with assurance.

"That is 1000 each I trust?  And why do you refer to this edict as a thing?  Surely it is a law issued by the Founder, written into the books of law in multiple places?"

Gethin leaves the negotiations to Quinn.  The truth is, Gethin's bleeding heart and inherent sense of justice has been so provoked that he'd do the job for free.  Fortunately, he has sense enough to realize that this isn't the way Erathites operate, and the man would probably be more comfortable with Quinn's hard bargaining than with Gethin's pity.

"1000 gold pieces, lump sum.  Before the edict can be, as you say, written into the books of law in multiple places, it must be signed and then sworn on the altar of Erathis," he responds to Quinn, his eyes cool.

He explains that the Erathis site is, of course, in Relkingham, and if you all do what heros are supposed to do, the law upon parchment "won't ever blaspheme that altar."

"What is to stop the Founder merely rewriting this edict when she finds it stolen?"

Something creeps into the visitor's eyes besides the red veins that look like spasmodic salamanders.

Ah, you know what it is.

Doubt.

"The powers of your persuasion?" he answers, not at all sure about the matter himself.

Quinn looks at the priest with a mixture of disdain and disbelief.  "What made you choose us priest?  You want us to sneak in"  he gestures to take in the heavily armoured fighter, cleric and paladin.  "and then steal this edict, before persuading the Founder not to do it again?"

He taps the table to emphasize his point.  "You sir need soeone with the skills of a thief for the first part, which we do not have.  And assuming persuade is not a euphemism for assassination then why would she listen to a band of foreign adventurers?"