Something clicks.

"You're keeping something from us, sir priest.  Convince your Founder to destroy the edict?  The task you describe wants lawyers and rhetoricians.  The Church of Erathis has plenty of those.

But you sought us out specifically because of our reputation as demon-slayers."

He pauses meaningfully, with a level stare at the cleric.

"I think you'd better explain the situation more fully.  Who -- or what -- are the hands and eyes and people being sacrificed to?"

OOC:  Insight: Is he holding out on us?  Roll = 32

(20!  Maybe I can guess his favorite number, too.)

08:28, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 32 using 1d20+12. insight.

He looks at Gethin blankly, wringing his hands helplessly.

"I'm not exactly religious," he moans.  "I'm a business man.  Even if she renounces her support, she may not have the edict and the vizier still has the authority to swear it in at the altar."

Gethin, though, has studied comparative theology.  He knows which god's all about severed hands and expunged eyes, right?

~~~
*You know which god, right?
*You might be able to convince the Founder to renounce her support...but she may not have the edict in her possession.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:36, Wed 09 Sept 2009.

Ravex is no fan of business and legalese. So he shuts his eyes and slouches down in his chair. Moments later, the dragonborn is napping quietly.

Axum crosses his arms.  The vizier follows Vecna. he guesses.  Sacrifices of eyes and hands belong to him, not Erathis.

"Assuming we persuade the Founder that such a sacrifice would not benefit Erathis, which should just involve getting a priest of Erathis to walk her through the dummies guide to the gods, is it likely she'll give us permission to relieve the vizier of the edict by force?  I doubt he'll surrender it willingly."

With the solace of another whiskey from the ever attentive barkeep, Josephus considers Quinn's query.  He replies that your business may well extend beyond meeting with the Founder but he's not about to speak for her.

"That's her territory, her decision," he emphasizes.  "I just bless legal contracts in accordance with the precepts of Erathis."

It's a good thing for him that Deloren doesn't appear to administer the most rigorous of licensing exams, if any, for its agents of commerce.  That's to say, you'd better not ask him to identify, let alone explain, any of those precepts.

Quinn sits back and looks thoughtful.  "Well, if it's a simple explanation of who the sacrifices are for then we should be able to do that.  Axum here has recently started walking the cleric's path.  Then we can hunt down this vizier."  He starts suddenly, wincing as his familiar nips his ear then hisses something to him meaningfully.  "Ah yes.  As for payment, 1000 gold is of course ridiculous.  2000 should be sufficient, plus travel expenses of course.

Cog Turner Josephus smacks his head, thankfully with his empty hand.  He exclaims, "If you destroy the edict and its architect, I might sleep like a babe again!"

He continues, "I can't make promises to you on behalf of the mayor, but I'll pledge 50 gold personally.  I'm not a rich man, I'm afraid."

Gethin just about chokes on his tankard of heavy cream at this claim.

After setting the tankard down slowly and wiping his chin (very important -- hard to look sufficiently stern with a beard of white froth), Gethin narrows his eyes at the man.

"You came to us, Cog Turner Josephus.  I don't care about the gold.  But I do take great exception at being lied to.

And does not the fourth chapter of the Third Book of Actuaries say, "The worker is worth his hire?"  And again, in the Sixth Tablet of the Prima Legis, does it not say, "Do not muzzle the ox while it is treading out the grain?"

This has now become a matter of justice, my friend.  I suggest you do better."

He blinks at Gethin stupidly and not on account of his inebriation.

"Uh," he stutters, "I think I meant to say that 'I'd like to remain a rich man.'  I pledge a lump sum of 250 gold out of my personal coffers.  Is that good?  I have horses readied for our trip."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:39, Sat 12 Sept 2009.

"Done!  Now kindly let us finish our breakfast and discuss how we should go about fixing the problem.  We'll meet you by the horses."  Quinn starts to polish off the plate in front of him, and work his way through his coffee, while he waits for the man to leave.  As soon as he has he looks up at the others, absently passing his remaining sausage up to be devoured by his familiar.  "I'm packed and ready to move, but I suggest we get a picture book primer to the gods to aid in our discussions with the Founder."

OoC: I'm happy to skip ahead now :)

"Horses, good." Matwau nodded. "I will not have to waste my arrows hunting our meat."

Despite his snores, Ravex had been half awake and listening: it was a skill that often meant the difference between life and death for a soldier. His eyes fluttered open and he got to his feet with a stretch. "I'll grab my pack, then." As he left the table, the dragonborn clapped Quinn on the shoulder, signifying a job well done.

He came back down, moments later, ready to go.

Having wandered around town for a few hours Quinn got tired of window shopping and returned to the Emperor, taking a table in a corner and sipping a flagon of cider which remained icy cold despite the heat of the day.  Pulling the amulet from around his neck the mage studied it thoughtfully, before summoning his silver dragonling forth with a snap of his fingers.

Over the next hour the mage traced runes on the surface of the table in cider and in the air with his finger, soon leaving him surrounded by slowly rotating runes.  Occasionally he had to retrace a rune as his familiar snapped one out of the air before regarding the mage with a toothy grin.

One of the braver members of staff did approach to ask what he was doing, but backed off quickly when Quinn looked up with glowing eyes and held up a warning finger glowing with arcane energies.

At the end of the hour Quinn uttered a single word of power, causing the familiar to freeze in place with a startled expression.  Running his fingers over the homunculus the mage moulded it with smooth confident gestures, making it sleeker and less muscular.  As he traced a final gesture the floating rules were drawn into the amulet and a flash of light lit the room.

Quinn's satisfaction was cut short however, as his homunculus looked down at herself with an outraged expression.  With a hiss of rage she sank needle sharp teeth into the smug mage's hand before leaping into the air and flying up into the rafters.

AKA Quinn has changed his dragonling into a scout type so we don't have to rush in with out warning any more :)

You all gather round another oaken table, eager to hear about Gethin's day.

"Stormcrow Tor," you repeat as one. "No can't say I've heard about that or it or them. You did ask where the bloody place was, didn't ya?"

Gethin fidgets a bit.

He looks around the taproom, which is pretty busy at the moment with tough types swilling their cream-and-maple cider, shady types conversing with the shadows, mercantile types ordering the richest milk broth on tap. Aloitious sees to them all, his apron miraculously free of white stains. Or perhaps it was dyed a color whiter than white. Is there such a color?

Brother Zellias had enjoyed the trip to this new (to him) community, and he began exploring it with what might best be termed calm enthusiasm. He would depart from his newfound companions for hours at at time, methodically walking the streets one by one, taking in the layout of the place, memorizing shop locations as best he could and occasionally talking to people he met in the street. None seemed to take a particular shine to the white-haired man with peculiar manners.

Back at the oddly-named eating and drinking establishment, Brother Zellias listens as the others discuss goings-on. He thinks for a moment on the name of the place called Stormcrow Tor. "That's a very interesting and evocative place name," he says. "I know nothing of it, though."

Sitting back and taking a long draught of his cider Quinn regards the paladin with a raised eyebrow.  "So what payment are we being offered to recover these relics?  Given the somewhat paltry rewards of our last adventure I'm assuming you negotiated something substantial."

Gethin still hadn't come up with a suitable response, so (as Brother Andrew always said), the simple honest truth is the best answer.  "One doesn't haggle with a hierarch.  I negotiated no payment."

He rushes forward, hoping to forestall Quinn's dismissal.

"But we go forth against three infidels known for stealing relics.  Those that are sacred to Pelor are our object, but there are likely others that will be ours to use as we see fit.  Any who would aid me, I will give the first pick of such relics."

Ravex takes a long drink of his ale and leans back in his chair. Nothing about Stormcrow Tor rung any bells in his reptilian brain, but what did resonate was the mention of holy relics. As it turns out, he'd only just a few minutes ago been eavesdropping on a group of elderly adventurers talking about ancient relics. They didn't mention anything about Pelor, but they did sure sound like they knew a thing or two about relics.

With deliberate suddenness the dragonborn rose and walked over to the old men's table. "Hey." The fighter chimes, interrupting their conversation. "You folks sound like ya' know some things. Well I got a challenge for ya'." He leans in and looks around, somewhat shifty-eyed, before speaking in a somewhat quieter tone. "What you know about Stormcrow Tor?"

Rolled a natural 20 on a streetwise check (total of roll = 23)

PM for Ravex

After listening to the men talk, Ravex returns to the table with a grim look on his face. "More undead, bah!" The dragonborn smack his scaly lips and snarls. "Something 'bout three spirits or whatever. They don't know how ta' get there and they didn't say nothing about artifacts."

From his pocket, Ravex produces a peice of chalk and writes a poem on the table.

The fell three have not been seen
on road, in tavern, or in dream
For ten gay years not one gleam
Would you dare awaken the trine?

Once finished, he sulks back into his chair and crosses his arms. "They rattled that off to me too."

"I'll see if I can discover more about this place," Gethin announces as he finishes his cream cider in a long swig.  He strides out of the Emperor and into the city streets.

An hour later, he returns, having been berated by the cooper's wife for leading astray the good youths of Loudwater, and having been splashed with a bedpan from a third-story window.

Glowering, he orders another cider and says nothing about his venture.

OOC: Gethin Ballider rolled 7 using 1d20+6. Streetwise. Rolled a 1.

Without your having noticed his approach, Chet appears at your table.  Ever chipper, he announces himself as Chet (as if his shiny brass nameplate hadn't made this abundantly clear). In case you were still unclear on the concept, he slips his card into each of your palms.

It says: Hi! I'm Chet!

Right-o.

He reminds you that the Emperor's Crown is a full-service establishment and as such, he's happy to inform you that the Stormcrow Company once established its headquarters in this very building (presumably before becoming Stormcrow Tor).

"They checked out about ten years ago, but nobody's stepped foot in their suite since."

"They were pretty spooky," he adds, giving you the key to a top-floor suite.

"That is fascinating, Chet," the monk states flatly, not souding totally sincere. "Tell us more about the Stormcrows."

Diplomacy 8

Quinn is not particularly thrilled at the lack of payment, but he perks up when Chet hands him a key.  Turning it over in his hands his eyes flick up to meet those of his familiar for a moment and he jerks his head towards the window.

Send the Scout out to take a look through the window(s) of the suite.