The Blakros Museum rises into the night sky, its single black spire severing the full moon in twain. The black iron gates surrounding the exhibition hall grind in protest against the wind. Beyond, the museum’s large oaken doors stand wide open, a silver-gray mist belching forth from the cavernous darkness within. You wonder how you ended up here, standing at the precipice of unknown terrors, and instantly Venture- Captain Adril Hestram’s wide looming face is conjured into your minds’ eye. His booming words ring out from memory as clearly as he spoke them only one hour ago:
“The Blakros Museum is cursed. Some darkness has descended upon the place and those who enter are blasted with evil and left raving through its halls, more beast than men. The curator, Nigel Aldain, is an old associate of the Society, though he chose to leave our organization some years back after a disagreement.” Adril looked sheepish then, as if remembering some distasteful incident from his youth.
“Nigel has long denied the Society access to the Blakros Museum’s considerable collection of relics and scrolls, using his extensive contacts to nab several excellent finds right out from under us... he always had a nose for the hunt. Whatever is past between Nigel and the Society, he needs our help now. Perhaps if we can come to his aid, he may think on rejoining the Pathfinder Society, or at least offering to share his discoveries with us.”
“Apparently the trouble at Blakros Museum began this morning, shortly after a wayward Pathfinder named Lugizar Trantos returned to Absalom after months spent in the Mwangi Expanse. Supposedly, instead of coming straight to the Lodge to report in, he went to Blakros, sold his finds to Nigel, and then disappeared with a hefty sum of gold. The few who glimpsed Lugizar claimed he was much changed by his time in the Mwangi... gaunt, his eyes yellowed and unfocused, a strange rasping cough that seemed to wrack his now wasted frame. Whatever he brought back with him, we believe it is the cause of the Blakros Museum’s ills. Root it out.”
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"Aha! The Blakros Museum!" Ffortissimo's basso profondo voice booms through the dark night. He spins dramatically to face his companions, swirling his cloak. Even in the moonlight, it is obvious that his outfit is ostentatious. The gaudy gold and white vest, puffy green pantaloons, and white knee-high socks are more suitable for an operatic performance than a battle. Yet the clothing seems to suit Ffortissimo's tall, muscular frame quite well.
He clutches his longspear, raising it in one hand as a battle standard. "My friends, today a great evil has entered this city, but tonight it shall be defeated in glorious battle!" He flashes a grin, eager for the adventure ahead.
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"Hopefully not such a great evil we can't put to rest," mutters Kastarr. The tall man leans on his long, yew bow. He is dressed in light-brown buckskin and a studded leather jerkin of darker color. Other than his bow, and a quiver full of arrows, the man is only lightly armed, with handaxe, dagger and club.
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"Is there anything else one might know about this situation, oh most illustrious and excellent Venture - Captain?" Akhenethys asked the captain after his initial briefing, as he tried to recall anything he knew of the museum or Luigazar Trantos.
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"There are still people inside? We'd better hurry, before any more harm can come to them. Not to mention any damage to the collection." Amina chimes in, her hand subconsciously drawn to the golden songbird hanging around her neck.
Immaculately polished chainmail glints underneath traditional loose, colorful Mwangi dress. Her soft, beautiful features and graceful stride made it easy to overlook the woman's strength.
A moment later, she continues, "...Oh! Does anyone else speak Polyglot? If not, I can translate any writings we might find there."
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"I can use magic to read any language spoken or written by sapient beings," replies the salt-and-pepper bearded orsiriani human.
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"Well, at least we're all confident, I suppose," says the slight elf among them. Bullets, javelin, sword, symbol. Butterfly. Milarandei's pinkish hands dart from one to the next, making sure she has all she thinks she'll need. Her cleric's robes, the blue and white of her god, hang awkwardly over her scales. She'd delighted once that they matched her eyes and hair perfectly. She despairs now that she'd had them fitted before she'd taken up a career requiring armor.
Coin Purse. Full. "That's no use right now..." she mutters. "Amina has a point. While I'd prefer to see if anything's open late enough for a quick provisions run, I'd hate for our dawdling to allow harm to come to those we've been contracted to aid. Each journey must start with one footstep. Might as well take it now."
Since at least one of you decided to ask questions, please give me the following:
Knowledge History
Knowledge Local
or
Diplomacy
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"This Lugizar. Any close companions? Did he send any reports of his time in the Mwangi or did he just pack up, go, and then return without a word? Any idea what he might have brought to the museum?"
The massive half orc stands nearly seven feet tall. Seeing the ominous mist swirling out from the museum doors, he releases an equally massive axe with blades at both ends from leather straps on his back. [b]"Ready when the rest of you are.
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Kastarr listens impassivly to the Venture-Captain's briefing. He makes no comment, nor asks any questions. The mission seems clear enough.
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At Blakros Musieum, the ranger takes time to examine the ground around the front gate, looking for tracks. He knows that it was a well traveled area, so has little hope of discovering anything. Still it is worth the look.
By asking around you find out that Lugizar Trantos spent the better part of a year in the Mwangi Expanse. At first he wrote letters to his brother and wife, but after a few months these stopped coming and most gave him up for dead.
His letters spoke of a lucrative find at one point, three idols of dark wood carved int he shape of bearded monkeys.
The very last of his letters evidenced an unhiged mind, and was covered in strange sketches of monkey paws. He described dark eyes glaring out from the mists. Shortly after his return to Absalom, many of the monkeys and apes in the city's menageries attacked their keepers and fled into greater Absalom.
Kastarr notices no unusual foot (or claw) prints.
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Fatham is an older human male with long hair and beard...though it is difficult to tell his exact age. A great silver streak runs down the back of his uncovered head. He wears the hides of animals almost as if they were his own skin.
It is time to leave this 'civilization.' Who knows how much longer it will even be here?
He nods at the instructions, but seems content to keep his own company for now.
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"You're telling me the Pathfinder Society got excited over a bunch of monkeys? Did they come in a barrel!" The bard shakes his head, incredulous.
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With a slight bow to Venture-Captain Hestram, Amina turns for the door of the briefing room.
Later, when the group approaches the museum, the looming dark edifice sends a slight shiver down her spine. "I've been eager to explore Absalom's cultural scene ever since I joined the Society," she comments, "though I'm beginning to feel this isn't quite what I had in mind."
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Milarandei stares at the ranger half-incredulously. "We've enough magic light to fashion a passable constellation, Kastarr." She casts Light and holds the charge. "How 'bout I make you a star, give Ffortissimo over there a run for his money? If you get moving fast enough - say, shooting - we might even make a wish upon you."
Outside the entrance, looking in, you see a large room, and the cool mist billows out the door.
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Milarandei laughs nervously. "I am serious," she says, quietly. She pulls out one of her sling bullets and makes it glow. "I'm just not used to standing around. We do have an important task before us, which I'd sooner convert to a proud accomplishment behind us."
She walks to the threshold, close behind Tim, and rolls the bullet ahead of her to see what the light might reveal. "I thank you, though, Wizard," she says, "for indulging my impatience."
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"Indeed, oh fierce one. They rise; they fall; they rise again. Nowhere is the cycle more obvious than in my home nation."
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Tendrils of silver-gray mist flow out the front archway into the courtyard beyond.
The grand entranceway's vaulted ceiling is supported by six great pillars of hewn black stone. Braziers mounted on the pillars cast white radiance from balls of continual light. The light glimmers eerily in the silvery haze that fills the atrium, giving the impression of something alien watching from the glowing fog.
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"Imposing one, I at least would prefer not to leave doors at my back which could hide foes that might emerge to trap us against the end of the hallway."
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An unnatural cold permeates this chamber, piercing the flesh and gently caressing the bone in a cold embrace.