Several days' journey has brought you, at last, to the small town below the hill that your quarry is rumored to lie beneath. The last tip you got suggested that the Pathfinder Society would be very interested indeed in any information or valuables that you could uncover, and that they have a venture-captain in town who'd be willing to guide anyone interested to the entrance of the fabled tomb.
The small town of Dusk Hollow, however, seems singularly unlikely to yield adventure. The very color seems leached out of the buildings and people around you. People are sweeping the dust off their stoops, or sitting on their stoops puffing on pipes. Ragged-looking children trail you occasionally, eyeing your possessions and your bearing with some awe before disappearing behind houses. At the small inn, which bears the sign of the Jeweled Skull, an aged halfling with a tankard sits with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes on the porch. As you approach, he glances up, and grins.
"Well now, you don't look much like the usual travelers we get in these parts," he says with wheeze and a chuckle. "Good equipment, a spring in yer step...you wouldn't happen to be here for the job offered by the Pathfinder Society, would you?" He leers up at you. "I hear tell there's a couple comin' in tonight that might be joinin' you."
As a matter of fact I would be. I hear there's an abomination to Pharasma and to my kin in there. We Samsarians die and are reborn many times and undeath is abhorrent to us. My name is Elan Crew, devotee of Pharasma. This isn't my first time on this world and hopefully it won't be my last.
"Uh, yeah, I am. I was told there would be treasure, and I'm kind of in dire straights in the money department. Ever heard of Zarzalpan's Traveling Circus? I'm the guy with the axe he puts on the signs. Call me Azgar, if you would."
"Aye, sir, that is indeed why I'm here. The name's Ibid," the aged man says, withdrawing his dusty, leather hat and wiping the sweat from his brow. The muskets slung over his shoulder clink together slightly as he reapplies the leather hat, tipping the brim respectfully toward the halfling. "I think I've heard a few stories about this place, but none about anyone going in and coming back out. Seems to me, this is the perfect place for a man to make a name for himself."
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Quadravos φ walked into town not paying much attention to any people around him as he was reading the missive given to him back at the Grand Lodge in Absalom.
When the aged halfling speaks up, Quadravos φ is startled at first, but straightens himself quickly. "You are partly correct good sir. I am Quadravos φ, member of the Grand Lodge of Absalom. So I was sent here to ensure at least one member of the Society is present when the tomb gets explored. Do you by any chance know where I can find the local Venture-Captain?"
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Alaric gallops through the sleepy streets of Dusk Hollow atop his armoured destrier, the crowned lion of Taldor unfurling from the point of his lance. The thundering hooves wake a sleeping hound, and soon the sleepy afternoon quiet is all but gone. The knight tears off his helmet and sweeps from the saddle, striding purposefully toward the inn with his mount in hand. The smell of horse and sweat cling to his clothes, and reach them before the knight does. "Well... This is a, er, motley gathering." he says, eyes hovering over the jester as he hitches his horse, gives the steed an affectionate pat and begins unbuckling his barding before sparing the group another glance. "You the Pathfinders?"
"It would appear we are," the aged gunslinger replies, pulling his attention from the halfling and scanning the group gathered around the inn steps, finally turning to face the newly arrived knight. "Unless we four arrived in Dusk Hollow by happenstance... I wonder what the odds would be on that?"
The halfling chuckles as the group--motley indeed--seems to spring together out of thin air. "Well now, if'n yer lookin' for the Venture-Captain, that'd be me. Guln Foursteps, sure 'nuff. And five rarer lookin' specimens I've yet to clap eyes on! C'mon into the Jeweled Skull and sit yer bones awhile; if yer all of a mind, I'll take ya up the hill tomorra." The aged halfling clambers off his perch and leads you into the watering hole.
The inside of the tavern is dark and dingy, and very nearly empty. A couple of sad-looking drunks clutter the bar, and the thin, wiry bartender looks at your group with a wary eye. Guln waves him off, though, and leads you to a table in a corner.
"Soooooo...all come to brave the fabled 'Tomb o' Horrors,' eh?" the halfling says with a raspy chuckle, rubbing his gnarled hands together. "Tell ya what, this is more excitement than a provincial Venture-Captain can hope to see in his lifetime! Last group that attempted this was back when I was a wee lad. And no one ever heard from them again! Then there was a group way back in '88; 4588, that is! One of the first members of the Order of the Rack in that group, but the only one who made it out was the monkey. Whatever that Acererak set up, it ain't somethin' pleasant."
An undernourished, middle-aged server delivers a stack of tankards. Guln thanks her with a grin, and she smiles back, revealing teeth stained by excessive quantities of pipeweed. Guln takes a deep draught and sputters. "Good stuff! Sooo..." He steeples his fingers. "Anything I can tell you before you go to your nigh-certain deaths?" He smirks.
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Quadravos φ had sat himself down across from Guln Foursteps and listened to his retelling of the past. When Guln prompted his question, Quadravos φ was quick to reply.
"Venture-Captain Foursteps, I've read the records in the library of Absalom, but they mostly detailed who were the unfortunate souls that died inside the Tomb. I was wondering if you knew something more. Have there ever been attempts to find the former adventuring groups, through means of scrying or some similar form of magic?"
Seemingly only realizing at this very moment that there were other people at the table other than him and Guln Foursteps, Quadravos φ looked at the assembled group and addressed them.
"If we are to undertake this expedition together, I think it is of utmost importance that we know where each others strengths and weaknesses lie. Going in ill-prepared would surely spell our demise."
"Acererak? Is that who made the tomb? Huh. And I thought my name was stupid." Azgar fidgets awkwardly. "So, uh, who was this Acererak? Is he still alive?"
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Alaric ensures his horse is fed and watered, splashing himself with a pail of rainwater before following the others into the tavern. Still sopping-wet and reeking of the stables, Alaric sets his helmet down on the table and drapes himself over one of the chairs, calling for the innkeep. "Wine!"
"A Hellknight eh?" the knight smirks as he snatches up his goblet. "Trust a treacherous, land-snatching, devil-rutting Chelaxian to botch a job like that..." he looks around at the gathering and snorts into his wine, meeting Quadravos' eye. "Ha! Here I am forgetting myself. Sir Alaric, is my name, if you care for it. I rode six winters with the Taldan Horse before pledging myself to the Cassomir Pathfinders. I've broken tombs before. Some undead-riddled pit in Nirmathas country."
The half-elf quaffs back his wine, slamming the goblet down on the table half-emptied. He shrugs. "I'm like to be the best sword arm you're going to get, wizard. If we survive this there'll be glory enough for each of us. Now..." he says, trailing off and flashing the hobgoblin an incredulous look.
"Is nobody going to ask about the jester?"
Guln nods at your questions. "Well, let's see...first off, no, no one's been able to locate former groups by scrying or other magics. The entire hill seems to be under some kinda powerful abjuration that prevents magical examination. What kind, no one powerful enough has been interested to investigate.
"As to Acererak...the most we know is that he was a damned powerful wizard back in the Age of Destiny. Shory wizards are said to have done battle with him several times, to no avail. He was supposedly a powerful necromancer--some scholars have it that he may have been the tutor of the infamous Geb. But that's speculation.
"Now, the question that's probably been raised in yer minds by now is this: why would a necromancer need a tomb? Well, no one rightly knows. Mayhap Acererak wasn't such a good necromancer after all. But most people think that he achieved lichdom, or somethin' like it. So the purpose of the Tomb...remains a mystery."
He leans back and grins at Alaric. "Also, the jester's pretty handy with an ax." He winks.
Ibid leans back in his chair, propping his boots on the table, one on top of the other. With the chair leaning at a dangerously, awkward angle, the gunslinger removes his leather hat, revealing the greasy, shoulder-length hair it once covered. Looking across the table at the knight, Ibid thinks, The jester? I assume our knight friend is talking about the hobgoblin, but I thought most knew of Zarzalpan's Traveling Circus, and certainly the axe wielding hobgoblin, Azgar. Hell, he's on the signs! I thought Azgar was the only one of us with some fame under his belt. Ibid leans a little in his chair to get a better look at the hobgoblin. That is, if hobgoblins wear belts...
"So, I just want to make sure I've got this straight," says Ibid, working through his ponderings aloud. "Acererak was possibly the tutor of Geb. To which saying Acererak is a powerful Necromancer is a colossal understatement. No one who's ever gone into the tombs, has every come back out again. Something intentionally done to the hill actually prevents magical examination of what's inside. Not to leave out the tid-bit, our destination is actually referred to as the Tomb of Horrors. And last but not least, it stinks of a trap."
Scanning the gathering of Pathfinders before him, an excited, and yet, very disturbing smile spreads across his face, "This is going to be fun.
Elan looks serene as he sips his drink. Do you have any advice for us? Is anything known of the Tomb? I don't think I've ever visited in one of my past lives.
Examining each face in the group carefully, Elan finally say None of you seem familiar, are any of you good at finding traps?
"Wait. Geb's teacher? As in THE Geb? I think we might be doomed."Azgar sighs and shrugs. "Oh, well. It's not like I have anything better to do with my time than fight the spawn of a ridiculously powerful, possibly undead death-wizard.
Azgar turns to the cleric. "I'm fairly decent at finding traps, and not awful at messing with them. My dad taught me more than the art of clowmanship."
I knew there was a reason Azgar was famous, Ibid thinks to himself, relieved that someone in their party has a chance at disarming any traps they may encounter.
"Pardon me for not introducing myself earlier," Ibid begins, running his hand through the long, tangled mess of hair. "I'm a humble traveler, and devotee of Desna, the Great Dreamer. I have travelled the land for many, long years with my trusty and loyal friend," Ibid raises one of the muskets leaning against his chair and shows it to the group- the words 'gentle repose' carved into the wooden stock. "I was gifted with a dream recently, and now I see this destination... this tomb of horrors... as the end of my long journey."
With one hand, Ibid rubs a scar running the length from his left ear to his neck, the remains of a burn incurred long ago. "Hopefully, the end of this journey is us emerging unscathed from this so called 'Tomb or Horrors', and not finding ourselves drifting along the River of Souls to Pharasma's Boneyard for final judgment."
"Life is a course we all must travel, which must have a beginning, and, sadly, an end," Ibid added, with a wink, altering his gaze to look at the samsaran, "But we don't all have the good fortune of doing multiple laps."
I'm in no hurry to start a new lap quite yet and as long as I don't end up undead this won't be my last. I've no intention of letting any of you end your time here if I can help it.
Ibid nods warmly in deference toward to samsaran. Next lifting the musket once more, "I've always had trouble with invisible creatures, but once they show themselves, I'll do everything in my power to return the favor."
"And don't worry about turning undead," Ibid adds with a smile. "I promise to put you down if that happens."
Thank you for that. There is nothing worse than that to a Pharasman nor a Samsarian.
Azgar turns to Alaric. "I don't think I like the way you keep calling me 'the clown' and 'the jester', like it's a derogatory term. In this day and age, the need for entertainment is greater than ever, what with the lost omens and devil-worshipping empires and other nasty things. I may be talking out of my ass here, but I think my profession is pretty important in keeping spirits up. Just my two copper."
Crap. You just HAD to go on one of your tangents, didn't you, Azgar? he thought to himself. This is why nobody likes you.
Ibid shifts in his chair, still poised at precarious angle, and leans toward Quadravos. In a hushed voice, the gunslinger asks in a whisper, "You're probably good with numbers, who would you put odds on?"
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Alaric seems taken aback for a moment. Not knowing whether to chuckle or frown, he sets his jaw and looks thoughtful. "You're certainly unlike any other I've met in my travels. You'll have to forgive me, but I am more accustomed to seeing fools at court, not on the battlefield or monsters dens. You must admit, fighting in motley can't be practical, that ridiculous hat most of..." Alaric seems to dismiss the argument as a ridiculous and realize he is causing offence all in the one breath. His expression softens and he begins to pour another round.
"It was Azgar, yes? I shall remember it. Perhaps you can share with me the tale of how a hobgoblin joined the circus and I'll tell you the one about the Baroness and her manservant, eh?"
Azgar looks embarrassed and tries not to make eye contact. "Um, sorry. I get a little worked up sometimes, and I start to ramble."
"There isn't much to tell. I didn't really 'join' the circus. My dad helped wipe out a hobgoblin tribe during his adventuring days. For whatever reason, he decided not to cut my infant throat, and took me with him. Then he started a circus, and here I am in a colorful outfit and face paint. It beats kicking puppies, or whatever it is hobgoblins are supposed to do."
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"No harm done, no harm done." he says, smirking into his cup at the puppies remark. He takes another swig and launches into his joke, face already quite flushed from the wine. "So, the Baroness returns from the evening gala, yes? She turns to her halfling manservant, and with a deep sultry voice she says: Percival, take off my shawl."
"Shuddering, she says: Percival, take off my gown."
"She turns on him and purrs: Percival... take off my smallclothes."
Pausing to ensure he has his audiences rapt attention he breaks into a grin. "Percy, if I ever catch you wearing my things again, you're fired."
Ibid leans in close for the joke, not expecting a great punchline. When the joke is delivered, Ibid tilts back his head and laughs uncontrollably. Halfway through the motion, Ibid realizes his shift in weight has lifted his feet from the tabletop.
In a desperate attempt, Ibid quickly tries to steady himself.
It takes a second or two for Azgar to get the joke. When he catches up, he chuckles a bit and orders a glass of water.
"What, did ya not hear the part about how no one's come out?" Guln asks Elan. "I got nothin' for ya. Other than, ya know. Be careful." He raises the mug and grins in a wicked toast.
The rest of the night passes well and easily, in jokes, drinks, and the general this-might-be-our-last-night-on-earth atmosphere. You fall into bed tired but pleased (and, most of you, pleasantly buzzed), and sleep soundly until a knock at your door wakes you up early the next morning.
Guln, looking somewhat hungover himself, leads you all out of town, amid a crowd of staring locals. "Yep, 'at's right! It's the first tomb quest in more than half a century! Gaze on 'em and send yer prayers up to the gods!" He chuckles at his own "wit."
Hiking up the south side of the hill, he takes you up to a flat plateau at the top that sits sixty feet above the surrounding dusty plains. It's a massive, wide-open space, and the old halfling is panting by the time he gets you all up. "Well, then!" he says. "Here we be!"
There is nothing apparent on the top of the hill.
Off your looks, he says, "What? Told ya, last time someone tried this I were a wee lad! You'll have to do some searchin'. But this is the place. Case you didn't guess..." he waves to the north side of the hill, where you see several immense black boulders which, you now realize, are positioned so that the form the rough illustration of a skull.
"Now," he continues. "I got nothin' more for ya, I'm afraid--but I'll come back to the top o' the hill, here, in 48 hours. If'n yer at all still alive, meet me up here then." He grins. "Die well--or, better yet, live an' bring some shinies back for the Society." Giving you a laconic salute, he heads out.
He heads off to descend the hill, leaving you to ponder your situation. The ugly, weed-covered hill sprawls in front of you. The south side of the hill is grassy and, as you saw, decorated with several large boulders positioned to form the shape of a skull. The north side of the hill has crumbled, forming a cliff of loose gravel and sand against a stone ledge. There are no signs of life around this wasted hummock and an aura of creeping doom hangs about it. You can feel it in your gut: this is definitely the place.
I'm going to search the center of the north side using my longspear as a prod to check the ground. I'm going to do a search and then if I don't find anything I'll do a more thorough search with a take 20 on my perception if it's allowed.
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Alaric will ride triumphantly out of town, his armour freshly polished and his bright banner unfurling in the chilly upland breeze. He'll have a stableboy meet him outside of the town to carry his horse and banner back. "When you want to be a hero of renown, these kind of things need to be done properly." he explains.
Alaric will spot the skulls, and somewhat over-eager, start to move aside the boulders on the south side.
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In the eve before there departure, Quadravos φ renewed the protective spell he casts on himself routinely.
During their trek up the hill, Quadravos φ renewed his arcane protection.
Once they arrived at the hilltop and Guln explained the situation, Quadravos φ bid him farewell and followed Elan Crew to the North side of the hilltop, making certain he's close to the person who will keep them upright throughout this exploration. Once he arrived there, he produced one of his folding poles and started unfolding it, while milling over in his head where he would put the entrance if he were to have such a hilltop to make a tomb in.
I'll take a stick off the ground and join Elan in prodding the ground on the north side.
Ibid survey's the ugly, weed-covered hill and then moves to the north. The gunslinger moves in an arc around the crumbled cliff face, at first, keeping a twenty foot radius from the pile of loose gravel and stone, surveying the rubble as he moves.
Every few feet along his arcing path, Ibid stops and prods the ground in a circle around himself, with the butt of his spare musket. The gunslinger is probing for anything just below the surface of the soil.
Why does it feel like we're being watched, Ibid thinks to himself, scanning the hill and horizon for signs of life. Next, he turns his gaze to the sky. A chill spreads over his body as a thought occurs to him. Maybe it's the gods on high, looking down and judging, but it feels like 'somewhere' out there, beings are waiting with perverse expectancy to see what happens to us inside this Tomb of Horrors...
As Ibid explores the Northern area, scanning the loose gravel and stone, he meanders to the west. The gunslinger maintains a distance of about 20 feet from the rubble, watching for anything out of the ordinary.
Several minutes pass as you all range out across the hill and begin poking, prodding, looking, and shifting boulders. For a moment this seems ridiculous...
As you're prodding, you wander slightly away from Elan, and your stick suddenly sinks into the loose soil, causing a small avalanche of scree. When you pull the stick out, a small dark hole is revealed beyond.
"Guys? I think I found something." Azgar starts digging with his bare hands like a fool.
By the time anyone else has gotten over to Azgar's position, he's opened a space big enough to crawl through. If anyone sticks a light source of any kind inside, you can see a corridor revealed beneath the dirt made from plain flagstones, roughly hewn and fitted together. The ceiling is about 20 feet above your head and thickly strewn with cobwebs. The passage is about 30 feet long and at the far end is a pair of large, wooden double doors with great iron pull-rings.
Guys! I found an opening here!
I cast light on a rock and throw it in to see what I can see from out here.
"Hold on. Let me check for traps before we bulnder in."
Ibid hears Azgar's exclamation about finding 'something', and immediately turns to move to the hobgoblin's position. On his way, Ibid hears Azgar's warning that the area must be checked for traps.
"I don't know if I can be of any assistance to you, Azgar, but I can try to help spot something at the very least," Ibid says, peeking from behind Azgar's shoulders into the flagstone corridor.
Still peering from behind Azgar's shouders, Not unlike a coward, Ibid thinks to himself with an audible chuckle, and then casts Detect Magic into the corridor.
[b]This corridor is really long and well decorated. Looks like we found two possible entrances.[b]
Staying out side I look for any traps and then cast Detect Magic to look for any magical sources other than my stone with light on it.
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"Two?" Alaric will take a tentative step up to Elan's side. "This seems to be the main entrance, more than like. Of course, that means it's more likely to be trapped, as well, I'll garner."
Alaric plants his lance in the rocky ground atop the hill, the Crown and Lion of Taldor billowing in the breeze. Picking up his spare lance, he begins to tap the red tiles with the butt of the long spear from the safety of the threshold.
Elan looks at Quadravos and says very seriously, Or both. With this place's reputation it might be a good idea to see if we can locate more entrances
"Do we want to spread out and search the area once more, to see if more entrances turn up?" asks Ibid, standing up straight and scanning the hillside once more. "Because in this hallway, try as I might, I cannot see anything out of the ordinary or magical."
We've turned up two. I say let's see if there are more here.
Elan turns away from his and Azgar's finds and looks for another entrance.