conversations: human
conversations:  An Evening Visitor 
   Twenty-four years ago... 
   
  
  A young man fiddles with the lock on his front door. He is tall, muscular, but tired after a day's work on the fields about a hundred feet behind him. His simple trousers and shirt were caked in mud and the grime of animals. As he opened the door, the setting sun cast his long shadow against the back wall of the house's interior. With a sigh he peeled off his gloves, then paused. There was an extra pair of shoes in the hall: the faded boots still on his feet, his wife's black riding shoes, his daughter's spotless fur boots. And elegantly sewn, dark blue leather shoes. Expensive. Opulent, even. An outsider's shoes.
  
  The man stepped quietly into the darkened house, pausing only to pull a long notched sword from the hall closet. Now that he was alert, signs were everywhere that something was wrong: there was no sound in the house where there should have been. The stove was burning with nothing on it. King wasn't barking for once.
  
  Candlelight in the sitting room drew him further into the house and revealed a horrifying scene. The two women of the house were standing perfectly still with looks of horror frozen on their faces. In the light, the man could see their skin had been turned to flawless white marble. In between them, King lay in a pool of blood on the floor. And at the end of the room, his face concealed by a shadow so perfectly that it had to be planned, stood the visitor.
  
  "Mister Elamy Rowanhall, I presume?" The visitor spoke lazily, rolling the  r  in Rowanhall as if tasting it.
  "W-what have you done to them?" The man's voice was panicked with a hint of defiance, knowing the simple sword in his hands would be useless, but that he would try anyway.
  But the visitor waved his worries away with a hand. "Oh, nothing I can't undo. I do so  hate  the wailing of women, don't you?"
  "And the dog?"
  "Well, now that was really your fault. Calling him ' King '? Bah, as if I'd share a title with a beast."
  The man paused. "What do you want with us?"
  "Just to talk, really. We have much to discuss about your child."
  The man's eyes flickered to the smaller statue.
  "She's  four ," he said, incredulously, "what could you possibly want with her?"
  "Oh, no, not her. Your son."
  He relaxed slightly, shaking his head and lowering his sword.
  "You have the wrong family. We don't have a son."
  "Not yet you don't. But you will." The visitor looked around the room letting his words sink in, then sat down bringing his face into the light. Elamy couldn't help but gasp at what he saw.
  "Sit down Mister Rowanhall. Like I said: we have much to discuss."
  
  ***
   Visions and Reflections 
  
  In order to manipulate the tides of Fate, one must first understand it. At least as much as possible. This is one of the most basic teachings of the Order of the Silver Thread, and one Orn understands better than most. Many in the Silver Thread reflect on this as they brace against the howling gale.
  
  For the seventeenth year in a row, the Silver Thread is holding the Ritual of Attunement. During these uninterrupted seven hours, members of the Silver Thread gather on a cliff edge atop the Dreitor Mountain and sit in perfect stillness in the wild wind and occasional storms on the mountaintop. The purpose of the ritual is to reaffirm a member's devotion to uncovering truth and unswerving faith, though older members of the order claim it's true purpose more mystical: that prophecy is imbued in the wind like the pulse of Oerth, and that by listening carefully one may see what is to come.
  
   Mae 
  
  Though part of you respects this ritual for what it is, it's meager success rate leaves you less than ecstatic about devoting seven hours to sitting still in the cold. As you watch the ritual participants do... nothing, you stare down at the letter you received just a few hours ago. Even still you could practically recite it by heart now, which might come in handy: the falling snow is beginning to smudge some of the ink.
  
   
   Spoiler: Letter from home 
   My Dearest Mae,
  
  I realize the odds of this letter finding its way to you are impossibly small, but I figure some day one of these will reach you. You should know that your mother and I are alive. When those goblins came so many years ago we left in time, but our travels since have been circuitous. I'm not sure how much is safe to say.
  
  We need your help Mae. We were accosted and taken somewhere by a dangerous crowd, and been kept in the dark both literally and figuratively. The best lead I can give you is an elf named Fauvin Hes'Ausa: one of our captors. He seems paranoid and likely will be difficult to track down, but he is a name I've overheard here so he must be connected. I wish I knew more. Please find us Mae, and stay safe.
  
  Wherever you go our love goes with you. 
   
  
  
  A curious letter to say the least. But frustratingly, the ritual members are no help in their current quietness.
  
   Orn 
  
  The Ritual of Attunement has always provided you with a great amount of clarity, if not always answers. As you settle into the fifth hour of the ritual, the wind seems like an eerie tune.
  
  "Orn?" You hear Mae's voice behind you. Rather infuriating, as she knows the ritual is meant to be carried out in silence. And if she wanted to contact you, why not do so in your mind? Opening an eye, you see the owner of the voice standing beside you. Surprisingly, not Mae, although the two sound indistinguishable. This voice belongs to a tall, dark skinned human garbed in dark green travelling attire. Curiously, you're certain you have never seen her before. Perhaps more curiously, as she approaches she leaves no footprints in the perfectly undisturbed snow.
  
  ***
  
   Light and Dark 
   Nagi and J'hankkear 
  
  It's a rare pleasure when the two of you seem to agree wholeheartedly on something. Or in this case the some one  who needed to die. J'hankkear closes his jaws a bit and snaps the neck of the babau in his mouth, silencing the demonic screams.
  
  The mark's name, or at least what the two of you have been calling her, is Bloodletter. Not exactly subtle.
  
  A few dozen demon corpses lie strewn across the road: serves the foul creatures right for coming to this plane, right?
  
  Bloodletter is a Marilith, according to Nagi's contact: some elf that went only by the name of Mel. He's sort of a mystery, but his money spent well: 5,000 upfront, 10,000 on completion. Besides, everyone wants to see a demon wiped off of this plane.
  
  Nagi drags the last straggler babau back to J'hankkear. These guys didn't seem to know a lot, but they sure loved to talk. It's what got you this far, and maybe this guy can get you a bit closer to Bloodletter.
  
  In the bright noonday sun, a pair of travelers walks happily down the road, takes an agape look at the carnage, and quickly begins backing away.
  
  ***
  
   Ericka and Kohramastryz 
  
  ***
  
   Wydwen, Joetta, and Kalafina 
conversations: Business Scrub:
conversations: human
conversations:  Nagi gives a sidelong glance to the travelers hurrying away, and shakes his head.
  " Tch, you'd think they'd be a little more open-minded. Were it a troll or an ogre lying dead on this road, they'd be asking our autographs. Probably just don't know what these things are, " he mutters, kicking a slime-covered arm.
  " Then again, it's not like I did either. Poor planning, trying to stab  me  in the back. You alright, Hank? It didn't look like their claws could pierce your scales. Worth heading back to the city for a priest, or can you just sleep it off tomorrow? "
  
  Nagi tosses the Babau to the ground, and from nowhere at all draws his cursed sword. Can't get rid of the thing, which means it's always on hand when he wants it. He sinks it halfway to the hilt through the Babau's arm and into the ground, pinning the creature in place and taking care  not  to attack any vulnerable spot.
  " Do these things heal quickly the way Imps do? We killed them too fast to find out. Hope so, don't want this to be over too quickly. Now then, " he turns his full attention toward the downed Babau. " You don't seem to be in a listening mood, nor do you think with logic and reason, but let me make one thing  transparently  clear. I know you cretins can warp around whenever you please without so much as a word and a wave. I have no means at this moment to stop you. What I  do  have is a sword that is now sheathed in your abominable mucus. And that will prove an excellent focus for my Scrying spells. That means that if you do choose to leave, I  will  find you immediately, and I  will  make you wish you had not left. Do I make myself understood? We're willing to let you go and continue with whatever plans you have if you cooperate and henceforth stay out of our way. Your business on the Material Plane is no concern of ours, but the Marilith's is. What do you know of her whereabouts? And... "
   
   Spoiler: Spot Check 
  
   (1d20+11)[ 14 ] , to see if the Babau has any equipment that looks like it probably doesn't belong to it but was instead given to it by a superior, hopefully the Marilith. Any equipment at all would be a tip, but especially any which is less corroded than anything else.
   
  
  " was your company at all outfitted by the Marilith? "
   
   Spoiler: Bluff and Sense Motive 
  
  Bluff Check: Take 10 for  41  on the Bluff check that we're not going to kill him, because we absolutely are.
  Sense Motive:  (1d20+18)[ 34 ]  to judge the truth of the Babau's words.
   
conversations: Nettlekid:
conversations: human
conversations:  Mae    
  
  Glancing at the paper one last time, she folded it up carefully and tucked it away inside her heavy jacket.    Why now...    Thoughts raced through her mind since there was little else to distract her during this teadious ritual.    After all this time, suddenly a letter.  They shouldn't have been able to find me here, especially if they are being held against their will...  Smells like a trap.  
  
  The deductive parts of her mind tore apart the possibility of this letter being the geniune thing, but still, she couldn't help but hope that she was wrong for a change.  She looked between the monks and dragon to see if anything had changed.  It hadn't.  She sighed silently and resigned herself to at least another hour of this exercise in ineffeciency.
conversations: Deadguy:
conversations: human
conversations:  The crest adorning the top of Orn's head twitches slightly in annoyance, flattening down as the spines push backwards, and without moving her head, she eyes the intruder warily. She remains silent for almost twenty seconds, her gaze fixated. She had been on the verge of sniffing out something new, she was sure, a possible turn to let her claws into the tapestry. But a visitor, an odd visitor at an auspicious time... the Silver Dragon of Fate cannot let that slide.
  
   
   Spoiler: Sense Motive 
  Sense motive to get a hunch on if this person is tense or relaxed
  [roll0]
   
  
  
  After a time, she speaks.   "Yes. I am Orn, Grandmaster here."   she pauses for a moment, her speech methodical, calm.   "There are few people who can find this place without guidance. Only one in over one hundred years save myself, in fact. Which offers three possibilities, stranger. One, you were guided here by one of the Monastery. Two, you are exceptionally gifted to the point of absurdity. Third, you are not really here."    The dragon shifts now, and with one wing reaches out towards the figure, to gently touch and see if her limb meets resistance.
conversations: Genth:
conversations: human
conversations:  Hank 
  
  J'hankkear snorts as he prods his snout tentatively into one of the dead demons, then recoils back, shaking off the small amount of corrosive jelly that transferred from its skin.  "  Babau.  Lickspittle dogs of the Marilith.  Vile tricksters who prance and caper toward their foes under cover of darkness, hoping to catch them all unawares, with claws like daggers in their sacred places.  Thought you could make a meal of ME, did you?!  What puny protection could those pathetic patches of pitch possibly provide against the DAWNHAMMER?  Woe be unto all those cowardly wretches who hide themselves in the shadows!  You shall be as chaff before the... uhh... the thresh...  "  Hank trails off as he notices Nagi standing there with his arms folded, ebon cape swirling around him, one eyebrow raised confrontationally.  He snorts again.  "  Didn't mean you, of course.  The demons, they... I'll stop now.  "
  
  Nagi turns his attention back to the surviving babau.  Hank, with an annoyed huff, stomps a powerful back claw onto the other babau's head and twists it off, kicking it into the distance.  "  They did not harm me... much.  Nothing I should need special treatment for.  And they don't much heal up, so... try not to break that one.  "
conversations: Gabrosin: