Chapter Six - Negotiating with Monsters

[Trogdor]

GM

You're one step ahead of me. You saw the bag being brought to the north, and through conversation with your captors learned that your belongings are being kept in the priests' hut to the north, just where Irgzid says the other valuables of the priests are kept. Convenient, that.

Feeling better than he has in days, the newcomer heads off north toward the remote hut claimed by the priests of Laogroat for their own. As he gets close to the hut, he gets his first really good look at the troglodyte's altar and the statue to their god, Laogzed. An immense statue of a rearing lizard-like beast crouches against the wall here. A second visage, that of a crudely carved fanged toad, juts from its exposed stomach, its maw partially open before a bloodstained altar stone. This is where the troglodytes sacrifice small animals to their greedy god.

Just beyond the altar is a a small hut, marginally nicer than the others, but still squalid, that no doubt contains the gathered riches of the entire cavern.

Roll

Rolls vs Knowledge: Religion (DC 25): all fail.
Your group has a pitiful knowledge of religion. Only one character has any skill in it, and that's only a single rank. Sad.

[JohnnyWeird]

"Just as I'd suspected! The priests had been hoarding the spoils.of their congregation here." From the tone of his voice this turn of events matches known behaviors among the clergy.

Ducking inside, he returns rapidly with a rucksack stained by seawater.

"When the ship I was on sank, I managed to assemble all that I had in this. Poor comfort, once I was captured, but a relief to have it again."

Ducking his hand inside, he produces a small piece of paper. This he hands to Daerith with a whip-crack bow before he shoulders the rucksack.

"My card, Captain. I am at your service."

Display

Maclaren
Discrete Matters Handled Correspondence to
3 Lantern Way, Champion's, Sasserine

[Vardaen]

Daerith approves of Grask's help to Maclaren and the others, "We must see what we can do for our Olman friend here as well. He gives over the water skin for the prisoners to use and share, no doubt they are thirsty and hungry as well.

He then moves north with the new arrival to stand before the alter and looks up at it gazing at the bizzare imagry. "Laogroat?" All his university training was secular, and he didn't get much more than a basic geo-political study of which gods were worshiped in which regions focused on Sasserine. So while he can speak Draconic, and summon the power of the the arcane, he has no idea the tenets of the Trogoldyte deity, he can only assume they are foul and slimy based on what he's seen. "Alright, let's check this hut for more than just..." a business card is slapped down into his hand.

He turns it over curiously, "Maclaren? That's your full name? Sooo you do...." it takes a moment but Daerith decides to just not call the new man a rogue, a thief, and assassin, or whatever he might be. He could be a private detective that helps battered women leave their husbands, its unclear, so he errs on the side of Diplomacy. "Well Maclaren, welcome aboard. You owe us, and honestly you have few choices. We could use a man with a certain set of skills anyhow, so you stick with us and we can get you back to Far Shore. If you like we can talk crew status after that." He glances back at the hut, "Now then let's see if these wayward priests had anything to help our Olmani friend." He plugs his nose and heads into the hut looking for loot.

[Trogdor]

The hut is cleaner than outside, if only just. The smell is ... different. Not much better, not much worse. The inside of the mud and stone hut is festooned with chains of herbs, dried animal parts, and nasty-looking fungi. Between these decorations, images of fanged, two-headed reptiles have been painted on the stone in blood. South of the hut, several bloated reptilian bodies float within three stinking pools of briny fluid.

The hut has a number of sleeping pallets, none of which would convince Daerith not to sleep on cold, hard stone. Several of the pallets are occupied by troglodytes immobilized under the weight of vile rigidity. No doubt they would have risen to try and kill the infidels if the disease hadn't prevented them. Daerith isn't even sure if any of these troglodytes are conscious at the moment.

A quick search of the hu reveals a shed troglodyte skin partially filled with shiny rocks, hunks of glass, bits of metal, and chips of gold and silver. Against one wall of the chamber are dozens of vials of a strange bluish liquid that Abigail identifies as sannish, a drug popular in some places for the euphoria it induces in its users. It's also used by healers to numb the pain in their patients, and would work wonders for the anyone suffering from vile rigidity. Abigail also notes that sannish is a primary ingredient in the crafting of the black pulp poultices that hold the worst of vile rigidity at bay.

Outside the warren, Abigail notes that the three pools contain nearly complete brews of black pulp poultice. She imagines that someone could draw a large number of doses of black pulp poultice from the pools, given an hour of nauseating toil.

GM

There are 450 gp of treasure, 110 doses of sannish (at 15 gp/dose), and potentially 18 doses of black pulp poultice, though it would be a chore to harvest it. (Not dangerous, just really foul.) MArket price of black pulp poultice is 50 gp/dose.

The sannish is valuable, but transporting 110 doses would be difficult. It wouldn't be impossible to haul it back to the ship, but taking it farther into the caverns would be unwieldy.

[JohnnyWeird]

"My skills are certainly at your disposal, Captain."

As Abigail mentions that the harvested pools could be useful, Maclaren speaks up.

"I am no stranger to unpleasant duties, miss. This work would be no challenge, if the Captain sees fit."

[Eanwulf]

Upon breaking himself free of the troglodyte’s spell, Mamoon sighs heartily and smiles briefly as he witnesses the party’s victory. Ironically however, he quickly becomes rather quiet and reserved shortly thereafter; almost as if something was bothering the man. Though he aids the group as best he can and even listens quite carefully to what all is said, especially when dealing with the nefarious-looking troglodyte priest and surprisingly animated new addition to the group, Mamoon’s mood still remains somewhat sullen.

In time, as the Olman Maclaren begins to rifle through the troglodyte’s hovel, the stocky warrior resumes his normal behavior. Wrinkling his nose at the smell contained within, he comments. “What do we know of these black poultice bandages? Are they safe? Can they be beneficial to us or others aboard the ship? I’d hate to see something valuable go to waste, especially if it could save a man’s life.”

OOC

No need to elaborate further, just a colorful post to let you know that I’m still here

Things have been rough recently with some personal family affairs. Trying to assume normalcy, or some cheap facsimile thereof…

[AdamDaBomb11]

"If we want to harvest these black pulp poultices, we should act quickly. This life bubble should protect us from any harmful odors that may be present." Grask adds, volunteering to aid with the harvest.

[Vardaen]

Daerith looks at the Trog priest, then at the crew. " We will take half of it, as payment, but we will not leave the tribe without hope of recovery." He nods to Grask, MacLaren and Mamoon to set to work. Abigail, help me with the Olmani in the cage still." He moves over to the cage, and tries to rouse the second human prisoner there, "Hello, can you speak?"

OOC

If we need to use the scroll, use it, save the Olmani in the cage still

[Eanwulf]

Looking somewhat perplexed, it suddenly dawns upon Mamoon that he has been instructed to make bandages with Grask and Maclaren. Shrugging briefly to the others, he comments embarrassedly. “I know not what to do when it comes to making such items; though will lend whatever aid I can.” He then hopes that someone more skilled in poultices or ointments will chime in soon with a positive response; all the while, a gap-toothed and friendly smile upon his face.

[JohnnyWeird]

"I'm no apothecary myself, sir, but for now our task seems mostly to harvest this black pulp, a task well within our wheelhouse."

His clothes already the worse for his confinement, Maclaren rolls up his sleeves. A glance around finds a bucket, and he begins to set about the noxious task with a look of complete equanimity, as if he were darning a sock or polishing silver.