Hollow's Last Hope [IC]

[YeOldeAlbatross]

​

The small village of Falcon's Hollow is a wild place. Nestled in the shadow of Droskar's Crag, the people of Falcon's Hollow are hearty and stern. Theirs is a life of hardships, broken only occasionally by a handful of festivals and the infrequent merchant caravan.

They face constant adversity from both the wilderness and the wiles of man. Wolves nip at their heels and cutpurses ply at their pockets. It is a testament to their strength that they even manage to survive at all.

-Pathfinder Chronicles

KEY

A: Lumber Consortium Camp
B: Hobgoblin Hunter Ambush Site
C: The Forest Elder
D: Ulizmila's Hut

A rough community wholly owned by the local Lumber Consortium, Falcon's Hollow rests on the edge of Darkmmon Vale, a blunt, sawdust-choked stop on a winding trade route. Home to fewer than 1500 humans and a smattering of other races, most of the townsfolk care only for the paltry coins paid for their backbreaking work and what simple comforts they can buy. A few, however, understand that what's bad for one is bad for all, and so the community thrives on a tenacious mix of greed, debauchery, and stubborn self-reliance.

Authority Figures:

Gavel Thuldrin Kreed: Male Human, Gavel of the Lumber Consortium
Magistrate Vamros Harg: Male Halfling, Magistrate-Elect of Falcon's Hollow
Deldrin Baleson: Male Half-elf, Sheriff of Darkmoon Vale
Boss Payden "Pay Day" Teedum: Male Human, Overboss of the Lumber Consortium
Lady Cirthana: Female Human, High Priestess of Iomedae

Places of Note:

Church of Iomedae: With all the downtrodden to preach to in Falcon's Hollow, missionaries of Iomedae, Goddess of Valor and Justice, have established a foothold in town. Many other religious sects who fled to the Hollow to escape the Church of Light's persecution resent Iomedae's followers, and tensions run high between congregations, often resulting in less-than-holy brawls on the muddy thoroughfares of Worship Way.

Goose'n'Gander: The local general store in Falcon's Hollow is run by the only gnome resident, named Brickasnurd Hildrinsocks, who sells everything from standard amenities such as grain, lamp oil, ink, and mining supplies to such rare oddities as alchemist's fire, antitoxin, a fat petrified pseudo-dragon, and stuffed nixies (all the rage this season).

Hollow Tribunal: This is where the diminutive halfling Magistrate Vamros Harg dispenses merchant licenses, stamps mining and lumber claims, and passes judgment on criminal and civil cases. Most Falconers enjoy the irony of the Hollow Tribunal's name, since the justice meted out there is rarely equitable. The fact that Harg is firmly in Gavel Thuldrin's pocket is well known, but rarely uttered in public by those who value their lives.

The Sitting Duck: Located a little too close to the town palisade for many folks' comfort, the Duck is the local hotspot for adventurers, explorers, and other rapscallions looking for adventure. The tavern serves a potent local brew of fermented darkwood leaf that can floor an ogre in a few tankards. Raucous games of "knivesies" and "mig-a-mug-tug," two dangerous local recreational activities, both with a high rate of maiming injury, often rage late into the night. Many adventurers share tales of Darkmoon Vale and information on Droskar's Crag, and other surrounding locations can be gleaned here for the price of a mug of ale.

Jak’a’Napes: This leaning ramshackle inn located next to the town’s stables offers lodgings and food to the many travelers who pass through Falcon’s Hollow. The owner, a rotund red-faced human named Jak Crimmy, with a single wisp of bright red hair on his otherwise bald head, is a retired bard who sports an easy smile. Jak’s cinnamon-crusted flapjacks are legendary in town, as is his skill at juggling frying pans and his astonishing marksmanship with a heavy crossbow (Jak is a man of many talents).

 

[YeOldeAlbatross]

The Sitting Duck

Perched at the edge of civilized lands, the small town of Falcon's Hollow has always had to rely on itself to solve its problems. Meanwhile, the uncaring lumber barons squeeze the common folk for every last copper, deaf to their pleas. Now the hacking coughs of the sick are heard throughout town. The plague has come to Falcon's Hollow and the town's leaders can't be bothered to stop it.

The Sitting Duck is full this day with the usual crowd of misanthropes and malcontents enjoying a semi-palatable lunch, and more than a few mugs of darkwood ale have been raised. Tongues are freely wagging, as they always do in this establishment, but the talk has a more serious edge today than is usual.

"This plague, I tell ya, it's going to wipe out the whole town if somebody doesn't do something about it!"

"Somebody told me old Percy Tragar died of coughing last night! He won't be the last, mark my words!"

"Blackscour Taint, they're calling it?! What in the hells is Blackscour Taint?"

"The constables have stopped the use of Brookman's Well. That's where it all started, I heard. But even if that puts a stop to anybody coming down new with the plague, what about those that's already got it?"

"What about the churches? Can't the praying folk call upon some kind of divine intervention to save us?"

"I think the only one who even cares is Lady Cirthana, but she ain't been able to heal any sick with this plague. The others are all more interested in fighting each other. Faith...pah! Keep it! I don't trust any of the clerics!"

"You ask me, Laurel the herbalist the only one who might be able to do something here. If I came down sick with it, I'd be straight off to Roots and Remedies, just like everybody else in town. Have you seen the line outside the place?"

This busy lunch rush finds Jared Morningstar, Hakkara, Jebbo Barrelbuster, Cyryn, and Loricallior present and listening to the buzz in the common room. It seems likely that this vicious plague will only continue to escalate in a mounting crisis unless someone intervenes.

Your responses to the situation?

OOC: Let's get it started! I'd like it if each of you could offer a bit of information in your first post as to why your character is in Falcon's Hollow, what he/she has been doing there, and then respond to the talk in the Sitting Duck about the plague. You could role-play as knowing or recognizing one or more of the other PCs if you wish. Let's make it a great game!

 

[Insight]

Hakkara sat alone, but not without drawing the attention of the simple folk of Falcon's Hollow. The Sitting Duck was one place the barbarian warrior could go without making too much of a spectacle of herself. Her weapon sheathed (for now), Hakkara had walked first to the bar and ordered a pint of the local ale, something called Falcon's Standard. The ale was stronger than what the people of the Wolf Totem drank back home, but Hakkara long ago stopped making comparisons between her new home and her old one.

Finding herself still in this small town called Falcon's Hollow, Hakkara had traveled here as part of a traveling merchant's caravan. Following a disagreement with the caravan's managment, Hakkara parted ways with said caravan, but in turn found herself short of gold and in an unfamiliar place.

Sitting at an empty table, Hakkara began to take in the day's activities within the Sitting Duck. It was late morning, and the tavern wasn't quite as full as it would likely be a few hours later. Talk was of some plague or another, talk Hakkara had heard many times before. One plague or another, it was nothing new to the barbarian warrior.

Still, Hakkara was an outsider among these people, a fact that was made quite evident whenever she made an entrance. A few times, Hakkara had to dispatch those with too eager hands or insensitive words, but in all, Hakkara was fairly comfortable now, as comfortable as she chose to get in such a place.

Was it possible that someone might want this plague situation investigated? While Hakkara was no healer, in fact quite the opposite, she might be able to lend her sword-arm to such an effort. Hakkara listed with some interest to the discussion around her, especially in regards to possible solutions or courses of action offered.

 

[Azgulor]

Cyryn leaned against the bar of the Sitting Duck, nursing his ale. He found it always paid to be sober amongst a group deep in their cups. Sighing in boredom, he realized he'd drunk more than he thought. The local ale wasn't bad, almost as good as the ale from home...

Dismissing that thought, he scanned the tavern. The logging town seemed to have rougher residents than most of the farming communities he passed through. Everyone was still talking about the "plague" continued to dominate the various conversations, and Cyryn cursed himself for a fool.

He wondered if he could still catch up to the caravan he'd arrived with two days before, then dismissed the idea. The caravan had conducted its business as quickly as possible and had departed before first light, eager to put the rumors of plague behind them. Plague or no, Cyryn suspected that there were villages and towns along the route back that might have a citizen or two that might be looking for some missing belongings. Upon arriving Cyryn had proceeded to seduce the attractive serving wench who now winked at him with a knowing smile. As she had led him off into the night, Cyryn had shouted to the caravan master (and the rest of the tavern) that he was leaving the caravan.

After indulding in the pleasant memory for a moment, Cyryn cursed himself again before returning his attention to the tavern's patrons. If he hadn't been in such a hurry to slake his lust, he might have heard about the plague before he'd quit the caravan.

There were other newcomers, he saw, taking special note of the athletic beauty with the red hair, fierce disposition, and serviceable sword. A worthy challenge, to be sure, but one better saved for less worrisome times.

Turning to the bartender, Cyryn motioned for a refill.

"Tell me, friend, how long has this 'plague' been around? What does it do to a person?"

 

[Voadam]

Loricallior leans over to say to Hakkara, "Sicknesses are often caused by malevolent spirits. The shamans of the Incarra jungle troll tribe often used plague wraiths to weaken villages before their warriors would raid. Have you heard of any trolls in the region?"

 

[Insight]

Loricallior leans over to say to Hakkara, "Sicknesses are often caused by malevolent spirits. The shamans of the Incarra jungle troll tribe often used plague wraiths to weaken villages before their warriors would raid. Have you heard of any trolls in the region?"

The barbarian warrior-maiden reacted sharply to Loricallior's question. "What do you know of trolls? I have seen none around these parts. And if I had seen a troll..." she said, pausing to take in the dearth of able-bodied warriors in the tavern, "We'd all be dead by now."

Standing, Hakkara took her leave of Loricallior. "I need another ale." Before taking two steps towards the bar, Hakkara noticed a man watching her. The man, who she'd seen in the Sitting Duck before, quickly diverted his attention away as soon as he saw that Hakkara had noticed his gaze.

Hakkara, like a panther stalking its prey, sauntered next to Cyryn at the bar and ordered another ale. Turning her head quarter-way, Hakkara scanned Cyryn peripherally. "Have I seen you around this place before?" she asked. Of course she had. In fact, Hakkara had noticed Cyryn eyeing her long before Cyryn knew she knew he was eyeing her. "I think you are a warrior," she continued. "A warrior who is bored of waiting."

Turning away from the bar, placing her arched back against the stout wooden brace, Hakkara looked around the Sitting Duck. These people were barely worth Hakkara's time, and few if any of them could afford to pay for her services. "May not be any work in this town, unless someone to want a sell-sword or two. Stop this plague." Hakkara took a sip of her new ale, flat as the last one. "I do not like it here," she declared. "It is time for me to move on."

 

[hero4hire]

From his table an armored man stood. He wore armor of plated iron scale. His regalia was one of bright yellow, orange and red. He took off his helm revealing his ash colored hair and grey eyes. There was a hint of some inner fire in those eyes. Like a torch burning behind a sheet of ice. Most striking however was his face. Horrible scars from burns long ago creeped up his neck from under his armor, marring his once handsome features."Not all clergy should be distrusted friends. They are simply out of thier realm. Would one go to a tanner to hammer a horseshoe? No! you would go to a smithy. So too when in need of healing look to the Goddess of Healing; Sarenrae! The Dawnflower has seen fit that one of her faithful would be put amongst you. And I will do my outmost to seek out a cure for this ailment. No disease, however black can withstand her healing light. Her divine fire can purge all sickness! But the Dawnflower expects us to help ourselves. How else can we learn? I plan to seek out this Laurel the herbalist. If she has the cure I will make it available. If she knows where to find it, my faith shall be the beacon to guide my way. Rest in the fact that salvation will be at hand for those who ask."

 

[Nazhkandrias]

A very short, plump little man with a green cloak sits at the bar, downing a surprising amount of ale for his size. Full and content, he listens to the stories around him. All of the stories revolve around this mysterious "plague", from who caught it to where it came from to what might cure it. He's currently chatting with a more than slightly tipsy man next to him, discussing this plague and recent developments. "Brookman's Well, yah say? Well then, ah dare say that ah'll be avoidin' that there well for a good while now!" He orders another beer, and the bartender raises his eyebrow at the row of mugs already lined up in front of him. The bartender passes him the glass of frothy ale, and Jebbo takes a deep gulp. "Hmm, not bad. Ah've had bettah, but, then agin, ah've had worse. Did ah ever tell yah 'bout the time m'Grandfather made off wi' a whole..." The bartender walks off to attend to another patron, cutting Jebbo short. Slightly annoyed that he didn't get to finish his story, Jebbo returns to his ale. "Huh, guess he'll nevah know now, will he?"

Jebbo drains the rest of the ale, sets down the glass, and continues to observe the room around him. Strange figures all around, but that's nothing new for this town, especially The Sitting Duck. Suddenly, he hears talk of Trolls from a nearby table, and he simply can't resist. He drops a coin or two on the counter, and crosses over to the table with the Elf. Without a moment's pause, he pulls up a chair and hauls himself up on top of it, his feet dangling above the floor. "What's this that ah hear 'bout Trolls, now? None 'round here, ah hope! Yah know, ah once met a Troll. Narsty, brutish creachahs, dontcha know. Wouldn't've got away, if'n it weren't fah that lucky break wi' the tree limb, 'n all." Jebbo stops for a second, takes a breath, and looks at the Elf, observing his clothes. "'Course, by the looks of yah, ah'm guessin' that you'd've had a scuffle 'r two wi' a Troll. Prob'ly won, too." Jebbo gives a wide smile. "Jebbo Barrelbuster's m'name, pleased to meet yah."

In the background, an armored man dressed in fiery, bright colors stands up and announces his holy intentions. Jebbo raises his eyebrow and turns his head, finding the display to be very odd indeed. "Confident fellah, ain't he? Looks like he can manage it, though."

 

[YeOldeAlbatross]

Turning to the bartender, Cyryn motioned for a refill.

"Tell me, friend, how long has this 'plague' been around? What does it do to a person?"

The rail-thin man behind the counter happily indulges Cyryn's request for a refill. The bartender seems to love the sound of his own voice, and freely answers the rogue's question. "Eh, I guess the first sign of this plague showed up about a week ago, now. Starts out just with some aches and a cough, I hear, but then the cough gets worse and worse. Turns bloody within a couple days, like your body's trying to turn itself inside out. That's what they say..."

 

[YeOldeAlbatross]

From his table an armored man stood. He wore armor of plated iron scale. His regalia was one of bright yellow, orange and red. He took off his helm revealing his ash colored hair and grey eyes. There was a hint of some inner fire in those eyes. Like a torch burning behind a sheet of ice. Most striking however was his face. Horrible scars from burns long ago creeped up his neck from under his armor, marring his once handsome features."Not all clergy should be distrusted friends. They are simply out of thier realm. Would one go to a tanner to hammer a horseshoe? No! you would go to a smithy. So too when in need of healing look to the Goddess of Healing; Sarenrae! The Dawnflower has seen fit that one of her faithful would be put amongst you. And I will do my outmost to seek out a cure for this ailment. No disease, however black can withstand her healing light. Her divine fire can purge all sickness! But the Dawnflower expects us to help ourselves. How else can we learn? I plan to seek out this Laurel the herbalist. If she has the cure I will make it available. If she knows where to find it, my faith shall be the beacon to guide my way. Rest in the fact that salvation will be at hand for those who ask."

Jared's speech elicits a smattering of light applause, mixed with some laughter and a few catcalls.
"Well, be off with you then, O savior of the Hollow!" someone's voice rings out from the back of the common room.