Roadside Chat with Fausta
On the journey to Silverymoon following retaking Sundabar, just after KWN.1.3 The Reclamation of Ruins
To Pax's surprise, Fausta ends up trekking just across from him a couple days into the travels. When she notices the tiefling's eyes on her, she glares over for a moment before her expression softens slightly to a more neutral disposition.
"You're the rookie, huh?" Fausa says.
Pax grunts in response. "Rookie? I didn't exactly sign up for this on purpose. I'm being used like a weapon. I guess that's fair enough for now."
"No one signs up for the life they get. The being used part, that sounds about right. Least you held your own. I've seen worse from rookies. Buried most of 'em."
"Seen worse? I doubt you've seen anything like me in your ranks. And this isn't exactly what I'm used to. I normally only fight alone..."
"In the Knights? No. Ain't the first time I seen a Blood Hunter, though. That's what you are, right? As someone whose done their fair share of fighting alone, I'll give you a tip. If someone's there who has your back, fucking trust 'em to do it. Otherwise you waste time looking both ways and that's when someone's gotta dig a grave."
Meeting with Gerron
Prior to the Champion's League final bout, just after KWN.3.4 Two Down, One to Go
The carriage door closes abruptly as Gerron's sharp knuckles rasp against the wall of the carriage twice. With a jolt, the cart pulls forward, the wheels outside creating a constant, muted rumble. The carriage interior is modest, but comfortable, with pillows of a rich burgundy against the wooden bench seating.
"Pax. Thank you for joining me. I thought it long past time we had an opportunity to get to know one another. Especially now that we'll find ourselves as opponents tomorrow."
"Uh huh. Pretty confident you won't have a slip up in your match?"
"This evening's match is merely a formality. I'm more curious how a Blood Hunter winds up fighting alongside two holy knights and a goliath. Surely there's a story there?"
"Shit happens."
"Hmm."
Gerron nods, turning to look out the window for a moment. The beams of light cast in the rich hues of sunset silhouette his angular, sunken cheeks.
"They're beneath you, is all. Surely you concur,” Gerron muses.
"I don't, in fact. It's an odd pairing, I'll give you that. But I haven't had enough privilege in my life to consider much "beneath" me. The Knights and I have mutually aligned interests... for now. They're assisting me with an investigation. What does it matter to you?"
“We as Blood Hunters have our reputations to consider. We are, regardless of our Order, only as good as the opinion of those who hire us. Aligning ourselves with those who not only lost an entire city just last month, but carry a legacy full of hypocrisy and failure is not wise.”
“I would think a member of the Profane Soul in particular would resent the very idea of such a partnership with these Knights”
"Only as good as the opinions of those who hire us? You really care that much about other people's opinions of you? I've been shit on by most people my entire life. Tristain and Aethurial aren't responsible for the entire history and reputation of their organization, just as you and I aren't responsible for the history and reputation of ours. I know the history. Judge as you will. What do you want?"
Gerron turns away from the window, now looking directly at you. As the cart turns to circle the arena once more, light now shines directly onto his face and you can see clearly the notches of scars, weathered skin, and weary eyes of the Blood Hunter in sharp contrast, made only more prominent by his unnaturally taut skin and sharp jawline.
"I really care that much about other people's opinions of us, Pax. We Mutants are no strangers to 'being shit on.' You don't wear your transformation for all to see, so at least be grateful for that mercy, as your Knight friends would call it. And of course, they are not responsible for the atrocities of the past, but I think it entirely within reason to lay the fall of Sundabar at the feet of their arrogance and weakness. As for what I want, well, it's more of a professional courtesy."
Gerron's gaze remains honed in on you, reading your reactions to his words.
"Do not try to defeat us tomorrow,” Gerron continues. “As our bouts have shown, Arcurth and I have been more than sufficient for disposing of the other teams. The same will be true tonight. But I will make no qualms about deploying the Deviants upon those knights this time tomorrow. And that will not end well for your newfound companions. Instead, I would suggest you simply ... put on a good performance for the audience. Aim wide. We'll do the rest."
Gerron's solemn face breaks into a smirk, the lines of his sunken cheeks adding a wicked flare to the curious expression as he says, "We have little need for the gold and it's no secret the Knights find themselves with empty coffers. We'll split the winnings with your team in exchange for the title."
Gerron's smirk fades, leaving in its place a matter of factly expression of attentive intrigue.
"I make this offer only out of respect for you as a fellow Blood Hunter. There is no reason both of us can't walk away with what we want and a great deal less suffering for your troubles."
"Yeah no thanks,” Pax replies, “What makes you so confident anyway? Why do you want to win so badly you'll pay for it?"
"As I said, Arcurth and I have not even needed aid so far. And a Blood Hunter, regardless of order, should know better than to be on the wrong side of a Deviant, let alone two."
Gerron's gaze lifts off of Pax, looking out the window over your shoulder.
"As for why I care so much, well, it is what's best for the Order. For all of us. We are reviled, but we are also these people's best chance at safety and security. We know the quality of the work we do, but we have to help them look past the ways in which our sacrifices disfigure us."
Gerron idly traces the deep scar across his unnaturally tight jawline and sunken cheeks, continuing.
"And the opposite is true for these Knights. Sure, they display righteousness and heroism now, they have to. They feed off of the goodwill and gold. They bask in praise for smallest modicum of achievement. Meanwhile, citizens spit towards us while we save their lives, knee deep in the mud and shit. The difference is we don’t pretend we’re not covered in the filth, unlike those charlatans. We’re not chasing power, influence, or indoctrination. You may think they are doing good deeds and meaningful work, but it’s all a stepping stone to coercive conformity."
Gerron knocks on the window of the carriage as it comes to an abrupt halt. The door behind Pax opens. Gerron's gaze returns to meet yours as he speaks. "Whether you choose to heed my warning about tomorrow's bout or not, remember this: Those who play at holiness are the most easily corrupted. I hope for your sake you aren’t around for when they find themselves in hell for all the “good” they do."
Pax, caught off guard by the sincerity of his intent, softens his guard slightly and responds before stepping out,
"The battle will play out as it should. If you are so confident, you won't have anything to worry about. But I will not bow out. I understand your perspective. From one hunter to another, know that I appreciate and respect your desire for the world to look more kindly at us and our work. I'm glad that you're taking on that fight, but it's not my fight right now. I agree with you in broad strokes about the Knights in general and throughout history, but my goals are my own. I'm following a trail of major necromantic events. It took the life of a fellow Hunter and my only true friend. I have to get to the bottom of it, and for now, the Knights I'm traveling with have been nothing but helpful and supportive to me. I'm also following a bread crumb trail to something... the Blood Hunters and the Knights... What if the story we've been told isn't quite true?"
As Pax steps out of the cart, he takes a good, hard look at Gerron who pours over Pax’s response. Where a hardened exterior of negotiation and rhetoric dueling had masked his intent for the duration of the ride circling the arena, Pax observes his forthrightness seems to have brought his fellow hunter’s guard down, if only for a moment.
Pax notes a flicker of fear, Gerron’s eyes seeming to convey, "What if this doesn't work? Will our loss make things worse?" This look softens to an uncertain awkward pause, and then his demeanor resumes, if a bit less hostile than before.
"I well,... I appreciate your willingness to see things from my perspective. And I can honor your work to avenge the falling of a fellow Blood Hunter. I am no stranger to losing a comrade and I share my condolences for your - for our loss."
"As for our history, I would love to learn we've been told the wrong stories, but how often are the monsters we face more civil than those we save from them? I wouldn't expect to find good news whenever you reach the bottom of the hole you're digging."
"Either way, farewell Pax. Should the worst befall you tomorrow, we we still celebrate you as one of our own."
Meeting with Tordahr
After completing the Folio contract, before departing for Daggerford, following KWN.5.3 The Second Contract
The city of Neverwinter bustles with the festive spirit of the awaited arrival Highharvestide. For the last tenday, the community has worked to prepare grand feasts held throughout the city to celebrate the harvest and the ongoing rejuvenation of their home. The streets are adorned with bright banners, the citizenry meander from one social gathering to another, and shops across the city offer wares and specials for all the travelers who will begin their treks the following day, once the celebrations have subsided. Perhaps Pax and Aethuriel will be among them, depending on what his fellow Blood Hunter, Tordahr, has been able to discover on his behalf.
Pax steps into The Driftwood Tavern, where Tordahr's note had suggested they meet. The Blood Hunter finds himself in a high-end establishment that seems to be part museum and part gathering hall. Adorning the walls are a myriad of paintings of numerous eras and styles. Many of the tables are decorated with small statues or accent pieces, all repurposed, but arranged with care. The chandelier overhead seems a disjointed, but beautifully crafted combination of hundreds of various pieces of stained glass windows from ages past.
Tordahr sits by himself, nursing a tall, dark ale in a corner booth. In the lowlight from the sconces on the wall, Pax can make out the dwarf's neatly combed and greying hair that falls to shoulder length and his thick mustache that curls around his lips, covering a scar.
Pax waves an acknowledgment to Tordahr before going to the bar to get his own dark ale and ask if they have Esra’s favorite red wine, one that's pricey, but not hard to find. Pax pays for a bottle and make his way to the table.
He smiles at Tordhar as he shakes his hand in greeting, but only a little. He can’t help but feel anxious about having to tell him that Esra died.
“Tordhar. It’s good to see you, although I admit it’s quite strange to see you in a place like this instead of—"
"Instead of the Grand Dame? By the blood, I don't spend all my life at the card tables, lad, least not like we used to."
Tordahr pushes a stray greying hair out of his face, tucking it behind his slightly mangled ear. Pax recalls his stories of a necromancer who who kept a displacer beast as a pet. Tordahr loved to brag about how he killed it twice.
"Of course, that's mostly cause the place went to shit after the owner had has brain shriveled up from the inside out."
Tordahr eyes you, unable to determine for sure whether you seem apprehensive because of the information you requested of him or something else.
"So, you been meddling in some business with the undead, huh? Almost dying to a lich the first time wasn't fun enough?"
“Yes….. Tordhar…”
Pax grimaces, struggling to get the words out.
“When I left to join Esra… he… he was killed. Protecting me.”
Pax pushes the bottle of wine towards Tordhar. “Always his favorite. I hate wine. Too many associations with blood.”
Pax starts tearing up, this is the first time he’s really acknowledged it to someone else who knew him.
Tordahr's face shifts from his familiar wisecracking smirk to a somber, downcast grimace. His lips contort and curl as he searches for the right words to say in the brief space. Unable to find them for the moment, he nods solemnly, reaches for the wine, and begins to drink directly from the bottle. You get the sense that this information has hit him hard as well and he plans on finishing it himself since you don't want any.
"Lad, I..."
Tordahr clears his throat, muffling a sob. He takes another swallow of wine, the vintage staining his mustache crimson red.
"Bones and mud, all of it. I'm sorry."
As Pax jarringly switches from the news of Esra to the more recent events with the missing Knights, the "Crypt of the Hellriders" sigil, and the description of the necromancer, Tordahr silently nods, assuming that business is what Pax needs to talk about in the moment.
"Aye. Your telling of it confirms my suspicions from your letter. I hiked up into the moors and talked to Khemzidouk (the lich), the old bastard, and it's as I feared — these knights you're working with have pissed off an infernal lich. Khemzidouk knows him too, real piece of work. Calls himself Gristaxadahn the godsforsaken. Does that name ring any bells?"
“Hmmmm yes. Just read recently about a Knights of Holy Judgment archivist who went mad and disappeared from Sundabar. Named Gristax Adahn. Seems like our guy. Did Khemzidouk give you any other information on him?”
"Huh, news to me. But you always had your nose in books, so I'll take your word for it."
Tordahr continues nursing the wine, trying to get a sense of Pax's emotions before speaking further. After a beat, he continues.
"Yeah. Turns out these immortal assholes talk all the time. Not just these two, but liches in general. My asshole said that your asshole is based out of Dragonspear Castle. He also that he's more on the private side, even as far as liches go. Like, paranoid. Supposedly he's added an arcane gate around the entire castle. And the key, well, there isn't really a key per say. Or there is, but Khemzidouk said it's bound to Grixtaxadahn's vassal - a person."
Tordahr lowers his voice, making clear the weight of his next words.
"No one knows who this vassal is, but we do know where they are. Daggerford."
“Fucking Daggerford. Of course. Where else….. Fahk. Well. Dragonspear Castle checks out. Nobody has gone anywhere near that place and lived to tell about it in years. Well what does he need an army for? Why specifically dead and buried Knights?”
"No. I mean, I didn't have as much to go off of in the letter, but I didn't get anything specific from old Khemzi. He hates when I call him that, heh. But those will have to be questions you'll have to ask, uh, I dunno, 'Grixti?' I bet he'd be pissed if you called him that."
For a moment, Tordahr's natural self-entertained grin breaks out across his face. He then comes back to the moment. Finishing off his glass, he actually turns and digs into a satchel next to him. He pulls out a a cloth wrapped around something flat and rounded with a slight curve to it. He slides it across the table towards you.
"I, uh, know what Daggerford means for you. So I pulled a few favors, and uh, hope this helps."
Pax unfolds the cloth overtop and just sees a mundane, porcelain, semi-translucent mask looking back at him. Expressionless, it’s not particularly well crafted or embellished in any way.
“…… what is it?”
“A mask.”
“But, more importantly than that, it’s a way around the city. You can attune to it and disguise yourself for a limited time. You’ll need to be mindful of it, but figured it might come in handy in a pinch given you know, everything.”
“And Pax. We kinda glossed over the, well, news you shared. You know from our time I’m not one for prying. Don’t bother where there ain’t bones and all. But, are you doing alright, lad?”
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