¶ ⚠️ Session 027 - Read At Your Own Risk
¶ 🌀 Arrival in Westgate
The abyssal rift had finally sealed shut, leaving behind only scorched cobblestones and an eerie quiet in the streets of Westgate. Nitro, Otto, and a visibly shaken Clutch stepped back into the material world, their minds reeling from what they had witnessed beyond. Otto, in particular, was rattled—whatever horrors he’d seen in that portal were unlike anything he'd imagined in his analytical upbringing. Just as the group began to gather their wits, Nitro asked Clutch,
"Who The Fudge Are You?"
¶ 🪶 A Tengu with a Mission
Tall, feathered, and leather-vested, the tengu introduced himself with brash confidence: Clutch, from Ustalav. He had traveled for months across sea and land, carrying with him a scroll case and a cryptic assignment—to deliver a sealed message to a group he only knew as the “Sooty Lads and Lass.” The scroll he bore was written in an unfamiliar script, unintelligible to him but clearly important.
Though initially wary, the group warmed to him, especially when Clutch revealed that he had spent the entire journey reading a well-worn book—one written under the pen name Joseph Gordon Diehard. With a dramatic flourish, Nitro revealed that she was its author. Clutch found out the she was Nitro Davenport O'Hara of the Orcania O'Hara's; hated by the Orcs of Belkzan for defecting to the Isle of Kortos. The exchange shifted from tension to admiration, and Clutch, starstruck, eagerly accepted an autograph. In turn, Nitro and Otto sized him up and begrudgingly allowed him to tag along.
¶ 🍻 The Halcyon Hog
Determined to decipher the scroll, the trio made their way to the Wise Quarter of Absalom, where arcane scholars and dusty intellects gathered in abundance. Their first stop was the Halcyon Hog, a quiet tavern known more for its muttered debates than raucous drink. Otto scanned the crowd, noting potential academics nursing drinks and scribbling arcane notes on bar napkins. Nitro, never one to pass up a spectacle, stood atop a broken chair (Broken by her standing on it) and loudly offered drinks in exchange for anyone who could read Varisian. She even demonstrated her magical curse: crying literal gemstones.
The stunt attracted some interest, but no firm offers. One robed scholar, mildly impressed and mildly disturbed, suggested they seek the expertise of Forae Logos, the continent’s largest library, just a few streets away. The scholar warned, however, that the scroll’s contents might not stay secret if taken there.
¶ 📚 Enter Forae Logos
The trio arrived at the imposing, neo-gothic facade of Forae Logos and were greeted with quiet formality. They were asked to sign a waiver—none of them read it. Inside, they stepped into magical darkness, crossing a planar threshold into the Varisian Wing, where the scroll’s language might be deciphered.
Even Nitro’s darkvision and Clutch’s light magic were useless in the inky black. Only when they accepted this surreal entry and passed through to the interstitial space did they begin to see rows of ancient texts and glowing script.
¶ ✍️ Issum and the Dilemma
Eventually, they located a scribe named Issum, quietly at work cataloging volumes. After some awkward introductions, Otto presented the scroll. Issum confirmed he could translate it—but under the Scrivener’s Guild code, any such translation would be recorded and archived permanently. The scroll’s contents would become public record.
Otto and Nitro tried persuasion. Nitro offered bribes—gems formed from her cursed, glittering tears. Otto hinted at discretion and flexibility. Issum, bound by policy, held firm.
He brushed the Soots off, trying to pass them to the Bloody Barbers as a black market group for translations.
Clutch, fed up with all of the talking, stepped in.
The tengu leaned in, punching down into the desk, his words cutting with the weight of long travel and heavier intent. He didn’t threaten. He forcefully made Issum understand—this scroll mattered, and this was the moment it needed to be read.
Issum cracked.
He glanced around. Hands shaking slightly, he broke protocol. He translated the scroll—off the record, in private. The words were written in Varisian, and while the contents weren’t fully discussed aloud, the tone shifted: the party now knew what they carried. Whatever secrets Eram Voss had left for them… they were dangerous enough to make a scholar break an oath in fear.
¶ ⛪︎ The Metro Cathedral - A Southy Puddles Staple
After the high-strangeness of Forae Logos, the group made a deliberate detour to Metro Cathedral, One of Absalom’s urban bastions of structured faith and rigid silence offering reverence to Abadar. Unlike soaring temples of divine light, the decaying and oft forgotten Metro Cathedral reflected the cynical nature of The Puddles rather than the high holiness of the Ascendent Quarter. Before The Soots sat a cold, echoing place of snark, partially filled paperwork, and crumbling reliquaries. Think old Boston: granite walls, oil lamps, and stiff-collared clergy with questionable peity.
Otto arranged a private meeting with Tristan, an old contact who still had the good sense to worry when someone like Otto came calling.
Otto presented the translated scroll and its Ustalavic origin. Tristan’s mood darkened instantly.
“Ustalav?”
“Yeah,” Otto replied. “Delivered by a tengu. Brought across half the world.”
Tristan squinted, jaw tightening.
“Kid... I hope you’ve already written a freakin’ will.”
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice.
“You tellin’ me you got a scroll from f—in’ Ustalav, wrapped up in Varisian, with that kinda aura? That ain’t paperwork, that’s a death notice wearin’ ink.”
He warned Otto—firmly—that the scroll reeked of Tar-Baphon, the Whispering Tyrant. He didn’t even need to read the magic.
“That prick don’t send letters. If he sends somethin’, it’s ‘cause he wants a leash ‘round someone’s neck—or he wants someone ta open the box and let the poison out.”
When Otto asked what to do, Tristan didn’t sugarcoat it.
“Burn it. Bury it. I dunno, chuck it in the sea and pray it don’t swim back. But whatever ya do, don’t get involved. Lay low, stay here with your pals.”
Otto didn’t make promises. Just nodded, filed it away behind his tired eyes, and left.
As the cathedral doors shut behind him, Tristan made the sign of Pharasma—once for protection, and once for the dumb bastards who never listen
¶ 🛏️ Back to Drippy's
After the tense meetings at Forae Logos and Metro Cathedral, the Soots returned to their familiar, if perpetually damp, headquarters: Drippy’s. They noticed that Ol' Gregg was missing. An unusual sight as he rarely leaves the damp bar.
The tavern was its usual self—low-lit, sour-smelling, and inexplicably humid. But after the day they’d had, it felt like shelter. Clutch never having been here before, took a shot of the local High-Tide Whiskey. Thanks to the innate gross magical properties of High-Tide Whiskey...
- Clutch now permanently sneezes harmless explosions of glitter.
- Otto's Hair grows when he lies and shrinks when he tells the truth for the next 2 days
- Nitro now has an insatiable appetite for the next 2 days.
The Soots took a rest for the evening, and discussed next moves. Otto started leafing through Dr. Snow's notes, he found some useful alchemical formulae as well as a hit on a possible lead in the Petal District - The Court of the Black Paper. Otto, thinking that Marge has ties in the area, would be a great resource for additional information.
¶ 🧾 A Familiar Face on the Wall
As the group exited Drippy's, moving east through the Docks towards the Petal District. Otto caught sight of a notice tacked to a public board. A wanted poster—and Nitro’s face stared back.
The charge was simple and serious:
WANTED FOR ARSON AND ATTEMPED ASSAULT OF A PUBLIC OFFICIAL
There was no name attached to the authority, but the implication was clear. Someone with reach wanted Nitro detained—or worse.
Without a word, Nitro reached for her Hat of Disguise, shifting her appearance: her hair becoming bigger, Elvira like: Enough to change recognition at a glance.
Clutch turned to Nitro and repeated back to her:
"And who the fudge are you?".
Despite the levity, the Soots knew the city had just become more dangerous.