Tahlia chuckles a bit as Archael clearly feels out of his element as he moves closer. The elf scans the area where the 2nd voidmaw disappeared and curses as she can't seem to get a glimpse of the creature.
She takes aim in that general area and readies her crossbow.
The Voidmaw reappears in a blur of starlit hide, skirting the ridge and charging from an unexpected angle. Its Voidstep fizzles (recharge roll 2), forcing it to rely on sheer speed.
Tahlia and Vic are ready—arrows and bolts streak out, striking true. The beast staggers mid-sprint, grievously wounded but carried forward by its own momentum.
Before Djoser can turn, the predator’s jaws snap shut (attack 14, damage 14), teeth raking across his side.
Yet Waukeen’s golden scales answer instantly. They whirl with a resonant clang, one pan slamming down in divine judgment (spiritual weapon 22, 12 damage), crushing the creature’s skull.
The Voidmaw collapses, its triple eyes flickering out like dying stars.
The scrapyard falls into a brittle, ringing hush. The last echoes of Waukeen’s judgment fade to the hiss of cooling metal and the distant clatter of unseen machinery.
The adventurers stand still a heartbeat longer than they mean to—each feeling the tremor of what’s just passed—before Archael silently gestures toward the exit. None argue.
They pick their way back through the twisting corridors of scrap, the salvaged coupler glimmering dully on the floating disc. Shadows shift as they pass, and the acrid scent of rust and old magic lingers like a warning.
Near the yard’s outer wall, Vic catches movement—a silhouette perched high on a jag of wreckage. For a breath it lingers, then slips, cat-quiet, over the far side toward the street and is gone.
As the golden scales finally tip in the favour of the franchise, the young white-haired waterdhavian noble scoffs at the crumbling nasty beast, using his magic to clean himself up from the battle dust as it settles around them, also mending the unforgivable tear in his exquisite mantle. He would indeed let the magical disc carry the archsteel coupler chassis back to the Pen & Parchment back at the docks, walking slowly beside it, wary of more locals making the poor choice to not stick to civilized business. Hopefully there would be no more unpleasantness before he could relax in his suit with some good wine.
"welp, that was tougher than i hoped, but nice fighting. we proved our worth, I bet- and got what we came for. Someone snuck off over the wall there.. but I am in no shape to find out who. Lets get back to the ship and recover.".
Tahlia nods at Vic's suggestion and looks her friend over. She seems alright, a bit banged up but hopefully their walk back will be short and noneventful. "I wonder who that was snuck off? How strange. I just hope Bramble doesn't need anything else from this rock and we can be on our way."
The adventurers hurry from the scrapyard, the newly-won coupler floating behind them on Archael’s shimmering disc.
The alleys of Ironfound Station seem to tighten as they walk—shadows hanging like curtains of soot, every doorway watching. The hiss of steam vents and the occasional clang of distant machinery sound more like warnings than work.
They turn down a final narrow passage, the docks almost in sight—when figures slide from the gloom ahead and behind.
Crossbows glint in the dim light: ten dark silhouettes, their steps silent but their intent unmistakable.
A voice, low and cold, carries through the passage:
“Saphra Vexx would like to have a word with you.”
It is phrased like a request, but every taut bowstring makes it a command.
Escorted at crossbow-point, the party is forced through the smoke-choked alleys of Ironfound Station. Their weapons are taken; the shadows of the watchtower swallow them like the jaws of a trap.
Inside the tower’s upper chamber, Saphra Vexx waits—tall, raven-haired, eyes like polished jet. The flicker of forge-light behind her outlines the cut of a duelist’s coat, every movement precise and economical. She leans against a battered iron table, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Efficient work,” she purrs, her voice low and smooth as oiled steel. “Korga’s pride lies in pieces—and that suits me. Grinn Cragbrow’s iron-fisted chaos is bad for trade, and worse for profit. I intend to take the Ravagers for myself.”
Her gaze sharpens, measuring each of them. “If you want safe passage, and a partner who understands the value of commerce, you’ll help me. First step: Brother Vult. The mad preacher keeps Cragbrow’s thugs fed on his visions and his monsters. Remove him, and Cragbrow’s grip weakens.”
She folds her arms, the smile turning to a razor’s edge. “Do this, and together we bring Grinn down. You leave here not just alive, but with a trading ally in Duragaaz. Refuse…”—her eyes flick to the guards—“…and you’ll find the Ravagers far less friendly than Korga’s dogs.”
Acting unimpressed, but simmering under the skin with the black ops type situation she found herself in, Tahlia blows a loose lock of hair that has fallen on her forehead. Crossing her arms and leaning against a wall, her voice smooth as silk as she asks, "A Partner in trade you say? What makes you think the ravagers would follow you if Brother Vult falls? What do you have that will entice their group other than that truly beautiful smile of yours." She says this last part with a mirrored sneer of her own, the smile reaching her eyes as she is truly enjoying herself.
Once hearing the woman's response, Tahlia follows up with, "What can you tell us about this Brother Vult?"
Saphra lets Tahlia’s compliment hang in the air like perfume, one corner of her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. She uncrosses her arms with deliberate grace and takes a single step closer, her eyes glittering with a predator’s amusement.
“Flattery and suspicion—both wise currencies,” she says, her voice a velvet purr that carries the faintest rasp of danger. “But the Ravagers are not Grinn’s. They are creatures of appetite. They follow strength, and strength wears many masks.”
She tilts her head, letting the lantern-light catch the black opal ring on her finger. “I give them what Grinn cannot: profit without chaos. Smuggling routes that stay open. Guards who take coin and keep quiet. And when they have coin, they have power.”
Her smile deepens, almost conspiratorial. “Brother Vult feeds them fear. I will feed them opportunity. Fear fades, but the taste of easy profit?”—she leans just enough to let the words brush the air between them—“that lingers. And my smile, dear bard, is merely the advertisement.”
Tahlia swallows and asks about Brother Vult.
Saphra’s smile lingers, but her eyes sharpen, the playful gleam giving way to something colder. She traces the rim of her black opal ring as she speaks, her voice a velvet rasp edged with steel.
“Brother Vult,” she says at last, savoring the name like a curse. “Bald as a forge-stone, draped in red and black, and convinced the flames whisper prophecy to him. He calls himself the Voice of the One True Flame, but what he truly burns for is power.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “He controls the Lower Foundry and the Slag Furnaces, south end of the industrial quarter—his own little kingdom of smoke and molten rock. The Ravagers who follow him aren’t mere thugs; they are zealots. He keeps them in line with sermons of cleansing fire, and they obey out of fear and fanatic faith.”
Saphra’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile. “He is the mind behind Grinn Cragbrow’s rule, the ideological lash that keeps the rest of the Ravagers cowed. Remove him, and Grinn loses the preacher who gives his brutality purpose. Without Vult, the whole edifice cracks. Return to me and together we will then topple Grinn like a rotten beam.”
Saphra lets the silence draw for a heartbeat, then leans lightly on the iron table, her dark eyes catching the lantern-light like polished jet.
“The foundry is a furnace and a fortress,” she says, voice low and smooth. “Brother Vult keeps fanatics at every slag chute. You’ll need a shadow who knows the heat and the hidden ways. I’ll send you one of mine.”
She lifts a gloved hand and snaps her fingers. From the far side of the chamber a figure detaches from the gloom—a lithe half-elf in coal-black leathers, face half-masked in a scarf the color of banked embers.
Saphra’s smile returns, faint and edged. “Ashstep will guide you through the slag tunnels and keep you breathing when the flames roar. He answers to me—but tonight, he is yours.”
Tahlia chuckles a bit as Archael clearly feels out of his element as he moves closer. The elf scans the area where the 2nd voidmaw disappeared and curses as she can't seem to get a glimpse of the creature.
She takes aim in that general area and readies her crossbow.
Attack: 21, Damage: 7
All scanning to see where the beast will reappear.
Perceptions checks to catch it against its stealth (15) (rolled in log)
Djoser: 5
Vic: 25
Tahlia: 21
The crafty creature has slinked along the ridge and appears away from where it disappeared.
Tahlia and Vic see it, immediately - unleashing their attacks.
Tahlia's arrow sinks into it.
(Vic roll the details of your attack)
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
a crossbow bolt launches from the illusionary box where vic is hiding, 23 to hit for 20 hp damage (regular +sneak attack)
The Voidmaw reappears in a blur of starlit hide, skirting the ridge and charging from an unexpected angle. Its Voidstep fizzles (recharge roll 2), forcing it to rely on sheer speed.
Tahlia and Vic are ready—arrows and bolts streak out, striking true. The beast staggers mid-sprint, grievously wounded but carried forward by its own momentum.
Before Djoser can turn, the predator’s jaws snap shut (attack 14, damage 14), teeth raking across his side.
Yet Waukeen’s golden scales answer instantly. They whirl with a resonant clang, one pan slamming down in divine judgment (spiritual weapon 22, 12 damage), crushing the creature’s skull.
The Voidmaw collapses, its triple eyes flickering out like dying stars.
The scrapyard falls into a brittle, ringing hush. The last echoes of Waukeen’s judgment fade to the hiss of cooling metal and the distant clatter of unseen machinery.
The adventurers stand still a heartbeat longer than they mean to—each feeling the tremor of what’s just passed—before Archael silently gestures toward the exit. None argue.
They pick their way back through the twisting corridors of scrap, the salvaged coupler glimmering dully on the floating disc. Shadows shift as they pass, and the acrid scent of rust and old magic lingers like a warning.
Near the yard’s outer wall, Vic catches movement—a silhouette perched high on a jag of wreckage. For a breath it lingers, then slips, cat-quiet, over the far side toward the street and is gone.
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
As the golden scales finally tip in the favour of the franchise, the young white-haired waterdhavian noble scoffs at the crumbling nasty beast, using his magic to clean himself up from the battle dust as it settles around them, also mending the unforgivable tear in his exquisite mantle. He would indeed let the magical disc carry the archsteel coupler chassis back to the Pen & Parchment back at the docks, walking slowly beside it, wary of more locals making the poor choice to not stick to civilized business. Hopefully there would be no more unpleasantness before he could relax in his suit with some good wine.
"welp, that was tougher than i hoped, but nice fighting. we proved our worth, I bet- and got what we came for. Someone snuck off over the wall there.. but I am in no shape to find out who. Lets get back to the ship and recover.".
Tahlia nods at Vic's suggestion and looks her friend over. She seems alright, a bit banged up but hopefully their walk back will be short and noneventful. "I wonder who that was snuck off? How strange. I just hope Bramble doesn't need anything else from this rock and we can be on our way."
The adventurers hurry from the scrapyard, the newly-won coupler floating behind them on Archael’s shimmering disc.
The alleys of Ironfound Station seem to tighten as they walk—shadows hanging like curtains of soot, every doorway watching. The hiss of steam vents and the occasional clang of distant machinery sound more like warnings than work.
They turn down a final narrow passage, the docks almost in sight—when figures slide from the gloom ahead and behind.
Crossbows glint in the dim light: ten dark silhouettes, their steps silent but their intent unmistakable.
A voice, low and cold, carries through the passage:
“Saphra Vexx would like to have a word with you.”
It is phrased like a request, but every taut bowstring makes it a command.
Escorted at crossbow-point, the party is forced through the smoke-choked alleys of Ironfound Station. Their weapons are taken; the shadows of the watchtower swallow them like the jaws of a trap.
Inside the tower’s upper chamber, Saphra Vexx waits—tall, raven-haired, eyes like polished jet. The flicker of forge-light behind her outlines the cut of a duelist’s coat, every movement precise and economical. She leans against a battered iron table, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Efficient work,” she purrs, her voice low and smooth as oiled steel. “Korga’s pride lies in pieces—and that suits me. Grinn Cragbrow’s iron-fisted chaos is bad for trade, and worse for profit. I intend to take the Ravagers for myself.”
Her gaze sharpens, measuring each of them.
“If you want safe passage, and a partner who understands the value of commerce, you’ll help me. First step: Brother Vult. The mad preacher keeps Cragbrow’s thugs fed on his visions and his monsters. Remove him, and Cragbrow’s grip weakens.”
She folds her arms, the smile turning to a razor’s edge.
“Do this, and together we bring Grinn down. You leave here not just alive, but with a trading ally in Duragaaz. Refuse…”—her eyes flick to the guards—“…and you’ll find the Ravagers far less friendly than Korga’s dogs.”
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
Acting unimpressed, but simmering under the skin with the black ops type situation she found herself in, Tahlia blows a loose lock of hair that has fallen on her forehead. Crossing her arms and leaning against a wall, her voice smooth as silk as she asks, "A Partner in trade you say? What makes you think the ravagers would follow you if Brother Vult falls? What do you have that will entice their group other than that truly beautiful smile of yours." She says this last part with a mirrored sneer of her own, the smile reaching her eyes as she is truly enjoying herself.
Once hearing the woman's response, Tahlia follows up with, "What can you tell us about this Brother Vult?"
Saphra lets Tahlia’s compliment hang in the air like perfume, one corner of her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. She uncrosses her arms with deliberate grace and takes a single step closer, her eyes glittering with a predator’s amusement.
“Flattery and suspicion—both wise currencies,” she says, her voice a velvet purr that carries the faintest rasp of danger. “But the Ravagers are not Grinn’s. They are creatures of appetite. They follow strength, and strength wears many masks.”
She tilts her head, letting the lantern-light catch the black opal ring on her finger.
“I give them what Grinn cannot: profit without chaos. Smuggling routes that stay open. Guards who take coin and keep quiet. And when they have coin, they have power.”
Her smile deepens, almost conspiratorial.
“Brother Vult feeds them fear. I will feed them opportunity. Fear fades, but the taste of easy profit?”—she leans just enough to let the words brush the air between them—“that lingers. And my smile, dear bard, is merely the advertisement.”
Tahlia swallows and asks about Brother Vult.
Saphra’s smile lingers, but her eyes sharpen, the playful gleam giving way to something colder. She traces the rim of her black opal ring as she speaks, her voice a velvet rasp edged with steel.
“Brother Vult,” she says at last, savoring the name like a curse. “Bald as a forge-stone, draped in red and black, and convinced the flames whisper prophecy to him. He calls himself the Voice of the One True Flame, but what he truly burns for is power.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice.
“He controls the Lower Foundry and the Slag Furnaces, south end of the industrial quarter—his own little kingdom of smoke and molten rock. The Ravagers who follow him aren’t mere thugs; they are zealots. He keeps them in line with sermons of cleansing fire, and they obey out of fear and fanatic faith.”
Saphra’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile.
“He is the mind behind Grinn Cragbrow’s rule, the ideological lash that keeps the rest of the Ravagers cowed. Remove him, and Grinn loses the preacher who gives his brutality purpose. Without Vult, the whole edifice cracks. Return to me and together we will then topple Grinn like a rotten beam.”
Saphra lets the silence draw for a heartbeat, then leans lightly on the iron table, her dark eyes catching the lantern-light like polished jet.
“The foundry is a furnace and a fortress,” she says, voice low and smooth. “Brother Vult keeps fanatics at every slag chute. You’ll need a shadow who knows the heat and the hidden ways. I’ll send you one of mine.”
She lifts a gloved hand and snaps her fingers. From the far side of the chamber a figure detaches from the gloom—a lithe half-elf in coal-black leathers, face half-masked in a scarf the color of banked embers.
Saphra’s smile returns, faint and edged.
“Ashstep will guide you through the slag tunnels and keep you breathing when the flames roar. He answers to me—but tonight, he is yours.”
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms