Archael listens and ponders what the Chief Engineer shares, then nods in agreement with Tahlia. "Yes, it would seem a confrontation is unavoidable if we want to leave this rock. Is there anything more you can tell us about that half-ogre and what numbers he commands at the scrapyard?" The white-haired noble asks calmly. "It is likely the half-ogre will be susceptible to a deception." He adds, looking at his associates for their thoughts.
Yorrick puffed on his pipe, the tip glowing faintly as he narrowed his eyes at Archael’s question.
“Korga? Hmph. Mean as a mule with a toothache and half as charming. That half-ogre’s been given full run of the scrapyard, and he acts like it’s his private kingdom.”
He tapped the ash off his pipe into a bent tin tray, then leaned forward over the crate-strewn table where the map was still spread.
“He’s usually got three or four thugs watching the perimeter—lazy, cruel types who get real interested if they think you’re carrying anything valuable. But that’s not the real danger…”
Yorrick jabbed a thick finger at a jagged black mark on the map.
"Korga keeps a pair of those cursed Voidmaw Stalkers—shadow-eyed beasts from beyond the spheres. Real quiet, real fast, and real good at dragging folks off when they think no one’s watching. He lets ’em loose at night. You hear the screams? That’s when you don’t go looking.”
He sat back, eyes sharp under his soot-smudged brow.
“And don’t forget, it’s a scrapyard. You’ve got razorvine, oozes, even the odd rust monster making nests in the hollowed-out engine bellies. Wouldn’t be surprised if Korga throws meat in just to keep the local nasties fed and on edge.”
Then, more grimly:
“One last thing. If you see anything with tendrils, spores, or a lumpy black shell that pulses—don’t touch it. Spelljammer Leech spores sometimes cling to wrecks. Nasty little parasites. You get one aboard, and you’ll be spending the rest of your voyage arguing with your helm as it grows teeth.”
Yorrick shuddered.
“Bad end, that. Just stick to the part you need and don’t lick anything glowing. That’s my professional advice.”
Djoser is quiet, clearly displeased that this repair stopover has turned into a campaign against the Ravagers. Then he sighs, relenting.
"I agree," he says to Archael. "This Korga may be tricked by duplicity... or bent via more direct mental manipulation. We should move on the scrapyard and show these thugs that our divine mission is beyond their meager powers to delay, hinder or oppress."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * Serge Marshblade - Human - Lvl 5 Eldritch Knight - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
DM -(Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown *Red Dead Annihilation: ToA *Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
The party winds their way through the smoke-streaked alleys of Ironfound Station, guided by the rough map lent by Yorrick. The air is thick with metallic dust, and the silence weighs heavy—no idle chatter, no merchants hawking wares, only the distant clang of foundry hammers and the occasional hiss of steam.
Archael leads with quiet confidence, the noble’s eyes scanning the signs and markers etched into the buildings. Tahlia stays close behind, light on her feet, occasionally brushing soot from her sleeves with an irritated flick. Djoser walks with deliberate steps, his hand always near the scroll case at his belt, while Vic, ever the sharp-eyed shadow, drifts toward the edge of the group, eyes flicking to rooftops and alleys.
It’s Vic who catches it—a flicker of movement on a rooftop far behind them. A cloaked figure, too nimble for a laborer and far too interested in their path. She signals the others with a subtle hand motion, but by the time they turn to look, the watcher has melted into the iron shadows of the port.
They reach the scrapyard shortly after. It’s a jagged complex of twisted metal and half-fused structures, the outer wall built from welded scrap, hull fragments, and broken plating, towering just high enough to discourage easy climbing. At the main entrance, a pair of massive sheet-metal doors loom, scarred by old arcane blasts and marked with sigils of territory. A lone Ravager thug lounges there, half-alert, chewing something tough and stringy while resting a hand on a notched blade.
From their vantage behind a rusted vent shaft, the party surveys the scene. The walls are patchwork and imperfect, hinting at stealthy options for those bold or cunning enough to try.
"Perhaps you can convince that man that we are here with a lucrative business offer that will ensure that Korga will gain in both power and wealth if we just could brifly meet with him, a coin or two might also help this meeting happen I suppose." The young white-haired waterdhavian noble suggests quietly to Tahlia.
Vic nods, and says "You guys talk to him, Ill see if i can find another way in". She attempts to quietly explore the shadows around the junkyard looking for an entry, but maybe is not her best. (10 stealth).
Fearing she may have been heard, she uses minor illusion to make the sound of a stray dog loudly sniffing and growling, leading away from her location (minor illusion), then, once she has an opportunity she will sneak inside..
Vic melts into the shadows along the jagged outer wall of the scrapyard, breath even and slow, every step tested before her weight shifts. She trails a gloved hand lightly along the surface, seeking an imperfection—a loose panel, a seam, anything.
But the scrapyard is more fortress than it first appeared. Sheet metal rasped softly under her touch, betraying her stealth. A sudden clatter of a rivet dislodged from above echoed far louder than expected.
Vic freezes.
She casts her illusion, waits a breathless beat, then she slips around a warped conduit, disappearing into the breach she’d marked earlier—a bent ventilation shaft just wide enough to allow passage. With the faint scent of rust and ozone in her nose, she vanishes into the scrapyard.
What Vic sees:
Vic emerges into a twisted maze of rusting hulls, shattered helm parts, and tangled arcane scrap. Faint glowstones cast eerie shadows. Distant clanks echo—someone or something moves. A pair of Voidmaws prowl near a wrecked skiff, and above, a rickety catwalk supports a patrolling thug, crossbow lazily slung.
Vic studies the voidmaws silently from her distance, curious as to how they are controlled- tamed, or if they are intelligent. She watches the patroling crossbowman, and studies the scene, waiting for the others to make a move.
After taking in the scene, Tahlia gives a slight nod to Archael at his suggestion and watches as Vic slips away and does her thing. This makes her smile. Turning back, she takes in the scrapyard that rises in a jagged sprawl of twisted metal and broken machines. Tahlia sets her sights at the gate where the lone thug leans—leather-clad, with a crossbow slung low and a bored expression on his face.
She doesn’t clank or stomp. Her steps are light, deliberate, the soft shimmer of her eladrin presence catching the light in subtle hues of her spring aspect. She stops a respectful distance away, tilts her head slightly, and offers a small smile that’s more mischievous than sweet.
“Good day, friend. I’m told this scrapyard’s ruled by a giant among men—Korga, was it? I’d like a word with him. Peaceful conversation, promise. We’re not here to make trouble… unless ‘polite’ is trouble nowadays.”
The thug shifts his weight, eyeing Tahlia up and down with a squint that tries and fails to match her poise. He scratches at a scar on his cheek and lets out a dry chuckle.
"Polite is trouble when it comes wrapped in smiles and silver tongues, elf. Korga don’t do tea and talk. If you ain't hauling tribute or muscle, you ain’t getting through."
He pats the haft of a club at his belt for emphasis, then glances behind him toward the yard. "‘Sides, he's not one for meetin’ strangers on a whim. Not without reason—or incentive."
(Inside with Vic)
For the moment, Vic is unnoticed. She studies the Voidmaws .
They seem to be some sort of aberration that behaves like a beast - the way they move seems to be searching, possibly instinctual or at least set to a task of using their instincts. They also pay the guard no heed, as if they are used to him and as such, he does not trigger their intent searching. One of them moves out of Tahlia's view as it snuffle-snarls around a pile of wreckage.
"Well, lets say we are wealthy merchants that are interested in something in there and want to trade for it? How much gold would be a proper incentive to your boss then?"Archael says with a polite smile.
The thug's eyes narrow with sudden interest, and the set of his jaw relaxes ever so slightly. He steps a bit closer, lowering his voice like a man sniffing opportunity. “Well now, that’s a language I understand.” He gives a lopsided grin and taps two fingers against his belt pouch. “Korga’s got no love for charity, but he respects coin. Say… fifty gold gets me whispering sweet nothings about your 'lucrative offer' in his ear.”
He leans in a touch more. “Make it seventy-five, and I’ll forget to mention you showed up uninvited.” He winks. “You know. As a courtesy."
Tahlia lets out a low whistle when she hears the cost that the thug throws out. Her father would have his say about folks demanding such things, definitely wouldn't be servin' his kind around their place.
She looks to Archael to see how he is going to respond. This, she thought, was ludicrous. Finally she can't help it, she asks, "And how about to see him for a reason? He likes to do business, right? I mean, who wouldn't?"
Persuasion (if I can roll again as I'm trying a different tactic): 20
((I will substitute Intimidation for your persuasion which still succeeds with your original roll 12 + 5 (intimidation bonus) =17))
The thug’s grin falters, just a flicker at first—then crumples completely under the weight of Tahlia’s pointed stare and sharp tone. He shifts on his feet, suddenly remembering he’s alone out here, and maybe not as in control as he’d like to be.
He clears his throat. “A-aye, business,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the eladrin and Archael. “Korga likes deals, sure. Don’t mean to overstep. Just—standard gate fee, you understand. Occupational hazard.” He tries a nervous chuckle. “Forget I said seventy-five. Let’s call it… twenty-five. Friendly-like.”
The thug squints, then leans a bit closer, lowering his voice.
“’Course, I’ll call someone in—but not 'til I see the shine. Business before hospitality, yeah?”
He taps his palm expectantly with two fingers. “Twenty-five gold buys you a walk and a word. Less than that, and you’re sightseeing the rust.”
Happy with the result, Tahlia turns to Archael for the response on this as he was the one that brought up money. She couldn't afford this, but she also wonders how Vic is doing in the back and hopes she hasn't gotten herself into trouble.
(VIc is hiding in the back, waiting to hear what happens with getting in, but she would be in favor of paying the bribe). Vic is a little nervous about the voidmawss, and is not about to try to take things on by herself.
Still worried about what happened to Miss Torius, Archael realizes there is no use waiting for her to return. He gives the elf an appreciative nod for talking down the price of admittance and hands the thug 25 pieces of gold. "Lead the way." He says with a polite smile, glancing at the present associates to make sure they were ready if things went south.
The thug weighs the gold coins in his hand with a satisfied grin, slipping them into a pouch at his belt.
He throws a glance over his shoulder at the heavy metal gates. With a grunt, he raises two fingers to his lips and gives a sharp, practiced whistle.
“Oi! Rusk! Company for the boss!”
After a moment, a young man with oil-stained overalls and a nervous energy jogs up to the gate from deeper within the yard. His lank hair and soot-smudged face mark him as a scrapper, but he straightens as he sees the party, clearly trying to put on a professional front.
“Right then. This way. Don’t stray off the path.”
He unlatches a reinforced gate built into the main doors—an inset crawl-walk corridor of welded metal mesh. The passage runs like a service catwalk through the scrapyard, walled on both sides by cage-like fencing. As they step in, the reason becomes clear: deep, guttural growls echo from beyond the piles of metal, and occasionally the glint of alien eyes or the shifting of fur can be seen through the cracks in the wreckage.
“Voidmaws don’t like strangers,” Rusk mutters over his shoulder. “This path keeps ‘em off you, long as you don’t reach through. And don’t make any sudden noises. They ain’t always chained.”
The scrapyard itself is a chaotic sprawl—twisted hulls of long-dead spelljammers, heaps of discarded mechanical limbs, glinting arcane components, and fractured cargo pods piled high. Arcane residue hums faintly in some areas, while minor levitation fields make debris float eerily mid-air. Odd vines and flickering oozes pulse here and there in the shadows, reminders of long-forgotten experiments or careless dumping.
Meanwhile, Vic, crouched in a collapsed crane overlooking one of the perimeter walls, spies the others making their way into the yard via the secure tunnel. The glow of Tahlia’s hair and Archael’s polished silver brooch catch her eye. From her vantage point, she can see the general direction they’re headed—and with careful maneuvering across the rusted scaffolding, she could tail them at a distance, covering their rear without drawing attention.
Archael listens and ponders what the Chief Engineer shares, then nods in agreement with Tahlia. "Yes, it would seem a confrontation is unavoidable if we want to leave this rock. Is there anything more you can tell us about that half-ogre and what numbers he commands at the scrapyard?" The white-haired noble asks calmly. "It is likely the half-ogre will be susceptible to a deception." He adds, looking at his associates for their thoughts.
Yorrick puffed on his pipe, the tip glowing faintly as he narrowed his eyes at Archael’s question.
“Korga? Hmph. Mean as a mule with a toothache and half as charming. That half-ogre’s been given full run of the scrapyard, and he acts like it’s his private kingdom.”
He tapped the ash off his pipe into a bent tin tray, then leaned forward over the crate-strewn table where the map was still spread.
“He’s usually got three or four thugs watching the perimeter—lazy, cruel types who get real interested if they think you’re carrying anything valuable. But that’s not the real danger…”
Yorrick jabbed a thick finger at a jagged black mark on the map.
"Korga keeps a pair of those cursed Voidmaw Stalkers—shadow-eyed beasts from beyond the spheres. Real quiet, real fast, and real good at dragging folks off when they think no one’s watching. He lets ’em loose at night. You hear the screams? That’s when you don’t go looking.”
He sat back, eyes sharp under his soot-smudged brow.
“And don’t forget, it’s a scrapyard. You’ve got razorvine, oozes, even the odd rust monster making nests in the hollowed-out engine bellies. Wouldn’t be surprised if Korga throws meat in just to keep the local nasties fed and on edge.”
Then, more grimly:
“One last thing. If you see anything with tendrils, spores, or a lumpy black shell that pulses—don’t touch it. Spelljammer Leech spores sometimes cling to wrecks. Nasty little parasites. You get one aboard, and you’ll be spending the rest of your voyage arguing with your helm as it grows teeth.”
Yorrick shuddered.
“Bad end, that. Just stick to the part you need and don’t lick anything glowing. That’s my professional advice.”
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
Djoser is quiet, clearly displeased that this repair stopover has turned into a campaign against the Ravagers. Then he sighs, relenting.
"I agree," he says to Archael. "This Korga may be tricked by duplicity... or bent via more direct mental manipulation. We should move on the scrapyard and show these thugs that our divine mission is beyond their meager powers to delay, hinder or oppress."
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * Serge Marshblade - Human - Lvl 5 Eldritch Knight - Hoard of the Dragon Queen
DM - (Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown * Red Dead Annihilation: ToA * Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
The party winds their way through the smoke-streaked alleys of Ironfound Station, guided by the rough map lent by Yorrick. The air is thick with metallic dust, and the silence weighs heavy—no idle chatter, no merchants hawking wares, only the distant clang of foundry hammers and the occasional hiss of steam.
Archael leads with quiet confidence, the noble’s eyes scanning the signs and markers etched into the buildings. Tahlia stays close behind, light on her feet, occasionally brushing soot from her sleeves with an irritated flick. Djoser walks with deliberate steps, his hand always near the scroll case at his belt, while Vic, ever the sharp-eyed shadow, drifts toward the edge of the group, eyes flicking to rooftops and alleys.
It’s Vic who catches it—a flicker of movement on a rooftop far behind them. A cloaked figure, too nimble for a laborer and far too interested in their path. She signals the others with a subtle hand motion, but by the time they turn to look, the watcher has melted into the iron shadows of the port.
They reach the scrapyard shortly after. It’s a jagged complex of twisted metal and half-fused structures, the outer wall built from welded scrap, hull fragments, and broken plating, towering just high enough to discourage easy climbing. At the main entrance, a pair of massive sheet-metal doors loom, scarred by old arcane blasts and marked with sigils of territory. A lone Ravager thug lounges there, half-alert, chewing something tough and stringy while resting a hand on a notched blade.
From their vantage behind a rusted vent shaft, the party surveys the scene. The walls are patchwork and imperfect, hinting at stealthy options for those bold or cunning enough to try.
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
"Perhaps you can convince that man that we are here with a lucrative business offer that will ensure that Korga will gain in both power and wealth if we just could brifly meet with him, a coin or two might also help this meeting happen I suppose." The young white-haired waterdhavian noble suggests quietly to Tahlia.
Vic nods, and says "You guys talk to him, Ill see if i can find another way in". She attempts to quietly explore the shadows around the junkyard looking for an entry, but maybe is not her best. (10 stealth).
Fearing she may have been heard, she uses minor illusion to make the sound of a stray dog loudly sniffing and growling, leading away from her location (minor illusion), then, once she has an opportunity she will sneak inside..
Vic melts into the shadows along the jagged outer wall of the scrapyard, breath even and slow, every step tested before her weight shifts. She trails a gloved hand lightly along the surface, seeking an imperfection—a loose panel, a seam, anything.
But the scrapyard is more fortress than it first appeared. Sheet metal rasped softly under her touch, betraying her stealth. A sudden clatter of a rivet dislodged from above echoed far louder than expected.
Vic freezes.
She casts her illusion, waits a breathless beat, then she slips around a warped conduit, disappearing into the breach she’d marked earlier—a bent ventilation shaft just wide enough to allow passage. With the faint scent of rust and ozone in her nose, she vanishes into the scrapyard.
What Vic sees:
Vic emerges into a twisted maze of rusting hulls, shattered helm parts, and tangled arcane scrap. Faint glowstones cast eerie shadows. Distant clanks echo—someone or something moves. A pair of Voidmaws prowl near a wrecked skiff, and above, a rickety catwalk supports a patrolling thug, crossbow lazily slung.
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
Vic studies the voidmaws silently from her distance, curious as to how they are controlled- tamed, or if they are intelligent. She watches the patroling crossbowman, and studies the scene, waiting for the others to make a move.
Vic 17 perception in log, using her Obviator's skills to try to tip the scales in an encounter to come... if needed.
After taking in the scene, Tahlia gives a slight nod to Archael at his suggestion and watches as Vic slips away and does her thing. This makes her smile. Turning back, she takes in the scrapyard that rises in a jagged sprawl of twisted metal and broken machines. Tahlia sets her sights at the gate where the lone thug leans—leather-clad, with a crossbow slung low and a bored expression on his face.
She doesn’t clank or stomp. Her steps are light, deliberate, the soft shimmer of her eladrin presence catching the light in subtle hues of her spring aspect. She stops a respectful distance away, tilts her head slightly, and offers a small smile that’s more mischievous than sweet.
“Good day, friend. I’m told this scrapyard’s ruled by a giant among men—Korga, was it? I’d like a word with him. Peaceful conversation, promise. We’re not here to make trouble… unless ‘polite’ is trouble nowadays.”
Persuasion: 14
(Outside with Tahlia and the guard)
The thug shifts his weight, eyeing Tahlia up and down with a squint that tries and fails to match her poise. He scratches at a scar on his cheek and lets out a dry chuckle.
"Polite is trouble when it comes wrapped in smiles and silver tongues, elf. Korga don’t do tea and talk. If you ain't hauling tribute or muscle, you ain’t getting through."
He pats the haft of a club at his belt for emphasis, then glances behind him toward the yard.
"‘Sides, he's not one for meetin’ strangers on a whim. Not without reason—or incentive."
(Inside with Vic)
For the moment, Vic is unnoticed. She studies the Voidmaws .
They seem to be some sort of aberration that behaves like a beast - the way they move seems to be searching, possibly instinctual or at least set to a task of using their instincts. They also pay the guard no heed, as if they are used to him and as such, he does not trigger their intent searching. One of them moves out of Tahlia's view as it snuffle-snarls around a pile of wreckage.
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
"Well, lets say we are wealthy merchants that are interested in something in there and want to trade for it? How much gold would be a proper incentive to your boss then?" Archael says with a polite smile.
The thug's eyes narrow with sudden interest, and the set of his jaw relaxes ever so slightly. He steps a bit closer, lowering his voice like a man sniffing opportunity.
“Well now, that’s a language I understand.”
He gives a lopsided grin and taps two fingers against his belt pouch. “Korga’s got no love for charity, but he respects coin. Say… fifty gold gets me whispering sweet nothings about your 'lucrative offer' in his ear.”
He leans in a touch more.
“Make it seventy-five, and I’ll forget to mention you showed up uninvited.”
He winks. “You know. As a courtesy."
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
Tahlia lets out a low whistle when she hears the cost that the thug throws out. Her father would have his say about folks demanding such things, definitely wouldn't be servin' his kind around their place.
She looks to Archael to see how he is going to respond. This, she thought, was ludicrous. Finally she can't help it, she asks, "And how about to see him for a reason? He likes to do business, right? I mean, who wouldn't?"
Persuasion (if I can roll again as I'm trying a different tactic): 20
((I will substitute Intimidation for your persuasion which still succeeds with your original roll 12 + 5 (intimidation bonus) =17))
The thug’s grin falters, just a flicker at first—then crumples completely under the weight of Tahlia’s pointed stare and sharp tone. He shifts on his feet, suddenly remembering he’s alone out here, and maybe not as in control as he’d like to be.
He clears his throat.
“A-aye, business,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the eladrin and Archael. “Korga likes deals, sure. Don’t mean to overstep. Just—standard gate fee, you understand. Occupational hazard.” He tries a nervous chuckle. “Forget I said seventy-five. Let’s call it… twenty-five. Friendly-like.”
The thug squints, then leans a bit closer, lowering his voice.
“’Course, I’ll call someone in—but not 'til I see the shine. Business before hospitality, yeah?”
He taps his palm expectantly with two fingers. “Twenty-five gold buys you a walk and a word. Less than that, and you’re sightseeing the rust.”
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
Happy with the result, Tahlia turns to Archael for the response on this as he was the one that brought up money. She couldn't afford this, but she also wonders how Vic is doing in the back and hopes she hasn't gotten herself into trouble.
((Translating the Guard's words, the team has choices:
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms
(VIc is hiding in the back, waiting to hear what happens with getting in, but she would be in favor of paying the bribe). Vic is a little nervous about the voidmawss, and is not about to try to take things on by herself.
Still worried about what happened to Miss Torius, Archael realizes there is no use waiting for her to return. He gives the elf an appreciative nod for talking down the price of admittance and hands the thug 25 pieces of gold. "Lead the way." He says with a polite smile, glancing at the present associates to make sure they were ready if things went south.
The thug weighs the gold coins in his hand with a satisfied grin, slipping them into a pouch at his belt.
He throws a glance over his shoulder at the heavy metal gates. With a grunt, he raises two fingers to his lips and gives a sharp, practiced whistle.
“Oi! Rusk! Company for the boss!”
After a moment, a young man with oil-stained overalls and a nervous energy jogs up to the gate from deeper within the yard. His lank hair and soot-smudged face mark him as a scrapper, but he straightens as he sees the party, clearly trying to put on a professional front.
“Right then. This way. Don’t stray off the path.”
He unlatches a reinforced gate built into the main doors—an inset crawl-walk corridor of welded metal mesh. The passage runs like a service catwalk through the scrapyard, walled on both sides by cage-like fencing. As they step in, the reason becomes clear: deep, guttural growls echo from beyond the piles of metal, and occasionally the glint of alien eyes or the shifting of fur can be seen through the cracks in the wreckage.
“Voidmaws don’t like strangers,” Rusk mutters over his shoulder. “This path keeps ‘em off you, long as you don’t reach through. And don’t make any sudden noises. They ain’t always chained.”
The scrapyard itself is a chaotic sprawl—twisted hulls of long-dead spelljammers, heaps of discarded mechanical limbs, glinting arcane components, and fractured cargo pods piled high. Arcane residue hums faintly in some areas, while minor levitation fields make debris float eerily mid-air. Odd vines and flickering oozes pulse here and there in the shadows, reminders of long-forgotten experiments or careless dumping.
Meanwhile, Vic, crouched in a collapsed crane overlooking one of the perimeter walls, spies the others making their way into the yard via the secure tunnel. The glow of Tahlia’s hair and Archael’s polished silver brooch catch her eye. From her vantage point, she can see the general direction they’re headed—and with careful maneuvering across the rusted scaffolding, she could tail them at a distance, covering their rear without drawing attention.
Eryndor - Red Dead Annihilation | GM - Volo's Trade Franchise - PF2e Adventures set in the Forgotten Realms