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cthulhusstepmom · 4 months

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What Is and What Could Be

Down in the bayou it’s never silent. The air is filled with the shrill calls of a million marsh birds, underscored by the harmonies of cicadas, crickets, and whining mosquitos. With a tempo set by croaking bullfrogs and sluggishly churning water, urged along by hooting owls and supported by the bass tones of bellowing gators. The song of the swamp is a busy tune, not unlike the brassy jazz played by those that live there. And if you know how to listen just right, it can tell you no shortage of things.

In a warm and humid tavern a group of adventurers sits around a table, glancing furtively this way and that, squirming slightly under the judgemental stare of the more naturalized citizens. Things don’t often change in the bayou, it’s a wild place, untamed. Civilization has tried to reach within before and without fail it’s been pushed back with prejudice, those that do live here are proud of it and somewhat by design they tend to be a rather insular folk. By and large this means they don’t take kindly to most strangers. Particularly strangers that show up asking questions .

And this crew had been asking plenty, beyond the glaring offense of very clearly not being from around this neck of the woods.

They rolled into town a few days ago, talking like Galticans or similar enough to them, and by the look in their eyes: running from who knows what. They found rooms at one of the nicer inns, kept to themselves and tipped decent enough(it takes more than that to ingratiate yourselves to the folk of Agwé) before they started asking things. Innocuous at first. They wanted to know about the circus going on just out of town, who the mayor was(useless question) and who was really in charge(that one earned them some begrudging respect). Then they dug deeper, asked about other people. Powerful people. People who are none too fond of having their business nosed about.

However, if there’s one thing the people of Agwé like more than being stalwartly unhelpful to those they dislike, it’s watching someone else be stalwartly unhelpful and commentating on it over Sunday brunch and mimosas.

“I’ll tell you what, you go on over to that carnival a ways outta town and I reckon you’ll find who you’re looking for.” A greasy tabaxi offers between wiping tables, battered tail flicking back and forth with a hard to determine emotion. “I wouldn’t dawdle if I were you, it won’t be in town much longer.” The Tabaxi returns to his business with a glinting smile and a few gold pieces that were well worth the trouble. If city slickers wanna go poking beehives it’s not his business to stop them, especially if he’s compensated for handing them the stick.

The carnival itself is in full swing when they arrive, flashing lights and smells both sweet and savory assaulting their senses from the get go. The operation is staffed by a motley crew of goblinoids, bullywugs, humans, kobolds, and anything else one could reasonably imagine; in the corner of her vision, the half elven leader of the group of adventurers even catches sight of what look to be a few pixies working the crowd though the tide of patrons sways and they’re obscured before she can be fully certain.

Games line the thoroughfare all of which, from the looks of a surreptitious investigation, appear to be thoroughly if subtly rigged. Arching above the sea of people is an impressive ferris wheel, bedazzled with twinkling magical lights as it turns and turns. Near it, a calliope booms a cheery tune over the sounds of hawking carnival workers, screaming children, and laughing patrons. A map near the entrance advertises a hall of mirrors, a freak show, and hourly performances in the red and white striped big top including a magic show, fire dancing, beast taming, and a spectacle led by the carnival owner at noon and midnight. Perusing through the carnival, wandering and wondering just how they’re meant to find anyone here let alone the one man they seek, the party save one(a dragonborn with a hand harp strapped to his side) seems oblivious to an odd quirk of this particular carnival. There doesn’t seem to be any clowns.

Their hotheaded gnome companion is easily egged into a game of strength(taunted all the while by a colorful lizardfolk wearing the symbol of the carnival), black eyes glitter with excitement as their minotaur begs to go to the big top to see the beasts in the next show as the small pseudodragon on his shoulder makes similar pleading motions, a disinterested rabbitfolk quickly snatches her hands away from a passing purse under the stern reprimand of an androgynous human with subtly glowing eyes. They come to the conclusion that they should split, agreeing that they will meet at the big top in an hour for the Spectacular, all concluding that should be their best chance to get an audience with who they seek.

As they go their separate ways(one pair to the big top, one pair to the freak show, one making her way down the alley of carnival games and the last picking his way towards the concessions) the party is pulled into the atmosphere of merriment and none of them perceive the very distinct feeling of predatory eyes locked on their every move.

The party never gets a chance to reconvene at the big top.

Instead, throughout the hour each one meets a disparate misfortune. The half elven woman drops to her knees at the edge of the thoroughfare, clutching her head in pain as the hand reaching for a holy symbol falls limp.

Behind her, the human spins about in panic, muttering a few infernal words before a hand is clamped over their mouth and ether slowly calms their struggling limbs.

At a dart game, the dragonborn reaches to claim his prize and suddenly finds himself somewhere else entirely with only a moment to scream before his mind is enveloped in darkness and he falls to the ground fast asleep.

In the large circus tent, the harengon thief is escorted away from her thoroughly distracted friend by a mysterious tabaxi claiming to be security, receiving a sharp blow to the temple as they walk towards a ‘holding cell’.

Within the hall of mirrors, a black and orange hand reaches forth and yanks the furs worn by the gnome; sending her careening through the glass-turned-portal.

Last to go is the minotaur. Enamored by the performance, he couldn’t pass up a chance to speak with the beastmaster of the carnival: an old goblin with an easy smile and a worn wooden ocarina. The only moment of warning he had was a deep hoot behind him before the world went dark.

Some indeterminate time later the human is wrenched from unconsciousness by a familiar, if perpetually jarring, voice shouting within their mind. In swift order they endeavor to wake the others, attempting to take stock of the situation. Their surroundings are dark, what little light is present struggles to illuminate anything through heavy curtains drawn over wide windows. Beneath them is an opulent rug, the color of which is hard to discern in the low light, and under that are tight wooden floorboards that match the walls of this space. What they can see of the walls anyway; most of the space is taken by lavish hangings and shelves of kick knacks, the one closest to them holds a beat up silver cigarette case, a small wooden figure of a two headed vulture, a clockwork dragonfly, a crocheted doily, a hip flask, and a vial that looks to house a small lily pad floating in water amongst a few other things. The air is thick with the scent of quality tobacco and warm food and the ambience it creates might even be homey and welcoming in the right circumstances. Though now, tied securely to chairs with no idea how they got there, it seems rather daunting.

Spatially, the room is quite large. Wide enough for six chairs with displeased adventurers to be lined up side by side with a foot or so of walking room on one side. It’s longer than it is wide, maybe twice over though it’s hard to tell; the windows are positioned opposite each other in the very center of each wall, what light that escapes the curtains quickly stifles in almost absolute darkness before it reveals any sign of a far wall, at least to disadvantaged human eyes. What does catch their gaze and take their breath away are a pair of glowing dull magenta dots in the darkness. No, that’s not quite right. Not dots. Eyes .

From the gasps coming from their left and right, some of the human’s more visually attuned party members have also perceived the eyes, and most likely the creature attached to them, whatever horrific beast it may be.

Soon after they discover their predicament, the air is filled with the muffled noises of the carnivalé outside and underneath the muted cacophony the occasional grunt over a chorus of heavy breathing(the Thing on the other end of the room doesn’t move a single muscle, doesn’t even seem to breathe), a sliver of light falls upon the interior of the wagon.

Creaaaaaaak.

A door on the far side of the wagon opens.

It takes a moment for the adventurers to get their bearing in the new light, when they do they first notice the creature connected to those dully shining eyes.

A large bugbear stands against the far wall. He stands tall, the tips of his bat-like ears almost brushing the ceiling, limbs corded with lithe muscle, and a severe bearing that hints at confidence and ferocity. Running over his arms and up under his sleeves are large spots devoid of any of the dense brown fur that covers the rest of him, a closer look reveals thick rings of angry scar tissue, long healed but clearly agonizing once.

As the bugbear moves away from the opening door he reveals these new variables to their unfortunate situation.

Stepping into the room with twin, thudding, clanks , a large fire genasi drags a pair of thick chains across the floor attached to weathered manacles that cover his forearms. The genasi is broad, with muscles that speak of hard labor and sheer physical power. His face is creased with deep laugh lines though the only smile on his lips at the moment is a malicious smirk as he reaches behind him to hold the door open.

Lastly, a lizardfolk gentleman strolls through the door. He moves with the assured ease of a man who holds all the cards. Wearing a sharp purple suit, hand gripping the amethyst skull atop an ornate cane, the lizardfolk takes his time setting his top hat on a stand in the corner, breezing under the watchful eyes of the bugbear without a care for the sharp claws hovering near his snout. When he finally seats himself in a commanding armchair set front and center of the room, he casually fishes in his suit coat before withdrawing a sleek black cigarette holder and a cigarette from a mother of pearl case. It’s hardly in his hand for more than a second before the genasi at his shoulder provides a light at the tip of his finger before leaning with crossed arms on the back of the chair. As his back makes contact with the leather, a spidery hand covered in fur proffers a crystal tumbler of dark alcohol.

After a long, weighted silence and a luxurious draw from the cigarette, he speaks.

“What a do friends …”

#man in five years when they finish the module i'm so stoked for EVERYTHING to be HAPPY and OKAY #could you imagine these chucklefucks in a serious campaign? really think about it they already commit war crimes #and that's WITH the generally lighthearted fey tomfoolery jfc #also we don't talk about Gideon and Torbek as character foils enough #i can and will write a dissertation on this #p.s. Twig is there too she's just busy with the Inn #once upon a witchlight #legends of avantris #kremy lecroux #morning frost #gideon coal #gricko grimgrin #hootsie grimgrin #torbek #OC mentions but really only as a framing device

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