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what do you mean it has a basement
our best attempt at narrativizing the events of Samora's tabletop game
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Here's the thing about astrology: the stars are not, in fact, located upon the planet of Golarion, where prophecy is broken.

 

Now, mind you, that still doesn't make it at all useful, most of the time. The prophecy noise is not completely localized to the planet and even at significant distances from it the situation is not nearly the equal of what it was a century ago. Astrology even in situations of completely functional prophecy very much has 'predicted fifty of the last five near apocalypses' syndrome despite the fact that around here there are really quite a lot of genuine near misses with apocalypses. It has no combat applications whatsoever, not even the little tricks a divination specialist wizard can do. For nearly all applications, an augury will be more reliable every time, and usually cheaper to boot.

What an augury-- or for that matter a divination-- can't do, though, anymore, is predict the future in vivid detailed color several years in advance with very little divine intervention cost, clearly enough to give you a specific course of action you had better take. Astrology can do that, even in the Age of Lost Omens. It doesn't, usually; you have to get quite extraordinarily lucky. ("Lucky" here meaning "something important enough that Iomedae and Desna both think it's worth it"; the intervention cost isn't zero, it's just a lot cheaper than any other kind of prediction.) 

But it can.  

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In the winter of 4713 AR, in a little logging town called Otari, notable mostly for being at roughly the halfway point between Absalom and Diobel such that its taverns are greatly beloved by the mail service, the astrologer wakes up in a cold sweat, and scrambles for her letter-writing pen. 

(...) I know you know I wouldn't say it was important if it was just a silly intuition about matchmatching, you know me, tell them (...) a teenage girl with dark hair and silver eyes (...) by the uniform and holy symbol, gotta be one of yours, I think she must have graduated this season (...) 

(...) all manner of weird nonsense if I'm right and you're just the weird nonsense expert for the job (...) I know it's a long trip up here from the desert but I promise it'll be worth your while, maybe get some circles out of it, if Lastwall gets back to me (...) they like answering theology questions, you'll like her (...)  

The thing that makes Wrin sure she hasn't just had a really odd dream is that she goes outside, letters in hand, trying to figure out how she is possibly supposed to find the third one, a dead man with unrecognizably worn-off heraldry and no holy symbol who she has never met in her life, and he's standing outside her door. (She could not possibly have recognized him, except that she saw him in her head about fifteen minutes ago and all the little tiny scratches in his armor are in the same places and that cannot be a coincidence.) 

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"Good morning madame Sivinxi, Captain Longsaddle sent me to ask for--" 

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"Oh my gosh I had a dream about you!" 

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??? ? ?? ?? ?? ? ? 

".....did it, by chance, tell you who I am?" Pause. The face-concealing helm that goes with his full plate, which he never takes off, makes it difficult to discern whether he is making some sort of facial expression. "I ask, you understand, because I have no idea." 

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Wrin's facial expressions are clearly understandable at approximately a hundred yards. She is bewildered and delighted. 

"No!!! Maybe we can find out together!!!!" 

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"--well, certainly I would be honored to have your assistance in this matter. Though first I should deliver my message..." 


 

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"Our armored mystery? Yeah, he's been here a couple weeks. Keeps trying to politely introduce himself and then stopping because he can't remember his name, it'd be very funny if it weren't tragic. Gets more words into the sentence every few times, though. Hopefully soon he'll get to a name, the boys are going to agree on a nickname any day now and knowing them it'll be something stupid." It's not a big town, the average age of his little ragtag pile of kids who sign up for the militia for lack of available work at the logging mill is, like, fourteen. Mystery Armor Guy keeps gently correcting them when they're little teenage shitheads to each other and they actually listen to him because he sounds like your fondly disapproving grandfather instead of, as in the case of Longsaddle himself, your annoying boss. "If you are about to say some kind of wizard shit about mysteries being dangerous--" 

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"No! I love mysteries! I just want to hear all about him! Tell me tell me!!" 

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Suspicious squint. "...turned up claiming he woke up in the Cairnlands with no memory of anything. Talks like my granddad, all proper posh Oppara, I think he must have got in trouble down south and that's why he won't take his helmet off, but he's real good to have around. Strong as an ox and never complains about boring tasks, just seems to want to make himself useful. Here's hoping we don't find out for a good long while but I'd bet my hat we'll want him around next time there's wolves out of the woods." 

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"Huh. .... well I do need to borrow him for mysterious astrology reasons but not for a couple of weeks at least." 

Even if Lastwall sends the right person on request, she doesn't have nearly enough information to convince them this is teleport-grade serious, not for a first-year new grad out of seminary. Whoever the mystery cleric girl is, she's going to have to walk, and that's going to be weeks. Wrin has a lot of penpals and so happens to know that mail will travel from Vigil to Absalom in about three weeks minimum in good weather. (Well, unless you get really lucky and there's extremely little high priority teleport mail that day; the Iomedan teleporters tend to be sticklers about annoying nearby systems into not using teleports with less than their full weight capacity allocated and they will totally just grab the entire stack of cheap-stamp personal letters out of the mail depot while they're there if the alternative is not doing Anything helpful. But your odds aren't great, especially in the winter when the Worldwound eats up a lot of northern Avistan's teleport capacity on tanking 'a blizzard ate our commander' type emergencies.) 

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In the Age of Lost Omens the country of Lastwall does still, kind of, have the infrastructural capability to respond to Prophetic Bullshit. It gets a lot fewer resources allocated to it, nearly zero of them in fact, because wow do they ever not have resources to spend on anything, but you do sometimes get clerics of Desna and occasionally Nefreti Clepati turning up with dire warnings and so on just often enough that you don't completely turn off that institutional response even though it gets triggered pretty rarely. 

Wrin's letter filters its way through various security procedures, shepherded by a note from her paladin friend that says he's reasonably sure she's legit, and eventually it turns into orders. 

No one is going to tell Samora, a teenage first-circle cleric newly graduated from seminary, that there might be Prophecy Shit. The institutional response policy says that you don't do that because usually if you tell a baby adventurer that they got Prophecied About, either they get really cocky and die instantly or they get one million anxiety and die instantly, neither of which is a desirable outcome.

They're just going to tell her that she's been assigned Adventurer by Triage Resource Allocation. Which, to be clear, does happen all the time for perfectly normal reasons! Lastwall does care about things other than Tar-Baphon containment and the Worldwound, and there are a lot of problems on the continent. Many problems have a hazard rating of "well, it's not the literal end of the world if this problem doesn't get solved and we don't have the slack to assign someone who will definitely manage it, but it would produce sapient flourishing if it were fixed", and that is where you send people you think will do well as independent adventurers (i.e., either too temperamentally Chaotic to do well in the army but competent to do Good elsewhere, or, as in Samora's case, sufficiently Wise that they're competent to make reliably Lawful Good decisions without a CO in shouting distance), since trying to fix things you aren't strong enough to definitely handle and might die of is a great way to get more circles and Lastwall could always, desperately, continuously, use more people with more circles. 

Samora is advised that: 

1) Since being an independent adventurer is not formally part of a military or civil service command structure, they are, legally speaking, giving her advice for what to do. Almost nobody takes this assignment straight out of seminary/war college/wizard academy and goes and does some random other thing on purpose, obviously, because this is Lastwall, but if she gets, like, sidetracked by an emergency on her way there or something, that's fine, that's a normal thing that happens to adventurers, don't panic about failing to meet your legal obligations that you do not in fact have, etc. 

2) She's welcome to join the military on purpose later, obviously, she's not banned from doing that or anything, but the considered recommendation of the resources allocation people is that she come back in, oh, say, five years, by which time if she's still alive she'll probably have hit third or maybe even fourth circle, faster than she'd get them at the worldwound on average. 

3) That said, and again this is not an order (it is really important to them that the people of Lastwall in general understand that instructions from military command are only orders if you are actually in the army because otherwise the concept of a civilian is a fiction and that's bad), they would appreciate if she'd grab the outgoing Vigil-Absalom snail mail, hop a caravan south, and meet up with the astrologer in Otari (they'll show her where it is on this nice map of the Isle of Kortos). Apparently Sivinxi has some kind of Cursed Lighthouse Situation and some other baby adventurers who are in need of a cleric? Good luck, godspeed, here's how to address mail through the church in Absalom if you need to write for advice in future, try not to die.  

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She is aware that none of that is orders but she has no reason not to do it and plenty of reason to believe that things go better when everyone listens to the resource allocation people, so sure! The Fourth Crusade lasted fifteen years; if this one goes well she's not going to miss out just because she took a couple years to solve some other problems. And maybe she'll come back with another circle or two and some nice gear, who knows.

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Leaving by caravan is a very different experience than coming up to Vigil was. She doesn't need a brother to escort her now; she's a grown woman with a holy symbol and a soldier's steady gait. The load of furniture she rides out with is happy to have her along as long as she's going their way, to provide a bit of deterrence from bandits and a bit of healing if anyone gets stepped on by a horse and as much water as they want without having to stop for it.

She detours by her hometown on the way south; it's not far out of her way and her parents want to see their little girl all grown up, and she wants to see them. They hug her and exclaim over how tall she's gotten and show her the whole stack of letters she sent them, nearly sorted in a little basket. Little Keren is fourteen now, and she and the miller's son keep looking at each other and then looking away when the other notices.

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"Come with me," says Jann after the fanciest dinner Elinda has cooked in weeks. "I have a present for you." From a high shelf in the forge he takes down a plain leather scabbard and draws out a beautiful sword, rippling like water in the light of sunset, silver-inlaid and strong and light and sharp as a moment of insight. "I made it when I got your letter saying you'd been empowered, but I'd been saving up for the silver since you left. I knew you were brave, and wise, and good, and that you'd live the kind of life that needs a sword. It's a dangerous world and I want to make you as ready for it as I can."

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"Dad, this is amazing, thank you. And--you've been getting me ready to face the world my whole life. You and Mom, your example--I'm going to make you proud."

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"I know you are."

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She leaves the next morning, after hugs all around, and walks and hitchhikes and walks some more, around the Fangwood, down to Lake Encarthan and across it by boat, south through Druma and Andoran and by boat again to Absalom, stopping just long enough to drop off the mail, and then west across the island to Otari.

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A ways south, in northern Garund, the desert nomads are settled in for the winter, though they'll start gearing up to move in the spring soon enough. They have had a visitor, this season, who as visitors go has been a very pleasant one, especially during the slow season when there's not much hunting or gathering to do and it's not much of a hardship to be interviewed. They're a little dubious, generally, of gnomes, who are prone to being... uh... gnomes, but they don't eat much, and 'polite and friendly' goes a long way toward people being happy to talk about their personal and tribal history, their dialect and what the connotations of thus and such phrase are, what they know about obscure types of sand elemental, et cetera, et cetera. 

They don't get mail often, being as they are rarely in the same place, but sometimes folks have family who went off to the city to seek their fortune, or such-like, so sometimes in the winter when they're stationary for long enough somebody'll swing by, if they got paid to. 

There's a letter for their visitor! All the way from Absalom! 

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Ooh, it's from her astrologer friend! Ooooh, she had a weird dream! Ooooooh, there's a cursed lighthouse! Yeah she'll absolutely hitchhike to the coast and get on a boat north, this is way more interesting than whatever she was doing five minutes ago. Byeeeeeeee!

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O...kay then. Uh, travel safe?? 

Gnomes: They Sure Are. 

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About half an hour's walk into the swamp, where no one goes if they have a lick of sense, there is a lighthouse. 

Not quite three hundred years ago, an adventuring party defeated an evil witch there. They lost their rogue in the fight-- a fellow by the name of Otari Ilvashti-- and rather than find another, they retired from adventuring, founded a village nearby, and named it after him.

The lighthouse hasn't done anything particularly interesting since, but the local legend persisted. These days, it's a little nursery rhyme sung to children to discourage them from straying too far into the wilderness: 

When the fog is creeping,
And the moon is low;
When the town is sleeping,
Gauntlight starts to glow!

That’s when she arises
For her midnight lunch.
Naughty kids are prizes
For her teeth to crunch.

But if you obey me,
And obey the rules;
You’re safe from Belcorra;
She just eats the fools!

None of those things, of course, are true. 

Except-- 

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At the end of Calistril, it glows. 

Just for a few minutes, and nothing else happens. But it can be seen from everywhere outdoors in Otari. 

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It's all anyone in town will talk of, for weeks. It's real! Should they be worried? Is all the rest of the rhyme also true? Should they be writing to Absalom? Does anyone know anyone in Absalom that might volunteer to do something about it if they asked??

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"Don't worry! I have a plan! .... an idea of a plan. Something resembling an idea. Maybe."


 

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Tris and Samora, by sheer coincidence Because Wrin Is Super Good At Adventurer Matchmaking, Thank You Very Much, arrive in Otari at very nearly the same time, just a few days after the ominous light. 

The astrologer very cheerfully invites them, and the third one, to tea. 

"So! The lighthouse!" she says. "You've heard the talk in town, of course. Our lighthouse is haunted and we would really love for some adventurers to investigate." And by 'we' she means 'her' because everyone else wants it to be someone else's problem and Wrin would love it to be her problem except that, like, she wants to know abstractly, actually going into the actual swamp herself sounds hard and scary. "I like to think I know a thing or two about guessing if people will get along and I am very excited to introduce you folks to each other! Go ahead and tell each other," and her, hopefully, "a little about yourselves!!" 

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"I'm Tris! I have psychic powers! I cast from Cunning but I'm more like a sorcerer, I don't prep in the mornings I just do whatever. Mostly stuff related to the mind but I can also make my crossbow shoot through walls and around corners. And I'm interested in" general gesture in the direction of the lighthouse "occult happenings".

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"I'm Samora! I just graduated from seminary up in Lastwall and came down here because I heard there was adventuring to be done. I heal, I spellcast, I am and I quote 'not a complete embarrassment' with a sword."

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Oh no. They're so small? Why has he been assigned these small and earnest children? They shouldn't be-- okay, no, there's no way, they're obviously going with or without him even if he tells them they shouldn't. 

Welp. Guess these are his small and earnest children now. 

 

"........A pleasure to meet you, miss Tris, miss Samora," says the suit of armor. "I know very little of magic, myself, but with any luck shan't need to, as I am for swords." Pause. "Well. I am not entirely sure I remember how to swing a sword, actually, but I suppose I will soon find out." He shrugs, and considers, and attempts, optimistically, "I am called--" 

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"--Marshall." Huh. 

Well, that's probably auspicious on the remembering how to use a sword front. 

He had a family name, once, he thinks. Maybe that one will come back eventually too. 

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"Why don't you remember if you can swing a sword? Did something happen to your memories? Can you tell me about it?"

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Ah, so it's the casting from cunning that makes you A Wizard and not the spell prep. Honestly pretty reasonable questions. "Would you like to spar with me before we go look at the lighthouse, see if it refreshes your memory a bit?"

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"I suppose something must have happened to my memories, yes, but naturally I cannot remember what it was." Shrug. "It will return in time, or perhaps it will not. I would be happy to spar a bit, though we should not take too long at it and find ourselves forgetting to pursue our true objective." 

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Marshall, it transpires, does not super remember how to use his sword. He moves like he's expecting his limbs to behave very differently than they do and every time he reaches for a specific trained move, the way Samora can do because she has been drilling on them daily for years, it's not there. He spends most of their sparring time grumbling to himself about how he is absolutely not in any way up to standard and this is embarrassing and he's very sorry. 

It will by about five minutes into this be obvious that his standards for himself are, actually, insane. If they were trying to have a real fight to the death in an antimagic field, he'd win. 

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(a brief aside on game-mechanics facts) Fun fact: It is approximately the case (modulo the fact that we're back-propagating later characterization decisions to a game state that never actually existed and no one in this room has a legal character sheet), that until they reach level 2, Samora has a better base attack bonus than Marshall. This is mechanically caused by the fact that her racial hit die is that of a full-progression martial and his isn't, but in-world it's caused by the fact that he can't remember jack and/or shit while she literally just graduated Sword School Where They Teach You Swords On Purpose. His total attack bonus however is still higher because he has 18 Strength.

 

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Well, memory problems or no memory problems he's clearly good enough to be an asset to the party. "I hope you get your memory back soon, not being able to remember things sounds really rough." And they can thank the astrologer for the introductions and go check out that cursed lighthouse!