September 9th, 973
The party’s next meeting at the Rusted Nail was delayed for four days because of the need of the members to engage in what Pfinder termed, “the quotidian tragedy of gainful employment.” Despite their best efforts at conventional work, however, their coin purses were thinning rapidly. The invisible but omnipresent beast known as the recession had sunk its claws into Edicaria and the Crown continued to ignore the loud and public demands of Bernanke’s disciples for the proper curative rites.
As the party compared their dwindling funds against the rising costs of city life, it became clear: some of them would need to triple up on sleeping arrangements if they hoped to last until the Cambria caravan departure date.
Indeed, were it not for Wolfgang’s spices, today’s breakfast would have been a most dreary affair. The party, obliged to order from the lower end of what was, to be honest, a low-end menu to begin with was breakfasting on the thinnest of gruels, the wateriest of eggs, and the scantiest of meats, gristled, unidentified, and chewy in ways that felt legally actionable. But then, like a bearded sunrise, Wolfgang Spicebeard produced salvation. From somewhere within his voluminous overcoat, he retrieved a trio of spice bottles with exotic lettering and smug labels like Stennian Emberdust and Serpent’s Fang Marinade. One, he noted with pride, was “flavored delicately with powdered lizardman tendon.”
Initially, only Shamus was brave—or hungry—enough to try it. His experience with Drakkian spice on the eggs four days earlier had, apparently, fortified his stomach and soul. When he tasted it, his eyes widened, he nodded solemnly, and declared: “Delicious.” More importantly, he did not die, nor did he sprout any fangs, tentacles, or abnormal moral alignments.
Emboldened, the rest of the party joined in. The other patrons, disappointed that no one was turning into a six-eyed gibbering mawspawn this morning, returned glumly to their oatmeal.
Once the table was filled with slightly better food and significantly better spirits, Cassyndra cleared her throat. She had a journal open, two quills at the ready, and the focused gleam of a woman who had spent too long thinking about numbers.
“I’m convinced,” she said, “that this fifth encrypted letter is a book cipher.”
GUC-2 frowned. “A what now?”
Cassyndra turned a page and explained, “A book cipher is one where the sender and receiver both own the same book which they agree to use as a codebook. To encrypt a letter, the sender picks a location in the book where the desired letter appears and writes down its position. Usually something like ‘paragraph.word.letter’. He or she does that for every letter of the message. The receiver reverses the process.”
“The trouble, however, is that there are numerous places in a book where a code writer can find an ‘E’ so it turns out that every instance of ‘E’ in the plaintext ends up having a different ciphertext equivalent. This is different from the letter Pfinder first cracked where every ‘E’ in the plaintext was turned into an ‘R’ in the ciphertext. For example, look here at the first line of this letter,” she said, turning it so that the others could see what she was pointing to. The line read,
9.41.8 13.5.3 5.23.5 15.23.10 13.24.4,
“Since Captain Nelson failed to heed the wisdom of the ancient Cirellians and left his punctuation in,” – here a nod to Pfinder – “and began every of his letters with the same salutation, we know that this first line reads ‘Emile,’. But that knowledge is useless, because 9.41.8 is an ‘E’—and so is 13.24.4, and neither appear anywhere else in the letter – even though ‘E’ is the most common letter in Common. It’s a cipher that replaces simplicity with despair. A personal affront to those of us who prefer our puzzles to behave.”
Shamus glanced at the letter, then at his eggs, then back at the letter. He gave a small nod of agreement and resumed eating with the steady, defensive rhythm of a man guarding his breakfast—and something more. His companions, without comment, allowed him the space.
“In fact, I stopped by the Grand Edicarian Library the other day to confirm my suspicions about book ciphers and found a manual that claimed that decrypting a book cipher without knowing what book was used as the codebook is impossible.”
“Hmm…,” thought Vren aloud. “And since Nelson was in the habit of leaving clues for decrypting the next letter in each letter he sent, that fourth encrypted letter should have a clue as to which book he used for this fifth letter.”
“And here it is,” said Cassyndra, tapping the appropriate letter. “The good Warlord-Colonel. Which begs the question – what is a ‘Warlord-Colonel’ anyway?”
“Ah, you might not know since you’re not from around here originally,” said Shamus. “But the highest military honor in the Archean military is to be recognized as a ‘Warlord’. Soldiers who have achieved that are entitled to have the honorific ‘Warlord’ before their rank so ‘the good Warlord-Colonel’ is an Archean Colonel who, somewhere along the line, was brave enough or smart enough or violent enough to receive that title. I suppose, then, we’re on the lookout for some sort of book about a Warlord-Colonel?”
“Or somehow related to a Warlord-Colonel,” mused Pfinder, swirling his spoon through what remained of his gruel and affecting the solemn air of a man about to uncover great literary truth. “A memoir, perhaps. The Good Warlord-Colonel and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bloody Campaign. Or a children’s primer—Fun with Field Promotions!”
As he spoke, his hand wandered—casually, almost imperceptibly—toward the edge of Shamus’s plate, where one particularly well-spiced egg half had managed to remain untouched.
Without so much as looking up, Shamus lifted his fork, planted it neatly into the egg in question, and ate it in a single motion.
Pfinder blinked. “Ah. A preemptive strike.”
Shamus said nothing, but the faintest hint of a smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
Cassyndra coughed politely, then glanced at Shamus with the careful diplomacy reserved for recent wounds. “You’ve been quiet. You doing alright?”
“I’ve had worse breakfasts,” he said evenly.
Cassyndra gave him a look.
“…But yeah,” he added, his tone softening. “Been busy.”
The others waited. No pressure. Just attention. Wolfgang, sensing there was an exposed nerve that he hadn’t yet learned about, held his tongue as well.
“I went back to see Crezia,” Shamus said. “Asked if I could get in touch with Captain Arbuckle directly—see if there’s anything else he didn’t include in his report. Or anything he didn’t realize was important at the time.”
“Ah, capital idea!” said Pfinder. “Never underestimate the revelatory power of a second conversation. Especially when the first one was had under duress or bureaucracy. Or both.”
Wolfgang nodded. “And Arbuckle’s the one who read the letters after Nelson and Monpierre died, right? He might remember something that didn’t make it into writing.”
“That’s the hope,” said Shamus. “He’s still stationed in Edicaria, at least for now. Crezia gave me the details. I was thinking of heading there this afternoon.”
“I’ll come,” said Vren. “You shouldn’t have to dig through this alone.”
Shamus paused, surprised—but nodded his thanks.
Cassyndra tapped her notebook. “If he still has access to Nelson’s original effects, maybe we can look for margin notes in his books. Or maybe a title related to a Warlord-Colonel.”
“Or a bottle of apricot brandy,” muttered Pfinder, who had not quite let go of the image of a tragic, drunken, possibly undead Colonel in Cambria.
“Let’s hope for both,” said Shamus.
After a brief pause in the conversation, Pfinder leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed in a pose of theatrical contemplation.
“You know,” he said, “we’ve amassed quite the bouquet of ominous tidbits. Half-forgotten officers, blood-stained maps, and cryptic codebooks. Perhaps it’s time we did what all great minds do in times of confusion…”
“Panic?” offered GUC-2.
“Procrastinate?” said Wolfgang helpfully.
“Close,” said Pfinder, sitting up and reaching for a napkin. “We make a list.”
Cassyndra was already there. She flipped to a clean page, inked her pen, and said, “Let’s start from the beginning.”
The Party’s Current Leads
As assembled over a well-seasoned breakfast at the Rusted Nail
- Locations
- Dolven’s Hollow with a blacksmith who needed to receive a message from a major with bird tattoos.
- Barrow’s Edge
- The northern logging road – site of a sudden eldritch attack.
- Iron Pines and nearby orc ruins
- The dig site outside Hollowmere that changed Colonel Varnes
- Westhill/Dredge Ferry/Varnock (outbreaks of the Withers)
- Colonel Varnes
- Tall, loud, fond of apricot brandy.
- Possibly replaced, possessed, or otherwise transformed.
- Last seen near the dig site outside Hollowmere, now showing signs of unnatural behavior (sunlight aversion, unblinking eyes, eerie influence).
- Gave a cryptic assignment to a sergeant: “It will be clearer once it’s done.”
- The Symbol
- Described as a “circle split by a jagged line, inked in something too dark and too red to be ink.”
- Possibly connected to necromancy, cults, or both.
- Might appear in old religious or magical texts.
- The Withers
- A spreading affliction mentioned by Captain Nelson.
- Possibly magical in origin — physical, mental, or spiritual symptoms unclear.
- A healer from Duskmarket thought Druids were involved.
- The Ebon Blades
- Some sort of peasant organization.
- “Tell the blacksmith in Dolven’s Hollow the hourglass is leaking”
- Black feather?!?
- The Remembering Land
- Code phrase or passphrase?
- Nelson warned: “Don’t trust anyone who mentions the remembering land.”
- Possibly the name of a forbidden site or a phrase used by a secret cabal?
- The Good Warlord-Colonel
- Something to do with a book used as a book cipher key.
- Captain Arbuckle
- Still stationed in Edicaria.
- Formerly served with Nelson and Monpierre; read their correspondence after their deaths.
- May have access to more documents, unreported stories, or firsthand observations.
- The Chapel Archives near Nareen’s Hill
- Nelson sent a runner here.
- Purpose unknown—likely research into obscure symbols or rites.
- Status of runner: unknown.
- Encrypted Letters Still Pending
- Two and half ciphers still uncracked.
- Could yield new leads once decoded.
- One will require the proper book to crack.
A contemplative silence settled over the table, broken only by the occasional clink of spoon against bowl or the faint scratching of Cassyndra’s quill. One by one, the adventurers leaned back in their seats, gazes drifting to the list in front of them. It had grown long. Grim. Heavy with unanswered questions.
No one said it aloud, but the list had begun to feel less like a set of clues and more like a reckoning waiting just beyond the city gates.
Shamus folded the parchment once, then again, and tucked it into his cloak. “Well,” he said. “We’ve got some directions, if not a destination.”
GUC-2 gave a small grunt of agreement. “It’s something.”
It was then that Pfinder cleared his throat.
A subtle, theatrical sound. Not quite sheepish, not quite apologetic—but something in the vicinity. He adjusted his cravat, which had not required adjusting, and steepled his fingers like a barrister preparing to present a rather flimsy case.
“If I may,” he said, “indulge in a brief moment of personal… vulnerability.”
Cassyndra looked up. Shamus raised a brow. GUC-3 leaned forward slightly, sensing a story.
Pfinder sighed. “Two nights ago, in pursuit of leads—leads which may or may not have involved a three-for-one cocktail special—I found myself deep within the, shall we say, tavernological underbelly of Edicaria. Somewhere between the second establishment named The Broken Promise and a rather spirited debate with a professional liar who called himself Admiral Teeth…”
He trailed off, waving vaguely. “The point is—I may have stumbled onto something. Or someone. Possibly both. But I… ran into a snag. An obstacle of the intellectual variety.”
Cassyndra’s eyes narrowed. “You got in over your head.”
“In a strictly informational sense, yes.” Pfinder reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather folio, tied with a faded red ribbon. “I took notes. Copious ones, in fact. And I believe—with your assistance—we may yet salvage something useful from the encounter.”
He placed the folio gently on the table. “That is, assuming the rest of you are willing to help a man recover from the side effects of investigative ambition and questionable gin.”
There was a pause.
Then GUC-2, deadpan: “Is this about the llama again?”
Pfinder held up a hand. “No llamas this time. I promise.”
Cassyndra exchanged a glance with Shamus, who nodded once.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Pfinder sighed, the sort of sigh that came with its own preamble.
“It is axiomatic,” he began, “that in every large city, there exists a transportation hub. Some may call it a temple to timetables and missed connections. Others, a convergence of culture, commerce, and communicable diseases. Still others, a nest of sinister outlanders with strange cuisine and stranger currencies. As one will. But it is equally axiomatic that wherever such a hub arises, so too do two other things: a market to sell the wares brought in by honest trade, and a great many watering holes—by which I mean taverns, inns, dives, and assorted establishments of, let’s say, culturally expansive character—designed to serve the needs of those who move along the trade routes.”
The others, long since familiar with Pfinder’s need to warm up before delivering actual information, waited patiently. He always got to the point. Eventually.
“The point is this,” he continued. “Two nights ago, I set out to visit such watering holes in search of news—any news—about Cambria. After all, who better to speak to its present condition than those freshly returned from its muddy embrace?
“Now, I will admit, a significant portion of the evening was wasted conversing with the self-styled ‘Admiral Teeth’—a raconteur of dubious veracity and even more dubious sobriety. But!” Pfinder raised a finger. “Before the night was out, I stumbled across a rather promising lead. For I removed myself from the Admiral’s clutches by the simple expedient of loudly announcing that the tavern’s stew contained cinnamon—a spice he insists was outlawed by maritime treaty after the Siege of Marshport. As he rose to give a twenty-minute condemnation of spice-based treason, I vanished.”
“From there, I proceeded to yet another establishment whose name, perhaps for the better, escapes me at this time. There I poured out my sorry tale to the sympathetic bartender who, while knowing nothing whatsoever of Cambria, was able to recall another personage who, he said, knew something about everything. Or perhaps everything about something. And, yes, I will admit that I was well into my cups at that moment but I believe I accurately remember the essence of the communication which is that there exists an odd fellow by the name of Kardan who holds himself out as a ‘knowledge broker’ and, as such, would know a good deal about the happenings in Cambria.”
Pfinder paused to pick up the folio and consult his notes. “In fact, the bartender’s description of the gentleman was striking. So striking that I took a moment, after leaving the establishment, to commit it to paper.”
He cleared his throat and read from the paper, “Right, so here’s the thing about that one—goes by the name Kardan. Tall. Cloaked. Wears the sort of hood that’s always down but still casts a shadow, if you take my meaning. Human, I guess, though I’ve seen enough folk to know when someone’s not quite cut from local cloth.
“Eyes’ll give him away. No whites. Just black. Not ‘drunk at dusk’ black—real black. Pit black. ‘Lose your soul looking too long’ black. First time I saw him, I dropped a glass. Second time, I didn’t even blink. Not sure which reaction was smarter.
“Talks like he’s reading from a script written in a language he learned this morning. Polite, careful, every word balanced like it was weighed on a jeweler’s scale. Never raises his voice. Doesn’t need to. You feel it just the same.
“Fellow deals in knowledge. Not gossip, not rumors—knowledge. The kind of things that make your teeth itch if you think about them too long. You ask him a question and he tells you what it costs. Could be coin. Could be a name. Could be a favor you don’t remember promising yet. You don’t haggle – you either pay or you don’t. But if you do, he delivers—clean, clear, no tricks.
Nobody tries to cheat him. Not because he’s violent. Just… something about him. Like the air thickens when he’s near. Like the gods are paying attention, and not in a good way.”
“This remarkable Kardan was said to carry on his business at a speakeasy a couple of blocks down the street and I immediately set out with a view to arranging an introduction. And there I ran into my problem. A problem of a dreadfully pedestrian sort. A bouncer and a door.”
Pfinder straightened his cravat with a certain weary dignity, as though still recovering from the humiliation of being thwarted by mere architecture.
“The entrance to this establishment,” he said, “is a most forbidding iron-bound door tucked into an alley so narrow and malodorous that even rats enter two by two and with a note of protest. I approached, of course, with the bearing of a man accustomed to velvet ropes yielding of their own accord.”
He gestured vaguely, as if to suggest a red carpet had once unfurled before him of its own volition.
“But no sooner had I lifted my hand to knock than a viewing slit snapped open—and from within came a voice that sounded like it had been distilled from whiskey, gravel, and several unpaid debts. The voice called out a number: ‘Seventeen.’”
Pfinder paused.
“I assumed this to be an invitation. So I answered, with what I believed to be an appropriately whimsical tone, ‘Eighteen.’ The slit closed.”
He spread his hands. “That was the entirety of the exchange. The door did not open. The gravel-voice did not return. My pride, like my shoes, was dampened.”
Cassyndra blinked. “So there was a password. And you didn’t know it.”
“Precisely,” said Pfinder. “And so I did what any enterprising yet reasonably larcenous man would do. I hid in a dark corner of the alley and awaited the arrival of other patrons to eavesdrop the correct, presumably non-eighteen, answer to the query of ‘Seventeen’”.
“But, alas! The ‘Seventeen’ query was never repeated! The voice called out a wide variety of numbers – five, twenty-two, thirteen, and so on but never returned to the originally developed motif of seventeen. And the responses from the patrons varied widely as well but were never repeated.”
Vren said, “So it’s a sign and countersign system.”
“Precisely,” said Pfinder. “Some sort of numerical challenge—perhaps based on addition, subtraction, or the relative humidity of the alley. But—and here lies the rub—each patron I watched was asked a different number, and each gave a different response. No pattern repeated.”
“You waited and watched?” asked Shamus.
“I did more than watch,” said Pfinder. “I endured. I endured the mud. The darkness. The unspeakable scent of the alley’s southeast corner. I endured it all—for knowledge. I found a discreet spot behind a crate of suspicious cabbages and recorded every exchange I could. It is a short list, but it is mine, and I believe—”
Here he tapped the folio with reverence.
“—that with your collective intellects and a full pot of tea, we may deduce the underlying logic. And with it: entry.”
He looked around the table with the hopefulness of a child showing off a wounded animal in need of group adoption.
“Well,” said Wolfgang, glancing at Cassyndra, “how hard can it be?”
Cassyndra sighed and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. “Let’s find out.”
Pfinder’s Sign/Countersign Observations
As revealed during a touchingly vulnerable moment at the Rusted Nail
Visitors With Correct Answers (granted entry):
Sign Countersign
14 59
35 143
27 55
25 73
20 83
32 131
11 47
29 119
19 55
23 95
22 64
28 82
10 28
26 107
34 100
24 49
18 37
21 43
33 67
36 73
30 61
31 91
13 37
15 31
16 46
12 25
17 71
Visitors With Incorrect Answers (refused entry):
Sign Incorrect Countersign
14 58
25 75
33 69
17 72
11 45
The conversation began to splinter then, not into arguments, but possibilities.
Cassyndra tapped the table as she reviewed Pfinder’s list. “We’ll need scratch paper, at least one abacus, and maybe Wolfgang’s spices to stay awake. But I think it’s solvable.”
“Just so long as it doesn’t involve imaginary numbers,” muttered GUC-2. “I had a warlock try that once. Turned out he was imaginary too.”
“I suppose we’ll want to talk strategy before we go knocking on the good Captain’s door,” said Shamus, arms crossed. “What we’re asking, what we’re hoping he’ll say.”
“Let’s try not to accuse him of anything until we’re at least seated,” added Vren, helpfully.
Pfinder leaned back. “And, of course, we’ll need to spend some time chasing down the other clues outlined in Cassyndra’s notebook.”
They would plan. They would prepare. And then they would walk out of the tavern and into the city—not with answers, perhaps, but with sharper questions. And the growing sense, shared by all of them, that Edicaria had run out of idle hours.
Beyond the stone and soot, Cambria waited.