The Pathfinder Tales Library
Novels
Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross
Journals
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham
Short Stories
"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber Scott
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers
The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline © 2011 by Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, and Pathfinder are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and Pathfinder Tales are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.
Edited by James L. Sutter.
Story by Jason Bulmahn, James Jacobs, Michael Kortes, Mike McArtor, Erik Mona, Richard Pett, Amber Scott, James L. Sutter, Jay Thompson, and Greg A. Vaughan.
Cover art by Jason Engle.
Cover design by Crystal Frasier.
Interior art by David Bircham and Ben Wootten.
Paizo Publishing, LLC
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paizo.com
ISBN 978-1-60125-348-4
Originally published in Pathfinder Adventure Path #1-18.
Introduction
By James L. Sutter
The story you're about to read is unlike any other Paizo has published.
When we originally launched Pathfinder Adventure Path in 2007 as a monthly roleplaying game supplement, we knew we wanted serialized fiction in each volume, but none of us quite knew what that would look like. We knew we wanted the stories to run parallel to the Adventure Paths they appeared alongside, so that Game Masters could give their players something to read that would embody the feeling of the region without providing spoilers. We knew who our protagonist was, courtesy of Publisher Erik Mona: a member of the scholarly-but-adventurous Pathfinder Society named Eando Kline. Yet what we didn't know was what kind of fiction it would be: An ongoing story? A series of shorts? A travelogue?
In fact, by the time the first volume went to press, we still didn't know quite what we were getting ourselves into. Erik's first installment into the newly named Pathfinder's Journal featured a letter from Venture-Captain Shevala to Eando, but that was it—the rest of the slated space was used to present a world-building article giving an overview of the Pathfinder Society (a much-needed thing, given that it was our big debut and no one had yet heard of the group we'd named our world after). The fiction angle didn't get settled until the second book. At that point, both Jason Bulmahn and I had written epistolary adventures featuring Eando Kline and presented them to Pathfinder's stewards, editors Wes Schneider and James Jacobs, who loved them both. It was from that meeting that I got my new editorial mandate: Not only was I to massage the two stories so that they fit together, I was henceforth in charge of the Pathfinder's Journal—commissioning the stories, managing the story arc, and making sure Eando's voice kept that same mixture of world-weary grit and resentful goodheartedness.
It wasn't always easy. For instance, it wasn't until a few issues in that we realized Pathfinder was going to be far more successful than we had ever dared hope—and that, consequently, we needed to plan out the Pathfinder's Journal beyond simply what new dangers would befall Eando the next month. Nor did we realize just how hard it would be to synthesize the styles and voices of ten different authors, or to wrangle their various schedules (one of the reasons why a third of these chapters were written by yours truly). Having finally plotted out the basic arc of the story sometime around the end of the first Adventure Path, we nevertheless had plenty of last-minute additions and snap decisions that ended up having dramatic effects on the story's conclusion (not to mention its length—looking back, the idea of devoting three Adventure Paths to a single story seems like sheer madness).
And yet, even with all the trials and tribulations, something clicked. Eando Kline—surly loner that he is—came to life before our eyes. And through the entries in his journal, of which this book represents a complete compilation, we began to get some of our first glimpses of the new world that was coming into being. Of Kaer Maga, and its anarchic warren filled with thieves and scoundrels. Of the Hold of Belkzen, and the feral orc tribes that rampage across it. Of the subterranean Darklands, the parched and barren Storval Plateau, and the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinders in Absalom itself. Many of these locations have spawned books of their own—both novels and sourcebooks for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game—yet it was Eando who first showed us what it was like not just to set a game there, but to live there. And in that, at least, he's achieved the fame he's always desired.
In addition to the collected journal entries that make up Eando's story, not to mention his copious sketches and illustrations (reproduced for us here by artists Dave Bircham and Ben Wootten), this book also contains numerous game supplements and sidebars on the world of the Pathfinder campaign setting, in which this story takes place. These sidebars follow each chapter, and are purely extras—footnotes to help illuminate particular aspects of the world or incorporate material from the stories into a roleplaying game. What's more, as seemed only fair to us, the About the Author section at the end offers not the biographies of the ten authors who contributed text, but the background of Eando Kline himself, complete with his most recent statistics for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. (It should be noted that these represent Eando not as he is at the end of the story, but as he appears when he makes a cameo some time later in the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path—but that's another story altogether, and not his to tell.)
We've come a long way since Eando first set out from Magnimar in search of a magical stone. Since then, we've created a popular roleplaying game, produced dozens of adventures and world-building supplements, and even launched a full line of novels called Pathfinder Tales. Yet Eando was our first narrator, and thus a little part of our hearts will always travel with him, wherever he wanders.
Now it's your turn to keep him company for a while. We hope you enjoy the ride.
James L. Sutter
Paizo Fiction Editor
May 2011
Opening Moves
By Erik Mona
Venture-Captain Shevala
To Eando Kline, Adventurer,
Street of a Thousand Idols, Magnimar.
Greetings and salutations from the city of Absalom, center of enlightened humanity and Jewel of the Inner Sea. The Decemvirate sends its warmest regards and strong support for your affairs in distant Varisia. May your exploits prove bountiful and memorable, your
cohorts trustworthy, and your rewards sublime. At your request,
I have enclosed in
formation on the history and duties of the
Pathfinder Society—our society—so that you might establish
a front of operations for us in the City of Monuments. Our agents
in the field report that Varisia, with its ties to ancient Thassilon,
remains a steady source of lost artifacts and lore. I expect regular
reports as you prepare your exploits for publication, and as you
spread the influence of the Society to distant lands.
Yours,
Shevala,
Venture-Captain of the Pathfinder Society,
Absalom.
The Journey Begins
By Jason Bulmahn
Pathfinder Eando Kline
To Shevala, Pathfinder Venture-Captain
Grand Lodge, Absalom
Hail from Magnimar, where the shadow of the Irespan drowns out the sun. You were absolutely correct that the City of Monuments has much to offer our organization, and it seems that our fellows here at the fledgling chapter house are uncovering new mysteries around every corner. Unfortunately, the surplus of projects has left little enough manpower to assist me in my own research. Although my initial investigation of Magnimar's esoteric shops has turned up few leads, one merchant of antiquities—a corpulent man named Belsir Trullos—informed me that he'd seen an ioun stone resembling the one we seek during his most recent visit to Kaer Maga. After I plied him with more than a few coins, he suggested that I speak with a man named Dakar in regard to the relic. No telling if the stone in question is authentic or one of the arcane reproductions that occasionally pop up, but there's only one way to find out. All that I have heard about Kaer Maga leads me to believe it a den of inequity, rife with criminals, outcasts, vice merchants, and worse. So, nothing I haven't seen before. I've chartered a boat and will leave on the morrow, and as always I shall send you updates as often as I am able. If there's truly an ioun stone for my wayfinder in Kaer Maga, I shall find it.
By my wit,
Eando Kline
Pathfinder
10 Gozran, 4707 ar
Riverboats are the only way to travel. After spending the morning lounging on deck and enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat, I can hardly bear the thought of the long ride ahead. I wish I could have left Redmare behind entirely, but as the captain has only agreed to take us as far as Wartle, she's currently corralled near the stern, where she whickers uneasily at each shift in the current. Poor girl.
I've never been aboard a halfling vessel before and am continually impressed by its efficient (if cramped) design. Captain Othlo is of a helpful disposition—as he ought to be, considering the exorbitant price he extracted for my passage—and has been happy to put up with my constant questions. Having spent most of his life traversing the Yondabakari, he's an excellent source of information on the peoples and dangers I might face on my journey farther up the river. His crewmen, for their part, are decidedly less sociable, spending much of their time tending to the craft and speaking with each other in the halfling tongue. Due to their occasional laughs and side-cast glances at me, I am sure they find my awkwardness aboard their tiny boat comical.
The river here is lazy, meandering in bends that stretch for miles on its long journey from the Mindspin Mountains down to Magnimar and the Varisian Gulf. In places it's sharply defined, cutting furrows through the rolling hills of the lowlands, while in others it almost blends completely with the boggy Mushfens to the south, merely a ripple of current through the endless patches of low trees and swamp lilies that threaten to swallow the incautious traveler. To our north, the Dry Way follows the river bends closely, allowing carts and horse-messengers access to settlements farther east. It's this that I'll eventually take to Kaer Maga, but for now, at least, I'm content to doze and let the miles slip quietly beneath me.
Othlo is a fine captain, though the halfling's boat is a bit cramped.
12 Gozran, 4707 ar
This morning, the wind kicked up and forced us ashore, the boat making little progress against the combined force of both air and current. Despite my rising impatience to be on my way, part of me secretly welcomed the chance to get off the boat and stretch my legs. The longer we're on the water, the smaller Othlo's little cockleshell seems. The sparse woods near the river here are cluttered with game trails, so with an afternoon to kill, I saddled Redmare and set off for a quick hunt in the forest.
Not an hour into my journey, I heard a commotion up ahead, a strange cacophony studded with growls, whinnies, and hoots, as if a bear, a horse, and a monstrously huge owl were all engaged in a fearsome melee. Dismounting, I ground-hitched Redmare and drew my blade, creeping forward cautiously. On the other side of a large stone, a majestic stallion was facing off against a terrible beast combining the features of a bear and an owl. Seeing me, the creature let out a horrific growl-hoot, clicking its serrated beak shut with bone-shaking force. While impressive, the display proved to be its undoing, as the horse reared in terror and dropped its mighty hooves right into the beast's chest. The creature staggered, took a last swipe with its talons that opened the horse from withers to haunch, and went down, dragging the noble steed with it. For a long moment, nothing moved, the forest silent save for the frantic, blood-choked whinny of the horse. Speaking in a soothing tone, my sword before me, I approached.
Those talons are capable of opening a man like a ripe melon.
On the far side of the clearing was the horse's rider, or what little was left of him. The monstrous owlbear obviously struck from ambush, pulled the rider from his saddle, and ripped him asunder. The horse, an Uplands stallion that would have brought top dollar at the markets of Korvosa, must have remained to defend its master. A damn fine job it did of it, too—the last blow crushed the owlbear's ribcage, probably puncturing a lung. After making a quick sketch of the creature, I spent some time sifting through the mystery rider's trampled and ruined gear. He was an elf, and his raiment seemed of high quality, but beyond that there was little to identify him. From the road filth on his tack, he had been traveling for some time. Nestled at the bottom of his pack, carefully wrapped in a spare shirt, was a strange metal box with a puzzle for a lock. A simple incantation showed it to be magical in nature, but so far I've been unable to solve the locking mechanism. In truth, I'm not sure I want to—many of the designs on the box are unknown to me, but the engraved outlines of human skulls are disconcerting. Perhaps I'll hold onto it and let someone with more experience in such matters take a crack at it in the next chapter house I reach.
16 Gozran, 4707 ar
A simple meal, a hot bath, and a pleasant stroll around Wartle have made this one of the best days in
recent memory.
We reached Wartle early yesterday morning, and Captain Othlo quickly set his crew to work unloading their Magnimarian goods and taking bids on cargo bound for the big city. Though I once again offered him a fair price to take me on to Whistledown, he would have none of it—apparently a business deal gone sour with the town's gnome residents left him unwelcome and prejudiced against the other little folk.
Despite a long history, the town of Wartle remains something of a frontier settlement, populated primarily by swampers and trappers. Aside from a few highly successful brothels, most of the buildings and boardwalks that rise on stilts above the murky swamp water are filled with dirty, bearded men who scratch out a living exporting peat, fungus, and furs to the "city folk" downstream. Still, they're a boisterous and fun-loving lot, easy to get along with so long as you don't put on airs. Most of last night was spent in a precariously tilting dive known as the Lean-To, sampling the local liquor called Bog Grog. It's actually not so bad, once you get used to straining out the grit with your teeth, but it's generally a good idea to avoid drinking the dregs of the communal bottle. Needless to say, I got a late start today.
17 Gozran, 4707 ar
I left Wartle this morning astride Redmare a
fter saying a surprisingly reluctant goodbye to the rowdy swampers. I miss the ease of the boat, but I won't deny that it feels good to be back on solid ground again. As I passed from the northernmost boardwalk onto the dirt of the road I encountered a small stone fountain marking the town's edge. Standing at the center of the fountain was a stone statue of a turtle, covered in a thick green moss, with water pouring from its shell. Perched on its nose was a single blue butterfly, and although I'm hardly a superstitious man, a momentary fancy took me and I tossed a copper coin into the water as I passed. You never know when Desna might be watching.
The Dry Way passes along the edge of the Sanos Forest, the Yondabakari drawing a surprisingly sharp border between the trees and the fens. Unfortunately, the swarms of tiny midges from across the water recognize no such demarcation, and more than once I had to stop to burn swaths of blood-bloated fang flies from Redmare's flanks. With such local fauna, few folk are willing to call these lands home, and on two separate occasions I approached a trapper's shack in hope of company, only to find a rotting ruin ready to collapse at the slightest breath.
As evening approached, the clear sky began to twinkle with a brightness rarely seen by city-dwellers. As the oppressive heat subsided, I decided to push on a bit into the twilight and was duly rewarded. In the distance, a faint spark came into view. Wary of will-o'-wisps and other hazards of the swamp, I dismounted and approached the site carefully, only to be greeted by the melodious plucking of a lute. No sooner had I heard it than a voice from the direction of the fire called out, "No point sneaking up on a minstrel, friend—I could hear your stomping a mile away. Come sit by the fire and warm your bones."
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