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Spend-o-RAM-ma.
"If we're going after Grannt and Ranticar, it might be best to equip ourselves properly."
Rolund addresses the Kalashtar. "Can you get word to Captain Marrius to meet us at the Spear of Dhakaan in three day's time?"
Gil nods from her position against the wall. "Makes sense to me."
Several days pass as the party spend their loot...
But a true warrior shows no fear. He raps on the door.
An elven maid opens the door. Dressed in a leather jerkin with soft cotton pantaloons tucked into riding boots, a scimitar at her belt, she is clearly no servant. She looks at him with cool insolence, and Runzyl is pleased. This is clearly the place.
"I am here to see the spirit-speaker." She shrugs noncommittally and steps back so he can come in. Closing the door behind him, she leads him down a corridor and into a large room. The wooden walls are almost completely obscured, festooned with trophies of different kinds: Karrnathi battle standards, serrated blades from Darguun, the mounted heads of powerful beasts, Talenta masks. A fire blazes a central fireplace, around which are laid thick carpets and low tables of the sort that might be found in the tent of a valenar warlord.
An elderly elven woman hobbles forward, leaning on a staff. She is wrapped in a beaded red shawl, her long white hair hanging like a rope almost to her feet. "So you are Runzyl?" she asks with no preamble. She gives him an appraising look and seems unimpressed. "Well, we will see. I am Haerin, and you have met Fae. And you wish to become a revenant blade.”
She sits down with a wince by the fire and indicates that Runzyl should do the same. She takes out a wooden pipe and begins stuffing it with dried leaves from a belt pouch before lighting it and taking a puff. “Very well,” she says finally, “Tell me the deeds of your line.”
Runzyl begins to recite the formulas, telling of his father, and his father’s father, and his father before him. The woman begins to hum a low note between drags on her pipe, which Runzyl finds distracting at first. But as he continues, the music begins to work a subtle magic. He speaks in detail of ancestors of whom he had barely heard. He surprises himself with tales of the deeds of heroes of his bloodline of which he was unaware. As his ancestors speak through him, he can dimly see the weave of the tapestry of fate, in which he is but a single thread intertwined in the present, past and future with many, many others.
And he speaks of Galadaes. Ancient, terrible, tragic and doomed. Of his blood oath to the Queen of the Dead. Of her gift to him, Falla Caesenri. Of his transcendence beyond mortality. Of his destruction at the Grey Cairns. And of his near-rebirth.
When Runzyl finishes, the air is thick with the blue smoke from Haerin’s pipe. The silence stretches on. The elf woman takes the pipe stem from her lips and says quietly, “Galadaes, eh?” She takes another ruminative draw, exhales slowly. “Alright, you’re ready. Did you bring the amulet?”
Runzyl shows Haerin the zaelshin tu he has fashioned. She smirks. “Utilitarian. I am beginning to like you, Steelsong.”
She continues, “Normally the zaelshin tu would contain some part of your ancestor. But this isn’t necessary in this instance. For you already contain part of your ancestor yourself, and so does that weapon you carry. You simply need to bring it under control, so it is less Galadaes, and more you. Here, we will speak the words together.”
The dawn is streaking the sky when Runzyl finally emerges on to the street again. The spirit of Galadaes murmurs in his back of his mind. But this time his shape is that of Runzyl’s mighty ancestor and advisor, not the twisted shade of Vol’s general hungering for his descendant’s soul. Falla Caesenri is likewise now his boon blade, not the tainted gift of the Queen of the Dead nor the trap set by the jealous Caerlyn.
But Haerin’s parting words still give Runzyl disquiet. “Somehow, I doubt that Vol is finished with you.”
He has done this once before, when he became a bone knight. Then he embraced the darkness, one amongst the eager acolytes in ceremonial chamber. He recalls the cold grasp as the bones of the dead began to crawl about his limbs, grasping and clawing as they clung to him, forming the semi-animated armour he wears now. But this time he will delve deeper.
Vol understood this place, the black spaces where death is life and life has no place. But she only discovered it, and others followed who were not beholden to her. The bone knights were such as these. Rolund can feel them around him – the fragments of souls left behind by all those that have visited here over millions of years. Somewhere he has left something of himself too.
Light flares in his inner eye. He is in the ceremonial chamber once more. Armoured skeletons stand to attention along the sides of the room, weapons clutched in their hands. Torches gutter fitfully. Rolund finds himself chained, spread out between two pillars in the centre of the room. He is stripped of his armour, and pallid creatures scourge his naked flesh with barbed whips. The pain is intense and relentless. His blood splashes on the cold flagstones. The room is silent except for his grunts of pain and the slap of the leather straps.
Watching impassively is another bone knight. His face is obscured in the shadow of his skull-helm. His arms are folded, his cloak hanging about his shoulders to the floor. As Rolund’s torturers continue their work he barely moves.
Rolund grits his teeth. As the brutalisation continues, somehow the pain becomes separated from the rest of him. The touch of the flagellants becomes a detail, inconsequential in the broader scheme of things. They seem to realise this, and they cease their assault. The bone knight raises his head, to reveal the face of Sir Shandor ir’Lettra – Rolund’s mentor, the man who found the rootless exile from Thrane and brought him into the bone knights.
Sir Shandor ir’Lettra, dead these last three years.
“So now you understand,” he murmurs. “The pain is inconsequential.”
The chains holding Rolund just disappear and he collapses to the cold floor. Sir Shandor sinks to one knee beside Rolund where he lies gasping. “But your loyalties are divided,” he continues, “That cannot continue.”
He stands and walks away into the dark.
Rolund emerges from his reverie.
Businessman Falen Grannt was found dead in his home in Highhold. His body was discovered yesterday morning in his bedroom. Mr Grannt, a dwarven refugee from Cyre, was the owner of Grannt Inquisitives, and there is speculation that his death may have involved foul play. However, the Watch report that there were no suspicious circumstances.
Janosz has arrived early at the Spear of Dhakaan. As the others filter in, he puts aside his goblin fish-head beer and pulls out a battered newspaper. "Grannt's dead", he says without any preamble. "I'm actually thinking that this could be a good thing. This way we don't have to find him - all we need to do is to get Rod or Rolund in position to do a little spirit-raising. Do we need the body for this? I guess Gil and I could break into the morgue and steal it..."
"In addition to that, we'll want to check out his files." He shakes his head in disgust. "He had an actual firm called Grannt F!+%ing Inquisitives. A bit too obvious, I guess... We'll need to subvert some cilent confidentiality laws, I'm sure, but when did little things like that stop us?"
Runzyl strides into the bar like a man possessed, his steely eyes seemingly full of new knowledge and new purpose. The last time he had visited this place, he had slain a gnoll in the center of the common room. This time, he hoped the members of Daask were watching... and quaking with fear at the Valenar who entered their establishment once more.
Falla Caesenri is newly polished, buckled into its usual place upon the elf's back, but it seems to radiate a faint energy that matches the elf's heartbeat. It has become an extension of himself, imbued with his spirit and synchronized with his ancestors. A medallion, crafted of simple bone, stands prominently displayed around his neck. It catches the light, reflecting a moment of terrible conflict in an instant, and then just as quickly fades.
The elf takes a seat at the table, hears Janosz's news, and nods. "I agree that both avenues would be best. The corpse may be able to tell us things the documents cannot... such as who his slayer was."
Rolund’s appearance is a stark contrast to the Valenar’s. Where the elf’s is vibrant, the knight’s is weary. While his sword remains hidden under his cloak, those with keen eyes cannot fail to notice new additions to his bone armor. His ever present white shield adorned with the black skull of his order seems to be missing. As he takes a seat, he removes his helm further causing a shock at his gaunt appearance. Rolund’s life seems to be being leeched by the encroachment of his aberrant dragonmark which is now visible on the sinister side of his neck. It appears to be only a matter of time before the mark spreads to his head.
“The Purified’s loose tongue,” Rolund answers to the last question posed by the Shadow Marcher. “Our fame is a curse within this city. It limits our choices and cause us to use less ‘visible’ methods.”
“I can take care of the matter of the inquisitive so long as there is a body to animate. The question is whether to divide our forces and approach both missions at the same time or should we stay together and do each mission singularly?”
Marrius enters the bar, looking around him to take in the sights, sounds and smells. He then spots the group and walks over. He is accompanied by Salvorazo, the gnome sorcerer, who pulls up a goblin-sized stool and makes himself at home.
Marrius nods a greeting. "So, have you finally got my share from our jaunt to Aerenal?" he asks with a smile. He spots Nevharath. "Hello, we haven't met," he says extending a hand.
"We'll do it together. Having said that, a baked potato would notice you if you tried to sneak past it in that getup. So we'll need to think a bit about how we want to go about this..."
"Ah, good to see you Marrius. I believe you will be quite happy with the Kundarak credit note we have for you. What have you been up to lately?"
"Been laid up repairing the ship. This'll help nicely." He looks at the amount on the note appreciatively. "How about you?"
A male elf in well-worn leathers that might have once been a uniform comes to the table and stands there a moment, considering those present. He pulls a chair from an adjacent table, spins it around to face backward, and straddles it, leaning on the chairback.
Nodding to Rolund and Runzyl, he says, "My, my. Both of you look... different now. Almost like he," pointing to Runzyl, "Drew some life energy from you. I hope all is well." This last is directed at Rolund with a raised eyebrow.
"I've tried to use my time while we were separated being somewhat useful, but I overheard Janosz' news; it's frustrating. I had a meeting with a contact planned for tomorrow. They claimed to know who he was, where he was, and what he was up to. Not sure that's useful information anymore..."
Then, with a shrug and a grin, the stranger adds, "That's what I get for trying to show some initiative. Hello, Marrius, Salvorazo. You both look well. Better than him."
A male elf in well-worn leathers ...
"For f~#*'s sake... I mean, I can smell that it's you, but seriously... Stay in one shape while around me, willya?"
"As for our dead friend - let's see if we can get his files first. Perhaps we can even do it legally? It would also save us from, ah, speaking to him directly."
Runzyl eyes Gil in her new guise and raises a hand to his chin. After Janosz speaks, he glances between Gil and the others.
"If the files haven't already be rounded up, shouldn't it be a relatively simple manner for Gil to impersonate Croke and gain us entry to the place? We're known associates of his, so the fact that the rest of us are with him wouldn't be out of place. Croke, of course, might not take too kindly to being impersonated."
Gil chuckles at the thought. "Best he not know about it, then. Of course, there are other less obvious means of entry, but that might just be the most fun."
Know: religion
"I'll take dwarven burial rites for 500, Alex."
heh heh.........Jeopardy colloqualism joke.....
"I wonder who's buried in Grannt's tomb?"
couldn't resist; maybe Jimmy Hoffa;
"They'll probably bury him in a stone tomb in Highhold."
Or under Giant's Stadium,......
"Files. First."
Do it.
"If he operated a business, surely the location of this business cannot be difficult to acquire? It should be a simple matter of information gathering, either by word of mouth or looking for advertisements. Once we know where it is, we can worry about how to approach it."
"Aye, my contact should be good for that still unless you want to do something else. I was playing the part of an old acquaintance from the war years. I could still do so."
The group take their leave of Marrius and head upwards from the Bazaar towards Highhold. This is a dwarven neighbourhood, with most building sturdy, stone-built and functional with low lintels and small windows. The place has a quiet, orderly feel with many dwarves in the streets going about their business with little fuss.
The group arrive outside Grannt's former establishment. There is little about the place to distinguish it from other dwarven houses, except the small sign outside advertising his business. The door is closed and no one is about.
"Breaking in during the daytime seems ill-advised," the elf states the obvious. "If we cannot find a more subtle means of entry, however, Janosz and I... and perhaps Gil as well, could try to make an entrance from the neighboring buildings after nightfall."
The Valenar shrugs slightly, turning to Gil and raising an eyebrow. "Subtlety is not my strong suit, as you well know. I defer to your judgment."
Gil nods approvingly, "I cannot fault your line of thinking. Are we interested in what the neighbors know about him? Do we want to see if there is a back door?"
"Invisibility might be useful."
I'll do it, unless there's anybody who doesn't want me to.
Gil comes back after several minutes (wanting time to separate herself from the party and watch for snoops following her that might associate her with them at an inopportune moment later) as Matilda because that guise pulls off the semi-official nature better.
Sure am.
I'll try to knock forcefully but politely.
diplomacy
I want to appeal to women voters. Look like I care about folks.
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There is a pause after Rodergo knocks. Then the door opens and a dwarven woman peers out suspiciously. By her garb she looks like a servant.
"Hello, maam. I am Rodergo Xativa of the Silver Flame. I wish to talk to Grannt, about a matter of much import. Is he about?"
diplomacy
I'll smile somberly, with big puppydog eyes.