The next couple of days are fairly similar - stops at night and noon, and travelling in between. The attitude of Qualli and his sons has changed, though, as they maintain their distance and say little after Arakan's performance. During one night watch, as Arakan leans forward to stir the fire, Dramm bursts into tears and begs the half-elf not to kill him.
Such outburts aside, there are no more dramatic incidents. The caravan doesn't see another living soul until the bulk of Altaruk heaves over the horizon, two days after the meeting with the Balician soldiers. Altaruk is a fortified town, standing on a rocky hill above the final extremity of the Estuary of ther Forked Tongue. From it, roads run in several directions to distant cities, including Tyr to the north-west. The town itself is surrounded by an intimidating wall of yellow stone, thick, heavy and tall. Above the rock-built dwelling looms a fortress of the same material, with steeply-sloping ramparts and square towers. The architecture is functional, the banners of Balic fluttering above the gatehouse.
The guards asks a few questions but they seem to know Qualli and the group are allowed inside with no trouble. The streets are narrow, little more than alleys between dusty dwellings and shops, often dark and shadowed despite the burning sun high in the sky. With no grand plazas, animals grunt and edge slowly past one another to the shouts of their drivers. The punters at the bars and inns crowd on to the street under awning, further adding to the congestion. Naked, scrawny children dart about as soldiers do their patrols.
"We should refresh our supplies. Qualli - how much longer to Tyr?"
Qualli shrugs non-commitally. "'Bout a week."
As they arrive into the city, Arakan notices Qualli's response to Calla and decides to have a word with him. "Now, I know things have been a wee bit tense since our little 'talk' with the templar we met on the road. I'm sure that this little story will remain unrepeated, and we will continue on to Tyr without further interruption. I know I can trust you," he says more as a demand than as a fact or question, "because I know you wouldn't want to upset me or my 'companions', would you? You're a wise man, you'll make the right choice, just like the templar did."
Comfortable that he made his point, he will cover up as best he can, and try to adopt a more human look about him. "I'm going to go shopping, where are we meeting up later?" After he gets the answer, he walks toward the market, before circling around, and hangs back to the shadows to watch the merchant as his family.
Irivis takes no special precautions to remain hidden. Nobody notices a lame woman.
She senses nothing amiss with Qualli, but is not surprised when Arakan takes the man aside for a quiet word. For the time being, she considers being in a city again and decides that one of the advantages should be a good massage for her battered leg.
Arakan lurks in the shadows, unseen. He sees Qualli hold a conference with his two sons. The fat one bursts into tears again while the other one scowls. Then the three trudge off to an inn to drown their sorrows, dragging their protesting animals in their wake.
Meanwhile, Gorad tries to sell on the id fiend's brain tissue he harvested. He finds a stall where a merchant, hair dyed blond by fumes, is selling alchemical wares. The trader picks over the sliced cerebellum, now like pieces if leathery dried fruit. ()
A begger shuffles up to the group. A dwarf, his bald pate is patched with dry skin from some sort of skin complaint. As he extends a hand he wheezes, "Spare some pieces? The sun burns so fierce, it does."
Jareen watches Arakan and Qualli, not quite understanding why they seem so upset. But he is distracted by the Dwarf.
"Of course, of course, you should cover yourself my friend. Come, we shall buy you a drink to stave off the hot sun." Jareen says in an uncharacteristic display of niceness.
"Harvested this piece myself, Huge fellow"
The alchemist fingers and sniffs the brain pieces critically. “Might’ve been a bit better if they were fresher. I’ll give you fifty bits for them.”
"Fifty? Their worth at least a hundred. Fresh or no. You don't casually defeat an Id Fiend"
Jareen new friend shuffles along. He twitches a few times with some sort of nervous tick, but in the shade of a bazaar awning gratefully takes a drink. He fixes Jareen with a look. "Kalak's prophecy is coming to fruition."
"These Fiends are powerful they aren't just some big lizard, striking out of the night with powers fit for a Sorceror King"
The merchant raises his eyebrows sceptically. "Sorcerer-King, eh? Alright, seventy-five clacks."
"You drive a hard bargin, but you have me over a pit and you know it. We'll take it."
Jareen racks his brains trying to remember who Kalak is and what his prophecy was.....
Calla thinks over what she knows of the last Sorcerer-King of Tyr.
She asks around the city to see if house Wavir keeps an agent or factor here, and if so whether it is someone she knows or trusts. She tries to keep a low profile though, those raiders could have been sent after all.
Uncertain whether he got his point across or not, but comfortable with their reaction of tears and irritation, Arakan catches back up to the group. He arrives just in time to see Gorad get taken on the price of the Id brain. He shakes his head in irritation, who thought to let the lunkhead do the bargaining.
As he quietly walks with the group, but along the edge so as to not look directly connected. He steps aside as the dwarf beggar approaches, he doesn't want anything to do with a vagrant, possibly a pickpocket even. So what does the old man do, gives the guy free water? Next thing you know the loon is talking about some prophecy of Kalak. Wise choice Jareen.
The begger looks at Jareen, eyes swivelling. "Where would you stand when the moment comes?"
Jareen looks at the man wide eyed. "I'd be stood about as far away as I could get, I should expect. Like anyone with any sense! Why are we discussing fairy tales though?"
"Then you should visit the street of white lizards," replies the beggar cryptically, and he winks.
Irivis rolls her eyes slightly at the beggarly ramblings.
"I hate cryptic," she mutters quietly.
"I think we passed a Tavern called the White Lizard on the way in. Possibly somewhere around there?" Jareen whispers to Irivis. To the begger he says simply:
"Any chance of a non cryptic statement, we are all friends here afterall."
The dwarven beggar gives a grin filled with black rotted teeth. He taps his nose, and shuffles away.
"Gah!"
"How lovely."
It's not clear whether Irivis means the beggar's dental care or Jareen's failed attempts at tact.
Arakan rolls his eyes, "Oh, wise choice. Please, let us take our choice of where to dine from the suggestion of a black-toothed beggar. I'm sure what they have to offer is pure delight." He agrees sarcastically.
"Oh come on. We ate dried id fiend for a week. What's going to be worse?"
Call is going to make contact with representatives of either her house, or the wider trading house that they were part of (so either Wavir or her own house - Wavir seems more likely). She wants to know if any of her immediate family have also escaped the raid and the sacrifice. She also wants to put feelers out to try and investigate whether this was bad luck or a targeted attack.
But that can wait until after dinner.
"We should go to the White Lizard. I want to know more about what that crazy beggar was talking about. You don't all have to come," she concludes with a neutral glance at Arakan.
Then she heads back in the direction of the inn.
Jareen sits mulling a little, happy to let Irivis use her charms to persuasde anyone else of the right direrction to take...
Gorad follows the group to the inn, being of the ilk that feels gastronimcal bliss comes not from the quality but from the quantity.
Call is going to make contact with representatives of either her house, or the wider trading house that they were part of (so either Wavir or her own house - Wavir seems more likely). She wants to know if any of her immediate family have also escaped the raid and the sacrifice. She also wants to put feelers out to try and investigate whether this was bad luck or a targeted attack.
But that can wait until after dinner.
"We should go to the White Lizard. I want to know more about what that crazy beggar was talking about. You don't all have to come," she concludes with a neutral glance at Arakan.
Then she heads back in the direction of the inn.
Altaruk is a frontier town, but the White Lizard is rough and ready even for that. A ramshackle stone facade greets the travellers, with the contents of the inn seemingly sprawling out on to the narrow street and clogging it with tattered awnings, tables, chairs and rowdy drunkards. Above the dark yawning hole in the wall that serves as a doorway is painted the titular white lizard, some sort of monitor splayed as if sunning itself. Coming in and out are the bar staff. As the group settle at a free table a barmaid comes over. She is stick-thin and sinewy, her skin burnt brown by the sun, and wearing a loose cottin jerkin and trousers. She has a jagged scar across one cheek, muscular arms and the hands (and eyes) of a strangler.
"What'll it be?" she asks grudgingly.
"Alcohol. Lots of it. And bread."
Irivis sits with relief, enormously grateful to get the weight off her battered foot.
"That'll be one bit each."
Gorad winces at the price before hading it over happy to have something foamy to drink.
"City life. Not much safer than the desert really."
The woman heads inside and emerges shortly after. Even if the service leaves a little to be desired, the food and drink is welcome. Twists of dried, leathery meat, hunks of gritty unleavened bread and watery beer - luxurious by recent standards.