Longacre. If proud Egorian is the heart and soul of the Infernal Empire, then Longacre - located on the edge of the Whisperwood Forest - is... less glamorous, some organ you don't notice until it stops functioning. It's not a place to come from: those who leave, who make something of themselves, reinvent their past and Longacre inevitably gets lost in transition. Longacre's where you end up, usually if you've disgraced or embarrassed yourself - or someone important. Soldiers (there are many veterans here) speak of the "Long march to Longacre" as a fate worse than death - a place to hide those crippled in, or otherwise discharged from, Her Majestrix's Service.
That said, Longacre is a key part of the Archbarony of Fex and a functioning, even thriving, town. Its lumber and charcoal burners supply the fuel for smithies and forges across most of southern Cheliax; and the leather armour stamped with the mark of Louislik's Tannery is recognised for its quality by soldiers across the realm. Its church (dedicated to Iomedae: soldiers identify more with the Chelish warrior-goddess than they do with the devil-god of lawyers) is well maintained and the local sheriff is popular and known to be incorruptible.
Longacre really only has two problems: the first is that its residents are strongly sympathetic to the Glorious Reclamation; and the second is that it's home to a half-dozen villains who are looking to make a name for themselves....
Citadel Dinyar has fallen, at last. The Hellknights of the Godclaw fought tenaciously, but ultimately could not withstand the righteous wrath of the Inheritor’s chosen. Wrapped in a lustrous cloak of white sable, with the sword-symbol of Iomedae picked out in gold thread, Alexeara Cansellarion stands in her newly-acquired Headquarters, listening to the reports of her senior officers. After a long siege, and the triumph of victory, comes the detail of administration. But this, too, matters. Without paperwork there is no organisation; and without organisation there is simply anarchy. Cansellarion understands this well, which is why the paladin has risen so far in Iomedae’s church so quickly.
Eventually, the details (from provisions to the fate of those taken prisoner) are ironed out; her senior officers stand silent, listening to Cansellarion as she outlines her vision.
“We have done well, in so short a time. The Inheritor is with us. But this is just the start. I intend to found a new Order, based at this reclaimed Citadel; and my goal is no more or less than the elimination of House Thrune’s rule in Cheliax.”
She pauses, to let this sink in. “When word came that the Order of the Godclaw had found Heart’s Edge, I was filled with righteous anger. Iomedae’s sacred blade did not belong in the hands of heretic Hellknights! But I knew not what to do. I felt powerless, impotent. So I prayed and fasted. For eleven days, I consumed only water, and my sacrifice and devotion were finally rewarded. Divine purpose supplanted my outrage, and my destiny was made clear. I would muster an army of the faithful, and together we would recover the Inheritor’s sword from the blasphemers. Then we would take our crusade to Cheliax, and take back our land from the devilspawn who had usurped it. We would reclaim our nation in the name of the Inheritor, and all would prosper in the glory of Iomedae! For too long we have allowed Iomedae’s own lands to be ruled by those diabolists! Our victory over the Hellknights here, and our recovery of that most sacred relic, is a sign of what we can do. We have the power. Lastwall is held. The Worldwound is contained. We have paid dearly for those victories, and now we take the fight to the enemy’s heartland!”
Tears spring unbidden to Alexeara’s eyes. To her, this is personal. Another pause, to let the excitement build. “Who is with me?”
A ripple spreads across the room as her officers, as one, kneel and present their blades.
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AELDEN
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It’s a day ending in “y” which means you’re spending the evening at The Last Stand tavern. Beats having to cook for yourself, and having the drink brought to you saves getting up and pouring it.
You sure as ****** didn’t order this, though: the bottle that’s placed in front of you from the tray is Old Kraggar’s - one of the finest dwarven whiskies there is, with a price to match. One bottle is over a month’s wages. Definitely not your usual order; and looking up sharply, you see that the girl behind the tray isn’t the usual barmaid. Instead, holding the tray with a crooked smirk is a youthful-looking wench with pale skin and dark hair; she looks almost painfully young, until your eyes meet hers and you see more calculating worldliness there than anyone that young has a right to know.
“Wotcher. Seat’s not taken, is it?” Without waiting for a reply, she sits down opposite, reversing her chair so the backrest is between her and you. She folds her bare arms across its top and leans forward, regarding you thoughtfully. Without taking her eyes off yours, she opens the bottle of Kraggar’s with a flourish, pouring two generous measures. She pushes one glass in your direction, and takes the other up, with another smirk. “Came into some money recently - made a new friend; someone with influence. Seems to know a lot about everyone in this town ... but here’s the funny thing: doesn’t know much about you at all.” She sips the whisky appreciatively. Another smirk. “That makes you interesting, and there’s damn near ****-all interesting that happens in this backwards ****hole - and here’s something else that’s interesting.”
She narrows her eyes and looks at you speculatively. “Veterans that come here, they go two ways. There’s them that let themselves go now there’s nobody to order ‘em around, spend their nights in here, get flabby and soft; and that’s not you - you get drunk here, sure, and you have nightmares, if what I hear from the girls is right; but you’ve not much flab - and you’re not soft, that’s for sure! Reckon you could snap me in two, if you’d a mind.” Another conspiratorial smirk. “And then there’s them that keeps their discipline, irons their uniform, polishes their medals, walks around like there’s a stick up their arse, wouldn’t be seen dead in here - and that’s not you, either, eh?” She shakes her head, still careful not to take her eyes off you.
Something clicks. That expression: you’ve seen it before, a long time ago now. Oh, yes - it was just before your promotion to sergeant, all those long years ago. This girl has that same look on her face. Slowly it dawns on you.
You’re being interviewed.
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BRYNJOLVAR
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Crap. Longacre. Again.
First time round was just about bearable, coming here as a staging point for the two nearby lumber camps - Three Steels and the Volmirren Partnership. Not good (they’re where you go when nobody else in the business will employ you), but bearable.
Unfortunately, turns out that word spreads; rumour travels fast. When, in both camps, you got a few pointed questions about tell me how your last job ended it was clear: taking that money to do in your team was a smart move, at the time, but it turns out actions have reactions. If not even these two camps will give you the time of day, much less a job, your lumber days are likely over.
So it’s back to Longacre, and then… gods know what. Whatever dreams you had after that killing racket, of getting into the bigger game, they didn’t last; turns out people won’t just hire muscle, it’s gotta be muscle they know, or who knows someone they know; and you, you don’t know anyone. Connections, that’s what’s needed. And now, you can’t even get back into the one game you do know. Did know.
Crap.
The local beer tastes like somebody already drank it, but at least it’s not too obviously watered down; the booze kicks in, hitting your system fast on an empty stomach. You’ve got coin for a meal, or drinking, and right now you need the drink. Slumped in your corner table, you drink, your mood darkening with each pint…
The hairs on the back of your neck go up, suddenly, prickling you back into the present: You’re being watched.
Back when you were logging in the deep forest, you’d sometimes turn round to see a wolf sitting nearby, maybe ten, fifteen feet from you. Not a threat, just watching. You’d got your axe, it had its teeth, both of you predators to be respected. You’d both stare for maybe half a minute or so, then the wolf would nod, and vanish on its business, lord of its domain.
The girl at the bar is giving you a look like that. The eyes: confident, unafraid, calculating. Been a long time since anyone looked at you and you, rather than feared you. Doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eye, too.
She gives a crooked smirk as she sees you watching her watching you; standing in one fluid movement she walks over, carrying a tray of hot stew which she sets in front of you. “Food here’s slop, but it’s filling - and you shouldn’t talk business on an empty stomach.” She gives another little smirk. “Man, turned down by Three-Fingers and Satyr Den, that’s gotta smart. Ask about what happened to your last crew, did they?”
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CORRIDAN
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You’re just closing up shop when the girl walks in, carrying herself (for all her youth) like she owns the place. “Locking up? Good. Means we won’t be disturbed.” In one graceful move, she hoists herself up to sit on the counter, watching while you bring down the blinds on the shop window and close the front door.
It’s not clear what she’s doing here: from the garish nature of her outlandish garb, it would seem she has little interest in fashion, beyond the youthful need to be noticed - although her cloak draws your attention: slightly bedraggled, but of good make. Elven weave, designed not to be seen. Interesting. What would an adolescent (or near enough as makes no difference) whose entire outfit, from the lime-green and leather vest to the artfully bare arms, screams ‘pay attention to me!’ want with such as that?
It’s an anomaly; an intrusion into the otherwise dull and humdrum nature of your life. And then there’s the glimpse of what was inside the cloak, as she climbed to the counter (you may be closing up, but you’re not letting her out your sight as you so so - old habits die hard, after all): two well-worn hilts, substantial too, obviously attached to heavy blades; kukris, most likely. (Not that Corridan would know about such things, of course.)
She starts to fidget impatiently while she waits for you to finish closing up and pay attention to her; and then, finally, bored with that, she utters a phrase that stops you in your tracks.
“Many masterless men manage midnight mischief.” It’s the pass-phrase your Thrune contacts use when they come by on occasion to pick up whatever news you consider is worth passing on.
This girl - you’ve managed to identify her now, it’s Cimri Staelish, local ne’er do well and niece of the Sheriff - is not, and never has been, one of those contacts; perched on your shop counter, giving you a crooked smirk, she’s utterly out of place, like ... well, like a Wiscrani thief and hired blade running a tailor’s establishment. (Not that such a simile would occur to Corridan, of course.)
She cocks an eyebrow. “Well? You gonna give your half of the pass-phrase, or what?” Jumping easily down from the counter, she wanders over to the various fabrics on display. For all her outlandish garb, the girl has a good eye: she’s picked up the Minkai silk, which is easily the most expensive and tasteful fabric you have in stock. She runs the material through her fingers while she gives you time to decide how to proceed (she’s not letting you out of her sight, either, you notice).
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DRATHI
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“Face it, doll. We’re never gonna get rich off our little games in Longacre.” Cimri takes a long pull off the bottle, before passing it to you, with that characteristic smirk of hers. It’s a good vintage, and it doesn’t deserve the treatment she’s giving it - part of the proceeds from your latest heist. Cimri had identified the mark (a veteran who’d recently started spending a bit more than usual) and you’d done your little trick of hurting him until he told you where the stash (an inheritance from some relative - cousin, uncle, you forget now) was being hidden.
After that, just a simple matter of dividing up the funds: enough to get you something better than the usual local wine. Not that you’re convinced Cimri can tell the difference. Anyway, it’s always the same, no matter what the drink: after a few, Staelish always starts going on and on and on about what a dump this place is (true) and how one day, she’s gonna leave here, make something of herself (unlikely to untrue). Real soon. Any day now. You’ll see.
Tonight, though, isn’t going according to script. Cimri looks … different, thoughtful almost, as she stares at - almost through - you. “Thinking of dissolving our little partnership, to tell you the truth, doll. It’s been fun, and profitable, but...” she smirks and pulls something out of her top. It’s a coin. A platinum coin. Long time since either of you saw one of those, and it for damn sure wasn’t part of the stash you just lifted.
“...truth is, doll, I’ve met someone new. He likes me - gave me this as a ’gesture of goodwill.’ Says things - lots of interesting things.” Her eyes gleam. “One of those things is that it’s all about to change round here; stuff’s happening out there-” she makes a sweep of her arm that’s apparently meant to take in the rest of Cheliax “-that’s gonna ripple across, even to us. An’ I’m gonna be ready when it does, ride the wave all the way to riches, you know? Only I can’t do that if we’re… we’re thinking too small.” She pats the pocket where she has stored the platinum coin. “That’s why I carry it round, to remind me not to go small.”
She gives you a sidelong glance, followed by that crooked smirk of hers. “Course, if you wanna come with, I could always use a girl of your...talents. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get a few platinum of your own, along the way. There’s gotta be enough out there for the both of us.”
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LYTHIRRA
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It’s the sound of voices arguing that draws you downstairs after dinner: the Arch and Lark tavern is even older than the lady who runs it, and the oak flooring has shrunk, leaving gaps that allow sound to filter up without much in the way of insulation. In this case, you only recognise the first voice, that of the proprietress Fordaneil Cembers. She’s been here even longer than you have, and it was she who (doubtless recognising your noble pedigree) offered you board and lodging here when you first arrived, in exchange for your services as after-dinner entertainment for those few guests Miss Cembers has: there aren’t many who submit themselves to the scrutiny of her interviews once they learn that there’s another tavern in town where nobody cares about their business.
The second voice you don’t recognise: it’s spiky, edgy, contemptuous; what Miss Cembers would refer to as ‘ill-bred’ in a manner that shuts down most conversations. Her tone isn’t working here and the newcomer is clearly giving as good as she’s getting.
Curiosity draws you out of your room and into the hallway at the top of the stairs, where you can hear what’s being said.
“Listen, you stupid bint, I already toldja I don’t wanna stay here - I just need a word with one of your guests! Now go get ‘em!” This is the visitor, whose voice you don’t recognise.
The reply is cool, crisp, and would be almost courteous if it weren’t so icy. “My dear. It is not simply that you fail to meet – drastically so, I might add - the standards I expect of my guests. It is that you are not fit to cross this threshold. Kindly leave at once. And as for disturbing my guest, I shall under no circumstances do any such thing. What a suggestion! It is past nine of the clock at night, and, like any respectable young lady, she has retired to her room with an improving book.” (Poor Miss Cembers: what is left of her wispy white hair would probably fall out if she only knew what you consider to be an ‘improving book’)
This reproof is met with a cynical laugh. “Young lady, says you - ha! How long’s she been here, and not a day older than when she first arrived; that’s what I heard, anyway. Now go get her!”
They both catch sight of you on the stairway at roughly the same time, their appearances forming an almost perfect contrast: Miss Cembers, thin, drawn, birdlike, atwitter with indignation, hands flapping as she composes a hasty apology for the disturbance; and the newcomer, vibrant, dark-haired, youthful and brashly self-confident, dressed in a manner that is almost calculated to provoke Miss Cembers’ ire.
Miss Cembers gets the first word, briefly. “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry-”
“Stow it, you old horror. Now, got something for you. Catch!” The girl winds her arm back and her overarm throw propels something to you; the aim is good and it lands in your palm almost without you needing to make an effort. She gives you a crooked smirk. “That should get your interest! I’ll be on the road out of here to Ash House for the next twenty minutes. Up to you whether you come or not.”
Ignoring Miss Cembers’ outrage, the girl turns her back on you and stalks out the front door. Slowly, as if in a strange dream, you look down at the object in your hand, the one that this newcomer threw at you.
It’s your old signet ring.
Slamming his glass on the table, Brynjolvar Ironeyes watches the ale spill over the rim and run down the glass's side, sure to leave a ring on the table. Not that this place - what was it called again, The Last Stand? - was worthy of a visit by the Archbaron or anything, but still, they gave coasters with their drinks. One of which, Bryn in the mood he was in - sat unused next to the logger's overflowed pint.
Grabbing a spoonful of stew, Bryn shovels it into his mouth and chews a couple of times, before picking up his glass and holding it up to the newcomer.
"Slop's fine. Goes down well with the garbage ale." Tipping back the pint, the logger finishes it in one gulp, slamming it down again next to the coaster. "Thanks for dinner."
The girl. She was small, but she had a look about her. Predator all the way. Careful, Mule, the logger chided himself. She's the worst kind of predator. One filled with anticipation.
Raising his hands, Bryn worries at his right knuckle a little, the one that always gave him trouble, ever since he cracked it on that hunter from some s***e town in the Whisperwood. The knuckle that always aches when it rains.
"Its no bother at all, about the camps, I mean. Momentary bout of weakness on my part, went back on a vow I'd made myself. Best it didn't work out."
"Now, Love, normally I'd introduce myself as Brynjolvar Ironeyes, some have called me Mule, I prefer Bryn. But I'm betting you already know that, since you know about what's rumored happened to my last crew."
"Which begs a question gotta be asked, Love."
Brin pauses, signalling the waitress for another pint. Since the lady was buying.
"Who are you, I'm so lucky to be eating dinner on your silver, and why the interest in an unemployed foreman?"
Lythirra, who was wearing an apologetic smile for Miss Cembers until the newcomer throws the aasimar her old ring, stands dumbfounded staring at the piece of jewelry in her hand.
One little chip on the left side, and another one on the lower side of the band...it looks just like my ring.
The musetouched hesitantly puts on her signet ring, raising it up to take a good look at it, like she did 30 years ago just before handing it to her parents before leaving to Longacre.
"Sorry for the ruckus the young miss raised because of me, Miss Cembers." Lythirra apologizes to the proprietress after snapping out of her daze "I am going to change and follow after her, in case she had something important to discuss."
With a slight bow, the aasimar ascends the stairs to her room and locks the door behind her: tossing her clothes to the floor, Lythirra opens her wardrobe and pulls out a large box. Putting it on her bed, she opens it, passing her hand on the fabric of an elegant dress a good 3 decades out of fashion. Taking care not to unfold it, the woman takes it out of the box, revealing a well-crafted leather armor under it.
Why did she have my old ring? Lythirra wonders as she puts on the leather armor, fastening it just a little too tight with an half-chocked yelp, before putting on a neck high blouse and cloak to hide that she was wearing armor: it would have worked at least on Miss Cembers. Lythirra had enough...attachment? for the old woman to want to avoid her worrying, and she wasn't in the mood to answer questions herself right now.
She wanted questions asked for her.
Clutching her dagger and uttering a prayer before hiding it in her clothes, Lythirra exits her room and sets out of the Arch and Lark, towards were the stranger said she was headed. After she reaches her, the aasimar tilts her head questioningly without a word.
Smile.
'This is... unusual,' Corridan ponders as the girl talks, at some point uttering an all too familiar phrase. 'And interesting.'
"You have a discerning eye, Ms. Staelish," he says casually, his tone that of the proper proffesional, as a little smile appears on his lips, its cause her last name and the almost hidden pun in its pronunciation. He approaches her -nonthreateningly, of course- and gently takes the spool of fabric from her hands, returning it to its place and carefully straightening out any creases.
"I was about to close up, but I am sure I can... linger a little longer for the Sheriff's...," the tailor goes on, his smile widening just a little at his play with words, and pauses for but a moment, as if trying to remember. Trying is the operative word. He knows what Cimri's relation to Rhona Staelish, Longacre's resident lawkeeper, is. "Niece, yes?" There is a subtle but distinctive Varisian accent in his voice, distinctive just enough to notice at least.
"Now," he finally says, apparently getting down to business, "I saw you looking at the silk. From Minkai, and of very fine quality. The finest in my store in fact." He takes a moment to look her up and down. "I could have it made into a soft scarf. It would complement that cloak of yours. Of elven make, I would wager. Quite distinct the elven fashion."
"Or a flowing dress." He allows the tiniest of smirks to tug at the left corner of his mouth. "Something with sleeves perhaps."
He makes no mention of the pass-phrase. Not that he has not heard it of course, taking into account Cimri's naming it as such specifically, as well as his initial reaction upon hearing it.
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Drathi looks at Cimri, her view moving from the pocket with the valuable coin, to her face, and back to the pocket again.
As she does this, she concentrates on Cimri, as she has many times in the past, trying to delve into her mind to determine who this contact might be, and what the mysterious new person might want.
Someone new? You know as well as I do that this backwater hole is not where we belong. If you have some new game, I am always interested in hearing about it. We both know that in this land, keeping your head on your shoulders is number one. But, what happens to those other than us is simply the cost of doing business.
So, what type of work is he looking for? What weak minds are we going to toy with?
Use Read Mind - DC17 Will as a Powerful Charm
--> Subtlety - must make a second DC17 Will save to realize that the magic is being used on her
Diplomacy: <-- if needed
"Hrmmph." Aelden grunts, staring at the young girl in front of him. He's tempted to tell her to sod off. What the hell does she know about discipline, or ex-soldiers, or...anything...for that matter.
'...I'll be damned if I answer to some punk-kid who wants war stories to laugh at...'
But it's Old Kraggar. That isn't something you just throw around for laughs. It was one of the things they used to talk about in the long hours of a watch: what they'd do with their next pay. Old Kraggar's came up more than once. Well, along with the next two wenches that came around the corner, but that's another tale...
He snaps out of his reverie to drain his glass and slide it closer to...who? "I'm sorry," he growls, "you are...?"
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AELDEN
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The girl smirks at your question. "Name's Cimri. Cimri Staelish. And course, I know yours already."
She nods. "Putting a team together, looking to get stuff done, no questions asked. Chance to earn some cash, prove useful to important people. You'd be good to have: ex-military type, no qualms about putting the hurt on people, but not crazy-loon killer either." She sighs, softly. "Good help is harder to find than you'd think, specially in this backwards ****-hole."
Cimri pauses, and looks at you for a good ten seconds without speaking. "Interested?"
She pushes the bottle back towards you. "Keep it - think of it as down payment. Work for me, you'll be able to afford much as you like." She smirks. "Way I see it, you got three choices. One, you work for me, we do this job, we do it well and get rewarded, see where it takes us." She starts to tick the options off on her fingers. "Two: you take the bottle up to bed with you, stave off the nightmares another couple nights, wake up one morning and find you've become one of them slobs over there. Three: you do your duty, report me to the Sheriff, become one of them stick-up-the-arse types."
Another smirk. "Choose wisely, now, 'kay?"
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BRYNJOLVAR
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The girl gives a filthy grin. "Didn't know about the 'Mule' nickname - not something most men would admit they answer to! I'm Cimri. Cimri Staelish. And I've no interest in a foreman, but the unemployed bit... that I might be able to help with."
She gives a pause, sizing you up again. "Looking for reliable people. You didn't own up to anything when I mentioned it, which is good. Too many muscle types are the bragging sort, loose lips. Don't like that. Don't like that at all. Also looking for people who aren't squeamish, got the grit and the balls to do what they have to. People looking to make something of themselves, earn good cash, get the attention of important people."
Cimri looks at you. "Got your attention? Cos I got a job coming up, and I need muscle."
She tosses a bag of mixed coinage onto the table. "Enough there to get you a single room here, to yourself, plus food and drink, for the next coupla weeks." Another smirk. "Or it'll get you on a coach to Westcrown, and passage on a ship out somewhere, if you think your fortune lies over the rainbow!"
"Next coach outta here leaves in ten minutes from Jackdaw's."
"Your call." Cimri smiles wolfishly and stretches. "Your round, too - if you're staying..."
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CORRIDAN
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Cimri gives a small frown as you mention her aunt, but she bats away the distraction with practiced ease. "Can choose your friends, not your relatives," she murmurs.
Your reaction to her pass-phrase is so smooth, your lies so well-rehearsed, that for a moment - just a moment - you can see a small frown appear on Cimri's face as she doubts the information she was given about you. But - whoever her source - she obviously trusts them enough that your lie isn't quite good enough.
She gives a toothy smile, different from her previous smirk. "Well played, tailor. But I ain't here to talk clothing."
Standing, she faces you, one hand inside her cloak, hidden from your sight. You've no doubt whatsoever about what she's holding in readiness. "You inform for Thrune - and you're discreet about it. Good. That's good. Too many people can't keep a secret. So. One of us is gonna have to give in order to get; guess it's me."
Her eyes lock onto yours. "Made a new friend, recently; a patron, rather. Knows a lot about what's going on, here and out there." A sweep of her arm encompasses the rest of Cheliax. "Been given a job to do, looking for people who can do it. Figured with your connections, you'd know someone."
Cimri shakes her head. "Not just looking for some dim thug. Need someone discreet, reliable, blade-for-hire type who won't double-cross their mates or cause trouble. As you can imagine - OK, maybe not, so take my word for it - good help's hard to find in this ****-hole."
She cocks an eyebrow at you. "Any names spring to mind?"
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DRATHI
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Cimri scowls, and clonks you over the back of the head with the wine bottle; hard enough that you briefly see stars. "Don't do that, doll - I'm not stupid, I told my friend what you can do and he took precautions."
"Anyway, I'll tell you what I know - which isn't much, honestly. Name's Razelago, and he works for Fex. He's looking for a group who can get stuff done, quiet-like. First job is to hit the tannery: apparently ol' Louislik ain't been paying his taxes; and he's been mouthing off to the Archbaron!" She shakes her head. "Talk about stupid. So we're gonna pay him a visit, take what's owed, and maybe put some frighteners on him too."
"Now, job like that, serious money - but risk, too. Your magic's good, doll, and my blades are sharp, but we need some numbers behind us. Lucky for you, your mate Cimri, she's got a sharp eye... Already spotted some likely prospects."
She gives you a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Not bad, eh? I tell you, doll, things are looking up. Glad you're in. You won't be sorry."
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LYTHIRRA
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Miss Cembers looks outraged, but you push past her before she can get fully into her stride.
True to her word, the girl is waiting for you, a smirk on her face. "Knew you'd come. Good to have it back, right? After all that time..." She looks briefly wistful. "Must be nice to live that long." The expression fades, vanishing like it never was. "Anyway. Let's cut to the chase. It's chilly out here. But at least it's deserted."
This is true: you are on the road out from Longacre, and it leads only to Ash House, that deserted memorial to a long-dead noble family who crossed the Thrunes. Nobody has reason to walk it these days, especially not at night. Rumour holds that the house is haunted, which keeps most people away.
The girl clears her throat. "OK, m'Lady, here's the setup: name's Cimri - Cimri Staelish. I'm the Sheriff's niece, but that don't mean a thing. I'm looking to make my way in the world and I've recently made an... interesting... friend, or let's say a patron, who needs some stuff doing. I'm gonna need help, an' he told me a bit about you, enough that I know you could be useful."
Cimri gives you a pitying look. "You don't wanna spend another thirty years singing for Miss Cembers, do you? Cos you just know that old biddy ain't gonna conveniently die any time soon..."
"So. There's the pitch." The girl shivers, and hugs her bare arms around herself. "You in or out? Make it quick, cos I'm freezing my tits off out here."
Lythirra nods when Cimri mentions the ring. "How did you...?" she mutters, but stops to allow the girl to talk.
She listens to the sheriff's niece, wincing when the girl mentions how she spent her last thirty years.
"I admit the last 30 years have been a bit dull." Lythirra replies with a smile after a brief pause "But what kind of 'stuff doing' are we discussing, miss? After all, the only thing of note I've done these last decades is sing."
Lythirra keeps smiling, but now it was more unnerving than amiable.
Bryn grabs the bag and peers inside, eyebrow raised in surprise. Not how I'd seen this night going.
"Mule is a name I make sure people know. Gives 'em what's the word... preconceived notions about who I am."
"And what I am right now is someone's not staying in a tent tonight. And someone who's buying the next round."
Raising his finger to get the serving girl's attention, Bryn points to Cimri and then holds two fingers up, a backwards 'V'.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Staelish. What's this job you're needing, and when does it start?"
"Hrmmph." Aelden grunts, pouring another dram of the Old Kraggar. He drains the shot and re-stoppers the bottle, tucking it away in his belt.
"Duty's overrated. When do I start?"
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After regaining her sight, Drathi chuckles.
Had to try. We both know that having the answer before you ask the question is always optimal.
So, what type of a group is he looking for, who have you lined up? Not many with real skills in this place. She pauses for a moment. Thinking of which, when are we getting out of this place. I know you have as much love for this as you do for a dagger in the back.
Knowledge(local)@Razelago:
Knowledge(local)@Fex:
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AELDEN
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Cimri gives you a satisfied nod. "Knew you'd see it my way."
She looks at you thoughtfully, wondering how much to divulge; but something seems to prompt her to tell you more. "My new friend - patron - keeps an eye out for things that don't fit." A smirk. "Like you, f'rinstance. Anyway, looks like ol' Louislik ain't been paying his taxes, so we're gonna go in an' claim 'em. There's a finder's fee, course."
The girl drains the last of her whisky and clicks her fingers. "Midnight raid: in an' out, like that, gone. No fuss, no trouble. See you on the road out to the tannery, just outside the Castle Gate, 11 p.m. Moonday."
She stands, gives you a radiant, dazzling smile, and disappears out the front door.
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BRYN
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"Nice to meet you too, Mr Ironeyes." Cimri gives you her best little-girl-lost look, before turning it into a predatory grin. "Call me Cimri. And the job's straightforward: we're gonna rob the Tannery. Don't worry, we got official blessing, long as we don't make a fuss. Quiet-like, that's the way. Meet up on the road out to the tannery, just outside the Castle Gate, 11 p.m. Moonday."
She nods. "Good talking business with you. Now let's get drunk. You're paying." Another crooked smirk.
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DRATHI
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Cimri grins. "No hard feelings, doll. Got four others lined up, I think... Two muscle: ex-soldier and a logger; one social: noble-bred, she'll be able to work those doors that won't open for us; and one..." Cimri frowns. "One I'm not sure of. May have made a mistake there, doll, to be honest with you; but I saw a prospect an' I went for it. Can't say fairer than that."
She does not elaborate, but gives you a look. "If it doesn't work out, might need your help to tidy up any loose ends."
Another swig. "Right, that's the last of the wine. Let's get going, it's freezing out here. Oh, yeah, forgot, nearly: see you Moonday, on the road out to the Tannery, just outside the Castle Gate. Told the others 11 p.m., so I'm gonna get there early, scope out. Join me?"
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LYTHIRRA
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The young woman gives you a leer that would make a harlot blush: "Weren't the 'singing' that got you stranded out here, least what I heard - Still, what you get up to in bed's between you and the Prince of Pain." Cimri's eyes meet yours, speculatively, for a moment, before she's all business again.
"Nah, I figure an angel-blood like you's gotta have some magic in 'em somewhere. Be good to have it on my side. But honestly, I'm more looking forward now, and I'm seeing that my patron might have more use for me if I've got a team that can... move in other circles, you know? I'm common as muck, and I worked hard on that, so no problems - but someone who knows how the nobs talk, how they think, what ****in' fork to use with which plate, sort of thing... that could come in handy, down the way."
She gives you a crooked smirk. "Forward planning, that's the thing. But you're asking the right question. The next - first, really - bit of 'stuff doing' is payin' a little visit to ol' Louislik at the Tannery. Seems he's been gettin' ideas he shouldn't, being rude to the Archbaron; we're to break in one night and... discipline him a bit."
Cimri looks at you, giving a wolfish grin, watching your expression: "A Kuthite's not afraid of dishing out a bit of hurt on someone, right? Anyway, that's what we're doing. Meet up on the road out to the tannery, just outside the Castle Gate, 11 p.m. Moonday."
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After Cimri finished off her wine, Drathi grins at her. Should be fun. We will see if these others are half as competent as you claim. I rather like having my hands connected to my wrists, and prefer to stay that way.
Once Cimri leaves, Drathi sits back and thinks.
Interesting. Knocking off a place of business, sort of in the name of the law.
With that, Drathi heads back to her flat to catch some rest. The alchemist needs her, and she knows that Moonday will come much to soon.
She also researches Fex and Razelago, finding interesting tidbits on Fex, but surprised that there is nothing on Razelago. She would have to ask Cimri more about him when they next met up.
Corridan seems to remain expressionless for a moment or two, quite possibly weighing his options. Finally he takes a deep breath and then lets out a sigh.
"Well, generally people find themselves in need of clothes," he says. "Even unsavory ones. So yes, I may know one or two who might fit that description. And I can indeed get in touch with them, see who is the better... err... candidate. Not to mention the more interested one."
He moves about his shop while thinking and talking before finally settling in a chair. It has been a long enough day after all.
"What would you like me to tell them? What information are you willing to share with me so that I may share with them? Or rather the one most suitable. No need to advertise this whole thing, I am sure." He shrugs. "After all, a person that actually... heh... ticks all the right boxes of yours, especially the discreet one, is probably not someone who will simply jump at the first mysterious job offer from a tailor."
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Aelden sits back in his chair, watching Cimri leave. '...knew you'd see it my way...' He ponders that comment for a moment, wondering why in the nine hells he was taking jobs from a little girl.
'...because you like to eat, Aelden, ol' boy. not to mention having a roof overhead...'
Moonday was another day. Time to get drunk...
Aelden arrived at the designated rendezvous outside the gate just before 11 bells. Old habits die hard, and his soldier's instincts told him to be five minutes prior to the time, just in case.
Lythirra grins widely when Cimri mentions he knows how she ended up in Longacre.
Ah, memories...
The Aasimar is silent for a moment, weighing the young woman's offer, before nodding "Yes, I think I will take you up on your offer. 'Dishing out a bit of hurt' is something I can help with, yes."
The girl said that there is money to be made...but I do not really care. Whoever this "patron" of hers is, he managed to find my old signet ring...I wonder how.
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MOONDAY 12 NETH 2016 A.R.
The town of Longacre lies asleep on the fringes of the Whisperwood. A few lights shine in the streets and windows, and the occasional snippet of conversation or laughter issues from open doors, but here on the outskirts of town, the night is quiet and dark. Sparse clouds scud across the sky, momentarily obscuring the dim light from the moon overhead.
Midnight has come and gone: you assembled at 11, as ordered, but Cimri didn't want to risk a light so you walked by the light of the dim moon, treading carefully. A mile walk in the dark took far longer than it should have, but you have arrived in stealth.
Across a scrubby field, barely distinguishable under the starry sky, a darkened, fort-like compound hunches in the distance. One of the most respected businesses in Longacre, the Louislik Tannery has a reputation for sturdy leather and for treating fairly with local craftsmen. It also employs a significant proportion of the town, in one capacity or another. Because of the smelly processes involved in the operation, the Tannery sits a mile west of Longacre.
Cimri points toward the dim structure. “That’s it — Louislik Tannery. Here’s the job: we break in, sack ol’ Louislik’s office, take whatever’s shiny, and get out before the sheriff shows up. If we get separated, meet back at the Ash House by dawn.”
Dull moonlight glints across her dagger as she flicks it in emphasis. “If you get pinched, remember: you’re mute. Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll handle things. But get chatty and I’ll let you rot.”
A beat passes and her now-familiar crooked smirk appears. “If you don’t screw things up, we’ll all be drinking on Razelago’s coin come dawn. Let’s do this.”
Aelden sizes up the others in the light of the moon: not a real fighter amongst them, far as he can tell. He'd watch his own back thank you very much...
He scoffs as the dark-haired woman asks her question. "Hrmph. Ain't no one's 'friend', lass. As for what I bring, if'n you can't see it, maybe you need new eyes," he says with a slight gesture at his battle-worn sword and shield.
"Friend would be too strong a term, I think. Business partner might be more... appropriate. Even if this is the first time I meet our employer. Young."
The hooded man's face is partially obscured, making his characteristics and especially his eyes difficult to discern, though not impossible if one was to approach him. He probably looks like the kind of man that likes his personal space to remain personal though. Still, some things are not hidden, such as his sharp features (what can be seen of them anyway), his fair complexion and his soft voice. Dressed in mostly black and in other hues not much lighter he appears to be unarmed, though at the very least he is wearing armor, leather from the looks of it, as parts of it can be seen here and there beneath his cloak and clothes. So perhaps, just perhaps, he has not come to this place to meet with strangers entirely weaponless.
"Where he, from the looks of it, brings a big sword and a strong shield -both some of my favorite things when between me and people trying to kill me, mind you- as well as the will to use them," he continues, "I bring discretion." Despite his somber appearance in general, the man certainly seems -or rather sounds- friendly.
While the others start to talk, Lythirra clutches her iron Kuthite unholy symbol, praying to herself with eyes closed.
"My, that was rather rude." the woman turns to Aelden, smiling "We should start with the right foot, yes? As for me, I have some measure of magical talent, even if I am a bit rusty on using it."
In the dark, you feel rather than see Cimri's eye-roll. "Yeah, let's all have high tea an' some ****in' cucumber sandwiches - c'mon, there's a job needs doing!"
"An' no, we're not using names. This here's Doll, an' you're Lady, and that there's Dogface an' Knuckles, an' you..." She eyes the newcomer, dubiously. "You're Shady."
Another crooked smirk. "An' me? I'm The Boss." She pats one of her pockets. "Call it the Platinum Rule: I've got the platinum, so I make the rules."
"Now let's get to it! Who's gonna earn their pay, come up with a bright idea?"
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Drathi looks to the others.
Seems there are three options. Sneak in by climbing through a window. Use muscle to force our way in. Or we can simply walk in and convince any guards that we belong there. I prefer the last choice as my skills are more targeted in that direction.
If there are guards, I may be able to determine the desires of any guards, and convince them to follow them - a girlfriend who needs to be visited, a tavern with fresh ale, an expected visitor, and that we are that visitor - really, it is quite easy. Doesn't always work, but it is usually much less risky than barging in with swords waving.
Lythirra barely restrains a chuckle when Cimri hands out nicknames and proclaims herself the boss.
Ah, youth...
"Are you sure you could charm everyone in there? I'm not an expert in breaking and entering, but wouldn't a single botched spell give a guard reason to call everyone else?" Lythirra tilts her head.
"If we have to search the office, wouldn't it be easier to sneak directly in there instead of charm our way trough the whole tannery? Of course, I am telling this without knowing the layout of the building, so I may be wrong." the Aasimar smiles.
Bryn chuckles, low and slow, as he leans against a tree trunk while the others talk. Removing a pouch of tobacco from his canvas pant pocket, the logger rolls a cigarette and smokes, taking the others in.
Dogface was easy enough to get a read on. Soldier, obviously, gruff and to the point. Bryn knew enough guys like him. Guy may be difficult, but he'd do what he says.
As easy as Dogface was to peg, Shady was difficult - or slippery, more like. He wore the cloakhood like a mask, using it to cast shadow along his face. And he apparently suprised the Boss, which wasn't good. Bosses are supposed to have a handle on their employees, after all.
Lady was the devout type, praying to the side, though Bryn couldn't catch the make or model of her particular master in the darkness. Regardless, Bryn would have to watch out for her; what zealots lacked in a sense of humor they possessed inversly in narrow-mindedness.
The Doll was attractive enough, but not Bryn's type; he preferred them with a little more curves. She was apparently here to do the talking, if it came to that - though Bryn hoped it wouldn't.
And then there was the Boss. In his opinion, Staelish showed more bravado than confidence. A kid playing adult games. But still, she was the boss, and as she said, she had the platinum. So Bryn would keep her happy.
Flicking his cigarette - still lit - into the night, Bryn shrugged. "Knuckles works. Before we do anything, we should know what we're up against, yeah? Ten more minutes won't hurt."
Walking into the darkness, Bryn stopped behind a stunted tree. A few seconds later, a small black housecat emerged from behind that same tree and began crossing the scrubby field towards the tannery.
"Belial's balls!" Cimri's jaw drops open as Bryn's grey wolf form ghosts away into the night. Whoever (or whatever) this mysterious patron "Razelago" might be, she or he evidently hasn't shared this snippet of knowledge with her.
The girl recovers fast however and by the time Bryn returns she has more or less regained her composure.
Your reconnaissance is rewarded, though: the log wall around the place isn't well maintained, and in the northeast corner there's a sizable gap. With care, someone - or someones - could slip through.
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Bryn shifts back a hundred or so feet from everyone and crouches, rubbing his watering eyes. Standing, the logger comes strolling into view from the darkness, whistling The Vixen Falls in Love by the great Cheliaxian composer Janecek.
Pulling on his suspenders, Bryn absently rocks back on his heels. "Palisade's got a gap in the northwest corner. Barring any better ideas, I say we slip through it. Boss."
"Neat trick," 'Shady' says with a smile. "I am guessing not the kind that can be taught though," he adds with a shrug and a hint of disappointment in his tone.
"It sounds like a plan. A gap that is not supposed to be there is not an entry point that will have a guard posted," he offers. "And even if there is one, well..." His smile widens just a little. "One is easier and faster to take care of quietly when compared to many."
"But slipping through does take a bit of subtlety," the hooded man says as he turns to look pointedly at 'Dogface' and less so at 'Doll' and 'Lady'. "You up to it?"
"Quite impressive." the Aasimar comments plainly as Knuckles shifts into a wolf and goes off in reconnaissance.
Interesting! This sounds like it is going fun!
Lythirra quietly sings along as Knuckles comes back, nodding both to him and Shady. "Yes, I have no objections. I cannot say that slipping trough tannery fences is something I am practical with, but I should be able to manage."
The gap in the palisade is where 'Knuckles' said it would be, and Cimri nods as she looks at it, attempting - and failing miserably - to affect an air of nonchalance, like she's done this sort of thing before. Oh yeah, loads of times. Too many to count. Really.
"Nice find. Makes our job easier - and almost makes up for startling me like that, I damn near jumped right out my- well never you mind!" She scowls, and gives a fierce look at the former logger. "Warn me next time, 'kay?"
She looks critically at the gap, which is on the narrow side. Making things more of a challenge are the long, rusty nails which were clearly supposed to hold the logs together; now, they ring the gap with hooked barbs, just waiting to snag on clothing - or something altogether more painful. "Hm. Well, here goes..."
Pulling up the hood of her cloak, the girl almost vanishes into the night, slipping with elegant poise - and, more importantly, almost complete silence - through the palisade and into the tannery.
Lythirra follows after the other two women, slipping easily and silently trough the gap in the fence: even if not wholly unnatural, the way the Aasimar's body twists seems decidedly painful. However, Lythirra seems wholly unfazed, grinning to herself.
Bryn glances at Dogface, and shrugging follows after the women, taking his time to squeeze through the opening, grimacing as the rusty nails slide and scratch across the logger's hide shirt.
Once through, he holds a finger to his lips and points to a firm bit of ground and then to Doll. Stand there.
Turning, Bryn holds his hand out for Dogface and Shady, waiting to help the men through.
So concerned with the others, Bryn doesn't notice a muddy patch of ground until its too late; turning, the logger slips and goes down in a loud heap, a grumbling curse escaping his lips as he does so.
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After letting out a squeal of delight when she so easily slips through the narrow opening, undoubtedly made easier from her slight build, Drathi stands where Knuckles points and has to restrain herself from trying to delve into the thoughts of her new companions to determine why they are here and what their motives might be.
Taking care to not get snagged -or worse- by the nails, the hooded man accepts Knuckles' assistance as he manages to step through the narrow opening, albeit not as quickly as he would have liked. Once that is over with he quickly moves to use the shadows and the dark for cover, the result of the attempt not as good as he would have liked.
"Perhaps I am a little out of practice," he mutters softly, almost whispering and mostly to himself. And then the other man falls down and a sharp breath escapes his lips as he turns his eyes to scan their surroundings, trying to make sure noone saw or heard them.
"Tsk..."
Aelden just grins at the woman. Rude for sure, but she'll get over it. Or not.
'...dogface?...meh, I've been called worse...'
Aelden is a bit startled when the grimy one turns into a wolf and stalks off. May be more so when he comes back and reports. But he doesn't show it. "Neat trick," he says to the man, 'Knuckles'. "But here's a neater one: when you light that damn cigarette there, the burning end can be seen a mile away in the dark. Nothing says: 'Hey we are out here watching your place!' like a glowing butt-end." Then he follows the others to the hole.
This was not his thing. You don't just squeeze armor and a shield through a small hole...but with 'Knuckles' help, he manages to free a strap from a nail that had snagged. He manages to get through it, but not without a dull 'clank' of his shield on the palisade wall. He gives Knuckles a nod of thanks.
Cart furrows and disturbing stains mar the surface of the yard you've stepped into, which extends into the gloom; even those of you blessed with darkvision can't see to the other side of it.
Around the perimeter, murky water pools in rows of sunken tubs. Unspeakable muck encrusts each vat and half-submerged skins float within. From these scabby concoctions drifts a sinus-assaulting reek: a dizzying miasma of rotten eggs, lime, alchemical vapours and - above all else - the stench of excrement. Whatever it was like outside the walls is as nothing to what assails your nostrils now.
The Boss takes a deep breath and doubles over, retching copiously. 'Knuckles' does little better. The rest of you are not happy, but not too badly troubled.
As you look around, you see a vast building directly in front of you, opposite the gap you have just come in from; it is shrouded in darkness. Off to your right is a smaller building, with a pool of warm light radiating out from a window. Evidently someone is at home.
Unfortunately, so is someone - or something - else. From deep within the shadows you hear a low, menacing growl; and then, creeping forward, a very large dog with thickened, scarred leathery skin and unearthly, glowing eyes that smoulder with hatred. If it were standing tall, it would be almost 4 feet at the shoulder; as it is, it slinks forward, low to the ground, ready to pounce.
The growl stops, briefly; before turning into a series of urgent - and LOUD - barks.
Dashing forward, the thing bites at 'Dogface' - caught flat-footed, the warrior is unable to stop its hell-bred teeth from piercing his thigh, crunching through flesh and sinew all the way to the bone. Somehow, he manages to stay upright.
"This dog does not look all that normal, not quite," 'Shady' calls out to the others as what looks like a dagger with a curved dark-colored blade seemingly appears in his right hand. "And I mean besides all the growling and slavering," he quips as he tries to move around and strike at the beast from a more advantageous position. "Perhaps a bit of fiendish blood? Or more than a bit?"
As the dog(?) tears into his leg, Aelden has to choke back a yell.
'...quiet time, lad...'
He grimaces as he draws his sword, and strikes!
Lythirra's hearth starts thumping in her chest when the hound charges then and blood starts to be spilled. Drawing her dagger, the aasimar clutches the blade and starts singing, chanting a spell.
A wave of energy flies in the direction of the infernal dog, but both the pain from the dagger and she trying to avoid hitting the others makes the attack miss completely.
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Unsure whether her mind affecting abilities will work against this infernally touched creature, Drathi thinks back to some of the training she learned under the tutelage of the Iomedaens several years before. Replacing the faith of the followers of the Inheritor with her own willpower, willing the blades of her companions to be a little more accurate, and their ability to succeed at tasks to be slightly improved.
Swallowing, she grimaces as the pain caused by the casting briefly overwhelms her, but she is able to grimace and avoid any side effects.
Standard Action: Serendipity
--> +1 attack, skill, saves, ability checks
Painful Casting - Fort:
Only 'Dogface' manages to get in a solid hit on the animal, which growls in reply and strikes back at him. This time, however, its teeth merely scrape across the scales of his armour.
Standing back up, Cimri scowls in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. She draws a heavy sap from beneath her cloak and moves in to attack the beast, but is groggy enough from the nausea that she misses completely.
"That's more like it..." Aelden grumbles under his breath, sliding his shield around to his left arm.
He angles the shield just so, and thrusts at the 'dog'. Grinning darkly at the satisfying 'crunch' of blade on bone.
With the warrior opposite him effectively flanking the beast and the woman's magic bolstering him, 'Shady' once again lashes out with his curved knife, this time the dark blade finding purchase on the dog's flesh.
Because of the dim light and shadows, 'Dogface' misses this time around. 'Shady' has no such problems, and his swipe draws blood - and a yelp - from the hound.
Wiping the remainder of his dinner away with his sleeve, Bryn steps into the beast and swings his spiked hand at it, grunting as the cestus sticks solidly into the dog's face.
Her hands trembling, Lythirra walks over to the dog flanked by her colleagues, scoring a suprisingly accurate slash on the beast's hide.