Fair enough :-)
Iskandarr, finding where the wizard is staying, knocks on his door. Once the door is opened, he says with a smile "Good morning, are you ready to send that message?"
|Tholan the Drolleye|
With a yawn and a grunt, Tholan rolls out of bed. His mind plays over the carnage of the day before, and he smiles. Strapping his gear on, he steps outside, letting the sun wash over him. The day is always more beautiful when it has been fed with blood. He draws his falchion, pausing to look at the reflection of light in the damascene metal. Entranced, he steps to the side, the shimmering in the metal dancing in the morning light. He steps and swings 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (9) + 10 = 19 and his feet follow the dancing pattern in the light, but he misses a step and the reflected light vanishes. The light in the metal has a rhythm. There is a dance in the blade. This... I will learn your war-dance, Gorum.
He raises his blade, searching it's reflection until he again catches the sun on the blade. He begins to move, swinging his blade 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (8) + 10 = 18 and moving so that he keeps the reflected sun in his eyes, the pattern of ripples and waves in the blade leading his steps until he trips on the root of a nearby tree. He staggers, catching himself but loses the reflection of the sun and the rhythm in the blade.
He sighs, murmuring, "Gorum aid me, may I learn your war-dance this day." He takes his stance once more, finding the light more quickly this time. He draws a deep breath and begins to swing the blade again 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27 / 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27, this time cutting perfectly through the air, a quiet ringing hum starting from the blade as he steps, each reflected mote of light on the blade spinning in another step of the dance. The blade swirls around Tholan's head, his weakened eyes closing as he finds the rhythm through the handle of his weapon, the hum growing louder now, pulsing as each swing cuts through the peak and trough of it's arc. "Gorum be praised, thank you for giving me the War Dancer to guide my steps in battle." He falls silent, still spinning and cutting, the pulsing hum emanating from the blade as it resonates through the air for a few quiet minutes.
Finally, he slows to a stop, his breath coming quickly but evenly. "Gorum be praised, may I ever continue to cut." He sits, leaning his back against a tree, closing his eyes to meditate on what he learned in his dance, War Dancer across his legs.
The wizard opens the door with a serious expression, his mind working on the many things to do that day. Upon the man-beast’s request, he nods silently, reaching into a pocket of his cloak and produces a strip of paper bound into a miniature scroll.
Targ’s island is retaken from rebel slaves and Amerysi freedom fighters. One hundred and twenty trained slaves are recaptured, send ships to transport them. Targ and his entourage missing, presumed dead.
~Chief Agent of the Rudianos
“Please have your raven send this message to Sorcha of the Rudianos house in Lehrehn. The most reliable location to find her will be her chamber in the Rudianos castle…” Thaegrin gives a detailed description of which window in the castle the messenger should alight, and then a detailed description of Lady Sorcha’s appearance. “Thank you,” he nods with pleasant tone to the tiger lord. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Repacking his belongings into his backpack or onto his person, the old Feraweni makes his way down to area where the slaves were kept for the night. Assuming he finds them docile, compliant, and alive…
He asks for those who worked in the kitchens of Targ’s villa to step forward. When they do, he ushers them away from the ears of the rest of the slaves before ordering them to return to the kitchens and larders to prepare a meal enough for one hundred and twenty five… well, one hundred and forty, he amends, considering the two Thelkonlanders with them. The court wizard orders dishes of meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, and nonalcoholic drinks. He warns that he will be watching them with magic and will roast the lot of them if they consider any insurrection or escape.
Bluff 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (18) + 12 = 30
He returns to the remainder of the captured slaves, standing high on a nearby rooftop. He claps twice, “Attention,” he calls out in a booming voice, “Yesterday, we fought on opposing sides, and unfortunately, many slaves and soldiers were killed. It was a difficult day for both of us. It was a result of the lies whispered to you by treacherous Amerysi, who sought to master you under the guise of freedom. I tell you now, even I am not free, not fully.”
Thaegrin continues, with a tone of a caring parent admonishing a child, “You must be wary, and vigilant, against such falsehoods. We are all destined to labor and toil, in our own way, against our will. And each of us must accept our place in this wide world, this world of gold and blood and cruelty.” He puts on a wistful smile. “It is because of the harshness of our world, that we need to trust one another, and find solace in that trust. I often envy the slaves of kind masters, for they need not worry for their safety, and their earnest efforts are sometimes met with small reward.”
Diplomacy 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (13) + 12 = 25
He sweeps a hand over the direction of the island where yesterday’s battles took place. “The first step of beginning anew is the cleansing of what clove a rift between us. Today’s work will be light; I task you to collect the bodies of those fallen to a central, open location, so that disease and filth does not saturate the island. Do this before midday, and I will gift you a bit of bread, water, and a brief rest. Afterwards, we will set to repairing the buildings damaged and clear the streets of the barricades until sundown,” the former slave pauses to make sure all of the instructions sink in, “You may begin.”
He watches the slaves as they file out to their tasks.
Sense Motive 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (5) + 12 = 17, hopefully they feel a bit more optimistic about servitude? Trying to play up a "kind master" sort of role.
|Ezkal the Ordo Hereticus|
Ezkal spends the night scrawling on his scrolls and updating his containers. He communes with Gorum, and prays for the ability to use his enemies weapons to bring glory to Gorum. He hefts the large greatsword and swings it - once, twice, getting a feel for the heavy blade. His blood pulses through his thick arms as they strain with the weight, but soon the euphoria of battle lust takes over and the blade seems to weigh nothing. For Gorum's glory he smiles grimly to himself.
Nodding his farewell to the wizard, Iskandarr heads to the kitchens of the villa to locate some bread.
Finding what he needs, he takes a little extra for future use and goes to roam about the island to find a place secluded enough for wildlife. Calmly, the bird whisperer casts his spell and places the bread in front of him, sitting cross-legged and eyes closed. Cast animal messenger
Soon thereafter, his calm his interrupted by a small, curious chirp. With a small smile, he opens his eyes to a young swallow staring at him. "Hello friend, I have a mission for you today." attaching the message to the bird and impressing the location on the creature's mind, he watches it fly away and then heads back to the group.
As the slaves carry the bodies to a central area, Thaegrin supervises from a safe distance, satisfied very little direction is needed from him. Further, he receives word that the kitchen slaves are finished building the feast. At midday, he approaches the heap of bodies while a majority of the slaves are still nearby. By his orders, the pile of corpses are soaked in lamp oil and laden with dry wood. Before the bodies are set ablaze, the court wizard speaks over them. “Your lives ought to have ended peacefully and without incident. I regret that they did not. Find now your Long Rest...” He lobs a glass vial, which breaks open on the mound and bursts into a chemical fire. The flames ignite on the fuels and sizzles the dead flesh.
He lingers in silence for a moment. Though he feels nothing, the manipulator holds a solemn face for the slaves around him. Before the smell of burning bodies grows too strong, Thaegrin addresses the slaves. “Follow me to Targ’s banquet hall. You all exceeded my expectations with your diligence, so you will find more than bread and water on the tables. A gesture of my appreciation.” He smiles kindly.
Diplomacy 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (6) + 12 = 18
He leaves the slaves for them to find the feast for themselves. There was much to do this day. On his way back to his makeshift office, he runs into one of the Thelkonlanders. The old scholar asks that they task the remaining slaves to repair any buildings damaged and clear the streets of the barricades, two hours in the future.
Closing the door behind him, the Feraweni arrays parchment, ink, and a quill on the simple desk. Peering at the afternoon sun in the window, he estimates that his work might take him past sundown. He rests an unlit candle on the desk, for that eventuality.
Scribing a scroll of Fireball (337.5gp deducted). Spellcraft 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (8) + 18 = 26, DC 18. Scribing this scroll will take him 8 hours, after which he will probably go straight to bed. Edit: I feel like we rolled "on-table" to know how long it will take to sail from Veir to this slave-trade island? How much time do we bad guys have until the slaves get picked up?
Anga watches the sun rise the morning after the confrontation between the agents of Rudianos and the Amerisi soldiers. The spy hadn't been able to sleep well throughout the night. Visions of shadow and light played through his mind as he tried to get comfortable. It left him ill-rested and anxious. And ill-rested and anxious was how he met the sun.
Nonetheless as he rose to begin his morning stretches he felt his tired body surge with power and vigor. Drawing rapier, the gray-eyed man spins and parries, practicing the long-memorized sword forms of his training.
The night previous was a stepping stone, though a significant one. Ultimately it was all simply a means to an ends; and Facion knew that with this success it was only a matter of time until his goals would be met.
Slash after slash and form after form the man of shadows practices until the sun is high in the sky and sweat beads on his brow. This marked the second time the spy-master had lost track of time during the blade dance. Breathing steadily but deeply, he looks to the day-star midway through it's daily arch through the heavens. The light hurts his eyes and burns his skin.
His expression ever unchanging Anga lifts his hood to cover his head, sheathing sword in the same liquid motion. He steps quickly, seeking the shelter of one of the commandeered buildings. Finding a secluded corner he draws forth the dusty old tome lent by the wizard Variel. He opens to where he'd last left off and begins to read.