Thediar's page

1st Level - enangle; bless, doom, three spots left unprepared.
2nd Level - used[/ooc]; augury, eagle's splendor, shield other, silence.[/ooc]
3rd Level - gaseous form; cure serious wounds, invisibility purge, remove curse
4th Level - control plants; used[/ooc], discern lies.[/ooc]

"Sorry, big boys. It's not that easy to drop a thorn hedge on a servant of Gozreh."

Late last autumn, when the days had grown short and the nights cold, Venture Captain Adril Hestram found himself, quite suddenly, standing in the anteroom of the Decemvirate's meeting chamber, the door to the great hall slightly ajar. Glancing above him, he saw the ring of magical energy flicker and, looking down, the engraved glyphs in the marble tiles. Outside the small windows to his left and right, the sun had set over Absalom, and lanterns were lit all over the city.

"By who's hand have been called?" asked the Venture Captain, respectfully.

There was no answer. Hestram waited. "Then why have I been called?"

After perhaps a minute, a voice spoke up from behind the half-opened door, its owner hidden from view. "This is a private matter, not suitable for Society business."

There was nothing to say, so Hestram waited for the voice to continue. "You are in Oregent, in Andoran?"

"I was, till I was summoned here."

"And you will return there, once the spell fades. A Chelaxian merchant and his entourage are staying at the Twin Oaks inn there. His personal slave, a man named Hiphegenus, is to be freed and placed on a swift ship to safety in Elidir, armed and with enough coin and goods to sustain him.

"This must happen before sunrise, and no Pathfinder must know of your part in it. My solemn word depends on that."

Hestram nodded. "It will be as you say." And the spell reached the end of its power, and he returned, instantly, to his quarters in Oregent. Immediately, he got to work, calling for runners to take messages to some allies he knew in the area.

Thediar doesn't have much of an office: a roll-top desk kept a number of innocent-looking papers and two wells of ink: one indigo black, and the other designed to disappear within a half-hour until treated with a reagent. He goes to the second drawer on the left and pushes it in, perhaps an inch, until he feels a soft vibration. Then he opens the main desk drawer, and removes some of the confidential folders.

He looks around the office for anything else, and decides on a traveling pack and, Sharn being Sharn, a sheathed longsword that's been propped in the corner of the room for as long as he can remember. And he's off.

The nearest cab stand is down two stories and over one of the decorative bridges, in a merchant district. He checks his purse to make sure he has enough coin to buy a ride across town as he rushes down the main stairwell in the courts building, and he's almost too late looking up to see a figure in black robes and hood at the landing below, hoist a crossbow and fire at him.

Thediar rolls to the left and the bolt his the marble staircase behind him, sending brittle chips flying. He looks at the back of his left hand and sees a light scrape start to bleed. By the Host's happy minions, can this day get any worse?

Thediar takes a glance at the assailant as she (she?) loads another quarrel. She looks to be a shifter, exhibiting some lupine qualities, and her outfit is clean and new. "A lawyer and a Boromar to boot," she says, aiming again. "How lucky does a girl get?"

Thediar closes with her, using the papers in his left hand as a makeshift buckler. He draws the sword he's carrying, only to find she's already got one unsheathed. Hers is a long scimiar, decorated with some brass designs on the hilt, and spotless. "This is 'Death-drinker'," she announces.

Thediar's own blade is tarnished and rusty. Even on its best day, it was a plain, workmanlike design, and the steel is probably too cheap to hold a real cutting edge after a few blows. "Well, then, meet 'Gladys.'"

The Shifter's brows furrow in disgust. "Gladys? What kind of a name is that?"

"A trivial name. A sorry name. It heightens the shame and humiliation of my victims." As Thediar speaks, his voice grows deep and resonant. He's begun an oration, and he attempts to keep the woman -- a Daask cultist, by the looks of her tattoos -- entranced by his words. He takes two steps towards her as he speaks, and she doesn't respond. Good.

And with that, he knocks her scimitar from her hand and takes off behind her at a dead run. At least, if the Sharn Watch comes by, I have an excuse for running. He weaves through the foot traffic on this level, mostly businessmen and merchant lords, some accompanied by their private guards, who have turned in his direction, wary of Thediar and his potentially dangerous blade.

He covers the length of the bridge and dares a look back. If the Daask shifter is coming after him --and he has to assume she is-- she's moving with stealth, possibly on the outside of the bridgework. He takes another staircase down to the cab landings, and a private vehicle pulls up to him. "Where might the good gentle be headed?"

"The Cloak and Quill pub, on the north side of the Cornerstone, Mid-" he starts to say, when another crossbow bolt slams into his backpack. The impact throws him into the cab interior, ass over teakettle, and he yells, "Anywhere! Just go!"

The cab disengages from the landing and moves off. As Thediar rights himself, a thick baritone from very close by affirms the order. "Get us clear of the Tower District, sergeant."

Oh, this can't be good. Thediar reassembles himself and looks over to see dwarf in blue-dyed leather armor. "I didn't realize the cab was already spoken for. I'l let myself out, if you'll pardon the intrusion."

The dwarf smiles. "Oh, no intrusion at all. Captain Bendel, of the King's Dark Lanterns." The dwarf opens a compact case, presenting the silver dragon-and-bear crest of the Citadel. "Suppose we have a chat about the papers you're carrying, Mister 'Rosecloak'."

Through the windows, through the storm, Thediar notices that they're descending below the Middle Wards. "If you know who I am, you know that the Dark Lanterns have an agreement with--"

The dwarf's demeanor turns a little rougher. "If you knew who we are, you'd know that we don't give a roper's bum about your little rackets or operations. But Boromar's gotten itself involved in a smuggling operation we care very much about. And you'll hand over those papers."

Thediar knows about the Dark Lanterns, all right. They are the espionage division of the Citadel, and they thrive in Sharn, a city with more than its fair share of secrets. But they are notorious for building up their own power base as well, and these papers would give them leverage over a half-dozen dirty clients. So, Thediar does the only think he can think of.

He leans to his left and kicks the dwarf, hard, in the arm. And falls out the still-open door to his left. The papers go flying, scattered by the winds. And the hapless attorney lands, hard, in a trash heap thirty feet below. As he takes stock of himself, he realizes that his sword is still in the cab, now wheeling back towards him.

He rolls out of the garbage pile and feels his left knee give a little. Obviously, he's taken some damage. He limps into an alley, soaking wet and smelling of ... well, smelly things. He squats behind a cluster of barrels, trying to remain hidden from the Dark Lantern patrol.

"Can this day possibly get any worse?" he mutters to himself.