Drogan breathes a heavy sigh.
"Danton Ulformis Foeward, one of the leading archivists of the Iron Archive, one of the preeminent archivist currently serving in the field. he was my father's superior and a member of the governing council of archivists. The short story is that there are few who know more of tactics, fighting, arms, or their uses than this man."
"It's been while, but I've no idea why he'd act like this. He's never been a warm man, but I've never thought 'im capable of anything like this. There must be somethin' driving him to this craziness, an' that's why I need him alive."
<<<sigh>>>
"If he is as dangerous as you say he is I think it will be hard to take him alive, but if we get the drop on him and you were able to daze him like you did this other dwarf here. I might be able to sap him. Alternatively we may have to ambush him and do enough injury that we can stabilize him before he expires. Our first priority will be the villagers. If we could get them out without meeting the dwarf veteran, all the better."
Drogan nods, "Let me be clear. That pile of dog droppings isn't worth the life of a villager. But I think there's more to be gained by taking him alive than by killing him outright."
"Drogan Anvilsong, it is the ruling of this council that you remain in exile until your crimes against Highhelm have been reconciled." Bar's not so shiny on this side of the inn izzit, Your Excellency?.
"The lord of the Black Hammers is not lacking for errand boys. He wouldn't have left the archive for just anything. An' I don't like not knowing."
In Group
➢ Beckett Foxglove
➢ Nosatrub Shieldarm
➢ Agidor
Ralios’ eyes tighten around the edges, crow’s feet evident and the darkened bags beneath them to prove his many nights of missing sleep. ”How could you kno..” He mutters breathlessly, some of his bravado wilting...but replaced with something else.
Could it be hope?
He glances over to the side of the stables, spying a three-legged stool. A few steps and he allows himself to sink into it as though exhausted from running several miles in the sun. He doffs his beret and runs a hand through his grey and black hair. ”They came to me several months ago to propose an arrangement. At the time, I wouldn’t have anything to do with them. This Ardo, he wanted access to my contacts in the Imperial Records Offices.” Ralios shakes his head and continues. ”I was firm. I am on the Lands & Borders council for Cassomir, able to conduct surveys in the surrounding baronies and villages to confirm boundaries are being honored and confirm changes. The last, changing boundaries, that is what he was after.”
A heavy sigh and he knuckles his right eye where a tear had been building. ”I said no. What they wanted, foreknowledge of villages or hamlets being cleared...he wanted me to see to it they...disappeared from the records.” Eyes wide with surprise he waves his hands. ”Who wants such a thing? Such actions meant to erase the location...Southridge, that was the latest...the boundaries…the people!” He drops his arms to his thighs, hands going to smoothing out his breeches as a distraction. ”When I said no, they returned to my home 2 days later, proof in hand...they’d managed to bring my daughter from Absalom...she’d been studying in the Arcanamirium…I watched as a carriage drove by, my poor darling bound and her face pressed to the opening.”
He stands up suddenly and launches himself at the unconscious man, a polished boot slamming into the Herald’s side and eliciting a groan from the unconscious man. ”They had taken her before they’d even approached me! Stolen her from the city and brought her here to threaten me! Bastards!!” Another kick to the side. The horses in the nearby stalls whicker and stamp.
”My lord,” Agidor interjects, voice a soothing tone nearly musical in quality. ”Do you have an idea of where they’re keeping her, your daughter?”
Another kick and he turns to Agidor, breath heaving. ”Dog’s Teeth, somewhere...that’s all I know. All the agents I sent to learn of her whereabouts...they’re missing, probably dead. Oh my poor Eluria...my precious rose...” He looks from Agidor and then to Beckett and finally to Nosatrub. ”If these louts are your enemies, you have to help me. Please! I’ll pay anything, do anything to just make this nightmare end.”
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Nosa listens to the noble as he speaks. Intently hearing all that he says.
As he get's further and further into his story, Nosa struggles to supress his anger.
What depths of horror are these villains capable of? Stealing a child away to coerce her father! Goddess how much pain must I see? Is this yet the beginning? I have not yet made it to Absalom to where you have called me and already I am weary of the ways of the world and the wretches that exist in it.
He turns his focus back to the noble.
They are not only our enemies. They are the enemies of all that is decent and they must be stopped. I will help you in any way that I can.
Nosa then looks at Beckett, his new companion.
His look is clear, imploring the same response.
In the Group
➢ Karl Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
Kheegan keeps an eye on the dwarf as he approaches, but despite his undercurrent of distrust he nods gratitude for Drogan’s attempt to provide healing.
”The old dwarf, he is not to be trifled with nor underestimated.” Kheegan responds to Marsh’s earlier question. ”His skill with a long-hammer, I’ve not seen the like.”
”I’ve two more gifts granted me by Desna and the song she sings…” Hal’dorel says, already working the magics of his people and his nature and his song to form another healing for his barbarian friend. Once done, he presses a firm hand on his shoulder and a warning look. ”Gain your rest for a moment. You’re of no use to the battle ahead so winded.”
Kheegan glares up at the elf, but agrees reluctantly as Karl hands over a suit of the dwarven armor. ”There was 4 more besides the old dwarf. They are not with him, but with the other...Ardo. Through there, a ladder up and into a...room of some sort. The dwarf, he and a human girl,” He pauses and gives Hal’dorel a warning look of his own. ”...and an elf, they would take people there from the cells...then send them back most of the time. Twice they took them from the room and out of the building. Never saw them again. Both the ones they took, had cold eyes, walked like they weren’t...thinking.”
”What sort of elf?” Hal’dorel asks.
Kheegan shrugs as if to say he didn’t know him. ”Heard a name, Althan...Athanish? He left earlier in the night, a few hours after they caught me. The old dwarf, he knew him. So did the girl. But they spoke mostly in a language I do not know.”
He fumbles with one of the breastplate’s buckles, growls to himself and continues. ”Then they took the kids, brought them into the room, they never came out. That’s when I got loose, came into the room…” He shudders and then shakes his head like it will eradicate the memory. ”There was a lot of blood, the room, it doesn’t fit with the rest of the place...the tannery. Blood on a table, a few glass tubes with it...the human girl was there, she was dead already, not breathing, her eyes all black, lips all cold. The dwarf and the kids were gone, that’s when I saw the open door and the ladder going down.”
He remains quiet for a moment, finishing the buckles on the armor and testing the fit. Although it’s tight and impedes his movement, somehow Kheegan looks better for the addition. He hefts the dwarven waraxe and lays it across his lap where he sits cross-legged. ”The old dwarf, he was treating with an odd, villainous creature...pale blue, four fingers...short but taller than a child...but the eyes were wide and mad. The children were in cages, the creature handing over a box of dark wood with odd metal workings on it. After I attacked, it disappeared down the hole where the spider dwelt. I sensed there were others...like the strange creature...and that there is far more below our feet.”
”I know not if the dwarf is still at the tannery. He sent down his men here to chase me...nor do I know if the 4 serving Ardo. That 4, two humans and two half-orcs, they are cruel but have no honor nor fighting prowess. But the dwarf...he may well be the end of us should we challenge him openly.” He looks down at the axe in his lap, running a thumb along the blade. ”But my blood is forfeit, I will gladly lay it down to see him dead.”
➢ Hal’dorel (HP 32/32)
➢ Drogan (HP 9/9)
➢ Lavios (HP 13/13)
➢ Karl (HP 8/9)
➢Alert➢ Kheegan (18/56 | Fatigued) ➢Alert➢
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
|
At the invitation, Phedron lofts Caster up, allowing the ebon hawk to light up to the rafters.
Looking at Carnon, he lifts an eyebrow to confirm his uncle's intent. Surprised but delighted at the nod from his uncle to speak, the bronze-skinned half-elf sits tall in his embroidered finery. Having long despised Taldor for being Taldor, he truly finds the international business he is now involved in to be most exciting.
"I miss Andoran, but if this is the price I must pay for the freedom of others, so be it."
Unable to avoid feeling pleased with the important nature of their business, Phedron begins to to outline some of the information.
"You are quite correct Lieutenant Olfrey. We are here regarding the slave trade. You no doubt have excellent informants placed in your own city. I'm sure little of what we have to say will be a surprise to you." he says, being as flattering as his serious posture will allow.
Just a few weeks ago we learned of a group known as the Stag Heralds who have arranged to ship captured people to Absalom to be sold as slaves. From what information we've gathered, the ship is due to set sail tomorrow; on the eleventh.
Phedron measures his words and passes the conversation to Lieutenant Olfrey.
"Alright, just need to stretch the info out. Let's see just how skeptical he is and how much he really does know." He glances at his uncle to judge the reaction to the incomplete information. "I hope he knows what I'm trying to do here."
Drogan's eyes go wide for a moment. He places a hand on the barbarian's shoulder, perhaps a bit firmer than wise on the wounded warrior. "Kheegan, I need ye to listen carefully to what I'm about te say."
Kheegan nods.
"The elf, the one you saw talk to the old dwarf. Could it be possible that his name was Althanis?"
In the Group
➢ Kal Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
Kheegan's eyes darken at the dwarf's touch, his remaining hand tightening on the thick haft of the dwarven waraxe on his lap.
"Śānti, bhā'ī. Drogan kō'ī nukasāna meams..." Hal'dorel speaks peacefully, but a warning in his tone like a druid calming an angered bear.
The barbarian eases his grip and the darkness recedes. Instead he nods affirmative. "It could be as you say. I only heard the name twice, spoken by the old dwarf, then by the girl."
|
"By the Dawns Early Light... What kind of web have I become ensnared in?"
Beckett looks at the earnestness in Nosa's eyes... Then nods.
The Inquisitor looks back to Ralios.
"Enemy of my enemy indeed. It so happens that we have a standing grievance with this Ardo as well. Your plight only adds to our resolve."
Beckett looks down at the bodies in disgust.
"The people you were to make disappear are to be sold into bondage for profit. Our... employers have tasked us with ensuring that they are not successful."
Beckett pauses considering.
"We'll need to be getting back to our 'guard duty' soon."
"In fact, we need to be getting back to that very task, milord. I would very much like to see Eluria freed. Under different circumstances, we would go and search for her immediately... Not just for her benefit, but also to find Ardo."
Beckett shakes his head.
"However, we have allies who are depending upon us to fulfill our part of the plan."
The Inquisitor examines the noble.
"Would milord care to accompany us? Perhaps together we can find a way to fulfill all of our objectives."
Karl faced away from the group.
Ardo, the world is a scary place now that you've woken up the demons in me.
The dwarf punches the wall and kicks at the muck at his feet. "He KNEW! The ruddy bastard KNEW! I'll personally have his head on a pike and parade it around the bloody square singing the mithril rag!"
He grabs his axe, between clenched teeth he says, "Soon as your ready. The old dwarf is mine. If he's got to die, make it hurt, and make it take a very long time. "
Drogan practically froths, his eyes glowing. The others can hear him muttering something to himself in dwarven, but it does not take a linguist to discern the level of cursing only a bar room bard can conjure.
"Someone ended this human girls life, but you indicate she was one of the enemy . . . Blacked eyes, small blue men, this smacks of deeper conspiracies and black magic, but any who torture or discard small children so have earned my wrath."
"This old dwarf seems too much for us to take at the moment. Hopefully we can work around it. I have more lantern fuel, Lavios I believe you have the ability to light it once flung."
Karl listens for sounds above.
It seems we are not noticed yet. At least from what I can tell."
"No traps either."
"Well here I go, let's capitalize our time. Oh, and Kheegan, no dying today. We may need to retreat and come back, but we will see this through. Too many of the good guys get dead then the bad guys are free to go unchecked."
Karl moves towards the entrance up into the tannery.
Drogan tries to contain himself. Takes a breath. He might want Foeward's screaming, agonizing death - but not so much as to forget the old dwarf's skill. Any advantage would help.
His feet clomp and slosh their way through the tunnel and up the steps. Clearly his mind is on other matters.
Karl is so incensed that he can't even notice how loud Drogan is being.
In the Group
➢ Karl Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
The group makes their way down the corridor, doing their best to remain silent. Heavy boots and the debris strewn along the tunnel makes for a noisome passage. They arrive in a small chamber with no other passages out. A ladder of sturdy maple and iron bands leads upwards 12 or so feet to a square opening with a grating across it. Karl sighs involuntarily when they don’t see the strange glyphs and writings he’d found on the drains throughout the tunnel system.
The others gather around the ladder, all straining to listen… All that can be heard is the periodic dripping of water coming from the square grating above.
”There is some light...candle or a single torch…” Hal’dorel whispers. He pulls a dagger from his belt, the blade bears a patina and even some pitting. An odd choice of weapon to others who see it.
Karl takes a breath and ascends the ladder, doing his best to avoid making a sound but the wood rungs are easy to betray creaks and groans. He winces but knows there’s nothing for it, trying to dispel his imaginings of a grizzled dwarf smashing his head from his shoulders as soon as he emerges through the grating. Above him, the grating is decidedly unobtrusive and his hands run along the edges and the joins of each iron grid...and finds no sign of traps. In fact, a small amount of pressure and he can tell it will lift over on a set of hinges.
But he stops, his hand coming away wet. In the flickering glow of whatever light source is above his head he can easily see the shimmering crimson color. No, not water dripping down on them.
He takes a breath, calming his nerves and willing himself to be the man the years had tried to steal away. The thick smell of burning incense tickles his senses, lavender and a tangier spice… Karl pushes upwards and swings the grating open, thankfully the hinges were not half as noisy as their arrival into the chamber below. The rogue pokes his head up and darts back, then pokes his head up again…
No one there.
He lets his eyes adjust to the candlelight coming from the center of the room. Stone floors, roughly 30 by 30 room...a basement judging by the lack of windows or even casements. On the far side of the room a ladder leads up to another trap door, crates and barrels on either side of it. Karl’s eyes dart from shadowed corner to corner, trying to find any danger lurking in the black. It’s only when he’s satisfied that there is no movement that he lets his eyes take in the center of the basement.
Much as Kheegan had described, there was a woman, dead. Her blood was spread beneath her, a pool of it was also by the top of the grate opening dripping down to the tunnels below. A table was near the woman, an odd mixture of apparati ranging from glass tubes filled with blood to a selection of macabe instruments. Razors, precision hammer, and a paint brush. The last was soaked in blood, the tips of the brush curling up and already drying like a crooking finger. It was most likely used to create the stomach lurching symbols and writing that spans outward in a circle around a the table and pointing towards a large, oval pit with piles of dust. On either side of the dust pit are end tables with candles and incense burning.
Karl signals the others that the way is clear, but his eyes drift around the room as though the old dwarf or worse could spring at them at any moment. A feeling they all share once in the room.
Dread, pure and simple dread. A weight in their stomachs that won’t settle. Drogan strains his senses to find what could be causing it. But like his human ally, he is unable to puzzle it out.
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
➢ Hal’dorel (HP 32/32)
➢ Drogan (HP 9/9)
➢ Lavios (HP 13/13)
➢ Karl (HP 8/9)
➢ Kheegan (18/56)
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
Naughty, naughty...
If you’ve chosen to view this, you are investigating the glyphs and writings on the stone floor. Please make a Will Save vs. a DC 12. If you fail, you are forced to unburden the contents of your stomach at the nearest corner and you suffer from a wave of nausea for the equivalent of one round.
If you Succeed, then you are still overwhelmed with a sense of nausea, the basement room spinning about you.
A murder scene. A cult murder like the one . . .
"This woman was one of the villagers' tormentors, yet here she lies a victim or a willing sacrifice? The Dwarves have been through here, obviously they are not subject to this kind of treatment, but who then is the butcher?"
Old habits die hard, Karl looks around. Did the girl struggle? Defensive wounds? Signs she had been held with ropes? Was she alive when she was tormented?
She's dead Karlton, there's nothing more you can do, but you have to know still don't you? Too much blood. Too much blood, it can't be them, right?
"Well dead is dead, we can look closer later if there's time I guess. There's the living to see to."
Karl moves to the next level.
Drogan Holds his gloved hand over his mouth and nose as he approaches the symbols. Careful not to touch or smudge them, the dwarf scans over each symbol trying to look for anything that would spark his memories.
The symbols look old, ancient even. There must have been some other recurrence of this sort of carnage in the archives. "THINK, Drogan! There must have been some record of this!"
"Bah, I don't know. Why did I not pay more attention to the tomes? This whole thing feels like some form of cultic activity. Think! There must have been something. The religious archives were kept in the temples, but maybe there was something in one of the histories."
Drogan shakes his head. Maybe he should have spent more time in his books and less time rolling dice with Darby. He readies himself for trouble, armed with nothing more than his rudimentary remembrances.
In the Group
➢ Karl Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
Kheegan shakes his head. "No. The girl was with the old dwarf. Not one of the villagers of Southridge. She spoke the strange tongue with the elf and the old dwarf."
Confirming the barbarian's observation, Lavios agree, she is not from his home..
In fact, the woman's clothing is of fine, noble tailoring. But the style is not local to Cassomir.
"Wait a moment ..." The dwarf had not even thought about the girl. Not much to be done for her now anyway. But as the others talked, he noticed how she was dressed. This was no street urchin. This woman was wealthy. Maybe even from a noble house. And noble houses were always a specialty of his. Granted, Highhelm was not known for a depth of knowledge outside dwarf lands, but it seemed like borders were getting blurrier with each passing year.
The dwarf inspects her garments for any noble insignia or notification of office.
In the Group
➢ Phedron Rushing
➢ Carnon Rushing
♘ ♘ ♘ ♘
Phedron’s words drift into the space above Olfrey’s desk. The officer remains quiet for a moment then leans forward in his chair to bring a leatherbound book close. ”Let’s see what we’ve got for Absalom tomorrow…” He opens the tome and thumbs through a few pages, making no move to hide the contents which appear to be in ledger format. ”Hmmm, let’s see, we have the Lina Varden...a three-master out of Korvosa but servicing the Absalom-Cassomir route.” He turns a page and runs a calloused finger down the first column. ”Then there is the Banded Fist, also a three-master...deeper draft lines and slower than the Varden... And last for tomorrow is the Dahnak, a clipper out of Sothis which transports between there and Cassomir with a stop in Absalom on the southern route.”
The book closes and he slides it to the right, pipe clenched in his teeth as he interlocks his fingers on the desktop like a leaning tent. ”All of those ships are captained by gentlemen in good standing with the Imperial Navy, successful inspections leading all the way up to three months ago in the case of the Dahnak. I’ve even got it on good authority that the Lena Varden has already been cleared for departure tomorrow morning by one of my port authority officers, ektor enz.” The corner of his lip twitches at the name, but he leans back in his chair and grabs the pipe from his mouth, puffing smoke to the side so as not to put it directly in the faces of his guests.
”Then you mention the Stag Heralds, I know the group if only peripherally.” Olfrey’s brows furrow and his hard face becomes a study in planes and angles. ”Lord Ricton has made sure that myself and a few others are aware of their recent arrival in Cassomir. They’re primarily an Absalom problem, a dark twisted lot whose primary means of currency centers on the slave trade tolerated in that city. Want to see a crime, Masters Rushing? Go to Absalom and visit the place called Misery Row...City at the Center of the World indeed! They go so far to tolerate everything under the sun and moon they don’t realize the evil that can fester and rot from the inside out.”
The dog alongside his desk raises his head, a low growl of concern as he eyes the Rushings and then looks to the Lieutenant. ”Easy, Maximus, I’m only venting, boy.” He soothes the dog, who lays his head down once more and sighs heavily a the interruption of his nap.
”I’ve only the minimal information Lord Ricton has provided on the Stags. An unpleasant but clever man is at their head here, an Ardo if memory serves. He’s even been rumored to be a handful for the half-orc who runs Dog’s Teeth.” Olfrey raises a lip of disgust. ”If you can manage it, stay out of that warren of rats. Dog’s Teeth is where the scum go to dwell and plot and hopefully just expire.”
”But you’re going to have to tell me more if I’m going to allow you to go galavanting all over Cassomir with the authority of my office.” He eyes the two Rushings in turn. ”Lord Ricton insisted I give you what help is at my disposal. But I’ll not do it at the few words you’ve provided. So out with it, what else do you know?”
|
|
"Hektor Lenz? I'll have to remember that name. There's something more about this Lenz that Olfrey isn't mentioning"
Phedron nods with a calculated, subtle smile.
"Yes, Ardo is the name we've rooted out to be at the head of the Stag Heralds as well." he says, keeping Carnon in his peripheral vision for changes in posture. "we certainly wouldn't expect you to give us free reign without good reason. You know that the Stag Heralds are already here, as well as what business activities they are known for. There is little doubt what they are doing in your city. As you say, such things need to be rooted out before their rot can spread."
"Regarding more information, we believe that the Banded Fist is going to be the means of transportation for their captives. You say that all the captains are in good standing, but you didn't mention anything about the Banded Fist. Is it a newer ship in these waters?"
He looks absently at the eagles embroidered on his cuffs pondering on the likelihood of the captives being held nearby rather than on the ship.
"Of course, I'd imagine that any captives would likely not be on the ship until the last moment. Do you know anything about the captain of the Banded Fist? Where's its home port?"
Looking back up to Lieutenant Olfery, he watches for indications of the man's reaction to his words.
In Group
➢ Beckett Foxglove
➢ Nosatrub Shieldarm
➢ Agidor
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Ralios considers the inquisitor’s offer. Seeing him quiet for a moment, Beckett studies the nobleman and lets the words the man had spoken match to his body language. There is a quiet desperation to Ralios, one that could be easily explained away by the pressures of his position. But Beckett knows better, he knows there is a deeper worry that has been gnawing away at him for quite some time. To the Inquisitor’s penetrating gaze the noble is genuine in his tale...more importantly, the desperation in his very demeanor lends credence to an ability to reach for the lifeline of hope two strangers would offer him in the entryway of a stable.
His right hand brushes along a slivered chain necklace as he leans forward and takes a deep breath. For the briefest of moments, the edge of a medallion catches the gray light of day. The rays of a sun extending from a central orb. A charm of Sarenrae held in secret close to the man’s heart. Ralios chuckles, a melancholy thing that plays the notes of his exhaustion. But within his tone there is also a fresh resolve. ”To think, I was so blind to seeing my little rose safe...the misery I’ve caused. She never would have wanted…”
He looks up and meets the eyes of the paladin and the inquisitor. ”I will go with you...but I don’t even know your names…”
In the midst of the discussion, Agidor had retreated to the interior of the stable and returned, hands filled with the leather straps which he’d unlaced from a pair of bit & bridles. He waves them towards the unconscious brigand on the stable floor. ”I’m betting he won’t become an ally just because he slept on it.”
The noble grinds his teeth. ”In the sundries shop next door, one of the owners is also a reservist in the Phalanx. I could have this villain in the hands of the Watch on charges of thievery. His left hand will be removed, his knees hobbled,” Ralios, despite the air of nobility, spits upon the wretch. ”...he’ll serve out a 5 year sentence in the lumber yards or working the tar pits.”
Agidor shrugs. ”Or we could do other things. I’m not certain what he might know, but…” He lets the sentence trail off as he goes binding the Herald’s hands behind his back. Once done, he extends a hand to Ralios. ”Agidor, at your service.”
The nobleman shakes his hand.
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Nosa looks at Ralios and nods, extending his own hand.
Nosatrub Shieldarm... Nosa pauses as if about to say more, but thinks better of it remembering Marsh's jabs about giving his name and title.
He then turns to Beckett.
Time grows short. We must be getting back.
|
|
Beckett looks at the man with compassion in his eyes.
"You low life scum."
The worry in the noble's eyes, his words, the conversation with the slavers... it all plays back in Beckett's mind.
"You've done this before. You've helped them before."
Beckett nods, and digs in his pouch.
"How desperate is this man? Desperate enough to 'disappear' entire villages. Under duress to be sure, but he still did it. How many other parents are weeping their lost little ones because of his actions?"
"Desperate enough to plant a dagger in the back of an ally if it served him or his daughter... and if he thought he could get away with it. Best to ensure he doesn't think he can."
The Inquisitor hands Ralios the note from Lord Ricton and smiles.
"We have some influential friends. And now, so do you. My name is Beckett Foxglove."
Beckett kneels to inspect and claim any of the belonging from the slavers that he finds interesting or valuable, allowing the noble time to read.
When complete, he stands and addresses Ralios again.
"We share something else in common, milord."
Beckett digs his holy symbol of Sarenrae from his armor and flashes it for Ralios briefly, then returns it to its secure place.
"Perhaps our meeting is not purely happenstance."
"If you have done what I suspect, I may have been brought to aid your repentance before you go to the headsman."
Beckett glances briefly to Nosa.
"Hopefully Shieldarm will not put this together too soon. Did this man facilitate the disappearance of someone important to him? This could get ugly."
Beckett's smile grows.
"When did I become the advocate for justice delayed?"
"I will see you reconciled to the Everlight, Ralios. But, if you are guilty, By The Dawn I'll also swing the axe myself."
"Nosa is correct, we must make haste, milord. Our time grows short."
Beckett kneels next to Agidor to discuss options for the living prisoner and the disposal of the remains of the other.
". . . One of you with an axe. Take the girl's head from her shoulders. Her eyes aren't right, we don't need her rising from the dead behind us. Precautionary measure, ghastly maybe, but prudent."
What does it mean? Dark gods, dark ways, dark magic. . . These horrible images in my mind are my own, not those of the mask. No regrets now, you chose to play out your life on these dark sets. . . Time to put my follies to use . . . Maybe save someone else's quality of life so they can make something positive with theirs. . .
My brother Laras is . . . or was . . . in many ways my mirror opposite. I prefer to lead men and solve problems head-on, preferably with a sword or magic in my fist. I enjoyed hunting, getting outside, doing things.
Laras is a follower, happy to take orders as long as he has access to his books and an interesting topic or problem to research. As a scholar, the Church of Abadar offered him the best opportunity to continue his passions and still serve the needs of our family. Many would think that with our differences we would not be close, but they would be wrong. Laras is my brother, my confidant, and my closest friend.
Laras lived and worked in the archives adjacent to the Grand Temple. Normally I’d send a messenger asking him to meet me at our family’s house as I tried to limit my time around the Order. I honor Abadar, the Holder of the Golden Key, but I often loathe the people who call themselves his priests; my brother being one of the exceptions. The vast majority of the his clerics I’ve met are self-serving, self important, unnecessarily beurocratic, and or overly dramatic or fanatic. I didn’t see how Laras could tolerate them.
With a minimum of annoyance I was able to make it to his room. As usual, it was a mess with books and papers everywhere. After a quick greeting, I sat down and told him of the murders, leaving out nothing. Laras has a keen mind. In the past he has helped me organize my thoughts and given me suggestions for further investigation. He listened without interrupting until it was clear I was done.
“You’re in over your head. There are very few people who can harvest souls. It takes a great deal of personal power or access to items that are strictly forbidden by the Order and the Kings Law. The murderer is powerful and insane. The murder of a high cleric has thrown the gauntlet down daring the Order to find and stop them. I can't think of anyone that is that powerful, especially in this city."
"I can give you some information on the man who was killed. His name was Jeras, a fairly prominent member of the Order and a fairly loathsome man. Those who were not clearly superior to him were treated like dirt. Those under his command were often physically intimidated, or even abused. He tried to talk down to me as well, until he realized I was your brother."
"He had few friends within the church and many here have scoffed that they would have happily helped the murderer."
"Your thoughts about the positioning of the body lead me to believe the killer is conducting some ritual or creating an elaborate display, like a piece of art with corpses. Unfortunately, without more murders I really can’t tell you what the murderer is trying to accomplish. But, you’re right, there will be more.”
Then my brother made a breakthrough. My brother drew a similarity between the victims. I had concentrated on their professions, social habits and personal relations. I had not focused on their physical qualities. All three were very large men, at least a head taller than me and in the prime of their life. They were, big, strong men.
Could their size be the simple and easily explainable part of the puzzle I had been oblivious to?
Laras thought for a moment. “If the organs are truly important and not just a macabre part of a larger display, then yes. The killer could have murdered more influential people, higher ranking priests, but chose these three men. "
I couldn’t think of any other questions for now, so I thanked Laras and got up to leave, I had work to do. Just as I reached the door, Laras asked, “are you sure there have only been three murders?”
He might as well have punched me in the gut.
In the Group
➢ Karl Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
Dwarf and human inspect the woman’s remains and effects, Hal’dorel and Kheegan content to keep eye on the grating through which they’d arrived and the trapdoor leading out of the basement respectively. Lavios studies the place in which the dead woman lies, applying his knowledge of Healing to learn more of what may have transpired. Between the three there emerges answers that lead to more questions.
Drogan allows his eyes to run over the symbols on the ground, the arc and sweep and lettering are foreign to his eyes. While he can’t puzzle out the meaning, he is left with two unshakeable conclusions; they are old, very old. That, and they were wrong. One such as Drogan Anvilsong didn’t spend all those years in the Archives and not know a thing or two about seeing something forbidden, something that just didn’t sit well with the world around it. And these symbols, the way the joined and flowed, there was an inherent dischord about them that impressed upon the dwarf that his attention would be better suited elsewhere.
So taking a step away from the line of symbols, the dwarf does just that and focuses on the girl. Her dress is a cream color with thin weavings of birds and trumpets and leaves patterned throughout in gentle tones of brown and tan and feint hues of sky blue. The soaking stains of red mar the dress’ design, casting a gruesome backdrop to a flock of starlings taking flight. Drogan’s eyes linger over the starlings, thinking on something he’d seen before...but it doesn’t come readily. Not at the moment. But his study of her attire and his experience in the local taverns make it clear that both her style of dress and even the cut of her hair are not local, not Cassomiri anyway. But the dress, it could be a style worn in Absalom. An archivist named Ivanhost, returning from the Arcanamirium had many drawings of the city streets of the metropolis, the dress here would have fit well in the Wise Quarter.
Karl, carefully stepping into the circle alongside Drogan, hunkers down and lets his eyes inspect the scene. With so much to look at he focuses on the obvious signs to begin forming a pattern. Her wrists are free of bruises, her fingernails - confirmed by Drogan’s dwarf-sight - are free of deformity and any blood. No sign of a struggle. When the rogue looks at her face, what once was flush with color is now pale and devoid of life. Her eyes are open wide and full of what can only be described as horror...terror...surprise...astonishment...a mixture of all these things. To the old warrior and Drogan and even Lavios, the girl must have seen something truly horrific.
That horror most likely rendered her immobile or catatonic, because the wound that killed her does not appear to have the normal destruction of flesh Karl is used to seeing. A finely carved wooden tube, the width of a human thumb and sanded to a near lacquer finish, was pressed into the woman’s throat. A specialized implement that went into the neck and allowed the girl’s blood to flow uninhibited through the hollow interior and onto the floor.
Just outside the circle, near the end tables with burning incense, rests a leather satchel with delicate filigree of silver. The style of the bag and some of the contents within mark it feminine, perhaps belonging to the dead woman in the room. Drogan is the first to notice something in the pattern of the filigree, the intricacies bringing the pictures of that archivist Ivanhost. In one of the depictions there had been a line of what looked to be well-to-do name-givers outside a rather intimidating gate house. When Drogan had asked what they were waiting for, Ivanhost had indicated they were hopefuls for the Arcanamirium. The older dwarf had spent the afternoon drawing the people waiting in line to even be considered for entry into the greatest school of magic in Golarion. The bag, the girl’s bag, there had been others like it on two formally dressed women at the gate house.
What had Ivanhost called them? They were students of the school...but they had a specific name or rank… Drogan can’t quite remember.
But the point lies in the calling of his memory. Could this girl have been a student at the Arcanamirium? He opens the satchel and inspects the contents. Inside are 4 vials, three of them with a reddish-pink hue and one with an emerald coloring. There is a book, well bound and sturdy and mostly empty save for the first 40 or so pages; a spell book, Drogan had seen enough of those in his past to recognize one. A coin purse with a few gold and sliver coins, all stamped the same as the Blackhammer’s coins; Absalom currency. The last item of interest is a scroll case, no bigger than the woman’s forearm.
Between the those who have the experience, the 4 vials are appraised and identified as 2 Cure Moderate, 1 Cure Light and 1 Cure Poison.
♖ Contents of Satchel ♖
➣ 2 Potions Cure Moderate Wounds
➣ 1 Potion Cure Light Wounds
➣ 1 Cure Poison
➣ 1 Spellbook (spells contained unknown)
➣ 1 Small Scroll Case
➣ 12 Gold / 7 Silver (Absalom Currency)
♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
➢ Hal’dorel (HP 32/32)
➢ Drogan (HP 9/9)
➢ Lavios (HP 13/13)
➢ Karl (HP 8/9)
➢ Kheegan (18/56)
In the Group
➢ Phedron Rushing
➢ Carnon Rushing
♘ ♘ ♘ ♘
Tacitus nods appreciatively to the younger Rushing’s thoroughness and pulls the ledger open again to give the information a closer look. ”The Banded Fist is out of Absalom, captained by a Heironymus Bley...hmmm, says he hails from Absalom too and that he purchased the ship from...a party in Sothis. I know the lines of that boat, she looks to have been manufactured in Katapesh…” He pauses and glances at other pages in the ledger. His eyes narrow and his brow valleys. ”Lenz.”
He closes the ledger and focuses on both of his guests. ”Captain Bley has not warrants for his capture, so either he has impeccable skills in subterfuge or he simply is not involved in this criminal enterprise you allege.”
Phedron’s uncle leans forward by the barest of inches, but it’s clear to Phedron the older Rushing is about to speak.
But Tacitus raises a hand to forestall him. ”That being said, I have an uncomfortable coincidence in this book and a difficult admission to make.” He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers before his nose, hard eyes glancing down at the desk top. ”I balance a the mizzen with oiled feet right now, gentlemen. On the one hand, I have my longstanding friendship with Lord Ricton. On the other, my lifetime of service to His Imperial Navy which would prevent me in sharing further.”
Silence stretches between them, Olfrey ruminating over his options. Into the quiet Phedron’s keen eyes survey the Lieutenant and his mannerisms. Under the stoic armor of the naval officer there is a serious conflict occurring, with the man’s aid to the Rushings hanging in the balance.
After what seems like an hour, Tacitus leans forward, mind reaching a conclusion. ”I should ask you two to leave and assure you that I will be conducting a full investigation of the matter. That is what I should be doing.” He sighs and drums his fingers on the desk. ”But I can’t have two agents of the Eagles traipsing about my city without proper...observation. So what am I left to do, eh?” His iron and brass leg hisses and whirrs as Tacitus rises to his feet. He reaches behind him and pulls on his officer’s longcoat. Next to him, Maximus rises and stands at the ready for his master’s command. ”So, here is my solution. I will be conducting a surprise inspection of three vessels moored in my harbor. In an effort to allay the concerns of two Andoran Eagles, they shall accompany to observe that ships of various home ports are treated without bias.”
He reaches for the ledger on his desk and slips it under his arm, then rings a brass bell on the right corner of his desk. Moments later, a porter opens the door and salutes.
”Have my carriage prepared and summon Legate Aureleum and 1st Equites. They are to provide escort.”
”Right away, sir.” The door closes behind the porter as he salutes and departs.
Tacitus pulls the pipe from his teeth and tamps the bowl out in an ember tray, then slips the pipe back into the pocket of his vest. ”I’m a curious man, Masters Rushing. And I will support my friends to the best that ability and duty will allow.” He gestures to the door and begins striding around his desk. ”Gentlemen, shall we?”
They make their way down the spiraling stairs of the Admiralty Citadel’s northeast tower, the Lieutenant’s leg whirring and hissing, gears working their metallurgic magics while Maximus pads along dutifully at his master’s side. Once in the courtyard, a black and navy blue coach with the mast and ocean symbology of the Imperial Navy worked into the wood. Ahead of the carriage, resplendent in their armor and blue and white colors, a group of seven cavalry with 4 bringing up the rear. The leader of the armsmen, a raven-haired woman of tanned complexion, holds her helm under her arm and salutes Olfrey as he and the Rushings approach.
”Greetings, Lieutenant,” the woman speaks crisply, her accent heavy with the rhythms of Taldor. Her sharp, eyes take in both Carnon and Phedron then look to Olfrey. Something passes unsaid between the two, but her bearing means she no longer wishes to have her hand near the hilt of the warpick at her hip.
”Legate Aureleum, may I introduce Carnon Rushing and Phedron Rushing.” Olfrey grins at the hawk perched on Phedron’s shoulder. ”And that wonderful creature is Caster.”
Maximus, having been seated next to his master at near parade attention, rolls his eyes towards the armored woman, the only other sign of movement is the wagging tail scraping along the courtyard stones.
”Very well, Maximus,” Olfrey says with a chuckle.
The grim face of the Legate breaks into a shockingly beautiful smile by comparison as she welcomes the dog’s affections. ”Milord, I believe your friend would like to march with the horses once again.”
”So be it. I don’t appreciate his tendency to try and lay upon my lap while in the carriage.” He gestures to the dog and snaps his fingers, muttering a pair of command words in a language the two Rushings don’t comprehend.
Maximus responds with a single bark and follows Legate Aureleum as she turns, dons her helm and goes to mount her horse. ”Stay away from the halflings, Maximus,” she chides the gigantic dog. ”Last time you were giving free rides to them at the expense of your master’s time.”
A soldier awaits the three men to board the carriage. ”Destination, milord?”
”Slip 1138, I wish to conduct a surprise inspection of the Banded Fist. But stop first at the Port Authority office.”
♘ ♘ ♘ ♘
In the Group
➢ Beckett Foxglove
➢ Nosatrub Shieldarm
➢ Agidor
➢ Lord Sahi Ralios
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Ralios glances down at the note. ”Lord Ricton...a good friend to have in the city.” He hands the note back to Beckett. ”He is on the council handling relations with the Lodge. No one has more friends among the druids, at least amongst the nobility.”
Then he sees the symbol in Beckett’s hand, eyes transfixed and hand subconsciously going to the area of his silken tunic beneath which is his hidden medallion. There is more relief in his eyes. ”Then my prayers did not go unanswered… So long living in fear…” He looks Beckett in the eye and there is an understanding in them that nearly takes the young inquisitor by surprise. ”Then today’s sunrise had more meaning than all before it, leading back to the birth of my daughter. I will see my sins all the clearer by Her light. And perhaps, my daughter will see a sunrise free of her captors.”
An uneasy silences settles on the stables, the noise of the surrounding district a distant thing. Beckett sets about finding what is of use among the bandits, recovering their weapons; a longsword and a set of brass-knuckles, then a combination of coins that look to bear the marks of Taldor, but others that have other markings as well. When Agidor has a chance to look at them, he identifies two currencies; Osirion and Absalom. In the pouch of the unconscious man, Beckett finds are 3 vials of what he recognizes to be a potions of Cure Light Wounds. The last item is the pouch of fingers and rings. This rests on the ground at their feet.
”I think we can handle the deader, no problem.” Agidor offers when queried by Beckett and Nosatrub. He nods to rear of the stable. ”They got a manure cart in tha back, we can store this chap there n’ he won’t spook tha horses.” Then he looks at the unconscious man where he now lays bound. ”As for our sleeping friend here, we’ll have ta be an eensy bit creative. I think it’s a better thing ta have tha Rozzers come and have at ‘em...maybe tell tha folks in the Sundries shop what Lord Ralios knows. Call ‘em a horse thief, then be done with ‘em. Best songs are the least complicated, in my opinion.”
”Allow me to deal with this man,” Ralios offers. He rests his hands on his hips and looks more confident, perhaps even a bit more youthful than when you first encountered him. ”I’ll see him arrested, and I’ll acquire less conspicuous clothing to wear over my current garb. That Phalanxman Hurl, he owes me a favor or two.”
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Leaving behind the stables and the now arrested villain, the group returns to the Peacock. Waiting in the small common room among a growing population of patrons, is Alaric and his charge, Hektor Lenz. The latter attempts to shrink into his chair at the sight of Nosatrub and the two “new” friends he brought to join the party. Ralios, garbed in a newly purchased, roughspun cloak and tunic keeps the hood up on his the cloak to hide his features. Not a strange thing in Admiral’s Fen by a league.
Goosing Lenz to sit up straighter, Alaric inclines his head and stands from the table. Above the din in the common room, the group can’t hear what the bodyguard says to the him, but Lenz’s eyes roll in fear and he stands up immediately. The Port Authority officer is somewhat cleaner, his uniform office clean and pressed. Alaric nods to the door and they all exit the Peacock together.
”He has a carriage two blocks down. I already sent a runner to have it readied.” Alaric looks to Nosatrub and Beckett and inclines his head once more, an obvious sign of gratitude. ”To a new life, gentlemen.”
They journey northward, passing the stables on their right where a group of city watch are dragging out the still unconscious form of the bandit, the Phalanxman Hurl speaking with the Watch leader and gesturing with a set of horse reins.
Further up the street, another stable comes into view, this one of roughly similar build. In the open area outside the stalls, a black cart with worked wood inlays of the Imperial Navy’s heraldry is just being hitched to a pair of stout mares. It isn’t long before they are aboard and on their way, Alaric in the driver’s seat and coaxing the carriage northward towards the Shipyards.
”We...we will need to go to my offices, yes yes.” Lenz states, wincing as though expecting a strike from one of the men. Or perhaps his newfound sobriety is causing its own set of pains. He scratches at his coat along the forearm where Beckett’s spell had been cast. ”I have to sees to my papers, yes? So’s I can go to Olfrey proper n’ request the inspection of your ship, yes?”
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
♟ Acquired from the Stag Heralds ♟
➣ 3 Potions Cure Moderate Wounds
➣ 1 Longsword
➣ 1 Set of Brass Knuckles
￡Gold ￡
➣ 45 Gold (Absalom Currency)
➣ 19 Gold (Osirion Currency)
➣ 10 Gold (Taldan Currency)
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
"She's not from around here," Drogan eventually let slip into the somber air of the room. "Less I miss the mark, she's some form of mage, an acolyte of some sort. She'd have been traveling out of Absalom. While I can't place those symbols, I'm right sure I don't mean to know what they were trying to do here."
He raises his gloved hand beneath his nose as the bile burned in the back of his throat. "Whether they did this to her for refusin' to do whatever they were lookin' to accomplish here, or the terrible deed itself was to blame - I assure you she died screaming."
He spit on the ground and by one of the symbols, "Sooner we're away from this place the better, ye ask me. I've a notion to find out how Foeward is wrapped up in this, and I don't mean te let 'im try this again."
|
|
”Gentlemen, shall we?”
Phedron lifts his gloved hand as a summons to Caster. With the hawk at hand, he follows Olfrey to the courtyard. The marvel of the Lieutenant's leg doesn't escape him. "Is it magic or machine?" he wonders to himself. The false leg moving as if flesh is almost vulgar, but fascinating all the same.
He has had little exposure to gnomes. There were very few he ever saw in Andoran and none busied themselves with such arts.
On their way down the stairs he steals a glance at his uncle. While this is some action Phedron is doubtful what a surprise inspection would reveal a day beforehand. However, he also feels that pushing the lieutenant's good graces would find them escorted out.
Once in the courtyard, he can't help but be impressed by the coach and the assembled guard. Upon the introduction to Legate Aureleum, Phedron bows and smiles with crafted charm. ”At your service.” looking to Caster when referenced by Olfrey, urging Caster mentally to cry and perhaps display his plumage to impress the woman in armor.
Phedron finds himself amused by the exchange between the two over Maximus. He conjures a mental image of halflings riding the massive dog as well as the hound trying to make a bed out of the lieutenant's lap. Resisting the urge to laugh aloud, he does smile in amusement at Maximus' antics.
Phedron's thoughts move back to the task as hand as they board the coach.
"So we will meet this Lenz. If I dared I'd press that conversation further. Maybe the meeting will shed some light."
Karl pulled himself away from going upstairs for just a moment. The draw of watching Drogan conducting an investigation was too strong for him to resist doing his own.
"There's no sign of struggle. She shows no sign of being held while this was done to her. Her face speaks of horror. I don't know what would do this to her eyes. . . A wicked device. Why wood, why lacquered so when a surgical steel tube would be easier to obtain? This smacks of ritual. This girl looks well to do. This is no area barmaid. She is no maiden from a tower either. Somehow she is involved in all this. . . There are too many player here though. It doesn't make sense. Dwarves, under dwellers, gangs from Absalom, shadowy strangers . . . I don't like this."
"A confluence of events has brought our group together in the face of these happenings. There is too much here to be an accidental crossing of paths. A chance for redemption for each of us I think."
Karl steps back.
"There may be more here, but our time draws short."
Karl takes the cure light wounds potion to replace the one he used. He hands one of the moderates to Kheegan and the other to Drogan.
"Here take these, Kheegan, you down yours. You're likely to need your health upstairs and those villagers need you. No arguments."
"Now then, to the work upstairs."
|
|
Beckett claims a potion, then offers the remainder of the items to Nosa and Agidor. He then looks at the finger and rings in disgust.
"Unpleasant, but this may be important."
The Inquisitor works them back into the pouch, being careful to avoid touching them with anything other than the hilt of his weapon, and takes them with him. He also retrieves his note from Ralios.
Beckett nods to the noble.
"Her light does provide clarity... to us all..."
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
Beckett nods to Alaric. Nice to..um... meet you. Then he smiles.
The Inquisitor looks at Lenz, then he speaks to Nosa.
"This the guy were suppose to keep in one piece? Shouldn't be too hard.
Beckett performs a short kata with his hammer, then smiles. "Just stay close, eh?
Then he nods to Nosa. "Ready whenever you are, Sir Knight."
Nosa takes one of the potions and leaves the rest to Agidor.
He looks in disgust at the finger and rings that Beckett gingerly picks up, glad that the young inquisitor took them.
Upon arriving back at the Peacock, Nosa notices the change in Alaric's demeanor.
He claps the mercenary on the shoulder New life indeed he says with a smile. There is always hope for men of honor.
Nosa rides to the shipyards in silence, lost in his own thoughts.
Lenz's statement about going to his office snaps Nosa out of his personal place.
See to your papers Lenz, but see to them quickly
As I rode back to my office in silence flanked by my men, I thought about Laras’s last question. Were there only three murders? Were there other bodies we hadn’t found? If so, the killer could be far closer to accomplishing whatever he was planning. Vital clues could be out there waiting to be found. I had to cast my net even farther."
Lord Bashar and Yolan were waiting for me in my salon when I returned. I ordered lunch for all of us and told them what I learned and contemplating after my talk with Laras.
“I think we’ve been looking at murders the wrong way. Laras asked if I was sure there had only been three murders and I couldn’t, with any certainty, say that I was. We need to get more men on the streets, scouring the slums and the outer districts. I want reports on any murders or bodies found with any similarity to our three victims in the past month.”
Turning to Yolan, “something you said about the precision of the cuts and careful removal of the blood and organs has nagged at the back of my mind these last few days. Our killer is very organized and has likely practiced his arts before. He wouldn’t risk a mistake once he started for real. Hopefully, he wasn’t as careful with his test victims. We need something. I want to know of anyone who has gone missing in the past three months.”
The lord nodded in obedience, but his eyes appeared unconvinced. “In a month dozens of people go missing in the slums. Some move, some abandon their families for greener younger pastures some are taken as tribute or as payment for debt, and some find their way face down into the river. Very few will talk to us there your grace. All of our manpower assets are currently deployed and I must advise you that there have been rumors of . . . a bit of chaffing, amongst the nobility remanded to quarters. If you know of a way we can distribute and utilize our men more effectively please direct me."
He was right and it was a lot of work for little gain, but I would take almost any lead now. “Let them know there is coin, food and favors available for the right information. Also talk to the street runners and make the same offer. I will be generous to anyone who brings me what I need. . . Anyone."
Yolan had been quiet so far. “Any thoughts old man?”
“I think you’re right about the size of the victims. The killer is looking for very large, physically fit men. Lord Bashar’s men should focus on large men missing or killed in the past month or so that would reduce the scope of the search. The killer may also have had access to corpses or victims few would miss. There are a few professions that fit that description, those that prepare the dead for burial, the city guard, interrogators like me, the Order. The killer may be one of us.”
Yolan said aloud something that I'd been thinking. The killer had access to some of the elite of the city; been able to track their movements, strike in or near the heart of the city and seemingly without causing alarm in his prey. Laras’s comments about power also lent to someone who would be seen as a friend or ally of the Kingdom.
Those in power are so likely to abuse those under that authority. I had seen it many times.
In the Group
➢ Phedron Rushing
➢ Carnon Rushing
➢ Lt. Tacitus Olfrey, Imperial Navy
➢ Legate Aureleum (1st Equites)
The column of Imperial Naval personnel traverse the clogged streets of Cassomir heading towards the docks. Legate Aureleum proves to be a very effective in creating a wedge through the menagerie of peddlers and citizens and sailors and noontime drunkards. With their uniforms and stamping destriers, the 1st Equites even make short work of a gladiator group looking to be tough in their presence. A few choice words from the Legate and they turn about and seek additions for the local pit fights elsewhere.
Of the denizens, humans are the largest contingent. But close behind are the halflings, a sturdier lot than the ones back home in Andoran, but still possessing that oddly cheerful disposition even in the face of hard work and drudgery. Add to that the occasional cluster of gnomes and scatterings of half-orc laborers (and a few of those among the gladiatorial contestants), the population of Cassomir was fairly diverse. Of course that didn’t account for the scattering of bearded, the noble class of the country. Of the four Phedron spots, all have a retinue of servants and bodyguards close to hand.
”Not long now, gentlemen,” Tacitus announces, sharp eyes taking in the surrounding buildings.
The harbor is a mixture of the sea and the fish being sold and the sweat of the shipworkers creating a unique bouquet. Phedron and his uncle had been experiencing the smell for the past week while staying at the Kelp Inn. They have port cities in Andoran, but the flavor of Cassomir is a different animal, a different life. The undercurrent of a strange inevitability is disquieting, as though the lives throughout the area are not close to change. Those wretched half-castes and ne'er do wells and even the occasional nobility all swirl like ingredients in a soup which refuse to break down.
The carriage and its armored escort continue, the smell of the port becoming that much stronger. They wind through narrow streets and eventually emerge onto the harbor proper. Dozens of ships of varying drafts and design are put to while heavy cranes and the longshoremen operators offload and load material. Phedron can see beyond the docked boats to harbor beyond, dozens upon dozens more vessels await their turn. Under the gray, overcast sky the bulky and nimble alike dance upon the waters.
Accurate to his proclamation, the Legate and her Equites peel off from the carriage and set up a perimeter near a narrow, three story building with the offical seal of the Imperial Navy along with a separate addition different than that of Olfrey’s; a pair of scrolls balancing on scales against an anchor.
”Welcome to the Port Authority Offices of the Imperial Navy.” Tacitus offers, his driver already down from the carriage and opening the door for his superior and the Rushings.
As they exit the carriage, another arrives being pulled by a pair muscular, dapple mares. The vehicle is black with worked wood inlays of the Imperial Navy’s heraldry including the scales that appear on the Port Authority building. Broad shouldered with a few scars on his face and a hefty morningstar resting on his lap, a rather rough looking character sits next to the driver.
"What's he doing out of is offices at this time of day?" Tacitus grumbles with no small amount of irritation. He signals with two fingers for the Legate, assuring that he'd attention is on the big man atop the arriving carriage.
The Lieutenant clasps his hands behind his back and awaits the new arrival. Maximus pads over and sits attentively next to his master.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□
In the Group
➢ Beckett Foxglove
➢ Nosatrub Shieldarm
➢ Agidor
➢ Lord Sahi Ralios
➢ Hektor Lenz, Port Authority Officer
➢ Alaric
Hektor Lenz finds himself staring uncomfortably at the faces of Beckett and Nosatrub, all the while scratching at his arm and taking every available opportunity to stare at the passing city. Their transition from the Admiral's Fen district and into the Shipyards and docks is marked by broader streets but hundreds of more people. All manner of shopkeepers and blacksmiths and trinket dealers and innkeepers eagerly court passerby. The makes the going slow.
Next to Lenz, Agidor idly strums his guitar and drawing some inspiration from the crowds to play a fidgety paced rendition of Father Caught a Cod. It blends an amusing concoction of the madness outside and the nervous energy of the drug addled Port Authority officer in their midst.
The stranger sitting on the other side of the bard is another source of anxiety for Lenz. Ralios had not deigned to reveal his face nor his identity in his presence. The three party members do nothing to alter to situation, content that the unknown factor for Lenz is helping to keep his mouth shut.
But that changes when they arrive at the main harbor. While the assemblage of ships is a marvel, the main attraction is the group of Imperial Navy personnel out front. Their first warning is the stomping of Alaric's heel from the driver's seat. The second is Lenz's reaction reactions as he dry washes his hands and coughs and mumbles.
"Why would he be here? What business is it, is it not? Yes?" Hektor peers from the shadowed carriage interior at the other carriage waiting out front of the Port authority building. Unlike the Imperial symbol of the scales and their balancing of scroll and anchor that's found on the building, the other carriage bears the simple pattern of the Imperial Navy.
Already exiting their vehicle, Beckett and Nosa can see three men and a rather large dog - a wolfhound if Nosa didn't miss his guess. The breed is popular back in Ustalav, known for their loyalty and fearless natures. The first man, ti whom It was obvious the dog belonged, a Navy officer; commanding gaze, well muscled but lean about the middle. One of the man's legs is missing, replaced with a brass and wood appendage.
The other two men with him are dressed differently but no less appearing of military presence. One older than the other, both garbed in the dark blues and whites and 3/4 coats. The younger man is in possession of a black hawk at rest on his shoulder.
"Andorans..." Agidor mentions of the other two with the Navy man. "The navy man, he's a right snappy bloke, got the flavor of a high rank if he warrants a squad of cavalry."
Setting up a protective detail around the navy man, the mounted soldiers are lead by a female with raven colored hair. She discounts and joins the one legged navy officer to confer.
Around them, the carriage shudders as Alaric climbs down and pokes his head inside. "Looks like it's our lucky day, chaps." But his tone sound appreciative.
Lenz fidgets and rocks back and forth. "Why's he here, eh? What's he want with me? Better to sees him back at the Admiralty, sure sure."
The sounds of booted steps approaches their carriage. Alaric steps aside and the face of the female guard leader fills the carriage window. "Inspector Lenz?" she asks crisply. She spots the quivering addict easily enough, but her sharp eyes focus on Nosatrub and Beckett. "I am Legate Vandana Aureleum, 1st Equitus. Lieutenant Tacitus Olfrey wants to speak with you Master Lenz. Let's have the rest of you then." She steps back and motions for Alaric to open the carriage door. "I'm sure there is good reason why your not at your offices by mid morning Master Lenz?"
The door to to the carriage opens, the gray light of day outside and a nervous Hektor begins to exit the carriage.
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..wow, really?
In the Group
➢ Karl Marsh
➢ Lavios Daleborn
➢ Drogan Anvilsong
➢ Hal'dorel
➢ Kheegan
The group as a whole turns away from the grotesque display of devilry and focus on what can be done for the living. Securing their gathered clues and readying their weapons, the ladder in the next room - a storage closet it seems - looms with an odd combination of invitation and foreboding, the flickering light of the assorted sources of illumination do nothing to dispel the feeling. Only Drogan, his keen dwarfish darkvision availing him a near daylight perspective, can see clearly...but the aid of his eyes will not shake the tremoring anger and disappointment in the past few hours’ revelations. All the group falls to silent ruminations.
Just what was Danton doing? What sort of machinations would join an ancient dwarf, a mysterious elf and a now dead student of wizardry? And then the addition of Ardo and his Stag Heralds, brigands and cutthroats specializing in the traffic of slaves, how did they fit into the picture? Children, women and men, kidnapped from their village and subjected to some odd ‘choosing’, as Kheegan had put it. Then the villainous Bogeyman of Caius and Kheegan’s description, what sort of bargain was struck between him and Danton? What was worth the price of three children...what was in the box?
Kheegan takes the offered elixir and stares at it suspiciously. Knowing the source of the liquid, he glances to Hal’dorel who gives him a wan smile in response. ”Go ahead, brother.” The elf confirms. The barbarian takes the potion and stoops to put the empty vial on the ground. Retrieving his claimed weapon, he waves it towards the ladder. ”There’s blood to be shed yet.” Kheegan raises the waraxe like a cleric holding a scroll before a congregation. ”For vengeance...for justice.”
They go to the ladder, Karl proving to be the quietest of the lot. The barbarian informs the old warrior that the room above is in fact a large, open area within a building. ”Think there was a tannery there in the past, still smells of the process...but now there are only cages that line the walls, the middle’s open...big...floor’s cracked...that’s about all I remember.”
Karl moves up the ladder, hand pressing against the wooden trapdoor. The door rises up with the barest of utterances as the joined iron hinges rub against each other. Outside is another storeroom, this one narrow like the one below. To the left an opening allows grayish hued bars of light to cast a wedge of dust motes and illumination into the area. Karl makes his way up the rest of the ladder and rests the trapdoor against the nearby wall, silent as a mouse. No need for the lantern, he stows it away in his pack and fills his hands with weapons, stepping to the opening in the room and peering out.
Nothing. An open area with stone floors. His eyes adjust to the daylight, an agonizing stretch of moments until he sees that the large building’s interior is lit by a row of windows that ring the building high up near the rafters. Karl’s eyes adjusted, he notes that the stone floors are worn smooth, a long crack stretching across one side. Next, he sees across the way, a set of double doors, one of them slightly ajar and letting in more daylight. Then finally, along the opposite wall on both sides of the exit, there are cages, doors standing open and the interiors empty with straw and heavy blankets lining the bottoms.
Karl signals the others to come up, and they do so with surprising deftness. Once gathered, Kheegan turns around and closes the trapdoor, pulling a crowbar from where it leans next to a crate and slipping it through the latch to seal it from topside.
They move into the large interior of the building, the former tannery processing floor. Around them, they smell the unfortunate odors of human waste mixed with rotting food and body odor. The cages line the walls on all sides, the ones along the north, south and east walls standing empty, doors open.
Across the way from where they emerge, the sounds of muffled conversation comes through the ajar door to the outside. They speak in harsh tones, but although the language is liberally doused with words of foreign tongue, it is Common for the most part.
”How long will the protivnýstrom return?”
”Soon’s he’s done with tha cripple. Gonna get his thing, be back after.”
”Sick o’ sledovanie, wanna finish n’ move.”
”Go tell Ardo, he’s just over there, mate…”
”Prečo som odišiel lebku?” The tone shifts to anger and annoyance, but the words are unintelligible.
”Then stand still n’ shut yer crooked chompers.”
The group moves out of the narrow storeroom as the two voices outside fall to silence. They keep their weapons at the ready. Then, from the right side, they hear moans. Lavios is the first to respond, trident raised, eyes focused.
”My son…” The feminine voice is weak and whispering, with a thread of hesitant joy in its tone. ”Lavios, is that you?”
Along the western wall, the set of four cages are still locked, four people imprisoned within them; 2 women and 2 men. All are dirty and the dark stains of exhaustion beneath their eyes speak to their condition. But all four are awake, grimy hands going to the bars of their cages at the sight of the armed folk in the building...especially when they see the face of Lavios Daleborn.
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♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗ ♗
➢ Hal’dorel (HP 32/32)
➢ Drogan (HP 9/9)
➢ Lavios (HP 13/13)
➢ Karl (HP 8/9)
➢ Kheegan (24/56 | 4/12 Rage)
Finally! Some law in this forsaken place. Shall I trust them? Can I speak of why I am here? Tell them everything? Of the captured from the burning town?
Nosa sits, unsure what to do now. He looks from Agidor to Beckett hoping to gain some measure of which direction to go from them. Unable to read them, he makes up his mind.
Trust in the law. Trust in what is right. Trust in yourself.
He follows Lenz out of the carriage and stands to face the woman who addressed them.
I am Nosatrub Shieldarm, Son of Veras, Squire to the Knights of Ozem and servant of the Lady of Valor.
He lets his words hang in the air, waiting for the response of the authorities.
Karl sneaks towards the door.
He tries to see how many men are outside, knowing to expect to see about four.
Sounds like someone is looking to put a fork in Marcum. We might need to move this up a bit.
If Karl sees an opening to end one or two baddies he will, or if others move up with him, he will strike.
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As the coach trundles into the harbor. Ever shadow seems to hold a dark secret. Phedron's mind conjures images of the down-trodden and abused looking on their arrival with a glimmer of hope. Preeminent in his thought are the slaves being assembled for the passage to Absalom. He wonders if the crowds here thank him for his efforts or work against him as he works to stop these slave traders. The lieutenant's announcement of their arrival shakes him out of his imaginings.
Welcome to the Port Authority Offices of the Imperial Navy.”
Phedron nods to Olfrey. "The harbor is a sight to behold, no mistake." he says.
Exiting the coach, he does admire the sheer number of ships and people. He watches the crowd out of the corner of his eye to see if they are taking note of their arrival.
As Lenz's carriage arrives he can definitely sense the tension between Olfrey and Lenz. "What all has this Lenz done before? Maybe it IS possible this man is working with the Stag Heralds."
He keeps Caster on his arm, pulling in the senses of the hawk to augment his own. "How strange it is that Olfrey seems to be cautious of Lenz's man."
➢
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Beckett exits the carriage with a smile and a bow.
"Well now. This should be interesting. I wonder how I will explain being arrested as a slaver to Lord Bromathan..."
"Beckett Foxglove at your service."
The Inquisitor steals a glance at Lenz to see how his is handling the situation, and what he is likely to do.
In the Group
--Player Characters--
➢ Phedron Rushing
➢ Beckett Foxglove
➢ Nosatrub Shieldarm
--NPCs--
➢ Agidor
➢ Lord Sahi Ralios
➢ Hektor Lenz, Port Authority Officer
➢ Alaric
➢ Carnon Rushing
➢ Lt. Tacitus Olfrey, Imperial Navy
➢ Legate Vandana Aureleum (1st Equites)
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Legete Aureleum eyes the paladin, brows climbing at the man’s credentials. ”I can only assume such a man would be here on matters official to the Church of Iomedae.” She stands a full foot shorter than Nosa, but her voice and bearing carry a weight he’d not seen since his days north in Lastwall. ”By the accent I’d name you Ustalavan...a hard thing being a servant of the Lady in such a land.” The last holds the tones of admiration and pity.
”And you,” She turns her attentions to Beckett as he disembarks. ”I give you some leeway because of Master Shieldarm, but mind your manners with that weapon of yours.” The Lucerne Hammer looms large in the corner of her eye. At a nod one of her Equites takes up a position to the side where he can bring his heavy pick into play should things go south.
As to that, it would seem that the heavy pick was the weapon of choice among the solders in Aureleum’s command.
”Get down from there, Master Lenz. Lt. Olfrey would have a word with you.”
Next to last in exiting the coach, Agidor hops down, shouldering his guitar case and wearing a strangely impish grin. ”Legate Aureleum, pleasure to see you again.”
The woman’s eyes soften for a moment, but something...perhaps a memory...hardens them again. ”You keep turning up, Lim’ehl. ”
”LIke a rusty half-pence, milady,” He responds with a chuckle and folds his arms and cocks his head to the side.
”A word, Lim’ehl?” the Legate queries, motioning to a spot behind the carriage.
”You can speak freely among these two, milady,” Agidor glances to Lenz and then meets eyes with the big bodyguard Alaric.
The big man places a firm hand on Lenz’s shoulder, earning a barely stifled yelp. ”I’ll see that he, makes it to the good Lieutenant, mate. Don’t you worry.” Alaric’s grip tightens and he maneuvers him away next to the horses. Across the courtyard Olfrey is stands with the Andoran men and the wolfhound.
Once Lenz is out of earshot, Agidor turns back to the Legate. ”I apologize for our sudden appearance, but there is ‘n urgent matter of the last member of our group. He is someone who’d prefer remains unnamed in these proceedings, whaddya say love? Just for now...will ya help me out?”
”One, don’t call me that again or I’ll have your Jacobs.” Aureleum responds, teeth grit tight. ”Two, just what in the blazes is going on? Just who is in the carriage?”
Agidor simply brushes a pair of fingers along his chin, electing not to offer a name.
*sigh* ”Nobility…” she mutters to herself. ”Fine, but if it turns out he’s a threat, I’ll have you press-ganged by morning. And this time, no amount of singing will sweeten your way out of it.” She reaches up and pats Agidor’s cheek, the heavy steel of her gauntlet earning a wince of pain from the bard. ”Aljin,” she calls to the nearby guard. ”Keep an eye on the carriage.”
The soldier salutes and takes up a post near the back of the vehicle.
”Alright, the rest of you, follow me. If you’ve got something useful to the conversation, better be out with it. Lt. Olfrey doesn’t abide slack-jawed yokels. Keep it pertinent and we’ll get you on your way.”” She waves them over.
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Phedrons watches the goings on with keen interest, especially the interplay with the Legate and the various peoples emerging from the other cart. The whirring and hissing of Olfrey’s leg is the only sound coming from the Lt. as he does the same. Next to him, Carnon Rushing retains his mask of stone, but his eyes search the other group. Phedron notes that the heavily armored man and the one bearing the wicked looking polearm hold Carnon’s attention a bit longer than the others.
Around them, dock workers, customers of the local shops and all manner of passerby give the area a wide berth. Those familiar with Cassomir and the conflagration of Imperial Navy personnel know trouble when they see it. The 1st Equites dismount and set up a perimeter as best they can considering the location of the Port Authority building at the corner of two streets .
After a few moments of conversation, Olfrey clears his throat and steps forward. ”The ill-favored fellow being escorted by the big man is Hektor Lenz. The big man is named Alaric, a rough character Lenz hired for protection.” As they walk, he gestures to the others. ”I know not his fellows, though the armored one stands out as an adherent to Iomedae if I don’t miss my guess. Legate Aureleum is familiar with the thin fellow .”
Just before they reach the other group, Olfrey offers one more insight. ”I am suspicious of Hektor Lenz. I have reason to believe he may have his hands in less than savory endeavours. Perhaps he is connected to your investigation, perhaps not.” He gives an incline of the head and turns his attention forward. ”Once I’m done with him, we’ll know the right of it.”
Feeling along the connection he shares with Caster, Phedron drawing inward on the hawk’s spectacularly acute sense of sight.
Tension. Alert. Perhaps a bit more than is usual for his bonded companion. The Andoran glances about, searching the faces of the crowd, trying to ascertain what is increasing Caster’s tension. But to his eyes, nothing stands out. In fact, any number of the passerby could be a potential hostile.
”What is it you are seeing, nephew?” Carnon says, his rich voice nearly a shock after having been silent for so long.
Phedron doubles his efforts and looks about the area. The opposite group, with its warriors, the pudgy Lenz and his bodyguard, the Equites standing guard, the dwindling number of people on the road…
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Nosa and Beckett and Agidor stride along behind the Legate. The next few moments are a study in patience as the newly minted comrades in arms see answers on the horizon. Perhaps a final solution to the problem of the Stag Heralds and their efforts to send the people of Southridge to the Absalom slave markets.
Adjacent to them Lenz fidgets under the grip of his bodyguard, Alaric proving to be good as his word at having turned over a new leaf. Perhaps he too sees something new on the horizon.
Across the courtyard, the approaching trio is odd in and of themselves. A man with a gnomish-works leg, a pair of men garbed in Andoran blues and whites, one of them bearing a dark-feathered hawk on his arm. Then the wolfhound padding dutifully along with his master.
Hektor rubs his hands together, beads of sweat standing out on his face. ”Lieutenant Olfrey, I...I’m pleased, sure sure. Pleased to see you. In fact, I was in a process o’ sorts to come n’ pay you a visit, milord.”
Olfrey steps to within 2 feet of the man and rests his hands on his hips. ”Wouldn’t have to do with the Lina Varden...or perhaps the Dahnak...?” His voice is like a mounting pressure system offshore, air becoming tighter and heavier with each passing moment. Next to him, his dog growls low and threatening. ”Or maybe you were going to tell me of the Banded Fist?”
Hektor wilts, knees buckling and almost betraying him to the ground if not for Alaric grabbing him by the coat and holding him up. ”Milord, my confederates n’ I, we happen to be on just such an errand, sure...absolutely...err…” He steals a glance back towards Nosa and Beckett, the expectation plain on his face that they might just end his life right there. The pudgy addict scratches furiously at his forearm and turns his attention back to the Lieutenant. ”I mean, uhm, the Varden...just the Lina Varden if ya please, milord. She’s the one, yes, yes...I’m in needs of an inspection...now I know I told you she was right as rain, but somethin’s come to my attention...I”
Anger, red and burning, consumes Olfrey’s eyes. He moves like a viper and grabs Lenz by the lapels. Alaric, for his part, makes an instinctive reaction to leap forward and defend his charge…
...and perhaps that is what costs him his life. The scream of the bolts is heard in the air, then the meaty thwack as they punch home into Alaric as he is takes his instinctive step forward. The first bolt takes him in the upper shoulder, the second one takes him in the head, killing him before he even hits the ground.
”TO ARMS!!!!!” Calls out the Legate, swinging her shield up and charging forward to protect her superior. With her other hand, she points to the three story offices of the Port Authority.
➢ Initiative Rolls
➢ Describe what you’re doing / thinking up until the point the bolts strike Alaric...
➢ Let me know what you plan on doing in the first round and make the necessary rolls to accompany those actions.
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Rage rises in Beckett's soul as Alaric falls to the ground. Instinctively he pronounces judgement on those who fired the bolts, begging the Everlight to see him safely to justice.
"The bolts. Who fired the bolts? I did not see any crossbows on the way here. Was it Olfrey's men? Or someone else?"
The Inquisitor looks around frantically to determine the direction that the killing blows came from.
"Whoever fired those bolts is a deadman! I just need to make sure I can get to them in one piece."
If he gets to a crossbowman
Nosa cannot help but be impressed by the air of authority from the woman before him. Listening to her tone and the way she commands, she brings faith to him that she is right and noble.
He follows along behind her to the confrontation between Lenz and the other authorities, watching in confusion, not understanding the interplay between the wretch and those who question him.
Things then seem to move in slow motion...
Nosa sees the man who is talking to Lenz reach forward to grab hold of him. Alaric, moves to protect his charge, despite his desire to be rid of him, he cannot help himself, honorable man that he is.
Nosa sees the first bolt find it's mark in Alaric's shoulder and the second in his head.
Nosa bellows in rage at seeing Alaric fall.
Fiends! Villains! Faithless and accursed!!!
Inaction will bring death.
Nosa leaps forward and grabs Lenz by the coat and drags him behind the nearest carriage. His strength being to much for Lenz to overcome.
Stay here. Do no move or it will mean your death!
Nosa, kneeling behind the carriage follows the arm of the Legate as she points to the port authority.
He quickly puts on his helm and shield then draws his longsword.
Goddess let me bring justice for Alaric. Let those who took his life be judged.
And that's when things got really exciting!