Gorkhan ambles slowly down the alley in the wake of the House Tsalaxa agents. Staying in the shadow of the corner building, he watches as they herd the cargo kanks across Iron Square to another white-washed warehouse. Several take the kanks inside but four others - including the one carrying Gorkhan's knife - sit around a table under an awning out front and begin playing cards. Their relaxed postures indicate this is something they do often, and Gorkhan is confident he can find the man here later ...
After a brief discussion, the rest of the group hobbles the four remaining kanks in the warehouse, spending another of Fen's ceramic coins on fodder sold from a passing cart. Leaving Grit's tigone behind to guard the warehouse, the group secures the lock and heads back toward the Caravan Gate, intending to see about selling the metal blades before heading to Shadow Square.
Grik's shop is cool - the forge in one corner of the thick-walled shop is cold. Iron blades of all descriptions hang from bone pegs on the walls - straight, simple thrusting swords as well as hooked polearms and axes with jagged blades. A hunched dwarf, his head lopsided and covered with scars, sits silently on a tall stool running a whetstone back and forth along a curved blade.
Grik sits at a nearby table winding black and yellow cord around the hilt of longsword. The grizzled old mul sets aside the work as you enter and clasps hands with you in greeting, grasping wrists in the traditional warrior's handshake. Taking in the bundle of weapons with his one good eye, he gestures toward the table.
"Selling, I take it? Bring them over here."
He examines the weapons carefully and seems particularly impressed with the steel spear, originally a dagger you had mounted to the wooden shaft.
"Dwarven steel. I haven't seen the like for years. Forged in Kemalok, if I had to wager."
He holds up the iron dagger you took from the elven mage in the defiler-tree's grotto.
"This one's mine," he says, pointing to a faint maker's mark carved near the hilt. "One of the first I forged after leaving the arena."
He handles the swords more cautiously, then pulls a vial of green liquid from a pouch at his belt. He flicks a single drop onto each blade, which boils and hisses before evaporating.
"I see the earth rune's aren't just decoration - these blades are enchanted," he says, standing straighter and stretching the thick muscles of his back and neck. "I usually only sell weapons of my own make, but I'll buy the dwarven blade along with the dagger bearing my mark. I don't deal in enchanted blades - brings too much trouble with the templars. ... "
"But I might know some interested buyers. Nobles, mostly, always looking to one-up each other or lay claim to some lineage or another with an ancient blade. I'll tell you what. Sell me the spear and the dagger for, oh, eight gold pieces, and I'll arrange a meeting with them. What do you say?"
Nnn'tkklik'l had been following the group, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells. Nigh-wordless both physically and mentally, he passively observed the happenings, particularly wary of any dangers. This is a new environment, a new hunt, whether they were the predator or among the prey was unknown.
Raun, somewhat more relaxed now that they have had a chance to settle into the city takes the opportunity to gawk at the city. She may have lived in Urik all her life, but she hadn't seen much of it at all. When they arrive at the shop after looking at Grik seriously for a few moments she shakes his hand firmly and wanders off to poke amongst his wares curiously.
Däina stares openly with Raun, knowing nothing besides the desert and the building she would make. Inside the shop she glances around momentarily, but seeing nothing that interests her just stands patiently behind those that know the worth of weapons.
Safia felt right at home in the city, or almost at least. Tyur was smaller than Raam was but it also was quieter somehow. The people here stepped in line and the templars more or less controlled the place. In Raam a templar was just another thug and not even the most dangerous one.
Once in the shop Safia looked around. When the smith mentioned the price she looked to the others. The man was offering good prices, especially for the dwarven blade. "I think that sounds like a good deal. I do have a question though. Do you know of any smiths in Tyr that could make me a set of buckles, in brass or steel." She'd actually want them in pale electrum, like the jewels of her mother that she always admired before he father sold them, but that was beyond what she could afford right now.
Glad to be off the streets where he feels like everyone is watching him, Grit ducks into the coolness of the shop. Seeing a fellow mul makes him feel slightly more social and he moves to greet Grik. He introduces himself and complements the smith on his work. I can mend small damage or replace a handle and the like but I am no master smith. The beauty of you work sends chills up my spine. he says, admiring pieces displayed.
When he makes his offer Grit looks back to the others and if no one objects he agrees. If you will also point out where we might purchase armor enchantments them we have a deal master smith.
Gorkhan watches the proceedings in Grik's shop with a distracted air, his mind on his earlier discovery. I'll need to gather more intelligence on the area, that mercenary, and on that House... He comes back to the present with some og Grik's words.
"A meeting with nobles? Presumably they would be... discrete about such things, or would they bring templars to give themselves an upper hand?"
"They'll be discrete - involving the templars would just mean more 'taxes' for them," Grik says. "I have a couple in mind - I should be able to arrange a meeting in the next day or two and will send word to you. You can meet in my shop, if you'd like. They won't cause any trouble here."
The mul excuses himself and heads to the back of the shop before returning with a sack of coins - 6 of them gold and 20 silver.
"As for your other question, the School of the Mind will reinforce armor and weapons, although there can be a wait - an extra silver or two in the right palm can help with that, I'm told. There are priests in the elven market that will perform a blessing, as well. The only one I know by name is Lorl Wysh, a flame priest who sells fuel-less lamps and torches from an old shack near Shadow Square he calls the Hall of Light. He's a bit of an odd one, though - too much time staring into the flames, if you catch my meaning. Birk, the dwarf who runs the leatherworks near the brickyard, might know of others."
After leaving directions to your warehouse, you take your leave of Grik's and head toward the towering ziggurat. Staying in the shadow of the mighty structure, you head a short way into the Warrens, the Tyrian slums where all manner of goods and services - as well as threats to life and limb - are rumored to be available.
Two blocks in, you find yourselves in a small plaza surrounded by half a dozen wineshops, two hostelries and what looks to be a gambling house. The square sits at the nexus of five narrow lanes. A steady trickle of patrons flow in and out, although you sense its the sort of place that sees the majority of its custom once the bloody sun sets.
The signboard outside one of the taverns features a crudely-drawn, dreadlocked half-giant standing half upright - the Drunken Giant, you'd guess based on Durwadala's description.
Inside, you find a main room dominated by a long bar of polished pagafa wood. Most patrons seem to be seated on the perimeter, where stained plaster walls create numerous alcoves and private booths hidden by bead curtains.
A balding human with a thick brown beard stands behind the bar, his hands and thick forearms rubbed raw by the sand he's using to scrub out used mugs.
"Help you?" the man asks, surveying your party with a lazy gaze.
This must be Shadow Square. Grit says quietly to his friends. And there he points out must be the Drunken Giant wine shop. Wait for me here. I will call for help if I need it.
Grit enters the bar attempting to look not too out of place. When asked what he needs by the bar tender Grit leans in closer to the man and responds I am in town selling faro blossoms and would like to by three kanks. If you are able to help me send word me me in the warehouse district. I am in warehouse number 9. Grit pauses only a moment to make sure he was heard and that the reaction is not hostile before departing back to the street and his companions.
Raun stops swinging a sword almost as big as herself as the others finish up their transaction, slowly putting it back onto the rack where she'd gotten it from and following the others out.
When they reach the drunken giant she peers at the sign for a few moments before giving a shrug and finding something to lean against that won't break or fall over while she waits, peering at the other signs.
Grit sees the bartender's eyes flicker toward the curtained alcoves for a moment. Then he grunts and goes back to scrubbing mugs. "I'll pass the word."
Back outside, the sun is dipping low behind the ziggurat, casting the alleys and courtyards around Shadow Square into darkness. The number of patrons is increasing, and the sound of the Elven Market a few blocks away doesn't seem to be diminishing with the onset of night.
It's likely too late to go traipsing to the School of the Mind or the Artisan's District, but the Red Kank - where the elf Ta'albis is said to sell scribing materials - is just across the square, or you could ask after Ris the tattooist if you're willing to venture into the Elven Market at night.
It's likely too late to go traipsing to the School of the Mind or the Artisan's District, but the Red Kank - where the elf Ta'albis is said to sell scribing materials - is just across the square, or you could ask after Ris the tattooist if you're willing to venture into the Elven Market at night.
Däina stares in the direction of the elven market for a moment. "Well. I need to go sooner or later. Would anybody like to accompany me?"
Elven market. What could go wrong. the mul smiles. I would never think of sending you in there alone.
<<elves and i dont usually get along>>
Gorkhan shrugs. "I need to see more of this city to get a better feel for it. Including the Elven market. I'll come along," he says.
Thinking better of carrying a pouch full of gold coins into the Elven Market, the group backtracks several blocks toward the Caravan Gate looking for a moneychanger. Finding one, you trade the gold coins from Grik's for silver and ceramic, then divide the spoils among the six of you.
Nnn'tkklik'l and Grit prepare to head back to the warehouse to wait for the Veiled Alliance contact, while Daina and Gorkhan head back to the Elven Market to buy ink.
The Warrens take on a different tone as Daina and Gorkhan pass back through Shadow Square. Beggars are bolder, calling for handouts and trailing after passers-by rather than sitting listlessly in the shade. Prostitutes - mostly human, elf and half-elf, male and female - stand in alcoves and doorways, making promises you know better than to believe.
Soon, the crumbling and patched adobe buildings give way to an open air market surrounded by rundown taverns and storefronts. Half of the stands and tents appear closed, but dozens of others continue doing business in the dim light of candles and colored lanterns.
Cracked pots, crystal vases, silk purses and blood-stained tunics are laid out for sale. Hawkers call out as you pass, offering drugs and poisons, ancient scraps of metal and magic charms.
Ragged children run underfoot, invigorated by the cooler night breeze. Tall, lean elves - some dressed in bright silks and leather, others in the colorless cloaks of desert-runners - lean wherever there is room, eyes roaming greedily. There's not a single black-robed templar in sight.
Collaring a passing child, you trade a ceramic bit for directions to Ris's tent. The canvas flaps of the tent have been tied back to take advantage of the night breeze. Inside, a tattooed human woman, hands stained a muddy brown, carefully inks a crimson viper on forearm of a grimacing elf woman.
"I've got a half hour's work left on this one if you want to wait," says Ris, whose head has been shaved to show off the intricate green and blue tattoos covering her scalp. Glancing up from her work, she pauses and passes one hand across the lower part of her face, as if wiping something away. "Unless you're just looking for supplies, to do some inking of your own."
Däina stays close to Gorkhan, eventually grabbing onto his arm as they travel through the elven market. She walks quickly to Ris's, not making eye contact.
Inside she relaxes somewhat, releasing Gorkhan but still not at ease. Knowing there is no way to ask this without revealing herself, she just comes out with it. "The latter, but it's a rather large order so we will wait." Däina sits quietly, deciding if she was going to reveal herself than she would wait for the elven woman to leave. The less that know, the better.
Back at the warehouse Grit reunites with his tigone. Sitting on his sleeping mats scratching the beast's neck he comments to Nnn'tkklik'l. I do not like this place of elven bazaars and templars and the stink of unwashed slaves. I feel trapped here and find it hard to breath. The sooner wet area away the better I will like it.
<<City has knowledge. Open air outside walls is better than inside, but elves less likely to try to enslave us here. Just a different hunting ground. We must make sure the others are not hunted.>>
Grit takes a few deep breaths. <<Wisdom. >> he thinks at the ThriKreen. <<Still, I would be shed of this place when my duties are met here. >>
Raun decides to accompany Gorkhan and Daina to provide some additional protection. She does her best to keep the urchins--and any pickpockets amongst their numbers--at a distance with a stern glare and as necessary a menacing smile/grimace. It actually feels kind of familiar and a little relaxing in an odd way.
When they reach Ris she peers at the tattooed woman curiously, then at the elf receiving one. She hunkers down with the others but continues to watch curiously and peer around at the rest of the woman's tent and various tattoos with a considering look in her eyes.
<<It falls to us two to shepherd them through this land. Odd that it is us, as we are not city-dwellers.>> His mental voice seems calm, as if he would have smiled while saying that, if he had the necessary parts.
Safia had been idling about a bit in the warehouse district. She had gone with Nnn and Grit but those two were rather boring now for some reason. <<Such a hero.>> By the way they conversed they clearly didn't think she'd still be near.
After a while Safia went inside the building, she didn't want to scare away the Veiled Alliance people. Inside she sat down and quickly fell into some sort of apathetic state she always entered when meditating. The little scorpion patrolled around her and over her lap as if keeping guard.
<<I wouldn't confuse heroics and responsibility.>>
Ris wipes the tiny blossoms of blood from the elf's newly-tattooed arm, then begins cleaning up her work area. A minute later you are alone.
After inspecting the payment, cobbled together from Däina's own funds and money borrowed from Gorkhan and Raun, the tattooed woman ducks behind a curtain at the back of the tent before returning with a pint-sized bottle of black ink.
"This is the quality stuff - a thimble of silver dust, finger of drake's blood and a dab of ink from a silt horror. Lasts longer if you use a quill, but I know some like a brush," she says.
Thanking the woman, you head back out into the market, where Raun's glowering seems to convince the urchins and full-grown thieves that you're not worth the effort. You notice a group of templars loitering in the shadows as you leave the Warrens, but they seem more interested in those entering the market than in those leaving at such an early hour of the night.
Stopping at a food vendor to buy a basket of jankx skewers and rice, you return to the warehouse to eat and sleep. As you cross Iron Square, Gorkhan notices the red-haired mercenary with his knife bidding farewell to his comrades and heading off to the north.
You follow the red-haired mercenary to the outskirts of the Merchant's District to a two-story tavern. The clientele seems to be mostly mercenaries and soldiers. The man stays there drinking broy with friends before leaving and walking four or five blocks to a two-story boarding house almost on the edge of the warrens. You watch as the man enters and think you spot a light in one of the upper level windows soon after, possibly marking his room.
You rise early, as the carts selling fodder make their way through the square. Durwadala didn't tell you how quickly to expect a response - you can all wait at the warehouse for the message or some of you could take the time to run other errands.
If Nnntkklikl can get info on where the school is, he will go.
Gorkhan moves away from the others, having spotted someone of interest. He pauses at a corner and his flesh and clothes seem to blend into the surroundings. <<Don't mind me... I need to see a man about a gift.>>
He marks the location in his mind, moves around the perimeter to look at entrances, windows, nearby rooftops, and other things.
Luckily for you, whoever owns the place now has not been particularly studious about upkeep. You locate a spot on the far side of the building where a long crack has split the plaster, revealing the mud bricks beneath all the way up to the roofline. The brambleweed is dry and cracked - with some good heavy gloves you could make it to the roof, then crawl across to swing down into your target's window.
Finally the small man-thing brings you to a white-walled hive crawling with man-things. You feel the buzz of mental energy and know you have reached your destination. Sending your guide away with another clay disk - it's amazing such simple art is so highly valued - you walk through the gates.
After some initial confusion - it seems that "I seek knowledge from a master" is a more appropriate phrase than "I seek the contents of your master's brain" - you are taken to one of the academy's masters. After showing him the gem embedded in your forehead, you establish a simple mental link so he may communicate with the Warden, as well.
"Astonishing!," the fat man says. "Such receptacles - reliquaries, to be precise - are exceedingly rare, especially one of this age. Sadly, it seems that the occupants are driven mad or left confused by the passage of time. A colleague of mine, another instructor here, had one. The entity inside referred to itself as the Champion, or some such, although it never could explain exactly of what or who it was the champion."
"It's a pity old Faestulas isn't around anymore. He had a bit of a fondness for gambling, but lacked the precognitive talent to be any good at it. Was stabbed to death during a dispute at a gaming house two years ago. The Crystal Spider, I think. I don't know what became of the stone - it wasn't among the possessions left in his chambers, so I suppose some cutpurse took it off his body. You could ask the management at the Crystal Spider, I suppose - the owner is a rather fetching half-elf, used to fight in the arena. Krysta, I believe."
It is late in the afternoon when visitors finally arrive. Three approach the warehouse while another pair stay at the end of the alley, keeping an eye on Iron Square.
Of the three that approach, the two men have the look of masons. Their thick forearms are caked with white dust and the skin of their hands is dry and cracked, bleached white by lime. The third, a young human woman with sun-bleached hair, wears a simple robe dyed pale green, clay staining the knees and sleeves. A potter's apprentice, you think.
The woman's meek demeanor disappears when she enters the warehouse. Reaching into her robe, she pulls out a small pendant carved in the shape of a half moon. The pale jade stands out against her tan skin.
"My name is Nell. We met at your aunt's funeral. I believe you have something for me?"
Standing to meet his guests, and touching the Tigone to calm him, Grit advances. Nell? Nell? ah yes, Nell. You must forgive me. I was in a state of morning when we met and it took a moment for your name to come back to me. Yes, my aunt wanted you to have this token. He produces the box, still unopened. I did not consider it my business to know its contents. As he hands over the box he adds. My aunt obviously cared for you and your people here in Tyr. If I can be of further service to you please let me know. I had the utmost respect for my aunt and would see her good will spread.
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I wonder if it's truly poor upkeep, or there is something else there? {{Never know until you try}} Gorkhan smiles to himself as he moves away from the place, keeping to the shadows, not coming out until he was well away from his quarry and his lair.
He waits until morning before heading out again to search the markets for and purchase a sturdy, yet supple set of work gloves that could, as it happens, double as protection for such a climb. Except that I have never been much of a second story man... yet...
After the purchase, he returns to the warehouse, keeping his eye on the new arrivals, but also keeping his distance.
\
The woman Nell takes the box from Grit without comment and hands it to one of her companions, who slips it, unopened, into a canvas pouch. Wrapping it tightly, he and the others depart, heading in two separate groups as they exit Iron Square.
The woman seems to breath a sigh of relief as the men disappear.
"Thank you - I'm not sure you understand just how important that package is. You have done a great service to the people of Tyr," she says.
Looking around the warehouse, she seems to size you up for the first time.
"I appreciate your willingness to offer additional assistance on your aunt's behalf," she says. "You have the look of capable warriors and there is another task where those tasks might be put to use."
"Your ... aunt ... had stored similar packages in and around Tyr. One such package was stored at one of the client villages north of the city, near the mountains. Kalak has been so focused on his ziggurat, he and his templars have let the more distant villages fall to ruin. The mountain tribes have taken notice, raiding farther and farther into the valley. One such tribe recently set up camp in the village where your aunt had stored an item of value, preventing our agents from retrieving it."
"If you are willing to make the attempt, I could arrange for a suitable reward," she says. "It also would go a long way to proving your devotion to your aunt's ... associates ... if you were inclined to strengthen those bonds."
I can assure you that I hold my aunt, and all she stood for in the highest regard. I shall propose this errand to my associates. Perhaps we will be headed in that general direction anyway and then they would not mind helping with this small favor. They too knew my aunt, and while I can not say for each if they loved her the way I did, most of them have acted on her behalf in the past. And for those who might not share that love, there is after all the suitable reward. Tell me what I must know to accomplish this deed.
Nell seems pleased by your enthusiasm.
"The abandoned village lies half a day's walk to the north of the city walls. There's a road that splits from the trade route just east of the Caravan Gate. Take that to the north, past the Mericles estate and you'll come to it eventually - it's the last settlement on that road before you reach the foothills," she says.
"The package is hidden in the village well - count 16 stones down from the upper edge and there will be a loose stone concealing the hiding place. As for the raiders, I can tell you a little. They call themselves the Storm Eaters and are said to be led by an escaped slave, a gladiator named Yodar Klar-Killer. He and his men have a fearsome reputation - half are cannibals from the mountains, the rest former slaves who fought well enough to avoid being eaten by the others."
"A half dozen of our agents found the raiding band living in the ruins when they went to retrieve the package a week ago. Only one of our men escaped, and he lost three fingers to a raider's axe. He said our people managed to kill a few of the Storm Eaters, but at least 10 remain, including Yodar and a half-giant champion. There may be as many as 20."
A dirt-encrusted street urchin runs up as Nell finishes talking, cutting off further comment.
"Hey you, mul, Grik says to tell you he's got a coupla buyers lined up. Says to come by his shop an hour before high sun tomorrow and bring the blades. An' he says you're to give me a coin for it, too," says the girl - you think it's a girl, anyway - before holding her hand out, waiting for a ceramic.
<<My thanks to you, wise master of the mind. The Champion, The Warden.. and The Seeker. Titles of prestige. Do these mean anything to you as a hive... group?>>
Raun scratches her head in confusion, unable to help overhearing the conversation in the otherwise empty warehouse. She leans down and in a 'whisper' that anyone could hear asks. "You think Grit's aunt was Human, or Dwarf?"
Grit eyes the urchin critically.
But hands over the coin even if he thinks she is lying. Thank you young one. Eat well tonight.
Safia eyed the whole conversation between Grit and the woman who named herself Nell with some curiosity. Sneaky people. As far as she knew they meant well but she still wasn't too fond of sneaky people. Sneaky people forced her father to sell her, to pay a debt.
When all the strangers depart she turns to her friends, "How much time does that leave us with? I want to find an undertaker, see if he can get a message to a colleague in Raam." She sounded eager to head there. Her father had to be worried sick.
Nell stands as the urchin runs off.
"You have other tasks, so I will leave you to them," she says, pulling brightly-colored scarf from her robe. The turquoise silk is embroidered with crimson thread. "You can use this to contact me. Tie it to your left hip and visit the public fountain in Iron Square at noon. Someone will get word to me and I will come as soon as I can."
Sundown is rapidly approaching as she departs. Nnn'tkklik'l soon returns from the School of Thought and you have time to discuss your plans over dinner. With the meeting at Grik's planned just before noon, a journey to the client village will have to wait until after that - deciding when you wish to arrive will help determine when you need to leave.
Gorkhan and Safia head out on separate errands early the next morning, promising to return in time for the meeting at Grik's.
"And the shroud last eternal," one of the men says, rising to his feet. A long scar mars one side of his face and his gray hair is cropped close.
You explain that you wish to get a message to your father in Raam. The old man appears willing, but one of the younger men interrupts before you have a chance to say more.
"Lorik of Raam is your father? A message won't do any good - he's not in Raam anymore," the man says, rising to join the conversation. "I apprenticed with Jorm, Lorik's competitor. The old man was ecstatic when Lorik packed up and quit the city after his wife died. Heard you died, too, but obviously that's not so. Anyway, word was Lorik went to Urik. I looked him up there when I left Raam, but he wasn't working as an undertaker no more. Heard he partnered with some fat merchant, trying to organize an expedition to explore the ruins of Yaramuke, or some crazed thing."
<<The Knight-Champion. Yes, I remember him, I think ... could there be two stones in this city? It is possible - I have only a general sense of their presence. The Seeker is here, I am certain. The Champion could be, as well.>>