"Don't 'ave to tell me twice," Odhran agrees with a grimace, amazed by the turn of events. With no one in danger of bleeding to death, he climbs back out of the sewer muck.
Slidell uses his almost constant-on Prestidigitation charm to clean the worst of the muck from his companions' wounds, trying to prevent infection.
"Oh dear. I made a clean spot." He observes, looking at the nearly spotless areas on his companions' otherwise muck-covered clothes.
"That'll have to do for now. Unless you want me to clean the rest, while we wait and see if Sammy the Skelly had any MORE friends down there?" He asks slyly.
"I'm certain the rats and things would love to have a clean start at refilthying up the place. Go right ahead and get started, Slidell," Damien says without opening his eyes.
Then he slowly sits up fully from the partially seated position he had been placed in order to imbibe the potion which rejuvenated him. Making a grand show of yawning and stretching, the bard looks around blearily at the others.
"No one's dead?" he asks in genuine surprise. "But the goblin bride...?"
His voice trails off and he places a hand on his forehead and begins rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger.
"Nevermind that. I have a ranging headache, and I am going to attribute any strange things I may have seen to the rather tender spot on the back of my head." He touches said spot and winces slightly. The potion had certainly helped close any wounds, but some of the pain still lingered.
Standing, he brushes off some of the more loose grime from his clothes and peers at the now inanimate piles of bones littering the walkway and poking out of the sludge.
"Well, Bernie, that's twice you tried, and both times you failed. What utter coincidence that neither time was I the cause of your death, undeath, nor redeath." Damien kicks a stray femur near him back into the muck.
"Please continue to enjoy your stay," he says with a cruel smile.
Turning to his companions, he motions a hand indicating to move forward.
"Normally, I might ask how everyone is feeling and if they are ready to move because it's the polite thing to do, and no one will ever claim I am anything but polite company. But currently, I feel that exiting this rather unfortunate environ is a much higher priority then whether anyone's exit strategy is a little more painful than they are wont to experience."
Slidell nods in agreement with Damien.
"Manners are all well and good. But there are times when brevity is the soul of politeness. Annnnd I'm thinking this qualifies. Shall We?" He smiles and makes shooing motions to encourage the others to follow the direction of Damien's outstretched hand.
"And really, My magic is quite effective. But sometimes spells just cannot replace a good old fashioned BATH!" He Sniffs as he passes the remains of the re-un-dead-ed.
Dripping with sewer muck (again), Odhran grunts in reply to Slidell's statement. Gods knew he could use a bath - before he got home, preferably. Assuming that nothing else tried to kill them on their way out.
"Oh it is PAST time." Slidell grumbles agreement as he not-so-subtly prods his companions with his cane,...
;P
The party gamely limps forward through the fetid sewers, following conjured lights and faint arrows. As they peer down one of the indicated branches, they can see a vague figure at the edges of their guiding light.
"Who... who's there?" quavers a young voice, which they recognize as that of Morosino, the messenger who had interrupted their meeting at the tavern, and who had stayed with Janiven to draw away their pursuers. He stands in a dead end with one of the grates overhead, sword trembling in his hand. His relief at the party's appearance is almost pathetic. "We just got here a few minutes ago. Janiven went ahead to be certain the path was clear and had me wait here for you," he stage whispers, "Give me a sec and I can climb up and see if we can go."
Morosino hoists himself up the supports built into the wall and quietly presses the grate open a few inches, peering around carefully before giving a low whistle. He looks back down and beckons urgently. "Hurry!" The party clambers up to find Janiven waiting for them in the street, holding one of the gigantic torches, a haloren, shedding a pool of yellow light around them. "Hurry," she unwittingly echoes Morosino, sending them hustling after the youth to a dimly lit gateway and into the safety of a building beyond. She follows close on the heels of the party, closing and locking gate and door behind her.
Following Morosino through a couple of heavy blankets hung over doorways as blackout curtains, the group enters a large space that seems brightly lit, though the ceiling is tall enough to fade away into shadow. This was obviously once a place of worship, judging by the rows of pews and raised altar area. The group is surrounded by a varied crowd of citizens who all chatter away, asking questions and exclaiming over the party's wounds and general state of cleanliness. Some lead everyone to seats where their wounds can be examined and treated while others circulate with waterskins. Janiven finally calls for silence and manages to quiet the group.
"Well, it's after dark, so we're all staying here for the night, unless somebody is feeling particularly suicidal. You can clean up downstairs -- there are facilities there, used to be for the priests -- and put on some of the robes we found while we get our clothing cleaned. That's one disadvantage of the sewer route," she remarks wryly, wrinkling her nose.
And indeed, the well-lit basement proves to have a basic kitchen, several washtub with running (cold!) water, and a few tiny cells with cots. The party has the opportunity to clean up and have their clothing cleaned, if they so wish.
Janiven requests they come upstairs when cleaned up, for food and to meet the group. When they do, they find everyone waiting patiently and, on a nearby table, a modest spread of bread, cheese, and sausage, along with goblets of water and what proves to be a rather weak ale. Janiven introduces the members of the group, though their leader, Arael, is not present.
"Welcome, everyone, to the headquarters of the Children of Westcrown," Janiven announces, "We chose this place because it was once the temple of Aroden, who will no longer make Westcrown his home. The Church of Iomedae takes no interest in this shrine and, by law, none should enter here, so it seemed a relatively - relatively - safe building to use for a clandestine meeting place. One of us is usually here to let our members in if need be, though we discourage frequent open visits here. Fortunately, this district has been mostly abandoned, so there aren't many to see us come and go. And at night, the nearest guard outposts are out of sight, so it's quite dark. That makes it very safe in some ways, deadly in others. It's not much, but it's home. I ask that, though Aroden is dead and gone, you treat the place with the respect that is due its once-sacred environs."
"Father Areal won't have it any other way," interjects a pretty halfling woman, "He's pretty upset at the state of Aroden's shrines in Westcrown."
"I still think 'Children of Westcrown' is a lame name," adds one young man, "We need something better, something more... more... action-oriented!" He thumps a fist forcefully into his other hand in emphasis.
Janiven sighs in exasperation as her little band of rebels dissolve into spirited discussions yet again. She wanders over to the newcomers, saying quietly, "You see why I sought more experienced members? These are good people, they mean well, but they lack the training and discipline we need to take serious action against the, er, shadowbeasts. Still, they each have their talents and can make some very important contributions to our cause. You may as well mingle a bit and get to know them."
Araxus is more than a little relieved to be out of the sewers, and takes the opportunity to wash off the filth with zealous vigor. "I feel I shall never again smell like a civilized person," he comments to no one in particular.
When they are assembled with the group, Araxus stands quietly and defensively, still sustaining the pretense that he has not committed to the Children's cause. To Janiven, he remarks, "Enthusiasm can get one killed. At any rate, you have attracted a good many to your cause - more than I would have expected. When did this begin?"
Janiven sighs, watching the verbal melee. "I can't put a firm date on it. It just kind of... happened. Areal's ministries take him throughout the city, often into the poorer areas. I agreed to protect him, free, because I happen to believe that the people should be taken care of, despite what Thrune..." the word is snarled "... thinks. A lot of the little nobodies in the city need help, but a lot more have abilities that aren't being used. They kind of tagged along with Areal in an effort to help others, and pretty soon, bam!, we had a group. Then we started thinking about big ways to help, and of course the shadowbeasts came up." She turns to Araxus, gazing at him seriously. "Westcrown is dying by inches, Sieur Nestarsian. Aroden is no more. Egorian has taken the throne and the important nobility, leaving Westcrown as a sort of exile for failed nobles. Soon, we'll be little more than a seaport. Hell, that's what we are now. If you asked Thrune which they'd rather give up, Kintargo or Westcrown, they'd probably be hard-pressed to answer. I can't stand around and do nothing. Neither can these people. So as ill-disciplined as they seem, I will form them into an effective group for good. And I could use your help doing it. Once the shadowbeasts are gone, I truly believe Westcrown will have a chance to rise from the ashes of Aroden's death."
She looks back out over the mingling, squabbling company and snorts, shaking her head. "If Aroden could see his city in the hands of the Church of Asmodeus..." There is a faint look of nausea on her face.
The smell didn't bother Odhran too much - he was more or less used to it. Being covered in muck on the other hand, he could live without. He strips and scrubs the grime off himself, splashing himself with the cold water which again, was something he was accustomed to. He enters the meeting robed and more than a little confused.
"Hold up. Like, I don't even know these guys," Odhran says to Janiven, gesturing at the others. Now that they were all safe and out of the sewer, what little sense of camaraderie he had felt was wavering. "I just got dropped into the sewer and went along with them. They said somethin' about a cabal and bein' circus freaks, but even I knew that was a buncha bullsh*t, and that's sayin' somethin'. I think I have an inklin' of who you people are, but what exactly do you do?"
Janiven scowls at the burly newcomer. This group is waaay too easy to infiltrate, she mutters, sotto voce. She glares at Araxus for good measure.
"We're your rescuers, apparently. Who dropped you into the sewer and why? Hardly anybody has keys for the grates, besides the dottari and those Hellknights. Which probably means you were up to no good." She folds her arms and keeps the scowl turned up to full blast.
Odhran mouths a question soundlessly before asking it aloud.
"I was up to no good?" he asks incredulously, matching his accuser with a scowl of his own, "Lady, I was just runnin' some errands when those damned Hellknights threw me down into the sewer for no danged reason. Said they'd come back to get me for a proper arrest." He snorts derisively. "As if. Next thing I know Mysterio here popped up, threatenin' to stab me in the kidney if I didn't go with him. So you tell me who was up to no good."
With a grumble, he adds an aside, "Probably late for dinner by now..."
Janiven's scowl relaxes some at the word Hellknights and her lips twitch slightly at the name "Mysterio". She fake-coughs, covering her mouth with her hand to hide any smile that might or might not be there.
Janiven is clearly somebody you would want to play poker against.
She resumes a stormy expression before proceeding. "We are up to good, thank you so much, and we avoid getting caught by anyone, particularly the Hellknights. Their idea of good and ours are not exactly perfectly aligned." She eyes him narrowly and nods towards the rather sad buffet. "We all missed our dinner, I fear, because of the Hellknights. You're welcome to share in what we have. My name is Janiven."
She pauses, eyebrows raised, clearly waiting for a name.
While Janiven turns her attention to Odhran, Araxus ponders what she told them. He leans to Damien and says, "I think she just referred to my family as failed nobles. I like her better already." He gives a rare grin with this last remark.
He heads over to the food and picks disdainfully at the cheese. "What's that they say? Hunger is the best seasoning? Let us hope that is true." He looks up to see if that got any reaction from a bystander, one way or the other.
Slidell, tired, weary, battered and smelly, gratefully climbs out of the sewers. While he easily keeps up with the furtive movements of the others, he seems unrushed, almost relaxed now that they have escaped the subterranean environs.
He allows himself to be ushered towards the (hopeful) safety of the nearby building with the others. Idly taking note of the location by comparing it to the maps in his head. It is almost his turn to enter the barely opened door when he jumps for no apparent reason.
Slidell frantically looks left, right, then up. Just in time to catch a face full of rapidly descending black feathers.
"Wha,?!? ACK! Ohfortheluvuv,... POWERS DA##IT VERAN!" Slidell sputters, finally managing to get a grip on his black-feathered familiar.
Holding the Raven at arms length, Slidell fixes the bird with a baleful glare.
"Darnit Veran! Your supposed to WARN a guy about an attack! Not CAUSE the heart attack!"
Slidell spits out a single black feather. Veran opens his beak and drops the tuft of Slidell's hair he had plucked.
"Yeah yeah I missed you too. Now get inside before some Heck-Knight decides to mount you on his mantle." Slidell huffs, obviously unable to stay angry at the bird. He places the bird on his shoulder, but a sharp-eyed observer notices Slidell catch the tuft of hair before it hits the ground. The wizard enters the doorway, doffing his hat with a smile to Janiven, despite her own baleful glare at the ruckus.
As the others enter and Janiven shuts and bars the doorway behind them, Slidell mutters sotto voice to the bird now sitting calmly on his shoulder as if nothing had happened.
"Remind me to have a long talk to you about following orders. Last I checked, this wasn't home."
As they enter the abandoned temple proper, the raven gives a derisive sniff and wings itself to the darkened rafters above, vanishing into the shadows.
"Yeah? See how good YOU smell after trekking through sludge for powers knows how long,... then there's the acid-mites, and goblins, and,..." Slidell murmurs off, caught up in the mental review of their sewer encounters.
The wizard gratefully takes advantage of the available facilities, (although he concentrates until sweat runs down his face trying to magically heat enough water for it to be merely cool, and not freezing.) depositing his clothes to be cleaned (After emptying the pockets of anything useful) and emerging with a borrowed robe and halo of frizzy hair wrapped about him.
He appears to be fully focused and alert once more. And gives each of the members of the group a keen eye as Janiven introduces them. He swiftly identifies the obvious employment of most, (correctly identifying the bartender, stableman, servant, scribe and acolyte,) and then making educated guesses about the rest. (right or wrong)
As the 'meeting' degenerates into general chatter and generally friendly arguments, Slidell focuses on what is said, and who is talking to whom. He wanders past Janiven and Odhran, patting the burly man on the arm. Pausing to look again at the lack of movement from said arm when patted. Slowly pokes Odhran's bicep to verify its unyeildingness, starts to say something, looks at his own scrawny bicep hidden beneath the oversized borrowed robe, sadly decides that silence is the wisest choice, and continues on.
He joins Araxus at the table.
He heads over to the food and picks disdainfully at the cheese. "What's that they say? Hunger is the best seasoning? Let us hope that is true." He looks up to see if that got any reaction from a bystander, one way or the other.
Slidell picks up a piece of cheese and pops it into his mouth.
"I try not to think about where it's been. Then my mind gets rolling, and I figure out where it going,... and I think we've all seen enough of THAT for one day." He says cheerfully. With a polite nod Slidell wanders over to the closest group of 'Children of Westcrown' and introduces himself.
"Hello! Slidell, Arcanist and part-time troubleshooter. And you are,...?"
"You said it," rumbles the burly man tucking into the cheese with vigor, "Hard day unloading ships'll make this look like a noble's feast." He nods at Araxus. "Name's Rizzardo. Gotta say, joining this bunch saves me a bunch of coppers. I'd normally be down at the Stinking Clam on the docks, but they feed me at these meetings, so I show up. Whaddya you do, friend?"
"Fiosa's my name," the chipper halfling woman chirps at Slidell, sticking out a hand, "I don't think some of your friends like the food too much, but we can't store a lot here. Hey, you do magic, right? I mean, kinda guessing, but you don't really look like, er, the brawling type." She coughs lightly. "Anyway, how come you magic guys don't figure out a way to preserve food cheaply and easily? You know how much gets wasted because it goes bad? Oh well, I guess if it didn't go bad, half the folks in Westcrown would starve. They only get what the rich folk toss out. Part of why I'm here. Why are you here? What's your beef with the world?" She grins up at him as she finally pauses to take a breath.
Did he just say he is here for the free food? Araxus ponders. Keep this up and they'll have every beggar in the city here.
Araxus clears his throat thoughtfully. "Araxus Nestarsian is my name, but I am not sure what you mean when you ask what I 'do'. I am an arcanist, as would be expected for one of my station, but I wouldn't describe that as what I 'do'. Curious question." He considers a moment, then asks as politely as he can, "You are a laborer of some sort, yes?"
Araxus
"Everybody does something, else they're dead, right? You breathe, at least. You got that in common with the rest of us. I dunno what else you do. Me, I unload ships to earn my pay, but it's not all I do. I used to drink a lot, until Janiven came to talk to people at the Clam. I went with her because she, er, sounded good. But now, well... it's like these folks are my family. So I make sure they're OK when they go do things they do. I wanted ta go tonight, but Janiven said no. Too confident, that one is, sometimes." He nods his head at a middle-aged man. "Ermolos thinks I might make a good smith. He's already got a 'prentice, but said he'll take me on for a trial once that guy's moved on. Then I'll do something completely new."
His bulging muscles clearly show why Ermolos sees promise in the young man.
A young woman wanders over to the table and favors Araxus with a gracious smile. "Well met, again! I wasn't sure you would join us, but told Janiven you would be a valuable addition to the crew. Rizzardo, are you talking the poor man's ear off?" Tarvi, for it is she, offers her hand. "I'm so happy to have another magical theory aficionado here! We can have such good talks and figure out how to best use magic to help the cause."
Rizzardo grunts and loads up a plate, shrugging and chewing.
Odhran stares the woman down for a few seconds more before finally relenting, letting out a snort.
"Odhran, the name's Odhran," he replies, glancing over at the modest offering of food. He is rather hungry. "If you don't like Hellknights, then I guess you must be alright. Still not sure what the heck's goin' on, but I'm not tryin' to start any trouble."
"Start?" The militant woman snorts back at Odhran. "You know perfectly well that there's no need to start trouble in Westcrown in order to find it. Those dogs of that damned church - deny it though they might - take plenty of good people under the excuse of law-breaking. Might as well earn that penalty, I figure." She jerks her head in the direction of the table. "Now, eat," she says in a very slightly gentler tone, "You'll need your strength." Her grin promises plenty of trouble to come, if Janiven has her way.
Slidell grins at the halfling woman, and shakes the outstretched hand enthusiastically.
"Hello Fiosa! I wouldn't worry too much about the complaints. It's just been a long day. Night. Whatever it is now? I think we're just happy being alive and able to b!tch about something!" He waggles his prodigious eyebrows as he pops another bite of cheese into his mouth. Or was that a mushy vegetable? Oh well, he's really too tired to care. Not that it showed as he enthusiastically engaged the smaller chatterbox in conversation.
"Brawling? Erm,... No. Not my specialty." He confesses ruefully, looking at his scrawny arm in the over-sized borrowed sleeve, then glancing at Odhran's massive biceps. "But don't let that fool you! In mental acrobatics, I am unequaled! Sometimes I can't even keep up with myself." He puffs out his chest.
"Magic preserving food? Sure. I'm certain that there's a simple enough charm that could be used to preserve food. Not indefinitely of course,... Hm it should be fairly easy,... All you needs is,..."
At this point Slidell pulls out a scrap of parchment from a pocket (overfilled with items salvaged from his dirty clothing) and continues muttering as he begins scribbling on it with a nub of charcoal stick. After a minute he looks up to see Fiona looking at him quizzically.
"Oh, Right! Sorry, Where were we? Oh Right! Why you're here! I can imagine that you have quite a stake in all this, seeing the poor taken care of and all. Being a servant isn't the best paying job in the city. And that's saying something. How did I know? That's easy. And no I didn't use magic. Although that WOULD be a great spell! I simply noticed that your tired, yet seem enthusiastic to be here. Your hands are not soft, so you work, but not the heavy callouses of hard labor. Your over-familiar with the inner workings of rich persons houses, and how much wasted food they generate, yet your obviously not a thief, too open and sharing. Oh, and I may have overheard someone saying they thought you skipped too many weapons lessons to learn about Iomedea. Add it all up, apply judicious logic, and voila!" He grins, and pops another bite of food into his mouth.
"MY reason for being here? They tickled my curiosity. I love a good mystery. And I love solving them even more. I mean,... Curfews? Mysterious disappearances? Shadowbeasts? Where are THEY from huh? What's not too love?!?!" He asks loudly, throwing his arms in the air in excitement.
Odhran grumbles to himself as he ambles over to the sad buffet, complaining more for the sake of complaining. At least Janiven seemed somewhat sympathetic to his predicament - he had half-expected to be gutted when they realized he was not supposed to be there. That was the impression Damien (ahem, Mysterio) had given him, anyway. It helps that he is genuinely hungry; his appetite had returned in the absence of sewage and mortal danger.
He grabs a sausage and takes a bite out of it, watching the others in the room with those squinty eyes of his as he eats. It was apparent now that the rumors he had heard were true. There really is a resistance, of sorts. That certainly explained what the others had been doing crawling around in a sewer of all places. But imagine that - he had been hanging out with the good guys all along. Now that's a good one.
Being the 'barbarian' that he is, Odhran takes his time sizing up everyone in the room, taking guesses as to how many of them could handle themselves in a fight, and not so subtly admiring some of the members of the fairer sex. Not taken to being a wallflower, he decides to try striking up some conversation. Might as well find out more about what was going on.
"So, uh, did you all have to take the sewer route? I mean, there's gotta be an easier way to get here, right?"
"Tarvi, right?" Araxus asks. "What is your role in all this? Surely a learned arcanist has more opportunities in Cheliax than loitering about in abandoned temples. No doubt the same could be said of me, so I suppose I should not be surprised." He looks ruefully at the ground and suddenly wishes he weren't in a bulky bathrobe. He can see himself as others see him: not a sharp rakish noble scion, but a vagrant in borrowed clothes, lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood and still managing to look ungratefully down his nose at his hosts.
He looks back up with an earnest arch in his brow. "Do you think this lot," he gestures about the place, "can really effect a change in Westcrown? It used to be that noble lords would take the lead, defending their charges and maintaining the peace and prosperity of the land. Today, those with means only look after themselves, and those without are little more than prey."
