Nelly is very, very pleased to see Turion though rather annoyed he was gone so long.
Hal nods "Right. Well, faster to cut wood than add it. If we take some o' the fittings down quick, and ya grab some dye for the sails we'll see what we can do."
He frowns "So, whatabout the..." he looks around quickly "Previous crewmember. The one who likes cream?"
Kazador likewise kept his eyes and ears open. He wasn't a detective, by any means, but if there was anything that would constitute on the job training then this would be it.
"Alright. So, ta plan; I'll need tricks for craftin' for now. Some general defensin' tricks. No need for fightin' though? We goin' to hit the 'shop'?"
He considers "I might know a trick ta talk ta the others. D'you know how far away they'll be by now?"
"As for how far we are from the others ..."
"... maybe between 80 and a hundred miles? Or so? I guess? We could probably work it out with greater precision if necessary. The ship came equipped with charts of the area, naturally enough."
While they talk, Melia gets the cat into an empty crate -- though not without some difficulty, lots of yowling and a few scratches followed by a few choice words in Dwarven. She covers it with a loose bit of tarpaulin over top so that their invisible crewmates need not see the unhappy feline when Melia hauls her off into the city in search of a new home for her.
"I tend ta the runnin' away over fightin'. I'll haf'ta think about it." He sighs "'N that sort'a distance might be a little too far ta send anything reliably. As for the shop." he looks around a little, reflexively, "the shop where the..." he makes a gesture "were storin' the..." he makes another gesture, and nods towards the hold.
Hal gives a deep sigh as Melia grabs the cat. "I feel bad about that. She's a good crewman, judgin' by the state of the inventory. I could maybe kick in somethin', if we need ta ta make sure she gets a good home."
Janus and his "dog" turn onto the street of Mumblethunder's bookstore and see quite a disturbance. Large groups of guards are clumped tightly and leaving the bookstore. Several are inside. Many citizens are watching and gossiping from a respectful distance, encouraged by the grey-uniformed guards who keep reminding them to stay back.
Each tight clump of guards has two guards carrying a small chest at their center. The outer ring of guards are doing their best to obscure this fact.
You find your way to the sailmaker's easily. There are several spots from which you could observe the place:
A rowdy tavern with a front window across the street
A quiet alley across the street
Stalls selling fish, some trinkets, and a few other foods
Mel figures you're about twenty miles from Bannerhold, not far at all. With a good wind, you'll be there for a late lunch.
Túrion, as he approaches, spends a moment in one of the house entrances in a side alley to shift his form to that of a bland human, then makes his way towards the bookstore, finding whoever leads the grey-uniformed guards:"Good day, Captain. I assume you were informed of my planned check-up on the proprietor by your superior? I'm <Gnome>Isabella</Gnome>."
If given any papers or pass-phrase, Túrion presents them to the leader, wondering if getting to Mumblethunder will present any trouble.
Alas, eventually they were on their way, and Nelly stuck to her Master's heel closely, as if not wanting to risk that anybody so much as walked between them. When he stopped to talk to some uniformed man, she sits down, watching the man with curious eyes. Those had weapons. But her teeth were superior to those clumsy tools. And Túrion was calm. There was no danger here at this time.
And with that, Melia gathers up the covered crate full of unhappy feline and marches off into Catlinshead to find the cat a new home and acquire assorted tools and supplies Hal mentioned needing.
The guards glance at each other then let the inconspicuous commoner enter the bookstore. Inside, a guard captain stands over Piedmont Mumblethunder and turns to the door as Janus enters. "What's this now?"
Mumblethunder looks very nervous and stressed.
Despite how scared Mumblethunder looks, he doesn't look dejected or defeated as if his fate had already been decided or declared.
You shop some of the stalls on the dock and have no difficulty keeping an eye on the sailmaker's shop. It looks quiet but every now and people who look like apprentices, ship's boys, and bosuns heads in or out.
While Kaz and Fyrtor are at a fish stall haggling with a middle-aged woman, a woman in her early 20s rushes over. "Goodie Huggins! My sister is being attacked in that alley" She points to an alley a half a block down. "The guards won't get here in time!"
This wasn't Kazador's first rodeo, given that he had lived in abject poverty and squalor for so long. He was well used to muggings in dark alleyways, where it was not uncommon for marks to be lured inside. He looked at the woman warily, trying to gauge how much he trusted her pleas.
"This, my good man, is overdue. I understand there was some urgency to the situation, but whatever you did, my loyal agent does seem rather stressed currently. Not the kind of handling that makes people want to continue risking everything for the Crown and justice. I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to quit working for us after all this is over."
Without stopping, Janus approaches the captain and Mumblethunder, then pulls some chair close and sits down, calmly. "So as both handler and organizer of what took place here, I believe I should be involved - please get me up to speed - the faster we resolve this, the faster I can be back to Alain and work out how we proceed from here."
"Piedmont, I'd advise you to let me handle this now, you did splendidly but this is why I'm here."
[ooc]For the implication that Mumblethunder was part of the plan, and that I'm closer to the Viscount than we are...while we did talk quite casually with him I'd like to make it sound like "you want a good report about this when i tell him how things went", know what I mean?
Kazador does not detect any signs of deceit in the young woman.
Melia has a little trouble as the rough folk of Catlinshead are wary of a strange woman suddenly trying to get them to accept a cat. After all, this is a world where magic is a common occurrence and folk tales double as survival guides. She hears whispers behind her back. "Probably a baba yaga under that young face. Don't take that furry demon into your home!" Eventually, a surly merchant shrugs. "Fine. Plenty of rats in my warehouse. Let it loose in there." He jerks a thumb toward a small door while he checks a few tallies.
Fyrtor, being alarmed and usually inclined to help, looks to Khaz for agreement while nodding towards the ally, his 'dagger' half drawn from its sheath.
With this task accomplished, she goes shopping for the other items on the list, and returns to the Siren.
Seeing that the woman seemed honest, Kazador nodded to Fyrtor. "Right, let's go. Seems like there isn't much time to waste." For all of his faults, and they were many, he wasn't yet willing to sit back and do nothing when it was in his power to help a person in danger.
The captain pauses somewhat and scratches the back of his neck uncertaintly, his momentum switching clumsily from aggressive to flustered. "Oh so you're the one the Viscount sent over?" He looks to a guard who nods that Janus had the passphrase. "Well then ok. I was just asking this fellow here" he gestures down to the gnome "why he was receiving shipments of contraband to his shop. He said he had no idea whatsoever and that he had turned it all over to the authorities as soon as we showed up. I was asking him to prove it and he said he couldn't. That's about where things stand."
The cat is quite surprised as it's deposited into the warehouse but Mel shuts the door behind it before much can happen. Her shopping done, she rejoins Hal on the Siren.
The young woman clasps her hands. "Thank you, oh thank you!" She rushes over to the alley some ways away with you. When she reaches the mouth of the alley, she gasps and brings her hands to her mouth. A man has a young woman grasped by the wrists and is shaking her.
Mel returns to the Siren to find it a hive of activity: people quickly replacing this, adjusting that, and painting the other. Though she is interested -- and will certainly make sure to inspect everything closely once it's done -- just at the moment, the workers do not need an inquisitive "captain" hovering at their elbows while they work.
And so Mel retires to the captain's cabin. It is equipped with a table -- presumably for dining with the other officers. She sets down and composes a detailed account of their recent adventures in the book that Count Aral gave them. Her penmanship is slightly loopy until she gets the hang of compensating for the slight back-and-forth shifting of the ship as it rises and lowers with admittedly gentle waves that make it past the breakwater into the port proper.
... and so now I and Hal, the most recent addition to our motley crew, find ourselves crew in fact as well as name. We are currently docked in Catlinshead refitting a ship we never anticipated having, she writes. Though I hope to return to Bannerhold soon. I am most anxious to discover what the others have learned in our absence. Though our astoundingly successful ploy has no doubt caused a great deal of consternation for whomever it was that sacked the treasury, I still do not know who among the nobility might be responsible, nor what their real agenda may be. I am cautiously optimistic that Turick may prove an ally in this, though he too has agendas I do not understand, which makes me ... cautious. I will keep you apprised.
With a sigh, she blows gently on the ink until it is dry, and then closes the book.
Catching sight through the open cabin door of Hal passing by, she calls out "Hal! Are you busy? If not, come take a load off. The captain has, err, I have some rather nice sherry here, and I got fresh apples in the market. Come sit with me a bit. We need to let the workmen take care of their work anyway."
'Sailor Hal' pops in shortly after being summoned. There's a spring in his step that was missing earlier, and a sparkle in his eye suggests either he's recovered or at least had some hair of the dog.
"Absolutely captain! D'ya manage ta find a good place for the crewmember?"
She pushes a bowl of apples towards Hal. "You know, when I was a child, I read a whole lot of stories. From everywhere. Did you ever hear the Tale of the Soldier's Soul?"
Mel and Hal have plenty of time to talk while the work is finished and then while sailing back to Bannerhold. Soon after leaving port, Mel notices new writing in Count Aral's book:
The Handle of the Reaper is likely to react quickly and decisively. Do they have any means of determining who or where you are? They will want to make an example of you in addition to determining how you infiltrated their operation. Their leadership will also likely have more information on which noble or nobles colluded in this treasonous theft. Exercise extreme caution.
As for Turick, I believe the boy may have good intentions. I never saw him act dishonestly or dishonorably as a lad. It is hard for me to imagine he would be disloyal to Stephen or Iustia. But that is no guarantee that he is wise. Nor can I guarantee that my tired old eyes have never been fooled by one who appeared sincere.
"Now." Kazador added, with emphasis. He cracked his knuckles as he walked forward, not willing to blow his cover by revealing his hammer.
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She rises and shuts the door, dulling the noise of the workers hammering and sawing and calling to one another. She sits once more, takes a drink to wet her throat, and begins speaking.
Once there was a man who went for a soldier. He fought well and bravely. He made friends and lost them; but he lived through all his battles, until finally his heart grew weary of fighting. And so when they came with the paper for another tour and asked for his mark, he shook his head no, and was cashiered out.
The soldier went walking the long way back to his home, dreaming of the green fields he had fled so eagerly as a youth. He had little enough to his name, for much of the small pay he had earned by his battles he had sent home to his mother, and the rest he had spent on his gear and food and entertainment. Indeed, he had just three pennies to his name; and a light purse makes a heavy heart.
One day as he passed through a small town, he happened across a piper who was playing his flute for coins; and the soldier stopped and listened to him. The music lifted his heart and carried him away, until he found he was whistling along with him, not so well, but merrily. And when it was done, he said "That was a fine song, piper!"
"Worth a penny, perhaps?" The piper asked.
"By my beard, it is worth three!" the soldier cried. And so he upended his purse and tumbled the three slim pennies that were all he had into the piper's hand.
"Most generous," the piper said. "I see that your purse is empty now. But I tell you, it shall not remain so; you have but to name it, and anything you can see shall fly into your purse."
And the soldier laughed at this, but thanked him.
The next day, the soldier had grown hungry. Coming across a lake, he observed three magnificent fish lazily swimming beneath the surface. On a whim, he pulled out his purse and cried "Hie you three fish, into my purse with you!" And swish, swish, swish! So fast you couldn't even see it, he had three surprised fish in his purse.
Well, well! thought the soldier. And after roasting one fish for his lunch, he made his way to the next town. There he found an inn, and bartered the other two fish for a night's stay and a square meal.
After dinner, the soldier overheard two locals talking. "Poor girl," one said. "I reckon she's done for. Her father was a fool to think he could bargain with a devil, he was."
"What's this then?" asked the soldier.
They told him that the local lord had foolishly bargained with a devil: seven years' fine weather, in exchange for the first thing to greet him when he got home. The lord had apparently thought it would be his dog; but instead, it was his daughter who ran to greet him. Seven years of fine weather they had had; and so the devil had come to claim his due.
"Too bad," the soldier said.
"Oh aye, but the young mistress is clever, she is," one of the locals said. "She had never agreed, y' see, and devils care about such-like, but she was also bound by her father's word. So she told that devil she couldn't stand to have a husband what wasn't lucky, and if he could defeat all comers at cards three nights running, she'd agree to be his bride, but if even one man beat that devil she'd marry him instead. The first contest is tomorrer night. I reckon many'll try, but devils are tricksy. You'd need the devil's own luck to beat that one, you would."
The soldier rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and agreed.
The next night, the soldier presented himself at the lord's manor along with the many other lads eager to try their hand at the cards. But unlike the rest, he did not step forward to play a match. Instead he sat in one corner, stroking his beard, and just watched. The young mistress herself shuffled and cut and dealt the cards, so that none could say the devil cheated.
That first night he saw little of note -- aside from the young mistress herself, whom the soldier found passing fair, not to mention quite level-headed for a woman facing an unexpected marriage to a devil. Hand after hand, the devil won. Man after man sat down and lost, for none could seem to beat the devil at this game.
The second night he returned and watched again. Once again the young mistress shuffled and cut and dealt the cards even more carefully than before, her brow wrinkled in worry. But this time the soldier watched the devil instead. And he saw that before each hand, the devil casually touched a small stone he wore about his neck like a charm. Hand after hand, the devil won. Man after man tried and lost; and the young mistress grew steadily more dismayed.
The third night, the soldier returned a final time and watched as the other men played cards to free the young mistress of her foolish father's promise. As the last player began his hand, the soldier took his purse and whispered to it: "Hie, you table leg, into my purse!"
And swish! One leg from the card table vanished into his purse, so fast you couldn't even see it. The table fell over, scattering cards hither and yon and sending the players jumping up in surprise.
And while the devil was distracted, the soldier whispered "Hie, you lucky stone, into my purse!" And swish! Just like that, the stone was there. The soldier took it out, patted it for luck, and then tucked it away in his pocket.
Once they restored the card table, the other player quickly lost his match.
"Is that it, then?" the devil jeered. "No more challengers for me?"
But the soldier stood and strode up. "I'll take your challenge, you devil," he said, and favored the young mistress with a wink. The devil reached up towards his throat. His hand groped at the space there -- empty.
"Something wrong?" asked the soldier.
"No no," the devil said. "Deal the cards, my sweet, and we shall be married this time tomorrow!" But he seemed agitated.
The young mistress' hands shook as she dealt the cards, for it was clear that this was the last game. Back and forth the hands went, neither side gaining a clear advantage, until finally the devil smiled an evil smile and laid down a hand. "I call," he said, laying down his cards. "Straight flush."
The young mistress went pale.
But the soldier smiled, leaned forward, and fanned his own cards out on the table. "Royal flush," he announced.
The devil stared at the cards a moment, and then he stood up roaring "Cheater! Cheater! You stole my luckstone!"
"A luck stone, is it?" the soldier said. "Do you mean to say that you've been cheating this whole time? Not one fair game in the lot? Why, I'd say that it's only fair to have your own luck turned against you!"
The devil roared and flung himself at the soldier. But the soldier just said "Hie, you devil, INTO MY PURSE!"
And swish! So fast you couldn't even see it, that devil vanished into the purse, and the soldier began slamming it down on the card table over and over. The devil howled in pain with each new thump.
"Let me go!" he cried. "I shall free the young mistress of her father's word!"
"Offer more," demanded the soldier, slamming the purse down again.
"Let me go!" the devil cried again. "I shall not seek vengeance on you or yours!"
"Offer more," he said again, slamming the purse down with all the muscles built from years of hard fighting on dozens of battlefields.
"Let me go!" the devil cried in desperation. "And I shall serve you faithfully, obeying your every command until such time as you free me!"
"That'll do," the soldier said, and dumped a wounded, bleeding devil out onto the card table.
The devil groaned. "I release you of your father's word," the devil said to the young mistress. "I have no claim on you."
"Get out of my sight," the soldier ordered. "If I want you, I'll call you."
And the shame-faced devil vanished in a puff of green, sulfurous smoke.
The young mistress was overjoyed to be free, and true to her own word, she married the soldier, who thus became a lord, and quite wealthy. Time passed, and they grew happy together; they soon had a child, a son on whom the soldier and his lady wife doted as he grew from infancy into childhood.
It came to pass that a message reached the soldier informing him that his mother lay dying of an illness, and that all she desired was to see her son once more before she passed. It was still many days' journey to his home village, and the soldier feared that he would not make it in time. And so he called out "Devil, come to me!"
The devil appeared. "Yes, master?" he asked.
"Transport me to my home village, at once," he ordered. The devil said a few words, and in the twinkling of an eye he stood just outside the bounds of his home village. The devil was nowhere in sight.
The soldier hurried to his old home, and found his old neighbors gathered there. "You're just in time," one said. "She yet lives, though it cannot be for long."
The soldier hurried inside to his mother's bed, where she lay dying. She was asleep.
"Was there nothing to be done?" he asked his father, who sat by his wife's side holding her hand.
"The doctors could do nothing," his father said. "The priests, even less."
"Leave me with her a moment," the soldier said. "Let me see what I can do."
And so they left him alone with his sleeping, dying mother.
"Devil, come to me," the soldier whispered.
"Yes, master?" asked the devil.
"Is there anything that can save her?" he asked.
"Let me look," the devil said. From a bag at his side, he pulled a ball of spun crystal and held it up, peering into it. "You're in luck," the devil said. "I see death here, but she is standing at your mother's feet. She will recover. It's only when death stands by their head that you know it's all up. Here we go." And the devil held the crystal ball up to the old woman's mouth, so that the fog of her breath blotted out death's visage in the crystal. Her face immediately regained some color, and she began to breathe more easily.
"Will there be anything else, master?" the devil asked.
"Give me that ball, to be mine free and clear," the soldier said, "And I shall release you from my service."
"Done!" cried the devil, and handed over the ball at once before vanishing for the last time.
The soldier's mother did indeed recover, and once more sat with her long-absent son, and heard all his tales of his travels, his wife, and son.
"I am content," she told him. "And glad am I to have seen you again, my son. But you should return to your wife and son, for they must surely miss you as much as ever I did."
And so he kissed his mother on her wrinkled brow, bid his father and neighbors a fond farewell, and made his way home to his manor.
But on his return, he found the place in a state of subdued panic. "Oh, my lord, come quickly!" the steward said. "Your son fell ill, and is nigh unto death."
The soldier rushed to his son's chamber, where they found the boy lying still and pale in his bed, barely breathing. "Out! All of you!" cried the soldier.
And when the room was empty, he pulled out his lucky stone and laid it on his son's chest; and took his ball of spun crystal and looked.
He saw death there. She stood by his son's head.
"O death," he said. "We are old enemies, you and I. You took my comrades from me, again and again and again, while leaving me hale and hearty on the field. But not this time. Take me! Take me, and leave my son to grow into a man."
Death turned its gaze to the soldier. "Three days," it said, its voice a grating whisper.
The luck stone broke in half with a sharp crack. The boy gave a slight cough and began to breathe more freely; and then he sat up and wanted a cup of milk.
There was much rejoicing that the young lord had recovered. His mother smothered him with hugs and kisses, and everyone marveled at his father's skill in the medical arts.
The soldier rejoiced. He put his affairs in order; and on the third day, he sought out a quiet bedroom and lay down to wait.
Soon death came for him. He saw her approach through his ball of spun crystal.
"It is time," death said.
The soldier smiled. "Hie, you death," he said. "Into my purse."
And swish! Death vanished into the purse, faster than you could see.
The soldier closed it tight, and put it inside a lead box lined with velvet, and buried that box in a secret spot deep in the forest.
And oh, the world was different then. No one died of an unhappy accident; no disease could send a loved one to the grave. Every old person went to sleep knowing they would wake up in the morning.
Armies fought great battles; but after a long day of swordwork and suffering, they were forced to disengage and wander bewildered back to their camps, for not a one of them had died. Duels fought at dawn drew on and on through the long day until the battered, bloody opponents gave up. And hospitals the world over filled slowly but surely to capacity and then to overflowing with all those were too weak to live, but unable to die.
All of this the soldier saw; but what finally broke him was his mother, who grew weaker and weaker until she begged for an end.
And so finally, the soldier knew what he had to do. He wrote out his will, gave some solid advice to his son (and also the daughter who'd come along a few years later), kissed his wife goodbye, and made his way to the forest.
He dug up the box. Opened it. Pulled out his old purse.
"All right, death," he said. "It's time you took me, and set the world to rights."
And he upended the bag, letting death out into the world once more.
---
They say that Pharasma sits on her ebon throne, judging each soul in accordance with the life it lived, and decreeing its final destination. Often she speaks but one word. "Heaven" she might say to one. "Hell," to another. "Nirvana" to a third. Others merit two words, such as "The Abyss" or "The Maelstrom." Usually, she takes but a glance to decide each soul's fate.
But when that soldier got there, she studied him a long time.
Tiny purple spirals swirled in her black eyes.
She leaned forward and said not one word, or two, but three:
"I withhold judgment."
And then she looked away to the next petitioner.
They say the soldier's soul carries a spun crystal orb that can see who shall live and who shall die; and his purse can capture anything he can see. But no one will take him in, for Pharasma withheld judgment. And so he is doomed to wander the planes evermore, homeless, alone, and ruing the day he thought to imprison death.
Mel finishes. "That was one of my favorites when I was a child. The soldier was so clever! But in the end, dealing with that devil was a mistake. It cost him his place in the afterlife, whatever it would have been."
"I've been thinking about that tale a lot, lately." She looks grave, the expression out of place on Melia's usually cheerful visage. "The soldier tried to put an end to death. But all he did was cause more suffering." She shivers. "For months now, I've been trying to stop a war. And I have to wonder ... have I become the soldier, striving to end something too big to stop?"
Túrion knew from Melia that the Gnomish proprietor seemed to be overly correct on some things...but he was hoping he wouldn't try to correct him on this, because MOST of what was said had been the truth...only that there was no prior agreement from Mumblethunder at all, but that would then make it hard to explain why he accepted the shipment in the first place...
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Hal's expression changes over the course of tale. It starts with interest with an undertone of smugness. The smugness vanishes, the interest deepens, wonder emerges. As the tale continues the interest becomes obsession, hope blooms and fear strengthens to the point of terror.
He stares at Mel as she finishes. Blinks. Pours himself a glass with shaking hand and drinks it in a single gulp, then empties a flask at his hip, muttering to himself as he drinks.
"Mirror? Mad? Dead?"
Finally he turns to Mel, his eyes wide. "You're... you're here, right? You're you? She's her. Has to be. Where'd ya hear that story, Miss? D'ya make it up?" a note of desperation creeps in "I'm not mad if ya did. It's a good story. Y'just need to tell me. It's okay."
He shakes a little. "I've the luckstone. And the purse that holds anythin'. And the glass that sees death. I've spent the silver pennies from the Witchmarket. I've compelled services. I'm no dealbreaker though, nor a soldier. I've saved those with death at their feet, but never with death at their head. Me wife and child are far away, 'n' if I need to get 'em I need ya ta tell me, Miss. As the Gods're listenin' y've no need ta... I'll help Miss. I swore it, and I meant it. If ya want ta stop a war, or kill a king, or steal a soul from Pharasma herself, I'll do it with ya."
"But ya have ta tell me the provenance..." the word is strangely precise "of that story. It's okay if ya made it up. It's okay. It's a good story. Very clever ta work me treasures in. But did ya? Or did ya hear it? D'ya know somethin' 'bout me girls?"
Hal shuts up as he pours himself another glass.
She reaches out to lay one hand gently on his. "You're not him, Hal," she says. "Maybe you have all those treasures, and maybe you've done some similar things, but you're not the man from the story. You're Harold Donaldson. And as far as I know your girls -- Sheila and Margie -- they're just fine, and they love you."
He drinks with his other hand, the hand Melia is touching holding immobile.
"Right. Too big ya say? Seems ta me there's messin' with the nat'ral order a things and there's stoppin' a bloody big bunch of wa... nobles gettin' people killed ta redraw lines on a map." He thinks for a second "Anyway, I'm pretty sure that story's a parable on necromancy bein' bad, not an encouragement to let bad things happen in case tryin' ta stop 'em makes it worse. I'm assumin' your plan to stop this war doesn't involve raisin' the dead or spittin' in the face of Pharasma, so ya should be fine."
"You feel better if I tell you a story where dealin' with a devil worked out? There's damn few - pardon the pun - but a sight more where makin' a deal with the Fey works out."
[b]"On the other hand, if you're speakin' of the war, 'n' your plans. Well, I'll do what I can regardless, but I might be more useful if if ya kept speaking of 'em.
Mumblethunder sputters nervously, completely unsure what he has gotten involved in. His eyes narrow somewhat as he looks hard at Janus and then he covers his mouth and shuts up entirely.
The captain looks uncertainly at Janus and Mumblethunder, unsure what to do. If not for Turick's approval, he would be far more suspicious.
The young woman who asked for your help steps up behind Kazador and her hand moves quickly. Suddenly, Kazador's hand rings with a massive blow to the temple and you see she held a concealed sap!
The scene shifts rapidly. The man lets go of the woman he was harassing and steps back, muttering the fidgeting with his hands. The "victim" moves up and attempts to finish Kazador with a sap in her own hand!
Kazador's eyes went wide as he saw the sap come out. Instinctively he took a step back. Acting without thinking, years of training caused him to say the words needed to turn his hammer back into it's true form. Though in his unthinking haste, all of the glammer fell away. What stood before the woman was no longer a dwarf in a drab traveler's clothes, but rather a warrior with a gleaming silver greathammer and a full suit of stoneplate, with a mithril helm upon his head. The sap, which would have sent any normal man falling to the ground with a concussion, instead glanced harmlessly against his helmet. And with that he attacked, his hammer going low and then high. A look of pure murder was written clearly on his face.
Kazador reels from the blow but has taken knocks before and readies his hammer. Because he is prepared, the second young woman moves up but barely misses with her sap.
The first young woman feints in one direction then tries to finish Kazador, working together seamlessly. But Kazador sees it coming and makes sure the sap catches his helm harmlessly instead of finding purchase on his skull. The man continues to mutter nervously and wring his hands at the back of the alley.