Hal hangs his bag from a hook on his staff, then roots through it for a small glass jar of teeth. He holds the teeth for a moment, then returns them to his bag, stows his bag, mutters some words and stares off into nothing.
There's a lot there I could answer but I'm going to stick to the main points so we can keep moving on your plotline:
1. Remember that splitting off from the party at night in a hostile city, 100% alone, is how this all started. That's not the same as just taking any action without sufficient paranoia. That flies in the face of even mild paranoia. I'm not criticizing your decision. It's actually going to advance the main plot a lot. Just contextualizing to see if that makes you feel less like I came after you for no reason.
2. RAW, you can take 20 on stealth. Your point about knowing whether or not one has failed is an interesting question but I'd say it's allowed. One definitely can benefit from taking more time to pull over camouflaged cover, etc so I'd say it makes sense to take 20 on stealth.
3. You were well aware that "Izabelle"'s allies knew about what was going on, she had a chance to pass a message along to them about the situation and tell everyone to get ready, took as long as she wanted talking to you, and then initiated this problematic situation when she wanted to.
4. Your appearance up in the air would not draw much immediate attention, yes, but your loud proclamation of the verbal component of feather fall did. Also, note that you have no idea how many lookouts "Izabelle"'s organization might have prepared but you can easily guess it's more than one.
5. I'm not about to kill of your character, unless there is a sudden twist I'm not expecting, so if that's part of your concern then you don't need to worry about it.
6. In terms of HP, "Izabelle" healed you to the point of just being barely conscious. So this isn't a death issue.
7. Hilariously, you actually just did a really good job of sending up a "flare", where you were the flare itself, for your comrades. That will come into play soon.
You wake with an ache in your side and see "Izabelle" putting away a wand. You are bound again, more tightly if anything, as well as gagged. Lastly, there is something hard and cold pressed against your chest and back. Looking down, you can see that a set of lamellar iron armor has been put on you. Looking up, you see the orcs are back, standing by the door.
"Izabelle" resumes speaking "Alright. That was inconvenient and means we will probably need to hurry. You should be able to hold out two fingers for yes, one for no. That is our new system. Also, I feel safe enough now to tell you what I actually do. I organize the Resistance in Bannerhold. Primarily, we fight discrimination against non-humans. Some of our most dangerous operations involve smuggling politically targeted non-humans out of the city. That is why I was asking about Avinoax and your connections there as well as your perspectives on various non-humans of the continent." After this extended statement, she leans forward and stares carefully into your eyes. "First three questions: Have you heard of the Resistance? Do you oppose our mission? Do you philosophically support our mission?"
Melia knocks but nobody comes to the door after a full minute. Hal determines that this house is currently unoccupied and its owner is trying to sell it. One neighbor, however, did see a light in the window last night in the very middle of the night and reported it to the watch.
The side door in this alley seems unobserved and Mel picks the simple lock without too much trouble. Heading inside, you see signs of some chaos in the house's kitchen! There are strips of cloth and bits of fiber on the dusty floor as well as some muddy footprints. There is also an odd, sour smell coming from the next room.
There is a small spot of blood on the kitchen floor, about the size of a coin, and two types of hair. One matches Turion's and the other matches his Janus wig.
You note a fine layer of dust in most of the kitchen that has been disturbed by footsteps and objects getting moved around. One thing in particular that you notice is a circular spot in one corner, about two feet in diameter, where apparently there was some object that is no longer there.
The circular, dust-free spot in the corner likely held a barrel that stored food.
Nelly has Turion's scent coming into this kitchen but then isn't sure where it heads next...
In what is apparently a dining room, you see a massive, sopping wet pile of pickles and brine, roughly an entire tierce's worth (42 gallon barrel).
Turion is able to clumsily render his gesture and "Izabelle" sighs, rolling her eyes. "And here I thought there was a chance we could work together in the future. I have an uncanny knack for reading people and you don't seem the deceptive type. I would know whether or not we had come to a real understanding. But have it your way. I'll come back later and see if you've calmed down." She leaves the room but the orcs stay behind, standing very close to Turion, each holding a club.
"He was definitely here," Melia says. "And injured. Look." She points out the spot of blood. "Note the two different colors of hair. Whoever clobbered him will have noticed his disguise. This is bad."
Melia takes a moment to study the scene, trying to infer aspects of what happened from the tracks and disturbed dust.
Melia's eyebrows go up as she takes in the giant heap of pickles. She pokes the mass, and one pickle slides off onto the floor with a faint splat.
"I find myself wondering," she says thoughtfully, "If Janus got knocked out and crammed into a barrel. What a pickle he's in!"
Mel determines that a small set of footprints, likely of a modestly sized woman, dragged something that could have been Janus into this room. Then a larger set of footprints, likely belonging to a grown man, came in. There is a lot of chaos and the man's footprints dragging the barrel, most likely, into the other room to empty it. Then the man's footprints drag the barrel out the back door with the woman's footprints following behind.
Then both middle fingers again.
It was the system she suggested, after all. If she was too full of herself to accept his answers, he certainly had nothing else to say to this criminal.
Hal mutters to himself, finally coming to when dragged inside the house. He looks around, following Mel and murmuring further.
"House is empty. Owners're lookin' ta sell. Nosy neighbour nextdoor reported a light in the window, middle o' th' night. Could be our boy, could be someone settin a trap."
Finally he gets down on his hands and knees over the spot of blood. "One spot of blood. No spatter, or spray. Unusual, for so much blood. Changin' an improvised bandage for 'nother? Sudden change o' pressure? Body on the ground oozin' ta the same spot?" He looks thoughtfully to Mel "You've better eyes than me, boss, you see anymore sauce?"
"So: either our boy was hale enough ta haul pickles, or he's been taken by someone who was. If he's hale he's prolly holed up with the whor...man." Hal catches himself just in time "If someone'd been waitin' for 'im, they'da had somethin' better than a full barrel of gherkins, even if this wasn't targeted. Could'a been someone followin' a rich john from the House. My guess is someone tried to knob him, and he killed 'em, and now e's dragged the body off and is diggin' a hole to bury the body - wait, burn the body. Cold, but the man's cold enough he prolly has ta take an icepick in'ta his bath in case he falls asleep."
"Good ta know the time though, 'fore or after that light..."
Finally he pulls out a scrap of paper, and carefully dips one corner in the blood spot. He carefully observes the red wicking up the paper, then pulls out one of his books, flips through, and starts consulting a table.
Hal finds it difficult to work with the bloodstain as it is quite small but he does determine it is less than twenty four hours old, which could match with the report of a light in the kitchen window last night. The area is not known for muggings or suspicious characters.
One of the orcs scratches her head then pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling something. The second she puts her club away, the other orc tenses and holds his club much readier in case the bound Turion tries to cause any more magical trouble. When she finishes about an hour later, she steps to the door and speaks to someone in unaccented common "Get the boss. I have an idea with the prisoner."
A few minutes later, "Izabelle" enters and the orc shows her the notebook. "Izabelle" nods, takes the notebook, and pats the orc on the shoulder, who then resumes her stance over Turion with the club. "Isabelle" brings the notebook and holds it up in front of you. You see markings with the letters of the common alphabet as well as combinations of left and right arrows under them. "Isabelle" explains "Thanks to the creativity of my friend here, you will be able to communicate a little more. Use combinations of left hand movements and right hand movements to indicate letters in response to my questions." For her part, she watches Turion's eyes while the female orc translates from Turion's fingers to words.
"Back to our first three questions. Have you heard of the Resistance? Do you oppose our mission? Do you philosophically support our mission?"
"I'm not sure how else to track him at this point. There's no one here to ask. Nelly seems to have lost the scent. I suppose we could try to get her to track the scent of pickles, but it's been hours and the city is awake and bustling at this point, so trying to track by scent on the cobblestone streets full of people messing up the trail seems far-fetched. Besides, his abductors probably stuck the barrel in a cart or something rather than rolling it along the street, so the scent of brine would most likely be attached to a cart, not a useful trail as such."
"We may have to take a pause and let Hal renew his magic. I hate the thought of giving up that time while Janus is in trouble, but I'm not seeing any ready method of locating him via mundane means."
"Khaz, any ideas?"
Regardless, he cooperates, if only to possibly get more time to think before being slaughtered.
The system provided was still tiresome. But he was reasonably certain they would not give him a pencil and allow him to write. Probably expecting him to poke someone's eye out with it.
Which he would have done, if the opportunity had been there.
So he used his hand movements to word his answers to the questions.
No.
Not mission, you.
Yes, but not you.
Unless specifically directed to keep them open, he will keep his eyes closed and direct the Orcs translation mentally. The crazy b#&~% had suddenly attacked before. If another blow was coming, to knock him out or kill him, he had no desire to see it.
Instead he was thinking of home, of the woods, and of his daughters.
It was weird that his own failure as a partner, his failure to be a parent, would ultimately be his undoing.
He long wondered why he even cared about the serving girls fate in a brothel. He knew nothing of her, it was only business, she was not even an Elf. But not being there for his own daughters, he felt a deep-seated need to be there for someone else.
Which got him caught up in this entire s&$$show. Not the murderer he pursued - not a Concordat Magister, not Pirates, Orc Hordes or nobles would be his undoing. Some petty female criminal with delusions of grandeur.
He was also reminded of the first time his Dryad-Friends gift had saved his life, when another girl from the same line of business attempted to end him. But this time, his cloak was not on him. No safety line.
No more chances to be had.
Nelly would be furious. She was bonded to him, his protector. He had left her behind, and robbed her of her chance to die alongside him. If there was anything left to be found, she'd probably petition Mel to try and fix me again, having seen it work twice, now. But probably, there will be nothing left to find...not that that would stop her from searching for him. Hopefully Mel would manage to ease Nelly's pain.
Mel...who had refused his invitation to the theater and dinner...which is why Túrion even went with the crazy b&!$~ trying to murder him now. Not that Túrion could blame Mel for that. Quite clearly, his ability to read people or spot red flags was nonexistant. No doubt he had plenty of those himself and was simply blind to them.
And Fennith. He had only just met her again, spending what little Magical Power remained to him in the busy days they had to contact her. He had looked forward to talking with her more, to spending time proper.
He had only wanted to do things right. To return home a better man then the version of him that had left. To maybe, just maybe, return as someone that did Avinoax a great service, that would make his past forgiven, that would allow him to...
A single Tear rolls down his cheek as his thoughts circle back to his daughters.
From here, you ponder a few things. Are there any clues in the mud tracked in here? Melia's examination further reveals that it was tracked in by the larger set of footprints, the likely male.
You also expect that lugging a pickle barrel through the streets late at night may have been noticed by someone as a little odd.
"Isabella" chuckles bitterly when the orc speaks Turion's answers. "So you hate me, sure. I don't care about that so much. I am surprised someone involved in Bannerhold intrigue has never heard of us. We don't really have an official name. Another name you might know us by is the Friends. That ring a bell?"
"Let's see if these muddy footprints hold out long enough to lead us to Janus," Melia says. "Or at least to some other clue about where he went. I'm not a particularly great tracker, but I'll do what I can."
Head down eyeing the cobblestones, Mel fails to notice a cart rattling down the way, and gets splashed with muddy water as it goes past.
"Ack!" she sputters.
"Sorry!" the drover calls back, but does not stop.
After taking a moment to clean up, Mel looks once more and discovers she has entirely lost the trail.
Paska, Mel thinks in elven.
"Well ... nut bunnies," Melia says aloud. "Anyone else care to have a try?"
Nelly looks first at the footprints, then at Mel, then growls at the Drover, and finally sits down and looks puzzled.
Harold does his best to help, squinting through his glasses at the traces of mud on all too muddy street.
"Isabella" nods "Alright. So you were mostly uninvolved, until now. And you don't like me." She shrugs. "Well I didn't like you much at first, either. Your persistent interest in a bordello and wanting to travel away with a young girl there was suspicious, to say the least. I assumed that if you weren't actually conspiring against me, you were a creep. So no problem if I took you off the streets." She shrugs. "Not much to do about it now, either way. Next question: What are your friends' values and goals?"
Nelly is able to follow the muddy footprints a little ways, heading toward the docks, then she loses it.
You hear a voice a little ways off through the morning crowd say "...elf in nothing but his underclothes falling from the sky!"
Melia instantly registers the speech and looks casually around to identify the speaker. Fell from the sky? she thinks. In nothing but his underwear? What on earth has Túrion been up to?
Melia spots a dock worker lounging against a crate chatting with her fellows. She seems to be passing along juicy gossip of something funny and extraordinary that she saw.
"Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear," Melia says. "Did you say an elf fell from the sky? I'm Melia, by the way."
The dockworker laughs as Melia charms her way into the conversation with a winsome grin. "Yes, yes! They don't believe me." The woman points to her friends who are laughing and teasing. One man butts in "I think that was a daydream of yours! An elf in his undergarments falling from the sky indeed! Was there a rose in his teeth too? Just for you?" The first woman shakes her head. "I'm telling you, I saw it right over there!" She points a couple buildings east. "Then something hit him in the head and he floated down into that alley on the far side of the building!"
"Isabelle" sighs "Do you need another break before you're willing to answer questions? Pretending that knowing your friends takes away their freedom indeed..."
"This I've gotta see!" Hal wheezes, and though still winded from the chase starts making his way in the indicated direction.
"Same!" Melia says. "Thanks, bye!"
The woman sighs and shakes her head. "Alright then. I think I will circle back to your situation later. I have a lot to deal with right now. Anything else before I leave? Last chance for a while."
You note a few smells. The room is dank and musty. You also smell something briny and sour. That smell might be coming from you? Hard to tell...
You all head over to the alley, which Melia determines is suspiciously clean. Her sharp, elven sense also detect a certain familiar voice coming from outside the alley! She sees Alexander Mumblethunder, the bookshop owner, hurrying to keep up with a young, fast-walking, blonde, human man in dockworker's clothes. She barely hears him saying in stunned disbelief "I can't believe the situation has come to this... so much so that she has convinced me to risk my neck and help..." They both head into one of the buildings next to the alley. It appears to be a shipping warehouse with a front door on the north, facing the street, for foot traffic, a large front door on the northern face for carts, and a large southern door with a dock alongside it where boats can pull up to the dock or partially into the warehouse.
-
"Huh," Melia says quietly. "I wonder what he's doing here?"
She thinks back. "Wait a minute," she exclaims suddenly. She pulls out Count Aral's book, leafs through it and checks a note she wrote in it earlier:
Pro-human sentiment is on the rise, and increasing restrictions have been placed on the non-human members of Bannerhold, largely at Beaumont's direction. There seems to be an underground operation taking shape to provide aid to non-humans, led by one "Isabella." So far they do not appear to have taken any violent action. We have not yet managed to establish contact with Isabella.
"I learned that from Alexander Mumblethunder III. He was alarmed because he thought I was working with this Isabella to recruit him. 'Did Isabella send you to try to recruit me again?', he said. I kind of gave up on tracking that Isabella down -- other matters arose. And anyway, there no doubt are dozens of Isabellas in a city this size."
"But now we see Alexander, muttering about getting roped in anyway -- right after Janus vanished from the brothel in the company of teenage girl named Isabella?"
"It's too much coincidence. She's been right there all along, right under Janus' nose, and none of us made the connection."
"Up to this point she hadn't done anything violent, if I recall correctly. I wonder what changed? Did he do something to piss her off?" she puzzles.
"How do you two want to approach this?" she asks Hal and Khaz. "We don't really know what's going on in there. Maybe just go up, knock on the door and say 'hi, our companion seems to be in a pickle. Can we talk to Isabella about that?'"
"Isabella" explains "I never intended to have a stranger, potential creep, magic user, captive loose in my headquarters. That is unacceptable. I got what information I could without telling you too much and bought time for my people to get as ready as they could. Then I tried to knock you out before you could get away." She shrugs. "It was a calculated risk. But your life was never in danger. I gave you a solid thump on the head but just enough to keep you on the edge of unconsciousness, not enough to endanger your life. I needed you controlled before I was willing to tell you more about who I am and what I do." She shrugs. "Of course, that was optimistically assuming that you didn't already know, as you were saying."
You contradict yourself, or you lie to me. Why, at this point?, he attempts to ask if she is willing to waste more time on him.
Hal sighs "Wouldn't be the first man ta fall f'r an agent playin' the role of a girl. Wouldn't expect a teen ta be leadin' an organisation though, and common name, as you say. Then again, the half... hob... little folk have trouble passin' for anythin' human older than a teen, so she could be forty years old."
Hal looks thoughtful and turns to Khaz. "I suggest you do the talkin'. Mel'n'I can lurk nearby, see if anyone runs out th' back. If they want ta talk inside I reckon I go in with ya, 'cos I can 'port out, 'n' might make ta all go in. Might also make sense if we all go in lookin' a bit less human, though I dunno 'bout the time ta do that."
"Sure," Melia says. "I'm not eager to, err, show my true colors around here so to speak. Perhaps it would be best if Khaz spoke first. It would at least establish that we're not a bunch of guards here to cause them grief."
She looks expectantly at Khaz.
Seeing Kazador's dubious expression at the prospect of acting as spokesman, Melia shrugs. "I mean, I'll give 50/50 odds we're going to be fighting them in a few minutes, so maybe you'll get to talk with your hammer."
Without further adieu, she gestures the others to come along, crosses the street to the warehouse, and knocks firmly on the door.
The door is opened by a middle-aged man wearing dockworker's clothes. He slaps his hands to rub off some dust and wipes them on his apron. "Yes, can I help you?" Behind him, you see some workers moving crates around in the warehouse.
"Ah I see what you mean. Your life is still in danger from me, yes. I simply meant that there was no danger of the chakram killing you by accident, only rendering you unconscious." There is a knock on the door of this room and she opens it, conferring in hushed tones with a halfling woman in dockworker's clothes. Then "Isabella" closes the door and looks at you again. "Anything else? I have business to attend to. So if you simply want to complain further, I do not have time for you at present."
Túrion attempts to sigh, something made harder by his additional restraints, then lets his fingers move again, swiftly: What business? You woke me to interrogate me. No questions left?
"Good morning," Melia says. "May we speak with Isabella, please? Regarding an acquaintance of ours who seems to be, ahem, in a pickle. Since I saw Alexander Mumblethunder III walk in, I should add that I'm the blonde lady who bought a map from him a couple weeks ago, and I hope he enjoyed the muffin."
Mel feels a headache coming on, but smiles winningly at the fellow.
Hal, a dozen feet behind nods knowingly at Mel's final comment 'If I was a guard here I'd be wondering if I'd missed hearing a passphrase when I was told that.'
"Isabella" snorts as Turion asks what business she is up to and shakes her head. "No. You're clearly not interested in exploring a working relationship. We'll talk again later."
The dockworker scratches his head. "Well ma'am I can't says as I know what you're talking about but I'll pass the word along to the owner if you can wait here a couple minutes." He waves to one of the dockworkers who heads downstairs.
"Thank you," Melia says, favoring him with a friendly smile.
Maybe it really will be as simple as walking up and having a conversation, she thinks. Ostara, I hope so.
Hal peers at the man with eyes bleary from age. He'd not had time to use his eye drops this morning, and he reaches up to poke sleep from his left eye, forgetting that he's been running those same hands through dust only minutes ago, and making the situation far worse.
Desperately he rubs at his eyes, only serving to rub the grit in further as he fumbles for water. By the time he blinks his eyes clear the man has left.
The guards are watching Turion like hawks and the female orc bonks him on the head.
Unsure how to read their hosts and not seeing any definite signs of betrayal, Melia, Harold, Kazador, and Nelly wait a couple of minutes. Soon, a dockworker leads a haggard old human woman, hunched with age, with straggly white hair, up the stairs. She hobbles toward you, leaning on the young man, until she sits in a chair brought for her. Coming up right afterwards is the gnome bookseller Mumblethunder, escorted by another dockworker. He raises two bush eyebrows as high as they can go when he sees Melia and states "Yes that looks like her. And I remember the muffin." The old woman nods and crates are brought for each of you to sit on, if you wish. "Indeed. You are very interesting guests to come to my door. I hope you do not bring too much trouble with you. I am Isabella, though forgive me for veiling my appearance in front of strangers. Who is this acquaintance in a pickle, may I ask?" She chuckles quietly to herself.
"Pleased to meet you," Melia says, taking a seat. "He goes by Janus Eden. I believe you may have met him. When he did not return last night from a trip to the Madame's place, we went looking. She told us the two of you left her place late last night."
"Janus' companion Nelly," she nods at the 'dog', "Is both rather more intelligent than one might suspect, and highly protective of her friend. Between her ability to track by scent and some gentle inquiries among the dock workers, we trailed him to an empty house and then here."
"Based on the pile of pickles we found, the drag marks looking very much like a pickle barrel being moved, and the rumors of -- how did they put it? -- 'an elf in nothing but his underclothes falling from the sky', it sounds as though Janus has had quite the time of it."
"He is a rather accomplished mage," Melia adds shrewdly, "So I suspect you must be quite a capable practitioner of the arcane arts yourself. What on earth happened?"
“Isabella” chuckles again and sighs "Yes he and I have had quite the misunderstanding. It seems certain things have come to light already so I will share a little further information. “Isabella” was my alias at the bordello, a young serving girl to young to be employed in the seedier side of the business but present at an important place for learning the secrets of certain unsavory nobles. The Madame there knows only the story I told her, not my true identity. Your friend “Janus” frequented the bordello very regularly and took a decisive and persistent interest in me as “Isabella”. He wanted to teach me to read, to take me to the theatre of an evening, and even attempted to purchase me from the Madame to come away with him.”
She shakes her head. ”I assumed he was either an agent seeking me for some of my illegal activities or a deviant of the first order. So I agreed to go with him, despite the objections of the Madame, and disabled him after we had left. With some help, I brought him here and removed his gear. I woke him to ask him some questions and he slipped out of his bonds. We talked for a little while with him unbound as my associates prepared for trouble and then I attempted to recapture him. While our chat was proceeding well enough, I did not want to advance the conversation to more sensitive topics until there was no longer an unknown factor loose in my headquarters.”
She shrugs as if regretting developments. ”Unfortunately, he teleported away just before I could knock him out again and appeared above our base in the sky. One of my lookouts, staying ready, disabled him again. We will likely need to relocate, tonight at the latest. Also, Janus has decided that he thoroughly hates me for kidnapping him, attempting to recapture him, and being willing to kill him, if it should come to that, to protect my mission and my associates.” She pauses to reassure you ”I have not risked his life or caused him any unnecessary pain, you should know. He has not been tortured and I have employed means capable of rendering him unconscious but very unlikely to kill him.”
Then she places her hands together in her lap to conclude ”I have been trying to decide whether he is a security risk who should be snuffed out or a possible ally worth the risk of letting go.” She turns a calm but steely gaze to each of you in turn. ”Perhaps, you would like to weigh in on the question? It seems you already have some idea of what I do.” The gnomish bookseller, sitting behind her, blushes deeply.
"Hmm, yes, I have at least a general notion what you're up to," Melia acknowledges. "You're primarily concerned with opposing the punitive and unjust laws targeting non-humans in Iustia. I heard you'd helped a family of gnomes down near the docks, recently. That's about as much detail as I've got."
"And I certainly approve of that goal. I have a rather personal investment in not seeing non-humans maltreated. As I'm sure Alexander has told you, this," she gestures at herself, "Is not my usual appearance any more than yours is."
She smiles wryly at the gnome. "That's why I never came back to collect the other map," she adds to him. "You saw through my disguise, and that by itself seemed like an excellent reason to give you a wide berth. I have reasons for not showing my usual face to Bannerhold."
"As for Janus," she turns her gaze back to Isabelle. "I'm glad to hear he's more or less intact. If he has wounds that need tending, I am an accomplished healer and would be entirely willing to patch him up."
"I can't imagine he's particularly happy about the situation. As to whether he poses a risk to your operation, well ... I've known him for, oh, a little over two months now, I think. It's been quite a lot. We've been in deadly danger multiple times, and fought through. He's extremely intelligent, occasionally to the point of hubris. I do not believe our broader goals run counter to one another. For my part, I believe your group and ours could enter into a mutually beneficial alliance. Ordinarily, I would say that Janus would be perfectly happy to do so as well. Potential allies are few enough in the city. But if, as you say, he has taken a personal dislike to you, I'm not sure how that might play out. He prides himself on reason; I frankly can't say I know what he might do when driven by emotion instead."
She glances at the others. "Khaz? You've known him as long as I have. Hal, not quite so long, but long enough at least to have formed some impressions of him. What do you two think?"