Lyrian makes double sure to divest himself of any writing. For instance, he leaves the star charts with the Mithral Scarab.
"No words, no pictures," he assures the old man. "I am Lyrian Arkwright. I bring with me Abram of Pharasma, Seferneru and Vorthos, cautious men, all. Tell us. Tell us why you fear these things, Raegos."
The old man sighs as if hearing a familiar melody, one from long ago. He feels his way to an overturned, rusted kettle that serves him as a low chair, his fingers ghosting along the guiding strings like a spider on its web.
"Bold names. We had bold names too. Oh yes. Imivus... and Seraton... Keros..." The old man strokes at his chin with trembling fingers.
"You wouldn't think it to look at me now, I know it. But I was a fine warrior, heh, in my youth-- yes, yes, I knew the blade well, heh. What use, against that which kills unseen, against that that steals the soul from a good man and makes him a monster? No use, no..."
He trails into silence, his old hands quivering. A dog barking in the street makes him shudder, and he resumes talking.
"Imivus, he hired ten of us. An old man, Imivus... old then as I am old now. Fools, fools, old men seeking the places of the dead-- you'd think we, heh, we'd spend our remaining time above ground, as much as we can-- but no. Imivus went into the grave, and now...
"Now I dig my own.
"But that's not what you're here for, oh cautious men, with bold names. Heh, heh. Let's see. What can I tell the cautious men?
"Imivus was always in a hurry. He might have been an astronomer. Always going on about the stars, the Ringed Planet... He was from somewhere north, like most of us, heh, like most of us vultures coming to Osirion....
"He told us-- he told us the pyramid was on another-- plane of existence, that is how he said it. What do fighting men, heh, know of such things? But he had the key, you see. The key to bring the pyramid back here."
The palsied old hands grope in the air, as if sketching the shape of something that is nearly tangible to the old man. "A funeral mask. Oh, such a pretty thing. Gold, gold. Had a headdress of feathers, red and black. I can see it clear. Fifty years and I can see it clear. Well, heh, not surprising, eh... no, no, ahead of myself, I am.
"We set out in the desert. Came to a place of four pyramids-- big bastards, too. And Imivus, he put on the mask. Heh. Called the greatest grave of the world to him... fool. All of us fools."
The old man clears his throat. His fingers grope for a canteen; he drinks, water spilling down his chin to wet his simple robe. He does not notice.
"One minute, the desert... the next, the pyramid. Vast. Vast! Green and massive. The gods bury themselves in such a place. We went in, heh.
"We'd been going a while. Passing all sorts of script. Imivus had an apprentice who was good with languages-- the boy deciphered some of the inscriptions... said that the Four Pharaohs had declared that all intruders would be doomed to live out their existence as guardians of the tomb."
Raegos's voice sinks to a raspy whisper. "Symbols, see. Runes. Runes for each Pharaoh. Runes of dark power... the seeing of them to damn you and doom you."
He bursts in a desperate giggle, too high-pitched for comfort. "Irony, that's what it is! Look on the treasures of the pharaohs and it's the last, heh, heh, last thing you see!"
"Imivus told us it was all bluster. Scare for the natives. For the superstitious. Well, in we went. Our eyes peeled like good soldiers!"
"We saw the runes. And Seraton, he was our archer... best eyes of all of us... well, he saw 'em all, heh.
"He yelled a warning, I remember that much. Just a short one, told us all not to look... not to look at the last rune..."
Raegos is silent a few seconds, head bowed to his chest, rocking back and forth.
"Before my eyes, he became an old man... age ran over him like sand. He withered and rotted and fell to the floor a dessicated husk of a man. Bad. Bad way. Man should go fighting. Not like that. Oh, not like that.
"Heh. Didn't know it could get worse. It did.
"He got back up, see. Oh, he got up. Seraton grabbed Imivus and-- clawed the heart right out of him, broke his ribcage like you'd break an egg, yes, yes. And Imivus withered too: all the way to dust, old man to bones and bones to only sand. Fine sand, spilling out his fancy robes.
"The mask landed at mt feet. Gods alone know why I picked it up. But I did, heh-- maybe it was that it was just so pretty. All that gold. All that color.
"I ran, cautious men! Remember that: I ran! Run the other way from the pyramid. Don't go in it. Your friend, the woman, oh, I've tried to tell her, lads, I've tried; but her gold loosens my tongue.
"I ran... we all ran. Each time I looked back, we were less. Five, then four... then two... the screams, lads, the screams. Sand underfoot, and Seraton chasing us.
"At last I found the door again. I stumbled out, back into the sun. Heh, I had the mask-- my fingers about to break, I was holding her so hard--! yes, I had the mask. I looked back. Fool me!"
"Keros, he was at my heels. A few feet more and he'd be out, I could see it.
"The pyramid wouldn't let him out. I don't know how to say it other than that, my gods, my gods. He stood there hammering on the air, clawing at it-- his fingertips bleeding as he scrabbled at nothing at all-- poor bastard!
"I would have helped him. I would've. Heh. Heh. If I hadn't seen Seraton coming. But I did. I saw too much. I saw too much. But never the fourth rune. Never saw that, heh."
The old man rocks back and forth, falling into silence again. His gnarled fingers clutch at the air, trying to hold something that is no longer there.
"You are right; that is no way for a warrior to die. It is a fate far worse than death to be forced to eschew the natural course, to be unable to cross over, but instead left damned in this world as an abomination; a corpse that walks and defies all that is right and natural. I pity your friends and will pray for them, old man."
"We do not wish to enter this place foolishly, out of pride or bravado. We wish to first know our enemy as well as we can before going there - to be forewarned and forearmed. This will give us advantages you never had, and a chance to end the unnatural curses of that place. We will find your friends and end their unnatural servitude, and see them laid to rest. Your warnings will aid us, and your sacrifices will see this evil place sealed, and the perverse things therer punished. They will not have been for nothing."
"Sir, I must ask: do you still have the deathmask?"
Lyrian is a study in seriousness, all playfulness gone as the old man tells his tale.
"Why?" he asks when Raegos answers Abram's question. "Why did you not want us to bring any pictures or writing with us? Why are they important? Is it because of the runes you saw?"
Raegos's rocking stills and his fingers calm as Abram speaks. His head bows, and he is silent a moment at the servant of Pharasma's grave, quiet words. When he lifts his head the blindfold he wears over his eyes is dark with tears.
"First to promise them peace, you are. The first to promise they will rest. Oh, sir, if you could do it, if you could end the wrongness of that place, then mayhap I might sleep nights, I do not know. But peace for them that went in, yes. Yes. Oh, I wish it."
His shoulders slump with defeat. "Kept it for years-- it was keeping me safe, you see, keeping from the curse-- but-- but hungers kills you too. An empty belly speaks louder than fear, sometimes! Heh. I sold it, sirs. I sold it away, to a man who traded in things from crypts and pretty gold. Bread, you see. Gold for bread. Heh."
Lyrian's question makes his head swivel in the man's direction, though he cannot see you. "Because you might bring the fourth rune to me!" he says, voice rising with terror that verges on hysteria. "You'll have maps and scrolls and script, and it might be on there! Somewhere! Somewhere in the thousand little symbols, the hawks and the scarabs, the fourth rune might be! I won't see it, I won't, I won't die like that. Not for any gold! Why do you think I've hid my eyes from the world, fifty years?!?!"
"Heh.... you think he told me?" Raegos answers with a smile that is missing many teeth. "...he did tell me theories of it, at that. He believed that one of the tomb's builders stole the mask, with the intent to summon, summon it back... and rob it. Heh. But the man was killed by thieves before he could carry out his plan, and the mask made its way back to Sothis with nobody knowing what, what it could do. Passed from buyer to buyer, I suppose, until Imivus saw it. Knew it for what it was."
Raegos shrugs. "Beyond that I did not ask him. I was there for gold, not history.
"And I sold it for gold as well. I was... not well, in my head, you know," (says the so-very-sane man in front of you now) "--and I don't remember his name. A collector of antiquities and relics. He said the workmanship was exquisite. That it belonged in a museum!"
The self-blindfolded man lets out a belly laugh at that.
"Belongs under the sand, buried with that damnable place..."
|
Seferneru sits in silence listening to the old man Old fool he thinks Plenty are the horrors in the tombs, and all your group did was adding more dangers tothose who would follow. at least the man learned his lesson.
He has no pity for Raegos, at all: if anything, a sense of justice in the old warrior's destiny makes him like the man a bit more. He isn’t an innocent, but he acknowledges his errors, and he decided to punish himself for said errors. This is a man of extremes, yet in his insanity his fate still holds more honor than most.
He unsheathes his scimitar “Here, old man” he gently guides the hand of Raegos to the handle of the scimitar “Feel like a warrior again for a moment. We will give your former companions a just end, this I promise. Ancient Pharaohs will no longer haunt your nightmares.”
He leaves to his more diplomatically-inclined companions the task to find information about the mask.
Lyrian describes the Chelaxian bidding for antiquities at the bazaar, then trails off, realizing Raegos never saw the man to whome he sold it.
"How long has past since you sold it? How many days have come and gone, or months, or years? Knowling might help us get there, and in so doing bring us closer to helping your fallen comrades."
|
|
Fingers doing calculations in the air Vorthos' attention whips to Lyrian as he describes the bidders at the auction. His fingers pause in front of the blindfolded man before he speaks...
"If this man knows not of who he sold it our best leads are those with interest in Osirian Artifacts, Namely the ones encountered at the Auction. I think an inquiry of either covert of overt actions would yield results
"That or heading directly to the pyramid," says Lyrian.
"Right. And now that he has it, he'll head straight for the pyramid, don't you think?"
Raegos's gnarled hand closes around the hilt of the scimitar, his face tipped back as if feeling a refreshing breeze, or cool raindrops.
"So long ago," he sighs. "My muscles were strong, still, for a while-- but what caravan would hire a guard whose eyes are swathed, heh? Who wakes others with his screams? Now I'm nothing, nothing. The pyramid kills everyone. It just took longer, heh, with me..."
He lets his fingers slip from the hilt, chin dipping toward his chest. His mouth curls in a twisted smile when Lyrian first asks for a description, then realizes the futility of what he is asking.
"Yes, yes, saw nothing, heh! Fear blinds all men-- fear lets them think they won't die! I hide my eyes because I always see that truth. So who is blind, and who sees, I ask?
"He smelled rich, though. You can smell gold, you know. It smells like perfume and fat foods, like powder for the skin and scented bathwater.
"How long, you ask? Long enough. I did not have the mask long... long enough to sell off my sword, my armor, first... my rings and my boots... when there was nothing left to sell, I sold it, heh. I had the mask a year, perhaps. Long gone, long gone. I wish I could see it again. Ha!"
Raegos picks at a thread on his robe, letting your words wash over him. "Go or seek, into the desert to race for the bones, or finding death here at the hands of collectors.... as I said, as I said. The pyramid kills everyone."
Turning back to Raegos, Lyrian asks "Can you describe the runes you did see? What did they look like?"
Raegos takes a shuddering breath, but nods. "I won't draw them," he whispers. "Foul things. But describe them, yes...
"One rune for each god-king, yes? Each had his symbol. Each symbol was inside a circle. The apprentice said that, that was important, the circle-- that you could see them without it, it'd be just lines, but the circle makes for power, finishes it. What do I know, heh?
"The first was the Rune of Subjugation. The devil-pharaoh's sigil. It was in the shape of a double-ended arrow, flanked by two arcing
lines.
"The second was the Rune of the Desert. It resembled an unblinking eye. That was the Cerulean Pharaoh's.
"The third was the Rune of Fealty. Looked like a pyramid, above a half-circle. That one, heh, that one's Ankana's, the Radiant Pharaoh's.
"Never saw the fourth! Lucky me. Lucky eyes to be blind, heh!"
"Thank you for your tale, Raegos. It is a troubled life you have led. Tell me, this man to whom you sold the mask, the one that smelled of money; did you tell him your tale as well? Did you tell him what the mask was for, or did he consider it only a shiny trinket?"
Lyrian alone is able to call up a dusty scroll from memory, something he'd seen years ago-- a faded drawing on crumbling papyrus of four symbols circling a great pharaohnic scarab beetle. With the other symbols described for him now, he realizes that that stray scroll had indeed pertained to the Four Pharaohs, and he is able to visualize all four of the runes-- sans the circle that binds each rune and empowers it with the horrific essence of cursed undeath, at least.
The Rune of Subjugation
The Rune of the Desert
The Rune of Fealty
and The fourth rune, name unknown
***
Raegos shakes his head in the negative at Abram's question, clutching his hands together and rocking back and forth.
"No. No. Told him it came from a crypt, only that. Heh. He bought salvation without knowing it. A hundred gold! Cheap at the price. The gold all gone now, all gone..."
Lyrian takes pity on the old man and presses a gold coin into his palm. "Thank you for your tale, Raegos. Pray for our success, will you?"
Rising, he signals his companions. "I'll be waiting outside."
Raegos feels at the coin-- lifts it to his mouth to bite at it and is pleased with the result.
"Gods bless you. Aye, I'll pray... but some places, even the gods don't follow, man..."
Outside, the Scarab gives you a nod and returns to each of you the belongings she has held for you.
"I feel for him," she murmurs. "The life of discovery that we follow is... not always kind to the psyche. I trust your discussion with him was fruitful.
"It is possible," continues the Scarab, "that the mask of which he speaks, the key to gaining entrance to the pyramid, rests in one of the private collections here in Sothis. I personally have heard of no thefts or sales of such an item, in recent history. Several of the men whom you saw at the auction could, perhaps, prove useful in tracking down such an item... unless you would prefer to make a pilgrimage to the pyramids without it, and test your luck upon arrival."
Lyrian and Vorthos are both reasonably convinced that the Crook Bearer and the Arch Docent might be the sort of men who would know of such an item-- the Arch Docent is about Raegos's age, so it is possible he was active in the antiquity trade back when Raegos sold the mask, decades ago. He also runs Sothis's museum that showcases relics of Osirion's past. The Crook Bearer, though younger, is a collecting fanatic, and jealously investigates who has bid on what at all the local auctions.
Of course, there may well be other methods of tracking the mask down (if you wish to do so at all).
The Osirion night has truly fallen while you listened to Raegos's tale in the tent. You can still hear him moving inside, stumbling through the string-heavy darkness. After a few minutes, the sound of digging resumes within the tent. Windows gleam with yellow light in the better portions of the city: where you stand, wretched figures slink among the shadows, casting covetous eyes on your relatively fine clothing and armor, though none of them make moves towards you.
"Shall I return to the tavern perhaps? There are many collectors and adventurers about; I might be able to pick up on some rumours regarding such artefacts..."
"My thoughts exactly, Abram," says Lyrian. "Perhaps someone has seen the mask in a collection."
They head back.
"Tell you what, Seferneru," says Lyrian. "You pull that iron rod out of your backside and we'll start to discuss my conduct of my affairs. Until then, mind your own damned business. This isn't a marriage; it's an archeological expedition."
Abram heads back to the tavern as the group decided, taking with him whichever companions might wish to come. At the tavern and at the other establishments they visit after, Abram probes subtly about the treasures that have been seen in the area that have come from the ancient pyramids. He makes sure never to bring up death masks unless they have been mentioned by others first, but he skillfully steers the conversation towards that kind of item all the same.
Lyrian tries to help Abram learn something useful.
<-Heh!
Location: Sothis, the bad part of town
Outside the tent, the Scarab greets you with a small nod and returns your scrolls and so forth to you.
"I feel for him," she says of Raegos. "The life we lead... heading into the unknown... it is not always one kind to the psyche, or the soul, is it?"
She listens to your thoughts so far, brows knit slightly beneath her veil, and nods in approval.
"I have other operations to oversee-- as I said, this tomb is not the only one the recent storms have uncovered-- but I shall be in touch, to learn of your progress. I believe you are all skilled Pathfinders-- even if honorarily--" (she inclines her head towards Seferneru) "--and that the matter is safely in your capable hands.
"Find the mask, if you can. Journey to the funeral complex, and use the mask to gain entrance... explore, report, cooperate." The Scarab's kohl-lined eyes crinkle briefly, as if she found that particularly amusing. "Endeavor not to become undead.
"Should you need to contact me, a message left with the Dung Beetle's barkeep for Nephthys will suffice. Do you have any further questions for me?"
After she has answered any other things you may wish to ask her, the Scarab takes her leave. She walks some fifty feet away into the crowd on a busy main thoroughfare, and vanishes from sight quite literally-- gone one moment, and unseen the next. A few passersby blink at where the woman-in-white had stood, but nobody lingers over it.
*
Location: Sothis, main thoroughfares of the Malhitu Bazaar
On the way back through the city's streets to the Dung Beetle, Vorthos is busy rattling off facts about the Four Pharaohs (...and the Fiend Pharaoh was known for his contracts with devils, of course--) and is quite lost in exhibiting his store of knowledge.
The rest of you, however, are a little less absorbed in history, perhaps, or more wary as to the dangers of the streets. Each of you sees the halfling from the auction at least once on the return to the Dung Beetle, the one with the shaved head and top-knot. He is some fifty feet in the crowd behind you, but seems to be keeping pace despite his shorter legs.
*
Location: Sothis, The Dung Beetle -- so, a paladin of Pharasma walks into a bar...
Back at the Dung Beetle, the crowd of other tourists-slash-adventurers is still going strong. Most of the attention is focused on a tall Mwangi warrior and his colleagues, whose table is heaped with a decent number of gold coins stamped with the symbols of pharaohs long dead. Jade bracelets and cobra-crested diadems are being shown off by the heavily-drinking group, who are boisterously regaling the others in the tavern with stories of their raid of the Ruins of Tumen, a site east of Sothis (and unconnected to the Four Pharaohs).
(Seferneru is likely truly disgusted by the ongoing, semi-sanctioned rape of his people's culture. Abram may feel similar, but his concerns are less with theft from the dead, than that those dead rest and do not wake.)
In the midst of the noise, Abram is able to corral a wizened old woman who is arguing with the Mwangi warrior about the copper pectoral he is currently sporting and its hieroglyphs. Actually, he might remember her from the auction-- she was one of those who had detected, however faintly, in his supplication of Pharasma to show him those of evil heart.
She squints suspiciously, then nods with her head bobbing. "Oh, oh yes, I've seen the fine mask of which you speak! The museum has it-- the Exhibitionary. Why? What's it do? What's it to you? Does it hold a spell, a map, the name of a dead god-king? Eh? Eh?"
The old woman grasps at his arm like a greedy cobweb, her flinty eyes boring up into his face, but Abram is able to disentangle himself from her clutching fingers.
There happens to be another familiar face in the tavern as well: the young scholar woman, who is crammed at a tiny table in a corner, scritching away with a stylus and a papyrus scroll at a furious pace.
"There is a halfling following us. I saw him at the auction. Should we confront him?"
Vorthos looks irritated at Lyrian's words which interrupt the Extraordinarily Important info he is imparting to everyone else. He half-glances over his shoulder and scans the crowd.
"A halfling? Really? Shocking, in a city as crowded as this," he says sarcastically. "I'd much rather lend my expertise to the study of those scrolls, but if you all want to waste time in chasing a halfling who happened to be at the auction with us, so be it."
"It's the 'following' part that has me concerned," says Lyrian. "You go on and learn what you can from the scrolls. I'll catch up."
Lyrian tries to lose himself at the next turning and wait for the halfling to pass by.
Vorthos gives Lyrian a shrug, unlikely to argue as long as he has the scrolls to peruse. "I shall meet you at the Dung Beetle."
Lyrian disappears into the crowd like a bolt of greased lightning that has class levels in ninja! He briefly has a moment of existential doubt as he wonders whether or not he exists!
Okay, maybe not that far, but he's definitely a very deft hand at disappearing into the crowd and hiding from the eyes of the halfling.
Lyrian is able to see the halfling come along about thirty seconds after Vorthos , seemingly oblivious to Lyrian's circumspect inspection and keeping his eyes on the group ahead.
Lyrian will shadow the halfling, trying to use the crowd as cover.
Vorthos presses on to the Dung Beetle, Seferneru behind him.
Lyrian, meanwhile, engages in a game of Spy vs Spy. He lets his colleagues slip ahead, and the halfling to follow after them, and himself to follow the halfling.
It becomes quickly apparent that the halfling is a deft hand at doing exactly what Lyrian is trying to do: use the crowd for cover. Several times Lyrian loses track of the smaller figure as the little person ducks and weaves behind oxen and carts. Only the fact that he is trying to hide from the others, and not from eyes behind him, gives Lyrian enough of an edge to keep up and catch sight of the bobbing top-knot again.
At length Lyrian's tailing comes to an end: at the door of the Dung Beetle! Abram, Seferneru and Vorthos have already disappeared inside. Watching from across the street, half-hidden behind a colorful blanket hanging on display.
The halfling moves to the side of the Dung Beetle, out of the press of foot traffic and into a small alley that runs between the buildings. He glances left and right out at the crowd, while fishing a small bottle from a pouch at his belt.
The halfling has the bottle lifted to his lips when his eyes spot Lyrian on the far side of the street-- even forty feet away, Lyrian can see the halfling's eyes open almost comically wide.
The halfling's startlement quickly fades, replaced by a wry grin. He places his hand over his heart and offers Lyrian a bow and a jaunty salute. Then he corks his small vial, puts it back (undrunken ) into his belt pouch, and heads inside the Dung Beetle via the front door.
Inside the Dung Beetle, the scene is as described above.
The halfling enters, weaves his way around the room to the counter, and hops up on a stool to order two beers.
:-)
Lyrian follows the halfling into the bar, calls the bartender over and says "A drink for my small friend here, and another for me. We've both had a hard day."
Sitting beside the halfling he smiles amiably as the drinks are being poured, then salutes with his own. "Are we going to talk about this?" he asks, "Or are we not going to be friends?"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Responding to the woman's questioning, Abram merely smiles. "No, nothing like that. I have an interest in early history of the church. Some have hypothesized that Death-Masks like the one we're discussing might indicate an attempt to personify death; in essence, an early recognition of the Lady of Graves. I wish to see it close up to see if I can identify any of her early symbols in its workings."
Abram, the woman squints suspiciously at you, her old face a mass of wrinkles, the lines now drawn in a different direction by the expression.
She stares narrowly, then her face broadens in a grin that is missing a number of teeth. Those that remain are gold-capped. She laughs, with a sound like a hyena's cackle over the desert, and taps the side of her nose slyly.
"Ohhh, yes, the church! Of course, of course. Well, well, if you don't want to tell Aunty your business," and her eyes gleam as warm as a crow's, "Aunty needn't say all she hears, either."
*
Lyrian, the halfling gives you a wide-eyed look and gestures at the two beers before him.
"Now sirrah! I'd purchased one for you! Well, that means two drinks for each of us, doesn't it? Seems like we're each getting a fair deal of it."
Behind the easy smile on his face, he's studying Lyrian shrewdly. "Personally, I always prefer to be friends with everyone. 'Course, friends is friends, and business is business. I'm sure you understand!"
*
Vorthos tells Seferneru, Abram, and Lyrian that he is going upstairs to study the scrolls, out of the eyesight of any of the prying gadabouts in the common room.
*
Seferneru, the young woman from the auction seems to have given up on her writing in the corner and is now approaching the Mwangi warrior-- from the sound of their conversation she is offering to chronicle his tale 'for all time'... for a modest fee, of course.
"And what is your business?" asks Lyrian, downing the drink the halfling purchased for him. "And for whom do you work? It's possible that you and I might find ourselves in business together."
"Why, my business is the same as half-- nay, two-thirds-- of the souls in this room," the halfling says with a grin and a shrug.
"To strike it rich. To find treasure beyond my wildest dreams, somewhere out there in the dunes. I work for myself, like any self-respectin' fellow does, and take jobs as needed to pay the bills, aye?"
The halfling drains the beer in his cup, waggles his brows, and reaches for the second round of drinks that Lyrian had bought. "And yourself?"
"Why, much the same," says Lyrian. "So tell me, my nameless friend, why were you following those men? And, more to the point, why shouldn't you be left in the alley behind the Beetle?"
Seferneru, the young woman from the auction seems to have given up on her writing in the corner and is now approaching the Mwangi warrior-- from the sound of their conversation she is offering to chronicle his tale 'for all time'... for a modest fee, of course.
The halfling's amiable demeanor flickers at the threat, his eyes narrowing as he looks Lyrian over and judges his ability to make good on that threat. Warily, the halfling's gaze darts to the paladin and to the living monolith as well, at other points in the room.
Lyrian can all but see him uneasily running the odds in his head.
"Hair-trigger fellow, aren't you?" the halfling says with a clearing of his throat. "What, you'd see a chap dead for having a bit of eyes on you? You'll be killing lots of people then, my friend-- every two-bit crypt breaker in this city is trying to vulture someone else.
"There's only so many tombs worth the raiding. The game is all about who gets to the best ones first. You lot--" he seems fully aware that you are traveling with Abram, Seferneru, and Vorthos, and disinclined to pretend otherwise, "--are well-equipped and have obviously come to play the game, unless you 'spect me to believe you're all just hobbyists come to bid at auctions.
"It serves my purse to learn your prize, and sell that knowledge to who in this city will pay best for it. Now, if that's a killing crime to you, I s'pose I'll have to take my odds, but what's the game without a bit of risk, hm?"
"Not tonight, it isn't," says Lyrian, ordering another round and speaking as if the threat had never occurred. "But lives are at stake and I need you to understand just how much I value mine. You will be happier and live longer if you stay off our trail."
"Those men," he adds, indicating the other Pathfinders. "are law-abiding citizens of sterling moral character. I'm the other guy. I do what needs doing. I'd regret it you ever came between us and survival. I like you."
Lyrian pays for the drinks, rises and returns to the other Pathfinders.