** spoiler omitted **
Sampson's departure from the entryway is followed by a brief "good luck" from Vinfarel.
As Sampson steps into his dormitory, he finds Commissar Kathlyn standing rigid, practically at attention, in the center of the room. He recalls Vincent and Adurus mentioning her the night they descended into Rud's facilities, but this is the first time he has shared anything approaching a close proximity with her. Much as Vinfarel had claimed, she carries a small folder of papers in the fold of her left shoulder. While Vinfarel's appraisal of her womanly figure are no doubt accurate, Sampson instead notes the physical conditioning her frame indicates: small, powerful, and lithe.
She notes Sampson's arrival immediately, regarding him with emerald eyes as she says "Sergeant Klein. I am Commissar Kathlyn. We must speak." Her words are direct. Sampson has heard of the Commissariat's agents before, enough to know that they usually are only encountered where treason (alleged or otherwise) is concerned. She gestures to a pair of chairs on either side of a squat, square table. Affixed to a cord on her left breast are a small collection of medals. Many are various commendations and badges of office that Sampson recognizes. One he does not: a silver bird of prey grasping the sigil of Imperial Governor Markwin Teldas in its talons.
Sampson salutes, saying "Commissar!" before sitting in the indicated chair. "How might I help you, m'am?" he asks, spreading his broad hands out flat on the surface of the table, and leaning back in his chair until it creaks a little under his weight.
That night, you are each met by a valet wearing the tabard of House Ravnagask. He hands you each an envelope, sealed with wax bearing the same crest as his tabard.
Inside is an letter written in a fine gold colored ink, with elaborate and artistic bordering, that reads as follows:
"You are cordially invited to attend the Grand Ball hosted by Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask.
As guests of honor, you are expected to wear your finest, and meet with Bailiff Terandar Ravnagask no later than early afternoon tomorrow.
The Prince-Archbanker looks forward to your attendance."
"Understood, m'am. Do you have any further instructions for me?" Sampson asks his commanding officer. Finally, something to do other than taking out the bloody trash of this city. Those two magical freaks seemed like the type to get into interesting trouble often.
Arzazel smiles and takes the invitation to Darvan seeing him in private when he has time. After Darvan reads the letter, Arzazel says, "Do you have a cheap tailor? My finest is not so fine, and I don't have enough gold to invest in a fashionable outfit. We have tomorrow morning for me to look respectable." He says looking at his thug like appearance.
Commissar Kathlyn reaches into a small beltpouch and withdraws a crest identical to the unusual one she herself wears: a silver hawk grasping the seal of Markwin Teldas in its talons. "You are no longer a Sergeant in the Imperial Army. You now work directly for me—and by extension, the Imperial Governor. That you have been chosen specifically for this assignment and position is already proof enough that you will not betray this investment of authority, but it bears repeating all the same: do not abuse it. We will speak again soon."
With that and without announcement, Kathlyn rises and makes for the exit.
Kathlyn produces a small insignia: a silver hawk clutching the personal sigil of Imperial Markwin Teldas in its talons. She places the badge on the table and slides it across to the veteran fusilier. "At the behest of the Imperial Governor himself, you have been selected to serve his imminence in whatever capacity deemed necessary as a member of Molthune's Imperial Directorate. More specifically, and to the point, you answer to me until further notice. You are relieved from your old post as both Corporal and instructor. Anybody who is anybody will recognize that badge of station and what it implies."
Her face still placid, Kathlyn rises and replaces her hat. "We have every confidence that you will not fail the Imperial Governor in this. We will be speaking again soon. For now, remain amicable with your charges until further notice."
Darvan proves true to his word, and before the evening is spent an aged dwarven tailoress is brought before Arzazel. She spends several moments prodding, cupping, and measuring the half-orc for his regal attire. The woman proves to be a savant with a needle and thread as well. Multiple garments are brought into Darvan's office in large trunks—each part of the ill-gotten hauls facilitated by the night of madness that took place. Various outfits of a decidedly noble bent are cannibalized in order to produce a serviceable ensemble for Arzazel.
The end result is a bit tight around the waist, but otherwise fits comfortably. It is likely the gaudiest thing Arzazel will ever find himself in. Darvan has various trays of pilfered jewelry brought in, and suitable specimens are offered to accompany the altered clothing the half-orc has been fitted with.
The following afternoon finally arrives, and with it the saviors of Braganza find themselves all huddled into the impressive hallway that leads to Terandar's Court in the Bulwark. It is the first time that all of them have been present in the same room together since the events of that night. While the doors into the Bailiff's court remain firmly closed, attendants wait in the hallway offering reassurances that they will be seen to presently. Their appointed meeting with Terandar Ravnagask is slightly delayed for reasons not apparent. There is a fair deal of shouting resounding from within Terandar's Court soon enough, however. . .
Moments pass in awkwardness as the attendants continually assure the heroes that the Bailiff will be with them shortly, then the immense bronze double-doors swing open wildly. Eldred and Sampson are a bit surprised to see the hulking and armored form of General Hakar come storming out. His jaw is so firmly set it looks like he might grind his teeth to ruin. Hakar is one of the most imposing figures to be found in all of Molthune, a paragon of Kellid ancestry with the bearing of a mountain and, apparently, the temper of an ogre. He stomps past the assembly outside all steam and indignation. His eyes settle on Eldred briefly, narrowing slightly—as one who gleans the barest hint of recognition without the wherewithal to firmly place the connection.
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As Rutilus is handed the letter, he quickly shoos the valet away with a motion of his hand, waiting until the bothersome courier is gone before inspecting the letter. Before opening it, however, he routinely examines it for traces of poison and casts Detect Magic on it to ensure it isn't booby-trapped.
Deciding that there appears to be no harm intended from the letter, he gingerly opens it, flips the paper open, and reads it, one of his scaley eyebrows rising as he does so.
He looks down at his current attire - his black and blood-red silken ceremonial robes and nods that it should be sufficient. His familiar would likely need to stay hidden so as not to attract attention and cause a ruckus, however.
Arzazel's companions almost don't recognize him in his newly tailored outfit for nobility with matching bling. While a bit tight around the waist, his large frame is fashionably highlighted. You still recognize the familiar bulges of his veteran Molthuni parade armor that you don't know where he bought, because he has certainly never been Molthuni military. He continues to be paradox appearing as a brute but performing very unbrutish things, like library research and affording most fashionable clothes.
The half-orc comfortably waits in the impressive hallway that leads to Terandar's Court in the Bulwark. You believe that he of all of you could wait for weeks as nonplussed as he appears to be. In truth, as a former slave, he is well-practiced waiting to be told what to do.
He holds up a second finger. "Second, if things get ugly with the Chelaxian...do I got permission to put a round through his red devil face? Or am I strictly watching?"
♧♢♡♤♧♢♡♤♧♢♡♤♧♢♡♤
Eldred stares at his drab and distorted reflection in the polished steel mirror. He'd finally leveraged one of the court pages to get his dress uniform cleaned and pressed. To have it on now, he wonders if it will restrict his draw speed.
His closed hand, enclosed in a leather glove flies to the holster and pulls his gun in a single motion. Slow...and the glove ruins my feel for the grips... His lip just below the spot where his scar ends curls in a sneer. The gunslinger hated these sort of things. Ceremonies were for pompous morons who just signed the Butcher's Bill but never actually saw the cost.
The gun goes back into the holster. And now I'm a guard dog for the Commissariat...
You could have been a guard horse...or a guard jacka...
Shove it, Frig. Eldred thumps a fist down on his dresser. They took away the greenies...my rank...
Yeah, but now you can make people disappear... Frig's ghost clears his nonexistent throat and affects an official voice. "I, Dread Pentwert, hereby declare you a traitor and commend your sorry arse to the pits of Blackmire Swamp!"
Think the badge would work on you, ya miserable halfer?
That hurts, Dread. That really hurts. But Frig laughs with glee.
The gunslinger turns away from the image on the wall and strides to the door of his quarters. Given he lives only a few feet away from the entrance to Terandar's Court, he'd opted to wait until the last minute before departing. Once he's out in the receiving area just beyond the doors of the Bailiff's Court he waits patiently. Eldred is a different sort, now garbled in his dress uniform with the deep red and black patterns. Gone is his customary longcoat and the broad-brimmed hat. On his breast are the pins corresponding to his time at Fort Ramgate, but gone is the crossed-pistol pin denoting him an instructor in the Fusiliers. Replacing it is the silver hawk clutching the personal sigil of Imperial Markwin Teldas, marking him as a member of the Directorate. Oddly enough he spits a similar badge affixed to Sampson's chest.
For his part, Eldred remains quiet, offering greetings to the others but wanting to be alone with his thoughts.
When General Hakar storms out of the Court, Eldred knuckles a brief salute, but the ire he feels at the sight of the big man is obvious.
"I don't care how many you'll lose, Corporal! All I care about is you following my orders to the letter. Now get your squad moving before I have you executed and fed to my dog!"
Eldred shakes at way the memory and returns his eyes front to await admittance to the Court. "Let's get this over with..." He grumbles to himself.
Vincent awoke the next morning, slowly, not due to any hangovers, but due to the fact that a night in his own bed at home was such a comfort compared to the hard, lumpy mattress provided him in the Order's barracks. He sat up in bed, stretching out his stiff muscles, and looked about his room. He quickly noted that apparently Dante had cleaned and polished his armor and new sword in preparation for the day's festivities, and had them placed in his room while he slept.
Once he was fully awake, he made his way over to the blade and picked it up, again examining its exquisite make. He regretted not being able to find any leads on it's previous owner's family, but could not deny that he was glad to have such a fine weapon in his possession. He returned the blade to it's sheath and then set to donning his armor and blade and then heading downstairs for breakfast.
He was met halfway by Therian, who bowed and greeted his liege, "Good morning, Sire. Did you sleep well?"
"Better than I have in months, Therian. Thanks for asking. Are my parents still sleeping off their celebrations from last night?" Vincent asks.
"No, sir," Therian replies. "They are actively preparing for today's jubilation. I'm afraid you missed them for breakfast."
"That's fine. Actually that suits me better. I think I'm going to have my fill of being doted on today, I don't need them adding to it."
Therian looked at him with a look of concern. "I did notice that you were absent from the party last night at a comparatively early hour, sire. Do you at least intend to stay for a proper breakfast?"
Vincent shakes his head, "I think not. I'll just grab a couple things and eat it quickly. Have Dante prepare Midnight while I do so, would you?"
Therian bows. "As you wish, sire. I will find him at once," he says and then walks off towards the servants quarters.
Vincent continues on to the kitchen and finds the left overs from this morning. He has a biscuit with black raspberry jam as well as a couple strips of bacon before heading for the stable.
The morning sun was bright, and the sky as clear as could be, not even a single cloud was visible. As he strode across the yard, he saw that Dante was just finishing up cinching the barding up on Midnight.
"As you commanded, sir. He is all prepared for travel," the footman says as he hands the reigns over to Vincent.
"Excellent work, as always, Dante. Thank you."
Dante bows and steps aside as Vincent steps up and into the saddle. Vincent makes a couple clicks with his mouth and spurs the horse forward, and heads out from his families estate to report to the Bailiff before the day slipped by.
Once there, greeted the rest of the heroes warmly as they arrived, though he was shocked to see that Sampson had apparently been made a member of the Directorate, judging by the new pin on his chest. He was almost as surprised to see Arzazel dressed as he was.
But the most disturbing thing of all was when Eldred made his way into the hall, that he too bore the badge of station noting him as a tool of the Commissariat. He nods his direction, but says no verbal greeting, as his mind was spinning over their conversation last night.
What in the blazes have I done? Did he report the things I said about the Nobility to the Commissars? If so, it's a wonder they haven't rounded me up and labeled me a traitor. And if not, how, and why, did they name HIM as one of their agents? And now that he was, would he use my rant last night as leverage in some political scheme? That doesn't seem to be his style...but then again...he has that badge now...
Kathlyn shakes her head at Eldred's line of questions, though her demeanor remains unchanged. "All that is required of you is to protect the pair and report your findings. No measure of violence against Rutilus Leroung is to be undertaken short of life threatening situations. As to their purpose, they work to undo the damage wrought in Rud's forge. They are searching for a component necessary to ensure his production deadlines are met with satisfactory result."
"No," Kathlyn responds flatly.
As Hakar storms past, a powerfully built man with a respectable collection of badges and medals steps out from within Terandar's Court. He nods slightly to the assembly gathered before him, managing even to keep his composure while confronted with such an oddly mix-matched grouping. His left hand rests comfortably on the basket hilt of a plain looking sword as he raises his head once more. He gestures into the room with his other hand before saying, "Bailiff Terandar Ravnagask will receive you now. This way, please." He remains stationary until all have entered, pulling the doors closed behind and following several paces behind.
Terandar's Court is as ostentatious as rooms come in Braganza, save for possibly the Abadaran Cathedral, The Golden Glory of the Lawgiver. The court is dominated by intricate pillars, the walls are lined with benches and statue dominated reliefs, and the domed ceilings bear murals depicting various heroes of the Ravnagask line. White marble floors stretch out across the enormous court, the center of which dominated by a lavish crimson rug that stretches from the door to the small dais upon which the Bailiff's richly appointed chair and table sit. Terandar Ravnagask currently occupies the chair, an expression of consternation evaporating as he notes the group approaching.
He rises and descends to the last step of his raised dais, where he stands and waits for all to cross the enormous distance of his courtroom. When in close proximity, Terandar smiles and says, "At last, the saviors arrive. My apologies for keeping you waiting, gentlemen. I meant no disrespect, of course. I hope the days between now and our last meaning have treated you well."
"You as well, sir. Of course no disrespect was received, you had a prior meeting that required your attention, and we did not wait long," Vincent said politely, knowing the man likely did not really care that they wee waiting.
Sampson enters the court with the grace of a hunting cat that those who know him have come to expect from the duelist. He bows to the the Baliff once they are addressed, then nods to indicate that he has indeed been well. He stands, "at ease" waiting for the others to respond verbally to the Baliff's greeting.
Eldred files in with the rest of the group, mulling over the look he is receiving from Vincent in the process. Wonder if the kid has a hangover or something... The soft thump of his newly minted station reminds him of another possible reason. ...oh...I better see about puttin' that thing away. Maybe use it when it's needed to get doors opened and such...
He puts it aside for now as the Bailiff greets them. The gunslinger offers a crisp salute, owing to the newfound respect he had for the man. "Saviors...a bit strong I reckon, sir. You had your tail in the sling just as much as we did back at the Foundry. Standin' the line like that puts a steel rod in a man's spine."
A glance over his shoulder towards the now closed doors. Memories of Hakar cutting down a man...one of his own men...flashes across the gunslinger's memory. He returns his attention to Terandar and awaits for events to unfold.
Arzazel follows the group trying to look confident and that he belongs. He does not salute having never served in a military, but he does respectfully nod toward the bailiff staying as silent as he has been trained.
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The next morning, the day Rutilus was meant to meet with the Baliff, Rutilus does his obligatory spell-preparation ritual as he always does, picking a slight variation of his usual spells. Once finished, he prepares his usual attire, cleaning it with an hourly casting of Presdigititation before donning it. Unlike normal days, however, since he will not be adventuring today, he decides a bit of a change of pace is needed for his usual equipment.
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Later, after having arrived with the rest of his one-time companions, Rutilus keeps quiet, silently observing his surroundings and everyone present - though his two bandoliers are missing, the tiefling looks every bit the same as he did during the battle at Rud’s, not to mention his more recent library escapades. His centipede, thankfully, is no where to be seen.
As the group enter the Baliff’s office and receive his welcome, Rutilus remains quiet for a few moments longer, letting the others speak first. ”And here I figured the tales of brave knights rescuing damsels in distress would be closer to the description of someone’s savior - considering the fact that all we accomplished was to take out a few crazies and destroy Rud’s defenses. If this is what being a savior is all about, then it is indeed overrated. I had figured there would be more gold involved - or at least an attractive woman of royal birth henceforth indebted to her rescuers. I can’t say the commissar Zeltresh and I met recently fit the bill, sadly.”
”As a result, it has piqued my interest as to why we’re here, for we have truly saved little and done even less.” Despite likely receiving glares from his various 'accomplices', Rutilus keeps his eyes focused on the Baliff, ignoring any other potential glares from the various military lapdogs surrounding him.
Nathmir had taken Izalem under his wing. While not a wizard himself he was, as any priest of Nethys would be, well trained in the instruction of magic. Wizardry being the most accessible magic for those not innately favored by the mystic or divine. With the young man's desire to protect he focused his lessons on abjuration magic. While keeping these lessons and visitations as secretive as possible. While he could care less for politics and station outside his god's preview. He was well aware of the tangled web it could become and it's ability to ensnare others when dealing with those already involved despite their knowledge or not.
When the valet appeared he made sure to keep the door closed behind him. For Izalem was on the other side going over his latest lesson. Upon opening and reading the letter he relaxed slightly but scoffed at the whole thing. He had a rather low opinion of such affairs, more so considering the last grand event. Still he felt no need to offend, such trails came with being a priest he supposed. It had been a long time sense he had worn his true priestly robes, they had no place on a battlefield outside of painting him a grand target.
He could never understand the point of it. The attendant assures him once to many and he gives the servant an unnerving gaze that causes them to back away and not return. In his mind it was all just so intentional, if you set a time and place for a meeting then keep it. Doing otherwise is purely insulting, it is not as if the city is going mad a second time. He brushed it all aside, such were their ways he supposed. His reflections and thoughts are interrupted but a large man, General Hakar upon closer inspection, stomping by. That seemed to be the reason for the delay, he had no doubt throwing him out of any room would not be a speedy action. Nor a wise one.
Once they entered and were welcomed he gave a slight bow and nod. Upon hearing the others responses or lack there of he let the silence stretch so long as to speak before their host could reply.
"I would prefer such grand claims be reserved for those that earned them. As well as being spoken to plainly without pomp. That being said I am well."
Personally he could never understand the need to feed the ego as so many did. Recent events should have made it clear how meaningless such things were. The man before them wanted something, that was clear. Only the question of what remained.
Terandar's cordial facade vanishes in an instant, replaced by a cold bluntness. "The people of Molthune aren't interested in truths. Those swallowed in war don't have the luxury of serving the truth. War is ugly, and damning. So we'll do what we have to in the meantime, even it if means bending the truth into a shape we prefer, to gain any sliver of comfort we can afford our citizens."
The Bailiff considers for a moment, and seems to shrug away another statement in favor of, "Molthune needs heroes. Citizens need an ideal to rally behind. They need a reminder that we are better than our enemies. They need examples of this greatness made manifest in the forms of selfless patriots who march into the very mouth of madness itself to see the integrity of their country preserved. You're the closest thing we've got, so you'll play the part." Terandar spares a meaningful look to each and every assembled person before him, locking eyes for several moments to allow his words to take the full measure of their effect. "And that's why you're being brought here before me instead of thrown to the masses without conditioning. I'm here to give you the official details of what happened at Rud's foundries so my brother can publicly lavish praises, commendations, and rewards on you at the head of a tide of people who'll lap it up like fools. The truth is pointless. The only thing people care about around here is the war."
The way Bailiff Ravnagask says "the war" gives you the impression that his own views differ greatly.
Arzazel guilelessly listens intently to the Bailiff. He tries to memorize every word, in order to repeat verbatim later.
Eldred frowns and folds his arms across his chest, more aware thsn ever of his dress uniform and the campaign ribbons...and the new addition of the badge. I ain't a symbol, that's not my purpose...
"I can't speak for the others here, Bailiff..." Eldred considers his words, like looking down the iron sights of the musket he'd been practicing with the past few weeks. "...but is that the best use of us as a group? I ain't tryin' to throw a kobold in the frillies shop, but the people don't know our faces from a whole in the ground. 7 Hells, it coulda been a squad o' minotaurs that pulled the kettle off the boiler." Eldred holds back some of his opinions of the 'people ' and continues, tilting his head towards the others in the group. "We were closer than most to this mess, perhaps having our faces out there for all to see could get in the way of us gettin' to the bottom of what happened. It's like usin, a pistol to burn down a barn when ya got good lantern oil n' tendertwigs close to hand."
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Rutilus' eye twitches at one point while Eldred talks. The Tiefling gets visibly annoyed before rebuking the gunslinger. "Nine Hells, Eldred. There are nine, not seven. If you're going to keep praising their name, please do so correctly? Avernus, Dis, Erebus, Phlegethon, Stygia, Malebolge, Cocytus, Caina, and Nessus, from the highest to lowest. If you wish, I can tell you who rules each so you can praise their names instead. I suspect you'd be preferential to Moloch, the General, Ruler of the Sixth."
"As for being regarded as heroes for the country.. I believe I'm uniquely unsuited for this task, considering that, one, I am not of Molthune, but of Cheliax and two, I am not one of the most inspiring figures out there, save for the worshippers of the Damned. Most regard me as little more than a simple monster, rather than the student of the arcane and emissary of my nation that I am. Perhaps it is best that I remain in the shadows, instead of causing undue worries amongst the population, who may end up thinking that Molthune walks with a Devil, hm?"
"..Or perhaps.. your brother wishes to let his population know that Asmodeus and The Nine Hells are on Molthunes side - for the war's sake. Surely, the war is the most important thing to Molthune and her people, yes? Unless you disagree, Baliff?"
Eldred's eyes flare wide with rage and he snaps his ahead around towards Rutilus. Call me a devil worshipper again, you misbegotten spawn o' horse-rapin' demons. So help me, I don't care how fast they march me to the gibbet, me n' ol' Lia'll put a 10th pit o' hell 'tween them horns o' yours.
The gunslinger clears his throat and turns away from the red-faced beast, and oddly enough his anger diffuses and he chuckles softly. "Our esteemed ambassador's gotta point, Bailiff."
And when his work's done, I'll personally see he goes to one o' his lovely pits so he can get in all the devil-humpin' his little demon heart desires...
Nathmir listens and dismisses the whole affair. He could care less about devils, politics, and wars. The seemed all the same in principle with only the methods and scope differing.
"Forgive me if I speak a little of my truth. I came here to find a proper site for a temple of Nethys. It is no reward but rather owed to me by Molthune for my service. So long as Molthune pays it's debts and is where the temple stands then it is my concern. But playing a puppet is nether something I agreed to or wish to do. As for the war, which do you refer to, as it seems quite clear to me you have your own thoughts on that matter. It may just be that your war is not mine. For my own sense of duty extends only to the faithful and that which my god deems worthy."
Terandar sighs, and visibly sags a little bit. It's not an expression Vincent has seen the man wear before. "I don't disagree. But it's not my call or place to argue. Of the Ravnagask brothers, it is not I who is Prince-Archbanker nor ruler of this city. What's worse, I'm not even sure if these orders originate from the Prince-Archbanker or elsewhere."
"You all displayed heroism on that night. That is without dispute. That deserves commendation, if nothing else. Though, truth be told. . ." The Bailiff lets the thought hang for a moment. He dry washes his face with his right hand then finds the resolve to continue. "You likely caused more harm than good on the warpath to Rud Nail-Spitter's central forge. But you were the only people who made it in and back out alive. As far as Cole and Abadar knows who else is concerned, that's what's important."
As Nathmir speaks up, Terandar looks almost stunned at the words for a moment. When the bewilderment gives way to a response, any semblance of civility has fled from his voice. Instead, the words are twisted with contempt. "You are a soldier in the Imperial Army. That was your decision, regardless of what you hope to wring out of the bargain. Present circumstances might make you an asset, but further treason out of your lips are going to earn you a court-martial!"
Bailiff Ravnagask casts his gaze towards one of the nearest relief statues, momentarily silent and firm-jawed while the red that had begun crowding his neck and face recedes. It is a meaningful look that almost manages to convey a hidden conversation with the ghost of a relative. "You'll be given titles and wealth and all the rest, paraded around like you carried the city itself on your backs to save it, then idolized by recruits from one corner of the country to the next."
His eyes return to the "saviors" of Braganza. "Whatever purpose drives these events has not been revealed to me. If I might dispense with this charade for a moment, I'll speak frankly. I think you're bait."
Vincent remains silent as the Lord Bailiff scolds Nathmir.
Hopefully now he will learn to hold his tongue.
His final statement catches his full attention, however.
"Bait, sir? Bait for what?"
Never one to be bullied by anyone he replies. Seeking to impart knowledge as always, rather then a lack of such which is an insult to Nethys.
"I think you misunderstand Bailiff Ravnagask. For the record I am on leave, such that my position is my own as any man of Molthune. So when I chose to aid others rather then consider my own well being that was a sense of duty innate to myself, not that of a soldier. I do not hide my intentions or loyalty to my god. No more then Prince-Archbanker Cole's with his own god. Allies need not be of the same mind or goals in all things, yet they must share trust. If I was the man you paint me to be with such words, then I would have left the city to burn and moved on. For such an act is that of a mere mercenary and self interested man of little worth. I do not believe it is your intention to insult or accuse. Just as it is not mine. That is why I speak to you as an honest man if not a overly political one. That is something I would consider insulting to you. I may not look my years, for I yet have many more, but I show myself to be a bitter old man at times."
He had said his peace on that matter and gave a low bow. For he had spoken true and he desired no enemies of any kind, for what was the point of such. Only damage would be brought about from those dark seeds planted by a man's weakness of knowledge or pride.
"Concerning our suspected role as bait. No doubt we will be targeted as obstacles for those that still have schemes for the city. This simply exposes us more so then we would be otherwise. In fact depending on how we are perceived by the opposition, they may attempt to appeal to us in different ways. After all there is more then one way to be rid of a troublesome person. Some can be bribed, threatened, or even considered possible allies."
His multicolored eyes moved over the others. Personally he considered some more open to those routes then others but he felt no need to speak it. That could fuel a betrayal or other ill desired effect.
The gunslinger shakes his head and pinches his eyes shut in silent frustration. Don't tell me the demon-humper's got more sense than this guy. Eldred stands ready, expecting the Bailiff to request the impudent priest of Nethys be clapped in irons. Don't matter if you're on leave er not, punkin', you're a soldier or ya can kiss off n' join the plebes...
"You'll be given titles and wealth and all the rest, paraded around like you carried the city itself on your backs to save it, then idolized by recruits from one corner of the country to the next." Echos in Arzazel's mind. "Darvan will be very pleased."
"Did he say bait?" Arzazel retunes into the current conversation. "Can't be any worse that being drenched in butter and made to fight dogs. They love butter."
For the second time since the group has approached, Bailiff Terandar Ravnagask notably sighs. "Forget that anything was said to the contrary. This has been a trying week. I'm sure you intended no ill regard towards this great nation, as sure as I did not."
Though momentarily forgetting the weight of his station, the Bailiff manages to regain himself and all that his titles imply. "You have the right of it. That many of you are not Molthuni natives will prove an appetizer too ripe to ignore. I cannot believe that what happened at Rud's forge was executed solely by the hands of Nirmathi rebels. We're discussing espionage here, and likely orchestrated by spies, expatriates, or traitors. That you are all collectively being afforded such honors seems unprecedented. But it might be, ultimately, necessary. As Nathmir has said, your varied nature might encourage gestures from those seeking to destabilize Molthune. I can see no other reason to unduly reward your collective heroics."
Arzazel continues to listen intently to the Bailiff. He still has an airy comfortable feeling of receiving a reward that Darvan will be proud. However, he starts to stretch his scholarly muscles in curiosity. And in the silence, he finally speaks, "Umm. M'lord, would be willing to share with us who you think was behind the incident? Who do you think would have the most to gain from the event?"
Sampson looms behind Zeltresh and Rutilus, frowning, but remaining stoically silent. He seems to be completely unfazed by the dramatics and revelation that they will serve as bait. Instead he keeps his eyes on the corners of the room, entrances, exits, windows and his two charges.
Eldred keeps his arms folded but nods understanding. "We get through this pat on the back, then get to work. We got unknown enemies...could be Nirmathi...could be yellow-gut, spineless traitors." The gunslinger makes as though to reach for his tobacco pouch and wrappers and realizes they're back in his quarters. "We set our necks out, bait the line so to speak, n' see if we can't draw 'em out." He spares a glance towards Zeltresh and Rutilus. "And there's work to be done besides followin' what little we got by of a backtrail, so we ain't idle."
"Sounds better than sittin' on our arses. Leastways it ups the odds I get ta plug some palooka thinks they can trash this city."
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”Ah, well then,” claps his two-thumbed hands together loudly, ”I suppose then that brings out the truth of why we’re to be paraded around like the heroes from the tales.” He pauses, and the group can see from his eyes that he’s grinning behind his raised collar. ”I do hope the aforementioned titles, wealth, and so and so-forth are as lavish as one would expect! Maychance would there be any damsels not-quite-in-distress included in this packaged deal? Hmm?” He chuckles and waves one his hands, dismissing the joke about the damsel.
”While it is needless to say that I find myself having a difficult time looking forward to the glory and.. ah.. idolization that is henceforth becoming from young recruits the nation over.. the wealth and titles is something I can certainly get behind - particularly the wealth. Especially the wealth. I could really go without the titles, to be honest. I find that the wealth, however, would help in more ways than one - one way being my task for Rud. More resources will be boundlessly useful in my research - not to mention, if we are to act as bait, said resources will help ensure my continued service and ensure I do not needlessly journey to Pharasma’s Court sooner than is necessary, even though I’m quite certain I know where my destination lies beyond that.”
”However, “ Rutilus continues his monotone, not allowing anyone else a chance to speak, ”I do feel that it would be more effective if I were to remain in the shadows behind our group here. Let them be rewarded with the titles, adoration, and attention. If I am to allowed to remain relatively hidden and unknown, I may better keep an eye out for anyone attempting them harm, and perhaps even get the jump on our potential assailants. For our stalkers, if it comes to that, will find themselves with a stalker of their own. What do you say to that, Bailiff?”
While Nathmir showed no reaction to what the tiefling had said before and now he knew where it was going half way through the long winded tale he spun. So he spoke simply.
"Those who do not risk get no reward. If your in need of additional funds petition your chelish benefactors. Why would you be granted the wealth without the shared risk involved in playing the bait which Molthune ask of you. If you wish not to play the part then decline. If you agree then it is on their terms, not yours. Such as most everyone here has accepted before."
Before finishing another thought comes to mind.
"How do you know we are not already being watched over by agents of Molthune? If you are superior to their own you would know, if not then you defeat your own position."
It made more sense once he spoke it. They had made enemies and allies regardless of their intention sense that night. They could not be unknown and hidden anymore, only the amount of exposure could be controlled.
The Bailiff raises his hand, signaling for the gathering to grow silent. "I know nothing about the scope of the rewards to be heaped upon you, just that they are to be doled out to each of you. Nor do I know any more information regarding the incident the other night. If I did, I would let you know. I do not cherish the thought of putting valued assets at risk. It was this very reason why I summoned you here before all the formalities and festivities began. I felt you all deserved to at least be warned so that you would perhaps not be taken by surprise with the new role being given to you," He walks to his chair upon the as he speaks, concluding as he has a seat. He reaches over to a large hand bell on the table, shaking it to give out a loud ring that echoes throughout the chamber for a few moments after he sets it down.
Behind the group, the double doors open and the same attendant that escorted them in reappears and walks steadily and with perfect posture towards the assembled group. Terandar continues as the man strides across the hall, "My attendant here will now see you to your ceremony at the cathedral." He turns his head directly to his subordinate and adds, "Take them straight to the cathedral, and see to it they are not late."
"Yes sir," the attendant says with a bow, then turns to the group and holds an arm out towards the door, his other still resting on the hilt of his blade, "Gentlemen, if you would follow me."
Once outside of the building, they are joined by a small company of men wearing the colors and seal of House Ravnagask. The guards form up flanking the group and deter anyone who would hinder their advance en route to the cathedral. It is clear that their guide is taking them in a round about path to approach the large building from a different direction than the main gate, which gives pause to some of the more suspicious members of the party, but soon enough the attendant falls back enough to assuage the tension, saying "I have been instructed to guide you to a side entrance, so as to avoid as much of the crowds as possible, my apologies for the delay."
Even so, as you all grow closer to your destination, avoiding crowds become almost impossible as streets grow filled with excited revelers, thankful survivors, and all sorts of others who wish to be at the ceremony. Thankfully, your armed escort serves more than up to the task of keeping your path clear and with minimal hesitations.
Eldred strides along with the group, taking the right side to keep his gun hand clear. Though the guardsmen are formidable, tell gunslinger knows that there are few things this side of the dirt more powerful than a man with will. While a wall of men kept the citizenry at bay, a gun or and arrow could do just as much damage as a knife.
His cold blue eyes scan the crowd, searching for threatening individuals. The primary focus is on what looks out of place...
Arzazel walks next to his friend Zeltresh or behind him seeing over his head. He does not obviously look for trouble using his peripheral vision to avoid eyeballing anyone. He attempts to look like he belongs with the group of heroes.
Sampson stays close to Rutilus and Zeltresh as the group makes their way to the cathedral. "I've been tasked with protecting you two. Don't stray far from my side," he remarks to the two magic users, in his typical monotone. He keeps his eyes peeled for danger as well.
Vincent rode in silence at the end of the procession, allowing the rest of the group to travel ahead. He remained silent as they traveled, though he would smile and be polite to the crowd of onlookers. The information they had received in their meeting with Terandar as well as the changes in the rest of his companions weighed heavily on his mind.
Why would they use us as bait? And for what? What has Braganza done in it's service to Molthune to warrant this type of retribution? For that matter, what HAS Braganza done...
And as for Sampson and Eldred, why did the Directorate purposefully seek them out to recruit. Sampson I can understand, he's a ruthless, cold hearted killing machine that follows his orders without question. Eldred though? He always seemed to be of his own mind, and while loyal to Molthune, he never acted like he was THAT bound to duty. What is going on here?
Nathmir remained aloof, he would not encourage hero worship. If the citizens wanted to place their hopes somewhere it would be with Nethys. Still he kept observant of things as well as the mood of those about him. He would not be stopped in his holy endeavor. If that benefitted Molthune and disturbed the plans of her enemies, so be it. Molthune had been wise enough to back him when others did not, their mistake to contend with and all it's wicked twist and turns.
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"I have no plans on doing such, Arzazel. Indeed, I fully intend to keep you between any sharp pointy bits and myself." Rutilus claps the Hermean on the shoulder as the bodyguard walks near the two. Although he doesn't worry too much about an attack in such broad daylight, Rutilus nevertheless keeps his eyes peeled.
Though all have frequented the Vaultspires numerous times since arriving in Braganza, only now are they faced with the full weight of the district's namesake, standing in the shadow of the Golden Glory of the Lawgiver—Cathedral-Bank of Abadar and seat of the Prince-Archbanker, Cole Ravnagask. The Cathedral-Bank's facade alone is large enough to overshadow the rest of the temples and shrines in the city combined, comprised of elaborate stonework, spires, and utterly superfluous but immaculately crafted protrusions that curve into elaborate, golden eaves that represent the many Saints of the Abadaran faith, uplifting their faith even after death.
The ascent into the Cathedral proper is a climb no fewer than one hundred steps, though it is this entrance that the party of named saviors avoid at all cost. Gathered throngs on the street before the Golden Glory of the Lawgiver make such an approach all but impossible, besides. Instead, you find yourselves being led around to an adjacent building adjoined by the western wing of the enormous structure. It is a residence dormitory of some sort, likely for low ranking acolytes within the faith given the less richly appointed decorum of the place. Several turns, side passages, and lengthy hallways finally see you into the Cathedral-Bank itself, a golden monstrosity of architectural wonder that manages to outshine even the exterior of the place. All marble and gold with elaborate murals painted by some of the most skilled halflings to be found in Molthune, it is likely the most exaggerated display of decadence to be encountered in much of the known world.
Led ever onward by the retinue of escorts supplied by the Bailiff, their number now swollen by a small handful of the Abadaran clergy as well, dizzying amounts of turns and stairs finally deposit you into one of the myriad inner sanctums to be found within. The usual furnishings have been removed in favor of what appears to be a private banquet of some sort: an immense table dominates much of the room, covered in an embroidered tablecloth and silverware, though no food or drinks aside from pitchers of water are evident. Standing in front of the table is a rotund man wrapped in so much gold and white that it's difficult to tell where one part of the man's outfit ends and the other begins. The mitre atop his head and extravagant robes announce his identity to those who have not yet met him: Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask.
Clean-shaven and pudgy, beneath shaggy, greying brows Cole's eyes light up with a vivid gleam as he sees you enter. He is surrounded by no less than a dozen prelates, each old and wizened paragons of erudition in their own right. To the Prince-Archbanker, they might as well not be in the room. They attempt to caution Cole as he waddles forward to meet your approach, silenced by his utter disregard for any words they can muster.
With a broad smile revealing a row of yellowed teeth, Prince-Archbanker Cole bellows with a childlike mirth, "Ah! Greetings, greetings, one and all! Champions and saviors; Heroes and patriots. Long have I awaited our encounter since learning of your selfless heroics not a tenday past. And long overdue is such a meeting, where I, in my capacity as leader of this great and grand city, might adequately offer up reward and honor befitting men of such stature!"
From behind the Prince-Archbanker, one of the prelates step forward, clearing his throat before speaking in a near-wheeze, "Prince-Archbanker. Forgive us, but I feel it prudent to remind you that General Hakar awaits your attendance not a room hence. Surely others can see to, ah. . . preparing our honored guests for the banquet? We have assured him as long as possible, but his temper is beholden to his Kellid ancestry, I fear."
"Nonsense!" Cole mutters, waving off the elderly priest's remarks. "Face to face only now, I will not abandon an attempt to know my city's champions. So. . ." The Prince-Archbanker turns an expectant look towards each of you, eyes eager and a permanent grin affixed to his face.
Cole Ravnagask has a reputation as being a bit of an eccentric. Most think fondly of him, but he is often painted as quirky if not worse.
Beyond his eccentricities, Cole is also known for ignoring the advice of everyone around him except for (and only occasionally) his brother, Bailiff Terandar. A truth which causes a great deal of vexation for those whose job it is to council him (like the circle of prelates in the room with him presently)
Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask is, more than likely, wholly insane. If all of his proclamations and commands were followed to the letter, the city would have faced ruin long ago. As it stands, his closest advisers tend to follow the spirit of his edicts, rather than the particulars.
"My Lord, it is a great honor to be granted audience with you. That you would arrange such a spectacle on our behalf, for simply doing what was our duty, at least for most of our number, is a testament to your generosity and benevolence to your citizens," Vincent says, having begun his greeting with a bow to the man.
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