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Having lost the spell from being unable to concentrate due to the acid dart, Rutilus grumbles to himself, moves over between Vincent and Arzazel, and pulls out a small pinch of colored sand out of his spell component pouch. With a few words of power, he casts the spell, issuing forth a blinding ray of multicolored lights right between the two bruisers and into the wererat's face.
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Still shrieking in agony from both the gunshot wound and explosion of abyssal flames delivered by Zeltresh, the robed impostor fails to notice the gleaming, golden ant--the size of a mastiff--that appears behind him. As the man's face recoils from the flare of flames, it finds not reprieve, but the waiting mandibles of yet another enemy. They clamp around his neck with a sickening crunch, and blood begins to bubble and spurt from around the pincers. His wailing gurgles cease altogether after a few seconds pass, and the ant tosses the lifeless body to the side. Emitting a soft clattering that peels with a faint, harmonious chorus, and its face still wet with the gore of its previous victim, it begins stalking towards the second "acolyte".
Prelate Athas nods in satisfaction at the grisly results, then shouts a booming encouragement to Sampson from his position atop the dais. "Press onward, Sampson Klein! Their very presence profanes these halls with each step. Let your steel sing with the vengeance of the First Vault!"
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Vincent moves to block the path of the acolyte to the North exit, and calls out, "Surrender and drop your weapons! There is no need to spill more blood in these halls!"
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Nathmir saw the creature expose itself, what he had waited for. Using his holy symbol he calls on Nethys to bring forth destruction.
"Nice ears."
He comments just as his god's power comes forth. A rage of sounds from the maelstrom bathe not only the creature but the area around it. Causing the very stones to shudder. The robed wererat clutches at its ears in futility, splotches of red appearing between its fingers as it reels and loses its bearing.
Vincent pushes the door closed and looks for a mechanism to lock it before turning back and heading for the others, seeing that it would appear their invisible assailant has revealed itself. He drops a large bar across the door's brace. It will not prevent one from exiting on this side of it, but it will delay and reveal any one attempting to do so.
Sampson stands his ground against his two foes, calmly dodge out of the way. He can see that his words have shaken them, and he cracks a smile as the Thrill continues to rise within him. These are no untrained fools, they have skill, he thinks, slashing again at the one who injured him. His blow glances off of the armor hiding beneath the confine of his opponent's robes.
As more allies and enemies appear in the room Zeltresh is faced with the challenge he has battled his entire life: now that he has let the fire out, it does not want to go back in. He prepares to step up and blast both of the acolytes facing Sampson but the sudden appearance of the giant insect makes him think better of it. If it's helping us, no reason to harm it.
He quickly realizes that his attempts to move into position have placed him directly behind Sampson, and almost close enough to reach out and touch the acolyte still smoking from his last blast. The gnome casts again and for an instant his palm crackles with electrical energy before it starts to smoke and flame. Stepping forward Zeltresh reaches out and attempts to slap the enemy with is flaming hand. In an instant, the robes are consumed in a fierce blaze, and the acolyte howls in pain as the fire begins to bubble and melt flesh and armor alike.
There ya are... Eldred turns on his heels and watches as the concussive sonic force impacts the enemy and he charges the newcomer. As he nears he brings the heavy barrel of his pistol across the wererat's face and clubs him while at the same time thrusting out with a booted heel to kick the assassin's legs out from under him. "Welcome to the party, bunkie...sit, stay a while." he grits out between his teeth.
"Hey Arzazel, time for a good old fashioned beating!" Eldred calls out just as the wererat falls hard on his ass. While the butt of his pistol inflicted no actual injury, the creature remains splayed out on the marble tile floor, clutching its head still from Nathmir's potent attack.
Satisfied the prelate in on their side with the summoning of celestial vermin, Arzazel nods at the corporal and hustles to the wererat's flank. He snap kicks at the knee of the wererat wishing he had some silver. Silver or no, however, the blow lands solid and true, earning another howl of pain from the rat creature in addition to a muffled pop from beneath the skin and fur of its knee.
Having lost the spell from being unable to concentrate due to the acid dart, Rutilus grumbles to himself, moves over between Vincent and Arzazel, and pulls out a small pinch of colored sand out of his spell component pouch. With a few words of power, he casts the spell, issuing forth a blinding ray of multicolored lights right between the two bruisers and into the wererat's face.
.
.
.
.
.
Seeing the demise of its comrade, the remaining figure snarls again, eyes narrowing as it launches into the celestial insect with alarming ferocity. The morningstar it had been wielding clatters and clanks across the marble floor, and it tears with now-clawed hands into the ant's blood-slicked head. Pieces of its facial carapace are rent asunder with one blow, and the next penetrates deep into the creature's brain. It spasms and sags to the floor, disappearing in a nimbus of golden dust after one final spasm.
Meanwhile, across the hall, the wererat remains surrounded and stunned, unable to mount a worthwhile defense or counter effort against its many opponents.
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Round 3
Arzazel hears a very satisfying howl of pain from the rat creature in addition to a muffled pop from beneath the skin and fur of its knee. Providing excellent music to his ears, he imagines his old pit master's scream of . He kicks the rat creature in the head attempting to knock it unconscious for interrogation.
vs. prone & stunned
"Ya got him on the ropesn Arzazel. Tie him up n' keep him breathin'. We got someone to interrogate now." Eldred, satisfied Arzazel has the wererat in hand, he scoots back into the fray (2 squares right of Sampson) and fires a shot.
》Move
》Attack ..ranged touch attack
》》
》Free Action Reload
"No, take the rest alive!" Vincent calls out after Eldred's gun fires.
Easier said than done, Teldas, Sampson thinks, ignoring the noble officer. I can't even land a blow on these freaks without pulling my strikes. On top of that, Zelthresh apparently doesn't know what stay back means.
Sampson swings his falcata again this time, hitting the acolyte right in the face.
Nathmir had no mercy in combat, he had never known enemies to show it so he did not in turn. Still they clearly had the numbers and the threat was largely over, so he would put some effort into capture. As always it was up to Nethys. He put forth his holy symbol yet again, his words empowered by his god and slamming into the enemy even from such a distance as if he had spoken them into their ear.
"Hold"
Regardless of the result he moved into a better position.
Alone for all intents and purposes and surrounded, the "acolyte" seems determined to accept an end no gentler than that its partner received, narrowing eyes at the immense mass of tanned muscle before it--one eye now mangled and bulging grotesquely out of its left socket after Sampson's masterful slash. Extending its clawed hands wide, it prepares to barrel into the Hermean for a final time. Then it stops moving entirely. It protests with strained grunts and angry wheezes, but remains held firmly in place by Nathmir's spell.
"Well done. Well done, indeed!" comes a cry from behind, Prelate-Banker Athas approaching the disguised assassin as it is being more completely restrained. "It seems there is considerable merit to your heroics after all, then." No doubt, the man refers to the questionable praise-lauding after a mostly ineffective delve into Rud's central facilities.
Rutilus mutters to himself angrily, a healthy dose of both pain and annoyance. The acid finally runs its course on his tail, but not before exacting a heavy toll. He approaches the prone and confined wererat with a scowl, and says, "Devilpup, was it?"
Vincent allows the magic to recede as he sheaths his blade. He casts a sidelong glance towards the Prelate and says, "Thank you, ser. You are most kind."
Vincent then opens a set of doors and calls out for some guards to come and take these assassins away for interrogation later.
He then checks his own attire, making sure he is still presentable with a sigh. Despite the commotion, he is certain this little show will go on, if nothing else, this will add to the hubbub of the whole thing. Walking over to the Prelate's side, Vincent says, "So, shall we proceed then?"
While Nathmir had respect for where he was, Nethys had shown favor. So he decided to take advantage of it. He spent much of his time spreading his faith. After all they had seen but a tiny portion of Nethys' wonders. If they chose to learn more he saw no harm.
Eldred holsters his gun and eyes the prisoners. With them both secured and ready for the tombs he wonders at their motivations and who may be pulling the strings. To think they'd been able to infiltrate this far...
"Hold on there, Guardsman," Eldred halts the group readying to take away the prisoners. Pulling strips of cloth from the prisoners' clothing he sets about tightly binding their hands and fingers then tying blinders over their eyes. Lastly he gags then both to ensure they can't utter encantations.
"Keep 'em bound up tight, Guardsman. Then I want you to contact Master Sargeant Vasily Keppesh, Fusiliers. I want him n' the fellas o' his choosing in direct control o' these peckers once they hit the cells, that understood?"
That done, he stands alongside Teldas and begins roughly straightening out his own coat too. At the questioning look from the nobleman, Eldred shrugs. "At this rate, I can count the people I trust in this city on one hand. I ain't lettin' our first good leads get bushwacked while we're gettin' our arses kissed in this party."
"Indeed," Vincent says then turns his back to the rest of the group, appearing to help adjust Eldred's collar.
He then says quietly so that only the gunman can hear, "So, you and Sampson got an interesting promotion. Should I be congratulating you both or bracing my neck for the executioner?"
The gunslinger grins and shakes his head and gives the rank pin a brief tap. "Not sure if someone's bracin' me up fer the gibbet with this jackasserie." He hooks his thumbs in his belt and considers things for a moment. "Ya ain't got nothing to fear from this ol' cuss, son. Yer 'bout the only honest fool I know on this city."
Vincent relaxes somewhat at the gunman's statement. "Good to know," he says with a smile before turning back to the others and the Prelate.
Satisfied when the situation is under control, Arzazel attempts to restore his finery to its initial state. He fusses over buttons and cuffs like his old masters, because he has never worn such attire and models their behavior.
At Eldred's request, the temple guard nods and says "It will be as you say. I'll make sure some of our own finest are supplied as well. Rest assured, these criminals will not see the outside of their cell until they have been wringed dry of secrets." Offering a bow by way of excusing himself, he and his contingent march the wererat and barely surviving accomplice out of the chambers to their holding cells.
Athas, who is still a tad ruffled from the ordeal, nevertheless manages to master himself and regain a measure of his authoritative composure. Unlike previously, however, he sends for several escorts to ensure further attempts cannot be made on any present in the room. Two units consisting of five guards and an Abadaran cleric are brought in, who maintain a protective flank around the assembly at all times. The pair of clerics maintain their vigil with eyes aglow, maintaining some manner of divination to aid in their assignment. Prelate-Banker Athas continues on as if nothing had happened following the reinforced guard. The hours that follow prove monotonous and frustrating for most, a lengthy instruction on the finer points of Molthuni etiquette and the who's who of Braganza's noble families and visiting dignitaries.
After receiving their education, the group is marched out into the Cathedral-Bank's Grand Hall, which is filled to capacity with the wealthy and prestigious. A vast applause rings out as the heroes are marched out atop the pulpit in sight of the three-stories high vault of the Golden Glory. Each are introduced by name and official titles, eliciting further applause, and a brief but embellished and greatly exaggerated retelling of heroics rendered unto Braganza by the guests of honor is offered to the masses by Prince-Archbanker Cole himself. As he concludes a spectacular fabrication of actual events, the heroes are named officially as Champions of Braganza. Even before the proclamation has concluded, Terandar steps up to the lectern, giving his brother a nod and a polite bow as an attendant follows behind with several folded garments stacked in his arms. Bailiff Terandar then sets to presenting each of the champions with their regalia: Black cloaks with a crimson inner lining and a white Braganzan crest upon the left breast. The cloaks are clasped with a brooch fashioned to appear as a golden key.
The rewards do not end there, as Cole begins to ramble on once again about the rarity of heroes and their just rewards. All of the newly named Champions are granted estates in the Keymaker Promenade befitting their new titles--which prompts a roiling murmur from the gathered crowd of socialites in the hall--along with a small reward from the Golden Glory Vault itself.
Adding further to the extravagant affair, Lord-Knight Eodric Teldas, leader of the Most Noble Order of the Exalted March, takes his turn on the pulpet. Vincent Teldas is knighted my his elder cousin in he sight of gods, men, and women alike. Adurus Krupt is named Field-Squire of the Order, and the crowd once more erupts in a clamor of excited applause.
Finally, the official ceremony adjourns, and the feast begins. As promised, Vincent sits beside Cole Ravnagask, and the rest of the champions are arrayed around the Prince-Archbanker's private table as well. In addition to several prelates, including the arch-prelate, they are joined by General Hakar, Commissar Kathlyn, and Eodric Teldas. Dinner is dominated largely by formal and polite conversation, occasionally interrupted by some nonsensical remarks from Cole, until Hakar has finished with his main course.
Quite bluntly, he appraises those named "Champion" one after another, then says in a deep growl of a voice, "What are your plans now? Rot in splendor in Braganza? Travel to the capital to see what favor you can mooch from the scrap plates of your betters?" He leans forward at the last remark, an intense stare and sneer peering out from the grizzled mass of thick, black hair that frames his face. "Or are more than a couple of you worth the coins being thrown your way?" His eyes settle briefly on Eldred and Sampson as he lets the question hang.
Sampson raises one eyebrow at the general. "What are you suggesting, sir?" The slayer calmly takes another bite of his food, displaying perfect etiquette. "I am a skilled killer, if that's what you're asking. Have you need of my services?"
Nathmir for his part took the whole affair stoically. When questioned by the general his usual unfazed expression rolls over the man as he responds.
"I am not inclined to suggest my own worth, as only Nethys can do so for his is the only opinion I care for. As to my plans, they remain unchanged from before I came to this city."
Vincent performed as expected, and of all the rewards and praise bestowed upon him, it was being knighted by his elder cousin that he was most proud of. He hoped to be able to live up to the honor, as his earning it was something of a farse, at least in his mind, and apparently the minds of a few others.
When Hakar levels his degradation their way, he remains silent as both Sampson and Nathmir speak their minds.
If they want to end up on the man's bad side, by all means, let them draw his ire. The last thing I need is someone breathing hatred down my neck.
As to what he planned to do, well, frankly the sky was the limit as long as he did not have other orders from his cousin. He could use the coin to acquire some land outside of Braganza, perhaps found his own little village.
Or, he could use it to recruit more able bodied men to the Order, if his cousin would be open to the idea of him leading and managing a branch of it.
Perhaps, after this is all said and done, he could talk with Eldred and see what he may have planned, or what his interests may be.
Arzazel continues to be impervious to the negative effects of boredom and weathers the festivities well. He does not reply to the General, because the General does not appear to want an answer. He appears only to want to provoke emotions. Therefore, Arzazel continues to eat and drink slowly enjoying the abundance and comfort.
The gunslinger fester under the attention given the group. Never one to seek the spotlight, he passes the time and covers over his discomfort by imagining a lead round caving in the skulls of the nobility in the cavernous room. The imagery conjures another of his vile grins that stretches the scar along his face. About the only time he pays close attention is during the raising of Vincent and Adurus.
"Well done, gentlemen," the gunslinger offers by way of congratulations the look in his eyes conveying his regard for the two young men. But further compliments aren't in the offing, Eldred preferring to wait and see what the two accomplish with their new rank. He claps them on the shoulders and steps away, you two got enough pud-pullin' from these worthless dandies ta last a year...
Time continues to crawl slower than a wounded orc in tar, just adding to Eldred's mounting impatience. The lauding of their 'victory' serves only to bring a sting of bile to the back of his throat. Buncha fancies n' nitwits celebratin' a job half done n' done half-arsed ta boot. Gods I'd like ta put a bullet in all their misbegotten sires ta pay 'em back fer squirtin' these turds out...
It's at the end of his fuse Eldred finds himself sitting across from General Hakar. He grabs the lapel of a passing attendant as he pulls out his seat. "This hero of Braganza wants the strongest ale ya got, full stein... none o' these sissy drinks...hit it with three fingers o' whiskey."
Food and drink serve to keep his craw full instead of talking. A far better thing than what he wants to say to the hulking general.
You could put a round through his eye at this range, Dread old boy... Frig is always more vocal when Eldred gets into his cups. And he's usually quite convincing.
But the attendant returns to refill his stein with a strong and bitter ale, giving Eldred's gun hand something else to grab. But when Hakar levels his manic stare his way, he can hardly restrain the grinding of his teeth. Riddard...Aljin...Pnassa...Hittmer....Frig... More names pile through his mind like a roll call at reveille.
When it comes to him to speak Eldred plants his stein heavily on the table and leans in to keep the conversation between the smaller group. "I plan on gettin' outta these sissy clothes n' findin' whoever wrecked the city...then I'll put a bullet in his head n' see if that's the start or finish. These idiots think a job half done's good enough..." He drums his fingers on the table and shakes his head. "What're ya doin' this far south General? Ramgate's gotta be missing ya...n' I'm sure there's a butcher's bill needin' payin'."
Hakar allows a brief, satisfied smile at Sampson's response. "Skilled killers are all I need. Apart from that addle-brained fool from Alkenstar actually getting his guns into the hands of my men, that is. Killing is a man's duty--a soldier's duty. You'd be better suited to that than serving as a lapdog for Teldas' milkmaid." Commissar Kathlyn's eyes narrow at the pejorative. She bites back any immediate response however. Hakar is the General of the North, which places him about as close to a second to the Imperial Governor as someone can be, after all.
Things get uncomfortable for a moment as his intense gaze drinks in Kathlyn's muted seething, until the General-Lord relents and finally turns his attention to Eldred. "Good. These cowards strike from the shadows and slink back just as quickly. Show them that Molthune does not shrink from the bites of mosquitos. As to why I'm here? Checking up on an investment. Rud has promised much; these promises have rung hollow thus far. I'm tired of wasting messengers on that fool. I'll have my answers or weapons, and soon."
Arzazel soaked in the words trying to memorize and categorize them. [i]What answers or weapons? Presumably, firearms. Plus, there's friction between the general and the commissar. All good to account.
More time passes with idle banter and the General's bravadoisms. Then finally--and thankfully--the brute finds an opening to excuse himself. His eyes look to something across the room, beyond those arrayed around the table. A squat brute of orcish heritage in full and simple plate armor stands, returning the General's gaze at the western entry into the private dining hall.
"It appears the Alkenstar tycoon has finally seen fit to receive me. I doubt any of us will speak again soon. But should any of you find yourself wishing to do some actual good for our country, The Ramgate awaits. Heroes--true heroes--are always welcome on the front." Awaiting no response and ignoring those that are murmured or offered, General Hakar rises and strides briskly across the room. Nodding and sharing hushed words with the orc, the pair exit the chamber completely. Commissar Kathlyn sighs in relief.
"Glad that's over with." She glances around the table to take stock of whose ears remain at the table. By the time the General has cleared the room, the table's assembly consists of Eodric, Kathlyn, Terandar, and the celebrated heroes. "We should discuss our next moves now, with these few. Director Pentwert spoke wisely previously: apprehending the culprits behind this attack is of paramount importance."
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Rutilus had been rather quiet during the whole affair; He had barely eaten anything at the feast, instead choosing the most tender bits of morsels out of each dish and dropping them into his collar, one at a time. Occasionally, the end of a rather long tongue can be seen wrapping around the morsels, almost as if Rutilus was purposefully allowing those to witness glimpses of his rather strong fiendish heritage.
When the Commissar speaks up about the group's next moves, Rutilus finally speaks up. "Interrogation should be our first affair, then. I would be happy to offer my services in such a matter. I would need a few days to gather what resources I need, however, though it would be of great assistance if the State could assist in covering said expenses."
Vincent turns to the lovely form of Kathlyn, and says, "I agree, ma'am. Has anymore information been obtained in that regard yet?"
"Little," Kathlyn responds to Vincent. "Tracking him was easy enough, but those in pursuit dared not risk piercing deeper into the Backar . They reported that the fey there are more agitated than usual--more territorial. We dispatched several rangers in the area, but none have returned to make a report thus far. Likely dead."
She turns to Rutilus and studies him momentarily with a blank face. "Zeltresh here can see to any supplies you require from Molthune. As this is, as you put it, a matter of State, the quartermaster of the Imperial Army here in Braganza should be willing to see to any orders you have. If you encounter any difficulties in this regard, contact me and I will sort it out shortly."
Her eyes survey the table once more, and settle first on Adurus, then Eodric. "We're going to be short-handed in general, so I will be expecting the Order to contribute a pair of hands here."
Eodric arches an eyebrow and says, "Expect all you wish, m'lady, but I will remind you that your office holds no authority over my Order. I will entertain a request--nothing more."
"Your newly minted Field-Squire: Adurus Krupt. His talents would be of use to. . ."
"No." Eodric interrupts.
When the tiefling speaks on aiding the interrogation and expense, he speaks in turn.
"As a priest of Nethys I could aid in interrogation. Nethys can grant me spells of truth, judgment, and temporary unpleasantness. I would need but a day and no funds of any kind. It would be a waste unless something was gained after all. Best spent on something more stable on return."
He was looking for favor, not to mention he had no small interest in those that interfered with his plans to bring Nethys to Molthune. Seemed the mage was helping him, unwittingly, position himself to improve his standing and press Nethys' will. The all seeing did not guide his priest, he merely laid down paths for them to walk with their choices.
Kathlyn's momentary aggravation is alleviated as Eodric continues quickly, "Rather than a newly minted Field-Squire, the Order will see a newly minted Knight supplied to this cause. Ser Vincent Teldas will go, and Adurus will remain here to finish his own training." He pauses for a moment, allowing his decision to sink in to full effect. "And that is my final word on the matter."
"You have my thanks, Lord-Knight Teldas. And the rest of you as well. Your nation has placed much on your collective shoulders, but I am sure you will not disappoint. Take the remainder of the week to enjoy your just rewards. Make it count. The comforts of the city will be far behind you come next week."
Sampson's time in Braganza had given him some insights into his fighting. While he was skilled, there were certainly things out there equally skilled or simply more dangerous than a normal human could ever hope to be. Betrayal was too unwieldy a blade as currently conceived, and his smaller falcata lacked the stopping power he really needed. His armor was also lacking in quality. With a better fitted suit he could move more freely on the battlefield.
Sampson seeks out a mastersmith and trades him both his current blades and several stacks of gold coinage in exchange for the commission of a new sword. It is modeled after Betrayal except lighter and slightly shorter, with a thicker spine. The new blade would be easier to wield, and would be Sampsons new mainstay. After ordering his sword, he visits the Order's armorers, and orders a new set of chain that fits him perfectly.
Once these two essential tasks are done, Sampson sets about the work of ridding his new home of unnecessary ornamentation. When he is finished with the place it represents a Minkaian dojo - empty, simple and clean.
As Commissar Kathlyn excuses herself, Vincent turns to his cousin and says, "To be honest, ser, I had planned to volunteer, though I was going to make sure you had no other assignments for me before doing so. I'm glad we both agree that this is something the Order needs to keep an eye and ear on. I will see to the gathering up of a small detachment of squires to accompany us."
When the festivities concluded, Vincent went to gather his things from both his home and his quarters, saying some polite goodbyes to his parents, and sought out the home designated for him in the Promenade. Therian and Dante had already been to the location with some of his things, and guided him to the proper address. It was a nice house, though not quite as grand as made out, and would suit his needs nicely. He made his way inside and got settled in. When he made a circuit through the backyard, he noted that there was currently no stable to be seen.
"We are going to have to get us some stables for the horses," Vincent says to the men.
"I had assumed such, sir," Dante says in his usual matter-of-fact tone. "I've already contacted a construction team to come and provide you an estimate."
Vincent smiles, "Whatever would I do without you, Dante."
The footman smirks and says, "Frankly sir, I wonder that myself," The man's joke caught Vincent off guard, and elicited a nice laugh from the three men as they stood by the fountain.
The next morning, work had already begun on the stables, he donned his armor, and while eating breakfast, he says, "Therian, given all the new staff, I have a new task for you and Dante. I'd like the two of you to locate three strong and loyal men to join yourselves as security here at the manor."
Both Dante and Therian look up from their plates, concern on their faces. After swallowing his current mouthful, Therian asks, "Sir, have we done something wrong?"
"By the Heavens, no," Vincent replies. "By no means is this a demotion! It's just that, with the recent happenings, the number of people I truly trust has dwindled drastically, with the two of you being key members on that very short list. I know you are both capable combatants, and I trust you with my very life. You both will keep rooms here in the house, and will answer to me alone, not the steward."
Dante nods. Therian, after some thought, says, "Very well, sire. Whatever you wish."
After the meal, Vincent goes to the headquarters of the Exalted March while Dante sets to his own appointed task. He spent the next few days looking over the various new squires, trying to find the best possible candidates for his needs. They had to be good on horseback, good with their weapons, as well as follow orders well. After a few days, he had made his selections, as well as purchased the necessary supplies they may need while on the road to the Backar...
__________
On the day following the grand celebration, each of the champions are interrupted in their various house-settling designs. Delivered by various guardsfolk--low rungs on the law enforcement circle serving under Bailiff Terandar--are simple letters with a neat but hasty scrawl: the interrogation of the captured prisoners is to take place, and each of you are afforded "first dibs" at wringing out information.
After arriving at the front gate of Terandar's Bulwark, each of you are saluted politely by the posted guardsmen before being led further into the massive fortress, ever deeper into the bowels of the place until you stand within the labyrinthine sprawl of the dungeon. Several multi-leveled blocks of cells stretch out in all directions, each lined with row upon row of iron bars. You all are led beyond these cells, most filled with despondent or crazed persons of many varieties. Finally, you arrive at the end of the centralmost cell block on the ground floor, an enormous vault dominating the wall ahead--a reinforced cell for prisoners of particular notoriety.
Terandar and Kathlyn are already present as you each step into the large chamber. It is an immense, square chamber, fifty by fifty feet with lead-reinforced walls and dimly lit by magical means. In the center of the room is the wererat encountered the afternoon prior. His head emerges from a sarcophagus like implement of some sort, constructed entirely out of silver. The entirety of his body from the neck down is concealed by the device.
"Amnesty?" the wererat squeaks weakly in Terandar's direction as he beholds Rutilus entering the chamber.
Arzazel has no desire to attend the interrogation. Too many bad memories.
After the grand celebration, he returns to Darvan to report on the events in private. He asks for Darvan's opinion about what to do about the new manor. Arzazel likes the idea of a nice place to eat and sleep but does not many requirements beyond that.
"A new manor, says ye?" Darvan muses loudly. His office is typically cramped with the most valuable of the steady stream of goods (ill-gotten or otherwise) the Aspis dwarf acquires and ships or sells off. It is especially crowded today as several dwarves crowd the room peering at a cow-hide map of Molthune bearing several markers. It sprawls across the Silver Agent's desk where myriad coins are often stacked or piled awaiting to be counted and stacked. The fragrance of Darvan's fat cigar permeates the closed room "Ye ken ne'er 'ave enough safe houses, Arza-boy. Methinks ye be needin' a cellar added t'yer abode. Th'secret sort what connect wi' me own, eh? Heh heh heh!"
His thick, calloused hands reach beneath the desktop and produce another map, smaller and upon paper, which he unrolls atop the much larger. "An' where be yer new roost, eh?" Darvan hands an inkwell and quill to Arzazel expectantly.