Eldred watches as the guardsman sees to the civilians, then returns his attention to the group. "Said you saw these unnatural pillars, Nathmir? Maybe we check out the closest one so you can probe a bit. We need to know what we're up against so we can put it down."
Vincent sets his jaw, preparing for imminent combat, and says, "Head for the main street, then we follow the sounds of fighting until we find out what the cause is. If a smoke pillar is on the way, we may get a chance to investigate, but ending any conflict takes priority."
Having said that, Vincent realizes the others may just be waiting for someone to the initiative, and then turns back the tent flap and steps into the storm...
"Unless someone can provide me with armor, I will return to my domicile first to get my gear. I will not fight in a shirt unless I have to. Where do you want me to meet you Field Squire Teldas?"
Adurus nods at the pragmatism of Sampson, knowing that although Adurus is able to use magics without armor, not everyone can function as well without weapons. That being said (or thought, as it were), Adurus feels like he could use the protection of his own breastplate as well if any fighting's going on. Though he hears the vague sounds of battle from far-off, he hasn't spent enough time in the city yet to know the districts well. He says to the group, "I'll have to head to the Vaultspires to get my armor. Hopefully we don't encounter anything along the way?" He somehow doubts that this would be the case, given the sound of it from everyone else's descriptions of bizarre weather and gunshots.
Eldred nods and moves to the exit behind Vincent. "Let's get a move on then, ladies. Times wastin' and I'd prefer to get in a fight with my pants on..."
"Hmph, this is what you get for not being prepared for any occasion at all times. I am ready for battle - but I agree, it would be best to retrieve your gear, lest you prove to be worthless in combat beyond being a piece of meat for the enemy to slice through as it attempts to get to the more useful members of the group." He speaks to no one in particular, though aims it towards everyone who were not equipped properly. As he speaks, he stands to the opening of the tent. "In addition, should any of you spellcasters know the spell Dancing Lights, you need to be aware of its usefulness with long-distance communication." He casts the spell, conjuring four red orbs of light in a diamond pattern. "Should any of us be separated, cast the spell directly above you as high as possible; Red Diamond indicates enemy contacts, immediate assistance required. Yellow Diamond indicates enemy contacts, assistance may be required. Green Diamond represents enemy contacts, no assistance required. And Blue Diamond represents no enemy contacts, but you wish to rendezvous. Remember that well, should we need to use it." Once finished speaking, he dismisses his spell and then steps out into the rain, defiantly ignoring what is doing to his pristine uniform. He looks back into the tent, one hand on his rapier, and looks at the men still inside. "Well then? We've wasted too much time dawdling about. "
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Adurus thinks to raise complaints about the efficacy of Viktor's dancing lights in a raging storm with high-rising buildings all about them, but decides not to bother the bossy bald man. He instead merely shrugs.
"Hmph,....."
Nathmir did not wait for the man to get started as he left for the vaultspires, enough time had been wasted. He did not feel the need to point out again that he was currently under no one's command so any orders were simply request to him. At least until he was reassigned with orders placed through proper channels. Such was the curse of the military machine's design. Sense was second to structure. Such were his thoughts as he made his way to his room to retrieve his armor. Crossbow still ready should he sense anything hostile.
"Abadar help me but I had my fill of court jesters like you back at Ramgate. Cost a copper a dozen but worth a lot less." Eldred grinds his teeth at the Commissar's words. He stands in the rain with Nathmir and Vincent pausing long enough to turn back to the man exiting the tent. "Keep your panties outta your wedge, Lord Vikki. Only use you've shown so far is meat flappin'. You got armor on, gold medal to you, bunkie, but recognize your place in this group ain't tops." Eldred points to Vincent and Nathmir. "Near as I can tell, they're leading by example, you're leading with your mouth. My advice, not that men like you take any, fall in line and quit running down the guys. It doesn't do anything but grow your wick."
That said the gunslinger stalks off into the rain, following Vincent and Nathmir. Maybe I'll get lucky and the slaphead'll stab me in the back, I could use a rest.
You'll just have a hole, Dread. No luck, juat a hole. the dead Halfling chides.
Eldred's hand brushes the medal under his shirt, the cold shape running against his scarred chest. Shut up, Frig. You're gonna ruin my night.
Sampson jogs off, heading for his dwelling. No time for their bullshit.
"I'll meet you at , after I've gotten my gear," he calls over his shoulder. He draws his falcata as he runs, holding it ready and hoping the storm will cover the sound of his footsteps.
Adurus does his best to keep close behind Vincent in the torrent, pulling his already soaked cloak tight around his shoulders and head as he half-jogs. Though he is passingly familiar with the layout of the streets during the day, in this storm-drenched night he doesn't trust his own navigational instincts, instead hoping Vincent's will lead them true.
Standing in stark contrast to whatever madness has gripped the majority of the city in turmoil, Vincent and Adurus can't help but notice the decided lack of commotion in the recently christened Keymaker's Promenade. The rain continues unabated in unending sheets of water, making it all but impossible to make out anything clearly on the brief trip to the makeshift lodge and bunkhouse that sits comfortably on the western flank of The Most Noble Order's future holdings. A vast swath of feast tents serve as a line of beacons cutting an obstinate line through the unforgiving storm that yet chokes Braganza. It seems as if the majority of the people inside are blissfully unaware of trouble that might be looming outside of the comfort of their raucous pavilions, though the shapes of armored figures bearing the gold-and-crimson regalia of Braganza watchmen can occasionally be seen ducking into tents and down the street—likely acting on orders or seeking out superiors to offer further instruction.
Approaching the Order's glorious lodgings—a squat, two-story building consisting of sturdy planks of oak and a gently sloping roof—the shape of a familiar figure looms in the doorway at the top of a two-stepped stoop, peering out into the stormy darkness. Squire Raston is a dimwitted mass of muscle and brawn that has managed to elude promotion for the entirety of his stay with the Exalted March. Though his merit as a combatant cannot be denied, his slow wit has proved too much of a hindrance to grasp any of the tenets or bylaws comprising the moral backbone of the Order. As such, he is often relegated to simple guard duties by the various Knights who have avoided assignment on the northern front. Despite his considerable shortcomings that will no doubt earn him an ejection from the ranks in due time, Raston is a well meaning and eager to please sort. It takes him a few moments to realize that it is none other than Field-Squire Teldas and one of the newest recruits that are approaching.
"Hold! Stand f... Ser Teldas? Apologies m'lord, I didna recognize ya. And Squire Adurus, too? Is tha feastin' over, then?"
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Fleeing the arguments and discussions of the indecisive pride-wounded company behind him, Sampson soon vanishes into the curtains of water that continue to batter the newly laid stones of Keymaker's Promenade. Though his sight is restricted to scant feet before his eyes, the trek is one the Hermean knows well. His destination lay nearly fifteen blocks away from the tent that played host to him moments prior—a trip that is hindered by the slickness of the cobblestones that carpet the majority of the city.
An immense arch of immaculately sculpted stone, all bearing iconography consistent with the rest of the city's monuments—undying devotion to Abadar—marks the entrance to The Vaultspires and the chosen meeting place of those who have retrieved their effects. A boon soon manifests in the shadow of the myriad towers and rises of the Vaultspires and the various interconnecting bridges and spans that crisscross the towering structures of the district; the rain is kept largely at bay in the deeper recesses of the place, obstructed by the aforementioned feats of construction. The scores of golden beacon lights that adorn the various banks, shrines, temples, and vaults also afford greater line of sight than The Promenade had, making the last leg of Sampson's trip to The Gryphon Tower a simple affair. As is to be expected, there remains only a skeleton crew of watchmen present in the small square just outside of the Tower and other surrounding buildings, mostly seeking shelter beneath whatever awnings or arches they can find. Sampson's impressive figure makes him an easy shape to recognize, and they merely nod in acknowledgement of the man's approach.
It seems the various rises have done an impressive job of blocking out the noise of gunfire and fighting from deeper within the city; the guards watching passively at Sampson's approach certainly don't give any indication that something is amiss.
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Seeing little else to do and not wishing for perhaps the most exciting festivities of the evening to be lost to him, Arzazel falls in with the bulk of the party as they take off down the street in the same direction their Hermean friend had disappeared to. The main bulk of the group is treated to a sight no different than that which confronted Sampson's trip through the district; the various rising structures and bridgeworks do much to shield from the rain, though it avails little in the way of spotting the ominous vortexes of darkened clouds and embers that had been previously spotted throughout the various districts of Braganza. In fact, the impressive structures seem to hinder any such sightings entirely. The impressive bulk of Terandar's Bulwark, a mighty keep of lavish ornamentation rising several stories high and several more beneath ground, finally looms in everyone's vision ahead—the various wings of the garrison and fortress serving as lodgings for both Eldred and Nathmir.
More unnerving is the fact that the mighty fortress appears to be entirely unmanned. Even in such festivities as have been held on this day, Terandar's Bulwark would not be left so vulnerable. Something is surely amiss.
A small glint catches your eyes from behind a neatly stacked wall of barrels down the nearest alleyway. The metallic object appears to be stationary and nonthreatening, though further investigation will be required to know more.
Nathmir holds up his hand to stop the others. There was no overt sign of the event, save for the slight scent of sulfur. Which meant the lower planes to him, demons or devils or something else. None of it bode well with him, he wondered what was going on. Casting a minor spell to show magical aura's in more detail he looks over any lingering magic as he speaks.
"This is where one of the pillars descended. Their is still magic left here but it is fading and their is something of a metallic nature over there. It may be a clue, best keep on guard none the less. Something is wrong here."
He slowly moves towards the object behind the barrels his crossbow ready just in case.
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As Vincent strides up the stair, he calls out to Raston, "Do you know where Ser Eodric or the other knights are at? It is important I speak to them immediately.". He continues walking only stalling long enough to let the man answer.
He pauses before he and Adurus need to split, turning to his friend. "Meet me back at the front of the building once you are prepared, alert as many of the Order as you can."
He then goes and retrieves his armor, shield, and other weapons, donning what he can while moving to find any superior officers, or, preferably, his cousin. While on the way, he does his best to alert others of the need to take up arms and prepare for a fight.
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Arzazel continues to protectively shadow his gnome friend through the city. The unmanned fortress surprises him. He really does not understand the military. He suspiciously surveys the area.
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Adurus pauses for a moment at the gate to try and help Raston understand. He pants out in an exclamatory blurb, "The city is under attack! There are gunshots, and swords clashing! Stay alert, Raston!" He then continues quickly inward, jogging to his chambers, donning his armor and weapon as fast as he can, and then banging on doors and alerting as many as he can. He repeats a shouted message: "Braganza is under attack! Get your arms and armor, alert others, and convene in the foyer!" He makes his way to the quarters of the Order's leaders first, banging on doors as he goes.
Adurus pauses for a moment at the gate to try and help Raston understand. He pants out in an exclamatory blurb, "The city is under attack! There are gunshots, and swords clashing! Stay alert, Raston!" He then continues quickly inward, jogging to his chambers, donning his armor and weapon as fast as he can, and then banging on doors and alerting as many as he can. He repeats a shouted message: "Braganza is under attack! Get your arms and armor, alert others, and convene in the foyer!" He makes his way to the quarters of the Order's leaders first, banging on doors as he goes.
Nobody on watch...not a creature stirring...now some kind of magical remnant. Eldred remains silent, dipping the edge of his wide-brimmed hat Nathmir's way as acknowledgement. C'mon, just give me something to shoot. To hells with the armor.
Seeing Zeltresh and Arzazel flank left, Eldred slips to the right so he can keep an eye over Nathmir while he does his work. The gunslinger spares a glance back to Viktor, nodding to the right side before moving off. Though he's still fuming at the man it made for poor tactics to not clue Viktor in on his intentions. That done, he puts his back near a wall and slips his father's dagger to his left hand. With his right, he reaches under his longcoat to unclasp the flap on his shoulder rig so he can draw ole Lia in a hurry. If he's quick, he should be able to get a shot off before the powder gets wet.
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Despite his anger towards the gunslinger, Viktor nods at his intentions - disagreements not-withstanding, the group has bigger things to worry about. The previous remarks can be handled properly when they have the time.
Allowing the more magically-inclined priest to examine the object, Viktor stays back, guarding the rear of the group. Between the downpour and the darkness, he cannot see worth a damn. He decides to brighten up the magical remnant by casting Dancing Lights, willing the four colorless-orbs to encircle the metallic object behind the barrels, illuminating it for all to see, as much as the rain would allow in any case.
Sampson ignores the oblivious guards, continuing on to his abode.
Barreling past the guards and through the small, open portcullis that serves as egress into The Gryphon Tower, Sampson ascends the central spiral quickly to his quarters. Most of the levels of The Gryphon are wide open square rooms with small makeshift privacy screens set up around a multitude of bunks, cots, and wash basins. Much like the rest of the city on the trip there, the building remains largely unoccupied. A few soldiers bearing injuries still too tender to afford them the luxury of a Market's Door festival remain bedridden, though the Hermean's passing earns him little more than an odd glance or two from the injured. Finally, his steps carry him to the doubled-up cots that serve as his bed, and the thick iron footlocker that holds what belongings he does not already wear.
Sampson has only just managed to finish buckling his armor in place when a slightly muffled cry manages to bully its way through the muffling barriers of stone, wind, and rain. "...traitorous dog! Unhand her!" The yell sounds masculine and authoritative. Muted though it is, the noise is unmistakable in origin: the square outside.
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Though wise, the attempt of the Field-Squire and Squire to rouse the ranks of the Order to action are met with a hasty realization that there is no one else in the Order's bunkhouse save for Squire Raston on guard duty. The various rooms on the two floors, including the quarters of the Knights, lay mostly barren of both persons and gear. While it is true that most of the men were invited to join in the festivities, the absence of weaponry and armor on stands and racks throughout the place speaks to the fact that they have likely been rallied or mobilized elsewhere in the city.
Concluding their affairs within the bunkhouse, gear secured and ready to meet the troubles that await in the deluge that continues even yet, a well timed clip-clop of thick heeled boots on cobblestone approaches from the main thoroughfare of Keymaker's Promenade. Brief moments later, a small figure emerges from the sheets of rain, surprisingly unperturbed by the onslaught the storm is unleashing on her slight frame. Feminine curves are accentuated by tight-fitting uniform and various criss-crosses of dark leather laces climbing her high collar, tall boots, and silver vambraces. The high peaked hat bearing a winged skull motif betrays her identity as a Commissar, though the silver badge on her left breast displaying a bird of prey grasping the personal sigil of Markwin Teldas is one that has never been seen by any present.
Stopping at the foot of the stoop into the bunkhouse, arms folded behind her back and the hint of platinum blond locks tucked firmly beneath the confines of her hat, the Commissar fixes the trio of Order men before her with an emerald-eyed scowl that would make Viktor cringe. Undeterred by her utter lack of authority over all before her, she still barks out an order: ""
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Caution proves mostly unwarranted, especially as the swirl of conjured illumination sheds light on the alley. The crumpled form of what looks to be a Braganzan guardswoman lies in what appears to be a self inflicted ruin; her left hand grips the cross-guard of her long sword, her right hand securing the pommel. The blade's length—also the metal glint that drew the party's scrutiny in the first place—pierces the woman directly through her chest and heart, pinning her directly to the barrels she is slumped against. Her face is twisted not in fear nor agony, but a self contented grin not unlike one that might accompany a feaster's face after consuming a perfectly prepared meal. A cursory glance reveals no other signs of struggle or injury.
The collecting pools of water have done much to erase much of the gore from the area, though the woman's otherwise pristine studded leathers and uniform are yet stained thick with her blood. From the looks of the scene, she appears to have been alone, unless the overwhelming volume of rain has washed clean the presence of any previous interlopers.
Nathmir's thoughts swirl with it all. It was plain that something had been summoned, conjuration. Illusion could be used both to disguise as well as a weapon to the weak minded, which often proved to be those with thick armor and strong bodies. The favored stock of Molthune which granted a great weakness to those that could exploit it. Finally enchantment, much like illusion in it's advantages yet more directly dangerous. Allies could become enemies and the fearless but crying children. More to the point it could if powerful enough force someone to gut themselves with a smile. The three combined as such gave him an idea, someone or more likely in his mind something's had been summoned that could both fool and control. Normally even the weakest minds held a strong sense of survival but if the mind could be fooled, then the survival instinct so deeply engrained in all that was living would play no part. Even a simple enchantment could make someone run themselves through. Still their was also possession to consider with the smell of the lower planes about.
Finally taking a breath and letting his thoughts fall back in place. He realized it was all theory and guess work. More facts were needed and that would not be gained by standing around thinking of it.
"Powerful and many magics are at work here. Strangely working together in a rarely seen form I might add. I suggest we deprive our fallen guardswoman here of anything useful, perhaps that sword as I think it could be of good use. Then we complete our task and set out to find some answers."
He does not wait for answers as he takes stock of the woman's possessions, time could not be wasted. Anyone who had fought upon the battlefield knew that such things as property and respect for the dead were reserved for peace. In war the dead have no use of anything, only the living had claim. Let ownership and final rights be dealt with when death was not clawing at your feet. He would lead the blessing himself if he survived the night.
Noting the woman's badge of station for one of his family, but lacking in any form of rank in the Order, Vincent gives her a quick report while he takes the time to help Adurus properly adjust his armor.
"There isn't much to report, ma'am. All I have seen are several columns of smoke descending into the city! and some others claimed to hear gunfire! enough to convince me that something bad is going on. The squire here," motioning towards Raston, "has said that others of our Order have already rallied and dispersed into the city, and that is what we intend to do."
Giving a final tug on a strap of Adurus' breastplate, Vincent looks to him and says, "You ready?"
"Please don't try to pull rank, I don't have time nor do I intend to have a debate over that when people are dieing, my family included."
Arzazel continues to protectively shadow his gnome friend through the city. Now, powerful and many magics. What is happening to this city? What could make someone take her own life with a ?
He suspiciously surveys the area looking for anything over-looked. Not noticing something useful reminds Arzazel of how he was punished whenever he failed to do what you should as a slave.
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Adurus looks at the woman with wide eyes, intimidated by her looks, her demeanor, and her rank. He stops finicking with his armor for a moment to throw up a nervous salute, looking ahead while he says, "Ma'am, recruit Krupt." He holds his breath, but lets it out when Vincent addresses the woman and reports the situation, glad he doesn't have to do it. Instead he looks downward, intentionally keeping his gaze from the woman's figure as he adjusts and tightens his armor, righting it from when he put it on earlier. His gaze strays once or twice, traveling along the curve of the woman's hips before quickly darting to the ground. Adurus goes a little red in the face from the exertion of moving around and tightening the armor.
Sampson hefts Betrayal and hustles outside to see what the shouting is about. How can I benefit from this situation? Chaos is always regrettable. I need to find out what's actually going on.
Eldred slips forward and begins undoing the buckle on the sword's scabbard, then leverages the weapon out of the woman's body. Once done, he allows the rain to clean the weapon of blood before slipping it into its sheathe and putting that over his shoulder so he can draw it from his back.
Oohh, the spoils of war...remember that time we found out Fiddler had a supply of Osirian salts on his body?
Shut up, Frig
The gunslinger begins searching through the body, pausing long enough to close her eyes out of respect. The grin on her face gave his spine a bit of a chill. She didn't look like a warrior who needed the sweet release of death...didn't look like a hardcase. But Eldred had been wrong before. Suicides were a way of life on the line.
"Better verify who she is..." he searches the guardwoman's body for anything identifying. Then begins going through her gear. Should her commanding officer want the sword returned, he could do so. But for now, Eldred had the sneaky suspicion that Braganza would be on a war footing very soon. ...searching the body.
Once done, he gestures to the buildings all around them. "Feels like a ghost town. Don't think the sulfur smell bodes well for us either. Like the cleric says, let's keep on with our business and stick together. I got a feeling things are going to take a turn for the worse any second now."