Pellius catches up to Bonegrit in the town square...
Pyotr skirts the edge of the town center until he comes upon an old crone pushing a wheelbarrow laden with skewers of some roast meat. Pyotr had a sneaking suspicion she was passing off as grilled goat something much more disreputable, and likely less palatable.
"My greetings, madam. Can you tell me where I might find someone who might have an interest in purchasing some fine antiques saved from the ravages of time and the horde?"
"Hmmph. No. I can tell you where to buy some kabobs. You want some good meat?"
"Certainly, good lady. Roast meat sounds very appealing," Pyotr fibbed as he sniffed what he hoped was fresh squirrel, but guessed was likely three-day-old rat. "But, perhaps you would be good enough to direct me towards a merchant or noble who might desire such historical artifacts?" Pyotr pulled a pair of silver from his pouch.
Pellius catches up to Bonegrit in the town square...
"Dumuzi. Arvina." Bonegrit nods politely before finding himself a seat at the proffered chair. The leather of his armor creaks gently around his joints as he takes his position at the table. At Arvina's request, Bonegrit nods quickly in ascent. "Aye. I couldn't reckon which either of ya preferred; glad to see at least one of my choices found a home. Take all ya want—prefer the brew myself."
Fighting back uncomfortable fidgets at being thrust headlong—even if it was his fault alone—into a social encounter with complete strangers, the half-orc elects to fold his gloved hands on the table before his face, leaning forward onto the table with elbow-spurs resting on the table surface. He stifles moments of awkwardness with a well timed swig of his own stein of Bronzefist's Best. He listens intently and earnestly to Dumuzi's recountings of adventures and escapades. Bonegrit always enjoyed a good story, and the Mwangi's accent only further enhances the fantastic journeys he describes, regardless of how much truth can be counted among the telling.
"A haunted tower? Had a similar run of misfortune myself. An Iomedaen ruin along Harchrist's Block. Nasty things there; stitched horrors and rotten hands that moved on their own. Buggers bout took my nose off, they did. Couple days afore that, got stranded in a haunt of a swamp. Place was crawling with wisps, crickets, bug-men, and foul-tempered shrubs. Luckily fer me, I got a solid beast to bear me through the brunt of my troubles, though. A Dort Charger stouter than the drinks they got here." Bonegrit punctuates the remark by filling his maw with another swig of the brew. "Been along the Flood Road much recently? S'where my lot is headed. I reckon I'd appreciate any hints, heads, or tails you could offer on 'er. There's been a band of Gorumite orcs active along the river, and I'd like to steer clear of further encounters with that lot."
Delkaneth
Four gold for all six?
Mama Veljka raises her eyebrows, but nods in acceptance of the deal. Delkaneth returns to Sleer’s hut, bottles clinking as he makes his way down the alley.
As he enters Sleer’s hut, the unlikely sage grins ever wider at the sight of Chuggachuff’s Chosen and waves a slim journal in triumph.
“Found it,” he announces proudly “Tiasin Selphard’s very own Swamp Water & Footrot; A Six Month Sojourn in the Mushfens. His last published work – malaria claimed him soon after its completion.”
Sleer opens the small book and flicks rapidly through the pages, snorts in satisfaction and thrusts it at Delkaneth. One page is an illustration of what Sleer (and from the notes that accompany the sketch, Tiasin) term the Conductor of the Fens. It’s unmistakeable as the peculiar creature that Del, Bonegrit and Modoru encountered in the Ghostlight Marshes.
The facing page is Tiasin Selphard’s account of his encounter with the fey being. The explorer describes how he and his band heard a captivating chorus of insect life one evening in the swamp. The assorted crickets, cicadas and other singing bugs created a choir of voices with a complexity far beyond anything expected in nature.
Intrigued by this strange music, the adventurers crept closer, to discover the bizarre Conductor of the Fens guiding a great chorus of invertebrates; possibly thousands of insects including a half dozen giant crickets.
For some reason, the bard travelling with Tiasin tried to join insectoid orchestra with his oboe, which simply enraged the Conductor, who then commanded its players to attack them as well as spurring the music into a cacophony so loud it stunned many in Tiasin’s party.
Nonetheless, by quick swords and spells Tiasin and his companions were able to overcome their attackers and capture the Conductor. The fey creature understood only Sylvan, a tongue not spoken by any of Tiasin’s band, but it was learned of a vast repertoire of songs in the Common tongue. Although the individual words meant nothing to the creature, it still understood the overall meaning of the lyrics.
Tiasin spent much of the evening attempting to communicate with the Conductor, a frustrating endeavour as he tried to piece together meaning from the lyrics of the songs it sang to him. As the Conductor was unable to isolate the lines which contained the relevant information it was trying to express, Tiasin ran into various dead-ends as he followed irrelevant snatches of verse and chorus to the wrong conclusion.
However, in the end he managed to ascertain the Conductor was seeking to recruit his aid to recover a set of enchanted pearls said to possess beautiful, singing notes pregnant with magical effects when placed upon the tongue. The enchanted pearls were hidden in the nest of a roost of harpies that the Conductor seemed to despise with particular vehemence.
Tiasin, intrigued by both the treasure and the company of the Conductor of the Fens, agreed to join forces with the fey musician, which led him and his followers to the harpies' roost. A great battle ensued, one which was nearly the end for Tiasin and his men. The Conductor betrayed him in the midst of the fight, using its powers to overcome both men and harpies before stealing the pearls and fleeing into the marshes.
Pellius and Pyotr
The kebab seller swiftly pockets the two silver pieces . “Well, most people just go to Jork’s. Some of the Sharpes ‘r interested,” she continues, pointing at their residence “But there just as liable to take what you’ve got rather than buy it. Most of us don’t bother them unless we hav’ ta. I’ve heard Yevender the Knight keeps a few mementos of Lastwall’s glory days in his home as well.”
Pellius recalls the name Yevender:
Other Lastwall outlaws are thought to have found a home there; such as Yevender; a notorious dueller and jouster whose engagements often ended in the death of his foes. He fled to the Freedom Town a decade ago when his penchant for poisoned blade and false lance caps was discovered.
Bonegrit
Dumuzi nods enthusiastically at Bonegrit’s account of his own explorations, clearly pleased to be in the company of a fellow adventurer. Even Arvina seems impressed; perhaps the potcheen is mellowing her standoffish demeanour?
Been along the Flood Road much recently?
“In stretches, mainly the parts running north and south of Urgir. It was the spring rains, so much of the way was impassable due to the flooding. Of course, there’s a different road running from the Freedom Town to Urgir, and it gets more traffic than Lastwall would care to admit*.”
I reckon I'd appreciate any hints, heads, or tails you could offer on 'er.
“Be prepared for anything. The orcs are a bloodthirsty bunch,” says Dumuzi, before pausing as if fearing his comment might not rest too well considering his companion’s heritage, “but not every orc in the Hold’s gonna attack you on sight. On the same edge of the sword, if you wanna fight every orc from here to the Mammoth Lords, then you’re probably gonna have to wade through more bodies than you can handle, whatever your skill at arms. A bit of cunning's vital for survival. Play the different tribes off against one another, find out what they want and use it to your advantage. And always be ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice.”
There's been a band of Gorumite orcs active along the river, and I'd like to steer clear of further encounters with that lot.
“Well, that seems to be the big story on both sides of the border, doesn’t it? Truth is, that’s why we’ve been sticking to the Freedom Town. War drums aren’t sounding so loud here; the Cleft Heads orcs and the Sharpes boys seem to have some kind of accord, at least for now.”
“But to the east? Well, looks like a horde is mustering again. There’s a tribe come down from the mountains, the Black Ax of Ruin, tis what they’re said to be called. There chieftain’s said to be a giant among orcs. Wears the soot-darkened armour of a fallen Vigilant Watchknight, and worships Gorum with fanatical zeal.”“They’re fierce fighters, the Black Axes, but the thing is their tactical acumen; word is their chieftain’s a bit wiser on the battlefield than most of his kin. A lot of the lesser tribes have been drawn to their banner, and they’ve been throwing them at Lastwall’s forces. Fodder, really, to measure the strength of their enemy.”
“Of course, not all the orcs of Belkzen are happy about the warmongering. Grask Uldeth for one, he’s quite happy with the status quo up in Urgir. He’s set himself up nice and comfortable, but he knows he can’t ignore the Black Ax for long.”
*This, presumably, is the road Dierik intends to take when he leaves the Freedom Town.
"Yevender the Knight? That sounds promising." Pyotr glances back to Pellius. "I wonder why one of Lastwall's banner would retire to this place. I would guess an elder soldier who's hung up his spurs would value and protect these artifacts."
Before he can turn away, the old crone shoves a spit of oily, pungent meat into his hand. Pyotr looks from it to the crone's expectant face, and with a exertion of will, tears a bite from the skewer and forces it down.
"Yevender the Knight? That sounds promising." Pyotr glances back to Pellius. "I wonder why one of Lastwall's banner would retire to this place. I would guess an elder soldier who's hung up his spurs would value and protect these artifacts."
Before he can turn away, the old crone shoves a spit of oily, pungent meat into his hand. Pyotr looks from it to the crone's expectant face, and with a exertion of will, tears a bite from the skewer and forces it down.
The magus shakes his head, "Last I heard this 'knight' was pretty much chased out of the city. He was notorious for playing dirty and his tricks cost the lives of few of his opponents."
Pellius shrugs his shoulders, "I think we ought to find a different buyer but it's your call; I'll come along if you want to see him."
"Dirty tricks? What kind of tricks does a knight of the realm play at?" Pyotr shakes his head. "Shall we go and see this pariah knight? I'll not judge a man to whom I've never spoken. Perhaps his reputation is undeserved."
Sleer plonks down his now empty bottle of Chuggachaff’s Chosen and twists the cork off another.
You mentioned the druids 'passing'.......what tales do you know of that? Maybe that conductor's songs would make more sense if I knew the history better......"
“Well, that’s an interesting tale indeed,” his long fingers scurrying along a bookshelf and tugging down a thick grimoire. Delkaneth notes that with a bottle in hand, Sleer is a lot more expeditious in finding the volumes he’s looking for. This one’s frontispiece lists the title as The Long Decline of Lastwall. Sleer’s flips through the yellowed pages and begins to read.
“The Council of Thorns, the druid circle of the Ghostlake, came to an end in 4237 A.R, the year that Harchrist was forced to begin work on his great blockade. These two events do not lie together in history by accident, not indeed. One was born of the other.”
“But of course, the story of the Belkzen’s doomed druids begins far further back in time. By all accounts, they were amongst the first men to live in these lands, a wild race of people likely descended from the tribes that now roam the Realms of the Mammoth Lords. They preceded the armies of Taldor that built Lastwall by many centuries. In those days, before Tar-Baphon mustered his hordes, the Hold was an emptier place; the orcs and monsters less numerous, with tracts of true, virgin wilderness unsullied by the humanoids.”
“It was over these endlessly rolling moors that the druids roamed, most often in the form of beasts so ancient they’re rarely seen, or even imagined, in the lands of the civilised. The Ghostlake was their home, a mist-wreathed tarn into which they made their offerings of bone, antler and horn shaped with lost craftsmanship.”
“But with each fecund generation, the orcs expanded Belkzen’s legacy. Their brutal facsimile of civilization devastated the wild places one by one. Men came from the south and fought them. The Council watched these long battles, weeping or raging against the further damage to the natural world, and despairing that these wars of men and orcs found no resolution beyond the desolation of rugged world the druids cared over.”
“Gradually, the druids were pulled into the conflict, naturally siding with warriors of Taldor, the warriors who became the defenders of Lastwall.”
“At the turn of the forty-third century A.R, General Harchrist and the Council’s hierophant Eranworl were wary allies. In the words of Harchrist, Eranworl embodied ‘the unstoppable fury of nature at its most savage, unbridled and merciless.’ Words that proved to encapsulate Eranworl all too truthfully.”
“Eranworl, and the Council of Thorns at large, were becoming increasingly fanatical in their struggle against the horde. For the first time, the druids had been forced to repel orcish war parties from the very banks of the Ghostlake. It was ruthlessly clear to Eranworl that only the most drastic measures could protect the increasingly barren moorlands of the Hold.”
“It was that raw savagery observed by Harchrist which Eranworl sort to channel, master and send forth against his enemies. Promising Harchrist a final end to the orcs of Belkzen, the druids abandoned their Lastfolk allies and retreated to the Ghostlake.”
“The druids had chosen to sacrifice their own lives to work an unspeakable ritual of magic. With their wickedly honed copper sickles, they let their blood mingle with the lake water as they intoned the incantation of some long-forgotten, but formidably powerful, collaborative spell. Something though, went horribly awry. Whatever retribution Eranworl had planned for the orcs never came to pass. Instead the Council of Thorns was destroyed, and the Ghostlake became a lifeless, despondent place. The animals that sheltered there vanished, replaced by will o’ wisps, strange creatures that had never been seen before in these lands. When news of the Ghostlake’s transformation reached Harchrist, he realised the final salvation promised by Eranworl would not be coming to pass, and began work on his Blockade that very day. And thus Lastwall’s borders shrank once more.”
"Dirty tricks? What kind of tricks does a knight of the realm play at?" Pyotr shakes his head. "Shall we go and see this pariah knight? I'll not judge a man to whom I've never spoken. Perhaps his reputation is undeserved."
Pellius nods, "Sure, let's go. Just keep your eyes open and don't believe everything he says."
Pellius and Pyotr
On the opposite side of Freedom’s Square, Pellius and Pyotr notice Dierik and Santrian exiting the great building that serves as home to the Sharpes family. Santrian waves in acknowledgement of the two adventurers, and they begin to cross the bustling plaza.
Neither Pellius nor Pyotr have noticed the man in the long black coat taking his ease on the opposite side of the tall white obelisk that rises from the centre of the square. Nor do they mark anything unusual as the greybeard casually pulls himself to his feet, strolling nonchalantly, his path crossing that of Dierik and Santrian.
This innocuous fellow’s intentions are only betrayed as passes by Dierik. From beneath the man’s coat a hand crossbow emerges, and before the Trail Captain can even acknowledge the attack, the trigger is pulled. From a range of only three or four yards, the quarrel whips through the air like an angry bee, burying itself deep in Dierik’s ribs.
Pellius and Pyotr’s employer drops like a stone, and beside him, Second Master Santrian lets forth an incoherent cry and anguished, falls to his knees beside his friend.
The assassin explodes into motion, launching into a sprint that would shame many half his age. He’s fleeing away from the two adventurers, out of Freedom’s Square towards the Orcgate Road. Suddenly, a loud report reverberates around the plaza. From his perch atop the Marshall’s Office, the jezzail-wielding ratman has fired his weapon.
The cowardly assassin, however, has the sense to jink as he runs, and the musket ball kicks up the dirt an inch to the right of his fleeing heels.
Meanwhile, Santrian shouts over and over whilst pulling what must be a healing potion from his belt. At the very least, Santrian’s cries have an audience, for however grave the injury Dierik is conscious, clutching at the bolt where it has punctured his burgundy tunic.
Bonegrit
Within the Goodly Goatherd, Bonegrit (and everyone else), hears the sudden commotion outside. He recognises Santrian frantically calling the name of his employer.
Thr ratman's further way than the PCs; outside the first range increment.
Surprised by the entire scene, the magus instincts kicked in. He yells at Pytor as he goes by, "Make sure Dierik is Ok then follow me!"
With that, Pellius started chasing the assassin. Knowing that this place may be used to these scenes, he still tried to get people involved. "Stop him! Murder!"
Delkaneth
sounds more like that Council of Thorns than the poor beasts they dragged with them, doesn't it.
Sleer takes a swig of his beer, belches, and says “Yes, it sure does.”
Any druids in these parts that might have ties to the Council?
“I couldn’t say if he was a druid, but apparently there’s a hermit who lives out in the woods around the headwaters of the Path River. People say he protects the few trees left. I went looking for him once, but I couldn’t find him. There’s an overgrown shack in the centre of the copse, which I guess is where he lives.”
Sleer notes Delkaneth’s shuddering.
“Can’t handle your beer boy?” he asks.
Pyotr is running on the heels of the mage, cursing his armor for dragging him behind. "Catch him, Pellius!" he shouts as he skids to a stop beside Dierik. "Pull that thing free, Santrian. Iomedae, grant me your healing touch!"
As the barbed head tears free of Ironcoffer's skin, Pyotr slams his ungauntleted hand down on the wound.
Pellius surges across Freedom’s Square as the assassin rounds the corner of the Sharpes’ residence and begins running up the Orcgate Road. The greybeard is swift for his age, but Pellius’ youth makes him faster, and he begins to close the gap between them.
"Stop him! Murder!"
Pellius’ cries certainly elicit attention, but no-one moves to intercept Dierik’s attacker. However, a number of people in the street look rather excited at the prospect of the coming fight.
Pyotr is hard on Pellius’ heels, but he stops to aid Dierik and Santrian as he reaches the spot where his employer lies. The crossbow bolt pulls free, and Dierik gasps in relief as Pyotr’s healing energy flows into his wound. Judging it unnecessary, he pushes aside Santrian’s healing potion as Bonegrit also rushes up to join them.
“I’m fine, fine!” he gasps “Now go get that old dog!”
Wrapped tightly around the crossbow quarrel’s shaft is a sheaf of now blood-stained parchment.
Pellius huffs and puffs as his legs start to burn from the demands. The magus briefly weighs the option of shooting the man down but quickly discards as he sees that he is gaining on him. Hoping his friends are not far behind the magus continues to give chase.
The moment Pyotr feels the rush of healing magic pass into Dierik, he is back on his feet and chasing down the would-be assassin. He growled as the attacker cut the corner and vanished from his sight. Pellius made the turn and Pyotr trusted the mage to stay on his heels.
At the intersection to the Orcgate Road, Pyotr dashed straight on, making a beeline through the ramshackle slums to cut the assassin off at the northwestern turning.
Some unfortunate washer-woman had strung a line across the street full of her days labors. Pyotr's sword sheared through it dropping the line and its load to the ground as he flew through the alleys without breaking stride. He whispered an apology that was lost to the wind and the speed of his passage.
Dierik’s would-be murderer keeps his course rather than following the Orcgate Road as it sweeps to the left. Where the street known as Pyesen’s Plot branches north, the greybeard breaks northeast down a narrow alley.
Pellius is on his heels, but not quite close enough to affect a tackle. The assassin ignores a turn to the left, running straight on down the rubbish-strewn path, then dives right at a backstreet crossroads of closely crowded shacks.
Here’s a map to simplify matters.
Ears twitch slightly at the frantic yells of Santrian from without the Goatherd. Offering neither apology nor explanation, Bonegrit bounds from his seat and across the common room, eyes finding quickly where Dierik and Santrian are before his feet lend him mobility enough to join the worried knot of caravan members. Though Bonegrit finds himself relieved to hear his employer shouting away his would-be saviors, he hesitates to follow the caravan master's orders. There on the very bolt that sought to perhaps end his life, still tinged crimson by the very life blood that yet thankfully pumps through his veins, a roll of paper sits affixed. Sparing a brief glance over his shoulder to the chase carrying on down the street and away from the central square of Freedom Town, Bonegrit turns his gaze back to the attached note. He snatches the note and begins to unroll it, intent on discovering what message demanded such a grim delivery. Hoping to assuage Dierik's demand for retribution, Bonegrit offers freely as his eyes begin reading the note, "There ain't a ground deep enough fer him to go to that I can't sniff him out of. 'Sides—looks like he left a message fer us."
Trusting the half-orc is right behind him, Pellius continues at full speed trying to catch the murderer. He knows he hates this town with all its thieves and thugs. There was no honor here but he was bound to his job and that meant protecting his employer.
Getting visibly mad, he continues to yell at people to get them involved, "By the Lady's light, stop him!"
Pellius
The onlookers continue to be unmoved by Pellius’ entreaties, and then the magus is charging through the cramped alleys, leaving behind the civilians and simply doing his best to keep up with Dierik’s attacker.
Jinking and turning through the labyrinthine backstreets, deftly leaping over stagnant pools of waste, piles of trash and even a half dozen squawking chickens, the tail of the greybeard’s cloak always seems to disappearing around the next corner.
At the next turn, a low, single-story hut marks a dead-end. For a moment, Pellius tastes victory but the assassin never breaks stride, leaping high to grab the eaves of the shack and pull himself up. The tin sheets and wooden boards of the roof creak and shudder as the greybeard skips across and drops into the street beyond.
Bonegrit
Bonegrit unravels the parchment. Simply drawn capital letters spell out two words: Rosenholt’s Revenge!
Pyotr
Pyotr’s shortcut leads him back to the Orcgate Road, only that his clever shortcut now seems a little ill-judged.
There’s no sign of the assassin. People appear to be going about their normal business; it looks as if the chase has turned in other directions.
Delkaneth
“Well, it’s nice to speak to a lad that knows the worth of words, even if he is a twerp. Now, there’s the small matter of my sagery’s fee . . .”
Pellius
The onlookers continue to be unmoved by Pellius’ entreaties, and then the magus is charging through the cramped alleys, leaving behind the civilians and simply doing his best to keep up with Dierik’s attacker.
Jinking and turning through the labyrinthine backstreets, deftly leaping over stagnant pools of waste, piles of trash and even a half dozen squawking chickens, the tail of the greybeard’s cloak always seems to disappearing around the next corner.
** spoiler omitted **At the next turn, a low, single-story hut marks a dead-end. For a moment, Pellius tastes victory but the assassin never breaks stride, leaping high to grab the eaves of the shack and pull himself up. The tin sheets and wooden boards of the roof creak and shudder as the greybeard skips across and drops into the street beyond.
The magus takes advantage of his running and times his jump perfectly. It's only a matter of seconds to clamber over to the other side and continue following the assassin.
Bonegrit rises and squints down the Orcgate road at the fleeing form of Pellius. As the magus ducks into an alleyway, he mutters quietly to himself before turning eyes to the obelisk in the center of town that towers above the roof tops of the rest of the structures sprawling out in every direction. "I'll figure out where he's headin', yeah? I'll sniff 'im out then if our pale-haired hound doesn't get to the bugger first." True to his word, Bonegrit stalks over to the immense spire jutting up out of Freedom Square and begins placing hand over hand and foot over foot as he tries to scramble his way to a commanding perch that will let him see where the chase is heading or ending.
Pyotr bursts out of a side alley onto the main thoroughfare of the Orcgate, startling a group of pedestrians. He moved quickly to the middle of the street making himself as great an obstacle as possible to the fleeing assassin. The seconds tick by...
Pyotr draws breath after breath. The people on the street stare openmouthed at the spectacle. Five breaths. Six breaths.... Something is wrong...
Pyotr sheathed his sword, and began backtracking down the Orcgate. He cannot have passed, yet...
Delkaneth
Sleer gives a Del a tight smile at the Chelaxian’s poor attempt at humour (at least by his own opinion). After sucking his teeth for a moment, he grudgingly acknowledges the alcohol his visitor supplied.
“That seems fair enough. I’ll gladly take a gold piece off my fee in acknowledgement of your grand generosity,” Sleer can’t help but let a little sarcasm slide into the last two words. “Thus the total cost for knowledge so freely shared is nine gold pieces. A fraction of what you’d pay in Vellumis of course.”
Pellius
The assassin charges east down the street called Pyesen’s Plot. A narrower thoroughfare, people are forced to jump aside as he barrels past. His age is starting to tell; the greybeard is tiring and Pellius closes the gap between them until he is right behind his quarry.
Pyotr&Bonegrit
Bonegrit scrambles up the faded white marble of the obelisk, noticing with surprise that an eroded inscription dedicates the monument to Saint Jhomaith of Iomedae (and a lot of scrawled graffiti dedicated to cruder purposes) as he climbs. The stone is smooth but weathered, and the lithe half-orc succeeds in climbing all the way to the top of the spire’s diamond shaped pinnacle.
The Sharpes’ house, about the only building in the Freedom Town tall enough to obstruct his view is inconveniently located directly north of him. It obscures his view of much of the area the assassin might have fled to. Bonegrit scours the area, his eyes flitting hither and thither, trying to find avenues of sight amongst the chaotic mess of buildings.
There! A break between a pair of hovels gives Bonegrit a glimpse of the black-cloaked assassin running down Pyesen’s Plot, with Pellius only a few yards behind him.
Pyotr clever shortcut has come to naught. Confused, the paladin heads back down the Orcgate Road towards where he left Dierik and Santrian.
As he does so, he notices the street urchin Gedrin loitering on the corner . The boy holds out a grubby palm.
“For a silver I’ll tell ya where ya friend ran,” he says smugly.
The assassin charges east down the street called Pyesen’s Plot. A narrower thoroughfare, people are forced to jump aside as he barrels past. His age is starting to tell; the greybeard is tiring and Pellius closes the gap between them until he is right behind his quarry.
The magus smiles despite the strain shown in his face. Knowing he is almost on top of the assassin, he makes a final lunge at the man's legs hoping to take him down and knock some sense into him.
Getting up quicker than the old man could from the hard fall he took, the magus raises his sword which is now shimmering with arcane energy, "Easy now! One wrong move and I'll freeze you right here..."
“For a silver I’ll tell ya where ya friend ran,” [Gedrin] says smugly.
Pyotr arches a skeptical eyebrow as he alters his path to bring him before the scamp. He fishes a silver piece from his pocket, holding it before the young scoundrel's eyes. He pulls the piece back quickly as Gedrin's hand shoots out to snatch it away. "Which way?"
"Coin first," the lad countered.
Pyotr's eyebrow arched up even further. He dropped the coin on the ground, placing his ironshod boot upon it as the ragged cutpurse reached for it. "Which way?"
Gedrin shot an annoyed look at the half-orc...
Bonegrit, seeing the path the chase has taken, begins scrambling down the monument so he can attempt and provide a pincer to Pellius' chase. Rather than making ready to follow the path already beaten by the pair, the half-orc begins cutting a rapid trail down Grubber's Walk before turning down a broad alley that affords access via a direct line to Rundul's Tree. His still shouldered longbow nods up and down in sync with the ranger's loping strides, though his seldom employed greataxe has found occasion to earn itself a place in the half-orc's hands. He only hopes that there will be little enough obstruction between he and his quarry, and a bow is a poor choice of armament in the narrow alleyways of streets of men.
Pellius
The greybeard goes down, mud smearing his long black cloak as he rolls over the muddy ground.
With practiced ease, the greybeard continues his roll, getting his legs underneath him and springing back to his feet. As Pellius’ blade slips free of its scabbard, his opponent does the same, drawing a battered old longsword in his right hand and a glinting swordbreaker dagger in his left.
Dierik’s attacker glares back at Pellius, who with a start realizes he recognises the fellow. He’s known as Tharkon Tallows, a mercenary who for many years has made his living from Lastwall’s interminable war with Belkzen. The grizzled old dog’s known from trench to war-room for his cunning and fearlessness, and has survived countless battles with the orcs. For long periods he’s been kept on retainer by the commanders of various forts and encampments along the border, and when denied a steady wage has simply taken himself into the wastelands alone, always returning a few weeks later with a sack full of orcish heads to claim a bounty upon. He’s also an accomplished hunter of game, often hired by the wealthier lords of Vigil to lead them on expeditions in search of those great beasts of the northern lands that occasionally wander over Lastwall’s borders.
Tharkon studies Pellius. Clearly the recognition is not mutual, but despite his panting the man’s fighting stance is poised for action. His eyes flicker to the sorcery flickering along the magus’ sword, weighing the threat.
"Easy now! One wrong move and I'll freeze you right here..."
“Don’t be too sure of yourself lad,” he cautions “My work is done, and we can both walk away from this without the need for bloodshed.”
Delkaneth
Back in Westcrown I worked for a sage.....Sargan, brilliant man, well respected......people came from all over the city to ask him questions, and he charged them ten gold for a full day's work.
“That, one imagines,” replies Sleer sardonically “Can only be a measure of the man’s scholarly accomplishments. I, myself, apprenticed to the famed Balthen Eradmenes of Absalom, who charged the great unwashed twenty gold pieces merely to put pen to parchment and write out a simple question at his gate. They were never permitted to even meet the man. I remember more than one occasion when the esteemed Balthen refused to even look at some of the enquiries if he deemed the supplicant’s handwriting to poor. Needless to say, they did not receive a refund.”
“But that aside, little twerp, I do rather like you. You’ve an interest in things I can’t help but appreciate, and your brashness reminds me of me in my younger days. Soon you’ll learn not to push your luck, and ask a doxy’s price before you kiss those painted lips. Eight gold, and let’s finish the last bottle together.”
Pyotr
Gedrin shoots an annoyed look at the half-orc...
. . . gives an exaggerated, courtly bow, turns on his heel, and begins to walk off down the street. “Suit yourself,” he calls over his shoulder, his eyes recognising Pyotr is in a poor position to bargain.
Bonegrit
Bonegrit struggles down the monument. Climbing up proves easier than descending, and for a moment the ranger freezes, gripping fiercely to the stone as his feet struggle to find a foothold.
His boots scrabble against the marble, his arms straining to hold himself . . . then he falls!
Bonegrit falls heavily, drawing the laughter of a number of onlookers who have been observing the shenanigans taking place in the square. The half-orc leaps to his feet and tears off down Grubber’s Walk to head off the assassin.
Tharkon studies Pellius. Clearly the recognition is not mutual, but despite his panting the man’s fighting stance is poised for action. His eyes flicker to the sorcery flickering along the magus’ sword, weighing the threat.
"Easy now! One wrong move and I'll freeze you right here..."“Don’t be too sure of yourself lad,” he cautions “My work is done, and we can both walk away from this without the need for...
The magus is taken back for a second recognizing who he is up against. His sense of duty quickly comes back and Pellius shakes his head. "Can't do that, Tharkon. That is my boss back there, an honorable knight. Besides, my work just started!"
With that the soldier enhances his sword with arcane energy, finishes casting his spell, and moves forward to strike, delivering the spell's freezing energy.
“You know my name then. I can only hope you know my reputation as well, and consider yourself up to the task!”
The two warriors come together, blades flashing.
The two longswords meet with a clang, and the ice crystals infusing Pellius’ weapon leap along Tharkon’s own to coat the bare skin of his hand. He gasps as the cold seeps into his flesh, allowing Pellius to work around his guard and nick his cheek.
Despite the sudden bite of cold, Tharkon’s fast enough to exploit the opening as the two swords tangle, driving in his swordbreaker dagger. One of the studs on Pellius’ armour deflects some of the force behind the jab, but it still pierces his leather and the skin beyond.
Gedrin shoots an annoyed look at the half-orc, gives an exaggerated, courtly bow, turns on his heel, and begins to walk off down the street. “Suit yourself,” he calls over his shoulder, his eyes recognising Pyotr is in a poor position to bargain.
"Wait," Pyotr says resignedly. With the edge of his toe, he flips the coin towards the young man. "Tell me which way, please."
Wary of his opponent's two blades, the magus concentrates on striking again to once more deliver magical cold through his longsword.
Tharkon and Pellius’ blades dance against each other. The magus lunges again, this time slashing open his foe’s other cheek. Blood flows down Tharkon’s jowls, staining his beard crimson. Before Pellius can drive the blade any deeper, Tharkon’s swordbreaker comes up, its serrated edge parrying the strangely metalled blade.
With a mighty cry, Tharkon swings his own longsword down upon Pellius’, seeking to shatter the weapon caught on his swordbreaker.
With a resounding clang, Tharkon’s blade strikes the savakeen. The blow does nothing to Pellius’ sword, but leaves Tharkon’s deeply notched. The mercenary trots back, seemingly surprised at the failure of his sundering. Pellius presses his advantage, but realises too late Tharkon is not as baffled as he appears; the assassin turns aside Pellius’ strike and ripostes, his counterblow slicing deeply into the flesh of the magus’ upper arm.
The battle continues, with both men panting, sorely wounded, and in Tharkon’s case, shivering.
Delkaneth tries to think of a witty comeback but gives it up as a lost cause.
"I certainly wouldn't want to question your fame, dear doxy that you are, but good Sargan lived on a street that was paved. With actual bricks."
"You drive a hard bargain, sir, but here are your 8 pieces. I'll leave the entire last bottle to you so that you remember me fondly if I should ever need you again. And if you happen to know of anyone with an eye for fine antiquities, Ive recovered a few in my time so you might want to drop them my name."
He gets to his feet gingerly and gives the sage a slight bow. "And again, my thanks to you." With this final farewell he heads back out into the muddy alleyway.
Gedrin catches the silver coin with a wry grin, and points Pyotr down the alley his quarry went. The half-orc hustles down it, threading his way through the confusing backstreets until he comes to a dead end. Figuring the only way Pellius and the assassin must have gone; he hauls his large frame over the intervening shack and onto Pyesen’s Plot. His quarry are nowhere to be seen, but the sound of metal on metal is carried to his ears from the east, where the street jinks south. Pyotr moves swiftly towards the commotion.
Several streets away, Bonegrit also dashes to the aid of his companions, his long legs carrying down the alley linking Grubber’s Walk and Rundul’s Tree.
