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"Of course, of course," says Obyrn more politely, remembering his training. "But you have presented no case for our guilt, either. Accusations can be made on whim. What substance has been presented? As for defense, I can point to the lack of motive, lack of knowledge, and indeed even lack of ability. How was the Master killed? Was it by the lions, or the elephant? Neither were brought, arranged, or released by any of ours. Indeed, we few were those who attempted to put them down before they slew the crowd. I myself perished in the act, and have only just now been raised from Pharasma's beyond."
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Maaar jumps to their defense. "Okay, okay, okay... let's all calm down here, alright? Now, we are Pathinders and were tasked with helping to watch over Farandir Faireven's wedding ceremony. Now, at one point, Obyrn thought he saw someone suspicious - a guy dressed as a guard - so he and Baldwyn went to talk with him." Maaarv pauses to focus his thoughts.
"So, they're over talking with this guard, and he gets this spooked look on his face, let's out a whistle, and a bunch of other guards let the lion and elephant and everything loose. We did what we could to protect everyone. I mean - we kept a little kid from being swallowed whole by that damned snake! I didn't see any of the city guards there!"
"So then we find out that some items were stolen, so we tried to track them down. We found a hideout and there was, like, a pool of burning blood on the floor and three guys pop out of thin air and try to kill us. One got away, but we found a note." He pats down his pockets, "Maybe you guys confiscated it, but anyway. Some guy named Raamiz Ibin-something-or-other is the guy you want. He's got to be behind all this. It's in the note, I swear."
Maaarv sits down and folds his arms, feeling he said his peace.
We confiscated nothing. Bring me the note. As you approach, she hands the Pathfinder with the note a sheaf of instructions allegedly written to the Pathfinders by their faction leaders (essentially forged faction handouts). These documents supposedly outline their conspiracy to betray the House of Silver, using Farendir as the Society’s pawn. Close examination of the letters by any Pathfinder instantly reveals them to be shoddy forgeries, riddled with misspelled names, mistaken titles, and unlikely phrases.
Explain these...
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"Well, okay, these are obvious forgeries. See here? His name is HAMshanks, not BEEFshanks. And this here? We don't HAVE a "Master of Artifacts." Everyone knows the three Masters are Swords, Scrolls, and Spells, even initiates just in the door. Surely his Eminence knows this as well? Oh, and this! "The Committee to Accumulate Qadiran Wealth?" The Society does NOT function by committee, ever. Orders come from the Decemvirate or Venture Captains. No exceptions."
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Baldwyn mutters under his breath in regards to Obyrn's statement, "Or Osprey."
He then stands and gives his two cents on the matter. "Look, what he's sayin' is these aren't from our little group. Sure, they're written down for all to see, but that don't make 'em real. I could put on a shiny hat and write on a piece of parchment that I was the king of Absalom, but that don't make it so. All you gotta do to check is send word to the nearest Lodge and they'll set the matter straight. Can even point you to a few folk who can show these ain't legit."
Satisfied, he sits back down, his mind still going.
'Sides, we don't even get letters from our faction leaders anymore. Guess they want us to remember some grand scheme and go pokin' though everythin'.
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Maaarv takes hold of the forged faction letter that is supposedly from Master Amenopheus. He carefully rubs his thumb over some of the ink.
Having no skills with handwriting or the like, Maaarv simply notes the way the ink rubs off on his thumb as he rubs it. With that, he tries to reason how the note is a forgery.
"Well, see this ink? This isn't the same ink that Amenopheus would use. I'm not Osirion myself - I merely admire the culture - but never would such low-quality ink be used on official parchment."
Maaarv approaches one of the judges carefully (or will stay back if so directed), to try and demonstrate the cheap nature of the ink.
The judge seems unswayed by your testimony. Obyrn's attempts to show the forgeries for what they are fall a bit flat and Maaarv, a clear expert in alchemy, ends up delivering his example in a stutter that distracts the judge and she dismisses what he says out of hand.
Her ears pique at the recommendation made by Baldwyn. Hmm... Perhaps we will do just that. I guess we will keep you remanded to room until this gets sorted out with your superiors...
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"Go ahead. In the meanwhile, our job of protecting our client's property is goin' undone. So unless you have some more solid evidences than misspelled letters from people who don't talk to us that way, I don' think there's any more to do here. You wanna find us again, we'll be here." Then with a slim smile, "Say, Maaarv, didn't the People's Revolt start based on improper treatment of innocent men?"
The judge glares at Baldwyn. You are speaking to the representative of the Satrap. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to be able to continue. Innuendo and sarcasm will not be tolerated.
Samera the Insightful looks to Maaarv. You mentioned that you were the ones who dealt with the beasts that interrupted the Silver Wedding. You claim to have seen the offenders, but you did not detain them? You learned of theft of ancient relics, yet did not report it to the authorities? Instead, you decided to hunt down the thieves yourselves with no regard for the law here in Qadira.... Is this all correct so far?
Samira clearly is exasperated by Baldwyn's flippant remark. Guards! Escort Mr. Docuas to one of our non-ambassadorial cells. Two heavily armored men step up to the reclining man and lift him up bodily. The chair clatters to the ground. The last that the rest of the Pathfinders see of the man is a haughty Baldwyn being dragged off.
After you arrive at the cells, you are stripped of everything you own. You are even given a cavity search by a large Qadiran to ensure complete safety. You are given a shift and some drawstring pants that have probably been worn by at least 15 other people before you, going by the smell. You are then led to your cell.
Where your previous jail cell was an opulent room equipped with plush feather beds and golden bath tubs, your new cell looks worse than half of the sewers that you've travelled through for the Pathfinders. A metal bucket that is filled with human excrement sits in the corner of this 10' by 10' concrete room. There are no chairs, benches or beds. Only three huddled people in rags. They don't even raise their heads to look at you as you get tossed roughly into the cell.
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Maaarv stands up, emboldened by Baldwyn's brashness. "No, we didn't detain the perpetrators," he spits on the floor. "We were to busy rescuing innocent people and
"Wait, wait - where are you taking him? We've told you what we know... If you take your sweet time investigating the illegitimacy of these obvious forgeries, then you'll miss your only chance of getting these artifacts returned." Maaarv holds his hands up in supplication.
"I mean, I know you may not like us, but we're the best chance you have of getting those artifacts back." He sits back down and mutters loudly under his breath, "Nevermind the hell that the Society will bring down on you when it finds out you've unfairly detained four members in good standing."
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"We are Pathfinders," Obyrn says proudly. "And Pathfinders act boldly. We learned that thieves had taken what was rightfully ours, and saw no authorities at hand, so we acted in the name of His Eminence immediately lest the villains escape. I will not apologize for attempting to do Qadira a favor by apprehending the rascals."
"Meanwhile, you arrest us and we wait and now we talk. Yet still the culprits have not been caught. Allow us to continue our task, under your supervision if you wish, and let us put this matter to rest with all the proof you shall need."
"If you lock us away, however, the murder and affront to the House of Silver will go unresolved, and the mastermind who has so far fooled you will strike again. It is your choice. Shall we work together? Or shall you continue on a fool's errand to a fool's dividends?"
Samira is glaring at the group after having sent Baldwyn to the holding cells. Maarv's and Obyrn's responses finish and she seems to have grown angrier, if possible.
First, as you have been warned of this behavior... Samira is looking directly at Maaarv. Guards. The ink master here will be joining his compatriot. Take him away. Maaarv, being much smaller than the Taldan, is easily lifted by his armpits and carried off through the same door as Baldwyn.
Second, will you pick up that chair? This is a place of respect. Samira points at the fallen chair left by Baldwyn.
And third, unless you and your half-orc friend want to join them, you had better watch your tone. You have a thin leash. You have no leash. I am holding you by the scruff of your neck and, the next time that you snap at me, you will be put down. Understood?
She turns to Obyrn. Finally, some respect shown. I guess I have made my point. I have seen your evidence and you may have cast some doubt on the allegations, however what do you propose?
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Two minutes after Baldwyn gets tossed into the jail cell, he sees the door creak open and Maaarv fly through the air, before landing in a crumpled mess against the far wall. Additionally, a manacled orc is pushed into the room and given a small box. He puts his hands back out through the grate and the guards unlock his manacles.
He cracks his knuckles and sits on his box. Waiting...
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As Maaarv is tossed into the cell with Baldwyn, he almost knocks over a bucket of something wretched. "Hummmm, well. Hiya Baldwyn. I guess we made a mess of things. I mean... I don't know what came over me - they could see that those notes were forgeries. If... if only we could just convince them." Maaarv slumps down as he sits on the dirty floor. He looks up forlornly at Baldwyn, "Any ideas?"
His eyes adjust and he sees the orc. "Oh, hello there." Maaarv nervously bows. He begins speaking deliberately and slowly, as if to a small child.
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"Of course! I am your must humble servant, and I need no leash at all." After a moment of pondering, "Hmmm. It seems that there a few possible leads. I suggest that you and some of your men accompany us in tracking down this Incubus, hosting a discussion with ibn-Chadli and/or his vizier -- if he can be found -- or perhaps even sending a ship to search the coastline for things out of the ordinary. We did search the hall where these "rituals" took place and found little of interest besides this note and a blood-stained box."
"In any case, there seems to be more to this matter than I rightly know at this juncture, but I will do all I can to expand our mutual knowledge. I do ask, however, that you allow my blunt-tongued companions to re-join us. They may not be the most polite (though I will encourage them to reform) but they are most handy in a fight."
The orc seems to ignore Maaarv.
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After sitting quietly for a while, trying to be respectful, Narvik watches as a couple of his friends get themselves thrown into the dungeons. The half-orc shrinks himself a little in embarrassment, not knowing what he could say or do in their defense as Obyrn tries to remedy this situation.
Please, listen to my friend and his proposal. We mean no disrespect by any means. Emotions can get in the way of even the best man's intentions, as we have seen here today. Put trust that we can find a solution to all of this in a manner that we can perform.
Samira debates in her mind between letting these fools rot for their apparent idiocy or addressing the real issue presented to her by the note. Upholding the law, however, is of the utmost importance, thus she seems to go with the latter interpretation.
I will not free your compatriots until you have shown me that you are not part of this conspiracy. The judge decrees. If what you say is true, then it must be addressed.
She looks down at her docket. Mess'rs Drak and Suburrae will be accompanied by two of my personal guards to investigate these crimes. They will be watching you for any misdeeds. If you try to escape, you will be hunted down and delivered to the executioner with your compatriots.
These proceedings are to be continued upon the successful conclusion of an investigation of the villa of Ibn'Chadli by my own guard and the Pathfinders to see if their is any veracity to these claims. She bangs her gavel twice, stands and leaves the chambers.
Two men enter the courtroom and approach the Pathfinders.
Your weapons are returned to you as soon as you are checked out.
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A scruffy-looking man joins the group, shining his badge of office with pride. With a bow to the officials, he leads the Pathfinders from the room. Once clear of the formal room, "Felicitations! So, off to follow through to try to prove your innocence, eh? Well, good luck with that. In the meantime, let's get this done with. I've got a hot meeting tonight with the stenographer in there."
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Close behind the halfling, a tall, bald-shaven man follows almost silently. He holds his hands in front of his chest with the left hand cupped over his right fist. He bows curtly. "I understand your companions were found... less than worthy to continue. I trust we shall avoid any unpleasantness between each other as we retrieve the items you've let slip."
He turns abruptly, "My friend Lem is right, we must be on our way. Please do not dawdle.'
The two guards escort Obyrn and Narvik to the Avenue of the Pheonix.
Small villas line the Avenue of the Phoenix, the local residences of traveling merchants and officials. Intricate designs cover the homes’ finely carved doors, subtle reminders of their residents’ wealth and taste. Midway down the street, the gaudily painted walls of one home contrast sharply with the burnt-out remains of an unfortunate neighbor: this must be Raamiz Ibn-Chadli’s villa.
Few people travel the secluded avenue, and although watchmen regularly patrol its length, they follow their rounds with easily predicted routine. Few lights burn here after dark, as few of the merchants and slavers living here care to know their neighbors. Behind the elegant villas, a walled neighborhood holds the hovels of slaves and indentured servants.
A stout, locked door and twelve-foot walls guard Raamiz Ibn-Chadli’s home.
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Sajan balls his hand into a fist and pounds on the door.
"We shall be polite - as much as we can. Should this prove to be the nest of evil that you and your companions had suggested, then less savory methods can be used."
He waits a couple of beats before knocking again.
He looks at the others. "It is the law - they must comply or face the consequences. You know, like your companions."
The doors to the villa creak open and an elderly couple stands in the path. The old man speaks in a wizened voice. Greetings... We... uhh... were not expecting a visit from such esteemed guests. I am Hroth and this is Gerdit. The woman bows deeply to the officers and Pathfinders.
What can we do for you? The man meekly states, eyes averted.
The man meekly mutters. Sir Ibn-Chadli is not here at the moment. He is on a trip at the moment and only his vizier remains at the villa to watch over things. Would you care for a cup of tea on the terrace?