"Hours...we shouldn't have taken this long," he says, standing up. "I don't want our mining rounds to finish with us down here. We must leave."
"No kiddin'," sighs the smuggler. "I hope you got somethin' useful outta that meetin', 'cause we will end up bein' late, as like as not..."
As Raveen heads out with the rest, he turns to Andrzej, and asks, "Where did Hjarni try to escape to? We reached here by boat."
Andrzej shrugs. "He wasn't trying to run away, I don't think. From what I could gather from Pike, he was headin' deeper into town..."
He motions vaguely towards the adamantine wall at the edge of the market, hovels covering its sleek metal surface like barnacles on the hull of a ship.
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"Hours...we shouldn't have taken this long," he says, standing up. "I don't want our mining rounds to finish with us down here. We must leave.""No kiddin'," sighs the smuggler. "I hope you got somethin' useful outta that meetin', 'cause we will end up bein' late, as like as not..."
Raveen nods, and says, "I did. Besides the mask, I also know why the Warden is digging this deep. Somewhere in this domain is a great power he thirsts for: the power of the Dark Folk's Father and his ward."
He then looks at Pike, then Hjarni, and then at Andrzej again, and then says, looking at the adamantine wall at the edge of the market, "Perhaps they're looking for whatever you sense, eh Master Dwarf?"
He waits for the dwarf's reply, once he calms down.
"We'll leave soon--I must make some inquiries and purchases. We still have some coins left from the prison guard, and Curnow said he wants only the manacles."
Raveen nods, and says, "I did. Besides the mask, I also know why the Warden is digging this deep. Somewhere in this domain is a great power he thirsts for: the power of the Dark Folk's Father and his ward."
The smuggler strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Well, that's... somethin'. The question is, how do we use it...?"
He then looks at Pike, then Hjarni, and then at Andrzej again, and then says, looking at the adamantine wall at the edge of the market, "Perhaps they're looking for whatever you sense, eh Master Dwarf?"
He waits for the dwarf's reply, once he calms down.
Hjarni appears highly agitated, quieting down only due to corporeal exhaustion. However, the dwarf's mind appears to be racing even as his body fails, his eyes darting around, repeating the same mantra over and over in a wheezing voice: "The bones of the earth, they call to me. I must free them from their prison of flesh."
The Ustalav shakes his head sadly. "He's gone off the deep end, methinks. Never should've brough 'im down 'ere..."
Pike huffs, never lifting her foot off the prone elder.
"We'll leave soon--I must make some inquiries and purchases. We still have some coins left from the prison guard, and Curnow said he wants only the manacles."
Andzrej shrugs. "Might as well, I s'pose..."
The half-orc throws Hjarni over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, following along in irritated silence as the dwarf struggles feebly in her grasp.
"Very good," says Raveen, approaching the brightly-lit cart.
"Hail, kayal," he says.
The fetchling appears male at a glance, though he is somewhat androgynous in his dress and manner. Perhaps in an effort to ingratiate himself to the dark folk, his attire consists of multiple layers of cloth. These are a far cry from the uniformly black accoutrements of his hosts: they are made from colourful and exotic fabrics, with wildly clashing hues and textures. His fashionably bedraggled hair has been dyed bright yellow, to match the gleam of his monochrome eyes.
"Greetings," he says, his voice a soft lisp. "I see you know of my people. You are far from home, 'surface-dweller'—though I suppose I am farther still, yes?"
Though he is obviously quite fluent in Taldane, the merchant is affecting a hypercorrect form of the standard spoken in Cheliax. There are hints of his native dialect underneath—one spoken by underprivileged kayal all over Nidal, and which borrows heavily from Aklo and other languages of the Shadow Plane.
The fetchling glances at Andrzej, who is perusing the various trinkets. "See anything that piques your most refined interests, good sirs?"
Most of the items around the stall are luminescent in one way or another, and brightly coloured more often than not: pouches filled with glimmering dust, bottles and vials bubbling with shimmery liquids, articles of clothing woven from brightsome silks, and all sorts of amulets and talismans carved with various glowing symbols.
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Raveen nods, and says, "I did. Besides the mask, I also know why the Warden is digging this deep. Somewhere in this domain is a great power he thirsts for: the power of the Dark Folk's Father and his ward."The smuggler strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Well, that's... somethin'. The question is, how do we use it...?"
Raveen shrugged, and said, "We'll just have to find out, won't we?"
Hjarni appears highly agitated, quieting down only due to corporeal exhaustion. However, the dwarf's mind appears to be racing even as his body fails, his eyes darting around, repeating the same mantra over and over in a wheezing voice: "The bones of the earth, they call to me. I must free them from their prison of flesh."
The Ustalav shakes his head sadly. "He's gone off the deep end, methinks. Never should've brough 'im down 'ere..."
Pike huffs, never lifting her foot off the prone elder.
Raveen's eyes narrow.
Below them, a foul presence wails and writhes in perpetual agony. Whatever it is, the merest glimpse of it fills you with terror.
"You're not insane," Raveen says firmly. "I...think I saw it, too."
"Hail, kayal,""Greetings. I see you know of my people. You are far from home, 'surface-dweller'—though I suppose I am farther still, yes?"
Raveen nods in reflection.
"I have met many of your people, good kayal," Raveen says quietly in the unique dialect spoken in Nidal. "In the land where the Shadow dwells. What brings you to trade here? Is it for the Dark Folk or..."He trails off, not wishing to mention the Other, casually observing the luminous shop-stand.
Or Father, as it is...
"--for what you trade in seems like a treasure indeed," he observes in curious amazement.
"You're not insane," Raveen says firmly. "I...think I saw it, too."
Hjarni has a brief moment of lucidity, enough to fix you with a stare: the old dwarf's eyes hold a mixture of desperation and resignation. He nods once in a measured manner—as if in acknowledgment of your shared vision—but is quick to resume his rasped mantra, once again overcome by his compulsion.
Andrzej raises an eyebrow. "Well, just 'cause he's right doesn't mean he's not off his rocker! I hope we can all agree that whatever they've got trapped down 'ere, it should probably stay that way, yea? I just hope you're not plannin' on a getaway, too—Pike can only haul 'round so many people, y'know..."
The half-orc simply grunts, eyeing you suspiciously.
Raveen nods in reflection.
"I have met many of your people, good kayal," Raveen says quietly in the unique dialect spoken in Nidal. "In the land where the Shadow dwells. What brings you to trade here? Is it for the Dark Folk or..."
He trails off, not wishing to mention the Other, casually observing the luminous shop-stand."--for what you trade in seems like a treasure indeed," he observes in curious amazement.
The fetchling bows, gracing you with a cryptic smile. "You honour me with your praise, good sir! Yet, these humble offerings are but the least of the wonders that the Hives have produced... along with an assortment of curios I have gathered on my travels, naturally. Mine is a living collection."
As you cast a cantrip to inspect the merchandise, the flamboyant proprietor covers his mouth and gasps, taking half-step back as if swooning—though you suspect his shock is mostly affected. "How rude! Good sir, I assure you: everything in my stall is precisely as ensorcelled as it ought to be—no more, no less."
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"You're not insane," Raveen says firmly. "I...think I saw it, too."Hjarni has a brief moment of lucidity, enough to fix you with a stare: the old dwarf's eyes hold a mixture of desperation and resignation. He nods once in a measured manner—as if in acknowledgment of your shared vision—but is quick to resume his rasped mantra, once again overcome by his compulsion.
Andrzej raises an eyebrow. "Well, just 'cause he's right doesn't mean he's not off his rocker! I hope we can all agree that whatever they've got trapped down 'ere, it should probably stay that way, yea? I just hope you're not plannin' on a getaway, too—Pike can only haul 'round so many people, y'know..."
The half-orc simply grunts, eyeing you suspiciously.
Raveen waves his hand in a relaxed manner.
"We will have to talk later, Hjarni...once we're out of here," Raveen says at the old dwarf.
Raveen nods in reflection.
"I have met many of your people, good kayal," Raveen says quietly in the unique dialect spoken in Nidal. "In the land where the Shadow dwells. What brings you to trade here? Is it for the Dark Folk or..."
He trails off, not wishing to mention the Other, casually observing the luminous shop-stand."--for what you trade in seems like a treasure indeed," he observes in curious amazement.
The fetchling bows, gracing you with a cryptic smile. "You honour me with your praise, good sir! Yet, these humble offerings are but the least of the wonders that the Hives have produced... along with an assortment of curios I have gathered on my travels, naturally. Mine is a living collection."
..."How rude! Good sir, I assure you: everything in my stall is precisely as ensorcelled as it ought to be—no more, no less."
Raveen waves his hand before his eyes, dismissing the magic within them. "No offense was intended, good sir, merely curiosity."
He observes the materials, and then cracks a small smile, saying, "Alas, I find myself short on coins. I didn't expect to find a shop here--have you a map... or perhaps a spellcasting pouch?"
The fetchling cocks his head. "Hm, I suppose gold might do. Customarily, I trade for trinkets of similar value..."
He starts going through the merchandise, producing various objects for your perusal. "Aside from affordable essentials such as sunrods and tindertwigs, having some darkflare might be useful, in case you need to fend off Darklands predators. I also have various colours of glowing ink—including shades which are normally unseeable by human eyes. Oh, and I almost forgot: for a connoisseur of magical oddities..."
The merchant opens up a small felt-lined case, revealing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. The lenses are prismatic, refracting the various rainbow hues around the stall into another multitude of fascinating colours—some of which you have no names for, and which swiftly cause a headache when so considered.
"Full disclosure," says the fetchling. "These glasses are almost certainly cursed. Honestly, I have not been able to determine what they do, exactly. The person who sold them to me was not helpful in that regard, and I have been unable to find a buyer. I would be willing to let them go for ten units of gold."
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The merchant opens up a small felt-lined case, revealing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. The lenses are prismatic, refracting the various rainbow hues around the stall into another multitude of fascinating colours—some of which you have no names for, and which swiftly cause a headache when so considered.
"Full disclosure," says the fetchling. "These glasses are almost certainly cursed. Honestly, I have not been able to determine what they do, exactly. The person who sold them to me was not helpful in that regard, and I have been unable to find a buyer. I would be willing to let them go for ten units of gold."
Curious, but risky...
Raveen didn't pause, but internally sighed at the Varisian's theft.
I'll deal with you later.
"I was curious if you happened to have a spell component pouch," Raveen asks, before adding. "Or something that could block bright light for about an hour..."
He then paused, and got an idea.
"Your trade focuses on luminous objects, doesn't it?" Raveen asks. "So might happen to recognize an object I've seen--"
The fetchling chuckles. "Ha! What a novel request. I could procure you a pouch, certainly. I cannot, however, guarantee that it would contain all the various components you might need for whichever spells you are capable of casting. A rather absurd notion, when you really stop to ponder on it. As for this orb of light you speak of..."
He considers your description for a moment, rather over-exaggeratingly stroking his grey chin. "From the sounds of it, it is not an object at all. Have you tried touching it? Things are hardly ever what they seem to be, at least at first glance. A light without a source is likely a false one..."
The fetchling gasps, clutching at the scarf around his neck. "Why, I never... such impudence!"
Andrzej shrugs apologetically. "Yeah, sorry. He gets very excited 'bout... y'know, magic stuff."
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"Honestly, I have not been able to determine what they do, exactly. The person who sold them to me was not helpful in that regard, and I have been unable to find a buyer. I would be willing to let them go for ten units of gold."
Raveen's eyes studied the glasses quietly for a while, analyzing the magical patterns and the mirror sheen of the lenses.
"In the interests of just trade," Raveen says. "I must reveal to you that these glasses are just under a thousandfold more valuable than ten units of gold."
"I would still buy them at your initial price," he adds with an unchanged expression. "If you are short on buyers, though I would prefer something that could darken the light around me."
Raveen approaches the two creatures with the mushrooms.
"Hail--what do you sell here, gentle folk?"
Raveen's eyes studied the glasses quietly for a while, analyzing the magical patterns and the mirror sheen of the lenses.
"In the interests of just trade," Raveen says. "I must reveal to you that these glasses are just under a thousandfold more valuable than ten units of gold."
"I would still buy them at your initial price," he adds with an unchanged expression. "If you are short on buyers, though I would prefer something that could darken the light around me."
The fetchling ceases his swooning antics, giving you a sly look. "Ah, yes! Such were the result of my own humble probings, as well. I do very much appreciate your candour, good sir, and I congratulate you on your keen perception for dweomercraft. Yet, I am not willing to compromise the reputation of my venture on the possibility of accidentally selling cursed merchandise to an ignorant party. As I have stated previously, my primary interest is not in the accumulation of metals precious to any single mortal world. 'Prestige is much more universal than currency,' to quote a close friend of mine..."
He waves his hand dismissively, letting out a rueful sigh. "As for implements meant to eliminate sources of illumination, you would have to seek assistance elsewhere. While such offerings would no doubt within my expertise to procure, they would be quite inimical to some of my most esteemed customers, as well as to the suppliers of my rarest wares. Again, it comes down to prestige. T'is both a blessing and a curse, a sterling reputation such as mine!"
Raveen approaches the two creatures with the mushrooms.
"Hail--what do you sell here, gentle folk?"
The creatures are short and slight, much like gnomes or halflings. They have bluish pale skin, with shocks of white hair. One female and one male, both are similarly clad in metal-studded leathers and carry an assortment of knives. At first, you assume them to be deep gnomes—or svirfneblin, as they are known in the Gnomish tongue—yet neither of them seem fluent in said language. Furthermore, they are far more disturbing in their countenance than any gnome you have known, muttering to themselves as much as they do each other, and staring at you unblinkingly with their bulging white eyes while they fiddle with their knives. This also serves to bring attention to the fact that they have four fingers on each hand, something which you have not learned to associate with any subspecies of gnome.
"Hey, be careful," whispers Andrzej. "I think your new friends might be derros—crazy bastards, from what I've heard. They'll snatch you right off the street, cut you up for fun, and then plop you back with all sorts of messed up brain stuff goin' on. I don't think they'd try that out 'ere in the open, with the dark folk watchin', but y'never know..."
One of the creatures—the female—pipes up in a shrill voice, speaking in a distinctive dialect of Aklo: "Lichens, moulds, and 'shrooms! Some to unshackle your mind, others to relax the body, and yet others to help get rid of bothersome enemies—or family and friends, whoever it is that bothers you."
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Raveen's eyes studied the glasses quietly for a while, analyzing the magical patterns and the mirror sheen of the lenses.
"In the interests of just trade," Raveen says. "I must reveal to you that these glasses are just under a thousandfold more valuable than ten units of gold."
"I would still buy them at your initial price," he adds with an unchanged expression. "If you are short on buyers, though I would prefer something that could darken the light around me."The fetchling ceases his swooning antics, giving you a sly look. "Ah, yes! Such were the result of my own humble probings, as well. I do very much appreciate your candour, good sir, and I congratulate you on your keen perception for dweomercraft. Yet, I am not willing to compromise the reputation of my venture on the possibility of accidentally selling cursed merchandise to an ignorant party. As I have stated previously, my primary interest is not in the accumulation of metals precious to any single mortal world. 'Prestige is much more universal than currency,' to quote a close friend of mine..."
He waves his hand dismissively, letting out a rueful sigh. "As for implements meant to eliminate sources of illumination, you would have to seek assistance elsewhere. While such offerings would no doubt within my expertise to procure, they would be quite inimical to some of my most esteemed customers, as well as to the suppliers of my rarest wares. Again, it comes down to prestige. T'is both a blessing and a curse, a sterling reputation such as mine!"[/ooc]
Raveen frowns, finding the fetchling's reaction unexpected.
"Now I'm curious. Who are your target customers, if I may ask? Few Darklands natives endure light, let alone purchase it."
One of the creatures—the female—pipes up in a shrill voice, speaking in a distinctive dialect of Aklo: "Lichens, moulds, and 'shrooms! Some to unshackle your mind, others to relax the body, and yet others to help get rid of bothersome enemies—or family and friends, whoever it is that bothers you.
"
"I seek relaxants and material of medicinal nature," Raveen says to the two Derro in Aklo.
Raveen frowns, finding the fetchling's reaction unexpected. "Now I'm curious. Who are your target customers, if I may ask? Few Darklands natives endure light, let alone purchase it."
"A logical conclusion," he replies with a smirk. "Yet not an entirely accurate one, if you will permit a correction. Many of the locals are adverse to brightness, of course, but just as many are drawn to it—even if it causes them discomfort. You see how these simple folk are fascinated by bright baubles, yes? Everyone yearns for that which they cannot possess! Even my native plane is not entirely devoid of such glamour, owing to d'ziriak ingenuity..."
The kayal looks at his wares with a wistful expression, as if reminiscing about where he procured each one. "But right you are, many of my most faithful customers are elsewhere: the markets at Heaven's Shore, the court of Azhar al-Zakhar in the City of Brass, as well as several jyoti Star Cities—all of them places in which luminescence reigns supreme. This place is a... novelty, at best. A vacation. While I do love to be amongst crowds, it does get tiring every so often..."
While it may sound fanciful, you certainly get the expression that he believes every word he is saying. Then again, he is a salesman.
"I seek relaxants and material of medicinal nature," Raveen says to the two Derro in Aklo.
The Darklands scavengers are eager to serve, presenting you with several mushrooms of all shapes and sizes. You realise most of them are poisonous in one way or another, yet many of them can be used in smaller doses to induce painlessness or loss of consciousness. Others might be used as disinfectants, if properly prepared.
"Is that so..." Raveen muses. "How long will you remain here?
The fetchling tilts his head to one side, thinking. "Hmm. Well, that depends entirely on when I feel like taking my leave. Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Assuming you are planning on renewing your patronage, I might be inclined to stay for a while longer, at the very least..."
"And please excuse me--I haven't asked for your name."
The merchant smiles enigmatically, seeming as if he had been looking forward to the query.
"I am called by many names," he says. "You may call me Itzal, if it pleases you to do so."
Knowing both languages, you realise this is just one of the many words for "shadow" in Aklo and Shadowtongue.
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"Is that so..." Raveen muses. "How long will you remain here?The fetchling tilts his head to one side, thinking. "Hmm. Well, that depends entirely on when I feel like taking my leave. Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Assuming you are planning on renewing your patronage, I might be inclined to stay for a while longer, at the very least..."
Raveen casts his eyes to the Other's dark manor in the distance with a meaningful glance.
"I do hope to come by another time. Unfortunately, I am pressed for time for now," he says with a small sardonic smile. "Got to go back to prison, or my warden will tell me to go in the corner.""And please excuse me--I haven't asked for your name."The merchant smiles enigmatically, seeming as if he had been looking forward to the query.
"I am called by many names," he says. "You may call me Itzal, if it pleases you to do so."
Knowing both languages, you realise this is just one of the many words for "shadow" in Aklo and Shadowtongue.
Raveen nods, considering the merchant carefully.
"Very well. I hope to see you again in the future, Itzal. You can call me--"
"We're leaving," he tells the others.
All of the spelunkers seem glad to be leaving the dark folk settlement. Andrzej has a spring in his step, and Pike hoists the exhausted Hjarni on her shoulder without as much as a grumble. You leave behind the market, shadowed both by both Itzal's genial smile and the derros' leering faces. Dark folk stare as you pass, unmolested by any—even the formerly confrontational dockmaster makes way as you approach the boat. You note that your former guide, now bandaged and recuperated, has been given a new cloak and a fine dirk of dwarven make—obviously, his bringing you here paid off for him.
"You have met Father," the creeper says as you approach, his gibbering becoming more and more understandable. "Great honour—even if you are still stained."
Pike throws Hjarni into the boat and grabs the oars, while everyone else piles into the fungal craft. With the creeper's guidance, you once again traverse the adamantine spikes and arrive back at the islet. Soon, you have clambered up a rope into the ravine. Here, the creeper starts hiding any signs of your previous struggle, obviously following some preordained set of instructions. Leaving him to his work, you traverse the ravine to the rope leading back into the prison mines.
Your final preparations in place, all of the spelunkers make their way up the rope. Above, you are greeted by a larger than normal group of guards—as Andrzej predicted, you are late. There are no prisoners at work here, only the armed, white-robed acolytes and hulking Curnow in his grey vestments. Under his watchful eye, the guards start frisking you one by one, starting with Andrzej and soon moving onto you. Pike and Hjarni seem to pass with a little less scrutiny.
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As he accompanied his fellows, Raveen turns sideways to Andrzej. "Wand caught your eye?"
He doesn't add anything, recalling the sight of it under his eyes.
"You have met Father. Great honour—even if you are still stained."
"It was indeed a great honor, Raveen says, studying the Darkfolk. "I apologize for the deaths of your brethren."
Your final preparations in place, all of the spelunkers make their way up the rope. Above, you are greeted by a larger than normal group of guards—as Andrzej predicted, you are late. There are no prisoners at work here, only the armed, white-robed acolytes and hulking Curnow in his grey vestments. Under his watchful eye, the guards start frisking you one by one, starting with Andrzej and soon moving onto you. Pike and Hjarni seem to pass with a little less scrutiny.
Raveen turns out his pockets with the potion and manacles, careful to keep the hidden bag out of sight and touch of the friskers.
He does not speak until spoken to, and when asked, he gives a tired recap of the formal story, grimacing at how he had to twist ankles to remove the manacles.
As he accompanied his fellows, Raveen turns sideways to Andrzej. "Wand caught your eye?"
He doesn't add anything, recalling the sight of it under his eyes.
The smuggler produces the wand, shrugging. "Well, yeah. That ashen fellow seemed to 'ave more than enough trinkets, didn't he? Thought I might as well come out of this with a net amount of magical sticks..."
The wand itself is lacquered ebony and irony, moulded together into a seamless twirl of dark and light. Though it definitely has an aura of magic about it, you cannot parse its seemingly random dimming and flashing more specifically—it certainly has to do with evocation, perhaps with the creation or eradication of light.
"You have met Father. Great honour—even if you are still stained.""It was indeed a great honor, Raveen says, studying the Darkfolk. "I apologize for the deaths of your brethren."
Even with your growing knowledge of their tongue, you find it hard to read the creeper, who simply blinks at your apology before returning to its task. Whether it holds rancour in its heart or not, it certainly does not wear its emotions on its sleeve.
Raveen turns out his pockets with the potion and manacles, careful to keep the hidden bag out of sight and touch of the friskers.
He does not speak until spoken to, and when asked, he gives a tired recap of the formal story, grimacing at how he had to twist ankles to remove the manacles.
Curnow supervises the guards as they perform their pat-down, but does not do any of the work himself. While alert, the grey-robed Priest seems fidgety—nervous, even. Perhaps there is an expectation that he should be producing more results, or there is some other, more banal matter of administration on his mind. Regardless, there is ever an undercurrent of violence in his demeanour: no doubt he would relish an opportunity to vent his frustrations on someone if one presented itself.
Though the guards do a reasonably good job of searching you and Andrzej, the cloth bag goes entirely unnoticed. They do not even seem to distinguish it from your clothing, tattered and threadbare as it is after you trip below. Simultaneously, you see them go through the Ustalav's longcoat, even noting the ripped seam where he hid the wand—only to find it empty. They take anything you offer freely, and put it in a box for confiscation. Special care is taken with the manacles, which are put in a separate container for further processing. Obviously, the whole procedure is a matter of routine for all involved.
Only as you are ordered to relate what you saw, does the plan run into a hitch. Curnow listens very intently to every detail, and the vagueness of some of the happenings as they are related—especially the mysterious, knife-wielding attackers—seems to arouse his suspicion.
"You never saw them? he growls from behind his mask, incredulous. "And yet they never found you? I find it mighty hard to believe it took you this long, just to search for the bodies. Far more likely that you're trying to cover up for something. By the Steps, you better not be holding out on me..."
You can hear the leather handle of his truncheon squeak as the Priest tightens his grip on the implement.
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"I apologize, sir," Raveen says, raising a placating hand while rubbing the spot a truncheon struck him earlier. "But it was very dark down there. For all I knew, they could have even been surrounding us as we searched, veiled by magic. I'm just happy they didn't take the manacles--or choose to kill us, too."
He waits for a moment, and then adds catiously, "I think that's everything, unless there is something more specific. The path ends with the watery hole I described, but it was too dark to risk delving."
He feigns concern and willingness to cooperate, adding,"Right, there are these jutting pieces of adamantine. The cavern is practically brimming with it."
Curnow's iron-masked visage proves impossible to read, but you appear to have stumbled into the right answer—or at least one he wanted to hear.
"Adamantine?" queries the Priest, lowering his truncheon. "Now that's interesting."
He turns to the Acolytes, waving his hand dismissively. "Return the others to their cells. I'll take this one to the warden personally."
Both the guards and the prisoners freeze for a moment, causing Curnow to repeat his command in a more brusque tone. So rebuked, his underlings hurry to fulfil the task, if somewhat frantically—the mere mention of the warden having sent them into a frenzy of zealous obsequiousness. Hjarni is carried off by Pike, who has an escort of four guards. As they are led away, Andrzej sticks back a step and gives you a meaningful look: you cannot help but to see the pity in his eyes, doubting whether or not he is going to see you again. He, too, is then shoved out of the tunnel towards the central shaft. The only remaining light is a lantern carried by Curnow.
The man leans in, so that you can see his eyes clearly through the eye-holes on his mask. "For your sake, boy, you better have your story straight by the time we get to the top. The warden isn't nearly as forgiving as I am—but a lot more creative..."
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"Adamantine? Now that's interesting."
"Enough to make Numeria consider invading, I suppose." Raveen muses in a low voice.
Raveen avoids meeting Andrzej's eyes directly. It wasn't hard to appear nervous.
Taldan method actors, eat your heart out, Raveen muses, keeping his eyes down.
The man leans in, so that you can see his eyes clearly through the eye-holes on his mask. "For your sake, boy, you better have your story straight by the time we get to the top. The warden isn't nearly as forgiving as I am—but a lot more creative..."
Raveen meets the priest's eyes without challenge, malice, or apparent fear--just a clear sign of acknowledgement and understanding.
"Adamantine first, manacles second. Check."
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Raveen follows Curnow, as the priest's fire-lantern casts strange dancing shadows along the rough stone walls. The cold dankness seemed to recall the presence of the hidden lake far below, as Raveen's bandaged wounds stung from the cold and recent exertion of climbing the rope.
A dark resolve hardened in Raveen's mind, mentally bracing himself to encounter the Warden--a mind-warper who expunged his memories for pure convenience without regard to his victims' wills.
Something seemed to whisper at him from the dancing shadows--ordering him to bind the priest by magic and drive the crude flint knife into his neck; furious urges to slay him and return to the comfortable darkness as if he were a depraved predator--urges honed by survival alone and the struggle to live with what rightly belonged to him--a Northern raider who cared nothing for what belonged to him and his own.
Then there was the spy's mentality--honed by years of deceptive service. This told him to wait and stick to the plan. It was a quiet thrum of stubbornness and patience, which promised excellent results if he could just wait. It was this that held his hand from twitching closer to the knife.
The third, the mystic, looked from what appeared to be a distant spire from high above, and turning its eyes silently outward to the coming threat, as if trying to pierce the mists of what might happen with mere concentration--seeing something vaguely bell-shaped with great and quiet interest.
Adamantine first, manacles second, was almost a mantra, cementing the idea in Raveen's mind. He concentrated on the narrative he told Curnow, excising any other memory as if lodging a paper into a file and putting it away. When done in the silent shadows, it felt almost like preparing a spell--a formula remembered and repeated in what seemed to be an infinite number of times, so that no answer other than it would seem true to his mind. Any other form of the spell would mean failure. Any inconsistency found would mean...
The price for disobedience, death. No Darkfolk. No Mask. No Other. Adamantine first, manacles second.
The prison mine has a different feel to it after working hours have ended: eerie silence fills the central shaft, its cavernous walls turning the smallest noises into deafening echoes. The only points of light in the gloom are guards with their lanterns, in groups of two or four, making their nightly rounds. There are three of these groups in the shaft as you make your way through, though you see more in the hallways along various cell blocks.
Curnow keeps a relentless pace all the way up, and soon you have passed the cranes and pulleys lining the upper platforms, and stand on the topmost landing with the bell: its dull surface gleaming darkly in the lantern's light, the sigils on its surface seem to writhe across its prodigious bulk like eels in water. Nearby, you see ropes that hint at a lift further up the shaft, which continues up some fifty more feet before being blocked by a man-made lid of stone and wood.
Opposite to the bell, there is a large alcove. In its dark recess stands a metal door, guarded by two black-clad figures. One of them you recognise as the man who took away Myrna when you last met the healer, while the other appears to be a woman. Similarly clad, they seem armoured under their robes, wickedly spiked gauntlets and greaves peeking out from under the fabric. As they move, there are the sounds of metal scraping against metal, and the jingling of the chains at their belts.
"What is this intrusion?" asks the man, his voice a paper-thin whisper.
The woman adds, in a husky timbre, "You have not been summoned, Priest."
Curnow bows deeply and switches into a more courteous tone, appearing uncharacteristically obsequious before the two. "A thousand apologies, honoured Heralds. My orders are to report any advancements in the endeavour, and the prisoner here might have information to that end. May we see the warden?"
The so-called Heralds look to one another silently, but it appears as if there is some form of wordless communication passing between them—as soon as they turn back to face Curnow, they say in near unison: "The prisoner can go in. You, stay here."
The woman beckons to you with her gauntleted hand, moving to open the door. Curnow visibly seethes at being left out of the meeting, but says nothing.
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Curnow keeps a relentless pace all the way up, and soon you have passed the cranes and pulleys lining the upper platforms, and stand on the topmost landing with the bell: its dull surface gleaming darkly in the lantern's light, the sigils on its surface seem to writhe across its prodigious bulk like eels in water.
Raveen's eyes do not linger long on the bell, but when it does, a thought passes through his mind, unbidden.
Salvation.
"What is this intrusion?" asks the man, his voice a paper-thin whisper.
The woman adds, in a husky timbre, "You have not been summoned, Priest."Curnow bows deeply and switches into a more courteous tone, appearing uncharacteristically obsequious before the two. "A thousand apologies, honoured Heralds. My orders are to report any advancements in the endeavour, and the prisoner here might have information to that end. May we see the warden?"
The so-called Heralds look to one another silently, but it appears as if there is some form of wordless communication passing between them.
Taking advantage of the silence, Raveen studies the one with the feminine posture, trying to get a measure of her power in proportion to himself (or Curnow).
- as soon as they turn back to face Curnow, they say in near unison: "The prisoner can go in. You, stay here."
The woman beckons to you with her gauntleted hand, moving to open the door. Curnow visibly seethes at being left out of the meeting, but says nothing.
Raveen similarly says nothing, approaching the two cloaked Heralds and the metal door they guarded.
One thought echoed in his mind, spurred by curiosity.Do they never sleep?
Curnow keeps a relentless pace all the way up, and soon you have passed the cranes and pulleys lining the upper platforms, and stand on the topmost landing with the bell: its dull surface gleaming darkly in the lantern's light, the sigils on its surface seem to writhe across its prodigious bulk like eels in water.Raveen's eyes do not linger long on the bell, but when it does, a thought passes through his mind, unbidden.
Salvation.
Taking advantage of the silence, Raveen studies the one with the feminine posture, trying to get a measure of her power in proportion to himself (or Curnow).
As with her companion, the second Herald is tall and powerfully built, though on the leaner side. She, too, appears heavily armoured under her robes. There is a spiked chain of sorts that serves as a makeshift belt, but could be employed as a weapon as well—a speciality that is, for obvious reason, quite common in shadowy Nidal, but equally rare elsewhere. Again, as with her colleague, something about the woman's bearing and movements feels off to you—something you would not even notice if you had not noticed the same phenomenon when studying him. Extrapolating from that earlier deduction, there is a very real possibility that whoever or whatever she really is, she is under a similar ensorcellement as he is: her true capabilities have been hidden from your sight, either by illusion or transmutation.
Raveen similarly says nothing, approaching the two cloaked Heralds and the metal door they guarded.
Beyond the iron door, you can see three rows of black stone pews that precede a short staircase, which in turn ascends into the back wall of this modest worship chamber. The thirty-one white marble stairs, each carved with one of the tenets of the Living God, climb to the top of a pedestal that supports a mask of gold and ivory—the leering face of Razmir himself. A large emerald has been set into its forehead, and there is a magical glow behind its eyes, shining through the open holes to light the room in shades of green. Smaller gems have been set around the mask, each gleaming with a different colour from the otherwise drab stone wall.
Only after a few steps into the room, gauntleted fist closes painfully around your shoulder. "That is far enough, inmate."
To each side of the altar hang curtains and draperies of various expensive fabrics, falling in rainbow-coloured folds upon the floor. One of these hangings parts only moments after your entry, revealing a short glimpse of a much dimmer chamber beyond. Clearly, there must be some manner of supernatural communication passing the Heralds and their master—there is no way for the warden to have known about your arrival so quickly, save for magic.
The warden himself—bearing the prestigious title of a Mask of the Twelfth Step—is draped in extravagant blue robes, trimmed with silver to match his argent visage. However, as gaudy as these trapping of power might be, they do not entirely mask the brokenness of the man beneath: humpbacked and limping, some ailment has twisted his body into a perpetually agonising configuration. He leans heavily on a T-shaped crosier carved from pale wood, topped by silvered iron.
Your host stops at the foot of the stairs, leaving some twenty feet between you.
"Ah, the one with many names," he rasps, his voice sounding like an extreme case of strep throat—painfully thin and reedy, so much so that you have trouble hearing him from across the room. "Your mind, it is a slippery thing. Certainly good for a few moments of amusement, if nothing else..."
He pauses, and you sense the Herald behind you shifting her weight slightly—again making you feel like there is a second conversation you are not privy to. "Curnow should have known not to let you in the dark unsupervised. Say, did you ever see through my little ruse, or do you still believe the impossible?"
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Extrapolating from that earlier deduction, there is a very real possibility that whoever or whatever she really is, she is under a similar ensorcellement as he is: her true capabilities have been hidden from your sight, either by illusion or transmutation.
Raveen says nothing as Curnow is dismissed from the herald (hiding a tiny smile), instead focusing on the herald herself.
Beyond the iron door, you can see three rows of black stone pews that precede a short staircase, which in turn ascends into the back wall of this modest worship chamber. The thirty-one white marble stairs, each carved with one of the tenets of the Living God, climb to the top of a pedestal that supports a mask of gold and ivory—the leering face of Razmir himself. A large emerald has been set into its forehead, and there is a magical glow behind its eyes, shining through the open holes to light the room in shades of green. Smaller gems have been set around the mask, each gleaming with a different colour from the otherwise drab stone wall.
Raveen's feet sounded in the silent room, the only source of sound he could perceive for dozens of yards. When he stops in response to the herald's command, his eyes flick to one of the curtains.
As the warden emerges from the shadows beyond, another sound echoes in the chamber--the tap of wood of the warden's improvised cane and his shambling steps. As the warden stops some twenty feet away, Raveen's senses scream at him to escape or fall to his knees. The exhaustion of the trip, the lingering wounds, and the tension of the man's presence almost competed to bring the young man down.
Worst of all--the man did not seem familiar.
He should have seemed familiar.
"Ah, the one with many names. Your mind, it is a slippery thing. Certainly good for a few moments of amusement, if nothing else..."
Raveen does not answer the taunt. The herald behind him shifted her weight slightly, but Raveen didn't turn from the old man. Raveen's eyes studied the man's crippled posture, the gold-trimmed cloth, and everything from the pale of his mask to the whispered shuffling of his feet. There was not much to see--for one who didn't spend their life as a spy and marker.
"Curnow should have known not to let you in the dark unsupervised. Say, did you ever see through my little ruse, or do you still believe the impossible?"
Extrapolating from that earlier deduction, there is a very real possibility that whoever or whatever she really is, she is under a similar ensorcellement as he is: her true capabilities have been hidden from your sight, either by illusion or transmutation.Raveen says nothing as Curnow is dismissed from the herald (hiding a tiny smile), instead focusing on the herald herself.
"Do they never sleep?"
Perhaps they do not need to. Who would be a better guard than one who that does not require rest or sustenance, or a better slave than one who has already been stripped of their humanity? Something about her reminds you of the sadistic kytons you witnessed in service to Nidalese shadowbinders and Kuthite priests alike—whether it be the palpable aura of misery that seems to emanate from her person, the odd rattling of unseen chains, or the inhuman strength of her grip.
Whatever it is, you are unable to ascertain the true nature of the Herald, or at least pinpoint their exact relation to dread Xovaikain: illusion or no, the mask and the robes are very real, and serve well in hiding her true nature even without the help of magic. She is not mortal, in any case.
Raveen does not answer the taunt. The herald behind him shifted her weight slightly, but Raveen didn't turn from the old man. Raveen's eyes studied the man's crippled posture, the gold-trimmed cloth, and everything from the pale of his mask to the whispered shuffling of his feet. There was not much to see--for one who didn't spend their life as a spy and marker.
The warden proves almost impossible to read. To call him "old man" could well be a misnomer: though at a glance he appears bent by age, he might just as well be afflicted with some sort of disease or other ailment. Other than that possible misdirection, you are not quite sure how to place him.
Raveen's lips turn up into a self-deprecating smile, as he answers hoarsely, "My capabilities are being greatly overestimated. I can't tell what you mean."
The warden clicks his tongue in disappointment. "Oh, well. I do not wish to ruin the surprise."
"On to more pertinent matters," he wheezes. "What have you seen, down below? Curnow would not have dared to bring you to me without something of substance to report. Be honest, now: I will have to wipe your mind of any spells you might have memorised during your little sojourn into the dark, but you would do well to save me the trouble of digging for answers. Maybe I will even let you keep your cantrips, if you do..."
While you cannot see his face behind the scowling visage of Razmir, you can hear the smile in his ravaged voice. He is enjoying this.
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The warden proves almost impossible to read. To call him "old man" could well be a misnomer: though at a glance he appears bent by age, he might just as well be afflicted with some sort of disease or other ailment. Other than that possible misdirection, you are not quite sure how to place him.
--only the control rod can be used to disable the manacles once they've been secured. The rod is held by the warden himself.
Raveen's studies stop at the rod.
"Oh, well. I do not wish to ruin the surprise."
Raveen puts up his hands in surrender, replying to Warden Rastagar with a weak smile, "In that case, I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"On to more pertinent matters. What have you seen, down below? Curnow would not have dared to bring you to me without something of substance to report. Be honest, now: I will have to wipe your mind of any spells you might have memorised during your little sojourn into the dark, but you would do well to save me the trouble of digging for answers. Maybe I will even let you keep your cantrips, if you do..."
A part of him recalled Andrzej's fierce denunciation of the Razmirans as bullies, but a voice echoed in Raveen's mind over the Varisian's anger.
"What is so useful about hierarchies is that they are predictable. Once you have sufficiently internalised the patterns on which a system operates, you can manipulate it as you please..."
"Aye, there is something of substance--and value. Priest Curnow believed that you will be interested in my findings: there's adamantine in the cavern we entered."
"Aye, there is something of substance--and value. Priest Curnow believed that you will be interested in my findings: there's adamantine in the cavern we entered."
The warden seems to perk up at the mention of adamantine, taking a half-step forward.
"Go on!" he croaks. "There is no need to be sparing with your words. We have all the time in the world..."
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"Aye, there is something of substance--and value. Priest Curnow believed that you will be interested in my findings: there's adamantine in the cavern we entered."The warden seems to perk up at the mention of adamantine, taking a half-step forward.
"Go on!" he croaks. "There is no need to be sparing with your words. We have all the time in the world..."
Raveen takes half a step back at the man's surge forwards, but was checked by the herald's grip from behind him. He grits his teeth suddenly as the damage he took from the guards' ministrations lanced through him from the sudden movement.
"Very well," he answers, pain on him. "Know that I have traveled much, warden, and know adamantine on sight. The dark green material in the cave juts out--not like a vein, but as a fang, coming out of the earth. I believe I was the only one to recognize it; the dwarf with the broken mind babbled, the tongueless orc grunted, and the Varisian wasn't as learned as I am--"
He pauses, testing the limits of the warden's patience and interest. He turns to the herald, and says, "You can let go now. There's a lot to describe, and I'm not going anywhere until I'm dismissed."
The warden's head barely moves as he turns to glance at the Herald, who immediately relinquishes her grip on your shoulder—though not before giving it one more painful squeeze. Rastagar laughs, though he might as well be having a coughing fit, judging by the hacking sound of his cachinnations.
"Forgive me," he says in a mockery of courtesy. "These disciples of mine, they are almost too eager in their service to the Living God."
He is obviously quite intrigued by your testimony—you can hear the unmasked hunger in the Razmiran's voice as he continues the interrogation. "I do know much of your travels, inmate. I know, because you have told me. That is why I will take you at your word when you say that you have seen skymetal..."
"What else?" rasps the warden, his voice cracking like a whip. "Spare no detail!"
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If Raveen was disturbed at the warden's words, his tired countenance showed nothing. He raises one finger.
"One spike, reaching midway to the cavern's ceiling. Not a vein or mix of metals, but one spire of pure metal. It appears as if a sword thrust into the ground. I have seen nothing like it in my life."
Raveen describes the spike's impressive height and width of it.
"Alas, I have the feeling the tunnel is not stable," he adds after describing the spike. "I hear water under it. Extensive tunneling might cause a cave-in or slide downwards--especially if the spike serves as a stabilizer for the terrain above and whatever is below."
Rastagar listens to your explanation in silence, though not even his mask is capable of fully hiding his excitement. The shuffle of his feet and the way he fidgets with his staff reminds you of a scholar at the edge of a sagely breakthrough—or perhaps a greedy merchant, preemptively counting the coins he will make off a new enterprise. He seems lost in though for a good while, muttering to himself as if he were doing calculations in his head.
"Any signs of life down there?" he asks, snapping out of his reverie. "Not mere animals or plants, but something a touch more... sophisticated. Dwellings, perhaps?"
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He seems lost in though for a good while, muttering to himself as if he were doing calculations in his head.
Raveen observed in silence, resting his hand on his side-wound.
"Any signs of life down there? Not mere animals or plants, but something a touch more... sophisticated. Dwellings, perhaps?"
"Yes," Raveen answers straightforwardly. "Death by small blades for at least one prisoner in the tunnel, or something that leave wounds such as small blades. The presence of a threat slowed down our trek--since we didn't want to get caught the same way. Luckily, whatever killed the prisoner didn't start a fight with us, nor did they choose to emerge into our torch-light. We made it out without a hitch with your manacles and knowledge of the adamantine. Thus did it happen, and thus do I report."
He then pauses to study his side--which still bore the traces of blood from the prisoners' legs, and adds cautiously, "Is it possible that we...Delvers have a day or two off from working in the mines? I believe we performed our task ably."
There is no immediate sign of the warden's displeasure, but the gradual stilling of his excited fidgeting soon cues you in on his changing mood. He makes no comment until you are finished, after which he slowly hobbles across the aisle to stand mere feet from where you are. You hear the attending Herald take a step forward, as well, but she is waved back into position by her master.
"Well done," wheezes Rastagar, his voice lowered to an unnervingly pleasant monotone. "As you say, you have performed... ably."
From this distance, you are able to see his hands and the skin surrounding his ice-blue eyes, through the mask: both are the inky colour of a bruise, blotched with sallow hues of yellow. He smells of incense and old parchment, nearly overpowering a hint of something else—the metallic tang of rusted iron.
"There will be no deal," he croons. "Deals are for equals, and here, you are nothing. You want a prize for your efforts? First, you must prove your obedience—prove that you are willing to climb the Steps, even if it is on the backs of others..."
"You shall have your two days, you and your fellow 'delvers.' During those two days, you—and only you—will be assigned to a post of your choosing. See, am I not a generous master? Ferret out whatever sedition there is amongst the inmates there, and report it to me. By then, the collapse should have been adequately fortified, and you may volunteer for the second expedition. Indeed, I insist that you do! Should you fail me, however, I shall rip the necessary information from your mind, and use it to equip someone more trustworthy."
"Have I made myself clear, Hrafen? I would hope so. You are a quick learner—or at least you would like to think of yourself that way. There is no need to let us both down..."
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[dice=Rastagar's Sense Motive]1d20+7
There is no immediate sign of the warden's displeasure, but the gradual stilling of his excited fidgeting soon cues you in on his changing mood. He makes no comment until you are finished, after which he slowly hobbles across the aisle to stand mere feet from where you are. You hear the attending Herald take a step forward, as well, but she is waved back into position by her master.
"Well done," wheezes Rastagar, his voice lowered to an unnervingly pleasant monotone. "As you say, you have performed... ably."
Alarm bells ring in Raveen's mind, but the feeling of being caught rattled him enough to stay still and wait, as a predator cornered by a greater one.
"There will be no deal," he croons. "Deals are for equals, and here, you are nothing. You want a prize for your efforts? First, you must prove your obedience—prove that you are willing to climb the Steps, even if it is on the backs of others..."
"You shall have your two days, you and your fellow 'delvers.' During those two days, you—and only you—will be assigned to a post of your choosing. See, am I not a generous master? Ferret out whatever sedition there is amongst the inmates there, and report it to me. By then, the collapse should have been adequately fortified, and you may volunteer for the second expedition. Indeed, I insist that you do! Should you fail me, however, I shall rip the necessary information from your mind, and use it to equip someone more trustworthy."
"Have I made myself clear, Hrafen? I would hope so. You are a quick learner—or at least you would like to think of yourself that way. There is no need to let us both down..."
The use of his real name struck Raveen as a surprise blow from the dark. He should have not been surprised, but hearing it was different from merely knowing it.
He lowers his eyes, answering in a hoarse voice, "As you command, warden."He says nothing else, under the mercy of the warden.
"Good," says Rastagar, obviously quite pleased with the whole situation. "Perhaps we can make something of you, after all."
He turns and starts hobbling back towards the altar, and once again you feel the Herald's iron grip on your shoulder. As you are shoved out the door, you are immediately brought face to face with Myrna, who looks as if she had been woken up just moments before, and not too gently. Curnow is nowhere to be seen, though the other Herald stands exactly where he was when you entered. He and the healer appear to have been in the middle of a conversation of some kind—or more likely, Myrna had been receiving her orders, just as you did yours. The female Herald immediately reassumes her place next to the doorway.
"The healer will show you to your accommodations," she says, pointing to Myrna.
"We will come for you on the morrow," adds her male companion. "You will have made a decision by then."
Myrna bows her head slightly, waving you over and taking the lead down the ramp. She starts walking towards the uppermost of the cell blocks, forcing herself to move at a measured pace. A couple of levels down, a patrol of acolytes is in the process of changing guard, their prayers echoing up the mineshaft.
"I thought I told you to avoid getting into trouble," grumbles the healer, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. And here we are. This is just about as much trouble as you could get into, without being killed outright."
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"The healer will show you to your accommodations," she says, pointing to Myrna.
"We will come for you on the morrow," adds her male companion. "You will have made a decision by then."
Raveen nods silently, saying nothing in the chamber until he left the alcove guarded by the two Heralds. He says nothing to Myrna, but nods in acknowledgement at the haggard half-elf, but slows down when nearing the bell, stumbling to touch his side.
In the shadows of his stooped figure (hidden from even the sleepy healer), arcane magic surged in his eyes, as he leered at the bell.
Now...your secrets are mine! he thinks, calling back all he knew of magic to identify the artifact.
Myrna bows her head slightly, waving you over and taking the lead down the ramp. She starts walking towards the uppermost of the cell blocks, forcing herself to move at a measured pace. A couple of levels down, a patrol of acolytes is in the process of changing guard, their prayers echoing up the mineshaft.
"I thought I told you to avoid getting into trouble," grumbles the healer, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. "And here we are. This is just about as much trouble as you could get into, without being killed outright."
"Fine line," Raveen muses noncommittally. "Obedience or death."
He then observes the healer, and asks, "Why'd they wake you up?"
Now...your secrets are mine! he thinks, calling back all he knew of magic to identify the artifact.
The bell's aura is something to behold: like an immense octopus, its binding potency extends in every direction like a hundred tentacles, writhing in concert with the shifting sigils on its metal surface. Its greenish glow is nearly overwhelming, like staring at the sun—though it is not your eyesight that is in peril, but your mind. You feel the manacle around your ankle resonate, heating ever so slightly with every second you take to inspect the immensely ominous chime.
"Fine line," Raveen muses noncommittally. "Obedience or death."
He then observes the healer, and asks, "Why'd they wake you up?"
"So I could take a look at your wounds," she says with a shrug. "That's what they told me to do, anyway. You're awfully eager to get yourself hurt. Believe me, I'd rather be sleeping. Being woken up by Curnow is something I'd like to avoid, if at all possible—I was half certain he was there to kill me..."
Though she is technically not lying, you can tell Myrna is omitting something from her answer. She seems nervous.
The healer leads you into the uppermost cell block, lighting a lantern to illuminate the darkened tunnel. Soon it becomes apparent that there is no-one imprisoned here: most of the cell doors are open, revealing piles of barrels and boxes. The whole hallway seems to have been converted into a storage area, with the barracks at the end of the hallway being handed over to Myrna—while there is no sign to identify her makeshift clinic, the smell of herbs hanging in the air certainly does.
Stopping at the door, the half-elf turns and looks you sharply. "Do you have what you owe me?"
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The bell's aura is something to behold: like an immense octopus, its binding potency extends in every direction like a hundred tentacles, writhing in concert with the shifting sigils on its metal surface.
Feeling the bell's power tear at the edges of his understanding, Raveen's mind focuses on the only things that matter for now.
In his mind were questions three.The first: How he can hide from the bell's influence (or exclude himself from it),
The second: How he can contact the bell through its tentacle--the manacle (or any manacle),
The third: How he may subvert control of the bell.
Once the truths he sought were pinned in his mind, he rose up, still staggered, and followed Myrna.
"Fine line. Obedience or death...Why'd they wake you up?""So I could take a look at your wounds. That's what they told me to do, anyway. You're awfully eager to get yourself hurt. Believe me, I'd rather be sleeping. Being woken up by Curnow is something I'd like to avoid, if at all possible—I was half certain he was there to kill me..."
The first: How he can hide from the bell's influence (or exclude himself from it),
The second: How he can contact the bell through its tentacle--the manacle (or any manacle),
The third: How he may subvert control of the bell.
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The healer leads you into the uppermost cell block, lighting a lantern to illuminate the darkened tunnel. Soon it becomes apparent that there is no-one imprisoned here: most of the cell doors are open, revealing piles of barrels and boxes. The whole hallway seems to have been converted into a storage area, with the barracks at the end of the hallway being handed over to Myrna—while there is no sign to identify her makeshift clinic, the smell of herbs hanging in the air certainly does.
Stopping at the door, the half-elf turns and looks you sharply. "Do you have what you owe me?"
Raveen draws out and hands over the herbs, mushrooms, and other materials on the top of the nearest table.
"Be sparing with these, Myrna, or try cultivating them. I don't think we can get more from delving."Raveen then rests on a nearby crate, letting out a grunt.
Raveen draws out and hands over the herbs, mushrooms, and other materials on the top of the nearest table.
"Be sparing with these, Myrna, or try cultivating them. I don't think we can get more from delving."Raveen then rests on a nearby crate, letting out a grunt.
Myrna's eyebrows shoot up at the wide variety of your offerings. "This is... a lot more than I expected."
The healer hurriedly opens the door and leads you into her clinic—such as it is. Essentially another, wider hallway running perpendicular to the central tunnel, over a half of the former barracks is filled with more stored goods, but there is still enough space for a few decrepit cots, a couple of lopsided tables, along with a makeshift cabinet of piled-up boxes for storing tools and ingredients. All of these look scavenged, cobbled together from junk, or like hand-me-downs from the guards, left behind as the mining operations have burrowed their way ever deeper into the earth. Even amongst all this squalor, there is a sense of stubborn orderliness: each moth-eaten blanket represents a small victory in the face of overwhelming oppression, won through either cleverness or sheer, naggering persistence.
Her tiredness pushed aside, Myrna starts going through your haul, refilling cracked bottles and jars where needed, as well as dedicating empty containers for new additions to her collection. She mutters to herself as she identifies the various lichen, mushrooms and plants, marking them with pieces of coloured string for organisational purposes, before depositing them into her ramshackle shelves.
"The warden gave me and my fellow delvers a couple of days off. He expects me to choose a post to serve. What jobs can I take down here?"
Glancing up from her work, Myrna's initial reaction is that of incredulity. Once she realises you are being serious, she looks as if she is about to say something, but instead bites her lip and pauses, gathering her thoughts before speaking out loud. "Well, I suppose I could find a use for you here—though I loathe to think of what trouble you'd cause me, should I allow such a thing. Aside from this fool's errand, or mining, there are the crane crews, who are in charge of the lifts and the pulleys. You could also help out with the bookkeeping. I used to do that for a while—it's about as comfortable a position as you can get down here, though don't expect it to be anything too... intellectually challenging. They do accounting and logistics, mostly."