Bjorkus rips out one of the two large fangs in the front of the Behir's mouth (receiving a small shock as he does so). The tooth is nearly a foot in length and would make a fine prize.
Everybody tries to help find where the Behir might have came from, but the combined lack of experience in the wild and the hard surface makes tracking his previous movements impossible.
The night travel goes quietly and everybody easily pushes through the morning part. You're starting to notice a little bit of traffic; a group of slavers here, some merchants there, and eventually on the horizon you see a mid-sized town they all seem to be coming/going from.
You ride into the seedy town of Buldera, expecting relief from hostile desert but the stares of all of the villagers and travelers seem to only set you on edge. Contrary to the other two nations you have just spent your time in, humans seem to be one of the rarest minorities. Halflings bristling with weapons rush by, drows with over-cloaks stare from dark corners, tan dwarves with lightly colored eyes walk past (a few are even clean-shaven), half elves and half orcs are in abundance, there's a fair number of little ratfolk scurrying about or selling wares, a handful of tieflings that are as varied as tieflings always are, and a scattering of even the most uncommon and rarest of races.
Just riding into town for less than five minutes and you already catch two different pickpockets trying to lift your coin purses. One a wide-eyed halfling who slips from your grasp and runs away, the other a catfolk with a sly grin that vanishes into thin air upon being caught. There doesn't appear to be any sort of guards or law here besides some hired muscle standing outside certain business establishments, and when fights break out or pickpockets are brought into the open they only laugh and point so long as it does not come too close to them. Looking around you hardly see a single person without some kind of weapon, but metal is not very common it seems. Many hold obsidian or bone weapons in the place of iron and steel, and not a single person is wearing metal armor. You see more than one person eying your metal as you pass.
Merchants shout out to you left and right, holding up more bone and obsidian weapons with a few rare metal ones, fruits and vegetables of the like you have never seen before, meat that you couldn't even guess at, and most prominently there is a large wooden platform where there is currently a slaver's auction. In front of the platform sits about fifty buyers, leading off the platform is roughly thirty slaves, and there are a dozen guards ringing them in and watching the crowds with suspicious eyes. The seller is a tall humanoid with obsidian skin, white hair, and black feathered wings sprouting from his back. He wears a fine set of clothing over studded leather armor and has a scimitar and a dagger at his waist. He pulls up a young half-elf girl who tightly clutches a doll in her hand, shoving her forward so she can be seen. "Half-elf girl, not even bled yet, captured fresh from Gesthil! Let's start the bidding at 15 gold!" The bidding quickly goes up for the young girl, half a dozen buyers in contest over her.
As you're taking in the town, Heff's words on who was your contact here pops into your mind...A dwarf who goes by Yorden Gravelheart runs the Green Scorpion inn at Buldera. Sure enough, looking around you see a large inn with a crude paining of a green scorpion on the sign.
Giving not a damn if the looks were hostile, Dalton was simply happy to be out of the open desert. The less sand, the better.
He turned to the others, not being overly loud. "A bit young to be useful to me. A drink would suit my fancy much more about now." The wizard nodded over towards the inn where their contact was supposed to be. But I don't know the protocol. Do the slaves come in? Stay outside? He kept his eyes open for hints of etiquette in that regard.
Dalton scours his brain for information.
Dalton recalls it is more of preference of the building owner. Guessing from the quality of the tavern (and since it is your contact who owns the building) you could probably get away with it.
"Alright you lot - inside! No disturbances."
Dalton has everybody move inside the Green Scorpion Inn. The doors are swinging on oiled hinged and most of the building is left open to let air cool the warm interior. Inside you get a few glances, but nobodies eyes linger too long. You'd be hard pressed to bring an oddity to Yenrick. Instead of torches there are obsidian orbs along the walls that give off a hearty light, giving the inn a red tint. At this hour there are only four other patrons: A pair of male drow who whisper to each other, a half-minotaur on the floor who looks to have passed out from the previous night and still isn't awake, and a tan elf who sits at a corner table, reading out of some book and only giving you a brief glance.
Behind the bar is a one-eyed dwarf with burnt-looking skin that appears to have cracks running all over it. He is currently carrying the corpse of a dog-sized ankheg on his shoulder, but upon seeing you enter he drops it in a bin with a grunt. He's covered in dirt and it looks like he has recently sustained a few bites. He wipes his hands off, strolling back behind the bar. "What can I do ya fer?"
Bjorkus remains silent as the party moves through the desert town. The place was certainly a hive of scum and villainy but it was no worse than some of the seedier pirate havens he'd been to. Making the connection made the minotaur suddenly long for the sea and the deck of a ship under his hooves.
Entering the Green Scorpion, the bull studies the interior. His interest lingers on the fallen half-minotaur. It wasn't often he met one like himself.
"A bowl of something weak for them. And for me, something with a ... well, I was going to say a kick, but not a kick for a Dwarf." The transmuter allows himself a smile and a laugh as he looks to the others. "Take a seat. We'll be moving again before long."
Dalton didn't care for talking to the others like that, but he'd prefer an abundance of identity concealment instead of leaving questions. He was relieved at the racial diversity in the tavern though - they wouldn't stick-out quite as much as he thought.
"New to this land. Came across one of those sand devils myself." Dalton nods to the disposed corpse of the barkeep's. "My prize bull here put him down though. Nasty things"
"Oh yeah? 'ow big was it? These little 'uns don't take much more tha' a good club to the head. Still bite though." He shows his rag wrapped arm, then begins fixing up some brunch. He sets down bowls in front of the others that consist of turnips, onions, and some crunchy pen-shaped vegetable you can't quite identify all boiled in water. He sets a plate of broiled meat and potatoes in front of Dalton which has fine spices and gives off a tantalizing aroma. Then he gives Dalton the eye for an awkward few seconds, finally picking up a bottle of rumboozle and pouring a cup of it. "Tell me if tha' hit's yer fancy. If not tha next drink's on tha house." He counts up the cost. "1 silver per meal fer the slaves, 1 silver fer the drink, 5 silver fer yer fine meal. Comes out to a gold even." He starts cleaning the pot he broiled the sub-par stew in. "So wha' brings ya to Buldera?"
Bjorkus silently takes the bowl of meatless stew offered to him and departs after a nod from his 'master'. Hearing the praise from Dalton makes the minotaur grunt in approval - He's good.
Taking a seat near the unconscious half-minotaur, Bjorkus prods him with a hoof while trying the food. "You still alive?" he rumbles.
Toramin decides that discretion is the first step towards wisdom and keeps his mouth shut. He tries to project sullen bodyguard. Hopefully, he looks more sullen than constipated.
Bjorkus gently prods the other half-minotuar, who's only reaction is to keep snoring. Bjorkus gives him a harder nudge to which the bull snorts, rolling over and opening his bleary eyes. The thin fur around his chest and neck is a light brown with a white tuft in the center. He sits up with his monstrous bedhead, snorting and banging his head on the bar on his way up. He curses and holds his head, looking around. "Yorden, get me something hot to drink." After a minute the gravel-faced dwarf places a steaming cup in front of him which he drinks deeply, then looks around a bit slower. "Oh look, this one could be my brother if his fur wasn't black as midnight."
Bjorkus raises a brow at the brother comment - Nobody's ever called me that.
"What do they call you?" he grunts after draining some of the watery broth from his bowl.
He eyes Bjorkus up and down for a moment. "Yagar. Yagar the Lion." He shifts, showing Bjorkus a tattoo on his back of a curved knife stabbing through a rolled parchment, then goes back to his hot drink as if that explains who he is.
Bjorkus glances at Dalton to imply their connection before looking back down at Yagar. "Ares. I'm not sure what they'll call me once we get where we're goin'. You're free?"
Yagar looks at Bjorkus like he's slow. "You see a brand on me calf?" He points to the tattoo again. "I'm a slave hunter. I'm what'll haunt you if you try to run away into the desert." He looks over at Dalton. "Didn't pick up this one from the area did ya? Looks strong though, he for sale? I got a buddy who might be interested." When Yagar said calf it was with the same tone that older men say boy.
Bjorkus breaks character a bit and growls as his pride gets the better of him after Yagar's disrespectful tone. "I'm strong alright. If yer lucky you'll get to see for yourself. Firsthand."
Yagar looks at you with a flat face. "Talk is cheap s&## calf." He leans over to Dalton. "Best teach that one some respect. I can cut out his tongue if you want."
Bjorkus snorts dismissively. "I wasn't the one passed out on the floor in this hole. Try it heifer. I'll take you apart faster than that f~!#in' sand-bug I killed on the way here."
The big bull punctuates his point by jamming the jagged piece of mandible into the surface of his table.
Lindale turns to watch Bjorkus with amusement. Wondering what the hunter will do next.
His eyes narrow, but you see a bead of sweat on his forehead. He finishes his drink, sliding it across the table. "Not worth it anyways..." And he makes his way out of the Green Scorpion.
Bjorkus snorts again derisively and goes back to his unsatisfying meal.
"Well. We are off to a good start." Lindale says quietly to Dalton.
"Well. We are off to a good start." Lindale says quietly to Dalton.
He could be a dragon in disguise!
Toramin clears his throat and gives Lindale a significant look, trying to convey that they should get a move on with all this stuff.
As they approach Buldera, Rilka prepares herself for the role of a slave. She gets off the horse, walking briskly beside it. She practices different voices, speaking in a slightly softer tone, with less dynamic range. A near monotone with crisp enunciation. She rounds her shoulders and slouches as if her spirits have been whipped out of her for years. Bowing her head, she keeps her eyes downcast, as they pass more people getting further into the city.
At the Green Scorpion, she gets a bowl and pitcher of water and brings it to Dalton and Lindale to wash their hands. She wants to ask questions about the obsidian lights but keeps her mouth firmly closed; face a neutral expression of patience.
”If there’s nothing else, I will eat if it pleases you,” Rilka says. She accepts the soup with a nod and eats with a hurried grace; clearly not wanting to be seen taking too much leisure in having a meal. Quiet, proper manners reflecting her master’s character and status. Once finished, she stands along the wall, behind Dalton, ready to carry out his orders.
When Bjorkus starts talking to and then challenging the half-minotaur, she keeps her face neutral. She doesn’t even let out a sigh of relief when Bjorkus is triumphant.
Toramin kicks Lindale's foot and gives him a disgusted look. "So, brother dwarf, have you traveled far? Have you seen anything of particular truth or beauty?"
He pauses, glancing up at the party and looking over them again. His eyes flick to the other patrons, then he says in a relatively loud voice "Well I got a mirror in tha back, so I'd say I saw some beauty fer sure." The drows snicker and go back to their whispering while the tan elf's only reaction is a slight smile. Yorden brings his voice a little lower. "Sounds like you lot need a room fer the night. Got one large enough fer ya just up tha stairs. Spacey. Thick walls. Comes highly recommended, if I do say so meself. I'll make sure ta drop in later tonight to see if everything is ta yer likin'." He leans back up, raising his voice to normal volume. "Anythin' else I can help ya with?"
"I will take the master's baggage upstairs. You. Halfing, stop being so lazy. Take these bags. Minotaur, help me with these crates."
With "practiced" efficiency the dwarf rounds up his other slaves and gets them working.
Bjorkus finishes his meal quickly. He unhappily lifts the crates at the dwarf's direction and brings them upstairs.
Excellent. With the chance at a private meeting later, they would be able to exchange needed information from Yorden. No need to continue exposing ourselves now then.
[b]"Think you've got it covered. Feeling like a nap myself. Let me know what I owe you when you come up - I like squaring away. No debts, no regrets."[b]
Yorden nods, then turns his attention to the pair of drow who just walked up. The one closest gives Lindale a once over, but averts his eyes when looked at.
You all have some time to browse the town and the shops, all the time the words of the slave auction ringing in your ears. Finally it comes time to to meet with Yorden, and you find yourself in a spacious room with one large bed and several cushions on the ground. After getting settled Yorden walks in, shutting and locking the door behind him. Much to your surprise the first thing he does is drop his pants, but then you see an Aestheric badge is wrapped to his inner thigh. He waits until you all present yours, then grunts. "Best hide those better. Show that to tha wrong man here and yer dead." He offers a pale green drink that smells of citrus, then finds a cushion and sits. "Got a message sayin' there was a group comin' through. Ye made good time, weren't expectin' ya so early. Anyways, I'm yer contact fer the time bein'. You need sometin' or ya need to send a message, I'm yer dwarf. I'm what keeps ye connected to the outside world." He sits back taking a drink. "I have two of me agents working close to Targ right now. Ye heard about Kienyach already. The other is an elven slave dancer by the name o' Naome. She's who ye wanna talk to if ye need to contact me." He sets his drink down. "Everythin' comes at standard price, delay in delivery ranged from a couple days to a few weeks, dependin' on the item. Messages take less than a day." He scratches at his deeply tanned face. "Any questions?"
"What do you believe happened to the last two groups they sent? Any suggestion on how we might avoid their fate?" In fact, could you please give us a brief summary of the situation as you see it?"
I don't trust Heff, and it would be good to get another perspective.
Bjorkus grunts and nods. "This place is dangerous 'nuff on it's own. The more you can tell us 'bout what we're gettin' into the better. Is everyone in Targ's pocket?"
"First group f+~$ed up. Tried to pay off the wrong guard, their own fault. We don't know how the second got caught, but they were publicly executed by Targ. Claimed they were conspirin' against him, even though the Aestherics only move thus far was information gatherin'."
"Most in this area are, either through respect or fear. Some manage to be in a few pockets at once. We used to have half a dozen members close to him, but that unholy witch Acera seems to see right through people. The other members were either killed or fled, so now we have Kienyach an Naome."
"Is she really a witch? Or was that a slur based on her gender and magical abilities? The Aestherics did not seem to know the provenance or extent of her powers. What do you know of her?"
"We don't know where her powers come from. Only that she is the problem with all of our plans. She roots out our spies and Targ was never this ambitious before she came along."
"Troubling."
Dear Great Uncle,
I recently encountered a creature called an Ankheg. It tried to make a meal of me. Fortunately, its appetite exceeded its capability. I carved off a piece of its shell. I thought you might enjoy it as a rare resource for your metallurgy.
Your Nephew,
Toramin
"With any luck our mage can outsmart theirs", Bjorkus rumbles with a glance at Dalton.
"Any suggestions on how to get Targ's attention? We heard a fightin' slave would catch his eye. Where should we start?"
Gravelheart laughs. "Yeah, that outta do it. Just get there and enter one of the matches. Win a few and you'll be branded a pit fighter. After that it's easy to get into the tournaments, which Targ almost always attends."
"Is there more than one circuit running at a time? Any pits we should stay away from?"
"Plenty of lower circuits running every day. Some slaves who can't even fight are tossed in. Far as the pits go, there's all about the same level of mediocre abuse and sanitation. The more you please the crowd the more boons you receive though."
Bjorkus nods in understanding, satisfied with the information the dwarf's provided. "Any tips on gettin' close to Naome?"
At this the dwarf scoffs, "You want to sleep with a woman whom you have never met nor know what she looks like? If any hole will do, you can borrow my dagger and go dig in the sand."