Bjorkus snorts and shakes his head at the dwarf's unfounded accusations. "She's our contact on the inside. When we get close to Targ, we might need a way to get information back out to Gravelheart here. If she's his f~*@ing personal cook or somethin', getting close to her is gunna be tough."
Toramin shoots his bovine friend a skeptical look, clearly not believing his protestations of innocence. "Mmmhhmmm."
”Well if she’s got those dancer’s curves and wants to ride a bull, I’m not gunna stop her…”
Yorgen glances between the two, then stops them with a clearing of his throat. "She's considered a quality slave and I know Targ has seen her, but he has no special interest in her." He looks at Bjorkus, shrugging. "I ain't her father, and it's not against any customs for slaves to sleep together." He has an amused twinkle in his eyes at Toramin's comment about the hole in the sand.
Dalton waited for the others to say their pieces; he knew it must be hard for them to keep up the more burdensome ruses, so he felt it fair they were able to cast off their yokes first.
"This witch ... we will need to know more of her. If her sight is as true as you say, I dare not get within her proximity. Perhaps the dancer could know more; any pattern could help." The mage pauses a moment. "If Targ's ambition increased with her company, it's likely she is apt with magic affecting peoples' perceptions and personalities. While that's not my strong suit, it would seem to me she relies on people to make up for her shortcomings. She befriended a brute, so brute strength might still be a weakness."
Bjorkus would not have the opportunity though. "Removing her from the picture seems the safest bet to me. Perhaps a potent poison would do the trick."
”Like giant scorpion poison?” she asks Dalton with a raised eyebrow. At the first mention of the witch Acera she begins thinking about defenses against witches and scrying since it sounds like divination is being used. If she knows they are coming, perhaps making some false trails, or even false leads could be done. Maybe they could find some abjuration item in the marketplace, but she isn’t hopeful.
”What race is Acera?” the halfling asks. ”It’s possible that she’s actually controlling Targ too. Oh and do you know the name of the guard who betrayed the first group?”
"I suspect she is indeed exerting her will upon him. Whether or not it is absolute control or enhancing Targ's natural urges, I know not." This one is a quite study; adaptable too. "If the poison from the scorpion is as potent as the creature is giant, perhaps it would be suitable. Possibility of Acera's recovery would only lead to retribution."
"She was cut in half by a great axe and got better. Perhaps imprisonment would be more efficacious? There is simply so much that we do not yet know. Words can be just as compelling if not more so than magic. She may have need to encourage his ambitions. Though, if she can suss out spies, then perhaps we would be well served by having some protections from divinations, Master Dalton?"
”That was my next point. Protections against divination,” the halfling says. She traces her left ear’s ridges in thought. ”Would disguises help? Could that confuse her scrying? Perhaps using proxies too may help. Getting people to find out small pieces of individual information that we assemble into a large picture.”
Yorgen shakes his head. "No killing unless it's in self defense. Remember the Aestherics thus far have not made any hostile actions against Targ or his followers." He tugs at his beard. "Fetchling, near as we can tell. Only place we imagine that skin color comes from."
”Fetchling?” the halfling says then pauses in thought. ”Agreed, information is our goal. I’d rather slip in, learn what we can, and leave without being detected. That’s ideal. It’s prudent to plan for events not going as planned.”
"Were that my breadth of spells contained as much." Dalton sighed. "Unfortunately, I didn't take advantage of the better half of my lineage until later in life; my repertoire is smaller than it should be. You may call me "master," but I am more of an apprentice."
It was embarrassing and a bit humiliating to Dalton. Here they expect me to deliver them from the witch's weirding ways, and I can but perscribe them luck. "My abjurations deal with the physical; I've never had the need to defend against a psychic assault. Unless there is such a scroll about, I will be of little use in that defense."
He paused a moment before turning from Toramin to Yorgen. "You say no killing except in self-defense, but does the slaughter of our predecessors not make them the first to cast a stone? And for gathering information no less. I would offer snuffing out the magic woman as a prudent line of defense if she cannot be separated from her Targ for long enough to get what we need. The danger in her potency is too much to chance."
He spits. "Aye, Targ's a bastard who has had our agents killed, but he knows he's being a bastard and that we've never truly acted against him. If we do make an attack than he'll do more than just root out our spies. Right now we're just flies that annoy him, we don't want him to consider us a threat...yet. You could give the witch a reason to not be near Targ, some distraction." He takes out a large dusty tome, flipping through it before handing it to Dalton. "You need a scroll just point it out ta me, then pay the price. If yer in town it'll only take an hour or so."
"Ah, what's this?" Dalton begins flipping through the pages.
What sorts of scribings are there, I wonder?
Dalton glances through the book quickly, then passes it to Rilka. "If we knew the woman's base motivation, a scroll of the appropriate warding could be useful."
"I'd assume she's evil - so a scroll of evil warding if you can find one might save our hides. I should have the coin for it." Dalton fishes through his bag and counts out the gold.
"What about the slaver brands. How likely is it for them to be inspected or checked? What procedure did the previous teams follow?"
"Previous teams didn't get this deep into infiltration. Bjorkus is gonna be wearin' nothin' but shorts most of the time, and if your ruse goes through than he'll be branded further."
Bjorkus scratches himself as he ponders the information. "I don't usually wear much more than the loincloth but if I'm in the raw they're gunna see that I'm not branded. Can someone in Brelda give me the right kinda mark?"
"Aye, I'd that myself. No way ta fake a brand though, it's gonna hurt." He leaves, and returns a minute later with a single branding iron. "This is tha first mark a slave gets. You'll get details added once yer recognized as a good fighter." Brand
Bjorkus grunts and nods. "I can handle it."
He retrieves his dagger and clenches the leather-wrapped handle between his teeth. "Do it", the bull growls.
He nods grimly, then leaves. A few minutes later he returns with the brand, now red hot, and a bucket of dirty water. He takes a rag, wiping off the spot, then stands. "Yer a brave man." And with that he places the hot metal on Bjorkus's arm.
The hissing and smell of burning flesh fills the room, Yorgen getting the mark clearly established before removing the brand and placing it in the bucket of water, steam rising. He gets close to the new mark, taking out a rag soaked in a blue liquid. He places it over the wound and you feel the pain recede from a deep sharp pang to a dull throb.
"There we are. Shouldn't be any infection, and by morn even the dull pain should be gone." He stows away the rag. "Rest of your brandings won't be so gentle, but that one's the largest you should get."
”As far as the brand goes, getting it removed in Andril won’t be too difficult,” she tells Bjorkus after the procedure is finished. She sits thinking about herbs, skin reactions, poisons, and disguise kits, trying to think how feasible a temporary brand for her arm would be. ”If I can’t make a decent fake one that I can apply every day or two, I’ll get one,” the halfling says. She takes out some supplies from the kit, forms them into a paste, and molds it into a scar of tissue that she glues onto her arm. She presses the cool brand against the fake skin and examines her handiwork.
“Another thing, do my clothes seem too fine? Perhaps a simple linen shirt and pants would be more appropriate. I noticed metal isn’t common for the locals. How expensive would an obsidian dagger be? Or any stone dagger. Something a slave would own...well use.”
Bjorkus's jaw clenches hard as the red-hot metal touches his hide and burns its mark into his flesh. He groans and the great slabs of muscle on the bull's arms spasm wildly through the pain. When it's done, the minotaur blinks his bloodshot eyes rapidly while removing the dagger from his mouth and sucking in a ragged breath. "The Aestherics had better appreciate this."
"Finer yer clothes are the more will be expected of you, but ye be treated better too." He details out his stock of weapons.
Gravelheart snorts, standing up. "Get yer rest in. I'll make sure nobody disturbs ye."
The night comes and the dwarf wakes you all after the most restful evening you've had in weeks. Being sheltered and having a full eight hours was nurturing (although Bjorkus and Toramin's snoring battled for dominance through the night). You find your horses have been properly cared for as a doe-eyed halfling slave girl brings them to you. Saddled up and on the outskirts of town and prepared to leave, Gravelheart gives you a farewell. "Remember, Naome is yer friend on the outside and Kienyach is yer...ally on the inside. Stay secret, stay safe. The scorpion's stinger is deadlier than it's claws." He gives Toramin a pat on the leg. "Dvöl öruggur bróðir minn. Ég vona að einn daginn að drekka með þínum í hár sölum okkar í staðinn í burtu frá öllu þessu sandi."
You leave the seedy town in your wake. The activity of travel remains much the same, but the feeling is different. There are rough trails to follow, less wild beasts, and more civilized (somewhat) people passing. Dozens upon dozens of strangers pass the next three days, and between them all you can count the number of humans on your hands. Most interesting is some sort of bug-like humanoid race that has a exoskeleton and clicking mandibles. A pair of them pass you in the morning, and as your gaze meets theirs you feel a dull pressure around your mind, but it fades quickly as they pass.
During the morning of the third day you see a lone traveler on the horizon traveling towards you. He hails you warmly with an enthusiastic wave, and upon closing you see an elegantly dressed elf. He stands tall and lanky with tanned skin and strait salmon-colored hair. He has a colorful coat on that jingles a bit when he moves. His eyes meet Dalton's and he bows deeply. "Good sir, you look so weary! It does not suit a man of your stature and elegance to ride a horse, you should have slaves carrying you in a pavilion! But a humble suggestion, I know of many who enjoy the feeling of a horse between their legs." He gives another bow, moving his arms quickly and as he shifts his jacket continues to show and hide various trinkets. He strolls over to your right, closer to Dalton. "Ah but I ramble, you know not why I am here! I come selling wares with prices barely believed!" He whisks over to Toramin. "You look like one used to wearing a bit more metal, not this pathetic hide! What if I were to tell you I could procure a complete set of full plate that breathes as easily as silk?" He looks at Lindale. "And you! I have a pair of dark goggles in here that could shield your ancient noble eyes from the harshness of this land!" He steps back, his arms thrown wide. "All of that and more! I shall not lie, the prices for such wondrous items are not small, but are still much better than you can find elsewhere! That is, if you have the coin to pay for such things..." He says with a small smile.
Þegar jörðin vill það.
Toramin watches the elf skeptically, Where is the ambush?
Bjorkus growls quickly as the traveling salesmen makes his pitch. This man had a different style but he was a crook just like Heff. The minotaur watches him for a tell.
The goggles interest Lindale and he asks about them but he wonders what this man is doing out here alone.
Bjorkus growls quickly as the traveling salesmen makes his pitch. This man had a different style but he was a crook just like Heff. The minotaur watches him for a tell.
[dice=Sense Motive]1d20+10
The elf looks excited by somebody interested in his wares, and from his voluminous jacket he produces a pair of dark goggles. "The leather stays flat against your face, preventing anything from slipping in. The goggles are dark, very dark, protect your eyes from the sun as well as the sand. It does block some of your peripheral vision but oh, the relief from the sun! Very durable, won't break unless you take a hammer to it. 200 gold!"
Convinced that the peddler was trustworthy after all, Bjorkus peers at the cart. He wonders if there was anything in it for him but is cautious to not break character.
The elf glances at Dalton to make sure it's ok before showing Bjorkus his wares. He seems to have no qualms about dealing with slaves as long as their master permits it. He procures a pair of armbands. These scarred and worn armbands have clearly seen rough use, and are constructed out of coarse leather and fastened with thick leather straps. "See these? Very good for wrestling, let's you brace your forearms, let's you keep your hold and break other's. 500 gold!"
Bjorkus snorts and shares a glance with his ‘master’.
The salesman had his interest and he was certainly trustworthy. There was no doubt he’d be doing a good amount of wrestling in the pits. ”Let me try them on” the bull rumbles.
"Oh yes, by all means!" He helps you affix the armbands, showing you how to properly strap them up. "See this makes it harder to twist your arm back, and you can brace it against them to keep more pressure down..."
Toramin sits on his horse waiting for the elf's sudden but inevitable betrayal.
Satisfied with the fit and sold on their function, Bjorkus shares another look with his 'master'. "They will serve me well in the pits."
Not won over by the display of trinkets, the glance from Djorkus let Dalton know perhaps there was something worth buying. And since he's the one in the most direct danger, he definitely deserves whatever leverage I can provide. "If the bull tells you those straps will serve him well, the dark one will carry the coins to you; a small fraction of my wealth for increased prestige in the arena sounds like a bargain to me."
Dalton gives the man's wares a once-over thought to make sure he's not getting fleeced.
He looks excited when the gold comes out. "Oh you are very kind, you won't regret this." The hair on Rilka's neck raises, and she turns to the opposite side of the road just as four elves explode out of the sand right next to you. One wields a scythe, another a terbutje and a shield, the third a ranseur, and the last a two-bladed sword, and they all wear light armor. The elves have war paint on their faces and are all adorned in silks the same color as the sand, and as they explode out they hoot war cries in strange tongues.
The "salesman" gives a sinister smile, drawing forth a dagger with an sickly green liquid on it.
Rilka
Enemy
Rilka
Lindale
Enemy
Dalton
Toramin
Bjorkus
/5=9.2
E2 ~ Terbutje + shield
E3 ~ Ranseur
E4 ~ Two-Bladed Sword
S ~ Dagger
Bjorkus growls as the ambush begins. "You soddin' rat!"
"I'll be sure to add your bones to my collection when we're done here!"
At the sight of the man's dagger, Dalton immediately knew it had some sort of poison. Rather not get scratched with that.