Lindale thinks he may have seen the man, but he's finding it hard to put his finger on if it's the right person. He's sitting at a table next to the stage, facing away from Lindale. Perhaps if he could see his face...
Ithel rubs at his stubble. "Firyin's a scary one, that's for sure. Most of his opponents don't know yet, didn't tell you anything now did I?" He laughs. "Oh there's girls here and there so if you can charm them you're welcome to them. Not this tavern's particular expertise though. Boris hangs out here every night, I'm sure you'll run into him again. Firyin...well he shows up occasionally. Probably wouldn't care either way that one."
He turns to Dalton. "I don't know, and I don't care. As long as they don't bring a stampede of white cloaks through my door their business outside this building is their own."
‘Asterion’ grunts in understanding. Noting Dalton’s continued interest in the half-elf, the huge ‘tiefling’ excuses himself. ”The dwarf still servin’? I could use a drink.”
Along the way Bjorkus keeps an eye out for lady-folk that might be looking his way.
After getting a mug of whatever’s on tap, Bjorkus takes a seat heavily near the bear-elf. ”You’re tough kid. That trick is damned scary.”
Toramin gives Bjorkus a thumbs up when he wins his bouts.
The dwarf makes his way towards the Oread monk.
"नमस्ते, पृथ्वी का बेटा है, आप अच्छी तरह से और बहादुरी से लड़े. मैं एक कठिन लड़ी हानि के डंक को कम करने के लिए आप एक ड्रिंक खरीद सकते हैं."
The wizard snickered. "That makes two of us that don't much care for them - lunatics came tossing accusations at me some time back. Talked it out with their boss, but I've got a damned bitter taste of them in my mouth."
Ithel points at the bar. "He serves upstairs, the little one serves down here." A male halfling with a goatee and a shaved head serves drinks from behind the bar.
Firyin watches Bjorkus approach from the corner of his eye, giving a short nod but staying completely silent. He sips at his drink, some sort of blueish liquid with ice rattling around in it.
You detect a faint aura of evil.
"मैं रेत की जमीन में पत्थर की एक पूरा करने के लिए खुश हूँ. आप एक दाढ़ी वाले का शुक्र है, मैं विनय से अपने प्रस्ताव स्वीकार करते हैं."
"I am glad to meet one of stone in the land of sand. Thank you bearded one, I graciously accept your offer."
Toramin smiles politely and bows to the Oread.
"रेत की ये भूमि आश्चर्य से भरे हुए हैं. मैं उनके लिए नहीं परवाह हालांकि, पत्थर रेत के बीच है. पत्थर है, जहां और सच भी है. मैं Trealamhgabha का हूँ. यह अपने परिचित करने के लिए एक खुशी है. आप क्या पीना पसंद करेंगे?"
Gesturing to the halfing bartender, Toramin requests two of the drinks specified by the monk.
Rilka stands within ear-shot of Dalton, against the wall, waiting to be called if needed. Her eyes track people as they mingle, looking for distinguishing features. She looks for anyone paying too much attention to Dalton’s conversation, especially when he makes negative comments about the Aussirian Legion. They must have informants. Using scrying and divination magic wouldn’t be very efficient in a city this size. Informants...
Bjorkus frowns at the silent treatment. Being the larger than life that he was, the huge 'tiefling' wasn't accustomed to that kind of cold treatment.
"What are ya drinkin'?"
Lindale waits and watches, waiting for his target to move first.
"चाय. मैं पीता, लेकिन शुक्रिया नहीं है. वे यहां एक काफी सभ्य कैक्टस दूध चाय है."
He takes his tea, sipping it gently. "I am not used to the strong men I fight being good at grappling. I lost one of my few advantage against them."
Rilka finds a little black ratfolk sneaking over to Dalton, but with a glare she sends him scurrying off.
Ithel looks interesting in what Dalton has to say. "Oh yeah? What happened?"
Firyin points to an item on the menu titled Curaçao, sipping at his drink.
Spotting the indicated drink, ‘Asterion’ grunts and orders the same.
Bjorkus takes a sip and finds it to be a bitter, dry drink that goes down harshly. Firyin gets a hint of a smile watching Bjorkus swallow the blue liquid, sipping his own.
Asterion snorts and takes another draw. He’d had some pretty foul rotgut in his days. This stuff was harsh but nothing new.
”So what’s your story? You fightin’ in the arena?” he rumbles. ”A trick like yours would go far.”
Firyin gives a silent sigh, then turns and opens his mouth...inside are burn scars and no tongue whatsoever. He shakes his head, turning back to his drink.
Seeing the reason for the elf’s nickname, Bjorkus snorts again. He’d seen his share of torture on the seas. His sire never allowed it among his fleets but he’d seen other less honorable sorts take to flaying, removing tongues, and dismembering. He’d always believed their kind gave pirates a bad name.
”That’s a damned shame”, the huge tiefling offers in consolation.
"चाय? वैसे एक जहर एक और रूप के रूप में अच्छा है." Toramin laughs and sips his tea.
"उन्होंने कहा कि एक प्रभावशाली सेनानी है. मैं हाथ करने के लिए उसे हाथ लेने के लिए परवाह नहीं होती. मेरी ही मौका हथौड़ा होगा. तुम हालांकि उसे करीब था. मैं अपने नियोक्ता के खिलाफ नहीं है, लेकिन मैं तुम्हारी तरह कौशल या इस रेतीले नरक के बाकी हिस्सों में एक के चुप नहीं देखा है."
Firyin nods slowly, his eyes getting unfocused as if he's remembering something from his past.
"आप एक राष्ट्र के इस उजाड़ गरीब बहाना में कई पुरुषों के कौशल पर आश्चर्य नहीं होगा. मजबूत जीवित रहते हैं, जबकि हर्ष भूमि कठोर लोगों, कमजोर मरने को जन्म देती है. वे कामयाब नहीं हो सकता है, वे और भी मजबूत मिलता है. आप कुछ दयनीय इन देशों में पुरुषों, और आप सबसे अधिक संभावना बहुत चालाक हैं उन है कि मिल जाएगा."
"You would be surprised at the skill of many men in this desolate poor excuse of a nation. Harsh land breeds harsh people, the weak die while the strong survive. While they may not thrive, they do get stronger. You will find few pathetic men in these lands, and those that you do are most likely very cunning."
Determined to not let let himself think less of the man because of his handicap, Bjorkus keeps the conversation going while enjoying his harsh blue spirits.
”You fightin’ in the arena?” he repeat.
Firyin shakes his head. He points to his unbranded arm, emphasizing that he is not a slave.
Lindale waits for quite a bit of time; apparently a short human at the table is in charge of getting the group fresh drinks. But after about an hour and a half the man stands, saying something shortly and then tottering off (seeming a little inebriated) to the bathroom.
Bjorkus leaves the silent half-elf to his thoughts and leaves to mingle with the crowd of like-minded souls.
Lindale seen an opportunity open and heads over to the table with a set of drinks for them. "Your friend seems done. Shame. It just so happens that I have too many drinks and no one to share them with. Here, this is on me." He makes to sit down atthe table.
Dalton shrugs in response to Ithel. "Thought we'd someone in our possession we shouldn't have. Like I said, it's taken care of now, but they seemed hell bent on getting their way - no holds barred. Few people got scaped up. Damn obnoxious. When I depart from here, it'll be none too soon."
A stranger offering drinks for a whole table of drunk men? Doesn't take very long to get popular. Lindale is welcomed with opened arms like an old friend. The table consists of mostly humans with one half-elf and the table is mostly making baudy jokes about the women performers and telling stories that probably got more impressive with time. The next time a waitress swings by Lindale gets emptied of 5gp from his purse, the men ordering fairly expensive drinks.
Ithel nods understandingly. "Some people just can't stay out of other's business. Live and let live I say, long as they're not doing you any harm."
As the man totters back, Lindale is fairly certain it's the man he's after.
"यह एक कठोर भूमि है. इन नस्ल शक्ति जैसी स्थितियों - यह धधकते सूरज के नीचे उत्तरी पहाड़ों या यहाँ है या नहीं. फिर भी, मैं यह कठोर है, क्योंकि इस देश से नफरत है, लेकिन क्योंकि मैं इस शहर में देखते हैं कि कचरे का नहीं है. क्या ताकत कमजोर कोस द्वारा दिखाया जाता है? ये झगड़े अधिक ईमानदार हैं. शक्ति ताकत का एकमात्र उपाय है. लेकिन, मैं राजनीति या अर्थशास्त्र की बात के साथ बोर नहीं होगा. मैं आप टोस्ट, पृथ्वी का बेटा!"
Toramin raises his tea in salute.
"Well well. It looks like you could do with a rest. Here's another few rounds men." Lindale laughs at the clearly drunken man and offers him a hand. "How about we call it a night and get you home. You wouldn't want to miss the arena tomorrow. I'm new to these lands but I just had to stay and see the arena. Especially after Targ made the announcement today. Tomorrow will be remarkable, I'd bet everything on it." He slaps down another 10gp for the m men to drink away.
"कोई ताकत डर बोया जाता है, दिखाया गया है. डर दास प्रधानों उनकी दया के लिए नहीं जाना जाता है, और यह उन्हें हानि पहुँचाता से जनता की रक्षा करता है. पत्थर को."
"No strength is shown, fear is sown. The fear protects the masses more than it harms them, the slave princes is not known for their mercy. To the stone."[/b]
He raises his cup, taking another drink.
~Circle of Stone~
The drunk man happily takes Lindale's hand, laughing and taking a seat at the table. Lindale bringing up the arena makes him have a somewhat sour look. "Oh aye, I got to work there tomorrow. Serving food and drinks to those pompous ass slavers." The table laughs, banging their drinks on the table. He finishes his drink, then burps and begins slowly making his way to the exit. Once there he starts heading towards the west district, taking shortcuts as only a man of this city would know.
After the ratfolk leaves, Rilka continues to monitor Dalton’s conversation, with side glances at Bjorkus. When the man reveals his injury and his freeman status, Rilka thinks, He must have an interesting tale.
While walking along Lindale checks to see if the man might have anything interesting in his pockets. The man is easily led and seems to know the alleys by instinct even while drunk. "Did you grow up in this place? Must have been a harsh life." He makes general small talk before asking about the Serpents, "The men there at that table are all Serpents? It seems strange that all the gangs are able to meet without bloodshed. How do you do it?" Lindale tells him he has something that will help clear his head and casts Detect thoughts on himself, looking into the man's mind to help extract any information.
He nods tipsily. "Yeeeup. Been here all my life. Not too bad if you keep your head down." He thinks hard about the people at the table, trying to remember them. "I don't know. Some of them might be. Just drinking buddies. Gotta have some sort of neutral ground or the gangs wouldn't be able to be civilized with each other, all worrying over poison in their food and having their throats slit and whatnot..."
Lindale peers into his mind, then nearly trips as he tries to make sense of the drunken thoughts. As far as he can tell this man doesn't do much informing at the Circle of Stone; he just drinks and tells stories there most nights. A cozy bed is prevalent in his mind as well as him consciously trying not to bump into anything.
"Yes. The circle seems safe. But I need to warn you. You are being watched. Someone wants to silence you. You need to lay low for a while. Are you hearing me?" If he doesn't seem to take this seriously or is drunk enough not to care Lindale thumps him against a wall to shake him out of it some. "I'm serious, you need to disappear for a little while or you could end up dead." Hopefully the man took his words to heart or more serious measures would be needed. After helping him home Lindale goes back to the inn.
The man is a little drunk to comprehend at first, but with a firm hand Lindale gets through to him. "Wha-who? Why would you help me?" He looks around, afraid that there's somebody trailing him.
"I guess you'll just have to owe me later. Perhaps help me stay alive if I ever need it."
He gives a confused nod, going off to his bed a little more wary and nervous than before.
Bjorkus sifts the crowd, learning that the few people who know the name Ares generally have a good opinion of him. They speak of how he sung as he floored an opponent twice his size, but a good number of people haven't heard the name yet. Information on Targ's plans are nonexistent in this little hole, but there is a small shred of white cloak opinion. After spitting and giving some choice swears to them, an elf tells Bjorkus that since magic is so rigorously controlled in the city the white cloaks are not experienced in dealing with it. He also learns that whenever there's a serious disturbance the white cloaks get an invisible perimeter set up in minutes, which is one of the reasons they're so hard to escape.
The party eventually finishes their individual adventures and meets back at the inn where Kahina and Jaware are busy serving a full house. Obviously the appearance of Targ and the upcoming fights have attracted a lot of people, so the inns are full. After shoving through the crowd the party goes back up to their room. As Dalton is about to use the provided key, he finds that the door is already unlocked. Being wary he steps back and allows Bjorkus to enter first.
The room has been flipped upside down. Desks are smashed, bedding is torn, pillows have been ripped apart. After a quick search nothing appears to be missing and the window looks untouched.
The morning sun shines through the window, foreshadowing a hot and sunny day. Breakfast takes some time to get with the crowd in front of them, but they get their omelets with spicy sausage and fiery peppers with enough time to get to the arena. Ninnec waits outside, gnawing on a strip of meat as they exit. He gives a bow, eyes flicking up to the building behind them. With a glance Rilka notices a single white cloak leaning in the shade, watching them. He doesn't move as the party begins heading to the arena.
Once at the large circular building Bjorkus is quickly ushered inside by the workers there. The crowd is thick and loud, and it takes several minutes to get up to the front. Ninnec slips Dalton their tickets and a young elven girl shows them to their seats in the third row. Inside the Colosseum is nearly at capacity, although on the upper fringes there are still a good number of seats left. The party find themselves in seats that gives a near-perfect view of the sandy ground in the center. And sandy indeed it is, which is odd considering two days ago it was hard dirt. It doesn't even appear to be a thin layer of sand, guessing from the small dunes it has to be at least several feet deep, although the relative height of the ground appears to be the same. Looking back up into the crowd shows a large chair that takes up four spaces and has a canvas stretched over it and the two adjacent seats. On the large seat is Targ who appears to have taken a bath since yesterday and had his wounds healed. He has some old copper jewelry down across his chest that has several nicks in it. At his right sits Acera in her typical heavy black robe. Her hood is pulled down, revealing her pale face as she gazes down quietly into the arena. The seat on his left is empty.
Bjokus is quickly ushered down to where dozens of other slaves are waiting. A good portion of them look like fighters, but the rest appear to be as dangerous as a house cat. There are several lines to different master-at-arms, and Bjorkus finds himself pushed into one of them. After a few minutes a short, bald human with a scraggly beard motions Bjorkus forward. "You get one melee weapon and one protective piece, either armor or a shield. Plus a helmet if you want it. Then get yourself over to the red gate."
Toramin wears his real armor to the games
Bjorkus sorts through the pile of equipment looking for the best pieces that would work for his large and unique physiology. He settles on a curved cauldron that was strapped to him should via a few straps tied around his torso and a half-helm. The armor wouldn’t provide much protection but it might save him from a blow to the neck and it did a good job of showing off his massively muscled form. The helm was an oddity, wide enough to make room for his bovine snout with holes in top to accommodate his horns. As a weapon he picks up a heavy poleaxe. The weapon would be unwieldy in close quarters but it had good stopping power and the reach would help if there were any more ogres in the lineup.
As the bull heads toward the red gate, he studies the opposition.
There is an occasional slave that looks rather muscled or well-trained, but nothing sticks out as insanely monstrous or powerful. Everybody is a small or medium humanoid.
Bjorkus notices that the majority of the slaves are scared s*!!less. Some grip their newly acquired weapons with white knuckles, some sit quietly as if in their own world, some even smell to have soiled themselves.
There are a few harder people that look more solid in the face of this forced fighting. A well muscled half-elf that Bjorkus can guess from fighting Firyin probably has some drow in his blood leans against a wall, wearing studded leather but carrying no weapons besides a small bone dagger. There is a ring of vacancy around him despite how crowded the underground room is.
A monster of a human stands in a group of hardened looking men and he is apparently saying something just hilarious if their laughter is anything to judge by. He's wearing hide armor, a helmet, and has a dwarven dorn dergar at his waist. He appears to be rather looking forward to the fights.
The last person that stands out is a more normally sized, if still strong looking human. He picked out a small helmet, and in his hands he holds a longsword and a shield. He looks calmer than the others, and the way he casually plays with his sword bespeaks a very trained arm. He is speaking to a few other equipped slaves that look somewhere between the "very experienced" and "panicked" slaves.
Returning to their ransacked chambers, Dalton licks his lips. We're done here sooner than later now. Yet with no immediate danger, there was no immediate fuss to be made.
In the arena though, Bjorkus separating so early made the wizard a bit worried. in an effort to dispel the anxiety, he set a puzzle to solve for himself. Who belongs in the empty chair?
~The Stands~
Dalton pokes around the seats adjacent to theirs, getting the attention of a tiefling with curved horns and spectacles. "I would imagine it's that tracker fellow of his. He's usually the man deployed if somebody...displeases Targ and is hard to find."
~The Slave Pits~
Bjorkus walks closer to the big human and his group, catching the end of a story. "...and then I s&%! you not I shoved the lance all the way up his arse and out his mouth!" The circle of people around him, a few of them glancing at the approaching Bjorkus. A toothy half-orc steps in his way. "You need something here?" He's not being openly aggressive, but it's not the friendliest tone.
Bjorkus snorts and looks down at the intercepting half-orc. ”Your man looks to be quite the storyteller. I’m just lookin’ to share a laugh before we step into the arena.”
"Tracker? That mean he's out hunting someone now? Sounds like that could be a sport in itself."
~Slave Pits~
The half-orc is considering Bjorkus when the big man himself takes a step over. He has lanky brown hair and a scraggly, roughly cut beard on his face. "Local meat, are you? What can you do? You at least look a little less pathetic than the rest of the lot here."
~Stands~
The eloquent tiefling shrugs. "Perhaps, I wouldn't know. Well you know the saying, man is the most dangerous game and all that." He gives a little chuckle. "I'm afraid I know of the man by rumors but nothing else. The only thing I am sure of for certain is that he does exist. The rest is speculation on my part I'm afraid."