"Oh, yeah, angels, archons, eladrin - what a pain in the ass. We actually fought some just a few months ago. Real tricky creatures." Astraden extends a hand. "I'm Venelle."
The guard doesn't seem particularly interested in Astraden, though she gives a vaguely-could-be-interpreted-as nod.
Astraden scowls.
Carina clears her throat. "My name's Selene."
...is she coming on to me?
Zalamandra watches with a smirk. "Is giving our names part of the process of getting through here, or . . . ?"
The hobgoblin shrugs, though she seems slightly put out. "Just being sociable. Always pays to be sociable with people with as many weapons as you lot, huh? You'll have lots of company here. As the Scourge says, Might Makes Right!" She gestures with her arm. "Go ahead and get moving, then! Ain't got all day!"
The party enters the city of Alhaster and finds the place bustling with activity. A feeling of mirth and excitement fills the air. Banners depicting the standard of Redhand hang from rooftops of almost every shop and home, evidently celebrating some great occasion, and laborers hurry to and fro preparing for obvious festivities. The city is awash in joyful events, it seems—street performances abound.
And yet...
Carina has a hard time reading the crowd through all the festivities, but she does notice something unusual.
"Huh. Nobles seem to be enjoying themselves just fine. The poorer folks, on the other hand, aren't joining in... well, not a lot of them anyway."
"Wow, these performances suck. They're really not trying to sell it." He pauses and regards a puppet show a little bit longer. ""Actually, it's almost like they're trying to not attract attention. Like they're playing it safe because they have to."
"Yeah, I noticed that too, Carina. Not that surprising, given how strong the church of Hextor is here. They probably think that happiness is only for the rich and powerful, along the lines of that 'Might Makes Right' thing we keep hearing." Astraden points out one of the standards of Alhaster and grins. "Their flag's just a modified Hextor holy symbol, I mean. Not even a speck of originality."
Carina turns to the rest of the party and scratches her head. "So, uh... you wanna find the nearest tavern and start asking around?"
"We need to be careful in a place like this. It could easily turn against us. Finding a place to stay first might not be a bad idea, then we could walk around a get a lay of the land before we start talking to people?"
Oddly, Eben seems less at home on the streets of a city than he used to. Still, he cranes his neck and looks around for the typical signs of a local inn.
"Sounds good to me. We might be able to ask more discreetly by mingling with the tavern's patrons, as well." Astraden looks around for an inn as they walk west along the Toilway.
Astraden and Eben have some trouble finding their way, but Eben is able to gather that there is a tavern nearby called the Angry Rifter Tavern. The sign out front shows an enraged bandit rappelling down the side of the building's facade with a rope.
Inside the tavern, the group is greeted by the face of the same man, now in the flesh: A stubbly gangrel with the scars of a warrior and relaxed features of someone who has not fought in quite a while. Above the bar hangs a curious, nasty-looking polearm evidently crafted from a grappling hook. The place does not appear to be an inn, unfortunately—just a watering hole, and a convenient one, as it's quite close to the main gates. The bartender waves at the party as they enter. "G'day there! New to the city? The Angry Rifter Tavern's always welcomin' to outsiders!" He winks at Carina on the word 'outsider'.
"A pint and recommendation of somewhere to stay where we'll wake up with all our stuff, please," Cuetzpalli says, slinging a gold coin onto the bar.
The barman snickers. "A man after my own heart. If you're a discerning lot of gentlefolk with coin to burn, the Deluxury is where you'll want to be—it's heaven on earth if you have money. Prince Zeech himself patronizes the joint." He goes to fulfill the party's order/s. "If cost is an object, though...well, the Ogre's Hideout is alright, as I've heard it. Their bar is in sad shape, and it's a rough, dangerous place, but the locks are solid."
He gives directions to each, drilling out words like they're on fire. "The Deluxury is just outside the palace—right across the road from the Cathedral of Hextor (praise the Antipaladin, Herald of Hell, and all that). Follow the Toilway west and you'll find it on your left, the Deluxury, that is—it's an impressive stone and wood edifice, can't miss it. The Ogre's Hideout will be on your right as you walk along the same route—a good sight closer, just next door to Miomay's Playhouse (a fine establishment if ever there was one, you should catch their play tomorrow night, I happen to know the owner and she's giving a pretty discount for the week of celebrations). and you'll want to ask to speak with Frill Beskered, not his 'apprentice', as he hasn't got an 'apprentice' to speak to no matter what the patrons tell you."
"Zeech really run things around here? Will we draw attention staying in the Deluxury?"
"Ah." The barman laughs. "Folks with great strength of arms are nothing new to Alhaster, especially not during the celebrations this week. I am sure that the Prince would not be concerned with a few extra mercenaries in the Deluxury—unless you came here to cause trouble, of course."
Cuetzpalli smiles. "I don't like trouble." He downs his pint. "Thanks for the words, barman. I'll return if a thirst strikes."
He looks at his companions, nodding to the door. "Deluxury?"
Cuetzpalli finds the drink to be quite palatable, if a bit salty. It tastes like modified rum. The jug it came from is labeled, "Grolg".
Carina gives Eben a sideways look. "Might want to be more careful who you say that stuff around..."
----------------
The undine alchemist offers a slight chuckle at the pun. "Right."
"I think we've earned some opulavishing, honestly. The Deluxury it is." Astraden buys a jar of wine for the road.
When they're out of the Angry Rifter's, she leans over to Eben. "Hey, remember that spell you used to let Cuetzpalli talk to us while he was swimming in the millstream back in Greyhawk? Might be useful here."
Once she can easily whisper without having to hunch close to the party, Astraden asks, "So, should I use my robe's magic to disguise us? I have a feeling, since we've killed some high-profile secret Hextor worshippers, it may not be good to rub shoulders with someone who openly worships him. I can disguise us for over twelve hours so we'd easily be able to be disguised for the time where we're at the inn, as long as we don't go back there during the day."
"What? Is this a town of super-sensitive theater critics or something? All I said was the performances were crap!" Eben orders a ploughman's lunch or whatever equivalent food is on the menu, alongside a snakebite tankard. "Fine, I can do that..." he says, casting message on everyone present. To give it a test run, he whispers, "By the by, Forzamele refuses to speak up, but has been screaming in my head since we came through the gates tat he really doesn't like the attitude towards celestials in the city."
Outside, he replies to Astraden, "Yeah, I don't think staying semi-incognito for a while can hurt..."
"Okay, let's just duck behind that house. It's easier with fewer people watching."
Astraden waits until no eyes are on them and then pulls a star patch from her robe. It dissolves in a puff of dust that collects in the eyes of each party member. When they blink the dust free, Tanith and Farrukh are hobgoblins, Eben and Cuetzpalli are half-orcs, and Carina and Astraden are normal-looking humans. Their armor, clothing, weapons, and hairstyles still have the kind of flamboyance expected from powerful mercenaries, but now reflect a more Hextorian palette. Cuetzpalli's greatsword is now a red-hafted greataxe, while Astraden's chainmail is now a suit of spiky full plate, for example. She takes care to obscure the actual abilities of each party member - Eben retains Forzamele, but he now carries a spellbook at his side, while Carina now has a pair of psionic-looking crystals embedded in her forehead.
"We should agree on names. I'll be Shan One-Arm, recently regenerated scimitar specialist. Maybe we could call our group 'The Dragonbanes' - generic is better, and there's plenty of wannabe dragonslayers who've killed a wyrmling and think they're hot s@%%."
Thinking of Kord, Cuetzpalli says, "I like it. I shall be, Hunk Yellow-Molar. Can you make it look like I have no tongue? It's probably better if I keep my talking to grunts if we want to be sneaky."
"Sure thing, Hunk." Astraden grins (with her now lesser amount of teeth).
As the party ducks behind a building called "the Tipsy Nymph Brewer" to more discretely assume their illusions, Farrukh, Carina and Astraden hear a chorus of angry shouting from up northwest. Looking over, they can see a large crowd about three hundred feet away. It's hard to tell the reason for the gathering, but it doesn't seem exactly celebratory.
"Huh, wonder if someone finally hit one of those nobles," Astraden muses. "We want to go look?"
"Wait, why am I a half-orc, and you're human. Wouldn't it have been easier to keep yourself the same race...? Eh, whatever. Call me... Arjbarj, Eater of Words." He waves his 'spellbook' around threateningly. "Sure, let's go see what's up..."
"It's all equally easy with this spell, and we want our group to be less identifiable, right?" Astraden smooths a strand of yellow hair up into her horned helmet. "I think we all look pretty sweet now, too."
She heads towards the noise.
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Tanith considers his alias for a while. "Uh, I'll go by Manith."
Carina looks down at her hands after Astraden's illusion changes her. Her armour is black and spiky now, as befitting a Hextorian, but it's just as midriff-baring as its original form was. Her belly now bears a tattoo of Hextor's holy symbol.
Is this what I'd look like if I were born a normal human?
"I'll call myself Ederia, I think..."
"I'll just be Zalamandra. I doubt my involvement in putting down Diamond Lake's Ebon Triad made it into the international grapevine, and my exploits as proprietor of the Emporium are hardly noteworthy. Plus -" Zalamandra flips back her now short blonde hair "It's been a long time since I've gotten to obfuscate anything substantial."
The group investigates, coming to the Alhaster Marketplace. A large crowd has gathered at the western end. Angry shouting wells up from the mob, and it appears that their hatred is directed at a trio of figures who stand on a gallows, nooses limp around their covered faces. Standing nearby is a tall man, a symbol of a gauntleted hand clutching six downward-pointing arrows emblazoned on the front of his black robes; he holds up a hand and the crowd quickly falls silent. When the man speaks, his voice is shrill but filled with conviction.
"By the Grace of his Most Beautiful Majesty Prince Zeech, I condemn these wicked heathens to their fate—they are fortunate that Prince Zeech is merciful, for had I the power, their deaths would last a fortnight. And so by His Decree, let these heretics go to their maker!"
Shouts of, "Death to the Ebon Triad!" well up from the crowd as the robed figure turns to his left and pulls a lever. Trapdoors snap open in the gallows floor, and the three hooded figures drop, kick for a few moments, then hang still.
Cuetzpalli feels a momentary urge to intervene, but then suppresses it. When he hears that it's the Ebon Triad being hanged he feels much more ambivalent. He shrugs to the others, grunting to remain in character.
Astraden flinches when the lever is pulled. "I've seen too many of those. It's not like killing in a fight or stabbing someone in the dark. All this focus on the scene and the power." She makes a face, then remembers herself and joins in any post-execution cheering.
Carina flinches as the triad cultists are hanged, but forces her face to adopt a smug grin.
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Eben- or rather, Arjbarj, Eater of Words- grimaces at the public execution, but restrains himself from intervening. "Well, at least the city is firmly anti-Triad..." he grunts in his orc-voice.
"I get the feeling what's in power isn't any better", Manith says in a soft voice while glancing at one the Hextor-aligned banners.
Now thus disguised, the party continues on from the sorry scene to the Deluxury. It is an impressive stone and wood building, though it is somewhat dwarfed by its place across the street of a massive crimson-stoned cathedral emblazoned with the symbols of Hextor and, unusually, the flag of Redhand.