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As the group decides their course of action after having being expelled from the Arvensoar, they make their way down to the Shore as a group, doubling back the way they came and heading north along Avenue of Honors until they finally reach the massive ramp that is the public’s primary access point between the Shore and the Summit. Here, they descend to the less-savory portion of Magnimar. Immediately upon reaching the Shore the group can notice the difference - here, at the district known simply as Dockway, the group are first beset by a only half-cleared, rough-cobblestone clearing.
Before they can begin their search, the group decides to use one of the nearby taverns as a starting point - this brings them to The Old Fang, a busy tavern that boasts being the most well-known of the district. Located a mere five minutes off the path through a series of snow-choked pathways, the snow-covered tavern is a hotspot of activity. Here, the group can begin the next phase of their search.
Not ten minutes later, after Harl and Misha have been stripped of their equipment and tied up to look like slaves, Wilhem, Radyx, Ferit, and Charbonardent, along with their two new ‘slaves’ leave the inn and shuffle through the snow to the nearby Bazaar of Sails - a market that, even after Karzoug’s return, boasts the status of ‘largest free market in Varisia’, its trade only stifled somewhat by the new ownership of the city and the encroaching winter. Here, traders from across the Inner Sea come to trade in various goods and services - many of which, such as slavery, were not seen prior, while other goods, such as food and items both mundane and magical that help keep the cold away have become hot commodities due to the encroaching Reign of Winter. If there is any place in Magnimar that could potentially harbor an illegal Nidalese slave ring, it is here. And it is here that the group begins their search.
Leading the two Ulfen ‘slaves’ along, the group pass by innumerable tents, booths, and hawkers, all trying to sell something - except, it seems, information. The group travels through the bazaar for nearly an hour, unable to find anything of any use - what they do find, however, are plenty of offers to purchase Harl and Misha by legitimate slavers - some coming as far away as Rahadoum, eager for the group’s ‘exotic’ Ulfen stock. None of which, when questioned, have information that proves to be viable. After an hour of failure after failure at finding anything useful, the group decides to return to the Old Fang to report their failure to the others.
On their way back, Wilhem overhears about another drinking establishment close by - a much seedier one that sits as a counterpoint to the much ‘grander’ Old Fang - an establishment known as No Horn. Deciding that it would be a better spot to search for clues, Wilhem and his entourage head there after a brief check-in with the others, who are relaxing in the relative comfort of Old Fang. What they find is certainly a less desirable location than the other tavern - the low-end tavern is a leaning black structure built from a discarded ship hull - a building that looks precariously unstable and seemingly as dangerous to walk near as it is to actually go in and drink. Inside, the group finds that the riff-raff that visit the drinking hole is as every bit seedy as the tavern itself - even the food, if one can call it that, looks and smells horrible.
It is here that Wilhem, after finding a spot for his group to sit, latches onto something useful. Talking to the bartender and owner of the place, a horribly disfigured, middle-aged chelish man who has had both of his ears ripped, cut, or bitten off - it is hard to tell exactly what happened to his ears, besides the fact that they are now nothing more than nubs on the sides of his head, they finally get the lead that they need:
A rumor - nothing more than a rumor - that there might just be a pick-up for one of the slave runs scheduled for this very night at midnight at a nearby fishery, in this very district. The fishery is located next to an old, run-down tavern known as the Puffy Pelican. Wilhem, latching onto the information like a hawk, brings out the group’s map that Taros gave him and asks the bartender to show them - though foul-tempered, the bartender is oddly cooperative, likely due the leering of nearby Ferit, Radyx, and Charbonardent, who look like they might want to rip off what little remains of the bartender’s ears should he not cooperate. With a quick mark on the map, the group now has a location and a time - with this information in tow, Wilhem and his entourage quickly return to the Old Fang to let the others know, so that they may plan their next move.
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"Shame we had ta leave so soon, that No Horn joint was mint," Ferit comments once the full group is reunited in the Old Fang. "We got hours ta kill before midnight. Let's go pay the Amazing Zograthy a visit," he suggests. "There's no point in sittin' around 'ere developin' sores on our arses."
Standing beside the table the others have gathered at, Isroth has been pointedly patient while the prolonged investigation took place. Oberving the actions and capabilities of his companions, the arcanist has been wordlessly assessing their successes and failures. Judgment, yet, has not been passed.
"I would agree with this assessment. It was fortunate of us to find this information, but we should not presume that it will bear the fruit we seek." Shifting his posture, Isroth regards both Radyx and Hoosible with momentary consideration. "I would like to see what these two are capable of," he states, directing the head of his glaive towards each.
"We can remain... nearby, for assistance's sake. If this Zograthy is as amazing as made out to be, it should be a suitable challenge to show an example of competency and capability." Isroth looks over to Ferix, his white eyes staring at the orc-blooded man in silence, awaiting his input.
Radyx glares at the masked man, who apparently had no clue who he was speaking to.
"You wanna know what I'm made of, Skully, you should ask those who frequented The Run. Unless you want a more...personal demonstration." He drops his hand to his axe, tapping the top of the blade with his finger.
He then smirks and says, "But we can go see what this fella knows, can't we Short Stuff? I ain't feeling near as cranky as I was earlier. Either the tired has worked its way outta my muscles, or I've gone numb. Either way, I'd rather be somewhere warmer."
Valko nods his head at the last bit of direction from Isroth, as it pertains to remaining nearby to one another.
"Staying nearby is more important than many realize, these days. Traversing these walks of Magnimar is folly, pure and simple. Even for men such as you, overwhelming numbers and Sczarni muscle are above scoffing bravado. Moving throughout the city should not be risked numbering so few. The lower city's reaches grow more destitute and desperate by the day, and each of us alone would cut quite a tempting prospect. In other words: I agree with our masked companion here. Where a ruse is not required, a show of numbers is advisable."
"Aye, lets all go. I'm sure eventually sumfink will need to be punched or made to feel uncomfortable," Ferit says with a wicked grin.
Absorbed in tweaking and reworking his wreath of flowers, Hoosible nods a bit distractedly when he hears Wilhem's news.
When the rasping arcanist calls him out, Hoosible gets a bit of a startled look, putting his wreath quickly on top of his bag. After others chime in, the corpse-like gnome mentions, "According to Taros, this Zograthy is the sort of person who responds best to gold. I suggest we make full use of that information. So let's all go, yes...but when we get there I suspect Wilhem is the best of us to parlay with him. I would offer my own services but -- despite my charm and smile -- I find many closed-minded people put off by my...airs."
"For my part, while I'm not liable to be our best negotiator, let me be clear what you can expect from me. My Wendifa training has prepared me for when things get unpleasant, whether that means slaying foes like I did the tooth fairy...or tending to the injured afterward. Outside of that, wellI like to think I bring a bit more beauty into the world. Art can be so personal, but I can't deny I have a gift. To that end, I think this wreath is done...and I notice that its golds and reds would play nicely against your impressive robes, Isroth. It won't be at it's finest until it's dried but if you'd like, just bend down carefully and I can put it over your head.
Charbonardent watches and follows the group feeling completely like a fish out of water. There was no order or hierarchy in this group. These Cyphermages had no power over the local constabulary. It felt like the Rune Lord's control was not complete in this city. He shook his head not knowing when to assert control over these lesser races.
Deciding to check up on their third and final lead, the Amazing Zograthy, the group packs up from their short stay at Old Fang and heads back out into the freezing weather. This time, their travels take them down the Avenue of Sails and clear across the city - the hour-long journey through half-clogged streets is, thankfully, devoid of encounters.
It is at the end of their walk through the city that they finally reach their destination: Washer’s Row. Here, they find an odd mixture of open-air washhouses, launderers, and Varisian wagons sitting side-by-side to various carnival attractions that, despite the snow and the cold weather, remain open for those souls too poor or too foolish to remain indoors.
As they walk through the area, fully armed, armored, and appearing instead to be a small platoon of soldiers rather than Cyphermages, the group pass by quite a few odd attractions of their own. At the southern end of Washer’s Row, tattered, half-frozen banner hanging over the entrance to the small side street advertises, “Professor Callivario’s Stupendous Exhibition of the Outrageous and Sublime.” Beyond this overly exuberant advertisement is a squalid setup consisting of little more than a series of rundown sideshow booths and carts with assorted games and amusements of the meaner sort. To one side, urchins, wearing thick covers of rags to keep themselves warm, pitch pennies at lily pads floating in a partially-frozen, scum-covered fountain while a bored Varisian carnie looks on. Nearby, the sound of cats hissing and fighting arises from behind a cart where a small crowd of ne’er-do-wells - each and every one of them of Varisian stock - has gathered to cheer and place bets while simultaneously attempting to keep warm with their huddled mass. Everywhere lurk faces pinched with suspicion, hunger, or cold - expressions worn by carnival workers and visitors alike.
Even compared to the rest of the city, this is not the sort of place to be careless.
It appears that, the group themselves, attract their own sort of attention simply by being here, as if they too were one of the carnival’s attractions. As they move through the alleyway seeking Zograthy’s, urchins, carnies, and various scruffy-looking Varisian thugs alike take notice of them, gawking, pointing, and whispering to each other. Though they give the group a wide berth, the group notice that some of the scruffier looking ones - ones that, even through their thick clothing, appear to be well-muscled and almost itching for a scrap to pass the time, begin following the group, not attempting to hide that fact. They keep their distance, however - they appear content to simply watch the group.
For now.
Realizing that they are being followed and that they don’t really know where Zograthy’s is, the group stops momentarily to get their bearings. It is here that Ferit momentarily takes the lead, due to his previous connections with the Sczarni, and asks directions. The man he speaks to, a stooped old barker with a hacking cough, quickly and easily points them to their destination, which resides not far at all.
Rounding the corner from where they asked for directions, the abode of “The Amazing Zograthy, Seer of the Dark”, sits in plain sight. A small, well-patched tent crudely painted with ‘mystical’ symbols and decorated with chicken bones and other oddments, Zograthy’s place appears much less Amazing than one would have first assumed upon hearing of the man. Indeed, the tent itself is only small enough for four of the group to fit - the others would need to remain outside in the cold, enduring the gawking and pointing of the small crowd that appears to be gathering nearby.
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As the group approaches the tent, Isroth gradually slows his pace and allows the others to move forward. As he does, he looks down to something clutched in one gloved hand with a modicum of distraction. There, a wreathe of flowers looks all too dainty when clutched by leather-clad hands. Isroth's milky white eyes stare down at the flowers, his expression unreadable behind the skull-like facade of his mask.
It isn't the moment that he retrieved the flowers that has Isroth locked in fascination, nor is it any ponderings over the meaning of the gift. Something else, a memory of another time, lingers in the masked arcanist's mind. Whatever that notion is, whatever part of his past he is fixated on, it has kept him rapt and more silent than usual.
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Ferit stares back at the crowd gathered to look at them, sneering. "Fat lot o' good fa nothin' cock gobblers," he says in their general direction, before spitting into the frozen mud at his feet. After their long walk through the cold his snotsickle has fully reformed, lending his the aspect of some terrible mustachioed troll. "Willy, F#$+o, Mask-face, get yer arses in there and find out what 'e knows. Holler if ye's needs us."
Hoosible looks at the flowers wrapped around the arcanist's wrist, and at the arcanist looking them over himself.
Hmmm. I was thinking of a worn wreath...but perhaps they would've been too much beside that intricate mask. Against black glove and sleeve... The gnome nods approvingly.
"An interesting choice." he says to Isroth. "Are you an artist as well?"
Unperturbed by the cold thanks to the nature of his morning concoction, the streets they have been forced to take in order to reach the strangely named seer are another matter entirely. Leering yokels and whispering gypsies surround them in all directions, their throngs only interrupted by an equally overwhelming tide of urchins and paupers. This place was awful. All of the mongrels down here would be better served admitting defeat and giving themselves over to conscripted service or slavery. If nothing else, it would save the agents of The Reclaimer the trouble of sending collectors into the depth of the rabble to enforce the new laws brought about with Magnimar's changing of the guard. Then again, Karzoug's influence on the city was not so absolute as elsewhere in Varisia. More likely than not, this was owed to the fact that the whole of Magnimar was surrendered willingly, rather than grinded nearly to dust beneath the heels of an advance of giants, dragons, and soldiers. Perhaps here, in the City of Monument's lower depths, such extreme measures should be considered.
As all approach the tent, Valko nods in acknowledgement of Ferit's "suggestion". Without fuss or word, and thankful to be rid of the lingering eyes of gawkers and troublemakers, the Ustlavian half-elf pulls back the tent flap and hurries beneath the colorful canvas.
Radyx grunts at Ferit's comment. "Don't ferget about Skully wantin' to see how well I can use my gift of gab. Besides, somebody's gotta be able to bash some sense into this guy should he not prove talkative."
He smirks towards Ferit and then follows the three "diplomats" into the tent.
"Hmm, I wouldn't advise that. It feels like we're only a few bad moves from starting a riot." Wilhem advises, looking around at the indigenous population. "A scuffle at least..." he adds in an undertone, before ducking inside and looking around, blinking to allow himself to acclimatize to the light.
Isroth looks askance at Ferit, then motions to Radyx with one gloved hand. It would seem that the Shalasti agent has no intentions of dealing with Zograthy himself, but will let his initial intentions spoken before they came here serve as a road map. Looking down to Hoosible, Isroth is silent, gently resting the haft of his glaive against his shoulder.
"Are we not all artists?" Is the masked arcanist's retort as he turns his attention over to the tent, watching Radyx and Valko enter. "In our own unique ways."
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Entering the tent, the trio are welcomed by the sight of a cluttered, stuffy tent that is, admittedly, quite warm and cozy inside. In the middle of the small tent is an old, wooden table covered in a blue velvet cloth that has had moons, stars, and arcane symbols crudely stitched onto it. Upon the cloth in question, a dusty crystal ball and a deck of harrow cards sit. Behind the table sits an aged, bald, and well-wrinkled Varisian man with piercing blue eyes and fading tattoos, wearing threadbare purple robes. In his hands sits an ornate wooden staff topped with a claw clutching another crystal orb. As the trio enter, the man’s face lights up with a welcoming smile and broadly gestures a welcome, while boldly states in a tremulous voice,
His voice, loud as it is, can be heard clearly outside of the tent, despite being made of heavy material that keeps well the warmth inside. The trio are motioned to sit down in one of the chairs sitting in front of Zograthy’s table; as they do so, they can easily feel that the tent’s warmth seems to be emanating from beneath the table - though quite the fire hazard, there appears to be a pit dug beneath the table, where hot coals lay, spreading their warmth into the tent.
After the trio sit as requested, Zograthy’s smile slowly dims, but never completely fades, as he stares into each of their eyes in turn - a moment later, he speaks in a much quieter, though easily audible, voice.”The Amazing Zograthy is visited by an interesting group today, it appears! Thirteen people, of which only three deem themselves worthy of the Amazing Zograthy’s presence! Tell me then, the trio that sit before me - what led to the circumstances that brought you to the abode of The Amazing Zograthy?”
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Charbonardent stands watch outside the tent with Isroth.
Wilhem takes the middle seat with a contented sigh, pulling off his gloves and loosening his coat to take full advantage of the tent's warmth. "You have a nice set-up here." he compliments the man, it was perhaps tacky but that was what people expected from this sort of thing. He pauses, leaning a little closer; that trembling wasn't merely from age, secrets of the multiverse indeed.
He certainly was perceptive despite that though, definitely a useful trait in an information broker, if Wilhem's suspicions were correct. "Yes we didn't wish to overcrowd your tent. We are looking for information on a woman by the name of Natalya, we were told that you may be able to help us find her." he reaches into his pouch, pulling out a gold piece and setting it on the table.
Radyx takes a seat to Wilhems right, not so much interested in the old man as he is the warmth from beneath his table.
"Heh, Skully wanted to 'see what I could do,' and sends me into the nice warm tent. Good man. I'll have to go on more of these 'diplomatic' missions."
He sits quietly, but pulls out a gold coin and twirls it in his fingers. He figured the prospect of either more gold or a potential customer might loosen his lips a bit.
Outside the tent, Isroth lifts a hand, palm out, towards the tent and speaks in a rasping whisper. "Всевидящий глаз, открой мне ткань магии." As he performs this incantation, his eyes glow with a subtle radiance. Inwardly, Isroth can feel his senses extend outward as he begins scanning the interior of the tent for magical auras.
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Valko, despite being the first in the tent, does little beyond a perfunctory bow. He remains standing while the matter at hand is being discussed, keen ears and keener eyes surveying their surroundings and host with practiced scrutiny. He notes the telltale signs of pesh addiction, hiding his disdain for the vice behind a placid demeanor. He will remain a silent party for the time being, merely observing the affair down to every excruciating detail. Men such as these are seldom forthcoming, addicts or otherwise. As far as they knew, this Zograthy is the one responsible for Natalya's disappearance. All it would require is a Sczarni with a keen eye to see the leverage available to them through the hallucinogen. With any luck, the old fool will be as accommodating as his rehearsed act implies.
As his two companions produce gold, Valko's eyes flit only briefly to the display. Forthright and honest so far. The half-elf's eyes study the "seer"'s reaction and response closely.
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Listening to Wilhem, Zograthy’s piercing eyes stare right into the former’s as he regards his visitors. Once Wilhem has stated their intentions for being here, Zograthy nods sagely, a smirk appearing on his wrinkled face as he leans back in his rickety chair. ”Ahh.. secrets.... quite possibly my greatest trade!” His smirk suddenly disappearing, Zograthy drops his act and, in a quite matter-of-factly voice, speaks plainly and bluntly, ”Fifty gold.” He brings forth his outstretched hand, palm upwards, flatly demanding payment before continuing.
Wilhem is caught off guard by Zograthy's sudden change in demeanor. His eyes widen at the fee he asks. "That is an exorbitant price, especially for payment up front. How do we know that your information is worth such a fee?" he asks, giving himself a moment to think.
At Wilhem’s question, Zograthy smirks and, putting his hands together, he leans forward slightly. ”I do not expect that agents of the Sihedron such as yourselves came all of the way to Washer’s Row for petty games or fortunes told. Yes, “ he adds, nodding knowingly, continuing to smirk, ”I am aware of your affiliation, for I am the Amazing Zograthy, and I know much. Plus, two of your allies outside wear their allegiances quite plainly, do they not? Such is a dangerous game they play here, despite what they likely think.”
Zograthy leans back into a more casual, relaxed position against his chair. ”I do not seek to make enemies, nor con people out of their coin who seek my information. My trade with information is an honest one - you have information you seek, and I likely can help. So, I will repeat myself: Fifty gold. Or, ” he adds as an afterthought, ”Something worth that value in a trade is alright, as well.”
Oye, rube, catch!”
As Isroth studies Zograthy’s tent, searching for magical auras besides the abjurations affecting Valko within and Charbonardent outside, he finds himself hit upside the back of the head with a rather large, heavily-packed and yellow-tinted snowball, causing his concentration to be interrupted. He sighs with a little bit of frustration and quickly cleans himself off with a simple spell.
Al’cazar, meanwhile, looks ready to pounce, his weapon out, at whoever just threw the snowball, causing some fear amongst the crowd - however, upon looking for a target, he finds himself unable to figure out who threw it - indeed, even the crowd, most of whom look fearfully at the runescarred Shoanti’s massive blade, are looking around to see which one of their number threw it. His forthcoming rage and slaughter of the crowd is halted by Isroth’s hand on his shoulder and a slight shake of the arcanist’s head. Growling, Al’cazar’s rage visibly diminishes while still bubbling just beneath the surface, ever ready to boil over. Although his stance is calmer, he keeps his greatsword out as a warning to the crowd that he means business.
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Charbonardent slowly and dramatically draws his Large Greatsword while surveying the crowd. He puts his back to Al'cazar, so the two can watch 360 degrees of the area. The half-giant carefully sets the tip into the snow-covered ground and rests his huge hands on the cross piece continuing to monitor the crowd.
Ferit chuckles as the piss ball hits the snooty arcanist in the back of his head. He scans the crowd, seeing if he can spot who flung it.
Scanning the crowd, Ferit is able to make out roughly a dozen of these particular individuals moving about, not staying in one spot. It was likely one of them who threw the snowball, itching to get into a clem - a word Ferit knows is a fight between Sczarni and non-Sczarni. However, despite that, they don't seem eager to make the first move themselves, snowball not-withstanding.
Ferit flashes the signal for inside job to the thugs in the crowd, hoping they'll leave.
"More foolish than wandering these gutters brazenly are those who think themselves beyond the reach of a Runelord's ire. Be thankful that such affairs are not what delivers us so boldly into the presence of your mysticism act." Valko's stern look and chiding tone evaporate in an instant, and he follows suit with Zograthy in speaking plainly and politely, "I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. As your divinations have unveiled, our purpose is as straightforward as you say: information. Reliable information is a commodity well worth the investment. As for false information. . . as you say, there is no need to make enemies here."
Relinquishing his vigil at the periphery of the tent, Valko approaches the charlatan's table and has himself a seat. The Ustlavian's features remain level and businesslike as he says, "My own informants have told me that certain substances have grown extremely scarce under the assault of trade crippling winters and sihedron-branded enforcers. Indeed, one can barely come into contact with some "herbal remedies" without the loyalty of several guards and officials these days. How convenient it must be for some who travel in the company of the Sihedron Legion, no? So many obstacles seem to evaporate in an instant when one stands prominent among the agents of our most esteemed Runelord."
Ferit, flashing a number of hand signals in order to let the Sczarni thugs watching the group know that the operation he's in is in fact, Sczarni as well, apparently fails to fool the onlookers - the thugs, noticing him in particular amongst his group, motion to one another, likely communicating between themselves via a gang-specific secret code, before one of them eventually points directly at Ferit and shakes his head.
However, despite the fact that he failed to fool the thugs, they seem to make no apparent moves, still intent on watching the group from the crowd.
When Valko begins speaking, Zograthy turns his attention towards the Ustalavan half-elf and listens intently, curious as to what this one has to say. Smirking as he gets what Valko is saying, Zograthy continues to sit relaxed back in his chair, his elbows now resting on the chair's arms and his chin resting on his folded hands.
"I'm listening.."
Outside the tent, the odd little gnome mutters a frustrated "Dammit." as his cold, numb fingers interfere with the flower chain he's working on: trying to weave together the last of the flowers he picked in the Cyphermage garden with the dried birds feet that he'd tucked under the ribbon of his tricorn.
He looks up at the commotion around the snowball, takes a minute to try to grok what's happening...and then shrugs and goes back to weaving his wreath.
Radyx sighs and leans forward, speaking for the first time since entering the tent.
"Yer listenin' when ye should be gabbin', bub. Ye got the drift of Elfie's words sure enough. If ye wanna make a trade of information fer a supply of some hard-ta-get goodies, then I wager Elfie and Fancy Pants here are yer best chance at it these days. But, it all depends on how close to the truth yer information is, savvy."
He leans back, enjoying the warmth of the tent, and adds, "Besides, it might do ye some good ta get in on the good side with some folks that are on the right side of things, now-a-days. Been good to me, of late."
(Failure)
(Success)