Nalun just smirks. It's about time their reputation preceded them.
That'd be for the best. he says with his hand on the hilt of Willbreaker. (I used a random sword name generator!)
Legion cries out, and Karri barely muffles them, as the guards tuck their tales and back out. As the guards cast down their eyes, Karri whispers to Demitri, "Once in this emperor's presence, will we banter, or just kill him and be done?"
"We'll give him a chance to release the Seneschal peacefully. But we should be ready for violence."
I'd prefer violence, that's all these types respect. But, I'll follow your lead Guardsman.
In a small echoing whisper, "We would prefer it, too!"
The roughs turn and lead the party onwards... out onto what appears to be a makeshift stadium of some description. The large, flat roof of this long building has been converted into a strange sort of marshalling yard or game field. Two large square areas have been outlined with what could be blood, while at either end to the west and east, small wooden cages have been set up to the side of a hole in the roof that drops into the upper floor of the building below. Flights of stairs lead up from the roof to a balcony to the north and the gently slanted roof of a building to the south.
The open-air balcony above the field is shielded from rain and sun by a brightly colored canvas roof that extends up over the area like a half-dome, held in place by a wooden framework. The inside of the canvas has been decorated with scenes of gruesome debauchery; battlefields, executions, torture chambers, and human-eating monsters all vie for space. The balcony contains two major features of note. The first is a high-backed throne that looks like a poor man’s version of the Crimson Throne, a thing of blood-red cushions and silks and spikes. Directly west of the throne stands an intimidating device: a tall guillotine of carved wood and bone, its base depicting grasping demonic feet and the housing of its glittering blade a leering demonic face.
Glaring down from the balcony, seated on the massive throne, is a pudgy, greasy-looking man dressed in fine leathers, with a large greataxe at his side. Next to him is a weaselly-looking man wearing ragged, royal clothes and a rusted crown, his eyes darting every which way as if something will leap from the shadows at any moment.
"So you dare to enter my court uninvited." The fat man booms, his eyes narrowing at Demitri. His grip tightens on his axe's handle until his knuckles start shaking.
"Well, we were in the neighborhood and decided to drop by to say 'hello'", Lyla retorts. She looks up and stares at the paintings on the canvas. "We just need to see your interior designer and we'll be on our way. Maybe."
He was never granted respect during his tenure in the Society--he had a reputation for being an alcoholic and pesh addict. The only reason he lasted as long as he did, even with his exceptional combat prowess and ill temper, was because everyone else knew he had a powerful backer...
The fat man rises from his throne and walks over to the edge of the balcony. "After all you've done to me, you seriously expect ME to believe that?! You must have come to kill me. Why else would you so brazenly cow my men into bringing you before me?!"
Go ahead. Come on down here then. Show us who's the boss. But you'd best say a prayer to whichever God you favor, because we've beaten better than you and this rabble. Otherwise, sit down, shut up and listen. We have a few questions and then we'll be on our way.
"If we were just here to kill you, we wouldn't be talking. Our blades would be at your throat already." Demitri's eyes narrow right back at him.
"Come on, Boule. Play along, and we'll take it up with your boss, Glorio Arkona. We're not after you. For now," Lyla says, fishing for the man behind the "emperor".
"Like they said, Boule, you've got yourself a choice," Ortik says as flatly as he can muster. "If we wanted you and your men dead, we wouldn't have asked nicely to meet you. I think we can still work out a deal, but all bets are off the moment you send your men against us. You know who we are, you know who we've fought, and you know who we serve. So what's it going to be? Parlay? Or do you fancy you can finish what the Cult of Urgothoa couldn't?"
The emperor, Boule, grits his teeth and stares down from the balcony, visibly becoming more tense at the mention of the name Glorio Arkona. The gathered men start nervously fingering the hilts of their axes and looking around, ill at ease. Laori, on the other hand, is starting to finger her spiked chain with a gleeful expression. "...oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy..." She whispers, starting to bounce from foot to foot.
"...milord, I must beseech you." The crown-wearing aide says, practically crawling to Boule's side. "What they speak of is true--they could easily have stormed your palace and put everyone within to the sword. They have not."
"Also, they still have all their weapons."
Boule turns his rage-filled, bloodshot eyes on his aide. The veins in his head seem to be straining for a moment before he turns back to the party. For a long moment, a tense silence fills the air, and his hands shake as they grip the edge of the balcony.
"...what do you want here?" He growls. "You and yours have already taken everything you could from me--my Society and those who swore allegiance to it are either behind bars or dead, thanks to you."
Laori stops fidgeting, confused.
"Mr. Scream. We hear that you have him. Release him."
"What, so he can be thrown into the Queen's dungeons as well?" Boule replies.
Ortik chuckles at Boule's words. "I'm sorry, I really thought the Cerulean Society would have been better informed about the people that broke it. If you think us to be the Queen's lickspittles, then I daresay you never knew us. We are loyal to Korvosa, not she that sits upon the Crimson Throne. Release him to us, and we'll make certain that he continues to remain free of the Harlot of Cheliax's jails, and you get to continue ruling your fiefdom."
"By the way, in case you have Vencarlo Orsini and Seneschal Neolandis, we're gonna need them, too," Lyla adds.
The fat ex-guildmaster scoffs. "Neither Orisini nor the Seneschal lie within my palace. But your painter..." He chuckles. "...yes. Him, I do have."
"He is unharmed, as are all of my guests who treat me with the respect I am due."
Lyla rolls her eyes. "Aw, come on! That has to be one of the worse attempts at keeping a straight face that I've ever seen! What are you up to, Boule? Don't mess around with us. What's really going on here?", the halfling demands, raising her finger at the emperor.
Nalun frowns, and subtly shifts his weight so that he is ready to spring off his back foot. His hand rests easily on Willbreaker.
You've gone and irked me Boule. Release the damned Painter to us and you can keep scumming it up. We have *much* bigger problems. Or, we fight you for him. Maybe you get lucky, maybe you beat us. How many men it gonna cost you? Half? More? What happens when your muscle is dead? How long until the knives come for you then? Save both of us the trouble Boule.
"My friends here really want you to make the mistake of fighting us. I would rather save my energy and just take the painter with us. The choice is up to you though."
A booming inhuman echo rises from Karri, "Let it begin. We will drag his soul into the Abyss and chew his sinew and bones for all eternity!" Karri pulls up her sleeves and her scars respond to her touch, surging and longing to be pulled out and into the world. Her raised hands curl into claws and a haze begins forming around her now green glowing eyes.
Boule grimaces, and the men around the party take a step back in fear. Even the 'emperor's' aide hides behind him. "Milord, please! Whatever madness you're planning, it won't work! You've already lost too much--don't let this go any further!"
The guildmaster bites his lip, holds it, and then sighs in defeat. "...very well."
"Your painter is held within my quarters." He grumbles and nods at his guards, who start to part away from the party. "Two of my men will escort you to him, and then you will leave. And we will never cross paths again."
Laori looks over at the party, looking quite shocked and... strangely intrigued. "...wait, that worked?"
"We're not out of here yet, Laori," Ortik whispers to her out through the corner of his mouth. "[smaller]Keep your chain ready."
"You heard Your Lordship," he says, louder this time to the guards. "Take us to Scream, if you don't want to be doing that yourselves."
"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot." Demitri remarks to Laori once he is out of earshot of Boule. He then follows the guards closely.
The two roughs lead the party up the balcony and past the massive tall knife, with Boule glaring daggers at the lot of them as they pass him by.
One of the thugs winces as he leads the party into a corridor and stops before the first door on the right. "The Emperor's doing ye a great curtsy, methinks. Never seen 'im cave so quickly--it ain't like him ta do so." He sighs. "Well, we're just about there. Don't mind the smell."
With that, he produces an iron key and uses it to open the door. The air in the room beyond smells sickly sweet—a combination of flowers and vinegar. The unpleasant smell likely comes from the fourteen poorly preserved heads mounted on the walls of this grisly trophy hall. Most of the heads are human, although two are those of elves and one is from a dwarf with a beard roughly sheered off to match the cut to the neck. To the north, a small, child-sized bed sits against the wall opposite a wooden table decorated with a magnificent set of silverware.
The rough hustles through, his eyes staring directly across to the door at the eastern end of the room. "Thiswaythiswaydon'tlookatthetrophiesthey'rebloodydisgusting" He says, his voice shaking as the words spill from his mouth. He practically forces the door open with a shaking hand to reveal a more tastefully decorated room.
This extravagantly decorated bedroom would seem to belong in the richest of noble villas or monarchs’ castles—at least, until one looks a little more closely at the sheets on the four-poster bed and notes how stained and frayed they are, or examines the tapestries and bed curtains and sees the patches of mould and threadbare edges. A tall, well-stocked bookcase to the south turns out to be leaning against the wall for support; the contents of its sagging shelves are poorly produced books with violent or erotic names on their mildewed spines. Everything is slightly musty, stained with age, and well beyond its prime. Only the three paintings hanging on the wall hold up to closer examination, but their grisly subject matter might make them difficult to show in most public venues. To the north, a simple wooden door is secured with a lock and a heavy wooden bar.
Laori's eyes go wide as she sees the paintings and wanders over to look more closely at them.
He fits the key into the lock and lifts the bar from the door. "Scream's inside. Bit of a skittish one, so don't mind 'is stutter."
Nalun holds the door open and dismisses the man We'll take it from here.
The thug hurries away without looking back.
The air in this room is an unpleasant mix of body odour and paint. A lumpy straw mattress lies on the floor in one corner of the room, partially covered by a few blankets, while in the other stands a large easel on which rests a nearly completed painting of immense fiends attacking a village.
Standing at the easel is a gaunt, disheveled man in a white smock stained with sweat and paint. His dark pants look a tad too large for him, his feet are bare and covered with filth, and his brown hair looks like a crow's nest. His dark eyes dart from his easel to the open door, and he flinches.
"G-guests? Emp-Emperor Boule n-never told me I-I would b-b-b-be having guests." He stutters, his hands shaking as he puts his paintbrush down. "A-are you here to save me?"
"This is... pretty disturbing," Lyla remarks after walking past the trophy heads and reaching the decrepit bedroom chamber. Out of the thugs' earshots, she leans towards Demitri and says, from the corner of her mouth, "I'm not sure we can let that guy off the hook for too long. Once we've fried the bigger fish, we'll probably need to come back for Boule."
Lyla follows Nalun into the adjoining room, where the stuttering man apparently toils for the emperor. "Yes, Mr. Scream, we are here to take you bak to your home. Pack whatever you need from this place and we'll help you take it to your house. And then, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's ok."
Salvador gasps in relief before his eyes widen suddenly. "Y-yes, I-I-I should. B-but Boule--h-how did you c-convince him t-t-t-to let you i-in here?"
"He's afraid of us. That did it."
He's a bully. And bullies are at heart all cowards in their own way...but lets stay on our guard shall we. Nalun says from the hallway. He's keeping an eye out for nefarious dealings from Boule.
Salvador blinks in confusion. "Af-afraid? B-Boule? I w-would not have thought h-his t-t-temper would a-allow him to be afraid."
"Don't worry about that, Mr. Scream. We got it covered." Lyla helps Salvatore Scream and, looking over her shoulder, asks Nalun "Everything alright back there, slim?"
"Well, believe it. We need you, so you're under out protection."
Ortik begins to scowl as Salvador talks through his confusion. "I may have gravely miscalculated," he says finally. "He might try something stupid on the way out. You might just get a chance to use that chain of yours, Laori."
Laori absentmindedly nods at Ortik in response. "Mmhm. Yeah." She brazenly walks up to the three paintings hanging in Boule's room and starts taking them down.
"Hey, does anyone mind if I have these?"
...
...wait, is something burning? It smells like something's burning.
Laori's nose wrinkles in surprise. "...also, what smells like smoke?"
"Smoke? I don't smell anything. Damnit, if there is smoke, it means that bastard is trying to burn this place down around us."
Lyla sniffs the air and confirms Laori's assessment. She clenches her hand into a fist and smacks the wall in anger. "M*****f*****!", she swears, shaking her head. "He's sooooo gonna regret this. Come on guys, let's get out of here." Lyla then goes on to check the fire and the conditions for their retreat.
Mr. Scream's face immediately drains of what little colour is left in it. "O-oh, gods above and below I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! I-I KNEW IT!" He starts panicking and gathering up the few painting supplies he can.
Lyla looks to the west, past the grisly trophy hall, and sees that the western wing of Boule's little complex has been set ablaze. What's more, the door leading outside has been closed, and likely locked. Over the roaring blaze, the sound of Boule's maddened voice can be heard...
Smoke starts pouring from the west wing, rolling forth...
"We're gonna make it out alive. Just stay calm. Lyla, can you unlock that door? Preferably quickly please."
"People everywhere just love you, heh, chief?", Lyla jokes as Boule shouts out Demitri's name. "Well, we escaped a fire before, and we'll do it again. Let's see how good those locks are." The halfling darts forward to the door and starts picking the lock.
"I'm too charming for my own good it seems."
Lyla chuckles. "Hah! I know who can vouch for that," she says throwing a sideways glance in Karri's direction.
Seconds too late, Ortik catches scent of the smoke. "Oh, to Hell with this!", he shouts. "Everyone gather 'round, we're not burning alive today!" He prays to the Old Dame to shield them from the flames.
Karri doesn't seem to notice Lyla's jibe. Instead she is focused on keeping Legion in check. "Fools playing with fire." She turns and looks directly at Laori, "This is Legion!" Her glowing eyes flare as she moves aside her robes and plunges a hand into her gut. Karri's scars swarm and merge to where her hand has dug in as she fights to grab the essences she needs.
Laori tilts her head at Karri as she begins summoning... something... from inside her. "Ooh..."
She and Mr. Scream are quite appreciative of Ortik's protective magics. "Shoulda prepped something like that today--kinda didn't expect to run into a belligerent idiot with too much personal power." Oddly, Laori doesn't seem that concerned with the fact that the building is burning.
Salvador, on the other hand, is hyperventilating and looks to be on the verge of fainting from fright.
Lyla's picks run into some resistance at first--the lock used on the door appears to have been magically reinforced. It doesn't stop her from forcing the lock to open anyway, revealing an incredulous--and apoplectically enraged--Boule.
Boule's men appear quite surprised at this turn of events--they don't move to attack, their eyes darting in disbelief between their leader and the suddenly opened door.
Nalun leaps forward, drawing Willbreaker as he does so, and shouting Boule! You gods forsaken moron. This is the last mistake you'll make! Nalun moves past Boule
(Nalun probably takes an AoO from Boule)
Nalun brandishes Willbreaker menacingly. Best run now fools. It's over for your Boss.
(Using my standard to use favored target on Boule)
Lyla lets Nalun through while swiftly setting up a tanglefoot bomb, which she throws straight at Boule. "Your men can run, but you're staying, Boule."
[dice=Ranged touch attack - tanglefoot bomb]1d20+13[/dice]
Boule's axe rakes across Nalun's chest in a blur as he tries to leap past him...
...and the tanglefoot goo hits him in the chest, not slowing him down much.
But it DOES convince him to advance on Lyla instead of Nalun.
His first swing carves a vicious swath across the doorframe, tearing a chunk of the wooden wall out. His next swing is more accurate, coming down hard on her leg and biting into it.