"Point," Henry Southgard says before he ducks under a Halfling-sized tent.
Henry emerges a few minutes later with a bundle of clothes under one arm.
"Put these on. I don't think it'll make you less suspicious, but it might help. Gorim, if you could wear your holy symbol a bit more prominently, that'd put a lot of minds at rest."
Gorim nods at the request and begins to unravel the holy symbol from his wrist, pausing for a moment. He can't quite remember the last time it wasn't there.
He snaps back to it and places it around his neck, "There we go".
Quick slips the poncho on and is please to find it oversized thanks to his small frame; he frowns. "This think covers almost my whole body. Won't that alone make people nervous? It does hid my sword nicely though."
Henry learns from one of the halfling women, that there are but a few temples inside the walls of the town. Her favorite is the brewpub-monastery to Cayden Cailean, found on one of the busiest roads. An Iomedae temple and a Sarenrae house of prayer can be found near one of the five huge stables in Redstone. There is also a sort of mercenary’s hostel, where a priest of Gorum offers a chance to spar for a bunk rather than pay. The small lady halfling only knows where that is so she could avoid it -that place tends to draw bullies and thugs. Abadar followers are known to volunteer assisting the guards in keeping the peace inside the city, though they do not have a building for worship. These religious volunteers number about a dozen or so. Henry receives directions to the various places of worship, and if he wished to find an Abadar worshiper, to “just keep an eye out.” He is also given the most direct route to the stables, but the halfling adds that the roads are so busy that the smaller side alleys will definitely be faster.
Inching their way through the throng of people outside the smaller gate, the four can see a handful of guardsmen question those who wish to enter. Honest tradesfolk seem to encounter no problem after answering the questions. The guard captain of this particular gate must have a sense of humor, for two of the five guards admitting entrants bear an orc or half-orc descent. Nonetheless, they seem to be taking their task very seriously, their faces hard from the multitude of glares they deal with in a single day. A few heads in front of Henry, Quick, Gorim, and Gwath, a very dirty half-elf shifts his weight ceaselessly until he reaches a guard. Through the din of the crowd, it is near impossible to hear the conversation between the half-orc guard and the half-elf who wishes to enter the city. But the half-elf’s fidgeting gets worse, and something he says, or doesn’t say, narrows the taller half-orc’s eyes to an intimidating glare. The unwashed half-elf suddenly twists as though to flee, but the half-orc is faster, and kicks the pivot out from under the would-be escapee.
The disturbance draws the attention of the crowd waiting to enter the city, and everyone presses in closer for a better view. Five more guards and a captain from the other side of the gate surge in, partly to keep the crowd under control, while two others hold down the squirming half-elf. The watchmen on the walls take notice at the sudden commotion below, and study the crowd for any rabble-rousers. One of the half-orc guards searches the filthy pockets of the half-elf, and brings up three small phials with a suspicious look. Uncorking and sniffing their contents, he grimaces and hands them to the guard captain, who likewise tests the fluid inside. “No! Those aren’t mine!” the half-elf’s screams are muffled by the ground. Nodding a thanks to the half-orc, the captain raises his voice to the pressing crowd. “In case you’re wondering, poison is still illegal in Vyren. Here at Redstone Keep, we uphold the king’s law. I don’t care how lenient you had it in Port Elam, if we catch you with poison on your person, the minimum sentence is two years in a prison cell.” He spares a dismissive glance down at the half-elf, whose wrists are locked together with iron manacles, “definitely more, if you are selling it.”
The captain drops the three phials and stomps on the glass, smearing their dark, oily substance into the dirty cobblestones. The half-elf is dragged inside by two city guards, and the captain lingers as the guards resume their questions. Most of the crowd begins to talk amongst themselves, some astonished at the criminal, some jest of his stupidity, and others rolls their eyes and seem to ignore the ordeal altogether.
The four adventurers reach the handful of guards at the same time. The ones questioning Gwath and Quick seem to notice their parentage but do not escalate their demeanor. “Name, and purpose of entering Redstone,” is requested from each of them.
"So, I asked the Halfling about the churches around here, and I'll tell you what she said in just a minute." Yet again, Henry Southgard breaks off the conversation when he sees something interesting. A Dwarf with the thick wrists and callused hands of a smith is pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with pots and pans and horseshoes. The mercenary is rebuffed when he tries to start a conversation in Dwarven, and only gets a few muttered words when he tries Common. After another try, the Dwarf finally digs a brass and steel percolator out of the heap and hands it over in exchange for five gold pieces.
The mercenary returns to the party with the percolator cradled in one arm and a warm smile on his face.
"... and finally she recommended taking the alleys. Nice thing about side streets is that, when you're as well-armed as we are, unpleasant-looking people jump out at you from darkened doorways, apologize, and say they were looking for someone else." Henry Southgard says as he finishes relaying what the Halfling woman told him.
By this time, the Half-Elf is being questioned. Henry watches as the miscreant is restrained, searched, and apprehended with only a barely audible "Daft bastard" for commentary. Whether it's an epithet directed at a criminal who got caught or a condemnation of the man for breaking the law is not clear.
In the scant time remaining, he organizes his pack so as to be easier to search and pauses thoughtfully when he remembers the vials he took off the Drow corpses.
"My name is Henry Southgard, he says to the guard questioning him. "I come in pursuit of a thief. Also, I may have some contraband to declare."
"I am called Quick." The young half-orc says behind Henry. "I accompany Henry Southgard as both a tutor and an advisor." Quick snickers a bit despite his best efforts to contain himself.
Quick waves his hands to disperse the tension. "I tactless joke at my companions expense gentlemen. I merely travel with this human and would see his thief apprehended."
The guard motions the captain forward and repeats Henry’s declaration. “What is it?” the captain asks, with an open hand.
The guard squints at Quick’s joke. “Heh. Watch yourself in there, and be quick about your business. If you do not have lodging within the city, find it elsewhere. Anyone we find sleeping in the alleys will be forced out from the gates.”
They let Quick, Gorim, and Gwath through the low arched tunnel that leads to the town proper of Redstone Keep, but Henry is not yet finished with his contraband discussion.
“What thief do you pursue? A lot came up with you from Port Elam. Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place,” adds the guard captain.
"It might be poison," Henry Southgard says as he draws four vials of black inky fluid from his pack. "We were conducting an archaeological dig in the Galdrin Heights when we were attacked by beset by Drow thieves. We killed most of them, and I took these off their bodies. I haven't gotten around to determining what the contents are, but poison never occurred to me."
The captain takes the vials, and opens one at a time and sniffs their contents. He frowns and then nods. “Aye, poison of the drow. Harmless, but induces unconsciousness for a time. I have family in the southern Vale. Neighbors lost a farmhand to the dark folk -they took him alive. These concoctions have nasty potential…” He lets the containers fall to the ground, where he crushes them under an armored boot. “A dark elf broke into the east stables the other night. I wasn’t there, but I know the guards are ordered to watch for someone matching her description. Assaults in Redstone are illegal; if you find your thief in the city, call the guards, and let them apprehend her.”
Carefully, he digs out a small purse concealed under his belt, and hands Henry four gold coins. “For your honesty, Southgard. Carry on.” He steps aside for Henry to pass and turns his attention to those next in line.
"Watch yourselves," Henry Southgard says in parting. "She's a powerful mage."
He passes into the city with spirits elated. It is heartwarming to see that society was still functioning in the face of hardship and invasion. Still, the story about the farmhand is chilling. The horrors of slavery aside, it hints that Sheog isn't far from home.
"Stables first," he agrees as he pulls out two potions from his bandoleer. Time to see what they are.
While the party makes their way to the stables, Henry Southgard keeps an ear out for rumors, and even stops a few locals for questioning.
"Aye, that was smooth, Henry", grins Gorim, moments after passing the gate.
He takes a couple of steps forward before halting in place as a look of fear passes over his face.
"It's gone"
He grabs his wrist in disbelief.
"My hand of Irori, how'd it- where'd it... OH."
"Oh, yes."
He pats the holy symbol that now hangs around his neck in relief.
"That was easy." Quick says enthusiastically. "I'm not so worried now, I think we should split up so we can cover more ground."
Not only does the dark brown potion smell like coffee, its shares the nutty, roasted flavor as well but with a tinge of anis in the aftertaste. For a moment, Henry feels a jolt of energy.
A mere sip of the bluish-purple potion and Henry notices a half-second shimmer over his right hand, quite similar to a protective spell Quick casts before joining battle.
Half the people Henry asks about the drow think he is joking. It soon becomes clear that these people believe dark elves to be made-up “boogie men” to scare dwarf children. Likewise, most misinterpret the questions concerning Lyre as some sort of riddle. The few that take the bait quickly realize it isn’t a riddle at all, and backpedal out of the awkward conversation. One very drunk traveler laughs at the question, asking if Henry lost a lover to the elusive satyr. But it is unclear if the drunk is being serious.
Port Elam, due to its traffic from all manner of trade routes, always had a higher risk of disease among its citizens. It is widely known that orcs do not keep tidy abodes, so there is a high chance of the raiders bringing new maladies with them. But the crossbowman hears nothing of a particular plague or epidemic around Port Elam. An odd (and not altogether deadly) bug seems to be going around Clearwater, though.
The four head to the eastern stables, and true to the little woman’s word, the main streets are choked with travelers and merchants and cart-pushers peddling various wares. The amount of guards in ratio to the general public is a bit low, even with the Abadar volunteers (of which the adventurers notice two along the way).
They stay along the main road, but at the snail’s pace they are going through the crowds, it could take a half hour to shuffle down five blocks. Presently, Henry and Gorim notice a few locals duck into an alleyway in the general direction of the stables. Based on the mostly organized layout of the town, it takes only a brief estimation that the alley could get them to the stables in five minutes.
Henry Southgard passes the Mage Armor potion to Quick and the Haste potion to Gwath, quietly informing both of the potions' effects.
The results of his inquiries are rather infuriating. The reactions to the question of the Drow reminds him of home, how the Judicant Marine kept a harsh eye out for Dark Elves even though the last sighting had been in his grandfather's time. The confirmation that Lyre is a Satyre kindles hopes that the bacon-thief could be consulted about Sheog's whereabouts, but those hopes are dashed again and again as people refuse to take the topic seriously.
"Gents, if I start walking the streets with a lit lantern in broad daylight, I will not have gone mad. I'll just be searching for a man to answer a question earnestly."
The four move into the alley. Walled by the stone, brick, and lumber from the buildings, the floor of the narrow passage is littered with garbage and the leavings from Redstone’s more desperate citizens. Still, having walked the filthy alleys of Port Elam, they could be significantly worse.
They see the locals turn left around the corner, and when the four reach the bend, they see the last of them pass a few fellows loitering among some crates. The followed locals continue around another corner to the right up ahead, and the handful of layabouts turn squinty, dirty faces to the four. Their expressions turn unsavory when they notice the heritage of Quick and Gwath. The three slide off barrels, and the smallest one is nudged. He scurries around a distant corner, and the two remaining begin ambling toward the four. They wear roughspun garments stained beyond all hope, rope belts, and wrappings around their feet. Unwashed, calloused skin covers thin limbs, though each of them carries a short, wooden bludgeon. The vagrant furthest of the two idly chews on the broken table leg in his hand.
“Oi, wot we got ‘eer, friendo?” the foremost leers.
“A cupple ah well-armed, well-fed, and hale lookin’ heff-orcs I sees,” answers the other, resuming his gnawing.
The first speaker somehow squints further, and asks, “Wassit orcs dat burnt our ‘omes down?”
“Aye, et wush.”
Gwath hears the third ruffian's feet pitter-patter away, but not too long before he hears the creak of door hinges. Followed by a word muted by walls, the half-orc suspects the third vagrant to be bringing more trouble.
|
Gwath's eyes dart past the ruffians and toward the sounds he alone hears...
He turns his head back to his comrades. Although these two vagrants can likely overhear him communicate in a hushed tone to his company, he's not convinced they'll even be able to understand his speech by the sound of their accents.
"I believe these two speak with the bravery of reinforcements..."
"Aye. Gorim, would you kindly convince these fine gentlemen to take the path of peace?" Henry Southgard says between sips of coffee. He doubts that the city of Redstone would be any worse off for the loss of the vagrants, but he'd rather not see them make a stupid decision and suffer the mortal consequences.
"Fellas..." opens the Dwarf, stepping forward, "let's not jump to anything just yet".
He ponders for a moment, trying to get a better read on them. They remind him of his youth. Days in Thalaniel when his family finally settled down. He used to always do his best to avoid these types, unlike his brothers.
"We suffered the attacks at Elam, too", he states, "...and lost a friend. These men here saved my life".
"Half-Orc or otherwise, we were all hunted just the same".
"He's right." Quick says somberly. "The creatures that ransacked Port Elam were beasts blind with rage; my friend Gwath and I are half-man. We are half-brothers us and you, and like you, we weep for the loss of the Port. Please, let's not add more blood to this tragedy."
The closest one relaxes his scrunched up face somewhat, still unsure what to make of the four in front of him. “I wussn’t gonna edd blud to nobody. I’s just talkin’ is oll...”
The club-chewer behind him seems a little disappointed. The closest one adds, idly scratching his dirty cheek, “Still, looks loik you mide et out wit’ more den your lifes…” as he looks over the armaments and equipment of the four.
“Care t’ share your luck, friendo?”
The interest of the second one picks back up at the mention of charity and their tone is changed from a casual threat to an uncertain question of generosity.
The wretches that huddle in street alleys, scrapping an existence on leftover morsels and coppers tossed to them, often notice many aspects of an urban settlement that the normal, hard-working commoner might miss. An exchange of goods for information will most likely be welcomed.
Quick draws his tattered purse from his belt and hand hands it to the men. [b]"That's my only purse, there's a little more than a sovereign in there. I hope it helps. Now please excuse us and we'll be about our business.
A thought occurs to Henry Southgard pulls out a few coins of recent mint (3gp, 2 sp) and clinks them together as he passes the men. He clears his throat and launches into something that sounds not quite like Common.
"Prithee, Yob, but havyeh sassed an odd book of lates? We be havin' a butcher's fer a book wit' nigh'-shaded skin and troubles li' a polisht spoon onner loaf. Slinks about a' night when gen'lefolk're asleep in their scratches, wot I hear."
Sass= Know, be aware of
Book= Books on the Shelf= Elf
Butcher's= Butcher's Hook= Look
Troubles= Troubles and Cares= Hair
Loaf= Loaf of Bread= Head
Scratches= Scratch your Head= Bed
The closest ruffian catches Quick’s coin with a desperate lunge. He looks up from his counting when Henry begins to speak, parting an unfortunate six-toothed grin. The club-chewer sees the gold in the crossbowman’s hand and likewise gives him his full attention.
“I seent a slinker loik t’at,” blurts the second one, taking the club from his mouth, “Lest I ‘eard she’s holin’ up frum t’ deyloit o’ yess’rdey. No werd o’ wut she dun o’ernoit-”
Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairway bursts open. The third, smaller rapscallion is followed by two others, all with clubs in their hands and prepared to fight. The burst of reinforcements startles the beggar holding Quick’s coins, who looked like he was pocketing the gold piece for himself.
The first one starts waving his hands at the small one. “Ess ol’roit! No foitin’! We giv deez fine blokes a pass due to t’eir charit’us naychur.” He approaches the newcomers and begins handing out the silver and copper, explaining that the four were looking for someone.
“Oh! Yeah! I saws tah silva ‘aired deemun!” the small one exclaims, “Lest noit!”
The excitement of getting paid for knowing things is palpable in the alleyway.
"Can you lead us to her? I'll have to find another sovereign or two if you can. Maybe even 5 if you can assist with her apprehension. What say you?"
To help things along, Henry Southgard drops the coins into the club-chewer's waiting hands.
The hand closes quickly over Henry’s coins. “Naw, we be poor, bu’ we ain’t stupid. Tah soots try an’ cetch ‘er, an’ they’ve swords an’ armor!”
The smaller beggar chimes in, “Bu’ I can show you whe’ she is! Dis way.”
He turns to leave, and by the look of it every poor man in the alley intends to follow the moneyed four.
Noticing the swarm clinging to their backs, Gorim turns to the group.
"Gents, your help is much appreciated, though due to the nature of our work, we'd best approach in fewer numbers - just the one or two of you."
"I'll be by later with a thank you, or send something your way should we have to up and leave quickly".
'Hold on, this is starting to sound dangerously like Westenhale Port.' Henry Southgard thinks. Fortunately, Gorim breaks the ice and informs the crowd that not all of them will be necessary for the hunt.
Roit. Yew 'n yew," says, pointing at the club-chewer and the short one. "Wit' us. Th' rest of yew lot ken rest yer plates 'til our vict'ry celebration a' the town's largest bath. We been onner loik gibs onna take for days, and th' cuddle will 'ear yew stampin' 'cross town if'n she don't smell yeh first."
Plates= Plates of Meat= Feet
Bath= Bathtub= Pub
Gibs= Slang for a moneylender's enforcers
Take= Slang for refuses to pay what's owed
Cuddle= Cuddle and Kiss= Miss
The unwashed street rats not selected by Henry slouch, disappointed. Some of them smile wanly at the familiar promise of later charity, and the rest sneer at the mention of their smell. A few of them simply stop where they are, while others mosey on back to where to they came from.
The club-chewer, who calls himself John, and the small one, Michael, waste no time leading the four away from the stables and down alleys and streets in a western direction. Michael rambles on about his sighting of the drow thief. In the wee hours of the morning, before the sun is up, the butcher on that same street employs a youth to clean up before the day begins. This adolescent does a poor job at keeping the back door locked, so Michael sees fit to help himself to some of the trimmings that would go unnoticed. As he was wolfing down his stolen prize, the smaller beggar noticed a dark-skinned, silver-haired elf stalking down the alley with a limp and an open wound. She was still a good distance away, or else he would have run. But he watched her bully an elven business owner who chanced into the alley, for access to her cellar. The fairer elf opened the cellar doors and the dark-elf slinked inside. John added that he caught a glimpse of her the night before, evading guards by ducking into his alley, and he noticed that she wore painted armor and a tiny crossbow hung from her belt.
It takes about fifteen or twenty minutes, but the two low-lifes lead the four onto a road that is less-busy than the others.
“T’ere,” Michael points at a stone-masoned building, where a weather-faded banner hangs above the door: Halda’s Haberdashery. The large window reveals a clean establishment filled with shelf upon shelf with hats and other headgear. Presently, it seems to be without customers at the moment, and a young elven woman stands beside the door, smiling and inviting passersby inside. Beside the hat store is a bigger brick building with open double-doors, and inside is one portly gentleman with a blood-stained white apron, deftly using a knife on a slab of red meat on his counter.
In the street, two vendors are pushing carts. One is selling different kinds of rope, tents, canvas, boots, burlap bags, and a backpack or two. The other is parked just outside the butcher, and by the smell and sizzling, appears to be peddling a cooked meat and a handful of other foods to go with it, such as bread, cheese, tubers, and seasonings. Aside from the street vendors, most in the crowd are on their way from one destination to the other, and the only people taking their time in doing so are the two guards slowly heading in the direction of the four.
Quick thumps Henry lightly on the chest and points at the hat woman. "You should go talk to her, the rest of us would just scare her. See if the drow is still here, and we'll make our way around to the back."
"Right. Hold the back door and close off the exits," Henry Southgard says absent-mindedly. He is caught up in a moment of Deja Vu. Whenever the Company had run low on supplies, it had always been Henry who was sent to a nearby town to buy provisions. Sent with a squad of soldiers and one particular Orc shaman to provide a little leverage for the negotiations.
He takes a breath and strolls down the street, nonchalantly straightening his hair and wiping his face on a sleeve. He considers the two guards for a while, planning out a possible assault. There were several schools of doctrine when it came to fighting powerful mages, most of which revolved around letting that mage battle another mage to exhaustion, and then charging in and slitting his throat. That was the traditional and time-tested method, hard to argue against, except that the party didn't have a mage of Sheog's power. The other method that Henry had direct empirical evidence of working involved setting the mage's tent on fire and riddling it with arrows and ballista bolts, preferably in the morning before he'd prepared his spells.
The rule of law held firm in Redstone, and assaults were illegal. Perhaps the party was better off informing the town guard of Sheog's location. Ten soldiers (Five, if it was a small cellar) to enter her lair, the rest to watch all the exits and catch her in flight. The party could just nip in afterwards and say 'thank you, may we have the little silver bauble she was carrying?'
And she was awake at night, resting during the day. An assault could catch her at her weakest, before she prepared her spells.
It couldn't be that easy. She had every reason to line the cellar with magical traps and wards, perhaps even summon critters from the underdark. And did spellcasters lose their spells when they sleep? And did Drow sleep? Did they just fall into a trance like their surface brethren?
Come to think of it, what kind of spellcaster was she? Was she a learned wizard, or a mercurial sorcerer like Quick?
Too many unknowns to get the guard involved, even if they knew for sure Sheog was down there.
With a polite "Hello" to the guards, Henry Southgard crosses the street and doubles back to Halda's Haberdashery, pausing to admire the samples in the window.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," he says by way of greeting.
Gorim approaches the first of the pushing cart vendors to purchase some rope. Convenient.
The two vagabonds pad into the alley, scarcely spared a glance from the common folk. When Gwath and Quick follow, they find the grimy alleyway to already be home to a few layabouts. One of them has an oversized jacket and keeps to himself while the other two stare at the half-orcs but dare not make a peep. Michael and John hide behind corners after the small one points out the cellar door and the back door to the hat store.
“Good day to you!” the she-elf smiles, pushing the door open behind her, “Care to take a look inside? I’ve got a few hats in mind that ought to sit grandly on that handsome head. One of them I know will look pretty cunning, if I can find it…”
With a warm smile, she gestures that he enter the store.
On the street, the one of the guards frowns at the half-orcs ducking into the alley, but his fellow guardsman nudges him and nods to a very hungry-looking beggar. The transient in question has a desperate look turned to the street vendor’s grilling cart, and he chews his lip nervously.
"Sorry, I was just thinking," Henry says after a lengthy pause. "I have something in mind as well. If you don't have it in stock, I may commission it."
He enters the store and takes a quick look around, getting an impression of the store's inventory.
Halda nods, “Of course. What are you looking for?”
The shelves are stacked with headgear of various styles; there are knitted caps, pointy conical hats, wide-brimmed sun hats, soft leather lids with earflaps lined with fur, and even a few poor man’s helms made of boiled leather. A woven cowl sits on display beside a shelf with piles of matching cloth. Another shelf displays a variety of woven straw hats. All of the headgear appears clean, organized, and well-made. At the counter, locked behind a glass cabinet door, are three silver tiaras, one of them glittering with small orange and green gemstones. Next to the tiaras is a headband of braided brown leather, unremarkable in comparison to the jewelry alongside it. On the polished wood counter, is a note card folded to stand, that reads in delicate penmanship: Magical Items available upon request. Presently, the haberdasher smooths the front of her plain dress and stands beside the counter, giving Henry space to look and think, and an eager smile beams from her face. “Made all of these my self. Well, most of them. Once and awhile I’ll consider trades of the headgear particularly nice.”
Outside the haberdashery, the beggar does not take his eyes off the vendor’s food cart as the young cook tosses a few scraps of meat on for a customer. The smell of sizzling beef, with pieces of onion and herbs added, draws him a few steps closer, right into the path of the guards. The hungry beggar does not notice the officers until they nearly bump into him, and by this time, they peer down at him suspiciously.
"You don't have what I'm looking for," Henry Southgard says after a long look around the shop. "But an excellent craftswoman like yourself should have no trouble making it, and I'm willing to commission it."
He approaches the counter with a friendly smile. "You wouldn't happen to have ink and paper handy, would you?"
The elven woman nods. “A new project? I’ll do my best not to disappoint,” she moves a few things aside on a shelf under the counter, producing a quill and ink well, and two sheets of parchment. She lays them flat on the polished wood. “Here, draw the design for me...”
Henry Southgard takes the offered parchment and speaks haltingly as he focuses on his writing.
"The design is straightforward, mostly just a simple Uhlan cap. The hard part is the rather strange seven-layer weaving pattern. When I was fighting in Yusedge, I saw such caps made from horsehair and silk that softened killing blows."
Henry finishes and passes the parchment to Halda. Instead of a knitting pattern, there is a simple drawing of Abadar's Key above a paragraph of Elven writing.
Mimi ni mamluke katika skesa kwa familia Andel. Mimi ni katika harakati za mwizi ambaye ameiba kazi za sanaa madogo na aliuawa mlezi wake. Mashahidi kuniambia yeye ana siri mwenyewe katika pishi yako na kutishiwa maisha yako kwa ukimya wako. Hii ni kweli?
Na ndiyo, mimi mbaya kuhusu tume.
"And yes, I am serious about the commission."
The hat-maker’s face blanches, and she turns a furtive glance to the corner obscured by wood panel walls. Meeting the crossbowman’s eyes, she nods silently. Inhaling deeply to regain her composure, she reaches for the pen, though her hand shakes ever so slightly as she writes. Despite her efforts to mask her fear, her cheery voice now sounds hollow and stiff. “I… that shouldn’t be a problem, good sir.”
She clears her throat and takes on a business-like tone. “I know a seven-weave pattern that should suffice, for a protective cap. How long are you in town? I have silk, but horsehair I will need to procure and begin work right away. I could try to have it ready by tomorrow morning at the soonest, but working through the night will cost a bit more…” As she trails off, she turns the parchment to Henry, with flowing handwriting under his own elvish script:
Kuna drow chini ya ngazi katika jela. Yeye alinipa dhahabu basi kukaa yake huko, lakini tangu mlango umefungwa na kutishia kuniua kama mimi kwenda chini huko au kuwaambia walinzi ambapo yeye ni. Labda yeye ni mwizi wako. Tafadhali msaada, ama njia.
There is a drow down the stairs in the cellar. She gave me gold to let her stay there, but has since locked the door and threatened to kill me if I go down there or tell the guards where she is. Maybe she is your thief. Please help, either way.
Gwath finds the back door to the establishment in question. Looking over the nearby vagrants, and determining them to be harmless, he leans close to the door to listen inside.
But he hears nothing discernible, aside what could be voices, one of them quite likely to be Henry's. Unsure of any exact plan, he knew at the very least, he might need to prevent the she-drow from escaping. The half-orc backs a step away from the door and plants his feet. He absently tugs the handle of his heavy blade make sure it draws easily, should it come to that. He continues to listen carefully for any unusual noise beyond the grimy wooden door in front of him.
Gorim swings the hemp rope over his shoulder and thanks the vendor once more. He scans the area.
'Best get to position...'
He begins to sprint toward the alleyways to regroup.
"Don't know how long I'll be staying here. It all depends on the Orcs," Henry Southgard says as he reads the letter. "Could you give me a quote on the price?"
Henry Southgard only half-listens to the shopkeeper's reply as he writes something in return. Hearing an awkward silence at the end, he prompts her with another question. "That'll do. I believe you said you had magical items in inventory?
While the haberdasher answers, Henry continues to write.
Yeye nitakuua tu kuweka kifungu yake ya siri. Kama yeye ana kuwinda kwa ajili yenu, huwezi kuwa na thamani ya mauaji. Kufanya mwenyewe chache kabla ya usiku. Kwenda kwa moja ya makanisa.
Jinsi kubwa ni pishi? Esu? Sakafu mpango?
Kabla ya kuchukua hatua, mimi lazima kushauriana na wenzangu . Sisi inaweza kuhusisha ulinzi wa mji.
At that last, Henry passes the quill and paper back to Halda.
How big is the cellar? Exits? Floor plan?
Before I take an action, I must consult with my colleagues. We may involve the town guard.
Halda tells the crossbowman that the cap could be done tomorrow morning for a cost of ten gold coins, and expresses concern at the distressing news of invasion. However she seems confident that the king’s army and cavalry can turn back the savage folk.
She brightens at the mention of magical items and gestures to the tiaras and the braided leather headband. “The braid was once worn by the legendary horsemaster Prestor. He said it helped him come to a greater understanding of things. And the orange and green tiara doesn’t have to be a tiara,” she leans in with a lowered voice, “it can change your entire appearance with illusory magic. But only once a day can it do this.”
“I have a few more in storage, but I will only bring them out for serious inquiries.” By the tone of “serious inquiries,” Henry surmises that the other magical items are much costlier than the ones on display.
Reading his message, she shakes her head and says, “Now, for commissioned work, I require half the cost now, and half when you return in the morning.” As she speaks, she writes quickly: Je, si kusubiri. Mimi kuondoka sasa. Yeye anaweza kuwa wamekwenda katika usiku.
Do not wait. I will leave now. She might be gone at nightfall.
Below the message, she waits for Henry to produce his coin by drawing out a rectangle in similar proportion to the room they presently stand in. Four supports make the corners of a smaller rectangle within, and the two walls furthest from each other have crates drawn along them. Many short lines indicate the stairway up to the shop floor, and another short staircase leading to a cellar door. Halda then adds a back door that meets the top of the stairs, on the same side of the rectangle as the cellar door.