Gorim tightens his grip, eager to sprint around the corner, but holds his position.
Jenkins draws his longsword and shifts his weight anxiously when he hears his captain’s final warning. The Urlghain guard looks over his stance as he keeps his full weight on the cellar door, confident that it will not budge, and Austin also draws his sword before the bracing the door again.
Lantern lit, Captain Waldemar takes up the light in his off hand, and hefts his blade before stepping down the creaky wood stairs.
Henry and Quick hear a familiar twak of a fired crossbow, and the captain, halfway down the stairs, groans in pain. His steel-shod boots clank further until they scrape against stone instead of wood.
The sound of steel scratching against something hard is heard, along with a surprised grunt as Captain Waldemar struggles in melee. It sounded like his suit of armor crashed against the cellar wall. “Hold the doors!” he bellows out to his men, “We’ve got her! After I… kill this… huge spider!”
The sound of combat nearly drowns out raspy laughter from below. Suddenly, a wave of purple-black energy pulses up through the floorboards! The half-orc mage and the crossbowman feel weakened from within, a painful experience between injury and sickness as the dark energy washes over them.
The captain’s cry of pain grows into a roar of defiance as he struggles unseen against the spider and drow sorcery.
That wave of bad vibes was negative energy. Opposite to Gorim’s ability to emit a radius of positive energy, the drow has a profane conduit to harm rather than heal!
In the alleys, muffled cries of combat reach the ears of those waiting, followed by the desperate orders for the guards to hold their position.
Armored in black-painted steel over night blue skin, dark elf sneers beside a giant spider. A black shield covers one arm, and the other hand is empty. An ornate basket hilt hangs from her belt, fitted to a scabbard for a thin blade. Her breastplate jostles loosely, suggesting it was haphazardly buckled moments ago.
Quick's mental alacrity spares him the worst of the harmful waves. He shouts an unfamiliar battlecry and hustles down the stairs to aid the captain.
"Wings and fury!"
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Quick stops short of the huge hairy arachnid and looses a flash of ice blue force at it.
"Fus!"
"Gwath! We need you!"
Henry Southgard does not fare as well as Quick when the wave of negative energy washes over them. There's a faint burning sensation as black magic dances over his skin, leaving curlicues of soot in its wake. That he can live with; not so much the feeling of sickness and the churning of his gut. It feels familiar, but he's been zapped by plenty of spells in his years and they eventually blend together.
"The Hell was that?"
He is but a step behind Quick as they race down the stairs, crossbow held in one hand while the other fumbles with a tanglefoot bag. And then he sees the Drow.
"Armor..." he thinks, with the acute feeling that he's missing something important.
His doubt vanishes after a moment, and he swings the bag over Quick's head and lets it fly at Sheog.
As Quick shoots the spell from his hand, the oversized spider sees orc flesh get too close to pass up, and two sharp pincers draw blood from the mage’s arm.
The she-drow’s shield swings forward as Henry lobs the bag of resin and tar. While the swing fails to hit the mercenary, the steel disc takes the brunt of the thrown sticky substance. But the impact of splashes it all over the drow's arms and legs, slowing her somewhat as the inky goo begins to harden.
In the alleyway, the sounds of combat persist. A voice inside calls for aid from Gwath. Jenkins looks at his fellow guards, and then the citizens that led them to the drow hideout. “Gwath? Who’s Gwath?”
"Damnation!" Quick cries pulling his hand back. Anger burns in the young mage's eyes.
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As the shouts for aid come echoing down the alley, Gwath draws his falchion and moves. He passes the backdoor knowing the upper level will be too congested and hitting the attacker from behind will give him space and opportunity. He slides to a stop in front of the guards standing at the cellar door.
"I need to get in there."
Gorim dashes around the corner, joining Gwath.
"Come on, open up!"
The MacGowan and Austin look at each other, and then back at the unlikely pair. The smaller one, Austin, politely shakes his head. “No, you’ve helped quite enough leading us to where she was hiding. We’ll handle it-”
A sudden, small twak from behind Gwath and the guards cut off Austin, and a small crossbow bolt digs into the stone block wall beside the polite guard. Tracing where it came from, the guards and survivors of Port Elam see the grimy man in the overcoat lowering a hand crossbow from an open door in the alley.
Austin rushes his attacker, longsword at the ready.
MacGowan takes a step to follow his fellow guard, but not before muttering to the half-orc. “Ah’ll lohk yoo up eff yoo let ‘er get awee...” With a casual stoop, he wraps a meaty hand around the cellar door’s iron ring and steps toward his comrade, lifting the door open as he goes. Once he shoulders past Gwath, he releases the door and regards the small crossbow wielder evenly. He does not draw the sword at his side, but rather, idly cracks his knuckles. “Yoo’ve maed a grreave mahsteak, boyo…”
Stepping into close quarters, the highlander casually reaches in, attempting to take away the criminal’s hand crossbow. But both guards underestimate the rapscallion’s agility and he dodges both of their attempts.
With the cellar door now open, Gorim and Gwath can see down a stone ramp, smoothed by years of wooden crates pushed over it, leading down into a small room with dancing shadows cast by a jostling light source. The walls are lined with crates, though a few appears to be pried open, and piles of cloth lay heaped on the stone floor in the far corner. Wide, sturdy stone supports hold up wooden beams and floorboards. A bit of light streams in between the wooden boards, but scarce enough to make a difference.
Captain Waldemar looks surprised at the appearance of Quick and Henry. “What are you doing here?!” He has little time for discussion as he slashes at the spider in front of him.
The captain’s blade cuts deep, and the spider falters, and then lunges at the him wildly.
This time, the fangs scratch harmlessly against Captain Waldemar’s armor.
The long, white-haired drow notices the cellar door pulled open and scowls. She steps back, albeit awkwardly from the sticky alchemical paste, and begins to weave a spell in her free hand.
Despite the strings of tar between her hands and fingers, she manages to complete the spell with a glare to the guard captain and the utterance of a magic word, followed by, “Washambulizi Sheog mapenzi kuvuta wewe ndani ya giza!”
The she-drow cast a spell to sow terror in the soldier’s heart. If he is in a moment of weakness, Captain Waldemar will flee.
“Sheog’s horde will drag you into the dark!”
The captain’s eyes widen but he continues the fight, his determination outweighing the concern writ across his face.
Seething, Quick slashes at the spider's face. "Dir!"
"Die!"
Quick points his sword at the Drow.
"Surrender and you may let live. Return the scale at once."
As Quick strikes the killing blow, the summoned giant spider winks from view with the roaring crash of shattering glass.
When the half-orc demands surrender, the drow blinks in confusion, before a defiant look retakes her blue-skinned face. She crouches behind her shield against her many foes.
"Fool." Quick whispers.
"Where I come from, shouting about giant spiders qualifies as a call for help," Henry Southgard yells in response to Captain Waldemar's query.
He fumbles with his crossbow, and is brought to a halt by Quick's demand for a surrender. Does the sorcerer realize that he's asking a murderer, a thief, a Drow to take the honorable way out and surrender? Especially when she has a sliver of a chance of escaping? And speaking of escaping, what's this business of revealing who they are and what they're after?
As irrational as it is, he feels obligated to stay his hand long enough for Sheog to reply, to either accept their mercy or spurn it. And when the sullen yet inevitable spurning happens, he releases the safety catch on his crossbow.
'No, kid, she's not a fool.'
Attack Sheog with my crossbow.
Reload
The drow could scarcely twitch at the sound of Henry’s shot, and the bolt drives deep into her chest. She reels back as Gwath moves in. As he crosses the threshold into the cellar, the faintest of twine snaps from a footfall, followed by another twak from a space between stacked crates, to his immediate left.
A heavy crossbow bolt sticks into the privateer’s side, and for a moment, his senses dull as poison undoubtedly courses through his veins. But his savage heritage shakes off the feeling and he advances on the dark elf, fully alert.
Gorim hustles into the cellar close behind the half-orc, and exclaims when he is hit by the hidden crossbow trap. Following him to the pillar, the dwarf warns the privateer, “This might hurt a bit…” as he pulls the bolt from the half-orc’s side. With a hurried prayer, healing magic begins to knit the bleeding wound.
Whatever the drow said to the grizzled guard gives him hesitation in his steps, but nonetheless he forces himself forward, lantern in one hand, and a sword in the other. His arm arcs a downward slice.
Captain Waldemar’s uncertainty gives the dark elf enough time to interpose her shield in front of his blade.
Those in the cellar can hear the cries of the two guards, shouting after someone who was escaping them. The drow shuffles away from her assailant, holding her shield in front of her. Her open hand remains hidden from the men, half-orcs, and dwarf, until they see her lift an open phial to her lips and gulp down its contents. Instantly, she winks from view. The quarry of the guards and treasure-seekers is gone.
Based on the manner of her disappearance, the drow consumed a potion of invisibility, rather than teleport.
"Where'd she-!?" Gorim shuts up, listening keenly for any movement not belonging to his allies.
"NO!" bellows Quick. She can't have gone far... He thinks: legs pumping. He dives forward into empty air...
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Gwath steps forward as she winks out of sight. Before he has chance to consider his next move, he sees Quick dive toward her last known spot. Gwath holds his ground, not wanting to have everyone in a small, dark room swinging sharp weapons at each other. He looks towards the ground to see if he can see any signs of a movement...
...but his eyes have yet to adjust to the darkness in the cellar.
Quick’s chest collides against an unseen form, and his arms wrap tightly around it. Were this situation less dire, it would be an unusual spectacle to see the half-orc mage desperately clinging to the air.
Henry Southgard is already cocking his crossbow when the Drow winks out of sight. There one moment, gone the next, leaving only shadows and motes of dust in her place. There's only one conclusion to be had.
"Teleporter? Leads to what?" Henry blurts, two sentence fragments that do little to convey his thought processes regarding the potential distance that such a little potion could send someone and the logistics of turning over the whole city in search of a Drow.
Then Quick does the unexpected and bum-rushes empty air. And accomplishes the unexpected by holding on. How did he see that?
"Good eye, kid!" Henry calls out as he levels his crossbow. "Now hold real still."
"Do WHAT!?" Quick yells trying to wriggle around to see what Henry is doing, but not daring to let go.
A crossbow bolt stops in midair with a gasp, and the unseen form in Quick’s arms weakens in her struggle. The drow’s raspy voice wheezes a strange tongue with her dying breath.
“కదురు చెక్క స్కేల్ తీసుకురండి ... స్పైడర్ ఉంపుడుగత్తె రత్నాలు లో చెల్లిస్తుంది …”
“Bring the Scale to the Spindlewood… Sheog pays in gems…”
The half-orc’s captive sags limp in his arms, and in a few moments, she fades into view. The dark elf suffered a second crossbow bolt to the chest, and she did not survive.
One of the lurkers of the alleyway, a grimy man in a long dark overcoat, looks on from the entrance to the cellar.
Captain Waldemar catches his breath, and takes on a troubled look. “Is everyone alright? Are any of you hurt? Damn shame she chose to fight…”
"I'll be fine." Quick says cooly as he begins rifling through the woman's belongings. "Where is it..?" he whispers to himself in urgent tones.
"She fought the law," Henry Southgard says as he examines the Drow. "She will face Abadar's judgment, and then Pharasma's."
He takes particular note of the two bolts he'd fired. Both had punctured the breastplate and burrowed through her ribs. That was the sort of injury you'd only see from a bow fired at close range. Even if Gorim had been immediately available and willing to aid her, it's doubtful that she would have survived those wounds.
It felt too easy. How could a mage powerful enough to rip Zaal Vosk's soul and body asunder die in half a minute of combat? And what had her last words been? They felt too soft to be a curse.
This was the first job Henry could remember taking that went off without a hitch. That didn't feel right.
"So, what was that potion she imbibed? Some sort of invisibility spell?"
"Thank the Gods it wasn't a teleportation, eh?" says Gorim while sifting through some items.
"The Drow mentioned The Scale in her deep tongue. It has gotta be here somewhere" he says to the young orc in a near whisper.
Captain Waldemar winces from his wounds as he nears the fallen body. “Not as young as I used to be; you lot saved my life. Thank you.” He lowers his gruff voice. “I’m in no mood for paperwork, and given your active cooperation with the city watch: in addition to whatever trinket she stole from you, you’re welcome to any of her other valuables. Sound fair? Be quick about it.”
As Quick and Gorim look over the drow body, the artifact they seek is not plainly visible. But in their search, they find a scroll written in cipher, a short yew wand, and a small pouch of forty bright, platinum coins. The rapier at her belt appears to be the work of a master smith, likewise her heavy steel shield engraved with a spider, currently covered in hardened, crumbling poxy. Her darkly painted breastplate might also share the same maker, but the hole left by Henry’s bolt might diminish the market value somewhat. A hand crossbow also hangs from her belt, and beside it twenty properly sized bolts. A concealed pocket on the inside of her belt reveals folded parchment written in elven. Unfolded, they appear to be official looking documents. When her chest armor is peeled off, the inside of it is scratched crudely in the elf tongue: UTAKUWA NDOTO YA MENO NA KITU KINGINE.
Those familiar with the language recognize the hidden documents as a writ of lineage. If the papers are to be believed, their carrier was a niece once-removed from Sheog, Mistress of Webs.
Scratched on the inside of the armor, reads: YOU WILL DREAM OF TEETH AND NOTHING ELSE.
More importantly, chained around her neck, hangs a hard, flat, teardrop object the size of a man’s hand. Even by the light of the guard’s lantern, its surface glistens with a silvery sheen. It feels as hard as stone, and is cool to the touch. At long last, those commissioned by Moss in Port Elam lay their eyes on the Silver Scale.
The dirty, suspicious salesman sees them uncover the Silver Scale, before stalking out of sight.
Some of the crates sit pried open, and their cloth contents strewn about the room. In one corner, they seem to be piled up to form bedding. Aside from the fabric itself, there is little else of value, and the solid steel lockbox under the stairs seems to be marred by unsuccessful attempts of entry. Two heavy crossbows are found trained on both entrances to the cellar, along with a system of twine that clearly served as a tripwire trigger.
The ciphered scroll is covered in magical words. When properly spoken, this particular spell can target other magic, potentially dispelling the effect.
The yew wand is infused with healing energy.
Quick places the Silver Scale around his own neck and hides it beneath his clothing and breathes a sigh of relief.
"If it was another teleportation spell, we would have lost her for sure," Henry Southgard says, nodding in agreement with the cleric.
"Fixable," he says as he removes the breastplate from the Drow. It's not an easy job, nailed down as it is by two crossbow bolts. When it is free, Henry raises an eyebrow at the unusual inscription before tossing it in the same pile as her shield and rapier and ammunition.
The crossbow warrants little more than a cursory glance to compare its make against the crossbows found in the Temple, and it too is thrown into the pile. It looks nasty, and would doubtlessly inflict a horrible wound if the small bolt found unarmored flesh, but the hand crossbow has more in common with hunting bows for small game than a weapon of war. Perhaps the design was shaped by the Drows' slaving trade, and serves as a delivery tool for their poison?
His appraisal of the money pouch is postponed when he comes across the papers she carried with her. He reads them in silence, re-reads them, and waves for everyone's attention.
"Gorim, Quick, Gwath..." he whispers. "This isn't Sheog."
"What do we care who this is? We have the scale. What else matters? We should return to the mountain and begin rebuilding."
Gorim fiddles with the beads that adorn his beard while staring at the deceased Drow. His thoughts soon drift back to the voices in the room.
"Aye... Her dying words spoke of Sheog and how she'll pay in gems. She waits in the Spindlewood."
The Dwarf pauses to collect the ciphered scroll.
"Quick, should we return to the Temple now, we can only expect routine attack..."
"Who else would attack? This Sheog can't know this drow failed. And even if he or she does realize, we should be well on the way to repiar by then. Right?"
As the adventurers speak, the air in the poorly lit cellar drops drastically in temperature. Captain Waldemar’s surprised curse is spoken over by a familiar, disembodied voice: Zaal Vsok. “At last. Your actions this day have freed me from the physical world. Kiir Do Faal Viintaas Gein, you carry the relic our faith; do not fail. Recovering the Silver Scale marks the paling skies before dawn, an approaching age of light. And with that light, comes… fire…”
As the voice fades, the chill lifts, and the guards in the alley come rushing into the cellar. All four, including the captain, are plainly confused. “Who was that?” demands Waldemar, his grip on the sword he did not yet sheathe tightens, “What’s going on?”
Quick feels his skin toughen somewhat as the artifact lays cool against his chest.
This silvery dragon scale magically toughens the skin of its bearer.
But the divining spell detects something else. Something deeply potent, and yet, empty.
"It never is," Henry Southgard mutters in response to Gwath. His apprehension fades into irritation, then horror as the tactical and strategic implications dawn on him.
"We can't return now, Gorim, th-"
The mercenary's reasoning is drowned out by Zaal Vsok's pronouncement. As the spirit fades away and the guards rush in, his horror is finally subsumed into anger.
"Kid, we are going to find a good tavern in this town. In fact, we're going to find the greatest one, that one place that's the talk of Thaleniel and Clearwater. I'm going to get a hot meal and the best cup of coffee this town has to offer, and I'm going to explain to you precisely why this matters. But now, I think you owe these men the full story, because you'll need their blessing to hide the body."
Quick grins as the room grows cold, then smiles broadly to hear his real name. Clutching the Scale, "I will not fail Zaal Vsok. I will quench the fire in Apsu's icy breath and greet the dawn with a glad heart."
Quick turns to Henry as he speaks and nods at the mention of a tavern then pales as the mercenary demands the full story.[/i]
"I couldn't possibly..." "I...I'm not sure that's necessary, Henry."
He shuffles from foot to foot.
"I could do with a good meal" grins Gorim.
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As Zaal's voice dissipates with the withdrawing cold, and the guards react like any sane man might, Gwath can't help but wonder if Zaal could be a tad more subtle in his messages...
Gwath is again concerned by the beings he has surrounded himself with when Quick zealously claims his mission.
"I didn't sign up for that," Gwath says quietly to himself.
Quick's dodge of Henry's suggestion pulls out a sigh from the half-orc.
What is he doing? If the guards think us religious fanatics and not the mercenaries we are this will get a lot more complicated...
The half-orc mage has heard of magic items like this: capable of storing magic poured into it, to be released later at the user’s choosing. However, how that magical energy manifests in the outpouring, varies, depending on the item. Usually, the more magic released from the item at once, the stronger the effect. Quick knows that if he siphons some of his magic into the Silver Scale, it will retain that power until he wishes to release it. But he does not know what spell effects will occur in the releasing. However, he suspects that if it holds an inkling of magic, he might have a clearer idea of the spells locked within the Silver Scale.
“Och, teh greetest tavaern en Redstoon ‘ell bea Teh Golden Growlah,” blurts the highland guard with a grin.
“I like the Auld Peculiar…” mumbles Jenkins.
“Dass cooz yoo’re auld an’ pec-!”
“Enough,” barks the captain. It seems only he and the guard Austin are regarding the four seriously. “What is going on? What’s this about hiding a body?” When Quick expresses some reluctance, Waldemar realizes he still holds his weapon and sheathes it. He folds his arms across his chest, and takes on a tone that brooks no argument. “Well, none of you are leaving until I hear some answers. If you start any trouble, I’ll finish it.”
The three guards remain quiet and alert, more from their captain’s sudden sternness than any alarm caused by Henry, Quick, Gorim, or Gwath.
Think fast! Like a mercenary. What would Henry say?
Quick is speaking before he finishes his thoughts. "We are about a secret mission to uncover a sacred heirloom. The quip about hiding a body was mostly a joke, you know how soldiers get." He smiles. "We were hoping you could help us keep this quiet as we dont want word to get back to the Drow's superiors lest we be hunted down or the heirloom stolen again."
Apsu's scaly balls, I hope this works!
Captain Waldemar stares at the young half-orc, unmoved. “Well, I have no control over words that spread. Jenkins was at the stables the night she tried to steal a ride out of town.” He shrugs. “I’m sure the other guards from that incident would like to know that the mage who escaped them is no longer a threat.”
“But we won’t be parading her body through the streets, if that is your concern,” Waldemar turns to MacGowan and points, “Body bag,” then to Austin, “The elf who owns this business. Halga? Let her know it is safe. And refer the Abadar priest to the barracks for payment.”
The two soldiers hustle toward their duties. Jenkins and Waldemar remain in the cellar. The captain wears a ponderous look, scratching his grey stubble. “Sounds to me that the heirloom you’ve got will draw trouble… What do you plan to do with it? Explain what you mean by ‘fire’ and ‘icy breath’ I heard you say to that strange voice.”
Captain Waldemar probably doesn’t care about whatever “secret mission” the adventurers are on. He is most likely listening for any red flags that could mean more trouble in Redstone or the country in general. The grizzled man’s priorities are the peace and safety of this town, after all.
Henry Southgard glances between Captain Waldemar and Quick, his expression even more stony after Quick's hurried explanation. The Captain's unheeded demand to know more is the breaking point.
"Remember this?" he asks the mage as he pulls a gold coin out of his pocket. "Quick, heads or tails."
"Tails." Quick says immediately, but as the coin is spinning mid-air he shouts, "No heads! Wait, why are we doing this?"
"It all boils down to loyalty," Henry Southgard says as he reveals the result. "Captain, I'd like to answer some of your questions."
Captain Waldemar shifts his weight, but his expression is no less stern. He raises one finger. “That drow was willing to die rather than turn over that artifact. That tells me that whoever wants it is offering a lot for it. And it is probably magical, given that most recovered stolen items don’t come with a chilly voice in the air. Are you going to use that… necklace, to harm the good people and causes of Vyren?” Up goes a second digit. “How long are you going to be in town? Way I see it, that piece is gonna draw more crime in my streets if you linger. Not that you’re unwelcome, mind you.” And then a third. “But the words ‘secret mission’ make me nervous. Reminds me of heists, assassinations,” his eyes flit to the half-orcs, “and spies.”
"Spies! now wait just a minute..." Nonplussed, Quick looks to Henry. "Why? How will this help? We were good...." Moron
"The necklace is an artefact of a nearly-vanished cult. Sounds damning to be sure, but I've fought cultists and demon-worshipers before." Henry Southgard makes slashing motions across his belly, a rather abstruse indication of who he fought. "My judgment is that these people are harmless, perhaps even benevolent. But the artefact does have magical properties, and more Drow will be sent in search of it. They will seek to know what happened in this cellar, and I fear that attempts will be made to abduct and interrogate your men."
"We will leave town soon, likely tomorrow. Our business here concluded with the retrieval of the artefact. I do not want to leave trouble here, but you'll understand if I hope our troubles do not follow us."
"Finally, our mission is secret because we were urged to not draw attention to ourselves. The representative of the Andel family was hunted by the Drow and thought it prudent. The artefact's guardian also swore us to secrecy for reasons of his own. We have nothing to do with the Orc invasion."