Dace suffers a cut from Quick’s blade and gasps in panic, clearly not used to the severity of the wound. He glances about, and uncertainly backs up to stand alongside Tober, and then holds up his mace to deflect any incoming blades.
Tulden slices at the thug’s neck, who jerks back a second too late. Blood runs down his chest as his hand goes up to the wound, and he gives up on making a response when his mouth gurgles unintelligibly. By the mean look twisting on his face, Tober still has plenty of fight left.
Moreover, he proves it when the bludgeon comes down hard onto Tulden’s chest.
One of Nik’s men rounds the corner after Michael. Henry and the others hear a yelp from the small beggar, and the sound of a scuffle.
Nik dodges Henry’s blade and swings back.
The hunk of metal clobbers the mercenary along the side of his head. “Ha!” He takes a step towards the alley where Michael struggles. “That there is a warning,”’ the dwarf grins at Henry. “Something to remember me by. If you follow us, you’ll end up as pig slop…”
A muffled cry from Michael escapes the alleyway as the thug begins to drag him away. Terrified, the other drunken beggar crawls backward on his hands and feet to clear himself from the path of the street hooligans.
"Providing first aid, treating a wound, or treating poison is a standard action."
"I'm coming Henry!" Quick steps up, reaches out, and grabs a thug by the shirt and throws him aside.
Henry Southgard reels from the blow and stumbles back through the inn door. He emerges a short time later with his crossbow at hand and a pocketful of bolts.
"Help John," he says to Quick as he sets off in pursuit of Nik.
"Who's Jon!?" Quick shouts casting about.
Quick moves the thug aside, but suffers a blow to the head in the doing.
The last remaining beggar cowers against a brick wall. In answer to Quick, he points at the tall, unconscious beggar who lay sprawled near the platter of pork. The half-orc sorcerer recognizes the strong-jawed man as one who helped them earlier.
The last thug is looking quite unsure now that he seems to be facing Quick and Tulden alone. The shrouded figure takes advantage of the uncertainty by tumbling past the mace-wielder.
The street hooligan swings at the cleric as he passes by, but Tulden is mindful to hold his shield in front of the opening created. The mace clangs against the steel shield.
On the alley floor lay two homeless looking men, both bloodied and badly beaten, but the wanderer thinks they could still be saved. Another man in a breastplate tromps out from the back door of the brewpub, busy with loading a heavy crossbow. Blood runs from his head, and if Tulden understands the scene correctly, the crossbowman means to pursue the criminals getting away with an abducted beggar.
By the look in the crossbowman’s eye, he isn’t having a very good day, but he has certainly weathered much worse. He seems to know what he’s doing, Tulden reasons. Kneeling down to the fallen vagrants, the shrouded figure begins to try to stop the bleeding from the open wounds.
The sounds of struggle continue further down the alleyway, closer to the street. Nik rounds the corner after his minion who carries Michael.
The man Quick moved out of the way bolts down another alley, in the direction of the street Nik walks towards. Tober blinks when his mace misses the masked figure, and looking up at Quick’s heavy blade, decides to chase after Gus.
Once the cruel men are gone, the remaining conscious beggar hastens to the side of his fallen friends. He worries at the bloody wounds, but it is plain that he does not know how to treat injuries. “Are you a physician? A holy man?” he asks of Tulden.
"Oh no you don't!" Quick swings his heavy blade.
The back door slams open and Henry Southgard steps out of the inn, fumbling with the crossbow. It takes him several tries to lock the nut in place and span the bowstring. When he's done, he spares a look around the alley, shakes his head at Quick, and sets off after Nik.
The thug arches his back as Quick’s heavy blade slices a deep, red cut down his back. With a gurgled groan, he crumples into the ground.
Tulden quickly produces the symbol of Sarenrae and mutters a prayer. A warm energy washes over crossbowman, Quick, and the fallen beggars.
No longer on death's door, the two still remain unconscious for the severity of their wounds.
Quick, his sword help inconspicuously alongside his leg, points up the street at the fleeing Nik, Michael still clutched by Nik's thug.
"Stand fast faithless! Surrender now and you may yet live the night!"
The few citizens closest to Quick gasp or stop in their tracks when they see a half-orc round the alleyway corner with a great, savage blade unsheathed and pointed at the ground. Other cries of concern seem to come from the ruffian dragging the small vagrant across the street in broad daylight. Nik’s cruel grin at the momentary chaos disappears when the young sorcerer calls him out.
“I’ll take my chances avoiding your blade, orc.” He hustles to keep up with the longer legged beggar-carrier, threatening a businessman gawking outside of his shop.
“You! Let us through or lose a few teeth!” He thumps the wall of the man’s business, Waldo’s Woodwerks.
The man outside his shop balks at the demand, perhaps still unsure of the situation. Others around him are already alarmed at the drawn weapons and the obvious wounds of those armed. Some scatter from the street, shouting.
“Orcs!”
“Brigands!”
“Guards! Help!”
A large bellied man appears in the back door of the alehouse, frowning down at the unconscious beggars, the mostly-devoured pig, and the shrouded half-elf kneeling over the fallen. “What’s going on here?!” he demands. “Best not be causing trouble behind my inn!” He casts about, looking for something, or someone, but does not find what he’s looking for, so he levels his scowl at Tulden and the crouching beggar beside him.
Henry Southgard is taken off-guard when the wave of positive energy races down the alley. It feels like the diametric opposite of the foul magic that the Drow had released in the haberdashery, cool and soothing instead of sickeningly warm and foul. And when it's gone, Henry can feel his cuts knotting and closing up.
Too enraged to connect the dots and congratulate Quick on finding a new cleric for the expedition, he shrugs and resumes his mad dash (slash exhausted shuffle slash inebriated trot) in pursuit of the Dwarf.
'It's still daytime?' Henry wonders. His rage melts away under the sunlight and the shocked stares of the townsfolk, leaving only good honest anger and not a little bit of embarrassment.
'This isn't Port Elam. They don't murder people in the streets here. only in the back alleys.'
"Nik!" he bellows for all the street to hear as he steps out of the alley, crossbow pointed at the ground. "Unhand that poor man, and we can solve this peaceably!"
Seeing that Henry can't get to the brigands, Quick darts forward, around the cart, and right up to Nik.
He looks to the shop keeper. "Do not let them in!"
Then to Nik. "Stand down or I will end you here and now!"
Slightly startled by the appearance of the beer-bellied tavern owner Tulden replies "Oh no sir, things are just winding down." Though Tulden fears things could get worse. "I am sure these poor men will move along once they wake up."
Tulden picks himself up and goes with all haste down the alley that Quick's friend ran down.
"When did my life involve running after people?"
The innkeeper grumbles something inaudible as Tulden speeds around the corner and catches up to the man with the crossbow. Over his shoulder, he sees Quick run up to the moustachioed dwarf, threatening to cut him down if he does not surrender.
Nik the dwarf sneers and drops his mace. “Aye, consider me stood down…” He gives his man a look that encourages him to follow suit, and Michael springs free of the thug’s grasp.
Already, everyone in the street can hear the clanking of two or three suits of armor running toward their position. They will round the corner at any moment.
The two riff-raff may have the fight taken out of them, but a glance between the two betray their intent to bolt before the guards arrive.
Quick utters a word and suddenly his clothes flutter in an unfelt breeze.
"Good decision. Now, you will tell the absolute truth when the guards arrive or the ministrations of the palace guard will seem the soft touch of a lover when I'm through with you."
Henry Southgard's attention is diverted for a crucial moment after he sleeps out of the alley and hears the approaching guards. While this gives Nik and his henchman an opportunity to slip away, it also means that Henry forgets to disarm his crossbow.
Henry misses Quick's display with the cloak and dramatic wind, but his words are suitably impressive enough. The question is whether Quick's status as the principal make him in charge of sorting out this mess, or if it's Henry's mess and his duty to set things right.
The thug who released the beggar stands stunned at Quick’s conviction and display of authority, but his boss seems less interested. Nik’s attention is on the three heavily armored guards who run doggedly around the corner and come barreling down on the commotion in the street. “Stop! In the name of the law, stop!” one of them commands.
“Hah, nope,” murmurs Nik. He darts for the corner of the furniture store, and disappears into the alley, though his stunted dwarven legs don’t carry him too quickly.
At his boss’ sudden departure, and then the commands of the guards bearing down on him, the street hooligan wails. “Aw naw, not ageein!” He throws his hands up in the air in surrender.
Michael scrambles away from his captor and makes it over to the edge of the road where Henry stands.
Tulden slows his run to a slight trot and he exits the alley next to the unusually tall human holding the crossbow. As he exits he hears the sound of the soldiers first and he stops when he sees them. "Oh now the guards want to get involved."
He turns to the crossbowman and says "You must be a friend of the orc-man, Quick. Unless we were fighting those street thugs because you owe him money." Tulden smiles behind his shroud at his little quip, but still keeps a close eye on the soldiers and Quick.
Henry Southgard is conflicted. He'd promised to settle things peacefully if Nik let Micheal go, and the beggar had been harmed no further. The guards were shouting for everyone to stand down. But the alcohol and the head injury speak louder, and the sight of the dwarf abandoning one of his men disgusts Henry to no end.
Funny. Henry finds that he's already taken a step around the corner to better watch the dwarf flee. And his crossbow is up and ready, with the front bead hovering just above the small of the Dwarf's back. It wouldn't take any effort to pull the trigger. No effort at all.
"Whu," Henry says, startled by Tulden's question. The moment passes, and he lowers his crossbow. "I'm with Quick. He hired me for a job and... it's a long story. Been a long day, too."
The three guards close in, one of them on the surrendered thug, another holds his polearm toward the falchion-wielding half-orc, and the last wheels around them to give chase down the alley. He stops short when he notices the line of fire he nearly steps into, though Henry is already lowering the crossbow. The guard leans forward to look down the alleyway to see Nik duck down a turn a distance away. With a shrug, he marches toward the mercenary.
“Lower your weapon! Surrender!” snaps the heavily armored man to Quick. “What’s going on here?!” he demands, flitting a few glances to the scene but seems to be afraid to look away from the half-orc for too long.
“Can’t stay outta trouble, can’t ye?” grins the one locking manacles onto the street hooligan.
“Shutup, Paul,” grumbles the thug.
“I recognize you from this afternoon, citizen,” remarks the guard to Henry. “The attempt to detain the dark elf, with Captain Waldemar. Mind telling me what’s going on here?” His tone is polite and professional, but not lacking in a healthy amount of skepticism. Guard officer Austin glances meaningfully at the loaded crossbow in Henry’s arms, and to the scene around them.
The guard views Henry in a positive light. He may be inclined to be lenient, depending on how the explanations go.
Michael, still on the ground, sits up against a wall, and does his best to be invisible.
Quick sheathes his blade and raises his hands, pointing at Henry. "He can speak for me."
With exaggerated patience, Henry Southgard plucks the bolt from his crossbow and slowly releases the tension on the bowstring. He takes a deep breath, and then recounts his side of the story.
"We were having dinner behind the Golden Growler, I and some of the beggars of Redstone. It was supposed to be a reward for cluing us in to the hideout of the Drow. Then a local criminal by the name of Nik accousted us and demanded my money. When I refused, his men attacked us. When we fought harder than he expected, Nik took Micheal as a hostage and retreated. I threatened to shoot him unless..."
Henry snaps his fingers in frustration and points at the henchman. "Look, I didn't get his name, but I was going to shoot Nik unless that daft bastard right there let Micheal go. He did, Nik ran away, you guys came around the corner, and here we are. Oh, and the Half-Orc is an acquaintance of mine. He came running to help when he heard me shouting."
The guard before Quick relaxes when the great weapon is put away. He produces a carpenter’s coal and a bit of paper. When the young half-orc names the crossbowman as his speaker, the guard smirks. “I’m still going to need your name and hometown, kid. Are you one of the refugees?”
The third officer guides the cuffed thug to the storefront wall and closely watches everyone in this part of the street.
“Almsgiving runs that risk. Gratitude gives way to greed, and everyone wants a piece of the pot,” remarks Austin. He looks down both directions of the road to get his bearings, and marches down the alley Tulden and Henry just passed through. “Go to the guard talking to your acquaintance. I am going to speak to the owner of the Golden Growler.” Officer Austin levels a measuring gaze at Tulden, unsure if he is an onlooker and a participant in the disturbance. With a sigh that says he would rather be safe than sorry, he orders, “Both of you, go speak with him.” When he reaches the intersection of alleys at the back of the brewpub, a muttered curse makes its way down the walls of the alley when he looks on the unconscious bodies of the beggars.
"No," Quick says. "Though I did escape Port Elam, barely, I am not a refugee. I go by Quick and I've never lived in a town, so I am not sure how to answer your origin question."
The guard holds a nonplussed expression to the half-orc for a moment. "Vagrant, then. Great." His pencil scribbles onto the paper.
"Vagrancy is merely a transient state of existence," Henry Southgard says.
"I am Henry Southgard of Lucien. Quick and I are businessmen who are merely passing through Redstone, and we plan to be on our way in the morning. Before we leave, I would like to file an affidaffit concerning the confrontation in the back alley."
The guard nods and acquiesces to Henry's request. From a scroll case buckled to the small of his back, he pulls out the proper document and hands it over to the mercenary.
Just as the crossbowman finishes filing the incident, he sees the guard Austin return to his fellow guards. The portly innkeeper follows, with a trouble frown on his face. He walks right up to Henry and opens his fist. It holds a single gold coin. "Sorry, sir. This belongs to you. I don't want your patronage to draw the wrong crowds."
"My sister Flori runs a bakery near a southern sally port. She mentioned she was thinking about renting floor space to the slew of hard-timers we have outside the walls. Tell her Al sent you, and she can probably make room for you. Good luck."
Henry Southgard blinks wearily, and does his level best to force some politeness into his voice as he accepts the coin from the inkeeper. "Thank you. I apologize for the mess."
When it seems no one is listening, Quick leans into Henry. "So what just happened?"
"Had a little victory celebration with the chaps who found the Elf for us. That hairy sewer rat showed up with his thugs and tried to mug me. His men got violent before I did," Henry whispers back.
Quick nods as if to say, Seems about right.
"What's next?"
"Next, we look up a bakery, buy lodgings for the night, and leave early the next morning," Henry Southgard says.
After a quiet farewell and a few words of advice to the beggars, Henry Southgard leads the party towards the southern wall.
"Not sure if you're coming with us," Henry says to Tulden. "If you are, we'll catch you up in the morning."
"Henry, I..." Quick shuffles his feet. "I told him he could stay with us."
He raises his hands, palms out. "Don't get mad. He helped us. Who will let him in now? We have to help him."
"I said we'd catch him up in the morning. Right now, I'm too tired to explain who we are and what we're doing," Henry says. "And of course he's staying with us. If Nik decides to hold a grudge, he's better off with us than on his own."
"Oh. Sorry. I misunderstood. I guess I'm pretty tired too. Lead on."
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Henry Southgard leads on.
Michael tells Henry that the wave of refugees brought bolder criminals, and made the alleys of Redstone Keep unsafe. He plans to tag along with the next caravan that travels north. Thaleniel sounds like a safe place. John groggily nods in agreement, hand on the swollen goose egg formed on his head.
By the time Henry, Quick, and Tulden find Flori’s bakery, the sun is completely down and the streets corners are lit by lanterns and the torches carried by guards. The autumn night sets in, and the three can see their breathe cloud in front of them as they walk. The busy streets are now mostly empty, and along the way, the group overhears a guard ordering someone found asleep in an alley to either find lodging or sleep outside the walls.
A bit of parchment is nailed up beside the door:
Have to keep the oven warm through the night anyways! One silver for warm, dry floorspace for one night. No pets. Unruly children will be baked into pies.
Inside, the warmth of the room is near a sweltering point, which might be a welcome change from the cold night. Already the bakery seems quite full, and most are already settled into a spot near the oven, which gives off a dim orange light. A few stir when the three open the door, but a portly woman with greying brown hair beams at their arrival. “Welcome!” she greets in a hushed tone, “Please, come in! Close the door. Don’t let the heat out.” Flori smiles warmly.
“Three silvers, if the three of you want to find a spot on the floor.” She waddles between slumbering bodies to reach them, holding a cloth sack in one hand.
Flori holds the sack open, revealing a dozen rolls inside. “Here, take one. No charge. This morning’s bread. Make yourself at home.” The roll is a little dry, but the baker is very enthusiastic about offering what hospitality she can.
An elven family of six take up one corner of the small room. All of them are asleep, save for the youngest son, a toddler who makes endearing attempts to keep his eyes open. A sleepy burp draws brief attention to a slumbering bearded man who appears to be using a door as a blanket. Beside him lays a traveling pack, a bundle of weapons, and a pile of banded mail. He seems to have no family sleeping alongside him, though the cramped quarters could be deceiving. A halfling couple and their daughter are squeezed into a nook with blankets tightly wrapped around them. Three small pairs of eyes watch the newcomers but do not acknowledge any stares back. A sudden, brutish snore comes from a dark bundle of blankets near the warm oven. The head is obscured, but large, calloused green feet mark the snorer as orcish decent. In the corner nearest from the door, a woman quietly watches the three, dressed in a mixture of greens and browns. The orange oven embers light her long, tied-back hair as crimson. Without any hair covering them, her pointed ears identify her as a half-elf. Two dark-bearded dwarves sitting against the wall near her look back down at their books.
The burpy man sleeps under a tower shield, not a door.
“That’s probably all I can fit in here without getting complaints,” says Flori. She shuffles behind the three and lowers a wooden bar across the door.
“Good night. I’ll be up before the sun, baking tomorrow’s bread. Sorry if that wakes you,” she says cheerfully.
Quick notices the half-elf woman watching them. "Wow..." he says out loud without meaning to. Blushing furiously, he throws his eyes down to the floor and bites his tongue. Really!? Well done...
Attempting to ignore the Orcish male's exclamation, Vylyra gives a slight smile and closes her eyes. She needs all the rest she can get.
Henry Southgard wishes the vagabonds good luck and tells them of a Gnomish farrier who may have set up shop in Thaleniel. If they should meet, he advises them to say they met Henry Southgard.
His exhaustion grows ever more visible as the party gets closer to Flori's. By the time they cross the threshold, he is reduced to moderately articulate growls and forced smiles. He pays for the three, accepts a roll of bread with a polite nod, and makes a beeline for an unoccupied patch of floor.
"First watch is yours, Quick," he mutters under his breath as he piles his pack, falchion, crossbow and mace on top of each other, and covers them up with a breastplate. "If you're going to hire more followers, do it quiet-like."
Ten seconds later, Henry Southgard is unconscious.
In his deep sleep, some of the events, of days and years passed, mingle into his dreaming mind…
It is time to get up. Even the cook had to stand watch for a few hours as his corner of the camp continues to sleep. A single exchange of glances between Southgard and the watcher before him, Grimbol, is all that is required after working together for so long. But the dwarf flits a silent, second glance to the edge of the light cast by the dying fire before turning to his bedroll. Grimbol never said much, but the young mercenary could sense his unease. He draws no weapon and shouts no warning, so another of Shaleclast’s must be the cause. The company that draws all kinds.
The sun would not be up in a few hours. Henry’s part of the camp is situated on the outer fringe of the main host, which presently lays siege to a stubborn city. Much of his watch will be in the dark. Annoyed that the embers were allowed to burn too low (he had asked to keep it minimally stoked overnight), he moves a few shreds of kindling over the orange coals. While it helps him see a small range around his sleeping comrades, he mostly needed the fire to begin cooking. The light dimly spreads, and illuminates a squatting figure. Heavy, imposing shoulders covered by a bizarre cloak: a patchwork affair of animal furs and hides. One or two of the patches look a little too much like human skin. Yellow tusks gleam by the firelight, the brutish orc face downcast with streaks of grey running through long black hair. The squatting figure ignores Henry as he turns over a tiny, crudely-made humanoid doll of straw and cloth in calloused, green fingers.
Rabdir. The orc shaman was advising Shaleclast long before Henry signed on. It is said that he wanders the large camp at night, so his silent visit is not a complete surprise. Just unexpected. The cook has meals to prepare by the meager light, and the shaman seems uninterested in talking, so Henry sets to his preparations while keeping his crossbow within reach for anything that might approach the camp. An hour passes. A couple of times, the mercenary thinks he hears the orc mutter a single word, but his eyes are still fixed downward on the doll he holds in his hands.
Something catches Henry’s ear, coming from the dark beyond the camp. Soft footfalls through grass, and he was absolutely certain it was none of the company coming back from making water. The quiet, repeating movements in the dark approach. His hand casually lifts up the crossbow at his side, and strains his eyes and ears against the black of night. Cradling the deadly weapon, he dares not look down as he feels for the bolt, the taut string, and the tension behind the trigger as he points it in the direction of the sound. He is ready. The noise stops.
A tense, silent moment stretches into a minute. Henry remains calm, but his pulse is quick and his senses are sharp.
Rabdir breaks the silence with a low, rumbling voice. “Why do we fear what we do not see?” he muses in the common tongue. “What terrors lie in the dark?” The questions carry a tone that a cat might use on a mouse, if cats could speak.
Henry is about to reply that he is not afraid, but the shaman speaks over him. “If you had the deepsight, would you know no fear? You humans only fail to see light, when it is gone. You have never seen darkness. It is not for your eyes. Not for your mind...”
The mercenary chances a glance at the orc shaman. But there is no one where the voice was coming from, save for the cheap straw doll that lay on the ground near the small cookfire, which pops quietly at the new wood. Two sparks happen to land on doll’s head, and burn black holes where the eyes ought to be, before smouldering into twin trails of smoke.
Very different sounds tug at Henry's mind, unfitting to his lonely night watch, and a moment later, his consciousness pulls him back to the waking world.
Muffled by the barred door and the thick walls are the mixed clamor of screams and shouts, far away. Closer to the road of the bakery, clashing of armored men running and calling. Many of the sleepers inside the warm room begin to stir; children begin to fuss. Some are wide awake at the sounds -among them, Henry, Quick, and the fire-haired lass in the corner. The one sleeping under his shield stirs, awake, but less alert than the others. Tulden begins to move slowly, perhaps not fully aware of what he hears. By the muffled commotion, something is going on outside, on the streets of Redstone Keep, and it does not sound good.
Most of the screams of terror are coming from the walls of the town, perhaps beyond, where most of the Port Elam refugees are camped. There are savage roars intermixed, voices of men, or beasts, lost in bloodlust. The armored men running toward the wall sound like two or three in number.
Rising from his spot on the ground, the wanderer with the shrouded mask shakes the dust from his chain shirt. He moves to the door and presses his ear against it. "It sounds like the refugees are in danger. This is not good..."
Initiative
The large man sits up suddenly in and exclaims "OUR LOVE WILL PROTECT US!!" Then winces, holding his head, clearly in pain. Hearing the commotion he springs to his feet, listing just a little, as though the ground were also jumping. He steadies himself with his shield and grabs his bag.
Quicks sits up groggily. His head still swims with already half forgotten dreams, and his eyes partially glued shut with sleep he rises and wipes his eyes.
"Something bad is happening. I wish I could be surprised." Quick draws his sword. "Do you have a plan Henry? What do you see Tulden?"
Sighing audibly, Vylyra stands briskly and appears unfazed by resting in her breastplate. In one motion she silently draws her bow, moves towards the door, and says with authority, "Move aside."
Henry Southgard's eyes snap open. For one long, terrifying moment, he has trouble recognizing Quick as the young sorcerer he met in Port Elam.
But then he hears the running and the screaming and the bloody murder happening outside. A long string of curses, some borrowed from other languages and only half-understood, escapes him as he claws for his crossbow.
"Can a man get some sleep around here?"