“He pays too much!” Froggy deposits both the broken bottle and the metal shard into Gorim’s hand before popping the gold coin into his mouth, leaving Gorim’s food untouched. His left cheek bulges slightly as he turns wide eyes to Quick’s offer. Scampering haphazardly down the river, the sewage lurker accidentally splashes lumpy brown water onto the half-orc mage after coming to a sudden stop. His slimy hands grasp at the four coppers. “Enough for hell and back! Come! I’ll show you my treats!”
Without hesitation, Froggy bounds off around the bend.
“Come! I show you my treasure place!” echoes from the dark.
"He quit... whatsit," Henry mutters. He darts furtively down the tunnel and stops behind Gorim. After digging through a pocket, he pulls out the tarnished silver ring.
"Found this on the elf. Is there anything peculiar about it?"
Quick follows, curious.
Gorim drops the shard into his bag turning to Henry, "Cold Iron, could come in handy against... demons and the like..." He drops the traded bottleneck in too, to not offend their new friend.
He looks up at the ring, "Ah!". Picking it up, he rolls it in his fingers, briefly holding it higher to try find better lighting. He gets a little carried away and gently sticks it on his smallest finger to gauge the size better, before handing it back.
Gorim knows this ring will need a good polishing before selling it, but is unsure how much it should sell for. No more than 3gp, would be his wild guess.
The innkeeper keeps pace with Henry, and continues further around the corner. His torch casts light on a hole in the side of the tunnel, and beside it a large rotting wooden board. Froggy crouches at the entrance to the hole, flinching at the light and holding up his scarred hands. “Gwop!”
Shrinking into the dark, Froggy returns in a few minutes dragging a large, heavy duty cloth stained by the filth of the sewer. On the big canvas are an assortment of odds and ends. Broken tools, tickling piles of glass bits, a few dirty garments soiled beyond all restoration, a rotten fish, a few sealed vials, and other junk. The crazed man pounces into the trash, and digs through it to produce a white porcelain owl figurine. Or at least, it should be white. A heavy amount of grime and gross make it look a brownish grey, and one of its folded wings is chipped slightly. “For your coppersh!” Froggy beams, before spitting out one gold coin and four copper coins onto the cloth. He presses the figurine into Quick’s hand. The capering sewer lurker looks regards his pile of “treasure” with accomplished pride.
“Can we not wait around for show-and-tell?” the grizzled innkeeper complains, visibly uncomfortable with the entire situation. He looks anxiously down the sewer line, but waits for the rest of the group to get going.
"Froggy," Igith says, "does anyone or anything else live down here? Any meanies or scaries?"
Looking over the strange collection of garbage, it appears that some of the broken tools and other odds and ends could be gathered as an improvised set of thieves’ tools. The instruments would require skill and finesse to manipulate locks and traps, but it may come in handy some day. Alternatively, it might fetch a fair price from a desperate buyer.
"Thank you Froggy. It seems nice."
Quick wraps the filthy thing ins a bit of cloth and stores it in a pocket.
Henry Southgard takes out Moss's coinpurse and hands it to Gwath. He then gestures at different items on the blanket with a crossbow bolt.
"Take this and buy that, that, that, at least one of those, and several of those vials. I think we'll have the material to make a toolkit for disabling traps."
The mercenary then turns back to the tunnel, wary for anything else that might be out there. He holds his crossbow at the ready.
"Igith, could you bring the light over here? And try to keep it out of my eyes."
The Priest informs Henry in regards to the ring, "Nothing special, just worth a few gold pieces, if that..."
He continues to observe Froggy and his assortment of trinkets, and surveys the passageways.
“None but me and the rats and the bats and the shats!” sings Froggy, in answer to Igith’s question.
Unless the mage comes across someone who really like owls, Quick doesn’t think he’ll get much for the figurine. Perhaps three silvers, at the most.
Froggy hops eagerly, watching to see what is offered for his treasures. “Blimblimblimblim…”
Gorim taps his fingers, turning to listen to the vermin down the passageways. Hope nothin's spooked those rats...
"Hurry up. There's an Orc invasion topside, remember?"
Gorim snaps back into reality, looking quick between Henry, Froggy and the pile of goods. He moves swiftly to gather the objects the mercenary pointed at, and bags them.
"Aye, was lost there for a moment... Froggy, what's the best way to get as far from Elam?" and turns toward the group "Best sort the items topside."
Froggy growls and pounces onto the gathered things, blocking Gorim's way, his eyes suddenly feral and his crouch defensive. “Friends not steal from friends!”
He snatches up a handful of corked vials and carelessly throws them in Quick's direction. “For the brown shinies!”
Froggy angrily rounds back to the dwarf, jabbing a bony finger at his pack. “Five! Five of your foods and you can take from Froggy's treasures.”
Quick manages to sweep all three vials out of the air without the slightest effort.
Henry Southgard glances back at the sewer dweller, but decides that Froggy isn't hostile. Not yet, at least.
Gorim allows the food to be taken.
"Sorry Froggy! I- It was a misunderstanding!"
"Igith, we do need to get moving. Which way?"
Froggy eagerly gathers the food and allows Gorim to continue collecting the useful odds and ends. When he sees that the dwarf is done, he drags the sheet of garbage back into his lair. The crazed man begins humming to himself.
“I agree with the half-orc,” the innkeeper says to the others as he cringes at Froggy, “Let’s get out of here soon.”
Igith lifts the lantern and leads the group down more stone tunnels. Treading carefully over the slick filth, their progress is slowed somewhat, and in the darkness the passage of time is difficult to track. In some places, blood trickles into the main line from the grates on the city floor. At long last, the light of day shines into the dark. Rusty, iron bars block their exit into what appears to be a boggy sinkhole filled with algae and murky ankle-deep water. By the brightness of light, it may yet be midday.
Henry Southgard peers through the bars, trying to figure out where they came up, and whether there are any Orc raiders nearby.
Gorim scratches an itch, and peers through the bars.
"Let's get this open."
Quick walks up to the bars and starts wrenching them apart with strength greater than his form seems to possess.
"Help me."
Henry, Gwath, and Gorim can still hear the sounds of battle over Port Elam, but they are very faint from the clamor they heard from the city market about two hours ago. In fact, by the chirps and calls of small animals lingering in the late autumn, it would be a safe guess that this drain pipe is well away from the city’s edge.
The bars begin to bend at Quick’s might, but it is plain that he will not be able to widen the gap alone.
Henry Southgard steps up beside Quick and begins prying at the bars.
Coppervein joins the effort, his mind fixed on the thought of fresh air and the chirps of birds.
One of the rusty bars pops right out, and the neighboring bars are pulled wide enough to squeeze through.
The six finally emerge from the dark, slimy and filthy drainage pipe. Once out, the innkeeper breathes a sigh of relief. “Never thought I’d get outta there.”
The small bog appears to be no more than an algae and reed sodden pond, and the small vermin are silent when they notice the strangers to their home. Looking eastward, the limits of the city can be seen. Innumerous black fingers of smoke rise from many rooftops and form a dark cloud slowly gliding along the northwest wind. Lines of survivors, no bigger than dots from the distance, flee through the northern hills. The clamor of terror and destruction still rages from the heart of Port Elam, but it is clear that the city is lost. Facing directly north, the sewer-delvers can see the rolling hills graduate westward into the mountainous Baldrin Heights. These mountains continue northwest beyond the sight of the six, and the winter wind that blows along its rock face snaps at their clothing and reminds them that much travel lies ahead.
“Well,” the grizzled innkeeper begins, “I think this is where Igith and I part ways from your lot. This beard might be grey but I didn’t miss a word of your fallen friend.” He nods to Henry, understanding. “I’d rather not mix up myself or young Igith here in that artifact-hunting business. We need to go north, to Redstone, and warn everyone on the way about this orc invasion.”
He adjusts the pack full of foodstuffs on his back and positions the sling on his crossbow for easy access. Shifting his weight uncomfortably, unsure how to say it, he eventually murmurs, “Goodbye. Igith, let’s go.”
The pair begin walking north, soon to reach the hills trod by the rest of the refugees from the city.
The remaining four stand at the mouth of the sewer drain. The western snowy peaks of the Baldrin Heights seem to shine white as the black smoke of the burning city spreads.
Henry Southgard bids the Innkeeper and Igith farewell, and begins drying out his equipment. Only when he pulls out his map does the mercenary realize that he never learned the Innkeeper's name.
And fails to make heads or tails of Moss's notation.
"Gwath, Gorim? Either of you know how to read a map?"
He gazes longingly at the survivors streaming out of Port Elam. Henry is an old hand at warfare and plunder, and he knows that the best loot to be found was often in the hands of refugees. Soft city-people would always seize what was valuable to them without thought of long-term survival, and separating them from their baubles was child's play.
Alas, the road taken by the refugees was out of the party's way. The quest for the Silver Scale sounded like it would have a big payoff, but was also time-sensitive if others were looking for it.
"Gwath, could I see Moss's journal?"
Quick hikes his pack. "We can at least head toward the mountains while we get our bearings. We need to put some distance between us and these raiders."
"Agreed. Let me pack up first."
Another page catches the eye of the browser, one that says:
No new findings in the Bloomrot crypts. Still, I must be cautious. There are others searching for this Silver Scale. Narrowly escaped the ambush set by “Sheog’Dritkaan, Pye’thiuxib”. Drow is close enough to the mother tongue for a rough translation: Sheog, Mistress of No Escape. Or Mistress of Webs.
The archaeologist's progress is plain as one flips closer and closer to the end. Finally, the last entry recounts the finding of the map. The last page is a drawing of an arched entrance. The capstone bears what Moss came to calling “The Sign of the Uthylzarion”, the dragon rampant image noted throughout the journal. The pillars look as though they are gripped by massive, reptilian claws. Under the drawing, it says:
A few records state “To enter the Maw, one must pay the dragon’s price.” If this is a reference to entrance of the shrine, use great caution! The meaning of “dragon’s price” not found. The Silver Scale should be displayed at the center, or at the highest point in the room.
Henry Southgard raises an eyebrow, surprised that Moss's journal isn't in Elven. The old scholar must have been quite the cosmopolitan.
Gorim stares at the mountains, trying to make sense of their location.
Led by the insight of the dwarven priest, the four begin their trek through the hills that precede the snowy summits ahead. Using Moss’ map as a reference, they come across a pretty good guess at the archaeologist's intended path, though it is a far cry from any established trailhead. Finding no other hints or trails that match the one on the map, they press on through the joke of a trail. At times the overgrown plants are so thick, those with blades need to cut through the tall grass tangled with hedge and vine. Hours pass, and it seems little progress is made as the four cut a path through the plant matter, maintaining the general direction as indicated on the map. The sun begins to creep toward the white peaks of the Baldrin Heights when the artifact-seekers chop their way into a small clearing. A gaping rocky hole is in a hillside a short distance ahead on the other side of the low, long grass. The deepsighted eyes of Gwath, Gorim, and Quick can see that it extends further underground, perhaps by fifteen feet, and it might even widen deeper within, or take a turn like a burrowed tunnel. From where he stands at the other side of the clearing, Henry can see into the first five feet of the cave. No obvious dangers are apparent.
The Dwarf scans his surrounding for signs of use around the caves entrance.
"Anybody else see anything? Gwath? Quick?"
Henry Southgard looks around for a stone to throw into the cave.
"I'm more of the 'walk until you know where you're going' sort." Quick says with a shrug.
Gorim nods to Quick's statement in agreement.
"I'd rather not walk in and learn that it's a bear's den," Henry replies.
Gwath’s eyes are drawn to movement in the cave -something with multitudes of legs creeps up a cave wall, and flat against the ceiling! Long antennae fold in close to its segmented body, and glistening mandibles stir in anticipation for ambush. A large centipede the size of a man waits on the ceiling of the entrance of the cave, and no one else appears to have noticed it.
Moreover, a pair of pale eyes reflecting the daylight glint from deeper in the cave, very close to the ground. The eyes seem to be watching the tall half-orc, and blink only once in a span of five minutes. The small owner of the blue peepers is difficult to see, but the mercenary can discern a tiny body with an oversized lumpy head through the dark of the cave.
The cave stinks as though something died inside, but otherwise, the natural shelter appears to be completely safe and unoccupied. Henry finds a stone and a few rabbit pellets at his feet.
Henry throws the rock into the cave and listens for movement.
Gorim steps back, anticipating potential sounds of movement from within the shelter.
"Just how bad are we talking?" Henry Southgard asks with forced casualness as his hand strays to his bandoleer.
The stone noisily bounces off the inner rock wall of the cave. A high yelp and tiny, hurried footfalls fade deeper into the cave. Whatever small thing is in there, sounds like it is fleeing into the underground depths.
When the rock strikes rock, the pale eyes vanish, and the half-orc mercenary can see the vague form scurry out of sight. The large centipede crouches upside-down, and is completely still and poised to strike just above the mouth of the cave.