Wamblee nods at Mar's words. And keeps his gaze on the ifrit up until he is out of sight.
"Natural talent clearly shines through.", adds Wamblee at Samen's comment.
"Let us get out of here."
”Glad I could help you discover it,” Marianne quips back at her brother.
"Let's rest and reorganize," says Samoon. "If that fellow brings heat back upon us, better to do it from a fortified location. Albreane--does your office count as such?"
She gives a bemused smirk. "Well, the door locks! Does that count?" She giggles a little, clearly tired from the late (early?) candle.
"...yes."
Albreane nods, and puts the wagon on course to the Copper Hills. As you gain the main thoroughfare of the city, there is a moment where Roccia Pugno, the fist-shaped castle upon the huge plateau in the middle of town, is backlit by Volcano to the south. The silhouette, devoid of all elen details, resembles a gargantuan earth elemental arm bursting from the ground.
Mother gently snores in the back of the wagon as you traverse the strangely smooth blue-black road of Forge. Though few elens are about at this candle, there are still drunks, and miners coming home from late shifts. You travel southeast, heading directly toward the Copper Hills. A bitter easterly wind cuts through your clothing, but it keeps the stink of old hops and unwashed bodies at bay.
Perhaps it is the fatigue of a long day, or perhaps it is numbness from so much stress. Whatever the case, Albreane takes a wrong turn in the poor Copper Hills near her office, and the buildings quickly go from shabby to dilapidated. You only have a moment to glance at the ugly imagery on the crumbling brick walls--broken swords and split shields, done in crude paints--before a hoarse voice calls from ahead,
"Wandered into a bad place in yer fancy wagon, eh? Just empty out yer pockets as a small fee and we'll get you on the right path again, eh? Or, we can see how much dagger practice yer worth and then we can take our time."
Samen pokes his head out of the wagon incredulously. "What, did you plan your day to be like this? Lurk in alleys, decrease the local property values, and threaten anyone who happens to come by? Is this business model profitable? Is it worth the risks? Of all the things that've threatened to end my life in the past week, a good stabbing seems like as good a way to go as any to me."
A dagger plunks into the wagon, a foot from Samen's head. "You tell me if it's going to be profitable, mate."
"Bah! You just said you were going to take all our money either way, so what agency have you really left us in regard to how much you'll be taking from us? Would you leave us alone if I told you we were not only lost, but also broke?"
Samen pulls the dagger out of the wagon and waves it at them. "So far, as best I can tell, you're already down a couple of gold pieces on this venture. Come and get it if you want it back."
Samen ducks back into the wagon before they can decrement their dagger supply further.
Came from the left, and from a slightly elevated angle. There is a stack of crates 40 feet away that fits the bill
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Wamblee sees the dagger's flight clearly. In a calm voice pitched for you to hear but not the thug, he relates this information to all of you.
Wamblee whispers:
"Up a little, and from the left. That stack."
Wamblee tries to sidle up along the wall, towards said crates, and to get a better view.
Samoon notices Wamblee's attempt at sneaking, and tries to distract the thug. He leaps out of the wagon on the side opposite to Wamblee and loudly calls out, "Listen, leave my poor brother alone, alright? He's had a bit of a sheltered life you see, and has this strange penchant for taunting elens with sharp objects." He holds out a gold piece, stretching it away from his body. "Is this what you're looking for? Because we have exactly one of these between us. The rest is, as they say, copper and coal."
Marianne is taking deep, calming breathes, clearly trying to stop herself from just taking the el out. ”This is a bad idea,” she calls conversationally. ”You’re clearly outnumbered, and we have better weapons than a few daggers,” she adds, quietly nocking an arrow under the front of the wagon, watching carefully for someone to reveal themselves with a lead in like that.
The calm words of Marianne and Samoon have no effect; there is only a smirking silence. Wamblee takes a misstep, causing a leaning plank to crash to the ground. A hooded figure pops up from the pile of crates, exactly where Wamblee indicated.
Marianne, her instincts taut as her bowstring, reacts instantly, letting her arrow fly. She strikes true, carving a line of blood into the ifrit's cheek.
"What the volc! Piece of merde!"
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”Ifreet!” Marianne snaps back.
Wamblee sprints to the bottom of the crates - and stops.
But the ground around him shudders and shakes while he is unmoving.
Including the ground under the stack of crates.
Samoon skirts the terrain that Wamblee has summoned, and trots over to the detritus-laden area to get a clear shot at the thug.
"Here's my answer," he says curtly, and tosses an incendiary bomb at the thug.
Samen nods in resignation and calmly hops out of the wagon and moseys up toward the fight. "Hooray for pointless violence!"
Samoon's bomb strikes true, causing the thug to howl in pain.
Wamblee's connection to the earth causes the ground to rumble, knocking the crates to the ground. To everyone's surprise, several more thugs tumble out of the crates, prone. The smell of alcohol and smoke is strong, and a pack of playing cards scatters across the dirt.
”Good,” Marianne snarls, no trace of the friendly ele who sweet talked the ifrit mere minutes before. In her place is a pissed off warrior with a deadly length of wood in her hands. ”I needed an outlet,” she finishes, loosing an arrow at the nearest thug.
The thugs look none too eager to engage the two hulking oreads before them, so opt instead to retreat toward the haphazard piles of rocks and gravel that litter the alleyway. They each pick up a rock and throw it at Samoon. "Knock out that damn fire-maker first!" says one.
All miss pathetically. One rock comes close, but is subtly shifted by the winds that surround Samoon. At this, they all begin swearing. Despite the midnight chill, they are all sweating and breathing heavily. They draw daggers, but adopt defensive postures.
Samen continues walking casually toward the closest thug. "If you survive this night, I might suggest mining as a safer career move."
He taps his staff on the ground, imbuing it with a magic glow and aims to take the thug's head off.
Wamblee snorts with satisfaction at the sight of the thugs waylaid upon the ground. Seeing they still seek to fight, his hands reach onto his back and seize his sansetsukon.
And then he charges at the unfortunate whom Samen is already challenging.
Marianne takes another shot at the talker.
"Drop your weapons now, you dolts. You're clearly ill and desperate. However, we only need one of you alive to question what you're really up to," says Samoon, and casually flicks another bomb their way, sparing Marianne and Samen.
In a spectacular fiery explosion, the thug that Samen and Samoon attempted to attack is now a patch of smoldering clothing
Marianne hits the talker, causing him to slump to the ground, clutching the arrow in his side and moaning in pain.
The remaining two thugs exchange a glance and sprint away into the night, not sparing a moment for their two fallen comrades.
Still snarling, Marianne walks over to the wounded el. Crouching down, she grabs the arrow still embeddd in him, and glares him in the eyes. ”Start talking!” she growls, wiggling the arrow a bit. ”Bunch of two-bit thugs just happen to be in our way? I don’t think so. So talk, and maybe you walk away alive.”
The thug yells in pain "Aghhh!" He glares at you, but there is a hint of fear in his eyes. "You 'just happen' to be dumb enough to sleepwalk down this alley in the middle of the volcing night and you're surprised someone sniffs around? I thought it was just you and the other sylphie girl guarding a wagon, easy pickings!"
Wamblee stands over the el, impassive and with his three-piece staff ready in hand.
"They can't all be conspirators out to get us, Mar. Let's kill him and go about our business."
Eyes wide, the ifrit says, "Wait! Take my money! I've got some wine!" He holds up a small money pouch, and a wineskin. "Why do you think someone is out to get you? I know the streets - maybe I can help you out, tell you what places to avoid!" He talks quickly, desperately, spouting off anything to keep Samen's apathetic eyes off of him.
"Apparently we weren't that dumb, firehead," scowls Samoon. "Give us something better or you'll be walking home on stumps."
"Well, what do you want to know? Who's out to get you?"
Marianne sighs, pulling herself together at Samen's words. "You are correct. I am sorry, I got a little carried away," she sheepishly understates. Turning back to the thug, the ele's face hardens once more, and the observers note that her hand never actually left the arrow in the el's shoulder. "You want to be useful, know the streets you say? Fine, but know my patience is waning quickly. Pugliesi, scarred brute of an ifreet. Know him?" she asks in clipped tones.
Wamblee continues to say nothing, but does keep an eye on their surroundings, in case the fight garnered attention.
The ifrit nods enthusiastically. "Sure! The stronzo that works for the v'Borios. Ran into him once on a job, not a pretty thing. I know where he lives, where he works." He tone becomes wheedling. "So I give you a little informazioni, and I'll walk away, maybe keep the wine eh?"
You hear serious, clipped tones - the sounds of guards on patrol. The echo of the close streets makes the exact location unclear, but you would estimate they are two or three streets away. There is no urgency to the voices, so you are mostly confident they have not heard you or your prisoner.
Wamblee nods and says quietly:
"I think this el has been sufficiently helpful and may have learned from his mistake. I suggest that we let him go, and that we all presently go our separate ways."
"Addresses, quick, and we'll leave the wine," says Samoon.
"He lives on the west side of the Irons, near the back of all the forges around there. It's this ugly house with an old dead tree in the front. The thing looks like it got cut in half by lightning or something." He gives more precise street names, and you are confident you'll be able to find the place, assuming he is telling the truth.
"When he's not running around doing errands for the v'Borios, he's at the Condottieri house, drinking or maybe practicing with that nasty sword of his."
”I’d offer to pull the arrow out and patch you up, but none of us have any healing training,” Marianne says sweetly. A pause, and then a wicked gleam enters her eyes as the wind picks up slightly. ”Although,” she continues, voice still sweet. ”The offer to pull the arrow out still stands.”
Once the thug leaves, Marianne turns to her siblings. ”Let’s go find somewhere to rest, otherwise I’m probably going to be advocating killing everyone who gets in our way. I’m already making plans to bomb the mercenary house without checking if Pugliesi is even in there.”
"Let us leave." says Wamblee firmly.