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Wamblee stares right back, not moving a muscle.
"This 'large-ish' brother takes no orders from you. If one of my brothers makes a request, I will consider it. Now, cease making excuses and get down to brass tacks."
The sly sylph waggles a finger at Wamblee, amused. "Ah, ye don't know it, but ye jus' said something very funny. Foine, foine." He turns back to Samoon. "You want to know what's down there? Want to be in on the ground floor? I've got meself a baby dragon down there. Damn thing looks like a feral pogona covered in pieces o' brass, but I'll swear up and down it has stubby little wings and everything!"
Not giving you a chance to reply or scoff, he continues, "Now the only question remaining, Firenzes, is this: are you going to help me make somethin' of this discovery, or are you going to make me regret the time I've invested having this conversation with ye?" A hint of something cold and calculating comes into his eyes. He is watching all of you intently.
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"No promises. You said you'd discuss the brass. Something is very wrong over there and we aren't here to profit from alchemical necromancy, or whatever is going on. We are here to right wrongs, fight the Dark, and retain our father's assets, in any particular order as is expedient, and if any of those aims cross you, then so be it. Now talk."
Wamblee does raise a singular eyebrow at the sylph at talk of a dragon, and does not even attempt to disguise his incredulity.
"How in the name of Volcano would you get your mitts on a *dragon* of all things? Assuming it is not a freak pogona."
"Sounds like you know about, and are complicit in, whatever nonsense is happening in your precious mine. It probably got our father killed. So why would you come after his estate when he clearly had nothing to do with it?"
He brings a hands to his chin, thoughtful. "Sounds like you have a decision to make. Get your father's estate, no trouble from me, and bask in the profit that can come from being part of my business. Or, keep askin' about what's done and buried." He looks around at all of you, ending with Samoon. "Yer choice?"
"Samen, hold him. This charade ends now. We have enough evidence to bring him in."
"Gladly." Samen cracks his knuckles, then launches like an arrow across the room directly at Rentwyrth's face.
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Marianne's winds whip about her in a frenzy as she draws and knocks her bow, quickly turning the carefully arranged study into a confusion of flying papers. After a few seconds, the winds seem to pull in on themselves, coalescing around the arrow, now barely visible through the whirlwind of stray particles caught in the winds surrounding it. In a quiet voice choked with fury, barely heard over the gale surrounding the arrow, Marianne finally speaks. "One of two things is going on. Either you have made a pact with the spawn of an evil older than the Dark itself, or," and at this her voice grows cold as the winds of Icefall, "Or, you have trapped a holy being of your own god far from the winds it should call home. Choose your next words carefully, Ser Rentwyrth."
Wamblee begins to spring into action.
After Samoon's threat, Rentwyrth's face goes blank. "Well, I guess I have my answer then," he mutters. He purses his lips, and lets out a piercing whistle. From down the hall, you hear several pairs of boots running on the floor. Rentwyrth ducks under his desk, disappearing from view.
With a frustrated snarl, Marianne positions herself halfway between the desk and the door, back to a wall, arrow pointed at the door.
Wamblee will draw his double-edged kama, and readies himself ten feet to the side of the door, ready to trip the first el to enter. And any others.
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Samen moves around the table toward the cowering rich man with darkness in his eyes and murder in his heart. "Sorry Bree. Your dad killed my dad, so this must be done."
Swift action: Activate +1 enhancement from arcane pool.
Move action: Move around the desk.
Standard action: Whack him with the stick.
Regular attack: +5
Enhancement bonus: +1
Power attack: -1
Prone target: +4
Total attack modifier = 9
Base damage: 1d6+4
Two-handed: +2
Enhancement: +1
Power attack: +3
Total damage modifier = 10
Acting with instinctive cowardice, Rentwyrth acts immediately, whistling and ducking under the desk.
Marianne, furious at Rentwyrth's actions, continues to berate him even though she cannot see him. Turning toward the sound of heavy boots, you all see,
Two ifrit barbarians from the deep, wild hills of this region. They grin maniacally, wear almost no armor, and grip their axes with white-knuckled glee as they sprint into the room. The crossed rose-and-sword of the Condottieri is branded into the left shoulder of each berserker.
Marianne shoots an arrow straight into the chest of the first one through the door.
Continuing past Marianne on sheer momentum, the stout barbarian rushes toward Wamblee. The stout el's companion, a taller ifrit, recklessly comes around toward Wamblee as well. Neither expects an attack from the patient, unmoving oread.
Wamblee lands two blows before the ifrits even see the movement.
and the ifrit who took Marianne's arrow simply falls over, unconscious, after a solid crack to the jaw.
Hardly noticing his companion fall, the tall berserker brings axe greataxe arcing down, grunting with the effort,
Samen, almost casually, walks over to Rentwyrth and smashes him on the head without mercy and without particular malice.
Two grizzled ifrit veterans, wearing heavier armor and shields, stay by the door. The one on the right has the rose-and-sword tattooed in blue ink upon his red cheek. He motions to the other veteran, a smaller, quicker fellow. The quick one grabs Albreane and puts a jagged dagger up to her throat.
The tattooed veteran says, calmly and confidently, "Mr. Rentwyrth gave us instructions to take a prisoner and threaten their life if he became incapacitated. This included his daughter, whom he has disowned. Put down your weapons or she dies."
Samoon holds up his hands...dagger stowed in one sleeve...letting his bow clatter to the floor. "We're just a family of miners, sir. Surely there isn't the need for this sort of violence."
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A flurry of thoughts stream through Samen's head as he evaluates his options.
Volc! This is bad. What do I do?
He had literal axe murderers ready to kill us if we weren't useful to him. He'll be no more merciful if he survives. Surrender and we're dead. He looks at Wamblee's body on the floor and the three remaining antagonists. Fight and we're dead.
Does that include Bree? If he's telling the truth, she dies with us either way. If he's lying, she might live.
If we surrender, he'll hunt down mother and kill her too. If he's dead, nobody will pursue her.
Am I ready to be a murderer? He either planned or was complicit in father's death.
What about the darkspawn? If we surrender, he'll take them. If we all die, mother could reclaim them.
Am I ready to die? ... Am I prepared to go on living like this?
He looks up at veterans, and whether real or imagined, he perceives a smirk, juxtaposed with Albreane's terrified face. The impotent rage of the last week wells up within him, and rational thought is replaced with red mist. He considers how powerless he felt mourning of his father, the chase of the darkspawn, the loss of his lifestyle, all the years of being ignored and bullied, and the manipulative choice Uncle gave him back in that cave.
But he's not powerless now. He has one choice left, and before he even realizes it, the choice had already been made.
He shouts at the guard, spittle flying out of his mouth.
His staff glows brighter as he channels more destructive magic into it and slams to the ground through Rentwyrth's skull.
base = +6
power attack = -1
enhancement = +2
spell combat = -2
helpless target = +9
Total attack modifier = +14
Damage modifier
base = 1d6 + 4 (one handed)
power attack = +2
enhancement = +2
Total damage modifier = 1d6+8
Though Rentwyrth's body is hidden by the desk, there is no mistaking the sound of dry bone and wet flesh. The smaller veteran lets his dagger drop just a hair, as everyone is taken aback by the split-second violence of Samen's response.
The last vestiges of peace leave Marianne's stance as the staff descends, and the bow is up and nocked by the time she hears the sound of impact. A silent prayer flashes through the ele's mind as the arrow leaves the string. Spéir, le do thoil gur é seo an rogha ceart.
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Samoon grimaces. I was going to use True Strike...
Samoon's answer is a dagger hurtling toward the quick ifrit's eye socket.
"I seem to have dropped my weapon horizontally," he says casually.
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Though Samoon was no slouch at the occasional Fallenday game of daggers with his fellow students at the Golem's Lubricant pub, he never would have put money on making such a shot in a hundred throws. The path of the blade is straight, almost mathematically perfect.
Left eye. Hilt deep. He drops. Albreane slumps against the wall, unharmed. Collapsing to the ground, she covers her head with her arms, in shock from the near-death experience.
The remaining berserker turns to Samoon, furious at the sylph. Yelling wordlessly, he swipes with his greataxe,
and opens a large gash in Samoon's shoulder.
The taller ifrit surveys the scene in two sharp glances, and immediately bolts out the doorway. A moment later, the front door opens, then slams shut.
Samen steps over Rentwyrth's remains and approaches the barbarian, ichor dripping off his staff as moves. He tries to think of something clever to say as he attacks, but nothing comes to mind. His mouth hangs open for a moment as no thoughts come out. He rolls his eyes and takes out his frustration on the mercenary.
base attack: +5
power attack: -1
enhancement: +2
total atk mod: +6
base damage: 1d6+4
2 handed: +2
power attack: +3
enhancement: +2
total dmg: 1d6+11
Wamblee is no longer as slumped on the floor, but far from awake.
"Marianne, chase down that firehead!" shouts Samoon, grimacing at his bleeding wound.
Samoon takes a moment to prepare a healing extract and give it to Wamblee. "Albreane--stay with us," he says, trying to keep an eye on her and his unconscious brother at the same time.
"Dead Sky willing he's not one of those lightning-damned sprinters," Marianne mutters, sprinting into a roll out the door after the ifreet to avoid a possible sneak attack before righting herself to see which way he went.
Stunned at the violence he wrought, Samen avoids looking at either Albreane or her father's brutalized remains. "Huh. That went better than expected. We need to get out of town. Now."
He pulls the brass animal out of his pack and sets it on the desk. "Evidence won't do us any good anymore. Hopefully, this will be enough of a clue to get the investigators looking into the mine."
Albreane says in a strange monotone, "We can leave the report too. That could be a clue for them." Without a change in expression, she goes behind the desk and bends down, checking on her father. The look on her face shows her regret in doing so. Mechanically, she heads to the door, following everyone else.
Wamblee stands swiftly, views the situation, and nods at Samen.
"We leave. Now. Fetching Mar first."
And he runs after his sister.
Marianne sights on the fleeing mercenary, and whispers a more targeted prayer. ”Rabhán Prionsa Dorcha, treoraigh mo saighead leis an duine a chuirfeadh rúin do dílis,”
Marianne's arrow flies true, driven by winds of winter and hate. It takes him in the back of his left knee. He struggles to keep running.
Seeing the ifrit well fled, Wamblee says:
"Mar, we need to go."
"Get out of town? What? We need to get to the authorities! We need to settle these outrageous and illegal claims against our father once and for all! If we flee now, we will be marked as murderers. We have clear evidence that Rentwyrth had hired thugs--now, we have to search his place for further damning evidence. I am sure he kept papers here."
Samoon ignores all calls to leave. "Get a constable, hang it all," he growls to anyone near him, and begins to look through papers. "I'm sure the watch will come soon enough, and better that we call them proactively. We don't have much time to look through here before they arrive."
Ignoring Samoon's words, Albreane stares at the fleeing ifrit with an air of looking at a bug under glass. In a flat voice, she says, "He's the one who made the ultimatum. Marianne, tell that little wind-thing you've got that I would pay a considerable price to help this arrow along." She calmly removes her bow from her shoulder, nocks an arrow, and fires.
The ifrit drops to the ground, clutching the arrow that has just pierced his chest. Albreane nods.
"Now we can go to a constable." The same flat tone. "There's one right around the corner, after we get down from here. Who's going with me? Mar?"
Marianne's face twists in rage for a moment at the flippant reference to her deity, but as the adrenaline dies, so too does her rage. She sighs, turning to her best friend. "How just are the authorities here, Bree?" she asks in an even tone, almost casual. "Will it really do any good to go to them? If you say it will, then fine, we can try. Else, we should get going." The sylph's face is calm and strangely untroubled by the night's blood. As the others deliberate, Marianne kneels where she stands, and begins a prayer of thanks to Dead Sky for the survival of her entire party. "Spéir Mharbh, tugann an duine seo an-bhuíochas as do chabhair. tá a fhios aici go bhfuil tú lagú, agus go bhfuil sé buíoch as a chéile gur chonaic tú cuid mhaith díobh a dhramhaíl ar na morgánaigh seo ..."
"..." Samoon looks at the dead ifrit. Albreane is in shock, he thinks.
"We shall all go...actually, someone should guard this place," says Samoon. He looks at Samen meaningfully then slides his eyes at Albreane. Maybe you should stay, he thinks, looking at his little brother.
Samen gives Wamblee another splash of acid (2 more hp) and steps out into the street. "Uh, Samoon, there's no way that wasn't murder. I'm... okay with that, but I expect the constabulary will disagree. The best chance at clearing father's name is in mother's hands now, not ours."
Answering Marianne, "The guards just want order. If order is served by putting us all in jail, that's the way it will be. If we can feed them a story that means the courts won't get jammed up, I guess that will happen." She offers no opinion either way.
”Then we’re leaving. Murdering the mayor of a nearby town and then accusing him of consorting with the Dark would create a great headache for the guard. Far simpler to arrest the lot of us as murderous madelen. Let us go, there is nothing more we can do here,” Marianne inserts, rising gracefully from her prayers, already turning to leave.
Looking out toward the great stone bulk Roccia Pugno, Albreane says, "I have the key to your father's strongbox. Dad had it on him. Seems like the case had been decided in his favor before you even came to Forge." She holds up a large iron key with the name Hotah Firenze engraved on the side in blocky letters.
"We search the place then. See what father had, because that is now *ours*, and not to be taken as "evidence". We see what papers are here, before the constables can seize them."
"Alright. I'm the one who killed him, so only I need to run. You guys stay and try to explain things. I'm going to try to make my way Northeast to father's old tribe."
Samen takes a last look at his siblings, fairly certain this is the last time he'll see them. "Good luck, guys."