"I will take second watch, so the rest of you do not have to have your sleep interrupted."
Samoon, the door opens a crack. "You can come in, not her. I'm not in the mood for condescension right now."
Bree, in a carefully neutral tone, begins, "Sis, come on-"
"Don't talk to me like a little sister. Samoon or no one." Her voice holds the breezy command that brings the deceased Rentwyrth to mind.
Krissa sits on her bed. Whereas Bree is a mix of mother and father, Krissa clearly favors her mother more, with a fritan shape to her face colored with sylphan whites. Her hair is curly and red, with blonde highlights.
Calmly, she says, "Tell me what happened. No gold plating, just the truth."
"Your father has been up to many things," says Samoon, not talking down to Krissa, and making sure not to sit on the bed. Instead, he sits on the floor.
"We think that he arranged for my father's death, manufacturing a cave-in. And some sort of experiments were performed down there, turning some animals partly into magical brass. We suspect it's the same brass that is affecting this town--to what end, I don't know. And he claimed he had a dragon."
Samoon exhales. "He was going to kill us all, Krissa. He had a bunch of thugs. Samen did the right thing. It was quick."
Samoon frowns. "I know that what I've said should be enough, but what truly irked me is that he then disputed my father's property, claiming he died due to his own poor practices. I don't know why, but I find that particularly foul."
He pauses to recollect. "The dragon he's...built. I think it's also some sort of pogona treated with brass."
"Volcing idiot." It takes you a moment to realize Krissa is not talking about you, but about her father. "It was never enough for him." She stares at the wall for a few long seconds.
"Okay, I don't want to talk about that anymore. You want to know what I've seen, right?" She describes the last few days. At first, a handful of elens were acting strange, maybe drunk, but as more and more of the town slipped into strange mannerisms, Krissa boarded up the house and watched from the windows. "A couple of weird things I noticed. You know, apart from everyone becoming a freak. First, I've only seen ifrits around, no sign of the oread miners. A lot of visiting traders got run out of town, especially if they weren't ifrits. Second, there's hardly anyone out during the day, just one or two wandering weirdos. I guess they either brought a bunch of food in with them, or everyone comes out at night. And last, just like that girl that was walking around our house, nobody cares about the cold. They just walk around in shirts and pants even when it's freezing outside."
She looks at you as if she has something else on her mind. Her eyes go briefly to the closed door, then she goes back to her window. "Okay, that's all I can think of. I want to be alone again."
"The brass is some sort of ifrit metallurgy, whether synthesized or found...well, well, well. Look, Krissa, I understand you wish to be alone, but we need to ask tactical questions so that we and you can stay safe. How many people are hiding in their houses? What percentage of town is affected? Has there been violence? Are there safe regions? And do you have food, water, and weapons, if we are...delayed?"
She looks at you flatly. "This is the only house that can put up anything like a defense. Maybe the Mayor's house. Everyone else is affected, or dead." She turns back to the window, and says, "I have plenty here to survive. And if my sister dies, that better mean you're dead, too."
Wamblee does his best to find rest now, to get a few hours before second watch. He is content to sleep downstairs, on the floor if necessary.
Well past dim, the wan peaklight transforms the town below into vague outlines of dark buildings. You detect no movement. You have only taken a few steps out of the Rentwyrth mansion when Marianne spots the lonely red light of a fire, coming from one of the smithies in town.
Stopping a moment, you still hear no voices, no steps, and see no movement in the town proper.
Wamblee nods towards the fire with a quizzical expression and whispers:
"It seems a distraction from our chosen course. But what do you think?"
"We still have too little information to go on. I am going to take a look, everyone wait here," Marianne whispers, slipping off into the night.
Marianne, you see two young els, their faces desperate in the flickering forge-light. "Melt it down! He needs more!" You see the other el pouring a handful of silver pieces and other light metallic objects--rings, necklaces--into a crucible, to be melted down.
Wamblee mutters:
"Samoon, any thoughts on that? Regardless, we should press on to the mine."
"I think it's the metal," Marianne whispers. "They were frantically melting silver, saying "he" needed more. It has a part in all this."
The Firenze family makes their way up the hills, mostly in silence. Apart from the fire of the forge, the town below is still. You take the long way around, avoiding the main entrance and looking out for sentries.
As you approach the location of one of the recently dug entrances, you see an ifrit sitting on the ground, spinning a dagger through the dirt. He has not noticed you.
"It makes no sense--you don't make brass from silver," says Samoon. "We'll get to the bottom of this eventually, in our usual violent and unexpected ways..."
Samoon wishes he had stayed back at the house and gotten some rest. He's tired, and footsore, and annoyed with all the upendings of his life. He'd like some order. Peace. However, he's happy to knock down a bully and get some answers out of him.
He points to Wamblee and makes a chopping gesture with one hand, then mimes sleeping, and points to Carl.
Wamblee nods, having similar thoughts himself.
He approaches Carl quietly...
...then strikes.
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Carl is knocked out by a swift blow to the back of the head before he is aware of a single foot step. His dagger stops spinning, and seems to be pointing the way toward a freshly dug hole in the ground.
Wamblee snatches the knife and picks up the ifrit, before swiftly returns to the others, making sure Carl's head is kept steady.
"It would not do for him to die before we can ascertain if he can be saved. Or we get answers from his lips."
Samen smirks as his brother makes short work of Carl. "Ehh, it wouldn't be such a loss, Wamblee. Check the dagger for brass before pocketing it."
Bree briefly checks on the fallen ifrit. "He'll have a big headache, but he'll be alright. He also has an...interesting piece of jewelry." She points to Carl's ear, where a small spike of brass protrudes from his earlobe.
Samoon grabs his forceps again, and extracts the brass needle. Afterwards, he washes the wound with a bit of rubbing alcohol, to see if any remnants remain.
Carl blinks sleepily awake. "The...treasure? And eles? Volcano am I thirsty," he rasps. His eyes are mostly unfocused.
"Carl, what do you remember last?" Marianne asks, bending down to look him in the eyes as she passes him a waterskin. "You were, the quickest explanation is that you were enchanted, and we need to know what happened."
He takes a deep drink from the waterskin. "Ah. Now what are you taking about...Marie, right? There's this beautiful...I don't know, it must be Silver-Bringer, some goddess down there. It's all gems, and eles, and wine..."
Wamblee smiles thinly at Samen's reply. He remembers what a volc-head Carl was, and likely is.
He tolerates Carl's ramblings briefly, then raises his palm to interrupt.
"Carl, how do we reach this silver being? And how many others are down there?"
"Carl. Do you remember being controlled by a sliver of brass? Your thoughts not being your own?" He squats down near the former bully.
Ignoring Samoon's question, he claps his hands loudly and-.
stands up with a casual idiot's strength. He begins running, fritan fast, toward the entrance. A wild joy shines from his white eyes and white teeth. He waves you to follow, and jumps into the crudely-dug hole.
Marianne’s hands were already moving as soon as the fool started talking about a silver goddess. She had her bow up and ready and started firing as soon as he started moving.
Samen shakes his head at the fool's actions. With a firm fist, he punches the ground, sending out ripples in the earth in front of where Carl is running.
"Get him, sis."
Carl trips clumsily over the uneven cracks in the dry ground. Two arrows sink into him. In a dazed, dreamy way, he says, "Ow."
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”Tie him,” Marianne demands, another arrow aimed at the el. If she seems more angry than is warranted, everyone remembers the only el dumb enough to shorten her name. Come to think of it, Big Sitter always ended up with an arrow or two in him too, or at least cuts from those oversized arrows Marianne insists on using as daggers.
"Well, then." Samoon dusts off his shirt. "We leave him here. Either the effect lasts longer than we thought, or...in any case, questioning him seems of limited use."
"In his idiot manner, he may have been trying to aid us. But I agree, we should leave him here."
Wamblee eyes the hole suspiciously, but begins to move towards it.
As you all move away from the incapacitated Carl, there is a sudden blur of motion. There is a flash of metal, and then-
The double-bladed axe head gleams as it ends the el's life. Fizzing. fulminating ifrit blood spills onto the cracked, dry ground. An oread--not tall like Samen and Wamblee but very, very wide--grins at all of you. His rough skin is covered in brown hill soil and dull green moss, a crude camouflage.
Marianne, you are the first to recognize Big Sitter. He pulls his big axe from Carl's body. "Well if it isn't the boot-licker of Dead Sky?" He smiles a mossy smile at you. "Well if you haven't gone all brass in the head, I guess that means we're in this together."
"I got someone in there too." He does not volunteer more.
"What? The Godless Wander—" Marianne starts to snap back, almost by reflex, before sighing heavily. "You know what? Why not? At least I know where you stand in all this. There is some sort of dragon in there, as far as we have gathered. It controls people through the embedded brass, which you already seem to have figured out. We've been getting conflicting information on the metal associated with it, which seems important. Rentwyrth said it was brass, but Carl over there described it as a Silver Bringer herself, and I saw some townsfolk trying to melt down silver for it. Mysterious blue lights, animals turned to brass... I think that is all we have at the moment. Do you have anything to add to it?" she asks the warrior
He nods at the question. "Yeah. Don't leave one of these strong ones tied up and expect that to stop 'im. Pro'lly had more brass stuck up 'is toenails for all you know."
Wamblee almost leaps into action at the sound of the axe, but the oread's words stay his hand long enough.
He breaks his silence after the exchange with Mar. He still has wariness in his eyes but also a hint of respect.
"Big Sitter, correct? You have a solid point about the extra brass. But a way to spare them would be useful. Regardless, we have a dragon to find. Carl there seemed keen on that hole, whether helpful or ambush. Unless someone has a better suggestion, let us try it."
Samen says nothing at the interloper's sudden act of murder, but the idea of secondary brass troubles him.
"If this beast, or whoever is in control, is clever enough to have one backup system, it probably isn't dumb enough for walking in its front door to be anything but handing ourselves over. Perhaps we should instead disrupt the silver melting and strip someone all the way down. At least if it goes sideways, we'll be able to make a run for it."
Wamblee considers Samen's words.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps we waste time talking out here."
"Time for what? It already controls the village. It may have grander designs, but we have no way of knowing that, or even if there are any time-critical activities to disrupt."
Marianne eyes the hole nervously, and groans. ”Wamblee is right. We don’t have enough information to really even sabotage it. Our only options are to disrupt the flow of silver, which might be the idle fancy of a being playing deity for all we know, or to pick them off villagers one by one, which seems unlikely to have much effect overall,” the sylph groans and then finishes. ”We have to go into the mines.”
Big Sitter points to Marianne. "Boot-licker got it in one, good for her! Any fraidy-birds can sit this one out." With admirable stealth, he creeps toward the mine entrance.
Wamblee is irked at Big Sitter's attitude but elects to begin creeping towards the entrance.
Marianne stealth:
Samoon stealth:
albreane stealth:
Samen untrained stealth:
Wamblee and Albreane, deep in their own personal thoughts, collide right in front of the entrance. Even the small, involuntary sounds they make sound loud in the ringing silence.
No response from the tunnel.
Big Sitter shrugs, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. He jumps down the hole, ignoring the plank ladder and instead plunging down ten or so feet. He rolls, then starts running. His axe leads the way.
Wamblee, realising that quiet is no longer an option, begins to run also.
"You...he...are all idiots," says Samoon, considering breaking into a trot. "You don't run toward a dragon."
He pulls out his surveying staff, peering about to see if anything might collapse. He twirls it experimentally.
"And watch out for slivers, you nattering lumps of pogona dung," he says, mainly to himself.
Samen rolls his eyes at his family's exuberance. "Fine, I don't want to die alone anyway. Into the heart of Dark we go."
He chooses not to run, walking slowly and deliberately, trying to stay fresh for running in the other direction.