Finding his breath is difficult, as he feels about ready to collapse himself, but Wrathe works to drag the slayer a bit further to ensure his chances of survival are better than the rest of them.
He yells something over his shoulder that the giantess takes more than a little umbrage at.
Filled with something close to righteous fury, Ssilax narrows his eyes, sapphire orbs almost burning as the dragonkin digs deep into himself. Touching the dragon pendent that has been the one possession that is the only tie to the life that had been burned away all those years, his fingertips tingle curiously. Not that the dragonkin had time to notice.
Focus crystalline sharp, and once more drawing from the consuming flames of the Elemental Fire, Ssilax shapes another set of Magic Missiles to burn the giantess. His fingertips where still touching his amulet as he does so. Pointing his clawed fingers at the shadowy creature Ssilax snarls out, "Burn forever you vile b!&%~!" and looses the magic upon the giant. Dog growls deep in his throat, guarding the young dragonkin.
Moving almost before the magic had left his claws, Ssilax is running towards Argon and Wrathe. Sliding to a crouching position, the young Theurge earnestly begins praying to Nethys, forming healing spell to save Argon.
Daxniss pulls out a flask of alchemical fire and flings it at the giantess hoping to do more damage, and at the very least start to cook the thing.
Groaning at her own folly for dropping her bow, she makes a note to return back to the spot as soon as she could. Daxniss hopes that the guard on the ground would be far enough away from the giant that she won't be hit by the fire's splash.
Argon dreams of meat in a kitchen, being tenderized by a big club with spikes all over it. The chef is darker than darkness itself. The meat is dragged across the counter, cut up, and pounded again. He is the meat. The flames are near. He will be grilled soon.
Argon rouses, but it takes him a moment to orient himself from expecting to have his entire horizon filled with a giantess, to having a panting Wrathe, and a communing Ssilax laying hands on him.
The giantess screams in agony as ropes of her blood washes the ground.
Though she drank liberally of the suffering of others, she has little stomach for her own suffering. She pleads in both the shadow and giant tongue as volley after volley of ranged attacks steal her life. If any know what she is saying then they make no mention.
She looks like a cushion for pins after a time.
Fear fills her eyes, and she makes a last moment lunge, but falls dead before she can reach anyone.
Justice has been meted out for all her victims.
(End of combat)
The guards tend to their fallen companion, but throw catious glances back at the group, as if unsure how to best proceed.
The dream ends as rain pours on Argons face, and a feeling of warm healing encompasses him. Pain, so much pain, though getting better. He feels rough hands on him. This flesh, he laments, is so much weaker than steel. His eyes and ears open, expecting the sights and sounds of battle in the rain, and he sees Ssilax next to him. But the sounds are not there. Just the rain.
Wrathe had slid along the bring of collapse (disabled) before he had undertaken the task of dragging Argon free from immediate danger, and as you glance over at him you realize that he is unconscious (-1/21 hit points, energy drain).
"S!!#, Ssilax mutters as he sees Wrathe slump to the ground, eyes rolling towards the back of his skull as succumbs to the forest floor. Looking around at the scene before him, the guards glancing back at the strange newcomers as they tended their own wounded.
Looking over Wrathe and Argon, he sees that they will survive, Argon however, was going to require a lot of work. Ssilax knew he was going to have a number of bones to set, the slayer's arm being chief among those.
"Someone cut that shadow b#!*$'s head off." the dragonkin speaks up to be heard by both groups. The tone of his voice is steel, as if used to giving orders and having them followed, something that was rather unlike the dragonkin. "If the giant can drain life, the possibility exists that it can regenerate. Also, my condolences to your fallen. Who among you is injured? I am a priest of Nethys, and a decently skilled healer." Ssilax says as he quickly slides off his backpack.
Internally, Ssilax was no where near as confident as he sounded. It was about all he could do to keep himself from panicking. The fight had depleted all of his arcane magics, and yanking Argon back from Death's Door had drained a most of his divine magics. Kneeling down next to the slayer, the dragonkin looks over the man's horrid wounds with a calm set of eyes.
Digging out the Healer's Kit that he always carries, Ssilax asks Argon how he is feeling. Glancing at Wrathe, the dragonkin mutters a faint curse.
Praying to Nethys, Ssilax shapes a light healing spell and reaches of and touches the shadowcaster's leg. Feeling the drain of channeling so much mana, Ssilax closes his eyes briefly to stop the wave nausea that crashes over him.
Knowing that he has enough strength to channel on more light healing spell, Ssilax hopes the guards weren't badly hurt. He was saving his spell for Argon. The slayer was going to need it after his arm was set.
Wrathe fights for life.
As ever, the wizard is too stubborn to even give ground to the spectre of Death (stable).
Should your identity be known to these guards, or if they are indeed more than just a patrol protecting Caern, is unknown.
Wise words, and more than a little homicidal vengeance, guides the guard to relieve the giantess of her head. Like macabre lumberjacks and lumberjills they hack away, gore-splattered and out of breath they collapse to look on dully as the head rolls away.
They accept your offer of assistance, as you work to drag the fallen under the makeshift canvas shelter, and out of the rain.
The older of the two guards offers his hand to each of you, "Had you not come along I fear that we would join them", he says with a furtive glance towards the dead. He quickly offers to break bread with you, provide their names, and then ask for yours. The other guard avoids contact, even eye contact with the dragonkin.
She speaks up, anger in his voice, and throws a finger at Ssilax, "My family is dead because of magics as foul as the ones you wield, daemon. You will be tried wizard, and if there is any justice on Sel Torin, the hangman will have his due."
While the older of the guards looks to protest, he makes no move to speak in your defence. Arcane magics carry a punishment of death almost everywhere on Sel Torin; and even in progressive Caern the punishment is severe.
Argon, feeling weak and in pain, suddenly gets some anger boiling up in his weakened frame. Still, he's strong enough to control it. These guards could be trouble, so whatever diplomacy can be manufactured out of this situation needs to be.
"Blaming this man for those magics is akin to blaming a random soldier for a sword that cut you. This man is an angel, as you've just witnessed."
He helps Ssilax treat any and all wounds, including those of Wrathe and any of the city guards who need it. He introduces himself, "I am Steel, this is Goblin, White, and the angel is Puff"
(OOC: introductions in order: Argon=Steel, Daxniss=Goblin because of her earlier escapades, Wrathe=White (not wight), Ssilax=Puff the magic dragon).
Daxniss let's out a snort and says " Of course if Puff and not come aid, then most likely all of us would be dead. You can blame the magic for the death of your folks, just like a sword can be used for evil.... or good. It matters not with magics but the person using the magic, you do little good to yourself as a being who can think, to shackle yourself to hate and fear. Goblin says softly with no malice or anger in her voice, giVing the guard a smile filled with understanding.
" However, this is a point that we could spend a lifetime debating. Fate saw a need for us to be here and lead our aid, let us not argue for the night. " Goblin finishes.
Ssilax had stopped bandaging for a few moments to just stare at the guard that had pointed an accusatory finger at him. Momentaryily stunned, the dragonkin turns back to his healers work. Since the rest of his disguise was very much moot at this point, the dragonkin slides his cowl down around his neck. The Mask of Nethys covering his scaled face is fully revealed. Coincidentally (or perhaps not), a massive bolt of lightning kisses the ground near the shadow giant, the deafen thunderblast shakes the ground and steals hearing for a moment.
Working, his heart pounds inside his chest, 'What now?,' the dragonkin thinks to himself. After a few moments, his hearing returns and he blinks spots out of his eyes. 'What do I do? I can't face a trail, they wouldn't be able to determine the difference between a Theurge and a mage. And if they use the church to determine a trail, I'd bet the arch-magus's people would be presiding over it. Baba Yaga said they where infesting her people like ticks.'
While his mind races to figure out a solution, the dragonkin works with Argon to reset his bones and then check on the others. Ssilax's body moves on it's on accord, mostly thinks to the training in the healing arts he had received. Ssilax's blood boils, tired of being blamed for every idiot whom abuses their magical gifts.
"Human knights and mages murdered my village, all of my family and people for no reason other then we were not humans. And yet, here I am, helping a bunch of humans with the very same magic. Magic is a force of nature, able to be influenced by some. Should we also kill all the clerics who heal the sick and injured? Or murder all of the druids who seek to protect the Circle of Life? Human rulers also use magic to extend their own lives, like powerful undead creatures. Do I see any of you trying to stop that? No, I see you unthinkingly following orders of an undead thing only interested in making sure it's rule is eternal. Do you really think any of your precious rulers cares about keeping the Umbral darkness from spreading? No, they care only about keeping their precious little city state in one piece so they can keep playing their game with the living. The very same rulers in Cearn that are inviting Devils and Demons into the city." Ssilax says, glaring at the guardswoman that had blamed him with narrowed eyes. "Until you can say something intelligent, not just parroting your fear and hatred, never speak to me again you bald monkey." Turing his back on the others, Ssilax walks out of the rough lean to.
Sitting down against the trunk of a nearby tree, Ssilax pets Dogs as he trots over and plops down next to the dragonkin. The guardswoman wasn't the only one trembling with rage at the moment. His own hatred and rage screamed within him, demanding these fool human pay for his slain village.
"That serves no purpose, nor does it avenge the spirits of the slain," Ssilax mutters to himself angrily. "But they deserve it, and out here, no one would know what happened to them, just another lost patrol." his mind counters, almost tasting the smell of burnt flesh in the air. The sudden thought of all of the guards dancing while white hot flames tore apart there meager, fleshy sacks stops Ssilax cold. The scene playing out in his mind is one that seems all to real, with him laughing over the burnt corpses. Then he sees spouses and children in his mind, all waiting for a horribly slain loved one to come walking through the front door. He wasn't a cold blooded killer, and Ssilax knew it. If he murdered the guards, the dragonkin knew that would spell doom for him. It would be truly jumping of the mental cliff that overlooks his own Madness.
Heartbeat slowing to a more normal pace, Ssilax realizes just how close he was to full giving into his own hatred.
"Nethys, I know you do not bother with your worshippers as we are unworthy of your attentions, but I could really use some help right now. Please, you took my family and people from me, you have set me upon some journey that I am unsure of how to walk, you have Marked my very being down to my soul. I don't know what to do anymore, I just...., am I supposed to help or destroy? Pleas Nethys, I just need a sign to indicate the right direction I am supposed to be going in, Ssilax quietly prays to the Mad God of Magic as he stares off into a distant display of Primal Magic.
All wounded are stabilized; their wounds treated, and Argon's arm has been expertly splinted.
Sorcerers, wizards, and other wielders of arcane magic are reviled and persecuted across all lands; only the most powerful spell casters can wield arcane might without fear of reprisal. Arcane or "black" magics are reputed to have defiled Sel Torin and led to the despoliation of the Umbral Lands in times long past. Many other beliefs have come to the fore as well, such as black magics: create maladies, turn plants to ash, makes people unable to bear children, are a bad omen leading to an early demise, and are so cursed that spilling a mage's blood leads to death, which is why magi are commonly burned at the stake. There is talk of magi that have been enlisted by tyrant-kings to hunt other magi, and also whispers that there's are safe havens for wizards in the shadows, and ruins of Saevia. Paradoxically magical items are well-received in every land, no matter who had crafted the item.
In the absence of arcana magic, those magics of divine or natural origin have flourished. The temples of the greater gods are as powerful as small kingdoms and hold immense sway within their regions. A dozen major temples in great cities across each land house hundreds of clerics and soldiers dedicated to their respective deity. Hundreds of small temples and shrines in the towns and villages of the lands serve thousands upon thousands of worshippers. A militant faith holds lands and properties of staggering expanse. Most of a temple's clergy are not clerics. They're experts, aristocrats, even commoners who serve as advisors and counsellors to the faithful and officiate at routine observances. A cleric usually leads any particular temple, shrine, or order, judiciously using their spells to aid the sick or injured followers, and assist the local authorities in maintaining law and order in the community as it suits the deity in question. Knights, typically paladins, walk among the people as unto gods.
Your words are considered for a time, especially Daxniss' impassioned plea, but finally each guard stands, drawing steel a heartbeat apart, as they are past the point of words. All guards take oaths to protect the citizenry from threats, and oaths are taken very seriously in Sel Torin, and those that break them face dire consequences. A particularly potent oath is the one where a host must afford their guest all the protection they can offer.
It is the older that speaks now, "You will have your hands bound, accompany us back to Caern proper, and answer for your crimes." He looks nervously at his companion for a moment, as if weighing his next words before continuing, "I will ask for leniency for what you have done here, and they aid you have provided."
It is an offer far more merciful than any you would have expected, especially from guards that walk a patrols in these dark lands.
The female guard does not look happy with this unexpected show of solidarity, but she keeps her mouth shut.
You have seen them fight, and are confident that you would win should it come to blows, but it is very possible that some of the group might die in the exchange.
Perhaps Nethys answers, or perhaps it is just the unchecked passions of the Umbral Lands that causes everything to change in an instant.
Strange telekinetic forces rip through the area throwing your all to the ground, or at least attempting to.
(please check to see if your CMD will permit you to remain standing versus a. DC 27 trip in your next post)
Those that find themselves slammed to terra firma recognizes that their equipment reorganized and tangled by the mischievous telekinesis.
(Until a creature takes a minute to reorganize its belongings, retrieving a stowed item is a full-round action)
The heavily wounded wizard slams into the wet ground, and remains there for a moment with the air blown forth from his lungs; eyes scouring the darkened cloud roiling skies in silent judgement of whichever god was behind such shenanigans.
It is lucky that the wizard knows so many languages, since Wrathe uses every one of them for a liberal application of profanity when he finds his gear tangled into a ball. With a grumble he starts the process of untangling his equipment.
Argon observes the exchange with some concern. He knew the group contained criminals, according to the laws of many cities, but he could not think of Wrathe or Ssilax as criminals. He watches the guards carefully to see their reactions (Studied
His thoughts are jarred by a force of primal magic that throws him to the ground. He rolls around in pain for a bit, but, worried there may be another fight, he tries to compose himself. He looks at his backpack, and his weapons, and finds them all tangled up. Using his good hand, he frees his falcata, still bloody with the ichor of the giantess. He leaves the backpack tangled on the ground.
Standing, he says, "I suggest we debate the issue further. No good can come of making hasty decisions. And our healer needs his hands to do his fine work - I feel like I could fight another dark giant - perhaps her husband? Good work, Puff!" He is weak, but tries not to show it, and regards his falcata meaningfully. Again, he watches the leader's body language carefully to see his reactions.
Knocked to the flat of his back, Ssilax blinks looking up in the sky. Stunned, his mind swirls as his plea for a sign had been answered. Most would have seen it as nothing more than an errant blast, but the dragonkin knew it to be different.
At that range, the blast would have killed all of them, or rent their minds asunder. Instead, it forcefully knocked them to the soaked forest floor, leaving them unharmed. A glance at his equipment reorganized and bundled up together made him think of his friends and allies. Nethys would recognize them more as Ssilax's duty to keep together and unharmed. Not scattered about and destroyed.
Still lying flat on his back his with his tail informing him that lying upon it was painful, the dragonkin's legs slayed out left him looking rather undignified at the moment. Ignoring all of this, Ssilax stares up into the Primal Magics shifting about in the distant night sky. Faintly, he is aware of the guards drawing there blades and standing about near by. A bit of his attention is drawn there way. The words they speak take a few moments to sink in after hearing them.
The young dragonkin begins to laugh.
After perhaps a minute straight of deep belly laughs, as if he had heard the best joke on the plane, the dragonkin suddenly stops. Sitting up, Ssilax draws his legs, and rests his hands on his knees. Looking over at Dog, the dragonkin grins faintly.
"Nope. Just sit there and relax," Ssilax calmly instructs his familiar. Looking at the guards, there is a odd look in the dragonkin's sapphire orbs. It seems to almost be pity, mixed in with contempt.
"Well? Get on with it, you've got a job to do. Dangerous, evil magic nonhuman prisoner to be brought in and judged and all that," Ssilax says, his tone of voice cold and flat. "So who does the judging? Some drooling fool with no understanding of the difference between arcane and divine magics if it where to bite them on the ass? Or someone from the Church of Nethys? Since it's my life on the line I think I have a right to know."
Ssilax looks over at the odd members of his family and shrugs his shoulders.
"What? We need to get into Cearn, and this is the safest way. I think I'd rather have an armed escort while out in the wild lands that's all," the dragonkin says, trying to sound nonchalant about his capture.
Daxniss doesn't even bother trying to stay on her feet from the blast of magic, strange enough things have been going on today. Regret and sadness fill her as she starts to put things back together from the blast, muttering curses she finally get everything sorted.
" Oh aye, I'm thrilled at going in under an armed escort, just feels me with warm feelings about what is going to be waiting for us in Cearn. " The rogue says with just a hint of sarcasm. Plans to go in under disguise were abandoned as now there would be little hope in that matter, besides, there was no little that Daxniss could do, worse case she would figure a way to bust Ssilax out of his cell if need be. Daxniss fills a rage brewing in the center of her being and the thought of having to silt throats if need be doesn't bother her, even if it would have to be the 'judge' while he was sleeping.
Pushing off the thoughts of doing things by force, she plots that if she could learn how the 'judge' did his signature, she would forge it. Daxniss also feels Ssilax's pain as there would be little chance to run into the night thanks to Argon's and Wrathe's wounds, and let's out a sigh of disappointment.
Fat rain drops slide off helmets with all the effect seemingly of the group's words. Veterans they are, and their actions show as much in how they state what is going to happen without any interest in normally discussing things further, or taking the bait with potentially antagonistic exchanges. They walk with the pragmatic acceptance of patrols that occupy dangerous lands, with death as a constant companion. Should a giant explode out of the shadows it is likely that they will all die, but it is obvious they see the group as a larger threat at this time.
Argon is confident that both guards are working within the bounds of their mandate, though he imagines that they have some discretion in their actions. The female's personal experiences appear to have overshadowed any thoughts of anything but meting out justice, and the other guard, though looking uncomfortable, is backing her every play as a unified front, likely showing solidarity as far as being ready to cut you all down if needed.
Time is spent with one guard standing watch as the other recovers from the magical attack. The female guard moves forward, under the watchful eye of the older man, with specially-crafted shackles for the dragonkin's hands. There is a sneer that draws her lips up in a cruel expression begging Ssilax to move a fraction of an inch to permit her to justify running her sword through his reptilian heart. Bared steel reflects the darkened scene as it occupies her offhand as she expertly locks the shackles, designed in such a manner to permit no movement of the fingers, with little more pressure than is required to subdue the theurge.
"Keep your wicked mouth shut sorcerer, lest I be forced to foul my dagger as I remove your tongue."
The older guard agrees that the group is welcome to accompany them back to Caern and speak on Ssilax's behalf, yet another statement that the other guard is displeased by, and offers 5 gold each if they help to drag back the fallen. Caern is not far, perhaps found before night finds its midpoint, and you would only need to go as far as the first patrol the group comes across.
Wrathe tries to make himself as small as possible, understanding that revealing himself as a wizard would only antagonize an already volatile situation.
He places himself as far away as he can, ready to add spells to the group's arsenal should the decision be made to cut down the guards.
The fact that he can barely stand does not dissuade him of the decision to throw himself into the fray if need be.
Daxniss shakes her head her belief in Tulis reminds her that some would willing offer themselves to be shackled out of fear. The female guard is ruled by her fear and hate, the downtrodden and appressed would cast off their chains.
Fear was incidus to say the least and Daxniss or "Goblin" would watch her closely, as if she tried to kill Ssilax, the retribution would arrive, even if it would have to wait until she sleeps, to never waken from that slumber.
Daxniss helps carry the remains, as there would be little that she could do at the moment.
Wincing slightly as the mage shackles are put on, Ssilax wisely stays silent. He wasn't about to even twitch, there was no way the dragonkin would give the guardswoman the excuse she was looking for.
Looking at the shackles encircling his clawed hands, one of his greatest fears manifested, Ssilax feels.., oddly calm. The dragonkin is concerned, any sentient caster would be, but not afraid. For perhaps the first time in his young life, Ssilax feels that he has chosen the correct path. Before he had been stumbling around in the emptiness for his answers, not anymore.
Ever disobedient, the dragonkin's shadow slithers it way up the nearby tree trunk. It stares down at Ssilax pondering things only a warped shadow can as it takes in the scene below.
Dog sniffs at the shackles, curiously avoiding touching the metal, and sneezes on them. Looking at Ssilax, he whines and licks the white scaled side of the dragonkin's snout.
With a few grunts, Ssilax clambers to his feet, helping to prove the point that dragons are not the most graceful of creatures. Looking at Argon, Ssilax grins faintly.
"Since everybody is already encumbered, would you mind using a bit of spare rope and tying my ball of gear backpack straps. Something likes a satchel, or just tie it to me actually. Rope is not going to damage my scales," Ssilax quietly asks the slayer.
Looking at this mess of equipment, the dragonkin smiles ruefully. ""
"You might want to close up my Healer's kit and put it back in my pack. And do not over exert yourself. Your ribs and arm are barely holding themselves together. Not to mention the life energy the giantess stole from anyone she hit." The dragonkin's sapphire orbs dance around those that had been struck by the giant.
The gears in his mind whirling as Ssilax considers the next few hours. He waits patiently to be told when to move out.
With the finality of a lightning strike the theurge feels his connection to both arcane and divine magics instantly severed as each shackle buries his scaled hands 'neath the metal. Each shackle has tiny runes etched into the metal, which softly glow in Wrathe's magical vision as stemming from a source of abjuration. It is doubtful that it is anything as strong as an anti-magic field, but it might be something similar and much more localized.
The dragonkin is relieved of any of his items beyond his scholar's outfit, which is added to the burden of the rest of the group to carry. This leaves his magical hat free to aid Argon's entrance into the bosom of Caern.
Argon, Daxniss, and Wrathe are invited to either lead the group back toward the city, or to leave the area, as the guard wishes to keep their eyes upon them if they are to remain.
The guards start the long march back to Ssilax's awaiting trial.
Argon at first can't believe what Ssilax says, that he's giving himself up without a fight. But then he realizes that Ssilax is spent, spellwise, just as he himself is badly injured and barely able to function. Wrathe too. Only Daxniss is still fully healthy.
He starts organizing Ssilax's gear, sorting out the things in the pack, and saying, "I don't know what you're talking about - I feel just fine. I will carry your stuff." He turns to the leader of the guards and says, "Perhaps we should make a simple stretcher to put the fallen on."
Then organizes his own things and gets his backpack ready. He helps to cut down a few smaller trees for a stretcher, all the while wondering how they would free Ssilax and save him from the unthinkable.
It's a lot of work to stay up and move around in his current state. He feels weak, not just in pain. Something about that horrible sucking feeling he got when he was hit with the big spiked club of the giantess.
Lightning provides illumination of the scene below, momentarily glimpsing at the group's activities, before turning its attention elsewhere. Rain scours you body, which is playfully chilled by the gusting storm.
With the fractured bones splinted arm in place, Argon finds reprieve in numbness. Luckily his mithral breastplate absorbed much of the blow, though it leaves a number of impressively large staccato holes in its metal that will need to be hammered out. Both the slayer and wizard walk as if through cold honey as much of their life force has been drained away, leaving only leaden thews behind.
Daxniss and Argon drag the fallen two on the makeshift stretcher, aided by the slipperiness of the rain-slick ground. Wrathe offers his shoulder for the barely conscious guard; it is difficult to work out who is helping whom to stumble along.
Plumes of oily smoke spoke of the destruction long before the tale was revealed to your eyes.
You see the effect of Tyrant King Eoes IX of the blighted lands of Ryuen's push for power immediately. As a coastal city Caern has borne the brunt of the Tyrant King's expansionistic policies time and again. Sections of damaged wall are illuminated by magical torches as tradesmen work to repair damage in several areas at once. Blood stains the ground, both from barbarian corpses, but also fallen Caern guards, many of whom have been eviscerated. Fires rage within the city, as the attack pushed past the outer defences and flooded the city with death.
Perhaps it is these outside forces that have hardened the city, or perhaps it is attributed to something else, but you see the hanging remains of public executions swinging in the breeze. None of the poor misbegotten souls, apparently left until the birds pick their bones clean, is known to you.
Who knows what factors are to be attributed to your ability to so easily cross into the city just after the midpoint of night, but the guard does not even give you a second look as you cross through the gate, each receiving 5 gold coins, and Ssilax is dragged off to the cells.
Caern is the only city where a glimmer of freedom exists, as it is the only major city on Sel Torin that is not ruled by a tyrant, and is ruled by one who is secretly thought to be a wizard, named Eoqium the VII, which possibly stems from her leniency on a literate populace and the rumours of magi having a foothold in their lands. Having the Umbral Lands so close, conspiring to extinguish its flame, has perhaps forced their attention to more pressing needs than the maintenance of an ignorant population.
It is reputed that the ground under the city-state is honeycombed with caves hollowed out by water flowing in from the sea, creating an "Undercity." The thieves guild occupies the Undercity and protects its secrets with poisoned blades.
The streets are festooned with the impoverished moving about in the garbage and effluence of their betters. Cruising among these poor souls are predators: cutpurses, assassins, and the supernatural denizens of the shadows. Slavery is rampant, as is evinced by the prostitutes that ply their trade in the open. Guards walk by with cold eyes, stepping over those who die in the night, ready and willing to mete out punishment to those that threaten the royalty, church, or free exchange of goods.
Refugees pack the gutters, the streets, wherever they can. Weary refugees sob for loved ones left behind, still hoping against hope that they weren’t really dead. Others stared blankly with dull eyes, not really aware of the Hell their lives had become. Constricted stomachs wouldn’t accept much of the food provided them, and some couldn’t keep down what they had eaten.
Carts rumble over the cobblestones every morning, removing the bodies of those who died during the night.
There are men out here who will murder you for your boots.
Once more the group finds themselves rent asunder by fickle fate as the theurge is dragged away for judgement that will be passed with morning's light. Should you wish to speak on his behalf, you know when and where to be.
It is a torn Wrathe that watches Ssilax disappear into the crowds. His knuckles whiten as he feels impotent to intercede.
They were the hunted, and he knew as well as any that their magical disguises would not withstand close scrutiny of so many powerful members of the court.
They had succeeded in gaining entrance into Caern undetected, but he could not abide that it appeared to be at the expense of one of their number.
Ssilax is guided through the streets, aided by his sodden cowl his features obscured to any but the most inquisitive of bystander.
Only his most rudimentary supplies have been handed off to the guard, as the wizard has removed anything that might hint as to his arcane powers, or anything of value.
Soon he finds himself dragged into the cells, still wearing his shackles, for he is not to be offered food, drink, blanket, comfort, or dignity. His name is taken, or whatever name he provides, and quickly added to the docket. Shivering, he can only find a section of floor not already claimed by another, and wait for morning.
He is all but ignored by the others, for they have eyed his shackles, and from the whispers they know what is, and they fear it.
Suddenly it is abnormally-cold as prickles of discomfort move across his rain-damp body. A feeling of dread and discomfort finds refuge in his bowels.
Sleep sneaks up on him, transporting him to a land of coalescing shapes and impossible geometries, songs of dead civilizations and abstract realities. It is a journey as close to the razor's edge of madness as a mortal can take.
Ssilax wakes after scant hours feeling as though a limb has been severed. As if there is a vast chasm has opened within himself, but it is as if his other limbs have grown to fill the void.
Death awaits, likely by burning at the stake, if he cannot talk himself out of the charges laid against him.
Daxniss was tired from helping hull the corpses around, she focused her mind on the on possible plans dealing with getting Ssilax out of his current lock up. There was little at the moment that she could do for him without a risk that would possible kill the rest of the group.
Daxniss shakes her head, unable to currently think of options that the group could use at the moment to start the process of freeing Ssilax. It was given that she would be watched closely by the guards that, and the fact she had no clue on where they might be holding Ssilax as well.
Muttering an oath about the female guards parentage, she starts looking for any signs of a guild of rogues, after all in a large enough city there could be signs. However there was little without moving around without the group, since they had no real place to meet up or rest, that was going to be another thing that she was going to sort out for the rest of the grouo.
Being left alone within the prison cell was a small blessing, as Ssilax was doing his best to keep any emotions from his scaled face. Not that it was likely anyone who wasn't used to him draconic features would find them a little difficult to read. Still, that knowledge did little to relax the dragonkin.
Once again, Ssilax was once more alone in the human dominated, magic hating Cearn. No, not alone. I'll never be alone again, Ssilax thinks to himself. Still cut off from his magics by the shakles, the dragonkin sits down. Since the walls where all pretty much claimed, Ssilax sits down in roughly the center of the cell.
Closing his sapphire orbs, the dragonkin tries to relax a little. He was still in a tremendous amount of danger, and the dragonkin was well aware of that fact. Creeping into his thoughts, Ssilax felt a small smile spread across his scaled face. The God of Magic had heard his plea, and answered. It had removed the crippling thought that Ssilax's existence was nothing more then twisted joke made manifest by the Mad God.
Meaning only to meditate, Ssilax would have been surprised that he had fallen asleep. Thoughts, perhaps his dreams, flew around and through the planes of existence. There was a sense of order in the chaos, something more of a feeling then a certainty. It was as looking at the slice of reality, but multiple versions of it all at the same time and in the same layer. Civilizations long past and yet to existed rise and fall. And so much more that he would never be able to identify in a several lifetimes. Ssilax felt like his very mind was going to explode, into a strange pyrotechnic display.
Breathlessly, Ssilax awakes in the cell, looking around the prison as if seeing it for the first time. Chuckling to himself, the dragonkin felt as if he had drank an entire pot of his exotic coffee. The dragonkin faintly feels as though part of him was missing. Nothing one would call painful, just an odd sense of emptiness. The odd feeling was rapidly filled in with a sense of... Comfort? Peace? Contentment? The dragonkin cocks his head as he analyzes his thoughts and feelings.
Part of his mind informs him that he had better prepare for his trial. Having been almost burnt to death once, Ssilax had no desire to have the flames finish the job they started all those years ago. A shudder runs down his spine, his scales clicking slightly at the muscle tremor. Shaking his head slightly, Ssilax sighs out loud.
"I miss Dog. And the others," the dragonkin says to himself.
Lying on the floor near the others, Dog let's out a loud sigh. The familiar had been moping since Ssilax had been taken out of his sight. He had howled mournfully when the guards had marched the dragonkin off and then falllen silent.
Argon sees Ssilax go, and a tear almost finds a place in his eye, as he wonders if he will ever see him again, alive.
He looks at the others, and at Dog, who is smart enough to know his master is in trouble. He pets Dog lovingly.
"I'm at a loss for what to do here. Visiting anyone we know is risky, but I think we'll have to. Who is closest to us here? My holy mentor and Priest, Kai'lit, may help. The others, you know who I mean... I'm not sure. Perhaps Dax's contacts are least likely to raise suspicion? Or my friend Grinn, who's not affiliated with ... anything really. Does anyone know a solicitor? What do you think? We need to think of how to save Ssilax, and I can't think in this rain."
* Disgusting, to say the least, * Daxniss thinks to herself, idly rubbing Dog's head, a bit taken aback that Dog would let her pet him. Keeping an eye over the rest of them was difficult as there was a vast amount of threats waiting out there looking at the group, she hadn't had the chance to start looking around the city however, she would make sure that the others would be with her that much was certain.
Daxniss had a feeling that every part of this city was going to be bad sections to worse sections, in fact a good portion of the time Daxniss would call this a cesspool and would more than likely be insulting other cesspools. Pushing off the morose thoughts that were starting to plague the rogue, she focuses on what she can fix.
Time presses as both the slayer and wizard need to be cured of their giantess-inflicted damage before it becomes permanent.
Each person looks at this world with new eyes after what feels like a lifetime out of the city. You have returned home, and though it has changed so much since you were last here, 'hardened' is the word that comes to mind, it will ever be the place where you were taken into a family.
A soaked Dog wags his tail, despite the raging storm, following the others after being rebuffed from following Ssilax into the cells.
Argon glances about, attempting to determine his next move as he steps into the shadow's embrace to make up his mind. The lateness of the hour hides his face, making him confident that he can walk about the city unnoticed, though his steps should be quick, lest he be taken for prey.
Wrathe and possibly Argon:
The denizens of the whorehouse slept on fouled sheets amid the brothel smells of stale alcohol, stale sweat, old sex, wood smoke, and cheap perfume.
She was willowy, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed, a vision of the heavenly beings above, and she greeted her friend with a hug.
Tapping his chin with his fingers Wrathe agrees to meet everyone at the time and place the more reasonable male guard had relayed.
Argon, if you would care to join me, I am sure that you will fit in perfectly in a whorehouse."
Taking his leave he gathers up Dog and moves to seek out Phia.
Thinking of the whore immediately brought to mind the ministrations of a matronly-looking woman, with cold eyes and iron grey woven smoothly through her brown hair. Desia Hawthorn offered him kindness, filling his empty stomach, but it was little more than a ruse, the children of the streets called her "The Huntress" for she was considered to be the ravenous of sex traders, a disreputable smut peddler, continually acquiring young children for nefarious purposes. His escape had been by the narrowest of margins.
Daxniss:
Daxniss glances about and sees signs of the thieves everywhere, which is like a symphony only for her ears. She sees an ambush from 50 paces away. The sun is still hours from rising, and the only people on the twisting streets were merchants who’d fallen asleep where they shouldn’t have, and were hurrying home to their wives. The ambushers are hiding around a narrow choke point in the alley where they could spring up to clog both ends of the street, and also attack from the low rooftops. It is a fairly advanced stratagem for guild rats, but one that's easily avoided for rogues on a mission.
Almost invisible marks guide her back to The Puddles, and it has fallen even further into disrepair then when the group was last there. Those without money buried their dead in the ground, and the ground had swollen above those graves as the coffins fought to float to the surface. Several had broken open, their contents devoured by feral dogs.
A dislodged sewer grate guilds her to old brick stairs ending at a rough stone slope into the earth. Ice cold water, of dubious cleanliness, slides down the walls and in rivulets down the sides of the tunnel. The floor was tilted to one side, making each step more than a little treacherous. The next section of tunnel was full of freezing, dirty, knee-deep water. The silent, black water is surrounded by walls and low ceilings that look to been cut by rough tools decades prior.
What follows is an enormous labyrinth of passages, caves, half-collapsed old buildings, and crumbling networks of tunnels seeming ready to come thundering down at any moment. More than once the Wyrmtouched rogue, soaked and shivering, has to wonder if she has not lost her mind.
Finally a portal slides open with the grinding of stone upon stone.
Dwelling in comparative luxury to the trash-filled streets, and rat infested tenements, the thieves guild had all the amenities that their vocation could provide. You eventually find yourself in a large room that looks to have once been a sewage junction. Perhaps it would be a place that others could locate, but you have no doubt that the search would bring a rapid end to their existence.
Torches, both mundane and magically-crafted, lean against the walls for illumination. Several mis-matched couches and chairs, their fabrics discoloured by the humidity of the chamber, form a crescent, leaving her to wonder how they were brought down through the maze of tunnels that Daxniss wended through. Strung on the wall were hammocks with dozing thieves’ members, the lines suspending them serving as clothes lines for drying laundry. In the clefs and small ledges were blankets and sleeping bags.
It's black, close, cold, and intensely creepy. It was dark, human beings rarely went there, and as a result the Undercity had become a home, shelter, and hiding place to all kinds of nasty things. Some of those things, in turn, had expanded their tunnels and caves, establishing jealously protected territories that never saw the face of the Sols, and never heard the whisper of the wind.
There is a musty, wet, mineral smell to the place.
Skulking forth from a gaping, ragged hole in the wall, like a fragment of night made human form, is a dwarf who is able to walk without ducking his head under the low ceilings, "What're ye fer, Daxniss? Long time since you've haunted this city." Knowledge is power, and the dwarf dwarf appears to revel in showing a bit of his hand.
Ssilax:
It is a dank 40' by 10' cell, its damp stone floor fouled by who knows what. Stray bits of straw desperately cling to cracks, though there's not enough in the entire area to bed down a obese rat.
Too soon he is dragged into a surprisingly small chamber, and crammed into a corner to await his allotted time to speak. No elaborate garnishment adorns this place, nor are their windows to permit anyone to bear witness to the going-ons of this room. It is a functional space and everything about the impersonal procedure screams that lives matter not. Here is a place where death is handed out with disgusting ease.
With a decree it is made clear that no witnesses, save the guards that arrested the occupants of the chamber, will be permitted to enter or speak.
Each of those misbegotten and shackled souls that are taken before the dead-eyed magistrate are impassionately sentenced to burn so rapidly that it drops the din of the room to one of solemn silence filled only with rapidly beating hearts, and ragged breaths. A ragged gnome sorcerer slave, heavily beaten, and dead-eyed confirms in turn each of the accused to be wielders of arcane magics after casting the very magics these people revile.
Despite how close he is to death, Ssilax feels a strange oneness with a much stronger connection and radiating from his very pores (aura: has a particularly powerful aura corresponding to his deity), which comforts him. He will never again walk alone, even if he walks to a burning stake.
Dragged forth he stands near to the three guards he accompanied back into Caern, one of which can barely stand. To their credit they offer an honest accounting of the events of just a few hours prior; though the female verily spouts poison into the dragonkin's eyes as she recounts her observations.
An argument takes place as their accounting of his magical abilities does not match anything the slave gnome has divined, which draws forth a secretive smile from the gnome.
Ssilax recognizes one of those on trial, who has been sentenced to death. It is a pale elf named after a tree, or leaf, or something. The thing the dragonkin knows is that this elf hates him for being an exceptional theurge. The elf has seen the dragonkin as well, as evinced by how wide his almond eyes get. He looks about to speak; no doubt looking to sacrifice Ssilax for more time upon Sel Torin since he is well aware that the dragonkin can cast arcane magics.
"If I am permitted to, I would like to fully prove my innocence. Several of the guards that brought me in where wounded by the draining touch of a shadow giant, in addition to their physical wounds. I can heal both the damage that was caused. Their commander can keep a knife to my throat while I cast the healing magics." Ssilax says, speaking calmly. The dragonkin makes eye contact with the elf, then let's his gaze slid along the others. "It will take two, perhaps three prayers to Nethys for me to complete. Being marked by the Masked One, I do not require a holy symbol. I am one."
"Secondly, I purpose a solution to the burning of all those with arcane magics. Geas them," Ssilax mentions the powerful magical binding. It was the only thing he could think of to save everyone in the room with him. "Have the Geas take place upon the altar of Nethys, an oath freely given upon it cannot be broken except by the magics of a god. Let them be geased so that they can only weld their power to keep Cearn safe, as we are practically sitting in the Umbral lands. Between the attacks from creatures in Umbral lands and Caern apparently being laid siege to, burning a resource that is more than willing to help you is...unwise."
Argon tags along with Wrathe, wondering what a whorehouse will be like.
"I hope this is not the most dangerous of our adventures to date. In my current state, I would not survive it."
Despite his curiosity, Argon's pious nature invades his thoughts and emotions. He had been thinking of Ptah of late, and wondering if a simpler life in his service, and in the service of the idea of crafting, would not be a better life.
During their walk in, he had prayed silently, and he believes he was answered. Argon felt different after that. More holy, somehow, more divine. It was a new feeling for him, to feel these energies flow through him, and he was not, is still not sure it is not just some artifact of the gradual recovery of the energies taken from him by the giantess. Perhaps being so close to death brought him closer to his Maker. Or perhaps it made his life fuller somehow, more focused. It's as if the strength taken from his body is now inhabiting his spirit, albeit a little jumbled up. Like the shelves were restocked, fuller than before, but they fell over, and need picking up and reorganizing.
He is worried for Ssilax. He pets Dog's head, and rubs behind his ear.
In his perfectionist way, Argon thinks, no, the shelves were knocked down first when the giantess hit me, and then, in the mess on the floor, I discovered I had some quality tool which I did not know existed, previously. A number of high quality tools...
Daxniss blinks for a second trying to recall the Dwarf's name, as it had been over a year sense she last saw him. " Well now, Duran last of clan Bludraven, If I am not mistaken, I have a marker or two that should still be good until I perish, unless things have taken a worse turn in my absence that is. I take it Lia is still in charge inasmuch as anyone can be down here. " Daxniss says in warm enough tones.
Duran might be trust worthy enough as he did have his stubby fingers into a lot of the information and minor theft of things however, one always took care in dealing with anyone in the Undercity. Unless things had gotten even worse then the understanding might no longer be in place.
A slightly sleep-addled Phia, festooned in a robe of soft purple velvet, greets each of the duo with a hug, and even takes a moment to ruffle Dog's fur. Ever the tease, the motion is a pleasant one, and made all the more alluring as the soft fabric slides back to provide more than a glimpse at the amble cleavage beneath..
Tea is poured for the exhausted and heavily-injured slayer and wizard, while water is provided for the canine. It is such a civilized exchange, as you sit in a half circle gazing into the depths of the main room's fire, that one could lose themselves in the warmth and unexpected serenity of the moment.
Drained of life, and both heavily wounded, bordering on barely alive, the two party members are barely able to remain awake.
Wrathe and Phia hold hands at times, sharing the warmth of companionship wrought by years of growing up together.
Understanding the dangers that lurk, Phia asks in a soft voice, with her sensuous cerulean eyes fixed upon Argon,"How may I be of assistance?"
Duran offers a sly smile and mutters, "Well met," as he guides Daxniss to a dank corner where they can conduct business without as many prying ears and eyes.
The dwarf's position was one of connection, as he almost never got his hands dirty, but he was always in the midst of negotiations. Some argued in hushed tones that he was the true power behind the guild.
Time presses, so the offer is that Duran will arrange to ensure that the magistrate attending the trials of the morning will be one that is a tad more pliable than normal. He does not offer explanations as to why that will be the case, but assures the Wyrmtouched that it will be so.
The cost will be a favour to be paid at a later date, and that all of her markers will be cashed in for this request.
All Daxniss need do is nod her head and it will be so.
Shame burbles up in the eyes of other two guards as the older male guard implores leniency for Ssilax (+2 circumstance bonus to diplomacy checks). It is an act that is so unprecedented that everyone in the room stops for a time and just stares, as they seek a moment to comprehend what just happened.
Ssilax is permitted the opportunity to cast his divine magics, something no one else in the room was afforded.
The gnome corroborates that his magics are not stemming from an arcane source.
The elf looks quizzically at the dragonkin, his face turning as unreadable as frozen marble a moment later.
The magistrate stares at Ssilax for a time (Influence Attitude: diplomacy check moves attitude from hostile to unfriendly, require at least indifferent to make requests), "Insufficient evidence appears to be stacked against you wyrm." Stroking his bearded chin for a time he adds, "They die. For speaking in the defence of foul magics I sentence you to 20 lashes while I consider what to do with you."
Robes are torn, and the punishment flays ragged gashes in the cleric's back.
Argon struggles to stay awake and has things to say, but this is Wrathe's friend and Wrathe's show, so he waits for the wizard to answer.
He looks around the room, trying not to rest his eyes too long on the lady of the evening (or in this case, early morning).
Daxniss nods at Duran's words and understands that she had called in her markers from a previous job where he didn't have the coin to pay her the whole amount. Daxniss also knew that Duran expected something equal to the risk that he had to place still, " Aye fair enough, I'm not sleeping with anybody this time though. " She gives a slight shudder at the memory of the merchant's son, although she got him back, leaving him to be rolled of all his spare coin and clothes. The information gleaned from him had been useful.
" Anything of note happened that I should be aware of, I've had enough surprises for a few days. " She finishes with a grin, knowing that she was going to have to get a number of ales for him as she slides over the 5 gold coins the guard had given her.
Ssilax bares his lashes, grunting each time the whip bit into his scales and flesh, but never crying out. While the pain was nothing compared to what he had endured before, it was nowhere near pleasant. The dragonkin tries to figure what he could to save the others. The thought he wouldn't be able to help the arcane casters in the room, was far worse then being lashed.
Flayed and bleeding, the dragonkin cleric proudly stands back to his full height. Ignoring the burning pain as best as he can, the Ssilax's searches within himself for some way to change the fate of the others.
Argon and Wrathe
Prostitutes are experts of keeping secrets, and being ignored. Like the thieves guild they are used to working 'neath societal contempt and wrapping themselves up in anonymity. It is a wonderful recipe for turning their ears toward the comings and goings of things that were not meant for their consumption.
Phia relays many stories, possible true and possibly just rumours about : poisonings being almost a daily occurrence, a belief that magi are being slaughtered as they are the most likely to see through the lies being perpetrated; such as the truth that the Tyrant King of Caern is truly magi, people escaping the jails or possibly being set free, guards being slaughtered en masse, as well as King Eoqium the VII's edicts becoming increasingly horrific as they include pubic executions for seemingly minor offences.
Exhaustion creeps up upon the two, guarded by their canine companion, as Phia uses the opportunity to have the brothel's mender to see to their injuries, and cover them with blankets.
The tumult of morning's light, as cleaning and preparation for the day's bawdy events becomes the order of the day, shakes Dog from the grips of slumber. Both Wrathe and Argon wake to doggy slobber, and quickly rush to give their accounting of their friend's innocence and the lies that will entail about him not being a user of profane arcane magics.
The impassive guard at the jails denies them entrance. No one is permitted entry this day.
Daxniss
The hours drift by as Duran excuses himself to make arrangements to deal with the magistrate. He returns and pours wine for them to enjoy while they speak.
Perhaps the deal would have been avoided if the wyrmkin understood the stakes she was playing for, or the "favour" that would have been asked of her, especially when she learns later that the magistrate that was scheduled to oversee her friend's case was found sprawled in his bed with his throat slit shortly thereafter.
Duran, last of clan Bludraven, snaps his fingers as if suddenly remembering something that had slipped his mind, "I do have a way for you to pay for this gift. I have need of a tome, which is reputed to lay within the Arcane Tower of Enwas. It is emblazoned with the words 'Isenatha Risa' upon its cover. Bring this to me and your debt will be cleaned from the ledger. Fail and you will be known as an oath breaker, and cast out of the thieves guild; hunted by our members until you are cut down like a dog."
Enwas is across the continent, in the depths of the Umbral Lands, which makes just journeying there and back a significant undertaking.
"As an additional gift I will give you directions to a druid grove, as well as a writ that will speed your travel to Enwas and return back to Cearn proper."
The 5 gold disappears as if it never existed and Daxniss is brought up to speed on the comings and goings of the city including rumours that Tluthtrin Lhal, the main advisor to King Eoqium the VII, is making a power play to take the city for himself and is the force behind the increase in hangings and poisonings in the cities as he rids himself of rivals and potential threats.
She also learns of the Tyrant King Eoes IX of the blighted lands of Ryuen reputedly seeks an artefact of impossible power to become a Godking and enslave all of Sel Torin; his stolen ships steal into coastal villages to raze, rape, plunder, and abduct. These attacks have forced Caern to hire mercenaries to act the role of guards, which has led to the occasional slaughter of the citizenry, and also a decreased effectiveness in holding back the onrush of the Umbral Lands' denizens.
Daxniss rushes to giver her accounting of their friend's innocence, which is likely to go well, since she is such a well-schooled liar. She joins the others standing a distance away from the jails, who bring her up to speed that their entry has been barred.
Stakes are being erected and prepared for public burnings to take place this very day.
Ssilax
Scaled skin yields to the whip's slicing motions, leaving the dragonkin's ichor-washed meat exposed to the air.
A momentary glimpse of hope, brought on by your words, is all the arcanists enjoyed before the chance of life beyond this day was cruelly stolen. Haunted almond-shaped eyes winces with each whip strike. The elf throws himself bodily at Ssilax, screaming incoherently as he lashes out using his shackles as a bludgeon. Before the guard can react to the unexpected attack the dragonkin hears the polyglot elf whispers words in the forked draconic tongue.
His words are surprising since you had not known that he was learning from Master Dainoth as well, "Our master has been taken to a city Sigil, which resides on another plane of existence. Save him on your wor..."
The stunned Ssilax tries to comprehend the action a moment before blood and grey matter sprays his scaled face as the elf's head is smashed in with a mace.
An overzealous guard looks sheepish, as a child with his hand in a cookie jar, that he had provided a swift death, and stole the crowd's enjoyment at watching the wizard scream in burning agony.
Grabbed by his horns, Ssilax (3/44 hit points) is viciously dragged to his feet by the guard to face his sentencing. The magistrate is almost giddy as he proclaims, "Perhaps a geas is the answer. I accept your counsel and order a geas for thee as punishment for your foul beliefs. You will execute all sorcerers and wizards you encounter from this day forth."
The drugged sorcerer does not even blink at this sentence, or when a caveat is added to ensure that you will not be forced to murder the gnome.
The female guard moves forward to guide the cleric out, "You will be watched halfbreed. Should there be even a suggestion that you are in league with magi I will execute you myself."
The geas is cast (please include a DC 27 will save in your next post vs. Lesser Geas), shackles are removed, belongings returned, and Ssilax is guided out to his awaiting friends in the midst of their plots to storm the jail, raze the city, or whatever horrors they might harbour for those that seek to keep the group from one another.
A lot has happened in a very short time, but Dog cares very little as he all but tackles Ssilax.
The cleric's expert eye understands the effects the cursed effects of the giant's attack still has on two of his companions, and also that one of them is magi.
Argon, feeling somewhat refreshed from sleep and clothes that are only damp, hurries with Wrathe to the jails, only to fine they are closed. He asks the guard, "Does that mean there are no trials today?" He hopes against hope that Ssilax would have a one day reprieve.
Looking at Daxniss, he winks and says, "You could have spent the night in the whorehouse with us. Though, it wasn't as fun as I'd heard it to be."
He looks at the jailhouse, evaluating it for a possible break in.
Shortly after, Ssilax is ejected, looking whipped, and nobody is more surprised than Argon. Guarding his words because he assumes he is being watched, he says, "By the Lord of Eternity, they let you go! I shouldn't be surprised, as you did nothing wrong, but the way that guard was going on.... I thought you were in deep trouble. "