Speaking directly as is he way, Gunnar says, ”We seek to destroy the being of which you speak, that this unnatural winter may be gone from the lands and the people of this region may flourish instead of starve. Failing that, we seek to return the eggs of the dragon so that her fury may be directed against the Hag and not misguided towards the people of Levoca.”
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
It only took 7 days of research and failure to crack the Elysian Gate, a tough type of eclipsing-chronos cipherlock often used by the Ravan clergy. Even those in the business of circumventing security believed it was unpickable, and those that gave up wrote apologetic treatises on its destructive disassmebly.
Scram preferred the elegance of undetectable entry, and as long as there was enough booze and drugs flowing would never give up.
The lock's multiple layers of security were its prime feature. Each layer was independent, meaning cracking one did not help with the others. The complexity of the mechanism was also a major advancement over its contemporaries. Instead of a trio of cipherdiscs, the keyhole was a multi-faceted solid, each face requiring not only the correct angle but the correct depth.
Even after all that, getting the master cylinder to turn required inputting a sonic sequence which magically reset every 7.7 hours. The arcane algorithm combined a random seed based on the position of the moon and a secret numerical sequence known only to the lock's owner. The frequencies generated this way did not correspond to any known musical scales.
Not to mention the various anti-tampering mechanisms, scrying eyes that instantly detected any entry into the casing or subassembly. Once detected, the lock would burn a non-resettable fuse which multiplied the normal required movements and sounds by a factor of 5.
But Scramsax' toolkit was unique among thieves. Years of experience and kleptomaniacal adventures had accumulated a countermeasure for nearly all of the Elysian Gate's supposed defenses. The missing bits would be filled in by the scoundrels own dumb luck.
How many locks had the thief left in tatters over the years? 100? 1000? The halfling's skill was approaching legend. 7 days to crack the Elysian Gate? No small feat.
How many lies had the thief told in the past few hours? 100? 1000? If Scramsax was breathing, Scramsax was lying.
Yet, for some unknown reason, the skillful art of deception never advanced like locksmithing, Scram simply never got better at lying despite continually lying. Philosophers who sought to propogate the value of 'Learning by Doing' would wither and die instantly in the face of the rogue.
Yes, Scramsax was far from inscrutable, certainly no Elysian Gate.
For the cunning fox guide looking to make an extra buck after a hard days rowing, Scram looked deeply into the beady little eyes of the half-man, half-forest mammal and witnessed true fear. Likewise the fox gazed into the theif, an open book, and saw a true dingus.
A dingus who didn't like getting worked over. "Oh, you would enjoy the fat purse holding your fee for a time. A very brief time. Hold on a sec...what's that..."
Reaching into the nearby shrubbery, the thief produced one of the fox's most valuable possessions.
"Oh woops, here, you dropped this." Scram lied. "Anywho, might get something longer lasting if you just help us. That feel-good feeling, eh?"
Coin hooted, its gold chains and bejeweled earrings clinking in the firelight.
Luthael smiles serenely when the foxkin reveals that there might be a secret way into the tower. Khors will provide. So, he asks the obvious question, "what compensation would you desire for this altruistic information?"
Darrel's gaze flips back and forth between prophet and scoundrel finally landing on Luthael. Breathing a sigh of relief as Scramsax hands him back the small pouch heavily weighted by what the halfling can feel to be several oddly shaped stones.
"Granddaddy's lucky gold teeth." Exclaims the foxkin, clasping the pouch close and quickly tucking it away. "Why miss, where ever did you find those? Darned things are always trying to skeedaddle away at the darndest times." He offers a quick nod of thanks and then turns back to Luthael.
"Although, your pretty and altruistic companion would have a body risk themselves for nothin' more than good feelin's and pride, I can see and hear by your offer, that you're a bit more grounded in the practicalities of livin'. Makes me admire the Sun Lord a bit more knowin' he's adding such folk to his temple's shepherds."
There's a long pause while Darrel seemingly does some rather in depth pondering upon Luthael's question of fair compensation for difficult to come by information. Finally, he appears to reach a result and nods to himself. Running his tongue across his lips he looks Luthael in the eyes.
"Way I see it. Two hundred gold and outright ownership of them two canoes of Bobby Ray's would be enough." He says. "Ya see, I thinking of startin' a little shipping business up and down the river. Edgewater to the River Argent and on up to Zobeck even. That amount would give me a bit of capital fer goods to get things rolling. What do you say?"
Scram's eyes narrowed as her implication to simply steal back whatever payment the fox collected fell on tone deaf ears, but she didn't press the issue.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"...by the way, how much rust this pig poker tab me?" sliding the lump of cold iron known as Morrin's Misery over to Sly Laura Smokes, the gold and silver toothed fence. She had her teeth knocked out...twice. The ups and downs of her clandestine fortune were now recorded in her mouth.
Scram didn't want to sell the dagger. It had been in the thief's possession ever since he stole it from Zove, and he was really more interested in learning something about it. It was the hidden, numb lump on his back...never far from his spine.
A stolen jewel of ice.
Eyeing the massive sac of picks and gadgets the halfling just haggled "You just klepped every glim, ginny, and kate in the Eastern Fencing Ken. Now you want me to switch you a story? Gonna cost ya a teize, Nim...but I think you've done shown me all yer King's pictures."
The thief recalled a different gender stamped on the Courlandian coinage "Heh. Don't you mean Queen? Nevermind. Listen, one Uncle to another..."
"Oh come off it. Sure we know about your bawdy basketing out with the Winged Lion Company. Don't make us fast chums. Remind me, what was our vig? 10 percent? And what you been doin' since, anyways? Coulda used you in Nargenstal when all that yellow tin hit the balance."
Scramsax shrugged, remembering the juicy bargain he had 'negotiated' with the Western Network out of blind luck "Eh...coulda used your own cutter on them chunks for 20. Night magistrate knows talent when the coin starts to click. ...anyways I told you, got pinched."
"'Hit the pound for the woman you love', was it? Never known a sharper lies as bad as you. Yer thinkin' you got a royal forgery but its daft scribbles. Swipin' the public ledger more like..." Sly Laura's suggestion that Scram had been visiting prostitutes during that time stung sharply, and the Barsellan exile couldn't hide it. "Pff. Are you going to cry? Whatever. Let's have a look..."
Twisting a brass knob on her ocular enhancement, droplets of arcane mist fell from Sly Laura Smokes' eye, coating the weapon with a sticky glow. Dazzling runes flitted in the reflections of her teeth, and presently a soft chorus of low frequency, Draconian iambic pentameter recounted the lore of the blade.
Scramsax didn't speak Draconian. "What's all that mewling and rhyming? Talon that size, I'd have guessed it a treble not a bass...heh...talk about a low blow" as the deep singing voice continued to resonate.
"Shutup..." Laura was trying to concentrate on the intricate historical details. The power exchanged, and the bitter sweet costs. "Ok, I think I got it. Pretty standard stuff for a jazzed up alleyblade. Morrin settled his crib on an island out in the Bay of Ghed. Worked a con there with his chum on the locals. Hoarded all kinds of chunks and ribbons: emeralds, rubies...bank notes from all the major kingdoms. Klepped that poker from some kind of spirit."
Scram's eyebrows did little backflips on his forehead "Hrm? A spirit? You gonna start preachin' me some mumbo jumbo..."
"*sigh* Who am I, Good Ben Flash?" There was a brief silence as the determination was made. No, she wasn't. "And yeah a spirit, an ice princess or ice hyena, the words are near the same in Draconian and I couldn't hear clearly over all your damn rambling. Pretty sure it was ice hyena. Anyways, Morrin had snapped that shard off a chunk thinking it was some choice blue opal or white sapphire. Well turns out it was the spirit's finger."
"So you're tellin' me this talon's an actual talon?" Scramsax twisting thieves' Cant with ironic reality.
"Poker's probably picked a pair of spirit's nostrils." Laura deadpanned. "So at first it just looked like some select cut o' glass. Morrin didn't ken his bungled move, but the spirit made a deal. Morrin could live if he sent his business chum up the ladder to bed. You know, crash him out in the gutter. Sure enough chum felt the ice, and the shard became that dagger in hand." Sly Laura gripped the cold handle, flipping it a few times and testing its balance. "See, thing is, lots of bad juju with blood and spirits..."
"Oh gods, here we go..."
"When that finger tasted chummie's blood, it crossed over and became a thing of this world. Morrin didn't know that meant the rest of the spirit could then cross over as well. In for a penny, in for a pound, eh Scram?"
"Let me guess, Morrin cracked the door of his latrine one day and found the boogie-boo monster all teeth and claws."
"Close, haunted him for the rest of his days. Drove Morrin to madness with its incessant cackling, which I suppose hyenas are known for. Shuttered his business. Eventually the miser took the blade and his dead chum's gems and locked them up in a strongbox. Tossed the whole lot into the sea hoping to be rid of the spirit forever. Its like a play on words, get it? 'Misery' like 'miser' bein' cached away but also 'misery' like 'suffering'. Morrin's Misery."
"Dang. Yer peeky squinter made it sing all that?" admiring Laura's eyepiece.
The fence admitted "Well there was a bit more, something about an octopus but I didn't quite get it."
Scram did.
As the others told stories around the campfire that night, Scram filled her belly. Cutting a haunch of the roasted rabbit, the meat tasted cold...as always.
" Interesting." Ingryd says staying mostly silent on the stories. Her life was best untold. So the bearkin drank, and well drank.
" Scram, shes a good soul. She just doesnt express it like the rest." Ingryd says looking at her small friend.
" Like me she has a vice attacted to a greater loss. It shaped us. For good or bad or shaped us. All in all though youll be happier knowing she is here with us." Ingryd pours some liqour into the evercold mug and hands it to her friend Scram.
" I know I am thankful for her friendship"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Raseri slips away from the others as they clean up from the fights. She's guiltily aware she did nothing to aid any of her companions, and the shame drives her to do something, anything, to atone for that unforgivable trespass. She follows the trail back to the shack where the others had found Scram and buries the dead father and daughter. She says a prayer over them, hoping that they'll rest easily now that their remains have been tended to.
It is a dark night, but Raseri's eyes are keen enough to pierce the gloom. She follows the trail left by whomever had tricked the halfling thief and done something so cruel it might even make those crones that call themselves the Gray Ladies flinch were they to hear of it. She isn't so foolhardy as to think she could take whatever had done that to Scram by herself, but she does think she could at least figure out where they or it was going.
What she does not expect, however, is that she may be tracked in turn.
She is about an hour out of Levoca when the priestess of Thor decides to turn back. A bank of fog rolls in, but she isn't worried. All she has to do is follow the prints her boots left in the snow as she followed the trail.
Except, there are no prints behind her.
The warrior-priestess takes in a deep breath and focuses on that part of her touched by the fey realm. Surely she can find her way back so long as she moves quickly and doesn't draw anything's or anyone's attention.
"Hello sister," A familiar voice whispers in her ear, her voice to be precise.
Raseri jumps and spins around, Heiður in her hands. She shakes her head. Now isn't the time to be jumping at shadows.
"Are you lost," her vocal doppelganger whispers in her other ear.
She spins around, Heiður singing as it flashed through the fog, arcs of lightning crackling along its blade, but her blade finds only air. Her breathing is heavy as fear takes hold. Have they found her? After so long, is she going to be hunted by her "sisters" and the hag that had helped them sacrifice her over and over again, once more?
She closes her eyes and tries to calm down. She needs to think, to reach out and find the path. She can always find the path, if she has time.
The air stirs, and her eyes fly open as she finds herself in the middle of a bubble where the fog has been swept away. Silver eyes glint and gleam in the fog around her, but they haven't surrounded her just yet. She runs for the only break she sees, hoping that it isn't a trap, or that she isn't about to run towards her doom. Mist-shrouded trees and snow-blanketed rocks appear as if materializing out of the mist just a few scant heartbeats before Raseri runs into them or trips over them. She stumbles and slides over the snow and frost covered ground in her flight, but she knows she can't, absolutely can't, beat the foe she now faces. They are all older, craftier, and much more powerful than her. Worse, they know her as well as she knows herself.
She doesn't see the hole covered by the packed snow suspended by a few dead limbs and sticks and puts her foot in it. Thankfully, she doesn't break her leg or too badly twist her ankle in the fall, but she rolls down the hill she'd been racing down without any control over where she goes. She bangs against some rocks before skidding onto some ice that had formed over the small pond that was in the bowl made by the surrounding hills. She grabs her sword, Heiður from where it had slid from her grasp and starts to run again, only for a woman that looks exactly like her, save for the silver eyes, to grab her by the throat.
"Where are you going, dear sister?" The silver-eyed double tightens her grip on Raseri's throat, forcing the priestess of Thor to her knees as her vision narrows. "Mother is dying to see you."
Raseri's fingers scrabble against the iron grip for a moment before she closes her eyes and grits her teeth. She takes up her sword and swings it from left to right with as much power as she can muster. Her double shrieks in anger and pain as she doesn't let go quickly enough to get out of the way of the deadly blade.
The priestess gasps and coughs as she can breath again. Her lungs cry out for rest, but she knows she has to get moving again, lest she face more of her sisters. Her boots scrabble on the ice as she runs away from the cursing of her silver-eyed twin. Soon, she is climbing out of the bowl and running through the wild forest.
A cat and mouse game ensues. Raseri runs and hides from those looking for her. She loses track of all sense of time and even of pain and cold. No matter how far or fast she runs or how well she hides, her sisters, the silver-eyed favorites of the hag that had enticed her so long ago when she was close to freezing to death after burning her village to the ground, always find her.
They finally corner her at the top of a mist filled gorge. Raseri, half-mad with fear and half-delirious from running for her life for longer than she can even remember now looks around, her sword before her as thirteen of her silver-eyed sisters close in. The temptation to jump and end her suffering is powerful, but in the end, she never makes the choice. The rock under her feet gives way, and she falls into the mist filled chasm below.
A large splash in the river interrupts any response to Ingryd's show of gratitude for Scram's friendship that may have been forthcoming. A moment later, just as the waters begin to calm, a silver-haired head bursts up from the water, followed by the rest of the person in a familiar set of plate armor. In one hand is a greatsword with a sapphire gem embedded in its blade just above the ricasso. Raseri splutters and coughs as she drags herself out of the freezing water and onto the bank where her companions and their guide are camping. Thoroughly exhausted, she collapses to the ground and gulps in air. Through it all, through, her death grip on her sword never loosens, even as she begins to shiver from the wet and cold.
Draining the chilled whiskey in a classic halfling double-gulp, Scramsax the Relatable Friend raised her empty cup in the firelight "Right back at'cha, Griz! Just keep me on this side of those pearly white chompers and we'll turn this Narg Nasty 6 into a mutha-f***in' Narg Dynasty---"
"..." the confused thief peered into the bearkin's cup, taking a sniff attempting to identify the specific mixture of hallucinogens she just ingested. "Say. Did a fairy just throw her boots at me, or did a very vexed Thorsdottir just execute a perfect reverse inward 5 1/2 somersault pike into the frog warrens?"
Having nearly dozed off during another one of Scram’s interminable stories, Gunnar starts awake at the loud splash and leaps to his feet. Hands crackling with restrained arcane power, he assesses the situations as best he can, only fractionally relaxing when he recognizes the ersatz cliff diver.
Looking up for a possible perch from which Raseri may have jumped, Gunnar prepares to unleash Thor’s wrath on her pursuers.
Raseri looks up as she hears Scram asking if she's seeing things or not.
"H-h-help-p-p-p. T-t-t-t-t-t-t-too c-c-c-c-c-cold-d-d-d, t-t-t-t-t-too t-t-t-tired-d-d-d-d t-t-t-t-to m-m-m-m-m-m-mov-v-ve," she gets out through chattering teeth.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
Scram felt a wee bit ill equipped. They had been fighting ice and void creatures all winter and yet, besides the Prophet's roaring fireballs, didn't really have much of an emergency response to cold. Hearing the weak meeps and distress mews from the wet n' wild murderous assassin, the scoundrel knew she would never get a good night's rest unless something could be done.
"Ok, don't worry I got this. Griz, drag her over here, I'll whip up a little something she can snuggle up to..." pulling out a paintbrush whose bristles had never been cleaned.
The scene began with a freshly baked pizza. Only a fool would take a bite of such a hot slice! The risks to the roof of the mouth were simply astronomical, but to be honest who could resist. Pepperoni, black olive, green pepper. None of that deep dish nonsense, this was foldable and holdable...just a touch above cardboard to keep costs down.
A few jalapeno peppers were added as an optional garnish in a little paper cup, roasted by a red glowing meteorite chunk that just breached the upper atmosphere. It was unclear if these extras added any angry, surprise cost to the final bill or brought along any fever-inducing space bacteria...perhaps the lack of clarity was intentional.
The painter complemented it with a scalding hot cup of black coffee, complete with a legally binding liability waiver and reading glasses. The latest issue of the Zobeck Gazette was neatly folded nearby, hot off the press. One of the headlines detailed some juicy dish about a mercurial noblewoman using her inheritance to snatch up peasant lands, a hot topic.
All of this was served inside a shoddy carriage that had sat outside for a few hours during the summer with the doors closed and windows rolled all the way up.
The painter next painted a copy of her own brain, for it was always cooking up something. Scram also touched up Raseri herself by adding a slip of paper shoved into her offhand, granting admittance to the Bantering Bart stand up routine next Thorsday (a hot ticket).
Finally, he tossed a fur coat stylized with pink and blue zebra stripes over her.
There was a hot dog in the left pocket.
Ingryd removes her clothes standing in just her fur and heads into the water to retreive the swordswoman. Modesty wasnt something she cared about much anymore.
Pulling Raseri to land she heads over to the fire and sits. " Unless we can magic us dry itll be a minute I recommend she get some blankets, and get her clothes close to the fire. Thankfully My fur sheds water and keeps heat in and cold out" The bearkin says naked as she gets herself more to drink.
"C-c-c-can't c-c-c-c-ast-t-t th-th-th-the s-s-s-sp-p-p-pell. F-f-f-f-f-fing-gers t-t-t-t-too n-n-n-numb," Raseri says as she starts trying to get out of her armor. Her fingers fumble the buckles of the breastplate again and again. Between the winter air and the wet, her shivering is getting more violent as she gets more frustrated by her clumsiness.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Negotiations over alternative routes having broken down, the foxkin retreats to his own bedroll for the evening. Although his eyes are closed his ears remain alert as tales tumble forth around the late night fire. Listening to the tall tales and expressions of friendship the candid guide can't help but recall some of the stories he'd crafted with the likes of Molly and Bobby and of course poor Tabby. But the memories had barely a chance to start wandering down that ole pain-lined lane when the night's quietude is broken by a loud splash and spluttering cries for help.
At first, Darrel was inclined to warn of his clients. Anything making that kind of noise at night on the Tears was bound to be more'n a heap of trouble. But before he could holler out a warning, the big bearkin was already stripped down and embracing the river's cold grip. But what confuses his mind even further is the lack of surprise on anyone's face. In fact, the sly, shifty halfling in true artistic fashion apparently decides the best thing to do is capture the scene with brush and paint rather. It is only after several moments and the smell of hot coffee fills the air that the foxkin understands the true nature of Scramsax's artistic endeavor.
"Now where all did dat' one come from?" He asks, not really expecting an answer from any of the others, although it is quite clear the sopping wet and bedraggled woman is well known to his traveling companions. "Must admit, this's da first time I've had a pretty woman drop outta dee sky and right into my camp. But either ole Darrel here is a poor judge o'things or ya'll know this here wingless bird trying ta be a fish?"
Poking at the fire, he stirs up the coals and revives it enough to get the last few pieces of gathered wood burning hot and bright. The warmth and light drive away both the cold and the gloom. At least for a short time.
Gunnar scans the opposite shore of the river. The dwarf's keen eyes spot nothing in the cloud shrouded darkness of the night. Or at least nothing for certain. There is a brief moment when the wizard glimpses some small hint of movement. A glimmer of eldritch light. The tingle of someone or something plucking at the arcane lines of power. A harsh cackle promising a moment of suffering delayed, but certainly not escaped. Then all is darkness and quiet.
Eventually, her companion's efforts manage to warm and stabilize the nearly frozen Thorsdottir, who seems to always appear in a frozen and hypothermic state. A state that attempts to spread itself through the small camp when a harsh, cold wind blows out of the far north. It is the breath of Boreas himself rolling through the woods causing the trees to grown and the slow moving surface of the river to grow a skin of ice and frost.
"Worst weather I've ever seen in these parts. Colder than an ice hyena's backside." Darrel says as the light of day starts to illuminate the eastern sky. Rubbing his shivering limbs, the foxkin shakes his head looking at the thin ice stretching out into the river. "Poor luck, that ice. Gonna make the portage slick as cow snot unless the weather warms a might. Damned poor luck."
Once Raseri out of her soaking wet clothes and warming up by the fire in the garish fur coat that Scram had made for her, she thanks the halfling for her help. She is ravenous from however long she spent running for her life, but after her first disastrous bite of the pizza, she decides it's better to let it and the equally hot coffee cool some before trying it again. At least the hotdog with spicy ketchup is enough to tide her over until they do. The way she tears into the food once it's cooled enough to not cause her pain tells of the kind of hunger that only comes with not eating for days. In between bites she tries to tell her tale, but the words, muffled by food and slurred by fatigue, fail to convey much beyond it was strange and scary. The food devoured and the coffee warming her up from the inside, sleep quickly finds Raseri and she doesn't wake up until after the sun rises.
===
After using a bit of magic to finish drying her clothes and make them a little more toasty, Raseri changes in the creaking, rickety carriage. She feels a lot better, now that she's no longer exhausted and freezing to death.
"Darrel, yes," Raseri asks the foxkin guide. "I apologize for my rudeness last night. I am Raseri Whitescale, Priestess of Thor and," she sighs heavily, "a member of the Narg Nasty Six. I was separated from the others in Levoca. I am not certain how I came to be here, but glad I am to have found my companions. I fear, though, that you will likely see much that will make a wingless bird attempting to be a fish, no matter how pretty she may be, look rather mundane on this journey." She turns to the others. "Speaking of which, where are we going?"
Ingryd ignores the cold, her body and fur designed specifically for such a thing. She eats and drinks, then packs up the stuff the next morning after she dresses herself. The bear maiden laughs as she steps out into the elements and nods.
'The cold and wet is a harsh condition to travel and live in. the hardest will to stay warm" Ingryd says as she smiles her maul being swung over her left shoulder and then nods.
"We are going Hag hunting" She says with gusto. For her this hag was another horrible creature that sews discord and death.
"Lastly we come to free children from its clutches." Ingryd growled as she began to move slowly and steadily.
Seeing the ice for herself, Scramsax started rummaging around in her Lootsack of Thievery. Producing a pair of metallic climbing crampons, the second-story woman mentioned "Well these chomper booties ripped through the ice falls outside o' Elserin pass just fine, bet they can bite that portage just the same!"
The Winged Lion Company had taken that particularly treacherous route for practical purposes as they made their way east out of Barsella and over the Pytonne mountinans. The vengeful type of anger Scram had stirred up with the White Knights of Bourgund being chief among them.
Scramsax the Failed Merchant was cursing herself inside, having been unable to reach a deal on the witches sled. True, the pearly-toothed haggler had transmuted the thief's most useful organ into a liver-muppet doppelganger just before she captured and tortured her. But the thief had sensed a real breakthrough in the negotiations on the horizon. Regardless, if it came down to it, Scram was confident she could reproduce the structural stanchions and gliding runners with paints.
"Ah, so I have not missed the dancing of the sun and moon to the song our ice-scaled and fire-hearted friend sings," Raseri observes. "If we had some of the wicked four-thorned seeds her kind favors," she says, pointing at Scramsax with her thumb, "I could grow them into something that would aid us in crossing Boreas' tongue."
"'Her kind'...Ok, I see how it is. Really letting your elf-blood shine, eh Whitescale? I'll have you know not every halfling slave in Midgard carries around caltrops as if it's a birthright."
After a pause, Scram takes another finger dip into the Lootsack "...but yeah, here you go."
"So all halflings are sneak-thieves," Raseri asks with a teasing smile.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
"Wait, Scram are you a thief-thief? I always thought you were sneaky, but not a thief-thief? Because you know that can lead to dangerous things?" Ingryd says as she seems to look disappointedly at the small halfling.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The direct question took the thief completely off guard. Somewhere, in some imperceptible recess of the exile's mind an emotional response might have even been triggered. "Eh? No Ingryd, I've never stolen anything in my entire life."
The scoundrel couldn't help herself "Of course I've been told I bear some resemblance to a certain bold operator on the edge of the world...er, or at least I did before this gender bending thing. My lookalike allegedly was able to klep High Geomancer Rothgazzi's bejeweled telescope from a parade right under everyone's noses."
"No one could ever say how the thief pulled off such a professional job, rumors have turned one story into a thousand as they do. One said a diminuation potion reduced the cad (wearing a bone costume) to a 5 lb bundle and he was carried into the armored transport by the Geomancer's favorite dog's mouth. Another suggested an exotic termite colony smuggled from the elder hills of the Wind Lords was trained flea-circus style to bite through the triple layers of petrified wood plates to create a kind of hidden escape port to slip through. I've even heard the telescope was concealed away in plain sight, 'twixt the loaves of a spicy salami sub sandwich, of all things. Hard to believe any of it..." Scram's tummy rumbled at the thought of salami.
"One thing they all agree on though, was but a child finally caught 'em. Somethin' of a legend or idiom on 4th Avenue, you know...the wide-eyed squares stickin' it to the streetrats for once. An innocent girl gave the testimony that ultimately led to his exile. Not for all time, mind, but only until 'Argos turns to sand'. Eh, Argos bein' the dopey castle fortress watchin the ocean without memories out there..." Scram looked to the west and was a quiet a moment "...probably aint goin' anywhere."
~No matter, feel like wherever I go in the world, I'm still walkin' Barsellan streets.~
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"A twin of yours, perhaps," Raseri asks Scram before turning to Ingryd. "Remember what she said when you all first met me," she asks. "Ah, it doesn't matter, I suppose, but no, I was not talking about the smallfolk. I meant those who use guile and shadows and tricks to deceive and fool their victims before taking what is not theirs. Tell me, how many nobles had Raserian artefacts in Dalliance," she asks Scram as she works on the first of the walking sticks.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"See not a thief-thief, just sneaky. And Very bad at trying to sell things. I think that's why Scram is adventuring is bad luck with business. Its okay though when we get back we will recruit some locals to help with my many brews and Scram will manage the money. We will then get some better sellers and merchants. That way She can have a home and a place that she can see her daughter" The bear warrior says fighting back a sniffle at the last part.
"Right Scram, me and you Brewing buddies" She says with a warm smile as she awaits the plan on forging ahead.
...remember what she said...
Tappy-tapping her noggin' "You mean after you clipped my calculator? Wasn't it was something like 'Ouch. Why did you just murder me, murderer?' And if you mean the other thing, I was just kidding...my last name isn't really 'Jangleblossoms'."
...how many nobles...
"Listen, your artifice...I wasn't really there, even though I've got a vivid memory of it. I put together what I could from dreams of shadow and an obscure mental art learned from a spirit called 'Coin'. But Dekatron gave me another clue, her purpose, what she was built for...she had seen nearly all the currencies used across all the branches of Yggdrasil and beyond. The emotive denominations of hags, the song wealth of celestial choirs...well there's one used almost exclusively by the scathesidhe. Prized more than any cut chunk or stamped gold. Memory Philters."
Drawing a diamond shape in the snow "Hear me out, it was hard to piece this together. It's a transfer of mind to mind. A person willingly gives up an experience, stores it in an umbral jewel like this. Looks just a like premium cut gemstone really, but its made from some spellcraft hoo-joo. Another person 'drinks' it and , now that experience lives upstairs as if it were theirs. That's how I know about it...about you. I drank one of Zove's."
"You want numbers? Alright. Zove's court in Dalliance was tight I'd say, not the sprawling citadel of Sarastra. Dalliance itself was more like the Red Lantern districts of the southern port cities...strong drugs and all the best types of hedonism that goes with 'em, backroom deals and alley blades kept short and hidden. Not much pomp and circumstance. So less than 10 of these backwoods schemers who were more guerrillas than nobles...with Zove as their semi-legit front woman I suppose. Rogues of some court of 'One Million Stars'. Well, they had a plot to replace the Black Prince with the Scarlet Heir (don't ask me who they are). On the streets they were known as the 'Shadowsworn'."
Scram paused a moment, wondering if the Thorsdottir was believing even a single word of the crazy talk.
"So they armed themselves with your gear. Somethin' about havin' em razzled the Black Prince I guess...if I didn't know better I'd say you had some relation with him? Why else? How they got em, I don't know...like I said I wasn't really there. The experience was through a proxy my mind only translated as 'Scramsexy'...eh, I don't know what that was all about, but I was smoking a lot of Illarya's leaf those days."
"You want more answers, we'd need to heist -er, acquire- a bundle of the Shadowsworn's Memory Philters, is my point." the thief grinned, salivating at the idea.
As much a tempest the warrior-smith could be, Scramsax was still at peace knowing Illarya's orb found dignity. This rare bit of honesty and opening of Scramsax's turmoiled subconscious came from a love of the dryad more than anything, for she was now part of the blade.
Grizzled Brew Industries, LLC
"Heh, I like the sound of that Griz..." smiling warmly, even though the thief knew it was just another dream.
"You may be right, but first, we need to slay a wicked crone and complete what quest you were doing before we stumbled upon these people in need," Raseri says as she starts making the next stick.
Noting the lack of reaction when she mentioned the Black Prince, Scram let the matter lie. *nods* Rebellion probably got squashed anyways, Sarastra's an actual god isn't she? Your gear's most likely in the skeleton hands of a Shadowsworn buried 6 inches under the shadow-muck. Vengeance might be the best you can hope for...in which case you're in good company." she shrugged.
"No, if it was the Black Prince, he probably took them for himself. I gave him a set of hunting knives and hunting horns. I found out later that it's pretty easy to spot the things I made," she says.
Scram laid back, putting her feet up on the warm firestones and lighting a pipe "...good chums, you and he?"
|
" A walking stick..hmmm..." Ingryd gets a long thick limb and using her hand axe cuts it free. She then uses her dagger to make a pointed end and blunt the other. after that she burns both ends. Once down she tests the ability to see if it is stout enough. In doing so she smiles.
"Walking stick. Though it'll break if i use it to bash something" She says as she sits back down with her staff sized walking stick.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
With no threat visible (or invisible), Gunnar settles down for the night.
Preparing his spells in the morning, he listens to the conversation with a smile.
”We all have skills that might surprise others, whether we be labeled as thief or not—but I have ever found Scramsax to be trustworthy. It is good to have you back, Raseri,” says Gunnar.
”Shall we make plans to assault this Hag and her ice minions now?” he asks, looking to their guide to resume their interrupted conversation from last night.
Raseri spends several minutes making the walking sticks, and while she does fine for the most part, She has a little more trouble with three of them than she does with the others.
Darrel listens to the conversation and can barely hold in a laugh as the halfling finishes her wild tale of jeweled telescopes and a bunch of nonsense about shadow elf courts, coins, and black princes. His eyes grow wide and mystified as the bearkin and newly arrived priestess seem to buy every word of the halfling's denial and farfetched story. Even the dwarf, who'd the guide had thought to be the more level headed and grounded among this group of adventurers seemed to believe her ramblings. It was a marvel to behold. And as something of a teller of tales, the foxkin couldn't help but admire the halfling's ability. He also made a mental note to not trust the little thief, for that was clear to him what she really was, one little bit.
But he was just a guide. If these others wished to believe the best of their traveling companion, well, he would not interfere. So he stifles his laughter and simply nods in agreement as the others voice their support and agreement of Scramsax being a fine upstanding citizen of the world.
When things once again turn to the future and the purpose of their journey, Darrel dips his head to Gunnar. "Aye. I believe we'd talked of an alternative route into the old knight's tower for the relatively meager sum of two hundred gold."
The prophet sat still and silent in contemplation listening to the faint divine words of Khors... until the arrival of their sometimes companion Thorsdottir. In truth, her return and subsequent conversation distracted him from finding that quiet voice of Khors within him, so he eventually abandons the attempt and returns his focus to Midgard.
Opening his eyes, he shares a knowing glance and grin with the foxkin on Scramsax's true profession. The prophet did not judge people on the laws of lands but in the truth of their heart. And, Scramsax had demonstrated many times over to be the catspaw of divine patrons who would help the initiatives of his Lord of the Sun, so she was right where she needed to be, where he could keep an eye on her. As when the sun sets, his gaze sometimes loses sight of her...
Scram didn't want to feel the sting of another failed negotiation, but as no one else was stepping up "Darrel was it? You mentioned someone left crack-haunting shades and lurky muppet-livers on the stairs. Tricky watchers from above. Luck in the form o' death. Heh. Easy to make promises to those who are about to die, isn't it? Roll us for all we got before you kayak back to safety? We'll pay the price, but half now half when we get back. Think of it like an investment. Listen..."
Scramsax pulled the fox aside, out of earshot of her companions.
"All good businesses start with one, no? Here's where you can make a second very smart one. This Edgewater/Argent run you got in mind..." the thief took a long pipe drag shaking her head incredulously "...you know the Eastern Syndicate owns those routes, right? And Zobeck? *admiring whistle* Organized crime there so tight it looks legit. Their black ledgers don't take kindly to outsiders mucking with profit margins. How many freelance smugglers you know with all 10 fingers? Cause that's what you'd be if you aint on their good list...syndicate's got a cudgel for every capstan."
"You need someone in the inside to vouch for ya. Let me be that person, eh? Take 100. The boats? No one gives a f*** about those, they're yours. Then you don't screw us for another 100, and you get a pass from the syndicate...no brainer for a cunning fox like you."
Scram suddenly had rapid onset diarrhea in her shorts, making her seem much less cool.
"..."
The foxkin listens intently to Scramsax for several seconds before a snort manages to slip through his serious facade. This momentary sign of disbelief does not slow down the halfling in the least. In fact, it seems to add to the challenge. So as the tale of syndicates, smugglers, and missing fingers winds to and end with a potential offer of business partnership and uncontained flatulence. The bard can't help but burst out in full throated laughter.
"Bahahahahaha!" Actual tears appear in the guide's eyes which he finally starts to swipe away with the back of his hand. "Oh my. That's jess a hoot o' fun." He wriggles his ten fingers in the air. "Eastern Syndicate going around cuttin' off fingers and only you know a way past all that. Hehehheh. *snort*" He shakes his head. Looks over at Ingryd and Gunnar.
"Are you all some kind of travelin' comedy troupe?" He asks the dwarf. "I have to say your part as the serious wizardly straight dwarf is mighty well played. I'm not so sure about having the young lady jumpin' into a river as an entrance is the best choice. What do you do when no water is nearby, have her drop from a tree? Leap forth from a shrubbery? Hahaha!" He looks around at the surrounding trees to see which one might accommodate such a entrance. "Oh my.*snort* Oh! Excuse me. Heehee."
"But putting yer show aside for just a moment. If you really are heading to that old tower, there really ain't much up there. Certainly, no audiences worthy of an act as fine tuned as yours. Knights skeedaddled from the place years ago." He pauses a moment to catch his breath. Then snaps his fingers. "In fact, we should turn around and head back downriver. We could be at the Blue Bell in three days. That crowd would really love the whole act." He looks back at Scramsax, smiles and shakes his head. "...someone on the inside to vouch for ya." He mimics quietly and chuckles again.
"But if you're all intent on headin' up this here river in da ice and snow. Then best we get to movin'. " He says packing up the final bits of his gear and stashing it in the canoe.
Scramsax the Unclean ponies up the 200 stinky coins to move on and never speak of this again.
"You have never found yourself lost on the old Álfvegir," Raseri says as she stows the walking sticks in one of the canoes. There is no levity in her voice nor in her expression. "There are far more dangerous roads than the one we tread, vatnshjólamaður. Do not let Scramsax's honeyed tongue fool you. We are no troupe of bards and laugh-makers. Pray that what chased me never finds you."
Ingryd gives Scram 50 gold from her own." Here this should help cover some. Besides we are gonna Fight a powerful fey in a tower, and free hostages. Think about all the food and drink those villagers will reward us with!!!" she says with a wink hinting at more rewards unspoken.
Gunnar simply raises an eyebrow at the foxkin’s suggestion. Sometimes being underestimated is useful. He packs up his spellbook and prepares to move out.
Nodding and smiling to Ingryd as she painted a fresh pair of underpants "You know last hag I recall, save that Betty FarmFresh Whitey McChiclets or whoever, last hag had some giant mushroom companions. I was trapped in that amber heart thingy before I could get a taste, always regretted it. Picture this Griz, bell-end flaps big as yours truly, sauteed in a little buttermilk with fresh dillweed and green nips."
After a pause "Hopefully not more of them giants in disguise. Kinda freaks me out to eat giant, a bit too close to form if you know what I mean."
Ignored by the foxkin, Luthael stands up and readies to continue toward their goal.
The foxkin gladly accepts the coins. He drops them among a variety of pouches hidden within the folds of his cloak and in pockets of his vest and trousers. Pouches that disappear as quickly as they appear. With the additional payment settled, the guide encourages haste.
"We've a long days journey ahead if were to make the falls afore dark." He says. Each word creating a cloud around his face in the cold morning air. "The portage is tough than mule hide under normal conditions, can't rightly imagine what its gonna be like with this cold." He adds with a shake of his head and he stamps his feet to warm them a little before getting ready to push off in the first canoe.
The morning's journey is a lesson in misery. Shortly after shoving off, the wind begins to blow once again. Down from the north it howls. Hitting each of you straight on. Turning the wide river into a churning mass of blowing whitecaps. With the wind comes an icy freezing rain. The insidious moisture quickly layers everything in a thin sheet of ice. A sheet that grows thicker and thicker until Darrel is forced to call a halt in order to clear the ice off the boats because the extra weight and the churning river threatened to cause the boats to capsize.
The shore is neither safer nor more pleasant than being on the river itself. Trees limbs low and crackle with each burst of wind. Every few seconds one gives way to the icy weight snapping and breaking with a thunderous crackle and whump as it crash to the ground. At one point a ferocious gust of wind races through the river valley. An alder tree two feet around at the base wobbles precariously in the blast and then simply gives out completely. The trunk snaps as if a child had just snapped a twig. Down crashes the entire tree barely missing Luther and Ingryd as they scrape ice from their canoe.
More ice is forming on the river. A thin layer stretches out from the shore while chunks float downriver and bounce among the wind churned waves.
"Wooeee." Darrel exclaims as the storm rages. "I ain't never seen such a storm like this this early in the season." He adds brushing ice from his whiskers. "Not sure if'n we're gonna make the falls today or not. Might be better to ride things out right here."
The spot along the shore is not an ideal camp site. It is open. Exposed to the wind although moving a little deeper into the trees might provide some break. However, the constant crackle of breaking limbs highlight the risk of being beneath the canopy during the storm.
Despite the misery it brings, something about the storm connects with Raseri. Her eyes spark and crackle as she basks in the wind. The icy spray doesn't even seem to affect her spirits much. When Darrel calls for a stop, she looks as if she's about to protest, but then sees the wisdom of the call, though she does look askance on his choice of campsite.
Gunnar evaluates the terrain, looking for a place well-anchored to bedrock and where a stone outcropping would not look out of place.
The fox was swift, but not swift enough for the thief's greedy eyes...
Luthael follows along, then hangs on as the storm rages. He doesn't really have any expertise for finding campsites, but they've been offroad for quite a long time. On the other hand, he reads people well enough.
Ingryd looks at the others and pulls her fishing pole out. As she does she smiles.
"We camp I'll fish and then we feast"Ingryd says as she seems to take the cold better than her companions.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The storm continues to build as Raseri and Gunnar discuss the best options for camp. None seem particularly ideal. All seem better than the patch of thorns and poison ivy Luthael tries to point out with a shivering hand. Eventually, they settle on a stretch of firm, slightly higher ground running from a large fir tree to a patch of rocks near the shoreline.
A loud rumble reverberates through the spot as Gunnar raises his stone wall and everyone is able to huddle beside it to get out of the worst of the wind, sleet and freezing rain. Attempts to start a fire are met with limited success, as there is little dry wood. What results is a sickly, smoking thing whose heat is instantly whisked away upon the blowing wind.
Icy continues to accumulate and more and more branches and trees can be heard succumbing to the extra weight and wind. Ingryd has no luck with her fishing, for even the fish are staying in the deeper, warmer waters of the river.
*CRACK*BANG*SNAP*BOOM*
Is a constant cadence of the day and into the darkness of night. Along with the howl of the wind and the driving his of the falling ice, that is the symphony of the storm until all is shattered by a eerie bone chilling howl.
"Waawaaawaaa Woooooooo Waaaaahhhhhhh Woooooooo!"