Pril's looks on in wonder at the paraphernalia stored around them. "Wow, they really took this stuff seriously," she says as she traces a finger through the dust on one of the old tomes.
Noting the door on the opposite end of the room, she gestures towards it. "On we go," she says.
Allandír shudders slightly as he looks around the room. "I would be the first to admit I have, ah, erred now and again - but this is a different level of..." he trails off.
"I would like to think that my soul is still my own."
He is glad to be out of the place.
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"Hellknights," Pril says with a shrug as if that explains everything.
The elf's eyes sparkle for a moment with something that might be amusement as he glances at Pril, before taking point once more as the group moves onward.
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Lucius examines the longsword and then offers it to Nell as the most sword-based combatant. He also takes the manuscript dealing with the Hellknight Induction, reads a page or so and tucks it into his robes with a tutting sound.
"Dangerous, and foolish." He says, not apparently aimed at anyone in particular.
"Well. We have ample evidence of where the local tribe has not been." He concludes. "But very little evidence of where they are. I suggest we continue on."
"I would guess that at least some of them are on the roof," Pril offers. "Since that's where the signal fire is coming from."
After strapping the offered longsword to her side, Nell joins Allandír at the front of the group, curious and eager to keep moving.
Its flagstones painted entirely black, this sprawling and irregularly shaped room contains a circular, sunken arena in its middle. The arena’s edges are painted deep crimson, and an ominous crimson pentagram fills the center.
As you enter the room, you see a handsome, dark-haired man in matte black armor wielding an heirloom greatsword, moving with confident and assured technique while engaged in combat against a snickering imp. He drives his sword through the shrieking creature’s heart, and it falls to the floor.
Even as he destroys the imp, three more of the little devils hiss and drop down from the rafters. “Great. More bloody hell monkeys,” the man grumbles, then gestures for you to take strategic positions as the imps attack!
The imps swarm the man, and three stings find gaps in his armor. "Argh! Little bastards!"
Gull Peeper rushes in and introduces an imp to their teeth!
Pril dashes into the room, seemingly eager to prove something. She races up to one of the creatures and throws a series of punches at it.
Ervan once more causes the area's static electricity to gather and strike their foes. This time, it arcs from one imp to another. Just like last time, the spell leaves behind the faint smell of ozone.
Allandír doesn't hesitate, coming to the stranger's aid against the fiendish critters.
His bow sings, and three arrows fly through the air towards their target.
Aim for the eyes. It's a tried and tested tactic.
Perhaps it's superstition, or the description of the Hellknight test fresh in her mind, but as Nell wields the silver longsword and rushes forward to attack, she avoids stepping into the crimson pentagram.
The man steps out of the imps' midst and slices into one with a mighty swing of his great sword. Nell rushes forward to flank the fiend, the silver longsword flashing as she strikes the imp down.
Though Gull Peeper misses, Pril and Allandir wound the remaining imps with a barrage of attacks. Ervan's lightning is enough to finish off both remaining foes!
As the combat comes to a swift conclusion, the man takes the extra time to use his greatsword to ensure each imp is truly dead, beheading each devil with a smirk of satisfaction. “One must always be sure these nasty things are really finished off,” he says. “It seems my predecessors here perhaps lost sight of that.”
Once done, he pulls out a length of black cloth from a pouch on his belt and wipes the gore from his sword, wincing slightly from his injuries. “I thank you for your assistance, by the way. I suspect you’re not looters—who are you then, if you please?”
"The town of Breachhill has sent us in to investigate the lack of communication with the local goblin tribe, and if necessary, rescue them," Gull Peeper growls. "They live here."
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"I am Cardinal-Banker d'Borgia." Lucius offers, stepping carefully through the corpses to offer the man his hand. "We are here as emissaries from the town. The signal fires have been seen and we have come to investigate." He pauses. "And who, may I ask, are you? I thought the Order had left the fortress."
The man offers a disarming, charming smile as he clasps Lucius's hand. “Armiger Alak Stagram of the Order of the Nail. Formerly of Citadel Altaerein, currently of Citadel Vraid in Varisia.” He gives a formal bow. “How nice to meet you in this beautiful and well-kept estate.
"I’m not here on official order business—I’m merely, well... I suppose I’m on holiday, you see. I’ve taken a short leave of absence from the Order of the Nail to attend to some personal business.”
Nell pulls out her notebook and writes down his name, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches him carefully. "Personal business? Would you elaborate on that?"
Pril continues to bounce on her feet, a huge smile on her face.
Oh, Little Pidgeon, is that pride you're entertaining? Pride is not a part of perfection.
The gnome frowns just a bit, the elation she's feeling beginning to fade and be replaced with something else. Realizing that the conversation with the handsome man is passing her by, she clears her head and introduces herself.
"Hello," she says, offering up her small hand. "I'm Pril. Pril Piddwiemog. It's good to meet you Armiger Stagram. So, your personal business involves killing little demons?" she asks with a grin.
Allandír watches with approval as the man beheads the imps, making sure that they are truly dead. He offers a smile at the slightly sardonic introduction. "Indeed. Sadly, your former fortress has seen better days; now it is infested with spiders, imps, bugbears... your usual vermin."
He offers the hellknight a bow of his head. "We are here to do what we can about that. Allandír Dinúvriel, formerly of Kyonin and sonetime veteran of the Goblinblood Wars, at your service."
Nell can tell that Alak is behaving normally, but is unsure of his exact intentions.
Alak returns Allandir's nod with one of his own, then he kneels down to shake Pril's hand. He chuckles at the gnome. "At times it does, it would seem. Those imps are nothing but pests—pests from Hell, I’ll grant you, but verminous all the same. Simply no useful qualities at all. I suspect they snuck into the citadel ages ago through some ritual or another, and simply avoided the Order of the Nail for years until they had the run of the place. Hell’s rancid children live forever, you know. I do appreciate your help putting them down.”
He straightens back up and regards Nell. "If you must know, I've come to Citadel Altaerein looking for my family's signet ring. My late parents, themselves Hellknights of the Nail, never indicated the location of this treasured family heirloom, but I recently found out that it was stored 'in a safe place' somewhere in this citadel. I came to check the Hellknight test area, since my mother had previously administered the test during her later years and I thought she might have locked it away with other hidden valuables, but it's not here. My next plan is to check the crypts below the citadel, as respected order members sometimes kept valuables or keepsakes in the vault."
"Oh," Pril says, sounding slightly disappointed. "We're actually looking for a way to get up to the roof." She brightens a little. "Maybe you could help us get to the roof and then we could help you find a way down to the crypts?"
Allandír is quick to agree with Pril's suggestion: "As a group, I think I can say we respect your quest for a family heirloom," with a quick glance at Nell's Elven blade. He adds a smile: "And, ah, as an archer, I would certainly welcome one more armoured body between me and the enemy! You woukd be welcome to join us."
"A bit of quid pro quo, is it? Very well, I'll be your meat shield," Alak says with a chuckle. "This place seems to be crawling with monsters, so sticking together is likely the best plan. There should be a way up to the battlements from the courtyard north of here, though I'm not sure of the exact route to get there. Lead the way!"
"Always good to have another on Team Meat Shield," Pril says with a grin. "Just remember, we're here to assist a goblin tribe, so in the case of goblins, play nice, please."
She then moves off in the direction of the north-east door. "Gull Peeper? Would you be so kind?"
"Ah, yes, goblins are the good guys now," Alak says, smiling at Gull Peeper.
Floor-to-wall shelves here still hold a few rotted provisions and cooking utensils, though the room is disastrously filthy and has clearly been ransacked. It would take several minutes to search through the mess here.
Prill ignores the rotted provisions and moves to the door on the opposite side. "Looking for goblins - not rotten apples," she murmurs to herself.
Rows of long, slender dining tables sit in skewed rows throughout this room. Broken chairs are scattered throughout the chamber, and the entire room has an air of disuse and disarray. It appears this room has been looted nearly beyond recognition. Nothing of value remains.
"There's a sadness here," Pril says as she moves across the dining hall to the door on the opposite side. "Places like this are created to be dwelled in - not abandoned." She shakes her head. "A thing has a purpose and when that purpose lies unfulfilled ..."
She looks over at the armored newcomer. "Armiger Stagram? If I may ask, why did the Hellknights abandon this fortress?"
"The Order had been undertaking many missions in Varisia, so much so that when Queen Domina of Korvosa invited them to move into a larger and better funded citadel near her city, they eagerly accepted. Such a shame our old home has been so gutted—I’d have liked it if we could have kept a contingent here, just for tradition’s sake. But the Order of the Nail has queens to serve and law to uphold."
"So they just ... left it?" Pril shakes her head again and looks around the room they're in. "That just seems ... sad. This could house so many people."
The gnome pulls herself out of her reverie. "It is what it is, I guess. Let's keep moving."
Allandír looks around, noting the same sense of departed greatness.
"This thing all other things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, rusts steel,
Grinds hard stones into meal;
Slays King, ruins town,
Brings high mountains tumbling down."
"Nothing lasts forever - all things crumble under the power of time. Even elves grow old, and die, eventually."
He makes a face. "Sorry. That was more, ah, melancholy than I intended it to sound."
Pril looks around as Allandír recites.
"Wow, and Master Wickt called me maudlin," she says with a giggle.
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"Time need not be an enemy." The Cardinal reminds the melancholics. "An abundance of it can lead to excessive reflection and stagnation. It is through embracing our limits that we can expand them and push on to greater things. It is how we bring order to an untamed world, civilasation to the darkness. Be not downhearted - you have time. The question is, what will you do with it?"
The elf meets Pril's giggle with a snaggle-toothed smile of his own: "Ah, well, you can't beat a Forlorn elf for maudlin."
A pause. "Although I'd like to think I have a while longer before I am truly considered Forlorn. Another century or two, at least."
He considers the Cardinal's words. "In truth, I cannot honestly say that any human could be said to have an abundance of time. As for what I will do with mine, that depends on what say my various, ah, mistresses have in the matter."
"That's an interesting thought," Pril responds with a nod as she considers it. "I would counter that having an abundance of time is an illusion. No one is guaranteed any amount of time." The gnome continues, warming to her subject. "I mean, sure, one can look back and see that they had an abundance of time and either used it wisely or squandered it. But to say that a person has an abundance of time is misleading. We never know how much we'll get. I'll be seventy-four next month and it would be easy to say that I've got seventy or eighty years left - which is a lot by most measures. But we don't know what's behind the next door; I could get eaten by another bigger demon."
Pril shrugs.
"You are correct, though. We need to overcome our limitations and use the 'now' wisely."
The elf meets Pril's giggle with a snaggle-toothed smile of his own: "Ah, well, you can't beat a Forlorn elf for maudlin."
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"You have a dozen more years than I do Ms Pril." Lucius agrees, "And yet I will be lucky to see another twenty years. Time is different for each of us, but as you say it is only abundant in retrospect. Even you Allandir, cannot guarantee that you have centuries left, you simply hope that you will. Do as your mistresses bid you, but do not waste it."
He smiles slightly wryly. "And yet here we are wasting time. Ser Alak, lead on please."
Allandír concedes the point with a smile: "You are both older than I, a mere youth of perhaps fifty Winters, so I shall heed your wisdom." He moves forward, his green eyes alert for trouble.
To the north of many rows of stadium-style benches stands a wide dais. Garbage clutters what was once undoubtedly a pristine floor. A small corridor near the dais leads to the west, while to the north, an iron gate provides a view into a central courtyard.
You can hear curious sounds from the courtyard--a series of barking growls, the sound of claws scraping stone, and further in the distance what sounds like goblins and a halfliing arguing.
Allandír cocks his head to one side as he listens intently: "Interesting. It seems that the halfling is, ah, demanding that he be shown the way into the citadel dungeon, while the goblins are refusing. Have we perhaps found our fugitive?"
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"And Gull Peeper has only lived some eight years. You tall folk talk much of how time goes fast, and there is never enough of it. Goblins know this better than any other, oldest goblin Gull Peeper ever met only 45. Ugly elf hate goblins because of war, twenty years ago? Most goblins die before two decades have even passed. His blame is misplaced, lost on a dead and forgotten generation."
They trudge forward through the garbage, flipping interesting bits over now and again, but sullenly moving forward regardless, ignoring the comments about how the place has been mistreated and the lack of respect shown to it. No, they were wrong. The building was loved and treasured; if it wasn't there would be a great deal less trash everywhere. A goblin in need could curl up anywhere inside and find comfort.
"Yes," Gull Peeper confirms, listening in. "This time we try diplomacy, accomplish both objectives easier if everyone not dead."
"Diplomacy is always the first choice. Unless, of course, someone starts flinging poo," Pril agrees. Noting the looks her comment engenders, she shrugs. "Don't ask. I'd rather not talk about it."
She then looks through the gate, hoping to see the confrontation they hear the voices of.
The gate is opened slightly, allowing Pril to see the courtyard. A short flight of stairs leads down to an open-air courtyard surrounded by imposing octagonal walls, while a heavy iron gate separates it from the halls to the south. A few errant milkweeds and tufts of crabgrass protrude from the cracked cobblestone flooring. The ground to the west is sunken in, creating a natural pool of rainwater. To the north, the battlements above have partially collapsed into a huge mound of stone and wooden rubble, under which some sort of reptilian creature seems to have been crushed. The top half of a flight of wooden stairs rises up to the battlements above the collapsed section of the walls; broken plants from the bottom half lie amid the rubble below. A thick rope has been affixed via a grappling hook to the lower portion of the stairs, dangling down to within a few feet of the top of the rubble pile.
The desperate shouts and barking growls continue here, but now their sources are obvious. The shouts come from the battlements above, where a few goblins and a halfling man holding another goblin at knifepoint can be seen. The man seems to be threatening the goblins, while the goblins look like they’re pleading for mercy. The source of the growling is of greater concern, though—for it comes from a large, draconic beast not far away at ground level, roaring at the delicious but inaccessible prey above!
Pril's eyes go wider than anyone's seen so far at the sight of the large creature. She begins bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.
Pril recognizes the creature as a grauladon, or mud drake. Grauladons are vicious predators that appear crocodilian in form, but are in fact distant offshoots of dragonkind. They make their dens in the shallows of fetid ponds or isolated corners of larger bodies of water. Their breath is noxious and can sicken those who smell it.
Grauladons are native to tropical environments. This creature is way out of its element!
"What are you doing here?" Prill questions under her breath. "You should be way down in the Mwangi jungles - not here in the middle of Isgar."
She looks back at the others. "It's a g... a gra... " She falters out and begins snapping her fingers as if that will prod her memory. "A Grauladon! That's it! They've got a really obnoxious breath and they're usually farther south - way farther south." She turns back to take in more of the scene. "It looks like there were two of them and that one is really ticked."
"And Gull Peeper has only lived some eight years. You tall folk talk much of how time goes fast, and there is never enough of it. Goblins know this better than any other, oldest goblin Gull Peeper ever met only 45. Ugly elf hate goblins because of war, twenty years ago? Most goblins die before two decades have even passed. His blame is misplaced, lost on a dead and forgotten generation."
Allandír shrugs. "You may have forgotten, but that's because your kind never writes anything down."
In his own mind, there's still more than enough blame to go round. And last time he checked, goblinoids were still goblinoids. The world would be a better place without bugbears and their ilk.
For now though, he focuses on the drake-like beast, raising an eyebrow as Pril identifies it. "That raises the question of how it got here. Sadly, I doubt it, ah, is in a position to tell us - unless they can speak?" He looks quizzically at the gnome for confirmation.
Pril relates that grauladons are incapable of speech, though they understand Draconic.