"Wonderful!" The attendant's smile never falters as she surveys the group. "For all five of you, that will be twenty-five gold pieces. I'm afraid we can't offer group discounts any more after that incident with the gnomes, but we strive to make our performances accessible to everyone by only charging enough to cover our expenses. Thank you for understanding." She gestures towards the entrance, where two ushers stand ready. "Please leave your coats, weapons, and armor with our staff and we will ensure they are returned to you after the performance."
As the Pathfinders take their seats, the lights above the audience dim and the orchestra begins a grand overture. As the curtain rises, a lone viola begins a plaintive melody. On the stage, a woman in a white gown sits atop a tower and braids her long blonde hair.
"Oh, woe is me,
who ne'er loved a man.
Ne'er met my knight in armor bright,
and now I languish here
with only my thoughts for company."
The lovely soprano voice hangs over the audience like a shroud as the viola embellishes the wistful music, the rest of the orchestra barely noticeable beneath the breathtaking duet.
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Gervase will not hear of Rossby paying the full amount on his own. "It was very generous of you, Rossby."
"But how about we split it -- 12 gold 5 silver each?"
Feeling surprisingly at ease without her weapons and armor, the ranger scans the surroundings for halflings in blue coats, things that would make good improvised weapons and anyone showing an interest in the party of Pathfinders.
"I heard Arnaut is a phenomenal singer, I hear he might be a Pathfinder too!"
Gervase turns to whisper back, "I heard he’s a total hack! Perhaps this will change my opinion?"
"Now steel yourself, Nalaia ... The soprano always dies at the end."
Rossby's attention is elsewhere as he scans the audience for their target. He thinks he spots someone matching the given description in the front row, but quickly realizes that they are likely a human and it is only the distance making them appear halfling-sized. Gervase also doesn't spot anyone with the appropriate garment and stature.
Igor and Nalaia applaud as the aria finishes, and the soprano's tower is smoothly pulled offstage with the singer still aboard. The horns begin a noble processional march as smoke billows from the other side of the stage, and a dragon clad in silver scales marches forth.
"Oh, long have I been trav'ling
over this dusty road,
my heart and wings both yearning for a place to call my own.
My mother fighting evil,
my father dead of sorrow.
I leave my home and journey forth to make e'ildo-ers pay!
No people come to greet me,
they turn and run away;
But I need not their adoration - I will save the day!"
The dragon's warm bass voice carries easily, and his expressions seem almost human-like as he marches across the stage. As his song finishes, the princess's tower surreptitiously appears again. The two spot each other, and sing from opposite sides of the stage.
"But who-" "-could this be?"
"So fair-" "-and so bright?"
"I can hardly look-" "-at such radiance,"
"But I know-" "-this is what"
"I've been missing-" "-all of my life!"
Suddenly, knights in shining armor appear! The kettledrums pound, leading the orchestra into a frenzy as the strings hammer harsh notes again and again. The woodwinds are caught up in whirling flourishes while the brass build slowly and inexorably towards a climax. The dragon tries to fend them off, but the largest knight dashes forward and cuts a long crimson gash in the dragon's belly. As the mighty creature crumples to the ground, the knights salute the princess in her tower and march off the stage.
The battle music ends abruptly, leaving only the solo viola playing its plaintive melody once more. The princess descends her tower (which smoothly exits the stage to leave more room for the two lovers) and cradles the massive dragon's head, singing through her tears.
"Forgive me, my love,
I could not stop the blow.
Don't leave me here alone once more,
with nothing but the memory of you!"
The dragon answers back, his low bass voice reinforced by the low strings.
"Weep not for me, my love,
for tears do not become you.
For I can rest peacefully now
in your sweet embrace."
The two singers' voices join together in a duet that brings the audience to tears.
"My darling, weep not for me,
though our journeys part.
Know that you will always be
with me in my heart!"
The orchestra swells to a grand crescendo as both the dragon and princess turn to the audience.
The curtain falls as the crowd leaps to its feet with thunderous applause. Roses fly through the air to land on the stage, piling up atop each other before tumbling back as the curtain rises. The dragon and princess walk forward, the princess beaming brightly and the dragon stoic. The two bow once - then with a wave of the soprano's hand, the dragon vanishes. The princess plucks the wig from her head, revealing impeccably-curled chestnut locks that frame what is now obviously a man's face. The crowd goes wild! "Arnaut! Arnaut! Arnaut!" they chant, clapping in time with their voices. The bard smiles and bows again, blowing kisses to the audience as the curtain falls again.
The Pathfinders regroup outside the Red Rose and discuss their next move.
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“Darnit! I think I’ve got something in the eye.”
Gervase brushes away something running down her cheek and rises to exit the theatre with the others.
“Hard to believe a man could hit those high notes. Perhaps Arnaut Danièl is a castrato?”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Artiste formerly known as Jack, Just Jack, sang the Dragon in accompaniment with Arnaut’s Princess?”
“Sadly, rumor has it the Rose Theatre isn’t big enough for the two of them.”
👸 🐉
After presenting her receipt and collecting her gear, Gervase moves with the others to the front-of-house to reunite with Rami.
“Sorry, Rami. You were right. That was pretty much a waste of time.”
The ranger looks sheepish. “Do you think it’s too late to stake out the sewer hatch and intercept Yiddlepode before she heads home?”
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Rossby's face is also wet because, um, he splashed himself while washing his hands.
"We may not have found Yiddlepoddle but that was not a waste of time. Let's see if we can catch her at the sewers."
Rossby grabs his weapons from the check and hobbles toward the sewer grate, humming to himself.
The Pathfinders hurry towards the sewer grate, dodging the other patrons of the arts in their rush to find their own princess. As they arrive at the designated alleyway, they find no signs of traffic or passage. Gervase looks around carefully for tracks, but doesn't find any on the hard cobblestones.
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"Well if we've got three days, it wouldn't hurt to see another show tomorrow night."
And I might get the chance to compare the singing of the Artist previously known as Just Jack with Arnaut Danièl!
Gervase reflects on what the party could do to better locate Yiddlepode.
"Maybe we stakeout the least attended show? Or perhaps we should split the party? I mean Rami was OK on his own."
The Pathfinders retire for the evening, the tear-jerking final refrain of the opera haunting their dreams. After a hearty breakfast, they once again take to the streets of the Ivy District.
The Pathfinders discuss their findings over lunch, the hustle and bustle of the street keeping their conversation safe from eavesdroppers.
Having decided on a play to stake out, the Pathfinders head towards the Auditorium d'Art Magnifique for what they hope will be a disappointing production of Fall from Glory. As the evening sun dips below the steeples of Absalom's many temples and manors, a crowd of opera-goers beings to congregate outside the doors. Apparently there's demand for even bad operas in this city.
Rossby stands in the middle of the street, forcing the lines to curve around him. Unfortunately, he gets into a shouting match with an old lady wearing a hand-knit shawl and forgets to keep an eye on his surroundings as the audience files past. Nalaia and Gervase both try to stake out a nearby sewer grate, but spend too much time shushing each other to pay any notice to the thirteen identical white cats that race past them down the alley.
Rami, on the other hand, spies a short figure slip past Rossby, their face hooded by a blue opera cloak. Before he can act, the patron slips into the theatre and vanishes into the crowd of Absalom's most cultured crowd. The sound of instruments tuning floats from the orchestra pit as the ushers start collecting the stragglers and preparing the close the doors.
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Rossby will buy the tickets - Rami's the one who saw the hooded figure while Rossby was engaged in a completely relevant, slightly animated discussion with someone who was clearly in the wrong. Rami should track.
"They're with me!" Rossby shouts to the bouncers as he slams 25 gold onto the ticket counter.
The booth attendant, the ushers, the elderly woman, and several audience members waiting to take their seats turn their attention to the commotion outside.
The ushers help the Pathfinders store their weapons in a secure locker while Rossby and Rami argue over who will pay for tonight's tickets. Igor and Gervase try to push through, but the ushers (two very wide dwarves) circumspectly block their way until the tickets are in their hands. "Right, there's, uh, plenty o' seats t' choose from," one says, gesturing with her arm at the sparsely-populated hall. Even in the dim light, the masses of empty seats are easy to see - as is a small, blue-cloaked figure sitting alone in one of the balconies.
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“I want to sit up in the balcony, Igor. It makes me feel all posh.”
Gervase takes the wizard by the hand and drags him into the aisle behind blue-cape, Rossby and Nalaia.
“That girl in front of us has the right idea, sitting right in the middle.”
Gervase plonks herself down directly behind the navy cloak. “Thank Ol’ Deadeye she’s not too tall. Did you get me any snacks? Really, Igor??”
She *hmphs* and shifts about in her seat before continuing to chat with her ‘date.’ “Tonight’s lot couldn’t possibly be better than Arnaut Danièl. And what a shame Mr Xarcious is so ill he couldn’t join us –– if only to point out what an instructive history lesson this is.”
muffled < giggle > ➟ serious silent * beat *
“We must stop by the Ascendant Court later to pay our respects, in case … you know.”
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"Would you be quiet Gervase! You promised you wouldn't do this!" Nalaia plunks on the other side of the blue clocked figure. "WOAH! Nice view!" She then turns her attention to the figure in blue. "Wait. You're not with us? What's your name? I'm Nalaia!"
Nalaia carefully sets her ticket down on the armrest of the chair before her curse kicks in and sends it flying down into the audience below. "OH MAN, now they're gonna know something's up!" she shouts before putting her hand to her mouth.
A halfling woman with dark curly hair glares angrily at the Pathfinders from beneath her blue cloak as they noisily take their seats. "Do you mind?" she hisses. "There's plenty of seats over there!" She gestures at the next balcony over, which sits empty.
"...And what a shame Mr. Xarcious is so ill he couldn’t join us –– if only to point out what an instructive history lesson this is.”
The halfling's eyes widen. "Xarcious..." she says softly, before her eyes narrow suspiciously. "How do you know that name? Wait, they're starting - we'll talk at intermission." She does her best to ignore Nalaia's outburst, though it seems to be putting quite a strain on her.
Below, the audience applauds as a thin woman wielding a white stick steps up to the conductor's podium. She bows, then turns to face the orchestra. The overture starts - a solid wall of sound from the brass that quickly fades to support a melody in the upper strings. The music is pleasant to the ear, but as more and more horns and woodwinds add their voices the sound becomes anxious, then angry as the strings' once-happy melody now hangs desperately in the air like a prisoner from a scaffold.
The halfling's face sours as Rossby pushes. "Later!" she hisses, pulling her cloak further over her face. Below, some of the audience turn to look at the commotion in the balcony.
After a few moments of dramatic silence, the curtain rises on an idyllic scene. Heaps of flowers cover the floor, a young woman swings lazily on a rope dangling from the scaffolding above the stage, and a handsome shepherd tends to a pair of sheep that are busy eating the flowers while a lamb sleeps nearby. Slowly he stands and faces the audience, singing a song in praise of the pastoral life and bliss of being newly wed. The woman joins him, and both singers move to clasp each other tightly as the sheep continue to clear the stage around them.
Suddenly, a trumpet sounds the alarm! The sheep run away in panic as soldiers brandishing swords and various banners of Chelaxian noble houses enter from stage left, fighting and shouting at each other. The man and woman flee the other side of the stage, but a sudden bleating catches the shepherd's ear! The little white lamb has woken and is now trapped behind a pair of soldiers wielding long spears that they brandish at each other. The shepherd runs back to rescue the last member of his flock, grabbing the poor lamb and wrapping it around his shoulders. One of the soldiers shouts, and stabs at the shepherd. The stage lights suddenly turn red as the shepherd clutches his side with one hand before falling to the ground, the lamb bleating again before rushing off stage.
The drums and horns fade as the soldiers exit the stage, leaving only the fallen shepherd behind. The woman appears again, her face full of grief as she clutches her fallen husband's hand. Her own hands now painted red, she clutches her hair and wails. A viola softly enters, playing a slower and sadder version of the couple's first song. Scarlet streaks cover the woman's face as she turns to face the audience, and the curtain falls for intermission.
As the lights in the auditorium rise to a more regular level, the halfling stands and moves towards the back of the balcony - out of sight of most of the seats below. "Alright, who are you and what do you want?" she hisses angrily.
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“We’re potential business partners. Yes, we want something. But ideally, we wish to obtain it via mutually beneficial negotiation.”
The ranger smiles and nods. “My name is Gervase Goldhawkë, Lady Yiddlepode. I am a member of the Pathfinder Society.”
“You may be aware the Society uses the sewers beneath Absalom as a transit network. Up until recently we have experienced no problems moving product via this route.”
“However, suddenly our shipments have been ambushed and our agents have disappeared. We understand the Sewer Dragon tribe is responsible.”
Gervase looks puzzled, though her tone remains assertive. “We don’t understand the sudden change in operating practise. Why would a normally peaceful and respected tribe want conflict with an organization as well-resourced as the Pathfinder Society?”
“Please help us understand, so we can explore ways for both parties to prosper collectively.”
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"There's a whole string of angry people, but we're looking to do this in, as Rossby and Gervase stated, the right way. We won't just demand you let us through. That's not how we work, or at least not how we should. We'll strike a deal! Deal?"
Nalaia then turns around to the other Pathfinders and glares longlingly at the stage. "Definitely want to finish the show, though. Even if the effects are a bit....lackluster. I should come here more often."
The halfling woman's eyes widen slightly as Gervase speaks, but as the ranger continues the tension in her small frame seems to relax slightly. She scowls at Rossby, not having forgotten his outburst before the show, but slowly nods. "Yes, that would be for the best," she answers. "I would certainly be open to such an arrangement, but..." Her lips purse pensively. "...I don't have the leverage to make that official - not against my father's direct wishes. I am merely the chieftain's daughter, after all."
The lights above the audience start to dim, and a flurry of notes from the orchestra pit announce the beginning of the opera's second act. "We'll talk more after the show," Yiddlepode says quickly, sliding back to her seat. The Pathfinders also make their way back to their chairs as the curtain rises on a set of broken buildings. A scarlet sun hangs in the backdrop, peering between clouds of hazy smoke and casting an ominous light on the stage below.
The alto from the first act returns to the stage, her idyllic white dress now covered by boiled plates of leather stitched into a set of armor. The scarlet lines on her face are duller - or perhaps that is just a trick of the light - and her mouth twists in rage. She rams her spear into the stage floor and bellows out a call for those who do not wish to see their houses and livelihoods destroyed, their families slaughtered in senseless violence, and their own throats slit for failing to guess correctly which haughty noble family wore the crown at any given moment. Slowly, other people join her on the stage. First an old beggar woman, then a young boy with a blackened eye, then a man in an apron missing a hand, until a full chorus supports her rousing anthem.
Two sets of soldiers race down the aisles and march onto the stage, starting the three-way battle with the civilians caught between both armies. Many of the ensemble cast discretely slip off stage as projections against the broken buildings illustrate the many individual battles. The strings and horns swell triumphantly as the alto rams her spear into a fallen soldier in blue and yellow livery - though from their elevated vantage point the Pathfinders can easily tell that she is ramming her weapon into the floor behind the other actor rather than through her. Suddenly, the music stops save for a single high note on a solo violin. On the stage, the alto clutches a sword protruding from under her arm. As she falls slowly to the ground, she looks up at the projections surrounding her, watching as the townsfolk she had so recently inspired were cut down one after another until only the silhouettes of solders remain to loom ominously over her. As a spotlight leaves her on the only piece of illuminated stage, she coughs and slowly sings a pastoral hymn - the same song she and her husband first sang. Her voice falters until she falls silent, letting the orchestra conclude the tragedy with mournful horns and a slow march on the drums. At last, the curtain falls.
Yiddlepode is out of her seat in a flash, beckoning the Pathfinders to join her as the audience slowly begins to applaud. "Outside - hurry!" she hisses. "Before everyone else starts leaving!"
Back on the streets of the Ivy District, Yiddlepode explains her problem. "I would like to see a lasting partnership between the Society and my tribe but I cannot act against my father’s wishes. For now you will have to deal with him. He is convinced that if he has a showdown with the Pathfinder Society and defeats their agents, we will be able to demand tribute from the Society and bring the other kobold tribes under our leadership. When you finish bargaining with my father, perhaps we will have an opportunity for an extended conversation about a truce and I will have a bit more leeway.” She pauses. "I cannot bring you to our home myself - it would greatly weaken my position if I were to be seen escorting 'hated Pathfinders', and we need more leverage, not less." She draws her cloak around her tightly. "Make your way to the tribe, negotiate with my father, and then we can speak again," she repeats. "I look forward to seeing you there." She makes a quick gesture and snaps her fingers, then vanishes from sight.
Their preparations complete, the Pathfinders depart for the sewers. Xarcious's directions lead to a particularly cramped section, where the Igor scrapes his head on the low ceiling and Nalaia almost slips twice on the narrow walkways bordering a sewage channel. Near the intersection Xarcious indicated, territorial markings fill the walls, smattered with warnings written in the common tongue: “Keep out.” Scorch marks on the ground and walls smell faintly of ozone. Xarcious’s directions indicate that the entrance to the Sewer Dragons’ lair is through a grate in the west passage off a large, four-way intersection.