"Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "That's why they're monsters."
—Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
The evil city of Mulmaster has finally been undone.
In a swath of geographic upheaval all around the Moonsea, massive landslides, earthquakes, tidal waves and gnashing tornadoes ravaged the land. Elemental Cults were ultimately to blame, worshipers of primordial choatic gods...the ecology has been turned upside-down. With their planted devastation orbs Mulmaster was all but scrubbed entirely from the face of Faerun. Now with the Cults beaten back into hiding, its up to others to pick up the pieces.
Interesting pieces...pieces from the ancient ruins beneath Mulmaster that might be of import to certain parties...
The Thayans, self described magic traders rumored to be involved with necromancy, have long had a presence in Mulmaster. In the moments following the disaster, they were the first to step up and sort through the rubble. They've pledged (at no expense to the Mulmasterites or their High Blade) to rebuild the city bigger and better than ever before. How helpful!
Mulmaster today appears more like an encamped army than a city: large tents are set up everywhere, with the logistics of service drives for basic rations, building materials, and raw labor zipping through like clockwork. Organized raw labor...in the form of tightly controlled zombies and skeletons. But never mind, its for a good cause...maybe you didn't see them.
The party has been summoned by Rastol Shan in what remains of Southroad Keep. Perhaps they sought him directly, or simply wandered here and were quickly noticed and invited. You discover (or already knew) Rastol is Senior Cloak of the Brotherhood of Cloaks...an organization once dedicated to tightly regulating arcane magic in the city...for all the good that did.
Southroad Keep is Mulmaster's oldest building, and over the years has served as courthouse, prison, tax-collection center, and archives...one hundred guards used to be posted here at any given time. The gatehouse could in a moment's notice seal off the city's south wall.
A wall which no longer exists.
Still, something about the stubborn thick-bricked building staying upright makes you imagine (for better or worse) Mulmaster will not truly perish.
"He'll be right with you! Please...have a seat." a pale little gnome with an amputated arm meekly assures you. A number of scorched divans surround a small table (whose 4th leg has been shoddily repaired) with military grade refreshments: the sturdy basics of hard bread, butter, cheese and ale.
|
Lindaer walked over to the gnome, and looked upon him with kind eyes. He wore the simple robes of a cleric, with no obvious armor. What betrayed the martial nature of his calling, though, was the sword that hung from his side, as well as the bow with quiver upon his back. A small owl sat upon his shoulder, it’s head turning as it’s eyes watched the surroundings. The creature was a manifestation of his god’s favor, and a constant reminder of his presence. ” Rillifane Rallathil’s blessing be upon you.” He said, before continuing. ”If we but had the power to heal the entire world...please hold still while I see to your wound.” He reached down and gently touched the stump of the gnome’s arm, all the while softly whispering prayers to the leaflord.
How many times had he been lambasted by his companions for “wasting” his blessings as such? He missed his brother, and truly wished that he was there with him. Theren always had his back in the inevitable arguments. But what was the point of channeling the blessings of a god if they were not used for those in need? It wasn’t like it was his power, anyways. He hadn’t studied as a mage would have. He hadn’t sold his soul like a warlock. No, the leaflord merely used him as a vessel. And as such, he felt it his duty to act as his conscience demanded and as situations permitted.
The gnome’s injuries and demeanor were all too common. He had seen it time and time again, for he walked the path of his God. And his God had given him power so that it could be used. For the ills of peace and war, that was what Lindaer was for. Several times in the past century he had wanted to settle down and to be part of a community, but that was not his fate. He walked the twisted road that was the branches of the tree of life, and he was humbled by the honor of doing so. And in that moment, he felt that his path was clear.
War changed things. While never a pleasant place Daryl had been here before, and this was devastating. There were always pockets of good and good people, but war always changed things for both the victor, and the conquered.
He was sad as he entered the war torn area. The background of military occupation was a familiar one to the aging Paladin, but while it used to excite him and get his blood raging for the upcoming righteous battle, now it only made his old wounds ache, and his sturdy warhorse slowed as he observed the routine of a war torn district, perhaps sensing his riders musing.
He smiled and nodded at the occasional individual that met his eye, and simply ignored the stares...he was accustomed to that. His eyes located the sturdy keep in the distance. Well at least some things haven't changed. , and he urges Greywind forward.
"Just a little further old friend, and they'll be oats and cold water for you". Hopefully
Daryl dismounted outside the building, and handed his reins to an eager squire. He flipped a gold to the young woman. "Make sure he's well fed, watered and brushed would you. I would consider it a special favor".
"Go with her you old scoundrel, and no nipping". The dappled warhorse tosses his head and glares at his longtime companion.
Daryl climbed down with a groan, and dusting the trail dust from his long cloak entered the main room in time to hear the gnomes words.
He watched an armor free individual walk up to the gnome, present a holy symbol and begin to cast some spell on him without asking. Presumptuous a bit.
Occupants of the room see a tall broad dragonkin in battered, but well kept plate approach the table, His black scaled hands and face reveal him as probably the renowned warrior Daryl of Enlil. If his heritage didn't give him away, the shining war pick draped across his back probably would.
Daryl pours himself an ale, quaffs it quickly, the pours another before sitting down with a groan, and reaching for a butter knife. He says nothing, but watches the interaction between the gnome and the elf blood with interest.
Recently, the Emerald Enclave has developed a keen interest in the ongoing rebuilding efforts in Mulmaster – especially as the Thayans are leading these efforts. Recently, Finlogan was contacted by several divine agents of the First Circle to inform him that things are unfolding in the greater Moonsea region that will spell doom for the world at large, again.
So from Chult, Finlogan transported via large plants to the forest of Tethir, his homeland. Then from there, he wind walked to the forest outside Mulmaster, so he could enter in the morning.
Finlogan entered Mulmaster as a human druid wearing veteran hide armor with a bird skull, fur and feather decorations. He shoulders a haversack and a wooden shield and carries a gnarled wooden staff.
It had been many years since he had last entered the Southroad Keep, which had seen better days. Finlogan turned his back to close the door to hide any facial reaction to seeing Lindaer. It had been several years, since their paths had crossed. Depending on the subjects, he might not be able to hold his disguise from one of his oldest friends.
He headed to the table to serve himself bread, cheese and ale. While his daily nutrition was sustained with a goodberry, Finlogan still enjoyed the simple bounty that Nature provides.
Sitting down with his breakfast, he nods at the Wood Elf. "Hey there. I'm Arran. How'd you get roped into this thin?"
The human druid would have nodded and greeted the dragonborn too .
"Well met to you, Falko. I'm Arran. You're probably in the right place. The Divine need more than priests for the worlds to thrive. Where are you from?" He asks before continuing to sample his cheese platter and nurse his ale.
|
|
Turning away from the gnome, Lindaer bowed his head respectfully to Falko. ”I am Lindaer. Lindaer Elyrien, and I am a servant of Rillifane Rallathil, the Leaflord. The regeneration there was by his grace, and the limitations are merely from me being too weak to channel more of his power. The Leaflord is the God of all that mankind calls the ‘The Wood Elves’, which I note is an apt moniker. His name is not known by many outside of our race, but I assure you that he is as old as the forests we call home.” As he spoke he sized Falko. ”For all priests, our powers are limited based on our capabilities. As such, martial skills are often just as, if not, more important, than prayers. It is fortuitous to have one with as many battle scars as yourself here.”
"You'd be surprised." Arran the druid replies to Falko's comment I always thought 'The Divine' had it all figured out for his own benefit. He sets down the empty cheese plate and continues to nurse his ale.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
The air roared in Tarn's ears as he zipped along high above the trees following the shore of the big inner sea labeled Moon Lake on the old map he'd been given by Vizier Hamadine. The old man said it was the most recent map they had in the archives, but Tarn suspected Khadi had paid her father's advisor a little extra to give him the worst possible directions to this barbarian outpost of the north. A childish prank like that would be just her style to pay him back for Tiff and Taff, even though nothing had happened between him and the halfling sisters. After all, he did care for Khadi. Loved her even. They been through too much together for him not to. But it was…complicated…being married to the 13th daughter of the Grand Caliph and 42nd in line for the throne. Not too mention once of the more prominent sorceresses in Huzuz. Sometimes he just needed a little break from all the formality, pomp, and structure of the palace. All that stuff Khadi took very seriously. Of course that’s how you end up flying over Loregiver knows where in the hinterlands of the barbaric north.
Despite the lost days asking for directions and mostly getting screams or threats of bodily harm in response, Northerners had some pretty odd assumptions regarding his people it seems Tarn was pretty certain he was finally on the right track. The ever-present column of rising smoke, seemed to be a reasonable place to start looking for a city devastated by evil elemental power wielding cultists.
Soon enough his hunch proves correct. The outskirts of the ruined city begin to appear below. Collapsed buildings, tent encampments filled with scarred, magic-shocked citizens, shambling undead workers rebuilding in many areas...Wait! What?! Loregiver's grace! They're using undead to rebuild the city. Tarn directs his carpet lower over one of the excavation zones to get a closer look at some of the 'workers.' Seeing the shambling mindless crew being directed by some red-robed overseer vigorously waving him away from the site. Tarn ignores the bald-headed wizard a little longer, getting a closer look at the skeletal frames busy carrying rubble and debris from some ruined structure and dumping it in a nearby pit. Gods Khadi! What kind of barbaric heathens are these northerners? Perhaps the Caliph is right. Any people who would openly use the dead in such a fashion, could easily push the cosmos out of balance.
Before he's able to investigate further, the wizard sends a warning lightning bolt toward the hovering Tarn, who nimbly moves aside and quickly dives into a narrow alley. Unfortunately, the alley also happens to be the home of several dozen crows. The startled birds immediately take flight, doing all they can to make themselves lighter before they start swooping and diving at the now splattered goblin and his carpet.
Cursing again, Tarn jukes up and over another ruin to escape the angry crows, only to be confronted with several clotheslines strung up between two rickety structures. His peacock feathered hat flipping widely in the wind, the goblin manages to duck the first line and dip past the second only to have his face nearly torn off by one of the largest set of feminine undergarments he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. Snagging on his wide chin the big pink laced bloomers completely engulf his head in a frilly pink haze still reeking of lavender and ahhhhh….geeez…ewwwww.
Frantically trying to free himself of the Malevolent Grappling Pink Bloomers of Perfidy, he’s finally able unbutton a flap to clear his left eye just in time for him to see the fast approaching ground.
”Watch….cough…splutter…choke…OUT!” He shouts to the young woman grabbing the reins of a horse from a tall, dark colored dragonborn as the carpet buzzes past inches above their heads.
Usually carpets are quite silent when they land. However they are less so when said carpet happens to come crashing into a large stack of preserved peaches in glass jars waiting to be handed out to various citizens in need. It is even less quiet when said crashing carpet is piloted by a rather panicked, frustrated, and already irritable goblin who finds himself far away from home, his favorite gambling house, and any semblance of real civilization.
”$#@!$ %&@& and %$@%$^!” Exclaims the small, sticky, dripping, bloomer draped figure emerging from the wreckage. Wiry arms struggle ferociously for a few seconds to finally free himself of the dastardly undergarment which he flings to the ground with angry abandon, even adding one last stomp with his slippered foot for good measure. Slapping his wide-but-slightly-bent-brimmed hat back on his head, he drags the carpet out the wreckage along with a simple pack and a few other bits. With quick eyes, Tarn a glimpse of the merchant whose goods were carelessly left in the street unattended screaming and hurrying toward the mess. Quick as can be the little goblin jams the carpet into the pack and then scurries behind another stack of goods before emerging casually further down the block in front of a large official looking structure whistling an old Zakharan tune.
Glancing up the steps to the big stone building where the dragonborn entered he shrugs his small shoulders. ”Seems like a good place to start.” He says climbing the steps. Flicking a sticky peach off his shoulder, Tarn straightens his stained cloak and opens the door to find several other adventurous types standing around making small talk.
”Ahhh…this must be the place then.” He says to the assembled travelers. ”Is this where….” The goblin pauses, frowns for a second and then pulls out a rather worn and tattered parchment. His red eyes peer at it straining to read the damp, soggy script. ”Oh…right. Is this where the sheikh Rastol Shan resides?”
A sound like crackling, burning logs mixed with a choir of celestial beings comes from the gnome's stump "Oh! What did you do?! Wha..."
Suddenly, a tiny little hand with 5 fingers the size of a baby (gnome baby) erupts from the mauled appendage with a sharp *pop*. It slowly inflates like a waterskin bladder. "Oh dear me...put it back, won't you?!"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
It starts with a full contingent of men, marching with the precision of trained military veterans. As they drew closer, it was clear that they had been in some sort of scuffle or bar brawl, as many of them had black eyes or swollen lips.
They walked in two columns, 10 men per column; at their head, a Priest of Torm strode, his concentration affixed on maintaining a spell as he walked. Between them, being carried by her arms and legs, was Szasa.
........................................................................
Szasa had been bored. Really, really bored.
Even the bandit's screams and panicked running couldn't relieve her boredom. One of them, a large, gnarl-toothed Half-Orc, swung a chipped greataxe at her head. Casually, she ducked under his swing and then with a gesture turned him and his friend with the daggers sneaking up behind her into neat little piles of dust.
Bored.
Soon enough, the bandit camp was in full rout from the young woman.
Dusting off her hands, she had begun to pull out her portable hole and store the loot when she realized she was surrounded.
"You picked the wrong bandits to back." she said, as she heard the intoning of one of the worst spells in existance: antimagic field.
f'ing Mulmasterites.
........................................................................
Having completed their mission, they deposited Szasa unceremoniously on the ground next to the table, still bound and gagged, then moved quickly away from her, like one might move from a cornered but still dangerous animal.
The priest began to talk to the Gnome in hushed tones; as they conversation took place, electricity began to arc off the woman's body as she lay on the ground where she was dumped, hands bound behind her back and ankles shackled together. a rope gag was shoved into her mouth, and a full metal helm with no eye slits covered her head.
"You were only supposed to invite her here, not attack her!" the Gnome bellowed at the priest, who faltered yet said nothing, opting instead to lead his men off into the crowd, many of whom were still staring at the jumbled bodies of Goblin, Human, Horse, and Dragonborn.
Gazing up, up, and up a little further at the big barbarian, Tarn breaks into a wide toothy grin and tips his feathered hat at the human's mention of peaches.
"Indeed. May the ten thousand be praised. Copious quantities of the fine fruit can be found just outside as the lovely Pomona of the Orchards has decided to bless us with some of her bounty." He frowns shaking his head in disappointment. "Although I'm afraid carelessness by their current owner has resulted in several being somewhat harshly treated and no longer fit for civilized consumption." His eyes glance at the barbarians furs and rough appearance. "However, there should be plenty to fit your tastes should you wish to partake."
Casually stepping past the warrior he moves to speak to the gnome only to be interrupted by the arrival of the bound sorceress and her rather battered looking escort. Curious, Tarn steps closer to the masked woman, his head leaning in for a closer look, eartips twitching with excitment until he suddenly backs off shaking his head at looking at the priest in disappointment.
"No...no." He says to both gnome and priest. "The necromancer was taller, wearing red and most certainly a male human. You've surely arrested the wrong person." Noticing their blank, uncomprehending stares, he forges ahead. "You know, certainly you do? The necromancer commanding the horde of skeletons not far from here?off. He unlawfully attacked a representative of the Grand Caliph. Surely you plan to deal with such blasphemy quickly. If you don't have the resources, I will offer my blade to assist in the name of the Grand Caliph and the people of Zakhara." He looks at the growing profusion of power surrounding the bound lady. "I might also suggest apologies are in order if you've mistakenly arrested this lady. She seems a trifle....irritated. And if she's anything like my lady wife, she'll not take kindly to such treatment." He adds the last few words stepping as far away from the woman and her growing aura of power as possible.
Arran the druid watches the female prisoner be unceremoniously dumped into the room. It doesn't look like this is the first time the druid has seen that treatment, because it doesn't interrupt the nursing of his ale.
Then, at the eloquence of the goblin, he spits out, as if it had been on the tip of his tongue, "Zakhara! That's it! That's the reason you're so civilized. Or unless... Are you really a goblin? Or has someone polymorphed you into one, potentially by the order of the Grand Caliph?"
"Don't misunderstand me. I've nothing personally against goblins. Around here though, their short life spans and undeveloped communities ostracize them from the longer-lived beings. And they can breed like rabbits in most environments, which can overrun a locality within a few years. But they are such a durable race. Able to survive and thrive almost anywhere."
"Either way, you're here now. I'm Arran. What's your name?"
"How did you get here? Teleportation? Any other way would have taken months, right?"
"And, who's this necromancer?"
Daryl's hope for a nice quite meal while he awaited the meeting was shattered not once... but twice back to back. First the peach perfumed goblin hustled in... How can something that small be that loud, then a protesting bound rapscallion of some sort was escorted in and unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the chamber. He sighs, and turns to face the room.
That one at least I have met. He turns to Falko, and clasps his right hand around his left wrist index finger extended in the traditional greeting of a fellow Order of the Gauntlet associate.
The others I know by reputation only... Wonder what Shan is up to. I'm sure it will be dangerous, and judging by the cast of characters surely not boring.
The big Dragonborn belches under his breath, and a small cloud of smoke filters through his fingers. He simply watches for the moment fascinated to see what is next.
"I assure you my good elven sir, that I am as I appear." The goblin replies doffing his hat as he bows with a formal court greeting. "I am Tarn Neekapper, Hero of the Lost Crucible, Savior of the Silver Sphinx, Bearer of the Golden Justice, Follower of the Ten Thousand, Wedded to the Princess Khaliji al-Assad al-Zahir and Emissary of the Grand Caliph of Zakhara." He slips the battered hat back on his head, seemingly unconcerned with its rather used appearance. "I do indeed hail from the blessed Land of Fate where the Loregiver's peace is maintained. And while it saddens me to hear of such prejudices regarding my kind, it is not surprising since they have no examples of civilized life to guide them." He glances around frowning at the barren room and the rather sparse buffet being offered. "It seems that being surrounded by heathens and barbarians, who apparently allow necromancers to run amuck, has had somewhat detrimental effects." He rubs a bony knuckle under his wide chin for a few moments while his ears twitch in thought. "Perhaps I will speak to the Caliph about a new effort to remedy that situation and bring my northern brothers and sisters under the guidance of the Loregiver."
Turning back to the big warrior, Tarn shakes he head and chuckles softly. "Oh no. I am no priest. Merely a follower of the ten thousand where of all the many gods and the roles they play are acknowledged and respected." He winks. "Always pays to play it safe when it comes to the gods and genies I always say."
"Do you know her?" Tarn asks, noticing the big man's keen interest in the prisoner.
The gnome sighs and waggles some sort of protective magics about himself, then slowly and gently proceeds to remove her bindings, starting with the ankle shackles "There's been a terrible miscommunication..." He struggles with the unshackling, having only one good arm. The second is nearly half normal size, however...perhaps its best to let him handle it. Who knows what unbinding the tempest might bring.
”Elven...are you talking to me? I don’t see any other elves around.” Lindaer said, somewhat confused.
"What? Oh, my apologies." Tarn says to both Arran and the elf he hasn't met yet while rubbing a bit of peach syrup from his eyes. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm still a bit carpet-lagged from the long flight here."
"Are you also here to see Sheikh Shan?"
The gnome's arm regenerates to full just in time for him to catch himself falling, being shoved aside by the mighty Bear Warrior. He sits there on the floor, paralyzed with wonder as the strength of it returns. Delighted he gives Lindaer an unsolicited, thigh-high hug "It's a miracle...I thought my crafts would be lost to the world forever..."
As the helm is removed, the (likely) real reason that it was applied comes to light: Though she is gagged, the young woman is swearing. A lot.
For her part, she is relatively uninjured, aside from a split lip.
After a few moments of a near nonstop stream of curses, apethets, and insults, Szasa finally calms down enough to notice Falko.
When the gag is removed, she says "Nice to see you Falko. I trust your invitation was less...insulting than mine?"
Standing, it's clear that she's rather short and...she is probably the prettiest female that any of you have ever laid eyes on. Her ears are pointed, but not to the extreme that you see among full-blooded Elves. Fire-red hair is perfectly paired with her ice-blue colored eyes.
Rubbing her wrists, she looks around for a moment at the assembled people and says "So, you brought me here. What city are you going to try to pay me to destroy?"
She then sees the larger area and adds "Not that I am in the habit of destroying cities, regardless of what the rumors might say."
Szasa nods at Falko and takes the poffered seat.
"I was just killing some ba....hey, they stole my treasure!"
sighing, she shakes her head and says "Anyway, I was killing bandits when those idiots showed up. We had a little tussle, and then was drug here. How about you?"
The gnome's arm regenerates to full just in time for him to catch himself falling, being shoved aside by the mighty Bear Warrior. He sits there on the floor, paralyzed with wonder as the strength of it returns. Delighted he gives Lindaer an unsolicited, thigh-high hug "It's a miracle...I thought my crafts would be lost to the world forever..."
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
After the gnome lets go of Lindaer's leg, Arran the Druid asks the gnome, "Congratulations. What crafts will you return to the world?"
He takes a sip of ale watching the small drama between the barbarian and prisoner unfold, using his peripheral vision.
The tip of Tarn's ear twitches slightly when the goblin realizes he is the one being referred to as Peaches. However, years spent in gambling houses around the world, not to mention the occasional touchy djinn had him quickly calming himself and plastering the friendly diplomatic smile back onto his face. Remember Tarn, both Khadi and the Grand Caliph said you needed to play nice with the barbarians. All well and good except they are thousands of leagues away....
At the mention of the ale, Tarn's eyes glitter slightly. "Indeed, lady mage, fortunately there is still ale to share. Tarn Neekapper, Emissary of Zakhara at your service." He says bowing deeply before casually turning to the barbarian and with a grand smile declares... "See I told you that soaking her with a pitcher of ale wouldn't help drench her power, nor would it reveal anything immodest as you seemed to be hoping for. What was it? To...'Get a peek.' I believe you said. Her robes are much too thick for such a thing." A thin hand waves dismissively. "So it seems all has worked out as the Loregiver desires.
"Now if only our host would reveal himself." He adds moving away toward the gnome.
Szasa waves off and says "I learned my lesson about alcohol a LOOONNNGGG time ago."
Szasa looks around again before asking "So, what happened here anyway? Is this Mulmaster?"
"Oh, you're interested in me? Well I..." the gnome puffs up his chest and is about to announce something grand, when a serious looking human in regal robes throws open the door at the end of the chamber.
"Enough, Chipluck. No one wants to hear about your ridiculous owlbear taming enterprise. Besides, they have traveled long and far to grace us with their presence. To business, shall we?" he shoos away the gnome with a few quick hand gestures.
Those of you somewhat local likely know Rastol Shan as a important figure. Once thought responsible for overturning a High Blade of Mulmaster who refused to bend to the will of Bane (Mulmaster's state religion for years), he has since ascended to Senior Cloak of the city's major cabal of arcane casters.
He assures you "I am Rastol Shan...I apologize for the delay but as you can see we are teetering on the edge of collapse. Our...my...resources are nearly exhausted." he admits with some difficulty. "There is a matter the Thayans...have 'requested' our help with." he pauses to gauge your reactions.
IN HUMAN FORM ;D
Arran the Druid comments about the gnome, "Owlbear taming? You're brave." He takes a sip of ale.
Addressing Rastol Shan, the druid asks, "What do the Thayans want done? What makes you think we can do anything about it? And, why should we care?" He takes another sip of ale.
He watches the reactions of the invitees as much as Rastol Shan, but the ale must be affecting him.
"Well? Out with it man." Tarn says having no idea what a Thayan actually is. "Has their princess been kidnapped? The royal treasury broken into? The land overrun by undead hordes....
The goblin pauses for a moment frowning then leans forward slightly. "By the way, you seem to have a problem with necromancy yourself. Nothing terribly bad yet, but you know necromancers, where there's one and all that."
"So what foul wrong has caused such concern that even merchants abandon their peaches in the streets?"
At the mention of necromancers "Yes...the emergency efforts. Believe us we looked at all options...it was a devil's choice between traditional slaves and the...animations. Cost was the main factor...I'm afraid we must acquiesce to the old wisdom of 'the ends justifying the means...'"
The clearly distressed wizard continued "To be frank, the Red Wizards wish to capitalize on our misfortune with such aid. In return for their rebuilding efforts here, we have granted them something they have long sought diplomatically: a forward base of operations in the Moonsea region. It is one such of these...'operations'...you will be involved with..."
At Finlogan's question Rastol nods pragmatically "They will promise you a king's ransom...1500 in platinum was one ridiculous number I heard. They will promise you glory: your legend will blossom yet further and you will forever have an ally with Thay. A favor of the magocracy will be yours for the asking..."
He smirks, as if questioning the value of the latter.
"But know this: should you fail to assist them...that is if I fail to bring the heroes they requested...it will result in the death of this city and the meager sum of people left in it. I am not posturing by saying this. I would like you to see for yourself...what they brought back..."
"The Woodsy one asks some great questions, but he missed the important one: How much does it pay?"
He nods solemnly "Some counts put half the once 50,000 Mulmasterites dead...others much higher. The refugees from Phlan and the uncounted impoverished of the Zhent Ghettos likely raise the toll yet higher. Our harbor on Moonsea was always our strength, and now it has drained into a chasm leading into the Underdark...fleets of war and trade ships are left to fill the bowl like discarded toothpicks. We are dying not dead, but the Thayans hold our beating heart at their will...to crush or nurse back to life."