Korvosa, the Jewel of Varisia, has long sparkled on the shore of Conqueror's Bay. Established just over 300 years ago by Cheliax at the height of that empire's expansion, the city now commands its own destiny. A line of Korvosan kings and queens emerged to rule the city, establishing an infamous seat of power - the Crimson Throne. Rulers have sat upon the Crimson Throne for more than a century, and the city has flourished; yet the monarchy always seems on the brink of disaster. The Crimson Throne is not a prize to be won - it is a curse. No monarch of Korvosa has died of old age, and none has produced an heir while ruling. Even though King Eodred II controls Korvosa more fully than any previous monarch, that control remains tenuous, and many secretly count the days until their latest king falls to what they call the Curse of the Crimson Throne.
Macaria
Even though it's been years since you've been to Korvosa, as soon as you enter its gates, it's as if you'd never left. Many of the shops are the same, the bureaucracy (naturally) is identical, and you even overhear people muttering about how King Eodred's illness proves the Curse is still active. And as it seems that nothing's changed, the memories come flooding back. Hunger. Pain. Gaedren. Fear. Gaedren. Addiction. Gaedren. Loss. GAEDREN. Suddenly a CARD floats into your field of vision, blown by a chill breeze. It's not from your deck. On the back is written a note.
Torsten
Ash and smoke. It's been two days since the fire, and that's still all you can smell. If not for your Ioun Wyrd's forewarning and the timely intervention of Yhrrilka, you'd have died there. And now, as rumors of King Eodred's bout of ill health making people uneasy, you're having a hard time getting any help whatsoever - especially since the Church of Abadar isn't providing free food and shelter for the homeless. With your money quickly dwindling, your prospects are looking rather slim. That's when you find a CARD lying amongst your tattooing supplies ... with a mysterious note.
Yhrrilka
Ash and smoke. It's been two days since the fire, and that's still all you can smell. Food and shelter are severely lacking, as the people are uneasy due to rumors of King Eodred's illness and seeking aid from the Church of Abadar costs coin. Your prospects are looking rather slim. But none of that matters. Zohruk is dead. And with his loss, the world has become a little darker. As you begin your morning prayers, you discover something underneath your holy symbol - a CARD and a note.
The Note: I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.
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The interior of this small humble home consists of a single cozy chamber filled with a fragrant haze of flowers and strong spice. The aroma comes from several sticks of incense smoldering in wall-mounted burners that look like butterfly-winged elves. The smoke gives the room a dreamy feel. The walls are draped with brocaded tapestries, one showing a black-skulled beast juggling human hearts, and another showing a pair of angels dancing atop a snow-blasted mountain. A third tapestry on the far wall depicts a tall, hooded figure shrouded in mist, holding a flaming sword in a skeletal hand. Several brightly-colored rugs cover the floor, but the room's only furnishings are a wooden table covered by a bright red throw cloth and several elegant, tall-backed chairs. A basket covered by blue cloth sits under the table. Atop the table is a simple note, weighed down with a stone paperweight:
Thank you for coming. I had to step out for a bit, but shall return shortly. Please, have a seat while you wait. The basket under the table contains bread and drink for you.
Torsten walked into the room, a grim look on his face. His beard was bright orange and his head bald. Like all dwarves he was short and stout, though he was far more heavily muscled than the norm. Even for a race known for hard physical labor, he had the look of someone who considered his strength to be part of his craft. But that wasn't the first thing that would attract the eyes of an onlooker. Everywhere that there was bare skin there were tattoos. They were all white, meaning that only when one got close enough would they notice how many there truly were. Unlike the people who were addicted to tattoos and had images all over, Torsten's tattoos were all runes. For those who could read dwarven, they would have seen that they were a collection of words and prayers. For those who knew the craft, they would have seen that the runes were the types usually found on magical weapons, armor and wonderous items. Not that one would have necessarily noticed this anyways, for at the moment he was wearing practical traveler's clothes. Leather boots, brown wool pants, a gray shirt with a vest, and a dark hooded cloak that was so faded that it was nearly impossible to guess the original color.
He read the note and his face took on an even grimmer expression. With a wordless grunt he sat down, his arms crossed, as he waited to see who else was going to show up. He didn't like that whomever had left him the card had managed to get into his supplies. It meant that they were truly accomplished in the art of stealth. It made him feel uneasy. While the thought that this might be a trap had crossed his mind, he figured that it was worth the risk.
Two days can be a long time. It can be an especially long time when you've just lost your home. It can be an eternity when you've lost your home and your love.
Yhrrilka had spent most of that time walking the streets of Korvosa. She only stopped when she got too tired to keep going, and that took a lot. The first night she’d slept huddled in an alleyway, for all of maybe an hour before sunrise. The second night, she’d allowed herself the luxury of spending a few coppers for the common room of some inn, the name of which she couldn’t even recall by the time she’d walked in the door. She huddled in a corner like an animal, the smoke still lingering in her hair and clothes, an ever-present reminder of the events of that night. The flames, both theirs and hers. The scramble to get out, and finding Zohruk as she did. She briefly saw Torsten, he’d been saying something, but she couldn’t understand him, the rage and grief were roaring in her ears. That was when she took off.
It was the dawn of that second day, she went to greet the sunrise with a prayer. As she reached for the holy symbol in her pack, that was when she found the harrow card. Not one of mine… the Crows? That’s a little heavy-handed, nyet? She read the note that was with the card. So someone else wants this man to face justice? Fine with me.
Yhrrilka walked around, killing time until sunset. Worrying about how the items got into her pack was fruitless. There were enough moments when she was asleep on her feet, or numb from shock, that it was all too plausible for someone to have quickly gotten it in there without her noticing. Her thoughts turned to the harrow card that was with the note. The Crows card usually signified loss, often some form of theft. Surely, something had been taken from Zohruk, and by extension from her as well. It was a topic with which anyone from Belkzen is familiar. But even then, some things cannot be taken. The memories, the times spent together, the way someone can make you feel, those things remain even when the person is gone. She thought of the one tattoo she’d let Zohruk do on her, but it was far too soon, and all that brought was pain.
We are the scars that shape us, she thought of the old saying. But this wound still has to stop bleeding.
As she walked into the house, she saw the dwarf seated at the table. Of course he’d be here. And be here before you. After what she’d been through, followed by what she’d put herself through, Yhrrilka looked like something a Rull-cat had dragged across the Flood Road. But she was determined to not give Torsten anything else to worry about. She straightened herself up as best she could, and strode into the room, acting as if the soot, sweat, and tears just weren’t there. Standing next to the chair in which he’d seated himself, the young half-orc addressed him. "Privet, Torsten. I... it is good to see you unharmed." It’s the first thing Ril could remember having said in two days, and even getting that much out was exhausting. "I guess you got a note, too?"
Macaria thinks heavily about the card. Th Juggler. She feels it's a master's choice, for the card could be referring both to her, to Gadren... or to the dealer. What if Gadren is the dealer?
No, that musn't be. But maybe someone related spotted her arriving to town...
Too many interrogants. She sets her mind on clearing the mist surrounding the situation, and directs her steps towards the rendezvous. Arriving early, she walsk up and down the street pretending to offer her deck, while keeping an eye on the house to check if there's any strange movement. A dwarf, then a half-orc, enter the place. "Either people from the same band, or debt collectors... Let's find out. In any case, someone who managed to handle the card to me like that is probably aware of my moves."
Macaria asks for divine assistance, a sacred ward appearing briefly around her and then fading . She approaches the door, wishing there aren't any traps or similar, and opens it to find many things to process. She stays silent for about ten seconds, still at the doorstep, before showing the card and asking aloud "Did any of you send me this?"
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"Ril." Torsten said, with a nod of his head. A flash of pain crossed his features. These past two days he had gone out of his way to avoid her. He felt guilty about what had happened and powerless to do anything about it. Initially had let her and Zohruk in because it was the right thing to do, and if he was honest with himself, because he knew that it was going to drive his family insane when they found out. Halforcs from Belkzen! No, not Belkzen. Koldukar. One of the ten great sky citadels. His father would have been apoplectic! But he soon found that the two of them were honestly good people, better even than most of the people of Korvosa. He had even come to consider them to be friends. And now Zohruk was dead. Dead because he had tried to protect the shop.
"Aye. Got the note." He pulled out his own and was about to say something further when Macaria came in. "Nay. But whomever did said that 'e stepped out." Torsten eyed the bread and drink warily, wondering whether it was poisoned.
"What?"
Macaria is still absorbing some of the huge amounts of weird things he can see inside the house.
"Do you mean you don't know whoever lives here? Are you... waiting? Do you mean any harm?"
Torsten looked at Macaria with a scowl, and then with visible effort forced himself to relax. "Look. Lass. Let's start over. Name's Torsten, and this here is Ril. I'm assuming that ye got a scrap of paper like this." He held up the note that he had found "Inviting ye here due to a grudge against Gaedren." He said the name as if though it tasted bitter just saying it. "I don't mean anyone harm that would put a knife in the ribs of that scum-sucking son of a troglodyte."
Yhrrilka forces herself to look Torsten in the eye, and gives him a pained smile. He is still kind, even after we have failed him.
She startles a bit when the human woman enters, but remembers the note said other would come. Her efforts at appearing relaxed are... middling at best. Approaching the new arrival, she says, "I am Yhrrilka; as he said, you may call me 'Ril'." Looking at the card the woman had extended, Ril asks, "May I?" Assuming Macaria allows, the half-orc places that card on the table, following it with the one she found. "Torsten, did you get one as well...?" She examines the cards. As she examines the cards, she absent-mindedly reaches into the basket and tears off a portion from a loaf of bread, realizing it has literally been days since she has eaten.
"I am Macaria." She reluctantly enters, closing the door behind her. She looks at the other card. "The crows. Have you been betrayed?"
"I am Macaria. The crows. Have you been betrayed?"
Yhrrilka is forced to let the question hang for a moment as she chews a mouthful of bread, giving her that much more time to think about that night. As she finally swallows, she replies. "Nyet. Failure and loss are our lot to bear," she says as she gestures to Torsten, "But we were not betrayed..."
"...the scum sucker burnt down me home and business because I wouldn't pay into his protection racket. Ril and Zohruk, her, eh, comrade, they were working in me shop." The anger in his voice died away when he brought up Zohruk, replaced instead by a swirl of emotions that left him feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't look at Ril when he continued. "They were there when Lamm's thugs burnt the place down. Tried to stop them. She's here, he a'int. Just another crime that Lamm is responsible for." He let it hang in the air for a moment, before looking Macaria in the eyes. "How 'bout ye? What makes ye be out for his blood?"
Macaria sits on the table. "I was one of Lamm's thugs."
Of course, she doesn't look like a thug. Who knows what is she capable of, though. She elaborates a bit. "I was forced to read the Harrow deck for people and tell them what they wanted to hear, then Lamm would collect the money. At least at first. Then the job got worse... "
Looking at the bread, Macaria frowns. "Have you checked that it's not poisoned?"
Yhrrilka raises an eyebrow at the description of Macaria's past association with Lamm. "Worse? What - no," she checks herself. "You don't have to go into detail." Ril doubts there is anything beneath this man Lamm. "Since you are here with us, I must assume you are no longer one of his...?"
"As to the bread, our mysterious host managed to slip my invitation to me completely without my noticing. If they wished to dispatch me, they could have done so before this with far less fuss. But if you insist, I will test the wine," Ril smiles as she uncorks the bottle, pours some into a mug, and drinks.
Once closer to the two strangers, and with a more relaxed mood, Macaria notices both of them are tattooed. Strange thing, but no stranger than what she has gone through.
She answers the sexy orc, whom she finds surprisingly attractive and... exotic.
"I broke free from his claws years ago, don't worry. I've been away from Korvosa for quite long, but my caravan is back in town." It is evident she's part of a Varisian wandering troupe from her clothes, but it's the first time she mentions it. "I wanted to check for my old..."
She wanted to say "family", but it sounds odd. Her family is at the caravan now, and there are no remains of Carmen Dobrescu nor of her relatives. There's only Macaria now.
"... eh... friends. Then the wind brought this card to my hands."
Yhrrilka notices that all three cards appear to come from the same deck. The design style is identical, and the amount of wear and discoloration of the edges reveals that they've been well-used. As for the provisions, the bread is somewhat stale and the wine cheap. Still, it's filling and tastes good enough.
"The wind, you say?" Ril perks up at that detail. "Huh, how about that? Torsten, any astonishing tales about the arrival of your card? Just find it in your beard this morning?" She gently teases her friend.
Yhrrilka lays the cards on the table, downs the last of her wine in one vigorous swig, then stares intently as she puts down the mug. "Let us see if the cards can tell us anything about themselves..."
Torsten took his card and put it face up on the table. "Found it in me tattooing kit. The git managed to get it in there without me noticing, and that never leaves me side." He said with a frown. With the card down he took a piece of bread and poured himself some wine. As he raised his glass to drink he looked at Macaria, and without a hint of humor in his voice said: "And I hold nothing against ye for whatever is in yer past. If we don't keel over dead in the next few minutes, then have a glass with us."
Yhrrilka: The cards radiate a magical aura of moderate strength, but you're unable to pinpoint anything specific.
As Yhrrilka concentrates on the cards, the front door opens, and a middle-aged VARISIAN WOMAN enters. She's idly shuffling a deck of Harrow cards. With a friendly nod, she speaks in a soft but clear voice. "Thank you for coming, my friends, and for putting up with my unconventional method of contacting you. I have reason to remain hidden, you see - a vicious man would see great harm done to me if he knew I was reaching out for help. I believe you know of whom I speak."
As their hostess enters the house, Yhrrilka picks the cards up off the table, and offers them back to her. "Good evening, ma'am, I think these are yours. May I ask your name? I like to know who I'm talking about vengeance with. And I'm through with him harming others," she snarls, showing a bit of fang.
"We do know of whom you speak" Macaria says in heavy Varisian accent, the one spoken by caravan nomads, "but we don't know who speaks." She's wary, for she knows the woman can do some magic tricks and you never know what to expect. She might not even be a woman, or not be here at all.
”Aye, so get to the point. Who’re ye and what do ye propose?”
The woman smiles sadly as she takes the cards back from Ril. "Of course. I am Zellara Esmeranda, a fortune-teller. This deck of cards is an heirloom passed down through a dozen generations and is my sole means of support. A year ago, when thieves working for Gaedren Lamm stole it, my son Eran tracked them down and returned it to me. But Gaedren had him followed, and soon after he left my home, he was murdered. I sought help from the Korvosan Guard, but they turned me away. So I asked around. I paid bribes. I sought advice from my cards. And recently, I was rewarded - I found out where Gaedren dwells: an old fishery where he trains abducted children to be pickpockets and counts his stolen treasures.
"But I need your help. I cannot hope to face this man on my own, and the Guard moves so slowly that if they were willing to help, Gaedren would certainly know of their coming well in advance. And even if they arrested him, what guarantee would I have he would be punished? He's evaded the law for decades. But you know of these frustrations as well. No one person can make Gaedren pay. But perhaps four people together?"
Yhrrilka stands there, listening intently as Zellara tells her tale. When she's finished, Ril speaks, her Orcish accent much more prominent, as it often is when she's upset or agitated. "I would be happy to make Lamm pay." She turns to the others, not a hint of hesitation to her. "Torsten, Macaria, let us show this man to the Boneyard."
I will either avenge Zohruk, or join him.
”Aye. More than willing. So...got any intel? How many men does the fooker have? What’re his defenses like? I’m willing to go anyway, but anything ye can tell us will help.”
Macaria makes a strange gesture with his face. "Well, it's not that easy."
She sits back on the table and takes her own harrow deck from her bag, shuffling the cards as she speaks. "As I told you, I was once one of those kids, and I know the "training place" he had at the time - a different one. And I know what's he capable of when pressed."
She picks a random card - The Raksasha
"All those kids he trains... Many of them he has hooked via Shiver, Mesh or any other addictive substance. For some children, even having assured meals and shelter is enough to consider Lamm a father and a Lord. The kids will defend him, and they will gladly throw themselves down a cliff to do so."
She looks at the faces of all present and stops a bit to give some effect to her words. Then she picks another random card - The Tyrant
"Even those who don't will be in peril, for he won't hesitate to use them as hostages or cannon fodder if the situation arises." She puts the two cards back in the deck. "Are you willing to risk their lives and your sanity? I am, but you should be warned, this will take a toll on you" she ends, throwing two more cards that land on the table face up - The Fiend and The Lost.
Torsten shook his head as he listened to Macaria talk. "Bloody evil fooker." He muttered. Then, louder and with steel in his voice, he said [b]"I'll take the blood on me hands and me soul."[b]
Yhrrilka frowns as she hears Macaria detail the lengths to which Lamm might go. "When my time comes, after I pass through the Boneyard, I must stand before the Burning Mother. She will ask me what I did to stop this. If I can only answer, 'Nothing,' then this life will have been worth nothing."
She pauses. "They say folks that pass on aren't concerned what happens here in the world anymore. But they have left their marks in the world." Placing her right fist over her heart, she continues. "Even if Zohruk no longer cares, the part of him that is left in my heart, that demands I do this."
"And I will, I swear it."
Zellara smiles in relief. "Thank you so much. I've been turned away so many times, I'd almost given up hope." She draws a trio of cards, offering one to each of you: The Survivor, The Forge, The Teamster. "And then you came. I am not strong and possess no skill in battle. But my cards allow me to hear the whispers of the city - and they tell me that Gaedren is at his most vulnerable right now. The tragedy from two days ago cost him his most dangerous lackeys. Only a trio of lieutenants remain. Gaedren will doubtless recruit more men to his foul work, but for the moment, he hides at Westpier 17."
Torsten nodded at this. "We hit him tonight then. Once it gets dark. Ril, I know ye're ready for this and what ye can do. How 'bout ye, Macaria, was it? And afore we go, what's can ye do? Should know each others' abilities before we do this."
"Yes, I'm quite ready, Torsten," Yhrrilka says in a low voice. She turns to Macaria. "Any toll this takes will be worth it, if we can finish this. My Zohruk opened the door for us, it'd be rude to not follow through, nyet?"
"Fine, we'll meet at... 8? Is that alright? Meanwhile, I'll have to go back to the caravan, have chores to do."
Macaria turns around and walks to the door. Just before leaving, she stops for 2 seconds.
"Oh. I'm a priestess."
"Very well, madame volokh. Tend to your business, and meet us back here then."
Zellara nods in agreement. "Very well; see you at 8 tonight. I'll reach out if the situation changes before that."
When you return to Zellara's house, there's a note on the table. "I'm at Gaedren's hideout. He has a guard dog and is busy making dock-dumplings to raise some fast cash. Please hurry; I don't know how much longer he'll remain here."
Yhrrilka comes back to Zellara's home, and reads the note. "This woman gets around," she says to no one in particular.
Macaria tends to her daily tasks at the caravan, then returns to the house at about 8 pm. When she finds the note, she nods and hurries to the place indicated.
Torsten spent the rest of the day silently brooding about the grudge, preferring to sit in isolation. The fact that they were about to kill did weight heavily on his mind, given that it was something he had only ever trained to do. Now it was going to happen. Now was the time.
”Aye. Can’t say I trust someone who is never here in person. But let’s get the move on while the dog is busy shyting. We should try and be quiet on the approach.”
True to his word, he did his best to move silently. Something which in no way came naturally to a dwarf.
The address you were given leads to a creaking, decrepit building perched atop a steep embankment with most of the structure extending out over the Jeggare River. All the windows are boarded shut, and the doors are mottled with mold and grit. It looks like it's been abandoned for years. But when dealing with Gaedren, you know appearances can often be deceiving. There's no sign of Zellara.
Yhrrilka tried to focus herself on the task at hand. Burning Mother, I believe this man to be beyond redemption. If I prevail and send him beyond, may I do so without cruelty, and without undue suffering.
Sword in hand, she steps out onto the pier, her boots barely making a sound on the boards as she steps. As Torsten clomps along, she turns in the darkness and glares at him, the hand without the sword giving the palms-up, what-are-you-doing gesture.
Macaria shows up at the building when Ril and Torsten are already there. She doesn't speak a word to avoid unnecessary noise, but she wonders if she'll be able to stay that silent when they sneak in. Stealth is not one of her best skills.
She looks left and right and makes an inquisitive gesture, referring to their "employer".
You cautiously make your way onto the fishery's loading dock. A few carts sit nearby, partially-loaded with large tar-caked barrels marked with a fish-shaped splotch of red paint on the side. Double doors to the immediate south of the loading dock's ramp provide access to the building's interior, while a rickety flight of stairs descends 10ft to a point just 3ft over the river's surface, where a simple door provides a secondary entrance.
”Let’s hit up the little door. Seems less obvious than walking through the front. Ril, Mac, either of ye able to pick locks?”
"Yes, Torsten, I should be able to handle the lock." Yhrrilka is tingling with anticipation at the thought of avenging Zohruk. She turns to Macaria. "Watch yourself on the stairs in this light." She walks down and tries to work the lock, but her eagerness gives her hands a heavier touch than usual.
"Lass." Torsten whispered. "Take yer time. We've got it and ye can do this."
After she nearly snaps a pick off in the lock in her haste, Ril is pissed, almost to the point of getting up and kicking the door down, before Torsten's words calm her. "Thanks, drug," she says, as she takes a moment, clears her head, and focuses on the lock.
With a quiet *click*, the lock opens.
You slowly open the door a crack and peer inside to see a large room. The floor is slick with river water, bits of seaweed, and fish blood, and the air is thick with the accompanying scents. Wooden catwalks to the north and south allow access between the western part of the fishery and the floor of the room, which is 10ft lower. A wide opening in the floor to the south allows direct access to the sloppy, muddy water of the Jeggare River a further 3ft down, while to the northwest stands an immense 8ft-tall wooden vat, its sides caked and waterproofed with tar. Inside is a foul-looking mixture of chum, river water, and who knows what else. To the east are stacked many barrels and crates, each with a fish painted on it. Over a dozen small hammocks hang from under the catwalks, each with two sleeping children sharing a ratty blanket and pillow.
A large dog lies on the floor near the north wall. It cocks an ear when the door opens but doesn't otherwise react. Perhaps it's not quite ready to wake up and check for intruders.
Yhrrilka steps into the room, the better to line herself up. She extends a hand toward the dog. May the Burning Mother see my actions as just. For a brief moment, nothing. Suddenly a bolt of fire leaps from her hand at the dog.
vs touch
Fire