Alaïs gets the distinct feeling that she’s wandered into a transaction that’s going completely over her head, but that's about it, and she doesn’t like it; it reminds her too much of her childhood as the youngest in her family. What is going on?
"I rather feel I must apologize for not being my oldest brother," she says ruefully. "He's quite interested in earth magic, and I'm sure the two of you could have wonderful chats about gemology."
Well. In for a copper, in for a platinum, and it might help sell it if she bruits her story about in case Moonmeadow has any doubts about her sincerity.
"It's not really where my talents run to," she adds, committing to the bit, "but I did just have a moment getting some advice from Prince Moonmeadow, about some interests in mines back home. Well, home-ish. Among the neighbours, really..."
Please don't ask too much about Elistia, she tries to beam telepathically to the others' minds. Who's in charge there again? Surely I haven't let the name slip already? She's pretty sure she can more or less carry off a superficial conversation of society circles in the parts she's situated her family's imaginary mines, if not.
To Kata's question, Ilthane only smiles. "You know as much as my employer about the gem. We just know more about the metal the gem's set into."
** spoiler omitted **
"Anyways." She taps her nail against the glass of her own drink. The note rings out clear and cold. "Speaking of dear old Balabar, I should really get back to my work. And I'm sure you had better get back to yours." She winks. "I'm staying in his guest house. If you learn more about the bezel, feel free to stop by."
Alaïs isn't the best at reading people, but as Ilhane finishes her drink, it's obvious that whatever this was, it's over for now.
"I wish you the best for the what's left of the morning," she nods as the chemist takes her leave, and takes a last long shot herself in an attempt to add to her picture of how Diamond Lake works, "and for Autumn's End, when it comes, if Minemaster Smenk and the others hold their own feasts."
Maybe they can play the mine owners' competitiveness and pride against them, if not even gesturing to the occasion would result in a loss of face? Not, mind you, that Alaïs isn't sure that planning actual parties is much better left to less pinching individuals.
Ilthane glances back at Alais's parting shot and laughs. "I'll pass along your well-wishes."
"Was'she talk'n 'bout Smenk'n th' other mineboss's 'old'n feasts for their miners? Why'd they do that? Moonmeadow's th'only one oos ever done'at," Broccan says, in a town that sounds like he believes he clearly misheard the conversation. 'n everyone knows'ts 'cause Moonmeadow don' pay'is miners'n coin."
"Was she talking about Smenk and the other Minebosses holding feasts for their miners? Why would they do that? Moonmeadow's the only one who's ever done that. And everyone know that's because Moonmeadow doesn't pay his miners in coin."
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Once Ilhane’s left, Alaïs finds a drink of her own and waves cheerfully to Broccan and Edrukk to invite them over.
“Moonmeadow was not particularly forthcoming,” she says, turning to Kata, “but he didn’t seem to be hiding much. Then again, I didn’t pursue too pointed a line of questioning, so it’s all too possible that he was able to discreetly fob me off. Fop me off? Anyway.”
“He’s something alright,” she continues, her tone suggesting that it’s something she wouldn’t care to get on her skirts, “but working with Smenk more than he absolutely has to? I don’t see it. Also, I – ah – seem to have talked myself into looking into a feast for his people? His usual seems to be cancelled this season, and, well. I can handle it! Especially if we find this Triad cell, put it down, rifle their coffers, that sort of thing, to really make it a proper party. I’d welcome ideas about who might be able to help with catering and decorations and such, though.”
She has the decency to look somewhat abashed to bring her unfamiliarity with Diamond Lake to her local friends again, but needs must, and she hopes they feel they could do the same if their situations are ever reversed.
For now, though, she hopes their investigations about where the Ebon Triad might be hiding were a bit more fruitful.
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Kata frowns and visibly shakes, as if trying to rid herself of Ilthane the now gone from the room's lingering presence, and gives Alaïs an apologetic shrug.
"I thought for sure that Smenk and the Pit were where the Triad was setting up, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe Ilthane was just toying with us... but she doesn't seem too concerned about us. And she made clear that she knows pretty much everything we've been up to -- the observatory, about Kullen..."
Kata waves her hands in front of her, flustered. "And she knows about the, the... parasite. Or parasites. If she was behind things, I'd think she'd either obfuscate, or just try to eliminate. Eliminate us."
Another frown, and a shiver crawls across Kata's skin. The elegist glances down at her untouched drink, and sighing, pulls the drink from the table and tips it back. "That wasn't all though. She says many people underground means many mouths to feed. And we should look for where the food is going."
Kata sets the drink back down and absently taps one long finger against the glass. "Which makes sense. If a bunch of cultists are hiding underground, they're probably not growing their own food."
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"Th' boys't th' Feral Dog said ol' Smenk cut thei'rations'n raised prices't'is store. They also said'is chief'eavy Goshawk's gone missin'. Thas' gott'eh jibe wi' what Miss Ilthane tol'us."
The boys at the Feral Dog said Old Smenk cut their rations and raised prices at his store. They also said his chief heavy, Goshawk's gone missing. That's got to jibe with what Miss Ilthane told us."
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At first, Alaïs, secure in her blissful ignorance, doesn’t worry too too much: Ilhane evidently has a flair for the dramatic (which speaks in her favour, as far as Alaïs is concerned, if the courtly bard is being honest), and there are some nasty tricks that the right formulae can work, not least some really obnoxious bombs, but if they can stay on their toes … maybe the squinnying alchemist is more bark than bite, like Filge was?
She’s about to say so, but then the implications of the rest of Kata’s words sink in, and Alaïs grows pale with alarm, then stays pale, with fury. With effort, she tries not to jump to any more conclusions, and takes a laboured breath as she tries to keep a level head. It can’t be said that no one makes a fool of Alaïs Thalanassa, but she can do her best to make it so that it can be said that no one does so with impunity.
“<Λακωνίζετέ με!> Is that what he wasn’t saying, the old serpent?!? Is that why he’s not holding the usual feast?! If that’s the case, I’ll – I’ll have his – his guts! for – for making sausages to feed that little owlbear!” Her indignation hisses like lees flicked at a candle-flame, and evaporates just as quickly, for now. Expressing her dismay at the possibility of having been hoodwinked in such sordid business gives her the space to think things through a bit more.
“That said, perhaps it’s just a miserly coincidence,” she continues, forcing something closer to her usual sweetness into her tone. “The timing is off – it’s been a few seasons, they said. But if Smenk’s being mean too – Mr. Dunchad, you would know better than I would: I imagine many miners bring their own luncheon with them, but do any of the mine-masters try to claw back your hard-earned gold with a tea trolley or the like? Or a company store?”
An idea is doing its best to make its way to the forefront of Alaïs’ thoughts. “Or… if the cultists can’t be growing their own food, or showing themselves to get it, and none of the mines have their own stores – who are the grocers in town?! Or the biggest merchants at the market, who could broker a more significant supply?”
"Uhh." Venelle clears her throat. "I... could be wrong, here. But the timing is only off if we assume the cult is... new to town, right?" She takes a deep breath. "But what if they've been here for, uhh, longer? Like, months longer? Maybe years longer, even? What does that say about our chances, if they're entrenched like that?"
"Means some o' th' folk we see 'n th' street - folk we know fer years - could be part o' th' 'ole mess. 'n they be 'avin' time t' dig 'n like a tick, wherever they be 'idin'. But if'n they be under th' ground, they be eatin' mushrooms 'r they be why the miner's food 's scarce. Thinkin' yer new friend told ye somethin' valuable, lassie."
"Uhh." Venelle clears her throat. "I... could be wrong, here. But the timing is only off if we assume the cult is... new to town, right?" She takes a deep breath. "But what if they've been here for, uhh, longer? Like, months longer? Maybe years longer, even? What does that say about our chances, if they're entrenched like that?"
Alaïs’ colour is starting to return to her face, but she bites her lip in continuing chagrin at Venelle’s awkwardly apt question.
“I suppose it depends on how many of us have trained with shields before, or can get in close quickly,” she muses. Her glance flickers to Edrukk unconsciously, guessing that if any of them stand much chance of having trained extensively for fighting in very tight quarters, it would be their dwarf friend. “Or if we could supply ourselves with less picky ordnance. Shame we don’t have an alchemist on our side, or that sort of wizard.”
Dear Allustan would probably have a heart attack at the suggestion of hostile spelunking, Alaïs guesses, and her own experiments with alchemist’s fire have, er, not been particularly successful to date. She might have better luck with spirits, but those aren’t quite energetic enough, she thinks.
“It’s like something out of the demon wars,” she says softly, her gaze losing itself into some far distance. Her memory stirs up the poison gas trap from the Whispering Cairn too – but she’s not sure even her oldest brother could manage something like that, and she’s tactful enough not to suggest it in front of Broccan, who she imagines might have tales enough of folk lost to bad air, if it hasn’t hit even closer to home.
“Still,” she continues briskly, shaking her mood off and trying to summon an encouraging show of confidence, “if they’re only starting to reach out now, and even their go-betweens feel brave enough to poke their noses where they’re not welcome, how comfortable can they be? Didn’t Filge’s note say the worm had made its way to him through – ah – means other than entirely aboveboard?”
"Means some o' th' folk we see 'n th' street - folk we know fer years - could be part o' th' 'ole mess. 'n they be 'avin' time t' dig 'n like a tick, wherever they be 'idin'. But if'n they be under th' ground, they be eatin' mushrooms 'r they be why the miner's food 's scarce. Thinkin' yer new friend told ye somethin' valuable, lassie."
“I would say we could start a rival cult,” she adds playfully, “only I wasn’t planning on staying in Diamond Lake for years, I'm afraid, and I don’t think I could muster a convincing amount of conviction. I did just hear from my blessed youngest brother about a friend – but I think we may have more reason to trust to the direct approach than we might fear. Although, as Edrukk says, we need to find the Triad, first.”
Interestingly, across their investigations, nobody has yet heard of similar food shortages or cutbacks among the other managers. Granted, nobody's investigated Parrin or the rest as closely. Broccan hasn't exactly noticed bread prices rising in the markets, though. It seems mostly contained to long-term cutbacks from Moonmeadow and more recent price hikes from Smenk. It's possible some of the market vendors would know more, although the market won't be open again until tomorrow. Certainly Taggin, the general store owner, would have heard about it if there was some unexplained famine, but one would think the party themselves would have, too.
"We know Smenks'nvolved," Broccan replies. "I don'exactly like th'idea, but we migh' need t' follow'm a bit'r maybe snoop aroun'is mine'n' prop'rty t' see if we can fine' any'thin'."
"W know Smenk's involved. I don't exactly like the idea, but we might need to follow him a bit, or maybe snoop around his mine and property to see if we can find anything."
Broccan's expression is one of resignation. It's clear he doesn't like this idea, but seems convinced it's what will need to happen at some point.
“One way or another, I’m sure we’ll find a way to inveigle some more useful gossip,” Alaïs avers brightly. “We just need to find a suitable pretext to invite ourselves into various conversations. I always have letters to write, and I can break a few of them up to have more excuses to visit Taggin.”
She promptly extracts a scrap of parchment, and sets to jovially threatening her youngest brother with the prospect of her encouraging one of her friends to foist someone who needs a change of scenery on him. She adds a bit more local colour about what’s going on with the elves of Diamond Lake, based on what she learned at Moonmeadow’s, so it’s not too brief a missive by her discursive standards, and then strolls over to drop it off at the general store for the next messenger going in the right direction.
Alaïs makes sure to linger a bit longer than she normally would at Taggin’s, browsing aimlessly while she tries to make conversation with other shoppers and the merchant’s cronies. She keeps her ears perked up for any grumbles about shortages or undercutting caused by large orders by any of the mine owners, and attempts to tactfully raise the question of what Moonmeadow’s people would normally be looking forward to, if the harvest festival were still in the offing, and if the supplies might still be available.
Between dashing off a note to her brother and loitering in the store, Alaïs has a bit of time to think things over more carefully. It occurs to her that if Smenk isn’t a complete nitwit and wants plausible deniability, not hosting the Ebon Triad in his own mine makes the most sense, and it would help explain how the worm he snuck to Filge might have been passed along without being noticed: trickier to get his hands on it, but not being around to have to brazen out the purloining over and over again. And why was Moonmeadow so testy about telling her to mind her own business? Does she look like someone about to start competing with him in Diamond Lake? What has he got to lose?
The more she thinks about it, the more Alaïs worries that she let herself be put off too easily. Irritated, she wonders if she can blag her way into Moonmeadow’s operation for a look, especially with the help of one of her more silver-tongued friends. After all, it’s not technically a lie that she went to Moonmeadow to ask about how a mine runs, and that he offered her some advice, and if his foreman or whatever can blame getting talked over on her, they might be willing to risk it...
Alais's investigations at the General Store have mixed results. Taggin is characteristically reluctant to gossip--his reputation in Diamond Lake is one of pristine discretion--but Alais is good at wheedling information out of people. At one point, he lets slip that the Able Carter Porters, who handle much of the goods transport around town are seeing plenty of business between the local farms and the mine managers. She's able to run into a couple porters stopping by his store, though, and they don't seem to be in good moods. Although friendly enough, they're clearly on-edge, and the second they realize she's asking questions, they disappear into their work.
The Able Carter Coaching Company connects Magnimar to its satellite towns via fleet of horse-drawn coaches and an inn positioned at every leg of the journey. It's a nice place, as places in Diamond Lake go, and the frequent place of lodging for newcomers.
Amariss leans over the table, eyes narrowing. "Now, all that being said... you can, of course, ask around. Poke, peck and prod. With any luck, we'll learn enough from that. But if not...
"Well, my sweet buttons, I know we're all hoping it's not him. I would like to avoid picking a fight with that pit-spider." Her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, there's rumors he was behind what happened at the Sunshade House. It always seemed a little bit lucky to me, the owner dying just before closing a deal with one of Smenk's rivals. Oh, that awful adder could shoot a man in broad daylight and no one would so much as bat an eye."
She sniffs. "But, if it does come back to him, you'll have to make a choice. Will you claim his secrets by hook, or by crook? By force, stealth or words? Of all his crimes, I've before never seen Balabar Smenk accused of subtlety. It can't be too hard for six brave, strong adventurers to ferret something out."
As a recap, your original meeting with Amariss.
"We cou' dav'eh 'noth'r chat wi' Kull'n'n'is boys. If Smenk's mov'n lots'eh stuff, they migh' be th' mussl' 'ees usin'," Broccan suggests.
"We could have another chat with Kullen and his boys. If Smenk's moving lots of stuff, they might be the muscle he's using."
"Seems like a lotta work fer that lot. But if'n ye can get'em t' speak, even a dumb one might know a thing 'r two."
He glances at the ladies in their group, "Don' think they be talkin' t' Brocc'n 'r me, but mebbe someone wit' a softer tone 'd do better."
As people start to clam up at the general store after they notice a recurrent theme in her questions, Alaïs decides it’s time to cut bait for now, rather than try to wheedle something more from one of the porters. She’ll report back to her friends, and maybe they’ll have an idea for how to proceed. She wonders if she missed a significant look or other signal once her un-informants get more and more tight-lipped, but that’s as may be.
When she gets back, the Emporium seems to have gotten a bit busier in the time she’s been poking about, and it takes her a moment to find where the others have been conspiring – hopefully with better luck than she’s had. While she’s looking about, she catches a glimpse of another elf in animated conversation, having evidently managed to buttonhole Zalamandra. For a second, Alaïs worries that it might be the person who accosted Broccan and Edrukk earlier, but after another moment’s thought, she decides that the descriptions don’t match, so she moves on.
After a few minutes of catching up with her friends, it becomes regrettably clear that prying more secrets out of the denizens of Diamond Lake will take a bit more work than she would like. With a slightly dispirited shrug, she considers Edrukk’s suggestion of switching things up a bit.
“I can certainly try talking to Kullen et al.,” she agrees. “I could at least offer a round of drinks and berries after last time, show there are no especially hard feelings.”
She vaguely remembers lobbing hurling a tankard into a wizard’s (?) face, and tries not to how satisfying a hit it was. “And if you would be so kind as to chat with the Able Carters, perhaps we’ll be able to find out who’s feeding and hosting our vermeological friends, one way or another. I’d love to help with the porters, but I think I might have been rather less discreet than would be ideal, so I’m not sure how much more use I would be until they’ve had a chance to forget my inquisitiveness.”
Alaïs is gathering herself for the possibility of having to brave the Feral Dog again (why couldn’t Kullen by a dragonchess fanatic?), when, after a rustle of skirts, she hears a soft, “Excuse me,” with a light Elven accent, and looks up to see the woman who she glimpsed chatting with Zalamandra earlier.
“Lady Ceri-Moel? Your brother told me he would write to you – and what a stroke of luck that our paths cross even before I set out to explore the town!”
At that, Alaïs rises to greet who can only be Miss Adonara Strixis properly. The aristocrat is a bit nonplussed to find the priestess is dressed more fashionably (though casually), but then the Calistrian has been travelling and not, presumably, sticking her nose in death-trap tombs and the like. Not that she minds, really – and it will be fun to have someone to chat with about the latest trends, hopefully – and she is immensely flattered when, with a curtsey, the priestess brushes a light kiss to her proferred hand instead of simply shaking it. Adonara silently offers to repeat the bit of gallantry with the other ladies (leaving it to each to decide if they want to lift their hand the rest of the way as she bows over it, certainly) as Alaïs makes introductions, before shaking the gentlemen’s hands with an arch look that takes the sting out of her coolness with them.
“Lucky indeed,” Alaïs says, returning to the matter of the fortuitous encounter. “My silly brother’s letter just arrived – I’m sure he delayed sending it just to increase his chances of embarrassing me, the knave! At least this way we aren’t perfect strangers, but have a rascal in common already, though I hope we can get to know each other better more regularly soon. Will you be staying long? I gather you’re on your way to Magnimar?”
“Oh, eventually,” comes the reply, “I’m more or less at my leisure for now, unless the goddess has other ideas. But I’m interrupting you. I may take up here during my stay, if Zalamandra’s amenable, so perhaps once you’re at leisure to turn your thoughts to amusements…?”
One might be forgiven for thinking that the elven ladies might be sisters, as they exchange compliments: they’re close to the same age, and quite similar in build and coloration, though the newcomer is decidedly paler and of broader feature, by elven standards, and certainly more restless. Which one of them was not brought up in luxury is clear, even if she’s the one currently in a more elegant dress.
With that, the Calistrian Alaïs’ brother expects her to entertain takes her leave with a smile.
"Les go 'ave'eh chat wi'the carters," Broccan says to Edrukk, finishing his drink with a last gulp. "Maybe they'll tell's sum'thin'."
"Let's go have a chat with the carters. Maybe they'll tell us something."
Edrukk looks at his mug, looks at his friend, takes a deep breath, and throws down the entire contents followed by a loud "Ah!"
"Le's be off, then. 'r we gonna act like we're seein' fer a job 'r jus' chattin' nice-like?"
"Maybe start like we're look'n t'hire'm, then get t' chatt'n. Maybe buy'em a drink?" Broccan offers with a shrug that clearly indicates that he's new to the art of investigation.
"Maybe start like we're looking to hire them, then get to chatting. Maybe buy them a drink?"
"Heh, start a rumor we need 'em t' 'elp 'aul loot from one o' th' empty cairns. That oughta put a bee in yer girlfriend's bonnet." He snorts.
With the help of Briar, the adventurers allow rumors of their winnings to circulate, and sure enough, the porters are more than happy to meet with them at the Able Carter Coaching Inn once this idea has been planted.
Well, 'happy' might be gilding the goblin. The jowly old goblin woman they meet with seems anything but happy. The leader of the porters introduces herself as Skreet, shaking the adventurers' comparatively massive hands before climbing up to sit on the back of her chair. The common room of the inn is quiet this time of day, with most of its patrons already having had their breakfast and left to explore the town. It's just Edrukk and Broccan, Skreet, and two other porters (one goblin, one human) backing her up.
After Broccan and Edrukk secure their appointment, the rest of the team ventures to find Kullen and his team. They have to ask around a little before they learn that the band is currently split up. Kullen and the nonverbal ranger Rastophan are working at one of Smenk's mines keeping miners in check, while the ill-tempered Merovinn Bask and his little weasel familiar are at their home in Jalek's Flophouse, and the brutish warrior Todrik is in the Feral Dog losing bets.
Broccan gets a sense that the Carters are a bit paranoid, and any sniff of a lie might go badly. He decides to be as upfront as possible.
"Thanks fer talk'n t'us'n short notice," Broccan says, attempting a firendly breaking of the ice. "It's good t'be work'n with hon'st, reliable folk, 'nstead'o right bastards like Smenk'n' 'is boys."
"Thanks for talking to us on short notice. It's good to be working with honest, reliable folk, instead of right bastards like Smenk and his boys."
Skreet's clawed fingers rapidly tap the side of her chair. "Ugly thing Smenk, aye, doubtless us's mind on that. But fairwise keepen his pursekeepings, an' us's favoren dealen wickedly with wicked straightsome an' quickerly." She fixes Broccan with a wary glare. "Tha words concisen tha."
Alaïs wishes the gentlemen good luck with their strategizing, while she and the other ladies turn to their own. Finding a small, sinister gang is likely to be trickier than getting the word out to interested parties among a larger guild, she expects. As she makes her way from the Emporium, she tries to remember who Kullen was working with. There was a mage, wasn’t there?
Yes, there was, and she is most grateful to one of the less surly staff at the Feral Dog who’s able to point her in the right direction when she cautiously pokes her head in the door again and decides, no, she is definitely not willing to beard the lout gaming there.
She goes quieter than usual as she approaches Jalek’s Flophouse. Which, for goodness’ sake. Who’s running Diamond Lake that people have to live like this? It does give her an idea for how to approach this Merovinn creature, above and beyond the professional connection she might be able to forge with someone working with arcana, even if she’s more of dabbler herself. She makes sure to carry Filge’s spellbook with studied casualness.
Upon being pointed to the right room, the aristocrat is unusually direct, not least because, when she actually sees the wizard again, she realizes that the last time she saw him she was bouncing a tankard off his face, so he’s probably not going to be swayed by a show of the usual niceties.
“Ah, Mr. Bask,” she says confidently, some of Moonmeadow’s grandeur seemingly having rubbed off on her, “I’m under no illusions that you’re finding this a pleasure, so I’ll be brief. Have you and Kullen and all, in your drawing of water and hewing of wood for our mutual friend, to say nothing of more ... improbable objects, had any truck with delivering or organizing unusual supplies to any of the mines lately? I hear that the stock in town has gone quite lopsided lately, and some of us have been wondering why, especially with some feasts coming up.”
“In fact, my friends and I are in a position to assure you that your and Kullen’s boss is anxious to have some concerns relieved on related matters, and he’s currently got an opening for a wizard on his team.”
Her teeth flash through her smile, and she drums her fingers on the book at hip. While she’s being rather ruthless in her negotiations, Alaïs gets the feeling that she’s getting a surprising amount of purchase.
“If there’s anything you can tell us, your name won’t even have to come up, until such time as a recommendation to the boss might be suitable. You’re a clever man, I’m sure you can see your advantage here.”
Moving up in Smenk’s estimation, and down on Alaïs’ own list of “Most Misliked Mages in Diamond Lake,” what’s he got to lose? And she didn’t even bring their owlbear cublet to this meeting, though she’ll reconsider that bit of courtesy if Merovinn gives her a hard time.
”Th’ lad’s got ‘is way o’ speaking’, Mother. Let ‘im get ‘is feet unner ’im, if’n ye don’ mind.”
Broccan raises his hands in a conciliatory manner. "No disrespect'n 'tended, M'am. Per'aps we're gett'n off'n th' wrong foot'ere. Can I buy you'n your boys'eh round'eh drinks as a mean've apologizin' fer m' lack o' manners?"
"No disrespect intended, M'am. Perhaps we're getting off on the wrong foot here. Can I buy you and your boys a round of drinks as a means of apologizing for my lack of manners?"
She looks between the two adventurers, then nods.
"Easy become tha. Unseekin' a fight us." She lets Broccan buy them drinks, though, and the tension dissipates slightly. "But something to chitter has tha, an' all sunspin haven't us. Tha words concisen tha."
Edrukk nods, sighs, and tries again. "Th' boy 's no silver-tongue 'n neither'm I. Someone 'n town be makin' 't 'ard fer wee folk like yerself 'r 's t' keep food 'n 'r tables. 'n be doin' 't sneaky-like. Ye know what be goin' 'n 'n we 'oped ye could let 's 'n wit' th' secret."
Meh ol' Ma's gott'eh eat, too," Broccan adds in a hopeful, helpful tone. "She's not bu' skin'n bones's'it's."
"My old Ma's got to eat, too. She's nothing but skin and bones, as it is."
Skreet's eyes narrow. She rubs her chin, her eyes looking up and down the two miners. "Truthsome tha speaken; worken us harmwise, thum wretchly beanmongers." She spits to the side. "Ah, twoeggsome! Learnswaddled becomen tha, an' actionly persons becomen tha encirclewise. An' mirrorsome, fairwise keepen his pursekeepings thum with wheelmagi dealen. Wearin' swordfeathers, tha longshanks? Fair company keepen us."
"Now, campfirelings becomen tha:"
And the old goblin begins to tell her tale.
Now, what we know is this:
Our main client has been Balabar Smenk for the last two years. He has been buying a great deal of nonperishables, and paying us well. I don't believe he has been using all of it, because his warehouses cannot hold that much food. He must be selling it to someone else at a great profit. We drop it off at his estate. If he is pawning it, he has someone else handle that delivery.
"I lingered late after a delivery some weeks ago. My back was aching, so I sat down behind a boulder and... must have fallen asleep." She rubs her chin. "It was the dead of a moonless night when I was awoken by our leader, who had come looking for me. The shipment had already been carted off by whoever Smenk has do it.
"But it was such a funny thing. They must have thought that nobody out by Smenk's house would see them, of course, but we goblins see just fine in the dark. We saw three figures come to Balabar Smenk's door. One was small, like a halfling, with a harp slung over its back and a large hat on its head. One was tall, like you," she nods at Broccan, "and had the bearing of a soldier. And one was quite ordinary in size and shape, and hooded and cloaked, so that I could see nothing. The last knocked three times, and I saw Smenk himself answer the door and quickly usher them inside.
"It was a most queer thing, though, because I recognized that second man, the Soldier. It was that priest, Theldrick, of the Church of Heironeous. Our leader was quite curious about this, but me, I paid it little mind. It isn't our concern.
What is is that recently, our leader has gone missing." Her voice fills now with fire. "We believe it was that woman, Luzane Parrin. She had been probing us, offering bribes, asking questions about the schemes of Balabar Smenk. Parrin hates Smenk, you see, for they say he had her husband killed. Maybe she wants to know the same things you do. What a paranoid person. We do not take bribes, though, and it seems she became impatient.
"Balabar Smenk stonewalled us when we brought this matter up. We don't know why she is holding him, but we don't appreciate becoming pawns of the rich and powerful."
Her eyes glitter. "There was a time when this town would be in flames right now. But my kin among the Bronzewood Lodge are too busy chasing the dead to worry about the living, and we porters are too few. I'm an old woman. So I leave it to you."
She finishes her drink and gives a sharp-toothed smile. "I hope that this information helps you. When you are finished with your investigations, you will get our leader out of her custody. I will trust you, because I can see that you are honorable working men. If you are not honorable working men, I will match you tooth for tooth, and our workings will be most dishonorable indeed. I hope we can be honorable together instead."
Merovinn seems quite startled to see the adventurers show up at his doorstep, and he almost slams the door on them right away. Only the timely recognition in his stubborn skull that the doors of Jalek's Flophouse might as well be secured with chewing gum and fishing line seems to stop him. He listens to Alais's fervent plea, and perhaps it is only by her sheer brazen confidence, but by the end, the wizard seems... well, at least intrigued.
"Right," he grumbles. He opens the door wider and heads back into the cramped four-person apartment (there are exactly one and a half beds). On his way to the nicest chair in the room, he picks up his weasel from his shoulder and tosses it unceremoniously onto the top shelf of a mostly-barren cupboard. "Candy, Rascal," he says to it.
He has a seat. "So, I ain't much more informed than you, an' if anyone asks, I didn't know s+$%. I'm only tellin' you 'cause you seem to already know most've it yourselves. But alright, ma'ams, I'll bite the hook, if'n only it means you quit botherin' us. Gods know I ain't forgotten the last time I tried givin' the answers ye asked for." He rubs his jaw.
"We handle the shipments. Those porters brings 'em to Smenk's house, an' we picks 'em up, see? Only we take 'em to different spots each time. Mostly churches." He sneers. "Dunno why old Pit Spider bothers tryin' to curry favor. You an' I both knows where he's bound."
The weasel comes clattering onto the counter, now gripping a tin in its teeth. It scurries over and leaps into his lap, and he opens the tin and starts snacking on raisins as he talks. "So, here's the funny thing. Skutch, my... well, our rogue, the one as got gobbled by the bear-owl, 'e always was a mite too curious for his own skin. They don't always seem to take the goods into the churches at all. We mostly deliver to the Iomeda--nah, sorry, the Heironeans, that's right. Same thing. We mostly deliver to them, and one time, that dumb bastard actually followed the folks what took the goods off us." He giggles, tossing an extra-fat raisin into the air. The weasel springs up and snaps its jaws down on it, swallowing it in one bite. "Skutch said they took the food out to the hills. An' as long as we're spinning tales, he said--an' Skutch always did dream a little too much while he was awake, mind you, marm--that there was hulking hooded figures as took it. 'Great big hairy men'. They scared him s%+#less. Even he didn't have the balls to follow them. Some tough muscle, I guess. I never thought much of it."
He grins. "But since you asked, they was headed straight towards that, uh, what's it?" He gestures to Alais. "Your little home away from home, it seems. The domain of the Good Prince Marshmallow 'imself, marm."
Alaïs gives a wry smile as Merovinn resigns himself to spilling the beans pouring the tea , and his assessment of the eventual destination of Smenk’s soul. She softens a bit at the mention of Skutch.
“I’m sorry about your friend. There aren’t many people who deserve to see their last moments at the claws of an owlbear, and I’m sure he wasn’t one of them,” she offers quietly, listening carefully to the bereaved wizard’s reminiscences. She wonders where they’re going, exactly, as it seems at first that they’re going to peter out back among the cairns, but then Merovinn drops a tidbit that lands like a more volatile alchemist’s concoction. Alaïs startles and issues a small cough, body memory instantly transporting her to an early childhood occasion on which her eyes were bigger than her mouth, overeager for a bit of confectionary , and her hand grips tighter around her liberated spellbook.
“I see. I’m much obliged, sir, and if you think the Spider’s closer webs can offer some shelter against the Shadow, I’ll do my best to arrange an introduction as best I can, like I said,” she says grimly, swallowing her apprehension as her second thoughts are confirmed. Her glance flutters up into a shadowy corner at the ceiling and sharpens, as her imagination races and she takes a moment to try to process her feelings before turning to her friends. “It looks like we’re going to have to poke for a soft and squishy princely something after all, I’m afraid.”
“My thanks again, and rest assured that we won’t breathe a word of your information,” she adds, turning back to Merovinn as prelude to taking her leave. Standing, she reaches for the mage’s tin of raisins and gives it a rattle as she hums a jaunty little tune , before taking a look and picking out of the tiny fruits and laying them on the table. “I hope you won’t need them, but if you or your Rascal run into a nip or a smack in the next couple of days, these should help take the edge off. Good morning, sir.”
With that, and a last nod, unless any of the others have any further questions, the obviously rattled aristocrat sweeps off, intent on getting to the bottom of things as soon as she can, and not best pleased at having been given – however unsurprisingly, under the circumstances – the run-around by the Marshmallow.
"When'd yer boss go missin'?" Broccan asks. "Any'o ye know where't 'appen'd?"
"When did your boss go missing? Do any of you know where it happened?"
She scowls into her empty tankard. "Naught but this: Two blazes' hind, wheelworkt us alleywise under thum scant-eggs. Becamen us scattersome, and woverly under became Us's Eaten, Laktri. Went it home figuren us, but ghostlike it since." Her emotion seems to take hold of her as she suddenly pounds the table, causing one of the porters' drinks to spill. "Sphacelaterly Winters! Thum calumnious tetanical tailings-taster! Maggots inviten us betwixt thum ears!"
Merovinn's eyebrows arch, and he takes the fruits with a nod. "Then I be much obligated, marm. Good luck with whatever 'tis you've gotten yourselves into, an' hopes I do that I never finds out what."
Edrukk offers a broad hand to the porter. "We'll not be fer forgettin' who's 'elped us. If'n we can be gettin' yer leader outta trouble, we'll be doin' it. No' jus' th' two of 's, 'r 'ole group. Don' take stuff like this lightly."
"We'll get't' th' bott'm o' this, n' fin'dout wha'tappn'd t' yer boss." Broccan says, rising and offering his hand. "Work'n folks got'teh eat, n' sum'eh these fat-cats need' t' be cut down t' size't seems."
"We'll get to the bottom of this, and find out what happned to your boss. Working folks need to eat, and some of these fat-cats need to be cut down to size, it seems."
Whether or not she accepts his hand, Broccan gives her a respectful nod and moves to take his leave.
Les'go fine th'others," he says to Edrukk.
Edrukk nods in response to Broccan. He stares at the goblin for a moment before nodding firmly, ”Aye, be seein’ ye soon.” He offers a hand before turning to leave.
The party reconvenes at the abandoned mine office outside of town and fills each other in. By this time, it is 5pm, and approaching suppertime. The adventurers have been trying to figure out the location of this cult all day, though it feels like it's been much, much longer--particularly when one's stomach is empty.
The goblin forewoman considers the hand, then shakes it briskly. "Wise tha cuts be, thence."
After a hurried conference with the other ladies to broach the beginnings of how upset she is that Moonmeadow put her off so glibly, and an agreement is reached that the gentlemen should be informed as soon as possible, Alaïs takes off twitchily, the agitated commentary in Elven running under her breath interrupted only briefly as she and the others poke their heads in various taprooms to track down Broccan and Edrukk, until the Able Carter informs them that the two will meet them “at the usual place.”
Even the possibilities for exercising her creativity and architectural fancies in doing up the old office, or how nice it would be to at least transmute another handful of berries if a proper dinner is too much to think about right now, are forgotten as Alaïs blows into the derelict structure.
<“It’s Moonmeadow! I should have known he was hiding something, the scoundrel! Villain! Reprobate!”> she announces, with much less ceremony than usual, a spate of imprecation flowing for a minute before the aristocrat realizes that she’s still thinking in her mother tongue, and needs to catch her breath and switch to a shared language.
Holding onto her patience with both hands, Alaïs summarizes Merovinn’s information as calmly and simply as she can, concluding, “I can see now why the old serpent was so keen to put me off his mines! And it’s not likely that he’ll be swayed, now that I’ve asked him nicely and he’s on his guard. At this point, I think our best chances are to get down there ourselves, whenever the people on duty at the surface are most likely to be tired enough to either let us slip by or talk them into thinking we’re expected. I imagine that would be either the night watch, or the earliest morning shift?”
She deflates a bit now that she’s finally got everything out. Part of her still wants to storm to the mine-head without delay, but even she’s not quite so reckless, after a busy day of asking awkward questions. She adds, “Do you think, incidentally, we’ll end up having to beard Smenk in his den by the time this is over? I promised Bask that if the opportunity arose, I would put in a word for him, since Smenk is short a wizard. In that case, I certainly hope he remembers his benefactors, if we should need to call on him again.”
Venelle's eyes are wide as she fidgets with her hair, leaning against the doorframe of the old mine office. "So you're breaking into Moonmeadow Mine? If he's, uhh, working with these cultists, he's gotta have better security than just some tired night guards, right?"
"Well't's bett'r'n knock'n on Smenk's door," Broccan replies to Aläis with a shrug. "Nev'r work'd for Moonmeadow, eh'course, bu'dit sounds like y'know yer way 'round out there."
"Well, it's better than knocking on Smenk's door. I never worked for Moonmeadow, of course, but it sounds like you know your way around out there."
Edrukk mutters, "A good fight'll be fair more interestin' than all this talkin'."
"Well't's bett'r'n knock'n on Smenk's door," Broccan replies to Aläis with a shrug. "Nev'r work'd for Moonmeadow, eh'course, bu'dit sounds like y'know yer way 'round out there."
** spoiler omitted **
“That’s kind of you to say,” Alaïs says with a smile, “but he did manage to talk circles around me, even if he seems to have otherwise strayed from the ways of our people. Still, he’s taken pains to maintain a veneer of custom and respectability, so I’ll do my best if navigating that will help get to the bottom of what he’s up to.”
“Kullen’s mage friend did say something about some big, hairy men, and I don’t think he meant the sort of luxurious locks that anyone would be proud of,” she adds, tilting her head and running a hand through her own wryly, despite the seriousness of the situation.
“Orcs, perhaps, of all things? Or some other sort of ogre? I imagine you’ll get your wish soon enough, Edrukk,” she speculates, but clearly not speaking from experience, and musing too about Venelle’s concerns. “I wonder: the Triad must have got in there somehow, but he probably doesn’t want to attract too much suspicion from his workers, or anyone else about town, so maybe the more active security is closer to wherever the cult’s laired, and the first line of defense is getting in – or out again – from a mine uninvited without either being noticed or making a huge mess.”
“It might be a bit more talking first, then these ‘hairy men,’ who will probably need to be turned out one way or another, and then the cultists themselves, who one can only hope will not be too fanatical.”