The dense fog of the Chionthar bend paints the cobbles a glossy dark red. Red like the blood of unfortunates who fall prey to wild opportunists around every corner. Those dark edges, the walls of Baldur's Gate, are a festering wound that grows and spreads...as the pressure builds it hits the impoverished first, before turning back on the psyches of its host: nobles, traders, pirates, assassins. The rich get richer, even if it means murder. Law enforcement is little more than indiscriminate violence.
But you had a different idea: a seizure of power. Toppling the head of the corrupt Flaming Fist would be like injecting a vaccine into the City of Blood. Yet the heights of your ambition proved a fragile scaffolding as the weight of treachery pushed in. Sometimes evil is patiently waiting for you to fight it...
Malaric, a shadowy information broker, was the first to sense the currents of change, the rumors spilling out of the nobles in the Upper City. Ravengard was under intense political pressure to take an extended diplomatic mission to neighboring Elturel. Yes, Ulder Ravengard, the leader of the Flaming Fist and Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate would at last vacate the city. While the cat's away the mice will play...
Tiberius, the font of draconic magic, knew the noble's chessboard well. When one piece falls another moves in, and it was clear the three remaining dukes (Stelmane, Portyr, and Vanthampur) were in coordinated movement. The restructuring would benefit the dragonborn's house quite well...
Evendur, hand of Kelemvor, saw the bigger picture in a divine flash more like a waking nightmare. Elturel was doomed. If the group really did succeed in getting Ravengard out of the city...he would certainly not return. Yet, he said nothing. Prophecy is best interpreted by the faithful...
Gorn, whose herb infused oils are as good in the pan as they are on his chest, had already stumbled into the Fist's snares. Taking the chance to turn the tide on his captors and save his inn required no thought. He cut his apron into a mask as the coup began...
Donal, a missionary from Elturel, expected no better. He had always known Elturel was the shining beacon of hope to contrast with the evils of Baldur's Gate. If the Flaming Fist could indeed be reborn under new leadership, the seeds would be sown for the city to become a protectorate. Hope is always the last thing lost...
Mylivanni, the ambassador's bodyguard, was the lynchpin for it all...though she would not know it until it was too late. History would show, however, her own signature on the security protocols. Protocols that said Mylivanni would arrive in a decoy ship days before ambassador Liara. A fact that unfortunately escaped the notice of everyone...
The plan was simple. You see, Liara was Duke Portyr's niece. As leader of the Chultan outpost for years, she was the only one with the experience, nobility, and support of the council to head the Fist in Ravengard's absence. Surely she would take the Fist in a new direction. She just needed to be in the right place at the right time...
Getting Ravengard out wasn't easy. The coup started with petitions weeks before. Ravengard didn't want to leave, and it would take more than just the nobles raising their voice to convince him. The council needed the support of the commoners, the crews, the whole city, to move him.
You worked under the noses of these petitioners, your finger on the pulse as it were, to encourage Ravengard to depart. Leadership of the Fist would transfer to Liara...but Liara never arrived.
Some of you were there, cloaked in shadows, eagerly awaiting her arrival...but only Mylivanni emerged. Sirens screamed across the harbor as, at that instant, the first refugees of Elturel stormed the eastern gates.
Within hours you were all rounded up as the districts went into heavy lockdown. Some of Elturel's Hellriders were rumored as being among the first refugees, and their crazed ramblings fueled fears the righteous paladins would somehow bring Elturel's fate to Baldur's Gate.
The walls now seem more like a slowly closing fist...one grasping a nest of vipers. The walls are authority, the Flaming Fist is authority. They do not care about justice; they crave power and coin, nothing else. Your failed coup only seems to have devolved the Fist into a band of autocratic thugs.
But, in a strange twist of fate, you were not imprisoned. Indeed it seems your role in the coup wholly evaded notice. Instead, you have been drafted into emergency service. Your orders are to speak to Captain Zodge at the Basilisk Gate, which pierces the city's eastern wall and takes its name from the various statues that rest in its niches and perch atop its battlements. Unseen beyond the sealed Basilisk Gate, a dirt road stretches through the Outer City slums to the bridge known as Wyrm's Crossing, then to distant realms beyond.
Dozens of Flaming Fist soldiers are trying to control an angry mob of commoners eager to leave the city. Armed with only a vague description of Captain Zodge — a tall man with long black hair and a leather eye patch — it takes you a while to find him. A fight breaks out between soldiers and commoners, and you finally spot the one-eyed captain as he wades into the fray and begins throwing punches. Just another day in the City of Blood.
Donal sighs, hefting his hammer upon his shoulder and wades in to help the captain. Captain! the man calls over the crowd as he elbows a man in the face, We were called into your service!
Unused to receiving orders, let alone being drafted into the emergency service of the Flaming Fist, Mal suspects a trap. The halfling rumor monger grabs his go bag from its secret compartment and heads toward the Basilisk Gate. If the meeting goes sideways, he can always skip town. He has heard that Waterdeep is nice this time of year.
At the gate, Mal sticks near the shadows of the walls and inventories each potential exit and bolt hole. After he spots One Eye who must be Captain Zodge, the rogue stays out of the way of the angry mob and just watches how other drafted individuals are treated.
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Gorn regretted nothing.
He usually didn't. He was more apt to follow his passions, for was that not the meaning of life. He cooked. He slew. He was content.
But this in particular seemed to be full of not-regret. It was a shot at the Big Leagues. A chance to really be something, to shake up the system and, somehow, get your name in a history book, or on a statue, or engraved in eternal stone for all to see and know that this day was a day of days.
Also, with all the him not being dead going on, there wasn't much to complain about. Not dead, not punished, indeed they seemed desperately needed to contain a riot. 'Apparently desperation breeds lower standards. Interesting.'
On the way there he nibbled one of the bacon-and-lamb biscuits he'd twice-baked before the whole thing kicked off. Yup, it tasted as good as if it just came out of the oven.
Sated for the moment, as he drew closer to the noise of humanity beating on walls and things, he got out Shellcracker, his greatmaul. But just right now didn't seem like the time to use it, so he carried it loosley in his off hand.
"Captain Zodge!" Gorn loudly rumbles at Donal's shoulder, echoing the fighter's own salutation. "Now that we are here...what would you have us do?"
His instinct was to start serving hors d'oeuvres or throw punches. And it looks like before-dinner snacks just weren't gonna improve things right now....
While no stranger to violence, indeed, he'd been called on to inflict it on many an occasion Evendur still winced as the likely figure of the captain brutally beat down a would be rioter. He would not wave or drawn attention to himself - the others were doing that for him. He prayed silently for the Will of Kelemvor to be made manifest, and for the strength and dedication to be a worthy tool in achieving His ends...
Tiberius sighs heavily.
Its going to take a while for me to get out of this...
He thought to himself as he looked around at those gathered and conscripted with him. All part of that coup, he slowly realized. Which caused another thought to come to him.
This could still prove fruitful yet.. I just have to get the others on board one more time... Would help if I was made a leader of sorts... I bet I could swing that. At least of a small group.
He steps forward, moving to aid the good captain and hopefully impress. He strikes a man with his staff, intending to hamper more than injure.
A fine day Captain! I hope you don't mind some help.
What has happened. Why has the world gone to hell in a handbasket. It was a simple distraction to mask Liara's arrival into Baldur's Gate, but now there seemed to be an upheaval going on, and it looked like she could be held responsible... it was her plan.
Oh well might as well go to Wyrm's crossing and face the music... this was going to hurt.
Then it was back to town to find and join up with Captain Zodge... would this day never end. Then she sees Zodge as usual throwing himself into a fray.
"Captain Zodge"! She makes the fist over heart salute of the order. "Guard Mylivanni reporting in".
She then begins to throw aside rabble raisers, working her way to the Captain's side.
STR Check
*gurk* a middle aged man gets a quick gauntlet to the throat as he foolishly mounts the eastern barricade. The melee between Zodge's men and commoners not missing a beat at the party's arrival.
Donal is the first to get Zodge's attention, as he pins a woman against a fish barrel...grabbing her wrist hard enough so the wine bottle slips out of grasp and crashes at her feet. "Great. As much as I love hunting down new recruits..." he follows up with a knee strike to the woman's gut, sending her down to taste the wine coughing and sputtering "...can't always get what you want, eh?" Without moving his gaze from yours he fiddles at the woman's waist, finally popping her little purse off its leather strap and checking its heft.
Of course, none of this was very surprising. Bad things happen when you disturb the peace.
Evandur pressed his temple in concentration as Gorn bellowed his greeting nearby...years of practice enabled the cleric to reach that mental state even amidst such chaos. At that moment the crowd surged forward as if it were a single wave, and the young boltsmelter caught up in it expected to get a faceful of barbarian sweat (but was pleasantly surprised at the bacon scent reminding him of the holidays back home). Of course, as usual, no one noticed the little halfling, pocket-high and moving in concert with the attention of the crowd.
Tiberius' rather chipper greeting turned Zodge's attention and elicited a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. One of the larger soldiers just then finally had his nerve broken as a crusty old man somehow wriggled off his left bracer. The old man's glee in the theft was cut short by a sweeping baton strike to the shoulder, probably breaking the bone. "Yes, some madness has struck these people I think, why would anyone want to leave..."
Mylivanni strides forward to the one-eyed captain, laying any would be challengers low before they could even think about crushing up into the elf. "But I was expecting six of you. Someone stay in bed their first day?"
Who we missing? Donal casts a glance, upset that he has lost a charge already. With his shield, he shoves another commoner over.
Deep in silent prayer and internal conflict the Doomguide fails to hear anything as he struggles to hear the voice of Kelemvor over the roar and screams of the crowd. He does what any militarily trained person does when given an unanswerable question by a superior... he draws himself into a position of attention, eyes front and remains silent.
Seeing that the orders were not a trap, a shadow detaches from a wall and cautiously approaches One Eye and his co-conspirators.
This mean-looking halfling wears veteran leather armor under common clothes, two shortswords on his belt, and two daggers: one sheathed on his chest and the other under a back pack which apparently contains all of his possessions. His brown hair is dirty and unkempt; his eyes are light violet; and his hands and exposed feet are calloused and stained.
"Six." He replies when he arrives within speaking distance with a hand up mildly raised.
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Gorn frowns deeply and his eyes switched rapidly from the guard captain to the rowdy mob. [smaller]"I don't get it. Do we punch the women before we rob them? Or after? Is there a points system for how many people we punch? Are young people just one point but old are two?" he mumbles, mostly to himself.
Still uncertain of what to do, since Zodge didn't technically give them orders yet, he leans close and mumbles to Donal, "I still can't believe we lost. Would anyone miss this donkey's behind?"[smaller]
Gorn lets his mind observe Zodge and wonder at his _true_ motivations for being here. Loot? Murder? Honestly but mind-stunningly trying to calm down the unruly mob?
Perception
Mylvanni notices a group that seems a little more organized at the corner of her sight, and approaches.
"You there"! she then steps closer, "Yes, I'm talking to you. What are you over here plotting and whispering about. If you've got something to say, then just say it".
Intimidation
The little group startles at Mylivanni's authoritative approach "Yes..p-p-p-please, we don't want any trouble. Is...is the toll still 2 cp? Take double...no triple! since we've been such a hassle..." he holds out the coin for you. Its common knowledge the best way to deal with Fist is a bribe.
At Malaric's appearance a sweaty mustachioed soldier wise-cracks "...5 anna half..." for a few easy har-hars under breath, but Zodge is quick to put a staunch in it. "Cut the s#&~ Issio, these recruits aren't the typical hay-balers from the ankeg farms. The lightfoot's packin' more steel than you ever carry, and those just the ones he wants you to see. Then look how neat that one's sorted their explorer's pack...aye just the pros we need."
At Gorn's confusion "Heh. They touch us first its assaulting an officer, free game. Trust me roughing em up a bit is better than taking them into the dungeons...easier for everyone. Turn the mob's anger into fear, that fear becomes peace." He takes off his helmet a moment, letting the cool river breeze wick the sweat off his tight cropped hair. "Now your points system shows a lot of entrepreneurial spirit, I'd say I'd send the idea up the ranks and see what happens, but the ranks are a bit unclear at the moment. Anyways, I didn't call you here for gate collection duty."
"The refugee crisis," says Captain Zodge, "has stoked notions that Baldur's Gate might suffer the same fate as Elturel, of which nothing remains but a hole in the ground, apparently. Our grand duke, Ulder Ravengard, was visiting Elturel on a diplomatic mission when the city was destroyed. Coincidence? I think not."
The hairs on the back of your neck raise ever so slightly a moment. But it seems Zodge is oblivious to your complicity, and was talking about something else:
"The knights of Elturgard call themselves Hellriders. A few of them escaped the destruction and think we're somehow to blame for Elturel's downfall. What a bunch of self-righteous rabble-rousers! We're arresting them on sight, but that’s left us shorthanded to deal with another problem. For that, I need your help."
"Before I get into that though, theres a bit of formality...eh, come get your badges..." he whips out 5 little shiny Flaming Fist emblems of solid copper with a little red paint. "Under the Council's Emergency Selective Services Act of 1317, you're hereby conscripted to serve in this army a duty of no less than 500 days." Then motioning to Mylivanni "Consider this lucky lady your new boss. She'll also be your executioner if any of you get cold feet...but don't hold it against her."
So, what'll you have us doing? Donal smiles grimly at the executioner comment and takes the badge, pinning it to his cloak.
As the badges are taken with little fanfare Zodge continues "Baldur's Gate has long been plagued by followers of the Dead Three — the gods Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul. I thought we had wiped them out, but apparently not. These 'purveyors of fear and death' are taking advantage of the current crisis to commit murder sprees throughout the city. As my appointed deputies in this matter, you'll have license to kill these wretches on sight. Find their lair, and wipe it out. Eliminate anyone who gets in your way, and don't worry about collateral damage." his little smirk returns at that, but he goes on: "If you do what I say, I'll see that you each receive two hundred gold pieces in addition to my gratitude, which is worth considerably more." he lets that sink in and hand waves you over to a shadowy archway, out of earshot of the commoners. On the way a few floors above a woman dumps her wash water out the window, crashing onto the cobbles a few feet away and scaring the bejesus out of a orange kitten.
Zodge leans his shoulder plate on the cool cobbles and packs quick pipe "So, a few blocks from the Basilisk Gate is Elfsong Tavern, know it? A spy named Tarina hangs out there, gathering rumors for the Guild. She owes me a favor, so tell her you work for me. Ask her what she knows about the Dead Three. And, for the love of Balduran, be nice. Tarina has dangerous friends."
Mal stares at the sweaty mustachioed soldier during Zodge's comments. He memorizes his build, look, and any other distinguishing features. Maybe he'll get an opportunity for revenge.
He accepts the badge of the Flaming Fist and pins it underneath a layer of clothing, so it doesn't show but can be easily revealed if needed.
The orders sound too good to be true. He gets to legally murder people and take their stuff. Unbelievable. What a racket?
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The plots of patriars and the schemes of Guild operatives fill the gossip and whispers of Baldur’s Gate. Yet, throughout the city, no names are as synonymous with dastardly acts as those of Dead Three. The demigods Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul walk among mortals, personally seeking followers to their cause. More than once, it’s rumored, the trio has even trod the streets of Baldur’s Gate.
Nefarious patriars whisper prayers to Bane when they seek to gain power through coercion, intimidation, and forceful exaction of the law. Gang leaders, evil mercenaries, and others who rely on fear and control, also pay homage to Bane. Those who want to evoke dominance and ruthlessness favor wearing black gloves — a nod to Bane’s holy symbol.
Myrkul claims a following among those who wish to learn from or command the dead. Those who plunder tombs for lost knowledge, grim entrepreneurs who see business sense in undead servants, even pragmatic necromancers seeking to conjure secrets from the wealthy dead of Cliffside Cemetery all whisper prayers to Myrkul. Of the Dead Three, Myrkul’s base of power is the smallest. Residents of Baldur’s Gate rarely fear death by old age — a grim fact of living in such a dangerous city. As a result, few desperate elders seek the blessing of the Lord of Bones. Those who do, though, tend to be both cagey and wealthy, which means that although Myrkul’s worshipers are small in number, their resources have hidden depths.
Since the time when the Bhaalspawn Sarevok plotted to start a war between Baldur’s Gate and Amn as a path to claiming Bhaal’s power, awareness of the Lord of Murder’s children has grown. Baldur’s Gate maintains a grim draw for Bhaalspawn, whether due to some foul influence in the city itself, or merely because of Sarevok’s lingering reputation.
At the same time, worship of Bhaal proves darkly popular in Baldur’s Gate. Few openly admit to worshiping the Lord of Murder, but there is an unspoken assumption that anyone who benefits from violent death has some respect for Bhaal. Assassination and murder underpin many of the plots in the city, from the business of highly-paid killers on patriar payrolls to slayings of opportunity committed by Outer City fanatics. Such bloodthirsty faithful rarely gather in numbers, but they typically mark themselves by carving a fresh gouge on their thumbs — spilling their blood in Bhaal’s name while creating a subtle mark identifying that identifies them among allies. Despite the Lord of Murder’s decentralized worship, some believe a temple to Bhaal exists near or under the city, possibly in an ancient chamber beneath the sewers or carved into Dusthawk Hill. Rumor holds that eleven red crystals on the wall of the temple grow brighter with every murder committed, gathering power for either Bhaal or one of his future chosen. Some claim that Bhaal himself regularly visits the temple, his presence contributing to the city’s high murder rate.
While the Dead Three occupy a prominent place in Baldurians’ fears, their faiths currently have only the shallowest roots in the city. Followers of the Dead Three have done more to incite dread than faith. As a result, their numbers remain relatively small. Their sinister reputations outstrip their actual influence, though, with gossip spreading quickly whenever the deities’ ominous symbols appear in graffiti or the Flaming Fist cracks down on overzealous fanatics. Despite public fears and resistance from law enforcement, the cults of the Dead Three persist, causing many to darkly wonder why the servants of Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul hold such interest in Baldur’s Gate.
The organization known simply as the Guild unites cutpurses, loan sharks, killers, thugs, con artists, grave robbers, cat burglars, and every other type of criminal in the city. The Guild operates under the noses of the Watch and the Flaming Fist by adroitly keeping its illicit activities quiet.
Each city neighborhood falls under control of one or more kingpins, crime bosses who report to the head of the Guild. These kingpins style themselves as elite criminals, often adopting memorable nicknames and distinctively decadent dress. Scores of common criminals work beneath each kingpin, with the most competent and cutthroat members rising to favored status.
Some kingpins keep strictly to the shadows, but others operate more openly. Particularly in the Outer City, citizens often know their local kingpin. A kingpin might receive requests for help from citizens, asking for loans or dealing with unauthorized crime, such as a thieving neighbor. A kingpin tracks these favors and debts, calling them in when it suits them — often with interest.
Rivalries exist between kingpins, and their territorial borders shift constantly. As long as these internal feuds don’t disrupt Guild business or draw the attention of the authorities, no one interferes. Recent rumors claim that an Outer City kingpin known as Straightstick is calling in all his favors to make a move on a Lower City turf. Crossing the wall is riskier than the average power play, and those in the know predict the coming conflict to be a bloody one.
Guild operations in the Outer City center on smuggling and gambling. Some violent crime and theft occur, but for the most part, Outer City residents are too poor to draw the attention of the Guild. Travelers and visitors do fall victim to pickpocketing, muggings, and assault, though. As the Flaming Fist rarely comes to the district, the Guild has long operated with impunity. In recent years, though, the interference of vigilantes and hired adventurers has been on the rise.
The Lower City serves as the heart of the Guild’s operations. The locals here have enough money to make burglary and protection schemes worthwhile, and the Flaming Fist is spread too thin to address every instance of petty crime. The Guild’s operations widen to numerous commercial ventures, such as gambling dens, animal fights, races, and brawling tournaments. Their traffickers also maintain routes into other districts, and guide individuals and illicit trade through them for a fee. Those who oppose the Guild — typically by going to the Flaming Fist — invite retaliation upon themselves and their neighbors. This makes most folk afraid to report crimes and pressures their neighbors to keep quiet as well.
In the Upper City, the Guild engages in burglary, extortion, blackmail, and confidence games. Patriars might even hire Guild members to gain (or plant) information about their rivals, involving the Guild in Upper City politics.
Only the most talented criminals dare to burgle patriar estates, but the lower ranks of a kingpin’s operation often work as pickpockets or try to con residents of the district. Here, the Watch zealously monitors for Guild activities and targets anyone threatening the peace. Kingpins can often come to an agreement with the Watch, though, offering bribes so that Watch officers look the other way. Every month, the kingpin makes their payment to the Watch and selects a new safe word. Guild members caught by the Watch utter the safe word to avoid arrest. Rival kingpins and unaffiliated criminals looking to work in the Upper City pay well for the month’s safe word, though any member of the Guild found selling the information faces harsh punishment.
No wise person walks the streets of Baldur’s Gate or enters one of its taverns without a weapon or an armed escort. Anyone who has lived in the city for more than a tenday knows this from experience. Taverns might appear safe at a glance, but they are among the most dangerous places in Baldur’s Gate — full of alcohol, tempting coin, and unscrupulous people. Volothamp Geddarm, a notorious raconteur known for his tavern reviews, encapsulates his Baldur’s Gate experience as “hard on the stomach, especially when someone sticks a knife in there.” Customers are expected to look after themselves when fights break out, and one shouldn’t expect any help or sympathy from the Flaming Fist. Tavern murders are common, and usually end with the poor victim being dragged away and either left in an alley (to be picked clean by urchins, then eaten by rats) or tossed in the harbor.
Elfsong itself supposedly has a ghost or somesuch that manifests as a disembodied voice from time to time, giving the tavern its name.
You've heard rumor of an ex-pirate using this fake name 'Tarina' at the Elfsong (information probably worth something to someone). They say she has quite a bit of clink to waste away playing Baldur's Bones (a popular dice game).
The gods Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul are well known to Evendur. Well known and hated.
Bane, god of strife, of hatred and of tyranny was reviled by all good men. To hunt them would be no imposition.
No.
It was the names of Bhaal and Myrkul that pounded in his head.
Kelemvor desired that each enter the realm of death in their own appointed time. Bhaal, being the god of murder, interfered with that - cutting ones time short. They were insane, contemptible.
But the worship of Myrkul was the most hated by himself and Kelemvor. Once The Lord of Bones, the Lord of the Dead and now known as The Reaper, had often used the undead in the evil gods perverse schemes... and necromancers still sang dark paeans of praise in Myrkul's name. Kelemvor had rightly subplanted Mrykul as Lord of the Dead.
The Doomguide's jaw tightened and an expression of raw hatred crossed his face as his nostrils flared.
My thanks to you Captain, my thanks and that of Lord Kelemvor. You have put my feet upon a holy path. I will burn out this cancer or die trying. My oath on it.
The wheels in Mal's mind turn collecting all of the information that he was familiar. After the holy warrior praised the captain, the lightfoot clears his throat to get the attention. "Captain Zodge, do you have any advance of the 200? Additional information besides your informant will cost us."
"Hehe, you got it backwards. Informers pay you, you don't pay them. Someone not cooperating you crush their face, you are the law. Welcome to a new world...that badge can be a source of quick income if you're...creative."
"See that one with the toddler? Pain in the ass to be out here with a brat that age. She just wants to pay her gate fee and get the hell home. Won't even try to haggle..." he narrows his eyes, looking for other juicy commoners to educate you about.
"Aye and there, see that little runt with the paper sack? Cooks in the Outers send little s+$!s like him to get fresh veggies from the harbor...they probably sent a few silvers extra, just for us. Just be careful not to shakedown one of the Crews, way more trouble than its worth."
As much as I'd love to floor this criminal with a badge, the priest internally rages, I will not do anything that will deflect me from my Mission!
My thanks to you Captain, my thanks and that of Lord Kelemvor. You have put my feet upon a holy path. I will burn out this cancer or die trying. My oath on it.
Zodge takes a long hard look at Evandur, eventually settling "I believe you. You're a man that sees a bigger picture than wealth, I envy that. Just don't let those Hellriders steal you away from us, hear?" patting you on the shoulder. Though it seemed a jest, there was something not so jovial in that threat.
The lightfoot rolls his eyes at all this advice about how to gather information. Given to him, a rumor monger. He just wanted to get some coin in case Zodge gets some steel between his ribs from an unsatisfied customer.
"Right. Appreciate the advice. I know the way to the Elfsong. Ready?"
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Gorn had never busied himself much with the wars of the deities, or the particulars of which political party was involved with which particular movement. He never seemed to need to. Of course, anyone who bothered him with trying to care usually only needed to be shown Shellcracker and then they decided that live-and-live was a noble philosophy.
Still, he thought about the words and if he brain had any particular meaning attached to them. Positing himself the mental question only got him wondering, 'Are currants better than raisins in my croissants?'
"Gratitude," he rumbled, taking up the badge. Indeed, it _did_ present a new way of looking at things. Did he have it in him to use it to the maximum? Probably not. Shaking someone down just for the privileges of being on their way held no attraction for him. But mayhap some other opportunity will avail itself.
"Yes, Mal, and gratitude. I do not believe I have ever been there, but I have heard good things about it."
'I've heard their cook doesn't know a scone from a stone,' is what he meant to say, but it didn't seem relevant just now.
Only a few blocks west of the Basilisk Gate you find the Elfsong Tavern. From the outside it looks cozy and snug...if it weren't for the huge animated armor bouncer glowing with Eldritch power. Softwooden birch planks and marble details make up most of the structure. Its hard to see through the small curtained windows, but the enjoyment from within can be felt out on the street.
A second half-orc bouncer eager to tell you her name (yes, its Skoona...) greets you just inside. The keg behind the counter belches up a few pitchers of a dark reddish ale for an older half-elven bartender. The patrons here in the downstairs taproom huddle around many tables with some sequestered off in their private booths. None seem to pay you much mind, though a few reflexively stiffen at the sight of the badge.
On the menu seems to be fish cakes or crab cakes with some kind of soup, as well as a syrup drowned loaf pudding with almonds sprinkled on top. The smell from the kitchen is more appetizing than the appearance of these dishes, however.
Three padded chairs soak up the fireplace on the east wall, with a creaky wooden staircase climbing to the second floor. A couch on the north wall holds a slumbering, slobbering drunk, and nearby you spot a old wooden sea chest filled with Dragonchess boards, decks of Three-Dragon Ante cards and of course dice.
You don't immediately see anyone matching Tarina's description here.
Mal strolls to the counter near the older half-elven bartender. "Aye, sir. You're probably the owner of the Elfsong, Alan Alyth. My mates over there from the Fist would appreciate some hospitality until the lady Tarina arrives. Then, we'll be on our way. You probably don't want a crew of Fist lounging in the Elfsong overly long, eh?"
Mal, along with his name you also remember Alan runs a moneylending operation under the table. The man's eye twitches slightly at mention of the Fist, but otherwise he does well to conceal his fear. "Of course, round on the house for our fine protectors? Will you be dining with us as well?" he sets out some steins. "Oh Tarina you said. Eh, Falton?" calling to one of the young server boys "Did Tarina clear off already?"
"Nay, she's still in the Bones upstairs." he replies.
Alan nods "Well, these Flaming Fist gentlemen are here to see her...if you could summon her please..." turning back to Malaric "Ah, if that suits you I mean?"
The priest is happy to let the diminutive but evidently heavily armed halfling handle the interaction. He was out of his depth here. He'd been in seedy locales before with his mentor, and while this place seemed popular enough the 'colourful' nature of its clientele sat uneasy with him.
Evendur waved off the drink, indicating he wasn't interested.
Why not just visit Tarina upstairs then?, totally clueless as to what 'the bones' referred to.
"Well, thank you kindly for the hospitality. I really enjoy the brew is in this fine establishment."
"That is a very particular button you wear where in the Gate did you find that button. I would really appreciate one of those and borrowing yours would be magnificent." The lightfoot prattles on with the barkeep.
Now, he is saying, "these guys don't know about your moneylending operation. And I won't tell them, if you let me borrow that skeleton key when I need to. It looks very useful. Does it unlock any door? Or a specific one?
Is there anything you want my crew of Fist to be interested in? Like any enemies? We could come to so kind of mutually beneficial arrangement here."
BTW what does the barkeep refer to as the Bones?
Grim, it certainly appears there is nothing stoping you from walking right up the stairs.
Each player puts the agreed ante in the pot.
Each player rolls three dice. Play then proceeds clockwise around the table, with the host of the game going last.
On their turn, a player can choose to “stand” or “roll.” If the player stands, the next player can take a turn. A player who rolls takes an additional die and rolls it. If the total of their dice exceeds 21, they “bust” and are out of the game. Otherwise they can keep rolling additional dice until they either stand or break.
After everyone has had a turn, the highest point total (excluding players who busted) wins the game and takes the pot.
He let's out a slight audible sigh as the cant types out in his mind. "What, this?" pointing at the button with his thumb while his pinky points to the key "Die Kleine Nadel. West port tailor of Amnish origin, they say. I could send a missive, happy to help. Might take a fortnight."
"Amnish? I've heard they do excellent work. Tell me about this guy? What's his best work?" Mal continues to chat away.
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Gorn goes amicably to the Elfsong, though he keeps Shellcracker in his off hand. Having been given the power to wield it, he thought it apropos to keep it out of its bed. He whistles in appreciation at the animated armor at the door. 'Well that would keep anyone out. But what good is it once inside?'
He smiles an honest smile at the bouncer. He likes 'em big, and orcs are always fun. "Guten Tag Mädchen! Wie geht es? Du siehst heute so schön ausIst, Skoona! Das Essen hier gut?"
Entering and giving his eyes a moment to get used to the indoors, he follows the group to the bar and accepts his gratis mug. Then, given a chance to partake of what he was so curious about, he couldn't turn down a chance to try out this new role AND try some new food!
"Why YES we _shall_ be dining with you today, and you are a fine gentleman for making such a kind, kind offer. I'll have the fish cakes with the almond loaf," he rumbles.
Then, trying on this new suit, he rolls his massive shoulders and cracks his thick neck. "Unless you have a problem with that."
Let her finish her game, we can wait, Donal pulls up a chair and orders a drink, happy to let the others do the talking.
With Mal "Theatre fan? Her ballerina skirts left their mark on my memory. But if you're staying in Gate you're out of luck, she rarely travels."
Skoona happily yet stupidly responds to Gorn, in orc "You eat, maybe we share eyestalks..." she reaches in to the scalding cheesy soup with her bare hand, and produces a stiff crab eyestalk for you to chew on.
While you ponder the unforseen gift, you also catch glimpses of the kitchen in the back. It looks like a team of three is chipping away at the orders of soups and pastries. A little halfling lady is obviously the executive chef. Oddly, one of her sous chefs (a human) appears blind.
As Gorn approaches the half elf takes a quick shot of whiskey "N-n-no no, no problem at all!" at least pretending to be delighted "That's actually quite excellent. Will you require a private dining room here, or will you take your meal upstairs...?"
Donal, as you soak up the delicious booze, you also inadvertently get a taste of some chatter nearby:
Some guildworkers are discussing the happenings with Elturel, and a sour old dwarf is quite vocal with “I’ll bet my last copper piece that those so-called refugees are advanced scouts for an army that’s preparing to attack Baldur’s Gate!”
Elsewhere a street juggler elbows his mate “The Flaming Fist is decapitated. The captains have already started bickering over who should be in charge with Ulder Ravengard gone.”
A more erudite group in the corner discuss politics “With Ravengard out of the way, who’ll be the next grand duke, I wonder? My money’s on Thalamra Vanthampur. Practically born in the sewers, she was, and more vicious than a swarm of rats...”
"Why, I love the theater. Tell me about this ballerina. How tall is she? How was she dressed? Does she play in another theater?" Mal continues to prattle.
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"Schatz, ich werde alles teilen, was du mir geben willst!" Gorn replies smoothly as he starts smacking on the crab-eye-stalk without thought.
At the sight of the kitchen, Gorn stops to ponder the thing as much as he possibly can ponder things. 'A blind second? That...is incredibly interesting. A bold and, from what I'm learning of the way of things, a solid move. If he knows the location, he can be a fine chef, still able to taste things and whatnot, but he'd never be able be a threat to take over, and you'd have all but monopoly negotiating powers with the ownership, since they would know that. Whoever that little, very little, lady is, she must have something on the ball. Yeah, I'd better gimme a taste of her cookin'.'
Gorn's a bit taken aback at being given a choice of the locale of his dining, as he usually doesn't worry much past the 'can I eat it?' phase of things. "Ah, upstairs will be fine," he answers, thinking that privacy really isn't what they're going for here, and they may need a reason to go upstairs at some point. Maybe sooner than later.
He spares a glance to Mal who seems to be engrossed in the most unusual conversation he's ever been exposed to. This ale-whipper and the rumor monger are engrossed in tales of high art? Both men must needs rise higher in his esteem.
Vanni's hands are sweating, and her nerves are on edge as she and the remainder of her... yes her squad make their way to the tavern. Things are happening so fast. I prayed to be given the opportunity to lead my own squad, but after being passed over so many times I must not fail.
Then upon arrival all her squad wander off doing their own things without consulting their leader. She started to speak up then remembered the words of Sgt. Glifnak, one of her most veteran trainers.
Keep your dogs on a leash, but let them run out their leads. You never know what they're capable of if you leash them to tightly".
She decides to observe and catalog the strengths and weaknesses of her charges instead of putting down the steel of her gauntlet, and the weight of her authority.
She first watches the halfling rogue. That one is used to doing things his way. Might need to learn that he needs to learn to work with others.
She then looks at the flirting Human barbarian / cook. Interesting dichotomy there. Seems to have a most hedonistic attitude towards all of life. Be interesting to see how he holds up when the arrows start flying. Not going to count on him to be the best at keeping an eye on things.
She then observes the other professional warrior in the group. That one knows how to play the game. he's waiting to gather the mood of the room before playing his cards. Perhaps I'll sit with him and enjoy my ale and observe as well. Might be a good second as he understands military protocol and order.
Walking towards Donal's table he then observes the Priest, and his discomfort with the entire situation. I almost feel pity for that one. He's going to be out of his element most of the time... but sometimes it's not bad to have an alternative view of things. Perhaps I can help him understand the sacrifices necessary, and he can keep us at least a bit morally aligned.
He then looks around for the Dragon blooded Sorcerer and sees him nowhere in sight. Still need to figure that one out. Perhaps it's best he not be plainly visible... still I need to have communication with him as to where he is, and what he's doing.
Vanni sits at the table with the other warrior, and raises her glass in a toast. "To chaotic order and our fortunes".
I'm just here to get the job done, boss, Donal replies looking up from his drink, But I'll keep you all alive, if I can.
Evendurs face sours slightly.
It could be the wait for their contact and impatience with the delay... it could also be the toast.
He looks around the room, looking for signs of trouble, not relaxing much at all...
Mal, you wring a few more details out the halfelf through your concealed conversation. The possessor of the item is a sahaugin priestess named Oshalla, who stays in the master suite . The only time she is even seen is when her meals are delivered. She refuses to allow the room to be cleaned. There are many private rooms in the tavern, as well as a storage area on the ground floor.
As you all enjoy the atmosphere downstairs, suddenly the taproom goes dead silent (save the drunk still snoring away on the couch). A voice from beyond your familiar dimension pierces through this reality:
O sing a song of Elturel
Of water, woods, and hill
The sun dawns on her ruddy cliffs
And fields green and still.
This land of long-abiding joy
Home of the strong and brave
Renowned by all, across the realms,
And never once a slave.
O sing a song of Elturel
When foes are at her door
Her fields torn by cloven feet
From some infernal shore.
Arise the mighty Hellriders
Take up your swift, keen swords
Then charge into the hellish fray
And scatter devil hordes.
O sing a song of Elturel
And when the night does fall
Sleep safe beneath Companion’s light
Until the dawn does call.
We’re bound by mortal covenant
That only ends with death
And so we’ll sing of Elturel
Until our final breath.
As the song begins Alan's face sparks with delight, but it quickly turns to confusion. He hurriedly procures a parchment and quill, trying to jot down the verses as they linger and dance throughout your collective psyche. "That...well friends what a treat! Seems our namesake ghost has chosen a new song to sing."
The lightfoot thanks the owner and takes his drink to the table with Mylivanni and Donal.
After taking a few sips, he whispers conspiratorially to the two and anyone else of the crew at the table, "while we wait for our contact, we could make some extra coin. We need to get a guest out of the master suite for a few minutes, and the owner has provided one of the other rooms to hold her. What do you think? Maybe practice for our crew working together?" He goes back to nursing his drink. You remember that the halfling is a known rumor monger.