The priest hurries over to the tiefling woman and draws upon his knowledge of medicine, magic aside, and does what more can be done for her here.
He's more trained in preparing corpses than in rescuing the half dead, but he's learned a trick or two...
This one still has a chance...
Mal is still out. Does anyone have a crowbar? Donal asks, recoiling from the refuse and its stench.
Grim, one thing that stands out in your initial diagnosis is the blunt force trauma to the back of her head. You estimate it is, after dabbing away the blood here and there to reveal color beneath the skin, the oldest of her wounds and has already partially healed (unlike the others which are still freshly open, half-scabbed, or scabbed and picked open).
You also find salt throughout the body. Lots of salt...seemingly intentionally caked and bound about the open wounds. While tiefling physiology is more resistant to flames than a human's, the burn of the salt would nonetheless have been agonizing to the girl. And sure, salting a wound can stave off infection (still those wounds below the belt are badly in need of cleaning), but the context of the room leads you to expect it was rather for the purpose of inflicting even more pain. She likely simply passed out from the pain, or blood loss.
While the drilled holes in her horns will surely never fully heal, there are otherwise no broken bones or torn muscles you can find...in other words transporting her is a safe option (if you could unbind her that is). She might wake up in a few hours after a fresh drink of water and a comforting touch, or more rapidly of course with the direct warmth of divine radiance.
---
Donal finds no traps, only a bloody leather whip strung over a chair nearby. His thoughts immediately turn to breaking the shackles, but he might also remember the ring of keys looted from the previous torture chamber...
Thumbing through the keychain, Donal works to find a key that fits her shackles.
Donal fiddles with the 7 keys and finds the right one for these shackles surprisingly on the second try. The cast iron nearly *peels* of her skin, taking a thin layer with it from the weeks(?) of abrasion. She slumps down with little resistance, and in his hands, Donal can feel the bones of her frame even poking through the leather of his gloves...if she was fed at all it was very little.
hours
With no healing magics on hand (or at least no identified potions as such) it seems the party would need to carry her along for the time being...if they found it in their hearts to care, that is.
Donal carries her back to the room with Mal and Myl (assuming that she is watching over them), then returns. Now that we have a reason to leave, let us find an informant to keep an eye on this place. Grim, want to lay the man to rest? the agent of Torm holds up the keyring.
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"Leave, what about the door to the North?" Gorn asks, at long last picking up the salt and gauging its quality. Rubbing into wounds was not only a crime, but also right darn wasteful.
"An' we still gots that whole back '40 to do in the West.
She can doze while we clear out all the evil.
I mean we just had a good nap. Shame to waste it."
Mal collects and stows his crowbar. He studies the two bodies wondering if he recognizes them or anyone who looks like them, well at least when they weren't emaciated and tortured.
Mal, the dead man you don't recognize at all. The tiefling woman however is the wine and spirit distributer for all the major taverns in Baldur's Gate, working under the Oathoon patriar family (whose main and quite successful business is the import of such libations). Annoyingly, her name escapes you at the moment...its something weird like 'Reprisal' or a word that isn't usually a name.
Patriars are the elite upper class of the city, a rank defined largely by money and lines of vague, increasingly inconsequential heritage. Many nobles claim generations of lineage, dating to the earliest days of Baldur’s Gate. Their money funds industries and lines political pockets, but their names allow them to wield influence throughout the city.
Some patriars are economically-minded individuals who rise early and spend their days in meetings and negotiations. They fund expeditions into dangerous locales and hire explorers to map uncharted territories. Other patriars manipulate the city’s power players through diplomacy and intrigue. They spend their days flitting from theater performances to private balls, while quietly making and breaking the alliances that underwrite the city’s structures.
Patriars live and work in the Upper City. Their manor homes employ dozens of servants, along with contingents of personal guards. The wall surrounding the Upper City as well as the constant presence of the Watch — which exclusively patrols that district — goes far toward assuring their security. As a side effect, it also means many patriars go months without engaging with the city’s common folk, their insulation leading to the spread of divisive rumors.
Patriars know the danger of the other districts, where their wealth is a lure and their names carry no weight. Patriars who have to travel the Lower City always do so with guards, and still risk robbery or worse violence.
Many patriar families hire proxies to carry out their business in the Lower City or Outer City. If circumstances force patriars to visit the Outer City personally, they typically travel in disguise, paying adventurers or mercenaries to protect them without drawing the attention of a uniformed personal guard.
Among the common folk and criminal element of the city, patriars have a reputation for callousness. Common wisdom holds that patriars are out of touch with everyday life and value citizens’ lives cheaply. For some nobles, this assessment holds true. These patriars are class-conscious dilettantes who spend their money on frivolous bets, debauched entertainment, and risky business ventures. For this callous lot, the common people are nothing more than fools to be bilked, clods undeserving of comfort and wealth due to their lack of comfort and breeding.
For a few patriars, though, the inequality of Baldur’s Gate is a serious concern. Blocked by a corrupt government and uncaring peers, these civic-minded nobles use unorthodox channels to distribute aid. They quietly fund vigilante action that protects the vulnerable groups. They stage robberies on their own property and secretly send the “stolen goods” to sick houses and charities. These patriars know that to act openly is to invite scorn from their peers, which may edge them out of alliances and deals that could strengthen their standing. Worse, it makes them targets for corrupt elite who prefer the city’s divisions as they are.
Some good-hearted but naïve patriars have been known to venture into the Lower City and even the Outer City to volunteer with the disadvantaged or share their wealth. Even in disguise, though, these nobles are usually quickly identified and become targets of the Guild or other criminals. More than one patriar on a mission of mercy has disappeared into the Lower City, never to be seen again.
Myl is inclined to agree with Gorn "How many more tortured are on the edge of death down here...should we leave them to fate?" she argues.
After studying the victims, Mal concludes, "I don't know the dead man at all. The tiefling woman however is the wine and spirit distributor for all the major taverns in Baldur's Gate, working under the Oathoon patriar family (whose main and quite successful business is the import of such libations). Annoyingly, her name escapes me at the moment... it's something weird like 'Reprisal' or a word that isn't usually a name."
Donal looks back toward the woman, then back at Gorn, Let's make it quick, then.
Evendur examines the remainder just to ensure no one else is missed.
Lets get her out of here... she'll have some information in all likelihood. Is this rat lair clear or are there unexplored passages?
He looks around.
Wouldn't be surprised if there was another way up around here...
I think, there are still rooms left here.. perhaps it would be best to clear the remaining rooms. Make sure the rot has been purged... I for one wish to kill anyone here after what they did to my noble companion.
Fine, but remember our goal. Vengeance is worth nothing if we die, Donal says, matter-of-factly. We go as far a we can, no further. We are no good to anyone dead.
Just in case, Mal scouts ahead toward the unexplored areas of the dungeon while people are deciding.
He cannot believe he is choosing to wander alone around a Dead Three dungeon, but then again, he guesses that's how much he dislikes committee meetings. Always some interesting information to find.
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"I ain't plannin' on dyin'," Gorn retorts, stowing the salt and getting ready to liberate more area from teh evilz.
He was about to annihilate the door to the north when he sees Mal move off with a purpose. He's already lost track of the stealthy burglar when he says, to no one, "Imma giving it 60 seconds before I destroy that door.
Stupid doors."
Donal turns to face Evandur, We won't be long. If it gets to be too hairy, we will return to the streets. Myl can watch over the girl.
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"I ain't plannin' on dyin'," Gorn retorts, stowing the salt and getting ready to liberate more area from teh evilz.
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Donal turns to face Evandur, We won't be long. If it gets to be too hairy, we will return to the streets. Myl can watch over the girl.
Sounds like a good idea.
He leaves off last rights for the remaining corpses. There is too much work to be done and a need to lead a mini expedition of Kelemvorites back here to consecrate and rehabilitate this area.
A good Idea, Donal.
Watching the others work, and at Gorn's quip about doors Tibs chuckles.
Truly, its not like we have been particularly stealthy in our approach so far... all things considered.
Donal chuckles, Aye, we are more the hammer than the blade.
Mal, the northern door leads into a tight hall down a set of stairs to a collapsed passage. You can feel the air get cold and dusty as you descend. But, after all, there isn't much down there and on the other side another set of stairs leads back up again...Ah, that makes sense, its a dull decoy. There's a secret door just there on the north wall. But you push on up the stairs.
Stop.
Flickering shadows. Torchlight. The footsteps and murmuring of men. Cautiously rounding a corner, you come to three doors...the 2 on the eastern wall are the source of the light, streaming through cracks in the wood. The third to the south is dark.
You dare a peek through the cracks on your tippy-toes. Northeast is an elderly woman leaning against a sarcophagus, spots of blood on the floor nearby. She's dressed in the style of Baldur's Gate native, but you don't recognize her. Southeast is room full of what looks like slumbering but armored cultists in their barracks...you can count 4.
Donal awaits at the secret door for either a scream or Mal to return.
When Mal returned awhile ago, he whispers, "after this secret door, there are three doors at the top of the stairs. Two have light. One has an elderly woman leaning against a sarcophagus, and the other is room full of what looks like four slumbering but armored cultists in their barracks."
Do you think that we can make it into the barracks without her noticing?
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"Me, yes. You, maybe. Him, probably not." clearly indicating Gorn.
Can you take them out with waking or alerting the others? Donal nods.
"You mean murder cultists in their sleep? Dead Three cultists? Ironic. They might be dreaming of it. I can try, but run at the first sound of alarm."
Mal slides one of his shortswords from its sheath and prowls his way back upstairs. He waits by the barracks door until the noisy ones are positioned nearby, ready to intervene.
Donal nods and shares the plan with the others, holding his shield and war mace at the ready...
Mal glides into the barracks, shortsword and crystal in hands.
He gets to the sleeping cultist nearest to the door and stabs his blade into his throat.
Mal stalks over to the slumbering fool, resting the tip of the balanced gladius just over his adam's apple...before plunging it right into the thick walls of the throat! The cultist's eyes bulge wide, nearly popping out the socket *gorgle gurgle*!! he sputters writhing this way and that slapping his mailed hand on the stone wall as his clean white pillow turns a soggy red...
Init
The squad awakes from the noise and tries to figure out what's happening, quickly searching for their weapons nearby...
Round 2:
Tib, Mal, Don, Grim, Gorn <--UP
Cultists of Bane (4)
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"Yeah, I don't bake gluten free and I don't do stealthy," Gorn comments as the mega-stealth option is examined.
Leaving the burglar to his work, Gorn lumbers as quietly as he can and waits patiently outside the door. As the noise of a noisily-dying guard and the movement of bedclothes comes fluttering through the doorway, he knows what time it is.
"What time is it?" he roars, storming through the door and counting open eyes.
"It's CLOBBERIN' TIME!" he says joyously, bringing Shellcracker down on almost-but-not-quite-dead guard Mal had done good work on.
The bed squeaks like a copper brothel as the chef pounces, squirting brains out its chain coif.
Donal moves in quickly, bringing the head of his mace down hard on his foe!
When the cultist didn't die at first, Mal dodged away from his slaps a reaction. Until he could get another stab into a vulnerable flesh.
Tiberius charges in following his companions, renewed and reinvigorated due to the food. He slaps the most injured looking cultist with his staff.
Attacking a cultist... the same that Tiberius attacked.
or adv,
Hoping they aren't armoured...
Grim absconds to the north, swinging the unlocked door open heroically. The woman appears startled, well-noting the silver badge "Bane, Bhaal, Myrkul...and now Kelemvor? No, surely not...who are you?"
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Donal follows the chef into the musty bedchamber, giving an oiled jut of steel to the gut of a man, knocking loose his last yawn. Violently, almost impossibly quick, he brings his arm back for a second swing but clips an expensive looking bottle of wine on the nearby table, shattering the sweet smelling liquor across the floor in a purple burst.
The spilled mess intercepts the halfling's charge, and his boots slip, sending the shortblade arcing wide and skipping across chain links.
The dragonborn with his regal reach has less problems, pummelling one squarely unbent knee into a most unnatural (and rather more uncomfortable) position as the Doomguide joins the party. Somehow, though unarmed, the freshly awake cultist grabs the sword at the hilt, deflecting the blow in a show of early morning strength.
Round 2:
Tib, Mal, Don, Grim, Gorn
Cultists of Bane (3) <--UP
"Slimy cowards!" one shouts, diving for a mace leaning up against a chair. He hits it so hard it slides into the table, knocking his breakfast mutton out of its wooden platter and plopping upon the floor. Even Gorn had to admit, it was a well-prepped dish...shame to waste it.
Another goes for his weapon which was laying on the floor, but in his awkwardness kicks it across the room and goes bumbling after, somehow avoiding bumping into anything else (except the mutton, which is squashed into patte) as he chases the rolling mace.
The last, and certainly the largest, bruised and looking rather angry stands slowly and simply snags his shield off the bedpost and straps it to an arm...and there, in place of heraldry, you note the now familiar symbol of Bane.
Round 3:
Tib, Mal, Don, Grim, Gorn <--UP
Cultists of Bane (3)
Hacks again at cultist...
for
Happy happy joy joy...
On the off chance I get adv thanks to two teaming with Tiberius...
Mal slides over to team-kill another cultist and stabs him with his steely knife.
Coward? You, who steals folk from their beds at night to torture and kill? That's rich, Donal quips as he follows and swings at the one that spoke.
Cowards!? You dare to insult a noble so? You who steal away your betters while there pants are down? Poppycock!
Tiberius moves to most injured cultist, attempting to knock them down with a whack of his staff to the side of the head.
Mal and Tiberius knock the big shielded bruiser off his feet despite his size, and with a quick twist of the shortblade to a crack across the nosebridge he slumps back to bed cozy-ing up for death. Meanwhile, the others scold the cultist for his hypocritical choice of words while beating the s@** out of him.
Round 3:
Tib, Mal, Don, Grim, Gorn
Cultists of Bane (2) <--UP