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As the undying devotion to the evil trinity is taken over by an overwhelming desire to nap, Gorn stands and yawns. Stretching mightily, he wonders how long he's been down there.
As the cultist is only just freshly falling into an unnatural stupor, he decides it hasn't been too long.
And he's very, very mad about it.
"Nobody puts baby in a corner," is all he needs to grind out as he raises his hammer HIGH and brings it down on the jawless death's head.
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The chef rises with little more than a mildly sore knee, delivering a merciless death blow to the helpless agent of murder.
The hulking man with aged fire scars all over groans a bit, still holding his side "*cough* If you've made it this far into the complex you've killed most of the cult's leadership. Without them, the cult will break up...their treasure left behind. You can go back to your fellow Blazes and get a pat on the back and a night in the tavern." he walks backwards away from the statues a good distance and slumps down to rest before continuing "And if you've made it this far into the complex, then we failed. The Flaming Fist are still strong."
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Mal coughs for attention and asks the big ugly, "excuse me, sir. Who are you?"
"Would you by chance know where their treasure is?"
"And, what do you mean by we failed?"
He pauses between questions to avoid sounding like a talking chipmunk.
He tries his best at a proper greeting bow to the halfling, scrunching up his upper torso in Mal's general direction "Mortlock Vanthampur. Yes, that Vanthampur."
You all of course recognize the surname, matching Duke Thalamra Vanthampur, member of Baldur's Gate's ruling Council of Four. This Mortlock is the Duke's son, apparently.
"My mother rose to power revitalizing the city's sewer system, this bathhouse has been in our family for generations. She is now one of the three remaining members of the Council of Four, which governs Baldur's Gate. She was...instrumental in convincing Ulder Ravengard to travel to Elturel and meet with its high overseer, Thavius Kreeg. You see with Ravengard gone, the Flaming Fist is leaderless and vulnerable."
You all understand that very well, the vulnerability being the reason you dared attempt a coup against the Fist yourselves . Could these Vanthampurs have had a similar plot?
"My family is paying the Dead Three cultists to murder people in the city. Our goal is to prove that the Flaming Fist can't do its job. Once the city stops paying them, the Flaming Fist will have less of a reason to stay in Baldur's Gate. With them gone, no one can stand in the way of my mother becoming the city's next grand duke. If she gets her way, Baldur's Gate will share Elturel's fate and get dragged down into the Nine Hells..."
It made some modicum of sense. A group of psychos this big would need financial backing and organization. Mortlock, being the deformed shame of the family, got put on turd-water duty down here. You remember the first thing he said, amidst the fallen corpses of the other Death's Head...
The down on his luck ugly hulk with the big stick saunters up the steps as well saying (with a surprisingly erudite, even courtly voice) "The Death's Head of Bhaal is a cunning foe...*huff puff* I was betrayed. These assassins conspired with my brothers to kill me. If you hadn't come along, I'd be dead. I owe you my life. *pant* I will front the final charge, should you ask it." with his last bit of strength the colossus raises his greatclub.
It would seem those 'brothers' thought his leadership down here was no longer necessary.
"We failed because you, the Flaming Fist, stopped us. By destroying the cult and stopping the murders, the very ineptitude we were trying to prove was in fact disproven." By your badges, he must think you are part of the Flaming Fist.
Donal lies in a pool of his own blood... But if only he were awake, he'd speak...
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Mal walks over to Grim and wakes him, being less than great at tending to wounded. While about his work, he listens to the Ugly turning wheels inside of wheels.
"So... Where does that leave you, Mortlock Vanthampur?"
"Would you conspire to kill your brothers in retaliation?
"Would your brothers have acted without your mother's knowledge and permission?"
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At the halfling's last question he sighs a heavy sigh "I would like to think so. My mother has always been one of the few who were...tolerable...of me despite my appearance. I can't believe she would arrange my murder. Amrik and Thurstwell...I don't doubt for a moment."
"The Dead Three cultists have been receiving regular payments from my brother Amrik, who runs his own moneylending business out of a tavern called the Low Lantern." The Low Lantern is a scuttled ship turned gambling hall dockside in the Lower City. Seedy yet fun...if you're tough enough to handle the unscrupulous characters that frequent it. "My mother doesn't expect much of me, but she thinks the world of Amrik. He's always been her favorite. I don't know how he keeps acquiring these hefty payments, it certainly isn't coming from the family treasury. But...see for yourself...what the cultists have amassed so far is quite vast." he thumbs to a room back down the steps full of large, glistening treasure chests.
"As Amrik handled finances, my oldest brother, Thurstwell did organization. He uses invisible imps as spies throughout the city. He has the bathhouse under surveillance and almost certainly knows you're here... He's very sickly and seldom leaves our mother's estate, the Vanthampur Villa." Some of you might recall this major estate in the Upper City, especially Tiberius who is quite familiar with that area.
"As for me, I rather do think its time I abscond. I've grown a true hatred for Baldur's Gate...cesspool of cutthroats. With this betrayal there is no place for me here any longer."
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-the 2 potions in the chest (red crystal with gold stoppers)
-potion from zombie encounter
-the fused armor statue
-bag of mysterious magic beans from sarcophagus
Mal tries to cover his concern at a more murderous rumor monger than he ever will be. "So, Thurstwell knows us. And, he sent an assassin to kill you. We need to kill Thurstwell before he sends assassins to kill us."
"Mortlock, would you have any information that would help us kill Thurstwell, before he kills us?"
The priest stabilises his dear friend with an orison, before seeing to any other needs his unconscious body may have.
He seems to have little interest in the wealth in the chests and none whatsoever in the fruits of the grave robbing, stating a stiff preference that he not even be given a copper penny from that particular pool of coin.
Back at the barracks, he makes a brief report even as he puts Donal in a cot, that the threat has been eliminated, that no Flaming Fist lives were lost and that he'd be happy to report fully to the captain after 8 hours, when they'd got some sleep and saw to their wounds.
He then dutifully prays, peels off his armor and falls into a deep dreamless sleep.
The next day he checks on Donals wound, clucks over it, thinking it might scar and decides to kill multiple birds with one cast of a stone. He piles the plate into a borrowed sack.
Come along Donal... we might be able to see an old hand about that wound, and consult on destroying the evil still in those tunnels. I hate that the altar, shrine and columns still stand. We'll need to see to those, and consult with or get aid from that same man as checks your wound... then maybe I can get this armour fixed.
And with that he heads back to the old shrine of Kelemvor.
Sounds good, where are the others? the warrior pulls himself out of bed, slipping on a tunic before shimmying into his chainmail.
Mortlock speaks of his older brother "Thurstwell is puny. A southern maiden with nothing more than a onion knife could slay him. Still, he commands power and trades in information. Your Fist badge won't mean anything there...the Watch of the Upper City, and of our familial villa in particular, are strong and loyal. Should you plot against him, secrecy would be of utmost importance...his little barbed tailed spies are everywhere. Perhaps you should learn something of those devils he employs...mmm...they seem to have no shortage of tricks."
---
Emerging from the secret bathhouse entrance gets a feminine *gasp* from a well-oiled and bare-chested masseuse, shocked doubly by your mysterious appearance and the dead old man tied up in the corner (it looks like someone slit his throat).
Mortlock covers his face with a hood, but that only seems to make the towering figure even more inconspicuous. He had earlier mentioned getting out of town...legally, an impossibility with the lockdown. Chances are he'll hit the docks then, and find an illegal path out.
A midday's sun cuts through the Chionthar fog, burning your retinas and warming your open wounds. The slow march across town to Zodge's command post is rather unceremonious, of course none yet realize this small squad has done a tremendous service to the city. A city in some ways not deserving of kindness.
---
Just outside the man-sized archway leading into the fortified courtyard, a few Fist share a hot drink. Their eyes linger on your wounds but their faces don't betray what they're thinking. Inside, the post has a rather dour atmosphere...gone is the revelry and cajoling of the mercenaries and their cons against the citizenry, and in its place is a wounded force.
Zodge himself sports a still wet wound just north of his right vambrace, and seems more than happy to have you buzz off out of his hair for some recuperation. It's no secret the cause: Hellriders. The paladins of Elturel who legend has it rode into the Nine Hells on horseback to fight devils. With Elturel gone they've come to Baldur's Gate, apparently with some sort of score to settle.
Mylivanni, still burdened by the unconscious torture victim, gives a brief farewell before throwing the portcullis to the eastern wing...the infirmary. She promises to get the girl back on her feet.
I'll need to heal up too, though it seems that Grim wrapped me up good. We'll see you around, boss, Donal heads to the barracks for a night's rest.
The next morning, he heads to visit the Doomguide with Grim.
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Politely interrogating Mortlock, Mal continues, "Invisible imps? How would I find information on invisible devils?"
"When was the last time you were at your mother's mansion? Would you know of a secret way into the Upper City and into the mansion?"
"How about your other brother Amrik? Is there anything secretive about that Low Lantern?"
From the bathhouse, Mal hides his Fist badge on the underside of his lapel and follows his fellow Fisters from a noticeably safe and disconnected distance. Can't have everyone know the Rumor Monger is in the Flaming Fist. Bad for business. Need to know basis, surely.
At the barracks, he flips his lapel to the guards and threads the closing gate. Inside Fist territory, he keeps his badge showing and catches up to his crew with as much swagger as his short legs can manage.
Early the next morning (after a disappointing breakfast of hot barley porridge and hardtack), Donal and Grim set out to Kelemvor's derelict shrine down Heapside. The colors of the morning sky flirt with the broken shards of stained glass of the temple windows, razor teeth of mouths agape and in pain.
Boots squish on the soggy carpets still exposed to the elements inside, but it gets warmer deeper into the ruin...and there you find the humble priest in his morning sacrament. On the right side dish of a tarnished brass set of scales he places a purple thistle flower, while on the left side he positions 2 small knuckle bones. When the scales stabilize he begins softly reciting something, of which you only catch a bit of: "...half-cursed flesh...", "...lost Father Alby..." and "...born of the Crystal Spire...".
He turns, breathing the satisfied gasp of a meditation complete, saying "Ah, the Doomguide returns. And what of the Sickle Man...or Sickle Men was it after all? Were there but any worthy of the Coins?" with a note of hopefulness in his voice.
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"Ha..." he coughs up some blood and forces the laugh to end short "I was just joking. Magi and the elite are the only ones foolish enough to probe the lore of devils...In the aristocracy its more of a game, an excuse to spread rumors of mysterious men and women in masks, conducting dark rituals for riches and vengeance." Of course such rumors about the elite hadn't escaped you, and likewise you dismissed them as just a lame way the upper class entertains itself.
"Now which is Thurstwell, magi or bored noble? I can't say I know him well enough anymore...he has isolated himself more and more in recent years. Studying that Infernal language incessantly...that might be a place to start, if you're really serious. Rare books."
When asked of the Villa "12 ft wall...more than 20 Watch. They'll attack anyone sight without prior approval from my mother. As a child I always thought the tower was a weakness...some dark creature could swoop in on wings. But if you're really intent on snooping mom's personal business you'd want to get down in the undercrawl. Ive not been down there myself but know its the stairs next to the kitchen..." he pauses, hesitant to say "...you know, if you're really going in there, you could grab something from my room. Its on the second floor, just upstairs first right...in the footchest is a little troll talisman. Would mean a lot to me to get it back before I go."
On the Low Lantern "Amrik finances more than this cult, he's a loan shark...a swindler with enough charm to convince fools that 25% interest is a good idea. He's probably got good company there, been running that con for years outta the Lantern..."
Mal commits everything to memory. Wheels within wheels. His master probably had books on the imps at the house, because that's where Mal learned Infernal language. "So, Amrik seems straightforward with all of his rotten eggs in one basket, so to speak."
"Thurstwell again will be the more difficult to reach. Need to go all Ocean's Eleven on him to get in there and stand a chance against 20 guards."
"Thanks for the tips. It'll take a couple of weeks to be successful. If we are, how do I return your little troll?"
"If you don't know now, you can deliver notes to this book-seller who I know. They'll be able to find me." The halfling gives the hulk the address of his master and offers his hand in gratitude.
"Nice meeting you. I love information, so if you think of anything else, just get it to that book-seller."
Mortlock takes the halfling's address, stuffing it in his sweaty vest, silently nodding as the halfling walks back into the shadows. After a pause "...just burn the whole place down!" the hulk half-jested.
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Early the next morning (after a disappointing breakfast of hot barley porridge and hardtack), Donal and Grim set out to Kelemvor's derelict shrine down Heapside. The colors of the morning sky flirt with the broken shards of stained glass of the temple windows, razor teeth of mouths agape and in pain.
Boots squish on the soggy carpets still exposed to the elements inside, but it gets warmer deeper into the ruin...and there you find the humble priest in his morning sacrament. On the right side dish of a tarnished brass set of scales he places a purple thistle flower, while on the left side he positions 2 small knuckle bones. When the scales stabilize he begins softly reciting something, of which you only catch a bit of: "...half-cursed flesh...", "...lost Father Alby..." and "...born of the Crystal Spire...".
** spoiler omitted **
He turns, breathing the satisfied gasp of a meditation complete, saying "Ah, the Doomguide returns. And what of the Sickle Man...or Sickle Men was it after all? Were there but any worthy of the Coins?" with a note of hopefulness in his voice.
Most important thing first... I found two people of the commons and one of the nobility, victims, worthy of coins. I retain two pairs for now... praying that they'll not be needed but knowing they will find their way back to the mother church sooner rather than later.
As to your first question? It was not just sickle men... the worshipful of the Dead Three had formed a symbolic group headquarters, where ALL three cults mutually were living together and supporting each other. It was... most uncommon. That we can discuss in a moment. I have a friend here, a TRUE friend. He stood toe to toe with a skull headed archetype of Bhaal and received a grevious wound. I hope that you can take a look and hopefully provide healing.
Then we need to consult with you on breaking evils grip on their shrines and altars, in effect consecrating them and making them unusable. Finally I am hoping you know of a trustworthy and worthy armoursmith who can repair some plate in sore need of refurbishment.
The old man has a look of satisfaction "Then we can at least bring honor to the dead. Their families will know your labors, Doomguide, and remember the dignity in your Judgement. 'Honor to the dead, for bringing us to where we are now.'" placing his fist over heart in respect.
As he looks over Donal's scar, his eyes nearly burst from his head in shock as he turns the strange curved wounds in his hand "...the Dread Lord's touch...and you survived? Surely there must be some spark of the divine within you."
After the initial wonder wanes off, he grabs a few ear-marked and relatively mold-free books "My healing powers are likely minor compared to yours, I gravitated more towards necrology and alchemy to augment Kelemvor's gift...twisting the secrets of the netherworld into weapons against undeath. But yes, scarring is something that has...been of interest." You recall or glimpse now again the scars that cross the soft side of the old Doomguide's wrists. "...ah yes, here...this poultice combined with even perfunctory channeling has the best chance at preventing enduring marks. Shall I begin the preparation?" he asks Donal as much as Grim.
On further discussion of the Dead Three "Yes, the Dead Three have been written about in literature for at least a century. It was their avatars that died, when the gods walked as men. Bane and Torm killed each other in combat. Myrkul found his end through an aspect of Mystra. Bhaal fell to the sword Godsbane...which was actually another deity manifesting himself as a tangible weapon." he recalled more to himself than anything else. "But for the Three to have a dedicated following...as an entity in its own right?...that is truly disturbing. Only in Baldur's Gate might it happen, so I pray. The leadership must be turned or eliminated...the strength of such a alliance..."
On the altars and shrines "Negating an altar's connection to a Power can be dangerous, if the connection is truly present. Conversion of an altar is said to be even more dangerous, and likely to bring some vengeance. But these other statues you speak of sound more like shrines, items that facilitate ceremony or house sacred relics. They would more straight forward to destroy, especially with no priest left to protect them...but carry similar risk based on how the deity perceives their importance. A hard thing to quantify..." he goes on to explain what he knows.
Donal, do you want that to scar up after healing?
Donal looks at the scar, Leave it, it will prove useful, especially in our coming task...
"...the Dread Lord's touch...and you survived? Surely there must be some spark of the divine within you."
The agent of Torm shakes his head, More likely, just enough favor among the gods to prevent it... favor likely used up now.
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*dingle-jingle*
The little shop bell announces the arrival of Malaric to the strange bookstore which has served as his residence for years. He moved to the shelves on 'Natural Philosophy', picking a random book titled Rainbow: From Whence Cometh Thy Shine? and pretended to read it while the other customers slowly filtered out.
Near the registry stood the waif-like elf concealing her priesthood of Shar (and half-drow heritage) to all, as was customary for the underground churchhood. All save of course the burglar who years ago she spared and brought under her tutelage. The burglar who likely picked that book about Rainbows just to make her laugh.
With the days' business concluded the dark duo made their way upstairs to the dim-lit studio, whose few glass panes were covered in layers of paper. When the conversation turned to invisible imps, Sytia nodded, collecting a few references that could be helpful, most of which you remember from your earlier language training. Her own studies dealt with much different things: creatures native to the Shadowfell, resurrecting lost strands of the Shadow Weave, or the initiate teachings of the Order of the Dark Moon shadow monks which Malaric had begun to learn from.
Mal consumed the texts as Sytia (mildly amused by her proteges interest in diabolism) served a blackcurrant tea with unsweetened chocolate (dark, of course).
Tales of War. The Blood War, that eternal struggle beyond the comprehension of most mortals. You come across a fitting (infernal) quote perportedly from the Master of Arms himself, Dispater:
"The cosmos is a grand game. He who knows the rules the best shall win the prize."
One story tells about the the creation of important war missives and the imp's role as courier. The general's message would be written on the inside of an imp's little vest...with the vest lacings knitted into the imp's heart. If the vest is removed by anyone other than the intended recipient, that act kills the imp and causes its body to disintegrate before the message can be read. The imp's invisibility was in such situations a survival instinct, and could make invisible its possessions as well as flesh.
Others tell of more powerful devils taking the form of humble imps in various nefarious schemes. While hard to imagine this being the case with Thurstwell's brood, entertaining the notion leads to another text discussing the other beguiling abilities of imps: shapechanging. They can take the form of beasts (rats, ravens, spiders being commonly discussed) at will, though equipment is not transformed unlike invisibility.
Donal, Grim, and the elder Doomguide make their way back to the bathhouse...which they now understood to be secret property of one of the Council of Four, Duke Thalamra Vanthampur (who incidentally hated being called 'Duke', and possessed an unnatural hostility against the scribes and authors propagating the inappropriate title).
The courtyard is much the same as before, however that handsome Chessentan masseuse of questionable sexuality now seems to be on landscaping duty, thrashing the grass and ripping weeds. He has the saddened look of a man whose talents are being wasted, and avoids eye-contact with Donal especially (who yelled and man-handled him rather harshly the other evening...the same evening he lost the gate key and during which a mysterious old man with slit throat was found in a secret compartment behind his workroom. It's been a rough patch.).
Inside is a different story, with a Flaming Fist on every table doing what they call 'criminal investigation' but what looks like a bunch of lazy mercenaries taking advantage of a young tortle woman with magic hands. "Do that shoulderblade thing, would you?" one lazily claims as you stride past. Another swings his sword angrily at a bottle of perfume (from the comfort of his face down position on the table), sending it shattered and stinky across the room "Idiot turtle! Lavendur for the abs, eucalyptus for the calves! Do you hear me?!?! EU-CAL-YPTUS???"
They were right at home. Luckily, the dimwits didn't seem to bother locking the door to the important crime scene. One buttoning his shirt near the door after a hardcore oiling mumbles "You the backup? Not gonna get yourself some?" with a suspicious raised eyebrow.
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Gorn, upon waking but before lifting your heavy half-ogre eyes, you are greeted with a curious itching of the nose.
Something is lying on top of your face.
Fluttering open the eyes, it turns out to be a piece of black paper folded into a rather ornate pentagram shape (?).
Unfolding the puzzle is an annoying task, certainly not one suited for the strange phase of existence between sleep and morning coffee. Such games are best left for people with real smarts like radish farmers or offal-sausage-salesmen and besides, you have a double batch of Chaussons aux Pommes to prepare.
The steamy apples and aromas filled the chamber, and with time turned the crisp folds of paper into something more soft and pliable, and eventually you noticed the pentagram had unfurled...to reveal an invitation written in silver within.
Reading is likewise annoying, and you sort of forget a second if you actually can read or not, so you might put off glancing at it for a few hours.
Eventually by your own eyes or a curious bystander you get the jist "For one Gorn Steelbreaker, Chef de Cuisine, preparer of noodles and slayer of cravings, your peerless expertise is humbly requested as executive chef at the Mandorcai Mansion. A 21 course meal for 10 distinguished guests is yours to create, with an experienced kitchen team at your full command. Should you accept, respectable compensation will of course be delivered by the Master of the House."
There is no signature, just a pair of circles entwined to capture each other, and an address in the Bloomridge neighborhood of Lower City.
"You the backup? Not gonna get yourself some?" with a suspicious raised eyebrow.
Donal looks at the Flaming Fist footman and impassively states, We have business to finish.
Then he walks by without a second thought.
The brushed off Fist seems to take offense at Donal's hard snub, the hothead's gauntleted fingers curling slowly into a compact ball of bone and chain. But the old Doomguide interjected suddenly...
"Hark there! Could that be little Snug-a-bug Sammy? Charlize's boy! Yes, it is, I recognize those freckles. Oh ho, you rascal..." giving him a noogie. "Say, looks like somebody got a lot of responsibility on their plate!"
The stunned and outed Sammy flusters a response, standing up straight "Er, yes sire...I mean, Father Raylen."
"Well I remember when you were about this big..." holding his hand at waist height "...always had a daisy for your mommy, didn't you? Little sweetie Sammy..."
The other Fist hit the floor laughing and even the tortle massage therapist can't help a snicker.
And the group passed unchecked.
On the stairs down (a few of which had been disassembled and the mechanical guts of their previous traps lay exposed) Raylen the Doomguide mentioned "...most Fist are mercs from outta the city. The few who aren't are vulnerable to their past." he says with a smile.
Below were a few other Fist, new 'recruits' like yourselves from the look of it, organizing the stiffening bodies into piles for identification and whatever passed for forensics in the fleecing dragnet of an organization. It wouldn't surprise you to find a gold tooth or silver wedding band stuffed hastily in their pockets.
The unpleasant murk remained, and making your way to the first altar was just as nasty as before. The T-intersection had the carved doors removed and were being lashed together for transport. The previous trap leading to Bhaal's altar disabled (or rather triggered, by the looks of the fresh bloodstain).
Giving the mold ridden tapestries a wide berth, you reach the altar itself. No one has bothered to clean off the oddly shimmering human entrails that rest upon it...
You find the captain this morning in much better health, sipping hot brandy and chewing on the leftover gristle from a few thin slices of offal-sausage. His position on this side of the wall sports a modestly high parapet overlooking the Basilisk Gate and barbican, and despite the fog you can still see a long encampment of Elturel refugees huddled just outside from this high vantage.
A cool wind bites from the north, but the nearby signaling bonfire has heated the large yellow granite stones of the battlement, making it rather comfortable. The bandage binding the wound at Zodge's side has been redone (a Hellrider's wound, so he claimed), and the bullseye red is much smaller, though not gone either. Zodge no doubt endured worse to keep power in the mix of rabble known as the Flaming Fist.
"So, my cunning conscripts return. No murders reported the last few days. Could it be you actually did the job?" lowering his voice "More importantly the Guild's informant came through for us?" Referring to Tarina, whom you had met in Elfsong...the woman who tipped you off to the bathhouse's dirty secret.
He listens patiently to as much as you are willing to debrief.
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Gorn takes one look at the porridge and hard tack and barks out a loud, deliberate laugh. "Yeah, that's gonna happen," is all the giant grinds out before stalking through the door.
His steps take him to a familiar haunt. The Sweet Doomed Angel nestles at the side of the street like a thief waiting for their next mark. The hardened and cracked cobblestones outside the rough-hewn door are almost as hard as the clientele. In times past, none patronized TSDA unless they simply had no other choice. It was known as the place to 'get a mess of slop on the cheap' and the long shadows and low-guttering candles made it a fine place to make a deal that wasn't, technically, legal.
Until he walked in.
It was one of his first days in the 'Fist, and about half a meal from the famed Baldur's Gate mess was about all he could stomach. He could hold a woman down while the senior officers pounded her husband for civil "taxes" and he could crush a man's skull to pulp without breaking a sweat, but endure the common swill that sustains the common soldiers? A man can only stand so much.
It helped that the proprietor, Charles Martel, had grown desperate to turn the corner with his business. The margins on dirty deeds done dirt cheap weren't quite so thick as they had once been, and actual paying customers seemed the only way up. So when Gorn walked in and asked for a meal AND run of the kitchen, it was the meeting of two men, each with their backs to the wall.
He has a room their, but he's not quite a tenant. He makes meals and does work there, but he's not quite an employee. He works when he can and crashes there when the mood strikes him and the relationship can be called "symbiotic".
"Oy, I gotta real good one coming in tomorrow. Real nice assets. And her bank account ain't bad either!" Charles tells Gorn as the stack the last of the chairs to close for the night. "She, and her dowry, might let me take her to wife, if I can impress, savy? You can do, maybe, something, a little fancy?"
Gorn was struggling to not be insulted, because he knew the man meant well. But it had been too long since he really pushed himself. Even a monkey could make mouth-watering cookies in a corpse-strewn dungeon.
"Chaussons aux Pommes be okay, Chuck?" Gorn posited. "It's a---."
"Yeah, that'll be great," he replied, already bored at "Chau". "Just hand the boy your list in the morning and he'll get at market like always."
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"Well, I do like compensation," he mumbled into his eggs-and-pesto, fork in one hand and the odd letter in another. In the early morning light he was entrenched in the kitchen when he finally felt ardor enough to read the thing. And apparently he had more privacy here then in his room. Strange letters could flop on his face in his room, but here? In his kitchen? People knew not to come in here. It made him angry. And you wouldn't like him when he's...well, you know.
"You know anything about the Mandorcai Mansion?" he asked Charles who was shuffling in himself.
Aye, it did indeed pay off. We found activity of the Dead Three under the bathhouse at *such and such* district You know, the one that is owned by Duke Vanthampur? I think Mal knows something more. When he and the Vanthampur scion were talking, I was trying not to enter the dark beyond.
Regardless, Grim and I will return to the bathhouse and destroy the foul relics of the cult.
Donal steps back to allow someone else to add to the report.
Charles, or Chuck as Gorn at times called the man, stood at the wash-basin slicking back his hair with a fishbone comb and what might be coconut oil. One eye was visible in the small reflection of the polished steel spatula that was serving as his mirror.
"Someone's messing with you. That's that wizard's mansion that suddenly appeared...or 'apparated', whatever they called it...yeah I guess that was before your time. That Mandorcai hosted a few lavish parties for the Lower City up-and-ups a while back (I wasn't invited), but the place has been boarded up and vacant last I remember." he turns, putting the spatula down "Oy, come on. A 21 course meal? TWENTY-ONE?? That's ridiculous...I mean...16 courses I've heard tales of in rare situations, international royalty and such. But this rathole mansion in Bloomridge...?" he seemed doubtful.
Zodge listened, seemingly distracted. He never took his squinty eyes off the checkpoint below, scrutinizing every single one of them. "Good, good...our relationship with the Guild is strictly quid pro quo. We share a common enemy in the neighborhood crews banding against us...these little transactions hold us together."
At mention of the Duke however, he turned "Hold on. You're saying Duke Vanthampur owned that place? The Council of Four's Duke, right? You have proof?" The family had concealed ownership of the bathhouse and its sprawling ancient waterworks beneath for a long time. If the Tormtar's claim was true, it would be an outstanding revelation against the powerful matriarch.
He eagerly awaited more details.
Our proof is gone, walked off to save his own skin. He wouldn't testify anyway. Not with the weight of the Dead Three's blade on his throat.
"Hrm. Well its a serious accusation, we'd need something more if we want any chance of the Parliament on our side. ...the hell is a Duke doing housing a murder cult against her own citizens?"
Mal stepped forward at Donal's mention, "the proof we had was the word of the son of Duke Vanthampur, Mortlock. He said his family was paying the Dead Three cultists to murder people in the city, in order to prove that the Flaming Fist can't do its job. They sent a Death's Head assassin to kill him, which made him want to quit the family."
"The Dead Three cultists have been receiving regular payments from his brother Amrik, who runs a moneylending business out of a tavern called the Low Lantern. If you care for evidence, their might be ledgers of disbursements on the Low Lantern."
"The other brother Thurstwell runs the organization and spies from the the Vanthampur Villa. We suspect both and the mother will be out for revenge against us."
"Out to get us, huh? F!#%ing ungrateful...I guess she already forgot how the Fist backed her little rise in the parliament. Tch. I see, so that's why she was so convincing that Ravenguard personally lead the charge to Elturel...to be swallowed by hell! Chop the head first, eh..." The Grand Duke was after all the de facto head of the Fist, respected as an honorable man and not sharing the peculiar quirks of his mercenaries.
"Well men, it seems they're all out to get us these days. Vanthampur, Hellriders, the Mouth...next it'll be you with a dagger for my back." He sighed, the irony of standing before 5 members of a failed secret conspiracy against him lost. "Baldur's Gate would crumble without us. Crumble! 'Pirates in nobles clothes'...damn right."
After settling down a tad, and the mention of revenge "Tell you what, lay low a few days. I doubt the old hag has the balls to directly attack our position here. I agree, sounds like the Low Lantern should be a focus...but tread carefully, your talking about pinching the son of a Duke."
At Donal's mention of a return "I can spare a few fresh recruits to keep an eye on the shadows. Relics, you say? Anything valuable?" clearly religious sanctity was not the Captain's concern.
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Gorn makes a padding, 'simmer down now' motion with his hand. "That be the least of my worries. You ever been to a Big Two One, as we in the business call it? I'm guessing not (by you not even knowing it existed, I'm quick that way).
Half the "courses" are a dollop of foie gras on a tiny spring of kelp. You could sit through half the courses in a Gros Zewi Eins and not know you're eating yet.
But, yeah, it's gonna be a taxing getting there. You can't just WALTZ in on think your goose liver trick is gonna walk the walk. " Gorn explodes, the stress of making it to the Big Time obviously starting to get to him.
"I mean you might THINK that swinging a hammer in a life-or-death struggle with the walking embodiment of Death Itself is big whoop. But that AIN'T NUTHIN' to trying to find a wine to compliment your baked salmon with mango salsa that does NOT clash with the aperitif you served two courses before or after. THIS THING CAN'T BE HALF-ARSED!"
He finally takes a few deep breathes, calming himself. "Sorry, sorry. I, yeah, I've, I mean, I've -read- about people who did this. Great people, heroes. Legends! But to think that -I- might be among those storied greats who could put their mark on history? To have the very COLUMNS of the UNIVERSE bear my name in so large a fashion? Whoa, yeah, I didn't think I'd ever get this far.
It's a lot to take in."
He chews his pesto and meditates.
"But you're right. Something like this, ya gotta verify. Imma go F-T-F. No, no, don't gimme that look, Imma be nice. Gonna knock and not kill anyone, the whole nine yards.
Yes, I am bringing Shellcracker, though. It's a tool of the trade. Hey, look, if YOU ever have a beautiful woman ambush you with a sudden-death ping-pong tournament followed by a kill-to-survive cookout involving dungeoness crab, I'd like to see how you're gonna do it without a primo hammer like this.
I'll go now. I'll be back before the lunch rush.
I already got a joint of beef on the spit, and the gazpacho-turtle soup is already simmering nicely. You'll be fine."
"Yes. Valuable relics of the Dead Three." Mal answers before anyone can actually lie about the treasure recovered. Then, he changes the subject to getting aid for the next operations.
"Captain. We'll need to investigate the Vanthampur Villa. The Fist doesn't control the Upper City, but I'm sure you have ways which could give us clandestine access, right?"
Zodge rubbed some dry skin off his beard stubble "Up there the Watch'll recognize the badge, they'll 'ask' 2 copper from 'Fist in any of the Upper City checkpoints. Discount. The private Villa is a different story...a secure compound for the governing body's top leader. Hmm." he resumes scrutiny of the crowd below "Maybe if Amrik was captured, you could use his life as leverage to get inside unassailed...assuming she cares about her son. Nothin' says open-the-door like a knife to the throat. Or something else she cares about enough to not kill you on sight. But clandestinely..." stealth was never Zodge's strong suit, closest thing along those lines he could manage was a stake-out...and then only if there was enough mead.
"I dunno the details but chances are, their Watch don't reside there within the Villa itself. More likely security comes in shifts from off-site. You'd probably want to find out their shift times...if you go in while they're changing you'd get double the guards." he added "Guild might have something more...they've likely been in and out of all the mansions in the city a hundred times. Course I just spent my last favor with those blackhearts. Hell, a siege engineer might have a point or two as well...those Upper City compounds are closer to small forts than houses." he shrugs.
"Sounds like this needs our attention, but the greater threat at my throat right now is the Hellriders. Until they've been apprehended I can't spare more than a few green sellswords. Sounds like you've at least blunted her snatch at power. But I do owe ya..." he slides a little strongbox across the table, flipping it open to reveal a few sealed envelopes. "Your pay, as promised. Take these letters of credit to Treasury Chairman Scramsax across from the quartermaster's yard, you'll get your coin."
He goes back to sipping his still steaming brandy before "Ah, something else I promised wasn't there? My gratitude. You have it." he offers a handshake to each of you.
Donal nods and accepts the firm handshake and turns to leave, heading off with Grim to tend to their divine purpose.
Mal follows Donal’s example and accepts the captain’s gratitude and clasp. ”So, our next move is against the Low Lantern. We’ll check in before we move.”
“Can you assign us some private quarters where we can plan our approach?”
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The hot spit left in Chuck's capable hands, Gorn seeks out the mysterious Mandorcai mansion in an attempt to set the culinary world on fire...
Tracking down the street intersection is simple enough. It's a bright blue sky kind of day for once, and the hurried chef's bootheels *clop clop* down the dry cobblestones with purpose.
"Dad? Why does that man's mallet have butter all over it?" a young boy on the street inquires of his guardian.
The shocked elder quickly covers the boys eyes "Look away, son. Foul magiks it is, that might cause a man's hammerkopf to weep emulsions of that nature. There strides a doomed man, forgotten by the gods..."
Shellcracker seems to have a rather different effect on street bums, like the piper's pipe a-calling they flock a few paces behind, tummies rumbling from the promise contained in a short waft of the sweet buttery scent.
But nothing distracts much from the seeker's quarry. Nothing, save the absence of anything resembling a mansion at the provided address.
Bloomridge, as a neighborhood, had a decidedly wealthier feel than others in Lower City. Here, manor-houses took up entire blocks broken up by charming cafes and boutique style shops. Some of the most interesting buildings (architecturally speaking) were also the oldest; built right into the great wall dividing Upper and Lower, launching hanging gardens high above the streets from ancient boomilevers. Artists displayed their works among such rooftop terraces and upper-story apartments while decorated, sweeping staircases plunged all the way to street level from above.
So it was Gorn was looking up when he heard the warning.
"Step on a crack, break yo mama's back! Oh...too late..." the disappointed little girl explained as Gorn realized indeed, he had stepped upon a crack.
*krrrrrck*
A crack that widened rapidly underfoot.
*krrRRCKCKCK*
Zig-zagging this way and that before zipping around a corner. Not stopping until it reached the first step of the Mandorcai Mansion.
Chuck the Informant was reliable, it seemed, for indeed this building matching the numbers you were given did not at all appear ready to house something as extravagant as a 21 course meal. Unless that meal was for termites, cockroaches, or underground cock fighters.
The river sprite shaped doorknocker had fallen off, laying uselessly on the step. The door was shut securely. A few hairline cracks in the boarded up windows offered great sneaky peeks at empty rooms, with only the occasional ramshackle armoire.
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Raising an eyebrow at Mal, Zodge grumbles "Seatower's offlimits for draftees." but loosens quickly "I could have a room cleared here...but hmm...Three Old Kegs in the Uppers is just a few blocks from the Villa, with High Hall in between. I could set you up there for some hit-and-run recon. Owner's ex-Fist, patrons are usually just oyster farmers or Fist...none of that rabble from the Blushing Mermaid. ...Though that aint a bad place to go if wife's been gettin' prickly on yer eyes. Listen, just tell Alstan that Zodge sent ya, tell him my brandy's hot enough to melt a candle. And if ye see any of them Hellriders on the way, give em a slow, painful death for me."