Do you want a couple of us to go in disguised as gamblers first, or do you think that they have tagged us already? Donal muses.
No way I could play THAT part, says the priest.
"Aye, that's a good idea, Donal. We need to get as close to Brother A's office before someone shows the badge and chases the gamblers away." Mal replies.
The heads of Krix-Vasilog shake side-to-side in unison at the mention of a jest "No, no. Dennis, or Auloch Tien'itz in the ogre tongue, was legendary for his consumption of infant children in life. You were not tormenting us, good sir, quite the contrary! We were tormenting the soul of Auloch Tien'itz. Normally we might have to wait a few millennia for the passage of a soul into a form suitable for the racks of Malbolge...but the late wizard Mandorcai's connection to the puzzle box gave us a rather delicious shortcut."
It goes on to elucidate "Yes, all crab folk were once sons of Jotun, like yourself. Ogres transformed by hag magics into more docile, flaky forms."
As the chatter turns to leadership "And don't count yourself short, imps have a habit of doing what they want and not as they are commanded. But you certainly showed them who the boss was, isn't it?? I don't doubt for a moment we'll see you behind a whip one day!" it pinches your cheek like a grandma proud of her little boy.
"But leaving so soon? At least allow me to present your well earned reward...(really its just for these lot, they've been waiting to see it as well...)" it scrounges around in the flaps of its own love handles for a moment, like a little purse, before producing a brass colored strip of paper. Finally in good showmanship announces, holding it aloft pierced by a spike on the end of one of its infinite chains "A Buy-One-Get-One-Free Coupon to the Wandering Emporium, good for bloated larva!!" stunned gasps and surprised tones of shock burst from around the table, turning quickly into a round of applause.
Except one winged creature with black reflective eyes, who meekly raises a hand and seeks clarification "Wait...the roasted or the enslimed variety?"
Krix-Vasilog flips it over, checking the fine print "...hmm, doesn't say. But both are delicious, are they not?"
"Meh...I only like the roasted kind." There's an awkward silence as some etiquette seems broken...a guest should never question the taste of their host.
It's as good a time as any for Gorn to make his segue into safer spaces. The invisible little tugs again guide the man of the Heartlands through the puzzling layers of chambers, finally reaching the oddly adjacent sitting and waiting rooms. An empty wall is tapped, Zute is called for, and the cylindrical passage back to Baldur's Gate congeals on the surface.
Outside the little river sprite looks like it just woke up from a nap "...eh, I was supposed to give you these earlier. Forgot." handing you an ivory tube.
A tenday had passed since the party's assault on the Vanthampur bathhouse. Staying relatively isolated from each other, resting, recharging and in general not doing anything too attention snatching had seemingly proven a solid strategy. Bumps in the night never turned up coldhearted assassins in wait...strange odors in the food were Gorn's latest experiments after all and not pure poison. The evils to endure were found in the ranks of the Fist, not hot pitchforks leveled their way in the hands of tiny imps.
Malaric, Adept of Shar Sorcery, had spent his time in research and reconnaissance. His efforts turned up helpful new revelations about the devilish spies said to be employed by Thurstwell Vanthampur, the eldest of Mortlock's brothers. Then, a quick bargain with the Guild, organizers of nearly all crime in Baldur's Gate, led to a wealth of details exactly as seen through the eyes of a trained thief. Finally, by his own cunning kept clandestine watch over the grounds of Vanthampur Villa itself, making deductions on a series of quiet observations in the friendly tavern of Three Old Kegs.
Evendur, the Doomguide better known as Grim, sought to bolster his defenses against the dark whispers of fate he sensed were closing in...seeking strong armor and stronger allies. Investing his full share of the treasure in the alteration and restoration of the strange fused armor that once wore the gauntlet of Bane meant striking a deal with a hard-bargaining genasai down near the Flaming Fist headquarters...the result was a polished, well-fitting suit with a rather unorthodox style. Through his friendship with the elder priest Raylen shared concerns over many a drink, and the resolve to send emergency correspondence to the highest echelons of their order.
Donal, Acolyte of Torm, who ever makes up for a lack of divine gifts with pure loyalty, relentlessly led a second excursion into the foul-smelling depths...utterly annihilating's any last connection to the Dead Three. He saw the suffering of the refugees first hand, and in their down-trodden ranks found a handful of hope...and the comfort of knowing some extension of his church had nestled its way into the grit of Baldur's Gate.
Gorn, Saucier of the Heartlands, sought to advance his career by following an oddly planted missive, but was unknowingly lured to a house of horrors. Still alive, soul intact, and 21 courses more experienced, Steelbreaker now carried a wild tale none would believe and a coupon of dubious value. Still, in some bizarre twist of contract he was provided a number of scrolls that could pierce the illusion of invisibility...surely something that would be a powerful boon on the new devilish frontline.
Tiberius, Lord of the Squall, perfected the ancient arts rising within from the relative safety of his familial manor...learning how electrical pulses could be manipulated to disintegrate objects, and finding unwritten exploits in the Weave to both guide and empower his energetic strikes.
After a few hushed meetings within the smoky, windowless confines of the livery shack, Zodge finally called a formal meeting of his favorite draftees.
It was time to pick a new leader.
As he explained "...Mylivanni's been put on special assignment. Woman you all drudged up from the sludge turned out to be Vendetta Kress, an important distributer for the Oathoon patriars. Well, Kress insisted the elf would be the one to put all their new security measures in place...Kress had spilled the beans under torture you see. Long story short one of you's gotta step up and fill her shoes, and damned sure I can't spare anyone else from my ranks."
"You! You're in charge now." pointing at Donal after barely putting any thought into it. "It's time to follow up on these accusations...get us something we can use to tilt the patriars in our favor. If what you say is true, either the Fist or the Vanthampurs must fall."
Donal scowls at the order, Sir, I am no leader. Perhaps, Grim would be better suited to the task... or Tibs?
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"What, you saying I wouldn't make a good leader?" Gorn rumbles out, pointing out that he was the only name not included in Donal's list.
For some reason he wonders if he would sound more convincing with something in his hand. What did that freakazoid say they'd see him holding? Oh yeah, a whip. Are whips cool? He'd honestly never given the matter any thought.
Donal looks at Gorn, As you cared not for your teammate's belief, I would say no. No offense intended. You are a tremendous asset in combat, and a good chef, but a leader? No. Perhaps, in time you could be.
Grim remains, perhaps pointedly, silent.
Zodge looked bored "No need to linger on it. Just means I chew five asses instead of one when you screw up. Now whet those blades and get out there."
As they leave, Donal looks at Mal, You think you and Gorn want to go in first? Maybe Tibs can enter a little later, since he comes from money. Then Grim and I can come in to question the establishment about the Bathhouse. What do you think?
Mal shrugs, "sounds good by me. Then we gamble until everyone is downstairs. Need to figure out what to do if one of the later groups are detailed. How long do we wait?"
"Gorn, you going to be my personal chef and bodyguard for the day?"
After a few seconds, "or... we all go in at the same time and call it a bachelor party for one of the fighters, who is keeping his mail on to prevent him from doing anything that his new wife would not forgive."
If you can wait long enough, we can wait up to a half-bell. Do you have any messaging magicks? You could message us to come in earlier if things go South... Donal says, calculating risk factors.
At Mal's second suggestion, he snorts, Might be a tough sell. Unless they have the dancing ladies there...
"Remember, we're going in the day. So, the dancing ladies could be later at night. Our party would be starting to party with gambling while we're not so drunk." Mal replies to his party idea.
"And yes, I do have messaging magic, but the range is 40 yards."
Donal nods, As long as you can make it work, we could do that. Would we look like off-duty Fisters, or rag-tag Ratcatchers?
”Don't think many of us look like Fisters. We just need to know you, the bachelor, in order to celebrate.”. Mal smiles evilly.
Grim cracks a wintery smile and looks Donal
Donal shifts uncomfortably, he wasn't used to looking happy, Couldn't we have Tibs fill that role?
"We could... Tibs? You game to go slumming?" Mal lets Donal off the hook with a wink.
Tibs gives Mal a sidelong glance at the word "slumming", before tapping his chin.
If that is the role required, I've never been one for gambling, a pursuit for the unintelligent commoner seeking fortune. Though, I do know my way around a cocktail party.
The usually mean-looking halfling replies with a wide, evilish smile, "then, it's settled. We have our slumming noble out celebrating his upcoming nuptials with his friends who he cannot bring to the Upper City. Starting out with gambling before rolling into other entertainment during the evening."
"Everyone got the story? You only have to know Tibs, which you do. So, keep your lies as close to the truth as possible."
Haven't thrown the bones for a while. I need about 400 gold, maybe I can make it up there...
No doubt, there will be armed guards at the establishment. If we are expected to leave our weapons in the front, perhaps you'd best hide a few blades on your person. I will attempt to relieve any of the guards of their weapons, myself... Do we have a backup plan in case this goes sideways? Donal asks Mal.
"Fight?" Mal replies to Donal.
"Let's spend some time hiding as many weapons on as we can. And one of my shortswords on one of you."
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Ive worked security... we all look for big arse coats ;) That said? That's a cool looking coat
Mal plans to wear a shortsword and dagger on his weapons belt and leave his crossbow and pack at home.
He conceals as many of his other seven daggers as possible within his voluminous new traveler's outfit. He carries a few exploding sacks of flour and his crystal in his pockets.
He plans to use his Scroll of Invisibility as close to the Low Lattern as possible. He will offer to anyone else with his sacks of flour to mark invisible creatures.
I'll take a sack... not a bad idea.
Tibs will take a cane, simply transferring the focusing gem from his staff to sit as the shiny center piece. Surely they wouldn't deny an old man his walking stick.
He also takes a dagger, which will be handed over if prompted. Gotta keep up appearances.
The blazing midday sun attempted to cut through the Chionthar fog...tried and failed. The mists were a welcome veil, a second shadow allying itself with the party's brisk but muted movement into the grit of the Baldur's Gate docks: Gray Harbor.
It was among the largest harbors on the Sword Coast, absurdly busy at all times of day and night. As long as the government got its cut, any number of illegal transactions might take place to get goods and people where they could best serve a canny merchant or pirate. Such laissez-faire attitudes were tradition, stretching all the way back to the city's founding.
But modern miracles were abundant here. Hanging above the fog you see the massive machinery, wonders of the Church of Gond, that accelerate loading and unloading processes in a tangle of cranes, powered scoops and cargo carts. A live animal of some sort bellows 20 ft above, swaying in its queued cargo cage. Massive tangles of bananas in nets as large as carriages are swapped rapidly for packages of cold steel, the oiled machina squealing a harmonic melody. The Harborhand operators were known to be the most powerful of all the Crews, after all with one strike they could cinch off the city's economic lifeblood.
As orderly as the machines clicked through their routines, the port itself was a confusing labyrinth of piers, flotillas, anchorages, heavy barges, and scrap. It was easy to see how entire ships were known to go missing in such an ostensible chaos. The Flaming Fist who tried to answer with order here call themselves the Gray Wavers...and warn newcomers of Ol' Cholms, the sea beast lying beneath it all.
The fog slowly turns from its milk white to a deep green...and the tall masts and creaking bulk of the Low Lantern comes into view. The converted ship has rigging but no sails, and is anchored to the wharf by thick chains (as big around as Gorn!). A wooden staircase climbs from the wharf's edge to the main deck. The source of the green light is the bow's hanging lantern, signifying that the tavern is indeed open for business...
At 100 ft, the better dressed halfling wearing his shortsword and dagger over his new voluminous woolen traveler's gear pauses and pulls out the scroll that he bought.
After he reads it for a few seconds, his third eye opens revealing that which hides behind the veil.
The less mean-looking halfling leads the motley crew of celebrants to the Low Lantern looking for a good time to start the party of the day. He tells a new joke to lighten their mood and have them laughing when they approach the location.
The priest peels off to walk on the opposite side of the road... but keeps pace with the party.
Donal taps his temple when he has Mal's eye, and splits off with Grim, Well, no sense in hiding this anymore.
The warrior hitches his mace back to his belt and reattaches his Flaming Fist badge inside his coat, Well, how about a coffee while they get situated... I hear there are some Calishite delights at that bakery across the way.
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Gorn rumbled into the tailor's store like he owned the place. In truth he'd never been here and was only recently aware that it existed. He'd never considered tailored garments to be critical to his chosen profession--either of them. But if one wanted one thing then one needed another thing and here we are.
We slaps down 5 gold onto the table and mumbles, "Fancy coat."
The older man behind the desk shifts his eyes glumly to the money. Without moving any other body part, an arm disappears below the desk, to re-emerge with something between a barge sail and a six-person tent.
Gorn scowls at this and comes up with another five gold. "Fancy coat that would make me look good."
The proprietor gives himself a few shallow nods and meanders over to what might be his Big&Tall section. He comes out with a...moomoo. It's a moomoo. It's a delightful emerald color with cloth-of-gold swirls dancing around, over, and through it's 200-thread count finery. But it's quite obviously a moomoo, and might even be made for a woman.
Gorn sighs audibly and produces another 5 gold. "And it has to hide a hammer."
The shopkeep's eyes to wide, as though this new demand, and new payment, has awakened something inside him. Finally feeling the fervered grip of inspiration, he disappears into the back. A great crash of pots and pans is heard, followed by a few muttered words, and at least one quick shreik.
At last the merchant reappears with an enormous and equally gorgeous leather long coat. Made of the hides of several different animals, it's multi-tone hide fabric literally crawls with dangles and straps and laces that let everyone know that a man walks down the street in this summabeach, he ain't afraid of anything.
That the interior is lined with hidden hooks and straps designed for easily concealing, say, good cookware, is only a bonus.
Gorn takes the coat, nods once, and leaves.
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Gorn's back itches a little as Shellcracker rides mostly-comfortably in its new home. As an added bonus, the bangles and jangles on the new coat make so much noise, he decides to keep his armor, and he makes as much noise wearing the stuff as not. He paid a pretty penny for this stuff and he intends to use it!
He keeps a small handaxe as a backup in a side pocket also, just in case.
"Hear about the new restaurant called Karma?
There’s no menu: You get what you deserve!"
Gorn replies to Mal's joke with one of his own, laughing heartily and ready to get this party started!
And there's a mission too, I guess.
Donal taps his temple when he has Mal's eye, and splits off with Grim, Well, no sense in hiding this anymore.
The warrior hitches his mace back to his belt and reattaches his Flaming Fist badge inside his coat, Well, how about a coffee while they get situated... I hear there are some Calishite delights at that bakery across the way.
That wouldn't hurt. An armoured man seems less threatening with a steaming mug and a bear claw in their hands...