The watchman counters the throw with some kind of martial arts training, keeping his stance a swordlength from the edge...he wouldn't fall for that again.
The first thrusts were blindingly fast and steady, leading the Tormtar's guard to the upper right only to immediately strike lower left.
The other draws a shortsword and paces around Malaric flourishing a hard to predict kata before a final lunge...
...catching Mal with the longer extended blade, but somehow Mal's shortness and the shortness of the second blade combined to keep each other apart.
Ubaldo protests "Hey guys, stop fooling around we're friends here."
Seeing no one willing to cut his bonds, Amrik takes a few steps away from the combat.
The girl, a stubborn third wheel still tagging along at this point, followed your gaze "Is it them? Is it Amrik?"
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At this point, Tibs will let out a small sigh and mutter to himself, I made such a daring escape as well.. Before pulling a hood over his face and moving to stand fairly close behind Amrik.
I suggest you stay where you are, Amrik.
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"Ubaldo! Protect me from these guys!" Mal screams as gets stabbed twice. He is about to blackout, when his Mistress surges him with Spiritual Darkness.
He tries to hide behind Ubaldo from the two watchmen.
Growling, Donal spits at the guard's feet, Seems like the Duke's gold has paid for competent lap dogs. Too bad the root of corruption goes deep in this cesspool.
The fist grunt lunges forward, attempting to step to the side of the guard facing him and swings at his sword arm, hoping to smash an elbow, weakening his opponent's retort!
The guard was wary of such an approach, slapping the sloppy attempt aside, but failed to realize that the warrior positioned himself opposite the guard's friend...
EDIT:
The guard stumbled a few paces backwards at the sudden rush, crashing into the other.
Boys, Donal says, grabbing Amrik's arm , Let us make a tactical withdrawal...
Looking down at a passing hay cart, he tosses a careless salute to the two soldiers and leaps off the roof, with Amrik in tow!
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The trio of Watch stand dumbfounded on the edge, one blowing his whistle loudly "*sigh* Flaming Fist." one laments, unwilling to leap from the building himself.
Ubaldo shouts down "Tell your mom hi! Let's do tea later!" waving goodbye.
After ditching the drunk hay hauler, the Watch's whistles now rather distant, the party kept to eaves and stone jettying making their way to the Basilisk Gate. Amrik's face was wisely kept covered with an old potato sack, and by sticking to the right streets the Guild's tenuous alliance with the Fist ensured clandestine passage...or a quick blunt slumber for any who stood in the way.
Not that they were any less astonished. To make such a move against a sitting Grand Duke was a bold power play, and one that stirred talk of open war between the two militias and their allies: the Watch and the Lower City neighborhood Crews vs the Flaming Fist mercenaries and Keene's Guild of thieves. With Ravenguard gone, and therefore a tight leadership of the Flaming Fist in limbo, Vanthampur seemed to have a clear advantage.
But there were still diplomatic channels the other 40 lesser patriars were bound by law to encourage before such bloodshed, even if such efforts were purely affectatious. So, the party had a small window to act...if Vanthampur's forceful arm could at least be amputated, the odds might shift. Proof she was actively working not only against the Fist but the very people of Baldur's Gate would only bolster such calculus.
Amrik, the smirking little black goatee'd noble was the lynchpin to it all, and he surely knew it...though would never admit it. A plan was solidified late in the night after his abduction, one that would get the party inside the Villa grounds to the stables...where Amrik promised his final hand would be revealed. It could be executed as soon as the next morning; and should, he claimed...for who could know what changes to security were now underway.
And besides, no one wanted to listen to Zodge's admonitions any longer. "You brought him here?" you could remember him saying, red-faced as the Fist banner. Luckily, by the time the party had arrived Zodge was already 2 bottles into his nightly routine, and persuading to house kidnappers and kidnapped under threat of open war was mildly easier. He wasn't wholly gutless...not wholly.
Donal shrugs, Probably wise. Remember our deal, and you will be alright.
Turning to the rest of his party, Donal leans over the makeshift map, Are there any preparations that we need to do?
Zodge's particular shade of red hadn't much faded by the next evening. The idea to assault the Vanthampur Villa itself when tensions in the city were so explosive was a hard sell. Amrik however was remarkably useful in turning the captain's mind, at least attempting to put on a show of cooperation...promising vague trickle down effects should a regime change come to pass. "A mother's sin doesn't make the son more timid, it actually makes him more independent..." he argued loftily in his typical spin of sophistry.
All seemed on track until a last minute visitor threw another wrench into the gears, insisting his protégé be included in the budding Villa raid. The deal was done behind doors, but whoever it was seemed powerful enough, rich enough, or downright brutal enough to get a contract drawn up that very hour. Not that negotiations weren't tense at times. As everyone was gathering for steaming beef broth and hard rye loafs that afternoon there suddenly burst "Just cut the f***er loose, you'll see!" and a few minutes of eating in silence.
Well before the critical time to move, the newcomer was presented...
The Flaming Fist as a whole also aided a great deal in the operation. Controlling all the checkpoints between the Villa and Little Calimshan meant the supply wagon could be at a certain location whenever they wished...and of course greatly facilitated the change of driver to someone less alarmed. Rules were rules, after all, even if they were made up on the spot.
So it was the party (and Amrik), having dispensed with nearly 90% of the load of coal, lay hidden under the remaining 10% and began bumbling over the cobbles and up the steep hill to Vanthampur Villa.
When ready, Mal arrives dressed in traveler's outfit over his noble courier uniform (protecting it from coal stains) with one each of his shortswords and daggers hanging from his weapon's belt. He has hidden the rest of his daggers and his arcane crystal discreetly upon his person.
He asks one of his companions to carry his pack, second shortsword, crossbow and quiver.
Upon his person, he has a forged and sealed document addressed to the Duke of Vanthampur from the leader of the Flaming Fist to provide this squad of Flaming Fist all hospitality and not to impede their investigation of crimes against the city of Baldur's Gate.
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"I'm sorry, guys," Gorn had said dourly as the group shuffled in from their mostly-successful foray. "I don't think I'm cut out for this. I just want to crush skulls and mix egg whites into a fine meringue. Tonight I didn't get to do any of that.
I feel like I'm just holding you back. You need someone more like...well, more like one of you."
Gorn turns to go.
On they way out, someone runs in to him.
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Brian breakfasted mightily upon attaining his freedom. His time in fetters had mostly sweated out the excesses of the night before, and his cleansing purge had left his body famished. Fortunately his secreted coin purse, flat as it was, was left to him and he fell upon the first food seller he saw that was graced by the outside air. He sat devouring shawarma and chasing it with clam juice for several minutes until he could hold no more.
He ducked his head into the first fountain he saw and came up quickly, his hands deftly scrubbing away the last remnants of not only the night before, but also whatever filth had clung to him during his quickly-fading imprisonment. Only then did he feel man enough to follow his benefactor to...wherever they were going.
**********
'Ah, pardon me, good sir," he said to the great giant of man he had slammed into. So great was his haste to make a good impression on his new group of Fist compatriots that he hadn't quite watched where he was going.
The hulking form that smelled slightly of ginger and cinnamon simply grunted and thrust a scroll tube into his hand, mumbling something about how he could fathom no more use for it. Brian lifted up the first parchment of many. "A coupon for...." he trailed off. What kind of people would he be working with?
He packed it away in a trice and turned back to his companions, determined to continue with the introduction he had so long thought of.
"Well hello there all you fine, fine people!" he said, his handsome face splitting brightly in a great smile. "I, am Brian. WhiteAngel. Performer extraordinaire! You are probably familiar with my work. Please, please, no autographs, we are here for BUSINESS are we not? Yes we are and it shall be a dirty work afoot unless I miss my meaning, eh?
I have ah, been slightly read in. We are to go by skuldugerous ways into a place of great security. Once in we shall be given, ah, something of which we are greatly desirous of, eh? No no, I know when not to ask too many questions and I shall henceforth try not to.
So, are we about this business the now? Excellent!"
The man was dressed in motly. Well upon closer inspection his cloak was. It was a loud claptrap assortment of yellows and blues, designed to grab the eye and steal attention. This Brian fellow was otherwise dressed in practical travelling clothes; leather bedecked with the obligatory studs, a belt that held crossed shortswords, but everyone knew that shortswords were the weapons of amateurs so how good could he be at handling them really? However the strange bard's boots were of a fine, fine make. He must have stolen them, surely.
Brian turned his cloak around, revealing it's double side to be black. Black black. Black as coal, black as night, black as tax-collector's heart.
He burrowed into the coal pile without complaint, his sculped face alight with a boy's curiosity at what the future might bring.
As long as you don't insist on desecration of graves or turning human bones into jello treats, I am sure we will get long fine. That guy was the first man you'd want at your side though.
Armoured as he normally is, he snuggled into the coal bed.
Donal offers his hand to Gorn, Sorry to see you go. Your hammer will be missed. Good luck on your restaurant!
--
After the newcomer arrives, Donal gives Brian an appraising look, You got a mouth on you, to be sure. Perhaps it will come in handy if we encounter trouble.
"That you, Carlos?" you hear a muffled voice call out as the wagon finally comes to a stop. The ride over was wholly uneventful, however Gorn's farewell meal of beans and hot peppers eaten for dinner the previous night made for a few unwelcome stowaways.
"Na, down with the clap. One of the Blushing Mermaid girls again." your driver responded. "Anthracites for Savinder's crucibles."
"Aye, aye..." the man's voice rang out again, coming closer and lifting the tarp prodding a few sacks with the membrum terminale of his mace. For a moment you could swear the guard was looking right in your eyes, but soon the tarp was thrown back and the gates squelched open.
In short order the wagon was unhitched, your driver departing on horseback after a friendly stamp and signature receipt. The stable doors were closed from the outside and you found yourselves buried and alone in the dim glow of yesterday's forge embers.
"That's it, we're in." Amrik whispered, clunking the dense fuel out the way and slipping free of the wagon. "Savinder won't be in for a few hours, much longer than you'll need. Now, I believe I made one final promise...one last gift before I leave you to your fates."
As you emerge, you realize you're parked inside a rather spacious and upscale stable. 4 spotless stalls to the east would be a comfortable respite for even a destrier, but are currently empty. The western half of the building is the forge, with a number of tools organized neatly around the anvil, with the nearly dead fire swept just as tidy. There is a single window on the south that looks within the yard, while a pair of windows to the north looks back out to Baldur's Gate.
So do we sneak across the courtyard? Or is there a better way in? Donal says as he slips out of the coal bed, slinging his shield.
"I'll tell you how to get right into the heart of the matter, mother's best. Though a shame you were not interested in the 1248 vintage...but let us not linger on it. A great boon, as I said." he finds a clean handkerchief tucked up a sleeve "So of course you have me at a disadvantage. Should you give me your word you will let me abscond by the northern window after my big reveal, then break your word and slay me or further imprison me, the only consequence for you would be for your allies to know the true depth of you as a man. But you see for my part, my bet has been firmly placed...for either way, should you succeed in your operation or fail, my cooperation here will not be forgiven. So you must understand I have nothing to gain by betraying you now." daubing the handkerchief on a bottle marked Coffin Varnish gingerly patting the soot from his face. "Do we have an understanding, Pillagers of the Dukedom? The boon for my life and freedom?"
Donal looks at Amrik, I have no reason to keep you.
He takes a long drink from the Coffin Varnish, his eyes going wide and nearly crying as he somehow manages to overcome his vomit reflex to get the 100 proof makeshift beverage down. "*gasp* No word then, eh? Well, what is trust after all..." opening the window to the north and slinging a leg over "Spy that large flagstone in the corner? A passage lie hidden underneath. Heh, tell the hells Amrik is coming. Toodles." before slipping away.
Donal watches him go then looks for something to lever the flagstone, Let's get to work.
Taking an inventory of the various tools available, you spend a few moments one-upping each other with more and more effective implements. A small gardening spade is first discovered. Next someone holds up an enticing flat chisel with a nearly 2 foot blade. Of course the wood hafted shovel found after presents quite a strong argument. However, in the end, it seems obvious the enormous wagon hitching crowbar could trump just about anything else.
Good riddance... remember, if we get captured or mortally wounded? Spit that bastards name to any who would listen. He'll get his eventually .
Waste little time on people like him, Grim, Donal grunts as he lifts the flagstone, Simply use him like he uses everyone else around him. If we fail, just rest content that his mother will likely visit her vengeance upon him.
The flagstone pops slightly like a vacuum seal revealing a circular brick vertical tunnel and wooden ladder. As the heavy stone clinks to a rest, a heavily echoed chanting spills forth from the darkness below.
Getting closer to the source might allow you to guess at the number of chanters.
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"Ha! Go on with ya now!" Brian says in obvious disbeleif at whatever worthless word-sounds are coming out of the unusually helpful noble's mouth.
"If you've no back-up plan for how you can spin this to your advantage, I'm the Queen of America," he says, making up some fake land. "You nobles always have one rule: You get yours. If you want words that I'll not split you today, then you have it, though I'd not put wagers on the worth of your own words, I tell you what."
He'd not really wager on the worth of his own words too, but why bring that up?
"But don't go looking for sympathy. You'll be right as rain, sipping single-barrel whiskey and romping some girl you'll get with child and have her killed or exiled with none to say against you, I tell you what. You inbred feudals are all the same. So go on with ya! Who's stopping you."
After the noble is gone, Brian looks at the flagstone. "Mind, I thought his parting gift would be a little more," he rubs his fingers together. "Gift-like, knowwutImean?"
That done, while the others evaluate the tools based on how good they would be at lifting the rock, Brian evaluates them on how much he could sell them for and how easily he could carry them. Stick to the mission and all that, but never look down at a good value-to-weight ratio.
"Hm, what? What is that noise? Ah, a tunnel, excellent!" he turns to Mal. "I'm sure you're quite good at working alone, but would not two scouts be better than one?"
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"I guess technically the smith's tools are better but oh let's just take them all," he says, shoveling the tools into his pack. "Never do know when they'll come in handy and it's not like the nobles can't just buy more. I hope no one is giving me that eye because it's not like I'm crushing bones or whatever so I'm keeping my word like I said."
He stops talking as he sniffs the Varnisher. "Woof! Don't let that get near any girl you wanna keep," it disappears into his cloak.
"Hey! I got a new whip! Alright let's go."
Seeing the tunnel, the soot-covered halfling collects his second shortsword and other gear, now that subterfuge was over. He gets closer to the tunnel and whispers, "We're in the right place. The chanting in the language of devils is heaping praise upon an archdevil named Zariel for her 'tireless effort to win the Blood War'"
"I suggest that we all use the scrolls of See Invisibility before heading in.
He triggers the scrolls for everyone. And then, he is first down the hole.