Donal listens silently for signs of the young Vanthampur, waiting for Mal to make the first move...
When Donal brought news that it was time to again visit the Shrine of Suffering, Reya hesitated with her teenage girl disguise. Under Portyr's new order, the Hellriders were no longer an official menace to be hunted down...accusations of their central role in Elturel's demise called into fatal question with the Duke's devilish deals brought to light. But of course commoners were slow to abandon old prejudices in the face of confusion...she held her cloak tight against the sigil on her breastplate.
The unmistakable sounds of self-flagellation echoed through the streets a few blocks from Hodges' ramshackle assembly about the plaza. Tall balconies flanked each side, crammed apartments of single mothers struggling with handfuls of children, the chronically infected hopeful of one more day, all reeked of poverty...and the dead. Open caskets flared upwind as the acolytes prepared for the daily burial.
Help all who suffered, no matter who they were or how they suffered...the Ilmatari were certainly in the right place.
Donal spots Brother Hodges, the halfling priest in charge of this shrine, sitting atop a large wooden crate eating a crisp green apple seemingly without a care in the world. The crate was stenciled 'Blackgate'.
Brother Hodges, Donal waved to the priest before introducing his comrade(s) .
As promised, 400 gold coins the warrior pressed a sizable pouch of coins into the halfling's free hand.
Tossing the apple core over a shoulder at the sound of the coin's clink "Ah, blessed day, friend." Tapping the crate with a *pat pat pat* "All yours, with the thanks of the shield dwarf clans, whatever that's worth." Folding the pouch under his shirt he quickly produced a bright red crowbar, hopping off the top and using his whole (half) body weight to lever it open with the crunch and squeak of wood and nail.
The scent of coal and flux-fused ceramic wafted outwards as the Tormtar caught his first glimpse of the exquisite piece... () Star-metal was notoriously difficult to forge, requiring a fire to match the heart of the star it fell from.
Meanwhile Hodges was taking more than one eyeful of Reya "Well well, who's this...ahem...young lady we have here? A pleasure." bowing slightly and taking her hand in greeting.
Reya attempted to wiggle out of it as soon as possible, but offered "Reya Mantlemorn, Hellrider of Elturel."
Some curious chattering of the crate's contents had gathered to get a peek of the armor within, but they all went silent on Reya's announcement. There was a tense moment where even Hodges was somewhat paralyzed, unsure of how to take the news.
"I'm not your enemy. But the High Observer..." she seemed to choke on her words at that point, looking to Donal for guidance.
We found the High Overseer, Donal steps in, And found that he had fallen from grace. A deal was made, some infernal pact. Somehow he was connected to the Fall of Elturel, we believe. At first, I thought he was merely corrupt, but when his soul was dragged to the Hells, it was unmistakable.
The Tormtar's face is impassive as he relays the information, but softens slightly when he regards Reya, We need guidance. This information could destroy what is left of the Hellriders, but someone needs to know.
His halfling eyes go wide "...to witness such corruption of the soul firsthand. And within one of the highest spiritual leaders of the region...if what you say is true, this heralds a dark rebirth of the Fields of the Dead."
The Fields of the Dead are what most call the rolling hills northeast of Baldur's Gate, extending into Elturgard proper. Indeed the Fields were there before the rise of Elturel as a capital city. Thought to be a warzone from a forgotten battle some 600 years past, farmers continue to churn up bones, weapons and armor even today. Back before the arrival of the Companion (the second sun above Elturel which obliterated any undead that came within a 50 miles radius) the region was said to harbor all sorts of necromantic arts...providing an endless trial for the paladins of Torm who came to dominate the region. And that was before the devils came.
"Could Kreeg no longer see the light of the Companion? What so swiftly changes a man's ideals?" he pondered to himself a moment, before sighing heavily "More importantly, what shrouded our divinations from this utter devastation? Every boy and girl of Elturel dreams of being regarded a hellion...I fear you are correct, with no explanation of why Kreeg betrayed them it will be hard for the Hellriders themselves to not shoulder some blame. Indeed, they will be expected to answer for it." turning to Reya.
"Yes. I can not stop, will make any sacrifice, until everyone knows the truth of us. Let our story be my answer!" she steps upon the Blackgate crate, throwing her cloak wide and harkoning to the crowd in her child-like voice.
"It was over a century past that the great troubles began! Fiends roamed the lands to the north and west of Elturel. Fields were despoiled, livestock slaughtered, homes razed, and people dragged off to a terrible and unknowable fate. Terror gripped the hearts of all."
"The city's cavalry rode across the land, striking down fiends wherever they found them and suffering fearful losses. But it was never enough. For every fiend they destroyed, it seemed as though two more appeared elsewhere. The ruler of Elturel, the High Rider, asked his people to pray to the gods for aid. To everyone's astonishment, a mighty angel entered the city the next day. Her name was Zariel, which means Companion of Light. The prayers of Elturel had been heard, and help had come."
"Zariel located the gate through which the fiends were entering the natural world, on the Fields of the Dead west of the city. Zariel declared that she would lead the cavalry into Avernus, destroying the infernal host that was amassing there, and striking a great blow against the forces of darkness."
"The High Rider sent out the riders of Elturel, now numbering many thousands, with Zariel at their head, riding a golden mastodon. With a great cry, Zariel and her army charged through the gate. The legions of Avernus trembled and buckled, but did not crumble. Zariel was defeated, and the remnants of her army returned to Elturel, overcome with grief at the loss of their glorious general but confident that the lords of the Nine Hells would think twice about threatening Elturel again."
"There were great celebrations to honor the valiant knights of the cavalry, who became known as Hellriders from that day on. But those celebrations are now at an end. Zariel has fallen! The Companion of Light turned to dark devilry! Her infernal influence found your Grand Duke Vanthampur, and together they pulled Kreeg into their claws to the doom of great Elturel! Blame not the Hellriders, fair citizens, for I promise with my last breath to reach the banks of the Nine Hells as my forefathers and strike Zariel down once and for all." She almost seemed surprised to hear that last bit come out of her mouth so easily.
A little boy picked their nose before going back inside, the wacko lady's speil seemingly come to a close. A cat captured a river dragonfly with a heavy plop of its paws, only to release it again. The crowd started to chatter, seemingly not that inspired by what Reya had to say.
One had the gall to shout "Horse sh*t! If you were a real warrior you'd've gone down fighting with 'em!"
Hodges was quick to act sentinel "Wait! Wait, friends, hear us to finality...I can see the weight of suffering upon our sister. Let us share the burden together..." looking to the party for anything further that might placate the crowd.
Watch your tongue, coward, Donal snaps, This Hellrider has faced down Hell at my side! She had to strike down her own hero, a man once so high and lofty in the faith, Overseer Kreeg.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Boots scrape yesterdays greens as you trudge through the deritrus of the Lower City streets. Before you rises the spire of Father Reylan's humble church, but it appears a much busier place.
Where once an ill-tended courtyard lead to the slowly collapsing structure, an array of clean white military style tents have been erected. Masons labor at a perimeter wall, and portions of the church itself are seeing the beginning of renovation.
When one of the men turned with a stern grin and nodded, they passed you a rolled parchment with the golden Seal of Scales. "Your correspondence was most well received." he said with hope in his eyes.
In impeccable hand it read 'Doomguide Evendur Greymantle, Warden of the Gate.' A title you've never experienced expressed upon you...
'Your experience eluded our vision. For a time. You certainly have the Mantle of the Dead, and exposed many lines of thought within our clergy as false prophecy. Those who remain stand resolute at your side.
'Let us with such Vision bless your traverse across the strand with the assurance of destroying any long-forgotten debts. You find here:'
'A pair of fresh Doomguides. They have a puzzling relationship, as if steadily wishing to best one another. Together they grow, when Two Balances One.'
'A score of warrior-acolytes. Each one has positively demonstrated a connection to the Master of the Crystal Spire. Report any signs of the First Judgement.'
'All are yours to command as you see fit as divines to, with finality, eradicate this Cult of the despised Dead Three and forever prevent its return. You have also been positively affirmed, in triplicate, as Highest Contemporary Resonance, this essence known as 'Grim'.'
'Another path lies before you. So sayeth the Oracle "It is you, that finds the Companion's twisted grace, beneath Elturel in the Dusts of Waste." A legendary battle against the undead has been forseen in your near future. Carry the...
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Evendur stood silently, trying to take in, well... everything.
He'd been a humble servant up until now. Happy to travel and act as an agent of the Faith but content with being, well... beneath notice.
He glanced down at the missive and then refolded it carefully before looking up.
Whom are the Doomguides and how are you called?
Listening carefully to their responses, he repeated their names back to each, in turn, taking each one's sword arm respectively as he does so.
He motioned them to stand to his right before turning to the other warriors.
Temple Warrior Acolytes, who stands as the most senior in your ranks? Let them stand forth. Again, he greets the person with respect, again greeting them with a warriors grip.
I would be grateful if you could inquire if Father Raylen would have time for an audience, would that one of your number please ask him.
As for the bundle, he acknowledges it with a nod before reverently receiving it. I will tend these with appropriate ceremony once the situation allows.
I'm hoping he can help me make sense of this... or at the minimum manage the day to day of these additions, mind racing over training plans, potential duty rosters and more importantly the establishment of a fledgling intelligence network. Ideally this was the best use of a Doomguide when not actively destroying the undead.
The mean-looking halfling hides in the gathering with the new leader of the Flaming Fist. He was content to see the plan finally come together, but he had a bit more blood on his hands than he had hoped. Such is Shar's will.
Mal stalks into the tunnels, following the instructions slowly and deliberately. He takes a 30 foot lead on his loudish companions.
Mal, you begin scouting down the fossil-littered limestone tunnels...a moist, silty sand a few inches thick underfoot. After following the first few junctions on the deciphered missive, you start to realize sound is altered somehow here in the Riverveins. There must be some strange interplay with the patches of waterlogged tunnels and the other, longer cylindrical branches. At times you hear you party's footsteps from behind as located a score of paces ahead, or lowered an octave in pitch and coming from some side burrow. Other times you hear the burst of a waterfall, or the chittering of some unknown creature. Sometimes a soft burst of wind rushes past, carrying a flute-like, vaguely musical note along with it.
While the sounds and the echoes are unnerving, the pitch black of nothing is strangely comforting to the acolyte of Shar. He keeps one hand on the handle of his new shortsword and the other on his crystal in his pocket.
Through a combination of memorization and squinting to reread your notes in the dim cast of darkness, you successfully navigate your way through the dry branches and shallow pools. At one point, you notice a number of non-humanoid tracks in the silty sand covering the floor, a 4-clawed footprint a little larger than your head. Sometimes there is a crack in the ceiling where the moon-illuminated fog from the night above seeps through to kiss some green fern struggling for life in the silt.
Then a sound bursts out that nearly gives you a heart attack, as you feel a little tug at your shin. The sound is the ringing of a bell, and the tug a thin tripwire. You appear to have triggered a harmless trap consisting of a wire, wooden stake driven into the sand, single eye hook bolt driven into the wall, and a tiny brass bell. The ringing echoes strangely for some moments, coming in turn from multiple places ahead and behind due to the odd sonic qualities of the tunnels.
Checking again, only one last instruction remains. Before you is a fork in the tunnel with one passage going up and to the left, the other going right and descending downwards. The final instruction is to take the right path.
At your call a pair of (relative to you) young armored men step forward. They are both quite handsome and seem to have similar strengths of build, in their dress each ticking off every box of formal attire with textbook accuracy. They form a line at an equal distance to you, but then one takes the smallest step forward again, raising their chin slightly higher than the other in attention. In response, the other steps a toe's length ahead and hold's their chin just ever so slightly higher.
"Ni-Cel-x-es!" they burst out suddenly in unison. Then, one slapping the other on the shoulder "I'm Nix, sir-brother." and the other follows shortly "I am Celes, sir-brother." There is no doubt they are both well-trained, but how much practical experience they might possess remains to be seen...beyond that necessary to be formally called a Doomguide that is.
When you request the highest ranking of the acolytes, they look around at each other a moment before a thin Calishite woman steps forward. Her uniform includes a small obsidian scythe pin, which you recognize to formally designate her origin temple as the Darkness Passing, AKA Reaperscythe Hall in Calimport. She has a slick of black hair pulled in a handful bun, with one side completely shaved. A thin rectangular tattoo on her lower lip followed downwards to split her chin. "Seipora yr Pook el Kelemvor, at your service sir-brother." she recited in the naming conventions of that southern land.
At your request to see Reylen, one of the random acolytes is quick to serve with a "Follow me, sir-brother, he has gone for meditation in the archives." Should you follow, you return to the small shrine in the crumbling church. The moldy water-logged carpet has been pulled up to reveal clean slate tile, and a glass-smith is slowly heating and assembling small triangles of colored glass to repair the stained-glass windows up on high. Two rows of fresh cut, unstained wooden pews are another new addition to the space here.
The acolyte bends down and fishes out a handful of chain from a corner, dragging open a trapdoor leading downwards. There among shelves of well tended books and sealed reliquaries you find Reylen just rising from prayer.
Thank you Seipora yr Pook el Kelemvor, he says with respect, somewhat at ease with the naming convention.
He looks down into the chamber.
Father Raylen?... or, like me, have you acquired a new title?, he asks self deprecatingly. He holds up his letter. It seems I am now 'Warden of the Gate', and our lonely congregation has increased many times over, he states, deliberately tying his fortunes to semi retired Doomguide and run down shrine both.
He offers an arm to help him ascend, then looks around.
Given our rapid change in circumstances in the last few days, you would think we have been making offerings to Tymora, rather than Our Lord of the Spire.
Speaking of which, I come to pay both tithes and offerings. While it seems upkeep funds, long overdue have suddenly arrived, I am sure you will put what I bring to good use.
And more besides, I hope you will provide counsel, sorely needed.
Having doffed the shield in accordance with a more leisurely lifestyle of the high courts, it still required you ever keep it close...at the ready. Any hint of fear at the sense that you had willingly given your complete psyche over to this entity was quickly dismissed, as the shield mentally offered more comforting reassurances that were hard to deny. The Eltans were no strangers to power, but this...thing...hummed with an essence that seemed to break all the rules of normal existence. It was a true terror, sure, but from a certain perspective also a true beauty.
Then one night, in a moment when you were finally alone together (having just recovered from another of the daily horrors of getting your skull pierced by the four hellish hooks concealing the stubborn box's mysteries), the shield's grimacing face contorted and revealed it could speak out loud in common language. Its gemstone lips and silver and gold filigree contorted to enunciate "Your legal maneuvers with the Hhune are curious. Mmm...the strength of your desire for me. The Hhune conceal a great secret from you, I'll have you know. They have built an ancient order around my protection, one whose benefits I quite enjoyed. Still, perhaps it is better I come with you...I honestly don't know. Perhaps when the time comes I will simply let you fight it out between yourselves, allowing myself to be carried by the last standing...whether it be Hhune, or Eltan." it mentioned casually.
Triggering the bell, Mal shook his head. He was at the right place and just knocked on the front door. He continues to move randomly forward but starts calling out, "Mortlock? Mortlock? I've got your toy as requested." Knowing that echoes are playing havoc with the sound, he calmly repeats over and over.
If Mortlock is not the only one waiting for him, hopefully Mortlock can save him.
Of course, Simon shuddered at these words of the shield, but tried not to show it and picked up the conversation thoughtfully and slightly casually.
The strongest survives. It's natural. To be honest, the ancestors of all of us, the nobles, were usually those who turned out to be much stronger than their contemporaries, who could impose their will and take away by force. It was just so long ago that many do not remember where the nobility came from.
He puts aside the gloomy frightening infernal grimoire made of dark skin stretched directly over the bones of which the frame is made and takes a glass of red wine with which he approaches the Hidden Lord.
As a result of the fact that I found you in the dungeons of losers, whom we destroyed and the head of the house of Hhune there in chains, the order you mentioned has somewhat degenerated and degraded, don't you think?
For a while, the nobleman looks at the patterns on the shield, after which he clinks a glass with it.
So we're both lucky, aren't we?
Simon smiles his best smile. For some reason, he is sure that the shield sees him.
"...lock...lock...oy...oy..." the echoes and strange replicas of your voice come back at you from all over, mixed with distant sounds of rushing water and wind. With no response, you suppose you'll have to get closer to the rendevous point...unless this is all a frustrating farce.
You start to pad down the righthand path, keeping your eyes sharp for the lumbering hulk of a noble or any other threats for that matter. The limstone slopes downwards about 20 ft until you reach a smooth pool of water stretching across the cylindrical tunnel that comes up to about your knees. *slosh slosh slosh* After a wet 5ft, it steeply climbs upwards again to an abrupt deadend. There is still no sign of Mortlock.
Another crack in the ceiling is allowing the fog from outside to fall down and linger in the area, and while the fog's volume is wholly luminous from the outside moonlight, a single sharp spotlight accompanies it here. The spotlight casts upon a small shrine...a shrine of Selune, eternal enemy of Shar. Yet, the craftsmanship is not any tradition of the humans or demihumans of the Realms...but rather quite beast-like.
A small but fat leather pouch lies upon the crude divine font, of lizardfolk or sahaugin make perhaps. An offering to the Moonmaiden.
"Indeed, time is a mortal weakness. Once Eltan was Grand Duke, surviving assassinations brought by the Iron Throne...and the avatars of dark gods. Then Eltan commanded ownership over the entire Flaming Fist company, which he founded." it was true, the creation of the Flaming Fist is still the main legacy of House Eltan, even overshadowing the rich exploits of decades of exploration in Maztica.
"Yet a mere poison took his life? A doppleganger in the form of his trusted healer? (Why were there so many dopplegangers in the city back then?)" everyone knew the story, the imposter steadily increasing the dosage week after week...it was a slow, agonizing death...a pitiful end to a truly great man. "But now -- suffering time -- your family has sold its stake in the company for a few fleeting coins, acquiescing to lesser patriars in return for meager backroom deals of little significance to anyone. ...and you are as dependent on your healer as your ancestor. Perhaps your victory in taking me under law is just the last desperate move of a dying house...or perhaps it is, as you say, strength. The strength to release this angel from his unholy prison? I would be less surprised should you sell me for one last handful of gold."
The old man took Grim's hand, his sleeve falling down as he did so again revealing the wrist scars of an attempted suicide "...I am undeserving of any title. In truth, before our expedition under the bathhouse, it had been many years since I even felt Kelemvor's favor. It was I who allowed the rites of undeath to flourish under my nose, just as I was helpless to defend Father Alby during the assault here so many years ago. The High Priests are right to pass Wardenship to you, who illuminated the dark veil that lingered here."
Glancing at your offerings his gray bushy eyebrow raises high "...and that Wardenship requires the construction of a new chapter house." taking it humbly before pacing down the aisle with a small candle. "Yet they say a difficult path has been set before you, one that would pit you against an undead horde to rival the tales of history. If the light of the Companion has fallen, surely from the Fields of the Dead they will rise...wherever those soils might've been taken." unaware of Reya's account, that Elturel was literally dragged down into hell. He flips through a few wooden partitions, the candlelight illuminating some worn gold foil symbols, finding a tiny embossed pouch before searching again for something else.
"I know not the depth of the trial that lies before you. But with whatever authority I still hold, my only counsel is Die with Dignity, brother." he then pulls out a long wooden box, covered in dust and chipped paint. "With this, bring Honor to the Dead."
Don, after a time you hear the patter and squish of footsteps, at first from all over the place. Pulling the shroud on your lantern, you slink back against the moist limestone of the tunnel, attempting to focus your ears on the darkness while staying concealed...
...you realize they are coming from the leftward path of the fork before you, and soon are there in the forking chamber with you. Seeing nothing but absolute darkness, you can only guess that the steps belong to a large humanoid...steps that seem to follow Malaric down the path to the right.
But then they stop abruptly and after a brief moment of silence a voice comes from the darkness "I see you there, Tormtar. State your intent...and keep that sword arm stowed." It is the rough but noble voice of Mortlock Vanthampur.
Donal chuckles, You wanted your toy back, right? And we figured you'd like to know that your mother is... well, let us say she is reaping her rewards.
Watch your tongue, coward, Donal snaps, This Hellrider has faced down Hell at my side! She had to strike down her own hero, a man once so high and lofty in the faith, Overseer Kreeg.
Although the force of Donal's words is enough to silence the heckler, and garner some additional iota of empathy from the crowd, the overwhelming majority opinion still remains...Kreeg and therefore his followers are not to be trusted, Reya seen as some kind of trickster tyrant. They begin turning back to their efforts of the day, as Hodges lowers his head in shame.
"The truth has a way of falling on deaf ears." the priest offers. "For what its worth, I believe you, sister. There are legends of similar falls from grace, the solars and archons of Celestia are not immune to temptation...I have heard it spat by the foul in death that indeed temptation is the best tool against the holy. There is wisdom in the realization that a perfect creature will always believe it has something missing. It is suffering to think we can change the tides of greater planes...or are better immune to temptation than the celestials."
Reya stepped down from her makeshift podium "I meant what I said, I don't care what anyone believes. Let the ancient gate reopen...I will ride forward to meet her."
Hodges just sighed in pity, with some understanding "Then you have my thoughts and prayers, sister. You would do well to seek the expert at Candlekeep...the essence of hell is betrayal. The very fabric of that place is obliged to act against your survival. You will need great, forbidden knowledge beyond your great bravery." Gripping the bindings at his wrists, he concluded "...and remember in your darkest hour, when you find the iron chassis that can bear the greatest of suffering, know you have found Illmater, the One Who Endures."
The steps get closer, and the towering hulk comes into the light of the shrouded lantern. He carries the same wooden plank that burst heads beneath the bathhouse, and you follow the scars on his face to a pair of green tinted goggles over his eyes "I know about mother. I know it was you that delivered her up to...that Portyr." shaking his head in disbelief. "Hmm. No, the lightfoot carries the homunculus, not you." He turns his back on you and walks back into the darkness. While you weren't exactly expecting a 'thanks for murdering my family' he certainly seemed a bit terse.
Donal nods, We will go to Candlekeep. Learn what we can. Many thanks, brother Hodge.
As they leave, the Tormtar pulls Reya aside, Do not let your heart be filled with vengeance. Let me arrogate your troubles, so that you can help the Hellriders return to their proper glory. It is my duty. It is why the church trained me this way.
Donal turns to walk away, stopping briefly to look over his shoulder, I do what you should not, cannot... Build a better world.
And, like that, he shoulders the pack with the new breastplate and walks back in through the gates...
It is why we here. Mort, Donal says loudly to signal Mal of the big man's coming. The former Fist guardsman pops the hood up on the lantern and heads in the direction of Mal.
I do what you should not, cannot... Build a better world.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The old man took Grim's hand, his sleeve falling down as he did so again revealing the wrist scars of an attempted suicide "...I am undeserving of any title. In truth, before our expedition under the bathhouse, it had been many years since I even felt Kelemvor's favor. It was I who allowed the rites of undeath to flourish under my nose, just as I was helpless to defend Father Alby during the assault here so many years ago. The High Priests are right to pass Wardenship to you, who illuminated the dark veil that lingered here."
Glancing at your offerings his gray bushy eyebrow raises high "...and that Wardenship requires the construction of a new chapter house." taking it humbly before pacing down the aisle with a small candle. "Yet they say a difficult path has been set before you, one that would pit you against an undead horde to rival the tales of history. If the light of the Companion has fallen, surely from the Fields of the Dead they will rise...wherever those soils might've been taken." unaware of Reya's account, that Elturel was literally dragged down into hell. He flips through a few wooden partitions, the candlelight illuminating some worn gold foil symbols, finding a tiny embossed pouch before searching again for something else.
"I know not the depth of the trial that lies before you. But with whatever authority I still hold, my only counsel is Die with Dignity, brother." he then pulls out a long wooden box, covered in dust and chipped paint. "With this, bring Honor to the Dead."
Evendur, Warden by dictate, hesitates, then speaks. Ignoring the box for now, and focuses on the soul, the man, in front of him.
If Warden I am, then I name you my right hand and Abbott of the shrine, for however long you or I live. That you may also Die with Dignity. My path is not to dwell here as you well might know, and the fact that the Lord of the Dead both heard you and worked through you means that whatever your past? You still have a future in His service.
His normal grim faced demeanour softens, and Evendurs tone turns slightly pleading.
How the hells will I manage this... well... everything, AND train those pair of young bloods AND hold services? And that's to say nothing that I will be hunting the deadliest of foes a scarce month from now as we seek to thwart deeper plans.
And more over I trust you. This place, this community, needs an experienced and practical hand... not some ambitious wind bag of a head stone polisher they'll doubtless send the first time I ask for help.
He pulls out a heavy pouch, seperate from one the tithes and offerings were paid in, and tosses it on a nearby pew in a complete show of trust.
Take half and buy or at least long term lease one of the nearby tenement buildings - we'll use it as a chapter house for now. We'll need cots, provisions, blankets... By the Spire, a hundred things need to be taken care of, he says before stopping and giving a rare smile. We can even use those two eager stallions to do all the running around and purchasing. They'll need to form relationships with the local merchants and will save us no end of trouble doing it ourselves .
He holds out his hand.
Well Abbott Reylan, what say you?
Mal paused at the altar to the Moonmaiden. He could hear Shar calling him to desecrate it but waited. If this is not Mortlock's, he would clear it afterwards.
He starts to double back to Donal. See where he is.
Mal, you double back from the dead end to find the hulk in the light of Donal's lantern, who is a few paces behind. Ugly and scary as ever, he crosses his arms and waits for you to approach. "So, you were able to find it before evading the guard." he stated, rather than asked. "Well?" he waits expectantly.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
The next week was a blur. A hefty 150 gold coins from his pouch secured a nearby multi room building lease for a year and a day. Both Celes and Nix spent, (with some degree of deliberate waste that was encouraged by Evendur), a hundred fifty coins more in buying second hand bunks, bedding, cooking and eating utensils, oats, honey, beans and the assorted paraphernalia needed to set up accommodations for the temple guards, as well as hiring local artisans help in the conversion and repairs.
Evendur focused efforts on Seipora yr Pook, newly granted with the title of Head Guardian. The time was spent in terms of shoring up defences and training in and around the shrine and district both. A rotating roster of three watches, with four guards on duty and one on call or light duties per shift set up. One guard would be rested. Seipora and her deputy would round out the full complement of twenty.
A side effect of the patrolling and training that even saw them mock fighting in the streets nearby, was a drop in street crime. Crime still existed, and given the area, it was never going away, but local criminals at least waited for the Temple guards to move on before mugging a victim or shaking down a merchant.
Donal was able to find a trainer to help Evendur and Donal coordinate their combat efforts. Jhenrel Copperfrost even claimed to have once been a training Sargeant in Cormyr's army. Given her hard nosed demands for perfection, it was easy enough to believe her. Doomguides Celes and Nix was also bought into the training sessions at Evendur's expense, as much as to help keep each other alive as it was for Evendur to assess them.
It was a hard and bruising pair of weeks. Their instructor hired all manner of ex Mercenaries and street thugs to act as training partners... and they had no problems with exploiting mistakes or hesitation.
Throughout this time Evendur forgot the new cloak and the sword box from the shrine both. So much to do... even though he'd spend a full day in training efforts, there were still many details to attend. Details he'd be happy to transfer when the group reformed.
"Ah. There you are, Mortlock. Guard?" Mal asks while pulling out the toy and showing it to Mortlock. "Didn't pick you as a worshiper of the Moonmaiden."
Mal, you gather by 'guard' he meant the Upper City Watch you slipped away from when you left the Villa via the sewers. "Huh? Oh the shrine...no. I don't want anything to do with the gods for a while... I've been hiding out here, learning these old tunnels...this route seems to be the only one not to suffer a total periodic flooding. Some religious-type probably found that behavior auspicious...lycanthropes be my guess. Are you going to hand that over?" pointing to the pink haired troll doll, before glancing back at Donal. "Or is this something different?"
Donal makes a gesture indicating that he means no harm, Just making sure that Mal is safe on this journey.
"Oh. Yeah. Deal's a deal." Mal tosses the toy troll to Mortlock. "We done?" He's hesitant to get chummy or sharing their plans.
Howling lycanthropes. The Moonmaiden's toys.
"Kind mother, who thought the only friend fitting for her scarred monster of a son was this absurd troll." gripping the tiny thing close before pulling one of its black eyes out. The tiny body actually seemed to recoil in pain a moment before going limp, with Mortlock discarding the remains unceremoniously in the silt. "This thing has little magic left, but its served its purpose well enough. Forgive me, through this vessel I have been spying on you for some time. While Thurstwell had his imps, Amrik his Network, I only had this little troll homunculus." he turned to look at you with some apology, before dropping the troll's eye into a vial of acid where it immediately began to bubble and fume.
"Look, I never doubted your word to bring the rule of the Vanthampur to a close. Rather, I sought an evasive truth...the source of the sudden wealth that built the Dead Three and filled our vault. The wealth turned Thurstwell to madness and Amrik to greed, and all of us to murderers. With talk of Zariel and the broken dagger I finally understood...though the revelation did not come as I was expecting. I had expected them to find you, attack you...but in fact they had already attacked us, the Vanthampur." the bubbling finally settled, and it seemed the black exterior of the eye had dissolved away to reveal a tiny cut gemstone. Dumping out the neutralized fluid with a quick flick, jewel and vial were tucked safely in his pocket.
"The cult of the dragon that terrorized the coast in recent years has fallen hard from its prime, fractured into competing philosophies...but they were never quite eradicated. They stalked us under the bathhouse weeks before your arrival, but until now their failed attack and subsequent tortured ravings made little sense." you recall a moment the victims of torture from the bathhouse, rack after rack...there was more than one room even of the poor bloodied souls feeding the Black Gauntlet of Bane, and not all were able to be identified once cut from their bonds.
"Fang. That's what they called it. That ivory blade is formed from a dragon's fang as your mentor suspected, taken from a dragon's hoard along with all the other wealth you discovered. The nonsense they spit under knife and brand I now see spoke of the agents of Zariel which plundered Tiamat's lair in Avernus, providing my family with the means to corrupt...ourselves, the city. A means to unite the Dead Three and sow murder and fear...the brazenness to kidnap and steal from another noble House. Yes, those treasures you carry were taken from the queen of dragons."
Looking at Mal, Donal nods back the way they had come, Ready to go home?
EDIT:
"Queen of Dragons? Tiamat? She wasn't that rich then, because I'm still not a king." Mal reacts nonplussed.
"Yeah, time to go. Enjoy the rest of your life, Mortlock." Following the smart out back outside.
You're very arrogant for a prisoner. You're not in this shield of your own free will either, so you should know that ups and downs alternate each other.
Simon suppressed his growing irritation, although the temptation to start being much more sarcastic was huge. Nevertheless, the shield put pressure on the sore spots of the nobleman - his House is really not what it was when it was founded.
There is only one problem. I have no intentions of freeing the angel. I didn't make my contract in heaven. And we could have a snag, but there isn't one, right? You're not an angel in a shield. You're something else. Diabolical.
Simon walks away from the table and thinks about the fireballs that the shield can bring down on him... but he continues.
So if you are an angel who will judge me later for my deeds, I rather need to bury you deeper, or even take you out to sea on a ship and throw you into the depths so that you will lie there for another ten thousand years. Simon smiles slyly. But maybe we'll still be reasonable and you'll tell me who you are?
"True, my condition here is not ideal. How I miss the connections and influences of being part of a strong community. But ten thousand years is nothing to me, mortal. If discarded, I would simply call to another...as I called to your master."
As the barbs continue to be traded, the Hidden Lord remains guarded and dodges attempts to reveal its identity. Yet, you slowly unravel more of the entity's personality, strengthening your notion of its diabolical urges. You get the sense the Hidden Lord is a dangerous and thoroughly wicked being, the guise of compassion he wore at first only making the cruelty more horrible. It comes off as personable, reasonable and sagacious most of the time...at other times seemingly possessed of a wit and wisdom you've never encountered. Even compared to your patron, there is a certain foulness in the charming façade of intellectual sophistication that seems wholly repellant...even to another devil.
The entity seems nearly unprovakable, with a self-control beyond most devils...a total lack of impulsiveness that somehow manifests as light humor or courtly wit. You get the sense the Hidden Lord would react with an even-temper faced with the rage of Asmodeus himself. You get the feeling nothing the entity says is true, and in fact (when you take a moment to write down its premises and follow them back logically) you realize its game is more to drop subtle hints that lead you false conclusions and moral folly.
Then a thought comes to mind, one you aren't exactly certain is your own...if this creature is truly diabolical, it could hardly resist a contract. Surely with such a formal agreement between you, you would be the one holding all the cards.
Well Abbott Reylan, what say you?
His eyebrows crease and he seems to shake his head 'NO' moments before bursting into a hearty "Har-ha-har!" clasping your hand steadily "I say idleness be damned, I'll see your plan through to the end. You have the right of it, those youths've got the charm to settling Guidance deeper in this communities mind...and the drive to pursue any hint of the Dead Three's lingering influence to a fatal end. We'll surely face the next threat with eyes wide open."
You find Zodge double checking the straps on the mule's bridle, with a few other zit-faced Fist rolling barrels of water, ale, and rations into the back of the small two-wheeled cart. It's almost humorous to see Zodge performing such menial tasks...his ambitions towards the top of leadership obviously thwarted in full by Lenia's return.
A small group of Fist still maintain a perimeter separating the staging area from the wide eyed, hopeless gazes of the encamped Elturel refugees. You do note a few other supplies have been included to make your camping experience a bit more comfortable...with good iron tools for woodcraft and cart-wheel repair, extra milled oats for the mounts, sharp knives for the butchery of wild animals, and even a block and tackle for dealing with heavy obstacles.
The horses, not mere draft horses but strong destriers, stand arrayed on the hitch complete with saddle and hearty leather packs awaiting your burdens. The pure muscle of their chestnut haunches seem loaded with elemental thunder.
Fisk remarks, with more than a little excitement in his voice "Just a quick first stop at my place in lil' Calimshan in the outskirts...I don't intend to ride the Coast Way with naught but a dagger and these ridiculous golden pantaloons." the second hand clothes he was able to rustle up were indeed quite tasteless. "Everyone remember to grab their offering for the sages?"