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Oh. Again. It's time to get a herald. So... I am Simon Eltan from the House Eltan, and you have the pleasure... - at this moment, Reya finally breaks down and, as if by chance, steps on Simon's leg with a forged boot, from which he screams and starts jumping on his good leg. It seems that the solemnity of the moment has been interrupted, and someone else should join the conversation.
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The Hand of the Faithful is ever beset on all sides. Only with the Hound by their side will the Faithful make their way to the Golden Fields...
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Astrid smiles at the two sentinels, holding up a hand. "I had found Sprog..." She glanced around the group, frowning deeply, trying to spot the small, annoying child she had chased.
"We don't have a lot of time to negotiate, dears. There is a horde descending in this area, and we need to barricade. These people helped slay the bone dragon. They claim to have plans to save Elturel..." The druid shrugs, but she looks determined.
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Syrina glances from the pompous nobleman to obviously aggrieved halfling to the big warrior who apparently was into hounds. Casually shoving Dog's half digested skull deeper into her oversized pocket she tosses Cat a quick meaningful look to behave himself. The fiendish feline merely blinks his three eyes in the obvious kitty equivalent of a shrug and proceeds to start furiously licking at something important in his own nether region.
Seeing neither of the two menfolk getting anywhere with the pair of stubborn dwarves, Syrina steps up to the closest guard, her cigar spewing smoke and the occasional colorful, runic empowered flurry of sparks. Covered in blood and filth, its clear she's survived the streets of hell just as long as they have. The heads dangling from her belt might offer the two some explanation as to the how she's done so.
Surprisingly, she smiles at the two. It is a wide grin, showing white teeth in need of a good cleaning, but straight and even a bit attractive if it weren't for the grunge covering every square inch of her face and person. Following the smile she turns to watch the smoke still rising from the zombie consuming fire and collapsed building across the street.
"I unnerstand yer caution fellas." She drawls, the flames across the way dancing in her eyes like drunken elemental spirits. "We've all been through a right nasty patch, what with bein' sucked into hell agin' our will."
She turns back to the dwarves. "So I commend ya fer yer 'ttention to yer duties." A pause to flick a growing slag of ash from the tip of her cigar. "And I reckin' yer just protectin' yer own an' all that. But this 'ere is troubled times." She flashes another promised filled smile. But it isn't a flirtatious promise. Or sexy in any way. It's a promise overflowing with death and destruction. Hell's promise.
"Back there..." Her hat bobs toward the burning fire and the old market square. "There was a big ole gaggle a tough guys who thought themselves the top o'the food chain." She turns. Spits a wad of dust and phlegm into the bone dry dirt. A hand reaches down and pats Cuddles on the head. "They're all feedin' whatever worms live in these parts or that passel of zombies we just cutoff from overrunnin' your little hidey hole. Now I'm thinkin' a coupla smart fellers like you pair can see the value in havin' folk who could kill a big ole bone dragon an' knockoff the biggest gang left in the city on yer side." She flicks a look at Astrid. "Even more especially if one of 'em had already healed yer sick and dealt with yer own bit o' undead troubles."
She steps back throws her arms wide in welcome. "Why if'n those fellers were real, real smart, I reckin' they'd be tryin' to woo those folks to their side. Give 'em a bit o' water an' a place to put their feet up fer a spell 'afore they set about savin' the city from its poor wretched state."
Her arms drop back to her side and she puffs on the cigar staring at both dwarves. The heads rattle on her belt, while the raven feathers on the noose flicker in the wind.
"So what'd'ya say fellers? How about we all be friends fer a spell?"
"Meow." Says Cat innocently.
Sami and Caskfeet seem shocked at Reya's incredibly precise stompage upon the tips of the toes of the Baldur's Gate heir, and ankle. Only slightly more shocking than the armor of an Elturel guard she wears, its Second Sun replaced by a skull of death. "sst...Why doesn't he dance out of the way, Sami?" a highly perplexed Caskfeet inquired.
"...I can't say. It seems almost a penance of some sort..." It was true, Simon never did fully dodge any of the many downward strikes from Reya's heel.
Astrid strode forward quickly to clean slate the encounter, but got a nostril full of trippy spores that chemically contorted her face in a way she did not even bodily sense...making her words a bit easier to turn away from in the moment.
Donal fell into leadership, reciting what was both the law and his introduction. It was lost on Caskfeet, a dwarf of the Twilight Tor who could never abandon Marthammor Duin. Sami was an Elturel native however, and instantly recognized the signature of the Hound. "Of course, if the Loyal Fury has found us again...we would never stand in the way. It's just, these days we've been duped of such talk before and I..."
Syrina sensed the moment for an important injunction. In a completely unsexy way, the mysterious drifter unfurled a long silver tongue...as if possessed by some god of communication. At the mention of the syndicate being even remotely postulated as smart, the duo's brows simul-crinkled "...they are-were the Kings that had given up." Sami mentioned, dropping his crossbow a second to lick a quill and take a note.
Caskfeet likewise dropped his weapon, to dismantle the barricade from the inside.
edit:
They hurry you past their meager fortifications, really just an upturned baker's cart and some barrels loaded down with chipped marble. Luckily the regal headquarters of Stars Seen, Tales Told was already an formidable structure, its old dwarven architecture no stranger to the whims of unstable earth. The crisp white marble bricks flowed in a seamless arch overhead the long passageway leading down into this dreary printshop.
You didn't see any food or useful supplies, but there were wicker baskets overflowing with gallnuts and corked glass jars filled the warm amber nuggets of gum acacia. Piles of what looked like broken glass lay abandoned near a mortar and pestle, but on closer inspection it was some kind of natural mineral crystal. The only useful supply they seemed to have in abundance was wine...nothing fancy, but a cheap local vintage called Educated Guess.
...Large transcription tables had become an infirmary of sorts, the ill and the weak doing nothing but suffering at the end of their days...only half a dozen in total and mostly halfling. The typesetting trays were now nasty bedpans.
But already with Astrid's effort of the last 24 hours the place had a more comfortable air. A stale grit with every touch, yes, and a sour smell with the acrid winds of hell. A tiny bubble of life had sprouted here, nonetheless...on the edges of darkness and damnation.
Donal is okay with a Short Rest, but if the others need a long rest, he will recognize the advantage.
The undead detective surveyed the scene of the crime, the rotten neurons of his god-forsaken brains somehow still calculating in accordance with the rules of logic and supreme sleuthery. An official perimeter had been setup to keep the horde at bay, which they respected with zombie civility. Poking around the chewed through intestines "So, it would seem we could be persuaded that Two-fingers finally met his end." planting another little white flag (this one labeled 'C') next to a bitten, amputated wrist "Evidence C, gnome wrist, a clean circle of piercing bite marks. We'll need a cast of that dental print..."
The little imp with a monocle floated over, whipping up a batch of plaster and pouring it over the dead flesh. Assistant Adrian was always happy to help the former inspector. "Right away sir..." the abacus slipping out of his back pocket clumsily.
"Of course a superficial appearance is enough to persuade most..." kneeling down and using a set of writing pencils to pick up chop-stick style a curious clockwork gear from a nearby decapitated zombie's neck. Rosseau superstitiously walked backwards away from the corpses, to a box containing bags of forensic evidence. Inside one was a rather stinky, half-digested head wearing sunglasses which were the epitome of fashion. Even suffocated by its evidence sac and befouled with cat turds, the shaded noggin extruded that quality of living your best in the moment.
The little gear was a match for further mechanisms revealed behind the glasses, within the fake zombie's head.
"Just as dog suspected, a mechanical zombie...son of a b*tch." It only seemed to confirm suspicions...the gnome had attempted to fake his own death.
Astrid moves within when they are allowed, going to the makeshift infirmary setup to go check on Edyn and Jaine, her former patients.
After checking on them, she would seek out her newfound allies. She would approach them with a grim expression, the spores in her aura hitting the infernal light just so, giving her an odd, unearthly look to her. She crosses her arms over her chest, glancing about the fortifications. "It would be a good idea to shore up the defenses...and then try to find a way to get some sleep." The druid's voice seems to break at the mention of 'sleep,' exhaustion written on her face through deep, dark circles around her eyes and the way that her posture had begun to slump. "And to talk about what we do next, I suppose. This one," she gestures at Simon, "mentioned saving Elturel?"
Syrina smiles another grim smile around her cigar when the two dwarves step aside and open the barriers to let her and her companions into the compound. With a tip of her finger against her hat, she walks inside.
"I knew you were both a coupla smart fellers." She says as she walks past the two.
Inside she futilely slaps at the dust and grit on her coat and pants, but gives up after the effort produces little more than a minor dust storm that eventually settles itself back into place on her clothing. Still puffing on her rune wrapped smoke she plants her backside in the nearest unoccupied chair near Astrid after grabbing a bottle of Educated Guess and proceeds to wash the helldust from her parched throat.
"I'm all fer sittin' a spell and figurin' our next move, but ain't no way them two out there are going to hold off that horde o'flesh eaters. So I'd rather not let the dirt settle unner my boots fer too long." She says to those she came in with, keeping her voice low. Looking around the room at the ragtag band of survivors her brow furrows as she considers the odds anyone in this place lives out the next day or so. Not liking the conclusions her own mind reaches, nor those of the stoic raven lurking somewhere just over her shoulder, she ponders what, if anything, could be done.
"Way I figure it, these folk are as doomed as them gangsters at t'market. It's likely a fools move, but I've a notion fer at least trying ta see 'em safe to the castle." She pauses, turns her eyes toward Reya who seemed to be in charge of the newcomers. "Assumin' you still think it's the safest place in this forsaken town. And assumin' they're willing to 'cept a bit o'charitable help and advice."
I agree... where is this castle you speak? In this mess I cannot be certain. I would be willing to spear head a mission to break them free of this trap that seems like a refuge.
Mal plays witness to those getting them past the barricade. He could not think of anything useful to add.
When they were settled, he prods Reya, "tell them what the mission is. Tell them the way to raise Elturel from hell."
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Reya stepped forward "The man responsible for this disaster, Thavius Kreeg *spits*, lived in that citadel for decades. Not to mention it housed both the Hellriders and our most blessed paladins of the Order..." she takes care to not finish their full name, the 'Order of the Companion'...after all that dark orb had betrayed them all as well. "There has to be something there that can help us...if we can find his original contract with Zariel and nullify it somehow..."
The halfling trailed off before Harkina took up her line of thought "I remember the day we fell...Grand Duke Ravengard had just arrived from Baldur's Gate, there was a full welcoming parade leading right up to the castle on the hill. He might still be there..." cleaning a few blood-dulled silver arrows she recovered.
Lulu snuffled around the shop with her huge nose, but a sweet sigh and gentle tummy rumble signified the lack of any celestial coconuts to snack upon. She stopped at Lucian first, the returned warrior still carrying the piney scent of that extraplanar forest and took a liking to him instantly. But she soon hovered over towards Malaric, lowering her nose and gazing upon him with her huge, innocent blue eyes. She remembered his earlier talk of the sword...and a voice rattled on the edges of everyone's mind ::I was with the angel Zariel when she assembled her army of Hellriders to attack Avernus. Through the gate we went, tearing through devils like a song through air. Victory was within our grasp until some of the Hellriders betrayed us. They retreated through the gate and sealed it behind them.::
Reya unsheathed her sword angrily "What is this, now?! Never!"
::Before she was captured, Zariel told me to hide her sword so that it wouldn't fall into evil hands. Someone helped me hide the sword, but I don’t remember who. We found a place to hide it, but I don't remember where. I escaped Avernus, but I don't remember how. Most of my memory is gone, and I don't remember why.:: the hollyphant sounded more curious about this situation than despairing.
Reya interjected "I think you are misremembering something else you fuzzy little monster...the Hellriders would never retreat."
Edyn and Jaine at that point wandered through the side-hatch, noticing Astrid and the tension surrounding the strange flying elephant. In the quietest voice they dare speak "M'lady returns, did you bring any food...?" Other noses and faces poke over and around the two women, halfling and dwarf faces...the softer, rounder kind of halflings and dwarves. Fishermen, basket-weavers, cobblers and potters...not warriors and experts.
Syrina nervously grinds the end of her cigar as the hollyphant's voice echoes in her mind. There were already enough voices yammering away in there, she wasn't exactly pleased to have another join the party. Especially one that just offered up a passel more questions than answers. But her discontent over the hollyphant's communication preferences is short lived when the two shop dwellers ask about food.
Peering around the room, she sees for the first time the various hungry, frightened, hopeless faces. In a sense these people were her people. Her folk were farmers. Pouring sweat, blood and tears into hardscrabble soil year in, year out. Eeking out a living. Maybe a bit better if the weather and harvest was good, praying to survive the winter if it wasn't.
Elturel's harvest had gone real bad, real quick. And now these folk were paying the price for some blasted nobleman's arrogance, greed and stupidity. At least that is what she gathered from all the talk of Kreeg and contracts and devils. Nobles. She shakes her head in disgust. Nothin' but bandits with money, fancy titles, and the right pappy and mama ta make it all nice and legal. She'd little use for the upper classes, except to collect her rewards and then skedaddle out of their manor houses and castles as quick as a jackrabbit crossing a snake pit.
Rummaging through her pack, she pulls out the rest of the cheese, dried meat, and preserves she'd gathered from the wizard's cupboard. She takes a bit of each for herself and then nods to Edyn and Jaine. "It ain't much, but it's all I've got left." She says. "Help yerselves and share it aroun' with the others."
Thank you, he says gravely. Would not hurt to catch my breath and rest a moment or two.
38... near enough
From the a wall away from the group where the halfling was resting and praying to himself, he offers, "so, we've got to inside that citadel, you see? And investigate? What's the best way to do that?" Mal asks everyone following Reya's explanation.
He files the information about his own mission to find Zariel's sword. The Sharite starts brainstorming how to restore the memory of the flying elephant.
"I think you are misremembering something else you fuzzy little monster...the Hellriders would never retreat."
Sure. And the head of your order would never betray an entire city and make a contract with the devils... Simon says this without the irony that one would expect from him. It seems that he sincerely despises all Hellriders, and not just trying to prick Reya. However, I do not believe that you were one step away from victory. You were all held captive by this angel's pride even before she was held captive by the forces of Hell. You have been deceived and lured into a trap from the very beginning.
Quiet as he observed his new "companion's" interactions with those beyond the barricade, the ranger is more than just a little impressed with the no-nonsense bounty hunter's ability to get a point across...he is somewhat less enthusiastic about the manner and arrogance of the one called Simon.
Once beyond the barricade and able to relax at least a bit, the ranger approaches the halfling he briefly helped during the group's fight through the undead horde. "Sorry I didn't respond to your introduction earlier, Mal. Then again I suppose we were a bit busy at the moment." he adds with an unintentional chuckle. "Lucian Faucon." he says extending a hand.
The former Hellrider listens in gape-mouthed surprise to Lulu's explanation of what had happened. [smalller]"Unbelievable..."[/smaller] he utters quietly to himself.
Turning to Reya following Mal's question, Lucian waits for a response. "Afraid I can't be of much help on that plan. I spent the overwhelming majority of my time on the outskirts of Elturel."
Astrid looks uncomfortable at the question of whether or not she has food, but is thankful for Syrina saving the day in that way, so to speak. She had barely enough to keep herself fed, let alone a group of survivors.
The druid eventually shuffles to sitting with the rest of the crew, sitting by Syrina and regarding the rest quietly, drinking from an open bottle of Educated Guess as well.
"Any organization will have corruption within," Astrid adds quietly in her hoarse voice. "Especially organizations such as The Hellriders."
At the question of where to go, Astrid shrugs. "The Citadel seems to be the most logical goal...As for how to get there, your guess is as good as mine. I may be able to scout a path, but I need a good night's sleep before I can shift into an animal. My magical resources are about tapped...I didn't anticipate fighting a dragon today."
Evendur, Doomguide and priest of Kelemvor, he says still sitting.
But most just call me "Grim". Your team knows the terrain and situation here. I'm in favour of joining forces, and would be happy to follow any reasonable plan you can put together. Seems the wisest course of action. "Reasonable" is a sliding definition so don't get hung up on it.
Chewing on a piece of cheese, Syrina ponders their situation and location relative to what she's seen and experienced so far in the city. Most of the routes to the citadel she can think of are either covered in enough rubble that to try and cross over would be a death sentence as the zombies or one of the flying devils that nabbed poor Chad could pick them off like rats on a dung heap.
Recalling Molly and Two Finger's underground hideout, she suddenly wonders if the print shop has a similar subterranean cellar or level. One that might link to the cities sewer system. It wasn't a place she relished crawling around in for long, but it might be crossing to the citadel underground could be safer than trying to dodge the horde and deviltry certain to be waiting on the surface.
"What about the sewers?" She tosses into the conversation. "Would be filthy, tight quarters fer sure, but I reckin it might be the best an' safest way to try and move all of us, includin' these folk, to the citadel."
She turns to the two refugees who took up her offer of food. "Who speaks for all of ya? Do ya have yerselves a leader?" She asks. "Reckin' we won't try t' force anyone ta leave, but I'll tell ya straight, if'n any decide ta stay, they'll be dealin' with them zombies in a few turns of a sandglass."
A chorus of stomachs lurch and growl in response to the scavenged-yet-nutritious feast Syrina produces from one of her less bloody sacs. Edyn is about to bite the cheese wheel with little concern for wax rind or manners, but Jaine keeps a level head arguing the provisions be partitioned fairly "...you know, so that way we can all get a little something. Nurture when nature's too tough, says ol' Cyrrollalee." Edyn's jaw goes slack a moment in response...
At Malaric's posed course Reya offers "Only two bridges span the ravine. Torm's Reach to the north, and Torm's Blade to the south. Unless a nice demon want's to give us a ride across the gap, we're going to have to take one. Once across, the old gardens point up the hill to the citadel." rubbing her chin in thought.
Harkina shudders, remembering "...tis not a ravine any longer, more like an open portal to some deeper hell...with a foul, winding blackened river corralling the armed forces of horrors beyond imagination below."
When Simon chimes in with his negative assessment of the Hellriders, quick to side with the fluffy elephant's version of events, Reya does her best to not strangle him instantly. Through her teeth "...why are you even here, Eltan? What deceitful lures will you offer in her absence?"
Lucian recalls his time on the outskirts, having a hard time focusing on the labyrinthian layout of the city. Astrid and Grim likewise had little to offer, low on resources and new to the capital respectively. Molly, still covered in blood, was reaching out towards the hilt of Final Rest looking on the edge of some sadistic pleasure...hoping to get but a tiny touch of the divine weapon's hilt.
But Syrina's mention of the sewers seems to inject some hope into Harkina, putting a hand on Lucian's shoulder "...the tunnels? Right? From this side they'd dump into the ravine...wouldn't quite reach the citadel, but we might be able to get under that mob and closer to those bridges."
Harkina had been dumbfounded when the party didn't use the tunnels from her home to escape earlier, but wasn't going to second guess a group of dragonslayers. Now though, it seemed a much wiser tactical choice...and she indeed pressed a bit "I'm not sure where an entrance might be nearby, other than back near our...where our home used to be. Maybe we could find another one?"
Sami raised an eyebrow "You mean the old purifying waterworks of Amaunator? Heh, this place is of even older dwarven make...predates that stuff and the founding of the city by a few centuries. They never worked that great this side of the ravine anyways...but there used to be a good freshwater spring near the Shrine of Tymora. Dried up in the early days o' the fall." he explained with some halfling-sized lament.
At the talk of leaders, Caskfeet and Sami looked at each other puzzled "Ye were editorial cartoonist." the dwarf stated flatly.
"Yeah, and you? You were an investigative journalist. Editor is higher than journalist." Sami retorted to a severe crinkling of the dwarf's heat damaged shnoz.
Caskfeet shook his head 'no' "Editin'a cartoon aint same as editin'a real piece. 'Sides I got more published than you...month to month. But eh, pointless to scrabble it out. This old tomb's got a marble core...we aint goin anywhere cause aint nowhere safer." patting the white marble walls lovingly.
*crrrrCSHKKKKKkkkkk*
As if on command, an aftershock of the previous quake sent jittery fissures crackling across the floor and up the wall...nearly wide enough to slip a copper piece into. The entire fortress seemed to shift in its bed of dirt, spilling inky steel type-set letters tumbling and iron sulfate crystals shattering. Luckily the last of the Educated Guess simply sloshed around in the barrels as it adjusted to the new foundation. More alarming perhaps, was the sound of a strong wind somehow coming from under the floor...
"...aye, yer in charge Sami." Caskfeet immediately consented.
"Hey Lucian. Cheers." Mal replies. Then seconds Astrid suggestion, "Yeah, I need some rest, too."
The Sharite is going on for the ride trying to survive. He studies the area around them for anything useful while he waits.
Donal, the stalwart warrior offers as his only identification then turns to the Hellrider, Reya, I am willing to wager that was Kreeg's first betrayal...
Not being the most sensitive of souls, Syrina doesn't much pay attention to the interactions between the hungry survivors. Instead she continues munching her own bit of sustenance while listening to the halfling and dwarf rationalize their upcoming suicide by trying to stay put.
A part of her mind tries to calculate exactly how many days it'll be before their bones litter the floor of old printing house. The building lurches and shifts with cracks running up its walls like an overweight merchants split pants. Her calculations shift to hours.
Once the dust settles, she pulls out a lantern, lights it, and sets out to scout about the tunnels.
"I'm going to take a gander down below. See if there's a path outta this rabbit trap without havin' to expose our backsides t' every eye, claw an' hungry maw outside." She says walking off toward the stairway down.
I'll cover you. Besides, if we get caught? You don't have to be fast... you just have to be faster than me, Grim says rising with a degree of metallic clinking of his blackened armor.
Someone can't be called - [u]Hell[/u] - Riders and be good guys at the end of the day, Reya. You should have figured that out by now... The name means a lot on a metaphysical level. If you know the word, of course. As for me, my goal is to stop the mad fallen angel's plans. I hope this more or less coincides with your goals, if we exclude from the list such an absurdity as the revival of the good name of your "glorious" organization. - Simon's every word just oozes venom and mockery. Without waiting for an answer, he turns away from the warrior and switches to the action plan. His voice changes to reasonable and wise. I support the tunnel plan and will go with you. Breaking through hordes of zombies doesn't look like a better idea. Sitting here and waiting for something is even more so.
Mal watches and listens to Simon eviscerate Reya. The halfling worshiped a god who lusts to destroy all existence, but even he wasn't that mean.
He subtly watches Reya's reaction. She probably felt pretty betrayed by her organization and maybe even god, too. He wonders if there would be a good way to introduce her to his lovely dark mistress.
At the end of his rest, he pops up and says, "let's discover if sewers in hell are really worse than Balder's Gate."
The spore druid is more caught up in her own discomfort at being around so many new people to catch much of the interaction between the other survivors. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply of her spore colony, seeking the comfort of her fungal allies just for a moment.
Astrid watches the interaction between Simon and Reya play out, eyebrows raising. "If we are going to get out of here and accomplish these goals, we need to be willing to work together. This conversation is not productive," the druid comments in her hoarse voice, glancing between Simon and Reya through yellow-green narrowed eyes.
"It seems like sleep is not in our future," Astrid sighs, stretching out and taking stock of her resources. "To the sewers?"
You look weary there Astrid... would you accept a blessing of Kelemvor?
If so...
Someone can't be called - [u]Hell[/u] - Riders and be good guys at the end of the day, Reya. You should have figured that out by now... The name means a lot on a metaphysical level. If you know the word, of course. As for me, my goal is to stop the mad fallen angel's plans. I hope this more or less coincides with your goals, if we exclude from the list such an absurdity as the revival of the good name of your "glorious" organization. - Simon's every word just oozes venom and mockery. Without waiting for an answer, he turns away from the warrior and switches to the action plan. His voice changes to reasonable and wise. I support the tunnel plan and will go with you. Breaking through hordes of zombies doesn't look like a better idea. Sitting here and waiting for something is even more so.
Catching a snippet of Simon's conversation, Donal says off-handedly, Your ignorance just makes you sound like an @$$, Simon. They were called Hellriders because they patrol rifts to the Hells and the Abyss that are near Elturel, not because they emulate the ranks of Hell. This in-fighting is not productive. That goes for you, as well, Reya. We are now in the first layer of Hell, and we are going to have to work together if we want to make it out alive.
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Astrid stretches, an odd, uncharacteristic smile crossing her face as Grim offers a blessing. She shakes her head, holding up her dirty hands. "I appreciate it, but I feel much better after this bit of rest we've managed to get." The spore druid took another deep breath, closing her eyes and extending her senses through the spores, the invisible aura suddenly becoming strangely sparkling in a flash before settling around her again.
"I'm ready to go when you are."
Malaric ponders the stores of gum arabic along with the other ink-making materials. While useless to most in this new reality, the wizard recognizes its value. Of course, Malaric spent years perfecting a magic quill which does not require ink...what the hell.
Am I right? Was Kreeg old enough to have been there at the turn?
Syrina and Grim prepare to delve the dwarven depths when Simon cranks the temperature of the conversation up another notch. Before Reya can respond, Donal is quick to defend the organization. The Hellriders are after all the most elite cavalry unit in Faerun, a military force that outclasses the entire armies of some realms. Warrior to warrior, champion to champion, whatever the truth of what happened in the past the Hellriders certainly deserve respect. Reya held her tongue in an attempt to be the bigger person.
Syrina ignores the brouhaha between halfling and the arrogant noble. It was none of her affair. So far she'd faced demons, undead dragons, a horde of zombies, and maniacal gangsters. She wasn't surprised to find herself traveling with a pompous scion of some noble family. It was hell after all. Waiting for the others to grab their gear, she glances at the various survivors huddled around her meager food offering. This bein' hell and all, I reckin at least one or two of them folk are legal jockeys. Wouldn't be a real walk through the hells if'n I don't run into a lawyer or two.
Tossing the thought aside like a dead man's remorse, she nods when everyone is ready and heads downstairs. Walking toward the door, she drops back near Astrid and Lucian.
"Did someone say either of you'd been down in these passages afore?" She asks. "Anythin' we should be plannin' fer?"
Donal and I upfront I think is best BUUUUUT if Mal or one of our new friends fancies themselves a scout? Maybe they might want to go 50 or so feet ahead, he says summoning light onto his shield.
Lucian nods.
"That is where Harkina and I had been traveling prior to meeting you." he says to Syrina. "All paths inward lead to the citadel, unfortunately there is the matter of that rather large chasm to deal with though."
"As far as we saw down here previously, there wasn't really anything of note, that being said, as we get closer to the chasm, I imagine there are a few nasties that have made their way into the tunnels."
When the group is about underway, and Grim lights his shield, Lucian shrugs. "I've done a bit of scouting in the past, and my particular talents are suited to working in darkness, so I'll go out front."
Mal nods with Grim's suggestion and was plenty surprised when one of the survivors volunteered to scout. "Aye, Lucian. I'll follow you. I worship the Darkness," the Sharite says with a sly grin.
As the pair head off in front of the remainder of the group, Lucian vanishes from Mal's sight. "I haven't abandoned you, I'm still here."
Quite pleased with himself, Simon moves silently through the sewers, trying to get dirty as little as possible.
Taking her place in line with the others, Syrina draws her blade and moves from shadow to shadow quiet as a temple mouse.
Donal readies his shield and takes his place up front (behind the scouts, of course) with Grim.
"Wow. That's awesome. How do I not run into you or not lose you?" Mal whispers in envy.
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Syrina trusted the one thing she's always trusted: deeper penetration. There was little debate before the party decided to all spelunk down the old print shop, in the longshot hopes of some network of tunnels existing far below.
Those familiar with darkness passed through the old archives first, passing by decades of back issues of Stars Seen, Tales Told. A curious nutty scent tickled the scouts' nostrils...and the source was discovered soon enough. A dead humanoid, perhaps a child or small-folk lay in the corner. It was hard to tell given that head-to-toe the body was covered in luscious mushrooms. Apple sized puffballs, phallic red helmets spotted with white or rich blue, big lipped hedgehogs, spongy morels...a coat of decay slowly transmuting death back into life. It's impossible to determine the cause of death, age, or gender.
A small hatch behind one of the shelves leads further down. The hatch appears to have once been nailed shut (with 2 nails, not one) but is discovered ajar with the planks removed already. Shadows cling to old metal ladder rungs like slime, spiraling down a chute about 25 feet to silent emptiness.
You pass a number of technological contraptions which may have been in vogue a few hundred years ago. Many have been scrapped and harvested for spare parts, but there are still a number of thick diameter brass screws, various metal rods, primitive gears and of course the metal-working tools to manage these ancestral printing presses. Its a scrap-pile, more a graveyard than a museum.
Large lipped stairs lead off the edge of the chamber down another level into a smelting area of some sort, long dormant. Snooping around, it appears that pools of molten lead and tin were once managed here. Little trays of brass molds contain dwarven and common letters in reverse are scattered about. It seems the metal would be poured into these molds to create the rapid-typeset of the printing machines.
A curious plaque on the wall just above a large crucible of cold metal catches Malaric's attention. It reads: 'sometimes we crack only to let the light in.' It took the cold cynic a few moments to determine (analytically) if this was indeed the dumbest thing he had ever read. The fact that a recent earthquake had cracked the marble just adjacent to the plaque only skyrocketed the level of pretentiousness the idiotic motto evoked.
Another set of the thick stairs leads downwards again in the opposite direction. You get the sense this old marble fortress was essentially a rectangular prism with straight sides that had more or less been hollowed out, something like a multi-story highrise building inverted and stuck into the ground instead. You start to pass a storage area of raw metals and other unidentifiable components, when Lucian is the first to hear muffled sounds cutting the calm abandoned levels like a lightning crack at night.
Something was indeed ajostlin' a door handle. "Hrm womp waa hrmp waa womp?" one tiny voice seemed to inquire Charlie-Brown style. "Syrmp hmm hmm womp womp ha..." another, even squeakier and smaller voice answered.