Cirok looks at Soryan Dirge with a nod of agreement.
We are Blood Currency. Yes. Pay that b+@@+ in blood!
The Rogue offers his Wand of Cure Light Wounds to Cuthalian.
A few walks should do it.
After only an hour or so Soryan Dirge awakens from his brief nap, the stress of working in the kitchen faded to nought. He smiles upon seeing Tezarin Lightbringer back up and moving; it had been hardest on him, Soryan felt. But now a little of the sparkle in the Cleric's eyes was back, the gleam of pride at supporting the bloody battle at Crying Leaf and upon being selected for this underworld mission.
"Well, I must've needed that nap; I feel much better. So, are we ready to get back to Zirnakaynin?"
Terzarin is sickened by the monsters charging the portal and then amused at Gadak. Perhaps not all drow are horrors after all. Then, after some conversation, he starts to worry that they have been tricked by Gadak and he might be a deceptive monster after all.
He tries, bravely, to keep his food down as they pass the trogs. His stomach protests and he doubles over. If questioned, he can barely utter, "Surfacer kicked me, probably broke a rib, but he's dead now." He says very little the rest of the way to the estate, which is how far I've read today.
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After catching a Gadak, you get on a cart and go to Drashes. The gloomy beauty of Cocyrdavarin is revealed to you again, and probably hundreds of years must pass before this refined and at the same time oppressive, joy-sucking (or even soul-sucking) architecture ceases to impress, appearing around the corner of the cave.
You cross through this most populated part of the city again and enter the Gray Market, heading for the same tavern where you met with Liver previous time. While Gadak gets the cart into the stall, you head inside... And your gut tells you that there is something among passers-by on a narrow and dirty street that you did not notice.
You are still on the street, not having had time to go to the tavern. And... Cirok's pocket bulged suspiciously. It seems that someone or something invisible is trying to put its hand there!
However, perhaps it's just your nerves playing pranks in this gloomy place?
Soryan Dirge tries to look observant, to look as though he's studying the terrain and people. The terrain as a hunter or stalker, the people as a predator. But he knows his facade shows he's just a tourist, a mouth-agape, wide-eyed child seeing haunting glory and the aesthetic side of terror.
He hopes he can set up this gladiatorial combat for Cuthalian and Colgrim while he is able to parlay with other Drow. But he knows he may have to fight as well.
He tries to be more alert around the environs wherein Liver is holed up.
Colgrim isn't noticing much of anything right now, considering he sniffed some powder before hand to get him in the mood for fighting. His eyes are bloodshot and his muscles twitch and he has a little foaming problem.
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You enter the tavern. Liver sits exactly where you saw him last time, also surrounded by friends. True, it seems that the friends are already different, but in general this is the only thing that has changed.
He smiles broadly at you. Came. Fine. We brought you a deep giant and started some rumor. A few noble ones came to see this violence. I hope you put on a damn show. He looks you over with his eyes. Such a look as if he has made a bet on exactly what minute you will die and is worried that this minute will not come earlier than planned and he will not be left with nothing. So, let's talk it over again. Which of you will fight, and who will just drink wine? Let me remind you, the fight is dangerous.
Soryan Dirge considers the abilities of the opponent, to smoothly answer this twerp's insolent question.
"Who is "We" Liver? You're introducing me to your Boss, right?
Our "We" is offering you and your boss a chance to make some good money by rigging fights in the arena. But first, our "We" is gonna find out who your "We" is -- who brought us a Deep Giant? And what else does that "We" have?"
I will be fighting and dump it's head on the table.
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Thieves. There are always thieves, thieves are similar everywhere, only this thief in the underground gray market is also invisible. However, Cuthalian was able to notice and grab cutpurse, which caught the thief completely by surprise. Сirok, you react first, which is absolutely predictable - after all, it's your pocket! Soryan, if he lags behind in reaction, then only for a moment. Cuthalian you feel that you have grabbed a small hand - much smaller than the hand of an adult drow. It's either a child or someone the size of a gnome.
Cirok
Soryan
Thief
Colgrim
Cuthalian
Terzarin
Terzarin barely notices Cuthalian's face and reaction.
"What are you doing? This is no time for..." His voice trails off as combat begins.
Soryan Dirge casts a bright green Faerie Fire on the area around Cuthalian, outlining both the Warpriest and the Invisible creature in soft, green waves and trickles of undulating, vibrating candle-Light.
.
Cirok glares at the spot that Cuthalian has held.
Amateur!
Winking at the Wizard and his majestic ambiance enchanting spell, the Rogue grins evilly at the glitterdusted Thief.
I am your Huckleberry.
Taking out his trusty dagger, the Rogue places it inside the grabbed and beautifully bathed intruder!
Smiling widely at the blood pouring out of his victim, Cirok whispers
Pin the little s$+&, so I may properly remove his organs.
Colgrim jolts as he sees a spell go off and the grasped figure. Looks like someone's master didn't beat the right lessons into them.
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Painted in green witchcraft lights, a small figure emits a sigh of pain from being stabbed with a dagger in a voice that is not at all childish and tries to escape. Unsuccessfully. Cuthalian's grip is just steel for him and the forces are absolutely not equal.
=================================================
Cirok
Soryan
Thief
Colgrim
Cuthalian
Terzarin
Terzarin will just "Aid Another" to help Cuth.
Colgrim grabs onto the thief to keep it held down
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I give up! I give up! Good mlords, don't kill me, I can be useful... - the creature chirps in undercommon. He screams, whines, cries and begs. The inhabitants of Drashes are absolutely indifferent to what is happening. Passers-by and shopkeepers look at the performance, but in general, everyone clearly does not care.
Cirok places the warm blood covered daggers blade against the thief's neck.
How many cuts do I get to make before your Invisibility ends, I wonder?
Just what do we have here?
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Got it, got it! The creature snaps its fingers and "you have here" a small humanoid creature, wrapped from head to toe in some rags. From under the cloak and windings, a human face appears, but very pale and with white eyes . Have mercy, noble lords, I have confused you! I thought it was my friend and wanted to make a joke, but I was so wrong... Where were my eyes! I'm a miserable slave didn't see your rings! Where does someone like me get such friends from a noble house? Excuse me, let me serve, somehow I will be useful...
"Who commanded you to assail us; don't dare lie?"
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Dark creepers
Dark creepers lurk in the black places deep below the surface of the world, venturing forth at night or into neighboring societies when the urge to steal and cause mayhem grows too great to resist. Endless layers of filthy, moldering black cloth shroud these small creatures, leading some to believe that the creature inside is smaller still. Usually encountered in groups, dark creepers flee from bright light, but are quite brave in the dark.
Dark creepers stand just under 4 feet tall and weigh 80 pounds. Their flesh is pale and moist, and their eyes are milky white. Dark creepers exude a foul stench of sweat and spoiled food, owing primarily to the fact that they never take off their clothing—instead piling on new layers when the outermost one grows too ragged.
For all the mayhem and trouble a pack of dark creepers can cause, this is nothing compared to the dangers a tribe led by the taller, even more sinister dark stalkers represents. Dark creepers treat their tall, lithe masters almost like gods, presenting them with offerings and obeying their every whim. Invariably, several dark stalkers serve as leaders to dark creeper tribes, with all of the tribe’s heavy work and labor falling on the diminutive shoulders of the creepers, freeing the dark stalkers for their own decadent pleasures. Yet the dark creepers themselves see no inherent imbalance in this arrangement—to a dark creeper, a life in the servitude of a dark stalker is a life fulfilled.
Dark Stalker
The strange and mysterious dark stalkers are the undisputed leaders of dark folk society. Deep underground, these creatures dwell in strange villages (some rumors suggest entire cities) built of stone and fungus in remote caverns where they are served and worshiped by their coarser, diminutive kin, the dark creepers. Dark stalkers come to the surface rarely, but when they do it is on a mission, and with a force of creatures such that it never ends well for those they seek to rob or torment.
Dark stalkers are tall, frail humanoids with incredibly pale skin. They constantly wear multiple layers of dark cloth and black leather armor, yet unlike their lesser kin, a dark talker’s garb is always clean and spotless. Each dark stalker carries a pair of short swords—they prefer these weapons to all others. Dark stalkers are 6 feet tall and weigh 100 pounds.
In a fight, dark stalkers are not above sacrificing lesser creatures, including dark creepers, to win the day or cover their retreat if things go poorly. They hate well-lit areas and always prefer to fight under the cover of deeper darkness. Dark stalkers rarely fight to the death if it can be avoided, preferring to slip away if things begin to look grim.
The origins of the dark stalkers and the dark creepers are shrouded in mystery, made more difficult to decipher by the fact that the dark stalkers do not keep records of their history. Many scholars believe that the dark folk have descended from humanity, their eerie powers and spell-like abilities the result of generation upon generation of devotion to profane and sinister magic. Alas, the truth of the race’s history may never be known.
I myself, I myself, all by myself, excuse me, lords, I can be useful... And so on in the same spirit.
Relying on the knowledge of the Wizard, Cirok takes his dagger away from the creature.
Perhaps, you might become useful. What are you called? I want you to tell us everything you know, or been told, of us.
The Rogue absently flips his dagger into the air while looking at him.
Some little snot thinks they can wriggle out of a good flaying? Psaw!
He should be aflayed... very aflayed.
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Phart! Name's Phart, mlord! The little man looks around hunted. You were just discussed, they say serious guys will come to the fights... So I thought why the dead need money... It dawned on him what he just said and he abruptly stops talking. After a pause, glancing nervously at the dagger and the hand squeezing his shoulder, he continues. His speech becomes quiet, probably because of the names mentioned, and very fast, probably to get away from an unsuccessful formulation as soon as possible. You were discussed in Boss's hideout. Liver is sure that you are dead and is going to make big bets against you. He thinks that the monster will tear you apart. That's why he tried to advertise you by actively mentioning the name of the House Vonnarc. Boss said Liver was in a hurry because he hadn't seen these drow in action. He sad it's not wise. Boss said that if Liver wants it that way, then let him place bets on his own money, and he - Boss - will just look. I'm personally sure Boss is right about you, Boss is always right. But still a chance is a chance, right? He swallows nervously.
Cirok bends closer to Phart. His white eyes boring into the dark creepers.
We will meet your boss. Now.
How about a contingency that I'll smash his limbs and let dogs eat his guts if he tries anything?
Cuthalian will continue to hold your hand while we visit your boss.
The Rogue follows closely with his dagger out and eyes on a swivel.
Colgrim tries to look mean.
"Do not try to fool us!"
The look on his face and his mildly clenched fist say nothing threatening.
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It seems that if Phart had any thoughts of getting away, he put them off for a while. Climbing deeper into the dark alleys of Drashes, you find yourself at the most inconspicuous door to the cellar. Looking back at you and swallowing nervously, your guide knocks with a conditional signal. You have a feeling of studying eyes and possibly crossbow bolts aimed at you. A voice is heard from behind the door, it's quite difficult to make out the words, but Phart says that it's to the boss. The gang called the Blood Currency.
Some of you have to come closer, insert a few words, and in the end they let you in. Inside, this basement looks pretty good. Several rooms with exquisite furniture and expensive carpets on the walls. While you are being led, you have at least a dozen bodyguards of different races.
In the end, you are taken to a fairly spacious room with a fairly small amount of luxury, as if its owner would not want trinkets to distract him from his business. In the middle of the room, a man is sitting at a large table, wrapped up so that only his eyes are visible. The eyes are white, without a pupil, but still you are sure that it is not a drow. His skin is pale, and his figure, although wiry, still does not look like the figure of a dark elf. This is a dark stalker. On his desk there are some papers lying in piles and books similar to accounting. There are several rather impressive bookcases behind him. He puts down the sharp stylus, crosses his fingers and says quite politely, but without sympathy. I am ready to listen to you, but my time is limited. What do you want?
Other three present (one drow and two dark stalkers), either bodyguards, advisers or other subordinates, sitting at a small coffee table with a jug of mushroom wine on the right near the exit, also look at you.
Cirok watches those occupying the room with white eyes smiling. The Rogue nods to Liver.
We understand the appeal of easy coin. What are the odds on us to win? How much would you loose? Perhaps, we can make both of us happy.
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I don't think you'll be happy if you bet on your loss, then lose and die. The dead aren't too happy usually. So all you have to do is win. About the odds... They are doubtful, but they are real. Xomos may be smiling, but it's not visible under the wrappings on his face. I'm not going to lose anyway. I don't play, I just keep score, and these fights are just one of the many areas of my interests. He taps his fingers on the table. If you have any suggestion, noble drow, I'm all ears.
Cirok grins at Xomos.
Fair enough. We shall earn it. Let's place a bet then. We win. I need something retrieved for me. We lose. Well. You win either way.
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Soryan Dirge is completely uncomfortable with this whole situation; he thinks through what must have happened before approaching Xomos the Dark Stalker.
'Gadak Simiryan is the only one outside of House Vonnarc who knows we've referred to ourselves as a mercenary group called "Blood Currency." And it was Gadak who initially lead us to Drashes and told us the existence of an underworld crime-boss named Xomos. So unless there is another individual in House Vonnarc who happened to tell Xomos who we are -- of course our House Symbols would give us away as conspirators with Vonnarc, and Gadak is likely known as being under Vonnarc. But clearly Gadak has done more than introduce us to Drashes. .... This whole gambit of creating a combat in an arena in order to create a second platform from which to operate is backfiring -- they're becoming one and the same.'
As a lone figure Soryan Dirge deliberately approaches the impressive table at which Xomos sits. Opposite the underworld crime-boss the disguised Drow nods in deference, but without breaking eye contact. "We appreciate you're meeting with us, Xomos Fain, "Dark Stalker Lord of Drashes." Soryan Dirge hopes the 'title' provides both a small measure of respect as well as a small measure of counter information: That we know a little of him just as he knows a little of us.
He continues, "While we are interested in this profit-making venture, there has already been a gross mistake on your side -- presumably Liver's fault, but may have been inadvertent rather than deliberate.
"As you know, we are trusted mercenaries of House Vonnarc looking to create some profit in Drashes. But your stooge Liver apparently blurted out to half the creatures of The Darklands, let alone Zirnakaynen, WHO we are, WHAT we are, WHO we serve, and WHAT we are doing! And then set up a combat pitting a mercenary group from House Vonnarc against a Deep Giant.
"This is not how to generate some *mutually* guaranteed profit, Lord Xomos. We are interested in building a rapport with you, to the benefit of both parties. We are not stooges like Liver or Phart only here to bring you more gold!
"There will be no fight in the arena between a mercenary group of House Vonnarc against a Deep Giant. ... I sincerely hope, however, that we can work out a conspiracy in which a few, say,... "Duergar or Deep Gnome or even Caligni" -- us in an illusory disguise -- can win an upset fight against a Ghonhatine or something. Everyone will bet against us, which means when we win, we will all make a huge profit. Then we can fight something else a little more powerful, and once again everyone will bet against us, making tremendously more profit for us. Finally against a Deep Giant and again, we will make a tremendous profit. But most importantly, only you will know that we are actually mercenaries for House Vonnarc. The gamblers in Drashes who place bets will not know who we really are, and will bet accordingly. If, on the other hand, everyone knows who we really are, well, half your profit will be lost paying the people who bet for us to win. Moreover, Xomos Fain could inadvertently really piss off House Vonnarc!"
"Truly no one could have elucidated that better. Well said, sir."
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It does not seem that the address "lord" caused any reaction from Xomos. Apparently, his psyche and type of thinking is significantly different from the arrogant, narcissistic and self-centered dark elves (however, this only plays to the advantage of your role - real drow measure everything by themselves). It's a good idea, but it causes a number of difficulties. Firstly, among our viewers there will be those who will be able to break through the magical veil with their gaze. Secondly, if you refuse to fight at the last moment, it will inevitably affect your reputation. And reputation is very important in business. Although of course it's your business.
I like the idea of your companion better. He nods his head towards Cirok. If you bet on your victory, you will receive a quadruple benefit. He taps his fingers on the table and looks at you all shrewdly. Or are you interested in something other than money? I'm ready to talk to any of you one-on-one.
Soryan Dirge turns to Cuthalian and Colgrim, the two who initially promoted the idea of combat in an arena-like setting, "Fighting on Xomos' terms feels like a bad idea to me but I will defer to your preference."
He turns back to Xomos, "It will "affect our reputation"?! Sir, we have no reputation in Drashes; we are unknown outside of House Vonnarc. Whatever rumors you foolishly spread these past fifty hours upon the words of Liver are yours to live with. But I'm sure you know the potential consequences of spreading rumors about Drow associated with A Great House.
"Again, I suggest we conspire together to showcase combats in your arena that are guaranteed profitable on both sides. NOT that you spread rumors on your terms and attempt to toss us into the pits against your monster-of-the-week merely to promote your own power.
"Of course, I am also interested in what profit you have "other than money" -- perhaps down that path we can work. I am confident that we can fix any communication problems that began our introduction."
Soryan Dirge then takes a few steps back away from Xomos' table to stand with his allies again. Cuthalian and Colgrim wanted to build a reputation for fighting as mercenaries, and Soryan Dirge wanted to make sure they could whisper something to him or Cirok easily if they so chose -- in case this was getting out of control. The Wizard knew they didn't like to use their words publicly in this kind of encounter, but that doesn't mean they don't have anything clever to say.