"Let's just say these are all conversations to be had on the other side of that gatehouse! I hav enough reason to stay here any longer. Let's go! Warden, are you staying, or going?"
Treesa listens, happily handing over the very heavy book.
"Rendylyn? Did you have anything with you when they hauled you in? I don't think any of us did. Why would the warden be offering us 'our things'?"
Narrowing his eyes, "Posh is correct. It's time to go. And I trust no one." Morthos moves up, placing the end of his sword at the throat of the warden. "And I certainly do not trust you, fool Warden. You are saying exactly what you must in hopes to survive, which, in a small way, deserves applause for your efforts, and leaves me unable to fully know where you stand. But I have no doubt you will betray us at first opportunity. And the ONLY way I will believe your tale is if our benefactor confirms you."
He then leans in really close, and stares daggers into the warden's eyes with his own cold, dead ones, before whispering, "And you and I both know he will not. Which gives you only a short amount of time to betray us. And when you do, you'd better make it count. I will be watching."
Grabbing him by the front of his robe, he pushes him forward toward the gate. "Time to go. Feel free to return to the prison and gather your 'things', Rendylyn. A fool's errand if there ever was one, with freedom right in front of us, but to each his own. I am leaving."
With his sword in the Warden's back, "Lead the way, fool Warden. Or my sword can lead the way as it exits through your chest. The decision is yours."
"Ah, I suppose the warden must know where to meet our benefactor! So much for my leverage. I had thought to stiffen your spines by refusing to lead you to our only escape route until Asmodeus's business was complete. But fair play to you," says Rendylyn, tipping an imaginary hat to Morthos. "You might as well put the sword away, though, since he's intelligent enough to know he can't lead you anywhere if he's dead, and our benefactor might not be pleased to find you've skewered their agent." She pauses. "I assume there's no hard feelings about the burns, warden."
"I hope some of you will stay to help, since the faster I get done with my preparations here, the faster I can join you all. But as I trust Posh's map-sense, I won't be fleeing from fear itself." She pauses again. "The least you could do is wait for Dargon to recover, so that he can go with you if he chooses."
With that, Rendylyn moves to strip Blackerly's corpse, hoping to find he had more than one healing potion, or perhaps the key to the strongbox from his room. She also scrutinizes his sword and armor, supposing they might be of higher quality than the guards'. After gathering everything of value, she hoists his head, holding it somewhat awkwardly by its jawbone. "I would be particularly grateful to anyone willing to help me collect all the guards' heads."
The laughter stops and Dargon stands up, then gathers his rope, and Rapier looking at whats going on. During his laughter he hadnt really listened to anything anyone had said. and o once he stands, He looks at the situation. and says What the hell is going on here. Kill the old man already. You know hes the enemy, and a dangerous one at that.
We cant leave him, he will have the towns guard on our trail quicker. We take him with, then he may get free. ....oh wait I have an idea. He went into the building Morthos had pulled the wizard out of, and looked at the familiar the wizard had looked at early, and went to pick the familiar up. then said as he did so. this will be the test of if hes with us or against Morthos. Lets see how the familiar reacts and how he reacts to me getting control of it. We will put it in a bag and bring it with held so it can go get help. when we get to our new masters, if the warden lied, we will sacrifice him and his familiar
Dargon loops the rope over his shoulder, sheathes the rapier and reaches down.
Posh steps forward between Dargon and the Warden, his tone unusually sharp for the normally velvet-tongued gnome.
"Dargon, what are you doing?" he says, his eyes narrowed and voice taut with indignation. "You mock the lifeline tossed to us in the rapids and then strike at the hand that threw it? Gods save us from friends with sharper blades than their enemies!"
He turns to the others, sweeping one arm in a calming gesture.
"This man—Warden Richter—claims to have arranged our escape, and until that is proven false, we owe him our ears, if not our trust. We can slit throats later, if it comes to that—but for now, I say we sheathe blades and open eyes."
He glances back at the Warden, then the others.
"If he fears reprisal from his superiors, let him come with us. If not, then let him vanish into his prison and be forgotten. But let us not burn our bridges while we still stand on them."
While the ruse is going exceedingly well for the Warden, he is still backed into a corner with few options. With the prisoners busy momentarily fussing about what to do with him, Richter pulls out a scroll. It's his last tool, and if he's lucky he'll survive this and still have at least a couple live prisoners waiting in their cell to be executed. What will happen to him after this total failure of security is anyone's guess, but, as the prisoner said, he could convincingly blame Blackerly.
Cast Sleep, targeting the lower-right corner in Dargon's square.
To Richter's disgust, only two of the escapees are rendered helpless. Worse yet, the big one with the sword still menaces him, the bloody sword within mere inches of his chest. The warden was unlucky, but as long as he draws breath he will fight.
Combat Order: The Party is up!
Treesa Lore (-4)
Morthos the Malevolent
Dargon Lake
Warden Richter (-9)
Tomas Blackerly (DEAD)
Posh Stemtimple
Kid Vicious (-3, UNC)
Red, Dog (-6)
Grumblejack (-1 hp)
Rendydlyn the Red Waif (UNC)
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Treesa hears the warden speaking the arcane words and recognizes the spell. She shrugs off the effect and snarls. "That was really stupid warden. Now you can go to hell and be judged by our Lord!"
She kicks Kid to wake him up. "Kill him Morthos! That was a sleep spell. I'm sure he wanted us all asleep so he could slit our throats!"
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Posh hurries to the fallen Kid and Rendylyn. He kneels swiftly to check their condition, but his voice rings out clear and sharp in rhythmic verse:
“He claims he's our friend, all noble and sly,
But I’ve seen that same gleam in the hangman’s eye.
No ally would set us ablaze in our flight,
So strike down the Warden — and end him tonight!”
He glares up at the Warden with fire in his eyes, then adds with cold precision:
“I care not whose side he claims to be on — any man who burns my friends earns the gallows’ song.”
Enchanted slumber wraps around Rendylyn like a stranger's moist hand covering her nose and mouth. She slumps for a moment, then the red-hot iron of her will cuts through the wizard's magic. "No!" She jerks upright, both spells dropping away from her.
She gathers herself, torn between anger and admiration. He very nearly had me.
"It seems the warden's been lying to us. Fair play. He will know all manner of useful things, so I want him alive. He's prepared to fight to the death; I see no reason to let him off that easy." She readies a command to stop his magic.
Dargon nods when his suspicions prove out, and ducks past Rendylynn, and past Morthos to stand before the other door, Rapier out. and thrusts it out at the wizard.
Raising an eyebrow, while keeping his focus upon the wizard-warden, "I told you all he could not be trusted." And to the warden he says, "And I told you, you'd better make it count, fool." Morthos strikes hard at the warden.
Richter pulls his dagger, intent on taking at least one of these forsaken criminals with him. He slashes weakly at Dargon but misses. Then the party converges to finish him off.
Rendylyn chuckles as the wizard's burned and battered form crumples to the ground. "No escape for the warden! Until the moment of sacrifice, let no blood be spilled!" The spell binds his wounds without healing him.
She crouches over him and searches his unconscious body, making sure to secure the key he offered them. "Let's see if you have any other little surprises, wizard." She binds his hands as an afterthought.
"That's all our captors accounted for: twelve guards, Blackerly, and the warden. The only loose end is the servant headed to fetch reinforcements that are hours away...if he isn't simply fleeing for his life. Let us not waste our time bickering, but take our spoils, make our sacrifice to Asmodeus, and be on our merry way."
Dargon opens the door to the other room. and looks over its contents. nodding as he goes.
Treesa picks up the spellbook again. "This was probably his prize possession. Pity he was too stupid to just keep it and let us leave. Stupidity is such a waste of life."
"Is there a back pack in there?"
She moves back out and kneels down to pat the dog. "You're not stupid though. Thank you for not fighting us! Let's be going now. I'll find you some good food and treat you right!"
Dagger, wizard’s college class ring (gold with diamonds worth 250 gp), ioun torch
Sergeant Blackerly: chainmail, masterwork longsword, 30 gp, key ring
Blackerly's strong box: 1235 GP, 12 bottles of rotgut whiskey worth 5 GP each
While Rendylyn prepares the warden for a live blood sacrifice, the rest of the group quickly gather what loot remains and then proceed to the outer guard room door, and with the key from Richter, unlock the large chest that sits there. It's a curiosity; why would your belongings, confiscated from you at the time of your arrest, be accumulated here at the prison, where you would have no need of them?
But inside the chest you find your various weapons and armor, tools and packs. No food rations, unfortunately, but a quick return to the prison kitchen will replenish those supplies.
Once you have equipped yourselves you leave Branderscar prison behind. Tinged with freedom, the briny sea air smells sweeter. Before you lay the rolling hills and lowland swamps, a narrow road, and the unknown.
How do you proceed?
Posh saunters forward, sifting through the items strewn about the fallen Warden with a gleam of opportunity in his eyes.
"Ah! A short sword with just enough edge to open a courier’s throat... or a parcel of cheese. Mine." He plucks up the warden's dagger and tucks it into his makeshift tunic.
Next, his fingers delicately lift the wizard's college ring, holding it aloft as it glints in the dim light. He slips it into his belt pouch with a knowing smirk. "You never know when a piece of finery becomes part of a disguise."
Then, with a reverent murmur, he retrieves the scrolls of invisibility and hideous laughter. "Now here is subtlety in paper form... Yes, I will take this."
He gives Treesa a sidelong glance as she retrieves the spellbook and mutters her remark. "Stupidity is indeed a waste, my dear. As is arrogance. But he has paid in full, and we are now the richer."
Moments later, the lid of the nearby chest creaks open and Posh scrambles up eagerly, eyes alight as he begins pulling out his long-lost possessions.
First comes a scholar’s outfit, which he shrugs into with theatrical relish. "Proper cuffs, real trousers, and—aha! My hat!" He crowns himself with a broad-brimmed hat of faded navy felt, adorned with a once-grand peacock feather now curled and bedraggled. "Oh cruel jostling of fate! My feather is mangled beyond redemption. I shall require a new one. Ostrich this time, perhaps."
Next, a soft felt eyepatch, which he flips over his head with a flourish and aligns just so. "For drama and misdirection," he winks with his good eye.
Then—like a child on Yuletide morn—he uncovers his Sprightlyre. The gnome-sized lyre has clearly seen better days: its cherrywood body is nicked and dulled, the bronze strings slightly tarnished, but it still holds a quiet elegance. He strums a quick, wavering trill, and a warm if weathered tone answers. "Daddy missed you, my lovely little noisebox."
His belt and pouch go on with practiced ease. He gives the dagger another glance and wedges it into his belt. "No scabbard? Of course not. Sloppy, sloppy man. Did anyone find one on his person?" he calls out. "If not, I suppose I shall just risk the hem of my garments until I find something more fitting."
He then slips on a pair of hightopped boots and retrieves a tin of pomade. With brisk care, he curls his mustaches and slicks back his hair until his former flamboyance is restored.
From the bottom of the chest he withdraws a thick leather folio. He unbuckles it, checking the contents: multiple wells of ink, pens, weighted parchment, and sheets of various shades and textures. "Still organized by tone and thickness. Joy of joys." He folds the prison and regional maps with precision, slipping them into protective sleeves within the folio.
His spell component pouch and full cartographer’s kit follow—rulers, calipers, charcoal sticks, wax seals, and a silver-capped compass. A quick spin of the compass brings a smile to his face. He stuffs most of his belongings into a well-worn backpack, and throws it over his shoulders, before look at the ogre, "Grumble, do you feel up to carrying this burden for me? Perhaps we could put some of those gnomish historical into the pack first, to make carrying them more convenient for you."
At last, his eyes settle on the ioun torch casting a steady glow. Posh clears his throat. "Ahem. If no one has need of that dazzling little treasure, it would serve a humble mapmaker quite well. Illuminating scrolls and sketches by moonlight is... inelegant, to say the least." He raises a hopeful brow. "But of course, I defer to the group's needs."
He turns toward the road beyond the prison gates and the sea air that beckons with freedom.
"Come along, brave beast," he says to the dog with a whistle and a wink. "We few, we clever few, we band of criminals... let us see what wickedness the world has in store."
Rendylyn takes the warden's potion of healing and administers it to Grumblejack. It's not enough to restore him completely, but we need him back on his feet. As the ogre recovers consciousness, she gives him a brief hug. "We've won! You're welcome to come with me to a safe place I know, but first we need to thank the god Asmodeus for delivering us. I know how you can show your gratitude...come with me!
The girl leads Grumblejack and any other willing volunteers quickly and efficiently from body to body, relieving each guard of his most valuable possessions and then his head. Their seven decapitated bodies she has thrown into the courtyard fountain along with Blackerly's, and the eight heads placed around its rim facing the gatehouse. She finds keys for most of the remaining barrack footlockers, and asks Dargon to pick the locks on the on those that remain.
Next, she goes to find the chest of the inmate's former possessions that the warden mentioned. From it she plucks a red velvet pouch. "I had thought the court had destroyed these..." She tips the pouch into her hand, spilling out five black disks and a signet ring. "A smattering of the ancient treasures of House Stoker, and the symbol of my claim to them." She slides the ring onto her thumb and smiles, noticing that no one has cleaned her father's charred flesh from it.
The most valuable and portable spoils of the prison she places in sacks for each of them to carry, according to their strength.
Not everything can come with them. The valuable tapestry is just too bulky to move far. After some thought, Rendylyn uses her claws to tear the word "HIS" out of it, and uses blood to paint the word "OUR" in its place. The lovely casks of lantern oil aren't worth carrying away either. After drawing an enormous Archstar in the courtyard with torches and oil, she pours a generous circle on the fountain's rim and heads, then empties the rest over the bloodied water. At last her stage is set!
Rendylyn dashes tainted water from the fountain onto Warden Richter to rouse him. "Good, you're awake. I kept you alive because you know this legendary prison's secrets, warden, and we have questions for you. So many questions, but they're all one question, really, a question you'd better answer honestly, unless you want me to burn the skin off you an inch at a time." She pauses, smiling sadistically down, then her face twists into honest bewilderment as she waves a book in his face. "Why in Hell do you own so much gnomish erotica?"
Rendylyn finds other questions to ask Warden Richter, including if there is other treasure hidden in the prison, and what Mithran forces to avoid are in the area. But once her inducements wring no more answers from him, she drags him into position, his neck resting on the edge of the fountain. She kneels next to him, and recites the Rite of Gratitude from the Damned in Infernal. At the end, she adds in common, "Prince of Darkness, you have delivered us from the feeble laws of our enemies so that we might live by your Law, resolute and eternal. We recognize that we are indebted to you for our lives. Accept these precious rubies, Asmodeus, in earnest of greater gifts to come." With that, she hooks her claws into the warden's throat and tears it open, spilling his lifeblood into the fountain to mingle with the bloody corpses of his men.
Nine victims for nine hells, she thinks, pleased. With a glare she ignites the oil, turning the fountain into a pyre of burnt offerings and the Archstar into what should be a fine bed of coals when more Mitrans finally arrive.
"It will do," she says in a self-satisfied tone. "No one who sees this will mistake us for ordinary murderers. Our legend will grow, and with it the glory of The Archfiend."
She slings a treasure-sack over her shoulder and marches from the prison without a further word, trusting that the others will accompany her.
As the others gather loot and speak out their pleasure of it Treesa retreats into herself a bit. She is surprised to find her meager pack and equipment, but happily slides the spellbook into it. Maybe the can trade it for gold and she can regain her familiar....
With that thought in mind she feels a strange connection. She looks around, half expecting to see a tiny rodent scrambling over the bridge. but that wasn't possible. That b+#$+! She'd had him chopped in half in front of her! Her lovely Jerboa that she'd had for years, lovingly named Rat. She chuckles and continues scanning the area, her eyes finally locking on the dog. His eyes were on her as well, and that was the connection. "You? I feel...." There was definitely a connection. not quite the same, but a powerful mind. She feels.... No. That wasn't right. Her mind is flooded with information. New spells? And a name. No a title. Not to be used verbally where anyone could hear, at least not yet. Konsule? And then the connection was gone. "Oh my. What am I to call you? Oh? You can understand me without my barking at you?"
"Guys. Rufus says that he'd prefer that you call him.... Well, Rufus. He has become my familiar. Strange I know. I'll have to learn about him. But know that he's not a stupid dog."
"Posh? You don't want the Magic Missile scroll too? It isn't a Witch spell either, but I can use it, if I get lucky. Looks like the bastard was cheap there too. Fire a single missile!" She tucks that into her belt pouch, attaches her own spell component pouch to the belt and shoulders the crossbow. "Let's go guys, and Rufus!"
Watching the others go back to the prison, Morthos remains where he is. "That is the wrong way to freedom and a direction I will not be going." Morthos turns and heads out in the opposite direction, finding his own path to freedom.
"That is not a useful spell for me. I am unable to employ it without considerable difficulty."
Going back to the guard barracks with a collection of keys, Rendylyn finds the following items, in addition to what was previously discovered.
A small coin pouch with 1d6 gold in miscellaneous coinage.
A bottle of absolute rot gut without label worth 5 gp.
A silver holy symbol of Mitra (worth 25 gp) and a Mitran holy book (worth 5 gp).
Two decks of playing cards (one regular, one marked) and bag of 12 gp worth of mixed coinage.
A large collection of letters from home. Perhaps they are poignant but they are also worthless.
A whetstone, cleaning supplies for chain shirt, extra bowstring, and a small book of military regulations.
A set of peasant clothes and a short sword.
A traveler’s outfit, a finely made pipe (5 gp) with a good supply (1 lb.) of high quality shag tobacco (2 gp).
A small bottle with a hand written note “In case of trouble – Love, Mom!” (a potion of cure light wounds).
Having spent another hour scavenging for valuables in the prison and making a ritual sacrifice of the warden, the group finally prepares to depart Branderscar. Morthos feels no obligation to the group or to whomever provided them with the means to escape their shackles, and so he departs on his own, to find freedom without strings. Grumblejack stays with the group, for now.
By your measure, the servant would have returned to town by now and it is likely that if the guard was alerted, they are presently on their way. That leaves the group with a decision: risk challenging the guard directly but make best speed on the Old Moor Road, or traverse the difficult terrain and brave whatever creatures roam wild in this land. It is mid-afternoon, approaching the dinner hour. Those of you that did not take time to fill your bellies in the kitchen will survive well enough on black bread taken hastily from the pantry. Still, it would be best to get wherever you are going before nightfall, if possible.
Treesa is disappointed to hear that Morthos would be leaving them. He was a powerful ally that she had liked. Not the zealot that Rendylyn obviously was.... But they were all against the Mitran fools.
"I have no skills for dealing with the wilds. But I don't want to meet whatever force might be coming along the road. That servant knew that the Grumblejack was free. They would almost certainly send a force to rapidly put him down. I think we should go cross country to avoid them."
Once they get going Treesa spends some time 'chatting' with Rufus, in his language. She had never even considered a dog for a familiar. Rat had been tiny and easy to hide....
Rufus tells Treesa, in his simple way, that he is hurting. His belly is full but that doesn't help him manage the pain of his wounds. He's not excited about a difficult journey in his current condition.
Treesa does what she can to comfort Rufus. She explains that once she recovers her magical power she can heal his wounds. But they have to get away from the prison to a safe place first.
"Rendylyn? You know where we need to go to reach the patron? That should be our next step/"
Dargon had watched the others go to the chest and pull their belongings out. He didnt have a lot but there they were his leathers and the hunting clothes he had on him at the time he was grabbed, a backpack, belt pouch and his bow and arrows.
It took a few minutes to change then at Rendylyn request he went through the place with a fine-tooth comb, bringing everything he found out to the courtyard. He almost vomited from the grisly scene displayed. He saw Morthos looking on with a disapproving glare, and tossed anything Ren said she didnt want to keep into the flames then moved to the gate. Morthos foollowed and when the knight said he had to leave, Dargon shook his hand and wished him safe travels.
Then Dargon exited the prison and took a quick look around for the best possible way to go and kept a look out while the others prepared.
Ren had gotten them this far with her Patron, might as well hang in there. He watched Treesa petting the dog, he was glad he couldnt find the heart to stab him. Kid was sitting on a chair more or less consoling Grumblejack.
He was ready for the next chapter in his life.
"It's this way," says Rendylyn, leading them off the road and over the moor.
'Cross the moors on the outskirts of town. On the old Moor Road you’ll see a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story.' The girl suppresses a shiver at the memory of Tiadora's voice, and her cold kiss.
"Posh, keep us on this heading until we near the Old Moor Road, and then we'll wait for nightfall to proceed. Oh, hey, Kid, I think your mommy left you something!" She tosses the injured boy the healing potion and attached note from the footlockers.
Kid snatches the potion vial and ignores Rendylyn's taunt. The girl was wrong in the head with all her devil worship and human sacrifices. That, and she was the second-most dangerous person in the group, behind only himself. Best not to set her off in case she got some messed up notion of slitting his throat while he slept.
Actually, maybe he could make a friend to mitigate that risk. He uncorks the potion and feeds it to Rufus, with Treesa's permission.
"Hey Red, why don't you just tell us where we're supposed to get to and let the map expert show us the way." He can't help himself; this girl thinks she's the boss.
Dargon's the boss because he has the good sense not to constantly run his mouth.
"Because I want you to learn to trust my guidance."
Surprised by Kid's generosity Treesa accepts. "Thank you. And Rufus says thank you as well. He was hurting and I don't have healing spells ready. I will once I can fully connect with him and my Patron."
Rendylyn shows surprising skill at leading the group through the moors parallel to the road.
Rendylyn is perhaps too focused on the path forward to pay attention to incidentals.
Dargon tries to keep an eye on the direction of travel, but his fatigue keeps clouding his mind as his adrenalin agates and the slight of walking through the soggy ground becomes paramount
It's a difficult slog through the wet, craggy moors, and all of you are too preoccupied with footing to notice a potential danger. But Rufus' keen hearing picks up faint sounds, inaudible to the human ear. As you trudge through a shallow valley and emerge onto a low hillock you can all see what he has sensed; about five hundred yards away is the Old Moor Road - Rendylyn and Posh have done a good job keeping the group moving in parallel - and on it is a what is likely a hunting party, and their quarry is the lot of you!
It's difficult to tell if they've spotted you but since they haven't reacted you might assume that Rufus' has given your group the advantage. What do you do?
Rendylyn drops prone and crawls back from the hillock's top.
Once the rest of the group has joined her, she whispers, "We'll rest here and wait for darkness. That rabble will head to the prison and be drawn in by the plume of smoke. Once they get over the shock of the courtyard, someone will count the bodies and realize there are six missing. They'll search the prison cautiously, fearing ambush, and eventually discover the dead cook and four living guards, but they'll search a long time before they decide the twelfth guard has been taken hostage or fled or whatever. Then they'll come looking for us, but by then it will be too late."
Anyone can make a Stealth check for the group. Because you spotted them first and you're so far away and have cover, all you need is to not roll a 1.
Dargon threw himself to the ground and didn't move a muscle as he watched them trudge down the road. Then moved off the hillock back into the marsh.
He paused for a few minutes before resuming the march
After escaping the prison and surviving the the moors with guard patrols at your heels, finding the house on the Old Moor Road is extremely easy, even in the dark. As promised, a lonely lantern burns in the upper story. The place otherwise shows little sign of habitation. Old but well-appointed, the house is large, imposing and alone on its hill. Surrounded by barbed wrought iron fencing, nothing about this place seems inviting or a sanctuary. Still, it is your destination. Where will you go if not here? You have an appointment to keep. Best not to keep your nameless benefactor waiting…
The group approaches the front entrance, having no reason to suspect an ambush or any security measures through which they would not be permitted to pass. Indeed, before you even reach the weathered wooden steps leading to the door it opens, and there stands an elegant-looking woman with green eyes. Tall and beautiful, this is the same person Rendylyn met that fateful hour in Branderscar, the woman who gave the party the Veil which contained the means for their escape. Now she wears a diaphanous white gown that makes her look almost angelic. But when she speaks, any illusions about her angelic character are quickly dispelled.
"Dearest, you have arrived!" she says cheerlessly. "Oh, and you brought friends. The master commands all of you to appear before him, but before that you must be made presentable. Slaves!" She claps her hands. A dozen young attractive men and women all wearing very traditional servant’s livery appear quickly, their heads bowed. "These people are our guests," she commands imperiously. "See them to their rooms. I want them cleaned, dressed and refreshed. Quickly now." There is something in that last word that sounds like a threat. Certainly the slaves take it that way, hustling to perform their duties.
The slaves do not speak to any of you or even cast their eyes upward in your directions; the simply bustle almost mindlessly about whatever task they are assigned. Presently they lead each of you to your rooms. There is no chance to question the woman, whose name only Rendylyn was given, and is likely a pseudonym anyway. Once you are pointed toward the creaking stair and sent upward she closes the door behind you and disappears into an adjoining room. If you are left feeling off balance by the brevity of the greeting, that is probably the intent. Grumblejack squeezes through the door but is directed back outside where a small apartment is connected to the stable.
Nevertheless, the accommodations are comfortable and the slaves are silent and efficient. There are fresh clothes perfectly sized to each of you, even Posh, in your rooms and there is clean water in a basin on a table at the foot of each bed. You might pause to consider the last time you slept on a feather mattress, if ever, and with clean linens and perfumed blankets. Additionally, a decanter of red wine is set out on a dinner table the large common space between rooms and if you are injured, a slave will motion to drink the wine.
Once you have had time to clean the blood and grime from your bodies and change into suitable clothes, you are summoned back into the common area to sit at the table, where each of you receives a platter of hot food: a cooked half chicken, root vegetables, and a generous cut of sweet rye bread with fresh butter. You are given fresh water or wine to drink, whichever your preference. By gesture, the slaves direct the group to sit and enjoy the delicious meal.
Dearest. Rendylyn's cheek burns cold in her memory.
"Tiadora. I had no doubt you'd wait for me...a little while, at least. May I present Posh Stemtimple, a gentlegnome lately of Daveryn--the witch Treesa Lore, and her familiar--Dargon Lake, who freed us all of our chains--the kid we call The Kid--and Grumblejack."
She arches an eyebrow when Grumblejack is steered away from the manor. "He has followed orders loyally and well; such service deserves to be rewarded."
Rendylyn is clearly accustomed to such comforts as the manor offers. After a scrub with steaming water, she demands that the maidservants dress her hair elegantly and lacquer her nails. She watches them closely, eager to punish any mistake, but finds no fault in them.
Still mindful of her recent experience with being enchanted, Rendylyn is fascinated to find so many spellbound servants, and immediately resolves to explore the possibilities. And to never be on the receiving end again.
"Tiadora's trained you well," she remarks. "Tell me everything you can of her. Now."
She has them dress her in red silk and black velvet, the silver Archstar burning at her throat, and composes herself to meet the master.
At the table, Rendylyn sips wine and eats sparingly. She nudges Posh, and says, "You seem familiar with the nobility...do you recognize the servants' livery?"
Treesa is uncomfortable with servants having never had anyone help her. Not even her parents. If anyone tries to take Rufus away she stops them. "Rufus is my.... new familiar. I know it's odd. But he stays with me. I'll leave him in the room to rest, if some food and water can be provided."
Once in the room she quickly sheds the prison clothing. Feeling her wound she accepts a drink of the wine.
Though the clothes weren't the rags they'd had in the cells, they still held bad memories. She quickly cleans herself, wanting to take more time but feeling like she should be prompt. She is clothed and ready when the summons comes. She considers the weapons and the pack, but leaves it all behind. This place was supposed to be a sanctuary.
With the excellent meal before the group Treesa sits properly. She asks for a glass of water and wine, wanting to enjoy to drink but bot get drunk. She takes barely a sip before starting on the food. It is the first good food she has seen for longer than she can remember. Her 'life on the streets' hadn't been living high by any measure, even when she'd been able to succeed in a good con.
She glances around at her friends, possibly waiting, wondering what is coming next. "Dig in guys. They didn't get us here to kill us, right?"
Dargon silently watched what went on and shrugged at how the servants seemed to bow and scrape to her. Truly mattered not to him. He did frown when Grumblejack was lead outside and was about to speak up about providing him repast and drink when Rendylyn spoke up. It made him nod with agreement. The Ogre had been important in their escape, and he wanted that to be rewarded as well as she.
He smiled when he was lead away and enjoyed the bath and his return to relative finery. His all black shirt and linen trousers and cloak that had been laid out for him was in excellent taste. When he joined the others for a meal, he slowly took his time eating. He had not eaten as some had at the prison, so it had indeed been a while since he had eaten or drank.
He enjoyed every bite, savored every swallow. and waited.