Posh listens with polite attentiveness, hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels in the fire’s warm glow. The burning Frosthamar crackles in the dark, its timbers collapsing inward with a satisfying hiss, and the gnome watches it like one would watch a well-executed brushstroke—judging composition, structure, and final effect.
When Rendylyn finishes outlining her plan, he nods thoughtfully.
“A traveling scholar, yes… yes, that does fit.”
He taps the side of his nose with one ink-stained finger.
“Though—now that I think about it—perhaps a mere scholar is too… pedestrian.”
He lifts his quill like a conductor’s baton, warming now to the performance.
“The people of Aldencross may give a wandering academic a passing glance, an indulgent smile, and then promptly ignore him. A mistake! I do not intend to be ignored.”
He paces a step or two, cloak rustling, enjoying the sound of his own reasoning.
“If I must move freely, poke my nose into Balentyne, and pepper the locals with questions, I might be better served mimicking someone with a whisper of authority about them.”
He looks up at the others, eyes bright with mischief.
“A wizard…?”
He strokes his beard thoughtfully.
“Scholarly, respected, and feared enough that no one asks why he carries notebooks full of diagrams and strange symbols.”
He flips open his ledger and turns it so the others can see an impeccably sketched magical glyph—technically accurate enough to fool most villagers, but with stylized embellishments only a gnomographer would dare to add.
“Or perhaps”—he tilts his head—“a priest of Mitra.”
He tries the words out like an actor sampling a role.
“I daresay I can chant sanctimoniously with the best of them. The robes would be warm. And nothing opens doors in Mitran Talingarde like piety dripping from every syllable.”
His expression goes mock-solemn as he folds his hands and adopts a reverent tone:
“‘Oh, blessed be the sun that scorches my enemies and illuminates my paperwork…’”
He coughs once.
“Yes. Quite dreadful. But effective.”
He closes the ledger again with a snap.
“So then: If I must be a scholar, shall I wrap myself in the trappings of wizardry? Or don the holy vestments of a Mitran inspector?”
He glances to Rendylyn, then Treesa, then Rayse and Vormog.
“I am open to suggestions. But whichever guise I adopt…”
He grins, wicked and delighted.
“…I fully intend to be let inside Balentyne. Preferably through the front gates.”
Rendylyn laughs politely. "Posh, my fool, you'd best learn a hymn or three before trying to imitate a Mitran priest. We learned that beneath Thorn's manor. Being a wizard makes more sense--you have a wizard's book, and can cast arcane spells. But why bother? The fewer lies you have to tell, the safer.
"If the goal is to gain entry to the fortress, to be allowed to draw maps and ask questions, you will want to convince them you are an inspector, architect, or scholar sent by higher powers to report back about its condition. Does the role call for a wizard/inspector, an architectomancer, a scholar of the arcane? If not, why add risk? You won't gain authority by having a spellbook. You'll gain it by having written orders from royalty. You still have your forger's kit, right?"
"Very well. Our orders were no survivors and burn the boat. Now to town. We're walking in. We change our appearance obviously. But we can come in as a group of adventurers, similar to what we actually are. Random adventurers travel everywhere. Once we get in town we can change again and split up to find whatever we can. Three weeks isn't much time, but they aren't expecting the Nessian Knot!"
Treesa nods, considering things. "I was considering seeing if the town has a resident alchemist or mage and offering to work with him or her. But you are right. I can try to get a job in one of the inns. Who pays attention to a bar maid as long as the drinks and food are delivered quickly. And Rufus can explore the town to see if anything interesting is happening. It's possible that some of the soldiers live in town. I'll just have to give him clear instructions on where to look and what to look for." She rubs the back of Rufus's head. "He's far more intelligent than any normal dog. But he's not human."
She glances at Posh. "How well do you know the Mitran religion? Could you fake being an Inquisitor of the church? Seeking out anti-Mitran infiltrators.... Just don't do your job too well and find us!"
Rayse spoke up saying, "Having grown up among their faithful I know Mitran doggerel well enough to make me want to puke. I can pose as one of their paladins or paladin in training. They'll never suspect until its too late."
Posh listens to the others with his usual polite half-smile, but the moment Treesa asks whether he might convincingly play a Mitran inquisitor, he blanches as if someone had asked him to swallow a live scorpion.
“An inquisitor?” he repeats, eyes widening. He clears his throat delicately.
“My dear Treesa… I must confess something rather dire.”
He folds his hands solemnly behind his back.
“I know absolutely nothing about religion.”
A beat.
“And by ‘nothing,’ I truly mean nothing. I once thought the Mitran holy symbol was a stylized drinking vessel, if that gives you any indication of the depths of my ignorance.”
He gestures vaguely toward Rayse.
“Rayse can quote their paladin handbook chapter and verse. I, on the other hand, can barely recall whether Mitra is the sun, the sword, or the smug self-satisfaction in between.”
He gives a genial shrug.
“Best, then, that I avoid all forms of priesthood before I embarrass us by getting a benediction wrong and accidentally blessing someone’s shoe.”
He taps the silver ring on his finger—a ring that, under close inspection, carries the sigil of a perfectly legitimate arcane college… whose owner had been somewhat indisposed in Branderscar.
“A wizard, though…”
He lets that word hang with theatrical weight.
“That I can manage. We have the spellbook, after all. And a wizard’s ring.”
He lifts it toward the firelight, admiring the metal’s sheen.
“Not to mention that a geographer, chart-maker, and arcane scholar traveling to appraise Balentyne for the crown is a far more plausible role for me than a holy man preaching at townsfolk.”
He straightens his collar and squares his shoulders, already slipping into the persona.
“Yes. A wizard-scholar sent to evaluate the structural integrity of the Watch Wall, document Balentyne’s defenses, and prepare a comprehensive report for the realm.”
He beams.
“That, my friends, I can sell convincingly. And with minimal lying! Which is always safer.”
He closes his ledger with a crisp snap.
“Very well. A wizard of the Arcane Cartographic College, researching fortifications and river-valley defenses. Polite, inquisitive, and terribly invested in historical accuracy.”
He gives a low bow.
“I shall be the meekest, most harmless scholar they’ve ever seen…
—and I will walk right through their gates.”
With a sharp crack, the burning ship's mast abruptly topples to the deck. Rendylyn snaps her head around to watch, her eyes gleaming, reflecting flames in black and red. A shiver of delight passes through her, then she returns her focus to scheming.
"With weeks to work with, I feel we should proceed cautiously and minimize our risk of exposure until we know what we're getting into. We need not approach the fortress's guardians in the first few days. Instead, we should talk to people at the inn, to local merchants and the like to make sure our approach makes sense--to confirm that there's no genuine inspector already at the castle, for example. We can probe for weaknesses without making ourselves vulnerable."
"I feel ready to attempt certain spells that should aid us. Spells to sift the community's secrets, spells to cloak us from the suspicion of Mitra's servants. Give me a day or two to work them and prepare before we try hoodwinking anyone important."
The group finishes with the boat, sending the burnt remains and bodies to the bottom. It is a little past midnight and they have about an hour walk to the town. Did anyone from the town see the flames from the burning boat? Hard to tell.
The walk is easy and to make it less obvious that the group came from the lake they circle to the south to come in on the King's Road. Perhaps this was not necessary as there is nobody 'guarding' the town. It is the small hours of the morning and there are very few awake in this small town. Walking up the King's Road through the center of town you see one place of business with a light in the window. Checking it out it appears to be a torch burning below a large carved image of an open scroll. There doesn't appear to be anyone moving inside.
Continuing down the road you reach a crossroad with a smaller road. There is a statue there of a man on a horse. This is a statue of Markadian I called the Victor. Normally statues of the Victor are in armor, perhaps charging in to battle. This statue has him in fine clothing with no weapon, looking to the north. There is an inscription on the base of the statue, "Till all Talingarde is Free".
There is a young guard here. He greets you all with a smile. "Visitors? Most travelers arrive during daylight hours. Do you seek and inn to get a bit of sleep? That would be to the east, The Lord's Dalliance. You'll see it across from the watch tower. If you seek anything else, what would that be?"
Assuming you go to the inn, you have to wait about a minute before a man comes to the door. "I'm Bellam, owner of the Lord's Dalliance. Do you want rooms? Or floor space in the common room?"
The guard barely finishes his cheerful greeting before Posh glides forward in a billow of cloak.
Tonight’s cloak is not his usual gnomish traveling wrap.
No, no—Posh has gone full wizard.
A tall, ridiculous, star-speckled, map-bordered hat perches on his head, its point listing slightly to starboard like a proud but waterlogged tower. The brim is ringed with tiny embroidered compasses. The crown is decorated with arcane sigils that—if one squints—form contour lines. His cloak is patterned in overlapping constellations and cartographic flourishes. His belt carries quills. His boots have runes. His runed boots have runes.
And on his hand gleams the unmistakable ring of a certified arcane academy.
He bows deeply to the guard, hat wobbling.
“Good evening, good sir! Quite right—travelers usually arrive during the day. Alas, the gods of Research care not for comfort or convenience.”
He pats the enormous rolled parchment case strapped across his back.
“I am Professor Quentilius P. Stemtimple—Arcane Cartographer, Ley-Line Auditor, and all-around unfortunate soul assigned by the Administrative Office of Infrastructure and Mystical Topography.”
He says it with the weary dignity of a man who has been reciting that introduction all week.
“My humble task—though the crown insists upon its importance—is to survey the region, compare magical ley energy flow to mundane geological features, and determine whether our fair nation's rivers, mountains, fault lines, or other delightful lumps correspond to arcane channels, or merely ignore them out of spite.”
He sighs grandly.
“I myself find the work dreadfully tedious—ley lines, after all, flow where they please—but the powers that be desire data.”
He brightens a little.
“These fine folk”—he gestures to the others—“are my contracted escorts, hired to keep me from walking into wolves, bears, sinkholes, or my own thoughts. A noble calling.”
When directed toward the inn, Posh nods with professional enthusiasm.
“Yes! Lodging, good sir, lodging. We have been traveling for far too long without a roof or proper light by which to annotate our survey notes. Lead on, if you please.”
At the inn door, when Bellam appears, Posh greets him with a flourishing bow that nearly unbalances his hat.
“Master Bellam! A pleasure. My companions and I seek rooms—quiet ones, if you have them. And if you’ve a stable hand awake, I have a delicate apparatus case that must be placed somewhere dry. Nothing dangerous in it, I assure you! Merely the tools of a humble magical geographer.”
He gives Bellam a conspiratorial smile.
“You’d be surprised how many people think ley-line survey is glamorous.”
With a soft sigh, he sweeps inside.
“If only.”
One of 'Quentilius's' 'escorts' is a steely-eyed dwarf battle nun in clinking armor, a silver and emerald holy symbol of Mitra on her brow. She's young, just past her majority, but wears a dour and world-weary frown much of the time.
As they take their leave of the guard and head for the inn, she leans over to whisper in the 'wizard's' ear. "A fine performance, my fool. But use an alias with a last name that doesn't match the most wanted gnomish forsaken's. Let us not make the mistake of underestimating the Mitrans."
Before they entered town, Rendylyn had insisted that each member of the knot use their Circlet of Disguise to hide their brand and change their facial features at the least. She hasn't explained her decision to be a dwarf.
Posh (wincing, lowered his voice further)
“Ah—blast. Right. One cannot very well un-say an alias once it’s been thrown to the winds, can one?”
He clears his throat, straightens his absurdly pointy wizard hat, and offers a rueful, apologetic smile.
“My apologies. I am still acclimating to the… ah… unexpected experience of being counted among Mitra’s Most Wanted. I shall simply have to be very convincing as a ley-line cartographer from this point forward.”
A beat.
“You must admit it has a certain… scholarly gravitas?”
"What you'll have to do is loudly introduce yourself with a similar, but much more memorable name to everyone else in town, so that the guard assumes he heard it wrong the first time. Phlegmpimple should do." Rendylyn smirks. "So much for gravitas!"
|
Vormog likes the idea to pose as someone looking for work. It'll be nice to be in this desperate position, without actually needing to get work. He chooses for himself the guise of a man with handsome features, slightly taller than himself.
The light brown hair he uses is slightly overgrown, as is his beard, as if he was well groomed before he set out to travel, but hasn't had time to take care of his appearance since. His clothes are simple and beaten, yet hardy. The colors on his shirt once matched Mitra's colors, but are now too faded, and his pants are plain gray. His armor shows signs of rust, and his longspear is slightly bent.
He carries the smile of youthful hope. Inside, he thinks of the recent victory and the feeling of the fire consuming the Frosthamar, shielding him from the northern cold.
He doesn't laugh as Rendylyn suggests a phlegm name for Posh's disguise. They're in enemy territory, and they should be extra careful. He says "People in faraway places like to get news from the big cities. Maybe tease them with information and you'll grow with popularity fast." He also says "We should also try and find if there's any hidden cult to Asmodeus. I'm sure if there is any, they'll be quite helpful."
He proposes he sleep in the common room, as he's trying to give off the image of someone without many resources.
The young guard blanches when Posh suggests that he lead them to the inn. "I'm sorry Mr.... Umm.... Professor.... Ummmm.... I can't leave my post here. But if you just follow the road, you'll see the guard tower at the edge of town. Past it is the trail to the fortress. But bask across the road is the Lord's Dalliance Inn. It's got a very obvious sign there. You might need light to easily read it, but it has a picture of a Lord speaking to a Lady. I think that was from the previous owner. The current owner is Mr. and Mrs. Bellam Barhold."
"I'm really sorry Professor. But guard duty has rules. I have to stay here until I'm relieved by the watch sergeant."
Rayse nodded to the man saying "Thanks. We'll be sure to let Mr. and Mrs. Barhold know you sent us."
Rayse wondered at the lads age, clearly something was badly wrong with local security, something with any luck they could take full advantage of. He made a mental note to look into this.