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"If that thing is a god-servant... does that mean this whole place is some kinda temple?"
Raka nods. "Colin's right. It's not nearly as empty in here as we figured-- I figured, anyway-- an' we can't keep trustin' our luck. Soon or late, we're gonna get noticed. So I vote we get noticed on purpose, rather than gettin' surprised. Might go better for us that way.
"An' if we do this, we all do it. Somethin' tells me a god-servant would appreciate us bein' forthright."
”Raka,” he says quietly. ”I appreciate this isn’t the ideal time but I meant to say this last night. Those stories about dwarves and their lust for gold? They aren’t true. Thunder-follows-Lightning feels strongly that I mention this and I can only apologise for my oversight at the time.”
Raka can't help rolling her eyes. "Well of course the sw--" She stops herself mid-sentence. That the sword would speak highly of its makers isn't exactly a surprise to her. If I was made by dwarves, I'd prob'ly say the same thing. However, saying as much out loud would just be rude, and at all events they certainly haven't stopped needing Thunder-Follows-Lightning's help.
"I-- believe that it believes that," she says as tactfully as she can.
Colin piped up with the observation, "From an engineering perspective, gold is one of the best conductors, so its use does make sense. The main reason we don't use it more is scarcity, apparently the dwarves didn't have that problem..."
"And appreciating beauty and artistry is not the same as being covetous about such things," Phantrel adds gently. "None of us know what happened to the dwarves and given the contradictory nature of many of the stories and rumours, they can't all be true." Implicit in his words is that presumably Thunder-follows-Lightning does know what happened to them and perhaps at some point in the future may share what it knows.
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I do not UNDERSTAND you, it says at last, though for whatever it is worth, the words seem more plaintive than angry or snide. You say that you and your people are low-caste laborers, but you complain that I instruct you? But--
There is the psychic sensation of a sigh and again the blade silences itself, cutting off whatever it meant to say next. Another pause, then:
I will consider your words, Phantrel Springleaf. I spent many years, as the shortlived races count them, with Auric, and the manner of our interaction was known to me. You are very different. I will consider.
You can inform the educated one that he is correct.... if you wish to. The stoneborn perfected the art of mining and production in many areas, such that the natural scarcity of this or that metal was hardly a consideration. What your people see as a display of wealth was.... a display of craftsmanship and skill. A different sort of power, perhaps. As you said: beauty, and artistry. But this discussion can wait. For now, you and your people have more pressing concerns.
Brimble considers. ”Miss Raka has the right of it. We should all go. If things go good, we’ve shown we’re not being sneaky. If things go bad - better all of us are there to face it. The fire-dwarf seems like he can control Clanker… just gotta hope he isn’t going to set it on us while we talk.”
He stands up and smooths his dwarven good luck charm against his jerkin. ”You dwarf speakers, should call out as we’re heading down the hall. We don’t want to surprise them. If Clanker comes barreling at us, we’ll know the fella ain’t feelin' chatty.” The kobold appears ready to go.
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Argatha shrugs. From going alone to having everyone come with him - it makes no difference to him, though he worries they'll all die needlessly.
"We should leave our dwarven daggers behind. They're sacred to the dwarves from what one of you said. So this guy might not like that we have them."
He takes his two out and sets them carefully down, propped against the wall.
Xira does not readily admit to fear. She doesn't admit to it now, though she knows that some here know her well enough to see through her veneer and probably none here would think less of her for it. But the possible transformation of this fire-being from randomly violent danger of the depths to servant of divinity, if not exactly less scary, is at least a very different kind of scary, one she feels a bit more able to get to grips with. Hopefully.
"We should leave our dwarven daggers behind. They're sacred to the dwarves from what one of you said. So this guy might not like that we have them."
She removes her pair of borrowed clan daggers from her belt and considers them. "Whether we leave them or not," she replies, "we probably shouldn't hide the fact that we found them. Perhaps we can ask this person what we should do with them, to reassure him that we wish neither to disrespect their owners nor steal from them."
Her staff, however, she keeps in hand, hoping the former humble kitchen tool will not prove a bone of contention. Diplomacy is all well and good, but so is survival.
Weapon in hand: Quarterstaff
Effects:
Brimble debates how to inoffensively share his opinion. ”Yeah, what we’ve ‘borrowed’ and such will have to get said – at some point – but not immediately. You don’t walk into a party and confess you just pocketed some of the cutlery. We need to be good guests and make it clear we’re just trying to find our way out alive. If he don’t try killing us straight-away, we can tell our tale and let the facts come out in context.” It is one of the fancy phrases the kobold really likes. ‘Context’ is a strange concept for most of his species which is probably why Brimble enjoys it so much. ”Point is, we avoid hazard topics… like stealing stuff and the GMC... until they got to be said, hopefully after he knows we’re good people just trying to survive.”
HP: 8 / 8 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:13 | CMD:11/9
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
"Agreed." Xira sets the two daggers down with as much care as Argatha used, then stands and moves toward the door. If her grip on her staff shows a white-knuckle or two, that's understandable enough. In context.
She pauses by Phantrel, eyes on her staff's glow. "Dim lights again?"
Weapon in hand: Quarterstaff
Effects:
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With the group in agreement that they should try approaching the creature, Em believes it to be a chalkost, though it may be an azer, Em busies herself reviewing their presentation. "Phantrel, may I rebraid your hair?" she asks, half listening while the others debate the merits of carrying the dwarf daggers. Some things may seem superfluous to stone-minded dwellers in the deeps, but even dwarves see the value in hair that has been cared for. "I will do my best to introduce us, but as the bearer of the sword and a speaker of dwarven, you must do most of the talking," she tells him. Besides, with his hair done up well and his glinting eagle's eyes, Phantrel might make the second most striking figure in the group.
She practices the introduction she will soon deliver, giving Phantrel a chance to correct her pronunciation. She might have difficulty following the conversation afterwards, but Em will not pass the opportunity to directly address such a creature as the party will soon meet. Em leaves her own daggers behind with the others. She had considered trying to give them to Colin, as a way to occupy his very active mind, but since the others now seem resolved she won't argue.
Em then positions the group in order. She will stand beside Phantrel, who as the bearer of Thunder-follows-Lightning must go first. Xira, Argatha, and Raka are next, standing close beside one another. Colin can stand behind Xira, hopefully he will have a sufficient view of the workshop from over her head. Brimble must hide behind Raka, and stay out of sight of Clanker as long as possible. "Let's light a lantern, Xira. You can carry it. The creature may be unused to mundane light, but I think it will not view a lit flame unfavorably."
Em does her best to walk smoothly and quickly beside Phantrel, trying to make herself feel casual and still the quaking of her heart. She doesn't let the group linger as they pass beside the corpse, such things will grow more dreadful the longer they are watched. As they pass it by, Em calls out to the creature in dwarven.
"Hail, warm chalkost, or azer, as you may be. We have glimpsed the fingertips of Droskar," Em grimaces, gritting her teeth against the name, "probing their way into the level below. Might we take solace beside your forge, servant of the Father of Creation, and so guard our mortal hearts against his influence? One of our number has a tale to tell, of how we strangers have come to your realm."
Em stands beside Phantrel in the doorway to the creature's temple, the rest of the party out of sight for the moment.
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Practice, practice, practice-- Em rehearses her speech, gets Phantrel to listen to it and correct her pronunciation with perhaps occasional suggestions from Colin as to this or that diphthong-- and commits it to memory. How many times as a girl had she envisioned delivering some weighty message to an august personage? And now... she is. With high stakes.
The lead members of the group round the corner and find themselves gazing into the room that they have surmised is a temple. It is as Brimble said: stone benches, elaborate with bas relief carvings, all face towards a center that is dominated by a large and gleaming anvil, with a statue behind it that represents either some dwarven hero or deity, to judge by the upraised hammer, magnificent beard, and so forth.
The room is lit by the glow of the creature Em addresses: a creature very like a dwarf-man, if one were to be shaped from polished metal and living flame. Not shaped as the machine-man is, where there are obvious bolts, rivets, and signs of manufacture, however artful-- but shaped as if by the whim of some master creator who chose as their medium the elements.
This creature has turned to gaze your direction at your approach and Em's speech. Where there would be eyes on a person there are only two orbs of bright fire.
For a long second it, or he, merely gazes your way, and then speaks in a voice that resonates through the room with the deep tones of a churchbell.
"Methought I heardst a tread, and sensed a passage, yet Altynbekh saw nothing. Well, and you come to the Father's shrine desiring protection? Well! Clayborn, and one of the green, present themselves? Altynbekh, my darling, is this not passing strange? Has such a thing ever happed before? What shall I do, Altynbekh? What sayest thou?"
The firebeard turns expectantly to the machine-figure, who doesn't so much as twitch; if there is in fact some form of communication happening here, it must be happening on a level you are ignorant of. But the stout figure nods after a few seconds, its fingers moving through the flames of its 'beard' as if stroking it in thought.
"Aye, thou art correct! T'would be unseemly to deny hospitality; didst not Torag craft all the races of the earth and not merely his favored children? I am rebuked by your wisdom, faithful Altynbekh! I am chastised! I am a poor host! I-- why, what is that?
"--ah, right thou art, again! I must invite them in. How clever you are, my darling!"
The firebeard turns back to your group and offers a bow. "Enter then, supplicants before the forge! And tell me thy tale, for I perceive thou hav'st one, and a strange one, that thou, who art no stoneborn, do bear at your side one of the Courageous." (The last seeming directed purely at Phantrel, though it's true he's the primary one the firebeard can see.)
Brimble listens and listens... That's a lot of words.
As they approach the door, Xira whispers the activation of her language spell as she dabs the soot and salt behind each ear. She can't converse, but at least she can follow what's said.
She is still deeply uncertain, but what she hears is strange enough that she can't resist stepping behind Em for her own look into the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of both metallic beings, but she keeps enough presence of mind to direct a respectful bow to the one wreathed in flames.
After a moment, she gives a waist-high thumbs up of reassurance to those behind and beside her.
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Em blinks.
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Argatha smiles in what he hopes is a friendly manner.
"I don't suppose you know our language? I'm afraid we all don't know Dwarven." He expects a blank look, but thought to try.
Since Raka has no idea what the fiery dwarf-creature is saying, it is perhaps no surprise that she finds his motives equally mysterious.
Colin found all of this fascinating, and if he'd had paper to spare he'd have taken rubbings of everything. Not having any of that to occupy himself, he was unable to contain himself as he piped up, "Ahh! This is clearly a shrine to Torag, the Father of Dwarvenkind! Stern yes, but far more amenable than Droskar the god followed by that poor wretch we found downstairs."
When the firebeard bowed, Colin explained, "He's asking for our story. I'm happy to translate! I'm sure one of you could phrase it better than me, but I'm equally happy to tell him our story if that's easiest!"
Em follows Phantrel into the room a bit. Blushing, she wedges herself in the doorway so that the others can't quite crowd in just yet, and hopefully can't be heard very well either. She's beginning to love this group, each in their own way, but Em wishes they could obey decorum just long enough for introductions to be concluded.
She's having trouble understanding the dwarven, though one phrase sounds familiar, having been uttered by her own lips before.
"didst not Torag craft all the races of the earth and not merely his favored children?"
Phantrel squares his shoulders, hoping this goes better than his previous attempts to negotiate with the other dwarven entity he's talked with... though perhaps something he said this time got through to Thunder-follows-Lightning? No time to ponder that just now, however. After Em's introduction, he steps up and tries to return the fire-dwarf's bow.
It still feels strange to him to speak Dwarven. He doesn't have to think about it, the words just smoothly translate on his tongue as if he's known the language all his life.
"Greetings, and thank you for the hospitality. It's true we have a story, though it may raise more questions than it answers, good sir. I am named Phantrel. Shall we call you anything?"
The fire-beard seems taken aback by this question as well, and once more 'tugs' on the living flame of his beard in light consternation. "Oh! Well! A name, yes, there is justice in thy query! Forgive me, my manners are rusted. My name... my name is... ah, Altynbekh, what is my name?"
He "listens" to the metal figure, then nods vigorously. "Ah! Yes. Correct, correct, I was merely testing thee, old friend. Yes, I am called Forgewise. Come in. Tales ought be told sitting. Altynbekh, we have guests, wilt thou fetch refreshments? Wonderful, thank you, now where shall we sit? The pews, I suppose...."
(The machine-figure doesn't move.) Phantrel, watching this exchange, clears his throat delicately. "May I assume, Master Forgewise, you have been here for some time on your own?"
The firebeard blinks its fiery eyes at Phantrel for several seconds. "Alone? Young man, art thine eyes well? Thou can see I have a companion, surely!"
"...Right," Phantrel says. "Another question, if I can - would I be correct in assuming you don't speak the common tongue my friend here asked about?"
"Oh, is that what he asked! No, I am afraid I cannot dally with every tongue that comes and goes amongst the clayborn; why, the languages change almost as oft as the countries! I would go quite mad with such breakneck alterations. Give me a tongue that hath its roots in stone and iron, the bones of the earth, or the heavens above, and I am content!"
Phantrel smiles and nods, trying to get a word in edgewise without interrupting the talkative firedwarf. As soon as he can, he murmurs to his companions in Taldane : "Well, he seems friendly, and he's welcoming us in to hear more, and inviting us to sit. He says his name is--" Phantrel says something in Dwarven, recognizes it was Dwarven, and thinks a moment to translate it to Common. "...his name might translate as Forgewise. He also says he unfortunately doesn't speak Common. I.... also get the sense... that he has been, ah, without conversation for a long time. Perhaps too long, if you catch my meaning."
The half-elf enters, beckoning the rest of you to follow him in. The room is warm: heat seems to pour from the firedwarf's very being. At a few feet's distance it's tolerable, but you wouldn't be surprised if the metal of his body is hot enough to burn on contact. Forgewise watches each of you enter, frowning slightly at the sight of the kobold bringing up the rear, but more of his attention seeming on Raka than anyone else. His blazing gaze keeps returning to her over and over, almost uncomfortably intense.
Once everyone is inside, Phantrel launches into a full introduction of everyone, and then a delicate recounting of the chain of events that brought them inside. It is all true, certainly, but phrased to emphasize the bits about how really, they would just like to get out and they certainly aren't here to try to plunder or steal; that the blade is only temporarily traveling with him, and so forth.
Phantrel further explains that he will need to translate for his companions, ever so often, and that he can relay their own questions and conversations to Forgewise in turn, as needed.
Gazing around the temple reveals two impressive statues besides the grandiose one of Torag. The one closer to the doorway you came in by depicts a dwarf who is dressed in robes rather than heavy armor, with a pair of stone-and-glass spectacles perched on the end of her nose, holding a carved-stone spyglass. The one further from the doorway shows a regal figure with a crown and a beard that reaches nearly to his knees, his hands resting on an axe.
The benches that you carefully sit down upon are polished marble, with intricate bas relief carvings on the surfaces. The style is geometric representationalism-- figures are stylized and angular, but still clear as dwarves and other races (orcs, goblins, and humans being the most predominant). The bench decorations are not identical - from one bench to another a story of sorts seems to be unfolding, one of many battles and losses but a continual push upwards.
Brimble is glad to enter last. It gives him an extra moment to straighten his tunic, practice his approximation of a ‘disarming smile’, and ensure his hand-carved symbol of Dranngvit is hanging straight. He offers the firebeard a respectful bow and tries out the practiced smile.
Given the frown he receives, Brimble decides going unnoticed is probably best. He finds a seat and brushes his pants before sitting down. Then he remains quiet and largely still.
HP: 8 / 8 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:13 | CMD:11/9
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
Raka can "understand" only what Phantrel translates, but the dwarf-creature's repeated looks at Raka are unnerving. She may be strong, but she doesn't have the slightest confidence she can take on a servant of a god in a fight if it comes to--
No, wait. He isn't looking at Raka herself, he's looking at the axe. She almost chuckles aloud despite her nervousness. She still feels bad for ruining the weapon-- for several reasons-- but that this is what the creature fixates on says a great deal about him. Prob'ly wants ta fix it. Least I hope so.
She files in and sits on one of the ornate benches but says nothing.
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Colin fond the conversation deeply weird which made him uncomfortable, he found his eyes wandering. He frowned at a statue of aregal figure with a crown and a very long beard, he felt he ought to know who that was but the name was elusive. As his rear end became slightly numb, he then found himself examining the benches. Marvellous work clearly depicting a famous legend, pointing this out to the others he said, "Oh look the bench decorations are depicting an origin myth, the Quest for Sky! Supposedly 10,000 years ago, they left the Darklands and fought their way past countless foes to reach the surface, pursuing a prophecy given to them by Torag. On the surface they established a great empire, including massive settlements called Sky Citadels, perhaps this is part of one?"
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Phantrel politely relays some of Colin's observations to Forgewise. The firebeard speaks in turn with some enthusiasm, which Phantrel then duly relays:
"Yes, yes, the Quest for Sky-- the true birth of the stoneborn-- or perhaps I might say their forging! From raw ore to-- well, now, one does not forge stone! Ehhhhhh... their refining. Thou canst take ore, and refine it, purify it through stress and flame, and at the end of all thy strivings, thou hast pure metal! Or... what was I saying? --oh, yes!
"Thou standeth (er, sitteth) not in a Sky Citadel, but rather in the Steel Strata of Star Tower A magnificent and unique place, but a special research and project outpost, not a Citadel. It is a mere fraction of the size of one of them!"
All well and good. You have more pressing concerns, such as an exit, if one exists. Phantrel brings the topic up to Forgewise, who looks nonplussed and blank for a handful of seconds, and then laughs a basso profundo laugh as if this were quite a jest on Phantrel's part.
"Why, I should not have the faintest idea! In my time in Star Tower I have not left this room that is sacred to Father Torag."
Cautiously Phantrel also brings up the small dead body in the hall...
The overall-cheerful mien of Forgewise grows grimmer at that, the flames that wreathe his head smoldering red and emitting a dark smoke for a few seconds. "A would-be thief, a slagborn. Do not fear, Altynbekh dispatched them summarily, and that which they would have taken was reclaimed."
The firebeard looks towards the statue of Torag and indicate the highly decorated hammer held in the statue's grasp-- a hammer that looks to be made of gold and studded with gemstones. You can only imagine its value. "Back where it ought to be!"
Phantrel equally cautiously asks where the thief came from.... Forgewise shrugs, as if this question were of complete uninterest to him, but says after a moment's thought, "From above, I assume. It had companions, but they all fled back up the stairs once brave Altynbekh dispatched justice!"
At a brief lull in the conversation (or more likely, a stage where Phantrel is relaying things to his companions), Forgewise takes a short break from gazing intensely in Raka's direction in favor of gazing intensely in Brimble's direction.
A stern-sounding bit of Dwarven follows, which Phantrel hurriedly translates:
"Dost thou follow the Huntress of Vengeance, drakeborn? Thou bearest her symbol, as if thou claimest allegiance to her."
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Brimble fancies being called ‘drakeborn’, but the stern tone is… unsettling. He knows this is probably the right moment to lie. But being forthright is a character flaw his tribe failed to beat out of him.
The kobold considers the question and rubs his eye-ridge. ”Truth is, Master Forgewise, I don’t know.” He takes hold of the symbol. ”I found a melchinakh like this in a mine. Things went wrong as wrong can get. I lived when others didn’t. I feel like that melchinakh kept me safe. So, I made this one as maybe a good luck charm. Until a few days ago, I didn’t even know it’s called a melchinakh and that it’s likely the symbol of Dranngvit, a god of debts. Is any of that true? Is that your Huntress of Vengeance?”
He adds quickly, ”I don’t mean no disrespect carrying her symbol. An’ if her melchinakh did keep me alive then I definitely owe her something.”
HP: 8 / 8 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:13 | CMD:11/9
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
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Forgewise listens with furrowed brows to Brimble's explanation (as relayed by Phantrel).
The firebeard doesn't take offense to Brimble's words, at least, though he still seems sober over the whole matter. Again he strokes his fiery beard, frowning.
"Aye, that is Lady Dranngvit's symbol, the Debt Minder, the Avenger. She is a stern one. Not one known for her mercy or kindness, or for a protective nature. Unless... had someone wronged thee, before the disaster thou speakest of? Be careful, drakeborn. If thou art in fact in her debt, then be sure the Grim Lady will collect."
Brimble isn’t one to say ‘woe is me’ so thinking about being ‘wronged’ feels odd. It was just the course of his life. He considers the matter as objectively as possible for a few moments before nodding, ”Yeah, there’s a short list of folks that – you could say – wronged me. Could that earn Lady Dranngvit’s, uh, aid?”
To the kobold, it’s a crazy idea that a god (of any sort) would take an interest in him. He was sure the kobold pantheon had abandoned him. Why then would a dwarven god favor him? ”Is there a shrine or something to Lady Dranngvit around here? If I’m on her good side, I’d like to stay there.”
HP: 8 / 8 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:13 | CMD:11/9
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx
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Who would have thought it, me and Lord Highcliff were very different people? Phantrel thinks to himself, smiling. The comment about “low-caste labourers” removes it quickly enough, however. That bore an arrogance of a slightly different sort to that which the sword’s not inconsiderate ego had demonstrated up to this point. The half-elf would lay a handful of rare orchid seeds that Thunder-follows-Lightning had picked view that up from their deceased employer, though he knows nothing of how the dwarves organised their society, whether it was rigidly structured or more egalitarian. For now he says nothing though. The sword had taken his words rather better than he had anticipated and was giving them some thought. Nor was it wrong that they had other more urgent matters to attend to.
* * * * *
At the mention of the “Courageous”, Phantrel glances to the sword-cane belted to his hip. This is probably what Forgewise was referring to, and if not it seemed like a good way of bringing up Thunder-follows-Lightning anyway as it would be an honest mistake.
”I take it by the Courageous you were referring to this weapon?” He glances at the divine servant's face for confirmation, before taking the sword from his hip and removes it from its newly-fashioned scabbard, laying it carefully down so the firebeard can inspect it should he wish to do so. ”We chanced across it and I have been carrying it until we can discern where it belongs. Such a fine weapon should not be left abandoned but instead should return to its rightful hearth.”
Argatha listens to the conversation as it's translated back and forth. It's somewhat dizzying to him - they're talking with a dwarf!
But he's following well enough. The man seems amiable enough. They might get out of this alive after all. He grins.
When there's a lull, well after the discussion of Thunder Follow Lightning, he passes his own question down the pipeline. "We're just trying to get out of your home here, sir. Can you help us get back to the surface?"
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During the conversation, several of you have the chance to look around the room more thoroughly than you have so far-- taking in the furnishings as well as your 'host,' and the machine-figure still standing dormant where it was when you entered.
Celedons in general aren't known for being particularly martially skilled (though those devoted to gods of war and battle could be exceptions), but have gifts and skills that generally tie in somehow to their respective deity. They are minor servitors, and are frequently summoned to Golarion by mortal clergy.
The northern wall of the shrine features multiple shelves and alcoves in which crafted tools and handiworks reside. Hammers, tongs, and various forge-tools are all visible here, all of them looking to be of fine quality at the least. Other visible handicrafts are metal-and-glass bottles, small sculptures of both stone and metal (oh look Argatha!), cooking implements, and even a few children's toys.
Behind the statue of Torag there is an an alcove in the wall that is displaying a large book bound with a cover of hammered gold.
To Brimble, via Phantrel:
Forgewise shrugs. "It is.... possible, at least. And aye: every strata of Thurznchakh hath a temple to the pantheon, and Lady Dranngvit hath her deserved place in all of them. This one especially honors great Torag, but on the southern wall thou mayst perceive a shrine-alcove for each of the others. She hath no temple dedicated wholly to herself in Thurznchakh, however."
**********
"Aye! A most esteemed traveling companion for thee. Ah-- yes, let me see..."
Thunder-follows-Lightning does not object to being presented to Forgewise. The firebeard runs admiring fingers over the sword's dragon hilt and straight blade (there is a faint sound of metal against metal as he does this). He tch-es here and there at finding minute scratches and dings that others might not even notice.
"Oh now, look at thee, noble one! Truly some of the finest work of the stoneborn. Ah, wert thou dropped, to have this dent? I imagine so. Well, I shall set thee to rights! Come to the forge of the Father, brave blade..."
Forgewise picks up Thunder-follows-Lightning and places the blade gently onto the central anvil. The firebeard's flames seem to rise up, his hands blazing especially. The heat in the room increases noticeably. The anvil also seems to glow from within as Forgewise sets to work- not hammering the blade, but touching it carefully. After a few minutes of work-- during which Forgewise seems wholly absorbed by this task and doesn't respond to any questions asked of him-- he holds up Thunder-follows-Lightning with satisfaction.
While you may not have noticed any damage to the blade before this, it does seem to be looking fine and freshly polished as a result of Forgewise's efforts. Somewhat ceremoniously, Forgewise presents it again to Phantrel. "There!"
***
At Argatha's question, relayed through Phantrel, Forgewise shrugs in a somewhat blithe way. "I do not know the exact layout of all of Thurznchakh. As I said, I have never moved beyond this chamber during my time here. I am sure there are exits! No doubt some of them lead to the surface."
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vs DC 20
Argatha notes it, and starts to tuck away the knowledge for later, then realizes their host doesn't speak our language.
"Hey, I found a secret door in the north wall. We should check it out later. Don't look now."
At Argatha's question, relayed through Phantrel, Forgewise shrugs in a somewhat blithe way. "I do not know the exact layout of all of Thurznchakh. As I said, I have never moved beyond this chamber during my time here. I am sure there are exits! No doubt some of them lead to the surface."
Never left the room? Wow... Argatha has a hard time wrapping his head around that one.
"Ahhh. Tell him back, thank you for letting us know. Ask him if there are any tools we can use to help us escape. Weapons, but really anything he thinks might be useful. We are poorly equipped for this."
"It is.... possible, at least.”
The kobold emits a hissing laugh. ”…OR it’s all in my head. Nice of you not to say that.”
"And aye: every strata of Thurznchakh hath a temple to the pantheon, and Lady Dranngvit hath her deserved place in all of them.”
Out of curiosity and just to play it safe, Brimble decides to pay his respects at the shrine-alcoves. Having some gods looking kindly on them wouldn’t be a bad thing. But first, ”The fella in the hall, the ‘slagborn’. I don’t know that word. Did he have a big head and shark teeth or was he more like a short, plump human. Or did he…” The kobold goes on to describe the short races, hoping to figure out what race the creature was.
After his success or failure at determining what ‘slagborn’ means (and how that might affect the search for their entrance), Brimble enters the southern area of the temple. He examines the shrines and decorations.
HP: 8 / 8 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:13 | CMD:11/9
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
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In response to Brimble's relayed query about the 'slagborn', Forgewise considers a moment, then retrieves a small handful of pebbles from one of the alcoves on the northern wall. The firebeard stand before the altar-anvil and again his hands glow with great heat as he begins to work with the little bits of rock. After a minute, he proffers forth a simple, but recognizable, sculpture of a goblin.
Once Brimble has gotten the chance to see and recognize it, Forgewise twists the sculpture in his hands and it dissolves back into a handful of stone fragments, which the firebeard carefully returns to the alcove from whence they came.
****
On the shrine's southern wall, Brimble sees there are eight alcoves, each about two feet wide, three tall, and one deep, with figures and decorations inside. From west to east:
Alcove 1 A backdrop of alternating black granite and white granite squares makes this look something like a chessboard, though each square also features inlaid silverwork forming either a stylized skull (on the black squares) or a dwarven rune (on the white squares). The two-foot tall stone sculpture that occupies this niche is made of gleaming onyx and moonstone and depicts an elderly-seeming dwarf with a long white beard and heavy gauntlets around his forearms; tiny and intricate runes of inlaid gold decorate the gauntlets and various other parts of the figure.
Small fragments of tile, slate, and stone have been placed into this altar-niche, each with a few dwarven runes etched into their surface.
This statue depicts Magrim, the eldest dwarven god, a dour deity of death and the afterlife. He is not evil, per se, but he is unyielding and cares for law and order above all else-- in the cosmic sense more than the transitory mortal sense. He is also associated with divination magic.
Alcove 2 A cloth of black and white, smeared and soiled with ashes, hangs over this alcove, shielding it from sight.
Alcove 3 This niche is backed with alternating stones of red jasper and grey granite flecked with red. The statue in this alcove, made of the same materials as well as gold, shows a powerfully-built dwarf in red-and-gold armor with a greataxe and fiery red-blond beard and hair.
A number of small votive candles (all currently burned out) have been placed in this altar, as well as a seemingly random assortment of other tiny objects: teeth and claws, a crude rusted dagger, a small section of ring-mail.
This statue depicts Angradd, a brother of Torag, a deity of war-- especially aggressive assaults. Angradd does not wait for the enemy to come to him: he seeks the enemy out, wherever they may lair, and takes the fight to them. He is also a god of fire, and evocation magics.
Alcove 4 This alcove is backed with panels of lustrous beaten gold and copper, studded with rainbow opals and tiny gemstones of various colors. It causes a beautiful scintillating effect when light hits them. The statue in this alcove depicts a dwarven lady, made of... gosh, what IS she made of? Seemingly every color in the spectrum-- iridescent purples, greens, golds... perhaps the statue is worked bismuth?
Small offerings have been left here of coins of various denominations, as well as a few locks of presumably-dwarven hair.
This statue depicts Bolka, a daughter of Torag, and a goddess of wealth, trade, art, love, marriage, and enchantment (both in the mundane and magical senses). Hopeful dwarven suitors would call upon her, as would jewelers, merchants, and many others.
Alcove 5 This niche features panels of beaten gold studded with white moonstones. The figure here, their gender somewhat ambiguous, is wearing no armor, but simple clothing, and carrying no weapons, somewhat unusual for depictions of a dwarf. They stand with empty hands held open, and look to be crafted of white marble with a gilt overlay.
A number of small, fine chains, such as you might see with necklaces, of various metals, have been left in this alcove-- some draped over the figure's forearms and hands.
This statue depicts Grundinnar, another of Torag's children, known as the Peacemaker. They are associated with transmutation magics, diplomacy and negotiation, reconciliation, treaties, and travel (especially travel conducted as part of a diplomatic mission). Interestingly, you've only seen them depicted or referred to as male in any of the scholarly works you've seen thus far (authored of course by non-dwarves), but this figure seems intentionally non-gendered.
Alcove 6 Grey granite and lapis lazuli make a striking backdrop for this alcove. The figure portrayed, crafted from the same materials, shows a male dwarf with a strikingly short beard, bearing a shield made of gold. Unlike every other statue so far, he's actually smiling.
This is Trudd, the youngest of Torag's sons; often called the Mighty, or the Defender. He is associated with protecting others (especially non-combatants and the weak), courage, physical strength and physical contests, joy, and abjuration magics.
About a dozen tiny shields have been left on this altar ledge, each crafted of thin gold-colored metal or blue-glazed pottery, mostly no more than an inch long.
Alcove 7 This alcove has a backdrop of banded malachite with studs of smoky grey quartz. The figure in it seems to be a male dwarf, only lightly armored, holding an open book in both hands, gazing sternly out at the viewer from a pair of inset quartz-chip eyes.
This must be Kols, the oldest of Torag's sons; known as the Oathkeeper, the Witness, and a host of other titles. A serious figure, he ensures that dwarves carry out their duties, keep their promises, and honor contracts-- and punishes those who do not. He is often ceremonially invoked when deals are struck-- 'May Kols strike me if I cheat thee'- or called on to witness that someone is telling the truth. He arbitrates disputes among the pantheon-- even if it means delivering a ruling contrary to Torag's wishes, though otherwise he is fully loyal to Torag. He records the deeds of dwarves in his book-- individuals and the whole people alike-- and offers this evidence over to Magrim if Magrim requires it to make a judgment on a soul. He is associated with courtrooms, archives, records, history, justice, knowledge, and conjuration magics.
Similar to Magrim's alcove, there are small fragments of slate here, though the dwarven writing on them tends to be longer than the single rune or two on the chits left in Magrim's niche.
Alcove 8
Bloodstone and onyx provide the trappings in this alcove. The figure is a woman dwarf in dark armor, her expression grim. In one hand she holds a pick with its piercing end tipped in red. Her other hand holds the leash of a snarling hound carved of onyx; the beast straining forward against the chain.
This would be Dranngvit-- some stories say she is Torag's sister; others say she was once supposed to be wed to him, and that he broke the arrangement. (Still other stories say both are true, but hey, incest is different for gods....) Another story says she is Kols' mother, and that Kols was born outside of wedlock. Dranngvit is the Vengeful, the Avenger, the Grim Lady, and all the other titles that Forgewise was just relating to Brimble. Few dwarves would have ever claimed to openly worship her, but those who felt they had no other recourse for the wrongs done to them often whispered a prayer and made covert offerings. Dranngvit was more often invoked in curses than in prayers. She was associated with debts, vengeance, exiles and outsiders, and necromantic magics - it was rare, but not entirely unknown, for Dranngvit to bring back the shade of a wronged dwarf as a revenant, to be given a chance to achieve their vengeance, then releasing them to Magrim after this was achieved.
You see no objects left on Dranngvit's altar-- though Brimble, looking closely due to his personal interest here , sees very old, very faint, discolorations on the stone here, as if some liquid or another once dried up here.
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Finding the creature to be both friendly and a little bit...curious, Em soon relaxes. A little.
The room may be hot, but Em feels chills run down her arms. The longer she gazes, the more she sees. "I think I might stay down here as long as you have," she mutters softly to Forgewise. She has never heard the call of any god above, and the dwarven deities have always been remote and mythical. Now they're real. Em makes a quiet vow to return to this place with an offering, but for who? Bolka seems an obvious choice, but when Em watches her colors shift in the burning light, something doesn't feel quite right, like a free meal that steams hot and fresh on a cold morning.
"Ahhh. Tell him back, thank you for letting us know. Ask him if there are any tools we can use to help us escape. Weapons, but really anything he thinks might be useful. We are poorly equipped for this."
Feeling emboldened by Forgewise's easy demeanor, Em makes an attempt at asking Argatha's question. She says a few words at a time, then has to stop and think, pantomiming occasionally. She mostly ignores the thought that she must seem a little silly; it's not every day that one gets to practice dwarven with a centuries old creature of flame and metal.
After some time, Em points to the shrouded shrine. "Droskar?" She asks, the corners of her mouth twisting with melancholy.
"I think I might stay down here as long as you have," she mutters softly to Forgewise.
After pausing to be sure he understood her halting Dwarven, Forgewise chuckles his deep, ringing laughter, that sounds more like bells than any human noise. "Then thou shouldst be down here some time, child!! I have been here.... ah... hrmn. I suppose it has been..... ah, my darling, how long have I been here?"
Again he looks to 'Altynbekh' expectantly, and after a few seconds nods. "A year! Yes. That is no doubt correct!"
After some time, Em points to the shrouded shrine. "Droskar?" She asks, the corners of her mouth twisting with melancholy.
The jovial Forgewise sobers again, the flames turning red, dark smoke rising from his head. "No," he rumbles, and repeats it, speaking slowly and carefully as it seems he grasps that Em is but a student of his language. "No. Droskar is not permitted in the temples of the stoneborn; he is exiled. That altar is--"
Forgewise cuts himself off, and shakes his head. "Thou art not stoneborn. It is not seemly."
Dranngvit is the Vengeful, the Avenger, the Grim Lady, and all the other titles that Forgewise was just relating to Brimble. Few dwarves would have ever claimed to openly worship her, but those who felt they had no other recourse for the wrongs done to them often whispered a prayer and made covert offerings. Dranngvit was more often invoked in curses than in prayers. She was associated with debts, vengeance, exiles and outsiders, and necromantic magics - it was rare, but not entirely unknown, for Dranngvit to bring back the shade of a wronged dwarf as a revenant, to be given a chance to achieve their vengeance, then releasing them to Magrim after this was achieved.
Brimble regards Dranngvit’s statue. She cuts an imposing figure. No doubt! It was probable this lucky charm thing was all in his head. It was hard to understand how he survived when so many others didn’t. The only thing that made him think she might favor him was that bit about her being interested in exiles and wronged folks. Cuz that was the first few chapters of his life story. Even if it was all imagination, what was the harm in showing a god a bit of respect?
You see no objects left on Dranngvit's altar-- though Brimble, looking closely due to his personal interest here (and with that 26!!), sees very old, very faint, discolorations on the stone here, as if some liquid or another once dried up here.
When he can get the firebeard’s attention, he grabs a translator and speaks to him quietly. ”Master Forgewise, Lady Dranngvit’s shrine… what kind of offering is appropriate? I see some old liquid stains. Is it blood or something? Would it be alright if I left an offering?”
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx
When he can get the firebeard’s attention, he grabs a translator and speaks to him quietly. ”Master Forgewise, Lady Dranngvit’s shrine… what kind of offering is appropriate? I see some old liquid stains. Is it blood or something? Would it be alright if I left an offering?”
Via translator, Forgewise responds: "Keen art thine eyes! Aye. Those who seek to court the Grim Lady must make offering of more than mere coin or craftwork, but beating heart's blood." The shrine guardian hesitates, then says, "If thou wish to do so I cannot gainsay thee."
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Brimble nods his thanks and returns to Dranngvit’s shrine. He looks at the statue while trying to figure out what to say to a god. Even her weapon matches mine. That gives him an idea. He angles his arm to fit in the alcove, pulls his pick, and draws the sharpened tip across the back of his forearm. He quickly twists his arm so the blood only drips in the alcove and returns the pick to his belt, the tip still red like on the statue.
As the blood drips, he thinks a… well, not exactly a prayer…
Hi, Lady Dranngvit. I hope you don’t mind me speaking to you. This is Brimble. I don’t know if you know me or ever helped me – but I like to think that you did. So, if you did, I appreciate it. And if you could see your way to helping me get these folks out of here as well, I’d appreciate that, too. Hopefully, some day, I can do you a favor. I believe in paying my debts. I hear we got that in common. And if you don’t know me, well, have a great day and know that I’m wishing you the best. Thanks.
Brimble finishes his heart-felt, stream-of-consciousness ramble with a moment of self-reflection. That was the stupidest, f^&*ing prayer ever! He quickly slaps one of the dwarven handkerchiefs on his wound so he doesn’t bleed on anything and decides he has earned the stinging pain. ”Hi, Dranngvit?” Who says that to a god?!
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
Shockingly... or... not so shockingly.... Brimble hears no deific answer in response.
After the firebeard finishes making its adjustments to Thunder-follows-Lightning, Phantrel receives the sword back graciously from its rather ostentatious presentation. ”My thanks, Master Forgewise. I only hope that I can do it some measure of justice while it is in my keeping.” He makes a show of inspecting Forgewise’s handiwork. ”Most impressive,” he says. He may not know much of swords, but the fresh gleam of the blade does not need an expert eye to know that it is a fine piece of workmanship. Indeed, Phantrel knows all too well that there is rather more to the sword than meets the eye. He re-sheathes it in Em’s hand-stitched scabbard.
Noting Argatha’s question, he asks nods at the young man in recognition before asking, ”We are somewhat poorly equipped for navigating the rest of Thurznchakh. Do you know of a place where we might fight tools or weapons that we might borrow until we return to the surface? We will obviously treat them with the respect due to the works of the stoneborn.” He considers for a second, before adding, ”We are not looking for trouble but should we run into the thief’s companions, blades would also be useful to dispense further justice should Altynbekh be elsewhere.”
Colin had a couple of questions of his own. As respectfully as he could, he asked, "Master Forgewise. What happened to the stonebourn? Their absence is keenly noted. This facility, I mean Star Tower, is remarkable! It has endured well but it could do with some maintenance, I'd like to help with but I'm not sure how... Did the stonebourn leave any instruction manuals or the like?"
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"....We will obviously treat them with the respect due to the works of the stoneborn.”
Forgewise pauses in what he's doing. He opens his mouth, gazes at the blanket-crafted improvised sheath that Em had worked so hard on, housing a weapon that is no doubt priceless by any conventional metric... and closes his mouth. Then, his fiery eyes dart towards Raka... and her axe with its wobbly head and half-cracked shaft. He hesitates.
Then he turns abruptly to the machine-figure. "Altynbekh, my darling, wherever are the refreshments!! Surely I asked for them an age ago! Do not make me embarrassed me as a host, I prithee! Er-- is tea alright for you all?!"
Forge bustles hurriedly over to Altynbekh and rummages in the shelves near the bronze bot, coming back with a handful of ceramic cups and a pretty silver pouring vessel decorated with blue stones. In a certain frenzy of motion, the firebeard pours water into each of the cups from the decanter, and sets them onto the anvil, waving a hand absently to start the cups heating.
"Ah, as for weapons! Yes, well, weapons-- oh, I would imagine there is no shortage of those! This is the Steel Strata. 'Tis certain that, if thou beseech some of the smiths in these halls to direct thee to the armories, and explain thy need, that they shall equip you in the finest of fashion, as guests of Star Tower. For that matter, I am sure they could show thee to the exits that thou seekest!"
***
Ah yes, the 64,000 gp question....
Forgewise pauses what he is doing and gazes blankly at Colin. His head cocks curiously to the side. "Prithee, what dost thou mean? Absence? Maintenance troubles? Oh - as to manuals.... well. There is Hammer and Tongs, of course, but... meaning no offense, for thou art all lovely guests, but, well, thou art not stoneborn. I can hardly grant thee access to it. If something needs mending, the residents shall take care of it in short order, I assure thee."
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While a few of the others converse with Forgewise-- some directly, others via translation-- Raka takes the opportunity to look around the room with Brimble. The dwarf-creature had confirmed that this place, or at least this specific room, is indeed a temple. Therefore, these statues along the far wall must be depictions of various dwarven deities. So many!
As amazing as dwarven crafting skills were, the statues are surprisingly... humble. Not plain, and certainly not crude, but Raka would have expected them to be larger. The world map and night sky somewhere above her had been much more aw-inspiring than these shrines to the gods. Maybe it's so they could reach the tops, she thinks with a chuckle.
She glances at each in turn: an elderly gauntleted dwarf, a dirty veil concealing one probably too impolite to be displayed, a dwarf wielding a two-handed axe, a female dwarf bedecked in and surrounded by wealth and scintillating colors, an unarmed and unarmored dwarf surrounded by offerings (presumably from the faithful)...
Raka stops at the sixth alcove. An armored dwarf fashioned from grey granite and lapiz lazuli with a much shorter beard than the others stands in this alcove, smiling up at her. Actually smiling, warmly and reassuringly, in a way Raka had assumed the dwarves incapable. But that wasn't what had caught her attention. On the kindly dwarf's arm was--
I've seen that shield. Her thoughts immediately jump back to a time not so long ago-- a few days and a lifetime-- when a rune nestled in the lines of gold had jumped out at her. Surrounding this dwarf are other tiny shields, some with the same shape, others quite different. She doesn't know the significance of these, although she assumes they were left here by his followers.
"This god," Raka says aloud to Forgewise, having lost track of the rest of the conversation. "What's his name?"
She doesn't need a translator to understand the answer: Trudd. It was the one Lady Saltspire had told her about. Seeing him depicted here, it's even more clear he's a god that, had she been a dwarf, Raka would have followed.
Don't be afraid, he seemed to say, by his posture and sturdy shield and that reassuring smile. I'll handle it.
vs DC 5
vs DC 10
vs DC 12
Argatha stands quietly, taking in the conversation. When it’s clear their host has no idea the dwarves are gone, he starts to worry again. Clearly this person is at least slightly unhinged. What might happen when their reality is questioned? He’s seen raving lunatics before, and they could be dangerous. Especially for one who is already on fire…
He isn’t sure what will set him off, so he remains quietly watching for trouble.
Brimble is disturbed by the mounting revelations. He thought Forgewise was just a bit ‘off’. But it’s clear the long decades of isolation (or maybe whatever happened to the dwarves) has snapped him from reality. The kobold has nothing but sympathy for the fiery caretaker. Ethically, he couldn’t leave Forgewise hapless like this, not with the GMC ready to steal in like jackals and strip the flesh from his people’s bones.
Brimble sits down in the main part of the temple and signals Phantrel over. Hopefully between several of them, they can figure out the right way to break the news. ”You should sit, Master Forgewise. We have truths to tell you. They will be hard to hear, but they are truths, I swear. How long do you think it has been since a stoneborn has come to visit this temple?”
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.
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Em smiles brightly as teacups come out. She takes a seat on one of the benches, looking like a dog that watches it’s master peel meat from a bone.
”I suggest that there’s no reason to contradict Forgewise about the dwarves. He’s buried under a mountain of evidence that the dwarves are gone. If that does not convince him, how shall we? He may not have left this room, but he must have long known that times have changed. Besides,” Em turns to Phantrel, ”I simply must ask what kind of weapon the smiths will think best compliments my lissom figure.” Em envisions a slender blade, much like the one Phantrel carries, but with an elegant hilt that coils and sweeps around her hand when she holds it. ”Also, can you ask on what level they keep the pretty dresses?” Em has the patience to sit and struggle to convey the messages, but it’s annoyingly hard to be audacious when you can’t put three words together. She’s obviously serious about not contradicting Forgewise, not understanding why it would be productive to do so.
-------------
At the mention of Hammer and Tongs, Em’s ears prick a little. She recognizes the dwarven words for that text. Muttering to herself for a moment, she struggles to recall something half buried in dream...
”’twill offer Stoneborn hands great felicity
To carry hilts set fast and edges made trenchant.
Therefore suffer not the broken haft, all yea,
Though labor long and fingers sore, work the forge and blades enchant.”
Em’s voice is smooth and steady, the words practiced many times. ”Friends” she searches for the word, ”showed Hammer and Tongs: The Forging of Metal and Other Good Works…already.” Em beams up at Forgewise, hoping for praise. She turns to Phantrel and explains that as she can’t quite recall some passages of Hammer and Tongs, it would be very helpful if she could momentarily peruse the text in full…again.
Xira's lips quirk a little at Forgewise's assertion that Torag created all the races of the world. The People of the Road believe that Desna, the Great Dreamer, created their ancestors, but she is neither rude nor foolhardy enough to mention this to their host.
When Phantrel introduces her, she repeats her respectful bow, wishing she could say something for herself. Like Raka and Brimble, she stays silent at first, listening intently for as long as her translation spell will last. No offense to Phantrel's or anyone else's translations, but she wants to garner as much first hand information as she can. And garner she does, though she still puzzles over Forgewise's intent interest in Raka...
Xira also stifles a chuckle. Perhaps we should not tell Forgewise how Raka's axe wound up broken.
Brimble and Forgewise's discussion about Dranngvit distracts her from her slight shiver at the idea of being confined to one room for however long Forgewise has been here. Though it seems to have been by his own choice, her Varisian wanderer's spirit cringes at the idea.
And it cringes a bit more at her sudden realization that it was more likely at the will of his creator or summoner. A celedon. Her mother had learned something of them (and a variety of other supernatural beings) while poring through the libraries of the Twilight Academy. A celedon is an intelligent being created to serve a deity and that deity's clergy. Is being purpose-built the same as slavery, when the one built-- she glances again at Forgewise --seems content enough with his lot? Her soul answers with a resounding Yes.
But what, if anything, can they do about it? And what, if anything, should they do about it?
Xira considers these thoughts through the questions of exits and weapons. When Argatha relays the news about the secret door, she smiles and nods. "Good to know, my friend. But we'd best be very careful around that wall, given Altynbekh's location."
She follows Raka and Brimble over to the altars, still thinking. Brimble's request to perform a blood sacrifice to Dranngvit, however, yanks her back to the moment. Like Forgewise, she doesn't intrude or try to stop him, but waits until after he finishes to approach. "Shall I heal that for you, my drakeborn friend? she asks. "Or bind it at least?"
Trudd indeed. Xira doesn't need a translation for that name either, but she waits to learn what other information Forgewise might give them.
Noting Forgewise's, let's call it uncertainty, about the treatment they've given their weapons so far, Xira is on the verge of asking where they might find a more suitable sheath for Thunder-follows-Lightning (and tea would be just lovely thank you), when the glowing celedon answers Argatha's and Colin's questions.
Oh, sweet Song of the Spheres. He truly doesn't know, or his mind has rejected the knowledge. Probably the latter.
With Brimble coming down on the side of telling him and Em on the side of not, Xira interjects quietly, "Before we decide one way or the other, I should tell you something I've recognized about our flame-wreathed host." She takes a seat and a steadying breath before continuing. "Forgewise is a celedon, a being literally forged to serve a single deity, presumably Torag in his case. He was created solely to serve the Allfather of Creation and his favored children.
"So trying to convince him that the dwarves are no more would strike a blow at his very reason for existence. I think he will resist being convinced in every way he can. Given the little I know about celedons, I don't think he would attack us physically, but he might tell someone else to." She casts a significant glance in Altynbekh's direction.
Weapon in hand: Quarterstaff
Effects:
Puffing out his cheeks, Phantrel meets Argatha’s eye. From the look on the young man’s face, the half-elf is not the only who seems convinced that their host has been alone a long, long time. Decades? he wonders. Centuries? Regardless, it is clear to Phantrel that Forgewise’s grasp of reality is somewhat strained. Where his answers to this point had been fairly straightforward, the firebeard is trying, and failing, to deflect and dissemble the questions about the whereabouts of both weapons and their long-departed makers. What he is less sure of is whether the celedon is genuinely unaware that the dwarves vanished many years ago or if he is in denial, perhaps as Xira says because it would directly contradict his fundamental tenets.
He's torn about what the right course of action is, so before things move in one direction or another without forethought, he quickly calls the others to attention in Taldane. ”I doubt it has escaped your notice that our friend is being evasive regarding the stoneborn,” he says in a hushed voice. ”Maybe he doesn’t know what happened, maybe he’s pretending that whatever it was didn’t happen at all. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. What does matter is whether, or what, we tell him.” He looks to Brimble. ”Ordinarily, I would always prefer the truth, though that isn’t always a truth stripped bare like a tree in winter. How he may react, indeed whether he even believes us, I would judge to be pretty uncertain. Xira raises a good point on that count,” Phantrel shoots her an appreciative nod.
”However, skirting around it could potentially be risky too. I don’t believe this to be a test,” he clarifies, ”but I’m not sure it would be looked kindly upon to be caught out in a falsehood. That said, there can sometimes be a kindness in omission. My questions would be what do we stand to gain – or lose – from either course? Which way will help us get the answers we seek, balanced against which is the kinder for our host? Thus far he has been helpful, if not helpful enough to direct us an armoury. On which note,” he adds, ”the weapons Thunder-follows-Lightning has been sensing are in a different direction, so I assume they may be close by. They are now pretty much the directly opposite way to the shrine.” After a second he says, ”That was the case since we’ve been here, before he took the sword,” to pre-empt any potential questions about whether Forgewise had tampered with the blade in order to misdirect them.
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"So trying to convince him that the dwarves are no more would strike a blow at his very reason for existence.”
The kobold’s gaze falls on the woman. ”The dwarves are no more? Who says? We haven’t seen stacks of bodies. By the scribbles downstairs it looks like this place emptied out at some point. There was a skeleton crew. Some of them went looking for their comrades and never came back. We found one body, and we know what kilt him. We don’t know what really happened to the dwarves, probably nobody does. Having completed the Quest for Sky, maybe they went back down below. Maybe they marshaled for a war they lost. Point is… all I can say for truth is we’ve seen no dwarves here, yet. Here’s what I think – all the eggheads in Absalom don’t have a clue what happened. And all their talk got no more fact behind it than legends like ‘dwarves were cursed with greed’. It’s all people making up stories. And anyone who might have a fact or three ain’t talking about it. That news probably won’t shatter anybody’s existence.”
”My questions would be what do we stand to gain – or lose – from either course?”
Brimble gets up. His tone is cool, ”I’m gonna take a look at that slagborn and walk around a bit.” Not willing to go through an interpreter, the kobold approaches Forgewise, points to himself, then pantomimes walking around then points to show his trail will circle the temple. Task complete he heads out to investigate the goblin for equipment and clues.
Bullets (20):
Frost Spitter (1):
Effects:
none – xxx.