But will it clash with my katana?
All you need is a scarf to set it off, my friend. Everything works if you have a scarf.
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"Hey, Comrade?"
There's some middle ground between the extremes. The hell there is! You're either with us, or you're against us! We all know Germany is part of the Axis -- and we know the Axis of Evil includes Iraq and North Korea and Al Qaida and Canada! That proves that Wormy is with the terrorists! Talking about "middle ground" is a Communist Islamo-Fascist plot to corrupt decent, hard-working Americans into socialist flip-floppers that have no values! He's trying to take away our freedom! 
So, who wants to help me smurf this stupid f~@&ing thread? Seconded. All in favor?
you even make me look like a socialist. ;) Git a rope! Gary's gone Commie!
Looks like the gnomes and halflings still worship Ani as a patron goddess, however.
Goddang yankees! The word is "GOLDANG"!
"Meseems that all other avenues have been blocked," the noble says reasonably. "Our mentor has been taken from us; efforts to gain the bauble -- or even to learn where it was taken -- have been for naught, and clearly we can't fight zombies forever (not that they could harm heroes such as we are, but we might get tired, or even run out of brandy!). Therefore, as much as I mislike these sewers -- and like even less the sound of a 'demon's playground' -- nevertheless we have little choice but to press on. "If we never come out, well, then eventually someone will piece together what we were up to, and we'll be remembered in songs... unless of course the world is destroyed, in which case we'll be in no position to regret the trip anyway!"
"It's all true, about the lower classes being all alike. Zounds! Meseems the difference between Watchman and Grave Robber and Monster Tamer is even less than I had suspected."
The big noble has been uncharacteristically (and many would say mercifully) silent through all this. Glancing at him, you see that he has a silken handkerchief, doused with some sort of cologne (Panther Piss?) pressed against his nose and mouth.
All those esses gave me a seizure. I thought the last James Bond movie would give me one. Epileptics: stay away!
"Sink me! The sewer-dwellers have all gone missing. It's unseemly for persons of substance to venture into such places... ah, me, but it's unseemly for the world to be taken over by zombies as well, I suppose. I'll go... but only after obtaining a large supply of Greek fire. No sense in getting rotting zombie flesh all over my clothes; wearing them into a sewer is bad enough!" "But just to be sure, before putting myself into such an absurd situation: the master wouldn't be joking about the sewers by any chance, would he?"
"One other thing... much's I hate to say it, men, but meseems we shouldn't stray from one another until this thing be settled. Every time we let someone out of our sight... poof! They're gone. Like that City Watch fellow with the cool hair; no sign of him now. "We three are now all that remain."
"Meseems that you and I, brother, lack the knowledge to save the world by ourselves. What say you we recruit an archmage or two, and maybe press the High Priest of Celestian into service as well?" Realizing this could somehow be construed as cowardice on his part, Hellard says, "Obviously, I've nothing against a good fight. But so far we've managed to lose our mentor, all our friends, and our only hope of salvation. To our credit, we've killed a few zombies, but they seem to be created faster than we can kill them." Grinning, he adds, "If you can think of any way at all in which you and I can conceivably keep the world from being destoyed, I'm all ears, of course."
"Chanarax, is it? Sounds like a disease one gets from visiting the Red Light District once too often."
"Blast! Our compatriots and our only witness -- all gone together. Methinks this is more a job for Strabos the Omnipotent, the legendary archmage who could bind demons to his will -- or so it was said -- when he wasn't becoming possessed of other spirits himself, if you take my meaning. Even while drunk, he could probably solve this case, without disappearing himself halfway through... But, sink me, Strabos seems to be notably absent. And my mind is notably empty of ideas now. Short of waiting for another zombie attack, there seems to be little we can do that won't be undone faster."
"Malcolm would have left a note, or some sign... but maybe something less obvious, if he were afraid others' eyes might see it... let's search the body's pockets, the book, and maybe the walls to see if he left any word." Very pointedly, Hellard makes no mention of looking for fresh blood or other signs of a struggle; the floors have seen so much of it over the years that recent stains might well go unnoticed.
"Look for a girl's name, and then a birth and death date VERY close to one another... the closer they are, the better our odds, even in this city... Hey! Here's one: "Melinda Springstreet; born 18 Reapharvest 1492, died 25 Reapharvest 1492. Her sweet smile brightened a cold month."
"Dust from a maiden's grave?" Given the morals of this city, I would guess finding that to be the most difficult of the tasks..." Hellard smiles. "Zounds! Nowhere does it specify the age of the said maiden! All we need is to find the grave of a little girl, or to be extra-safe, even a baby girl that died soon after birth. A quick check of the obituaries should turn up several examples easily enough."
"Master," Hellard says, with none of his usual jauntiness, "the Orb was stolen, and this great sage struck down, and there is no one but us to see justice done. Only this man himself saw the thief and murderer... and so only this man can tell us who it is that must pay for this tragedy."
"Well, I certainly didn't kill him, and there were zombies present... I suppose that's what you chaps call 'circumstantial evidence.' In any case, I couldn't very well leave it where it was -- the bauble was gone, and I wasn't about to give up our only eyewitness as well! By the time we got a mystic to the tower, well, no telling if the second floor would still be there, much less this fellow. So... who wants to see about getting one of these mystics here? Or do we need to take the body elsewhere? I'm getting deucedly tired, carrying it about."
Hellard grins. "Yes, in the basement, I think -- though he's hardly in a condition to be too choosy about his lodgings. If Master Zellayun is about, can someone ask him if he knows anyone who can talk to this chap? I'm hoping he'll tell us what happened to the bauble. Oh, by the way -- Malcolm, you don't see any of this; of course there's no body here -- perish the thought! We're guardsmen and nobles, not grave robbers."
On Saturday nights, he wears a gold medallion and a polyester jacket when he hits the clubs, and howls at the disco ball like it's the moon.
Surveying his crude handiwork, Hellard verifies that he has caught all the correct details in his sketch, then carefully folds the scrap of parchment into his jerkin. Then, with a grunt of effort, he heaves the old man's body onto his shoulder. Knowing full well that removal of murdered remains from the scene of the crime is istelf a felony, Hellard conceals the body as best he can with a cloak and staggers downstairs under the weight of that load. Hopefully Master Zellayun knows a priest who can speak with the dead...
Cursing his lack of attention during his childhood art classes, Hellard ransacks the place for paper and ink, and clumsily sets about trying to draw the symbol on paper, to bring back to Master Zellayun.
Hellard, shaking his head amusedly for the benefit of any onlookers (but inwardly grinding his teeth in frustration), takes a quick look around the room to see if there are any other orbs in sight. Frisking the body of the old man (and checking for a pulse) should properly be a task for the lower classes, but Hellard figures he'll have to bite the bullet and do that, too.
Assuming that the priest is well able to handle the additional zombie on his own, Hellard sprints up the stairs, nimbly avoiding bits of rotting flesh. Timing a deep breath for just before he reaches the second floor, he surges to the top of the stairs, hardly pausing -- intending to search for the Orb first and survivors second. With his typical nonchalance regarding "dirty" activities like melee combat, he confidently prepares to hack apart with maximum efficiency any zombies that get in his way.
Heedless of his own safety, Hellard leaps onto the stair with a mighty surge, engaging all three of the zombies there and trusting his companion to handle the one below. He hopes to break past them and see if anyone remains alive upstairs.
The big noble, already on edge, leaps forward with a frantic jerk, drawing both swords. "Quickly! We need to find that bauble!"
"Brother Thomas, I pray you let me do the talking on this one. I'll not introduce you at first; let him keep guessing who you are, and why you're here. A bit of uncertainty is apt to make him easier to deal with. If I exclaim, 'sink me!' then you allow your cloak to gap so he can get a glimpse at that holy symbol AND your guardsman's badge... that will really get him worrying!"
"We can't risk losing the bauble -- and hopefully Talvan has no idea I'm now affiliated with you folks. I'll go for the Orb if you go put out the fire -- whatever it may be."
"We?" The big noble appears momentarily at a loss. "If an army shows up demanding the Orb, we'll find the tower locked tight and a squad of the owner's pet soldiers on patrol to repel us. 'Twould probably be best if only I went, or Brother Thomas and I... with the understanding that the rest of you arrive with the entire city watch in one hour if we're not out by that time."
(fast-forward) "Ah, time flies so quickly! Brother Thomas, art ready to fetch our bauble?"
"Alas, many of the Quality have items that 'should' be in museums. Why, six of the paintings that are supposedly in the city art gallery are actually hanging in one of my friend's basements -- of course, I'll name no names in this instance -- the ones on display in the museum are actually forgeries, or so I'm told. But one cannot simply walk in and demand they be returned -- there are issues of status to be considered, after all. Why, it's an open secret that Lord Zwick collects Morganti daggers, though they're technically illegal -- and one of the Watch commissioners takes dinner at Lord Zwick's manse once a week!
"This Talvan, from what I've heard, isn't a bad fellow necessarily, but he's tricky. I'd not trust that we have a real Orb until master Zellayun identifies it. Then again, we can hardly take the master up to Talvan's tower to fetch the thing without alerting Talvan... "Also," he muses aloud, "if Talvan plays coy and offers too high a price for it, we can't tip him off by accepting -- then he'll know it's something good and will never relinquish it. That's how the Quality think. And the thought that he might have no idea what it is, quite frankly, never crossed my mind. Any ideas?"
The big noble jauntily hands over the coinage requested, as if the amount is no more than petty cash. (Good thing Brother Thomas is getting the food, he thinks; I'll have to request a larger allowance, or else sell the town-house!) "Brother, I'll see you up at the tower."
"Zounds! For a fragment like you describe, I'll happily buy that extra globe you mentioned! Aunt Millicent will be well pleased, I think. And, of course, since I've given you my word to buy that extra bauble one way or the other, there's no need for worry about me breaking it."
Hellard nods absently to the shopkeeper, as if imply there's no need to drop everything to wait on this out-of-place noble, and walks around the store as if looking for an amusing antique for the mantlepiece.
"Reach for my sword and I'll behead you with it!
"Something of this sort is unlikely to be kept in a museum, if I know anything of the Quality. However, there are one or two private collectors I know of, men and women who might be persuaded to give me a moment of their time, if I let slip that I might be willing to buy and/or trade some unique items... then again, our position would be quite a bit stronger if we actually had such an item in hand. Master Zelluyan, I don't suppose you have some kind of old relic, possibly worth something, which absolutely no one knows is in your possession? If so, and if I swore to return the item in question, might you be persuaded to allow us to use it as a means of entry?"
"Brother Thomas, permit me to share your watch. We can wake the others after 5 hours, enjoy a like nap ourselves, and have everyone in reasonable shape come morning. But no fewer than two of us should be on guard at any given time, and extra paid guardsmen will be of little help, I think: at least one of them was a zombie, last time we met! With the others here, we could all have gotten a few more hours of rest, but such is the life of a member of the Hell Squad, or so it would seem. "By the way, Thomas, your company in visiting the Quality tomorrow will be a great boon; perhaps you'll recognize the trinket we seek if we see it in a collection, whereas I would be operating blind -- and therefore at quite the disadvantage. Riven, much as your sword would be needed should zombies ambush us en route, within the dwellings of the privileged you would be insulted or worse, and Darius might even be pressed into slavery or perfumed up as a catamite -- any number of other unpleasant possibilities come to mind. "Nor can I go to many of the places that you and Darius would fit right into -- places where leads of, well, an 'alternative vendor' might be sought. Should the others turn up, by all means they should stick with you two, for added assistance. Brother Thomas and I shall have to take our chances... and there's no telling which group will have the harder time of things!"
For once, you seem to see something beneath the noble's usual air of amused contempt... Riven's comment has clearly brought the possibility of his own mortality home to him. With an effort, he shrugs it off and says, bravely, "True enough. And with Breyr and Hague and the lady still unaccounted for, there are few enough of us to carry the fight. But in dealing with certain members of the Quality, I cannot be seen to be interacting with peasants as if they were equals; such would undo any chance of obtaining what we seek, should one of them remark on it. Nor would I act as if you were my servants -- not after the blood we shed together this afternoon."
"Had not Breyr disappeared, meseems that his, ah, less savory contacts might have been of great help here. Without his aid, we're faced with a challenge. Luckily, Darius here seems like an exceptional lad, and one with a penchant for toys himself! I recommend we give the lad free license to follow his nose -- with you, Riven, accompanying him as bodyguard, so that he need have no fear of any places his nose might take him! "Hague's bravery is without equal, and the lady here (motioning the apparently catatonic Lily) apparently has certain... senses of her own. Perhaps those two could search separately, to the same end. "For my part, it might be best for me to go alone. I intend to check in with some of the Quality who deal in antiquities; such are loathe to relinquish their toys, but perhaps I can leverage some sort of family favor for it. "Brother Thomas, all this is, of course, subject to your approval. My thought, however, was that while we are thus occupied, you would have a chance to check in at the temples, and see if any lead can be obtained thereby."
"Heh. If I happen to have one around as a paperweight, I should be glad to donate it."
"Godsblood!" swears the noble, "it must take more than thirty-seven days to reach the Southern Cities, much less the time to find one of these gewgaws of which you speak. Therefore, I assume we're to stay here, fighting zombies, for the next month-and-a-week, and then travel south?" He seems more bothered by the news than by Brother Thomas' glare, which seems to impress him not at all. "For a certainty, my dear departed mother never envisioned this for her son's life! Or didst thou have something else in mind, Master?"
At the end of an hour of exploration, you come downstairs to find the nobleman, Hellard, drinking from a flagon and yawning. "The neighborhood seems clear, if a bit shabby. No gangs of assassins are holed up in any of the neighboring buildings, unless they're wererats in animal form -- or perhaps they've all been polymorphed by the lady here? The basement of this place contains no monsters, prisoners, or secret trapdoors leading to extensive dungeons that I could find. In fact, I find no secret doors, passages, or other means of secret ingress or egress in the exterior walls or on the ground floor. I did find a speck of dust on my cravat, though. Deucedly annoying, that!"
Does anybody spot me? I bet Breyr would, if he were still around!
Lily was at the station before anyone, having no need to gather belongings, prepare herself, or otherwise tie up loose ends before arriving.
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