Arnic and Arthak gather their things and set out, following the party with haste.
-----------------------
The trek back to the Velvet Elysian Post goes without too much trouble; given the party's size and determined march, the crowds of Kaer Maga's people don't seem inclined to get in their way.
The long, one-story building soon comes into view and Arnic lets out a sigh. "Oh, good... at least it's somewhere nice and not a bolt-hole in Ankar-Te or something." The handsome man mumbles.
Embyr sidles up next to Arthak with a little blush on her cheeks, but says nothing until after everyone has gone inside.
It was occasions such as this that showed the difference between a gang of roughs and ruffians and a party of experienced adventurers.
Trendon's glitterdust spell alone would have been enough to throw the lot of them into disarray.
But combine such a spell with Ryn's flurry of movement and Saersha's magic, and those few Brothers of the Seal who weren't immediately incapacitated are swiftly put to the rout. Two of the group flee into the streets, one greedily sucking on the other's fingers in a Thassilonian-lust-induced craze.
The ruffians look between each other before their leader takes a few tentative steps forward. "...er..."
The leader clears his throat as his subordinates start to drift together, whispering among themselves. "...this is rather unusual, sir. Never heard of a Pathfinder coming down here."[/b He scratches his head. [b]"What would a bunch of explorers even need with a joyboy like him?"
Embyr's ears twitch as she overhears the conversation.
There's a silence from the outside as Trendon speaks.
The leader of the squad steps forward--a burly, pale-skinned man in dark brown robes, his blond hair shaved into a mohawk and his green eyes blazing with violent intent.
"...you're not Arnic Mint. Who are you and why are you protecting him?" He asks, his voice surprisingly even and calm--contrasting the tightening of his knuckles in his fists.
Princess Puffball hops up to Arnic and sits right at his feet. Between Azura's touch and reassurance and the Princess' presence, he starts to calm down a bit.
Arnic gulps. "You're not with the Ardocs..." He then breathes a sigh of relief. "...oh thank Arshea, I thought I was done for."
"The Ardocs--they think I spilled a few secrets to the Commerce League. Y'know... golem-related secrets. The sort of golem-related secrets that are family secrets, you know what I mean?" The man's nerves fill his words more than his sense. "And I heard through a few contacts that they hired some Brothers of the Seal to... to..."
Arnic frantically nods and picks up his oversized bunny before leading the party into the townhouse. As Saersha's spell sets in, a chorus of raucous, drug-addled laughter sounds from the crowd the cloud settled on.
-------------------
The townhouse's interior is considerably quieter than the outside, but it's not nearly as brightly coloured or decorated. There does seem to be a fine layer of shed rabbit fur on most of the furniture, however.
"Right--hopefully, whoever followed you won't know where to go. Or at least your tracks will just get lost in the crowd outside." Arnic breathes a sigh of relief as he sets Princess Puffball down to run around some. Arthak stands at the room's entrance, on guard.
Ryn appears to have lost the musclemen in the crowd, but you haven't--two of them have their eyes on you, and now Arnic. One nods at the other and the second runs off into the crowd.
The 'dire' rabbit seems to preen at the attention lavished on them by Azura and Saersha.
"This..." Arthak points to Arnic, who tries to put on a brave smile. "...is a warm-blood, Arnic. He mates with other warm-bloods out of season for... what did you say?" The lizardman tilts his head at Arnic.
"Money, Arthak."
"Yes, mooonnnneeeeyyyy." Arthak draws the word out, having no comprehension of what it means.
"The prey animal is Arnic's friend. She is named 'Princess Puffball.'" The lizardfolk scratches his head. "Arnic said that a 'princess' is much like a warchief's child...?"
The aasimar shakes his head. "A conversation for another time, my large scaly friend." He then turns to the party with a plea in his eyes. "Please tell me the Ardocs didn't send you to me."
The party makes their way over to their sighted quarry, passing through the throng of revellers and entertainers with some effort. As they approach, Arnic Mint notices them and shrinks away--but Arthak's eyes light up and he waves in greeting.
"Warm-blood friends? You come to strange place of lights and many tribes! Greetings again!" The burly lizardman's expression is almost happy... or, as happy as a lizardman's face can express, anyway.
"Wait, you know them?" Arnic says in a velvet-smooth tenor, his expression both anxious and confused.
"Yes." Arthak's eyes linger on Saersha. "They are honorable. Aided Lake Claws in curing mist sickness--and lifted mist from the marshlands."
The aasimar's expression sheds much of his worry, but it still lingers in his eyes. The hound-sized rabbit at his feet gets up and starts sniffing.
You're used to the general chaos such live performances can bring about, and as such you've learned how to properly look past it to suss out things that might go awry--and those who are trying to not draw attention to themselves.
Such as, for example, the two musclebound men Ulfr pointed out earlier. Now that he mentioned them, you've managed to pick out several more--each in pairs, and moving through the crowds with practiced fluidity of motion. You count at least six pairs of such people.
And, more than that, your keen eyes spot someone who matches the description you were given of Arnic Mint.
Standing next to a two-story townhouse decorated with a mural of elementals of fire and water entwined in a dance is a man dressed in a silken black vest, trousers that cut off just above the calves and sandals, his bronze skin gleaming in the day's summer sun. His gold hair catches an errant breeze as he furtively looks about, his silver-coloured eyes twitching with stress.
Next to him is a brown-furred rabbit the size of a mastiff... and an extremely well-built lizardfolk with vibrant blue scales and a white underbelly, clad in little more than hide pauldrons and a loincloth.
As you move, you notice a couple of musclebound men dressed in dark brown robes and sandals lingering around the mouth of one of the alleys. Their eyes aren't on you--but they are searching the crowd for something... or someone.
Once the party emerges from The Wheel Unbroken, Trendon catches up to them and they set off towards the Oriat district.
----------------------
It's simple enough to get directions to what many locals consider the most colourful of Kaer Maga's many districts; the gist of it is "Just follow the streets until you see the super-colourful pennants and garish murals. Can't miss 'em."
And indeed, Oriat is quite difficult to miss--the riot of colour that greets the party is one sprayed into the air in a grandiose display of magical wonder from a street performer, to the delight of several of the younger-looking locals. Ribbons of flowing colour decorate the surrounding streetlamps, standing in contrast to the aging, breaking stonework of the buildings at the mouth of each alley.
The performers in Oriat run the gamut of deliberately plain to the outright scandalous--men clad in drab grey noble garb engaging in mock duels with men dressed in eye-searing motley, gnomes clad in elaborate robes creating spectacular illusions of landscapes and monsters, along with more mundane sorts of performances being enacted on just about every street corner.
Yet, throughout all the revelry, there's an undercurrent of tension... especially around the shadowed corners. It's almost as if everyone expects the partying to be interrupted at any moment.
"If it's some personal effects of Berkanin Ardoc you're looking for..." A thin smile breaks out on Sullivan's face.
"...there's a way to get them."
"He likes to think he's discreet when it comes to the Tallow Boys. He's really not." The half-elf shakes his head. "He's the favoured customer of a Tallow Boy who calls himself Arnic Mint. His usual stomping grounds are in the Oriat district--where all the artists and libertines ply their trade."
"Arnic's a tall, beefy fella--hair of gold and skin of bronze. Literally--the man's an aasimar, and not a lot of them in Kaer Maga."
At this point, I'll say that Trendon can catch up with the rest of the group.
"...aye, that I do." Sullivan's eyes flash with a wicked grin.
"See, the thing about the Ardocs is they're not in as lock-step as they'd like the rest of Kaer Maga to believe. They're currently in something of a blood feud with the Augurs--or, rather, one of their sons is." Sullivan paces back and forth behind his bar.
"Berkanin's his name--Berkanin Ardoc. He's made a name for himself as a blend of construct-crafting prodigy and reckless t!$&-about-town. Word on the street is he's managed to kidnap an Augur right off the steps of their own temple and spirited him away to his laboratory in Bis. If you can free their kidnapped brother, I reckon they'll be happy to lend you their aid in whatever you're doing here."
The mage's grin turns upside-down. "After that, you'd be well-advised to keep out of Kaer Maga's politics--they chew gawks up and spit 'em out."
A quick recap, since it has been a while: you're here in Kaer Maga looking for the next Sihedron Shard, and a rival adventuring party tried to break into an ancient library said to have information onf the Sihedron Shards--and evidently failed.
Sullivan puts a hand on his chin. "There's about eleven factions here in Kaer Maga."
"I reckon you've already met the Duskwardens--they're responsible for keeping the underground travel routes safe for trade and such."
"I'm the head of the Arcanist's Circle here in Tarheel Promenade."
"The Ardocs keep the Bis district under their control." His brow furrows into a sneer for a moment.
"If it's prophecies or divinations you're interested in, the Augurs have staked a claim in Downmarket. They're a professional lot--so long as you don't mind them disembowling themselves for their auguries."
"You can find Bloatmages in Tarheel, but otherwise they're mostly a solitary bunch."
"There's the Brothers of the Seal--an order of monks based in the Oriat district, who're supposed to protect some magical seal deep under the city. They've..." He winces. "...split in two because they can't remember why they're supposed to protect their seal anymore."
"The Commerce League is..." He sighs. "...well, have you heard of the Council of Thieves? Well, they're like that, but smaller-scale and a lot more trade-based in-fighting. They mainly operate in the Core, but I've got a few people who say they're based out of Ankar-Te."
"The Freemen are probably the most conventionally welcoming towards newcomers--they're a band of slaves who slaughtered the orc tribe who intended to sell them. Now, they make the Bottoms their stomping ground, helping escaped slaves adjust to their new freedom and freeing more where they can."
"Then there's the Iridian Fold." Sullivan scratches his head. "Nobody knows much about them--they go two-by-two, one man in veils and the other in chains. They fight as paired warriors, and they're damn good."
"Up next are the Sweettalkers." He snickers. "They're more or less Kaer Maga's official tour guides and bankers. You want to find one, look for the gentlemen with the topknots and stitched-closed mouths."
"Finally, there's the Tallow Boys." Sullivan scratches his head again. "If you see a young joyboy trying to earn your custom, odds are he's a Tallow Boy. You pay for his time, just be prepared for all of your secrets to be pried out of you--they're damn fine information brokers."
Sullivan arches an eyebrow. "...you are new here in Kaer Maga, aren't you?"
"The Asylum Stone's not got a 'City Watch'." The arcanist makes quotation marks with his fingers. "Each district of the city is kept orderly by whichever organization's claimed it for its own--the Augurs have Downmarket, my own Arcanist's Circle claims domain over Tarheel, the Commerce League operates out of Ankar-Te..."
His expression turns to a sneer. "...the bloody Ardocs keep hold of Bis... and don't even get me started on f$$!ing Widdershins..."
He clears his throat. "The Ardocs, as I recall, have been here for a few generations now. They're entrenched--and they've stopped giving a rat's bloody arse."
"Unfortunately, I wish I could say this was not a regular occurrence." Sullivan grumbles. "Nowadays, it seems that it's more noteworthy when an Ardoc construct doesn't have something wrong with it."
"And the worst part is, people don't seem to care. Or, at least, they're resigned to the Ardocs being the only ones building constructs in Kaer Maga--any competition they get is 'mysteriously'--" He makes quotation marks with his fingers. "--found dead or otherwise no longer in town."
Sullivan makes the drinks according to the offered preferences and slides them before the party. "You'll not regret trying them--they're good for that extra boost of energy to get ya through the day."
"Now, I reckon I didn't catch your names." His gaze shifts from Azura to Ryn and Ulfr. "I've met your two friends already."
The second floor of the Wheel Unbroken contrasts sharply with the showroom and shops that make up the ground floor—here, the atmosphere is more of a particularly posh coffeehouse. What appears to be a circular bar carved of some glossy wood sits in the centre of the room, with a large machine made of brass pipes sitting behind it. Stools are arrayed around the bar, with tables and cushioned chairs scattered around the periphery. The staff and patrons go about dressed in decidedly skimpier attire than one would see in Magnimar—the staff dressed in short-sleeved gold and black tunics and breeches, with the other patrons (most of whom are evidently students of the arcane) dressing in even more daring fashions. Evidently, the Sarenith heat is making quite a nuisance of itself.
The half-elven gentleman settles in behind the bar and begins manipulating dials and valves on the brass-piped machine. "Bloody Ardocs have been making themselves more trouble than they've ever been worth around here." He grumbles. "Coming around here to complain about merchandise, acting up during lectures, going around whining about how women 'shouldn't dress so provocatively'--" He makes a gagging sound after saying that. "--and not even making proper golems anymore. Someone ought to teach those uppity pricks a lesson."
He places several glass cups beneath spigots on the brass machine--and steaming black liquid starts to pour from them. "Anyways, I owe the lot of you a debt. My name is Sullivan Gyre, and I'm the head of the Arcanist's Circle of Kaer Maga." He says with a half-smile. "Now, how do the lot of you like your espressos?"
Then his fists clench and he stamps his foot. "BLASTED SODDING ARDOCS!" He storms over to the destroyed golem and gives it a good kick. "The ONE THING The Wheel Unbroken ever commissions them for, and they KILL INNOCENT PEOPLE!"
"AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!" He screams, his hands flying to his temples. A steady torrent of curses upon the Ardoc family's name, lineage and sexual potency flies in a tirade from his mouth, flowing from Common to Infernal to Ignan, Terran, Abyssal and even into Celestial (a language not commonly known for its invectives).
He takes a deep breath after his ranting, looking exhausted and forlorn. He turns to the party again. "Come upstairs, I owe the lot of you drinks."
Ryn races in and delivers a series of punishing blows to the construct’s glass-clad leg joints, causing the alchemical behemoth to fall to its knees. Ulfr winds up—and with a mighty swing, shatters the golem’s glass head into a thousand powdered shards!
Combat over.
Moments later, a dark-haired half-elven man clad in black and gold robes hurries onto the scene with Saersha and Embyr at his heels.
”What happened here?!” He demands, his eyes looking from the party to the crumpled heap of glass, wood and sizzling alchemy.
Ryn crashes into the golem, breaking a few bits of glass on its other leg but not otherwise pushing it. That being said, she connected with the construct's knee joint and it's wobbling!
Current Damage Inflicted: 35 HP
The golem swings its massive arms. One comes at Ulfr...
Embyr blushes and her ears fold when you mention her possibly going into heat. She turns back to her espresso.
"If it's that sort of help you're looking for, you've come to the right man." Sullivan nods. "I'll need to determine the exact type of outsider that's causing your girlfriend's problem..."
He ducks beneath the bar and returns with a clear glass vial and a sharpened, clean knife. "...and to do so, I'll need a sample of her blood."
Embyr winces.
But, she doesn't wince for long. The sound of a loud explosion comes from downstairs!
--------------------
Shopping Party
*BOOOOOOOOOM!*
Not long after the trio finishes purchasing their sleeves of many garments, the sound of a loud explosion rocks the showroom floor. The general chatter of mercantilism abruptly turns to screams of surprise and panic--and the heavy, rhythmic sounds of stomping and clinking echo above them all.
The source of the disturbance becomes clear. A large, rickety construction of glass tubing, metal and wood is standing over a destroyed merchant's kiosk--and over the singed bodies of several shoppers. Multiple round glass vials of sparking, sizzling and roiling liquids are attached to its limbs, and a preserved brain and eyeballs can be seen inside the glass skull it has for a head. Dozens of spiderweb cracks can be seen in the automaton's glass frame.
Sullivan listens as you and Embyr speak, with Embyr's words coming out in a rapid-but-stumbling flow. Embyr actually provides more lurid details than you do, with the addition that her symptoms started after she received her cat ears and tail.
When you two finish, Sullivan gives Embyr a half-smile. "Well, first... is this the first time you've had an espresso, little lady?"
Embyr nods. Quite a few times. "Yep. Yep yep yep yep yep."
"Figures. Well, if you had a honey-do list for today, it'll be quicker to complete." He chuckles before his face turns serious.
"But on a more serious note, it sounds like your problem stems from some sort of outsider--not an undead creature, considering they can't really feel lust. At least, not most of them."
Embyr leans into you as you pull her close, still sipping her drink. You notice that she's starting to blush and vibrate a little.
"A case of possession, eh?" Sullivan tilts his head at the cat-eared Embyr. "That's a bit strange--haven't had to deal with a case of possession for at least a few months now."
"Well, for all such cases, I'll need to identify just what sort of entity is responsible for this." His tone turns business-like.
