Wooden platters of food line the bartop. Xing grabs up some tasty morsels while moving through the crowd.
There are guffaws at the idea of Bob bragging. Someone says "He talks? I thought he was a mute."
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Yash, Cookie, Lady, and Senna accompany the watchmen. They are escorted through the confusing alleys of Dockside. Eventually, they end up back in the plaza near the docks but far away from the Slattern. The watchman turns away from the dock and opens a large wooden door and ushers the party through. Our heroes find themselves in a rough tavern. You assume it is called Caterwaul because that is the word carved in large letters into the sawdust strewn floor. Interestingly, the name looks like it was carved with a very large claw, and there are a number of claw gouges in the floor. More alarming, are the dozens of hard-eyes and silent faces on large men, women, and odd races that greet the new arrivals. The room is packed with watchmen. At the bar, Bob turns around. ”Here they are, boyos.” The silence breaks with loud cheers, smiles, and sporadic clapping from the assembled watchmen. Your escorts push you forward and let the door close. You are given tankards of ale and words of thanks for your assistance to the watch. There are several cries for you to recount what happened in the crypt. One huge female half-ogre smacks Bob nearly off his stool saying, ”Bob ‘s tight-lipped as ever! We can’t a word from ‘im. We’d like to hear the tale.” Bob just shrugs, notes the missing party members, and asks a watchmen to go fetch them. ”They’re probably at the Slattern somewhere. Salli will know.”
"Certainly, ma'am." The watchman helps Cookie up carefully.
Some time later, two burly watchmen approach Cookie, Yash, and Senna. "Ladies. Sir. There're some odd facts comin' out about that hag you sorted out. We've been asked to escort you to our headquarters for a few more questions about what happened. Would you come with us, please."
Bob leans against the sarcophagus and winces as he presses a cloth to the sizeable bite on the back of his neck. "I wasn't told that she could heal, but why risk it." He neatly slices off her head and kicks it to Xing in the doorway. "If you'll take an old guard's advice here... I'll stay here and keep an eye on things. Some of you folks carry that head outside and let the teams know you've killed her. In no time, there'll be healers and a disposal team here. Killing townsfolk - and eating anyone, I suspect - carries a 'death without the possibility of resurrection' sentence. Her body will likely get dropped into the second level of the sewer... unless the Council wants to make a statement. Either way, nothing comes back from what comes next." She looks over at Yash and Bob. "How are you two?" She gives a toothful grin, "She wasn't too gentle, was she?" Bob smiles, "I think you two caught of the worst of it. I just got a hickey from her."
Bob slides behind the hag to set a flank for Yash. If I can’t hit her, maybe he can. Despite the ill-luck that has plagued him, the guardsman's blade strikes true, carving a deep rent in the hag's back. Her howl of pain is music to your ears. In the wake of Bob's strike, the misfortune affecting Xing and Bob vanishes.
BOOM:
Bob dives for his sword, trying to avoid the hag’s reprisal while putting himself between Xing and the crone. But the hag is skilled and quick. Her teeth find the sweet spot between his helmet and chainmail girding his shoulders. His flesh cooks as she takes a healthy bite out of the back of his neck. Bob counters with a disemboweling slash that nearly connects, if only luck didn’t seem to favor the hag.
BOOM:
Yash girds himself with magic. Bob weighs the options and Yash’s words, ”I like how you think… but those girls are blind. They aren’t getting past that whore without help.” Bob strides in, going toe-to-toe with the hag. His longsword slips from his grasp as he slashes at her. It clangs noisily to the stone floor. Misfortune dogs him and the crone cackles.
BOOM:
Bob feels creeping doubt overcome his resolve...
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Bob also keeps a wary watch, looking for trouble.
Bob shrugs, "I'm saying these folks have been in Threshold a long time. A vaulted ceiling in a wine cellar is curious. A wide stairway along with double-doors down to a small wine cellar is just odd. Yeah, they might have a family crypt behind one of these walls. If they still use it, there might be a secret door or something. I imagine keeping your wine right next to your mum's corpse might scare the neighbors when you bring'em over for a drink."
Sabelina and Bob search the room. top to bottom, poking many, many spots with their weapons. They both feel confident the hag isn't here... unless she is hiding inside one of the larger barrels which all look well-sealed and show no obvious signs of tampering. Turning each spigot a little, they all seem filled with wine as well.
As the team reassesses the situation, Bob looks around the room, noting the wide stairs where Xing and Yash are standing guard. He observes, "That's an awful wide stairway for a cellar. Back in the early days of Threshold, well-heeled families liked to bury their dead in crypts below their homes. Some still do, I think."
Bob breathes a sigh of relief and nods to Sabelina. "Thanks. Best not to order folks out, if we don't have to." Your team proceeds into the house. Unlike the storehouse before, this building is well-furnished, dust-free, and you detect no stink of decay. From the foyer, you can see into a couple rooms. They aren't cluttered with boxes or too much furniture but the rooms are isolated, there are closets, and there are some dark corners and draperies where a small and malleable hag could possibly hide. Bob says, "So, shall we start here or do it top-down or bottom-up?"
A couple in their 60’s answers Sabelina’s knock and look at the watchman, the swordswoman, as well as the entire group curiously. ”Mrs. and Mr. Pickett? Sorry to disturb, but we’re here to conduct a search of your home. We’re looking for a dangerous and stealthy fugitive who may be hiding in or around your property. Have you heard or seen anything odd in the last day or so?”
Bob hrumphs, "To be thorough, we should check these crates and then move on to our next building." Still cautious, you break into the crates and inspect them. No hag. With your search complete, Bob wipes the grime off one window, hammers on the glass lightly, then makes a short series of hand signals - presumably for the spotters outside. You exit the building as you entered it. In the street, Bob checks his list. "OK. Next we got a residence... single family, two floors, two chimneys, small basement." He walks with you across the street to an older home, well maintained, with a gated little yard in front. It is situated between two larger apartment buildings. He speaks briefly with a sharp-featured watchman lingering nearby and reports back to you. "The residents haven't been cleared yet. They're an older couple. Their families have been in Threshold almost from the beginning. We still gotta roust them but we want to be real polite about it. I'll handle that part." Bob again gets the attention of the nearest overwatch before approaching the building. The lingering watchmen follows your group quietly and waits outside the gate.
"It occurs to me we know nothing about you, Bob. How long have you been in Threshold? Got any family?" Bob warms to the topic. "Been here all my life - Threshold born and bred! So that's 23 years worth. My parents, sister, and one uncle are here as well... along with my girl. She's not family but you know what I mean."
”What .. specifically … does that loud bell mean?” Bob checks his stride for a moment. ”Well, some bells are triggered by Mister Hemkhek or Miss Anne. Others are… we don’t know.” He hitches a thumb to the sky, indicating that sometimes the bells are struck by whoever is controlling Threshold. ”But that single deep bong, like the one this morning, just means ’Check a placard.’ The note we got today said something like ‘Transit in seven days – highest probability. ~ H’ Basically, ‘highest probability’ means it’s happening in seven days exactly. Nothing for you folks to be worried about. Now, if you ever hear a sharp, fast set of bells, that goes on for a long time… that’s when you should worry. Something really nasty is happening or about to happen. Once y’all are settled in your quarters, someone will be by to explain some of this stuff. You folks have been a bit busy since you arrived.” He offers another crooked smile. ”So we take it slow, careful, and methodical, clearing all hiding spots high and low?” Bob nods, “Sounds good. I should probably be one of the folks in front. What about the rest of you?”
All 6’ 5” of Bob, speaks with another watchman quietly, consults his list, then waves at a bowman. ”OK. We’re starting with this storehouse – two stories, one set of stairs, no chimneys, few interior walls, a fair number of crates, and it’s already been cleared of occupants. Anyone we meet in there, shouldn’t be in there. And our overwatch is standing by. I asked them not to shoot you.” He offers that last bit with a crooked smile, ”We can go in, when you’re ready. How do you want to play it?” He replaces his list with a light shield and draws a freshly-honed longsword.
The Sergeant raises his drink in silent salute to the heroes then slugs it down. "Ahhhh... nice." He pulls out his vellum pad, scribbles a note, and puts it down on the bar. "This'll get your bites treated at any Church or Watch Station in the city - no charge. The Orfallen Watch appreciates you pitching in." He snatches up one of Emeralda's doubles and slugs it down before she can object. "Right. Back to work for me. You citizens have a fine evening. Don't forget your property." He casts eyes on the five masterwork swords for a moment before heading out the door, whistling an off-key tune.
The Sergeant frowns at the situation but appreciates the joke. "We'll check it out. You folks please stay here." He quickly assembles his men. Two are left to watch the prisoners and keep an eye on things while the other four and the Sergeant head downstairs, weapons at the ready. The remaining watchmen begin methodically stripping the prisoners of all items, dropping them on a table, and cataloging the items as they go. You hear them moving around the lower level and then an exclamation from one of the watchmen, muffled through the floor. "&#$*&! Found where they came through, Sarge. Busted through a sewer pipe into the cold storage. Gah! Smells like a demon's ass!"" After another ten minutes they return upstairs. Judging from the filth and ripe stink on them, they investigated the sewer pipe for some distance. Sarge wipes gack from his face with a hankie. "Well, they are long gone." He looks to the barmistress. "I'll leave some boys to watch the hole until we can get a repair crew down here." The Sergeant works through the table-load of gear, whistling at the quality of the shortswords. He runs a thumb along the boss near the blades' hilts. They are all the same. "Looks like they got a supplier.... and three makes a pattern." He glances at your group, weighing some matter, then drops three of the masterwork blades on another table... leaving five others where they were. He scoops up the 'rats belt-pouches and looks through them. He tosses the two heaviest, coin-laden, bags to the barmistress with a nod. The rest he drops on the table with the three swords. He gives his men a look and they muscle the were-rats up and start hustling/carrying them out the door. One watchman pulls open a heavy canvas bag and tosses in the three swords, the belt pouches, and the other bits and pieces before following the rest of his squad... leaving the Sergeant alone with our heroes and the recovering barmistress. He waves a hand at Straehan, "As I recall, you had a complaint out on this fella, Emeralda. 'Zat right? Judging by the sparklies on that one rat, he ain't reformed. You want me to take him out back and beat the sh!t outta him?" It's clear that his tone is playful and expecting a different answer.
The watchmen immediately spread out forming a perimeter while two of them augment your rope-tying with thick steel manacles on the arms of the prisoners. "Right. What's all this then? Emeralda, we got a scared patron reporting that he'd been thrown out of here by 'some thugs'." He nudges the unconscious Greasy with his toe. "I'm assuming these are the thugs. Any others about?" He looks to our heroes especially the hulking monk, "You rounded up this lot? Nice work."
The Sergeant chuckles at the smouldering, child-sized, gnome lecturing an assembly of adult-sized people. "Arrest you, why? The Strumpet's owner filed a Complaint not a Warrant. The men you tussled with couldn't be found and didn't report it. What with the exten'ating circumstances and since no one but you was really hurt, you are gettin' a pass. But be careful how you throw magic about. If we get more Complaints, you could find yourself under Warrant. I'd suggest you go apologize to those girls at the Strumpet. It's better if the owner lifts the Complaint rather than have it hangin' over you. My boys don't need to be memorizing any flyers that have us looking for a dark-haired gnome arcanist answerin' to Straehn. We have real criminals to catch." He retracts his truncheon from Ushari and waves it casually up the road, "You can all go about your business."
The Sergeant gives a grim smile of satisfaction, "Yeah, the enquiry fell out that way. Don't matter though - we can't have spell-slingers downing civilians willy-nilly... The official speculatin' is you coulda dropped those boys permanently since you had the means ta glitter them. Is that the right of it?"
The Sergeant's gaze becomes a little more direct, "And while there, chattin' up a young lovely, did you 'have occasion' to Glitterdust folks in the middle of a fight?"
The Sergeant nods, "That they are... chatty too. You ever had a reason to chat'em up?"
The Sergeant awaits Jofram's answer while he offhandedly considers Jayse's words and the monk's small companion. Something seems to click for him. He eyes the gnome. "Dark hair on a gnome - that's unusual. And staying at the Fish, eh? You been to the Brazen Strumpet, little Sir? It's hard around the corner from the Fish. You must have seen it." |