Gray looks at Swire and Reghar. "I am starting to think we may have met a dead end. Should we try to find the others and see if they have come up with anything? Or do either of you have any other ideas?"
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"Hmmm ... quite a bit of interesting things here." Gray will try to stay close to Swire and Reghar, but he's also extremely interested to peruse the books and scrolls that may be available. He especially tries to find out if anyone has a scroll of comprehend languages for purchase.In a small scroll rack on a table cluttered with potions of dubious origin, half-used wands and jars of spell components you find the scroll you're looking for. Inquiring with the merchant in charge (a halfling in a fez) the cost is a mere 25 gold coins. If the halfling allows him to do a quick inspection, Gray will review it, and if it is what the merchant says it is, he'll hand over the gold coins. He's not much of a haggler.
"Hmmm ... quite a bit of interesting things here." Gray will try to stay close to Swire and Reghar, but he's also extremely interested to peruse the books and scrolls that may be available. He especially tries to find out if anyone has a scroll of comprehend languages for purchase.
Although he seems very hesitant to do so, Gray agrees with Swire's idea. "Very well. You know these sorts of places far better than I."
Gray looks at Swire after the tiefling leaves, a concerned look on his face. "Is he a friend of yours? Who is this Council?"
"I am unsure why, but the 'adventuring party' makes me wonder. Do either of you know what the proxy looks like?" Gray askes Swire and Reghar.
Gray is startled at the approach of the gnolls, and takes a quick step back. Then he realizes I don't think we mentioned to anyone here anything about guides; we don't even know where our next steps are taking us yet ... Either the beasts are just assuming the Abyss is where we're headed and are trying to drum up work, or it's a set-up.
Gray responds to the gnoll in Abyssal:
"Sadly, no. The spells that we would really need for that are beyond my ability. My most powerful spell would allow me to determine the location of an item, which might be useful except a unique item carried by Enoch I would have to have seen in the past, and it would have to be within about 500' of myself. I could always try a reading, but the cards are often fickle, especially when near the influences of the chaotic planes."
Gray's eyes dart around quite a bit, trying to take everything in. He looks to see if anyone seems to be paying them more attention than he'd like. Gray has not been outside of Sigil in his memory (or even his own apartment and the surrounding area in months), and he's not sure he likes it. The Foundary and Hive didn't seem so bad, but this ... it feels like everyone is watching. Watching ... like the berks who gave him the carving. The Broken ... he had assumed they knew of him and his gift of prophecy from his book, but what if it was something else? Are others following him? How many others? Are they here? Will they be ... NO! Gray shook his head, like trying to jar something loose. This isn't that bad. Just calm down and think rationally. "Can we get a room and discuss our next steps quickly then?" he says to Thorn, with a voice that actually sounds pleading.
Gray seems a bit unhappy by Thorn's asking about rooms ... "But, we've got important business! Why are we worrying about rooms now? We may not even be staying!"
At first when the Hounds approach, Gray's eyes go a little wide; for some reason, his first thought was They're coming for me! To take me to the five! But as suddenly as that thought crosses his mind, it leaves. That's odd, and utterly irrational he thinks. As Swire and Captain Mortai speak, however, yet another realization comes to him. When the three Hounds are comfortably out of earshot, the Scribe rummages out his journal, looks for a page near the middle, and softly quotes: "The path to realization stands closed;
"I doubt this is the last time we see him," Gray says to everyone. I must remember to go back through my journal, see if any other verses apply to us after all ... he mentally adds to himself.
Gray will follow the group to whichever bar. "I'm sure the rest of you would agree that it's likely the seedier and rougher places where we will find information on the proxy, yes? Of course, in Plaguemort, that doesn't narrow it down much." James
Spoiler: Sheet is updated. Also, I took another rank in Linguistics, which means the Scribe learns another language. Obviously, he would try to learn that obscure dialect of Obyrith, so he could translate the carving, but just as obviously, he wouldn't "all of a sudden" know it. So I've listed the new language as TBD on his sheet, and when/if he gets an opportunity to study and learn it, I'll update it then. Also, Gray is going to try and hunt down a scroll of comprehend languages to add to his spellbook when we get an opportunity; he isn't crazy enough to split from the party in Plaguemort to hunt on his own though.
“C’mon,” mutters Thorn, ducking his head and not looking at the tielfing guard. “Let’s not be seen hanging about here for too long.” He begins towards the street at an easy – not over-quick, but not slow – trot. Gray laughs somewhat loudly at Thorn's comments. "Yes ... 'hanging about'! Excellant!" He falls into step behind the bariaur.
Gray smiles at this, almost as if he knows better. "Perhaps you have more in common with Plaguemort than you know." Gray gets an odd, faraway look, and then continues, "Or not. Opposites do attract, you know. Our thanks for the return key. We should be on our way."
The activities of the Foundary are almost enough to pull the Scribe from his study of the carving. Almost, but not quite. In response to Omdibias' question about supplies, he simply waves off the question with a "Yes, yes, we are quite set to go."
The explosions do what is normally quite difficult - tear Gray's attention away from something he's studying intently. Watching the Harmonium attempting to restore order to the situation actually is entertaining to him, and he lets out an audible chuckle. Noticing the others have begun hurrying on their way, he breaks away from watching and falls back in the rest, going back to studying the scrimshaw as he walks.
Gray says nothing as the woman leaves, his eyes more focused on the package than on her. Once she leaves, he carefully unwraps the carving, eyes wide and intense as he does so. Not so much ignoring his companions remarks as just not really hearing them, he examines the piece thoroughly ...
Gray steps forward, his intense curiosity too much for his natural suspicions. "Very well. What is it?" he says, as he takes the "gift" ...
Gray, intently studying his rubbing of the monument as he walked, abruptly stops when he hears the voices. His face takes on a very intense look, although whether it is of concern or curiosity (or both) it's hard to say. His head snaps around, trying to find the source of the conversation.
Lost in his own little world, the scribe pushes past the aasimar twins, and pulls out a sheet of paper and a small piece of charcoal. He presses it on a (random) spot on the monument, and begins taking a rubbing, muttering all the while. "Beek Gwenders of Croodle ... Luc Tarascon ... Roaky Swerked ... I know none of these folk!" he exclaims with ecstatic zeal.
Gray is fascinated by the monument. He gets close to it, inspecting the names, looking over the material, and generally not caring one bit what mourners he rudely cuts in front of while he does it. Very quietly, he says to himself, "I wonder ... assuming the stories are true, would someone be able to be brought back by erasing their name?"
Once they have the remains, and are out of earshot of the Dustmen, Gray tries to lean in close to Thorn and whisper in his ear. "There is a theory that berks whose names are written on the monument are well and truly dead; in other words, they cannot be resurrected. To my knowledge, no one has ever tested this theory, so whether it is true or not, I cannot say. It may be best if we alter the name just slightly when talking with this 'Death-of-Names'. Perhaps we inscribe 'Chain Broken' or 'Broken Chains', something like that." He stops for a moment, obviously thinking. "Of course, the deal with the Godsmen was to recover her body; they didn't specify not putting her name on the monument. And I would love to see whether or not the theory holds true ..."
Curious, Gray tries to recall what particular significance placing the name on the monument has. Knowledge (Sigil) and (Planes) (1d20+8=26, 1d20+12=30)
Gray's eyes scan the room, taking everything in. From his years studying the planes, death fascinates him; the transformation from living being to petitioner is just one more stage of existence to him. When they arrive at Broken Chains' body, he is immediately drawn to her flail, which he reviews with interest (especially the tanar'ri head). Other than that, he remains silent.
"Perhaps if we say we are agents of a more powerful necromancer, who despised this tiefling and wanted to humiliate her by animating her corpse. Would the Dustmen be more accomodating of that?"
Pointing at the advertisement, "They mean 'strong' when they say 'stout,' yes?" "I would assume they mean 'strong, reliable, hardy, tough.' But it matters not, at the moment." "So, it would seem to be a simple matter to inquire about the body and ask to claim it. And yet, you don't need to see the future to suspect it won't be that easy ..."
At Ombidias's words, the Scribe grows quiet, and a bit wide eyed, with a smile creeping onto his lips. He quickly rummages into his pack for his journal, and rummages through the pages, eventually settling on one near the front. Letting out a loud laugh, he closes the book loudly and says, "I had forgotten that one! I think this is a perfectly fair arrangement, don't the rest of you agree?" looking at his companions.
The Scribe can no longer stand it. "OH SHUT UP! All of you! Power is as the One decides! Everything has been predetermined, and you're a fool if you think otherwise! Now, it's already been decided that we are to go to Plaguemort, and that is all that matters. I have no interest in blackmail, or threats, or anything else other than getting there!" Turning to the guard, he calms a bit and states, "And what possible difference could it make to you if we use the Portal? Does it hurt your faction in any way if several addled berks want to go to one of seediest and dirtiest Gatetowns? Isn't that what you've been preaching? By going there, are we not testing ourselves and striving to reach our fullest potential? What if we reimbursed the Godsmen for the use of your resource? Would that help?"
The Scribe grows noticably agitated as the back-and-forth between OLLI and the guards continues. When the guards mention the required documents, his face grows red and he quietly, but audibly exclaims, "Oh, for the love of ...!!" He absent-mindedly takes out his tarot deck and begins shuffling them in agitation.
"I am Reghar. A bloodseeker. Truth is found only through conflict, you see, manifested in combat. "Yes, yes, yes ... the Chariot. Of everyone here, I saw you the clearest."
"What do they call you, Prime?"
“Thorn, buck of Gort, of Clovenwood,” answers Thorn, strangely formally, “but I assumed a seer like you would know that.” He gives the names of the others. “And what do we call you, Gray?” The Scribe sighs. "Again, I see visions. I do not see words. Thus, unless something in the vision is on writing, like someone holding a book, or more rarely, the vision has sound, I do not get specific names. "And yes, 'Gray' is fine; I do not have another name." He turns to O.L.L.I. "A pleasure, O.L.L.I."
The Scribe looks at Thorn and Reghar strangely. "Why in the worlds would everyone be behind crates? And they call me barmy ... never mind, to each their own, I suppose." Once the three enter the bar, the Scribe mentions to Thorn, "By the way bariaur, since I will be accompanying you folks, perhaps it would be a good idea if you told me your names. The modron called you 'Thorn' once, I believe; is that your name or a nickname? And who are the rest?"
** spoiler omitted ** Warden Spoiler:
"Don't worry, my friend. I recognized none of them from my ... other vision, and I haven't mentioned that one to them. Nor that I believe that one of the five over my corpse was Enoch. Finding the proxy will confirm or deny my suspicions; frankly, I think some of these berks would be more than willing to help me take care of him, if I'm right."
The Scribe gets back up. "Unfortunately, I can't talk longer, Hyram. I sent Dek to get me some supplies for the journey, and he should be back soon. Thank you for your help, my friend; I will contact you as soon as I am able." The Scribe heads back to his apartment and pays Dek the extra coin when he arrives. After that, Gray packs his gear for the journey, and lies down for sleep. In the morning, he awakes, grabs his pack and staff, and heads over to the Black Sails tavern. He remains in deep thought as he walks, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. In fact, he almost stumbles directly into Thorn as he approaches. "Oh, bariaur! Are any of the others here?"
Warden
Spoiler: "Good to see you, Hyram." Gray enters the apartment, and grabs a seat, an intense and excited expression on his face. Without waiting for Hyram to sit, he blurts out, "They showed up, just as I said they would! The bariaur, the box, the half-orc, the man with no mouth, and the criminal were all at my apartment." The Scribe sits back and crosses his arms, a smug smile on his face.
"They are, in fact, looking for the proxy, also as I predicted. And their next step? Plaguemort, of course." He laughs a bit. "They were skeptical of my abilities, as I thought they might be, especially the bariaur. Showing them what kept happening with the tarot, though, finally convinced them, I think." Finally, the Scribe looks earnestly at Hyram. "I am going with them, as I must. I was hoping you, or perhaps one of the other Signers, would keep an eye on my apartment while I am away."
Warden
Spoiler: Once everyone has left, the Scribe takes out a quill pen and a piece of scrap paper, writing a short list:
After the boy returns, the Scribe will store the additional gear in his pack. "I best let Hyram know I'll be leaving for a while." He heads over to Hyram's kip, knocking on the door when he gets there. "Interesting developments, Hyram! I must tell you of them!" he calls out.
Knowledge (local-Sigil) to see if the Scribe knows a way to Plaguemort (1d20+8=14) "I know I read of something, somewhere, on how to get to Plaguemort. Let me just look ..." The Scribe begins searching quite animatedly through the various books and papers scattered around. He puts each thing back exactly how it was before after looking at it; whether the book was in a stack, lying on its side against the wall, or even balanced precariously on a broken clock. The longer he looks, the more obviously angry he gets as the group can hear him muttering and cursing under his breath and he becomes less gentle with the books. Strangely, the scent of brimstone becomes stronger, even though there is nothing currently lit.
"Very well. When shall we leave, then? Where shall we meet? I suppose I should leave a note for Hyram; he'd be very worried if I just left."
"Very well. What do you suggest?"
The Scribe gives Thorn a very strange look. "I don't hear voices. I see visions, and they're always accurate, if a bit obtuse. Besides, I have seen my own future. Somehow, it is intertwined with all of you; that was decided for me. I must go. I have no choice. Excuse me for one moment." Gray disappears into a side room for a brief moment, and returns with a small pack slung over his shoulder and holding a plain wooden staff and a book. The book he gives to O.L.L.I.; it has the title Of Planar Lore. "The other is where you saw it; help yourself." Turning the rest, he says "Shall we go? There's little more to learn here." He seems to have a very excited expression on his face, and even a bit of impatience thrown in, as well.
Reghar picks his nose as he observes the Gray Scribe and O.l.l.i. discuss Enoch. "Do those things say where we can find Enoch?" "I think the answers are in my second prophecy and in the Tower card. My own researches on the prophecies seem to indicate that it is Plague-mort, or perhaps the Abyss itself, which is the next step (In finding the seneschal of the twin lord; Where sickness and death lead the way to the primal land.) But I was hoping you would already know that, and would serve as confirmation for me. And yes, I do mean to accompany you; obviously that's been decided already."
The Scribe gives a long, exasperated sigh. "I had no idea I'd be dealing with this level of ignorance." He shakes his head, almost sadly. "I don't want your 'jink'. The book I read the first prophecy from has done well for me." Gray tosses the copy of his book over to Thorn. "As you can see from the publishing date, I did write that first prophecy over two years ago. Were you seeking the proxy that far back?" The Scribe crosses over to the table, where some of his decks are. "As I can see I need to further explain: I have received visions for as long as I can remember, even further than that, actually. The visions I read to you I received two years ago and one week ago, respectively. I do not know exactly what they mean; although I deduced they involved Esao Enoch, Demogorgon's proxy. As I almost never receive multiple visions about the same being, I have been driven more than usual to find out about them. I started with my tarot deck." The Scribe takes a very elaborate and colorful deck off of the table. He gives them to O.L.L.I. "Please, shuffle these cards and lay out seven in a cross-pattern, face down."
The Scribe turns over the first card. "The Magician (sometimes also called the Alchemist). Confidence, Action, Manipulation; the intoxication of power both good and bad. You." He points to Thorn.
He puts the cards down. "I didn't even understand much of this until yesterday morning. I finally had a vision of your faces, and knew where you would be. Thus, the cards and a small bribe to have them delivered when you showed up."
"Yes, yes. Help yourself. They are all in order."
"...Query: This unit spys a copy of Garthames' Codex Inexplica with the Frek Ahm Zûrri annotations. This unit has read mention of this tome, but has never seen a copy in physical form." The Scribe looks a bit funny at O.L.L.I., and remarks "I don't think you ever actually asked me a 'query'. Primus would be a bit disappointed in your lack of follow-through, wouldn't he?. But if you are implying that you'd like to read that book, be my guest. It is a trite piece of clap-trap, if you ask me; I much preferred Schuun's Of Planar Lore." A slight smile while he comments about Primus gives the suggestion he (may) have been kidding. The Scribe heads towards the back of the room, to a small bookshelf in the corner, and begins looking through one particular stack. After the scribe finishes talking, he sits down in one of the chairs and leans forward agitatedly. "Alright, two questions. One, what in the Nine Hells is this all about, and two, what do I have to do with it?" Then: “What he said,” in response to Swire, but directed at the Scribe. He holds up the tarot cards again. Gray stops his rummaging for a moment, and turns towards Mr. Swire and Thorn. There is no trace of a smile, and a very earnest look in his eyes. "I assumed you knew: the Nine Hells have absolutely nothing to do with this. At least not that I've seen." He turns back to the bookshelf, and grabs a thick tome from the top shelf. "Here it is!" The group can make out the title as Prophecies of the Gray Scribe. He walks to the center of the group, turns to the very last page of the tome, and reads a short passage. "The servant of the fallen Prince shall flee,
"I wrote that two years ago. At the time, I had absolutely no idea what it meant. To an extent I still don't; but I realize now it must concern Demogorgon's proxy here in Sigil. For only a week ago, I had another vision." The Gray Scribe reaches into the pocket of his tunic and retrieves a slip of parchment, reading from it: "The forged ones find allies in the beasts
The Scribe puts the paper away, and looks around triumphantly at the group, as if expecting everyone to completely understand.
A few seconds after Thorn’s loud knock on the oak door, the group can hear a rustling sound from inside the apartment, gradually getting closer. A voice, raspy like that of someone who has been in a desert all day without water, calls out, “Damnations, Hyram! I told you I couldn’t be disturbed today! I’m expecting visitors!” The door swings open, and a rush of strong smells greets you: incense, brimstone, food (not-so-fresh), and some that are unidentifiable. You see a middle-aged(?) man with a roughly-trimmed gray beard and unkempt gray/brown hair standing before you. His ice-blue eyes at first register great surprise at the five individuals standing in his doorway, but then give way to something approaching recognition. “Oh! It’s you. Most folks use the knocker; only Hyram raps on the door itself. That’s why I thought it was him, you see.” He then turns and walks back into the apartment; the room would be quite spacious if it wasn’t for the large number of books, pamphlets, and other papers stacked haphazardly here and there. There a few chairs in the room, as well as a table that looks like it would seat three, maybe four humans comfortably at it. The table is a little bit cleaner; it contains many odd-looking items (small bones, large and small glass beads, incense burners, cards similar to the ones in your possession, etc.). After a moment, Gray turns back to the group and says in an annoyed tone, “Well? Are you berks coming in, or are you just going to stand in the doorway? There should be enough seats for you three in here,” he points at Mr. Swire, Rennet, and Reghar, “but I didn’t have time to get something for the bariaur or the box. You’ll have to make do with standing or sitting on the floor.”
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