Majib shrugged at Absalon's question. "The heads of the merchant guild are numerous and I'm not entirely certain of their organization. They may have a chairman who represents the lot of them or they may simply settle things by popular vote. Having never been a merchant, I have never had reason to associate with the guild and, until recently, they have never been much of a threat to us. I would imagine that you could probably find your answers by speaking with the merchants themselves, though such questioning would likely call undue attention to yourselves."
"Undue attention," said Absalon. "I've drawn a fair amount of that already I think." He then crossed his arms and lowered his gaze once again to the worn cracks of the stone floor.
"Still, it's a line of inquiry we may have to follow, ere long - failing the emergence of any other leads."
Majib nodded. "The other option, of course, is to return to the Djinn and try to convince either Ji or Kaja to cough up the information we require. Shador, what was the situation at the Djinn when you were there? Last I knew, Ji and Kaja were both still there. Did you meet anyone else that might be able to help?"
"Hmmmmm...." Othos scans the scene of the wreckage while absentmindedly scratching his chin. "Quite the salvage opetation, or what do you think? Do you see anyone among the onlookers that strikes you as familiar? Fellow crewmembers? Mercantile liasons? Anyone at all?" Using Torbjørn's immense bulk to wade through the crowd, the unlikely pair make their way to the edge of the dock and peer into the murky water, but see little more than floating rubbish and screeching seabirds. Moving futher down the pier, they sit down on the immense coils of rope securing a nearby vessel and take in the scene. Othos removes his turban and runs his hands thoughtfully through his hair before turning to the sailor.
"As previously discussed, I see two main exploratory avenues here. The first is thet the Nansen and its crew fell prey to an insidious and powerful curse brought upon itself through the actions or inactions of certain crewmembers. In this scenario, the marked goods are the catalysts of doom. The second scenario is that the actions of the Nansen made someone sufficiently angry to hire a powerful mystic to blow the ship out of the water. If this is true, the goods are still important, as the crew's,..., um, acquisition of it enrages an outside party; however, it plays a passive part, rather than being the actual agent of the curse. It seems rather redundant to ask if the Nansen and its captain had any enemies, as men in your profession invariably have; instead, it could be helpful to know if he had any foes determined and powerful enough to enact such powerful magics. Rival captains? Offended merchant lords? Ruthless crusaders?"
Taking in the ship's charred masts sticking out of the water and the waves lapping over its ruined forecastle, he snags a passing sailor. "Out of curiosity, how deep is the harbour?"
Taking in the ship's charred masts sticking out of the water and the waves lapping over its ruined forecastle, he snags a passing sailor. "Out of curiosity, how deep is the harbour?"
The accosted sailor quirks a perturbed brow but, when asked the relatively simple question, he inclines his head briefly in thought. "Hm... about 20 meters, give or take a couple. It's deep enough to accommodate the largest of vessels' keels," the sailor said as he glanced between Othos and Torbjorn, then shrugged, not waiting around for further questions, and continued on his way.
Further down the dock, on the other side of the berth, the pair could make out a very macabre scene. The scorched bodies of the Nansen's crew were being dredged up by a group of sailors accompanied by a man in dark grey robes, cut in the local style in order to prevent heatstroke. A flock of seagulls collected to pick at the corpses but were being shooed away by the sailors. The robed man waved his hands over the bodies, seemingly enacting a burial rite of some sort. He was too far away to see any further detail.
Othos' gaze returns to the wreackage for a while. "20 meters? This is is a big boat. You must have made quite a good living trawling the oceans for the misplaced goods of careless merchants". He lifts his head and eyes the dredged dead. "Heh. The vultures are already here. Knowing this city, he is likely a necromancer in disguise, here to spitit away the bodies of the crew. Let us go a bit closer to see if there are any notables among the floaters, as well as to properly appreciate the man's craft". They get up and wander a bit closer, allowing them to take in a bit more detail.
Othos and Torbjorn venture closer to the pile of bodies and the robed figure attending them. Upon closer inspection, they both can clearly see the symbol of a skeletal hand holding up a set of scales dangling from his neck. The symbol is silver and the scales gilded, the sign of a priest of high standing.
The bodies that have been collected are numerous, most of them having suffered tremendous burns, and many of them missing extremeties either from the explosion or the frenzy of sharks that followed. At a glance, the accumulated dead totalled around 20, though at least a half dozen more could be seen still floating in the harbor and a few had likely been taken by the sea... or worse.
Othos and Torbjorn move away from the main thoroughfare on the dock and step over to a large wooden bench nearby to watch the proceedings. As they sit, the bench groans beneath Torbjorn's weight and hardly notices the addition of Othos. A few passers-by give bewildered glances at the massive Northman but most of them seem to ignore Othos altogether. A few guard patrols pass by, looking the pair over but continue on without breaking stride.
The priest anoints the foreheads of the corpses (the ones that still have heads, anyway) with oil and utters a short prayer over each one, wishing a swift and just passage into the afterlife that they deserve. The sailors continue to fish bodies from the water for nearly an hour before the waters are clear again and during this time, the vessels in the harbor begin pulling the wreckage of the Nansen out to deeper water. Many pieces of the ship's hull pull apart or break off, leaving much flotsam adrift in the harbor.
"Well, if he is a charlatan, he is a rather good one", Othos grudgingly admits; he is almost disappointed in the apparent sincerity of the high priest's efforts. "Of course, the gods of death are not quite what they used to be; it would have been almost inconceivable to have an emissary of Myrkul doling out public services like this one is doing. Good thing he is doing it, though, as the gods alone know what kind of spiritual imbalances would have occured here without proper rites and blessings. Even if the curse did not directly destroy the ship, many men died here with their minds in turmoil. Such conditions is a recipe for the restless dead and for vengeful haunts". He shudders visibly, and his eyes involuntarily narrow in disgust and hatred.
"However, even though these dead might never stir again, no matter how poorly prepared for their meeting with the afterlife they were, others might actually come to claim them. A port this size probably has a nest or two of lacedons, but a far scarier proposition would be that the gods of the seas will send minions of some sort to reclaim the sailors' bodies unless they are buried at sea". He shakes his head, as his voice grows softer and more distant and contemplative. "The gods of the seas are fickle and demanding, and quick to take offense at perceived slights, whether they be real or imagined". He breaks out of his reverie and snaps his focus back on the immediate task at hand. "Now, did your captain have a distinguishing mark? Unique ring? A giveaway tattoo? After all, we could go over and take a look at them, or even ask the death priest".
"...Shador, what was the situation at the Djinn when you were there? Last I knew, Ji and Kaja were both still there. Did you meet anyone else that might be able to help?"
"The situation at the Djinn can be summarized thusly: Kaja escaped into the night, the inn suffered a broken window, and Morn suffered rather more permanently." Shador thought back to the scene at the inn - the fighting, Kaja's tricks, her daring escape, the hulking naked human that appeared out of nowhere crushing anyone in his path, the frightened guests and the strumpets huddled in Morn's bed. What a night of chaos! he mused. Turning his attention back to the pair he adds, "Suffice to say that the inn was left in a state of uproar, and I've no idea if that witch Kaja would show her face there again. I can however, find out."
Shador's thoughts turned to Ji, the curious bartender on duty that night. I tipped him well and he was not present to witness the exactly what happened. Perhaps he is the one we should focus on. "I would suggest that Kaja is a lost cause. Her trickery is difficult to counter, and she knows that we tried to do her harm once before. It will be difficult indeed to capture her. However, Ji is another matter; he would likely be more open to persuation. If not more open, he should at least be easier to catch."
Majib curled his lip in thought, nodding at Shador's statement. "We must hope that Ji and Kaja are not so close that she would have already told him of the incident. As the proprietor of the Djinn, I would imagine that Ji is quite upset about the damage to his property and is likely seeking restitution... or vengeance. Ji is known to possess a meager amount of sorcerous talent, but I suspect that he will not be foolish enough to attempt combat with a couple of trained swordmen like yourselves. Getting him alone might be problematic, but I trust in your abilities to get the job done. Absalon, if you truly wish to befriend the Shadow Thieves and gain our aid, you would do best to assist Shador here in whatever capacity he may require of you. I think you may be on to something regarding the heads of the merchant guild and Ji may well be our best lead in uncovering who exactly is behind this alliance. I must tend to other matters of my own for now, but I shall leave you with this to get in contact with me should we meet again..."
Majib reached into his hip pack and produced a small scroll wrapped in a piece of twine which he then placed in Shador's hands. "It's a magic scroll that will allow you to contact me no matter where you are. When you have more information, seek me out and we will try to get to the bottom of all this. I believe we should adjourn now and speak more on this later. There is much to do and little time to do it in. Come."
The Calishite made his way to the cellar door and opened it once again, beginning to lead up the steps to the exit door. Majib turned to head back into the store's main room from the landing at the top of the steps when he stopped in his tracks and stared, dumb-founded, at a tan-colored cat sitting in the middle of the floor. Shador recognized it as the same alley cat he saw outside, but in that same instant, the cat rose to it's feet and hissed just as a multi-colored spray washed across the trio from out of nowhere, revealing a previously invisible sorcerer who bore the robes of the City Watch!
The dazzling colors wash over the group, leaving sparkling afterimages in their vision but otherwise seem ineffective. Majib, however, staggers back, clearly stunned by the unexpected attack. In that instant, the backdoor bursts open, revealing two guardsmen bearing scimitars and small shields. The robed spellcaster hisses "Don't let them escape!"
The first guard steps forward to engage the dwarf, leveling a scimitar slash at his head but the canny dwarf ducks out of the way, the blade missing by only a hair's breadth.
Well, at least no one's swinging a sword at my head this morning, Torjorn thought. Things could be just a little worse...
As he stared unseeing at the ritual before him, Torbjorn's mouth remained dry as parchment. He knew with certainty that he should be among those bodies. Through and through his very bones, he simply...knew...that he had inadvertently avoided the steely hand of fate. Had it been luck, or destiny? Did the gods single him out for some greater duty, and purpose? And if they felt him so singularly special, why then spare the life of Helg as well? Was it blind, dumb luck for them both? What if perhaps Helg was the chosen one, and Torbjorn had simply been in the wrong place at the--
Othos' question, direct and sharply delivered, seemed to snap Torbjorn out of his reverie. He mentally shook out the cobwebs, and spoke to the mage out the side of his mouth in hushed tones, almost in reverence to the charred remains of his fallen comrades. His voice emerged as the sound of crumpled dry leaves, so dry was his throat and so great his tension. "The captain was an impressive man, indeed, sharp of wit and strong of body, and spirit. He had not the blood of giants, if that's what you're asking, so no, he wouldn't stand out quite like this one.
"As for markings and the like, well, I wouldn't much know. Can't say as I ever saw him out of his clothes, nor would I imagine he was of that particular sailor's persuasion. He did have a single solid silver tooth, bottom left of his jaw, which I suppose could still be in place. Then again, fire may melt or thieves may abscond, so who knows if it's still in place."
Only one way to find out. Torbjorn stood and walked slowly to the priest, who seemed to be finishing up his cleansing rituals. Removing his horned helm, he approached with caution and lowered eyes, and spoke far softer than it would seem possible of someone his size. "Excuse me, Father, but these men are my shipmates, my brothers. I was away on shore leave when the tragedy struck, and know naught of what happened. Do you have any information on what happened here, or the identities of any these bodies?"
"Excuse me, Father, but these men are my shipmates, my brothers. I was away on shore leave when the tragedy struck, and know naught of what happened. Do you have any information on what happened here, or the identities of any these bodies?"
The somber priest looked up at Torbjorn searchingly as he spoke. The man was obviously not a native Calishite for his skin was barely tanned and his eyes were as blue as the sea. His long face bore a look of great sadness, though no tears fell from his face, and he placed his hand gently on the massive sailor's arm.
"I am truly sorry for your loss. I am told that a great bolt of lightning struck the mainmast and ignited the store of spirits below deck in it's fury. Many of the men were asleep below and were caught in the blaze when the deck above them fell. I believe your captain was on the poop deck when the bolt struck..." the priest pointed a thin finger at a bloodied corpse near the bottom of the pile, the face and hands completely scorched away. The shape of the figure matched the captain's build precisely. "His delivery into Kelemvor's arms was instantaneous. The others, I fear, must have suffered some time before perishing. That is why I have come; to ensure that their restless spirits are delivered to their final rests. There is some hope to be found in light of this tragedy, however. The very same person who called me to perform this service was a survivor of this vessel, like yourself. I believe he said his name was Helg. You might find him at the Efreeti's Djinn just south of here, along Dock Street. He said that the spirits of the dead had stolen his companion, another survivor, in the dead of night and so wanted to be sure that this service was performed with haste. I'm sure he would be pleased to know that he is not the only survivor. Tell me though, have you found yourself similarly visited by the spirits of your fallen compatriots?"
The spirits of the dead stole his friend away in the night?! This is getting more interesting by the minute. Unless... Othos has to briefly turn away from the priest and his discussion with Torbjørn and swallow down his astonished giggles. The poor sap thinks the vengeful undead nabbed Torbjørn away from the Djinn last night. He must be a very heavy sleeper indeed... He wanders back to the bench and picks out a parchment sheet and a piece of charcoal out of his backpack, checking off the case's possible leads.
The captain is either dead or has faked his demise so well as to be virtually unfindable - most probably the first. Helg might not be the most reliable witness, and Torbjørn does not want to involve him. Other ship notables are all dead. The goods were disposed of at sea, and nobody knows who operated its original ship. Dismayed, he looks down at the list of crossed-out names. "We are left with the temples, big man", he mumbles to himself, "the shrines to the least trustworthy gods imaginable". He scratched his head in despair. Does Talos even have a temple in Calimport? Or Umberlee? How about the demonic entities of the deeps? Or the elemental lords?
Aha! Othos wanders off a little to get out of the line of sight of the priest of Kelemvor, while he sends out a psychic impulse. A few moments later, a raven lands next to him. “Here is the plan, Beaky”, he mutters while affectionately ruffling the bird’s head feathers. “Behind us is a pile of dead men. I need some of their shiny jewelry. I want you to collect as many as you think you can get away with, fly back home and put them on your perch. However, do not get caught by the hooded man! He is powerful and dangerous. Be sneaky. You can eat any excess flesh that comes with the shiny stuff if you want, but do not dally in order to feed. Does that seem doable?” As the bird flies off, he waits a little before retaking his place on the bench. Surely the Talosians will appreciate storm-brought offerings…
The raven attends Othos at his command, listening carefully to his master's instructions. After listening to the plan, the bird crows and takes to the skies, squawking at a seagull in his path. It quickly circles the pile of corpses as Torbjorn and the priest continue their conversation, sweeping down amongst the bodies much to the dismay of the seagulls who had been doing the same.
Behind the screen of corpses, no one can discern the raven's activities. Indeed, it seems that he has gone unnoticed by the crowds nearby and the other dock workers engaged in the macabre activity of wrangling the bloated dead. Only a moment later, the raven takes to the sky again and heads back towards Othos' apartment, a tiny glimmer of metal visible in his beak.
The first guard steps forward to engage the dwarf, leveling a scimitar slash at his head but the canny dwarf ducks out of the way, the blade missing by only a hair's breadth.
Dodging the attack, Shador smiles back to Absalon saying, "Don't let them escape - what good advice!" He then attempts a sudden leap past the guard and toward the sorcerer, drawing his rapier as he does so. He snaps his blade out at the sorcerer as he lands, hoping to distract the man before he could cast another spell.
The dwarf ducks and weaves away from the attacking guards and rolls into a position next to the sorcerer, whipping his blade from it's sheath and lining up an attack. The rapier's wicked point flashes out at the sorcerer, but is turned aside by magical force.
The second guard rushes in after the first, moving past his ally and into the position that Shador previously occupied. Seeing Absalon directly in front of him, he attacks the Sembian with reckless abandon. The guard judges his distance poorly, however, and his blade strikes nothing but air.
Absalon yanks his rapier free in a glint and blur. A hot rage washes over him, more for the presence of the sorcerer, than the guard's clumsy attack.
"Let's not disappoint," he quips, lashing out with a flourish at the overeager guard.
Absalon's blade snaps out of it's sheath and thrusts unerringly at the guard's chest. Taken unaware by the Sembian's almost inhuman speed, the guard fails to raise his shield in time to stop the blow, the razor-sharp point piercing cleanly through his chainmail and missing his heart by mere inches. The guard staggers in pain, gasping at the wound, but appears to still have some fight left in him.
The sorcerer, harrassed by Shador's attack, assumes a defensive posture as he casts another spell, clearly trained to work his art in battle. The arcane energy gathers at his fingertips and springs forth, sending a white-hot beam of searing energy directly at the dwarf. The rogue's reflexes move him quickly out of harm's way, however, and the beam scorches a spot on the floor nearby.
In the midst of the chaos, the Calishite Majib shakes his head, clearing the dazzling effects of the sorcerer's spell from his mind. He quickly takes stock of his position and prepares for action.
Seeing the dwarf tumble away from him and engage his ally, the first guard steps in line after him and makes another sweeping strike with his scimitar. Again, however, the dwarf is simply too mobile and too nimble for his clumsy attack. The curved blade strikes nothing but air.
Seeing that he is now being attacked from both sides, Shador redoubles his efforts to strike the spellcaster down quickly. Weaving back and forth to avoid the guard's attacks and keep the spellcaster guessing, he flashes his rapier deep inside the sorcerer's defenses. The blade dips low and manages to penetrate the magical barrier that thwarted him before, slicing through the top of the sorcerer's leg and drawing a wince of pain from him.
Still pressing the attack, the badly injured second guard attempts to strike the Sembian once again, keep his shield closer to his body for fear of another devastating attack getting through. The swing is clumsy and full of panic, however, and Absalon easily steps back out of the way. The guard's eyes go wide with fear.
Absalon's dark eyes flash over the guard, studying his defensive stance. He could easily have this fool disarmed, he decides. ...But this one seems the type to run, and the last thing I need is to have another city in an uproar around me.'
Behind the claret sheen of his blooded rapier’s tip, a wicked smile curls Absalon's lips. "Did they pay you enough, boy?" The Sembian purrs in his best Alzhedo, "Well enough to die today?"
Absalon advances, his teeth bared, and shoots his blade out towards the guardsman.
Absalon jeers at the young guard as he presses his attack, but the boy does show some skill in maneuvering his small shield enough to deflect the lethal strike, stopping the blade dead in it's path much to the fencer's chagrin.
The robed figure, seeing Majib gaining his senses again, reaches into his component pouch and draws another pinch of multicolored sand. Heedless of the fact that one of the guards remains in the area of effect, the sorcerer lets loose another swath of dazzling lights while avoiding Shador's harrassing attacks almost effortlessly. The wave passes over Majib, Absalon, and the guard engaged with Absalon in a flash, leaving Majib cursing and staggering and dropping the guard to the floor.
The first guard mutters a curse as his ally goes down in a heap from the sorcerer's errant spell, attacking the dwarf once again. The slice comes dangerously close to scoring a hit as Shador reacts at the last second with a timely parry to deflect the blow. Immediately afterwards, he thrusts forward once again at the sorcerer, trying to bring down the most obvious threat of the group as quickly as possible. The blade strikes true once again, punching through the spellcaster's magical defenses and puncturing his stomach. The sorcerer doubles over in pain, but shows no signs of going down yet.
I'm sure he would be pleased to know that he is not the only survivor. Tell me though, have you found yourself similarly visited by the spirits of your fallen compatriots?"
Well, THIS can't end well, Torbjorn thought, swiftly kicking into action and producing a whimpering sob. With teary eyes, he simpered, "I...I'm not sure just what they are, good sir...indeed, something haunted my dreams last night, but *sniffle* I'm not entirely sure what it was..."
With a mightly plumpfh, he plopped his girth right on the surface of the docs before the priest, and folded his hands as if to beg. Tears streaming down his face, he whispered, "Please, dear Father, tell me what you know of this terrible curse that has afflicted our crew and my friends! I am but a simple seafaring man, and know nothing of the will of the gods!"
Which is not entirely true, but he doesn't know that, Torbjorn thought. Best see what this pasty old fool knows, so I can get on with this terrible business at hand...
The priest tilts his head at the bawling seaman, placing a hand gingerly on his massive shoulder. "I... am sorry, child. Truly your loss is great but I know nothing of a curse. Do you have reason to believe that your mates have run afoul of some powerful entity that would seek their deaths? Please, speak to me of this matter and we will see what can be done."
The priest furrows his brow curiously at Torbjorn, apparently not quite buying the act at it's full value but not understanding the purpose of the ruse.
The priest tilts his head at the bawling seaman, placing a hand gingerly on his massive shoulder. "I... am sorry, child. Truly your loss is great but I know nothing of a curse. Do you have reason to believe that your mates have run afoul of some powerful entity that would seek their deaths? Please, speak to me of this matter and we will see what can be done."
The priest furrows his brow curiously at Torbjorn, apparently not quite buying the act at it's full value but not understanding the purpose of the ruse.
Well, when you can't bedazzle them with the shite of a bull, sometimes the truth ends up being stranger than the most bizarre fiction,Torbjorn though, coming to his senses but not leaving his knees nor raising his voice when he spoke.
"Yes, father, in fact I do. The Nansen took on some goods some weeks back that bore what appears to be an accursed mark. Many on her crew fell victim to unusual calamities and some grisly ends before we finally arrived here. But that in and of itself isn't so terribly unusual - which is faint praise considering the atrocities our captain and some of his associates are rumoured to have perpetrated."
Torbjorn threw his chin at the pile of bodies, his eyes never leaving those of the priest. "You see those men behind me? They tampered with great evils far beyond their comprehension in the relentless pursuit of wealth. Never did they stop and truly take stock of what forces were at play when they schemed their great scheme. The cursed items were most certainly partial payback from the gods for what they had presumed to do; or perhaps it was simple fate that brought them on board, and the Nansen's retribution awaited them last night with the storm."
His eyes, never blinking, bore through the priest's gaze. "Tell me, good sir, did one of these bodies have a silver tooth, here?," he asked, pointing to his own teeth. "If so, then the captain has indeed put paid to his transgressions, and perhaps those of us who remain can move on in peace, knowing that our deaths aren't so insurmountably preordained..."
"Tell me, good sir, did one of these bodies have a silver tooth, here?,"
The priest's eyes widened at Torbjorn's tale, finally closing in a solemn nod to the Northman's inquiry. "Your captain was indeed numbered amongst the dead. His body rests there," the priest indicated a badly scorched body near the bottom of the pile. "I have seen to it that these souls are properly prepared to be received into the afterlife. Fear not for your companions' immortal essence. They shall receive whatever fate is due to them in the house of Kelemvor. This 'accursed mark' you mentioned intrigues me, however. What led you to believe this mark was cursed? Truly the fate of your ship and it's mates is tragic and smacks of some ill fortune, but if there is any reason to believe that this incident is anything more than the vengeance of wrathful gods, I would hear more of your tale. It would not do to have a curse levied upon our fair city."
'Hurler of Thunders! This enchanter has gone mad,' Absalon spins about to face the sorcerer, and bounds forward. 'My mother might have wrecked havoc with the two of us by now. I'm not about to let this bastyrd keep trying until he succeeds.' Confident that the remaining guard will be easy work for Shador and himself, Absalon joins the dwarf's attack on the spell caster.
"Enough of this," he bites and slashes at the spell caster.
Absalon steps over the prone form of the guard he had been in battle with and joins Shador's attack, thrusting forward with his rapier and catching the wide-eyed sorcerer right in the nape of his neck, the blade cleanly puncturing his windpipe and sending the spellcaster to the ground with a gurgle of blood.
Majib regains his senses once more and snarls at the sorcerer's body, then turns to face the remaining guard. The Calishite draws his scimitar, diverting the guard's attention for only an instant while stepping forward. The diversion is all he needs, however, as the moment's hesitation provides Majib with an opening through which to deliver a killing strike to the man's throat, nearly beheading him.
"Mosh bikair," Majib uttered an Alzhedo curse. "How did they find us?! Those jackals have eyes everywhere! We need to leave here as quickly as possible. You two find your way back the Djinn and see what you can get from Ji. I've got other things to take care of... and much less time than I'd like to do it in."
The Calishite's eyes settled on the bleeding sorcerer and the unconscious and wounded guard. "You might want to finish them off. Question them in the cellar if you like, but make sure they don't live to reveal our identities to the rest of the Watch. I don't imagine you're going to be able to carry their bodies out of here in broad daylight without attracting notice. Good luck, gentlemen."
The Calishite turns and leaves without further hesitation, stepping out the open doorway and into the alley. He disappears into the crowded streets shortly thereafter.
So, the captain is dead, then. Othos leans forward as he tries to listen in on what the bizarre duo was discussing. Though the conversation between the sailor and the priest seemeed to mostly veer between the realms of the burlesque and the ridiculous - Othos had almost snorted with disbelief as the priest had referred to Calimport as a "our fair city" - the priest was approaching a matter that interested Othos as well. Of course, Torbjørn would probably feed him a load of nonsense, but it would nonetheless be interesting to hear just what kind of nonsense it would be...
"This one is past being of use to anyone," he sneers, his blade hanging over the sorcerer's heart.
"Still, he may have articles upon him that are more telling...and useful than any lies we may have bled from him." He pauses moment giving his new ally a chance to dissent, before plunging his sword through the sorcerer's chest.
He sheaths his blade, and begins to carefully search the arcanist's body, calling upon his modest knowledge of The Art, for anything of interest: scrolls, trinket, coins...dare he hope - some Spellguard symbol of authority. "That other one may rouse awake at any moment. More guards may be about, but if you're feeling bold," he says managing a smile. "I believe I can get him to answer anything we ask."
"Our advantages are few. He may not know how the Shadow Thieves so swiftly fell, but we might learn whom - if anyone - is being left unmolested by this overabundance of Calishite virtue."
Shador offers no dissent to the prospect of slaying the sorcerer. He had used some form of magic to hide himself from sight. Bringing him to consciousness could enable him to do so again and possibly escape. This was no time to take chances. Absalon's quick search of the sorcerer reveals a wand, an identifcation badge that signified him as a member of the City Watch, and various inconsequential spell components. He also discovered a finely crafted dagger with a jeweled pommel tucked in his belt and a pouch containing a few gold pieces.
The dwarf quickly removed the shield and all the weapons he could find (only a scimitar and small boot dagger) from the unconscious guard, then bound him in his own manacles. "Let's take this one into the cellar and question him there. I don't want to chance his cries for help being heard by the people just outside." The dwarf grabbed the man's feet and nodded to Absalon to take the head and lead the way down the stairs.
Absalon held up the sorcerer's badge and smiled, "What do you think? This may be useful 'ere long." He dropped the badge into his belt pouch and stuffed the wand into his pack, making mental note to estimate the wand's nature later on. The dagger he examines for a moment, '...fair sight prettier tooth than mine,' he thinks. He deposits it and coin pouch into his pack.
"We can divide this spoil later," he comments.
He crosses the alcove and takes the fallen guard by the shoulders, then slowly backs the captive down the stairs into the cellar. Setting the man down on his back on the gritty stone floor. The entire scene takes him back to another cellar, this one dank and foul with ill-kept food. The prisoner was Cormyri, and a sight bigger than the guard. He valiantly held on to his secrets, at least until just before the end.
Absalon draws his dagger. With the lantern lit just behind him, the Sembian's bloated shadow spreads out across the guardsman. He gives him a swift kick in the side.
"Wake up - you Calishite dog."
The guard grumbles at the kick, rolling around slightly as he comes to consciousness. It takes nearly a minute for the guard to finally focus enough to speak. The sorcerer's spell was clearly quite potent.
The guard winced at the puncture in his chest, just an inch below the collarbone, as he looked defeatedly at Absalon before him and Shador grinning in the corner of the darkened room.
"Wha- what do you want from me? I'm just a patrol guard..." the guard's head rocks back and forth, still reeling from the spell.
"Don’t sell yourself short,” says Absalon smiling. His dagger twisting in the dim lantern light. “Believe me, it tends toward ill-health.
“And after all, a man on patrol sees and hears a great many things that may interest an enterprising merchant such as myself. And if you manage to say anything to improve my foul mood, I might be persuaded to leave you here for your compatriots to find…eventually.
“I’m Cadmus Mallar of Sembia,” he says with nod of his head, relishing the comfort of dragging his father’s name into the gutter. “Now you don’t look like a scholar, so I don’t expect that you’ll realize that we’re merely tradesmen ourselves trying to eke out our coin, same as anyone else.
“There’s no reason – I see none – for our business to come under such harsh opposition. So what I think you may be able to tell me is what places – such as this place here – have you been instructed to mind especially. Conversely, I’d be pleased to the point of mercifulness if you told me what places your patrols have been told to give wide berth.
“And mind you,” he indicates Shador with a toss of his head. “My friend here has a talent for snatching lies out of the air that would put a mind-flayer to shame.”
The guard winced at the wound in his chest, his labored breathing rasping in the cloistered cellar chamber. He heard Absalon's questioning as though he were a hundred miles away, his mind inventing echoes from the pain and disorientation still lingering from the spell that rendered him unconscious.
"We were just following orders. The sorcerer... Hazzan... he was assigned to us last week. They told us to watch the northwest road leading to the Bazaar. Hazzan had his cat prowling around all the alleyways," he winced again, inhaling sharply, "the cat told him that someone had came in here so we set an ambush. I don't know anything else. The sorcerer had all the information. We were just his guards."
'The cat,' the words lay an icy pall over the Sembian's thoughts. 'The damned cat!' He gropes through his memory, through the murky recollection of those gloomy incense-filled nights on his mother's bony knees. Her own familiar creature was an emerald serpent; she was seldom apart from the creature. But what became of an arcanist's familiar once the master was dead? Had he even noticed what became of the cat during the fight above? It may well have been sent on an errand that would bring the rest of the guard down upon them with lethal finality...time was short.
He straightens and takes a step forward. "Alright, you say he was just assigned to you. Who assigned him? Give me a name. Further, what would have become of us had his enchantments overcome us? Where would you have taken us?"
Absalon begins formulating his final question, even as he decides where he will lay the first cut. The throat, of course, as unimaginative as it strikes him. He knows that he's grasping at straws with this one, but finding even a sliver of a clue might justify the risk they took in taking the time to question him. Next time, he considers, we must find a way to take one of these spellguards alive.
The guard searched for words, clearing the remaining cobwebs from his mind. "Hazzan was assigned to us by Captain Indri. He's the one who manages all the patrols around the Bazaar. I guess he had requested more Spellguards since a couple of our people had gotten picked off over the last couple of nights. It's you damn Shadow Thieves! You've brought this on yourself!" The guard squirms angrily, then winces in pain and settles back down again. "We would've taken you to the jail in Westgate. A couple weeks later you'd be executed for conspiracy against the city... unless you wanted to provide us with some information regarding the location of some of your friends' hideouts. Then we might be inclined to take it easy on you... maybe."
This 'accursed mark' you mentioned intrigues me, however. What led you to believe this mark was cursed? Truly the fate of your ship and it's mates is tragic and smacks of some ill fortune, but if there is any reason to believe that this incident is anything more than the vengeance of wrathful gods, I would hear more of your tale. It would not do to have a curse levied upon our fair city."
Tobjorn slowly stood to his full height, dusting the soot from the knees of his leather breeches. He sighed heavily, as if shrugging off all pretense of deception before this holy man. Better that the curse passes to this wretched hive of scum and villainy than follow me about, he thought.
He stood for a moment, fidgeting with his helm and staring blankly at the bodies before him. Turning to the priest, he said, "Several weeks ago we acquired a shipment of goods, all carrying a common sigil the likes of which I had never before seen. While none carried the aura of magics, those who chose to bear the marks sometimes met...curious...ends. But nothing my eyes have witnessed in the days since have proven to me that these marks were accursed, or that their fates were anything more than the the leavings of vengeance's hot pursuit. Aye, for all I know, their demise, and the fate of the ship last night, may be nothing more than the simple dice roll of chance, playing games with men's lives. It is as it is," he said with a shrug.
Reaching two fingers into a small belt pouch, he produced a small glimmer of coin. "Thank you, father, for guarding their souls from harm, and showing them the light and the path," he said, dropping three gold pieces gently into the priest's outstretched palm. "May the eyes of the wet gods now pass from these souls, and hopefully not linger too long over mine..."
Torbjorn turned, and walked back to Othos, who seemed to be watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and humour. Plopping his helm back on his head, Torbjorn smacked his hands together back and forth, as if to drive the very memory of this day from his body. "Come, you wee pink mystic," he said gently to Othos, "let us be gone from this place and never return..."
Othos climbs to his feet and falls into step next to Torbjørn. "We abandon the 'wrath of the gods' thesis, then, and assume that the perpetrators, whoever they may be, are mortal men? We could approach Talos' Altar of Storms and ask them of their interpretation of the situation ..., but, having said that, I would be most happy to leave this place as well". Turning away from the pile of waterlogged dead, he glances up at the sky. "We could take a short break and go back to my dwelling and catch some respite from the burning sun. With some luck, Gimble or Shador might have returned with some information. So, what say you?"
"I say that's the best idea I've heard all day. Nothing like a bit of a nap in the shade, especially after this...unpleasantness..."
"Cut him," the dwarf said after a long pause. "A two-bit guard is no good to us. We have some names to work off of now. I doubt this one knows the chain of command any higher than his own head and we need to put some distance between ourselves and this incident quickly in case another patrol comes along."
Shador sneered at the guard, then nodded to Absalon as he made his way out the cellar door. The guard's eyes went wide with panic.
"Indeed. One of the first customs I adopted once I ended up here was the midday nap. Today, it will also cool our mental, as well as our physical, bodies. I most certainly could use a break".
The two outlanders make their way back to Othos' apartment, picking up the fixings for a simple lunch along the way. Once there, they eat a modest meal, before Othos offers Torbjørn the use of his bed while he conducts some research in his personal library (and, incidentally, takes a look at what Beaky has dropped in his little nest in the office...).
Torbjorn snores like a red dragon in heat.
*sssssnnnnrrrrrzzzzzzkkkkkkkkkk*
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