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The wonderous trade city of Calimport rests at the far southern end of Faerun’s famous Sword Coast. Bordered by the Calim Desert to the North and East and opening to the Great Sea to the West and South, this ancient city has long served as a trade center for many merchants plying the waterways. The city is also host to many architectural wonders from the great gilded domes of the capital buildings to the multi-level apartments and manors all along the city’s streets. A city not foreign to opulence and refinement, Calimport also has its fair share of corruption and wickedness concealed beneath the façade of grandeur. In addition to legalized slavery and the open-market trading of poisons, drugs, and other vices, the infamous Shadow Thieves make their lairs in this land, hosting numerous guild halls in towns as far North as Baldur’s Gate and as far East as Halruaa. Known for their wickedness and skill, the true leadership of this guild has always remained secret even from its own members. In support of (and perhaps because of) the Shadow Thieves are several temples of Mask, the Lord of Thieves and servant of Bane. The locations of these temples remain hidden somewhere in the bowels of Calimport’s underworld, known only to those of the faith and a select few in the higher echelons of the local thieves.
Lately, however, the Shadow Thieves have drawn their support away from the temples and many of the clerics of Mask have been exposed by their former allies to be taken into custody, killed, or worse. What few thieves who dare to operate in this desert land outside of the Shadow Thieves’ purview have found themselves often being visited by wayward clergy in search of aid. Even the Lady of Loss, the dark goddess Shar, has suffered a diminution of loyal thieves. Many of them have disappeared completely, never to be seen again. It seems as though the usual activity in the city’s underground has turned inward. Temples of deities dark and malign have suffered noticeable declines in attendance. Many of their members have vanished without a trace but several others have simply decided to turn away. Those who turn their backs on these gods have been the targets of their wrath, but with the withdraw of the Shadow Thieves’ support, many churches have had to resort to drastic measures in order to carry out their vengeance.
Business, on the other hand, is booming. The trade caravans have been coming in from the North with alarming frequency and exotic goods from the Southern ports of Chult have brought an abundance of fine tobaccos, fruits, and other delicacies which are sold and shipped to ports beyond with great efficiency. The city’s normal compliment of merchants and peddlers has almost doubled in the last two years and the local officials credit the decline of the Shadow Thieves’ activity for this fortunate burst of commerce. As a security measure, security near the wharfs has increased dramatically and the inner city has also seen a rise in the frequency of guard patrols, often including talented sorcerers who join the patrols to provide greater aid to the city’s cause.
It is late spring, the height of the trade season, when our story begins. Though monsoons have blanketed the usually dry land with torrential rainfall for the last two days, the frequency of traders, privateers, and mercenaries passing through the port of Calimshan has not dwindled in the slightest. Within the Efreeti’s Djinn, an inn known in many lands for its fine food, ample companionship, and amusing name, we find several men of unwholesome reputation whom destiny has chosen to perform great deeds, the outcome of which only time will tell…
A studious and dour looking gentleman sits at one corner table, a plate of saucy meat and rice laid out before him. To his left, a Halfling still wearing his leather armor and somewhat damp from the rain sits and picks at a strange yellow fruit shaped like a bent rod, peeling the skin back to reveal a cream-colored, fleshy interior. In unison with a cacophonous thunderclap outside, a huge bear of a man steps through the main entrance, sending the door wide open and bellows a partially intoxicated greeting to those in attendance. Behind him, a wiry figure gives him an awkward glare and moves past, heading for the bar. The doorman scowls at the pair, but says nothing and closes the door calmly behind them to prevent more rain from pouring inside. The inn’s lowest level is laid out in traditional tavern style, with a long bar occupying an entire wall on the side nearest the door. Various tables and stools are set about with no apparent pattern and are easily rearranged by patrons who desire more or less room for themselves. The room is fairly crowded with sailors and merchants who have taken some time off for themselves and also hosts numerous female barmaids ferrying drinks to the red-faced patrons and taking plates and tips in kind. Behind the bar is a man of most curious countenance, his eyes a faded shade of orange and his hair as fiery as the sun. His bronzed skin and capricious demeanor suggests he is something other than human, but the details of his heritage are never revealed. Most of the human clientele are tanned or dark-skinned locals but at least a handful, including the boisterous drunkard who recently entered and the studious man in the corner, are of fairer complexion and suggest a person from lands far to the North. A few other races are represented, including the Halfling, a few half-elves (one of which is a barmaid), and a half-orc who watches the room from his post near the stairwell at the back, a heavy club in his hands at all times. Spirits are high, as is common with wealthy men in the company of wine and women, but hushed conversations mention in passing the recent troubles experienced by many of the local churches… and what has become of the Shadow Thieves.
As Berzeral approaches the bar, the fiery-haired man looks up at him in surprise. Berzeral sits at one of the stools and grins wickedly. The fiery-haired bartender smirks and approaches, leaning close to him.
"It's done then?"
Berzeral produces a single human ear bearing an unusual tattoo on the lobe from his pouch and hands it to the bartender who visibly cringes and then nods.
"Alright then..." he looks around for someplace to put the ear and then begrudginly places it in his own pouch before reaching under the bar and producing a small bag which jingles as he places it before the grinning cleric. "That should settle our deal. Food and drink are free for the night. After that, I want you gone. You know how you frighten the maids."
Upon seeing the large man burst through the door, several of the bar's regular patrons stand and cheer motioning to him to pull up a chair. It is clear that this man is a regular visitor to the bar from their reaction, but his clothing and color suggest someone who definitely isn't from around here. Regardless, one young man brings him a mug of ale filled to the brim, it's foamy head spilling over one side as he lifts it to him.
"Welcome back! I brought my wife here hoping you'd be back!" The young man points to the adorable young lady at his table who blushes and offers a polite wave. "After I heard your tale of the pirate attacks and the man with one arm who saved the merchant captain, I had to hear it again! I want to join the merchant guard, you see, and I think if she knew what honorable work I would be doing, she would be more at ease with letting me sign up. Please, have a seat! Drinks are on me!"
Othos and the Halfling both look up at the boisterous young man and the massive barbarian along with the rest of those in attendance. Othos immediately recognizes the man from his previous visits to the tavern. It is Torbjorn, a warrior bard from the far North. Othos was certain that there were likely many exaggerations in his tales of glory and battle but given the man's stature and scars, he was certain that this man had seen combat on numerous occassions and lived. Perhaps he would be useful in discovering the reasons behind the Shadow Thieves recent withdraw from the churches. If nothing else, he would certainly provide a deterrent for any assassins that may have caught wind of his investigations. With the Halfling's assistance and this man's battle prowess, surely they could get to the heart of the issue.
The Halfling, meanwhile, witnesses the exchange between the wiry man and the bartender. He had seen this grim traveller before and knew only the myths that surrounded him. He had heard tales of a wolfman who walked amongst men and collected their hides in the night. He had also heard that he often stalked the alleyways of the city, looking for fresh meat to feed his endless hunger. After seeing the exchange take place, however, he believed that there was something else about this man which made him even more attractive: he could be bought. He gently nudged Othos and indicated the man at the counter with a tiny finger.
"I think he might be able to help us too, if you're desperate for aid."
"’Desperate’? Seriously, my friend Gimble, you know that I am never desperate. I only experience minor, easily correctable setbacks". Othos smiles sourly at his clammy companion. "Also, we are in this together, so if I am desperate, then so are you. Having said that, we do need some more help". Othos eyes the rangy newcomer closely. "I’ve never seen him before, but your judgments are usually reliable. I know who the big fellow is - his stories are not the most reliable out there, but he’s actually mighty handy with a maul. Why don’t you invite your acquaintance over here, and then we’ll talk with the big one when his coterie of sycophants are done with him?". With that, Othos returns his attention to his food. This was going to be a very interesting afternoon...
"Alright then..." he looks around for someplace to put the ear and then begrudginly places it in his own pouch before reaching under the bar and producing a small bag which jingles as he places it before the grinning cleric. "That should settle our deal. Food and drink are free for the night. After that, I want you gone. You know how you frighten the maids."
Berzeral nods curtly and snatches the bag to his chest. "Fine. Whatever you say. Your maids have nothing to fear from me."
He withdraws to a far dark corner of the room and begins to sift through the coins, counting and recounting them. His eyes dart back and forth from his task to the others in the room a dark warning in them.
The big man is intriguing, a massive frame seemingly chiseled from the gory work of death amid the worst furies of the elements--and loved by the young and virile. A paragon. He could not help but smile. He could almost smell the blood on him.
He also noticed the halfling's eyes on him, but paid the small one little mind. Halflings make good prey, but one best not hunt where one sleeps...
The halfling smirked at Othos's request and hopped off his stool, leaving the fruit at his table after only taking a single bite. He made his way over towards Berzeral and taking a brief moment to analyze the man's actions and watched him count the coins. Finally, as he approached the table, he spoke.
"About 25 by my count, too. However, if you're interested in more money, and perhaps some more bloodshed, my companion would like to speak with you."
He made a grand sweep of his arms in the direction of Othos's table, smiling the smile of someone who was no stranger to the art of coersion.
"About 25 by my count, too. However, if you're interested in more money, and perhaps some more bloodshed, my companion would like to speak with you."
"Look around you, frail one. Too much money is what binds a fool to society, saps him of strength--turns him into a slave, fat and worthless, longing only for greater comfort and helplessness. I take only what money I need, keep it carefully, spend it only out of necessity. You understand? You endanger yourself by counting it, by looking at it--even by mentioning it. You understand? It is like meat to the beast, and you come to tug on it? Why? To see if I will maul you, frail one? I will."
He levels a heavy lidded gaze at the halfling, a hunter's gaze. But then scoots his stool backward and without another look makes his way to the table he gestures toward. He doesn't sit, just lurks there at the edge of the table. He leans down toward the other man seated there, his voice a cold whisper. "You the one wanting blood shed? What manner of blood?"
“I cannot tell you that”. Othos had prepared a long recruitment speech, but it was already painfully obvious that that speech would get him nowhere, except perhaps into the realm of pain and potential death. “However, I do not say that because I refuse to tell you – it is because I do not yet know. Please sit down as I explain”.
Othos pushes aside his plate of food. ”As you are well aware of, the natural balance of power seems to have shifted in the underworld of our fair city. The Shadow Thieves are either defeated and in disarray, or they are under some sort of siege and thus unable to flex their muscle in the manner we are accustomed to. I do not know which of these scenarios are correct; however, both offer resourceful and motivated people great amounts of opportunity. I, along with my esteemed companion here”, he nods towards Gimble, “intend to fish in these muddied waters. We intend to discover what has happened to the guild – if it has been defeated, we will loot the remains. If it needs help, we will provide it. Either way, we will enhance our reputations and gain in power and stature”. Othos’ face twists in a self-deprecating grimace. “However, we are not the most, shall we say, physically dominant individuals out there, and I fully expect to have to break quite a number of eggs to cook this omelette. The guild would not have gone down without fighting, and we will need to cope with these dangers as well. Thus, we are in need of talented, clever and ruthless companions, and you fit this bill perfectly. We cannot offer you fame, wealth or any such things. However, I can guarantee the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the personal satisfaction of prevailing in lethal confrontation. Also, this is an undertaking among equals, and we will share everything we acquire evenly. Torbjørn over there will round out our group– he does not know it yet, but once we can separate him from his hangers-on, he will be our last recruit. The four of us will walk in the shadows, striking suddenly with overwhelming force and deadly precision; our enemies will never know us before they fall. Does any of this sound at all interesting to you? If you need time to think it over, that is fine with me. However, the longer we take, the higher the chance is that somebody else will walk the path I have delineated for you”.
Having made his pitch, Othos leans back a little, eyeing the Malarite expectantly.
"The four of us will walk in the shadows, striking suddenly with overwhelming force and deadly precision; our enemies will never know us before they fall. Does any of this sound at all interesting to you? If you need time to think it over, that is fine with me. However, the longer we take, the higher the chance is that somebody else will walk the path I have delineated for you”.
He nods immediately. "I need not think it over. I accept. You seem to understand me, and that speaks well of you. It seems that what you desire will give me what I want as well. So long as that remains the case then we have an agreement."
He pulls out the chair and sits, looking over toward the hulking fighter and his throng of devotees. "What is the plan for securing the services of the large one there?"
"...and before the last head had hit the floor, by Edvark's beard, we had taken the ship as our prize!!"
A great cheer of victorious laughter rose from the gathered throng, as the hulking mountain of a man finished his story with some small flair. Sloshing about a tankard that could easily serve as a halfling's washbasin, gripped tight by gnarled fingers scarred and dry from years on the open sea, the storyteller basked in the glow of his admiring throng. Ahh yes, he thought to himself, THIS is why I put myself through this. His ego, always craving a steady stream of affirmation, was for the moment sated and comfortable. Or was it simply the alcohol, rushing to his head and making him slightly woozy like a peach-fuzz greenie fresh from his mother's robes?
Hmm, he though. Been too long since I've had stiff drink. Must remedy that. Much too long for other things as well... His sharp grey eyes caught the fawning blush of the young hopeful's wife, coming hither unto him like a smitten schoolgirl. He felt the familiar rush of blood, perhaps hastened by the ale. Yes, too long...
Leaning back in his chair, he turned to the man whose wife had so wanted to hear the story so vividly told - a story that he'd already flung from his memory. Was it an honest tale, or like so many other sea stories before it, simple fancy? No matter. It had been birthed to the imaginations of the gathered enthusiasts, and set free to be retold and twisted to the circumstances for the rest of time. His steely glare caught the man as if around the throat, in a tight grip that would broker no argument.
"So, young Varl, do you think your fair lady has had her share of my stories, or shall I continue with more tales of adventure and daring in the merchant guard?", the last accented by a quick glance and wink at the now-blushing beauty.
"Oh but I know you've just begun, Master Skraelinghjelm. By all means, please continue with--"
"CONTINUE?!?", the mountain roared, appearing furious and yet with a playful gleam in his salty eye. "By the gods how can a man tell further stories when his throat is DRY and PARCHED as mine??" He tipped back the massive urn and poured the remaining gallon of ale straight down his throat, wiped his gnarled red beard with a trunk-like forearm, and belched for a respectable eight straight seconds. After acknowledging a raucous round of cheering, he smashed the empty tankard into the young hopeful's belly, hard enough to draw a startled whoof. "I've been at sea for six straight weeks, lad! Now go," he said, leaning close, "go and get me some more ale. You ARE buying, after all. And do it...slowly." His eyes held an unspoken menace.
"Yy...yes, of..of course..." the now-pale youngster said, casting frightened glances at his suddenly unattended wife. "Please, feel...feel free to continue while I'm, uhh, away..."
Torbjorn hardly heard a word, as his attentions had now turned to the brightly blushing vixen. With one massive paw, he reached out, scooped her up by her backside, and planted her, squealing with glee, squarely upon his lap to the cheers and bellowing laughter of those around them. "Well now, lass," he said, holding her giggling form close, "have I got a little story just for you..."
I smile charmingly, although there is an edge of steel to the smile and say "Excellent, your services should be most helpful."
The young man cautiously glanced over his shoulder to see his wife planted upon the man's lap and his jaw dropped open in shock and anger. The tittering smile on his wife's face only added to his fury. Still, the Northman was easily twice his size... he was powerless to stop him and hung his head in shame as he moved to fetch a drink for the storyteller at the bar. The bartender simply smiled and filled the drink, taking the man's silver piece as payment and tilling it behind the counter.
Glancing at the revelry once again, the Northman had begun his boisterous laughter again, speaking undoubtedly lewd and unwholesome things in his wife's ear. Knowing that a direct confrontation would surely mean his death, he opted to preserve his dignity in the only feeble way he could: he spat in the drink of the Northman and brought it before him with a smile as false as his bravado.
Laughter spilled from the gathered knot of locals, side-splitting at some jape, gasping for air at the audacity of some lie. One booming laugh stood out above the rest, a laugh that sounded like nothing so much as boulders caroming off one another, tumbling down a bottomless cliff. Varl slowly and carefully worked his way through the crowd, vigilant to not spill a single drop of his hard-won victory. The slight smirk on his face gave him some small measure of bravery, enough to deliver the massive tankard to the brute once more.
"For you, our most favoured storyteller," he said, grunting in effort while heaving the foot-tall flagon to Torbjorn. "May you tongue be loosened and your tales ever greater!"
Torbjorn drunkenly turned his head toward the voice, twisting to avoid the tiny arms now wrapped around his trunk-like neck, the fragile fingers toying with his flowing hair and beard. His brows lifting in surprise, his eyes agleam, Torbjorn let loose a mighty laugh and bellowed, "Why Varl! My good sir! I didn't think you had it in you to return! A good man indeed, and worthy of the merchant guard yet!"
He turned to Varl's now-smitten, giggling wife and whispered, with a smile and shocking tenderness, "My sweet. Your husband has brought me a great gift. Honour dictates that I must return the favor." She smiled nervously in return, unsure what this all meant.
Torbjorn grabbed her diminutive hips and lifted her gently onto the table to his right. Placing hands the size of ship's wheels upon the table, he stood upright to his full height Whipping his arms wide and turning side to side, he yelled, "Friends! Gathered acquaintances! Come close and listen, for I have a new hero of the Realm to present to you!" The tittering crowd grew silent.
Looking down to his left, Torbjorn placed his massive paw on the back of Varl's neck. "This fine lad wishes to join the ranks of the most high Merchant Guard. Now stop that snickering, and don't laugh - he has proven himself this very night to be a man of high virtue, a man who honours his word, and a man who, beyond else, values his dignity."
He reached down, grabbing the gigantic tankard in his right fist and raising it high. "Let us toast this fine example of bravery and honour! Let us recognize Varl The Brave! Varl The Just! Join me in a drink, and a toast, in the name of one MOST respected and loved! To Varl, of Calimport!"
Many of the drunken revelers raised their glasses with a laugh, or shared a knowing smile at what they suspected was to come, and crowded near. Varl, already uncomfortable with the apparent ease with which his wife so willingly betrayed their vows, now glanced about nervously like a trapped rat. Torbjorn swung his ale side to side, encouraging more and more glasses to fill the air, and continued his toast.
"May his arrows fly true! May his aim be clear!"
Suddenly, Torbjorn's left hand clenched the back Varl's scrawny, pale neck, the tendons in his forearm stretching taut from the grip. Varl's eyes snapped open in shock and sudden realization, yet he was simply too stunned to react. In a brief flash, the massive tankard whipped toward Varl's gasping face, already rushing forward with frightning speed from the pressing hand on his neck. The sudden, sickening crunch of bone, wood and tin, mixed with two gallons of ale rocketing forth, drew startled gasps from some; cheers of support from most; and a tiny, high scream from Calimshaw's newest widow.
Twisting his open fists together with all his strength, Torbjorn felt the all-too-familiar slurry of shattered bone and gore ooze from between his clenched fingers, as the dagger-sharp fragments of the mug burrowed through the pulverized skull. A smile crossed his face as Varl's body twitched once, twice, then slumped still and silent before him. Varl's feet cleared the floor as Torbjorn raised his bloody hands up to eye level, still clenching the head; his lips drew close to the shattered skull in his grasp. Quietly, he whispered, "...and may his lovely young bride rue the day she was born."
He released his slippery grip, and the shattered remains of Varl's corpse slumped to the floor, to the raucous cheers of the gathered crowd.
Torbjorn turned with lightning speed and grabbed the tiny, hysterical woman by the arms and tossed her over his shoulder, laughing. He turned and took six great strides towards the half-orc guard at the bottom the stairs, a guard who hadn't even so much as flinched at the gory display. Torbjorn stood before him, with a grim face, and asked, "Well, Timothy? What do you think? Should I be carted off before the magistrate for my crimes this day?"
The guard, hardly moving, looked Torbjorn up and down, paying close attention to the bloody mitts now holding the screaming, struggling young redhead tight to his shoulder. "I think," Timothy said, "that your room is still in the same spot you left it." With a toothy grin, the half-orc stood aside and allowed Torbjorn, and his squirming prize, to begin the climb up the steps.
The crowd below, till now quietly anticipating the judgment of the bouncer, let out a loud and mighty cheer. Torbjorn turned his ruddy head and laughed to the guard, "Thanks, old friend. As always, I'll save some for you!" With that he turned and thundered up the stairs three at a time and disappeared from sight, to the loudest cheers he'd heard all night long.
Yes, he thought with a smile. A very long time, indeed...
"Damn".
Othos has to exert some willpower to close his gaping mouth after Torbjorn’s shocking display of power and vicious opportunism. "He is most definitely our man. You do not think he will kill the girl, do you?", he asks of no-one in particular, before turning back to Berzeral with a sardonic grin. "I do not think we will need to worry about how we should separate him from his followers, do you not agree? As for my recruiting pitch, I simply intend to offer him an opportunity for adventure, plunder and glory among equals, rather than settling for handouts from human sheep like those over there. He will sign on, I am more certain than ever. Now pardon me for a second while I clean up his mess. We don’t want the city guard to show up; additionally, I rather like this place, and it would be a good idea to stay on the good side of the management".
He gets up and wanders over to Varl's shell-shocked group of friends, before kneeling down over the messy wreckage of the young man's face. "I am a healer", he says to the group. "Let me see how he is doing".
"There you go. He will need futher care and bed rest - and most probably some additional medical attention. However, he is no longer at risk of bleeding out and dying. Now get him to his mother or some similar place where he can rest out". He nods to the doorman as he walks back to his table. "The girl will be crawling down the stairs in half an hour or so. Then we go upstairs and have a chat. Until then, I intend to finish my dinner. You might want to do the same, as this place has rather good food". With that, Othos turns his attention back to his plate's contents.
The cheering dies down as Othos makes his way to the young man, suddenly noticing the severity of his injuries. The people seated around his table, most likely friends of his, stand in open-mouthed shock when they finally get a clear view at what has happened.
Othos delivers the tiniest spark of his healing magic into the boy's face, halting the bleeding and most likely saving his life. Given the severity of the damage to his skull, however, it is unlikely that he will ever speak or walk again. Over by the stairwell, the half-orc simply chuckles, not moving an inch to disperse the gawking crowd.
It is not long before a pair of Calimshan's guards come through the doorway, questioning the doorman about the recent uproar. The doorman casually explains that a bard had just told an exciting tale in which there had been a mock fight and one of the patrons was minorly injured. He motioned to the floor, careful to use his body to block most of the view, and informed them that a cleric was on hand so there was no need for their services. He then handed them each a few gold pieces and they continued on their way, nodding to the patrons who were all too stunned and horrified to utter a protest.
As Othos stands to address those near the fallen boy, he recognizes one of the faces in the crowd as a former member of the congregation of Shar: A man by the name of Morn. He had a reputation for being a very shrewd businessman specializing in the sale of blades, particularly of the easily-concealed variety, and was a known ally of both the church and the Shadow Thieves before the disappearances started. He had not been seen in the Lady of Darkness's halls for weeks now and yet there he stood, in the midst of everyone, wearing a finely-embroidered red silk vest and long trousers made of similar materials. He had never really been a wealthy man before, given the limited scope of his business, but he appeared to have fared much better in the recent weeks. A fat coin pouch hung from his sash, safely secured by a leather cord and it bore an unusual mark, though it was likely the tanner's signature as was customary for such items.
Despite Othos's recognition of this man, he knew that this individual had never met him personally and thus did not seem to recognize him in kind.
As the extent of the boy's injuries become more apparent, and those who knew him recoil, Berzeral sits up in his seat, a gleam in his eye, his mouth twisting in a mix of amazement and fear.
"Such ferocity...this man is a beast..." there is a deep reverence in the words, that come out slow in a hoarse whisper.
The guards come and go, hearing nothing but easy lies and the loud clatter of coin in their ears. Berzeral waits and listens, not to the goings on in the tavern, for they are inconsequential. He mutters to himself, though it's not clear if his friends at the table are meant to hear him or not. "The seed of this one...if it takes hold...must be allowed to come forth. I will see to it."
He contemplates using some of the power of Malar to stifle the weak mewlings of the ruined boy, to finish what had been begun. The fight had been for a mate, however, and the big one had chosen no end it in such a way that the youth would remain a wreck for the rest of his days--who was he to interfere. Soon enough weather or illness would take him and things would be set right.
He watches the stair, waits for the forthcoming time when the woman is to descend, waiting to gauge her condition, ready to find her a place where she may be safely kept. He will have to notify those of his pack, and arrange a midwife to tend her for the next months. He will pay her all he has...
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"Um…", Othos glances over at the Malarite. "She is a very pretty girl…" What in the names of all the archdevils was he talking about? With some effort, he swallows a sarcastic comment and straightens up.
"See the red-clad man over there, who stands out like a yagnoloth in a nunnery? He was just another struggling craftsman a few weeks ago; he is obviously a bit more than that now. Moreover, he is connected to the guild. Keep an eye on him", he tells Gimble, "and tail him if he leaves before our business here is concluded. He is probably armed and, by the look of his purse, he has some guards, so don’t do anything irresponsible". He turns back again to Berzeral. "You want to secure the girl? Fine. It is actually a good idea, considering the state she will be in and the quality of our neighbourhood. I will speak to our hulking friend. If we split up, we will meet again at my apartment at midnight". Packmates?
The halfling nodded in deference to Othos's command, stepping away from the crowd in order to get a better view of the man and the events occurring around him. In the wake of recent events, several patrons leave the tavern including the young man's friends who carry him out the door mumbling about how they're going to afford further restoration... and if it is even possible.
As time rolls on, the rain outside shows no sign of relenting and the tavern's crowd begins making their egress either out into the weather or upstairs to their room (though they do so with great trepidation for fear of provoking the barbarian's wrath). The fiery-haired man behind the counter continues his routines, cleaning mugs and distributing drinks while the maids continue to ferry plates of food from the kitchen in the back out to what few customers arrive at this late hour. It isn't much longer before the barbarian's thunderous footsteps echo off the wooden steps as he reemerges into the tavern proper, a profound grin upon his face. He glances to the half-orc guard then jerks his thumb up the stairs with a wink. The half-orc grins as he abandons his post with haste and slaps the huge man on the shoulder as he passes.
The crowd has thinned a bit, but does not show any signs of completely vanishing soon. The man in the red silk garb is still present, enjoying the company of two ladies of the night who sit around his table, listening closely as he tells them of his business and the many close calls that he's had in his line of work.
Grinning broadly, Torbjorn sidled up to the bar, the lone free stool audibly straining under his girth. The patrons to either side suddenly found themselves with some very important business to attend to elsewhere, ducking and moving quickly away.
"Ale for a thirsty minstrel, my good sir!" he bellowed with mock respect to the bartender, a man who had seen the Northman's adventures time and time again and, for reasons unknown even to Torbjorn, continued to cast a blind eye.
Ale may quench the thirst of my throat, Torbjorn thought, and my loins are still, for now. But what of this madness with the captain? His brow furrowed in sudden, deep thought, as the pressing concerns of the outside world came crashing back into his relatively sober consciousness. By the gods, what if the threats and curses upon the ship play out? THEN what will I do?
Othos looks up in mild surprise as the huge Norseman bounds down the stairs. "Hmm… Not what I expected. I would have preferred to talk with him in a somewhat more private setting. Still, this is our chance". He stands up, motioning Berzeral to come with him. "We can collect the girl afterwards, I suppose. At least he looks more sober now". Here it goes…
"Excuse me", he says as he wanders up next to Torbjørn, shooting the neighbouring barfly an icy glare to make him mind his own business. "Undoubtedly you will react with great delight when I tell you that young Varl will live. Unfortunately, his chosen profession may no longer be open to him, as he will most probably never walk or talk normally again. However, Varl’s health isn’t really what we want to discuss with you. Along with my companions, I was hoping to extend an offer to you. As I am sure you know well, the underworld of this city is experiencing something of an upheaval. The Shadow Thieves are either done for, or they are in a situation that has put them at a grave disadvantage. In these chaotic circumstances, opportunity comes knocking, and it is our intention to open our doors to it. Our plan is to discover what has happened to the guild – if it has been defeated, we will pick its bones, and if it needs assistance, we will help it. We win either way, as we will enhance our stature amongst those that actually matter in this city".
"However", Othos’ continues,. "In addition to purely material gains, we can also offer you something that is of equally significant value, and that is glorious adventure alongside equals. I know you and your reputation; it is quite possible that you are content with subsiding on trifles and handouts bought through the telling of improbable stories to the timid and the weak. I, however, suspect that you grow weary of being an object of curiosity to slumming socialites. We offer you a chance to forge your own reputation independently of those you disdain, and to establish your power in spite of their snubs and condescension. Our project might prove to be easy, but it probably will not; indeed, I expect that we will have to contend with a significant number of hostile forces, and that we will have to forge our way through them in bloody battle. Of course, as befits an undertaking between equals, we shall share everything we acquire evenly - and there should be plenty to go around. After all, the Shadow Thieves’ wealth is legendary".
Othos’ face splits into a wide grin as he leans further towards the Northerner. "You surely recognise that this is something more than just a business proposal. You have acquired something of an admirer in master Berzeral here; we are, in so many words, quite excited at the thoughts of adventuring with you. Today’s little incident just cemented our impression of you and convinced us you are indeed the man we want and the final part of our puzzle". Othos straightens back up. "I have made my case. What say ye? Of course, you may take all the time you need to think about it, but the longer we wait, the more likely it is that someone will be doing just what I have described to you."
Othos' proposal hung in the air, greeted with silence from the gigantic sailor, who stared straight ahead and nursed his ale. The background din of the tavern continued unabated, and for all the world it appeard as if Torbjørn hadn't heard a single word, lost as he was in apparent thought.
Finally, just as Othos opened his mouth to speak once more, Torbjørn gently set the tankard on the bar, twisted his massive torso and laid a meaty arm atop the bar. His eyes, before gleaming pools of amusement and mirth, were now at once steely, threatening and intense. The smirk that creased his sea-worn face contained equal parts amusement and thinly-veiled danger.
"Now what, good cleric," he rumbled softly, "would make you believe that a simple sailor like me has the slightest interest in becoming 'equal' to the likes of you and your brethren? Hmm?" He stood, slowly. the stool groaning in relief, his head nearly scraping the low smoke-stained beams. He reached into his belt and produced a pouch that seemed a mere thimble in his huge fingers. Shaking loose several gold coins, he set three on the counter and threw a nod of thanks to the exotic barkeep, who nodded silently in return. When he turned his attention back to Othos, his fingers held a single golden coin directly in front of the cleric's face.
"I'm certain that this will cover any expenses you may have incurred saving that pitiful whelp's life," he said, turning his hand over and dropping the gold to Othos' feet. Plopping a great two-horned helm upon his head and shouldering his rucksack, he grinned that menacing grin once more and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a boat to catch." With that, he shouldered his way past Othos and made for the tavern door...
A momentary burst of near-uncontrollable anger spreads across Othos’ face, transforming it into rictus grin of murderous rage. Standing in front of the departing Norseman, he puts his hand on Torbjorn’s chest. "What do you want me to say, big man?", he snarls before regaining a tiny bit of his composure. "You deliberately underestimate yourself for rhetorical gain. ‘Simple sailor’, eh? Do you want me to beg? ‘Ooooh, Torbjorn, we cannot do without you’. ‘Ooooh, you are far more than a simple sailor’, or some such thing? I can do that quite easily, but I will not. Do you really think you can intimidate me into lathering you with hollow praise?". Othos calms down a little further, and his voice loses some of its hard edge. "You misunderstand the nature of our offer. We do not count ourselves amongst those lickspittles that that you so readily exploit. We are hunters, not prey. That is the ‘equal’ part - we do indeed want you to join our merry band, but it will not be on your terms alone".
He drops his hand and steps out of the sailor’s way. "We are men who are willing to risk much to gain much. I actually thought you would, too. However, if you would rather go back to your boat in order to sail somewhere where some fool will buy you yet another tankard of weak beer in exchange for that story you have told innumerable times before, so be it. I will not stand in the way of such an exciting prospect". He hands the gold coin back. "Don’t forget this one - it might just get you one more friend there".
Gimble slips beneath a nearby table, drawing his tiny dagger and waiting to see how this latest proposition plays out. He sits poised to strike at the slightest hostility between the jugernaut and his latest employer.
"The bigger they are..." he thinks to himself, grinning wickedly.
Berzeral draws back, scowling a bit at the behavior of his new partner and a little irritated at being drawn so intimately and drastically into this vastly dangerous gambit. He'd seen personally what this massive seaman was capable of--as well he understood what dire emergency underlay his smiling exterior. Cautious and wary Berzeral takes several nonthreatening steps away, distancing himself from his wizardly companion whose unfortunate loss of composure might easily force him into an unsavory conflict. Now was the time to slip away quietly. His unwise companion seems too irate to take notice, the giant too nonplussed to yet care.
He shadows his way back toward the stairs, and slips up toward the rooms. Tugging his wolf cowl over his forehead he visualizes a guise in his mind, mouthing some phrase in orcish, incomprehensible to him--to begin the transformation. Suddenly he is a fair matronly lady in a long carmel and brown dress, the hat is now an elaborate wooden wolfhead hairpin. The gory necklace around his neck becomes an orange scarf, the belt turns into an embroidered apron. He would go younger, but for the need to use his voice--which while offputting in an older woman would be enough to ruin a younger guise. He stalks down the hall--listening for telltale sobbing.
As Berzeral crests the top of the stairs and turns down the solitary hall that comprises the upstairs of the inn, he sees the half-orc from earlier exiting a room and closing the door, an impossibly wide grin on his face as the sobbing Berzeral sought comes issuing forth. The orcish man turned his head in Berzeral's direction, his smile immediately becoming a flat scowl.
"I don't recognize you... where's your room key?" he snarled as he approached, clutching the club on his belt once again.
Berzeral growls deep in his throat and lets the divine energy of Malar enter his voice. "Cower!" The word is thick with the howling power of the predator, vastly out of seeming with the motherly figure pronouncing it--a command issued through the lips of the servant of the great Beast God, hunter of all flesh.
The half-orc's snarling face quickly assumes a look of absolute horror in the presence of the Beast Lord's chosen. He freezes in place, shrinking his frame against the opposite wall and provides passage to the cleric without further arguement.
Quickly and deftly, knowing his time is short, the cleric guised as a woman glides up against the half-orc, putting a hand across his chin and slicing across his windpipe with the holy weapon of his tribe. He drags the guard down the hall to his room, every few feet looking back to see if there are signs of resistance from his prey, ready to once again slice him if he is uncooperative. Then unlocking the door he drags the thug inside to finish the job. Regrettably the business with the half-orc would take more ferocitiy and brutality to make up for the little time they would have together. Then wash up quickly in the washbasin and make his way to quickly find the woman...
Torbjorn looked down, the gleaming gold stag practically lost in his enormous palm. He looked back up at Othos, brow crinkling, eyes glistening as he sized up the cleric in an expression of true bemusement.
Is this a sign from the gods? he thought, briefly wondering if he shouldn't just strike this blabbering imbecile dead where he stood. Remember your place, lad. You may wish to come to this town again, and who knows what evil may yet befall the ship. Your oaths to the captain remain in place.
Cocking his head slightly, he said, "Do you even know my name? Have you the slightest idea with whom you presume to treat? I am Torbjørn Skrælinghjelm, second mate on the frigate Fridtjof Nansen. We make the run from north to south ever six weeks, taking what cargo and plunder the gods have provided us along the way. Occasionally I tell sea stories for the enjoyment of all. Some may find me exceptional, but none will find me extraordinary."
His meaty fingers slid the coin inside his belt. His eyes, never leaving Othos', never blinking, were unreadable. Standing slightly more upright, he said, "While I am flattered that you would wish to recruit me to your noble cause, I am afraid, good and faithful ser, that I am the equal...of no man."
Torbjorn shifted the rucksack across his broad shoulders, and said, "Good luck to you and your merry band, who and whatever they may be." He grinned an impish grin. "Perhaps, when next we meet, I'll have the pleasure of entertaining your wife. Safe journeys!"
With surprising gentleness and grace, he stepped around the stunned Othos and made for the door, completely uninterested in hearing more. He did, after all, have a boat to catch...
Othos methodically curses the names of all the gods he knows about as he watches the sailor lumber off. He then casts a glance around the bar and comes to the depressing realisation that, though Morn still remained, both Berezal and Gimble were gone as well. His whole crew had evaporated like morning dew, well before any of his plans could be implemented.
Defeated, his shoulders slump as he turns slowly towards the flametouched barkeep. "I could use a stiff drink", he says in a hollow voice. "On second thought, make it a double". He carries his drink over to his table to consider his options. Damnable people. Could it be that his father actually had it right - that it was best to surround oneself with mindless, rotting servitors and magically dominated floozies? No, that line of thought was unbearable - also, look where it got him: headless and naked in a Calimport whorehouse. The last thought brings a small smile to Othos’ face and returns a small amount of cheer to his spirits. This was just a small setback, easily overcome. But where in the Nine Hells was Berzeral? Didn’t he talk about getting that girl from the Norseman’s room? Was the Malarite really going to babysit her for the next nine months? Othos shakes his head in amused disbelief. He would finish his drink and then go upstairs and see what the savage priest was up to. After that, somebody, anybody would pay for making him feel this foolish…
"Aha!". A sudden bolt of inspiration hits Othos. The Northman was actually right - he did not know very much about Torbjørn Skrælinghjelm, second mate on the frigate Fridtjof Nansen. But he could rectify that. He slugs down the firewater, bounds to his feet and walks out of the tavern. Once outside, he walks into a side alley and lets out a sharp whistle. Moments later, a big black bird alights on his shoulder.
"See, Beaky, I brought you this", Othos smiles as he feeds his familiar a leftover chunk of meat saved from his dinner. "A huge man wearing a horned helmet left this house just a couple of minutes ago. He is headed for the water, as he lives on a really big boat. Find him, and then listen to what he says. Do not let him see you. Got that? Good boy". The bird makes an affirmative screech before jumping off his arm and flapping off into the night. One less problem to worry about. Now, what was Berzeral up to? Othos strides back into the tavern and heads for the stairs. And wasn’t there supposed to be a doorman somewhere?
I slip back to my table, impressed by the big man's show of strength but not at all pleased with his lack of subtlety.
The half-orc is unable to form any effective resistance against the cleric's savage beatings. Incapacitated and bleeding, the pitiful creature is unable to even scream as Berzeral finishes what he started. Berzeral washes his hands quickly and makes his way across the hall to find the woman huddled into a ball, wrapped in a bedsheet on the floor and sobbing incoherently. She shrinks back in horror at the sound of the door being pushed open again, staring up at the cleric's disguise with a look of utter defeat.
"P-p-please..." she stammers as she extends a hand towards the cleric. Her face has been bruised, her clothes completely torn apart and discarded to the side of the room. The air within the small room still bears the tangy scent of lust. "Don't... don't..."
The woman seems unable to form anything resembling a sentence, so complete is her humiliation and terror. She crawls weakly towards the door, limbs shuddering from fear and exhaustion.
Outside, Othos calls to his familiar through the downpour. The bird's sleek feathers are damp from the rain and Othos feels a sense of utter displeasure through the empathic link. A chill wind whips through the alleyway, though a nearby overhanging roof provides some small shelter from the storm.
The bird tilts its head at the offered morsel and takes it quickly as Othos explains his wishes. Upon receiving it's orders, it crows at him briefly in protest, shivers rapidly to shake the moisture from itself, and returns to the sky above, into the torrential rain.
Again, the empathic link suggests that this weather is less than pleasant for the airborne spy as a solid bolt of lightning streaks across the sky.
Torbjorn exits the tavern into the driving rain and begins making his way through the marketplace outside, mostly closed and covered due to the rain, but several intrepid hawkers continue their business as normal, particularly those dealing in parasols and warm blankets.
Torbjorn plods his way through the mess of carts and wagons inexorably towards the docks. It isn't until he is standing next to the customs building at the east end of the wharf that he can finally see the silhouette of the ships in the harbor - the black masts rising high into the grey sky as shadows against smoke. He smiles as he finds the figurehead at the prow of his own ship and then is promptly staggered back as a white-hot bolt of lightning strikes her mast, shattering the main mast into a thousand smoldering pieces and blowing clear through to the deck below.
Screams of men and women echo across the docks as several shapes begin to flee the vessel. From this vantagepoint, Torbjorn can see a fire has started inside the vessel. The mystery of how a fire could survive such rain as this is answered by an outside voice just as Torbjorn's inner voice comes to the same conclusion: "The liquor stores! They've caught!"
The voice belongs to one of his shipmates, a young and powerfully built lad by the name of Helg Jaelimson. He calls out from far down the docks, running as fast as his legs can carry him away from the ship's blazing hull. Only moments after his proclaimation, one of the casks ruptures in the hold, sending a gout of flame 20 feet into the air. Helg continues running until he reaches the customs building, looking at Torbjorn and then looking back over his own shoulder at the inferno on display. Even at this distance, through the driving rain, the heat of the blaze can be felt against moist skin. The screams of those trapped within can be heard as well.
"The B!tch Queen has cast us ashore, Torbjorn. She'll have no more of us this season..." Helg states flatly, his shoulders going slack in disappointment. "Perhaps the captain should have listened to you. It is not wise to refuse the sea goddess her bounty. This storm is her vengeance, I say. This is her wrath."
As the inferno peaks deep within the hull of the ship, the screams begin to die out as those trapped within perish in the hellish flames. High overhead, a black bird circles.
Berzeral enters the room quickly. "Oh you poor dear..." he lightens his tone a bit, making his voice softer and more feminine--but takes no great pains to insure a great performance, relying primarily on the visual disguise to do the work for him. He takes the washbasin in the room and goes to work cleaning her. Carefully he does together what fabric of her clothes are still intact, continually whispering soothing consolations to her. He looks her over, both to get a sense for the extent of her injuries when it comes time to move her--but also to get a general sense of the quality of her breeding, her strength and tone. He moves to get extra sheets if they are provided, or else a nice clean tablecloth to wrap over her--not wanting, for a variety of reasons, to use the bedsheet.
"Everything will be fine dearie...just fine. You just let me take care of you now." Presuming she was able to move, he would assist her down the stairs, and out of the tavern. He had directions to the residence of the tall thin one, and a time to meet him--and he would when things were cared for. For now he would need to find a proper place for her to stay--someplace private and comfortable. Gold he had plenty, which was good. He would be wanting to buy some privacy as well--a nurse to tend her and feed her, and most importantly a midwife to make the appropriate determinations...
As if the torrential rain and strong winds weren’t bad enough, the crackle of lightning and its accompanying smell of ozone makes the frazzled raven’s decision easy. It might only have caught a few of the men’s words, but it would have to do. It turns and hightails back to the inn.
Perplexed, Othos stands in the hallway as he receives the returning bird’s faint mental signal. In contrast to the turbulent weather outside, everything was ominously quiet on the inn’s second floor. All the doors were locked, with no sounds emerging. Damned high-class taverns and their quality soundproofing. Puzzled and annoyed, Othos walks downstairs again, and hails one of the serving girls. Beaky would need some serious mollification after his mission in the horrid weather, so Othos orders some hard-boiled eggs and a bowl of nuts, almonds and other finger foods. Whatever the bird didn’t eat would come in handy while keeping tabs on Morn, who was showing no signs of slowing down. As the snacks arrive, Othos once again steps outside, taking some pains to stay under a gable. As he returns, he can’t quite keep a hopeful smirk off his face, and it widens into a genuinely happy smile as he spots Gimble back at their table. "You know, my friend", he says as he sits down again, "I think we might still be in business after all. Want an almond?" He takes one himself, before leaning a little closer to the halfling. "Just a small question - do you know if Berzeral has magical powers? Can he walk through walls or just disappear in thin air? Is he favoured by his savage god?" Perhaps their ally was even more valuable than the had first thought? Othos’ smile grows even bigger at the thought…
The tiny halfling simply shrugs at Othos's question, taking an almond and beginning to munch on it.
"They say he is wolf-blooded, but I don't know if it's true. Many superstitions surround him. Few people know more than his name and reputation. I get the impression that there is more to him than a simple fascination with hunting."
Morn begins to stand up and stretches his arms wide, throwing them around the two female companions on either side of him as he smiles and bids them to accompany him upstairs. They giggle sheepishly and nod in unison, following up to the upper level. As they begin to ascend the stairs, they stop and move out of the way of an older woman who leads the woman Torbjorn had abducted, wrapped in a bedsheet, out of the tavern and into the rain without a word. The half-orc was nowhere to be seen.
As Berzeral whipped open the door, he gained a true sense of how bad the storm really was. Inside, with the shutters drawn it had been but a whistle of mournful howling--now it was everywhere lashing with stinging whips of frigid rain. He seldom understood the attraction the Stormlord's faith drew, how anyone could be drawn to the dispassionate and uncaring lightning and gale, but now as he felt the fury sizzling in the dark sky and the hate that seemed to burn there he could not help but be awed by the sheer scale and magnitude of it. Still he understood the necessity to get her quickly through the onslaught. Somewhere warm. He could hardly go about the process of acquisition now, for no landlord was idiot enough to discuss business in this weather. No he needed somewhere established. The thin lips of his matron disguise curled up into a grin as a plan took shape. He was planning on meeting the man Othos back at his lodgings. He had given him the address. "Just this way, child. I know just where to go." He would take the girl there. It was already established, which meant no questions. Perfect...
"Ah. The plot thickens". A flabbergasted Othos stares after the two women as they leave the inn. He can’t quite contain an astonished giggle. "Someone appears to have cheated Berzeral of his prize. Perhaps she overpowered and incapacitated him?". Othos couldn’t wait to see the Malarite’s face when told that some old woman had located and secured his prey before he had. Survival of the fittest indeed… After such a humiliation, the wolfman would probably be up for putting some serious hurt on Morn. Hopefully the hedonistic merchant had some information concerning his suspiciously sudden influx of wealth. It would have to wait a little, though - the management would surely not tolerate even more blood-soaked disturbances on the premises. Othos leans back and grabs a handful of almonds. Good thing he had nowhere else to be…
Morn and his companions disappear up the stairs, the sounds of their laughter and conversation growing fainter and fainter until, after the sounds of a door's latch clicking shut, they cannot be heard at all. The patronage of the bar has dwindled at this late hour, leaving only Othos, Gimble, the doorman, the bartender, and two surly gentlemen at the bar left in attendance, one of whom appears to be fading in and out of consciousness.
Othos feels the return of his familiar and it flaps rudely against the shutters outside the window nearest his table, pecking at the glass to get his attention. The rain continues to fall in sheets and the echoes of thunder fill the sky as the hour approaches midnight.
The moaning wind and rumbling thunder rose suddenly in volume as the door to the inn slipped open. A short figure shed his streaming pelerin and placed it near the door to dry. The hastily made cape had stained his clothing slightly, but that was to be expected. Only in Calimport could merchants react with such speed to fulfill a need. The monsoons had no sooner begun to moisten the ground then the cape-makers were hawking their ill-tanned, heavily oiled patchwork leather capes. Still they were useful, and their popularity was making those that could produce them rapidly a fair bit of coin.
Shador turned to the few patrons at the inn, his small stature and glossy, well-kept beard marking him as a dwarf and thus almost certainly a foreigner. Dwarves were not common in Calimshan, preferring to hawk their wares through middlemen rather than endure the desert environment. Only the most demanding dwarven merchants would oversee to the sale of their goods personally in such a place and by the look of this dwarf and the lateness of the hour he was no merchant. His dark eyes swept over the room and he scowled as if he was looking for someone that was clearly not present. As I thought. I knew that cur Majib was unreliable. Just as well I find that out now instead of at knifepoint. He turned to pick up his pelerin but the crash of thunder and rain beating on the shutters outside made him think better of it. He sighed resignedly and returned to the bar, glancing only slightly at the keeper’s flaming hair and feral eyes. “Something to wash the mud from the back of the throat if you will,” he rumbled, his gravelly voice somewhat out of place in the quiet of the inn.
The bartender nodded to Shador's request, preparing a mug of the house ale and placing it on the counter before him.
"Three copper for the drink, and last call will be when I finish cleaning these plates. Drink up," the bartender smirked slightly, his eyes scanning the nearly empty tavern and settling on Othos and Gimble on the far side of the room.
"You two drinking anything? We're about to close!" he called out to them as he began to wipe down another plate. By the sound of things, the weather outside was not about to get any better. The two men at the bar placed a few copper pieces on the bar and left their mugs, slowly climbing off of their stools and making their way out, pulling up the hoods of their cloaks as they stepped outside into the driving rain.
Berzeral escorted the young woman hastily through the downpour, avoiding major intersections and the open-air markets (though the vast majority of stalls had closed due to weather and the late hour). The woman wimpered as her feet shuffled along the cobblestone alleys en route to the apartment complex where Othos made his residence. She was obviously still in shock and unbelieving of what was happening to her since the entire trip was made in silence.
Berzeral led her up the stone stairway that led to the second level of the complex only a few blocks from the inn, the building's overhangs keeping the worst of the rain off them. Finally, he reached the apartment that Othos had described. Outside the door was a numeric symbol that denoted it as apartment number twenty-two. The door itself was a simple hardwood affair and, surprisingly, unlocked.
"Right up here miss, right up here..." he said in crooning lightened tones. It was a good thing that she was still a bit dazed, in the short term, as it saved him a lot of explanations that would be difficult under the circumstances. There was a lot going on inside her though, and he would have to find some way to soothe her, lest her agitation foul the process. He would need to speak of this to the midwife. Fortunate also that she seemed so exhausted. She might be left to sleep with some measure of privacy while he attended to business. His only fear was that she might wake and do something foolish while he was away--that and the thought that perhaps Othos' taste in furnishings might stray toward the morbid. No good that would do.
He casts a wary eye at the unlocked door, scrutinizing it for obvious signs of magic--glyphs or symbols and the like
"We'll have you in in a moment..."
The door appears to be free of glyphs or sigils and so the pair enters through the door into the darkened apartment. It is a simple affair, with a living area, a bedroom, and a small study all kept in immaculate condition. The living area hosts a round table with four chairs situated around it for eating and the preparation of food. On the floor in the office room is a bizarre circle rich with arcane glyphs and runes of power but it seems to be inert at the moment. A dark curtain separates the bedroom from the other rooms and it is in this room that the small waste gutter trickles rainwater through the walls of the complex and out to the sewers. A small window is here as well, just above chest height, and it looks out over the street outside. This particular window has had the shutters drawn and latched, but bears no glass within (which is normal for this region). Nothing stands out as unusual and the apartment shows no sign of recent traffic which is strange considering the unlocked entrance.
The woman Berzeral is escorting begins to control her sobbing somewhat, still clutching the sheets close to her body as she looks at his matronly guise. "Is... is this your home? Why are we here? I want to see my husband!" Tears of frustration begin to form and she shivers from the rain-soaked sheets around her naked form.
“You know, I think I will have one more beer”, Othos calls back to the barkeep. “After that, we will make our way home, in spite of the horrid weather”. He gets up and walks to the door, letting the desperate raven inside. “You poor little thing”, he croons as the soggy bird violently shakes off some water. “Here, I got you some treats”. The unlikely pair makes their way back to the table.
“Know the dwarf?”, he asks Gimble as the raven pecks at the nuts while giving its report. The newcomer looked like a capable fellow – but this city tended to weed out those that could not take care of itself, like poor Varl... The bartender was right, though – it was getting rather late. And he had promised Berzeral to be home around midnight. It probably was not good to let the Malarite wait too long; after all, who knew what he would do to Othos’ nice little place if he got bored?
The bartender nods his head and prepares another mug of the house ale for Othos. Once poured, he sets the mug on the counter and one of the barmaids brings it to his table, smiling awkwardly at the talking bird.
"Three copper for the ale, sir," she says politely in a very tired voice.
The raven reveals the fate of the boat in the harbor and states that the large man was standing on the docks when it happened. The raven admits that he was disinclined to remain in the area after the stroke of lightning obliterated the ship's mast. It ruffles its feathers to shake the water off, having no regard to the fact that he is spattering water all over the table and a bit onto Othos and Gimble.
Gimble takes a long look at the dwarf by the bar. Having not been in Calimport for long, he was not familiar with the locals, but this one looked familiar. Did he know him from Waterdeep? Regardless, the dwarven population of Calimshan was nearly non-existant, so Gimble hazarded a guess that he was not from around here.
"I don't know him... but he looks familiar. I don't think he's from around here, though. Maybe from up North."