Rennet's Opening
You realize that you are either dreaming or having a lotus related hallucination when you stop cranking the well, cup your hands around your mouth and...shout.
Did your voice really sound like that? It sounds so foreign, along with that ghostly feeling of moving lips and an opening jaw; like an amputee remembers a phantom limb. It's not pain that you feel, in the part of you that remembers this. It's an ingrained sorrow, a depressed longing for something that you only now realize you took for granted a long, long time ago. Like most humans would fondly pine for the simpler days of childhood.
The echo comes back, but it isn't your voice. From the depths of the well, a scratchy, rough voice returns to you.
"Is it alive?", it asks.
Amazingly, another voice chimes in; again, not your own.
"It better be, or we're in for it.", the other voice remarks.
With a groggy return to self awareness, you open your eyes. You can feel the cold cobblestones beneath you as you push yourself up into a sitting position. From the blank darkness of the sky and the very distant black band of the very opposite side of Sigil, you can tell it's a little before anti-peak. Crouching over you are two foul-smelling men with beady black eyes and long crooked noses. They where burlap robes and other cast-offs covered in nameless stains. One of them has a patchy mass of whiskers on his face, the other has acne scars and various poxes layered in a latticework over his face and weak chin.
Noticing your return to consciousness, the poxed man meets your gaze.
"With us now, are ye?", he asks,"Thought we'd be making a bit o' jink off the Dusties terday, bet it's better yer ain't penned yet. Our Master wants a word with the berk with the plate o'er 'is face an' we reckon thar'd be ye."
He extends to you a rag-clad hand topped with long, brittle fingernails.
Rennet slaps the grubby hand away.
Rennet stands up dizzily and brushes himself off, still maudlin over the sound of his own voice in the dream. Must be another bad pipe experience. The question is, where am I, and have I woken out of it yet?
Following a deliberately overdramatic curtsey, Rennet checks himself over for damage or lost possessions, then places one hand palm up before himself, and another extended into the distance, indicating the men should lead on, though preferably upwind!
Days like this I wish I could still vomit.
O.L.L.I
The Baatezu turns to you and with his characteristicly menacing voice states,"Hey, box. Listen up. I found out some interesting news in the Bizarre today, though my idea of keeping an ear to the ground is a bit different than yours. This may not be the straight chant, but I got an idea of where to find Demogorgon's supposed Proxy if you're willing to run an errand for me."
Thorn of Clovenwood
Lately, it seems that everything is closing in on you. Ever since you got that book, every shadow has been a hidden menace, every raised voice a threat. Someone broke into your apartment and ransacked the place and now Karlat Ambereye, your direct superior in the Fated, has given you what you consider a suicide mission. He met with you this afternoon in the Hall of Records, as terse and to-the-point as usual. You don't know if Ambereye is a clan surname or a nickname he grew out of, because his false eye is much more extravagent than his name implies. Every time you talk to him, you can't help but stare at the socket where the gem-studded porcelain globe sits and stares unmoving at you. When he got to the point, it shook you right out of your revery: he wants you to collect on some "back taxes" from a blood rumored to be none other than Demogorgon's proxy. And you've got to go out and get it yourself.
You're told that when the Prince of Demons was still holding court, nobody was ever able to get the property taxes and tariffs from one Esao Enoch, a man rumored (along with several other candidates, including a fiendish troglodyte and an intelligent four-armed gorilla) to be the two headed beast's proxy in Sigil. But Ambereye wants you to go get it, promising a large portion of the proceeds and an elevated rank in the faction.
Star finally excuses herself after remarking that maybe you could meet later to "discuss how things are going" and as she heads for the door, a small note falls out of the bag around her waist.
It reads:
"Read any books lately?" in a flowing, elegant script.
Somehow, you don't think that was a note for Star.
“Right, I’ll see you later then,” says Thorn morosely. “Long as I ain’t in the dead books by then,” he adds to himself after Star leaves. He sighs, which turns into a snort of frustration as he realises that he has been left the tab for both their drinks. Maybe it was just Aym’s influence, but he really didn’t need this on top of everything else.
The bariaur looks up, about to call out after his departed companion, when he spots the note. He unfolds it, reads it … and shivers. Oh, this was not turning into a good day.
,"Hey, box. Listen up. I found out some interesting news in the Bizarre today, though my idea of keeping an ear to the ground is a bit different than yours. This may not be the straight chant, but I got an idea of where to find Demogorgon's supposed Proxy if you're willing to run an errand for me."
O.L.L.I takes in the Gelugon's bedraggled appearance.
"That information would be most welcome to this unit, honored co-worker Shactal. But first, allow this unit to administer to your damaged exoskeleton and ocular apparatus."
DC 15 first aid check ... UGH 1d20+9=12
O.L.L.I.removes several clean linen strips from his Healer's Kit and attempts to wind them around Shactal's eye wound. Unfortunaely, his innate clumsiness ends up blindfolding the surly ice devil
Reghar
Zegonz Vlaric, the owner of the Styx Oarsman, is telling you what's already written on the walls.
"I'm replacing you, you bastard Prime.", he states, flatly,"The Oarsman's gotten rougher in the last few months and even if you CAN keep the clientele in line, the collateral damage has been more than I want to foot. So I'm giving..."
He looks like he's going to wretch, even as he says the man's name.
"...Bron...your job."
The one known as Bron is a coward in your eyes. He walks with a metal skin from head to foot and every time he opens his word-hole, nonsense about "good" and "evil" and "Gods" comes spewing out. He calls himself an "adventurer". You're certain that he couldn't do your job (ever!) if he didn't have that special glowing axe of his. Two lights in the whole bar: candles by the taps and Bron's stupid axe. It messes with your night vision, gives you a headache when you stare at it for longer than a minute and you've noticed that it drives the lesser Tanar'ri away. You have to admit, though, the stupid demons can't stand the touch of it.
The frail gith continues.
"I'm keepin' you around, though, just doin' something different. Don't go thinking I LIKE you or anything ridiculous like that; someone has to do my legwork and I'm sick of running errands when I could be minding the bar. And since you have about as much personality as half a cranium rat, I'll be leaving the errands to you. Don't get all pouty on me, though: you'll still get to crack heads."
He goes through a sheaf of papers on the bar's scarred, pitted and charred countertop and finally pulls one out. Not that you could read it, but you don't need to; he's just gonna tell you.
"Esao Enoch. Rumored to be Demogorgon's Proxy. Bought a lot of drinks for a lot of fiends over the years, never paying a drop of jink because of his master's reputation. Word is, he's trying to break the Cage and I need you to collect whatever you can get off of him or his corpse before he gets out of here. Lives in the Hive, opposite the Gatehouse. Where the barmies are. Street of Martyrs. Think you can handle that, Prime?"
Kev
You're ready to call it a night and find a game of bones to fix and a pleasant-looking, credulous young lass to entertain when a berk starts heading your way. He strides purposefully forward, the tassles and bells on his vest moving from side-to-side. When he stops in front of you and pulls out a rolled-up piece of parchment, you realize who he is.
A courier. For the Bellringer, no less. A pigeon one pinches at their own peril.
You take the proferred parchment and open it up. In an even and unembellished script it says:
"Attn: Arkev Tallius
Regarding: Payment for undelivered message.
Message origin: The plane of Acheron
Sender's given name: Unknown
Please meet with Autochon the Bellringer in the Palace of the Jester, Lady's Ward at earliest opportunity to discuss your delinquent payment."
The courier stands waiting, expectently.
Deris
Seated opposite you are your two contacts. You would guess them to be tieflings from their slitted eyes and the not unpleasant scaley accents on their necks. They must be twins, you've decided, for they look almost exactly alike: androgynously beautiful, with tin lips and delicate cheekbones. You have no idea if they're men, women or both, but you're intrigued enough to want to learn more. Then they spoil it all by getting down to business. They both lean in, almost simultaneously and begin to speak in gentle, sibilant tones.
"We hear that you have a knack for gaining information?", the twin on your right asks.
"We would like to engage your services on a matter we cannot attend to ourselves.", says the twin on the left.
"A well-informed individual has not been entirely forthcoming with some of the knowledge he possesses.", the right twin.
"In the interest of...educating others, we would like you to procure this individual's journal.", the left twin.
"It's mostly a philanthropic gesture.", clarifies the right twin.
"We simply believe it would be a shame to have such useful lessons hidden from those that could benefit right here in Sigil.", states the left twin.
"In exchange for fulfilling the civic duty that we propose..."
"...we will reward you most handsomely in any currency you...", the right twin trails off suggestively.
The left twin fills in the blank after a moment of anticipation.
"....desire."
"Furthermore, we can also offer future employment once you successfully complete this minor gesture.",says the right twin.
"Would you be interested in hearing the details?", asks the left twin as they both raise their glasses to their wine dark lips.
Scanning the street for a good mark one last time, Kev sighs and is about to turn and walk back to the inn that he calls home when he sees a messenger hurrying down the street towards him. He tenses and then relaxes a moment later when recognizes the man as someone best left alone. “For me?” he asks in surprise as the messenger hands him the parchment. He opens it, briefly considering telling the messenger that he’s not Arkev Tallius and that he’s delivered the wrong message but he thinks better of it, nodding in thanks to the man and regretfully fishing a silver coin out of his pocket and handing it to the messenger “Here you go mate.”
As the messenger departs Kev reads the whole letter again, keeping his face devoid of emotion ”Autochon the Bellringer? Certainly not for a personal meeting, no of course not.” he thinks as he orientates himself within the city and chooses a route that will take him to the Palace of Jesters. As he starts out his handsome features twist in a grim smile as he draws his long coat around himself and sets off into the night. “Acheron” he mutters under his breathe as he goes to the Palace of Jesters.
Scanning the street for a good mark one last time, Kev sighs and is about to turn and walk back to the inn that he calls home when he sees a messenger hurrying down the street towards him. He tenses and then relaxes a moment later when recognizes the man as someone best left alone. “For me?” he asks in surprise as the messenger hands him the parchment. He opens it, briefly considering telling the messenger that he’s not Arkev Tallius and that he’s delivered the wrong message but he thinks better of it, nodding in thanks to the man and regretfully fishing a silver coin out of his pocket and handing it to the messenger “Here you go mate.”
As the messenger departs Kev reads the whole letter again, keeping his face devoid of emotion ”Autochon the Bellringer? Certainly not for a personal meeting, no of course not.” he thinks as he orientates himself within the city and chooses a route that will take him to the Palace of Jesters. As he starts out his handsome features twist in a grim smile as he draws his long coat around himself and sets off into the night. “Acheron” he mutters under his breathe as he goes to the Palace of Jesters.
The messenger pockets the jink, bows graciously and continues along his way.
Kev wracks his brain, but he can't think of a single instance where he's deliberately bilked Autochon or his couriers. Once you learned the Chant, the hierarchy was soon to follow, and the Bellringer and his boyos are high on the "Do Not Mess With" list.
Rennet slaps the grubby hand away.
Rennet stands up dizzily and brushes himself off, still maudlin over the sound of his own voice in the dream. Must be another bad pipe experience. The question is, where am I, and have I woken out of it yet?
Following a deliberately overdramatic curtsey, Rennet checks himself over for damage or lost possessions, then places one hand palm up before himself, and another extended into the distance, indicating the men should lead on, though preferably upwind!
Days like this I wish I could still vomit.
When you slap the Collector's hand away, both retreat warily, in unison with their heads down and legs bent, ready to react. As you brush yourself off, you note that miraculously enough, your possessions are untouched to your best recollection. Likely by virtue of owning some of the most unassuming, cheap and common weapons, but nonetheless, your belongings are accounted for.
You feel a warmth spread for a moment from the back of your head and down your spine as the pox-faced miscreant chuckles sarcastically.
"Oh, yer parren, Lard Mime! Didn mean ter effend ye! Dent fall berind, eh? Only gon' shoe yer once.", he says as he begins to furtively lead you through the tangled alleys of what you are now certain is the Hive.
Through crumbling city blocks, carefully arranged by Sinkers to achieve complete disarray, through caverns of urban material and Dabus ruined tenements you follow your disgusting guides. Several times, they pause at an alleymouth or intersection, listen to the sounds of voices ahead and deliberately turn further into the labyrinthine slums. In this hidden settlement, the weary and bewildered walk lonely back to empty rooms and men scrounge through the refuse of abandoned dancehalls. Your guides take you unnoticed through neighbourhoods even the Hardheads would be smart enough not to enter.
All the while, the stench steadily gains intensity. You sometimes round a corner and take several deep breaths of (comparatively) fresh air, only to plunge headlong back into it. From your own wanderings of Sigil, you recognize the stench as that of the Lower Ward; its belching foundries hurling soot and ash into the air even as foul vapors of the Abyss and the Grey Waste steadily seep from the numerous portals to the Lower Planes, painting its citizens in broad strokes of yellow, ochre and palsied green. But there is a further undercurrent; diseased, noxious water. Your assessment is verified when you round a corner and see before you in the Sigil night the infamous Ditch, and beyond it the Gatehouse, where the Bleakers tend to the insane. Even now, you can hear their screams echoing from the asylum. Or maybe that's just the Night Bizarre in full swing.
Your new "friends" lead you toward a collapsed building, little more than a shell of a house, with a yawning pit for a floor. You hesitate at the threshold as the two Collectors turn to beckon you inside after them.
Thorn gazes suspiciously around the bar, looking for anyone who might be the note-leaver, although he little expects to see anyone.
Assuming he does not, he quickly finishes his drink, short-changes the bar-man, and makes his getaway.
So that berk Ambereye doesn’t want me to have any help he thinks. Well, what he don’t know don’t hurt him … who do I know outside the Takers who might be able to give me the dark on this?
The bariaur wanders for a while, whilst he thinks. Whilst his wanderings may seem random, he’s careful not to wander anywhere more dangerous than is usual for Sigil, and he keeps an eye out for trouble, and his gear close. He’s taken to bringing all his gear with him where-ever he goes lately, and more so since his place was ransacked. He’d a pretty good idea what they – whoever they were – were after, and that narrowed down the list on who he could go to for help now. No use in chant getting back to certain cutters that Thorn of Clovenwood was taking on a dangerous job … no one would ask too many questions if he disappeared going after a blood like Enoch, in place like the Hive.
He’d run into Olly at the bar the other night. Not someone he’d really consider a friend, or someone he’d go to if he was in trouble, but the little walking luggage kept his metaphorical ear to the ground, and he was as good as his word if Thorn could get him to agree not to rattle his bone box. A possibility … anyone else?
‘Course, it was a little hard to concentrate with all the whispering … I see it … Queen once … greed … I want it … heark, do you hear it? … undone …
He’d get used to it … and try to make a better pact next time.
The bariaur wanders for a while, whilst he thinks. Whilst his wanderings may seem random, he’s careful not to wander anywhere more dangerous than is usual for Sigil, and he keeps an eye out for trouble, and his gear close. He’s taken to bringing all his gear with him where-ever he goes lately, and more so since his place was ransacked. He’d a pretty good idea what they – whoever they were – were after, and that narrowed down the list on who he could go to for help now. No use in chant getting back to certain cutters that Thorn of Clovenwood was taking on a dangerous job … no one would ask too many questions if he disappeared going after a blood like Enoch, in place like the Hive.
He’d run into Olly at the bar the other night. Not someone he’d really consider a friend, or someone he’d go to if he was in trouble, but the little walking luggage kept his metaphorical ear to the ground, and he was as good as his word if Thorn could get him to agree not to rattle his bone box. A possibility … anyone else?
‘Course, it was a little hard to concentrate with all the whispering … I see it … Queen once … greed … I want it … heark, do you hear it? … undone …
He’d get used to it … and try to make a better pact next time.
Thorn gazes suspiciously around the bar, looking for anyone who might be the note-leaver, although he little expects to see anyone.
Assuming he does not, he quickly finishes his drink, short-changes the bar-man, and makes his getaway.
So that berk Ambereye doesn’t want me to have any help he thinks. Well, what he don’t know don’t hurt him … who do I know outside the Takers who might be able to give me the dark on this?
Pretty boring lot, for Sigil. You recognize a lot of bureaucrats and namers by face, if not moniker. You doubt a lot of them would have the guts to pull something like that, though it's not out of the question for them to do it under compulsion/coercion.
Good to see I’m not the only one fallen upon hard times. Oh well, I’ve slept in worse places, maybe this will be the job that finally kills me. One can hope.
Rennet cross the threshold into the ramshackle edifice.
Reghar believes that the strong do not whine, so he restrains his honest tongue from wagging and simply shrugs at the instruction being given him by the gith. There will be time enough later to repay the gith.
“You got a bill me can show this Esao Enoch?”
Reghar then exits the Oarsman turning into the direction of the Street of Martyrs.
Reghar carelessly strides about the pathways of Sigil. People who might otherwise bump into him turn away as Reghar’s powerful smell is indeed a deadly weapon. But the demon patrons of the Oarsman who habitually breathe sulphur don’t seem to mind.
Reghar thinks that this Esao Enoch is probably a very strong fellow to be able avoid paying his tab for a very long time. Perhaps he should have taken Bron’s axe. Perhaps he will challenge him for the right to own it.
A plan seems to be forming inside Reghar’s simple and brutish mind. He smiles.
,"Hey, box. Listen up. I found out some interesting news in the Bizarre today, though my idea of keeping an ear to the ground is a bit different than yours. This may not be the straight chant, but I got an idea of where to find Demogorgon's supposed Proxy if you're willing to run an errand for me."O.L.L.I takes in the Gelugon's bedraggled appearance.
"That information would be most welcome to this unit, honored co-worker Shactal. But first, allow this unit to administer to your damaged exoskeleton and ocular apparatus."
DC 15 first aid check ... UGH 1d20+9=12
O.L.L.I.removes several clean linen strips from his Healer's Kit and attempts to wind them around Shactal's eye wound. Unfortunaely, his innate clumsiness ends up blindfolding the surly ice devil
Shactal stands motionless while you attempt to aid him. It is a testement to his restraint that he does not act on what you can tell is a growing sense of frustration. Indicators include:
-Protracted expulsions of air, commonly known as "sighs".
-An increased activity in the antennae.
-The rhythmic drumming of his fingers upon the desk.
As you wind the gauze around his eyes, he finally speaks in a flat, controlled voice.
"Box...", he begins,"I'm going to count to three. By the time I hit the word "three", I expect that you will have removed these ridiculously mortal emblems of "comfort" from my frame, or else your limbless cubic shell will serve as the new after hours drop box. And you know how those Chaosmen LOVE to leave us odious little presents in the drop box, yes? So here goes: 1...2..."
Before he hits "three" you have the bandages once again stripped.
"That's more like it.", grunts the gelugon as his carapace slowly knits itself back together and the swelling of his eye reduces by approximately 25% through what is likely a process of regeneration.
"Now, for this information, I ask only one boon: make sure you share it with plenty of interested parties. If this is supposed to be hushed up, I want this shouted from the rooftops.."
At your raised metal finger, he quickly corrects.
"Yes, in this case you may take it literally, box. He is rumored to live within the shadow of the Gatehouse in the Hive on the Street of Martyrs. The number on the building is 22...for vaunted creatures of chaos, they certainly have no problem being predictible in their choice of apartments."
As the Ice Devil takes his seat, he finally adds.
"And if you're thinking of confronting the supposed Proxy, I would suggest getting some help. The Nine Lords know a delicious halfling child could take YOU in a straight fight."
Reghar believes that the strong do not whine, so he restrains his honest tongue from wagging and simply shrugs at the instruction being given him by the gith. There will be time enough later to repay the gith.
“You got a bill me can show this Esao Enoch?”
Reghar then exits the Oarsman turning into the direction of the Street of Martyrs.
Reghar carelessly strides about the pathways of Sigil. People who might otherwise bump into him turn away as Reghar’s powerful smell is indeed a deadly weapon. But the demon patrons of the Oarsman who habitually breathe sulphur don’t seem to mind.
Reghar thinks that this Esao Enoch is probably a very strong fellow to be able avoid paying his tab for a very long time. Perhaps he should have taken Bron’s axe. Perhaps he will challenge him for the right to own it.
A plan seems to be forming inside Reghar’s simple and brutish mind. He smiles.
The scarred gith hands you a sheet of parchment with all manner of squiggly, spidery marks arranged in rows and columns. "Writing" they call it. Since he knows you, however, he makes a few things clear, slowly and evenly.
"All right, you putrid-smelling son of a goat: he owes a balance of 1000 gold coins. If he wants to pay you, see if you can get someone to count it for you before you bring it back in. Just to be safe, you should make sure all of them are the same; don't let him fool you with a bag full of copper with a few pieces of gold on the top. If he wants to barter with a magic item, demand that he use it first so it doesn't blow you to orc chunks before I can get what I need out of you. It may also be smart to bring someone that can tell you if the magic thing is worth the balance of his bill."
Zegonz rubs his knife-sharp chin for a moment in thought.
"And if he can't pay, either break his legs or kill him and take anything from his house or his person that looks like someone will buy it. Can't let this lot start thinking I've gone soft."
With this information soaking into this skull, Reghar Bloodseeker leaves the Oarsman for the streets of the Lower Ward. The reek of smoking-houses-makes-metal-thing-sometimes-metal-claws fill your senses, but it doesn't bother you in the slightest. There aren't any stars to orient yourself, but you recognize landmarks for your route to the Gatehouse: you've got to head east toward the Ditch to get where you need to go, then cross the Ditch to where the always-screaming-no-sense-people gather to go crazy-no-sense-house-run-bleak-corral. Street of Martyrs should not be long walk between Oarsman and crazy-no-sense-house.
Good to see I’m not the only one fallen upon hard times. Oh well, I’ve slept in worse places, maybe this will be the job that finally kills me. One can hope.
Rennet cross the threshold into the ramshackle edifice.
Rennet cautiously enters the dessicated building. There's enough rubble-strewn ground level remaining to provide easy access to the gaping sinkhole. Your guides scrabble a bit in the refuse until they start to uncover something. They're almost burrowing through the debris, quickly reaching exactly what they're looking for: a bundle of sticks. No, not sticks. Bones.
As you watch, they unravel the bundle to reveal that it is, in fact, a rope ladder made of bones. With methodical care, they take the ladder and unwind it toward the sinkhole, letting the side that isn't attached to the ground fall over the precipice.
The Collector with the whiskers goes first, adroitly climbing into the darkness below.
"Pox" as you've come to call him in your head, bows and gestures to the ladder.
"::Hack. cough:: Affer yew, yer Lardship."
The bariaur wanders for a while, whilst he thinks. Whilst his wanderings may seem random, he’s careful not to wander anywhere more dangerous than is usual for Sigil, and he keeps an eye out for trouble, and his gear close. He’s taken to bringing all his gear with him where-ever he goes lately, and more so since his place was ransacked. He’d a pretty good idea what they – whoever they were – were after, and that narrowed down the list on who he could go to for help now. No use in chant getting back to certain cutters that Thorn of Clovenwood was taking on a dangerous job … no one would ask too many questions if he disappeared going after a blood like Enoch, in place like the Hive.
He’d run into Olly at the bar the other night. Not someone he’d really consider a friend, or someone he’d go to if he was in trouble, but the little walking luggage kept his metaphorical ear to the ground, and he was as good as his word if Thorn could get him to agree not to rattle his bone box. A possibility … anyone else?
‘Course, it was a little hard to concentrate with all the whispering … I see it … Queen once … greed … I want it … heark, do you hear it? … undone …
He’d get used to it … and try to make a better pact next time.
Through the dark streets of the Clerk's Ward, Thorn wanders in thought. The Takers have usually employed him as muscle; even if he is pretty smart, having a strong bariaur leaning on someone is enough to make even the smallest halfling seem ten feet tall to a delinquent shopkeeper or a namer of a rival faction. Of course, this Enoch guy doesn't sound like either of those.
There's always the walking box at the library. Or there's Star, though you're not sure where she's gone, nor do you know if she would be willing to stick her neck out for you again. She's been strange lately; quiet, terse around you. You don't exactly look forward to that little talk she wants to have. Your work for the Fated has brought you into contact with a few very unsettling types: the Mercykillers. You're not sure how far you can count on them, though, or if they would be willing to let you collect what you need to collect and get it over with without a drawn-out court fiasco.
In the antipeak hours, indecision haunts your steps in the practically silent Clerk's Ward streets.
What you know about Autochon:
What you know the Palace of the Jester:
On foot, Kev makes his way through the winding alleys of Sigil's backstreets. He passes corpsecarts, gangs of Xaositects (you have to hide or seek higher ground occasionally to avoid the barmy sods) and everyday working types, emptying the trash from their homes or places of employment. Picking your way through the Market Ward, the streets take on a different characteristic: they are orderly, presentable. Though the trademark Sigilian collision of various architectural styles, from classical to chaotic to the mish-mash Cager design, frought with razorvine, the buildings are well constructed. Even in the night hours of Sigil, you can recognize the towering Temple of the Abyss; an imposing menace of a structure, all black stone and silver blades with an enormous Belltower on top. In other neighbourhoods you can see the Temple of Hermes (some Olympian Power) and the Prison (as well as the ominous Tower of the Wyrm) where the Mercykillers keep some of the practioners of your trade captive.
Finally, you pick your way to a great baroque structure that fills you with a complete sense of anxiety. It's so huge, it makes the fine dwellings and offices around it seem absolutely paltry; to say nothing of a lone man such as yourself. This is definitely the Palace of the Jester, and through the great oak doors before you, you can make out the distant light of candles or torches that never quite illuminate the whole building.
Momentarily awed and intimidated by the edifice before him, Kev shakes himself and hesitantly goes up to the great oak doors and looks for a knocker or a bell pull r anything with which to announce his presence "Probably don't want to just wander in. I don't wnat to be the next body the cartmen pick up.". He knocks and waits.
He is rumored to live within the shadow of the Gatehouse in the Hive on the Street of Martyrs. The number on the building is 22...for vaunted creatures of chaos, they certainly have no problem being predictible in their choice of apartments."
As the Ice Devil takes his seat, he finally adds.
"And if you're thinking of confronting the supposed Proxy, I would suggest getting some help. The Nine Lords know a delicious halfling child could take YOU in a straight fight."
O.L.L.I gently replaces the linens he attempted to repair Shactal with
"Rest assured, honored co-worker Shactal that this unit will attempt no such confrontation with the former proxy. Information is this unit's purpose."
O.L.L.I. scans his memory for any recollection of the Street of Martyrs
"Perhaps this unit should prepare first."
O.L.L.I. heads for the supply closet where he stores his adventuring gear. As he heads for his gear, he addresses Shactal again.
"This unit will comply with your request and disseminate the information among the touts and bloods he knows."
Deris
Lysanderis sat lightly on the simple wooden chair, one elbow resting on the table in front of her and her fingers curled around the small glass of absinthe. She swirled the liquid in her glass and watched it move. She made up her mind in the middle of the twins duologue and was playing up her thought process. Her recent lack of funds made her decision simple. Besides, she could never pass up a pretty face, let alone two.
"Go on," she replied as she lifted her eyes to the left twin.
Thorn shakes his head, as if attempting to shake himself out of his reverie. Deep thinking was a dangerous business, if attempted for over long on the streets of Sigil. Better to have decided on something in the relative safety of the Tear – only it somehow didn’t feel that safe anymore.
Nah, Star was out. Whether it was, well, the one thing or the other, she was certainly not quite the same doe these days. ‘Sides, if it got back to Ambereye that he’d had Fated help … well, he really didn’t know what that would mean, but best not to piss the old bastard off just yet. He didn’t much fancy bringing any of the Mercykillers he knew in on this either – at least not if he didn’t need to.
That left the box at the Lady’s Library. The head shake turned into a nod, and Thorn set off with new purpose. There was a good chance that Olli would be at the library this time of day. Hopefully old icy would not be.
I’ll pull out the torch and head on down.
If required: Balance / Climb (1d20+1=12, 1d20+3=17)
Deris
Lysanderis sat lightly on the simple wooden chair, one elbow resting on the table in front of her and her fingers curled around the small glass of absinthe. She swirled the liquid in her glass and watched it move. She made up her mind in the middle of the twins duologue and was playing up her thought process. Her recent lack of funds made her decision simple. Besides, she could never pass up a pretty face, let alone two.
"Go on," she replied as she lifted her eyes to the left twin.
The Sannimar Twins
Ryld and Amira are their names, though you can't tell which is the brother and which the sister. You've heard quite a bit about their social gatherings, which run the gamut from genteel galas to which you wouldn't be ashamed to bring your father, to some of the most hair-raising debauchery that you've ever heard of.
You haven't any idea what kind of information they could be after.
A coy smile curls the left twin's delicate lips, and his/her sister/brother echoes the gesture.
"We are..."
"...so delighted by your interest."
The left twin's slitted, cat-like eyes meet yours as he/she runs a long and delicate finger along the rim of their glass. They continue to speak, one then the other, their identical voices filling in one side of the conversation.
"This selfish individual goes by the name..."
"...Enoch. Esao Enoch. And we must warn you, pet..."
"...he is a dangerous man, lacking in culture and refinement as you and we possess it."
"We only seek a small, leather-bound journal or ledger in his possession..."
"...the contents of which we will not disclose. You will know it by the Abyssal snake-skin it is bound by..."
"...as well as the multi-colored ink it is penned with. 'Mister' Enoch dwells..."
"...at number 22, Street of Martyrs, in the Hive district, just across the Ditch. We..."
"...expect him to leave the city soon, and while this would work to our advantage, love..."
"...it is likely he will be leaving with what we seek. So, though we do so love dining with you..."
"...discussing possibilities..."
The right twin subtlely licks their lips as the the left twin once again gives you a confidential smile.
"...we're going to need you to move on this soon. We will meet again after this is completed..."
"...but we need you to gift the journal to another friend of ours. If anyone is to ask..."
"...this was a personal call, and oh how we wish it truly was but this time..."
"...it must be purely business. You must bring the journal to..."
"Rule"
"Of"
"Three"
"At the Styx Oarsman in the Lower Ward. He's..."
"...something of a character, but we do so love that about him. He will only accept it..."
"...if you bring him the journal and two other snippets of information, great or small..."
"...they must be somehow related and in threes. He will deliver payment..."
"...of the monetary sort, if that is what you wish. We dearly hope..."
"...that we can offer you more, however. What are your terms, for a little errand like ours?"
Momentarily awed and intimidated by the edifice before him, Kev shakes himself and hesitantly goes up to the great oak doors and looks for a knocker or a bell pull r anything with which to announce his presence "Probably don't want to just wander in. I don't wnat to be the next body the cartmen pick up.". He knocks and waits.
The huge municipal building lacks a knocker of any sort, just large brass door fixtures, shaped like a jester, his ruff formed of blades. Your polite missive is swallowed by the towering structure; you have to wince as you hear it echo throughout the vast halls. You wait, breathless, for some sort of answer....
...
...
...none.
You calculate the hour; it is not so late and the courier just now came to you, so Autochon must still be working. And the Palace of the Jester is supposed to be a public building...
With quiet trepidation, you push the huge doors slowly open, creaking all the way. The halls all seem to be white marble. A small candle or torch is swallowed in the vast expanse of the huge, open building. There is a small office directory opposite the doors and you confirm that Autochon's courier service is to your right. As you walk in the promised direction through the empty, labyrinthine halls the place begins to really spook you. Your own gentle footsteps are amplified beyond your liking, violating the tense silence of the building. Unconsciously, you find yourself walking on tip-toe to keep your passage silent.
You can hear hammering at a wall somewhere; could be leagues away or around the next corner. As you round a bend, a sudden burst of cackling laughter floats throughout the hall, and then slowly ebbs down into a giggling mumble; the echo leaving it jumbled nonsense.
Make a spot check, please.
He is rumored to live within the shadow of the Gatehouse in the Hive on the Street of Martyrs. The number on the building is 22...for vaunted creatures of chaos, they certainly have no problem being predictible in their choice of apartments."
As the Ice Devil takes his seat, he finally adds.
"And if you're thinking of confronting the supposed Proxy, I would suggest getting some help. The Nine Lords know a delicious halfling child could take YOU in a straight fight."
O.L.L.I gently replaces the linens he attempted to repair Shactal with
"Rest assured, honored co-worker Shactal that this unit will attempt no such confrontation with the former proxy. Information is this unit's purpose."
O.L.L.I. scans his memory for any recollection of the Street of Martyrs
"Perhaps this unit should prepare first."
O.L.L.I. heads for the supply closet where he stores his adventuring gear. As he heads for his gear, he addresses Shactal again.
"This unit will comply with your request and disseminate the information among the touts and bloods he knows."
The Street of Martyrs
It's Bleak Cabal territory, so Xaositects aren't as omnipresent as in other areas of the Hive, which is good news for you. It's still a very chaotic place; rate of decay on buildings in that area of the Hive is estimated at 5%-45%, based upon age, occupancy and proximity to the comparatively fine Lower Ward. The area is also approsimately three to four miles from "The Slags", a place generally considered hostile to all manner of life, flesh type sentient or otherwise.
The Ice Devil takes a seat on the large primary check-out counter (you will note that patrons aren't allowed to sit on the counter, though the library rules say nothing of employees, so he is therefore permitted to sit there).
"Good, then. My talents are wasted on scribing, so make sure you let some other fool take the big risks for you."
Just then, there's a heavy knock on the locked door to the Lady's Library. Shactal picks up his spear and blows on the tip, leaving a coat of frost.
"Closed. Shove off.", he announces to whomever is on the other side of the door, his voice laden with frost and menace.
Thorn shakes his head, as if attempting to shake himself out of his reverie. Deep thinking was a dangerous business, if attempted for over long on the streets of Sigil. Better to have decided on something in the relative safety of the Tear – only it somehow didn’t feel that safe anymore.
Nah, Star was out. Whether it was, well, the one thing or the other, she was certainly not quite the same doe these days. ‘Sides, if it got back to Ambereye that he’d had Fated help … well, he really didn’t know what that would mean, but best not to piss the old bastard off just yet. He didn’t much fancy bringing any of the Mercykillers he knew in on this either – at least not if he didn’t need to.
That left the box at the Lady’s Library. The head shake turned into a nod, and Thorn set off with new purpose. There was a good chance that Olli would be at the library this time of day. Hopefully old icy would not be.
Your cloven hooves clacking across the cobblestones are the only sound around the library; all the scribes and bureaucrats have gone home by this time. The area is crisp and clean and totally boring. Some trees would be nice, here and there, but the stuffy types around here consider things like that an unnecessary expense. The bottom line is important, sure, but you have to do something for yourself, too.
You approach the Lady's Library and try the handle. Locked up for the night. Figures. You can hear the muffled sound of a monotone, metallic voice, however along with, unfortunately, a grating insectoid slur.
Great. Icey is in.
You pound twice on the door.
After a moment's pause, that same grating insectoid slur calls out.
"Closed. Shove off."
Just then, there's a heavy knock on the locked door to the Lady's Library. Shactal picks up his spear and blows on the tip, leaving a coat of frost.
"Closed. Shove off.", he announces to whomever is on the other side of the door, his voice laden with frost and menace.
O.L.L.I turns at the sound of knocking.
"Honored co-worker Shactal. Could you see who is at the main portal to the library? This unit is concerned with loiterers when he is about to embark during the anti-peak hours. It would be distressing for this unit to run into a gang of Xaositect vandals just when he had begun to disseminate the information you had tendered him."
Thorn hammers at the door again. “Shactal you overgrown snow beetle, open up!” he bawls. “It’s Thorn of Clovenwood. I ain’t going to be breaking any of your precious rules, or sullying any of your precious tomes. I just need to speak to the box, if he’s in. Or for you to tell me where he is if he ain’t.”
It was never a fantastic idea to piss off a powerful devil, but Thorn had inadvertently done so long ago in the case of Shactal, and since the old baatezu wasn’t likely to forgive or forget the first time, Thorn figured there was no real harm now in keeping it up. Besides, the bug was bound by a powerful contract, chant said there were at least several centuries left on it; so long as he didn’t overstep the mark too far, there was not much the devil could do to him … yet … probably …
Thorn:
O.L.L.I
"Snow Beetle, eh? I'll teach that overgrown goat a lesson..."
He then proceeds to slide the deadbolt from the library door and unlock the entrance. He does not invite the bariaur in, however.
Thorn warily attempts to open the door; The gelugon being a stickler for rules, he hadn't expected tp get through the door without protracted negotiations. “Shactal? Olli?” he calls, more softly now. He checks that his weapons are within easy reach, but keeps them sheathed for now. It would not be good to give Shactal a reason to think he was attacking.
If the door opens, he pushes / pulls it open slightly and gently, and peers within, allowing his darkvision time to adjust if required.
Nervously looking around the cavernous halls of the Palace of Jesters, Kev finally raises his voice, calling "Hello? I was told to come here by a messenger at the earliest possible point. Is tehre anybody there? Why am I here?" into the unwelcoming empty edifice.
For the Warden
Arriving at the Street of Martyrs, Reghar grabs one weak looking human pedestrian, he flashes his yellowy incisors, “Esao Enoch, do you know him?”
“Good, you shall be my guide. Chart the fastest way to his place.”
“You are less than useless.” Reghar lets go of the human.
O.L.L.I. trundles back towards the main entrance after collecting his gear
"Honored co-worker Shactal. Perhaps the arrival of library patron Thorn at this moment is fortuitous. This unit can perhaps ask him to accompany him to the Street of Martyrs."
O.L.L.I attempts to walk quicker, realizing that any time Shactal and the excitable bariaur are together there is bound to be friction.
"...that we can offer you more, however. What are your terms, for a little errand like ours?"
Oh, but these two were fun.
Lysanderis kept her face still as she thought over the possibilities. The twins would have coin to spare, for sure, but she thought that maybe payment of another form would be most fitting. She tossed back the rest of her drink, very aware of the way the wamr magical light played against her skin and set her glass on the table.
"A favor and bit of capital, to cover expenses," she said quietly as she shifted forward. She reached her pocket and pulled out a slip of parchment which she slid across the table to the twins.
"You may deliver the fee to this address within the next cycle. I'll have the errand run by then."
With one final suggestive smile, Lysanderis pulled several gold coins out of her pouch and set them on the table as she stood to leave.
Thorn warily attempts to open the door; The gelugon being a stickler for rules, he hadn't expected tp get through the door without protracted negotiations. “Shactal? Olli?” he calls, more softly now. He checks that his weapons are within easy reach, but keeps them sheathed for now. It would not be good to give Shactal a reason to think he was attacking.
If the door opens, he pushes / pulls it open slightly and gently, and peers within, allowing his darkvision time to adjust if required.
The door opens without resistance. As you begin to tentatively step inside, there's a Gelugon in your face, head and shoulders above you. His breath leaves bits of frost in your facial hair and chills the tip of your nose. Shactal's insectoid eyes are unfathomable and antagonistic.
"I don't recall inviting you in, Goat Boy.", says the Ice Devil, his voice like a knife on an iron door. "Which, by my reckoning, makes you an Uninvited Guest."
He lets the threat hang in the chill air.
"What were you saying about a...'snow beetle'?", it asks, aggressively violating your personal space, twirling a spear in his chitinous hand.
O.L.L.I is quickly beside Shactal, counselling that perhaps your arrival is a positive indicator of things to come (you note that he refuses to use the word "coincidence"), asking the Ice Devil to grant special permission for your entrance. You've never been happier to hear that reasonable, slow monotone in all your life.
Nervously looking around the cavernous halls of the Palace of Jesters, Kev finally raises his voice, calling "Hello? I was told to come here by a messenger at the earliest possible point. Is tehre anybody there? Why am I here?" into the unwelcoming empty edifice.
Behind you, you catch movement. It's a floating "man" with deep russet skin and a flowing robe. "His" hair is bristly and thin, standing straight up atop a lean head crowned with two horns. His feet do not touch the ground and there are floating images dancing around his head. A dabus.
The rebus over his head shifts in response to your call, as the dabus brings a finger to puckered lips to indicate quiet.
For the Warden** spoiler omitted **
You grab him by the arm and flash your incisors so he knows you mean to challenge him. Then, you make your demand.
The little one seems less than impressed. He glances at the massive hand on his thin arm and back at you.
"Sure, I know about him, Berk. I know most everyone around here. But I don't think you speak my language. What have you got to offer in return?"
His eyes dart to and fro through the shadows behind you.
“Whoa cutter! Easy,” says Thorn rather frantically, holding his empty hands palms up in front of him, displaying his lack of weapons. “We could stand here and debate whether or not an open door is an invitation all night, but young Olli here is right – I’m a positive indicator, that’s what I am.”
He backs away a little, rear hooves clacking on the cobblestones outside, and his outstretched hands turn into something of a shrug. “And that snow beetle thing, it’s just a bit of verbal sparring Shactal me old chum, to and fro. You call me goat boy, I call you snow beetle, there’s no malice in it …” Who knew he would be so touchy tonight? … Or am I getting careless? Familiar with a devil, this place is turning me barmy.
The bariaur turns quickly to O.L.L.I. “It’s you I wanted to chant with,” he tells the Modron. “If your honoured co-worker,” the inflection on the word is subtle, and might be missed … maybe, “can spare you for a short time.”
I’ll pull out the torch and head on down.
If required: Balance / Climb (1d20+1=12, 1d20+3=17)
With ease, you climb down the ladder. You're struck with a sense of deja-vu, as if you've done this before. The bones are a faded marrow yellow and they are both dry to the touch and strong, perfect for climbing. From the darkness of the sinkhole, you find yourself in a lit chamber of worked stone. To your left and right there are shelves stacked high with skulls: from human-like skulls about the size of your own head to miniature skulls that must have belonged to pixies or some other tiny creature to enormous alien ones that could have belonged to all manner of horrible thing. The room is decorated with a mish-mash of furnishings, most of which are faded and drab. Shrouds hang about the walls like drapes or curtains for windows that don't exist. There are two wooden work tables laden with skulls and various instruments both mundane and arcane. A wrought-iron staircase leads to another floor.
"Pox" and "Whiskers" bow and incline their heads to display their thin necks to a stooped old man. He has a long white bear and no mustache and wears a scholar's skull cap on his head. He clutches a staff composed of bones in one arthritic hand and his eyes are milky-white with cataracts, though he shows no sign of handicap as he moves through the room toward what you presume to be his servants.
"We have brought the man you seek, Lothar.", says Whiskers, in an incrongruously refined voice.
The old man looks you up and down appraisingly with his pupil-less eyes. Finally, he speaks in a calm, resonant tone.
"Yes....and no. You have done well. I have no further need of you."
The Collectors, dismissed, climb back up to the surface.
The old man wanders back to a work bench and motions for you to take a seat as he does. With a crooked claw of a hand, he slides several pieces of parchment and a stick of charcoal over to you.
"I will get right to the point, for though you have all the time in the Wheel, I do not. My name is Lothar the Old. I have some information that you may desire and I wish to ask for a service in exchange. Through my studies, I have collected a memory of you, witnessed by one to which you were quite close: the moment of alteration that forever separated you from the other mortal creatures and from your past and future. I must admit, I expected someone very different to stand before me today, but long years for the multiverse have changed you."
He clears his throat.
"I can place this memory in a Sensory Stone for your experience if you will aid me in acquiring another collection of memories. The skull of a being known as Tuerny the Merciless is in the possession of Esao Enoch across the Ditch, on the Street of Martyrs. I have sent my own servants to retrieve it, but they have not been as successful as I had hoped. They are scavengers by nature and are unused to a living target. It is my opinion that you may succeed where they have failed."
"If memories hold no allure to you, I can also offer coins. Killing Enoch is not necessary for my purposes; I only seek Tuerny's skull. However, if he does meet an end, I will provide additional payment for Enoch's. What do you think?"
For the Warden
For the Warden ** spoiler omitted **
Make an Intimidate check, please.