No sooner has Thorn brought up the idea of a more secluded table than Marya comes back over to deliver any ordered drinks/food. She gestures to a table in the corner.
"The gentleman at that table has said he would like a word with you."
O.L.L.I
- Several references to another base of operations in Plague Mort, but there is no direct reference to an address or more specific location.
- An entry dated two days ago, "Abandoning Eel- location compromised; relocate, proceed with operation. Losses: 1,700 gp "medicine", remaining weapons shipment, Kern's little gift (good riddance), jewelry, the sword priest's blade, four black pearls (inert? no time to test)"
- An invoice from several months ago: "Client- M.Kern Payment- Received Objective- Not Completed Notes- Assignment too dangerous; 3/6 targets remain; targets far too powerful, require further payment."
Thorn squints over at the other table suspiciously. “Yeah? Who’s the berk?” The question may be addressed to the waitress, or perhaps his companions.
Marya shrugs.
"All I know is, he's quick with a garnish for a hard-working tavern girl like myself."
She gives you a meaningful look before going back to serving and cleaning up.
O.L.L.I turns to his companions
"This unit has deciphered some more interesting data from the journal. Perhaps you are right fellow adventurer Thorn and we should take this discussion to a more private setting."
O.L.L.I looks over at the being who has asked to talk to them. Perhaps he has seen him before.
The modron appraises the man in the corner table. He's wrapped in a grey cloak, even though there is a fire running in the hearth. This indicates to O.L.L.I that this individual is either A) having difficulty maintaining body temperature or B) likely to have something to hide; weapons, armor, etc. He is a human with beady eyes, an unshaven face and a sneer on his lips. Though stereotyping is notoriously dangerous and appearances can be deceiving, the "gentleman" is likely what is called a "knight of the post". He is unfamiliar to you and you cannot at this time recall an outstanding warrant for his arrest from the Harmonium.
“Berk’s got ‘is soul-windows on us now,” mutters Thorn, pulling his jacket close to hide the expensive looking daggers in their bandoleer. “We’ll chant ‘bout the jink later. Let’s see what he wants.”
Thorn trots about (he wasn’t sitting – there’s just no dignified way for a bariaur to sit at a typical table made for humans) and approaches the stranger’s table. He stops a short distance away and appraises the man carefully for a moment, before asking, “Yeah? Waddaya want?”
"This unit will accompany you fellow adventurer Thorn."
Turing so that the stranger will not see, O.L.L.I opens his internal storage and places the journal within. Once it is secure he turns and follows Thorn.
Rennet remains seated, keeping watch over his new “friends,” the door, and the unknown party.
"Now, cutter, there are only two reasons why you bunch would be together, and this ain't a bad joke. What I want is, I want in on whatever it is you're in on, you get my meaning?"
Thorn stares at the man for a moment, then burst into a braying, incredulous laugh.
“Ah, yer a jester of some sort I see. You must be; only a right clueless berk would think that he could angle in on our scam – after we’ve done all the hard legwork – just like that.” He snaps his long-nailed fingers and leans close to the man, his horned head thrusting forward menacingly, eyes narrowed, his next words almost a low snarl. “Now, I don’t much like folk who think not only they know my business, but they have some right to a piece of it. Talk quick-like cutter.”
… greed! … gold! … betrayal … whispers the voice in his head.
O.L.L.I regards the newcomer calmly.
"Attention possibly felonius being. You are interfering with the lawfully appointed duties of the Fated. This unit is assisting their lawfully-appointed member Thorn in executing his mission. Are you infering that you are entitled to something from us? Sigilian Municipal Code HAX-5776-22-D clearly states that interfering with a member of the Fated during his mission can result in up to 4 years incarceration in the Mercykiller's Prison."
The man returns the glare. "Firstly, you bunch seem to be missing a man of my particular talents. Specifically, the lock-picking, trap-disabling arterial-spray-inducing talents. Second, this is just a bit of advice from one Taker to another. Berk I may be, but I ain't barmy enough to read a book with that many eyes looking for it in a place such as this."
Crow: "Run him through! He knows too much!"
Eagle: "Always with the threats, you people. You'll catch more flies with honey."
Owl: "Hear him out; an outsider's perspective can be valuable at the moment."
Sparrow: "fLIp A CcOIn; heADs, kilL 'IM. TAilS, wELcOme 'im To tHe fFaMIly."
Thorn looks askance at O.L.L.I. “Really?” he asks incredulously, then turns back to the stranger. “So you’re Fated then are ye? Who do you work with, or for?”
He lowers his voice. “And what do you know of books? Who is looking for what? If you can tell us something less than useless in that regard, you may be of some worth.” He coughs. “What is it with books lately?” he mutters, almost to himself. Then, absently. "Hush now sword."
The man speaks in a conspiritorial tone, "The chant is, Shemeska is willing to pay a good chunk of jink to whoever can get that book to her."
During your exchange, the other patrons grow even quieter. Thorn and Swire are the center of attention, now. Through the hush, one of the servers heads into the back room, then returns shortly with a portly, annoyed looking halfling. He stomps purposefully to the table, a bottle of wine still in hand.
"Now, listen here!", he says,"Whatever your problem is, I don't give a damn. But this isn't some hole in the wall in the Hive where idiots can just start brawls whenever they like! Keep your voices down and your tone civil or I'll...I'll..."
He trails off as he surveys the other table, then returns to Thorn and Swire. His eyes widen and he drops the bottle on his shoes. Fortunately, it doesn't break; merely rolling under a nearby chair.
"That barmy old coot was right. Here you are. I'll be damned."
The owner of the bar recovers, wiping sweat from his brow. He pulls a plain, sealed envelope from a pocket in his breeches.
"A human with grey hair came in this morning with an envelope. Said it was for the five of you. I thought he was barmy, but here you are and here it is."
The Barghest's owner holds out the envelope and picks up his wine bottle. Turning away after you take it, he pulls the cork and takes a deep swig before going back into the kitchen.
Thorn mentally files the information on Shemeska away for later, but before he can retort, asking again how the man can proved he’s Fated, or how in the Hells he knows what book they’ve got (when they hardly know), he’s interrupted by the fat Halfling.
“Give me that,” he says, snatching the note before the unattractive human can, and begins to read.
There isn't a letter in the envelope; just seven cards with different images on them. They're all different, each pulled from a different Tarot deck (a common means of cheap divination and card games practiced throughout the Great Wheel).
The first is The Hanged Man, his mouth blocked out with black ink. The card may once have been garishly colored, but age has faded it.
The second is The Hierophant. The clergyman is rendered in black and white, with a mostly geometric design. The angles are harsh and unyielding; the design looks simple on the surface but once you examine it further, it is surprisingly intricate.
The Chariot is the third card and it is from a relatively new deck. Two beasts pull an imperious conquerer: a white wolf, its mouth matted with blood, and a rampant basilisk with a helmet pulled over its eyes.
The fourth is the Alchemist, though someone has crossed out "Alchemist" and replaced it with "Magician" in black ink. He holds aloft a wand in one hand, a book in the other. Above him are three joined rings and the table before him bears a pile of gold.
On the fifth card, the most crisp and new looking of them all, is The Devil. A malevolent looking satyr character plays the shalm in a background very similar to The Hive in Sigil. A human couple stare blankly at him while performing gruesome acts on one another.
The sixth is The Hermit. A robed old man sits with his hand in his beard, still holding his staff though his lantern is ignored behind him. He contemplates a chaotic, nightmarish landscape.
The last card, the seventh, is The Tower. A crumbling fortification, alive with fire, falling debris and fleeing humans and fiends. Two entrances have been added with ink at the bottom to bring the total to three. The one furthest on the left looks out onto a plain with black splotches on it, indicating holds or something.
Holding the cards out, you feel something has been written on the back of The Hermit. You turn the card over and, written in black ink, is a short message.
"Meet me at my home, 338 Rook Street, Clerk's Ward. I have a need to speak with you (all of you).-- The Gray Scribe"
“What in the Hells?” Thorn throws the cards down onto the table, looking to the level-headed O.L.L.I. for answers.
O.L.L.I takes a look at the cards Thorn has thrown down. He is not an expert at augury items, but he racks his information banks for anything of use.
"This unit has seen cards like this used in augury castings. Perhaps this 'Grey Scribe' is a diviner."
The man looks over the collection of cards, paticularly the adress. "How'd this berk know I'd be here? I didn't even know I'd be here.", he mumbles.
Mr. Swire
O.L.L.I
Thorn looks suspiciously at the stranger, then nods in grudging assent. “I don’t like that this Grey Scribe apparently knew that we’d all be here when we couldn’t have known it before today.” He looks again at the cards and snorts. “And what does all this mean?”
“You,” he says, trotting about and stabbing a finger at Swire. “I still don’t trust you … but either you’re in on some scam over us, or you’ll want to know what this is about as much as we do. Meet us at that address tomorrow at,” he names a suitable time, not too early in the day, “and we’ll find out. If it turns out you’re trying to fleece us, well … best watch your back.”
The bariaur picks up the cards again and stuffs them into his jacket pocket.
“Now, why don’t you leave us to our private business.” Thorn looks about for a more secluded table to continue the loot discussion.
O.L.L.I turns to his group
"This unit recently processed a book of predictions by a Grey Scribe. This unit found it difficult to access its information. This unit can easily find the address listed there if we wish to investigate this further."
Thorn
"Now, I'd be insulted if you did trust me. If you should ever need me, simply ask for the knight of the post called Mr Swire." Then, with a mocking bow, the man walks back out, continuing on his futile quest to drink his way around the ring.
Thorn's not familiar enough with the deck to know much about specific cards; he does know, however, that the ones in the envelope were from the Major Arcana. The major arcana represents things of deep significance, while the Minor Arcana represents more of the every day.
Some lawful faiths throughout the Prime Material and the Wheel at large decry tarot as either vulgar charlatanism meant to bilk the foolish and unfaithful or for the deck's more humble use as a gambling game. On the other end, some faiths deeply respect the deck and hold that a well-interpreted reading can impart a broad picture of past, present or future events. The cards, they preach, are signifiers and archetypes on their own and are merely meant to act as a vessel for the subject's agency and self reflection.
That is, if you believe in that garbage.
“Pssht,” says Thorn, who presumably doesn’t. “Now, where’s that barwench…”
Marya is a bit taken aback by Thorn's flirtatious manner; she giggles a little and slaps your arm playfully with a dish rag, but soon goes into the back and returns with a key after a minute or so. She motions the four of you to follow her and she brings you to a locked door in the rear, not far from the water closet. Up a short flight of stairs and on the left of what looks to be an office is a private meeting room with a table and a few chairs, along with its own door.
"An hour", she says,"you boys come right down when you're done so I can lock up, all right?"
With your assent, she leaves you to your discussion.
“Aright,” Thorn glances about the room. “We should be able to talk freely here away from prying ears. So, what else have you come up with from that book Ol’? Think Shemeshka would really pay a lot for it? Speaking of which, I think it might be best if you didn’t get too specific about it to your frosty friend at the Lady’s Library … I may yet need to take it in – hmmm – taxes.”
Thorn begins laying out various pieces of loot on the table, asking the group what they think they might be worth, or where they could be sold.
“Aright,” Thorn glances about the room. “We should be able to talk freely here away from prying ears. So, what else have you come up with from that book Ol’? Think Shemeshka would really pay a lot for it? Speaking of which, I think it might be best if you didn’t get too specific about it to your frosty friend at the Lady’s Library … I may yet need to take it in – hmmm – taxes.”
O.L.L.I ponders Thorn's question.
"Fellow adventurer Thorn. This unit believes that the information enclosed in this journal could be very valuable to the right person. Much of the information is irrelevant to us as we are not drug dealers and the fleshy members of the party would be unable to access most of the gates listed herein without massive magical protection. From what I know of Shemeshka, this unit would postulate that there is a 97.9954% chance that she would find this journal valuable. Considering that you still need to procure enough jink to fufill your assignment it is a logical notion to attempt to sell it to her."
O.L.L.I pauses
"This unit's honored co-worker Shactal didn't send this unit out to find a journal, only to attempt to spread the word of Enoch's kip's whereabouts. This unit has accomplished that. Shactal does not factor into any discussions of what was found at the kip."
“Aright,” Thorn glances about the room. “We should be able to talk freely here away from prying ears. So, what else have you come up with from that book Ol’? Think Shemeshka would really pay a lot for it? Speaking of which, I think it might be best if you didn’t get too specific about it to your frosty friend at the Lady’s Library … I may yet need to take it in – hmmm – taxes.”
O.L.L.I ponders Thorn's question.
"Fellow adventurer Thorn. This unit believes that the information enclosed in this journal could be very valuable to the right person. Much of the information is irrelevant to us as we are not drug dealers and the fleshy members of the party would be unable to access most of the gates listed herein without massive magical protection. From what I know of Shemeshka, this unit would postulate that there is a 97.9954% chance that she would find this journal valuable. Considering that you still need to procure enough jink to fufill your assignment it is a logical notion to attempt to sell it to her."
O.L.L.I pauses
"This unit's honored co-worker Shactal didn't send this unit out to find a journal, only to attempt to spread the word of Enoch's kip's whereabouts. This unit has accomplished that. Shactal does not factor into any discussions of what was found at the kip."
Rennet perks up at the mention of a tome valuable to drug dealers.
By touch, Rennet indicates the only items of interest are the silver and cold iron daggers.
With an unusual amount of restraint, Reghar is satisfied with his portion, though he eyes the magical stuff with either greed or distrust.
"It a start.", he grumbles, tearing a mouthful of meat off a whole roast pheasant that you're pretty sure he grabbed from another (aghast) patron on the way up.
O.L.L.I bleeps looks at Thorn.
"Fellow adventurer Thorn. Query. Do we continue on to Shemeshka directly or do we visit the Grey Scribe? Should be liquidate the portable assests collected to deliver to your superiors? This unit is unsure of what should be accomplished first."
With somewhat bad grace, Thorn counts out what O.L.L.I. has calculated to be an equal share of the easily cashable treasure to Reghar. He hesitates when Rennet indicates he wants the daggers – then, with a rueful grin pushes the entire bandoleer with the four daggers – all masterwork, and two of special materials – over to him.
“You’ll be fightin’ for us if we run into any fiendish trouble then,” the bariaur comments, nodding to the daggers.
“We’ll meet back here at like we told that other fellow, then go to meet this card dabbler. I’ll offload some of the loot tonight, we’ll deal with the magic and such later. I say we hold onto the book for a little longer – make sure we get all we can from it afore we sell it.”
When the discussion is finished, he takes his leave and heads back to his kip. He keeps alert for any who might be following him .
When he reaches home, he checks for anyone lurking about then looks for Star’s message.
"This unit agrees on this course of action fellow adventurer Thorn."
O.L.L.I makes his way back to the Lady's Library to assume his night shift. He will take the solitary time and use the library's resources to further investigate the journal.
With the loot divided as far as it will go tonight, the four of you split up into Sigil's anti-peak hours to get what rest you can and nurse your wounds.
Thorn
O.L.L.I
"Hmph. Didn't think you were coming back." Whether the Gelugon means tonight or ever, he doesn't say. "Did you and goat boy recover his 'back taxes'?"
He locks the door behind you and resumes his rounds.
DM:
Thorn forces himself not to turn his head to try to track his new shadow’s movements, instead noting the last dark corner it slipped into out of the corner of his eye. His hand subtly tightens on the grip of Birds of Prey’s hilt
He figures that if someone is going to try to jump him, the time to do so would be when he stops at the door, and has his guard down, searching for keys and turning handles. He’ll try not to disappoint …
He stops about five feet away from the front door to the building housing his small apartment, and begins to make a show of patting down his waistcoat and jacket, as if looking for his keys, hoping to draw out the one following him. . Under this pretence he tenses, body ready to spin and face anyone who should approach, sword held up defensively . The whole time he is trying to keep a subtle eye and ear out for his shadow.
Warden:
"This unit was successful in assisting his fellow adventurer Thorn in the collection of part of the monies owed to the Fated by Enoch."
After Shactal leaves to go off drinking, O.L.L.I will take a good look at the journal and all the other books he found, checking and rechecking them for hidden information. If he recalls any books in the library that could aid him he retreives them to help with his investigation.
K(sigil)1d20+7=10,K(planes) 1d20+6=24, Spellcraft: 1d20+6=23
Rennet almost returns the two masterwork daggers to the communal pile, then decides that with no where to go and nothing to do until tomorrow afternoon, he’ll see if he can trade them for a quick high and somewhere to crash unmolested for the day.
Pocketing the two special materials daggers, Rennet palms a masterwork blade in each hand, nods curtly to his new acquaintances, then heads out to “score” something to make him remember, or forget.
DM:** spoiler omitted **
Seconds slide by and you're prepared to turn and confront your stalker, blades bare, come what may....
.... and nothing happens. Looking over your shoulder, the street is dark and empty.
You turn the key and enter your kip; not really bothering with a candle, since your night eyes are just fine. There on the floor, slid just under the door is a note in Star's flowing hand.
Thorn,
You're off on a job and I need to leave, so I guess we'll just have to miss each other this time. Some of the bloods I used to run with have heard chant of trouble on the Plane of Shadow, city called Balefire. Pretty far out of town, right? But I've never been there and it's a good opportunity to meet some new challenges, maybe come out a little ahead. Truth be told, I think you and I could use some time out of Sigil. We haven't been ourselves lately, or maybe it's just me. (You can almost feel her hesitate, like for the first time since you met her, she isn't sure of something.) I brought you in to the Fated, but I wonder if maybe all of us have been losing sight of the real goal. Kindness without weakness, compassion without cowardice. That's the ideal, right? I get a bad feeling, sometimes. That's all I should say.
Be careful, whatever it is they have you doing.
Love,
Star of Dusk
Warden:
** spoiler omitted **
Primarily of interest are two maps: one of the gate town of Plague Mort, the other of what you've cross-referenced as Zelatar in Graz'zt's Triple Realm. Plague Mort is divided in three colors of ink: green, black and red. On the reverse are several small, crude diagrams of the city. Each with shifting zones of those three colors.
Zelatar is a different story; there's a key denoting locations of allies and concentrations of troupes, shift changes, bribes and access routes. Strangest of all, there are some small personal notes on various locations and establishments.
"Lovely location with an excellent view of the River of Salt. The landlord is a cambion and claims ancestry from Graz'zt himself, but I have my doubts. Somehow his petty deception makes the location even more desirable."
Esao Enoch was planning to move in even as he was figuring out how he could burn the city down.
Rennet almost returns the two masterwork daggers to the communal pile, then decides that with no where to go and nothing to do until tomorrow afternoon, he’ll see if he can trade them for a quick high and somewhere to crash unmolested for the day.
Pocketing the two special materials daggers, Rennet palms a masterwork blade in each hand, nods curtly to his new acquaintances, then heads out to “score” something to make him remember, or forget.
Dreammist is promised to bring you beautiful visions after you steep it into a tea and inhale the vapor. This one has the advantages of being kind of perfect for you: drinking the tea would be an instant O.D. but smelling it is exactly what you're supposed to do. And there are few drugs that can offer better hallucinations. However, you've heard that it's really addictive.
There's always the tried and true mushroom powder, too. It's both less expensive and less addictive than dreammist, but it's not as potent. Not nearly as pedestrian as devilweed, either. You've tried it before and haven't died: this is usually considered a good thing.
Warden:
… betrayal … deceit … whispers Queen Avarice. “Hush now,” grumbles Thorn, opening the door. “You’ve had your ride.” He enters the apartment, locks the door behind himself. “I thank you for your service. The allotted time has passed and then some – I bid you depart now.”
He feels a reluctance, and then the weighty presence within his head fades away. He’ll replace it with another soon enough.
He finds the note from Star, reads it. He feels … hollow inside. Sad. He and Star were ever hardly a couple, or exclusive … but there was a time when they were as much friends as lovers, Lately … well, could he really call her either? Her letter makes her think of when they first met, back when he had first arrived in Sigil. Yes, he’d had ideals. He was going to fight demons in the Abyss! He was going to make a name for himself, become a great warrior who would be long remembered by the flocks. Now … well, maybe he’d just been naïve.
Still, this business with Enoch – he was a bad guy right? Certainly his former boss had been about as bad as they come. Maybe if he tracked Enoch down … that would be – good? Just?
He shakes his head, stuffs the note into a pocket. “Balefire,” he mutters, searching the dusty corners of his memory for anything he might know of the place.
Then he puts that out of his mind for the time. Things to do.
He checks that the door is locked, that the shutters on his meagre windows are drawn … and just in case, that there is no-one lurking about the place. Once satisfied, he takes a piece of chalk, draws a circle on the floor. Once satisfied with the circle, he begins the fine work, drawing curves, loops, straight lines, strange circles within it.
He stands back, appraises his work with a critical eye, then says, in a commanding voice, “Naberius, the Grinning Hound, I call thee.”
Something shimmers in the air above the circle, and then a crane appears and crashes heavily to the floor within the circle, its neck broken. Something stalks out of the darkness towards the dead bird – a dog the size of a bear with three heads. Two of the heads drop and begin tearing at the crane, coming up with bloody gobbets of flesh and feathers. The third head looks sidewise at Thorn, addresses him in a growling, gravely voice. “Why have you summoned me?”
Quickly, persuasively, the binder presents his deal – in exchange for the use of certain powers, he offers his body and mind as a vehicle for Naberius to ride, sense and observe the mortal world, for a period of no less than twenty four hours.
The apparition disappears, and Thorn feels a new weight appear in his mind, an alien presence. Naberius has agreed to his deal, but Thorn has not made a strong pact ; so Naberius will be able to influence his actions.
“Good enough for me; greater for some,” comments the bariaur to no-one in particular, in an unusually deep and gravely voice.
Quickly, he erases the circle, dons an old, homespun tunic from his time in Ysgard, then calls upon Naberius’ gifts to change his appearance; he still looks like a bariaur, just not the one called Thorn of Clovenwood. Between that, the clothes and the voice he should be most unrecognisable.
He’ll head out into the night market and sell the easily off-loadable gear. He’ll buy a scabbard for his new sword – a nice one, but nothing too flashy. As his last stop before heading home he’ll seek a mage at the markets – any lowly hedge-wizard or sorcerer will do, so long as they can cast Identify. He’ll pay the costs with part of his share of the loot – he wants to know what this Bird of Prey does.
Whatever the magician tells him (or is unable to tell him), he’ll leave immediately, and use Disguise Self to change his appearance again, including making the sword look like a stick or staff. He’ll then return home quickly but by a circuitous route.
Assuming he makes it home safely, he’ll sleep, ready to meet the others late in the morning.
Warden: