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.
<grovels>
what's the precise nature of my share?
** spoiler omitted **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.
** spoiler omitted **
The enshrouded apothecary shakes its head, disbelieving.
"Crazy, sir, you are crazy.", it says, though its opinion does not prevent it from cooking up the concoction for you, sifting out various ratios of drugs and simmering them in a crock pot over a small fire.
The apothecary hands you the mixture, still steaming from the fire. It smells like rose petals and crocuses with a heady swamp cabbage undertow. Just a sniff makes you a little dizzy (this is going to be great or terrible). The robed figure points to the next tent over.
"You can trip there, if you need to. I will not rob you, but I can't promise someone else won't. If you aren't what is called a Sensate here, you will put them to shame."
(If you trip here) The next tent contains only a few sodden mattresses and some junkies, either staring at the ceiling, hyperventilating or quietly giggling. It smells like piss, old sweat and an unappetizing mixture of herbs and spices. Opting out of a mattress (you want to get high, not infested with powers know what) you sit with your legs crossed like a meditating monk, the steaming cocktail of hallucinogens held under your nose. You almost drop it once the tent starts vibrating to your pulse. Now you can see the trails that you've left in time, still images stacked one on top of the other like paintings or frozen mirrors: entering the tent, your expression on seeing the other junkies, right on top of you sitting down.
Who is that? Is that what I look like? Were they always there, walking in my steps?
Your amused, half-mad cackle is muffled by the plate on your mouth but you can feel it (and see it) shudder (and be stifled) in your chest. You pick up one of your juggling balls and throw it, hoping to marvel at its more interesting passes through the air.
But the ball doesn't leave any ripples behind it. The ball does not leave a trail.
This is scary. This is weird. What does that mean?!
And now you see it. Now it's coming, chasing the ripples in time you've left behind you.
The little crock is shattered on the tent floor below you, the weeds and mushroom stalks in a puddle of fouled water. You barely notice it. You're standing, but you'd only notice because you see the frozen path you've left, sitting, tripping, then standing.
All of your attention is swallowed by the creature. It moves with a predatory grace despite its strange body. It walks on all fours, like jungle cats you remember seeing in one life or another. Its limbs have many joints and many sharp-looking (wriggling) digits. It is gaunt, ravenous-looking. Its skin like polished obsidian, reflecting what's around it: here, the tent flap, there the comatose junky, in its eyes reflect you. Those dull, hungry eyes. My how long your teeth are, Granny (all the better to f$+#ing chew you up into red ruin, my dear). My how slavering and foul your pointed tongue is, Granny (all the better to smell you out, my dear). My how dead your eyes are, Granny, and how fathomless their depths are (all the better to encompass years of eternity, time so long it is inconsequential, my dear).
It passes through the trail of Rennets you've left behind, flicking its tongue at each and they disappear. It's only a matter of time until it closes on the source. Why don't they see it? Are they so far gone? Are there others, stalking them?
It grows closer and you're cornered against the tent wall.
What do you do?
Thorn
You walk from the quiet streets of the Clerk's Ward to the Hive's Night Market. Your progress is quick, though you try to avoid looking too spry with your disguise. On occasion, you pass another bariaur and they tap their chests three times with two fingers: respect for an elder. The Grinning Hound in you swells with pride over even such a small thing. Of course they should respect you! Are you not wise? Are you not potent? It isn't enough to compel you to speak, but you can feel that he wants you to, to say anything, to illuminate all before you with the bright eloquence of your wit or the scouring whip of your scorn.
You unload your things easily enough in the Night Market; asking no questions beyond the usual for bartering.
You find a hedge wizard's wooden cart, the six-limbed reptiles that pull it minded by a scrawny human with features ruined by fire. The wizard inside (a bald dwarf, his face tattooed with what looks like a map; a river running over his eyelid, red spots denoting cities, he has a ring on each finger and is dressed head to toe in green) asks only for 100 gold for the spell and will appraise as many items as you like. He says some magic words, stirs a cup of wine with an owl feather, downs it and examines each item.
Of the battered sword, he can tell you only a few things: its alloy is singular and remarkable and will have an easier time penetrating thick hides and magical barriers than another blade. The magic in it has been weakened to a shadow of what it used to be, retaining only a minor dweomer for greater accuracy and sharpness than normal. He also tells you (after scratching away a little grit with a long thumbnail) that it bears the mark of a minor power of swordcraft, balance and neutrality: Kelanen.
The pearls make him gasp: they, like the sword, used to hold potent magic. The demon prince Demogorgon once used pearls like these as a centerpiece for a coup on the Prime Material to turn him into a Power. What power remains in them and what use you can make of it, he does not know; he only cautions you that such a thing should either be destroyed very carefully or at the least handled delicately and far from civilization.
The darkwood wand is blessedly simple and uncomplicated: a wand of Cat's Grace with 11 charges remaining. The potion is similarly devoid of malice or trouble: a potion of cure moderate wounds.
With your things secured (and the pearls in a padded pouch), you head for home, noticing no pursuit, and fall exhausted into sleep.
Warden:
** spoiler omitted **
Plague-Mort
- A gate town to the Abyss; always in danger of sliding into the Plane of Infinite Portals on the first layer of the Abyss.
- Ruled by Arch Lector Byrri Yarmoril from an iron keep with three arches, his will in the governing body is enforced by the Hounds who are a mockery of a police force and more similar to a gang of half-breed thugs and extortionists than any real civic authority.
- Plague-Mort's name is often attributed to the fact that the town is a sprawl with no planning of any sort or closed sewer systems. Sickness and plague are as common as casual violence.
- The Eye of the Dragon is an inn that caters to outsiders; it is a safer place than any other to stay in Plague-Mort. The Golden Griffon is where the Hounds spend a lot of time; it is to be avoided. The Bell and Whistle is another tavern; an opinion is not posited on it in any travel guide you can find.
- Despite its unwholesome reputation and demeanor, Plague-Mort is a common launching place for expeditions into the Abyss.
Graz'zt
- Called "the most human-like of the Demon Princes", Graz'zt is a tall and handsome male demon with six fingers on each hand.
- He has mortal cults dedicated to him throughout the Wheel but not as many his foe Orcus; these cults are predominantly female and contain demons, humanoids and lamias.
- Graz'zt has had many exploits on the Prime: lover and former captive of the Witch-Queen Iggwilv and abductor of the trade Power Waukeen of the Prime world known as Toril.
- Graz'zt has fought an endless, three way war with Orcus and the late Demogorgon from his Triple Realm in the Abyss.
- He covets the title "Prince of Demons" and continues to struggle against Orcus for Demogorgon's crown.
- He is considered one of the craftiest of the Demon Princes and is a master strategist.
Zelatar
- A trade city in Graz'zt's Triple Realm.
- Graz'zt has decreed that merchants (identified with a merchant's pass) are not to be molested within his realm.
- Fatalities due to demon assaults are substantially lower among outsiders here than almost any other settlement in the Abyss.
- That is not to say the city is safe in the traditional definition.
** spoiler omitted **
"As if I want a half-wit failure like you working for me. I suggest you get your sorry hide out of here before word spreads: without me to help you, your "friends" among the clientele might want to have some words with you."
You snort at his insult and start shoving your way out when a hand grabs your shoulder. An old, withered gith looks up at you from inside a big hood. You're about to shove him off (or break his face, either way) when he starts jabbering at you.
"You have sought, tracked, discovered the death of Demogorgon's Proxy?", he asks. "If you will but listen, observe, remain, I have a profitable offer for you."
Warden:
Warden:
** spoiler omitted **
With a flutter of bronze wings, an intricate clockwork owl with a runes of law etched on each feather lands on your outstretched arm. With neither caution not affection you place the envelope into the artificial bird's (edit: an entirely organic notion; the bird is no more "artificial" than a "real" bird, its means of construction being the only differentiation; in fact, it is free from anomaly and acts only as a bird has been meant to act as decreed by Absolute Law; lacking anomalies of "personality" it is more bird than bird, an Absolute Bird) beak. Closed in a vise-like grip, the clockwork creature bears your message away. It flies straight up into the center of the Ring, corrects for the awkward shift of gravity and flies "up" to your left. Lacking any other business on the roof, you descend back into the library.
** spoiler omitted **** spoiler omitted **
For the Warden
He stops when he hears the old gith's suggestion. "Sure, I'll listen but listening makes me thirsty if you take my meaning."
Reghar
"Rule-of-Three is my name, moniker, nom de guerre", he explains,"and I'm interested in hearing, learning, being told whatever you know of Esao Enoch. Further, I can generously reward, compensate, bribe you for the man's or the man's corpse's or just the man's head's current location. Alive is better than dead, dead is better than dismembered, dismembered is better than nothing. Deliver him personally to me alive, dead or in pieces and your reward will be greater."
His long, thin fingers build three separate piles of gold: one tall, one short and one in between. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he makes them disappear.
For the Warden
"The small stack, can you give it as a downpayment? I have expenses."
Warden:
He’ll take careful note of the magical properties of the various arcane bits and bobs. The sword he’ll have bought a scabbard for; it seems something beyond the typical magic blade, and he’ll hang onto it for now. The pearls, likewise; they could either be worth a lot to the right buyer, or might yet hold some sort of power that Thorn could find a way to use to his advantage. He’ll keep them in a well padded pouch near some of his potions, hoping that the magic auras might become confused or concealed thusly. The potion he’ll keep for now - might save him getting a headache by asking Olli for patching up. The wand he figures will not be worth an awful lot with so few charges, so he’ll hang onto it for now too.
He’ll spend 10gp or so on a scabbard, some extra pouches and some food, indulging in being free of Aym’s stinginess.
Late the next morning, Thorn is waiting for O.L.L.I. outside the Lady’s Library. “Knew it,” he says, as he trots out of the shadowy archway he was lurking by to fall into step with the Modron. His voice sounds unusually deep and gravely; like he’s been drinking and smoking all night, though he shows no other signs of having over-indulged; indeed, he seems in a relatively cheerful mood. He looks much as he did the day before, although his expression seems less inclined to scowl and suspicion. He wears a new scabbard for the found sword.
“You’d leave in exactly enough time to meet at the Tear at the appointed time,” he continues, seeming rather pleased with himself at this deduction. “I wanted to meet you early, give you your share.” He produces and jiggles a leather pouch, filled with coins by the sound. He seems a little taken aback when the Modron refuses them.
“Enoch’s tax debt is a deep well, and this amount barely a drop in it,” he says, then chuckles, then frowns slightly. “But, if you insist … well, should I find other resources to pay the tax, I’ll offer you this again; you did your share yesterday, and you’ve earned recompense.” This seems unusually fair - bordering on generous even - for the Taker, particularly compared to yesterday.
“Right then - off to meet, hrrm, our destiny.” Once again he chuckles, then looks slightly annoyed.
O.L.L.I looks at the bleary bariaur
"Financial recompsense doesn't concern this unit. This unit does not have any of the standard upkeep issues that a flesh-based being would. This unit would prefer that you accomplish you lawfully-delegated task, fellow adventurer Thorn."
O.L.L.I goes silent, a faint sound like rattling teletype keys coming from somewhere deep within him.
"If you feel that the gesture would be wasted, perhaps you should secure the 'jink' at some safe place until the remainder can be secured, therefore giving a complete package to your superiors in the Fated hierarchy."
O.L.L.I's insides rattle a bit more
"During the Antipeak hours this unit was able to research some information on Plague Mort, Graz'zt and Zeletar. Summation as follows:"
O.L.L.I launches into a detailed regurgitation of the information he discovered
Researched information:
A gate town to the Abyss; always in danger of sliding into the Plane of Infinite Portals on the first layer of the Abyss.
Ruled by Arch Lector Byrri Yarmoril from an iron keep with three arches, his will in the governing body is enforced by the Hounds who are a mockery of a police force and more similar to a gang of half-breed thugs and extortionists than any real civic authority.
Plague-Mort's name is often attributed to the fact that the town is a sprawl with no planning of any sort or closed sewer systems. Sickness and plague are as common as casual violence.
The Eye of the Dragon is an inn that caters to outsiders; it is a safer place than any other to stay in Plague-Mort. The Golden Griffon is where the Hounds spend a lot of time; it is to be avoided. The Bell and Whistle is another tavern; an opinion is not posited on it in any travel guide you can find.
Despite its unwholesome reputation and demeanor, Plague-Mort is a common launching place for expeditions into the Abyss.
Graz'zt
Called "the most human-like of the Demon Princes", Graz'zt is a tall and handsome male demon with six fingers on each hand.
He has mortal cults dedicated to him throughout the Wheel but not as many his foe Orcus; these cults are predominantly female and contain demons, humanoids and lamias.
Graz'zt has had many exploits on the Prime: lover and former captive of the Witch-Queen Iggwilv and abductor of the trade Power Waukeen of the Prime world known as Toril.
Graz'zt has fought an endless, three way war with Orcus and the late Demogorgon from his Triple Realm in the Abyss.
He covets the title "Prince of Demons" and continues to struggle against Orcus for Demogorgon's crown.
He is considered one of the craftiest of the Demon Princes and is a master strategist.
Zelatar
A trade city in Graz'zt's Triple Realm.
Graz'zt has decreed that merchants (identified with a merchant's pass) are not to be molested within his realm.
Fatalities due to demon assaults are substantially lower among outsiders here than almost any other settlement in the Abyss.
That is not to say the city is safe in the traditional definition.
For the Warden** spoiler omitted **
"In Sigil, I only meet contacts, clients, servants here. If you happen to be outside of this fair city, settlement, prison, you should seek me out in Zelatar or Azzagrat or anywhere between in the Abyss. I will not be difficult to find. Let me remind, rebuke, reiterate: he is worth the most alive."
Rule-of-Three's hands disappear into his sleeves for a moment and reappear with a small stack of coins: 50 gold, which he slides over to you to seal the deal.
For the Warden
"During the Antipeak hours this unit was able to research some information on Plague Mort, Graz'zt and Zeletar. Summation as follows:"
O.L.L.I launches into a detailed regurgitation of the information he discovered
“Interesting,” muses Thorn, stroking his bearded chin. “Well … if yer finished with the book I might just take it; ask about, see if Shemeshka or some other cutter is interested in it. I’ll be glad to get this tax collector gig done with. Still, I’ve been thinking … maybe we should try to track down Enoch. A force of evil and chaos at large in the multiverse, etcetera etcetera … and if he’s gone to such pains to falsify his demise, well, someone may just offer a reward for his retrieval…”
He lowers his voice, leans close to where he thinks the Modron’s ear might be.
O.L.L.I bleeps when he hears Thorn's whisper. He modulates his sonic output to approximately the same level.
Thorn
It's a calm pre-Peak morning in the Lady's Ward as Thorn and O.L.L.I walk toward the Clerk's Ward and the Tear. The thrice-bolted doors have opened hours since, allowing blinking landlords, bankers and bureaucrats to attend to their duties. Messengers run to and fro with either packages of documents or just iron rods. A harried-looking tout leading a chanting procession of men in blue robes almost knocks into the two adventurers as the Bells of Baphomet sound from the ward's Temple of the Abyss. Almost Peak.
The lunch crowd is just sitting down at the Tear, so finding a table for five isn't easy without a tip. The professional bubbers haven't shown up yet, so there's plenty of room at the bar. Reghar's already there, seemingly bored out of his mind.
Reghar sees Thorn and Olli. He waves to them. "So we are hunting that fellow? He still owes quite a hefty bar tab, you know?"
Thorn quirks a bushy eyebrow and strokes his beard. He’d halfway not expected to see Reghar here today … still, he’d halfway not expected to be here himself, and here he was.
“Unpaid bar tabs are no concern of mine,” he says in a voice that seems much deeper and gravely than yesterday, “unless of course they’re my own. Heh.” He glances sideways at O.L.L.I. “Still … there may just be profit in hunting him. And of course, the satisfaction of bringing a tax dodger and all round nasty piece of work to justice, haha.” The bariaur shakes his head, looks somewhat embarrassed.
“Anyway … wonder if Chatty and the berk from last night are going to show? I’m mighty curious about those cards.”
O.L.L.I looks at Reghar.
"Greetings fellow adventurer Reghar. Today we shall hopefully all be closer to completing our tasks concerning the former proxy."
Mr Swire enters the bar, rubbing his temples with a scowl on his face.
"Greetings, all.", he groans as he slumps onto a nearby stool while leaning heavily on the bar.
"Wait, did any of you actually tell me your name last time we met?"
Mr Swire enters the bar, rubbing his temples with a scowl on his face.
"Greetings, all.", he groans as he slumps onto a nearby stool while leaning heavily on the bar.
"Wait, did any of you actually tell me your name last time we met?"
Sparrow: "WE gOtTA TaKE hiM fER ALL he'S WORTH!"
Eagle: "He must answer for his deeds."
Owl: "Find out what he knows."
Crow: "Peel him away skin by skin until we see what he's really made of."
Thorn narrows his eyes. “So you were here looking for us last night and you don’t even know who we are? So what’s your interest? Just the book that we may or may not still have in our collective possession? You’re really not in on some scam with that deck of cards then?”
It’s not exactly an introduction…
Sparrow: "wE ArE peoPLe PEOplE!"
“Hush small frantic bird,” mutters Thorn, absently stroking the scabbard strapped to his flank.
He looks about. “Where’s Mouthless? No point in bribing someone for a table, we’ll be off soon.”
Thorn quirks a bushy eyebrow and strokes his beard. He’d halfway not expected to see Reghar here today … still, he’d halfway not expected to be here himself, and here he was.
"Always liked hunting."
O.L.L.I looks at Reghar.
"Greetings fellow adventurer Reghar. Today we shall hopefully all be closer to completing our tasks concerning the former proxy."
"May you draw first blood."
O.L.L.I clanks a bit internally
"Potentially felonius being. You did not give us the designation by which your creators described you. This unit will give you our designations. This unit is designated Oil Lube Initializer, but is known to many flesh beings as O.L.L.I. The bariaur you see next to this unit is designated Thorn of Clovenwood. The large being sitting at the bar is designated Reghar, secondary name unknown. The aurally-impared being who has yet to arrive is designated Rennet, secondary name unknown."
Thorn narrows his eyes. “So you were here looking for us last night and you don’t even know who we are? So what’s your interest? Just the book that we may or may not still have in our collective possession? You’re really not in on some scam with that deck of cards then?”
It’s not exactly an introduction…
"Listen, berk. First off, I wasn't looking for you, I was looking for a good meal. You just had something interesting. Second, I said my name. Before I left, I said "If you need me, ask around for Mr Swire". Guess what? I'm Mr Swire! Third, the only reason I'm here is because I want to know what those cards meant. I don't even know whether or not you berks still have the book, and I don't exactly have many allies in the Clerks Ward, if you understand me. Now can we just keep the rest of the bickering until after we visit the place?"
"Yes, you are strong. Worthy, yes." Reghar directs his comment to Mr. Swire.
"Which are cards are you talking about?"
"And no this not bickering."
Rennet
Thorn addresses Swire. “If it’s a knight of the post you are, you should understand the need to keep your name concealed at times,” the bariaur pauses and sighs, a little over-dramatically, “even if Olli here doesn’t. No bickering then. We all know one another’s names, and I am sure we will all be fast friends.” Hint of sarcasm there.
He looks about again, seeming impatient, or perhaps nervous.
“C’mon,” he says suddenly. “Rennet knows where we are headed. Hello lovely!” the last is to attract the attention of Marya. His growling voice makes this sound rather disturbing. “Should you see our friend from last night with the drinking impairment,” he mimes a hand clamped over his mouth, “tell him we’ve gone on to our destination, will you my dear?”
For the Warden
For the Warden** spoiler omitted **
Marya, startled by the unfamiliar voice from Thorn, nods quickly before returning to her service duties. You're just headed out the door when you bump into Mr. Silent himself. He looks like hell; a few fresh bandages on old wounds and a few new ones, smells like dried flowers (the kind you'd see at a wake) and his eyes dart around nervously. He doesn't look tired at all, though.
He just holds up a note in shaky hand writing,"Rough night. Ready to go."
This Gray Scribe's address is only a fifteen minute walk through the Clerk's Ward. A red-armored Harmonium patrol passes, deep scowls on their faces. Everyone but O.L.L.I and Rennet return them; O.L.L.I because he's in their good book, Rennet because he's physically incapable (his narrowed eyes tell a different tale, though).
It's a three-story building of solid sandstone. Carefully groomed patches of razorvine wind their way here and there. It certainly isn't a palace, but it's a pretty nice (boring) looking residence. Even an earth genasi doorman in a checkered doublet, his gravelly skin and blunt features in contrast with his fine attire. A whistle hangs from a short chain on his neck.
"May I help you, sirs?", he asks in a flat baritone.
“Yeah,” drawls Thorn, his voice as gravely as the doorman’s skin. He trots forward, pulling the tarot cards from his jacket pocket and holding them up at face height. “We got an appointment o’ sorts with the Grey Scribe.”
The doorman frowns for a moment at the cards, then nods. In a tone like he is reciting a laundry list, the genasi says:
"His is the left apartment on the second floor. Please keep your weapons at your side and stomp your feet or hooves before coming in. Have a pleasant visit."
The stairwell is carpeted, a bare table with a vase and some flowers from Sylvania on the second floor landing. The doors are matching oak with brass fixtures; the left apartment has a knocker like a frowning minotaur, the ring in its nose as the knocker itself. A few pamphlets and fliers litter the floor, like the tenant hasn't come out or bothered to move them in a while; a folding puzzle to promote Harys Hatchys' shop, a wanted poster circulated by the Harmonium for everyone from murderers to jaywalkers, an advertisement for a place that sells Prime animals as pets or cheap meat.
Outside the door, Thorn glances around at his companions, shrugs, then raps loudly on the door with his knuckles (not bothering with the knocker).
A few seconds after Thorn’s loud knock on the oak door, the group can hear a rustling sound from inside the apartment, gradually getting closer. A voice, raspy like that of someone who has been in a desert all day without water, calls out, “Damnations, Hyram! I told you I couldn’t be disturbed today! I’m expecting visitors!”
The door swings open, and a rush of strong smells greets you: incense, brimstone, food (not-so-fresh), and some that are unidentifiable. You see a middle-aged(?) man with a roughly-trimmed gray beard and unkempt gray/brown hair standing before you. His ice-blue eyes at first register great surprise at the five individuals standing in his doorway, but then give way to something approaching recognition.
“Oh! It’s you. Most folks use the knocker; only Hyram raps on the door itself. That’s why I thought it was him, you see.” He then turns and walks back into the apartment; the room would be quite spacious if it wasn’t for the large number of books, pamphlets, and other papers stacked haphazardly here and there. There a few chairs in the room, as well as a table that looks like it would seat three, maybe four humans comfortably at it. The table is a little bit cleaner; it contains many odd-looking items (small bones, large and small glass beads, incense burners, cards similar to the ones in your possession, etc.).
After a moment, Gray turns back to the group and says in an annoyed tone, “Well? Are you berks coming in, or are you just going to stand in the doorway? There should be enough seats for you three in here,” he points at Mr. Swire, Rennet, and Reghar, “but I didn’t have time to get something for the bariaur or the box. You’ll have to make do with standing or sitting on the floor.”
O.L.L.I looks around the books stacked haphazardly with the most-intense emotion he ever shows: A desire to acquire knowlege.
"Greetings. This unit requires no seat and can be comfortable in a standing position indefinitely. Query: This unit spys a copy of Garthames' Codex Inexplica with the Frek Ahm Zûrri annotations. This unit has read mention of this tome, but has never seen a copy in physical form."
Swire grabs the wanted poster(list?) off the ground and begins reading it. He begins to smirk slightly.
After the scribe finishes talking, he sits down in one of the chairs and leans forward agitatedly. "Alright, two questions. One, what in the Nine Hells is this all about, and two, what do I have to do with it?"
"Greetings. This unit requires no seat and can be comfortable in a standing position indefinitely. Query: This unit spys a copy of Garthames' Codex Inexplica with the Frek Ahm Zûrri annotations. This unit has read mention of this tome, but has never seen a copy in physical form."
Reghar rubs his temples, as if the mention of books makes his head hurt.
Thorn raps his hoofs softly on the floor. “I’ll stand,” he says dryly, entering the room and looking about with interest. Then: “What he said,” in response to Swire, but directed at the Scribe. He holds up the tarot cards again.
"...Query: This unit spys a copy of Garthames' Codex Inexplica with the Frek Ahm Zûrri annotations. This unit has read mention of this tome, but has never seen a copy in physical form."
The Scribe looks a bit funny at O.L.L.I., and remarks "I don't think you ever actually asked me a 'query'. Primus would be a bit disappointed in your lack of follow-through, wouldn't he?. But if you are implying that you'd like to read that book, be my guest. It is a trite piece of clap-trap, if you ask me; I much preferred Schuun's Of Planar Lore." A slight smile while he comments about Primus gives the suggestion he (may) have been kidding.
The Scribe heads towards the back of the room, to a small bookshelf in the corner, and begins looking through one particular stack.
After the scribe finishes talking, he sits down in one of the chairs and leans forward agitatedly. "Alright, two questions. One, what in the Nine Hells is this all about, and two, what do I have to do with it?"
Then: “What he said,” in response to Swire, but directed at the Scribe. He holds up the tarot cards again.
Gray stops his rummaging for a moment, and turns towards Mr. Swire and Thorn. There is no trace of a smile, and a very earnest look in his eyes. "I assumed you knew: the Nine Hells have absolutely nothing to do with this. At least not that I've seen." He turns back to the bookshelf, and grabs a thick tome from the top shelf. "Here it is!" The group can make out the title as Prophecies of the Gray Scribe. He walks to the center of the group, turns to the very last page of the tome, and reads a short passage.
"The servant of the fallen Prince shall flee,
Leaving the graves of Heroes filled
By the fangs of vipers"
"I wrote that two years ago. At the time, I had absolutely no idea what it meant. To an extent I still don't; but I realize now it must concern Demogorgon's proxy here in Sigil. For only a week ago, I had another vision." The Gray Scribe reaches into the pocket of his tunic and retrieves a slip of parchment, reading from it:
"The forged ones find allies in the beasts
In finding the seneschal of the twin lord
Where sickness and death lead the way to the primal land."
The Scribe puts the paper away, and looks around triumphantly at the group, as if expecting everyone to completely understand.