Warden
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"Well, that's... that's incredible! But are you sure you want to travel with these... people? Perhaps you'll say that I'm being a bit overprotective but what do you know of them beyond your auguries? You will be entrusting these people with your life, after all and Plaguemort has always been a tad bit unstable to say the least."
Having aired his misgivings, Hyram clears his throat.
"I can see you've made up your mind, though. Don't let my worrying take the wind out of your sail: I'll be happy to check in on your home while you're gone."
“If no one else turns up I’m going to be right annoyed,” Thorn mutters to himself, or maybe his sword, or the other voice in his head.
For the Keeper
** spoiler omitted **Warden
** spoiler omitted **
Warden
The Scribe gets back up. "Unfortunately, I can't talk longer, Hyram. I sent Dek to get me some supplies for the journey, and he should be back soon. Thank you for your help, my friend; I will contact you as soon as I am able."
The Scribe heads back to his apartment and pays Dek the extra coin when he arrives. After that, Gray packs his gear for the journey, and lies down for sleep.
In the morning, he awakes, grabs his pack and staff, and heads over to the Black Sails tavern. He remains in deep thought as he walks, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. In fact, he almost stumbles directly into Thorn as he approaches. "Oh, bariaur! Are any of the others here?"
“Why yes human,” drawls Thorn. “They all hide behind that small broken crate over there.” The bariaur’s voice seems to have lost some of its growling quality and unusal deepness of yesterday (though it still has some of both), but his sarcasm and surliness seem well intact.
"Oi!" Shouts Reghar as he sees Thorn and the Gray Scribe, emerging from behind the crates. "So off we go to places beyond the veil?"
"Personally, I need some time out in the wild and this appears to be the next best thing."
The Black Sail is fairly quiet at this hour, so your group mostly has the place to themselves (along with a few Sinkers either passed out or knocked out and bloody in the saw dust on the floor). All the furniture is cheap and rickety, lanterns are boxed in with metal and bolted to the ceiling just out of reach of all but the tallest patron. Half the furniture is piled where its fallen apart already, heaps meant to remind the rest of the furniture the penalty for straying from the straight and narrow. Or something.
Thorn had been waiting outside – not so much due to concern at being alone in a Sinker bar (during the day at any rate), but the fact that he’s feeling quite stingy today and doesn’t want to pay for a drink he’s not likely to enjoy. Now that the Scribe and Reghar are here though he moves in off the street.
“Nice place.”
He looks at Reghar. “Well, where we are going will certainly be wild, says I.”
The Scribe looks at Thorn and Reghar strangely. "Why in the worlds would everyone be behind crates? And they call me barmy ... never mind, to each their own, I suppose."
Once the three enter the bar, the Scribe mentions to Thorn, "By the way bariaur, since I will be accompanying you folks, perhaps it would be a good idea if you told me your names. The modron called you 'Thorn' once, I believe; is that your name or a nickname? And who are the rest?"
Wow. I feel…fantastic. Crazy, crazy dreams.
Rennet checks himself over for vomit stains, then does a quick inventory of his possessions.
Hope I didn’t miss the others. Time to head back.
O.L.L.I arrives precisely when specified. He falls in with the rest and addresses The Grey Scribe's question:
"My designation is Oil Lube Initializer, but most beings shorten that to O.L.L.I."
“Thorn, buck of Gort, of Clovenwood,” answers Thorn, strangely formally, “but I assumed a seer like you would know that.” He gives the names of the others. “And what do we call you, Gray?”
Mr Swire strolls up, a smirk on his face. "Morning, cutters. We ready to head off?"
Thorn nods curtly and shoulders his pack, checks his weapons. “Aye. The Foundry.” He starts out the door.
“Thorn, buck of Gort, of Clovenwood,” answers Thorn, strangely formally, “but I assumed a seer like you would know that.” He gives the names of the others. “And what do we call you, Gray?”
The Scribe sighs. "Again, I see visions. I do not see words. Thus, unless something in the vision is on writing, like someone holding a book, or more rarely, the vision has sound, I do not get specific names.
"And yes, 'Gray' is fine; I do not have another name."
He turns to O.L.L.I. "A pleasure, O.L.L.I."
"Let's go find our quarry."
"Let's go find our quarry."
"What do they call you, Prime?"
"Let's go find our quarry."
"What do they call you, Prime?"
"I am Reghar. A bloodseeker. Truth is found only through conflict, you see, manifested in combat.
"I am Reghar. A bloodseeker. Truth is found only through conflict, you see, manifested in combat."Let's go find our quarry."
"What do they call you, Prime?"
"Yes, yes, yes ... the Chariot. Of everyone here, I saw you the clearest."
Thorn nods curtly and shoulders his pack, checks his weapons. “Aye. The Foundry.” He starts out the door.
With everyone assembled, you head out through the Lower Ward toward the belching edifice of The Foundry. The sourceless Peak light leaves soft, smudgy shadows in your wake as you pick your way through cramped, sooty streets. Everyone but O.L.L.I is coughing a little into their fists through the noxious haze that settles over the ward. Through the faces in the crowds you can pick out folk with yellow tinged skin and rheumy eyes: lifelong natives of the Lower Ward, sickened and poisoned by the fumes. Even if the streets resemble one of the Lady's Mazes, it's easy to orient yourselves: The Foundry looms over the bastard Sigil architecture like a man-made volcano, smoking and ringing with the clang of hammers on metal.
The Foundry is a compound ringed by a high stone wall of irregular shape. Small out buildings sit a short distance from the huge Foundry in alleys of their own. A huge gate, ten feet tall with two barred gates of equal length stands between the Lower Ward and the Foundry. Looking in, you can see a gravel yard divided by low brick walls, carts of ore and coal and piles of slag and raw material sit patiently, waiting to become something new. Towering above the yard and dropping all but the furthest gate into shadow is the main Foundry.
Two guards stand before the massive gate, each decked head to toe in well made plate mail with tabards bearing the insignia of the Believers in the Source and holding halberds at the ready size you up as you approach.
"May I help you, sirs?", asks the one on the right, his friendly voice taking on a hollow echo from his helmet.
"Sirs? He means Thorn, I think. Or was it O.L.L.I.?"
O.L.L.I bleeps and arranges his mouth in the configuration known as a 'smile' to flesh-based beings. He has found this non-verbal cue is a good opening gambit in negotiating
"Greetings Foundry guardians. This unit's designation is Oil Lube Initiallizer, but many shorten that to O.L.L.I. This unit and his companions are attempting to access your facility. Is there someone that we can discuss securing permission to enter with?"
The guards each make a short nod with their helmeted heads.
"Greetings, O.L.L.I, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What is the nature of your business at the Foundry? I am afraid we must limit entrance to those with faction business; the Foundry is a dangerous place to work and we would not want distractions to impede any of our workers or cause possible harm to them or guests. Such could be disastrous for your continued progress toward realizing your potential."
"So you understand", says the other guard," the general public are not allowed within for their own safety. Purchases may be made outside of the compound on any of the nearby streets."
O.L.L.I does his approximate best to nod
"This unit understands the regulations you have regarding this, and finds them very balanced. However, our mission involves accessing a part of your compound. It involves a faction mission for this unit's fellow associate Thorn, who is attempting to collect some unpaid taxes from a scofflaw for the Fated. We have information that a portal within your compound could take us close to where this scofflaw is hiding. We wish to see if perhaps your factotum would permit us entry to use this portal."
O.L.L.I lowers his vocal modulations
"This unit is not even sure if your faction is aware of this portal. If that is the case, it could be a valuable datum to obtain."
The guards exchange a glance, then return their attention to your party.
"I won't ask how you found out about the portal, but I'm going to need both a warrant from the Fraternity of Order and a Notice of Lien from the Fated before I can allow you onto the premises. If you have these documents on your persons, I will be happy to escort you to the portal."
The Scribe grows noticably agitated as the back-and-forth between OLLI and the guards continues. When the guards mention the required documents, his face grows red and he quietly, but audibly exclaims, "Oh, for the love of ...!!" He absent-mindedly takes out his tarot deck and begins shuffling them in agitation.
The Scribe grows noticably agitated as the back-and-forth between OLLI and the guards continues. When the guards mention the required documents, his face grows red and he quietly, but audibly exclaims, "Oh, for the love of ...!!" He absent-mindedly takes out his tarot deck and begins shuffling them in agitation.
"I am sorry for your frustration, sir, but we must insist that any and all visitors making use of the facilities are on legitimate business or are joining the faction. Perhaps in the future, you will not... forget your credentials."
"You are the Believers, yes? What are the requirements for membership?"
"It's very simple, honestly: all you have to do is work the forge for a few weeks. If you can handle it long enough, you may ask a senior member to sponsor you. They teach you what they will and you cement your place by crafting an item on the forge to represent the lessons you have learned."
"So you mean one has to be strong... stronger than the metal that you mold and forge with such ease. If that is the case, know that I value strength."
Thorn snorts in disgust; at not being let in, or at the thought of doing several weeks of hard work is not clear. He privately assumes that the guards are looking for a bribe, but he’s feeling far too tight to offer one.
“Look here,” he says, trotting forward. “This berk we’re chasing is a bad guy. Evil, chaotic, sadistic, the works … forget unpaid taxes, he’s a menace, and someone needs to stop him. That’s us. Plus he’s got far too much information, on your faction and mine; you want to know how we found out about the Door inside? From him. Who knows who else he might decide to let know about it? Course, if I need to go back to my boss and get documents, and we need to pick up forms from the Guvners, then each body’s gonna want to know why we want in, and pretty soon your Door’s not going to be so dark anymore. I don’t know if you know where it leads, but believe me, you’re not gonna like all the sods who’ll come calling wanting to use it once the chant on it is out.” He glowers, fingers of one hand drumming on the hilt of Bird of Prey.
“So why don’ you just save everyone – ‘specially yourself – the time and effort, and accompany us inside. Our words that we’ll touch not a thing else, we’re only interested in the Door, and only then to go through it.”
"So you mean one has to be strong... stronger than the metal that you mold and forge with such ease. If that is the case, know that I value strength."
"Oh, you can't actually be thinking of joining these berks! They promise you all the power in the universe, but they never say when you get it, do they?"
"So you mean one has to be strong... stronger than the metal that you mold and forge with such ease. If that is the case, know that I value strength.""Oh, you can't actually be thinking of joining these berks! They promise you all the power in the universe, but they never say when you get it, do they?"
"Can you prove my friend wrong...that there is power in the Foundry? Show us around. Give us a tour of the place." Reghar demands of the guards.
One guard leads a philosophical discussion with Reghar and Mr. Swire.
"When I speak of strength, I mean not only that used to beat metal into a new shape. I also speak of endurance: withstanding the temperature with patience, forging and reforging until you strike the right balance. Strength is also patience, knowing that truth will only come in time. As you work the forge on iron and steel, you understand that the Great Wheel and all of the planes are a forge themselves, working on you. We only promise that if you realize your full potential in this life, you will move up the scale of existence in your next incarnation. In such a way, each of us has the potential to one day become gods. If you want proof, look at Curran, one of our own that ascended to godhood through her beliefs. It is a long and difficult journey, however, and not for those that seek something as crude as power for its own purpose. And I am afraid there is nothing to see in the Foundry besides all manner of beings working hard at the forge; that is the only power we require here."
"Nice try, though."
The other speaks patiently with Thorn.
"I think you're overestimating the value of the portal, sir: it does indeed go to Plaguemort and it isn't uncommon for one of our faction to tell others about it. Further, if you cannot produce any sort of proof that you are who you say you are and you need access for what you claim, why should I trust anything you say? Especially when you wish to use knowledge of the portal's location to blackmail our faction, as you have hinted. I'm going to need permission from a factotum for this."
The guard produces a large wrought-iron key and opens his side of the gate. His companion moves to stand in the center of the entrance, his halberd held at the ready. The other guard closes the gate with light clang and heads further into the compound.
"I would kindly keep your hands from your weapons, sir. A nervous habit could easily be misinterpreted."
"Well, Reghdar, you heard him. You join them, your soul will get True Ultimate Power eventually. Of course, that does you no good, since you're dead. Now, if you're a smart enough cutter to realize no one in the multiverse will help you find True Ultimate Power, that you have to pull yourself up to get what you want because no one will stop to help you get it, then you should join the Fated."
The Scribe can no longer stand it. "OH SHUT UP! All of you! Power is as the One decides! Everything has been predetermined, and you're a fool if you think otherwise! Now, it's already been decided that we are to go to Plaguemort, and that is all that matters. I have no interest in blackmail, or threats, or anything else other than getting there!" Turning to the guard, he calms a bit and states, "And what possible difference could it make to you if we use the Portal? Does it hurt your faction in any way if several addled berks want to go to one of seediest and dirtiest Gatetowns? Isn't that what you've been preaching? By going there, are we not testing ourselves and striving to reach our fullest potential? What if we reimbursed the Godsmen for the use of your resource? Would that help?"
Thorn holds up his hands, palms outward, then hastily lowers his left hand, clenching his fist at his side. “Alright, alright, I’m not meaning anything as a threat,” he says placatingly (and contrary to earlier appearance). “Just telling how it is. Yes, go and fetch yer boss.”
He tries hard to stifle a yawn at the other guard’s conversation with Reghar, and nods in agreement with Swire. “Better and quicker ways to power than that,” he mutters. … blood … gold … betrayal … agrees the voice in his head.
He gives Gray an odd look at his outburst. “The berk’s already gone,” he says, indicating the retreating guard.
The guard shakes his helmeted head, perhaps exasperated or saddened.
"There are better people to explain than I. But, look, my compatriot is returning with Ombidias. He will be able to help you better."
And indeed, the other guard is returning. At his side is a humanoid about as tall as the gates before you. He has skin like a deep mahogany, huge hands and a face of sharp angles and planes, like he was carved from rock. His shoulders are easily as wide as the haft of Reghar's spear. The giant wears soot-stained patchwork clothing and nonchalantly holds a malus sized for his hand. His apron holds a number of blacksmithing tools. The human-sized guard has to trot to keep up with his great strides.
Not worrying about protocol, he giant swings the gate open for himself and the returning guard and turns his expressive green eyes to your party.
"Greetings,"he rumbles in a deep baritone,"I am Ombidias of the Forge. I hope that my young friends have not taxed your patience overmuch. They tell me that you seek a favor? That you wish to use our portal to Plaguemort?"
"Well, I would be happy to take you there but I'm afraid that nothing comes free in Sigil and as your friend said, it would be to your best interest not to receive anything for free. The Believers in the Source will require a simple boon, so that we will grant you one in turn. Is this agreeable to you? Or would you prefer to look for another means of reaching your destination?"
"That would depend on what this boon we have to give is, now doesn't it? So, what is it you need old Mr Vandemar and company to do?"
Thorn gulps. “Glad I wasn’t threatening anyone…” he mutters.
Then, looking up at the stony giant, in a louder voice: “Wotcha Ombidias. I am Thorn, buck of Gort, of Clovenwood. Your offer sounds … fair. We’d all like to co-operate and such-like of course. What boon do you ask in exchange for the use of your portal?”
"Excellent,"rumbles Ombidias,"I am glad that we have arrived at an understanding. Rest assured, I will not ask anything that is not commensurate with the favor you have asked. You are not likely to be injured or killed or to even lose your valuables."
"Recently, a member of our faction, a tiefling warrior named Chains Broken was killed on an expedition to the Catacombs and Down Below. Regrettable, but understandable: she was an adventurer through and through. However, her corpse was taken by the Collectors and sold to the Dustmen. She was a well-liked member of our faction and we would like to reincarnate her ourselves, that she might show us her progress toward her true potential. The Dustmen take a different view, however, and feel that anyone remanded to their custody must remain dead under the mistaken view that death is the End and the Truth. Since the Dead and the Godsmen are diametrically opposed, they will not return her body to us, no matter how much we offer them in exchange. But if you were to go to the Mortuary and request the body, without revealing any link to us, and bring it back along with her possessions, we would be most grateful. Any money that you expend in pursuit of this goal, will, of course, be refunded in full. Is this agreeable?"
Thorn shakes his horned head in mild frustration. Still, this corpse collection should be quicker by far than traipsing through the Outlands to reach Plaguemort overland. He glances at his companions.
“Alllright,” he says slowly, looking back up at the giant. “That sounds … potentially maybe within the realms of possibility. I’m not making a binding contract here mind, but we’ll see what we can see. Few questions; this Chains Broken, what part of the Wheel did she hail from, prior to the Cage, if you know? Second, what did she look like? Distinguishing features, hooves, tail, freaky eyes, that sort of thing? Last … do you require receipts for reimbursement?”
"Chains Broken escaped from a Baatezu's slave army when she was young, hence her name. She was an attractive, athletic woman despite her mixed heritage. Her parentage was manifested in a hairless tail and eyes like black orbs with no whites. I believe she had a number of tattoos as well and that she shaved the left half of her head. If you can recover her three-headed flail, her armor and her shield, I'm certain she would appreciate it but if you cannot, I understand. If you go the legal route, the Dustmen should present you with a dispensation for her corpse. Otherwise, you will have to give me a list of your expenses when you return so that I may reimburse you accordingly."
Ombidias frowns. "If they have... cremated her, please ask to look at the Dead Book (there is a real one, you know, outside of the Cant) and be certain, then return to me. Do this well and you will gain access to the portal. Do it exceptionally well, and I will make it worth the extra effort."
He gives Gray an odd look at his outburst. “The berk’s already gone,” he says, indicating the retreating guard.
At Ombidias's words, the Scribe grows quiet, and a bit wide eyed, with a smile creeping onto his lips. He quickly rummages into his pack for his journal, and rummages through the pages, eventually settling on one near the front. Letting out a loud laugh, he closes the book loudly and says, "I had forgotten that one! I think this is a perfectly fair arrangement, don't the rest of you agree?" looking at his companions.
O.L.L.I bleeps
"Affirmative. In logical proceedings it is only lawful to render recompsense for services rendered."
Reluctantly, you turn your steps back toward the Hive. It isn't a long walk from the Great Foundry to the Mausoleum, but gods is it an experience. The transition from the Lower Ward to the Hive could best be seen through the filth around you. In the Lower Ward, there's a constant smoke and fume, byproducts of industry. The Hive's filth is more... chaotic. Near the Gatehouse and the Street of Martyrs (which you had hoped not to see again so soon), it's mostly rubble and other detritus, similar to the neighboring Ward. But once you hit Ragpicker's Square on the way to the Mortuary, you can practically see the stench. Filthy bodies, a lack of sewage system, cast off goods of all description and the ubiquitous corpse carts fill the Hive with a smell like you never thought was possible until you stepped into it.
Ragpicker's Square is a shanty town of crude huts and hovels built one atop the other. Where the ground falls through, rotten wooden bridges sit with questionable supports. Razorvine runs wild. Leering, cancerous folk from alley spivs to rummaging vagrants to prostitutes and bubbers run amok, eyeing you with undisguised greed and resentment. More than once you've got to send a kick or a balled fist at the more daring that make a grab for one of your packs. The streets are crowded with cheap taverns and boardinghouses.
The Mortuary is between Ragpicker's Square and Blackshade Lane and the whole neighborhood seems to be under a shadowy pall. The Mortuary itself is a squat, menacing dome with spiky buttresses radiating out of it. There are no windows on the structure and somber grey stone stairs lead up to a yawning entrance. The Mortuary sits like a bloated spider, just waiting for the living to stop struggling in its web. In a small square nearby is a stone monument surrounded by stone walls with mourners of all description standing quietly, sobbing or just numbly tracing their fingers through the names on the wall. A grey robed Dustman with tapered features stands near the monument, unmoved by the spectacle before him.
The streets are sober here, with Dustmen going about their business, mourners going to and fro and little business being done. You pass a small, gloomy bubhouse called "Gathering Dust" near the Mortuary, but there are few other establishments beyond what appear to be home sized mausoleums. A corpse cart trundles by and you cover your noses. There's a zombie standing by the bar; he smells antiseptic when you get within a few meters and he's wearing a sandwich board on slouched shoulders, notices tacked on them. Some joker's tacked a notice to his forehead, too and there's a cobblestone stuck in the back of its skull. The zombie, fortunately, doesn't seem to mind.
Thorn’s eyes seem to visually light up at the mention of reward. He nods the affirmative to the giant and trots away to confer with his companions. “I can’t say I much like running errands,” he says, “but this should still be quicker and easier by some than trekking over half the Outlands. ‘Sides, we may yet get on the good side of the Godsmen, and that’s probably worth something. To the Mortuary?”
Holding his breath, Thorn leans forward to read the notices on the zombie.
There's a few advertisements, a few of which jump out at you:
A dusty, hand-scrawled note: "Get the most useful parts with half the trouble and none of the care and feeding! Seamusxanthuszenus has what you're looking for! Look for Parts and Pieces in the Market Ward (bring a rat's tooth)!"
"The Planar Trade Consortium seeks stout mercenaries for added security. Openings available now, no questions asked.*
*The Planar Trade Consortium reserves the right to ask questions of all applicants."
A stained multicolored bill seems to drip some sort of liquid toward the cobbles below, though none touches the ground.
"Can't tell what that weird flask is full of? Need a guinea pig for your latest concoction? Risk free identification of potions and alchemical concoctions, potions and elixirs available for purchase! Inquire with Wooly Cupgrass, Copperman Way, Market Ward.*
*Promotions by Harys Hatchys"
"Wallow's Quality Arms deals instruments of potential devastation at competitive rates. Justice, revenge or bloodlust; Wallow's has the means. Look for Wallow's near the Armory. Doomguards in good standing will receive discounts, ask about group accounts for adventurers."
There's another wanted poster, the same one that was under Grey's door. This one's been badly defaced with curses, mustaches on the illustrations and personal insults for some of the criminals and the Hardheads in general.
There are various mourners and Dustmen going in and out of the great entrance stair. When a corpse cart arrives, one of the Dead at the door comes down to count the haul with a retinue of zombies and skeletons to bear the bodies back into the main entrance. Particularly large hauls seem to be sent along; they turn a corner around the Mausoleum compound and disappear from your field of vision.