Pointing at the advertisement, "They mean 'strong' when they say 'stout,' yes?"
Pointing at the advertisement, "They mean 'strong' when they say 'stout,' yes?"
"I would assume they mean 'strong, reliable, hardy, tough.' But it matters not, at the moment."
"So, it would seem to be a simple matter to inquire about the body and ask to claim it. And yet, you don't need to see the future to suspect it won't be that easy ..."
O.L.L.I scans his knowledge of Dustmen rituals and requirement to see if he knows anyhting about claiming a body
O.L.L.I scans his knowledge of Dustmen rituals and requirement to see if he knows anyhting about claiming a body
Thorn shrugs. “Probably won’t be easy. I say we got two broad options. One is, we claim ourselves as companions of the tiefling, or agents of her kin or some-such. Say … I don’t know, it was always her wish in life to be buried on Bytopia upon her deceasement or some nonsense. If they ask about resurrection, we’ll say she didn’t believe in it, act all shocked; she had a life filled with hardship and pain, and only seeks eternal rest surrounded by peace and beauty.” Thorn rolls his eyes as he speaks, indicating he thinks it’s all foolishness himself, but fools may yet believe it.
“Other option is go in there on whatever pretense – the just mentioned if you like – find out where she’s stashed, then sneak or bluff our way back in, grab the corpse and flee. Or if there are any other ideas I’ll be glad enough to hear ‘em.”
O.L.L.I ponders
"Well, the usual practice is to .."
Expalins in excruciating detail what the Dustmen require and which municipal codes apply to the situation. It is no real help
"Perhaps if we say we are agents of a more powerful necromancer, who despised this tiefling and wanted to humiliate her by animating her corpse. Would the Dustmen be more accomodating of that?"
“Could be, could be,” Thorn muses, stroking his bearded chin. “’Course, I can’t help shake the feeling that the Dustmen are going to have the dark on any powerful necromancers around these parts …”
He shrugs. “Not sure. Any other options? Plan A?”
EDIT: Um ... apart from me. (+6 total, which ain't fantastic)
Swire
Mr. Swire's never had much interest in the Dead; they don't have an angle for power, they don't want or need much if anything. But he can still recall a good deal of chant, simply from growing up as a Hiver.
First: The Dustmen pay good jink for any scragged berks you may find. You've always considered this kind of work beneath you, but the really desperate, lazy, barmy or grim end up as Collectors, driving corpse carts throughout the Cage. They ain't exactly high-up men, but they don't need to beg, either. Collectors ain't Dusties, though: just cutters on the fringe of the faction, more like hirelings than Namers. They do go in and out of the Mortuary on a regular basis, though...
Second: The Dustmen are one of the oldest factions, if not THE oldest. Sometimes a greybeard or some fancy berk rattling his bone box will talk about "the old days before the (insert faction), when the (insert Lost faction) hadn't been Mazed or disbanded". Not so of the Dustmen. There must have been some time before them, but the group has always been set up in the Mortuary, handling the dead. And the likelihood is that they'll stay right there; no one else wants the job and nothing bad has come of them caring for the dead. The Bleakers, The Dead and The Sinkers form a kind of trifecta of Decay, Despair and Destruction in the Hall of Speakers.
Third: Undead are all over the place in the Mortuary; skeletons and zombies do heavy lifting and other menial tasks. The Dustmen enjoy a privilege called The Dead Truce where mindless undead ignore them as if they were already one of them and the undead with something to work with in their bone boxes don't give them trouble. The Dustmen believe in something called True Death, but you haven't got any idea what the hell they mean by it.
Having thought things through as far as you're willing to, you begin up the great steps to the Mortuary's massive central dome. You pass mourners coming out and coming in, Dustmen flanked by odorless zombies (their mouths stitched shut; it's not a kind thought, but you can't help but think a little of Rennet and his own condition) and various other visitors. The great doors are thrown open and almost as soon as you step in the sounds of the street are muffled by the vast space within and the uncomfortable silence that permeates the cold halls.
The entrance chamber has large ceilings and tiled floors and your footfalls echo throughout. The Mortuary is dry and cold and when combined with the vast, intimidating space and silence the entire place feels forbidden and oppressive. Despite yourself, you feel very small and vulnerable. There is a double door on your left and your right and another set directly across from the entrance. Two large columns occupy the corners opposite the entrance. Several Dustmen sit by passively or listen to visitors and mourners, directing them to their business.
None of them smile, none of them frown. Their faces are ashen masks, without emotion.
Guess we head over towards a dustman who looks like he’s receiving visitors.
Swire, you want to lead on the bluff, or want Thorn to take it? I figure you’ve got slightly better odds, so if you want it, Thorn’ll follow your lead. We’ll have briefed anyone in the group who might open their mouths and blurt out the wrong thing top play at being Rennet during the talking.
Mr Swire walks up to the Dustman. "Excuse me. There's an associate of mine here. Her name's Chains Broken. Teifling. May I please take her remains back with me? She always wanted to be buried in Bytopia, you see." However, the sneer hasn't quite left his face.
Thorn’s hooves clap loudly against the chamber’s marble tiles, echoing through the space. He chews his cud nonchalantly, but his eyes shift around, lingering on Dustmen and undead, looking for trouble.
At Swire’s completely awkward effort at untruthful diplomacy, the bariaur’s eyes roll in his head. “Useless…” he mutters, then pushes his way to the fore, giving the knight of the post a filthy sideways glance as he does.
“Excuse my addle-coved friend here,” he says, an eyebrow raised wryly, putting on the charm. “He’s sadly lacking in the essentials of politeness. What he means is, you’ve got a body listed in your dead books here, is my understanding, name in life of Chains Broken. She was a dear friend and valued adventuring companion to us, but we, alas, lost her, in two senses, Down Below. We understand she ended up here. Now, while I’m sure you’re all taking excellent care of her earthly remains, we’d like to honour her wish to be laid to eternal rest in the upper planes, Bytopia as Clueless here said. How might we arrange that?”
O.L.L.I tags along but remains silent. The deception bothers him on a basic level, but the interaction between two beings known as 'bluffing' is one of the things that fascinates him about the fleshy races.
The Dustman watches the exchange passively, only his eyes move from Swire to Thorn.
"I can arrange a viewing of the remains once I have found her in the preparation chambers. I will have to look over her particular case before I release her body, however. Unless you want to tell me why you really want her. As adventurers, I wonder if perhaps you intend to..", he frowns,"... resurrect her?"
Thorn snorts mirthlessly. “Ha! Do we look wealthy enough to afford resurrections?” He gestures vaguely to indicate his battered leather armour and pack, the plain scabbard at his side with the de-jewelled and scarred sword hilt poking out of it. “And I tell you, if I had that sort of cash at hand could think of far better things to spend it on than re-vivifying some, that is, our dear departed friend.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Thing is, she didn’t lead a great life you know? Started off as a slave warrior, and her fortune didn’t improve greatly as an adventurer. Always said she wanted eternal rest in a tranquil place, rather than continuing on this dirtsy and harsh mortal coil…”
For a moment, nothing is said. The great entrance hall echoes with the steady drum of distant footsteps (and the irregular, shuffling gait of the Dustmen's "servants"). Finally, the man you're speaking to nods.
"Very well.", he says,"I will lead you to one of our memorial chambers and your friend's body. I will give you a moment with her and return with the records." With a pale, thin hand he beckons you to follow him through the set of doors opposite the entrance to the Great Hall. From there, you enter another large chamber, this one with several sets of doors on each wall. Two skeletons in ancient rune-carved armor, each easily larger than Ombidias of the Godsmen, stand in opposite corners. You can see that strips of leather and nails hold part of their frames together, but by and large they stand free. A procession of grey-robed figures (mostly human, half-elf and tiefling) is moving from the door directly opposite where you made your entrance, the lead Dustman carrying a large, ornate box carved with skulls and dead flowers. The rest hold books, quills, scrolls and other materials with their zombie servants bringing large stacks of books.
Your guide leads you to your left, through another door. It is a vast room that smells of clove and cinnamon, torches placed throughout shedding orange light only to be swallowed by the vast space within. There are rows of biers there, each with a corpse on top. Some are wrapped in gauze but most look like they've been brought here in exactly what they died in. A few are just piled limbs, one seems to be half disintegrated. The more... interesting specimens are clutching ornate items or wearing strange arms and armor, like a vanitas for folk of your vocation. A few mourners stand quietly or sob over the body of a loved one, but the room is so large that privacy is almost guaranteed nonetheless: each goodbye is private, even in a room of strangers. You guide stops you at the corpse of a female tiefling, as you were told to expect. She wears patchwork chainmail with scavenged pauldrons and other bits and pieces. A stiff arm still grips of the haft of an ornate three headed flail: tanar'ri, baatezu and yugoloth and an oblong shield with a saw-toothed rim lays atop her torso. She would have been a rather fetching young woman were she alive: she matches Ombidias' description to a T.
"I will give you a moment while I retrieve what is necessary.", says your guide as he disappears further into the rows of the dead.
Gray's eyes scan the room, taking everything in. From his years studying the planes, death fascinates him; the transformation from living being to petitioner is just one more stage of existence to him. When they arrive at Broken Chains' body, he is immediately drawn to her flail, which he reviews with interest (especially the tanar'ri head). Other than that, he remains silent.
After a few moments, the Dustman returns with a zombie in tow. The zombie is carrying a flat writing surface with an inkwell set into it as well as a quill. Surprisingly, it carries the whole thing level. When the two get closer, however, you note that the undead's arms are grafted to the writing slab, the insides of its arms forming un-living handles. The Dustman is holding a small ledger with a few pieces of parchment on it.
"I have the requisition papers here. We can finalize the arrangements here or in one of the halls if it offends your custom. All I need are signatures with faction rank if you affiliated and the refund of the fee payed to the Collectors, a total of,"he glances through the papers,"three gold coins. Also, we must request that you place her name on the monument outside with Death-of-Names."
O.L.L.I signs the papers and hands over the three gold coins
Curious, Gray tries to recall what particular significance placing the name on the monument has. Knowledge (Sigil) and (Planes) (1d20+8=26, 1d20+12=30)
The Dustman signs in the space allotted to his signature, initials in the proper place and closes the ledger softly. His arms crossed, he says,"Our business is completed. You may transmit the remains however you wish; you may attain a shroud from one of the attendants here." He signs to his zombie friend and walks away.
The Gray Scribe
What true significance it could have is under debate. The belief is that when your name is on that wall, you are well and truly gone. But there aren't any specific stories of attempted reincarnations or resurrections after a name is on the stone. It could well be that only the name dies and whoever bore it is no longer identified as that person.
Once they have the remains, and are out of earshot of the Dustmen, Gray tries to lean in close to Thorn and whisper in his ear. "There is a theory that berks whose names are written on the monument are well and truly dead; in other words, they cannot be resurrected. To my knowledge, no one has ever tested this theory, so whether it is true or not, I cannot say. It may be best if we alter the name just slightly when talking with this 'Death-of-Names'. Perhaps we inscribe 'Chain Broken' or 'Broken Chains', something like that."
He stops for a moment, obviously thinking. "Of course, the deal with the Godsmen was to recover her body; they didn't specify not putting her name on the monument. And I would love to see whether or not the theory holds true ..."
"Now, now, no need to risk our easy ticket, is there? I'll go carve a name into the column. Chains Broker will never live in this town again."
He sets off to carve a name into the column.
Thorn has been strangely quiet, this house of the dead clearly unnerving him. Occasionally he twitches or glances quickly about, as if hearing otherwise unheard voices.
Once they have collected the body (he offers to carry the shrouded corpse if no one else wants to) and are on their way out, he shrugs at the Scribe’s whispered comment. “Bothers me not,” he replies in a low voice. “You’re quite right, the deal was to retrieve the body … but I’ve no qualms about putting a slightly incorrect name on their monument, if it’ll make our friends with the Door happier.”
He waits for Swire to go and carve what name he will, then (assuming nothing happens to prevent it), begins to head back to the Foundry, by a long and circuitous route, just in case the Dustmen choose to follow.
Intrigued, Reghar joins Mr. Swire. "No one has really done this?"
You leave the Mortuary and most of you have never been more pleased to be back in the Hive. After the oppressive silence and vast empty spaces, it's strangely heartening to see knots of people, even if it's still more somber here than anywhere else.
Mr. Swire and Reghar walk up to the monument. It's a black stone plinth, carved over with names in tiny letters, surrounded by four walls of the same material, also crammed with names. There is a beautiful set of twins (aasimar women, by their looks) weeping quietly as each touches a name on the wall. A githzerai sits with his legs crossed facing one wall, head bowed in contemplation. A bariaur and a human (they look like planewalkers to you) search the plinth for a name while three dwarves pour out four flagons of ale from a cask they've brought, toasting to one wall and leaving the fourth untouched.
There's one Dustman in the square; he has a black diamond tattooed on his bald forehead, gaunt features and black-on-black eyes marking him as a tiefling. This, you would presume, is Death-of-Names, who you're supposed to talk to about getting a name placed on the monument.
Thorn hangs back towards the edge of the square, the shrouded corpse slung unceremoniously over his shoulder. Should have picked up one of those carts the Collectors use, he thinks sourly, looking about to see if he can see one of said ghouls. I’ve already spent far too much time with the dead lately, without dates with corpses…
He wonders if the chuckle he hears is simply his imagination. He also tries not to breath too deeply.
He looks over to see how Swire and the barbarian are getting along with the Dustman.
"Swire, we gotta go!"
Swire snaps out of his reverie. "Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about something. Let's meet with this berk, eh?"
He walks over to the Dustman. "Excuse me, sir. I, I need a name put on the column. Her name, her name was Broken Chains."
Gray is fascinated by the monument. He gets close to it, inspecting the names, looking over the material, and generally not caring one bit what mourners he rudely cuts in front of while he does it. Very quietly, he says to himself, "I wonder ... assuming the stories are true, would someone be able to be brought back by erasing their name?"
The Dustman nods.
"Very well. Broken Chains' progress toward the True Death will be recorded."
He turns, withdrawing a pale hand from the sleeve of his robe. He finds a tiny spot on the wall and inscribes "Broken Chains" with his bare finger. A bit of ash and smoke curls from the recently carved name. Silently, he returns to his place by the monument.
You hear some angry, foul curses behind you and notice that the Grey Scribe is pushing through mourners and muttering to himself, studying the monument.
Thorn ignores the whisper in his head that is urging him to go over and introduce himself to the dwarves toasting the monument. He hopes they don’t find any reason to come over this way.
His eyes carefully roam the crowd, looking for anyone he might know, or might have seen in the last few days, or just anyone who looks like trouble.
"Thank you.", says Swire as he turns away from the Dustman.
"Hey, Grayson! Her name's carved on, now let the mourners mourn!"
Lost in his own little world, the scribe pushes past the aasimar twins, and pulls out a sheet of paper and a small piece of charcoal. He presses it on a (random) spot on the monument, and begins taking a rubbing, muttering all the while. "Beek Gwenders of Croodle ... Luc Tarascon ... Roaky Swerked ... I know none of these folk!" he exclaims with ecstatic zeal.