I open myself to ask the floating man a question when he motions for silence. Closing my mouth I nod and look around uncomfortably.
Do I get to add the +4 bonus from extreme tattooing?
Do I get to add the +4 bonus from extreme tattooing?
"So what will it be?" Reghar flexes his muscles in anticipation of the coming battle.
The bariaur turns quickly to O.L.L.I. “It’s you I wanted to chant with,” he tells the Modron. “If your honoured co-worker,” the inflection on the word is subtle, and might be missed … maybe, “can spare you for a short time.”
"It seems you are a positive indicator that the force of Law will be with this unit. This unit had just cogitated a need for a companion on a misson that he was undertaking this very anti-peak. As you can see, library patron Thorn, this unit was prepared for egress when you arrived."
O.L.L.I gestures at his accoutrements
Ah scrud, the box wants to recruit me for something? thinks Thorn sourly. I don’t have time for this! … on the other hand, a favour’s worth hard jink in some quarters… This could actually work out. Aym’s influence was making the bariaur stingy, but the truth was he didn’t have much jink to spare anyway. And if it would get him away from Shactal…
“Werl … forces of law aside, you know I’m always pleased to assist box – uh, Olli. But I have some quite pressing business of my own too. Maybe if you help me, I can help you.” Thorn eyes the gelugon warily from under his horns. “P’raps there’s somewhere else we can chant…”
"So what will it be?" Reghar flexes his muscles in anticipation of the coming battle.
Your nostrils are flaring, eyes fixed directly on to his smug little face. The footsteps behind you cease. The little guttersnipe gives an uneasy laugh as he looks from the meaty fist holding his arm to your feral face to the audience behind you. He laughs a little again, trying to feign bravado as much for his posse behind you as for anyone.
"Is this berk oppressing you, Garagan?", asks a deep voice behind you.
A second adds,"Want we should show him how we like tyrants in this neighbourhood?"
"No, no. My, uh, my new associate here is just in need of some directions and he's...more than willing to pay.", says the little worm.
"Well, old son, if your winning personality is all you have to offer, I suppose I'll make do. The blood calls kip around here, just a few blocks down. I guess I kin play tout for you, if you ain't from around these parts. Much as I enjoy rattling my bone-box inches from your own, I could use some breathing room if I'm to get you where you're going."
You can smell his sweat and his fear of you; it's a refreshing change from the otherworldly atrocity of the Styx Oarsmen's clientele.
Ah scrud, the box wants to recruit me for something? thinks Thorn sourly. I don’t have time for this! … on the other hand, a favour’s worth hard jink in some quarters… This could actually work out. Aym’s influence was making the bariaur stingy, but the truth was he didn’t have much jink to spare anyway. And if it would get him away from Shactal…
“Werl … forces of law aside, you know I’m always pleased to assist box – uh, Olli. But I have some quite pressing business of my own too. Maybe if you help me, I can help you.” Thorn eyes the gelugon warily from under his horns. “P’raps there’s somewhere else we can chant…”
Shactal speaks up from a pace away from you. He's just a peach, this one. A big, frozen insect of a peach.
"What? Why you just got here. And I thought we were friends Thorn of Clovenwood. I see how it is."
The gelugon heads back toward the stacks in mock indignation, doing his rounds. From behind his hunched up carapace, you hear:
"Mind the books while you speak to your "guest", O.L.L.I. I trust a Taker with anything as often as I pull roses from my arse."
I open myself to ask the floating man a question when he motions for silence. Closing my mouth I nod and look around uncomfortably.
You think the rebus is spelling out "What's in your head?" or something similar. No, no, that can't be it. Not what..."Where"? Oh, the head and the coffin...so..."head" plus "dead"..."head-dead". "Headed". Ah! "Where are you headed?", that's what the dabus is asking.
You're standing on a rich carpet depicting a hunting scene in an idealized wilderness that, you reckon, some berk likely went to seeing as how the Planes are. The burglar in you is extremely tempted by the empty silver candelabras and the huge tapestries, but this place is just so damn unsettling, you can't even stomach having a part of it with you.
"...that we can offer you more, however. What are your terms, for a little errand like ours?"Oh, but these two were fun.
Lysanderis kept her face still as she thought over the possibilities. The twins would have coin to spare, for sure, but she thought that maybe payment of another form would be most fitting. She tossed back the rest of her drink, very aware of the way the wamr magical light played against her skin and set her glass on the table.
"A favor and bit of capital, to cover expenses," she said quietly as she shifted forward. She reached her pocket and pulled out a slip of parchment which she slid across the table to the twins.
"You may deliver the fee to this address within the next cycle. I'll have the errand run by then."
With one final suggestive smile, Lysanderis pulled several gold coins out of her pouch and set them on the table as she stood to leave.
As you spin on your heel with a thin but surprisingly warm elven cloak decorated to resemble peacock feathers arrayed about your shoulders, you're certain that the coins are the last thing the twins or anyone in the restaurant are looking at. As you make your exit, you don't look back.
Thorn restrains himself from making an obscene gesture to the departing devil’s back, and settles for scratching his pointed chin.
“It’s just we’re such opposites, me and him, himself and I. An exemplar of tyranny and oppression on the one hand, a paragon of freedom and free thinking on the other,” explains Thorn self righteously once Shactal is out of earshot. “I mean one misunderstanding over one misplaced book…”
He shakes his horned head then looks back at the Modron. “At any rate Olli, you’re a being what keeps his hearing apparatus near to the ground, in a metaphorical manner, and I find myself in need of your help – and coincidently ‘twould appear you want mine. I need the dark on a certain blood, and some suggestions for putting together a crew to take him on, take him out, if needs require … non Faction preferably. Berk’s name’s Enoch. Sound like something you can help me with?”
I open myself to ask the floating man a question when he motions for silence. Closing my mouth I nod and look around uncomfortably.
You think the rebus is spelling out "What's in your head?" or something similar. No, no, that can't be it. Not what..."Where"? Oh, the head and the coffin...so..."head" plus "dead"..."head-dead". "Headed". Ah! "Where are you headed?", that's what the dabus is asking.
You're standing on a rich carpet depicting a hunting scene in an idealized wilderness that, you reckon, some berk likely went to seeing as how the Planes are. The burglar in you is extremely tempted by the empty silver candelabras and the huge tapestries, but this place is just so damn unsettling, you can't even stomach having a part of it with you.
"Uh, I was given a missive by a messenger that told me to come here with utmost haste to speak to master Autochron. Something involving Acheron, I believe." Kev says quickly. What he quickly adds to his statement shows just how unnerved he is "Sir.".
Mind the books while you speak to your "guest", O.L.L.I. I trust a Taker with anything as often as I pull roses from my arse
" Interesting. Since this unit has never observed the phenomena of you extracting Rosa Floribunda flowers from your waste evacuation area he must surmise that you often do not trust Takers with anything."
He shakes his horned head then looks back at the Modron. “At any rate Olli, you’re a being what keeps his hearing apparatus near to the ground, in a metaphorical manner, and I find myself in need of your help – and coincidently ‘twould appear you want mine. I need the dark on a certain blood, and some suggestions for putting together a crew to take him on, take him out, if needs require … non Faction preferably. Berk’s name’s Enoch. Sound like something you can help me with?”
"Perhaps, possible co-adventurer Thorn. This unit was in the process of going to extract information on the actions and whereabouts of a proxy of the recently discarnated Tanarr'i lord Demogorgon. This unit's honored co-worker Shactal wished him to transmit the information to all the beings of his acquaintence, of which you are the first. This proxy lives at 22 Street of the Martyrs, and this unit is interested in discovering what this being is up to now that his role as proxy is over. If you would accompany this unit, he would be glad to assist you in your searching for this being appellated 'Enoch'."
“Hang about!” exclaims Thorn, the lowers his voice in the echoing chamber and flashes a look in the direction that Shactal disappeared in.
“Enoch is – was – the two headed baboon’s proxy … or was rumoured to be at the least. Street of the Martyrs, that’s the jobbie. Well if this isn’t coincidental in the extreme …” Thorn strokes his chin again and looks thoughtful. “Seems by helping you I’m helping meself … s’long as you’ll not object to me reacquiring some back taxes from the berk along the way. But what’s Snowy’s interest in this? Just got a grudge?”
The bariaur unslings his heavy sickle and tests the weapon’s edge with his thumb, drawing a line of blood, which he then licks off the digit, brow furrowed. “’Course, it’ll take more than just yourself and I, me and you to do this thing.”
"Very good, Garagan. Lead on." Reghar grins at the two would-be heroes.
"Do this properly and I'd buy you a drink." At the Styx Oarsman.
As you spin on your heel with a thin but surprisingly warm elven cloak decorated to resemble peacock feathers arrayed about your shoulders, you're certain that the coins are the last thing the twins or anyone in the restaurant are looking at. As you make your exit, you don't look back.
Deris quickly walked from the bar to her building in the Hives. She quickly ran through all the information she had on Enoch and began to formulate a plan. The simplest way would be to hire a group of toughs to loot the place. But, such a plan was reserved for something a little less delicate. Despite the whirl of her thoughts, Deris was aware of the streets around her as she headed into the Hive.
“Hang about!” exclaims Thorn, the lowers his voice in the echoing chamber and flashes a look in the direction that Shactal disappeared in.
“Enoch is – was – the two headed baboon’s proxy … or was rumoured to be at the least. Street of the Martyrs, that’s the jobbie. Well if this isn’t coincidental in the extreme …” Thorn strokes his chin again and looks thoughtful. “Seems by helping you I’m helping meself … s’long as you’ll not object to me reacquiring some back taxes from the berk along the way. But what’s Snowy’s interest in this? Just got a grudge?”
The bariaur unslings his heavy sickle and tests the weapon’s edge with his thumb, drawing a line of blood, which he then licks off the digit, brow furrowed. “’Course, it’ll take more than just yourself and I, me and you to do this thing.”
O.L.L.I seems speechless for a moment ...then he speaks
"Indeed. The congruence of Law's cogs meshing together never fails to fascinate this unit. Fellow adventurer Thorn, we must head towards the Street of Martyrs to see what this Enoch is up to. The forces of Law seem arrayed towards this end.."
O.L.L.I pauses to look to where Shactal disappeared off to. Seeing no sign of the ice devil, he continues in a lower voice.
"As to what honored co-worker Shactal's interest in this is, this unit has learned that it is never wise to inquire too deeply as to the motivations of a Gelugon that is 83.25% of the time in a bad mood, 76.36% of the time in some state of inebriation, or 66.67% both."
O.L.L.I. looks up at the bariaur
"This unit does agree with your assertion that we will need to procure additional assistance in our endeavor, especially if you intend to confront this former proxy face to face. The permutations are too fuzzy for this unit to asses correctly, but he would surmise a 85% chance of catastrophic failure if just the two of us attempted this mission alone."
"Uh, I was given a missive by a messenger that told me to come here with utmost haste to speak to master Autochron. Something involving Acheron, I believe." Kev says quickly. What he quickly adds to his statement shows just how unnerved he is "Sir.".I open myself to ask the floating man a question when he motions for silence. Closing my mouth I nod and look around uncomfortably.
You think the rebus is spelling out "What's in your head?" or something similar. No, no, that can't be it. Not what..."Where"? Oh, the head and the coffin...so..."head" plus "dead"..."head-dead". "Headed". Ah! "Where are you headed?", that's what the dabus is asking.
You're standing on a rich carpet depicting a hunting scene in an idealized wilderness that, you reckon, some berk likely went to seeing as how the Planes are. The burglar in you is extremely tempted by the empty silver candelabras and the huge tapestries, but this place is just so damn unsettling, you can't even stomach having a part of it with you.
Images of a bell in various stages of movement hang above the creature's head. It nods at your explanation and another string of images float above its head. The major thrust of the communication, however, is a simple gesture with its hand: 'follow me'. The dabus takes off in the opposite direction, leading you back a few turns. Through the uneasy ghostly halls, you follow your mute guide until it (he?) finally stops before a simple oak door. A plaque on the adjacent wall reads "Autochon's Silent Couriers" with a smaller plaque below reading "Please keep your voices low!" The dabus nods and continues into the bowels of the Palace of the Jester.
You gingerly crack open the door and see a room overrun with paper; stacks of it everywhere. On the wall is a huge map of Sigil, layed out in cross section. Colored flags denote neighbourhoods or turf and lists and names are pinned here and there. At a long table directly opposite the door sits a stooped figure in a suit of dull grey full plate armor, the visor down to obscure their face despite the stuffiness of the room. The oil lamp on the desk casts weird shadows, but the figure's armor reflects very little of the luminosity, rendering him almost flat and empty in the large chamber. Coins sit on scales, stacks of paper teeter on the edge of the surface and the figure just scribbles away on a ledger.
You step in warily and cautiously close the door, but the weight is unexpected; as the door slams, you wince as the clap! reverberates through the halls. It wouldn't seem so loud if the place had some life to it, but the noise is like an assault. The figure's helmeted head jerks up from his writing to look at you as you cringe in the doorway. Despite the noise, you could swear you could hear a little bell jingle as he moved.
For a moment, you stare at one another in awkward silence. Finally, a flat voice echoes from within the armor.
"Yes?"
As you spin on your heel with a thin but surprisingly warm elven cloak decorated to resemble peacock feathers arrayed about your shoulders, you're certain that the coins are the last thing the twins or anyone in the restaurant are looking at. As you make your exit, you don't look back.
Deris quickly walked from the bar to her building in the Hives. She quickly ran through all the information she had on Enoch and began to formulate a plan. The simplest way would be to hire a group of toughs to loot the place. But, such a plan was reserved for something a little less delicate. Despite the whirl of her thoughts, Deris was aware of the streets around her as she headed into the Hive.
** spoiler omitted **
As she steals through the squalor of the Hive, Deris' mind races for any information on an "Esao Enoch". She comes up with some choice tidbits.
Cheap, dumb muscle is easy enough to come by, but it will cut into your bottom line and they're rarely trustworthy; small scale types are likely to be intimidated by the mark wheras bona fide bloods are likely to demand a fee larger than you can afford. Perhaps cultivating some of the subject's known foes would work? He wasn't afraid to throw his weight around and likely alienated a lot of Sigil's factotums, mercenaries, adventurers and merchants. The Harmonium and the Mercykillers, as factions of law, may be interested in him, but they ultimately wouldn't be willing to allow you to complete your mission as well. Observation may be the best course of action for the time being.
“Never tell me the odds, box,” growls Thorn, although there is a hint of amusement in his voice.
“If we need to take him on, we’re going to need some muscle. Maybe a sneak or a mage for recon and such-like. But we don’t want to have to pay anyone too much … Maybe you’re right, maybe we should head over that way and see what may be seen. Enoch’s probably seen which way the wind’s blowing, it’d be interesting to know if he’s still in business, all fortressed up, fled …”
He looks down at O.L.L.I. “We two should be able to take care of that much yeah? Try to get a sense of how much firepower we’ll need, or whether it’s to be a chase. Just two berks wandering past… Enough with this forces of law stuff though, right?”
He looks down at O.L.L.I. “We two should be able to take care of that much yeah? Try to get a sense of how much firepower we’ll need, or whether it’s to be a chase. Just two berks wandering past… Enough with this forces of law stuff though, right?”
O.L.L.I. blinks at the bariaur owlishly
"Indeed. As the saying goes: 'Slaad rush in where Modrons fear to tread.' We should get an approximation of what power, forces and motivation this former proxy currently has before any direct contact. This unit would suggest that we head for the Street of Martyrs to conduct an initial reconnaisance. From there we will perhaps be able to asses our force requirements in a more concrete manner."
O.L.L.I. pauses in his monotone delivery.
"This unit must specify that his nature is to uphold the forces of Law which provide him with the Divine energy to cast spells. This unit in deference to the wishes of his new adventuring friend will try to keep these statements to a minimum."
Images of a bell in various stages of movement hang above the creature's head. It nods at your explanation and another string of images float above its head. The major thrust of the communication, however, is a simple gesture with its hand: 'follow me'. The dabus takes off in the opposite direction, leading you back a few turns. Through the uneasy ghostly halls, you follow your mute guide until it (he?) finally stops before a simple oak door. A plaque on the adjacent wall reads "Autochon's Silent Couriers" with a smaller plaque below reading "Please keep your voices low!" The dabus nods and continues into the bowels of the Palace of the Jester.
You gingerly crack open the door and see a room overrun with paper; stacks of it everywhere. On the wall is a huge map of Sigil, layed out in cross section. Colored flags denote neighbourhoods or turf and lists and names are pinned here and there. At a long table directly opposite the door sits a stooped figure in a suit of dull grey full plate armor, the visor down to obscure their face despite the stuffiness of the room. The oil lamp on the desk casts weird shadows, but the figure's armor reflects very little of the luminosity, rendering him almost flat and empty in the large chamber. Coins sit on scales, stacks of paper teeter on the edge of the surface and the figure just scribbles away on a ledger.
You step in warily and cautiously close the door, but the weight is unexpected; as the door slams, you wince as the clap! reverberates through the halls. It wouldn't seem so loud if the place had some life to it, but the noise is like an assault. The figure's helmeted head jerks up from his writing to look at you as you cringe in the doorway. Despite the noise, you could swear you could hear a little bell jingle as he moved.
For a moment, you stare at one another in awkward silence. Finally, a flat voice echoes from within the armor.
"Yes?"
Instinctive habits take over and Kev makes a quick scan of the cluttered office, taking in the coins, precarious stacks of paper, and, most interestingly, the armor clad man behind the desk. As he looks up Kev flash him a weak smile and producing the message from an inner pocket of his long, brown coat. "Sir, one of your messengers delivered this to me a short while ago. What's this about Acheron, if I might ask?" he asks, as respectfully as he can "The fewer bastards who want to kill me the better." he thinks, his heart beating faster as he considers the situation Something about Acheron and a big-shot wants to talk to me. This can't be good." as he quickly looks about, looking for a good route if he has to move fast.
As she steals through the squalor of the Hive, Deris' mind races for any information on an "Esao Enoch". She comes up with some choice tidbits.
** spoiler omitted **
Cheap, dumb muscle is easy enough to come by, but it will cut into your bottom line and they're rarely trustworthy; small scale types are likely...
Deris slipped through the alleyways, pausing in a nook to disguise her cloak and pulling the hood over her hair. She entered her building from the back entrance and went to the top floor. She pulled several potions and a sack of gold from hiding, slipping them onto her belt. Deris pulled on begger's rags and a dark gray cloak. She paused to cast a simple glamer of a beggar woman on herself and hid her weapons underneath her cloak.
Deris left the building and slowly hobbled towards the street of martyrs.
Instinctive habits take over and Kev makes a quick scan of the cluttered office, taking...Images of a bell in various stages of movement hang above the creature's head. It nods at your explanation and another string of images float above its head. The major thrust of the communication, however, is a simple gesture with its hand: 'follow me'. The dabus takes off in the opposite direction, leading you back a few turns. Through the uneasy ghostly halls, you follow your mute guide until it (he?) finally stops before a simple oak door. A plaque on the adjacent wall reads "Autochon's Silent Couriers" with a smaller plaque below reading "Please keep your voices low!" The dabus nods and continues into the bowels of the Palace of the Jester.
You gingerly crack open the door and see a room overrun with paper; stacks of it everywhere. On the wall is a huge map of Sigil, layed out in cross section. Colored flags denote neighbourhoods or turf and lists and names are pinned here and there. At a long table directly opposite the door sits a stooped figure in a suit of dull grey full plate armor, the visor down to obscure their face despite the stuffiness of the room. The oil lamp on the desk casts weird shadows, but the figure's armor reflects very little of the luminosity, rendering him almost flat and empty in the large chamber. Coins sit on scales, stacks of paper teeter on the edge of the surface and the figure just scribbles away on a ledger.
You step in warily and cautiously close the door, but the weight is unexpected; as the door slams, you wince as the clap! reverberates through the halls. It wouldn't seem so loud if the place had some life to it, but the noise is like an assault. The figure's helmeted head jerks up from his writing to look at you as you cringe in the doorway. Despite the noise, you could swear you could hear a little bell jingle as he moved.
For a moment, you stare at one another in awkward silence. Finally, a flat voice echoes from within the armor.
"Yes?"
Autochon motions to the seat opposite him (with what you are sure is a small tinkling like bells) and begins to search through a pile of documents. It's almost comical watching a man decked out in such bizarre, massive armor carefully going through documents with thick, gauntleted fingers, tinkling all the while. Finally, he pulls out the piece of paper he was looking for. Autochon's voice echoes quietly from his armor, like he's speaking from the depths of a pit or chasm; he sounds deeply weary and every word is spoken with hesitance.
"Mr...Tallius? A transaction has been performed on credit with the understanding that you would cover the balance. The message has come from the plane of Acheron (where exactly is not specified) to the gate town of Rigus then across the Outlands here to Sigil. The sender deemed the message an emergency, so it was sent with haste. We never open packages or messages given into our care, so I cannot tell you what this is regarding. If you can pay the total balance of...357 gold coins, which includes: emergency rates from Acheron to Rigus and from Rigus to Sigil, the standard danger rate for messages travelling the Lower Planes and the delinquent sender's fee, with accrued interest. If you cannot pay this fee, we cannot sign the message into your possession and we will ask you to at least pay the cancellation rate of 100 gold or face prosecution in Sigil's debtor's court."
He looks at you (or at least, turns his helmeted and visored head in your direction) and pauses to let it sink in. Silence hangs heavy in the stuffy office. How can he sit there, hunched over in that heavy armor and not be absolutely sweating to death?
He leans in conspiratorially.
"Of course, if you don't have the coin but still need to see the message, there are other ways to work out a compromise. I have a message to deliver that my couriers have balked at, despite any means of...coercion that I have attempted. If you can deliver it to the recipient, promptly and unexamined, I will hand over your message without a single bit of jink changing hands."
He leans back in his high-backed chair, his gauntleted fingers steepled under where his chin would be if he were not wearing a full helm, waiting silently for your response.
"This unit must specify that his nature is to uphold the forces of Law which provide him with the Divine energy to cast spells. This unit in deference to the wishes of his new adventuring friend will try to keep these statements to a minimum."
Thorn scratches at the hard to reach spot between his ear and his horn with a jagged fingernail. He almost looks a little embarrassed. “Alright then,” he mumbles. “Let’s get gone.”
He ensures that all his weapons and such are in place, mentally checks on Aym (where? … What to see? … regret … do not forget …), then prepares to head out.
"No. I don't have the jink." Kev says, almost snappishly "Today is not my day.". Kev pretends to consider for a long moment, not wanting the strange man behind the desk to see how interested he is in seeing the message before finally saying "Well, I guess if it was so damned important to go to all that trouble I should see it." Smiling more confidantly now Kev extends a hand "We have a deal. Who be the mark? Where do I deliver the package?"
Thorn scratches at the hard to reach spot between his ear and his horn with a jagged fingernail. He almost looks a little embarrassed. “Alright then,” he mumbles. “Let’s get gone.”
"Agreed, fellow adventurer Thorn. Let us make all possible haste. This unit predicts that the former proxy Enoch will be the focus of many inquiries as time progresses. As a Dustman acquaintance once remarked to this unit : Flies always know when a berk is dead."
O.L.L.I. checks his gear once more and prepares to leave with Thorn
"No. I don't have the jink." Kev says, almost snappishly "Today is not my day.". Kev pretends to consider for a long moment, not wanting the strange man behind the desk to see how interested he is in seeing the message before finally saying "Well, I guess if it was so damned important to go to all that trouble I should see it." Smiling more confidantly now Kev extends a hand "We have a deal. Who be the mark? Where do I deliver the package?"
Autochon takes your hand, shakes it for a second but doesn't let go immediately. His grip is growing painful as his voice, still travelling like an echo through a void, but more forceful, manic, menacing gives you your commands.
"I'm glad we could reach an agreement,"he says, as his gauntleted fingers crush your thin, graceful digits in a vice-like grip,"now you must understand something: I take silence and discretion very seriously, berk, and I hold my freelance couriers to the same standards as my regular employees. When you take this message, you are representing me, my business and the efforts I have taken to make this Sigil's finest courier service. You will not listen to this message, you will deliver it to the correct person and you will certainly not sell it. Discretion and silence are the reasons for this business' reputation and I will not have a two-copper Prime cut-purse like you ruining it. Do this well and I may throw in a bonus on top of your message. But if you screw this up, debtor's court will be the least of your worries. Believe me."
He releases your hand and leans back in his chair as if nothing had just happened. From a drawer, he pulls out a metal baton roughly the length of a short sword. There is also an envelope, sealed with wax and a form. He pushes the baton and the envelope over to you, reads the form and then hands that over as well.
"The name is Esao Enoch, cutter, and his place of residence is listed as 22 Street of Martyrs, Hive District. Across the Ditch, near the Gatehouse. He's said to be very dangerous, so don't stick around to rattle your bonebox if you can help it. You give him the baton and the envelope, have him sign the form and bring it to me. Simple enough, yes?"
Kev withdraws his hand, massaging it to restore blood flow "Relax. Discretion is my middle name. The message will arrive unread." and with that Kev hurridly leaves Autochon's presence and the Palace. Outisde, Kev stare curiously at the package, thin fingers twitching slightly "I could listen to the message, reseal it and no one would be the wiser. Unless there's some mage's seal. Damn, whatever's in here could be worth enough jink for me to get out of here quick enough to escape Bell-boy's wrath. But, damn. What if this Enoch fellow realizes. If he's not one to tangle with even if I made it back here Autchon would know and then Hells only know what would happen to me.". He walks slowly towards the mark's address, wrestling with his curiosity and greed and trying to judge the danger involved in wronging Enoch.
Kev withdraws his hand, massaging it to restore blood flow "Relax. Discretion is my middle name. The message will arrive unread." and with that Kev hurridly leaves Autochon's presence and the Palace. Outisde, Kev stare curiously at the package, thin fingers twitching slightly "I could listen to the message, reseal it and no one would be the wiser. Unless there's some mage's seal. Damn, whatever's in here could be worth enough jink for me to get out of here quick enough to escape Bell-boy's wrath. But, damn. What if this Enoch fellow realizes. If he's not one to tangle with even if I made it back here Autchon would know and then Hells only know what would happen to me.". He walks slowly towards the mark's address, wrestling with his curiosity and greed and trying to judge the danger involved in wronging Enoch.
"If memories hold no allure to you, I can also offer coins. Killing Enoch is not necessary for my purposes; I only seek Tuerny's skull. However, if he does meet an end, I will provide additional payment for Enoch's. What do you think?"
Scratching the charcoal across the paper, Rennet writes,
“The memory is worth more to me than any coins. I am no common thief, yet no longer am I a shining paragon of virtue. I do not believe you would have asked for me if you did not already know I would accept; assuming Tuerny’s skull is not currently being used by Tuerny, I find your terms tolerable.”
"If memories hold no allure to you, I can also offer coins. Killing Enoch is not necessary for my purposes; I only seek Tuerny's skull. However, if he does meet an end, I will provide additional payment for Enoch's. What do you think?"Scratching the charcoal across the paper, Rennet writes,
“The memory is worth more to me than any coins. I am no common thief, yet no longer am I a shining paragon of virtue. I do not believe you would have asked for me if you did not already know I would accept; assuming Tuerny’s skull is not currently being used by Tuerny, I find your terms tolerable.”
Lothar nods his ancient head and once again turns his milky white eyes to meet yours. As he speaks, his crooked long-fingered hands deftly fold a scrap piece of paper until it resembles a tiny geometrical horse.
"Tuerny is long dead, of that I can assure you. Adventurers from the Prime Material ended his long period of existence several years ago. Enoch, on the other hand, is very much alive. His last known place of residence is very close to where we currently sit, just across the Ditch and on the border between the Hive and the Lower Ward, at 22 Street of Martyrs. He is quite dangerous, of that I can assure you. I will not presume to tell you how to accomplish the task; it is entirely up to you and, frankly, if it comes down to violence and you are the victor, Sigil will likely owe you a debt of gratitude."
Smiling slightly, Kev picks up the pace and hurries towards 22 Street of Martyrs. Authochon may be an unknown entity to him, but men like this Enoch are a known quantity and he knows how to talk to them. Usually.
Taking pains to move slowly, like an ancient tortoise making it's way through the streets of Sigil, Deris kept her eyes open for the house number.
Assuming she gets to the house without any trouble:
Deris picked out her observation post catty corner to the house. She squatted at the base of the building, using her stick as support, and pulled out a battered tin cup. She began to weave back and forth slowly, her cup clanging against her stick as she began to mumble nonsense to herself in a sing song voice.
Thorn keeps the conservation to a minimum, and cuts it all together as they approach the Hive, keeping a wary eye and ear out for trouble.
Part One: Doors Lead To Questions
Sigil turns and night deepens. From the belching haze of the Lower Ward to the reeking mockery river of the Ditch at last to the morbid, chaotic edge of the Hive. Tenements and abandoned buildings stiched together from the cast-off relics of the tenants that came before lean one into the other like the blind leading the blind. In the tang of the evening air, below the stench of the Ditch and the Foundry's foul vapors there is a near constant undercurrent of anxiety, desperation and madness, like an oppressive riptide; the streets themselves threaten you (or is it the rumor of those streets, half-heard and cloying?) with their dark silhouettes. Light boys are rare here; the street lights go untended as the urchins cluster around alehouses and dancehalls, waiting for the drunk and addled to offer coin (or food, or an easy mark) to be lead through those tangled streets to homes infested with rats, roaches and razorvine.
As you pass through those desolate streets, you share space with the undesirables and those cast-off even from cosmopolitan Sigil. Men with nameless diseases leaving their forms a gurgling haze or a face with no mouth or a brain with no knowledge but one thing: Doors Are Not To Be Trusted. Children with eyes red and puffy from weeping lead muttering and gesticulating parents to the looming Gatehouse, with its alien balustrades and ineffectual, mysterious gate while equally bereft parents bring children they can no longer care for to the same imposing structure. Packs of Xaositects howl through the streets, attacking passers-by or lighting trash into haphazard and deadly bonfires or simply daubing entire city blocks in urban cave paintings, all the while their mouths streaming nonsense phrases. Untrustworthy shadows whisper from alleys and sewer grates; every hiss a curse, every moan a promise.
This is where many of Sigil's tragedies end, amid the squallor and ruin and forgotten monuments. In these alleys and crawlspaces, there is cowardice and greed, betrayal and senseless violence and rarely, heroism and that mythical maiden Mercy.
But it is also where your story begins.
The address is 22 Street of Martyrs. The building nestles in a block of relatively well-maintained buildings; the line between the Lower Ward and the Hive is blurry here. The address you have been given is to a three-story building, its windows boarded up with cheap lumber and painted black. The front door looks as though it was bricked over at one time, then violently smashed apart. A faded, half legible sign hangs crookedly above the door. Anyone can see the design of a hideous eel or snake curling into a ring, its tale in its mouth. The faded lettering exclaims "The Stygian Eel" to any that can read. The place smells dank, close and sickly, even from the outside.
Distantly, you can hear the screams of the barmies in the Gatehouse and the capering of the morose carnival outside its doors. A snatch of music and horrid verse rises from the distance.
...Stuck fast. Out of luck.
Standing stone-still in the hellish, smelless heat.
Death by Sunlight.
Reghar
"Well, then, Governor, like the good little tout I am, here you are. I take it you won't require any more from my associates and I?"
Deris
You have observed no one entering the house. Your circle of the perimeter reveals that every window is boarded up and the back door is bricked over. The only entrance or exit that you can see is the caved-in front.
The Hivers that pass you by have left you unmolested and you begin to settle into your role as observer. Occasionally, you slap yourself a little, talk to berks what ain't there; the usual bag lady stuff. You're settling into what you expect to be a long stake out when you spot something promising.
A small human or a normal sized halfling dressed in a long leather duster and gloves with a jaunty mop of curly red hair leads an enormous half-orc, his prodigious frame covered in tattoos and ritual scarifcation. A bone through his nose and a white wolf's hide complete the drooling savage stereotype. Behind them are a bariaur and a human, both dressed in leathers and nervously clutching weapons. From their body-language, the two in the rear are impatiently pugnacious, but also craven. The half-orc and the halfling or human both walk with greater confidence, but they are at odds with one another. The orc is clearly dismissive of his companions: they are not working together by choice. The small one speaks and you strain to pick it out.
"Well, then, Governor, like the good little tout I am, here you are. I take it you won't require anything else from me or my associates?"
Reghar nods to Garagan, the closest thing to a "thank you" he can manage.
"Look for me at the Styx Oarsman."
Reghar then proceeds to the abode of Demogorgon's proxy.
Taking his leave of Lothar, Rennet saunters casually towards the Street of Martyrs, stopping often to approach the stragglers and determine if anyone has knowledge of Enoch. Fluid communication, as always, is a bit of a struggle, and he has difficulty making his desires understood (Gather Information (1d20+1=12)).
Rolling up to the doorway of the Stygian Eel, Rennet decides he doesn’t need to bother wasting time attempting to detect evil, when his nose tells him everything he needs to know already.
Doing his best to fit in, Rennet surveys the surrounding for likely allies in case things turn ugly inside.
Taking his leave of Lothar, Rennet saunters casually towards the Street of Martyrs, stopping often to approach the stragglers and determine if anyone has knowledge of Enoch. Fluid communication, as always, is a bit of a struggle, and he has difficulty making his desires understood (Gather Information (1d20+1=12)).
Rolling up to the doorway of the Stygian Eel, Rennet decides he doesn’t need to bother wasting time attempting to detect evil, when his nose tells him everything he needs to know already.
Doing his best to fit in, Rennet surveys the surrounding for likely allies in case things turn ugly inside.
The nights in the Hive are likely the only time when you don't attract a curious glance, either because the residents of the Hive don't consider your "condition" all that bad or because with the cover of darkness it is more difficult to tell what happened to your mouth and jaw. For a merciful moment, you are anonymous.
The dark streets echo with the screams of the barmies in the Gatehouse as you round the corner to the Street of Martyrs. Ahead of you is a curious procession: a very short human or a tall halfling is leading a massive tattooed and branded orc (half-orc?) clad in hides, complete with a bone through his nose. Flanking them is a nervous, pugnacious pair: a half-elf (human?) and a bariaur. You can make out other individuals in the alley, shadowing the group. The human and the bariaur glance at them, sometimes exchanging a terse hand signal. They stop for a moment outside of the Stygian Eel; the orc and the little man exchange a few words and the orc steps toward the building's formerly bricked up entrance. With a quick glance, you can tell that the door must have been breached from the outside: very little brick dust and fragments on the curbside.
The troupe turns to leave, the orc staying behind, likely about to enter. You're not quite sure what their relationship was, but they weren't the best of friends. The only other denizen nearby is an old beggarwoman, clacking a tin cup against a cane and muttering nonsense. Something doesn't quite fit about her...this is a lousy place to beg for alms.
Kev
Sigil takes all kinds, you suppose.
But as you're walking toward the Lower Ward, you see them again and again. Sometimes just in your peripheral vision, sometimes far ahead of you (the modron usually lagging behind the faster bariaur, tumbling forward on stick-thin legs). They couldn't be headed to the same place..could they?
As you enter the Lower Ward (a place that you're not especially afraid of, but you can expect some hassling from fiends and tieflings due to your parentage) you have to sardonically grin. "A modron and a bariaur walk into a bar...", you think to yourself.
Thorn
The odour of sulphur heralds your entrance to the Lower Ward, finally. Gods (or "Powers") only know what trouble the talking box will bring you here.
O.L.L.I
As you're once again running to catch up with the quadruped native of Ysgard's first layer, type bariaur, you notice that one individual among many has cropped up again and again in your peripheral vision.
Type: Aasimar
Gender: Male
Description: Young, approximately in the early quarter of its life cycle. Dressed in a long coat of leather (likely derived from cattle in a common tanning process before being sewn). Hair is a golden tone described as "blonde" with some facial hair. He is a fine specimen of his species.
Probability of continued encounter: fluxtuates between 30% and 70% as you consider possible routes, possible destinations against time of night and change of neighbourhood.
Observation: Aasimar are not common in the Lower Ward.
Query: Will Aasimar also be noticed in Lower Ward, against previous trends and probabilities?
You are entering the Lower Ward now; you note a strong presence of sulphur in the air, therefore, the Lower Ward is very close.
Kev hurries through the Lower Ward, eager to deliver his message and recieve payment. His curiosity about what might be coming all the way from Acheron gnaws at him as he strides through the dirty streets, doing his best to act like he belongs here, to conceal his accursed heritage and be an inconspicious member of the crowd "Damn those angels! Fiend-born don't know how lucky they are!".
He smiles slighty when he sees the absurd pair. A packhorse bariur and an easily distracted modron. "Modron looks like an easy mark." Kev thinks as he watches the box man study some fascinating item, realize he's falln behind and then frantically hurries on his spindly lefs to catch up. "Yep. Easy mark" Kev thinks, his fingers twitching slightly as he considers the possibilities "Might have some jink. Maybe later, after I finish this little errand."
As he realizes that they're following virtually the same path through the lower ward, his eyes narrow as he stares at the odd couple. Surely not. Surely they're not after Enoch too. Deciding he can't be too careful, Kev picks up the pace, ignoring the protest of his sore feet and hurrying even faster along the dark streets.
O.L.L.I. silently tabulates the permutations of the Aasimar being's arrival in their area. Coming to a descision, O.L.L.I. approaches Thorn and modulates his communications to a lower register
"Fellow adventurer Thorn, this unit has observed the same being in several locations we have travelled through. Considering that we have travelled through several distinct wards, the chances of this being a non-related incident are steadily falling to less than 10%. Also, this being is an anomalous type for the area we are traversing. Query: Should we approach this being and ascertain his motives towards us?"
“I know, I seen him too,” mutters Thorn. “He’s been following us for a while, and keeps looking in our direction. Probably some clueless prime who thinks we’d make easy marks. I reckon we jump him when we round the next corner, ask him at knife point what he wants.”
Keeping her head low, Deris watched the half orc. Disgust rose up in her at the sight of his tusked and tattooed visage and she focused instead on his guides. They seemed to be standard touts, backed by a little extra muscle. She wondered who the half orc was working for. Half formed plans began to race through her mind. Drink the invisibility potion and tail the brute? Slip into the alley and then try to charm him? If he was here, she figured that others would be arriving soon enough. Deris decided to wait and watch to see if others would appear to collect from Enoch.
”Just once, maybe someone here could be what they appear to be. Today probably isn’t that day. I’d just spend this on drugs anyway.”
Rennet drops a copper coin in the old woman’s cup, then proceeds to remove three small wooden balls from his pack. Dispassionately, he juggles the balls, dropping them often.
Agreed, fellow adventurer Thorn. We must dissuade this being from thinking we are a pliable target, an 'easy cony' as the knights of the post would say. This unit will assist however he can."
At a point where Thorn and O.L.L.I. round a corner and Blondie is behind them, the bariaur waits until they are about twenty feet past the corner, then gestures for the modron to stop and turn around. He figures that neither of the two will be any good at hiding, but that having stopped abruptly, they may take their tail by surprise. If they scare him off, good enough … otherwise, he can stop and have a nice chat with them …
Thorn draws his sickle, and winks at O.L.L.I., flashing a brief feral grin before turning his attention back to the corner.
Kev-
I'm going to ask for a Sense Motive check as the bariaur and modron round the corner in front of you on the trip through the haze of the Lower Ward into the Hive.
Reghar-
No sooner is Garagan and his "bloods" (whatever that means) stepping off back to whatever they were doing before you commandeered them is there a man near the old crone by the Eel or Snake house, whatever it was named. He isn't very big or strong looking, nor does he look weak. Close-cropped hair (your night vision doesn't tell you what color it would be in the dim Sigil daylight), youthful. As he begins to inexpertly juggle wooden balls, you notice that his mouth and jaw are sealed shut with a black metal plate. Badges and other statements of authority clash on his clothing and you notice a red-enameled shoulder piece from a Harmonium uniform hung mockingly on one of his thin shoulders.
Inside the building, there's a ton of broken wooden tavern furniture and broken bottles and glasses strewn haphazardly across the floor, piled up next to the boarded windows as if bracing for a storm. The wall paper is peeling and mouldy; the air is uncharacteristically humid here. You can see a set of rickety wooden stairs running on the right hand wall up to the second floor. Behind the bar is a shadowy doorway. Flies and various other vermin scuttle through the shadows and the air, most of the activity centered around something behind the bar.