"Watch it, leatherhead!", says one of the twins as Grey pushes her out of the way.
The other curls her hands into fists and stares down the diviner,"We're tryin' ta mourn here you tactless, barmy pile of imp droppings! Show a little respect!"
Some of the others are turning to glower at the mage, or simply watch the scene unfold as it will.
Thorn surveys the crowd and the streets of Ragpicker Square.
"Doesn't that berk know anything..." Swire works his way through the crowd and grabs Gray by the shoulder. "Hey, Grayson! How about you get out of the way before these fine lads write your name in the Dead Book, eh?"
Thorn stamps his forelegs impatiently, and tries to catch Swire or Reghar’s eye. Let’s go!
Your business concluded with nothing worse than some dirty looks from the assembled mourners, you once again pick your way through the tangled streets of the Hive toward the Lower Ward. Between Swire and O.L.L.I, with the occasional nod or head shake from Rennet, you manage to pick your way around blind alleys and other snarls in your path. Between the massive half-orc and the surly bariaur, petty thugs steer clear of you.
You come to what was once a plaza of some sort, long ago. Once white marble buildings with pillars and facades of classical construction tilt precariously in the uneven streets. Slimy streaks and pocks of mold give the decrepit plaza a diseased air. There is rubble and trash strewn throughout the open square and a backed up fountain filled with brackish water. Narrow streets radiate out from the center and it's difficult to guess which is most likely to be clear.
You can hear people.. or things... lurking in the derelict buildings. Hushed conversations nonetheless float to your ears like a babbling tide in the weird acoustics of this place.
"Thass him I sure of it!"
"Yes, yess, yess! Scar on 'is face! Old'n bent!"
"Yung'n mind, though. Wiped clean, he was."
"Do we... go out?"
"Others. Others're armed, look like trouble. Not good, not good. Not whose we're lookin' fer, jest need the old'n."
"So cold..."
"Whass he got, there? Meat in a blanket?"
"So hungry... tired of waiting."
"Wait more! See what they does!"
Gray, intently studying his rubbing of the monument as he walked, abruptly stops when he hears the voices. His face takes on a very intense look, although whether it is of concern or curiosity (or both) it's hard to say. His head snaps around, trying to find the source of the conversation.
Thorn glances at Gray, an eyebrow raised, appraising the scar on the side of his face for a moment. “Friends in this neighbourhood have you?” he mutters.
He turns to Rennet. “Here. Hold this a moment.” Without ceremony he drops the shrouded corpse into the mouthless man’s arms, and draws Birds of Prey.
“Oi berks,” he calls, looking around at the derelict buildings. “Come out and say hello.”
From the corner of his eye, the Grey Scribe catches sight of a human-sized figure peering out of a doorway. They are clad in tattered rags and mostly covered but there's a certain... unpleasant floppiness about the way its left arm sags and twists. Seeing you seeing him, the figure ducks further into the shadows of the grubby building.
"The sword!"
"Oh, thissus baaad!"
"No, it's good, it's good! Everything's the way it oughtta be."
"This means we ain't..."
"I woodna say we ain't ENTIRELY.."
"... addled."
A stooped figure, maybe a small woman or an elf, covered head to toe in rags shuffles cautiously from a building several dozen meters to your left. You can see that their clothes drip a little at the hem, with dark wet spots here and there. All you can see is a mouth in the deep hood.
"We... we got something for... for you.", he/she says, pointing to Grey with an arm covered completely with a ratty sleeve. "We're the... the Broken. The tools HE discarded. You may, you may succeed where we failed. Or..."
"...or mebbe you'll join us, one way or th'other."
O.L.L.I searches his memory for any information on the Broken
Grumbling under his breath, Swire places his hand on the hilt of something beneath his cloak and glares out at the buildings.
O.L.L.I runs through his memory... no information.
Data gleaned from study at the Lady's Library or from "rattling the bone box".... none.
Hypothesis: The Broken are likely a minor entity with little in the way of power or "jink" and are, therefore, inconsequential to Sigil and the Planes at large.
Swire relaxes the focus on his eyes and lets them wander on instinct from doorway to doorway, window to alley. There are at least ten figures scattered throughout the buildings and alleys throughout the plaza. It's likely that you're surrounded, though the watchers seem more scared of you than intending to murder you and dump your bodies in the fountain. Not that that would be a good spot to dispose of a body, but still. You haven't heard of any "Broken" but you've heard a few stories about addle-pated beggars carving out a little cul-de-sac in the Hive away from the Bleakers, Dusties and Chaosmen. Something about failed seers with twisted bodies.
Thorn watches the berk warily. “What have you got then?”
This must be the brave one of the lot, he/she looks you right in the eye, even if he/she is cringing a bit.
"An ancient thing for the haruspex. It is not a weapon unless wielded against the Self; it is not a treasure unless you seek knowledge. It is terrible, but it may turn aside disaster, one day."
Another speaks from across the square; its voice is deep and mournful and... moist. Like a talking toad.
"It was too much for us. P'rhapps he'll use it better."
"If not..."
"There's plinty of room...."
The visible one withdraws a rag-wrapped package from within a pocket; it looks like something long enough to be held in two hands, but light enough to fit in one.
"Send him forward; it is for him alone and at his sole discretion."
Gray steps forward, his intense curiosity too much for his natural suspicions. "Very well. What is it?" he says, as he takes the "gift" ...
The Broken one presses the bundle into Grey's hand and there's a second where a tingle goes up the aged wizard's arm. A brief glimpse under the hood reveals the face of a woman, wasted and strained with wrinkles more from lack of moisture than from age. Her mouth is very wide and the wasted aspect of her countenance makes her eyes seem to bug out. She whispers to you:
"Prophecy is a dangerous craft, especially when mixed with pride. Trust more than your eyes."
She then turns and scurries back into the cool dark of the plaza.
When the Grey Scribe returns to the group, you can see that he is holding what appears to be a sizable scrimshaw carving, its surface yellowed with age but smooth to the touch. It is carved on one side with an elaborate (albeit primitive) drawing of a fish with many long tendrils coming from its lips and four fins, each of which may hold toes. The opposite side is writing in a spidery script. You can recognize a letter here and there as being at least related to Abyssal.
The shadows are quiet. You don't feel like you're being watched.
“A treasure for those who seek knowledge eh?” muses Thorn thoughtfully, stroking his beard and looking over Gray’s shoulder at the scrimshaw carving. “Can you read that?” He peers forward. “Looks somewhat Abyssal but not a language I know…” He looks up and glances about at the square. “Though here may not be the best place for a language lesson.”
O.L.L.I stares at the scrimshaw, fascinated, trying to correlate the writing to anything he has come across
K(Sigil)1d20+6=13, K (Planes)1d20+7=17
"This unit would caution that many gifts like this come with hidden conditions fellow adventurer Gray."
Gray says nothing as the woman leaves, his eyes more focused on the package than on her. Once she leaves, he carefully unwraps the carving, eyes wide and intense as he does so. Not so much ignoring his companions remarks as just not really hearing them, he examines the piece thoroughly ...
knowledge arcana (1d20+10=23)
knowledge the planes (1d20+12=21)
knowledge religion (1d20+10=14) linguistics (1d20+9=29)
"What a lovely hunk of wood those barmies gave you. Now can we stop discussing the peice of wood and start moving again before the girl starts rotting?"
O.L.L.I's expertise does not extend sufficiently to give any insight into the carvings, though he does have some insight into a few things: 1. a single piece of scrimshaw of this size and proportion had to come from a carnivorous whale of some sort or another species of megafauna and 2. the language is likely an ancient root of the Abyssal that is spoken today or possibly a pidgin from a Prime language. It is likely a thing of Chaos.
As a scholar of all things arcane and demonic, the Gray Scribe intuits a few other pieces of information. The fish carved on one side seems to be a mudfish which, believe it or not, is a sacred animal in some cultures on the Prime. Because the mudfish can dwell for a time both in the water and on land and undergoes a sort of transformation between those stages it is seen as a traveller from the spiritual world to the material world and is often associated with priest-kings and other sacred leaders. You cannot read the language, but the modron's observation that it is a pidgin seems to be very accurate. Further, you believe that the Abyssal letters may be from the ancient Obyrith dialect. This would either be a very, very old carving or made by someone that really knows the dark.
All Swire knows is that the thing ain't worth much right now except headaches and the Hive ain't exactly safe for a bunch of loitering leatherheads. At his urging, you pick your way through the ward to the Lower Ward.
The smell of sulphur and slag is almost a welcome relief from the Hive and you can't help but marvel: the streets are full of pedestrians, not rubble! The buildings (though still the spiky hodge-podge of architecture unique to Sigil) are in good repair and are arranged in an almost planned formation! Crowds are on the thick side at this time of day, shopping out ironmongery or sampling a taste of the Lower Planes. You can see the Great Foundry looming over the ward, with a strange seige tower a few blocks down near the Armory rivaling its height.
Beyond the omnipresent grey malaise of the atmosphere, red-clad Harmonium patrols give you a very clear idea of where the Hive has ended. They're up to their usual racket; giving cross-eyed looks to fiends, frowning at passers-by and generally encouraging their view of Harmony. As you pass, Swire spots a familiar face: broad features, broken nose, jutting tusks: Dar Gra-Mol, one of the few half-orcs in the Harmonium and someone you've had a few run-ins with in the past.
Half-orcs don't gravitate toward the Harmonium, normally: the ordered lifestyle and all that doesn't really appeal to them. But lately, the hardheads have stepped up recruitment overtures toward the half-breeds, with surprising success. "Reformed barbarians" and "harmonious savages" have joined the ranks and found they fit perfectly: little need for brains, lots of use for brawn and many of them enforce the hardhead line with particular zeal. Gra-Mol don't take to garnish, from your experience, and he's made it clear that he wants to see you in irons and in the Red Death's tender care. Not his words: he uses smaller ones and sentence fragments most times.
He seems to see the lot of you in his patrol and gives Swire the eye, then notices the modron. His face is almost comical in its confusion and conflict. The other Hardheads look at him, then look at you and one nudges him with an elbow and says something in his ear.
The Foundry is only a couple of blocks away.
He seems to see the lot of you in his patrol and gives Swire the eye, then notices the modron. His face is almost comical in its confusion and conflict. The other Hardheads look at him, then look at you and one nudges him with an elbow and says something in his ear.
"Oh, I love it when he makes that face. Still, rather not meet with the Hardheads right now. I'll meet the rest of you at the Foundry."
Swire then veers away from the rest of you and attempts to blend into the crowd.
Swire disappears into a knot of gith and for a moment the hardhead looks like he wants to try and pursue. But he has to give it up when an explosion rocks a building nearby (Corven Vint's Tinctures and Concoctions) showering passersby with shrapnel, debris and broken glass. Further down the lane, a tall woman with short blonde hair and leather armor breaks a longsword and throws a bag of coins into the streets so they scatter.
"I declare myself for the Doomguard!", she shouts.
It's almost a riot as sods push to and fro: those with sense fleeing the flaming building, those with a need running for the coins and the few with some honest-to-god brass run to fetch buckets less the conflagration spread. The hardheads wade in with truncheons out, calling for order. A tall human in red armor starts ordering bystanders to stop gawking and grab some buckets before the Lady sorts this out her way!
You're quickly forgotten and can easily make your way to the Foundry.
For a brief moment Thorn looks as though he might join in one of the bucket chains … for a slightly longer moment he looks like he is considering making a grab for some of the coins. However, in the end he just grunts, shakes his head and leads the way forward to the Foundry.
O.L.L.I stands confused as the Harmonium troops look the group over, then he is startled by the explosion. His comrades seem to be heading away, possibly sensing danger. Reluctant to be left behind, the modron totters after them.
The explosions do what is normally quite difficult - tear Gray's attention away from something he's studying intently. Watching the Harmonium attempting to restore order to the situation actually is entertaining to him, and he lets out an audible chuckle. Noticing the others have begun hurrying on their way, he breaks away from watching and falls back in the rest, going back to studying the scrimshaw as he walks.
Swire glances back at the explosion, smirks at the bizarre convenience of it, then continues on his way.
Swire is already waiting at the entrance when you arrive at the Foundry. Upon spotting Thorn and his shroud-wrapped burden, the guard on the left turns and open the gate for you.
"Ombidias said that once you came back, you were free to approach the Foundry. He will meet you there."
You pass through the ten foot gates into a dismal series of yards. The sound of forges and atonal chants (and surprisingly catchy work-songs) fill your ears. With gravel crunching beneath your feet (and hooves), you approach the enormous Great Foundry. Like many major buildings in Sigil, the Foundry itself bears enormous metal blades and embellishments, as if the building bore a family resemblance to the Lady of Pain. Many iron-mullioned windows sit in the walls, allowing the sourceless Sigil light into the building. A dozen or so smoke stacks ring the building's core and grant the Foundry its halo of smog and soot.
Like the heart of an enormous construct, the Foundry pulls in carts and carts of ore, fuel and workers through many barn-sized entrances and sends out pallets of nails, doorknobs and other utilitarian objects or artistic creations through the same. The heat within is like the deepest depths of Baator, though none of you have had occasion to compare. Sweat pops unbidden to the brows of all but the modron. Leather-aproned workers of all descriptions scramble about, pouring molten iron from enormous crucibles, smelting and pounding. There are humans, tieflings, dwarves, bariaur and the leonine wemics as well as more exotic folk like the rare winged elves of the avariel and you swear you spot a slaad pulling a massive cart.
It only takes a moment for Ombidias to turn from lecturing a few tired looking workers and notice you. With great strides, he lumbers toward you and speaks above the din.
"Come with me!", you feel more than hear him say,"It will be easier to talk in the Wireworks!"
You follow the lumbering voadkyn outside and your ears still ring for a moment, only catching him say to Thorn as he indicates the shroud-wrapped body:
".....arry her for you?"
The Wireworks is a short distance off the main Foundry; it looks like a miniature version of the building you just entered. Only three stories high with a less massive entranceway. A pair of elves are pulling heated metal into wire with the help of some tongs and a mold. Ombidias leads you up a flight of stone stairs, hunched over to clear the archway to a meeting chamber on the second floor. A long table sits in the middle of the room with several chairs around it. A slightly worn rug sits on the floor and there are scattered invoices and shift schedules tacked to the walls here and there.
He gently places Chains Broken's body on the table and pulls the shroud from off her face. He nods, his expression sober.
"You have done well,"he says, "and I will fulfill my part of the bargain. I am certain, however, that Chains Broken would likely wish to pass on something of herself as thanks. Here."
With hands the color of stained mahogany and fingers like blocks of granite, Ombidias picks up the tiefling's intimidating spiked shield and hands it to you.
"It bears a minor enchantment to better protect its bearer and will likely be of aid if you are in need of a secondary weapon. Plaguemort is a dangerous place, cutters. Now: are you prepared to travel or would you like some time to get supplies?"
Thorn considers the stony giant for a moment, wondering whether to ask about what exactly they might expect to find on the other side of the portal, but then mentally dismisses that as a sign of weaknesses.
“I’ve got what I need,” he says, “but I do have a question; we know about the Door and its Key … but is it two way? Does it open also from Plaguemort?”
Reghar shrugs. He doesn't care much for what awaits on the other side, so long as he is nearer to his goal. He needs to spill some blood and soon.
"Ready to go."
O.L.L.I bleeps and stares around at the Foundry, fascinated by all the industry occuring about him
"Factotum Ombidias. This unit commends your faction on their industriousness. The operation here is quite orderly."
"Oh, yeah, let's just get out of here already."
The activities of the Foundary are almost enough to pull the Scribe from his study of the carving. Almost, but not quite. In response to Omdibias' question about supplies, he simply waves off the question with a "Yes, yes, we are quite set to go."
Ombidias gives a toothy grin which extends to his dark eyes.
"Thank you, sir modron, we believe that hard work tempers us well for the challenges in this life and the next."
"As for the portal, it is a two-way entrance to Plaguemort and opens from an archway by the town prison.", the giantkin rumbles,"... or at least what passes for a prison in Plaguemort. The association between the wireworks and the bars is the most sensical explanation, though looking too deeply into the portals and what reasons are behind them may well be as productive as staring into your own navel."
"To be quite honest, we rarely use the portal ourselves: because of our philosophy it is difficult to muster up enough prejudice to open it. This is rather fortunate, I suppose, as it has prevented accidents. The return key is a hunk of raw iron in the rough shape of a blade. I'm sure we can find you one here."
Absently, Ombidias rifles through his pockets and withdraws a soft piece of copper. With a quick few raps of his hammer against the scarred table, he shapes it into a wedge shape, like a blade.
"The portal is upstairs in a cracked crucible.", he nods to Thorn,"You may have to squeeze a bit to get through."
Ombidias gives a toothy grin which extends to his dark eyes.
"Thank you, sir modron, we believe that hard work tempers us well for the challenges in this life and the next."
O.L.L.I bleeps
"Affirmative Believer of the Source Factotum Ombidias. This unit believes that it also fashions Order from Chaos, helping to strengthen the fabric of the Wheel."
When O.L.L.I hears the instructions, he readies himself to follow the others to Plaugemort
"Oh, yeah, let's just get out of here already."
Thorn accepts the blade shaped key from Ombidias with a nod of thanks, and stows it carefully away. “Thankyou for your help, and I hope that the newly vivified Chains Broken works out for you. Now,” he looks around at the others. “let’s go.”
"As for the portal, it is a two-way entrance to Plaguemort and opens from an archway by the town prison.", the giantkin rumbles,"... or at least what passes for a prison in Plaguemort. The association between the wireworks and the bars is the most sensical explanation, though looking too deeply into the portals and what reasons are behind them may well be as productive as staring into your own navel."
Gray smiles at this, almost as if he knows better. "Perhaps you have more in common with Plaguemort than you know." Gray gets an odd, faraway look, and then continues, "Or not. Opposites do attract, you know. Our thanks for the return key. We should be on our way."
Ombidias ushers you through a door on the opposite wall from whence you came and through a long hallway of stone, up a wide stairwell of similar material. At the top, the dark-skinned giant hunches with his head and shoulder practically pressed against the ceiling. You're in a dim storeroom of some sort; there are barrels of scrap and old tools, piles of aprons and pallets and even steel masks with glass in the eye holes. The largest object is a cracked crucible easily as tall as Reghar. A snapped, rusty chain winds its way around it on the floor.
"Well," says Ombidias,"here you are. The portal will activate in the crucible for a strong prejudice."
O.L.L.I ponders.
"This unit has difficulty imagining a demon could fight on the side of Order. In fact, this unit is of the mind that demons as a race should be eradicated as a service to the greater cause of Law."
"Hey, box, maybe you should let an expert do this."
Swire steps forward, clears his throat, and begins.
"Those sodding Mercykillers! I hate 'em! There will always be someone going around breaking the law, but do they accept that? No, they go around chasing down us poor folks trying to improve our place in this city! Barmy, the lot of them..."
Thorn, in his surlier moods, hates everything … but he’s somewhat mercurial in that regard. At the moment, his deep prejudice is reserved for Ambereye. Berk’s set him up, no doubt. Trying to get him killed or – this just occurs to him – get him out of Sigil for a while at least. And its his fault, really, when you reason it through, that Star left without him getting a chance to speak to him.
His internal rage grows. Revenge! Blood! Betrayal! sings Aym in his head.
He steps towards the crucible.
An orange spark bounces from side to side in the crucible when O.L.L.I speaks. It gains intensity, bouncing faster, growing larger when Swire adds his invective to the fray. At Thorn's brooding, smoldering rage the spark bounces to the rim, sticks to one side and expands with a crackle. The storeroom smells like brimstone, garbage and uncaged animals.
The portal gives the scene beyond an orange haze; you see a leafless tree and it bears strange fruit...
Stepping through the portal is like being pulled by your navel (or, on O.L.L.I's case, his center of mass) by a bolt of lightning; you're turned upside down and inside out all in a fraction of a second. You blink in the Great Foundry...
... and you open your eyes facing three hung men with hoods over their heads on a scaffolding in front of a squat building made of stone and embellished by tusk-like spikes and battlements. On the scaffolding, reaching eagerly for the dead men's feet are two children: urchins by their looks. They push and argue as they pull on the leafless tree's "fruit", pulling off shoes, stealing belts and clothing. When the smaller finds something in a pocket or an overlooked paltry treasure secreted in the lining of a leather shoe, the larger child pushes him over, bloodies his nose and just takes it for himself. The larger child has an armful of scavenged clothing and other items taken from the hanged men. So much that he doesn't really watch where he is close to the edge of the scaffold because he's so preoccupied with his winnings, giving the smaller child the opportunity to grab at something in his arms while smoothly shoving the larger kid over the side. It's a short trip down, but the big kid lands wrong and yowls with pain.
"HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, SCAB-SUCKER?!", shouts the smaller child as he spits on the other.
A big tiefling in black chain mail stands guard, watching their quarrel impassively.
Looking around, you're in some sort of courtyard. There are large stone walls hemming in what must be the Prison (with its state-of-the-art scaffolding featuring a beam long enough to accommodate a good twenty people). You're standing in an archway of the same stone, perhaps ten feet across. Behind you is a squat, ramshackle building that's almost falling apart. Vermin dart from numerous holes in its sides and foundation. This too is hemmed in by a tall stone wall. To your left, there's a wide road/corridor of the same construction and to your right there is an archway leading down a roughly cobbled street into a depressing slum of a city.
You know you're in the Outlands when you look at your shadows on the ground before you: they stretch in one direction (south-southwest if your head faces north). Not like Sigil shadows, which just sit formless at your feet. Your lazy doubles have gotten to their feet and are ready to work. There's a sun in the bleached and colorless sky and a dry wind meanders, searching, through the canyon made by the walls and corridors of this huge courtyard.
“C’mon,” mutters Thorn, ducking his head and not looking at the tielfing guard. “Let’s not be seen hanging about here for too long.” He begins towards the street at an easy – not over-quick, but not slow – trot.
O.L.L.I follows Thorn, ill at ease in this chaotic burg
“C’mon,” mutters Thorn, ducking his head and not looking at the tielfing guard. “Let’s not be seen hanging about here for too long.” He begins towards the street at an easy – not over-quick, but not slow – trot.
Gray laughs somewhat loudly at Thorn's comments. "Yes ... 'hanging about'! Excellant!" He falls into step behind the bariaur.
O.L.L.I casts about for a local tavern
Gray will follow the group to whichever bar. "I'm sure the rest of you would agree that it's likely the seedier and rougher places where we will find information on the proxy, yes? Of course, in Plaguemort, that doesn't narrow it down much."
James