Thorn raises an eyebrow. “I see I get saddled with Mister Lawful and Joe Silent. How helpful.” He sighs. “C’mon then you two,” he says, “we’ve got questions to ask.”
Thorn raises an eyebrow. “I see I get saddled with Mister Lawful and Joe Silent. How helpful.” He sighs. “C’mon then you two,” he says, “we’ve got questions to ask.”
You head out of your cramped "double" room on the second floor back to the taproom of the Eye. The gnolls at the bar turn in your direction and one steps up to you. He's about as tall as Reghar and hunched over. Most of his head is covered in a filthy hood/mask thing so that only his snout and lolling tongue are visible. There's a quiver full of arrows and a well maintained longbow of fine, dark wood on his back and a jagged, long knife in his belt. They're likely the only clean things on him.
"You rrrrr lookin' ferrr guide to Ah-byss, yes? You go therre?", he growls,"We arrre guides, best in Mort-town."
Gray is startled at the approach of the gnolls, and takes a quick step back. Then he realizes I don't think we mentioned to anyone here anything about guides; we don't even know where our next steps are taking us yet ...
Either the beasts are just assuming the Abyss is where we're headed and are trying to drum up work, or it's a set-up.
Gray responds to the gnoll in Abyssal:
"Where did you get the idea we're looking for guides to the Abyss?
The gnoll barks out the abyssal tongue with a practiced ease far superior than his apparent skill with the Planar trade language.
Abyssal
O.L.L.I replies in the same tounge
Thorn interjects in the same rough tongue.
“We’re just here … looking around,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly (and realising that Abyssal does not include a phrase for “sight-seeing”). “We heard about some festival … ”
“But say we wanted to see where the gate to the abyss was … how much to point us in that direction, not take us beyond? Next to free surely … Have any others sought your services as guides recently?”
The gnoll sniffs appraisingly.
"Rate is negotiable; what layer you going to? For the Plane of Infinite Portals, we go low: 10 gp each, per day. Goes up from there. We help in the case of trouble for that much; if we think it's a fight we can win. If a Balor shows up, you're on your own."
"Not had too many asking for guides: most going through the gate have their own or are fools that believe they can just stumble about as they will, may Yeenoghu feast on their rotting hides. Three gold coins, I'll tell you where you can find the Gate. Good price, I can even tell you the key and give an idea of where you would end up."
Thorn grunts in a non-committal fashion and turns to Olli. The price is probably not bad for this place, but Thorn’s natural greed combined with Aym’s stinginess is making him reluctant to pay it.
He leans his upper body down to where he judges the modron’s ear to be and murmurs in celestial, “It’s probably a fair enough deal, to be shown the portal at least. We may yet need to use it. If we can press them for more information on the one we seek, all the better. Should we mention Enoch by name? It may get better results, but it also may tip him off.”
The modron whispers his response while rummaging for coins in one of the pockets sewn into the makeshift robe that encompasses his bulk.
"Fellow adventurer Thorn: this unit posits that discretion as to our mission is advisable. This unit believes with 70% certainty that even if these guides are not hostile, they are opportunistic in the extreme. Even the smallest "darks" on the party in question could cost a large sum."
O.L.L.I hands three gold coins to the lead gnoll and addresses him once more in Abyssal:
"We would like the location and key for the Plague-mort gate to the Plane of Pazunia, sentient."
The gnoll weighs the coins carefully in his palm and drops them into a small sack at his side, responding in Abyssal:
"Outside Arch-Lector's palace there is plaza with three arches. Leftmost arch is portal to Pazunia, the key is a feather. Last time through, I found myself a mile outside of Broken Reach in a mountainous area. Watch out for holes."
Your business presumably concluded, the gnoll leans against the bar again, regarding your party levelly.
O.L.L.I bobbles his body in an approximation of a nod and addresses the gnolls in Abyssal:
"Trackers and guides. We have not determined if we are headed to the Abyss as yet, but if we do, we will keep your offer of guidance in mind. Do you frequently imbibe at this place?
The other gnolls stare at the modron with a canine sneer. The leader, however, keeps his face neutral.
"Yer, we're here or 'round here if we haven't been hired when you come back."
“We’ll seek you out if and when we need guides,” says Thorn. “Now,” turning to his companions, “we have sight seeing to do. C’mon.”
You all get enough information to at least know how to get around and where you're going: the third of Plaguemort stretching east-to-north of the Arch-Lector's palace is the Market Ward, the north-to-west end of the Gate town is the "Residential District" also known as the Slums. The southern section is the Temple Quarter and contains many cathedrals dedicated to the Powers of the Outlands.
Thorn, O.L.L.I and Rennet
You spend about 2 hours canvassing the grey, ramshackle streets of Plaguemort. If there's anything similar between Sigil and Plaguemort besides a bastardized architecture it is two things: commerce and barmies.
"SWEET LARISSA'S SAUSAGES!!", cries an urchin acting as a barker,"DON' NEED TO KNOW WHAT'S IN 'EM TO LIKE HOW THEY TASTE!"
A grubby man with a long, grey beard rants outside of the Temple Quarter,"DAGON! PAZUZU! OBOX-OB! THE OBYRITH WILL ARISE ANEW!!" A group of slightly amused tanar'ri advance toward him and he flees with a yelp as they begin to give chase.
One thing you notice in grumbles and whispers (always when the locals think you're just out of earshot) is that someday soon the people will "throw off the shackles of the dogs and the Lector" or "burn out that Gang Green like a cancer". Apparently a truce isn't worth much to these Mort-folk.
You're told (and for free, much to your chagrin) about the archway to the Abyss by most folk you ask, but a hard woman in leather armor with a scarred face also tells you about a portal in a butcher shop in the slums that leads to Sigil, though she doesn't remember the key or where it'll lead you. A halfling in the vestments of Oghma, god of knowledge, smiles far too broadly to be anything but trouble and tells you all about politics in the Abyss.
"Oghma illuminates some things for me, my friends. Graz'zt is seeking allies against Orcus for Gaping Maw and the Demon Prince's Crown, though Malcanthet has made it clear that she's staying out and Lolth is occupied in some other webs she's spinning. Zuggtmoy is more responsive to his overtures, though, and I imagine that Fraz'urbluu has his own price. Orcus is showing surprising ingenuity in his own attacks against Graz'zt's Triple Realm and Gaping Maw: his gambit with those Prime adventurers has payed off since Demogorgon's out of the picture and a large number of his forces are already fortified in the Maw with a sizable navy. His almost limitless legions of the undead are pressing Graz'zt's forces on the homefront and in the Maw. The Dark Prince may be a tactical genius, but Orcus is still treacherous with almost as many resources at his disposal. As of yet, though, none have claimed the crown. From what I hear, Dagon may have just come up and grabbed it in the initial confusion and is just waiting for someone to claim the layer first."
In a blind alley, the bariaur collars a scrawny tiefling and makes his demands. Rennet shakes his head with disappointment as Thorn slaps him around a little and makes all sorts of creative threats. Blubbering in a falsetto voice, the tiefling brings some darks to your ear:
"Wwweeelll, I-I ddon't know mmuch about p-portals or anything, m-mister. B-but I can t-tell you ab-about the F-f-f-festival. I wo-wouldn't doubt that there co-could be a ri-riot: the Hou-Hounds and the Illuminated are gonna go go at it again af-after they th-think they get en-enough out in the open."
Swire, Grey and Reghar
The lot of you head out toward the slums, planning to hook your way toward the Temple Quarter. You've survived in the Hive; how bad can it be?
As it turns out, pretty bad.
Open sewers sit beside the streets and the air smells heavily of human and animal leavings. Urchins and stray dogs fight over scraps in the gutter. Youths with crude tattoos and scabrous piercings chase a screaming woman through side streets, shouting cat-calls. Pedestrians stand aside, not giving a second glance. Lamp posts stand here and there, but more than a few are bent or busted and disassembled; at night this place is likely pitch black. If discontent is at a simmer in the rest of the Gate Town, here it's reaching a boil. Most of the invective is directed toward the Arch-Lector and his "lick spittle Hounds" and you spot quite a few green-clad thugs running about. It takes some fast talking and a lot of glowering from Reghar to get past them after they ask for your colors.
Asking around about visitors, you find out a few things, one being that your own party's entrance has been discussed and disseminated ("Where's yer moe-dron buddy, hey? Can't wait ter get a piece of 'im!") the other recent arrivals include:
- A pack of black-clad pilgrims all dolled up in robes arrived from Sigil through a gate around here.
- A caravan from the Planar Trade Consortium came with all kinds of booze, food and other things for the Festival, along with dwarves trading gems and all kinds of folk come to pick up special orders from suppliers on the other side of the gate.
- Another adventuring party came about a week ago. They were a trio: a dwarven woman with blonde hair in braids, a tall human man with dark skin and a tiefling woman with short horns and a tail under her skirt. All were armed and armored, though the tiefling less so than the others.
- A pack of mercenaries from the Blood War came and went; humans, tieflings and tanar'ri mostly.
"Never thought I'd miss the Hive..."
“Well, I don’t know if any of this’ll help us find Enoch,” Thorn comments darkly. “Any sane being’d stay right away from the Abyss at the best of time, but particularly with all out war brewing between Six Fingers and the Fat One … ‘course, we know Enoch is likely right barmy…”
O.L.L.I bleeps
"Trying to find a calm time to visit the Abyss is like trying to find a time when going over a waterfall is smoother, fellow adventurer Thorn."
Thorn isn't sure, but it sounded like O.L.L.I was making a joke. Plaguemort must be getting to him.
"I am unsure why, but the 'adventuring party' makes me wonder. Do either of you know what the proxy looks like?" Gray askes Swire and Reghar.
“Well, I don’t know if any of this’ll help us find Enoch,” Thorn comments darkly. “Any sane being’d stay right away from the Abyss at the best of time, but particularly with all out war brewing between Six Fingers and the Fat One … ‘course, we know Enoch is likely right barmy…”
You note your "informant" looking over your shoulder at the same time you hear the stomp of heavy feet. O.L.L.I and Rennet are already facing the newcomers when you drop the scrawny tiefling. He's a half-orc easily as large as Reghar and the scars on his face make him look like someone had tried to forcibly take his ugly mug apart, then thought better of it and put the whole thing back together askew. A large hammer is slung over his hairy shoulder and he's bare to the waist. There are three lightly armored humans behind him with clubs, rusty knives and a knicked halberd. Each wears a green kerchief, either around their head or bandit-style over their mouth and nose.
"Greetings, boys.", says the half-orc, in a surprisingly smooth baritone, "Enjoying your stay in Plaguemort? Let me cut to the chase and we'll make this fast: Green Marvent wants to see you. All of you, if he could."
"Never thought I'd miss the Hive..."
Swire hears the man in shabby clothes before the sod walks deliberately from around a corner and into his path. With one arm, the Cager grabs the sod's arm that's on his coinpurse while flicking out a dagger with the other. The grubby tiefling laughs as he releases your money and extracts his arm from your grip.
"Ah ha! Excellent! Ye're a pretty trig cove, I'd reckon, Cager. Couldn't say the same about most that come through here.", his voice drops to a whisper," But listen, if ye're goin' ter operate in Plaguemort, you better make yourself known at the Guildhall. Head toward the west wall and find a burned-out manor. The Council will want to take note and collect dues and ye can fence anything ye need. All of it on the up'n up, right? Don't need to step on toes in a burg like this."
With that, he turns to leave.
"I'll think about it." Swire twirls his dagger once before sheathing it, but he never stops glowering at the teifling.
Thorn glances at his companions, quickly sizes up the orc and his mates, then does a quick glance behind to see if there are more in that direction
“What, all three of us?” he asks. “It sounds like an entirely kind invitation, and I’m sure we’d be fools to say no…”
"I'll think about it." Swire twirls his dagger once before sheathing it, but he never stops glowering at the teifling.
"I'd do more'n think about it, were I you..."
Thorn glances at his companions, quickly sizes up the orc and his mates, then does a quick glance behind to see if there are more in that direction
“What, all three of us?” he asks. “It sounds like an entirely kind invitation, and I’m sure we’d be fools to say no…”
"Aye, friend. No need to make a fuss. Just wants to size you up a little, do the meet'n greet like any good community leader. Won't take much o' your time."
"I am unsure why, but the 'adventuring party' makes me wonder. Do either of you know what the proxy looks like?" Gray askes Swire and Reghar.
"The spirits tell me: we shall know him when we meet him."
“Well, we must graciously accept then,” answers Thorn, keeping up the façade of civility with only a slight hint of sarcasm to his voice, “Lead on.”
O.L.L.I follows Thorn's lead
Gray looks at Swire after the tiefling leaves, a concerned look on his face. "Is he a friend of yours? Who is this Council?"
Gray looks at Swire after the tiefling leaves, a concerned look on his face. "Is he a friend of yours? Who is this Council?"
"If he was a friend of mine I would of stabbed him. Wait, what's the council? A thieves' guild! Use your brainbox, will ya?"
Gray looks at Swire after the tiefling leaves, a concerned look on his face. "Is he a friend of yours? Who is this Council?""If he was a friend of mine I would of stabbed him. Wait, what's the council? A thieves' guild! Use your brainbox, will ya?"
They have no influence beyond Plaguemort, but they get a piece of a lot of the wealth and information coming in and out of the Abyss. They could likely operate openly if they gave the Hounds a cut, but what self-respecting Thieves Guild would do that? Not fun at all.
They're run by a democratically elected council rather than a guildmaster because there was such a high "turn over" (murder) rate for guildmasters.
"If anyone knows who's been through the gates, it's the Council. How about we go ask them, eh?"
“Well, we must graciously accept then,” answers Thorn, keeping up the façade of civility with only a slight hint of sarcasm to his voice, “Lead on.”
The basher nods once and heads to the left, down the nearest side street. His minders stand aside, waiting for you to follow first. The big half orc leads you through the cramped streets with their sullen inhabitants. Your tour guide effortlessly shoves folk aside to make room when necessary. Some shout curses (which he answers with an icy glare) and others cheer at his passing, waving their colors (he just ignores that). Always, you're winding your way south, toward the Temple Quarter.
You happen to glance into an alley that serves as a "yard" for several residences/shops in the Merchant District. There are three men (an elf, two humans) picking up firewood from various piles and stacking them up in order of size, largest on bottom, smallest on top. There's a shout.
"Oi! Get away from that! How often I gotta tell you?!"
A butcher chases the men away with a cleaver. As the trio passes through the shadows cast by the building, they are momentarily transparent.
After a short walk, you arrive at the Bell and Whistle, with the very familiar triangle/eye emblem painted beneath the shingle outside. The afternoon has grown chill during your inquiries and you're startled for a moment by just how stuffy it is in the taproom. At every table, by the bar and even sitting on the rickety stairs there are Illuminated hangers-on. A harried-looking bartender and two downcast waitresses try to keep up with the demands of their "guests" as they loudly jabber and throw dice at the tables.
Atop a small stage toward the rear sits a human, perhaps in his mid-30s. He has long dark hair complemented with a long goatee and mustache. Each of his fingernails are rather long and painted green... along with his green robes, shoes and cloak. Flanking his high-backed chair are a halfling woman playing idly with a straight-razor and a cruel-looking elf with gold hair and eyes.
Your guide pushes through the crowd, the rest of your escort breaking off behind you. As you get closer to who must , without a doubt, be this Green Marvent you've heard about, you get a good look into his eyes. There's a restless intensity in the man's look and his facial muscles twitch ever so slightly as he turns his gaze on the three of you. You've seen more stable men, that's to be sure.
"Sir," announces the half-orc,"here are the strangers you wished to meet."
Marvent continues to watch you appraisingly. Quietly, he speaks.
"Didn't Fester say there were six of them, Kurth?"
The half-orc, Kurth, is silent for a moment before answering.
"These were the three I could find most quickly, sir, since I was certain you would wish to speak to them quickly. If there were others, I did not see them."
Green Marvent twirls his long mustache for a second, smiles for an instant and reveals a mouth with several gold teeth and then returns just as quickly to his previous expression of bored mania.
"Go find Fester, Kurth. I want to see what else he's got to say."
The half-orc nods and leaves, patting Thorn gently on the shoulder on the way out.
"SO!", declares the man dressed in green, a smile splitting his face ear to ear," I believe introductions are in order!" He gathers his robes and stands.
"My name is Green Marvent, originally of the Prime. These stalwart gentlemen look to me as their leader and I endeavor to lead them as well as I may. I do hope your business in Plaguemort has been pleasant, hm?"
“I continue to be pleasantly surprised,” Thorn drawls in reply. “A place such as this, I expected to be robbed, raped and murdered well and truly by now. I don’t know what things are like on your prime, but this dump of a town is surely one of the more ugly and violent places on this side of the Abyss … and only barely this side I seem to recall. More of a place to pass through than to stay, given the choice.” He smiles unpleasantly, showing his teeth.
“I am Thorn. What can we do for each other I wonder?”
"Leader of the Illuminated Green Marvent. This unit's appellation is Oil Lube Initializer, but most beings shorten it to its acronym O.L.L.I. This unit has not had a pleasant stay in this town, it is much too chaotic for a lawful construct such as this unit to feel anything but uncomfortable."
"If anyone knows who's been through the gates, it's the Council. How about we go ask them, eh?"
Although he seems very hesitant to do so, Gray agrees with Swire's idea. "Very well. You know these sorts of places far better than I."
Rennet holds both hands parallel to the ground. "This place..." He waves his right hand before his face, scrunching up his nose in disgust. "... stinks."
While the ruffians and other scum in the Bell and Whistle laugh at your responses (O.L.L.I draws a lot of laughter and scorn), Green Marvent seems to listen with sincere interest, green-nailed fingers steepled.
"SHUT YER YAPS, WE'RE TALKIN!!!", he screams out of the blue. The bar goes silent in a matter of uncomfortable seconds.
Serious again, with no sign of his previous rage, Marvent returns to your conversation in a civil tone.
"Yes, regrettably, Plaguemort is remains a dangerous place. One would think with the great deal of coin and goods passing through its walls that there would at the very least be some semblance of civil order, yes?"
He frowns.
"Regrettably, the Arch-Lector is much more interest in bleeding his people dry of wealth and pride than in securing prosperity. I had aimed to change that, of course, but it seems that my bid for power did less to improve things than to merely make them worse. I'm hoping this recent truce will allow for some positive growth, but I can't be too careful. As you said, this is a treacherous place."
The words "treacherous place" leave his mouth with a wince and, for a second, there's a wild look in his eyes. But it passes. His patronizing tone dissolves through his next sentence, without preamble and without Marvent's noticing.
"Since you are travellers here, I wanted to ask about the nature of your business. Are you merchants? Adventurers? Researchers? By understanding the flow of outsiders to Plaguemort, you understand, I can make the town a more... enticing place for your patronage. I was told that Captain Mortai spoke to you upon your arrival; what, exactly did he have to say to you?"
Swire, Reghar and Grey follow the general directions the thwarted thief gave them to the northeastern section of Plaguemort's slums. Before long, the trio is standing before a large three story manor house with varying degrees of burn damage: the side facing the wall is severely blackened and shored up with scavenged building materials. The right side is overgrown with razorvine, its once fine facade entangled with the pernicious growth. Berks walk in and out: mostly tieflings and humans, though you also see a lumbering cambion, a halfling or two and a shapely woman in a cloak and veil that covers her entire head; she is attended by a few grey dwarves. The carved oak front doors are reinforced with bands of iron; you note a simple view slot for the sentry at eye-level, though the door stands open at the moment. From within you can hear the quiet murmur of barter and the exchange of chant. In what may once have been the foyer there are a few stalls set up: selling drugs, scrolls, potions and things of that nature. Beaded curtains hide further rooms that seem to be full of other black market stalls. Seated at a tall desk across from the door is a rail thin human with thick spectacles, marking up a log book. Two rutterkin stand behind him holding bizarre iron weapons, their twisted goblinoid bodies a study in agony. The attendant does not look up at your entrance.
Swire scopes out the room, then walks up to the man at the desk and taps the desk twice. "I was told to come here by an associate of yours."
Swire scopes out the room, then walks up to the man at the desk and taps the desk twice. "I was told to come here by an associate of yours."
For a second, you're not sure he heard you. He finishes writing whatever he was working on, flips to the next piece of business while dipping his quill. He glances up briefly, nods and goes back to his work while he talks to you.
"Aye, good of you to come, mate. We just want to establish some ground rules; standard procedure in most places, I imagine. You want to operate in Plaguemort, the Council gets a cut. You pay the music, you can fence and trade in our lovely bazaar and pick up the chant. Everybody's happy. If you don't want to and you're just passing through, we need you to understand that the conies here are for our boys, understand? No poachin'."
He licks the tip of his quill, turns the page. The rutterkin behind him shift for a second, each letting a miserable wail escape.
"And don't take any worm jobs. Or else you'll find out who those belong to. Got it?"
"So, that's it? Don't even need a name? How much jink does this cost?"
"Whatever name you want to give us will serve. The fee's twenty five ladies , 10% cut of your earnings in Plaguemort and 10% on any fenced goods. We got pretty low overhead 'round here, you know? Want to encourage membership where we can."
“That trumped up night watchman? He just tried to shake us down, without success, and told us to enjoy the festival,” Thorn answers.
“As for our business here … I suppose you could say we’re researchers, in a manner of speaking. We’re looking for … answers to some questions. Like I said, maybe we can help each other thereabouts.” Thorn looks about at the assemblage, then leans his upper body slightly closer to Marvent. “I can tell you more if we can rattle our bone boxes somewhere there are less ears about. There are things we don’t want getting back to certain folk.”
At the mention of the price, Swire scowls even more. "Twenty-five ladies... I'm not staying long enough to pay that much. No rule against a nonmember perusing the wares, is there?"
Assuming there isn't, Swire goes to the stalls and looks around, covertly asking about people who recently came into Plaugemort. 12
“That trumped up night watchman? He just tried to shake us down, without success, and told us to enjoy the festival,” Thorn answers.
“As for our business here … I suppose you could say we’re researchers, in a manner of speaking. We’re looking for … answers to some questions. Like I said, maybe we can help each other thereabouts.” Thorn looks about at the assemblage, then leans his upper body slightly closer to Marvent. “I can tell you more if we can rattle our bone boxes somewhere there are less ears about. There are things we don’t want getting back to certain folk.”
There's almost glee in Marvent's voice when he responds.
"Ah, a private audience. Yes, yes, let us discuss these darks you wish to share."
He motions to his two surly-looking minders to follow him as he mounts the stairs to the second floor. The inn is very similar to the Eye of the Dragon; stone ground floor, wooden second floor of sometimes questionable construction with doors made of salvaged wood sometimes too small for the archways.
Marvent walks as regally as any barmy psycho you've ever seen; back straight, head held high. At a solid door with a brass handle, one of his bodyguards opens the door for him and he steps into the master suite. Clashing shades of green cover every surface; silk sheets and pillows, pitchers and trays. The berk has a thing for green. He seats himself at a carved chair upholstered in green and motions for you to take seats. His guards mill about, keeping you under their eyes.
"Now," he says,"how can we help each other, my visitors?"
At the mention of the price, Swire scowls even more. "Twenty-five ladies... I'm not staying long enough to pay that much. No rule against a nonmember perusing the wares, is there?"
Assuming there isn't, Swire goes to the stalls and looks around, covertly asking about people who recently came into Plaugemort. 12
The two rutterkin eagerly raise their weapons as you step toward the entrance to the black market bazaar, but the thin man raises a hand and utters a harsh command in abyssal and they back down.
"Money's got no provenance. You're welcome to look and buy. Just keep in mind what I told you, eh?"
Behind the beaded curtain is a crowded former dining room full of makeshift stalls; some are just folk sitting at a blanket with their goods before them, others have tables and guards; there's even a gnome with a fit-up stall almost like a street puppeteer's stage. There are drugs, potions and scrolls, weapons and armor, clothes, food, household items; even a goblin selling livestock (which look surprisingly healthy, given the location and their keeper). A scarred minotaur walks up and down the center aisle with a knocked greataxe settled on his shoulder. Everyone gives him a wide berth. The only lights are small braziers burning in various places and what little sunlight is admitted through the high, broken windows. Cambions, tieflings, humans and more monstrous ne'er-do-wells haggle and shop.