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[IC] No Kings or Heroes - "Murphy's Seven"
feeddannow
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“Most patrons don't know it, but The Flying Pig was not named for the smell of the place – it was actually named after the original proprietor's wife. The old sow was the wealthy daughter of some merchant, but incredibly tight-fisted with the purse strings. One night, she and the old man get into it pretty bad and she threatened to leave him all alone without a penny. The arc she made through the air as she crashed through the window was all the inspiration ol' Walen needed – he left town with a bag of gold and came here, setting up the Flying Pig in memory of his beloved late wife. Of course this was all before there even was a Pink Town...”
The story is told with that smooth matter-of-fact tone of one who has told the story a hundred times before, and is likely to tell it another hundred times before he's done. The waiter seemed to enjoy having a captive audience for his stories – it was early in the morning still and the Pig rarely had visitors for its breakfast buffet (“All you can eat! Come up to the Trough!” declared the desperate banner hanging outside the tavern's entrance with a crudely drawn pigasus).
The five people around the table had endured the waiter – but the tension in the air was becoming palpable. They looked around at each other suspiciously – as if players in a high stakes poker game – unwilling to reveal much about themselves while at the same time trying to read each other. It was an unusual mix of characters – even for the Flying Pig.
The halfling, her skin a sun-scorched bronze, she wore dark glass goggles over her eyes even while inside the tavern. She refused to stay still, inspecting every condiment and piece of cutlery in front of her. From time to time she'd whisper something to herself or to the big human next to her.
The big human was a physical paragon – her body a lithe form of well-shaped and corded muscles – she'd almost be attractive, but something in the way she held herself was off-putting, and her otherwise perfect body was marred by a patchwork of scars that told stories of their own. She watched the red-haired pseudo-fiend with alien interest.
The tiefling, always looking over his shoulder as if expecting something to come up behind him – a faint smell of arcana and brimstone clung to his expensive clothes. His well-coiffed crimson hair tied up in a chic ponytail, he eyeballed the silver-haired half-elf with a professional smile.
The half-elf in question seemed bored. His body language suggested that there were a million other things he could be doing besides being here. He didn't seem overly pleased by the company at the table, but neither did he seem quick to leave. Sometimes his eye would catch the wood elf's, struggling to fight off a sense of déjà vu.
The wood elf was eating pancakes, heavy syrup dripped over them and spilled onto the sausages, but he didn't seem to mind. He had no clue why he was here, but he wasn't about to turn down a free meal.
The waiter had just left to go refill their tankards when the door to the Flying Pig opened. Silhouetted by the rising sun spilling into the tavern stood a spindly figure of a man wearing a heavy leather duster that jingled and rustled with the contents of an untold number of pockets.
Perched upon his shoulder: a small, greyish blue cat. The man took no time to regard the tavern, and close observation would indicate a vacant expression and a certain lightlessness to the eyes – but he headed straight for the table of five.
Everyone paused, and looked up at the stranger – all with questions in their eyes. But the man didn't speak, he simply extended an arm for the cat to leisurely slink down unto the table top – and then the cat spoke. Its feline lips didn't move, but a mellifluous voice appeared directly inside the heads of everyone there in the party – and it originated without a doubt from the feline in front of them. The voice was haughty, arrogant, and proud – but charming too, in a catty, chatty way.
“Good,” it purred. “Glad to see everyone could make it. You're probably wondering why I gathered you all here – and you are probably wondering just who I am.” It paused, extending a clawed paw forward for patience. “We'll get to that. Before we do I need to tell you all something up front…” The cat paced across the tabletop, eyeing each of the gathered persons with a languid glance.
“The thing I am about to ask you to do is dangerous, highly illegal, and – if you believe in such things – quite impossible. If we pull it off, we'll all walk away very rich. If we fail, there is death – or worse. If that doesn't sound appealing to any of you, go ahead and make yourself scarce right now with conscience unsullied.”
When nobody made a move to leave, the kitty continued, “We're going to break into Jingles' Tower and rob the place blind. Gold. Artifacts. Magical Wonders. One’s heart’s desire, even,” mused the feline, licking a claw, then swiftly retracting it with a faint snnnk! before continuing: “Should that desire be strictly pecuniary, that is.” The cat paused, and then looked around the group. “In short, we're going to hit him where it hurts – and, ideally, we’re going to do it all without getting caught and being spiked atop the Guild's front gates.”
As if on cue, the vacant looking human thrall reached into his duster and produced a heavy, rolled piece of parchment from a scroll case and unfurled it on the table – revealing a complicated looking map of what must be Jingle's Tower. “To work,” purred the cat.
The Map
The Key to the Map*
1, 2, and 3 are the main gaming rooms. Featuring the most popular games of chance. They're open for anyone who can ante up. With the gala ongoing, tables are likely to be crowded – floor walking staff will be serving drinks and keeping an eye on patrons.
4 – A smaller game-room that caters to those betting on the races happening outside. A large crystal screen dominates the northern wall with magical displays showing the results of the races.
5 – A room containing lots of slot machines and other minor luck-based games. The entrance to the cage is on the north wall, watched over by two large half-ogres in fancy suits.
6 and 7 – Are the “dressing rooms” for the gladiators and their handlers.
8 – A show room for gladiatorial contests. Most of the fights aren't to the death, because good gladiators are expensive. Lively crowds sometimes form when some of the more famous fighters join. The gala is expected to have a pretty interesting roster for the big day.
9 – A coat-room available to patrons that wish to deposit minor valuables or garments during their stay at the tower. It's run by an elderly goblin named “Tickets” who, oddly enough, hands out the ticket receipts.
10 and 11 – are high stakes rooms for patrons with the money to play. The tables here are expensive – with 100 gold minimums. The food is better though, and showgirls often hang around here after their performances to schmooze with the fat-pursed patrons. The northern exits are for staff-only, as is the western exit for room 10.
12 – Is a staff room, where lockers and tables and other such things litter the area. It's bound to be pretty bustling with waiters, off-duty guards, and the like.
13 – The main “cage”. Patrons cashing out can do so through the door at the bottom left. This room is in control of all of the money and chips and valuables that come into and out of the Tower. It's heavily guarded and regularly staffed with a dozen guards or more at any given time – as well as heavily watched by magical means. The door on the bottom right is only accessible via a spoken passphrase.
14 – The kitchen. It has three exits – the southeastern exit is kept locked.
15 – The foyer to the vault, guards are posted at each of the exits here. Our informant mentioned something strange about the room, but couldn't give a good description of exactly what.
16 – The monitoring room, where all of the magical eyes report to on a bank of crystal screens throughout the room. We don't know who staffs this yet.
17 – The captain's quarters.
18 – The barracks. Off-duty guards take their breaks here. Bunks and lockers all around.
19 – The VIP room. This place is for whales-only. Getting onto a table here is going to take a lot of money and influence. Strictly invitation only. There's a secret exit out of the room that leads to room 20 via an unused maintenance tunnel back from the days when this place wasn't a casino.
20 – The armory, everything a guard could need to perpetrate acts of violence against would-be thieves lives here. This is also where any confiscated contraband would be brought – or where any prisoners would be taken for “intensive questioning” in one of the cells therein.
21 – The main vault. Anything too expensive, dangerous, or outright magical to be kept in the cage is brought here for secure keeping. All four of the doors that lead into this room are heavy lead things of dwarf-make – resistant to magic and nearly impossible to damage without tearing down the whole tower. We aren't sure of the locking mechanism yet, but we know that there's got to be a way inside. We've heard rumors that Jingles keeps a beholder inside, protecting all the treasure therein.
22 – A large storage facility. Props, goods, and other miscellany are all organized here in large shelves.
A – A secret entrance that comes in from an access point from the sewers. Tower staff use it to come and go without disturbing the patrons.
B – These stairs lead up to private apartments for the VIP guests.
C – These stairs lead up to Donny Jingles private quarters.
D – This corridor is most likely heavily trapped.
E – This used to be an old maintenance tunnel – it hasn't been used in ages, but should be serviceable.
“Most patrons don't know it, but The Flying Pig was not named for the smell of the place – it was actually named after the original proprietor's wife. The old sow was the wealthy daughter of some merchant, but incredibly tight-fisted with the purse strings. One night, she and the old man get into it pretty bad and she threatened to leave him all alone without a penny. The arc she made through the air as she crashed through the window was all the inspiration ol' Walen needed – he left town with a bag of gold and came here, setting up the Flying Pig in memory of his beloved late wife. Of course this was all before there even was a Pink Town...”
The story is told with that smooth matter-of-fact tone of one who has told the story a hundred times before, and is likely to tell it another hundred times before he's done. The waiter seemed to enjoy having a captive audience for his stories – it was early in the morning still and the Pig rarely had visitors for its breakfast buffet (“All you can eat! Come up to the Trough!” declared the desperate banner hanging outside the tavern's entrance with a crudely drawn pigasus).
The five people around the table had endured the waiter – but the tension in the air was becoming palpable. They looked around at each other suspiciously – as if players in a high stakes poker game – unwilling to reveal much about themselves while at the same time trying to read each other. It was an unusual mix of characters – even for the Flying Pig.
The halfling, her skin a sun-scorched bronze, she wore dark glass goggles over her eyes even while inside the tavern. She refused to stay still, inspecting every condiment and piece of cutlery in front of her. From time to time she'd whisper something to herself or to the big human next to her.
The big human was a physical paragon – her body a lithe form of well-shaped and corded muscles – she'd almost be attractive, but something in the way she held herself was off-putting, and her otherwise perfect body was marred by a patchwork of scars that told stories of their own. She watched the red-haired pseudo-fiend with alien interest.
The tiefling, always looking over his shoulder as if expecting something to come up behind him – a faint smell of arcana and brimstone clung to his expensive clothes. His well-coiffed crimson hair tied up in a chic ponytail, he eyeballed the silver-haired half-elf with a professional smile.
The half-elf in question seemed bored. His body language suggested that there were a million other things he could be doing besides being here. He didn't seem overly pleased by the company at the table, but neither did he seem quick to leave. Sometimes his eye would catch the wood elf's, struggling to fight off a sense of déjà vu.
The wood elf was eating pancakes, heavy syrup dripped over them and spilled onto the sausages, but he didn't seem to mind. He had no clue why he was here, but he wasn't about to turn down a free meal.
The waiter had just left to go refill their tankards when the door to the Flying Pig opened. Silhouetted by the rising sun spilling into the tavern stood a spindly figure of a man wearing a heavy leather duster that jingled and rustled with the contents of an untold number of pockets.
Perched upon his shoulder: a small, greyish blue cat. The man took no time to regard the tavern, and close observation would indicate a vacant expression and a certain lightlessness to the eyes – but he headed straight for the table of five.
Everyone paused, and looked up at the stranger – all with questions in their eyes. But the man didn't speak, he simply extended an arm for the cat to leisurely slink down unto the table top – and then the cat spoke. Its feline lips didn't move, but a mellifluous voice appeared directly inside the heads of everyone there in the party – and it originated without a doubt from the feline in front of them. The voice was haughty, arrogant, and proud – but charming too, in a catty, chatty way.
“Good,” it purred. “Glad to see everyone could make it. You're probably wondering why I gathered you all here – and you are probably wondering just who I am.” It paused, extending a clawed paw forward for patience. “We'll get to that. Before we do I need to tell you all something up front…” The cat paced across the tabletop, eyeing each of the gathered persons with a languid glance.
“The thing I am about to ask you to do is dangerous, highly illegal, and – if you believe in such things – quite impossible. If we pull it off, we'll all walk away very rich. If we fail, there is death – or worse. If that doesn't sound appealing to any of you, go ahead and make yourself scarce right now with conscience unsullied.”
When nobody made a move to leave, the kitty continued, “We're going to break into Jingles' Tower and rob the place blind. Gold. Artifacts. Magical Wonders. One’s heart’s desire, even,” mused the feline, licking a claw, then swiftly retracting it with a faint snnnk! before continuing: “Should that desire be strictly pecuniary, that is.” The cat paused, and then looked around the group. “In short, we're going to hit him where it hurts – and, ideally, we’re going to do it all without getting caught and being spiked atop the Guild's front gates.”
As if on cue, the vacant looking human thrall reached into his duster and produced a heavy, rolled piece of parchment from a scroll case and unfurled it on the table – revealing a complicated looking map of what must be Jingle's Tower. “To work,” purred the cat.
The Map
The Key to the Map*
1, 2, and 3 are the main gaming rooms. Featuring the most popular games of chance. They're open for anyone who can ante up. With the gala ongoing, tables are likely to be crowded – floor walking staff will be serving drinks and keeping an eye on patrons.
4 – A smaller game-room that caters to those betting on the races happening outside. A large crystal screen dominates the northern wall with magical displays showing the results of the races.
5 – A room containing lots of slot machines and other minor luck-based games. The entrance to the cage is on the north wall, watched over by two large half-ogres in fancy suits.
6 and 7 – Are the “dressing rooms” for the gladiators and their handlers.
8 – A show room for gladiatorial contests. Most of the fights aren't to the death, because good gladiators are expensive. Lively crowds sometimes form when some of the more famous fighters join. The gala is expected to have a pretty interesting roster for the big day.
9 – A coat-room available to patrons that wish to deposit minor valuables or garments during their stay at the tower. It's run by an elderly goblin named “Tickets” who, oddly enough, hands out the ticket receipts.
10 and 11 – are high stakes rooms for patrons with the money to play. The tables here are expensive – with 100 gold minimums. The food is better though, and showgirls often hang around here after their performances to schmooze with the fat-pursed patrons. The northern exits are for staff-only, as is the western exit for room 10.
12 – Is a staff room, where lockers and tables and other such things litter the area. It's bound to be pretty bustling with waiters, off-duty guards, and the like.
13 – The main “cage”. Patrons cashing out can do so through the door at the bottom left. This room is in control of all of the money and chips and valuables that come into and out of the Tower. It's heavily guarded and regularly staffed with a dozen guards or more at any given time – as well as heavily watched by magical means. The door on the bottom right is only accessible via a spoken passphrase.
14 – The kitchen. It has three exits – the southeastern exit is kept locked.
15 – The foyer to the vault, guards are posted at each of the exits here. Our informant mentioned something strange about the room, but couldn't give a good description of exactly what.
16 – The monitoring room, where all of the magical eyes report to on a bank of crystal screens throughout the room. We don't know who staffs this yet.
17 – The captain's quarters.
18 – The barracks. Off-duty guards take their breaks here. Bunks and lockers all around.
19 – The VIP room. This place is for whales-only. Getting onto a table here is going to take a lot of money and influence. Strictly invitation only. There's a secret exit out of the room that leads to room 20 via an unused maintenance tunnel back from the days when this place wasn't a casino.
20 – The armory, everything a guard could need to perpetrate acts of violence against would-be thieves lives here. This is also where any confiscated contraband would be brought – or where any prisoners would be taken for “intensive questioning” in one of the cells therein.
21 – The main vault. Anything too expensive, dangerous, or outright magical to be kept in the cage is brought here for secure keeping. All four of the doors that lead into this room are heavy lead things of dwarf-make – resistant to magic and nearly impossible to damage without tearing down the whole tower. We aren't sure of the locking mechanism yet, but we know that there's got to be a way inside. We've heard rumors that Jingles keeps a beholder inside, protecting all the treasure therein.
22 – A large storage facility. Props, goods, and other miscellany are all organized here in large shelves.
A – A secret entrance that comes in from an access point from the sewers. Tower staff use it to come and go without disturbing the patrons.
B – These stairs lead up to private apartments for the VIP guests.
C – These stairs lead up to Donny Jingles private quarters.
D – This corridor is most likely heavily trapped.
E – This used to be an old maintenance tunnel – it hasn't been used in ages, but should be serviceable.
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“Now,” elaborated the kitty-cat, fastidiously cleaning a paw. “Security during this sort of thing is tighter than an Aboleth’s puckered arsehole, and just getting past the gaming tables is going to be a problem.”
“First,” and with a twitch of its whiskers the thrall’s hand shot up, with index finger extended: “There's the door to the backroom cages – guarded by half-ogre thugs that are too stupid to be tricked. They'll only let people in who have the passkey. Which I don't have.”
“Second!” another digit rose. “Past the cages themselves, regular patrols on loan from the city guard – and I don't have to tell you how … unfortunately enthusiastic they can be in their pursuit of duty.”
“Third, of course,” continued the cat, pacing the table as a third finger rose on its thrall’s hand: “We know that Jingles has two hell-hounds that roam around. What is it with gnolls and keeping dogs, anyway?”
“Fourth: the cages hold some of the money, but the real stuff is in the back vaults – which I happen to know are protected by a beholder - one of those big floating eye things, which only by all rights now exists. Aside from its formidable offensive capability, it can also detect magic and see through illusions.”
“If we get past all of that, there's still the matter of traps – according to some rats I know, Jingles has hired on some gnome brothers that are world-class. Without knowing what they are and where, every step of the way is going to be like skipping through a warzone.”
The thrall, who had been quiet until this time, clenched a fist and mumbled something – his lips barely moving enough to produce a sound. The cat replied, “Ah yes, yes: the magic eyes. I forgot about those. Jingles keeps the place surveilled by a series of magically fused jewels that display all they see into a screen in a constantly monitored room.”
“And with that: I think that's all there is to it,” the cat sat back on its haunches, daring its captive audience with a smug confidence.
The Tiefling spoke up, “So. Assuming we get into the back past the murderous half-ogres. And then tame two actual dogs from actual hell. And avoid the random patrolling guards – who hate humans by the way,” he added, looking at the large barbarian woman. “And also assuming that we can take out a beholder – all the while dodging gnome-inspired traps.”
“And the magic eyes,” interrupted the cat, disinterestedly.
“Yeah. Assuming all of that. We then just walk out of the place with a Wizard King's ransom in gold and magical items. And nobody is going to stop us? Just like that?”
The cat paused to consider the facts of the matter just for the briefest of moments, and then replied, “That sounds about right.”
The red-haired Tiefling leaned back in his chair, picked up his fork and stabbed at a section of pancake. “Oh. Okay then,” was all he said before he put the bite into his mouth, thoughtfully chewing.
The cat curled up on the table, apparently disdainful of the bowl of food a waiter had brought during its monologue. "The festival provides a fixed timeline: we have a week to come up with solutions to these problems and make a plan."
But, how loyal to the guard was Jasker? Would Jasker even be willing to help, or would he simply bring a platoon down on their operation before it began? Should he contact his old mentor for advice? Aedril silently stared into the bottom of his tankard, trying to weigh the options he could offer. Then, he realized he was seeing the bottom of his tankard. He spoke, "I'm going to need a stronger drink. Barmaid, please, another round for me and my colleagues. Something strong." Aedril took another bite of his food and slumped back into his chair, pondering the map in front of them.
"The problem is, I'm used to wandering abandoned places, and I'm not exactly a cutpurse, so I'm no good with sneaking or being disguised. Though, if we can kill the lights, I'll be much better off. Also, like many ruins I've been in, this map shows a collection of larger rooms connected by smaller halls. Each of these halls will be a major choke point if we have to fight or flee, though, if we're clever, it can be an advantage. Furthermore, if we get stuck in a hall, guards could pincer us from two, or possibly more sides depending on where we are. I've been in that situation in ruins, and believe me, it is less than ideal. If someone screws up, we're dead or worse. Well, maybe not the cat, because he's a damned cat! Though maybe Jingles wants a new pet," Aedril smirked.
The barmaid brought the drinks, and he waited for her to move to other tables before continuing, "I might be able to help with the city guards problem. I have a connection or two, but the problem is whether or not they will hear me out, or send a platoon out to nab us all before we've started. Or, I could offer to join them, and try to get some information from the inside. Maybe the passkey. I know they are going to be short handed in the coming week and seeking able fighters to assist with the crowds. My, er, acquaintance suggested I rejoin the guard, and maybe I will. Coin's not bad, and the recent death of my client hasn't helped. Also, we're going to need a way to transport the stuff, and it so happens, I have a wagon."
He looked at the cat, "Finally, this whole plan is idea is nuts, and there is no way they won't know we were involved somehow. Once we're done, we'll need to leave city, and fast. Granted, I'm thinking too hard. More likely, we'll all get strung up before we've managed to take two steps into the building."
Aedril character sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=889486
"No humans allowed.. Not in Los Jingles...Unless you are a slave or worse. Maybe you can be a gladiator? I've seen you fight.. you might survive... Oh! Be my slave. Good cover... yes I think so." Tora rambled on, not sure if anyone was actually listening or not. "Hmm I've never had a slave before, what could I have you do? Oh I know! Carry me! yes yes.. Much better view of the city from up there I think.. yes."
She nodded emphatically, proud of her deductions. She folded her little arms and leaned back in her chair, goggles reflecting the dim light of the tavern just visible over the edge of the table.
"Getting her in the city is not so hard.. getting us in the tower will be very, very hard I think." Tora slowly looked around at her new companions "You... you look sneaky..."
Her statement was blunt, difficult to discern if it was an observation or an insult. She babbled on anyway.
"The sun is not so stealthy - the light draws attention you see. Though I could make enough light to blind them, give one of you sneaky-ones a moment to slip away...not past the beholder though, nope not that."
She paused, running through various scenarios in her head as she rubbed her finger across the lens of her goggles - making a high pitched squelch as her skin rubbed the glass. "Hmmm. At least I can put you back together if the hell dogs get you... that Tora is very good at."
With that she grabbed a pancake and rolled it up into a tube of buttery, syrupy goodness and took a massive bite. Massive for a Halfling anyway...
Tamlyn's train of thought is interrupted as the waitress wandered past him on her way to fetch the round of drinks Aedril had just ordered. As she passed his left hand shot up and gave her a quick pat on the ass. He grins up at her with a suggestive wink.
1d20 +7
3 + 7 = 10
"So what assets do we have at our disposal? This would be a cake walk if we had some powerful magics. Traps can't hurt you if you are composed of a living cloud of gas!" Tamlyn sighs throw up his hands. "Oh what I wouldn't give for a few potions or a book of scrolls. Don't get me wrong, we are going to win. How could I ever lose?" he pauses to chuckle at such a ridiculous thought, "No, no! I worry this could get complicated. I don't like complicated. The smoother the better. I don't want to start making enemies on this side of the world so quickly." Tamlyn motions towards Aedril, "And yes I realize we'll be, quote, hated criminals," the words hated and criminal dripping with sarcasm, "forever banished from this town. But really who cares about pissing off some showoff gnoll? Once we've got his treasure and his magic the problem will fix itself. Trust me. If we pull this off right he'll be a laughing stock. People don't like losers. Especially stinky ugly ones with bad fashion sense!"
His mind returned to thoughts of the beholder and the vault as his head flops over the back of his chair, his bushy white hair going out in all directions behind him like an upturned birch tree. Closing his eyes and he tries to recall anything useful he might know about these abominations.
1d20 +3
20 + 3 = 23
Sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=888226
She glanced up and around the assembled group, taking a long moment to study the cat curled up next to the platter of bacon rashers. "I do not know of you or your deeds. You will show me with time, I think." Nodding toward the white-maned elfin she continued, still smiling slightly. "Your talk of walls and choking moves, perhaps will help. Enemies we might make? That is where Faria can help!"
Faria punctuated her statement by slapping a rough palm down on the table in front of her hard enough to rattle her spoon over the edge. Unperturbed, she snatched up the fork closest to her left hand -which happened to belong to the elfin- and began to carefully and methodically inhale the contents of the platter before her.
"So," she mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, then took a long pull form her drink before thumping it back onto the table. "Plans, yes? Your talk will bring Sharga and me closer to a worthy battle. So, talk."
So saying, she turned her attention back to her plate.
"We still need more information. In the next week we'll need to gather as much information about the tower as possible." he continues. "If Aedril's plan works we might be able to just walk past all the guards and traps at least near the front. We'll need to know if the hell hounds have a patrol patterns and time our entrance to avoid them. The beholder will be tricky but I have a plan for it. I want guard rotation time tables, shift schedules, and names. All the names! I even want to know what the orges' imaginary friends' names are! The tiniest bit of information can help. Oh, and we'll need to know what that butt faced gnoll will be doing when this plan fires off. He's an important element. I need him out of the picture for my plan to work."
Tamlyn leans back and takes a sip of his beer. A momentary look of horror crosses his face before he hurls the mug across the room. "That bitch!" he murmurs. "Anyways..."
"I think our best plan is to act as a security firm arriving at the tower to safely transport all the articles out to a 'safe house' for Donny. Donny is paranoid there is a mole inside his organization that is going to try something on the busiest day of the event and wants extra insurance." Talmyn pauses waiting to hear what the rest of the group thinks and to chime in with what information, skills, or resources they can contribute.
Sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=888226
Beginning to circumnavigate the table, he addresses each member of the gang in turn. "Aedril," he says. "Your Jasker scheme is top-notch, and I encourage you, Tora, and—" he inclines his head up to assess the tall warrior "—Faria to insinuate yourself amongst them and clear our way."
He continues his tabletop revolution and pauses, paw in the air, close to Ariean. "The ways of stealth are a mystery to us all, which is why you are here. Please make your plans for infiltration and let us know how we might complement your skills."
"Tamlyn," the feline addresses the half-elf en passant: "You seem to have a plan to defeat the beholder by something other than main force. I am...intrigued."
"However," the cat conspirator says languidly, curling up in front of his human thrall Edwin Cocalas. "What you say is true. We need information. Fortunately, I have an in with just the person who can help us out. I intend to speak with Bothan the Rat, and I would appreciate those of you not otherwise occupied accompanying me."
Character Sheet
Other:
Spider Frost
No, finding Bothan the Rat won’t be a problem. You’re certain he knows you’re here already.
As the thrall carried Murphy around the next bend in the tunnel , his eyes fixed on something out of place. There in a small chamber sat a suspiciously well-kept table of fine mahogany and three chairs. Laid out on the table is a singlular silver platter with a morsel of cream. Suddenly, a lone rat skitters across the floor through the opposite doorway.
It appears as if you were expected.
As their breakfast concluded, the unlikely trio of halfling, human, and tiefling made separate exits so not to draw attention to the group as a whole. The flame-haired artifact hunter had a friend on the city guard, it was said, and they were going to cash in a favor or two to get into that august body of policing in order to get better access to the Tower - and also the treasures within. A time was set and a meeting place arranged, it was no secret that the guard was short handed - and no secret that this friend Jasker relished the idea of working closer with his long-time ally Aedril.
The barbaric Faria was cleverly disguised by the otherwise tight-lipped half-elf rogue. He spoke very little as he applied the make up and spirited on the false ear-tips. It was a good effort. Subtle. She looked more than human now. It would do to get her past the busy gates into Los Jingles, certainly...
A message comes back from Jasker and is passed along from Aedrill to his two companions:
"I heard you're going to take me up on that offer, well good! And you've got some friends willing to help out? Well, I'm sure any friend of yours is fine... but we should meet first, just to make sure. The Cracked Barrel. I'll be there. -Jasker"
So it was that they found themselves holding that little bit of parchment just outside the humble front door of the Cracked Barrel. A lively crowd was already inside.
Being a cat, Murphy Fogg assumes that everybody will put out food for him, so he orders his thrall forward so that he can leap on to the table. Circling the cream, the cunning kitty sniffs it delicately, then takes an equally delicate lick.
He awaits the dramatic entrance of his ratty acquaintance with feline equanimity.
Character Sheet
Other:
Spider Frost
Tamlyn wanders over to the small chamber opening, pausing to knock the grim off his boots as best he can before stepping up out of the muck. Walking up Tamlyn pulls a chair a bit away from the table before slumping down into it, slinging one arm over the back of the chair, raising his boot up to rest on his thigh. He surveys the room, his black and white darkvision giving the room an even more surreal appearance as if from an old painting. Tamlyn feels at ease among the strange things of the multiverse, his face brimming with confidence and anticipation. The presence of the invisible magical force of his mage armor spell paired with the knowledge that at a moment's notice he can bring his pact weapon to bear contributes to his cool demeanor.
"Our host is one of manners and taste." he muses aloud.
Sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=888226
Murphy laps at the cream, but notices something amiss as he finds himself unable to reach his paw up to clean away an errant dollop of the stuff from his whiskers. There's a psionic sigh that seems to fill the small room, "Very funny," purred the cat, annoyed. Before Tam had a chance to inquire further, there was an appearance at the far end where the rat scampered off through.
Sillouetted in the dim fungal glow, the figure of Bothan the Rat-Shaman looked almost regal. The illusion is soon shattered however when he draws closer. The man known as the king-of-sewers was anything but lordly in face or demeanor. He seemed tall, but walked with a stoop - and an ungainly gait that was as antithetical to cat-like grace as one could imagine. Around his feet there gathered a swarm of mice and rats, always just able to avoid his heavy footfalls. As he drew closer, his features became even more distinct - a well-weathered face, marked with a lifetime of scars, boils, and filth. Showers, it seemed, were only something that happened to other people. The man wore the discarded rags of noblemen - not a piece of his rainment was that of a pauper, instead he wore torn robes of ermine - filthy silken breeches - and tarnished chains of gold. In his squalor he turned these once splendid things into a twisted mockery of royalty.
"Murphy, Murphy, Murphy..." The duke of sewage smiled, showing a serious row of yellowed teeth, "how very kind of you to stop by. Do stick around..." he had to stifle a rattish chortle at his quip, which brought a cacophony of tittering squeaks from his rat-subjects at his feet.
The cat, unamused and unphased did not budge or rise to the comment - much to the apparent dismay of the rat-king.
"And your newest thrall, I see? Tired of the old one so quickly? And who is this ... " the rat-man sniffed at the air towards Tam, "... Fey touched pixie-man that you've brought into my domain? Surely the all-powerful Murphy the Grey doesn't need muscle to see a humble mouse like myself?"
Tam can now notice that Murphy is unable to move at all - as he seems to be glued to the table. In fact, the table seems to leer at Tam hungrily for a brief flash - it might be a trick of the light, or not.
"No matter - and no, don't stand up - Tamlyn wasn't it? I know a fair bit about you already."
Bothan stayed just at arms length from the three at the table, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side. "You're here for more information about the Tower. I gave you that map - and it was a very costly thing indeed to procure. What more have you come to beg from me? You had better make it good - great things are afoot - and my time is more precious than you can imagine... so if you want to leave here with your fur intact, pussycat, make it worth my time. Dogwood hates to be teased with his food..." at that, the table made a strange woody snarling sound "... Mimics are such unpredictable things."
The Cracked Barrel is an old institution. A bustling tavern that boasted not only good ale at a reasonable price, but also a fair menu of quality foods. A quaint place - something of an oddity in the big city of Los Jingles, where every other building is covered in enchanted neon signs, surrounded by scantily-clad touts handing out flyers that pictured entirely-unclad dancers, and blasting with arcane mouths that spat out the deals of the day. No, the Barrel was a dwarf place. Owned by an old curmudgeon of a dwarf who was traditional, even by dwarfish standards. It boasted no sign other than the simple wooden thing that pictured the eponymous barrel and no other decor. There was a porch that seemed to be made out of old lumber from a mineshaft's supports. A retired guardsman lounged in one of the rocking chairs at the porch and made no sign of noticing the three strangers as they passed him by other than to make a noisy gob of spittle ring out expertly into the spitoon near his feet.
As Aedril pushed open the swinging tavern door, Tara and Faria caught their first glimpses of what a traditional dwarven tavern looked like. This might be the last of it's kind after the cataclysm. In fact, a casual glance around only showed a handful of those dour, hardworking folk in attendance - a pair of dwarves playing dragonchess at the far end - and another behind the bar, the proprietor no doubt. A good number of the patrons here seem to be guardsmen - retired and otherwise - with a fair number of civilians mingled in. There's only one table with any chairs available at all - in the back-right corner a man that Aedril immediately recognizes as his friend, Jasker, seems to be in a poor mood, despite his forced smile and waves for the trio to join him.
1d20 +3
7 + 3 = 10
Persuasion check on Bothan
1d20 +7
2 + 7 = 9
Sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=888226
In the back of Tamlyn's mind he searched for anything he could recall on Mimics and their ecology - but his mind can only fixate on the obscure certainty that Mimics, despite being amorphous beings, have three-chambered stomaches. Why he knew that - and with such certainty - and of what use that information would ever be, eluded him at the moment. His distraction took some of the honey out of his flattery and what he imagined sounded like a smooth dollop of boot-licking came out dripping with more of his natural, laconic sarcasm.
"As if your lovely golden lady -" Tam noted the lower-casing in the pronunciation, "- ever had dealings with someone like me. I am the Lord of the Lowers... my fiefdom is filth... my children are the very vermin that surround you now. Your feline associate knows me well - and owes me dearly for the services he expects to render. Well. Information is my treasure - and I am loathe to part with it without good reason."
A small, white-mottled mouse scampers out from one of the sleeves of Bothan's robe and perches in his open palm. The lord of the sewers strokes the thing affectionately, eagerly awaiting some news of payments and favors before offering more words to his captive audience.
Under Murphy's feet, he can feel the slow breathing of the Mimic.
Ariean does his best to make Faria seem like a half-elf. He is satisfied with his work. After all, he has had a lot of experience of being one himself. As he returns to his humble lodgings in town, ready to begin his investigation into the aforementioned gnome brothers, something seems amiss. The room looks just like it was when he left it, but his sharp eye can notice minute differences. The goblet is a quarter of an inch to the left of where it was, and the picture frame is different. His keen nose also picks up a smell.
Perfume. Women's perfume.
Someone was here.
It does not take him to figure out what was missing. His thieves' tools. They were not conspicuously hidden under the mattress anymore. They were gone. Instead of the leather pouch containing the trusty instruments he has used many times over the years, there was a receipt: Los Jingles Thieves Guild. On the back of the note, in a seemingly feminine script, was written: Tsk tsk tsk.
1d20 +3
10 +3 =13
Ariean smirks. The fact that he could still smell the perfume meant that the thief must have been there not too long ago. He follows the scent to the nearby window. Whoever they were, they had jumped.
Just under the window, there is a market. It's crowded. But Ariean's eyes fall upon two high elf girls talking in low tones - whispering but also lilting and musical. He is about to look away when he catches what might be a thieves sign flash between them. That is it. One of these elves must have taken his tools. He does not know why, and at this point he does not care. He jumps down with expertise and attempts to blend into the crowd.
1d20 +5
9 +5 =14
Perception roll by targets
1d20 +2
15 +2 =17
Despite his grace and deft movements, though it seems that he is spotted. The two girls make their move, casually splitting up and leaving in separate directions- before leaving they give each other a hug, but Ariean catches it for what it really is, a hand-off.
1d20 +5
5 +5 =10
[Lucky!] Sleight of hand roll to get back the tools
1d20 +5
8 +5 =13
Perception roll by target
1d20 +2
13 +2 =15
Ariean couldn't go after both of them. He goes after the nearer one- the girl who turns to the left. He comes up on the girl and as he is about to cut the string from her purse, she turns around with a devious smile, and says, "Hmm. I thought Jizzelle said you were handsome. She's usually wrong about boys though."
She laughs, a cutting laugh that women all over the world know how to use too well. Then she continues, "I'm sure she'll get be so amused that you tried to steal your little toys back. I do hope you don't get any funny ideas though. The boys are not so kind to unregistered ruffians running around."
As she says that, Ariean sees a pair of heavies making their way towards him. Discretion is the better part of valor. Ariean slips back into the crowd and disappears.
As he climbs back to his room, feeling a little bitter, he smells the perfume again. Much stronger this time, as if the wearer was here again and just left. He spots something barely noticeable under the pillow. He lifts the pillow and smirks again. His tools were back.
Someone somewhere is messing with him. He would like to find out why.
After his initial outburst, Murphy Fogg regains his feline nonchalance and continues to eat the delicious cream, allowing his new companion and old frenemy to introduce each other. Having sated his hunger, Murphy turns to face Bothan, and states his case.
"The sight of the map energized my new team to further action, and we have concocted a more ambitious plan. For it to work, though, we need more information. But!" Murphy says, raising a paw to cut off any interruption: "Be patient, Rat Lord. There is no trap here, only more cheese. My intent is to compensate you. Listen to the end."
Inclining his head, he projects a Spellpoint deck for the thrall Edwin to create, and a minor illusion shimmers into being behind the feline, illustrating his points on a six-second timer. After going through the basics of the information requested — hell hound patrol schedules, guard rotation time tables, shift schedules, and names (all the names!) — he approaches the big ask...and the big hook.
"Our mutual friend Jingles, though, is the linchpin of this whole exercise. I know you and your ratty friends are all throughout the city, dodging the Tupps and pursuing your particularly noble goals. I need tracking on Jingles, and I need to know where he is at all times - because I intend to knock over his private quarters simultaneously to the overall heist. In exchange for your help..." the slide show advances, revealing a book - a simulacrum of one that Murphy Fogg is quite familiar with, a skin-bound journal with numerous arcane bookmarks. It is inscribed with the distinctive rune of Wizard King Baraccus, stamped over with the much classier gnoll-script sigil of Donny Jingles. "I offer the Continuing Journal of the city itself, the key to its secrets and its control, that sits upon the nightstand of Donny Jingles himself."
Character Sheet
Other:
Spider Frost
Sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=888226
Her left ear itches under the prosthetic. Faria scowls slightly at the sensation, but restrains herself from reaching up to scratch it; she had already had her hand slapped away -twice- byTora, who was perched on her shoulder as they made their way through the crowds to the Cracked Barrel. The halfling has a surprisingly strong arm on her.
Instead, Faria shakes her head slightly, as if she could flick off the feeling, and follows Aedril through the door into the incongruously understated tavern. The lights and sounds and press of people in this part of the city were still disorienting and the absence of the comforting weight of Sharga has been making her edgy.
It is a relief to step into organized chaos of the Cracked Barrel and she pauses on the threshold, taking in the lively murmur and the clinking of tankards. After a sweep of her eyes she nods once, firmly, and announces to no one in particular, "I like this place. It is a good place."
Aedril apparently spots who he is looking for and beings to move across the tavern room toward a dwarf in the back corner, Faria close behind. As they make their way she nudges him slightly and leans down. "Your friend, he looks like he's swallowed a raw kuo-toa egg," she muses. "Is this his normal face?"
Aedril felt a nudge from the buff human-now-half-elf barbarian. He pursed his lips, "No, actually, it's not. Something's up."
1D20 +1 =15
Aedril approached Jasker, but he noticed the smile was superficial. Something was bugging his old companion. Glancing around the room, Aedril saw that many of the patrons had various scars, tattoos, and that was all well and good, but something about their ruggedness was tugging at the back of his mind. There was a sort of tension in the air, but Aedril shrugged it off for the moment, and sat down across from his friend. He motioned Faria and Tora to take seats as well. Drinks were ordered, and Aedril spoke to his companion.
"Jasker, thanks for meeting with us." Jasker nodded, and took a swig from his mug before addressing Aedril, "So you're taking me up on the offer to join the guard huh? Who are your two odd looking friends? I've never known you to be the social type." Jasker looks at both the halfling and the half-elf, peering a little harder at the buff looking half-elf.
1d20 +3 = 20
"You know, she's kind of big for a half-elf. Aedril, what are you trying to pull?" Aedril grimaced, "Jasker, with my client dead, and the ruins hunting gigs drying up and becoming more dangerous, well, we want to join the guard. You know how you all are about humans in the ranks. Well, she's a companion of mine, and I can vouch for her, but I don't know how the rest of the guards will feel, so you know...a friend of a friend thought that some subtle adjustments would help! And hey, it wasn't my idea, I just went along with it!"
Jasker sighed, "Well, we're short handed, and as far as I'm concerned, Aedril, you're in, just have to talk to my captain. Those two, though, I will not vouch for them, even if you say they're good. What proof do I have that they're guardsman material?" Aedril jabbed his finger as he spoke, "You told me at the gate, that you were short handed, and you've got a ton of shite going on that you don't have the numbers to handle. With the merchants streaming in, and now Jingles throwing some festival, you need us. And I guarantee those two will fit right in."
1d20 -1 = 8
"No, Aedril, forget it. The fact that she's disguised bugs me. I could see through it, and it sure as hell isn't going to convince my mates, much less my captain. No dice. Besides, my captain's an asshole, and he'd probably play toss the dwarf if I tried." He turns to the halfling-barbarian duo, "Look I'm sure if Aedril's vouching, you're good folk, but a halfling in the guard? I don't even know if we have anything to fit her. She's smaller than I am! And the barbarian hum-half-elf?" He sighs.
"Jasker, look, I-" Just as Aedril is about to launch another argument for his two companions, he hears a ruckus coming from the bar. A table topples, a glass shatters, bottles fall to the floor, and the crunching of wood as a chair is broken. "What in the hells?" Aedril stands up and turns around to look at the commotion. Jasker stands up, a scowl marring his features, "Shite."
Aedril character sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=889486
She tuned out the conversation at the table, no longer interested in what the rude one said. Instead she let her attention wander around the room. It had been ages since she had talked with a dwarf, they didn't like the desert too much sand. Can't mine in sand.. So to be in a dwarven pub was much more exciting that guards, even guards on fire.
She spotted a couple of older dwarves with silver in their beards. They seemed to look over every now and then, suddenly aware of a barbarian with terrible ears and of course her perched atop like some deranged parrot. Their accent was gruff, but she could just make out what they were saying. They didn't look very pleased. And what they said? Oh my... that was not very nice at all...
"Very impolite dwarves. This is my friend, I'll not have such bad manners at the table... " Tora was muttering again, casually turning away and pretending to look elsewhere while she prepared herself, drawing from the twinkling lights as inspiration. When she felt ready she caught the eye of the dwarf with 4 braids in his beard and raised her amulet to her chin. "Spill!"
She waited. She frowned.
The drunken dwarf flinched, standing up and sending his stool flying. He looked angrily around the room as he swayed, leaning on the table for support. Tora had wanted him to dump his ale on his friend. He didn't do it. Such a pity. At least he didn't seem to have noticed where her spell came from, but Tora wasn't too worried. The sudden splintering of wood and shattering of glass was quite a nice distraction, for both her and the dwarf. He seemed far more concerned with the large form tumbling toward him...
Tora however was busy watching the shards of glass as they twinkled. Such a pretty way to start a bar fight....
With a happy cackle she poked Faria on the top of her head, casting a spell on her just in time for the fun to start. The barbarian always liked to fight... good entertainment yes, yes.
Hombar was a hard working dwarf. He toiled all day long in gold mines around Los Jingles to provide the city with its unending need for the yellow stone. It was hard, honest work perfect for a traditional-minded dwarf like himself. Work. Work. Work. That's all he ever did - and the only times he allowed himself a break, he chose to frequent the Cracked Barrel - because something about the place caused warm feelings in his otherwise taciturn heart. It was a rare treat for him to sit down and enjoy some dragonchess with a fellow bearded-one and take in the orderly chaos of a lively, but simple tavern.
But luck was not being a lady for him today. His foreman had laid him off this morning, "Sorry Hombar - you know how it is - human labor is just cheaper." And when he had taken that long walk home, he opened the door to his modest apartment - hat in hand and shame in his eyes - he didn't not find his lady wife, but only a note saying that she had left him - after fifty faithful years - for another dwarf "A progressive, forward thinking one - he understands what a woman needs in these times! He let's me shave my beard and he's not always going on about other races like they're worthless... And he's a member of the guard! Not some old-hat miner..." So, brokenhearted - he made way to the only place he had left - the only sanctuary a soul like him had - the pub.
But someone else was in his chair. And the Ale tasted as sweet as piss. And the music was all wrong. And the waitresses all looked at him knowingly. It was too much.
And then, a stool flew across the room, catching Hombar in the nose.
"What has this bleeding world come to?" bellowed the well-inebriated Hombar to nobody and everybody at the same time.
"Feckin' round-eared pink-skins stealing up all the jobs and wimmen..." and as from nowhere, he suddenly had a heavy looking mattock - held angrily in his hands so tight that his knuckles were white.
"... And you know who's to blame! It's that worthless city guard! Going all soft on those feckin' Pinkies!" This brought on a grumbling shout of cheering approval - mixed with the distinct sound of off-duty guardsmen trying to look like civilians.
In moments, the tavern was in arms - Hombar at the eye of the storm, and several rallying to his cries of "Feck the Po-Lice!" while others rallied with the guards.
The dwarf behind the counter had already begun clearing the bartop of breakables - and Jasker looked to Aedril and his new friends with a glance that said "Get us out of this without incident, and you're all hired."
Initiative Order:
Kat/ Faria the Human - 13
Mia/Tara the Halfing - 11
James/Aedril the Tiefling - 8
Hombar and the Roughnecks - 8
AC to hit Hombar: 15* (The first melee attack against him - if he's not dazed or stunned - is against AC 17. He parries with his Mattock expertly, adding +2 to his AC once per combat round as a reaction)
AC to hit Roughnecks: 12
Hombar's got a big nasty mattock and looks like the toughest one, he's definitely the one causing the ruckus.
The four others are a motley crew of roughnecks and drunks - there's a dark-skinned half-elf looking fella, two more dwarves, and a half-orc. They're all in hardened leathers and look like they've been working all day.
Reminder for side-quests:
-Finish It! there's a reward for finishing the fight before the city guard arrives from outside to stop the fight (Probably in 5 rounds).
-Hey, that's an Antique! There's a reward for not busting up the dwarf tavern and it's collection of antique dwarf memorabilia.
Kat's Up.
Faria moves to stand amidst the sounds of Tora's cackling and the rising shouts of the surly group of laborers and turns to survey the scene. The ringleader seems more drunk than dangerous, though the mattock in his hands looks well used and familiar to him. She catches Jasker's eye as he glances between the disturbance and their trio and feels a familiar thrill of excitement climb her spine. He wanted guard material? Very well, she would just need to show him.
With surprisingly gentle hands, Faria reaches up, scoops Tora off her shoulders and deposits her on the tabletop they had been sitting around. Her blood is blazing, now, and she whirls on the group with a roar, "You wish to feck with the police?!" In three loping strides she moves toward the armed dwarf, wading through the crowd of murmuring patrons. Without breaking step, Faria grabs a handful of the front of Hombar's shirt (and a healthy patch of beard as well) and hoists him into the air.
Grapple check + Advantage: 2d20 + Athletics -> 17/10 + 6 -> 23
She grins widely, though the display of gleaming teeth seems more animalistic than genial. Her eyes alight with a dangerous fire, she booms in the dwarf's face, "Your wish is granted!" Faria punctuates her statement by tightening her grip, yanking a few of his beard hairs out in the process, and giving him a sharp shake, then raises her head to include all four of his cronies in her manic grin.
She felt a warm glow rush through her as the Suns magic did its work.. Happy to give her friends and edge in battle.
Aedril utters a small cantrip, and draws a quick sigil in the air, then rushes forward through the group of drunks, making a beeline for the grappled dwarf.
He shouts at the unruly drunks, "Go ahead you scrubs, just try and hit me!"
+5 bonus to AC (bringing it to 21), including against the triggering attack,
and you take no damage from magic missile. His roleplay reaction is to just grin at the attempt and shrug it off.
Aedril character sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=889486
Hombar was hoisted up by the joyous wrestling of the barbaric woman before him – to-and-fro they went – but he was no dwarf if he was about to let some softskinned surface-dweller dwarf-handle him. Dwarves are particularly nasty tavern fighters – having evolved a culture of hobnailed boots and heavy iron helmets, the finest among them are the world’s best (and worst mannered) bar-brawlers.
The furious dwarf fought tooth and nail (and helmet!) like a crazed honeybadger. As she hoisted him up, grabbing his beard – he leveraged his weight to slam his bony skull plum into the woman’s nose – but something must have distracted him at the last moment, shining in his eyes. Reeling, Faria couldn’t see in time to guard her face as the bugger jabbed his thumb into her left eye. It was only dumb luck that saved her from further torment, as his yellowed gnashing teeth snapped angrily near her ear.
Damage - 6 damage total from the dwarf, luckily the barbarian is resistant to damage.
Nobody wanted anything to do with the frothing dwarf or the mighty barbaric queen in the middle of the tavern – but shouts of “Feck the Police” were growing more insistant – and cheered on by their leader’s fervor, the drunken thugs took up impromptu arms and waylaid the party.
The two dwarves went to surround the strange little sun-scorched Halfling – if only because they believed in picking on someone their own size.
The first dwarf came at the girl with a murderous look in his eye, and a broken bottle in his hand – and then a sudden flash of pure daylight exploded from the halfling’s hands, making the deadly blow barely graze her cheek. Then, from behind the other dwarf swung a stool to conk the Halfling senseless – but misjudged swing and cracked another patron in the shin instead.
The Second attack missed completely.
Meanwhile the large half-orc and the tawny-skinned half-elf turned to surround Aedril – their fury directed at him and Jasker for being obvious cops – they shouted a warcry of “Feck the Po-lice!” together as they joined the fray.
Ugtick the Half-Orc swings at Aedril … whiffs with a 4.
Ruckus the Half-Elf swings at Aedril … Natural 20! A hit! 6 damage, reduced to 3 from blade-ward
Jasker leaned back imperceptibly in his chair while a meaty half-orc did battle with his friend just in front of him. The half-elf managed to find purchase, a chair crashing against Aedril – though the brunt of the damage was deflected by his arcane tricks!
Combat Round 1 Recap:
Tora used her Solar Flare reaction to deflect a critical hit.
Aedril used Shield and is AC 21 until the end of his next turn.
Faria took a total of 6 damage from the raging dwarf (already factoring in resistances)
Tora took a total of 4 damage from a broken bottle.
Aedril took a total of 3 damage from a chair against the back of his head (already factoring in resistances).
NPCs currently unharmed - but Hombar, Ugtick, and Ruckus are under the effects of "BANE" from Tora until her concentration goes away.
Bothan the Rat sniffed cautiously at the air, considering the feline's proposal. It was clear that he had never heard of such a book - but was obviously intrigued. "... yes, of course. The Journal of Barracus would be a worthy prize... but..." He stroked the soft fur of the little white mouse in his hands, contemplating.
"... The treasure I seek is even more dear to that dog-faced gnoll than some book."
The king of filth twirled with a flourish, displaying his sewer-caked robes and finery, finishing by doffing his cowl. His head was a pox-scarred mess - grotesque and palid skin from not enough sun and milky blue eyes that seemed to strain even in this dim light.
"I look every part of a proper king - I lack but one thing," Bothan whispered coarsely, pacing around Tamlyn's chair.
"I know the source of Jingle's power - I know why those fools all praise and worship him like some flea-bitten god-king. Don't you see? Ha Ha Ha!" The wretched little man crowed and laughed giddily - and the tittering squeaks of his rattish companions echoed below him.
When it was clear that the cat and the men were unclear to his meaning, he pointed at his head, bald and barren of hair. "It's the Hair! The Hair! His golden crown! That is the source of all his power, I am sure... Sure as the filth flows below! Bring me that ... promise that to me, you flippant feline - and then you may have such secrets that Bothan can offer!"
The beady eyes of Bothan fixed on Murphy, eagerly, hungrily waiting a reply...
Murphy's mind worked furiously, assessing the possibilities. It is known, he thought, that The Donny is never without his hair, but it is also known that it is not of natural origins. Either it is an aberration with which Jingles has drafted an unholy agreement, or it is, in fact, a series of elaborate wigs from the finest of cut-rate perruquiers.
As such, the cat mused, turning to lick his back as best he could in his current predicament: Either we must find the draft contract or steal one of the wigs from the Chamber of Jingles. And, in the highly unlikely event that this is his natural hair... a wry cat-smile erupted on Murphy Fogg's face: That's why I hired the Barbarian.
These thoughts raced to a conclusion, and the cat spoke: "Bothan! Why didn't you ask sooner? It's unlike you to hesitate at so bald a statement. I shall deliver the Hair, assisted by your intelligence and spycraft. And," added the felonious feline with a chuckle, "thanks to this little twist of yours, one could almost now call this heist the Golden Fleece."
Rolling "1d20 +5" 2 times
1: 19 + 5 = 24
2: 16 + 5 = 21
Character Sheet
Other:
Spider Frost
The city streets of Los Jingles, the urban jungle, the thief known to some as Ari stalked through its twisting streets and markets like some magnificent predator. Everywhere he turned he spied other pickpockets, purse-snatchers, and conmen - rank amateurs with one thing in common, guild markings. Some wore a ribbon, others had a certain tailoring to their clothes - but once you knew what to look for, it was hard to miss. He prowled, on the lookout for anything to help him with the upcoming heist - or to figure out more on the mysterious woman-thief that had taken an interest in him.
Snippets of rumor and gossip buzzed through the markets of the upcoming gala - and a few tidbits about Donny J's gnomish guests-cum-trapmakers. Apparently they were brothers, long-served in their trade - and their skill working together was rivaled only by their intense dislike of each other when they weren't "on the job." A few coins in the right palms and it turned out that DJ had put the brothers up in some of his VIP suites at the Tower, part of their payment no doubt.
That's about the time he started to hear other whispers - of an unregistered thief operating in town, matching his description quite closely. It seems that his mysterious lady had wasted little time informing her superiors of his presence. Did she have it out for him? Or was this a game of cat-and-also-cat? Or something else entirely...
The thrall, the fey-smitten warlock, and the unglued cat made their way out of the dismal sewers into more comfortable surroundings. Their meeting with the rat went successfully - and they were leaving that place with quite a lot to contemplate. A list of names - not entirely complete, but undoubtedly useful... everyone from regular guards to kitchen chefs to ratcatchers, some with notes about their shift schedules - all written out in scratchy markings on a piece of smelly velum. The hellhounds, they had been told, were prone to wander in the back rooms - and the guards made fun games tossing bones and bits of charcoal to them - though the dogs themselves had no patrol as such, they were often spied in the barracks and sometimes roaming around the kitchens for scraps. As for having an eye on Jingles himself, Bothan had promised to relay what he could discern through his network of ratty spies - and warned Murphy of feasting upon any would-be informants. Before they left, the Rat-King had given them one last favor - a small brass whistle - which hummed with some low magic. He entrusted it to the warlock ... loathe to let the cat handle anything so precious ... and instructed Tamlyn that the thing only had a few uses, but that it might be invaluable to create a distraction.
Sharga is roaring withinin the spaces of her skull. The little grungar had nearly taken her eye! With a low growl, Faria turns sharply, swinging the captive dwarf with her in a wide arc and then down, slamming him solidly into the wooden floor. His tough dwarven skin and a measure of drunken bonelessness negate whatever harm the impact may have done. Perhaps, Hombar looks momentarily surprised as she smoothly and firmly sets a knee in the center of his chest and glances up.
Faria catches sight of the other two dwarven foes looming over Tora on her tabletop perch. The roaring in her skull surges.
She extends a forefinger in their direction, teeth bared. "Your honor is as shrivelled as your manhoods," the raging warrior bellows. "Face me!" As if to punctuate her point, she returns her attention to Hombar, forefinger already retracting into a solid, weighty fist.
Rage continues
Shove check + Advantage: 2d20 + Athletics -> 16/11 + 6 = 22
Hombar is now prone and grappled.
Free action to taunt the other two dwarves.
Preparing smackdown.
Tora smiled at the barbarian, her ferocity so intimidating. Tora would be intimidated if it were focused on her, surely the dwarves would come to their senses. But then again they hadn't seen Faria in battle. Pity.
In a sing song voice she taunted the dwarves, using their own language to make it that much more personal. "Better run little dwarfs- an angry Faria is fun! Fun for me but not for you nope nope.. Tora can make the rest of you shrivel too.. Just wait... Oh yes yes..."
With that Tora kissed her medallion keeping her concentration on her first spell, and made a rather rude gesture at the dwarf closest to her before swing a small fist through the air as if punching the man...
1d20 +6 = 12
If it hits 3d6 damage=17
Her warding flare is reset if she is attacked again.. 2/4
Aedril stops short of the big dwarf with the mattock, seeing how Faria so ably throws him to the ground and pins him there. Instead, he turns to the two miscreants that took swings at him. The half-elf that actually managed to hit, he just simply grinned at, "Don't worry, I'll deal with you in a minute." He suddenly twists his feet, and spins into the half-orc, blade glistening and singing as it arcs through the air.
The strike connects, tearing a nasty gash through his leather armor, which quickly stains red. Aedril smiles pleasantly at the half-orc, "Next hit drops you. Please stand down before this gets nasty. I'd rather not kill some idiot in a simple bar fight."
Also, end of turn, so shield and blade ward are down.
Aedril's Current HP = 28
Aedril character sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=889486
Hombar reeled, the red haze in his head clouding his judgement and muddling his speech until it was just a string of incomprehensible slurs against the large woman that was throwing him around. Spittle and blood frothed around his bearded mouth and he struggled to break away from her mighty grip. But Faria was a canny fighter - and her savage knowledge of wrestling animals with her bare hands had prepared her for the dwarf's bar-room trickery. She knelt down, a heavy knee placed square on the struggling Dwarf - a joyous look of battlelust in her eyes twinkled with savage delight.
Bombar and Grimbar, the roughnecked dwarf brothers that had squared off against that bleach-blonde halfling thinking her an easy target, were horrified when the leather-skinned runt lifted her holy medallion against them. As she channeled the divine energy of the sun at the one in front of her, his eyes widened - and he dropped his weapons to clutch at his nose. It started there. A reddening - as if his skin was over-exposed to the noonday summer sun. It turned to a crisping crackling sound and smoke started to pour from his face - the sunburn spread, cooking his ears, nose, neck - everywhere that wasn't covered by leather was cooked by her holy attack. Soon the dwarf was writhing, soundlessly as his lips and tongue were also cooking under her wrath. Grimbar threw down his barstool and rushed to his brother's aid - unsure of how to minister care without touching any of the cooking flesh, he doused his fallen kinfolk with a nearby flagon of ale - luckily it was so watered down that it failed to ignite on the hot dwarf.
Unaware of the horror behind them, the half-orc and half-elf are more focused on the glib sword-wielding guard-lover in front of them. First came the Half-orc, charging against the readied sword and magical defense of the wily fighter - he was easily deflected with a swift riposte and spun away harmlessly. The dark half-elf seized the moment to come at Aedril from behind, but the quick-witted fighter saw the attack from miles away and deflected the feeble drunkard without a worry - even pausing a moment to steady Jasker's table with his boot, preventing his mug of ale from spilling a single drop.
The trio were making quite the impression - and the shouts of "Feck the Police" were beginning to falter. The crowd starting to back away - especially from the sun-touched halfling. Throughout the bar the smell of well-cooked dwarf filled the air.
Faria's fist swings wildly down toward the captive dwarf's jaw. However, in her fury, she hasn't noticed that the frothing combatant had been drawing a chair closer in order to right himself. Instead of the meaty thwack she had been expecting there is a creaking explosion as the chair splinters into pieces that rain down around Hombar's head.
She has had enough. Careful to avoid the gnashing teeth, Faria reaches down, wraps her fist in his longsuffering beard and pulls with a steady, firm and non-too-gentle pressure.
"Submit to your arrest or face Sharga's judgement, dwarfling!" So saying, Faria takes her time in winding back for another punch, allowing the prone dwarf -and much of the room- ample opportunity to witness how the muscles of her arm and shoulder bunch and coil with unquestionably violent intent.
Unarmed Strike + Advantage + Proficiency: 2d20 + 2 -> 8/6 +2 = 10
Missed! But took out a defenseless chair.
Intimidate the room: 2d20 + Intimidate -> 12 + 5 = 17
Tora watched the dwarf crumble before her, she was a bit startled. She stood up straight and cocker her head to the side. "Just one time? I thought dwarves much sturdier... Oh my.."
She glanced over at her companions, easily handling their opponents. She kept up her concentration just in case- but turned her attention back to the dwarf she had nearly set ablaze. The other patrons were giving her a wide berth, edging back as Tora paced in front of the fallen dwarf and his brother, still standing atop the rough wooden table.
"Flamable yes yes, surprising for a dwarf. Tora wanted to teach a lesson not cook a meal... Plenty of food and ale here, no need for dwarf fricassee.." She was muttering to herself, not caring who heard- she was much more concerned with the terrible job the other dwarf was doing trying to stabilize his brother.
She jumped of the table- a flurry of gasps and the sound of shuffling feet scattering around her. She approached the duo on the floor and cleared her throat- waiting until a pair of murderous eyes flickered toward her and a stream of dwarven expletives filled the room. Tora used her doctor voice- the calm slow one you used to talk to unruly children or frantic patients, making her sound quite sane for the moment- granted just the moment...
"The sun may burn those who do not take care- I fear he did not know the power of light... Tora never kills a man for such a little thing.. " she motioned toward the bottle that had grazed her cheek, crimson streaking down the sheared edges. "She burns a man yes, off course, but kills him? Oh no. While the sun burns so bright, so lovely, it also gives life- yes yes. Even to dwarves who pick fights."
She keeps her eye on the pair of dwarves in case they had not yet learned their lesson, but gave them the option of leaving... "Tora can forgive you hitting a lady for now, but bad behavior and rudeness from dwarves will not due. Nope nope. If you stay too long I might remember my recipe, dwarf curry - so delicious...... two dwarves will make plenty yes, I think yes."
Folding her little arms, she waited for them to make the next move..
Aedril quickly mutters something under his breath, casting a cantrip. Then, he shouts at the room, his voice amplified by his arcane tricks. "I said STAND DOWN! Drop your weapons. Your leader is pinned, two of your men are down, and you two," Aedril faces the half-elf and half-orc, "One of you is heavily wounded, and the other couldn't hit the broad side of a barn!"
The groups, focused on their immediate surroundings largely ignored the loud wordy tiefling.
Intimidation Check
1d20 -1 = 9 -1 =8 EPIC FAIL!
Aedril character sheet: http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=889486
Tora was helping the wounded dwarf back up to his feet with the aid of his brother - who wouldn't look the halfling in the eyes except to apologize profusely. The sun-scorched dwarf was no longer smoking from his skin, but he'd have one of the most impressive farmer's tans this world has ever seen.
Aedril, so caught up in the moment and adrenaline was shouting to his assailants to put down their weapons - but they had already dropped them at Faria's behest. Confused, but unwilling to invite more violence, they took out their various boot-daggers and such and put them on the floor as well. After all, with the direction this city guard was taking, it was better to be safe than sorry.
As Faria knelt on Hombar's chest, the wee man slowly ceased his angry struggling - and quickly began weeping at his piled-on misfortunes. His wife gone, his job lost, and now bested by some oversized giantess. The sobbing came on quick and sudden. It welled up from a deep shaft in his dwarven heart. It came in starts and fits and bursts. Soon he was snorting loudly from a possibly-broken nose and hugging at Faria's well-defined calf muscles.
The spectacle of the crying dwarf and the ferocity of the sun-touched halfling was enough to make the crowd reconsider their whole position regarding anything to do with disrespecting the city guard - "Feck the Police?" their faces seemed to ask. "Oh, no - the city guard is an important law-keeping institution in this fine town," answered the other faces.
All was about normal when there came a loud crash from outside - hobnailed boots kicking down the front door to the tavern. "CITY GUARD! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE 'EM!" was the only warning given before a handful of brutish looking folks in dark blue uniforms piled into the Cracked Barrel, crossbows drawn. From their ranks stepped forward an older man, wearing an eyepatch on his left eye and a face that looked like a cutting board.
"What's going on here? Lt. Jasker - is that you? Who are these people and - Why in Donny Jingle's name is there a human heffer on that law-abiding Dwarf?!" It was at that time that Faria calmed down enough to reach up to touch her ears. The prosthetics had come off during the brawl and she hadn't noticed - and her elven make-up had smeared off with the sweat of the battle.
Jasker, who had quicker wits than most gave him credit for had already maneuvered behind Faria when he noticed the police approaching. He was already producing a pair of iron manacles from his utility belt and fixing them on her mighty arms with a practiced ease. He leaned in to whisper in the barbarian's ear.
"It's all under control Commander Varns. I was here recruiting two new capable guards when some drunks started a row. This here is new recruit Aedril - he's a fair man with a sword and a spell - and that there is ..." He looked pleadingly at the halfling.
"Tora, Tora... yes, yes, yes. The name given to me by the sun herself - it's flames have..." but her introduction and bubbly cheer were cut short by Jasker.
"Yes, new recruit Tora," Jasker leaned in conspiratorially to have a word with his boss, "and between you and me, I think the runt is a bit crazy in the head - but a real wildcat in a brawl. Just the sort we'll need for the Gala - I mean look at the place, boss ... They took on a whole rowdy barroom just the two of them, and not much damage other than a few damaged glasses and chairs. That's Tower-Potential right there, like you were saying before?"
The one called Varns had looked mildly disappointed at first, but a slow smile crept over his mangled face. "Yes, I see what you mean. Well. Carry on then. We'll round up the trouble-makers and I'll see you back in my office once you sort out your new recruits." Varns gave the order and the jackbooted police-thugs manacled the melee combatants and sent them into the police-wagon outside to take into the cells to sleep it off. Faria, Ruckus, Ginbar, Hombar, and the lot were marched outside. Jasker's eyes meet Aedril's with a wink to let him know that he'd take care of his friend - but was there also a "you owe me one" hidden within that gesture? Winks are complicated creatures.
It was at that time that a small grey cat and two filthy men came into the Cracked Barrel's side entrance, smelling of sewers - just in time to see their barbarian friend being taken away by the police and shiny new badges of the City Guard being fastened onto the halfling and the tiefling.
Hey! That's an Antique!: Completed - the party didn't set the tavern on fire, which convinced Varns that they could be trusted as guards in the Tower on the big day.
Good Job. You now how two party member's inside as guards for the event and Faria will be taken to a special cell in the tower, with the promise of being treated well vouched for by Jasker.
She saluted and bowed, then a curtsy for good measure. Tora really had no idea what the etiquette for the guard was, so she offered up them all. Why not. Fun fun yes. "Tora is happy to being light into your guard. Yes yes.."
When the 'yarns' man or whatever he called himself moved on, Tora quickly removed the badge and fixed it to the front of her pile of locks upon her head. "Easier for the sun to see this badge.. To shine upon it. And easier to breath. Breathing is important you see.."
The badge was listing to the side just so- that was probably more appropriate anyhow. She tracked the light that glistened off her badge, tilting her head this way and that to send the small ray of light it reflected around the room. With a bit of contortions she managed to direct the beam to the kitty and his pet.. Lighting up the eyes of the thrall for just a moment.
"Welcome welcome! Mr kitty so sweet he is, may I pet you friend?" Without waiting for a reply Tora scampered over to the wizard thrall, reverently petting the mans calf. "Such a good little companion yes.."
Tora loved pets..
He hops off Edwin's shoulder and starts sauntering around the bar. "...so, you're in the Guard now? What an interesting day this has been."
Character Sheet
Other:
Spider Frost
It doesn't take Ariean much to mingle among the crowd of humanoids inebriated with both alcohol and lust of gold in the casino. A building full of rich as well as easy marks? He was in his element. As he shifts through the crowd, he slips a stray coin or two into his pocket, not daring to risk any more. The mission is much more important.
For a moment, he wonders if he should have shared with his new 'companions' that he was going to scout the casino for the gnome brothers. Nah. He did not trust them enough yet, and if they insisted on accompanying him, they would have just slowed him down. It's easier to do these things alone. Besides, they would be otherwise occupied.
1d20 +5
10 +5 =15
Finding the door to the employee quarters turns out to be easy enough. Ariean skulks into the shadows until he reaches the lockers. They should not be called 'lockers', though. Not if they're so easy to unlock without a key. He rummages through the nearest ones and finds a set of housekeeping uniforms which seems to be his size. He puts them on, grabs a nearby unattended housekeeping cart and sets off for the top of the tower, with his tools and crossbow carefully hidden in the cart.
Reaching the top of the tower, Ariean observes that there seems to be two separate rooms for the brothers. Thankfully, there is only one guard- a dwarf, who seems to be concentrating on the backside of a young Tiefling working nearby in a maid's uniform. Seizing the moment, Ari enters the room casually. Closing the door behind him, he gets to work.
The room is fairly clean and neatly organized. This makes things easier. As he methodically looks for anything that might help in their mission, Ari's eyes fall on some scrolls. From a quick look, it seems to him that they resemble intricate blueprints.
Just then, there seems to be footsteps closing in on the door. Ari quickly stashes the scrolls in his dress and replaces them with some rolls of paper from his cart. It looks fairly convincing. If someone didn't know the scrolls are missing, they wouldn't waste a second glance.
As he is about to exit the room, the door opens and there stands the guard. He scowls as he looks at Ari.
"Good afternoon," Ari says, along with what he hopes is a nonchalant smile.
The dwarf grunts, "You new?"
1d20 +4
07 +4 =11
[Lucky!] Persuasion-
1d20 +4
18 +4 =22
Ari's eyes widen with a look of surprise, "First week! How did you know?"
"Figures," the guard grunts again, "Wrong room - the filthy one is two down. Fucking runt been here just a few days and the room already smells like an exploded cat house. Get in there and make it all tidy before he comes back from the tables!" He points to the room as he finishes.
Ari doesn't say much, but nods, thankful that the guard believed his story, and heads to the aforementioned room.
The younger brother's room can't be further from the older one's. It looks as if someone let a bull inside and locked the door. Ari takes a look around. Broken lamp. Filthy sheets. Bodily fluids everywhere. Cheap perfume. A junkyard of old beer bottles. There also seems to be a half eaten goat. On the floor.
1d20 +4
18 +4 =22
Investigation-
1d20 +3
15 +3 =18
Ari looks around the room for any clue. Nothing catches his eye. No parchments, scrolls, or mysterious amulets. To be honest, if there was anything here, it would've been lost in the whirlwind of random mess.
But there is something else. Mixed in with the smells of the room is a very familiar scent from Ari's recent memory. As it hits his memory center, he notices the leg. A bare and ladylike leg is sticking out from under the covers. As Ari's eyes travel upwards, he sees a very naked and still mostly asleep lady. She's just rolled over to expose her beautiful backside. It's definitely one of the twin elf girls from before. But that would mean a guild thief got into the tower. And into the VIP suites. And into the gnome's pants.
Before Ari can get over his shock mixed with slight disgust at the thought of what lengths she must have had to sunk to sleep with a gnome with the personal hygiene of a troll, she shifts a little. It is clear that she would wake up soon.
Determined to get back at the guild for stealing his tools, Ari picks up the ornate dagger lying by the elf. The handle seems to be pure silver, delicately designed, with the end being shaped like a snake's head. There seems to be a small green stone in each eye socket. The dagger is clearly part of a set. Ari pockets it. Then noticing the ink bottle on the table, Ari tears up a small piece of parchment, quickly scribbles 'Tsk tsk tsk' on it, and leaves it by her sleeping face.
He quickly leaves the room and heaves a sigh of relief. Now it is time to return to his companions and see how they have fared in their own adventures.
There, in the guard's barracks of the Tower slept Tora, daughter of the Sun - all praise be to his glorious rays of justice and heat. She laid curled in a ball - like some sort of leathery-skinned hedgehog - adorable, yet dangerous.
The Sun blasted the endless seas of sand all around you. Out in the hazy distance, mirages danced - tantalizing illusions of water, shapeless shadow-like figures that might be man or beast - but all was an illusion, images put forth by HIS burning, blistering power - traps to catch the unfaithful. The only truth in the desert was the certainty of the sun. She followed his endless arc - Rising in the East - and setting in the West. So Westward she trekked over a million burning, endless miles. Ever westward towards a glowing beacon. But as she stepped closer to the West, each new footstep brought some inkling of shadow. Until a mighty black pillar stood on the horizon. She was drawn to it - the only point of shade or shadow in the otherwise featureless desert plains that stretched in all other directions. Atop that impossible monolith was ... something that shined so desperately that it threatened to outshine even the noonday sun. Something impossibly shiny. She is as a moth to a flame. There was something in that tower. It called to her. So. Shiny. Yes. Yes.
Tamlyn never prayed - his mistress did not require such things. Mere words of praise or supplication never drew more than her scorn or worse - the icy feeling that she was ignoring him completely. But as he laid himself to sleep in the comfort of one of the inn's many rooms, his thoughts turned to the Lady - his Lady - the woman of shimmering golden curls and the queen of all she surveyed. Visions of her beauty swam in his head as he dozed off...
... and he opened his eyes, but he knew he was still asleep. Even in slumber, Tam rarely felt offguard or at rest. Taking in his surreal dreamland surroundings, he knew exactly where he was. He was in The Grove. A sacred place. One of her favorite places, if she could be said to have favorites - her whims were so difficult to follow. Still, it was easy to see why such a place would bring her joy. It was idyllic in every way - from the music that the water made as it lazily made its way through a small stream that played with the pussywillows - to the susurrous of the wind through the soft green grasses. Golden stags and snow-white rabbits munched beatifically at the greens that shocked the eyes with their vibrant hues. And there, on a tree that had fallen from age and weather, she sat. Her back to him - the radiant beauty of her face denied to him... but still, the perfection of every smooth curve and cruel curl of her golden tresses... still sent shivers through his spine. He could not move - any more than a rabbit could move when faced with a hungry wolf before him.
"... my little man returns to me, but brings me no gifts. Perhaps he has forgotten all the gifts that I have bestowed upon him," a musical voice. Lilting. Golden. Heartbreaking in its timbre.
Nonplussed, Tamlyn thought to speak up - but found his voice had been stripped away from him.
"... Bring me something beautiful, my Tamlyn. Something... royal as befits your Queen," the woman stood, turning slowly - more beautiful than an angel, more dangerous than a devil. Her skyclad form shimmered with sun and shadow, she reached out and brushed her hand against his cheek, "... or do not come back to me again."
Tamlyn woke with a start, an icy-hot burn across his cheek.
Faria was not happy. They had put her in a cage. Nobody caged Faria. Nobody caged Sharga. The wild would not be contained. Better to try to cage the wind. All day she had paced, back and forth, silently watching the patterns of the guards - who were all too frightened to approach the bars of her cell. She had no weapons save for her own body - and though it was a formidable tool - it was nothing against the hard, cruel iron bars that stood between her and freedom. She had caught a glimpse of Tora, the golden-haired halfling who had befriended her - but then she was whisked away to this cell. She would be free soon. If her friends failed her, she would find a way. Sleep came slow and difficult, the rage inside her always seemed about to bubble over...
Yes, the slavers of Ix knew Faria well - or had knew her while they still lived. She had put an end to their foul tradings on the night of her escape, and Sharga feasted happily on the burnt offerings of their corpses, man and child.
Freedom was beyond that wall. And nothing could stand between Faria and Freedom.
The thrall slept noisily in a rocking chair in the room. Grunting snores escaped his gormless face. The small grey cat curled up snug on his lap.
FREE ME FROM THE CAT. KILL ME. ALLOW ME TO DIE. GODS ETERNAL, FREE ME FROM THIS PERFIDIOUS FELINE! I ... OH NO, HE'S BACK! MY.... AAAGGHHH... Yes, Murphy is love. Murphy is life. Murphy is love. Murphy is ....
Ariean, a night owl by nature, found sleep escaped him. He busied himself by pouring over the plans and blueprints that he had stolen from the gnome's room. Sometimes when he rubbed his head in deep thought, he noticed the ornate silvered dagger he had also taken that day. And then his thoughts wandered into other directions - of shapely elven legs and the cloying scent of their perfume. The name "Jizzelle" rang in his ears - only to be put away and returned to the duty of deciphering the puzzles laid out for him on the velum and parchment.
Aedril spent that night in his own quarters - half-terrified, half-excited about tomorrows planned events. He worried for his new friends and old friends alike. Sleep came slowly, but then all at once. The action and stresses of the day had demanded much of the tiefling.
Murphy pretended to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.