*Loviana, the information on the back of the skinrunner reads as follows.*
To become an acolyte is simple in theory, though in your practice it will be a bit harder. You must present yourself to the temple after morning services and speak to the attending priest about your wish to be accepted into Heironeous' service. They will take you to a chamber for questioning and try to discern your intentions by magic. Then you will be given a robe of an acolyte in training and be brought to the temple schools to begin your training.
The day for such a person begins at dawn with prayers, then continues with classes and chores, as well as attending all the services and arms practices. The schedule is somewhat brutal, and not all those who enter stay. It will be nearly six months before you begin to serve in the church itself. Orshallan does a great deal of the teaching of the rites of Heironeous himself. This would be a very long-term assignment.
If you feel threatened that you will be uncovered or feel unable that you will be able to complete your assignment as an acolyte, instead speak to one of the priests about becoming a volunteer at one of the charities. The one that you most likely would be assigned to is the Honor's Shield. Orshallan visits it three times a week or more. This would allow you more free time to pursue other agendas. The screening for such work is not as rigorous as for acolytes. They simply want willing and eager hands for their work.
There is also something else of note that has just come to our attention; four years ago Orshallan was courting a young volunteer at the Honor's Shield. He may have made it more permanent, but she died of a plague while visiting her mother's village abroad and did not choose to be resurrected. Her name was Lydia Belbright, and she had raven hair and blue eyes. He was utterly discrete about it, which is why we've only uncovered this now.
~Xicala, Scourge of Loviatar
*Aekir, you stalk the streets of the Hollow, those who commit crime are common. For many, life
is crime here, for, as they say, "There is no honesty in the Hollow." There are decent men and women in the Hollow, toiling away at factories or inns, laundries and stores, but few are those that haven't bought questionable goods, pay protection money, transported an unmarked package, or had what little they owned stolen. Many are those that have been beaten, mugged, or otherwise violated.*
*However, those that perpetrate the crimes are not soft and easy prey. Some are stupid thugs, but there are not many weak criminals. Those weak ones are usually devoured by the stronger sooner or later. The streets are thick with thieves and beggars, most of who will not be missed. Two toughs shaking down an innkeeper behind the place of his trade are easily marked. The innkeeper is no stranger to this, though it is plain that he has been recently ill and is unable to deal with them. His two attackers look scarcely more prosperous, but with the strength of youth and a well-worn routine of extortion, they will easily beat what little coin the innkeeper has out of him.*
*You move in for the kill, quickly and silently as a shadow. A strike from behind with your dagger strikes him in the heart, making his face go slack and pale in death, twisted in a terrible grimace. The second thug gapes at you for a moment stupidly before you backhand him to the ground. Swiftly you slice the knife across his throat, and now two new faces join the myriad of others crowding the blade's surface. The innkeeper simply runs back to the dubious protection of his inn, not giving you any thanks. After all, why stop at just the thugs? He doesn't know any better, you might kill him too.*
*Going back to prowling the streets, a young and somewhat stupid cutpurse tries to quietly rob you as you press through the crowd in front of a tavern. You don't even pause; the best way to kill someone in a crowd is to strike a quick deathblow and keep walking. Most won't realize he's dead until you're away. And in this crowd most would simply assume he's drunk rather than dead. Rather than stopping, you simply flick out
Life Song, make a quick stab, and continue on. The boy falls, any sound he might make swallowed up in the drunken mob.*
*The fourth you set your sights on is a fire genasi woman, middle aged but still lithe. Posing at a whore, she tries to proposition you into an alley. You've seen this trick before. Her partner waits there to strike, she must not have noticed your genasi nature in the rush to get you into her trap. Most who walk these streets know better than to meet anyone's eyes, to always keep their purses inaccessible, to know exactly where they're going, and which places to avoid. Your attitude sets you apart from a native, and your finer clothes denote enough prosperity to risk robbery. Most here do not go looking for trouble and thus find little. You seek death, and find it in spades.*
*You accept the woman's proposition and follow her into the alley, grabbing her at the last moment and using her as a shield against her partner. He checks his swing with the club and demands her release. Ignoring his pleas, you set your blade against the woman's throat. A second later, blood drenches the front of her gown as your dagger hums with life energy. In a rage, the man attacks you. In his fury he actually strikes you a heavy blow, though you've had much worse.*
*You slam the man against the wall and quickly examine him dispassionately. He is well formed with a pleasant enough face. No scars, and his nose has not been broken. He does not have the look for a foreigner, and if cleaned up properly, would not disgrace the court of several minor nobles. Finding him suitable, you hold his legs still with your own and press both his wrists into the wall with one hand. Placing the other hand on his throat, you feel his soul slide into you, filling you with power. A small man perhaps, but filled with passion enough to make your drink memorable.*
*Resting for the rest of the night, you rise and seek a hot meat pie from a vendor, washing it down with fresh cider. Scouring the alleys to find a rat is hardly difficult at all. It takes a moment to catch the scurrying creature, your aching shoulder from last night hardly bothering you at all. Sucking the life out of the tiny creature to give you a route of escape, you quickly shift your shape into that of the man from last night. A quick stop at a public bath to alter your appearance to something more pleasing, you go to the gold-faced temple of Pelor.*
*Those seeking the god's aid in the forms of items infused with divine magic must go to a side shrine, as to not conduct business in the holy sanctuary above. Your manner is somewhat cold and gruff when asking for the potions, but your body bears a pleasing face, and a generous donation and a quick explanation about a long and perilous journey in the offering glosses over your lack of social graces. Your potions are in crystal vials marked with Pelor's golden symbol, set in a padded case for ease of storage.*
*Returning to your room you quickly empty the vials into your waterskin, the radiant liquid almost seeming to shine from inside it. The presence of the liquid blessed by a god makes you somewhat uneasy at a gut level, though you ruthlessly dismiss it. What have you to fear from a potion?*
*Arriving at they Hydra's Glass once night falls, you keep your eyes open for anything unusual. Nothing untoward passes, though you do hear one man wondering "Where the devil have Firehair and Tom gotten off to? They were supposed to meet us here by now." Perhaps they are speaking of the redheaded fire genasi woman who lies rotting in an alley as they speak. Perhaps not.*
*After a while you are beckoned to Wode's court. It waves at you to take refreshment with wine, offering no conversation for several long minutes. At some undetermined signal it rises and departs out the back, gesturing for you to follow it.*
*It goes up a back staircase, into a private room, through a trick wall, down another staircase, into a stretch of sewer, back up a ladder, and knocks a specific pattern on a trap door above before finally stopping. The room contains no windows and no visible doors aside from the trap door in the floor. However, it is richly appointed with tapestries, paintings, elaborate furniture and other objects of art. Several fine sofas are about the room, and a bookcase holds a myriad of tomes. Lamps set into the wall light the room, and a pleasant breeze seems to keep the air fresh, though it comes from no visible source.
*Sitting in a proportioned chair near a small, carved table is a halfling man. He wears sleek, wrapped leather armor of dusty dark grays, purples, blues, and blacks. In darkness, he would be nearly invisible in that outfit. His black hair is cut short, clinging to his head as if wet, and his violet eyes are large in his pale face. He wears black silk gloves and has no visible jewelry or weapon. On a couch near him is a sinuous woman in dark green leather armor, armed prominently with daggers on nearly every available surface of her body. Her dark hair is braided out of the way and her green eyes assess you as if probing for weaknesses.*
*An elven man dressed in white stands in a corner, appearing, at first glance, to be a statue of alabaster. His skin and hair are as white as snow, and pink eyes stare at you unblinkingly. Aekir, you have heard of him. He's an assassin known only as The Ghost who prefers to kill his victims with his bare hands. It is said there's nowhere The Ghost cannot go to track his prey, though he only works for the Black Butterfly.*
*Lounging on a black velvet sofa is a voluptuous woman clad in blue silk. Fine golden hair cascades down her back, not concealing her blue, butterfly-like wings. Fine jewelry encircles her brow, neck, wrists, ankles, waist, and fingers, all in delicate, elven-wrought silver set with opals. She regards you with a guileless gaze, putting one elegant finger to her mouth as if pondering you is taxing her mind.*
*A gnome man wearing concealing robes stands near a table on your left. A little hedgehog sits on his shoulder, nibbling on something. His robes are brightly colored, and he wears a long, multicolored hat. Rings encircle each of his fingers, and an elaborate shell belt wraps around his ample waist. He looks very out of place in this company, more like a jolly uncle or entertainer.*
*The halfling man holds your gaze for a moment. As you watch, an elaborate tattoo of a black butterfly appears on his face and is gone again in an instant. He flicks his fingers at a comfortable-looking chair, and waits for you to sit. When you do, the woman in green rises briefly and gives you a brief bow.*
"Aekir, I am Ssessarina Serpent-Heart. The Butterfly wishes to commend you on your work over the years. You have shown great skill," she says, her voice brisk and professional. You recognize her name, Ssessarina Serpent-Heart is a yuan-ti pureblood assassin of some renowned. After killing three heirs of the prominent noble houses of Karpov, Gashek, and Willawim she went to ground to avoid the subsequent hunt. She hasn't publicly made any kills in four years.
"Indeed, you've made a jolly good show recently. I was there when old Kissaken opened that package! Oh boy, it was all I could do to keep from laughing at the expression on his face. You do good work lad, enough so to bring you a most excellent job proposal if I do say so myself," the gnome says in hearty, laughing tones.
"Your professionalism is to be commended," Ssessarina agrees, shooting the gnome a cold look. "You've been assigned for a more difficult case. You've heard of the Yillindan Knights, right?"
*Roach, you search about for Ralleon, for included in his information was a list of taverns he frequents. At the top was one called the Kobold's Gut tavern, and you stroll in to the crowded, ale-guzzling mass. Keeping with your character, you order ale and drink it sloppily, fitting in well with the masses. Casting your gaze around and keeping your ears open, you are rewarded with hearing a "Hey Ralph, this round's on you!" from the back of the common room.*
*A drunken young man staggers up to the bar and slaps down some copper. The frazzled, overworked barkeeper pushes him three mugs of ale and pockets the coins so fast it appears as if they vanished. The man, if it is indeed Ralleon, has the muscles of a laborer, but the clothes of a man doing a bit better than his station should allow. His hair is cut shaggy and he still has dirt on his hands from a day of hauling goods around in the warehouse.*
*Torr, on the day of your job a messenger arrives for you bearing a package. Inside is a guardsman's uniform, with thankfully no blood on it. It's slightly worn, just enough to not cause suspicion of having a too-new uniform. You can change in an alleyway closer to the guardhouse to avoid having questions asked about a city guard leaving your house.*
*Ralam, at the appointed hour you stride towards the guardhouse, ducking in an alley briefly to clothe yourself in the illusion of a uniform. Torr is already there, changed into his own costume. The guardhouse is but a block distant.*
