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<blockquote data-quote="Redwald" data-source="post: 2820347" data-attributes="member: 12271"><p><strong>A Trip to Trustworthy Cleg's</strong></p><p></p><p><strong>1 Eyre 998</strong></p><p></p><p>This morning, it's Teague and Kamiel who are up early for a change.</p><p></p><p>The sun finds both awake as it begins to break through the window of the party's cramped quadruple-room at the Ten Tier Inn. In fact, Teague notices that Kamiel seems hardly to have slept at all—he's surrounded on his bed by a virtual sea of parchment scraps, all scribbled upon with strange symbols and occasional fragments of conventional language. As Teague awakens, Kamiel is staring, as if hypnotized, into the spellshard he recovered from the wizard who assailed the adventurers two nights before.</p><p></p><p>Teague might have asked what was going on, but he has work of his own to do. The book he recovered from the library, the journal of a scholar's travels to Xed'ef'kar, needs to be copied and then returned to the University.</p><p></p><p>After a while, Cardea emerges from her trance, and Cullen stirs as well. Their morning ablutions are swift, and they move with a purpose. Before long they are bound for the Northgate message station to see if Blue has left them a response. Assuming that Kamiel and Teague don't want to be bothered—and in Cardea's case, not wanting to give Teague an excuse to hold onto their “borrowed” University property for any longer than necessary—they head out the door.</p><p></p><p>Cardea and Cullen's crosstown travel to the message station is uneventful save for an all-too-common concomitant of urban life: while riding one of Sharn's ubiquitous open-air lifts down the interior of one of its towers to a passage level, she suffers a pickpocket attempt. The miserable creature who has attempted to rob her in these cramped quarters is a sniveling goblin, who recoils pathetically at Cardea's stern and withering gaze.</p><p></p><p>It barks its protestation. “No kill! No kill!”</p><p></p><p>Cardea has not even placed a hand on the pommel of her sword. The thing whips its head back and forth, blundering into the knees and thighs of the taller folks surrounding it.</p><p></p><p>Cullen and Dragan look on with some amusement as the creature backs its way through the crowded lift, towards the side nearest the adjacent tower. The face is only an arm's-length away.</p><p></p><p>The goblin reaches the rear of the lift, yelps “no kill!” one last time, and then, startlingly, leaps right off the lift. It is evident from the creature's agility that this was not the act of terror it may have seemed, but one of calculated escape. The goblin has timed its jump just right; it grasps the bannister of the balcony of some residence or hotel as it passed. It pivots around the crossbeam of the balustrade like a gymnast, carried by its inertia, and lands neatly on its feet on the far side.</p><p></p><p>Cardea's gaze has not broken, nor has her dispassionate composure. The would-be thief grasps the widely-spaced rails of the balcony and thrusts its head between, making a horrible grimace clearly intended for her. Whether this is intended as a taunt, a gloat, or something else is difficult to discern.</p><p></p><p>In no time, obstacles break the line of sight between Cardea and her encounter with the foul guttersnipe is over.</p><p></p><p>Shortly afterwards, the duo arrive at the Northgate message station. After a brief wait in the queue, Cullen asks the desk clerk if any message has been left for “C. Silverhollow”.</p><p></p><p>There has.</p><p></p><p>[bq]</p><p></p><p>C. Silverhollow—</p><p></p><p>A mutual acquiantance will meet you tonight.</p><p></p><p>—Blue</p><p></p><p>[/bq]</p><p></p><p>Back at the inn, Teague has finished transcribing the scholar's journal. He snaps the book shut and regards his pile of papers with satisfaction.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel does not stir.</p><p></p><p>No longer scribbling on parchment detritus—which on closer inspection appears to have been discarded from the inn's business office—he now sits upright in bed, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, the spellshard in his lap with his hands resting upon it. He doesn't seem to be asleep.</p><p></p><p>Teague had noticed the excitement with which Kamiel had seized the slain wizard's spellshard two nights ago, but Kamiel was no wizard. Neither could anyone <em>become</em> a wizard in a mere two days—it takes much training even for the most natural of talents. Sorcerors are another matter, but sorcerors don't meditate over spellshards. Odd.</p><p></p><p>“I'm taking the journal back to the library. If Cardea comes back before I do, be sure and let her know.”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel gives no indication of having heard.</p><p></p><p>“Okay?”</p><p></p><p>Still nothing.</p><p></p><p>Teague shrugs and heads out of the room to fulfill his errand.</p><p></p><p>In the early evening, the party is reassembled in the room. They're all standing around Kamiel's bed, where he remains in the position Teague last left him.</p><p></p><p>There is a difference, however. Now, Kamiel's lips are moving, as if in recitation of some silent opus. Were anyone reading them, they'd see the occasional Common words sprinkled among seeming gibberish.</p><p></p><p>“...<em>detect magic</em>...<em>acid splash</em>...<em>resistance</em>...<em>feather fall</em>...<em>true strike</em>...”</p><p></p><p>The rest of the group is tired of waiting. It's time to head off to Trustworthy Cleg's.</p><p></p><p>Cardea clears her throat and speaks firmly, but politely. “Kamiel, it's time to make our rendezvous with Blue's representative. If we must, we'll leave without you. Are you ready?”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel's eyes pop open. He looks around the room at this companions, and then answers.</p><p></p><p>“Yes.” His face splits into a grin. His new friends may not understand it yet, but that's all right—he does. His parents would be terribly proud, though they'd wonder at the circuitous route he has taken to get here. At long last, he has set himself to a task equal to his intellect—he has become a wizard.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel hops off the bed and moves with a speed surprising to his companions, who had grown accustomed to his sloth of the past couple of days. He sweeps the parchment scraps into the chamber pot, wraps the spellshard in a piece of clothing, and slips it into his pack.</p><p></p><p>“Not <em>just</em> a wizard, at that,” he thinks to himself as he picks up his leather greaves and straps them on.</p><p></p><p>Cardea summons a bit of patience since it's obvious Kamiel's finished whatever he was working on, and assists him with his armor so they can get moving more quickly. In a moment, packs have been shouldered, weapons readied, and the room is empty, with only rumpled bedclothes and a lingering odor of sweat to betray its recent occupancy.</p><p></p><p>----</p><p></p><p>Trustworthy Cleg's Pawn Shop is in Middle Dura, in the western plateaus of Sharn. It's in a business district that perversely has more activity at night than during the day. As the daylight fades, the streets seemingly come to life around the party.</p><p></p><p>At one intersection, they encounter a fountain that is familiar to three of them—Cardea, Cullen, and Teague had asked for directions here when they were previously in town. As they pause briefly to confirm their recollections with each other (and explain the significance to Kamiel), a brassy blonde in clothing entirely insufficient for the chill of the early spring evening flounces up to Teague and offers him some sort of slatternly service. He extricates himself from the situation by hailing an ambulatory hat vendor, who is more than happy to have some business. Teague trades a few silver for a new chapeau, successfully concealing the contents of his pouch from the hovering harlot.</p><p></p><p>She momentarily looks over the remainder of the group—the halfling on the dog is right out, as is the stern elf woman in scale mail. “It'd take more money than she has just to pay for my time in getting her <em>out</em> of that get-up,” she mutters. Finally her gaze settles upon Kamiel. He's more or less the right sort, but his eyes appear to be burning with something other than lust.</p><p></p><p>She doesn't let her crest remain fallen for long. The group has barely begun to turn and move along down the thoroughfare before she swaggers off in the direction of her next putative trick.</p><p></p><p>After a bit more walking, they enter an area of wide passageways with various small shops and stores at foot level. Near to their destination now, Cullen dismounts from his dog. One of these shops is indeed Trustworthy Cleg's. Cardea, Cullen, and Kamiel enter, along with Dragan, but Teague remains outside, to any passerby seemingly preoccupied with his flamboyant new headwear.</p><p></p><p>The pawn shop is packed with goods from floor to ceiling in a jumbled array of shelves variously mounted into the wall or free-standing on the floor. Immediately inside the shop's door, just to the right, is a dark niche void of merchandise. The niche is filled to overflowing with a towering half-ogre of dour expression—a conspicuous multi-purpose ruffian there to guard the shopkeeper and wares alike. Kamiel can't help but wonder if the creature also serves as a “hitter” sent to track down and “punish” those who sell Cleg items he can't move for a sufficiently high markup.</p><p></p><p>Cleg himself sits at the back of the store on a high stool behind a counter. He's quite a sight—an old half-orc, wrinkled, bald, hairy everywhere but the pate of his head, pasty skin festooned with ruddy moles, a snaggle tooth with an obvious cavity poking forth from his twisted mouth. He wears a pair of spectacles, which seem to be held in place at the bridge of his crooked nose by a particularly large and disagreeable, if functional, wart. He is adorned with a bright red vest. The trio of adventurers notice to their unease that it's hard to tell whether he's wearing anything <em>else</em>.</p><p></p><p>They hastily look in other directions.</p><p></p><p>Mounted on the left-hand side wall is a massive tuba. Kamiel watches as Cardea cocks her head at it for a moment, and steps towards it, her attention on the bell. She then turns to see if Cullen is looking. He is. Head still cocked, she then smiles subtly. Her meaning is plain. “I wonder if the halfling will fit in the tuba.”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel smiles as Cullen turns on his heel, scowling. Cardea's had enough of the halfling's wisecracks about “worshipping the undead”, and has gotten a bit of revenge.</p><p></p><p>The next most prominent item in the establishment appears to be a large stuffed tropical bird on the counter. Cleg is perched near to it, suggesting that it is of some value to him. “Guess he won't let that go cheap, though I wonder who'd want it,” Kamiel thinks. That piques his curiosity, and he has an idea.</p><p></p><p>As is typical for such enterprises, there are weapons for sale here. Cardea pulls a halberd off the wall, hefting it gingerly at first, and then with more confidence once it's clear the head of the instrument isn't about to tumble off the shaft and onto the floor. Even in the cramped space, she is able to execute familiar drill maneuvers.</p><p></p><p>“Twenty!” bellows Cleg, much louder than necessary to be heard from any location in the small store. Kamiel wonders if the old beast is hard of hearing.</p><p></p><p>Cardea is unfazed. “Eight,” she says contemptuously. The paladin twirls the weapon around with ease, in apparent disregard of any goods she might inadvertently whack.</p><p></p><p>“Pah! Eight-<em>teen</em>,” Cleg retorts. A stream of yellow saliva drips from his mouth where the snaggletooth juts. The half-ogre has not moved, but is discernibly focused on Cardea in the event she gets belligerent.</p><p></p><p>Cullen, in the meantime, has happened upon a locked glass case on the right side of the store, with a number of weapons in it: a set of darts, a rapier, and a short sword. All are exquisitely crafted and unmistakably masterwork items.</p><p></p><p>“These darts,” he calls out. “How much for these darts?”</p><p></p><p>The air whistles as the halberd's blade cuts through it in a great arc parallel to the wall. Cleg, mouth open to shout a quote at Cullen, jerks his head back towards Cardea, glowering.</p><p></p><p>“Five hundred!”</p><p></p><p>Cullen, though his gaze appears fixed on the darts, is actually watching Cleg with his peripheral vision, and pretends not to know to whom Cleg is speaking.</p><p></p><p>“You just told that lady eighteen a second ago!”</p><p></p><p>Cleg roars. “Eighteen for the halberd! Five hundred for the darts! You want 'em or not, runt?”</p><p></p><p>“Ten,” Cardea responds to the first of Cleg's utterances.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel decides, with Cleg being double-teamed and aggravated, that now would be a good time to try an experiment. He walks calmly out of the store, earning no more than a swift glance from the half-ogre. His hands are visible and he hasn't even touched anything yet, so he doesn't rate much examination.</p><p></p><p>“Teague,” he says quietly as he emerges into the gloaming, “there's a blade under lock and key in there you might be interested in.”</p><p></p><p>“All right. Someone needs to stay posted out here to keep an eye out for our contact.”</p><p></p><p>No sooner has Teague passed the threshold than Kamiel begins to cast. It's not like casting a bardic spell, that much is certain. You don't <em>perform</em> a spell like this, not in the same way. A bardic spell is about spontaneity, about letting the magic flow through you, improvising its exact course as you go. Wizard magic is like playing a game of chess. The magic is your opponent, and you must overmaster it. You have syllables to articulate and patterns to trace in the air with your hands to guide your mind through its stratagem.</p><p></p><p>The leather armor is an annoyance in the back of his mind as he casts. It could be a problem eventually, but the stiff material that guards his flesh is worth it, and is not a sufficient distraction to spoil the game. He knows it. The enemy is defeated. There is no sloppiness, no carelessness. He proceeds from origin to destination without wavering. The channel opens, and the energy flows. His eyes widen for a moment as he feels the rush of magic—familiar in a way from his dozens of bardic castings before, and yet different. There's a distinct...flavor to this magic. It's more pungent, more biting, in a way that is more demanding, more challenging, and yet also more pleasant.</p><p></p><p>An analogy falls into place in Kamiel's mind right before the magic engages. “It's like a first drink of spirits after years of nothing stronger than wine.” He suddenly understands at a visceral level why wizards have such superior mastery of magic compared to bards.</p><p></p><p><em>You could damn well get hooked on this stuff.</em></p><p></p><p>Kamiel struggles to mask his excitement as he turns to re-enter the shop with his newly enhanced sight. Sure enough, it worked—some items in the shop radiate a palpable energy, hitherto invisible.</p><p></p><p>He walks up to Cullen, who is still agog at the safeguarded darts.</p><p></p><p>Everything in the case is glowing. He peers steadily into it, intent on gleaning more about the items.</p><p></p><p>“You want those darts,” he says to Cullen matter-of-factly, not turning to face him. Kamiel has seen Cullen cast <em>detect magic</em> himself, and knows the halfling will understand his meaning.</p><p></p><p>Cullen turns to Kamiel. “I can't <em>afford</em> those darts.” Cullen notices that Teague is inside the shop, which means no one's got an eye outdoors.</p><p></p><p>A little perturbed, he hastens out to take up the watch, but hisses some intelligence he gathered while Kamiel was outside. Like many halflings, Cullen is a pretty reliable judge of character, and typically knows when he is being fed a line of excrement. He's had time enough to size up the shopkeeper. “He wants five hundred for each of those. He's firm, but it's no swindle.”</p><p></p><p>“Twelve, then!” Cleg growls.</p><p></p><p>The clink of coin tells Kamiel that Cardea has bargained Cleg down to a price she can live with. “Halberds are nasty,” he thinks. “If she was dangerous before, now she'll—”</p><p></p><p>More is revealed. The short sword and rapier emit a faint dweomer of general sort; the darts' aura is no stronger but distinctly of the discipline of evocation. Kamiel turns his gaze to Cleg's prized, if deceased, avian.</p><p></p><p>Cardea appears to have caught on to what Kamiel is doing, and deliberately spills some coins to keep Cleg distracted. As their transaction concludes, he gets a read on the bird—it radiates moderate abjuration magic, giving it easily the most powerful aura in the store. Interesting. “That's more than just an ex-parrot,” he thinks.</p><p></p><p>He dismisses the spell, and the three remaining party members join Cullen outside.</p><p></p><p>“Those are fine weapons, but the price of even one would wipe out two shares of the proceeds from the wine we sold, and half of another,” Kamiel notes. He fills them in on the auras he read.</p><p></p><p>“With that craftsmanship, the prices are only a little high. With enchantment on top of that, they're probably a bargain,” Cullen observes.</p><p></p><p>“A bargain for people richer than us,” Teague mutters.</p><p></p><p>Cullen's attention is drawn down the passage. “I think that's our contact,” he says.</p><p></p><p>A warforged is approaching.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Redwald, post: 2820347, member: 12271"] [b]A Trip to Trustworthy Cleg's[/b] [b]1 Eyre 998[/b] This morning, it's Teague and Kamiel who are up early for a change. The sun finds both awake as it begins to break through the window of the party's cramped quadruple-room at the Ten Tier Inn. In fact, Teague notices that Kamiel seems hardly to have slept at all—he's surrounded on his bed by a virtual sea of parchment scraps, all scribbled upon with strange symbols and occasional fragments of conventional language. As Teague awakens, Kamiel is staring, as if hypnotized, into the spellshard he recovered from the wizard who assailed the adventurers two nights before. Teague might have asked what was going on, but he has work of his own to do. The book he recovered from the library, the journal of a scholar's travels to Xed'ef'kar, needs to be copied and then returned to the University. After a while, Cardea emerges from her trance, and Cullen stirs as well. Their morning ablutions are swift, and they move with a purpose. Before long they are bound for the Northgate message station to see if Blue has left them a response. Assuming that Kamiel and Teague don't want to be bothered—and in Cardea's case, not wanting to give Teague an excuse to hold onto their “borrowed” University property for any longer than necessary—they head out the door. Cardea and Cullen's crosstown travel to the message station is uneventful save for an all-too-common concomitant of urban life: while riding one of Sharn's ubiquitous open-air lifts down the interior of one of its towers to a passage level, she suffers a pickpocket attempt. The miserable creature who has attempted to rob her in these cramped quarters is a sniveling goblin, who recoils pathetically at Cardea's stern and withering gaze. It barks its protestation. “No kill! No kill!” Cardea has not even placed a hand on the pommel of her sword. The thing whips its head back and forth, blundering into the knees and thighs of the taller folks surrounding it. Cullen and Dragan look on with some amusement as the creature backs its way through the crowded lift, towards the side nearest the adjacent tower. The face is only an arm's-length away. The goblin reaches the rear of the lift, yelps “no kill!” one last time, and then, startlingly, leaps right off the lift. It is evident from the creature's agility that this was not the act of terror it may have seemed, but one of calculated escape. The goblin has timed its jump just right; it grasps the bannister of the balcony of some residence or hotel as it passed. It pivots around the crossbeam of the balustrade like a gymnast, carried by its inertia, and lands neatly on its feet on the far side. Cardea's gaze has not broken, nor has her dispassionate composure. The would-be thief grasps the widely-spaced rails of the balcony and thrusts its head between, making a horrible grimace clearly intended for her. Whether this is intended as a taunt, a gloat, or something else is difficult to discern. In no time, obstacles break the line of sight between Cardea and her encounter with the foul guttersnipe is over. Shortly afterwards, the duo arrive at the Northgate message station. After a brief wait in the queue, Cullen asks the desk clerk if any message has been left for “C. Silverhollow”. There has. [bq] C. Silverhollow— A mutual acquiantance will meet you tonight. —Blue [/bq] Back at the inn, Teague has finished transcribing the scholar's journal. He snaps the book shut and regards his pile of papers with satisfaction. Kamiel does not stir. No longer scribbling on parchment detritus—which on closer inspection appears to have been discarded from the inn's business office—he now sits upright in bed, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, the spellshard in his lap with his hands resting upon it. He doesn't seem to be asleep. Teague had noticed the excitement with which Kamiel had seized the slain wizard's spellshard two nights ago, but Kamiel was no wizard. Neither could anyone [i]become[/i] a wizard in a mere two days—it takes much training even for the most natural of talents. Sorcerors are another matter, but sorcerors don't meditate over spellshards. Odd. “I'm taking the journal back to the library. If Cardea comes back before I do, be sure and let her know.” Kamiel gives no indication of having heard. “Okay?” Still nothing. Teague shrugs and heads out of the room to fulfill his errand. In the early evening, the party is reassembled in the room. They're all standing around Kamiel's bed, where he remains in the position Teague last left him. There is a difference, however. Now, Kamiel's lips are moving, as if in recitation of some silent opus. Were anyone reading them, they'd see the occasional Common words sprinkled among seeming gibberish. “...[i]detect magic[/i]...[i]acid splash[/i]...[i]resistance[/i]...[i]feather fall[/i]...[i]true strike[/i]...” The rest of the group is tired of waiting. It's time to head off to Trustworthy Cleg's. Cardea clears her throat and speaks firmly, but politely. “Kamiel, it's time to make our rendezvous with Blue's representative. If we must, we'll leave without you. Are you ready?” Kamiel's eyes pop open. He looks around the room at this companions, and then answers. “Yes.” His face splits into a grin. His new friends may not understand it yet, but that's all right—he does. His parents would be terribly proud, though they'd wonder at the circuitous route he has taken to get here. At long last, he has set himself to a task equal to his intellect—he has become a wizard. Kamiel hops off the bed and moves with a speed surprising to his companions, who had grown accustomed to his sloth of the past couple of days. He sweeps the parchment scraps into the chamber pot, wraps the spellshard in a piece of clothing, and slips it into his pack. “Not [i]just[/i] a wizard, at that,” he thinks to himself as he picks up his leather greaves and straps them on. Cardea summons a bit of patience since it's obvious Kamiel's finished whatever he was working on, and assists him with his armor so they can get moving more quickly. In a moment, packs have been shouldered, weapons readied, and the room is empty, with only rumpled bedclothes and a lingering odor of sweat to betray its recent occupancy. ---- Trustworthy Cleg's Pawn Shop is in Middle Dura, in the western plateaus of Sharn. It's in a business district that perversely has more activity at night than during the day. As the daylight fades, the streets seemingly come to life around the party. At one intersection, they encounter a fountain that is familiar to three of them—Cardea, Cullen, and Teague had asked for directions here when they were previously in town. As they pause briefly to confirm their recollections with each other (and explain the significance to Kamiel), a brassy blonde in clothing entirely insufficient for the chill of the early spring evening flounces up to Teague and offers him some sort of slatternly service. He extricates himself from the situation by hailing an ambulatory hat vendor, who is more than happy to have some business. Teague trades a few silver for a new chapeau, successfully concealing the contents of his pouch from the hovering harlot. She momentarily looks over the remainder of the group—the halfling on the dog is right out, as is the stern elf woman in scale mail. “It'd take more money than she has just to pay for my time in getting her [i]out[/i] of that get-up,” she mutters. Finally her gaze settles upon Kamiel. He's more or less the right sort, but his eyes appear to be burning with something other than lust. She doesn't let her crest remain fallen for long. The group has barely begun to turn and move along down the thoroughfare before she swaggers off in the direction of her next putative trick. After a bit more walking, they enter an area of wide passageways with various small shops and stores at foot level. Near to their destination now, Cullen dismounts from his dog. One of these shops is indeed Trustworthy Cleg's. Cardea, Cullen, and Kamiel enter, along with Dragan, but Teague remains outside, to any passerby seemingly preoccupied with his flamboyant new headwear. The pawn shop is packed with goods from floor to ceiling in a jumbled array of shelves variously mounted into the wall or free-standing on the floor. Immediately inside the shop's door, just to the right, is a dark niche void of merchandise. The niche is filled to overflowing with a towering half-ogre of dour expression—a conspicuous multi-purpose ruffian there to guard the shopkeeper and wares alike. Kamiel can't help but wonder if the creature also serves as a “hitter” sent to track down and “punish” those who sell Cleg items he can't move for a sufficiently high markup. Cleg himself sits at the back of the store on a high stool behind a counter. He's quite a sight—an old half-orc, wrinkled, bald, hairy everywhere but the pate of his head, pasty skin festooned with ruddy moles, a snaggle tooth with an obvious cavity poking forth from his twisted mouth. He wears a pair of spectacles, which seem to be held in place at the bridge of his crooked nose by a particularly large and disagreeable, if functional, wart. He is adorned with a bright red vest. The trio of adventurers notice to their unease that it's hard to tell whether he's wearing anything [i]else[/i]. They hastily look in other directions. Mounted on the left-hand side wall is a massive tuba. Kamiel watches as Cardea cocks her head at it for a moment, and steps towards it, her attention on the bell. She then turns to see if Cullen is looking. He is. Head still cocked, she then smiles subtly. Her meaning is plain. “I wonder if the halfling will fit in the tuba.” Kamiel smiles as Cullen turns on his heel, scowling. Cardea's had enough of the halfling's wisecracks about “worshipping the undead”, and has gotten a bit of revenge. The next most prominent item in the establishment appears to be a large stuffed tropical bird on the counter. Cleg is perched near to it, suggesting that it is of some value to him. “Guess he won't let that go cheap, though I wonder who'd want it,” Kamiel thinks. That piques his curiosity, and he has an idea. As is typical for such enterprises, there are weapons for sale here. Cardea pulls a halberd off the wall, hefting it gingerly at first, and then with more confidence once it's clear the head of the instrument isn't about to tumble off the shaft and onto the floor. Even in the cramped space, she is able to execute familiar drill maneuvers. “Twenty!” bellows Cleg, much louder than necessary to be heard from any location in the small store. Kamiel wonders if the old beast is hard of hearing. Cardea is unfazed. “Eight,” she says contemptuously. The paladin twirls the weapon around with ease, in apparent disregard of any goods she might inadvertently whack. “Pah! Eight-[i]teen[/i],” Cleg retorts. A stream of yellow saliva drips from his mouth where the snaggletooth juts. The half-ogre has not moved, but is discernibly focused on Cardea in the event she gets belligerent. Cullen, in the meantime, has happened upon a locked glass case on the right side of the store, with a number of weapons in it: a set of darts, a rapier, and a short sword. All are exquisitely crafted and unmistakably masterwork items. “These darts,” he calls out. “How much for these darts?” The air whistles as the halberd's blade cuts through it in a great arc parallel to the wall. Cleg, mouth open to shout a quote at Cullen, jerks his head back towards Cardea, glowering. “Five hundred!” Cullen, though his gaze appears fixed on the darts, is actually watching Cleg with his peripheral vision, and pretends not to know to whom Cleg is speaking. “You just told that lady eighteen a second ago!” Cleg roars. “Eighteen for the halberd! Five hundred for the darts! You want 'em or not, runt?” “Ten,” Cardea responds to the first of Cleg's utterances. Kamiel decides, with Cleg being double-teamed and aggravated, that now would be a good time to try an experiment. He walks calmly out of the store, earning no more than a swift glance from the half-ogre. His hands are visible and he hasn't even touched anything yet, so he doesn't rate much examination. “Teague,” he says quietly as he emerges into the gloaming, “there's a blade under lock and key in there you might be interested in.” “All right. Someone needs to stay posted out here to keep an eye out for our contact.” No sooner has Teague passed the threshold than Kamiel begins to cast. It's not like casting a bardic spell, that much is certain. You don't [i]perform[/i] a spell like this, not in the same way. A bardic spell is about spontaneity, about letting the magic flow through you, improvising its exact course as you go. Wizard magic is like playing a game of chess. The magic is your opponent, and you must overmaster it. You have syllables to articulate and patterns to trace in the air with your hands to guide your mind through its stratagem. The leather armor is an annoyance in the back of his mind as he casts. It could be a problem eventually, but the stiff material that guards his flesh is worth it, and is not a sufficient distraction to spoil the game. He knows it. The enemy is defeated. There is no sloppiness, no carelessness. He proceeds from origin to destination without wavering. The channel opens, and the energy flows. His eyes widen for a moment as he feels the rush of magic—familiar in a way from his dozens of bardic castings before, and yet different. There's a distinct...flavor to this magic. It's more pungent, more biting, in a way that is more demanding, more challenging, and yet also more pleasant. An analogy falls into place in Kamiel's mind right before the magic engages. “It's like a first drink of spirits after years of nothing stronger than wine.” He suddenly understands at a visceral level why wizards have such superior mastery of magic compared to bards. [i]You could damn well get hooked on this stuff.[/i] Kamiel struggles to mask his excitement as he turns to re-enter the shop with his newly enhanced sight. Sure enough, it worked—some items in the shop radiate a palpable energy, hitherto invisible. He walks up to Cullen, who is still agog at the safeguarded darts. Everything in the case is glowing. He peers steadily into it, intent on gleaning more about the items. “You want those darts,” he says to Cullen matter-of-factly, not turning to face him. Kamiel has seen Cullen cast [i]detect magic[/i] himself, and knows the halfling will understand his meaning. Cullen turns to Kamiel. “I can't [i]afford[/i] those darts.” Cullen notices that Teague is inside the shop, which means no one's got an eye outdoors. A little perturbed, he hastens out to take up the watch, but hisses some intelligence he gathered while Kamiel was outside. Like many halflings, Cullen is a pretty reliable judge of character, and typically knows when he is being fed a line of excrement. He's had time enough to size up the shopkeeper. “He wants five hundred for each of those. He's firm, but it's no swindle.” “Twelve, then!” Cleg growls. The clink of coin tells Kamiel that Cardea has bargained Cleg down to a price she can live with. “Halberds are nasty,” he thinks. “If she was dangerous before, now she'll—” More is revealed. The short sword and rapier emit a faint dweomer of general sort; the darts' aura is no stronger but distinctly of the discipline of evocation. Kamiel turns his gaze to Cleg's prized, if deceased, avian. Cardea appears to have caught on to what Kamiel is doing, and deliberately spills some coins to keep Cleg distracted. As their transaction concludes, he gets a read on the bird—it radiates moderate abjuration magic, giving it easily the most powerful aura in the store. Interesting. “That's more than just an ex-parrot,” he thinks. He dismisses the spell, and the three remaining party members join Cullen outside. “Those are fine weapons, but the price of even one would wipe out two shares of the proceeds from the wine we sold, and half of another,” Kamiel notes. He fills them in on the auras he read. “With that craftsmanship, the prices are only a little high. With enchantment on top of that, they're probably a bargain,” Cullen observes. “A bargain for people richer than us,” Teague mutters. Cullen's attention is drawn down the passage. “I think that's our contact,” he says. A warforged is approaching. [/QUOTE]
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