Adventures in Eberron> Chapter 32 posted 08-08-05>

[skullsmurfer]

More Trouble, Chapter 21

The Dog Soldiers on watch heard the rumbling steps of the juggernaut for several long minutes before they caught sight of it. They held their posts along with the unhappy Watch Mage and a dozen or so men they managed to drag out of bed. The hulking juggernaut came to a stop ten paces from the entrance to the pump rooms.

“Foe Crusher reporting for duty!” It's voice boomed as it pounded its massive fist against it's chest.

The Watch Mage made an angry sound and left. The Dog Soldiers stared at the juggernaut until the Captain came to see what the hell was going on. He took one look at the war-forged and immediately sent it to guard the box. The inquisitors did not exactly welcome company, but the war-forged didn't notice.

“Guard the contents of that box, Foe Crusher.” The Captain ordered as he read over the juggernaut's paperwork. “Absolutely no one is allowed to touch it, and it doesn't go anywhere without my say so. You are authorized to use lethal force.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” Foe Crusher saluted. “I will not fail in my duty!”

Captain Sevin waved down Private Grimmson and sent him over to the new war-forged recruit. Sweet Lips is now in charge of another private. Niabelis is trouble enough as it is. She is snobbish, cranky, and she prays entirely too much. He looked up at the juggernaut. It has got to be taller than an ogre. The spikes on its shoulders arms and legs are scary. Its massive fists are dented and scarred. Sweet Lips can't help but wonder what could possibly have gotten in it's way.

“Um, hello, my name is Grimmson,” he said, “but you can call me Sweet Lips. I am here to get you oriented. What are you called?”

“Foe Crusher,” the juggernaut replied. It drew back it's arm and tapped the hard stone floor with it's fist. The mechanism built into the arm tripped, releasing enough force to crack the stone and leave a small fist sized crater behind. “I break the enemy, what do you do?”

“I am a Berserker.” Sweet Lips answered, “This is my war-cleaver.”

The two Dog Soldiers got along nicely. Foe Crusher wants to know everything about being a Dog Soldier. The juggernaut claims to have just returned from Service, he successfully guarded a door for 41 consecutive years. For the next shift, Sweet Lips talked his head off. The others have been keeping their distance since the big fight with the dolgrim. Foe Crusher actually seemed impressed to meet a battle-rager. Before he knew it the shift was over.

Private Niabelis jogged through the camps following a cold feeling of dread. She sensed a evil presence just as she finished her morning devotions. She nearly called out, but then it disappeared as suddenly as it came. She hurried to dress in her new Sharn Issue Equipment. The Church is recalling her polished steel cuirass and her blue and white vestments. Despite her current state, she's been feeling confident that she is where she needs to be. The battle with the ghoul mage somehow made her stronger. This morning she gained several new blessings from her prayers. When the feeling returned, she did not hesitate to lift up her mace and charge straight forward.

A sewer crew is at the north tunnel. The guards are having a hard time with a man dressed as a priest. While the guards are distracted by his loud and obnoxious behavior, the other men are walking towards the box. Private Niabelis invoked the power of the Flame and raised the alarm.

“Intruders at the North Tunnel! Intruders at the North Tunnel!” Her voice sounded loudly over the camp.

The priest acted before the Dog Soldiers could react. He stunned the entire squad by speaking Blasphemy. After that he used his staff to murder the unconscious soldiers lying at his feet. Private Niabelis summoned a beam of light to chastise the intruder. It struck true, but it only made the evil priest pause. She called for divine sight and raised the glowing symbol of the Flame before her. Her foe's true form was revealed to her eyes, a great obscene worm-like monster. Worse, the men she thought were a sewer crew are nothing but animated corpses. Private Niabelis called for strength and ran towards the monster. She has never felt such evil.

Sweet Lips and Foe Crusher moved towards the city crewmen. The young man can't recognize any of them, and the way they are moving doesn't look right. The juggernaut called to them and demanded they account for themselves. Inquisitor Pallas called a warning. He said something about dead people. Sweet Lips smelled rotting meat just before the illusion disguising the zombies fell away. The two of them planted their feet and waited. Foe Crusher flexed his arms, charging the pistons that drive his deadly fists. Sweet Lips held his war-cleaver ready and stared down the walking corpses. He can hear the inquisitors calling to the Flame somewhere behind him.

As Private Niabelis came within reach of the monstrous priest another set of raiders made their entrance. Captain Sevin started calling out orders as soon as he saw the skeletons and the loping predatory forms that could only be ghouls. He sent a squad to back up Private Niabelis and then started screaming at anyone who didn't move fast enough. His eyes caught movement along the wall behind the inquisitors. He raised Lucy, his falchion, and used her magic to warn them.

“Pallas, behind you, on the wall!” The Captain hollered across the pump room.

Inquisitor Pallas turned in time to avoid a crossbow bolt. He is now facing five great spiders saddled with dolgrim. He chastised them, using the power of the flame to strike at their minds. Some of the dolgrim were affected, but not for long. The enemy responded with a flight of crossbow bolts. As Inquisitor Pallas fell, he caught sight of a monstrous spider hanging just over the box and its warding circle.

Foe Crusher ran back towards the box. The Captain's orders were to protect the item, the zombies can wait. The juggernaut drove his fists against the wall. The impacts dislodged several useful chunks of stone. Foe Crusher grabbed hold of the biggest one and launched it at the spider descending from the ceiling, just above the box. The projectile hit the spider with enough force to shatter it's carapace and kill the dolgrim rider strapped to it's back. The two corpses hung there for a moment and then suddenly dropped.

Inquisitor Pallas had just enough time to pray that the Flame take his soul before the dead spider shatters the box and the deadly flasks within. One of his brothers managed to drag him back, but it was too late.

“We have failed,” Pallas rasped bitterly.

“Maybe not,” his brother inquisitor said as he pointed back towards the circle.

A shape composed entirely of flame stood within the ward. Two blazing eye jewels focused on the intruder. It is holding the spider corpse in its grasp, burning it to ash. The fire elemental must have been tied to the warding circle. The box is gone, Inquisitor Pallas can just make out the two flasks floating within the elemental. The dolgrim are firing bolts into it as fast as they can load their crossbows. The fire elemental dropped the first spider and turned to face them.

“Brothers, back away!” Inquisitor Pallas heard his brother call out. “The elemental is going to...”

A blast of heat and a great rumbling explosion finished the inquisitor's sentence. The elemental roared, a trio of fireballs put an end to the giant spiders and their dolgrim masters. The warding circle grew bright and a pillar of superheated air arose to protect it's contents. The fire elemental stood within and waited for more trouble. The heat blackened the floor and ceiling, soon the stone will crack and melt. It cannot leave the original circle, but there is nothing to stop it from seeking comfort.

Foe Crusher picked up another chunk of stone and tossed it at the oncoming enemy. The zombies are boring, they don't even stop to notice they are being killed. He watched Sweet Lips hacking at the corpses while dancing about their clumsy reaching hands. A flash of bright light caught the juggernaut's attention. There is a hard battle being fought at the North tunnel, he can see reinforcements running to support the lone soldier. The problem is that there are more undead headed his way; skeletons, four across and several ranks deep.

“Sweet Lips, disengage!” the juggernaut hollered, “Get out of the way!”

Sweet Lips back pedaled away from the undead. He can hear the juggernaut driving his fists into the wall again. A chunk of stone bigger than a man's head sailed over his head and into one of the zombies. More projectiles followed, one after the other. The undead are getting closer so the juggernaut's aim can only improve. It wasn't until the pack of ghouls broke away from the marching skeletons, that Sweet Lips started to worry.

“Pallas! Ghouls coming fast!” the young man hollered as he ran towards the inquisitors.

“They won't get that box!” Foe Crusher growled.

Inquisitor Pallas stood shakily on his feet. Two of his brothers are dead, the dolgrim poisoned their bolts. He is ready to fight something that he can hit. The Inquisitor gripped the Holy Symbol of the Flame in his left hand and readied his mace with his right. The young berserker is running fast, yet the ghouls that got past the juggernaut are catching up. The inquisitors started their prayers.

Foe Crusher picked up another stone and threw it at the last of the zombies. The force of the impact decapitated the undead wretch. The juggernaut retreated to form a line of defense far in front of the inquisitors. The skeletons are marching steadily and stupidly towards their doom. Foe Crusher flexed his arms and limbered his legs. He intends to earn his place among the Dog Soldiers.

Sweet Lips ducked in between the inquisitors. Pallas and his brothers reduced one of the beasts to ash with the power of the flame, sending the others cowering to safety. An inquisitor named Fromm tapped him on the shoulder and gifted him with a blessing. There are five more ghouls and soon they will come loping back. Sweet Lips shook off the aches and sores from his fight with the zombies and stepped boldly in front of the flamers. He is bleeding from more than a few gashes, the ghouls will come to him first.

“For Breland!!” the juggernaut cried as he charged the oncoming skeletons.

Despite his size, the war-forged juggernaut can manage a lot of speed. He hit their lines with his arms out stretched, dragging several skeletons into a pile and crushing them with his fists. The skeletons fought back, but the juggernaut was not impressed. Rather than use his fists again, Foe Crusher rolled his spiked body at them. As he regained his feet, more skeletons charged him. Foe Crusher dove at them. The juggernaut stood up shook the bone bits off his frame and started running towards the men behind him. Foe Crusher can see two of the ghouls are still standing. The juggernaut watched the men destroy the creatures and cheered.

“A great battle!” Foe Crusher exclaimed. “We are victorious!”

“We've paid a heavy price,” Inquisitor Pallas grumbled, “and we have lost good men.”

“Tell me their names, so that I may honor them.” the war-forged offered.

“Sennek of Woodhelm and Noit of Ardev, Servants of the Silver Flame.” Inquisitor Fromm spoke when Pallas would not.

“Sennek and Noit, Warriors of the Silver Flame, I salute you!” the juggernaut stood at attention and beat his fist against his chest three times. Sweet Lips did the same.

Inquisitor Pallas said nothing more. He is tired, but there is still much to do. The fire elemental is still there protecting the flasks of Hag's Plague. The waves of stifling heat did not stop him from dragging his brother's bodies away. Inquisitor Fromm tried to help, but Pallas waved him back. He understands his duty, and the sacrifices his service calls for, but he still feels responsible for the deaths of his brothers. Inquisitor Pallas gently closed Brother Sennek's eyes and placed his hand over his brow as he administered the last rites. Inquisitor Fromm arranged the dead man's hands over his chest and tucked the Holy Symbol of the Flame into their cold grasp. Inquisitor Pallas moved on to Noit, he was the youngest of them all. Fromm arranged the body and Pallas administered the rites.

“I'm sorry.” Inquisitor Pallas whispered.

Private Niabelis felt her skin crawling with revulsion as the foul cleric struck out with a wave of hatred and darkness. She refused to give in. The Litany of Purity poured from her lips. The words have new meaning to her, faith gives them power. Her mace came up and she took a step forward. The murdered soldiers at her feet began to stir, the enemy laughed. Niabelis raised her Holy Symbol and called for retribution. The bodies dropped like puppets with their strings suddenly cut.

“My faith is my Armor, cleansing fire is my Shield!” She intoned, her voice filled with power.

A pillar of light and silver flame poured over her body. The enemy cleric screamed. Private Niabelis charged the monster, even as it lost control of its shape and returned to it's natural form. An alien worm-like abomination gargled and wretched before her. She struck out with her mace, quoting scripture to punctuate each attack. The worm lashed out with clawed tentacles. Viscous stinking slime poured forth from its foul skin. She can see where the Holy Flame wounded the beast, but it still has plenty of fight left.

“Fall! Thou unclean thing! Fall!” She growled.

The heavy mace smashed against the monster's flesh. The monster lunged at her, knocking her back and pinning her down. She stared down it's massive maw and fought to shake off the sounds and images of horror pouring into her mind. An arrow struck the beast, then several others. The Dog Soldiers are attacking the thing with everything they've got. A distraction is all that she needed, Private Niabelis reached for her mace and prayed. The abomination is casting again, she can't understand it's words, but she can feel the taint of evil emanating from it.

“Be thou Silent! Be thou Still! Judgment is upon thee!” Her voice struck the thing like a thunderbolt. It staggered and shook violently in place. Niabelis fought to maintain her hold on it. Her vision is dimming, her legs shake and her muscles are knotted and cramped. She called to the Dog Soldiers, she can't fight anymore, it is too much.

The Dog Soldiers poured over the monster hacking and slashing to bring it down. Niabelis lifted the Symbol of the Flame and continued to chastise the abomination. The Captain called for alchemist's fire, but the fire failed against the thick covering of slime covering the disgusting worm. Acid had a much better effect. Private Niabelis collapsed before she could see it die.

Victory came with a price. Twelve city crewmen are dead, the enemy slew them and raised them as zombies. Fifteen Dog Soldiers died at the entrance to the North tunnel, two inquisitors fell defending the box, and the Watch Mage was murdered at his tent. It is almost a disaster. The Hag's Plague is safe, but in the care of fire elemental no one in the pump room can command.

Captain Sevin doubled the guards at all the entrances. He then called his officers to a meeting. The Watch Mage was murdered right under their noses. There is an assassin in their ranks, possibly more. He formed five squads out of soldiers he knows personally and ordered them to search every inch of the camp. Afterwards he had his so-called assistants arrested, along with anyone that drew suspicion. The man named Roanberry was within his sight the entire time, but the other's will have to be accounted for before he lets any of them go.

“Sgt. Ironson, we are going to see about this elemental.” Captain Sevin ordered.

“This business is getting out of hand. The council is dragging it's feet while we fight and die.” The Sergeant complained. “By rights the plague should be destroyed, we can't risk breaking the treaty for this.”

Captain Sevin agreed with his officer, but continuing the conversation may lead to sedition. He will weigh the man's words, however. Even with a token promotion to High Captain, he doesn't want to risk what's left of his career. A smart man lets his enemies hang themselves. The fallen will speak for him, nothing riles a city like underground horrors and dead soldiers.

“That kind of talk will get you hanged soldier. Worry about your men and I will handle the politics.” Captain Sevin said, bringing the theme to an end. The Sergeant spat, but managed to keep his mouth shut. “The troubles here will cause a lot of problems, they will be looking for a scapegoat soon.”

“What about the fire spirit? It isn't ours, who knows what it's here for.” Sgt. Ironson commented. “As I recall, fire is the only way to destroy the Hag's Plague anyway.”

“You have been around the criminal elements for entirely too long Sgt. Ironson. Without a mage, we have no way of controlling such a creature.” The Captain smiled, Sergeants are a Captain's best friend.

 

[skullsmurfer]

A Bard's Touch, Chapter 22

Theodyl stared at the ceiling for all of three minutes. He doesn't know how long he's been asleep, but he is damned grateful. The lich seems to have accepted his apology. His ego still smarts, he would have loved to take credit for the job in the sewers. The lich isn't getting a free ride out his sacrifice, though. While Mooneye deals with all the extra attention, he will be taking his leave of Sharn. The half-elf tugged on his restraints to see just how well his friends wanted him to sleep. It didn't take long to escape.

The panel behind his bed hasn't been tampered with. The lead lined crawlspace behind it leads to a long buried suite of rooms. In times past, someone put a lot of effort into a very private hiding place. Theodyl found it while exploring. He discovered an access tunnel while climbing the shaft for the inn's dumbwaiter. The Long Night's Rest has been in business since the days of Galifar. He chose the place for it's legitimate reputation and the fact that it is built like a fort. His earlier research into Sharn's service tunnels and sewers led him to an old subbasement just below the location. Theodyl was looking for a way down from the inn when he discovered the hidden rooms.

The strong scent of wood and varnish filled his nostrils. Theodyl reset the counter-balanced blocks to seal the crawl space. A lead lined panel sealed the exit, it is cunningly crafted to halt even the flow of air. The hidden suite is ventilated through small rune carved openings that move fresh air through the rooms. Antique sun crystals provide lighting. All of the doors are constructed of iron and wood, their frames are very sturdy and they close so tightly he can't even fit a parchment through the gaps. He's replaced all of the locks with modern equivalents. It never occurred to him that he would have to leave Sharn.

The rooms were fully furnished at one point, though only a few of the larger more durable pieces have survived. The half-elf looted everything else of value years ago. He chose the largest of the chambers to serve as a sort of work room, laboratory and library. His collection of magic wands is carefully tucked away behind one of the book cases. Theodyl can't figure out how he is going to take all of his treasures with him. Telling Paragon about his private sanctuary is probably the only way, but he won't do it until the last minute.

He dug out his spellbooks, they are spares, he doesn't trust the ones Mooneye touched. Anything else of real importance is in his head. The lich hasn't touched that, not yet and not ever. Theodyl chose a selection of spells to match the activities he's planned for the day. When he was done he donned a fancy set of clothes and tucked a number of useful items about his person. He left his bow-harp behind in favor of a golden flute and an ornately carved lute.

“Olladra smile my way,” he prayed as he made his way up to the surface.


Paragon 153 to 4 harrumphed at the dwarven smith. The war-forged lay three heavy platinum trade bars in front of the smith along with a mix of jewels and coins. The dwarf wasted no time in counting. Paragon drew his new weapon from it's sheath and moved towards the practice dummies. The weapon is a short hafted glaive better known as a horse cleaver. Paragon broke into a series of spins, parries and thrusts to judge the weight and balance of the weapon. As he worked he complimented the smith on his work. The dwarf looked up from his money just long enough to watch the war-forged slice through an armored dummy and then through the wood and stone that held it in place. Paragon examined weapon's edge with a critical eye.

“A fine weapon, Ser Dwarf,” the war-forged said, “I will tell my friends about your forge.”

“Just tell them to bring lots of money. I don't come cheap.” The dwarf growled, without even looking up.

As Paragon strode onto the street he noticed several familiar faces. Someone is following him. If he could, he would frown. This is one of the lower levels, the watch doesn't come without a good reason. For the most part, local gangsters run the show. He can tell they are neither one or the other. Paragon took a round about route through the market, browsing through shops and trying to mark as many of his watchers as possible. He will not be returning to Theodyl. The war-forged drew a fancy tin whistle from his belt. He pictured Theodyl's face in his mind and crushed the instrument with his hand.

<Trouble, Followed, Enemy Unknown, Meet Arena, Stay Alive Idiot>

The High Market is just like every other market in Sharn. People browse, people haggle and people steal. The difference of course, is in prices and appearances. Many shops make use of glass store fronts. Others provide a sort of illusory display case to reduce the risk of theft. The very best open their doors only by appointment. Theodyl was being fitted for a fine silk vest when Paragon's message slammed into his mind. For the magically impaired, the war-forged has a will like a sledgehammer. Theodyl made his purchase and hurried to find a private corner.

<Idiot, Received, Arena, Dol Dorn Bless Thy Blade, Olladra Smile Upon Thee>

Paragon isn't one for platitudes. If he doesn't get to the arena, it will be because he is dead. Theodyl is betting on the war-forged, of course, but his kind die just like everyone else. He still has to contact the dragons. The House of Shadow can help with the Cyre Manuscript, but his contact won't be available until dark. The half-elf sighed and pursed his lips. Loffandiir's Hoard is just down the street. The shop has been around for so very long, that even the ancient Kings of Galifar can be counted as customers. The sign features a tiny drake wrapped around a scepter. To those who know, the stylized draconic rune for sanctuary is clearly evident in the negative spaces around the cunning graphic.

“Do you have an appointment?” A voice rang through the shop as the bard crossed the threshold.

“I would not presume such a thing Wise Master.” Theodyl said, bowing slightly towards a closed curtain behind the counter.

“What do fools know of Wisdom?”

“Nothing, Wise Master, that is why I seek thy counsel.”

The man behind the curtain started to laugh. Dragons love to play with words, their language is full of subtlety and hidden meanings. Theodyl managed to turn an insult into a jest and a compliment. Loffiir, Son of Loffandiir is not one to laugh so often. The Council of Scales has yet acknowledge his birth. His sire mated while in exile, a clear violation of some law or another. He has no status among his people living in their far off continent, so he bides his time among the savages. Loffiir is the “man” to see about dragons, and he is one hell of a fence.

“What dost thou seeketh, elf-blood?” Loffiir asked in High Draconic. He made eye contact, keeping his chin just so high. A dominant posture.

“Elders Nadothon and Blackscale, Kind Master.” Theodyl lowered his gaze and took a step backwards. He displayed his empty palms, but did not kneel. He is a free man, not a dragon's servant.

“Bagh!” Loffiir scowled in distaste, “Thou art a fool, youngling. Dost thou seek thy own death?”

“Kind Master,” Theodyl pressed, “I beareth a prize, for them.”

“And what of me, youngling? Dost thou bear a prize for mine trouble?” The dragon showed his pride. Theodyl's submissive posture served to encourage the dragon's demand. The bard smiled inwardly, it is just as he had hoped.

“Most Forgiving Master, I offer thee the opportunity to examine the Elders' prize.” Theodyl replied as he drew a heavy sheath of papers from his vest. “Thus, dost the early bird catch the worm.”

Loffiir did not hesitate to snatch the prize away from Theodyl's hands. The dragon flipped through the pages hungrily. No doubt, every word is being committed to immortal memory. It was a calculated risk, but as an ambitious young adult, Loffiir wouldn't hesitate to grasp every advantage available. An opportunity to get one over on his betters is worth the danger. The Elders are overbearing, even for dragons. Theodyl retained his posture until the dragon invited him to have some tea. He is no longer a petitioner, but a business partner.

“Thou art lucky,” Loffiir spoke, “Stargazer rarely shared his wisdom with any creature. Thou bearest his mark. I will contact thee in but a few hours.”

Theodyl exited the shop and continued on his errands. The lich's token is weighing heavily on his belt. The bard pretended to browse through the streets until he found the right alleyway. A particular group of scratches at the edge of a building, barely inches from the ground led him to a small door. He tapped the code upon the wood and soon he was in the tunnels below. He is starting to think he will miss Sharn. The City has layers upon layers of very interesting places to see and things to do. Theodyl sighed at the thought of leaving. He drew the lich's token and rang it against a sewer wall. It only took a few moments before a shadow rose from the floor.

“I bear a package for your master, shadow.” Theodyl said.

“I hate you.” The shadow hissed as it took the dragon file from the bard's grasp. “You should start watching your back.”

“In that case, may I know your name?”He asked.

“Krogger,” the shadow replied.

“Well Krogger, does your master know you deal with dolgrim?” Theodyl struck back. “He is no fool, maybe you have things to worry about other than me.”

The shadow did not deign to answer. Theodyl watched it sink into the floor and then made his way back to his lodgings. He will need to send a message to his friends, he doesn't want to go to the arena by himself. Besides, when Paragon is involved there is always some damage. Theodyl decided to plan for the worse and hope for the best. He will need to return to his apartments for better weapons. Paragon crossed the Mournlands by himself, whomever is following him is in for more than a few surprises.

Somewhere else in Sharn.........

“Nobody holds me!!!” Paragon 157 to 4 screamed from within his iron bound cage. “You don't know who you are messing with!”

Paragon kicked the door repeatedly for an hour straight. He isn't angry anymore, he has discovered an entirely new emotion. The war-forged doesn't know what to call it, but it feels like a storm raging inside his chest. The clockwork soldiers that escorted him into his prison are little more than scrap now. There was a war-forged with an iron bar, and a human with a spiked chain before that. They died. Afterwards, he remembers getting chased through the tunnels until the wizard caught up with him. His memories aren't very clear, but whatever happened hurt a lot. His new armor plate is dented. The golden dragonne on his chest is marred by some sort of scorch mark. Paragon woke up just as the door shut and the clockwork soldiers were attempting to chain him to a wall. He thoroughly dismantled them both. It was a good fight.

“Wizard! Do you hear me!?” Paragon screamed at the ceiling. “I will feed you these chains before I turn you inside out! Mark my words, I am a Longstrider!! You will regret putting me here!!” Paragon shook the rage from his head and began to search his cage. Theodyl will find him, there is no doubt. The catch is whether or not he will still be locked up when it happens. Paragon has his pride to consider.

 

[skullsmurfer]

An Ambush at the Long Night, Chapter 23

Pook and Ivor toiled hour after hour within the crowded common room. The Long Night's Rest is full for the first time in decades. A odd crowd of men arrived with the fifth bell and attached themselves to the bar. The changelings managed to be at just the right place when the cook was looking for extra help. They are playing the part of sisters, farm girls from Wroat. The patrons can't get enough of their company. Despite their bright eyes and sultry lips, they are not happy. These men are scary. They are dressed like natives, but they talk and grope like soldiers. Pook overheard them talking, they are looking for a blond half-elf with a harp carved like a bow. They say that they already have his bodyguard. It took a lot to pretend that everything was alright, her smile never wavered.

“Eva quit flirting and get them dishes!” Pook snapped, playing the shrew.

“Coming!” Ivor replied while sucking her teeth and rolling her eyes. Her new friend copped a feel as she hurried away.

The girls disappeared into the kitchen. The cook tossed another tray of food at them and sent them right back out. Ivor had just enough time to tell Pook about the wizard with the wandering hands. It is really the last thing they need. Wizards don't travel with soldiers unless they are marching under Breland's flag. Watch Mages have to wear badges, civilian wizards wear robes and act like they are important. Ivor put on her best smile and delivered a steaming bowl of soup to her new friend. Pook made her rounds through the tables refilling tankards and clearing away dishes. She doesn't know how they are doing it, but she is pretty sure none of them are as drunk as they pretend to be.

The cook rang the bell again. Pook hurried to the kitchen. Moments later the cook hollered for Eve to pick up her orders too. The wizard, a dashing young man with an eye for the ladies slipped a silver piece into her bust just so she would hurry back. It is a miracle she hasn't cut him yet.

“Hey what's with the crowd?” Theodyl asked as he strolled in to the common room. The men stood up virtually as one. The bard did not hesitate to start running.

As the men scrambled to give chase, the wizard knocked over his own table. A pair of soft female hands dragged him into the kitchen. Eve tickled his chin with a stiletto and slipped his silver coin into his mouth before they gagged him. The real Theodyl bonded his hands with copper wire. The cook is snoring softly in the linen closet. The soldiers will have a good time sparring with Javelin. The bard disguised him with an illusion. The war-forged martial artist promised not to break any of them. Theodyl is just glad Javelin didn't knock him out before he could explain everything.

As soon as the wizard was blindfolded, the three of them carried their captive to the basement. From there they made their way to the sewers and to a conveniently hidden door. Argus and Pennelocles are gathering more of Paragon's friends. By then they should have all the information they need.

“Listen well,” Theodyl whispered into the wizard's ear, “I am missing a friend, will you tell me where he is?” The man shook his head violently. Theodyl whacked his left hand with a wooden mallet. “How's about now?” The man shook even more violently, though it was still a no. “If you don't reconsider, I will break your hands and boil them in oil. After that, I will cut out your tongue and heal the wound so that it can never be restored. I learned how to deal with wizards during the war. Think about it.”

Pook interrupted Theodyl just then, she pulled him away and made enough noise to convince the wizard they were arguing. Ivor put the man's lights out with a sap as soon as it was obvious that he was trying to listen in. An eternity later, a splash of water brought the man back to consciousness. Eve, looking like she's taken a beating, ripped off his blindfold and attempted to free the wizard while blubbering incoherently.

“He's gone mad!” she cried as she struggled to undo the mass of knots holding the wizard. “He thinks that you are trying to kill him!” The wizard started to struggle in earnest. Eve made sure to press her chest into his face as she undid his gag from the front. She then started to undo the wire binding his broken hand. His eyes rested warmly over her, the rose scented oil is having it's effect.

“Ish okay,” he said to her, “Iesh goths frendth ath hosh kanidth.” The silver coin had an extra coating of some concoction from the cooks kitchen. They saw the cook using it to soothe his rotten teeth. The man's tongue is numbed. “helpsh me iesh helpsh!”

“Where can we go? He is dangerous!” She started to cry. The man's eyes softened. He wiped her tears and used his shirt to clean her face. He told her everything.

Ivor led her new friend up to the streets and then promptly lost him in the teeming crowds. Theodyl and Pook met her in an alleyway. They dodged three different watch patrols on the way back to the inn. Theodyl ended up taking the girls through his secret tunnels. All hell is breaking loose, he can find other secrets to keep. The changelings were very impressed, they never found any secret doors while rummaging though his things. The bard decided to mage lock his next living space.

Javelin led the men on a merry chase. Only the hardiest of them managed to catch up. By then the illusion Theodyl had cast had worn off. The men came at him like war-forged. They fought hard, like veterans. Javelin was bleeding from several deep wounds by the time he made his escape. He kept one of their blades, it bears the Royal Shield of Breland. He was fighting Elite Hussars. Paragon and his friend are in lots of trouble.

An expeditious messenger caught up with Theodyl as he crossed one of the markets in the lower levels. It looked like a cross between an eagle and a cat. Pook and Ivor nearly stabbed the poor creature before Theodyl recognized Loffiir's sigil on the scroll it carried. The draconic script vanished as soon as his eyes read it.

“Young one, thy request pleases the Elders. Thou shalt meet tomorrow at noon within the Sharn Trade House, Room 6. Please, keep a civil tongue, and be on time.”

“Please extend my gratitude to thine master.” Theodyl addressed the creature.

The rest of the trip came without interruptions. They found Patter and Siff in a low level flat tending to one another. It never occurred to Theodyl that the two were so domestic. The small shrine to the Traveler was less of a surprise. As they moved they argued about how to rescue Paragon and even if he needed rescuing at all. When they reached the warehouse that served as the meeting hall for Paragon's club, there was more trouble. At least one hundred angry war-forged were strapping up for war.

“We need to have a good talk before you say anything.” Pyrus waved Theodyl down. “The lads are ready to burn down the city, Paragon has quite a following.”

“That is not a good idea.” Theodyl said, feeling a chill down his spine.

“No it isn't,” Javelin cut in as he jogged in holding a sword in his hand, “The Hussars are hunting you.”

“Hag spit,” Theodyl cursed. “I didn't get out fast enough.”

The warehouse full of warriors waited patiently while Theodyl, Javelin, and Pyrus sat and discussed their options. An army of angry war-forged is just the thing to scare the hell out of the city. It can't happen, there are enough problems with war-forged in general. The jump from Elite Soldiers to Civilians was troublesome from the start. Two out of ten don't make it. Some join the first military organization they can find, others just kill any fool that gets in their way. The worse ones seem to lead perfectly normal lives until they crack. No, the lads will have to find another way.

“Paragon is being held in a Cannith property just below the High Quarter. The man we interviewed was to deliver me to a man named Caras.” Theodyl told his friends. “It was a depot during the war. I must have walked past the place hundreds of times in the last few years. There is a tavern called Lucy's Basement right next to it.”

“I know Lucy's. I've met with clients at their booths.” Pyrus stated. “It is run by House Cannith. The barkeep is an unmarked cousin, but very loyal.”

“I will take some of the scouts to examine the property.” Javelin volunteered. “Be ready for when I return.”

 

[skullsmurfer]

Rescue Me, Chapter 24

Marat crumpled the Sharn Anonymous in his hands and cursed. The Twelve sent him to find out how the Lord of Blades managed to sneak Hag's Plague into the City of Sharn. Well, that is what the City Council thinks, the Treaty of Thronehold is more important than even that. All it would take is one nation blaming another and war could break out again. The Hag's Plague is just the thing to stir up just that kind of trouble. He needs to find out where it came from. The Twelve want whomever is responsible incinerated. Breland volunteered an entire division of Hussars to assist him. It was a surprise, but his first loyalty is to the Twelve Houses and their continued health, without war.

“Tell me, who is responsible for this!” Marat demanded.

“How the hell should I know?” Paragon rasped. He is strapped to a large metal table. Three Cannith Adepts have been working on him for over an hour. “Did I tell you that I was going to turn you inside out?”

“We were able to salvage a Final Messenger from the pump room.” the wizard said as the Adepts continued to torture the war-forged. “You gave Sarok your name. Who commanded you to raid the pump rooms? Who is the gnome woman? Where is she now?”

“I am under contract to Thersyl d'Morgain,” Paragon responded as the world started to spin, “you should ask him before I catch up with you.”

The Cannith Adepts channeled pain into Paragon's frame until he passed out. The wizard, Marat sat and stared at the war-forged. It is a stubborn bastard. For some reason the Adepts have trouble controlling him. Thersyl or Theodyl, whatever he is, has eluded them so far. Paragon killed his best man-catchers. Sixteen Hussars are bedridden due to an ambush at the inn. His apprentice is missing. Marat signaled the Adepts to wake the prisoner. Despite their inhuman composition, war-forged fear death just like everything else that lives. Paragon will break, it is just a matter of time.

“What is your unit number?!”

“Your Mother.”

“Who is your commander?!”

“Not you, that's for sure.”

“If you don't cooperate you will be dismantled!”

“I will die laughing at you.”

“Where is Eunice Nigma? Who does she serve?”

“I am getting bored. When my friends get here, I will feed you my chains.”

Marat let the Cannith Adepts work the prisoner over until he was unconscious once more. Paragon is probably crazy, if that's possible with his kind. The Adepts want a freer hand with the interrogation. The war-forged is exhibiting a unique resistance to House Cannith control. The fact that he is associated with an unknown, possibly a rogue Cannith, is driving the local Heirs into a panic. The rogue war-forged from Cyre are enough of an embarrassment to them. They just can't seem to live that down.

Paragon lay still and listened to his interrogators. He's never felt pain on that level. The Adepts are hurting him and he is helpless to fight back. The odd sensations of pain and discomfort are doing little to ease his distress. The strange emotion he experienced inside the cell earlier has not gone away. If anything it is getting stronger. It feels like every emotion he's ever felt burning through him all at once. The wizard doesn't know about the wand sheaths in his arms, neither does he know about the golden circlet just beneath the metal skin over his head. His body aches, but deep inside he knows he can take a lot of them with him when he makes his move. The chains holding his torso are loosening.

Pyrus led fifteen war-forged into the sewers. Theodyl took only five, he's got the changelings with him too. A game of rock, paper, scissors eliminated most of the eager volunteers back at the warehouse. The bard does have a surprising amount of talent, then again, this trouble is his fault. Somehow, the bard cheated to cut down on volunteers. As a mage, Pyrus finds it extremely disturbing that he can't figure out how Theodyl did it. It occurs to him that the half-elf is playing a big game and that only he knows the rules.

The Cannith Depot is the tallest building on the street. There are no windows, the street lamps reveal nothing but stone and brick. The sign for Lucy's Basement is the only thing anyone would pay attention to. Theodyl had his friends line up behind him in the alleyway. Argus and Pennelocles helped their friends from the club. The changelings had the instructions down pat. They helped the war-forged keep pace. Theodyl drew his flute. As it touched his mouth, he placed his right foot forward. The men lined up behind, did the same. He started to play stepping deliberately as the music took shape.

The Fey have a way of traveling between places by means of a magical dance. Theodyl has been working on a similar kind of magic. As the music speeds up so do his steps. The others fell into the music and followed his every move. They danced into the Etherial. The walls of the depot are like mist in that world. Theodyl and his friends drifted through the building like ghosts leaving a trail of faint music in their wake.

Marat sat with Commander Caras discussing the progress of their joint investigations. There is another copy of the Sharn Anonymous lying between them. It is a bigger problem now that Mooneye Rocco has been identified. The Necromancer hasn't been heard from in decades. Apart from playing a minor role in Sharn's defense during the war, the creature is pretty much an outcast. The Lich's true role in the Hag's Plague Affair is in doubt, however. Marat and Caras have found a thousand holes in the rag sheet's story. The Twelve require answers, not mysteries. Marat sighed, he was about to say something, but an eerie sort of music filled the room.

“What the hell is that?” The wizard wondered out loud. A great rumbling sound was his only answer.

Pyrus blasted a hole into the Depot's floor from the sewers below. The war-forged did not waste a moment. They formed a ladder from their own bodies and swarmed the building. Some of them are laughing, it is just like the team building exercises at the Cannith Training Halls. Their weapons are padded, but the Hussars rushing to defend the property could care less. It is going to be a fight.

Theodyl ended the music when they reached Paragon. The war-forged took care of the Cannith Adepts. Even among their own kind, torture is repugnant, it is the complete opposite of fighting. The bard had to remind them not to do anything permanent. He is thinking that he's got enough enemies without angering an entire House.

“Hurry up and set me loose!” Paragon demanded. “I have promises to keep! That wizard is going to learn not to mess with a Longstrider!!!!”

“Err, Paragon....”

“Shut it! I will have words for you later Theodyl.” the war-forged growled.

Paragon 157 to 4 snatched a Wand of Repair away from his friends and jogged away. The lads followed. The bard turned to the Cannith Adepts and started asking questions. They have been thoroughly intimidated, it didn't take long to figure out what Paragon was talking about.

“We can't let him kill one of the Twelve!” He said in a panic. “We have enough troubles! Gods, if the Hussars call a blood debt, my life is over!! Hurry up and find him!”

The fight in the depot is in full swing. Pyrus has sealed all the exits with sigils of writhing flame. The Hussars are fighting like the Elite Soldiers that they are. The war-forged are fighting to subdue the men, while the men do their utmost to kill the enemy before them. Pyrus expected many casualties, but somehow Theodyl has them convinced that killing Hussars is a bad idea. This is yet another sign that Theodyl makes use of strange talents. Mayhap, Mooneye the Necromancer is justified in his pursuit of the half-elf. Pyrus wants to know more.

A knot of Hussars shielded Marat, Caras did his best to protect him. Breland has commanded it, that is all that matters. Paragon started to bellow threats and curses as he caught sight of the wizard. Caras and his men placed themselves in between the wizard and the war-forged maniac.

“Paragon, that's enough!” Theodyl's voice cut through the din of battle. “I remember the Hussars, they fought along side our ranks in Karrnath. They are comrades, a Longstrider would not dishonor such a bond!”

“Bah! I don't want them, I want the wizard.” Paragon snatched his blade from a weapon's rack. The thought that a hand other than his touched his new weapon added to his rage. He used it to slice through an innocent column just to scare the hell out of the wizard.

“The Hussars are guarding him, are you going to kill them too?” Theodyl pressed. “Caras, call your men off, this fight is over! Paragon hold! Please, you can still have your vengeance. Trust me, killing will just make this worse. Let me work.”

“You have until I count to a thousand.” The angry war-forged waved his lads back. The Hussars did not press the attack, it is a chance for them to catch their breaths.

Caras took a good look at his men. They are surrounded and trapped. Half of them have been knocked senseless. The others are still out combing the city, it will be hours before they return. Marat is no warmage, he is a librarian and his magic is no match for the flaming demon warding the doors. Marat wasted his best magic subduing the war-forged as second time for the interrogation. It nearly escaped. Words may have a better chance of ending the conflict.

“Marat, I suggest we speak to the half-elf.” Caras spoke to his charge, “I don't think this will end well otherwise.”

Once the negotiations were open, things took a turn for the better. Theodyl may have given away his credit for the actions below, but he still wants to brag. Marat couldn't take his notes fast enough. Paragon 157 to 4 sat and stared at the Hussars. His men did the same. The Hussars did their best to hold up under the inhuman stares. It is something that they may never admit to, but they would have died fighting. Their commander, Caras, is the only reason they will not attack.

“Tell me, who is this Eunice Nigma woman?” Marat asked. His head is starting to hurt. Theodyl should be working for the Twelve instead of wandering the continent causing trouble. Paragon's droning count isn't helping, either.

“She is an independent contractor, very skilled.” The bard replied, “I'm not free to discuss her business. Rest assured, she is no threat to Breland.” Pook beamed at Theodyl's compliment, Ivor rolled his eyes. Patter and Siff signed to one another. What a crock the first said. He must be made completely out of hot air, the other agreed.

“What about House Cannith?” The wizard pushed. “She was wearing their colors and using their retainers.”

“Politics, hardly my problem.” Theodyl shrugged. “Let them deal with their own, I say.”

“There is a lie somewhere in there,” Marat frowned. “Where does the Necromancer fit in?”

“Master Mooneye is fiercely protective of the city of his birth.” The bard sighed, “He was very upset about the Hag's Plague. I took the opportunity to let the city know of his greatness.”

“Just how upset?” The wizard leaned into the bard. “There are a number of rather disturbing events that I am concerned with. Why did you attack the renegades in the first place? And who is the gnome woman they were holding hostage?”

Theodyl smiled. He demanded a hefty sum of gold in exchange for his candor. It is then that the wizard popped his lid. The bard weathered his rage somehow. In a matter of minutes they were arguing about the price. Theodyl is very skilled with words. Pyrus struggled to keep up with all the verbal maneuvering. He gave up trying to tell the lies from the half-truths. The war-forged pyromancer will memorize the exchange and then take it apart at his leisure. At first, he thought the half-elf was amusing, now he is starting to think that the bard is very dangerous. Paragon calls him a brother, but Pyrus can't trust the half-elf.

“Granted, Moro Taller and his family will come under my protection. A position at the Khorvaire University Library will become available to him once his new identity is in place.” Marat shook his head. “Now, what about this Cyre Manuscript? Do you still have it?”

“Sure, I will give you a free copy.” Theodyl said with a wide smile. “The fools at House Cannith will have to pay for the original. Lady Nigma would not be happy otherwise.”

“So her agenda, then, is to embarrass her rivals?” The wizard looked to Theodyl's face for some sort of confirmation. “What about House Sivis? I am sure that you had something to do with the fire at their Scribe's Guild.”

“Master Marat, how could you think such a thing?” The half-elf said with a pained look in his eyes. “As I understand it, the Fire Salamander they imprisoned on their property broke loose. Perhaps, the gnomes could have been nicer to their guest.”

“And what about the Iron Golem? Surely it wasn't a coincidence that it was sabotaged. The more I talk with you, the deeper you drag me in.” Marat grumbled as he eyed a copy of the Sharn Anonymous. “The manuscript came from the Scribe's Guild Library, we both know that. Yet, you keep dodging my inquiries. How can I be sure you are not lying to me about other things?”

“Master Mooneye would be most glad to meet a Learned Scholar such as yourself. He never lies. Inquisitor Niabelis hired me to track the war-forged, she still owes me for delivery. I am sure that she would love to talk about me.” Theodyl smiled as he spoke. “Torture won't work with them either, just so you know.”

“What about your friend Paragon?” The wizard shifted in his seat. “Are you going to let him kill me?”

“Not at all, Master Marat.” The bard's smile turned predatory. “He dreams of starting a Mercenary Company. It seems to me, that a Letter of Recommendation from your esteemed person could help his efforts along. Pride cuts deeper than steel, the elves say.”

“Are you crazy?!” Marat pounded the table with his fist. “He killed by best trackers and destroyed some very expensive Clockwork Soldiers.”

“He is Dedicated, Forthright, and Nigh Unstoppable once properly motivated. His men are exceptionally trained and disciplined. Twenty-five of them overwhelmed your sanctuary without a drop of blood.” Theodyl paused long enough for his words to sink in. “You have seen his talent, he works every moment of everyday to live up to his name. Paragon is the best.”

“He's a killer! Tell me, what is he to you?”

“He is my brother. We served with the Longstriders at Karrnath.”

“If I am giving you a letter I expect certain things. Will you accept my terms?” The wizard demanded.

“The letter in exchange for your health Master Marat.” Theodyl corrected the wizard. “I work for gold, not paper.”

“No, that will not do!” Marat fumed.

“It will have to. You picked a fight with us and we won, not the other way around. You are lucky that I am willing to talk at all.”

“The Hussars do not negotiate with criminals.” Caras interrupted. Paragon skipped from 846 to 947. The wizard twitched.

“Quiet Hussar! You kidnap innocent men and put them to the question! I say you are the criminal here!” Theodyl hollered, “Are we to be criminals for saving our home from an enemy you should have kept from our borders!? I think not!!” Several of the war-forged joined the protest. “What say you wizard?” Paragon started spinning his blade.

“Alright, I will agree to the letter, but you will have to collect the gold tomorrow. I don't carry trade bars about.” Marat relented.

“I understand. A letter to House Kundarak shouldn't be too much trouble for you, would it? I think Paragon is done counting.” The bard closed the deal. Twenty thousand gold is enough to make up for their inconvenience. Caras made a sour face as the wizard placed his mark on the parchments before him.

Paragon 157 to 4 roared. The sound shook the depot, spreading dread through his enemies and bolstering his allies. The war-forged turned and jumped down into the sewers. His lads followed, turning their backs on the Hussars, adding insult to injury. Paragon understands now, the storm raging within him just needed release. He is elated, he is sure that it is a sign from Dol Dorn. Theodyl bowed politely and made his exit. The changelings kept him covered. Marat and Caras looked at each other for a long time. It will be a while before they get themselves sorted out. They can't give chase and the bastards are counting on it. The Hussars will not forget.

“Worry not Caras, I wager those two will be easy to find.” The wizard said.

“I have never been so humiliated.” Commander Caras spoke through his teeth. “They caught us with our eyes closed, it won't happen again.”

“Have someone look into Theodyl Vair's Millitary Records, do the same for Paragon at House Cannith. We must get to know them if we are to beat them.” The wizard patted the Hussar on his shoulder.

“They mentioned Karrnath, only the best came back from there.” Caras reminisced. “The Longstriders served as special scouts and infantry. They formed teams to hunt vampires and ghouls, they kept us alive while we slept. I don't like this. They often went mad from such work.” Caras sheathed his blade. “That bard, I think he is dangerous.”

“I want to meet with the Inquisitor Niabelis tomorrow.” The wizard shook his head. “The Necromancer may prove difficult, but we must arrange to speak with him as well.” Caras made a face. “If the half-elf's story doesn't hold up, I will personally sign his warrant. Espionage, Blackmail, Tampering with State Evidence, and Trading in State Secrets, will do for a start. The Hussars will of course take care of his capture.”

“It will be done.” Caras walked away wearing a dangerous smile. Every single one of those charges calls for an execution.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Loose Ends, Chapter 25

“You did well,” Paragon said to Theodyl, “the Hussars have never failed to avenge themselves once they call a blood-debt.”

“Screw the Hussars, the problem is the Twelve,” Theodyl shook his head, “They are worried about the Hag's Plague. Killing their agent would have been the end of us!”

“Screw the Wizard!” Paragon made a rude gesture, making Theodyl grin at his rapidly improving talent for expression. “Have you made the arrangements? Our ship leaves Sharn at the end of the week.”

“It's all set.” The bard confirmed. “and our ship leaves tomorrow. After the meeting at noon, we are leaving for the Mror Holds.”

“What about my lads” Paragon grumbled.

“The first fifty left already.” Theodyl smiled. “The others are waiting to leave with us. The dwarves have the best equipment for sale, and we can probably start work right away. They have no end of trouble in their tunnels.”

“Is Pyrus coming?” the war-forged asked.

“He said he might, he's got obligations at Morgrave University, though.” The bard replied. “And I don't like the way he looks at me, truth be told.

Paragon 157 to 4 harrumphed. Pyrus has likely discovered the wonder that is Theodyl Vair. The wizard Stargazer purchased his contract directly from his maker and then planted him where he could protect Theodyl. The Longstriders were a hard outfit, but it is there that Paragon first discovered his true self. Keeping Theodyl alive wasn't easy. Keeping the strange half-elf away was even harder. Theodyl made every Longstrider his friend. He smiled through the worse of battles, singing to keep his brother's hearts from breaking. Often, he took risks so that others would not. Sure, he gambled and cheated them of their pay. Sure, he often told tremendous lies for entertainment. The bard toed the line between mischief and summary execution. But he never failed the Regiment.

The bard was the first to make friends with the war-forged, before even they realized that they needed friends. He stood up for them and saw to it that they became his brothers, just as any other. Paragon remembers watching Theodyl cry as he mutilated the bodies of the fallen to keep them from the Karrnathi Necromancers. The half-elf made sure to seem cheerful once he reached the squad. It was then that Paragon broke his own rules and decided to befriend his charge. A good thing too, Theodyl would have gone mad otherwise. He's never looked back, despite his frustrations.

“I knew you would come,” Paragon spoke as he patted his friend's shoulders. “There was no way for me to escape.”

“Of course,” Theodyl grinned, “You said you wanted a family, The 1st Dragonne Expeditionary Company needs it's Patriarch.”

“War Captain.”

“Whatever.”

They made for the basement below the inn. After the other war-forged took their leave, Theodyl introduced Paragon to his secret rooms. Pook and Ivor got into an argument while they packed. Patter and Siff ambushed Theodyl and threatened to use the Traveler's Blessings to neuter him unless he took more care to keep the other two happy. Paragon decided to write a book about the wonders of flesh people. He spied on Theodyl as he tried to make peace. To his surprise, Pook and Ivor turned on him. Siff pulled the war-forged aside and explained everything. Patter sat down, drank the bard's wine and watched the fireworks he helped to start. Siff smacked him in the back of the head, but only because he was choking on a chunk of Theodyl's cheese and the other was hogging the drink. Paragon clapped his hands and took charge of the packing, the gang has brains and talent, but he is going to have to take the lead.

Hours Later, at the Sharn City Trade House....

Mooneye Rocco eyed Theodyl and his gang. He isn't happy, and that is not a good thing when a lich is concerned. Marat interrupted a very expensive experiment in his zeal to get the Truth. It wasn't a total disaster, though the man from the Twelve will likely never grow his hair back. Still, Theodyl is responsible. The lich is running out patience with the half-elf.

“So, Theodyl, what did you say to my apprentice?” The lich asked, almost casually.

“Oh, nothing,” Theodyl shrugged, “I pointed out that he needed to worry about something other than me.”

“He tried to kill me again.” Mooneye hissed. “What exactly did you point out?”
“Well....” Paragon glared at the bard. “I thought that instead of fitting me for a knife in the back, he should worry about the fact that he's been dealing with dolgrim and that you, likely, have noticed.”

“Did you expect to replace him or did you just do this on some random whim?” The lich's eyes flared for a moment. “I had to destroy him.”

“Random whim?” Theodyl replied. Krogger was dumber than he thought. There are beads of sweat on his brow.

“You are in for a surprise then. We shall have a talk after this, nothing fancy, your friends can stay.” The lich decided to ignore the bard until the clients arrive, maybe it will encourage Theodyl to consider his options.

Back at the Sewers......

Lady, as Private Niabelis is now called among the Dog Soldiers, stared at the letter in her hands. She doesn't know how the Bishop found out, but her latest exploits have drawn his attention. The three holy texts lying on her cot scare her. She is commanded to study, even as she continues to serve under the Dog Soldiers. Lady is not happy.

Crazy as it sounds, she would rather remain an exile. Now that she can clearly see the path that lies before her, Inquisitor Niabelis would rather remain foolish and ignorant. The Bishop, no, The Silver Flame calls for a Champion. Lady stared at her reflection in the mirror and wondered. The last battle left her scarred. The Flame bleached her hair, her skin, and her clothes; she will never be the same. She can feel where the Holy Fire touched her, there is power there now. Her mind, though, is the same. The doubts, jealousies, and pride are still there. Is she worthy? Could she ever be?

“You can't sit there and mope all day.” Inquisitor Pallas frowned as he entered her tent. “Come, you have to exercise your leg, you will end up with a limp if you don't start walking everyday.”

“Is the Chaplain at his duties?” She asked, while trying to figure out what to do with her mace. “I was supposed to assist him.”

“Yeah, but he's still angry about the Berserker. I don't know why, we proved he was free of taint. He acts like we were out to kill the boy.” He helped her up and handed her a sturdy iron wood staff.

“Don't worry, they treat everybody like that, outsiders, I mean.” She said. “We are guilty of the same. I see that now.”

“Did the Flame grant you a sense of humor to go with that wisdom?” The Inquisitor smiled.

“I'll let you know.” She frowned, but her brown eyes were smiling. He watched her blush for the first time since he's known her. He considers it an improvement.

The wizard Marat is waiting in the Captain's tent. She has permission to make the man wait. The contingent of Hussars escorting the wizard was too pushy for the High Captain's liking. His apprentice, the young man with the broken hand, said the wrong thing to Foe Crusher. If Sgt. Ironson hadn't taken charge, there would have been another fight.

The grizzled veteran is like a mother hen when it comes to the Dog Soldiers. She remembers seeing him at her side when she woke up after the fight. His eyes were so very soft. He carried her to the healers praying under his breath the whole time. They were prayers to his own Gods, but she felt the impressive strength of his faith. Once, it was clear she wasn't going to die, he went back to being a bastard. She won't forget what she saw, however. Private Niabelis smiled, feeling like a girl for the first time in years. Sweet Lips will know about the Sergeant. They are family. She will start asking questions next time she sees him.

Back to Theodyl, Sharn City Trade House....

“We have arrived.”

Neither of the men seemed like anything out of the ordinary. The first was dressed like a frumpy warrior reaching middle age. The other is dressed like wizard. The Necromancer did not bother speaking until they were both seated. Theodyl kept his mouth shut, as instructed. The lich is in charge.

“I see you have Stargazer's pet with you, when we are done I want to see it do some tricks.” Nadothon laughed at his own joke.

“I met your mother at a whorehouse, she could do tricks too.” Blackscale sneered. “She tried to sing her way out of a burning building. Dumb trick, even for a human.”

“You will address me,” The lich cut in. “I will be conducting negotiations on behalf of Ser Vair. Do you have anything to add?”

“No, Master Mooneye,” Theodyl gazed at the two dragons, “please continue.” Stargazer's ghost told him about his mother's death. Nothing these animals can say will make a difference. When the time comes, he will not kill them in anger.

Mooneye placed the Dragon File on top of the table. Nadothon made the first offer. Blackscale waited to pounce with a counter to Mooneye's reply. The lich remained silent. Nadothon sneered and made several more unpleasant comments. Blackscale laughed. Mooneye continued to wait, a tactic used mainly by older dragons when dealing with lesser relatives and petitioners. Theodyl did not expect to find a student of dragon lore wearing a skeleton. He is impressed.

“Well, is the offer acceptable?” Nadothon broke first.

“No, not at all,” The lich replied. “It isn't enough.”

“You dare?!” Blackscale growled. “I used to hunt monkeys in the hills where your ancestors were born! They would cower in their holes, offering up their children so that I might spare them!”

“You don't dictate prices to our kind.” Nadothon hissed.

“It is enough that you want this.” The lich tore a page from the file and reduced it to ash. “Can we please begin?”

“What is it that you want?” Nadothon crossed his arms. He is radiating anger, the room is starting to warm. Blackscale is openly staring at Theodyl, the fact that he can't get a response out of him is starting to irk the dragon.

“Forget this!! Let's just take it.” Blackscale's acrid breath punctuated his words. Mooneye destroyed two more pages.

“No! Stop! I will negotiate. If you destroy anymore pages I will kill you both.” Nadothon's eyes are alight with fire. His every word is like a fist.

Mooneye Rocco has dealt with devils and demons. Once, he dealt with a God to save his soul. An angry dragon is a pleasing novelty. The lich stated his price. Blackscale lost his temper, his tantrum went largely ignored. Nadothon sat there for several minutes before he decided.

“Stargazer's Spell-shard, The Crown Jewels of Galifar, The Pearl of Zandros the Wise and Freedom for the two monkeys.” Nadothon forced the words through his teeth. “The trade is acceptable.” The dragon grinned like he's just won a game of dice. Theodyl felt a chill.

The lich waved his had over the Dragon File. The sheets fell to dust. Theodyl placed the original on the table along with several items his Master wanted to pass on to the murderous pair.

“Stargazer named you both in his Will.” Theodyl spoke. “The books are for Elder Nadothon. The box belongs to Elder Blackscale.”

Blackscale and Nadothon argued for a bit. Theodyl made no sign that he can understand their words. Nadothon finally snapped his fingers to summon some sort of genie. The creature nodded and disappeared.

“My servant will return with your property shortly.” Blackscale snorted rudely. Nadothon crossed his arms again. “Tell me, what do you intend to do with the spell-shard? You have to know it is useless, it's light faded with Stargazer's passing.”

“It doesn't matter.” Theodyl said. “He left it to another, it is enough for me.”

The dragons both turned to look at the bard. He felt their eyes boring into him, but he gave no sign of discomfort. The jeweled necklace beneath his collar will keep them from his mind. The two dragons cannot read anything from his neutral posture so they will hesitate to act rashly. Wizards and sages who speak draconic rarely master the subtleties of the language, fewer still understand the physical components of draconic communication. Posture and expression are just as important as pronunciation.

Perhaps, it was a mistake to say that others will also benefit from Stargazer's will. The druidess in the Aldeen Reaches and the dwarf in the Mror Holds are unknown to him. The dragons may know more, but he doesn't want them paying him anymore attention. He's already made the mistake, now he must pretend it never happened so that they don't pounce on the opportunity. The servant returned. The dragons claimed their prize and promptly left as quietly as they came. Mooneye claimed his treasures, wasting not a glance at Theodyl's new spell-shard.

“We have to leave quickly,” Theodyl said while looking very nervous. “ It went too easy, I don't think this place is safe anymore.” The lich hissed.

“What do you mean?” Mooneye wove a spell. “I can't detect anything out of the ordinary.”

“They agreed to our trade, just our trade. There is nothing to keep them from reclaiming our payment!” Theodyl snapped.

Theodyl didn't pause to explain, he wrapped the spell-shard in a cloak and invited the lich to make haste. He can't put the feeling into words, but he knows he's got to leave the Trade House. Paragon and the Changelings were waiting outside of the room. The bard told them trouble was coming. It was enough. Within minutes they were running through the sewers. They felt the tunnels shake, then a wall of dust swept from the direction they came.

“That will be far enough.” The Necromancer snapped. “It is time for our talk.” Theodyl froze in place. He could see, from the edge of his vision that his companions are trapped as well. “I have a task for you half-elf. Take these books, I give you five years to master them before I seek you out and put you to the test.”

“nnnnnhmm rephush!” Theodyl forced through his teeth.

“No. I prayed to my Lord Aureon and His Wisdom confirms it. You may resist even me, but you cannot deny the will of a God.” Mooneye placed his cold hand on the bard's chest. “By the Will of my Lord, I charge thee with this task. In five years time you are to master the lessons held within these three books. Do not Fail.”

The necklace failed to protect him. Theodyl felt the Will of a God touch his soul and leave it's indelible mark. He resisted, but it meant nothing. He prayed for Olladra's smile. Nothing. The Geas became part of him. He felt it take root within his mind despite his Will, despite his Rage. The half-elf broke the Hold Spell imprisoning his form only to collapse. The lich cocked his head. He leaned in close and whispered into Theodyl's ear before fading away.

“I admit I was forceful at first. Such things do not work with people like you, for that I apologize.” The lich hissed. “You have drawn the attention of the Sovereign Host. Weather it is for good or ill, I do not know. It is enough that it pleases my God. I look forward to your test, do not disappoint me.”

Paragon lifted Theodyl off the ground, the Changelings took up his equipment. If it weren't for the others Pook might be crying. Ivor is worried too, but she'll be damned if she admits it. Patter and Siff are smiling, with the bard, something incredible happens every day. They traveled silent and fast. Whatever happened at the Trade House is now the least of their problems. They have to leave before anything else goes wrong.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Falling Rocks and Lightning Rails, Chapter 26

The Sharn City Watch called an emergency muster. The City Trade House Building has been demolished. A four story tall statue of a dragon is lying atop of it's ruined foundation. Only six people died, but only because it happened during luch time. Unfortunately, one of them was a representative of House Vadalis. The City Council is in a panic. It is one disaster too many, they are petitioning the Seat of Breland for help.

“Please excuse me,” Marat said as he suddenly walked out of the Captain's tent.

High Captain Roland Sevin's ears filled with a noisome buzzing. During the war, the mage assigned to his office used just such a trick to keep his conversations private. It seems that Private Niabelis isn't impressed either. She's biting her lip. The wizard Marat hasn't had much luck with his interview, perhaps it is a ruse to shake her resolve. Private Niabelis has changed since the meeting in his office. Her tongue is as sharp as before, but there is more than attitude behind her eyes now. Marat needs to tread lightly. The Dog Soldiers are still cleaning up the last demon fool enough to stand before her. Captain Sevin smiled while holding up a bottle of wine. She nodded, they almost finished the bottle before the wizard returned.

“A very large statue of a dragon has just landed on the Sharn City Trade House.” Marat announced with a straight face. “Your City Council has petitioned the Seat of Breland for assistance. I am, for the moment, in charge of yet another investigation.”

“He speaks the truth,” Niabelis confirmed. The wizard was not happy to fall under her gaze.

“Does this mean you are leaving then?” Captain Sevin asked cheerfully.

“Provided she has not lead me false, I will not be returning.” The wizard frowned. “You should know captain, that the plague within the elemental has been rendered useless. When the flasks finally melt, my guess is, that it will leave this world.”

“And what of the plague flask you took?” The Captain snapped. “Is the Seat of Breland planning to use that abomination? I didn't fight a war just to start another. Tell me.”

“For what it's worth, you are doing an excellent job here. I will see to it that you have a future.” The wizard said as he left the tent.

Marat never answered the question. They heard the Hussars line up outside of the tent and then march away. Private Niabelis refilled the Captain's empty cup. He emptied it without saying a word. She felt the truth of Marat's words, but she didn't say anything. Likely, he already knows.

“You are dismissed, Private.” The Captain ordered. “Please inform Sgt. Ironson that I wish to see him.”

Above, at the Train Yards......

The Lightning Rail station is in shambles. A delegation from House Vadalis has bought out three rail cars. The City Watch forcefully emptied them of passengers, if they don't ease off, there's going to be a riot. The Vadalis retainers are carrying a coffin.

“What's that all about?” Theodyl whispered from beneath his cloak.

“A Vadalis Heir died in the Trade House, My Lady.” Patter responded, “It seems they are the cause of our delay.”

Theodyl is made up to look like an old widow. His wheel chair was enough to get his group to the front of the line, but no further. The changelings are dressed like her attendants. Paragon is playing the part of hired muscle. His fine new skin and blazing blue eyes are hidden beneath a veil of illusion. If things don't change, the bard is going to have to renew the spell. The Watch Sergeant, a young man named Henry, has been giving them just enough attention to keep them on their toes.

“Where's that dashing young man Patty? I can't stay here, I'm an old woman I'm too tired for this!” the old widow whined loudly.

“No worries ma'm! My boys will see you to your compartment.” The Sergeant rushed to her side. His lads all made faces at the mixture of odors emanating from her person. The Sergeant, however locked his gaze on them until they did precisely as she demanded.

“Oh thank you! Thank you!” the old lady beamed at the young man. “You remind me of my son. He was so very kind......” The old lady seemed to fade as if digging for some long buried memory. “I can't seem to remember his face anymore.”

The old woman started to cry. She drew an expensive picture frame from her bag and spoke to it as she sniffled. Her attendants worked to distract her from her grief, but she blocked them at every turn. One of them, a young woman with pouty lips, turned to the officer.

“Please, her heart can't take it, talk to her,” She almost begged, “I know she'll listen.” He almost refused, but her eyes spoke to him. A heady scent of roses filled his senses.

“Come now, mother, don't cry.” The Sergeant said gently, “Tell me about your son, maybe we can remember together.” The attendant, a girl named Patty, took the opportunity to wipe the old woman's tears and remove the picture frame from her gnarled fingers. She eyed the officer in a way that made his heart speed up.

The war-forged bodyguard entered the compartment first. Once he was satisfied, the attendants made it comfortable for their mistress. The Sergeant stayed a few minutes until the old woman fell asleep. Afterwards, Patty walked out with him. Pook, Ivor, and Siff made a show of looking the other way. The war-forged only had eyes for his client.

“Patty's a slut.” Pook broke the silence. “I never would have thought....”

“Now now, Posie. He was a handsome boy,” Theodyl said with his old lady voice. “and he was so very very kind.” Ivor and Siff shook their heads while grinning from ear to ear.

Paragon Harrumphed. Fifty of his men are squeezed into two freight cars at the other end of the train. He's got no patience for masquerades or bed games. If the rumors are to be believed, the dragons dropped a statue the size of a building on top of the Trade House. He can't wait to hit the fields again. Honest fighting, that's what he wants. Maybe, with the City of Sharn behind them, Theodyl will cease his games and act like the soldier he knows him to be.

The whistle blew. A ringing alarm sounded in every car on the train. Patty, looking a little bit disheveled, made it to the compartment just before the train started to move. She gave Siff a big kiss before she said anything. Apparently, the kind young man wasn't as innocent as he looked. Theodyl wriggled out of his costume. He set up a Privacy Ward so that they may speak freely.

“What did you find out?” The bard asked while passing out glasses. A bottle of wine had been waiting for them in his bag.

Patter giggled, he can't help it, he rarely plays a girl. The Sergeant told her about the House Vadalis contingent riding the train. The City Council is trying to stay on their good side, they have some sort of business with them. He also told her about a group of people he's supposed to look out for. One of them, their leader, is a bard. They made love in the baggage compartment. She picked a passenger list out of his pockets as well as a conductor's skeleton key. Patter gave them all the details.

The information is a boon. It's a good thing Theodyl didn't carry any of his instruments openly. His flute is hidden within the wheelchair along with a set of pan pipes and a tin fife. They don't make stringed instruments that are easy hide. The harp bow is too unique, anyone looking for him would have recognized it right away. His voice is his greatest asset, though. He's never without.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Something Strange, Chapter 27

Something Strange, Chapter 27

“May I see your tickets?” The stiff conductor bowed slightly as he made his request. These are the kind of passengers he likes, Old Money. “During our brief stop at Passage, a few of our larger suites will become available. Those Vadalis savages inconvenienced quite a few of our clients. I have been told you would have preferred better accommodations?”

“How considerate of you....” Theodyl's old lady voice crooned. The conductor reached out for her gnarled hand and planted a kiss on her ring.

“Juno, Madame, at your service.” The conductor said as he palmed his tip and handed her a new set of rail passes. “The Thrane authorities will expect to see you identity papers. A minor inconvenience...” The old lady's attendant handed the man a purse. “...but I will see to it that you are not disturbed. These chits will allow you access to the Dining Car. Please don't hesitate to call me if you require anything else.”

The conductor hurried away. The cloying scent of old age and nameless medicinal unguents made his head spin. Still, his pockets are full. The Lightning Rail offers steady work, but it won't make a man rich. The secret lies in Service, the rich always want a little extra and Juno makes sure that they get it. As he strolled away he made calculations in his head. His supervisor gets a full cut, the girl at the Dining Car gets a tip , and the Inspectors from Thrane get another. His retirement fund gets fatter by the day.

“That was easy.” Siff mused.

“Basic Economics,” Theodyl grinned, “everybody wants to make a coin.”

“Yeah.....” Everyone but Paragon sighed.

“Money is the least of our problems, we need to get to the Mror Holds without anymore trouble.” Paragon worked to keep his friends on point. “That means no games, schemes, or bright ideas from any of you.”

All of them agreed with the hulking war-forged. Paragon 157 to 4 let his unwavering gaze weigh over all of them. Experience tells him, this isn't over. He will have to keep watching for the rest of the trip. They might be smarter, but they don't have his focus or his patience.

“So....” Theodyl smiled through his make up. “Who wants to play some dice?”

Paragon confiscated five sets of loaded dice from his companions. He then removed a harness from Theodyl's wrist containing another two sets. The changelings had a good laugh at the bard's expense. The war-forged harrumphed. He drew an honest set of die from his belt and tossed. Siff called his bet. The game is on.

Elsewhere on the Lightning Rail, House Vadalis..........

“All clear, sir.” The Vadalis retainers turned to face the doors of their rail car, weapons ready.

The coffin lay on its bier. Morel lay his hand on it and prayed that the House will not hold his men responsible for the boy's death. Lodit d'Vadalis was young for an Heir. He was born in one of the many farms of the Eldeen Reaches. The House adopted him just two years ago. It was just a minor negotiation. A training run designed to help the young heir's training along. His escort died within the Trading House, there is no way to know what in blazes he was doing there. Sharn City Council has been more than helpful. Morel has no respect for their machinations, he assumes that they are afraid to loose on whatever deal he was working on.

“Morel, we've identified the spy.” One of his men interrupted his thoughts.
“It's Kreen, we found this in his luggage.” The burly guard gritted his teeth as he spoke. A letter and a bag full of gems hung from his fists.

“Bring him to me.” Morel growled. “Post sentries in the hall, there is going to be a lot of noise. Find that suck-up toadie Juno and pay him off if necessary.”

Kreen was Lodit's best friend. They had been together since before the boy bore a mark. Was it money, jealousy? Morel will find out. He felt a chill crawling up his spine as his ears picked up the struggling prisoner being led to his rail car. Once, before House Vadalis, he was a ranger and a Bounty Hunter. Asking questions was a specialty he was ashamed of. Kreen is about to learn a harsh lesson.

“Strap him down to that chair.” Morel ordered, not deigning to look at the young man's face. “Olriff, did you find this?”

“No sir, it was the new man from Owl's Perch.” The big man answered wiping the sweat from his brow. “Eriol, he just signed up a year ago.

“I want him here for this then.” Olriff twitched. “Be ready to kill either of them.” Every one of his men stiffened at his words. Morel doesn't care. His instincts guide him as much as his educated mind. He draws the line, though, at having to explain himself his men. They know who's in charge.

Kreen made noises through his gag. He's been tied up tight. His hands are further bonded in stiff leather gauntlets. He's no mage, but you never know. Morel sat and read through the letter found in his luggage. His eyebrows went up. House Vadalis has plans to marry off the young Heir, he already knew that. The relationship between the two young men, is something he did not expect. On hindsight, he should have noticed. Morel glared at the Kreen, he made a distinct sniffing sound and then turned away. Olriff is on his way back with the Eriol fellow. He can hear them chattering away. Eriol is a nervous talker, good to know.

“Shut the doors.” Morel snapped. His men are nervous, but they are on point. One of them is conveniently close to Eriol's back. He removed his prisoner's gag and got things started. “Tell me, where were you at noon today.”

The young man spat. His next few sentences weren't very polite. Morel drew his long knife. It is sheathed in silver, and it is very sharp. Kreen eyed the blade, but he didn't budge until he saw the guards turning away. Lodit was leaving him. The letter broke his heart, but the bag of gems set a fire in his blood. He wasn't about to be dismissed like a tavern whore.

“What was he doing at the Trade House?” Morel pushed, his knife tracing an imaginary line across his throat. “I checked his itinerary, he was supposed to be at the House for a 1 P.M. Appointment.”

“How the hell should I know, I was waiting for him at the station!” the young man snapped, “He wanted to make sure I got on the Lightning Rail. I was going to make a big show of it to embarrass him.” Kreen sniffled and bit his lip. “I never wanted any of this.....he's the one who talked me into tagging along!”

“Stupid Poof,” Eriol sneered, “Didn't I tell you?” Olriff started to laugh loudly. Morel has been watching Eriol, the cruel jive aside, the man has a relieved look in his eyes. Twice, he's seen the man wipe his palm on his tabard. His palms are very sweaty.

“Olriff, when precisely did Eriol tell you Kreen was a “Poof”?” Morel cocked his head towards the two.

“Just as we was walking here.” Eriol answered. “Isn't that right?”

“No, he was making jokes since last week, Sir.” Olriff corrected. Almost everyone he meets assumes that he is stupid. Morel is the only person who's never made that mistake.

“Did he read the letter when he found it?” Morel turned his blade towards Eriol. The guard behind him is ready for the man to bolt.

“No Sir, I read it.” Olriff bit his lip. “But Eriol wasn't there, I sent him to watch the exit, just in case, Sir.”

“How did you know Eriol?” Morel growled dangerously. “Did someone else tell you?”

The man moved so fast none of the guards had time to react. A knife flew across the room and sank into Morel's chest. Another knife bit into Olriff's belly. The Vadalis retainers drew steel and moved to put a stop to Eriol. The man didn't stand still long enough to let them. He was moving too fast to be human.

“Leave him to me!!!” Morel barked, “watch the doors, don't let him out!”

Eriol lunged towards Morel, but nearly tripped as a pair of bestial orange eyes caught his gaze. Morel grinned through a set of gleaming white fangs. The spy back pedaled, trying to halt his own charge. Morel caught him by the arm and slammed Eriol into the floor. His arm bent at an unnatural angle. Something broke. The man's good arm lashed out with a knife, but it did nothing to stop the werewolf. Morel caught his wrist and wrenched until it broke. The man tried to kick away, his legs are moving superhumanly fast. Morel grinned, soaking up the damage. In one swift movement he trapped an offending limb and broke it at the knee. The man passed out. He then picked him up by his shirt and tossed him onto a sturdy chair.

“Tie him down!” the werewolf growled. “Strip him, search for magic and anything else of interest!” His blood is running hot, he took a moment to pray and calm his raging heart. He's hungry. “Olriff, set his bones and bandage his ribs. No healing until later, though. I want some answers first.”

Kreen stared at the House Vadalis Retainers with open mouthed shock. In all his life, he's never seen the like. Morel stared back at him as his features slowly regained their ruggedly human appearance. To his credit, the young man did not flinch. It isn't everyday that happens. House Vadalis will have to decide his fate. A tale about werewolves would not be convenient for the House.

“Are you going to untie me, yet?” The young man demanded. “I'll be damned if I soil myself in front of you bastards!”

“Untie the boy.” Ordered Morel. “Keep him here, though, he might want to see this.” Somehow, the ranger was a lot more terrifying when he spoke in a calm voice.

“My father calls me boy, and no one else!” Kreen spat. He always did have a temper. “Let me at my sword and I will teach you a lesson!” Big mouth, little sword the soldiers say. He was politely ignored.

The men held Eriol down as Olriff wrestled his limbs back into their proper shapes and bandaged them. He mewled like a baby. Morel asked him some questions, he passed out again. They feed him a minor curative to bring him back to consciousness.

“Whom do you serve, traitor?” The questions started again.

Now back to Theodyl's room........

Theodyl woke up to find the dwarven spirit staring at him. He shook the sleep from his eyes and reached for a bottle of wine. It was empty. Now fully awake, the bard crawled out of his bunk and snatched a bottle from Siff's sleeping arms.

“How goes it, Ser Dwarf? You haven't been around much.” Theodyl said as he uncorked his new bottle.

“I've been at my Post.” The dwarf puffed out his chest. “There was some trouble, some thief has been at me door.” The dwarf's anger made the room cold.

“I can't imagine anyone giving you trouble.” Theodyl raised his eyebrows and wondered what could be so important to keep the dwarf from his grave. Was it an oath? Is he cursed? Could it be a powerful sense of Duty? He briefly thought to ask. Would the spirit be offended? It would make a great song.

“They didn't.” The dwarf growled. “But that isn't what I came here for. I've somebody who'd like to speak to ye. It is another spirit, but not here.” The dwarf's answer shook the bard out of his thoughts. The spirit has never asked for anything other than beer and a good fight.

Theodyl dressed, careful not to wake the changelings. Paragon is probably with his lads in the freight cars. He snatched up his flute and Patter's cloak on his way out. A good thief should sleep lightly. The half-elf almost snickered.

“This way.” The dwarf waved just before slipping through a wall.

Theodyl used the skeleton key Patter acquired earlier to gain access to a state room. It is immediately obvious to him that it's been searched and ransacked. There are clothes everywhere. The dwarven spirit is standing in the middle of the room and a hazy shape is hovering beside him.

“This is Lodit,” the spirit said, “he was pretty upset when I found him. He's got a friend that's in trouble.”

The ghost of a young man took shape before Theodyl's eyes. He is wearing a House Vadalis Sigil on his vest. The bard felt his heart sink as he remembered the coffin and the House Vadalis retainers. Six people died when the dragons crushed the Sharn Trade House. He feels more than a little guilty.

“What can I do for you?” the bard asked. The spirit did not speak, rather a swirl of images, words, and emotions invaded his mind. It took a few moments, but as soon as he understood, Theodyl made for the House Vadalis suites on the Lightning rail.

Olriff let the half-elf in after searching him for weapons. Apart from a bottle of wine and a flute, the bard carried nothing of interest. Morel looked up from his prisoner with interest as the half-elf spoke the password. The werewolf caught the scent of too much wine and a little bit of nervousness. No lies.

“I don't know you, what the hell do you want?” Morel growled. Eriol mewled. His face looks like a potato, he probably thinks he was being asked another question. “Heal him, let him rest for an hour. No food, but water is fine.”

“I bear a message for one Morel of Vadalis and another for Kreen of Mossmantle.” Theodyl spoke as he emptied his wine bottle. “I would prefer to do it all at once.” The room grew noticeably colder. A ghostly shape drew everyone's attention.

“Lodit d'Vadalis wishes to say that the Hag from Aundair has taken an interest in House Vadalis trade in Sharn. He would like to warn the border towns to watch for mercenary raids paid for by Aundair Nobles. She wants your Lands.” Morel looked a bit shaken, but he hid his expression almost instantly. “He further advises you not to kill Eriol, he is working for some other House Vadalis interests. They intended to gain control of the young Heir through Blackmail. They found out about Kreen. You will find some letters to that effect in Eriol's room, inside his bed cushion. Lodit was lured to the Sharn Trade House to meet one of their agents. Your men were not at fault, though some would say otherwise.”

The room was silent. Morel's hands shook with rage. Lodit's hazy apparition drifted towards a young man staring fearfully at the bard. Theodyl felt sorry for him, he would be scared of ghosts too if he had any sense. When the bard gets a chance, he intends to beg, borrow, or steal some.

“Kreen, Lodit says that he's sorry. He was trying to get you out of danger, he didn't have time to be gentle about it. Lodit loves you and he hopes that you can forgive him. He says that you would have been happier if he hadn't talked you into leaving your home town.” Theodyl cocked his head as if to listen to some far away voices.

“Here is a gift, more befitting My Handsome Swashbuckler from the Reaches.” Another spoke through Theodyl's mouth. Kreen's eyes filled with tears at the sound of his Lover's voice. The bard shook the presence away with a shudder. He felt the ghost's emotions for just a fraction of a moment. “Lodit says that you should still watch your temper, even if you now have a blade to back up your sharp tongue.”

A heavy bundle hit the floor just in front of Kreen. It simply fell out of nowhere. Morel growled looking about nervously. The young man shook the stone dust from it and unwrapped it with unsteady hands. Theodyl realized it must have come from beneath the rubble in Sharn. An intense feeling of shame made his face burn. He watched Kreen examine his gift with bitter sweet delight. It is a jeweled dueling saber, in a green snake skin sheath. The young man drew it and blinked at the polished blade. He sniffled, but he did not cry.

“Thank you...” Kreen choked. “I'm sorry I was mad at you. I didn't mean what I said. I am not sorry I left Mossmantle, not one bit.” The young man swung the blade, testing it's balance. He gave the prisoner a very unpleasant look. Morel stepped protectively in between them.

“He heard you, Kreen.” Theodyl said helping himself to the luxurious bar.
“He says Thank You and Goodbye.” The ghostly shape faded away.

“That's some of my best bourbon, damn it,” Morel complained, “At least pour me a glass.” Theodyl ended up serving everyone in the rail car. The prisoner wore his drink. “Disinfectant,” Morel said cruelly.

Introductions followed more drinks. Theodyl answered what questions he could, to tell the truth, he wanted to leave. Once he started talking though, he forgot about his troubles for a moment. The House Vadalis men were very suspicious. To their credit they coaxed their answers out of him rather than being pushy. Lodit's spirit is gone. He could still see the dwarven spirit, even if they could not. Theodyl was very safe. Kreen sat quietly nursing his drink. He stared at the coffin mostly. The men from Vadalis did not include him in their jests. Neither did the young man try to join their conversations.

Once boredom set in, Theodyl left. Morel told him to look him up in Niern, if he ever visits the Eldeen Reaches. The bard is feeling strangely worn. He needs to think about what just happened, but he is too tired. He didn't even say hello to Paragon as he collapsed into his bunk. His dreams were not pleasant. He twisted and turned frequently in his sleep.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Troubles at Passage, Chapter 28

Note: Thanks to Ragboy's Advice, our hero will now feel the cruel squeeze of the Wheels of Fate and then some. Please don't cry, near as I can tell he should survive to reproduce. I hope you enjoy this as much as I....Oh, and I would like to thank all my readers. Bye.


Pook settled uncomfortably into the wheel chair. Apart from the fact that she didn't need the layers of make up that Theodyl wore to play the role of an old widow, everything else is a hassle. Paragon is in the freight car, Theodyl can't renew his illusory disguise he's too sick. Javelin is taking his place, his frame matches the old disguise with just a few adjustments. The fact that most people can't tell a war-forged from another is a blessing.

“Where can we find a healer?” The old lady asked her attendants. “I don't suppose there is a House Jorasco Hospice about?”

“Pardon me, Madame,” A young man approached the party. “but I can't help but overhear that you have need of a healer.” Javelin took a step forward, the young man's hand moved towards a fine looking saber at his side.

“Javelin, please.” The old woman interceded. “Don't mind him, he's very loyal. My attendant is sick with a fever, he's very dear to me.” The old woman made like she was going to cry. Her attendants started to make a fuss.

“Where do you think you're goin'?” A man bearing House Vadalis colors grabbed the young man by the arm. “Morel is cranky, you don' wanna push him.”

“Hands off, Olriff!” The young man snapped, “Our friend from last night has taken ill. I was just trying to help.” Ivor pulled Theodyl protectively towards her. He is sleeping on a bench. He passed out just as they were leaving the station. The other changelings moved behind the two strangers.

“Easy now, my name is Kreen.” The young man made introductions, “this is Olriff. Theodyl helped us out last night, we just want to return the favor.”

“Ye can trust them,” the dwarven spirit's gruff voice interjected, “the elf-blood needs help soon. This be no normal fever, or my pappy's a gnome.”

Kreen went a bit pale. Olriff's eyes went wild. Pook had no choice, the dwarf rarely speaks around strangers. It is Theodyl's friend and that is good enough for the changeling. The old woman allowed the young man to lead them to a less crowded location. Olriff helped to carry Theodyl. He can feel waves of heat emanating from the half-elf.

“I can guess you don't want to draw attention.” Kreen spoke to the old woman, and then looked around afraid the ghost would speak again. “There is a healer named Doonah not far from here, very discrete. She's a friend, so if you have trouble following I need to know now.”

“Our troubles are behind us.” Ivor blurted out, “Please, I can't wake him up, let's hurry!”

“Alright then,” Kreen sighed, “we are going to need a coach.”

The ride was less than comfortable. Javelin rode on the outside, hanging from a set of straps. Olriff sat with the driver. Everyone else squeezed into the cab. They traveled to a set of warehouses along the waterfront. The smell told them that they were being used as stables. A small House Vadalis sigil graced their gates. Kreen paid the driver and took the time to help the old woman out of the cab. Her attendants made sure she settled comfortably into her wheel chair. Javelin was glued to her side.

Doonah turned out to be a old female half-orc with a club foot and an oddly twisted back. She was tending to a wounded Pegasus when Kreen called out to her. She limped over cursing under her breath. The young man tried to assist her, but she whacked his shins with her walking staff. Kreen cursed like a sailor, she whacked him again.

“What's wrong with him?” Doonah demanded as she made straight for the unconscious half-elf. “Get him to my chambers.”

Olriff dragged Theodyl into a large room with a massive operating table. Jars of herbs and reagents lined the walls. Doonah had Olriff lay the half-elf on a smaller padded table and commanded one of the changelings to strip him. As they hurried to help, she passed her hands over the hot, burning skin and sniffed at the humors rising from the body.

“I smell magic,” She said, mostly to herself, “Something else, too...Does this one bear a Mark?” Her hands brushed over his chest searching for the source of his distress. “Mmmm, I feel something odd here, it is very hot.....This is Vadalis business, yes?” Kreen shifted uncomfortably. Olriff coughed.

“Mistress Doonah, please do what you can. He's done us a great service, Morel will take care of you.” Olriff spoke up.

The orcish woman made a face. She dug out a wand from a drawer and picked out a small pouch from one of the shelves lining the wall. Doonah eyed Kreen suspiciously before turning again to her patient. She started to drone a song in her native tongue while shaking the pouch over the half-elf. As the glittering powder from the pouch hit Theodyl's skin a snaky pattern of reds and a blacks was revealed over his heaving chest. It's a Dragon Mark. Doonah cursed. She resumed her spell, shaking the pouch over the rest of her patient's body. His belt buckle started to glow, then a ring hidden in his left pocket. A silvery bracelet on his ankle lit up like a star, Doonah nearly jumped away.

“Take the rest of his clothing,” She snapped at the others, “Be careful of the magic, I don't know what it does.” Doonah sucked her teeth as the Dragon Mark faded away from his chest. She used the wand to identify the item. “The bracelet is strong magic, a veiling, I think. It is potent enough to completely hide a Dragon Mark. I don't like how it feels.”

“Is he going to be alright?” the old woman demanded, her voice sounding very young. “What's wrong with him?”

“He used the Mark, maybe.” Doonah answered while glaring at Olriff, “It happens with young Heirs learning to use their gifts.” She lay a wet rag on Theodyl's brow and opened his mouth to sniff at his breath. “The Mark grows hot and they get sick if they use it too much. This isn't a Vadalis Heir, though. I don't know that Mark and I don't want the trouble of knowing.”

“What does that mean?” Javelin asked.

“It means that you people lied to me.” Doonah growled. “I know that veils don't always work with Dragon Marks. I remember that the House has a ring that will hide a Least Mark, but it makes an Heir with a stronger Mark sick. They can't use a Mark while wearing such a thing, it is very bad. Your Lodit had that problem, yes?”

“Lodit is dead,” Kreen told the woman, “there was an accident in Sharn, a building collapse.” Olriff shook his head, Kreen glared at him.

“Tell me everything, I don't need this kind of trouble,” the woman threatened. “I am lucky they let me work as it is! Morel be damned!”

Olriff left to go get Morel. Kreen told the old woman everything that has happened in the last three days. Talk of Blackmail made the woman hiss. The letter and the bag of jewels sounded like something out of a romance novel. The pain behind his eyes, though, was real enough. Doonah went to pat him on the shoulder but he moved away. He talked about the accident, and of the investigation immediately after. Doonah wasn't surprised that Morel was able to catch the spy. She was sorry about his methods, however. When Kreen started talking about ghosts, things started falling into place for the healer. She examined his saber and hugged him tight. Lodit did love him, she knows.

Once the story was over she asked several questions about Theodyl. His parentage came up more than once. Theodyl has a true elven father, Doonah made a point of confirming that. The fact that he could talk to ghosts seemed very important as well. Theodyl never made a fuss over the dwarven spirit. The changelings got the feeling that Theodyl was in even more trouble, than they had thought. The woman's mood did not improve either.

“Tell us what's going on, please!” Ivor begged. “Is he going to be alright, the Lightning Rail leaves in three hours.”

“Your man needs rest.” Doonah finally answered. “He might get better without the bracelet, but I won't touch it. It is strange magic.”

Patter tried to remove the item from Theodyl's ankle. He got his fingers singed for his trouble. Siff fiddled around with the bracelet until he found a keyhole behind the clasp. Ivor spent an hour picking at it. Pook couldn't figure it out either. Finally, Doonah offered to cast a spell for them. Kreen haggled over the price, but the woman would not budge. Pook offered to pay the difference. She shifted to her own natural form out of frustration. Luckily, Theodyl had plenty of gold in his purse. Doonah produced an aged scroll and made a good show out of her preparations.

“Keep away, this might be dangerous.” She said just before she began to read.

The words turned strangely as the magic took shape. The bracelet started to glow again. It's light flashed with the rhythm of Doonah's voice. Theodyl stirred, moaning as if in a dream. A loud snapping sound marked the culmination of the spell. Siff moved quickly to tuck the bracelet into a small lead lined box they found in Theodyl's pockets. The healer swooned. Kreen helped her to a seat. A strangely beautiful pattern took shape over Theodyl's heart. The lines are black, like a birthmark or a tattoo. It's outer edges are an angry red, like a welt. The changelings examined their friend all of them ended up staring at the Dragon Mark.

“It is a Lesser Mark,” Doonah sighed unhappily, “It is small, but the Mark has finer lines and a more complex pattern. The Least Marks are much simpler and the lines are thick.”

“What kind is it?” Pook asked. “He never told us about this and we've known him for a while.” The changeling sounded bitter. “He likes to keep secrets, but this is too much even for me!”

“I don't blame him. The Houses aren't very nice about Strange Marks. I would keep him covered until I am out of town, if I were you.” Doonah replied without answering the question. “I mean it, don't let anyone else see the Mark.”

“Nobody's gonna touch him!” The dwarven spirit growled literally out of thin air. Kreen jumped and drew his saber. A cool breeze swept through the room.

“Another Ghost?” Olriff stammered as he entered the room. Morel is right behind him. “I'm starting not to like this business.”

“Neither am I. Doonah, can you help him?” Morel asked. “Their train leaves soon and I want them away from here before the Heirs come to claim the body. I have a strange tale for them, we don't need another complication.”

“I can wake him, but he has to rest.” the woman frowned at the ranger, “If you help me up, I'll be getting to it.”

Doonah was true to her word. The bard woke up thirsty, and demanded something to drink. Ivor helped him out while nagging him about how much trouble he is. Pook emptied Theodyl's purse ensuring their anonymity. Morel didn't ask any questions, but he watched them all very intently. The ranger openly sniffed at the air around them. Creepy.

“You tell him, no showing off.” Doonah admonished, pointedly ignoring her groggy patient. “Bad Marks make a man sick even if they don't over use them. Above all keep it hidden!” Doonah took a firm hold of Theodyl's chin forcefully meeting his eyes. “Don't come back here.” She said. And she didn't let go until he understood.

Ivor dressed Theodyl as an old lady and filled him in on the latest details. He was too tired to make a show, but it was obvious he didn't like the news. His eyes darted nervously about the room. Ivor could tell that the normally unflappable bard was very afraid. Patter and Siff went outside to call a Coach. Javelin watched the Vadalis men with his three fingered hands within reach of his batons.

Doonah handed Pook, now Posie a satchel of herbs and dictated instructions on Theodyl's treatment for the next several days. His cover as a feeble old lady is taking a whole new dimension. He is as weak as a babe and his eyes are heavy for lack of restful sleep. They gave their thanks to Kreen and Olriff. Morel rudely ignored them. Theodyl was asleep before they climbed into the coach for the trip back. Though relieved, the changelings have a lot of questions. The bard will not be able to avoid them.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Woops, I messed up

I forgot to post Chapter 25, I was just reviewing Chapter 29 when I realized that I was making references to something that happened before, so I decided to double check. I couldn't find it. If you guys are interested, please look for Post#35, I just squeezed it in and shifted everything down. Sorry. My brother's wedding is coming up and as the oldest, I am tasked with puting up with my mother while my brothers hide and pretend to be busy.

 

[skullsmurfer]

On the Edge of Madness, the Plot Thickens, Chapter 29

The voices come and go at all hours. His dreams are haunted by faces and images not his own. Theodyl looked up to his companions, his friends. They want answers he can't give them. He just doesn't know where to start. One of the books Mooneye tasked him with is open on his lap. It is an ancient tome on Necromancy, the seal of the Royal Library of Galifar is stamped inside the cover. Paragon 157 to 4 is not happy about the newest and latest turn in events.

“These belonged to my mother.” He said while laying the matching necklace, earrings and comb into a felt lined jewelry box. Pook threw them at his face just a few hours past. “I was picking them up from the jewelers when she died. She had them cleaned every month.” The bard shut the box and locked it. His thumb slid almost casually over a knob set within it's hinges. A needle trap. “I found out later that the necklace hides the wearer from divinations as well as the kind of magic that invades the mind. The earrings are enchanted with a spell called Eagle's Splendor. The comb, I have yet to figure out, but it somehow makes it easier for people to believe what you say.”

“None of that is an answer to my questions!” Paragon growled. “I am still waiting.”

“My mother was hiding. She wore these jewels constantly, except for a few hours every month.” Theodyl looked off into space. “I guess that she was being hunted, but I still don't know why, the dragons at the Trade House made some disturbing comments.” The bard lay the box on his lap, he drew a silk kerchief from his vest and lay it over the item. He waved his hand and then put the kerchief away. The box is gone. “I am not ready to believe them, but Blackscale claims he was there to see her die. He said she tried to sing her way out. The problem is, I thought I heard her singing as I ran towards the brothel, just before I realized it was my home that was burning.”

“You are avoiding the question.” Patter cut in. Theodyl frowned.

“I took sick around my fourteenth birthday. It was a surprise, I had never been ill before.” Theodyl closed the tome on his lap. “Stargazer discovered the mark on my chest two days later. It was smaller then, with thick lines forming something like big hand print just above my heart.” He held up a mirror and opened his shirt to examine the mark. “Stargazer said it looked like a Dragon Flower, he didn't make a fuss over it. A month later he gave me the ankle bracelet. I didn't realize exactly what it did, he just told me never to take it off.”

“You have a Dragon Mark. Are you telling me you just forgot about it?! I can't believe that.” Pook looked to Paragon, they both turned to glare at the bard.

“I just put it out of my mind after a while.” The half-elf shrugged. “The auto-gnome kept me busy, and Stargazer always had something for me to study. I didn't think it was that interesting, or even that important.”

“What about after?” Paragon continued to question him. “You went to school in Cyre, yes?”

“A boarding school attached to the University. It was part prison as far as I'm concerned. My free time was taken up with an apprenticeship with that Master Inquisitive I told you about before.” Theodyl picked up his beer stein, then put it back nearly dropping it. He felt the dwarven spirit in residence, not unpleasant, but not comfortable either. The bard drank the beer straight from the skin instead.

“You've been drinking too much.” Ivor nagged. “That can't be good for you.”

“When the war broke out he joined, and I joined with him.” The bard pulled a worn medal from his vest. His lieutenant's badge is pinned to it's ribbon. “I would have died if I hadn't left when I did.” Theodyl smiled strangely. “That was a strange decision, I really don't know what would have been worse: Years in a hellish war or a few years of safety before a terrifying catastrophe consumes me and all my friends.”

“You were examined before the Tribunal, how is it that they didn't strip you of the bracelet and uncover the Mark.” Paragon brought him back to the subject at hand. “I know about their methods.”

“You were in prison?” Siff interrupted. “What did you do?” Patter asked right after.

“My duty.” Theodyl replied with a nasty gleam in his eyes. “They had me in the same set of irons for all of eight months. They stripped me of everything and kept my hands in mage proof gauntlets. I don't know why they didn't find it, it doesn't matter now.”

“An ambitious General from Cyre took command of our unit during the fighting in Karrnath,” Paragon started to explain despite Theodyl's obvious displeasure. “He had a knack for winning battles....”

“He was a murdering bastard!” The bard growled. Years later, he can still feel the hot anger.

“.....but his men paid the price. His Captain, Thersyl d'Sadelis, Theodyl's best friend, found out the man was using an artifact to encourage his men to die for him. A crime punishable by death in all of the five nations. Theodyl witnessed his murder at the hands of the General.”

“The craven scum had a mace that allowed him to overcome the will of his soldiers and throw them at the enemy as if he were driving cattle.” Theodyl is speaking through his teeth. “Hussars, Dog Solders, Longstriders, it didn't matter, he went through hundreds of men just to claim a chunk of rock and win yet another medal.”

“He used our own brothers to hunt us.” Paragon continued. “For three days we ran. The battle went on, meanwhile....”

“We circled around and hid until the fort was broken and yet another battle was won over piles of murdered soldiers.” Theodyl drew a signet ring from his vest and played with it. “I found him drunk, he was writing a report on my desertion. He blamed me for Captain d'Sadelis' death. I almost killed him.” The half-elf's face split into a terrible smile.

“I didn't find out what he did until the trial.” Paragon told the rest. “He traded his life for the General's location. He refused to speak though, until the Tribunal agreed to destroy the artifact. It was a Rod of Command, I think. We thought it was an enchanted mace the way he treated it.” The war-forged handed the bard a bottle of bourbon from the suite's bar. “Theodyl had turned him to stone with a scroll he stole out of a war-mage's tent. He buried the general in a corpse pit the soldiers were using to dispose of the enemy dead.”

“They never found his hands or his nose.” Theodyl spoke again. “He lives in a Thrane Hospice now. He needs a servant to feed him and wash him.” It is a living death for a prideful soldier, he thought. He polished the signet ring after breathing on it. Theodyl smiled at it's sigil and then put it away. “House Deneith managed to save their cursed Rod by saying it was a valuable heirloom. They could never fix their General though.”

“The House managed destroy Theodyl's career. He will never serve in the military again.” The war-forged glared at the half-elf. “Sharn City Council made him take an oath before they let him operate as an Inquisitive....” Paragon cocked his head and pointed. “Was that the General's signet?! Don't tell me that....!”

“Story time is over!” Theodyl growled and threw the bottle of bourbon against the wall. “Get out. I want to sleep and you all need to leave.” He stared at the shattered glass until the last of them made their way out. Ivor gave him a hurt look. Pook, Siff, and Patter glared at him to no avail. “They can all got to hell.” The bard hissed as he opened the tome on his lap and started to read. The Geas is driving him hard because he's managed to ignore it for over two days. He is letting it. It is a better escape than thinking his way to madness or drinking himself to oblivion.

“Go to sleep,” Paragon told the changelings, “I will watch his room and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.” Pook made a snide remark. Patter and Siff said something else. Ivor cursed.

Paragon 157 to 4 has seen his friend in a foul mood before. The changelings, however, have not. Perhaps, it was a mistake to push him. Theodyl has been strange of late. The war-forged watched the door to their room close. Once he was sure that he was alone he closed the curtain to the lounge. He opened the door to a small pot-bellied stove and tossed in a bundle of rune carved kindling tied with gold wire. A few sparks from his tinder box set it ablaze. Paragon filled the tea pot and then sat and stared at the fire.

“What is it?” Pyrus asked through the flame.

“There's been a problem with Theodyl.”

“Another problem, you mean. What do you require?”

“I need to know about a Dragon Mark and I need an item examined.”

“Do you want your name written across one of the moons as well?”

“It's important. Should I ask someone else?”

“Oh, very well, what about the item?”

“It is magic. I want to know what it is, what it does, and who made it.”

“And the Dragon Mark? Which one do you need to know about?”

“The kind the Houses don't like. Isn't there a book or something?”

“There are three hundred in the University shelves alone. Most of them are restricted. House Vadalis may have more, they were researching the breeding of Marks before their man in charge was excoriated and later silenced. What predicament did he get you into now?”

“I can provide you with a drawing of the mark and the names of both his parents as well as their places of origin.”

“I don't like the way that sounds. The research alone will draw unwanted attention. Do you realize that I could get killed just for asking? We are talking about Theodyl right?”

“He's my brother.”

“I just knew there was something strange about him....Place the item in the fire. Contact me tomorrow night after the tenth bell about the other matter. I will need to secure my chambers. He would die for you, it's the only reason I have any contact with him. This better be worth it.”

“Thank you.”

“Try not to die again.” The fire went out. The small lead lined box is gone along with the wood and ashes. The iron stove looks as if it has been cleaned.

Paragon harrumphed. He poured the hot water from the teapot over some of the herbs the healer from Vadalis gave Pook. The war-forged wasn't surprised to find Ivor hiding in the shadows behind him. She is wearing a female shape beneath a woman's linen night shirt. It is strange the way the changelings can do what they do. War-forged don't have to deal with having a sex. The concept is alien to him. The bond Theodyl shares with the changeling is strange as well. Sexual relations have to do with reproduction, according to Theodyl's books. The concept of romance has to do with convincing a mate that one is interesting to copulate with. The fact that Theodyl seems to seek intercourse as a sort of entertainment adds to the confusion. Paragon is happy he doesn't have those kinds of needs.

“Here,” Paragon handed her a tray loaded with tea and biscuits. “Make sure he eats.” She tried to apologize for spying, he ignored her. “I don't think you should push him with any more questions. It takes him a while to act civil after he throws a fit.” The war-forged harrumphed. “If he gets nasty let me know, I'll smack him for his trouble.”

Ivor let herself into Theodyl's chamber. The bard didn't bother looking up from his reading. The room is humid and it stinks of sweat and spilled bourbon. Theodyl is going to need a bath soon. She set the tray in front of him and opened the windows. She threatened him with Paragon if he didn't eat or drink his tea. The bard made a face, but he reached out for a biscuit and stuffed it in his mouth. Ivor told him to wash before she crawled into his bed and curled up in his blanket. Theodyl scowled at her as he sipped on his tea.

The tome is a treatise on the lower valences of necromantic study. For the most part, it deals with magic useful in the battle field. It covers all of the basics, however. It can be used as a stepping stone towards serious study of necromancy. Of the other books Mooneye saddled the bard with, one deals with spirits and extra planar subjects, the other deals with protective valences and shielding magic. Theodyl isn't very happy now that he can think more clearly. It is as if Mooneye and the Sovereign Host knew about his problem before he did. He can believe that Olladra guides his path. The bard likes the idea that he can pray for luck, or that the smile of his Goddess can inspire his songs. What he can't accept, is the kind of influence over his fate that the Necromancer and maybe the Gods seem to want. He lives by his wits, not by some divine muck-a-muck's will.

Theodyl sighed. He looked to Ivor's peacefully sleeping form and finished his bitter tea. He's got time to transcribe a few spells. The bard can't see a clear path to freedom just yet. He needs an edge, he is surprised that he can't seem to find one. The bard sighed again. Work first, worry later, he thought.

Ivor woke to the sounds of Theodyl having a nightmare. At least, he doesn't stink like he did before. She will take that as an apology. His skin felt clammy, yet the Dragon Mark on his chest felt uncomfortably warm against her. She held him close and sang a silly song her mother taught her as a child. He calmed a bit, but his dreams weren't anymore pleasant. It is then that she noticed another in the room.

“Peace, it's only me.” Siff whispered. “How is he?”

“He's having a nightmare,” She replied. “something bad.”

“You've fallen in love with him.” It isn't a question. Ivor could feel Siff's frown in the dark.

“No...I...” Ivor started to say.

“We were both born to womanhood, you can't fool me.” Siff interrupted. “Pook and Patter are playing at this. Even with the Traveler's blessings, it will be a long time before they truly understand what it is to have a woman's heart.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Ivor's voice squeaked.

“Love him if you must, I don't have a problem with it.” Siff reached out and lay a Holy symbol on Theodyl's brow. “He will sleep better now. When the time comes, I expect you to tell him about the Traveler and how through Him, he will find what he desires.”

“But...”

“No buts, you prayed for love and you found it.” Siff's voice turned edgy. “Everything has a price, do you forget?”

“How did you know?” Ivor trembled.

“I know because I must, just as you will know when to speak to him about our God.” Siff tried to ease the fear from her friend's heart. “You aren't going to hurt him, don't fret. There are only choices and consequences to choices. He will need to find his path soon and you will be there at the right time to offer him an option.”

“Just an option?” Ivor's voice is heavy with suspicion. Siff nodded from the shadows. “Why me?” Ivor asked.

“Because he will love you back and it is through that love that he will trust you enough to listen.” Siff replied.

Paragon pretended to be at his practice as Siff skulked across the hall and crept into her room. The sapphires implanted in his eyes allowed him to see her despite whatever trick she used to hide. His glaive whistled through the air as he practiced a complicated series of parries, thrusts and slashes. He's heard everything. A shiny stone hidden beneath the bard's bed is all that it took. Paragon found it while packing Theodyl's laboratory, it was labeled as a Listening Stone. There is plenty he doesn't understand, but he's got the gist of it. The changelings have an agenda. Their God wants something from Theodyl. The half-elf is hard to handle as it is, with them pulling him in another direction, things are liable to get more complicated.

Paragon cannot trust them with Theodyl's life. The war-forged still holds to his final contract to protect the half-elf. His freedom doesn't change the fact that he swore an oath and took his payment. They are friends and brothers, but he doesn't see a conflict of interest. In all modesty, there is no one that can do it better. The imaginary foes in his mind shifted to resemble four changelings and one gnome sized lich. His deadly glaive cut into them over and over again. If, and when the time comes, Paragon 157 to 4 will not hesitate. Practice makes the Soldier perfect.