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(Cydra) The Final City
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 7580001" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>As a lad, Scotty Beandelver had once played a prank that went quite wrong, leading him to a terror-filled escape across the rooftops with a pair of guard drakes hissing and scrambling after him. But the rooftops are the criminals' road, and Scotty inadvertently interrupted a Grey Brother mid-assassination with his frantic flight, leading the assassin to join the pursuit. Hot panic had risen in Scotty's young throat, and only his slight frame had allowed him to escape by wiggling through the narrow slats of a fence. The drakes pulled up short of the fence, snapping and tearing at it in rage, while the assassin slid to a halt behind them, cursing and deciding that it was better to let the kid go than to kill someone's drakes in order to continue the pursuit. After all, that would just draw more attention, and attention was an assassin's worst enemy. </p><p></p><p>So Scotty got away after a half-hour long chase, lungs burning, blood singing. The escapade had taught him a very important lesson, although a wiser individual might have learnt a different one. But the lesson that Scotty learned that day was, <em>I can get away with anything!</em></p><p></p><p>A few years later, while Scotty was still a boy but old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, his mother fell ill. Slowly she dried up and withered, sinking into herself like a raisin. The physickers could do nothing; the priests only shook their head and offered early condolences while trying to cultivate reverence in the boy. But when she lay on the brink of death, Scotty's mother made a miraculous recovery, and she lived for another six years before finally dying in an accident involving a herd of giant goats. But her survival taught Scotty another lesson: <em>Everything works out.</em> Her later death did not dissuade him from this opinion, though if he had been at an age where things between his mother and he were less contentious, it might have.</p><p></p><p>Together, these two formative incidents left Scotty Beandelver with an entirely unrealistic and unwarranted optimism.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Water streams from the green figure's face, suggestive of tears. But it's just the river, pouring from the slight creature as it rises up, pulling itself up the banks by the grass and brambles alongside. It cries out, “I mean you no harm,” before repeating, “Please, help me!”</p><p></p><p>Kriv draws an axe out, but Drolc strides forward and extends a hand, helping the small stranger up. It has slightly elfin features, with webs of skin between its fingers and toes. Thin light blue hair is plastered to its scalp by the water, and a few bits of debris are tangled in the hair. The figure is naked, androgynous in form but for its genitalia, which reveal it to be male.</p><p></p><p>“What are you?” Kriv asks. The suspicion in his voice is plain.</p><p></p><p>“My name is Softscale.” He looks at the three adventurers desperately. “I am a nixie. Please- my folk need help! They are being terrorized by horrible monsters!”</p><p></p><p>“What kind of monsters?” Scotty inquires.</p><p></p><p>“We call them the dark ones,” Softscale replies. “They're so mean! And hungry! And they eat us!”</p><p></p><p>“We help,” Drolc declares. His mind is weak, but his moral compass is strong. If there's one thing the dull-witted half-orc knows, it's that when he encounters someone in need- he helps. </p><p></p><p>Kriv scowls. “'Dark ones', he says. Not very descriptive, is he? And where are these dark ones, anyway? In the water, I'll bet.”</p><p></p><p>“Yes!” Softscale exclaims. “They live in the river!”</p><p></p><p>“Shouldn't be a problem for us,” Scotty says confidently. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The city of Fandelose, despite its precarious situation, often rings with music. There are many would-be entertainers to be found, either playing in the cafes or taverns of the city, entertaining strangers at the parks, or even playing for friends in their own homes. It's not hard for such folk to find work, albeit usually short-term work. Sometimes, when someone is having a particularly exciting party or event, they will even hire more than one entertainer- sometimes a whole group, either to play together or to compete against one another. </p><p></p><p>The better-paying jobs usually involve more demanding performances, more talented performers, or more difficult or dangerous locations. And every once in a while, a performer or group of performers might be hired to do something truly unusual. </p><p></p><p>Thus it is that Durnithio, well-known entertainer and Lothario, has recruited two of the city's other bards to join him. He has chosen the gravel-voiced tiefling Morsado and the sweet-voiced halfling Featherbender Bix, knowing that their voices can harmonize with and compliment his own. And for this job, Durnithio knows, success is vital. Should the three of them put on a successful performance, the pay might be- well. Good enough to be, frankly, unreasonable. But on the other hand, should they fail to amuse, their hosts might not only not pay them the agreed fee, but might actually take them hostage or worse. </p><p></p><p>Not long after the three of them exit the city gates, heading south toward the Black Gorge, a cloaked figure slides into view, emerging from the rocks along the edge of the path. “You're Durnithio?” </p><p></p><p>“That's right,” the bard says, voice high and strong. “And these are my two assistants for the night!”</p><p></p><p>The figure throws off its hood to reveal an orcish face, studying the three of them. After a moment, the orc nods decisively. “All right, follow me.”</p><p></p><p>Thus do the three bards enter the megadungeon beneath Marble Hall. The orc escorts them through a bewildering series of passages and rooms, sometimes making them freeze silently for a few moments while some monster or other stalks past, and down a flight of stairs, through more chambers, down more stairs, until the three of them are thoroughly lost. </p><p></p><p>Lost, but surrounded by shouting orcs demanding entertainment.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Deeper still, Carl Hungus, Rorin Ilmixie, and Dzedz Orcslayer make a careful ascension up the stairs. They don't find the easy way out that they were all praying for; instead, they find more trouble. Giant rats, giant frogs, stirges- they fight their increasingly-wounded way through them all. </p><p></p><p>“I don't know about this,” Hungus whines as he binds his freshest injuries. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can handle.” </p><p></p><p>“It would be nice if we could find a place to rest up,” Dzedz says, “but the day's young yet. We would have to be somewhere safe, and we'd need a good long while undisturbed before it would be time to go to sleep.”</p><p></p><p>Rorin looks up from the bloody business of eviscerating giant rats. “On the bright side, we can probably eat some of what we've killed. Rats and stirges tend to be full of disease, but giant frogs should be safe. And they'll cook up quite nicely.”</p><p></p><p>Hugus grimaces. </p><p></p><p>“On the other hand,” the Butcher of Fandelose continues, “the longer we stay down here, the more danger we are exposed to.”</p><p></p><p>Dzedz grunts. “If we knew our way out, a hard run upward would be the thing to do. But we don't. We can't really shorten our time down here.”</p><p></p><p>“We can if we use more than an hour or two of the day to try to find our way out.”</p><p></p><p>“But we're also more likely to get ourselves killed,” Hungus protests. “What if we stick to areas we have cleared out?”</p><p></p><p>“We haven't cleared out any areas, just a few rooms,” Dzedz answers, “and I'm not confident that we can.”</p><p></p><p>“Also,” Rorin points out, “quite a few of the monsters we've been encountering don't seem like they stick to one area.”</p><p></p><p>Dzedz nods. “True enough. It's well known to my people that monsters wander.”</p><p></p><p>The dragonborn speaks up again. “Well, we have to do something. We're all wounded, and we have really limited healing capacity between us. I really think we should hole up somewhere.”</p><p></p><p>But there is nowhere to hole up that they feel is safe; or at least, not without backtracking- and heading deeper down into the dungeon again. Which is a prospect that is not just daunting, but potentially lethal. </p><p></p><p>So, despite all three of them being out of spells and running ragged, they do the only thing that they can- they continue looking for a way up.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>“Underwater!” Kriv exclaims. “You're insane!” He eyes the flowing river with trepidation. </p><p></p><p>“Nah, we'll be fine,” Scotty promises.</p><p></p><p>“We help,” Drolc repeats. </p><p></p><p>“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Softscale is beside himself, nearly weeping in gratitude. As Drolc starts to clamber down the bank to the water's edge, the nixie says, “I can help you help me. I can let you breathe the water for a time.”</p><p></p><p>“Perfect!” Scotty exclaims. He starts to follow Drolc, then glances up at Kriv. “Well? Come on, surely you aren't afraid of a little water! Especially when our friend can make it so we won't drown.”</p><p></p><p>“I'm not afraid.” Kriv bridles. “But we dwarves know about the dangers of water.”</p><p></p><p>“Oh, please,” Softscale begs. “The dark ones are powerful! Without your help, mighty dwarf, your friends might perish.”</p><p></p><p>Kriv grunts a curse, then slowly begins to stomp down the bank towards them. When he finally, reluctantly, joins his newfound friends, Softscale closes his eyes and begins to whisper strange words, brushing his webbed hands over the three adventurers and imparting <em>water breathing</em> to them. </p><p></p><p>“Let's go!” Scotty cries. He dives in.</p><p></p><p>“Follow me. I will guide you.” The nixie steps into the river and immediately drops below the surface.</p><p></p><p>Kriv curses again as Scotty submerges and Drolc heaves himself into the water. “This is a terrible idea! Everybody knows that the water doesn't like to let go of those it catches!” But nobody else is above the surface; nobody else can hear him. “Crap!” he shouts, then throws himself into the stream.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Hours of singing and playing have passed. The orcs have been properly entertained. The feast is done; the drinks have been drunk, the drugs ingested; the copulating couples have gone off to private places to copulate. </p><p></p><p>Durnithio mutters, “That went well.” The orc guiding him out gestures at a shaft leading up. </p><p></p><p>“That way leads out.” </p><p></p><p>“My thanks,” says the bard. “It was good doing business with you. Any time your people need a bard, send word to me.”</p><p></p><p>The orc gives a curt nod, then turns to make his way back to the sublevel of the dungeon that his folk control. Durnithio, meanwhile, begins his ascent.</p><p></p><p>But wait! You ask. Where are Durnithio's companions? What happened to Morsado and Bix? Why are they not leaving, too?</p><p></p><p>The answer is simple: a purse split three ways is far less rewarding than the entire purse. Durnithio has, in one fell swoop and with the slightest amount of aid from orcish narcotics slipped into his erstwhile companions' drinks, not only tripled his price, but also eliminated two potential rivals from the scene. Indeed, he chuckles silently, Morsado and Bix had shown themselves to have quite complimentary styles and voices. Should they work together, they might even one day supplant Durnithio's reputation as the finest bard in the Bronze District. </p><p></p><p><em>Well, no need to worry about that now. They will awaken to find themselves lost in the depths of Marble Hall. If they survive, excellent, I was so worried about you gentlemen after you wandered off, but I was too drunk to etcetera, etcetera. And if not... well! Good-bye, my fine fellows, and I'll mourn your loss. Alas for all those poor taverns that will need to hire new entertainment, but perhaps they'll be willing to spend a bit more to put a truly exceptional talent before their crowds...</em></p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Three groups, all of them in trouble! At least one of them won't make it out alive!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 7580001, member: 1210"] As a lad, Scotty Beandelver had once played a prank that went quite wrong, leading him to a terror-filled escape across the rooftops with a pair of guard drakes hissing and scrambling after him. But the rooftops are the criminals' road, and Scotty inadvertently interrupted a Grey Brother mid-assassination with his frantic flight, leading the assassin to join the pursuit. Hot panic had risen in Scotty's young throat, and only his slight frame had allowed him to escape by wiggling through the narrow slats of a fence. The drakes pulled up short of the fence, snapping and tearing at it in rage, while the assassin slid to a halt behind them, cursing and deciding that it was better to let the kid go than to kill someone's drakes in order to continue the pursuit. After all, that would just draw more attention, and attention was an assassin's worst enemy. So Scotty got away after a half-hour long chase, lungs burning, blood singing. The escapade had taught him a very important lesson, although a wiser individual might have learnt a different one. But the lesson that Scotty learned that day was, [i]I can get away with anything![/i] A few years later, while Scotty was still a boy but old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, his mother fell ill. Slowly she dried up and withered, sinking into herself like a raisin. The physickers could do nothing; the priests only shook their head and offered early condolences while trying to cultivate reverence in the boy. But when she lay on the brink of death, Scotty's mother made a miraculous recovery, and she lived for another six years before finally dying in an accident involving a herd of giant goats. But her survival taught Scotty another lesson: [i]Everything works out.[/i] Her later death did not dissuade him from this opinion, though if he had been at an age where things between his mother and he were less contentious, it might have. Together, these two formative incidents left Scotty Beandelver with an entirely unrealistic and unwarranted optimism. *** Water streams from the green figure's face, suggestive of tears. But it's just the river, pouring from the slight creature as it rises up, pulling itself up the banks by the grass and brambles alongside. It cries out, “I mean you no harm,” before repeating, “Please, help me!” Kriv draws an axe out, but Drolc strides forward and extends a hand, helping the small stranger up. It has slightly elfin features, with webs of skin between its fingers and toes. Thin light blue hair is plastered to its scalp by the water, and a few bits of debris are tangled in the hair. The figure is naked, androgynous in form but for its genitalia, which reveal it to be male. “What are you?” Kriv asks. The suspicion in his voice is plain. “My name is Softscale.” He looks at the three adventurers desperately. “I am a nixie. Please- my folk need help! They are being terrorized by horrible monsters!” “What kind of monsters?” Scotty inquires. “We call them the dark ones,” Softscale replies. “They're so mean! And hungry! And they eat us!” “We help,” Drolc declares. His mind is weak, but his moral compass is strong. If there's one thing the dull-witted half-orc knows, it's that when he encounters someone in need- he helps. Kriv scowls. “'Dark ones', he says. Not very descriptive, is he? And where are these dark ones, anyway? In the water, I'll bet.” “Yes!” Softscale exclaims. “They live in the river!” “Shouldn't be a problem for us,” Scotty says confidently. *** The city of Fandelose, despite its precarious situation, often rings with music. There are many would-be entertainers to be found, either playing in the cafes or taverns of the city, entertaining strangers at the parks, or even playing for friends in their own homes. It's not hard for such folk to find work, albeit usually short-term work. Sometimes, when someone is having a particularly exciting party or event, they will even hire more than one entertainer- sometimes a whole group, either to play together or to compete against one another. The better-paying jobs usually involve more demanding performances, more talented performers, or more difficult or dangerous locations. And every once in a while, a performer or group of performers might be hired to do something truly unusual. Thus it is that Durnithio, well-known entertainer and Lothario, has recruited two of the city's other bards to join him. He has chosen the gravel-voiced tiefling Morsado and the sweet-voiced halfling Featherbender Bix, knowing that their voices can harmonize with and compliment his own. And for this job, Durnithio knows, success is vital. Should the three of them put on a successful performance, the pay might be- well. Good enough to be, frankly, unreasonable. But on the other hand, should they fail to amuse, their hosts might not only not pay them the agreed fee, but might actually take them hostage or worse. Not long after the three of them exit the city gates, heading south toward the Black Gorge, a cloaked figure slides into view, emerging from the rocks along the edge of the path. “You're Durnithio?” “That's right,” the bard says, voice high and strong. “And these are my two assistants for the night!” The figure throws off its hood to reveal an orcish face, studying the three of them. After a moment, the orc nods decisively. “All right, follow me.” Thus do the three bards enter the megadungeon beneath Marble Hall. The orc escorts them through a bewildering series of passages and rooms, sometimes making them freeze silently for a few moments while some monster or other stalks past, and down a flight of stairs, through more chambers, down more stairs, until the three of them are thoroughly lost. Lost, but surrounded by shouting orcs demanding entertainment. *** Deeper still, Carl Hungus, Rorin Ilmixie, and Dzedz Orcslayer make a careful ascension up the stairs. They don't find the easy way out that they were all praying for; instead, they find more trouble. Giant rats, giant frogs, stirges- they fight their increasingly-wounded way through them all. “I don't know about this,” Hungus whines as he binds his freshest injuries. “I'm not sure how much more of this I can handle.” “It would be nice if we could find a place to rest up,” Dzedz says, “but the day's young yet. We would have to be somewhere safe, and we'd need a good long while undisturbed before it would be time to go to sleep.” Rorin looks up from the bloody business of eviscerating giant rats. “On the bright side, we can probably eat some of what we've killed. Rats and stirges tend to be full of disease, but giant frogs should be safe. And they'll cook up quite nicely.” Hugus grimaces. “On the other hand,” the Butcher of Fandelose continues, “the longer we stay down here, the more danger we are exposed to.” Dzedz grunts. “If we knew our way out, a hard run upward would be the thing to do. But we don't. We can't really shorten our time down here.” “We can if we use more than an hour or two of the day to try to find our way out.” “But we're also more likely to get ourselves killed,” Hungus protests. “What if we stick to areas we have cleared out?” “We haven't cleared out any areas, just a few rooms,” Dzedz answers, “and I'm not confident that we can.” “Also,” Rorin points out, “quite a few of the monsters we've been encountering don't seem like they stick to one area.” Dzedz nods. “True enough. It's well known to my people that monsters wander.” The dragonborn speaks up again. “Well, we have to do something. We're all wounded, and we have really limited healing capacity between us. I really think we should hole up somewhere.” But there is nowhere to hole up that they feel is safe; or at least, not without backtracking- and heading deeper down into the dungeon again. Which is a prospect that is not just daunting, but potentially lethal. So, despite all three of them being out of spells and running ragged, they do the only thing that they can- they continue looking for a way up. *** “Underwater!” Kriv exclaims. “You're insane!” He eyes the flowing river with trepidation. “Nah, we'll be fine,” Scotty promises. “We help,” Drolc repeats. “Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Softscale is beside himself, nearly weeping in gratitude. As Drolc starts to clamber down the bank to the water's edge, the nixie says, “I can help you help me. I can let you breathe the water for a time.” “Perfect!” Scotty exclaims. He starts to follow Drolc, then glances up at Kriv. “Well? Come on, surely you aren't afraid of a little water! Especially when our friend can make it so we won't drown.” “I'm not afraid.” Kriv bridles. “But we dwarves know about the dangers of water.” “Oh, please,” Softscale begs. “The dark ones are powerful! Without your help, mighty dwarf, your friends might perish.” Kriv grunts a curse, then slowly begins to stomp down the bank towards them. When he finally, reluctantly, joins his newfound friends, Softscale closes his eyes and begins to whisper strange words, brushing his webbed hands over the three adventurers and imparting [i]water breathing[/i] to them. “Let's go!” Scotty cries. He dives in. “Follow me. I will guide you.” The nixie steps into the river and immediately drops below the surface. Kriv curses again as Scotty submerges and Drolc heaves himself into the water. “This is a terrible idea! Everybody knows that the water doesn't like to let go of those it catches!” But nobody else is above the surface; nobody else can hear him. “Crap!” he shouts, then throws himself into the stream. *** Hours of singing and playing have passed. The orcs have been properly entertained. The feast is done; the drinks have been drunk, the drugs ingested; the copulating couples have gone off to private places to copulate. Durnithio mutters, “That went well.” The orc guiding him out gestures at a shaft leading up. “That way leads out.” “My thanks,” says the bard. “It was good doing business with you. Any time your people need a bard, send word to me.” The orc gives a curt nod, then turns to make his way back to the sublevel of the dungeon that his folk control. Durnithio, meanwhile, begins his ascent. But wait! You ask. Where are Durnithio's companions? What happened to Morsado and Bix? Why are they not leaving, too? The answer is simple: a purse split three ways is far less rewarding than the entire purse. Durnithio has, in one fell swoop and with the slightest amount of aid from orcish narcotics slipped into his erstwhile companions' drinks, not only tripled his price, but also eliminated two potential rivals from the scene. Indeed, he chuckles silently, Morsado and Bix had shown themselves to have quite complimentary styles and voices. Should they work together, they might even one day supplant Durnithio's reputation as the finest bard in the Bronze District. [i]Well, no need to worry about that now. They will awaken to find themselves lost in the depths of Marble Hall. If they survive, excellent, I was so worried about you gentlemen after you wandered off, but I was too drunk to etcetera, etcetera. And if not... well! Good-bye, my fine fellows, and I'll mourn your loss. Alas for all those poor taverns that will need to hire new entertainment, but perhaps they'll be willing to spend a bit more to put a truly exceptional talent before their crowds...[/i] [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Three groups, all of them in trouble! At least one of them won't make it out alive! [/QUOTE]
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