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Eberron: A Simple Plan - Completed 7/16/05
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<blockquote data-quote="ragboy" data-source="post: 2402422" data-attributes="member: 4151"><p>Vrabel sat back and rubbed his eyes, sliding the crew manifest and passenger list away from him. His spartan one-room flat looked even less appealing in the light of the glowstone sitting on his desk. He flipped an empty cup over the stone, and the room went black. Streaks of light danced in his vision as he tried to visualize details just before the crash. The woman in the green dress. He had seen her take flight as the ship bucked and shattered, but the dwarf seemed to have disappeared.</p><p></p><p>He fought to push down the memories of falling passengers, the blackened corpses. So, how did they bring that ship down? And why? Did someone have it in for Lyrander? House Orien and the House of the Storm often came into conflict in the marketplace, but this seemed over the top.</p><p></p><p>Vrabel lifted the cup, flooding light back over the desk and drew out the sealed missive from Pym d’Vadalis, ‘lord’ of the Vadalis operation in Sharn. Petty lord, Vrabel thought. And that’s giving him more credit than is due. With some effort, he murmured the spell to unlock Pym’s seal and then a second to decrypt the message within. </p><p> </p><p><em>Contact in Wroat found dead. Possible additional operative(s) on ship. Specific threats received. Report to me before morning for additional information and assignments.</em> </p><p></p><p>“Shrakin’ inquisitive, he is,” Vrabel said to the empty room. </p><p></p><p>He slipped the letter into the midden can and the paper immediately flashed into a fine ash. Why does the Family care about Lyrander’s pride and joy? he thought. </p><p></p><p>A great crash suddenly sounded against the flat’s flimsy wooden door. Without thinking, Vrabel shoved the remaining paperwork into his leather case and strapped it under his coat, just as the door shattered from another massive blow. A steel-banded giant stomped in, kicking away pieces of the broken door. Two steel-eyed Valenar elves leaped in to either side, their hand-held crossbows glistening.</p><p></p><p>“Vrabel d’Vadalis!” the warforged boomed. “You are under arrest by order of the city watch. Please do not resist!” </p><p></p><p>Vrabel had risen slowly, his hands held neutrally at his sides. </p><p></p><p>“Raise your arms, human,” one of the elves hissed in its slithering accent. </p><p></p><p>“Of course,” Vrabel said, calmly. “No trouble, at all. Can you tell me the charge?”</p><p></p><p>Both elves flicked their eyes toward the warforged, and Vrabel took his cue. At his hoarse shout, a magical darkness consumed the glowstone’s light. The elves quickly backpedaled, their little crossbows twanging. Vrabel ignored the bite of pain across his neck as one of the darts grazed him, and fire leapt from his fingertips. Its light was consumed by the arcane darkness, but its heat was still lethal. </p><p>He was satisfied to hear a shriek of pain and a basso bellow, as he slid under the swinging warforged fist and made the sidewalk in five strides. One elf lay just outside the door, his tattered clothing smoldering and hair burned from his head. The second elf, frantically trying to reload his crossbow, went down under Vrabel’s hammering fist. </p><p></p><p>As he turned the corner and dove down one of Sharn’s many steep stairways, he heard the roar and rumble of the pursuing warforged. Vrabel leaped a slow moving pedestrian at the base of the stairs and cut into an alley across the deserted street. Down several narrow delves and switchbacks, Vrabel slowed, listening for pursuit. A faint light shone through the hazy evening smoke farther down the lane. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Vrabel increased his pace.</p><p></p><p>###</p><p></p><p>Vrabel walked into the cramped warm office of Pym d’Vadalis and pitched a bundle of papers onto the short, bald man’s desk. </p><p></p><p>“Where in Khyber have you been?” Pym grunted, squinting in the morning light streaming through his windows. </p><p></p><p>He snatched up the report and began reading it. </p><p></p><p>“I’ve been a little busy,” said Vrabel, plopping into a natty overstuffed chair. “Do you no longer provide security for your agents?”</p><p></p><p>“Huh?” Pym said, looking up. “What’s wrong with your neck?”</p><p></p><p>“My safe house was compromised,” Vrabel said, rubbing the ugly welt just below his chin. “By someone posing as the Khyber-blooded Sharn watch, no less.”</p><p></p><p>“That warforged <em>was</em> a watchman,” Pym grunted, returning to the report. “You came up on blotters all over the city this morning.”</p><p></p><p>“I can assure you that his companions were not.” </p><p></p><p>A tremor went through him, and he tried to control it. He could feel cool sweat beginning down his back, again. The attackers had used something on their darts, but he couldn’t do anything about it at the moment. Vrabel stared out the window at Midflynn Park, as the station chief read. It seemed unreal how normality had returned. A skeletal reflection of Flynnbridge again sailed over the chasm between the park and Central, it scurrying with workers. Most of the blackened debris had been hauled away.</p><p></p><p>Pym sat back, rubbing the smooth skin of his scalp. Vrabel raised an eyebrow. </p><p>“You were supposed to report last night,” said the station chief, exasperated. He glanced at the first page of the report. “We already know all this. Can you remind me why I employ you?”</p><p></p><p>“We’re family. You have to employ me.”</p><p></p><p>“This courier,” Pym began, flipping through the pages. “Did you speak with him?”</p><p></p><p>“No.” Vrabel looked out the window again to curb his growing anger. “From the ship’s logs that you provided, the dwarf typically leaves the airship at Wroat. He’s traveled from Mror Holds to Wroat on that same ship for six months.”</p><p></p><p>“What’s odd about that? The banker’s traffic in all kinds of currency, not just mror-geld.” Pym sat the bundle down and began rubbing his thick brows. </p><p>Vrabel wondered if there was a dwarf somewhere in the Pym’s branch of the family tree. They were distant cousins, and he often felt that distance. </p><p></p><p>“Because he takes the train from Wroat to Sharn on every trip, and disappears, only to re-appear on the airship from Mror,” Vrabel said, calmly. “Only this time, he didn’t get off the ship.”</p><p></p><p>Pym grunted, and read on.</p><p>Vrabel paused to let this sink in, and then said: “So, when were you going to tell me that the Friar was involved?”</p><p></p><p>The station chief never looked up from the report, though Vrabel saw him tense. The screams and stunned faces of those that didn’t survive the crash floated in front of Vrabel’s eyes. </p><p></p><p>“You know the protocols, Vrabel,” Pym said. “You didn’t need to know that. What you did need to know, you flubbed. What they carry is worth a lot to both Lyrander and Orien. And it’s my job…”</p><p></p><p>“Fire the protocols and cram your job!” Vrabel yelled, slamming his fist onto the desktop in front of Pym’s nose. “The last time you had us tangle with that mad bastard, I lost a lot of friends…” </p><p></p><p>“You lost nothing. They were soldiers, and they had a mission. A mission that failed, like this one. And look, here you are, a survivor again,” Pym said, his eyes placidly locked on his agent’s. “Now, take your hand off of my desk unless you want to lose it. If you’re finished, I’ve got work to do.” </p><p></p><p>Pym’s left eye twitched under Vrabel’s steady gaze.</p><p></p><p>“I’ll follow up on the courier,” Vrabel said, finally breaking contact with the chief. He stood and walked out of the office. “You get back to all that work you have.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ragboy, post: 2402422, member: 4151"] Vrabel sat back and rubbed his eyes, sliding the crew manifest and passenger list away from him. His spartan one-room flat looked even less appealing in the light of the glowstone sitting on his desk. He flipped an empty cup over the stone, and the room went black. Streaks of light danced in his vision as he tried to visualize details just before the crash. The woman in the green dress. He had seen her take flight as the ship bucked and shattered, but the dwarf seemed to have disappeared. He fought to push down the memories of falling passengers, the blackened corpses. So, how did they bring that ship down? And why? Did someone have it in for Lyrander? House Orien and the House of the Storm often came into conflict in the marketplace, but this seemed over the top. Vrabel lifted the cup, flooding light back over the desk and drew out the sealed missive from Pym d’Vadalis, ‘lord’ of the Vadalis operation in Sharn. Petty lord, Vrabel thought. And that’s giving him more credit than is due. With some effort, he murmured the spell to unlock Pym’s seal and then a second to decrypt the message within. [i]Contact in Wroat found dead. Possible additional operative(s) on ship. Specific threats received. Report to me before morning for additional information and assignments.[/i] “Shrakin’ inquisitive, he is,” Vrabel said to the empty room. He slipped the letter into the midden can and the paper immediately flashed into a fine ash. Why does the Family care about Lyrander’s pride and joy? he thought. A great crash suddenly sounded against the flat’s flimsy wooden door. Without thinking, Vrabel shoved the remaining paperwork into his leather case and strapped it under his coat, just as the door shattered from another massive blow. A steel-banded giant stomped in, kicking away pieces of the broken door. Two steel-eyed Valenar elves leaped in to either side, their hand-held crossbows glistening. “Vrabel d’Vadalis!” the warforged boomed. “You are under arrest by order of the city watch. Please do not resist!” Vrabel had risen slowly, his hands held neutrally at his sides. “Raise your arms, human,” one of the elves hissed in its slithering accent. “Of course,” Vrabel said, calmly. “No trouble, at all. Can you tell me the charge?” Both elves flicked their eyes toward the warforged, and Vrabel took his cue. At his hoarse shout, a magical darkness consumed the glowstone’s light. The elves quickly backpedaled, their little crossbows twanging. Vrabel ignored the bite of pain across his neck as one of the darts grazed him, and fire leapt from his fingertips. Its light was consumed by the arcane darkness, but its heat was still lethal. He was satisfied to hear a shriek of pain and a basso bellow, as he slid under the swinging warforged fist and made the sidewalk in five strides. One elf lay just outside the door, his tattered clothing smoldering and hair burned from his head. The second elf, frantically trying to reload his crossbow, went down under Vrabel’s hammering fist. As he turned the corner and dove down one of Sharn’s many steep stairways, he heard the roar and rumble of the pursuing warforged. Vrabel leaped a slow moving pedestrian at the base of the stairs and cut into an alley across the deserted street. Down several narrow delves and switchbacks, Vrabel slowed, listening for pursuit. A faint light shone through the hazy evening smoke farther down the lane. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Vrabel increased his pace. ### Vrabel walked into the cramped warm office of Pym d’Vadalis and pitched a bundle of papers onto the short, bald man’s desk. “Where in Khyber have you been?” Pym grunted, squinting in the morning light streaming through his windows. He snatched up the report and began reading it. “I’ve been a little busy,” said Vrabel, plopping into a natty overstuffed chair. “Do you no longer provide security for your agents?” “Huh?” Pym said, looking up. “What’s wrong with your neck?” “My safe house was compromised,” Vrabel said, rubbing the ugly welt just below his chin. “By someone posing as the Khyber-blooded Sharn watch, no less.” “That warforged [i]was[/i] a watchman,” Pym grunted, returning to the report. “You came up on blotters all over the city this morning.” “I can assure you that his companions were not.” A tremor went through him, and he tried to control it. He could feel cool sweat beginning down his back, again. The attackers had used something on their darts, but he couldn’t do anything about it at the moment. Vrabel stared out the window at Midflynn Park, as the station chief read. It seemed unreal how normality had returned. A skeletal reflection of Flynnbridge again sailed over the chasm between the park and Central, it scurrying with workers. Most of the blackened debris had been hauled away. Pym sat back, rubbing the smooth skin of his scalp. Vrabel raised an eyebrow. “You were supposed to report last night,” said the station chief, exasperated. He glanced at the first page of the report. “We already know all this. Can you remind me why I employ you?” “We’re family. You have to employ me.” “This courier,” Pym began, flipping through the pages. “Did you speak with him?” “No.” Vrabel looked out the window again to curb his growing anger. “From the ship’s logs that you provided, the dwarf typically leaves the airship at Wroat. He’s traveled from Mror Holds to Wroat on that same ship for six months.” “What’s odd about that? The banker’s traffic in all kinds of currency, not just mror-geld.” Pym sat the bundle down and began rubbing his thick brows. Vrabel wondered if there was a dwarf somewhere in the Pym’s branch of the family tree. They were distant cousins, and he often felt that distance. “Because he takes the train from Wroat to Sharn on every trip, and disappears, only to re-appear on the airship from Mror,” Vrabel said, calmly. “Only this time, he didn’t get off the ship.” Pym grunted, and read on. Vrabel paused to let this sink in, and then said: “So, when were you going to tell me that the Friar was involved?” The station chief never looked up from the report, though Vrabel saw him tense. The screams and stunned faces of those that didn’t survive the crash floated in front of Vrabel’s eyes. “You know the protocols, Vrabel,” Pym said. “You didn’t need to know that. What you did need to know, you flubbed. What they carry is worth a lot to both Lyrander and Orien. And it’s my job…” “Fire the protocols and cram your job!” Vrabel yelled, slamming his fist onto the desktop in front of Pym’s nose. “The last time you had us tangle with that mad bastard, I lost a lot of friends…” “You lost nothing. They were soldiers, and they had a mission. A mission that failed, like this one. And look, here you are, a survivor again,” Pym said, his eyes placidly locked on his agent’s. “Now, take your hand off of my desk unless you want to lose it. If you’re finished, I’ve got work to do.” Pym’s left eye twitched under Vrabel’s steady gaze. “I’ll follow up on the courier,” Vrabel said, finally breaking contact with the chief. He stood and walked out of the office. “You get back to all that work you have.” [/QUOTE]
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