Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
Black Bard
First Post
Wonderful, Lazy!!!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 8
The Drunken Morkoth was one of the livelier taverns in the city of Cauldron. It played regular host to a diverse crowd of teamsters, caravan guards, merchants, adventurers, and a fair number of townsfolk who found the barely-controlled chaos of the place a draw. On typical evenings, such as this one, a handful of hired musicians plied their instruments furiously on a compact stage crammed in against one wall, their music just one small part of the loud din of conversation, shouts, insults, and general clatter. The common room was sprawling, large enough so that someone standing on one end would have a tough time spotting a comrade on the far side through all of the smoke and movement. A long bar ran across half of the back wall, staffed by a small army of serving women, and the line of employees coming and going from the twin swinging doors to the kitchens was equally constant.
In one corner of the common room, Zenna and Mole were seated around a compact round table. The long shadows that came in through the windows high along the wall behind them said that it was sunset, the end of their first full day in Cauldron. Zenna, as always, wore her cowl up despite the heat in the crowded room, but that didn’t draw much notice here; she wasn’t the only customer of the Morkoth who valued her privacy.
“You know, you’re not a very good negotiator,” Mole said, as she sipped from a mug of ale that looked huge in her diminutive hands.
“At least they agreed to pay for some new weapons,” Zenna said, indicating with a lean of her head the neat pile of gear on the vacant chair beside them. The pile included a pair of light crossbows, a small leather pack fat with supplies and equipment, and two quivers stuffed with squat bolts. Mole had a new sword at her hip as well, a fine Tethyrian-forged blade.
“Yes, but we’ll never know how much they were willing to pay, will we?”
Zenna leaned in over the table, so that her words would not carry. She needn’t have bothered; the din within the common room was such that nobody could hear what anyone was saying more than a few feet away, unless they shouted. “You know how much that hat means to me, Mole.”
The gnome sighed, but nodded. “Well, at least we have those healing potions Jenya gave us, in case we run into somebody else who wants to stick a sword into one of us.”
Zenna leaned back, her own ale untouched. “What did you think about the orphanage? Or more specifically, the people at it?”
“The headmistress... Tashykk, wasn’t it? She seemed suspicious, almost paranoid, but I suppose that’s only to be expected, given what’s happened. The rest of the staff, they seemed dedicated enough, genuinely concerned about their charges.” Mole paused for a second, a thoughtful look on her face. “That half-orc, though... I think he was hiding something.”
“The janitor? I thought he was a half-wit.”
Mole shook her head. “I would think that you, of all people, would refrain from making judgments based on appearances.”
“So do you think he’s involved with what happened?”
“I don’t know. Let’s talk to Ruphos when he gets here, see what he thinks.”
“Where is he, anyway? He was supposed to meet us here by sundown, and by the look of it, he’ll be late again.” The wizard’s lips tightened in a gesture of disapproval. “Not that we wouldn’t be better off conducting our investigation tonight without him; he’s not very good at keeping a low profile.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Zenna. He’s got good instincts, and can read people pretty well. Remember that he hasn’t been out traveling the world like we have; he told me that he grew up in a village just a few days’ travel from here, and has spent almost six years now here in Cauldron.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware that you’d had a chance to talk so much. I hope you haven’t told him— ”
“Relax, I know when to be discreet. But you shouldn’t insist on keeping people at arm’s length all the time, either. Not everyone out there is a bad guy, you know.”
Zenna finally picked up her mug, taking a small sip. Softly, so that her whisper was muffled by the clay rim of the cup, she said, “No, only most of them.”
Mole had sharp ears, but her attention had been turned toward the center of the common room, where a disturbance was growing.
The ruckus was coming from two spacious circular tables separated by a small no-man’s-land that was currently occupied by members of two distinct and apparently hostile groups. The residents of the first table were apparently caravan guards or mercenaries by their clothes, while the other company had the hard, muscular look of laborers. Together the dozen or so men that comprised both parties shared a similar appearance: rough, dirty, and more than a little drunk. The initial confrontation had started with just one member from each table moving into the space between, but already, as words became shouts and pushes, more of their companions were rising from their tables to join what looked like a brewing confrontation.
The staff of the Morkoth was used to such things and was quick to respond, and already a half-dozen toughs—who looked much in common with the ruffians at the tables—were making their way through the crowd toward the disturbance, stout billets held tightly in their thick fists.
“It’s none of our business, Mole,” Zenna said. The gnome rolled her eyes, and quickly climbed atop the table, to get a better view. Many of the patrons apparently had a similar interest, based on the growing attention paid to the fracas, although a number took advantage of the delay to quickly move out of the radius of the contest.
The pushes grew more strenuous and it looked as though matters were about to explode when a sharp voice of command broke through the din.
“All right, that’s ENOUGH! You want to break some heads, go jump off the roof! Mayhap I’ll toss a few of you off myself, to show you how it’s done!”
Both groups drew back in surprise, as a short, stout figure—a dwarf—strode boldly into their midst.
Dwarves were not uncommon in the south, but this dwarf cut an unusual figure. His skin was a deep brown, the color of freshly-tilled soil, indicating that he was likely a gold dwarf of the Great Rift, who were far darker in coloration than their northern shield dwarven counterparts. He was clean-shaven, itself an uncommon feature for a dwarf, with shoulder-length hair that was as black as jet. He wore a suit of overlapping iron scales that covered his body like a second skin, and a pair of light hammers were tucked through his belt. Across his chest he wore a plate medallion of polished silver a full foot across, bearing on its face an impressed icon of a hammer superimposed upon a great anvil.
For an instant, the dwarf’s intrusion had united the two warring groups in hostility toward this newcomer. “This ain’t none o’ yer business, dwarf,” one of the laborers growled, and several of the others echoed his sentiment.
The dwarf met the man’s eyes with a stare as sharp as a dagger’s edge. “It looks like we might have a volunteer,” he said coldly.
But the delay had given the tavern’s bouncers time to reach the site of the disturbance, and now they formed a ring around the erstwhile combatants, their clubs as ready as their fists. Grumbling, the two groups separated and returned to their tables, though not without more than a few dark glares that promised much that were shot at the other party, the dwarf, and the bouncers... with a few thrown out in the audience for good measure.
Abruptly, though—perhaps not willing to completely abandon the prospect of a good fight—one of the laborers spun and produced a short length of iron pipe from under his tunic, taking a swing at the back of the dwarf’s head.
“Behind you!” Mole shouted in warning.
The dwarf turned quickly, and as the man’s makeshift—but very heavy—club came down, he caught the man’s fist in his own hand. The club’s downward sweep was arrested as if it had struck a stone wall, and the man’s face twisted in pain as the dwarf held his hand captive, and squeezed.
“Now, that wasn’t a smart thing to do, my friend,” he said, his voice as deep as the Great Rift itself. The others stood around him, watching, too surprised to react. The dwarf abruptly twisted his wrist, and with a loud snap! the pipe went flying. Freed from the dwarf’s grip, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his hand.
“Me hand! You broke it! Aarrrghh!”
“There was no call to do that, ser dwarf,” one of the other laborers said. “Man needs his hands to work, to eat.”
“If that club had hit, me thinks I’d be feelin’ far worse,” the dwarf countered, but he stepped forward, to stand over his would-be attacker. The laborer, for all his size and muscles, cringed as the dwarf loomed over him.
“Stay away from me!” he said.
“Ah, quit your bawling,” the dwarf said. He reached down and grabbed the man’s tunic, drawing him quickly up to his feet. No one interfered, the tavern quiet now as its patrons watched the unfolding drama.
The laborer tried to shield his hand, but the dwarf quickly uncovered it and lifted it for an examination. The man winced in pain, but knew better this time than to resist.
“It’s just a sprain,” the dwarf said. “Not that you deserve this, now, but your whining is starting to get on my nerves...”
He closed the man’s injured hand in both of his own. The laborer cried out and tried to draw back, but the dwarf held him firmly. Suddenly a white glow erupted from between his hands, lasting only an instant, and when it was done, the dwarf released his captive.
“Go, get out of here,” the dwarf said. “And watch who you take a swing at.”
The laborer looked at him with surprise, then quickly retreated, leaving the tavern without even looking back at his companions. As if his departure was a signal, the activity within the Morkoth began to return to normal, until the usual din had returned to its full force.
The dwarf, now apparently forgotten, turned to return to wherever it was that he had come from.
Mole, who had watched the entire scene with rapt interest, smoothly leapt down from the table to her chair, and then to the floor.
“Where are you going?” Zenna asked.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Mole said over her shoulder.
“Mole, no!” Zenna hissed, but it was too late; the gnome girl had already vanished into the crowd.
For a moment Zenna grappled with going after her, but she was decided a moment later when she saw Ruphos making his way through the crowd toward her table.
To her eyes, his identity was instantly obvious. It wasn’t that his disguise was poor; in fact, the power of the magical hat was without peer in terms of making a mundane disguise. After some discussion, they’d finally settled on a look that appeared competent but not especially threatening. His features were those of an older man, Ruphos’s age nearly twice over, with hair and beard starting to give over to gray. The hat was now a peaked forester’s cap that rode high upon his brow. The magic of the hat did not change the cleric’s body, though, so the “older man” still looked hale and fit, and Ruphos wore his chain shirt openly now, over a suit of plain but well-crafted woolens. His mace rode at his hip, within close reach.
Zenna frowned. No, the disguise was perfect, but Ruphos just wasn’t very good at playing any role other than the one of his own true identity. He walked like a young cleric, he moved his body like a young cleric, and when he spoke, he sounded like a young cleric (he’d tried to shift his voice to sound older, but that had been even worse). They’d agreed that she and Mole would do most of the talking, which was just as well, given that the priest’s points tended to be the opposite of what she or Mole would suggest in most situations.
“You’re late,” she told him, once he’d gotten close enough so that she didn’t have to raise her voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was an accident... a wagon broke loose of its team, and a young woman was injured, broke her arm.”
Zenna raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t...”
The cleric looked sheepish, but he matched her gaze without flinching. “I could not leave her lying there in the street, Zenna. It is my duty...”
“What about the children?” Her voice was growing louder, and a few people were glancing in their direction, so she grabbed him and half-pushed him into the chair Mole had vacated. “What about the missing children, you know, the one’s we’re looking for? If you’re going to go around casting spells and healing people, why even bother with a disguise?”
Ruphos’s expression darkened—for him, an unfamiliar turn. “Would you have had me leave her lying there?” he asked.
“You could have taken her to the temple, or any of the other churches in the city. You could have been subtle. You could have remembered what we are about here...”
The cleric lowered his eyes, but his hand had tightened into a fist. “Look. I didn’t ask for this task, but I will fulfill my mandate as best I can.” He lifted his head and met Zenna’s eyes squarely. “I want to find those children as much as you do, Zenna, and not for a reward.”
Zenna turned away—too quickly, indicating that the cleric’s words had stung. Ruphos looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. The silence between them stretched out for a long minute, broken finally when Mole returned to the table. The gold dwarf was behind her.
“Hey guys, this is Arun, Arun Goldenshield. He’s a paladin of Moradin, and he’s going to help us! Isn’t that great?”
Zenna opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.
The Drunken Morkoth was one of the livelier taverns in the city of Cauldron. It played regular host to a diverse crowd of teamsters, caravan guards, merchants, adventurers, and a fair number of townsfolk who found the barely-controlled chaos of the place a draw. On typical evenings, such as this one, a handful of hired musicians plied their instruments furiously on a compact stage crammed in against one wall, their music just one small part of the loud din of conversation, shouts, insults, and general clatter. The common room was sprawling, large enough so that someone standing on one end would have a tough time spotting a comrade on the far side through all of the smoke and movement. A long bar ran across half of the back wall, staffed by a small army of serving women, and the line of employees coming and going from the twin swinging doors to the kitchens was equally constant.
In one corner of the common room, Zenna and Mole were seated around a compact round table. The long shadows that came in through the windows high along the wall behind them said that it was sunset, the end of their first full day in Cauldron. Zenna, as always, wore her cowl up despite the heat in the crowded room, but that didn’t draw much notice here; she wasn’t the only customer of the Morkoth who valued her privacy.
“You know, you’re not a very good negotiator,” Mole said, as she sipped from a mug of ale that looked huge in her diminutive hands.
“At least they agreed to pay for some new weapons,” Zenna said, indicating with a lean of her head the neat pile of gear on the vacant chair beside them. The pile included a pair of light crossbows, a small leather pack fat with supplies and equipment, and two quivers stuffed with squat bolts. Mole had a new sword at her hip as well, a fine Tethyrian-forged blade.
“Yes, but we’ll never know how much they were willing to pay, will we?”
Zenna leaned in over the table, so that her words would not carry. She needn’t have bothered; the din within the common room was such that nobody could hear what anyone was saying more than a few feet away, unless they shouted. “You know how much that hat means to me, Mole.”
The gnome sighed, but nodded. “Well, at least we have those healing potions Jenya gave us, in case we run into somebody else who wants to stick a sword into one of us.”
Zenna leaned back, her own ale untouched. “What did you think about the orphanage? Or more specifically, the people at it?”
“The headmistress... Tashykk, wasn’t it? She seemed suspicious, almost paranoid, but I suppose that’s only to be expected, given what’s happened. The rest of the staff, they seemed dedicated enough, genuinely concerned about their charges.” Mole paused for a second, a thoughtful look on her face. “That half-orc, though... I think he was hiding something.”
“The janitor? I thought he was a half-wit.”
Mole shook her head. “I would think that you, of all people, would refrain from making judgments based on appearances.”
“So do you think he’s involved with what happened?”
“I don’t know. Let’s talk to Ruphos when he gets here, see what he thinks.”
“Where is he, anyway? He was supposed to meet us here by sundown, and by the look of it, he’ll be late again.” The wizard’s lips tightened in a gesture of disapproval. “Not that we wouldn’t be better off conducting our investigation tonight without him; he’s not very good at keeping a low profile.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Zenna. He’s got good instincts, and can read people pretty well. Remember that he hasn’t been out traveling the world like we have; he told me that he grew up in a village just a few days’ travel from here, and has spent almost six years now here in Cauldron.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware that you’d had a chance to talk so much. I hope you haven’t told him— ”
“Relax, I know when to be discreet. But you shouldn’t insist on keeping people at arm’s length all the time, either. Not everyone out there is a bad guy, you know.”
Zenna finally picked up her mug, taking a small sip. Softly, so that her whisper was muffled by the clay rim of the cup, she said, “No, only most of them.”
Mole had sharp ears, but her attention had been turned toward the center of the common room, where a disturbance was growing.
The ruckus was coming from two spacious circular tables separated by a small no-man’s-land that was currently occupied by members of two distinct and apparently hostile groups. The residents of the first table were apparently caravan guards or mercenaries by their clothes, while the other company had the hard, muscular look of laborers. Together the dozen or so men that comprised both parties shared a similar appearance: rough, dirty, and more than a little drunk. The initial confrontation had started with just one member from each table moving into the space between, but already, as words became shouts and pushes, more of their companions were rising from their tables to join what looked like a brewing confrontation.
The staff of the Morkoth was used to such things and was quick to respond, and already a half-dozen toughs—who looked much in common with the ruffians at the tables—were making their way through the crowd toward the disturbance, stout billets held tightly in their thick fists.
“It’s none of our business, Mole,” Zenna said. The gnome rolled her eyes, and quickly climbed atop the table, to get a better view. Many of the patrons apparently had a similar interest, based on the growing attention paid to the fracas, although a number took advantage of the delay to quickly move out of the radius of the contest.
The pushes grew more strenuous and it looked as though matters were about to explode when a sharp voice of command broke through the din.
“All right, that’s ENOUGH! You want to break some heads, go jump off the roof! Mayhap I’ll toss a few of you off myself, to show you how it’s done!”
Both groups drew back in surprise, as a short, stout figure—a dwarf—strode boldly into their midst.
Dwarves were not uncommon in the south, but this dwarf cut an unusual figure. His skin was a deep brown, the color of freshly-tilled soil, indicating that he was likely a gold dwarf of the Great Rift, who were far darker in coloration than their northern shield dwarven counterparts. He was clean-shaven, itself an uncommon feature for a dwarf, with shoulder-length hair that was as black as jet. He wore a suit of overlapping iron scales that covered his body like a second skin, and a pair of light hammers were tucked through his belt. Across his chest he wore a plate medallion of polished silver a full foot across, bearing on its face an impressed icon of a hammer superimposed upon a great anvil.
For an instant, the dwarf’s intrusion had united the two warring groups in hostility toward this newcomer. “This ain’t none o’ yer business, dwarf,” one of the laborers growled, and several of the others echoed his sentiment.
The dwarf met the man’s eyes with a stare as sharp as a dagger’s edge. “It looks like we might have a volunteer,” he said coldly.
But the delay had given the tavern’s bouncers time to reach the site of the disturbance, and now they formed a ring around the erstwhile combatants, their clubs as ready as their fists. Grumbling, the two groups separated and returned to their tables, though not without more than a few dark glares that promised much that were shot at the other party, the dwarf, and the bouncers... with a few thrown out in the audience for good measure.
Abruptly, though—perhaps not willing to completely abandon the prospect of a good fight—one of the laborers spun and produced a short length of iron pipe from under his tunic, taking a swing at the back of the dwarf’s head.
“Behind you!” Mole shouted in warning.
The dwarf turned quickly, and as the man’s makeshift—but very heavy—club came down, he caught the man’s fist in his own hand. The club’s downward sweep was arrested as if it had struck a stone wall, and the man’s face twisted in pain as the dwarf held his hand captive, and squeezed.
“Now, that wasn’t a smart thing to do, my friend,” he said, his voice as deep as the Great Rift itself. The others stood around him, watching, too surprised to react. The dwarf abruptly twisted his wrist, and with a loud snap! the pipe went flying. Freed from the dwarf’s grip, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his hand.
“Me hand! You broke it! Aarrrghh!”
“There was no call to do that, ser dwarf,” one of the other laborers said. “Man needs his hands to work, to eat.”
“If that club had hit, me thinks I’d be feelin’ far worse,” the dwarf countered, but he stepped forward, to stand over his would-be attacker. The laborer, for all his size and muscles, cringed as the dwarf loomed over him.
“Stay away from me!” he said.
“Ah, quit your bawling,” the dwarf said. He reached down and grabbed the man’s tunic, drawing him quickly up to his feet. No one interfered, the tavern quiet now as its patrons watched the unfolding drama.
The laborer tried to shield his hand, but the dwarf quickly uncovered it and lifted it for an examination. The man winced in pain, but knew better this time than to resist.
“It’s just a sprain,” the dwarf said. “Not that you deserve this, now, but your whining is starting to get on my nerves...”
He closed the man’s injured hand in both of his own. The laborer cried out and tried to draw back, but the dwarf held him firmly. Suddenly a white glow erupted from between his hands, lasting only an instant, and when it was done, the dwarf released his captive.
“Go, get out of here,” the dwarf said. “And watch who you take a swing at.”
The laborer looked at him with surprise, then quickly retreated, leaving the tavern without even looking back at his companions. As if his departure was a signal, the activity within the Morkoth began to return to normal, until the usual din had returned to its full force.
The dwarf, now apparently forgotten, turned to return to wherever it was that he had come from.
Mole, who had watched the entire scene with rapt interest, smoothly leapt down from the table to her chair, and then to the floor.
“Where are you going?” Zenna asked.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Mole said over her shoulder.
“Mole, no!” Zenna hissed, but it was too late; the gnome girl had already vanished into the crowd.
For a moment Zenna grappled with going after her, but she was decided a moment later when she saw Ruphos making his way through the crowd toward her table.
To her eyes, his identity was instantly obvious. It wasn’t that his disguise was poor; in fact, the power of the magical hat was without peer in terms of making a mundane disguise. After some discussion, they’d finally settled on a look that appeared competent but not especially threatening. His features were those of an older man, Ruphos’s age nearly twice over, with hair and beard starting to give over to gray. The hat was now a peaked forester’s cap that rode high upon his brow. The magic of the hat did not change the cleric’s body, though, so the “older man” still looked hale and fit, and Ruphos wore his chain shirt openly now, over a suit of plain but well-crafted woolens. His mace rode at his hip, within close reach.
Zenna frowned. No, the disguise was perfect, but Ruphos just wasn’t very good at playing any role other than the one of his own true identity. He walked like a young cleric, he moved his body like a young cleric, and when he spoke, he sounded like a young cleric (he’d tried to shift his voice to sound older, but that had been even worse). They’d agreed that she and Mole would do most of the talking, which was just as well, given that the priest’s points tended to be the opposite of what she or Mole would suggest in most situations.
“You’re late,” she told him, once he’d gotten close enough so that she didn’t have to raise her voice.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was an accident... a wagon broke loose of its team, and a young woman was injured, broke her arm.”
Zenna raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t...”
The cleric looked sheepish, but he matched her gaze without flinching. “I could not leave her lying there in the street, Zenna. It is my duty...”
“What about the children?” Her voice was growing louder, and a few people were glancing in their direction, so she grabbed him and half-pushed him into the chair Mole had vacated. “What about the missing children, you know, the one’s we’re looking for? If you’re going to go around casting spells and healing people, why even bother with a disguise?”
Ruphos’s expression darkened—for him, an unfamiliar turn. “Would you have had me leave her lying there?” he asked.
“You could have taken her to the temple, or any of the other churches in the city. You could have been subtle. You could have remembered what we are about here...”
The cleric lowered his eyes, but his hand had tightened into a fist. “Look. I didn’t ask for this task, but I will fulfill my mandate as best I can.” He lifted his head and met Zenna’s eyes squarely. “I want to find those children as much as you do, Zenna, and not for a reward.”
Zenna turned away—too quickly, indicating that the cleric’s words had stung. Ruphos looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. The silence between them stretched out for a long minute, broken finally when Mole returned to the table. The gold dwarf was behind her.
“Hey guys, this is Arun, Arun Goldenshield. He’s a paladin of Moradin, and he’s going to help us! Isn’t that great?”
Zenna opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
A dwarf!!!!
And from the Great Rift, even...NOT the North...
And from the Great Rift, even...NOT the North...
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 9
The next morning dawned cold and dreary in Cauldron, for the weather had turned with a sheet of ugly gray clouds sweeping down out of the mountains over the night.
The companions—now numbering four—walked along the innermost of Cauldron’s four avenues that formed wide circles around the inside of the caldera. Ash Street was fairly quiet, for it was the tenth day and many folks were taking advantage of that to stay in their beds and get a late start on their day.
Mole and Arun were walking side-by-side a short distance ahead of Zenna and Ruphos. The two taller folk were quiet, with a residue of tension from the night prior still hanging in the air between them, but the gnome was keeping up a steady torrent of chatter, punctuated by occasional replies from the dwarf.
“I haven’t seen a whole lot of dwarves, I admit, but I have to say that I can’t remember seeing one clean shaven.”
The dwarf glanced down at her. He looked even more imposing this morning, for in addition to his suit of masterwork scale armor and the two light hammers tucked into his belt, he now bore a heavy steel shield and had a massive warhammer slung across his back.
“I shave my beard as a sign of my commitment to the Soul Forger,” Arun replied in his sonorous voice. “It is a warning common among my people, so that when the evil races of the Underdark see a beardless dwarf coming at them, they know that they face a warrior consecrated to the Anvil.”
“Well, you’re different,” Mole went on. “Most dwarves I’ve seen have quick tempers and foul mouths, and aren’t all that into bathing. And they like the drink, ooh yeah.”
Arun raised an eyebrow. “Well, they say most gnomes are nosy, annoying pranksters, who can’t keep their mouths shut or their eyes out of other people’s business. Perhaps both stereotypes are overly... limited.”
Mole looked up at him suspiciously, weighing the amount of insult inherent in the dwarf’s comment. Arun only looked straight ahead, not betraying any clues in his expression. Finally, Mole laughed, and then the dwarf did smile.
“In any case, I would suggest that your cross-section of dwarvenkind was a limited one. Perhaps someday you should visit a dwarven hold, and see our people as they live among their own kind, in their homes with families and friends close at hand.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Mole said.
Behind the pair, Zenna and Ruphos walked in silence. Finally, though the cleric turned to her. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” he said quietly. When Zenna didn’t reply, he added, “This isn’t easy for me... I’m not very good at this business of sneaking around and asking questions. I don’t know why Jenya picked me for this. Or for that matter, why she chose you.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Zenna asked softly.
“Um... oh, it’s not because... I mean... Look, I’m not like Morgan.”
“I see,” Zenna said.
Ruphos looked at her, but the tiefling woman did not turn her head, her face masked within the shelter of her cowl. The cleric opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted as Mole and Arun halted up ahead.
“Hey, this looks like the place,” Mole said.
Ghelve’s Locks was a compact, two-story shop that fronted onto Ash Street, flanked by other buildings of indeterminate purpose. Its identity was proclaimed by a large sign bearing the image of, naturally, a large clasp lock and a ring of keys.
They had decided last night to come here as the next step in their investigation. It was only natural, given that Jenya’s divination had specifically mentioned locks, and the gnome Keygan Ghelve was responsible for most of the locks in the city. Ruphos didn’t know much more about him than his name, but a few queries by Mole had revealed that the gnome was skilled at his trade, rather introspective, and a magic-user to boot.
“What if the shop’s closed?” Zenna asked. “It’s tenth day, and pretty early.”
“He’s a gnome,” Mole said. “It’ll be open.”
As if to confirm her words, the door to the shop opened, and someone stepped into the street. The individual was a lean, furtive-looking man with hints of elvish ancestry in his features, clad in plain brown woolens and a coat of cured leather that just about rose to the level of being armor. He started slightly in surprise at the four of them gathered in the street before the shop, then quickly turned and headed down Ash Avenue in the opposite direction.
“Well, let’s hope that Mr. Ghelve is not so jumpy,” Mole said, heading for the door.
A small bell attached to the jam tinkled faintly as they entered, announcing their presence. The front room of the shop was compact but cozy, with a fire burning in the hearth along the left wall, flanked by a pair of plushly padded armchairs. On the mantle above the hearth was arrayed a collection of the accoutrements of a tobacco addict, including a tinderbox, a clear vase of leaves, and a small collection of pipes in a wooden rack. To the right a long mahogany counter ran along the wall, with a curtained exit behind it.
Almost before the little bell had stopped its tinkling, the shopkeeper burst through the curtain into the front room. He was an odd character, a gnome of middle years, his facial features jutting prominently from his face. Perhaps most startling was the fact that he walked on stilts—actual wooden stilts!—that put him on eye level with Zenna and Ruphos. His features were a bit ragged, with dark circles under his eyes, but he composed himself quickly and addressed them in a slightly squeaky voice.
“Yes, what is it? How can I help you, what do you want?”
Mole stepped forward and hopped up onto the counter with a single sprightly burst. They’d agreed earlier that she would be their spokesperson, both for her easy manner and her racial connection to the locksmith. Ruphos walked over toward the chairs, pretending to examine the shop, while Arun just stood there, a dark look crossing his features as he started looking around, sniffing the air as if he’d suddenly caught a whiff of a foul odor.
“Well!” Mole said, with a disarming smile, giving the locksmith a good up-and-down look before settling her eyes on his. “We’re interested in locks, silly! Why else would we be here?”
The gnome harrumphed, but as they started talking it was clear that the girl’s manner was catching hold. The locksmith shot a few suspicious glances at her companions—his eyes lingering on Zenna in her cowl for a few heartbeats, and widening fractionally as they settled on Arun, but soon the two gnomes were animatedly discussing some of the intricacies of the craft.
Zenna let out a sigh—most of Mole’s knowledge of locks came from more dubious sources than honest crafting—but let her friend do her thing while she walked over to where Ruphos had paused in front of the fireplace. The cleric was staring into the hearth, and the flames that danced merrily within.
“Are you all right?” Zenna whispered, as she came up to him.
Ruphos turned to answer, but his eyes suddenly widened as he caught sight of the room behind her. Zenna turned to see Arun suddenly lunge forward, reaching around the edge of the counter toward the gnome. Ghelve squawked in surprise and tried to dodge back out of the way, but as he leaned back on one leg the stilt on the other jutted out to where the dwarf could get a firm grasp on it. Arun heaved and the gnome went flying, flailing in an unwieldy arc over the dwarf. For a moment Ghelve was heading for a face-first collision with the hard wooden floor, then Arun’s thick hand snapped out and caught a fistful of his coat from behind, drawing him up just an inch or two from impact.
For a moment the dwarf’s companions just stood there, shocked. Ruphos was the first to start forward, outrage written clear on his face, but Zenna stepped smoothly in front of him, grasping his arm to arrest his progress. The cleric turned on her, but she hissed, “Wait a moment!” She only hoped that the cleric would trust her, as she was trusting the dwarf.
Arun lifted Ghelve until the gnome was hovering just a few inches from the dwarf’s beardless face. The locksmith, as surprised as the companions by the sudden developments, and finding himself in very close proximity to an apparently mad dwarf, trembled as he tried to stammer out something comprehensible.
“What... what...” he managed.
“Don’t play the innocent with me!” the dwarf roared, spraying spittle over the gnome’s face. “I can sense the taint hanging over this place like a shroud! There’s evil here, gnome, and yer’d better be quick about revealin’ it, or I start bashin’!” To emphasize his point, he lifted one of his light hammers up between them, spinning its fat iron head.
The companions stood there, watching, the room silent save for the labored breathing of the captive locksmith. Mole had stood instantly atop the counter as soon as Arun had moved, and now she walked down to its end, twirling a dagger between her fingers.
“I’d tell him what he wants,” she said. “He really does love the bashin’ part.”
Ghelve’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked first at Mole, then back to the dwarf. “I... I...”
Ruphos, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly agitated. Mole, seeing this, caught Zenna’s attention and inclined her head toward the curtain to the back room. The wizard nodded, all but dragging the reluctant cleric back in that direction. Ghelve reacted notably to their movement, his face betraying a sudden worry beyond even the panic induced by Arun’s attack. Both Mole and the dwarf saw it, and Arun shook the gnome, drawing his attention back to him.
“Well? Don’t be lying to me, I can tell if yer be lyin’ to me...”
The back room was slightly larger than the front area of the shop, and was apparently a storage area. A large bay window to the right was set out as a display of the locksmith’s wares to passersby on the street outside, and a compact staircase in the rear of the room led up to a balcony that overlooked the room and obviously offered access to the second story of the shop. Three considerable oak chests were arranged in the center of the floor, and a few tables were pushed up against the far wall, underneath a portrait of a silver-haired gnome.
As soon as they were through the curtain, Ruphos spun on Zenna. “What is this? I didn’t agree to assaulting citizens!” At least he had the foresight to keep his voice low, but Zenna, knowing first-hand how sensitive gnomish ears were, drove him further back into the room anyway.
“He’s a paladin!” she hissed. “They have the ability to detect evil, or don’t you know that? Trust his instincts.”
“Trust? We just met him.” He gestured toward the curtain, but his eyes never wavered from Zenna when he said it. He looked indecisive, and said, “This is crazy.”
So intent were they on each other, neither had a chance of seeing the shadow that detached itself from the wall along the balcony above, and leaned forward over the railing, looking down at them...
The next morning dawned cold and dreary in Cauldron, for the weather had turned with a sheet of ugly gray clouds sweeping down out of the mountains over the night.
The companions—now numbering four—walked along the innermost of Cauldron’s four avenues that formed wide circles around the inside of the caldera. Ash Street was fairly quiet, for it was the tenth day and many folks were taking advantage of that to stay in their beds and get a late start on their day.
Mole and Arun were walking side-by-side a short distance ahead of Zenna and Ruphos. The two taller folk were quiet, with a residue of tension from the night prior still hanging in the air between them, but the gnome was keeping up a steady torrent of chatter, punctuated by occasional replies from the dwarf.
“I haven’t seen a whole lot of dwarves, I admit, but I have to say that I can’t remember seeing one clean shaven.”
The dwarf glanced down at her. He looked even more imposing this morning, for in addition to his suit of masterwork scale armor and the two light hammers tucked into his belt, he now bore a heavy steel shield and had a massive warhammer slung across his back.
“I shave my beard as a sign of my commitment to the Soul Forger,” Arun replied in his sonorous voice. “It is a warning common among my people, so that when the evil races of the Underdark see a beardless dwarf coming at them, they know that they face a warrior consecrated to the Anvil.”
“Well, you’re different,” Mole went on. “Most dwarves I’ve seen have quick tempers and foul mouths, and aren’t all that into bathing. And they like the drink, ooh yeah.”
Arun raised an eyebrow. “Well, they say most gnomes are nosy, annoying pranksters, who can’t keep their mouths shut or their eyes out of other people’s business. Perhaps both stereotypes are overly... limited.”
Mole looked up at him suspiciously, weighing the amount of insult inherent in the dwarf’s comment. Arun only looked straight ahead, not betraying any clues in his expression. Finally, Mole laughed, and then the dwarf did smile.
“In any case, I would suggest that your cross-section of dwarvenkind was a limited one. Perhaps someday you should visit a dwarven hold, and see our people as they live among their own kind, in their homes with families and friends close at hand.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Mole said.
Behind the pair, Zenna and Ruphos walked in silence. Finally, though the cleric turned to her. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” he said quietly. When Zenna didn’t reply, he added, “This isn’t easy for me... I’m not very good at this business of sneaking around and asking questions. I don’t know why Jenya picked me for this. Or for that matter, why she chose you.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Zenna asked softly.
“Um... oh, it’s not because... I mean... Look, I’m not like Morgan.”
“I see,” Zenna said.
Ruphos looked at her, but the tiefling woman did not turn her head, her face masked within the shelter of her cowl. The cleric opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted as Mole and Arun halted up ahead.
“Hey, this looks like the place,” Mole said.
Ghelve’s Locks was a compact, two-story shop that fronted onto Ash Street, flanked by other buildings of indeterminate purpose. Its identity was proclaimed by a large sign bearing the image of, naturally, a large clasp lock and a ring of keys.
They had decided last night to come here as the next step in their investigation. It was only natural, given that Jenya’s divination had specifically mentioned locks, and the gnome Keygan Ghelve was responsible for most of the locks in the city. Ruphos didn’t know much more about him than his name, but a few queries by Mole had revealed that the gnome was skilled at his trade, rather introspective, and a magic-user to boot.
“What if the shop’s closed?” Zenna asked. “It’s tenth day, and pretty early.”
“He’s a gnome,” Mole said. “It’ll be open.”
As if to confirm her words, the door to the shop opened, and someone stepped into the street. The individual was a lean, furtive-looking man with hints of elvish ancestry in his features, clad in plain brown woolens and a coat of cured leather that just about rose to the level of being armor. He started slightly in surprise at the four of them gathered in the street before the shop, then quickly turned and headed down Ash Avenue in the opposite direction.
“Well, let’s hope that Mr. Ghelve is not so jumpy,” Mole said, heading for the door.
A small bell attached to the jam tinkled faintly as they entered, announcing their presence. The front room of the shop was compact but cozy, with a fire burning in the hearth along the left wall, flanked by a pair of plushly padded armchairs. On the mantle above the hearth was arrayed a collection of the accoutrements of a tobacco addict, including a tinderbox, a clear vase of leaves, and a small collection of pipes in a wooden rack. To the right a long mahogany counter ran along the wall, with a curtained exit behind it.
Almost before the little bell had stopped its tinkling, the shopkeeper burst through the curtain into the front room. He was an odd character, a gnome of middle years, his facial features jutting prominently from his face. Perhaps most startling was the fact that he walked on stilts—actual wooden stilts!—that put him on eye level with Zenna and Ruphos. His features were a bit ragged, with dark circles under his eyes, but he composed himself quickly and addressed them in a slightly squeaky voice.
“Yes, what is it? How can I help you, what do you want?”
Mole stepped forward and hopped up onto the counter with a single sprightly burst. They’d agreed earlier that she would be their spokesperson, both for her easy manner and her racial connection to the locksmith. Ruphos walked over toward the chairs, pretending to examine the shop, while Arun just stood there, a dark look crossing his features as he started looking around, sniffing the air as if he’d suddenly caught a whiff of a foul odor.
“Well!” Mole said, with a disarming smile, giving the locksmith a good up-and-down look before settling her eyes on his. “We’re interested in locks, silly! Why else would we be here?”
The gnome harrumphed, but as they started talking it was clear that the girl’s manner was catching hold. The locksmith shot a few suspicious glances at her companions—his eyes lingering on Zenna in her cowl for a few heartbeats, and widening fractionally as they settled on Arun, but soon the two gnomes were animatedly discussing some of the intricacies of the craft.
Zenna let out a sigh—most of Mole’s knowledge of locks came from more dubious sources than honest crafting—but let her friend do her thing while she walked over to where Ruphos had paused in front of the fireplace. The cleric was staring into the hearth, and the flames that danced merrily within.
“Are you all right?” Zenna whispered, as she came up to him.
Ruphos turned to answer, but his eyes suddenly widened as he caught sight of the room behind her. Zenna turned to see Arun suddenly lunge forward, reaching around the edge of the counter toward the gnome. Ghelve squawked in surprise and tried to dodge back out of the way, but as he leaned back on one leg the stilt on the other jutted out to where the dwarf could get a firm grasp on it. Arun heaved and the gnome went flying, flailing in an unwieldy arc over the dwarf. For a moment Ghelve was heading for a face-first collision with the hard wooden floor, then Arun’s thick hand snapped out and caught a fistful of his coat from behind, drawing him up just an inch or two from impact.
For a moment the dwarf’s companions just stood there, shocked. Ruphos was the first to start forward, outrage written clear on his face, but Zenna stepped smoothly in front of him, grasping his arm to arrest his progress. The cleric turned on her, but she hissed, “Wait a moment!” She only hoped that the cleric would trust her, as she was trusting the dwarf.
Arun lifted Ghelve until the gnome was hovering just a few inches from the dwarf’s beardless face. The locksmith, as surprised as the companions by the sudden developments, and finding himself in very close proximity to an apparently mad dwarf, trembled as he tried to stammer out something comprehensible.
“What... what...” he managed.
“Don’t play the innocent with me!” the dwarf roared, spraying spittle over the gnome’s face. “I can sense the taint hanging over this place like a shroud! There’s evil here, gnome, and yer’d better be quick about revealin’ it, or I start bashin’!” To emphasize his point, he lifted one of his light hammers up between them, spinning its fat iron head.
The companions stood there, watching, the room silent save for the labored breathing of the captive locksmith. Mole had stood instantly atop the counter as soon as Arun had moved, and now she walked down to its end, twirling a dagger between her fingers.
“I’d tell him what he wants,” she said. “He really does love the bashin’ part.”
Ghelve’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked first at Mole, then back to the dwarf. “I... I...”
Ruphos, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly agitated. Mole, seeing this, caught Zenna’s attention and inclined her head toward the curtain to the back room. The wizard nodded, all but dragging the reluctant cleric back in that direction. Ghelve reacted notably to their movement, his face betraying a sudden worry beyond even the panic induced by Arun’s attack. Both Mole and the dwarf saw it, and Arun shook the gnome, drawing his attention back to him.
“Well? Don’t be lying to me, I can tell if yer be lyin’ to me...”
The back room was slightly larger than the front area of the shop, and was apparently a storage area. A large bay window to the right was set out as a display of the locksmith’s wares to passersby on the street outside, and a compact staircase in the rear of the room led up to a balcony that overlooked the room and obviously offered access to the second story of the shop. Three considerable oak chests were arranged in the center of the floor, and a few tables were pushed up against the far wall, underneath a portrait of a silver-haired gnome.
As soon as they were through the curtain, Ruphos spun on Zenna. “What is this? I didn’t agree to assaulting citizens!” At least he had the foresight to keep his voice low, but Zenna, knowing first-hand how sensitive gnomish ears were, drove him further back into the room anyway.
“He’s a paladin!” she hissed. “They have the ability to detect evil, or don’t you know that? Trust his instincts.”
“Trust? We just met him.” He gestured toward the curtain, but his eyes never wavered from Zenna when he said it. He looked indecisive, and said, “This is crazy.”
So intent were they on each other, neither had a chance of seeing the shadow that detached itself from the wall along the balcony above, and leaned forward over the railing, looking down at them...
Last edited:
Lazybones
Adventurer
(contact) said:
I'll probably keep writing this until one of the following happens:
a) I get bored with the story and/or characters
b) Paizo stops publishing the mag (well, I'd probably just start making it up if that happened)
c) I get laid off (very possible, since I'm a state worker in CA with less than 30 months seniority). Somehow I'm a lot more productive when I steal a few minutes here and there to write in between projects than when I have a whole empty day in front of me with a blank screen. On the plus side, I'd probably be able to run the end-all of NWN campaigns...
Thanks for the praise, as someone who has greatly enjoyed your RttToEE story (twice!) and LoT, I appreciate it.
Update later today.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 10
Zenna cried out in surprise as a dark form hurtled down from above. Ruphos didn’t even sense it before it slammed hard into him, knocking him sprawling roughly to the floor. The attacker sprang quickly to its feet before Zenna, who drew back in astonishment.
The light that filtered into the room through the narrow windows wasn’t sufficient to clearly distinguish the newcomer. It was a man-sized humanoid figure, apparently naked save for a web-belt that supported a light crossbow and a scabbard for the rapier that it carried at the ready. It was strange enough that it appeared to lack gender, without any obvious sex organs. But its flesh—its body was a mottled, gray color that seemed to ripple with dark striations within the skin, causing it to blend unnaturally with its surroundings. Its face was a stunted, ugly caricature of a human’s, his eyes a stark blue and without pupils, its mouth twisted with a snarl as it lunged at Zenna.
The startled wizard tried to call upon the words of a spell, but she managed only a single syllable before the creature lashed out with its rapier, smashing the hilt across her face. Blood exploded from her shattered nose and she crumpled, unconscious.
“Zenna!” Ruphos cried, clutching at his the mace at his belt as he tried to get up from where he had fallen. His cloak caught on one of the nearby chests, however, and he stumbled, landing awkwardly on his hip.
The skulk looked at him with an expression that could only be described as unmitigated hatred, and hefted its rapier as it stepped toward him. It turned, though, as the curtain flew open, revealing two hundred pounds of dwarven fury hurtling at full speed toward it.
The skulk tried to dodge out of the way of the charging dwarf. It moved swiftly and nimbly, but not nimbly enough as Arun swept his warhammer around in a wide arc that landed solidly in the center of the creature’s chest. The skulk went flying roughly to the side, impacting the wall beneath the staircase with enough force to crack a few of the boards. The creature hung there, for a second, those uncanny blue eyes staring at them, then it sunk inevitably to the cold floor, not to arise again.
Ruphos, however, wasn’t watching the skulk as it died. He half-crawled over to where Zenna had fallen, half-frantic as he called upon the power of his patron god. The blue healing light of Helm’s grace poured from his hands into Zenna’s shattered face, and she started, her eyes popping open in sudden surprise.
“What...?” she asked, as he eyes gained focus. “Help me up,” she commanded, grabbing onto Ruphos’s shoulder.
Arun was looking around for other foes, scanning the balcony above, but apparently the skulk had been alone—or its companions had elected to flee rather than fight. But before the three could discuss what had happened, a nimbus of flaring colors appeared around the borders of the curtain leading to the front of the shop, and a soft thump followed from that direction.
“Mole!” Zenna cried, pulling free from Ruphos’s grasp and darting in that direction. The cleric and dwarf were right behind her.
As they passed through the curtain, they could see the gnome locksmith, standing behind Mole’s limp body, holding the unconscious girl up against him as a shield with one arm. His free hand was holding Mole’s dagger against her throat, though they could see the weapon trembling in his hand.
“Don’t come any closer!” Ghelve cried. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if you come any closer!”
Zenna cried out in surprise as a dark form hurtled down from above. Ruphos didn’t even sense it before it slammed hard into him, knocking him sprawling roughly to the floor. The attacker sprang quickly to its feet before Zenna, who drew back in astonishment.
The light that filtered into the room through the narrow windows wasn’t sufficient to clearly distinguish the newcomer. It was a man-sized humanoid figure, apparently naked save for a web-belt that supported a light crossbow and a scabbard for the rapier that it carried at the ready. It was strange enough that it appeared to lack gender, without any obvious sex organs. But its flesh—its body was a mottled, gray color that seemed to ripple with dark striations within the skin, causing it to blend unnaturally with its surroundings. Its face was a stunted, ugly caricature of a human’s, his eyes a stark blue and without pupils, its mouth twisted with a snarl as it lunged at Zenna.
The startled wizard tried to call upon the words of a spell, but she managed only a single syllable before the creature lashed out with its rapier, smashing the hilt across her face. Blood exploded from her shattered nose and she crumpled, unconscious.
“Zenna!” Ruphos cried, clutching at his the mace at his belt as he tried to get up from where he had fallen. His cloak caught on one of the nearby chests, however, and he stumbled, landing awkwardly on his hip.
The skulk looked at him with an expression that could only be described as unmitigated hatred, and hefted its rapier as it stepped toward him. It turned, though, as the curtain flew open, revealing two hundred pounds of dwarven fury hurtling at full speed toward it.
The skulk tried to dodge out of the way of the charging dwarf. It moved swiftly and nimbly, but not nimbly enough as Arun swept his warhammer around in a wide arc that landed solidly in the center of the creature’s chest. The skulk went flying roughly to the side, impacting the wall beneath the staircase with enough force to crack a few of the boards. The creature hung there, for a second, those uncanny blue eyes staring at them, then it sunk inevitably to the cold floor, not to arise again.
Ruphos, however, wasn’t watching the skulk as it died. He half-crawled over to where Zenna had fallen, half-frantic as he called upon the power of his patron god. The blue healing light of Helm’s grace poured from his hands into Zenna’s shattered face, and she started, her eyes popping open in sudden surprise.
“What...?” she asked, as he eyes gained focus. “Help me up,” she commanded, grabbing onto Ruphos’s shoulder.
Arun was looking around for other foes, scanning the balcony above, but apparently the skulk had been alone—or its companions had elected to flee rather than fight. But before the three could discuss what had happened, a nimbus of flaring colors appeared around the borders of the curtain leading to the front of the shop, and a soft thump followed from that direction.
“Mole!” Zenna cried, pulling free from Ruphos’s grasp and darting in that direction. The cleric and dwarf were right behind her.
As they passed through the curtain, they could see the gnome locksmith, standing behind Mole’s limp body, holding the unconscious girl up against him as a shield with one arm. His free hand was holding Mole’s dagger against her throat, though they could see the weapon trembling in his hand.
“Don’t come any closer!” Ghelve cried. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if you come any closer!”
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