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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 998594" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Chapter 8</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“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.</p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>“Yes, but we’ll never know how much they were willing to pay, will we?”</p><p></p><p>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.”</p><p></p><p>The gnome sighed, but nodded. “Well, at least we have those healing potions Jenya gave us, in case we run into somebody <em>else</em> who wants to stick a sword into one of us.”</p><p></p><p>Zenna leaned back, her own ale untouched. “What did you think about the orphanage? Or more specifically, the people at it?”</p><p></p><p>“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.”</p><p></p><p>“The janitor? I thought he was a half-wit.”</p><p></p><p>Mole shook her head. “I would think that you, of all people, would refrain from making judgments based on appearances.”</p><p></p><p>“So do you think he’s involved with what happened?” </p><p></p><p>“I don’t know. Let’s talk to Ruphos when he gets here, see what he thinks.”</p><p></p><p>“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.”</p><p></p><p>“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.” </p><p></p><p>“Oh? I wasn’t aware that you’d had a chance to talk so much. I hope you haven’t told him— ” </p><p></p><p>“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.”</p><p></p><p>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.”</p><p></p><p>Mole had sharp ears, but her attention had been turned toward the center of the common room, where a disturbance was growing. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“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!”</p><p></p><p>Both groups drew back in surprise, as a short, stout figure—a dwarf—strode boldly into their midst. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“Behind you!” Mole shouted in warning. </p><p></p><p>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 <em>squeezed</em>.</p><p></p><p>“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 <em>snap!</em> the pipe went flying. Freed from the dwarf’s grip, the man collapsed to the ground, clutching at his hand. </p><p></p><p>“Me hand! You broke it! Aarrrghh!” </p><p></p><p>“There was no call to do that, ser dwarf,” one of the other laborers said. “Man needs his hands to work, to eat.”</p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>“Stay away from me!” he said. </p><p></p><p>“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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“It’s just a sprain,” the dwarf said. “Not that you deserve this, now, but your whining is starting to get on my nerves...”</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“Go, get out of here,” the dwarf said. “And watch who you take a swing at.”</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>The dwarf, now apparently forgotten, turned to return to wherever it was that he had come from. </p><p></p><p>Mole, who had watched the entire scene with rapt interest, smoothly leapt down from the table to her chair, and then to the floor. </p><p></p><p>“Where are you going?” Zenna asked. </p><p></p><p>“I’m going to talk to him,” Mole said over her shoulder. </p><p></p><p>“Mole, no!” Zenna hissed, but it was too late; the gnome girl had already vanished into the crowd. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“You’re late,” she told him, once he’d gotten close enough so that she didn’t have to raise her voice. </p><p></p><p>“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.”</p><p></p><p>Zenna raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t...”</p><p></p><p>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...”</p><p></p><p>“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?” </p><p></p><p>Ruphos’s expression darkened—for him, an unfamiliar turn. “Would you have had me leave her lying there?” he asked. </p><p></p><p>“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...”</p><p></p><p>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.”</p><p></p><p>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. </p><p></p><p>“Hey guys, this is Arun, Arun Goldenshield. He’s a paladin of Moradin, and he’s going to help us! Isn’t that great?”</p><p></p><p>Zenna opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 998594, member: 143"] 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 [I]else[/I] 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 [I]squeezed[/I]. “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 [I]snap![/I] 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. [/QUOTE]
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Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
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