Confrontations
“This is what happens when you play by the book!” Brogun thundered. The Company stood in Akevi’s office, gathered around the corpse of Kell, who had succumbed to the Dread Wyvern’s poison moments after the beast had fallen.
Kednor stopped in mid-action, one side of his bloodstained armor hanging open. “You should not blame Kell’s death on anyone but the wyvern,” the paladin stated.
“Wrong!” roared Brogun. “It is because we confronted Paramezzus that Commissioner Hafiz set us to fight the wyvern. He was obviously trying to silence us before we could shut down the drug ring. And now Kell is dead!”
Kednor shook his head sadly. “Again, you rush to judgment. We do not know that Hafiz is involved, and our evidence implicating Paramezzus is circumstantial only.”
Brogun began to splutter in outrage, but Kednor cut him off.
“In any case, we should continue our investigation until we have incontrovertible proof of someone’s guilt. That Kell has fallen is… regrettable, but he knew the risks when he took up the life of adventure. All of us — even you, Brogun — have had a taste of death.”
The war-priest opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted yet again.
“I will not compromise my principles,” Kednor emphasized. “Not for you, nor for anyone.”
= = =
Fortunately, Akevi knew a local priest who owed her a favor. Kell returned to life that very afternoon, feeling weakened by otherwise intact.* The group determined to relocate to an inn far from the arena, choosing one called the Drunken Minotaur as being suitably seedy and off the beaten path.
* I told the players when the campaign began that I would allow each PC, cohort, or NPC ally one quick’n’easy return from the dead. Kednor died (and was raised) off-stage. Brogun died fighting the Ministry of Winds but was raised via a limited wish cast by Loi-Kymar, Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. Otieno died in the fight with Caligraf in Choth’s lair; he was returned to life by a nameless priest in between adventures. Finally, Kell died thanks to the Dreadwood Wyvern’s poison. His inexpensive raising was the last time the players would have it so easy.
While recuperating that evening, the Company talked strategy. They decided that since all signs pointed to Paramezzus, another conversation with the alchemist was in order. This time, however, the more charismatic Kestrels (i.e., not Brogun) would do the talking.
In the event, it proved not to matter.
= = =
Before the Kestrels could confront Paramezzus, they received help from an unexpected source: Rufilius ‘Short Fang’ Syreme, the young boy who worshipped the gladiators as heroes and fancied himself on that path to glory. Short Fang accosted the Company just outside their inn.
“How did you find us here” Kell asked in alarm, visions of the assassin Nasir al-Faraj filling his head.
“Aww, it was nothing,” Short Fang said dismissively. “I just asked about a couple of dwarves in heavy armor.”
Kell glanced reprovingly at Brogun and Kednor, who shrugged apologetically.
“Now that I’ve found you,” the boy continued, “here you go.” He thrust out his hand, clutching a small bag of what appeared to be dried herbs.
Otieno took the proffered item and sniffed it gingerly. “Where did you get this?”
“From the Golden Shambler’s training belt,” Short Fang answered. “I was putting it on this morning and that thing fell out. What is it?”
“Dru—“ Brogun began, but Otieno cut him off. “A charm of some sort, meant to improve the Shambler’s battle prowess, no doubt.”
Short Fang sighed. “I guess it didn’t work.”
= = =
The adventurers hastened to the bizarre, where they once again spoke with Fra Lorenzo the herbalist. He confirmed that the poultice bag contained some sort of drug, definitely containing faraja leaves. “I will need a fresh sample to determine if this is, in fact, what has been killing the gladiators,” said Lorenzo.
“And I know where to get one,” Brogun announced with determination. “Paramezzus.”
Half an hour later, the Company of the Red Kestrel stood outside the alchemist’s door, believing themselves ready for whatever might happen. They knocked at the door, and when the crook-backed old man opened it, Otieno held forth the poultice. “We were wondering if you would sell us some of this,” he lied.
Paramezzus’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak. “You fools,” he hissed. “May Naar take your souls!”
The alchemist disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of acrid black smoke. From the arena above, cheers and shouts turned to screams of terror.
