Whatever suspicion had been occupying her thoughts vanished beneath something much more immediate.
"You don't even know if that would stop it."
Severin remained crouched beside her. His attention moved from the black tracery to Orris.
"She's right."
He gestured toward the markings.
"We don't know whether this began in her leg. We don't know whether removing it would accomplish anything."
He paused.
"What we know is considerably less satisfying. Your cure didn't work."
Mara swallowed, staring at her leg.
Severin rose.
"Leaving her here avoids exposing anyone else, assuming proximity is even the danger. Taking her with us risks something we don't understand. Cutting off her leg risks killing or crippling her for something we don't know will help."
His expression remained level.
"Those are the choices. I won't dress any of them up as certainty."
Mara looked between them, anger beginning to overcome the fear.
"You wanted answers. I can still give you answers."
She pulled herself a little straighter against the wall.
"Get me closer to the inner quarter and I'll show you where the others went. After that, if you want me away from your sanctuary, fine."
Severin looked to the others.
"I'll carry her if that's what we decide. I can keep apart from you on the way."
Then, after a glance at Mara's leg:
"But I'm not taking that leg off on a guess."
The group has enough information to make the decision without another check.
You can leave Mara here, take her toward the inner quarter while keeping her separated from the group, attempt an amputation or another treatment, or come up with another approach.
Sky ensures the papers are safely secured and then proceeds downstairs.
"I can carry her.
"You might want to give me some room. And," turning to Mara Sky adds, "duck your head on the way out."
The air around Sky appears to blur for a moment, and filling the small hallway is a large warhorse. It shifts awkwardly for a moment, then turns to stare at Mara.
<<I still think you should have gone with a Worg.>>
Mara watched the transformation in silence. Once Sky had settled into the larger form, Severin stepped in to help her mount. With one leg useless, the process was awkward; he lifted most of her weight while she pushed with the other leg, then steadied her until she found a position she could hold without relying on the injured limb. Before stepping away, he wrapped the exposed portion of her leg beneath several layers of cloth.
"That solves one problem."
He checked the makeshift covering once more.
"Keep some distance between us on the way. Until we know how this spreads, there's no reason for all of us to take the same risk."
They left the laboratory behind and continued toward the inner quarter.
The deeper they went, the more Plague-Mort seemed to be drawing in upon itself. Barricades divided streets that had been open only hours before, and Hounds now occupied the larger intersections in numbers, checking those moving toward the center and turning others back. Civilians clustered in doorways or hurried past carrying blankets, sacks and whatever possessions they had thought worth saving. Arguments broke out at the checkpoints, but rarely lasted long once hands settled onto sword hilts.
Something else had changed as well. The air had grown close and unpleasantly warm, carrying the faint smell of smoke from somewhere beyond the inner quarter. Above the rooftops, the sky had taken on a dull reddish cast that seemed too broad to belong to any ordinary fire. At one point the street gave a low shudder beneath them, rattling shutters and sending a thin curtain of dust from an old stone facade. People stopped long enough to make sure it was over, then continued on their way. Whatever frightened them about it, they had apparently felt it before.
The sanctuary came into view near the Arch-Lector's residence, though by now the word seemed to describe an entire section of the quarter rather than a single building. Its original courtyard had filled first, then the covered walks, then the surrounding street. Canvas awnings had been tied between walls, balconies and wooden poles to make whatever additional shelter could be found. Pallets and blankets covered nearly every protected patch of ground, with narrow paths left between them for attendants carrying buckets of water, bandages and steaming bowls.
The sick lay shoulder to shoulder beneath the awnings. Some shivered beneath blankets despite the oppressive warmth, while others stared vacantly at the canvas overhead or slept as relatives kept watch beside them. Black tracery showed beneath collars and across exposed arms, and the darkened eyes the group had seen elsewhere were common enough here that no one seemed to stare at them anymore. The smell of sweat, smoke, old blood and too many bodies crowded together hung over everything. Voices blended into a constant murmur of coughing, prayer, argument and exhausted conversation, occasionally broken by someone calling for water or an attendant trying to make themselves heard above the rest.
Beyond the sanctuary stood the Arch-Lector's residence, and the difference between the two was difficult to ignore. The residence was a heavy stone structure set behind its own wall, its upper stories and steep roofs rising above the neighboring buildings. Lamps burned behind narrow windows and along the gatehouse even in the strange red light, while Hounds had reinforced every approach with timber, overturned carts and lengths of chain.
There were more armed bodies here than among the rows of sick, and most of them were facing outward.
A crowd had gathered at the nearest barricade. Some appeared to have come directly from the sanctuary, including a woman supporting a feverish man who could barely remain on his feet. She was arguing with the Hound blocking the road, gesturing toward the residence beyond him, but the line did not move. Behind the first rank stood more Hounds with shields and crossbows, leaving little doubt that whatever protection existed around the Arch-Lector's residence was not being extended to everyone outside it.
Another faint tremor passed beneath the street. Somewhere beyond the residence, masonry cracked with a sharp report, followed a few moments later by the distant sound of shouting. Several Hounds looked toward it. None abandoned their posts.
Severin followed their gaze, looking past the roofs toward the reddish haze hanging over the city. His expression hardened.
"I don't think this place has much time left."
His attention returned to the sanctuary as an exhausted attendant noticed the newcomers. Her eyes passed over Orris and Severin, lingered briefly on Sky's transformed shape, and then fixed on Mara. The cloth around her leg concealed much of the damage, but not all of the black tracery above it.
The attendant changed direction and started toward them.
As Sky approached with Mara on his back, the half-orc lowered his polearm across the remaining gap.
"That's far enough."
The movement brought the others' attention around without any shouted warning. The gray-haired woman stopped directing traffic. The dwarf let the chain fall from his hands and straightened. Above them, the tiefling shifted his footing on the cart, bringing the crossbow into both hands without yet pointing it at anyone.
The half-orc's gaze traveled over Orris, Grim and Severin before settling on Mara. He took in the layers of cloth around her leg, the awkward way she sat on Sky's back, and the fact that the group was heading toward a quarter from which everyone else seemed intent on leaving.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"She's hurt."
It wasn't quite a question.
The gray-haired woman stepped closer, studying Mara for a moment before looking over the rest of the group. Behind them, civilians continued filing through the narrow opening while the Hounds worked steadily at closing it.
The half-orc planted the butt of his polearm against the stones.
"Quarter's being sealed. We're letting people out, not collecting more."
He nodded once toward Mara.
"So before I let five strangers carry an injured woman the wrong way through my barricade, one of you can tell me where you're going and what happened to her."
Behind him, the dwarf picked up the chain again. Link by link, the opening continued to narrow.
Eight Hounds are holding this approach. They're allowing people out of the inner quarter but restricting entry, and the barricade is still being completed.
They can see that Mara is injured, but they have not yet identified the nature of her condition. They've stopped you and are giving you an opportunity to explain yourselves before deciding whether to let you through.
How much you tell them, and whether what you tell them is true, is up to you.
Grim has been impatiently waiting at street level, posting guard and while trying to lend an ear to the commotion above. As she watches the rest of the party coming down from the laboratory, she is somewhat relieved that we're going to be on the move again, then notices the change in the party composition: "...about time! I was wondering if you've forgotten the sharpshooter covering for you. Wait a second... have you traded the lizard for a horse? And also for some an extra passenger apparently, hopefully a paying one." Grim might have overheard something from the others' conversation but perhaps she's not aware that Mara is infected, otherwise her reaction might be more... well, grim. "I hope you remember we have work to do".
Something else had changed as well. The air had grown close and unpleasantly warm, carrying the faint smell of smoke from somewhere beyond the inner quarter. Above the rooftops, the sky had taken on a dull reddish cast that seemed too broad to belong to any ordinary fire. At one point the street gave a low shudder beneath them, rattling shutters and sending a thin curtain of dust from an old stone facade. People stopped long enough to make sure it was over, then continued on their way. Whatever frightened them about it, they had apparently felt it before.
Grim doesn't really want to think much of the people on the street at the moment... she's been on the run for the most recent part of her life, then found herself catapulted in a near-abyssal place, caught between fires and plague. Impromptu comrades offered increased chances of survival, and the otherwordly Judex hinted at a way to get out of this place, and that is really all she can think about for now.
"So before I let five strangers carry an injured woman the wrong way through my barricade, one of you can tell me where you're going and what happened to her."
On the walk, Orris was thinking about how he might get the woman, Mara, past the guards. He could cloak her in magic to make her invisible but he'd need to find a private place to cast the spell.
With Grim's quizzical look, he fills the orc in,
"She has the plague - whatever it is. It's not a disease, I'm sure of that. I wonder if it could be a parasite. In any case, maybe keep your distance."1
Orris had not been keeping tabs on where they were when he noticed they had approached too close to the barricades and had been spotted by the guards. He cursed under his breath.
Quietly, he says to the others, "follow my lead"
"Quarter's being sealed. We're letting people out, not collecting more."
He nodded once toward Mara.
"So before I let five strangers carry an injured woman the wrong way through my barricade, one of you can tell me where you're going and what happened to her."
"Finally. It is good to find someone competent who is in charge."
The genasai sighed in relief at the sight of the guard.
"Pay no attention to the unlucky sod on my horse. She's my tout. The shifting streets were confounding her so she went looking for a short cut through a decrepit building. The place collapsed and it took us some time to rescue her from the wreckage. You see, I am a man of my word and it is my duty to protect my entourage."2
My name Orris Hariri, Regent to Great Merchant Prince, Cyprian Arkwright. I have been sent here to speak with the Arch-legat regarding the current chaos and the risk to my Master's Investments in the area.
He absently shows the guard his signet ring and continues to talk.3
"My Master must know how much it will cost him to protect his interests from being pulled into the Abyss. He looks ruefully at the surroundings, "It looks like you could use more manpower and jink."
Orris picks through his purse and removes some coin,
"Time is precious, sir. Point me the most direct route to Palace."
1. It makes sense that we would fill Grim in on the situation
2. Mostly true. Using misdirection to change the topic off of Mara.
3. Using my Noble background to gain access
Thanks to your noble birth, people are inclined to think the best of you. You are welcome in high society, and people assume you have the right to be wherever you are. The common folk make every effort to accommodate you and avoid your displeasure, and other people of high birth treat you as a member of the same social sphere. You can secure an audience with a local noble if you need to.
Sky suppresses the warhorse's urge to charge the armoured half-orc in front of him. Some pawing of the ground the only external sign of the internal struggle.
<<Mara will get the worse of any retaliation.>>
Unless they decide to try and take out my legs.
Eventually back under control of his beast, Sky turns his attention to the conversation. He misses the opening words between Orris and the half-orc, but catches enough to get the drift.
<<Flattery and coin. A timeless combination.>>
But if it goes to weapons, those Hounds there will be the priority.
While waiting to see how it all plays out, Sky checks to see where the other companions are, then what the way ahead looks like. In particular, what hazards lie beyond those immedately in front of them.
Sky is mentally plotting out the way through, and the most effective way to use his breath weapon if required (DAM 2d6/half on a Save. 15' cone. Con Save vs 13 (8+CON+PROF)).
Perception Check: +6 to spot hazards beyond the 8 Hounds on the barricade.
The half-orc listened to Orris without interrupting, his broad, scarred face giving away little of what he thought. The opening compliment produced no discernible effect, but the mention of a merchant prince caught his attention, and when Orris displayed his signet ring, the Hound leaned forward just enough to examine it more closely. The gray-haired woman beside him did much the same, her eyes moving between the ring, the well-spoken genasi presenting it, and the unusual collection of companions standing behind him. Whatever she made of Orris's credentials, she seemed considerably more interested than she had been a moment earlier. Neither looked impressed exactly, but both looked as though Orris had moved from the category of nuisance into something that might become inconvenient if handled badly.
"Merchant prince, is it?" she asked, exchanging a glance with the half-orc. "That's a fair distance to send a regent just to count losses."
The half-orc said nothing immediately. His attention had shifted to the coins Orris had produced, and for several moments he regarded them with an expression that was difficult to read. Behind him, the checkpoint continued its work. The dwarf and his companion dragged another length of heavy chain through the timber framework, each movement accompanied by the metallic scrape of iron against stone. Nearby, a handcart was being searched beneath the watchful eye of another Hound, while the tiefling perched on the overturned wagon maintained his vantage over the steadily thinning crowd. Those leaving the inner quarter were hurried through with little ceremony, but a growing knot of frustrated travelers had gathered on the opposite side, some pleading for entry while others argued among themselves about whether another road might still be open.
"Brakka," the gray-haired woman said, addressing the half-orc with the hooked polearm. "We're nearly finished with the chain. If they're going through, best decide before we're pulling the whole thing apart again."
Brakka acknowledged her with a slight movement of his head, though his attention remained on Orris. His eyes passed once more over the signet ring, then the money, and finally the group accompanying the supposed regent. There was something calculating about the way he looked them over, the practiced judgment of a man accustomed to deciding which strangers represented trouble and which merely brought trouble with them.
His gaze settled first on Grim.
Of all the companions gathered before the barricade, she looked the least like someone who had wandered into Plague-Mort by accident. There was little to distinguish her equipment from that of the Hounds themselves: practical armor, a crossbow intended for use rather than display, and the general appearance of someone more accustomed to dangerous streets than comfortable drawing rooms. Even her half-orc features would have been entirely unremarkable among the varied collection of hard-bitten men and women manning the checkpoint. The resemblance had nothing to do with a common uniform, for the Hounds possessed scarcely any such thing. It was a matter of bearing, equipment, and the absence of anything ornamental or unnecessary. Standing among Orris, Severin, and the great horse carrying their injured passenger, Grim looked almost as though she belonged on the opposite side of the barricade.
The gray-haired woman followed Brakka's gaze and examined Grim with something approaching professional appreciation.
"Hells, put one of our coats on her and half the street wouldn't know the difference."
The dwarf working the chain glanced over his shoulder, squinting briefly at Grim before returning to his task.
"Too clean."
"So were you once," the woman replied.
The dwarf snorted, apparently finding that observation difficult to dispute.
Brakka's attention lingered a moment longer on Grim's crossbow, the familiar appraisal of one armed professional examining another's equipment, before moving to Severin. The change in his expression was subtle but immediate. Unlike the battered collection of mail, leather, and scavenged plate worn by the Hounds, Severin's black armor was unmistakably the equipment of an organized martial order. Its surface showed the wear of travel and combat, but the crimson heraldry remained plainly visible: a dragon and a downward-pointing sword, devices that carried meaning far beyond the walls of Sigil.
The gray-haired woman recognized them almost as quickly.
"Red Death."
Several of the other Hounds looked up at that. The tiefling shifted his attention from the street to Severin, while the dwarf paused with a loop of chain held loosely in his hands. There was no sudden deference, but the presence of a Mercykiller evidently warranted a closer look. Even in Plague-Mort, where the Arch-Lector's authority mattered considerably more than any distant faction's, the reputation of Sigil's uncompromising enforcers had traveled far enough to be recognized.
Brakka looked directly at Severin.
"You're a long way from Sigil."
Severin met his gaze without apparent discomfort.
"Yes."
The simplicity of the answer left Brakka studying him for another moment, as though considering whether the circumstances warranted further inquiry. Eventually he let the matter pass. Whatever had brought a Mercykiller into Plague-Mort, it was evidently not a question worth delaying the closure of an entire quarter to answer.
His attention returned to Orris.
"A regent, an armed escort, and a Mercykiller. Your master's either got considerable interests here or considerably poor judgment."
The gray-haired woman gave a quiet snort at that, though neither seemed inclined to press the point. Orris's story might have been unusual, but so was almost everything about Plague-Mort these days. Wealthy merchants were known to maintain investments in unlikely places, and a representative sent to safeguard them might reasonably travel with formidable protection. The Hounds had seen stranger parties attempting to enter the inner quarter, often with far less convincing explanations.
Brakka glanced once toward Mara's bandaged leg. The injury was obvious enough, and her awkward position on the horse suggested that she could not manage the journey on foot, but the cloth concealed the more troubling markings beneath. In a city where buildings were collapsing with increasing frequency, the account of a guide injured beneath fallen masonry was hardly extraordinary.
Another tremor passed beneath the checkpoint before he could say anything further. It began as a dull vibration in the paving stones, scarcely perceptible beneath the scrape of chains and the movement of carts, then strengthened enough to set the iron links hanging from the barricade rattling against their timber supports. Dust sifted from the mortar of the adjoining buildings, and somewhere farther down the street a loose roof tile slid free, struck an awning, and shattered on the stones below. Several civilians ducked instinctively, while others merely paused and waited for the disturbance to pass. The Hounds barely reacted, apart from the tiefling briefly lifting his gaze toward the rooftops.
The air had grown unpleasantly warm. There was no corresponding brilliance from the sun, only the dull reddish haze that had spread across the sky and deepened toward the outskirts of town. What had earlier resembled distant smoke now hung over the buildings like a great copper-colored bruise, staining the upper walls and casting peculiar shadows beneath the eaves. A hot breeze carried the smell of smoke, scorched masonry, and something faintly sulfurous through the checkpoint. It was an odor that seemed increasingly at home in Plague-Mort, and no one standing at the barricade appeared particularly surprised by it.
The gray-haired woman glanced toward the distant roofs.
"Another building went down near the lower market an hour ago. Whole quarter's getting worse."
Brakka followed her gaze.
"Aye. And the ground's getting warmer."
He looked back toward Orris, his expression settling into something more practical.
"You picked a poor week to inspect your investments, Regent. If your master means to keep anything he's got in this place, tell him to send help before there's nothing left worth keeping."
His eyes dropped briefly to the coins still in Orris's possession.
"And keep your jink. If you're here to throw money at the Arch-Lector, you'll find plenty of hands waiting for it."
With that, he lifted the hooked polearm from across the opening and turned toward the men working the barricade.
"Give them room."
The dwarf halted his work and began feeding several links of chain back through the timber frame. Another Hound put his shoulder against the overturned cart, shifting it a short distance across the uneven paving until the narrow passage widened enough to accommodate the horse. The movement drew a few annoyed looks from the civilians still waiting to be admitted, but none seemed inclined to argue with eight armed Hounds who had already made their position abundantly clear. Above them, the tiefling adjusted his seat on the cart and resumed watching the street, his crossbow resting across his knees with the ease of someone who expected to need it again before the day was over.
Brakka pointed through the gap with the iron head of his polearm.
"Main road until the burned fountain. Take the higher street from there. Sanctuary's spread across the lower quarter, and the Arch-Lector's residence stands above it, behind the walls. You'll see the place well before you reach it."
He looked once more at Orris's ring.
"If another patrol stops you, show them that and tell them Brakka at South Chain let you through. Should save you another conversation."
The Hound turned his attention toward Grim, his eyes briefly passing over her crossbow again.
"And if you're the one keeping this lot alive, keep them on the main road unless you've got a particular affection for falling masonry."
The warning was not without justification.
Beyond the barricade, the inner quarter rose through an increasingly dense collection of buildings whose upper stories crowded close above the street. Many were old structures, their original stonework obscured beneath generations of additions, repairs, wooden galleries, and hastily constructed rooms that projected over the road. Some leaned at improbable angles, supported by heavy beams driven into the paving or braced against neighboring walls. Others had suffered more recent damage: cracked facades, shattered windows, and gaps where entire sections of upper floors had given way. A narrow alley to the left disappeared beneath a collapsed second story, its entrance choked with splintered timbers and heaps of plaster. Another passage to the right had been reduced to a cramped opening between fallen masonry, barely wide enough for a single traveler without a burden.
The main road remained passable, although even here the stones were beginning to show signs of strain. Farther ahead, a fresh fissure ran across the paving and widened near the gutter, where its edges had darkened as though exposed to considerable heat. The air above it shimmered faintly, and every so often a sluggish breath of warmer air escaped from below, carrying the smell of scorched stone and sulfur. Someone had marked the worst portion with an overturned stool and a length of cloth tied between broken pieces of masonry. A few pedestrians picked their way carefully around it, apparently treating the hazard as another inconvenience in a city increasingly full of them.
From Sky's greater height, the road beyond the checkpoint offered a reasonably clear view of the route ahead. The main street continued between the tall buildings for some distance before bending out of sight, climbing gradually toward the inner quarter's higher ground. A smaller Hound position was visible near that bend, although its occupants appeared concerned with directing the outward flow of traffic rather than inspecting everyone who approached. Several carts were moving toward South Chain, laden with furniture, sacks, bedding, and other belongings hastily gathered by families abandoning their homes. A handful of people traveled in the opposite direction, most on foot and moving quickly. The uneven paving, the fissure farther ahead, and the possibility of falling debris presented the most immediate hazards along the visible road.
Grim's familiarity with overwatch and defensive positions offered another perspective on the barricade itself. What had initially appeared to be a disorderly arrangement of timber, chains, and scavenged furniture was considerably more deliberate when examined from the side. The tiefling's elevated position gave him an unobstructed firing lane through the entrance, while a second crossbow rested behind the timber barrier within easy reach. The pale Hound with the burn scars had stationed herself where anyone attempting to force the narrow passage would expose a flank to her, and the other guards occupied positions from which they could reinforce either side without obstructing one another. Whatever their mismatched appearance suggested, these were people accustomed to constructing and defending such positions.
The gray-haired woman appeared to notice Grim's attention to the surrounding buildings. She followed her gaze upward, toward a narrow wooden balcony hanging crookedly above the street, its supports visibly cracked where they joined the wall.
"Keep your eyes above you as much as ahead. Buildings have killed more people than blades since morning."
Another distant rumble rolled through the quarter, followed several moments later by the unmistakable crash of falling masonry. Somewhere beyond the crowded rooftops, voices rose in alarm, mingling with the calls of cart drivers and the steady clamor of people trying to reach safety. A flock of dark birds erupted above the buildings and wheeled across the copper-colored sky before disappearing toward the center of town.
Brakka watched them briefly, then rested his polearm against one shoulder.
"You've got your road, Regent."
He nodded toward the opening, where the dwarf stood holding the loosened chain aside.
"I'd use it while it still looks like one."
The Hounds have opened the checkpoint and granted passage based on Orris's claimed status, signet, and the apparent credibility of his companions. No bribe has been accepted, and the coins remain with Orris.
Mara's infection remains concealed by her bandages.
The passage is open, and the party can proceed whenever ready. Sky and Grim can make out the environmental hazards and defensive features described above without additional checks.
Feeling imminently satisfied with the outcome, Orris returns the jink to his pouch and gives the guard a subtle but, appreciative, nod as he leads the others through the makeshift barricade.
Leaving the area of the barricade, he wipes some grime from his armour but his dusty doe-skinned gloves only manages to create a streak of filth across the once-gleaming breastplate. He looks forlornly at the mud and dirt that cover it, reminiscent of the black lines that cover Mara's leg. Despite his best efforts, the noble genasai cannot keep Plague Mort from making its mark upon him.
He sighs as he turns to Grim,
Do you know their organization, Grim? They seemed to take quite a bit of interest in you....
As they walk a bit further, Orris slows to let Sky and Mara catch up and so that everyone in the group can listen in,
So, Madam, where should we deliver you? I'm sure your associates are anxious to speak with you. Do you suppose it will be a long detour?
Orris is now surveying his surroundings, looking suspiciously at the decrepit buildings as if they might conspire to fall down around the group and prevent them from making their way to the palace.
