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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 1533754" data-attributes="member: 143">Chapter 137In the city of Cauldron, situated high on the western shoulder of the Alomir Mountains, spring slowly gave way to summer, leaving behind the rough storms and accompanying rains of the annual flood season.  Activity along the city’s boulevards, extending in concentric circles around the caldera’s central lake, continued to build, and the sounds of business and trade extended until well in the evenings, when those noises were replaced by circles of light and sound surrounding the city’s numerous inns and taverns.  But the bustle of activity in Cauldron overlaid a growing tension, and stirrings of discontent, among the city’s population of nearly four thousand inhabitants.  Rumor and report had merged to give most of the residents of the city at least a partial overview of the tumultuous events of the past two seasons.  It had started with the kidnappings, and the ultimate downfall of a slaving ring operating in an abandoned dwarven stronghold under the city.  Then there had been the revelation of an evil cult operating in an old ruin within the volcano; while they too had been overcome and scattered, their operations had led to the death of Sarcem Delasharn, the former high priest of the Temple of Helm.  These two events would have been bad enough, but then there had been an attack by an umber hulk in one of the mercantile districts of the city.  While the beast had been slain, several buildings had been destroyed in the rampage.  It was a time of uncertainty, as the Cauldronites wondered where the next disaster would strike.  The administration of the city had taken action, but the results had only further fueled the tensions within the city.  Following the umber hulk attack, mayor Navalant had initiated a new tax, a serious levy that had been almost universally reviled almost from its inception by the business interests of the city.  The common populace might have accepted it in the name of security, except that the collection of the tax was accompanied by large increases in the numbers of mercenary guardsmen retained by the city to “maintain the peace.”  The majority of these new guards were outsiders, mostly tough and grim looking half-orc veterans who were soon marching the streets in numbers.  Although there were no serious incidents between this new force and the citizens of the city, the sudden appearance of what amounted to a small army in the streets of Cauldron stirred more than a few resentments among many of the long-time residents of the city.  Clarese Calloran, better known to her friends and the people of Cauldron by her chosen name Mole, understood the reasons for the unsettled air in the city.  She’d only lived in Cauldron for a few months now, with a considerable amount of that time spent under or away from the city proper, but as a central participant in many of the recent troubles, she was in a good position to have a particular insight.  Furthermore, she’d made it a point to get to know the town, talking to people and exploring the diverse offerings of the place.  She’d even spent some time amidst the seedier side of Cauldron, a fact of which her current companions were unaware.  Not that anyone who knew her would be surprised, really. So as Mole sat casually against the frontage of a shop watching the traffic go by, she observed the faces and conversations of the city folk, gauging the sentiments of the people from their behaviors.  It was a skill that she was fairly good at, although more often than not she’d still take actions that got her into trouble.  To the gnome that wasn’t a problem; if asked she would have said that a life without at least a good dollop of trouble in it would be insufferably dull. The gnome looked unassuming, sitting there; just a few inches over three feet tall, clad in well-made but unassuming clothes with a light cotton jacket pulled over her torso.  A small sword that would have served as a dagger for a human male hung at her hip, but that wasn’t uncommon here on the frontier.  Of course, casual observation would not have revealed the magical shirt of mithral links that she wore under her tunic, or the fact that the functional leather boots she wore likewise bore a potent magical enhancement.Mole felt a flash of annoyance as she looked down the street.  Zenna was late for their meeting.  It wasn’t so much that she was eager for shopping; in fact, with only about forty gold coins left in her pouch, she doubted that she would be able to find anything worthwhile to buy.  Mole was oblivious to the fact that the sum represented more than the average unskilled laborer could reasonably expect to earn in a year; she was used to handling goodly sums of cash now, and considered her current total as placing her on the brink of poverty.  The fact that she’d spend several thousand gold pieces in the last few tendays was a matter of little concern to that calculation; tomorrow had always been of more pressing interest than yesterday when the gnome was concerned. She was still a bit piqued that she’d been unable to buy a replacement for her destroyed magical backpack. Skie, she knew, had had another haversack in her inventory, and when Mole had found out that it had been purchased by one of the Stormblades not two days before they had returned from Bhal-Hamatugn, she’d seethed for the better part of a day.  Skie had offered a small bag of holding as an alternative purchase, and Mole had quickly accepted.  She’d felt some lingering guilt afterward; the pieces of jewelry she’d sold to buy the bag had technically been “party loot”, found in the private chambers of the kuo-toa high priest Margh-Michto.  But the unpleasant sensation quickly faded when Mole had realized that the bag was actually a “party purchase”, since the experience of the haversack had clearly shown that such an item was for the benefit of all.  Her conscience mollified, Mole had immediately started buying a variety of useful products to fill her new purchase. No, she wasn’t upset at Zenna being late because of the shopping, but rather because the crowd of passers-by were increasingly headed in one direction, where something interesting seemed to be developing.  That way lay the city hall, she knew, and the faces of the people passing by now seemed increasingly agitated, even outright angry.  She knew what that meant.  Trouble. And she didn’t want to miss it. She was about to abandon her post when she caught sight of two familiar faces advancing through the crowd.  She leapt up onto the bench where she’d been sitting and waved to catch the attention of Arun and Hodge.  The two didn’t see her, so she sprang into the street—surprising a young teamster who hadn’t expected to see a gnome manage an eight-foot standing leap—and darted through the crowd toward them. She made barely a sound as she crossed to where the two dwarves were walking, approaching them undetected from behind. “Bah, I’m not sayin’ it be a poor weapon, but it ain’t me Betsy,” Hodge was saying. “Dannel and Zenna both insist that it’s magical, and more effective than your old axe,” Arun said.  “I’m sorry that we neglected to bring your old weapon, but we had other matters on our minds at the time, you being dead and all.”“Bragh!” Hodge snorted.  Mole smiled.  This wasn’t a new subject between the two; Hodge was referencing his new waraxe, of late the weapon of Zenith Splintershield that had been used to such devastating effect against them.  Davked had not referenced it when they’d returned the mad dwarf to his father, so they’d kept the weapon to replace Hodge’s lost blade.  “Well, if you feel so strongly about it, you can return to Bhal-Hamatugn to recover it,” Arun suggested. “It just needs a name!” Mole said, enjoying the way Hodge jumped into the air when she appeared suddenly between them. “Blast, girl!  Yer gotta stop sneakin’ up on a man like that!”“Hey, is it my fault that you pay no heed to your surroundings?” Mole asked.  Hodge’s only reply was a curse in dwarvish that Mole duly noted for future use.  “Oh, I know!” she said. “What now?” Arun asked. “Marjorie.  That’s a great name!  I had a cat named Marjorie once.”Hodge shot a deadly serious look at Arun, and said, in dwarvish, “I imagine that there be a torment in the Hells, where they lock yer in a sealed room with a gaggle o’ chatterin’ gnomes fer all eternity.”Arun looked back, his expression equally grave, and responded in the same tongue, “I’m not sure I’d wish that on even the worst sinner, friend.”Mole, for her part, interjected the dwarvish curse that Hodge had just used, accompanied by another juicy one that she’d learned from Lok a few years back.  Boy, her mother had been upset when she’d whipped that one out at a family dinner...“That’s no way fer a lady to be speakin’,” Hodge said. “I agree completely,” Mole said, with all gravity.  “Say, where are we going, anyway?”“Word is that the town merchants are organizing a protest this morning, in the square in front of the town hall,” Arun said.   “Aye, the not be likin’ those new taxes,” Hodge said.  “Nor all them half-orcs that been wanderin’ ‘bout o’ late.”“Interesting,” Mole replied absently, her attention already distracted by the sight up ahead. The square before the angular, three-story complex that comprised Cauldron’s town hall was already nearly full of town residents, with several hundred people milling about.  As the three adventurers reached the edge of the gathering, they spotted an individual standing on a small platform, haranguing the crowd.  The listeners seemed receptive, and as they watched the speaker finished saying something, drawing a number of cheers from his audience.  “Let’s go over there,” Mole said.  Before the dwarves could respond, she was gone, blending into the crowd.</blockquote>

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