(contact)
Explorer
Wealsun 14, CY 593
42: Fighting in Stoink, Things Come Full Circle.
Searching Maskaleyne’s manor, the Liberators quickly discover that the despicable necromancer was packed for a long journey. The lack of evident activity in the kitchen or front halls of the manor indicates that Maskaleyne was planning to leave before the evening meal. Unfortunately for him, his gut-full of flesh gnawing demonic maggots and his head full of retirement dreams were both turned to a fine powdery mist along with his finest traveling clothes.
Rifling through Maskaleyne’s cases and bags unearths his diary. The small, leather-bound book reveals that he became vain enough to start writing about himself in the third person sometime during Fireseek of this year, just about the time when the Liberators were preparing to leave the Marklands for Tenh. Unsettling passages recount the truth of Maskaleyne’s foul research and his role in the creation of the Cadaverous Ones. He finishes up by recounting his realization that the Liberators had sent his allies to the Abyss, and his ensuing panic. He describes his initial contact with the Church of Hextor, and planned defection—his last entry concludes with “Maskaleyne will continue this missive warm and safe in his new Almorian home”.
The upper stories of the manor are stately and well-kept, but descending the stairs into the basements, the Liberators might as well have been entering another world entirely. The walls and floor are unfinished, with only rough stepping-stones and channels cut into the base of the walls to take away the muddy run-off from the recent rains. Maskaleyne’s torturous reams of notes and sadistic anatomy studies are tacked onto rough wooden support beams half-heartedly set into the earthenwork walls. A series of crude tables support elaborate glass and ceramic patchwork devices that are still encrusted with the foul-smelling residue of some unnamable distillation.
The entire place has an oppressive and clinging dampness to it, and the dirt harbors an unnatural amount of segmented crawling things, squirming pupae and other even less-recognizable vermin. Several maggot-encrusted slabs of meat are ensconced within the dirt walls of the place, most of these still recognizable as human.
The group spends several queasy minutes thumbing through Maskaleyne’s notes and examining his apparatus. In the end, they destroy what they can, and leave the rest for later. Dabus discovers that the maggots, whatever their plane of origin, dislike searing light.
An item of interest, lost among the jumble of papers in the abandoned basement, includes notes on the structure and membership of both the Lesser and Greater Boneheart. Heydricus pockets these notes for later perusal.
After satisfying themselves that the manor is secure, the group charges Elijah with delivering a written message to the Lord of Stoink.
Heydricus tells Dabus, “Write this: Greetings, great Lord, from your friends in the East, we have taken up residence the Maskaleyne’s mansion. We would love . . .”
Prisantha interrupts, and says “No, let me do it, Heydricus.”
“What? Why?”
Pris says, “Don’t write, we would love. Write, we would be greatly pleased to see you here.”
“No, no,” Heydricus says, “Put to have an audience. To catch up for old times sake.”
“Were not going to say for old times sake, Heydricus.”
“Well, why not?”
“You just don’t say that in a letter, we haven’t talked to him in a long time. We keep it formal now, and then we can be informal when he arrives.”
Dabus reads, “. . . have an audience with you this afternoon. Would you be so kind as to tell our companion when you might be able to accommodate us. How is that?”
Elijah says, “How about closing with, Elijah says that a sharp tack like you would leave his weapons at home, if he knew what was good for him?”
The group looks at her, then Heydricus says, “Is that a joke? Elijah—you just made a joke! Yes, yes, leave that in. Congratulations, Elijah.”
If Elijah blushes, no one can say for sure. She takes the paper from Dabus and says, “I remember the way to his hideout. If I’m not back in two hours, kill them all,” and leaves the manor.
-----
Elijah returns well within the allotted time, and is accompanied by a trio of shifty-eyed and slouching humans. Elijah says, “These goons want to search the place for traps.”
“No,” Heydricus says.
“Yes, of course they may,” Prisantha says, nudging Heydricus in the ribs. “We have nothing to hide.”
The three rogues come inside, and after a few minutes of poking into the nooks and crannies, they tell the party that everything looks well, and make some signals to an unseen watcher. A few moments later, the Lord of Stoink approaches the manor, his half-elven lieutenant in tow. Both men are gaily dressed, the halfling Lord’s pompadour haircut freshly set, and the gold and platinum caps on his teeth freshly polished.
He greets the group warmly, paying particular attention to Prisantha. The Lord says, “That rat-lover Maskaleyne came to me two weeks ago, seeking my protection. He was frightened that you’d show up and give him what for. I take it you did? Of course you did. Heydricus, I told him I’d pawn my mother’s eyes for liquor before I’d raise a hand against my good friend Heydricus and the only help he’d get from me was prayer for his soul in the afterlife!”
“But you aren’t even going to do that, my Lord,” the half elf says.
“That’s right!” the Lord exclaims. “f-ck ‘im.” He takes a long slurping gulp from Maskaleyne’s finest crystal. “Hey, you guys have been busy—I hear you’ve really given those Iuzian bastards in the East big trouble. Killed Martak, didntcha?”
“Yes, we killed the sh-t out of him,” Heydricus says with a smile.
“Say,” the Lord says, “Where’s that little feller, the one with the foul mouth . . . Gnomeitty Gnomie-gnome or whatever?”
“He no longer adventures with us,” Heydricus says. “He can’t abide dragons.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. He was a real pain in the ass. He’s still alive?”
“Oh yes,” Heydricus says.
“And who’s the new guy?”
“This is Dabus, my cohort and priest of Tritherion.”
“Ah, Tritherion—he kicks ass. More muscle, I like it. You lot have really got your operation together.”
“We have a gift for you, Lord,” Prisantha says.
“Please, just call me Boss,” the Lord says.
Prisantha hands him a small charm. “This is a periapt of wisdom,” she says. “It will help you administer the city, and provide protection against enchantments. My specialty you know,” she adds humbly.
“Hey, this is great, just great,” the Lord says, as he passes the periapt to his half-elf assistant. “Check it for traps,” he whispers to the man.
“And I love my statue you know—but pigeons were crapping on it outside, and I can’t have that. I put it in the entry hall to my hideout, then shortened the door lintel facing it so all my guys have to bow to the statue when they come in the room.” The Lord leans back in his chair. “So, what’s in it for you?”
“For us?” Prisantha says.
“Figure of speech,” the Lord says. “I mean, ‘how can I ever repay your generosity’.”
Heydricus leans forward. “Could you stage a coup in Wintershiven?”
“Ah. On what kind of notice?” the Lord asks.
“2 years.”
The lord fingers his chin in an imitation of deep thought and says, “It’d be tight, but yeah, anybody can be killed if you throw enough money at the problem.” After a moment he hastily corrects himself, “I mean, ‘we could effect a regime change if the political climate is right’.”
Satisfied, the group makes small talk for a while, then the Lord says, “You’ve been making waves. Good waves, of course, but waves just the same. And hey—I’m all for it. I like go-getters like yourself. I believe that Tenh will be your prize someday, but I wonder—have you given some thought to what comes after all the fighting and killing?”
“What do you mean?” Heydricus asks.
“Well, it’s simple humanoid nature,” The Lord says loftily. “Tenh has had it bad. I know, some of my best friends are Tenha. The Iuzians have pretty much squeezed the plum dry, and now everybody’s poor. Poverty and despicable conditions, just like my old neighborhood, if you catch my drift. Where there is a lack of things, you’re going to find people willing to do just about anything to get something, see?
“That’s where I can help out. It seems to me that the future rulers of Tenh might be better off if they had a handle on what the underclasses were up to. I have a presentation here,” the Lord motions to his assistant, who removes several duplicate documents from a satchel.
The half elf clears his throat. “Here you see our projected demographical breakdown of the post-war population of Tenh. Admittedly, this is a best-guess projection, but we’re confident it will hold up, within a reasonable fluctuation and barring any unforeseen Divine Intervention. We’ve outlined the most likely rackets (er, ‘earning units’ on your papers there) and we’ve graphed their projected earnings over the course of the first ten years of stable rulership. As you can see, it amounts to a sizeable sum.”
“And an exceedingly difficult sum to tax,” the half-elf says.
“If you don’t already have a finger in the pie before it goes in the oven,” the Lord finishes.
“So you want us to put you in charge of the crime syndicates of Tenh,” Heydricus says.
“We prefer the term ‘veiled economy’,” the Lord says. “And you don’t have to do a thing. This is a win-win deal, Heydricus. We set up the graft, and you collect the tax. What we need from you is permission.”
“I don’t know,” Heydricus hedges.
“Your cut is still negotiable, if that’s what’s bothering you,” the Lord says. “But there’s no hurry. Keep these papers, look them over, and just think about it. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Another bottle of wine is opened, and the Lord regards Prisantha. “There is one other matter,” he says, “and it’s a little . . . delicate. Do you remember, my dear, the project that I had you help me out with? The young man with a grown man’s debt? Of course you do. You did a fine, fine job, but unfortunately the, ah . . . negotiations went South, and my emissary was set upon in the course of his duties. Shocking, I know. My agent overreacted slightly, and unfortunately the young man he had been sent to speak with was killed, along with his retinue, and most of the lookers-on.
“This is doubly troublesome when one realizes that one of the tragic victims was a Talnith hier—the next in line for the Nyrondeese Barony of Woodwych, in fact. They have been unable to raise the poor mangled lad, and my friends in Nyrond tell me that the family has sworn a terrible vengeance. Rest assured, the agent who made the original blunder is already where nobody can find him, as is everyone who knew much about the affair on our end, save for ourselves in this room.
“I don’t mean to frighten you, Pris, but I think it only fair to warn you that it is likely your role in this affair has been ferreted out. Of course, I will deny your involvement in the same breath with which I deny my own, and I have prepared suitable alibis for the both of us, but I have reason to believe that the Baroness Talnith is not inclined to pursue the due course of Law. She is aged, and beyond delivering another heir, should she even choose to remarry. I expect she is quite distraught.” The Lord regards the group earnestly. “I thought you’d want to know,” he finishes with an ingratiating smile.
42: Fighting in Stoink, Things Come Full Circle.
Searching Maskaleyne’s manor, the Liberators quickly discover that the despicable necromancer was packed for a long journey. The lack of evident activity in the kitchen or front halls of the manor indicates that Maskaleyne was planning to leave before the evening meal. Unfortunately for him, his gut-full of flesh gnawing demonic maggots and his head full of retirement dreams were both turned to a fine powdery mist along with his finest traveling clothes.
Rifling through Maskaleyne’s cases and bags unearths his diary. The small, leather-bound book reveals that he became vain enough to start writing about himself in the third person sometime during Fireseek of this year, just about the time when the Liberators were preparing to leave the Marklands for Tenh. Unsettling passages recount the truth of Maskaleyne’s foul research and his role in the creation of the Cadaverous Ones. He finishes up by recounting his realization that the Liberators had sent his allies to the Abyss, and his ensuing panic. He describes his initial contact with the Church of Hextor, and planned defection—his last entry concludes with “Maskaleyne will continue this missive warm and safe in his new Almorian home”.
The upper stories of the manor are stately and well-kept, but descending the stairs into the basements, the Liberators might as well have been entering another world entirely. The walls and floor are unfinished, with only rough stepping-stones and channels cut into the base of the walls to take away the muddy run-off from the recent rains. Maskaleyne’s torturous reams of notes and sadistic anatomy studies are tacked onto rough wooden support beams half-heartedly set into the earthenwork walls. A series of crude tables support elaborate glass and ceramic patchwork devices that are still encrusted with the foul-smelling residue of some unnamable distillation.
The entire place has an oppressive and clinging dampness to it, and the dirt harbors an unnatural amount of segmented crawling things, squirming pupae and other even less-recognizable vermin. Several maggot-encrusted slabs of meat are ensconced within the dirt walls of the place, most of these still recognizable as human.
The group spends several queasy minutes thumbing through Maskaleyne’s notes and examining his apparatus. In the end, they destroy what they can, and leave the rest for later. Dabus discovers that the maggots, whatever their plane of origin, dislike searing light.
An item of interest, lost among the jumble of papers in the abandoned basement, includes notes on the structure and membership of both the Lesser and Greater Boneheart. Heydricus pockets these notes for later perusal.
After satisfying themselves that the manor is secure, the group charges Elijah with delivering a written message to the Lord of Stoink.
Heydricus tells Dabus, “Write this: Greetings, great Lord, from your friends in the East, we have taken up residence the Maskaleyne’s mansion. We would love . . .”
Prisantha interrupts, and says “No, let me do it, Heydricus.”
“What? Why?”
Pris says, “Don’t write, we would love. Write, we would be greatly pleased to see you here.”
“No, no,” Heydricus says, “Put to have an audience. To catch up for old times sake.”
“Were not going to say for old times sake, Heydricus.”
“Well, why not?”
“You just don’t say that in a letter, we haven’t talked to him in a long time. We keep it formal now, and then we can be informal when he arrives.”
Dabus reads, “. . . have an audience with you this afternoon. Would you be so kind as to tell our companion when you might be able to accommodate us. How is that?”
Elijah says, “How about closing with, Elijah says that a sharp tack like you would leave his weapons at home, if he knew what was good for him?”
The group looks at her, then Heydricus says, “Is that a joke? Elijah—you just made a joke! Yes, yes, leave that in. Congratulations, Elijah.”
If Elijah blushes, no one can say for sure. She takes the paper from Dabus and says, “I remember the way to his hideout. If I’m not back in two hours, kill them all,” and leaves the manor.
-----
Elijah returns well within the allotted time, and is accompanied by a trio of shifty-eyed and slouching humans. Elijah says, “These goons want to search the place for traps.”
“No,” Heydricus says.
“Yes, of course they may,” Prisantha says, nudging Heydricus in the ribs. “We have nothing to hide.”
The three rogues come inside, and after a few minutes of poking into the nooks and crannies, they tell the party that everything looks well, and make some signals to an unseen watcher. A few moments later, the Lord of Stoink approaches the manor, his half-elven lieutenant in tow. Both men are gaily dressed, the halfling Lord’s pompadour haircut freshly set, and the gold and platinum caps on his teeth freshly polished.
He greets the group warmly, paying particular attention to Prisantha. The Lord says, “That rat-lover Maskaleyne came to me two weeks ago, seeking my protection. He was frightened that you’d show up and give him what for. I take it you did? Of course you did. Heydricus, I told him I’d pawn my mother’s eyes for liquor before I’d raise a hand against my good friend Heydricus and the only help he’d get from me was prayer for his soul in the afterlife!”
“But you aren’t even going to do that, my Lord,” the half elf says.
“That’s right!” the Lord exclaims. “f-ck ‘im.” He takes a long slurping gulp from Maskaleyne’s finest crystal. “Hey, you guys have been busy—I hear you’ve really given those Iuzian bastards in the East big trouble. Killed Martak, didntcha?”
“Yes, we killed the sh-t out of him,” Heydricus says with a smile.
“Say,” the Lord says, “Where’s that little feller, the one with the foul mouth . . . Gnomeitty Gnomie-gnome or whatever?”
“He no longer adventures with us,” Heydricus says. “He can’t abide dragons.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. He was a real pain in the ass. He’s still alive?”
“Oh yes,” Heydricus says.
“And who’s the new guy?”
“This is Dabus, my cohort and priest of Tritherion.”
“Ah, Tritherion—he kicks ass. More muscle, I like it. You lot have really got your operation together.”
“We have a gift for you, Lord,” Prisantha says.
“Please, just call me Boss,” the Lord says.
Prisantha hands him a small charm. “This is a periapt of wisdom,” she says. “It will help you administer the city, and provide protection against enchantments. My specialty you know,” she adds humbly.
“Hey, this is great, just great,” the Lord says, as he passes the periapt to his half-elf assistant. “Check it for traps,” he whispers to the man.
“And I love my statue you know—but pigeons were crapping on it outside, and I can’t have that. I put it in the entry hall to my hideout, then shortened the door lintel facing it so all my guys have to bow to the statue when they come in the room.” The Lord leans back in his chair. “So, what’s in it for you?”
“For us?” Prisantha says.
“Figure of speech,” the Lord says. “I mean, ‘how can I ever repay your generosity’.”
Heydricus leans forward. “Could you stage a coup in Wintershiven?”
“Ah. On what kind of notice?” the Lord asks.
“2 years.”
The lord fingers his chin in an imitation of deep thought and says, “It’d be tight, but yeah, anybody can be killed if you throw enough money at the problem.” After a moment he hastily corrects himself, “I mean, ‘we could effect a regime change if the political climate is right’.”
Satisfied, the group makes small talk for a while, then the Lord says, “You’ve been making waves. Good waves, of course, but waves just the same. And hey—I’m all for it. I like go-getters like yourself. I believe that Tenh will be your prize someday, but I wonder—have you given some thought to what comes after all the fighting and killing?”
“What do you mean?” Heydricus asks.
“Well, it’s simple humanoid nature,” The Lord says loftily. “Tenh has had it bad. I know, some of my best friends are Tenha. The Iuzians have pretty much squeezed the plum dry, and now everybody’s poor. Poverty and despicable conditions, just like my old neighborhood, if you catch my drift. Where there is a lack of things, you’re going to find people willing to do just about anything to get something, see?
“That’s where I can help out. It seems to me that the future rulers of Tenh might be better off if they had a handle on what the underclasses were up to. I have a presentation here,” the Lord motions to his assistant, who removes several duplicate documents from a satchel.
The half elf clears his throat. “Here you see our projected demographical breakdown of the post-war population of Tenh. Admittedly, this is a best-guess projection, but we’re confident it will hold up, within a reasonable fluctuation and barring any unforeseen Divine Intervention. We’ve outlined the most likely rackets (er, ‘earning units’ on your papers there) and we’ve graphed their projected earnings over the course of the first ten years of stable rulership. As you can see, it amounts to a sizeable sum.”
“And an exceedingly difficult sum to tax,” the half-elf says.
“If you don’t already have a finger in the pie before it goes in the oven,” the Lord finishes.
“So you want us to put you in charge of the crime syndicates of Tenh,” Heydricus says.
“We prefer the term ‘veiled economy’,” the Lord says. “And you don’t have to do a thing. This is a win-win deal, Heydricus. We set up the graft, and you collect the tax. What we need from you is permission.”
“I don’t know,” Heydricus hedges.
“Your cut is still negotiable, if that’s what’s bothering you,” the Lord says. “But there’s no hurry. Keep these papers, look them over, and just think about it. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Another bottle of wine is opened, and the Lord regards Prisantha. “There is one other matter,” he says, “and it’s a little . . . delicate. Do you remember, my dear, the project that I had you help me out with? The young man with a grown man’s debt? Of course you do. You did a fine, fine job, but unfortunately the, ah . . . negotiations went South, and my emissary was set upon in the course of his duties. Shocking, I know. My agent overreacted slightly, and unfortunately the young man he had been sent to speak with was killed, along with his retinue, and most of the lookers-on.
“This is doubly troublesome when one realizes that one of the tragic victims was a Talnith hier—the next in line for the Nyrondeese Barony of Woodwych, in fact. They have been unable to raise the poor mangled lad, and my friends in Nyrond tell me that the family has sworn a terrible vengeance. Rest assured, the agent who made the original blunder is already where nobody can find him, as is everyone who knew much about the affair on our end, save for ourselves in this room.
“I don’t mean to frighten you, Pris, but I think it only fair to warn you that it is likely your role in this affair has been ferreted out. Of course, I will deny your involvement in the same breath with which I deny my own, and I have prepared suitable alibis for the both of us, but I have reason to believe that the Baroness Talnith is not inclined to pursue the due course of Law. She is aged, and beyond delivering another heir, should she even choose to remarry. I expect she is quite distraught.” The Lord regards the group earnestly. “I thought you’d want to know,” he finishes with an ingratiating smile.
Last edited:
