(contact)
Explorer
Patchwall 25, CY 593
83—Gossip is what they call espionage when no lives are at stake.
A Greyhawk City winter isn’t like a winter anywhere else. Greyhawkers seem to thrive on the cold, and if anything, the city becomes more active once the temperatures drop. While Heydricus’ Tenha are hunkering down around their hearth-fires, trying not to loose any limbs to the cruel wind, Greyhawkers get busy. Perhaps it’s the light snowfall in this part of the world—enough to be scenic, but rarely more. Or perhaps it’s the fact that the standing pools of human waste freeze solid, and no longer offend the nose, or bring tears to the eyes.
While Jespo spends this idyllic time training with Nystul, Hastur busies himself with a thorough inventory of the foreign quarter’s fest-halls. For his part, Lucius lurks around the Terrible Two Linnorm, an inn favored by a motley crew of admirers, groupies, lackeys, functionaries, profiteers, and star-gazers—and, of course the adventuring party around which they all revolve. Greyhawk City’s premier adventurers, the “Boon Companions,” have made the Linnorm their home away from home. They are the most well-known and successful adventuring group in Greyhawk, and therefore (just ask any Greyhawker) the world.
Regdar is part of this exalted company. After his brief life as a woman, Jespo’s former bride-to-be has spurned his chance at feminine bliss for the embrace of his former adventuring companions—men and women he has shed blood with (and for), but never spoke of during his stint with the Liberators of Tenh.
Lucius doesn’t have any trouble learning their names and the legends associated with them—the Boon Companions are the pride of the city, and the tales of their adventurers are told in seven different tongues underneath the unpainted doorways of the foreigner’s quarter, and bandied across the starched tablecloths on the other side of town: Mialee, Jozan, Krusk, and Lidda versus the Shadow Legions of the Demon’s Bride! Vadiana, Alhandra, Soveliss and Ember defiant against the Seven Serpentine Sorcerers of the Forgotten Temple! In fact, the city is still laughing about Nebin and Devis’ high-spirited antics against the self-styled King of the Rats. Truly, no adventurers are better known, or better loved than the Boon Companions.
But all is not entirely well within the group; Devis, the high-minded bard and leader of the company has had a falling out with the sorcerer Hennet, a rising star whose light threatens to eclipse the rest of the group. As Hennet has grown in power and established himself as Greyhawk City’s most-eligible arcanist, he has become simultaneously more withdrawn from his companions, and more visible to his public. Of late, the rift has widened, and Hennet chooses to associate himself only with the two members of the group who share his firm conviction that he should be the center of attention at all times: Kerwin, the group’s “information specialist,” and Regdar, the barrel-chested formerly-female brawler. These three ultra-macho adventurers drink and cavort side-by-side, rarely leaving the Linnorm. Under Lucius’ disguised eye, Regdar drinks away his days at Hennet’s right hand, gazing milkily at the bare-chested sorcerer and receiving more than his share of lordly attention; the first among peers.
In three weeks, Lucius doesn’t see the Boon Companions pay for drinks once. He makes a mental note to leave a silver bar behind; the staff of the inn have had enough uncompensated trouble.
-----
The Viscountess Trill arrives (as has been her habit since Prisantha became a Wanted Woman) in disguise. Or rather, she makes a big production of wearing all black, and covering her face with a diaphanous scarf.
“Ah, Viscountess, it is so good of you to see me.” Prisantha has rented the top-floor suite of Chendl’s finest holstery, primarily for its flattering mirrors. “Particularly under the circumstances.”
The gnome woman casts aside her veil and beams up at the Enchantress of Verbobonc. “Soon my dear, we will no longer need to meet like this—why, Butrain has not forgotten who set him upon his throne, and he has gone after the ecclesiastic judges. They have been in a terrible fight, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Of course not.” Pris looks about conspiratorially, to the Viscountess’ delight. “Dearest, I require unusual . . . well, I suppose you might say special undergarments.”
“Oh!” The viscountess gasps. “Do you mean . . . presentable undergarments?”
Prisantha nods. “Very presentable, please.”
To her acting credit, the Viscountess manages to blush before removing several lacy, half-wrought (but fully finished) articles from her bag of holding. “Well, fortune smiles, dear. I happen to have something in your size.” the Viscountess looks Prisantha up and down. “Is this for that dashing Duke S—?”
“Whom?” Prisantha asks innocently.
“The gentleman who some say wouldn’t leave your side at our prince’s wedding? Hm? The same fellow who mentions you often to Thrommel, asking for tales of your adventures? Surely you haven’t forgotten about your friend the prince, have you? Why, since you’ve been gone, he’s . . .”
-----
“. . . surrounded himself with a retinue of young, ambitious lordlings. Among them, Thrommel has achieved fame for his martial prowess and bravery.” Prisantha addresses Heydricus and Gwendolyn. The three Liberators are sitting in front of a large fire, attended by Mialec, two priests and sundry other Tenha functionaries as they make their final plans for their winter tour of Tenh.
“Makes sense,” Heydricus says. “He was in over his head with us, but at court, he’s probably as tough as they come.”
“Amongst the Northern lords, this is surely true, but Butrain’s Southerners are a different breed—older, hardened men. As you might imagine, a rivalry is brewing.”
“And the King?”
“The king has his own battles—Belvor was a close friend to the churches, but our new liege intends to change all that. He picked a fight with the religious establishment, and it looks like he’s won it. He’s banished the theocrats from court, and surrounded himself with younger, reformatory clerics. He attends services for all of the good faiths as a show of piety, but it is well known that he doesn’t really love the gods.”
“And the older clerics were all close to Belvor,” Heydicus adds.
“Well,” Prisantha leans close, “certain knowledgeable persons contend that he has only courted these young clerics because without them he would have no magical protection at all; Butrain has disbanded the Four.”
“No!” Gwendolyn gasps, her eyes glittering. “The Royalty of Furyondy have kept the Circle of Four since . . .”
“He fired Lizst as soon as we left, and hasn’t replaced him.”
“Lizst backed the wrong pony,” Heydricus laughs.
Prisantha nods. “There are those who say that Butrain has developed a fear of arcane magic—he won’t abide any sorcerers or wizards in his court.”
Gwendolyn looks up innocently.
“And more disturbing to some—since his ascension, he’s taken no lovers.”
Gwedolyn inspects her manicure, and finds it in need of attention.
Prisantha pauses briefly to pour wine, then continues. “There is a celebrated couple, a name that might be familiar to you, Heydricus; Millia, formerly engaged to the head of the Provost-Marshall’s regional affairs directorate, Toban?”
Gwendolyn glances up at Heydricus.
“What?” he says.
“She’s thrown Toban aside for this ragamuffin Shieldlander by the name of Margrove. Supposedly he’s very dashing. He’s been dueling in her honor non-stop, and they’ve had some adventures together as well.”
Heydricus doesn’t pout—his face isn’t suited for it, but at this news his mouth seems to be giving it the Old Academy Try. “I know this fop. He challenged me once to a duel.”
“And I’m sure you would have beaten him, too,” Prisantha says, misreading Heydricus’ angst.
83—Gossip is what they call espionage when no lives are at stake.
A Greyhawk City winter isn’t like a winter anywhere else. Greyhawkers seem to thrive on the cold, and if anything, the city becomes more active once the temperatures drop. While Heydricus’ Tenha are hunkering down around their hearth-fires, trying not to loose any limbs to the cruel wind, Greyhawkers get busy. Perhaps it’s the light snowfall in this part of the world—enough to be scenic, but rarely more. Or perhaps it’s the fact that the standing pools of human waste freeze solid, and no longer offend the nose, or bring tears to the eyes.
While Jespo spends this idyllic time training with Nystul, Hastur busies himself with a thorough inventory of the foreign quarter’s fest-halls. For his part, Lucius lurks around the Terrible Two Linnorm, an inn favored by a motley crew of admirers, groupies, lackeys, functionaries, profiteers, and star-gazers—and, of course the adventuring party around which they all revolve. Greyhawk City’s premier adventurers, the “Boon Companions,” have made the Linnorm their home away from home. They are the most well-known and successful adventuring group in Greyhawk, and therefore (just ask any Greyhawker) the world.
Regdar is part of this exalted company. After his brief life as a woman, Jespo’s former bride-to-be has spurned his chance at feminine bliss for the embrace of his former adventuring companions—men and women he has shed blood with (and for), but never spoke of during his stint with the Liberators of Tenh.
Lucius doesn’t have any trouble learning their names and the legends associated with them—the Boon Companions are the pride of the city, and the tales of their adventurers are told in seven different tongues underneath the unpainted doorways of the foreigner’s quarter, and bandied across the starched tablecloths on the other side of town: Mialee, Jozan, Krusk, and Lidda versus the Shadow Legions of the Demon’s Bride! Vadiana, Alhandra, Soveliss and Ember defiant against the Seven Serpentine Sorcerers of the Forgotten Temple! In fact, the city is still laughing about Nebin and Devis’ high-spirited antics against the self-styled King of the Rats. Truly, no adventurers are better known, or better loved than the Boon Companions.
But all is not entirely well within the group; Devis, the high-minded bard and leader of the company has had a falling out with the sorcerer Hennet, a rising star whose light threatens to eclipse the rest of the group. As Hennet has grown in power and established himself as Greyhawk City’s most-eligible arcanist, he has become simultaneously more withdrawn from his companions, and more visible to his public. Of late, the rift has widened, and Hennet chooses to associate himself only with the two members of the group who share his firm conviction that he should be the center of attention at all times: Kerwin, the group’s “information specialist,” and Regdar, the barrel-chested formerly-female brawler. These three ultra-macho adventurers drink and cavort side-by-side, rarely leaving the Linnorm. Under Lucius’ disguised eye, Regdar drinks away his days at Hennet’s right hand, gazing milkily at the bare-chested sorcerer and receiving more than his share of lordly attention; the first among peers.
In three weeks, Lucius doesn’t see the Boon Companions pay for drinks once. He makes a mental note to leave a silver bar behind; the staff of the inn have had enough uncompensated trouble.
-----
The Viscountess Trill arrives (as has been her habit since Prisantha became a Wanted Woman) in disguise. Or rather, she makes a big production of wearing all black, and covering her face with a diaphanous scarf.
“Ah, Viscountess, it is so good of you to see me.” Prisantha has rented the top-floor suite of Chendl’s finest holstery, primarily for its flattering mirrors. “Particularly under the circumstances.”
The gnome woman casts aside her veil and beams up at the Enchantress of Verbobonc. “Soon my dear, we will no longer need to meet like this—why, Butrain has not forgotten who set him upon his throne, and he has gone after the ecclesiastic judges. They have been in a terrible fight, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Of course not.” Pris looks about conspiratorially, to the Viscountess’ delight. “Dearest, I require unusual . . . well, I suppose you might say special undergarments.”
“Oh!” The viscountess gasps. “Do you mean . . . presentable undergarments?”
Prisantha nods. “Very presentable, please.”
To her acting credit, the Viscountess manages to blush before removing several lacy, half-wrought (but fully finished) articles from her bag of holding. “Well, fortune smiles, dear. I happen to have something in your size.” the Viscountess looks Prisantha up and down. “Is this for that dashing Duke S—?”
“Whom?” Prisantha asks innocently.
“The gentleman who some say wouldn’t leave your side at our prince’s wedding? Hm? The same fellow who mentions you often to Thrommel, asking for tales of your adventures? Surely you haven’t forgotten about your friend the prince, have you? Why, since you’ve been gone, he’s . . .”
-----
“. . . surrounded himself with a retinue of young, ambitious lordlings. Among them, Thrommel has achieved fame for his martial prowess and bravery.” Prisantha addresses Heydricus and Gwendolyn. The three Liberators are sitting in front of a large fire, attended by Mialec, two priests and sundry other Tenha functionaries as they make their final plans for their winter tour of Tenh.
“Makes sense,” Heydricus says. “He was in over his head with us, but at court, he’s probably as tough as they come.”
“Amongst the Northern lords, this is surely true, but Butrain’s Southerners are a different breed—older, hardened men. As you might imagine, a rivalry is brewing.”
“And the King?”
“The king has his own battles—Belvor was a close friend to the churches, but our new liege intends to change all that. He picked a fight with the religious establishment, and it looks like he’s won it. He’s banished the theocrats from court, and surrounded himself with younger, reformatory clerics. He attends services for all of the good faiths as a show of piety, but it is well known that he doesn’t really love the gods.”
“And the older clerics were all close to Belvor,” Heydicus adds.
“Well,” Prisantha leans close, “certain knowledgeable persons contend that he has only courted these young clerics because without them he would have no magical protection at all; Butrain has disbanded the Four.”
“No!” Gwendolyn gasps, her eyes glittering. “The Royalty of Furyondy have kept the Circle of Four since . . .”
“He fired Lizst as soon as we left, and hasn’t replaced him.”
“Lizst backed the wrong pony,” Heydricus laughs.
Prisantha nods. “There are those who say that Butrain has developed a fear of arcane magic—he won’t abide any sorcerers or wizards in his court.”
Gwendolyn looks up innocently.
“And more disturbing to some—since his ascension, he’s taken no lovers.”
Gwedolyn inspects her manicure, and finds it in need of attention.
Prisantha pauses briefly to pour wine, then continues. “There is a celebrated couple, a name that might be familiar to you, Heydricus; Millia, formerly engaged to the head of the Provost-Marshall’s regional affairs directorate, Toban?”
Gwendolyn glances up at Heydricus.
“What?” he says.
“She’s thrown Toban aside for this ragamuffin Shieldlander by the name of Margrove. Supposedly he’s very dashing. He’s been dueling in her honor non-stop, and they’ve had some adventures together as well.”
Heydricus doesn’t pout—his face isn’t suited for it, but at this news his mouth seems to be giving it the Old Academy Try. “I know this fop. He challenged me once to a duel.”
“And I’m sure you would have beaten him, too,” Prisantha says, misreading Heydricus’ angst.
