Hammer 2, Happy Harlan’s
Kazir and I talked over supper about the meaning of the research I have done. The rest of the group is intrigued as well, though we found little solid enough to use at present. In that way, I hope that this journal may be our guide, to help solve the mystery of what we are uncovering, that the knowledge of whatever evil this concerns may be spread out into the open, that it may never happen again, if the gods be willing.
My news, however, was little compared to what Fineon uncovered. He scoured the docks and gates looking for information concerning those people Steel Jack reported being involved with the Library here in Harren, who had also hired him to waylay us. Fineon met a half-elf on the docks, one Avoril d’Lantern. Avoril claimed to have witnessed two elderly humans, one male and one female, dressed in black robes, dumping the body of an Oghmite beneath the docks. Fineon found the body beneath the docks, badly eaten by purse crabs but still wearing the robes and sandals of an Oghmite priest. Fineon examined the body and found a tattoo of the name “Jenly”, and also the killing wound, a stab to the chest.
Fineon returned to Happy Harlan’s to inform us of what he had found. Before we could pursue the matter, Hara, the proprietor of Happy Harlan’s came to our table. It seems many mercenaries and blades for hire work out of Harlan’s, and my companions had done some work from there in the past themselves. Hara knew of their reputation, and asked us for a favor, offering free room for a month in exchange. A local woman, Marigold Thatch, has been searching for her missing son, whom she thinks disappeared into the sewers. Hara let us know that this Ms Thatch was waiting outside of Harlan’s asking anyone who would listen for help. I vaguely recalled noticing a woman outside when I entered, but she was rather homely and I paid her no heed.
Upon hearing Hara’s story of the woman, and realizing there was little we could do tonight about our own problems, we decided to see if we could help Ms Thatch. I quickly found her outside the taproom and invited her to join us and tell her tale of woe. She is a Lorrie – that is, a native of Loch Lor, Harren’s hated enemy across the River Purse. As such, most passers by glared or spat in her direction if they noticed her at all. I immediately pitied the woman, especially considering the loss of her son. Promising to at least give her a meal and an attentive ear, I convinced her to come inside.
What I thought was a sad story of a lost, scared child in the sewers beneath the Sevencity quickly turned out to sound more like a gang-related fight. Marigold’s son Opulio is grown up – at least my age. He was in an alley with some others when a fight ensued. When Marigold went to check on him, he was gone, and a nearby sewer grating lay open.
Feeling some misgivings about this woman and her plight, as it seemed clear her son had been involved with some shady characters and may have deserved his fate, we nevertheless decided to pursue the matter, at least temporarily, and after paying Hara for the food, let Marigold lead us towards the place her son disappeared.
On the way, Marigold Thatch received a variety of reactions from passerby, ranging from mild contempt to spittle flung in her direction. There are many things in this world I do not understand, and this widespread enmity between Lorrie and Harrie is one of them. Both are citizens of the same Queen, and yet mutual hatred runs deep. Oh, I understand the politics behind the quarrel, I think, but cannot condone the violence that manifests as a result. At the risk of being a bigot myself, both sides have shown themselves to be petty to anyone a stranger. Perhaps, living so much of my life in Cymeria, and being taunted for my Val Hor heritage, I am extra sensitive to this issue. Perhaps as well, my experiences at the docks with my father, as he did his work for the Countess, gave me a perspective on the world that differs from these provincial-minded folk. I was lucky enough to meet sailors from all over Ostia Prim – and truth be told the stories they told of the world and the diversity it harbored were one of the reasons I relished the opportunity to leave Cymeria when my father presented it.
But again, dear journal, I digress from the plot at hand. As we were on our way to Marigold’s mysterious sewer entrance, the sky grew darker overhead and the chill snow fell about our group. A few tradesmen drew near, likely on their way to a pub. Seeing Marigold in our company, one of the elder tradesmen spoke.
“Beware her! She be not telling you truth! I seen her with several groups such as yourself, and never were those groups seen again!”
“Be gone!” Marigold exclaimed, spitting in the slush at the foot of the elder tradesman, and storming off.
Kazir and I exchanged a glance, and seeing Marigold swiftly trundling away, followed after her with the rest of our group. Driade slipped off from the back of our group, returning a few minutes later as we made our way to Marigold’s destination. Motioning for us to fall back, we let Marigold move on ahead several paces, that Driade could speak in private to us.
“I spoke with those
men,” the elf whispered. “They all claim that Marigold Thatch has been seen several times over the last tenday, with groups composed of folk such as ourselves. Those groups were never seen again, and the men think Marigold took them to their deaths. I, for one, believe them,” said Driade with a dark look at our guide’s back.
Just as I was about to speak, Kazir, who to this point had been staring into space, contemplating this news, spoke instead. “That may be, friend Driade. We shall be cautious. But I am still most curious to discover more of this story.”
I nodded in agreement with the Aradeeti. “I agree with Kazir, but thank you for your caution, Driade, in following up on this lead. We’re in no danger now, and Hara asked us to help if we can. I’d like to have a friend in the Sevencity, and if helping Marigold will endear us to Hara, I’m willing to do it. So let’s follow Marigold for now, see what we can discover, and talk it over back at Hara’s after we find out where she’s leading us. Agreed?”
At this compromise, the group signaled agreement, and we hastened to close the space between us and Marigold. Presently we arrived at our destination, an alley across from Mort’s Potatoes and Ale. In the back of the alley, concealed by broken crates and other refuse, Marigold showed us what indeed appeared to be an entrance to the sewers. The dark maw opened in the cobblestone of the alley, and a stench-filled steam slowly boiled forth from the hole, like breath from an unconscious drunkard.
By this time the streets were growing quite dark. “Marigold,” said I, “thank you for showing us here. We hope we can help you find your son. Is there anything else you can tell us about his disappearance?”
“Tell me first, will ye help me? And don’t ye be list’ning to the tripe o’ those old codgers now. They always been hatin’ me an’ my boy, just cause we be Lorries. Why, if his father, curse his pox-ridden soul, were still alive today… well, anyways, will ye be helping me?”
I hope I did not hesitate too long before replying. I wanted to make sure she did not doubt my sincerity, though I was still not convinced that she meant us no harm. After the events of the past few days, I hope any readers of this journal will forgive my mild paranoia. “Ms Thatch, we would like to help you. Of course, it is too late tonight, and we must prepare before delving into what could be such a dangerous area as this. We would like to come back tomorrow, at which point we will do what we can. That is, if you will answer us truthfully: are we the first group you have asked for help?”
Marigold looked sheepish and like a child momentarily, shuffling her feet in the refuse of the alley – oddly endearing from such an otherwise repugnant matron. “No, well, no, you’re not the first, no. The others said they’d help, but I ain’t never seen them since. But you’ve shown me the most kindness of any o’ them, who’d just as soon spit at me as help me. I’ve got here some paper I found nearby, not long ago, when I was a-waiting here for Opulio, praying he’d come back. I dinna understand them mysel’, never having learned my letters none.” She offered up a dirty scrap of parchment, with what looked like a crude map and writing.
Gunn and Fineon looked at the writing, and failed to understand its intent, but I was able to puzzle my way through some of the scratchy runes. The map itself looked like it could be a map of the sewers, with a few runes scratched to indicate notes on different areas. The writing I took to mean this, to the extent I could understand it:
Went down through grate as usual. Best place because it’s hidden. Labeled where [a person’s name – Derstin?] died – be wary! Also had close call with guard house. It’s labeled. To 2nd level where water drips in pool.
Some of that was pure guesswork on my part. I also think I deciphered some of the rooms on the map to indicate where the person died, a room labeled with the word “Slime,” and the letters “GH,” presumably indicating the guard house.
“Thank you, Marigold, this may help us a great deal,” I said sincerely. “We shall return tomorrow to see what we can find. Where can we contact you if we need to?” Marigold gave us the addresses of a number of butcheries on Opulio Street (apparently the namesake of her son, for reasons best left to the imagination) where she worked at night, cleaning. We thanked her, and bid her goodnight. Driade followed her to confirm the story of where she worked, and met us back at Happy Harlan’s later.
After some discussion over a nightcap, we decided that in the morning we would first explore the low roads of the thieves, the sewers, and then proceed (hopefully after a bath and change of clothes) to the Temple of Oghma.
