It was yet another quiet night at the The Margrave. The tavern in the Midland always had trouble bringing in patrons during the quiet season, though lately the business had drooped lower than the expected. Having paid Brack for his performances in hopes of turning profits around, the Margrave proprietor's hunch on bringing in the dwarf appears to have backfired. And, at this rate, the owner could not tell whether it was that his luck had simply ran out or if word of Brack's recent past preceded him.
Regardless of the dwindling crowd, the dwarf performed earnestly to the half filled tavern. The torches from the nearby sconces did well to hide the bags from under his eyes, though if he was truly exhausted, his dedication to his music and song did not seem to reflect this. He began the night on the viol by playing a few wistful popular amongst Korvosa locals before switching over to his mountain dulcimer to play more traditional fare. All the while, he kept his hood drawn, leaving only his long, light brown beard present to sway rhythmically to the beat.
As the night winded down, he prepared for the final tune. Putting away the other instruments, he grabbed his hand drum and got up from his seat. He could not tell before whether the patrons had enjoyed themselves during the performance. Removing his hood now for the first time, it would be hard to tell from his expression whether he truly cared. The crowd seemed equally nonchalant, continuing to enjoy their hearty drinks and vittles despite the entertainment.
Brack cleared his throat and began to beat the hand drum slowly. Thrum... Thrum... Thrum... What came next was a song dear to him, an old verse sung for generations amongst his family back in Janderhoff. He started singing in deep, solemn tones:
He continued in dwarven verse, mesmerizing the audience with a song that plucked deep at the heartstrings of all present. The song took on meaning from person to person. Some heard it as joyful and determined, others as sad and longings, and still others as powerful and ancient. Brack too remained transfixed throughout the performance, focusing his gaze forward without paying any mind to the attention the song garnered as he slowly strummed along on his hand drum.
Once the song concluded, he received a modest ovation. He did not bow in return, though offered the crowd a small nod of his head as he put his hood back up. Laying out his drum upside down on the front of the tavern's stage for any tips from the patrons, Brack turned his back and began to pack up his instruments and belongings. When he finishes, he returned back to the drum to collect his haul, noting that much of the crowd had dispersed for their rooms or homes for the evening. A somewhat disappointing handful of change lay in the drum, though that did not catch his eye as much as the small Harrow card that also laid within the drum.
Brack sat at the small table, absently spooning his porridge to let the heat out. Across from him sat the Harrow card, propped upright on his mug so that its features could be easily distinguished. He eyed the card with a mixture of disdain, confusion, and caution. A small squeak sounded next to him as his uncle Ondar pulled up a chair to sit next to him. The older dwarf placed his own bowl of porridge and mug of ale down, though Brack did not shift his gaze away from the card. His perceptive uncle caught on to this as he looks back and forth between the dwarf and card.
"Hmmm... Been starin' at tha' card all morning, eh?" Ondar pointed out. "Yeh..."Brack responded. "Wha' d'yeh think it means?" Brack paused, collecting his thoughts, before answering, "Not sure, t'be 'onest. Didn't get a good look at whomever dropped it in." Another pause, "Did yeh read th'back?" "Aye." His uncle sighed, "Yeh know yeh don't 'ave to get back involved with tha' business, eh? Yeh name's good now. Yeh can move on in yeh life." Brack snorted, "Yeh, well, if yeh can tell Headmaster Toryr, I'd kindly appreciate it." His uncle returned the snort at the quip, but continued with quiet honesty, "Really m'boy. This is not a path yeh need to tread." Brack's reached over to grab the card, paying no attention to the caring advice from his uncle. He flipped it over to read the backside once more for the twentieth seventh time, all the while his grip tightened on his porridge spoon.
Brack examines the card closely, trying to relate it to any businesses he recalled throughout Korvosa - History Check: 4
(Should the check fail, he will ask his uncle if he recognized it and inquire throughout East Shore if he does not. If the check succeeds, he will pack up his belongings [sans viol and dulcimer, leaving these at his uncle's] and make his way towards the establishment)
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Mazour looked into the mirror again. His long white hair fell in whisps around his shoulders. The deep dark blues of his long robes contrasted his ashy skin and white hair. Adjusting his belt again, he began the ritual. Muttering his evening prayers as he worked through his equipment. Double checking the belt and his weapons, he stows his shield on his back and grabs his cloak.
With a swirl of motion he spins on his heels, sending the cloak spreading out behind. Mazor strolled from his room with a swagger. Boot heels echo off the walls as he made his way through the hall and out the main door to the Temple. The Temple to the Lady of Graves was large and imposing, very much like the goddess herself. Torches lit along the parapet sparkled like stars in the night sky, creating a ghostly image with the starry night behind it. The cool night air blew through Mazour’s hair, flaring his cloak out behind him as he strolled out into the cemetery.
Flanked by other faithful, they patrolled the main paths of Grey District. Gravel crunched underfoot as they three clerics chatted along their path.
“There’s a dwarf performin’ at the Margrave. He’s not bad actually.”
“Dugan, you always did have a fancy for dwarf… music. Can’t understand why. But We should go. The Margrave is a nice quiet spot for a drink.” Mazour smirked as he glanced around the field of tombs. His voice was dry and breathy.
“Of all the places in Midland, you’re going to that dump? I like my tavern’s a bit more lively.” Bjurn laughed, that rang out like chimes. The effect sending chills down Mazour’s spine. “Honestly, the Broken Blade is much more-“
Bjurn’s voice was cut off by the clanging of metal on stone. Creaking metal screamed out from the dark to their left. Mazour’s eyes flashed silver as he called on the gifts of the Grey Lady. Casting his gaze into the night there was only the soft dirt, cool night air, and an open mausoleum with it’s metal gate swinging lazily back and forth. The shriek of metal on metal in desperate need of oil drew Mazour forward. The stone was well weathered, and the gate had seen better days. I’ll have to paint that gate I suppose. Reaching out he grabbed the battered iron gate and latched it shut.
That was when he saw it. A Harrow card? Here? Mazour plucked it from the bundle of flowers it sat upon. He’d seen strange things left for remembrances of the dead. But this was a first. The Queen Mother stared up at him. On the back he sees the note, and his name.
“The Queen Mother? I’m… not sure how to take that,” he muttered. Taking a moment, he reads over the card. On finishing the note, he glances around again, hearing only the patrols through the graves. Mazour pauses and reads the note again.
Mazour chuckled and tucked the card into he folds of his robe. He ceremoniously hands Dugan the flowers with a wink and a grandiose bow. “It’s not much. Just my... plans for tomorrow evening.”
The rest of the night and the following day were a blur. The card became part of his hand and stole his focus. The rest of his watch was spent silent, staring at the card. In the far distance, the voices of Mazour's companions fell away. In the haze of his dark thoughts he kept coming back to the reckoning he would bring. And there would be others. Other to share in the pain he planned on inflicting on that vile piece of shit. Gaedrun would pay, and he would send his ass to the boneyard. Mazour grinned at the thought of hand delivering Gaedrun.
His feet moved on their own and at sundown the next day he stood by the door. Nervous energy surging through him. Driving him on, and yet now that he’s here he was unable to knock. “if this is a joke, there will be blood.”
"You'll mind your tongue before you loose it, deary," the comely halfling says with a practiced smile as she plops another pair of pints on the bar and removes the empties.
"Oh! Sorry, Miss Marni! Jus' scatterin' the scuttlebutt as it were. Didn't realize we was bein' overheard. No harm intended or nothin'!" the first man quickly responds, one hand over his heart, the other held up in an oath.
"All the same," Miss Marni quips. "Such talk's best saved for betwixt the walls of your own home or otherwise away from ears that could propagate such harmful rumors. I'll have none of it here." She dips the mugs in a bucket of tepid, soapy water, then another of cold, slightly less soapy water, and drops them back on the shelf with the rest of the empties awaiting further service.
The second man turns to the first and whispers, "Think she'd really do it? Cut out a man's tongue for speakin' ill of her boss? Seems a bit harsh..."
"Not a doubt in my mind," the first answers as he takes a large gulp of his freshly poured brew. "Man like Hutton Crowcreek tends to elicit an overgrown sense of loyalty amongst friends and neighbors. I know you haven't been here long, but that's somethin' you learn quick on Pillar Hill. Or in the Midlands in general, really. Man's done his due, if uh, *cough* other rumors are to be believed. Even beyond that, he and Brennan (may he rest in peace) did wonders for this neighborhood. You'd be hard-pressed to find a fault in either of them short of Hutton keepin' to himself more than many'd like."
The talkative man drains the rest of his pint at once, tosses his coppers on the bar, and pats his companion on the shoulder as he stands. "I'd best get a move on. Heard the Margrave is actually letting that murderin' Thrunhart play tonight and I wanna be there for any fights or juicy gossip what might spring up. Nothin' that fun happens at The Broken Blade. Miss Marni sees to that." He throws a wink in the direction of the halfling woman and leaves as the second man looks on in bewilderment.
Marni Glowhill removes the empty mug and coppers from the bar just as the man turns back. "Don't think on it too much, deary. Local drama's a bit of a pastime for Tem, there. Drinking and telling stories is one thing, but I'd advise you be wary of any trouble that one might help you find."
Across the river, on the East Shore, a huge man leans against a wall in an alley between an apothecary and a butcher. The long shadows in the late afternoon sun obscure his features a bit but it's hard to miss someone his size at any time short of a cloudy night when every torch has gone out.
A much smaller, hooded figure approaches silently from around the back of the apothecary. The giant of a man notices the movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to greet the newcomer with a silent nod.
A female halfling pushes back the hood of her cloak, revealing a pockmarked and scarred face. She looks up at the towering man standing over twice her height and smiles.
"Hutton Crowcreek. Never thought I'd see the day you'd be slinkin' around in alleys."
"You picked the place to meet, Brekath, not me," he states flatly in a rumbling baritone as she lets out a sharp hiss and glances around.
"You should know better than to use my name!" she whispers harshly.
"Relax," he responds with a smirk. "You started it. Anyone who'd wish you ill wouldn't be hanging around here and anyone paid by those who wish you ill won't find you so randomly as that. Besides, no one's going to bother you while you're with me and by the time you go back around that corner, you'll be untraceable again. As usual. Now," the mountain of a man says as he pulls his back from the wall and shifts his vast weight to the other foot. "Do you have what I asked for?"
A vexed sigh of resignment answers his question as she withdraws an envelope from a pocket hidden within her robe and holds it up to him.
Hutton's brow furrows as he looks down at the folded parchment sporting a red wax seal, unmoving. Seeing his hesitation, she shakes it lightly to encourage him to take it. Huge hand eclipsing both the object and some of the halfling's forearm, he lifts the envelope to peer at the seal.
"What the hell is this? I asked for a location and you bring me fancy letters? If there's calligraphy inside, so help me..." he trails off.
Brekath chuckles and shakes her head as she turns and begins to leave. "Open it. You do know how to read, don't you? Would be a shame for a body like that to waste away without a mind that can support it."
"Har har," Hutton retorts as he breaks the unfamiliar seal. He withdraws a Harrow card and stares at it, dumbfounded. "Just what are you trying to pull here, imp?"
"Read the back, you old ogre," comes the reply as she replaces her hood, not even turning to meet his gaze, and turns the corner to disappear.
Standing alone, once again, in a dark alley, Hutton Crowcreek, proprietor of The Broken Blade, stalwart pillar of his community, lets his shoulders droop as he reads the message and simply mutters, "Shit..."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Redii – crouched down flat, her long, kinky black hair tied into a tight bun – stared intently down at the townhouse across the street. She’d barely moved in the past hour and could feel her body begin to ache as it rested against the hard shingles of the adjacent roof; but she held strong and stayed still. She could sense it was just about almost time. Five minutes later, her intuition was validated when she watched a couple and a rather large guard leave the home and walk off to the West; most likely for lunch somewhere in the Heights. Hand signing to Whixa to hold a little longer, she waited until they were out of sight before beginning a count to 300. Feeling fairly confident that they were truly gone for the time being – but not too confident, you can never be 100% sure on anything – she rose to her knees and signaled to Whixa: "It's Time…"
A common misconception about thievery is that it always occurs in the dead of night. While many thefts do take place then, in actuality though, a large portion of them take place brazenly in broad daylight. Scratching at the handwraps hidden underneath the fancy jacket she currently wore - "borrowed" from a North Point banker - she moved towards the alley-side roof edge and made her way down to the streets. While most people, would've needed a rope or hand holds to safely make their way down, Redii simply jumped; or at least that's what it looked like to others. It was much more complicated than that of course - involving a series of acrobatic leaps and wall jumps - but the end result remained the same: Redii safely on the ground. Whixa joined her on the ground moments after, having taken a more conventional approach down; she signed "Show-off"as she walked out of the alleyway. Grinning, Redii straightened up her jacket and followed her out.
Exiting the alleyway and crossing the street as casually as could be, the pair made their way to opposite alleyway and towards the rear entrance of their mark. Leaning casually against the wall that also conveniently blocked any passerby's view, Redii waited while Whixa worked the lock. She could've worked the door herself of course, but her partner was new and needed the practice.
"Got it..." Whixa whispered after hearing the click of the lock.
"Well done," Redii signed, "Let's move. In and out in under five..." she added before opening the door and entering the space.
Moving quickly through the multi-storied home, the two thieves split up to look around for valuables. They prioritized small objects that were easy to carry, hide and eventually sell that also wouldn't draw attention when they left the scene of the crime. As Whixa searched the ground floor, Redii moved upstairs to the bedroom, hoping to find easily grabbable jewelry or coin Finding an unlocked jewelry box in the master bedroom, she quickly picked out a few choice pieces before moving on. She liked to only take enough so that the owners wouldn't notice anything missing right away. By then, she'd be long gone and the stolen goods already handed off to a seller for a tidy profit.
As she moved towards the closet to check there next, something near the window caught her eye: A Harrow Card. Random, she thought to herself before dropping it from her mind and continuing her sweep.
An hour later, Redii & Whixa sat back at the Lofties hideout by themselves sorting through the loot after the successful job. As she emptied her pockets, Redii felt something unexpected mixed in with the rest. Pulling it out slowly, she was generally surprised to see the same Harrow Card in her hand: a Peacock card with an odd looking bird that looked more lizard than avian. It also had her name written on the front. Her real name. Turning the card over in her hand, her eyes widened as she read the note over, then three more times just to be sure.
"What's that?" Whixa asked in her heavy Chellish accent.
"Nothing. Just an interesting card I found today." she lied back before flashing the image for Whixa's benefit. She conveniently covered the name with her fingers as she did before palming it. "Can you handle the rest here?" Redii added as she rose.
"Sure. Have somewhere else to be" Whixa replied
"Yea, I just remembered I had something I wanted to do tonight... If Kitty or anyone else asks, just tell them I probably won't be back till late." Redii added before starting to peel off the "fancy" get-up she'd worn for the job in favor of her usual attire. Her hands and forearms itched fiercely beneath the heavy black wrapping, but she ignored the discomfort; her mind still focused on the card. I finally found you, Gaedren... Redii thought darkly, and I can't wait to see the look on your face when you see me again
"Oh this is... silly," Mazour said to himself with a sigh. He smoothed his robes, brushing imaginary dust from the deep blue shades of night that were his robes. After adjusting the spiraling comet that was the symbol of the Lady of Graves, he stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was unassuming, possibly quaint from the front. Low key for a fortune teller, but it was a pleasant enough place. The door jolted and creakily swung open. Mazour stepped forward with a raised eyebrow.Nothing suspicious about this. Not at all.
"Hello? Is anyone home?"Pushing the door open he stepped inside. High backed chairs, the table, and those tapestries. We've gone from suspicious, to travesty. Surely it would not be rude to burn them right? Making himself comfortable, he strolled in like it was his own home. Mazour leaned down to pluck the note from the table. With a sigh, he draws out the Harrow Card and holds them next to each other. Handwriting looks the same. Looking around he decided there was only one thing to do. Reaching down he grabbed the basket and placed it on the table.
With a practiced grace, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass. Taking a sip he strolled around the room. Whisps of burning incense rose up in smoky pillars waving to and fro in the slight breeze from the front door. The scent was thick in the air with a heavy mix of flowers and almost cloying to his nose. It was cozy in a strangely formal way, as the high-backed chairs seemed almost out of place in their elegance.
He stood there, regarding the tapestries. Almost regal in his bearing, as elves tend to be. His posture ramrod straight, cutting an striking appearance in his robes made of various shades of blue. The contrast of his white hair, pale ashy skin and his sapphire violet eyes against the dark colors gives him an almost ghostly feel. He considered sitting, but the chairs did not seem as comfortable as he would have liked. Loathe as he was to admit it, there was something entrancing about these hideous tapestries.
“Well, I can’t say much for your choice of wall decorations, but at least the wine is passable. Wonder who the rest of the chairs are for. This should be… Interesting.”
A Pharasman Cleric? Unexpected... Redii thought to herself initially as she watched the pale elf in blue robes enter the home from a ways off. But I guess I shouldn't be... Gaedren really did have the unique ability to make almost literally everyone he's ever met want him dead. She paused her train of thought as she realized that she was already thinking of Gaedren in the past tense. She shook her head and laughed to herself before shrugging and making her way towards the home. Maybe I'll get to watch him get smited by his god right in front of me! she added joyfully before laughing to herself again, right as she opened the door and entered the home.
"Interesting decor..." Redii said out loud to no one in particular as she strode into the home and looked around, her long hair tied in a loose bun bouncing slightly as she spun around; doing so as a way to quickly verify if the elf was actually the only one inside. Satisfied for the time being that he was, she moved towards the table and took the chair with the best view of the front door.
Youthful, average height and garbed mostly in dark colors - shirt, gloves leggings, ankle-high boots - outside of her forest green jacket and matching mid-thigh apron skirt, Redii leaned back in her chair and gave the room a second look while eyeing the elf. A lot lankier in person, she thought to herself. Bringing the chair back to the ground, she leaned forward and read the note on the table before grabbing the basket and bottle, sniffing at each before returning the bottle and grabbing a piece of bread. It was definitely stale and she had to work to break off a chunk before and she could actually begin eating.
"So... I'm assuming you're here for the same reason that I am? Or are you here to buy one of those?" Redii asked the elf nonchalantly between bites as she pointed towards one of the tapestries.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
The salty air permeating through East Shore today had a slight chill today. In response, Brack donned his hood and pulled his cloak tighter as he readied himself to act upon the harrow card's invitation. His hands next reached into a side pocket, to which he removed a small pipe and packet. Saying nothing, he began to stuff the pipe with a mixture of tobacco and ash from the hearth. Sticking the pipe in his mouth now and lighting a match, he cups the other end and puffs until it lights in a dull glow. Breathing out, the smoke he produced was rather unremarkable save for the ash lending it to smell reminiscing of a forge.
He began his walk to the docks, saying nothing and leaving only his pipe hand exposed to the elements. Once nearby, he flagged down one of the nearby laborers handling a small dinghy lashed against one of the smaller piers.
"Oi Brack, you looking ta' cross, yeah?" "Yeh." "Man o'big words today, heh?" No response from the Dwarf at the jest, "Right on then, hop on in."
Brack boarded the boat and waited for the laborer to finish his preparations before the two of them made way to Midland. All the while, the dwarf said nothing though the rapid fumes from his pipe gave look as if it were smoldering.
Reaching the outside of the Esmeranda residence, Brack heaved a heavy sigh. Removing the pipe and tapping the remains out off to the side of a nearby gutter on his boot, he replaced the pipe and wiped his hands off on his cloak. Bringing his hand to his beard now, he gives his entire face a long pull as he approached the door. Giving one final deep breath, he opens the door and is caught off guard immediately by the two figures within. Standing at the doorway, he hears one of the inhabitants at the table inquire about to the other figure about some sort of purchase before he unassumingly interrupts the conversation.
"Both of yeh are notZellara."he says then mutters to himself impatiently under his breath, "Don't got time for this..." before stepping further inside.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Removing his hood now to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, he takes in the two figures: one sitting, one standing. Eyeing them both, he continues from where he had butted in, "For what it's worth, I ain't 'ere t'buy one of those either. Assuming yeh both are 'ere on account of the card, eh?" he questions back to the two as he draws his harrow from his pocket and holds it up, picture facing forward with the mocking handwriting staring him in the face.
He walks slowly into the room, eyes adjusting now to the darkened chamber and fragrant smells replacing that of forge and smoke. He takes in the two other figures, saying not a word, then turns his gaze all about. Ignoring the refreshments at the table, his attention is instead swept up by the tapestries blanketing the walls with visions of grand fantasy. He studies them intently as he waits for the others to respond.
Check to see if Brack knows whether the tapestries are of any significance or document some sort of historical/religious event: 14 (+0 if Nature/History/Religion; +2 if Arcana; Not sure which would be most applicable)
Check to see if Brack knows whether the tapestries are of any significance or document some sort of historical/religious event: 14 (+0 if Nature/History/Religion; +2 if Arcana; Not sure which would be most applicable)
Looking at the tapestries, they don't seem to relate to any particular historical/ religious event that you can think of.
“Is that whose house this is? I had no idea.”Redii replied to the cloaked dwarf who had just entered. He strangely looks familiar but I’m unsure why… Pulling out her own card, she flashed it in the dwarf’s direction before examining it over again. “She’s the fortune teller right? I guess that would explain the cards and the theatrics, though I’m not particularly fond of mine. Perhaps I can convince her to give me a new one.” She added jokingly before adding silently to herself, and have her tell me how she knew who I was and where to find me…
"Buy one? Oh dear, no. I'd was thinking more like," Mazour pauses and tilts his head slightly regarding them both, "burning? They're hideous and yet entrancing." He sipped his wine as he stepped forward, producing his own Harrow card from his robes. "She left a note, some wine, and bread. Apparently something drew her away. There is a note."Mazour waved his hand toward the table, motioning to the note, basket of bread, and the wine.
Glancing around at the other collected so far, there was one open seat, and the mysterious host. He moved slowly, gracefully behind an open high backed chair from behind and leaned on it. Mazour sipped his wine again. Glancing over to the dwarf he gave a sly grin. "It's awful isn't it? You can't take your eyes from them. It is... horrifying."
Having seen the dwarf enter the unknown house as he approached, Hutton stops in the middle of the street before approaching. He heaves a huge sigh and rolls up his sleeves as he steels his resolve and steps forward. He knocks loudly and waits.
As soon as the door begins to open, he pushes hard and swings it wide, barging in and nearly trampling whoever answered his knock.
By modern standards, the 50 year old might seem at home as a former champion handing off the trophy at a World's Strongest Man competition. At 6'7" and almost 350 pounds, he could easily pass as a gladiator in an arena. Today, though, he's more akin to a clomping, bipedal battering ram.
Brash and hotheaded he sets in. "Just who the hell are you people how do you know my business? I've spent too much time and energy keeping my dealings to myself and I don't appreciate other noses poking around where they don't belong. If you want that sewer rat, the lines forms up behind me." He jerks a large thumb over his shoulder. "I don't know if any of you interlopers can help me... Hell, I don't care if you can help me. But I want to know where that walking pile of garbage is and I don't appreciate being lead all across town by the nose. So tell me," he says, eyes narrowing menacingly as he reaches into a pocket and holds up the Harrow card, "What the hell is this supposed to be and why should I trust you?"
"Buy one? Oh dear, no. I'd was thinking more like," Mazour pauses and tilts his head slightly regarding them both, "burning? They're hideous and yet entrancing." He sipped his wine as he stepped forward, producing his own Harrow card from his robes. "She left a note, some wine, and bread. Apparently something drew her away. There is a note."Mazour waved his hand toward the table, motioning to the note, basket of bread, and the wine.
Glancing around at the other collected so far, there was one open seat, and the mysterious host. He moved slowly, gracefully behind an open high backed chair from behind and leaned on it. Mazour sipped his wine again. Glancing over to the dwarf he gave a sly grin. "It's awful isn't it? You can't take your eyes from them. It is... horrifying."
Having seen the dwarf enter the unknown house as he approached, Hutton stops in the middle of the street before approaching. He heaves a huge sigh and rolls up his sleeves as he steels his resolve and steps forward. He knocks loudly and waits.
As soon as the door begins to open, he pushes hard and swings it wide, barging in and nearly trampling whoever answered his knock.
By modern standards, the 50 year old might seem at home as a former champion handing off the trophy at a World's Strongest Man competition. At 6'7" and almost 350 pounds, he could easily pass as a gladiator in an arena. Today, though, he's more akin to a clomping, bipedal battering ram.
Brash and hotheaded he sets in. "Just who the hell are you people how do you know my business? I've spent too much time and energy keeping my dealings to myself and I don't appreciate other noses poking around where they don't belong. If you want that sewer rat, the lines forms up behind me." He jerks a large thumb over his shoulder. "I don't know if any of you interlopers can help me... Hell, I don't care if you can help me. But I want to know where that walking pile of garbage is and I don't appreciate being lead all across town by the nose. So tell me," he says, eyes narrowing menacingly as he reaches into a pocket and holds up the Harrow card, "What the hell is this supposed to be and why should I trust you?"
"I don't know, I kind of thin-" Redii started in reply to the elf before the door barged reveal one of the biggest humans she'd ever seen. Staying completely still - besides instinctively making a move for one of her hidden sai - as the man shouted in her direction, Redii waited until the man's rant was over. Hotheads... she thought to heself annoyed before replacing her sai and loosening up slightly.
"You're at least twice my age old man! Did no one ever teach you manners?" Pausing to sigh audibly, she continued, "Clearly, none of us are Zellara. And clearly, based on the card in your hand and the fact that you read it like we all did and came here, we're here for the same reason as you. So calm down, have some delicious bread and wait for her like the rest of us." She tossed a piece of bread in his general direction. "And just to be clear..." she added as she leaned forward onto her elbows to stare directly at the giant, "...whatever grudge you have - you all have - does not match mine. So if anyone will be getting Gaedren first, it'll be me..."
Hutton Crowcreek? Here? Mazour recognized the man as he burst in. Of course he had run across him at his pub before. No real direct contact, but Mazour knew him, or of him. Sure, there were wild rumors about his mysterious past and abilities.
"Apologies my excessively large fellow. It seems our host had to step away. She left a note, some bread, and some wine." Mazour motioned again to the note and basket. His voice was calm and even as he spoke so matter-of-factly in that breathy way of his. ""As for the rest... You don't get to kill him unless I'm there to see it done. So I suggest you have a seat, perhaps some wine and join us while we all wait for the answers. "Plucking his own card from his robes, he displayed it between two fingers at the angry bearded mountain before him.
After a moment of silence, Mazour finishes his wine, places down the glass and sits in the chair he was leaning on. With an impatient sigh, he speaks. "I suppose we need to start somewhere. I am Mazour."
"You're at least twice my age old man! Did no one ever teach you manners?" Pausing to sigh audibly, she continued, "Clearly, none of us are Zellara. And clearly, based on the card in your hand and the fact that you read it like we all did and came here, we're here for the same reason as you. So calm down, have some delicious bread and wait for her like the rest of us." She tossed a piece of bread in his general direction. "And just to be clear..." she added as she leaned forward onto her elbows to stare directly at the giant, "...whatever grudge you have - you all have - does not match mine. So if anyone will be getting Gaedren first, it'll be me..."
A blank stare meets Redii as the bread bounces off his chest and hits the floor.
"The hell's a 'Zellara'?" Hutton asks incredulously. "Some kind of goofy club you weirdos put together to track down the bastard? I don't have time for that."
He laughs. A low rumble like rocks in a landslide.
"Grudge? Grudge. Girl, what that rotting pile of refuse has perpetrated upon my house does not constitute a mere 'grudge' as if he'd cheated me out of money or insulted my heritage. No, my conspiratorial friend, I can't match any paltry grudge you may have. But I will see the life leave his eyes while my hands are wrapped around his neck. That I can guarantee."
He takes a beat and observes the group as a whole and takes in their surroundings.
"Apologies my excessively large fellow. It seems our host had to step away. She left a note, some bread, and some wine." Mazour motioned again to the note and basket. His voice was calm and even as he spoke so matter-of-factly in that breathy way of his. ""As for the rest... You don't get to kill him unless I'm there to see it done. So I suggest you have a seat, perhaps some wine and join us while we all wait for the answers. "Plucking his own card from his robes, he displayed it between two fingers at the angry bearded mountain before him.
He raises one bushy eyebrow.
"So none of you sent this?" he asks, indicating the card in his hand. He sighs and removes a large earthenware mug with a stern face sculpted on one side from a bag over his shoulder. He pours roughly half the bottle of wine into it and takes a long pull before wiping his mouth with one sleeve.
After a moment of silence, Mazour finishes his wine, places down the glass and sits in the chair he was leaning on. With an impatient sigh, he speaks. "I suppose we need to start somewhere. I am Mazour."
"Like I said," he replies with a sniff, "I've spent no small amount of resources keeping these dealings to myself. If we're here to work toward a shared goal, I'd appreciate a similar level of discretion. I've no desire to wrest the life from more than one individual if it's avoidable, but know that I will not hesitate to do so if my name should leave your lips in the wrong context."
He takes a deep breath and pulls out a high-backed chair from the table, spins it around with one hand, and straddles it as if it were a regular-sized seat.
Glancing around at the other collected so far, there was one open seat, and the mysterious host. He moved slowly, gracefully behind an open high backed chair from behind and leaned on it. Mazour sipped his wine again. Glancing over to the dwarf he gave a sly grin. "It's awful isn't it? You can't take your eyes from them. It is... horrifying."
Brack opens his mouth to object, though he is immediately interrupted by the boisterous entrance of Hutton into the small chamber. Shifting his attention to the massive individual, he immediately falls silent, taking in the sudden change in events.
As the others chime into the conversation, Brack continues to remain a quiet observer. Listening to the manner in which each individual went about their conversation, the dwarf seemed to be taking this all into account in a stoic manner. All the while, his face did not betraying his thoughts save for a rogue eyebrow raising at the realization that everyone had not only been led here by the same note on a unique harrow card, but also that they all seemed to share the same objective. He scratched at his beard as the tensions introduced by the large man barging in seemed to fade.
After a moment of silence, Mazour finishes his wine, places down the glass and sits in the chair he was leaning on. With an impatient sigh, he speaks. "I suppose we need to start somewhere. I am Mazour."
"Hutton Crowcreek," he says simply.
The dwarf clears his throat and speaks barely above a whisper, as if there were deep shame laced into the mere mention of his name, "Brack Thrunhart." He pauses, then continues, "If it's all t'same to yeh, I'd appreciate t'discretion in kind."
He looks to the final individual still in the room, the human woman with an air of mystery about her, "Seems like we all have t'business with Mister Gaedran, eh?"Skirting around the obvious question about his own business here, he switches the topic,"But what about yeh?"
A blank stare meets Redii as the bread bounces off his chest and hits the floor."The hell's a 'Zellara'?" Hutton asks incredulously."Some kind of goofy club you weirdos put together to track down the bastard? I don't have time for that."He laughs. A low rumble like rocks in a landslide."Grudge? Grudge. Girl, what that rotting pile of refuse has perpetrated upon my house does not constitute a mere 'grudge' as if he'd cheated me out of money or insulted my heritage. No, my conspiratorial friend, I can't match any paltry grudge you may have. But I will see the life leave his eyes while my hands are wrapped around his neck. That I can guarantee."He takes a beat and observes the group as a whole and takes in their surroundings.
Redii sighed. “I don’t want to turn our hate of the man into a competition. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction, and I know he’d enjoy it if he knew.” She scratched at her arm absentmindedly as she paused for a moment. “While I’d love to be the one who personally dealt the final blow, as long as I’m there when that happens, I guess I will have to be satisfied with that. That is non-negotiable though.”
The dwarf clears his throat and speaks barely above a whisper, as if there were deep shame laced into the mere mention of his name, "Brack Thrunhart." He pauses, then continues, "If it's all t'same to yeh, I'd appreciate t'discretion in kind."He looks to the final individual still in the room, the human woman with an air of mystery about her, "Seems like we all have t'business with Mister Gaedran, eh?"Skirting around the obvious question about his own business here, he switches the topic,"But what about yeh?"
Redii pondered for a long moment whether to give the group her name. In most other circumstances she would’ve given a fake name without a second though – she had been fond of going by Queen Ileosa of late – but thought better of it. All of these men had seemingly been scarred bad by Gaedren in some way, just like she had. That brought a level of closeness or intimacy between them that she couldn’t quite put into words. While that didn’t mean she was about to share her life’s story, it did make slightly more forthcoming (if just barely).
“Redii,” she replied simply. “And my business is the same as yours. To end the ‘reign’ of Gaedren Lamm once Zellera tells us where he hiding this time…”
Zoldier's Curse of the Crimson Throne
000 - Gathering
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
It was yet another quiet night at the The Margrave. The tavern in the Midland always had trouble bringing in patrons during the quiet season, though lately the business had drooped lower than the expected. Having paid Brack for his performances in hopes of turning profits around, the Margrave proprietor's hunch on bringing in the dwarf appears to have backfired. And, at this rate, the owner could not tell whether it was that his luck had simply ran out or if word of Brack's recent past preceded him.
Regardless of the dwindling crowd, the dwarf performed earnestly to the half filled tavern. The torches from the nearby sconces did well to hide the bags from under his eyes, though if he was truly exhausted, his dedication to his music and song did not seem to reflect this. He began the night on the viol by playing a few wistful popular amongst Korvosa locals before switching over to his mountain dulcimer to play more traditional fare. All the while, he kept his hood drawn, leaving only his long, light brown beard present to sway rhythmically to the beat.
As the night winded down, he prepared for the final tune. Putting away the other instruments, he grabbed his hand drum and got up from his seat. He could not tell before whether the patrons had enjoyed themselves during the performance. Removing his hood now for the first time, it would be hard to tell from his expression whether he truly cared. The crowd seemed equally nonchalant, continuing to enjoy their hearty drinks and vittles despite the entertainment.
Brack cleared his throat and began to beat the hand drum slowly. Thrum... Thrum... Thrum... What came next was a song dear to him, an old verse sung for generations amongst his family back in Janderhoff. He started singing in deep, solemn tones:
"Dorroooooh seh goh bahck doh rhah yaeh!
Dorroooooh seh goh bahck doh rhah yaeh!
Dorroooooh seh goh bahck doh rhah yaaaaaaaaaaeh... Ahhh yish dahn yahck dahn sholl yeh!"
He continued in dwarven verse, mesmerizing the audience with a song that plucked deep at the heartstrings of all present. The song took on meaning from person to person. Some heard it as joyful and determined, others as sad and longings, and still others as powerful and ancient. Brack too remained transfixed throughout the performance, focusing his gaze forward without paying any mind to the attention the song garnered as he slowly strummed along on his hand drum.
Once the song concluded, he received a modest ovation. He did not bow in return, though offered the crowd a small nod of his head as he put his hood back up. Laying out his drum upside down on the front of the tavern's stage for any tips from the patrons, Brack turned his back and began to pack up his instruments and belongings. When he finishes, he returned back to the drum to collect his haul, noting that much of the crowd had dispersed for their rooms or homes for the evening. A somewhat disappointing handful of change lay in the drum, though that did not catch his eye as much as the small Harrow card that also laid within the drum.
Brack sat at the small table, absently spooning his porridge to let the heat out. Across from him sat the Harrow card, propped upright on his mug so that its features could be easily distinguished. He eyed the card with a mixture of disdain, confusion, and caution. A small squeak sounded next to him as his uncle Ondar pulled up a chair to sit next to him. The older dwarf placed his own bowl of porridge and mug of ale down, though Brack did not shift his gaze away from the card. His perceptive uncle caught on to this as he looks back and forth between the dwarf and card.
"Hmmm... Been starin' at tha' card all morning, eh?" Ondar pointed out.
"Yeh..." Brack responded.
"Wha' d'yeh think it means?"
Brack paused, collecting his thoughts, before answering, "Not sure, t'be 'onest. Didn't get a good look at whomever dropped it in." Another pause, "Did yeh read th'back?"
"Aye." His uncle sighed, "Yeh know yeh don't 'ave to get back involved with tha' business, eh? Yeh name's good now. Yeh can move on in yeh life."
Brack snorted, "Yeh, well, if yeh can tell Headmaster Toryr, I'd kindly appreciate it."
His uncle returned the snort at the quip, but continued with quiet honesty, "Really m'boy. This is not a path yeh need to tread."
Brack's reached over to grab the card, paying no attention to the caring advice from his uncle. He flipped it over to read the backside once more for the twentieth seventh time, all the while his grip tightened on his porridge spoon.
Brack examines the card closely, trying to relate it to any businesses he recalled throughout Korvosa - History Check: 4
(Should the check fail, he will ask his uncle if he recognized it and inquire throughout East Shore if he does not. If the check succeeds, he will pack up his belongings [sans viol and dulcimer, leaving these at his uncle's] and make his way towards the establishment)
Mazour looked into the mirror again. His long white hair fell in whisps around his shoulders. The deep dark blues of his long robes contrasted his ashy skin and white hair. Adjusting his belt again, he began the ritual. Muttering his evening prayers as he worked through his equipment. Double checking the belt and his weapons, he stows his shield on his back and grabs his cloak.
With a swirl of motion he spins on his heels, sending the cloak spreading out behind. Mazor strolled from his room with a swagger. Boot heels echo off the walls as he made his way through the hall and out the main door to the Temple. The Temple to the Lady of Graves was large and imposing, very much like the goddess herself. Torches lit along the parapet sparkled like stars in the night sky, creating a ghostly image with the starry night behind it. The cool night air blew through Mazour’s hair, flaring his cloak out behind him as he strolled out into the cemetery.
Flanked by other faithful, they patrolled the main paths of Grey District. Gravel crunched underfoot as they three clerics chatted along their path.
“There’s a dwarf performin’ at the Margrave. He’s not bad actually.”
“Dugan, you always did have a fancy for dwarf… music. Can’t understand why. But We should go. The Margrave is a nice quiet spot for a drink.” Mazour smirked as he glanced around the field of tombs. His voice was dry and breathy.
“Of all the places in Midland, you’re going to that dump? I like my tavern’s a bit more lively.” Bjurn laughed, that rang out like chimes. The effect sending chills down Mazour’s spine. “Honestly, the Broken Blade is much more-“
Bjurn’s voice was cut off by the clanging of metal on stone. Creaking metal screamed out from the dark to their left. Mazour’s eyes flashed silver as he called on the gifts of the Grey Lady. Casting his gaze into the night there was only the soft dirt, cool night air, and an open mausoleum with it’s metal gate swinging lazily back and forth. The shriek of metal on metal in desperate need of oil drew Mazour forward. The stone was well weathered, and the gate had seen better days. I’ll have to paint that gate I suppose. Reaching out he grabbed the battered iron gate and latched it shut.
That was when he saw it. A Harrow card? Here? Mazour plucked it from the bundle of flowers it sat upon. He’d seen strange things left for remembrances of the dead. But this was a first. The Queen Mother stared up at him. On the back he sees the note, and his name.
“The Queen Mother? I’m… not sure how to take that,” he muttered. Taking a moment, he reads over the card. On finishing the note, he glances around again, hearing only the patrols through the graves. Mazour pauses and reads the note again.
“Whazzat?” Bjurn asked, creeping close. “Flowers? Maz, ya shouldn’t have. Seriously, I’m allergic.”
Mazour chuckled and tucked the card into he folds of his robe. He ceremoniously hands Dugan the flowers with a wink and a grandiose bow. “It’s not much. Just my... plans for tomorrow evening.”
The rest of the night and the following day were a blur. The card became part of his hand and stole his focus. The rest of his watch was spent silent, staring at the card. In the far distance, the voices of Mazour's companions fell away. In the haze of his dark thoughts he kept coming back to the reckoning he would bring. And there would be others. Other to share in the pain he planned on inflicting on that vile piece of shit. Gaedrun would pay, and he would send his ass to the boneyard. Mazour grinned at the thought of hand delivering Gaedrun.
His feet moved on their own and at sundown the next day he stood by the door. Nervous energy surging through him. Driving him on, and yet now that he’s here he was unable to knock. “if this is a joke, there will be blood.”
History Check: 10
"You'll mind your tongue before you loose it, deary," the comely halfling says with a practiced smile as she plops another pair of pints on the bar and removes the empties.
"Oh! Sorry, Miss Marni! Jus' scatterin' the scuttlebutt as it were. Didn't realize we was bein' overheard. No harm intended or nothin'!" the first man quickly responds, one hand over his heart, the other held up in an oath.
"All the same," Miss Marni quips. "Such talk's best saved for betwixt the walls of your own home or otherwise away from ears that could propagate such harmful rumors. I'll have none of it here." She dips the mugs in a bucket of tepid, soapy water, then another of cold, slightly less soapy water, and drops them back on the shelf with the rest of the empties awaiting further service.
The second man turns to the first and whispers, "Think she'd really do it? Cut out a man's tongue for speakin' ill of her boss? Seems a bit harsh..."
"Not a doubt in my mind," the first answers as he takes a large gulp of his freshly poured brew. "Man like Hutton Crowcreek tends to elicit an overgrown sense of loyalty amongst friends and neighbors. I know you haven't been here long, but that's somethin' you learn quick on Pillar Hill. Or in the Midlands in general, really. Man's done his due, if uh, *cough* other rumors are to be believed. Even beyond that, he and Brennan (may he rest in peace) did wonders for this neighborhood. You'd be hard-pressed to find a fault in either of them short of Hutton keepin' to himself more than many'd like."
The talkative man drains the rest of his pint at once, tosses his coppers on the bar, and pats his companion on the shoulder as he stands. "I'd best get a move on. Heard the Margrave is actually letting that murderin' Thrunhart play tonight and I wanna be there for any fights or juicy gossip what might spring up. Nothin' that fun happens at The Broken Blade. Miss Marni sees to that." He throws a wink in the direction of the halfling woman and leaves as the second man looks on in bewilderment.
Marni Glowhill removes the empty mug and coppers from the bar just as the man turns back. "Don't think on it too much, deary. Local drama's a bit of a pastime for Tem, there. Drinking and telling stories is one thing, but I'd advise you be wary of any trouble that one might help you find."
Across the river, on the East Shore, a huge man leans against a wall in an alley between an apothecary and a butcher. The long shadows in the late afternoon sun obscure his features a bit but it's hard to miss someone his size at any time short of a cloudy night when every torch has gone out.
A much smaller, hooded figure approaches silently from around the back of the apothecary. The giant of a man notices the movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to greet the newcomer with a silent nod.
A female halfling pushes back the hood of her cloak, revealing a pockmarked and scarred face. She looks up at the towering man standing over twice her height and smiles.
"Hutton Crowcreek. Never thought I'd see the day you'd be slinkin' around in alleys."
"You picked the place to meet, Brekath, not me," he states flatly in a rumbling baritone as she lets out a sharp hiss and glances around.
"You should know better than to use my name!" she whispers harshly.
"Relax," he responds with a smirk. "You started it. Anyone who'd wish you ill wouldn't be hanging around here and anyone paid by those who wish you ill won't find you so randomly as that. Besides, no one's going to bother you while you're with me and by the time you go back around that corner, you'll be untraceable again. As usual. Now," the mountain of a man says as he pulls his back from the wall and shifts his vast weight to the other foot. "Do you have what I asked for?"
A vexed sigh of resignment answers his question as she withdraws an envelope from a pocket hidden within her robe and holds it up to him.
Hutton's brow furrows as he looks down at the folded parchment sporting a red wax seal, unmoving. Seeing his hesitation, she shakes it lightly to encourage him to take it. Huge hand eclipsing both the object and some of the halfling's forearm, he lifts the envelope to peer at the seal.
"What the hell is this? I asked for a location and you bring me fancy letters? If there's calligraphy inside, so help me..." he trails off.
Brekath chuckles and shakes her head as she turns and begins to leave. "Open it. You do know how to read, don't you? Would be a shame for a body like that to waste away without a mind that can support it."
"Har har," Hutton retorts as he breaks the unfamiliar seal. He withdraws a Harrow card and stares at it, dumbfounded. "Just what are you trying to pull here, imp?"
"Read the back, you old ogre," comes the reply as she replaces her hood, not even turning to meet his gaze, and turns the corner to disappear.
Standing alone, once again, in a dark alley, Hutton Crowcreek, proprietor of The Broken Blade, stalwart pillar of his community, lets his shoulders droop as he reads the message and simply mutters, "Shit..."
History: 3 (rolled in the game log)
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
Not recognizing the seal, script, or address, Hutton hurries back to the Midlands to find the house before sunset.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
Redii – crouched down flat, her long, kinky black hair tied into a tight bun – stared intently down at the townhouse across the street. She’d barely moved in the past hour and could feel her body begin to ache as it rested against the hard shingles of the adjacent roof; but she held strong and stayed still. She could sense it was just about almost time. Five minutes later, her intuition was validated when she watched a couple and a rather large guard leave the home and walk off to the West; most likely for lunch somewhere in the Heights. Hand signing to Whixa to hold a little longer, she waited until they were out of sight before beginning a count to 300. Feeling fairly confident that they were truly gone for the time being – but not too confident, you can never be 100% sure on anything – she rose to her knees and signaled to Whixa: "It's Time…"
A common misconception about thievery is that it always occurs in the dead of night. While many thefts do take place then, in actuality though, a large portion of them take place brazenly in broad daylight. Scratching at the handwraps hidden underneath the fancy jacket she currently wore - "borrowed" from a North Point banker - she moved towards the alley-side roof edge and made her way down to the streets. While most people, would've needed a rope or hand holds to safely make their way down, Redii simply jumped; or at least that's what it looked like to others. It was much more complicated than that of course - involving a series of acrobatic leaps and wall jumps - but the end result remained the same: Redii safely on the ground. Whixa joined her on the ground moments after, having taken a more conventional approach down; she signed "Show-off" as she walked out of the alleyway. Grinning, Redii straightened up her jacket and followed her out.
Exiting the alleyway and crossing the street as casually as could be, the pair made their way to opposite alleyway and towards the rear entrance of their mark. Leaning casually against the wall that also conveniently blocked any passerby's view, Redii waited while Whixa worked the lock. She could've worked the door herself of course, but her partner was new and needed the practice.
"Got it..." Whixa whispered after hearing the click of the lock.
"Well done," Redii signed, "Let's move. In and out in under five..." she added before opening the door and entering the space.
Moving quickly through the multi-storied home, the two thieves split up to look around for valuables. They prioritized small objects that were easy to carry, hide and eventually sell that also wouldn't draw attention when they left the scene of the crime. As Whixa searched the ground floor, Redii moved upstairs to the bedroom, hoping to find easily grabbable jewelry or coin Finding an unlocked jewelry box in the master bedroom, she quickly picked out a few choice pieces before moving on. She liked to only take enough so that the owners wouldn't notice anything missing right away. By then, she'd be long gone and the stolen goods already handed off to a seller for a tidy profit.
As she moved towards the closet to check there next, something near the window caught her eye: A Harrow Card. Random, she thought to herself before dropping it from her mind and continuing her sweep.
An hour later, Redii & Whixa sat back at the Lofties hideout by themselves sorting through the loot after the successful job. As she emptied her pockets, Redii felt something unexpected mixed in with the rest. Pulling it out slowly, she was generally surprised to see the same Harrow Card in her hand: a Peacock card with an odd looking bird that looked more lizard than avian. It also had her name written on the front. Her real name. Turning the card over in her hand, her eyes widened as she read the note over, then three more times just to be sure.
"What's that?" Whixa asked in her heavy Chellish accent.
"Nothing. Just an interesting card I found today." she lied back before flashing the image for Whixa's benefit. She conveniently covered the name with her fingers as she did before palming it. "Can you handle the rest here?" Redii added as she rose.
"Sure. Have somewhere else to be" Whixa replied
"Yea, I just remembered I had something I wanted to do tonight... If Kitty or anyone else asks, just tell them I probably won't be back till late." Redii added before starting to peel off the "fancy" get-up she'd worn for the job in favor of her usual attire. Her hands and forearms itched fiercely beneath the heavy black wrapping, but she ignored the discomfort; her mind still focused on the card. I finally found you, Gaedren... Redii thought darkly, and I can't wait to see the look on your face when you see me again
DC10 History Check: 12
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
Zoldier's Curse of the Crimson Throne
001 - At Sunset
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
"Oh this is... silly," Mazour said to himself with a sigh. He smoothed his robes, brushing imaginary dust from the deep blue shades of night that were his robes. After adjusting the spiraling comet that was the symbol of the Lady of Graves, he stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was unassuming, possibly quaint from the front. Low key for a fortune teller, but it was a pleasant enough place. The door jolted and creakily swung open. Mazour stepped forward with a raised eyebrow. Nothing suspicious about this. Not at all.
"Hello? Is anyone home?" Pushing the door open he stepped inside. High backed chairs, the table, and those tapestries. We've gone from suspicious, to travesty. Surely it would not be rude to burn them right? Making himself comfortable, he strolled in like it was his own home. Mazour leaned down to pluck the note from the table. With a sigh, he draws out the Harrow Card and holds them next to each other. Handwriting looks the same. Looking around he decided there was only one thing to do. Reaching down he grabbed the basket and placed it on the table.
With a practiced grace, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass. Taking a sip he strolled around the room. Whisps of burning incense rose up in smoky pillars waving to and fro in the slight breeze from the front door. The scent was thick in the air with a heavy mix of flowers and almost cloying to his nose. It was cozy in a strangely formal way, as the high-backed chairs seemed almost out of place in their elegance.
He stood there, regarding the tapestries. Almost regal in his bearing, as elves tend to be. His posture ramrod straight, cutting an striking appearance in his robes made of various shades of blue. The contrast of his white hair, pale ashy skin and his sapphire violet eyes against the dark colors gives him an almost ghostly feel. He considered sitting, but the chairs did not seem as comfortable as he would have liked. Loathe as he was to admit it, there was something entrancing about these hideous tapestries.
“Well, I can’t say much for your choice of wall decorations, but at least the wine is passable. Wonder who the rest of the chairs are for. This should be… Interesting.”
A Pharasman Cleric? Unexpected... Redii thought to herself initially as she watched the pale elf in blue robes enter the home from a ways off. But I guess I shouldn't be... Gaedren really did have the unique ability to make almost literally everyone he's ever met want him dead. She paused her train of thought as she realized that she was already thinking of Gaedren in the past tense. She shook her head and laughed to herself before shrugging and making her way towards the home. Maybe I'll get to watch him get smited by his god right in front of me! she added joyfully before laughing to herself again, right as she opened the door and entered the home.
"Interesting decor..." Redii said out loud to no one in particular as she strode into the home and looked around, her long hair tied in a loose bun bouncing slightly as she spun around; doing so as a way to quickly verify if the elf was actually the only one inside. Satisfied for the time being that he was, she moved towards the table and took the chair with the best view of the front door.
Youthful, average height and garbed mostly in dark colors - shirt, gloves leggings, ankle-high boots - outside of her forest green jacket and matching mid-thigh apron skirt, Redii leaned back in her chair and gave the room a second look while eyeing the elf. A lot lankier in person, she thought to herself. Bringing the chair back to the ground, she leaned forward and read the note on the table before grabbing the basket and bottle, sniffing at each before returning the bottle and grabbing a piece of bread. It was definitely stale and she had to work to break off a chunk before and she could actually begin eating.
"So... I'm assuming you're here for the same reason that I am? Or are you here to buy one of those?" Redii asked the elf nonchalantly between bites as she pointed towards one of the tapestries.
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
The salty air permeating through East Shore today had a slight chill today. In response, Brack donned his hood and pulled his cloak tighter as he readied himself to act upon the harrow card's invitation. His hands next reached into a side pocket, to which he removed a small pipe and packet. Saying nothing, he began to stuff the pipe with a mixture of tobacco and ash from the hearth. Sticking the pipe in his mouth now and lighting a match, he cups the other end and puffs until it lights in a dull glow. Breathing out, the smoke he produced was rather unremarkable save for the ash lending it to smell reminiscing of a forge.
He began his walk to the docks, saying nothing and leaving only his pipe hand exposed to the elements. Once nearby, he flagged down one of the nearby laborers handling a small dinghy lashed against one of the smaller piers.
"Oi Brack, you looking ta' cross, yeah?"
"Yeh."
"Man o'big words today, heh?" No response from the Dwarf at the jest, "Right on then, hop on in."
Brack boarded the boat and waited for the laborer to finish his preparations before the two of them made way to Midland. All the while, the dwarf said nothing though the rapid fumes from his pipe gave look as if it were smoldering.
Reaching the outside of the Esmeranda residence, Brack heaved a heavy sigh. Removing the pipe and tapping the remains out off to the side of a nearby gutter on his boot, he replaced the pipe and wiped his hands off on his cloak. Bringing his hand to his beard now, he gives his entire face a long pull as he approached the door. Giving one final deep breath, he opens the door and is caught off guard immediately by the two figures within. Standing at the doorway, he hears one of the inhabitants at the table inquire about to the other figure about some sort of purchase before he unassumingly interrupts the conversation.
"Both of yeh are not Zellara." he says then mutters to himself impatiently under his breath, "Don't got time for this..." before stepping further inside.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Removing his hood now to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, he takes in the two figures: one sitting, one standing. Eyeing them both, he continues from where he had butted in, "For what it's worth, I ain't 'ere t'buy one of those either. Assuming yeh both are 'ere on account of the card, eh?" he questions back to the two as he draws his harrow from his pocket and holds it up, picture facing forward with the mocking handwriting staring him in the face.
He walks slowly into the room, eyes adjusting now to the darkened chamber and fragrant smells replacing that of forge and smoke. He takes in the two other figures, saying not a word, then turns his gaze all about. Ignoring the refreshments at the table, his attention is instead swept up by the tapestries blanketing the walls with visions of grand fantasy. He studies them intently as he waits for the others to respond.
Check to see if Brack knows whether the tapestries are of any significance or document some sort of historical/religious event: 14 (+0 if Nature/History/Religion; +2 if Arcana; Not sure which would be most applicable)
Zoldier's Curse of the Crimson Throne
Looking at the tapestries, they don't seem to relate to any particular historical/ religious event that you can think of.
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
“Is that whose house this is? I had no idea.” Redii replied to the cloaked dwarf who had just entered. He strangely looks familiar but I’m unsure why… Pulling out her own card, she flashed it in the dwarf’s direction before examining it over again. “She’s the fortune teller right? I guess that would explain the cards and the theatrics, though I’m not particularly fond of mine. Perhaps I can convince her to give me a new one.” She added jokingly before adding silently to herself, and have her tell me how she knew who I was and where to find me…
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
"Buy one? Oh dear, no. I'd was thinking more like," Mazour pauses and tilts his head slightly regarding them both, "burning? They're hideous and yet entrancing." He sipped his wine as he stepped forward, producing his own Harrow card from his robes. "She left a note, some wine, and bread. Apparently something drew her away. There is a note." Mazour waved his hand toward the table, motioning to the note, basket of bread, and the wine.
Glancing around at the other collected so far, there was one open seat, and the mysterious host. He moved slowly, gracefully behind an open high backed chair from behind and leaned on it. Mazour sipped his wine again. Glancing over to the dwarf he gave a sly grin. "It's awful isn't it? You can't take your eyes from them. It is... horrifying."
Having seen the dwarf enter the unknown house as he approached, Hutton stops in the middle of the street before approaching. He heaves a huge sigh and rolls up his sleeves as he steels his resolve and steps forward. He knocks loudly and waits.
As soon as the door begins to open, he pushes hard and swings it wide, barging in and nearly trampling whoever answered his knock.
By modern standards, the 50 year old might seem at home as a former champion handing off the trophy at a World's Strongest Man competition. At 6'7" and almost 350 pounds, he could easily pass as a gladiator in an arena. Today, though, he's more akin to a clomping, bipedal battering ram.
Brash and hotheaded he sets in. "Just who the hell are you people how do you know my business? I've spent too much time and energy keeping my dealings to myself and I don't appreciate other noses poking around where they don't belong. If you want that sewer rat, the lines forms up behind me." He jerks a large thumb over his shoulder. "I don't know if any of you interlopers can help me... Hell, I don't care if you can help me. But I want to know where that walking pile of garbage is and I don't appreciate being lead all across town by the nose. So tell me," he says, eyes narrowing menacingly as he reaches into a pocket and holds up the Harrow card, "What the hell is this supposed to be and why should I trust you?"
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
"I don't know, I kind of thin-" Redii started in reply to the elf before the door barged reveal one of the biggest humans she'd ever seen. Staying completely still - besides instinctively making a move for one of her hidden sai - as the man shouted in her direction, Redii waited until the man's rant was over. Hotheads... she thought to heself annoyed before replacing her sai and loosening up slightly.
"You're at least twice my age old man! Did no one ever teach you manners?" Pausing to sigh audibly, she continued, "Clearly, none of us are Zellara. And clearly, based on the card in your hand and the fact that you read it like we all did and came here, we're here for the same reason as you. So calm down, have some delicious bread and wait for her like the rest of us." She tossed a piece of bread in his general direction. "And just to be clear..." she added as she leaned forward onto her elbows to stare directly at the giant, "...whatever grudge you have - you all have - does not match mine. So if anyone will be getting Gaedren first, it'll be me..."
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
Hutton Crowcreek? Here? Mazour recognized the man as he burst in. Of course he had run across him at his pub before. No real direct contact, but Mazour knew him, or of him. Sure, there were wild rumors about his mysterious past and abilities.
"Apologies my excessively large fellow. It seems our host had to step away. She left a note, some bread, and some wine." Mazour motioned again to the note and basket. His voice was calm and even as he spoke so matter-of-factly in that breathy way of his. ""As for the rest... You don't get to kill him unless I'm there to see it done. So I suggest you have a seat, perhaps some wine and join us while we all wait for the answers. " Plucking his own card from his robes, he displayed it between two fingers at the angry bearded mountain before him.
After a moment of silence, Mazour finishes his wine, places down the glass and sits in the chair he was leaning on. With an impatient sigh, he speaks. "I suppose we need to start somewhere. I am Mazour."
A blank stare meets Redii as the bread bounces off his chest and hits the floor.
"The hell's a 'Zellara'?" Hutton asks incredulously. "Some kind of goofy club you weirdos put together to track down the bastard? I don't have time for that."
He laughs. A low rumble like rocks in a landslide.
"Grudge? Grudge. Girl, what that rotting pile of refuse has perpetrated upon my house does not constitute a mere 'grudge' as if he'd cheated me out of money or insulted my heritage. No, my conspiratorial friend, I can't match any paltry grudge you may have. But I will see the life leave his eyes while my hands are wrapped around his neck. That I can guarantee."
He takes a beat and observes the group as a whole and takes in their surroundings.
He raises one bushy eyebrow.
"So none of you sent this?" he asks, indicating the card in his hand. He sighs and removes a large earthenware mug with a stern face sculpted on one side from a bag over his shoulder. He pours roughly half the bottle of wine into it and takes a long pull before wiping his mouth with one sleeve.
"Like I said," he replies with a sniff, "I've spent no small amount of resources keeping these dealings to myself. If we're here to work toward a shared goal, I'd appreciate a similar level of discretion. I've no desire to wrest the life from more than one individual if it's avoidable, but know that I will not hesitate to do so if my name should leave your lips in the wrong context."
He takes a deep breath and pulls out a high-backed chair from the table, spins it around with one hand, and straddles it as if it were a regular-sized seat.
"Hutton Crowcreek," he says simply.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
Brack opens his mouth to object, though he is immediately interrupted by the boisterous entrance of Hutton into the small chamber. Shifting his attention to the massive individual, he immediately falls silent, taking in the sudden change in events.
As the others chime into the conversation, Brack continues to remain a quiet observer. Listening to the manner in which each individual went about their conversation, the dwarf seemed to be taking this all into account in a stoic manner. All the while, his face did not betraying his thoughts save for a rogue eyebrow raising at the realization that everyone had not only been led here by the same note on a unique harrow card, but also that they all seemed to share the same objective. He scratched at his beard as the tensions introduced by the large man barging in seemed to fade.
The dwarf clears his throat and speaks barely above a whisper, as if there were deep shame laced into the mere mention of his name, "Brack Thrunhart." He pauses, then continues, "If it's all t'same to yeh, I'd appreciate t'discretion in kind."
He looks to the final individual still in the room, the human woman with an air of mystery about her, "Seems like we all have t'business with Mister Gaedran, eh?" Skirting around the obvious question about his own business here, he switches the topic, "But what about yeh?"
Redii sighed. “I don’t want to turn our hate of the man into a competition. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction, and I know he’d enjoy it if he knew.” She scratched at her arm absentmindedly as she paused for a moment. “While I’d love to be the one who personally dealt the final blow, as long as I’m there when that happens, I guess I will have to be satisfied with that. That is non-negotiable though.”
Redii pondered for a long moment whether to give the group her name. In most other circumstances she would’ve given a fake name without a second though – she had been fond of going by Queen Ileosa of late – but thought better of it. All of these men had seemingly been scarred bad by Gaedren in some way, just like she had. That brought a level of closeness or intimacy between them that she couldn’t quite put into words. While that didn’t mean she was about to share her life’s story, it did make slightly more forthcoming (if just barely).
“Redii,” she replied simply. “And my business is the same as yours. To end the ‘reign’ of Gaedren Lamm once Zellera tells us where he hiding this time…”
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM
Zoldier's Curse of the Crimson Throne
002 - Strangers
Zoldier’s Curse of the Crimson Throne: DM/ Redii || Zoldier's Strange Aeon's: DM