((Side note: Sagron, I didn't realize the Duchess was unconscious when the building collapsed. I would have tried to save her, though re-reading it now I guess she didn't fall down the stairs with Aio. Maybe beyond saving anyway.))

(Probably a bit of kocked-the-hell-out, probably a bit of smooshed-by-the-roof)

The weight of the moment settles on Dahme'dre. She has failed. She could have done more. She blames herself... No she is no fool. She blames 'The Jurists'. It would be foolish and arrogant to take credit or blame. 

"We are threads of fate, whose pattern cannot be seen before it is woven, yet that which is woven cannot be undone." She speaks her ideal clearly for the whole of the party, but truly for herself.

(OOC: I'm pretty sure I exploded the Duchess with her little glass sphere. Sagron said I blew her to bits, after all. )

((She was the one foolish enough to give it to you with minimal instruction. A poor employer sends their labor to do a job without training. So you rolled da you are twice as likely to crit fail that way.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/5_Whys?wprov=sfla1 ))

((Duchess was standing in a room filled with highly combustible gas and carrying more gas grenades on her person when the aforementioned combustible gas... combusted. That's not something one survives. Only reason Aio isn't Kentucky Fried right now is that Bizmaria pushed her out of the explosion, so she was thrown by the blast rather than caught in it. ))

The dwarf and her lackey slumber fitfully at your feet, their chests rising and falling steadily under the enveloping blanket of Erdan's magic. The Duchess' fireball arrow and the subsequent explosion of the tavern's second floor lit up the night, but also partially scattered the crowd of religious fanatics around the tavern. For the moment, as Haseren indicates, the alleys around you appear clear. 

Erdan, your rapid search of the sleeping dwarf reveals a small pocket with three silver pieces and five copper marks. The haste and exigent circumstances prevent a truly thorough or expert search, however. 

Following Dahme'dre, you all move a short distance north up the alley, out of sight of the flaming tavern. You hear scattered alarm bells in the city, as the sad remnants of the watch try to gather the citizens into bucket chains to fight the blaze. The tavern will likely need to be demolished, but they may have hope of saving the surrounding buildings. 

Garrock, pale as a sheet and sweating profusely as his body fights the Dragonkin's toxin moves over to his barmaid and whispers some comforting words. Turning to the rest of you, his face is grim, "a dark night," he says, his voice leaden. "The Cleft Skybreaker was my life, and those bodies back there were more than..." he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "I will take Lydia to her sisters and we will lie low, the Jurists will not waste energy on a tavern keeper when there is a priest of a 'traitor god'," he indicates with his tone how absurd he finds that moniker, "loose in the night."

He rubs his chin thoughtfully, "The Jurists must know of your purpose, and therefore your likely path. Once they realize you have survived, they will hunt you through these streets. The North Gate is by far the closest, to here and, if what I overheard rings true, then to your destination. It is however the most obvious choice, and therefore perhaps the most risky. A sojourn to the Western Gate, through the flooded district would be longer, and carry its own perils but the Jurists would not suspect you taking such a strange route." 

Shrugging, as if it were none of his business any longer he bids you good fortune and, hobbling, leads the barmaid Lydia off to the east. 

"Garrock is wise. We should make for the Western Gate. I am afraid to take to the skies here, however, so I cannot scout ahead." Aio says softly.  

We need to get moving in the right direction quickly. Running around like a chicken with its head cut off won't do us any good. The more time we waste, the more time the Jurists have to head us off. I just wish that... thing wasn't with us. 

Aio glanced at the Half-Orc before quickly facing their destination to the West. 

Nothing is ever easy.

Dahme'dre clasps Garrak's shoulder "Tell my family what has transpired here. They may be able to offer you some respite. Know that you will have a place at my table when this is done."

She turns to the others. "Advice as good as any. Let's get into the flooded district quickly. We'll be able to recuperate once were free of prying eyes. Haseren, it is good you are well, would you like to lead the way?"

Valen withdraws an envelope containing a small writing kit - a small quill, a stoppered vial of ink, and a few folded pages - then scratches a few hasty notes: Garrock the tavernkeeper, The Cleft Skybreaker Tavern, Lydia, where they sought refuge, casualties, etc. "I'll be sure The Bastion receives word of this. Whether they send aid or I have to do it myself, I'll see to it that they are hansomely repaid for their troubles."

"Yeah, West sounds good. I don't want anything else to do with these 'Jurists' if I can help it. Thanks for the tip, barkeep. It's too bad I couldn't try your wares before, well, this", Haseren says, pointing at the burning tavern at the end.

Then, he hears his name called, and answers: "Eh, sure. I like to think I have a decent pair of eyes on my face, and I do have some recent practice in avoiding this ragtag. But I wouldn't mind it if your god decided to help a bit, err, Dahme'dre, was it?"

"Yes, Dahme'dre d'Lyric." She places her hand on Haseren's arm and offers him Guidance.

The influence of gods in these trying times could certainly be helpful. The divine powers haven't had a strong influence on her life, except to rain judgement where it wasn't needed. But people found comfort believing aid was granted by a higher power, and Dahme'dre sees nothing to gain from stripping away that small comfort. She hums her song granting Haseren some of the foresight of her patron, gained from life lived beyond the ages.

Erdan will quickly talk to Garrock before he goes. 

"You are a good man, and I'm sorry about what happened. I don't have much, and will need most of it for our travels, but please take this. Hopefully it will help some." 

Erdan will press a gold piece and the money he found on the Jurist into his hand. "Be well."

To the group "I agree with you all, we should heed Garrock's advice. To the west."

As they are walking, Erdan will say to Valen, "Shiney, do we need to give Haseren a nick name, too? Hmmm..... Slashy....The big one......."

"Hmm," Valen muses for a moment, "I would go with Grumpy at first, but hr could be a very happy person outside of fighting. We'll just have to see how it plays out. Tusky?"

"Heh. Nicknames, huh? How about Chef?" Haseren asks, elbowing his backpack hard enough to produce a metallic cling reminiscent of something hitting an iron pot. He then starts his journey to the west.

Aio's head turned to look at the half-orc in disbelief. One of the only things she truly gained pleasure from these days was food. 

What would... it prepare for food, though? She shuddered at the thought. I think I would prefer travel rations, thank you. 

"Chef, for the way you cleave through enemies?" Dahme'dre smirks as she hums.

She glances down the allies they pass and produces a light wind, rustling shutters, masking the sound of their passing. In the distance a low rumble of an oncoming storm, to drive her persuers to seek cover from inclimate weather that never comes.

Garrock doesn't look back as he and Lydia disappear down a side-alley, his arm supporting her gently as she occasionally stumbles. He leaves with the gold, silver and copper Erdan gifted him and the letter from Valen, but with his livelihood destroyed and his life upturned. 

The party begins moving west, the fires to the south and the cloudless night making the journey dark but navigable even without the benefit of low-light or darkvision. The streets are deserted, the hour and the events of recent minutes having driven even the most enterprising cutthroat back into their lair for the time being. 

Your course takes you generally downhill as you move toward the city's western expanse. The Merchant's District where the Cleft Skybreaker Tavern had stood prior to this night was once a comparatively affluent part of town, now faded. Every step you take westward sees signs of that former wealth fade away, as dilapidated tenement blocks replace terraced homes. No part of Thar has adequate street lighting in these dark times, but the slums west of the merchant district are an especially shadowed area. 

After about six minutes walk, and with the flooded district still another twenty minutes march west, the quiet of the night is pierced by bone-chilling howls from somewhere behind you.

((Could those of you with proficiency in religion and animal handling please roll checks on those skills? Roll both if you have proficiency in both. ))

(Religion: 25. This is apparently something Valen has very limited experience with)

Dahme'dre's lessons on religion were brief and primarily in a historical context. Likewise she has little experience with beasts beyond riding.

(Animal Handling: 14 )

Living in a small village gave Haseren lots of contact with beasts of burden, and led to witnessing some attacks by wild animals. And during his recent training in the art of the blade he even got to kill a few himself.