dex check: 22

You wiggle your hands in the hempen rope bindings and feel resistance from the fibers, but you manage to loosen them just so. It's too bad you don't have more time. But you did manage to make a difference. You have some room to work with now.

"There is more to this chance meeting, I think," the priestess says.

You hear T'vul mutter an incantation. The cadence escapes you but the intent does not.

Make a Wisdom save, Norvalor.

wis save: 22

OOC: is this a charm if it is i would have advantage 

ps: nvm lol got a nat 20!!!

T'vul's hand gestures suggest a different type of spell, Norvalor. Not a charm, but something far more invasive. A dark and twisted use of divination.

You feel her pressing into your mind, searching your thoughts. She's probing deeper, behind those thoughts you have on the surface.

She hisses. You have pushed back. You have denied her. She howls in frustration and spins away dramatically, leaving you to the dark. In the distance you heard a wooden door slam.

Cath looks down at the wand and back up to the door and back to the wand.   He reaches down and picks the wand up.   The wand is for finding the child, Cath understands that.   He takes it in his hand and holds it out in front of himself trying to see what it would do.   How would it tell him where to go? 

Did Zavakk want him to follow?  He didn't think so.   If he did he would not have left the wand.   He has pressing matters of his own to deal with now.   Looks like finding the child is up to Cath for the moment.   

He looks down and concentrates on the wand.   Where is Traever?

Norvalor seeing her leave would like to cast sacred flame on the ropes to free himself. I would also like to have a look around the room to access the situation better. would that be perception or investigation? 

Vibrant radiant light plunges through the dungeon cell around you, Norvalor, reducing your hempen bindings to sizzling ash. You are free.

In the light of your spell you see Traever quietly sobbing. The boy is distraught and overwhelmed by the events of the last few minutes. Hearing T'vul's biting remarks, wondering if anyone will ever know that he is here, waiting to be save, you can see that he is beginning to break from all those pressures and more. He disappointed his mother, most of all by wandering off too far from the Purple Wyrm. "I am sorry, mother," he whimpers.

GM do i see any signs of where my gear is being held?

if there isn't enough light i will cast the Light spell

Ps: do i still have my holy symbol? 

OOC You do not see any gear anywhere nearby. It's pitch black inside the dungeon cell. No light source at all. Which is why your darkvision kicked in, Norvalor. And, no you do not have your holy symbol.

Norvalor would like to cast light spell in the room to have a better view of everything, while say to Traever "Everything will be alright I'll get us out of this somehow."

"I don't believe you," Traever says to you, Norvalor.

Light winks into existence. A murmur moves through the three prisoners in the room.

"He's a spell caster," you hear one say.

"Means nothing," another adds.

"Don't be gettin' yer hopes up too soon gents. T'vul is as nasty as they come. I'd sooner believe she's an agent of Bhaal then the lord of death."

Arutha Recognized that his threats seemed to be getting him nowhere so he decides to change tactics. His face softens a little and his  vocal tone becomes more conspiratorial. Getting close to the man's face he whispers in his ear. "Listen, My big friend here wants to kill you in every gruesome way possible. I'm playing along but honestly I just want to set you free. Tell me what you know and make this easy on us and we will let you go." 

Persuasion: 20

The Cloak cultist regards Skorbor with increased concern. The half-orc literally lifted a cargo wagon up over his shoulder and tossed it aside without so much as a grunt of complaint. He looks back to you, Arutha.

His demeanor shifts. His shoulders slack some. "If—if I tell you, will you let me go? You promise." He believes you, or at the very least, he would rather trust you than put his fate in the hands of your tusked associate. Skorbor snarls for effect.

The cultist says, "We were supposed to stop you long enough for the second group to ruffle up the merchant. The one who owns the shop."

Quote from AdventureHalz >>

Vekka addresses the crowd, Gramdal. "My lord, Gravva, is in need of your expertise," the female orc begins. "Your particular skills."

She knows her presence comes as a surprise to Jhaval's underworld allies. She entered the room without introduction, without warning. Purposely? Probably. Doing so eliminated any opportunity the group might have had to consult each other, prepare for her arrival. And in that regard, she wields the upper hand. She, a female. She, an orc. She, an ambassador for the orc lord named Gravva, whom until now you have never heard. But like all orc chieftains, they rise and they fall, and they are replaced. But why send someone to parlay?

Every footfall Vekka places adds just a little bit more tension to that uncertainty.

Her scraping dry scaly gnarled toes she drags across the floor grate at the ears. Several henchmen grunt. They cannot hold back their disgust for her. The worst revulsion comes from a dwarf beside Khazari Moreun. His disrespect is clear. The lips he curls across his face might as well be a whetstone to sharpen his blade. His master, you notice, does not chastise the ill-mannered response.

Remember, Gramdal, the dwarves hail from the North. In all likelihood they crossed paths with the Many Arrow King.

 Indeed, Gramdal would have to be a fool not to know of the Many Arrows Orcs. Old King Obould and his lineage Gramdal was familiar with. But this...what...Gravva was it? Hmm A curious name. Curious enough to have heard something about him maybe?

History 17

Then there's this poor, wretched creature that slumps before them. Not to mention the company. Gramdal's is a little surprised at how the one underling is allowed to openly show such disrespect. Yes, he also finds her repulsive, but Gramdal is a professional! 

Arutha schools his expression and looks at the cultist with a neutral look. His immediate desire to go and help the merchant. "Tell me, Where does your group meet and why are you so interested in these boots? I can convince him to let you go, but only if you tell me what I need to know."

Persuasion: 12

The cultist shakes his head nervously underneath his cowl. He sighs. "I don't know who wants them. Jandra makes the deal." He looks up at you, Arutha, worry plainly written on his face. Is he signing his own death sentence by telling you the inner workings of the group? Or is he truly buying his freedom. Also, why worry now? He made his choices. Why, you do not know. Under what circumstances… aren't those irrelevant at this point? Anarchy breaks down the common good. Its a disruptive flame, a torch he wielded all on his own.

Arutha smiles at his answer. "Well then, it sounds like I should talk to Jandra. If I wanted to find them to have a conversation about making a deal with me, where would I find Jandra? I have something I really would like to see if I could work out." He looks at him with what he hoped was a friendly expression.

Persuasion: 16

(guess Arutha is better at sweet talking than threats. lol)

King Obould. Oh, how bold he was to unite the orcs in the North!

This Gravva, this orc, though, is unfamiliar to you, Gramdal. Orcs, unlike those pesky goblins, train for a different war. Perhaps the reason why you can't recall this name is simply because the war he is fighting has nothing to do with you, your compatriots, the world you live or have lived in. Give it time. Vekka is here. She speaks for the orc lord.

The Dwarf settles in then. Kelten isn't giving anything away if he has anything to give. The rest of this motley crew is held captive by Vekka's repugnance. So why not Gramdal? He waits. He listens.  

The cultist explains, Arutha, his associate named Jandra has been known to pull up a chair in the Giggling Banshee, or spend some time in the Red Cowl, waiting for the right contact to strike up a trade deal.

"You promised," he says. "To let me go."