Morning mist still clung to the cobbles of Basilisk Gate as Marasatra Vae’lyn slipped into the city’s waking current. The polished bronze badge Captain Zodge had pressed into her palm weighed less than a quill, yet every glance it drew from patrolling Flaming Fists felt leaden.

Jergal records even this, she reminded herself, fingers brushing the engraved fist-and-flame sigil beneath her cloak’s lapel. A quiet footnote: “Scholar conscripted, payment promised, knowledge anticipated.” The bargain suited her. Access to Dead Three relics was worth a morning’s detour—and the bathhouse meeting felt more like another footnote than a turning page.

She crossed the Wide, sidestepping fishmongers setting up stalls. Blood is the ink of history; I simply ensure it is annotated correctly. The thought steadied her pulse as she reached the crooked façade of the Elfsong Tavern. 

 A slight figure parts the tavern’s gloom: barely four feet tall, clad in a dove‑grey scholar’s robe belted over dark, close‑fitting scale mail. Ebony braids are coiled in a neat crown, stray wisps silvered by the early sunlight. A slim ashwood staff—its ferrule capped with a tiny, gleaming scalpel—rests in her left hand; a small round shield is slung over one shoulder like a satchel lid. At her throat, a pewter amulet of a skeletal hand clutching a quill catches the glow each time she breathes. A well‑worn healer’s kit and leather‑bound journal peek from a side‑bag, while the bronze badge of the Flaming Fist is pinned just inside her cloak for easy presentation.

Approaching the bar with measured steps, she clears her throat. “Good morning. Captain Zodge’s newest adjunct, Marasatra Vae’lyn. I seek the adventuring company recently contracted to investigate the cultist killings.”

The barkeep nods toward their table.

 Marasatra inclines her head in greeting, voice soft but precise. “Well met. Captain Zodge bids me escort you to the public bathhouse at once—he wishes a discreet conference before noon. I am to assist your efforts henceforth and, in return, may examine any esoteric artifacts you acquire from the Dead Three.” She touches the badge briefly, then the quill‑in‑bone amulet. “By Jergal’s ledger, I will record our progress faithfully. Shall we depart when you are prepared?”

Enjoying a glass of red wine while casually sitting leaned back in a chair by the table with one long leg over the other is a young red-haired woman, dressed in a white shirt with a black leather bodice and black leather pants. She gives the newcomer a scrutinizing look before speaking. "So Zodge is sending an undertaker to collect us. Is he not pleased with our progress then and you will see to that we're completing our mission rather than enjoy an afternoon at the Elfsong tavern? Or are you simply replacement for the deputee we lost? Either way, take a seat and tell us what Jergal has taught you about the cult of the dead god while we're waiting for everyone to be ready to depart. So far we can say for certain that the cult is not to be underestimated." She says with grim look, motioning to a chair by the table. "I am Valeria but you can call me Val." She adds with a polite smile, and it is clear from her speech and her mannerisms that she is a highborn, likely a patriar, that for some reason now finds herself as a Flaming Fist draftee.

Marasatra’s fingers pause a heartbeat on the chair‑back—a silent inhale to cauterize the sting of undertaker. Scholarly pursuit mistaken for mortician’s toil; predictable from a wine‑soaked patriar who measures intellect by tailoring, she notes, smoothing the affront behind a politely impassive mask.

She settles opposite Valeria, back straight despite the chair’s sagging rungs, staff resting against her knee. “Val,” she echoes in greeting, purple eyes calm as still ink, “I am no gate‑bond undertaker, though Captain Zodge would doubtless enjoy the irony.” A faint, almost courteous tilt of her head. “My vocation is the chronicling of truths—particularly those other academies deem uncomfortable.” Her voice remains soft, but each syllable lands like a quill tapping parchment.

“Jergal, in antiquity, presided over all that ends. When Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul sought his power, he relinquished it without contest—an instructive parable, if one studies beyond ballroom curricula.” Marasatra lets the barb hang a breath, expression serene. “The dead god that you mentioned are indeed three, the 'Dead Three'. They inherited dominions of tyranny, murder, and decay. Their modern cult cells operate in triune concord: Baneites enforce terror, Bhaalians spill blood for prophecy, Myrkulytes obsess over the sanctity of corpses.”

She folds her hands, faint scars catching lamplight. “As for underestimation—your fallen deputee’s ledger already records that lesson. Jergal teaches preparedness, documentation, and—when necessary—finality. I intend to supply all three.” A courteous inclination. “Now, should the rest of your company assemble, I will guide us to the bathhouse. In the meantime, I welcome any further questions your prior tutors neglected.”

The redhead across the table smiles and leans forward slightly over the table, seeming pleased with the quick retorts. "Thanks for the lesson, but now I wonder why Zodge didn't send you on this from the start seeing as you are the only one here that didn't miss the lecture on the dead three. I must admit that ballroom curricula hasn't been all that useful when wading through a cultist infested sewer. We do know the way to the bath house though, I'm more curious over how Zodge found out considering he didn't know about it yesterday. But that aside, I'm sure we could use a bit of preparedness before venturing back down into that stinking lair. Do you have any suggestions on how we should prepare better than last time?" She asks with sincere curiosity.

Cult‑ridden sewers under a bathhouse? The notion flickers across Marasatra’s mind like a smudge in the ledger. Either Captain Zodge omitted more than I suspected, or these mercenaries walk deeper in the plot than their empty goblets suggest.

She steeples scarred fingers atop her journal. “To clarify, Val—when you speak of ‘wading through a cult‑infested sewer,’ do you mean an access beneath the bathhouse itself, or another tunnel system entirely? My briefing named only the bathhouse as our next locus.” A measured pause. “Precision matters; a wrong doorway in that district can lead to a thieves’ cistern, not a shrine.”

Her gaze softens a fraction at Val’s candor. “As for preparation, it is difficult to amend what I did not witness. If you will recount your prior venture—route taken, wards encountered, injuries sustained—I can prescribe more surgical countermeasures."

She tips her head, braids shifting. “I suspect Captain Zodge intended my assignment from the outset; locating a scholar who keeps odd hours in the Lower City costs time.” A wry ghost of a smile. “But I am here now. Share the particulars of your last descent, and together we may ensure the next record ends on fresh parchment—rather than an epitaph.”

Quote from cyreon >>

 

She tips her head, braids shifting. “I suspect Captain Zodge intended my assignment from the outset; locating a scholar who keeps odd hours in the Lower City costs time.” A wry ghost of a smile. “But I am here now. Share the particulars of your last descent, and together we may ensure the next record ends on fresh parchment—rather than an epitaph.”

Zim greets the new deputy, "That's easy. We found a number of Bane Worshipers, idols, standing water, undead, a spellcaster with a nasty fireball, um and creepy illustrations in blood, some ritual symbols, but it was mostly watery and gross. That's about it."

Zim finishes his ale and asks for another, "Did you want one? I'll order you ale."

"The particulars of our last descent? I guess Zodge will have to wait a bit then but let's see..." The redhead starts, taking a sip of her wine and seating herself more comfortably to share what she recalls, starting with the meeting at the tavern where their contact after having her life saved revealed the cult had a hideout by a nearby bath house. After being ambushed by bhaalists and a myrkulite the deputees found a secret entrance to the catacombs under the city where they fought cultists from all the dead three and was almost completely defeated by a lone powerful myrkulite. Deciding to retreat and recuperate to stand a chance against the rest of the cultists the deputees were ambushed once more by men in dragon gear, but forunately they stayed their blades and instead went on down into the cultist lair to retrieve somthing the cult allegedly had stolen. "If we are lucky enough they have already finished the mission for us but I doubt that. More likely we will find their corpses down there, reanimated if we're unlucky. Anyway, it is clear that we have been subjected to ambushes far too often so if you have any preparations to avoid this I'm all ears." She says with a small sigh. 

Sarris strolls up to the table after having his tankard refilled. "I hope you mentioned that necro fireball that nearly took us all down at once.  That necro witch was hiding under a table, if you can believe that."

The ranger gives a short bow before sitting down with the others, "Sarris Gavo, at your service.  Bowman, dagger tosser, and in a pinch, barely a field medic.  What talents caught the Guards' eye to direct you here?"

Marasatra let the overlapping accounts settle like silt in still water, quelling the twitch of her quill‑hand that yearned to annotate every grim detail. Necrotic fireballs, hidden casters, dragon‑masked interlopers… Some ledger entries practically write themselves.

She inclined her head first to Zim. “Your hospitality is noted, good sir, but—” she lifted the amulet at her throat in mild apology—“I keep a clear humors‑balance before battle. I will drink after we make the bathhouse safe.”

Turning to Valeria and Sarris in equal measure, she laid out her counsel, voice low enough to avoid carrying yet firm enough to brook no doubt: “Ambush thrives on darkness and surprise. We can blunt both. If undead prowl those corridors, a single flask of Holy Water dashed across a narrow walkway can buy us precious breaths. With a silver tithe and a sunrise’s preparation I can consecrate enough for the front rank. Hooded lanterns—not torches—so we can shutter the glow without snuffing it. One spare flask of oil per bearer. And linen strips steeped overnight in strong vinegar; wear them over mouth and nose to dull sewer miasma and ward disease.”

She touched a finger to the table’s rim in a quiet cadence. “Add to that a strict march order—scout twenty paces ahead, rear guard facing back, chalk marks every third turn—and we deny our foes easy staging for another table‑lurking pyromancer.”

At Sarris’s courteous bow she rose just enough to mirror it. “Marasatra Vae’lyn—scribe, anatomist, and cleric of the Ledger. The Guard values my capacity to knit sinew and spirit after mortal insult, to decipher cult iconography before it bites, and—when quills fail—” she rested her other hand on the ashwood staff’s scalpel tip, “to bleed a glyph’s power from my own veins.”

A faint, earnest smile. “With your blades, bows, and battlefield lore, and a measure of ordered caution, we can finish what the dragon‑masked raiders started—preferably without granting Jergal any new entries from our ranks today.”

After he finishes his studies of the book Gorin ensures it and the key are safely stuck away at the bottom of his backpack. Then he goes down to find the others to continue their works on the cultists lair.

He sees the others at the table with a new face and walks up to them. 

"Good afternoon, ready to head further into the bath house?" before turning to the new face "You coming with us? My name is Gorin" 

As the other deputees joins the conversation, the young red-haired patriar leans back into her chair once more to enjoy the last of her wine while waiting for everyone to be ready to depart for the bath house. She hoped Zodge wouldn't admonish them for not dying bravely for the Flaming Fists down in that stinking lair rather than retreat and recuperate, but either way she was quite pleased with having this replacement along, she clearly seemed to have more experience than the rest of them combined when they ventured down under the bath house last night, hopefully this mission would now be completed in an orderly fashion under the undertakers firm guidance. The redhead was admittedly a tad bit curious about the bleed a glyph's power part but she felt confident she was about to learn in due time.

Marasatra rises halfway from her chair, offering Gorin a precise nod. “Marasatra Vae’lyn—scribe and field‑healer. I will accompany you, certainly.” She gathers her staff and closes her journal with a quiet snap. “Once everyone has their gear and lanterns in hand, I am prepared to lead on to the bathhouse without delay.”

((BTW the others will notice that Gorin has a bit of a frailer look I assume))

"a healer you say, any chance you have a method to fix fractured ribs? After that necrotic fireball it seems I didn't land very nicely on the ground, and it hurts." 

The nearly 8 ft tall, stone-like Goliath lingering near the others gives a small nod. “Arkon,” he says simply, resting his flail across his shoulder. He glances around at the others, making sure everyone is accounted for and equipped.

Marasatra steps closer, gaze assessing. “Fractured ribs mend by the body’s own pace—an uncomfortable fortnight at best. I can numb the ache and bind the cage, but strenuous exertion will reopen the hurt.” A wry tilt of her head toward the looming flail. “I suspect our work below permits little rest, yet truth serves us better than false reassurance.”

She sets a palm lightly near the injury and murmurs a brief prayer; a cool pulse of restorative magic eases the worst of the pain, then she secures a snug bandage in a practiced spiral. (Medicine 20 and Channel Divinity: Divine Spark) “Breathe shallow, twist slowly, and let me know if the splint loosens.”

With that, she shoulders her satchel. “If all are accounted for—Arkon, Val, Zim, Sarris, Gorin—we may proceed to the bathhouse.”

Sarris steps up next to Marasatra for a moment.  "I think we forgot to mention the flooded under structure.  If you care about your footwear... it may be too late to treat them with extra oil."

"And you might want to take a hitch in your pretty gear so it's not dragging in the muck."

When Marasatra is done Gorin thanks her for the help. 

"I'll try to excert as little as possible doen there, now let's head out there." 

The young red-haired patriar nods and stands up, grabbing the backpack at the side of her chair, walking past the bar counter to settle her debt with tavern before coming along to the bath house to meet with their commander. "So, did they have any giant-sized beds for you?" She asks the massive goliath with a bit of a teasing smile, nudging him and glancing up at him as she catches up. It was only yesterday she had met the other deputees and she still knew very little about them, but perhaps she would simply be dismissed after having dealt with the cultists of the dead three anyway. She admittedly had kind of gotten a taste for this now though. Working for the Flaming Fists definitely was more interesting than the tedious social events her parents otherwise would have sent her to. With the addition to the team she felt more relaxed too, gladly leaving to the undertaker to try to keep some semblance of order within the motley group.

Meanwhile a tiny invisible devil flutters ahead back to the bath house to look for obvious signs of team dragon haved either failed or succeeded in their task.

"I wonder what kind of mess those black clad wall jumpers left for us down there,"  Sarris casually tossed that out to the group,  "Maybe they drained the water as a polite gesture."

Arkon chuckles softly at Valeria’s teasing, the sound low and gravelly as he walks beside her. “No giant beds, no. The floor was fine. My clan’s used to stone, not fluff,” he replies, glancing down at her with a faint, amused smile. After a beat, his tone shifts, curious but gentle. “Your clan...they’re nobles, right? Are they all like you?” His steps remain steady, but there’s genuine interest in his voice now—wanting to know more about the red-haired woman who stood beside him in fire and blood.