Speaks for Many clears his throat, "You see well for having eyes closed, yes." He makes a sweeping gesture to the columns of cards, "Is reading only for one," then continues the gesture, now sweeping across all those in the room, "or many?"
"I believe the Harrow speaks to all of us this night," Zellara replies to Speaks for Many. "And I believe it has led me to you, and brought us together, because of our shared histories with Gaedren. But more than that, now, I sense a danger that lies ahead. And I wonder if there is some greater purpose to our union."
I scoff as Zellara starts her reading, “The Courtesan represents manipulation, social maneuvering, and hidden power. In the past, I see a web of deception,". Well, if that isn't hitting the nail on the head I don't know what is. I don't try to hide my disregard for this sham, as the woman speaks lines I am sure have passed her lips a hundred, hundred times when there is a need for them but I was raised better than to interrupt. Even her answer to what aid she needed was jumble of direction trying to send cart and cattle on different paths. If any of the others are falling for this rubbish then more fool them, and I'll just have to be a little more wary of their judgement.
Through the remainder of the reading I pay little attention to what is said, hearing the words but not listening to the messages that this Zellara spins from her pictured pieces of paper. Her words are vague and her meaning so open that any gullible fool could twist the words to fit their own desire. My mind harkens back to the folks that would peddle wares back home, old women promising fortunes captured the minds of many a willing participant, this was just a case of upscaling.... The citizens of this cess pit of a city clearly needed a little more theatre in their indulgences.
The creepiest of the other invitees, seems to be following along with the charade, whether a believer or a 'practitioner' herself wasn't clear, but her mutterings seemed rhetorical until at last she spoke a question.
"Threads and paths get as knotted as my ma's wool balls... s'all codswallop! Look, if there's a chance that this can lead me to that bastard Gaedren, an I can be gettin' some answers then I'm in. Now, I ain't fool enough not t' want help where I can get it, so if any of yous is as desperate as I am to get yer hands on 'im an wants to join me, then it'd be a pleasure to be makin' yer acquaintances. Folks call me Aran."
I extend a hand in greeting, offering it out to any that might take it. I'm less concerned with their motives than I am with their resolution to act quickly.
"Now, if maybe Miss Zellara here could be givin' us some actual directions, an' be tellin' us something other than mystic mumbo jumbo, like where Gaedren is, an' how many of his lackey's are likely to be with 'im?"
"Scary? Darling, that’s such an ugly word. Let’s say… commanding." ... "As for my deal—let’s just say I have a talent for knowing what people want… and what they fear," she says with a slight wink. "Call me Julia."
Neria smirks and seems to make a mental note or calculation, but nods in affirmation and acceptance.
Neria is surprised to find her hand empty when she raises it. Zellara's eyes sparkle with a sort of mischief as she slides The Cricket forward, face-up on the table. "Why? I cannot say why. The card chose you. The Harrow is a mirror, but it sees deep, and far. Perhaps you know why, yourself. This card is a sign of progress and endurance, encouraging a continued journey. But toward what? The little fellow seeks out adventurers and wanderers and encourages moving forward despite obstacles. 'Don't slow down now, Neria,' I hear it say. 'Even though it is difficult. There is an important journey ahead!"
Neria's hand jerks back to have its vacancy examined.
"Whoa. I'm good, Zel...but that was some slick work," she trails off, glancing around for any hidden mechanisms or aids she hadn't noticed.
Looking back up, she shrugs and says "I guess I can put as much stock in that as I have in any of the other readings I've paid you for. I was worried there was...more...to that particular selection than chance or fate."
“I think I need to hear a bit more before I agree to anything as pressing as murder. While I believe Gaedren has his own karma coming to him soon, How can we trust each other?”
"This inquisitor, this hunter—am I the one seeking justice, or am I the one being pursued?"A glint of thrill shines in Julia's eyes. "And the Marriage and this alliance it foretells—is that why you've summoned us all now? Do we all share some thread that ties us together?"
"Threads and paths get as knotted as my ma's wool balls... s'all codswallop! Look, if there's a chance that this can lead me to that bastard Gaedren, an I can be gettin' some answers then I'm in. Now, I ain't fool enough not t' want help where I can get it, so if any of yous is as desperate as I am to get yer hands on 'im an wants to join me, then it'd be a pleasure to be makin' yer acquaintances. Folks call me Aran."
I extend a hand in greeting, offering it out to any that might take it. I'm less concerned with their motives than I am with their resolution to act quickly.
"Well," the halfling intones as she stands up in her chair, now standing eye-to-eye with anyone else seated. "These cards have never steered me wrong before and it would really be something for them to start now." She shifts, visibly uncomfortable with the situation, and says, "The name's Neria. Sounds like you've all suffered injury at the hand of Gaedren Lamm, as have I... As I'm sure most of Korvosa has by this point. But the scoundrel has a sadistic creative streak so I'm certain we've all suffered in quite different ways. I'll leave it there and not ask questions if you'll agree to do the same. I have my secrets I'd like to keep and I'm sure you do as well." She pauses for effect and pushes her hair back a bit while shifting her weight to one leg, cocking her hip.
"I'll see my property returned and find out what Gaedren knows that could be damaging to me and mine. Sounds like we know where to find him, but getting anywhere near him is going to be tricky and most likely dangerous. If we're all of like mind, working together could make this immeasurably easier. I don't trust new people and, by the look of you, none of you do either...and that's good. That means we're all survivors, if there was any doubt, knowing we'd all survived him in one fashion or another."
She leans forward onto the edge of the table and grasps Aran's huge hand.
She looks into his eyes and says, "Trust doesn't come easily and, as I said, I don't know if I'm in for killing. But if I must trust you this far, I trust that you will do what you feel you must when the time comes and you'll have no opposition from me."
Raising her goblet toward the group in a toast, she concludes with, "If you'll have me with what little I'm willing to share, I'll have your back with no questions and the knowledge that we're in this together. Zellara's blessing is good enough for me."
I extend a hand in greeting, offering it out to any that might take it. I'm less concerned with their motives than I am with their resolution to act quickly.
She looks into his eyes and says, "Trust doesn't come easily and, as I said, I don't know if I'm in for killing. But if I must trust you this far, I trust that you will do what you feel you must when the time comes and you'll have no opposition from me."
Speaks for Many looks at the gesture between the two though offers only a polite bow and a smile. "Is settled then,"he says with an affirmative tone, "Good to see trust, yes. Will share path with all."
Standing up from his seat, the large individual closes his eyes, keeps one hand tight to his chest as he holds up his other hands with only his thumb, index, and middle fingers extended. With a wide sweep, he draws his outstretched hand in a wide circle out and above him before coming back to center with his other hand, now clenched in a fist. All the while, he speaks in a breathy, deep voice, "Am know to my people as Speaks for Many. Born of Shundar-Quah father," He raises the hand with the stretched fingers to his brow, "with proud roots of Shriikirri-Quah mother,"the fist in his other hand now softens to that of all fingers stiffly outstretched and raises this hand up to meet the other before bringing both down in a prayer-like gesture.
Without being prompted, he explains for the series of ritualistic gestures he just performed, "Shoanti 'handshake'" He pauses, adding the following for any still confused, "Is... complicated."
His tone suddenly grows more serious, "No matter. Is clear now that Gaedren sowed much strife for Shoanti in city, hmm. As bound by honor, will speak for my people..."
"Now, if maybe Miss Zellara here could be givin' us some actual directions, an' be tellin' us something other than mystic mumbo jumbo, like where Gaedren is, an' how many of his lackey's are likely to be with 'im?"
Zellara silently observes the group's introductions and discussion. "Westpier 17, north, alongside the river," she repeats. She smiles, her face alight with a hint of pride.
I'm not surprised that the halfling, Neria, is the first to offer her hand, and when I take it, I am reminded of a young girl's hand... the memory is fleeting but serves to re-inforce my resolve.
I watch the strange gestures of the Shoanti, I had struggled to place his heritage, but after his explanation I simply nod my head towards him. I decide not to share my parentage, some things don't really translate between cultures.
Then Zellara speaks... At Last!!! A straight answer! Miracle of miracles. Of course, once again she ignored half the question, but I have learned the hard way to take the small wins and be thankful. As I pick up my things, the question gnaws at my conscience... 'Am I willing to commit murder?'
West Dock’s fisheries are places where desperate fishermen can sell off their less fetching catches (fish caught three days dead in the nets, or freakish specimens unfit for sale) and where fishmongers dump their old, sun-tainted wares, fish reeking with the first hints of decay. Workers toil among the guts and slime, creating a foul-smelling slurry that can then be resold as bait, fertilizer, or the main ingredient for what are known as “dock dumplings,” a local favorite among poorer dock workers who can’t afford a fresh fish.
Many of the fisheries are forgotten echoes of someone else’s dreams, empty structures now vacant following the death of owners without heirs. Under Korvosan law, a building abandoned in this manner immediately reverts to the city and is held in escrow for two years, during which time any rightful owner who can prove a claim can regain control of the building. After two years, the city claims the building. Yet even then, the government is slow to handle its eventual fate. As a result, many sit unused and vacant.
Arriving at Westpier 17, the reek of brine and the stink of week-old fish hang thickly in the air. You find a creaking, decrepit building. Its external windows are all boarded shut with planks. Its doors are mottled with mold and grit, but appear solid. The fishery is perched atop a steep embankment, with most of the structure extending out over the Jeggare River on wooden pilings. The embankment drops down into the river below. The building’s walls extend almost all the way down to the river.
The old double doors in the west side of the weathered building are tightly closed, with a drooping signpost hanging above. The sign it once displayed is long gone, leaving behind only a single short length of rusted chain. On the building’s south wall, a slippery boardwalk clings to the side, held together by barnacle-encrusted pilings that have had half of their thickness worn away by the waterline twelve feet below. On the north side, a wide loading dock abuts the wall. A few carts sit nearby, partially loaded with large, tar-caked barrels marked with a fish-shaped splotch of red paint on the side. Double doors to the immediate south of the loading dock’s ramp provide access to the building’s interior, where a rickety flight of stairs descends ten feet to a point just three feet over the river’s surface, where a simple door provides a secondary entrance.
Despite my eagerness to set out, I am less than enamoured at the prospect of yet another dockside excursion after my last few days of breathing in the odour of fish and chum. To make matters worse, we are heading to the 'budget' area of the docks, so the fish will likely be rancid or rotting, which will make the stench in the air that much more pungent. Great.
Our walk is not long and we come upon the ramshackle structure designated 'Westpier 17', and my suspicions are confirmed as the smells are almost thick enough to drink as they not only assault our nostrils, but our tastebuds too. It looks quiet, but from the general actions of my new associates, I take it we are all assuming that looks are indeed deceiving. "I be knowin' a little something that may be helpin' us before we go in... I'll need a bit o' time for the magic to take effect though."
Fortunately, the lack of general cleanliness and hygiene is an attraction to exactly what I was hoping to find, and I've seen several scurrying around already. Settling down on the cleanest patch of street I can see that isn't foolishly exposed, I begin casting one of the first spells that my aunt taught me... To Speak with Animals
Leaving the parlor with the others, Speaks for Many draws his hood back over his head. Though his exposed, toned arm muscles would have served well to dissuade any would-be thugs looking for an easy target, he seemed to prefer the anonymity offered by the cowl and unassuming garb. Throughout the stroll to the pier, a lone hawk continuously encircled the party, staying a few yards ahead of the direction they were heading.
Upon arriving at the docks with the others, Speaks for Many finally removes his hood. Grabbing his quarterstaff slung on his back, he brings it forward and rests one end on the ground as if it were a walking stick. He bends his neck side-to-side, eliciting a quiet set of cracks that only the closest near him could hear. He then breathes in the salty air and exhales in a heavy breath, patiently enjoying the moment of silence.
"I be knowin' a little something that may be helpin' us before we go in... I'll need a bit o' time for the magic to take effect though."
Fortunately, the lack of general cleanliness and hygiene is an attraction to exactly what I was hoping to find, and I've seen several scurrying around already. Settling down on the cleanest patch of street I can see that isn't foolishly exposed, I begin casting one of the first spells that my aunt taught me... To Speak with Animals
As Arandel begins to chant the rites for the spell, Speaks for Many raises an eyebrow and looks his way. "Are knowing the wild tongue, hmm," he says in astonishment, then gives a wide grin of approval, "Is good we cross paths." He then gives a sly nod towards the man, "Act first, talk later, yes?"
Turning away from Arandel, he clasps the quarterstaff with both hands and leans forward. As he does so, the hawk sentry swoops down in a controlled manner and lands on the tip of the staff. Up close now, it is easy to see that this hawk looks hale and hearty for one of its kind, with its feathers adopting a reddish-brown hue amid the cream colored underbelly. A single black dot is noticible on the right side of its beak, seemingly mirroring that of the tattoo shared by Speaks for Many under his right eye. The bird looks at him straight, not turning its head to one side to catch him full in a single eye, but instead focusing all of it attention up front.
"Good Hati. Am thankful for help," He gives the hawk a small nod to which the hawk reciprocates, "Is thinking we look around, yes? Listen to wind," extending a hand from the staff, he strokes the auriculars of the bird while speaking a few strange words, then points to the sky. [Guidance - Perception]
"Fly good," he finishes with and the bird takes flight.
Streaking through the sky like a rocket, the hawk begins to take measured loops around the brine-stained building. Starting from the base, the bird completed each circuit with a small gain in altitude, as if caught in a whirlwind sucking him towards the sky. Across the sides of the building, the hawk took more controlled glides, sailing above the windows with its watchful eyes held perpendicular to each opening. [Perception Check: 25 + 3 (Guidance) = 28]
The rat’s fur’s a scruffy mix of brown and gray, sticking up in tufts like he just rolled out of a rubbish heap. His ears are a bit tattered, maybe from a few too many close calls with alley cats, and his whiskers twitch constantly, always on high alert. His little pink nose is smudged with grime, and his paws are permanently dusted with city soot. His tail is long and a bit scaly, dragging behind him as he scurries from shadow to shadow. But despite his scruffiness, he’s got big, round, beady eyes—full of mischief and curiosity. Maybe even a hint of charm, like he knows exactly how to play innocent when caught nicking a crumb of bread.
Aran:
‘Ere, listen up, mate. There’s two right big blokes, yeah? An’ a whole mob o’ little ‘uns. Out the big door on the north side, you’ll see one or two carts rollin’ out wiv the fishy bits each day—mostly ‘round evening, like clockwork.
The little ‘uns do all the graft, shiftin’ the heavy stuff, while the big ‘uns just stand ‘round lookin’ important. Typical, innit? They’ve got this right mangy old mutt too—proper nasty piece o’ work, that one. Got a face like a kicked-in boot an’ a temper to match. Loves chasin’ my lot, so when he’s about, I keep me whiskers well outta sight.
But when he ain’t, ohhh, that’s when it’s a real treat! Sneak in, nab yerself a bit o’ fish, and Bob’s yer uncle—proper slap-up meal.
Come nightfall, the big ‘uns are still movin’ about in there, doin’ whatever it is they do. Sometimes the dog kicks up a fuss, barkin’ his ‘ead off.
Anyway—enough o’ that. You got any cheese, or what?
Speaks for Many:
Hati takes flight, circling the building. On the eastern, river side, an old ship is moored in place. The rotten deck of this ancient sailing ship seems to be barely intact; its hull is worn and thick with seaweed and barnacles. The ship is held together primarily by the layers of old rope that lash it securely to the pilings that support the fishery and the nearby boardwalk. The rickety walkway leads along the ship’s starboard, a foot below its railing. A single wooden door leading into the aft cabin bears a crude painting of a red fish on its surface.
Something big swims in the water near the building and ship.
Circling around, Hati spies the side of the fishery facing the river. A narrow space exists under the fishery, with about three feet of room between the floor of the eastern side of the building and the languid, foamy river water below. Wooden pilings support the building, and thick mats of moss and cobwebs hang from ropes and rusted chains between them. A wooden walkway floats on the river’s surface, winding along the inner wall of pilings that supports the building’s frame above. The walkway leads from the sodden ship to the east all the way west to a small two-and-a-half-foot-square door that leads into an understructure below the fishery’s land-bound half. The pilings below this understructure are densely arrayed, leaving only narrow gaps into the water below that area.
After some time spent aloft, the hawk returns to its perch atop Speaks for Many's staff. They both lean forward as he touches his forehead to it's beak before he sends the bird back aloft to continue it's casual patrols about the party.
Speaks for Many turns to the group and points towards the fishery, "Saw much. Building..." he pauses as if trying to find the right way to describe his thoughts, "... is complicated."
[Speaks for Many relays the information that he saw about the building exteriors, its levels, and the ship in detail as provided]
Seeming content with his description, he brings the staff back towards this chest as he folds his arms,"Something big in water too, yes. Is good to know."
@DM - Could I clarify whether the rat's opinion of a big 'un is a similar size to me, or bigger?
[Aran directs a few questions to Hati, seeking to compare and combine the rat's tongue and the hawk's eyes, before then also relaying the rat's insights to the group.]
The little rat's scruffy looks belied the wealth of information that it owned. Not many people appreciated just how clever rats were, though most people probably hadn't spent days on end talking to the little buggers. I pulled out a thumbnail sized nugget of the bread from Zellara's and bestowed it upon the rat as a reward for his glibness. Seeking permission from Speaks with Many, I thought it best to question the hawk, Hati, on some of the details that the rat had provided, signs of the dog,
Between Hati and ratty, we had a far better idea of what we were walking into.
"What entrance do we like? Sounds like the big 'uns are in charge... Maybe one of 'em is our slimy bastard?"
The moon's glow dances excitedly across Julia's eyes as she watches Aran's and Speaks for Many's interactions with Hati and "ratty". She's impressed and pleased to be in the company of others that appreciate communion with other...darlings...
"Neat trick," she whispers to the group with a slight grin.
A moment later a high-pitched, raspy voice that sounds amused by its own antics cuts through the midnight air..."Yesss! We's share secrets, too! Right, my Baroness of Bad Decisions!?". Next to Julia, in the dim moonglow, slowly materializes a fiendish-looking creature, though not by it's stature at only 18 inches or so tall. It's dusky purple skin with patches of scales shimmer faintly in the moonlight. Its face is expressive, with large, glowing, yellow eyes that seem to see right through people. Its nose is small and slightly upturned, with a wicked smile that's accompanied by a row of needle-sharp teeth. The grin is unsettling—wide and too enthusiastic.
Julia, losing her composure for a split second, cringes as she lets out an involuntary groan. "Quiet Snarkles, you dote! You'll get us caught with your nonsense!" she hisses and waves at the air in the direction of the Quasit. Julia's composure returns immediately. She glances around the group, worried that her distaste was too obvious. She coos, "But since you're up to speed, make yourself useful and see what naughty business might be going on inside that building yonder."
Snarkles giggles wildly, and scurries across the way in the moon lit night. As it approaches the building, the group can faintly see it shrink down, down into almost nothing. Wait, a slithering thing...a centipede, climbing up to a window on the first level. It disappears into the darkness of the interior...
Snarkles wiggles through a tiny gap between the rotted wood, Julia maintaining a telepathic link. A single desk sits in the middle of this room, with a moldy chair pushed up against it. A small pile of ratty furs and straw is heaped under the desk. You can smell him before you see him. A large, grizzled dog sleeps on the disgusting makeshift bed under the desk. His nose twitches, as though he smells something interesting, but then he exhales loudly and settles back down.
The next room is a barracks. A pair of bunk beds sit against the far wall of this room on either side of a boarded-over window. In one bed rests an adult humanoid with blonde hair, and in the other a small humanoid with a nightcap.The bigger one snores loudly.
Scooting by the big dog, you crawl through a partially blocked door into some sort of office. A wooden desk sits in one corner of this room, its side preventing the western door from opening all the way. The table is heaped with dozens of slate boards covered with chalk scrawls, while to the east a cabinet slouches against the wall.
You skuttle into a large workroom on the upper floor. The stink in this room, a mixture of fish and sweat, is enough to make the eyes water. To the east, a large wooden trough holds a hideous mound of half-rancid fish, seaweed, and brine. Filthy river water and fish blood stain the floor around this trough. A pair of wooden chutes lead from this trough through holes in the eastern wall into a larger room beyond. To the west, a desk and chair sit in one corner while a tall cabinet sits in the other. A huge orc patrols the space. He’s got a large flail. He seems to be smiling to himself, amused by who-knows-what.
Through another doorway, a staircase leads down to the main fishery floor. The floor here is slick with river water, bits of seaweed, and fish blood, and the air is thick with the accompanying scents. Wooden catwalks to the north and south allow access between the western part of the fishery and the floor of the room, which is ten feet lower. A wide opening in the floor to the south allows direct access to the sloppy, muddy water of the Jeggare River a further three feet down, while to the northwest stands an immense eight-foot-tall wooden vat, its sides caked and waterproofed with tar. Inside is a foul-looking mixture of chum, river water, and who knows what else. To the east are stacked many barrels and crates, each with a fish painted on it. Over a dozen small hammocks hang from under the catwalks, each with its own ratty blanket and pillow. There are at least two dozen children sleeping in them, two to a “bed”.
The ship outside is derelict, and its interior upper cabin and hold contain extreme danger! Snarkles’s instincts tell him to flee! The spiders’ webbing is visible to your darkvision. In your current form, that is the last place you want to be!
Avoiding the ship at all costs, you scuttle through a floorboard and find yourself on the ceiling of a hidden, lower chamber. The air in this large room is chilly and stinks of the river, thanks to a huge opening in the floor that drops away to the river shore three feet below. Several pilings emerge from the waters to support the roof eight feet above the floor, with mossy ropes slung between them. In two places, rusty manacles hang from the ropes over the water. Two five-foot-wide walkways cross the hole to the other side of the chamber, where a collection of old cabinets, lockboxes, and piles of clutter are strewn about. Chipped porcelain plates, a cracked goblet, badly rusted silverware, an old wooden shield with a crossbow bol embedded in it, the odd dinged helm, and other “treasures” litter the floor of this side of the chamber. Three tables heaped with clutter stand amid this mess. In the southwest corner, a wooden door provides access to a walled-off section.
Gaedren, that crusted scab on society, is hunched over one of the tables, muttering to himself and counting coins. He's fully clothed and wearing studded leather. (And he’s aged horribly, by the way).
I listen relatively passively to Julia' recounting of Snarkle's investigation, getting us far more information than either Speaks with Many or I had been able to gather from our own methods. My mind is working through the information she tells us, the sleeping duo, the orc on guard and the grizzled old hound... Guard dogs will be much more of a concern if we want to get in without raising a ruckus, and no matter how soundly this one might appear to be asleep, the wrong scent on the breeze or creak of a floorboard will no doubt have it awake in an instant. I turn the details and options over in my head, trying to work out what might work best for us... This is hardly my area of expertise.
My attention snaps back at Julia's words... children. I'm almost fearful to hope. It is all I can do to hold myself in check and not take flight, charging in there with reckless abandon. I've waited too long though, too much time spent skulking in shadows, too many nights in dilapidated dwellings. No, I needed to be rational. To sow the seeds that would reap the best harvest.
Finally, at the last, Julia's scouting confirms to us that Gaedren is there. I look at the faces of my contemporaries as each manages their own reaction to the name. My resolve is solidified, and tonight there will be a reckoning.
"Dun't we want t' all have our lil chats with Gaedren? Now, I'm not adverse t' 'im ending up dead after, but I ain't lookin' t' start out things that way. An I got a right urge to be makin' sure them kiddies get their chance t' skedaddle before we're dun. I ain't made no master plan before, so if'n ones of you has a way t' do this, I'm like corn."
"How 'bout this, Mr. Cob Shucker," Neria suggests with a wink. She grabs a small stick and proceeds to sketch out a rough layout of the building, as described by her companions, checking with them and their companions frequently to ensure the accuracy.
"It looks like there are no easy routes," she starts in. "But I don't particularly want to deal with a bunch of goons if it can be avoided."
She stands up and stretches her back a bit, hands resting on hips.
"It seems to me like our priorities should be, first, to get the kids out and, second, to get to Gaedren. It doesn't seem like there's much standing between us and the old geezer if we just head down the river bank. But I don't want to deal with him unless the children are safe." She gnaws on a lip, lost in thought for a moment before continuing.
"I think we should enter through the northeast entrance, since no one seems to be guarding it." She points with her stick. "I can creep across to the kids and try to wake them and get them moving quietly while the rest of you hide under the northern stairs in case the orc comes out."
She looks to each of her companions in turn.
"If all goes well, we can get in and out undetected, st the kiddos loose, and move on to...him...and be home before bedtime. Thoughts?"
"If all goes well, we can get in and out undetected, st the kiddos loose, and move on to...him...and be home before bedtime. Thoughts?"
Speaks for Many gives a small nod towards Neira, "Is good plan." He pauses, then straightens himself up and puts his hand to his heart, "Not wise to walk alone. Will go as one, yes? Then will speak for young ones."
He crouches down with one hand still on the staff and puts his other to the cobblestone path, "Am quiet as well. Will ask stones to keep secret, hmm."
Neria and Speaks for Many move with practiced stealth toward the loading dock on the north side of the building. The damp night air carries the briny scent of the river, mingled with the faint, sour tang of rotting fish. Their footsteps are light, but the rickety wooden stairs beneath them groan softly under their weight. A single misstep could send a splintering crack echoing into the night.
Neria and Speaks:
Luckily, the wood holds your weight. At the base of the stairs, you find yourselves on a narrow landing, barely three feet above the dark, sluggish waters. The river laps gently against the pilings, a rhythmic sound that almost masks your own breathing. Before you, a simple wooden door, swollen with moisture and streaked with grime, serves as the only entrance. Beyond it, you know, lies the fishery’s main floor. It's silent now, but for how long?
You gently test the door’s handle, finding it locked.
Meanwhile, Aran and Julia make their way to the fishery’s western entrance, where a pair of weathered double doors stand under the sagging weight of an old signpost. The chain dangling above, rusted and brittle with time, once held a sign, now long lost to wind and decay. The doors themselves are warped, the paint peeling in jagged strips to reveal bare, gray wood beneath.
Aran and Julia:
You raise a hand and rap softly on the door, the sound barely audible against the gentle lapping of the river. For a few moments, there is nothing, only the distant creak of dock ropes and the whisper of water against wood. Then, from within, you hear the faint scrape of an interior door opening, followed by the steady thud of heavy footsteps drawing closer.
A metallic clink sounds through the door as a key is inserted into the lock, followed by a grating turn and the dull clunk of a latch being released. Slowly, one of the warped wooden doors creaks open, revealing a hulking orcish brute standing in the dim light beyond. His thick, scarred arm holds the door, muscles straining against the worn fabric of his sleeveless tunic. He wears hide armor. His other hand is concealed behind the door, but Julia remembers that he carried a heavy flail. His face is a roadmap of old wounds, deep ridges carved into his weathered green skin. Most notably, a battered leather eyepatch covers his left eye, leaving only his right to glare at you with barely concealed irritation.
"Fishery’s closed," he growls, his voice as rough as crushed gravel. His breath smells of stale ale and dried fish. He shifts his weight slightly, making his already imposing form seem even larger in the doorway. His one good eye narrows dangerously. "Get lost."
The door doesn’t close just yet, though his grip on it tightens, ready to slam it shut at the first sign of trouble. Then, strangely, he giggles.
Julia makes sure that she's pulled down her top coat, pushed up the girls, and smeared her eyeliner and lips just a touch in preparation. She's ready to twist this orc 'round her pale finger (and perhaps snap a few bones in so doing...). As the door swings open, Julia flashes her best drunken, lopsided grin, her calculating eyes now half-lidded and glassy, with a gasp as if she's just been stumbled upon an old friend.
“Ohhhh my gods, Aran,—hiccup!—look at this one!”She elbowed the druid in the ribs—perhaps harder than necessary. “Now this is a fella who knows things.”
She swayed forward, fingers landing lightly on the orc’s forearm, as if she needed the balance. “Listen, sweetheart, me and my very serious friend here—hiccup!—” another overzealous elbow to Aran, "We’ve been out celebrating, drinking, dancing, making terrible—hiccup!—decisions. And we got to talking about work, you know? The real, gritty jobs that keep this city running. And—hiccup!—obviously, top of that list was—” she paused, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “—running a fishery at night...” Her gaze shifts from the orc's face to over his shoulder, back and forth quickly, knowingly, like they both knew the drama and ecstacy just behind that door.
“So please tell me, big guy, what’s it like? The power? The fresh fish? The… late-night company?” A slow smirk curled at her lips. She widened her eyes, as if this was the most thrilling topic imaginable. “Like, do you actually have to touch the fish? Is there some kind of… fish hierarchy? Who’s the big fish in charge, you know?—hiccup!” She grinned as wide as she could, swaying slightly. “And don’t even get me started on the power!"Julia's arms wave dramatically."The prestige—of standing guard over an entire warehouse of fish. Must be exhiiilarating!” She drools slightly.
The orc blinked. Once. Slowly.
Julia's real goal was simple: keep the orc’s attention, keep him talking, and, most importantly, keep his gaze away from the shadows where their allies were slipping inside.
Julia pouted, swaying dangerously close to him. “Oh, come on, you have to have some secrets. What’s the wildest—hiccup!—thing that’s ever happened here? Please tell me it involves a fish fight.” She gasped. “Is that how you got those muscles? Street fish brawling? Gods, I knew this job was glamorous.”
Meanwhile, beside her, Aran was nodding along like a man who had no idea what he’d just signed up for. The longer Julia kept the orc's attention on her, the better. But if that dog shows up she knows they'll be reliant on Aran to tame the beast. All their allies needed was a few minutes to slip inside unnoticed.
And if that meant Julia had to stroke this orc’s ego like it was the grand marshal of a fish parade, well… she was nothing if not dedicated to the bit.
Speaks for Many moves silently behind Neira, taking care along the treacherous path to avoid stepping too heavily on the salt encrusted planks. As they proceed downward, the light from the street is quickly replaced by moonlight reflecting across the water's surface.
Safely making it to the door leading inward from the docks, the pair find it to be locked. Speaks for Many points towards the keyhole and whispers to Neira, "Is something to help with."
He looks out all about at the gently churning water puts a finger to his lips, as if he was telling the waves to be quiet with a polite "shhh". He then crouches in towards the handle and puts his ear to the keyhole. He closes his eyes and lets a moment pass, before giving a slight nod and straightening back up.
Placing a hand on Neira's shoulder, he speaks in a hushed tone, "Is good. Wind knows secrets for lock. Will share with us, yes."
[Guidance - Sleigh of Hand for Neira]
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"I believe the Harrow speaks to all of us this night," Zellara replies to Speaks for Many. "And I believe it has led me to you, and brought us together, because of our shared histories with Gaedren. But more than that, now, I sense a danger that lies ahead. And I wonder if there is some greater purpose to our union."
I scoff as Zellara starts her reading, “The Courtesan represents manipulation, social maneuvering, and hidden power. In the past, I see a web of deception,". Well, if that isn't hitting the nail on the head I don't know what is. I don't try to hide my disregard for this sham, as the woman speaks lines I am sure have passed her lips a hundred, hundred times when there is a need for them but I was raised better than to interrupt. Even her answer to what aid she needed was jumble of direction trying to send cart and cattle on different paths. If any of the others are falling for this rubbish then more fool them, and I'll just have to be a little more wary of their judgement.
Through the remainder of the reading I pay little attention to what is said, hearing the words but not listening to the messages that this Zellara spins from her pictured pieces of paper. Her words are vague and her meaning so open that any gullible fool could twist the words to fit their own desire. My mind harkens back to the folks that would peddle wares back home, old women promising fortunes captured the minds of many a willing participant, this was just a case of upscaling.... The citizens of this cess pit of a city clearly needed a little more theatre in their indulgences.
The creepiest of the other invitees, seems to be following along with the charade, whether a believer or a 'practitioner' herself wasn't clear, but her mutterings seemed rhetorical until at last she spoke a question.
"Threads and paths get as knotted as my ma's wool balls... s'all codswallop! Look, if there's a chance that this can lead me to that bastard Gaedren, an I can be gettin' some answers then I'm in. Now, I ain't fool enough not t' want help where I can get it, so if any of yous is as desperate as I am to get yer hands on 'im an wants to join me, then it'd be a pleasure to be makin' yer acquaintances. Folks call me Aran."
I extend a hand in greeting, offering it out to any that might take it. I'm less concerned with their motives than I am with their resolution to act quickly.
"Now, if maybe Miss Zellara here could be givin' us some actual directions, an' be tellin' us something other than mystic mumbo jumbo, like where Gaedren is, an' how many of his lackey's are likely to be with 'im?"
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Neria smirks and seems to make a mental note or calculation, but nods in affirmation and acceptance.
Neria's hand jerks back to have its vacancy examined.
"Whoa. I'm good, Zel...but that was some slick work," she trails off, glancing around for any hidden mechanisms or aids she hadn't noticed.
Looking back up, she shrugs and says "I guess I can put as much stock in that as I have in any of the other readings I've paid you for. I was worried there was...more...to that particular selection than chance or fate."
"Well," the halfling intones as she stands up in her chair, now standing eye-to-eye with anyone else seated. "These cards have never steered me wrong before and it would really be something for them to start now." She shifts, visibly uncomfortable with the situation, and says, "The name's Neria. Sounds like you've all suffered injury at the hand of Gaedren Lamm, as have I... As I'm sure most of Korvosa has by this point. But the scoundrel has a sadistic creative streak so I'm certain we've all suffered in quite different ways. I'll leave it there and not ask questions if you'll agree to do the same. I have my secrets I'd like to keep and I'm sure you do as well." She pauses for effect and pushes her hair back a bit while shifting her weight to one leg, cocking her hip.
"I'll see my property returned and find out what Gaedren knows that could be damaging to me and mine. Sounds like we know where to find him, but getting anywhere near him is going to be tricky and most likely dangerous. If we're all of like mind, working together could make this immeasurably easier. I don't trust new people and, by the look of you, none of you do either...and that's good. That means we're all survivors, if there was any doubt, knowing we'd all survived him in one fashion or another."
She leans forward onto the edge of the table and grasps Aran's huge hand.
She looks into his eyes and says, "Trust doesn't come easily and, as I said, I don't know if I'm in for killing. But if I must trust you this far, I trust that you will do what you feel you must when the time comes and you'll have no opposition from me."
Raising her goblet toward the group in a toast, she concludes with, "If you'll have me with what little I'm willing to share, I'll have your back with no questions and the knowledge that we're in this together. Zellara's blessing is good enough for me."
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Speaks for Many looks at the gesture between the two though offers only a polite bow and a smile. "Is settled then," he says with an affirmative tone, "Good to see trust, yes. Will share path with all."
Standing up from his seat, the large individual closes his eyes, keeps one hand tight to his chest as he holds up his other hands with only his thumb, index, and middle fingers extended. With a wide sweep, he draws his outstretched hand in a wide circle out and above him before coming back to center with his other hand, now clenched in a fist. All the while, he speaks in a breathy, deep voice, "Am know to my people as Speaks for Many. Born of Shundar-Quah father," He raises the hand with the stretched fingers to his brow, "with proud roots of Shriikirri-Quah mother," the fist in his other hand now softens to that of all fingers stiffly outstretched and raises this hand up to meet the other before bringing both down in a prayer-like gesture.
Without being prompted, he explains for the series of ritualistic gestures he just performed, "Shoanti 'handshake'" He pauses, adding the following for any still confused, "Is... complicated."
His tone suddenly grows more serious, "No matter. Is clear now that Gaedren sowed much strife for Shoanti in city, hmm. As bound by honor, will speak for my people..."
Zellara silently observes the group's introductions and discussion. "Westpier 17, north, alongside the river," she repeats. She smiles, her face alight with a hint of pride.
I'm not surprised that the halfling, Neria, is the first to offer her hand, and when I take it, I am reminded of a young girl's hand... the memory is fleeting but serves to re-inforce my resolve.
I watch the strange gestures of the Shoanti, I had struggled to place his heritage, but after his explanation I simply nod my head towards him. I decide not to share my parentage, some things don't really translate between cultures.
Then Zellara speaks... At Last!!! A straight answer! Miracle of miracles. Of course, once again she ignored half the question, but I have learned the hard way to take the small wins and be thankful. As I pick up my things, the question gnaws at my conscience... 'Am I willing to commit murder?'
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Westpier 17
The Witching Hour
West Dock’s fisheries are places where desperate fishermen can sell off their less fetching catches (fish caught three days dead in the nets, or freakish specimens unfit for sale) and where fishmongers dump their old, sun-tainted wares, fish reeking with the first hints of decay. Workers toil among the guts and slime, creating a foul-smelling slurry that can then be resold as bait, fertilizer, or the main ingredient for what are known as “dock dumplings,” a local favorite among poorer dock workers who can’t afford a fresh fish.
Many of the fisheries are forgotten echoes of someone else’s dreams, empty structures now vacant following the death of owners without heirs. Under Korvosan law, a building abandoned in this manner immediately reverts to the city and is held in escrow for two years, during which time any rightful owner who can prove a claim can regain control of the building. After two years, the city claims the building. Yet even then, the government is slow to handle its eventual fate. As a result, many sit unused and vacant.
Arriving at Westpier 17, the reek of brine and the stink of week-old fish hang thickly in the air. You find a creaking, decrepit building. Its external windows are all boarded shut with planks. Its doors are mottled with mold and grit, but appear solid. The fishery is perched atop a steep embankment, with most of the structure extending out over the Jeggare River on wooden pilings. The embankment drops down into the river below. The building’s walls extend almost all the way down to the river.
The old double doors in the west side of the weathered building are tightly closed, with a drooping signpost hanging above. The sign it once displayed is long gone, leaving behind only a single short length of rusted chain. On the building’s south wall, a slippery boardwalk clings to the side, held together by barnacle-encrusted pilings that have had half of their thickness worn away by the waterline twelve feet below. On the north side, a wide loading dock abuts the wall. A few carts sit nearby, partially loaded with large, tar-caked barrels marked with a fish-shaped splotch of red paint on the side. Double doors to the immediate south of the loading dock’s ramp provide access to the building’s interior, where a rickety flight of stairs descends ten feet to a point just three feet over the river’s surface, where a simple door provides a secondary entrance.
Actions?
Despite my eagerness to set out, I am less than enamoured at the prospect of yet another dockside excursion after my last few days of breathing in the odour of fish and chum. To make matters worse, we are heading to the 'budget' area of the docks, so the fish will likely be rancid or rotting, which will make the stench in the air that much more pungent. Great.
Our walk is not long and we come upon the ramshackle structure designated 'Westpier 17', and my suspicions are confirmed as the smells are almost thick enough to drink as they not only assault our nostrils, but our tastebuds too. It looks quiet, but from the general actions of my new associates, I take it we are all assuming that looks are indeed deceiving. "I be knowin' a little something that may be helpin' us before we go in... I'll need a bit o' time for the magic to take effect though."
Fortunately, the lack of general cleanliness and hygiene is an attraction to exactly what I was hoping to find, and I've seen several scurrying around already. Settling down on the cleanest patch of street I can see that isn't foolishly exposed, I begin casting one of the first spells that my aunt taught me... To Speak with Animals
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Leaving the parlor with the others, Speaks for Many draws his hood back over his head. Though his exposed, toned arm muscles would have served well to dissuade any would-be thugs looking for an easy target, he seemed to prefer the anonymity offered by the cowl and unassuming garb. Throughout the stroll to the pier, a lone hawk continuously encircled the party, staying a few yards ahead of the direction they were heading.
Upon arriving at the docks with the others, Speaks for Many finally removes his hood. Grabbing his quarterstaff slung on his back, he brings it forward and rests one end on the ground as if it were a walking stick. He bends his neck side-to-side, eliciting a quiet set of cracks that only the closest near him could hear. He then breathes in the salty air and exhales in a heavy breath, patiently enjoying the moment of silence.
As Arandel begins to chant the rites for the spell, Speaks for Many raises an eyebrow and looks his way. "Are knowing the wild tongue, hmm," he says in astonishment, then gives a wide grin of approval, "Is good we cross paths." He then gives a sly nod towards the man, "Act first, talk later, yes?"
Turning away from Arandel, he clasps the quarterstaff with both hands and leans forward. As he does so, the hawk sentry swoops down in a controlled manner and lands on the tip of the staff. Up close now, it is easy to see that this hawk looks hale and hearty for one of its kind, with its feathers adopting a reddish-brown hue amid the cream colored underbelly. A single black dot is noticible on the right side of its beak, seemingly mirroring that of the tattoo shared by Speaks for Many under his right eye. The bird looks at him straight, not turning its head to one side to catch him full in a single eye, but instead focusing all of it attention up front.
"Good Hati. Am thankful for help," He gives the hawk a small nod to which the hawk reciprocates, "Is thinking we look around, yes? Listen to wind," extending a hand from the staff, he strokes the auriculars of the bird while speaking a few strange words, then points to the sky. [Guidance - Perception]
"Fly good," he finishes with and the bird takes flight.
Streaking through the sky like a rocket, the hawk begins to take measured loops around the brine-stained building. Starting from the base, the bird completed each circuit with a small gain in altitude, as if caught in a whirlwind sucking him towards the sky. Across the sides of the building, the hawk took more controlled glides, sailing above the windows with its watchful eyes held perpendicular to each opening. [Perception Check: 25 + 3 (Guidance) = 28]
The rat’s fur’s a scruffy mix of brown and gray, sticking up in tufts like he just rolled out of a rubbish heap. His ears are a bit tattered, maybe from a few too many close calls with alley cats, and his whiskers twitch constantly, always on high alert. His little pink nose is smudged with grime, and his paws are permanently dusted with city soot. His tail is long and a bit scaly, dragging behind him as he scurries from shadow to shadow. But despite his scruffiness, he’s got big, round, beady eyes—full of mischief and curiosity. Maybe even a hint of charm, like he knows exactly how to play innocent when caught nicking a crumb of bread.
Aran:
‘Ere, listen up, mate. There’s two right big blokes, yeah? An’ a whole mob o’ little ‘uns. Out the big door on the north side, you’ll see one or two carts rollin’ out wiv the fishy bits each day—mostly ‘round evening, like clockwork.
The little ‘uns do all the graft, shiftin’ the heavy stuff, while the big ‘uns just stand ‘round lookin’ important. Typical, innit? They’ve got this right mangy old mutt too—proper nasty piece o’ work, that one. Got a face like a kicked-in boot an’ a temper to match. Loves chasin’ my lot, so when he’s about, I keep me whiskers well outta sight.
But when he ain’t, ohhh, that’s when it’s a real treat! Sneak in, nab yerself a bit o’ fish, and Bob’s yer uncle—proper slap-up meal.
Come nightfall, the big ‘uns are still movin’ about in there, doin’ whatever it is they do. Sometimes the dog kicks up a fuss, barkin’ his ‘ead off.
Anyway—enough o’ that. You got any cheese, or what?
Speaks for Many:
Hati takes flight, circling the building. On the eastern, river side, an old ship is moored in place. The rotten deck of this ancient sailing ship seems to be barely intact; its hull is worn and thick with seaweed and barnacles. The ship is held together primarily by the layers of old rope that lash it securely to the pilings that support the fishery and the nearby boardwalk. The rickety walkway leads along the ship’s starboard, a foot below its railing. A single wooden door leading into the aft cabin bears a crude painting of a red fish on its surface.
Something big swims in the water near the building and ship.
Circling around, Hati spies the side of the fishery facing the river. A narrow space exists under the fishery, with about three feet of room between the floor of the eastern side of the building and the languid, foamy river water below. Wooden pilings support the building, and thick mats of moss and cobwebs hang from ropes and rusted chains between them. A wooden walkway floats on the river’s surface, winding along the inner wall of pilings that supports the building’s frame above. The walkway leads from the sodden ship to the east all the way west to a small two-and-a-half-foot-square door that leads into an understructure below the fishery’s land-bound half. The pilings below this understructure are densely arrayed, leaving only narrow gaps into the water below that area.
After some time spent aloft, the hawk returns to its perch atop Speaks for Many's staff. They both lean forward as he touches his forehead to it's beak before he sends the bird back aloft to continue it's casual patrols about the party.
Speaks for Many turns to the group and points towards the fishery, "Saw much. Building..." he pauses as if trying to find the right way to describe his thoughts, "... is complicated."
[Speaks for Many relays the information that he saw about the building exteriors, its levels, and the ship in detail as provided]
Seeming content with his description, he brings the staff back towards this chest as he folds his arms, "Something big in water too, yes. Is good to know."
@DM - Could I clarify whether the rat's opinion of a big 'un is a similar size to me, or bigger?
[Aran directs a few questions to Hati, seeking to compare and combine the rat's tongue and the hawk's eyes, before then also relaying the rat's insights to the group.]
The little rat's scruffy looks belied the wealth of information that it owned. Not many people appreciated just how clever rats were, though most people probably hadn't spent days on end talking to the little buggers. I pulled out a thumbnail sized nugget of the bread from Zellara's and bestowed it upon the rat as a reward for his glibness. Seeking permission from Speaks with Many, I thought it best to question the hawk, Hati, on some of the details that the rat had provided, signs of the dog,
Between Hati and ratty, we had a far better idea of what we were walking into.
"What entrance do we like? Sounds like the big 'uns are in charge... Maybe one of 'em is our slimy bastard?"
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
The moon's glow dances excitedly across Julia's eyes as she watches Aran's and Speaks for Many's interactions with Hati and "ratty". She's impressed and pleased to be in the company of others that appreciate communion with other...darlings...
"Neat trick," she whispers to the group with a slight grin.
A moment later a high-pitched, raspy voice that sounds amused by its own antics cuts through the midnight air..."Yesss! We's share secrets, too! Right, my Baroness of Bad Decisions!?". Next to Julia, in the dim moonglow, slowly materializes a fiendish-looking creature, though not by it's stature at only 18 inches or so tall. It's dusky purple skin with patches of scales shimmer faintly in the moonlight. Its face is expressive, with large, glowing, yellow eyes that seem to see right through people. Its nose is small and slightly upturned, with a wicked smile that's accompanied by a row of needle-sharp teeth. The grin is unsettling—wide and too enthusiastic.
Julia, losing her composure for a split second, cringes as she lets out an involuntary groan. "Quiet Snarkles, you dote! You'll get us caught with your nonsense!" she hisses and waves at the air in the direction of the Quasit. Julia's composure returns immediately. She glances around the group, worried that her distaste was too obvious. She coos, "But since you're up to speed, make yourself useful and see what naughty business might be going on inside that building yonder."
Snarkles giggles wildly, and scurries across the way in the moon lit night. As it approaches the building, the group can faintly see it shrink down, down into almost nothing. Wait, a slithering thing...a centipede, climbing up to a window on the first level. It disappears into the darkness of the interior...
[Stealth 18+5 = 23, Perception 3]
Snarkles wiggles through a tiny gap between the rotted wood, Julia maintaining a telepathic link. A single desk sits in the middle of this room, with a moldy chair pushed up against it. A small pile of ratty furs and straw is heaped under the desk. You can smell him before you see him. A large, grizzled dog sleeps on the disgusting makeshift bed under the desk. His nose twitches, as though he smells something interesting, but then he exhales loudly and settles back down.
The next room is a barracks. A pair of bunk beds sit against the far wall of this room on either side of a boarded-over window. In one bed rests an adult humanoid with blonde hair, and in the other a small humanoid with a nightcap.The bigger one snores loudly.
Scooting by the big dog, you crawl through a partially blocked door into some sort of office. A wooden desk sits in one corner of this room, its side preventing the western door from opening all the way. The table is heaped with dozens of slate boards covered with chalk scrawls, while to the east a cabinet slouches against the wall.
You skuttle into a large workroom on the upper floor. The stink in this room, a mixture of fish and sweat, is enough to make the eyes water. To the east, a large wooden trough holds a hideous mound of half-rancid fish, seaweed, and brine. Filthy river water and fish blood stain the floor around this trough. A pair of wooden chutes lead from this trough through holes in the eastern wall into a larger room beyond. To the west, a desk and chair sit in one corner while a tall cabinet sits in the other. A huge orc patrols the space. He’s got a large flail. He seems to be smiling to himself, amused by who-knows-what.
Through another doorway, a staircase leads down to the main fishery floor. The floor here is slick with river water, bits of seaweed, and fish blood, and the air is thick with the accompanying scents. Wooden catwalks to the north and south allow access between the western part of the fishery and the floor of the room, which is ten feet lower. A wide opening in the floor to the south allows direct access to the sloppy, muddy water of the Jeggare River a further three feet down, while to the northwest stands an immense eight-foot-tall wooden vat, its sides caked and waterproofed with tar. Inside is a foul-looking mixture of chum, river water, and who knows what else. To the east are stacked many barrels and crates, each with a fish painted on it. Over a dozen small hammocks hang from under the catwalks, each with its own ratty blanket and pillow. There are at least two dozen children sleeping in them, two to a “bed”.
The ship outside is derelict, and its interior upper cabin and hold contain extreme danger! Snarkles’s instincts tell him to flee! The spiders’ webbing is visible to your darkvision. In your current form, that is the last place you want to be!
Avoiding the ship at all costs, you scuttle through a floorboard and find yourself on the ceiling of a hidden, lower chamber. The air in this large room is chilly and stinks of the river, thanks to a huge opening in the floor that drops away to the river shore three feet below. Several pilings emerge from the waters to support the roof eight feet above the floor, with mossy ropes slung between them. In two places, rusty manacles hang from the ropes over the water. Two five-foot-wide walkways cross the hole to the other side of the chamber, where a collection of old cabinets, lockboxes, and piles of clutter are strewn about. Chipped porcelain plates, a cracked goblet, badly rusted silverware, an old wooden shield with a crossbow bol embedded in it, the odd dinged helm, and other “treasures” litter the floor of this side of the chamber. Three tables heaped with clutter stand amid this mess. In the southwest corner, a wooden door provides access to a walled-off section.
Gaedren, that crusted scab on society, is hunched over one of the tables, muttering to himself and counting coins. He's fully clothed and wearing studded leather. (And he’s aged horribly, by the way).
Actions?
I listen relatively passively to Julia' recounting of Snarkle's investigation, getting us far more information than either Speaks with Many or I had been able to gather from our own methods. My mind is working through the information she tells us, the sleeping duo, the orc on guard and the grizzled old hound... Guard dogs will be much more of a concern if we want to get in without raising a ruckus, and no matter how soundly this one might appear to be asleep, the wrong scent on the breeze or creak of a floorboard will no doubt have it awake in an instant. I turn the details and options over in my head, trying to work out what might work best for us... This is hardly my area of expertise.
My attention snaps back at Julia's words... children. I'm almost fearful to hope. It is all I can do to hold myself in check and not take flight, charging in there with reckless abandon. I've waited too long though, too much time spent skulking in shadows, too many nights in dilapidated dwellings. No, I needed to be rational. To sow the seeds that would reap the best harvest.
Finally, at the last, Julia's scouting confirms to us that Gaedren is there. I look at the faces of my contemporaries as each manages their own reaction to the name. My resolve is solidified, and tonight there will be a reckoning.
"Dun't we want t' all have our lil chats with Gaedren? Now, I'm not adverse t' 'im ending up dead after, but I ain't lookin' t' start out things that way. An I got a right urge to be makin' sure them kiddies get their chance t' skedaddle before we're dun. I ain't made no master plan before, so if'n ones of you has a way t' do this, I'm like corn."
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
"How 'bout this, Mr. Cob Shucker," Neria suggests with a wink. She grabs a small stick and proceeds to sketch out a rough layout of the building, as described by her companions, checking with them and their companions frequently to ensure the accuracy.
"It looks like there are no easy routes," she starts in. "But I don't particularly want to deal with a bunch of goons if it can be avoided."
She stands up and stretches her back a bit, hands resting on hips.
"It seems to me like our priorities should be, first, to get the kids out and, second, to get to Gaedren. It doesn't seem like there's much standing between us and the old geezer if we just head down the river bank. But I don't want to deal with him unless the children are safe." She gnaws on a lip, lost in thought for a moment before continuing.
"I think we should enter through the northeast entrance, since no one seems to be guarding it." She points with her stick. "I can creep across to the kids and try to wake them and get them moving quietly while the rest of you hide under the northern stairs in case the orc comes out."
She looks to each of her companions in turn.
"If all goes well, we can get in and out undetected, st the kiddos loose, and move on to...him...and be home before bedtime. Thoughts?"
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Speaks for Many gives a small nod towards Neira, "Is good plan." He pauses, then straightens himself up and puts his hand to his heart, "Not wise to walk alone. Will go as one, yes? Then will speak for young ones."
He crouches down with one hand still on the staff and puts his other to the cobblestone path, "Am quiet as well. Will ask stones to keep secret, hmm."
Neria and Speaks for Many move with practiced stealth toward the loading dock on the north side of the building. The damp night air carries the briny scent of the river, mingled with the faint, sour tang of rotting fish. Their footsteps are light, but the rickety wooden stairs beneath them groan softly under their weight. A single misstep could send a splintering crack echoing into the night.
Neria and Speaks:
Luckily, the wood holds your weight. At the base of the stairs, you find yourselves on a narrow landing, barely three feet above the dark, sluggish waters. The river laps gently against the pilings, a rhythmic sound that almost masks your own breathing. Before you, a simple wooden door, swollen with moisture and streaked with grime, serves as the only entrance. Beyond it, you know, lies the fishery’s main floor. It's silent now, but for how long?
You gently test the door’s handle, finding it locked.
Meanwhile, Aran and Julia make their way to the fishery’s western entrance, where a pair of weathered double doors stand under the sagging weight of an old signpost. The chain dangling above, rusted and brittle with time, once held a sign, now long lost to wind and decay. The doors themselves are warped, the paint peeling in jagged strips to reveal bare, gray wood beneath.
Aran and Julia:
You raise a hand and rap softly on the door, the sound barely audible against the gentle lapping of the river. For a few moments, there is nothing, only the distant creak of dock ropes and the whisper of water against wood. Then, from within, you hear the faint scrape of an interior door opening, followed by the steady thud of heavy footsteps drawing closer.
A metallic clink sounds through the door as a key is inserted into the lock, followed by a grating turn and the dull clunk of a latch being released. Slowly, one of the warped wooden doors creaks open, revealing a hulking orcish brute standing in the dim light beyond. His thick, scarred arm holds the door, muscles straining against the worn fabric of his sleeveless tunic. He wears hide armor. His other hand is concealed behind the door, but Julia remembers that he carried a heavy flail. His face is a roadmap of old wounds, deep ridges carved into his weathered green skin. Most notably, a battered leather eyepatch covers his left eye, leaving only his right to glare at you with barely concealed irritation.
"Fishery’s closed," he growls, his voice as rough as crushed gravel. His breath smells of stale ale and dried fish. He shifts his weight slightly, making his already imposing form seem even larger in the doorway. His one good eye narrows dangerously. "Get lost."
The door doesn’t close just yet, though his grip on it tightens, ready to slam it shut at the first sign of trouble. Then, strangely, he giggles.
Actions?
Julia makes sure that she's pulled down her top coat, pushed up the girls, and smeared her eyeliner and lips just a touch in preparation. She's ready to twist this orc 'round her pale finger (and perhaps snap a few bones in so doing...). As the door swings open, Julia flashes her best drunken, lopsided grin, her calculating eyes now half-lidded and glassy, with a gasp as if she's just been stumbled upon an old friend.
“Ohhhh my gods, Aran,—hiccup!—look at this one!” She elbowed the druid in the ribs—perhaps harder than necessary. “Now this is a fella who knows things.”
She swayed forward, fingers landing lightly on the orc’s forearm, as if she needed the balance. “Listen, sweetheart, me and my very serious friend here—hiccup!—” another overzealous elbow to Aran, "We’ve been out celebrating, drinking, dancing, making terrible—hiccup!—decisions. And we got to talking about work, you know? The real, gritty jobs that keep this city running. And—hiccup!—obviously, top of that list was—” she paused, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “—running a fishery at night...” Her gaze shifts from the orc's face to over his shoulder, back and forth quickly, knowingly, like they both knew the drama and ecstacy just behind that door.
“So please tell me, big guy, what’s it like? The power? The fresh fish? The… late-night company?” A slow smirk curled at her lips. She widened her eyes, as if this was the most thrilling topic imaginable. “Like, do you actually have to touch the fish? Is there some kind of… fish hierarchy? Who’s the big fish in charge, you know?—hiccup!” She grinned as wide as she could, swaying slightly. “And don’t even get me started on the power!" Julia's arms wave dramatically. "The prestige—of standing guard over an entire warehouse of fish. Must be exhiiilarating!” She drools slightly.
The orc blinked. Once. Slowly.
Julia's real goal was simple: keep the orc’s attention, keep him talking, and, most importantly, keep his gaze away from the shadows where their allies were slipping inside.
Julia pouted, swaying dangerously close to him. “Oh, come on, you have to have some secrets. What’s the wildest—hiccup!—thing that’s ever happened here? Please tell me it involves a fish fight.” She gasped. “Is that how you got those muscles? Street fish brawling? Gods, I knew this job was glamorous.”
Meanwhile, beside her, Aran was nodding along like a man who had no idea what he’d just signed up for. The longer Julia kept the orc's attention on her, the better. But if that dog shows up she knows they'll be reliant on Aran to tame the beast. All their allies needed was a few minutes to slip inside unnoticed.
And if that meant Julia had to stroke this orc’s ego like it was the grand marshal of a fish parade, well… she was nothing if not dedicated to the bit.
[Deception 18 + 5 = 23]
Speaks for Many moves silently behind Neira, taking care along the treacherous path to avoid stepping too heavily on the salt encrusted planks. As they proceed downward, the light from the street is quickly replaced by moonlight reflecting across the water's surface.
Safely making it to the door leading inward from the docks, the pair find it to be locked. Speaks for Many points towards the keyhole and whispers to Neira, "Is something to help with."
He looks out all about at the gently churning water puts a finger to his lips, as if he was telling the waves to be quiet with a polite "shhh". He then crouches in towards the handle and puts his ear to the keyhole. He closes his eyes and lets a moment pass, before giving a slight nod and straightening back up.
Placing a hand on Neira's shoulder, he speaks in a hushed tone, "Is good. Wind knows secrets for lock. Will share with us, yes."
[Guidance - Sleigh of Hand for Neira]