[Whilst the party discussed options, Aran picks up a few loose pebbles from amongst the gaps in the poorly maintained cobbled street. He shuffle them in his fingers, rotating them around each other and casts Magic Stone on them.]
As much as it pained me, I had to admit to myself that I was not the person to go sneaking around and trying to get the children to safety, as much as I wanted to, as much I hoped... It seemed that Neria and Speaks were a little better suited to stepping lightly around these stone shod streets and rickety wharfs, than a farmer who has spent most of his days trapsing through fields. Plus, it just wouldn't be proper to leave this somewhat creepy lady to go knocking on doors all on her lonesome. Well, not entirely on her lonesome, assuming her lil centipede fella had come back, but since I couldn't see him it was only right.
"Doncha be lettin' the kiddies run off all o'er the docks... Tell 'em t' hunker down somewhere safe nearby. So... err... we can make sure they gets somewhere better than this after we is dun." I say to Speaks with Many, as our little band already splits apart.
Julia started walking, and I gave a fretful glance back over my shoulder to the other two as they too set off on their task. A silent prayer to the Dawnflower took but a heartbeat, but it meant I had to quickstep to catch up as she seemed to be fiddling with her dress, her path starting direct but then turning into a stagger in a matter of paces. I caught her arm briefly, a bit confused by the change, taking the moment to give some small encouragement with a touch of magic on my tongue. "I gotcha, luck be with yer." My words dying on the rancid breeze as she raps firmly on the door.
Now, I can sometimes be slow on the uptake, but I'd seen plenty of folks pretending to have either not drunk as much of the old fermented grape or grain as they might have wanted you to think they'd drunk, and even some folks that wanted you to think they had perhaps been drinking a little more than might have been right for them in order to flumox the person that they were trying to fool. So when Julia started talking all bolshy to the stern looking orc that opened the door, I just tried my best to play along with her. Fortunately, Julia just wittered on and on, and I wondered just how long she was gonna keep talking for as I nodded along, my eyes jumping between the orc, Julia, and the door that he was using to hide his flail that he didn't know we already knew about...
Neria produces her lock-picking tools and sets to work. After just a moment, a soft *click* indicates that she is successful in picking the lock. Actions?
Aran and Julia:
The orc blinks slowly, his broad face splitting into a lopsided grin as another high pitched giggle rumbles from his throat. Perhaps he finds Julia’s antics amusing. Perhaps. Yet, beneath the humor in his giggle, there is an undeniable edge. Like a dull blade pressed against the skin, not cutting yet, but promising pain.
"I said, the fishery’s closed," he repeats, his amusement doing nothing to soften the weight of his words. "If it’s dock dumplings you’re after, you’ll have to come back in the morning." His grin widens, flashing a glimpse of sharp teeth. "And no tours. Especially not for rich fops lolling about where they shouldn’t be."
His dark eyes flick between the two of you, assessing you. The air between you thickens, the salty breeze from the harbor doing little to cut through the tension. His voice drops lower, his amusement giving way to something colder. "You ought to be careful, you know," he murmurs, as though offering friendly advice. "There’s some in these parts who might take one look at you and think you’d make for easy pickings. Might peg you as… ripe for robbery."
As the orc's tone changes the situation becomes more familiar, my time in the city having taught me harsh lessons at the hands of denizens that spoke words such as this. Their words seeming honeyed as they drip slowly from tongues, yet leaving a taste as sour as the intent is rotten and blackened. My talent for theatrics may not be on par with the show that Julia has put on so far, but the thinly veiled threat that the orc offers tells me that there are cohorts lurking in nearby shadows and we should be careful of how dramatic our distraction becomes.
"Some folks ain't too clever though, an' if'n they mistook a fruit that ain't bein' as ripe as they first thought, then they might not find it as easy t' pluck from the vine." I need put on no accent, my natural rural lilt giving the impression of a country yokel, to play down my unfortunately familiarity with this orc's ilk. Yet I hope that my meaning carries, my words intended to answer his question in an equally unspoken manner.
I step closer to Julia, leaning in and tucking an arm around her waist as my hand palms one of my infused pebbles, my tone lighter and the request I hope sounds somewhat sincere, "But perhaps you can help me get this pickled piece of ripeness back to an inn without us bumpin' into them some wot might be mistakin' us for fruit that they might want t' be doing the pickin' of?"
Overhearing the overacting over yonder, Neria masks her relief from the easy-to-pick lock with an eye roll and a quiet sigh as she shakes her head slightly, curls bouncing, and tests the door handle.
"We're in," she whispers to Speaks For Many over her shoulder as she slowly and carefully pushes the door open. If the door opens quietly enough, she'll push a little faster.
Looking around the space, if she doesn't see any immediate danger or other reason not to, she quietly starts in the direction where the children's hammocks were indicated.
The door opens easily. You find yourself on the main 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 easily over twenty children sleeping here.
Underdeath her lopsided grin, Julia feel shaken by the orc's lack of enthusiasm for her proposal.
This nut is harder to crack than I thought, she silently thinks. She's grateful Aran was quick on the draw with his proposal.
Julia tilts her head, swaying slightly, her drunken act in full swing. "Oof, we’re just two poor souls out here wanderin’ ‘round, ya know?" she slurs, her voice comically high-pitched as she looks up at the orc with exaggerated doe eyes. "Weren’t even planning on trouble, just a bit of a pub crawl… and now look at us—lost and confused!"
She stumbles slightly toward Aran, draping herself over his shoulder for extra effect. "And now we’re trying to figure out how to get back to the inn without runnin’ into those, uh, bad sorts." She pauses, trying to remember the right word, then settles on, "Yeah, the ruffians! Big, scary folks who might wanna make a snack outta us, ya know?"
She waves her hands dismissively, as if the whole situation’s no big deal. "But you, you look like a smart guy—strong, in charge. Maybe you could, uh, help us? Guide us back safely so we don’t end up getting ‘picked,’" she adds, a dramatic pause followed by an exaggerated shudder for effect. "That’d be real nice of you."
She beams at him, trying to look goofy enough to distract from the tension.
Neria quickly and silently crosses the fishery floor. Not bothering to look back to see if Speaks for Many was keeping up, she quickly surveys the sleeping children and makes a beeline to the one who looks to be the oldest.
Putting a small hand close to the child's mouth in case of potential screams, she gently nudges them awake and puts her other finger to her lips in a hushing motion.
Assuming they don't call out, she whispers very close to their ear, "We're here to get you out. We'll deal with...them...but we need you safe first. Help me rouse the others quickly and silently and then follow us."
Speaks for Many follows Neira into the foul smelling bedroom and stands back as she rouses the children. Not wanting to seem threatening, he takes a knee and places his hands out atop it, leveling himself to a position more in-line with the kids. He closes his eyes and shifts his inner gaze back to Hati.
Their minds become one, as he sees both the room and sky blurred together in strange harmony. Warm imagery flows from his spirit, requesting a small kindness of his avian familiar. First comes evocations of the fishery, images of danger, clashing, lurking forces. From elsewhere, imagery of shelter, cover, and concealment wash away the previous impressions of hazard, replacing them with the notions of safety. The favor is now set: to find a place where the children can retreat to whilst matters are dealt with. Though it is faint, Speaks for Many can faintly hear a familiar squawk in acknowledgment of the request from the confines of the room.
He incants a small prayer "Listen to stones. Are knowing of quiet paths, hmm." [Guidance - Perception] and sends his vision out through that of the hawk as they search as one for a safe haven nearby.
The orc visibly puffs up Julia while flatters him. But then he squints, looking the the pair up and down like they’re a piece of bad meat. “Ya want me to leave?? What, you think this is a gods-damned social club? I ain’t steppin’ out unless th’ boss says so. You wanna sleep at an inn, try makin’ nice with the river. It’s always open.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now scram, or I’ll escort you somewhere, alright."
Julia and Aran Insight DC 10:
The orc looks like he’s itching for a fight. You might be able to lure him outside to scuffle.
Speaks:
Hati flies through one of the city’s grimiest, most lived-in areas—full of clamor, salt-stained wood, and the mingling scents of fish, sweat, and seawater. The bird sees warehouses, shipyards, taverns, boarding houses, fish markets, and loading docks. Ships bearing goods from Magnimar, Riddleport, and beyond dock here daily. Crates are loaded and unloaded at all hours, even now, under the watch of dock foremen and guards. The buildings are packed together, often leaning or sagging with age. The smell of brine, smoke, and unwashed bodies hangs heavy. There is the odd tavern, the empty fish market, and abandoned dock that looks in disrepair.
One large building looks to be residential--a rundown boarding house for transient workers. Though from the looks of it, it’s only one step above sleeping on the street. It’s only 1 block away.
Neria and Speaks:
Neria pads softly through the dim, sour-smelling room, boots barely making a sound on the warped wooden floorboards. She approaches one of the larger sleeping figures, this one nestled in a ratty blanket near a stack of broken crates. The girl can’t be more than fourteen, maybe younger, hardened by hunger and street life. Her fiery red hair is tangled but vivid even in the gloom, matted around her dirt-smudged face. Freckles dot her pale skin, and her hands are curled tight around a piece of driftwood with a nail stuck through one end, a child’s idea of a weapon.
Neria crouches beside her, gently but firmly placing a hand over the girl's mouth. The girl’s eyes fly open, startling, sea-glass blue and full of instinctive fear. She tenses, hands twitching toward her makeshift weapon. Her gaze darts around wildly, lips trembling beneath Neria’s hand. Neria shakes her head once, slowly. Calm. The girl freezes. Breath held. She studies Neria’s face, reading her intent. A beat passes, then another, and something shifts in her eyes. Recognition? Hope? Or just a sense that this stranger isn't like the others?
She nods. Once. Urgently. Neria removes her hand. The girl draws in a shaky breath, whispers hoarsely, “You’re not one of his.” She seems resolved. “I can help. The little ones’ll be scared.”
Speaks for Many's gaze returns to Neira and the youngsters within the cramped room, his pupils contracting as he readjusts to the dim light within. He speaks in a hushed tone to the Halfling "Have seen nearby home by dock. Is knowing of place?"He pauses to see if Neira might know of the location seen from the aerial vantage point before pointing out, "Better that than walk our path, hmm?"He gestures to the many hammocks about the room, plainly implying the need to not get the children further entangled with their clandestine business.
He closes his eyes for a moment, speaking now in a strange language, "Ruuk t'asho." Outside of where they entered, Hati comes down from the sky gracefully, though neither Neira or Speaks for Many would have seen this landing.
Looking back towards Neira and the small girl, he says "Hati will stay with you. Is good bird, yes. You will see."
Julia, still draped lazily on Aran’s shoulder, lets out a breathy hiccup-laugh as she stumbles a step closer to the orc. With one hand behind her back, fingers curling through a subtle gesture, she whispers arcane syllables under her breath. A shimmer, imperceptible to most, settles around her like seductive perfume.
She looks up at the orc again, her eyes now gleaming with magical warmth. “Y’know,”she says, voice velvet and tipsy affection, “you’ve been so patient with us. Most folks would’ve chased us off with a boot by now, but not you. You’re a gentleman.”
She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “There’s this speakeasy just down the docks. Real hush-hush. You seem like the kind of guy who knows where the real fun happens. Maybe you could, I dunno, show us the way?” The enchantment pulses gently beneath her words. “Promise we’ll buy the first round.” Julia keeps the smile on her face, hopeful to buy time and distance while the rest of the crew works in shadows.
Giggles’s yellowed tusks show in a crooked grin as he chuckles, low and stupid, like a dog who just got scratched in the right spot. “Hah! Gentleman, huh? Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
He squints at Julia like he’s trying to see through the compliment, but the enchantment nudges his thoughts just enough. He puffs up a little, clearly enjoying the attention. “You’re alright, y’know that? Real sweet-talker. I do know a place or two… an’ a pretty girl like you buyin’ the first round?” He winks (being one-eyed, temporarily blind), then nudges her arm with the back of his meaty hand—probably meant to be playful, but it carries a little too much weight.
“Tell ya what. I'm 'bout finished up here. Maybe I’ll take ya. Yer friend can come, too. Place called the Crooked Keel. Real nasty. You’ll love it!”
He steps a little closer, voice dropping. His heavy flail, dragging the ground, comes into view. “You stick close to me, yeah? Lotta rough folk ‘round here. Lucky I’m lookin’ out for ya.”
Though I didn't recognise the exact incantation, with her body draped over me the brush of magic on Julia's words was as clarion to my senses as a cockerel at dawn's light. The effect seemed to mesmerise the large orc, lulling him with sweet promise, and my previous perception of his willingness to get violent shifted distinctly. I took the chance, with Julia leaning in and the orc's attention focussed on my sultry siren, to turn my gaze back to our hidden goal.
Though the building has been thoroughly scouted by magical means, our mix of animalistic companions sharing their own perspectives, there is no substitute for seeing something with your own eyes. I took the time to gaze past the orc, attempting to affect that far-off look as I have often seen from drunkards or those opting for the influence of stronger intoxicants. Scanning the room, listening for anything that might hint at the actions of our friends and their progress... I can only hope for silence in the building as Julia and I keep the distraction going.
Once the children are quietly roused, Neria once again puts a finger to her lips and whispers "Head for the door. Stay silent; stay low. When you get to the grass, stick to the river and head north. I'm sure at least some of you know of Bridger's Yard. We'll finish here and meet you there."
Neria clasps the hand of the oldest child who she woke first, gazing into their eyes. "You're in charge," she says, slyly slipping six silver pieces into their hand. "They're your responsibility until we get there. Find Garrin Bridger or Brother Flenk (gods, I hope he's sober), get a private cot and keep everyone together."
She squeezes the hand momentarily and turns to begin ushering everyone to the door.
If they get to the river and head north without issue, Neria will head to the northwest corner of the building and try to catch Aran or Julia's eye to give them the all clear.
Inside the bowels of the Old Fishery, the air is thick with the scent of rot--fish guts, mildew, and the sour tang of old sweat. Dim lanternlight casts long, twitching shadows across crates and hanging nets. Somewhere underneath,, the creaking of wooden beams blends with the distant slap of riverwater.
Neria crouches low beside the ragged group of children huddled near the half-collapsed stairwell, her hand raised in a silent signal. Her eyes flick between the children and the exit: the northern door, leading into the street where the Jeggare River guides the way toward freedom.
The oldest of the Lambs, the red-haired girl named Blister, still trembling with adrenaline, nods, understanding her role. She reaches back and squeezes the hands of the younger ones in turn. They understand. No talking now. Just follow.
At the same time, Speaks moves with ghost-like grace between the shadows, slipping behind rusted beams and dangling ropes. He gestures outside, where Hati awaits. A distant snore from one of the henchmen filters down from the upper floor. They’re still asleep. For now.
One by one, they slip through the door, Speaks guiding them with gentle urgency toward the shadows. But time is thin. Neria move up the steps to the upper level. A doorway away is the sleeping guard dog. Neria makes her way to the window and is able to give a hand signal just as Giggles steps outside into the street.
Outside, the night wind blows, but freedom is close. The slums of West Dock stretch before the children like a labyrinth of shadows and flickering lanterns. The children will need to move fast, and quiet, but they know these streets like the back of their hands. And for the first time in ages, they’re running toward something, not away.
Aran and Julia:
Giggles steps out into the night air, the damp breeze tugging at his clothes, and closes the door behind him. The scent of low tide clings to everything, mixed with the smoky tang of coal fires and fish grease wafting from the docks. He shifts the weight of his flail—a cruel-looking thing of rusted iron and old stains—slung across his shoulder like a butcher's cleaver. It clinks ominously with each step.
“Ya never know what kinda trouble we’ll run into,” he mutters with a gravelly chuckle, half to himself, half to you. The words hang there, heavy with implication.
His boots thud down and crunch onto the gritty cobblestones as he heads west, toward an alley wedged between two leaning buildings, their roofs bowed like tired shoulders, eaves dripping with condensation.
“If we’re lucky, Brug an’ his boys are still workin’ the dice game. They owe me a round.” He grins, showing too much tooth. “If we’re real lucky, they’re still bleedin’ from last time.”
The alley yawns like a throat ahead—dark, narrow, and full of echoing promise. Giggles strides toward it with confidence, expecting you to follow, his guard still apparently lowered under the influence of the spell, eyes mostly ahead and thoughts already on bragging rights and booze.
As they near the dim glow of the tavern’s lanterns, Julia lets her steps grow looser, more uneven—heels scraping awkwardly against cobblestone. She stumbles once, then again, before dramatically swaying sideways with a breathy, exaggerated sigh.
“Oof—stars’re spinnin’,” she slurs, slumping her full weight into Aran’s side with the grace of a swan mid-nosedive. “I think the last cider had abs’nth in it. Or poison. P’haps both.”
Her arm snakes around Aran’s shoulders with a practiced wobble, and as she presses in close, she mutters through gritted teeth just loud enough for him to catch, “Play along, darling, before I vomit on your boots out of necessity.”
To the orc, she turns her face, flushed and glassy-eyed, managing a woozy smile. “You’ve been soooo shweet, handsome. Truly. But I think if I don’t find a pillow soon, I’ll mistake the street for one.” She gives a little hiccup for good measure. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin your night with my… dramat—dramatt—my whole thing, y’know?”
Snarkles, unseen and lurking just behind a shuttered fruit cart, snorts silently in the ether, his voice a whisper in Julia’s ear like an imp dripping sarcasm: “Oh yes, brilliant, madame. Seduction followed by spontaneous combustion. Classic.”
Julia doesn’t respond aloud. She merely groans, letting her knees buckle slightly—daring Aran to catch her and give the orc just enough excuse to abandon them entirely.
I'm not entirely comfortable as we walk towards the alley... the orc is, well, an armed orc that was probably employed for their capabilities with a club rather than their discerning intellectual capabilities, and despite their suddenly amenable attitude, we only seem to be heading deeper down the rabbit hole. A sudden stagger... a wobble, and Julia tumbles into me with all the grace of a hay bail getting tossed from the loft.
"Oi now... doncha be hurlin' up on mi boots!" My response to the whispered words is unthought and genuine, forgetting for a moment that Julia's drunken stupor is an act and that the likelihood of involuntary vomit is negligible. I hold her weight, my arm snaking around her waist as I now hold her upright as she tells our orc that we won't be continuing with them.
I reach into my pouch, feeling for a silver piece and flicking it over to the orc. "Get a round on me..." I turn away from the orc, heading back the way we came, but call back over my shoulder. "Let me find a drain fer her to grovel over... we'll be with yer if she sicks it up before passin' out." I start staggering back, looking for any side passage or nook that will get us temporarily out of sight.
Keeping watch over the gang of children as they quickly spill out of the fishery, Speaks for Many holds his breath in anticipation for any unwanted surprises. Keeping his staff held behind his back, he glances upward to see Hati encircling the them all, staying like a silent guardian in the dark skies above Korvosa.
As he returns his focus to the street level, he sees both Aran and Julia exit out from building as well, though they appear to be courting one of the inhabitants down the cobbled pathways as well. He makes a quick signal to Neira and points towards the unknown stranger to let the halfling know that the others are not alone. Fortunately from what he can see, there does not appear to be any rising conflict amid the others and this stranger, yet.
Speaks for Many cups his other hand, the one not holding the quarterstaff, and begins to scoop the air about him in a wide, elaborate motion. He brings the cupped hand up to his lips and whispers into the nothingness in his palm. As he speaks in hushed tones, his fingers begin to flutter and eventually point outwards towards Aran.
---
Aran feels a rustle of wind at his hair and a cool breeze sleep into his ear, "Wildspeaker. Is done. Children on safe path. Am close with Neira if needed, hmm?" [Message]
The breeze returns to Aran's hair, as if patiently waiting for something in response.
Neria nods in approval and appreciation at SfM's signal and mystical communication.
"Gotta get me one o' them," she thinks to herself, as she often does when watching others casually perform such fantastical feats.
Not needing to crouch, the halfling motions to the tall Shoanti to stay low as she leads him, sticking to the deepest shadows, through the least noticeable route to get closer to their companions and, hopefully, regroup after they ditch their new friend. They still need a plan to get to Gaedren and the night is wearing on.
As they draw close to their seemingly inebriated friends, she cups a hand to her mouth and makes a soft dove call to alert them...hoping they recognize the ruse while the orc remains none the wiser. If they take note, she'll help usher them into the fold of darkness to escape unseen.
[Whilst the party discussed options, Aran picks up a few loose pebbles from amongst the gaps in the poorly maintained cobbled street. He shuffle them in his fingers, rotating them around each other and casts Magic Stone on them.]
As much as it pained me, I had to admit to myself that I was not the person to go sneaking around and trying to get the children to safety, as much as I wanted to, as much I hoped... It seemed that Neria and Speaks were a little better suited to stepping lightly around these stone shod streets and rickety wharfs, than a farmer who has spent most of his days trapsing through fields. Plus, it just wouldn't be proper to leave this somewhat creepy lady to go knocking on doors all on her lonesome. Well, not entirely on her lonesome, assuming her lil centipede fella had come back, but since I couldn't see him it was only right.
"Doncha be lettin' the kiddies run off all o'er the docks... Tell 'em t' hunker down somewhere safe nearby. So... err... we can make sure they gets somewhere better than this after we is dun." I say to Speaks with Many, as our little band already splits apart.
Julia started walking, and I gave a fretful glance back over my shoulder to the other two as they too set off on their task. A silent prayer to the Dawnflower took but a heartbeat, but it meant I had to quickstep to catch up as she seemed to be fiddling with her dress, her path starting direct but then turning into a stagger in a matter of paces. I caught her arm briefly, a bit confused by the change, taking the moment to give some small encouragement with a touch of magic on my tongue. "I gotcha, luck be with yer." My words dying on the rancid breeze as she raps firmly on the door.
Now, I can sometimes be slow on the uptake, but I'd seen plenty of folks pretending to have either not drunk as much of the old fermented grape or grain as they might have wanted you to think they'd drunk, and even some folks that wanted you to think they had perhaps been drinking a little more than might have been right for them in order to flumox the person that they were trying to fool. So when Julia started talking all bolshy to the stern looking orc that opened the door, I just tried my best to play along with her. Fortunately, Julia just wittered on and on, and I wondered just how long she was gonna keep talking for as I nodded along, my eyes jumping between the orc, Julia, and the door that he was using to hide his flail that he didn't know we already knew about...
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Neria and Speaks:
Neria produces her lock-picking tools and sets to work. After just a moment, a soft *click* indicates that she is successful in picking the lock. Actions?
Aran and Julia:
The orc blinks slowly, his broad face splitting into a lopsided grin as another high pitched giggle rumbles from his throat. Perhaps he finds Julia’s antics amusing. Perhaps. Yet, beneath the humor in his giggle, there is an undeniable edge. Like a dull blade pressed against the skin, not cutting yet, but promising pain.
"I said, the fishery’s closed," he repeats, his amusement doing nothing to soften the weight of his words. "If it’s dock dumplings you’re after, you’ll have to come back in the morning." His grin widens, flashing a glimpse of sharp teeth. "And no tours. Especially not for rich fops lolling about where they shouldn’t be."
His dark eyes flick between the two of you, assessing you. The air between you thickens, the salty breeze from the harbor doing little to cut through the tension. His voice drops lower, his amusement giving way to something colder. "You ought to be careful, you know," he murmurs, as though offering friendly advice. "There’s some in these parts who might take one look at you and think you’d make for easy pickings. Might peg you as… ripe for robbery."
The grin remains, but now it is a mask.
Actions?
As the orc's tone changes the situation becomes more familiar, my time in the city having taught me harsh lessons at the hands of denizens that spoke words such as this. Their words seeming honeyed as they drip slowly from tongues, yet leaving a taste as sour as the intent is rotten and blackened. My talent for theatrics may not be on par with the show that Julia has put on so far, but the thinly veiled threat that the orc offers tells me that there are cohorts lurking in nearby shadows and we should be careful of how dramatic our distraction becomes.
"Some folks ain't too clever though, an' if'n they mistook a fruit that ain't bein' as ripe as they first thought, then they might not find it as easy t' pluck from the vine." I need put on no accent, my natural rural lilt giving the impression of a country yokel, to play down my unfortunately familiarity with this orc's ilk. Yet I hope that my meaning carries, my words intended to answer his question in an equally unspoken manner.
I step closer to Julia, leaning in and tucking an arm around her waist as my hand palms one of my infused pebbles, my tone lighter and the request I hope sounds somewhat sincere, "But perhaps you can help me get this pickled piece of ripeness back to an inn without us bumpin' into them some wot might be mistakin' us for fruit that they might want t' be doing the pickin' of?"
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Overhearing the overacting over yonder, Neria masks her relief from the easy-to-pick lock with an eye roll and a quiet sigh as she shakes her head slightly, curls bouncing, and tests the door handle.
"We're in," she whispers to Speaks For Many over her shoulder as she slowly and carefully pushes the door open. If the door opens quietly enough, she'll push a little faster.
Looking around the space, if she doesn't see any immediate danger or other reason not to, she quietly starts in the direction where the children's hammocks were indicated.
Perception: 20
Stealth: 19
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Neria and Speaks:
The door opens easily. You find yourself on the main 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 easily over twenty children sleeping here.
Roll20 updated. Actions?
Underdeath her lopsided grin, Julia feel shaken by the orc's lack of enthusiasm for her proposal.
This nut is harder to crack than I thought, she silently thinks. She's grateful Aran was quick on the draw with his proposal.
Julia tilts her head, swaying slightly, her drunken act in full swing. "Oof, we’re just two poor souls out here wanderin’ ‘round, ya know?" she slurs, her voice comically high-pitched as she looks up at the orc with exaggerated doe eyes. "Weren’t even planning on trouble, just a bit of a pub crawl… and now look at us—lost and confused!"
She stumbles slightly toward Aran, draping herself over his shoulder for extra effect. "And now we’re trying to figure out how to get back to the inn without runnin’ into those, uh, bad sorts." She pauses, trying to remember the right word, then settles on, "Yeah, the ruffians! Big, scary folks who might wanna make a snack outta us, ya know?"
She waves her hands dismissively, as if the whole situation’s no big deal. "But you, you look like a smart guy—strong, in charge. Maybe you could, uh, help us? Guide us back safely so we don’t end up getting ‘picked,’" she adds, a dramatic pause followed by an exaggerated shudder for effect. "That’d be real nice of you."
She beams at him, trying to look goofy enough to distract from the tension.
[Persuasion 7 + 5 = 12]
Neria quickly and silently crosses the fishery floor. Not bothering to look back to see if Speaks for Many was keeping up, she quickly surveys the sleeping children and makes a beeline to the one who looks to be the oldest.
Putting a small hand close to the child's mouth in case of potential screams, she gently nudges them awake and puts her other finger to her lips in a hushing motion.
Assuming they don't call out, she whispers very close to their ear, "We're here to get you out. We'll deal with...them...but we need you safe first. Help me rouse the others quickly and silently and then follow us."
Persuasion: 14
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Speaks for Many follows Neira into the foul smelling bedroom and stands back as she rouses the children. Not wanting to seem threatening, he takes a knee and places his hands out atop it, leveling himself to a position more in-line with the kids. He closes his eyes and shifts his inner gaze back to Hati.
Their minds become one, as he sees both the room and sky blurred together in strange harmony. Warm imagery flows from his spirit, requesting a small kindness of his avian familiar. First comes evocations of the fishery, images of danger, clashing, lurking forces. From elsewhere, imagery of shelter, cover, and concealment wash away the previous impressions of hazard, replacing them with the notions of safety. The favor is now set: to find a place where the children can retreat to whilst matters are dealt with. Though it is faint, Speaks for Many can faintly hear a familiar squawk in acknowledgment of the request from the confines of the room.
He incants a small prayer "Listen to stones. Are knowing of quiet paths, hmm." [Guidance - Perception] and sends his vision out through that of the hawk as they search as one for a safe haven nearby.
Perception - 24
Aran and Julia:
The orc visibly puffs up Julia while flatters him. But then he squints, looking the the pair up and down like they’re a piece of bad meat. “Ya want me to leave?? What, you think this is a gods-damned social club? I ain’t steppin’ out unless th’ boss says so. You wanna sleep at an inn, try makin’ nice with the river. It’s always open.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now scram, or I’ll escort you somewhere, alright."
Julia and Aran Insight DC 10:
The orc looks like he’s itching for a fight. You might be able to lure him outside to scuffle.
Speaks:
Hati flies through one of the city’s grimiest, most lived-in areas—full of clamor, salt-stained wood, and the mingling scents of fish, sweat, and seawater. The bird sees warehouses, shipyards, taverns, boarding houses, fish markets, and loading docks. Ships bearing goods from Magnimar, Riddleport, and beyond dock here daily. Crates are loaded and unloaded at all hours, even now, under the watch of dock foremen and guards. The buildings are packed together, often leaning or sagging with age. The smell of brine, smoke, and unwashed bodies hangs heavy. There is the odd tavern, the empty fish market, and abandoned dock that looks in disrepair.
One large building looks to be residential--a rundown boarding house for transient workers. Though from the looks of it, it’s only one step above sleeping on the street. It’s only 1 block away.
Neria and Speaks:
Neria pads softly through the dim, sour-smelling room, boots barely making a sound on the warped wooden floorboards. She approaches one of the larger sleeping figures, this one nestled in a ratty blanket near a stack of broken crates. The girl can’t be more than fourteen, maybe younger, hardened by hunger and street life. Her fiery red hair is tangled but vivid even in the gloom, matted around her dirt-smudged face. Freckles dot her pale skin, and her hands are curled tight around a piece of driftwood with a nail stuck through one end, a child’s idea of a weapon.
Neria crouches beside her, gently but firmly placing a hand over the girl's mouth. The girl’s eyes fly open, startling, sea-glass blue and full of instinctive fear. She tenses, hands twitching toward her makeshift weapon. Her gaze darts around wildly, lips trembling beneath Neria’s hand. Neria shakes her head once, slowly. Calm. The girl freezes. Breath held. She studies Neria’s face, reading her intent. A beat passes, then another, and something shifts in her eyes. Recognition? Hope? Or just a sense that this stranger isn't like the others?
She nods. Once. Urgently. Neria removes her hand. The girl draws in a shaky breath, whispers hoarsely, “You’re not one of his.” She seems resolved. “I can help. The little ones’ll be scared.”
Speaks for Many's gaze returns to Neira and the youngsters within the cramped room, his pupils contracting as he readjusts to the dim light within. He speaks in a hushed tone to the Halfling "Have seen nearby home by dock. Is knowing of place?" He pauses to see if Neira might know of the location seen from the aerial vantage point before pointing out, "Better that than walk our path, hmm?" He gestures to the many hammocks about the room, plainly implying the need to not get the children further entangled with their clandestine business.
He closes his eyes for a moment, speaking now in a strange language, "Ruuk t'asho." Outside of where they entered, Hati comes down from the sky gracefully, though neither Neira or Speaks for Many would have seen this landing.
Looking back towards Neira and the small girl, he says "Hati will stay with you. Is good bird, yes. You will see."
History check to see if Neria knows the place SfM is describing: 20
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Julia, still draped lazily on Aran’s shoulder, lets out a breathy hiccup-laugh as she stumbles a step closer to the orc. With one hand behind her back, fingers curling through a subtle gesture, she whispers arcane syllables under her breath. A shimmer, imperceptible to most, settles around her like seductive perfume.
She looks up at the orc again, her eyes now gleaming with magical warmth. “Y’know,” she says, voice velvet and tipsy affection, “you’ve been so patient with us. Most folks would’ve chased us off with a boot by now, but not you. You’re a gentleman.”
She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “There’s this speakeasy just down the docks. Real hush-hush. You seem like the kind of guy who knows where the real fun happens. Maybe you could, I dunno, show us the way?” The enchantment pulses gently beneath her words. “Promise we’ll buy the first round.” Julia keeps the smile on her face, hopeful to buy time and distance while the rest of the crew works in shadows.
Aran and Julia:
Giggles’s yellowed tusks show in a crooked grin as he chuckles, low and stupid, like a dog who just got scratched in the right spot. “Hah! Gentleman, huh? Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
He squints at Julia like he’s trying to see through the compliment, but the enchantment nudges his thoughts just enough. He puffs up a little, clearly enjoying the attention. “You’re alright, y’know that? Real sweet-talker. I do know a place or two… an’ a pretty girl like you buyin’ the first round?” He winks (being one-eyed, temporarily blind), then nudges her arm with the back of his meaty hand—probably meant to be playful, but it carries a little too much weight.
“Tell ya what. I'm 'bout finished up here. Maybe I’ll take ya. Yer friend can come, too. Place called the Crooked Keel. Real nasty. You’ll love it!”
He steps a little closer, voice dropping. His heavy flail, dragging the ground, comes into view. “You stick close to me, yeah? Lotta rough folk ‘round here. Lucky I’m lookin’ out for ya.”
Though I didn't recognise the exact incantation, with her body draped over me the brush of magic on Julia's words was as clarion to my senses as a cockerel at dawn's light. The effect seemed to mesmerise the large orc, lulling him with sweet promise, and my previous perception of his willingness to get violent shifted distinctly. I took the chance, with Julia leaning in and the orc's attention focussed on my sultry siren, to turn my gaze back to our hidden goal.
Though the building has been thoroughly scouted by magical means, our mix of animalistic companions sharing their own perspectives, there is no substitute for seeing something with your own eyes. I took the time to gaze past the orc, attempting to affect that far-off look as I have often seen from drunkards or those opting for the influence of stronger intoxicants. Scanning the room, listening for anything that might hint at the actions of our friends and their progress... I can only hope for silence in the building as Julia and I keep the distraction going.
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Once the children are quietly roused, Neria once again puts a finger to her lips and whispers "Head for the door. Stay silent; stay low. When you get to the grass, stick to the river and head north. I'm sure at least some of you know of Bridger's Yard. We'll finish here and meet you there."
Neria clasps the hand of the oldest child who she woke first, gazing into their eyes. "You're in charge," she says, slyly slipping six silver pieces into their hand. "They're your responsibility until we get there. Find Garrin Bridger or Brother Flenk (gods, I hope he's sober), get a private cot and keep everyone together."
She squeezes the hand momentarily and turns to begin ushering everyone to the door.
If they get to the river and head north without issue, Neria will head to the northwest corner of the building and try to catch Aran or Julia's eye to give them the all clear.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age
Neria and Speaks:
Inside the bowels of the Old Fishery, the air is thick with the scent of rot--fish guts, mildew, and the sour tang of old sweat. Dim lanternlight casts long, twitching shadows across crates and hanging nets. Somewhere underneath,, the creaking of wooden beams blends with the distant slap of riverwater.
Neria crouches low beside the ragged group of children huddled near the half-collapsed stairwell, her hand raised in a silent signal. Her eyes flick between the children and the exit: the northern door, leading into the street where the Jeggare River guides the way toward freedom.
The oldest of the Lambs, the red-haired girl named Blister, still trembling with adrenaline, nods, understanding her role. She reaches back and squeezes the hands of the younger ones in turn. They understand. No talking now. Just follow.
At the same time, Speaks moves with ghost-like grace between the shadows, slipping behind rusted beams and dangling ropes. He gestures outside, where Hati awaits. A distant snore from one of the henchmen filters down from the upper floor. They’re still asleep. For now.
One by one, they slip through the door, Speaks guiding them with gentle urgency toward the shadows. But time is thin. Neria move up the steps to the upper level. A doorway away is the sleeping guard dog. Neria makes her way to the window and is able to give a hand signal just as Giggles steps outside into the street.
Outside, the night wind blows, but freedom is close. The slums of West Dock stretch before the children like a labyrinth of shadows and flickering lanterns. The children will need to move fast, and quiet, but they know these streets like the back of their hands. And for the first time in ages, they’re running toward something, not away.
Aran and Julia:
Giggles steps out into the night air, the damp breeze tugging at his clothes, and closes the door behind him. The scent of low tide clings to everything, mixed with the smoky tang of coal fires and fish grease wafting from the docks. He shifts the weight of his flail—a cruel-looking thing of rusted iron and old stains—slung across his shoulder like a butcher's cleaver. It clinks ominously with each step.
“Ya never know what kinda trouble we’ll run into,” he mutters with a gravelly chuckle, half to himself, half to you. The words hang there, heavy with implication.
His boots thud down and crunch onto the gritty cobblestones as he heads west, toward an alley wedged between two leaning buildings, their roofs bowed like tired shoulders, eaves dripping with condensation.
“If we’re lucky, Brug an’ his boys are still workin’ the dice game. They owe me a round.” He grins, showing too much tooth. “If we’re real lucky, they’re still bleedin’ from last time.”
The alley yawns like a throat ahead—dark, narrow, and full of echoing promise. Giggles strides toward it with confidence, expecting you to follow, his guard still apparently lowered under the influence of the spell, eyes mostly ahead and thoughts already on bragging rights and booze.
Actions?
As they near the dim glow of the tavern’s lanterns, Julia lets her steps grow looser, more uneven—heels scraping awkwardly against cobblestone. She stumbles once, then again, before dramatically swaying sideways with a breathy, exaggerated sigh.
“Oof—stars’re spinnin’,” she slurs, slumping her full weight into Aran’s side with the grace of a swan mid-nosedive. “I think the last cider had abs’nth in it. Or poison. P’haps both.”
Her arm snakes around Aran’s shoulders with a practiced wobble, and as she presses in close, she mutters through gritted teeth just loud enough for him to catch, “Play along, darling, before I vomit on your boots out of necessity.”
To the orc, she turns her face, flushed and glassy-eyed, managing a woozy smile. “You’ve been soooo shweet, handsome. Truly. But I think if I don’t find a pillow soon, I’ll mistake the street for one.” She gives a little hiccup for good measure. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin your night with my… dramat—dramatt—my whole thing, y’know?”
Snarkles, unseen and lurking just behind a shuttered fruit cart, snorts silently in the ether, his voice a whisper in Julia’s ear like an imp dripping sarcasm: “Oh yes, brilliant, madame. Seduction followed by spontaneous combustion. Classic.”
Julia doesn’t respond aloud. She merely groans, letting her knees buckle slightly—daring Aran to catch her and give the orc just enough excuse to abandon them entirely.
[Deception 19 + 5 = 24]
I'm not entirely comfortable as we walk towards the alley... the orc is, well, an armed orc that was probably employed for their capabilities with a club rather than their discerning intellectual capabilities, and despite their suddenly amenable attitude, we only seem to be heading deeper down the rabbit hole. A sudden stagger... a wobble, and Julia tumbles into me with all the grace of a hay bail getting tossed from the loft.
"Oi now... doncha be hurlin' up on mi boots!" My response to the whispered words is unthought and genuine, forgetting for a moment that Julia's drunken stupor is an act and that the likelihood of involuntary vomit is negligible. I hold her weight, my arm snaking around her waist as I now hold her upright as she tells our orc that we won't be continuing with them.
I reach into my pouch, feeling for a silver piece and flicking it over to the orc. "Get a round on me..." I turn away from the orc, heading back the way we came, but call back over my shoulder. "Let me find a drain fer her to grovel over... we'll be with yer if she sicks it up before passin' out." I start staggering back, looking for any side passage or nook that will get us temporarily out of sight.
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Keeping watch over the gang of children as they quickly spill out of the fishery, Speaks for Many holds his breath in anticipation for any unwanted surprises. Keeping his staff held behind his back, he glances upward to see Hati encircling the them all, staying like a silent guardian in the dark skies above Korvosa.
As he returns his focus to the street level, he sees both Aran and Julia exit out from building as well, though they appear to be courting one of the inhabitants down the cobbled pathways as well. He makes a quick signal to Neira and points towards the unknown stranger to let the halfling know that the others are not alone. Fortunately from what he can see, there does not appear to be any rising conflict amid the others and this stranger, yet.
Speaks for Many cups his other hand, the one not holding the quarterstaff, and begins to scoop the air about him in a wide, elaborate motion. He brings the cupped hand up to his lips and whispers into the nothingness in his palm. As he speaks in hushed tones, his fingers begin to flutter and eventually point outwards towards Aran.
---
Aran feels a rustle of wind at his hair and a cool breeze sleep into his ear, "Wildspeaker. Is done. Children on safe path. Am close with Neira if needed, hmm?" [Message]
The breeze returns to Aran's hair, as if patiently waiting for something in response.
Neria nods in approval and appreciation at SfM's signal and mystical communication.
"Gotta get me one o' them," she thinks to herself, as she often does when watching others casually perform such fantastical feats.
Not needing to crouch, the halfling motions to the tall Shoanti to stay low as she leads him, sticking to the deepest shadows, through the least noticeable route to get closer to their companions and, hopefully, regroup after they ditch their new friend. They still need a plan to get to Gaedren and the night is wearing on.
As they draw close to their seemingly inebriated friends, she cups a hand to her mouth and makes a soft dove call to alert them...hoping they recognize the ruse while the orc remains none the wiser. If they take note, she'll help usher them into the fold of darkness to escape unseen.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Neria Tallfellow (Halfling Rogue) - Curse of the Crimson Throne with Ashen_Age