"That is what you get for having the audacity to be born a commoner." Daerthe says to him in as smug a tone she can muster, trying to sound like a stereotypical priestess.
“Indeed,” Sarith nods. “Jorlan was Ilvara’s chosen...until a rather nasty black pudding fell on top of him. His entire left side is ruined...a pity, truly. He was the best warrior this outpost had. Ilvara has chosen a new pet, Shoor by name. And Priestess Ilvara herself?” He sighs then shrugs. “She’s a powerful cleric, very ambitious and sadistic...favored by Lolth. Shes the head of this outpost, though this is only a stepping-stool position. She has greater designs, to create a house of her own I imagine. I don’t doubt that she can, either.”
Tuma will whisper to Daerthe, "Okay, um, I get a sense that you two have history, but don't you think an attitude like that would be best saved for later? He could help us."
"Iblith," the elderly svirfneblin repeats the insult, finally speaking up — though in undercommon. In this cell, only Alivia has heard more than mumbling out of the old deep gnome. That first day he was brought in, he did quite a bit of ranting and raving, banging on the bars and being threatened by the guards if he didn't quiet down. He didn't speak to Alivia, though. In fact, she's pretty sure he complained about the young woman he was forced to share a cell with while shouting about in undercommon. Since then, he has kept to himself, holed up in a corner mostly quiet and seeming a bit altered in the head. "We're all iblith in here," he continues. He is an old gnome: small, thin, hunched, and wrinkled. He has long, white hair, which is braided into gravity-defying dreads that stick straight up. He also has a long, white mustache (or is it nose hair?) and beard. His feet are bare, and his gnarled, misshapen toes have long, unkempt toenails, yet his fingernails are trimmed and clean. He has a constant scowl and dark, untrusting, shifty eyes. He's dressed in some kind of shapeless, patchwork robe. "And that's why we need to get out of here," he says, standing and moving over by Daerthe. "I have lived too long to die at the hands of slavers."
"Spies?" the old gnome replies. He regards the drow, half-drow, and fellow svirfneblin before turning back to Thun. "I have more reason to suspect you surface dwellers than these."
Thun regards the gnome carefully, and with respect he says,
"Aye, that's because you're not aware of all the circumstances. I'd wager I'm not either, but being knocked out by drow poison, locked in a dark cave, and being guarded by drow elves makes me mighty suspicious."
He then sits back down calmly before saying,
"I'm just saying one should think about the situation before discussing any plans. I don't know any of you, but I do agree that I don't want to die here."
Taken a little off guard by Thun's calm response, the old gnome looks again at Daerthe, Sarith, Topsey and Turvey, this time with scrutiny. He harrumphs and returns to his corner, mumbling once again. Anyone whose eyes linger on the old gnome notices he's making strange gestures with one or both hands as he mumbles.
"Well escape will be quite difficult long as we remain in shackles" Avilia holds up her hands "So unless you have a plan for that sit down and be quiet while you think of one"
"Seems like you don't have a sense of humor anymore. You act like I would talk like one of them when the mere sight of them means my life could be over." She says to her old aquaintance before turning her eyes to the grumpy old gnome.
"I plan on getting out as soon as possible. The goal of my so called friend..." She says the word with a sarcastic laugh coming after it. " Was to flee into the Underdark and as unlikely as it would be make a life by working as spies and theives to who ever would pay us. You know you remind me of a one of your kind I met a trader who used to be kind to us Urchin. She acted as mean as a Hook Horror but in actuality she may have cared."
The sound of several footsteps echoes as three drow approach the cell door. The female leads the trio, her white hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, a violet cape fluttering behind her, just enough to hit the unfortunate drow to her left in the face. He scowls deeply, wincing as he does so...the entire left portion of his face appears melted, his left arm held at an awkward angle. He says nothing, but turns back to look at the prisoners (you) with interest. A taller, younger male stands to the female's left, wearing polished black armor, intricate silver designs like spiderwebs adorning the metal. He hardly seems to look at those in the cell, only intent on the drow priestess.
"I would like to see my prisoners," the female's hand taps impatiently on a whip belted to her side, its tendrils waving like tentacles at her touch. (using purple text for purposes of Undercommon language.)
The disfigured drow reaches into his pocket, pulling out a key. As he attempts to insert it, he twitches, and misses the mark entirely.
"Pitiful," the younger drow sneers, stepping forward and yanking the key away, shoving the injured drow to the ground.
The door to your cell opens with a click , and screeches open.
"Come along, dears," Ilvara calls, her voice a sickly sweet. "Step out into the darkness, so I can see you better."
Reading the body language of their captors, Mars rises and slowly takes her steps towards the regal Drow. Though she cannot yet be in her late teen years, Mars stands nearly as tall as the priestess' un-maimed attendant. The young woman assumes a stance unconsciously, coiled, looking down.
"Do you speak a language that is known to me, mistress of Lolth?" Mars says through the gutteral syllables of Abyssal speech.
From the corner of her eye, Mars attempts to discern any meaning from the Old Deep Gnome's somatics - she thinks he may be working on a spell of some kind and is desperate for a sign of resistance from any fellow prisoners.
"Course I speak language of queen spider," Ilvara replies, haltingly. "Not language heard often among light dwellers."
"And this is why I speak to the handmaidens of Lolth in your stead," a younger female drow approaches the group, is simpler clerical robes. At her superior's glare, she bows, "Because you are so busy with the tasks given to you by the Spider Queen," she offers quickly.
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"That is what you get for having the audacity to be born a commoner." Daerthe says to him in as smug a tone she can muster, trying to sound like a stereotypical priestess.
Tuma-
“Indeed,” Sarith nods. “Jorlan was Ilvara’s chosen...until a rather nasty black pudding fell on top of him. His entire left side is ruined...a pity, truly. He was the best warrior this outpost had. Ilvara has chosen a new pet, Shoor by name. And Priestess Ilvara herself?” He sighs then shrugs. “She’s a powerful cleric, very ambitious and sadistic...favored by Lolth. Shes the head of this outpost, though this is only a stepping-stool position. She has greater designs, to create a house of her own I imagine. I don’t doubt that she can, either.”
Daerthe-
Sarith rolls his eyes, “keep talking, half-iblith, I’ll—“ he stops mid sentence, gripping his head while inhaling quickly.
Tuma will whisper to Daerthe, "Okay, um, I get a sense that you two have history, but don't you think an attitude like that would be best saved for later? He could help us."
"Iblith," the elderly svirfneblin repeats the insult, finally speaking up — though in undercommon. In this cell, only Alivia has heard more than mumbling out of the old deep gnome. That first day he was brought in, he did quite a bit of ranting and raving, banging on the bars and being threatened by the guards if he didn't quiet down. He didn't speak to Alivia, though. In fact, she's pretty sure he complained about the young woman he was forced to share a cell with while shouting about in undercommon. Since then, he has kept to himself, holed up in a corner mostly quiet and seeming a bit altered in the head. "We're all iblith in here," he continues. He is an old gnome: small, thin, hunched, and wrinkled. He has long, white hair, which is braided into gravity-defying dreads that stick straight up. He also has a long, white mustache (or is it nose hair?) and beard. His feet are bare, and his gnarled, misshapen toes have long, unkempt toenails, yet his fingernails are trimmed and clean. He has a constant scowl and dark, untrusting, shifty eyes. He's dressed in some kind of shapeless, patchwork robe. "And that's why we need to get out of here," he says, standing and moving over by Daerthe. "I have lived too long to die at the hands of slavers."
Finally speaking up as well, Thun turns to the Deep Gnome,
"He...is probably right..." -Thun pauses-
Looking directly towards the drow\drow-looking members of the group with suspicion, he resumes,
"Assuming they aren't spies, and all these dramatics aren't to distract us from thinking about what to do next."
"Spies?" the old gnome replies. He regards the drow, half-drow, and fellow svirfneblin before turning back to Thun. "I have more reason to suspect you surface dwellers than these."
Thun regards the gnome carefully, and with respect he says,
"Aye, that's because you're not aware of all the circumstances. I'd wager I'm not either, but being knocked out by drow poison, locked in a dark cave, and being guarded by drow elves makes me mighty suspicious."
He then sits back down calmly before saying,
"I'm just saying one should think about the situation before discussing any plans. I don't know any of you, but I do agree that I don't want to die here."
Taken a little off guard by Thun's calm response, the old gnome looks again at Daerthe, Sarith, Topsey and Turvey, this time with scrutiny. He harrumphs and returns to his corner, mumbling once again. Anyone whose eyes linger on the old gnome notices he's making strange gestures with one or both hands as he mumbles.
"Well escape will be quite difficult long as we remain in shackles" Avilia holds up her hands "So unless you have a plan for that sit down and be quiet while you think of one"
Topsey immediately sits down at this. His twin brother pulls him to his feet, “Not you.”
"Seems like you don't have a sense of humor anymore. You act like I would talk like one of them when the mere sight of them means my life could be over." She says to her old aquaintance before turning her eyes to the grumpy old gnome.
"I plan on getting out as soon as possible. The goal of my so called friend..." She says the word with a sarcastic laugh coming after it. " Was to flee into the Underdark and as unlikely as it would be make a life by working as spies and theives to who ever would pay us. You know you remind me of a one of your kind I met a trader who used to be kind to us Urchin. She acted as mean as a Hook Horror but in actuality she may have cared."
The sound of several footsteps echoes as three drow approach the cell door. The female leads the trio, her white hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, a violet cape fluttering behind her, just enough to hit the unfortunate drow to her left in the face. He scowls deeply, wincing as he does so...the entire left portion of his face appears melted, his left arm held at an awkward angle. He says nothing, but turns back to look at the prisoners (you) with interest. A taller, younger male stands to the female's left, wearing polished black armor, intricate silver designs like spiderwebs adorning the metal. He hardly seems to look at those in the cell, only intent on the drow priestess.
"I would like to see my prisoners," the female's hand taps impatiently on a whip belted to her side, its tendrils waving like tentacles at her touch. (using purple text for purposes of Undercommon language.)
The disfigured drow reaches into his pocket, pulling out a key. As he attempts to insert it, he twitches, and misses the mark entirely.
"Pitiful," the younger drow sneers, stepping forward and yanking the key away, shoving the injured drow to the ground.
The door to your cell opens with a click , and screeches open.
"Come along, dears," Ilvara calls, her voice a sickly sweet. "Step out into the darkness, so I can see you better."
Tuma will try her best to sink into the furthest corner of the cell, trying to stay out of sight of the drow.
Tuma - If you're actually trying to hide, go ahead and make a stealth check at disadvantage.
Stealth: 10
[Priestess Ilvara's perception check to contest:]
14
Reading the body language of their captors, Mars rises and slowly takes her steps towards the regal Drow. Though she cannot yet be in her late teen years, Mars stands nearly as tall as the priestess' un-maimed attendant. The young woman assumes a stance unconsciously, coiled, looking down.
"Do you speak a language that is known to me, mistress of Lolth?" Mars says through the gutteral syllables of Abyssal speech.
From the corner of her eye, Mars attempts to discern any meaning from the Old Deep Gnome's somatics - she thinks he may be working on a spell of some kind and is desperate for a sign of resistance from any fellow prisoners.
Staying seated Alivia will face the priestess
Mars
"Course I speak language of queen spider," Ilvara replies, haltingly. "Not language heard often among light dwellers."
"And this is why I speak to the handmaidens of Lolth in your stead," a younger female drow approaches the group, is simpler clerical robes. At her superior's glare, she bows, "Because you are so busy with the tasks given to you by the Spider Queen," she offers quickly.