Early in the morning, the Apprentice was tasked with bringing the Master his breakfast, tidying up and generally making the place less of a pigsty. This morning, like most others, the Apprentice was failing. Artifacts and detritus were strewn about with abandon. The careless men who resided in the tower being much more interested in the distant past than in cleaning, or really any mundane chore of the household.
__
Without shame, the Apprentice simply leaned over the Master’s shoulder and read as the old man wrote in his neat, flowing script.

The next morning, 7th Desnus, the Field Marshal was with Banker Ishani already upon the party’s arrival. Morkeleb wondered silently, “Does she ever sleep?”

Ishani opened immediately with business. "A woman named Vendra Loaggri owns a perfumery in the Heights called “Lavender.” She claims to have discovered a cure for the Blood Veil. The Bank of Abadar is asking you to visit her perfumery and determine if her claim is legitimate. She has a long history of outrageous behavior. Some of you may remember the infamous “free imp with every purchase of 500 sails or more.” Either this woman is shaming the well-to-do citizens of the district, or she’s somehow stumbled on a simple cure too elusive for our archbankers to concoct. The church will willingly pay your group a fee of 1,000 sails total for getting to the bottom of this. Any questions?"

Muttering himself, Sandor said, “Not that this be the time nor place fer it, but this be what happens when a large city do not ‘ave a merchants guild settin standards fer things. Don’t get me wrong I see the good in not havin em either, somethin I might be blessin ’ere when I opens up me own shop. Now me wonders how did her reputation and buisness survive such an obvious fleecing ’n remain in buisness? She might just ’ave a powerful backer of sorts”

After throwing ideas around, the group settled on the strategy of purchasing a sample of the apocryphal potion in order to reverse engineer it, to figure out whether Lavender needed to be prosecuted or dissuaded. The group set out to Lavender’s place.

Finding her place was easy. Just following the signs worked perfectly. "Lavender’s Luxuriant Liniment is the everyday elixir of the common Korvosan. It wakes you up in the morning and calms you down at night. It soothes aching joints, tired feet, sore hands, and throbbing heads. It takes the pain out of cuts, burns, bruises, and blemishes. It smells like chastity, confidence, and respectability, and tastes like honeyed dewdrops over snow clouds. Most miraculously, though, Lavender’s Luxuriant Liniment dispels blisters, minimizes swelling, calms the complexion, and erases all symptoms of the common blood veil complaint.” Before long, the group was also able to follow the line.

The line started about four blocks away and contained mostly healthy looking people, but there were a fair amount of pustule-ridden citizens too. The sign said that it’s two Sail for a single dose, and the purple painted shop door was guarded by a pair of ludicrously dressed half-orcs, though no one would be surprised if the closest human ancestor was a grandparent. Each was dressed in frilly livery topped with purple cravats. The saps they held in hand seemed serious enough though.
Given the pace of the line, Gaius estimated the wait to be about two hours.

Rather than wait in line, the group split up with Gaius, Grym and Bucho circled around the back, with Sandor, Odric, Ferox and Morkeleb cutting to the front of the line in order to observe the activity in the shop itself.

All of a sudden, a man who had entered the shop moments earlier with splotchy skin came out into the sunlight exclaiming, “It works! Desna smiles, it works!” followed by a cheer. That exclamation was followed by a voice from a mouth with far too many teeth, “Keep yer shirts un! We’s gut enuff for yer all today. STAY IN LINE!”

Odric scooped him up and hustled him into the back alley with his remaining friends. He grabbed the gentleman under the arm and urged him in a low whisper to maintain a “friendly” attitude as the two strolled around back.

Odric certainly scared the crap out of the man, “uuuuhhhhhhhh how can I help you find gentlemen sirs, milord?” With a nod to the rogue, Odric positioned the man bodily before the intense looking rogue.

“Alright friend, he’s the stick,” Gaius tilted his head in Odric’s menacing direction, “and I’m the carrot if you get my drift. Tell us about your day. When did you contract Blood Veil? Tell us about your symptoms, the cure you just purchased, and what the cure did for you. And if you have any left. For now, we just want answers—details. Anything you can remember, especially if it seems odd.”
The frightened man stammered, “well milord, sir, master. I had a fever yesterday and hives this morning. I had um a touch of the Clap too. I drank the whole bottle about 10 minutes ago in the store. It’s all gone, the potion and my symptoms… well, not the Clap sir. I still have that.”

The man was surrounded, so Gaius turned slightly and inquired, “Inquisitor Ferox or Morkeleb… Can your knowledge of the healing arts tell us if this man has had the Veil and if it’s cured? Sirrah, please stick out your tongue and say, ‘aaaaah’.”

“Hmm, yes, let me see what I can discern.” Having no working knowledge of Healing except that cure potions are good and swords and fire spells are bad, Morkeleb turned to his forte. He waved his staff, and the gem gains its familiar eldritch green glow.

“Don’t worry, friend, this won’t hurt a bit. I’d like to try to determine whether your disease is gone, if I may . . .”

Morkeleb gave a slight self-satisfied smirk as his magic made a subtle but firm grip on the man’s mind. The wizard’s eyes narrowed slightly as he concentrated . . .

Echoing in the terrified man’s mind, the wizard’s voice was heard only by the poor man, “So, between you and me, I’m looking for some extra cash. Did Vendra pay you well to fake getting cured? Because I might want in on that action!”

The man brightened with the task of answering a direct and easy question “Yeah! You should totally! She pays me 20 Sails per day to drink the potion, and she says she’ll cure up my Clap too at the end of the week. I should get a finder’s fee for getting you. More testimonials means more customers, right?”

Out loud, Morkeleb said, “Huh. So, where do you think these splotches came from, since you didn’t really have the Blood Veil?”

“The splotches came right after I drank another potion she gave me. They go away in about an hour.” The man countered reasonably.

Odric said, “I think we have enough here. Let’s take this fella in.” but Morkeleb would have his say first.

Morkeleb was showing an uncharacteristic amount of anger—he was actually beginning to seethe.
He first addressed the “actor,” moderating his tone to appear friendly to the befuddled man. “You know, she’s not doing you any favors. Those potions will certainly make you ill! And you’re really not helping the situation in the city with your dishonesty, are you?”

The wizard turned his back on the chump.

“Odric, he’s just a stooge. I’m not condoning his actions, but the real criminal is the proprietor. She’s feeding on the fear and desperation of these people with her skills in alchemy. And it needs to stop—if for no other reason than giving true alchemists a bad reputation!”

Morkeleb was gathering himself, clearly preparing to address the line and denounce the fraud . . .
Gaius raised a hand and said, “So… We’ve investigated the fraud. We can bring our new friend right to The Field Marshall and cash out for our sails. Or do we take further action?”

There may have been a twinkle in Gaius’ eye, if anyone had looked closely at the man’s face.
Morkeleb paused before committing to action that couldn’t be taken back. “I would not suffer a flim-flam artist to bilk these people on snake oil, while I, a REAL alchemist, am attempting to actually find a cure!! This is offensive, as her actions erode confidence in legitimate professionals. Gaius, what do you have in mind? I and all my faculties are at your disposal!”
Without turning his head in the man’s direction, Morkeleb reached out once again with his mind, “You know, friend, I’m disappointed in you. We need to talk about this further, so hang around, won’t you?”

Odric said, “Well, we have proof that this whole thing is a sham. We have this chump who can spill the beans, what do you say we confront the actual offender with the testimony of her shill? We might be able to shut the whole shop down right now.”

Odric persisted, “I think unloading this guy into the capable hands of the guard is our first obligation and frees us up to work on the real problem which is this fraudulent cure. It is costing desperate people money and enriching a liar. I can’t abide by this, especially where life and death might hang in the balance for the infected.”

With a shrug, the fighter asked, “What difference does it make if we stop this guy from participating in the deception, Lavender will just recruit another to take his place. We need to address this at the source.”

He flexed three times with violence and started warming up. “I can take those thugs out front.” Odric announced grimly.

Sandor nodded sagely, unlimbering his axe in its harness.

Morkeleb interjected, “Odric, hold for a moment. I think I can take care of our new friend here. Someone get a guardsman or two here, if you please.”

To the shill, the wizard said, “I need you to do a very important favor for me, friend. Official business, I’m even getting some of the town guard to escort you! Hold on a moment.”

Morkeleb found a suitable flat writing surface, and took out a parchment and writing implement, and wrote a letter.

Field Marshall Kroft,
The bearer of this missive has admitted to me that he is being paid by our target to imbibe a concoction to give him splotches that make him appear as if afflicted with the Veil, and another she is selling as a cure. He admitted this to me under the influence of a Charm spell—but was under no compulsion, so I believe his story to be genuine and his testimony valid.
.
We have sent him back under guard to you to do with as your wisdom sees fit, relative to his crime. We remain to deal with the fakery and disperse the crowd who has gathered to buy this snake oil as peacefully as possible. We shall return anon with a report, and hopefully with the flim-flam artist in tow.
.
MORKELEB

Before sealing it, the wizard offered the note to the group to look over. Then, he gave the sealed paper to his New Friend, once the guards showed up. “Field Marshall Kroft is waiting for this. Make sure you put it in her hands only—no one else can read it, understand? I’m counting on you, and I’m sure the Field Marshal will give you a just reward!”

To the guards, Morkeleb said, “Kindly see this gentleman straight to the Field Marshal. He has something for her.”

Once they were gone, the wizard addressed the group. “I believe that takes care of THAT buffoon. How do you gentlemen want to deal with the shyster? I recommend against overt violence; this crowd may well turn on us in desperation of wanting a cure. I recommend simply calling them out publically as frauds and thieves, THEN turning on the violence if necessary.”

Odric suggested, “Let’s go in through the back, cut the line and deal with the fraudster directly. At the very least if a scuffle breaks out we haven’t just cut the long line and caused a riot.
We’re fairly famous at this point, perhaps while the group takes the fraudster in hand I can go out the front door and directly address the assembled crowd, although I think having Lavender well away from the place before addressing the mob would be ideal.”

The plan Odric laid out was a simple one. He sketched it out verbally, without a diagram but it was clear that he desperately wanted to make some illustrations judging by his excited gestures:
“Step 1: Go in the back 

Step 1b: Thump any guards inside 

Step 2: Spirit Lavender away 

Step 3: Address the crowd, deal with aftermath.”

Sandor said, “Sounds like fun but do we need to do it now? Can we wait for a few hours and do it then? Let’s lessen even the chance of mob rage and not risk the Field Marshal’s ire.

Odric’s mounting anger is not directed at his friend, but he snaps at him just the same,
“What about the poor craftsman who is about to spend a month’s wages to try to cure his dying child of the Blood Veil?” Odric shakes his head definitively. “We move now.”

Sandor shook his head and said, “Fella’s I am all fer removin this scum right now. But even though me blood’s a boilin, I be wantin to caution about movin to soon. Now I’m sure we can handle her and the guards easy enough, but I have a few things ta point out.”

The grizzled dwarf continued, “Now lets take a look at who she is scammin, we are in a more affluent part of town, so the cost while expensive might not hurt like it would for the poor. Now I’m not tryin ta defend her, but gents as far as we know she ain’t forcin anyone ta buy her cure. So I believe tha term is buyer beware”

Sandor was building him into some momentum “Fer her ta be pullin this bold scam means that she’s either got a silver tongue, magicks like Morkeleb, er both. Now lets say we do go in and stop the sales while she has hundreds in line, and she does have a silver tongue or magicks ta coerce them ta help defend her. Lads I don’t want ta be hurtin the innocent because they are scared of the plague and are tryin anythin ta avoid dyin from it. Lets wait till she closes ‘n the crowd leaves.” Sandor’s eyes lit up with a sudden inspiration “Then we put ’er outta buisness ’n take her ill gotten gold and donate it ta tha bank ta help with findin a real cure” his eyes flashed over to Gaius as his inspiration took a twist for the rogue “of course any donation from Lavenders ill-gotten gold would ’ave ta have our expenses finders fee taken from tha top”

“What say ya gents go now and risk gettin some innocents bloodied and the thankfull yet dissapointed look the Field Marshal will give us, or waitin a few bells ta lessen tha risk?” Sandor concluded.
Morkeleb rejoined, “Sandor, you surprise me. I would think you’d feel as I do—that “buyer beware” does not apply when the seller is using subterfuge and trickery to specifically play on the fears of the sick in a time of crisis. Granted, our reasons for this being a problem are likely different, but still… 
In any case, I have difficulty suffering a fraud to continue besmirching a noble profession, and stealing from desperate folk in the process, for even a day.
 I do think your fears regarding the crowd are legitimate, but I also think that, were our confrontation of this trickster to include vociferous denouncement of her sham product, it would give these innocents enough pause that, combined with our obvious might, would prevent them from openly attacking us. 
So, while I respect your motives, I find myself agreeing with Odric and Grym that we should move to shut this operation down before more people get fleeced. Besides, we have no idea whether the potions she’s selling are safe—they could be actually harming folk. Not to mention the fact that there are sick people in this crowd, and those nearby will also get sick—so she IS contributing to the Veil’s spread, and not its cure. She should be stopped—NOW.”

In his brogue, Sandor responded, “Now see Morkelb, I do agree wit ya me friend. Like I said at tha beginnin of me statement. I’m as angry as the rest of ya. But I wanted ta play a lil bit of devil’s advocate and see if discretion be the betta part of valor. Obviously it’s not now lets get ta some head thumpin. Oh n if ya be puttin anyone ta sleep make it Lavender, cuz I will like hittin the orcs.”

After discussing tactics for a brief period, the friends settled on a plan.

Ferox moved to the front of the store and started parting the crowd to gain easy access to the entrance.

“Move aside!” Ferox bellowed, “Official Bank business. Move aside!”

Odric positioned himself to the side of the door, skirting the line and ending up alongside the thugs. Sandor was by his side, glaring from under his helm at the orcs.

Gaius picked the lock at the rear of the establishment and quietly entered the apartment, Throgrym and Bucho on his heels. The trio moved nearly silently. Delicate wall hangings, artistically shaped candles, and the fine scent of cherry blossoms filled the well-decorated apartment. A table sculpted with swirling ivy leaves bore a fragile porcelain tea service and an exotically curved hookah in a kitchen nook to the east. A door adjacent to the kitchen opened into a bedroom furnished with an antique armoire and a bed sheeted in purple silks and heavily laden with round pillows.
In the front of the establishment, Ferox entered into menagerie of heady scents twisting throughout the cramped but stylish perfumery. A dizzying assortment of bottles—from gaudy ceramic containers to graceful crystalline vials—lined a variety of lace- and ribbon-strewn tables, shelves, racks, and an eye-catching display in the wide front window. Across from the front door’s orchid-tinted glass panes ran a long counter, stacked high with hundreds of simple clay phials bearing round, magenta stoppers. Behind the counter, violet flourishes swoop across a sign reading, “Lavender’s Luxuriant Liniment: Either You’ve Got It, or You’ve Had It.” A rather attractive woman took note of the Inquisitor rudely entering the store. She came out from behind the counter as staff continued to work through the lines. With the door open, even people outside could hear the exchange.

“Excuse me Mr. Inquisitor-type. I see what this is. You think that the high and mighty Abadar gets first dips without waiting in line. Well, let me tell you, it’s first come – first served here. I’ll not have you disrupting things. Either get in line or get out before I call the guard. She looked around at the crowd, reading them skillfully. "Unless you think you’re going to SHUT DOWN the cure while you “investigate” us. I thought we default to innocent in Korvosa?! Shall I tell these people that you’re ROBBING them of their cure?"

The soft sounds of Gaius conducting a search in the back room filtered through to the silence left in the wake of Lavender’s proclamation.

She glanced that way nervously, then turned her attention to Odric who stood before her, a bit closer than comfortable for social interactions.

Odric said, “Madam, we met your shill, he confessed all. At this moment he is under arrest and preparing to trade his total cooperation for light punishment. He will be providing testimony against you. Given this, your only hope for mercy is total and complete cooperation. Disperse this crowd peaceably, give us the 2 potions for inducing and removing the false symptoms, and stop selling the fake cure immediately. I give you only this promise; if you act nobly now that the ruse is up I will advocate for you to the authorities. If you want to play this out, I will shut you down.”

The burly man rested his massive right hand on the pommel of his Falchion. His left hand toyed with the by now quite famous taloned pommel of The Eagle. As he flexed his considerable bulk and relaxed it, the creak of his harness and the stretch and tinkle of his chainmail made for a menace not to be ignored.

The figures of Ferox, Sandor and Odric were indeed very intimidating. The patrons ran out of the shop. Vendra pleaded with the fleeing customers that they could have free samples, but to no avail. She turned her gaze towards the men. “I can’t believe you’ve done this to me. I’m ruined!” She briefly eyed her body guards, contemplating a combat, but she apparently decided they didn’t look like a match for the heroes. “Fine, I’ll go with you.” She stated in a defeated yet surly tone.
Grym called Gaius over, having found a crudely designed trap in the lady’s armoire. The astute rogue instantly recognized that opening the door the wrong way would benefit any intruder a face full of two vials of Alchemist’s Fire.

The ranger wiped a sudden sheen of sweat from his brow. He was happy to have found the hidden door, but couldn’t believe how close he came to getting an fire bath. He recalls their first adventure together when Gaius took a beaker of acid from Lamm’s alchemist. Handsome Gaius wasn’t so handsome lying nearly dead on the ground with half of his face melted off.

He turned to the Calistrian Rogue and nodded a quick “thanks”, for the trap warning.

Odric brought her to the corner of the room and allowed Ferox to collect evidence.

Using Morkeleb’s Message spell, Odric called to the Back Door Men, “She has surrendered to us. We need to get her safely to the Field Marshal. Can we get her out the back? We also need help in here getting the evidence sorted out and collected.”

To Lavendar, Odric asked, “Madam, where are the potions I asked for? Please direct my associate to them. If there are any traps or shenanigans, I expect you to tell me about them now. No shenanigans will be tolerated. Finally, I ask that you task your security guards to disperse the crowd calmly in order to prevent a riot or injury to the public or your establishment"

Odric kept her safely in the corner and watched her closely, ready for any shenanigans.

Odric confiscated two wands in order to prevent her from using them to defraud any more people. In case she needed to defend herself against an angry mob, he gave the dagger into the keeping of the guards who relieved him or her so she might regain it at some point. In short order, the team had turned the offending Lavender in to the authorities and dispersed the crowd.

Odric kept his word, advocating to Kroft on Lavender’s behalf for her cooperation. He did not hang around and insist on her good treatment though.

He turned the wands over to Morkeleb, and asked that if they are not entirely useful that he consider selling them in order to raise money for a keen falchion.

The store itself seemed to be uninteresting and took Morkeleb and Sandor about an hour and fifteen minutes to search. There were numerous simple perfumes, and stacks upon stacks of the miracle cure.
The next door apartment was a bit more interesting. Bits of broken crates and barrels covered the floor of the dilapidated apartment. A tun of oily liquid, its lip level with a man’s chest, fills a corner of the room, a well-used canoe oar sticking out of it. Next to it squat several large casks of murky water and two stacks of boxes—one holding dozens of small ceramic vials with magenta stoppers, the other holding a mismatched collection of delicate perfume bottles. The apartment’s kitchen nook held another crate, this one filled with broken shards of multicolored glass. Despite being in shambles, the apartment smelled delightful—a mixture of spices, flowers, and exotic oils. There were also plans for a “cure” consisting of adding sugar to a mélange of cheap perfume. There was also a ledger detailing the profits. A note written into the margin estimates that in 2 week’s time, she would have earned enough to skip town.

The Master dipped his quill one last time and penned a note in the margin, as the apprentice looked over his shoulder. Their actions in peacefully solving this “problem” lead to the saving of 700 additional lives during the Blood Veil epidemic.

The apprentice distractedly scratches the Master’s old cat behind its ears, his attention on the exciting and horrible events unfolding before him. The Master, taking time to research the important folks surrounding Field Marshal Kroft in an effort to better understand her ahs taken to scrying a group of adventurers that the apprentice has read about at some length. Odric the Stout, Morkeleb the Mighty, Ferox the Inquisitor, Sandor Strongbellows, Gaius Lirsiiv, and Throgrym the Tracker with his faithful canine, Bucho. A plague was beginning in the city of Korvosa, men, women and children were dying horrible deaths in the streets, and these men had been enlisted to find the cause and fight it.

The men had just delivered Trinia from the block and were resting at Sandor’s home as was their wont.

A messenger wearing the livery of Abadar knocked and delivered a message to Ferox, ”Inquisitor Ferox, it appears that there are more cases of the terrible disease that attacked poor Brienna. Please come posthaste to the Bank. Bring your friends. The sick have begun appearing at our doorstep. While many have the pecuniary component to rid themselves of this disease, most do not. We need assistance. -Ishani Dhatri”

When the group approached the Bank, a mob had gathered. The sick were pressing in, trying to gain salvation. As the crowd pressed, the friends tried to reason, to question, to interview to no avail. The men needed to gain entry, and barely did so.

Even after they managed to navigate your way through the crowd, the temple remained a place besieged. Within its airy hall, priests and patrons eyed each other and every newcomer with suspicion, and every footfall upon the marble floor echoed through a frightened silence. The presence of an inquisitor did little to put them at ease. They had no trouble finding Ishani Dhatri, as he had reserved one of the temple’s western meeting rooms to meet with the group and awaited them there. The young priest looks grave as he greeted them, “Thank you for coming. I assume you already suspect my reasons for meeting with you in a formal sense, having seen the crowd outside—poor lot. You recognize the symptoms too, I’m sure. I had hoped that the Soldado case was isolated, but apparently we have a bigger problem on our hands than I’d feared.

I’m concerned for the city, but also for my brethren here. The morning after my visit to the Soldado home I came to the temple to hear that three of my brothers awoke with similar symptoms, although they had already been healed. I spoke to each, and aside from their usual duties in the temple, none have had any dealings with the sick. Later in the day, more of my brothers— vaultkeepers, guards, and acolytes—developed symptoms, and folk from throughout the city began arriving in search of healing. It’s been more than a little bit frightening. They’re calling the sickness ‘blood veil.’ An apt enough name, I suppose.

This affliction has spread fast, yet I’m not yet sure how. Most of the patients we’re treating have come from North Point and Old Korvosa. The disease seems to spread fastest through the lower classes. Although we here at the temple can heal some of the ill, I fear that the spread of the disease will soon outpace our resources. The only way to stem the growing infection is to involve all the city’s resources. We need to organize. We need to call upon the faiths of Sarenrae, Pharasma, and even Asmodeus to face this attack. Archbanker Tuttle and several of his assistants are out pursuing alliances with these other faiths, but even that won’t be enough. We need to involve the Korvosan Guard, at the very least. And that’s where you come in—with the number of desperate souls outside already I can only assume an epidemic coming, it’s not particularly safe for a priest to walk the streets of Korvosa during such a thing. I hear that you have a good relationship with Field Marshal Cressida Kroft—perhaps you would be willing to escort me to Citadel Volshyenek to introduce me to her?”

The apprentice smiled, knowing well of their relationship to the good Field Marshal.

A plan was hatched whereby the Inquisitor and the Wizard would remain at the Bank to research the disease, and the others would go to the Citadel. After a time, the two men produced little information of value and followed the others to the Citadel, arriving just after them.

Reaching Citadel Volshyenek posed little problem, despite Ishani’s fear to the contrary. The party was greeted warmly by the on duty guards, men whom the group recognized immediately. The echoes of forcefully spoken but still just-missed words resounded off the imposing granite and iron walls of Citadel Volshyenek’s outer curtain. Dozens of red-and-silver-armored guards stood in assembly upon the pitted stone mustering ground here, mumbling in hushed, somber tones. Before them, atop a weathered wooden platform, paced Field Marshal Kroft, her eyebrows arched sternly as she momentarily tolerated the crowd’s murmurs. Behind her upon the scaffold stood three grizzled veteran guardsmen at attention, as well as an ominous-looking group. These men wore cowled robes of oily-looking leather, supple gloves, and wide black hats. Some gripped heavy canes, others dark satchels. Each of them, though, wore a dark-goggled mask tapering to a pointed beak. Among them stood two others. The first was a middle aged gentleman in a simple black overcoat with streaks of white gracing the sides of his short dark hair. He watched the gathered guards with a soft, concerned expression, his hands tightly clasping a heavy-looking doctor’s case. The second figure was an imposing one indeed—a woman dressed in full-plate armor, a longsword and shield at her side, and her blank-faced full helm sporting a bright red plume.

The Field Marshal’s fierce tone cut through the rumble of whispers.

“You will escort Doctor Davaulus and his men in their royal duties wherever those might take them. Furthermore, you are to consider orders from any of the queen’s new order of Gray Maidens to be as binding as any superior officer in the Korvosan Guard or Sable Company. You are guardsmen of Korvosa. You will not balk. These are dire times and your city needs these healers. Your city needs you. Your patrol leaders have your assignments. Dismissed!”

Gaius patiently watched the guards, doctors and the Grey Maiden disperse. His face was a mask, a playful smirk that nothing could break.

He and Odric strolled up to Field Marshall Kroft and the rogue formally bowed, giving her due respect. He straightened up, and addressed the Field Marshall.

“Field Marshall Kroft, may we present Ishani Dhatri of The Bank of Abadar? The Bank has been seeing to the sick and requested this introduction of us.”

Gaius presented Dhatri to Field Marshall Kroft and then stepped back to stand just to the side.

The look in Kroft’s eyes was one of relief to see them. Clearly the men had become more than agents to her. Their arrival had the effect of giving her a chance to cut the Doctor’s time in the sun short. Unexpectedly, the doctor turned to Gaius.

He bowed gracefully, and not only tipped his hat, but lifted his mask allowing him to make eye-contact. "Greetings gentlemen,” his Taldane was filled with a variety of nuances, picking his point of origin was impossible. “I understand that this is a trying time, and others in my profession are equally unnerving, but I assure you I am not here for political reasons. I am here to do what I can. My name is Dr. Davaulus. I have some time now before duty calls me. If you have questions, speak and have fears lessened.”

After some verbal sparring, the group managed to get the Field Marshal alone. She unloaded on them, “"Gentlemen, at first nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There are always sick and diseased people in the city. It’s not a matter for the guard, not by a long shot. As individual churches began to lose ground against the tide, word began to spread. Now it appears we’re in trouble. I’m currently diverting guardsmen to help catalog the sick and make note of the worst neighborhoods. The queen’s doctors say they’ll handle quarantining the sick and healing those whom they can. The problem is, there are currently more sick than there are spells to cure them… This is where you come in. I can’ waste your time with the mundane. I need you to help me with any hotspots, and help find the source of this disease. Anyway, that’s where I stand. What questions do you have for me?"

Odric replied “We are happy to help. Where are the hotspots? Are there any leads on the cause of the disease?”

Odric scratched his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully. The effect was more respected warrior than town drunk, given his stature and grooming. A shift that was somewhat striking when his recent persona was exactly that sort of sodden lout but a year ago.
“We had an early theory that the ship that was sunk in the harbor might be related, as the first cases appeared the next morning. Are there any other indications that might be the case?” Odric pressed.

“We have not explored the wreck yet, no. The disease seems to hit the poorest sections hardest, which makes sense in any epidemic. Before the Doctor arrived I had just received word that some of the crews tasked with bringing the bodies to the Gray District are getting lazy and just dumping them into alleys. Can you check out Racker’s Alley in the west of Old Korvosa after we finish here?” The Field Marshall made her way to the city map, laying a gentle hand on Gaius’s shoulder on her way by. She pointed to the alley in question.

The carriage ride to the alley was uneventful, arriving at the place they saw a poor alley, in a poverty-stricken neighborhood.

The high walls of the surrounding buildings threw this awkwardly bent alley into constant shadow. Although littered with garbage and filth, the refuse wasn’t the most stomach-turning trait of this rundown sideway. Heaped against a bent wooden wall rose a pile of more than three dozen plague victims, their faces blistered and flushed, eyes open and staring. The scent of death was overpowered by the reek of rot, suggesting that some of these corpses have lain here for days.
Inside the adjacent building, unbalanced stuffed animals, poorly equipped toy soldiers, and dolls exhibiting myriad accidental deformities stared blankly out of the filth-smeared front window of this toy store showroom. Several heavy-looking kites dangled purple and crimson tails from the ceiling above, and a dollhouse recreating Castle Korvosa’s intimidating towers dominated a table in the room’s center. Festooned with tiny bells, the shop’s entrance stood to the north, across from a counter cluttered with dusty candies and a doorway marked “Private.”

Though disgusted at the pile of dead bodies outside and the lack of respect given them. Thorgrym was much more disturbed by the strange “toy store”. The deformed dolls made this more the scene of a deranged nightmare then an adventure. The ranger couldn’t help but shudder a little as he got the willies. Yet seeing his trusty canine companion blindly following him, oddly gave Grym strength. He chastized himself for his childish superstitions. He sought to be at least half the man Bucho saw him as. 
Backing Odric and Sandor while Gaius was at the door, Grym pulled his sling out and loaded it ready for combat.

Ferox hung back to examine the bodies, and saw through the window a quartet of vampires hiding in ambush for the group. With a thrill of excitement, he prayed to Abadar and raced around the corner.

The apprentices heart quickened as combat began, he saw the Master shift forward in his overstuffed chair as well, his pipe smoldering forgotten beside him.

Gaius looked curiously up out of the front of the shop window and saw Ferox bolting past, jabbering something about vampires. Just then the door slammed open and without missing a beat, Gaius stepped to his right, pulled his hand crossbow, loaded and fired. The action was so smooth is looked like a single movement. “Oh, Ferox,” called Gaius, “Would you get in here? There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Gaius’ bolt hit directly in the monster’s eye. Within the span of a heartbeat the eye shoved the bolt back out, and healed itself nearly completely.

Ferox raced into the room and took up position next to Gaius. He nocked an arrow in his bow and let it fly at the undead thing in the doorway.

The lead vampires slammed into the party’s front line, Odric and Sandor easily absorbed the impact though. A third vampire was trying to maneuver around the group to flank them. Grym slung a bullet which bounced off one’s head harmlessly.

Morkeleb, with a background in the occult called out, “Vampire spawn! Not full-blown vampires, but still very dangerous!” Morkeleb coolly pulled one of the patches from the Robe of Bones, and hurled it into the room whence the vamps attacked, hoping to give his undead slave only enemy targets!
Upon hearing the learned mage shout they are vampire spawn, and seeing the unnatural way that the arrow was shoved back out it’s eye socket confirmed the Wizards words. Upon the knowledge gained while shopping for special materials for his new axe Sandor realised that he has his wrong axe drawn.

With what looks like an errant swing he lodged the axe in the wooden counter directly behind him.
The massive dwarf produced an incredible alchemical silver Dwarven battle axe, and wedged myself between the counters. “Hey lads keep em in the chokepoint if at all possible.” He called out gruffly. His words spoken, he proceeded to push hard with the shield trying to keep the one on him off balance, and annoyed. Then just as he hoped the thing grabbed at the annoying shield wrapping its hands and claws on it trying to pull it to the side. Sandor then allowed the shield to go with the motion throwing the enemy slightly off balance and allowing him to pin both arms between the shield and the counter. Sandor swung his axe, intending to cleave the arms off at the wrists before he popped back behind its protective bastion.

Seizing upon a plan, Odric grabbed the vampire spawn directly in front of him in his brawny arms and began dragging the monster backwards towards the open door and the sunlight. The vampire struck out as it was grabbed, slashing at Odric with its claws. The big warrior gritted his teeth and resisted the unholy power of the undead, dragging the creature about five feet towards its doom.

Gaius slunk through his companions, humming the Korvosan Anthem. He pulled his whip while on the move and lashed out at the vampire in the corner of the room. Gaius ducked Sandor’s flailing and then lashed out with his whip to trip the vampire he was maneuvering on. He missed wildly, and tried to make it look like an intentional flourish.

Ferox hit with two arrows, apparently guided by Abadar towards the creatures. Only the first seemed to injure it though, and already the wound was closing. Only the injury dealt by Sandor still showed grievous damage.

The vampire dragged by Odric tried to turn the tides. He pushed into the warrior’s pull and tried to pin down his arms. Fangs meant for killing grew in a heartbeat. The big warrior made a quick attack, taking advantage of the creature’s momentary loss of balance and connected! Undaunted the monster grabbed at the warrior, but Odric tore free before a hold is made.

Directly behind, the spawn wounded by Sandor swung his fist in a backhand motion at the dwarf’s jaw and connects only with his fine dwarven helm.

The spawn in the rear struck out at the skeleton summoned by Morkeleb, and missed!

Finally, the third spawn continued his attempt to dominate, and now eyed the ranger. Grym resisted the attempt in a feat of willpower.

Bucho leaped forward to attack with a ferocious bite in his slavering jaws. The strange smell of the undead threw the canine off as he moved in and the bite snapped shut just before the creature’s face.

The ranger dropped his sling and dove into his pouch, just dove right in. Nobody is sure what he is doing or quite to make of it, but he was up in two shakes and he was holding the biggest fragging vial of holy water anyone’s ever seen. 
Next vampire to move will get a face full of holy pain…
Odric again grabbed to yank the monster. And again the monster made an attack, though it was ineffectual. Still unfazed, Odric dragged the monster a full ten feet, past Morkeleb, Sandor, Bucho and Thorgrym, each of whom took advantage of the opportunity to attack it. Morkeleb missed, having little experience with melee.

Still holding the holy water for the spawn fighting Sandor, the ranger saw the chance to get a hit in on the spawn mighty Odric was steadily dragging toward the bright light of day. With his off hand he quickly drew his dagger and sliced into the spawn’s thigh, hopefully making it easier for Odric to keep dragging it. Grym’s quick offhand knife plunged into the spawn’s thigh, the ranger then twisted the blade viciously opening up a nasty wound.

Sandor was so engrossed in his battle, that his swing at the passing spawn was not fully committed and missed.

After his staff swung around and back to his two-handed grip, Morkeleb stepped away from the monster to a safe spot, and stared into the gem on his staff, chanting lightly. His eyes took on the eldritch glow of the staff—a strikingly eerie green flame surrounded his eyeballs. He then stared with authority at the creature Sandor struck. “BURN, fiend!!” the wizard roared.

The creature was nailed with Morkeleb’s heat vision. The fire quickly spread through its body and it was all he could do to stay upright. For the quick-eyed I nthe fight, they could see the flames reflected in Sandor’s silver axe, but not the source.

Gaius took out his holy symbol and smiled, appearing amused by the prospect. Neither he, nor The Lady In The Room, would usually go in for such displays. These were strange days, indeed.

He presented the Daggers of Calistria to the spawn and speaks, “By The Pleasures of life, the stings of Trickery, Lust and Vengence, that which makes blood surge, flesh yearn, and skin tingle, I defy you Un-Dead things!” The spawn recoiled from the holy light, but fought on! The one being mauled by Sandor was faring poorly indeed, it looked near defeat.

Ferox stepped to the side away from Odric and his charge. He then nocked another two arrows and let fly at the spawn harassing Sandor.

The second arrow from Ferox slammed into the spawn and it dropped down “dead” at Sandor’s feet. The wounds were beginning to close already, and it showed signs that it would get up in a moment.
The creature fighting Odric continued to try to avoid being tossed into the sunlight. He did not bite, as the door was getting awfully close, so instead tried to slam the warrior into submission to no effect.

Across the room, the vampire facing the skeleton summoned by Morkeleb smashed the creature into dust. As it charged up the center of the room, confident after its victory against the animated bones, Grym smashed the vial of holy water into the monster with a shout of triumph.

As the fiend rushed by, Sandor was shocked at the disregard the creature showed to him. For his insolence Sandor chopped at the fiend’s hip trying to remove it from the socket. The hit was solid but did little damage to the charging vampire.

Sandor shouted to Morkeleb, “Keep the one that’s down burning. When Odric’s done with his play toy, I will toss the one that’s down to the door. So it can be destroyed too.”

Odric continued dragging the unholy beast out the door towards the searing sunlight. He clenched his grip on the thing ever tighter, wincing slightly at the licking flames’ heat from the burning vampire at Sandor’s feet.

At this point, Gaius assessed the battlefield, the northernmost vampire was repeatedly being dragged towards the exit by Odric. 
The second northernmost had been felled and was burning to death under Morkeleb’s burning gaze. 
The third undead was unconscious, but healing rapidly from its wounds 
The Southernmost was totally fine, untouched thus far by the ferocious battle.

Gaius dropped his whip and took a step towards the door, whistling the whole while. He pulled Alchemist’s fire and leaned around the door frame with a bright smile. “Happy New Year!” he called to the southernmost vampire, catching him in the flames. Over his shoulder, Gaius called to the Inquisitor, “Ferox, our friend back there may rabbit…”

Ferox shifted to get a clearer shot on the southern-most vampire.

Ferox couldn’t help a slight quirk of his lips at Gaius’s exclamation. He recalled a New Year’s celebration he had crashed several years ago. He had fallen through the thatch roof over the residence of a cult of Kyuss worshipers. He landed smack in the middle of their dinner table, scattering the cultists and most of the feast that had been on the table, except for a large tureen of a sweet, jiggly dessert.

Shouting to the vampire, “Please don’t go!” Forox frowned, “You haven’t had any pudding!”

The Southern spawn screeched in unholy rage as he lunged forward while on fire and sporting a single deeply planted arrow. He lashed out with a slam attack at Gaius which the holy rogue dodged easily.
The northern Vampire tried to turn the tables on Odric by rushing him away from the door. He succeeded in moving a mere five feet, but gave Odric the opening he needed to attack him again. The warrior spun the spawn around, and started his inexorable push towards the door, living muscle straining against unholy power in a titanic struggle of life and death.

Behind him, Grym and Bucho continued to assault the remaining vampires to varying degrees of effect. Buch was unable to puncture the preternaturally hard skin, but Grym had success in trading blows with his opponent. Sandor whiffed an axe attack, and the vampire in Odric’s arms finally burst forth into the sunlight.

It begins smoldering and Odric threw the dying vampire to the ground and moves with alacrity to the remaining combatants while drawing his sword. As it fell, the burning vampire landed one final blow to Odric before immolation took it.

As the alchemist’s fire continued to burn, Gaius, quick as a flash, drew his rapier and tried to slide the steel into the back of the creature’s skull for sneak attack. He recognized that it would need to be a perfect strike to damage the creature, but one parting strike before he moved away was a good opportunity. Gaius then stepped away out of the creature’s reach for the moment.
Gaius burns the creature and manages to stab him just so, but the wound is minor and he’s already looking mad.

Sensing an easier target, the spawn turned towards Gaius, and took the priest on the chest. Gaius barely resisted the unholy drain of the vampire’s hit.

Grym grappled with the remaining vampire, repositioned it to match Odric’s feat of pushing it out the door. Buch, Sandor and now Odric aiding him were each jolted slightly as the vampire absorbed some additional damage from a well-placed magic missile from Morkeleb.

The spawn made an attempt to break free of the ranger’s grip and just managed to tear himself free. Backed into the doorway, he simply dropped to a fetal position. “Kill me not! I will be good. Only pigs and steer for meals!”

Odric shouted, too intent to hear Morkeleb’s plea to spare it and glean intelligence, “Die Fiend!” He swung his falchion down, shattering the creature’s defenses. The ranger paused and let the Stout land the powerful blow. As soon as the blade cleared, Grym shot in to tie up the spawn again and press him out into the sunlight.

Odric’s swing landed with tremendous force. The spawn dropped to the ground. The burning flesh not only didn’t stitch itself back together, the flame accelerated. After nearly a full minute of terror, combat was finally over.

The Apprentice and the Master each let out sighs of relief as the last vampire fell.
The party searched the toy store and found a Ring of Jumping and Pipes of Haunting, as well as a sum of money and some keys. Morkeleb held up the magical treasure and said, “This will give the wearer greater jumping ability. And this will frighten weak-minded creatures who hear its tune—if it’s played skillfully enough.”

Oric replied, “I took the last magic ring we found, and I already frighten weak-minded creatures. Whether it is my fearsome odor or my fearsome pectoral muscles that frightens them, you be the judge.”

Odric stepped forward into a low stance with one foot far forward of the other. He flexed his chest and arms to the point where a few links of his chain mail whizzed off into the corners of the room. While doing so, a horribly loud and juicy fart rumbled out from beneath his war kilt. The palpable intimidation wafts through the room slowly, lingering for far too long.

The group returned to the Field Marshal and gave Kroft a full report. She was disturbed, certainly, but also grateful for their assistance. She passed the information on to Banker Ishani. It had been a long day for everyone. She asked that they return in the morning. She suggested that until there was a solid lead for the group to follow, that they come in each morning, and she would give them the most promising lead of the day. While the guard can’t spare any additional pay, anything that comes from Abadar’s Bank would likely also come with a reward…

The Master penned, “thus endeth the 6th of Desnus.”

Just before midnight, after the friends had dispersed after the Harrowing, the evening’s peace was shattered by a wooden screech, followed by the thunder of a trebuchet being fired. Again and again the sounds echoed from the Wall of Eodred near North Bridge, waking nearly all of North Point. Across the river in Trail’s End, torches lit and people came out just in time to see a sleek brig burn and swiftly sink into the wine-dark waters. The rest of the night passed in breathless anticipation of the wallweapons’ further use, which fortuitously never came. Next morning, gossip buzzed through the city and fanciful tales ran wild. Every tavern and street corner was abuzz with rumors of pirate raiders and ghost ships. The Crimson Throne remained quiet on the matter, though…

The next day the stories ran wild, but before long the rumors died down, and life returned to normal. Perhaps were it not for it being the night of the Harrowing, the heroes would not have noticed anything. A sinister-looking ship refused inspection as it sailed into the river. When it neared North Bridge and still failed to make its intentions known, the watch fired upon and destroyed it. None of the guardsmen who signaled or shouted out to the ship received a response. Some say that no one was on board at all.

Another week goes by with little progress on the regicide when a pounding at the door disrupted Grym’s breakfast. At the door was an extremely distraught Sergeant Grau.

While he’d grown strong again under Vencarlo’s tutelage, he seemed back to his broken self. He started without invitation, and quickly, Grym learned the source of his angst.
Grau began, “My niece is sick. I don’t know what she has and neither does 
anyone in Trail’s End. She’s broken out all over in red pocks and can barely keep down food, or even the swill that good-for-nothing herbalist gave her. Her mother’s talking about going to the Bank of Abadar, but her family can’t afford to pay the prices their clerics would demand. Then I remembered Ferox is an Inquisitor, and how you all handled yourselves during the riots, and how you helped me out, and I figured you all could help. A bunch of resourceful folk like you, I’d bet if you don’t already have a way to fix this you must know who can. Surely you can’t just sit by while a child suffers, can you?”
Grau asked if he and Grym could have some time to talk through the problem. Grym quickly agreed, and the two stepped out.

Having little in his humble home (or shed really), Grym took Grau into the Cracked Cup tavern. The owner started to yell because the tavern was still not open, but recognized Grym and waves the pair in. Having the place to themselves, the ranger sat down with Grau to talk. 
As he listened to the story, Grym paused to walk outside and get one of the local street rats. With a handful of copper coins he sent the children out as runners to find his comrades, Odric the Stout, Morkeleb the Magician, Ferox the Inquisitor, Gaius the Sting of Calistra, and Sandor the Battle Tank, and tell them Thorgrym asks for their help at the Cracked Cup.
“Grau, tell me when did you hear of your niece’s condition?” The ranger asked as warmly as he can. “I will do what I can for your niece. I have some money saved up if that’s what the Bank requires. But I really want to find out about this plague she suffers from. If this sweeps through the city…” Grym trailed off shaking his head. “Where does your niece live? Is she the only one who is sick? Please tell me all you know.”
While the two waited for Thorgrym’s companions to arrive, the ranger began another path of questioning. “Have you heard some of the crazy rumors flying around about the trebuchet shot that sunk the ship near North Point? I"m sure you know something about being in the guard. What really happened? What do you know?”

The companions arrived, singly and in pairs. Hearing of Grau’s niece’s condition, Ferox requested if he can see her. With Abadar’s Guidance, he wanted to try to diagnose what’s wrong with her.

“I’ll help in any way I can, although I don’t know what my particular skills might accomplish.” Odric announces to Grau. “Is there anything you can think of that might be helpful?”
Morkeleb’s academic interest was piqued by the guard’s problem. Typical illnesses—from what little he knew of them—are easily treated, or at least diagnosed, by folk Grau has already sought help from. Maybe this isn’t a typical illness.

“Grau, may I see your neice? I’d like to get a look at how ill she is, maybe get an idea of what is wrong. Ferox, I’ll join you. My training is in magic and alchemy, not healing as such—but maybe if we put our heads together we can make a good diagnosis.”

When the group arrived Tayce’s home, and the whole group indeed went, they entered a simple room where two boys played, oblivious to the situation. Grau introduced them as his nephews, Charlo and Rello. During the introductions a spasm of ragged coughing filled the house from above – bringing a flinch from Grau as if he had been struck. As the heroes prepared to move upstairs an acolyte from the Bank of Abadar, entered from the kitchen with a bag of herbs, brewing some concoction that smelled of cinnamon and anise. Grau is obviously displeased to see the man, whom he briskly introduced as Ishani Dhatri before going upstairs to have a sternly whispered conversation with Tayce. The acolyte looked distraught and defeated. Upon seeing an Inquisitor he stammered an apology and backed himself into the kitchen. As Ishani is backing away, Ferox points at him.

“Do not go anywhere. I’ll want to speak with you after I’ve examined the girl.” Ferox proceeded up the stairs after Grau, hoping to talk with Tayce before seeing his daughter.

As he passes the acolyte, Morkeleb asks him, “What is your diagnosis of the girl? And have you tried anything actualy curative in nature yet?”

“My good sir, I would love to use every ounce of clerical power to help the girl,” the acolyte responded, “but it goes against the core tenants of Abadar to cure her without proper recompense. There is no such taboo concerning herbal remedies and….and…. concoctions to ease her pain.”
He called after the Inquisitor, who clearly intimidates him without effort.
“Master Inquisitor, I swear, I have not broken the sacred laws! It pains my heart to stay true, but stay true I have. What scares me is that I can’t actually diagnose her disease. It’s a combination of symptoms I’ve never seen before. Please, you are not bound by our edicts. Help her!”

The wizard pressed him, “If it is a combination of symptoms you haven’t heard of, perhaps the nature of the sickness isn’t natural. What kind of symptoms are we talking about?”

The conversation continued downstairs, while on the stairway, Tayce came down and met the Inquisitor half way. Her expression was both desperate and depressed. She possessed a simple beauty, scarcely hidden by her disheveled appearance and wan features— it’s obvious that she’d not slept in more than a day. She eyed Ferox’ sacred key warily, but with a nod from Grau, she took Ferox by the hand and lead him upstairs.

The creaky steps opened up into a bedroom loft above the main room of the Soldado home. A young girl with auburn hair lay in one of the beds, her slight frame dwarfed by the bed’s size and the pile of pillows, afghans, and quilts surrounding her. Splotches of an angry red rash covered her face and arms, appearing in irregular shapes and sizes. Suddenly, her restlessness was interrupted by a violent fit of hacking coughs that jerked her entire frame, lifting her well off her pillows. The spasm passed after a moment, dropping her back to the bed, but seemingly having done little to ease her breathing.

Ferox agreed with Acolyte Ashani’s prognosis. He had never seen this disease before, and he had a pretty good mind for this kind of thing. It must have been something new. Nevertheless, he saw no reason why the malady couldn’t be cured with a simple spell of Remove Disease.

Gaius asks politely from behind Ferox, looking over the Inquisitor’s shoulder, “Grau. Would you permit me to hire a Calistrian to cast a spell to remove the disease? I cover the cost, and only ask that you owe me a favor. One that I promise will not conflict with your oaths, obligations, or conscience.”

Gaius holds out his hand, offering a handshake to seal the deal.

Grau replied, “Master Gaius, I have most of the cost of the spell. If you would hire a priest, then Ashani is here now and will do it. I would pay you back as soon as I am able, saving only enough of my pay cover food.”

“Pish-posh.” Gaius interrupted, “We can work out a less draconian schedule than that! Let’s have Ashani cast the spell, if…” Gaius pauses, looking Ashani up and down and then nodding slightly. “he’s strong enough. I mean no disrespect, but I heard someone here identify him as an Acolyte. I’ll cover whatever you’re not able to. Please be sure to leave yourselves ample to eat well and recover in reasonable comfort. We can work out details later.”

At the offered funds, Ashani immediately took the money with a prayer to Abadar and rushed upstairs. The spell was already on his lips, and after mere seconds, the holy light covered the girl. Her coughing fits and restlessness immediately vanished. Tayce was overwhelmed, tears flowing freely. Brienna woke almost immediately. She was slightly befuddled by the crowd of strangers in the house and all the fuss before she asked her mother if lunch was ready yet. Now Tayce’s personal heroes, she profusely thanked you all with hugs and kisses. Although the Soldados could hardly afford to compensate the group, Tayce was eager to prepare you a feast—a considerable reward, considering her cooking skill. The group was offered a permanent open invitation to the Soldado house, which swiftly took on a celebratory air as she alternated between preparing food and hugging her daughter.
Ashani was also moved to tears. "The tenents of my faith are clear as you no doubt know from your Inquisitor friend. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made the correct choice in my life. I know I can do more good, and it’s not against the Golden One’s teachings to assist in charity work. My charitable work sometimes requires the aid of those outside my church’s rigid hierarchies… might you be amenable to me contacting you in the future?”

Grym assured Ashani that for good causes he is happy to help.

Sandor was glad to accept the hearty meal with the Soldado’s. He tries to make sure he takes a spot at the table that shows the good side of his face to the little lady.

He started to reach for a nice stiff pull at his dwarven ale, when he remembered Grau’s former condition. While giving a look of kindness to Ashani, and a glance around the table to the rest…
“Lads tis a good thing that we did ‘ere tonight. Tayce the food is amazing. Thank you for inviting us to stay for dinner.” Sandor raises his cup “A good dinner such as this can’t go without a toast!”

Morkeleb blanched at the word toast. Knowing the dwarf’s toasts have been nothing short of pornographic in the past. Sandor caught Gaius’ smirk. Just before Grym and Ferox can cut him off he started in,

“Ta the old, long life and treasure; 

Ta the young, all health ’n pleasure;”

he reaches over and taps the head of Brienna 


“Ta the fair, their face, 

With eternal grace; 

’N the rest, ta be loved at leisure.”

Sandor finished his cup. Which sat on his pleasantly full belly, and then let out a belch that could be nothing less than a huge sign of approval for the cook. He looked around with a smile realized that Tayce may not be used to Dwarven customs and with what would be a embarrassed shy smile he said with an apologetic shrug “See lass I told ya the meal was good.”

Sandor, sensing that it was getting late for the Saldado children offered to help clean up. After things were clean, Sandor took a dishtowel that was still very wet, he looks around to see who wasn’t looking. Then he twirled it up and snaps Odric on the back of his thigh while Odric is bending over showing the boys his “flexibility” exercises. The loud crack, and the jump from the big man brought a bit of laughter from everyone and a scowl from Odric. Sandor knows he will pay later for the act.

“Now that this towel is properly dirty I will put it in your laundry basket.”
As he put the dirty linen in the wash, he took a platinum piece and wrapped it in the towel and then placed it in the bottom of the basket. This should help keep the kids in clothes and food.
With a satisfied smirk on his face Sandor waited for a break in the conversation.
“Again thank ya fer ya hospitality. May ya daughters recovery happen unabated. Lads I am going to retire to me house, but I think we should sit and talk before the nights end. I do believe the Cracked cup is between ’ere and me house so lets meet there. Sgt Grau, unless ya have something that needs your attention or my house will be a better venue for ya, ya are more than invited to attend”
Sandor waited for an answer, then left. On his walk he was struck with the events in the little house. The worry of the Uncle and the Mother, the overall relief felt from the entire family and friends alike. The children calling him Uncle Sandor. Dinner time reminded him of his family eating at the community table sharing in fellowship with not just family, but neighbors both near and far.
It was then that the picture spawns in his head. A picture of the future. The future when times in Korvosa have calmed. The time when Cressida and the Crown no longer need his services. His vision includes a forge of his own. Two apprentices, Charlo and Rello if they want to learn a trade and their mother will let them. Talking Master Vencarlo Orsini into a contract to where his forge will provide weapons and armor for his students at a discounted price for the prestige of being associated with his school.
The daydream continues into the mundane steps of how to make it happen… upon arriving at his destination he whispered to himself…” It all begins and ends with… Family”
Gaius made an excuse and goes to find Kroft. He knocked on her window and showed up asking if she fancied a stroll. “Greetings, Field Marshall. Are you well? Listen, there are strange things afoot. Can we talk?”

He clearly woke the Field Marshal. Though retired for the night she was fast asleep at her desk when he came to the window. She had changed into rather sheer night clothes of clear elven make. After a minute or two without modesty she grabed a cloak and straps a sword belt to her waist….Clearly this delay to action was purposeful.

The Whip of Calistra mentioned the scuttling of the ship and disease and casually dropped that he fronted half of the cost to heal the child, and mentioned it’s possible connection. In all he showed honest concern about an epidemic in the city.

After sharing his ponderings with her, she decided that more action needed to be taken. But first she shared some other news. The queen authorized a reward of 5,000 Sails for information leading to the capture of Trinia. Furthermore, today was delivered a note of the most peculiar sort. It was addressed to the six members of the party, and requested their presence at the Osirini Academy first thing at daybreak. The note was signed “B”. Nothing more…. The night ended with a very warm hug, much to Gaius’ frustration and disappointment.

With the dwarf wandering down the street towards the Cracked Cup, it was an easy matter for Odric to steadily maneuver himself in front of the distracted and woolgathering dwarf. Upon finding a suitably rancid and disgusting puddle, the human casually bent down to adjust his boot straps and deftly extended his other foot behind him to trip the dwarf in retaliation for the towel snap.
After all around had a hearty laugh at the sputtering dwarf, Odric helped him up genially. The big fighter’s plans backfire as the befouled dwarf embraced Odric in a giant avuncular hug.
Seeing the antics of his comrades on their way to the Cracked Cup reminded Ferox of the pranks he and the other boys pulled on each other back in his youth. The stench wafting from Odric and Sandor reminded him of when he, Pidge, Renny, and Neko stuffed poor, little Idej down the third story privy chute. The headmasters didn’t find him ‘till morning; not ’till after the faculty on that floor had used the loo after evening mess and that morning’s ablutions. As the group laughs with Sandor and Odric, Ferox laughs with them but with tears of sadness in his eyes.

He wiped his eyes as he followed his companions into the Cracked Cup.

With the group, except Gaius, all laughing and as usual staying upwind of Sandor and Odric, they threw open the door to the Cup and pour inside, the picture of good cheer and camaraderie.
As they sat down, Ferox offered to buy a round of drinks for the table. When they were served, he lifted his mug to his friends. “Sorry about the poo.” He drank his mug down in one big gulp and called for another.

Sandor began, “Hey lads I brought ya here ta discuss what is on all of our minds. How did that sweet lil lass get sick like that. I may be thinking the worst and worrying to soon. But I have a few questios that need answered. Does it tie in with the ship sinking. Sergeant Grau, did you hear of anyone on that ship trying to swim ta shore as it was sinking? If not when and where did they get off? Who would benefit wit an epidemic in the city? What can we do to get out in front if it? Ideas anyone?”

Sandor waited a moment and then answered his own questions.

“Excluding external threats, I am sure there are several people who would benefit, but with her strange behavior the queen would highly benefit. She could impose martial law. Any of her detractors could disappear and be blamed on the disease. And if she opens her coffers she could be seen as the savior of the city. Not saying she is complicit. Just saying she could greatly benefit. Same with any of the faiths they could benefit as well.

External threats: do we know of any that practice the pestilence approach? Or trying to weaken our cities economy?

ta get out in front of this we need to get all of the faiths on the same page. Which is the survival of Korvosa. Once it is confirmed send out criers to stop the snake oil false cures from preying on te weak and feeble. Get medical and such supplies away from looters and a good plan to deal with the bodies to keep them from piling up haphazardly”

Sandor went on a bit more and finishes up with “ohh and while the rest are handling that. We will be eliminating those behind this if it was intentional”

Thorgrym added, “Do you really think one of the faiths is behind this? Surely none of the good ones would do this. Abadar isnt good but is neutral, however law and fairness is sort of thier thing. Are there any openly evil faiths operating in Korvosa?” The ranger ponders a moment… 
”That f allen paladin we vanquished. He was a follower of Norbinger, I think the god is called. An evil god, is associated with the color gray and favors the short sword.” Thorgrym looks around the room. “Reminds me a little too much of these “grey maidens” the queen has running around. They all carry short swords don’t they?”

After hearing Sandor speak, Ferox offered, “I think it prudent to wait ‘till morning. We have only one case of an unknown illness. That its timing coincides so closely to the sinking of that ship is certainly cause for concern, but I want more information before we act. Tomorrow, we should find out as much as we can about any other afflictions similar to Brienna’s. See if we do have an epidemic on our hands. If we can examine more patients, maybe we can determine how it is spread. Find out what precautions the populous can take. If we determine the illness is unnatural, then we can examine our options then.”

After listening to the Inquisitor’s wise words, Grym suddenly blurted out “Norgober!” 
He looked a little embarressed but went on. “Sorry, the evil god is called Norgober, not Norbinger. Ive heard him called the Grey Master. I might be grasping at straws but I dont like those grey maidens. I like them even less if they are disciples of some evil god.”

Morkeleb sat quietly, fingers pressed together, thinking intently. As far as the tenants of the faith go, the wizard didn’t recognize any connection to the Grey Maidens, though Grym did point out some interesting coincidences.

Grau said, “It seems way to big of a coincidence that my niece got sick so close to the sinking of the ship. But I can’t fathom” (He doesn’t notice the pun) “how they would be connected. Brie was asleep in bed at that time. It’s worth looking into. Maybe we ought to try the Bank tomorrow. I’m sure Ferox could get some answers.”

Sandor rubbed his belly and rumbled contentedly, “Thank ya gentleman it has been a fine evening. I’m off to the bath then ta me house. Ferox, meet you at the Bank one bell after daybreak. If anyone needs anything sooner please send a runner.”

Gaius entered and stopped Sandor dead in his tracks at the door of The Cracked Cup. “Hold, Master Dwarf. We’ve one more matter to discuss before we all retire.”

He held up the note, waving it at the party, “We’ve been summoned.” He passed the note to the others and told them about the 5,000 Sail reward for the capture of Trinia. He sat at a table, puts up his feet and ordered a flagon of mead.

Morkeleb, a thoughtful look on his stern face, said, “I surmise that it is not more work for the good Field Marshal, as she’d have spoken directly to us. Who summons us, and for what purpose?”
Sandor listened to the Sting of Calistra and pondered a moment.

With a sudden chuckle and as sly a smirk as any had seen from Sandor yet, he looked at each of his friends and said quietly so that only they could hear, “Lads… if she is willing to pay that much for information leading to her capture well lets keep all of her agents very very busy and start a misinformation campaign” he tilted his head a little, “hmm only one thing wrong with that.. we really don’t know where she is, so we might accidently tell the truth, but I am sure we can keep the Grey Maidens very very busy if that is who she sends to collect and track down any leads.”

The dwarf continued, “I will share one more cup before I take my leave and for those that want to go I will meet you at the Osirini acadamy in the morning.”

He then handed Grym five sail and whispered “Grym this be ya hole in the wall, add this ta the tab so as ta keep it a safe place for ya.”

On the morning of 5 Desnus, after a fitful night’s sleep, Odric made his way to the appointed meeting place with the mysterious “B”. He was clean-shaven and bathed, to the group’s mild surprise and delight.

Odric looked around and saw every member of the party, standing by ready for pretty much anything.
Anticipation hung heavy in the cool morning air.

“Good morning.” said Grym in a quiet voice to Odric. The ranger was squatting down petting Bucho. Then he stood and started throwing a stick for the brindle dog waiting for the meeting.

When everyone was assembled, a nondescript man in a wide brimmed hat approached. When he tilted his head up, it was Vencarlo. “Good morning lads, quickly come inside.”

He unlocked the school and placed a sign on the door reading “Classes closed for the day.” He lead the group through a salle that is familiar to some of the party members. He lead the way into the back room, which no one in the group had ever seen. There was a small table, and the smell of a hearty breakfast wafted in the air.

“A …mutual friend of ours delivered to me a package some time ago, a package I need help delivering to its final destination.”

And with that, and based on her astonished expression at seeing the six friends who so recently captured her, Trinia stepped out of a kitchenette around the corner to serve coffee…

Morkeleb blinked, “Well, this was unexpected.”

Gaius, looked to Morkeleb, “Expect the unexpected.”
Gaius nods and is nonplussed. “Good Morn, Lady Trinia. Are you well? I don’t suppose you can confirm your innocence for us before we break our fast. Clearly, we’re here and open to the theory that you are blameless for His Majesty Eodred’s death, but let’s all get fully undressed before we get into bed together.”

“I am innocent!” She started with a burst. "I was simply a painter. I’ve never had physical access to the king, besides…who would want that? What I don’t know is who framed me. I don’t believe that they’re all evil, but someone close to the king is the guilty party. It may be the queen, yes. But I also think her handmaiden Sabina is equally likely. I’m just not sure. I’m here now, and I’m not on the run. If you have divinatory magic, I’m an open book to all…well, all of you anyway.”
Vencarlo said, “The day of the … execution… Blackjack showed up here and dropped her off. He knows that I’m no fan of the queen, and knew I’d be here. His goals are inscrutable, well actually it’s not his goals as he’s always just wanted what’s best for Korvosa. It’s his plans and methods that I know not. Either way, he assumed correctly that I did not believe that Trinia was guilty. What he didn’t figure was that he was dropping her off to someone who is too well known to help get her out of the city. I can’t go through the gates without questioning. This is, I believe, where he wants you to come into the picture.”

Ferox interjected, “While I’m glad to see that you are well, Trinia, I’m reluctant to take any action before we know definitively of your innocence. You say that you are an open book. Very well. If you will indulge me, I need to make a quick trip to the Bank. When I return, I hope to be able to determine the truth from you. If you are indeed innocent, I will happily aid in your escape and redouble my efforts to discover who truly assassinated the king.”

Gaius looks Vencarlo and Trinia over and listens dispassionately. He doesn’t get any hunches about Trinia, but felt that Vencarlo knew more than he was letting on.

“Trinia, before we agree to anything, I have a couple of questions,” Gaius begins and takes a sip of coffee. He is visibly taken aback by the quality of the grind, the low acidity, the strength of the flavor, and the unexpected smooth finish. He looks to Master Vencarlo and nods approvingly with a devilish grin, and silently notes that he’d describe Vencarlo’s fencing technique with the same words. Turning back to Trinia, Gaius continues, “Can you tell me why it was reported that you confessed, what your duties were while at The Court of Eodred, and if you had a relationship with His Majesty. If you indeed had no physical access to The King, tell me more. Anything you may have heard or seen that was unusual, no matter how mundane. Even if you don’t understand it.”

Trinia locked eyes with Gaius, “I was his painter. Believe me, if it were up to him there’d be physical contact. He was a dirty old man, but the queen would never allow him to be alone with me. I never confessed. They never even asked me any questions, they just locked me in a room with the Queen’s body guard and a strange cloaked man. I never saw his face, and didn’t catch him casting a spell, but he looked at me for a good hour and simply declared me guilty.”
After Ferox returned, she sat patiently and gave Ferox her undivided attention.

The Inquisitor reads the scroll quietly to himself, and when he locked his gaze on the woman before him, his words held the weight of a powerful magic, “Trinia, did you by direct action or by collusion with another assassinate the king?”

He waits with bated breath for her answer.

Did you do it?, he asks the mage sitting across from him at the large oak table. Other than the lanterns for light, the small stone room they were in was bare.

The case seemed more trouble than it was worth. If not for the pressure from some of the noblemen in the city, Ferox didn’t think the case would have even been put in from of him. It had taken several weeks of investigation to track down the sorcerer. The hardest part had been convincing the women to divulge the spell-caster’s identity. In the end, only one of the ladies talked, and only provided the slightest of hints. But that small tip was enough to start the dominoes falling.
Don’t make this any harder on yourself. We have evidence tying you to the women. You got a little sloppy there. Again, did you do it?

She responded with a single word, “No.” She displayed no discomfort, not even a twitch.

Ferox lets out the breath he was holding. PHEW! Ha! What a relief! Ha. Hoo boy. Ferox leans back against a wall for a moment to catch his breath. You had me worried there for a bit. Heh. Alrighty then. Getting you out of the city. Where are we supposed to be taking you? I assume that haste is needed. So the sooner we head out the better?

Thorgrym sat quietly through most of the proceedings, just listening and watching. 
”Five thousand is a lot of money, but I don’t think I could accept it for someone who is innocent. Especially since we know she isn’t going to get a fair trial.” The ranger paused as if considering his words. “I’ll help. Though at the moment I don’t have much of a plan.”

Gaius continued his line of questioning, “A cloaked man. Symbols? Designs on the cloak? Did he say anything? Walk with a limp? Any details at all?”

“No symbols. He never spoke. I only assume he was male because of the shape of his body. The cloak was more like a coat, loaded with pockets, seemingly empty. He wore a wide brimmed hat. He also wore a mask, looked like a bird with a long beak.” Trinia stated matter of factly. When asked to draw the mask, she produced a beautiful image of a Doctor’s Mask.

Satisfied that she didn’t have anything to do with the Kings death after Ferox puts her to the question Sandor is relieved that his gut was right.

“Ok Master Osirini it looks like we are good with getting her out of the city, and Odric has a plan that seems to serve a dual purpose one that I would like ta help out wit also. Where did you want her to go?” The dwarf asked.

“Master Osirini, Trinia,” he continued, “I do ‘ave a question or two fer ya. Trinia said that the queen’s bodyguard was in the room with you when you were found guilty. Am I assuming correctly that your talking about the Grey Maiden Sabine? If so sir, she was your student what do you believe her capable of? What can you tell us about her mind especially her tendencies for fight or flight, or assessing a situation? Weaknesses in her fighting style? Fer I am sure that it will come down ta a fight between the maidens and us at some point.”

While the others pondered the grand conspiracy, Odric decided to test the city’s perimeter. He planned to seek out and hire wagon to deliver a load of empty kegs out of the city. As part of a new brewing technique, Odric intended to fill the kegs from a mineral-rich spring he heard about that supplies the coldest and tastiest water.

His preparation took two steps, first, he asked about town to gather information on a likely water source. 
Next he sought a reliable teamster who could make a couple trips over the course of the next two days.

Odric asked about the Gold Market and Eodred’s Walk, looking for some merchant or farmer selling produce who could tell him of a likely spring near the city, but out of sight of the walls. His intent was to find something close to the point Vencarlo wants Trinia delivered.

After a pleasant hour talking spiritedly with the innumerable characters of the city he loves, Odric thought he might have a pretty good idea where to look. Odric made no secret about the purpose of his asking; he wanted to find a new water source for his beer, and as incentive to anyone who offered him some good information he makes promises of free samples once the beer is complete. He writes down names and intends to make good on his debts.

That done, Odric headed to Pinking Shears for a shave and a haircut. He bantered with the other customers, men he had known for years and tried unsuccessfully to get Ol’ Hooktooth to laugh at some raunchy jokes. As usual, Odric got nowhere with the ugly half-orc, but was supremely satisfied with his hairdo. One of the men in the barber shop suggested checking with local barkeeps and tavern owners. The man reasoned that they might be able to refer the Adventurer cum Brewer to a likely teamster.

As Odric enjoyed the spring day, he made the rounds of some of the shops in his neighborhood. He thought he might have a promising lead after talking to Uncle Salty, the lecherous swarthy barkeep at Aram’s Crown. Uncle Salty directed Odric to what he promises is a reliable teamster with an incurious demeanor with the unlikely name of Pickles.

Once Odric met the teamster and inspected the wagon, he engaged in a rather intense bout of negotiations, during which he allowed himself to be bested but only after a hard-fought pitched battle. As he negotiated the price, Odric is certain to include a promise of a free sample of the newest version of The Stout, made from the crystal clear waters of the spring they will travel to. Odric does insist however, that Pickles “take a walk” and allow Odric to fill his barrels with the “mysterious” water in private. The men agree on the rate of 3 copper pinch per mile with a promise of an extra sail if the water is delivered to Master Bartleby’s brewery on time.

After some good-natured haggling in the Gold Market, Odric bought five barrels for a price of two sail each, delivered to Master Bartleby’s brewery. He ensured that the barrels are large enough to accommodate Trinia within. His plan is to allow her to breathe through the bunghole.

Odric and Grym accompanied the Teamster on the trip that afternoon, engaging him in friendly banter the entire trip. Odric was becoming a renowned conversationalist in town, and his beer was getting to be quite well known too.

At the point where the wagon left the city, Odric was careful to observe any suspicion, scrutiny or interest in his activities. 
He carried with him a small keg of Odric, The Stout in order to offer as samples. These samples might be interpreted as advertisement, good will and bonhomie, but certainly not as bribery!

After all was said and done, Odric had five barrels of water, a bit of intelligence to report to his friends, Trinia and Vencarlo, and released Pickles for the evening with a promise to repeat the process tomorrow.

Rejoining his friends, Odric said, “Today I was probing defenses. If we get some good intel out of this, we can certainly act on it. I am not married to this plan, so if someone has a better one – let’s explore it!”

With pride, the brewer said, “Either way, new batch of The Stout will taste of adventure, aged whiskey, oak charcoal and a lady. Should be an instant classic.”

Gaius said, “No, that can work. I was also thinking of using my Disguise Self spell to look like Trinia and act as a diversion.” He continued, “I’m thinking if Trinia were noticed in Old Korvosa, trying to secure passage on a ship out, that might pull some heat from the gates, letting Odric and his Stout out of the city gates. Spell lasts for 10 minutes. It’s long enough to start some rumors and not long enough to have me in danger for long. A quick diversion will keep the guard chasing rumors all day.”

Turning to the roguish rogue, the Dwarf said, “Gaius I like the way ya think, but I would severly caution against Trinia or you being spotted in the city while we won’t take five thousand sails there are many more that would return her or you dead for the reward. Maybe you can take a trip in a different direction than we go ’n be spotted travelin that way.”

Odric’s, your reconnaissance worked like a charm. He found the holes in the defenses that he was looking for, but he noticed something in the process. While the beer trick worked like a charm, he got the impression that such a window wouldn’t last long. Border guards seemed more numerous at the end of the day than the beginning. Grym hunted well while outside the walls, and his brace of rabbits was guaranteed to make a good dinner. The gate guards seemed conflicted. They treated Grym like a hero, but they seemed intent on not drawing the sergeant’s attention for being lax in their duties.

Sandor slapped the table and said, “Good then I think we should make our special beer run first thing in the morning about two hours before guard change if the gates are open. If not then two hours after. I will be ready when Odric says let’s go”

As the meeting broke up, and as everyone took their leave Sandor caught Vencarlo alone for a minute.
“Master Osirini a moment of your alone time for two things. I couldn’t help but notice there is a big weight on ya shoulders. No no I know it’s more than just harboring Trinia. Now I’m a warrior who’s a bit older than the lads, and I knows how ta keep me mouth shut, so if ya need someone ta talk to over an ale just let me know. I’m sure we’re on tha same side, which is Korvosa, and it’s going ta take a lot of good people to temper the vileness I feel commin from the Queen as opposed to Eodred. So when ya are ready ta talk n need someone ta listen let me know. This ole dwarf can keep a secret.”

Sandor nodded for emphasis. “The second thing is much less important at least for now. One of these days when Korvosa is umm I guess stable, and doesn’t require my services, I intend to open my own smithy, and I would like to come to a buisness arrangement with ya. If ya didn’t know I made this armor, and me three dwarven weapons I carry,” he placed them down for Vencarlo to inspect “I don’t know if you have an arrangement with a smithy yet, but I would like to become the exclusive provider of arms and armour to your school, and would be willing to offer a discount to graduates of your acadamy. I know it’s a little soon to make anything final, but I want to start warming ya up ta the idea.”

The plan in motion, Gaiushid out, cast his spell to disguise himself and sought passage on a ship out of the city. He did his best to appear suspicious. Odric and Grym set up for another water gathering expedition. Except this time Trina’s supple body was folded up inside one of the barrels.

Given the meticulous planning, the escape from the city was a resounding success. Trinia made it out safely. Before leaving, she gifts Odric with a kiss that’s far more than a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much. All of you. I’m so sorry to have put you into this position. Someday, when the time is right and the backdrop is more favorable, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

She refused to take an offered Wand of Daze Monster from Morkeleb, insisting instead that he use it, then keep it as a memento of her.

She called out over her shoulder while walking away, “Thank you again!”

The huge warrior muttered “You’re welcome! And thank you very much!” He rubs the spot where she kissed him, then takes his hand out from under his war kilt.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!

Odric’s door shuddered with the impatient knocking. He rolled over, bed ropes creaking and cracked an eye, gauging the time by the dim light outside his window to be about an hour before dawn.

The knocking continued getting louder. Joining in the cacophony, some of Odric’s neighbors began shouting and complaining. Before the watch was summoned, Odric staggered out of bed, sleep clouding his eyes. He grabbed the closest weapon at hand, The Eage off of the mantle and stumbled blindly for the door in his nightshirt and nothing else.

“Hold on, I’m coming” he mumbled. With The Eagle raised to strike, but hidden behind the barely opened door. “Yes?”

The impatient messenger was sharply dressed and appeared to be a member of the Field Marshal’s hand picked runners. Odric lowered The Eagle slightly as the man handed Odric a note, “compliments of the Field Marshal sir. I will await your reply sir.”

Odric quickly scanned the missive: “It’s an emergency. I need you, and Korvosa is depending on you." -Cressida.

He nodded curtly to the man, all sleepiness gone in a moment. “I will be there forthwith” Odric stated matter-of-factly, and closed the door.

The massive fighter quickly donned his clothes, padding and his new suit of Chainmail. He cinched down his belt, replaced The Eagle on the mantle and slid his new falchion into place at his side. Odric splashed water on his face, looked at himself in the poor mirror of polished steel and headed for the door. On his way by the sideboard he grabbed a piece of fruit and an old roll for breakfast.

Once on West High Street, Odric could hear the city awakening as merchants wheeled their carts into place and farmers streamed in from the recently-opened gates with the day’s fresh meat and produce. The air of excitement was a bit out of the ordinary today as he emerged into Eodred’s Walk, Odric recalled the execution was scheduled for this very night. He quickened his pace.

After a short jog around some men setting up a large concession tent amidst boisterous argument in a strange tongue, Odric beheld the Citadel, black against the lightening predawn sky.

Once within the curtain wall, Odric spotted Sandor, Grym and Morkeleb talking quietly near an iron and beam portcullis. He joined them to see they had similar notes from the Field Marshal. Guessing they would meet their other friends within, the group entered the Citadel proper and headed towards Kroft’s offices. Gaius leaned casually against the doorway to Kroft’s offices, nodded to the group and followed them in.

A manservant brought coffee for the group while they awaited Ferox, who’s home is furthest from the citadel. Once he arrived, the group entered the Field Marshal’s spartan but tasteful office to find her pacing.

She began abruptly, “My friends, this is the day I’ve been dreading. Something doesn’t sit right with this, and the way things have been going in Korvosa, I’m worried that another riot will break out. The queen has turned this into some kind of social affair. Would that the woman who passes the sentence swing the axe. Instead it’s going to be a who’s who of the upper class. I want you there today, please. I’m not asking you to do anything other than keep the peace if something horrible happens. You’ve got about 12 hours. I implore you not to interfere, just protect our city."

Ever practical, Morkeleb asked, “Are we to understand that Trinia is the one sentenced—despite her innocence? And are we to infer, therefore, that the Queen is either trying to make the girl a scapegoat because the real killer hasn’t been found, or is perhaps not under her full faculties?” He continued, “If you don’t want us to intervene, why are we to be there—just crowd control?”

Grym and Odric looked to each other and nodded almost imperceptibly. While he stroked Bucho’s blocky head the ranger assured her that the group will be ready. Odric asked, “What are the rules of engagement?” his mind is running over possibilities and contingencies. He is worried that with vague or unclear instructions, disaster could come from a misunderstanding as much as from some malicious activity.

“Gentlemen, I don’t have rules of engagement for this. It’s nothing I’ve ever dealt with before. I need you because I trust your judgment. Read the situation and protect Korvosa. It’s all I can ask. Sadly, I don’t have any reward I can offer you.” Kroft returned to her desk and began looking over some maps she had splayed out across the scarred surface.

Ferox assured her, “Field Marshall, rest assured that we’ll do all that we can to maintain the peace. How are we to attend the Queen‘s event? We are not among the city’s social elite. Will we be allowed admittance to the event?”
The Field Marshal looked up to the Inquisitor, her appreciation at his promised assistance plain on her care-worn face. “I’ve arranged to get you all invited. You’ve become folk heroes now, and that’s enough for the aristocracy. I wanted ”/campaigns/sfoundercotct/characters/vencarlo-orisini" class=“wiki-content-link”>Vencarlo to go in the same capacity, but he’s taking a stand about not being there."

Gaius smiled sweetly and a little sadly. But nodded in agreement with The Marshal and with the others. He lingered, as to be the last one to leave, holding the door for his companions. Just as Morkeleb passed through the door, Gaius looked the enchanter in the eyes and whispered, “I won’t be a moment. See you tonight at the execution.” Gaius then shut the door, leaving him alone with Field Marshal Cressida.

While appearing to idly look around the office, Gaius spoke and observed Cressida, taking careful note of details in her office and her choice of decor. His demeanor was friendly and genuinely curious. He said, “You’ve borne many burdens over the last several weeks, Field Marshal. You’ve performed admirably and with honor. You are an intriguing woman, Lady. How are you holding up?”

Cressida’s office featured many antiques of martial days past, ancient shields and helms, old maps, and the like. She seemed tired and stressed, though she gave Gaius a weak smile. "I’ve been better my friend, I won’t lie. I want this day to be done. Once this chapter is closed we’ll be back to normal I suspect… If you can quell any riots. When all is said and done I’ve got a contraband bottle of rum from the Shackles, the seven of us will split it.”

“Rum for seven is good. Dinner for two is better,” Gaius says, his voice is warm and inviting but his expression is focused and intense.

“My professional friend, I’m not normally one for dalliance. But I’ll make a pact with you. Make through tonight without the city devolving into chaos, and we’ll share breakfast.” The rogue is clearly pleased with the prospect, for upon taking his leave and exiting the Citadel he bellows “For law and order! Have at thee!” earning him some odd looks from those citizens on the broad avenue who heard him.

Grym caught up with Gaius in Eodred’s Walk. Grym was a little nervous about being around such high society people tonight. He was a street rat for so many years… 
Grym asked Gaius of a tailor or shop he could recommend. The ranger was looking for clothes that could fit in amongst high class, yet still be fit for fencing, adventuring, and stealth. He also assured Gaius he does not want to look “sluttastic”. 

Gaius assured Thorgrym that this would definitely not be an occasion for sluttastic. He lead Grym to a surprisingly staid tailor named Marcus in Old Korvosa. This shop was for men. Simple designs, high quality, and neutral colors were featured.
Grym raised his eyebrows when he sees the simple shop, seemingly incongruous with the rogue who favored yellow and black. Gaius looked at Thorgrym and smirked.
A bit drab, I know. Marcus is an old contact and I knew this would be right up your alley. Besides, he’ll have something for me in the back.
Marcus takes good care of the pair.
Grym then went home and polished his new magical studded leather armor up as best he can. His boots, blades, and leather belt got the same treatment. Last but not least he went to an up scale leather worker and purchases a nice leather collar with well polished brass fittings for Bucho.
If he is well dressed and can at least look the part of a noble swordsman, that will be half the battle to acting the part. His heart is noble if not his birth and blood. It should be enough.

The others shopped, prepared or spent their time in a variety of ways, until the appointed hour.

The execution was not an affair to be missed. The toast of Korvosa was in attendance in garish gowns, fine capes, and enough jewels to blind a common man. The overall feel of the event was that of a grand ball or party, not an assassin’s public execution. The group had time to hobnob with the elite of Korvosa. One notable personage not in attendance was Vencarlo Orisini, although given his outspoken disdain for the queen, this doesn’t surprise any of the adventurers.
Queen Ileosa emerged amid a great flourish and pomp as heralds announced her arrival with a fanfare of music and drums. This queen was not the subdued mourner who met the group when returning the broach —Queen Ileosa has fully accepted the mantle of sole monarch now, and carried herself with poise, style, and grace. She wore a green and white silk dress worth thousands of gold coins, and was attended by a small army of servants – The Grey Maidens. Chief among these was Sabina, her expression neutral but ever watchful for possible problems in the crowd. Ileosa took her seat in a high throne-like chair at one end of the public courtyard, while the headman’s block stood ominously at the other. The executioner was a towering, muscular man wearing an executioner’s helm and idly holding an immense axe—he remained motionless until his services were called upon
Gaius hummed Korvosa’s national anthem while he loaded a poisoned bolt into his hand crossbow and set it up for a smooth and easy draw. He paused in his humming, to address the others. “You know something? I’ve half a mind to shoot the executioner and start a riot to screen a hasty retreat, bard in hand. I won’t, mind you. I’m not ready for a blaze of stupidity like that and besides, I have breakfast plans.”
The rogue, dressed as a minor noble swordsman in yellow silk and black leather, laughed bitterly but then quickly resumed a serene demeanor. At times, Gaius can seem quite mad.
“But make no mistake…” the rogue continued, “Something about this stinks to The Nine Hells. I don’t like uncertainty! I don’t like not knowing!”
His attention returns to the ax about to fall, and takes his holy symbol from beneath his shirt, displaying it.
“Though if there is vengence to be had for this… I can see to that. Oh, yes. I can see to that.”
Gaius resumed humming the national anthem.
Morkeleb was as stoic as usual, simply taking stock of the situation. “Gaius, I cannot disagree with you. This does all seem wrong. However, our task is not to cause trouble, but to rebuff it. I find it unfortunate and a little sad that we captured her, and now she is being executed—but I have no time for, or interest in, politics. Triana’s death is on the Queen’s head, and she must be the one who sleeps tonight, or not, because of it.”
Gaius said, “Morkeleb, Trinia’s death isn’t my concern. It’s not knowing what’s really going on here. My concern is where that ax falls next.”

Ferox added, “I agree. I don’t like that Cressida wasn’t given the time to determine Trinia’s guilt or not. There isn’t much to be done for Trinia now, but we can certainly try to continue our own investigation into the matter later.”
Ferox said a quick prayer to Abadar for guidance and began scanning the crowd and the perimeter for anything out of the ordinary.
As the execution drew near, Grym see that his training partner, Sargeant Grau was on duty. He takes a moment to talk to you quietly. “My friend, this is a dark day, but do not stick your neck out. I beg you. Please watch your friend Odric, for I fear his sense of heroism may lead to something rash. There will be another day for justice if this is not it…” With that he hastened back to his detail.
Odric offeed samples of his beer to the crowd with a jovial tone, but edged closer and closer to the headsman. He maneuvered himself to the front or as close as he could get to the executioner.

Seeing Odric’s jostling form adging closer and closer to the headsman, Morkeleb casts ‘Message’ to whisper in the warrior’s ear, “Remember your charge. You are here to stop trouble, not cause it. Trinia’s fate is out of your hands.”
Grym heeded Sergeant Grau’s words and pressed to get closer to Odric. He asked for a sample of the “Stout” to cover his movements. 
The ranger took a drink to steel his nerves. The flavor is strong and the alcoholic content seems strong as well to the ranger. A mug and no more if he wants keep his mind sharp tonight. Grym’s heart cried a little as he sensed an innocent person about to die for crimes Grym doesn’t believe she committed. 
Without trying to do so, Thorgrym’s mind’s eye starts measuring the steps. A few swift moves and small jump to the stage. It would be easy to land a telling “stop cut” to the wrist of the executioner wielding such a heavy ax. He lacked Odric’s massive strength, but half-elven girl was slight of build. Grym figured even if she couldn’t move he could have her over his shoulder and be off. Especially with his well-trained Bucho covering his escape with jaws snarling… 
…And that is where his daydream ended. Surely brave Bucho would fall to the sword and spear of the Grey Maidens. Grym would be sacrificing his trusted comrade and breaking his word of honor to Cressida. The ranger never wanted to break his word to anyone, be they an honorless rogue or not. Yet the Field Marshall seemed to be better then most. Grym’s word was his bond, he couldn’t break it. Yet, his heart ached for this single person to be scapegoated.
Is one unjust death worth peace and possible hundreds more dead or raped out in the streets? The ranger’s head ached with his heart. He liked a simple task of tracking down a known criminal or raiding the warrens of an evil necromancer. He preferred to leave the skull sweat to the likes of Morkeleb and the others. 
Quietly and barely audible he prayed, “Sarenrae, I seldom pray to you. I have no tongue for it. Yet, I honor you and try to follow your way. I know you know what is best for me. Give me guidance if I’m to act. If I’m to watch her die, give me the strength to stand and give her the strength to endure it and hopefully her soul will go somewhere good on the other side…”
The brindle dog sitting at the ranger’s feet whined a little, his tiny brain sensing some of the anguish and turmoil in his master.
As sunset drew near, the expectant excitement in the crowd built. When the ominous beating of a single large drum began, the assembled gawkers fell silent. The drum set the pace for Trinia’s procession to the headsman’s block. As they reached the headsman’s block, one of the guards removed Trinia’s shackles and the hood, revealing a very frightened woman who nonetheless bravely held back her tears, if only barely. Trinia was led up onto the platform, her arms bound behind her back by a leather cord, and she was forced to kneel over the wooden block before the headsman as Queen Ileosa stood and addressed the crowd.
“Fellow Korvosans! You have suffered greatly these past few weeks. Homes have burned, family members have died, fortunes have been lost. I feel your suffering, for not only have I lost a beloved husband, but with each riot, each burning home, each act of anarchy, my heart bleeds a little more. This has been a trying time for us, yet the torment is at an end. Before you is the face of your anguish and pain. Do not be deceived by this murderer’s timid nature—she is a black-hearted assassin, a seductress and sinner, a viper amidst us all. I offer you all her death as a salve against the hatred and hurt you have suffered. Her death will not rebuild Korvosa, nor will it bring back the king, yet tomorrow will be a new dawn—a dawn over a city ready to rise from the edge of anarchy to become stronger than ever before! And so, without further delay, let us usher in this new dawn with justice! OFF WITH HER HEAD!”

A moment before the queen issued the command, Grym noticed Grau duck away suspiciously. Less than a second later on the other side of the courtyard, As the headsman hefted his axe, the already silent crowd froze in anticipation.

Yet just before he swung, the headsman gave a strange little grunt and staggered. His raised axe faltered as he reached with one hand to the small of his back and then brings it to his face, the fingers dripping with blood. An instant later, he cried out in pain and dropped the axe as a dagger embeds itself in the back of his other hand. The axe sank itself into the block inches from Trinia’s head, and the headsman doubled over in pain, revealing a second dagger that was already embedded in the small of his back.

It happens in the blink of an eye as each hero contemplated his duty. Trinia rose to her knees, glancing up at the executioner in shock as a scream echoed through the crowded courtyard: “By the gods! It’s Blackjack!”

An instant later, a man dressed in a hooded cloak and leather armor sprung onto the executioner’s block. He wielded a rapier in one hand and a dagger in the other. Blackjack cut the bonds on Trinia’s wrists and then threw the dagger down to pin the executioner’s left foot to the wood below. He quickly helped Trinia to her feet and then briefly turns to address the shocked crowd. “Yes indeed, my queen! Let us usher in justice, but let that be justice for Korvosa, not this shambles you petulantly call a monarchy! Long live Korvosa! Down with the Queen!”

Blackjack’s words spread like fire, causing the crowd to erupt into a frenzy of activity. Some demanded that he release the assassin while others called for the queen to step down from the Crimson Throne. Queen Ileosa stands stunned for a few moments, whispered something to Sabina, and then quickly turns to flee into Castle Korvosa, Sabina and a dozen guards behind her to cover her retreat. The remaining guards in the courtyard moved to apprehend Blackjack, but the gathered nobles, thirsty for blood, make it difficult to move. At the same time, the executioner recovered from his wounds and lifted his axe once again over Blackjack, who seems to have momentarily forgotten the man in his apparent delight at having forced the queen to flee.

Odric moved in an instant to stand by Blackjack. He allowed the keg to crash to the ground with a splintering crunch. The flagstones were awash in dark, bitter beer with foam cresting the waves of alcohol. Odric assumed a drunken attitude, he has had long years to practice so his gambit ought to look believable. Given the chaos in the square, perhaps no one will scrutinize Odric’s sobriety.
With a staggering lunge, he wraps his large arms around the executioner in a effort to “save” him by binding his wounds. The plan is to hinder his attack against Blackjack.
“Headshmann! Yer Beedin’! Ehrmegerd! Let me shave you!!” Odric fumbles with a bandage as he grapples the headsman. Blackjack turned to the mighty Odric and whispered a quick thanks with a wink of the eye before downing a potion.

Taking advantage of the message spell, Sandor said, “By Torag just what we needed somtin to help Trinia live. Lets help Blackjack. block the guards and distract the headsman!”
He looked around to see if any of the guards had started to move towards Blackjack and Trinia yet. The scarred dwarf yelled at the top of his lungs in the direction of Blackjack, “OY!!! LOOK AT THAT!! That lads a tough one 3 daggers pierce his body n he still tryin ta kill the girl”

Grym instantly recognized Odric’s ploy and hesitated a moment thinking of how he can also “help”. The ranger cried out, “Lets get that vigilante!” And then he promptly tripped going up the steps of the executioner’s block, doing his best to get in the way of the guards rushing forward.
Blackjack turned to Trinia and scooped her up with unnatural strength. In a single bound he took the courtyard wall. With a flourish he saluted the crowd, eyeing of the six heroes each specifically in turn. “FOR KORVOSA!”
Immediately the crowd cheered and booed at the same time. It turned into Pandemonium. The guard rushes to Odric, not to subdue, but to help him up. Mutterings about the return of Blackjack spread amidst the chaos. Before long the elite scatter, the wings of gossip taking flight. The six are forgotten in the chaos.
Grau returned in the moments of Blackjack’s escape. “My friends, we must get back to the Field Marshall. We’ll palaver at the Citadel. Come, let us fly.”
Odric ensures that he falls face first into the puddle of The Stout in order to get the smell of alcohol on him. He stumbles in whatever direction Grau has indicated.
Upon arrival, Grau ushers the six to the Citadel. The gossip spread faster than fire. By the time they arrived, word had spread. The Field Marshal was in her office sitting at her desk, staring off into space. Vencarlo was there too, looking out the window.
Cressida said, “I did not see this coming my friends. Blackjack is something we talked about as kids, pretending to be the dashing hero. That he’s really here is…vexing. On the one hand, he’s a hero to the people, a hero they desperately need right now. I think the reason why the city hasn’t erupted into flame is that this latest scene is his doing. On the other hand, he’s technically an outlaw. Odric, please close the door…. Officially Blackjack is now public enemy number one. That being said, my main concern is the protection of the city. My resources will focus on heinous and large scale crimes. If we get Blackjack, we’ll deal with it then.”
Vencarlo interjected, “My biggest fear is the Queen. While I am an outspoken critic of hers, Blackjack’s move may force her hand. Who knows how she’ll handle this. Let’s keep our heads down, and our blades ready. Don’t rock the boat for a while. Korvosa may as easily calm down or burn into the night. Let’s not push the issue just yet…”
Cressida, “Gaius, let’s not wait for breakfast, and share a drink now. Unfortunately for you, I’m inviting all your friends too.”
Gaius responds playfully, motioning with his finger in a fencer’s salute, “Then you escape on a technicality. Another time, Field Marshall Kroft. I don’t surrender easily.”
“Field Marshall, what specifically do you fear regarding the queen? What actions might this Blackjack’s appearance elicit from her? Martial law?” Asked Morkeleb.

Kroft replied, Cressida, "Martial Law is exactly what I fear. While it appears no riots are forthcoming now. I worry that if we push her, she’ll go overboard and declare martial law. This is why I suggest we lay low for the time and take a ‘look and see’ approach.”

Gaius said, “No, I disagree. Her Majesty has been embarrassed in front of Korvosa’s elite. Her authority and ability to enforce The Rule of Law questioned. We cannot go to ground, for Her Majesty will leave no ground. She can’t afford to. And besides, the longer we delay, the harder it will be to find clues. We have two mysteries, ‘Who is Blackjack?’, and more importantly, ‘Who killed King Eodred’. I daresay the second will intersect with the first at some point. We need to solve the original crime, the King’s murder.”
Gaius stood up and paced for a moment, then turned to Field Marshall Kroft. “We need everything you have on Trinia and Eodred’s murder, anything you may have held back. And we need to find Verik Vankaskerson.”
Cressida said, “I haven’t held anything back, but I have a room full of unsolved crime. None of it seems to be related to the assassination, but you never know.”

Sandor has been stewing on what has happened. He listened intently to what was said, inhaled sharply a few times like he ready to speak, then gives a low grumble and left everyone to the conversation.
He fixed the Field Marshal with an intense stare as if trying to read her expressions then inhaled sharply, but this time blurted, “Ohh a pox on this ‘ere blasted situation. I would think that the city dwellers here are used to Royalty dying. If’n I remember my history correctly not many if any sitters on that throne have died of old age.”
He looked slightly embarrassed when he realized that he said that out loud. But when he did refocus he decided to jump in with both feet. “Well Field Marshal I hope I’ve heard correctly when ya said the Official Position on Blackjack is he is Most Wanted number one. Unoffically I hopes ya that he is Hero number 1.” He took his half mask off, gave his scars a trace drawing attention to them, “now I didn’t lose my head like Trinia would have, but I have a little understanding how people with station and money take care of their problems or cover up their embarrassing actions.”
He looks each of his friends in the eyes especially, Vencarlo and Cressida to check for the implied statement. “My friends we all know in our guts that Trinia didn’t kill the King. So I agree with solving that is a priority. I for one think that there are some puppet strings being pulled by some unknown party as of yet. Stuff isn’t adding up gents ohh and Lady. I think one of the first major clues we have of this is that dagger that was found.. which turned into a demon and tried to kill us. Then we foil a plot of a fallen Paladin trying to rob the bank of Abadar. Now I am sure the bank gets many attempts, but not many from that sect. That gives us a spy for intel, money for financing, riots and distractions to keep the guard/ law distracted”
He got a far away look pausing and doesn’t realize it. Odric fluffed and adjusted his tunic as the dwarf passed by. The scent of “The Stout” breaks his concentration he then realized that everyone was looking at him. “Ohh I am sorry I havn’t gotten any further than that, but then again I’m just a dwarf who doesn’t belong dealing with these grand matters. Which is why being in front of a forge is relaxing and peaceful.”
After talking so much he felt parched. Sandor looked around for a flagon of ale, seeing none he took the dashing cape that Odric was wearing while rolling around in his brew. He took the cloth and wrung it out into the tankard that was attached to his belt and took a long swallow. Oblivious to the stares that he garnered, he looked up at Odric with a huge smile. “Lad this is it! ya need to add a final filtration step to ya brew.”
In the days that followed, the men set out to investigate the mayhem and misdeeds of the recent past. Gaius lead the investigation, with Odric providing a bit of muscle and intimidation where required. Thorgrym offered his assistance in the time when he wasn’t actively training Bucho. Sandor worked tirelessly to separate liars from genuine tipsters using his gruff dwarven tactics of shouting and stomping to great effect.

The party spent the next five weeks following leads, ruling out speculative theories, and chasing down hunches. The progress was slow. Witnesses were unreliable at best, and found dead at worst. As tempers flared and frustrations are at their highest, the group found themselves meeting at Sandor’s on an evening to regroup and refocus.
After a particularly filling dinner, Odric began passing around his latest brew, a rather nutty brown ale with a hint of a chocolate aftertaste. It felt good to relax and rest. The city hadn’t burned to the ground. Sightings of Blackjack continued, but only third-hand. The Queen hadn’t made any large policy changes, and the public was accustomed to a change in monarch from time to time.
It was then that Zellara‘s Harrow deck awakened. The slain harrower’s spirit appeared calm and at peace. She took a seat at the table and the men thought “was that seat even here before?”
Zellara said, "Fate is muddy, and your progress has been slow. It is time again to read the cards. Sit my friends, open your minds and prepare.”
At the stage of the Choosing, each received a card of the Harrow:
Morkeleb. . .The Mountain Man – A Brobdingnagian challenge, a giant in either muscle or authority.
Sandor. . .The Desert -
In environment so bleak that only mutual aid leads to survival.
Gaius. . .The Wax Works -
A sign of helplessness, physical failure, and entropy.
Grym. . .The Tangled Briar -
The deeds of the past come to change the present.
Ferox. . .The Sickness -
Represents both a physical affliction and a corruption of the soul.
Odric. . .The Survivor -
Someone whom has conquered a dark past and lifted through an ordeal.
“The Harrowing”
Displayed before her were 9 cards:
The Foreign Trader – The Queen Mother – The Eclipse
The Beating – The Unicorn – The Marriage
The Tyrant – The Wax Works – The Avalanche
“First we examine the past. The Tyrant! The Tyrant is aligned. The Tyrant in the past is a ruler who rules for the good of the self, and not the good of the governed.”
“It is blocked in by the Beating, which tells us that a wicked deal was struck. The self is given over to an outside power. While the new Queen is the most obvious choice, the Tyrant may be a power yet to be seen in our city. Let us turn to the present. We see first the Queen Mother, knowledge and effort personified. It is through knowledge that effort finds it’s path. This shows the present, and in this position, you now find yourselves. Seek and be a part of the city. Arm yourself with knowledge, for in the position of the Dark Present we see the Wax Works, once drawn already and here again. The failure of the body is taking place even now. Somewhere in spirit or on the map. The Harrowing is anchored by the Unicorn. the Unicorn represents the desired fruit made available, but only through the Knowledge gained above through the corporal failure below. And now we turn to the Future, the murkiest and most frightening. For while questions may feel like a burden, the answers are a prison for one’s self. The Eclipse! The Eclipse normally portents self doubt and loss of purpose, but we see that unlike the Tyrant in the past this card is perfectly misaligned. Here it represents the curtain pulled away, an ability or destiny not yet revealed. This is a positive sign, and one that we shall be unable to see until it is upon us. But it is guarded by the card of The Marriage. The marriage of the salamander and the water weird shows that the sum is greater than it’s parts in this unseen new destiny. A cloudy future indeed. But this is your Harrowing, and in time all will be revealed…”

In a private room in a hole in the wall bar, the heroes gathered. They were summoned by the Field Marshal for a private meeting concerning the regicide. The assassin or an unfortunate victim of a framing, depending on who you chose to believe, was in hiding from mob justice. The Field Marshal wanted her found safely and brought for questioning. With a growing reputation and the beginnings of a strong trust forming between the Field Marshal and the troupe of heroes, she set them to the task.

“Tell me a story Odric!” Kip begged. It had been a long day at the brewery, Kip had been hauling water for hours while Odric and Master Bartleby tinkered with recipes in pursuit of a truly heroic brew. The young man hungered for tales of adventure and excitement.

“Oh, all right, go and get your storybook.” Odric intoned.

“No, no, not one of those, a REAL story!” Kip encouraged hopefully.

“A real story?”

“Yes! Tell me about when you chased down Trinia and saved the city in the Dead Warrens, thus preventing a massive battle and political unrest!” Kip pressed.

We had a plan to capture Trinia, She was in her apartment in the Midlands, as best we could tell. I would stay in the stairwell with Master Sandor, Master Grym and Bucho would stay on the ground, watching the rooftops to spot the talented acrobat should she make a run for it that way. Master Gaius would knock on the door and try to talk the lady into following him to the keep. Inquisitor Ferox and Master Morkeleb were equipped to stop her with ranged attacks, arrows and magic respectively.

When the door suddenly exploded! Odric makes a big expansive gesture with his hands, startling young Kip.

Trinia escaped onto the roofs and a spectacular chase ensued.

“Odric, Master Sandor said you fell down a lot during that chase! Is that true?”

Master Sandor didn’t have a great view, I think his helmet had slipped over his eyes again.”

Once Trinia was caught, we returned her incognito to the keep, into the care of Field Marshal Croft. Unfortunately, Kroft had another job for us.

We were to descend into the depths of the Dead Warrens to recover the body of a Shoanti Way-Keeper’s grandson. He had fallen in a brawl, his body was stolen and it was feared that a necromancer was using the body in rituals of the dark arts.

We prepared for our mission and set off into the Dungeon. Before we had taken more than a hundred paces, we were beset by the Undead! An owlbear skeleton and six human skeletons arose and attacked! With seemingly infinite Magic Missiles, our wizard weakened the creatures, Our Inquisitor fired blunt arrow after blunt arrow, further wearing them down. Our roguish cleric channeled energy at the mob of skeletons. The bullets and swords of Grym took a toll as well, with Sandor and myself smashing bones left and right. When Gaius channeled holy energy at them a second time, they crumbled to dust and left us standing amidst only our shadows and the echoes of the fight.

We continued to explore.

We found an albino gnome-like creature using giant bugs to suck the blood out of corpses before long. Horrified, we knock him unconscious, killed the bugs and set about questioning him once he came to. Without much to go on, other than vague impressions about a necromancer named Rolth, we tied him up in a hutch and pressed on.

Next room we came to smelled awful! It was the home to an Otyugh who had been eating the cast-off portions of corpses, presumably left over from strange necromantic experiments.

Without a thought to safety or sense, we rushed to battle. It was a tough fight, Sandor had his head inside the creature’s mouth at one point. Morkeleb’s relentless assault of magic missiles provided flashes of light and the smell of burning excrement as they impacted the creature unerringly.

Ferox fired arrows at the creature, injuring the beast and making its blood mingle with mud, making the disgusting ooze even worse.

With a shout and a lunge, I buried this very weapon into the creature, killing it.

Odric hands The Eagle to Kip, who receives it reverently. It is far too heavy for the boy, and he almost drops it. Odric’s calloused hands help him support the heavy pick.

After a messy clean-up, the group crept further into the Dead Warrens. There were twists and turns, secret doors and mysterious traps. One such trap triggered three magic floating skulls that attacked just as we were trying to fight another of those white gnome creatures. I spun and attacked them several times, all to no avail. They were too hard to hit. It took quite a bit of teamwork to finally start to even the odds, but with perseverance, Morkeleb’s magic missiles and some well-times arrows from Ferox, the Albino finally fell. Ferox’ arrow was so well-placed, it went through the creature’s eye, killing it instantly. The constructs, called Necrophidii were slowly worn down with melee strikes from Grym, Gaius and me. It was a long battle, but in the end we won out.

Conscious of Grym’s reputation, Odric does not mention the Ranger falling paralyzed for about a minute of the very long fight. Grym came to and lent a hand eventually, but Odric will allow Kip to imagine all the men fighting valiantly side by side throughout the battle.

A vault of creepy tomes on subjects of necromancy was the next room explored. The knowledge held within could include some certainly evil and disgusting practices. With an argument about what to do about them, the group adjourned to a darkened hallway in search of the body of Thousand Bones’ grandson.

Odric purposefully neglected to mention the torn apart pieces of the corpse to Kip. After all, the child might have nightmares already with all the talk of undead, midgets and constructs. Not to mention the Otyugh.

After we found a room with a dead man on a table, we resolved to move on to find a bedchamber with a powerful albino gnome within!

I delayed until after Ferox, in order to allow him to possible destroy the creature without engaging him in melee. This one was much tougher than the others, so that gamit failed. Grym extended with a fleche, trying to kill the creature with his sword. He hit, but the creature was resilient and the attack was not fatal. I was able to get close to the creature, but before I could attack it, the beast produced a wand and cast a spell called burning arc at Grym. The spell’s effects bouce and engulf Ferox as well. Without a sound, Gaius slipped under the bed, cruel dagger exposed.

Sandor rushed in to flank the creature, and at that moment I was able to strike!

Kip glances at The Eagle.

“Not with that,… with This!” Odric produces the Falchion he has been using with a flourish. The steel rings with a pleasing martial sound and the latern light dances on the blade like liquid fire.
__
“No swords in the house boys!“ comes the stern rebuke of a woman long used to having her kitchen destroyed by adolescent boys.
__
Odric winks, sheaths the weapon and continues his story.

With a fearsome slash, I gashed a huge wound into the creature’s side. It was at that moment when I decided to start using this weapon over The Eagle in adventuring.

The creature lived through my assault. Ferox shot at it with an arrow, but the arrow went wide. Gaius, seizing the initiative, rolled under the bed the creature was standing on and decided to stab it through the filthy straw stuffed mattress. But the creature hurled a small scrap of its robe into the corner, which sprouted into a zombie in the most fascinating manner. The zombie of course commenced attacking us, as zombies are wont to do.

Kip nods sagely at this.

Several swings and misses followed, with arrows clattering off the wall, axes shredding the blood soaked mattress. As I continued the assault, the creature cast a sphere of darkness that engulfed the room. As I attacked it, the zombie was continuing its own attack on my back. Surrounded, I knew there was only one option. I had to kill the creature. Sandor finally finished it, leaving the remaining enemy, a nasty, drooling zombie, to face the group alone.

The automaton was mindless in its attacks. It was relentless, but largely ineffective.

Between Ferox’ arrows, Grym’s sword and my falchion, we felled the creature in short order. We looted the area, gaining a ring of protection, a masterwork dagger, several vials of poison, a spellbook and a mysterious Robe of Bones.

We crawled through the blackness for what seemed like hours, Gaius and Sandor used their particular skills to locate and uncover several secret doors. We found that the complex was indeed just that. With time running low to locate Thousand Bones’ kin, we began to wonder if we would ever find him.

The secret passage we were walking along eventually opened into a large cavern. This foul-smelling cavern was bordered on three sides by ten-foot-deep pits. It was from these pits that the rancid smell of excrement and decay filled the air—each pit contained a few heaps of moldy straw, a wooden trough of filthy water, a few rotting body parts, and a couple still-living prisoners.

Beyond was a disgusting…man?… His face was covered in tumors and his gait looked more like the undead, but he seemed to be mumbling to himself. The man stood nearly 7 feet tall, and if we had discovered that one of his parents was an ogre, we wouldn’t have been surprised…. He was unaware of our intrusion.

We drew weapons with pity in our hearts for the prisoners, anger on our brows and fury in our guts. Morkeleb tried to put the filthy creature to sleep magically, but when that failed, battle was joined!

Ferox stood back and out of the way of the entrance, providing a clear path to the creature within.
Ferox gathered Abadar’s rage at this creature’s transgressions against the people of Korvosa into focused intent for the creature’s demise. He cast Wrath upon it.

He pointed at the creature. "Your blasphemies end today, vile one. With that the Inquisitor Invoked his Justice Judgment.

The inquisitor’s entreatment to Abadar came from between clenched teeth. For a brief moment his eyes flashed. His corded forearm muscles rippled as they gripped his bow. He had a clear shot between his comrades.

“Cabbage Head” as we came to call this unfortunate but evil denizen, snarled and charged me,

“I throw you DOWN!” The macabre growths on his face made his words hard to understand, but their meaning was plain. A fist like a rock, and covered in scabs descends down towards my temple

Leaner and more battle-tuned than I was a month or two ago dodged the blow easily. The massive form blocked the narrow passage into the room, but the brute utterly ignored the chosen of Calistria and the ranger. The battle was crowded and the stench of combat and determination assaults the senses.

Sandor was mad that he stood behind everyone and made everyone aware of the situation. Loudly.
“Blast ye lads keepin a dwarf in ‘is prime tha farthest from the fight. I swear ya must be jealous or sumtin. I’m commin through so make way”

Sandor took off in a quick burst getting up a full head of steam. Then at the last second he saw me doing a fancy flourish with his sword. It was one he had seen me use in practice, and knew that it ends up with a kick to the groin area so Sandor dives forward using his shield as a skid plate. He let me kick him square in the bum, shoving him through the Half Ogre’s legs. As he went underneath me, he swung his axe into the back of Cabbage Head’s leg to stop and yank himself back standing.

Sandor’s swing struck a particularly tough tumor, and it was difficult to determine if it hurt the brute at all. What it really did, however, was provide the distraction that I needed to connect. I just barely snuck one by and landed a hit on an unprotected part of Cabbage Head’s body. He responded, “Gah slither dorf not fight fair!" Even as wound slurry splashes on my face, the foe registers the wound as nothing more than an annoyance.

The disgusting disease-filled blood and guts on my face nearly made me cry.

Kips laughed aloud at this point in the story, clearly enjoying the visual.

Morkeleb asked, “What manner of creature is this, who withstands a blow such as that?? Let’s see what can be done here . . .”

On the assumption that a creature this tough and strong likely doesn’t have a keen enough mind to have strong willpower, Morkeleb fell comfortably into his own strength, at long last—enchantments.
“I don’t fight fair either, beast! Let’s start with . . .” The wizard began.

A quick word and flourish of his staff brought about a burst of green light focusing first on the staff’s headpiece, then in a tightly focused burst in front of Cabbage Head’s eyes.

Gaius tried to sneak his rapier between the misshapen beast’s ribs to tickle its spleen, but the attack went wide. Grym slashed with his sword, laying open the creature’s flank and Ferox’s wrath infused attack with an arrow paid off. The Inquisitor drove the arrow deep into Cabbage Head’s neck. The brute finally succumbed to the wounds and dropped to the floor, his innards now mostly his outards….

We turned our attentions to the prisoners in the pits, eventually escorting four unfortunates out of the tunnel complex and to safety. They were grateful for our food, water, words of encouragement and protection.

One key thing we learned from the rescued slaves, there was a carrion golem in the caverns somewhere. Morkeleb painted a fearsome picture of the golem with his words, and we all feared greatly. Nonetheless we reentered the caverns, determined to complete our mission.

Grym began in a poetic voice, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.” I chimed in with a spontaneous reply, “For he today that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, 
This day shall gentle his condition. 
And gentlemen in Korv’sa now abed 
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us in The Dead Warrens today.

We explored the complex thoroughly, poking in and out of secret doors, discovering filth and refuse everywhere. We inched our way to the final door. No new secrets revealed themselves on the way. As we approached the door, any hopes of a calm exploration went out the window. From beyond the door came deep and unnatural growls and grunts. Heavy footsteps inside shook the door on its hinges. Whatever was inside was extremely angry at something.

Gaius readied a tanglefoot bag in one hand and his rapier in the other. Gaius hangs back, northwest of the door. He motioned his head to me, Sandor and Grym as the melee fighters to begin.
“I’m ready to dance. Would one of you gentlemen please start the music?” he asked.

I threw open the door. Beyond stood a disgusting amalgamation of dead animal parts lurching from the shadows. The foul-smelling pieces had been stitched together with thick black thread in a shape to approximate that of a man, yet it was certainly not human. Cobbled together from bits of a dozen carcasses from half as many different species, the staggering shape uttered a gurgling cry as it shambled forth to attack. This was no flesh golem! The stench of this creature was utterly horrid. Though strong of gut, both Sandor and I both began to gag.

Sandor felt the wave of stench roll over and past him. His mind replayed the last several weeks of being around yours truly. He has himself almost convinced that my bowels have decayed and finally burst like a dead bloated body lying in the hot sun for a week.

“Lad I know ya don’t mean it, but in the future if’n ya feel like lettin one loose could ya please give a warning ta the short dwarf…”

his vision then focused on the amalgamation of parts that was trapped in this room and the visible waves of reek coming from it.

“… OOOOHHH sorry lad I just thought that umm err.. awww heck just get in there and lets take ’im apart at the seams!”

Morkeleb shouted, “HAVE A CARE!! This thing carries more diseases than I can spell!!”

Thinking fast, he continued, “try not to let this thing touch you! Use missile weapons if you can.”

He did not have to convince me! The thing was awful. With my eyes tearing and my gut roiling I missed my first swing. The creature missed me though, which was fortunate. Grym scored a hit, then darted out of range.

Gauis leaped into the fray, effectively surrounding the construct, and Ferox moved to the room’s doorway.

“You face Abadar’s Justice today, creature. Your miserable existence will soon be at an end.” The inquisitor intoned.

Ferox activates his Judgement magic and pulled back on his bow, hoping his aim was true and that he could bring the creature one step closer to destruction.

The creature swung its awful ‘fist’ at Grym and connected solidly. Grym rolled with the punch and found himself still fighting, but the diseases of the creature were a filthy scum that wiped off onto anything it touched.

I swung the falchion at it, causing innards and slime to tumble to the floor, but it counterpunched me in the chest, almost cracking my breastbone with the force of the blow.

Odric shows Kip the yellowing bruise to emphasize the force the creature used. Kips eyes widen and he winces at the extent of the trauma to Odric’s chest.

Grym breathed through his mouth, yet it didn’t seem to help. Instead of smelling the intense foulness, he could now taste it. Bile rising in his belly he danced forward to strike down the foul abomination. With keen footwork he fought defensively.

Gaius began an assault with thrown missile weapons to no good effect. His tanglefoot bag landed on the ground harmlessly. He readied another thrown weapon, looking for an opening.

Sandor was happy that his axe was biting deep into the creature. He saw his friends getting pummeled by the creature. In his mind this just won’t do.

“Ova here ya dumb lummox!!! Ole Sandor’s gonna unstich ya one swing at a time.” The dwarf shouted.
He swung his shield up bashing the construct in the chin. As he reared back from the force of the blow the dwarf delivered a vicious chop meant to decapitate it at the stitchings on the neck. Sandor missed with the axe by the narrowest of margins. The creature regained its bearings and prepared to fight on, mindlessly.

I stood my ground, despite being seriously wounded. I swung mightily at the monstrosity. I took careful aim, lined up his blade with a festering crease in the construct’s body and unleashed on it.
Morkeleb cried out, “Odric! Step back! Don’t be a fool!” The wizard could see the dire straights I was in, could tell I was near death and another solid hit might put me in the grave.

“Pour it down my bloody gullet when I fall wizard!” I replied, not taking my eyes off the construct for a moment.

Ferox’s arrow flew wide to the right. I again sliced the creature. It was nearly cut to ribbons by this point. With no thought, it lashed back at me. I nimbly dodged just in the nick of time before Grym’s blade came over the top!

Gryms sword fell short, but his dagger landed true, poking through the golem’s lead leg.

Gaius saw this as the perfect opportunity to toss his bottle of alchemist’s fire into the melee. It shattered, unfortunately it caught Grym aflame and burned him badly.

Sandor hacked the air beside the golem’s head to no effect other than fanning the flames on Grym and wafting stench around the room.

Then, the Inquisitor finished it. With a final arrow, Ferox dealt the final blow. The arcane magics holding the pieces together unraveled and the monster was no more. Grym continued to burn from the alchemist’s fire, gritting his teeth as he stopped, dropped and rolled before it finally went out.
We discovered the body of Thousand Bones’ grandson lying in the room, unattended.

Odric was unwilling to mention that throughout the adventure in the Dead Warrens, thye group had been collecting pieces of the dead boy and assembling them. He feared the young Kip would be too frightened. In hindsight, the whole tale was rather terrifying and Kip would likely get little sleep and be tormented by nightmares anyway. Oh well, the boy needs tales of heroes, villains and monsters to grow into a proper man. Next time, he will tell Kip about the necromancer Rolth who precipitated all this. The men had not found him, but had discovered his library, and were determined to learn more. Odric thought allowing Kip to think there was a dangerous necromancer at large might be too scary.

Odric finished in what he hoped was a more calming vein.

We cleaned the body and presented it in a dignified manner to Field Marshall Kroft, thus averting a small scale war with the Shoanti. We were well rewarded and the Field Marshal sent us to some well-deserved rest.

“The end. Now go to sleep!”

Odric blew out the candle and left the young boy sweating and terrified under his rough blankets. As the shadows became golems, and the bedbugs biting his tender skin became skeletons’ claws, the boy lay frozen in terror for many hours, until exhaustion overcame him and his dreams were of a dark and frightening nature.

With a single glass of wine before him, Morkeleb the Mighty sits in quiet solitude in the corner of the tavern. The sting of battle is still fresh in his head. The dull ache from the negative energy channeled by a fallen paladin has begun leaching out of his bones, but is still there.

Morkeleb is staring silently into the fire and swirling his wine in his crystal goblet when he hears his own name from someone just out of sight in the room, off to his right.

His attention sharpens and without betraying his interest, he shifts in his chair to bring the speaker into his line of sight.

A middle aged man, a merchant by his dress and manner, sits across from a hooded man and hoists a frothy mug in appreciation. The hooded man had apparently just bought the man the drink. The merchant turns to a third man, still out of the wizard’s line of sight and continues.

“Then Morkeleb, Thorgrym with his brave canine companion Bucho, Gaius, Sandor, Odric and the Inquisitor Ferox waited for nightfall and ventured out by the East wall under cover of darkness. They found a yawning tunnel, the opening of which had mutilated remains scattered about – the bones gnawed and scorched from some evil ritual.”

Morkeleb recalled no such bones, gnawed or otherwise, but quickly realized the townsman was retelling the tale of his own recent adventure. Wondering at the man’s source and hyperbole, Morkeleb settled in to continue listening.

“As the brave men passed the mouth of the cave, the darkness took them. The only light came from a lone torch and the reflected glimmer of fire on steel. Suddenly, a dozen skeletons arose with a clatter of bones. Each had 6 inch claws and burning eyes as they raced towards the group.”

Morkeleb snorts softly, recalling only three skeletons. Their claws were but a few inches long, their eyes nothing more than bone cavities where living eyes once peered at life’s pleasures.

“with a clash of arms, a flash of magic and some small letting of blood, the companions made quick work of the creatures as a band of hobgoblins appears from nowhere. The creatures died screaming as the men skewered them, smashed them and left them to bleed to death, the floor awash in hobgoblin blood ankle deep. With skeleton bones and hobgoblin carcasses scattered across the dungeon floor, the men moved on with stony faces and stout hearts.”

Morkeleb nearly chokes as he hears this last. The three skeletons proved ridiculously resilient. The trio of undead fought silently for long minutes as blow after blow slipped through their ribs, glanced of their skulls or missed in the pervasive darkness. When three hobgoblins skulked out of the darkness, the party was evenly matched for a time and survival seemed to hang in the balance. As the sands ran through the glass, the party felled one after another of the enemy at great cost. Odric smashed a skeleton with The Eagle, Sandor, Ferox and Morkeleb waged a war of attrition against the others with axe, arrow and magic missiles as Gaius crept in the shadows and struck out at hobgoblin flesh when opportunity arose.

With darkness close about them, and blood flowing freely from several wounds, the companions regrouped and finally after an exhausting and frustrating combat Odric crushed the hobgoblin’s skull he was facing, Gaius stabbed Sandor’s opponent through the back of the head and out the teeth, and Grym cut down his nemesis the seemingly immortal skeleton.

Shaking his head out of his reverie, Morkeleb sees a wench delivering filled mugs to the modest but growing and rapt crowd as the tale continues.

“The mastermind of the plot was a seven foot tall anti paladin named Valay. He could kill with a thought, draining life from men and beasts alike and harnessing the undead to serve him. By holding hobgoblins in his thrall, the fiend was poised to rob the bank of Abadar, indeed the entire city perhaps, and to set himself up as a warlord. The brave men, lead by the great Inquisitor Ferox faced him fearlessly and attacked without hesitation.”

The wizard grinned at the exaggerated description. While the anti-paladin was a formidable foe, his ill-conceived plan to rob the bank was driven by desperation for a debt to the Arkonas family. The man was also just a man. He wielded the powers of a true anti-paladin, but he was certainly not seven feet tall.

As the merchant continued to expound on the fearsome nature of the foe and the heroic aspects of the party of adventurers, Morkeleb saw the hooded figure order up another round and pay from a familiar looking coin purse.

The man’s story finally began to ring true as he related a blow-by-blow account of the final fight.

“Facing three hobgoblins, the heroes mounted a fierce attack. Thinking to thin the ranks, Morkeleb magically put one of the three hobgoblins to sleep, while Ferox lead the charge with a quickly aimed arrow. It slammed into the table by the hobgoblin’s thigh however, missing the mark.

With magical golden light streaming out of The Eagle’s eyes, Odric charged the hobgoblin closest to him. He deftly maneuvered around an overturned table and crashed onto the hobgoblin with his shoulder, briefly pinning it against the worked stone wall of the cavern. A grunt and a swoosh of breath bad enough to be Gogunta’s own washed over the warrior. Odric was not impressed, he had smelled much worse.

As he shoved the creature into the wall, he pushed off its chest with the shaft of The Eagle and rebounded to wind up for a mighty strike to the hobgoblin’s head.

The heavy pick landed true, leaving a gash in the enemy’s head, but certainly not disabling him. Gaius had just taken up position just inside the room when Sandor fulfilled his earlier promise of charging into the room. The dwarf kicked a piece of furniture, a bench, around so he could use his shield to protect high, and the bench to protect low.

Sandor bellowed, ‘I’d call ye an ‘onorless dog but I know Bucho’s got more ‘onor than ye do! Any man that dicards ’is vows to ’is god isn’t a man. So I tell ya what, you’re gonna meet those gods in just a minute so they can judge thee’ ”

The man actually did a credible imitation of Sandor, leaving the wizard little doubt of the origins drama unfolding before him. Morkeleb settled back in his chair and continued to listen while sipping his wine.

“Both Sandor and Grym rushed in, neither attack landed, but the enemies stood divided. The chastising from Sandor sounded like it might have been uttered by Ferox, but the words hit him with a mist of Morkeleb’s magic. Morkeleb moved to get closer to the fallen paladin. He leveled his staff at the villain, concentrated, and whispers the words of another dweomer.

‘You are clearly superior to any foe; these fools will fall before you without effort, furthering your own glory! Numbers matter not, your sword will make their blood flow freely!!’

As Morkeleb finished the incantation, the insidious words weaved into the arcane glow of the staff, and both surrounded the fallen paladin’s head with a thin green cloud, attempting to penetrate his mind.

The enchantment was designed to make the warrior feel a strong sense of Delusional Pride, and it succeeded.

Odric’s foe, an embattled and bleeding hobgoblin, swung and missed with a longsword.

The hobgoblin Morkeleb had put to sleep earlier awoke with a foggy, sleep-befuddled look on its bestial face. It stood and was killed almost immediately by a slash from Sandor’s axe. The wound slurry splashed into the wall with a resounding splat. He was dead on his feet and he knew it. He made a single swing with his sword which barely made contact with the dwarf’s expensive armor. The exertion was too much and he slumped against the wall to die.

Despite his unholy resilience to magic, the fallen one bought into Morkeleb’s spell. With a snarl of anger, he held aloft a new medallion. ‘Feel the wrath of the Grey Master!’

A wave of neagtive energy washed over half of the room.”

Morkeleb shudders at the memory. He remembers feeling helpless as his life force was leached away. The merchant takes a long draught from his mug and continues.

“Gritting his teeth against the unholy searing, Morkeleb concentrated his magic on the remaining hobgoblin. He muttered a quick incantation, and a quick flash of light burned from his staff. Simultaneously, he pulled out his Magic Missile wand, getting ready to blast away as needed.
Odric felt the negative energy, causing him to contemplate life, his self-worth and the futility of his existence. Amidst this depression he felt quite a bit less healthy.

He swung The Eagle with decidedly less enthusiasm than his usual attacks, his strength was flagging probably due to the negative energy in the air. His miss was not surprising, and he seemed resigned to it.”

Morkeleb notes the hooded man rubs his shoulders briskly as though he were cold and his suspicions are confirmed. Morkeleb smiles knowingly.

“Ferox stared down the fallen paladin at the other end of the room.

‘I am Ferox Kerr, Inquisitor of the Gold-Fisted. You are charged with treason and sedition. By the power vested in me by the Master of the First Vault, I find you guilty. I sentence you to death. May His Justice be served.’

Ferox cast Wrath, selecting the anti-paladin as the focus of his… well, wrath.”

The by now large crowd chuckled. They were hanging on the raconteur’s every word.

“Gaius pulled out his whip and stepped aside. He lashed out at the hobgoblin, attempting to trip him and give Odric the advantage. Odric missed with The Eagle, but before his eyes the crack of a whip tore the hobgoblin’s legs out from under him. The beast now lay at his feet.

As this action unfolded, Sandor shouted a challenge to the anti-paladin in response to the draining of his life, and missed an attack with his axe.

Grym dropped his sling and started to despair. Yet by chance or perhaps some power of Good, Grym’s empty hands brushed by the blades on his waist. Quickly he drew sword and knife and rushed forward eager to bring an end to this unholy warrior. As Grym moved up to back up Sandor, neither attack penetrated Valay’s armor. He laughs at his perceived advantage, spittle landing on the ranger’s armor.

Before the prone hobgoblin could decide what to do he was mentally struck by Morkeleb with a dazing spell. He kept his wits about him, but it was as if he’s forgotten what to do.

Then, the foe cried, ‘I, Elsir Valay, am unstoppable!’

Once more he held his symbol aloft. Once more he channeled the power of his new god into an attack. Gaius just barely avoided the display, but the rest of the group suffered. As the results of the withering attack unfolded, Valay drew his longsword.

Grym staggered under the second wave of unholy energy. His eyelids fluttered and he began seeing red and black spots in his vision. The ranger took in a breath and steeled himself on his feet.

Sandor collapsed in a well-armored heap as the negative energy took the life out of him. Near death, he hovered near unconsciousness for a moment, then blacked out.

When Sandor fell, Gaius took note and rushed to his aid, calling upon his diety, ‘Unquenchable Fire, heal this dwarf that he may revenge himself and like a wasp, live to sting again!’ bringing Sandor to a stable condition.

As the Anti-Paladin released his unholy attack Odric once again felt the horrible draining feeling, sapping him of his will and his life force. It was much stronger this time, but he recognized it for what it was and felt better able to handle the negative energy flowing through his body. He felt weakened for a moment, but adrenaline and rage gave him the determination and focus to attack.
What was golden light moments ago, was now stained an eerie crimson with the blood from the hobgoblin’s head wound. The Eagle’s eyes glared this sanguine luminescence, bathing the entire corner of the room in diffuse red light.

Upon the hobgoblin’s startled tumble from Gaius’ well-placed whip, Odric lifted The Eagle for a killing blow. As Morkeleb’s magic worked its mystical effects on the creature, Odric almost felt pity for the stupefied monster laying flat on the ground before him.

Almost.

The Eagle, crimson light blazing, was suddenly and violently extinguished as the entire head of the pick was buried in the prone creature’s exposed armpit. With a sickening slurp, the head emerged and a deeper red light once again illuminated the room. As the pick was withdrawn, the hobgoblin’s lifeblood splashed generously upon Odric’s boots. The creature seemed to feel no pain – the magic clouding its tiny hobgoblin brain had left it insensate.

Knowing the deadly Valay for a dangerous foe, Morkeleb gambled a bit, bringing forth a dweomer that is only partially effective if resisted, but should allow the group to end the melee quickly if it was not. He drew a deep breath, leveled his staff at Valay, and appeared to shout loudly—but no sound came out.

The mystical energy issuing from the wizard’s mouth passed through his staff’s gem, then focused again on the villain. No one in the room heard anything—except Valay who reacted as if he’s hearing a viciously loud noise, one that might, in fact, be described as an Ear-Piercing Scream. It had little effect on the enemy in terms of harming him, however.

Ferox cried, ‘Abadar’s Justice will see you brought down today, Valay.’ 
and he moved from behind the bed to stand in front of it. He then drew and sighted another arrow and let loose, hoping Abadar’s guidance would help it strike true.

Ferox’s arrow struck solidly, vanishing almost to the fletching! The anti-paladin howled in pain and gritted his teeth.

Frustrated with his battle against the skeleton, and angered by the damage to Sandor, Grym struck twice in rapid succession. The knife didn’t get through, but the longsword drew a long line down Valay’s face!

The hobgoblin at Odric’s feet knew its wound to be fatal, and opted to take a wild swing at Odric’s knees which missed. The effort forced too much blood out, and the hobgoblin fell unconscious, bleeding out.

Valay erupted with anger. Though equally damaging, the Inquisitor’s hit infuriated him more than Grym’s. He calls forth the wrath of Norgorbor. ‘I shall Smite thee for thine arrogance!’

When whatever Valay expected to happen, didn’t…his face twisted in confusion, though the accompanying hit with his longsword was still devastating.

Ferox staggered under the powerful blow from Valay. He took a quick step back, nimbly hopping up onto the bed. He drew an arrow, aimed it point-blank at the fallen paladin, further bloodying him.
Odric took advantage of the enemy’s momentary inattention when Ferox’ arrow hit him and dashed to engage him in close combat.

The Eagle lashed out with a wicked ferocity, slamming into the evil man’s thigh. The sharpened beak penetrated deep, possibly severing an artery. Odric savagely wrenched the weapon free and resumed his guard. He watched for the telltale spurting of bright red blood that would signal the man’s imminent death with one eye, as he prudently prepared for another attack from this tough and determined enemy.

Valay howled in agony. The hatred in his eyes was volcanic, but the arterial blood did not gush from the wound as expected. Still he fought on, but it was clear he could not withstand another hit like that without dropping dead.

Taking roundabout routes, the heroes pinned the fallen one tighter and tighter to the corner of the dungeon room. Though he knew it was only a matter of time until he fell, it deterred him none.
He stepped forward and swung his blade at Ferox.

Ferox crumpled around the longsword. His blood seeping out of a horrible gut wound and rapidly soaking into the filthy mattress of the bed he was on. He dropped the arrow he was about to nock with a clatter.

Odric saw his friend fall, and taking stock of the dire straits his group seemed to be in, spun completely around in order to gain momentum for a massive blow to fell this fallen paladin. Odric unwound himself like a whirling dervish and The Eagle cracked into the man’s skull. A savage cry ripped the darkness of the cavern as Odric channeled his fury into the strike. He was frustrated and angry about not being able to help his fallen friends. By bringing this evil man to justice, Odric did what little he could.” The merchant finished breathlessly to hearty cheers and hoisted mugs.
A rousing drinking song that seemed to commemorate the fight was struck up as the wenches made rounds with more ale to all in the tavern.

Morkeleb clearly remembered the near catastrophe as Odric tried to take the anti paladin prisoner and Gaius slit the man’s throat and nods approvingly as the story seems to have been edited. As the singing gets into full, boisterous volume, Morkeleb catches the hooded man’s eye, winks at his friend and walks out into the night, unrecognized.

The Master lies asleep on his pallet. The lights within the workshop are dimmed and a soft cooing of pigeons from the vaulted ceiling drifts down soothingly. He dreams about the scrying he has just completed. The apprentice labors quietly in cleaning up the Master’s desk. With a conspiratorial air, and exaggerated tiptoes across the room, the apprentice draws down the tome his Master just put away. He looks one last time to the Master’s sleeping form, ensuring the man still slumbers, and open the tome.

As a group of adventurers new to the employ of Field Marshal Kroft, Thorgrym, Odric, Ferox, Morkeleb and Gaius arrive at the Citadel, they note that more is afoot than just the bustle of daily affairs. Some of the guards make subtle glances their way. It doesn’t take a soothsayer to read their expressions, they are impressed by the work they’ve done thus far. Within the span of less than a month, they have rid the city of two plagues (See “Volume 19 of Denizens of Korvosa, Dead Slavers and Miscreants” and “All the World’s Meat (and all the men and women merely ingredients” in “Korvosan Field Marshals, Volume 35”)

Field Marsha Cressida Kroft is in her office, and her smile speaks the same feeling as the guards, though her gaze doesn’t wander away when she makes eye contact. Seated at her desk is a man of whom Ferox and Gaius have heard.

Vencarlo Orisini stands as they enter. He is a tall man of advanced years, yet with a twinkle in his eye and a bounce to his step that hints at a vibrancy and inner fire of a man under half his age. He wears his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back tightly into a bravo’s top-knot. His eyes are a cast of deep green like the ocean after a storm. He wears black leather on only his sword hand. At his side is a rapier of unsurpassed beauty. He regards each man with a warm smile and says, “If Korvosa had more fine folk like you, we’d already be out of this mess.”

Cressida gently steers the conversation back to business.

“I would love to continue this, but we have much to discuss. I appreciate your work with Verik. It’s more than simply troubling to think about what his cronies were doing. Unfortunately, I want to introduce a new problem to you. This one is less of a time crunch, but by no means can I wait until spring to see it through.”

“As much as I would enjoy continuing the conversation, I fear we just don’t have time. Vencarlo has often come to me with news of important changes on the streets, and this is no different—indeed, what he’s learned could degrade into sanctions, embargos, or even war against Cheliax if we don’t act now. This problem is a man named Darvayne Gios Amprei. You might have heard of him—he’s an ambassador from Cheliax whose disdain for Korvosa is well documented, and yet he’s taken great pleasure in what our city has to offer.”

“Even before this recent unrest, this man was ready to recommend to his government a sanction on trade, or perhaps even an embargo. Vencarlo has learned through his own considerable sources that Ambassador Amprei’s actual goals are to undermine Korvosa’s economy to the point where he can buy up large portions of the city from desperate landholders and establish himself in a position of power here. Whatever the ambassador’s reasons, we can’t let his bias or personal plans hurt Korvosa. Yet neither can we take drastic action—not only would killing him be wrong, but it’d simply martyr him in Cheliax’s eyes.”

“Fortunately, Darvayne has his foibles. Again, Vencarlo has learned that Ambassador Amprei has been making fairly regular visits to a place in Old Korvosa called Eel’s End. This den of vice is run by a dangerous man named Devargo Barvasi, better known in Korvosa’s alleys as the King of Spiders. I’d love to put Barvasi out of business, but he pays his vice taxes regularly and never causes any problems—in fact, since he keeps his business constrained entirely within the five ships moored at Eel’s End, he’s actually one of the least of my worries.”

“Truth be told, I can’t decide whether Devargo is a stirge or a kraken. He seems like a bloodsucking pest most days, but sometimes I fear just how far his tentacles have wormed their way into our great city. In this case though, his insidious web stretching across Korvosa’s underworld might prove to our advantage.”

Devargo would never let someone he recognizes as an ally of the Guard into Eel’s End, but your group’s a different case. I’d like you to pay a visit to Eel’s End and secure an audience with Devargo. Find out what he knows about Amprei, get proof of any illicit goings-on the ambassador might be involved with, and bring that proof to me to use to undermine any forthcoming attempts by him to get Cheliax to cut us off. Devargo might not be willing to part with his information easily. I’ll supply you with some gold to bribe him”

Indeed a neatly stacked pile of 1,000 sails rests behind her.

“And whatever’s left over you can keep for yourself. Remember: the man is dangerous, but so are you—if things get violent, I wouldn’t mourn his passing.” she concludes thoughtfully.

Gaius eyes Vencarlo and looks the man over carefully. His reputation is as an opponent to The Queen. I watch his body language during Cressida’s tale and see if I garner a sense of the man.

Gaius asks “Eel’s End caters to diverse tastes. What is Ambassador Amprei’s particular vice?”
Vencarlo speaks up, “Gaius, I like the cut of your jib. The ambassador is known to dabble with women of night, but his main vice in eel’s end is gambling. Unless we plan on bankrupting him at the table, you might find more success in questioning the rapscallion “king”. Not only will he know more about Amprei’s vices, he’ll know how we can get him by the short hairs.”

“I’m headed that way myself actually, and if you’re looking to do some recon, I’ll accompany you as far as the Narrows. Then you’re on your own and I wish you the best of luck.”

Gaius sthinks to himself, He knows I’m observing him. And I bet that fencer’s eye is reading me as well.

He says, “Excellent. Then we can chat more as we walk. It’s a rare opportunity to share the company of Master Orisini.”

Gaius turns his attention back to The Field Marshall. “I apologize for being so gauche about this, Marshall, but we still need to collect wages due to us for Verik, and we should discuss this mission as well. Will there be reward beyond what we keep from the bribe stipend here?”

The Field Marshall looks to Gaius, understandingly “you make a good point. You’ll have to forgive me. If we negotiated specific terms of payment, I’ve forgotten – it’s been a very very busy month. If we haven’t made arrangements, allow me to pay you for the Verik work by supplying you with a masterwork weapon or armor. Let the quartermaster know and it’s yours. Sandor, if what you say is true, then yes. Please see Verik and get out of him what you can.”

She looks at you all, and sends Vancarlo a wink. “Gentlemen, you do great work. Let me know what you need. Korvosa, and I, owe you a great debt of gratitude. I wish only that people appreciated it.”

Sandor suddenly interjects, “Well Lady Kroft and lads, it be sounding like sum fun up to the point of ships ‘n spiders. Now I won’t be mindin ta remove dis Ambassador from his influence I can be tellin from ya expressions from when I’m talkin that I wont be negotiatin. A thousand gold might not be enough ‘n’ Gaius will declare me a mortal enemy for not bein’ financially responsible. Now I will be happy ta tag along especially if’n we get to kill any of Lolth’s agents”

Sandor looks done then, takes another breath. “Field Marshal I know we have moved on, but more thing about Verik. It came to our attention last night that he might have had outside influence.”
“We examined a dagger looted from Veriks bleedin’ corpse, but it turned into a serpent, all of a sudden like. Gold embellishments vanished, steel melted, and the dagger reshaped itself into an enormous hooded serpent, fierce horns protruding above glowing red eyes.”

“Me mighty mage friend told us it was a Raktavarna, if’n when it was loosed on us, then subsequently destroyed somehow.”

“So I’m not saying Verik wasn’t a willin accomplice, just that he was being used as a pawn”

Kroft seems to take this news in stride, for she doesn’t comment on it.

“Thank you,Marshall Kroft,” Gaius assures her, “I will confer wtih my companions. Is there anything else of import you can tell us about the ambassador, Eel’s End, or Devargo?”

She replies, “Not that comes to mind Gaius. I appreciate what you’ve done. Good Luck and may Abadar deal you a fair hand.”

Odric looks pleased at the group’s success and is excited about the prospect of continuing service to Kroft. He has kept to the background during this exchange, but blurts out to the Field Marshal’s back as she turns away, We won’t let you down! You can count on us! Feeling foolish, Odric begins to blush excessively.

He turns to Vincarlo and Gaius, “Lead the way to Eel’s End sir, but I would be mightily pleased to stop by the quartermaster before we depart the keep.” Visions of mighty arms and armor are clearly swimming in Odric’s imagination. He sees himself bedecked in sparkling, shining armor, gripping a jewel-encrusted sword by the hilt with the sun gleaming on his masterwork gear. In his mind’s eye there is mist around his ankles, an eagle circles overhead and a bard is whaling on a lute and belting our paens of Odric’s greatness.

Lost in thought, Odric trips on an unobserved stone step and stumbles. An oddly girly noise escapes his embarrassed face as he windmills his arms to remain upright.

Disaster averted, Odric strides on purposefully, hoping no one noticed.

Having received their assignment, the party adjourns to the armory for their reward. Thorgrym accepts a masterwork blade, Sandor selects a beautiful masterwork shield.

Odric enters the armory with a look in his eye that gives the quartermaster pause. He has a chit from the Field Marshal, but the unholy gleam of avarice and naked desire in Odric’s gaze are unsettling. Row upon row of shining suits of full plate mail, neatly stacked pole arms, weapons exotic and mundane are arrayed in a martial display rivaling anything Odric could have ever dreamed of.

There are cases with swords that are clearly of a magical disposition, some crackling with sorcery or glowing faintly. The quartermaster gently steers Odric away from these and suggests he look at the merely masterwork items.

After an incredibly trying half hour, the quartermaster finally dispenses with subtle and polite hints and tells Odric plainly to pick something and get out.

Crestfallen, but excited nonetheless, Odric seems torn between a massive ornate suit of armor edged in gold and set with spikes along its beautifully crafted seams and a fearsome set of studded leather with powerful-looking (but ultimately mundane) runes tooled into the supple black leather. Highlights of a smoky hued metal accent the leather armor, and the studs are made of the same material.

Despite his fantasies of donning the full plate and striding into battle immune to all attacks and bewildering to his foes for his splendor and glory, Odric’s practical side barely wins through. He dons the new studded leather, hangs The Eagle by his belt and thanks the extremely short-tempered quartermaster.

Thorgrym accepts a masterwork blade, Sandor selects a beautiful masterwork shield. Morkeleb picks out a light crossbow, makes a brief show of testing the sighting, and stows it with no further pomp.
Once away from the keep’s armory, Odric stops by one of the vendors arrayed outside selling admittedly less spectacular looking but functional and rugged arms and armor. After a bit of haggling for appearance’s sake, Odric settles on a well-made and impressively massive armored war kilt. He glances around quickly and seeing none of the fairer sex, changes into the new armor on the spot.

The new war kilt is black leather and is fitted with a series of steel studs down each of its many interlocking leather straps. The effect is of a pleated kilt dotted with metal studs. The weight and fit of the kilt may take a bit of getting used to, but the freedom and cool breeze more than make up for it in Odric’s mind. He carefully counts out 20 gold sails to the swarthy looking man behind the rough cut board serving as a countertop and dashes off in search of his companions.

Finding Sandor, Odric waves off the dwarfs initial jests about a skirt.

Once everything is squared away in the armory, Vencarlo joins the party for the walk toward the Narrows. He doesn’t expect them to handle the situation right now, but he seems happy to be pointing the way.

“Gents, I want to thank you for cleaning up a former pupil of mine, Grau. His is a sad tale for another day, but it means a lot to me to see him climbing the ladder again. He was an amazing fencer, and could have become great given time. It makes me smile to see lads such as yourself. Odric, I see great things in your future. You’re quick with a swing and hit like an ox I hear. Grym though, you have a fencer’s gait. Sometime when the city doesn’t need you for an emergency, I’d love to have you down to the school…Gaius, you’ve got the grace for it too. In fact, I think it would be a capital idea to have you both come down.”

….As the group’s walk takes you through the Narrows to Old Korvosa, Vencarlo takes his leave with a firm handshake and genuine smile.

“The place doesn’t wake up until sundown. I recommend you enjoy the day, find some ladies, churn some money into our city. Come sundown, may Desna smile.”

A sprawl of light and sound marks the first pier of Old Korvosa. Glowing lanterns in the shape of dream spiders and god’s eyes hang from pilings or lampposts, flickering through the darkening sky. During the day, Eel’s End was much quieter. Here is a place that caters to the vices and base needs of Old Korvosa. The pier itself is 70 feet long, although its last 30 feet widen into a large square platform on the water. Five ships are moored to the pier—the largest of these is the Eel’s End, a warship that serves as the “stronghold” of Devargo Barvasi and the administrative center of his entire operation.

Eel’s End is open and welcoming of nearly everyone—the enforcers and merchants here are naturally suspicious of the party of adventurers as a well dressed and armed group, but their suspicious grins turn to avarice quickly as they begin to see their wealth as profit for themselves. The riots seem to have spared this part of the city, as vice never goes out of style. Indeed, the need for escapism means business is booming.

The group approaches the pier which moors their destination. The sound of carousing booms from the elegantly painted ships moored to this long pier. Large signs painted in several languages hang from ropes slung between ships or are nailed to pilings. The closest ship to the east bears a sign that says, “The Twin Tigers— Take the Tiger by the Tail and Try Your Luck!” Opposite that, to the west, a barge’s sign says, “Welcome to the Goldenhawk—No Safer Stay in Old Korvosa!” Further to the southeast is “Dragon’s Breath Corridor—Dream the Dragon’s Dreams at Affordable Prices!”, while opposite that is the “House of Clouds—The Caress of Our Lovelies Will Take You Straight to Heaven!”

Only the largest ship, to the south, bears no signage at all. Short rope bridges or gangplanks provide access to the decks of these ships from the pier, or from the decks of other ships. Sailors, thugs, drunkards, prostitutes, and what could even be a few well-dressed nobles carouse on the pier and the decks of all five ships, seemingly oblivious to Korvosa’s recent troubles. Here and there, large men dressed in chainmail patrol the area, grim faces in a sea of revelry.

Through various methods, the group gathers intelligence on their quarry. Grym with a female companion, Gaius trolling the underbelly of the city and Odric carousing in a a tavern. Morkeleb rebuffs Gaius’ attempts at making the mage lighten up a bit and has a nice chat with a young lady regarding the trans dimensional multi-radical illusory properties of mystical unicorn turds.
The net result of the groups activities, is the knowledge that Devargo is a mean piece of work. Rumor has it that he’s got some weird power over spiders, and few actually get in to meet him. He pays his taxes to keep the Crown off his back, and the guard let’s him decide the law on the flotilla. He’s greedy and arrogant, counting no one as friend.

Gaius suggests a direct approach to meeting Devargo, and his friends agree to trust his judgment.
Gaius changes into adventuring clothes. It’s time for work. Gaius prepares a pouch of 88 Sails, taken from the pile of gold from Kroft, and puts a handwritten note in the pouch.

He cleans himself up leads the others to Eel’s End, cautioning Ferox to conceal his holy symbol and symbols of his office before they go in.

Gaius strides purposefully to the gang plank and presents himself to be received. “My name is Gaius Lirsiiv. I seek an audience with your master Devargo Barvasi. I want to do some business.”

A ruffian with a scarred spider bite on his forehead positions himself between Gaius and the door. “Unless you gots yourself an appointment wif da King, you ain’t gunna get no audience.”

The ruffian’s scar crinkles as he raises his eyebrows at something over Gaius’ shoulder. From his slightly elevated position a few feet up the gangplank the guard sees an oddly huge moving disturbance making its way through the crowd towards him. He tenses and leans forward, trying to get a good view of what could be going on.

The jostling and churning of the crowd opens and births a large, sour smelling, bedraggled horror of a baby. The man is trailed by an umbilical cord of curses and shaking fists.

Like a newborn, Odric seems fascinated by all around him as if he is experiencing the world for the first time. Odric peers up at the ruffian, blinks slowly and looks around at his companions. As he moves his head, he starts losing his balance as he shifts his considerable bulk over his heels. A few quick and inelegant steps to correct his faltering balance and Odric remains upright.

In an overly loud stage whisper to Morkeleb, Odric asks “Does this guy require a bit of sails for his wind? I’ve got something hidden in my coin purse under my kilt…” Odric sniggers laughter for a few awkward seconds. “I have some money in my belt pouch too, if that doesn’t work!”

Odric nearly collapses in rolling laughter that rides a hot wind of stale vomit and alcohol. He has enjoyed his day, as the bleary bloodshot eyes, disheveled appearance and various stenches can testify.

“Oi! Let us in! We got business with the master!” Odric without waiting for a response, steps towards the recoiling crowd, reverses course and chums the water beside the boat with a substantially liquid grocery shout.

Odric has clearly had a good day for himself. When he sobers he will have some serious regrets.
This behavior must be relatively standard for this area, for no one seems too upset by it. Gaius looks over at Odric, but his poker face never waivers. He then turns to back to the Ruffian and produces the specially prepared pouch in one hand and five sails in the other.

The pouch contains sails and a handwritten note. The bag has been closed by a ribbon with a wax seal and a mysterious symbol.

“This,” says Gaius, indicating the pouch, “Is for The King of Spiders.”

“This,” indicating the coins, “Is for your trouble.”

Gaius hands both to the Ruffian.

“Tell His Majesty I’ll be at The House of Clouds for a bit, though I’m sure he already knows that. The bag is magicked. Anyone but The King opens that bag, it’s going to ruin their life. Good day.”
Gaius turns and walks back to The House of Clouds.

The note reads, “To The King of Spiders: You’ve caught something in one of your webs, and I need some information. Sharing this information will profit us both. Passing up this opportunity will threaten the status quo. My team and I are enjoying the amenities here in Eel’s End. Let’s deal. —Gaius Lirsiiv.”

A few turns of the sheets later, and a messenger arrives. He’s a boy of twelve, and were it not for his ostentatious garb, he could have been one of Lamm‘s lambs. His tone is matter of fact, "You’ve got a meeting with the King. Starts in 5 minutes. Don’t be late. Bring your posse. Tell them not to be late. Don’t be stupid either. The King suffers no fools, and will drop you like I dropped your mother last night."

The plucky young man doesn’t wait for a response, simply pivots and reclimbs the gangplank. In his wake, the companions nod to one another and start up the gently rocking ramp. Gaius quaffs a vial of antitoxin as he climbs in preparation for the spider king’s little eight-legged friends. Maybe some of his two legged friends too.

The group is escorted on board the Eel’s End. The guards make no attempt to divest anyone of their weapons, but they keep a trained eye and broad point arrow on each. These are not the heroes of circumstance. These men are trained, and have likely seen as much combat as the adventurers.
They open the door to the aft deck. This large room, once a captain’s cabin, has been converted into a throne room of sorts. The walls are thick with spider webs, in which scuttle dozens of spiders— some as large as a fist but most considerably smaller. These spiders seem content to stay in their webs and do not venture into the room itself, which is furnished with two sturdy oaken tables surrounded by chairs.

Aft, a wooden stage supports a large leather chair, itself covered with cobwebs and scampering spiders. A narrow door stands to port, hanging ajar and revealing a flight of stairs leading below. An iron birdcage hangs from the ceiling like a chandelier, inside of which lingers a tiny, tired-looking purple dragon.

Sitting on the throne is the man of this floating castle. This is the throne room of Devargo Barvasi, the self-styled King of Spiders. He is a tall man with close-cropped black hair, a warm smile, and blue eyes. He accents his black leather armor with a steel spider-shaped shoulder baldric and a thick chain crisscrossing his chest, linked together in the shape of a spider’s web. His signature weapons—gauntlets fixed with blades over the knuckles rest within easy reach, glistening with poison. Now and then, spiders clamber over his skin, but he takes no notice.

Whispers say that Devargo has the blood of fiends in him, and that he can communicate with spiders telepathically.

His voice is silky smooth, floating through the room like a gossamer spider’s web. “You have plucked the threads of my web in short order. Normally this would mean a quick response, and a one sided conversation. Consider my interest piqued. Speak – and keep your tongue unsilvered.”
Gaius pouts and raises an eyebrow.

“No foreplay?,” says Gaius feigning coquettish disappointment. “Very well.” Gaius’ demeanor suddenly drops the puckish rogue and straightens to cold, hard and professional.

“I’m aware of a potential problem and we’re in a position to make it go away. To do that quickly and quietly, we need any dirt you have on a man named Darvayne Gios Amprei—also known as Ambassador Amprei of Cheliax. The Ambassador has his own agenda, an agenda that seems to include helping himself to a piece of Korvosa. Korovsa… Is not his. We have reason to believe that he’s using his position and political powers to do this. In doing so, he risks the welfare and stability of Korvosa.”

“Now, The Chelish Ambassador has a weakness for games of chance and intimate company here in Eel’s End. So we come to you. If you have anything useful on him, we can take swift and discrete action. Action that will not further disturb your web. We’re only interested in preserving the existing balance in Korvosa. Amprei goes away, Korvosa and Cheliax maintain trade and peace, which is good for business. And maybe you and I help each other out again in the future. Everybody wins.”
And with that, Gaius holds his tongue and meets the gaze of The King of Spiders, awaiting a response.

A few moments later, Devargo, with an edge in his voice says, “I find your cunning and amusing. I find your attempt at appealing to my sense of civic pride", this he says with a crooked and snearing grin.“Mayhaps you could try to sweeten the deal with an appeal to my economic pride. After all, don’t they say that it’s the money that churns that keeps our city prosperous?”
Gaius offers, “If the information is good, 500 gold sails.”

“This is more like it. I do possess the information you’re looking for, and I’m certain it will serve your purposes. I even keep it on hand. 500 sails is a tempting offer, but I think you can do better. Sweeten the pot, and perhaps join me in a game of knivesies.." Devargo looks around at the rogue’s companions to see if anyone else is going to speak up.

Gaius takes a moment and scratches his beard in thought. He takes long, sideward glances at Odric and Grym, silently evaluating the two men. In many ways, Odric is an ideal Knivesies fighter… And Grym’s skill at unarmed combat would mean the dagger wouldn’t be as much as a factor.
“Hmmmmmmmm…” the rogue ponders the offer.

Grym doesn’t say a word during the meeting. When the talk of a Knivesies match comes up Grym considers it. The ranger would prefer a straight up duel with out all the strange rules. The idea of being tied to together at arm’s length is a little daunting. Yet if it is for the team, Grym would do it. 
At Gauis’s sideward look, Grym gives him a nod.

Sandor takes a solemn quiet stance during the negotiations. He keeps the cowl he wears drawn up to hide his scarred face. The party hears a grunt of acceptance on his part regarding some Knivesies, but other than that he is quiet.

The King of Spiders either gets a bit of spice in his nose or snorts a bit in surprise. “Well isn’t this a bit surprising. Knivesies doesn’t seem like your kind of game, but I’ll give it a go.”
Three thugs enter the room at Devargo’s call. They begin setting up the table. The dagger stuck into the middle is of exquisite quality, and bears an obsidian likeness of a spider, it’s legs coming together to form the quillons. Odric hefts himself onto the table with a liquidity that draws a raised eyebrow from the King of Spiders. The leather strap on his end is stained a deep red. Devargo’s is spotless.

Grym claps Odric on the back and helps him get strapped in for the game. 
”This is where they separate the men from the boys. Or maybe just the crazy from the slightly insane…” The ranger gives the warrior a confident smile. 
Thorgrym is torn between feeling relief that he isn’t the one on the table and some jealously that he doesn’t get to put his skills on the line.

Once the two men are set up, the game is ready. The smell of sweat and manliness is near palpable.
And with nary a delay, Devargo lunges forward.

Morkeleb is a bit taken aback at the turn of events. He is accustomed to violence being for the purpose of killing, intimidation, and stealing, but not for fun. He is inexperienced enough to be a little frightened, nearly to the point of panic, for not knowing what to do, and he steps out of the way and grips his staff tightly, thinking without thinking to unleash magic to alter the course of events.

Odric’s fist clenches the leather strap tightly. He squeezes it with all his might, exerting a steady pressure on the strap and in the process making the veins of his forearm bulge alarmingly. Odric makes his best attempt at convincing his opponent that he will take the opportunity to yank him off the platform as soon as he is able.

The two men shift their weight subtly, Odric’s considerable bulk causing the table to creak and pop beneath him.

Odric lets his breath out in a steady, slow stream. He blows what he knows to be noxious fumes straight into his opponent’s face, hoping to cause Devargo to gag or at the very least flinch. Odric is disappointed but not surprised to see the tactic has no appreciable effect.

With a slight increase in pressure and what he hopes is a convincing feint, Odric makes as though he is fully committed to a mighty tug backwards, then lunges for the dagger with his free hand.
Odric’s eyes gleam in delight as he realizes his reaction was fractionally faster than Devargo’s. While the feint may have failed, in seizing the initiative Odric has gained an advantage. The big man comes up from his desperate grab with the dagger held in a menacing reverse grip. Odric appears to begin looking for an opening to use his newfound tool, but with a twist of his hips allows the dagger to drop to the floor behind him, effectively putting it out of play.

Odric assumes a steady stance, rooted to the table below him and standing stock still with the maximum possible distance between himself and the man he is strapped to. All traces of his drunkenness, other than the overwhelming scent of alcohol, are gone. Eyes blazing, Odric waits.
Devargo is momentarily stunned by the reaction speed of the large and apparently stone drunk Odric. He lunges for the dagger a second too late. Having been too slow he redirects his momentum in a bull rush, aiming low and for the hips. The self-styled King’s shoulder buries itself in Odric’s gut. The big fighter’s stance lifts up, but he doesn’t go back over the edge.

To Gaius, Morkeleb whispers, “I suppose it would be bad form to bring magic to bear here?”

Gaius replies in a hushed whisper to Morkeleb, concealing his lips with one hand, “Save it for now. I was serious before: Odric is a natural for this game. Let’s see where this goes.”

The blow to his midsection is largely ineffectual. Odric lowers his hips slightly and barely moves. His stance and facial expression convey a certain gravitas, but as Devargo’s shoulder collided with Odric’s gut, a thunderous and odorous fart shakes both men. The pair locked in combat each feel the effects immediately, the spectators a moment later. Around the room, knees tremble, beards curl and stomachs turn.

A few of the smaller spiders fall from their webs with legs curled in death.

Behind him Odric hears a bet placed as to who in the room will shout groceries first. The odds favor the spectators after his tremendous flatulence.

Through the fumes, Odric spies Devargo’s belt and seizes on an idea. He first attempts to continue the man’s forward momentum and drive him off the table. As he grasps the belt, Odric quickly senses the man has better balance than anticipated. Odric changes his mind and instead smashes his fist like a warhammer crafted of flesh and bone onto the back of the man’s skull at the base of his skull.

Odric releases the belt and resumes his grave stance, the only betrayal of his posturing is his twitching nostrils and the thick oily stench that remains swirling about the tabletop.

During this fight, Gaius and Morkeleb open a telepathic dialogue with the purple pseudodragon in the cage. After making a friendly acquaintance in this hell hole, the two are able to gather a bit of information about it, and both hatch the idea of coming back to Eel’s End to liberate the diminutive beast.

Devargo drops down to avoid Odric’s hammerfist, taking it on the gorget of his Leather armor, which withstands the shot better than any you’ve ever seen. Taking a moment to capitalize on your tactics of facing him He snatches his hand out and grabs eight of the Gold sails.

Odric snarls at Devargo, grabs him by the gorget and the groin and squeezes mightily with both hands. He pulls the man’s weight in close to his center of balance and moves his rear foot in towards his front foot. Odric pivots his hip sharply, steps out with his foot towards the edge of the table behind him. As he steps out, he attempts to hurl his opponent off the table. Odric musters a shout completely devoid of groceries that lends strength to his throw.

Odric tosses Devargo off the end of the table like a discarded statue (of a crane.) The “King” looks up, completely aghast, and with murder in his eyes. He eyes his punch daggers, and then eyes the men. The sound of his grating teeth is not quite muffled by Odric’s borborygmi.

“I’ve got yer proof. And ye’ll have it shortly. But make no mistake. Our business is concluded. If you ever set foot on my fleet again, I’ll feed your spleens to my pets. I’ll pump you so full of venom that you’ll sit paralyzed and watch as I carve every last frelling one of your organs out.”
Sandor is enjoying the contest as only a dwarf can do by being loud and boisterous.

He is proud of his new friend Odric’s win, and envious that he was the only one to play.

In a loud voice that only makes the grating gravelly quality of his voice sound worse, “Odric that was a mighty fine show up ‘ere boyo! I couldn’t belive you dropped the dagger, but yer plan was awesome when ya tossed him like a rag doll off the table” as he finishes his statement, he notices the look that Devargo is giving and the venom with which he said about our winnings.

Sandor is appalled over the temper tantrum being displayed by the self-titled King of Spiders.
“Odric in this contest ’ere will always be a winner and a loser. The biggest victory is if you can win or loose like a man and not a child.” cuts his eyes to Devargo “Now lets mainain our dignity A ROUND OF ALE ON ME GOOD GAME EVERYONE!!” Sandor figures one drink while Devargo gets the information gathered and passed over.

“Besides Odric, I need to spill some good ale on my moustache to keep your impressive flatulence from my nostrils” the swarthy dwarf laughs.

After the quick, violent, martially artistic ending of the short bout, and the King’s bitter dictum, Morkeleb stands with an incredulous look on his face.

He is about to make a comment or ask a question, but thinks better of it, closing his mouth before uttering a syllable. Instead, he gives the King a bit of a frown and a minute head-shake—clearly an expression of contempt, if anyone bothers to notice it.

The wizard addresses Gaius. “I take it we’re done here?”

Odric looks imploringly at some of the more diplomatic of his companions to see if they might be interested in smoothing this over…

Gaius flashes a bitter smile and helps Odric down off the table. He doesn’t vocalize it but the look in his eyes is pride and praise. When he has Odric close enough for a whisper “Don’t celebrate here. Pick up your winnings and let’s just be polite. We’ll talk about this over drinks later.”

Odric is careful to remain neutral in his facial expression and refrains from a righteous fist pump.

Gaius turns to Morkeleb and instructs, “We’re done. We’ll collect the info we need and depart.”

Gaius doesn’t appear interested in placating the self-styled, “King of Spiders”, and just keeps his cool. All the while his quick mind is memorizing every detail of this room, and the path out of the ship. He files it all away in his devious mind, ready for the day he returns here.

The group spends the rest of the evening carousing and learning the better secrets of Sandor’s other craft. The following morning, the 13th of Calistral, the heroes turn over the evidence at the Citadel.

When they return to Citadel Volshyenek and hand over the scandalous letters to Field Marshal Cressida Kroft, she blushes as she reads them and quickly passes them to a clerk for safe keeping, stating that they should work perfectly should the need for some leverage against the ambassador ever come up. She thanks the party again, rewarding them with a further 500 sails over and above the bribe money she had given earlier to pay Devargo. Cressida informs all that she has no more work at this time—things are starting to return to normal in Korvosa at last, but unrest remains in the air. She asks only, “That you stay close by, if our city needs you, I’d rest better knowing that you’re just a short messenger away. I’m sure you’d like to get some rest and spend the reward. On behalf of the entire city, we thank you.”

The apprentice closes the book quietly and tiptoes back to the bookshelf. Behind him, the old man’s eye snaps shut as the lad turns towards him. The wizard makes a show of rolling over in his false sleep in order to hide a small smile. He well recalls his apprenticeship, pulling stunts just of the like. He remembers nights like this when his love of history started to develop. Ahh, the passion of youth for such a dull enterprise. It is good to see though.

With clear purpose and mutual hatred for Lamm, the self-styled ‘Wolves’ begin planning for the downfall of Gaedren Lamm. The group is composed of six: Odric the Stout, whom Lamm wronged by kidnapping his master’s son, Kip, Thorgrym the Tracker whose pack of dogs was poisoned by Lamm, Gaius Lirsiiv and Morkeleb the Mighty, both of whom once slaved as a child under Lamm’s cruel hand, Keftan Theron, a man who’s lover was taken and possibly murdered by Lamm, and Ferox Kerr, an Inquisitor hunting the man who supplied his friend with shiver and killed him.

The Master stops writing just long enough to scratch his bald pate. The nib of his quill is sharp and satisfying as it scrapes along his scalp. The inkblot and spots are barely visible in the shadows, but the apprentice notes them and stifles a laugh. The master continues writing while he gazes into his scrying crystal.

Gaius skulks from building to building, melting into the shadows and carefully searching for any of Lamm’s denizens who might offer resistance in the neighborhood surrounding the fishery. Seeing naught but rats and refuse, Gaius approaches carefully.

Hidden in the lengthening shadows of the oncoming night, Gaius covers his face with a corner of his dark cloak, in part to conceal himself but also to shield his nose from the rotting fish and pungent seaweed that clings to the pilings along the wharf.

Through cracks in the walls and in brief glimpses through scummy windows, Gaius is able to see quite a bit of the operation in Lamm’s headquarters. His familiarity with the place helps, and his firsthand knowledge of Lamm’s tyranny makes this sight all the more poignant. Gaius mutters a line of poetry, seemingly without thinking, “And now I seek to right the scale; A third sting I will learn; And down inside the halls of Hell; I’ll send his soul to burn”

Gaius slinks back to Keftan’s home, doubling back twice to ensure he is not followed.
The rogue finds Keftan’s home with no difficulty and raps a secret knock to announce his presence.
Without preamble, Gaius begins “The Fishery looks as though it’s falling apart, and there are children inside working at various tasks, being pushed by a taskmaster. Aside from that, I saw little. No guards or sentries were seen by me. I guess the size of the building to be 70′ × 50′. It is a single story at street level, but there is a level below at sea level with a dock. There is a dilapidated fishing boat tied there.

There are many windows, and two visible doors. A set of double doors at the street, and at the side of the building there is a deck with a second set of double doors. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. To get any more detail, I’d have to get a lot closer.

There are advantages and disadvantages to trying either entrance, or we can try a third option and see if there is roof access.

Whichever entry point we choose, I think we should quickly investigate and disable the fishing boat first, and do that quietly.

What say you?”

After discussion and planning, the group determinesto disable the boat, cutting off escape, then clear the house of Lamm’s taskmasters, free or knock unconscious any child slaves and end Lamm’s reign of terror.

The slippery boardwalk clings to the side of the fishery, held together by barnacle-thick pilings that have been worn halfway through their thickness at the waterline. As Odric steps onto the pier, the ancient boards give an extra loud squeak, nearly breaking under the strain. None of the group think the rotted timbers could handle either a combat or a group of merely standing in place for very long.

Slowly, as stealthily as possible, timing their steps to the lapping of the waves against the barge the group makes its way down. They can see underneath the building that there is a lower level. While light ushers forth from windows, the chaos of the junk and pier obscures any interior view. Gaius is the first to take in the barge in detail. The rotten deck of this ancient barge seems to be barely intact, its hull worn and thick with seaweed and barnacles. The barge 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. A single wooden door leading into the aft cabin bears a crude painting of a red fish on its surface. None of the group are knowledgeable enough to comment on the condition of the craft, but it certainly looks like it’s been moored here since the eldest among them were children. Odric thinks that a climb up the dilapidated ship’s gunnel would be easy, and watches as Thorgrym attempts it.

Odric, seeing Grym’s tumble immediately tries to reach for his falling friend. As Grym’s hand barely misses the railing and Odric’s outstretched hand, Odric curses quietly. Heaving his bulk up and over the decrepit boats gunwale, the big man leaps after his companion, heavy pick in hand.

Odric’s thorough preparation of warm-ups and calisthenics really paid off for Odric whilst he was tumbling through the air. He manages to deftly land on his feet, pick at the ready. Unfortunately his perfect landing was slightly misjudged, and he jars his knee painfully on an unseen crate below the brackish water’s surface.

After a nearly catastrophic fall into the hold of the ship, Grym takes in the interior of the ship as his eyes adjust to the darkness.

Dark and dank, the ship’s hold smells of mildew. Several barrels, crates, and other containers lie stacked here and there, and a shallow layer of river water has collected in puddles. A soft scratching sound comes from behind a few of the crates.

When he lands in the stinking, fetid water, Odric helps a visibly shaken Thorgrym to his feet. As Grym stands flexing his limbs and grimacing in pain, the two hear the scuttling of the spiders almost simultaneously. Before the two can even gain their bearings the source of the scratches becomes apparent as a quartet of scarlet spiders, each the size of house cat come forward.

Perhaps something about Thorgrym’s scent attracted the four arachnids to him; more likely though Odric’s musk registered to their tiny spider brains as ‘less than tasty.’ The spiders rush towards Thorgrym’s sodden calves, but he is able to stab at one with the point of his dripping sword as it closes with him.

Gaius, Keftan and Ferox rally around Thorgrym.

Odric nearly roars, then remembering the need for stealth at the last second he chokes out a curse to the nasty little creatures instead, “Filthy spawn of Norborger! Die!” Odric begins furiously smashing at the eight-legged monstrosities, sacrificing accuracy and precision for brute force in his revulsion. The red carapaces of the spiders’ pulsating abdomens provide a tempting target in the near-blackness belowdecks.

Odric’s heavy pick arcs through the darkness towards the scarlet spider scuttling towards him. As the spider turns its attention from Grym to Odric, its attention is slightly divided between the two humans. Odric’s heroic strength as he grips his eagle-headed pick causes his veins to stand out in stark contrast on his forearms. He hits, causing some horrible crunching sounds to the spider’s carapace.

There is a strange, high pitched shriek heard by the men belowdecks that could not be positively attributed to Odric, but the horrified, contorted expression on the big man’s face may give some of his more observant companions evidence of his uttering of a Girly Noise as the ichor splashes up in an awful spray.

As Morkeleb jockeys for position to bring his magic to bear on the vermin, Gaius takes full advantage of the spiders’ interest in Grym and sneaks his rapier’s point between one’s abdomen and thorax. The initial resistance followed by a small crunch and an easy slide into the spider’s gooey center is both satisfying and repulsive.

Undoubtedly this is the most action this poor excuse for a ship has seen in decades. Still though, crimson spiders don’t grow to this size without a steady diet.

Perhaps the Girly Noise was Odric, but nonetheless the red spider makes a shrieking noise as it launches itself at Odric. It’s vermin mind too small to comprehend the danger, only the size of the meal. With a sickening crunch Odric’s pick skewers it. Ichor and gore continue to fly, splashing the big man in his face. Nothing but arms and shell remain. Despite his bulk, Odric’s views on warming up pay off. He’s ready to take the attack to the remaining spiders.

At the same time the antithesis of Odric’s form is the deft Gaius. With not a moment to spare he brings his rapier to bear on the spider as it launches itself towards him. Gaius and Odric each have scored a kill. Still, Grym is hard pressed, the sickening hip wound is already turning green and purple. The remaining two spiders continue their relentless assault.

From his vantage point, Ferox has a clear line to one of the spiders remaining on Grym. It’s a risky shot, and a normal bowman would be taking a great risk shooting at two foes locked in melee when one is an ally, but Ferox is not normal. The inquisitor calmly draws his bow and lets fly, aiming at the thorax of the spider who just sank its mandibles into Grym.

While Ferox is trained to shoot into melee, Keftan isn’t. With his bow it’s an even greater risk. Still, he draws back his bow; his mind’s eye balancing the risk between arrow and another bite felling his new companion. With the odds now favoring the Harrowed, he readies a shot. If the spider moves away from Grym, he will let fly.

As the situation becomes increasingly dire the dull weight of panic begins to set into the heroes. An arrow from Ferox slices one of the spiders cleanly. Both the spider and the arrow hit the floor with a thunk. Out of its primitive survival instinct the remaining spider leaps away and moves to skitter across the deck into a hole of rotted wood. Keftan lets fly with his arrow and misses.
Seeking final vengeance against the spider, Grym finally brings his sword down as the spider turns to flee. It never makes it to the hole, Grym sticks it, twisting his blade left and right to make sure that it’s dead.

With the vermin dead there is still no time to relax as poison continues to course through Grym’s veins. Morkeleb determines that the combat has pushed the barge beyond its breaking point, it’s going to sink – and soon. This combat has taken a heavy toll on the party.

Odric grimmaces and starts to rub his aching knee, then seeing Thorgrym’s ashen face, bloody hip and putrefying wound thinks better of it. He roots around in his sodden belt pouch and produces a mud-covered vial. He hands it to Grym and nods gravely.

Keftan inexplicably takes his leave of the party, citing irreconcilable differences and goes off to seek his lover elsewhere.

Thorgrym thanks Odric weakly and quaffs the pale blue potion. The two men clasp forearms, “Grym, this means you buy the first round back at the tavern when all this is over!”

Odric clambers out of the boat onto the dock and crouches next to the building quietly. His boots squish and bubble as he shifts his weight slightly. There is a swampy, mildewy odor emanating from the man. Odric fears that no matter how quiet he is or how stealthily he moves the clinging scent from the ship’s hold will give him away. He risks a quick look into a window as he waits for his companions to join him.

It’s as if the brush with death has produced a cohesion in the group. As if this was a comfortable routine they converge on the door. Gaius gives it the lookover. None of the windows lead into this room, as the door is west of the wall in the large room.

As Odric and Grym reconnoiter the window, Ferox glides past and listens intently at the door. You can here a man’s voice. It sounds like Taldane, but it’s hard to tell what he’s saying. The fact that there’s only one voice leads to to think he’s alone…

Odric slides his back up to the side of the building, trying to ignore the fetid stench wafting up from his legs. Taking a moment to catch his breath he turns and peers through the louvers of the window. Inside is a single room at sea level, taking up the whole half of the building. The floor inside is slick with seawater, bits of seaweed, and fish blood – the air is thick and does a competent job competing with the stench Odric has acquired. Wooden catwalks to the north and south allow access to the western part of the fishery facing the street. An open bay to the south allows open access to the muddy waters below. While to the northwest, stands a ten foot tall wooden vat, its sides caked and waterproofed with tar. What’s inside is a mystery as Odric’s angle doesn’t allow him to look deeper than a few inches. Nearly two dozen children labor in here, gutting and chopping fish. Watching it all is a half-orc taskmaster, his size equal to the large fighter observing unseen through the window. Rather than enter the large room first, the group decides to enter through a smaller door to the west of the building.

Gaius approaches the western door, tools at the ready. The door isn’t locked, and truth be known a lock on such a decrepid door would be like bolting an envelope shut. A swift kick would end this door. The timing is perfect. Gaius’ analysis of the door completes as Grym’s feet torque into the wooden pier, ready to skewer an enemy on the other side with a swift bolestra.

Gaius carefully pushes the door open, dagger at the ready. Just as the door does little in the way of providing a solid defense, so to does it do little to help a stealthy opening. With a shrill grind of rusted hinges the door opens. Inside stands Yargin, Gaedran Lamm’s underboss. He stands at a wooden desk which 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. To the south, a few moldy boards have been nailed over a door. He turns towards the noise and lashes out to grab a nearly spherical bottle of deep green liquid from the desk. His other hand grabs hold of a wand at his belt.

With a snarl Yagrin jumps up, ready for action. He plants his left foot on the seat of the chair and steps up confidently to place his right foot on the desk. Not quite aware of the odds, nor the grim nature of his attackers, he shouts, “Die theiving scum!” He tosses the green jar at what little of Gaius he can see.

Time seems to slow down for the men. They hear the door creak slightly as Gaius toes it open, then as the voice within erupts and Yargin springs into action, Odric seems frozen in place. The tinkling sound of the vial into a thousand crystalline shards and the subsequent bubbling hissing sound rouse him to action. They can smell the throat-closing, acrid fumes from the acid and underlying that the sickening coppery smell of blood.

Gaius falls, writhing in pain.

Ferox moves into the room, taking position next to the eastern door hoping for a little cover from the cabinet. He draws an arrow and lets loose at Yagrin. The arrow slams into Yargin’s biceps. The group hears the splinter of bone. The underboss twists backwards in a futile attempt to absorb the blow.

Thorgrym lunges across the table to attack Yargin with his sword, the ichor of the spiders still glistening along its edge. His sword hits home. The blade sinks in half way to the hilt, just to the left side of the sternum. Yagrin expires before his lifeless corpse slides off of the sword. His final words are an incoherent gurgle.

Odric is close behind Thorgrym rushing into the room, with the twang-slap-thunk of Ferox’s bowstring and well-placed shot filling his right ear. He could almost swear he felt the fletching brush his cheek. Maybe it was his heightened senses as he entered mortal combat for the second time this night.

Odric hears more than sees Grym’s devastating strike upon their foe and the enemy’s surprised grunt of pain punctuates Grym’s attack. He bends to drag Gaius out of the close room and onto the outer dock. His hands sting and burn as he grabs Gauis roughly by the outer garments, but the awful power of the acid is mostly dissipated.

The ruin of Gauis’ once fine half-elven features is all but unrecognizable. Odric’s mind seems fixated on Gaius’ panicked green eye flitting about in a series of twitches as the life ebbs from the rogue’s face.

Odric had never dealt with trauma on this scale before. His ‘medical’ experience to this point includes a series of treatments for hangovers, black eyes, split lips and loosened teeth. Pretty much all with the same prescription: a pint or two and a good sleep.

He makes his best effort to aid Gauis though, trying to staunch what bleeding he can see in the low light with a torn bit of cloth. As the half-elf lies dying on the filthy dock, Odric does what he can.

Seeing Odric attending to Gaius, Ferox moves to both of the closed doors and listens for any commotion on the other side, hoping that no one’s been alerted to their presence. “Well, gents, how do we proceed? Retreat isn’t an option. If we do, Lamm will be long gone by the time we return. Can any one of you revive Gaius?” Ferox asks the group at large.

Morkeleb searches Yargin’s bloody and still twitching corpse for a means to heal Grym. Being an underboss has its privileges. Yargin has a fair amount on him. The leather armor he wears is serviceable, as is his dagger and crossbow with a full case of quarrels. He wears an amulet adorned with pale garnet. Within his pockets you also find a key. What truly draws your attention is the plethora of vials, bottles, and bags he has. Most of them are inert components, useful only to an alchemist. What is of use though are the three vials of standard issue acid, two bottles of a pale transparent blue potion, two tanglefoot bags, and a thunderstone. Finally is the scorched twig of wood that is clearly a wand.

After administering a potion of healing to Gaius, the scars and wounds from the acid disappear with scarcely a trace. The remaining scars are faint within seconds and after a minute are almost completely gone. By the morning they will be naught but a memory.

Without hesitation, Gaius is up and checking his equipment, then is examining the doors with his practiced eye. “The hinges facing the party offer a tempting opportunity to oil them, but without knowing what lies beyond the door we could face a similar debacle to the one we faced in this room”
Odric looks from door to door and around the small stinking room. He rummages through his pack awkwardly without fully taking it off, reaching over his shoulder to do so. He produces a small flask and drips a foul-smelling oily substance onto each hinge in turn.

“This oil will certainly silence the squeaking hinges, but I think we should extinguish any light sources in this room before we open the door. We could gain the dual advantage of the darkness concealing our position and number, and if the next room is dimly lit we wouldn’t draw as much attention to ourselves.”

Sudden inspiration splits the man’s face into a huge grin, “In fact, what if we opened the door and held Yargin’s corse up as a shield!? We could hide behind it and anyone who came to investigate would recognize him but might not see his wounds in the dark. From there we could drop Yargin, throw him into the fray or fall back if the odds are unreasonable!”

Odric begins doing deep knee bend and squatting low then straightening quickly with a thrust of his hips. He swings his arms rapidly forward and backward. Once sufficiently warmed up and ready for his task, he hoists the corpse of Yargin up in front of him.

Spitting some of the body’s stray greasy hairs from his mouth, Odric grunts, “Turn out the lights, and I’ll go!”

Odric looks to Gaius expectantly, waiting for his stealthy companion to open the door.

Gaius reminds Odric, “Keep your distance, though, buddy, but don’t look like you’re trying to keep your distance.”

Odric mumbles some incomprehensible question sounding almost like a bestial roar, face covered in Yargin’s greasy hair again.

“*I* don’t know. Fly casual.”

Thorgrym is hard on Odric’s and Yargin’s heels. He is looking for a target that need’s killing.
The greased door opens silently. The room beyond nearly as dark as Yargin’s office. A single desk sits in the middle of this room, a moldy chair pushed up against the far side. A small pile of ratty furs and straw is heaped under the table.

Within the room is a malnourished and maltreated mutt. His teeth stand as stark contrast to the shadowy room. Though he doesn’t pounce, his hind quarters are coiled and ready to spring into action. Indeed even through the pervasive darkness of the room, he seems locked on to the only figure he can see, Yargin’s corpse.

In the split second before he lunges, Grym steps from behind the Odric and Yargin fighting team. He makes his best effort at soothing the dog. His experience and his training pay off. Grym is able to ease the tension in the dog’s stance. The malnourished creature lowers it posture and looks at the ranger pleadingly. The dog lays down eventually, the crisis past, the men continue through the dog’s lair.

After searching the small room, Odric takes a few minutes to clean up the frontal portion of Yargin’s body. He makes an effort to make the wounds on the dead man’s bicep and in his gut look less obvious, wiping some of the coagulated blood onto one of the foul rags on the floor.
That finished, Odric and Yargin prepare for a similar plan of attack. Odric hoists Yargin in front of him and frog-marches the carcass to the left hand door on the east wall, allowing Thorgrym room to listen.

“Grym, what do you hear?” Odric asks in a hushed voice.

He stands ready to shuffle to the door, Yargin taking point.

Once Thorgrym has finished listening at the door, Odric turns to ask Gaius if he would be so kind as to check the door for traps or other impediments to forward progress.

With no clues as to what might lay beyond this door, and no traps or locks in evidence, the group advances through the door and into a hallway.

“There’s only one thing that might argue against going into this room. If my sense of this building is right, this room opens to the main entrance to the warehouse. If there are guards posted anywhere, they might be in the front room.”

Odric cocks an ear to Yargin’s lolling head, listening with a look of concentration.

He grins to his friends, “Yargin’s dead quiet on the topic of guards”

The hinges are accessible, so Gaius applies oil. He then steps aside, clearing the way for Odric, Yargin and Thorgrym. He readies his dagger and hides on the western side of the door.
Odric reaches up awkwardly from under Yargin’s armpit, places his hand gently on the latch to the next room. The latch is cool to the touch and smooth, indicating it was once well-used and often. The latch gives to Odric’s gently increasing pressure until the door begins to swing free on its hinges.

As the door begins to swing, Odric with his new friend Yargin, hang back in the shadows. Odric has a knot of trepidation in his gut, but feels a bit better when he considers the new friends he has behind him, and the foot-thick meat shield he holds before him.

With Gauis and Ferox hanging back to provide thrown alchemical weapons and swift arrows respectively into any enemy on the other side of the door should this deception fail, Odric pushes gently on the door and reapplies his grip to Yargin.

Morkeleb is muttering softly in the room somewhere behind Odric, easing the big man’s mind further knowing the magic-user is ready for action with a spell or enchantment of some kind.

He can feel Throgrym close behind him too, and takes comfort in the knowledge of what the ranger is capable of in a fight. How could he not? Especially while holding Grym’s grim handiwork up in a gruesome but hopefully convincing imitation of life.

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 seawater and fish blood stain the floor around this trough. A pair of wooden chutes lead from this trough through holes in the northern wall into a larger room to the east. To the west, a desk and chair sit in one corner while a tall cabinet sits in the other. A sadistic looking gnome bullies a quartet of children as they work in the trough. In his hands he holds a sap, but even a momentary glimpse gives you sight of a khukri at his belt.

The ruse of the Yargin corpse seems to have an effect, though who knows what Odric’s expectations were. The children look to the gnome and to Yargin. They hesitate for a split second, fearing the sap while clinging to a near forgotten hope of rescue.

Thorgrym holds his blade in hand, standing to the side of the door frame. He waits for Odric to enter the room to begin the attack. The site of a gnome makes the ranger slightly nervous. They are small but sly. Grym wonders about an illusion but is still ready to charge in with his new brothers in arms.

A powerful feeling of exultation rushes through Odric when the door swings wide to reveal Kip, the brewmaster’s son who was kidapped seemingly ages ago. In a flash, Odric’s failures of the past seem to fall away a bit and he is rocked back on his heels for a split second, simply stunned that he was able to find Kip.

In that split second, Odric took in the whole squalid scene, the deplorable conditions, the cruel gnome taskmaster and the children elbow-deep in fish guts.

Odric strides into the room and up to the gnome purposefully and shouts, “Children, GET ON THE FLOOR!”

Odric kicks the gnome in the groin through Yargin’s legs, Thorgrym rushes in to flank the taskmaster, Gaius hurls a dagger and Ferox positions himself to support the combatants with accurate fire from his bow, all in a split second. The speed of the action is greater than Morkeleb is accustomed to, and he doesn’t react as quickly as the more battle-hardended of the group. However, react he does nonetheless.

Not certain how the violence will play out, and whether the gnome will get the chance to raise the alarm, the mage quickly sinks into the practiced motions of spellcasting. A few muttered words and a quick gesture with his staff, simulating smacking the end against someone’s forehead, Morkeleb releases the eldritch energies at the gnome. In an attempt to allow the group to take him down quickly with as little noise as possible, he casts a lesser spell, attempting to daze the diminutive opponent.

As Odric’s foot connects with the Gnomish gonads, what might be terms as a Girly Gnoise escapes the Gnome’s mouth. The children, shocked begin to react as Odric instructed, but Kip, recognizing his savior as Odric begins to encourage his companions to follow the gigantic madman’s shouted instructions.

Odric drops Yargin with a muttered farewell and the carcass slumps to the ground, motionless. Oddly, for the third time in as many minutes.

Odric’s extremely unorthodox tactic will surely be the talk of the children for years to come. The gnome’s Girlie Gnoise is one of the highest pitched he has ever heard. The gnome drops his sap and clutches his sac. Grym and Ferox slide in. Gaius hurls his dagger but the chaotic movement of the gnome’s reaction leaves his dagger hungry as it slams into the wall. Already weakened, the gnome tries desperately to fend of Morkeleb’s spell.

With an incomprehensible grunt, Odric draws his ferocious Eagle-headed pick. For a split second, the Gnome’s crossed eyes behold a gleaming eagle’s head with an extremely sharp beak poised right before his bulbous nose.

Behind that pick though, up two long and thickly-muscled arms, above two boulder-like shoulders, up a monstrous neck bulging with purple pulsating veins, past gnashing teeth in a clenched jaw with a few days’ black stubble there is a second face. It is equally as ferocious with eyes that seemingly burn with an inner fire.

Odric swings the pick, describing a complete circle to his right side as the left hand counters in an opposing circle to gain momentum. The pick, as it reaches its zenith above Odric’s head gains the extra force of the left arm’s might as the swing continues to gain power and speed. The murderous gleam in Odric’s eyes disappears as he clenches his eyes at the last moment, willing the last bit of power and hate into the strike.

When the pick connects with the gnome he is gone in an instant. Grey matter and bone fly through the air, much of the wound-slurry landing in the vile fish ooze. The children stare at the scene. Though life under Lamm’s lash is harsh, the enormity of the violence is shocking to them. The youngest of them makes a step towards the door…. unsure of the next few seconds, many of them look to run to the winds.

In an effort to calm them and prevent an exodus, Morkeleb intones soothingly, “Calm yourselves, little ones—we’re here to do to Lamm what we just did to this sack of dirt. You will be free when we succeed. Where is he?”

They run for the door, shocked by the violence and desperate to escape.

One stays behind, the older boy. He finally pulls himself together, “Sirs….Odric, is that you? Are you really here to knock off that solly slop? Through this door is the main room, there’s a hole in the floor that leads to the under room. No one ever comes back from there, and that’s where Lamm keeps his sorry arse. Be careful. Giggles the Half-orc is between you and there. His name might sound silly, but it’s because he giggles when he beats people. I’ve seen his flail hit a man the way Odric’s pick hit Shanks.”

As he opens his eyes, bits of gristle and gore, blood and bone, hide and hair cover his torso. Odric’s intense aggression wanes as quickly as it waxed and he looks up from the cratered Gnome to see Kip standing before him.

Odric answers the boy joyfully, lowers his bulk to one knee and gathers him into an enormous embrace. The nauseating combination of odors almost proves too much for Kip. The only thing saving Kip from retching is the boy’s attenuation to the smell of fish guts after months in this warehouse. Odric does not smell good.

As he embraces the boy, Odric can feel almost a full year of shame and guilt melt away. The feeling of achievement, one not often felt but often dreamed of, is intoxicating to Odric.

“Kip! I’m so glad you’re safe! Are you well? Sound of body I see even if a little underfed, and your description to my companion indicates a soundness of mind I didn’t dare hope for!”

Odric holds Kip at arm’s length and looks at him, eyes glistening with a bewildering whirlwind of emotion. Relief, exultation, the remainder of the ebbing violence with which he dispatched Shanks the Gnome, along with pride, worry and determination battle for supremacy on Odric’s face.

In reality, worry almost triumphs, and Odric briefly considers abandoning his new companions and spiriting Kip back to his father immediately, but pride and a thirst for revenge quickly eclipse that thought. Thinking furiously, Odric casts about for an answer to his dilemma.

“Kip, we are going to kill Giggles and then slaughter Lamm. I dare not send you running through the streets at this hour to search for your home for fear of losing you once again to the denizens of the streets after all this time.”

Odric’s brow furrows and he looks around the squalid room. “I’d like you to hide somewhere close by until I can return to escort you safely home. Can you think of a safe place in here or in another room to conceal yourself?”

Odric looks to Kip questioningly, wondering where the boy will choose to lay up.

While thirsty for vengeance, justice and glory, Odric can persevere without refreshment at this time. He will taste a more potent beverage before the night is through, but that will be hours from now before a roaring fire. He’ll be laughing with his former Brewmaster and regaling him with a tale of heroism that for once, Odric can lay claim to.

His furrowed brow breaks into a wolfish grin. “Gentlemen, we have bloody work before us. Best we get to it.”

The men gather to discuss tactics and strategery. Gambits are suggested, then discarded. The safety of the laboring children is apriority, but the party realizes it must pass through this room and dispatch Giggles before Lamm can be addressed.

Odric considers the room’s layout, waiting for Kip to suggest a decent hiding place. He dismisses the cabinet, knowing that if the battle with Giggles goes poorly, Kip will be trapped without escape.

An idea dawns on Odric, he lowers his stance, puts his hands out to the sides and gets an odd expectant look on his face. At the quizzical looks he gets from all, he boldly states, “I have a Plan.”

Odric begins madly scribbling on a piece of parchment he produces from his backpack with the charred end of a stick he retrieves from behind his ear. The others in the room wonder at how it could have stayed in place throughout the excitement of the evening.

Thorgrym notes that there is a copious amount of grease holding Odric’s hair style in place that may have held it. Grym ponders Odric’s unique hairstyle distractedly while Odric continues to mutter and scribble.

With his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth and a look of intense concentration on his face, Odric continues his diagram of the Plan. He unconsciously interrupts himself periodically with slashing motions of the arms, ducking and turning as he furiously captures the masterful strategery on parchment.

Triumphantly, he finishes the last dramatic arrows which seem to point off the page to the far, far east, then straightens and addresses the enthralled room.

“First, Gaius will pull the door open without allowing the occupants of the room to see him. Kip will show himself, and shout this to Giggles” Odric leans to Kip’s ear and whispers for an oddly long time while the boy nods gravely. When Odric finishes, Kip breaks into a smile and nods enthusiastically, “which will throw Giggles into a rage.”

“Giggles will immediately rush to strike at Kip for his insolence and gall” Here Odric indicates vaguely a large smudge on the greasy parchment.

“Gaius will then slam the door shut and Morkeleb, you will spirit Kip safely into the hallway and close the door.” Odric hands Kip a large partially eaten drumstick from some unidentified fowl that he produces from the depths of his pack. “In case you see a dog” Odric explains to a bewildered Kip.
“Ferox, have an arrow nocked, because unless I miss my guess the door will fly open and Giggles will come through it looking for Kip’s hide. Morkeleb, I recommend a thrown dagger or some other spell, save your sleep enchantment for Lamm as indicated here”

Odric’s large finger jabs at the diagram distractedly, seemingly pointing at the entire upper left portion of the Plan.

“Gaius and I will be flanking this door, prepared to attack Giggles as he emerges. While I attack with this monstrosity featuring the head of a fucking EAGLE!” Odric hefts his pick impressively, then noting it is covered in gore and is certainly not gleaming as it should be, makes an ineffective attempt and wiping it clean with his sanguinary sleeve before giving up distractedly “…Gaius will stab Giggles in some of his squishier parts.” The stabbing motions are quite convincing and Odric continues indicating minor points of detail on the Plan.

“Anyway, there’s more but this is the main idea. Are there questions?” Odric holds the Plan before him face up and looks from face to face with authority. The Plan is almost completely obliterated and smudged, but Odric seems quite pleased with it.

His commences deep knee bends whist cracking his knuckles above his head. Kip suppresses a laugh as Odric’s gut bulges in a white crescent below his tightly-cinched black leather armor.

“The time for action is now, Gentlemen. This can’t go wrong. We have a Plan.”

Odric maneuvers Kip into position before the door, then looks to Gaius for his fine fingered manipulations around the area of the door. A trapped door at this point could be disastrous, although in the middle of a working fish-gutting plant it seems unlikely.

Now that he thinks about it, Thorgrym notes with interest that Odric’s hair does not seem to move at all, no matter what the big man does. It is thick with grease and completely immobile. Grym is tempted to touch it, although he briefly considers asking Gaius to check it for traps first.

Gaius edges open the door as Kip takes his position. The boy gives a nervous nod to Odric, who responds by slapping the ichor coated head of his pick into the meaty palm og his hand. The sloppy sound and minor spray of gnome speak volumes. The door opens, and the sounds of children working crescendo. Giggles, looks up to see the boy take a deep breath and bellow (as much as a boy can),

“Hey Giggles, you’re so ugly that it looks like your face caught fire and your mother put it out with a fork!”

Gaius slams the door and Kip dives to the side, thinking this plan should have included arming him.
Morkeleb says, “If Giggles doesn’t come through this door in the next few seconds, make sure the door is opened before my spell is done!”

“This spell is far more complex than any I have cast in the heat of combat before . . .” He begins a complex, subtle series of hand motions and arcane utterings. Part of the process includes digging out a small handful of fine dust from one of the myriad pouches on his wizardly belt. I sprinkle some on the crystal that’s at the head of his staff, holding the rest of the pinch in my palm as he prepares to blow it toward the door.

A panicked look comes over Odric’s intent face as he sees Morkeleb’s departure from the Plan. Never having been trained in spellcraft, Odric is not sure what dweomer Morkeleb is preparing, but Odric can certainly see Kip not being spirited out of the room where dangerous combat should commence shortly.

Odric hisses to Kip, “Hide! Quickly!” and jerks his head towards the door to the hallway behind, from where the party came. Wild-eyed for Kip’s safety, Odric looks quite intense. Kip’s reaction must depend on his own initiative. Morkeleb appears engrossed in casting some enchantment, waiting for Giggles’ grand entrance.

Odric tightens his grip on his pick and returns his attention to the closed door. Unsure as to whether the pounding he hears is Giggles approaching the door or his own heartbeat, ringing in his ears, Odric prepares himself for battle.

Gaius looks at Morkeleb, and narrows his eyes. He adjusts quickly to the changing landscape. He hears Giggles tromping towards the door and uses the heavy footfalls to judge his speed.
Ferox takes up a position directly away from the door. He stretches his bowstring back to his cheek, ready to shoot when Giggles comes through the door.

Giggles kicks in the door with his foot as he brandishes a flail, the juxtaposing of the ferocious entrance with his high pitches giggle is disconcerting. He doesn’t even have time to register the trap. It is pure coincidence that his flail absorbs Ferox’s arrow.

Desna contains her laughter for Gaius, whose strike lands true, slamming Giggles in the eye, adding virtuous humor to the liquid uniform covering Odric.

As the eyeball ruptures, Odric rears back in disgust, then continues to lean further and further back, until he is slightly more leaned back than one would suppose is reasonable for balance or tactics. Odric lifts his left leg, then leans a bit further back onto his bent right leg. For an instant, he looks to be on the verge of tipping backward. In that precarious pose, with both arms over his head, the Eagle barely a hands breadth above the floorboards behind him, Odric pauses. Like a stone thrown straight up in the air seems to pause at the zenith of its flight, just so Odric pauses in a moment that stretches two heart beats.

Then like the stone, Odric begins to fall. Thankfully he falls forward. The pick trails behind, gaining speed. The upraised left leg hits first and Odric becomes like a breaking wave. As his foot slams the ground he uncoils, rolling towards Giggles, gaining speed as his arms catch up to his forward momentum. He uses his weight and the speed he has accumulated to drive the Eagle’s beak faster and faster to its mark.

The Eagle has landed.

Yet again, the slaughter is swift and brutal. Giggles dies with a bubbling froth of blood replacing his sobriquet. The children, both in the room and the lower level waste no time. Life on the streets is hard, life under Lamm is hellish. They immediately break and run for the exits. Kip stands his ground, even giving a kick to Giggles side and also delivering an impression of the half-orc that connotes bitter familiarity.

Rummaging through Giggles’ personal effects, Odric uses his knife to slice a strip of relatively clean cloth from Giggles’ admittedly filthy garment. He takes a moment to wipe clean the Eagle’s head and returns to his rough treatment of the body in search of any items of interest.

With his hand inside the half-orc’s back pocket, Odric looks to Kip questioningly, “Kip, tell me about who else might be with Lamm down below. I want to know what we might face when we attack the bastard. Can you draw out a map of the rest of the building?”

Odric freezes, winces and withdraws from his search of Giggles’ with a pained look on his face. He commences breathing in short, shallow breaths and starts bending forward at the waist. Kip stares at the man with growing concern, but when Odric straightens, he seems to be better.

“Just a bit of gas.” Odric explains and returns to his search in earnest. Kip remembers Odric’s bouts with gas from the time the big man lived in the loft as his father’s apprentice. The boy immediately claps his hand over his nose and mouth and takes three large steps away.

Odric’s search is thorough, he examines all the obvious pockets and begins turning the half-orc’s clothes inside-out searching for secret pockets or concealed treasures. Giggles’ boots come off, which adds to the simply awful odor in the close room.

Being accustomed to foul-smelling concoctions of all kinds, Odric the Odiferous only produces a slight curl of the upper lip from the stoic Morkeleb. “I am not without sympathy for my companions who may not have the stomach for such vile emissions, and am willing to part with some of my aromatic herbs in order to spare folks from having to buy a second dinner!”

Quickly, Morkeleb roots around his own pouch and produces some sweet-smelling herbs which the man crushes between his thumb and forefinger then passes to Ferox. The relief the herbs offer is small but welcome. Odric seems oblivious to the grotesque scents surrounding him, perhaps he has become attenuated to it, perhaps he is so engrossed in his task he hasn’t realized the stink is making the others’ eyes water.

Odric mistakes the gags in Kips reply for fear, and pats the boy on the shoulder to comfort him in this time of stress.

“Sirs, no one who goes downstairs ever comes back. It’s where kids go when they’ve been punished one too many times. I doubt that tosser does the killing. He’s old and crotchety, but I don’t think the scalywag can do it himself. It’s his pet gator, Gobblegut, I bet. So I don’t know what’s to be expected if you lower yourself down.”

“I know you’re tough, obviously” Kip kicks Giggles, and repeats his impression as if it’s a compulsion. “but Lamm’s crafty, and he didn’t make it this long without some brains. May Desna smile on you if ye bring and end to his rule of the streets of Korvosa.”

Giggles had little of value. He has perforated leather armor, a heavy flail, light wooden shield, and a cat-o-nine-tails and little else.

Gaius asks suddenly, “Gentlemen? Shall we adjourn to the basement for the night’s main event?”
The rogue enters the main room and begins a search for the trap door to the lower levels, and to revenge!

The floor here is slick with seawater, bits of seaweed, and fish blood—the air is thick with the accompanying scent. Wooden catwalks to the north and south allow access to the western part of the fishery, while the floor here is only five feet above the river below. An open bay to the south allows direct access to the sloppy, muddy water, while to the northwest stands an immense ten-foot-tall wooden vat, its sides caked and waterproofed with tar. Inside is a foul-looking mixture of chum, seawater, and who knows what else. To the east are stacked many barrels and crates, each marked with a painted red fish. Nearly two dozen small hammocks hang from under the catwalks, each with its own filthy blanket and pillow.

A narrow space exists under the fishery, with about four feet of room between the floor of the building above and the languid, foamy river water below. Wooden pilings support the building, and moss and cobwebs hang thick from ropes and rusted chains between them. A wooden walkway floats on the river surface, winding along the inner wall of pilings that supports the building’s frame above, leading from the sodden barge to the east all the way west to a wooden door that leads into an understructure below the fishery’s land bound half.

Once the noxiousness has been as abated as can be, Morkeleb says, “Well, gentlemen, it looks as if our path leads this way. I recommend extreme caution—Gobblegut is quite a nasty creature by reputation. I’ve not laid eyes on him myself, but have heard tales to be sure! Once battle is joined, I will concentrate on making sure Lamm doesn’t escape, and after that I’ll support the warriors in killing the gator to the best of my ability. 
I suggest, when we find him, the warriors weaken the gator with missiles before closing. Alligator jaws are most unforgiving. 
I also suggest that Kip make himself scarce; since he hasn’t been downstairs, his value as a scout is not enough to counterbalance the danger. Kip, you have our thanks for your help.” I shake his hand firmly.

“Any other suggestions, comments, pep-speeches, or the like, before we delve deeper into this cesspool?”

Odric appears lost in thought. He absently scratches his belly and considers the options before him. He takes the Plan out, studies it carefully and furrows his brow. After a few moments he glances around quickly to see if anyone is looking at him, then flips the Plan over and studies the other side equally as carefully.

Thorgrym chuckles aloud, then noting Odric’s earnestness decides to turn the chuckle into a suppressed cough instead, allowing the big man his pride.

“Gentlemen, the Plan calls for a direct assault on Lamm, however we may find a small tactical adjustment to the Plan might be in order.”

Without another word, Odric draws his falchion from its sheath across his back and begins hacking up Giggles into roughly equal pieces of meat. The meat chunks, each the size of a loaf of bread, are thrown into a large sack until the sack is filled nearly to overflowing.

“I think we could lure Gobblegut out of the room with Lamm using this as bait. We could open the door, then withdraw back onto the walkway. By throwing chunks of meat to the gator we could lure him away from Lamm. Once Gobblegut is out of the room you could all run into the room, close the door and…” Odric gestures vaguely to Yargin, the gnome and the salsa-like remains of Giggles rather than articulate exactly the end he has in mind for Lamm.

“Lamm has probably rigged some clever trap around the door, and I’d bet he has more than one escape route. We should be extra careful that he doesn’t slip away. One last thing, and I’m not sure why I’m suggesting this.” Odric takes a deep breath and continues.

“I heard a man, an adventurer, tell a tale once over a mug of ale of a land far from here where men wrassle Crocogators. They do it not to survive, or for some needful purpose, they do it for sport. These are men’s men, manly men who grow beards by the age of eight and split firewood with their peckers in the winter. They drink firewater for breakfast and fart lightning by lunchtime.”
Odric sees that of the group, he at least has young Kip’s attention, and continues excitedly.

“They leap upon them and grasp the fearsome beasts by their toothy snouts. These men can crush acorns to powder by clenching massive fingers to their thumbs, they forge white-hot blades sometimes using fists rather than hammers on a forge of iron. This massive hand strength is necessary to keep the ferocious beast from whipping its jaws around and biting off a leg. The gators will thrash and fight like demons in church, but the man if he be strong enough can subdue the beast. It takes guts like a river pirate, strength like a mad rutting bull and quickness like a street urchin stealing for his supper, but it can be done. Although I’ve never chopped firewood with my pecker in the winter, I did it one summer for three silver shields a day. I think I can do it, and I mean to give it a try.”

Odric begins swinging the sack of Giggles-chunks around rhythmically in order to loosen up his shoulders for the upcoming test of his mettle and manhood. He bunches up the open end of the sack in one large, blood spattered hand and grabs the other end of the sack with the other. Somehow, with a straining and groaning from his protesting armor, Odric manages to rotate both arms up over his head and down to the small of his back. The sack’s rough sewn seams are straining, and Giggles’ coagulating blood is seeping out of it and coating the backs of Odric’s legs with fresh blood. Odric swings his hips in large circles with the sack behind his back and continues his warm-up.

“You actually want to wrestle Gobblegut?” Morkeleb asks, alarmed. “You realize that saying ‘he’ll eat you for lunch’ isn’t hyperbole? None of us doubt your manliness, Odric, and I for one will not question the prowess of your wood-splitting cock. Once again I’ll suggest everyone lead against Gobblegut with missile weapons before coming into contact with those jaws. 
. 
I think your idea is clever and bold, don’t get me wrong. But there is a fine line between brave and foolhardy-and another between foolhardy and insane. 
Do as you will. I shall do my part.”

The wizard lightly touches his several pouches, mentally cataloging which components go with which spells, preparing to unleash every ounce of arcane might at the hated Lamm.

Gaius listens intently to the boastful ramblings of Odric, recording every word to memory—though he appears to dismiss and ignore the conversation. He drops down the trapdoor to the floating walkway below, and makes his way to the wooden door moving carefully and slowly in a crouch, to be sure of his footing and to note any traps or unsound planks.

When he reaches the door, he’ll inspect it for further surprises.

He’ll mark planks best avoided with chalk for his companions.

Odric appears to reconsider. “Hmmm… Perhaps I could soften the beast up with some thrown weaponry before I pin it to the decking and wrench its head clean off. Not a bad idea. Morkeleb, I’ve always noted that strength without wisdom is a recipe for disaster.”

Odric gestures grandly with the sack, “Follow me! …Kip stay up here and hide. I’ll be back shortly to escort you to your father’s hearth.”

Odric strides from the room and makes his way slowly and stealthily towards Lamm Lair.

The gigantic warrior has his falchion in his right hand, ready to throw it. His pick is readied in his left hand, the eagle hovering around waist level.

Odric’s breathing is shallow and quick. He instinctively flexes and relaxes his biceps. His jaw is set and his eyes are fixed intently on the door, as he envisions the scene beyond. Once the door opens, the die is cast and he intends to seize the initiative. He leans forward on the balls of his feet, legs tensed and ready.

Morkeleb looks at the huge weapon that Odric is obviously planning to implement in a way counter to its design. “Odric, you’re strong, but…that might be a liiiiitle unwieldy to throw, don’t you think? Would you like to borrow this instead?” Taking out his light crossbow, Morkeleb offers it to the intently staring man. “You can just drop it on the floor after you’ve shot it a time or two, I don’t care!”

Odric’s eye twitches slightly, he half breaks from his trance as though to cast a sidelong glance at the wizard, but his eyes never leave the door. Morkeleb sees that the corner of Odric’s mouth has spittle collected, like dirty sea foam in an eddy. The big man’s muscles bunch again, rippling under a thick layer of fat.

Ferox knocks an arrow and stands behind the tower shield of a man.

As the party enters the room, they take in the environs rapidly.

The air in this large room is somewhat chilly and stinks of the river, no doubt thanks to a huge opening in the floor that drops away to the river shore five feet below. A shark circles lazily below. Several pilings emerge from the waters to support the roof above, 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’s edge 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 bolt embedded in it, the odd dinged helm, and other ‘treasures’ litter the floor of this entire chamber. Three tables, their tops heaped with additional clutter, stand amid this mess, while just west of that a wooden door seems to provide access to a walled-off section. Already crouched behind one of the tables is Lamm. He looks like he was expecting company as he’s got a small crossbow readied. Between Lamm and the party is Gobblegut, the meanest looking gator any in the room have ever seen. “You?!” Lamm shouts, "You sorry lot. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll teach you all a lesson you’ll NEVER forget. ’Gut, dinner time!”
The opening in the floor leaves only a five foot wide walkway to get to Lamm. This shorter route is blocked fifteen in by Gobblegut. The long way around is free of obstacles or opponents, but it is about 85 feet around.

Lamm, who is hiding behind cover about 45 feet away, lets lose a quarrel towards Grym. The angle is sharp, and the doorframe provides cover. Lamm adds after the shot, "Is that you dog lover? I hope your little pack at least gave you some meat. Assuming you could find a part that wasn’t spoiled!”
The ranger slips back as Lamm’s crossbow bolt hits the doorway where his body was a mere moment ago. Knowing his comrades are behind him Thorgrym pours into the room. He moves about five feet toward the gator and drops down to one knee against the wall, giving Odric has plenty of room to throw the massive falchion. 
Grym stabs his sword into the wood planks in front of him so to keep his blade ready in case the gator closes distance, thus freeing his hands for his sling.

Ferox advances along the southern wall, taking position in the far corner. “I am the will of Abadar and I find you guilty of crimes against Korvosa. Your evil ends today, Lamm.” The Inquisitor pronounces boldly. 


Ferox utters a quick prayer to Abadar, calling down the blessing of the Master of the First Vault to help end Lamm’s tyranny.

The vile fiend replies, “Bah! you sure I can’t interest you in some shiver you self-reighteous loser?”

Gobblegut waddles to Ferox, lashes out with his ferocious jaws and holds the Inquisitor in his toothsome grip.

Odric bolts. He runs straight ahead meaning to permanently shut the slavering jaws of the Crocogator. Odric’s concentration is fierce and he watches the floor for obvious holes or tripping hazards. His big talk about wrassling the beast echoes in his ears but is tempered by the dire warnings of his friends and that small insistent voice in his head saying ‘what in the nine hells are you DOING? Are you INSANE?’

Both weapons gripped in his large, hairy hands pump rhythmically as Odric runs around the perimeter of the room towards Gobblegut. He had planned to throw his falchion, but seeing Ferox locked in the gator’s toothy jaws reconsiders and thinks better of it.

Behind him, all of his friends are relieved to be out of close proximity to Odric, given the effect tonight’s exertions have had on his hygiene. Once they resumed normal breathing, several of his new friends certainly breathed a sigh of relief. One of his new friends still can’t get the image out of his mind’s eye of a young Odric chopping wood with his wood, and feels slightly perturbed.

Odric reaches the gator winded. His weight and sedentary lifestyle are not conducive to running full tilt like this. He lashes out with his falchion, cutting at an angle trying desperately to decapitate the beast before it finishes its meal of Filet-o-Ferox. No one could mistake the powerful grunt that issues from Odric with a Girly Noise. Odric’s swing cleaves deeply into the gator’s tail. Blood sprays everywhere, including into the shark infested water. The beast turns his attention on the animal that sliced him.

The keen of hearing may notice a tiny noise. It may or may not be Girly. and the keenest noses might detect the odor of fresh feces from Odric’s pants.

Upon seeing his ‘precious’ Gobblegut slashed the old denmaster let’s lose a croaking howl of anger, “I hope you rot in the Abyss you fat drunk! Let’s see how much you like it when he eats you alive!”
Apparently his concern doesn’t extend to protecting the gator from Odric, as he instead focuses on the ranged threats to himself. A flick of the wrist and he drops a bolt into the crossbow, taking aim at Grym.

Morkeleb takes in the scene quickly and coolly.

He thinks to himself, ‘My first job is to prevent Lamm from escaping. Most of my magicks cannot reach him from here. I could blast the croc, but his physicality makes it likely he would resist the effects. I must get closer to Lamm, and trust the warriors to keep the lizard’s attention.’
After about a heartbeat, Morkeleb boldly steps forward into the room, moving swiftly across the walkway to avoid Gobblegut and close with Lamm, while conveniently ending up around the corner from him, making a shot difficult at best.

The wizard then readies his staff, and draws forth a pinch of fine dust. His face is set in the ecstatic concentration of his trade.

Morkeleb, out of range for the moment of the vicious melee and out of sight of Lamm, begins his chant in what he believes to be relative safety. The somatic components are slow and steady, the arcane words have a soothing quality to their timbre. However, any close enough to actually hear the verbal component might be a little disconcerted…interspersed in the arcane language are clearly words in common. Morkeleb is using his hatred to shape and power his spell.

“May the respite of sleep be no solace; may your quiet form belie the wretched dreams that will twist your mind beyond mortal pain, bring you to the brink of sanity then shove you into the abyss. Your body will calm, but your mind will explode in an agony of insane nightmares, deserving of the villainous scum you are! Relive your deeds, but as the target of your own depravity and hate, in your dreams!”

Spraying blood and in a frenzy, Gobblegut turns on Odric and lashes out with his jaws. It’s tough to tell if this is be animal instinct or happenstance, but Gobblegut backs up a bit and his maimed tail swipes across the defending Ferox. Ferox’ guard is sufficient to save him from damage, but the wounds he already suffered and the jarring strength of the great lizard’s tail rock him back.
Odric gapes silently at the snapping jaws as they close just inches from his leading leg. In a horribly belated reflex, Odric jerks back and jumps into the air. It is only the beast’s haste in reacting to Odric’s cleaving attack on its tail that allowed Odric to remain intact; he certainly didn’t react fast enough to dodge the bite.

Relief flows through Odric midair. As he returns to the ground he does so with his falchion held high. The blade arcs down, a spray of Gobblegut’s blood still trailing from its point. Odric’s sword makes not a whistle but more of a whoosh as it swings down. The sound of wood splintering smothers his heart as it feels like a miss, but in truth, the splintering wood was directly under the beast. Gobblegut has been impaled by Odric’s falchion – reduced to a still quivering corpse.
Gaius locks eyes on Lamm and with a hiss, “Pray to whatever Gods will have you, Gaedran. Pray one of my companions kills you before I get there. It’s your only chance for mercy.”

Gaius moves 30 feet closer to Lamm along the east wall, and watches him very closely for tells, indicating where he might shoot, allowing him to be ready to dodge.

Lamm spits in Grym’s general direction. His breath comes in gasps, a symptom of how many years and how he’s filled them. "Gaius, right? Just go back to your whore goddess and leave me alone. With the last word a plaintive tone creeps into his voice. With Gobblegut dead, the resignation is beginning to sink in, even as the anger continues to pour out. He stands and turns. Grym is in line, no aiming required.

The final movements of Morkeleb’s spell are deceptively graceful and look calming enough. He gently blows the handful of dust toward Lamm. The dust drifts on a magical zephyr to just in front of Lamm’s hiding place. The calmness and serenity is a lie, though: any close enough can hear Morkeleb’s final curse carried on this arcane wind:

I crush your mind!!

Lamm’s eyes widen at the realization of a spell being cast his way. His cantankerous stubborness kicks in, and while his eyes start to droop, he shakes off the magically induced sleep.
“Ha! Hope you can get your tuition back you failure!” Lamm’s taunt flies forth with venom and spittle.

Undaunted by his failed spell, Morkeleb taunts back, “You think you can stand against us all, you giant ass? Your death is nigh. Please don’t surrender.”

Ferox scrambles back about 40 feet across the southern wall to stand near the door along the eastern wall. He draws his bow and Ferox lets fly, the judgment of Abadar aiming true. The arrow tears into the old man’s neck. It seems as if the arterial spray rivals that of the alligator. Staggered, the bitter old man clings to life. Just barely.

You can tell that the exertion will kill him, but he prepares a final bolt in defiance anyways.
Grym advances, altering his speed as he makes his attack, sword raising up to strike down on the balding head of the evil old man. 


Lamm raises his crossbow up to ward off the blow but at the last moment Grym whips his blade down and around in a quick belly cut.

When the final blow comes, it comes too quickly for any biying last words. Lamm’s innards spill to the ground by his feet. Grym stands firm, his gaze and his hand as steady and strong as steel. The urban ranger holds his his position for many moments paying no heed to the pooling blood on his boots.

Gaedran Lamm, scourge of Korvosa lies dead.

The party pushes through to Lamm’s inner sanctum. This foul-smelling room seems to be a combination bedroom and study. A wooden bed with a lumpy mattress stands against the east wall, while a round table heaped with dirty plates, bread crusts, stained goblets, fruit rinds, and scuttling cockroaches sits nearby. At the foot of the bed sits a large strongbox, a slighty rusted lock securing its lid. A sagging dresser filled with moth-eaten clothes well past their glory days is in one corner—what appears to be a wooden hatbox surrounded by a small cloud of flies sits atop this dresser.

The old man’s personal habits are very much on display—he has little interest in cleanliness. Bedbugs infest the sheets, a chamber pot pushed under the bed is badly in need of cleaning, and the bits of food heaped on his table have attracted a large nest of roaches.

Odric looks up from his task of removing the teeth from Gobblegut’s jaws and notices everyone gone. Belatedly, he leaps to his feet and fumbles with the hilt of the falchion, trying to dislodge it from the planks between sets of gator ribs. He liberates his blade, stumbles back in his haste and nearly topples as the blood rushes into his legs after so long kneeling.

In a panic, Odric charges into the side room, sword at the ready in his right hand, heavy pick trailing behind in his left. He lands in a ferocious fighting stance and looks about, eyes blazing.
Sheepishly, he recognizes his mistake and slowly lowers the weaponry. He clears his throat and commences officiously searching the room for loot.

Odric’s father once told him something, and this bit of advice has stuck with him since his earliest childhood. “Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.” If he could see Odric’s search technique, Odric’s old man would be proud.

Odric leaves the easy itms for his friends. He begins with the chamber pot. Carefully, oh so carefully, Odric walks the chamber pot back into the other room. He carefully dumps the wretched contents out, looking for Lamm’s treasure. Floorboards are pried up, drawer bottoms smashed, the mattress is dragged out of the room and hay thrown everywhere as Odric goes through it like crap through a goose. The clothes are rifled through thoroughly, if at arms length. If there is something worthwhile in this mess, Odric intends to find it.

A search of his chamber reveals dubious treasure, but among the detritus of a career of depravity lays some valuable loot.

The room has nothing in it that would fetch even a few coppers, except for the contents of the chest which Gaius unlocks with a key. Inside are the collected treasures that his children-slaves have brought back. Each of these treasures is wrapped in cloth and tied shut with twine. The treasures include a narrow teak cigar case inlaid with tiny bits of jade, a 2-pound gold bar bearing the Cheliax coat of arms, a miniature gold crown, a fist-sized scrimshaw carving of a kraken with garnets for eyes, a silver ring bearing the inscription “For Emmah—the light in my nights,” a highly realistic and highly scandalous ivory figurine of two entwined succubi, a masterwork shuriken, an adamantine arrowhead, an abalone-shell holy symbol of Shelyn, a tiny glass tube containing a dose of oil, an obsidian wand, a crystalline vial (itself worth something) containing a dose of silversheen, and a bejeweled brooch with a broken clasp.

It doesn’t take a jeweller to know that the brooch is the most valuable object in the entire collection. The circular gold brooch depicts a pseudodragon and an imp coiled around each other in an almost yin-yang pattern. The pseudodragon’s eye is an amethyst, while the imp’s eye is an emerald. It’s clearly worth a King’s Ransom as the saying goes.

While Gaius catalogs the contents of the chest, Odric makes an extremely disturbing discovery in the hat box. Inside the hat box, wrapped in cheesecloth is a severed head. The head looks as if it’s been there for a few weeks. Why Lamm would keep this is anyone’s guess, but the noise that escapes Odric’s lips causes everyone to turn.

The head is that of Zellara, the Harrower….

Underneath is a Harrow deck. Identical to the one carried by Zellara, whom the group met earlier this night.

Odric is stunned by the decapitated and decomposing head of a woman he saw just hours earlier. He wonders at it, a small doubt in his gut begins growing into a nauseating fear tinged with revulsion. While not a superstitious man by nature, something about this severed head unnerves him. A head which at this time has no name.

Nothing particularly catches his fancy, but he sees the ring as an opportunity to set right some injustice perhaps. He imagines a maiden, pining after a long lost love who perhaps perished on an adventure not unlike the one Odric himself is on. When the man died in Odric’s daydream, he had this ring in his pocket. He had planned to gift it to his love but was waiting for the right time.
The general sense of the wealth included here in the gold and the brooch excite him, but only insofar as he looks forward to spending his share at the tavern.

Odric agrees with Gaius, “Lets take all this back to one of our homes for sorting and discussion. Gaius is right, this indicates that something weird is afoot.”

Odric gathers up his weapons and makes ready to depart, leaving the treasure and the head for his companions to pack and carry.

“Tell me where we’ll meet and I’ll be there. I have to escort young Kip home straightaway.”

Odric holds a quiet conversation with Morkeleb, nodding in understanding and leaves confident he can reunite with his party after delivering Kip to the safety of his father’s hearth. The big man goes in search of Kip, a look of consternation on his face as he ponders the strange developments of the night.

After the party finishes looting, Grym tells the party he has to go back for the dog. If they feel the need to leave immediately he will meet them at the specified place.

Grym goes back to the dog room. He gets out a dog leash and uses some canine beast scent. The ranger takes his time, and begins the slow process of gaining enough of the dog’s trust to get a leash around his neck.

The dog is fast asleep when the ranger arrives. It takes every bit of skill, but when he gain the dog’s trust, he takes to Grym. This gives im a chance to look the beast over. The dog may have well been one of “Lamm’s lambs.” He’s malnourished, but also bears numerous scars. He’s missing a few teeth and his left eye is starting to gloss over. It’s hard to get a solid bead on his age, but you’d guess a little North of a decade. He’s not really a fighting dog anymore, yet nor is he done in this world.

The memory of a kind human is dim in his canine mind, but still dogs have that innate sense, and you have that skill.

Odric returns Kip to his family, earning their gratitude and a small reward. Ferox returns to Zellar’s to find some disturbing news, the house is abandoned and the food the group ate earlier was illusory.

Odric shivers in the brisk night air as he makes his way from Master Bartleby’s after returning Kip to home and hearth. The big man took some time at the house to clean himself, thus removing the majority of the foul stench that lingered around him. The only thing lingering now are the faint puffs of his breath in the chill night air as he makes his way to the rendezvous with all haste.
While he walks, Odric thinks about the tearful reunion and a lump in his throat threatens to re-start the tears that flowed freely and quietly down his grimy face an hour ago. In returning Kip, Odric realized he had taken the first steps towards realizing the path he always wanted his life to take but never quite knew how.

He felt the shame of his failures melt away as he stood awkwardly by as father and son embraced in the warm den in the light of the dying fire. Odric knew success and a feeling of accomplishment for the first time in what seemed like years.

Now striding through the streets purposefully, none of his bar mates would recognize him. Not due to some dramatic physical change, rather his attitude which has undergone a polar shift from a layabout and boastful drunk to a man with a purposeful step, a set to his jaw and a gleam in his eye. He shrugs his cloak more comfortably around his shoulders, thankful for its warmth.

The adventurous spirit Odric had expostulated upon for so long in so many smoky and dimly lit barrooms across the city had finally settled in his breast. Odric feels newly alive and excited about the prospects of continuing in this vein.

As he walks, he looks into several taverns where in months gone by he might have never passed by and sees the warmth and camaraderie and feels a slight twinge. It would be satisfying and pleasant to pass some hours before the hearth regaling new-found friends with tales of heroism, triumph and honor. Odric passes by though. He has new companions. They might become true friends in time, real friends rather than the friends ale and spirits make for a rowdy night who disappear the next day to be replaced by a hangover, maybe some unexplained cuts and bruises, and an empty purse.

Odric glances briefly at the address scrawled hurriedly as he parted company with Morkeleb and abruptly turns left. He’s close.

As the big man crosses the intersection outside the rally point, he takes a moment to collect himself. He wipes his face rapidly up and down several times with both hands to ensure no telltale streaks remain on his cheeks. He takes a deep breath to ensure the lump is gone from his throat and knocks with authority on the doorframe, in the pattern agreed upon earlier.

The door opens shortly and the seeking snout of Gramps, the once hostile mutt from Lamm’s lair, meets him. The old dog decides Odric is not worth the worry and trots back to Grym’s feet. Odric enters the room and looks around he dimly lit room quickly.

“Have you gentlemen discussed what may have happened at Zellara’s earlier?”

Morkeleb describes in some depth the arcane possibilities to include illusion, phantasms and glamers. He mentions doppelgangers several times. The terms used are archaic and technical, and while he grasps the gist of it Odric doesn’t completely feel comfortable with the explanation.

“Odric, do you feel especially hungry, like you haven’t eaten since lunchtime?” Morkleleb asks pointedly, apparently prepared to follow through with a stunning point of logic to demonstrate the veracity of his claims.

Odric looks down at his bountiful stomach, then looks back at the slender wizard and points out that his voracious appetite is one of the principle reasons for his apt appellative. “Friend, tell me a time when I haven’t felt that way!”

Odric posits the hypothesis of a twin sister. “It is a much more probable explanation…” he asserts to the group, looking to Gaius for support.

“Regardless of what happened, if what Ferox says is true from his reconnaissance, we ought to make our way to the house to investigate more thoroughly! What if Zellara came to some harm?”

Odric glances to the hatbox which lies open in the center of the floor. He hastily adds, “…Or her twin sister?” Far from a stupid man, the complexity of the problem is starting to make his head spin nonetheless.

Thorgrym interjects, “Illusion or not, let us go as a group to Zellara’s empty place to find some information.”

“I agree with Grym,” A nodding Odric states bluntly. “I propose we go to the house where we met the lady Zellara. We enter the house warily, with weapons at the ready and allow our wizard here,” Odric indicates Morkeleb deferentially, impressed with the man’s suitably mystical suggestions earlier “to conduct a survey of any energies or magicks he might sense. Gaius could inspect for clues of a more mundane nature, I assume the task is similar to the trap-checking you did at Lamm’s?” Odric finishes looking questioningly at the rogue.

“In any case, I say we make haste, the truth of what happened might slip away from us if we delay here much longer, although I do thank you for waiting for me!”

With the party in agreement to explore Zellara’s home, Odric begins the now-familiar routine of limbering up. He is somehow able to swing his straightened leg straight up in front of him to the point his knee almost touches his chin.

Odric continues his warm ups. He is surprisingly limber for a big man with the amount of extra weight he is carrying on his frame. Once he has thoroughly stretched out his legs, he begins swinging his arms around at an alarming rate. Grotesque sounding pops issue from his shoulders and he is working up a sheen of sweat over his pasty countenance.

“It is important to be ready for action at any time.” Odric lectures to the room in general. “I’ve always been a proponent for good physical fitness, although lately I’ve been a bit negligent in my exercises,” the large man admits.

“I learned these stretches from a sailor one afternoon on the docks, actually just a few blocks east of here. This sailor had just come back from a voyage of exploration west of the Varisian Gulf. He had tales to tell of strange lands, of monsters larger than a ship rising up from the sea beautiful maidens with tentacles for legs and seaweed for clothing, and daring men who barely escaped with their lives and a tale to tell. He told of an uncharted island where the men never speak but for one week a year. The rest of their lives they spend honing their acrobatic skill sand training for feats of strength and daring during their annual festival.”

Odric pauses his arm swinging to begin lowering himself into a fairly deep split. His trousers are quite plainly near their ripping point. The other men in room look away in alarm.

“As the sailor recounted, “These men were near their festival week when we arrived, so the village grandmother invited us to stay. The men came out on the appointed day and began this very warm-up routine. They taught their guests some of their distinct unarmed fighting style and began their tournament.” As the sailor told me, and I have no reason to think he might have been lying, as he had never done so in the past, they used this tournament to choose mates for the final night of the festival.”

Odric begins wheezing through a series of high jumps interspersed with running in place.
“In exchange for a few mugs of rum, this sailor taught me these very moves! We nearly fell off the docks as the lessons went on through the afternoon and into the evening. The island men, once the competition was in full swing would challenge their fellows to feats, the winner advancing in some convoluted scheme to determine an ordered ranking for all the men in the village. The men then chose their wives for the year in the order they were ranked from the competitions, and went into the night with them for a final night of intimacy before their year of sequestration, silence and training began again.”

With his clothing disheveled, his hair matted with sweat and his cheeks an alarming shade of red, Odric finally appears to be finished. He cracks his neck once to the right, once to the left and rests, panting.

Stories like these, yarns told over a mug or before a dying fire, birthed an adventuring spirit in a young Odric. He feels like for the first time in his life that he might be embarking on a tale of his own. Odric passes a pale blue potion to Ferox, hoping this will speed the party along this epic tale towards Zellara’s twin’s messy and decrepit home.

Upon arriving at the house that Odric firmly believes belongs to Zellara’s twin, he is torn between offering her condolences for her dead sister Zellara, and assaulting the residence.

He limbers up briefly, holds his falchion in his right hand and the heavy pick in the other and prepares to walk up to the front door. His gut tells him a frontal assault might be more appropriate given the danger the sister sent them into. Odric suspects the whole thing was a ruse in order to convince the party to exact revenge for Zellara’s murder.

He feels a bit truculent, reasoning that if asked nicely, he would have gladly gone after Lamm for Zellara’s twin’s vendetta.

Fully expecting one of his friends to interject at the last second, Odric raises the falchion and appears poised to thump on the door frame with the ring-shaped pommel. Before he does, Morkeleb makes a slight exclamation.

Morkeleb feels an odd compulsion to examine the Harrowing deck discovered beneath Zellara’s decomposing head. First, Morkeleb is suspicious, as always, of illusion magic. Is this “urge” magical in nature? If so, what is its origin?

He then steps to the back of the group, farthest from the front door, and announces, “Gentlemen, I’m getting the feeling that I should look at that Harrow deck we found. It may portent in either direction, so prepare yourselves.”

Morkeleb then reaches into his cloak for the deck, making eye contact with each party member in turn to insure everyone is ready. Only after he’s sure everyone is prepared and there are no objections, he slowly removes the deck, waiting for some guidance as to exactly what he’s looking for, and as prepared as he can be for some sort of mental assault.

Morkeleb realizes quickly that the deck is Divinatory. He is extremely well versed in compulsions, and this urge is not one. In fact as the wizard reflects, it’s not meant for you at all. It’s as if the deck itself wants to go “home.”

“Ask it if it belongs to Zellara’s twin sister!” Odric suggests helpfully.

The door opens on Grym’s knock, not because a hand opens it, but the door is damaged and cannot close tightly. None of the men recall such damage from before. The interior is spartan. A few of you notice that there are voids in the dust. Wall hangings and furnishings mostly, all taken within the last couple of weeks. This place looks like it’s spent about a fortnight empty.

A sudden clamor sends hands to weapons and pouches…

It is the clock, striking midnight, bringing in a new day to Korvosa – nothing nefarious.
But it also brings the change. It flows across the room like sunlight as it crests the edge of a window. Magical energy spills, rolls, and tumbles across. In its wake the living space returns to the warm and inviting place where you met the Harrower. As the dweomer wave cascades to the last of the room, Zellara appears. She is not the hurt, yet confident Varisian you met earlier. Her delicate beauty is still there, but now only sadness remains, the confidence has fled. Teary-eyed she looks at you all. A shuddered breath before she speaks, “Heroes, by now you must know the truth. I have died.” Her voice breaks with a sob. "All that is left to me is my spirit, held within the Harrow deck of my ancestors. I am no ghost, so rest easy dear Inquisitor. I am part of the deck now. It is more than a simple fortune teller’s tool. It is an item with the ability to tell you your future, and assist you in the present.”

“…Wait, so are you Zellara or her sister?” Odric is legitimately confused. His head is swimming.
In a loud voice, spoken slowly and with exaggerated enunciation, as though to a foreigner or an idiot, “Do You Know What Is Going On In The City Tonight?” Odric is not trying to be condescending; he has had precious little experience talking to harrowing decks imbued with dead women with no housekeeping skills.

“I Have Heard Several People Wonder At Some Strange Goings On” Odric continues, trying to be as clear as possible. He leans forward towards the Wizard, addressing the Harrowing deck directly which is in Morkeleb’s hand. Odric seems to think by bending forward and speaking slowly and clearly that the magical item will be better able to understand him.

He recounts in painstakingly slow and precise diction what happened with the guard then the passer-by, hoping for some mystical fortune-telling solution to be uttered by the cards.

Belatedly, he remembers his manners, “I Am Odric The Stout, I Am A Live Human, How Do You Do?” Odric gingerly grips the deck within Morkeleb’s grasp and shakes it firmly along with the wizard’s outstretched arm by way of an introduction.

“Thank You For Leading Us To Lamm, We Were Able To Save Several Children, Including My Friend’s Son, Kip.” Odric glances quickly aside at Gauis and adds conspiratorially in a stage whisper, “We …uh… Killed Lamm and Gobblegut This Evening, So He Won’t Be A Problem From Now On.” He pantomimes a throat being slit with a finger across the throat accompanied by a “skkrtch” sound effect with his mouth. Then, almost to himself, and while looking around expectantly with a worried look on his face, “Unless Lamm inhabited some object and is with us even now…”

Odric begins peering into the dark corners of the room with weapons ready.

Believing Odric’s sincerity to be an attempt at lifting her spirits, Zellara wipes away spectral tears. “I understand you perfectly well my brave Odric. I had hoped that the slaying of Lamm would lay me to rest, but it is not so. I am all that is left of Zellara, and I am the deck of cards in the wizard’s hand. Everything I told you already is true, but it is also true that I was murdered a fortnight ago by Lamm himself. I have experimented with the power of the deck, and think that I can continue to help you. Aside from being able to project myself once each day, I can aid whoever holds me in the identification of items imbued with magic. I can sense the world around me, though I can only communicate with strong emotions when not manifest.”

“As for your clearly put question great Odric,” and this comes with a caress of his face, “I do worry about Korvosa. I fear that there is a great disturbance in her walls, though I know not what it is. Desna has smiled at us, and I believe we are meant to discover exactly what Fate has in store. I sense an object of great value amongst Lamm’s things. The brooch. It holds neither magic nor evil, but it is an Object of Power nonetheless. Only royalty would deign to show off wealth just so. I think that answers to the strange feelings within the city… as well as righting the wrong of the stolen brooch, are to be found with the Crimson Throne.”

Zellara’s posture changes through her speech, as if speaking a purpose out loud has steeled her resolve and given her purpose.

Morkeleb listens with rapt attention to the specter of Zellara and the details of her current state. The more perceptive among the group may notice an ever-so-slight tightening of the mage’s grip on the magically imbued cards as the tale unfolds.

As she finishes her portents and discusses the brooch, Morkeleb says, “Yes, power can mean different things to different individuals, and can manifest itself in myriad ways. Personally, I find opulence for the sake of opulence on the grotesque side. But perhaps that is because I’ve never possessed the wealth to partake in that particular vice, and would think otherwise were my situation different! 
In any case, if what you say is true, and at this point I have no reason to believe it is not, this item could prove useful to us. True, we could sell it and gain the coin of its material worth. However, if it was stolen from nobility, then that nobility would, unless I miss my guess, take its return with a great deal of gratitude. A non-material reward, such as a royal favor, can be of far, far greater value than one of coin. 
I believe that we would be well served to tease out the mystery of the original owner of that brooch, and return it. I propose to do this; and I further propose that if any of us disagree, then the dissenters should be paid a fair share of the value of the item before we amicably part ways. What say you, gentlemen? 
Oh, and since this wondrous deck is most useful in an everyday sense to identify the properties of magical items, I believe that I should be the one to carry it. Agreed?

The party agrees after some discussion to return the brooch to its original owner. Lamm dead, Kip returned and each in his own way a success with regard to the vengeance he sought, this adventure forged bonds of friendship and rid the city of a vile fiend.

The kind hearted wizard closes his tome for a much needed rest. He slumps in his chair, pondering the group’s success and wondering what more he might learn of them. Rather than quenching his thirst for knowledge about these brave men, this scrying has fanned the flames of his curiousity. The apprentice is dutifully cleaning the vast bookshelves behind the wizard’s work table. The soft sounds of dusting the leather bound spines begins to put the old man to sleep.

“Apprentice! Bring me my pipe!”

The wizened old man is wreathed in smoke already but calls for the pipe out of habit. The carved pipe sits smoldering beside his glowing crystal ball, sweet smelling smoke climbing out of it like a snake emerging from a wicker basket. The apprentice snores softly behind the aged sorcerer on a dusty old chair. The warmth and closeness of the room, and the dullness of attending the old man make staying awake in the old chair improbable.

The old man bends forward into the crystal ball and as it illuminates softly from within, the crags and deep fissures of his face are thrown into stark relief. He mutters some words of magic and the images deep within resolve themselves. He pulls his tome closer, inspects the binding and seeing it is “Korvosan Field Marshals, Volume 35” creaks the book open to where he left off last.

The old man begins to scratch across the page in a firm hand, recording the events from centuries ago carefully.

“Orchestrating the chaos of the city in the wake of Eodred’s death is a beautiful woman of Cheliaxian stock. She wears red plate armor, clearly custom built. Her long, black, arrow straight hair cascades over a figure enhanced by the armor. It covers he insignia, but she is clearly the top authority by the gate. Field Marshal Kroft, having been nearly overwhelmed by the tasks at hand has seized upon an idea when presented with a group of adventurers. One of her guardsmen, nearly inconsolable with despair and drink brought a group of adventurers to the keep. Sergeant Grau, a well liked guardsman with a reputation as the best swordsman in the guard stumbles out of the maelstrom of chaos in the city between one Odric and his friend Thorgrym.

Odric the Stout, Gaius Lirsiiv, Morkeleb the Mighty, Thorgrym the Tracker and Ferox Kerr present themselves to the imposing and beautiful person of Field Marshal Kroft. The group, with little in the way of conversation or flourish, produce a stolen brooch beloved of the Queen. Their honesty and willingness to provide sword and spell, as well as apparently a heavy pick, a bow and some fearsome daggers quickly endear them to the overworked woman.

She quickly makes the decision to use them for a critical task that falls outside the pressing matters of defense of the city from riots and disorder.
Kroft’s first action however, must be to restore order to the city. As such, she sends the group to an audience with the Queen to present her the stolen brooch. Her hope is to assuage the Queen’s grief with some small measure of good news. The recovered Brooch might well be that piece of news to break the Queen out of her reverie and grief.

Upon reaching the Queen’s audience chamber the disarmed group of adventurers encounters Her Majesty’s lady in waiting. Odric greets the Queen’s handmaiden respectfully, snippets of etiquette and protocol he’s learned from drunken tales of meetings with Kings, Queens, Princes and Princesses across the world flood into his mind, he has heard some truly outlandish tales which might inform his behavior in a situation such as this. Most of these he discards due to lack of appropriate props, blood sacrifices, musical instruments or fiery cauldrons.

The big man is left with a few reasonable options and decides on what he thinks might be the most respectful, hoping not to offend and deciding to err on the side of caution with such an spectacularly armed and armored Lady before him.

Odric bows respectfully, surprising almost everyone present with the flexibility and agility required for such a deep and sweeping bow. “Our humble and respectful greetings m’Lady. We have been instructed by Field Marshall Kroft to present a certain item of value which we have recovered through adventure, bloody battle and strife from a thief, slaver and ringleader of disrepute in the bowels of the city.”

Odric continues earnestly, embellishing a bit for the sake of capturing the Lady’s interest, assuming she must hear fantastic tales all the time and that the killing of Gaedren Lamm (See Volume 19 of Denizens of Kosova, Dead Slavers and Miscreants) might not rate all that high on her level of interest.

“We came to realize that one of the items he had secreted in his inner sanctum belongs to her Majesty the Queen and took immediate steps to return it to Her Majesty. Field Marshall Kroft said this,” Odric produces the brooch with a flourish, “is a treasured belonging of Her Majesty. We seek audience with the Queen so we may return this item to Her Majesty, and then we plan to return to the Field Marshall with all haste so that we might aid in the defense of the castle on this night of chaos and danger.”

Odric again bows, hoping he wasn’t expected to offer to wrestle the Lady as has been the custom by all accounts in certain far away lands. He seems quite confident any violence in this area would be met with swift and deadly response, just based on the genteel but tense feeling he gets from the atmosphere.

Gaining entrance to the Queen’s Presence, the lady in waiting, Sabina Merrin, leads the group to Her Majesty.

Queen Ileosa sits upon the Crimson Throne. She is a vision of celestial beauty despite the black mourning dress and veil she wears in honor of her husband’s death. A small silver coffer sits in her lap. The throne room itself is pristine but strangely empty—an open area with a vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows of past kings and queens looking down from the eastern wall, and crimson tapestries hanging along the others. An immense fireplace offers additional light and heat to the hall, and a silk carpet provides a gently arching path to the throne’s base.
The group returns the prized brooch to the Queen and after appropriate decorum has been struggled through, the party withdraws in search of food, rest and resupply. With a reward of 2000 pieces of gold, called ‘gold sails’ in the parlance of the day, the group spends some coin and plans their service to the crown.

Once more in the Field Marshal’s presence, the group stands arrayed before her. She begins, “Heroes of your caliber are exactly what Korvosa needs now. You’ve been on the streets. You know better than me how bad things are out there. It’s breaking my heart to see Korvosa tear herself apart like this. Every little bit of aid we can get from upstanding citizens like you helps. If you’re willing, I’d very much like to retain your services as agents of the Guard.”

Kroft’s speech is impassioned and attracts a few veterans’ attention as she begins pacing before the group with a backdrop of her beloved city burning. Smoke hangs low in the sky casting a pall over the city. Faintly, drifting on the morning’s scant breeze the assembled forces can smell sorrow and death amidst the smell of acrid smoke and horses’ breath. Oiled steel clanks, mail rustles and supple leather creaks as men crowd close.

“Korvosa’s got enough troubles as it is without my own men losing their way and going rogue. Many guards have deserted their posts, more concerned about friends and family than the city. I can understand this, yet not all of the deserters have family—some of them are simply using the riots as an excuse for personal gain. One such man is Verik Vancaskerkin. Worse than a lone deserter, he’s convinced a small group of fellow guards that Queen Ileosa is going to ruin the city.”

The adventurers shift slightly at this, a murmur arises from the gathering of onlookers and the party alike. Odric flushes and appears angered beyond the appropriate amount, although none take note.

“Right now, we’ve got a city-wide crisis on our hands, and I need all of my guards working with me to see us through. A deserter is worse than a lost resource—it’s an infection. I can’t afford to pull any of my other patrols off duty to deal with Vancaskerkin, and I’d rather not expose any of them to him anyway, since I neither want Vancaskerkin to infect more guards with his talk of secession, nor do I want some overly patriotic guard killing Vancaskerkin outright. I need impartial, skilled talent. Like you. Try to avoid killing any of the deserters if you can, but if you must, they brought it upon themselves when they threw in their lot with Vancaskerkin. Bring me Verik alive, and there’s another thousand gold in it for you. Dead, he’s only worth half that.”
The Field Marshal details some mundane matters and as the speech winds down the assembled onlookers disperse. The group clearly hasa mission, to bring a deserter, Verik Vancaskerkin, to justice.

“Apprentice” the old man wheezes, “This is the type of moving speech these Field Marshals are known for, and in large part are the reason I have dedicated some great amount of time to scrying and studying them.” The wizard continues lecturing the supine and snoring boy until he trails off and renews his concentration of the shifting scenes in the crystal ball atop his cluttered desk.

Verik and his accomplices have holed up in an abattoir called “All the World’s Meat” in Northgate. The group Field Marshal Kroft hired spends some time casing the place, and decides to attempt to hire out a few of Verik’s goons as muscle for some fictional illicit venture in order to improve their odds in capturing Verik. Once hired, the group’s face man, Gaius brings them into the supposed site of their employment, but the job is an ambush.

As the hired men with naked steel creep through the building, Ferox having trod upon some potsherds, alerts them to the presence of an ambush. With two shouts, one normal and one grocery, Odric charges the alerted men. Both surprise and teeth leave the man’s face simultaneously as Odric’s ham-sized right fist connect squarely with the man’s jaw. The Eagle trailing in Odric’s left hand snaps up to a readied position after the mighty blow.

Odric follows through with his solid right cross and snaps the Eagle up to a guarding position just barley fast enough to intercept a shockingly powerful instinctive slash from the reeling man. The jolt jars Odric’s arms all the way to his shoulders, but the edge is deflected and misses severing his arm by less than a handbreadth.

Odric’s eyes widen as he realizes just how close he came to being grievously wounded. He sets his jaw and lowers his brow in determination. Dancing, bobbing and weaving, Odric looks for an opening to land a second punch. His opponent has earned the big man’s wariness and respect with such a powerful strike, only avoided by mere luck.

From behind Odric, the sound of a waxed bowstring twangs and a thunk follows shortly after as Ferox’s shot misses its mark and the arrow buries its lethal head in the stained wooden wall. Almost simultaneously, Morkeleb brandishes his staff, the green gem capping it glowing with its own eerie eldritch fire. He starts a rhythmic chant that numbs the mind and turns the eyelids to lead while the green light pulses gently, soothingly, beckoning slumber.

Gaius takes advantage of the dim light, shelves, and diverted attention and sneaks up behind the closest of the thugs. As the rogue attacks, the sound of his sap hitting skull is not unlike a melon being broken open. Between the ham hock of Odric’s fist and the sap, the thug is down for the count.
The ranger was the last to get into the fight due to his good hiding spot under a table. Grym doesn’t bother to draw any weapon but rushes forward to the closer thug to his hiding spot. He throws himself onto the thug in an unarmed attack. The tracker curses himself under his breath for missing. He didn’t fully commit to his attack and the thug easily kept him at bay with his blade. With a self-assurance regarding his own brawling skills born of a life on the streets, Thorgrym vows to do better next attack, if these worthless scum survive.

As the first thug slumps to the ground in a scattering of his own teeth and blood, Odric spares the briefest moment to grin wolfishly at Gauis over the fallen man’s unconscious form.
Odric dexterously sits onto the countertop immediately to his right, pivots and slides to the floor and into melee with the man’s heavily outnumbered companion.

“Surrender, you scurvy dog!” Odric bellows the word straight into the man’s face even as he cocks back his right fist. The flickering lamplight gleams off the oversized brass knuckles clenched within Odric’s meaty fist. Spittle flies across the scant inches between Odric’s mouth and the thug’s countenance and the hot breath stinking of vomit assaults the man with Odric’s shout.
The implicit threat hangs in the air.

Shadows cast irregularly in the uncertain light obscure the man’s face from Odric, leaving him unsure what effect his demand might have had on this unlucky fellow.

Odric’s muscles bunch, a bead of sweat traces its way down his forehead and the fistful of brass stands poised to launch, like a ballista with its bow fully bent, ready to deliver its massive payload.

Baldrago, gifted with neither wit nor wisdom, still has all the faculties to know when his goose is cooked. He glances to his fallen companion Malder, snoring through his ruined mouth and face. He drops his longsword, then drops to his knees. Like he once did hundreds of times to others, he laces his hands behind his head and awaits his fate.

Seeing one erstwhile guard hit the floor and the other surrender completely, Morkeleb reluctantly releases his grip on the mystical energies so they dissipate harmlessly.

Gaius saunters over to Beldrago. “This armor isn’t Korvosan Guard Issued,” Gaius says with a frown in a friendly tone. “Your continued survival depends on your cooperation. I’m betting you’re one of the newer Cowhammer Boys. We want Verik and the deserters.”

The threat, cajoling and a charm spell from Morkeleb leave Baldrago at the mercies of the party. Gaius watches the spell take effect and a shiver goes down his spine as he watches a man’s will buckle to Morkeleb’s power.

The streets seem as they have for the past week. It’s the weird calm from massive amounts of stress and fear of the unknown. People go about their business, but almost out of inertia instead of a goal. No one seems to have noticed the altercation in the building.

The startling revelation that Malder and Baldrago were a party to the butchery and sale of unwanted human carcasses under the signboard of “All the World’s Meat” was one of the many scandals that rocked Korvosa in this year of upheaval and strife.

The group, once they have turned the thugs over to the guard, stand in readiness about to assault Verik’s stronghold when another adventurer dispatched by Field Marshal Kroft joins them. Sandor Strongbellows, an ugly dwarf of epic girth and toughness approaches the party for the attack. Making sure his trusty axe is loose, and shield strap is tight if they feel help is not needed. Sandor walks up keeping his shield side to the big guy. He stops just outside of the Odric’s step and grab range.

In a voice that is gravely, and certain sounds that are clipped due to his permanently curled upper lip Sandor states just loud enough for the two of them to hear. “Hile there big fellow, but I believe that I’m here to assist ya Boys with ya current task at hand. If’n ya can tell me who sent ya ta this side of town I’ll be more’n happy ta lend me axe ’n shield ta ya task.”

The group, thus assembled discusses the final plans for their assault on the building. Gaius melts into the shadows as he circles the building one last time. With infinite care and patience, he examines the front room through a window, the squalid pens to the western side of the compound and begins to disable the locks. Ready for anything, Odric hefts his portable ram and the other members of the party, each in his own way, prepares for battle.

Sandor’s axe rests in a firm but relaxed grip, Morkeleb leans lightly on his staff, any number of tricks or spells dancing through his mind. Ferox’ inscrutable face is a mask of concentration as he prepares himself for this next test. Thorgrym and his new dog Bucho are eagerly awaiting the moment when the enemy is sighted and the waiting ends. As the night passes over the city of Korvosa in its slow and deliberate way, the men assembled under its cloak are seething with anticipation.
Gaius’ steady hands betray no impatience. The last small click sounds softly in the close night air. Gaius swings the door open and the party inches forward. As the rogue steps forward, his heart sinks when he hears a soft sound.

He hears something ever so faint, a click of some type. His extensive training makes the glance down for a pressure plate a reflex. It’s not that though…. the world begins to slow down as Gaius’ perception accelerates. The click isn’t a plate, it’s a string. The door in the southern wall of the room the men are staring into from the street flies open to reveal a man standing with a crossbow aimed at the lead man’s head. The party is ready though.

As the door flies up, Ferox in a single fluid motion nocks an arrow and lets fly the silent missile. The shaft shudders as the crossbowman’s armor deflects the attack.

As the arrow lands harmlessly at his feet the building’s lone defender looks shocked. His eyes widen and he seems torn between shouting for help or pulling the trigger on his weapon. Gaius takes full advantage of the indecision and sprints across the intervening distance. To Odric’s delighted surprise, the wiry rogue launches a balled fist at the man.

Gaius tempts fate with his reckless abandon, even as he calls upon it. Dashing into the room, the door to his left stands ajar and he sees the second thug behind it. Gaius sees moonlight flash on a block of metal as the building’s lone defender’s backup stands prepared with a hammer for war.

Gaius is too quick for him and he stands dumb as he rogue’s fist connects with his cohort’s throat.
The man with the crossbow staggers backwards from the blow. He looks as though he might fall, but at the last second plants his foot against the wall behind him and squeezes the trigger, the target, Gaius’ face.

Just as Gaius takes a bolt in the throat, the second man gets his wits about him. He dashes out of the room and with a desperate warcry, he launches himself towards Ferox who had by this time edged into the room.

His warhammer whooshes through the air, and connects with the Inquisitor’s collar bone, crunching it even through armor.

Grym charges into the room with Bucho hard at his heels. He interposes himself between a bleeding Gaius and the crossbowman. As the formerly lone defender swings his empty crossbow at Grym’s head in a move designed to off-balance and interrupt the tracker more than hurt him, Grym searches for an opening.

Morkeleb’s eerie voice drifts through the melee, cutting through the air and ensorcelling the hammer-weilding man named Parns. The man looks blankly around, confused and passive as the magic clouds his thinking and dazes him.

Odric, seeing the opening he was looking for when the thug facing Morkeleb lowers his arms and stares blankly at the invaders, leaps out from his covered position behind the door jamb. The Eagle comes up with the flat side facing the thug. Odric admires The Eagle’s profile absently as he steps into the open doorway and stares at the feckless thug. Odric’s attention is riveted on the man in front of him.

As he closes the distance, Odric drops The Eagle down low by his right knee. With his left arm pulling the heavy pick along, the weapon begins its ascent.

As the moment of impact nears, the thug turns his head absently as though looking at a butterfly. In his state of dazed incomprehension he doesn’t realize he now faces an Eagle rather than a butterfly. Odric who had been aiming at the man’s temple finds himself swinging mightily at his jaw instead.
The shining head picks up speed as it gains altitude, until as it connects with the thug’s clean shaven jawline it is actually humming through the air. Odric has put more power into the strike than might be prudent under ordinary circumstances, but he sees the man is under the influence of some sort of enchantment and so he risks it.

With all his might behind the upward swing, after The Eagle reaches its zenith Odric finds he has overextended himself and the momentum from the swing carries him completely around so his broad back is to his opponent.

As he looks over his shoulder to gauge his strike’s massive impact, Odric is sprayed with a warm mist of blood and saliva as the man’s ruined jaw hangs limply open. Looking crazed with bloodlust and quite frightening with a light coating of body fluids covering his face, Odric scans the area for his next target. As his gaze sweeps over Sandor, he pauses, winks as if in challenge, and continues scanning.

His gaze fixes on the man down the hallway, standing menacingly over Gaius with Bucho and Grym ready to fight. Odric grins savagely and regrips the Eagle, his hands sticky with blood.

Sandor is determined to get into the fray and charges through the door. He observes Odric’s man slump to the ground, motionless. Seeing his opening and hearing the crunch on the ’quisitor’s shoulder, Sandor jumps and makes a powerful swing over his head. In an acrobatic and martial feat, Sandor thunks his axe into the wooden beam of the ceiling and uses his oaken arm to help pull him up on the counter. Just as his feet clear the edge, the axe breaks loose of its purchase in the overhead beam and he lands feet first on the battered and stained floorboards. He charges to the foot of the stairs. Setting up a defensive position at the bottom of the stairs, the well equipped fighter stands at the ready.

Ever the cunning one, Gaius drops to the ground to play dead. While the still-standing thug’s attention is fixed on Grym and Bucho, he pulls a blue potion from his pouch and drinks it. Gaius grits his teeth, pushes the quarrel out the side of his throat and allows the potion to magically close the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, Grym sees Gaius wink and quickly go back to looking dead.

Frustrated at his ineffectiveness with his first arrow, Ferox spits an Oath to Abadar a second time as he vaults over the counter. He walks forward with near religious purpose as he draws a second arrow. Midway down the hall he plants his front foot and takes aim at point blank range. This arrow does not miss.

As the arrow sinks home, Karralo’s smirk of grim satisfaction at laying Gaius low turns to a grimace. Realizing that he’s now vastly outnumbered, with eyes wild and feral he draws a longsword and turns his ire towards Grym. “You’ll never take me alive!” He laughs as only a condemned man can as he sprays a slurry of Grym’s blood across the floor of the butchery. Thorgrym grits his teeth at the nasty slash from Karralo but holds his ground. Trying to keep his wound closed with his off hand he moves forward, blade held high. The advance turns deadly as the blade corkscrews down into a thrust as he finishes his lunge.

After a magically and concussively dazed Parns drops, Morkeleb hears the commotion and sees the action with Karralo further into the building. He closes to within sight of the remaining, desparate thug and falls into his familiar chanting, and the eldritch energies begin to softly light the gem at the end of his staff. He is too late though. Grym’s Blade strikes home, and the man is dead on his feet with three feet of cold steel through his gut. He slides off the blade and onto the bloody floor. Karralo lies in a quickly spreading pool of his own blood.

With vision clouded by rage and blood, Odric initially thinks Grym has fallen and nearly attacks his own friend mistaking him for the enemy. As reality dawns on the man, he attempts to save Karralo from death. Odric applies relatively clean bandages and some herbs of dubious efficacy, but to no effect. The man is dead.

Grym bends down next to Odric while he is ineffectually trying to stabilize the corpse. The ranger wipes the blood from his sword on the thug’s clothes. His dog comes up with a sniff at the wounds then quickly snaps toward the big man and licks his face. 


”Sorry about that Odric.” Grym says softly, “I know we wanted to take him alive but after he shot Gaius in the throat and slashed me up pretty good, I didn’t feel like taking any chances.” 
Odric nods as Grym pulls out one of his precious healing draughts and downs it. 
The tracker continues, “As long as we can bring Verik in alive for the Field Marshal, we are complete in our mission.”
Morkeleb lets the spell dissipate without completion—and it may be a trick of the light or imagination, but the crystal setting the top of his staff appears to give a faint bluish tint before the light winks out completely as the spell is cut short. Much like a denied lover, Morkeleb’s staff sports a blue ball. Morkeleb has a slightly frustrated sneer which quickly gives way to his normal, stoic expression.

“Let’s secure the egresses so Verik can’t run out on us. Someone see to Gaius, make sure he’ll pull through.” The mage suggests and he approaches Ferox to offer his assistance. “Once we’re sure we’re all in one piece, then let’s see to the other guy.”

A cursory search of the corpse by the revived rogue reveals a longsword, a heavy warhammer, a pair of heavy steel shields, a couple light crossbows with a dozen and a half bolts, and 40 gold sails.
Sandor takes position at the bottom of the stairs. The dwarf tugs a clever strap and his crossbow drops on a sling into his waiting hand. He swings his blade, embedding his axe into the wall within easy reach. He takes a knee, placing the crossbow atop his shield so to cover both doors in the hallway. “Get a move on lads. Clear the second floor and trust that nobody will get ta ya backs. Quickly now ta become stagnant is to become dead!” Sandor hisses in a brilliant tactical appraisal of the situation.

Odric barely resists patting the dwarf on the head. He is growing fond of the gruff little guy. He retrieves the ram from the street and leaves it with Sandor.

“The sounds of battle from down here have doubtless alerted anyone upstairs of our presence. Follow me!” Odric jogs up the stairs and barrels straight in through to the room beyond. The Eagle seeks blood.

Odric bursts into a small room. A round table sits in the center, surrounded by four wooden chairs. A stack of cards sits on the tabletop. A cabinet to the southwest hangs open, a tangle of dirty clothes and blankets within. Four thin bedrolls lie rolled up against the north wall. A door to the South stands shut.

Gaius is up the stairs behind Odric. He hangs back, letting Odric take the lead. The rogue scoops up and pockets the pile of cards from the table, while he scans the room looking, listening and sniffing for oddities. Noting nothing is amiss, he takes out his hand crossbow, applies drow sleep poison to a bolt and arms it.

Just as Odric turns to tromp down the stairs, Gaius’s keen ears pick up a creak in the floor coming from not Odric’s gait, but in the room to the South.

The recently healed duo, Gaius and Grym stand closest to the door. Grym catches the subtle listing that means Gaius has heard something.

What started as a singular creak becomes a clodding noise.

The door opens.

Standing behind it is a man of skill and determination far beyond that of the simpleton thugs. Verik Vancaskerkin stands with a mighty composite bow in hand. He is bedecked in masterwork equipment, and the broadhead of his arrow hints at a dweomer if the runes are to be believed…

Verik announces with authority borne of his impressive entrance, “The next words out of your mouths had best be something to the tune of ‘I surrender’ or ‘sorry, wrong house.’ If not, I cry your pardon, but I will pin your bodies to the wall and make you leakier than a Puddles Whore.

While all hear the man’s threat, Odric is the first to react. With a mighty swing of the Eagle which the man twists clear of, Odric tries to end the standoff quickly. Morkeleb begins casting a spell, and fro the floor below, Sandor bellows, “Aww, ‘old on a minute up ‘ere if’n there’s any surrenderin ta be do’in it’s from tha son of a puddle ‘hore ‘imself Verik!”

Gaius curses Odric’s enthusiasm and follows him into the room, pushing past Grym with a smile and a pluckish, “Hot rolls, coming through!” He steps to the side and uses the chair for cover by kneeling behind it.

Gaius lowers his crossbow and takes aim at Verik, but does not fire. Something… Isn’t right.
“Verik Vancaskerkin… By Order of Her Majesty Queen Ileosa you are to be bound by law for the crime of desertion. Stand down. I appeal to your honor, Sir. Please. We’ve no wish for bloodshed.”
Gaius prefers a peaceful resolution; it’s better for everyone. But his purpose in this interaction is two-fold: Try to read Verik’s body language and responses and get a hunch about his intentions. Gaius readies a shop with his poisoned crossbow, yet refrains from firing it.

Verik’s face screws itself up into a near-canine snarl, “Abadar’s arse! I’m just in here trying to do something with my life and the all mighty queen sends a squad?! That’s all I need to know that I’m right and the system is wrong. Screw you!"

Ferox bounds up the stairs two at a time, giving Sandor a slap on the shoulder and crooked grin on the way. Gaius notes that standing behind the table, the Inquisitor’s posture says that he’s not planning on waiting to shoot Verik. His bow creaks as he draws back an arrow carefully and takes aim.

As he does so, Grym moves up to Odric’s side, but crashes headlong into a chair, sending it clattering across the floor and missing his sword swing.

Jumping up to get the higher ground, Verik drops his bow and pulls forth a spear of masterwork quality. His snarl turns to a battle cry, but the jump puts him under the gaze of Morkeleb. The wizard finishes the incantation and Verik never even puts up a fight against the spell. He drives his spear downward towards Odric’s exposed neck and and nearly loses the spear in process as the spell works its way under the man’s tightly clenched fingers. “What the?!”

Gaius maintains his concentration, but Verik is still dangerously close to his comrades and Gaius doesn’t risk the shot into a melee for fear of striking his allies.

Sandor then barrells up the stairs, clanking and crashing as he goes. A low rumble of his own battle cry ascends with him. He is closing fast with the renegade, and soon Verik will be surrounded by steel.

“Verik! Your plight is hopeless. If the warriors don’t gut you, then I’ll blast you to oblivion where you stand! SURRENDER!!” Morkeleb nearly screams this last word across the room. He begins casting the same spell upon Verik that foretold Parns’ defeat downstairs. Once his chanting is complete, he draws his wand of Acid Splash and level it at the deserter’s suprised face.

“I will bring you to justice…on the wings of a fearsome Eagle!” Odric snarls at Varik. The big man swings the heavy weapon up to the ready, then with a deep breath and one eye squinted in concentration raises the weapon overhead and brings it down with most of his might. Odric’s swing slams into the table just narrowly missing Verik’s ankle. The renegade’s eyes begin to widen as he realizes that he’s vastly out-armed. Still, his resolution remains firm. A few lucky hits and the odds will be evened.

Gaius is appalled, at the lack of fiscal responsibility being shown! With each deadly swing at Verik, Gaius sees his reward slipping away. With a cry, “Dammit, Odric. Give me a shot!” Gaius takes a tanglefoot bag from his pack and keeps it ready.

“The system’s wrong, Verik?” Gaius asks, “Is that why you’re helping these ghouls feed the dead to the people?” referring to Malder and Baldrago.

Verik’s concentration cracks, just a little, “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gaius narrows his eyes, and they never waiver from his target. Better keep him talking until there’s a shot.

“Suuuure you don’t. You don’t know that your buddies Malder and Beldrago have been hiring themselves out as muscle. And you definitely don’t know that they’ve been bringing back the bodies they need to, ‘disappear’, to this BUTCHER SHOP. Come on, Verik! You haven’t noticed you give away a lot more meat than you get from animals? I wonder what kind of new diseases the people will get by eating victims. You’re a real hero.”

As Gaius’s onslaught of revelations continues, Verik’s nerve bends, and finally breaks. His arrival at the Truth is timed perfectly with the exploding chair that Grym hurled at him, narrowly missing him and smashing to pieces, raining down in splinters.

“I… I…”

The tanglefoot bags come out.

“It wasn’t….”

Odric crouches down, seemingly to spring at him like a well-fed mountain lion.
“By the gods, what have I done?”

Verik drops his spear and kneels down on the table. He places his hands not behind his head in surrender to the party, but instead towards the sky, surrendering to fate and karma.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know! I just wanted to stick it to the Crimson Throne! I didn’t know! I’ll come quietly.”

Verik is a broken man now. As battlefever winds down the group gets a look at the room in which they find themselves. Verik kneels on a single large desk standing in the eastern part of this large office, transformed into a makeshift bed by a bedroll and several blankets and pillows. A table and three chairs sit to the west; several papers lie strewn over the table’s surface and a chamberpot sits under it. One of the papers is pinned to the tabletop by an exquisite silver dagger. The office looks organized enough, and nothing at first glance gives clue to the dirty business at hand.
Verik had possessed a dagger of apparently magical properties but that later proved to be a Raktavarna. (see volume 23b of "Items of Magic and Might) along with a trove of masterwork weapons and armor.

For their success, Field Marshal Kroft rewarded the party with a choice between the gold sails she had promised or an item of masterwork quality from the armory. She recognized this group’s prowess and was satisfied by their efforts. So much so she suggested they embark on another mission for her.”

The apprentice snorts and sneezes on his comfortable chair, awakened by a tickling of dust in his nose. The sudden noise startles the wizard, breaking his concentration and the images of the group in the company of Vencarlo Orisini dissolve before the old man can commit them to the history he is writing. The kind-hearted old man can’t muster much anger at the young man and rather than a stern rebuke, the old man stands, stretches his old bones and shuffles to the sideboard for a mug of tea.
“Master, what has happened?” the young apprentice asks sleepily.
“The group of adventures Field Marshal Kroft employed back in the Time of Upheaval have uncovered a cannibalism ring run out of a place called “All the World’s Meat” and captured a subversive group of guardsmen. They may yet merit a tome of their own! I shall have to scry them again…"

Thrown together by fate, the six adventurers head down to the fishery to strike. It is time for Gaedran Lamm to see justice. However, by the time they arrive, the exotic Kelishite gunslinger abandons the group and leaves Korvosa on errands of his own. The ways of foreigners are strange and can’t be set to reason. Yet the five continue on their quest of vengeance.
At the fishery the group decides to first investigate and disable the boat tied up along the dock. Nobody wants Lamm to escape on the water while they search the building. The boat looks more and more decrepid as the party approaches. The ranger stealthily goes over the railing and onto the deck. The others watch in surprise as the rotted wood gives way beneath the ranger’s feet dumping him into the hold. Then they watch in horror as four massive spiders leap onto him. Odric and Gauis rush to Thorgrym’s aid and leap down into the rotting hold. Odric smashes a spider with his pick and Gauis skewers another with his rapier. Ferox spits another with an arrow. The spiders are slain though Gauis suffers bites alongside Grym. It is a bitter price for a boat that contains no treasure nor is seaworthy enough for anyone to be escaping in.
The adventurers now begin searching the fishery. Gauis opens the first door and is surprised by one of Lamm’s henchmen, an alchemist called Yagrin. Yagrin hurls a beaker of acid that shatters on the doorframe. The powerful acid sprays over Gauis, the rogue falls to ground while the Ferox and Thorgrym pour into the room like a rushing wave. The inquisitor shoots Yagrin in the arm with an arrow and Grym charges forward blade extended running the alchemist clean through. Among the spoils of war a healing potion was liberated to revive the downed Gauis.
Several more corridors and rooms are checked. The ranger manages to pacify a hostile maltreated dog left in one room. The party finds another room full of children cleaning fish with a cruel gnome taskmaster. Odric enters wearing Yagrin’s corpse over his front. In the gnome’s confusion over Yagrin’s dead body, Odric kicks the gnome in the groin. As he lets out a high pitched squeak, Odric drops the corpse and obliterates the gnome’s head with a mighty blow from his pick. One child stays behind while the others flee. It is Kip, a young boy whom Odric had sworn and failed to find. The stout warrior is overjoyed to find his old master’s son. Armed with information from Kip the party moves on to take down Giggles, an insane half-orc.
Odric comes up with “the Plan”. Kip draws out Giggles with an insulting taunt. Probably more by luck then skill the half-orc knocks Ferox’s arrow aside with his flail. The rogue sneak attacks a devasting hit with a dagger to his eye. Then Odric lands a massive blow with his pick killing the half-orc.
By this time the party is working well together in concert. Each playing his part and watching each other’s back. They now head down through a trapdoor and enter Gaedran Lamm’s lair. It is a large room with two narrow walkways spanning a gaping pit over the water. A huge alligator lies against one of the walkways. Lamm is on the far side of the room armed with a crossbow. The ranger is the first through the doorway and narrowly avoids being pinked by a shot from Lamm. Ferox sprints along the walkway to the far wall. His movement draws the gator’s attack. The massive reptile leaps unto the walkway and grabs the inquisitor by the torso with his jaws. Odric and Gauis go in to rescue Ferox from ending up in the gator’s gullet. The rogue score’s with a thrown dagger while Odric hacks the end of its tail off with his falchion. The angered gator nows turns to bite at Odric. The warrior dodges and Ferox bleeding and wounded badly just barely manages to evade a powerful strike of the gator’s mangled tail. Odric then finishes off the gator with a massive blow from his falchion. Meanwhile Grym slips to dodge another crossbow bolt while he moves in closer to Lamm. Morkeleb releases a powerful spell to overcome Lamm’s mind. Shockingly the old man is able to focus his mind and shrug it off then fire another crossbow bolt at Grym. This third shot strikes the ranger. Though wounded, Ferox makes an excellent shot striking Lamm in the throat. The ranger moves in for the finishing blow. A lightning quick belly cut leaves Lamm on the ground among his own spilled innards.
Gaius picks the lock into Lamm’s private room, among the found treasure the party finds Zellara’s severed head. Odric returns Kip to his family while the ranger goes back to rescue the poor ill treated mutt. A last startling fact, the pary learns that Zellara is a ghost. A spirit bound to her beloved harrowing deck. She is grateful to the party for avenging both her death and her murdered son.