22 Flamerule, Year of the Helm, 1362 DR

The Slums

As you make your way back to the gates leading into New Phlan, you find the way much less crowded than when you came by less than an hour earlier. It could just be a matter of scheduling. Though, more likely, it is the wide berth the crowd is giving Aram, as he marches along with two bags of limbs slung over his shoulder — bags which, by this point, have soaked-through with blood, and are leaving a dripping red trail behind him.

Unsurprisingly, when you reach the gates, you are stopped by the guards. What is surprising, is that they do not show any signs of concern at the sight of your grim-faced group returning so soon with blood-soaked bags in tow — and, perhaps, the fact that so many armed men did not respond in any way to the screams and sounds of battle less than a block away.

The same guard you greeted on the way out holds up a hand at your approach. “Papers please,” he says. Then, looking at the blood-soaked bags, “More meat for the Blade?”

Aram smiles at the man and pulls out the charter, which was still tucked through his belt (and possibly a bit blood-stained itself). “Here you are,” he says handing over the paperwork. “Thanks for the warning about the Red Hands, by-the-way. Got myself some souvenirs already…” he jiggles the bags for emphasis. “Do you know if the Council is offering bounties on humanoids these days?”

The guard gives your papers only a cursory look, “Still seems to be in order,” he replies handing it back. “Aye, standard bounties still apply,” he holds out a hand, clearly indicating the bag, “may I?”

“Sure,” Aram replies, handing over the bags. “Got four sets of orc hands, a set of giant hands, and a giant’s head.”

The guard opens up the bag. “Well, I’m afraid we don’t pay extra for sets. Or heads. Just need the left hands to claim the bounty.” He passes the bag of hands to another guard and opens up his purse, passing Aram five gold coins. “Ummm…” he passes the bag with the head back. “It’s a little grizzly, but I guess you can keep this one for your souvenir. You might want to talk to one of the temples about getting it preserved so it doesn’t stink up the place though…”

Aram looks a little crestfallen as he accepts the gold. “If you don’t need them for the bounty, could I keep the right hands?” he asks.

The guard shakes his head, “Sorry. We’ve had a bit of a problem lately with amateur necromancers letting Crawling Claws loose in the town. Part of the reason the Council offered a bounty for hands, actually. It makes sure people turn them over…” He tucks his red-plumed helmet under his arm and wipes his brow. “Not that I’d expect your lot of doing something like that,” he adds smiling.

“No…wouldn’t dream of it.” Aram says, taking back the bag with the giant’s head and walking past the guard towards the Bitter Blade next door. {Note to self} he thinks, {find a safe place outside the walls to store any corpses or body parts I intend to animate later…}

While partially healed again, Lothar is still a bit woozy and quite shaken by the recent events. He stays fairly subdued and keeps to himself. When next to Sven he quietly mentions: “Thank you for taking charge back there, you provided focus to the group. I believe we need to train together, learn to fight as a unit, to prevent this from happening again.” He goes quiet and introspective for a second, before he adds: “Truth be told, I’d rather take direction from you than Aram in battle. He seems too at ease with death and gore.”

“It’s better to find these things out sooner rather than later.” Sven says to Lothar. He notices Lo still looks a little “off” and casts a second (and his last at the moment) cure light wounds on him while Aram speaks with the guards.

Aram, short a sack of limbs, heads past the gate guards and into the Bitter Blade. He scans the room looking for Silren or Embry.

Embry comes to greet him, asking how the mission went. “It’s been a bit strange waiting here with this one” he laughs.

Aram shrugs, “Not done yet, I’m afraid.” He jiggles the blood-soaked bag with the head in it. “We ran into a few complications just beyond the gate and thought it would be polite to come back and ask if you’d like to join us…”

Embry, "If you need my aid, I am here. I will gladly accompany you "

“Where’s Silren?”

“Upstairs, preparing whatever he prepares.”

As Embry knocks to get his gear from the room, Silren is found answering the door with a half closed robe. “YAWN. Hey there, Embry. What do you need?” The wizard scratches himself. “You need me for anything?”

Embry, “Aram is back asking for us.”

“Hmmm. Aram asking for help? That’s suspect. Just give me a Hillsfar minute to get ready. Your gear is where you left it. Torgo. Come. There may be fruit.” The bat fluttered. He came downstairs quickly and curious.

Three minutes later Silren makes his way to the common room. “Aram. What do you need of me? I was napping in preparation to talk to Professor Manabu during the 3rd watch. I wish to make this appointment so tell me if whatever you’re planning can be done quickly enough to make it back to this side of the wall before the gates close.”

As Embry heads out and up the stairs, Aram walks out and stares after him, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun. When he sees Silren coming down the stairs, he waves the bag again, and catches him before he heads back inside to the common room. “Got a present for you,” he says. “Ran into this giant and a bunch of orcs just outside in the slums…”

“A present? Ooo. Once I get that flensed it’d make a jaunty chapeau. Very nice.”

Aram laughs jovially. “We also heard about some meeting of the Slums gangs going down tonight, at the home of some guy named Matteo. Thought we might try a bit of an ambush…”

Silren, “And was this head a part of this Matteo’s friends? Did it speak common or Tharian?”

Embry, “And I thought I had interesting news about pirates being executed tonight. If you have a plan, I’ll be there.”

“He didn’t say much at all,” Aram replies. “Appeared to be working with the orcs, all of whom had bloody handprints on their shirts, and an old washerwoman who was setting them up. Most of them were speaking orcish, but the washerwoman spoke Tharian, and they all behaved like they understood the battle plans Sven kept shouting…”
“We’ll need to subtly ask around and figure out who this Matteo is and where he lives, but if we can manage that, and catch them all while there chatting, maybe we can strike a decisive blow against the chaos gripping this so-called city…”

“Subtly? Why? You’ve apparently pissed off a gang. Find him and break him quick.” The wizard poked a head into the common room of the Blade. ""Any of you know a Matteo in the Slums? 3 gold in it if you can tell us where he lives, 5 if you can take us to him. Any takers?"

“Matteo? Best smith in town.” The bartender yells back to Silren. “Had to move shop out there a couple months ago. Has a place just past Traitor’s Gate, across the road from the soup kitchen. Sure’n he’d appreciate the business if you need any weapons.”

Embry, “Might I suggest, I have a history of life in the slums. If you need someone familiar and able to blend in, I could be of help.”

Aram looks surprised, “You’re a local, Em?”

“Not a local, but I’ve lived that life for the entirety of mine. I’ve a better chance of blending than most. I may even have a plan how to find him, without much suspicion, if you need.”

Sil tosses 3 coins to the barkeep. “Can you relay a message for me? I mean to meet with Professor Manabu later, but fear I may get caught outside the gate. If I don’t make it back, would you send my apologies? Silren’s the name.” And with that he heads out to find this shop with the others.

Thrall, “Yeah, that fight in the slums did not go ok for Durell……He ran into one orc too many, took a full blow to the head. We had to bury him on site.”

“Ah. Then we shall exact a quick and unexpected strike on these unclean offenders. Durek, sorry, Durell will have his post humus comeuppance. I have a few offensive dweomers on call today, a spell of dire combustion that travels in a pillar from my hands towards a target and any in it’s path, a smaller hands of burnination, a spell of illumination which I can focus in ones eyes, a lich’s fear that often stuns it’s victims, the ability to speak with the recently deceased, and a few other tricks. Flashy, devastating effects that could clear a small block. I’ve been itching to exhaust some of these pent up arcane forces, so point me in the right direction.” The mage grinned a bit too excitedly. “See Torgo? Our new, erm, ‘friends’ need our help.”

Embry, "That is tragic indeed. I deeply regret not accompanying you now. I may not have been able to save him, but I would have at least stood at his side until the end. I shall strive to honor him. "

Thrall to the rest and Silren in particular: “With spells like that upon your sleeve, what do you think me and some others are going to do? Watch the mindless killing and act as a healing canon? I have some serious issues with that!”

Lothar keeps quiet during this discussion, choosing to tend to his gear. Between Aram’s attitude to death, the guards habitual indifference to those grisly trophies and Silren’s apparent gleeful eagerness to cause mayhem, he is wondering what he has gotten himself into, and just what kind of “city” Phlan is. At last he speaks up: “Has anyone considered the ramifications of what we are about to do? I understand the need for vengeance, but if we succeed in decimating the leadership of several gangs, a gang war will surely follow. Causing more suffering for the population of the slums, and their lives are miserable enough as it is… Plus who knows who, or what, will rise into the power vacuum. Do we really want to make the slums an even more hostile territory than it already is? We will no doubt need to travel through it regularly.”

“You make an interesting point. A power vacuum could be trouble. What if, instead, we could find a way to redirect these gangs into something more constructive, like helping remove these orcs?” Embry says.

“Oh! A wizard! He’d be great to join us!” Mocked the eccentric spellslinger as he waved his staff. “Why, I guess I’ll spend my time researching puppy saving charms, love potions & rainbow fart spells instead! You come to me, wake me up, tell me you beat up a washerwoman and started a gang war and you want me to SIT AROUND NOT TELLING YOU I COMMAND POWERS THAT COULD HAVE EASILY KEPT YOUR POOR FRIEND ALIVE? YOU THINK A POWER FUCKING VACUUM IS WHAT YOU NEED TO WORRY ABOUT? YOU NEED TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING STABBED BY ORCS AND THUGS, THAT’S WHAT!” Silren thrusted a finger to the sky. “Come.” He said cooly. “We will ‘talk’ to Smith Matt first. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“What was that Torgo? Prophetic, you say? Well shit, bat! I am a gottdamned wizard, I don’t know why I have to keep reminding everybody.”

“Aram. Did you tell the rest of my training? That I was part of the war wizard cabal of Hillsfar? That as a member of the 3rd circle that I commanded a small pod of lesser wizards? That I spent 2 tours attached to a Red Plume squad before I was honorably discharged? Hmm? I didn’t think so.”

Aram just laughs at Silren’s rant and addresses Embry and Lothar, “I doubt we can get he gangs to help remove the orcs, since, I am fairly certain at least one of the gangs IS the orcs. Really though, a turf war might be exactly what this city needs. If we can get the orcs and goblins and whatnot fighting each other, then the civilized folk might finally have an opportunity to organize and drive them out properly. And if we create a power vacuum in the Slums, it could, conceivably, be filled with law and order, rather than just feeding the gangs and making them stronger.”

“Also,” he adds, “if this Matteo is the city’s foremost crafter of weapons AND hosting a meeting of gang leaders, it can only mean that things are about to get much worse for the people of this town if we don’t cut this off right now. Durell was slain by orcs with clubs and other sub-standard arms. How much worse do you think it would be if they were all armed with proper steel?”

Silren, “Why can’t these Phlanites just do what we did in Hillsfar? Build a bigger, better wall and kick out all the undesirables? We’re such a happier, sane lot now.”

Aram suddenly looks thoughtful, “Say. If this Matteo guy was forced to move outside the wall, it could be that the Council passed out promised monopolies to other businesses and not just the grumpy green-grocer. Do you remember how angry the herald-girl got when we asked about the fisherman with the bugbear problem?” He strokes his whiskers, “There’s some sort of conspiracy to squash free commerce and drive up prices going on, and its probably going to end extremely violently if we don’t do something about it…”

Lothar, "Maybe have a chat with this Matteo first? If he has been forced out of the city because of a monopoly granted to another, he may be simply seeking an alliance with the locals? And he may have more reasonable prices? The comment from the guard at the gate also worried me, apparently raids into the slums for “mystery meat” are nothing unusual… It doesn’t cast a good light on the ‘Esteemed City of Phlan’…"

“Well, they’re not exactly quiet about the fact that they are hiring a small army of ‘independent contractors’, present company included, to clear the area outside of the wall of ‘monsters’, and are none-too-clear about defining what is or is not ‘monstrous’…” Aram scrunches up his mouth, making his mustache bristle. “Silren has a good point. I don’t know about the Council, but most of the guards are from back home in Hillsfar. If they’re anything like my nieces and nephews, they’re just waiting for an excuse…or sufficient manpower…to have a good old-fashion purge of all the ‘undesirables’…”

Embry, “So maybe we go meet this Matteo first, offer him a friendly way to solve what’s going on.”

Silren, “Chatting with Matteo is fine, but let us put ourselves in his hypothetical shoes. If he is producing weaponry for the local thugs… where’s the profit? Poor folk aren’t handing over gold for blades and the like. He’s an arm’s dealer and needs a market for his business. He got kicked out of his shop in the New City. That has to ferment some resentment. Aaaaaand, you guys may just have killed some of his hired or sympathetic muscle. As much as I ‘d like to think this might solve our problems, we’re most likely putting ourselves in a foul spot.”

Aram, “Pitty they don’t have a proper colloseum here though. This chucking miscreants off the wall naked, instead of making them fight minotaurs naked for entertainment like we do back home, is downright barbaric…”

“Myself and Embry are the only two who haven’t been to the slums. Perhaps we go separate and talk to Matteo, while you follow and keep an eye on the shop. If he checks out, we’ll relay that to you. If not, we try something a bit more drastic. Oh, we’re here at the gate.” Silren shows his papers and looks to see if any of the Plumes look familiar.

Silren scans the faces of the guards, but, given how tight a leash Hillsfar keeps on its mages, does not recognize any of them from the small handful of regular soldiers he was allowed to speak with back home.

“Nice to see the Red Plumes guarding the walls, though. I appreciate your service, officer.” Silren bows slightly.

Aram pulls the group’s charter back out of its place in his belt and hands it to the guards. “Why do they call this ’Traitor’s Gate’?” he asks the guard, trying to make small-talk.

A voice from behind the visored helm of one of the officers replies, “Because idiots like you use it.” The visor raises to reveal the face of a non-descript, almost deliberately so, clean-cut Hillsfarian soldier wearing a smirk. There is a long pregnant pause before, suddenly, Silren recognizes the smirking face to belonging to Valerius Nerva, an intelligence officer whom he served with during his time in the Plumes. “Hiya, Silren,” he says when he sees the telltale shift in body-language as recognition dawns on the wizard. “What brings you to our gates this fine afternoon?”

“Thinking about engaging in a little Hillsfarian ultraviolence on what might be an arms dealer for the orc filth in the Slums. Want in, Val?” Torgo squeaked with joy. Valerious used to sneak fruit to the bat on occasion. Apparently the little bastard remembered.

Valerius shakes his head and waves you all through the gate, “Sorry, Sil. I’m stuck here until my shift ends…”

“No problem, Val. You can find me at the Bitter Blade out of uniform or look for us in the Slums later. Heading for Matteo’s. If we don’t make it back later, send some of the home team to bring back our corpses.”

Sven, “This…gang meeting…I feel there’s more to it than we might think. I think it’s a precursor to something much bigger…” He stops short of saying ‘War’. But he can smell it in the air, like the odor that lingers before the rain on a dry day. If he IS right…there’s much work to do. “I’m going to stay behind – as much as it pains me. I need to set up a safe zone for us. There are people I need to see and consult with. People we may need on our side.”

“If there are items you wish to leave behind, I shall tend to them.” Sven looks to Thrall. “If you leave the sword Durell was carrying, you should know that I will return it to the one who gave it to him in the first place, leaving it up to her if she wants us to keep it.” To Lothar, “You’re going into hostile territory, lad. Don’t let it change who you are…but don’t let it take your life either…not without a fight for the ages.” He gives Lothar a vial (Healing potion). “Use this if you need it. And remember – if Aram dies…take our papers. We’ll need those.”

Thrall hands Sven Durell’s sword and elven chainmail. “I cannot use it anyway.”

“Is that armor magical? I knew an enchanter that used to say it’d resize… If so…” Silren paused for effect. “Torgo, you want some bat barding?” The bat squeaked a squeak that sounded a bit like a laugh. “Nah, he’s good.”

Lothar nods, almost bows to Sven out of sincere respect: “Thank you. I shall endeavour not to lose myself, in whatever may come. And thank you again, I’ll use it wisely.”

Embry, “Do not worry, Lothar, we will help keep you out of trouble.”

The Slums Market

As the gates swing open, your ears are assaulted by the cacophony of a hundred costmongers shouting their wares: “Wet fish!” “Chickweed and grun’sel!” “Turf! Get’yer turf ’ere!” “Hot eels!” “Ripe, strawberries ripe!” “Peas’-soup!” “Fresh Milk! In the can or strait from me own udders!” “Rat poison! Guaranteed t’ kill ’em quick!” “Knives, knives to grind!” “Herring toasters! Herring toasters here!” “Comb yer hair? Penny a comb!” “Squirrels! Live Squirrels! Get ‘em while they’re chitt’ring!” “Dung! Dog dung!” “Wine! Silver a cup!”

You pass through Traitor’s Gate to find yourselves in a massive, open-air market. Dozens of rickety stalls and tattered pavilions crowd the large plaza before you, all crawling with beggars, goblins, orcs, adventurers, merchants, and a few people from the civilized section of town. The crowd, for the most part, appears to be people just going about fairly normal lives—peasant women carrying baskets with babies or groceries, merchants hawking their wares, urchins running about, a farmer driving a herd of pigs, beggars and panhandlers asking for handouts—though the term “people” is used very broadly, as you see goblins, orcs, and even gnolls freely mixing with the human residents. More sinister undertones are obvious, however—you see small armed groups (mostly goblins and orcs) walking about, occasionally stopping at various merchants stalls where bribes are hastily handed over, you hear the sounds of weapons clashing and the occasional scream from side alleys.

Amidst the chaos you spot other distractions as well. An organ grinder performing with a dancing bear. A dark-bearded man in a fez, standing on an old crate shouting the praises of Shar, goddess of the night. Another man, on a slightly taller box, tries to proselytize some other god, or so you guess, as his voice is completely drowned out by the first.

A kobold pup, a disturbingly-toothy grin plastered across his canine-face, shoves a box towards Silren as you walk out. “Cigar mister?” it yaps.

{Now this is more like it} Aram thinks as they walk into the market, {unfettered commerce, though, who would want to buy dog dung?} He turns and nods his thanks to the gate guards then tries to take in the full scope of the market. {Wonder if they’ve got any whelks?} He shudders inwardly when the kobold pup comes bounding up, but smiles warmly at the little thing. “Cigars? Don’t mind if I do. How much?”

Silren waves a finger and uses telekinesis to turn the box towards the kobold and then opens the lid with his mind. If it was a trap, the lil bugger would get it in the face. “Aram, hold. Where is your caution? Did you leave it in Hillsfar?”

Embry, “Aye, let’s not start a full-scale riot the moment we open the gate.”

The box, already open to show a row of poorly rolled cigars, does not move. “One gil, Sir!” the pup says, addressing Aram and paying no attention to Silren’s unusual gesture.

Silren, “I’ll pass. I prefer the hempen pipeweed or blue tinged mushrooms myself. Right Torgo?”

Aram fishes a gold coin out of a pouch and drops it in the pup’s box, and takes a cigar. “There, you see,” he says, gesturing at the market with the cigar. “The perfect analog for the trials of the Blessed Afflictor. Entropy. Buildings crumbling, people moving in disordered masses, the screams of the dying. Behind us lies Order. Lines, queues, rules, walls, and buildings relentlessly rebuilt from the detritus of failure. Without the efforts of the latter, the whole world would become the former. But those very efforts towards civilization, poorly managed, spawn yet more disorder on their very doorstep! All of civlization is ever-spiraling towards destruction, and not even the most well intentioned Councils can manage to slow it down!”

Aram fishes around in his pockets for a sparker and lights the cigar. He takes a puff, then grips it in his teeth and talks around it like Churchill. “Still, even in the midst of all this decay, the people strive for civilization. Just look at it, Silren. Even the wee monsters are buying and selling. They have food. They have shelters. Now that they can get clean water from the river, all their earthly needs are met. It’s just ORDER that they lack! Strong leadership and guidance that those idiots inside their walls refuse to provide! This is what comes of letting the youth run amok and play at Council’s and consensus…” He resumes walking as he rambles and rants.

Silren, “Enjoy your poison cigar, old man. Let’s find Matteo. Sooner we get out of the hive of scum and villainy the better.”

“Right! Poison! Exactly!” Aram says, puffing on the cigar and not really listening through his rant. “Chaos is just like the poison that used to course through this city’s river. It’s pervasive. It gets into everything!”

“I think you might be smoking dog shit and cyanide was my point. You accept anything from a fucking dog lizard after you murdered a bunch of filth a half hour ago?” The wizard shakes his head. “Reminder. Those orcs rape like humans drink water. Those southern heathens will steal your tent, goods, coin and women while smiling…” Gesturing to the fez wearing idiot. “And gobos smell worse than the grave if a grave died and was buried in one. And given the chance these pricks would climb that wall, rape all the noble women, drink all the beer and torch any decent business and order. Don’t forget that. New Phlan first, eh?”

Thrall stays at the back of the party, hearing the ranting and rambling, coming from the head of the party. “And I thought the wizard was the sensible one…….freaking hell….pffff”

Thrall gets himself some strawberries (if they look ripe and fresh). A few are for Torgo, as promised, a few for himself. The remainder he will keep for later to cast Goodberry on them.

The strawberry seller appears to be a human girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, with dirty, dirty-blonde hair and a patched, threadbare dress. Her wares are ripe, though not quite fresh — to Thrall’s expert eye, he’d guess they were picked about a week ago. She continues to hawk her wares in a sing-song as you look them over, “Ripe Strawberries, Ripe!” then, to you, “Silver a pound, Sir.”

Thrall takes one pound and pays the silver coin. No fuss, no hassle.

Torgo, seeing fruit, flies over and lands on Thrall’s shoulder. The bat squeaks cutely, tilts it’s head and blinks cutely while motioning with it’s left clawed hand towards it’s mouth. Silren sees the exchange, slips two fingers into his robe and grabs a single gold coin from the inner pocket. “Little girl. Thank you for finally quieting my pet.” The creepy wizard sneaks her the gold by putting it in the basket under the fruit. Hopefully out of sight of the party and the crowd. He had a reputation to keep. “Make sure you stay safe from the orc kin, my dear.”

The girls eyes go briefly wide, but she knows better than to call attention to the windfall. She gives a tiny, half-curtsy then turns away and resumes her hawking. “Strawberries! Ripe Strawberries!”

Thrall, “As promised, Torgo.”

Torgo wolfs down the offered berry. Red juice dripping from its teeth. It proceeds to make chirping noises at Thrall, motioning for more fruit as they move.

Aram strolls into the market, puffing the cheap cigar and looking around for a smithy or weapons stall that might point them to Matteo. Embry does the same, minus the cigar. He makes a point to watch his companions purses to keep an eye out for pickpockets.

From his slightly lower vantage, Embry has a pretty good view of the purses not only of his companions, but of much of the crowd as well. Strangely, none of the locals seem to be acting particularly concerned…indeed, Embry does not see a single sneaky goblin or quick-fingered child even trying to untie a purse-string or slice a pouch.

Embry is so baffled trying to figure out why there is no pickpocketing going on that he almost misses the large, shuggy-furred bugbear that suddenly steps in front of Aram, glowering and cracking his knuckles, apparently unconcerned by the old man’s prominent, and blood-splattered weapons and armor.

“Toll,” it says simply, in slightly slurred Tharian.

Embry spots two other bugbears nearby, nonchalantly leaning against a wine-sellers stand.

Silren mumbles something as he steps back behind his meat shield friends, wiggles his fingers of his right hand and casts light directed on the eyes of the lead buggy. “Lumos, fool.” He says under his breath. {Perhaps putting Aram in the path of the most danger will keep him from accidentally awakening Duvan’ku someday.}

Embry holds his hand out towards the bugbears “We don’t want trouble, you’ve startled our friend. What is the toll and who is collecting it? Is it for Matteo?”

Aram reaches into a pocket, “How much, my good chap?” he asks jovially. Then there is the flash of light, “Damn it, Silren!” His hand reaches for his blade, sure that any chance of a peaceful resolution has been lost. He swings for the fences.

Lothar cuffs Silren on the back of the head, as he would a petulant brat: “You idiot!” as he quickly steps past to take his place in the developing battleline. I give the shaft of my spear a sudden jerk, sending the leather sheath on the blade flying loose to hang from its lanyard under the spear head. (I’m not getting within reach of big mofo’s again, if I can help it!) “Someone watch our rear!”

Silren seethes. “Such ‘tolls’ are theft, you arrogant Cormyrean.”

Embry puts his shoulder next to whoever is standing near the front, long spear at the ready in a rudimentary phalanx formation, yelling for the bystanders to clear the area. “But perhaps we could have talked our way out of it, especially if we had all gathered around to give a bit of a show of power.”

Thrall reaches for his amulet and prays silently for the spell Flameblade

The first bugbear, suddenly blinded roars a confused “Whu!” The other two stand up strait, but seem equally unsure of what to do, or why their companion’s head is suddenly haloed with light.

They hesitate.

Then Aram’s sword comes out and up, slashing across the blinded bugbear’s midsection. It howls in pain and swings a hairy fist in Aram’s general direction, but cannot meet the reach of Aram’s blade, overbalances itself, and stumbles to the cobbles.

The other bugbears start to move to his aid, then see Lothar and Embry set their spears, and decide that closing might not be the best idea. Rather than charging, they start looking around for something to throw.

Behind them, Thrall feels the answering call of his god as the desired spell enters his mind.
The masses thronging the market adjust their paths to give you a few extra feet of space, but otherwise continue about their business unconcerned.

Embry, “Leave it at that, you bastards, move along, no toll, no more violence. And we all keep our heads.”

Aram stumbles slightly from the momentum of his unweildy weapon, then hefts it over his head and brings it down on the prone bugbear. “In the name of Our Blessed Afflictor, I find you guilty of the crimes of intimidation, extortion, and exaction. May you find better employment in Hell,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd to hear. {Perhaps we can turn Silren’s itchy trigger finger to an advantage and make an example of this little unpleasantness…}

Silren reaches out telekinetically, trying to lift the prone bugbear’s purse. Suddenly the crowd parts, and a fourth bugbear, previously unseen, steps out behind Silren and runs him through with a short sword. It grabs Silren’s belt as he falls, and yanks hard, tearing it off of him. “Toll…” is says in the Common tongue.

As Lothar and Embry stand there, spears at the ready, the other two bugbears start grabbing things off of the wine-sellers cart and throwing them. A small cask smashes against Lothar’s shield, spraying him with cheap red wine. A bottle hits Embry solidly in the face, but luckily does not break.

The blinded bugbear attempts to rise, but does so directly into the line of Aram’s sword. The force of the blow cleaves its skull in two, adding considerably to the bloodstains already decorating Aram’s armor.

“Kill the old man!” The bugbear standing over Silren’s unconscious form yells to the others. “The other two might be valuable…”

Thrall raises his right arm, shouts " Fireblade!!! And moves in with the rest of the phalanx, ready to attack.

Lothar casts a quick glance at Embry and shouts: “Reform phalanx around Silren, take his attacker first! Aram, guard our flanks, Thrall, aid Silren! Desolate, HUAGH!” He syncs the “huagh” to a look and a signal-nod to Embry and wheels around, keeping his shield to the outside of the formation, turning to face the bugbear that attacked Silren.

{Silren?!} Aram is really quite surpised to see his old acquaintance drop in his peripheral vision. Then he hears Lothar shouting orders. {Huagh? What’s that mean} Aram thinks, {why all the shouting?} He carefully looks around, trying to decide what would be more efficacious. {They’re too big to Hold. Command will only affect one. Healing spell might get Silren up, but it looks like the gang has the one on Silren taken care of…}

{Flanks huh?} Aram turns and charges at the two bugbears who are throwing things, hoping to catch them off-guard.

Thrall: “Temur, protect Silren and attack!!!!”

The wolf leaps for the nearby bugbear, biting it hard and pushing it back away from Silren’s body. The tiny phalanx turns with surprising efficiency and alacrity. Unfortunately the bugbear, though startled by the wolf, is able the dodge the thrusting spears of Lothar and Embry. Still, the reach of their spears prevents him from counter-attacking.

Thrall, moving from behind the line of spears, slips in from the side and tags the bugbear with his flaming brand, setting its fur alight and eliciting a howl of pain.

Aram breaks away and charges into a hail of thrown bottles from the other two bugbears. He manages to swat away a couple of missiles, but one bottle strikes him in the leg and shatters, burying a dagger-like chunk of broken glass in his right leg, just below the hang of his hauberk and above the knee. He manages to keep his feet, but is hobbled by the pain, breaking his charge.

Lothar stabs at the bugbear again, trying to take him down fast. Not feeling anything pelting him anymore, he shouts: “Aram, how’s our flank?” If there is a chance to do so safely, Lothar casts a quick glance at where he last saw the two other bugbears.

Aram grits his teeth, reaches down, and yanks the bloody shard of glass from his leg. {Damnit! That one hurt.} He glares at the two bugbears and hobbles forward, blood pouring down his leg, but confident that, should things really turn south, there is nothing they can really do to him. He tightens his grip on his sword and activates his ring, causing it to crackle with electricity. “Servants of chaos,” he declares as he swings weakly ahead of him, “today you become the victim!”

“Lothar, do you have this one?” Embry breaka rank and goes to Aram’s side to help him deal with his foes.

Temur, much quicker than those of you on two legs, leaps at the backstabbing bugbear, but the wolf’s aim is quite terribly off. Temur impales himself on the bugbear’s sword, and recoils, whimpering. “Heh!” The bugbear laughs. “Not so very strong or smart? We’ll see how you boast after I kill your little pet…”

Thrall swings for the creature’s neck, but Lothar is the faster. His spear pierces the bugbear through it’s left eye, such that it is already dead when Thrall’s flaming sword removes its head from its body, the heat cauterizing the wound as its made.

Hearing him whimper, Thrall turns to Temur first and for all. Nothing else matters. Thrall kneels, lifts his head and gives Temur his healing potion, as much as needed.

Meanwhile the other two bugbears, seeing their chosen target closing, draw long knives and lunge at Aram. The first is deflected by Aram’s mail, harmlessly, but the second finds a chink and drives home into Aram’s side, barely missing piercing his kidney. The bugbear just has time to withdraw the blade before Embry comes crashing in, driving his spear clean through the creature and pinning it to the vintner’s stall.

The last bugbear standing turns and looks ready to make a mad-dash out of the marketplace. But is also quickly impaled by Embry.

As Embry prepares to disengage his spear from the skewered bugbear against the vintner’s shack, a familiar looking form – somewhat short and wearing armor that appeared to be oversized for his body comes bounding out of the nearby crowd. “I’m here to help, guys!” yells the boy called Eddie, as he wields a broadsword that also looks like it would be too big for him. But with an unexpected finess, he lights into the bugbear, cutting into the carcass at the same time Embry withdraws his spear, making the removal easier, and keeping it from getting caught. “I’ve got this one!” he exclaims.

Embry wraps a scrap of cloth around his wound and thanks the newcomer for his assistance.

“Eddie, my boy!” Aram calls happily through pain-gritted teeth. “Glad to see you about. How’s your aunt?” He tries to keep up the small talk to distract from the massive amount of blood seeping from his leg and his side. Leaning shakily against the vintner’s stand, he presses a hand to the wound in his side and prays silently for healing. He lets out a small sigh as the bleeding stops, then hobbles over to Silren and does likewise As he walks he says, more steadily now, “I’m sorry to say this Eddie, but your friend Durell has passed…”

Lothar surveys the scene, quickly scooping up any pouches or purses before Silren can. I check up on our wounded, starting with Thrall and Temur: “Is he okay?” To Temur: “You did well, Temur, thank you!” When I get confirmation they’re okay, I hand Thrall the pouches and purses: " Divide these into equal shares for all of us when we get back. Include a share for Durell, so we can arrange a memorial. Oh, and for Eddie too, I don’t think he’s going home soon!" He adds with a wry smile. I assume I approach Aram and Embryo at the same time: “How are you? Well fought my friends! If you are restored again could you search the bugbears? The way they talked about us as valuable makes me think they are slavers and I want to know who they would sell us to…” Before Aram kan interject, I add:“Now I know your stance on slavery, Aram, but they were looking for able-bodied fighters, meaning they’re either building a slave fighting force or organising blood sports, and that I cannot accept!” I turn to Eddie:“Well met, Eddie! You arrived just in time! Can you help me guard he scene, keep our friends safe and prevent looters? How are the villagers doing?” I gesture him to follow me as I take up a relaxed guarding position near the corpses, warning away any would-be looters. When it seems safe enough, I take a moment to wipe the blood off my spearblade and shield.

As the battle ends, the practiced indifference of the people crowding the market dissipates and dozens of onlookers and rag-pickers start to crowd back in, many seemingly as unconcerned about Lothar’s warning glances as they had been about the attempted broad-daylight mugging. Lothar manages to hastily grab the purses from the four dead bugbears before anyone else can, but the bodies are soon mobbed by grubby, grabbing fingers. He looks for the severed head of the presumed leader, but it is no-where to be seen.

Silren sits up and assesses his situation. He checks his person for anything missing & digs his potion of healing from his robe if it’s still there. He’ll only drink it if he feels more than halfway in the gutter. “Hey. Everyone. Come here.” Silren motions for the group to come closer. “I’m sorry. Thank you for saving my life. I did not expect a flank – and quite honestly I cannot stand bullies.” The wizard remembers getting beaten within shreds of consciousness before. From his father’s hands. “I will take your lead from now on, in the field at least. I might still have the strength to speak with the dead. Would you wish for me to question this ex-leader?”

Embry, “If you can figure out who they are working for, then I think that is a good plan.”

“I’ve never tried using this power after being rendered unconscious. Let me see if it is still at my call.” Silren’s hand moved to the amulet to see if the telltale trickle of arcane energy was still present. Sil felt great to be honest. And all his tricks remained untrucked. Um, intact. “Um, Embry. Perhaps we move the body a bit behind one of these stalls before I call upon his spirit. Torgo. Keep watch over my back while I’m focused. Yes, yes. I know. I was being stupid. And yes, if I die you can hang out with the strawberry guy. His name’s Thrall, by the way.”

“Do it!” Lothar grunts, as he bodily shoves two would-be looters off the corpse at his feet (the one that backstabbed Silren). “Eddie, use the flat of the blade or your fists, the goal is make them feel sorry, but not dead!”

Holding his broadsword across his body, one hand on the hilt, one gingerly holding on to the pointed end and blade, Eddie starts walking toward the crowd making pushing motions with the sword to keep the onlookers at bay. (Without being obvious, he tries to push the SMALLER crowd members – children, goblins, small women, etc)

As soon as Lothar starts bashing the grubby-fingered child looters with his shield, the generally passive air of indifference that dominated the market quickly collapses. Whatever tacit truce allowed the market to exist is gone in an instant. In a place where violence and theft are commonplace, this is something completely different. The general grasping and shoving of greed quickly gives way to open, murderous aggression.

In the blink of an eye, a full-scale riot breaks out. Mobs of orcs, goblins, kobolds, ogres, beggars, farmers, merchants, and adventurers suddenly turn on each other, though your party is the clear focal point of the suddenly released tension.

“DO YOU BEGGAR FOOLS DARE TRIFLE WITH A WIZARD! LEAVE THE CORPSE OR YE BE CURSED TO THE END OF DAYS!” Silren burns a charge from his amulet of terror. Hands spread to the sky as he’s enveloped in dark purple energy. Silren, arms raised, glows with a horrible, terrifying malevolence.

The riot…stops. Nearly a hundred people just stand and stare at Silren, slack-jawed with fear.
A small handful of individuals — a couple orcs, a goblin, a beggar, a halfling with a slave’s tattoo, a beautiful mail-clad woman, a man dressed as a pirate — are unaffected. The beggar, already hunched over one of the bugbears, doesn’t even look up as he continues to loot the body.

Of your party, only Aram seems unimpressed by the sudden, awesome display of power. Lothar, Embry, Eddie, Thrall, even the wolf, stand dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, and unable to look away from the horror that is Silren.

“Geee! Wow!! What else can you do?” Eddie says, his awe is sincere, that of an amazed youngster seeing something unusual for the first time

Aram quickly cleaves the head off the nearest bugbear and shoves it in the bag with the giant’s head to be questioned later. He looks at Silren, “Well, you certainly made an impression. Shall we exit stage left my friend?” Aram grabs Embry and Eddie and starts dragging them back towards the gate. “Come along…nothing to see here…”

“Silren, grab the others before your handiwork wears off…”

“No problem, Aram. You know how I get when I’m angry. Come, come my dears. Let’s get back to the gate. I’m sure the white hairs will go away eventually. Torgo, come my pet. You’ve seen this before.” The wizard herds the others back towards the gate, but scopes out a target for his scorcher spell if there’s any real pursuit.

Dragging the others, you reach the edge of the market before the first of the rioters come to. Aram spots a collapsed house about 20 yards west of the gate, only two walls of the old stone structure still stand, but one of those walls is still tall enough to shield you from view of the market.

After a few minutes of utter terror to think things over, most of the crowd appears to have learned the error of their ways. With your group removed from sight, and the bugbears lying there to be looted, the market quickly returns to normal…though not without an opportunistic few taking advantage of the paralyzing fright of their fellow market-goers to settle an old score or two.

Silren, “You were wrong, Aram. There is order here. Barely. But it’s there.”

Aram pulls out his wineskin and force-feeds a swallow to Thrall, Embry, Lothar, and Eddie. “There you go. Fortify your nerves. He’s not so scary really…” He talks quietly but cheerfully, and gives liberal, grandfatherly pats on the shoulder, until the effects of Silren’s amulet were off. When it seems like they are in their right minds again, he passes the wineskin around again. “There now. I think we should be avoiding the market for a bit, eh? What say we skirt around and see if we can find this Matteo chap?”

“I am reminded of my commune earlier, Aram. We should talk further. There’s a chance whatever eldrich evil that tainted the water was killed or displaced… and the water was magically subduing the populace. We may be sitting upon a greater powder keg than anyone realizes, stored negative psychic energies of 4,000 years.” The mage calmly stated. “But, yes. Let us find this Matteo and skirt the market for now.”

“Eldritch evil tainting the water?” Aram strokes his whiskers. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not right now. I doubt it will affect our immediate course of action. Let’s visit this Matteo. Thank you again, my friends. Let us hurry so I can make my meeting with Professor Manabu this evening. There will be much to discuss over pipe weed and dinner.”

“Warn us next time you pull something like that! … But thank you all the same, that turned ugly fast. It seems the slums are more volatile than we realised…” Lothar seems shaken, both by Silren’s feat and the sudden and intense violence lurking below the surface of the population.

“Warning you would have defeated the purpose, my friend. Allow a practitioner of the arcane arts some sense of mystery and drama. We’re happier that way.” Silren dug into his pocket and pulled out a few walnuts and raisins, offered Lothar a few and then chewed the rest. “Plus, some asshole stabbed me in the back and was preparing to murder me and leave Torgo homeless. With my luck, I’d come back as a ghost and he’d continue to pester me for fruit.”

“We do have a talent for making ourselves popular with the locals..” Lothar remarks wryly. “Gotcha, Silren’s, will do.” He turns to Aram:“Did we get any useful information before everything went crazy?” “Oh, and how is everyone else doing?” Lothar looks to the others, to check on them.

Thrall comes to his senses, realising that he is out of danger. Turns to Silren and says, calm on the outside, furious on the inside: “Never ever include me in your spells again unless I ask for it!!” To Aram and Silren : “If one of you needs to start a fight again, just because you feel like it, give me a Fucking warning up ahead. I will turn my back to you all and leave! I have got a lot of better things to do than getting my ass kicked twice a day!” How angry he really is, shows on his face, even Temur has curled his lip and has flattened his ears.

{The fuck?} Aram thinks. He holds up his hands placatingly, “Thrall, if I may, that is a bit unfair. I did not start either of those fights. I merely acted to end them as quickly as I could after Sven and Silren started them. It should also be noted, that, as far as I can tell, you have faired much better than most of our group in the battles so far in terms of ‘getting your ass kicked’.” Aram looks meaningfully at the not-quite-fully-healed gashes on his leg and side.

“Also, it seems to me that, surprises aside, Silren acted quite prudently to end that last situation before it turned into a fight. A fight which, I might add, could have been avoided if certain of our number did not feel the need to threaten peasants, children, and beggars…”

“Actually,” Aram’s face loses it’s usual smile, becoming quite grave, and his voice raises slightly, “it seems to me that all three fights we’ve been in today were the result of our members mistreating those less fortunate than ourselves. I would happily have paid that bugbear’s toll rather than causing a ruckus, we could and should have easily walked away from that poor, old washer-woman, and there was absolutely no reason to strike the people in the marketplace over a corpse…” {And people call MY morals questionable} he thinks.

Aram turns back to Lothar, “We did not get any information, but I do have one of the bugbear’s heads if master Silren would care to interrogate it.” He pulls the head out of the bag and offers it to the mage.

“It was you who killed the giant child, Aram… But it is like I said, at the next fight I will turn my back and leave. And that fight is going to happen when we ’talk ’ to this Matteo” Thrall starts to undress, tunic first, revealing his leather armour, then the armour. Dresses again, this time tunic first and armour as last.

“Of course I killed him. And the bugbear. And an orc. As I said, I make sure to end fights as quickly as I can, but don’t blame me for starting shit…” Actual anger bleeds into Aram’s voice. “If you are so cowardly that you intend to walk away when our companions are in danger, you’d best walk away right now…”

Aram gets a death glare from Lothar, his voice icy cold: “You would rather we leave each fight as clueless and witless as we start it? I was trying to preserve any information we could find. We NEED to know what is really going on in this forsaken place! If we just keep doing whatever our fancy or past grievances dictate we are going to get killed here without anything to show for it. Don’t hide behind your fucking high horse! I came here to find my past, not bury my future!”

“Thrall. If you leave, please leave some strawberries. Torgo thanks you.” The mage pulled a gold coin out of his pocket and flipped it to the druid. Facing Aram, he states, “Then let us do that now. Set the head over there.” The wizard looked to a spot behind the wall, out of immediate sight. “I should get two questions… If it does not resist my call. It has happened before. Spirits are a fickle bunch.” Sitting indian-style with the head facing him, Silren lets a trickle of magical energy into the amulet. “Oh Great Manos, grant me your boon. I, Silren, your connection to the realm of the living requests your connection to the realm of the dead.” He smears a little of his blood on the amulet. That usually sped things up.

As Silren starts his incantation, Lothar falls silent, apprehensive, but still fuming.

There is a sudden chill and the bugbear’s eyes open. “What?” it says gruffly, in a voice echoing and distant.

“Who did your group work for?” He used his mysterious wizard voice.

“What’s a human care. We work for ourselves.” The bugbear’s severed head replies.

“After a fight is not the time to ask questions, save perhaps this way,” Aram waves a hand at Silren and the head. “We were mugged, Lothar. Plain and simple. What more information do you need from that encounter than we need to proceed more cautiously and refrain from provoking every peasant, human or fiend, we come across?”

“None,” says the head, “caution is prudent.” The chill passes and the eyes close.

“I ask the questions!” Still using his wizard voice: “Who’s the most evil agent of the old city you know that resides in the Slums, dead bitch?”

The head does not respond.

“Damn it, Aram.” Silren kicks the head to the side, turns, loosens his robe and pisses on the head, before turning his head about and stating, “Look it seems that we have our differences and all, but I think we can all agree this town is screwed up, right? We all have different ideas about how to go about it, but something is going to fight us sooner or later and to Hell if we’re going to go down without a fight if it comes down to it. Here’s the rub. Thrall. You talk to Matteo first. We’ll let you do the talking. IF it still comes to craziness, we’ll dig you out.” He then reties his robe and turns about.

Lothar, well and trully pissed off by now: “Well, that we need to be more cautious was painfully obvious to me, even beforehand! Don’t patronize me like that! And we don’t even know if we were mugged! For all we know these were representatives of some sort of impromptu government of the slums, and the money used for good ends! We have strong suspicions that the Phlan City council is totalitarian and powerhungry, And we don’t know shit about the affairs of the slums, except that we’ve done our damnest to antagonize one or more of the powergroups within it. Who protects the interests of the people of the slums, do you know that? He may have!” Lothar points angrily at the piss-soaked head. “For all your talk of aiding the downtrodden, you seem to have precious little interest in finding out who is already doing so!” Lothar sighs deeply, visibly struggling to rein in his temper. “All I want to do is find out for sure who, in this Helm-forsaken place, the oppressors are and who the protectors are… So we can at least ally ourselves to the right faction and do some good in this benighted place!” His anger either expended or contained, his shoulders sag and his uncertainty and doubt start to show through…

Silren, “I hate to say this, Lothar. But there’s never a clear answer as far as moral things stand. But I doubt the bugbears that were stealing our coin were fine upstanding citizens. And a washerwoman that shot a bolt into you guys before calling on a giant friend were recently at the Temple of Sune participating in a local charity function for crippled adventurers.”

Lothar looks aghast: “She was? What have we done…” Lothar is silent for a moment, regret clear on his face. “I know there is no clear black or white, Silren, I doubt there is even a single one truly fine upstanding citizen in this whole city. But I do hope we can at least find one of the lighter shades of grey to work together with. The people in this slum deserve better than they have.”

Silren, “Then cleansing the obviously evil types only betters their (the masses) existence, correct? Those bugbear thugs are no longer going to demand tribute from little girls selling berries again, eh? The bigger issue is that citizens here get temporary absolution when they settle here. But if they decide to break those rules, pardon my Cormyrean, fuck ‘em. You’re also nobility, correct? It is well within your blood right to make those decisions for the commoner.”

“You mean judge, jury and executioner? I’d rather not. And in my view, enforcing law works best in an functional and balanced municipality, which this clearly is not… I guess justice tends to be more arbitrary, and violent, here. At least that suits our current proclivities, I guess. I think that before we can think of dispensing justice, we at need to tackle the rampant injustice first. It’s just that there is so much of it… " Lothar looks away, doubt in his face. “This place is a powder keg, for now, let’s just try to not be the spark.” He looks at the rest of Desolate, with clear question in his eyes.

As they walk towards Matteo’s Silren adds while nodding in agreement, “There was a dark being that tainted the water here before. I know little of it, except that it’s influence is gone or on hold. It kept the weak-willed docile. Now that it’s gone, the natives are restless. I hope that does not mean that the New City is on it’s last days. The orcish filth in the Old City seems so much more organized than these bureaucratic oafs and their insipid paperwork. But I’d still rather deal with occasional paperwork than be killed by orcs, gnolls, bugbears, xvarts, etc… See what I mean?”

“I do, I just wish the Council wasn’t so introspective, indifferent and, well to be blunt, corrupt. They aren’t reallly honouring their propagande about returning order and civilisation to this city. They’re content to sit behind their walls, enrich themselves and exploit others. It seems there is precious little good here, just indifference, evil and the need to survive. I had hoped we could at least be a positive influence during our stay here. So far we’ve only spread death…”

“Perhaps the Council just bit off more than it could chew. They are a greedy lot, gambling on such a long shot. Who folds first though? And I would not say these deaths are negative. To steal others lively hood through illegal tolls or those that deceive you by pretending they don’t speak Tharian or the trade tongue do not mean you or us well. And now that it’s started, we have a target painted on our back. Better to bear it though with pride and keep fighting than to bog ourselves down with idiosyncratic moral details.”

“The council’s greatest crime, if you will, seems to be their passivity… At least we can’t be accused of that.” Lothar smiles grimly. “You’re right; We’ve set a path, no way to go but ahead. Let’s go speak to Matteo.”

Aram tunes out for a minute, letting the hotter heads of the youngsters play out. When the direction of the conversation changes, he becomes thoughtful. {Noble?} he ponders the idea a bit before interjecting. “Lothar, none of cities around here are what you might call ‘pillars of morality’. My home city of Hillsfar is known throughout Faerun for its intolerance. Zhentil Keep is home to the Black Network. Mulmaster is known as the ‘City of Danger’ and has crime-rates that make these slums look tame. ALL of these cities have interests in Phlan and representatives sitting on the Council. To expect anything other than greed motivates any of them is laughable…” He tries to keep his tone level, rather than accusatory or insulting.

“But,” he continues,“many of the Council members also claim to be descended from the noble houses of Old Phlan, exiled after its many calamities. If Professor Swipe’s comments about your medallion are true, you may have some hereditary claim here as well, perhaps as much or more than the Council members. It might be worth talking to the Council and reviewing their rules and seeing if there is a way you could have more direct say in the city’s governance…without resorting to backing an uprising of some kind.”

“But,” the old man shrugs, “we’ve been here less than a day and already have more balls in the air than we could ever hope to catch: the graveyard, the library, the slums, the gang-wars, the undead, your heritage, my expedition to the mountains…and we don’t even know what really brings Thrall or Sven to the city. I want, and I suspect we all want, to address everything and know everything RIGHT NOW, but it really has only been hours since we disembarked. We’re already in over our heads…” His shoulders sag, showing the fatigue of years and a long day. He sighs, “I don’t know what our priorities really should be right now. We can’t fix everything in the city in a day, or even a week, or likely even a year. After we find out about this Matteo person, I think we should stop…return to the Inn…get some rest…and then have a serious discussion in the morning about what to focus on, in what order, and for what reasons…”

Aram shakes his head, “So how do we find this Matteo?”

“Easy,” Silren looks to the Traitor’s Gate and looks for a guard. “Where’s the soup kitchen at?”

Walking by the gate, you see several guards with crossbows standing watch at the top of the wall. Given the angle, you’re certain that they can easily see into (and fire into) the market if they wished. Valerius is among them. “Soup kitchen?” he calls down from twenty feet above you. “Why? Bear meat not good enough for you?” He laughs and points a little to the left, “See that line of hungry orcs? Just queue up, can’t miss it…”

“Thanks!” Silren saluted back. “It’s right cross the street from that soup kitchen. Tally ho, and such.”

Strolling along with his shipmates, while enthusiastically creating amazingly smooth and adept figure 8’s with his broadsword, Eddie seems to exude an amazing amount of childlike wonder for one having just been in the midst of a bloodbath. "You guys argue too much. No wonder Durell went away! He hated too many words – he liked ACTION! He was COOL! So where are we headed now? And when will tall dark and purple be pulling another “freeze the crowd” show?? Huh?" His naivete could be annoying, but the toothful and wide grin on his face makes it hard to be angry with him.

Silren, “I do not like to use that ability too often. The spirit that enables that power is a crafty one. I fear that one day he may lead me astray, but not today. Not today. Keep you wits about you… Eddie is it?”

“Eddie,” Aram’s voice is solemn, “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but Durell did not leave. Durell is dead. His head was smashed in by an orc with a bloody hand-print on his shirt, just outside the Parkside Gate less than two hours ago…”

“That’s one of the reasons we’ve been arguing to be honest.” Added Sil.

Eddie stops his sword swinging, and his walking. He turns to the rest of the party and speaks with a voice that is obviously attempting to sound “adult”, but is also just as obviously on the verge of breaking into tears. "Nope. Nope. Nope. Durell went away. What you may have seen was a that he “left” during a battle – which is exactly what I would expect – but I have NO DOUBT that he just “went away”, and I FIRMLY BELIEVE he will be back when needed. He’s our BULWARK." With a sniff or two, and a quick (so as to try to be unnoticeable) rubbing of his cheeks against the shoulders of his over sized armor, removing any “leaking liquid”, Eddie resumes his artful sword maneuver practicing.

Silren stops. “My parents died in a house fire while I was on my apprenticeship. At first, I didn’t want to believe it. Wanted to think they made it out. But after they found the remains a few days later, I found that it was better for me to have that closure, than to lie to myself every day. The rest of our friends did gain vengeance, but there are other members of this gang about. We are going to do our best to keep this from happening to others like Durell. Understood? We need you to be strong, calm and focus, ok?” The wizard pats Eddie or Billy or whatever his name was on the back.

Another sniffle from Eddie, and a nod and a shrug avoiding the pat on the back is accompanied with a low mumble (barely audible and not particularly directed at or to anyone in particular). “Sure, you had a corpse. Don’t see Durell anywhere, do you? He went away”. Swinging of the sword gets “wider”, likely keeping folks away from his front and side pretty much as he walks.

While walking, Trall makes sure that he falls back a little. In silence he is trying to commune with his God Sylvanus. Not knowing If he is heard or not, he is explaining what happened the last few hours. At the end he asks for some sort of divine intervention to help him out of the next sticky mess.

Half-a-Loaf & Matteo’s

Taking the left fork from the gate and walking less than a hundred yards, you round a bend to find the soup kitchen. The market stretches out to your right, behind the building, proceeding as if the altercation and near-riot of fifteen minutes prior had never happened.

The kitchen is a long, low building, new and clean, with symbols of Tyr and Sune painted on the walls. A hundred people, at least, stand in a long line outside the near door of the building — rag-clad humans peaceably standing cheek-to-jowl with mud-splattered goblins and muscle-bound orcs, many of them with the bloody handprint on their tunics. Another line files, less densely out of a far door, bowls and chunks of bread in hand, smiles on their faces.

Across the road, stands an open-air smithy. The massive furnace throws a deep red glow across the road, even in daylight. A young man (mid-twenties you’d guess), with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard stands working the forge. He pulls a glowing-orange chunk of half-molten metal, bare handed from the furnace, to many oohs and ahhs and winces from the crowd waiting in line across the street, and tosses it onto an anvil. With several quick, deft blows of his hammer, with more than a bit of a showman’s flourish, the molten lump transforms, then vanishes with a hiss of steam into a bucket.

The young man reaches into the bucket and pulls out a perfect, black-iron rose, each petal distinct. The people in the slow-moving soup line clap and nod appreciatively. One of the bloody-hand wearing orcs breaks from the line, crosses the street. There is a brief, unintelligible conversation. The orc passes a bundle to the young smith, and returns to the line holding the iron rose.

Embry, I give a polite clap at his handiwork. “Well done sir, I have an eye for the craft, and you are clearly a talented man.”

Aram stops when the others approach the smithy, staying back where he can keep an eye on the bloody-hand orcs. {Fascinating} he thinks, watching the line of people waiting for their handouts of food. {Even the charitable organizations make no distinction between the orc gangs and the human peasants. And the urchins and rag-pickers in the market were just as brazen in their looting. Perhaps Silren is right, there is Order here, of a kind. The orcs are as much a part of this community as anyone else. Perhaps I was right and that old washer-woman was just calling for help. A pack of bumbling, heavily armed fellows from out of town stumble in and start yelling at her…of course she defends herself. Then Durell charges and murders the neighborhood watch? All a terrible misunderstanding, or string of misunderstandings, leading to more chaos…more unnecessary violence.} “Shit,” he says, quietly, to himself. {Definitely not a mess to be solved in a day…}

Silren saunters up to the smithy. Are there any wares openly displayed?

A single wooden rack next to the smithy bears a couple of pieces, which you suspect are intended just for show: a flanged, iron mace, crafted as it were in a single, solid piece; a short, broad-bladed, single-edged sword with a perfect hamon line running down the blade; a small iron cooking pot with clusters of grapes worked in exquisite detail around the rim; and a beautifully burnished breastplate — literally named, for it is crafted to the exact figure and proportions of a lady’s torso, such that you’d worry of blows being channeled into the cleft between the bosoms (if one was a pedantic internet troll).

Silren looks closely, and examines for any marks that would appear an artist’s signature or such. “Would you mind?” Silren reaches to possibly handle the short blade, if the smith agrees.

he smith gives a small nod as Silren reach for the blade, then turns and takes a crucible out of the furnace, pouring the molten metal into a nail-mold. Taking a close look at the sword, Silren finds a touch-mark of a highly-stylized ‘M’ stamped on the base of the pommel. Then notices it secreted on the other items as well.

“Excellent workmanship, though not entirely my style.” Lothar remarks with a humorous smile as he examines the breastplate. He turns to Matteo: “Nice feat with the bare hands and the steel.” He nods in respect.

Eddie chirps: “They’re cool, but not as cool as mine.” With a quick flourish of his sword, he’ll back away from any future conversation with the smith.

Silren, “Do you have any daggers available?”

The smith turns to Silren. “I only make things to order,” he says, “and I’m a little backed up today, but if you’d just like a knife I can have one for you by market-time tomorrow, next week if you want it properly tempered and fully sharpened.”

“Sure. But I’d like three and if at all possible done in cold iron. Next week is fine. I once met a fae creature that gave me trouble. Is that doable?” {Silren thinks, he has time to fuck around with iron flowers, but no time for a small item. And those orcs dropped a load of something off to him, either raw metal or weapons, hmmm.}

“If I may ask, how come you are doing business here, sir? A man of your skills and, erm talents,” gestures to the hot iron and his bare hands, “would have his pick of places to practice his trade.” Lothar asks, genuine curiousity and respect for his craftmanship in his voice and expression. Gesturing to the food line and surrounding buildings: “These people must count themselves lucky to have a craftsman of your caliber among them.”

The smith continues to pour out nails, not looking up as he responds, such that his expression is unreadable, though his voice is hard. “Oh, I had a fine shop inside the walls…not that long ago…” He finishes pouring out the nails and looks up, wearing a forced smile. “But it’s nice out here, too. Closer to the customer base, you might say.”

“Ah, those Council fools playing market?” Remarked the mage casually.

The smith finishes pouring the nails, then stands, wipes his hands on his apron, and turns to Silren. “Three blades, cold worked? I can have them for you in a week, but they’ll be a bit crude. I haven’t the proper tools for dinking or bunishing, nor an apprentice to help with the peening or swaging. If you want something with a proper edge I’ll need a month at least. And in either case, it won’t hold up to use like properly heat-tempered steel…”

“Look. faeries don’t stab themselves. Otherwise I wouldn’t need such a tool. How much? Um, one crude and the other two worked.”

A raised eyebrow, “Five gold for the set.”

Silren, “Agreed. Know anyone who works silver? Spirits piss me off too.”

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to poke at an apparently sensitive issue. Your location just surprised me. Then again it is perhaps good that the people here have access to quality goods instead of just the scraps the Council leaves for them…” Lothar shrugs off his gauntlet and extends his hand: “I am Lothar Dravion, glad to meet you.”

“And I am Silren the Burnt. Weaver of Flame, Caller of Eldrich Fear, Master of Torgo the Bat of Fruit, Stabber of Faeries and Disgracer of Skulls.” The wizard attempts smile with one eye cocked and bows towards the smith. {That should impress him, thought the uncharismatic mage. This small talk thing was getting easier every time.}

The smith accepts Lothar’s hand. His handshake is surprisingly, notably weak and brief. “Matteo, formerly of Matteo’s and Petroff’s Fine Blades,” he says, then snorts and laughs at Silren’s pronouncement. He coughs back the laugh and continues. “No need to be sorry over my location. I just had a falling out with my partner, but everyone knows his work is shit. He’ll be out of business in a month. Even the Councilman Urslingen comes out to me to have his armor mended, and this way I can sell directly to more of my customers, rather than forcing them to use intermediaries all the time.”

{Why doesn’t anyone respect wizards any more? Fricking young ones. Where did the magic go?} Silren hides his slight anger by looking at the crowd, perhaps for the ones that weren’t affected by his fear earlier. Warrior lady, pirate guy, slave halfman. Maybe to see if any of the red hand orcs were heading anywhere other than the soup kitchen.

Silren looks around, but there does not seem to be much of anything on this side of the market. Most of the crowd seems to be coming from the market, passing through the soup line, then exiting and going back around the building into the market again. The one exception is a small enclosed fish-market with a sign labeled “Something Fishy” and a smell indicating that its products are none-too-fresh, the next building over from the soup kitchen, which appears to be attracting a bit of traffic from out of the market — mostly kobolds and goblins by the look of it.

Everything to the south and west of the smithy quickly becomes ruins — not the half-built-up, densely inhabited ruins of the slums, but weed-choked, tumbled piles of stones with nary a lean-to among them.

“A shame to hear about that falling out, Matteo. But most of your customers live out here? I guess that makes sense, one has more need to be armed and armoured out here than inside the walls… And I imagine some parties would rather not have the Council know of their purchases.” Lothar looks at the line for the soup kitchen a moment, observing the people waiting for food. “I see a fair amount of people with that red hand mark, what does that mean?”

“Must be new around here,” Matteo says. “The Red Hands are one of the biggest orc tribes in the ruins. Half the orcs you’ll meet belong to the hands, though only the warriors wear the mark. They hire themselves out for ‘protection’ services. Mostly a racket though…anyone out here who doesn’t pay up them can expect a less-than-friendly visit, unless they’ve teamed up with another tribe. Still, they do a pretty good job of helping out the slums-folk when the Council’s bravos and free-swords swagger through and can’t tell the difference between a milliner and a murderer…”

“They’re not bad chaps, for orcs.” He points to the orc in line holding the iron rose, “That one over there payed me a whole bag of chestnuts to make a gift for his lady-friend…”

{Well, it looks like I won’t be getting my deposits back. Thinks the wizard.}

Lothar, “Thank you for the information, we are indeed still getting our bearings here. Rare for a protection racket to actually provide protection when required, I can understand your regard for them. By your remark I understand the council and it’s sell-swords aren’t exactly well regarded here? How come the situation stays as stabile as it is?”

Silren, “They were sold a dream, eh? Like we all were. It’s easier to fight for it than to give up on it. We were all sold once – and no one wants to admit they’ve been had. It’s those that realize that the dream was a dream without any substance are the bitter ones. Most folk here ain’t that bitter. Yet. Come, come. we have some breaking and entering to do before it gets late.”

Silren absent mindedly grabs 3 gold coins and passes them to the smith. “The other 2 on receipt of purchase. And how would one find the old library from here?”

Matteo accepts the coin, then points at the many branching paths just past the fish market. “Second from the left there, about three blocks I think, but most people avoid that place. The orcs say its haunted, but I think it’s mostly just that no one has managed to pick the lock yet.”

“You have a crowbar handy?” Silren asks. “We can even bring it back.”

He pulls one off of his rack of tools. “One gold as a deposit then. You can have it back when I get my tool back.”

“Sure enough. Good way to test your work, eh? Add breaker of doors to my name, eh?” The Wizard hefted the bar over his shoulder and began whistling a jaunty door opening tune. “Anyone want to check out a few books? Come Torgo. There may be fruit on the other side of the door.” The bat chirped excitedly in response.

Glad to be moving again, Eddie shakes his head and wonders aloud “Who would’ve thought I would be trying to break IN to a LIBRARY? Something new every day!”

Silren, “Ha, ha! Right? Let’s go break something.”

Aram falls in step behind the others as they head towards the library. “Everyone keep alert,” he says, “there seems to be some general consensus in the town that this place is not safe, even by comparison to the slums where we’ve been fighting all afternoon…”

As we walk, Lothar speaks up (before reaching the actually [even more] dangerous parts for the slums): “So, where do we stand right now? We’ve talked to Matteo, what are our opinions on him? Of course we blew our cover for tonight’s meeting as he now knows we are all together… What do we do with the Red Hand and avenging Durell? It seems to me, they are the local equivalent of a peace keeping force, do we really still want to dismantle that? It seems to me that the true responsibility for Durell’s death lies with the Council’s manipulations and opression. And what about visiting the wizard’s tower to see if we can use it as a fall-back location if things go wrong. We’ve established the slums as hostile, mostly through our own doing… But judging by Silrens new toy, that seems to be off the table. Where does everyone stand on these matters?” He looks at the other members of Desolate in turn, gauging and eliciting their responses.

“That’s quite a lot of questions.” The old man says in a tone of voice that makes you think he’s going to lecture you about all of them… “Regarding Matteo,” Aram responds, “his comments about his customers not having to use intermediaries, along with the transaction we saw, makes it clear that he is definitely arming the Red Hands. But you’re right, Lothar, that the situation is much less black and white than any of us first thought.”

Aram stops walking and strokes his whiskers. “The real question, regarding the Red Hand, and Matteo, and the whole slums situation, is ‘who was that child who told me about the meeting, and why did they do so?’ Matteo said the Red Hands were not the only tribe offering ‘Protection’, and that they were plenty violent towards those that dind’t pay up, and some of the people in that crowd on the Parkside seemed definitely pleased that we’d killed them. They’re definitely no peacekeeping force. There is still a gang war happening out here. Any ‘peace’ likely has more to do with whatever ancient eldritch power polluting the water that Silren was talking about, than the efforts of these orcs.”

He sighs, and resumes walking, carefully stepping over the rubble in their path. “This will probably be an unpopular opinion, but the responsibility for Durell’s death lies with our own incompetence. Sven went back to confront that old woman when the rest of us had already moved on. Durell charged those Red Hands, alone, without making any attempt to clarify the situation, or wait for us, or discuss tactics. There was bloodlust in Durell’s eyes when he saw those orcs.” He sighs again, “I could have Held Durell, or the orcs, or both, had I thought of it and been able to match the young man’s speed. We’re to blame more than anything. The orc that delivered the killing blow to Durell is dead. Justice was served there, and I think our ‘avenging’ should stop there…” a long thoughtful pause. “If we’re going to be fighting gangs of orcs, or the Council, or whoever, lets do it in a measured way that can help bring more order to these people’s lives, and not just for vengeance. As enticing of an idea as vengeance is, it just throws fuel on the fire of this chaotic world.”

The old man pauses on hearing a noise and gazes intently down a side-alley — which is clearly the opposite direction from where whatever the noise was came from. He shrugs and continues, “I think talking to Professor Aumry about his ‘job’ and using the tower is still a viable idea, though,” he points at the top of the tower just visible through the ruined city streets, “there’s now a mile of hostile slums separating us. So that seems like a discussion for the morrow, and a venture back through the Parkside Gates.”

Thrall, “Nice, some sensible talking” coming from behind.

Eddie stays to the outside of the group, and, figuratively, to the outside of the deep discussion between the others. He does pipe up at one point with “This ’it’s ok for orcs to be hanging around town’ stuff boggles my mind. In Feathersdale, they were just marauding, bloodthirsty killers and invaders to an otherwise peaceful community. That’s why Durell hates them so much. So much so that he can’t hold himself back from driving them off and away from our townsfolk. I don’t think you COULD slow him down or stop him from taking down any he sees that are causing trouble or pain.”

Lothar’s shoulders slump at Aram’s words. "Unpopular doesn’t make it less true… We are the dangerous fools here, because we thought too black and white, used our weapons before our brains. That made us easy to manipulate, by the council, by whoever tipped us off on Matteo. We automatically assumed that because the slums seemed hostile, New Phlan must be safe, the white to Old Phlan’s black. The veneer of civilization made us assume they were reliable and trustworthy. I think we should start gathering information for ourselves instead of letting others spoon feed us! "

Silren, “I do not completely believe Matteo was telling the complete truth. The gift of the black rose could be the front for something more complex. Orcs tend not to give gifts to their lady friends. Matteo needs to get raw goods and fuel from somewhere. Perhaps he’s getting it from the Old City. If that’s the case, he may be supplying the opposition to New Phlan through intermediaries. The weapons that the Red Hand orcs were of shoddy quality, you said earlier Aram. Not worth keeping. That runs contrary to his skill level. My guess is he has a definite underground tie in for his own protection. We should find out if the Red Hands tribe runs through the old town, and I know just the man to ask when we get back to the Blade. Let’s pop this lock today and then come back to the library tomorrow. We can discuss our actions a bit further if we can learn more about the orc tribes in the area.”

“If we pop the lock now, doesn’t that just leave the library open to looting by others? At least a hundred people saw us coming this way…” Aram says. “If we can actually get the door open, we should explore as much as the light will allow.”

Silren, “That’s the point, Aram. Orcs won’t get far, but someone else might try. We can follow in their footsteps on the morrow. Let someone else take some risk. We don’t have any trap finders here, right? Plus, I can have Torgo keep roost here tonight and keep watch and report in the morning.”

Aram, “Who traps a library?”

“Who doesn’t? Books are very important. Wards and the like should be present. Plus anything that’s called the place home for the last 60 years. You see this burn on my face?” Silren pointed to the most gruesome part of his feature, encompassing the right side of his face. The beard only made it look worse. “It was from a single book I thought was safe to read. The wizard’s of Hillsfar refused to have it healed as penance for my actions. I guarantee that there’s similar things here to be found.”

After Silren’s words Lothar turns to him:“With what you are saying, could it also be that the locks on the library aren’t meant to keep people out, but to keep something in? Why else send in adventurers, instead of scholars who can actually discern valuable texts from amateur erotica?”

Scholar’s Square

The streets grow progressively quieter as you near the old library, the bustle of the market fading behind you. After traveling less than a block, the roads change from being choked with refuse to being choked with weeds and fallen stones. You pass the occasional skeleton, long since picked clean, but no other signs of humanoids traversing through this section of the ruins.

Two blocks on, the smell of damp, fetid air reaches your nostrils. The old cobbles here are sunken into the ground, or missing, and the bare patches are spongy under your feet. The ancient buildings are nothing more than tumbled piles of stones covered over with thick mats of dark-green vines.

Looking ahead, you see, incongruously, a perfect statue of a man in armor standing in the center of an intersection. The stone appears to be undamaged, and the lines are crisp, as if they’d been carved only yesterday.

Silren, “Shit!”

“Agreed,” says Aram, as he starts rummaging through his pockets in search of a mirror. “Nothing says ’don’t come this way’ quite like fresh statuary…”

Silren, “New plan. We need to learn more about things that can turn people to stone. We leave now. I will return the crowbar on the morrow. Also, we need a cart and a mule.”

Eddie scrutinizes the statue closely. Especially the subject’s stance (to the point of taking up the same stance and looking in the same direction). “Really, guys? folks just stand still in an intersection and get turned to stone? Wouldn’t they look scared? Or in an offensive or defensive stance? Doesn’t this look more like a statue HONORING someone? Any way we can find out WHO?”

Moving in closer, Eddie can see that the statue appears to be of a man holding a map or scroll open with both hands. His gaze is fixed just over the rim of the scroll at something down the street to the left. The workmanship is exquisite, the curl of the scroll, the links of his mail, everything is perfectly detailed. There is no base or plinth. The statue’s feet are placed firmly on the ground. One foot is slightly forward, and the hips are tilted in a resting posture, as if ready to stride forward to greatness as soon as it figures out exactly where it is.

Eddie, “Ok, Silven, you may have a point. No base explains why no plaque of honor. And the detail is more than anything I have ever seen in statues”.

“Lothar,” Aram says, as he grabs Eddie’s sleeve and starts trying to pull the boy backwards, “didn’t you say that the Temple of Sune deals in art? Perhaps we should go inquire with them…right…now…”

Silren moves around where he can scrutinize the face more closely, and sees that it appears to be biting its lip in a mixture of worry and confusion. There is even a perfectly carved bead of sweat running down the man’s face. Suddenly Silren catches a hint of movement in the shadows down the alley to the right, past the statue.

Silren bolts.

“Good idea, Aram! Let’s go! Everyone, go back, watch your feet, don’t look up! " Lothar suddenly seems rather pale and hurried… I grab Eddie as well and haul him back the way we came

Thrall and Temur turn like the rest, looking to the ground, not up, but trying to pay attention to the flora and fauna. Though he does not have time to make any thorough examinations or exploration of the local flora, Thrall notices examples of hedera overgrowing the buildings, sphagnum fuscum and poa palustris as the dominant ground covers, and several species of stropharia (in the moist areas and close to walls where there is some shade). He does not see any sign of avian or reptilian tracks.

The Bitter Blade

Everyone backtracks to Matteo’s, then on back to the Traitor’s Gate. You get back behind the gates without incident just as dusk is falling. The shops and temples inside the walled part of the city are closing up as you make your way back to the Bitter Blade.

There is still a fine statue of a panicked farmer who looks like he is choking to death standing right beside the door. Silren notes that, unlike the statue you saw in the slums, this one appears to be wearing actual clothes, rather than the highly-detailed stone carving of clothing.

Silren is slightly dismayed that it was as late as it was getting back, but happy that he made it through the gate before it closed. He enters the Blade and looks for Sven. Regretting that he didn’t get any food at the commissary, the wizard takes a seat, sets down the crowbar, and orders something that doesn’t include mystery meat. “Sven. We have much to talk about.” The mage fills in the crusader on their antics, leaving out any incriminating details, of course. When mentioning the Library, he informs him of the need for caution due the stone making monsters and possibly needing a lockpick or scout hired to make sure they don’t perish to traps and closed doors. “Perhaps there is someone to hire here, or even one of Swipe’s students on the morrow.” The wizard also looks for any early arrival of Professor Manabu.

“Aye,” Aram agrees sitting across from Silren. “One of Swipe’s students would probably be ideal, and asking Swipe will save us from having to shout around town that we’re looking for thieves…”

Silren, “Preferably an attractive female rogue.” {That’d make a sexy statue.}

Aram, “In my experience, the sexier they look, the more likely they are to rob you blind and leave you to rot…”

Silren, [In Nogese:] “They sell for more as statues.”

“Huh. Maybe we’ve been fooled or there’s different types of stone transformation. Bears asking a certain dead man I know later.” {That other statue is definitely worth carting back then.} “I guess my questions to the group are: Do we feel better with our chances at the Graveyard or the Library? If we go Library, there’s some things we should prepare for in advance tomorrow. #1 acquire a scout for help in any traps we encounter. #2 determine if there’s more than one type of monster that turns people to stone. This farmer outside was killed by something that only turned his flesh to rock. The figure we found by the library was entirely stone, but too detailed for me to write it off as happenstance. #3 acquire protections or reversals from a temple – most likely of Sune. They will want nothing of my ugly face, I suggest the prettiest of us should go and take of that. #4, while we’re here in the New City, we should talk to Matteo’s old partner – next to the Silversmith we passed on the way here. There’s always two sides to a partnership splitting and I feel that Matteo might just be a slow worker. Slow workers tend to drive a more cost savvy partner insane. Trust me, my parents were always complaining about that at the shop back home. Perhaps we could help reconcile their differences.”

“And while there, we can look at getting some silver weapons. Spirits and undead and devils and demons all hate that stuff. Good for us to have either way we go.” Silren looked to Thrall, “Make sure if you have any spells to charm or pacify animals to have them ready. I’m pretty sure the thing that the farmer ate is a weird relative of a chicken. You might be able to calm a chicken.”

Thrall adds his two pennies :" I would prefer to go to the library first tomorrow. The graveyard is way to big for us now, I think. I also have to apologise for my behaviour earlier. I am simply not used to killing, blood and gore every day. I am perfectly able to kill however, if someone is stupid enough to annoy me long enough or to take from me, what is mine."

“Thank you for healing me as well. I assume that was you. Torgo enjoys your company and fondness for berries – And the little feck is a great judge of character. Heck, he hangs out with me.”

Aram, “There are risks whatever road we take. I know of a few creatures that petrify with a gaze — medusae and basilisks for example — which can be mitigated or reversed by use of a mirror. So that might be something else we should acquire.” The old man turns to Sven. “There is a temple of your god here, is there not? Would they be able to provide in the case of petrification? Personally, though, I fear the undead much less than whatever beasts turned these men to stone. Whatever might be in the graveyard, we at least know from Lady Frantiska’s account that they can speak, and thus likely be reasoned with…”

Silren, “While I agree with you on being less worried about the undead, the library is quite interesting and may hold clues to the Graveyard.”

“Aye,” Aram concedes. “Assuming there truly are books still there, the Library does seem like the best starting place for most of our ventures…not only the graveyard, but Lothar’s ancestry, and my expedition as well.”

“I will try to learn more of stone rendering monsters tomorrow morning before we leave.”

Eddie pokes and prods the “Choking Farmer” statue a bit, and then pipes up with: "Hey, could it be that the clothes weren’t affected on this guy because the “statufication” started from the inside out (something he ate) versus the other guy being “stoned” from the outside? Just wondering."

Silren, “I going to try and find out. I’m not well versed in the specifics of primal calcification, Eddie. But learning is half the battle.”

“Well,” the elderly Aram says, “if you all are not planning on getting into any more trouble until morning, I am going to go get some sleep. I’ll meet you for breakfast.” With that, he pushes his chair back, rises and heads for the door.

“To Durell!” Sven raises his ale/lager/mead/whatever high into the air before drinking deeply.
“There’s much to discuss…in the morning. BUT…” he continues, “from now on, we don’t leave the walls without obtaining a guide. Even if it’s a walk to the market, we need somebody who knows their way around…. There’s plenty of scavenging youths out there that would gladly do it for coin.”

“I’m afraid, after the day we’ve had, it would just go to my head,” the old man says. Aram raises an empty hand in a glass-holding gesture in response to Sven’s toast. “To Durell, may he rest well in the halls of his ancestors. And now, friends, I bid you good night.”

Sven, “I told you that you can stay with me if you’d like. The offer is still available. We can probably fit three, if they’re not claustrophobic.”

“Thank you, but I prefer a bed to myself.”

Silren will actually have a glass with Sven and toast in kind, but keep it to the one mug. He did almost die today. He waited up looking to speak with the Professor… Ooo, was that a game of Old Man’s Bones? The wizard looked with curiosity and tried to learn the basic rules.

Sven, “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you decided against busting into this “meeting” of the gangs that was allegedly happening. Although I do feel it is something that needs monitoring. Again, use of the locals may be beneficial.”

Silren, “The gangs will find us. Have no doubt. I’d remain vigilant and beware of violence, unless we did actually scare some respect into them.”

Silren turns to watch the game, being played by a trio of white-robed Tyrran nuns and Ian Cockburn, the grocer. It does not take long for Silren to catch on to the fact that Cockburn is being taken for all he’s worth…

Sven, “The Orcs walk outside of the wall with impunity. They own the streets out there. They won’t be intimidated by a tiny skirmish – and if the various factions are looking to unite or cooperate, their grasp will tighten. If they are being lead by this Matteo – or someone else with a grudge against this place (Phlan) – it could become a BIG problem.”

Silren, to the Crusader: “No doubt. I believe they might be led by those in the Old City.” To Cockburn: “Ah. Mr. Grocer. I see the nuns are taking you to Church. Your walnuts and raisins have been quite the hit today. I will suggest your shop to my friends in the future.”

“At some point, I will talk to this Matteo. I was not with the rest of you this afternoon, so maybe it will offer some benefit if we remained “strangers” in that regard. Besides, if he’s as skilled as you say, I may have use of his services.”

“He might be skilled, but he’s slow and overloaded. I am more interested in if his partner has any skill and has a better catalogue of weaponry.” Remarked the wizard while watching the game. He might have to pick up a set of these bones. “My worst fear is he’s beholden to equipping the slums for insurrection. I do not want to be in the middle of a revolt. Oh, have they hanged the pirates yet?” He phrased the last question to the nuns.

Sven “They’re killing the pirates? Imbeciles.”

Silren, “I was curious if it was the ones you guys ran into on the boat the other day. I think they actually throw them over the wall naked or something.”

Sven nearly spits out his drink with shocked laughter “Hah! Reinforcements for the embittered on top of it! Lovely!”

“Glad I’m not the only one here with a sense of humor. I think you and I will get along, Sven.”

“I’ll ask how you feel about that the next time the guards are watching you get murdered three feet outside of the gate.”

“Oh, not yet,” says one of the nuns, a serious-looking young woman with wire-frame spectacles and dark hair pulled into a tight bun. “Though, they should be starting soon. There were four of them convicted this morning. If you want to watch, there is a very fine view from the terrace on the roof…”

Silren, “Would you show me, sister? I could use the company until Professor Manabu shows. After your game, of course.”

Sven, “Well, I’ll have a look. Morbid curiosity on how this dump operates…”

She looks at the now rather large pile of winnings in front of her fellow nun, an elderly white-haired woman with the shawl of a sister superior embroidered with golden scales. “If you’ll excuse me, Sister Erol,” she says with a bow, “I think I’m done. There is some justice to be observed, after all.” She sets aside the dice and rises. “This way,” she says, heading for the door and then the stairs, which wind their way up and around the side of the building.

Silren checks out the nun’s butt on the way up. Manos would find it hilarious if he ended up… nevermind. “I have my own defenses, but I appreciate your type when the help is offered, Sven. Just protect my flank better than the others did today and I’ll appreciate.”

Sven finishes his drink with a chug and wipes his mouth before heading to the roof.

Following the priestess up to the roof, Sven can see a contingent of red-caped guards leading four men up a wooden staircase to the top of the wall. The four man are wearing nothing more than their smallclothes. As they are led up to the highest point on the wall, the roof of the Bitter Blade fills with eager spectators. You notice the elderly nun, Sister Erol, has joined you and is now taking bets on what monsters might be waiting for the criminals at the base of the wall.

As the first man is shoved towards the edge and looks down, you can hear him screaming, “What! No! Don’t! Please! I didn’t do it!” His screams are punctuated by several deep, rough growls from the other side of the wall, unlike anything Sven has ever heard.

A guard gives the man a light shove and he topples forward, accompanied by cheers from not only the Blade, but several other nearby rooftops. There is a short, terrified scream, which ends quickly, to be replaced by the sounds of snarls and rending flesh.

The second pirate pleads even more pitifully than the first. As the guard shoves him forward, there is a brilliant flash. Crackling arcs of electricity rake the top of the wall. The guard leaps backwards as the charred remains of the prisoner topple forward.

“Ha! The behir is out!” calls a burly, red-bearded man, “Pay up, Erol!”

After the stroke of lightning, a dozen extra guards, armed with doubled arbalests deploys to the top of the wall. The last two prisoners are prodded forward with spears to keep their guards out of harms way. Their end is swift, and followed by a rain of heavy bolts and many pained growls and cries, and one last burst of lightning from their “executioner”.

With the show over, the crowd disperses from the roof, with many a happy remark about how the Blade will have “good eating” on the morrow.

Sven, If I can catch Sister Erol before she departs, I’ll ask her “I’m new here – what other fantastic beasts make appearances?”

Sister Erol walks down the stairs with Sven, “Oh, we get the gamut of creatures from the Old City, the pile of bodies does a good job of attracting them — trolls, ankhegs, owlbears, unusually large rats, even a tiger once. And, of course, some of the larger creatures pose a risk to the city, so attracting them within firing range is quite effective at winnowing them out as well. Sadly we cannot always count on a creature showing up. More than a few have survived the drop to escape into the Slums, but such is Tyr’s will…”

“Sister, I have a question regarding your faith.” Posits Silren as they walk down the stairs. “Does the clergy have anything that can un-petrify stoned adventurers? Clearly that is of risk if we continue to work for the Phlanish Council.”

The nun shakes her head, “Sadly no,” she replies. “I know of a prayer that can protect those near to me from such attacks for a brief time, but actually transmuting flesh into other materials and back requires the work of a mage.”

“Most interesting. This magic does not fall on any of the Paths I follow… Perhaps a fellow wizard can pen me a scroll. You have been most informative, Sister. Thank you for your time and company. Come, Torgo. We must meet with Manabu.”

While some of us will go to the spectacle on the roof, Thrall announces that he will go to his room and retreat for the night. Hands Lothar his room key and says " Well rest and goodnight. I will see you in the morning." In his room, he will put his backpack down, removes his armour and takes off his boots. From his pack, he gets out the remainder of the strawberries. If there are any real good ones there, he will put them aside, casting Goodberry on them. After that he finds a small cloth package in his backpack, after some digging.
Opens it and takes the silver pendant out. It is a image of Sylvanus. The cloth he places on the floor, facing South. The pendant is placed in the middle. Thrall starts praying.

Lothar: Well my exploration for the night will take me to a quiet spot for a silent prayer to: “Helm, I ask you to look kindly upon Durell, who died defending another. That his soul may be given safe passage to wherever it will go. I give thanks for my survival today and also ask you to look kindly upon myself, that you may grant me the strength and the endurance to defend my own and guard against any that would do wrong or harm.” Once that is done, I go to the room I share with Thrall and quietly go to bed, doing my best not to wake Thrall.

Silren waits for Professor Manabu to arrive. He wishes to ask about the red hand orcs, to either verify or dispute Matteo’s claim.

Since Eddie has no real coin of value, he will follow Sven to his room, but will simply plop himself down at the end of Sven’s bunk. He arranges his “stuff” around him, and leans against the footboard of the bed. When he sees Sven actually take his armor off to sleep, Eddie will follow suit – fairly obvious that he’s taking his cues from the older warrior as to what is “appropriate”. He does take his knife from its sheath and places it on the floor within reach before closing his eyes.

As the night drags on, the Blade slowly empties out. Indeed, nearly half the patrons leave immediately after the executions. By the time midnight rolls around, Silren finds himself sitting more-or-less alone, save for a small handful of die-hard patrons: an unusually short (even for a gnome) gnome sitting on a pile of cushions on a stool, passed out with his head on the bar, who the staff seem content to leave be; a young man in an orange-dyed robe squinting through the dim light at a small traveling spellbook and making occasional notes in the margins; and a girl so plain-looking that your eyes seem to slide off of her, sitting alone in the back.

After nearly five hours of waiting, the door finally opens to admit the wizened professor Manabu. The young wizard, tries to get his attention, but is brusquely waved off, as Manabu walks up to the bar and takes a full bottle of whisky and a lowball glass to an empty table.

Torgo sees the whisky and flies close to the Professor, lands across from the mage and squeaks expectantly. “No. The last time I gave you a whisky taste you tried to shack up with a squirrel. Well, one finger drop if the Professor will share.” Silren walked slowly over. “I had some questions, but if you aren’t in the mood for company, I’ll digress. However I do have a valid reason to believe this city was built on remains closer to 4000 years old – and that the water problem was a byproduct of the initial subjugation of the local populace – if you’re up to a bit of conversation, Master.” The mage bowed and then gently motioned to the chair across from Manabu if he cared for a guest.

“Oh, it’s you, the old mage raises an eyebrow and empties a glass. “Sure, have a seat. What’s all this nonsense about the city being four thousand years old?”

“I happen to commune with a spirit that has knowledge of it. He was here then.” Silren takes the seat. “And the son of a bitch knows I’m too useful to lie to. I can generally get in a question or so before he fades, daily. So I guess my question to you is, what do you wish to learn about? I’d trade for current information on the Red Hands, the Slums and or the petrifying denizens that might call the old Library home. Also my associates are looking for magics that might unpetrify one of us if that happens. I’m sure Aram has the coin to at least put down on a scroll if available.” He paused. “If you doubt my ability to commune so, I’ll have you know that I can answer many general questions of the Noga Empire due to my past sessions, as well as my fluency in Nogese.” While talking, Silren keeps a wandering eye (his lazy one of course) on the plain woman and the apprentice mage.

“HAH! The Noga Empire? It’s a children’s story, a fairy tale, not even worthy to be called a myth. Just the result of a bad translation of Kazerabet’s Ars Necromantia by that blo-hard Lhaeo.” The old wizard shakes his head and blows a raspberry, “I don’t care if you’ve got bloody Elminster himself in your pocket, if you believe that there was a Noga Empire, you’re a bloody idiot. Phlan was founded in the year 367 as a trading post between the ogre kingdom of Kur-Tharsu and the elves of Myth Drannor.”

He empties another glass of whiskey, and laughs loudly. “As to unpetrifying someone. That is a spell of the 6th order. Which, so far as I know, should be beyond the capabilities of any mage in Phlan, except perhaps the Marquis, assuming the rumors about his power are true, or maybe the Sorcerer of the Isle, assuming the rumors of his murder by the Marquis are untrue…”

“Of course, I have access to books with the spells you seek, and, if you take my class, would be happy to let you copy them, on the off chance that you can find a mage capable of casting them.”

“Oh, no Noga Empire? That’s even funnier. Shortly after the rise of Myth Drannor, the Coronal – who was half brother to the King of Necromancers of Nog helped found the trading post that eventually became Phlan, enabling the half elven wizard ruler and his kin to trade with Cormanthor. It was they who set the created, oozing primordial things that infected the waters here to keep the inhabitants docile. I know a little of Ars Necromantia, and Lhaeo was a bleeding romantic for a bone raiser. Fecking idiot wouldn’t know a lich aura from a spectral terror, but what he did know firsthand did manage to get writ properly on occasion, when he didn’t screw up his tenses and adjectives from the original Nogese. I challenge you to come up with a question that I can phrase to my friend to prove the veracity of it’s knowledge. Perhaps something only a Mage King of Boneraisers may know. I can most likely have the answer for you by mid-afternoon tomorrow.” Silren smiled, not a hint of doubt crossed his scarred visage. “I do believe I’d enjoy taking your class when I’m ready. I feel comfortable talking to you and Torgo here likes you. Little asshole is a great judge of character.”

“Whatever spirit you think you’ve got tucked away must be quite the jester…” He laughs until he is out of breath. “Alright, let’s assume, just for laughs, that your ghost actually knows something and is’t just pulling your chain for his own amusement. Ask him who the last king of Deckon Thar was…” He pours and empties yet another glass, then coughs roughly. “Whew, sorry, wrong pipe…”

“My friend would talk more of the First King. One named Arasheth. I will do so on the morrow {if only to see you choke again}.” Thought Sil as he got up and once more scanned the room. “Are cockatrices the only petrifying things out here?”

The old wizard finishes the last of the bottle and stands up, “What? No. Cockatrices are really quite rare in this region, you’ll find Basilisks are much more common, especially in the ruins…” He stares down at the empty bottle, “Well, that might be a new record for shortest office hours. Thanks for the entertainment.” He heads for the door, ignoring the protests of the orange-robed apprentice.

“Let me know what your ghost has to say. I’m really quite curious…” he walks out the door laughing.

Sil will head back to his room, write an addition to his journal, rest then memorize slightly different spells. As soon as he feels he’s given Manos enough time, he’ll commune and ask who the last King of Deckon Thar was and if he didn’t know, everything he had time to talk about the various Kings of Deckon Thar and their relationship with the Kur-Tharsu. The gift he’ll request will be Find the Path.

As he was walking up the stairs, the thought occurred to him that he was being spied upon by the plain lady. He was able to cast a spell that blurred his face as well… from the Path of the Black Road. So, she was either an assassin or similar to him if that was the case. He would keep an eye out for her in the future, although that spell would make it difficult.

The Cracked Crown

Once outside, Aram walks across the street to the Cracked Crown. He makes his way to the front desk and inquires, “A room for the week, please? For one.”

The Cracked Crown is a sprawling one-story structure, nearly as large as the Council Hall, or Tyr’s Temple, but only half as tall. It is a tidy building, with a fresh coat of white-wash on the exterior and a polished brass sign made to look like a gold coin split in twain — stamped with the likeness of an old man wearing a bishop’s mitre.

Walking around to the main entrance, on the opposite side from The Blade, Aram passes several pig-styes that appear to have been built on the back-side, facing the temple of Tempus and the only plot of green plant-life inside the walls. Aram finds the double-doored entrance propped open to show a long wooden reception desk manned by two young men in stiff-looking blue and white livery.

When Aram requests a room, one of the young men raises an eyebrow imperiously and gestures to a wooden sign with gold lettering in fine copperplate, which reads: “All guests must show their papers upon arrival. Guests without properly notarized identification will be referred to the proper authorities.”

Aram pulls the charter from his belt. “I have a notarized charter from the Council,” he says. “The clerk informed me that individual identification, citizenship, and residency papers would be delivered at the end of the week. Will this suffice?” He places the charter on the counter in front of them and weighs it down with a gold piece.

The young man nods, “Welcome. It’s ten gold per week. Thirty with meals provided from the dining room.”

Aram takes off the heavy frame backpack that he’s been lugging all day and fishes into the bottom for his gold. He counts thirty coins out onto the counter. “There you are, young man,” he smiles in his grandfatherly way. “I’m afraid these old bones are quite worn out. Do you have a room that’s quiet? Tucked into a corner, out of the way perhaps? And, might I ask that you have a plate sent up to my room? Whatever the chef has leftover from the dinner rush will do.”

“Yes sir!” the boy behind the desk says. He opens a cabinet behind him, takes out a key, and hands it to the second liveried young man. “Take our friend to the west wing, last room on the right.” The servant with the key bows deeply to Aram, “May I help you with your bag?”

Aram smiles, “Please.” He lets the boy carry his pack and follows him down the hall. When they reach the room, he presses another gold into the boy’s hand, takes his bag and the key, and locks the door behind him.

The room is large and well appointed, dominated by a fine sleigh bed, sized for a queen, with scrolled foot and head boards, and crisp white linens. There is a large wardrobe, with a full-length mirror on the front, and a lock fitted to the same key as the door; a close stool of fine wood; a matching side table; and a wash stand with two ewers of clear, clean water.

Ten minutes later, there is a knock on the door, and the boy returns with a steaming plate bearing a perfectly seared veal cutlet, crisp sautéed string beans and brussels sprouts, and a cream and fruit trifle in a clear glass dessert bowl. “Would you like a glass of wine with your dinner, sir?” the servant says, offering the plate with a deep bow.

Aram smiles broadly as he takes the plate, “a glass of the house red, please.” He sets it on the side table, sits down on the bed, and removes his armor and boots while waiting for the wine to arrive.

{Blessed Afflictor} he prays silently over his meal, {thank you for your providence. Please watch over my companions, as they share their cramped quarters surrounded by murders and peasants. Let not the mystery meat claim their lives before you are ready to collect them.} “So let it be.”

After finishing his dinner, Aram changes into his dressing gown and carefully sets about brushing the dust from his day clothes, repairing the links of his mail, and rounding the edge of his great, blunted blade.

As midnight approaches, he kneels by an open spot of the floor and draws a large pentagram, first in chalk, then mirrored in charcoal an inch offset from the first, then fills the gap between the two with the dirt taken from Durell’s grave. Lastly he removes the giant’s head from its bag and dabs at the corners of the pentagram with the congealed blood from its neck.

“Blessed Afflictor, Servant of the Iron-Faced God…” he intones, his voice affecting a rough baritone, quite unlike his normally warm tones.
“You who commandeth the nine million,
You who commandeth the seventy blasphemies,
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,
if I do not remember you, if I do not sing your worth.”

“For it is written:
I traveled through a land of men,
A land of men and women too;
And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth-wanderers never knew…”
{Ah, the scriptures, so poetic} he thinks as he weaves the quote into his prayer.

“I have stumbled upon a city in chaos,
a city of disorder, doomed to destruction.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”

“Oh Phlan! Happy is the one who repays you
according to what you have done to us.
Happy is the one who seizes your infants
and dashes them against the rocks.
‘Tear it down!’ The unwashed souls cry.
To you Blessed Afflictor they cry,
‘Tear it down to its foundations!’”

“Oh Phlan! I will give you over to bloodshed.
Since you did not hate bloodshed, bloodshed will pursue you.
I will fill your mountains with the slain;
those killed by the sword will fall on your hills,
and in your valleys and in all your ravines.
While the whole earth rejoices, I will make you desolate.”

“Blessed Afflictor, Exalted Interrogator,
This is the time of taking, this is the hour of gratitude.
This vessel receives your Order.
Tomorrow we seek a Library,
Ancient to the ignorant, young to the world.
Guide, guard, and protect our small band,
Grant unto us the power to lay waste to the forces of chaos.
And when we perish, may we join your infernal legion.”
“So let it be.”

And with that…bedtime.

22 Flamerule, Year of the Helm, 1362 DR

New Phlan Public Training Hall — Basement

The stairs lead down into a long corridor, the walls carved into the clay-earth and reinforced with timbers. Judging by the marks of shovel and trowel on the walls, the passage could not be more than a few months old. After about ten paces, the walls show brickwork at the bottom, which slowly grows as you proceed, until the walls to either side are completely bricked.

After perhaps twenty paces more, the passage ends at another wooden door, this one latched with an iron ring and a large padlock. Like the top step above, three symbols are scratched into the door: a large rectangle with the bottom line missing; an oval canted slightly to the right; and a circle with a line projecting at an angle, down and left, from the bottom.

Aram leans in, holding the glowing knife out, and staring at the markings. “Fascinating…” he mutters, “is this some kind of pictographic language?”

Well, as everybody seems to have marched into the tunnel, Lothar will follow. He is not very happy about this whole furtively sneaking into some side door and the mention of thieves marks, but if his companions are going into (potential) trouble, he will not stay behind! I will look towards the rear, to prevent sneak attacks and to check if the way back remains clear.

Sven, “This isn’t passing the sniff test.”

Thrall, “Let’s go left. Through the door. Don’t ask.”

Silren will follow, curious if this is just a thieve’s training grounds, a boarded up access to Under-Phlan, or something entirely different.

“Left you say?” Aram turns to the left and pushes against the brick wall.

The wall slides open, revealing a large room, filled with what looks like an obstacle course. You can see nearly a dozen men and women climbing and swinging from ropes, leaping and vaulting over freestanding walls, and running across balance beams.

The old man stares around the room, then looks back at Thrall. “Those marks told you this was here? Any chance you can teach me how to interpret them?”

Silren, “Good job, Thrall. I believe you’ve earned the right to introducing us.”

A old, balding man with a halo of white hair around his temples, sunken cheeks, and piercing gray eyes winds his way through the tumbling students and casts a wry smile in your direction. “Welcome,” he says loudly, causing all of the students to cast startled looks your way, “it’s been a while since we’ve had anyone audacious enough to try the back doors in broad daylight…”

He looks each of you up and down, “You don’t seem like our usual clientele…” He chuckles, “I assume from the look of you that you’ll be wanting to take most of your classes upstairs, but, since you found your way down here, I’ll take you on for free should you be interested.” He sticks out his hand, “Swindon Lype, at your service, though my students just call me ‘Professor Swipe’.”

Aram takes the man’s hand and gives it a hearty shake, “Thank you, friend. Father Aram Carnithrax Decidimus, of the Second Free Prelature of the Opus Dei of Our Blessed Afflictor, at your service.” He releases the hand and steps back, “While I would love to take you up on some lessons, particularly with regards to locating and avoid traps, we were really hoping to find someone who might have information about the history of Phlan, particularly the old Valhingen Cemetery.”

“That’s quite the long title,” the professor quips. “One doesn’t see too many chaps our age out worrying about traps. Good show.” He steps back after greeting the others. “I don’t know much about the cemetery myself, but, since you worship the Servant of the Iron-Faced God, I might know some folks that can help you. If you head out into the old city, you’ll find a well in the courtyard of the old textiles district, not too far from the cemetery. There is a temple of the Second Servant there, where I expect one of your order might be able to find some information and assistance…”

“Servant of the Iron-Faced God? There’s an appellation one doesn’t hear often,” Aram muses aloud. He pauses, pondering. “The Second Servant?” he asks rhetorically, then “Ah. Well, any port in a storm as they say. If the followers of Mask can aid us I will reach out to them.” He inclines his head politely, “Thank you for the information, Professor.”

Thrall, “I let them in….Thrall is my name.” He accepts the hand of the “professor”.

Silren, “We were actually curious if you knew anything of the old graveyard. Well, any instructor really. Could you help us out?”

“Professor Manabu is the one most likely to have information about the old city. His class should be in session in the main courtyard right now…though I’d wait until they were well finished to seek him out, unless you’re up for dodging stray fireballs,” Swipe says.

“Excellent. Does the Hall hire linguists as well? If so, who should I talk to?”

“If you’re looking for a position as faculty or staff, you should speak with Taleah at the front desk first…then you’ll have to deal with Faelana at the Clerk’s office…” the professor shudders as he mentions the second.

“Understood. One needs income however. I can’t be eating mystery meat at the Blade the rest of my stay here in Phlan. Otherwise it’d be a short stay as a mortal and permanent one in the dirt, eh? Thank you, professor.” And with that Sil made to exit and wait for the courtyard class to finish.

Sven, “Faelana is the stern elven woman?”

“Aye, that’d be her.”

Durell remains toward the rear of the party, and while attempting to remain respectfully quiet during the introductions ahead of him, he cannot help but mutter (mostly to himself, but it wouldn’t be impossible for those nearest to him to hear). “Who said graveyard AT NIGHT? Logic says to check it during daylight. The Paladin wasn’t attacked at night, as I recall. Taking unnecessary risks put you in the middle of a thieves’ den, outnumbered and with only one exit. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you Durell.”

Sven, “You’re the instructor that offers to “unlock” certain potentials of the mind, eh?”

Durell leans in to whisper to Sven again: "I must be missing something… Do you know that this “unlocking” is done by an instructor here, or is this a hunch? Do we know that surgery has performed? Or is it possible that someone has been “harvesting” these undead brains for experimentation on the living? It would seem to me that there are quite a few suppositions going on, and honestly, I am unclear as to which are facts and which are not. I’m in with this group, but I hope we narrow down our view of what we are getting into."

Hearing Sven’s musing, Aram mutters an, “Ah yes,” and addresses the professor more directly. “As part of our investigation, we’ve learned of some previous students of the academy, who, in their adventures became afflicted with a sort of psychic plague. Rumor has it that someone on the faculty here is familiar with psionic chirurgery. Would you know who? We’d like to pick their brain, pun intended, about possible causes, and prevention, of such maladies…”

Lothar stays quiet throughout most of the exchange. This isn’t exactly his area of expertise. He does greet master Swipe politely and shakes his hand when offered. He marvels at the agility and skill of the trainees though and will take time during the exchange to observe their movements and footwork, wondering how they could be applied to an armoured warrior.

Hearing Sven, Durell, and Aram’s line of questioning, the old thief grins, “Ah, ye’ve come to the right class then…” He turns and yells at the students. “Good enough for today! Class dismissed!”

As the students jump to the floor and file towards the far exit, Swipe walks to a wall to your right and shoves on a brick, opening yet another secret door. Behind him you can see a small room, let by shelves of candles, with large red and purple cushions on the floor and a big brass censer in the center. He gestures for you to follow, “Come into my office and we can see what we might.”

Aram follows Professor Swipe into the meditation chamber, takes a seat, and starts to explain. “The adventurer’s we’re concerned with are a Paladin named Frantiska, a young bard named Lyra, a mage named Donovan, and others…an Eraka nomad, a woman named Teldicia. I’m not sure how long ago this was, but we read of their adventures and they mentioned a plague, spread mind-to-mind, that granted them psionic powers but at the expense of driving them mad with headaches. Apparently the undead from the graveyard were the original source of the plague, or believed to be, so we’d like to be as prepared as possible before we investigate in person…”

Thrall follows with the rest, quite astonished…He also wants to know more and be prepared as possible.

If there is room in the office, Lothar will join the meeting, after the pleasant, but uninformative, visit to the temple of Sune he is hungry for information!

Durell chooses to stand, leaning back slightly against a wall, with his quarterstaff planted in front of him, hands resting on it to make a potentially long stand easier. He will listen attentively to what is said.

Thrall, as soon as he us seated: “Is there something, one of us can teach to others? Is there need of something”?

“Yeah, I know those guys” Swipe says when Aram finishes. “The girl, Lyra, and the nomad, Hrud, were both gifted. Hrud was actually a walking headache when they first came to me, constantly broadcasting static without even know it. That virus they contracted was fascinating…really quite useful. It granted the Gift to all of them, not just the ones you mentioned, but three other of their companions too, and was relatively easy to cure. By the time they came to me, two of them, Fran and Lyra, were already cured. For the others it was a strait-forward surgery to remove the infection.”

The professor lounges against a cushion. “If you’re looking to inoculate yourselves I can make only one suggestion. The virus seemed to be most debilitating to those whose minds were not already awakened. When they came to me, Hrud and Lyra were mostly fine, but the others were overwhelmed by their new-found senses and, as you said, going mad. A preemptive surgery won’t prevent infection, I think, but could potentially awaken your latent psionic potential and give you time to acclimate your mind before the onset of the virus, should you encounter it…”

He turns to Thrall, “Like I told your wizard-friend before he left, I don’t really have any say on hiring practices, though the school is definitely under-staffed. If you think you’re up for teaching, you should talk to Taleah in the front office.”

Aram coughs, “Well, I guess it’s never too late to teach this old dog some new tricks. So you think a preemptive psychic surgery to ‘open our minds’ as it were could help? Is that something you can do? And what would it cost? I assume that’s not part of the standard curriculum for the students around here…”

Professor Swipe nods, “No, it’s definitely not on the curriculum. A bit of a side job as it were. I usually charge one hundred gold per session, but since I told you I’d take you on for free, how ’bout we float that offer from the classes to this. Easier to keep things that are already under the board, under the board. It takes about ten minutes. No guarantees of course…you might not have the gift there to unlock, and it does occasionally have side effects. I claim no responsibility if you wiggle to much and get yourself lobotomized…”

Aram strokes his whiskers, “That’s a lot of caveats, but given that the alternative is possibly having my head explode, it seems worth it to me. Is this something we can do right now?”

Thrall announces to visit Taleah: “for me no poking around in my brain for now. I will see Taleah first.”

“What kind of side effects are we talking about?” Lothar asks, somewhat apprehensively. “Headaches, a stutter, personality quirks or more serious things like simplemindedness or homicidal rages?” Lothar is none to keen about letting someone root around in his brain or mind, but the concept intrigues him. “Another question, you said the infection is easy to cure. Is there a way to stabilise or minimise the damage and discomfort once infected? And should no gift be unlocked, will the surgery still provide protection?”

“Side effects are very rare, but I’ve seen them include simple-mindedness, poor impulse control, and general ill health. No one has ever died from the procedure.” Swipe smiles reassuringly, “As to the disease, I have only had the opportunity to examine it after it has run its course for some weeks, so I’ll admit I have limited knowledge about the possible onset of symptoms, save that it was quite clear that those already in possession of psionic talents suffered much less discomfort.”

“Presumably, though, you will not be spending weeks in the graveyard. Should you become infected, I will not charge you for a cure. In fact, I’d be willing to pay you to allow me to observe the progression for a few days should that occur…”

He places a small cube of incense in the brazier, and turns to Aram, “If you are sure about doing this now, just lie down there and try to relax…”

Aram sets his pack in the corner, removes his armor and crown, and returns to lie down on pile of cushions. “Watch my things won’t you,” he says to Durell before closing his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, “Ready when you are, professor.”

Lothar mumbles a quiet prayer to Helm to watch over Aram and protect him from harm. He watches the proceedings with baited breath.

Sven has many reservations about…ALL of this…but if the old man is going to go ahead with it, he will pay close attention. After all, if he has an idea of how these things work, it will make it easier to dismantle…if need be.

The professor takes a deep breath of the smoke from the burning incense and kneels down by Aram’s head, lightly resting his fingers on Aram’s forehead. For a long while, all is silent.

After about twenty minutes, the pillow on which Aram’s head is resting suddenly blackens and rots away. Aram sits bolt upright, eyes wide and babbles incoherently for a moment. “Well,” Swipe says, “it looks like it worked…”

“Worked?!? He’s always talked out of his arse, but you’ve turned him into a blithering idiot!”

Aram sets a hand on the floor to steady himself, and the stones begin to crumble beneath it, “No, no, friend. I’m quite alright…”

“………..what the Hell did you do to him?” Sven goes to help steady the old man, but after taking a second look at the floor where Aram placed his, steps back. “Is he gonna disintegrate everyone he bloody touches??”

“I awakened his mind,” Swipe replies matter-of-factly. “I have no control over what form a person’s potential may take. It is, what we would generally refer to as a ‘Wild Talent’. In this particular case, it would appear that Master Aram has gained the capacity to accelerate the decay of nonliving materials. When a wild talent is first awakened, they tend to manifest spontaneously and can be quite difficult to control. This is, in many ways, similar to what Lyra and company reported when infected with the disease…sudden, spontaneous, and uncontrolled reading of each others’ minds, inversion of senses, and destruction of their environment drove them mad. In this case, we are forcing that initial manifestation under controlled circumstances. I am, presently, linked to your friend telepathically and helping him learn to control his new capabilities. Once he has learned what having these powers feels like and how to control their use, he should be thus inoculated to the most traumatic of the effects of infection, should that occur…”

“Does that mean you (Swipe) can read minds?” Sven turns to Durell, “you’d better hold onto Aram’s things a bit longer – our paperwork is in there somewhere.”

“It’s really quite a fascinating sensation,” Aram says, rising to his feet, “you should try it…”

Lothar is simultaneously repulsed and fascinated by the proceedings. Keeping his possessions well away from Aram he asks him: “H-how did it feel? Have you noticed any side effects yet?”

Durell shakes his head at Aram’s potential recklessness, but stands guard over his possessions, realizing that if Aram were to touch just about ANY of them, they would just crumble to dust. “No thanks. I’ll leave my brain the way the gods intended it to be”.

“Very well,” the professor replies. “My alternative offer still stands, should you find yourselves coming in contact with the disease, just come back here and I will heal you…or pay you to suffer a bit longer so that I might study it properly, and then heal you, if that is acceptable.”

As crazy as this all is, Sven is just not one to dismiss anything that may offer a opportunity against a foe. He asks Swipe: “Provided one is not twitchy, what are the risks here?”

Lothar, “Another question, if I may, professor Swipe? Your powers, do they allow you to divine, if that is the right word, information from images?”

“Some with the gift are able to read psychic impressions from objects, but I’m afraid that is outside of my area of expertise.” The old professor grins, “But perhaps one of you might have the gift…”

Aram stares into space for a long while, trying to pay attention to the professor’s telepathic instruction. Finally he shakes himself, bends down, and picks up another pillow. He passes it back and forth between his hands a few times with no apparent ill effects. “Excellent,” he says. He turns to the professor and ask, “May I?” then the pillow rots and crumbles to dust. “It’s like I can make things as old and useless as I am,” he says with a laugh.

Still unconvinced, Durell pushes the pile of Aram’s things toward him with the long end of his quarterstaff, still not willing to make contact with the “Hands of Disintegration”. “There you are sir, your things. Are we done here now?”

Sven, “Alright, Swipe – let’s go ahead with this…”

“Very well, lie here,” the professor says. He follows the same procedure, throwing another block of incense into the brazier, kneeling beside Sven, and lightly touching him on the forehead. After about ten minutes he speaks, “Sven? Can you hear me? It is finished…”

It takes a few seconds, but Sven slowly opens his eyes. He lies still – his fingers intertwined and hands still resting just below his chest (he preemptively removed his steel gauntlets just in case HIS touch started to dissolve things). He looks around, seemingly awaiting some sort of reaction, but it doesn’t come. He turns his head towards team Desolate, then towards Swipe with a look of disapproval in his eyes before finally sitting up. “So…what then? I don’t have the ‘gift?’” He says irately.

He grabs his gauntlets and slaps them under his right arm; “Or maybe YOU decide who it is that receives such abilities, eh?” Grabs his helmet in his left hand and stands before continuing; “I think we’ve wasted enough time here. Damn stinky candles.” He goes to take a step out, spewing “This is bull……”

His sentence is cut short and his foot doesn’t even hit the floor before he blinks out of existence right in front of everyone’s eyes! Almost immediately, you hear him again – from behind you in the training room: “SSSHHHIII………!!!!”

Again, he’s cut short – if you’re able to turn quickly enough, you see why: he appears out of thin air several feet above one of the balance beams in the training hall before crashing down hard onto it with a thunderous CLANG and spilling to the floor in an unmajestic heap while his helmet rolls along the floor like an empty pot.

He scurries to the closest solid fixture and clutches it dearly – eyes as big as dinner plates.
“HAHhah Ha!” His laugh is equal parts excitement, confusion, and terror. “By Tempuses favorite pauldron! Did you see that?!?”

Aram claps enthusiastically as Sven does his disappearing, reappearing trick. “My word, man. That was fabulous!”

Durell shakes his head. “And for your next uncontrollable trick, you will reappear INSIDE a dragon’s belly?”

Still exhilarated and breathless: “Heh heh – one thing…at a time, Durell. Undead….first… THEN dragon slaying! Actually…ROOM stops spinning first…then Undead, then dragons…”

“Well,” Aram says to his reluctant friends, “at least Sven and I have been inoculated. Should things go poorly, hopefully we can extract the rest of you to seek healing.” He bows to the professor, “Thank you, you’re aid is very much appreciated. Should we encounter this disease, we will certainly return.”

He turns and heads for the exit. “Come friends, let’s see where Silren and Thrall got off to.”

Lothar is relieved to be gone, though what Swipe had done to his companions still has him unsettlingly fascinated. He is quiet and thoughtful as he follows the rest along.

New Phlan Public Training Hall — Outside

Thrall goes back the way he came, circumventing the building. Goes back in via the main entrance. He is looking for the front office and the woman called Taleah. Another familiar face like Silren’s would also be nice.

You reach the front gates to find that they are still shut, with the same “Warning: Class in Session” sign hanging on it.

Silren will loiter wizardly until class lets out. In fact, he’ll start reading the journal.

While waiting, Thrall looks around at the plants and weeds around and near the building. He specifically looks for the more poisonous varieties. If he finds them, he will collect some.

In the streets Thrall is able to find very little except for some small, sun-withered examples of lolium and agrostemma. The large hedgerow around the small park however, appears to be an unusually dense, narrow-leafed species of kalmia, which, though the florets are small, appears to be attracting quite a large number of bees…

Thrall is looking for digitalis or wolfsbane. He will remember were he could find the herbs and take nothing for now. He was also not planning to squeeze a lot of bees for their venom

Unfortunately, Thrall can see that the soil in this part of the city is much too hard-packed for digitalis or aconite, both of which need loose, well-drained earth. Judging by the terrain he has seen, Thrall’s best guess for finding Digitalis would be the shaded side of the sea cliffs west of the city. Aconite he would expect to find in higher elevations, perhaps closer to the mountains north of the city.

Thrall collects some of the agrostemma, puts the seeds in the vial which used to contain his healing potion and a handful of leaves of the Kalmia in to his trousers pockets. If he can find some piece of discarded cloth, he will also take it with him. (Given time and some molten candle wax, he will fashion some waxed cloth pouches from it, so he will have a means to store his herbal finds).

Aram walks up the stairs and around to the front. Seeing Silren perusing the journal, he strolls, up. “Have you learned anything else of use?” he asks as he approaches. Without really waiting for a response he continues, “Also, are you familiar with Psionics? Apparently the professor has the ability to unlock the talent in others…”

“Mental abilities? Hmmm. I know to be aware of them. Is he still offering to do so?” Silren thought greedily. “The journal is full of whimsy, with some brief nodes of focus. His desire to form his own Path is nonsensical. The Path itself is not important. Power is. Since we’re still waiting would you mind bringing me back to Mr. Swipe? I would be interested in these abilities if this is true.” The wizard began a half step back towards the thieves den.

The Basement

Aram leads the way back down the stairs and through the secret door. “Professor?” he calls out, “If you are still willing, another of our companions is interested in inoculation before we head out…”

“Aye,” the old man replies, “bring him in.”

“Apparently the others knew of your abilities. I am more than happy to be immune to brain zombie disease and possibly benefit mentally as well.” Silren paused for a second. “Assuming I come out of this in one piece, I would like to talk to you a bit about what you know of possession. Rogue spirits and the like.”

When Thrall circumvents the building another time, he doesn’t see Silren anymore. He walks on towards the back door, just missing everyone. Thrall enters the hallway.

Aram waves at Thrall as he enters the hall. “Hail! You’re just in time to watch Silren get his brain hacked…”

“No… not another one. Silren don’t!!!”

Silren sees a door open in his mind after the incense is burned. He felt a few tugs at the back of his head as he imagines stepping though. The wizard could feel his familiar squeak. He had not anticipated that the poor animal might feel some of these effects through their bond. There was a brief flash and he came back to the room. As his eyes reawakened to the room’s light, he felt that he could affect things out side of his grasp. Things floated around, darted to and fro. He briefly felt the ability to move Aram about, to gain control of his very muscles and frame… but immediately suppressed this urge, for he felt it would be a fight to do so. “I feel… happy with this.” He smiled diabolically and briefly chuckled to himself. “Torgo. Are you next? Care to have your third eye opened, my little friend?” It was then he heard Thrall object. “I am fine Thrall. Your concern has been noted.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Silren says. “Thank you for not melting my mind. What do you know of spiritual possession? I, on occasion, summon… things. While I know the standard means of fighting spirits, what steps would a mental master such as yourself do to guard against attacks on the psyche?”

“I am afraid that is beyond my experience,” the professor responds. “My interest in mental mastery has always emphasized the practical. The here and now. Especially as it pertains to my other areas of expertise. Why waste space carrying lock picks when you can manipulate the inner workings of the lock itself, and why waste time with secret hand gestures when you can simply speak directly to a colleague’s mind.”

He shakes his head, “Unfortunately for you. While I have heard of beings able to take possession of another’s psyche, I do not know of any way to defend against such. I do know that there is no way to surgically separate minds that are linked in such a way. Such spirits possess not the mind, but the soul, so while I may be able to distinguish the two individual minds, there is nothing that can be done psychically to separate them.”

Silren, “That is good to know. If you ever have need of my services, feel free to ask.”

At some quiet moment, Lother approaches Sven: “Aram and Silren seemed positively enthusiastic to get their brains modified. You seemed about as apprehensive as I was, what made you decide to it after all?”

Sven, “While Aram was having his ‘procedure’ done, I was quietly praying for the wisdom of Tempus to guide me; to see if doing so would prevent me from doing my work…..and there may have been a small prayer for Aram….maybe. Seeing as you are my second oldest friend, if you are considering having this done, I will ask for his advice on your behalf.”

Sven looks to Thrall: “But our friend here seems to have strong feelings about this topic – what is it that concerns you so?”

Thrall, “I do not like mind alterations at all. My mind is my own. I have studied long and hard to be what I am and I like it this way. If I was to be forced into this, I would be extremely pissed and would react accordingly….”

Looking around the room, for the most part, Durell’s countenance remains saddened and somewhat downcast. Upon hearing Thrall’s latest comments, he raises himself from his leaning position against the wall, quietly walks over to Thrall, places a hand on his shoulder and says: “You are not alone, my friend. I will play the cards that Nature and my training and experience have dealt me. I feel we are in agreement on this point.”

“Think of it this way. Some of us need to be immune to this undead disease. Our gamble may just mean our whole…” Silren had trouble saying the word. “….team’s survival.”

Aram’s face goes ashen, “Do you really think so little of us, Thrall? I would never dream of forcing someone to do such a thing. This is about being prepared for what we may face. I must admit that I found the tales told to us by the girls in the park, and the additional details from the journal, really quite horrifying, and I am most thankful that the professor was able to offer us a way to mitigate, if not entirely prevent, the same fate.”

Aram turns and bows to the professor again, as if to show that thanks, then continues. “However, it seems like we have exhausted this particular line of inquiry with regards to what might be going on in the cemetery. So if none of the rest of us are interested in taking this particular step to prepare, perhaps we should go see if the class upstairs has finally let out…”

“Seconded, Aram. There is still much to be learned here at the hall, I would bet. Come Torgo. Rest on my staff while we walk. I am still a little light headed and would hate to fall and crush your little bat frame…”

Thrall: “I just made my point of view very clear, that is all.”

“Yes, yes. Point made.” Sil softly mumbles incoherently. “No involuntary lobotomization for Thrall. At least today. What was that Torgo… six pennies-a-farthing you say? Really? Quite the steal, if you ask me…”

Thrall to Lothar and Durell: “The three of us are still free willed and untouched, brain wise?”

“Thank you Sven, for your offer, I would like you to pray for wisdom. But at this time, with roughly half of our group ’altered” and half in our natural state, I feel it is wiser for me to remain as I am. I can imagine having an awakened mind may be protection in this case, but it may be a risk at other times. Best spread any potential hazard as evenly as possible." Lothar pauzed, before he adds thoughtfully: “Besides, we know that those who were awakened recovered quicker, but we have no idea of the relative initial impact of the virus, before recovery… And perhaps it is good for some of us to get infected and have Swipe study us, in order to better protect potential future victims. I would take that burden, if it becomes necessary.”

Durell nods in agreement with Lothar. “That’s as good a way to put it as any. Let us manage our risks – both those of future encounters and those of unknown consequences offered here. I think having 3 of us in Nature’s given state and three ‘enhanced’ individuals is as good as we can get.”

Before leaving, Lothar turns to swipe: “As master of your particular guild, I assume you have an above average knowledge of the artifacts coming from this city, or have access to people with such knowledge. What can you tell me of this?” He produces his medallion from where it hangs under his shirt. He doesn’t take the chain off his neck, but holds it up to be seen.

The professor asks, “May I?” and leans in to inspect Lothar’s medallion. “Ah, yes,” he says, “used to find a lot of these in the ruins north of the river, around the old temple, where the fancy folks used to live. A couple of my brothers have been trying to work these out for years. Theory is that there is a collection of vaults, kindof an old bank, beneath the temple where the nobles used to stash things best kept secret, and that these were used as identification to get the priests to let you in. Of course, with all the orcs in that area, and the Xvimlar controlling the old temple, no one has been able to confirm that theory.”

He steps back and strokes his chin, “There’s also an old library and archive on this side of the river, near Kuto’s Well, that a lot of would-be scholars of the old city have been drooling to get into. One might be able to learn more there, but the area around the well has been a hotbed of weird monster activity in the last year…”

Sven, “What kind of “weird” monster activity?”

“The last group that came back from Kuto’s Well spoke of an explosion of darkness that spat out living shadows…”

Sven, “Well, that sounds terrible. BUT, the library may have information about the history of the graveyard, which could be of great value to us. Not only that, but the council is offering rewards for any tombs of old.” To team Desolate: “It might an option to keep us ‘on track’ for the graveyard run while we could potentially earn some much needed funds in the meantime.”

“Hitting the library sounds like a fine idea,” Aram agrees. “Perhaps I can find some old texts that would aid in my planned expedition as well. We could kill several birds in one go…”

Durell’s response: “Libraries that don’t house brain altering zombies certainly seems to be a better starting place”

“I understand Durell, I think we have had enought brain altering for one day already!” Lothar quips with a smile. “And I would very much like to visit that library. Finally a more substantial lead than just the name of a city and old family rumors! What say you, friends? Shall we go hit the books?” He looks around at team Desolate, his former doubt and worry gone, and replaced with a keen purpose and, it almost seems, joy… His eyes are clear and bright and his movements like a wolfhound on a scent.

Aram turns back to Swipe, “How far is the old library? Could we walk there and back before dark?”

“Not far,” Swipe replies, “but it can be slow getting there, the slums can be crowded this time of day, and the old roads aren’t go great. Kuto’s Well lies just on the other side of the inhabited slums. If you leave via the Parkside Gate, and go about three blocks, you’ll see an old tower that Professor Aumry has been fixing up for his research. Turn left there and the well will be about two blocks further on. Keep going past the well another five blocks to reach the old library. Just remember that the gates close at dark, whether you’ve got papers or not.”

Aram turns to his friends, “That doesn’t sound too far. What’s ten blocks. We could be there in under an hour and have four to peruse the stacks before we had to come back…”

“Short answer: no,” Sven says. “I vote for morning travel, personally. We can rest – most of us have been up all night. We need provisions – I travelled light, intending to purchase whatever I needed upon landfall. I need to pray. Whatever I have memorized – what’s left, anyway – was meant for a non-eventful ship ride – not shadow monsters. Also, provided we find anything, books are heavy. We might want a pack animal – or extra hands – to carry what we may find.”

“As much as would like to rush at this opportunity, there is sense in your words, Sven. Perhaps it is best to postpone a proper exploration until dawn, that way we can have more time to delve deeper into the library. Perhaps it is best for some of us seek provisions and housing, while those of us less dependent on rest or provisions..” He pauzes and adds with a wry smile: “or those less capable to attain those.. could scout out the route to and from the library, so we can best use our time tomorrow, without undue surprises. I have a feeling this city requires one to tread lightly and plan ahead…” He looks at his companions, trying to gauge their reactions and preferences, awaiting their response.

Aram nods, “I had planned on finding a place in the Slums to camp out tonight anyways, funds being as they are, so a brief outing to scout the area makes sense.”

Sven, “If you’re suggesting that YOU scout ahead alone – no. Like it or not, our best chance to succeed – and survive – is to stay together. WE (all of us) can scout ahead today; there’s time for that. Let’s see what your Orge friend may have seen or heard. I wouldn’t mind saying ‘hello’ to this Professor Aumry either. Not only may he know something about the library, but he may allow his tower to be a ‘safe haven’ for us in the event something unexpected happens where we can’t get back into the city.”

Lothar to Sven: "I intend no such thing, I see no good coming of venturing alone into an unknown city and a potentially hostile quarter of it, at that! We have, through circumstance, found strength in numbers, best to retain that. Thank you for your concern and your clear statement of your viewpoint " He nods in respect.

“Professor Aumry, you say?” Aram raises an eyebrow, “Wasn’t one of the job postings from him? Something about reconnaissance in exchange for magical items and free tutoring in the magical arts. I believe it said to inquire at ’Denlor’s Tower’…” he turns to Professor Swipe, “Would that be the one you said he is fixing up?”

Swipe nods, “Aye, that’s the one. Used to belong to some great wizard before the last great calamity. It’s a bit…askew…these days. The Council gives us professors lodging within the walls, but Aumry insists that he needs his own space, and thus has been trying to clean the place up.”

Sven, to Lothar; “If you don’t want to stay at the Blade, the Sune temple is looking for a guard. You could have an income and they’d probably let you sleep there too. Among other things. Not the worst scenario.”

Lothar smiles at Sven’s suggestion. “That may be a good idea to pad my coinpurse a little. But I think I’ll rather rest at the Blade with Thrall. I fear the Sune’s Temple interpretation of ‘sleeping’ will not leave me sufficiently rested for our undertakings.” He says with an amused laugh.

Thrall to the rest: " I know it is quite boring, but we need provisions and maybe some other stuff. I wasplkanning to go back to the Blade but with a detour of a few blocks. Maybe we find some shops or a market. Anyone ?"

Silren, “I would like to stick around the hall for a few, but if you could find a few pieces of fruit for my Torgo, I would pay you back.”

Aram strokes his whiskers, “Given the press of humanity, it seems unlikely that the shops would be confined to the few walled blocks of Phlan. I would imagine there is a market in the slums for those unable to afford housing inside the walls, where, presumably we’d get better prices… Perhaps another thing to add to an outing: find a market, scout the route to the library, check in at Professor Aumry’s tower, and possibly look for a relatively safe yet cheap place to establish residence…”

Durell kids Thrall: “Boring is ok with me. I will gladly go with you to find marketplace needs. Even just the walking is better for keeping my blood flowing than standing around watching brain experiments” He gives Thrall his best “you know what I mean” grin and gives a nod to encourage forward movement in the direction the markets may be.

Lothar: “Professor, do you know if there is a temple of Helm in this city?”

Swipe shakes his head, “No such luck. There are four temples inside the walls: to Tyr, Tempus, Sune, and Gond. Plus the shrine to the Four Seasons in the park. Outside the wall, the old temple of Tyr across the river has been re-dedicated to Iyachtu Xvim, and there is a temple to Chauntea and the Iron-Faced God out at Kryptgarden Keep. There’s also rumors of a couple of other hidden temples in the old city, set up by those who either couldn’t get the permits or couldn’t afford the space to set up within the walls, but they keep a low profile, since the Council has officially outlawed any temples set up outside New Phlan, save Kryptgarden. Might be some Helmites out there in the city, but they don’t really seem the sort to flout the law like that…”

“That’s literally exactly what I told you guys.” Sil rolls his eyes and slightly shakes his head. It would apparently take repeating things multiple times to these new companions if his. At least he was smart enough to stand behind the big dumb ones. He wondered if that’s what Torgo felt about him. Just a big chunk of meat to stand behind. The wizard scratched the bat’s ears. He mumbled, “I’m okay with that,” to the bat.

Thrall: “Shall we go then?”

“Agreed.” Aram says. He starts walking towards the Parkside Gate out to the poor part of town, taking note of any shops they pass along the way.

With a subtle and somewhat wry smile crossing Durell’s face, the closest thing to a display of humor appears as he asks: “You mean the WAITING is over? Oh, boy! Yes, LET’S GO!”

New Phlan — Old Wall Road

Exiting via the back door of the Training Hall, you pass three stores on your short walk to the Parkside Gate: an open air blacksmith with a sign that reads “Petroff’s Fine Swords”, a well-constructed building with actual glass windows with a sign reading “Aylaran’s Silver Shop”, and a dry-goods store called “Cockburn’s Grocery”.

If the dry goods store has something edible on the sign, Thrall enters.“Wait up, guys. First stop!”

The grocery is a long, low wooden structure. The sign is hand-written, but neat, naming the store plainly in the Trade Tongue, but has no pictures. The large double doors at the front, however, stand open revealing narrow, but tidy rows of shelves stacked with cheeses and bags of flour or sugar, and barrels heaped with nuts and dried beans.

Thrall enters, looks around, goes to the nuts and beans.. Waits to be helped and orders :
“Two pounds of nuts, one pound of dried beans. I also need 10 square foot of cloth, a pound of flour, needle and tread and if you have it two metal bowls about 10 inches wide.”

The store is a cramped place. Aisles of tall shelves are stacked with bags of flour, baskets of bread, barrels of pickles and sourkraut, further in you see spools of thread, piles of towels and linens, coils of rope, all manner of robes, dresses, and other accouterments, and everything in between. The man behind the counter is perhaps in his late twenties, tall and thin, with sharp features and a rather sideways smile.

“What kind?” he asks simply, waving a hand at the barrels. On closer inspection, the several barrels, lined up along the front of the counter contain: walnuts, pine nuts, hazelnuts, chestnuts, dried peas, chick peas, lentils, and broad beans.

Thrall, “Half walnuts, half hazel, broadbeans and any left over cloth please.”

Aram stops outside the store, looks up at the sign and chuckles. “Pffft…Cock Burn…” the old man says to himself under his breath.

The young man quickly busies himself filling Thralls order, pouring nuts and beans into bags, gathering the cloth, weighing everything. He stops, halfway back one of the aisles, “We don’t have metal bowls, I’m afraid, only wooden one. Does that suit?”

Thrall: “Two wooden bowls will do, standard size is fine by me.”

The young man brings the bowls up to the counter and bundles up Thrall’s order. “That’ll be 26 gold, 9 silver, and 3 coppers, Sir.”

Thrall raises an eyebrow: “26 goldpieces? Who do you think I am? The Lord Mayor? I am willing to pay 15 gold and will recommend you to my friends.”

“Fifteen?! You would beggar me!” The young man says. “Would you steal food from the mouths of my wife and my three children! I couldn’t even pay the taxes on those beans for fifteen! Twenty four and five.”

Thrall: “Sorry my good man, 15 it is, or I leave the goods here.”

“Look these nuts are fresh from Sembia. You won’t find goods of this quality anywhere else in New Phlan. In fact, you won’t find goods of this sort, of any quality, anywhere else inside the wall. I have an exclusive contract. Twenty two, or you can go take your chances with the monsters.”

Thrall, “Fresh you call them? Pffff. No matter, I will go and buy my goods elsewhere.” Thrall turns and goes. “Oh, by the way, lower your prices a little, yet more customers and don’t let them pay for your wife and kids. Lamest excuse ever. This is for free. Goodday to you, Sir.”

Aram, still standing outside, raises an eyebrow inquisitively when Thrall comes out empty-handed. “Not find what you needed?”

Thrall: “Almost everything, but the owner is asking way to much! Let’s continue.”

Durell chuckles. “I do so love the word… FORAGE”.

Sven, “Yes, Durell, good thinking as always. Keep in mind that the water around here is poisoned. The food is poisoned. The earth may be rotten as well. Between you and Thrall, do you feel confident that you can find us fertile ground?”

Embry, “If it comes down to it, I’ve got some meager rations in my pack that I can share, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve eaten less than my fill. My body is fairly well accustomed to it and I’ll be fine for a short while.”

Thrall: “There must be fertile ground and there already is. I have seen plants, trees and even bees. They are very good in finding their food and don’t do so if the soil is bad.”

Welcome to The Slums

The party arrives at the Parkside Gate, leading to the slums and other uncivilized sections of Phlan. The palisade wall here is heavier than on the sea-ward side, easily four-feet thick, comprised of several sharpened spars stacked together and reinforced with stone salvaged from older buildings. The double-gate, just wide enough for a large wagon to pass through, appears to have been closed after the lunch rush earlier. It is guarded by ten soldiers in heavy, double-linked chain coifs and hauberks, with four more pacing the top of the wall above. A heavy wooden bar rests to one side, ready to drop into slots on the gate to bar it, and several angled braces for additional support also stand nearby. Seeing you approach, one of the guards steps forward. “Papers please.”

Aram walks up to the gate guards and hands them the charter. “Any news from beyond the wall today?” he asks the guards, smiling and slipping into his native Hillsfarran accent.

The guard looks at the charter for a long time, pulls out a quill and punches a small hole in it, then hands it back. “First day, huh? If you’re going shopping in the market, keep a tight hand on your purse. And keep a sharp eye out—the last group through mentioned that the Redhands have been out in force of late…”

The guard sets his halberd against the wall, another does likewise. The two then take hold of the large iron latch-bars and begin to pull the gates open, as the others fan out with their halberds ready and pointed towards the gate, as if expecting a rush of enemies at any moment.

When the gate is opened, your noses are assaulted by the stench of garbage, mud, and offal, carried on a sickeningly warm breeze. A press of beggars—children, the blind, the infirm, goblins, orcs, half-breeds, and other unrecognizable things—waits immediately outside the gate. The guards lower their halberds and march three steps forward in unison, forcing a break in the crowd. The unarmed guards wave you through. “Good luck…”

“Thank you,” Aram says to the guards. As he walks through the gate, he begins scanning the crowd, looking for anyone shifty among the beggars—anyone hanging back and not pressing the alms-bowl hard (spies), anyone near the front keeping the hand not holding the alms-bowl low and hidden (ready to pick a pocket), anyone playing up their injuries far too obviously (faking an injured arm or leg or peeking out from under a blindfold), or anyone with a the tell-tale bulge of a weapon hidden under their rags…

From the moment we walk into the slums, Thrall makes sure that his staff is in his left hand and commands Temur to walk closely to the right of him (The side were his purse is, on his belt under his tunic.

Durell falls into step with Thrall, with his quarterstaff to the outside, so, if needed it can be used to continue to push back/away any pressing crowd that comes too close. He figures that between the two of them, they can keep clear a pretty wide path.

Lothar follows Thrall and Durell, his pouches tucked inside his clothing. I walk to the outside right of the two, forming the right half of a wedge, hoping that Aram or Sven will form the left half. Left hand holds his cloack over his sword and other possessions that he can’t tuck under his clothing, while the right never hovers more than an inch away from his dagger. He glares hard at those pressing too close.

Not seeing any signs of a threat from the crowd, Aram tucks the group’s charter safely into the band of his belt, grabs his small purse, and tries to press a silver piece into every outstretched hand and bowl he can reach as he walks through the crowd, confident that the defensive wedge of the others will keep any pick-pockets away from his backpack (which has the real valuables in it).

Aram quickly exhausts his supply of silver, fairly certain that some of the beggars received two or even more, as there is no way to keep track of individuals in the forest of outstretched hands. Still, better to see it in the hands of the needy, raising them from the grips of chaos and poverty, than those of the obviously unscrupulous merchants inside the walls.

As it becomes clear to the crowd that the purse that held the silver has been emptied, they begin to disperse, leaving you a clear path up the road. One ancient-looking goblin tugs on Aram’s sleeve and croaks out in Common. “Huafk has a school. Behind the horse-seller. Tell him Huafk sent you. He’ll teach you to fight good.” You’re certain, contextually, that he said two different names there, but you feel that you don’t know enough goblin to distinguish them…let alone pronounce them correctly.

Aram watches the crowd of unfortunates disperse and thinks, not for the first or last time, that they would be much better off as slaves in Hillsfar, than free and living in the streets.

A twisted warren of shacks, lean-tos, and crumbling ruins stretches out in all directions ahead of you. The palisade on this side is covered with graffiti—lewd drawings and slogans in a hundred languages, carved or drawn in chalk, blood, feces, or whatever else was available at the time. The ancient Parkside Road continues to parallel the river here, running north-west, but shows minimal upkeep. The cobbles immediately outside the gate are cracked and worn, and just a few blocks on it dissolves into a mud path with the occasional island of old paving. The road looks barely passable, choked with garbage, debris, and people. Indeed, just a cursory look at the people (and things) milling about on this one street leads you to estimate the population on this side of the wall at at least twenty times that of “New Phlan”.

Sven will continue to keep a sharp eye on the flank he’s on. He will watch the buildings and sky as well, for potential “ranged attacks”. To Aram: “That goblin didn’t take anything, did he?”

Durell keeps moving forward at Thrall’s pace, keeping his staff level to clear away any stragglers staying in front of the “Desolate Wedge”. But turning his head over his shoulder toward Aram he smiles and comments: “I knew you had a good heart in there. Isn’t helping the less fortunate (and living) rewarding in and of itself?”

“I think you misunderstand me, Durell,” Aram says, stepping over a pile of refuse. “What ever made you think I had anything other than a good heart?” He ducks a low-hanging beam jutting from an old building. “The Council certainly seems full of it though — handing out monopolies; hiding behind walls that they haven’t been able to expand in a two years of work. They breed chaos and dissolution on their doorstep. This sort of rampant poverty in the name of pointless freedom can only lead to violence and disorder. I may not be able to repair it overnight, but I’ll take what small steps I can…”

Sven, “Aram. Do you still have our paperwork?”

“Aye,” the old man smiles, “right here.” He pats the rolled paper still in his belt. “Let’s find an out of the way place and I’ll move it to the bottom of my bag where it’s harder to reach.”

As you walk along, dodging trash and checking your pockets to make sure nothing’s missing, Durell suddenly shouts a warning. At the same time a high-pitched, scratchy voice yells out in some unrecognizable, guttural language. “Pooš! Sovetkot!” Sven turns a little too quickly to see the source of the noise and trips, landing seated in a large tub of filthy water. An ancient-looking woman with waist-length white hair, the sleeves of her dress rolled up past her elbows with a soaked apron over it, stands over him, pointing a loaded crossbow at the bridge of his nose. She continues to scream. “Pooš! Pooš! Pooš!”

The road here is filled with large tubs of water, some dark and filthy, others with a heavy head of soapy foam. Above, the area is criss-crossed with a spiderweb of ropes, from which hang clothes in various states of disrepair, all soaked and dripping. From the old-woman’s stance, you can easily tell that she is trying to block you from approaching a ramshackle old wooden and stone lean-to around which the laundry supplies appear to be arrayed. Her home, such as it is, has a heavy, moth-eaten, woolen blanket for a door and a cloud of black smoke coming from a hole in the roof.

She keeps the crossbow leveled at Sven’s face and continues to scream. “Pooš! Pooš! Pooš!”

Sven’s hands had instinctively grabbed for the sides of the tub – he now slowly spreads his fingers and turns his palms up towards the woman to show he’s not being aggressive. In the best ‘soothing’ baritone voice he can muster: “It’s alright. I’ve no interest in your belongings. We’re just passing through. It’s alright.”

Without breaking eye contact with the woman, speaking softer and faster out of the side of his mouth to Desolate: “What the Hell is she saying? I don’t know this woman. Why is she pointing a bolt at my face?” And then back: “Just calm down. It’s alright.”

“Keep calm everybody, weapons down, please. We do not want to create a ruckus here.” Thrall grabs Svens hand, trying to pull him out. “Anyone has some loose coin available to satisfy the washing lady? By the black beard of Sylvanus, where is Silren when you need him, he is one who speaks a lot of languages…”

Lothar immediately starts scanning the surroundings to see if anyone or anything is attracted to, or trying to take advantage of, this commotion.

Aram takes a step back and raises his hands placatingly. “I gave all my easily-accessible coin to the beggars,” he says to Thrall. Then, in the local Tharian he says to the washer-woman (hoping she understands), “Woah. We mean you no harm. Actually, we might be in need of your services.” He gestures at Sven’s soaked clothes…

The woman takes a step back, but keeps the crossbow leveled at you, though her aim alternates jerkily between each of you, such that you are worried it might go off by accident. She continues to cry out “Pooš! Pooš!”

Lothar, watching the surrounding area, sees a very large foot step around a corner of the street. The foot is followed by a body that looks perfectly proportioned for a human, save that it is ten feet tall. The face is soft, and round, almost child-like, and it is garbed in a shirt and breeches that look to have been sewn together from a number of similar garments. It looms over you menacingly, but looks expectantly at the old woman.

Aram, “Pooš, I presume?”

Aram turns to Sven’s question, “It’s her home. In a place like this, I would expect it is not uncommon for bands of armed ruffians to come by and take what few valuable the woman manages to collect. And we,” he waves at Team Desolate, with their mis-matched armor and collection of weaponry, walking in a wedge through the streets, pushing people out of their way with staves, “probably look just like that. Perhaps, assuming we don’t get crushed by Pooš here, we should proceed a little less conspicuously.”

Grumbling sarcastically under his breath; “Yeah, this is what I was hoping for: a fight with an old woman and a baby-giant.” To Desolate: “So, what are we doing here? Walking by hoping that that crossbow doesn’t go off and Poop won’t step on us?”

Aram, “I believe the correct response is: maintain eye contact, back away slowly, no sudden movements…”

Sven is now mildly annoyed. He lowers his hands slowly – maintaining eye contact and pausing or stopping if/when the old woman gets twitchy – to begin wringing out his clothes. “Alright. If this is about fear and protecting her home and ‘family’ – fine. I understand that. Let’s be on our way.”

Durell tries to slowly and in as unthreateningly a manner as possible help Sven out of the washbasin. With an even bigger grin (trying not to laugh), he answers Aram: "Not so much that you don’t have a good heart as how i NORMALLY think you get more appreciation and human reaction from the LIVING than I suspect you might get from the dead. THAT is what I was referring to about “warming your heart”. But honestly, that was before running into these antagonized beings." And he ends with a somewhat pained smirk on his face and continues to haul Sven away from the water.

Sven begins rolling pieces of the last few moments in his head: trying to block us from approaching her shack—it’s her home, raiding bandits, calling for her ‘son’. Sven’s arms and shoulders go slack, and with a whispered “self-realization” tone; “oh, no. dammit…”

The washerwoman’s hovel is right at an intersection, prime real-estate really. You can easily re-route elsewhere. Numerous other “people” (for a non-specieist use of the term) pass by on the side streets during your encounter. Most give you little more than a second glance before hurrying on their way.

Aram looks around for the tower, assuming that it still stands high enough to be seen past the shacks and lean-tos.

“……let’s get to the tower……” Sven carefully plucks a couple silver pieces from his small, front belt pouch (his petty change) and shows them to the woman before tossing them at her feet. Knowing she won’t understand him, he feels obligated to say “we’re not your enemies.”

The tower can be clearly seen, towering (pun intended) over this section of the slums, about a block to the north and west. It stretches perhaps seven or eight stories above the surrounding streets, tapering as it rises, though the top leans precariously out towards the near road.

Lothar nods a greeting to the giant being, almost a slight bow, while keeping his hands demonstratively in an open non-threatening posture. I speak calmy but clearly: “Our apologies, a simple misunderstanding. Please let us be on our way.” (Just because he has a baby’s face I’m NOT assuming him to be a simpleton. Plus if we can avoid fighting a brute like this, so much the better!)

Aram continues to back away, towards the alley to the right. Once he is at least a half-dozen giant-strides from Pooš, he turns, says “Come on”, and walks quickly away in the direction of the tower.

“Hold on!” Says Sven while stopping abruptly. “I have unfinished business with that woman!” He begins hurriedly removing his cloak (places it at his feet) then his backpack which he hands to Lothar “hold that a moment, please.” His belt and accessories which includes his helmet (at his feet) and finally his tabard. Puts everything back on except his cloak and tabard which he folds neatly and cradles in one arm. His helmet hangs from his belt. “Thank you, lad” he says to Lothar. “I’ll meet you at the tower!” He says to DESOLATE and stomps back to the laundry-woman’s hut.

Aram stares after Sven in confusion. “He’s not going to strike on old woman is he?” he asks, displeasure clear in his voice.

Thrall: “Are you sure you want to do whatever you want to do, Sven?”

“Shall I accompany you, Sven? It seems a bad idea to be about the slums on your own…” Lothar responds, with a worried face. To Aram: “Do not fret, I believe he just wants to have his clothes cleaned, she is a washer-woman after all.” I look at Sven for confirmation.

Sven, “Woman!! Where are you? We have business to discuss!” He calls from outside the hut.

The old woman still stands there, crossbow in hand. “What back already?!” She asks, in Tharian this time.

“Oh, good! You speak Tharian. I won’t have to draw pictures! Thanks to your ‘sudden appearance’ and blood curdling screaming and your tub of foul water, my clothes are a disaster! To add insult, you point that damn crossbow at my face—AND YOU STILL ARE!!!—thus threatening my life! THEN you take my coin!!!”

“SO – either you and poos robbed me at point blank, which I would have a real problem with, OR…I paid you in advance for the service of washing these clothes!" Sven gets close enough to drop them on top of the crossbow. “Do a good job of it and I may even tip you – and come to you again in the future.”

“What do you say, woman? Are you running a business? Or a thieves guild?”

After yelling at the woman, as soon as Sven takes a step towards the woman to drop the clothes, her finger twitches and he finds a crossbow bolt punching through his armor and into his gut.

”Pooš! Sovetkot!” she yells again, causing the giant who had just begun to walk away to pivot and come back at a trot.

“AAaaaaOOOOWWwww!!! FUCK SHIT DAMN!!!!!!!”

Lothar: Right, shit hits fan, sword comes out. I attempt to strike the crossbow out of her hands with the flat of my blade. At this point, I’m not sure if the shot was intentional or nor, so I try not to harm her needlesly. I shout at the big guy in a commanding voice: “You! Speak Tharian? Easting? Cormaranthan?” (I shout each language name in the correct, well, language.) Lothar’s movements are spare and efficient, his expression hard and focussed. His body is tense and coiled like a spring, ready to respond to anything.

Durell chuckles out loud, but plants his quarterstaff firmly on the road ahead of him and jumps forward and uses the staff as a pole to swirl around to change his direction 180 degrees. Cloak flowing behind him, he finishes this flourish jumping forward in the direction of Sven, and keeps running in that direction. Not knowing Thrall’s intent, he too will attempt to use his staff to strike the crossbow out of the washerwoman’s hands, or, if more easily achieved, will keep her from loading any further bolts into the weapon. He will, also, to the best of his ability, keep aware of the presence of “Big Bob”.

Hearing the screamed explatives, Aram groans and turns around. As soon as the washer woman is in sight, he casts Darkness 15-ft. Radius, centered directly on her, hoping the loss of visibility will encourage both sides to chill out.

Seething, Sven glares at the woman “…and now you try to kill me.” All to aware of the incoming freak show: “want to sic your dog on me? He’s gonna have to go through your home to get to me.” With that, he will dash to the old woman’s front “door”. She was initially blocking it, so she’s either protective of it, or hiding something. Either way, Sven’s counting on the woman not wanting a giant trashing the place.

Sven clutching at his side, dashes past the washer woman and into her small hut. The inside is about as poorly furnished as you might expect — a pile of straw with a blanket thrown over it for a bed, a small pit containing a few smoldering coals from last night’s cook-fire, and a small clay pot filled with shit, literally.

Outside, Durell, quickly and nimbly knocks the spent crossbow from the old woman’s hands. He hear’s several shouts of “You leave her alone!” as neighbors rush to her defense. One manages to strike Durell in the head with a hurled chamber pot.

Lothar starts to swing as well. Then everything goes black. Inside the sudden darkness, Lothar feels the flat of his blade impact something hard, but can’t see what.

From outside the darkness, Aram and Thrall see the hulking Pooš lumber in, swinging his big, meaty fists wildly. Given the lack of screaming, you assume he must have missed. Other neighbors hurl a barrage of whatever is close at hand—flower pots, bricks, even a knife in the general direction of where Sven, Lothar, and Durell were.

Then a quartet of Orcs with large bloody hand-prints on their tunics, armed with swords and cudgels comes rushing in from the west, presumably drawn by the commotion. The neighbors, so ready to defend the old woman just a moment before, turn and flee up the street.

Seeing the orcs approaching, Aram pulls out his heavy, iron sword, and dismisses the darkness. “Lothar, Durell,” he calls, “stop harassing that old woman, we’ve got REAL problems over here…”

“Dammit”, Sven thinks out loud. {Nothing strange going on here – what the Hell is that giant about? Neighborhood watch-golem? Why does it beckon to the old woman?} Still holding his side with one hand, he holds open the ‘door’ to the old woman’s house and calls out to her: “Dammit, Woman! I TOLD you we’re not the enemy here! Notice that my sword has never left my side – even AFTER you put a bolt in my gut! Now, get in here and take cover! And either have your ‘watchdog’ fight the red-hands alongside of us, or stand down and get the Hel out of our way!”

Those close enough to see get a completely different look in Durell’s eyes. “Oh, yeah, I knew there’d be orcs a’plenty. Doesn’t matter if it’s in Featherdale or New Phlan, the vile beasts inevitably turn up in the wrong places and need to be driven out.” With a blood fury driving him against his hated enemies, Durell looks to use his staff to crack a few orc skulls and wades into battle gladly.

Lothar steps in front of the shack door, shielding both Sven and the washerwoman. I shrug my shield on my arm, as I shout to the orks and Poôs: “This is an accident! We have no quarrel with you, but if you attack we WILL retaliate!”

As the darkness dissipates, the old washer woman, runs, but not into the hut. Rather, she runs towards the orcs shaking her fist at them and yelling. “Što te zede tolku dolgo? Plaḱa da e zašt’t’te!” The orcs make no move to attack her, and when she reaches their side, she points back at Durell and at Sven peaking out of her hut, “Tie dvajca e apadaa!”

One of the orcs grunts in acknowledgement and they charge. Sven ducks back inside, pulls out the bolt, and shoves a wad of clean linen (of which there is plenty) against the wound, under his armor where the weight will hold it in place.

Durell wades in to meet the onrushing orcs, but is surprised at how fast the brutish creatures are. The first swings a large club low, hitting Durell broadside in the stomach and knocking the wind out of him (7 damage). Stumbling back from the blow, Durell manages to dodge the jabbing sword and flailing morningstar of the next two, striking both quick blows with his staff. The fourth brings a heavy maul down overhead, Durell steps back to avoid taking a blow to the head, but the maul comes down on his right foot to the sound of snapping bones (11 damage, and 1/4 movement).

Poos, apparently acting as slowly as he thinks, takes a clumsy swing at Lothar that barely qualifies as an attack.

Finally Thrall finishes chanting his spells, blessing your party and cursing your enemies.

“Great…” Aram mutters, “a protection racket.” Aram wracks his mind trying to recall if the bloody handprint might have any religious meaning, knowing orcs to often be religious fanatics. The symbol bears some resemblance to several holy symbols— Bane’s black hand on a bloody field, Moander’s bloody handprint with jaws in the palm, or Malar’s bloody claw—but Aram is fairly certain that the mark on orc’s shirts is more “street sign” than intended for any overtly religious purpose.

“Fine, have it your way.” Lothar says with grim resignation. He charges the nearest Orc. (As long as Poôs his attacks stay ineffective I ignore him, he was the one local to assess the situation instead of defaulting to violence.) His face is set grim, his eyes cold. Foregoing any flourishes or advanced swordplay his movement are quick and efficient. Seeking to end this fight as soon as possible, his strikes are intended to kill as quickly and cleanly as possible. But the energy he puts into his blows betrays that he is furious.

{Funny what you can learn about an individual when combat is involved}, Sven thinks to himself before switching to damage control mode. {Durell has been hampered – at minimum – and needs to be excavated before it gets worse} “Durell! Take defensive measures until we get you out of there! DON’T resist us! Thrall! Let your wolf distract the orcs! You and Aram HAVE to get Durell OUT of there!!! Each of you take one of his arms across your shoulders and FALL BACK!!"

{The big, dumb giant…} "Lothar! Keep that giants attention off of us! Try to get him to chase you! When you can, get back to base! And for Tempus’s sake – don’t let him hit you!!!”
“You three!” (Directed again at Thrall/Durell/Aram) “I’m going to run interference on the orcs!”
{alright, Tempus – let there be no doubt why you’re the God of WAR!} Sven begins looking at the linens hanging above the ‘battlefield’.

Before Sven can get a word out, Thrall, reacting quickly turns the ground under, around, and in front of the orcs to thick quagmire of four-foot-deep mud. The club and morning-star wielding orcs immediately sink up to their knees, in the muck.

Durell, driven by rage and a deep-seated hatred of all Orcs, continues to lash out despite his broken foot. Landing three solid hits, one of which sends an orc sprawling into the mud. From its prone position, the orc slashes at Durell’s leg, almost taking him down.

Finally Sven begins shouting orders. Seeing him close, Poos turns and attempts to backhand Sven, but misses, hitting the side of the hut and collapsing the structure. The washerwoman, also stuck in the mud, screams at him, “Poos! T’ orou! V’d kade se zaša!”

Lothar and Aram, already in motion, charge towards the orcs, only to become mired in the mud themself. They wade through the thick morass, but cannot reach their targets this round.

The last orc, still mobile despite the mud and still facing only a single enemy, brings his maul down on Durell’s head with a horrible crunching sound, splattering the area with shards of skull and bits of brain matter.

Thrall sends Temur in to attack the last surviving orc. “For the troat, Temur, the throat”

“NO!” Lothar shouts, distraught. “Aram, deal with them! I’m aiding Sven!” I give one last angry glare at the orc and washerwoman before wading back to the remains of the hut. “Poôs! Poôs, face me!” (I don’t actually intend to fight him, I mainly want to get his attention away from Sven.) “Thrall, can you aid me or Sven?”

Sven side steps and covers his head from flying debris. “Son-of-a-!!” {I was gonna take that hut as payment for damaging my armor! No matter – how are the rest doing?}
He looks up and sees Durell… “YOU FILTHY CURS!!!!”

Even fueled by rage, he near-instinctively assesses the battlefield {Orcs 4 on 3…but we’re getting their flank…they’re up to their knees in mud??…big dumb one is slow – have to use that to our advantage…}

“HEY SHITHEAD!!!” {hopefully this will confuse him} Sven shouts to the giant as he flashes out his sword “YOU MISSED ME!!!” He looks quickly to the orcs, positions his stance for a solid overhead sword strike and teleports BEHIND one of the orcs that will allow him to strike it from solid ground.

Thrall and Temur, still on solid ground, strike quickly. Thrall stretches across the mud and smacks the orc that Durell had knocked prone, pool-cue style with his staff, right in the temple, knocking it out cold. Temur leaps the gap across the mud and bites the maul-wielding orc on its upraised right arm, but the orc holds his ground and shakes the wolf off.

Pooš furrows his brow angrily and takes a swing at Sven, only to hit empty air as Sven teleports away. Sven reappears behind the orc with the maul, who is already distracted by the wolf, and drives his sword into its unarmored back. STILL the orc remains on its feet, though the the grimace of determination on its face turns to one of pain and fear. With a howl it spins the maul in a wide arc and slams it into Sven’s side (7 damage).

Lothar turns away from the orcs and begins wading back towards Pooš, only to be brained from behind by the club wielding orc as it finally breaks itself free of the mud and pursues him.

The third orc, still largely mired in the mud, swings its morning star at the wolf, but misses wildly.

Aram, slow as always, finally pushes his way through the mud and swings at the maul-wielding orc. The clumsy, blunted, iron sword connects broad-side to the orc’s meaty shoulder, such that, for a moment the orc doesn’t even seem to register the hit. Suddenly there is a yellow-white flash of electricity from the blade, charring the orcs flesh and hurling it sideways to land in the mud, a smoking ruin.

Aram yells, “Lothar! Quit dancing in the mud and pick a target!” {Huh,} Aram thinks, but does not say, {maybe we should put Sven in charge. He seems to actually know what he’s doing, and his orders make sense. I never would have thought of using our psionic powers to get the jump on them…}

Looking at the already unstable and muddy ground under the morning-star wielding orcs feet, he stomps down hard and focuses his mind on further “decaying” the ground and opening a void directly beneath the orc’s feet.

“THRALL, NO!!! Lothar can handle it!” For a millisecond, Sven is thankful he seen Thrall turn, for it gave him the opportunity to “shout” an order rather than hold back from the pain shooting through his side.

“Let Lothar distract the giant! We need to finish off these orcs! Use the high, dry ground to flank and strike! I also need you two (Thrall & Aram) to keep an eye – or rather and ear – on me. If you find that I’m fighting and NOT speaking – that means I’m in dire straits and need healing – LOTS of it – QUICKLY!”

He looks at the wounded orc dead in the eyes “may you spend eternity being hunted by Durell.” Sven goes to strike the orc with the maul.

Thrall turns and goes back to the fight, not being used to get commands, especially military ones. He is staying on dry ground of course. “Temur, attack the orc!!!”

Lothar’s knees threaten to buckle for a moment as his head rings from the blow. “That’s what I get for trying to protect everyone all at once.” He thinks. The memory of his training master’s face and harsh voice comes back to him: “Pick your target and stick to it like fleas on a mutt! Trust your allies to guard your back, young pup!” Lothar redoubles his pace towards Poôs while he shouts “Can anyone get this thug off my back?” I use my shield to cover my head and shoulders until I get confirmation someone is on the orc. Once I clear the mud I rush Poôs, intending to shield rush him to the ground.

Upon seeing Lothar charging towards the giant, but unsure of Lo’s endgame: “If you can help it, avoid direct engagement! Try to get him to chase you thru the buildings! We need to strike him as one, if at all possible!”

Thanks to his expertise in more-mundane digging, Aram knows just where to strike. The ground beneath the orc’s feat suddenly opens up, and the mud rushes to fill the void, dragging the orc down with it. The orc cries out in sudden panic, then is silenced as it’s head is dragged down beneath the mud.

Lothar, covering his head, breaks free of the mud and barrels towards the giant at full speed. He ducks and goes to ram the giant with his shield, but finds himself deflected by a stiff-arm from the behemoth. A painful jolt runs through his arm as the giant shoves the shield backwards, causing Lothar’s elbow to almost buckle from the force (9 damage). At least Lothar is able to maintain his own feet, small blessing.

The club-wielding orc goes to pursue Lothar, but suddenly finds itself set upon by both Sven and Temur. It manages to block Sven’s strike with it’s iron-bound truncheon, but takes a nasty bite on the leg from the wolf.

“Ggat! Pooš! Perala žea, pooš! E se presreḱ!” the orc yells, a hint of panic in its voice.

“I think,” Aram suggests, hefting his blade and wading out of the mud to go help Lothar, “given the context, ‘pooš’ might be the orcish word for ‘help’…”

“Again, Temur, again. The throat!”

{Shit! The boy’s in trouble. Aram’s moving in – if we can hurt the giant, hopefully it’ll pull its attention away from Lothar…} Sven thinks. {We’re getting worn down and our magics are rapidly running out…if we get into a brawl with that thing in our current state – we’re dead men. Maybe Durell can still help us…}

“Lothar! When you can I need you to get to Durell – take his sword and see what he has on him that might heal you!….He won’t mind! Whatever you do, DON’T turn your back on the giant to do it! Thrall! do you have anything to heal anyone?”

{F***** orcs! Got to take them out NOW!} To Aram, “If we’re to have a fighting chance against that giant, we need to take away his mobility, or take away his sight!” {Hang in there, boy….I’m coming! Tempus protect him!}

Thrall easily delivers the coup de grâce to the orc he had previously knocked out with his staff.

Temur leaps for the last orc’s throat, but is blocked, ending up with a mouthful of club instead. With the wolf’s bite pulling the club away, Sven sees the perfect opening and slashes across the orc’s mid-section opening up the orc’s belly. The orc drops the club and staggers backwards, miraculously still standing, but holding its own bloody entrails in its hands.

Meanwhile, the giant swings furiously but, his blows glance harmless off of Lothar’s raised shield as the latter staggers about. Suddenly there is a sound like a crack of thunder as Aram strikes the giant from behind. Hurt for the first time, the baby-faced brute begins wailing and runs away down the street.

Given a brief respite, you turn back to look at where Durell fell, and see a pair of filth-covered children (or at least they are child-sized) have already crept in and are picking over his corpse. One is pulling off his boots, while the other rifles through his pockets.

The orc is, very clearly, busy holding his guts in. He is doing a rather poor job of that actually. You doubt he’s got any fight left in him.

As the giant turns to flee, Aram swings at his exposed rear. Aram’s blade, blunted though it is, tears clear through the back of the giant’s meaty hip, slicing through both his hamstring and his femoral artery, and biting into the bone beneath. The giant crumples to the ground in a heap, blood spraying from the massive gash.

Aram looks down at the crippled, bloody, and bawling giant and shakes his head. {What a bloody waste} he thinks, {well, maybe I can talk to it later}. He lifts the heavy blade as high as he can, right over the back of the giant’s neck, and let’s it drop, nearly throwing his shoulder out in the process.

Once he has severed the head, he kneels over the body, oblivious to what else might be going on, and says a brief prayer:

“Blessed Afflictor, Exalted Interrogator, Sacred Parasite,
drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
From those that would not heed,
we offer praise to those who do,
that they might turn their gaze our way,
and feed the hunger of the Gods.
The roaring of lions,
the howling of wolves,
the raging of the stormy sea,
and the destructive sword,
are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.
Look on the folly of these servants of entropy,
and grind them to dust unmercifully.
May their knavery and folly be ground from the record of time!”

Lothar sighs in relief and looks Aram in the eye, at first grateful, but then his eyes turn sad and mournful as he glances at the giant. “Thank you Aram. A shame it had to be this way, he seemed the most sensible of the lot…” His eyes clear up a bit as he visibly gathers his shaken resolve: “Best see to our defence and get ready, who knows what else this commotion will attract!” He strides/limps towards the others, but his gait falters and shoulders visibly slum when he sees Durell. “Aram, Thrall, Sven, how are you for the healing arts? Has anyone seen a defensible position we can retire to?” Lothar also keeps an eye on the orc corpses, and the crowds reaction to them, trying to gauge their standing in the community: Is the response to their deaths fear, relief, grief, something else?

Thrall rushes to the corpse-pilfering kids and tries to push/ shoo them away from Durell’s remains. Thrall calls Temur back to him to guard Durell’s body. He kneels down, closes Durell’s eyes and prays for his soul. “Sylvanus, Lord of the woods, take this soul to the realms beyond space and time, only to return in a better life…..”

As Thrall rushes Durell’s body, the children dart away, one bearing his boots and another a small armload lifted from his pockets.

Within minutes the traffic on the street quickly returns to its pre-altercation levels. Looking around at the gathering crowd, Lothar sees a mix of reactions. Most seem downright ambivalent, walking by the bloody mess as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. A few, mostly children, knackers, and rag-pickers, look quite pleased as they dash in to strip whatever bodies your party are not actively watching with the expert precision of long practice. A handful, maybe a half-dozen, look at you with a mixture of anger and fear in their eyes, though whether that is out of care for the orcs, or concern for yet more violence in their neighborhood is hard to tell.

The old washer woman is nowhere to be seen.

Seeing Aram kneeling over the decapitated body of the giant, one child, of truly indeterminate race (with the sharply pointed ears of a goblin, the hairy feet of a halfling, a shock of gray-white hair, and reptilian-looking eyes), sidles up to him. “Hey mister!” she (you think it’s probably a she) says, “Why’d you kill Bert? Did he do something bad again? You killed some Red Hands too! That’s pretty neat. You workin’ for one of the other gangs? I hear Matteo’s called ’em all together for a meeting tonight…”

{Ugh, what is that thing?} Aram thinks, looking at the child. {It wouldn’t even make a decent slave most-like. Are the people out in these slums really so degenerate that they will breed with anything? Maybe the Council is right to hide behind their walls. Better to burn it all and start over…}

“Thank you, sweetie.” Aram says, wearing his usual kindly old-man smile. He pulls a large, empty sack out of his pack and stuffs the giant’s still-bleeding head into it. {Perhaps Bert will know something useful…} he thinks, as he walks over to where the others are mourning Durell.

He bows his head in silence for a moment, then speaks up. “It would be best to inter him before more scavengers come, and it did not look like there was space set aside for graves inside the wall. The ground is still soft here. I have picks and shovels in my pack. Shall we?”

“Also,” he adds, “apparently there is a meeting of the various gangs that run this section of town tonight. Perhaps we should round up Silren, Embry, and Osakh and pay them a visit…and give Durell a proper tribute.”

Sven, still covering the injured orc at sword point, who I guessing is in close proximity of most of the other (non-giant) bodies yells at any looters or would be looters “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! If anything is taken, you’ll pay in BLOOD!!!” (In a much calmer tone) Come here Lothar, watch over our friend here while I patch you up. You did well, lad."

Sven, "Thrall – not to be grim, but – take anything of value off of Durell. He had a sword, for r sure. Weapons, scrolls, armor, potions, pouches, jewelry…we need need it more than he does now. He was a warrior true, and he died a warriors death.”

Thrall to Aram: “Are you serious? Paying the local thugs guild a visit? Are you sure you did not get a serious blow to your head?” Thrall picks Durell’s body as clean as possible, taking everything except his clothes.

Sven, “We’re taking this orc in – let’s see if someone can get some information out of him about these “gangs.” Speaking of which – let’s take anything of value off of these dead orcs as well, including their “red hand” shirts – maybe these’s a bounty on them.”

After Sven’s ministrations, Lothar looks much better. The same cannot be said for the last orc. In the time it takes Sven to finish casting his healing spell on Lothar, the orc’s eyes roll back in his head, his arms go limp, dumping his entrails onto the ground, and he falls down dead from the massive blood-loss.

Aram shrugs at Thrall, “Not a guild, I’d think. Judging by the blasé attitude of the locals to violence, I’m assuming these gangs fight all the time. Tensions will probably be quite high at such a meeting. If we can catch them by surprise, we could probably provoke them to kill each other, and deal a significant blow to the forces of chaos in this town. There might not be another chance like this for a while?”

Hearing Sven’s recommendation to take anything valuable off the orcs, Aram pulls out another bag, and his enchanted dagger, and goes about severing all of their hands and collecting them in the bag. For good measure, he takes the hands off the giant as well.

Thrall: “Do I really want to know what you are going to do with those hands?”

{Probably not,} Aram thinks, {but I’m going to tell you anyways, because one should always be honest.} “The Blessed Afflictor can grant me a spell that will animate them,” he says. “They’re quite useful really. I can manage as many as four with a single prayer, and they can be programmed to perform certain tasks, or controlled by thought, almost as if they were my own hands.”

He grins, “I was thinking of filling a bag with them and commanding them to attack when the bag is opened. Then all we have to do is find this gang meetup, and chuck the bag through an open window…”

“Thank you Sven.” Lothar says, taking over his position guarding the orc. Dividing his attention between the orc (never letting my eyes off him!) and the discussion among Desolate, he comments “Thrall, I HAVE been hit over the head, and I think it’s a bad idea! We lost a man, took a beating and this was only a lowly patrol…” He avoids looking at the corpses being picked clean, while he understands the practicality of it, looting corpses in the middle of the street doesn’t sit well with him, especially the taking of heads and hands.

Sven, “To be clear – I will kill anyone or anything wearing this “red hand” symbol going forward. But the boy is right – this was sloppy. We need to work more as a fighting unit. And we need more than 6 or 8 of us to take on gangs of orcs.”

“Oh, come now,” Aram says, “other than Durell running off and attacking the orcs by himself…and Thrall trapping him in the mud…and Lothar running back and forth like a chicken with his head cut off…and you threatening little old ladies in the first place, I think we did quite well.”

Sven will use rope from the (once) hanging clothes to tie up the orc. First his legs, then his hands behind his back. Use the clean-ish linens to bind his wounds and then tie a rope around his arms and torso. He will free his legs just before we leave. Durell will be wrapped in the cleanest, white linen to be found before we lower him into the ground. Then he’ll pick up his own clothes, and wrap the orcs uniforms – and whatever else they may of had worth something – into a makeshift sack made from a piece of linen.

Lothar helps Sven wrap and lower Durell into his grave. “Durell, you deserve better than death and an unmarked grave in the slums. I hope your Gods and ancestors welcome you with open arms, my friend. May the soil rest lightly upon you.”

After everyone has said their peace, Aram drops a gold coin on top of Durell’s interred body, to pay whatever ferryman might be waiting to bear him to his plane of repose. Then shovel in hand, he begins filling in the hole. Before finishing, he pulls out a bag and puts two hands-full of the dirt from the freshly dug grave into it.

Aram looks around, at a loss for where to go after the death of a companion. “I can see the tower over there,” he says pointing, “and the market over there,” he points the opposite direction. “Are we okay to continue?”

Thrall: “Let’s go to the tower. On the way back I need some fruit from the market. I promised Silrens bat something.”

Sven, “Durell is gone. We have a captive. We’re in hostile territory with said captive who likely has a lot of friends willing to help him out, not mention the old woman who called these dogs on us in the first place. We’re hurting, low or out of spells, two of our members still in town, and you want to continue to a tower – to see a wizard – that we can just visit at the FUCKING SCHOOL tomorrow?!?! And to get fruit – that we can also get in town – for a damned BAT?!?!”

Aram turns and smiles at Sven as he leans down to cut the hands off the dead, but tied up orc — taking pains to avoid the pile of entrails lying in the mud beside it. “A rebuttal, if you will, friend. Your ‘captive’ here is clearly dead. You and Lothar have been healed. My supply of spells is still fresh from this morning. Silren and Embry were heading to the Bitter Blade, and could be fetched in less than ten minutes, and are both fresh…” he turns and points to where the roof of the three-story inn is clearly visible over the top of the wall, no more than a hundred yards away. “The wizard’s tower is a half-a-block yonder, hardly a long walk, even if we backtrack to the Blade to fetch our friends. The wizard’s job posting specifically stated that we ask for him at the tower, rather than at the school. And it is only three in the afternoon…”

“I know we’re all a bit rattled after Master Farnhed’s death, and I understand if you feel we are not up to the task of avenging him this night. But surely this altercation is not cause to abandon all that we had planned for this afternoon, especially since this was an altercation that could have been easily avoided IF YOU HAD JUST WALKED AWAY WHEN THE REST OF US DID…”

“As for the ogre. Osakh said he would meet us in the Slum’s Market tomorrow morning, but I saw him heading towards the gate after we last spoke, so he may be in the vicinity now, should we need his assistance. He’s not exactly inconspicuous…”

Thrall: “For now I am out of spells. Some rest would be nice, walking and talking would do the job, I am not used in fighting for my life every day or every other day.”

Aram nods to Thrall, “Let’s at least go back and get Silren and Embry then. It’s not far and we can figure out what to do after that….well, after that.” He hefts the bloody bag of hands and the bag with the head over his shoulder and turns back towards the gates.

Phlan Public Training Hall — Outside

Meanwhile, back at the Training Hall, after another fourty-five minutes of waiting, the doors open, assaulting your nose with the smells of smoke and ozone. A massive ogre, a full head taller than the one that was accompanying Aram earlier, with blue skin and long robes embroidered with flames pushes them open and takes down the sign. Behind him, the courtyard is hazy with smoke. A score of students are milling about. A couple pat at burns on their robes, and one is rolling on the ground trying to extinguish his burning clothes.

“Professor Manabu, I presume?” Rasped Silren as he bowed deeply. “Might I borrow a moment of your time? I’d buy you lunch if you haven’t fasted yet.” Silren actually fits in with his burned look, perhaps a first for the mage.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong person,” the ogre says, “shall I fetch the professor for you?”

“My fault, you look too impressive to be but a student. Would you lead me to him? I wouldn’t dare “fetch” a master of the evocative arts. What was that Torgo? You knew he wasn’t Manabu? Well next time speak up!"

“I’m his assistant,” the ogre says, with a small bow. “Wait here please, I’ll not be a moment.” He pivots, takes three steps back into the Training Hall, and vanishes.

Silren didn’t much like ogres or ogre magi. But he did respect power. He could let such common prejudices hide under the surface for power.

A minute later, an ancient-looking man with a flaming eye tattooed on his forehead hobbles out the door. “Inurn said you wanted to see me?” he asks, his voice scratchy and wavering with age.

“Yes. My name is Silren. Some call me the Burnt. I am new to Phlan. I am a young mage… and I wish to get to know others that may help me pursue greater mastery of the Art. While I do not feel quite ready to advance to the 4th Circle yet, I wanted to meet those who I would be able to study with soon. I also have a few questions of the old city and the old graveyard. A group of my companions are preparing to venture there on the morrow, and I wish to be aware of it’s dangers and history.” He bowed. “If you have not had lunch, I would gladly treat you today in return for some light conversation. Or deeper conversation if you like to discuss the Nogian Empire.”

The ancient mage coughs and runs his tongue along his few remaining teeth. “I do love a free meal, but I have a class on Jogishk literature starting in fourteen minutes. I do have time for a few quick questions if you have them, otherwise you’ll have to catch me during my office hours…”

“When are your office hours, Master? I am starved for intelligent conversation as my current companions are rather droll (Except my friend here, of course), better for standing in front of me as shields than discussing the secrets of the ogre and giant races or metaphysical & esoteric topics.” Silren reached into a pouch at his waist and drew a handful of shelled walnuts and plump raisins, chewing on a few before offering a some to the venerable mage. “Anything you know about the old graveyard and what dwells there or what secrets it may hide would be of the most interest to me; as well as what it would take to eventually teach here at the Hall.”

The old mage waves away the nuts, “The old graveyard, eh? You know, the Council has offered good money to anyone who can learn something useful about that place. Now, a wise person would look at that and think, surely anyone who knew about the graveyard would already have cashed in, therefore, since the Council’s offer still stands, there must not be anyone with any useful information about the old graveyard…”

He cackles, “As for teaching? Have you ever taught ’ought before?”

“I’m new to town, humor me. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors at the very least… and I trust a learned man over a sod in the Bitter Blade who eats the mystery meat if you catch my drift. And as for teaching, I’d be open to learning how when I try for the 4th Circle. I’ve done my share of showing the lower ranks the ropes in Hillsfar, so I have a start. I’m actually interested in teaching languages and history more so than magics if there’s any coin in it. If this adventuring thing is a wash I still need to eat.” Sil said between bites.

Torgo squeaks from atop the stave. “Yes. And to feed you. Hopefully the others remember to bring you some fruit.”

“My expertise is with the humanoids—orcs, goblins, and ogres—dwelling in the old city,” Manabu says. “I can tell you they avoid the graveyard, and have since the city last burned. I can’t tell you anything about what might be there now, but I do know that Valhingen Cemetery has been on that same spot since the city’s original founding in the year 367. A thousand years worth of corpses have been laid to rest in that place. Conservative estimates claim that at least a hundred thousand bodies have been laid to rest there, though I’d wager it’s several times more than that…”

“A wise man would find a way to put those bodies to use,” He grins. “But, that is my time, I must get to my class. I keep office hours at the Bitter Blade during the Middle Watch. You can find me then if you want to chat more…”

He turns back towards the Training Hall and vanishes.

“The original founding? I was led to believe that Phlan was founded by the Nogian Empire during the Founding Time around 4,000 years ago. Hmm…” Assuming Manabu doesn’t turn heel after his comment aloud, Silren makes his way back to the Blade, and his room… both to commune with Manos in private and to wait until Middle Watch to continue his discussion with the elder wizard.

Embry, “As terrible as it sounds, don’t we have an expert in the dead amongst us? Could that perhaps allow us an advantage? We could make sure he doesn’t do anything vile, maybe just speaking with them?”

Silren, not-quite-alone, walks back to the Inn and thinks about what to tell (& ask) the necromancer spirit about Phlan and it’s immense gravesite. He himself had little taste for necromancy… But perhaps there was a relic or item the spirit knew about to help him capitalize on the ancient corpses. If anything knew of a Nogian artifact capable of such feats, it would be Manos. Sil sighed, he knew the thing had continued interests in this world, some of which contrasted with his own ambitions. Silren really didn’t want the world to end if he could rule it himself someday… Or at the very least he’d like to grow old and comfortable.

“Ah, Embry. You know what I like about you? You’re so silent I don’t even notice you’re here half the time!” The wizard smiled. “Aram is harmless. I am also pretty sure that he has a very limited number of minor undead that he can command. I will commune with some spirits once we get back to the Blade and see if there’s anything else I might be able to do to locate additional assistance in the defense of the undead variety.” Or command them myself thought the mage. “I may also be able to speak with the dead, but the power is draining on me and I can’t do it every day… And there is a limit to how old the corpse may be. And please do not mistake me for a necromancer. I am more general in my studies, I much prefer evocations over necro-diddle.”

“Well anyways, we are here again at the Blade. Beware the bolts from the heavens, my Embry. If you would be so kind to give me an hour of privacy, I shall meet you down after and take in some of the local flavor.” Sil considered his words. “Not of the food. If something threatens you – come up and rap 4 times and I will come out. Rap 6 times followed by 4 and I’ll come with spells blazing. I suggest 4 times if I’m needed.”

Embry gives the space requested, heading down to take in some of the local talk. He will try and place himself in a discreet corner and just observe and listen.

Silren retires to his chambers. He places the amulet of the forgotten necromancer on his bedding, withdraws his dagger and pricks his finger. Drip, drip. The blood drops on the metal and vanishes upon contact, almost as if the medallion were drinking the lifeblood. Sil begins chanting in Nogese softly. Manos was not strong that day. It took the better part of a half hour for Silren to bridge the gap between mortal and spirit realms. The room grew cold and the hair of Sil’s beard prickled. He knew he was there. Instead of asking a question right away, the mage told the dead wizard all that had transpired, where he was located and of Aram and the cemetery. And after that, he posited, “What do you know of this place in your time that may benefit me on the morrow, oh wise master?” Torgo fluttered about anxiously.

Silren feels a familiar presence in the room, indistinct and chilling. A low voice, barely audible, echoes from the medallion. “Shortly after the rise of Myth Drannor,” the voice says, “the half-brother of the Coronal, our own king, came here. A small shipping port it was, impermanent, nothing. Where there was nothing, two cities were built, this one on the north shore, yours on the south, so that we might trade with the elves. Deep beneath the cities, in the waters that fed them, we placed the first two of the created, so that we might control the inhabitants. They contaminated the water and bewitched the mind and made the populace complacent. Easily ruled. Oozing, lurking, immortal things. Still there even now, I would suspect. You…” The voice grows weaker and trails off, but the presence remains. After several heart-beats it speaks again. “Time is short. What gift would you have for the morrow?”

“To speak with the deceased, ye of the Hands of Fate. I shall bring you something with more blood the next time we talk. I had no time to find something more suitable today. Keep strong and I will keep memory of you, to strengthen your connection to the realm of the living. In vita est memoriae.” The wizard waved his palm over the medallion to conclude the visit. He then replaced the relic over his head, used the chamber pot and left to meet Embry. Perhaps he’d try a game of Old Man’s Bones if anyone had a set.

Sil tells Embry that he is exhausted and will catch a nap instead, and to wake him when it’s supper time. There will be plenty of time for Old Man’s Bones later.

While he’s waiting for the proper time to wake Sil, Embry will move to sit at the bar if there is space and attempt to get information on the state of the city’s people, especially the poorest people. For obvious reasons he feels a connection there and just wants to know if there’s any needs to be met.

Even after the end of the lunch rush, the common room of the Bitter Blade stays fairly busy. The majority of the clientele appear to be of an adventuring persuasion, judging by how well armed everyone is. You also notice quite a few priests, from the many nearby temples. Conspicuously missing, especially as you watch their shifts end through the door, are the guardsmen from the nearby gate and bridge, who you would expect to stop at the nearest available watering hole.

Embry: I will attempt to broach that subject with the patrons, in as subtle a way as possible. If someone else is “protecting” this place, I’d rather not be taken by surprise. I will make off-hand remarks about not seeing guards around the place and how it must “police itself”. I’m also trying to make friends with some of the patrons that seem to carry themselves like " regulars" and making small talk with them, steering the conversation to stories of people they’d seen “cause trouble” and what happened to them.

One of the patrons, who has more than a bit of orcish blood in him judging by the gray-green palour of his skin, laughs. “Eh,” he says, “all the guards are from Hillsfar. Racists pricks every one of ‘em. If you’re not human, or can’t at least pass for human, they won’t give you the time of day. Wouldn’t be caught dead in a place that serves the likes o’ you and me. They all drink at the Laughing Goblin with the other racist pricks.”

“Troublemakers, you say?” chimes in a slender man dressed all in black and festooned with daggers. “Won’t find any around here.” Everyone in the bar bursts out laughing.

“Eh, don’t listen to them dunderheads,” says a dark-haired barmaid. “Ain’t no troublemakers ‘cause they know the punishment for startin’ anything is being chucked off the top o’ the wall, naked, in the middle of the night, to be eat’n by whatever might be waitin’ below. More ‘n a few of ’em just end up back here in Cooky’s stew pot…”

Everyone laughs again. “That’s right,” a heavily battle-scarred dwarf catcalls, “you’re probably eatin’ the last guy who started a brawl right now.”

“The Council’s punishments are only so harsh because you all really are troublemakers,” yells a white robed halfling woman with, oddly enough rabbit ears. “Speaking of which,” she says directly to Embry, “I heard there are a bunch of pirates set to get chucked off the wall tonight. You should head up to the roof, there’s a really great view from there. All the begging and pleading and recanting is quite the thing to watch if you’re new to town…”

“Also,” she adds, “they’re only joking about the stew. The Cook will take meat from whatever monsters the adventurers happen to bring in, but never anything humanoid.”

Embry: I continue the small talk long enough to be polite then head back to my quiet corner, awaiting my predetermined time to head upstairs, making a specific mental note to mention the pirates as soon as he emerges.

22 Flamerule, Year of the Helm, 1362 DR

The sailors aboard the Escapade and Valkur’s Wake work through the night, rigging the smaller ship to be towed. By the time dawn rolls around, the two ships are well underway. The morning wind is brisk and Escapade is forced to travel at half-sail to avoid straining the smaller vessel.

As the two ships swing around the long stretch of Thorn Island and into Phlan Harbor, you get your first view of the city. The harbor is surprisingly quiet, the gulls, jaegers, and dolphins that had been following the ship abandon it as it passes into the sound side of the island, and dead fish can be seen floating on the water’s surface. Wisps of smoke drift up from various parts of the city, whether from forge, or chimney, or arson is impossible to distinguish. The skyline is dominated by a massive castle of white stone, a few spires lean precariously in places, but the whole is still gleaming in the early morning light. Around the castle, the once-great city sprawls broadly, split down the middle by a wide river, cloaked by morning mist. The buildings that you can see are in various states of disrepair—with a number of large, ancient, crumbling mansions visible on the north-east side of the river.

As the ships pass the river’s mouth, you see, dead ahead, a small section of the city near to the water’s edge, not more than a four or five blocks across, has been walled off. A high, wooden palisade wall, reinforced in areas by the remnants of much older looking stone towers, has been erected around three sides, with the fourth being the docks. Several large buildings are visible, and, judging from the scaffolding surrounding most of them, a significant amount of construction is still ongoing. The wall appears heavily guarded, with men stationed in twos and threes every thirty or fourty feet along its top. The docks, which you now approach, look like they comprise at least half of this section of the city, with buildings built almost haphazardly on the piers and pilings extending out into the bay. Even now you see signs of construction happening on the outer edges of the docks, leaving only one or two moorings available—not a problem since you see only a small handful of fishing craft, and no ships other than your own.

To the west, just past the palisade, you see that a massive shanty-town, easily ten times the size of the walled section, has grown up, filling what look like some of the oldest and most run-down sections of the town and spilling out of the ruined walls of the old city and along the shore.

From his perch (which is certainly getting old, and causing cramps in his muscles), Durell scans as far as his sight will allow. In particular, he looks to see how the docks and the palisades section are situated in relation to anything that might be potential farmland. He will then shinny down the sail-less mast and will search out the remaining Featherdale settlers to query them as to their plans for “next steps”. He will also look to find someone in that group who might be a reasonable “leader” for this group.

Durell finds one of the Featherdalesmen, a balding, rail-thin farmer, who seems to be directing the others in gathering a sorting their belongings. “Next steps?” the man repeats with an air of confusion. “Well, if what the kobo said when we got on is true, we gotta present ourselves to the city councilors and put our mark on a paper to claim city-zen-ship, or somesuch, then the council’s supposed to give us a parcel o’ land to call our own…”

Embry is overwhelmed by the new home. “I’m finally here, as a free man on my own accord,” he says out loud, to no one in particular.

Sven, who had been circumspect the whole evening, finally allows himself a little relief with an audible exhale. He takes in all of the construction going on and almost musters a smirk (almost). He hears Embry’s proclamation and just has to ask “what does that mean?”

Embry: I point to the tattoos on my cheeks and the scraggly mess of a partial beard. “I’ve not always been a free man, my friend. I was marked as property, and stripped of my proud beard as punishment for one failing. I didn’t learn the skills I have by choice. I was an unwilling puppet in someone else’s wars, a tool, a weapon to be unleashed then chained back up.” My expression changes from dour to a hint of a smile. “Yes, this will be the place I can become myself, finally.”

Sven: I look Embry up and down curiously, resisting the urge to ask for more details, ultimately deciding to leave it alone.

Thrall: “Seems to me that you have been a free of will and free minded dwarf since you got on this vessel. Not only here but also among the passengers and crew. I guess nobody called you names or kicked you just because of your tattoos.”

Embry, “I have indeed been a free man upon the ship. But a ship isn’t a home. Not for me.”

Thrall, “By the look of the remnants of our destination a lot has happened here. I do not think that is what I would call home. To me `home` is in a large forest, but that is everybody’s own vision. Father Aram, who is still sleeping and snoring, is trying to put together a expedition north of Phlann. He asked me and several others to join him, but we got interrupted by those bloody pirates. Maybe he can tell us some more about his plans?”

Hearing his name, Aram, who while sleeping loudly was not sleeping particularly soundly on the hard deck of the ship, snorts awake. He blinks his eyes several times to focus and yawns. “Eh? What’s that?” he ask blearily. He pulls himself slowly to his feet, then stretches with many a popping sound from his back. “Someone call?” he finally asks, as he picks up his crown and adjust it on his bald pate.

Once fully awake, Aram walks over to Thrall and the others. “Ah yes,” he says after catching up on the conversation. “I am hoping to mount an expedition to the Dragonspine Mountains. The mountains were the heart of the Noga Empire, during the Founding Time which predates Netheril. My lord, The Blessed Afflictor, hails from Nog. I hope to mount an archaeological expedition to find and unearth the ancient Nogese capital of Deckon Thar and whatever artifacts or relics as might be found there.”

The old man flashes a mostly-toothless smile. “Thrall has signed on, as has Osakh,” he points at the ogre, “and master Pin,” he gestures at a dwarf among the passengers. “I’d be most happy to have you join us.” He says this last part looking at both Embry and Sven.

“There are some logistical issues to work out first, of course — provisions, and tools for digging and climbing, and pack animals, and porters. An expedition of this magnitude won’t be cheap. So I plan to do some work for Phlan’s council first, as I hear they pay very well for any groups willing to help reclaim and rebuild the older sections of the city. Which you’d be welcome to join me in as well.

Embry, “I’d be willing to join up in such a crew. I’m not a historian or anything like that, but I’m eager to help.”

Lothar walks over from the railing where he had been watching the city approach and says to Aram (but also adressing the group as a whole): “Since I’m here with the intent of digging up some history of my own, perhaps we can work together? I’ve go grand expedition planned or such, but I feel our goals align and we may be of value to each other. What do you say?”

The old man smiles and offers a hand to Lothar, “Aye. The more the merrier!”

“Excellent! I look forward to our joint adventures.” Lothar says with a smile. After shaking Aram’s hand, and those of his new associates he turns back towards the railing saying: “I’d like to get a good look at our new hometown before we’re in the middle of things…”

A bright-faced boy of maybe fourteen years, dressed in a slightly over-sized, but very well made coat of brigandine and with a broadsword slung at his waist comes over. “Don’t forget me!” he says excitedly, looking at Aram and Thrall. He extends a hand to Lothar, “Name’s Eddie!”

Lothar: I shake his hand heartily, a broad smile on my face: ""Hello Eddie, well met!" I look at him for a moment, and then at the civilians as my face takes on a (slightly exaggerated) serious, thoughtful expression and ask him: “But with all the seasoned adventurers leaving, who will protect the settlers?” I hold his eyes, neutral of expression but very attentively. How does the boy respond to this question, can I glimmer his thoughts and feelings from his face?

The boy laughs, “It’s a big city, with guards and everything!” He points to the rather heavily defended wall. “I’m sure my aunt and the others will be fine!” His voice as he says this betrays not even a hint of doubt or irony, though the youthful upswing of his voice makes the end sound more like a question than a statement.

Sven’s attention seemed to be divided between the conversations going on between the men surrounding him, the surroundings, and his own thoughts…until he filtered out the young man speaking to Lothar. He whips around and when he sees Eddie, Sven turns pale as the blood rushes from his face…

Seeing the apparent distress of the others, Aram steps up to the boy. “Aye, Eddie, but one skirmish and a magic sword does not make you a warrior overnight. You’ll need to learn the trade before you’re ready to go rushing off to face whatever horrors wait for us in the Ruins. Trust an old codger who’s been stabbed more than his share of times, that you’ll be wanting some training.”

Aram smiles and puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It just so happens though, that Phlan is a great place for that. I hear there is a publicly funded training hall where all manner of soldiers of fortune can learn their craft. A few months under a proper master swordsman and I’m sure you’ll be ready to join us in no time…”

Aram looks to the rigging and raises his voice to be heard by the boy’s favorite hero. “Wouldn’t you agree, Master Durell?”

“I would indeed. Not to mention that while the “new city” may have guards, if our fellow settlers are given plots outside the walls, they will need guards of their own – perhaps even ones with magical swords and over sized armor." Durell grins at Eddie, knowing this wasn’t what the lad was hoping to hear. "If nothing else, Eddie, you can oversee our fellow Featherdalemen as they apply for citizenship. You might want to talk to him (pointing to the balding thin farmer) and offer your services as a bodyguard, or whatever he thinks he needs.

If Durell noticed the reaction from Sven, upon seeing Eddie, he will non-chalantly make his way to Sven’s side and ask “You seem like an able sailor, but you also look a bit peckish at the moment. Anything bothering you in particular? My name is Durell. Pleased to meet you”.

Sven watches Eddie as he goes about until he is able to turn his attention to Durell: “What? No…the boy, he…he reminded me of someone.” He looks to the top of the mast: “Shame on me for not looking up.” Looks back to Durell: “Sven Dagdresson. Pleasure. I’m, uh, no sailor, but it’s good to know I have the look if I decide to give it a go. You’re with them?” nodding in the general direction of Aram and company

Thrall: After seeing dead fish in the water, I take a sample of the water( it is a lake, right?) And scoop up a dead fish to examine both. Thrall tastes the water. Disgusted, he spits it out. " This water is foul. It tastes of death and decay!!" Cuts the fish, a stench of something long dead fills everyone’s noses. He trows the fish quickly back in the water. “If the water and the air is like this, I really want to know what the land and soil is like. We should go on land and we for ourselves.”

As the two ships sail towards the docks, a series of trumpet calls ring out from the Escapade, signalling their arrival and situation. Similar calls answer back. At the same time, you all spot a lone arrow flying in your direction from the crumbling buildings on the eastern side of the river. You are too far to see any signs of the archer, and the arrow lands in the water with a plop almost a hundred yards short of the ships — a rather pro-forma greeting.

As the Escapade glides up to the pier, several small boats begin rowing out towards Valkur’s Wake behind it. The two deckhands wave them in and remove a section of the gunwale. A stretcher is constructed from the make-shift sails Nat was sewing, and the captain is offloaded onto the first boat. Soon a half-dozen more wait below. The settlers begin passing them the crates filled with their belongings, building supplies, and trade goods over the rail to be ferried ashore.

As the settlers begin crowding towards the boats, Nat raises his voice to stop them. “No pushing! No pushing! We’ll be takin’ cargo ashore first. Passenger manifest was lost when the cap’n went over, so we’ll need a careful accounting of heads as ye disembark. Harbormaster should be out in a minute, so just hold yer horses…or llamas…or whatever…”

Not wanting to be rude, Durell holds up a single finger to Sven and exits their conversation in a hurry, moving toward Nat and the off-loaders.

“No, I think not. Let me go ashore before you offload too much of the cargo. With us on board and our belongings on shore, there is nothing to stop the belongings from “mysteriously walking away”. This “new town” is supposedly notorious for harboring the less than scrupulous. I would rather defend our things on shore, than watch them be stolen standing on deck."

Durell will force his way through and either find his way down to the ferry, or, if necessary, will leave all but his quarterstaff with Eddie and will dive into the befouled waters and swim to the docks.

“Nope, nope, nope,” the dwarf insists, stepping in front of Durell and putting a hand on his weapons. “Ship don’t get paid unless we get an exact accounting of the passengers leaving the ship, and that don’t happen ’til the harbormaster comes aboard. Anyone wanting to leave before that owes us 50 gold per head…”

Sven – who’s wearing half of what he owns while keeping the other half at his hip at all times – goes to quickly find Lothar, Embry, and any crew still aboard from the Escapade: “Gather your stuff -ALL of it – and let’s stick close together – we’re part of the Escapade and shouldn’t be counted among the Wake’s number. I plan On walking off this boat with what little I have.” I turn to the signal officer and ask quietly “what is the protocol here?” As in: “will we be able to walk off this ship unimpeded?”

Sven finds the signal officer working alongside the dwarf and the shoremen unloading the ship’s cargo. He finshes passing a crate over the rail, then turns when addressed. “Protocol in Phlan is strait-forward. All cargo is to be offloaded before passengers so that it can be inspected for contraband without interference. Once the cargo has been certified by the customs officials, the harbormaster will come aboard to make an accounting of passengers so that the captain and crew can be paid by the Council for bringing them here. Anyone stepping on shore without the harbormaster’s approval are arrested and punished in accordance with Phlannian law…”

He lowers his voice to a near-whisper and leans in a bit, “…which, I understand, means being stripped of all your worldly possessions, down to your smallclothes, and tossed over yonder wall into the monster-infested ruins at night to be eaten alive. They don’t really brook any failure to play by the rules around these parts.”

He raises his voice back to a normal speaking level, “Once ashore, all new arrivals, passengers and crew alike, are required to report to the Council chambers to have their case reviewed and the appropriate writs of passage for traveling and doing business in town issued. An armed escort is already waiting on to escort us there once we’ve disembarked.”

Sven, “What if one pays the 50 gold?”

Hearing Sven, Nat shrugs, "Ye’re not technically one of me passengers, so I guess you’re free to get off. Though if ye wait and get off with the passengers, we’d greatly appreciate the extra gil we’d get from the Council. It’d go a long way to repairing the ship. Passenger or no, though, you’ll still have to deal with the city’s security. Council’s a bit paranoid, and by “a bit”, I mean if they find ye in the street without the right papers they assume you’re an Xvimlar spy and will banish you right quick."

“Well Nat, I didn’t plan on breaking the law as my first act upon arriving” Sven says with the slightest hit of a smirk. “Your ship could use the extra attention…I’ll go with out with the everyone else, but I’m no less concerned about my belongings being ‘misplaced’. Perhaps your men could time the unloading of our belongings to coincide with our own departure – as well as those that valiantly fought off the pirates – so that it may put our minds a bit more at ease?”

“Well, it seems ‘welcome with open arms’ means something different in Phlan than it does back home…” Lothar says glumly. He keeps a close, distrustful eye on the cargo moving to shore. I also make sure all my personal gear is stowed and ON me (armor and other gear in backpack, weapons in sheaths on my belt, spear in hand.) His whole attitude has hardened and he projects a clear martial bearing. He doesn’t like being treated as part of the trade goods.

Aram walks over to Durell before he jumps overboard. “Hold friend! None of us, neither you, nor me, nor any of the settlers you have vowed to protect paid to make this voyage. This ship and it’s crew have been through considerable duress, and their only compensation comes from the Council upon our safe delivery. Are you really so concerned to see your goods inspected by the local authorities that you would violate the hospitality of of this ship and deny them their lawful recompense for your passage?”

Alan Knicely "*Inspection* doesn’t bother me at all. It’s “unobserved confiscation” that bothers me. The should be able to inspect our goods with us standing RIGHT THERE watching. As for the “hospitality” of the ship, one would think that our assistance in DEFENDING the ship from being completely skuttled and robbed by pirates would “make us even”. But if all of you are convinced that staying aboard is the best option, I’ll wait. But I’ll wait *prepared*" With that, Durell will knock and arrow and stand at the siderails of the ship, arrow pointed at the “inspection team”, prepared to “let fly” if he sees anything being taken from his shipmates belongings.

With that, the crew finishes offloading the crates, barrels, and chests into the waiting boats, which promptly row back to the docks at the front of the Escapade, out of your view.

Thrall to anyone who is within hearing range, “I got a sneaky suspicion that we are not going to see that cargo again…..”

“That would lead to the SEVENTH time this city gets depopulated, if that’s the case…” Sven replies in a low grumble.

Aram looks back and forth between Durell, Thrall, and Sven. “Are you three always this paranoid, or do the governments where you come from just not have customs duties?”

“I guess they do, but that they also have dockworkers or officials of dubious ethics…” Lothar states, smiling at Aram. His face goes serious: “I don’t mind the inspection, but the fact that it’s engineered to be outside of the presence of the cargo’s owners does bother me.”

After several interminable minutes of waiting, the boats return, sans cargo, bearing a particularly portly halfling sporting a goatee and a red and blue slashed waistcoat. The dwarven deckhand helps him aboard with a whispered word, and the halfling laughs like the two are old friends. They exchange a few more quiet words, then Nat leads the halfling over to Aram.

“You’re sure this is the man?” The halfling asks, more loudly, as they approach.

“Aye. Twas his mark on t’ box.”

The halfling gives Aram an imperious stare—quite the feat for one who only comes up to your waist. “Might I inquire, sir, why you have a crate filled with human remains?”

Aram gives a good-natured laugh of his own. “Why, they are my porters my fine hobbit. Were you to count, you should find three complete skeletons within the box. I assure you, I have no distasteful use intended for the things, and was not intending to animate them until such time as I had exited your fine city. If the Council has any legal issue with them, feel free to dispose of them in a manner you find appropriate—I am sure new ones will be most easily acquired in yonder ruins.”

The halfling stares rather wide-eyed at Aram’s frankness. “Well,” he says with a cough, “the practice of necromancy is not itself illegal in the city, but undead of all kinds are strictly forbidden within New Phlan city limits. Would you be amenable to having the crate transported to and stored outside of the city walls to be collected on your departure?”

His eyes narrow a bit. “Also, the crate’s label identifies it as hailing from Hillsfar. I understand that the practice of necromancy IS illegal there. You’ll need to consult the Council Clerk if you are intending to apply for the Council’s offer of universal amnesty and non-extradition?”

“Aye, picking up my box outside the city walls is quite acceptable. Do you have a specific storage location for such things? I had planned on staying the the city, and may not need to retrieve my belongings until some days have passed.”

“As to the amnesty, I have no need of it.” Aram says, flashing his most disarming smile. “I can assure you that I have never, to my knowledge, broken any of our great Maalthir’s laws. In fact, the city’s prohibition against Necromancy is really something of a misnomer, in that the city defines Necromancy as Any practice of arcane magics — meaning that the animation of the dead by invocation of the gods is a perfectly legal and fairly common practice.”

“Ah…well…I didn’t know that…” the halfling stammers, clearly surprised. The tiny official quickly regains his composure. “We have a warehouse in the slums district, near the old hempers guildhall for the storage of questionable merchandise. Your crate will be sent there. I will leave a note that it is to be remanded to your custody when you come to claim it.” With that he quickly turns away and strides back to the boats.

“Alright!” Nat yells across the general hubub of the crowd on deck. “Ye may begin boardin’ fer transport t’ land! One at a time! An’ make sure ye’re counted as ye get off! Ye’re goods’ll be waiting fer ye on shore! If’n anythings missin’, take it up with this fellow!” He nods towards the halfling.

Thrall to Aram: “With all respect, father Aram, I know that we have some major ethic differences, but do you have more surprises for us besides a crate of human bones?”

Aram grabs his pack, but looks in no hurry to disembark, standing back to allow the settlers and sailors to get off first. “Why? What sort of surprises did you have in mind, master Thrall? Doesn’t everyone of means travel with servants?”

Thrall: “We all travel how we like but most of us do not use skeletons to travel with. What I meant was, is there something more what you did not tell us, but would be nice to know upfront. Things about your expedition for instance?”

Embry, “This seems to be a fair question. But then, I am a bit wary of magical arts to begin with.”

Aram nods and sighs, “Very well then. My order is dedicated to holding back the primordial chaos that threatens to engulf the cosmos. It is, shall we say, futile, as all things eventually fall to ruin, but still we fight it by ANY MEANS NECESSARY. The walking dead, while often unpleasant, are one of the greatest tools available in that fight. They are the embodiment of perfect order, freed from the bounds of entropy—they do not age or decay; they follow orders exactly and without question; and they can stand guard for aeons without sleeping. Those that think are vast pools of ancient wisdom, preserving knowledge even after the finest books have crumbled to dust and ash. If anything can hold back the eventual dissolution of all things, it is the armies of the dead. Thus my Order makes rather liberal use of the undead, but we would never do so in violation of local ordinances, as such rulebreaking would only welcome a further collapse into chaos.”

Seeing the crowd beginning to thin, he moves, slowly towards the boats. “Long ago, the Kings of Nog found one of the elder gods that preceded creation buried beneath the highest peak of the Dragonspines. Duvan’Ku they called him, and worked their magics in an attempt to awaken him and quicken the destruction of all things. My lord, The Blessed Afflictor, was among those who stood against them, but was betrayed and trapped in the temple of Duvan’Ku for many millennia. He was freed by explorers a year ago, and came to Hillsfar where he founded our Order before going off to continue his battle against the forces of entropy elsewhere. The true aim of my expedition is to seek out the Unholy Mountain of Duvan’Ku and plunder the ruins of of the Nogese lords in hopes of uncovering some secret that my order could use to further delay the awakening of the Ender of All Things. If we can uncover the means by which the Nogese sought to awaken him, perhaps we could reverse the process.”

Despite the serious talk of undeath and the eventual end of the universe, the old man keeps his cheerful demeanor and ever-present smile throughout the discussion.

“Phlan itself represents something of a microcosm of our struggle. Again and again during the thousand-years since its founding, the forces of chaos have brought this city low, killing or routing the people that live here. Always the forces of civilization return, attempting to gain a foothold and fight back against the chaos — raising walls, tilling the soil, enacting laws. Forever struggling against the overwhelming march of entropy and barbarism. There is much to be respected the Phlannian people and the Council’s dedication to rebuilding their city again and again and again.”

Sven leans towards Thrall and whispers: “Aren’t you the least bit curious whose skeletons they are? And how he “came by them?” Stands back up, looking at Embry knowingly (with a hint of self bemusement): “Careful lad, you look like you’ve got some strong bones to you.”

Embry, "If you try to make me into one of them skeleton creatures, I’ll refuse the afterlife and haunt you and your kin forever. "

Lothar listens intently. “You are a man of seeming paradoxes Aram. You say you fight primordial chaos, and this seems to include entropy in all its forms. But what about the entropy that is a natural part of life? Things must end and decay for new things to develop and grow in their place? I appreciate the need to thwart any being called the Ender of All Things, but what after? The elimination of all uncertainty, all randomness? Such a reality would become stagnant, crystalline and dead… I believe we should strive to protect a wholesome balance, safeguard against excesses of either order or chaos, protect what is wholesome and good. I believe I shall have many things to ask and debate with you… But that is for another time, for now I will simply ask you this: Should I perish while in your company, do not use my remains. Such a thing is abhorrent to me and my beliefs.” He fixes Aram with a long look, before nodding as on a matter decided and turning his attention elsewhere.

Aram chuckles, “Growth is a luxury for the young, and randomness and uncertainty seldom bring happiness, at least in my experience. If you could bring about a state of peace to the world, and then freeze it in place, are you truly saying you would not choose to?” He smiles, “I respect the desire for balance, though, really, in a world that is constantly accelerating towards disaster, working for balance between order and chaos should put us, for now, very much on the same side. The dam is ever at risk of breaking, my order only hopes to stave off the flood for one more day, and then one more day after that. And, rest assured friend, should you fall before I do, I will see your remains dealt with in accordance with the custom of your homeland…to do anything else would be uncivilized.”

Durell shakes his head as he continues to herd the last of the Featherdale settlers (and Eddie) into the boats to ferry them to shore. “Law, Chaos, stasis, growth. Who cares? Just do the RIGHT THING. Don’t let a child go hungry. Don’t let someone steal another’s belongings. Step up and defend the defenseless. Pretty cut and dried, no? Do the Right Thing.” With that, he too boards a boat to step into New Phlan for the first time.

Seeing the last of the settlers from Feathersdale are away, Aram goes and finds Osakh and the four captured pirates and makes sure he boards they are all in the same boat.

“You make an excellent summary, Durell!” Lothar says, with a mix of respect and amusement in his expression. “In practice that is what it does boil down to, doing the right thing.”

Thrall doesn’t say much during the discussion. When Aram leaves, Thrall and the rest will probably share the same boat.

Thrall: “Where he got his skeletons, I honestly do not know. Since we agreed to join him on his expedition, we will follow him, I guess. As long as he keeps his skeletons to him self and doesn’t bother me with them, I do not care much, on the outside, that is. Our expedition will lead us through a large forest, which is supposedly haunted and there he will need me.
Let’s stock up on potions and food in New Phlann and we will see were we end up”

Sven slaps his hand on Embry’s shoulder: “A necromancer, a Druid helping him, an Orge, and someone who spent the entire night and morning pointing arrows at people preaching about doing the right thing. Embry, take notes because you’re going to want to remember this tale.” He gives a surprised look to where he placed his hand on Em’s shoulder: “seriously though, keep an eye on your skeleton.” He proceeds to board one on the boats.

Embry shakes his head in response and mumbles something under his breath about “Weird mixed up crews” “skeletons” and “still better than Thay” before following Sven onto one of the boats.

Thrall: “To me he said he was a priest. No mention of necromancer thou….”

Embry, “I get the feeling thats not the last ‘secret’ thats going to accidentally come up”

Sven To Thrall: “I’m sure. Eh, no worries – nothing negative could come from someone wearing a bone crown, yea?” Looks to the land and construction going on around us “She has potential, you think?”

Embry, “As long as I’m not left alone with the creepy one i could get used to this place.”

The Docks

As the small boats pull up to the docks, you see a platoon of spear-armed guards in mail, wearing red cloaks and visored, red-plumed helms standing watch along the wharf. The goods that had been offloaded from the ship are stacked neatly to one side. Durell notes that everything appears to be present (or at least the containers are), save for one large crate bearing Aram’s mark, which is rolling towards the gates on a wagon.

The passengers who arrived ahead of you are being arranged into lines by the guards. The kobold from the ship, who appears to have changed out his traveling garb for a cape bearing the same blue and red slash as the harbormaster’s waistcoat, walks along the line of would-be settlers, stopping to chat with each of them in turn.

Aram, the ogre, and the captured pirates have been sequestered off to one side by a separate squad of guardsmen.

“I assume we’ll be joining the second group, don’t you think?” Lothar says to no-one in particular. As soon as the boat is secured to the dock he immediately jumps on land, looking around for someone in charge to address. The moment he spots someone seemingly dressed/acting in a commanding capacity he moves up to them.

Scanning the locals, Lothar sees four possible authorities: the halfling harbormaster, who disembarks from the last boat alongside the Wake’s crew; the kobold, who appears to be wearing similar livery; a tall, broad-shouldered, thickly bearded man, also into the Council’s red and blue livery, who appears to be in charge of the cargo; and a soldier at the head of the line who’s plume appears to be half-again as tall as that of the others.

Lothar: The harbormaster seems the most likely candidate, as the other three appear to have more defined areas of responsibility. “Good morrow, sir harbormaster! Could you direct us to where we are to present ourselves for registration?” In a lower voice, still clear and cordial, but not intended to carry beyond the harbormaster and any of my new associates standing beside me:" I also wish to inform you that those four (I indicate them with subtle gestures, clearly excluding Aram and the ogre.) are members of a pirate crew that employs a fireball-casting mage to prey on shipping to New Phlan." I wait for his response.

“Of course, Sir,” the halfling responds. “In just a moment these fine gentlemen,” he gestures at the waiting guardsmen, “will be escorting everyone to the office of the Clerk of the Council. The Clerk will hear your cases for applications for citizenship, or, I should guess by your martial attire, licensure for adventuring work, and issue the appropriate identification and writs of transit.”

At the mention of pirates his face darkens, “Ah yes. The elderly gentleman with the Ogre already informed us when they came ashore. They’ve apparently sued for amnesty under the law governing adventuring work, but their case will need to be heard by a judge to determine whether their crimes occurred within the city’s sovereign waters. Did you have any additional information or evidence to present?”

“I can’t say if it occured within Phlan sovereign waters, as I’m uncertain how far out these extend, but I’m certain the captain of the Escapade can inform you where we found the other ship adrift. What I can say, judging by my comrades information, is that the pirates were evidently deliberately targeting ships heading towards Phlan. It seems to me that would be of interest of the council to intervene. Especially as their excessive force, as evidenced by the mage, might dissuade future settlers from travelling here? Speaking of captains; how will the captain of the Wake be cared for, and I assume the captain of the Escapade will be curious as to any compensation for salvaging the Wake and it’s cargo and passengers? He had been most generous is his aid and assistance, I’d be remiss in not mentioning this. Could you attend to this? Thank you.” Lothar waits to see if the harbormaster has anything more to say. If not, he will give his regards and join Aram, the ogre and others. At approaching the pirates his expression turns hard and cold: “You must be glad we got here so soon, I would have liked to have a chat with you.”, he growls. His expression and stance give no doubt how pleasant this “chat” would have been…

At the mention of compensation, the harbormaster harrumphs, “As we have no ships of our own, Phlan claims no responsibility for the safety of ships, passengers, or cargoes in any waters outside of Thorn Island Sound. I am sure the captain of the Wake will be most grateful to your captain for his assistance, but they will have to decide upon compensation for services rendered among themselves. As to the pirates, I will inform the Council about the attack, and I would expect a bill calling for the pirate’s heads to be posted within a fortnight. Should you have a personal interest in these pirates, I am sure the Council would compensate you generously for their disposal, once a bill has been ratified and posted.”

Thrall steps forward and into the conversation. “Eherm, Harbourmaster? I was on board of the Valkur’s Wake. Maybe I can be of some assistance? Thrall Demonsweat is the name.”

The harbormaster starts to chuckle, then turns it into a not-so-polite cough, “Demonsweat? How’d ye get a surname like that, then?” He coughs again, “If you have evidence to present in the case, you can talk to the Bailiff at the Council chambers.”

There is a sudden silence and the sound of feet, and you turn to see the column of soldiers and settlers heading off down the street. “Well, off you go then…” the halfling quips.

Thrall: “The name was my father’s, as was his father’s and his father. I gladly call myself just Thrall, if that makes everybody a little less jumpy” ( grumbles)

The column of guardsmen ushers everyone along, with the group escorting the pirates taking up the rear. They march you along a broad thoroughfare running from the docks to the wall. After a block of walking past the expected — fish markets, warehouses, tenements, and taverns — the column hangs a left and you suddenly find yourselves facing several large, impressive stone buildings. The stone all appears to have been salvaged from older edifices, but the buildings themselves appear relatively new and well-constructed.

You march past a large temple, much less ornate than those you’re accustomed to in the South, with plain white-washed stone walls. The only ornamentation being the silver scales-of-justice mounted above the entry. Acolytes in plain gray robes scurry about in a small adjacent garden.

Next you pass a courthouse, so similar in design as to appear simply to be an extension of the temple. Here the contingent of guards surrounding the pirates peel off, ushering their charges through the front doors.

Lastly, the company stops in front of the largest structure, of the same recycled-stone construction, but much more ornate than the other two, with clear attention paid to the carving of pediments and entablature in the Doric fashion. Large double-doors stand open, flanked by long ropes forming a queue which the guardsmen usher everyone in to.

Several officious looking scrolls have been mounted on the wall immediately to the right of the entrance.

As the pirates are lead away, Aram catches up with Thrall, Lothar, and the others. “Hail friends, how goes the waiting in line? I’ve been told that all witness-testimonies in regards to our pirates must be presented in writing to the Clerk of the Council, rather than in person before the magistrate, so I guess I’m off to queue.” As he lines up behind the farmers, he stops to take a look at the board. “Information as to the disposition of various formerly-living entities,” he reads aloud to himself. “I daresay I might be rather uniquely qualified to open such negotiations.”

“If said entities are willing or even able to negotiate, that is.” Lothar responds doubtfully. “The reclamation of city blocks sounds interesting as well, but quite the undertaking. Perhaps there are some more straightforward tasks we can tackle first, get to know the lay of the land.”

Sven to his immediate company: “Mmm. What of accommodations? I personally was considering acquiring some land – seeing as they’ve parcels to spare. I may not be able to afford it alone, however. If the acreage is sufficient, I’d be willing to go in on it if anyone here had similar interest. Land to build, to grow, to heard? Perhaps some of the families on the Wake lost what they had – they’re skills would come in handy as well – and they may need the boost.” Looks towards the boy (Eddie): “Good people should be given the chance to succeed.”

Thrall: “First sort out the permits and the act of piracy. After that we will see were we will be staying. I would not mind staying somewhere on the outskirts, looking to the forest, but I cannot spend a lot.”

Embry, “My past has not left me with much in the way of funds” gestures to the crude hide armor he is wearing, “But if we do come across any sort of wealth in our working together, I would be happy to share a parcel of land with you. I don’t require much, just a small home for myself and a bit of land to work, you can have the lion’s share.”

Lothar looks somewhat embarassed: “What funds I had, I’ve expended on the trail. Let’s see what the council has to say, perhaps there are lodgings for adventurers? If not, I would gladly share lodgings or land with you?”

(Sven, somewhat upbeat) “Well,then! We’ve found common ground! We all have nothing! Yes, let’s see what the council says, but, we’re all able bodied individuals…(catches a very quick glimpse of Aram from the corner of his eye)…mostly. We’ll make a go of it in no time; if we work together.”

He gets a serious look and moves to within inches of Aram: “You, however……..we could probably get serious coin for that “silver tongue” of yours.” He stares intensely at Aram for long seconds – until he can no longer contain his laughter. “Haaahahahah! Let’s find out a bit more about your “work” before we shake on that one, yea? But, you’ve given no cause to be denied a chance!”

You wait for well over an hour as the various new arrivals lined up ahead of you are processed. After some time, a dark-haired slip of a girl, with perhaps a bit of elven blood judging by her ears, wearing the Council’s red and blue livery and holding a very large stack of paperwork, comes up to you in line.

“Greetings,” she says, with a curtsy made rather awkward by the hefty bundle in her hands. “Due to the number of applicants, the Chief Clerk has requested that we collect some information ahead of formal hearings. If you could please summarize your reasons for visiting Phlan today, I will try to match you with the correct forms…”

Aram looks at the pile of papers the girl holds. “Thank you, my dear,” he says with a sympathetic smile. “As a group, we will be needing a charter or licensure for adventuring work, writs of transit to pass into the uncivilized portions of the city, and permission to engage in commerce, if any such are necessary. My friends here,” he gestures to Sven, Embry, and Lothar, “also seem interested in more permanent settlement and the possible purchase of a plot of land, likely outside the walls. I will also be needing to fill out a legal affidavit providing testimony for a recent piracy case…”

Thrall looks around him, makes sure that the settlers standing together, the survivors of the Wake and the guys from the Escapede.

Durell wends his way between the FeatherDale contingent until he is behind the apparent leader and prods him to speak. Concerned that the “leader” may not command the attention of the elven administrator, Durell speaks up: “Ma’am, when you have time, this group desires citizenship, farmland and homesteads. Whatever paperwork applies we would gladly work to fill out.”

After scanning the postings, he also turns back to the Featherdale leader and opines: “You know, if that ‘bugbear offering’ is valid, free fish for life could be ’free fertilizer for the fields” for life!?! What say you about that? These new acquaintances we have made aboard ship might well be convinced to help with completing that task, if you think the reward is of value. Do you?"

The Featherdalesmen roll there eyes at Durell’s interjection. “Bulwark,” one woman says, “you’re efforts to protect us are much appreciated as always, but we’re not infants. We can fill out our own bloody paperwork…” She waves the stack already in her hands at him.

Chastized appropriately, Durell bows his head, stares at the ground and agrees. “Yes Ma’am. Just trying to help us all stay together. I’ll just sign my own papers as well. Again, my apologies”.

The thin farmer who was directing the loading earlier goes ashen at Durell’s suggestion. “Ye want us t’ fight bugbears? Ain’t no reward worth our lives…”

The woman laughs. “Why would we all stay together? We’re on land now, in the big city, and off to start our new lives. If I ever see this old codger again,” the gestures with the papers at the thin farmer, “it’ll be too soon.”

Durell turns to the thin farmer: “Of course not. But you will need fertilizer, right? If I can convince some of the brawnier passengers that just helped us survive the pirate attack that this ’bugbear task” could easily be accomplished, MY share of “fish for life” might well help with getting YOUR crops established. No?"

“Oh!” The thin man nods, “Aye, if’n ye want to go stickin’ ye’re head in a monster’s lair, I’ll happily take the fish.”

Thrall tries to get his own stack of papers to fill in. “Ehrm, Madam, can I get some forms to fill in for adventuring and staying in the nice city of Phlann?”

The girl curtsies to Aram and Thrall in turn and shuffles through her stack of papers. “How many in your group?” she asks looking at Thrall.

Aram counts up, turning the beads on his wrist as he does, “Myself, Thrall, Embry, Sven, Lothar, Durell, and Osakh makes seven,” he says quietly to himself, “plus room for Eddie after he gets himself trained.”

“Eight, I believe,” he says to the girl.

The girl sifts through her stack and starts handing papers to Aram. “Very well, Sir. Here are your applications for citizenship, which will need to be filled out for each individual…Militia enlistment will be waved since you are seeking an adventuring charter.” She moves some papers to the bottom of her stack, then hands him another, “Here is the application for your adventuring charter. Please note that all active participants names will need to be included on the official copy kept at the Clerks office in order for militia wavers, universal amnesty, and freedom of transit to apply, and for bounties to be paid appropriately. Should you have a change in membership, you will need to update your documentation at the Council Hall.” She pulls out another small stack of papers, “And here are the applications for settler status for your friends. Once your application has been processed you will be free to claim any unoccupied lands or buildings outside the walls that you are able to occupy and hold as a place of residence. Once you have occupied and tended a piece of land for six months, a deed will be drawn up and remanded to you and your posterity.”

She curtsies again, “I’m afraid I do not have forms for issuing witness testimony for criminal acts. You’ll have to discuss that with the Chief Clerk. Was there anything else I could help you with?”

Durell asks: “Since the posted proclamations and all but one of the ‘wanted’ items seem official, is it appropriate to assume that New Phlan is not ‘officially sponsoring’ the last item citing help for bugbears?”

The girl walks over and pulls that one off the wall and crumbles it up. “No,” she says matter-of-factly. Then, grumbling mostly to herself, “How many times do we have to tell Delbar not to vandalize the official notice board…”

“Ummm, who is DELBAR? And where might he be found, if someone were so inclined? Thank you for your help.”

“I would steer clear of that one if I were you. The council has already dispatched several agents to put a stop to his illegal trade with the Xvarts. He’s just one strike away from getting himself thrown off the wall…”

Aram nods to the girl in thanks, then looks down at the papers, “Oh, Dear. Might I trouble you for a pen?” He begins reading over the documents and inspecting what pieces of information they require, going ahead and filling out his own before asking the others for the necessary information to fill theirs out.

The citizenship papers are fairly strait-forward, asking for name, gender, physical description, age, date of birth, astrological sign, alignment of the planets at your time of conception, species, ethnicity, country of origin, town of origin, liege lord, religion, disposition of soul, profession, next of kin, family members in residence, marital status, declaration of existing property, declaration of slaves…

Actually, the forms may be the most ridiculous thing Aram has ever read.

“Thank you,” Aram says as Lothar hands him the quill and ink. Then, looking at the papers, “I think I may have stepped into some kind of nightmare…” He diligently begins trying to fill out his own, then realizes that using a dip-pen is practically impossible while standing in line. He hands the writing kit back to Lothar, “Perhaps we’ll just wait and discuss the paperwork with the Clerk. Surely they don’t expect even the peasants ahead of us to be able to supply such information in writing…”

As soon as Thrall’s paperwork comes up, he will give the right information, including date of birth (3rd full moon of the year….exactly 37 years ago, the name of his parents, Joshua Demonsweat and Isabella D’Argenteau, no brothers or sisters, no siblings and the name of his high druid, father Emain Macha of Procambur.

Later, when the young lady is answering questions about the posts, Sven follows up. “You know this Delbar, then? Fishery doesn’t seem to be much of a crime. Who or what are the Xvarts?” Should she toss the crumpled “want ad” aside, I’ll discreetly grab it and toss it to Durell.

“No, Sir,” she responds. “Fishing is not his crime so much as NOT fishing. Xvarts are nasty little creatures, a bit like a goblin, but blue, or so the guards say. Delbar has been trading with them against Council orders, bringing in far more fish than any of the proper merchants in the fish market,” she puts particular emphasis on the word ‘proper’, “and undercutting their prices. He has driven a great many honest merchants out of business already. The Council moved to put a stop to it a while ago, but now he keeps trying to post his ads to hire people to find a way to bypass the Council’s orders…”

“I see. Thank you for that clarification. You’ve been very helpful…perhaps you would be able to suggest a decent place where fellows such as ourselves might be able to rest for a night or two? Until we get our bearings.”

Sven will thank her again for her response (whatever it my be) and then wait out the bureaucratic nightmare)

The Council Clerk

After slightly more than an hour of waiting, you find yourselves in the office of the Chief Clerk of the Council of New Phlan (or so the plaque on the door says). It is a tiny space, divided in two by a solid wood desk as wide as the room. Atop the desk are three neat stacks of documents, an inkwell, a cup of silver fountain pens, a black-velour desk-pad, and an ornate wooden blotter. Behind the desk are two tall cabinets, a door (presumably to allow entry without jumping the desk), and a single chair in which sits a stern-faced elven woman, very similar in visage to the girl you met outside.

Your side of the desk is devoid of furniture, and fairly cramped with the six of you, plus the ogre standing there.

“Names?” The woman asks in an officious monotone, pulling a sheet of parchment off of one of the stacks and placing it in front of her.

Aram gives the lady a respectful nod. “Father Aram Carnithrax Decidimus, of the Second Free Prelature of the Opus Dei of Our Blessed Afflictor, at your service madam,” he says, “and our large companion is Osakh Oni-son of the Kur-Tharsu.”

He lays the stack of papers on her desk. “I’m afraid there was no appropriate space upon which to fill these out outside. Might I borrow one of your pens for a few moments?” Assuming she does not object, he takes one of the fountain pens and quickly begins filling out the forms to the best of his knowledge.

“Master Embry,” he asks, “Where did you say you are from again?” He politely peppers each party member with questions in order to fill in the forms appropriately.

“Very well,” the elven woman says in the same monotone voice, gesturing to the pens, “but be quick about it. In the meantime, can you explain the nature of your visit?”

The ogre takes one of the proffered pens and begins filling out his own forms, rather than answering Aram’s probing questions. Sven sees the Ogre filling out his forms and begins to fill out his own paperwork as well.

He hands over the first few finished documents. “My friends also seek rights of settlement to establish a farm or the like outside your gates.”

“Also, there is a case before your courts regarding some pirates who attacked us on our way here, and I would like to submit my testimony for the judge to review.”

“Madam,” Aram says, looking up from the documents. “Many of the questions on your citizenship form are quite esoteric, to the point of being beyond some of my companions ability to answer. Are all of the fields mandatory?”

“No,” the woman says. “Only your name, age, sex, species, place of origin, and a physical description are required.”

“Thank you,” Aram says, and proceeds to fill the rest out as fast as he can.

“Lothar Dravion, of House Dravion, sixth of that name. Son of Ezekyle Dravion, the Lord of House Dravion and Lady Hekaterina Dravion, born of House Istobal” I state.

“Sven Dagdresson.” I’ll wait for a moment when the clerk is not in deep concentration before asking: “who do we see if we’re interested in one of the postings (bounties)?”

“If you have a bounty to turn in, you would do so here,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. So, ah, besides Xvarts, are there other groups that should be avoided?”

Thrall to Aram: “The paperwork is for sure not for free, I guess?”

The woman behind the desk glances over the paperwork as Aram hands it to her. “Everything seems to be in order,” she says flatly, pulling out a seal and a pad of ink and stamping everything. She takes the documents and sets them aside, then pulls another off of the shortest of the three stacks beside her.

“Your charter for engaging in bounties on behalf of the Council,” she says indicating the paper. “Does your group have a collective designation?”

“Ahmmm,” Aram muses, then turns to the others. “Do any of you have thoughts for a name for our little band?”

Embry, “That would be a leadership decision, friend. I am a lot of things, but a leader ain’t one of em.”

Aram laughs, "I wasn’t any kind of leader either until last night. “How does ‘Fraternity of the Crown’ sound to you?” Aram muses. “I must admit that it’s not particularly creative, given what I wear, but should be readily memorable for that same reason. And I should think, given the lack of monarchies in this part of the world, should not offend politically. Also it lends itself easily to establishing some collective heraldry, should we have the funds and desire later.”

“How about ‘The Seekers’?” Lothar suggests. “Seeing how we all came here looking for something? While ‘Fraternity of the Crown’ does have a nice ring, it does risk people misinterpreting the name as implying some sort of fealty, and I suspect some of us to be of a distinctly egalitarian bent, or otherwise opposed to any implication of submission… No offence intended, Aram.” He stated with an apologetic smile. “The Fraternity of Seekers’, perhaps?”

Sven, “Durell. Embry. Sven. Ogre (name starts with “O”). Lothar. Aram. Thrall. Eddie. Equals DESOLATE.”

“Oooh, I like that!” Aram says. “Very witty.”

“Well,” Aram says, “I appreciate Master Sven’s wit.” He turns to the Clerk, “You may refer to us as DESOLATE.” Then, to the others, “It’ll certainly be memorable…”

“Very well,” the woman says, still in the same officious monotone. She writes out the word ‘DESOLATE’ at the top of the page, stamps it, then quickly rolls it up and slides a silk band with a prefixed wax seal bearing the same insignia as the stamp around it.

“Here,” she says handing it to Aram. “You are free to leave the city at your leisure. Should you need to re-enter, show that to the guards at the gates. You will also need to show that paper in order to purchase rooms at any of our city’s fine inns. Your individual applications for citizenship and settlers rights will be reviewed by the Council tomorrow, and, if approved, individual papers can be picked up here on the eighth or ninth ride, between the Third and Ninth hours. A herald makes the round to all inns at the Orthros of Nons-Ride, and if you have not retrieved them by the week’s end, they will be trashed. Should you have any additional questions, please direct them to any of the Council heralds.”

She gestures to the door, raises her voice and says, “NEXT PLEASE!”

Aram accepts the charter with a bow, turns, and marches out the door. “Where to now lads?”

Sven, “Well, I want my belongings. Then I’ll want somewhere to put my belongings and lay my head for the night. And, since we are now grouped together by this document, we should probably have a drink – get to know one another a bit, yea? And, for my own benefit, it would serve me well to observe the locals. Things are…very different here as opposed to my homeland.”

“I would love to share a pint with you,” Aram says as they walk out.

Suddenly he looks across the street and stops in his tracks. He seems to be staring at a short, red-robed man with a badly burned face. “SIL!” he exclaims and walks strait across the street and gives the man a hearty slap on the back. “Well met! I didn’t know you were in Phlan?”

Silren the Burnt: “Aram.” Silren rasped. “You know it was a matter of time before I came here to investigate the Nogian Empire. Hillsfar is so… restricting. It’s been a pleasant vacation here in Phlan, so much that I…” The wizard spit a greenish loogie onto the cobbles. “…have decided to stay.”

“Stay? You’re not planning to go back to grocering are you?” The old man laughs. “Oh, where are my manners. Allow me to introduce my new friends. The heavily armored fellow is Sven Dagdresson, and these are Thrall Demonsweat, Lothar Dravion, Embry, and Durell Farnhed.” He gestures to each of them in turn. “And this large fellow is Osakh Oni-son,” he indicates the ogre.

“Everyone, this is Silren. I used to frequent his family’s grocery in Hillsfar, before young Silren took up his books.” He turns back to Silren, “We were just discussing find a place to share a pint. I don’t suppose you could recommend a good pub nearby?”

“Ah. A slave to Demonsweat. Is that a new drug?” He then looks to Embry. “A dwarven slave too?” The ugly mage scratched his head. “Porters and warriors for some expedition, old man? You have a map this time? Oh, a bar? Well do you have papers yet? Otherwise you have to drink a little further from here. If you have papers, the Laughing Goblin is right there.”

Aram laughs again, “No more map than when the First Prelature dug up that mound of yours, but there’s plenty of heresay that the old city is still there on the mountain. I hope to find more information here in the city.” He waves the scroll, “I believe we’re all set for papers, for now at least, so long as we stick together.”

Aram turns to the others, “Shall we go have a drink then? Any chance I can convince you to join us Silren? For both drinks and my new expedition? It’s nice to see a familiar face, even if it’s as ugly a mug as yours.”

The wizard thought. "You did tell them what happened to your last expedition, correct? I believe the Explorer’s Guild in Hillsfar refers to it as a “calamity” and a “mistake one hopes never gets repeated”. Mutiny and cannibalism may have come up too. I might just join out of pity, Buy me a drink and show me you actually have a plan and I’ll consider it."

Aram lets out an embarrassed laugh, “So I forgot to bring enough provisions. It happens. We needed more room for the shovels anyways. And how was I supposed to know that that burial mound was ACTUALLY cursed? Sure the cartouche said ‘All who enter here shall be eternally damned’, but they all say that…”

“It would have helped if you hadn’t planned to excavate in winter as well…” Mumbled the mage. Shaking his head slightly, he turned to the rest of the party. “I’m not much for socialization, I’m afraid. Here is the Goblin.” He then shuffled off to the entrance.

Thrall: “Come on, Silren was it? Join us for a drink. I’ll buy you a glass of mead.”

While it may have been hard to tell exactly where Silren had been looking (since the scarring was quite heavy and it seemed like one of mage’s eyes may have been lazy), the new companions were sure of one thing… That the odd, rude bitter thing before them had studied them quickly and thoroughly in the span on their short conversation. “I do not drink for pleasure, Thrall. Only when the water is foul do I drink watered wine or ale. It clouds the mind, the drink. And you never know what prey’s upon a weak spirit.”

Thrall: “Water, milk, juice? Anything?”

“The water here is foul. I’ll accept an offer of watered wine or ale, but because of my thirst. Think of it this way. Would you feel safe if a man who can call primal, fiery magics from the ether lost his inhibitions? Come. I wish to sit near the hearth.”

Thrall: “Watered ale it is. Now let’s see if we can all fit around a table near the hearth in this place.”

The Laughing Goblin

The Laughing Goblin is perhaps the quietest dockside tavern any of you have ever seen, even at this early hour.

The lower floor appears well-made, of solid-wood construction, and a good bit older than most of the buildings around it. The second story looks much more slap-dash, four hastily built shacks perch on the slightly sloped roof, each reachable by its own staircase. A testament to the space limitations in the walled section of Phlan.

Inside the place is mostly empty and you easily spot an open table by the hearth. What clientele you can see mostly appear to be fishermen and locals of the poorer sort. The room is well-lit from multiple oil-lanterns, but you somewhat wish that it wasn’t — as the walls are festooned with taxidermied goblins, all dressed in hand-sewn motley.

As the last of you enter, a big bruiser of a bouncer, easily six-and-a-half feet tall and broad-shouldered, but not visibly armed, steps in front of Osakh. “Hold it! We don’t serve his kind here…” he says, clearly un-intimidated by the ogres greater bulk.

“You don’t serve much of anything to anyone it seems.” Remarked the wizard, as he gestured to the room.

“Lunch isn’t served ’til Sexte…” the bouncer replies.

“You get paid coin only when this place is busy, eh? Kicking out a group this size is unwise, think of how much he eats. We all have papers and your bosses could use the coin, eh?”

“Nope, I get paid to keep riff-raff like him out, not to let them in.” Osakh simply nods and takes a step back. “It’s no bother,” the ogre says politely. “I have people of my own that I should meet with now that I am in the city. I can find you after you’ve had your drinks…”

Silren visibly gets angry and doesn’t look like he might be able to contain it. He never liked bullies, he’d had his share growing up. Shaking visibly, his better eye twitched. The mage managed a breath through a sneer and managed to grumble to the ogre-kin. “If it’s… no… skin off your… back… we’ll see you later.” He really felt like burning this place to the ground. But he stopped. For now.

“It was so much easier in Hillsfar,” he says to Silren, “back home I’d just have to show a leash and they’d have let me take him anywhere without a word. Is the supposed freedom Osakh and his like have in Phlan really worth such rudeness?”

“Back home that bouncer’d be long dead from the arena.” Smiled Silren slyly.

“Hmmmm, It seems Phlan is a city of opportunities, but not only in the positive sense…” Lothar frowns. “I will see you later Osakh.” I give the bouncer a cold stare as I walk past him. As I seat myself at the table, I mutter to those closest to me: There must be other establishments to be found in this city, I don’t particularly care for the decor, or the attitude…"

Durell remains largely quiet, and finds a seat. Leaning forward on his own staff, planted between his feet, he mutters: “throw too many different ‘types’ in one small space, there are bound to be some ‘ill-rubbed elbows’. If civility is the ONLY loss in New Phlan, we will be lucky. That can be regained, or rebuilt by better behavior by those settling the area.” He looks over at Silren, nods, and lets only three words slip through his lips at the scarred newcomer: “Easily upset, eh?”

“Justifiably upset. Coin is coin. I get ill treatment for my face. Before that, ill treatment for my height. Yet people get mad when you turn it back to them.”

Aram looks around the table, “I’ll buy the first round,” he says. “Watered beer for Silren. Does a pitcher work for everyone else?”

“That depends on what is in it..” quips Lothar. “Mead or a light ale would be fine for me.” He adds.

Silren, in fluent Nogese: “So Aram, what new dirt do you have on the Nogian ruins?” Silren knew exactly where they were supposed to be. He would hope the misguided explorer was still misguided… some things were meant to lie sleeping and undisturbed. It did not matter that Aram was set on protecting it. His order would cause more problems if it was unearthed and some fool meddled in the affairs of dead gods.

Aram shifts back to the Common tongue, “It’s just a matter of getting there…I’m not sure these old bones are meant for too many more climbs like that. I’d certainly be glad to have a young strapping lad like yourself along, not to mention someone with your proficiency in the language.” He stops at the bar and looks at the selections, hoping the tacky place actually has mead and not just the home-made swill that so many taverns did.

Silren, in Tharian: “The biggest issue I would think would be the orcish tribes that call that area home.” Fuck. He knew the general whereabouts… and that meant more of his meddling ilk knew too. “Best to gain some strength and allies here first, eh?”

“No doubt,” Aram replies over his shoulder. “Also, since you mentioned it, I’ll need to raise the funds to make sure we have food this time too. The boys and I were just talking about taking up on one of the official postings at the Council Hall…something about investigating the status of some formerly living persons in the old graveyard…”

“That sounds like you’re thinking ahead for once.”

The bar of the Laughing Goblin, unlike the rest of the place, is really quite impressive. Four shelves run the length of the wall, stopping only where the door lets into the kitchen, lined with bottles of liquor — all glass (a rare luxury) and carefully arranged by color and size to create a rather amazing rainbow of booze. Unfortunately that one nod towards aesthetics makes it almost impossible for Aram’s old eyes to tell what exactly they have to drink.

Atop the bar at one end, sit three large kegs of the house-brewed beer, along with a sign reading, in Common, “Lunch Special: Pork and Cabbage Stew”.

The man behind the counter looks to be at least as old as Aram, fat, and hairless, save for his drooping mustache. He already has a tray ready and is loading it with clay pint-mugs and an empty pitcher when Aram approaches. “Wha shoul I fill ye up wit?” he asks.

Aram turns back from his across-the-room conversation and stares at the liquor collections for some time, transfixed. “What? Oh, yes, I need a pitcher of whatever you have tapped, a pint of the same, but watered,” he pauses and stares again at the wealth of liquors, “…and a bottle of mead, Bochet or Metheglin if you have any, but nothing short.”

Silren asks the rest of the table, “What do we know of the graveyard and the inhabitants within, living and dead? I might be able to get some limited information from magic, but it always tends to be vague at best. Is there someone who feels comfortable talking to the watch? Another who feels comfortable asking the various churches? Anyone stocked on religious paraphenalia, icons and the like? We should get an idea of the layout during the day as well and only explore during the evening if we cannot find out anything during the day. Perhaps the training hall has someone working there who knows more of the local history and undead?”

“At this point, al we know is what was stated on the posting. We were intending to get a drink to consider and co-ordinate our next steps. And here we are…” states Lothar. “If the surrounding houses are inhabited, we could also get some information from them I guess, and they’d be more like to talk to us if we knocked on their doors during the day, instead of in the dead of night. So a scouting tour during the day seems like a good plan. How much of local history is still available? It’d be good to know at least something about who or what we may encounter. I don’t know how it is with the formerly living, but the living tend to be more co-operative if you at least know a bit about them…”

“Well then, Lothar, would you feel comfortable going door-to-door? I will commune tonight, and talk to those at the Training Hall who might have a more scholarly bent. Who here is comfortable speaking to the clergy?”

Aram returns to the table laden with drinks. “You are speaking to the clergy…” he jibes as he takes a seat, handing Silren his watered-down drink.

“Ha! Maybe you’d be better off, assuming they don’t hang you first.” Silren laughed. “You know, because of the bone raising.”

Sven to the table: “Where are we staying? Is there anywhere “safe” that we can ALL stay? Meaning the Orge, too?” Mumbles to himself “damn Orge had better poise than most humans I’ve met…”

When Aram returns with the beverages: “Hold on – don’t drink yet…” He gets up and goes to the bar: “Bartender! Another pitcher of ale, and a pitcher of water. Do you have any food ready?” While waiting for pitchers and answer on the food: “Why so quiet in here? You’ve got a nice selection here – you’re right by the clerks office…”

The barkeep shrugs, “Mos’ o’ our customers are t’ employed kin’. Mos’ o’ t’ ‘venturin’ types ten’ t’ pick places closer to t’ wall. Come back afte vespers and we’ll be packed as usual.”
He grabs another pitcher and fills it with a dark lager from the tap, then goes in the back and comes back with a pitcher of cloudy, gray-coloured water. “Stews boilin’ in back for t’ lunch crowd, I can fetch y’ a bowl if y’ wan…”

“I’ll take a few bowls for table, if you can spare it.” Sven will square up with the bartender and then bus the items over to the table. Once everything is accounted for, he gathers all of the pitchers and bowls to close proximity of one another and begins to murmur, ending with a loud “…so that I may live to fight another day!”

“Alright, men…” he says as he picks up the pitcher filled with the grey water: “It may look like shit…” takes a swig “But it’s safe.” He pours a full mug of mead for himself and sits back down. “Cheers. Now where are we gonna stay?”

“Sure, I’ll have a chat with the locals. May I?” Lothar asks Aram as he reaches for the mead. He pours a measured amount (mead if Aram allows, ale if otherwise) giving the drink a dubious sniff before taking a sip. (OOC: Is it any good, or is it the swill Lothar fears seen the establishment and colour of the water?) “I’ve little experience with hauntings or the unliving, are there any precautions we can take to prevent harm to ourselves, should we encounter, erm, resistance?”

Aram pours himself a mug of beer and another of mead. “Say what you will about the decor or manners in this place, but they know their booze. Proper northern drink and none of that piss-light southern fare.” The old man smiles wistfully and stares into the distance as he takes a deep draught of each in turn, as if pondering fond memories.

After a moment he returns to the business at hand. “I doubt we need to waste much time interviewing the locals,” he says. “In my experience, people tend to be unnecessarily frightened of and rude to the living dead. No sense wasting our time asking what the superstitious locals think when we can get better information by going right to the source. Though I believe you’re right that approaching in daylight may be the best course, these old eyes don’t handle the dark too well…”

Silren, “I disagree, Aram. This is exactly why we don’t trust you to lead. You’re too impulsive. As a scholar, I insist on us doing some research before haphazardly plunging into a nest of undeath! Right guys? I mean it’s only smart to take a day or two to get a feel for the place.” He cracked a really creepy grin that was supposed to be sincere, but with the burns it was hard to tell what the actual message was.

Embry, “I tend to agree that if we’re goin to look at spirits, we may need some idea of what we are lookin at. If they are the nasty type, my spear won’t do us no good. If you’d like, I’ll accompany anyone goin to do research.”

Silren, “Then you can accompany me to the Training Hall, perhaps even after we finish our drinks here.”

“That sounds a fair deal to me”

Sven, “We can’t afford to go into this half-arsed. Silvertongue (referring to Aram) proclaimed he was “uniquely suited” for such an adventure which, if my guess is correct, we’ll need a very solid “plan B” for when things go to Hel. My vote is for Lothar to speak to the local clergy – his sunny disposition is pretty non-threatening.”

Lothar chokes on his mead at the “sunny disposition and non-threatening” remark… but quickly recovers. Wiping a drip of spilt mead from his chin he replies: “Sure, I’ll try. There’s bound to be a temple near the graveyard I assume? Silren, you’ve been here a while, do you know where the temples are that are most likely to have usefull information?”

“Hmm, off the top of my head, Temples of Tyr, Gond, Sune, Tempus and a shrine to Mielikki in Vahlegen Park. All of them are located near here, north of the building – if I have my bearings right. There may be other hidden priesthoods I am not privy to, but honestly, it is not my forte,” Silren says.

Sven, “What say you, Durell? You seem to have a talent for observing what others do not.”

“Are all of the temples you mentioned inside the walls, Silren?” Aram asks as he brushes foam away from his mustache. “Given that the old graveyard is beyond the civilized portion of the city, I would expect any temple near it to be similarly uncivilized…more likely to belong to some demon-cult or other unsavory nonsense than be a proper temple.”

“All of those places of misguided worship are within the walls and close enough to walk to.”

Responding to Sven’s inquiry, Durell answers: “Being too new to these environs, I don’t know that I have observed enough to contribute. But, that said, it has always been my experience that to underestimate the value of the points of view of the locals is to partially blind oneself to what could otherwise be plainly seen. Personally, I would be happy to accompany Lothar on his trip to the temples, but I will query the locals living in the shadows of the houses of religion, and nearest to the graveyard. Does that suit everyone else?”

Durell’s comment makes Sven slap the table with delight “See now, you can’t teach that kind of insight!”

Silren, “I think, correct me if I’m wrong, that the old graveyard is outside of the city proper. All of these Temples are relatively close – being walking distance from where we currently sit and drink. Take your pick, although if I had to make a choice, I’d prefer a comely honey of Sune over a grumpy crusader any day.”

Silrens comment nearly sends mead through Sven’s nose and he tries to stifle a chuckle “Heh, lads’ got a point – I can go to Tempus. Lothar; Sune sounds like a good one for you.”

Up until now, Thrall hasn’t said anything, just listening and looking around. The wall with the mounted heads is not very comforting. The part of the conversation between Aram and Silren in a strange language was close to outrageous. When the greyish water arrives, he tastes it, and if it’s drinkable, he will get an extra bowl for Temur. If no one else is at the bar at that moment he will ask: “Barkeep, where would I find a person who is very knowledgeable about the woods north of town?”

At Thrall’s mention of the forest, the barkeeps spits on the floor and makes a warding gesture. “Ain’ no sane soul goes there…” he says.

“And any INsane soul? I was asking for someone who knows more of the forest?”

The barkeep shrugs, “Ye coul’ ax a’ t’ Blade maybe, or one o’ them Slums dives where t’ crazy folk han’ ou’.”

“Good enough, the Blade, is it in that direction (points to the right)? I am quite new to the city of Phlann.” Thrall gives him 1 silver coin.

“I’s Righ’ by t’ Parkside Gate. Can’ miss i’.”

“Thrall, I room at The Blade,” Silren remarks. “The food is questionable at best. We can walk you there before I go to the Hall if you wish.”

Thrall: “That is not a bad idea, not bad at all.”

Well, Aram’s start was correct. Short, horribly burned, human, some what lazy blue eye, ugly. Black hair (actually decently groomed), start of a wizard’s beard. Wears deep black and red embroidered robes – the red is in the shape of two hands reaching for the sky. He carries a black staff openly and a dagger at his belt. He wears soft dark boots and has a couple pouches. You might catch a wiggle under his robes close to the heart – there’s a bulge that betrays a small animal, perhaps? He smells of elderberry, myrrh & cloves. There’s a throng around his neck but the jewelry is not showing. He might be in his 30s but with the scarring, who knows. There is a definite Hillsfarran accent to his voice and he tends to accentuate the esses a little. As in snake, sarcastic, slippery and sin. If you have a lute, you can compose a ditty and sing it yourself, because he isn’t musically inclined.

Thrall thanks the man and goes back to the table to get a glass of mead. “I will visit a place called The Blade. I need to ask some questions over there. By the way: isn’t it usefull besides drinking and talking, That we get to know each other?”

Thrall continues: “I am a druid, you might have guessed that. I am knowledgeable about everything around and within the forest, but I also have my contacts in the somewhat shadier pubs and such. And with knowledgeable I mean that I know my plants, trees and animals for good or bad use.”

Sven tops off Thrall’s mug with mead and says to him: “So….does that mean you can interrogate the squirrels of the goings on?” he says with a slight smirk. He turns to Aram: “If you’re planning on filling out a report on those pirates, while you’re there, you might want to see if the records keepers have a map of the cemetery. It’d probably be outdated if they did, but, it may help.”

To no one in particular he motions to the food on the table: “This may be the only uncontaminated food we see today. Eat. Drink.” He takes a big gulp of mead from his mug before continuing: “the barkeep seems to be pretty knowledgeable. We should probably start with him.”

Sven looks to Aram: “You said this “ghost” thing is right up your alley. What makes that so? If we do indeed encounter some sort of un-life, what do you know or what do you have that will give us an advantage?”

Aram pours himself another measure of mead. “Our Blessed Afflictor has a long and amiable relationship with the undead, and grants to his faithful the ability to speak with them, to resist any harm they might cause, if necessary, to command them, and even to take the aspect of the disembodied dead.” He takes a drink, “I have made extensive study of the nature of the undead, various burial customs, and other related ceremonial matters. I have often worked with such creatures in the past, and, you might recall, brought a few of my own over on the ship. The Council’s decree only spoke of the inhabitants of the graveyard harassing the citizenry, not harming them, so I am sure we can come to some peaceful arrangement.”

“Whatever – as long as that arrangement isn’t made over our corpses. That said,” Sven continues, “the posting called for a “first hand account” – it didn’t say anything about eliminating or engaging the threat directly.” He looks at Aram as he takes another swig from his mug: “I’m going to be very upset if I find out you’re only 20 years old, but had several bad encounters with ghosts.”

“Nay,” Aram says, “only one bad encounter with a ghost.”

“I’ll tell you how it’ll pan out though,” Silren adds, “Aram will try to negotiate peace with the dead, only to see a shiny old trinket, lose his calm, get all excited and piss them all off as he tries to abscond with said artifact. He does know his burial customs well though, I can vouch for that. I was brought on by his group to translate Nognese artifacts on occasion in Hillsfar, the stipend helped pay for some of the books I needed to pursue my studies.”

Sven rolls his eyes at the “one bad encounter” and “shiny object” remarks muttering: “outstanding.”

Silren, “He isn’t all that bad. I just have a penchant for sarcasm. What is your training, Sven? Outside of the obvious martial note?”

Sven wipes the mead from his mouth: “How did you put it? I’m a “grumpy Crusader”, serving under Tempus. But don’t look to me to turn away any boogie-men unless it involves hacking or smashing. I have some ability to enhance or protect myself or another from supernatural evils, but not enough to overcome an overwhelming situation.” Looks to the others at the table “If any of you have abilities or items that will assist, it’s better we know now rather than later.”

Thrall: “When it comes to undead, I am as good as any priest but nothing special.”

Sven, “Don’t sell yourself short, Demonsbreath.”

“Perhaps while Silren, Durell, and Lothar are interrogating the locals, Thrall, Sven, and I should find quiet spaces where we might pray to our gods and prepare to meet the dead,” Aram says. “Silren, you said there is a Temple to Tempos here? And a park with a shrine to the sylvan gods?”

“And someone get us some damn rooms somewhere. I’m not sleeping in an alley tonight.” Sven chugs the rest of his mead: “We’ll need supplies and provisions too. And let’s not forget the bar keep. He looks like he’s been here awhile. He’s probably a trove of information, or at least rumors.”

“I don’t plan on interrogating the locals, Aram. I’m going to check out the Training Hall and see if any other fellow mages have any information on the graveyard and such. Yes, they (the places of worship) are easy enough to find.” Silren relays the information based on the map of New Phlan. “I’m sure Thrall can look up room & board for the rest of you at the Bitter Blade if there are rooms available. The price is 50 gold a month and that includes meals. The food isn’t that good there, but the rooms are private.”

“So, what’s the plan? Do we start researching the mission today, or do we spend this day to get our bearings and find lodgings so we can start fresh tomorrow? That whole administrative affair took a fair few hours, and I’d rather not spend my first night in Phlan sat in a graveyard…” Lothar says. “What say all you?”

“I’m just about finished here with my drink. One of you can probably secure rooms, I can go to the hall and the rest of you can canvass or visit the temples. We can all meet back at the Blade for dinner.”

Silren, “I would put one of you up for the night, but I need to commune in solitude prior to that. Perhaps an hour of my time before you were to bunk.”

Sven goes to bar: “Our complements to the brew master – and to the chef as well. I was wondering if may be able to offer up one more thing, in the way of information.” He pulls out a silver piece and begins to roll it between his fingers. “Is there anything you can tell me about the Valhigen Graveyard, and the purported hauntings that are occurring in that area? Do you know of anyone who may have ventured up there previously?”

“T’ graveyar’?” The barkeep looks up from the mug he’s polishing. “Dunno why ye’d wanna go thar. People been talkin’ abou’ skeletons — the walkin’ kin’ min’ ye — ‘roun’ thar. Course th’ain’t gonna bother anyone in t’ walls, jus’ t’ skum what live in t’ slums. I hear’d t’ las’ ‘venturers who wen’ near thar dinna come ou’ well. Th’all gave up…one got hisself tunt into a kobo…couple quit an’ ‘came heralds for t’ Council…an’ a paladin lady got herself crippled. Nice girl, pretty that’n, sits in t’ park mos’ days I hear…”

“Yer tab? I’s twelve gil for t’ mead, and nine-pence for t’ res’.”

Aram walks up beside Sven and lays 14 gold pieces on the counter. “I said this round was on me, did I not friend?” He nods to the barkeep, “Thank you for the information, we’ll seek out this paladin to see what she knows.”

Sven nods appreciatively to Aram.

Thrall: “Let us go to the Blade and get some rooms, I will share the place with anyone who is not snoring. Oh and by the way, if anyone keeps forgetting my name, I might forget to heal properly, the next time it is necessary.” Said that, he picks up the bowl from the floor and puts it on the table. He turns and goes straight to the door.

“Thank you, Thrall, I’ll take you up on that offer. Recent events have left my finances somewhat…depleted.” Lothar says, with embarrasment clear on his face. He nods, almost lightly bows, his thanks to Thrall and walks along with him. “Tell me about your home forest, what was it like?”

It was and still is a great place. As a druid, you have to work hard and for several years, before you can have your own sacred grove. I discovered an ancient grove within it, comprised of 13 ancient oak trees of at least 900 years old. Then some large scale lumberjacks came, wanting to axe down everything. I gave them several warnings but they didn’t listen. In the end, they didn’t leave the forest and I was asked by my high druid to leave and go north. By the laws of the land I am to be punnished but not to the laws of my God Sylvanus." Almost impossible to hear he says : “Nobody pisses me off, nobody”

“I am sorry to hear that. I remember the forests of my fathers estate fondly, I spent a fair bit of time in them in my youth. Several were semi-cultivated, used for timber, coppicing, or set aside for hunting or foraging. But one forest was always left completely wild. Legend has it there was a sacred grove inside that as well. It was a beautiful place. I hope you can find a new grove to call your home.” Lothar says as they step outside. He looks around him once in the street: “Having spent so long on the road and sleeping in the wild, I find I need to adjust to the rythm and rigours of life in a city again.”He nods a greeting to Thrall and any other party members already outside. "See you at the Blade tonight. Now, to find that temple of Sune… "

Sven, “I wish to seek out the paladin. Maybe see if we can find that kobold as well. I’m off to the park, if anyone else is interested.”

Silren, “Embry, let us escort Thrall to the Bitter Blade and then check out the Training Hall.”

Embry gathers up what gear he has and agrees to go with them to the Bitter Blade.

“Very well, we shall all meet at the Bitter Blade for dinner.” Aram says, then falls into step beside Sven. “A stroll in the park, and a beautiful Paladiness sounds quite pleasant. May I join you?”

“I was hoping you would.”

Embry, “I apologize for any odd behavior in the next few days, I’m not used to being out and about somewhere so large without someone breathing down my neck with a whip.”

“I could fix that if you wish. I’m just not handy with a scourge or a cat o’ nine tails.” Silren remarked. It was really hard to tell if it was a joke.

Sven, at Em’s comment: “pfft. What are you talking about. You’re already MY oldest friend." He continues to Embry: “I’ll be at the park. If something’s not sitting right with you – come get me.”

“I was kidding.” Silren hadn’t been kidding. “I like your suspicion. Are you sure you aren’t from Hillfar? Come on, the inn is this way. I take since you’re an ex-slave that you are light on coin. You may room with me as the others are more likely to afford their own bed. I just ask that you keep guard over me as repayment. You may stash any of your belongings that wish there while we visit the Hall.”

Embry, “I think that would be a fair arrangement until I can come across some coin of my own. And Sven, I appreciate the offer, perhaps I will meet with you to discuss my discomforts later on.”

Dwarves didn’t take up much room. Silren liked room. [In fluent dwarvish] “It is no skin off my back.” It was hard to tell if Silren meant it as a whip joke.

Durell will follow the group going to the park. His intention would be to focus less on the expected paladin, but to query the “common folk” there for any information, though expecting only RUMORS. But in most rumors, there is a modicum of truth, if we can sort it out.

The party thus disperses. Aram and Sven walk across the street to the Council Chambers, where they find Osakh waiting, leaning against the wall. Lothar turns to the left towards Traitors Gate Road and the Temple of Sune. Silren, Embry, and Thrall turn to the right towards the Parkside Gate, and the Bitter Blade.

Valhingen Park

Aram waves at Osakh and heads across the street. “Were you able to find your people?” he asks. “If you are interested, Sven and I are off in search of a paladin who may have had some experience with the undead in or around Valhingen Graveyard. We hope to investigate the graveyard on the morrow in order to claim the Council’s bounty. Or, if you have further business of your own, we are planning to dine at The Bitter Blade this evening — which I understand is a more cosmopolitan establishment than this one.”

“Thank you, but, if you’re not doing anything until morning,” the ogre says, “I shall meet you then. My kin are forced to live in the slums, so I will be joining them there. I understand there is a market, I will look for you there, by the well in the morning.” He gives a dismissive, salute-like gesture and walks off towards the city gates.

Aram nods his head, “Very well, friend. We will look for you by the well in the Slums Market tomorrow morning. I think I will have to pass by that way to retrieve my belongings from the Council warehouse anyways.”
He turns to Sven, “Onward to parks and paladins?”

A tall hedge-row, nestled between the temples or Tyr and Tempus marks the limits of Valhingen Park, and you soon find yourselves circling all the way around to the main side facing the road before you find an entrance.

Past the hedge, you find a tiny grove of newly-planted trees, not more than a year or two old; four raised beds of roses — though they are not currently blooming; and a trio of smooth, stone benches, all surrounding a tiny, roofed well. Not much of a park, really, by southern standards.

The four sides of the squared, stone well-head are carved with depictions of the gods of nature and the seasons. The Unicorn of Meilikki, goddess of the forests and autumn, faces you as you enter from the east. The Rose of Chauntea, goddess of summer and agriculture, is carved into the south face. The Sunburst of Lathander, god of healing and the spring, surmounts the western side. And the Diamond and Snowflake of Auril, goddess of winter and cold, adorn the north face of the well.

Seated on the northern of the three benches is a beautiful elven woman dressed in fox furs—pale of skin, but dark of both hair and countenance. She stares at the well, puffing on a cigarette, and pays you no mind as you enter. A pair of crutches lean against a nearby tree, and you can see that her right leg appears to have been amputated just above the knee.

Sven let’s out a sign at the sight before him – he can’t help but feel that, to her, this must feel like a fate worse than death. He composes himself and makes sure he is in order and as presentable as possible. He tucks his helmet under his left arm before turning to Aram: “Just so you’re aware – I was suspect of you the moment I saw your boney headwear. Because of this, I found your mannerisms and words disingenuous – and you may find that she may also.” He looks back towards the woman on the bench: “I’m still not convinced that I’m incorrect on that assessment, but, if it makes you feel better; your friend Silren out-creeps you by a considerable measure.”

When we both look ready, Sven will give Aram a nod and make his way over to the woman, approaching her as respectfully as possible: “Milady.” he says as he crosses his right arm across his crest and bows his head in respect “Begging your pardon. My name is Sven Dagdresson, and this is my ally, Aram. We’ve come to seek your council on a matter that we understand you may have knowledge.”

The woman takes a long drag on her cigarette, holding the smoke in for a long time before blowing out through her nose. She shifts her seat, turning her back to you, though you suspect its more to hide the stump. “Knowledge?” she sighs, pausing to take another smaller puff. “What of?”

Aram smiles broadly and laughs at Sven’s comments as they enter. “You never should judge by appearances friend,” he says, “but I’ll hope to win your trust by actions if not by my choice of attire.”

After Sven’s introductions, the old man doffs his crown of bone and makes a sweeping bow to the lady. “Knowledge that may be painful to recall, fair one, but which we sorely need. Rumor has it that you’ve witnessed the…supposed unpleasantness in or around Valhingen Graveyard first hand?”

There is a long silence as the girl continues to drag on her cigarette. Finally she speaks. “Brave to even ask,” she says. “Most steer clear of it. My friends and I only went near, but that was enough.” She stops to smoke again, then continues. “Have you ever seen a head that you’ve just severed start talking to you?” she asks.

Seeing that the “park” was MUCH smaller than he anticipated, Durell will keep an ear open to the discussion with the paladin, but will casually wander back and forth between the trees and the hedgerow. Should anyone else be headed into the park, he will greet them kindly and ask if they might help a new arrival to Phlan with some directions. He will also periodically step back outside the park just to get a feel for the foot traffic in this part of town.

With her back turned, she wouldn’t see the “wtf” wince that inadvertently and briefly appears on Sven’s face regarding the comment about the head. (Provided she doesn’t continue talking unprompted) – He then gives Aram a look that says “this-is-your-department”.

Looking out the one gap in the hedgerow that surrounds the park, Durell can see that there is rather a lot of traffic, though none that seems interested in the tiny green space. The park lies on one of the two main thoroughfares through New Phlan. To the left, about a block and a half away, he can see the “Parkside Gate” out of the city, and beside it the very busy Bitter Blade inn. To the right, about two blocks away, he sees the docks where the battered remains of Valkur’s Wake are now parked. Immediately flanking the park are Phlan’s three largest temples: Tempus to the left, Tyr to the right, and the Temple of Gond directly across the street.

Aram jumps a little, on noticing Durell behind him. ‘Rangers,’ he thinks, ‘always so sneaky.’
Though he knows the woman’s question to likely be rhetorical, Aram cannot help but respond. “I can’t say that I’ve had that particular experience, having not severed a great many heads personally, but I have spoken to more than one head that was already sans a body…”

Sven interjects “That is to say: Aram, here, has had some dealings with the supernatural”
(He’ll say it faster if it looks like one of us is about to get the burning end of a cigarette to the eye)

The woman snuffs the butt of the cigarette out on the stone bench and tosses it into the well. “Well,” she says, “it’s not what one might call fun. My friends and I did not even enter the graveyard, just passed near it. A corpse walked up to us, out of a copse of trees and began talking to us…”

She pauses to pull a dry leaf and a pinch of dried herbs from a pouch at her waist, and does not begin talking again until after she has rolled the herbs into the leaf, lit it from a live coal kept in a small tin, and taken a long drag of the smoke.

“Ahhh,” she lets out a relieved breath and continues. “For the pain,” she says gesturing with the burning leaf to her missing leg. “Anyways, our guide, an Eraka, panicked and took a swing at it. It retaliated, and it all really went downhill from there. I took off its head, but it kept talking, then the head exploded on us, spattering us with bits of rotting gray matter…” she shudders and takes another long drag on the cigarette.

“…and before we you knew it, everyone was going insane. It’s all really a blur after that. My clothes melted. The herald started hallucinating. I started hearing what he was thinking…nasty things, mind you. The bard got displaced from time, and made me violate my vow of celibacy…mind you, she was pretty cute. The priests of Tyr started summoning devils. The herald got turned into a kobold. My leg got crushed.” She shakes her head and cradles it with her free hand, sighing again.

“Sorry, I’m rambling. Short version is I’m sure it all started with that talking corpse spraying its brains on us. We, all of us, went quite mad for a time, and none of us walked away un-maimed…”

Sven…scratches his head: “Um, what was the…talking corpse…saying? Do you think things would have played out differently if it hadn’t been attacked?” He looks at Aram and shrugs his shoulders as he has no idea if those are valid questions.

Durell quietly saunters over and whispers to Sven: “Did you understand that she heard what the undead corpse was thinking, or what the herald was thinking before becoming a kobold? If the former, knowing what the undead thoughts were – no matter how nasty – might be important information. What the pre-kobold thoughts were does not interest me. His transformation may be penance for his thoughts!”

Aram strokes his whiskers thoughtfully, “That sounds like quite the ordeal, miss. But the nomad struck first? Do you recall what the creature said before it was assaulted? Our goal is to resolve this peacefully, and if they were trying to talk, that might be possible. Without the preemptive strike, of course…”

Sven nods at Durell. He shall ask her for clarification (and details) if it was indeed the thoughts of the undead she was “hearing”.

The woman takes another puff and blows it out through her nose. “I really don’t recall what it said. Nor do I care to.” She finally turns and looks at the three of you for the first time. “You’re really planning on going in there?”

“Absolutely. If we’re to call New Phlan our home, the least we can do is attempt to help with those tasks the city deems necessary. That said, we want to do them carefully, and with the least risk to anyone. Your help, in any way, only furthers our chances of doing so.”

As you talk, someone else enters the gardens behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see a dark-haired girl of elven descent, wearing the red and blue livery of the council. On a second glance, you realize it is the same girl who was handing out forms outside the Council Hall earlier. “Fran,” she says as she walks in, “it’s time for lunch…”

The woman on the bench smiles warmly at the girl, snuffs her cigarette, and reaches for her crutches. She pulls something from beneath the crutches—an old shortsword, the blade dull and blunted—and hands it to Durell. “In that case,” she says, “take this. I can’t say it helped me much, but you might get better use from it…”

“What’s this about?” The girl asks as she helps the woman, Fran, to a standing position.

“Ah, miss,” Aram says, bowing slightly. “Thank you again for your help this morning. My companions and I are looking in to the disturbances around Valhingen Graveyard and were told that your friend here might have some information of use to our investigations…”

The girl shudders and frowns. “You’re done then?”

“No need to be rude, Lyra.” The one-legged woman says. She shifts the crutches under her arms and hops slightly. “Someone needs to deal with it, and these men volunteered.” She starts to move towards the exit, then pauses, “Lyra, do you still have the…” her words trail off.

“The what?” the girl asks, then “Ooooh.” She opens a satchel at her waist and pulls out an plain, cloth-bound book. “I haven’t read it,” she says looking at Fran, then turns to the three of you and hands it over. “Here,” she says. “It belonged to one of our companions, I don’t know what he wrote in it, but he wrote frequently during our time together. Maybe there is something that can help you…”

“Many thanks, Milady. Maiden,” says Sven as he once again salutes as the ladies go on their way. “I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

“Indeed, you have our eternal gratitude,” Aram says, bowing and taking the proffered book. He waits until they have moved on, then looks down and flips through the book.

Aram flips through the journal, not really understanding the magic, but fascinated with the authors musings and art-work. “Silren might be able to make more use of this,” he says out loud. As he flips his eyes suddenly go wide, lingering on a page, which he holds out for his friends to see. “Better perhaps that they didn’t read it…”

“Not much to go on,” he muses, “and he failed to record what was said BEFORE they cut it’s head off, only after. She’s right though, this certainly reads like the writings of someone going mad…”

Aram continues to flip through the book, reading as quickly as he can, his face looking grim. “So it seems the undead of the graveyard, or some of them, at least, are carriers for a kind of psionic plague, which appears to grant those infected ever-more powerful mental abilities, but at the expense of devastating headaches and eventual death by their brains exploding. And, if the author is correct, can be spread either by contact with infected brain matter, or mind-to-mind by psionic contact, without needing any physical touch at all. Though the normal magical means seem capable of curing it, so it should not pose too much danger…”

Aram looks up from the book long enough for his eyes to linger on the dull, old sword that the woman gave for Durell. “And, what have you got there?” he asks.

“Lyra? The girl we just met has such abilities?” He quietly begins to contemplate the enormous tactical advantages such powers would offer, until Aram points out the “plague” portion of the journal. “You don’t suppose they are still in danger? Is there a chance that this Donovan fellow did not warn them of his findings?”

Aram flips back to the more risqué sections of the journal. “It appears that the woman, Fran, was able to cure diseases by the laying on of…umm…lips. If the journal is to be believed. So I would imagine that they are fine…” He grins, “It would seem that witnessing her curing Lyra is what brought on the authors sudden interest in…umm…creative portraiture.”

Sven, “Alright, old man. Pride aside…do you feel this is something we can accomplish? Is this in your area of “expertise”?

Aram nods, “I do. The undead seemed inclined to talk to them, which means we have a possibility of success by taking the diplomatic route. If that fails, we now know more of the risks, and can prepare accordingly, and have some magical weapons at our disposal, which can be helpful against many such creatures.”

He turns for the exit, “Come, we should share what we’ve learned with the others, and give this book to Silren to study in more detail.”

Durell literally jumps at Aram’s encouragement to leave the park. He has seemed almost unable to do anything but stare at this weapon a stranger, no, a PALADIN, has bestowed upon him. While not truly in a trance, he seemed to have missed all the discussion around him until now.

Vigorously shaking his head, blonde hair swinging back and forth as he attempts to clear the cobwebs from his mind, Durell directs himself at the departing women. “Truly, I thank you. I am sure that this weapon has a pre-ordained purpose, and I will use it to the best of my ability to protect the people of New Phlan from whatever caused you such pain, and haunts our new city. I cannot thank you enough, and I am honored by your gift.”

To Sven and Aram: “Yes, let’s go. There’s a quest to be completed, and we are the ones to do it. Let’s find the others and settle the issue of the graveyard! Onward!”

With another shake of his head, Durell gets a strange look on his face – almost as if he can’t believe the change in his tone, and his sense of urgency to follow this task to swift completion.

Sven, “Off we go, then.”

The old man tucks the book under his arm and heads out into the street. He looks left and right and back. “It’s no-where near dinner time yet, and they said they were headed for the Bitter Blade first. Shall we look for them there?”

“Between that book and the Paladin, we’ve gathered a wealth of information on the graveyard already. We should consolidate and document what we have thus far and give it to someone we can trust. That way, in the event none of us are able to report it first hand, someone will at least be able to hand it over to the council. Perhaps the boy, Eddie?”

Durell, "I am sure Eddie would be happy to be included, and would secure and protect the book. But caution would still be worth executing – can we ensure that the book cannot be opened by a curious youth desiring to be part of the “adventuring party”?"

Aram laughs loudly, “Wouldn’t that be a shock for his aunt!”

Sven, “To be clear…I meant that we should transcribe the information about the graveyard onto a separate parchment.”

“Aye,” Aram agrees. “Let’s find the others and see what they’ve learned, then we can compile a dossier to give to Eddie in case this doesn’t end well…” Aram starts walking towards the Bitter Blade, keeping an eye out for the others.

Durell follows Aram, but instead of his normal “hyper-awareness” stance and attitude, he continues to turn the “blunt blade” given to him over and over in his hands, examining it from every angle. His focus is so intense that periodically he stumbles over a raised cobblestone, or almost barrels into anyone stopping in front of him without verbal warning.

The Bitter Blade

You quickly walk the three blocks to the Bitter Blade. Sitting right next to the river, the three-story tall, stone building leans noticeably out towards the water. On closer inspection, you can see that none of the stones match in shape or size, and include everything from smooth, rounded pieces of granite harvested from the river, to crumbling chunks of marble salvaged from the old castle. You’re actually rather surprised it is able to stand at all.

The doors of the Bitter Blade are saloon-style, and a wooden sign over the door declare’s the Inn’s name in large, block lettering. Immediately to the left of the door is the beginning of a rickety wooden staircase that winds its way up the side of the building, with landings at open doorways leading into the second and third floors, before finally giving access to the roof. A large crowd appears to be gathering for lunch, and you can see several people milling about on the roof, and hear sounds of conversation echoing from both above and within.

Broken arrows and arrow-heads litter the ground around the Inn, and even more stick out of chinks in its stone walls — all coming from the opposite side of the river judging by the angles. As you approach another lazily flies over the river and clatters to the cobbles not far from you.

Just to the left of the building stand the Parkside Gates leading out of the city, which now stand open, allowing a steady stream of settlers and adventurers into and out of the city. A dozen red-cloaked guards systematically stop everyone entering, demanding to see either proof of citizenship, or an adventuring charter.

Just to the right of the Blade is the beginning of a wide, ancient-looking stone bridge across the river. The near side of the bridge has been blocked off by piled stones, leaving only a narrow gap manned by another dozen red-cloaked soldiers. Through the gap you can see a few humanoid corpses littering the bridge.

Silren, “Watch out for arrows. The orcs like to shoot from the Old City. They usually miss. Welcome to the Blade.”

“Sounds pleasant… let’s get our business done and get into shelter from random arrows.” Embry is cautious about the building- being a dwarf, shoddy stonework scares him.

Silren, “I’ll show you to the room and then we can make haste to the Hall. This place unnerves me as well, I just don’t have 200 gold a month to stay at the Crown, Embry.”

“Understandable. I’ll just have to close my eyes when I see the exterior.” Embry laughs.

Silren leads Embry up to his room on the third floor. The landing from the stairs opens into a hallway so narrow that when you see a man walking out, you have to turn almost completely sideways to let him walk past you. The passage seems to run the entire depth of the building, from the front to the river-side, with windowless wooden doors every eight feet on each side.

Silren’s room is the third on the right. The door opens inward into a long, narrow room with a single bed, a dresser with a wash basin, and a window that would look out towards the bridge, save that it has been boarded up and reinforced save for a tiny slit at about eye-level — and probably good that it was, since it is riddled with holes and a broad-headed arrow is currently poking through.

Embry, “Comforting.”

“Free arrows. One benefit at least.”

“You have an interesting outlook on things,” Embry says, smirking.

Thrall follows Silren and Embry upstairs, looking around and saying nothing. When the door opens, he looks inside. “Do you think there’s a room left here to rent, Silren? Judging to the crowd, that might be somewhat difficult.”

“If there isn’t, perhaps the owners know of a place to stay. Or maybe you can find some “friends” (air quotes with his fingers) downstairs that would know of a place to stay, “legally” (air quotes) or “illegally” (air quotes and a nudge, nudge, wink, wink)."

Thrall goes down to the bar and asks for a room with two beds, to be rented with meals for two persons, for two weeks. He will pay upfront if necessary.

The girl behind the bar stares at Thrall wide-eyed for a minute before responding, “Sorry, love, but we ain’t got no rooms with two beds. They all got just the one, but we’ve got a few open. A crown per night per room, breakfast’s included, but lunch or supper’s on you due to the crowds…”

Thrall: “Two single bedrooms, next to each other, for two weeks with breakfast it is then.”

Thrall finds himself a table and a chair and makes sure that he positions himself so, that he can see whoever enters the door. Temur lies down under the table.

The taproom of the Blade is, in fact, packed. At least a hundred patrons crowd the small room. The tables quickly fill and others are left standing should-to-shoulder at he bar. Others come in, yell orders at the barkeep over the general hubub, and then exit, turning towards the stairs to the roof.

Even in a place like the Bitter Blade, though, the presence of a large wolf under the table is sufficient deterrent that Thrall keeps the table to himself — though it is soon looted of unused chairs. Temur also appears to be sufficient deterrent to the wait staff.

The two tables nearest to Thrall contain, respectively: an extremely well-dressed boy of maybe twelve or thirteen wearing an eyepatch who is playing what appears to be a rather high-stakes card game (judging by the pile of coins mounded between them) with a pair of young ladies in the plain white robes of Tyrran novices; and a quartet of plain-clothed gentlemen, fishermen judging by the smell, who have clustered their chairs on the side of the table farthest from Thrall and keep casting wary glances at Temur as they hastily eat the soup they’ve been brought.

Thrall to the fishermen, gesturing to Temur: “My wolf under the table is quite tame and does not bite or growl unless severely provoked, don’t worry!” The cardplaying youth Is completely ignored. Thrall is completely free of “small sins” like gambling or heavy drinking. He knows that gambling MIGHT increase his monetary wealth but also knows that there is a lot of luck involved.

As Thrall is explaining about the wolf, one of the fishermen suddenly drops his spoon, splashing soup all over himself, and raises his hands in front of his face, staring at them with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed panicked look on his face. Thrall can see that his hands are taking on a stoney, gray pallour, as are patches of his face where the soup splashed him. “What have you du—” he begins to say, but his words choke off. A passing waitress glances at him only briefly and says “No refunds, love.” before sweeping past to deal with another customer.

“Embry? What’s the hold up?” Silren looked to the sky for arrows in case he needed to dodge.

Embry, “Um, something is really strange here. Get back in here a moment.”

Sil spins around, right ‘round and sees a fisherman choking and turning grey… "Ah. Cockatrice stew for lunch. Again. Poor fellow must’ve gotten the beak. This is why I eat at different establishments for my meals. Rooms are still cheap." The mage turned around. “Not much we can do for him, I don’t have magics to reverse the osmosis.” But he did. No fisherman was getting his cure all elixir, no way.

His robes squeaked. “No Torgo, not worth it. Your penchant for altruism needs to be stifled, my friend.”

Embry, “Wait, that’s normal? I’m sticking to my hard tack and jam.”

“That’s the spirit my dwarven friend. Freedom is no safer than bondage at times.” Silren tapped his staff impatiently then made way towards the Hall.

Thrall: “Co,co,cocatrice stew? That’s nasty! I would help if I would know how… poor chap.”
Thrall gets up and moves towards Silren and Embry.

Embry, “Let’s get out of here, I’m suddenly eager to be anywhere else.”

You watch as the man slowly turns to stone. His friends finish their soup, then grab him and haul him outside, setting him up beside the door like a statue, all the while grumbling about “Shouldn’t’ve ordered the mystery meat…” A few of the other patrons look up and roll their eyes, but otherwise seem unconcerned.

We, that is Thrall, Temur, Silren and Embry, make sure that we stay outside the Blade, out of reach of any arrows.

It’s a two-block walk to the west to reach the New Phlan Public Training Hall (as it is called by the large sign over the door). It’s a long, two-story building, windowless, and made of the same recycled stone as the other major structures in New Phlan. The large barn doors stand closed. A small sign hangs from a nail, reading: “Warning, class in session.”

“Depending on what class is in session, I do not care to get blasted in the face with magics or my pouches picked. Perhaps there is another entrance to this large building that may hold administrative workers or the like. Let us walk around the building and if one isn’t found, we can knock or peek in.” Silren whispers something to his robes, squeaks respond.

A bat flies out of Silren’s robes to the roof, only to come back shaking in fear. It lands on Sil’s staff. Some squeaks occur. Silren nods solemnly and itches the poor creature on the head. You hear some promises of fruit, as well as a heartfelt apology from the wizard to familiar. “There be wards of fear. Their author may be aware of us. Let us carry on.” Silren shuffled to examine for other entrances.

Embry, "If there are magical wards, perhaps sending me first would be wise. I have a bit of an advantage in overcoming such things "

“No need. We shouldn’t need access to the roof. I was merely curious. Poor Torgo was instructed to merely fly above and not land, I am relieved he did not decide to disobey me. It is a good thing to know that there are wardings about, for this building will not be the only city owned structure with them.”

Thrall: “Your bat eats fruit? I only know the insect eating kind? Where do you find fresh fruit here in this place, we should go there to stock up on eatable goods not petrifiing goods….”
“When we have the time that is”

“He eats bugs too, mostly mosquitos and the like. Fruit is a luxury… and since he risked his bat hide, I will try to make due with his request.”

Temple of Sune

After passing the Council Hall and turning onto Traitor’s Gate Road, Lothar quickly comes upon another large, ornate building. The old stones are covered with new bas-relief carvings of nymphs at play and prostitutes at work, and numerous fountains flank the steps, which are strewn with flower-petals.

As he approaches, Lothar hears singing from within, “…that can’t be saved. Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time. It’s easy. All you need is love…”

“Oh, right, THAT Sune…” Lothar thinks “Should have cleaned myself up a bit from my travels.” He smiles to himself: “No wonder the rest were so amused to send me here! Oh well, nothing for it, let’s get this done.” He brushes himself off, adjusts his clothing and gear to be a bit more presentable and heads towards the doors.

In the center of the room stands a large, circular wooden stage, upon which five women dressed in fancifully cut red silk dresses slowly cavort and gyrate. Below them a score of plain-clothed supplicants continue their singing:
“…love is all you need.
There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known.
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown.
There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be…”

I assume this is what passes for a service around here. So I calmly wait for it to conclude as calmly I look around the room. (If I have to wait, I might as well enjoy the view…and the works of art.) Should someone official looking approach me directly to inquire as to my presence, I’ll adress them. I may already look boorish to them, best not act it too.

As Lothar tours the works of art, a dwarf, shirtless, completely hairless save for a short, neatly trimmed beard, and with his exposed skin looking like it has been deliberately oiled comes out of one of the many curtained side chambers. Spotting Lothar, he trundles over and makes a very deep, sweeping bow, his out-turned hand hovering only an inch above the floor. “Good daaaay,” the dwarf says in a slow, smarmy drawl. “You look lost. How might I help?”

“Ah, good day sir.” Lothar responds while giving a formal bow of his own. “I seek information, if you have it. About the local graveyard. My friends and I understand it has been giving the local people some trouble and I would request of you if you have any information about the goings on there, or perhaps know someone who had witnessed the disturbances first hand?”

The dwarf’s face scrunches and a shudder runs through him, “Graveyards? Ewwwww. No.” He makes a limp-wristed, dismissive gesture.

“Ah, I understand, and I agree, a dreadful business. But sadly I must enquire. Do you perhaps know of someone else I can speak to?”

“Well,” the dwarf says, “high-priestess Joy might know something about the old graveyard.” He points out a tall, shapely woman dancing on the stage, with hair as red as the dress she is wearing.

“Thank you, kind sir!” Lothar responds “I shall trouble you no longer.” I bow to him as a goodbye and move towards the stage. I don’t want to interrupt what I assume to be a religious rite. I approach close enough to be noticed by the high-priestess and attempt to meet her eyes. If she returns the gaze, I give a respectful nod and step back into the background.

Lothar watches for half an hour before the noon mass comes to an end. Finally the supplicants around the stage disperse, most leaving to go back to their work else, though a few retire in pairs to the curtained antechambers. The high priestess steps down off the stage, and heads directly towards Lothar. “Sune’s blessing on you, child,” she says as she nears. She lays a finger on her lips and looks him up and down carefully. “That cloak does nothing for your complexion,” she finally says, critically, “some brighter colors would do you good, and we must do something about those fly-away hairs…”

“Thank you, and greetings, Mylady” Lothar offers a (hopefully) graceful bow. “And I thank you for your advice, due to my travels and endeavours I have had to compromise between pleasant appearance and the necessity of practicality. I would indeed do well to tend to my grooming and dress. But sadly I must discuss more, ahem, disagreeable matters at this point; My companions and I are investigating the trouble at the old graveyard. I would like to request if you or your temple have gathered any information or lore about the old graveyard, or perhaps if you know of someone who has had an encounter there themselves?”

The lady scrunches up her face in distaste, it’s really quite cute. “Ewww,” she says. “I’m sorry, but our faith is fairly new for Phlan, also we keep our own mausoleum beneath the temple, most graveyards are just far too ugly to properly house the saints. None of our priests have every been there.” She pauses, as if considering something, then continues. “…But,” she takes Lothar by the elbow and starts guiding him towards the far side of the room, “we do have this lovely tapestry that was recently donated by some adventurers which is believed to depict the old graveyard.”

She stops in front of a cloth wall-hanging depicting headstones and a crumbling stone wall in various shades of gray. “It….doesn’t really fit the decor though. If you think it might aid in your investigation, you are welcome to it…”

“Thank you for your aid. Might I borrow this from you, perhaps it may yield some clues if my companions study it?” “Hopefully by solving this, ahem, issue, we can aid in making the lives of the people in New Phlan more pleasant.” I say with a charming smile. If she permits it, I will take the tapestry with me. Of course I won’t be so crass to yank the tapestry off the wall then and there, but coordinate with the High Priestess to have it gently removed and safely packaged. “Even if the subject is less pleasant, it is still art and should be treasured” If this involves some waiting, I will make some pleasant chit-chat, perhaps ask some sartorial advice? Should the time arrive to depart I will greet her with a deep bow “Thank you again for your aid, but moreso for your time and the pleasure of your company. You have brightened my day. Hopefully with this (pats the parcel) we may make the lives of others brighter, in our own way. I greet you, gratefully and respectfully, Mylady.” (Those etiquette lectures and training in courtly manners in my youth were boring as can be, but God’s am I glad to have had them now… Lothar thinks to himself)

The high priestess claps her hands and a pair of girls in similar attire glide up and, quickly and carefully, roll and pack the tapestry.

The Training Hall

Following on their trail through the city, Aram, Durell, and Sven spot Silren, Embry, and Thrall circling the Public Training Hall in search of an alternative entrance, and rush to catch up.

Finally, Silren spots a small, unmarked wooden door at the far end of the Training Hall, just across from the Temple of Sune — out of which Lothar walks, bearing a long wooden tube.

Aram waves at Silren when he spots them on the street and quickens his pace slightly, though his breathing becomes labored far more than would be expected for the moderate increase in speed. Finally catching up he stares up at the roof, trying to figure out what they are looking at and asks, “What news from the the Training Hall?”

“Class is in session, we were looking for a different entrance to avoid getting in the way. We found this.” Sil gestured to the door. He raps on it 3 times with his fist and awaits an answer. “And what of the paladin?” Slightly sneered the spellslinger.

“Her story was sad, but helpful,” Aram offers Silren the book. “And her girlfriend gave us a rather interesting spellbook…”

“…careful about page 8 though. It’s not really appropriate for public display.”

“Ah Aram. Excellent! I will peruse this later. Very exciting indeed. I take it you have skimmed the contents? A lady paladin with a lady friend? That paints quite the picture, eh?” The wizard’s eyes glimmered with excitement. He was always excited at the prospect of new magicks.

“Aram, did you know the author of this journal? Names are so… important in my field.”

“Neither the Paladin nor her friend spoke the owner’s name,” Aram replies solemnly. “They seemed rather distraught, as if they believe him to be deceased. However, the author did sign his work. It appears his full name was Donovan Phillips Leitch…”

Durell, “Wasn’t Donovan the name of the kobold on the Wake? Played a hurdy gurdy there too, if I remember correctly? Do we know where he went after we disembarked?”

“He appeared to be attached to the ship as part of the crew somehow,” Aram says, “so presumably he would be wherever they are. Making arrangements for repairs most likely. Though, from the girls’ story, and what I’ve read of the journal, the Donovan in the journal appears to have been the one most troubled by the psionic sickness they suffered. The journal makes it pretty clear that he was going mad — obsession bordering on paranoia. The others also appear to have been healed before he was, and we know he died somehow. If the disease had progressed to the point that his brain was destroyed…or exploded…then it’s possible, likely even, that his memory would not have returned to the new body intact. If the kobold even is the same individual from the journal…”

Thrall: “The kobold on board was called Donovan, I am sure of that.”

Sven, “That kobold changed into a harbormaster – or was it guardsman? – jacket once he stepped off the ship. I only remember because I was keeping an eye on him…”

Thrall: “That’s right!!! Question is why he did that. What is the last entry date in the journal? I also think that Donovan is the kobold, changed somehow, some kind of polymorph spell.”

Silren, “There are ways… When one is dead… Too affix the recently deceased’s spirit into another body. They call it, reincarnation, my Thrall.”

Thrall, “I know they do, but only as a natural state of spirit exchange, that is what I believe, but it is a discussion not well suited here.”

“Shoulda left him dead.” Sven grumbles. Upon seeing Lothar, he calls out – loudly and effortlessly- “LOTHAR! HO! YOU’VE FINISHED YOUR “BUSINESS” AT THE SUNE’S ALREADY?!?” (Sven’s “outside voice” has been forged in the heat of battle, generally shouting over dozens, perhaps hundreds of screaming warriors as he directed the use of huge siege weapons to smash fortifications into dust. It’s…not subtle.)

“Ho, friends!” Lothar says as he approaches. “While pleasant, the temple of Sune didn’t have much concrete information, they did loan us to his tapestry. Perhaps some clues can be gleaned from it? How did you fare?”

Thrall sighs: “Just a wave would have been sufficient, Even, Lothar probably had seen us already….Maybe we should continue our talk about our findings somewhere inside, so we don’t have to raise out voices.”

Aram looks at Silren, “Are you sure this is actually a way into the Training Hall, and not just some storage closet?” He knocks again.

“I’m a magician, not a groundskeeper. Fuck if I know, Aram.” The wizard stuck out his tongue and waggled his fingers with his thumb touching his nose at the grave priest.

Lothar sighs inwardly at the sight of what should be the eldest and the most learned within the party squabbling like children…

Silren, “Thrall, you said you have some resistance to wards? Would you be so kind to try the door?”

Aram tries the doorknob (or latch, or whatever it has).

While we wait, Sven just starts talking about what needs to be done. It’s probably as much for his own benefit as anything. Unlike his boisterous tone, his “calm” (or normal) speaking voice comes from decades of chant and prayer and is somewhat soothing, in its own way.
His comments: “I’ll need to pray for today’s blessings, and then again tomorrow morning before the adventure. Today’s “blessings” would be used, in part, to secure provisions for the next day or two. As in; we should buy rations for travel (dried, smoked, can items, etc) and maybe obtain a barrel of water (or whatever passes for “drinkable”) and purify them. Store them in one of our rooms and that way we know we’ll have safe food and drink for a day or so. We should also buy equipment that we may need. Everyone have their holy symbols? Holy water? 10’ pole or two? Sacks and blankets. They may come in handy if we have to keep a head from exploding all over us. The blankets could be used to shield us from splattering matter. Rope. Pick axe. Coordinate our spells…”

The door opens easily at Aram’s push, revealing a stone staircase leading downwards. A series of marks have been scratched into the top step: an inverted y, a horizontal crescent with a vertical line through the right-hand side, and pyramid of five circles.

Silren, “Let’s just check the front door again. Just give me a second to commit these runes to memory.”

Aram stares at the strange marks, “Does anyone know what these mean?”

Thrall: “It is a message for thieves and the like. Be aware though, most of the people inside are not of the honest kind.”

Durell asks: “For the information we seek, is there any REASON that we would be headed to a basement? Shouldn’t we just enter from the FRONT door and ask our questions? We have no need to skulk around, do we?”

“You do not mind to skulk around a haunted graveyard at night, but entering a basement in broad daylight is a problem? Silren proposed to try the back door, and since it is open, we might just as well enter. " Thrall replies. He steps through the door and down the stairs.

Silren, “I just don’t wish to piss off any trainers we may need in the future, but if you’re going down, I will follow.”

Aram, really quite curious, falls into step behind Thrall. As they descend the stairs, he pulls a knife from his belt, which begins to glow with a torch-like radiance.

DM:
Near sunset you pass abreast of Thorn Island, and you get a good look at the first bit of land belonging to the city of Phlan. The deck falls silent save for the shuffling of feet as the majority of the passengers move to take in this first glimpse of land. The pebbly shore of the island is lined with tents and crowded with people, all backlit by a few camp-fires that send plumes of smoke up into the sky. Behind the tent city rises the walls of the old keep, and the lighthouse within. Scaffolding has been erected all around the walls, and the glowing beacon of the lighthouse shows the promise of a city revitalized.

Suddenly the silence and the gloam are shattered by a great roar as a ball of fire bursts above the small ship. Durell, more intent on watching the orc than the island is the first to notice it, as well as the two ships now bearing down on the Wake from the opposite direction — their sails and hulls dyed black to blend in with the night.

Within seconds the deck becomes a riot of settlers and animals attempting to get clear of the now burning sails.

“Nat! Yass! Get that sail down!” The captain yells from his perch at the rudder. Two deck-hands, a dwarf and a hobgoblin, rush to obey, but the damage has been done.

Aram rushes to the far rail, and peers out at the approaching ships. “These old eyes ain’t what they used to be,” he mutters and rummages through his hefty backpack. Withdrawing a small vial of blue liquid, he raises it to hips lips and concentrates on the corsair ships.

Aram’s vision swims and shifts, and he finds himself looking down on the two boats. They are smaller than the Wake, but lateen-rigged with three sails a piece, and loaded with men — perhaps thirty to a boat, lightly armored but heavily armed with swords, daggers, and crossbows.

One ship lags slightly behind the other, and Aram can see that it’s navigator bears no visible weapons, but does have an ornate mahogany wand or rod of some kind clutched in his left hand, while holding the till with the other.

Pin dashes over over and helps pull the burning sail down. The ashes from the fire begin to burn his wiskers.

“Thanks!” shouts the Hobgoblin as Pin runs over. “On three…”

The dwarven hand dashes to the main spar and quickly pulls the two pins holding it to the deck. “Three!” he shouts.

With a quick shove from Pin and the Hobo, the entire mast, topples sideways until it is hanging parallel with the deck. The ship tilts slightly, but the entirety of the burning sail now now hangs out over the water, several feet past the rail.

Making a quick check over the Featherdale settlers and directing them to “Stay down, but out of the way of the crew”, Durell hands his quarterstaff to one of the rambunctious youth with a “You hold this for me till I need it ok? I need an assistant like you!”. Picking up his longbow and adjusting his quiver, he heads in the direction of the ships he sees. With the flaming sails dropping, Durell yells at the closest crew member: “Got any tar, pitch? What do you patch holes with?” His intention is to turn some of his arrows into FLAMING arrows if he can dip them in pitch and light them off the burning sails.

With the mast down, the dwarf hops up onto the mast like a balance beam. “Aye!” he shouts to Durell. “There by the rail!” He points to a lidded barrel as he begins walking out along the mast, pulling a small axe from his belt. “Better make it quick though. We need to cut this sail free and run up a new one before we’re overrun.”

Grabbing 3 or 4 arrows in one fist from his quiver, he pries open the barrel and immerses the arrow tips and about 3 inches of the arrows in the pitch. Then looking for some still burning flame, shoves the covered arrows into the fire. Once the flame has spread to the arrows, he will, as rapidly as he can, attempt to return the favor and launch the missiles of flame at the main sails of the lead ships, hoping they too will be slowed without support from the winds.

Thrall keeps close to his new companions. Those who look him in the face, can see that his eyes are darkening and turning almost black. Helping where he can, the animals first. He reaches for a necklace under his shirt, kisses it and puts it back.

Aram, eyes still staring into nothingness, shouts to be heard across the boat. “There ships are rigged for speed, even with fresh sails we’d be hard-pressed to outrun them! I’d guess sixty men aboard! With crossbows! And their captain has a wand!” He blindly reaches for the massive chunk of flattened iron hanging on his back. “They have us out-numbered, but I’m more concerned that we’re out-gunned! I think our best bet is to engage them up close! Captain! Can we make for the island?”

Durell knocks two arrows, now lit. Despite the distance, both shots are true and little sparks of flame appear on the sails of the pursuing ships. With his magical vision, Aram can see the pursuing crews immediately leap into action to douse the flames before they can spread much.

Suddenly a bank of fog springs into existence around the rear of Valkur’s Wake, though Thrall’s spell is insufficient to shroud the entire 80-ft. vessel.

Though slowed slightly by the damage to their sails, the two ships bear down on the Wake quickly. Expecting to be boarded, everyone—farmers, sailors, and adventurers alike—rush to arm themselves as best they can. Thrall has just managed to tighten the last straps of his armor when the two ships pull abreast of the Wake’s rear, flanking it. Ropes and hooks fly out of the fog, and the Wake shakes as the two ships are pulled hull-to-hull with it. Armed men begin pouring over the gunwales.

Aram shakes his head to dispel the effects of the Clairvoyance, tightens his grip on his sword and rushes to intercept the men coming over the port gunwale. Unfortunately, he moves very slowly in his post-clairvoyant disorientation and from having to shove his way past the panicking farmers. Finally breaking through the crowd, he swings clumsily in the tight quarters, hitting nothing but air.

Durell looks for his young assistant, throws his longbow to him and holds out his hand and yells “Quarterstaff now, buddy”. Once he has his staff, he advances to join combat.

As the attackers begin streaming over the rail, they are met by fierce resistance. The silver-haired woman and the fiddler from the front of the ship react the swiftest, the former tossing a flash of greek fire onto the deck of the port vessel, and the latter catching three of the assailants coming from the same ship with a gout of Burning Hands.

A half-dozen men from the first rank coming over the starboard rail suddenly drop to the deck, snoring peacefully as the kobold gives a particularly vigorous crank on his hurdy-gurdy. The next in line is caught on the horns of the minotaur as he charges across the deck, and another is cut down by his sword.

Another from the port side takes a crossbow bolt to the face from the tentacle-haired woman, while several of his companions find themselves stymied by a trio of pitchfork-wielding farmwives. Then the melee begins in earnest.

Men swarm across the deck, hacking and stabbing. One finally reaches Thrall only to be knocked down by a blow from his staff, and savaged to death by his wolf. By this time Durell finally manages to recover his staff from the boy, and swiftly knocks one attacker overboard. He then rushes to the aid of some farmers, cold-cocking two more of the attackers with blows from his staff.

Pin, reacting slowly, finally draws his sword and guts one of the men as it charges him. Aram rushes up beside Pin, and swings wildly, hitting nothing but air. His opponent falls anyways, as the ogre comes in right behind him and decapitates it.

For a brief moment, the deck is mostly clear of enemies and the remaining settlers have managed to congregate in the bow of the ship, putting you and the other more militant passengers between them and further harm.

Aram looks at the next wave of men coming from the two ships and begins chanting a prayer to his god. He scans the crowd of attackers, looking for those with the best weapons or armor, hoping to stem the tide a bit.

Durell checks over his shoulder to quickly determine if any of his fellow Featherdalemen are among the wounded. In any event, he moves steadily forward toward the remaining enemies. His stride is slow and purposeful. If it can be done without coming to a complete stop, he will hurl overboard any of the attackers (dead or wounded) near enough to the gunrails, to let the sea keep them busy for a while. All while preparing to put the quarterstaff to use against the living pirates.

More men continue to pour over the aft rails from both starboard and larboard, but momentum appears to be on your side. The first several are met by yet another Sleep spell from the kobold, and another gout of Burning Hands from his accompanist. Meanwhile Durell, the minotaur, and the wolf take out the last three from the first wave, leaving everything forward of the mast clear of enemies.

Suddenly, there is a snapping sound, as the sails of the pirate ships fill with wind, but blowing directly away from the island. With the lines and boarding planks holding the ships together, all three boats begin moving backwards at a steady pace. The mysterious wind that has reversed your course also dissipates the fog shrouding the aft of the ship. As the fog lifts, there is a barrage of crossbow bolts from the two ships, tearing into your massed defenders. Durell, Thrall, the minotaur, and the ogre all take hits.

Still more men stream onto the Wake from the other ships. Two of the assailants manage to land solid blows on the fiddle-player. The orc rushes to her side with some timely healing, only to be stabbed himself.

Aram sees four men in chain amidst the attackers, he finishes his spell and two of them freeze in place, mid-stride, then topple over from the pitching of the deck. Another of the more heavily armored men charges and lands a blow on Pinder with his axe.

Two of the buccaneers, noticing Thrall chanting the words of a spell, rush him. One lands a blow, but they are not quite fast enough, as the Flame Blade appears in Thralls hand perfectly angled to run the man through.

More than a dozen armed buccaneers now crowd the deck. They mange to land several more blows on the minotaur and the wolf, but the slow-moving ogre holds the line, cutting down one of the armored men, and using his bulk to keep the buccaneers from reaching the remaining Featherdalesmen.

Aram shouts to the others, “Their mage must be controlling the wind. We need to take the fight to them if we’re to have any chance of getting out of this!” Then, more quietly to those nearby, “They’ve lost more than half their numbers. If we take out the leader, the rest will likely surrender.” He hefts his blade and begins leading the way towards the boarding planks, swinging the weapon in broad arcs to make a path.

While Durell agrees with Aram, as he continues to wield his quarterstaff in the direction of any of the boarders to the aft of the ship, he attempts to look beyond the two boarding ships to the third. In particular, he’s looking for who’s steering the ship, and how many visible crew members might be on THAT ship. He will also not the distance between the Wave and that ship.

As the sun is dipping behind the mountains to the west, Durell can just make out a third ship on the horizon. The ship appears to have the same dark hull and sails as your attackers, but that may just be a trick of the light, silhouetted as it is. It is much to far for him to make out any details, but appears to be sailing in your general direction.

Thrall calls Temur back to him. “Guard!” He tries to speak firmly but hardly manages it. Thrall to one of the children : “Can you get me one of the small bottles from that backpack please?”

Durell’s helper, bow still clutched in one hand, rummages through Thrall’s backpack with the other and hands him one of bottles.

Thrall drinks his potion of healing half. The other half he gives to Temur.

Thrall takes out any bolts out of his body and Temur’s, takes a sip. Hands it over to Durell. “Here. Take a sip. You look like you need it. The rest is for my friend Temur here.”

Durell turns his head at Thrall’s offer. Depending on the closeness of the “next” enemy, he either shrugs and continues fighting, or shrugs, takes the vial and tosses back the liquid like a veteran drinker of potent liquors. He then asks Thrall: “See the third ship? How long do you think before it gets close to us? More than 10 minutes??” He continues to fight, specifically trying to make his way to a gangplank on one side of the ship, with the intent to kick the end off the rail and into the water. Hopefully stopping the flow of pirates from at least one side of the ship.

Thrall, “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Hard to tell but it will be near dark then. Let’s try to keep them off as long as possible.”

Noting the direction Aram points, several of your ship-mates rush towards the ship bearing the wizard. The orc moves the fastest, charging through the ranks of pirates on your own ship, taking a few hits in the process, and tosses a bag onto the enemy ship’s deck — out of which crawl a large number of what appear to self-mobile, severed hands.

With a moments respite from the distraction, Thrall, Durell, and the wolf share the contents of Thrall’s healing potion (OOC: all are fully healed). Seeing them momentarily with their guard down, the remaining armored pirate charges, axe at the ready, only to Pinder slip in behind him and slash mightily at his hamstring, severing his left leg completely (OOC: critical hit with a backstab). The man topples screaming to the ground, all thoughts of offense forgotten.

The minotaur charges through the crowd of pirates at the rear, knocking one of them into the water as he leaps onto the wizard’s ship. The fiddler, right behind him, pulls out a pick-axe and hacks down another pirate.

The wizard on the other boat, alarmed by the turning tide of battle, launches another fireball, centered right above the boarding plank linking the gunwales of your ship and his. The minotaur, the fiddler, the orc, and the uniformed woman are all caught in the blast, along with quite a few of his own crew, and most of the livestock on the Wake. The ropes and planks holding the ships together are burned up, and the wizard’s ship begins speeding away under sails filled by magical wind, leaving Valkur’s Wake and the second pirate ship lurching in his wake.

Engulfed in the blast, the aft end of Valkur’s Wake is in flames. The taffrail, and with it the captain and the rudder, break away and tumble into the sea.

The remaining crew of the second ship, still attached, drop their crossbows and rush to break themselves free of the burning Wake — cutting lines and hacking at their own boarding planks. They too are soon free and furling sails to escape.

The last four pirates still on the deck of the Wake throw down their arms and join the settlers and the remaining crew in trying to douse the fires — hacking at the smoldering gunwales and tossing burning cargo and corpses overboard.

“Shit!” Aram exclaims. He drops his over-sized blade and rushes to the rear of the ship. He heads to the dead bodies of those who helped them repel the pirates and kneels over them in prayer.

“Blessed Afflictor, Exalted Interrogator, Sacred Parasite,
You who commandeth the nine million,
You who commandeth the seventy blasphemies,
You are made holy, an eater of souls!
I speak through the worms in the heart of The Just.
I will create a slaughterpen above the valleys,
I will create a place of injury and error!
Look with favor on these your servants who have fallen!
We hail them and offer them unto the Nothing.
We Name them, yet build them no monument.
They died as you died, in defense of Order.
Take them into your infernal legion,
Lest we all drown in the black that awaits the End of All Things.”

Recognizing them for experienced adventurers, Aram strips their bodies of valuables as he recites the last rites, lest any thing of power be cast to the chaos that lies in the watery depths.

Thrall hears the prayer of Aram and feels a little nausea coming up. He doesnt like what he hears but on the other side, any prayer for the dead that does not raise them should be ok….the pilfering is also not very comforting. He also starts to pray to heal the rest of the wounded.

Durell runs to the rear of the ship and scans the waters for signs of the captain or any others (especially Featherdalemen) that may have been split off from the main ship. Depending on what he sees, Durell will either look for rope or downed and unburned sailcloth to try to throw to a ship’s captain that knows how to swim, or will drop his staff and doff his quiver and will dive in to save a potentially sinking dwarf.

Scanning the water, Durell spots the captain floating not far from the ship. He is supported by a chunk of driftwood from the broken rail, but appears to be unconscious. Several corpses from the battle, and some lost livestock also float in the water, but no other passengers have gone overboard.

Soon the fires have been extinguished, but the ship has been severely damaged. Without rudder or sails, Valkur’s Wake drifts lazily through the night, driven only by the lapping of waves against its hull.

As Durell hauls the unconscious captain back on deck, the remaining crew hazard lighting a few lamps and scan the waters around the ship for other survivors. One crewman pulls a crossbow off of a fallen pirate and begins systematically putting the floundering animals out of their misery, as the ship lacks winch or tack for getting them back aboard.

Soon the waters are filled with dead animals and the smoldering remains of cargo. Much has been lost. As Aram and Thrall make the rounds, healing the injured and sending the dead on to their final rest, the settlers, practical folk that they are, follow Aram’s example in stripping the bodies of weapons, armor, and anything else valuable before tossing them into the sea.

Aram turns to Durell. “I also have no need of these weapons, but your friends,” he waves a hand at the farmers, “might do well to arm and armor themselves. Phlan is a treacherous place from all I hear, and you won’t be able to keep them all safe on your own.” He looks meaningfully at the dead bodies, settlers and pirates alike, strewn across the deck. “For myself, one of these rings and one of the potions seems fair, plus perhaps the large gem which would more than cover wagons and supplies for the expedition I am planning. Beyond that I would suggest we leave the weapons, armor, and cash to get the peasantry back on their feet — given how much they’ve lost in the attack.”

Thrall, “You are absolutely right, Aram. The settlers need their protection and the extra coin to get their new life started.”

“We need to give the orc also his last rites….. but we will get to him later. First things first. "
Thrall tries to revive the captain.

The captain appears to have taken a serious blow to the head when he was blasted overboard. Thrall is able to patch up the wound, but his skull appears to be at least partially fractured — he is not in any immediate danger, but remains comatose.

Durell: "If no one wants the armor and weapons, I am sure that either the settlers can choose to use them, or, at the worst, attempt to sell them and use the proceeds for whatever they need. “As for me, I would only ask for the Ioun Stone and/or the proficient Broadsword, also to give to the settlers (preferably whoever lost the most livestock, to prevent starvation). (I’d really like to give the sword to the youth who stepped up to aid us. If he can lift it, at least he’ll know how to use it in the future). Other items could be useful, but I would gladly yield them to my new brothers in arms. In fact, in my sea chest I happen to have an enchanted set of Brigandine armor that was passed down to me, but is too restrictive for my use. I would gladly give it as a ‘swap’ for the Elven Chain, if others were agreeable”

“Aye,” Aram says, looking at the eager and strapping lad who served as Durrel’s weapons-caddy. “Give him the sword, and armor too. It shouldn’t be too much trouble for us to train him up into a semi-competent fighter in his own right. And by all means, if you can use the mail, take it.”

The boy’s eyes go wide when he is offered the sword. “Really, Mr. Bulwark? I can fight with you?!” He swings the sword a couple times, the magical blade guiding his strokes and making him look like an expert. He sheathes it and takes the offered brigandine. It’s big, but he is broad-shouldered and long-limbed for a thirteen-year-old, so it only takes a few adjustments of the straps to make it fit adequately. The other youths, all a bit younger than him, ooh and ah as he gets outfitted.

“See,” Aram says, “he looks a proper warrior already.” He turns to the kobold, ogre, and tentacle-haired woman, “Is there anything here that you would claim as a memento of our battle? You did just as much, if not more, than we to repel our attackers.” He turns back to the eager youth, “What’s your name, boy?”

Durell grins in appreciation of the attention his “assistant” has garnered. He leans in close to the boy and whispers: “Where are your parents? They might not like having their son pressed into fighting. I’ll talk to them.” He then steps back and appreciates the skill with which the sword allows and enables itself to be used.

“M’name’s Eddie, sir,” the boy responds. He shrugs and shifts in the armor, getting used to the weight and testing how much it allows him to move. “My Ma and Da are back in Featherdale,” he says to Durell, then points to a comely, curvaceous woman in her mid-thirties perhaps, wearing a plain homespun dress, who appears to be trying to wrangle the llama. “I’m traveling with me aunt.”

Using his innate animal empathy, Durell will go and attempt to calm the llama, and introduce himself to Eddie’s aunt. He’ll ask about the “how and why” of the aunt and her nephew leaving the rest of the family in Featherdale, and move to New Phlan. Specifically, he’ll press for what the aunt expects from Eddie, and how his latest “baptism by fire” into adventuring is going over.

“Oh, thank ye,” she says as Durell calms the animal. With the pen in the rear destroyed, she loops a rope over the llama’s neck and ties it off to the fallen mast. “I’m hoping to start a new life in Phlan,” she explains, “you see I…” she stops and goes a little red. “Well, I didn’t have much luck back home, so I’m hoping a new start in a new place will set things right. My brother said that I shouldn’t be traveling alone, so he sent his eldest, Eddie, along to help me get settled and help around the house. Though, Eddie’s always had a bit of a spirit to him, I don’t really think he’s really meant to be helping out an old spinster like me…”

Meanwhile, the Ogre and the others join Aram in pouring over the pile of loot.

“Hmmm,” the ogre, Osakh, remarks. “All of these are too small to be of any use to me, save the stone,” he points to the ioun stone. “Give me that, and the rest is yours.”

The kobold, with sniffling noises and tears streaming down his cheeks, picks through the pile and pulls out the amulet and the silver pick. “These…w…were,” he sniffles. “These were Delphia’s.” You see he is already clutching the burned and battered neck of his accompanist’s violin.

A tentacle snakes out from under the woman’s robes towards the pile and picks up the ring of mindshielding. “This,” she says simply. Then, seemingly as an after-thought, “and a share of the coin. This voyage may have been advertised as free, but I am less liquid than I might wish.”

Aram picks up the two remaining rings, “Did you have a preference Thrall?”

“Anyone will do”. Thrall looks a bit absent minded and tired.

Aram hands Thrall the Ring of Protection, since it looks like he needs it, and hands him the unclaimed Potion of Fire Resistance as well. He then slips the healing potion to Durell, since he’s the only one of us that can’t cast spells, keeping the last ring and the potion of polymorph for himself. He picks up the dagger and hands this to Durell as well, “I understand there are many creatures that can only be harmed by magic, if you do not have such a weapon, you may want to have this in your back pocket, so to speak.”

Aram makes the rounds on deck, making sure the last of the injured are dealt with and the surviving cargo and animals are secured. He then turns to the four pirates that were left alive. “Hey Osakh,” he calls to the Ogre as he walks over to confront them.

“Good sirs,” he says, staring the pirates down as best he can with an old man’s dimples and laughing eyes. “I’m sure you understand the situation you’re in,” he gestures to the fourty-odd bodies of their fellows floating in the Wake’s wake, then gives a little nod in the direction of the ogre. “You clearly chose the wrong life-path, when you embraced a lawless life of piracy. This is your chance to make amends, a bit, for the error of your past ways. We currently sail towards Phlan — though I use the term sail loosely — and this ship is under-staffed. Phlan offers general amnesty to all those who would aid their city. If you can help us get this ship ship-shape, and get these people safely to Phlan, you will have a clean record once you step in the city, a clean start for a new life. OR…” he says dramatically, “you can choose not to help us, and I can ask my friend here,” he again indicates the Ogre, “to tear your limbs off and throw you to the sharks as just reprisal for the harm that you’ve caused…”

The four pirates fall to their knees in front of the scary, smiling old man and his ogre compatriot. “Aye! Aye! Aye!” they all say, “We’ll help you get to land safely…we’re sorry…please don’t eat us!”

Surveying what’s left of the ship, now without a conscious captain, Durell asks out loud – presumably to his new fighting partners, but potentially to anyone that hears, including the gods: “Excuse me, but are we to leave the Minotaur alone in the midst of our attackers? Is there any way we can provide locomotion to this floating raft now to attempt to assist?”

One of the deck-hands, a hobgoblin, who has been inspecting the dropped mast overhears Durell and turns in his direction. “Indeed, sir. The mast appears to be un-damaged, we’ll just need to hoist it back into place and rig a new sail.”

“Oi, mister optimist,” A bald dwarven hand chimes in. “The spare sail was stashed aft! It’s ash now! An’ we slashed all the lines, so we’re talkin’ days of riggin’ even if we had a sail.”

“Can we commandeer cloth?” The hobgoblin asks. “We’re less than 10 nauts out from Phlan, we should be able to limp in as long as we can catch any amount of wind.”

“I would offer my cloak, but that could turn out very badly. But,” Aram looks around at the corpses, “we’ve still got some dead pirates to strip, and we could fish a few more out of the water. If we take all their clothes, there should be plenty of cloth.”

Aram walks over to the mast. “But first,” he crouches and puts his arms under one side, “Osakh, can you help us get this thing raised and bolted back into place?”

Osakh grabs the mast opposite Aram. Soon the hobgoblin, several of the farmers, and the four pirates have joined and with a mighty shove the mast is hoisted back to a vertical position, and the bolts shoved back into place by the dwarven hand. “Fine!” the dwarf grumbles, “yous start strippin’ clothes and I’ll start sewin’…”

Uncomfortable with “life adrift”, Durell realizes there is little he can do at the moment. He does approach Eddie’s Aunt and asks her: “I don’t want to assume anything, but by the look of your wonderful dress, I am guessing you are no stranger to needle and thread. Might we get your help with stitching together a makeshift sail to get us to our destination”

Pending her answer, he will either escort her to where the sail is being put together, and then head toward the newly re-erected mast and look for a crow’s nest, if there had been one and if it survived the skirmish. If so, he will make an attempt to climb/shinny up the mast to “take watch”, specifically trying to understand the direction the currents are taking us, looking for the ship the Minotaur boarded as well as the “new third ship”.

Valkur’s Wake’s small, single mast is not large enough to support a crow’s nest, and the rigging has all be cut away — though Durell thinks he might be able to perch on the boom or spreaders, at least until the makeshift sail needs to be hung.

Shimmying up the mast, though, Durell finds he cannot make out anything of use. With the time it has taken to deal with the fires and the bodies, and the descent of night, all three of the other ships are long gone, as far as Durell can tell.

He is soon snoring quite loudly.

21 Flamerule, Year of the Helm, 1362 DR.

Being a partial log of the adventures of “Team Desolate”. Content is kept in the original format, no edits have been made for consistency or readability.

GM:
It has been a few days since you boarded Valkur’s Wake. You are glad that you got on at the last stops, and that the voyage should be short, as the old flat-bottomed, single-decked, single-masted cog was already filled with people when you boarded, and no one disembarked at your stop.

The stern of the eighty foot ship has been fenced off and converted into a stable, carrying a handful of horses, mules, and other livestock, with a small, raised deck above the taffrail where the captain or one of his three assistants man the rudder and sleep. At least the trip is free. The captain, an old, gray-bearded, dwarven merchant named Donal Stormhammer, informed you that as long as you disembark at New Phlan, the council will be paying him ten times his normal passenger fee, so you get a free ride as long as that’s your destination and you give a hand with the lines if a storm blows up.

The thirty-odd other passengers are a motley mix of treasure hunters, monster slayers, a few farmers brave enough to settle in a city known to be plagued by demons and dragons, and those exiles from distant lands with no where else to go. Everyone, at least everyone who’s talking, has their own story of why they are traveling, but they all have one common theme—the promise of free land, fame, and riches in the ancient city of Phlan. During the night, everyone spreads out communally on the well deck, sleeping together cheek-to-jowl. During the day there is a little more space, with people standing most of the time, or else sitting on one of the crates or barrels of stores cluttering the deck or perching on the gunwale.

It is a bright day and the ship makes good speed ahead of a brisk southerly wind. Tomorrow morning, Captain Donal has informed the passagers, you will reach the port of New Phlan. A pod of dolphins splashes alongside the cog.

Chatter on deck today is more lively than usual, with the promise of landfall tomorrow. Near the bow of the Wake, half a dozen people stand about listening to a surprisingly articulate kobold doing a dramatic recitation of some poetry, or perhaps a monologue from a play. Judging from the spectators’ dress, there is a direct correlation between the number and quality of weapons the passengers are carrying and their level of racial tolerance. Near the mast, a woman wearing the stark-white wig of a priestess of Beshaba stands talking to a quintet of teenagers in peasants’ garb, trying to convert them to the worship of the Maid of Misfortune—judging from their wide eyes you suspect that this is their first time away from the farm, though their makeshift-looking weapons set them apart from the actual farmers and settlers who are all huddled in the stern near the animals, playing a game of chance and avoiding looking at the strange creatures riding up front.

Father Aram:
A gaunt old man in battered chainmail, his head surmounted by a strange crown of iron and bone spikes, sits near the front of the boat, listening to the kobold’s soliloquy. “Aye, but what of the dog?” he heckles, to strained laughter from the other onlookers.

“Pin”:
Pin sticks his head off the edge, he really hated ship traveling.

The old man walks over to the dwarf and gives him a hearty slap on the back with a mailed gauntlet. “Love that salt air, eh lad?!” He walks over and leans on the rail next to him. “So what business do you have in Phlan, friend?”

Pin, gives a thankful nod. “Unfortunately my dwarven legs aren’t made for this kind of travel”. He turns to the old man and replies, “whatever is awaiting us there”.

“Nothing good, I’d wager,” the old man spits in the water. “My home has had discourse with Phlan for decades…a near constant flood of refugees running from the monsters going one way, and poor sods tantalized by promises of wealth flowing the other. It’s a cursed place from all I hear.” He stands up straiter. “Sorry to hear about your stomach. Though,” he looks sideways at the boat’s dwarven captain and crew, “blaming your parentage doesn’t seem to hold much water around these parts…”

Pin glanced at the old man and pondered this. “From experience I take it?”

“More hearsay. Haven’t been there myself, but I’ve seen the people coming from Phlan. Not pretty—all ragged, wounded, and jumping at shadows.”

Pin stroked his beard. “Something or at least the thought of something is spooking them. Did you ever stop someone and ask”?

“Aye, my order had a particular interest in the north, though most of them just rambled like madmen. Some spoke of a blackened river that stank of death, or cursed islands teeming with the undead, or the city besieged by armies of orcs and goblins. One even spoke of hand the size of a mountain, wreathed in unquenchable flame…” He shrugs, “like I said, madmen.”
“Anyways, sorry to talk your ear off.” He shrugs a second time and extends his hand, “The name’s Aram. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Pin reached out and grabbed man known as Aran’s hand and shook it tightly. “You can just call me Pin”.

Thrall Demonsweat:
On board is alsof a man in a brown and green garb. Long brown tangled hair. Somewhat disturbing is the large wolf at his side. In the morning you can are him performing a small ritual in which he is adressing the four corners of the world. Eyes open but not seeing the ship. After that he visits the animals, softly speaking to them. They stay calm even with the wolf near them.

The farmers and settlers, massed near the stern, show very little concern for the man or his wolf. Perhaps they are used to seeing Druids in the rural communities from which they originate, or perhaps it is just that the wolf seems considerably more “natural” than the creatures assembled near the bow.

“What is going on here?” Thrall asks.

The kobold pauses with a rather annoyed look on his face, “A poetry reading, of course!” he says to muffled laughter from a few of the onlookers. He then resumes, raising his voice so that it can be heard farther back:

“By what? by any other house or person?
Of any thing the image tell me that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
Thou hadst, and more. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
If thou remember’st aught ere thou camest here,
How thou camest here thou mayst…”

Hearing the kobold’s rather miffed response, Aram looks up and sees the bemused man with the wolf standing mid-ship. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he says, taking his leave of the dwarf. He walks towards the man with the tangled hair, and raises a hand in greeting and smiles. “Hail friend, you seem a bit distressed.” He extends a hand, “My name is Aram. Might I ask what business is bringing you and your fine-looking dog to Phlan?”

“Thrall is my name. Thrall Demonsweat. My dog as you call it is a wolf and my companion. His name is Temur by the way. We are travelling to Phlann for a rather drastic change of scenery. Forgive my baldness, but might you tell me the tale of your crown?”

“I’ll forgive your baldness if you forgive mine,” the old man laughs again. “The crown is the symbol of my order and my god, The Blessed Afflictor, Cyris Carnithrax Maximus. That’d be the reason I’m traveling this way. In the mountains north of Phlan there are ruins of an ancient city dedicated to the Blessed Afflictor, part of the long extinct empire of Noga. I hope to mount an archaeological expedition to unearth whatever artifacts or relics of our church as might be found there.”

“Well, I might be interested in joining your expedition. I am not much of a city guy.”

The old man smiles broadly, “I’m sure I’d be happy to have you on board.” He pauses and looks the tangle-haired man up and down, “So, Thrall Demonsweat, that name has some rather interesting implications. Do you mind me asking how you got it? I don’t suppose your parents were so cruel as to make that your birthname?”

As Aram asks this, he turns back to the dwarf, “Hey! Mr. Pin, you really must come meet this fine chap and his puppy. If you can pull yourself away from the rail long enough, that is.”

“Demonsweat is my family name. Like it is my fathers and his father.”

Pin pulls himself off the rail with all the dwarven dignity he can muster and head over to meet everyone else.

“Master Pin? Are you alright? You look a bit greenish around your nose?” Thrall steps forward to “help” the dwarf.

Pin straightens himself. “Fine, nothing a strong ale won’t fix. Now let’s meet this chap you were talking about.” as he tries walking dignified…

Aram waves in Thrall’s direction, “This is the chap right here, Pin. Says his name is Thrall Demonsweat.” Aram leans down towards Pin and whispers, a bit too loudly, “Apparently his parents were of the particularly cruel variety, but let’s not mention that…”

Thrall pretends that he did not hear Arams remark. The same goes for calling his wolf “dog” or “pup”.
“Well, is it not just great that soon we can get off this nice looking ship and a little bit further away from this body of water. For me water is for drinking and washing and making beer of course. Not for floating around.”

“I always was told that all dwarves hated the waters but I presume that our captain and part of his crew proof otherwise?”

The old man laughs, “Obviously anything anyone tells you that ‘all’ persons of a particular race do, or that ‘always’ happens, has to be false. There are always exceptions among thinking beings.” He waves a hand at the other passengers, “that’d be like saying that all kobolds are inherently evil, or all orcs are out to commit genocide against our dwarven friends, or that all undead are fueled by hatred for the living, or that devils exist only to tempt men and steal their souls. All just falsehoods spread to keep people killing each other and give fuel to the powers of chaos.”

Thrall, “Nicely said. Just when I thought there was nothing to be learned on this ship. Maybe we should ask the others,” he points to the midship section, “to join us in this discussion or is that a bit to soon?”

Durell:
The keen eye makes a second sweep over the group of about 20 farmers and settlers in the back by the animals, there sits on the deck one dressed slightly differently. Cross-legged on the planks of the cog, he sits with a quarterstaff leaned from in front of him and across his left shoulder (because the right shoulder shows a longbow strung across his back, as well as can be done while sitting). Young and strapping, with a tousled crop of blonde hair, he attempts to draw no attention to himself. His brown cloak, shirt and pants almost trying to blend in with the oaken deck. But as the younger children of the farmer crowd rambunctiously run circles around him, poking at him and trying to “muss” his hair, they excitedly cheer and exclaim “The Homestead Bulwark can keep us safe, but we’ve got him now”. The youth with the quarterstaff only hangs his head lower and shakes it from side to side, giving off an air that is a combination of embarrassment, entertainment at the kids, and a humble denial of the children’s claims. After a few minutes of this, one of the farmer’s wive’s comes and collects the children saying “Now you leave Durell alone. He might NOT protect you if you keep teasing him!!”

When Thrall hears the woman’s voice he turns and looks the sitting young man right in the eyes.

Aram follows Thrall’s gaze. “Friend of yours?”

Thrall, “No, but I recognize a man of the woods anytime. The same goes for most of the clergy. Recognizing wizards is somewhat difficult for me. Only if they are doing what they do best.”

Although quite humble and typical of folks from Featherdale, (sagacious, quiet and lacking in presence), Durell does indeed look up when approached. Not really holding eye contact much, he acknowledges Thrall, and once introduced responds with “Durell, Durell Farnhed is my name. Nice to meet you.”

“Thrall Demonsweat is my name and this is Aram and Master Pin.”

Durell nods in their direction as well. “Pleasure to make your aquaintance.”

The old man steps forward, “Please to meet you. What business has landed you on this fine voyage?”

“I’ve been protecting the farmlands and homesteads of my neighbors and fellow Featherdalesmen for as long as I can remember. When so many of them decided to push off and try settling in and around New Phlan, how could I do anything but come with them to continue to extend some safety and protection in their new endeavor?”

Aram lets out a low whistle, “Whew. Gonna have your work cut out for you. Things must be pretty bad back in Featherdale if all these folks were willing to head to Phlan…”

Thrall, “What is so troublesome in Featherdale?”

Durell shakes his head: "I’m not saying this is a better place than Featherdale. Likely just the opposite. But there are always those that want to set out on their own and make their way in a new place. These Featherdalemen are of that cut of cloth. And I just figured they might need some “help” and protection."

“So you’re planning to follow these people around to “help” and “protect” them…what…forever?" The old man looks perplexed, “That seems a bit ill conceived. You know what they say about teaching people to fish.”

“These people know how to fish. And to farm. What they aren’t particularly adept at is fending off Orcs, or other creatures that might intrude upon their farmlands and threaten their lives or livelihoods. I grew up in Featherdale. I didn’t want to be a farmer, but found I has some… skills that have helped protect those in my homeland. I feel obligated to continue to do so – it’s the ‘Right Thing To Do’. Or at least I think so.”

“I didn’t mean literally teaching them to fish. I meant you might want to teach them how to fight, as I doubt you’ll be able to guard 10-odd farms all by yourself.”

Thrall, “That would be a great story indeed.”

Aram shrugs, “If you’ll excuse me Thrall, I’m going to go inquire with those at the bow if any of them might be more inclined to join my expedition.”

Thrall, “Perhaps you are in need of some translation?”

Aram leans against a large crate. After hearing the farmers’ praise, he had hoped to recruit the young woodsman for his expedition, but that now seems unlikely. He surveys the crowd and considers whom else he might recruit. “Hmmm,” he says quietly to himself, “Thrall seems on board, but two does not a party make.” He looks to the back of the boat, the would-be settlers from Featherdale were obviously not an option, then to mid-ship, where the priestess of misfortune was proselytizing the farmer’s children. “Yeah, the last thing I need is to invite more bad luck,” he grumbles. “Guess that narrows the pool…” He starts walking towards the front of the ship, the orc, ogre, or mintaur would at least add the muscle he was missing.

The group gathered at the bow are a motley lot, to say the least. The kobold and his lovely young accompanist are now playing an odd duet for fiddle and hurdy-gurdy. The ogre, tall, hairy and shirtless, with small horns protruding from his forehead, steps to one side to give Aram access to the performance. He seems transfixed by the music, eyes half-closed, smiling, and leaning relaxedly on his large stone axe.

To the left of the ogre stands a minotaur of quite terrifying countenance — his horns broken and his stern face criss-crossed with numerous scars. He seems mostly disinterested in the music, alternating between staring at the water and casting furtive glances at the human settlers massed in the rear of the ship.

To your right stands a gray-skinned Orc. His stark white hair is pulled into a top-knot, mirrored by the braided white goatee on his chin. He watches the fiddler with great intensity while tapping one foot and bobbing his head in entirely the wrong rhythm for the song.

Seated on a crate just behind the orc is a woman (or so you presume from the way her heavy robes drape across her chest), with a mass of writhing tentacles standing in place of her hair, and the “hand” that reaches up to push her heavy hood further back from her face also appears to be a suckered tentacle. Were the squirming feelers not so distracting, you might even consider her attractive.

Across the small arc of spectators from you stands a tall, statuesque woman with waist-length platinum-blonde hair. She wears the black and gold formal uniform of a Knight of the Black Fist — the military arm of the Church of Bane in this region. Her face is set in a stern scowl, that you suspect might be permanent.

The kobold who is performing is a bit of a strange bird — to say nothing of the simple fact that he is a kobold playing music on a ship run by dwarves. He is dressed in a green-velvet doublet, pantaloons, and floopy hat, all a bit too large for him, and playing a cranked hurdy-gurdy. More surprising still, his voice is a deep, rich tenor — quite out of place on such a small creature.

His accompanist is a beautiful young woman, in her early twenties perhaps. She wears a stylishly low-cut dress, of an orange hue which matches the kobolds eyes, and her hair appears to have been rubbed with moss to partially dye it to match the kobold’s garments. She is clearly the better instrumentalist of the two, weaving complicated arpeggios on her violin overtop of the hurdy-gurdy’s drone.

Aram gives the crowd another look thinking: ‘Well I’m much too old for any of the girls, mores the pity, and the kobold seems bent to his task, and the others are just terrifying. At least the ogre seems to appreciate good music and to be in a good mood.’

He half-turns to the ogre and tries to make conversation, “Greetings my fine, large fellow. My name is Aram Carnithrax Decidimus, and I’m very pleased to be sharing this boat ride with you. Might I ask what business is bringing you to New Phlan on this glorious, sunny day?”

“Hmph?” The ogre seems slightly annoyed to be broken from his reverie, but the expression soon shifts back to a smile. “Oh. Call me Osakh. Osakh of the Kur-Tharsu, if that means anything to you,” his tone clearly implies that it should. “My business in Phlan is no different from anyone’s,” he grins more widely and swings the axe up across his shoulders in an impressively casual, but non-threatening way. “They asked for strong arms and ready spells to defend their city, and I have both. What about you, tenth-son? Got an agenda, or just out to kill some goblins?”

The minotaur beside him snorts. “Would you keep it down,” he growls, “some of us are trying not to think about the rampant violence of our destination. The way everyone here can speak so casually about killing things weaker than themselves is a disgusting.” He snorts again and stomps a few steps further away, but still close enough to listen.

The ogre just rolls his eyes.

‘What do you know,’ Aram thinks to himself, ‘an ogre that is both intelligent and polite. $$$$.’

“Well,” Aram says, raising his voice just a bit to make sure the minotaur can hear. “I have no real intention of killing anything that does not try to kill me first. I am trying to put together an expedition to the mountains north of Phlan, in hopes to find, explore, and (possibly) loot some ancient Nogese ruins believed to be there. Part of an empire older than the Kur-Tharsu I believe, one of the first to rise in the wake of Ancient Netheril. I have already recruited someone skilled in wilderness lore to serve as a guide, but I am sure I could use some strong arms and ready spells just as much as the Council does, for a fair share of whatever we find of course…” he gives the ogre his best kindly old man smile.

“Hmmm, that certainly sounds interesting,” Osakh remarks. He gives Aram and his accoutrements a hard look, “And what if we don’t find anything of value? Whose footing the bill for provisions, supplies, mules, ammunition?”

“Ah yes. My request for a grant from my church was denied. However, I understand the town council in Phlan pays extremely well for dealing with their various monster problems. We may have to complete a few jobs about town first, but I will happily stake all of my share from any such jobs as seed money for the expedition.”

The ogre nods, “Sounds like a fair deal then. Donovan here,” he gestures with his large chin towards the kobold, “was explaining earlier that there is a minimum number of individuals necessary to be granted a commission from the Council anyways. You, me, and your guide makes three. We’ll likely need a fourth, or more if we can.”

“What about you,” Aram says, turning his attention directly to the minotaur. “Would you be interested? We can promise to attempt a diplomatic approach to solving the Council’s problems where possible.”

The minotaur snorts again, but his eyes soften, “My master taught me never to judge anyone by first impressions, and your words certainly surprise me. I would be happy to aid you in your pursuit of history.” He stick out a very large hand, “Call me Balmoran.”

Aram shakes his hand heartily, “That makes four of us then, and I suspect my new dwarf friend might join us as well. Come, let me introduce you to my guide, Thrall.”

Aram walks back several minutes later followed by two towering figures—their shifting weight causing the boat to list slightly to one side. As they get close the wolf’s hackles go up and a low growl escapes his throat. Behind you, the other animals in their stalls begin to give their own cries of alarm—the horses stamp and whinny, the cows low and buck, a small dog begins barking.

Thrall calms his wolf and turns to the animals in an attempt to calm them too, knowing that it is a natural reaction to the Orc. Directly after that he steps forward to meet the others creating a distance between the animals and the big guys. “Master Pin? Please join me?”

Durell fidgets as he recognizes his hated enemies. Surprised to see Thrall apparently okay with such associates, he never-the-less pulls his longbow from across his shoulders and lays it on the deck next to him for easy reach. His knuckles whiten with the tighter grip he holds on his quarterstaff. It takes as much restraint as he has not to attack immediately, knowing that the tight quarters, and large crowd means only that a fight would hurt more than these two vile creatures.

Seeing the reaction of the animals, the Minotaur suddenly stops and backs up a couple of paces. He snorts angrily, then growls out, “Sorry. That happens every bloody time.” He looks to Aram, “I’ll be waiting up front…wouldn’t want to cause a stampede in close quarters. We can discuss the details of your expedition later.” He turns and proceeds back to the front of the boat.

The ogre shrugs and walks up to Thrall. “This the guy?” he asks Aram before extending an open hand in Thrall’s direction. “Osakh,” he says, “pointy-hat here says we’ll be traveling together.” He pauses and looks around then, “Cute pup. Does he have a name?”

Thrall accepts the hand and shakes it. “Thrall is my name and this is Temur, my wolf companion.” Temur sniffs Osakh carefully but stays on his feet, no sign of submission.

Aram smiles, “So, Thrall, it seems the two large fellows are willing to accompany us in our ventures. Osakh you’ve met, the other one calls himself Balmoran.”

He turns to the dwarf. “Pin,” he says, “I’m not sure I actually mentioned this earlier, but I am attempting to put together an expedition to the Dragonspine Mountains north of Phlan. I have reason to believe there are some ancient ruins there, the exploration of which may prove both educational and lucrative. Is there any chance you’d be willing to join us?”

He continues to the broader audience, “Assuming you are interested, obviously our first point of business once we make land-fall will be acquiring the necessary tools and provisions, which Osakh was kind enough to remind me of. To that end I would propose doing a few jobs for the town council in Phlan, as I hear they pay very well.”

Thrall: “And what kind of jobs might that be? Me personally am not very fond of big cities.”

“I honestly don’t know what jobs, though the kobold up front seems pretty knowledgeable so we could maybe ask him, or the captain, or one of the deck hands. From what I understand, it’s not so much a ‘big city’ and a ‘city that used to be big’. Judging by these fliers the kobold was handing out when we got on board, I would suspect the council is looking for general monster-cleanup and exploration related help.” Aram pulls out one of the fliers to show Thrall. “Given the size of the old city and what little I know of its history, I’m sure there must be parks, cemeteries, or other green-spaces in the old city that need to be cleared, or the Council may have some out-of-town threats that they will need assistance.”

Thrall reads the flyer quickly and hands it over to the one who is next to him. “This might be interesting for more than just one of us. But we better be prepared and prepped up.”