[Game Thread] The Path to Perdition

[moozuba]

The possessed paladin fell and the foundations of the world shook.

Mere moments after the spirit of the Black Butcher relinquished its hold on Sir Drexler's battered and bloody shell, a force akin to an earthquake of immense magnitude rocked the Keep. The walls of Azlanti Keep and the Court of the Varlokkur shuddered and spider-webbing cracks appeared in two of the elaborate stained-glass windows adoring the blood-soaked chamber, but the walls and ceiling held. The Keep was built to withstand far more than a major shift in tectonic plates.

As the group of weary adventurers picked themselves off the floor, guards -- dozens of armed soldiers led by a surly brute of a man who might even have been half-giant -- blasted their way into the interior court and demanded the surrender of the quartet of adventurers. The arresting party conceded a gentler touch when the attending guards insisted that the survivors had acted in self-defense and, indeed, saved them from 'whatever that was.' The slain body of the paladin being identified as the culprit. The hulking Guard Captain did not take kindly to discovering the decapitated body of Spell Lord Utgar, however, and under force and duress the adventurers were dragged from the Court in chains.

Thrown into a magically-secured holding cell and anticipating no good outcome, the heroes waited for the better part of an hour before someone came to tend their wounds and provide bread and water. The priestesses who attended them, one of whom proudly displayed the sigil of Sarenrae, refused to speak other than to issue orders and Radcliffe could not help but note the sharp, bitter glances shot his way by his fellow servant of the Dawnflower. At the end of their attendance, Brom was removed to receive more involved care, his injuries being more severe and requiring a softer touch. The name 'Psion Xerashir' was mentioned in a hushed whisper.

Another hour past before the Guard Captain reappeared with a dozen armed veteran soldiers and ordered the prisoners extracted. Kyra, Radcliffe, Thomas, and the two guardsmen were paraded in chains through the Keep to a small enclave in the Eastern-most part of the compound. Humble furnishings and unadorned stonework suggested something less grand than the lavish Court of the Varlokkur.

The door opened into an inner chamber where a man sat upon a finely crafted wooden chair. Beside him, to his left, stood a tall man with a drawn face and sharp, dark eyes, and a dwarf with skin the color of stone and a beard like spun steel. The man upon the chair gestured and the five prisoners were dragged forward to stand before him. Clever eyes surveyed them, then a wry smile tugged at the corner of thin lips. "You are the mercenaries working with Lord Gauthfollow?" A question, but in the manner of a statement. The man sought information, but only the missing pieces of a puzzle he had by-and-large completed.

 

OOC I realize I skipped a bit here. Feel free to backtrack and RP conversations in your brief captivity or your thoughts during the event that shook the Keep. Your wounds are healed (full HP for everyone, though feel free to RP out some aches and discomforts if you wish). 2 Hero Points for each of the 3 who fought the Black Butcher and prevailed!

[ItsaVerb]

Only the first swallow of refreshing moisture reached Kyra's parched throat before her water skin fell to the floor, her arms instinctively reaching out to grasp for balance. The monk's attention had been for the moment entirely transfixed on the task of gulping down every last drop before the floor abruptly shook. On any other day, her reflexes and sense of body control being what they were, she would certainly have remained standing. As it was on this day however, in this particular moment, she crashed to the floor--caught completely unprepared. Still wounded, though kept whole only by the grace of Brother Radcliffe's intervention, the pain of impact ravaged the beaten student from bruised head bloodied toe.

Kyra laid there on the cool polished stone floor, her eyes barely focusing as she watched the contents of the water skin flow out to form a puddle in front of her, not unlike the way Khair's blood had pooled on that dirty cobblestone of the alleyway near the Saucy Wench when she'd seen the light leave his wonderful eyes forever.

It might have been pride that gave her the strength to stand again, and if it was, she'd surely have words with herself about that. Her body protested, weak from exhaustion and loss of blood, but she did stand, in defiance of all of it--everything that was wrong, from her brothers unnecessary death to whatever conspiracy had led to it to the shaking of the world itself. She smoothed and straightened the once radiant silk of her hand-woven robes, their deep green color now mostly stained to black with blood. She plucked pieces of hair that had become stuck to her face in smears of the same dried dead matter and twisted the length of it in a haphazard knot.

She barely reacted when the guards burst into the room, not objecting to the accusations being shouted at her. Not saying a word and offering no resistence as she was placed in a prisoner's chains--the same sort her brother died in--and led to a holding cell where her health was eventually tended to.

She'd taken his place. Khair had no idea what sort of malfeasance he'd gotten tangled up in. Of that Kyra was absolutely certain. But whatever it was, she was now quite well in the middle of it herself. She promised him she would get to the bottom of it and clear his name. She took his errand from the High Cleric of Iomedae, to find the Raven's Eye and bring it to him. In that mission, she'd made more progress than Khair had. At least she had a pretty good hunch where the artifact was located…

The healing and refreshment was most welcome--necessary, though it did little to improve on her rather horrid appearance. Not being the vain sort, Kyra paid no mind to that, though. Her faculties were returning to a more familiar state. She was able to feel her connection to the world's energy again, and was able to center herself in a sort of silent half-meditation, keeping the questions at bay and focusing on her surroundings.

Brom was still alive, but his survival did not seem at all certain. He was Khair's closest friend, and as such Kyra would do what she could to make sure he was cared for, as her brother absolutely would have done. Brom was probably one of only few aside from herself in this goodness-forsaken city who knew how absolutely good a person Khair was. Knowing her deity was not the sort to intervene much in the lives of his followers, always encouraging them to do for themselves, Kyra made a silent plea to Irori nonetheless, and any other gods that might be listening, to save poor Brom.

Being led then to the modest chamber to appear before whomever it was seated in the chair--the authority, presumably, Kyra's silence continued, but her mind was whirring and her keen eyes searched out every detail in the room, and the faces of the three men before her.

It wasn't until the man asked his question she spoke up. It was a lie. Perhaps this man didn't know the truth, but Kyra already knew enough of it to correct him. "No, sir. We are not." Kyra's tone was clear and the message delivered with all the seriousness of a heart-attack.

"The only paid work I took today was serving tables at Lady Finch's tavern. I met Lord Gauthfollow there today, and only met these men after that. I am a stranger to Absalom. My name is Kyra, and I came here from Katheer to find my brother--the one people here called Vigg. The one who was wrongly accused of some crime and murdered today in your city. I believed Lord Gauthfollow was trying to help me, but I can not speak to any intentions of his."

Looking to the two veritable strangers, the charming Master Bombast and the kind if grizzled Brother Radcliffe, then back at the three men, Kyra examined their reactions to her speech closely, looking for any tells in their reactions--a raised eyebrow, a flinch, the speed of their breath--anything that might give her a hint as to their true intentions. One thing she'd learned quite well and much to her chagrin in her short time in Absalom, it seemed everyone had something to hide.

"May I ask who you are, Sir?"

 

OOC EFA!!! EFA!!! EFA!!!! The perception is for clues in the room, including any alternate means of escape. It could also go to noticing something about those men. The sense motive is to pick up on any behavior that would tip her off as to their intentions. Damn what any of them have to say. Truth seems to be in short supply in Absalom... Dice Perception: D20+11 (15)+11 Total = 26 Dice Sense Motive: d20+9 (16)+9 Total = 25 Kyra's Character Sheet-Level 4

[TeufelHeunden]

Torches played murkily on the revels in the Coin District, where the soldiers of Absolam held carnival by night. In the Coin district they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest citizens shunned the district and Watchmen, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, dirt paths with their sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows, and from the darkness raised the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scuffles and struggling. Torchlight licked luridly from wide thrown windows, and out of those portals, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, the clamor of pints and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face.

In this, one of the more out of the way taverns, merriment thundered to the low smoke-stained roof, where soldiers gathered in every rank of foot soldiers and officer. The large Sagavavian whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional mercenary come up from distant Sagava to teach close combat to Absolam’s who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain. This man halted in his description of Gioco Stretto and thrust his muzzle into a huge tankard of frothing ale. Then blowing the foam from his lips, he said, “I can blackhole any man in this district up to and including that dainty Prince of yours I have heard so many talks about”

A pat on his tunic sleeve made him turn his head, scowling at the interruption. He saw a short, burly made man standing beside him. This person seemed as much out of place in that den as a gray wolf among grungy rats of the sewers. His otherwise capricious nose ring and bald head could not obscure the hard, rangy lines of his commanding frame, the broad hefty shoulders, the massive chest, lean waist, and thick arms. His skin had a grayish tone, his eyes were dark and smoldering; a shock of white hair seized his broad chin. From his girdle hung a well-made and obviously active flail on a superb leather belt. The mercenary involuntarily drew back; for the man was not one of any unit he knew.

“Ye spoke of tha Gioco Stretto,” said the stranger. “ I’ve heard much of this technique; what be its secret?” The fellow’s attitude did not seem threatening, and the Sagavavian’s courage was bolstered up by the ale, and the fact that most of the town guard that had come in to subdue him were protracted on the outside range of his reach. He swelled with self-importance. “The secret of the Gioco Stretto?” he exclaimed. “Why, any fool knows that you need to maneuver around and use your opponent’s weight against them.”

Thanguardt, not a stranger for the guards who had many drinks with him in the Saucy Wench knew exactly who he was, digested this for a space of time. “Yes, I have seen this maneuver before. Actually, one of tha most basic concepts when put in play and somethin' I be sure anyone in this district already has mastered ta one point or another.”

The Sagavavian glared wide-mouthed at Thangaurdts’s confidence, then burst into a roar of derisive mirth, in which the guards refused to join. “Harken to this heathen!” he bellowed. “He would wrestle with the wolves of King’s Port! Harken, fellow,” he said, turning portentously to Thangurdt, “I suppose you are some sort of a mercenary –”

“ I be a Duergar Tyrant,” Thangaurdt answered, in no so friendly tone. The reply and the manner of it seemed to mean little to the Sagavavian; of a kingdom that lay far to the South, close to the boundary of several Jungles, he knew only vaguely of the other Dwarf races.

“Then give ear and acquire wisdom, fellow,” said he, pointing his drinking tankard at Thanguardt. “Know that in Sagava, and more especially in this district, there are more bold soldiers than anywhere else in the world, even Galt. If a man could have bested me or my teachings, be sure it would have been done long ago.”

“ But if a man cou' git close enough and disarm ye,” argued Thangaurdt, “ why cou' he nae just as easily run ye through with his sword”

Again the Sagavavian gaped at him. “Listen to him!” he shouted jeeringly. “The mercenary is a swordsman who would charge in and run a man through with his sword even though the man would be defending himself!”

Thangaurdt glared at the mocking laughter that greeted this remark. He saw no particular humor in it. Civilized men are more discourteous than most mercenaries because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing. The Sagavavian chose to goad him further.

“Come, come!” he shouted. “Tell these poor fellows, tell them how you would beat the best pit fighter in all of this Island!”

“ Thar be always a way if tha need be coupled with courage,” answered Thanguardt shortly.

The Sagavavian chose to take this as a personal slur. His face grew purple with anger. “What!” he roared. “You dare tell me my business, and intimate that I am a coward? Get along; get out of my sight!” And he pushed the Thangaurdt violently.

“ Will ye mock me and then lay hands on me?” grated Thangaurdt, his quick rage leaping up, and he returned the push with an open-handed blow that knocked his tormenter back against the rude-hewn table. Ale splashed over the glass’s lip, and the Sagavavian roared in fury, dragging at his sword.

“Heathen dog!” he bellowed. “I’ll have your heart for that!”

Steel flew, and the throng of town guards rushed wildly back out of the way. In their flight they bumped over the single candle and a small tavern was lurched in darkness, fragmented by the crash of upset benches, the drum of flying feet, shouts, oafs of people tumbling over one another, and a single strident yell of agony that cut the din like a knife. When a candle was relighted; the center of the tavern was deserted except for the gashed body of the Sagavavian. Thanguardt, with his unerring instinct, had killed this man in the darkness and confusion.

“This man was filth and a disease to all in this district; he brought his brand of a braggart in here claiming to be able to bolster your ranks and has done nothing but bolster his money pouch and infest the ranks with discord. You have known me and my loyalty to your Primarch, but more importantly to you. Now clean this mess up and feed him to the animals.”

That had been two nights ago and ostensibly his resolution of that predicament the town guards had found themselves in had earned Thangaurdt some veneration. He was met by one of the captains the following day and told to come to Azlanti Keep this afternoon for he was to meet with the Primarch himself for something extraordinary. Gods knew what that meant to him, but if there were gold on the offer he was willing to listen. After all, Loyalty is not earned, it’s bought was his maxim.

Unpredictably upon his arrival the guards let him pass with only a cursory pat down allowing him to keep his weapons. But with the number of guards escorting him he didn’t know how many it would take to throw him out, but he knew how many they would use so he kept his protocols. A better idea to keep a straight face today and see what this was all about.

He was led into an obscure room and stationed next to a rather tall and ominous looking bloke with the only instruction to wait. Momentarily, a man was lead into the room with ample guards and sat in the chair next to him and the other fellow. Soon after in the silence that seemed to last an eternity as he scratched his buttocks and coughed hoping the silence would be broken the doors on the other side ruptured open, and a group of prisoners in chains was hauled into the room. The man in the chair spoke, and it was apparent to Thangaurdt this was the Primarch. He accused them of some crime although associating with mercenaries was not a crime as far as he knew – strike that, he hoped as he fidgeted.

It was what he heard next that caught his attention.

‘my brother--the one people here called Vigg …” the rest of the woman’s statement was obscured, except ” The one who was wrongly accused of some crime and murdered today in your city.”

His pulse slowed as he felt a void in his chest. He glowered down at his hands with a vacant almost distraught stare. Vigg, was murdered in this godforsaken town in tha middle of tha world , he thought to himself, it can’t be so. His eyes squeezed shut as he grimaced thinking about their past together. His heart beat again and raced the adrenaline through his veins. He jerked his head up with wide bulging eyes as he gaped at the woman. Did she say she was his sister, he flet dizzy for a moment. Vigg had briefly mentioned he had a sister ta Brom that one noche but when I confronted him he denied it?

He tilted his head and pulled on his beard as he gaped at the woman, trying to see if he could find any resemblance to his brother in arms, to see if she could, in fact, be she who she claimed to be.

[Melchior]

Jailhouse Blues "'Oh, slack your horse,” cries George, 'Come slack it for a while, For I think I see my sister dear Coming over yonder style.'" Singing was something which Radcliffe enjoyed, but that did not mean that he was actually any good at it. Not that he was bad, either, but his voice was rough and unpolished, used more to being taken up as part of a chorus and for men who were already so deep into their tankards that energy and enthusiasm counted for far more than talent. It was a voice far more at home in a tavern, than a cage, and the guardmen watching over them had already come to angrily yell at him to shut up, but red-faced and slumped up against the wall of his cell, Radcliffe was not inclined to listen. He just sang louder. “Did you bring gold? Did you bring silver for to set me free? So to keep my body from the cold gaol wall And my neck from the high gallows tree.” Radcliffe had not been the least bit surprised when shortly after the monster-formerly-known-as-Drexler fell the doors had slammed openly dramatically and the soldiers had stormed in en masse. He had expected them to show up only as soon as they were no longer needed. He had even prepared a condescending quip about the punctuality of Absalom's Finest, but he had been denied that bit of catharsis by a sudden earthquake rocking the Keep. So instead of finding the priest sitting casually atop the primarch's chair as if he owned the place with a cocky smile and a smarmy comment at the ready, the guards found Radcliffe sprawled unglamorously across the floor. He should have known better than to expect the day to start getting better. “I've no gold, I've no silver to set you free, But I have come for to see you hang, Oh, hang by the high gallows tree.” The guards rounded them all up and clapped them in chains, exactly as Radcliffe had known they would the moment he had seen Utgar's head fall from his shoulders. It didn't matter what had really happened, they had been found in the room with the corpse of a Spell Lord of Absalom. Bombast and Kyra would probably be shown lenience on account of their birth, but Radcliffe would be lucky if they only locked him away forever. Far more lucky, he had a date with the gallows to look forward too in the near future. Or at least that's what Radcliffe thought as they clapped the irons around his wrists. But in a rare moment of serendipity, Radcliffe may well have been saved from that fate by the two lucky guardsmen who had survived the fight. He wasn't certain how much weight the word of two guards would have in a situation like this, but any support was welcome, and it was enough to make Radcliffe somewhat regret the fact that he had wanted to use them as a distraction during the battle. Somewhat. They were still carted off to a cell, because they had still been found with the dead body of a spell lord, but the guard captain at least seemed to believe his subordinates claims. He imagined the smoldering corpse of the hellspawn Drexler had become was rather convincing evidence. "Oh, the prickle-holly bush, it pricks, it pricks, Oh, it pricks my heart full sore And if ever I get out of the prickle-holly bush I'll never get in there any more." So they had thrown them all into cages and left them to wait. They had already taken their weapons but they hadn't taken anything else, including his flask. That was good, because he had dearly needed the drink. unfortunately the small amount of liquid he had managed to smuggle into the keep had only lastly a few scant minutes. Fortunately they also hadn't taken his holy symbol away. And there were a few buckets in the corner for the prisoners to 'do their business into. After a few rinses with conjured water to ensure that they were clean enough, Radcliffe filled them up up with water. A few spoken words and a glowing holy symbol later and Radcliffe had himself a whole bucket of cheap wine. "'Oh, slack your horse,' cries George, 'Come slack it for a while, For I think I see my true love dear Coming over yonder style.'" And so when the guards came to fetch them all once again, they found Radcliffe slumped up against the wall of the cell, completely smashed and belting out bawdy tavern songs that he claimed was for the benefit of his cell mates but in fact was more for the aggravation of their minders. He cracked open an eye when the cell door creaked open once again, and grinned up at the guard captain glaring crossly down at him. "Oh? Are you my true love dear, come to set me free?" he asked, with the most insolent grin upon his face that he could manage, which he only managed to hold for a moment before bursting out into drunken laughter, finding his own joke supremely funny in that way that only the truly intoxicated can. With a scowl, the guards pulled the drunken sot of a priest to his feet again and pushed him snickering towards the door. He only staggered a little bit as he went.

By the time they reached the small enclave that was their destination, Radcliffe had managed to reign in his snickering. The walk had sobered him up a little, though he still wore a broad, goofy smile and wobbled uneasily on his feet when the guard captain brought them before a trio of very serious looking men.

Radcliffe eyes drunkenly roamed around the room, and over all three of the men. Despite the alchohol fuelled haze filling his head, Radcliffe's mind and eyes were as sharp as ever. He had quite a bit of experience operating in such a condition after all. If anything it often made things easier, since so many people disregarded and underestimated the 'drunken idiot'.

The dwarf was new. Radcliffe had never seen him before, and the only dwarf Radcliffe knew among Absalom's upper crust had been Gauthfellow. Perhaps this was a relative. If so, that could be good or bad, depending on whether he believed their story of the spymaster's motives and actions, and Utgar's role in throughout ruining them. The tall man standing to the left of the chair bothered him. He was familiar, but in a fleeting way that picked at the back of his mind. Radcliffe knew he was important, but he had no idea how or why, and in many ways that made him more intimidating that the one face Radcliffe did recognize.

"Lord Gyr of House Gixx, Defender of Kortos, First Spell Lord and Primarch of Absalom," Radcliffe said, answering Kyra's question on the lord's behalf. He made a grand show of bowing, just enough that it could be considered mocking, but not enough to be called out on it. "The Grand Poobah himself. It is an honor, my lord. I only wish I were dressed properly."

[Rolzup]

"Hardly a mercenary," Thomas objects, wounded. "More of a freelance do-gooder, don't you know? In the wrong place at the right time, and all that. Did my duty, as any good citizen would! Isn't that right, Poundworthy old boy?" The exhausted monkey merely shrugs. He raises a tiny hand and waves it about in a weary pantomime of pitched battle, before sagging against his master's head.

"Thank you, Poundworthy. Eloquently said, as always. As my man here has related, sir, we intervened in what appeared to be no more than a common mugging, and gave ourselves into custody without demur when it developed that matters were more complex than we'd realized. And then there were...ah...events. Terrible ones, if I'm being honest about it. Poor Drexler," Thomas sighs, "He deserved better than that, I dare say."

[SophieValentine]

Today was not turning out to be a good day. Neither was yesterday for that matter. In fact, if Lee was going to hazard a guess, he'd say he was due a long string of unpleasantness. Probably only served him right, really. I mean, how long a string of good luck can someone like him have? A year? Maybe two? That seemed about right.

I mean, really? What did he expect? That he'd have a secure job? Be treated well? Actually retire? Spend his twilight years drinking ale in a pub with friends? 'Stupid.' He hadn't really bothered to make friends, 'retirement' was a lovely word for 'stabbed to death in an alley', and he was treated well enough in his job...which had been stable...up until recently.

Lee Smith dressed as he did every day. Fitted clothing in tans. Leathers in dark browns (recently oiled from his last stint in front of the First Spell Lord of Absalom). A shortsword on each hip. He came when summoned, went where he was supposed to go, and stood where he was supposed to stand. All as planned...except...he found himself next to a rather surly-looking desaturated dwarf. He maybe, just maybe, put his hands on the pommels of those swords because of that dwarf. Lee fleetingly wondered if that was a touch racist, but the dwarf looked rough, and if he'd been introduced, his mind was a million miles away and it just slipped through. He would feel a bit worse about that later, when he could focus on such things.

He waited for the people the Primarch had brought for questioning; it didn't seem a quick affair. Every second added to the knot of nervous energy building in his gut. Just as he was about to say something or perhaps start bouncing from foot to foot, they were led in. Lee inclined his head as the Primarch spoke, tilting it a little, almost as if to face towards him without taking his eyes off the prisoners. After the Primarch asked his question, Lee turned back to fully face those in front of him, trying for neutral or even bored, but knowing full well the look on his face said 'plotting to stab you'. Nothing to be done for it.

The dwarf at his side draws a quick glance from Lee when he reacts fairly obviously to the woman's words. 'Curious.' One of the men in front of him warranted an unimpressed curling of the lip with his introduction. 'Fool.' The strange man with the monkey confused him some with his talk of mugging. Initial statements made, and Lee's face fell back to neutral. All in all he would say that nothing said bode particularly well or ill. 'Drat.' Lee did his best to studiously avoid looking at the Primarch after what little information there had been had been tossed about. He didn't need to see the look on the man's face to know this situation wasn't resolved to his liking.

[moozuba]

The man seated upon the dais watched each of the prisoners with a shrewd, sharp gaze. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair which were carved in the likeness of lions. "I am as the priest says, Primarch and First Spell Lord of Absalom. The proper form of address is 'Primarch' or 'My Lord.'" This he said to Kyra, but without harshness or pretension.

Silence fell. A heavy silence that permitted no interruption. Gyr surveyed those before and beside him. The tension dissolved as he folded his hands in his lap and templed his fingers. "My city is in chaos. Chaos within and chaos without. Therefore, swift and decisive action is required." He continued to examine each of them in turn, gauging their reactions.

"I must be blunt, for time is of the essence. My hold upon Absalom is tenuous. My uncle and his Varlokkur are dead, my Spymaster missing, half of Puddles is underwater and three-quarters of the ships at port have been destroyed. The Jewel of the Inner Sea threatens to tear itself apart. Reports pour in already of those who would shatter the peace and security of this city. The Syndicate moves to take control of Precipice, Coins, and what remains of Puddles. A band of mercenaries calling themselves the Black Company have claimed control of the Docks. The Scholastics hide in their towers and the Church rushes to decry my government as parlaying with demons. The remaining Spell Lord, Lady Darchana, calls for my resignation. Atop all of this, that insipid Throne still stands and someone has stolen the body of Vigg Nosam," he said with a cursory, but apologetic glance in Kyra's direction. The Primarch's voice bled stress and frustration.

"My city crumbles around me. The wolves howl at the gates. The time is now or never. Do or die. And whom can I trust? My dearest servant flees while my closest allies forsake me. I cannot afford misplaced trust at this crucial juncture. I need those who have stakes in this game -- who have already faced evil and prevailed. I need you."

"But I do not send you unaided. You shall have the best of what my armory can supply and, more importantly, two able bodies." He gestured to the dwarf and the tall man standing to his left. "Sir Thangardt of Clan Stonetosser, a mighty warrior who has both my trust and my thanks. And Agent Lee Smith, an apprentice of Lord Gauthfollow who matches his master's wit and resourcefulness, and one of the few among Maur's men whom I still have reason to trust."

The Primarch rose from his seat and descended the three steps from the dais. A tall man, though not as tall as Smith, he studied the three before him with intense interest. "Will you aid me? Aid Absalom? I assure you, your loyalty and service will not pass unremarked or unrewarded."

 

OOC Well, there you have it. A heavily baited plot hook. Anyone hungry?

[ItsaVerb]

This Brother Radcliffe is certainly a piece of work…

Kyra watched on as the cleric straddled the line between reverence and insolence, teetering on the edge of sarcasm while still addressing Gyr in the proper way. Though the emotion brought by the day's tragedies weighed heavy on her, she'd found herself spontaneously chuckling some minutes earlier as Radcliffe sang his drunken lungs out trying to annoy the palace guards, and she nearly did again at his foolish display before Absalom's ruler and his… people.

Bombast responded in a manner Kyra had already come to expect from him, self-deprecating yet flamboyant, and always deferring to his simian sidekick. She wondered if Thomas actually understood Poundworthy as distinctly as he made it out. There was no doubt the nimble little creature had a personality. She'd felt strangely comforted by him back at the scene of Khair's killing when he stroked her hair as she cried.

The monk's emerald eyes appraised the men in the room carefully. She noticed slight reactions to her speech and began to make assessments about who she was dealing with. The dwarf's eyes widened at her mention of Vigg. Perhaps he knew Khair? The behavior of the tall man with the serious face was more vague, yet persistent. He seemed uncomfortable. Tense. If she had to guess, he was wound up as tight as a spring, and she wondered why.

It is Kyra's practice to freely grant trust, and she found herself struggling in that regard. It was the right way to approach things, but she couldn't shake a feeling of skepticism that threatened to overwhelm her reason. As Gyr spoke, she became more certain he was being genuine. He wasn't bothered by her faux pas in etiquette, which revealed some humility--though if things in Absalom were as bad as he said, she could understand why he wasn't feeling particularly regal in that moment.

"My Lord," Kyra offered quietly with a nod of her head. Primarch of Absalom. Spell Lord. And even he doesn't know what's behind that damnable throne…

Obviously, there was one piece of Gyr's plea that stayed at the forefront of Kyra's thoughts the moment it left his lips. Someone has stolen the body of Vigg Nosam… Gauthfollow said the body would be tended to. She took it as a promise. He and the rest of the mage council simply vanished from Utgar's courtroom. What happened to them?

Lord Gyr introduced his henchmen. The tall nervous one an apprentice to the vanished spymaster, the dwarf some kind of warrior. He expressed his absolute trust in both of them. The Primarch seemed in a position where there was little need for pretense. He was desperate, and he needed help. Kyra would take that at face value.

After making eye contact with Smith and Stonetosser and giving them each the same nod of greeting she'd given Gyr, she replied "What happens if you do step down, Primarch? This Darchana seeks to take your place?

"I will do what I can to help. As for the political structure here in Absalom, I have no vested interest, but I am concerned for the well-being of all your people. There is clearly something nefarious behind these events and the chaos isn't good for anyone.


"How I can I aid you?"

[Rolzup]

"Well," Thomas begins.

"That is," he continues.

"Well," he adds, raising a finger.

"But...." He sighs, hand dropping back to his side.

"Be delighted to help, my lord," he concludes, Jasper nodding in agreement. "I do feel obliged to note that I am not, under any definition what I am currently aware of, any kind of hero. Nothing against the idea, of course, but I simply don't qualify." Thomas spread his arms. "No sword, you see. And my thews are lamentably unmighty, In fact, if I am honest, I'm not entirely certain what thews are."

Jasper chitters something, and Thomas gives him a look of surprise. "Really? You're certain, old boy? rather...anatomical, isn't it? Yes, yes, quite right, hardly the point." Smiling weakly, the sorcerer turned back to the Primarch. "It's been a terribly long day, my lord. I don't normally babble so." Jasper, studiously studying the ceiling, does not interject.

"Let me say it again, however: If you wish my aid, my lord, you have it." Thomas shrugs. "It's my city to, after all. It's where I keep all my things; I'd miss it terribly it were gone."

[ItsaVerb]

"You don't?" Kyra blurted out at Bombast when he professed to not be a babbler. It might have been the mental fatigue, or the darkness that had weighed down her spirit beginning to crack open to let the light in. She grinned sheepishly, biting her lip and remaining quiet so Thomas could continue addressing the Primarch.

[Melchior]

Radcliffe had spent a fair portion of his life playing the fool, with varying degrees of obfuscation and sincerity. He was well used to drawing the ire of very-serious people who believed the rest of the world should be as boring and straight-laced as they. So Radcliffe did not wither under the Primarch scrutinizing gaze as many would have in his situation. He simply grinned that same slightly lopsided, sardonic grin he always had, teeth white against the dirty and unwashed grime of his dishevelled appearance.

It was testament to his considerable experience over the years that he was able to maintain the expression throughout the Primarch's explanation. At first, at least. By the time the man was finished laying out the entire situation, Radlciffe's grin had slipped away entirely, and his brow was furrowed in what he would have deemed concern. Certainly not worry.

"They're a type of small rodent," Radcliffe put forward, when Bombast brought up the question of thews. He hadn't really been paying much attention to what the others were saying and he still sounded distracted as he spoke. "Like a gerbil or a shrew."

If what Lord Gyr was saying was true - and Radcliffe would concede that the Primarch would be something of an authority of the subject - Absalom had evident been swept up the creek without a paddle. 'Or' he thought wryly, 'if the Puddle is really underwater, perhaps the creek has come to us'

"That is... quite the mess," Radcliffe began, speaking slowly and carefully. "Especially considering that it has been no more than a few scant hours since I last saw Absalom, and she looked whole and healthy at the time. Well... perhaps not wholey healthy," he conceded, remembering the fiasco surrounding Nosam and the throne. "Opportunism is one thing but... For so much to have occured in so short a time, if I did not know better it would almost seem planned." Radcliffe was even surprised that Gyr knew as much as he did considering the time frame, especially considering his spymaster was missing, but then he supposed it was the man's business to know. Radcliffe's gaze drifted to the taller man standing beside the throne. Lord Gyr had named him as Gauthfellow's apprentice. Perhaps this Agent... Smith was more competent than he appeared.

Radcliffe glanced between Kyra and Bombast, both of whom who were almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to jump at the Spell-Lord's request, even if Bombast was trying to make a show of dallying about it. "I suppose if no one else is going to ask the question, I will." Radcliffe looked back towards Lord Gyr, "You say you need people you can trust. That you need us specifically. Why? What cause have you to place such confidence in a foreigner," he gestured towards Kyra. "A...dandy," he gestured towards Thomas, pausing only a moment to replace his original choice of 'fop'. "And myself."

"For that matter," Radcliffe continued, his eyes hardening. There was no trace of the flippant smile from earlier. "The last Spell-Lord I spoke with dragged us through a kangaroo court and planned to have us executed on the spot to satisfy his own overinflated ego. That was your uncle by the way."

He drew himself up, and looked straight at the Spell-Lord, meeting the man's gaze evenly, a dirty drunken sot of a priest facing down the most powerful man in Absalom

"What cause have we to trust you?"

[SophieValentine]

The more the Primarch spoke, the bigger that feeling of dread got in the pit of Lee's stomach. He fairly well had a death grip on the pommels of his swords.

...My dearest servant flees while my closest allies forsake me....

Lee looked at his feet, fighting back the urge to just...throw up right there. There was a wooshing sound in his ears, and he suddenly felt cold. Even the praise sounded back-handed to him at the moment; he needed to focus. His mind stopped freewheeling at the nice lady's offer to help. He started to regain his composure at the crazy monkey man's words.

And then the other man spoke. The one Lee would describe as 'flirting with danger'. When he questioned the Primarch's trustworthiness, Lee felt his eyes bug out of his head, and was grateful, now, for the returning nausea that kept his head down; he hoped that his horrified reaction didn't show as he tried, and failed, to rein himself back in quickly.

There was only one solution here.

Lee was going to have to throw himself off the cliffs in the Precipice Quarter and drown.

'I mean it this time...I really do. 'What cause have we to trust you'?! Are you kidding? Is he insane!? No. It's fine. It's not my fault. I don't even know him. I'm just...just the guy who's mentor is suspected of treason.' Lee's grip tightened, knuckles whitening.

'It's fine. Totally fine. Drowning is terrible though...I should just get someone to do it. Quick-like.' Lee eyed the dwarf next to him, head still a little bowed, 'What would I have to say to get him to stab me? Something about his mother, maybe?' He considered the dwarf through a sidelong glance, 'No. Doesn't seem the type.' Lee leaned, shifting his weight back and forth to tap the toes of each his shoes, 'I suppose there's always the direct route...he looks like he'd defend himself.' He wasn't going to examine too hard why the thought of violence calmed him down just now, but without a doubt it had. Mostly.

The Agent looked up, a momentary look of discomfort as he rolled his shoulders, attempting to relieve the tension building there. Lee released the death grip on his weapons for a moment, rolling his hands at the wrists and managing to pop one, before he returned them to their resting place.

[TeufelHeunden]

The Primarch’s voice faded off into a muffled muddle of sounds like a woodpecker on a distant tall pine tree. The three accused melted into a puddle of blurry visions and nonsensical sounds. Even the tall, gangly elf standing next to him faded like a mist over a morning meadow.

Thangaurdt’s throat clamped tight as the world spun and then slowed down. His vision became blurry, and his heart weighed heavy as it thumped ever so palpably in his chest. A slack expression rolled down his forehead and over his face as his hands so quietly went to the hilt of his flail caressing it, seeking out the only comfort he knew in this harsh world.

The realization tugged at Thangaurdt’s soul in a way that only can be suffered by those who shared his pain.

The overlaid floor of the chamber and essentially life itself — morals, ethics, even laws — became a kaleidoscopic and detached thing from his existence.

One of his best friends had died, and he didn’t even know it. His heart didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t feel the wound or sense his absence when it happened. Nothing moved or ended. No moment of apprehension or consciousness. He didn’t know, or notice, or see. He still wouldn’t know if I hadn’t been to this fateful meeting.

How is this possible? That someone who was such a core to his life, to how he breathed, ruminates and feels, can pass through their own life, and then onto the afterlife, without even the smallest of ripples in his own?

And then the multiverse stopped. He couldn’t say how exactly, and he didn’t know why. But it did. And he missed him. Somewhere Thangaurdt had always thought they would run into each other again. Except they hadn’t. And suddenly Vigg had become history. No longer a part of his life at all.

And now it was too late.

The words flooded through his mind like a torrential downfall in a monstrous storm. He was no poet but still they came, unrelenting blasting through a haze across the battered and bloody battlefield of his mind.

Tha world has been harsh ta me
yet thar's nowhere, nowhere ta flee.
I'll stand and take it if I must
for all return ta earthly dust.

Ta cry will do nae worldly good.
Defy with spirit, as I shou'.
A loss that kinna be replaced
Yet life must once again be faced.

So here I stand and wonder how
Ta stop tha gloom which eats me now?

Once, anger always worked for me
But now, this time decides ta flee.
Yet I seek nae its quick return
true folly that me Soul shall spurn!

The tightness in his throat grew thick as he felt the onslaught of tears but fought them back. Vigg would not cry for him nor would Thangaurdt for him, or so he hoped. His limp posture and sagging shoulders betrayed him more than tears streaming down his face would have, however. He fought back his thoughts and returned to the room, his sullen feeling precluding his desire to look at those around him.

That is when he caught sight of it. Like the sun rising over a battle, the steaming bodies proclaiming victory. The girl smiled a faint grin while biting her lip. Vigg crashed across his mind, a stampede of emotion trampling his remorse. Did he yet still live? His vision and mind returned as he caught up with his earlier feelings. She had said that she was his sister, and for a brief moment before his lapse Thangaurdt had wondered if it were true. But the sight of her face left nothing to disbelieve. She was a spitting image of Vigg, it had to be true.

He looked up at the Primarch, ”Forgive me, sir, me motto has always been – Loyalty isn’t earned, it’s bought. I came her for tha gold but I ken firmly say now, I will always take me toll – Blood or gold. Vigg was a friend of mine from as long as I ken remember. Findin' out here and now that he was murdered tells me that I will stop at nothin' ta avenge him!” He looked around at the others and then directly at Kyra, “Ye don’t need ta try and convince me that ye be his Sister that I never knew, that smile be unmissable.”

He ran over barreling into her with a bear hug, “We never met before but if it be true that yer brother was murdered we will find who be responsible and make them pay.”

[moozuba]

"I will not abdicate," Lord Gyr said to Kyra before nodding to her determination to help set Absalom aright. He nodded, also, to Thomas, a slight smile curling the edge of his lips at the nobleman's round-about way of affirming his involvement.

That ghost of a smile evaporated when Radcliffe challenged him, however, and his dark eyes flashed with momentary indignation. "Yes, Brother..." He hesitated, searching for the name, though it had not been given. "Radcliffe, isn't it? My city is in 'quite a mess,' though I should prefer the term 'chaos.' My uncle, as you rightly note, was one agent of many. What of this did he intend? I do not know. What I do know is what I have shared with you... and one other fact beside."

Gyr shifted in his ornate chair and glanced aside at Agent Smith. "I need you because you--"

At this point the dwarf interrupted. Gyr looked startled at first, then smirked as the barrel-chested Duregar charged forward to embrace the willowy Kyra. The Primarch allowed the touching moment before clearing his throat to continue.

"As I was saying, I need you specifically precisely because I do not know how deep this conspiracy goes. You faced the evil my uncle contrived against me -- both the Butcher's blade and that insipid chair -- and refused to submit to the threat of either."

He gestured and the guards stepped up to remove the shackles binding the prisoners. "As for why you should trust me? Perhaps you shouldn't. What choice have you? To join with my detractors in seeking my overthrow? Would you spurn my outstretched hand and become my enemy instead of my friend? Surely you possess greater wisdom than this? But as you see, you are free to go. Any and all of you. But I invite you to be a part of something greater than yourself... and to make a powerful ally in the process." A sly smile lit the Primarch's face and his eyes flitted toward Thangaurdt. "And you shall have your pay, as promised, each of you up to his weight in gold if you succeed in restoring order to my city."

He turned from Radcliffe to Kyra, meeting her gaze, his expression sober once again. "As for what I would have you do? Where to begin? Quell the uprising of the Syndicate. Put an end to the blockade established by this mercenary band. Reason with the Scholastics and Lady Darchana. Retrieve and lay to rest the body of Vigg Nosam. And, perhaps most pressing of all," he said, eyes narrowing and hands tightening around the armrests of his chair, "locate Lord Gauthfollow."

[ItsaVerb]

Kyra was surprised, to say the least, but thankful to Thangaurdt for explaining himself before he rushed in and threw his thick arms around her waist and buried his burly bearded face in her stomach.

She was glad for it. It made her feel better. She recalled how just a few hours before she felt so warm when Jessie pinched her cheek. She realized then how her isolation had affected her, how far into herself she had travelled on her path to enlightenment. It was her choice, and she was not regretful in the least, but it was a reminder of the price she paid, and out of respect alone she wouldn't deny that she wished she'd had a lot more opportunities to hug her brother. We always think there will be one more chance to say what we wanted to say. A doctrine embedded in humanity that isn't true, but nonetheless provides the comfort to carry on in a cold and often heartless world.

Kyra laid her hands on Thanguardt's shoulders and looked sincerely into his eyes. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir." Kyra didn't remove her hands to brush away the tears that teetered on the tops of her cheeks. "I have already decided that I will not leave Absalom until I know why my brother died. We will not seek to punish that guardsman, Thanguardt. It wasn't his fault. Whomever… or what ever was behind that throne is responsible. Maybe for all of it," she said, then raising her hands and waving them about, a reference to the litany of scourges Lord Gyr had just enumerated.

It was time for Kyra to make her intentions clear. She'd heard the men bickering about who did or did not trust whom. They could work it out as they chose. It was not her concern.

She turned to Lord Gyr and addressed him clearly. "I would ask for my things to be returned. I need nothing else. I appreciate your offer, and I hope these gentlemen will outfit themselves to their satisfaction.

"Primarch." Kyra bowed low, a motion her muscles were well familiar with. It was a respectful farewell.

"Gentlemen?" Kyra made eye contact one by one with Thanguardt, then Bombast, then Poundworthy--and waiting for his acknowledgement as well, and finally Radcliffe. She let her gaze rest on him, offering her full attention, and not continuing until she had his. "I ask that you join me. I didn't come here to save Absalom. I came to find my brother, and I did." Strangely, the tears dried up then. "Now I'm choosing to learn who wanted him dead, and in that my interests align with the Primarch's.

"Master Bombast, will you lead us to a place our friends can have a drink and we can speak for a while?"

Kyra had learned the fewer words she used, the less likely it was she would not speak the truth, particularly in situations where clarity in understanding was so important.

If Smith was Gauthfollow's protégé then he would follow if she asked him or not. One of the few people Gyr 'trusts'. The paranoid primarch certainly wasn't about to let them out of his sight, especially not the cleric who was known to have been in that tower.

Kyra wanted to have her own words with Radcliffe. Maybe a good number of words. The first among them would be 'thank you'. The priest puzzled her, but not entirely. She knew the best way a person can fetter themselves is to expect nothing from themselves. She felt almost offended on his behalf, but Irori's disciples are no evangelists, she wasn't obligated to help him find his possibilities. She promised she wouldn't bring up the item, and she wouldn't, but she did hope that he would 'trust' her enough to be honest about what was in his pocket.

She centered herself and strode toward the door, not looking back.