~ The Dwarven Blockade: [Archive] [Home] [Previous Turn] [Next Turn] ~

"What we need now," Canter says, gathering himself, Hannibal, Emma, Crayne, and Naeron in a close circle, "is a plan."

"I say we find this Blood Clan that Bernigan is affiliated with and we start dealing with them, and him, on our own terms," Emma offers. She looks to Crayne and suggests, "Highbrow? Towers believed that Paros may have an apprentice. Since Duke Bryant's closest advisor probably doesn't want to be seen secretly conversing with the diplomat from Marlond, I would imagine he sends someone to talk to Bernigan on his behalf. Perhaps you could find this person and do a little snooping into his affairs?"

"Indeed! Lady Emma, I will put some investigation into this matter and see what it will bring me!" Crayne says with a smile.

"Hannibal?" Emma continues, obviously warming to the task of formulating a battle plan against Bernigan now that they've committed themselves to the task, "Do you have any means of finding the Blood Clan here in Parton? I'm unsure of your status with the group now. Have they marked you as an enemy for leaving them sometime in the past? Even if they haven't, surely Bernigan has told them things to sway their opinion against you. Regardless, maybe you can help us find a lead from that direction?"

Crayne nods watching Hannibal's reaction to her words. Hannibal would now be on his own and free to do what he wanted. He was sure that Hannibal wouldn't let Bernigan out of his sight again if he stumbled upon him. And as far as Crayne was concerned part of the problem would be solved with Bernigan out of the way!

Hannibal furrows his brow. "The time I spent with the Blood Clan is a dark chapter in my story, after my lord fell upon the fields of Bigamore. But I will revisit it, especially if the death of Bernigal lies at the end. Of course, having left the Clan I have been marked an enemy. However I am sure they will be delighted to see me once more, if only to see my slow death through. If we play our cards right, I might be able to locate Bernigan's contacts."

"Canter?" Emma goes on, "You're an honest man and have a way with the common folk that many of us don't possess. Maybe you can ask around at some of the local businesses here in Parton to see if Bernigan has made arrangements for shipments of the adamantine. We need to find out where it's going...and how it's getting there. Maybe someone at the forges or armories or teamster guilds can be of help?"

Canter nods, understanding Emma's plan and blushing a bit at the compliment. "I'll do my best," he offers.

Crayne nods in agreement, "Good suggestion Lady Emma! Paros must have some means of communicating with Caerloon and perhaps through that line we can investigate too. I have suspicions that he has a deal with the drow in all of this."

"Naeron?" the priestess turns to Duke Bryant's diplomat, "Your access to the castle will be paramount to this investigation. None of us can come closer to Bernigan than you. I would recommend that you start asking questions. See if you can learn who he meets with...not just Paros' underlings, but anyone else. Anything we can find out about his activities could help. He seemed awfully interested in getting back to Parton in a hurry. So something must be going on that requires his personal attention. I hope you like a good mystery as much as I do." She smiles warmly, knowing that the half-elf will enjoy matching wits with Bernigan.

"Ok all. Lady Emma has given us our orders and dispatched us!" Crayne grins, "Let us be descreet for this Bernigan is no fool and he is dangerous! Let us all be careful and meet back in one piece! I suggest we meet back here at the Temple tomorrow evening and compare findings."

"A good idea," Naeron agrees.

"But..." Storm squeaks, holding up a dirty finger toward King Bryant as he turns to leave the room.

Bryant stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder toward Storm. "Yes?" he asks.

"I be wonderin', yer kingship," Storm begins tentatively not exactly sure how to address the King. "I be lookin' fer a bard, an' I be thinkin' he be in yer service. His name be Guilliam."

Bryant turns around to face Storm, and he squints his eyes in thought. Then he answers calmly. "Guilliam. I don't know that name."

"'Da Gale?'" Storm tries in one last desperate attempt.

"'The Gale?'" Bryant smiles, "but of course. My bard, and chief of the Ducal Lute Ensemble. You can usually find him with the other musicians, in the Royal Recital Hall on the castle grounds. Now I must be off. Remember," he instructs, his tone more serious, "I will have no drow in my city."

Just then, Storm, Cy, and Karelth enter the Temple, weapons drawn, in search of the drow. As soon as their eyes fall upon their friends and comrades, they sheathe their blades and approach, wide smiles adorning their faces.

Upon the arrival of Storm, Cy, and Karelth, Emma is quite surprised. "Storm!" she cries out, rushing forward to bend down and give the Dwarf a hearty hug, and then straightening up to clasp Cy's arm in a warrior's grip, "How did you get here? I thought General Korg was going to keep all of you as his 'guests'. Did you escape? Or did he give a reason for letting you go? What happened?"

Cy smiles, embracing Emma in return. "Storm and his father...they had a...discussion." Emma looks to Storm, remembering the fact that Storm and his father were not on the best of terms. "His father managed to get us freed from the holding cells, and then Storm joined in a Dwarven patrol. Apparently they had a run-in with some goblins in the mountains and the patrol leader--"

"Brauenok!" Storm supplies proudly.

"--was most impressed with Storm's fighting ability. As a result of a conversation he had with Korg, we were told we could leave, with the understanding that we would return to see the Dwarven Pact amended."

"Well, this is wonderful," she says, "At least you've rejoined us...and your timing couldn't be better." She goes on to describe all that they've learned and experienced since arriving in Parton. "So you see," she says, gesturing toward Karelth's ring, "You're carrying something that might be the key to saving our country. We may need to use its power to stop Bernigan, Paros, and Caerloon." She pauses to let the weight of that declaration settle in, and she hopes Karelth will be open to the idea of allowing Rinder's Six to use the ring.

Crayne smiles as the Six are fully united again. He then nods to his Uncle, greatly relieved to see him. "Perhaps, Kalreth, you can come with me and we can fill each other in on all that's been happening. My stomach rumbles loadly and I feel I must oblige it with some food and wine! What do you say Uncle?"

Karelth smiles, remembering Crayne's taste for fine wines. "But of course, Crayne. I could use a good meal myself..."

"Well, let's wrap up our plans then," the priestess says, filling Cy and Storm in on the ideas the group has discussed so far, "Storm? Have you met with Guilliam yet? He had a brush with the Blood Clan, didn't he? That's how he came to seek Duke Bryant's protection when he left us in the marketplace. Maybe he knows how we can seek them out and start to uncover Bernigan's plans? I think it's worth a try to find the bard again and ask him."

"I, uh, didn't get ta speak with da bard, no," Storm explains. "But I know where ta find 'im!"

Smiling in reply, Emma turns to Crayne. "Crayne?" she finishes, "How about giving me that scrap of cloth taken from the Drow. Cy and I might be able to investigate it as well. One way or another, we need to determine if they are allied with Bernigan or Paros, or both. With Nire's divinations and Cy's protection, I think we can feel safe enough to undertake that task. We can all return here to the temple to discuss what we've found. I'll ask Fallon to set aside a room for us and that he make himself available for passing word along if we need to check in once in awhile."

Crayne hands the bit of cloth to Emma, quickly noting it with his powerful memory. "Good luck!"

And with that, Rinder's Six, except Cy and Emma, disappear into the night.

Before leaving the temple, Emma waits until the others have gone before finally approaching Fallon near the altar. She kneels next to the young priest and waits patiently for him to finish his prayers. Once she has his attention, she says, "I wanted to thank you for what you said today..."

She sees the confused look on his face and goes on, "I mean when you brought up the subject about our Caste's relationship with the other religions of Rinder. Your sentiments echo my own. I've spoken with my high priests in Seden about it before, too. But, none of them listen. I'm sure it took courage to say something like that in front of Towers, and I wanted you to know that you're not alone in feeling that way.

"The temples of Anhur may not be the best place for the magic rings," she agrees, "And Naeron's suggestion that they be split among the castes makes some sense to me. I've been thinking, Fallon. Perhaps it would be best if our caste retained none of them. We are war-like and might be too tempted to reach for them too quickly. Such temptation can twist the greatest of souls and disturb their balance upon the Scales of Justice.

"There are only four of the rings...," she goes on, "...one for each element...and there are five castes. If we gave one to each of the others, it would go a long way toward easing their distrust of us, I think. After all, the caste of Anhur has long carried its sword free of its scabbard. That is what disturbs them most. Maybe when this is all over, it'll finally be time for us to put our weapons away. For during times of peace, there's no reason to keep them bared any longer. These rings are weapons of great power. To put them away, I think it would be wisest if we gave them to the other castes for safe-keeping. They might even be able to use them for peaceful purposes to better the lives of our people.

"What do you think?" she asks, obviously unconcerned about directing such a question to a lowly adept, but rather wanting to hear an honest opinion...free of the pressures that Rinder's Six and High Priest Towers have had to endure. "I want to hear your opinion," she explains, "Because it matters to me..."

"Shield-Maiden Emmalya," Fallon begins, his deep and smooth voice having a calming effect on the priestess kneeling beside him, "It brings a great sense of validation to my heart to hear another who shares my view of the Caste. I believe our people are capable of so much, yet we are often so powerful we can focus only on ourselves and our own best interests. The interests of the people are left behind. When the only things the people see of the clerics and priests are their weapons, and the only things they hear are the prayers and songs of war, their fear and hatred seem to be justified.

"The great writings of Symant say that 'Anhur will be revealed both in his infinite power and his timely benevolence.' Emma," Fallon leans closer to the priestess, such that she can feel his breath on her lips, "We have let centuries pass; the people see not his benevolence."

Fallon then rocks back on his heels, rising from the altar. "Distributing the rings among the other Castes will go a long way toward reshaping the common view of our god. But you need not convince me. It is the High Priests who remain unconvinced, in all their wisdom. Still," he offers his hand to Emma, who reaches for it and feels herself pulled up from the floor, "when the time comes, you will have my support."

Canter follows Crayne and Karelth as they leave the Temple of Anhur, soon joining them for a hearty dinner in a nearby tavern. Crayne, of course, orders the house's finest wine. The mage pours his uncle and friend goblets-full and then fills his own, and soon they are all joining in the barmaids and other patrons in some fine drinking songs and enjoying some of the finest meats cooked by one of the finest chefs in one of the kingdom's finest cities...

In the morning Canter wakes, still a little groggy from the revelry the night before. But as the sun reaches its midmorning position he heads out into the streets of Patron. He wanders for a short while, soon finding the building identified by the sign hanging outside as the Teamsters Guild. Pushing on the door, he heads into a sun-baked room with three desks, each staffed with clerks. One of the desks, in the back of the room, has a number of piles of coins and the clerk there appears to be balancing the books. Another appears to be mulling over a book full of maps. And the third appears to be has a small stack of small papers on his desk, which he seems to be slowly working through and entering into a logbook.

It is this third clerk who raises his head as Canter enters. "Can I help ye?" the clerk asks. It is then that Canter notices; the man is not human. Instead, he appears slightly shorter, with a head full of brown curly hair. His features are also slightly different, his nose is slightly bigger, as well as his ears, though the rest of his face is a bit smaller. Sitting on a high stool behind the desk, one might not even notice.

"Halfling," Canter whispers to himself as he nods and approaches the clerk. "Yes, thank you," he replies, taking a seat across from the halfling. "I have a question regarding shipments."

"Yes," the clerk replies, raising his spectacles on his large nose and bringing a pipe up to his lips. He leans back in his chair and slowly closes the log book open in front of him. "What sort of shipments? Ye shipping or receivin'?"

"Well, neither," Canter replies, a bit unsure of what exactly to ask. "Just, let's suppose, let us say, perhaps, that I were going to ship large supply--"

"When are ye shipping?"

"No, no, I'm not going to. But let's suppose that I--"

"How many wagonsfull?"

"Well, I don't really--"

"Mista," the halfling says, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the desk. He lowers his pipe and looks Canter directly in the eye. "'Till ye know how much and when, I can't be much help to ye!"

"Okay," Canter says, growing slightly frustrated. "I am planning on sending a large shipment of ore from the Raimead Moutain mines within the next fortnight."

"Ahh, now we're gettin' somewhere..."

"And I'll send the shipment to...let's say, the south-western-most mountain in the Raimeads. The furthest point in the mountains away from the original mines. How would that be done?"

The clerk looks over Canter carefully, a questioning look on his face. "Well, the task ye give me men is tall, indeed! We're leaving the mountains in the west, near the mines, crossing Raimead, and then delivering to the mountains in the east. And a large shipment at that, ye say..." The clerk then opens his books, jotting down a few figures and mentally computing them. "Yer lookin' at a hefty fee, sir."

"How hefty?" Canter inquires, his curiosity aroused.

"We're talkin' in the hundreds of gold pieces. High hundreds. Few customers of mine got what it takes to pull that kind of a job off."

"What if the ore were very valuable?"

"There's only one kinda ore I know worth that much..."

"Yeah..."

"Adamantine."

"Adamantine." Canter repeats the word, looking at the halfling's face. There is a moment of silence as both come to an unspoken understanding: this is a touchy subject.

"But I can't take on yer job at me present time," the clerk says quickly, closing his books once again and raising his pipe to his lips.

"Why not?" Canter asks, licking his own.

"Someone has beat ya to it, mista. I ain't got the wagons fer the job fer another week."

That's all Canter needs to hear. He exhales and folds his hands, rising from his seat. "Thank you very much, sir. That's all I need to know."

The clerk can feel a deal slipping through his fingers. "But I can do yer shipment next week!"

"I'll let you know," Canter says with a wink as he heads out the door.

In the morning, Naeron returns to Bryant's court. He quickly learns from the Master Chamberlain that the King will not be holding court all day and that all public audiences have been postponed until after the coronation. But it is no matter, the half-elf diplomat isn't looking his lord anyway. He spends the better part of the morning mingling with various other diplomats and couriers, as well as local aristocrats and fine ladies who spend their days at court. A local troupe of mimes gives an entertaining performance.

It is around midday that Naeron spots a particular face: Evanston Defonte, the emissary-in-residence from the Great House of Adela. He had known Evanston before his assignment to Rinder's Six. The man was an excellent resouce, he always had his ear to the ground. He was clever and observant, and served his liege, Duchess Serra II of the Great House of Adela, quite well.

Ambling toward Defonte, Naeron smiled. They were by no means close, but Naeron's father's close association with the Knights of Rinder--indeed, Naeron's surrogate father was a Knight--was just cause for Evanston to respect Naeron. And so with this respect in mind, Naeron approaches Emissary Defonte.

"Wellmet, Evanston Defonte," Naeron says, bowing his head slightly.

"And you, Naeron Thess," Defonte replies, bowing his head as well. "The gods smile upon your House, it seems. The emissaries are learning today of your lord's ascension to the throne."

"Many thanks, indeed they do this day." Naeron says. Then he steps closer. "You, I presume, learned of this news sooner?"

"But of course!" Evanston replies, a smile spreading across his lips. "I have superlative sources."

Naeron smiles in reply, "Which means, I suppose, that there is many a hole in the secrecy of my lord's administration."

"No need to punish yourself, Naeron. You are not responsible for all of Bryant's servants, nor are you Lord High Inquisitor...yet." Naeron blushes with the compliment. "But let us cut to the quick. My intuition says you have a question for me."

"Your intuition serves you well, Evanston, as always. Indeed I do." Naeron then looks around the room, scanning to see who might overhear their conversation.

Seeing Naeron's eyes dart about, Evanston pulls him aside into a small corridor off the main hall. "Here we can ask without fear of prying ears," Evanston explains.

Nodding, Naeron prepares his question carefully. "In my recent assignment, I have come across some alarming information regarding a newcomer to this court. You know who I mean?"

"You refer to none other than Bernigan of Marlond, liege to Duke Patrick II."

"I do. The exact nature of this information I am not at liberty to discuss, however, my colleagues and I suspect the diplomat of Marlond of having his dirty fingers in a few dirty pies, if you understand me."

"Oh, I do, Mister Thess. I do," Defonte replies, raising his eyebrows. "Allow me to offer you a bargain, hmm?"

"A bargain?" Naeron questions.

"Yes, a bargain. You come to me now because you know I have information. I will share with you my information if, in return, you share with me some information. An even exchange, perhaps."

Naeron frowns. Emissary Evanston Defonte was, indeed a wealth of intelligence information. But he knew how to play the game and he played it well. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

"What flavor pies?"

"Pardon?"

"Bernigan's pies."

Again, the half-elf frowns. He did not like sharing such crucial information. Were it to fall into the wrong hands, it could lead straight back to him. And if he were going to Defonte for information, who else might? And would Defonte share Naeron's information with these other suitors?

Finally, Naeron decides it must be done. "We suspect Bernigan has contacts in the Blood Clan. In addition, he was among the Dwarves of the Warhammer Brigade when my colleagues and I arrived in the mountains. His business there, we believe, was on behalf of the Blood Clan. And, he may be connected with Paros, King Bryant's mage."

Evanston Defonte smiles. "You are a good man, Naeron Thess. You will find a place in this city, a tavern on the south side, where good men such as yourself, Bernigan of Marlond, and even myself occasionally meet with men of...lesser integrity. The Dragon's Tooth. The man you seek has frequented this establishment quite often since his arrival in our fair city. Perhaps you'll find the answers you seek there."

Naeron, too, smiles. "Thank you, Evanston. Your assistance will not be forgotten."

"Nor yours, Naeron," Emissary Evanston Defonte winks, "Nor yours..."

Crayne and Karelth rise late in the morning, taking a long while to ready themselves for the day. It is around noon when they finally arrive at the castle. Crayne is careful to avoid the Master Chamberlain, fearful that should he be aware of their presence, he might get in their way.

After about half an hour of roaming the halls and smiling overly-politely to various diplomats, emissaries, and court figures, they finally come across a downward-spiraling staircase which looks familiar. They are about to begin heading down the staircase when a young man, of no more than twenty years, approaches them. He is robed in simple navy blue garments which hang loosely around his body. His skin is very pale and his figure slight, yet his eyes are very focused. He carries two heavy burlap sacks, tied off at the top with rope.

Upon spotting the two unfamiliar men at the top of the staircase, the young man addresses them: "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Why yes," Crayne begins trying his best to be charismatic yet covertly forceful. "Can you tell me what lies at the bottom of these stairs?"

"Nothing of great importance, sir," the young man replies. He stops in front of Crayne and Karelth, standing between them at the first step down. He lowers the two sacks to the floor, placing them at his feet. "I'm sure you'd be more interested in matters of court, for which I can refer you to the Master Chaimber--"

Just then one of the bags, settling onto its spot on the floor, appears to roll. It falls a few inches down the first step where it finally comes to rest. However, as it lands on the first step, it emits the unmistakable sound of coins crashing against one another.

Karelth instantly raises an eyebrow, peering past Crayne at the other sack as it sit precariously at the top of the stair.

The young man laughs nervously. "J-just a library, sir. Merely books and scrolls."

Crayne licks his lips, smiling. "Oh, good, then. Just what I am looking for. You will show me to this library. I am Crayne of Rinder's Six," he proclaims very proudly.

"Emerson," the young boy says with a weak smile. He takes a big breath in and then exhales. "Alright, I will show you down."

"That's a good lad," Karelth says.

Soon Emerson, Crayne, and Karelth are at the bottom of the stairs, which empty out into a subterranean tunnel, lit by torches along the walls. The first door on the left is the library. Not the laboratory/library where Paros met with Crayne and Hannibal a few days before. This one is moderately sized, perhaps twenty feet by twenty-five. There are two tables in the center of the room, along with comfortable-looking chairs in which to sit.

Emerson struggles to place the sacks solidly on the nearest table and looks around the room. The walls are all covered in bookcases, which are filled with books and scrollcases, some new-looking and some appearing quite old. The young man stands very close to the sacks and watches his guests closely.

"Do you read all these tomes?" Crayne asks, pacing around the room.

"S-some of them," Emerson replies nervously.

"A scribe?" Karelth inquires.

"No, sir. A student."

"A student," Crayne repeats, looking to his uncle and smiling. With a raised eyebrow, he continues questioning the boy while his eyes wander the bookcases. "And we all know, students all have teachers."

"Why, yes, sir, Crayne."

"And who, may I ask, is yours?" Crayne says, knowing the answer already. The books on the wall answered the question for him: 'Treatise on Practical Magic,' 'The Art of Creative Arcane,' 'Theobald's Tome of Scrying.'

"Well, sir," Emerson stumbles, "P-Paros, he is..."

"Paros," Karelth confirms.

"Paros." Crayne repeats. "And what are you doing for Paros now, if I may ask?"

"Delivery, sir," Emerson explains, "these are for him." He refers to the two sacks through gesture. "B-but I'm afraid I shan't say anymore."

"Then we have but two more questions," Karelth replies, causing Emerson's head to turn to face Crayne's uncle. "Where in a library would you store the contents of those sacks?"

"Oh, sir, not to store them here. Paros is due to arrive to instruct me, and I will give them to him then. I don't know where he will store them."

"And where, Emerson, did you get those sacks?" Crayne adds.

"Oh, Crayne, I cannot tell you that..."

Crayne knew this would be the response. Sooner or later, he figured, the boy was bound to resist. So in preparing for this moment Crayne had memorized Charm Person before leaving the inn this morning. Now, as Emerson looked away from him for a moment, turning toward Karelth (perhaps for a reprieve from the interrogation?), Crayne cast the spell on the young apprentice.

Crayne then asks the question again: "Where, Emerson, did you get the sacks?"

"Last night, Crayne, at the pub. From the man I was told to meet, Jordice."

"Crayne!" Karelth then interrupts. "I think I heard someone address Paros upstairs!"

Not wanting to face the powerful wizard just yet, Crayne stops his questioning quickly, gathering his robes. He hurries with Karelth to the door, but not without telling Emerson, "It is alright now. You wait here for Paros. And why don't we cast this conversation from our minds, right?"

Moments later, from their hiding places in the shadows down the dimly-lit corridor, Crayne and Karelth see Paros descend from the stairs and enter the library. "Ahh, Emerson," they hear his voice echo from within, "I see you have done what I asked. Good, good." Then, the wizard shuts the wooden door. Seeing their chance, Crayne and Karelth hurry upstairs. What little information they had gathered would have to do.

Hannibal wasn't sure who exactly to look for, or even how exactly to ask. He hadn't been a member of the Blood Clan in Parton. But he knew the Clan was well networked, and so they all tended to act alike. He decided to head for the seediest part of town he could find. Soon, he was walking the streets in the narrow alleys between abandoned shops, his feet splashing in puddles of sewage in the cold afternoon.

Suddenly, out from the shadows jump two figures. The first is a tall and somewhat round man, human. His balding head is but a momentary distraction as he bandies his club about in front of him. The second figure slinks toward Hannibal and around his side. This one is more interesting, an elf, he surmises (based on his memory of Naeron's looks) and a female, too. Her pointed ears and long, straight hair are distinctive, and she moves smoothly and silently about, examining him carefully.

"Whatever you got. Ya give it to her!" the human instructs, his deep voice no more than a growl.

Now was the moment. If these two were in the Clan, then he would be lucky. If not, well, then he had to fight them off or be mugged. The shadows of the buildings on either side of the narrow alley cast a dark shade over the whole scene.

"'Do you dance in the darkness on the edge of the razor-sharp blade?'" Hannibal asked, not entirely sure he got the whole thing right.

The male thug cocks his head to the side, looking at the female elf. "'We swim with the eels off the cliffs of the tiger's claw.'"

Hannibal breathes easy. That could have been much worse.

"Who're you?" the female elf whispers, drawing out the vowels in an almost songlike way.

"Gray Mouser," Hannibal replies. It was the first thing that came to mind. "I want to see your Attender," he says, hoping he got the title right. That should be person in the Blood Clan heirarchy in charge of petty street thievery.

"Ahhh...ssss..." the elf sings, "not today, Gray," she sways her head sideways, right and left over her slight shoulders in a fluid-like motion, her tight black leather suit not making a sound as she steps back toward the thug.

"The Attender's not 'round. We're in charge here," he adds.

There was clearly not much point in dealing with the likes of these, Hannibal knew. They were merely the pickpockets on the street, and probably knew nothing about what was really going on. But at least he had made contact.

"When will he be back?" Hannibal asks.

"Tomorrah night. Midnight. Here. You, him, and us. He'll see ya then," the thug answers, taking a step backwards away from Hannibal and into the darkness.

"Don't...be...late..." the elf whispers in her drawn-out fashion as she, too, disappears into the shadows.

In an instant, they are gone. Perhaps underground? Perhaps through hidden doors into the buildings? It didn't matter. He'd gotten somewhere. He'd made contact.

As he exits the alley, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the sun, Hannibal mutters to himself. "It's a date."

Storm was not good at this. He made it as far as the castle's main hall, the Duke's court. But all those pretty and shiny men and women were too much for the dwarf to handle. After a very awkward conversation with some diplomat, he learns which direction to head to get to the Royal Recital Hall. In fact, it is in another building on the caste grounds, not too far away.

The building is made of stone. It is dwarfed by the castle's keep, but is fairly large in itself. Not as big as the Temple of Anhur, either. Stepping up the three stone steps leading to the main double doors, he can hear the melodies of lutes wafting from inside. Instantly he is transported back to the nights camped out in the Caerloon wilderness with Guilliam, or the evenings in the forts when the bard would hop on a tabletop and calm the jittery troops with a ballad or inspire them with a rowdy song of war and heroes.

The doors open before him to reveal the hall. There are rows of benches, with a box for the Duke, in the audience leading downward. About ten rows in total. Then, before them was the stage, lit by the filtered winter sunlight through stained glass panels in the ceiling. Sitting in four chairs on the stage are the sources of that beautiful sound: four lute players practicing their ensemble.

Storm just stands at the rear of the hall, just inside the doors. The players stop as they hear the doors open, and shift in their chairs, squinting in the bright focused light to make out the shape of the intruder.

"Aye, uh..." Storm moans. He was never good at these scenes.

"What is that you say?" an elderly voice calls back from the stage. An old man lowers his instrument to the wooden stage floor, turning in his chair in an attempt to gain a better view of Storm. "Staccatuh?"

"Eh, no..." Storm replies, completely confused by the old player's response.

"Crescendo?" another player calls out, this one younger, but the voice still unfamiliar.

Storm is utterly confused and overwhelmingly disappointed. He had come so far, waiting so long to deliver the pendant so precious. And this was the welcome he received! Slowly, he turns, ready to head back out the doors.

"Wait!" the voice calls from the stage. A younger figure places his instrument on the ground and then rushes to the front of the stage, leaping off the end of it into the aisle. The man's figure continues to come up the aisle between the rows, the brightness of the sun subsiding as he comes nearer to Storm.

Then, just inside the line of shade, he stops.

"Can it be?" he asks, his mouth dropping open.

Storm stops, too. Turning to face the stage once more, he lifts his chin to perceive the man behind the voice.

"Aye," he replies, the widest, toothiest smile painted across his face. "It be."

When morning arrives, Emma and Cy set out to shed a little light on the drow emblem worn by their attackers from the night before. Emma explains that she feels their best move is to seek out the counsel of a priest of Nire, a representative of the Caste of Nire, the god of the Sky. "Their powers of divination are unrivaled," she remarks as the two make their way through the city.

The Temple of Nire turns out to be a fairly tall, round tower. It is ornately decorated inside, with tapestries of stars and constellations adorning the walls. Upon their entry, they are greeted by a young man who identifies himself as a cleric of Nire.

"Goodday to you," Emma begins, "I am Emmalya of Serralund, Shield-Maiden of Anhur."

The cleric takes a miniscule step back from Emma as she mentions Anhur. Emma notices, but chooses not to mention it to the cleric.

"Welcome, Emmalya."

"Thank you. We seek your counsel regarding this," she continues, holding out the swatch of cloth bearing the drow emblem. "We wish to know all you can learn about its origins and meanings. You divination may be necessary and insightful."

Moving into the room far behind the cleric, an older man, completely bald on top and adorned in pitch-black robes, enters the room. He takes notice of the conversation and upon the production of the cloth, steps forward.

"Can the Caste of Anhur not handle its own problems?" he inquires forcefully.

Emma swallows, insulted by this priest's affrontery but trying to remain calm. "The Caste of Anhur relies on its brethren, as Anhur does his, in the pursuit of the divine."

The priest stops alongside the cleric, his footsteps no longer echoing off the interior walls of the tower. He snatches the cloth from the cleric, narrowing his eyes as he examines it. Then he looks back to Emma. "I recognize this, and I recognize that it could bring harm to all in this city. So it is for the good of all in this city that I will assist you. But you take this message to your superiors, Shield-Maiden: these are delicate times and the brotherhood of the Castes ought to be respected. Not used."

Emma is dying to scream back at this priest. But she restrains herself (with the aid of Cy's hand on her arm). Still, she knows that part of her agrees with this priest's message, and she understands the source of his frustration. She would have just said it more nicely. Yet, she doesn't enjoy standing silent when lectured. Especially by a Caste from which she hopes for acceptance.

"Wait here," the priest says. Then, he walks back to a doorway, heading through it and disappearing.

The cleric looks to Emma and Cy, "Cordal, the Charterant will divine what he can. Be patient."

A few hours pass as they wait for the Charterant, Cordal, to return with the cloth. It is late afternoon when he finally does. He invites Cy and Emma to sit in the pews with him, and he calmly hands the cloth back to Emma.

"This belonged to drow soldiers, you know that?" he begins.

"Yes," Emma replies calmly, sensing the quieter, clamer, more businesslike tone in the Charterant's voice.

"This is the emblem of their House. You see, drow society is fractured into many Houses, competing against one another for domination of their underworld cities. I have prayed and contemplated upon the origin of this symbol, two rings of gold, interlocking, finely woven into the fabric of their dark robes. Nire, god of the sky and all the wisdom of the stars, has rewarded me with some insight:

"It is the symbol of the House D'Urdenterrad, one of the smaller houses in the drow city Lentadirrec. This city is somewhere beneath the Raimead Mountains, in the south-western part of the chain. It is deep beneath this world of ours, and few of our kind have ever made it to even within sight of this dark and magical city. The stitching indicates these are mid-level soldiers, not leaders of D'Urdenterrad. Their presence in our city is significant, for a smaller house such as D'Urdenterrad would only send their warriors here for a specific and important purpose."

"Why is that?" Cy asks, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees to once more look closely at the emblem.

"If," Cordal explains, "the motive behind these soldiers--aside from simply halting your quest--were inspired by drow, surely the larger houses would have sent their soldiers first. However, if the motive were inspired by forces other than drow, then the fact that a smaller house sent soldiers may indicate that none of the larger, more powerful houses were willing to. In either case, the underlying drow mission must be either extremely difficult--such that none of the larger houses would waste their time with it for fear of the embarrassment of failure--or, the payment the house is receiving for completion of the mission is not large enough to tempt one of the larger houses." The Charterant runs a hand over his smooth head, deeply in thought.

"You...don't know which?" Cy asks, sounding disappointed.

The Charterant looks directly at Cy. "Nire shares with his loyal followers what we need to know, to the best of our ability to understand his infinite wisdom. Mine is not to question what he reveals."

Emma places a hand on Cy's arm, noting the irony in the gesture and how just hours before it was he restraining her. "Even High Priests of Anhur gather but incomplete information from our god. A good priest is one who best interprets that information."

The Charterant then cocks his head, smiling toward Emma. "Very eloquently put, Shield-Maiden. There may, indeed, be a true priestess somewhere within you."

All characters please subtract 8 sp for lodgings for the night. Canter, Crayne, and Karelth, please subtract an additional 12 sp for your fine wine and dinner. Everyone else, please subtract an additional 6 sp for dinner.

~ The Dwarven Blockade: [Archive] [Home] [Previous Turn] [Next Turn] ~