Home, Home once Again

Southwold, north of Tarlanor, June 11th 1655, 10am

Bog retreated to the small room Gorfang had assigned to him (it was actually an unusued pantry but the little curiousity seemed unbothered) and started fiddling with his potion-making equipment.

After some conversation, it became clear that the next move for nearly everyone was to spend some time in Lossal. Lynien unpacked some of the nicer items of treasure, and added them to the communal pile. Among them was a sword - Gorfang zeroed in on it eagerly - and a magnificent book with steel-edged, beaten-gold covers, embossed and painted in fine, intricate repeating pattern borders, having as a central scene a warrior with a long sword battling a dragon, which he is grasping by the throat. Gorfang looked approvingly at that too, and commented; "I like the look of that - someone teach me to read!" Méabh was looking from the book to the sword and back again. "Isn't that the same sword?" she asked. Everyone looked closely, and as far as anyone could judge, it was. Lynien's professional opinon was that the pair would probably sell better together. The sword turned out to be just that - jewelled, beautifully made, but unenchanted and unexceptional as a weapon. The book's contents turned out to be a rather pompous treatise on the slaying of dragons. As it had been written in 642 Imperial, when there were no dragons in known Alair, the material was likely to be speculative in nature rather than from personal experience.

Mounting up, the companions set out. Eloy was heading south for Kolaushi castle, to seek out Rinlan Myrrlynor who had left a message at Southwold when she and her garrison had marched for home. Méabh, Gorfang, Lynien and Setram were heading into Lossal itself, to see what had happened in the two weeks since they'd left for Amberlan.

As they rode, both Méabh and Gorfang had news about events that had transpired since their last visit. Méabh confirmed that the Blood Snake was still alive, and had visited horrible vengeance on some merchant who had attempted to sell his house after the friends had turned over the Museum. She further disclosed that the house had been a sham and a trap, and that the Museum was back in business, both things that called for a look. Gorfang had also heard this, from Hektis who seemed to be gaining in power slightly - enough to warn the orc about the Blood Snake at any rate. He'd also reminded him that the Khabran gods whose regalia the four wore were now totally dependent on them for their survival - the sliver of each in the items was their last chance, and their 'followers' all that stood between them and oblivion.

Méabh asked Setram whether the names 'Thykon' 'Blood Snake' or 'Belarang Vulpold' meant anything to him. His face creased in thought, but he shook his handsome head. "No, nothing. Should they?"

Lossal, Tarlanor, June 11th 1655

The transformed dragon was gazing around at the city as they rode in through Northgate and into the poor quarter. His only view of towns and cities before this, apart from the ruined Amberlan, had been as flaming ruins filled with dying people; this experience was new. Though he goggled around like a farmer on market day, the questions he asked were incisive, driven by a mighty mind and hundreds of years of experience. Méabh tossed a few coppers to the beggar children that gathered around them, drawing a look of puzzlement from Setram. Humanity, it seemed, was more than just skin deep.

As they entered the Mageguild, passing under the famous ruby-studded gateway, the gemstones lit up like fires, blazing in acknowledgement of the magical power and enchantments passing under them. Setram eyed them with interest but made no comment. The small lizard perched on his shoulder in the manner of many wizards' familiars helped him to fit in, and no-one gave him a second glance.

An hour in the company of Aloysius concluded the business of selling off the spare magical items amongst their plunder, and each party member's funds were soon significantly increased. That done, the group split up and headed off to take care of their individual business.

Méabh and Setram remained in the Guild, and returned to Aloysius to negotiate for the scroll desired by the dragon. With Méabh's guild membership and a bit of sharp negotiation, it was procured, and a quiet working place found for him in the library. The process of learning the spell would take around six days if he made no mistakes; Méabh left him to get on with it, and went to see Erilas.

Her knock at his door brought a call of 'Who is it?". On hearing it was her, the mage hastened to open his door with a quick Unlock and invite her in. As she closed the door, Méabh tried a cantrip of her own to lock the door again and was interested to note that it didn't work. Only Erilas, then, could lock or unlock this door.

The man himself rose to greet the young aasimar warmly, evidently pleased to see her. He gestured her to a chair and Méabh folded her black-clad form elegantly into it. "How's things?" she asked him casually.

"Well," he replied expansively, all signs of the evasiveness he'd shown last time she asked gone. "I completed my magical research; the spell works now." she congratulated him. "The Guild goes as the guild ever does - it'd take, ha, a dragon in the city or something to shock them from their paths." He laughed again, and Méabh hoped her face betrayed nothing. "Linril rules well; the city prospers, though crime is up. He's no populist, and is nowhere near as popular as Gorfang. Your friend the orc may have been a mindless bruiser, but he knew how to woo the city." He paused. "How's my staff doing? Still useful?" Méabh nodded. "Very," she said noncomittally. "Good," replied Erilas. "You may as well hang onto it for now, then," he continued, "I'll need it back at some point though." Méabh nodded again, but to herself she thought, over your dead body.

"The FridgeArator® is doing rather well," he resumed. "We'd sold some to bars and eating-houses and odd nobles. One day, though, I followed up an acquaintance within the guild. Tivyr Fearhammer is a necromancer - not popular with some elements here - and it occurred to me that he might be interested." He laughed. "He was; he comissioned a special model... long, thin and flat. He's had four and wants more." Méabh smiled, and told him to keep on as he was going.

As they were talking, Méabh's gaze had fallen on a book open on Erilas' workbench. Like all wizards, his work room was a bit of a mess, but this volume looked as if it was one of, if not the, most recent thing he'd been using. The script was in a language - an alphabet - that Méabh had never seen before, and it interested her. It reminded her of something. After a moment she realized what; the writing in Abyssal that Lynien had taught her. This wasn't Abyssal though. Thankful that her strange eyes made it near-impossible to tell where she was actually looking, she studied the book for a moment and committed the shape of three words to memory. Then she took her leave of Erilas and went back into the guild.

Gorfang headed west into the trade district looking for a weaponsmith. He had things he wanted to try and achieve, but he needed a forge to achieve them. Walking down Merchant Street, he turned into Forge Street and found the city's two purveyors of interpersonal cutlery facing each other at the top of the road. On his right was Zashosa's extablishment. Draped in hangings and rugs to make it look like a bazaar stall, it was run by a swarthy Red Dust nomad. He came through from the back to find the orc examining the many weapons hanging in his shop. "Is there something I can find for you?" he asked. "Yeah," said Gorfang dismissively, turning to leave, "a competent weaponsmith."

Across the road he found Sanano, a thin, wiry, dark human of classic Norton stock. Like his shop and wares, he was neat, tidy, understated and competent. Gorfang decided that this was far more likely the sort of tradesman he needed. "Good morning," he said. "Good day," came the response, but no flicker of recognition. Odd. Most people in Lossal ought to remember him. Then, the shop did look recently fitted. Perhaps Sanano was new in town.

Carefully so as not to give the wrong impression, he drew Aklimah's khopesh and laid it on the counter. "I want to make more of these," he explained. Sanano examined it. "What a remarkable weapon," he commented. "Not a common design, and one doesn't normally see bronze weapons in civilized countries." He flicked his fingers and a brief sparkle of magic flickered. "Ah." he added. "Enchanted." He looked up at Gorfang. "Magical weapons aren't my field," he advised, "though my products are excellent material for enchanting. And I'm a blacksmith not a bronzesmith." Gorfang interrupted. "No, that's fine, I just want to make them in plain steel." Sanano smiled. "Then shall we get started?"

Lynien had set off to locate the reconstructed thieves' guild, but when she arrived at the old headuarters she was shocked to discover that not only the guild warren but the entire building that had been its' front was gone. Nashruf the city Constable had taken no chances with leaving evidence of the fae mhor massacre to panic the general population. Walking away through the redlight quarter, she scanned for thiefsign and soon found it. It led her away from the old guild and uptown.

As she walked, a familiar face in the crowd caught her eye. It was Nomshim the Pocket, a 'dipper' or pickpocket from the old guild, and he was working - she watched him gracefully tax a mark as they approached each other. Their eyes met, and each saw a flash of recognition in the other. Nomshim made a finger-gesture to indicate 'working, meet 3 alleys over' and walked past. She carried on and turned into the suggested alley, and a few minutes later the skinny thief joined her.

"You're back", he declared, rather self-evidently. "The runners are all coming back now, now that it seems safe." Lynien glanced casually at her nails. "The ones who knocked over the old Guild won't be coming back," she announced. "We sorted them out." Nomshim looked relieved. "The guild's back in business," he continued. "New house, new guildmistress, new rules, no more bloody fake nobility. She could do with you, and your contacts." Lynien made a non-committal sound, and the pair nodded and parted - no thieves ever shook hands, of course. Guild was guild and no guild thief boosted guild... but thieves didn't take chances. And there was always politics.

Following the thiefsign, she tracked the guild HQ down to a potter's shop, behind which she found the guild. The doorkeeper was familiar - he'd kept door for the guild before the massacre, and it occurred to Lynien that perhaps, seeing there'd been a massacre, he wasn't the best man for the job...

She was passed through - evidently her membership was still valid - and after a few minutes was met by Darnivarn, now Guildmistress of the renascent Guild. Darnivarn greeted Lynien with pleasure. "Good trip?" she enquired, and Lynien grinned. "Very," she answered. "Those responsible for what happened here are no more. At a later date, I may have another expedition to plan, for which I'll need some heavy lifting." Darnivarn grinned. "Assuming you're not talking about laying flagstones this sounds interesting." She paused. "Talking of heavy lifting, can I take it that the specialist is back in town?" Lynien chuckled. "Yes, doing things with weapons, of course. He'll be along later I expect." She looked around. "I see you're getting the business back on its' feet," she commented. Darnivarn nodded. "Yes, a good old-fashioned thieves' guild. No poncing around with noble titles or rubbish like that; just business. Crime, I'm glad to say, is right up again. Nashruf is not happy."

Méabh visited her rooms in the mageguild precincts, and was pleased to find that none of her elaborate traps and intrusion detectors had been tripped. She stashed several items of the plunder that she had a use for carefully, and considered getting Lynien to add some new tricks from what they'd seen in Amberlan. Then she headed off to check up on her other investment - Cassandra's.

Turning the corner into Whore Street, she stopped short. A good quarter of the building had been recently gutted by fire. Business was still going on in the remaining structure, and repairs were in hand, but this was not what she had been hoping for at all!

Hurrying inside, she located the young receptionist Serafina, and asked to see Madam. Serafina - who knew Méabh was a major investor - hurried to comply, and soon the aasimar was shown into Cassandra's private parlour. The half-orc madam rose and greeted the sorceress, pouring her a drink with her own hands as they settled to discuss business. The first subject was obvious.

"It was that bitch Zenchecka," commented Cassandra without preamble, referring to the rival madam of the House of Lilac Lanterns. "She never forgave me for kicking her arse that night at the palace. Oh, she covered her tracks carefully, but I have enough contacts I was able to get the truth. I considered trashing the House of Shit in return, but I found an even nastier revenge. I went legal on her. I put all the evidence in front of Nashruf, and Linril's new Magistrates ruled in my favour. Zenchecka was fined a healthy sum; it's paid for most of the repairs, and soaked up a lot of the lost business." Méabh grinned; it must have burned Zenchecka to have to pay for the repairs to her rival's premises. "That's not all," added Cassandra. "Come and look at this." She led Méabh through the building and out the other side. The property next to hers had fared worse in the fire - burned to the ground. "The owner was killed," Cassandra explained, "I was able to pick the lot up for next to nothing. We can expand; I was thinking either a new wing, or possibly a franchise - a subcontract business."

Méabh congratulated Cassandra on her work so far, and assured her that she had no desire to take any dividends out of the business at the moment.

As the pair emerged from the back into the foyer, they found that Lynien had arrived as arranged to meet Méabh, but had been intercepted by Serafina. The blonde receptionist was wrapped securely around the tiefling thief and making it quite plain how much she had missed her. Extracting herself reluctantly, Lynien assured Serafina that she'd meet her at the end of her shift, and left with Méabh, heading for the arranged meeting point with Gorfang.

Gorfang had suggested a newly-opened tavern named the Dark Slayer as a rendezvous, but when they got there it turned out that the beer was terrible. The cider was mildly better - but not good enough to hold their attention, and the group set off for a walk instead.

Their route meandered across the city into the Quality, and eventually down to the house of Belarang Vulpold, better known to the companions as the Blood Snake. This was still deserted and little more than a shell. Méabh related the results of her investigations, wherein she'd discovered that a merchant had attempted to sell the house not long after the museum was turned over. He'd met with a fearful fate. Méabh had investigated the house, and discovered that it wasn't a house - it was a decoy and a trap. The front door was trapped so as to teleport incautious visitors into a locked room in the cellar, where she'd found several deceased callers. "How did you escape?" asked Gorfang curiously. Méabh smiled knowingly. "I disabled the traps," she replied.

As they walked past, they noticed Setram kept glancing at the house. "There's something about this," he commented thoughtfully. "Somehow it looks familiar... or right.... I don't know." Gorfang and Méabh exchanged glances. "He can't have been born here or anything," said Méabh, "if he razed Amberlan in the first place he must be hundreds of years old." None of Lossal was more than fifty years old, of course, as the city was destroyed in the Dragonwars and only rebuilt after being annexed by Tarlanor after the Slaying.

"Let's look inside," suggested Gorfang. They all picked their way into the rubble-strewn interior, and stood looking around. Setram spoke again. "How it is... is how it should be." he said. "This was the Blood Snake's house," Méabh told him. "He used to collect powerful magical and spiritual weapons." Setram moved a hand dismissively. "Not my field," he said quickly.

Driven by curiousity, the companions continued to the Museum of War and Conflict, which they discovered to be open once more. New lizardman guards flanked the entrance, but once inside they found the same skinny woman behind the desk. Her face drained of the little blood it contained as the party entered the lobby. "Not you again?" she said in horror. "We never finished looking around," quipped Gorfang. As the others questioned the woman, Setram wandered off into the museum, looking around in considerable interest.

"When did you last see the owner?" She blinked. "Before you lot came the first time," she replied. "A few days later, some merchant types showed up at our houses, told us to bring the money back and restart the business. They knew where we lived, and other things too; none of us dared refuse. The cash goes into an account at Venter." Méabh grunted. "Do they come back and look at the books?" she asked. "Not yet, but it's only been a couple of weeks," the woman replied. "Hmn. All right, thank you," said Méabh, and the three went to find Setram.

The transformed dragon was standing in front of a painting depicting the battle of Thallan. As the companions came up behind him, he shook his head and chuckled. "You two-legs don't half fight a lot," he commented. "Yes, Varkar fought wars, but to conquer; your lot seem to do it for the fun of it." He glanced around the room. "Well laid out, this." he said. "Reminds me of something - but I can't think what." He turned and headed for the exit, followed by Lynien and Méabh. Gorfang remained for a moment, looking speculatively at the carnage depicted on the painting. "Huh. Bet the Blood Snake's another polymorphed dragon or something," he said sarcastically to himself, before turning to go.

They still needed a good pub to relax in, and eventually fell back on the familiar; Gorfang, Uruk and Eloy's habitual haunt of the Blue Knight. It was late afternoon when they reached it and Harald the innkeeper was pleased to see them. Gorfang was in many respects the perfect customer; he came, drank an incredible quantity of alcohol, collapsed, slept ate and left. Occasionally he killed people, but he generally didn't mess the place up doing it. He slid flagons of ale across to Gorfang and Setram, wine to Lynien and water to Méabh. The women remained for one round, and then headed off to their respective lodgings.

Gorfang introduced Setram to the joys of ale, and despite Méabh's quiet warning about drinking with Gorfang, he assumed that no orc could possibly manage more ale than a mighty dragon. Unfortunately, the magic of polymorph had provided him with an entirely average human body, whereas Gorfang's capacity for alcohol was quite literally superhuman. Before midnight, Setram had passed quietly out. Gorfang tucked him under a table, and much later saw him to bed, snoring gently.

Lynien had returned to the Bull and Elephant, the rather genteel and quiet inn that she and Méabh had discovered on their first visit to Lossal. The landlady Elial was most apologetic, however, but the best rooms were already rented, such a nice merchant and his young wife. The next-best were available, and she hoped they would be acceptable... Lynien grudgingly agreed, and settled herself in. The room wasn't quite as nice, and the bath was noticably smaller. She considered defenestrating the occupants of the best rooms, but it had been a long day, and she couldn't be bothered, preferring instead to sink into a warm, deep bath.

Méabh returned to the Mageguild, but before retiring to her sanctum went to the Library to check something. Finding a quiet desk, she took pen and paper and drew out the three words she'd memorized from Erilas' book earlier in the day. Then she took a seperate piece of paper, and transposed the characters of the words onto it in a jumbled order. This she took, and sought out the librarian, Zellan.

"I'm trying to identify this script," she said, "can you recommend me some books to look for it in please?" The wizard took the paper and glanced at it. "Oh, that's Infernal," he said without hesitation. "Helltongue. The language of devils. Though the arrangement of characters you have here means nothing. Unusual, for Helltongue." He walked down the racks. "Here's a book on the subject. Some nasty things written in that language. You watch yourself, miss." He left her with the book.

Méabh took it back to her desk, and returned to the original sheet. After half an hour's work, she'd corrected a few minor mistakes in her copying, and translated the three words. They were not reassuring.

'Dark Gate Opens'