DM Note: Only one player this week, so some solo planning, shopping and conversations for Gorfang..| DM Note: Only one player this week, so some solo planning, shopping and conversations for Gorfang.. |
The next morning, Gorfang was up early; he had things he wanted to arrange. Sticking his head out of the door of his bedroom he yelled for the steward, who appeared almost immediately, smooth and unruffled. "Sir?" he asked. "Breakfast," said Gorfang succinctly, "and I want to see Skufruss immediately." He wasn't worried about offending Skufruss; Gorfang knew he was invincible, and would continue to know this until someone told his next of kin otherwise. The man bowed slightly. "Lord Skuffruss," he said with gentle emphasis, "has many calls on his time. I will have someone enquire if he has time to meet with you today." Gorfang muttered to himself, but this seemed to be how things were done here; he went back into his rooms and finished dressing. Something unpalatable and half-cooked appeared soon afterwards, and he wolfed it down with delight. As he finished, the steward returned and told him that Lord Skufruss was busy until lunchtime, but would be pleased to take lunch with Gorfang then.
With the morning free, the orc decided to wander down into the city and tie up a few loose ends. His first stop was actually on the edge of the Dark Tower itself, a small, white building that formed the commercial arm of the Academy's operation. Training wizards involved teaching them to construct enchanted items, and like many schools of magic, the tower had found that offering these pieces for sale, the construction of items as a service, and purchasing spare or unwanted arcana, provided training excercises and supplemented income. Of course, the Black Tower was never going to be poor, but every little helps. Gorfang had a few bits of loot from his adventures that he didn't want to keep, and plans for the rest.
Inside he found half-a-dozen wizards in tabards marked with the Red Star, some dealing with customers. He approached one who looked free. Dropping heavily into a chair in front of the man's desk, he shrugged his backpack off. "Good day!" said the man cheerfully. "I am Melnor. What can I do for you, sir Orc?" Gorfang unlaced his pack. "I'll sell some stuff to you, and then you'll get a chance to get some money back by selling some stuff to me," he said. Melnor smiled. "That's the idea," he said easily.
Ten minutes later, Gorfang had lightened his pack by a mildly second-user suit of enchanted hide armour, a quarterstaff ("Oh, yes, very desirable in a city of wizards, that'll sell all right!") and some potions. Then, leaving the resulting gold on the table, he explained his requirements. Melnor summoned a notebook with a gesture, and it floated over and began to take notes all by itself. Vorsand was like that, especially at the Tower; magic was widely used in everyday life.
"First, I need a means of moving goods - supplies - from one place to another, over several hundred miles," said Gorfang. Melnor looked a little puzzled. "Well, you need wagons, horses, drovers, guards...." he said. Gorfang chuckled. "No, magically moving," he corrected. "I know of Teleport, but can't cast it, obviously!" Melnor suggested several options; a colleague suggested something he'd heard of called a Ring Gate, a pair of hoops which transported anything put through them to the other. Unfortunately, these were only 14" across and had a top range of a hundred miles. "I need to shift larger volumes, and further," said Gorfang, "but it doesn't have to be instantanteous if that helps? Crates of food and barrels of ale don't get impatient." Melnor glanced over the notes his pad had taken for him. "I'll have to read on on the Ring Gates, and see if something similar can be built," he said. "I'll try and get a quote to you today." Gorfang nodded. "If I need something shifted before it can be made," he said, "can I hire someone to do it?" Melnor nodded. "We can rent a sell-spell to cast the spell for you," he said, "but you'll be liable for his safety until you get back." Anywhere else, that would have been an empty condition; but the Dark Tower had a fearsome reputation for protecting its' interests.
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"The second job is this," said Gorfang, lifting out a couple of his mithril pigs. Melnor leaned over and eyed it, then lifted his eyes to Gorfang. "You're an orc," he said as if something was just dawning on him. Gorfang gave him a 'well, there's a thing' look. "No, I mean, this must have come from Kîshshul, right?" continued Melnor. "It's the only mithril mine in the world," said Gorfang, allowing the man to draw his own mistaken conclusions. "I never thought I'd ever see this much of it," said Melnor, turning the mis-shapen mass in his hands. "I want to make armour out of this," said Gorfang. "Of course!" said Melnor. "Of course, it's a stang of a job to work," he continued. "You need both normal and magical fire - or a dragon - to forge it into weapons-grade mithril. Then it'll need drawing into wire, rivetting into a shirt, and then presumably you want it enchanted? We can help with that bit, and we can rent you the services of a pyromancer for the forging."
"Who's the city's best armourer?" asked Gorfang. "Lynnil," said Melnor, "down on Forge Street. I've worked with him before." He seemed approving. "A human?" asked Gorfang. "Yes." The orc grunted. "Good; I can always eat him if it doesn't work out." Melnor laughed half-heartedly, and Gorfang left.
The city of Vorsand, constrained between its' cliffs and walls, was an intense place; everything was close together, and most buildings rose higher than in other cities Gorfang had seen. Height was also status; the further up the sloping sides of the valley you were, and the further down-valley towards the southern gate and the Tower, the better. Everywhere were the signs of magic in use; spells and items, moving things, doing things. All kinds of peoples walked the streets; Vorsand attracted students of magic from all over the world, and even from other worlds. An orc, even as large and well-armed an orc as Gorfang, wasn't unusual enough to cause any kind of a stir.
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As time passed, Gorfang discovered something else about Vorsand; he himself didn't know it very well. He couldn't find Forge Street, much less Lynnil's premises. As he stood for a moment irresolute in the street, a sensation of movement near his waist attracted his attention. Lightning-quick, he spun around and grabbed, and found himself holding a wrist.
The young man he'd captured was tall and wiry, dressed in tight black leathers and soft black buskins, with several knives strapped in different places on his body. His thin gloves had fingerblades, thin edges mounted on the insides of the fingers to allow easy slitting of purse-strings. His hair was rather bohemian and curled across his forehead in a manner Gorfang guessed human females might find attractive. His rather handsome face began to purple, however, as Gorfang's hand shot out, siezed his throat, and lifted him off the ground. "Most people," said Gorfang severely, "work or fight for a living, rather than stealing. You had to be stupid enough to steal from the most dangerous man in the street. Do you regret your crime?" A few gurgles were followed by; "I regret getting caught!" Gorfang approved of this. "You deserve punishment for this, so hear your task. I'm a stranger in town. Direct me to Lynnil's shop on Forge Street, or I'll choke you to death." The dangling youth blinked in utter disbelief, and Gorfang let him down a bit lower so he could speak better. "You'd kill for directions?" he asked incredulously. "Yes," said Gorfang. "It's all true what they say about orcs!" the young thief exclaimed.
Ever alert for a happening, citizens were pausing as they passed to watch the fun, though not in enough numbers to be called a crowd. As he turned to glance at these, something caught Gorfang's eye. A slender figure slipping into the press of people, and dangling from its' hand... Gorfang felt at his waist. Yes, it was his purse. The black-clad incompetent had not been the thief. He'd been the distraction!
"Stay here, or I'll hunt you down and kill you," he barked at the first youth. Before he'd finished speaking, he'd drawn his khopeshoi and exploded into a run after the other thief. A dozen strides were enough to bring him up behind him, and a swipe of the flat of his blade clipped the youth's legs out from under him. The thief tumbled across the street with Gorfang in hot pursuit. With what remained of his control, the thief rolled onto his side. His hand flicked to a shoulder, coming away glittering with two small steel throwing edges, but it was not at that that Gorfang found himself staring - it was the face revealed by the falling-away of the hood. Angular, fair features, upswept, slightly pointed ears, and piercing clear eyes, the face of an elf stared back at him as he raised his weapons.
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Orc eyes met elvish eyes with all the tension of thousands of years of utter emnity. For a moment, it seemed certain that the elf would throw his weapon and that Gorfang would kill him. Then fear began to well up in the wounded thief's mind, though oddly not fear of Gorfang - fear of discovery. Tarlanor was not a land where the Fair Folk walked freely. "Empty your pockets, elf," grated Gorfang. The elf dropped his throwing edges and reached hastily to pull his hood back into place, then clumsily fumbled a handful of coppers from his pockets. "I have nothing, orc," he sneered, flinging them across the cobbles at Gorfang, "why do you think I robbed you?"
With a snarl, Gorfang lunged forward and proceeded to deliver a brutal beating to the thief, rendering him deeply unconscious. He then retrieved his own purse, hefted the thief and flung him across his shoulder. He'd walked only a dozen yards or so when the urgent rumble of booted feet announced the arrival of the watch. Twenty men in browned-iron shirts carrying spears doubled towards him. He slowed for the encounter, but they went straight past and stopped at the scene of the fight. A moment, and some pointed fingers, later, they were back. Their officer was a solid, competent-looking sergeant type, and he looked Gorfang up and down carefully.
"What law have I broken?" asked Gorfang as innocently as possible for a man carrying a bloodied and senseless victim over one shoulder. "Tell me what happened," said the sergeant. "I was robbed by this thief," said Gorfang, "and I knocked him down." The sergeant nodded; this matched what the witnesses had said. Then Gorfang spoiled the effect. "If you were doing your job properly, there'd be no thieves," he snarled. The sergeant bristled. "You try ruling a town yourself before making grand statements like that," he growled. Gorfang grinned. "I did," he said, "and under me the thieves' guild was completely wiped out." This ignored the fact that a) it hadn't been his doing and b) he was actively assisting in the reconstruction of the guild, but he felt it made his point anyway. Not that the man believed him in any case. He indicated the senseless form on Gorfang's shoulder.
"At the moment he's your problem," he said, "but if he turns up dead, I'll know who to ask about it." Gorfang shrugged. "You can reach me at the Tower visitors' rooms," he said casually.
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Ten minutes later, Gorfang's mood had not improved. Either Shadowpuppet's directions were rubbish, or the man was a complete stranger to Vorsand, because having followed them to the letter, he was now standing in front of a silk-merchant's shop. This time, he asked a shopkeeper for directions, and a short while later was outside Lynnil's premises.
Manacling the senseless elf to the outside of the building, he stepped inside. Like most smiths' premises, this was half shop and half forge, and he found Lynnil hard at work at the anvil. The armoursmith was a powerfully built and cheerfully ugly man, who was instantly interested in the chance to work in the semi-legendary metal.
An uncomfortable thought occurred to Gorfang, perhaps stimulated by the recent attempt to rob him. Rather diplomatically (for him) he asked the smith what surety he had that leaving a fortune's worth of mithril in his possession was safe. "Step outside," said the armourmaker shortly. Gorfang followed him into the street. "Turn around and look up," he said. Gorfang did so, and saw a metal disk with the blazon of the Guild of Armourers attached to the wall. "That is my surety," he said, "the guilds protect their own here, but the only thing they protect more fiercely is their collective reputation. A craftsman who stole the materials his customers entrusted to him would not live long, believe me. I've been here almost since the city was rebuilt - thirty years." Gorfang apologized for doubting him, and left him to the project.
On returning to the audience hall in the building outside the Academy, Gorfang stomped in and dropped his elven burden with a crash. The Boggart hurried down the hall, looking shocked. "Gorfang? I hope you have an explanation for this?" Gorfang pulled the elf's hood off, revealing the unmistakable features. Skufruss' eyebrows lifted. "Oh? Unusual. I suppose he might be a spy." He signalled, and two guards dragged the semiconscious elf away. "You will treat him well?" asked Gorfang in mock concern. There was a pause. "Let's have lunch," said Skufruss.
They moved to a smaller room, and Skufruss ate sparingly of small white cakes, fruit and water, while Gorfang devoured more half-cooked meat with gusto. They discussed Gorfang's plans for Gadûhvrás, and Sjufruss warned him that his greatest danger in the early stages would be the nearby city of Kîshshul; the orcs already living there doubtless had plans to expand into the other ancient cities one day and would not be best pleased to find a rival city springing up instead. Gorfang shrugged. "If they come, we'll fight them," he declared. Skufruss tactfully didn't go into odds.
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Gorfang moved on to relating some - not all - of the events of the last few days. He described the teleport portal leading to the snowy wastes and the white dragons they'd met there, as well as the magic-suppressing globe and Thykon's plans for it. He made no mention of the magic-eating lizards or their powers, however, and careful though he was it was obvious that Skufruss could tell he was hiding something.
In return for this information, and the location of some dragons to enslave, Gorfang was hoping to strike some sort of bargain for Tarlanoran aid for his colony. Skufruss, while not ruling anything out, commented that he wasn't ready to go back to war with the Kordasa at the moment, and would not attempt to march armies across their territory to help Gorfang. "Maybe, however, if you succeed, things will change. I doubt it will happen in your lifetime," he smiled sympathetically, but maybe one day your descendants and I will crush the upstarts between us like hammer and anvil." He paused. "How big is your army?" he asked. Gorfang looked him in the eyes. "I can muster fifty warriors," he said. Then something seemd to occur to him. "There's no women," he commented. "That's a flaw."
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