DM Note: Derek couldn't make it this session, so events centred on Gorfang and Lynien.| DM Note: Derek couldn't make it this session, so events centred on Gorfang and Lynien. |
With their treasures securely squirrelled away somewhere more secure than Southwold's ballroom, Gorfang and Lynien started to consider options to Skufruss' wizards for the enchanted gemstones they wanted adding to their armour to make the Openers of the Way more generally usable. Few of the mages at the local Guild were capable of creating items of such power, and the time taken to work the enchantments was more than they wanted to spend. Ideally, they needed to find someone who had such an item and obtain it of them, one way or the other. Perhaps larceny was the answer? They headed off to the Thieves' Guild.
Lynien, of course, was well known there, and the door-guards gave her only a cursory glance before nodding their recognition. Gorfang, though, was a surprise. "Well," said one amiably, "We are going up in the world, when ex-Governors come to visit our humble Guildhall. Are you slumming, m'lord?" he continued humourously. Gorfang looked unconcerned. "She's mine," he commented, clearly referring to Darnivarn, "so the whole place is mine." Lynien glanced at him, remembering all the days that had passed between his returning to Lossal and coming to see his lover, and walked past him into the dark entryway, chuckling darkly deep in her throat.
They started with the Daymaster, but hadn't exchanged more than a few words with him before a firm clearing of the throat behind them warned of someone wanting to join the discussion. Unsurprisingly, Grandmistress Darnivarn stood there, arms folded, one slim foot tapping, an expression of 'this'd better be good' on her face.
Behind Gorfang and out of view, Lynien grinned briefly. This might be good...
"It has been nearly two months since you returned to town," she said with icy clarity. "Couldn't you have got a message of some kind to me?" Gorfang grinned insouciantly. "I'd have thought it was clear enough," he said, "more bodies around, piles of gold, drained pubs..." Darnivarn snorted. "Hardly the personal touch!" she snapped. Gorfang decided he'd better change the subject. "I have a job for you," he stated. Her eyebrows shot up. "Really?" she said. "So you really aren't planning to use the green sausage any time soon then?" He blandly ignored that, though thanking his lucky stars Eloy's absence spared him the latter's probably unconstructive reaction to the statement. "I need a ring of Anti-Magic Shell," he continued blandly, "preferably two, stealing for me." For a long moment, she gazed at him, her pale eyes thoughtful. "It will cost you," she said flatly. Gorfang's eyebrows lowered, and his voice became suspicious. "How much?" he demanded.
She lifted her head proudly. "Dinner," she stated unequivocally. "Sure - what are you cooking?" asked the orc. "Dinner," she continued, "in a really expensive restaurant, properly paid for, wine, music, everything done nicely. If you do a good job," she added, "I may let you smash the place up afterwards." Gorfang considered; it didn't actually sound bad. "Let me know when you have the rings," he said, "and I'll book a table."
As the pair walked back to where they'd left their mounts, they decided not to bother trying to purchase the items from the mageguild for the moment. As they talked, there was a sudden wasplike buzz and a thump as a crossbow bolt came from nowhere to smack into Gorfang's back.
Instantly the pair whirled, snatching out weapons, seeking for the source of the attack. Behind them, they found only the normal pedestrians of the street they'd been walking down; most oblivious, some staring in horror at the spray of blood Gorfang was now trailing. None looked dangerous, and none was armed with a crossbow.
As she glanced around, Lynien's eye fell on her comrade's back once more, and the angle of the bolt caught her eye; it was tilted sharply upwards. "The roof!" she cried, "it came from the roof!"
Both grabbed their Rings of Flying and jammed them on. Gorfang took to the air immediately, but Lynien paused to also pull out and peer through her new Gem of True Seeing. With a visual snap, everything jumped into a different focus as she suddenly gained the ability to see the unseen, to see things as they truly were. She could see Gorfang's indomitability and intransigence as he soared into the air abover her, and the fear and alarm of the crowd as they scattered.
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Gorfang reached roof level, eyes raking the slopes and parapets for his assailant. By the time Lynien joined him, he'd found nothing beyond some birds, a cat and a squirrel, none of which appeared armed with crossbows. The tiefling girl, though, thief-trained as she was, noticed a pair of stealthy figures on the roof to their left. These had noticed the pair ascending into the air - few could miss them! - and were gaping at the sight rather than fleeing. Neither appeared armed with a crossbow either, and when Lynien muttered, "Wiglaf and Arnulf," Gorfang pretty much discounted them from suspicion. He continued to ascend, shrugging his new-acquired Robe of Eyes over his armour.
His visual acuity doubled on the spot, and inages rushed in on him from all directions. Mixed with him were the untouchable ghost-like forms of passing beings on the Ethereal plane, into which he could now see. Rising higher and higher, he scanned the rooftops in vain for his attacker. The only human shape he found was five streets away, a roofer industriously working away at his craft.
Descnding sharply, Gorfang tapped this worthy on the shoulder. "Aaaargghhh!" responded the man, starting violently and losing his hold on the ladder. Gorfang caught him easily and held him up, feet dangling, to talk to him. "Have you seen anyone else up here, armed with a crossbow perhaps?" he asked. The man burbled for a moment, then got a partial grip. "O-o-o-o-nly two thieves," he stammered. "Over that way," he pointed in Lynien's rough direction, "and they didn't have crossbows!" Gorfang ground his teeth. How the hell did he get away so fast? he wondered. He turned his attention back to the roofer dangling from his hands.
"I have a crossbow bolt in my back, see it?" he grated. The man nodded, wondering what was going on. "I want you to pull it out," the orc continued. The roofer swallowed. "Can you put me down first?" he asked, glancing between his feet at the street far below. Gorfang put him back on the roof, and he sighed gratefully. "I'll need tools," he said nervously. Gorfang shrugged and turned round. Selecting a pair of pliers from his bag, the roofer gripped the bolt and heaved mightily. The bolt pulled free with far less pain than the orc had expected, and the worried roofer handed it to him as he turned around.
Rather to the man's surprise, Gorfang didn't lash out in his pain. Instead he calmly took the bolt with a nod of gratitude, and looked at it. Anger flashed across his face then; but it was directed at the subtleties meaning implicit in the weapon.
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It was a plain quarrel, very well made, but not enchanted, not poisoned, and not barbed. It had been a hair's breadth from the orc's spine, and he reckoned it would probably have killed him outright had it hit him there. The lack of any other additions was a subtle insult; it implied that whoever had shot it didn't need any of them to deal with Gorfang. Some assassin, somewhere, had a very high opinion of themselves.
Lynien, meanwhile, having interrogated Wiglaf and Arnulf and got nowhere, donned her own Robe of Eyes. Then she descended back to the road, where she found Gorfang glaring at the bolt in his fist. "Assassins," she said decisively. "Perhaps your other half will know where to find them?"
Darnivarn looked up in some surprise as the pair reappeared, and noticed the trail of blood behind Gorfang with some alarm. "Where's the Assassins' guildhouse?" demanded Gorfang. Darnivarn looked a little nervous. "Why....?" she asked. Gorfang held up the bloodied bolt for her inspection. Darnivarn frowned. "I'll tell you," she said, "but I'd prefer it if you didn't go too mad over there. The balance between thieves and assassins is carefully maintained." Gorfang chuckled. "I'll promise to behave," he said, "although it may be badly."
The guild of killers turned out to be down Rat Street, a grubby, dangerous area between Poor and Redlight, and looked as if it was falling apart - but on closer inspection, the fence around it and the walls of the building turned out to be far better built than it appeared. A solitary man stood in the front yard, working away industriously at some vegetables with a hoe. Neither Gorfang nor Lynien knew anything at all about farming, so they couldn't tell if he was doing it right. Gorfang cleared his throat. "Good morning," he said crisply. "Is your master at home?"
The man looked up and replied in a rural accent. "No, marster, he'm be'n down ee maarketplaze, sellin' e veggibles." Gorfang eyed him suspiciously. "I know this is the assassins' guild," he said caustically, "you can drop the yokel act." The man looked worried. "Oi'm only a veggible dealer," he protested. "And I'm an orc," returned Gorfang. "Oi can zee thart," commented the farmer. Gorfang began to have nagging doubts; were they sure this was the right place? Lynien nodded, and they headed for the door. As she passed the farmer, Lynien murmured, "I'm not here officially, you know, just an observer." The man met her eyes. "Be careful in there." he said with no trace of his previous accent.
Once inside, the pair discovered a plain room, with pinboards on all four walls. Two supported pictures of people, with a simple list of names underneath each, some long, some short. After finding a sketch of Eloy atop a list including the name of Shade the Clockmaker, they realized that this was a trophy display. The opposite walls contained lists of names, prices, and sometimes patron names and some explanation. Some names had small sigils next to them, and some had more than one... indicating that the target had somehow despatched the first assassin.
Without any warning, a slim, unremarkable man appeared in the room, introduced himself as Artin, and inquired what he could do for them. Lynien eyed him unfavourably, then indicated the 'job board'. "What's the rate for us?" she asked pointedly. Artin shook his head. "There are some people who we regard as an unnacepptable risk to attempt to kill," he said with no more concern than if he were discussing the price of fish, "and for such people, the rate is set sufficiently high as to discourage customers. Your green companion here is one such personage. You yourself, madam," he bowed slightly to Lynien, "are a member of our associate guild in good standing, and we accept contracts on such members only if contracted with the Guildmaster of that guild."
Gorfang had come here prepared to smash the place to pieces, but he grudgingly had to admit that Artin's explanation seemed pretty convincing. Nodding to the man, he turned and left and the pair resumed their walk to their horses. If it was an assassin at work, it was a freelancer, which added the benefit that the Assassins' Guild themselves would probably also be hunting them once they discovered what was going on.
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Their thoughts returned to the idea of re-visiting the remains of the Dark Tower. This had added appeal in that if some gonzo freelance hood was trying to whack Gorfang, getting out of town might put them off the scent a bit. That sorted out, they gathered at Southwold, accompanied by Shamlakh who had been getting bored, and used Gorfang's Slow Teleport ring to take them back to the Darkened Tower.
Rather than dare the flywalk across from the fragments of the top course of the north tower with Shamlakh along, this time they materialized inside the fifth floor of the centre tower. This had been the location of the College of Enchanters, with the workshops used to create magical items located adjacent. All had been stripped out, and only empty, echoing halls remained. For some reason, the dragons' manaic assault had bypassed this floor, and there were no holes smashed through the walls.
A glow caught their eyes, and they crossed the floor and entered the small room at the far side, which had "Scrying Hall" written over the lintel. The glow turned out to be coming from a vast sphere of crystal, sunk half its' depth into the stone floor, and suffused with green swirling patterns of numinous mist. The pair glanced at each other, and walked a little closer. Both could feel the power radiating from the sphere, but when it spoke it still took them by surprise.
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"I am Myrasian," it said in a cool, echoing voice, somehow tainted and touched with deep, ancient evil. "Gaze into my depths - if you dare." Gorfang didn't hesitate; he pulled out the crossbow bolt from the previous morning, and held it out. "Show me the shooter of this," he directed, "as they are now." The green mists swirled, and then suddenly cleared to show a cloaked and hooded figure with a heavy crossbow on its' back walking down a street in Lossal; it looked like South Street. Gorfang's eyes narrowed; from the shape and walk, it looked like a female figure. Was Darnivarn that angry with him? Then the woman turned a corner, and the image showed her face for a moment. High cheekbones, cascades of rich blonde hair, and a smooth forehead framed a face of striking beauty, superficially innocent until one saw the coldness in the depths of the eyes, a coldness that somehow inflected a wrongness further within. Then she was gone.
Gorfang sieze his Teleport ring; "Let's get after her!" he snarled. Lynien shook her head. "By the time that gets us there, she'll be gone," she commented. Gorfang grumbled, but saw the point.
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