Twisted Firestarter

Assassins' Guild, Lossal, Tarlanor, 1st November 1655, midnight

Eloy ruminated. “I wonder what kind of magic he was controlled by?” Gorfang shrugged. “Geas or something like that,” he commented, “but what does it matter? We foiled the plot, end of.” Eloy looked unconvinced. “I think we should get Principa to fake a success, and bait him out to pay her off.” Gorfang shook his head. “Why? He – or she – is scotched. There’s no point hunting them.”

“Why try to make things tough for the Thieves Guild, then, if not to get at us?” argued Eloy. “I think it’s one person with a grudge against us.” He turned to Yanral “I suggest that I broker a meeting between you and Grandmistress to clear the air.” Yanral looked alarmed. “I assure you of my utmost loyalty to the guild,” pressed Eloy. The Guildmaster glanced between his two unexpected visitors. “And you two will corroborate that I had been acting against my will under an enchantment?” he asked rather nervously. Gorfang laughed, still not at all convinced that he had been, but Eloy assured Yanral that they would.

Thieves' Guild, Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655, 1am

Back at the Thieves’ Guild, Darnivarn was at first unwilling to make peace, but Eloy stressed how appalled Yanral had been to discover what he’d been fooled into doing, and how he would be indebted to her for calling off the feud. The word indebted struck home  with an almost physical click in Darnivarn’s brain. Stealing things was only part of what thieves did; protection, extortion, coercion were her stock in trade as well, and the idea that he would be in her debt translated into a resource in her head. “Very well,” she said. “I will send messengers to Yanral to arrange a meeting.” Eloy bowed with a flourish. “At your service ma’am,” he declared with a courtly manner. Leaving, they split up; Gorfang heading home to Southwold, Lynien retiring to the Bull and Elephant for a bath, and Eloy stopping for an uncharacteristic drink with Gorfang before heading home to Sashia’s and to bed.

Sashia's House, Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655, 4:30 am

Eloy groggily stirred. All his instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong, and as his mind cleared he realized what it was. Smell was the first impression to attract his attention; he could smell smoke, very strongly, as well as a faint hint of something else, sharp and acrid, out of place, that he couldn’t put a name to immediately. The sound of crackling touched his ears, and he opened his eyes – a struggle for some reason.

Dancing shadows flickered on the ceiling above his head, thrown there by an orange-red glare that waxed and waned. The room was thick with smoke, and he could hear the greedy voice of the fire from downstairs – for fire it was, undoubtedly, the house was ablaze. Time for action, and Eloy sprang out of bed. At least, he tried to spring out of bed. With a surge of horror, he realized that his body was not his to control; his eyes were all he could move. Next to him he heard panicked whimpers as Sashia woke and discovered she was in the same predicament. Eloy strained his will to overcome the poison – for that was undoubtedly what the tang in the air had been, paralysis poison of some kind – to no avail. He reached for the magic he knew, but unable to speak the words or make the gestures he couldn’t use it. Rolling his eyes frantically, he shot his gaze around the room, discovering that the flames were now running across the floor and up the walls of the bedroom. The heat was becoming painful, and the sweat of death rolled down his contorted face. There was only one place to turn for Eloy, and he did so, not without trepidation. Closing his eyes, he reached inward for his link with his capricious deity and prayed to Sabath for help.

A doorway into darkness opened in his mind, and the sensation of being regarded from afar, along with a distinct thread of disappointment. Sabath expected his followers always to have a back-up plan, a back exit ready, a trick in hand, a smart word to escape with. Two eyes of a dark, dark golden colour appeared in his mind, blotting out all input from his physical senses. You want me to save you, rang the thought in his mind. Yet you have an unfulfilled debt. “Yes!” replied Eloy, “but I’ve been trying my best to arrange it to be paid, You can’t deny that!” Sabath’s mind smiled with the memory of some of Eloy’s strategems for this. You have, he admitted, though the one who holds your debt grows impatient for his payment. Very well. You have one month. The voice and the eyes vanished, and from the golden belt irremovably strapped around Eloy’s waist a surge of blessed coolth washed over his sweating body, bringing a feeling of renewed strength. The paralysis faded, and he could move once more. With a heave, he dragged himself out of Sashia’s now burning bed and to his feet. The room was well afire now, and the flames rose to meet him, scorching his skin and crisping his hair. Time was short. He grabbed the stll-paralysed form of his witch-wife and hefted her before siezing the magic and casting a Dimension Door to flip both of them outside to the chill street and safety. As he set her down, the chill November air stung his bare legs and he remembered that not only his clothes but his armour and weapons were still where he’d piled them next to Sashia’s bed. Frantically, he drew a deep breath cast again and returned to the burning room, gritting his teeth against the pain as the fire chewed at him. Holding his breath to prevent the poisoned smoke overcoming him, he struggled across the now-sagging floor to his gear and scooped it up, blessing the slight paranoia that had seen him heap it all in one place. The floorboards shifted and groaned and he realized he couldn’t cast another Dimension Door without taking a breath to incant. Making a short run, he hurled himself at the window and crashed through trailing with his hair ablaze to land painfully on the cobbles below as the floor of Sashia’s bedroom collapsed.

Gasping for air, he dropped his bundle and leaned over his wife, the words of a Remove Paralysis spell tripping over each other in his haste. As he finished, Sashia screamed and threw herself into his arms, weeping with shock and relief. As he held her in the flickering firelight that had nearly been both their deaths, Eloy’s normally mischievous green eyes were gem-hard with anger. Someone is going to pay in blood for this, he thought. Blood and fire.

Southwold, Outside Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655, early morning

Sitting comfortably in the stone-flagged kitchen of the manor at Southwold, Gorfang ate a light breakfast and considered the Darkened Tower. Eloy’s mention of scrying the previous day had returned his thoughts to their location of Principa and the means they’d used. Myrasian, the giant scrying stone of the Dark Tower, seemed like the sort of thing he could well use, perhaps at Gadûhvrás. The question in his mind, however, was could he move it?

It was set very solidly into the floor of the scrying hall, over half its’ depth, and Gorfang knew that he couldn’t use his Ring to Teleport objects away that were attached to buildings. It was probable that he could dismantle it from its’ setting given time and tools; but would it continue to work afterwards? It occurred to him that Myrasian was intelligent, and had spoken with him on his last visit. Perhaps the simplest thing to do was to ask it.

Assassins' Guild, Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655, early morning

Eloy was back at the Assassins Guild very early the next morning. Sashia was safely tucked away at the Bull and Elephant, to which he’d carried her after the events of the previous night, and he was in search of answers.

Word of his arrival soon reached Yanral, who emerged looking hopeful. "Is the meeting set up...?" his question trailed off into nowhere as he asimilated Eloy's expression. In clipped tones, Eloy narrated the events of the previous night. "What do you know about this?"he ended sharply. Yanral blinked. "Nothing of course," he answered. "The contract on Darnivarn's off, and there never was one on you, or your wife - credit your Guild with that much local knowledge!" Eloy relaxed a little. "Please put the word out," he said, "I want to know who did. By the way, where's Principa today?" Yanral shrugged. "She's been out of town now for nearly two weeks, on a foreigner." Eloy grinned mirthlessly. "I don't think so," he said, "I saw her yesterday." Yanral frowned angrily. "This I'll investigate," he said, "if she's gone rogue on me, she'll be sorry." Eloy didn't mention the fact that she had, nor did he express his personal opinion that, armed with the enchantment granted by her patron, Principa was probably beyond his discipline.

Thieves' Guild, Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655, morning

Reassembling at the Thieves Guild later that morning, the three discussed the events of the previous day.

Darnivarn and Yanral had exchanged cautious messages, and arranged a meeting, two guards each, at the ruins called King's Folly on the edge of Execution Square for the following night. "It's a trap," said Gorfang instantly. "I'm going too." Darnivarn looked at him for a moment. "I'd prefer it," she said carefully, "if you didn't do anything to trigger the war we're trying to negotiate our way out of. Besides, he wanted this meeting; why should he set a trap?" Gorfang shook his  head. "I don't suspect him of laying one," he said, "but if there is someone scheming in the background to destroy you, us and perhaps Yanral as well, this may draw them out."

Gorfang was still chuckling unkindly over Eloy's nearly being killed by something as minor as a fire, but the human for once didn't share the joke. "This is grave," he said. The  orc subsided. "Any clues at the scene?" he asked. "I didn't have time to look," replied Eloy, "let's do that next." This made sense, and they headed back across town to the marketplace and the ruins of Sashia’s house

Sashia's House, Lossal, Tarlanor, 2nd November 1655

As they arrived, the occupants of the houses and shops either side were opening up, and some recognized Eloy, calling to him to ask what had happened. He told them there’d been a fire and reassured them that Sashia – who seemed well-regarded – was well. Then they entered the smouldering ruins of her house, and commenced to search for clues.

Neither door showed signs of forcing, and the small remnants of both were in the closed position. The ash and rubble in the centre revealed little, though Gorfang found (much to his surprise) that Sashia’s crystal ball had survived the fire, smutty but intact. Eloy took it to return to her. Outside, they tracked around the perimeter and soon found a window which showed signs of being forced. A strong smell of naptha lamp fuel, as well as the peculiar chemical smell Eloy had noticed, was perceptible. Gorfang considered it. “Fram,” he commented. Eloy raised an eyebrow. “It’s an import,” said Gorfang, “the plant it’s made from grows on grassy plains. I’ve never seen it; it’s rare and quite expensive, but the smell is distinctive. It’s a paralysis poison.” Eloy nodded. He knew that only too well. “It looks as if it was poured in through this window here,” he said, “followed by the fuel oil.” Gorfang vaulted over the remains of the sill. “Let’s see if there are any tracks,” he suggested.

There were. Whoever this man was, he was no good at covering his trail. His tracks ran straight to the window across Sashia’s bit of garden, and after that Shamlakh was able to follow them without difficulty across several streets to a cobbled court surrounded by four houses. The scent petered out on the cobbles, leaving a choice of two of the houses as the origin of their assassin. From one, warm lamp-light glowed, and faint voices could be heard as a family began the day. The other was dark and silent. They turned their attention to that one immediately.

A scan around with Bereloth revealed that the doors and windows all were touched with magic, most likely in the form of traps. Eloy attempted a Dispel Magic on the front door, but nothing seemed to happen. Lynien unpacked her tools and took a look while Gorfang stood watch. She disarmed the physical trap, but then froze. “There’s a Symbol of Madness on here,” she said quietly, “and it’s a monster. Do you want me to try disabling it? If I get it wrong, it may go off.” “Sure,” said Gorfang, “I’ll be down at the front gate.” Lynien gave him a flat look. “Thanks,” she said drily, and turned back to her tools. A few tense moments later, a momentarily-worrying flare of light announced the removal of the trap, and the three hurried inside, leaving Shamlakh to watch the exits.

The building was two-storied, with three rooms and a hall/stairway on each floor. The lower hall was thick with dust, and the only tracks visible in it ran straight for the stairs. So did the three investigators, Eloy casting a Silence 15’ Radius as they did. At the top, they found a similar layout, with tracks leading this time to one of the back rooms.

Eloy forged forward, flipping open the door and heading inside. Then, with an incredible leap, he hurled himself backwards out again, just curling his body under a hurtling crossbow bolt that buzzed past Gorfang to smack into the wall beyond. Glancing at each other, the three entered the room a little more cautiously. It was almost entirely empty except for a bedroll and a still-vibrating crossbow strapped to a chair. The three glanced about, but there was no-one to be seen. Something did catch Gorfang’s eye, a movement of the curtain on one window. He glanced along the bottom edge, but no legs protruded; the movement was that of a breeze through an open window. Stepping to the window, he looked out and down.

Five feet below him, a slender man clad all in mundane browns was clinging quietly to a set of handspikes driven into the wooden wall. From the slight transparency, Gorfang could tell that he was under Invisibility, but for a wearer of the Robe of Eyes, that was no problem. “Back in a moment,” said Gorfang and vaulted over the sill.

Slightly over four hundred pounds of orc and equipment dropping six feet into the face is enough to dislodge even the most determined climber. The two plummeted to the ground below the window, with Gorfang ensuring he landed on top. The crunch was painful-sounding, and the man remained pinned after they landed. “Hello,” said Gorfang. His victim squirmed, and the orc laid him out with a single punch. Eloy dropped lightly beside them as Gorfang picked up the stunned assassin.

DM Note: The poison fram has a DC 30 and produces paralysis followed by unconsciousness. There is enough to fill a volume 20'x20'x6'.

Watching the man recover consciousness, securely bound to his chair, Gorfang and Eloy tallied his collection of poisons. Apart from the fram – of which there were sufficient glass jars to fill two rooms this size - there wasn’t anything particularly exceptional. The man’s eyes opened. “Good morning,” said Gorfang. Their captive looked up at him and groaned. “I should have started with you,” he said ruefully in an Enninger accent. “Who hired you?” asked Eloy in an unusually tense voice.

“A stupid elf,” was the answer. “Idiot told me you were easy targets, offered fifty thou in gems. Paid me some in advance, showed me more to prove he could pay. Offered to cast some kind of filthy elf magic on me, but I wasn’t having any of that!” Eloy cocked his head. “What did he look like?” he asked. “Black hair, pointy ears, rich,” said their genius unhelpfully, shrugging. Eloy looked to Gorfang and spoke in Selasht. “He’s just sending these goons at us to wear us down. I think it’s Setram, after revenge and his hoard back – he’s toying with us!”

Gorfang turned back to the killer. “How were you to contact your patron for payment?” he asked, knowing the likely answer. “He came to the Guild in Dorsal,” the man said. “He said he would find me to pay me off.” Gorfang shrugged. “We’re never going to find him at this rate,” he said, turning away from the prisoner. As he did so, Eloy lashed out with Murderblade, the elegant, bright axe crashing through the Enninger’s skull to kill him instantly. Placing a foot on his chest, Eloy rocked the blade and kicked the body off it violently with a snarl.

The others looked at him in some surprise; reckless cunning, pure self-interest and occasional ruthless efficiency were normal for Eloy, but murderous black anger was a rare thing to see in him; it was more Gorfang’s field. “I have enemies a’plenty, and they take a pop at me from time to time,” he said tightly, “but this bastard nearly took my wife out.” Gorfang arched an eyebrow. Were someone to kill Darnivarn, he’d take it as an insult worth a fight, but certainly not this personally. Eloy was acting as if something important, like a good weapon, had been threatened. He shrugged.

Eloy turned away, then. Illusory blood dripped from the Murderblade, vanishing before it struck the floor. “This is more evidence that someone’s trying to set the Guilds against each other,” he said. “Someone’s playing games with us.”