3 – Accommodations
"When confronted with any grand or wondrous sight, all drow seem to be contractually obligated to scoff, roll their eyes, and inform you that whatever you're seeing pales in comparison to its equivalent in Menzoberranzan." –Ribald Barterman, Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering
Mirtul 19, 1369 D.R. (Five days earlier)
Athkatla was a marvel!
Don't stare. Don't gawk. Don't let yer mouth droop, ya dang fool! Imoen kept telling herself that —had been all day— but as she stepped out of the tunnel and the whole of Waukeen's Promenade opened up before her, well, her jaw fell to the ground once again. Couldn't help but turn 'round and 'round to take in the full scope and scale of it all!
Walls and support pillars fifty feet in height encircled the great, tiered stadium, the honey-brown stone capped with massive bronze domes that glittered in the light of a lovely afternoon. Colossal statues stood sentinel over the whole of it, lining an oval that must have stretched a full half mile or more, end to end.
And the entire place was packed —packed!— with tents, awnings, and merchant stalls; all a riot of color and scents and crying voices. Stairways climbed the arena's tiers, every level crammed with displays; with bright banners and gilted signs all vying for the attention of the milling crowd.
Stalls everywhere, and just at a glance it seemed that everything imaginable was up for sale here. There were rolls of shining silk, platforms lined with furniture (some plush and colorful, others made of finished hardwood worked into elaborate shapes), pottery, paintings, statuary, pianos and standing harps and cherrywood string-instruments locked in crystal cases. There were cages where exotic animals lounged in the heat, and weapons and glassware and grass dolls, along with enough rolled up carpets to cover the whole of Baldur's Gate.
And food, of course.
Oh boy was there food: stands of fresh vegetables, butcher's carts, rows of colored spice-jars, confectionary stands, grills where skewers turned and roasted, and teas and drink-stands promising to quench every parched throat. All manner of drink was for sale, along with other sorts of bottles; corked and filled with potions, lotions, oils, cures, spirits, and Oghma only knew what else (perhaps there was a genie in one of them?)
Baeloth, naturally, was unimpressed.
"It sure shows how these copper-pinching ninnies think, doesn't it?" he scoffed. "They took what may very well be the largest arena ever built, and they filled it with secondhand rugs and vegetable carts. Just think of the splendid shows that could be put on here instead!" Nose in the air, he gave the tiers a longer look, faltering. "Though…perhaps there is such a thing as an over-sized arena. Seems most spectators here would have to squint, trying to make out what the fighters or performers were doing all the way down here in the dirt. Hm. You would need giants to truly exploit-"
"This place was a racetrack, idiot," Kirian interrupted with a roll of her eyes.
Baeloth gave her a questioning look. "Races? Such as…goblins running through deathtrap mazes? They would still be too small-"
"Horses. They raced them here, back in the day. Folk in the Shoon Imperium loved their stallions even more than your average randy Cormyrian noblewoman. They'd stage chariot and cavalry races here, 'round and 'round the track."
"How very…dull. Just…horses? Circling? Is there some element that I'm missing? Fires and spike pits, perhaps?"
"Nope. Just a test of speed. Folks loved it. Go figure."
"Eh. I suppose you have to give the people what they want."
"Yeah. And now the Amnian national sport is shopping." Kirian waved a hand about, encompassing the market. "So this is what we get."
"Yup," Imoen put in. "And that's fine by me. Who doesn't enjoy a nice shopping trip?" Viconia made a little noise at that: some sort of huff, though she and the rest followed as Imoen sped further through the bazaar.
The sweets stands took top priority, of course. Lots and lots of sweets.
After working her way through (and sampling) a sticky bun, a Sembian tart, and some lovely little treats made from fried dough and lemon paste, Imoen found herself in a corner of the market lined with artist's displays. One particularly colorful stand drew her eye: festooned with little canvas squares where dynamic patterns and simple pictographs were painted. Goblins snarled, dragons swooped, characters posed (dramatically or provocatively, depending on the picture), beholders bristled with eyestalks, and sailing ships cut the waves.
Twas a tattoo shop, and the orcish woman behind the counter sported a lot of the artwork on herself; on her arms, her neck, and her shoulders. She was currently working with hammer and needle on a client's bicep, tapping out some sort of starburst pattern.
As she watched the woman work Imoen let out a little "Ooo" Then she added: "They had tattoo artists up and down The Wide in Baldur's Gate. Always wanted to get some mark to commemorate our time there. Maybe even convince the others to get a matching set. But we got run out of town before we got the chance."
"Better off having not," Kirian remarked. "No matter what you pick, you'll come to regret it at some point."
"What?" Imoen gave her a curious look. "Speaking from experience? You got someone's name tattooed on yer butt or something?"
Kirian rolled her eyes. "No. Well. Something akin to that, maybe." She rolled up the cuff and sleeve of her shirt, revealing a mark on her bicep. Looked a bit like a coat of arms, with a fairly realistic griffin charging through a blue field. "My old adventuring band's crest. Screaming Griffins. Sounded…intimidating, I guess. Night before we set out from Waterdeep to find Baerin's grandfather we got rip-roaring drunk and everyone got these. Made the usual pledges about sticking together too, laughing and backslapping and all that." She looked off.
"Hrm. Yeah." Imoen scrunched up her face. That whole getting-petrified-by-basalisks-and-being-left-that-way-for-months thing was a bit of a sore spot with Kirian. "Well, there's magic that can erase tattoos, right? How 'bout we get the old one lifted and replace it with a Company of the Pink Archer sigil?"
"Uh. No offense Immy, but this ain't exactly a company I expect to stick by me through thick and thin. You've been great, but uh…" She gave Baeloth a pointed look. The drow was currently peering into a cage where a massive python sunned itself, eye to eye with the snake. Looked a bit like they were communing.
"Hm. Yeeeeah, him I'll give you. Kind'a the sells-his-own-mother-into-slavery type. But the rest of us are trustworthy!"
Kirian looked skeptical.
"Yes, even Vicky. Especially her."
"'Trust is for the foolish, and the dead,'" Kirian mimicked.
"Oh, that's just something she says! Long as you're on her list of friends, she'll cross all the Hells for you. Seen her do it, too."
Kirian's skeptical look didn't change.
Speaking of Viconia, it seemed that she was being badgered by one of the nearby vendors: an elf-blooded woman with golden-blond hair. The merchant shouted and gesticulated: "You! You! Beauteous creature! Such beauty, yet you hide beneath a mask? For shame." The woman had a bit of an accent. Tethyrian maybe? Or perhaps from somewhere deeper south.
The attention had slowed Viconia's step, and now she turned to glare at the merchant. "With good reason," she snapped.
"Afraid your full countenance will dumbfound the men? Perhaps strike them dead?" The woman leaned in, hands braced on her stall's counter. At a glance it appeared that she was peddling perfumes and other beauty products, the shelves around her festooned with vials and jars of brightly colored glass, along with a little stand-up mirror.
"Something of that nature," Viconia replied. To prove her point she reached up and pulled her bandana aside.
The look on the half-elven woman's face didn't change. If anything, her smile brightened, eyes a'twinkle. She seemed a pretty woman, or at least skilled at using her own products. "Exotic indeed, and you've a striking and natural beauty at that! My humble products would do little to enhance it, but perhaps the scented oils or the salts might please you? I've scrubs infused with honey and lavender, to bring even more of that dusky shine to your skin."
Viconia just stared at the woman a moment. "For a rivil, and one of faerie blood at that, you've a surprising attitude towards me."
"Oh, we get all types in the City of Coin. Though rarely one so striking." She inclined her head. "I am Seni, by the by." Perhaps she expected an introduction, but Viconia just continued to glare. After a pause the merchant snatched up a vial. "Hm. Although my paints would do little, perhaps a sampling of this scent might please you?" She pulled the stopper.
Viconia wrinkled her nose and turned her head. "I think not." She stepped away from the stand as the merchant extended her arm, and Imoen caught a whiff of cloves from the bottle. Smelled nice enough. "Your fawning irritates me," Viconia added, and with that she marched on down the promenade.
Again, the merchant seemed to take it all in stride, putting the stopper back and smiling all the while. As Imoen hurried to catch up with Viconia she heard a chuckle from the saleswoman, and something about "…queenly beauty, and a queenly attitude to match."
"That stuff smelled alright to me," Imoen said as she slipped in at Viconia's side. She laughed to herself. "That woman was downright-"
"Suspicious?" Viconia suggested. "Yes."
"I was going to say flirty. Or at least a real aggressive saleswoman. I kind of wanted to sample some of her stuff though-"
"No." Viconia's voice was low and sharp. "One should never so much as sample oils or perfumes from a suspicious source. Placing a scent on someone for future tracking is a common trick."
Imoen rolled her eyes. This was a darn open air market, not a place of courtly intrigue. She didn't press the subject, though. Was more interested in checking out the series of stands up ahead anyway, where it looked like a million sorts of books and scrolls were up for sale. Hm. I wonder if the latest Drizzt the Drow chapbook's been printed.
Mirtul 25, 1369 D.R. (Six days later)
Morning in the common hall of the Sea's Bounty was far more subdued than middark had been. No pipesmoke curled up to the rafters, no cups or glasses clinked, and hardly a word was spoken —let alone shouted— as Ashura and Durlyle made their way down the steps. The place was near as silent as a library, nothing to be heard beyond low munching and the occasional scrape of a chair leg.
The Thumb wasn't around either, and instead a wiry man with a sour face worked the cookfire by the bar, assisted by a weather-beaten halfling woman. Between them they were fixing and dolling out morningfeast: some sort of egg dish speckled with green and red peppers along with heaps of fried bread. There weren't many patrons up and about, and the few that were rested their heads on the tabletops beside their plates, half-awake and nursing hangovers. A couple of folks lay sprawled out and obviously asleep, in exactly the same positions they'd been in the night before.
Shar-Teel and Alora were at a table near the bar, the big woman hunched over and carefully munching a corner of her meal while the halfling stared out ahead at nothing in particular, eyes hooded and bloodshot. When Alora noticed them coming she blinked and shook herself a bit, raising a sluggish hand to wave Ashura and Durlyle over.
"Morning," Alora said with a fraction of her usual pep, and Shar-Teel just grunting. She looked about as much of a banged-up mess as she had been the previous night: half her face swollen up and the other side only looking better by comparison, arms and hands all bruised, cracked, and clad in stained bandages. Her hair was a tangled rat's nest, the fork trembled in her hand as she tried to eat, and she hadn't even bothered to don her boots.
"My sister?" Durlyle asked.
"Was still sleeping last I checked," Alora responded. "I think she'll be out a lonnng time too, poor dear."
"Ugh. Yeah." Ashura rubbed the back of her neck. "Tried to warn her." She'd a vague memory of shouldering a wobbling and giggly Delainy through the upper halls of the Bounty the previous night, tipsy herself and trying to find the rooms they'd rented.
"I'll look in on her after morningfeast." Alora's eyes went down to the plate in front of her, the food untouched. "When I can. Maybe have a bit of a lay-down myself. Whew. What a night."
Shar-Teel made a noise; maybe agreement or maybe just a pained grunt.
Turning, Ashura made her way over to the bar, and Durlyle followed her lead. The dour halfling woman served them mechanically, and with steaming plates in hand they returned and took their seats. It actually looked like a pretty appealing meal to Ashura. Especially the greasy bread. It had been that sort of morning.
She took a couple bits, then spoke: "We're going to go check the storefronts after this. Find some clothes for Durlyle that won't draw so much attention. I guess I'll be picking out some clothes for Delainy too, if she's still not up." She turned to Shar-Teel. "Was going to see if there's an armorer around. If I find one, I'll I take your coat in for a mend?"
"Be my guest." Shar-Teel's tongue was thick in her mouth.
"I'll see about healers and apothecaries too."
Shar-Teel's lip twitched, dribbling some crumbs. "Hmph."
"We'll-"
"Could have bloody taken 'em."
"Uh…"
"Back when I had two good hands I knocked five men flat in a bar brawl, once. Thought they had me, but I slithered past every one of 'em. They never saw the fists coming." She shook her head. "That dwarf last night though…I didn't expect to get caught like that. But if I could have grappled proper I could have turned it around." She was glaring down at her right hand now, limp as a fish on the tabletop.
Ashura opened her mouth, then closed it. Could think of lots to say, but it was hard to know what might just set Shar-Teel off some more. So instead she focused on her plate and went on with forking her meal down in silence.
A few moments later a flash of red caught her eye, over by the steps. Edwin was dressed up as always, straight and stiff as he entered the hall, with one of the barmaids walking at his side and clinging close. Appeared to be the blond one from the previous night, who'd asked if he was some sort of prince. As they sauntered into the taproom the barmaid laughed and leaned in, whispering something in Edwin's ear while he just sort of stared off into the middle distance.
They stopped, the barmaid laughed again, and Ashura caught a bit of the next exchange between them. "…best check on The Thumb and make sure 'e hasn't gotten his hook caught on something again."
Edwin muttered something unintelligible in response, then the barmaid kissed him on the cheek, and added: "Be seeing you, Eddie," before scampering off towards the door to one of the backrooms.
"Yes, yes," Edwin grumbled at her back. "Off with you wench." The woman didn't seem to hear (he'd pitched his voice pretty low) and Edwin continued on towards the table.
Alora's mouth opened to form an excited O, but before she could let out a breath Edwin preempted her with a raised finger. "Not one word. Not one word."
The O closed and became an exaggerated pout.
"You know that I can make good on that demand too, don't you? I've a silence spell at the ready. Just one word and a tap of this finger…"
Alora pressed her lips together tight, making a show of how sealed they were. She then proceeded to raise her hands and begin to weave them through several intricate gestures, fingers interlocking and quivering. Looked like thieves' hand-cant, though Ashura didn't really know more than a word or two. At one point Lora's fingers bridged up high, with her thumbs pressed together low, making a sort of a heart shape, and she made a big show of bouncing it up and down in front of her.
That drew a deep laugh from Shar-Teel (followed by a pained cringe). Seemed she knew the cant.
The little show was interrupted by a stranger's voice, close by: "I wouldn't be threatening to fling any spells about, where I you."
Ashura's hand darted to Varscona's hilt as she shifted in her seat and sized the intruder up. A man, rather shortish and wiry. He was dressed in drab grays and browns, save a blood-red cloth tied about his shoulders. His hair and beard were a sandy brown, all trimmed close, and without flourish. Intentionally nondescript.
Without a care for the startled looks he'd just drawn, the stranger stepped closer, commandeered a stool beside Alora. "Magic would draw the Cowled Ones down here like flies to a wound. Cause all sorts of disruptions."
"Bah." Edwin leaned back in his seat. "A simple spell-"
"Is all it takes most times, in a place they've got their eyes on. And trust me, they watch the Bounty close. I wouldn't dare a cantrip down here in public. Of course, they don't have nearly as many eyes out here as we do."
"We?" Ashura asked.
The stranger leaned in. "Us folk who keep these docks neat and orderly. Keep the goods and gold flowing. Keep the peace. Collect the price for that peace. All that." He turned a sharp eye on Alora. "We've been watching, and are none too pleased with what we've witnessed."
"Haven't seen a lot of order myself," Ashura said.
"There's plenty. Those three fellows with the matching red hair you got acquainted with last night? They're a part of it. Paid their dues and traded in favors. They're under our protection."
"They agreed to a fight."
A dismissive wave. "Oh, that's fine. What's a night in at port without a brawl?" Again, he rounded on Alora. "But you swiped their purses. Right under their noses, pretty as you please. Impressive, but that kind of freelancing isn't tolerated in these parts."
"This a threat?" Ashura asked.
The stranger shrugged. "Eh. A very friendly warning. Strangers who don't know the rules sail in here all the time. Lots of misunderstandings. Don't steal from any locals again, and there won't be any trouble. Steal again, knowingly, and we'll take recompense out of your hide." With that he pushed off from the table, turned, and walked away.
"Well darn," Alora said. "Hope this city isn't completely full of spoilsports."
"Yes," Edwin grumbled. "Cowled Ones? Bah. (Though I will need to look into that. What a bothersome complication)."
"Now hold 'yer arms out straight, like so."
Ashura obeyed, and the dwarven man on the stepstool bent and stretched out his string, measuring her from armpit to hip. Next, the dwarf coiled the cord 'round her waist, nodded to himself, then let it slacken. "Aye," he said. "Aye. That'll do. Can lower 'em now." As Ashura did that, the dwarf climbed down to the floor, shuffling over to jot something down in his big ledger book. "A coat and breaches of chain, with a banded overlay for the limbs and vitals, yes?"
"That's what I want," Ashura said. "Flexible as you can make it."
"Fer the sum we've agreed upon, you'll have a suit both mobile and sturdy. This here's the greatest smithy in all Athkatla, after all." With those words he puffed up with pride, and Ashura just gave him a polite half-smile. Likely every blacksmith in town made that boast, and she wasn't exactly the best judge of such things.
Looked like a fine enough shop, though. Displays lined the walls, bristling with runemarked weapons and armor sets. There was a dizzying array of spears and pikes in all lengths and widths, along with shields, axes, and swords; and even a few crystal cases showing off exotic armors. There were breastplates made from blue steel, patterned bronze, and even reptile scales. A wide doorway gaped between some of the displays, and beyond that sat a gigantic forge, with a squat and sturdy anvil out in front that appeared to be covered in dwarven script.
With a clap the blacksmith shut his book and dusted his hands. "We'll have the suit ready in half the time as other smiths, too" he continued to boast. "Lucky fer you I'm not bogged down in commissions at the moment, and I've materials to spare. Should be assembled and enchanted within four days."
"Sounds good."
"Unless ye want me to add something to the set? A proof against fire or ice, perhaps?"
"It'll do as is."
"And of course," the dwarf went on, looking over to Durlyle, "I can make a set of armor for ye too."
"Need not," the young man replied in his stilted Chondathan. "My hide is being quite tough as is…" Ashura shot him a sharp look and a shake of her head, and he bit his tongue.
Before finding this smithy they had visited several clothier's shops, and Durlyle was now outfitted in the Amnish style, with a loose gray shirt fastened under a darker vest and tucked into woolen trousers, his feet clad in supple sheepskin alpargatas.
"Suit yerself then," the dwarf replied. "Seems our business is concluded."
Ashura picked up her satchel and she and Durlyle took their leave, pushing through the shop's door and back out into the briny air of the dockside. Once the door had shut behind them Ashura whispered: "Best not to mention your 'hide,' and how tough it is. Invites questions."
A thoughtful nod. "I will refrain." Being alone, he spoke his native tongue now: an old Thorass dialect with a few northern inflections.
Gulls circled and cawed overhead, the light of late morning peeking through a fractured gray sky, and beneath them sprawled the docks: layered, dizzying, and haphazardly built. Wooden steps led down from the smithy's storefront to the weathered street, which itself curled a good twenty feet above the ocean and the spider's web of quays. This whole neighborhood seemed a network of stairways and sharp drops, carved out long ago from a steep series of cliffs above the river's mouth. Little railings ran everywhere at hip level, some carved from stone while others were just cobbled together from rough wood.
They stepped down onto the street, passing close to the shadow of a lighthouse tower. A pungent smell of rotting fish hung over everything here, along with the murmur of countless folk ambling by on the street or climbing the footways that branched off of it. "Proofing against the elements sounds…useful," Durlyle ventured once they had walked a few strides.
"True," Ashura said. "Don't want to spend all I've got on a set of armor, though. Not until we find out how much we're going to get for Balduran's old stuff. And, well…you saw that thing I did with the dwarf, right?"
"Which thing?"
"The back and forth. The really low number from me, then the high one from him, and his claim that I'd insulted his materials and the honor of his ancestors and all that bullshit."
"Yes. A bit like…the dances of my people? A posturing ritual?"
"Pretty much. I didn't want to go through that all over again. Hate haggling." Reaching down, she pinched the hem of her cape. "My mom's old cloak has a little protective magic sewn into it, anyway. Hopefully that'll do."
They climbed their way up from the dockside streets to the dome-capped sprawl of the Sea's Bounty, passed some milling sailors who were sharing the view and a pipe between them (though thankfully not a prostitute, this time of day), and descended the steps into the common hall.
Seemed that Delainy had finally risen for the morning, if you could call it that. The girl lay with her chest and chin on the tabletop, Alora perched on the stool at her side and wearing a concerned frown. Edwin sat at the table as well, nose in some book and opposite the others. As Ashura and Durlyle approached, Delainy tried to look up, her eyes tomato-red. "I wish to die," she groaned.
Durlyle leaned over, placing a hand on his sister's forehead. "Is there something I can do, perhaps?"
"Don't think magic'll cure what she's got," Ashura said, taking a seat and placing her satchel on the tabletop. "Least that's what every priest and mage I've traveled with has said. Best thing for her is a drink of water, if she's not too sick to hold it down."
"I will fetch some."
"Some greasy food might help her too. Again: if she can keep it down."
"Hm. That delicious dish, perhaps? Fried..?"
"Fried bread, yeah."
He scurried off to fetch some food and water while his sister pressed her forehead down against the tabletop and groaned.
"I uh…brought you something," Ashura ventured.
"Oh?" Delainy didn't look up.
Ashura tapped her satchel. "Some clothes. To help you blend in here, and have a few spares. Figured I owed you big after all those dresses of yours I destroyed. If uh…if these don't fit right or you want something else we can find more clothes, too."
There was an awkward pause, then Delainy managed to form a few more words. "Thank you."
"Guess you can try them on later." She turned to Edwin. "New book?" There was a pattern on the cover that she didn't recognize.
"Obviously," he snapped. "There is a library and temple not far up the street from this establishment. Surprisingly well stocked, and they've many a tome on the history of this place." He lowered the covers slightly, looking past her. "Ah. You sent your puppy over to fetch our highbite. Good."
"If you want food," Ashura said, "you're going to have to get it yourself."
"Bah." Edwin didn't stir, instead glancing around. "Perhaps we should look into staying somewhere else, where they have properly trained and attentive servants. This place has it's…delights, certainly, but…"
"Looked like you had a delightful night."
Alora chortled and Edwin's eyes sharpened. "I trust yours was a delight as well, finally having the space to tumble about with your new plaything?" His head inclined in Durlyle's direction as he spoke.
Ashura just gave him a blank look. "Hm?" Edwin pondered her. "You didn't bed him? Did he prove inadequate? Too inexperienced, especially after you've tasted delight at the hands of a true master?"
Ashura rolled her eyes.
"There is another advantage to staying at a place like this, in that case. Perhaps the working women here can teach the young man some things. I've plenty of coin to pay them-"
"Edwin!"
"I shall hold my tongue on that front. So long as you do not bring up a certain serving wench again…"
"Fair enough."
True to his word, Edwin changed the subject, starting to complain about the food being served just as Durlyle walked over and found a seat. Ashura was happy to hear it too; for a moment she'd thought Edwin would get braggadocious and go on and on about the little incident that'd happened between them back in Ulgoth's Beard, after they'd escaped the magical prison.
Instead he just prattled on about the 'abysmal fare' laid out before them, and so their afternoon went.
Down a flight of steps beneath the Sea's Bounty taproom, where you'd expect to find a lauder or a wine cellar, there was instead an earthen chamber dominated by a heated bathing pool. Festhalls, you know? The places often have lavish bath facilities with décor to match; places for the guests to gather and frolic.
This chamber had the feel of a hot springs grotto: the pool a naturalistic, uneven shape and the walls built from irregularly cut stone. Interlocking stonework covered the floor, haphazard at a glance, under a ceiling of loamy earth buttressed by wooden beams. Stone benches lined the front section, there were little cubby-holes all up and down the walls, and a bronze placard by the entrance named the place The Smuggler's Hideaway, some small text beneath claiming that this cellar had once been used for just that purpose.
Doubtful. It all looked rather artificial. The whole of the Bounty, really, seemed to be pirate-themed mostly for the sake of drawing customers in.
Little lamps dangling from ropes lit the chamber in soft amber, adding to the sense that one was stepping into a mysterious cavern —minus any actual hazards of course. It was clever too, Ashura realized as she walked down through the warmth and steam, to keep a soft and flattering light on a place where naked bodies would be displayed. There wasn't a huge crowd at this point in the afternoon, but a few folks longed about on the benches, and there were some more in the water.
At one bench sat the three Veloun women with partly shaved heads, wrapped in towels and sharing a water pipe. A bench on the other side of the room had been covered with a bathing cloth, and a big, hairsuit half-orcish fellow laid across it on his belly, eyes closed and beefy arms crossed beneath his chin while a svelte man with pointed ears and delicately elvish features leaned in and rubbed his back, neither of them wearing a stitch.
Ashura was fairly certain that she'd seen the half-elf up at the bar the previous night, dressed to provoke and flirting with the guests. An attendant here, most likely. The fact that he was impeccably groomed and impressively well-endowed suggested that as well. (Ahem). She glanced away before he caught her staring.
She'd been in a place like this once before, back in the festhalls beneath Baldur's Gate that were collectively called The Undercellars. Hadn't been in the mood to relax back then. While naked folk had cavorted nearby, laughing and smoking, she'd just been grateful for the darkness in the bathing hall, and used the waters to wash off the grime that she'd picked up in the dungeons of the Flaming Fist. Steaming water had soothed her aches, at least, but she could have done without the company that night.
Seemed Shar-Teel was using this pool for about the same purpose. Her hazel-blond hair and sharp nose poked out just above the water's surface, at the center of the pool, steam simmering up all around. Ashura gave her companion a curt nod and wave, got a nod back, then made her way to one of the adjacent walls. Towels had been neatly rolled up inside the cubbies, and clothes had been stuffed in some of them as well. She followed the local custom and undressed.
A couple moments later Ashura stepped over to the water's edge, then down and into the pool. There was a gradual slope on this side, and over at the other end a few people were sitting and soaking, their backs against the far edge. Trays had been laid out over there as well, with soaps and jars of salts and oils. As with the rest of the place, the bathing pool's floor was made of interlocking stones, with some grates at either end where the hot water was cycled through.
Wading over to the middle, Ashura knelt and went chin-deep. The gentle warmth eased her muscles. "Ah."
"That's what I said," Shar-Teel murmured, lips just above the surface. "Think I'm going to live down here for a while."
"'Bout time we got to relax," Ashura agreed, standing up again to wade over to the back and get herself some supplies. Two of the other bathers were just leaning back, eyes closed and enjoying their soak. The other pair though —a man and woman— were pressed quite close together, lips locked and water sloshing all around them. Festhalls, you know?
Giving the gropey couple a little distance, Ashura found a cake of some pleasant smelling soap (Hm. Sandalwood?) and waded back to Shar-Teel. She then dipped an arm into the water and started lathering up. "After this I'm going by the temple of Oghma," she said, making conversation. "See how much the book might sell for."
Shar-Teel huffed. "They won't have the coin we're after."
"True. Just seemed like a place to start. Make some discreet inquiries."
"Ha! And which of us can do 'discrete?'"
"That is an issue." Ashura shrugged. "We've got to figure out how to unload the book somehow, though. Find some snooty collector, sell it off and split the money. You want to come along?"
"I look like an appraiser to you?" Shar-Teel barked, then looked off. After a time she spoke again. "Guess I should know a thing or two 'bout negotiating contracts, in my line of work. Looking back though, I've been complete shit at it. Practically sold myself into slavery with that dumbass scam I tried to pull on your prissy elf friend."
Ashura knew that story second hand: how Shar-Teel had tried to pull one of her duel-for-money schemes, been taunted into accepting a geas, and then (sort of) lost the fight.
"Then there was that deal your weasel of a boyfriend cut with me to rescue your sorry ass from the Flaming Fist. Was fun to finally gut some of those bastards, mind you, but I'd asked for ten trade bars worth afterwards, and Garrick ran off without paying a copper."
"Yeah. We'd lost most of our stuff in Candlekeep…"
"A little detail he didn't mention. Slippery bastard." Shar-Teel made a grumbling noise. "Men getting the better of me, one after another. Galls me to admit, but it just keeps happening."
Ashura made a noncommittal noise. Well-lathered now, she sank down into the warm embrace of the water and let the suds drift off. "Eh. We've won some big ones and lost some big ones, and here we are. Alive, at least. What's it matter how many of the winners or losers had dicks?"
"Bah. Maybe."
"And you'd get the better of more men if you took them on one at a time. Or took them on with your friends backing you up."
Shar-Teel groaned and looked off. When she spoke again her voice dripped with sarcasm: "Point taken, fearless leader."
"The smithy near here's pretty nice," Ashura went on, trying to change the subject. "I dropped your armor off."
"Thanks."
"Maybe the dwarf can put some additions on too. He's making me a new set of chain. I'll see if he can make your armor stronger while we're at it." When she got no response, Ashura pressed on. "We'll sell what we've collected. Make enough to lounge around for a long, long time."
"Yeah. Guess I should be thankful to be back on dry land. No wolves around trying to eat me and all that." Shar-Teel combed her damp hair back and then stood up, water sluicing off. Her good hand went to her shoulder, rubbing. "And maybe I'll come help you haggle over books. Get a good price, even if we have to wring it out of someone." She stretched. "Would love to stay here forever, but I'm turning into a prune." And with that she waded off.
A naked Shar-Teel looked about like you'd expect: broad, thick, blocky, speckled with a fair amount of body hair and streaked with scars. Lots and lots of scars, some just faint raised skin and others a jagged, angry red. There were a few at Shar-Teel's chest, Ashura knew, that she had put there herself, when she'd been lost in lycanthropy and lashed out with her claws.
She cringed at the thought.
Mirtul 21, 1368 D.R. (Four days earlier)
"I hate to even suggest it, miss," the rotund barkeep whispered, "but judging by your description of these folks, you may wish to make your inquiries on the…less seemly side of town. Try the sprawl between the promenade and the great bridge. Tis where adventurers tend to drift about most times. No offense."
"None taken," Imoen said with a smile.
"Just be sure to don a hood and hide your valuables if you venture down there." Leaning over the bar, his whisper lowered. "There's a massive drinking hall, where the hin shanties abut Copper Pot Street. Place is called The Copper Coronet. It's the beating heart of those slums, where all the traffic and rumors pass through. If someone's heard of your friends, you're likely to find them there."
"Thank you, Pugney."
"Sure. Just be cautious if you go. And bring that towering bodyguard of yours." A sour look. "And mind, I'm just saying it's a place you might find rumors and gossip, and not suggesting you spend any coin in that cesspit. Would be a stain on my soul if I inadvertently sent business that way, or got a nice young lady like yourself caught up in such things."
"Of course." Picking up her tankard, Imoen withdrew from the bar. "Don't worry. I'm the very picture of caution and discretion."
He gave her a doubtful look, but said no more as she turned and made her way across the stone floor and back towards her table. Piano music chimed through the cozy halls of the Mithrest Inn, echoing off the stonework, the red brick walls, and the rafters of the place as the diners munched and murmured. The song emanated from a bandstand that took up a full corner of the taproom, a grand piano resting upon it where a woman in an elegant red dress teased out the notes of her song.
Tallow candles flickered on the surface of each table, and torchlight danced along the walls. It was well into eveningfeast now, and the scent of piping-hot beef hung heavy in the air.
There were plates laid out at the twin tables where Imoen's companions sat. Minsc's glistened, bare and licked clean, and Viconia's rested beside it, still piled high. The drow woman absently twirled a fork in her hand, her goblet resting in the other, picking at her food, and Baeloth lounged nearby, enjoying a book. There was a buffer of empty tables between Imoen's friends and the rest of the inn, the two dark elves receiving a lot of nervous looks.
Kirian sat at the other table, nursing a tankard and glaring intently at the gaming board where they'd set up some chess pieces a while ago. She still hadn't made her move.
"Should we use a sandglass?" Imoen asked as she took her place on the other side of the board and then downed a gulp of ale. Twas a nice, heady brew.
Snorting, Kirian reached out, touched a pawn, and then withdrew her hand. She scowled at the pieces. More time passed, and Imoen took a few more quaffs from her tankard as she watched her opponent brood. Finally, after all the frustrated indecision and such, Kirian slid her rook forward three spaces. "There."
Imeon's hand flashed down, snatched up one of her knights, and took a pawn.
"Bah!"
"Still no word 'bout Shura and the others," Imoen said to the whole of them, setting her tankard down. "The barkeep asked around. Maybe they're keeping a low profile or some such, but…well, actually it's pretty hard to imagine them keeping a low profile."
"Certainly," Viconia agreed.
Nose still in his book, Baeloth spoke up. "Yes. I do so hope that your friends didn't die an insultingly ignoble death out at sea. The red wizard sounded especially…ah! Haha!" Apparently something in the book had distracted him. He seemed pleased to share it too, tapping the page and giggling:
"Imagine that! A chainmail shirt for a woman, with a big open window in the center serving no purpose but to display her cleavage and offer a giant bullseye for archers! You surfacers dream up the most amusing sorts of costumery! Not that anything else in this Tales of the Azure Bonds makes a lick of sense either. Is this really based on a true story?"
Imoen shrugged. "If it is, it's probably exaggerated."
Baeloth frowned down at the book. "That's just the thing. Elaborate and exciting embellishments are to be expected in any good story. Necessary, I daresay! But that's not the issue here. Instead I find myself wondering…why all of the clones appearing out of nowhere? Why the evil god made of garbage? And now the halfling's head has sprouted into something like a beholder, but not quite…What?! Why? Seems a random and scattershot form of storytelling. I can think of many ways to tighten it up and make it more entertaining."
"By adding more explosions?"
"Always! That's the first thing you do. Mind you, there are some good points too. I rather like the halfling bard. And the sentient dinosaur. Any story can be elevated with a sentient dinosaur."
While Baeloth had been talking Kirian had toyed with her chess pieces. She currently had a knight between her fingers, and now she set it down on a space. Didn't let go, though. Instead she glared and pondered the board. A moment passed, then she put the piece back where it had been.
"So," Imoen said, "I was thinking we should go exploring some more tomorrow. Maybe see some of the other parts of town and ask if anyone's seen a red wizard or a purple halfling."
Viconia looked up from her meal, her face sour. "A brief excursion, I pray. I am quite enjoying this luxurious space we've carved out for ourselves."
"Well yeah, we'll keep the bedrooms."
"Good. Be cautious as well. The way the people here speak, the portions of this city that spill out close to the river are rife with danger. Foul smelling, too."
"You afraid?" Kirian teased.
"I have seen things that would curdle the blood in your veins, young one. Such experience breeds caution and perspective. Tis one of the reasons that I have never, in all my life, come close to staring a basalisk in the eye."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm never going to live that one down am I-"
"I have also never come close to being strangled by a doppelganger," Viconia went on. She then coughed. "Do you remember who healed your throat, after that little incident?"
Kirian glared for a long moment.
"Ahem," Imoen cut in. She tried to change the subject. "So Kirian, are ya going to ever make a move?"
"Fine!" Kirian snapped, moving the same knight that she'd been toying with before. This time she let it go.
Zig! Imoen took the knight with a bishop.
"Oh blast it all!" Kirian pulled at her hair and glared down at the board, head tilting this way and that. "You…" Her ranting slowed. "Wait." Her head cocked, then she was smiling, her hand stretching out over her queen. "You totally left yourself open…" Her hand stopped, just hovering there. She shook her head. "No. This has to be a trap. You set it all up."
"Eh." Imoen shrugged. "Haven't really been thinking ahead."
Kirian snorted. "Yeah. Sure." Her hand withdrew and her arms crossed. Once again she glared down at the board.
Imoen glanced down there too. Ha. Whoops. 'Bout seven more moves and Kirian would have a checkmate locked up. She just had to move her queen a smidge over there. Kirian didn't do that though: instead her hand drifted and hovered over one piece after the next, second and triple and then quadruple-guessing herself. Looked like it would be a long game.