"Nobody won the Last War. That means that everyone lost." - King Boranel ir'Wynarn of Breland
1st Zarantyr (Mid-Winter), 998YK
Newthrone, Q'barra
Marek awoke on the first day of the new year with a pulsing headache, a dry tongue, and a general confusion about where exactly he was. He recognized the mingling taste of ale and bile at the back of his throat and had a pretty good idea as to what exactly led him to this particular combination of sensations.
Risking the unforgiving punishment of natural light, Marek cracked one eye open. He was, blessedly, closed in somewhere where the hateful glare of the day star couldn't reach him. Enough illumination was sneaking through the uneven shutters of the small room that Marek could gather his surroundings. There wasn't much to gather. He was sprawled out on a less than luxurious sleeping pallet. Nearby, his hammer was laying, his pack of meager belongings and a small pile of clothes lying beside it. Beyond that, the room was bare.
For a moment, Marek considered staying down and sleeping a bit more. Even though it was the middle of winter, the weather here in Q'barra was chilly rather than cold, making his well-worn woolen cloak a perfect blanket. However, the headache and the call of nature both gave convincing arguments for Marek to get up. So, he levered himself up and threw his cloak off himself. Marek felt the room try to spin for a moment but he closed his eyes and the feeling passed.
"Oh, Strength and Steel, stand with me in this battle." Marek groaned the prayer to his patron god. As per usual, Dol Dorn wasn't keen on helping people through self-inflicted hangovers. Sighing at this fact, Marek pushed himself to his feet. He pulled a simple shirt and trousers over a scar crossed torso and limbs. His plate armor long since sold off, the only form of protection that Marek currently owned was the old padded gambeson he used to wear beneath the plate. Pulling that on, Marek strapped on his hammer and shouldered his pack, leaving the room.
Once he went and saw a Vadalis about a beast in the back alley, Marek went back into the tavern, the name of which he had forgotten. His already unsteady gait was not helped by floorboards warped from spilled beer and blood, nevermind the constant humidity of Q'barra. Marek weaved his way through the tables that were only half full of rough sorts getting a cheap lunch as he went to the bar. The woman tending the bar was likely middle aged but hard living had aged her. It wasn't an uncommon look in Khorvaire.
"Need an ale. And food. And that room for another night." Marek grunted as he leaned against the bar. He brushed a stray lock of chestnut hair from his face as he looked up at the bartender. Her arms were crossed over her apron appraisingly. The tall, broad-shouldered paladin would tower over this woman if he stood up straight, but it was clear who held the power right now.
"You goin' to 'ave enough for that after last evenin', sir?" She queried with unveiled doubt.
Marek smiled in a way that he thought was disarming but it carried too much fearful doubt for that. How much had he spent the night before? Slowly, Marek took his pack off his back and fished around in it for his coin purse…
…his dishearteningly light coin purse. But, that was alright. Just because there weren't many coins in it didn't mean they were going to be a low denomination, right?
There's a saying in Khorvaire. "Even the beggars have crowns." As Marek looked into his coin pouch and saw three copper crown coins staring back up at him, he decided that he no longer found that quaint turn of phrase amusing.
"Uhm…", Marek started to say, looking up at the bartender. "I…don't suppose you c-..."
The woman pointed to a sign above the bar.
NO CREDIT.
"If you've got no coin, get out and make room for someone who does", the barkeep added, shooing Marek towards the door.
Marek inventoried his belongings. He definitely needed his boots. His cloak was pretty important, too. His spare shirt and pants could probably get him a few coins? Twelve moons, Marek wouldn't need his pack anymore and he could sell that, too. That'd be enough for a day or two more. His fingers found the holy symbol of Dol Dorn around his neck; a simple silver image of a sword crossed over a circular shield. No. Not yet.
Not wanting to risk an unnecessary confrontation with whatever the shoddy tavern kept around as a bouncer, Marek threw his pack onto his back once more and said, "right." He left the tavern, forgetting to look and see what it was called to remind himself.
Newthrone was a strange contradiction of a city, being mostly uncivilized while still being the most civilized place in the fledgling nation of Q'barra. It had been founded by Cyran refugees during the Last War. Now, with Cyre lost under the fog of the Mourning, it was one of the largest concentrations of Cyrans in Khorvaire. They were far from the only people, though. Q'barra had remained neutral during the war, making it a haven for deserters and objectors, and the war weary from all nations.
No one told them that the area already belonged to lizardfolk and dragonborn, though. That little war still persisted in skirmishes across the tentative internal borders.
Newthrone was a dusty and crowded place. Its buildings, only vaguely arrayed into city blocks, were a clash of architectural styles and construction materials. The people of Q'barra's capital were an equally stark assortment. Most were human, as tended to be the case in Khorvaire. Dour and dark haired Karrns brushed shoulders with fairer Brelish. A half-elf in House Lyrandar livery was in a lively debate with a hulking, armored hobgoblin in an outdoor tavern. Two warforged laborers tirelessly hauled stones and mortar up a ladder on a half-finished building.
Shouting, laughing, wheels rumbling, dogs barking, gulls screeching, wood creaking. It all blended together to make Marek's hangover that much worse. A simple restoration spell would fix it right up. Marek didn't take advantage of it, though. He knew he deserved the penance.
The scruffy paladin stopped on the sidewalk as he realized what he was doing, not caring about the people that bumped into him, including a dwarf with strong opinions on the legitimacy of Marek's parentage. I'm going to a pawn shop to sell my only extra clothes and my pack just to maybe drink myself stupid again. Lords of the Host. It sounded so foolish when he put it that way.
Yet his boots started carrying him in search of a pawn shop once again a moment later. Why? Well, one might also ask "why not?" It wasn't as if Marek had anything worth being sober for. His feet dragged on the sidewalk as he continued.
Unfortunately, Marek was unable to orient himself. Newthrone was not familiar to him. He wandered for what must have been an hour, the sun climbing all the while. Asking for directions didn't help much. They were vague at best. At worst, they sounded suspiciously similar to what the grumpy dwarf from earlier had said.
Marek's stomach rumbled as he finally sat down on the edge of the sidewalk outside of another tavern, staring at his shoddy boots. Hunger and thirst gnawed at his belly, a headache gripped his skull. Even stealing some food from the markets sounded like too much effort now, nevermind how his patron god would see such an act. All Marek wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.
"Happy fucking new year." He muttered to himself, setting his chin and cheeks in his hands, feeling sorry for himself. "At least it can't get any worse."
The unmistakable sound of wood shattering broke Marek from his thoughts. He looked up and back to see a figure with richly maroon skin falling out of a second story window as if they had been tossed, their horned head leading the way, the broken remnants of shutters falling with them. A spaded tail trailed behind them as they fell. The path of the tiefling, for that's what they had to be, was carrying them on course to fall only a couple of feet away.
Old instincts kicked in. Marek reached up as the tiefling neared. On the back of his hand, a violet-blue collection of jagged, intersecting lines flared to life. The power of the Dragonmark of Sentinel flowed out of Marek's hand as his fingertips brushed against the tiefling's shoulder. The paladin braced himself.
Suddenly Marek was no longer sitting. Instead, he was hurtling into the ground just as the tiefling had been a moment before. The impact jarred his bones and Marek let out a rather pitiable groan as he struck and skidded a few feet before coming to a rest in the road.
The noise and traffic immediately around Marek silenced.
Strength and Steel, you can take me now. I wouldn't mind. This counts as dying for someone else, right? That's a good death. Marek thought.
"Uhm...hey…", a woman's voice said.
Marek tried to say, "fine greetings to you", but what actually came out was, "mm?"
"You alright?" The voice asked.
Marek curled his head down and in to look past his feet. The tiefling was blinking, looking perplexed as if she had no idea how she ended up seated on the curb as opposed to taking the express line toward a meeting with terra firma. It was understandable. Someone sitting directly in the path of your unwilling exit from a second story window that is also able to magically save you from the fall isn't exactly what one would call a common occurrence.
The tiefling was a wiry person, her sleeveless jerkin revealing arms defined with whipcord muscle and draconic tattoos. Marek guessed the scars on her knuckles weren't from accidentally scraping them on the silverware drawer at home.
"Ask that question to my tombstone if you don't want a depressing answer", Marek replied hoarsely.
"Oh. Okay. Uhm. How did you do that?" The tiefling asked, a heavy Adaran accent prevalent in her words.
"Magic", Marek groaned with only some irony, rolling onto his side to feel his ribs. Nothing broken; the gambeson's padding had seen to that. He did feel blood trickling down his forehead, though.
The tiefling stood up, revealing dark breeches and flat soled boots buckled just above her knees. She offered a hand down to Marek. "Well, here, lemme help you up at least. And you might want to be quick about it."
"Why?" Marek asked as he was pulled to his feet. Fresh pain beat through his skull as the flow of blood changed. Marek swayed on his feet but the tiefling held him up.
"Because the fine people who threw me out of that tavern window might take exception to your intervention." The tiefling replied.
As if on cue, a half dozen very angry looking people burst out the front door of the tavern that had just recently ejected the tiefling woman.
"Dark fucking Six…", Marek swore, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
Thugs and bandits tended to have a certain look no matter where one went. It usually involved rough leathers and crude weapons, off-center noses and missing teeth, angry eyes and bad breath. This little group was no exception. They were humans except for one half-orc in the back of the group. A wolfish looking woman who was sans a canine tooth was at the fore and she did the talking.
"Dunno what kinda trick you pulled, scrapper, but you'd best get stepping 'less you want us to paint the rest of the cobbles like you just tried to do", the thuggish woman suggested, pointing to the spot where Marek had landed with a spiked blackjack club. "That filthy fiendspawn is ours."
"Hey, now. Don't care what your gripe is, there's no need for that kind of talk, is there?" Marek asked.
"You've helped me and I'm grateful, stranger. No shame in moving on now. It's me they're after", the tiefling insisted in a low voice.
"Mm", Marek grunted again. He didn't move as he focused on the talkative thug. "What'd she do to you to earn her that little chance to grow wings?"
"She stole somethin' from us. That's all you need to know." Talkie looked over her shoulder and gestured to the others with her. They produced blades and bludgeons. Marek was especially leery of the half-orc, who had a hatchet in each hand. That alone wasn't bad, nor was the mere fact that he was a half-orc. No, it was the fact that the way he was standing told Marek that the half-orc knew how to use those axes and use them well. Being a paladin of the god of war tended to teach you to spot that sort of thing.
"That true?" Marek asked over his shoulder to the tiefling, mostly stalling for time.
The tiefling shrugged. "They stole it first."
Marek returned his gaze to the thugs. "That true?"
His response was a spiked club trying to quite literally open his mind to the world.
Marek leaned back. His balance wasn't quite back from the combination of hangover and head injury and so he stumbled a few steps before his apparently ally put hands up to stop him. Now that he was well and truly in a fight, Marek no longer had any qualms about using his magic. By now, the crowd was either backing away more or simply running from the inevitable violence.
"Sovereign of Steel, lend strength to a warrior made weary." Marek intoned as he reached for the hammer hung across his back. The pain in his head dulled and his legs grew steady. As the radiant glimmer of divine magic sparked to life around the paladin, the thugs were given pause.
Talkie, however, was undeterred. "We have 'em outnumbered, you cowards. Rush 'em!" To her credit, Talkie led by example and charged.
Marek brought the heavy hammerhead around in a hacking motion. It snapped Talkie's blackjack in two. Her stunned surprise at the loss of her weapon went a long way in allowing Marek to slam the pommel of it against her temple a moment later.
As Talkie folded to the street, Marek took stock of his situation. He watched the tiefling woman engage a human man with her bare hands. The thug stabbed at her midsection with a shortsword, but she somehow managed to slap the flat of the blade with her palm, redirecting the blow past her hip. The tiefling then caught the man's arm, broke it at the elbow, and threw a punch into his bread basket that sent him down, wheezing while trying to cry out in pain.
Marek didn't have long to marvel at that as the half-orc bullied his way up to the front, apparently eager for the challenge. To confirm that, he snarled, "take the tiefling. This one's mine!"
"Don't count your chimeras before they hatch, mate", Marek suggested. He wasn't even sure if chimeras laid eggs.
The half-orc struck. He did not do so with unbridled fury, but in a measured technique, testing Marek's defenses. The thug was holding back. Marek did the same, waiting until the last moment to parry each time. Steel rang against steel. Marek returned the favor, attempting a few tentative swipes at his opponent. The hammer whipped through the air but struck nothing solid. Marek tried to hook one of the half-orc's legs but the man managed to lift them out of the way or shift position each time.
Normally, the length of the hammer's haft and Marek's height would give him a reach advantage, but it was not so with this towering half-orc. The two fought each other back and forth, quickly discarding their initial tentative strategies. Marek arced around, trying to crush one of the half-orc's limbs to set him up for the killing blow. The thug was not so easily bested, however. He kept his axes in a constant flow, one to the next, able to deflect and attack with an impressive rhythm. What had driven such a skilled warrior to a life of crime, Marek wondered as he deflected a chop aimed for his neck. The paladin hooked the hatchet down and away, then let go of his hammer with one hand to throw a fist into the crook of the half-orc's other elbow to stop an attack at Marek's ribs.
The half-orc threw a knee into Marek's hip. The human's gambeson absorbed the blow but his enemy's strength still threw that hip back. Marek was forced to spin away from a renewed assault and attempt a vertical slam at his opponent's side. The half-orc managed to catch the hammer on crossed axes. Paladin and street thug jockeyed for leverage then both realized it wasn't going to happen.
The two of them broke apart, sizing each other up again. Magically healed or not, Marek's head was getting close to swimming. Sweat dripped from his nose and his stomach churned at the exertion. He probably should have tried to restoration the hangover away, too. Yet, he hadn't felt this alive in a long time. Without ever intending to, Marek had stepped into Dol Dorn's temple for the first time in months.
"Where'd you learn to fight?" Marek asked as he began to circle the half-orc.
"Grew up in the Shadow Marches", the half-orc rumbled, beginning to circle as well. "Fought for Aundair in the war. You?"
"Blademarks", Marek answered.
The half-orc huffed a breath out by way of confirmation.
Then he put his axes away, leaving Marek rather stunned. He looked around to find that his tiefling ally had already put down the other thugs. Rather than flee the scene, however, she had been watching the struggle between Marek and his opponent.
"Uh…", Marek started to say, resting his hammer on his shoulder.
The half-orc held up a hand, "it's been so long since I've felt like a fighter that I'd forgotten the feeling." After taking a breath and wiping his brow, the half-orc pointed at the downed ruffians. "Don't really give a shit about this lot, if I'm honest, and I doubt I can beat you both. Doesn't look like anyone's died so why don't we just call it here and part ways as warriors before that happens?"
Marek considered this for a few moments, catching sight of a tattoo on the half-orc's left shoulder. It depicted an orcish head with only one good eye, surrounded by script that Marek couldn't read. It didn't matter. The paladin recognized Garu-Umesh the One-Eyed, an aspect of Dol Dorn worshipped by the orcs of the Shadow Marches.
It was the sort of thing others might call coincidence. Marek didn't believe that for a second. Deep down he knew this was the doing of Dol Dorn. It had to be. Two lost warriors helping each other remember what they really were.
"I can't speak for the good lady, here, but far as I'm concerned, we're square", Marek decided, hanging his hammer on his back and looking toward the tiefling.
She just shrugged.
"Works for me." The half-orc said. He placed a fist against his chest and added, "may His Eye watch over your battles."
"And may the Strength of Steel never fail you", Marek replied, mimicking the gesture.
The half-orc inclined his head respectfully and left the scene of the fight.
Marek exhaled sharply and looked around. There were still a few dozen people watching, but now that the conflict was over some were beginning to dissipate. From what Marek had gathered, Newthrone's City Watch was far too occupied with bigger affairs to worry about scuffles in the streets, especially if there was no killing involved. Still, probably wouldn't be a good idea to linger.
"That's definitely not how that normally goes", the tiefling said, coming to Marek's side.
He ignored that comment for the moment and brought up something else he had thought of. "How'd you get thrown out of a window if you can fight like that?"
"Hm? Oh, they're all from Aundair so I told them that Queen Aurala was a lowborn slattern. Then I played the weakling on a couple of angry punches and let them pick me up so I could pick the mouthy lady's pocket." The tiefling idly scratched one cheek. "Don't take this as me diminishing your aid but I was going to roll with that landing and keep running."
Marek frowned. "I see. Well, it was interesting to make your acquaintance one way or another but I'm afraid now I have t-"
"What a lovely idea, darling! We should go try that new place you were talking about!" The tiefling woman said rather too loudly, plastering a saccharine smile across her face as she took Marek by the arm and started walking.
"H-Hey, what are you…?" The paladin started to say.
"A competitor. And I don't think they're alone", the tiefling muttered as the onlookers parted for the pair of them. "I'm Novashtai, by the way."
"Marek", the human offered, looking over his shoulder. He didn't see anyone who looked like they were following. No, wait. He did. There was an elf in commoner's garb. He looked middle-aged by elven standards, and he had masked his approach by sticking with the dispersing crowd.
"Don't worry about him." Novashtai suggested. "He's just the one that's supposed to draw our attention. There are others. You won't see them until they want you to. We need to keep moving. I have friends here with me that can help us."
"'Us?' No offense but this isn't my affair." Marek retorted, trying to extract his arm from Novashtai's grip.
Novashtai held him fast and scoffed, her tail flicking. "You had the chance to run away before fighting those street toughs. In fact, I remember saying it explicitly. You made it your affair by sticking around. If you leave they'll just pick you off, then me."
"Rusting edge", Marek cursed. She was right. It was too late to back out now.
Novashtai led Marek closer to the more affluent part of Newthrone. The finest estates and manors here would be comparable to the lower rungs of the upper class elsewhere; certainly not the veritable palaces kept in places like Sharn and Fairhaven. The streets here were well paved and even. City Watch members were attentively adhering to patrol duties, walking in groups of ten or so with spears on their shoulders. Marek and Novashtai were on a sidewalk now, the tiefling having long since released Marek's arm. Though they were in an affluent part of the city, most of the pedestrians were commoners; servants on errands, estate guards patrolling perimeters, and street sweepers keeping the way clean for noble carriages.
"Where are we going?" Marek asked after a long span of silence.
Novashtai pointed a thumb up. Being relatively small and certainly out of the way as cities went, Newthrone had only just recently gotten airship docking towers put in. Even then, it only had two at the moment, with a third still under construction. Each tower had two berths, though at the moment the towers each only had one occupant. Though different in size and style, the airships were both sleek, both surrounded by sullen, dormant rings that bound the elementals that powered them. The larger of the two had to be at least three-hundred feet long, a flat-topped cargo carrier with two elemental rings. The other airship was just shy of half the cargo hauler's size. It evoked the image of a wingless dragonfly to Marek, its soarwood hull so polished that it glinted in the morning sun.
"We're going…to an airship? You have an airship?" Marek asked.
"It's not mine. I'm just part of the crew. You'll see." Novashtai explained, she glanced over her shoulder.
The day continued to get stranger "Still being followed?" He inquired further.
"Can't see why not. But they probably don't expect us to actually be heading for the Orison. Ah, the airship. It's the smaller one." Novashtai reasoned, practically bleeding confidence. "They'll think we're just trying to be in a place with a lot of guards. It'll buy us the time we need to get to the Orison."
Marek looked over his shoulder again. There was no one obvious. Dammit. This was unnerving. "I feel pretty secure in guessing that whatever you stole from those thugs isn't a coin purse or a bit of fancy jewelry."
"If you want to be technical, it is a fancy piece of jewelry. It's just an enchanted piece that the crew of the Orison is being paid quite well to keep from falling into the wrong hands." Novashtai revealed.
Before Marek could crack a joke about wondering whose hands were the right ones, Novashtai put an arm out and stopped him. Standing in the street were three more elves, all of them very clearly armed and not caring about all the people around them, let alone the guards. They were hooded and cloaked, wearing light chainmail that was, ironically, tinted so dark they looked like rings of obsidian.
"They're not even trying." Marek groaned. "Why cut us off now?"
"Because they probably saw me point at the airship and figured out where we're going. So…this one's on me." Novashtai said. She quickly looked around, her golden eyes stopping on a fence of wrought iron that surrounded the estate she and Marek were walking in front of. "I don't suppose you're any good at climbing?"
"When my life's on the line, I'm pretty good at a lot of things." Marek retorted. He glanced back in the direction they'd come from and, sure enough, five more of the ominous elves were approaching from that direction. Without knowing how capable they were, nevermind not being fully equipped and not in top form, trying to stand and fight would be foolish. So, Marek started hauling himself up the fence. In his peripheral vision, he saw the elves flash into motion.
"Oi, get down from there!" A voice shouted in Marek's direction with the distinctive sense of self-assured authority that only a city watchman can possess.
Bang up, job, officer. Marek thought to himself.
Novashtai started climbing a moment after Marek, but she was on the other side of the fence before Marek had even crested the top. The paladin reached the top and leapt, hitting the ground and rolling to his feet inside the fence. Outside, their elven pursuers were converging and climbing themselves.
Marek followed Novashtai into the grounds of the estate. The tiefling was definitely capable of running faster but Marek wasn't about to begrudge having her help. The duo ran among planters and around a burbling fountain, their boots thumping against the flagstones as they ran for the estate's back door. A house guard and a liveried servant, the former holding a sword and the latter a rake, both raised up words of protest.
"Take it up with them!" Marek said between breaths, pointing over his shoulder.
Guard and servant looked past the incoming duo to see the elves, who were now carrying hand crossbows. The former pair made way with all speed.
Novashtai opened the door of the estate with a flying kick, shattering the lock. There were screams inside as tiefling and human bolted over plush carpet. Marek pulled down decorative suits of armor to obstruct the path.
"I'm sure they'll be able to afford new ones", Marek gasped as they entered the foyer and proceeded out of the front door with the same speed. Beyond the front steps were a walkway that led to the perimeter fence. Further still was a street, then a canal. Thankfully, the gate was open. Unthankfully, two house guards turned around from their posts at the gate and stood as if to intercept Novashtai and Marek.
"I'll handle them", the tiefling said, much less out of breath than Marek.
Before Marek could say anything to the contrary, Novashtai bolted forward. She slid under the sword of the first guard, coming up and taking the second off her feet with an uppercut. The guard Novashtai had bypassed turned to strike again but the tiefling kicked backwards. Her foot sounded like it struck with the force of a mace blow, sending the guard sprawling forward. Marek had seen this sort of thing before. This wasn't natural hand-to-hand fighting. Novashtai was trained as a warrior-monk.
"Don't worry. They'll live." Novashtai assured Marek.
They went out onto the street. More than one team of horses was stopped, accompanied by furious drivers and passengers as tiefling and human bolted in front of them. The elves were exiting the manor now. Marek wondered how much they cared about collateral damage. If the answer was "not at all", then the two of them needed to get away fast before someone got hurt. There was nowhere left to run except down the street in one way or another. It would be a fight after all, then.
Then an idea struck Marek.
"On me", he tried to say with authority but mostly it came out as a cough. The paladin hadn't run like this in a long time. Marek approached the nearest wagon, leaping onto the step beside the driver's bench and saying, "sorry, friend."
The stammering driver could do little as Marek hauled him out of his seat and took the reins. Novashtai jumped up beside Marek as the paladin snapped the reins. The two horses pulling the carriage immediately set off, picking up speed.
"Down!" Novashtai cried out, yanking on Marek's collar as a volley of handbow bolts came soaring in. Most of them thunked into the roof and sides of the carriage. A few whizzed overhead. However, the clacking drum of hooftbeats heralded the carriage's increase in speed. Moments later, the elves were left behind.
"Good thinking. Feel bad for the driver…and whoever's riding in the back", Novashtai chuckled as she watched their pursuers fade away behind them.
Marek could not respond with a quip of his own, for the day's events finally caught up with him and he was forced to lean over the side of the driver's bench and throw up. Given how empty his stomach was, not much came up, but it was far from an enjoyable experience all the same. As the paladin straightened out, he wiped his mouth and poorly kept beard on the sleeve of his gambeson.
"You aren't looking so good, Marek." Novashtai pointed out.
"Good, because I'm not feeling so good, either", Marek said dryly.
"I believe it. Regardless, we need to head for the Orison. The elves know that's where we're headed so we'd better go quickly."
Marek slowed the horses enough to turn down a side street, though they were still going fast enough to spark exclamations of outrage from those they passed in the streets.
"Who exactly were those elves, anyway?" Marek asked with a grimace as he weaved the wagon as best he could through traffic.
"They're Unknowns. Shadow agents of the Valenar." Novashtai explained, her eyes going wide as she looked ahead. "Hey, look out!"
A human gentleman who was too absorbed in a sandwich to watch the street just barely managed to leap back onto the sidewalk, spilling his half-eaten meal across himself.
"Heh", Marek chuckled, then, "but, anyhow, never heard of them. The Unknowns, I mean." He knew of the Valenar, of course. Elven mercs of the Valas Taern out of the continent of Aerenal were in high demand during the war. Marek had fought no small number of them. So many had come to Khorvaire that they overtook southeast Cyre and proclaimed it to be the nation of Valenar.
"That's the point. They're Valenar who have somehow dishonored themselves beyond redemption but not badly enough for death. They lose their names and their tongues. Only death in service can cleanse them in the eyes of their people. They're relentless and pretty much suicidal. As to who sent them and why they want the little trinket I lifted, your guess is as good as mine." Novashtai didn't sound like she was sparing much sympathy for them. Marek wasn't exactly planning on opening a charity, either. The Valenar were warmongering slavers.
"Where in the gods' names are you taking me?!" Someone grumped from behind.
Marek and Novashtai leaned over and looked back, seeing a pasty and alarmed nobleman sticking his head out the window. The wind was blowing a cravat back into his face.
"To Khyber's jaws!" Marek and Novashtai said at the same time.
The nobleman made a noise like someone who just had their foot stepped on and pulled himself back into the carriage.
"Psh. At least we lost the sonsabitches." Novashtai said as she resumed her seat.
"Yeah", Marek agreed. "Now, just one more turn and we'll be close to the…"
The horses suddenly jerked to the side, causing the wagon to skid and slam sidelong into a barrier of force that had suddenly sprung up in the road. Human and tiefling were both thrown from the seat. Novashtai managed to tuck in the air and come down in a forward handspring. Marek managed to fall like a discarded sack of clothing and come down in a forward tangle of limbs.
"That's it. You can just let me die", Marek moaned as he painted yet another cobble with drops of blood from his face.
"Light of il-Yannah, get up, it's just head trauma." Novashtai admonished, grabbing Marek and pulling him up again.
A person in a fine jacket and slacks of burgundy and gold fabric was slowly walking towards. It was a short and thin human with a wide-brimmed, fancy hat.
"Nova, my dear, so kind of you to deliver the Eye of Sco to me in a prompt fashion." The human said, working their fingers in an arcane pattern.
Marek knew the beginnings of a spell when he saw one. The paladin threw himself to the side as a forking lightning bolt rippled through the air where he and Novashtai had been moments before. Novashtai's dodge was much more graceful. The lightning struck the force barrier and dissipated.
"Veracity." Novashtai said with equal parts amusement and disdain. "You really think I'd give you anything without a fight?"
"You're lacking your little disc toy today. I'd say now's as good a time as any for a fight." Veracity said with a toothy grin.
"Today's really not a good day for this, can't we put this off until later?" the tiefling asked with a huff.
"Just how many people want this damn thing you've got?!" Marek exclaimed as he got to one knee, his eyes going wide as he said, "Dol Dorn, make me your bulwark!"
A mote of flame was launched at Marek, but a spectral kite shield bearing Dol Dorn's sigil appeared before him, the firebolt bursting against it.
Novashtai used the chance to sprint ahead, leaping up and running along the front of a haberdashery to avoid another firebolt that splashed against the bricks. She was about to jump off the wall at Veracity when a crossbow bolt pierced the flesh of the tiefling's left arm. Novashtai cried out and lost her footing, falling much less gracefully than she had been doing so far.
Marek had not been standing idly. He had advanced on Veracity, who turned her attention on Marek as the paladin reached her. The mage raised a luminous barrier of her own to block Marek's hammer, but the impact drove Veracity back a couple of steps. Novashtai hit the ground at that moment. Veracity looked surprised by this, which gave Marek an opening to deck her in the jaw. He channeled divine energy through his fist, the smiting blow toppling Veracity.
The Unknowns had either caught up or there were more of them than what Marek and Novashtai had seen before. The one that shot Novashtai emerged from an alley, reloading as he did. Others came out around him, drawing scimitars.
Marek used another shield spell, this one not as potent but lasting much longer, as he lifted his hammer to meet the incoming Unknowns. Rather than wait for them to charge and surround him, Marek moved to meet them, hacking downward with his hammer as he declared, "the Steel Lord fights with me!"
The elf Marek struck at blocked, but the paladin used the head of the hammer to rip the scimitar from the Unknown's grasp. An upward attack from Marek struck home, shattering the elf's jaw. Marek kicked him away, going left to intercept another Unknown with a vicious attack that took her in the left arm and crushed it to uselessness. The Unknown's strangled wail sounded even more ghastly than it normally would thanks to the lack of a tongue.
A slash at Marek's right was blunted by his magic shield but not stopped. It cut through his gambeson and gouged a furrow over his shoulder blade. Marek reacted with a low, sweeping swing that crippled both his attacker's legs at the knees. The Unknowns moved to surround Marek now, five of them focusing on the paladin, while four more were harrying the wounded Novashtai. Marek glanced around him, trying to pick which one to strike at. He was already drained from the day's exertion. He might get one or two more, but Marek knew it was hopeless. He was going to fall in the shadow of the airship that had been their goal…
Suddenly, one of the Unknowns was skewered by what appeared, at first, to be a javelin. A moment's inspection revealed that it was actually a ridiculously large arrow. The projectile pinned the elf to the ground. Moments later, another one whizzed in and pierced one of the Unknowns that was about to make a move on Novashtai.
Two more people were coming down the street from the direction of the Orison. One was a hooded goblin in a dark breastplate and leather limb guards. The other was a dark-skinned half-elf wearing what looked like a laborer's jumpsuit that had been reinforced with studded leather.
"By the Blood of Six Kings, you will fall", the goblin called out a voice so rough it sounded like an auditory scar. With a shortsword in each hand he fell upon the Unknowns assailing Novashtai, scything one down in a trio of brutally efficient attacks.
The half-elf woman, meanwhile, produced a vial from a bandoleer, shook it, and tossed it. The vial struck the cobbles at the feet of two of the Unknowns around Marek. Their boots were engulfed in a pinkish-grey morass that clung like glue. Seizing the moment, and the Unknowns' surprise, Marek's hammer flashed twice. One Valenar head was stoved in, while the other one who had been stuck fast had his spine turn to powder as Marek moved past.
Another massive arrow whistled in and crunched through the breastbone of yet another Unknown. Their numbers were ravaged in just a few heartbeats, and those that were left were made short work of.
When the last Valenar went down, Marek sank to one knee, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his magical shield falling.
"Who…the fuck…are…you people?" The paladin asked, looking up with a face streaked by sweat and dust.
The half-elf woman rushed over to Novashtai. It was the goblin who answered Marek as he strode towards Veracity. Marek had thought him supremely ugly, but it turned out the bestial snarl on the lower half of his face was actually a fanged mask of dark metal.
"I am Rishgek." The goblin rasped, inspecting the stunned mage. "The artificer over there is Eluesene. And clearly you've already met Novashtai. Which begs the question…
Rishgek moved with uncanny speed and fluidity. His left hand sword was at Marek's throat before the paladin could even hope to react.
"...who are you?" The goblin asked with a gravity that made it plain what a poor answer would beget.
"Gek. Put the damn sword down. Marek's the only reason I'm here for you to save." Novashtai patted Elusene on the shoulder before standing on her own power.
The half-elf artificer, her face wrought with concern, chastised the tiefling. "You weren't supposed to go after the Eye by yourself, Nova. You shouldn't have needed a stranger's help!"
"Well I've got the Eye and I'm still alive." Novashtai argued. "So it's fine. We should bring Marek with us. At least as far as Sharn. Leaving him here to take the fall for all of us wouldn't be right when he's half the reason the job got done. The other half, of course, being me."
Rishgek rolled his beady yellow eyes and lowered his sword. "Mazo. What's done is done. We need to get back to the Orison before the Watch finally decides to show up. Was bad enough that the Unknowns were here. Didn't know this gaa'ma had decided to pollute the place with her stink."
Veracity's response was a pained groan.
Marek had learned the Goblin language from a hobgoblin comrade during his time in the Blademarks, and so he knew what gaa'ma meant. "Wax baby." Or, in the Common tongue, a changeling.
Marek pushed himself up as everyone started walking. He channeled healing energy into Novashtai, causing her body to push the crossbow bolt out. The tiefling nodded gratefully and the group started moving hurriedly towards the Orison.
"Hey, where did those fucking javelins come from?" Marek asked jokingly about the big arrows.
"From Javelin." Elusene answered, pointing up at the Orison.
High above, Marek saw a heavily armored figure standing at the railing of the airship with a greatbow in hand. No. Not an armored figure. It was a warforged, and a towering one at that. The warforged waved.
"Javelin. Right." Marek muttered to himself as he waved back.
Marek had never been on an airship before. He'd seen them in flight, of course. He'd even seen a few of them being used as aerial artillery platforms in the Last War to devastating effect. This was his first time ever setting foot on one of the soarwood craft. Marek had expected it to be unsteady underfoot like a traditional aquatic ship, but other than a slight rumbling vibration beneath his boots, Marek felt nothing. Somehow, even though they were high up and moving quickly, the wind was quite calm around the Orison; some effect of the elemental that powered it?
The paladin was standing on the foredeck of the Orison, watching over the starboard bow railing as the airship pulled away from the docking tower and began leaving Newthrone behind. It was odd, looking down on the city from so high up. Just a little bit ago, Marek had been dashing through those streets.
Marek pointedly ignored the City Watch officers shouting at the Orison to return to the docking tower. He'd been planning on leaving Newthrone soon, anyway.
The foredeck that Marek stood on was one of two flat spaces on the airship's top, the other being on the very back. Railed walkways ran down port and starboard between the fore and aft. There were three glass domes that ran in a row between the walkways. The domes seemed like a bad idea to Marek. But, it wasn't his ship.
"So, you're my second piece of new cargo, eh?" A deeply tanned dwarf said, coming up from a stairwell nearer to the front of the ship. He had the long, braided beard that was common among dwarves, and wore a sea captain's long coat and tricorn hat.
"Guess so." Marek replied hoarsely. His stomach ached with hunger now. But, he'd been told to wait here.
"Mm. Thrast Solundarak, Captain of the Orison, at your service." The dwarf said, approaching and offering a hand. "Thanks for sticking your neck out for one of my people, even if she doesn't really deserve it sometimes."
The paladin shook the offered hand. "Marek. The Sovereign of Steel rejoices when we use our blades to protect others", Marek said with a shrug.
"That may be, but I've met plenty of self-proclaimed protectors that wouldn't scratch their own arses if there wasn't gold in it for them." Thrast said, thumping a hand on the rail.
"I guess that's true. If I may...what is this Eye of Sco?" Marek asked, leaning sideways against the railing.
"Truth being truth, we thought it was just some enchanted bauble the owner wanted back and was paying a rather crazy amount for." Thrast said. "But if the Unknowns and Veracity were after it, too, that tells me it's not likely. I'll be having Elusene take a good long look at it."
Marek nodded. "Good thinking. What'll you do if it is dangerous or the client is worse?"
Thrast replied after some thought. "Just the former? We'll give it back as agreed with words of fair warning. Just the latter? We'll find someone to sell the Eye to and leave it at that. Both? I'll be turning the Orison to the Thunder Sea and dropping the damn ring into the depths."
Marek wanted to ask more about the client, the Eye of Sco, and this flying madhouse full of strange people, but mostly he just wanted to sit down. "Well, I'll be glad to help with any of those. I don't suppose you've got some food anywhere on this bird?"
Thrast chortled. "Certainly. I'll show you to the mess. Follow me. I've yet to eat today."
Marek and Thrast went down the stairs the dwarf had come up earlier, down into the cramped interior of the Orison. It definitely looked bigger on the outside. The halls were stately, wrought with sweeping and graceful care. Everbright lanterns in wall sconces kept everything bright and welcoming.
"How are you an airship captain?" Marek realized the oddity of it. "I thought only the half-elves in House Lyrandar could fly airships?"
"Senna handles most of the flying, but I'm the captain. The Orison's a…special case", Thrast explained a bit cryptically. Marek figured it wasn't his place to pry. He was being given a free ride on an airship to the City of Towers. If there was any place in Khorvaire he'd be able to reverse his fortunes, it would be there.
The mess hall was smaller than Marek expected. There was enough seating for a score of people down two long tables, which were bolted to the floor just like the chairs set up before them. A row of four kegs were mounted against the far wall. Mugs hung on hooks beneath them The mess hall was filled with the smell of some kind of pungent seasoning. Thrakel, Marek realized. The people of Thrane put it on almost everything. Pale light from the cloudy sky came in through the glass dome above them.
"Nuir, you have two starving men in your mess hall!" Thrast called towards a two-way door.
"Then I'll have two skinny corpses in my mess hall soon!" A muffled voice replied.
Marek looked to Thrast at the brusque reply. The dwarf just laughed.
"Nuir's a saint. The Orison would've fallen from the sky a long time ago without her." The dwarf chortled.
The door to the galley opened. A feline shifter woman, fair of skin and hair both, emerged pushing a cart laden with two covered dishes. Marek put her in her early forties. She wore a plain, comfortable looking dress beneath a chef's apron.
"Keep eating like you do and it'll fall out of the sky anyway", Nuir said. She wheeled the cart to the table and set the dishes down. "How do you do, sir", she added to Marek.
"I'm about to be a lot better. Thank you for the food, ma'am." Marek said with a respectful nod.
"Gratitude? On this ship? Now I've seen it all", Nuir balked, turning her empty cart away and pushing it back into the galley.
Thrast, laughing again, wandered over to the wall where the kegs were mounted. He grabbed a wooden mug with his name burnt into it and pulled a pint from a keg labeled "ale". "Help yourself, Marek. The guest mugs are on the right there."
Blinking in surprise at this unusual setup, Marek all the same took one of the unlabeled mugs and poured himself a pint of stout. He took his beer over to the table and sat down, taking the lid off the dish in front of him. Steaming on the plate was a thick mutton chop practically drowning in thrakel sauce beside potatoes and carrots. A simple meal, no frills meal, but to Marek's empty stomach it was positively gourmet.
"Blessings be to Boldrei", Marek said, picking up a fork and knife before digging in. He took a bite of the mutton first. The thrakel's savory heat quickly spread through Marek's belly. It was good and proper comfort food.
Thrast ate as well, though it was more slowly.
After a polite amount of time, Marek wiped his mouth on a napkin and asked. "Who exactly are you all? Mercs?"
"When we need to be. Treasure seekers. Monster hunters. Ruin delvers. I think the appropriate term is 'adventurers.'" Thrast said with pride. "Count Kirid ir'Jant hired us to retrieve the Eye of Sco for him. A family heirloom of his, he says. Not sure on the veracity of that statement but Rishgek's good at reading people and said he seemed legitimate."
"Speaking of Veracity…", Marek began.
Thrast sighed. He took a drink of ale, then spoke. "A former crew member that left on…less than amicable terms. It's a long story. We still encounter Vera from time to time; sometimes alone, sometimes with other groups."
"I see", Marek said before devouring a mouthful of potatoes.
"What about you, Marek? I know you're a paladin of Dol Dorn, and I see that Dragonmark on the back of your hand, though I'll admit I'm not sure which one it is." Thrast queried, his fork making a lazy circle.
Marek considered not answering. It wasn't anything personal. He just didn't really feel like getting into his past with a stranger. Still, it wouldn't hurt to spare a few details.
"I'm part of the Izaro branch of House Deneith", the paladin revealed. "We're based in Karrlakton, mostly. Joined the Blademarks when I was sixteen, ended up in the Goldhammer Company under Commander Bastiene. That was…", he puffed out a contemplative breath, "...Host, fifteen years ago by now."
"Heh. The years do have a way of going by, don't they?" Thrast said. He started cutting another bite of mutton. The dwarf didn't pry any further. "Well, regardless of who you are, you brought one of ours back to us safely. The Orison owes you a debt; a share of the payout on the job, at least. There anyplace specific you want us to take you when it's done?"
Marek didn't need long to think about it. It was an effort of will not to frown in a way that would have been unacceptably piteous. "No. Not really. Sharn's as good of a place as any. I don't really…have anywhere to go."
Thrast nodded solemnly. "I understand the feeling. Truly. They'd probably feed me to the dolgrims if I ever showed my face back home in Solungap."
But you have the Orison to call home. Marek thought. It was unnecessarily rueful so he did not give the thought voice. "It's the story of a lot of people, Captain. The Last War's less than two years gone. No one's going to just pick everything up as it was after one-hundred years of fighting."
"Don't I know it. I lived it from start to finish. I remember the day the Mror Holds declared their independence from Karrnath like it was yesterday. I was just a foot-slogging spearman when the Karrns came at us through Wurmwrack Pass." Thrast's voice grew a bit distant at the recollection. "Now, so I know I'll actually be getting the full and truthful story, would you mind telling me what exactly happened with Nova earlier?"
After a short bit of laughter, Marek told the tale.
Time passed strangely on board the Orison. It wasn't for lack of things to do; the other domes were above a respectable library and a training room, respectively. But, Marek didn't feel like training. He didn't feel like reading. His conversation with Thrast had put him in a decent enough mood, but that faded when he was by himself again. Everyone else seemed to have shipboard duties that kept them busy for a lot of the day. Marek didn't want to bother them. He stayed in the cabin he'd been given, which wasn't much bigger than the tiny room he'd woken up in the day he met Novashtai. It did lack the smell of vomit, at least.
Nuir came by at some point to knock on the door and let him know dinner was ready. Marek figured that meant everyone would be eating. He really didn't want to be around a big group of people at that moment. It wouldn't be like a tavern where he could just sit and be left alone. They'd ask him questions. Even if they didn't, they'd tell stories and jokes. They'd laugh. They'd smile. It all sounded like more than he could handle right now. It felt like a weight had settled in the pit of his stomach, making the idea of doing anything seem like far too heavy of a task. Better to leave them be and not drag everyone else down.
Marek lay on the cot in his room and stared at the ceiling. He thought of the Goldhammer Company. He thought of a lot of things. Until now he'd been able to get another drink, walk down another road, clash with someone else using fists or blades. Marek couldn't do any of those things on the airship. As much as he wanted to, he didn't dare keep taking pints from the mess hall; he was imposing on the Orison's hospitality enough as it was. Besides, Marek knew by now that one more drink never really helped anything. That never really stopped him, but he still knew it.
The paladin's stomach growled.
"Psh. You get one good meal and now you're greedy all of a sudden." Marek muttered. Maybe there would be leftovers he could go beg since he didn't go to dinner. If Nuir got grumpy he'd offer to do the dishes for her.
There was a knock at the door.
"Marek? You in there?" The person on the other side said.
Marek looked past his feet, to the door. "Uhm, yeah, one second."
The paladin opened the door. Novashtai was out in the hall, standing beside one of Nuir's kitchen cart. The tiefling had changed out her jerkin for a cotton vest, her boots for slippers. Sitting on the cart was a covered dish and a mug of ale. Marek could smell thrakel again. Nuir was probably using up all the mutton.
"We were worried when we didn't see you at dinner. Nuir figured you'd be hungry." Novashtai said, pushing the cart into the room. She stopped it in front of Marki's cot and applied the wheel brakes with her toes.
"Oh…uh…thanks." Marek said. He scratched the back of his head, feeling a little ashamed for some reason.
Novashtai smiled. "I get homicidal when I'm hungry. Nuir doesn't want to give anyone the chance to follow suit."
A reluctant snort of laughter escaped Marek's nostrils. "I've gone hungry too many times to get mad about it anymore."
"And, ah, not to put too fine of a point on it, but the baths are just down the hall from here…", Novashtai added with a cringe.
Marek closed his eyes, feeling heat in his face. Dark fucking Six…
"You're right. I'll take advantage of that after dinner, thank you." Marek assured her. "There anyplace I can do laundry?" He did wonder how the ship got water. Surely they didn't have that much piped up from the ground somehow.
Novashtai nodded. "There's a washtub down in the cargo hold."
"Thank you", Marek said again.
An awkward several moments passed.
"I never did thank you for stepping in on my behalf." Novashtai finally said.
Marek shrugged. "You said yourself it probably wasn't necessary so that's on me. Didn't do it for thanks, regardless."
"With the thugs, yeah. The Unknowns, though, probably would've had my number without your help. Not many people who stick their neck out for a stranger, let alone a 'fiendspawn'", she spat the word. "So. Thank you for that."
"It was…", Marek was about to say "no trouble", but in truth it had been a lot of trouble. "...that is, I'm happy to help."
Novashtai smiled. "And I was happy to receive it. Eventually. Alright, I'll let you eat. Wheel the cart back to the galley when you're done, if you don't mind."
"Sure thing. Thanks for bringing it." Marek told her.
Novashtai left the room, making a show of holding her breath and plugging her nose as she passed by Marek. Shaking his head and grinning despite himself, Marek closed the door behind her. He then went over to the bed and sat down taking the cover off his dinner. This time there was only one item on the plate, but it was big; the thrakel seasoned mutton was joined by herbs and vegetables in a wrap of flatbread. Marek picked it up and immediately took a big bite. The warmth in his middle was not entirely the doing of the spice, nor were the tears forming at the corners of his eyes because it was too hot.
We were worried when we didn't see you at dinner.
It sounded like such a small thing. But, for the first time in far too long, someone had given a damn about Marek.
3rd Zarantyr, 998YK
Sharn, Breland
The City of Towers was, as the saying goes, exactly what it says on the tin. Even so, Sharn's informal title did not do justice to it. The towers of Sharn were unlike anything else in the world.
The city existed on a manifest zone of Syrania, the Plane of Air. Not only did it allow for some of Sharn's spires to reach more than a mile in height, it allowed for other wonders, too. Skycoaches flitted between the massive towers; boat-sized flying craft that could not function anywhere other than Sharn. The district of Skyway, home to the city's most affluent citizens, sat on solidified clouds hundreds of feet above the tops of the highest towers.
But Sharn wasn't just towers. There were webs of bridges, platforms, stairwells, and lifts that connected the colossal structures together. Entire neighborhoods were held up between the towers by massive chains. Castle-sized buildings clung to the sides of the central towers, which were themselves hundreds of feet across. In many places, whole districts sat on huge lips that jutted around the towers' circumferences. It was, in short, unlike anything anywhere else in the world.
Marek watched the city come closer from the Orison's railing. He'd been to Sharn a couple of times, even ridden in a skycoach once, but he'd never had the chance to see it in its full splendor from the air. It was exhilarating, he couldn't deny. Marek tempered his enthusiasm, however. For all the glamor and glory of Khorvaire's largest city, the paladin had been to its lower reaches. He knew how ruthless and deadly Sharn was when one went down to where the light quite literally did not reach.
The Orison docked at one of the airship berths on Sharn's outer walls. Technically, they were part of the district of Tavick's Landing. There were at least twenty airships docked along the wall where the Orison slipped into place. In Sharn's waterborne harbor of Northedge, it would be a slow day. In the airdocks, it looked to be positively bustling. It was midmorning when the gangplank was extended to the wall.
Thrast was sending Marek with Novashtai, Elusene, and Rishgek to deliver the Eye of Sco to Count Kirid. Elusene had inspected the Eye as Thrast said she would. The half-elf had not shared her findings with anyone but Thrast yet. She, apparently, wanted to ask Kirid about the Eye and didn't want anyone else to form preconceptions. It sounded rather contrived to Marek, but he kept his peace. He'd gone into full-scale battles with less information than that, and among allies he'd spent even less time around.
"So. This Count Kirid. What do we know about him?" Marek asked the rest of the group.
"He's a noble and he's rich. Not much else." Novashtai said with a lackadaisical shrug.
Rishgek cleared his throat and spoke up. "Count Kirid ir'Jant is the second oldest child of the late Count Bultav ir'Jant. The late Count and his oldest child, the would-be Countess Iridova, fell in the Last War, the former at Wayfarer's Field in 989, the latter in the Mourning in 994. The ir'Jant estate then fell into the keeping of Kirid, who was exempt from military service because he was managing the timber business that is the reason behind most of the ir'Jant family's fortune. That timber built wagons and siege equipment for the Brelish armies."
Marek looked sidelong at Novashtai. "Not much else, eh?"
Novashtai slugged Marek's shoulder, which was forceful enough to send him stumbling sideways several steps. That's a monk's punch for you. The paladin, along with Elusene, laughed.
"I didn't find any evidence of illicit activity", Rishgek went on. "But that doesn't mean there isn't any. I hope you know what you're doing, Elu. Last thing we want is something powerful in the hands of someone worse than the Unknowns or whoever Vera was working for."
Elusene gave a single, clipped nod. The many pouches of her jumpsuit rattled and clicked as she walked, "I usually know what I'm doing, Gek. Just trust me on this. C'mon. Let's get a skycoach."
The quartet passed along the top of the wall until they came to an aerial dock. Skycoaches waited there. Elusene picked a rectangular one piloted by a shaggy-headed halfling woman with a floppy flat cap on her head.
"Mornin' to ya, friends. Smoothest ride in the skies of Sharn, right here", the pilot assured them, gesturing to the covered passenger compartment behind her seat. "From the Cogs to Skyway, my old girl will get you there."
"Sage Garden in Upper Central, please." Elusene said, stepping down from the dock to the skycoach with little fear of the dizzying height. Rishgek and Novasthai followed. Marek did as well, but with a moment's hesitation. He didn't like the way the skycoach sank slightly as it took his weight, but the craft remained airborne.
When they were seated in the passenger compartment, the halfling took the skycoach away from the dock in a smooth turn and angled the bow upward, heading for the highest reaches of Sharn.
"Let's say we have this talk with the Count and it turns out he plans to use this ring for…I don't know, an orphan crushing machine or something." Marek said. "What then?"
"Then we don't let him have it", Elusene replied.
"...you think it'll really be that simple?" Marek asked.
Rishgek nodded and answered for her. "Simple, yes. Easy? Different story."
"Easy's boring", Novashtai said, cracking her knuckles.
"Easy normally means you end with the same amount of blood in your body as you began with." Elusene countered.
"Between your potions and our brand new paladin, we won't have to worry about that", Novashtai said, grinning from ear to ear.
Marek looked out the window to hide his own smile. Our paladin. "Prevention's the best cure, I've been told." He said quietly. Outside, he could see thousands of people from all different races moving about the city. The rather stereotypical realization of each and every one of those teeming masses having their own colorful, vivid lives briefly settled over Marek. He just as quickly shook it out of his head. Enough existentialist pondering had gone on between his ears over the past few days.
The coach continued its ascent.
The ir'Jant estate was situated at the top of one of Sharn's main towers. Massive buttressed platforms fanned out around the top of the tower like a huge stone flower, each one holding a very different looking home for rich people that Marek was sure were not at all similar in overbearing snobbishness.
The skycoach glided down to the street. The four passengers hopped off, Elusene paying the halfling and saying, "here's a couple extra Galifars. Stay here. There's double that in it for you if you haven't left when we come out."
The halfling, who usually received silver sovereigns rather than gold Galifars, accepted the coins eagerly. "Well, if you're gonna twist my arm…", she said with a snort.
Marek, who still only had three copper crowns to his name, watched the gold change hands with unveiled envy.
"If everything goes well, you'll have some of your own to throw around soon", Novashtai assured him.
"If", Marek repeated as he followed the others to the front gate. Two goliaths clad in adamantine half-plate stood guard there. Marek was a few inches over six feet tall, but the two guards had a foot and some change on him. One leaned on a bearded greataxe, the other a two-handed mace with a flanged head. They watched the adventurers draw closer.
"We were hired by Lord Kirid to obtain an item for him", Elusene informed them briskly as they approached. "We have it and are here to deliver it."
The goliaths looked at each other. The one with the big mace held out a meaty palm and said, "give it here. I'll bring it to him and bring out your pay."
"No." Elusene said, folding her arms. "We will be handing it to him directly. You're welcome to come with as we do so. Or, we'll just leave and you'll have to tell him you let his prized possession slip away. Your choice."
The mace bearer scowled, but reached into his pocket and produced a small, brass bell. When he waved it back and forth, it made no sound. In fact, it didn't appear to have a clapper. Within a couple of minutes, a liveried servant was coming up the path from the manor house in a quick but calm stride. The servant was a human man, quite thin and with a balding pate. The black and dark brown livery of his uniform made his rather pasty complexion stand out.
"Kaun, Tyden, who are these people?" The servant queried with prim affectation.
"Say they have something for Lord Kirid. Some possession of his. Wanna deliver it to him personally" The mace bearer said.
"The Eye of Sco, to be precise", Elusene cut in.
At the name of the artifact, the servant made a soft "oh" sound before saying, "let them through."
The goliaths pushed open the gates and allowed the four adventurers onto the grounds.
"I am Grenhal, Lord Kirid's steward", the servant explained, turning sideways and gesturing toward the house, "if you'll please follow me, I will take you to His Lordship."
"Please lead the way, sir." Elusene said in a gracious way, making a "lead on" motion with one arm as her group approached.
Grenhal proceeded down the walkway, heading for the ir'Jant manor. Though it was the dead of winter, some kind of magic kept the flowers on the grounds bright and lively. Elusene surveyed them as they walked.
"The flower planters. They're arrayed in a draconic symbol. I saw them from the air." The half-elf noted.
"Indeed. Carefully sculpted into the symbol meaning 'prosperity.' His Lordship has a particular fascination with the dragons and the continent of Argonessen", Grenhal informed them.
"Ah. Fascinating", Elusene said, then in a low voice to her compatriots. "It's actually the symbol for 'ditch.'"
"I beg your pardon?" Grenhal asked as Marek and Novashtai suppressed laughter.
"It's working, His Lordship is clearly rich." Elusene replied with a straight face.
Grenhal didn't look convinced, but Elusene looked like she didn't care to an equal extent.
Grenhal led the group through the symbol that definitely didn't mean "ditch" and in through the front of the manor house. As they went in, Marek noted there were two more goliaths guarding the front door but only a couple of servants tending the grounds. Normally, these places seemed to have armies of them. Then again, it was winter. Magically sustained or not, maybe things didn't grow very well in the cold.
The room Grenhal brought them into was floored with dark wood and thick rugs. The steward had not been kidding when he said Kirid was interested in dragons. The artwork on the walls depicted dragons in flight, dragons at rest, even one where a dragon appeared to be in conversation with a much smaller figure beside a pond.
"Interest" felt like an understatement at that point. This theme continued through the manor. It was much more lively than the exterior. Marek saw a handful of servants going about household chores, and he could smell the kitchens that were no doubt cooking lunch. Yet, for all of that, something felt off to Marek. Maybe it was just because he had never been in a place as fancy as this so the atmosphere was just something he wasn't used to. All the same, the paladin decided to keep himself on guard even more than he already had.
Grenhal approached a door in one hallway and knocked on it. "My lord?"
"Bit occupied at the moment, Gren. I'll get lunch later."
"Sir, it's the crew of the Orison. They have brought the Eye."
Silence for a few beats, then, "yes, send them right in."
Grenhal opened the door and motioned for the four adventurers to go into the room. What lay beyond was what appeared to be an art studio. There was a half-finished landscape on an easel in one corner that was collecting dust. What dominated the room, however, were yet more dragons. Most of them were about the size of kittens. They were models, of course, not actually very tiny dragons. Draconic figures of every variety and pose filled the shelves that took up every wall, while a large work table in the middle of the room had a half-dozen more wooden models in various states of completion. Small pots of paint and stained brushes were littered here and there.
Another human man was seated at the work table. Marek had been expecting someone that looked something like Grenhal, but Count Kirid was full of vibrance even when just sitting and focusing on a painting project. He wore a stained apron over a plain shirt, his dark, wavy hair cropped close to his head. Before the Count was a miniature representation of a bronze dragon that was curled to the side backwards with a snarl, as if turning to face a surprise threat coming up behind it. The model was illuminated by an orb of white light contained within a lamp on the three-jointed stand. Other than that light, the room was dark.
"Your work comes well recommended, indeed. I was expecting it to take a month at least", Count Kirid said. He did not look up from his work, instead peering down at the dragon he was painting through the circular lenses of his glasses.
"The crew of the Orison takes our work very seriously, my lord", Elusene said to the Count. She looked around the room, leaning close toward a gold dragon sleeping on a pile of gems. "Your work is impressive. I've seen lesser works draw crowds in art galleries."
Kirid chuckled. "You flatter me, Miss Elusene. The moment I started crafting these for someone else would be the moment my art lost its meaning. But, I'm glad you can appreciate them. One of the perks of owning logging operations is a steady supply of good material." The Count set his brush down and stood up, going to a basin of water beside the half-finished painting before washing and drying his hands. "I hope the Eye wasn't too much trouble to obtain?" He began removing golden rings from his pockets and placing one of each on all ten of his fingers.
"Not insomuch", Elusene answered. She reached into a bag slung over her shoulder, which Marek suspected was a bag of holding, and produced a platinum ring. It was set with a dark circular gem that Marek realized was no gem at all, but a Khyber dragonshard.
Kirid's eyes held steady on the ring. "Ah. There it is. Back at last." He began coming around the work table with an outstretched hand.
"I studied it a bit on the way from Newthrone." Elusene said, making no move to hand the Eye over.
Kirid paused. His mouth quirked into a partial grin. Tension grew in the air. "Did you, now?"
"Yes. I wish I could say I knew what this piece did. But that's the issue. It's only a piece; a part of something greater. What exactly is that something greater, my lord?" Elusene's question was innocent enough.
Kirid didn't answer. His expression didn't change but it took on a certain brittle quality. "The Eye is part of something, yes, but nothing nefarious. You're holding my property while on my property. You're going against an agreement made in good faith."
"But not put on paper and no money has been exchanged." Elusene countered him, unmoved. "The transaction is still just as open."
Count Kirid considered Elusene for several seconds. Marek decided he could make all this much easier. Dol Dorn, reveal my friends and foes, he silently prayed.
Most of the room stayed the same. Novashtai and Elusene both had a soft, welcoming glow of golden light around them. Rishgek looked just as he had before. Kirid did not change, either. So, he was not evil, but he wasn't good, either.
"If I might suggest something…", Marek cut in, "...as a paladin, Dol Dorn blesses me with a spell that makes people unable to lie. My lord, I'm new to this group, but I know they want the money you're offering. You've made it clear you want the Eye. And, if it turns out the Eye of Sco really isn't part of something nefarious, you have my word before the Sovereign of Strength and Steel, and the rest of the Host, that we'll speak nothing of it to anyone. Is that fair?"
Kirid did not look particularly happy at the idea. His desire for a result outweighed his frustration, apparently.
"Fine. Cast your spell." The Count said.
Marek focused on his holy symbol and intoned, "Dol Dorn, allow me to cut truth from lies."
The zone of truth spell activated with a brief glow of iron grey light. Marek could sense that Kirid did not resist it. He looked to Elusene and indicated for her to continue.
The half-elf proceeded at once. "The Eye of Sco is a key of some sort. My question for you is simple; a key to what?"
"Deep in a forest, my workers uncovered a ruin. A scholar I hired from Morgrave University said it predated the Dhakaani Empire. There's an ancient, preserved device in there. An orrery that tracks the movements of the planes and moons. The Eye of Sco is the key that operates the orrery."
Elusene seemed to weigh the Eye in her hand. "Which forest?"
"The Towering Wood in the Eldeen Reaches", Kirid revealed.
"What do you intend to do with the orrery?" Elusene kept prying.
Kirid lightly touched his own chest as he answered, "me? Nothing. I have no use for it. Once it was functional I intended to sell the ruin and the land around it to Arcanix University in Aundair. It's the closest institute of higher learning to the site, they'll pay a good price for such a thing."
After hearing this, Elusene slowly closed her fingers around the Eye of Sco. She looked back at her compatriots.
"Don't see why not", Novashtai decided.
Rishgek gave a single, silent nod.
"May as well. We don't really have good ground to stand on for not giving it to him now, anyway", Marek pointed out.
The artificer turned back toward Count Kirid and set the Eye of Sco on the table. The nobleman picked the ring up, appraising it for several seconds before dropping it into a pocket. His mood lightened at once. "Excellent. I am glad we could clear up this misunderstanding. If you'll go with Grenhal, he shall see to it that you're all paid."
The adventurers went out into the hall with Kirid's steward.
"Thank you, Marek." Elusene said.
"Eh?" The paladin came out of a daydream.
"Your magic helped us see this to the end. Thank you." Elusene elaborated.
"Oh. Happy to help." Marek told her.
Thankfully, nothing went wrong with getting their money.
Well, it's flooding down in Newthrone - all the sending stones are down
Must be flooding down in Newthrone - all the sending stones are down
I've been trying to call my baby - but I just can't get a single sound
Marek had never seen a kobold bard before, but the moment Novashtai had seen the sign advertising "Scangil Raen Vralk & Dungeon Trouble" outside of a Middle Central tavern, she had insisted they go inside. The others had agreed at once, and Marek had no reason to protest. He was flush with coin for the first time in far too long.
There Marek was, seated at a round table with Novashtai, Rishgek, and Elusene, listening to the Each had a drink in hand and a large platter of appetizers sat in the middle of the table. Rishgek had removed his half-mask to drink and eat. Marek had expected scars or a deformity to be hidden beneath but there was no such thing.
As Marek stuffed a tiny sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with some beer, he let himself relax with the music. His three companions, like Marek himself, were watching Scangil and his two warforged accompanists. Novasthai was actually singing along. Elusene was swaying her head back and forth, while Rishgek had his arms crossed but a tapping foot gave away his enjoyment. Around them, the Happy Harper tavern was bright from the glow of a couple dozen everbright lanterns.
I'd forgotten what it feels like. Marek thought to himself, unable to keep a happy smile from his face. A challenge confronted and overcome, a job done, a battle won; all of it made sweeter by being able to savor it alongside the people he'd worked and fought beside. Dol Dorn was rewarding him, Marek decided. He'd held the line through the darkest hours. The Sovereign of Strength and Steel did not let such things go unnoticed. Now it was up to Marek to continue to be worthy of such a reward. He'd find other comrades soon. Sharn's Adventurer's Guild was the best in Khorvaire.
Scangil's current song ended and everyone clapped. The kobold's snout was split in a broad smile as he waved at the crowd. He leaned forward and spoke into a voice-amplifying wand that was mounted on a stand before him. All this music was making Marek want to pick up a guitar again. He used to play all the time for his comrades in Goldhammer. That instrument was long since sold off.
"Thank you so very much, my friends", Scangil said in a breathless voice. "Gonna take ten for a drink and a bite, so don't go nowhere."
The kobold hopped down off his stool, set his guitar aside, and walked off the stage.
"Blessed Light, I'm so happy we managed to catch him while he's in town", Novashtai gushed, her mouth turned up in a grin as she slid a marinated piece of meat off a skewer with her teeth.
"I wonder if he's singing of the same woman in every song. Sounds like a rocky relationship at best if that's the case", Rishgek mused. He sipped his beer.
"No, Gek, it's not just one person. It's for everyone that's ever felt that…you know…", the tiefling tapped her sternum with emphasis.
"...heart palpitations?" Elusene asked.
"No! That feeling in your heart and your gut, you know? That…weight, you know? It's like…", Novashtai snapped her fingers a few times as if trying to jar the idea loose.
"The blues." Marek suggested.
With one last snap, Novashtai pointed at Marek. "That's it. The blues. He gets it."
Elusene shared a look with Rishgek that said neither of them got it.
Novashtai waved them off. "Ah, don't know why I bother."
"At least you have one person around who can understand you now, Nova", Elusene said with a giggle.
Marek turned to Elusene. Her statement had an implication about it.
The half-elf predicted Marek's thoughts. "Oh, come now, Marek. You clearly fit well into our team. Your skills as a paladin bring abilities to the Orison that the rest of us don't have. Captain Thrast was talking about the possibility the night after we left Newthrone. So, if you want to, you're welcome to join us."
Marek weighed Elusene's words, considering Rishgek and Novashtai. The goblin was, as usual, basically unreadable. Marek took that as Rishgek didn't care either way. Novashtai, on the other hand, was nodding her horned head encouragingly.
The paladin didn't need to think for long.
"I've just got one question for you all." Marek said.
They leaned in attentively.
Marek smiled as he asked, "what's our next job?"
