62 – Wererabbit Hunt

"If the wererabbit actually exists then he has avoided all detection thus far. Truly there has never been a wilier beast." –Aldanon the Absentminded

The first sight Ashura caught as her eyelids fluttered open were blonde ringlets framing a blurry face. It had seemed easy enough to open her eyes, but moving proved far more difficult. Her head was as heavy as stone, and just trying to turn her chin and adjust her neck brought on a flurry of aches. The face swam and the ringlets shook, and then it all slipped out of view.

After a long struggle with her leaden tongue, Ashura managed to pry parched lips open and attempt to speak. "Wha-what's..?" she croaked.

The face and the blonde curls drifted back into view. "Ah," it noted. A woman's voice. "You're awake."

A second face crowded in: square, boyish and wide-eyed. A face she recognized. "You had us worried!" Garrick exclaimed.

There were steady, gentle hands tugging at Ashura's shoulders now, and with a slight struggle she sat and wriggled until she found herself propped up against the headboard of the bed. A glass was carefully maneuvered to her lips, the woman with the blonde ringlets cupping a hand under her chin as she implored her to: "Drink."

With an effort Ashura managed to gulp a little down, her throat raw and stinging. "Good," the woman added without enthusiasm, her brow knit tight.

Brielbara. Yes. That was the woman's name.

"So she's..?" Garrick asked.

"Alive at least," Brielbara responded curtly. "Far from cured though. The curse still flows through her veins. I have done what I can, but it is quite insidious."

"And you're sure that even a high priest can't help?"

"Perhaps one who can work miracles, but there are none close to that in this city. The curse and the poison are deeply interwoven. To cure it we must attack them both at once. There are counter-curses in my husband's book that should be effective, but we will need a large sampling of the poison. At the very least."

"Yeah," Garrick said. "Ugh. Why can't anything ever be simple, huh?"

Ashura groaned, trying to shake off the fugue that held her down. "So…" she managed to say with a cracking voice. "We track the assassin down then? Pry that poison out of his hands, and then you can…" Her words became a pained cough.

Meeting Ashura's eyes, Brielbara nodded. "That should work. As I have explained: the counter-curses in Yago's book are powerful, and I believe I know of one that will suffice." A thoughtful look. "Of course, you hardly seem capable of tracking anything down in your current state. I would advise rest, while your friends do the tracking."

"Rest," a third voice scoffed, smoky and thick with an accent that Ashura recognized. "Pointless. The worst effects of the poison have been delayed, but her strength will only ebb more and more as she lays there. What reason is there for bedrest then?"

Garrick glared. "Do you have to be so-"

"Honest?" Viconia cut him off. "Absolutely."

"Well," Ashura muttered, "sitting around and waiting to die isn't too appealing to me either." Shifting to the side, she attempted to rock her way out from under the sheets, but all she really managed was to get tangled up a bit. Ugh. Simply moving seemed a monumental task right now.

Shar-Teel snorted, her voice carrying through a nearby doorway. "Yeah. I'd rather die with my boots on too."

A shadow drifted over the bed. "A glorious battle-death is the notion of a fool," Viconia countered. "I would prefer for my demise to come centuries from now, withering in a soft bed as servants attend to my needs." The drow's movements were silent as ever, and though her ubiquitous cowl and cloth were gone her face remained a careful mask. "Of course…knowing that someone may have slain me at a distance, and is laughing at my demise… Shar would demand vengeance for such a thing."

"I'm not dead yet," Ashura managed to growl.

"Hmm." Viconia did not sound convinced. "Yet you cannot-"

"Not 'you,'" Garrick pointed out. "We. We're going to track this guy down and-"

"Silence male!" Viconia hissed. "I was coming to a point." She spoke to Ashura. "The power of the Nightsinger could restore you to full strength for a time. So that you may lead us in the pursuit of this man who has poisoned you."

"Alright," Ashura grumbled. When she was met with silence she added: "Then bloody do it." Knowing the drow, she had a few ideas of what might come next. Deal making, or perhaps she'd be forced to grovel and beg. Ugh.

One of the illustrated tomes from the secret sections of Candlekeep that Imoen was always getting into also came to mind as well, revolving around drow women and their domineering ways. Lots of ropes, whips, and bootlicking had been depicted. If she starts to go there, so help me, I'm going to find a way to punch her in the-

"Granting you the Nightsinger's strength shall be…draining for me," Viconia admitted. "And quite temporary. It will last roughly the span of a day. So you had best use it well. Best prove yourself worthy of what I am about to give you."

Letting out something between a sigh and a growl, Ashura braced her elbows and tensed her arms. It proved enough to support herself; enough to sit up, wobble forward, and reach out with trembling fingers that caught the hem of Viconia's cloak and made a first in the fabric. "Just…bloody…do it!" she snarled. "Before we all wither away listening to you enjoy the sound of your own voice."

There was the slightest curl at the corners of Viconia's lips, and then she placed both of her hands (so cold that they nearly brought on a shiver) upon Ashura's shoulders, closing her eyes. Tilting her head back, the drow then began to softly sing.

There were faint rustling sounds all around, and wisps of darkness began to congeal and slither from Viconia's fingertips: silky stuff that coiled around Ashura's shoulders were the drow gripped them, then wrapped about her arms and whispered their way up to her face. Within a short span Ashura was enveloped, the darkness closing off her vision; icy as it seeped into her pours and filled her nostrils with each breath.

Blackness. A chill like the void.

Then a sudden, undeniable shiver shook her. Shook her hard. Shook her awake. Shook her alive! Invigorated. And when the veil of darkness broke and flew apart like a cloud of bats Ashura found that she was pushing past her huddled caretakers, kicking the blankets away, and standing. Surefooted.

The fugue was gone. The candlelight was brighter, and as Ashura glanced around the crowded bedroom (Oh yeah. Been here. Upstairs at the Splurging Sturgeon) she realized that someone had dressed her in a white nightgown. Likely Brielbara's.

A sweep of the room and she spotted her armor and boots laid out on the floor by a bureau, dark clothes piled up on a nearby chair. Good. As she stepped towards her gear Ashura tugged the gown up over her head and swiftly shed it. "You said this will last the span of a day?" she turned to ask over her bare shoulder. "What bell is it anyway?" The curtains were shut up tight, but it seemed to be dark out.

"Night's end," Brielbara replied. "You were out for quite some time."

"You may…" Viconia began in a pained voice, then paused, clearing her throat and trying to catch her breath. "You may have more time, but I would advise finding this assassin before sunset. And use that time for all it is worth. At the very least I expect you to avenge your own death."

"So encouraging," Garrick grumbled.

Ashura ignored them, snatching up her black woolen hose and stepping into the leggings. "And that assassin could be anywhere," she grumbled, picking up her cushioned doublet and pulling it over her head and shoulders. "Any suggestions? Maybe we could ask around the thieves' guild?" Of course if there were answers to be found there then Imoen would be the one to find them. Where was she anyway? As her mind raced Ashura continued to pick up her armor and strap it into place a piece at a time: chainmail leggings next, then the chain coat. Next came her swordbelt.

"The poison had to be distilled by a master herbalist," Brielbara suggested.

"Oh?" Ashura had sat down on the chair with a clink, and was fastening her boots on.

"To pair it with such a curse, it would need to be something of the finest quality. And judging by your symptoms I would guess it was black lotus extract. Expensive and difficult to refine."

"Well, that's something like a lead then," Ashura mused, strapping on the steel guards that protected her shins. "We hit the local apothecaries."

"There aren't many master herbalists in the city," Brielbara added. "Old Rasilda out by the docks. Lothander of Amn. Hm. And one of Shandalar's daughters. Delorna. She'll be a bit hard to get to though. Their skyship is moored outside of Ulgoth's Beard at the moment."

Coran chuckled from his corner of the room. "I'm not sure how one goes about calling on a skyship. Might make for an interesting climb."

Next came the steel plates that fastened to Ashura's thighs, then her upper arm-guards, and finally her enchanted gloves with their forearm-protecting plates.

"A tenuous lead," Viconia scoffed. "He could have just as easily obtained the poison from elsewhere."

Picking up her helmet, Ashura went to the window and peeled back the thick curtain. There was grey light growing at the edges of the sky, but it was still a bit before dawn. "Well, we need to do something." Would be a little while before the apothecaries opened. What could they do until then? Or maybe if they just went pounding on the doors…

"Try to be gentle with Rasilda and Lothander," Brielbara urged, as if reading her mind. "She's a sweet old woman. And he's a very earnest young man. And they both sell some high quality salves and potions."

"We'll try," Ashura said.

Jars clinked and rattled as Ashura came storming into the apothecary, heedless of the shelves she bumped or the tightly packed bottles that came close to toppling. She marched right through, aiming for the counter at the back of the room, and the man behind it looked up with wide, shocked eyes, wincing more and more with each successive clink. He was a spindly fellow, with midnight-black hair and a sunkissed complexion; likely Amnish. Brielbara had described him as 'young and earnest,' though there was something about the lines around his eyes that made it clear he wasn't a kid.

"Please ma'am, those are-" the man –Lothander the master herbalist, presumably– stammered.

Halting, Ashura raised an arm, ready to sweep it across the nearest shelf. "Valuable?" Her companions were fanning out behind her.

"Delicate…"

"Hopefully we won't have to smash anything then. So long as you're honest with me."

Lothander's jaw fell. "I…I pay my dues."

"We're not with Ravenscar. Now tell me: have you brewed any poison lately? Black lotus extract, to be specific." That made Lothander's jaw tighten, and he averted his eyes. The right track perhaps? Their visit to the old witch Rasilda had been fruitless. "And I'm not talking about the slang term for opium," Ashura added. "The contact poison. From Kara-Tur."

"I…I haven't…no…"

"A lie," Viconia noted, lips curling with a cruel smile. That spell of hers came in handy, though Xan would have been even more useful here. Unfortunately the lovebirds hadn't been in their room at the Three Old Kegs when Ashura had come calling at dawn, and the staff claimed that Imoen and Xan had been gone all night. A little worrisome.

With a shove Ashura sent a half dozen bottles tumbling from the shelf. When they struck the soft wooden floor there was a lot of loud thunking and clinking, but to her annoyance none of them actually shattered. Still, the shopkeep looked horrified.

Meanwhile Shar-Teel had circled the table, her dagger pointing forward as she closed in. "So you did brew the poison?" A few poking motions. "Answer us!"

"I…I can't. I can't!"

"Oh sure you can, pig," Shar-Teel snarled. "You just need the right incentive. Maybe a missing finger or two."

"He speaks the truth," Viconia stated, the smile gone from her voice.

"Huh?"

"I can't tell you. I truly can't," the herbalist repeated, his tone pleading.

"The truth once again, as Shar reveals it," Viconia said. "He is unable to tell us anything about the poison. Physically unable, it would seem."

Ashura sighed. "Oh bloody Hells. It's some sort of enchantment isn't it?"

Viconia nodded, approaching the counter herself, and the shopkeep just stood there stiffly, a pained expression on his face.

Glaring at Lothander, Ashura asked pointblank: "You're geased?"

He seemed to attempt to nod, muscles twitching, but his face quickly scrunched up in agony and turned red. Reaching out, Viconia caught him by the jaw, turning his head so that she was looking directly into his eyes. He trembled at her touch, but stood up straight.

"A geas most powerful and skillfully worded," Viconia concluded.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Lothander stammered. "I'm a healer. A physician. I brew cures and salves, not poison. I never would have-" His face contorted again and his words broke off. "I wish I could tell you more. Truly I do." Obviously whatever spell he was under prevented him from even talking about it, let alone revealing anything about the one who had cast it.

"Can you dispel it?" Ashura asked impatiently.

Viconia shrugged her shoulders and cocked her head. "I shall make the attempt." Taking a deep breath, she pressed her open palm against the herbalist's chest and began to intone something in a low voice. For a few blinks of the eye black fire bloomed, sunlight fled the shop, and Ashura found herself suppressing a shiver. The herbalist outright convulsed, dropping to his knees, but it was all over just as quickly.

Viconia shook her head, looking disdainfully at her fingernails and the man who knelt beyond them. "The geas is far, far too strong for me to lift."

"Perhaps Xan can-" Garrick began, but his head tilted back and he shut his mouth when Viconia shot him a murderous glare.

"Enchantment or no, Xan's power does not exceed mine," the priestess bristled. "A matron mother's strength is required to lift this, anyway. Or an archmage."

Ashura frowned. "The assassin hardly seemed close to an archmage. Never hurled anything at me heavier than illusions, at least."

"He may have utilized a scroll, to cast a spell beyond his normal means," Viconia suggested. There was a look of recognition in Lothander's eyes at the word 'scroll,' followed by another round of slight contortions. "The best assassinations are made in the planning and preparation," Viconia continued. "And thus the best assassins tend to be well-prepared."

"Regardless," Garrick interrupted, his voice upbeat –if a little forced. "This is a big city. There's bound to be uh…'matron mothers' at one temple or another. Or you know…the equivalent. Archbishops? High priests?"

"Perhaps," Viconia mused, unconvinced. "We'd best begin the search in haste." Bending slightly, she gripped Lothander's shoulder. "You. Male. You are coming with us."

Ashura took the lead as they entered the Wide, her entourage following with their sullen prisoner braced between them. Lothander seemed resigned to his fate, at least, his eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. From time to time he would glance up at Ashura, and his tightly shut lips would quiver, muscles at war and eyes forlorn, brimming with a thousand things he obviously wanted to say but couldn't.

Probably wants to at least plead his case.

The open-air market at the center of Baldur's Gate was a riot of colors and scents, the later carrying far on the crisp autumn winds that rolled in off the great river. Tents and banners flapped with each gust, and the little paper pinwheels many of the stalls used to draw customers spun relentlessly; blurs of clashing, spiraling color. Spices and perfumes permeated the air, though it was the smell of food that was on most prominent display. They passed a stand where a big man in an apron offered skewers of grilled eel fresh off the fire, and Ashura couldn't help but be reminded that she had not eaten since yesterday's highbite.

No time for that now though. It had already been a long morning, and they had a long afternoon ahead of them, even if this all seemed like one silly wererabbit hunt.

Coming to the Wide had been Garrick's crazy idea. Supposedly there was a prominent diviner here that could set them on the right path. One would think that Garrick had had enough of seers, but when that had been pointed out the lad had cringed, shrugged, and then said: 'Well, it's better when they're just looking into the present, isn't it?'

Most of the tents simply consisted of a propped-up roof meant to shade the vendor's stalls, but there were a few in the pavilion-style staked out here and there. The group approached one such tent, round and wide and made of colorful (if fading) cloth. A wooden placard stood by the open flap, displaying a single, stylized eye rimmed with thick black kohl.

Beyond the opening the light was dim, and the smell of myrrh and cloves hung heavy in the air, trails of incense drifting up from multiple braziers spread about the interior. In addition there was a hint of woodsmoke and spices emanating from the cookfire at the center of the tent, where a lone occupant hunched.

Ashura's eyebrows rose when she got a good look at the man: a short fellow in rich red robes, his head bald, his fingers spidery and his nails manicured to sharp points. A web of black tattoos crisscrossed the top of the man's skull, and more tattoos curled across his wrists and the backs of his hands.

A Thayan wizard –brazen as he could be– though he wore far less jewelry than Edwin had. He was a bit older too.

The red mage looked up from his cast-iron pot, eyebrows so thin that Ashura suspected they were mostly paint. His eyes were a bit bloodshot. "Greetings," the Thayan said in a neutral tone, accent far fainter than Edwin's had been. "Come for a divination?"

"Shouldn't you know that already?" Coran quipped as he slipped in behind Ashura, the others following.

"Eh," the old Thayan groaned. He had clearly heard that joke far too many times. "I am a merchant, first and foremost. Not a damned prophet. Won't raise a single eyelash towards the ether unless I've been paid first."

"Not going to at least drop some cryptic portents?" Coran went on. "Just to show us that you're the genuine article."

"Hrmph." The red wizard straightened and stretched. "You sound like you're acquainted with a certain mad, ale soaked cleric of Deneir."

"Spends his evenings at the Blade and Stars?" Garrick asked. "Yeah, you could say that…"

"Bit of an ass isn't he? Telling people their fate, whether they really want to hear it or not."

Garrick nodded vigorously.

"Well, I won't pry into any of that. Or tell you if your wife is cheating, unless you pay the fee and ask specifically." The full group had filled the tent now, elbow to elbow, and the Thayan gave them all a sweep of his eyes and a faint nod. "Haspur's my name, trained at the Academy of Farseers on the Thaymount. And since customers seem to always ask me this I'll go ahead and tell you: yes. All the things you have heard about red wizards of Thay being devious, murderous monsters is completely true. Don't turn your back on us."

Shar-Teel snorted.

"We do, however, follow the letter of our agreements. So let's do business. My price is twenty-five danters for the answer to a single question, great or small. The price is nonnegotiable. In the very unlikely event that you ask a reasonable question and I do not find the answer to it you are entitled to a full refund. Let me stipulate, however, that it must be an answerable question. Every so often some noble snot comes in here and makes me search for something that doesn't exist. Thinks himself so, soooo clever. In that case: no refunds!" He rubbed his hands together. "Now who needs a divination?"

Garrick pointed at Lothander. "Well, we were wondering about him. Someone placed a powerful geas on this guy and-"

For the third time that day Viconia interrupted the bard, this time with a smack to the back of his head. "Wael!" she snapped. "Silence! We seek the assassin. This man is merely a potential tool in the search."

Nodding, Ashura marched towards the diviner, fingers rummaging through her coinpurse at the same time. "Tell us the location of the man who poisoned me last night," she asked as she placed four platinum and five golden coins in the Thayan's palm.

There. Simple and straightforward. Find the assassin and kill him. The geas would lift off the poor fellow once that was done, anyway.

"Easy enough," Haspur agreed with a nod, stepping away from the small cauldron (at first Ashura had suspected that there was some sort of witch's brew in there, but it actually looked to be stew) and walking over to a nearby rug. There were cushions laid out upon it, along with a tall, brass water-pipe. The red wizard sat down, crosslegged, reaching out for the pipe's stem.

Coran couldn't help but snicker. "Is that really how this works? You just uh…smoke something that gives you visions?" He giggled. "Maybe all the men in my village's hunting lodge should have gone into the divining business."

Haspur rolled his eyes. "Most spells require material components. Sadly, the reagent for this one is not intoxicating." A tap of his finger and a whispered cantrip lit the bowl of the pipe. "A mixture of herbs that heighten the senses: thornberry leaf and tobacco, mostly. The smoke is the important thing though. Fluid and random, like the mists of the ethereal plane." With that he brought the pipe-stem to his lips and began to draw, eliciting a lazy gurgle from the hookah.

A long exhalation of smoke followed: grey and blue and curling upward in the draft. Before it could disperse Haspur reached out and twirled his fingers, lighting the smoke-trails in streaks of yellow and red. The haze seemed to gently swirl, portions congealing while others undulated outward. There were half-glimpsed patterns there, or so it seemed to Ashura: spiderwebs and geometric angles, billowing cloth and latticework structures, taut muscle and expressive faces.

Flashes of little scenes. Or so it appeared. She recognized nothing though; the sharp features of the assassin certainly weren't there.

Haspur peered intently at the screen of smoke, head cocked slightly and fingers gently turning as if they could adjust the scene –and perhaps they could. His eyes seemed to brighten, and the smoke grew a degree more solid. "Ah. There he-"

All at once the glow that suffused the cloud grew to a blinding white and burst, swiftly dissipating into nothing. The diviner snarled and slammed a fist into the carpet before him, a string of Mulhorandi words that Ashura assumed were curses streaming from his lips.

"Guess that wasn't supposed to happen?" Garrick asked meekly.

Haspur sighed. "No. Though I suppose I should have anticipated it. You asked me to track a poisoner after all. An assassin. Of course he would have himself covered."

"You can't locate him?" Ashura asked.

The diviner shook his head. "There's a powerful protection in place. Likely from a scroll or enchanted item. There was no indication, in the brief glimpse that I had, that the man was any sort of powerful mage. Looked more like the typical arcane-dabbler." He pursed his lips a moment. "Hm. And he was playing cards. If that helps."

"Cards? That's not much of a lead."

"Definitely not a twenty-five gold lead," Shar-Teel agreed.

"Hmph," Haspur sighed. "Suppose you want your coin back then?"

Ashura glanced about. Once again Lothander was giving her a pleading look, eyes wide and lips tightly sealed. Perhaps she should have felt some resentment, looking at the man who had mixed up the poison that would likely kill her. It was far easier to pity him though. He seemed to truly just be another victim, caught up in this mess just as she was. A horrifying thing too: to be trapped in your own skin like that. At least when Xzar had done something similar to her she had been blissfully unaware.

Another victim, and an annoying reminder that it had been what? Six months? And she still had no idea who had put the bounty on her head; only hints about the Iron Throne and vague, unsettling suspicions.

Ugh. Why couldn't things ever be simple?

Turning from her musings, Ashura faced the diviner. "Instead of our money back, how about you find the answer to a different question? Then we'll be even and out of your hair."

"That works."

"Who in this city has the power to break Lothander's geas?"

The raucous hum of singing and rhythmic tapping rang through the Blushing Mermaid tavern, muffled just slightly by the ragged floorboards of the second story. Up here on the gambling floor –where chance-wheels spun and colorful banners hung– it was hard to make out the words of the song, but the general cadence was painfully familiar to Marek's ears. The patrons seemed to be belting out some shanty about pranking drunken sailors. Easy to guess the tune, since along with The Dryad and the Gargoyle and some ballad about tears and seafoam there was little else in their repertoire.

Annoying, but at least it helped him keep a fixed scowl on his face as he glanced down at his cards and made a few calculations. Yes. There were no more King Dragons or Dragonslayers left in play, so odds were that he was about to push a winning hand forward.

The man across the table was scowling even harder as he fidgeted with his cards. "Know what I'd like to do with a drunken sailor," he growled. He was a gaunt and rigid fellow, his weathered face all hard angles and grey stubble. There was a grey wolf's pelt slung over his shoulders (his namesake) and he was otherwise clad in hide, stitched together from countless beasts. A northern barbarian through and through, minus the stereotypical strongman's frame. His build was far more sleek.

"Well I hope you at least buy him highbite first," the woman sitting beside the barbarian teased, a fingertip tracing the edge of one her facedown cards as she reclined in her chair.

Greywolf's eyes sharpened, turning towards her.

"You know," the woman elaborated, just in case he didn't get the joke. "As a courtesy. Before the two of you get to snogging and bending over a rain barrel, the way sailors are prone to."

There was a silent moment as Greywolf glared at her, then he looked back down at his cards. "I do not bend," he spat.

The woman snorted and shook her head. "I still can't quite decide if you're the densest man I've ever met, or just the driest."

Greywolf's continual glare revealed nothing, one way or the other. Made for a good gambling-face, really. He also constantly fidgeted with his cards, winning or losing hand, and Marek had yet to distinguish which motion might actually be a tell. Fortunately Greywolf wasn't terribly good at the actual tactics of the game they were playing. No head for math, it seemed.

"Crack a chair over his skull," Greywolf eventually stated, shoving his cards forward. "Till he learns to sing on key. That's what I'd do with a drunken sailor."

"That could be worked into an addition verse," the woman agreed as she slid her cards across the table and flipped them over with a flick of her wrist. "Ear-ly in the mor-ning."

Bloody deft hands. Out of habit Marek's eyes constantly followed them: those steady fingers that he knew could blur in the space of a heartbeat. Pushing his own cards forward, he rolled them over, and Greywolf did the same, his face twisting into an even uglier grimace. The look had Marek wondering if a dagger would be coming down for his hand when he reached out and palmed the little pile of coins between them. "I believe that's the battle," he stated.

"And the war, for me," the woman concluded, brushing her messy blond hair back and bunching it up so that it would fit beneath the hood of her sable cloak.

"Oh come now…" Marek began, the usual patter about Beshaba and Tymora and streaks being cyclical on the tip of his tongue. All habit really, born from a thousand games like this. In truth he didn't mind seeing the woman depart. He'd be able to relax a degree at least. Throughout their little game of High Dragon he had constantly felt like she was probing him; testing to see if he was potential competition.

He had been watching her the same way of course. When he had first heard that this pair of notorious assassins had taken up residence in the Undercellars Marek had guessed that they were moving in on his bounty. A little egotistical in retrospect. A few drinks and hands of High Dragon with the woman, and it had been made clear that Marek, Greywolf, and the 'little pedestrian jobs' they got up to were beneath her notice.

"No," the woman said, cutting off Marek's insistence on another game. "I only allow myself to throw away so much coin. The black lotus won't pay for itself." The perpetual smirk she wore grew a bit. "At least not until my husband and I get paid for our next job." In a flutter of black and sable she stood and turned, heading for the stairs.

Marek watched her hips sway as she glided off: tight woolen leggings hidden –then not– then hidden again by her narrow cloak. Then he caught himself and averted his eyes. He had no idea if Krystin's husband was the jealous sort, but also had no desire to find out. You never knew when someone like that might be lurking, unseen.

Greywolf wrinkled his nose. "Opium smokers. Bah."

Marek chuckled. "That opium smoker could probably kill us both with little effort. Especially if her husband's somewhere in the shadows nearby."

"It's a weakness. Known and exploitable. Any sort can get you killed in this business."

The phrase 'We all have our vices,' was on Marek's lips, but he closed them, recalling that the clay cup by Greywolf's hand contained only lemon-water. A sour drink for a sour man, and on top of that he hadn't actually taken a sip in all the time he had been here. A wise precaution probably: not drinking in front of a notorious poisoner. Perhaps Greywolf's vice was constantly needing to show everyone what stern hardass he was.

"Yeah," Marek said. "You certainly never seem to let your hackles down."

"Nor do you. Admirable."

Marek chuckled, then gestured at their surroundings. "What now? Here I am, drinking and gambling in a den of vice. And I'm not 'weak' in your eyes?"

Greywolf didn't hesitate, and the expression on his face never changed. "This room has no windows, and only one point of entry. You've staked out a table with a clear view of the stairs and placed your back to the wall. You've been staying here a while, and I'm guessing you're prepared to stay longer. Waiting."

"And if a certain woman comes looking for me…"

"There's the ogre that tends to live in the beer hall down below. Yeah." Greywolf inclined his head towards the stairs. "After the same bounty as you isn't he? But what if he actually spots her? And succeeds?"

"That is a worry," Marek admitted, watching the man across from him very closely. "Rival bounty hunters. Moving in and killing something that someone else has already mortally wounded. Then stealing all the credit. Of course I was hired by the house directly. And they know about the legwork I've done so far."

"They might not care. They might just pay whoever drops the girl's head at their feet." The two assassins shared a glare. Eventually (though his expression was still as sour as ever) Greywolf added: "I won't steal your precious bounty. On my honor."

"Good to hear."

"Of course if the bitch proves too much for you and you die, I'll sweep in and take the leavings."

"I figured that was why you were here."

"A wolf is never too proud to move in on weakened prey. But in the meantime I'll just watch. Should be amusing."

"Oh will it now?"

"You've always been prone to overly elaborate plans. It amuses me when men like you outsmart themselves." Greywolf's hand shot out with surprising speed, slapping the table between them. "In the meantime, how about another game?"

"If you're up for it." Marek's hands swept in, gathering the cards and piling them up.

"Up for many more. The last bounty paid pretty well, with minimal work. Some soft artist trying to run away with expensive gems."

Shuffling the cards, Marek found himself wondering if he was the one being hustled here. It would probably be best to make note of what spells, hidden wands, and scrolls would work best against someone like Greywolf, though only time would tell for sure.

Ashura couldn't help but feel a little pity for Lothander.

At the same time she found herself glancing over at the silent man (who might be holding all the answers to her current predicament in that head of his) with a growing desire to punch him right in his teary-eyed, mopey, poor-me-fucking-face! And that desire just grew and grew as the hours ground on and they seemed no closer to solving the issue at hand.

Everything had grown needlessly, ridiculously convoluted as they were sent from one end of the city to the other in search of Lothander's cure, slowed down by Viconia's constant need to rest and complaints about the drain her restorative spell had put on her. A wererabbit hunt indeed!

According to the diviner the only priests currently within the city with the power to lift the geas were Grand Duke Belt and Jalantha Mistmyr. The Grand Duke naturally proved unreachable, but Jalantha, the high priestess of Umberlee, wasn't much better. They had been forced to wait for hours after paying an exorbitant price just to get an audience with her in the Water Queen's House. Then, instead of money, she had insisted on a service in exchange for lifting the geas (Coran had immediately jumped to offer his assistance there, but Jalantha had demanded a very different sort of 'service.' It turned out to require Coran's other specialty, oddly enough.)

So, after hours of walking, waiting, and wasted time, Ashura found herself here: cradling her temples and fighting off a headache outside the church of Tymora on the west side of the city. And fighting the urge to take it all out on Lothander's sorry face, of course.

She really hoped the headache was just the result of frustration. The dryness in her throat and the churning of her gut said otherwise though. Felt a bit like a hangover. Which (she had learned through experience) is exactly what being poisoned often feels like.

Like most temples, the Lady's Hall was a grand and elegant structure, even if it was dwarfed by the nearby Hall of Wonders and a few of the west side's gaudy mansions. Bronze domes bloomed from multitiered rooftops, and all four walls of the building boasted wide entrances buttressed by marble pillars which –along with carvings depicting Lady Luck's laughing, boyish face– gave the place an open and inviting appearance.

Perhaps a little too inviting. Ashura felt a twinge of…guilt? Or maybe it was just trepidation. They were stealing from a temple, after all. Or at least one of them was.

The rest of the group waited beneath a lamppost and a cold, grey sky, nervously passing the time. Garrick toyed with his harp, Shar-Teel sharpened her dueling dagger, and Ashura just fidgeted, trying not to give the temple too many conspicuous looks. Viconia slumped against the post, head bowed and cloak tightly wrapped about her body.

At least they weren't kept waiting as long as they had been in the Bitch Queen's lobby. It had only been a quarter of an hour before a flash of green and purple atop the roof of the Lady's Hall drew their eyes, and soon the flash straightened and bent over the ledge, topped with auburn hair.

Coran only leaned there briefly, glancing down at the street and the gardens to make sure that they were relatively empty. Then, in a continuous series of fluid motions, he slipped over the edge and shimmied his way down, catching handholds in the tiles and pillars as went. In a blink he reached the ground and casually sashayed towards his companions, never slowing or making a sound, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Need I remind you that you owe me big for this one?" the elf declared once he was within earshot. "I fear I may never win at cards again."

"Didn't Imoen beat you most of the time?" Ashura asked.

"Most," the elf admitted as he plucked a leather-bound book from the front of his coat. "Still, I'm not looking forward to…well, testing my luck in the near future."

"I'm sure you'll get very lucky," Ashura deadpanned, reaching out and snatching the book. The stitching appeared to be formed from arcane symbols (as far as she could tell at least) and the title did indeed read The Tome of Understanding in stylized Thorass script. "I'll repay you," she added, turning towards the street and beginning to march. No time to waste. She rapidly picked up speed.

"Now that sounds promising," Coran purred as he slipped up beside her. "Perhaps you can repay me with a night of dancing, once this ugly business is behind us?" He shot Garrick a grin. "Just dancing mind you. There's this lovely club in the Undercellars-"

"Was thinking more of buying you baby clothes," Ashura said, cutting him off. "I hear they grow out of them shockingly fast. Maybe a lifetime supply of swaddling cloths too?"

Coran seemed to deflate a bit. "That sounds…marvelously practical, I suppose."

"That was some clever footwork," Garrick cut in. "In and out of the temple like that!" He was panting a bit, trying to keep up with Ashura's near-jog. "Made climbing look easy as breathing."

Coran's eyes lit up. "Decades of practice, m'lad! Have you ever seen the ancient forests of Tethyr?"

Garrick shook his head.

"At its dense heart there are places without paths, littered with uneven ground and fallen trees as wide as castles. You navigate it as much by climbing as walking."

Grateful that Garrick had managed to capture the elf's attention (and doing her best to ignore the pounding at her temples) Ashura pressed on for the docks.

The Water Queen's House was a grand temple in its own peculiar right: a sprawling complex of connected, slant-roofed longhouses on a foundation of weathered greenstone that overlooked the river and straddled the bay. To reach the entrance one had to walk along the slick cobbles just above the quays and past a briny pool that served as the temple's garden, green with kelp that swayed just beneath the surface and bright with colorful schools of fish.

Beyond the low doorway and inside the temple-proper the floor was mostly taken up by more imported seawater, the inner grounds a great pool beneath narrow stone walkways. Paper lanterns topped little barnacle-encrusted poles at regular intervals, currently unlit while the skylight still channeled the afternoon sun. As there wasn't much space to maneuver, Shar-Teel and Coran opted to stay behind in the gardens while the rest of the group carefully filed in.

The priestess who stood guard at the entrance was clad in a simple sea-green robe and sandals (perhaps heavy robes or armor was a bad idea when you worked over a giant pool of water,) a lead-tipped staff in her hand and the same haughty scowl fixed on her chubby face as the last time Ashura had seen her. "For what purpose do you visit the house of the Bitch Queen?" she asked, the same words and bored tone she had used a few hours ago.

Ashura rolled her eyes. "We're here to meet with Jalantha Mistmyr. We have a delivery for her."

"And why should I allow you to waste her time?" It was nearly the same question the woman had asked them before, and it had taken a little prompting from Garrick for Ashura to realize that a customary bribe was in order then.

"Now look here…" Ashura growled, eyes narrow and a hand reflexively seeking her sword.

"Your high priestess seemed eager to get her hands on the artifact we were sent after," Viconia put in. "I believe she will be most displeased to learn that you have delayed her acquisition."

The guard's lips curled a bit, but she crossed her arms and stood her ground. "Maybe. But she doesn't seem to be here to be pleased or displeased. Until I summon her."

Intimidation and extortion. It was what this faith was built on, after all; what their sea goddess practiced by lashing shores and ships to draw tribute down into the depths, one way or another.

"Fine," Ashura hissed, reaching into her coinpouch and then shoving a few pieces of gold into the priestess' awaiting hand. But if she stalls for more I swear she's going into that pool with an open throat. We're probably cursed by one goddess already. Why not another?

Thankfully the priestess turned and shuffled off to find her mistress instead of pressing. Once again the wait was long, the lapping and gurgling of the pool beneath their feet seeming to make time with the pounding at Ashura's temples and the rolling of her stomach.

Once Jalantha Mistmyr finally appeared, however, her pace was brisk. The guard, as well as two other priestesses, followed at her heels and then parted to take separate paths along the branching walkways.

Like the other priestesses Jalantha's hair was bound by an elaborate web of seaweed, gleaming shells hanging from the end of each auburn lock. There were several strings of shell across her chest as well, interspersed with pearls, and rather than a simple robe she wore a hooded sharkskin cloak and matching leathers, shark's teeth sewn into the fringe of her cowl. Her hardened sharkskin outfit boasted several layers of protective padding, accented by stitching that evoked waves, storms, and curling coral.

As she neared the party the high priestess extended a curt, gloved hand, and beneath her cloak her other hand rested by a flail at her hip. Ashura could feel Viconia's presence close beside her, the drow's masked face near her ear. "Those priestesses…do you see?"

She did. They were fanning out along the walkways.

At the same time Jalantha spoke. "My book," she simply ordered.

Ashura stabbed a thumb towards Lothander, on her left. "Lift his geas. Then you'll get your book."

A glare. "Not so simple. The ritual is elaborate. And taxing. And we will make certain that there is no trickery first."

"There won't be any on our part," Ashura stated pointedly, pulling the heavy tome out from the small pack she wore at her back. She held it up. "Here. Your book." She used it to (lightly) swat Lothander's shoulder. He cowered at first, then caught on and stepped forward.

"Now cure him," Ashura went on. "We can wait through your 'elaborate' chanting or whatever. Then this book is yours and our deal's done."

"My book," the high priestess of Umberlee repeated.

Ugh. Ashura held it up higher. "Or I could just toss it into the water," she threatened. "But once you've cured him-"

"Toss it to ME!" the priestess intoned, cutting her off, and without thought or hesitation Ashura tilted her arm back and sent the book sailing over Lothander's head. Jalantha bent forward just slightly to snatch it out of the air with both hands, quickly shifting the tome under her arm and cloak.

For a moment Ashura stared, dumbfounded. Then she noticed movement to the right and left. The priestesses had closed in and raised their staves, a step away from sweeping at Garrick and Viconia. On instinct Ashura drew her swords in rapid succession: righthand, then the left, gritting her teeth and facing forward.

Why can't things ever be simple?