65 – The Usual Way
"I suppose we could do all of that. Orrr we could just go a'chargin' in, swords swingin' and spells flyin'!" –Grechori Ithar of Rashemen, after his witch finished explaining her elaborate plan to infiltrate a night hag's fortress. He got his way, much to the witch's annoyance.
"I am still not entirely clear on why we have to be…well…portly."
"Because we're merchants," Imoen answered, as if that made perfect sense, tapping her new and significant paunch with a giggle.
"That does not…" Xan stammered, shaking his head. "I fail to see what being overweight has to do with the mercantile profession."
"Oh pish! It's what people expect: fat merchants, burly guardsmen, dirty rogues, sun-scorched peasants, and primped-up nobles. That's the key to a perfect disguise. If they don't see any big stuff out'a place they won't notice the seams." She pursed her lips. "Wait, why am I giving you a lecture on spycraft?"
Xan sighed. "Because making the illusion overly complicated can lead to the 'seams' –as you put it– showing. My inclination would be to retain my elven form, and simply dull the color of my clothes and features somewhat. And hide the moonblade, of course. Moon elf merchants are hardly unheard of. And it would be easier to move about convincingly-"
"Ya, maybe," Imoen admitted, her tone still one of protest. "But I've already used up my disguising spell." She gestured at the bedroom mirror before her, a very un-Imoen-like reflection waving back: sandy-blonde hair tied high in an elaborate bun above a wide, weathered face. A rumpled, burgundy blouse covered her exceptionally ample bosom, belted over a dark grey ankle skirt and pinned with an emerald broach. The outfit was sturdy, plain, and finely made; implying a firm foot in the middle class. And all illusionary, of course.
Truly, Xan had to admit that it was a finely crafted spell.
"And now that I'm a chubby merchant-lady," Imoen went on, "we'll look totally mismatched if you disguise yerself as a spindly elf." A thoughtful look crossed her face, then she snapped her fingers. "Oh! Idea! You could stay thin, but disguise yerself as a human woman. We could be like…sisters or something!"
Xan sighed once again. Of course she would think of that. Of course she would turn a simple infiltration into an elaborate game of dress-up-dolly. "Despite what some may think," he stated, "that is not a disguise that works particularly well for me."
"Aw. But yer-"
"I am not…confident that I could get the lady-like walk down properly," he admitted. "So…" His tone resigned, Xan began to chant the words of his own disguising spell, picturing it all in his mind's eye: the altered girth, duller colors, simpler clothes, and the round, ruddy face of a well-worn human (Hm. Best not to overdo it. Though perhaps I should add a small hat. They often wear those.)
Once the light of the glamer had settled Xan turned and faced the mirror, shifting a bit from side to side as he gave his new form a critical inspection. The dimensions seemed proper enough, and the face that peered back was just the sort he would recognize at a butcher's stand or a baker's counter. The face also seemed well suited for holding a firm, commanding expression. Better that than pretending to be one of those 'jolly' merchants.
It was a bit of a disjointed feeling: being as light on his feet as usual but appearing to carry the extra width, height and mass. It would take him a bit of practice to come up with a proper stride and adjust his body language, but hopefully he could master that on the walk to the Seven Suns compound.
"Nice illusion," Imoen remarked, and he nodded in agreement. This could work. It could even be, as Imoen would put it: 'Fun.' Turning, they made for the door of their suite.
"Wicked idea!" the girl added as they walked. "Once we're an old married couple and things start to get dull and routine we can spice things up with these disguising spells! Hmm. I bet wizard couples do that a lot."
Xan couldn't help but chuckle slightly, shaking his head.
"Ulp. Not to get ahead of myself or anything…"
"This is…not the most romantic setting for a marriage proposal," Xan admitted diplomatically. "But illusions. I shall keep that in mind." Imoen did make such delightful and creative use of those, in ways that he would have never conceived of. The illusionary 'duel' she had fought with that annoying gnome came to mind. Perhaps he could surprise her sometime…
No. Whatever I come up with would likely fall flat.
Walking the halls and stairways of the Three Old Kegs, Xan had plenty of time to practice moving in his new 'body.' Eventually they reached the taproom, where Ashura, Garrick and Viconia awaited, prepared in their own way for the trip to the merchant coster. Those three were to play the role of 'bodyguards,' and Garrick at least had put a lot of effort into his disguise. Makeup had been used to roughen up his features, adding stubble, scars, and some subtle smudges, and his normally neat hair was ruffled up a bit. Scuffed studded leather had replaced his clean brown vest and jacket, along with a black hooded cloak.
Xan recalled that the others often teased the pretty bard about not being able to 'pass' as a street thug for some of their rougher jobs, but Garrick seemed to play the part well enough today, and without overdoing it. A shame Shar-Teel was not here to see, though she would likely have come up with a way to insult the bard regardless of what he actually did.
The swordswoman was still recovering in Lothander's spare room, sleeping soundly thanks to the poppy extract. They had thrown every bit of healing magic that they could at her right arm, but she still had a lot of recovering ahead of her, and it was uncertain whether or not her hand would be lame once the plaster cast came off. 'If my fingers don't work,' she had muttered at one point, obviously a bit drugged, 'let's just hack the hand off and replace it with a blade.'
Garrick had put effort into his disguise, but Ashura had just come dressed as herself, and Viconia was swathed in her usual formless cloak and cowl. Imoen approached them, and after a little bit of proclaiming that 'Yes, it's really us!' the five formed up and exited the inn, taking the south street.
From there they banked further south and west, around the Wide and towards the opulent corner of the city that seemed to be favored by guilds: an area that overlooked the bay but was far enough from the water to avoid the overpowering smell of dead fish. It was a neighborhood with clean, even streets, close to the Flaming Fist headquarters and thus well protected.
Protected from without, at least.
It was midday, but the sun had once again failed to peak through a bruised, black-grey sky, and when a gust of autumn wind picked up across the open thoroughfare Xan found himself clutching his cloak tight. A few more meandering blocks went by in silence, and then the compound was looming before them once again; a spoked sun proudly displayed on a sky blue backdrop above the double doors. The Seven Suns.
Finding himself more or less in the lead of their odd little procession, Xan halted briefly to compose himself. "We must both act and think our parts here," he told his companions. "These creatures utilize a mild form of telepathy, but they cannot delve deep into your minds. Simply focus on walking about and observing, as we are here to do, and nothing further."
"Don't think 'doppelganger,'" Imoen put in. "Got it! Easy enough."
"Yes." Frowning, Xan took a deep breath.
"Let's get this over with," Ashura muttered.
"Uh. Yes," Xan repeated, realizing that he was procrastinating. They crossed the open cobbles, approached the double doors, and then once he had reached them Xan made a fist and wrapped gently.
A little wait, then he knocked again.
It took some time, but eventually one of the doors creaked inward and a gentleman with a bristly moustache poked his head and shoulders out, peering at them with a blank expression. "Yes?"
Xan inclined his head slightly. "We are merchants from Waterdeep," he stated, doing what he could to put a little bass in his voice (But do not overdo it. Do not overdo it.) "My wife and I. We are here to tour your facilities and look into the possible hire of a caravan."
The servant cocked his head, and Xan gave a slight sigh. "We sent a letter ahead." They had, in fact. Complete with a forged seal that Imoen had picked up from the Thieves' House.
A shrug was the servant's only reply, but he stepped back and pulled the door open further, a gesture ushering the party forward. Xan and Imoen entered first, followed by their little train of guards, and the man made no comment. Things felt a little prickly already (Shouldn't a servant be more…polite?), but at least they had gotten their feet through the door.
There was something off about the great foyer of the merchant house as well, though Xan could not quite put his finger on it. Not at first. It seemed an ordinary and well-kept place after all; a bit like the Merchant League's halls in terms of opulence, though the style was different.
Black and white checkered patterns were favored here, both on the polished floors and ceilings, along with similar designs running beneath the ornate banisters that led to higher floors. The entire greeting hall was cavernous and bright, lined with tall windows and teaming with potted plants. Teaming with merchants as well: perhaps a dozen people stood in little clumps beneath the skylights and pillars, facing each other and clutching scrolls or books beneath their arms.
All in absolute silence. In fact the foyer was as still and quiet as a sepulture, not a footfall or even a breath echoing off the marble. It was as if the merchants were all statues, frozen in a facsimile of polite conversation.
Oh. And all the potted plants were brown and wilted.
Every head in the foyer turned, in perfect unison, towards the newcomers. Xan took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together, frowning over at Ashura. She had reached for her sword.
And then every face and body in the chamber blurred, many of the more corpulent merchants thinning and elongating. Xan's heart leapt and he took an involuntary step back, though a part of him was wholly unsurprised. Why should the creatures make any pretense once they know that you know what they are?
Oh why did I think that this foolish plan would work? 'Don't think doppelganger' indeed!
A few paces to Xan's left one of the faceless things –the butler who had opened the door– was letting out an agonized hiss, its limbs flailing as Ashura shoved it backwards, impaled on her sword. Over the creature's dying cries the girl chuckled grimly. "Looks like we're doing this the usual way. Figured." She sounded quite pleased with herself.
Pivoting in unison and stretching out their spindly arms and knife-sharp fingers, the rest of the doppelgangers rushed forward in a blur of smooth grey skin and flapping, overlarge clothing.
A spray of black blood splattered the narrow stone steps, followed by a long, delicate limb. It flopped and wobbled like a chicken leg, striking stair after stair on the way down. Somehow the creature that the arm had belonged to managed not to completely pitch over, bracing its back against the wall and gripping at its stump. Still, that pause made the thing enough of a target that it was a simple matter for Ashura to twist in and lunge, skewering the creature on her lefthand blade.
There! I – Ack! Her breath caught as she felt her boot slip forward on the slick stone step; sliding out from under her. Dancing to stay upright led to her pressing up against the doppelganger, suddenly embracing the clammy, wriggling thing. It –naturally– didn't cooperate, and then they were both pitching over, the creature's remaining hand clawing at her shoulder and its blank face pressed up against her cheek.
They struck the stairs, then they were rolling and sliding; bumpity-bumpity-bump against each step. The doppelganger took the worst of it, its back striking the stairs every time, and when they hit the bottom and finally settled the creature was still beneath her.
For some reason, laying there and wincing at the jarring pain in her left arm, Ashura recalled stories she had read as a child about the joys of riding sleds down snowy hills in the winter, and how she and Imoen had lamented that there were no real hills (or sleds) in Candlekeep. Was sledding anything like the ride she had just taken? Probably not.
Yanking her short sword free and shuffling to her feet, Ashura found herself in some sort of basement, lit only by a couple of flickering torches. A glance back and she noticed Garrick descending the stairs behind her, careful to step around the blood slick. Then movement ahead drew her eyes, and she looked over to find a bearded man approaching from the shadows. His arms were raised, palms showing, and he was wearing some sort of leather apron over a stained shirt.
"Oh thank the gods yer here," the stranger blurted out, rushing towards her, but he halted when Ashura hefted Varscona between them and pointed with the blade, flicking ichor and frost at the man.
"Back!" she snarled.
Something like annoyance flickered across the man's face. Then something more. Yeah. His face had definitely wavered and rippled. His eyes met hers, there was a flash of recognition, and then the doppelganger gave up the charade, blurring and lunging.
Its body brushed the wall, ducking in past the extended sword, but Ashura managed a quick diagonal cut that drew a shallow gash and smashed the creature against the stone. With a twist the thing retaliated, raking out with a massive hand (The damn thing grew!) and forcing Ashura to hop back. The other elongated, boneless arm swept in –whip-like– over the creature's head, but it stopped with a quiver when Ashura caught the limb on her lefthand sword.
She followed through with a stab, her momentum and the creature's both driving Varscona through the thing's torso in a burst of ice and ichor. Stuck on the sword like a fish, the creature shook violently, and at the same time Ashura bent her knees, braced herself, and began to draw the longsword up and up, through parting, frost-brittle flesh.
The writhing intensified, and the blade dragged and sliced its way up a finger-width at a time, finally sawing through the creature's shoulder and bursting free in a shower of black blood. With that the doppelganger seemed to crumble into a boneless heap at Ashura's feet.
There was something almost…reassuring about the bizarre, deflating sound that these things made when they were wounded or dying, so different from the noise of a human or even an animal in pain. Nice to be fighting genuine monsters instead of people. If a bit strange and unnerving.
They were soft, almost spongy things; easily sliced thanks to their lack of true bones, but at the same time they could be devilishly fast. Their lack of joints meant that their limbs could come swinging in from unexpected angles, and when those fists struck it was near as hard as a mace. If the creatures had actually trained to use weapons they could have been extremely deadly, but for some reason they favored simply trying to grapple and strangle.
A good time to be wielding a longsword that kept that sort of thing at bay, Ashura supposed. She was still getting used to the new weapon: a little awkward in a close hall like this, and though it was light for a longsword it seemed she couldn't quite wield it with the same finesse as a smaller blade. The keen, enchanted edge and the magical ice did seem to compensate for the lack of speed, at least.
Turning from the fallen creature, Ashura found herself looking down the torch-lit hall and directly into large, familiar eyes. "Whew!" Imoen exclaimed as she stepped out from the shadows of the cellar and approached. "That guy had me cornered! Glad ya got him Shura!"
Ashura blinked. A moment ago Imoen had been scurrying up a pillar in the entrance hall to avoid the initial press of doppelgangers, her magical disguise abandoned and some climbing spell helping her stick to the marble. How had she gotten down here so fast?
Uh. And Imoen had been wearing violet, come to think of it.
Once again Ashura's swords rose and pointed forward. "Stop!"
Imoen (dressed in gaudy green silks that hung loose on her frame) just cocked her head, a baffled look on her face, and kept on marching forward.
Eyes widening and knuckles going white as she gripped the hilt of Varscona, Ashura just watched her friend advance. This had to be a…but what if it wasn't…how could she..?
Behind her there was a soft plink and something buzzed by, striking Imoen and sending her reeling backwards. The girl steadied herself a step later, glancing down at the crossbow bolt that had just buried itself in her breast with a blank, uncomprehending look. Then, instead of pain or hurt or anger, that look just blurred and Imoen's face turned to putty, the color leaving her hair as it stretched into a bald, bulbous head.
That was enough to get Ashura's feet moving; arms swinging and blades slicing forward. A few furious slashes and the third doppelganger collapsed before her with a hiss. Once it was still she glanced to the side, noticing that Garrick was right beside her now, a tense smile on his face. "She was wearing the wrong clothes," he offered.
"Yup," Imoen (dressed in her usual pink and violet) agreed as she sauntered down the stairs, her bow in hand.
Shaking her head, Ashura turned, examining the cellar a bit more closely. There was a chamber up ahead, stacked high with barrels and boxes, and beyond that the hall curved. A reinforced door that appeared to have a barred window was just visible at the beginning of the branch. A dungeon, perhaps?
Curious, Ashura made her way forward, swords leading the way. "Let's keep close if we can," she suggested.
"A wise course," Xan agreed as he made his way down the stairs as well, followed by Viconia. "As you can see, given half the opportunity, these things will attempt to disguise themselves as one of us."
"Funny that they keep choosing me," Imoen put in. "Guess I should be flattered."
"We'll search here, then try the upstairs and the offices."
Ashura approached the barred door, the torchlight casting long, shifting shadows and doing little to light her way. She tried the handle but it was locked, and peering through the small window she caught a glimpse of neatly stacked boxes on one side of the room, along with what seemed to be furniture piled up in the other corner. Seemed to have been a storage area once, though it was clearly being used as a sort of prison now. The filthy pile of hay, bucket, and the bound man looking at her with glassy, questioning eyes from the far side of the room made that clear.
After Mulahey's chamber, Tazok's camp, and the Cloakwood mines, this fellow was a familiar enough sight: starved, dirt-stained, and disheveled; his boney shoulders stooped and his face covered by a mess of unkempt beard-growth. The prisoner even wore something similar to the loincloths of the Cloakwood slaves, though it had frayed and rotted down to almost nothing. Along with a few strips of rag that hung off his shoulders it was likely the remains of what had once been his smallclothes. His bare skin was marred in countless places by dark, untreated scabs and gouges.
As Imoen unlocked the door and pulled it aside the ragged man watched suspiciously, still sitting back against the far side of the room. His hands were shackled together in his lap and his ankles were bound as well, the lower chain tethered to the nearby wall. Ashura approached him, swords raised and stride cautious.
"This some trick?" the prisoner finally asked in a low, raspy voice. "You one of the elders? Come to eat my brain?"
"Hardly," Ashura replied. "But if you're playing some game with us-"
"This man is no doppelganger," Xan stated flatly.
"You sure?"
"Quite. Their minds are very…bizarre. This man's thinking, in contrast, is quite human."
Ashura's brow furrowed as she glanced over at the elf. "Wait. You can read our minds?"
"There is a spell that allows me to listen to surface thoughts, yes. Do not worry. There is nothing between your ears that I would care to hear."
Ashura snorted, stepping closer to the prisoner and lowering her blades, and Imoen slipped in past her, kneeling and offering open hands. "I can help ya out of those shackles," she offered. "Okay?"
"We're not brain eaters," Ashura added. "And seems you're not one either. So who are you anyway?"
The prisoner seemed to relax a little, not resisting when Imoen started examining his bindings, nor when Garrick moved in to offer the man his cloak. "Jhasso." Before he could go on a dry, ragged cough wracked the prisoner's throat, followed by another and another, and when Garrick handed him a waterskin he drank greedily. "Thank you lad." A nod and a few more coughs followed. "Jhasso, of Jhasso's Fast Haul Wagons. Proud founder of the Seven Suns." He gave a grim little chuckle. "For what it's worth."
"So the doppels do keep people alive," Imoen observed in a cheerful tone. "Maybe there's more prisoners down here…" The look on Jhasso's face had her trailing off into silence, which was broken a moment later by the sharp click of one of his manacles snapping open.
"Sometimes I wish they hadn't. Kept me alive, that is. Not been an easy time down here."
"Ya," Imoen agreed. "Sure looks like it."
"And why were you kept alive?" Xan asked impassively.
The man looked over at the open doorway, eyes distant. "Men in hoods and masks came down here from time to time. Think they were humans, since the shapeshifters never bothered to hide their real faces from me once they had me prisoner. The men wanted to know everything I could tell them about the Suns. Every asset, where everything's buried, all the details I could remember about the other six and their underlings. Tried to be hardheaded at first but…they pried it all out of me. One of the bastards kept saying they'd just get an elder doppelganger to eat my brain and replace me, soon as one of the things wasn't busy on a bigger mission. Maybe that was just meant to scare me, but I've heard of such things."
Ashura had too. The bestiaries mentioned that the oldest of the creatures could go a step beyond mere trickery and completely subsume a person's identity, devouring all of their memories and skills. There was supposedly no way to tell the difference between the replacement and the original.
"But that was hardly the worst of it," Jhasso went on. "Oh. Thank you dear." He rubbed his wrists and stretched his legs a bit, finally free of the iron shackles.
"The worst of it?" Xan prompted.
Jhasso's head turned towards the neatly arranged wooden crates that rested by one of the storage room's walls: rows and rows of them stacked shoulder high. "The grey bastards kept…" His voice cracked and he clinched his eyes shut, head turning away. It was a moment before he was something close to composed again, though he didn't open his eyes, and now the words came tumbling out. "They kept bringing people down here. A few times they were alive, and I'd have a cellmate for…for a day or so. But mostly it was corpses. The bodies of my…people. The creatures would sort through their belongings, store things away in those boxes. Documents, jewelry, valuables, clothes if there wasn't one of the things ready to…dress up as one of them." His voice wavered again. "Ilmater's mercy…"
"The bodies?" Xan asked quietly.
Jhasso took a deep breath. "There's a shaft down the hall, deeper in the cellars. Leads to the sewers. I'd guess they dragged them there."
"We came here to follow up on an investigation of this place. Led by a Commander Scar of the Flaming Fist."
That made Jhasso's eyes snap open and grow wide, looking up at Xan.
"Do you know him?" Xan asked.
A furious nod. "Oh yeah. Big fellow. Bald head. And that distinct scar of his. I knew him. Saw him in this very chamber too, some time ago. One of the corpses."
Xan inclined his head slightly, not seeming the least bit surprised.
It was easy enough to follow the raised voices that echoed up from the lower barracks, though Grand Duke Eltan was annoyed to actually be doing so. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that underlings were for? Delegation and all that. Every part of the well-oiled mechanism doing its part.
Eltan's boots clicked in time with Benjy's as they wound their way down the tower steps. "Jhasso the Caravaner, you said?"
"Aye sir," the sergeant replied. "Though I barely recognized him. Looks like he's been through the Abyss and back. Said he was here to lodge a complaint, and won't leave until he delivers it directly to Scar."
"I still fail to see why in blazes Scar isn't handling this then."
"Uh…well…" Benjy was at a bit of a loss. Sounded nervous too.
Slowing, Eltan turned narrow eyes upon the sergeant. "What is it?"
"Permission to speak-"
"Yes, yes. Out with it." They had both stopped now.
"Honestly sir, the big guy has been acting a bit strange lately. We haven't seen much of him, beyond a few tours to inspect the walls and the new drills. Seems to defer most things to Commander Dosan. I mean, I know Dosan's technically the Section Commander here at the fort, but you know how hands-on Scar usually is. Just seems odd."
Eltan scowled. It did. Very odd. So much for a well-oiled mechanism.
Frustrating that he was just hearing about this now, when Benjy's tone implied that this had been barracks gossip for a while, but then again Eltan had always believed that hovering like a mother hen over all of his underlings could be just as bad as not leading at all. It was always a delicate balance. And when had he not been able to trust Scar of all people to handle things?
Eltan reached down, rubbing the golden bracelet on his wrist and focusing his thoughts. Moruene?
Yes dear?
I need your help.
Shocking! I'll be right down.
A moment later a quicksilver portal burst into being on the stairway and the wizardess stepped through, dressed in her usual black robes; grey hair tied up in a bun atop her head. She shared a glance with Eltan, and out of old habit they continued their conversation through their bracelets.
Have you talked with Hurbold recently? Eltan asked.
Moruene frowned. He hasn't called on me in…maybe a month, come to think of it. I've been busy with the apprentices most of that time though.
Hmm. Turning, Eltan hurried down the stairs, the sergeant and the archmage following at his heels.
What's going on?
A bad feeling. And not just mine. Seems there's disquiet among the troops.
A low, gravelly voice met their ears as they entered the next chamber. "Well, you look like some beggar to me," it growled. "And I don't care who you claim to be. Commander Scar is not seeing any visitors."
Eltan took the scene in in a glance. Angelo Dosan, the warmage who'd recently made commander, stood before the ironclad door that led into Scar's suite, and the stranger standing in front of him truly did look like a beggar. Or at least a very sickly fellow. He was underfed, with matted hair and a bristled beard, a cloak wrapped tight around his frail shoulders (though he seemed to wear sturdy clothes beneath,) and he seemed to only be staying upright with the support of a boy in leathers and a girl dressed in pastels. There were other strangers close by those three: an elf in purple robes with a moonblade sheathed at his belt, a girl in chainmail, and a heavily shrouded figure that looked to be a female drow. Several Flaming Fist guards stood on the outskirts of the room, watching and wary.
"Now take that elf who put you up to this," Commander Dosan continued "and get-"
"No visitors, eh?" Eltan asked as strolled into the room, slipping an arm over Moruene's shoulder. "Surely Scar'll make an exception for his friends going on…oh what is it now?"
"About thirty-five years, dear," Moruene estimated.
"Sir!" Commander Dosan snapped to attention, eyes wide and boots clicking together.
"And ma'am," Moruene stated pointedly, disengaging from her partner and marching towards the door that the commander seemed to have been guarding.
As she did that Eltan approached the strangers, and the disheveled man looked directly into his eyes, gaze hard and steely. Eltan inclined his head slightly. "Lord Jhasso." Benjy had been right, this was the merchant lord. Right about him looking like all Nine Hells too.
"What?!" Commander Dosan reeled a little, taken aback. "This really is…I thought surely…"
Raising a fist, Moruene banged hard on the door. "Scar!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Get that broad arse of yours out here this instant!" There was no immediate response, and Moruene crossed her arms and gave the door an impatient glare. Pondering what sort of spell to blast the thing down with once she had counted to ten, by Eltan's guess. Having lived with dragons in her youth and soldiers in her middle years, Moruene was not a patient woman.
"A good thing you're here," Jhasso said, drawing the grand duke's attention. His voice was raspy, and he struggled to get the words out. "Your man Scar. He is not himself."
"What do you mean?" Eltan asked sharply.
"I was taken prisoner recently, by doppelgangers. While they had me…"
He was cut off by the sound of Moruene hissing out a lightning-quick incantation, the Draconic words coming out a bit like a curse. She waved her hand over the lock before her as she spoke, there was a faint white flash, and then she flung the door fully open with a kick.
And there, standing right in the doorway, was a tall, broad, and familiar figure; bald head coming to a bit of a point and beard speckled with grey. A jagged dueling scar ran down his cheek, next to lips that were upturned in a jolly grin. Eyes gleaming with amusement, the giant's familiar voice rumbled out. "And here I was just opening the door. But you never had much patience, eh Moruene?"
Eltan found himself smiling, for the moment at ease. Perhaps this was all just a misunderstanding. But then he glanced over at Moruene, and the look on her face made his blood run cold.
"No, I never did," Moruene agreed. "It's how you got that scar, after all."
The big man's smile broadened, no flicker of recognition in his eyes.
But that's not- Oh. Eltan's face fell.
With a sweep of her hand Moruene gestured at the strangers who had filled the room. "You've got quite a queue of folks trying to get a word. Strange of you to hide from them. Or from me. We haven't talked in what? A month?"
The jolly smile stayed on Scar's face, though his voice grew a little bashful. "Well ma'am, I've been rather busy. Looking into the iron crisis, and making sure we're well fortified in case there's war."
Moruene nodded. "I understand. We've all been rather busy. I have my apprentices, and Eltan's been managing the operations in Maztica and Tethyr. But Scar…"
The big man cocked his head.
"You've never called me 'ma'am' in your entire life."
Scar chuckled. "Well, it's never too late to try a little decorum. As an example for the men."
But Moruene ignored his reassurances, her fingers raised and twirling as she whispered something. There was a faint white flicker across her eyes, they widened, and then they focused to a glare; dangerously sharp.
Scar noticed, and he began to inch a bit to one side, easing away from the doorway and placing his back to the wall, though the smile and jolly crinkle in his eyes stayed fixed. That look seemed out of place now. Vacant, even.
Pointing a finger, a quick gesture away from launching a spell, Moruene asked pointblank: "Who did this?" Her words were almost soft. Sad.
Scar shook his head slightly, then sighed. "I told them." And then his voice shifted, rumbling baritone becoming something flat and genderless. "Told them they needed to send an elder to subsume this one." And with that he leapt, springing forward like a lizard despite his bulk, both arms elongating as they clawed out at Moruene's face.
There was a burst of light and his fingers just struck a wall, arcane defenses flaring all around the wizardess. The brilliant flash of protections flung the big man backwards, and at the same instant Moruene flicked her fingers and growled out a few furious syllables, the air warping before her. The shimmer surged forward and enveloped Scar, and for a moment he struggled within it, limbs flailing and body contorting.
It was merely a stunning spell –Eltan was certain– but for some reason the big man was changing before his eyes: wide, round face sharpening, ruddy skin growing grey, and his mass shrinking away. In the blink of an eye Scar seemed to shed a good ten stone.
A brief struggle, and then the doppelganger wriggled free of the paralyzing spell, stumbling back into the wall and sweeping the room with its amber, amphibious eyes. They fixed on Eltan, the creature's movements making Scar's oversized clothes fall away like shed skin. Then it sprang free of the outfit completely and flew past Moruene.
The creature landed like a frog, a good three strides in front of the grand duke, stumbling and staggering as a flurry of arcane bolts flew from Commander Dosan's fingertips and struck it in the side, leaving scorch marks and sending up a puff of smoke. It seemed to shrug the blast off, however, launching forward again and closing the distance with Eltan. Sharp fingers led the way, aiming for the grand duke's head.
In a streak of steel and a spray of black blood Eltan's dagger bit into the creature's neck as he ducked beneath the thing, reflexes taking hold before he could even think. The bulk of the naked, scrawny thing collided with his shoulder and then he turned sharply, throwing it off and sending it flying towards the nearby wall, where it struck with a wet, boneless thunk.
Eltan whirled to fully face the thing again, but it was already twitching and letting out a raspy sound, long fingers curling up towards the ceiling like the legs of a dead spider. The grand duke's jaw just fell, eyes wide.
Hurbold! That thing had been pretending to be Hurbold. Under their noses. For how long?
Stomping a heel against the floor, Eltan whirled around. "We need answers! Who sent this thing? Do you know?"
Jhasso's lips tightened and he looked down at his feet, shaking his head. "They never told me. Just held me prisoner in my own basement and…" He swallowed. "I always guessed that old Rieltar was behind it all. The Iron Throne. They'd been trying to shut us down for a while before all this, with every dirty trick they could think of."
Eltan scowled. "Guess? We cannot guess! We need solid leads if we are to track down Scar."
Jhasso's face tightened even more, and he continued not to meet Eltan's eyes, head shaking slightly.
"What?" Eltan demanded.
"Your man Scar. I saw him, in my cell. Later, they…dragged his corpse down to the sewers, I think. I'm sorry."
Once again Eltan's jaw fell, though he forced it to tighten, biting down hard and turning a glare towards the crumpled form of the shapeshifter.
Scar. Hurbold. This didn't seem real. After all that had happened. All the battles over the past three decades. The assassination attempts. The monsters they had faced down. The disastrous expedition to Anchorome.
Hurbold had faced all of that and survived, only to be swallowed up by some unseen conspiracy of face-shifters? It hardly seemed fitting. He deserved a true, Tempus-granted battle-death.
Turning to Benjy, Eltan began to bark out orders. "Find Lieutenant Dilos. I want the Seven Suns compound stormed immediately. Search it top to bottom, especially the basement and any adjoining passages into the sewers. If Scar's body is truly there I want it found. And search the upper levels of the compound, especially for any correspondence that the Suns were keeping." Doubtful that the shapeshifters would leave a paper trail, but…
One of the strangers –the red-haired girl in pastels– had knelt down beside the pile of clothes that the doppelganger had shed. "Mebee this is something?" she suggested, lifting a few leaves a parchment out from the bunched-up fabric. "If yer looking for correspondence? He was carrying a lot of pap- oh!" She started slightly when the papers gusted from her fingers and flew into Moruene's awaiting hands, carried by a spell. The wizardess looked down and began to read, eyes skeptical.
"Hmm," Moruene eventually muttered. "These may well be something."
"The creature was carrying orders?" Eltan asked, incredulous.
His partner shrugged. "Written in a cypher; all dwarvish runes scrambled to gibberish. So it's something important." Holding up the parchment and taking a deep breath, Moruene began to chant. It soon became clear that this was not a simple spell, continuing for what seemed like a minute. And then longer still.
As time passed Moruene's melodic words seemed to take shape, white mist and ghosts of symbols forming at her lips and rising to circle the crown of her head, wheeling and gradually darkening to the color of storm clouds. Her words climbing to a crescendo, she threw her head back, and moats of light broke through the clouds in dozens of places and illuminated her face; eyes suddenly a blazing white.
From somewhere beyond the clouds inhuman voices hummed in patterns that barely seemed like any sort of language, and Moruene responded to them by posing a carefully worded question. "If the words in this letter were dictated then who dictated them, and if not whose hand wrote them?"
More incoherent humming, then in a flash the clouds scattered and the light died. Pinching her eyes tightly shut, Moruene shook herself a bit, blinking. "Well that tells it dead and plain…" she muttered.
"Tells what?"
"It's Rieltar Anchev's handwriting."
Eltan nodded, turning to the corner where one of the corporals had been standing and staring, dumbfounded. "You. Kent. Fetch my armor, my sword, and however many soldiers can be mustered within a quarter hour to form up and storm the Iron Throne's headquarters."
One of the strangers who had escorted Jhasso into the fortress, the elf with the moonblade, stepped forward. "We wish to assist as well."
"You do?"
"Duty-"
"Yeah," the gruff voice of the woman in chain armor interrupted the elf, ice-blue eyes meeting Eltan's. "We do."
"You lead these freelancers?" the grand duke asked. "What's your name?"
"Ashura Adrian."
"Ah. You fought off the Black Talons, right?"
She nodded.
"Well, I've no time or patience to negotiate fees, but if you care to you're welcome to accompany us to the tower."
"Wouldn't miss it. Seems we owe this Rieltar fellow too."
Author's Note: "It's okay Liara. We'll handle it. The usual way." –Commander Shepard
Moruene doesn't appear in the game, but she's the second in command of the Flaming Fist, and according to the lore she, Eltan, and Scar are inseparable BFFs. It seemed like if Scar was killed (which *does* happen in the game, in slightly different circumstances) that she and Eltan would want to get revenge on the killers.
And an aside: Moruene is described as Eltan's 'Lifelong friend, continual comrade, and sometimes lover.' This struck me as such a blatantly Ed Greenwood thing; it seems like his world is populated by a huge number of swinging, aging bachelors and their lady-friends-with-benefits. I wrote them here as more of a straightforward couple.