Gresh is sitting with his companions and speaking with Khorin about the next step in their pursuit of the agents of King Henrich, when a hooded and cloaked figure approaches and asks if they are the ones who narrowly escaped from the clutches of the Assassins back down the river.
Gresh eyes the gleaming points under the hood and sneers “Who wants to know?”
The robed one replies that the word of their nominal success had preceded them, but he wants to know if they might want to be of help rooting out some splinter cells of Henrich’s in the town. “I know of 3 and their leaders are supposed to be meeting tonight. I can help us interfere with them. I am a …hired hand of the true Lord of Szulofold, Geza,” says Galstaff.
He stares brazenly at the shoulder of the Gresh and smirks eyeing the pet dragon. Gresh perks up when he realizes that their new ally is a Dragonborn Disciple. “HEY! You two are kin!”
“As much as you may think that, there are two facts you must contend with: One, I’m not a full dragon and, two, I’m not your pet,” Galstaff says as his eyes lock with the Gresh’s guffawing maw. “Are we clear?”
The Gresh begins to retort when Khorin interupts and calms everyone down. “This is neither the time, nor the place.”
Eventually the company meanders out of the Inn and stocks up. An overly exuberant Enchantress in one shop tries to detain both Ibn Al-Khwilboh and Kelvin Nu~Melvin Hu’Elvin with evidence of her wares which were, admittedly only decent and not the masterwork she undoubtedly thinks they are.
At the Corner of the Befuddled Stoat Tavern and the Serpent’s Fang Inn
The rag-tag portion of the party that Galstaff leads out into the night are Gresh, Khorin, Ibn Al-Khwilboh and Kelvin Nu~Melvin Hu’Elvin. While looking around the area and trying to find hiding places, Galstaff whispered the words of ancient foreign magic and, as thought it were a trick of the light, Ibn Al-Khwilboh swiftly faded to invisibility. Kelvin nodded with a smirk and asks if the same could be done for the stench of Ibn, too. Gresh climbs up onto a roof and plants his feet into some rafters, Khorin takes a place in a room above the tavern, Kelvin hides in an alcove about a block away and Galstaff collapses down into a ball of rags and pretends to be a beggar. Ibn, not knowing what to do with himself, just loafs about in the middle of the road trying not to bump into passers-by.
Just as the moon hangs low over the once mighty city, the three members of the separate splinter cells sneak down the river and try to get to a disheveled looking house. One, presumably the scout, leaps up onto the roof of the Inn. It hisses and the other two bolt for the house. The scout drops down and vanishes. Chaos erupts as Ibn tries to run in after them and he manages to get in just before they slam the door closed. He watches as they slam shut a hatch on the floor in the back.
The rest of the company files in and Ibn explains the situation. Gresh looks down and frowns. “I hate holes in the ground. What we really could use is that big ugly bear-fella.”
Kelvin Nu~Melvin Hu’Elvin reminds him that they left him back at the Inn with the little goblin helper that they had picked up to carry their various gear.
We Have Always Been Down, Down
Gresh grumbles his way down the stairs as they descend into the murky hallway underground. Galstaff briefly casts a cantrip which manifests as glowing orbs to give them an idea of what’s going on. They find a door and Galstaff mutters a few words and a ghostly visage of his hand creeps forward, mimicking the motions he actuates with his carnal hand. Click, whir and the door creeps open. The arrow on the floor was covered with an iridescent green ooze.
Upon opening the door, a black shroud of magical darkness kept the room enveloped in an impenetrable void. Even the dancing lights of Galstaff could not illuminate the room.
A Death Knight stood awaiting the party.
To Be Continued…