Karikhan replies, “My people are grateful. Together we will crush Bloodjaw’s greenskin horde, and then the Deuragar. But first, we must return you to Platinum Falls and make preparations for war.”
Dur’dan nods in agreement and will start walking for the horses. Unless of course something else needs to be done.
“I must also inform my brother… that he has lost a son…”
“Thanks Shaman, I’ll put them to good use.” Arrow said as he put the arrows into his quiver.
Hob doesn’t say much during all of this. He doesn’t have anything to say really. He simply relaxes and looks forward to beginning the journey home.
“You hear that Kitz? We’re heading back back to the Falls.”
The party makes its way through the valley to the mountain pass. There, at the site where their former animals died, is an assortment of horses and camels, all saddled with colorful blankets and laden with waterskins. One, a large paint, immediately makes for the shaman: Though its back is blanketed for ease of riding it has no reins. Dur’dan has a small horse to ride (he first loudly rebuffs any offers of help to mount but, after a few minutes of fruitless struggle he finally submits to a boost) and Hob a fat pony. Arrow, Kittix and John each have camels. Jonathan is given a calm old stag leashed to Fredrickson’s mount so that potential falls can hopefully be averted. Jikhal and Kokalanatep both have lean horses, with Jote on a much studier specimen.
The medicine man says his farewells to Karikhan: He and Jote must return. He bids the shaman safe travels before turning to depart north with his companion. The party turns south, the desert expanding endlessly before them. “Great,” mutters Kittix dryly, “My favorite part.” The group rides down the slope of the Crookback, days of weary travel ahead of them.
The Burning Sea does not begrudge them their passing and the weather is fair, for which the Shelic riders give thanks at each evening camp. Eventually, on the horizon amidst the swirling waves of heat, Platinum Falls can be seen, rising from the ground like a massive domed mountain. The dry scrubland eventually gives way to sandy dirt and then mile after mile of swaying wheat. The first travelers are encountered as the ruts of many thousands of wagon wheels turns to the cobbled road of some ancient highway. Merchants in rumbling wagons overflowing with goods, packs of penniless and hopeless families, soldiers with the handles of swords peeking out from beneath heavy abas, slavers leading lines of chained and starving chattel, road preachers of all kinds from rag-wearing martyrs of Ilmater to the heavily-armored judges of St Cuthbert… all types are seen on the road approaching Platinum Falls.
At a road shrine to St Cuthbert guarded by a grizzled and scowling judge in boiled leather Jonathan delays the party, tossing a coin from his pouch to Fredrickson, who dismounts and offers the tithe. The priest takes the battered silver piece and slips it through the slit of the wooden box hanging by a burlap cord from his neck. “Stay out of trouble, highborn,” grunts the priest to the crippled knight, who merely offers a nod in return. Hours later, passing a worn and overgrown altar of Shaundakul, lord of travel, Hob inconspicuously tosses a chunk of hard bread to the ground.
Eventually the stalkfields are dotted with claybrick buildings: First the occasional tavern, then a shop here or there, then residences, then temples to this cult or that. Now signs are spotted along the road: “Crop thieves hanged, muggers crucified, accomplices enslaved” and others like it. Then, at last, the first of Platinum Falls’ many walls are encountered. Here the group is stopped by members of the Platinum Guard, spear-wielding human men in leather armor with matching, dirty tabards bearing the sigil of the city: A mailed fist.
“We’re all full up on lizards.” One of the guards shoves Kittix back, the lizardfolk snarling and baring rows of long, needle-like teeth. Arrow’s hand goes to his weapon as he steps between the soldier, who guffaws. “And the Falls don’t want no more halfbreeds, neither, so piss off.”
Brenley reacts immediately. “They’re with me.”
“Oh yeah?” The guards are on the bloodsoaked cripple now, spears at the ready. “And what’re you doin’ with a lizard, a halfbreed and a pair o’ savages?” They don’t give the dwarf or halfling any trouble.
“They’re in service to the Hadburgs,” Brenley bends the truth a bit, “as am I.” He turns his horse around, the design on his tabard barely visible beneath the layers of dirt and gore.
The guards look to their sergeant, who frowns and turns to Kittix. “All right, lizard, get goin’. You’re scarin’ the decent folk. And halfbreed,” he points a finger at Arrow, “you stick to the gutters. I catch you near Whitewall I’m tossing you off the Farthian Rock.”
The party continues through the city, which grows more and more crowded as the group enters the area known as Landfill. This is an endless shantytown of hastily-constructed lean-tos, tents and a few semi-permanent buildings made of claybricks, scrapwood and stacked detritus. Though most of Landfill is unregulated, the main road penetrating the heart of the city is frequented by members of the Platinum Guard who ensure that travelers are left unmolested. Halfway through Landfill the group comes to a stop. Here Arrow and Kittix must break from the party and make their way to the Yellow Suns camp. Dur’dan is to head to the dwarven embassies in the Crown District, and from there underground to Goldhelm. Jonathan, John and Hob’s destination is the Hadburg compound, in Whitewall.
This is the last time the party will get a chance to speak before going their separate ways.
“Well all, it’s been fun. As fun as any life-risking adventure can be. Take care.” Hob says and goes to depart.
Dur’dan holds out his hand for all those who want to shake it. He turns to Kahn,
“Where will you go Kahn? I could probably get ye a room in one of our embassies if ye want.”
He looks to the others,
“You will all be called on once again, with instructions on where to meet, and we will see our deeds through.”
He turns and begins making his way home.
Before he goes Dur’dan turns to Kahn once more,
“Gimme that claymore I gave ye. I’m gunna turn it info a proper weapon you will be proud to use”
If Kahn agrees Dur’dan will take the weapon home with him to be reforged in the smiths of Goldhelm. If he disagrees, Dur’dan will nod and leave it be.
Depending on what Kahn does, if Kahn comes with Dur’dan to the embassy than this conversation will be held there. If Kahn goes on his own path than this conversation will be held where the party splits.
Khan replies, “The weapon is with the elder council of my people. It is a powerful symbol of our alliance.”
Karikhan has already instructed Jikhal to bring the claymore back to his people, back at the delve entrance.
Karikhan agrees to rest in the embassy until the group is ready to reassemble.
Karikhan is not content to sit idly indoors, waiting for the others to finish their business. Each morning Karikhan rises before the sun, and rides with Jikhal to the outskirts of the city, returning each evening with freshly skinned coyote pelts. He spends the evening hours before sleep carefully crafting the pelts into a crude (but hopefully effective!) set of hide armor.
“Come on Kitz, it’s back to the shadows for us.” Arrow said as he pulls his hood up and starts to walk away blending into the crowd and vanishing from sight.
Now the party has temporarily split. Please only respond to posts your character is involved in. I’ll be doing personalized posts, either in public or in private, for each character.
Dur’dan, Karikhan, Jikhal, Jonathan, John and Hob ride onward through Landfill, eventually passing another wall and entering the region known as Underthumb, populated by “thumbers,” or “thumbs.” Here a multitude of tall claybrick buildings are pressed tight against each other and loom over the streets packed with what must seem like ants. Narrow, claustrophobic alleys run through the district like cracks in glass and the air is filled with the chatter of thousands of people and the cries of merchants from stalls occupying every corner. The heat is nearly unbearable here, with the great press of unwashed bodies contributing to the general sense of unease one gets from passing through such a place as Platinum Falls.
Midway through the district at a crowded courtyard filled with a myriad of stalls, tents, performers, beggars and guards, the party turns north and makes its way uphill, another gated wall ahead, this one guarded by nearly a dozen men. The group, after the guards are assured by Brenley and Dur’dan that they are all with them, is let through and into the Crown District. Here everything is hardwood and white stone, the cobblestone replaced with flagstone and the streets only sparsely populated.
Dur’dan leads Jikhal and Karikhan northwest while Jon, John and Hob make northeast, each circling separate ways around the fortified central area of Platinum Falls occupied by the massive Platinum Keep. Dur’dan leads his companions to an isolated courtyard filled with a mix of humans and dwarves, some making their way to and from the buildings here, others engaged in conversation with one another and more merely idling. The largest building here towers over the others, at least ten stories tall all built from stone, wide steps flanked by statues of dwarves leading up to its huge doorway, iron-barred wooden gates locked inward.
A dwarven guard, encased in chain under boiled leather, beady eyes peeking out from beneath an iron helm, bows his head to the Ironbeard as he passes, “My lord.” He gives the two Shelic strange appraising glances but doesn’t question them in Dur’dan’s presence. The hall here is bustling lightly with activity, small groups of armored dwarves moving about the embassy, most chattering quietly among themselves. Most of the dwarves here are minor nobleman, but those that aren’t bow their heads to Dur’dan as he passes. The Ironbeard speaks with a concierge, a nobleborn dwarf of advanced age in a robe of fine green linen, and arranges a room on the top floor for the two guests, the price to be covered by Dur’dan’s clan. Dur’dan says his goodbyes to Khan and Jikhal, who are led by the concierge to their room, a cozy twelve by ten occupied by a single large bed (plenty wide enough for two but Khan’s height may make the nights uncomfortable) and a writing desk.
Dur’dan makes his way through a large door at the end of the hall guarded by a trio of heavily armed and armored dwarven soldiers, all lowborns who bow to the noble as he passes. He enters a courtyard within the interior of the building, sunshine pouring in from above. There are two wide gates, one heavily barred and leading out onto the street for wagon access and another, which he passes through, leading to the long, spiraling tunnel that penetrates deep into the earth. The entire way down the walls are lined every few feet with torches and about midway down he is let through a hardwood gate by more peasant dwarven guards.
Finally he reaches the huge, solid iron doors of Goldhelm. The delve is nothing at all like Nal Oddosk: Instead of a city set within a massive cave it is a sprawling underground compound. It is bustling like the streets above, but much more orderly. Traffic going one way is kept to one side of the street, traffic going the other kept on the opposite side with the center left clear for occasional wagons. Dur’dan continues through the city and cannot help but compare it to Nal Oddosk. The people here have lost their way. Most refer to their city as “Goldhelm,” a surfacer word. Its real name, Oshinno, is unforgotten but rarely used, especially by the younger generation. Dur’dan’s disgust is like a stone in his stomach, but he can remember being young, himself. It feels like only a century ago (when it fact it was two) that he was complaining about the elderly of his generation.
He makes his way into the Gold District, populated by the nobility of Goldhelm. Here fewer people stop to bow to Dur’dan: It both sets him at ease, being among equals, but also gives him a caution that settles in the back of his mind: Nobles are capable of a far greater treachery than commoners. Finally he arrives at the Kalaz compound, its double doors opened by bowing peasant guards. Dur’dan is glad to be home. Godo, a member of a clan in service to the Ironbeards, is waiting inside. “My lord, welcome home. Lord Kalaz is in the crypt, sir.” From here Dur’dan can head north, to the section occupied by the family area of the compound, including his own apartments and the crypt, vault, etc, east to the common areas including feast hall, lavatories, public library, etc, or south to the non-family residences.
Dur’dan will continue north. He needs to find his father and of course his brother…
Dur’dan goes through the northern doorway, the lone guard there bowing his head to him as he does. This area is like the floor of a hotel, with a grid of sprawling hallways all dotted with doors leading to apartments, some vacant, others occupied by Ironbeard families.
He passes his own apartment, not stopping: The news to his father is his priority and his wife and children can wait a bit longer. He enters the final hall of the area, this one with five doors: A door to the Ironbeard hoard vault, a door to the Ironbeard Grudge Vault, a door to the Ironbeard Oath Vault, a door to the patriarch’s suite and a door, at last, to the Ironbeard crypts. He descends the steps into the crypt, which expands like a separate compound beneath the Ironbeard residences. It itself is split into two areas: The first and larger section is a vast catacomb dedicated to those ignoble servants of the family and it is here that Oshro’s body would have rested eternally. Dur’dan passes this area and makes his way into the second, smaller section, the Ironbeard family crypt itself. He passes row after row of alcoves packed with memorials to long-dead Ironbeards, some a thousand years old or more, and arrives at the final chamber.
Moziah Kalaz is tall for a dwarf, incredibly advanced in age, long hair tied into several ponytails all tucked into the back of his armor. His beard is wrapped repeatedly around his body and looped through a metal ring on his belt where it is eventually knotted off. He stands with his back to Dur’dan, old hands on the face of a new sarcophagus. An identical casket is beside it, each of the pair topped with life-sized statues that it takes Dur’dan a moment to identify: On the left is To’talath and on the right is Mirozad. Dur’dan is overcome with grief and fury and he drops to his knees in anguish.
Moziah is silent.
It takes a minute for Dur’dan to compose himself and he looks to his father.
"We have lost Oshro as well. He fell to Deep Dwarves father. Its as the surfacers thought. We have found a lost delve, simply magnificent. There is so much to discuss, but tell me what has happened to my brothers?’
Dur’dan has said all this while on a knee, head slightly tipped to his father.
“Deep dwarves?” Moziah turns to his son and presses the story from him, asking for every conceivable detail until he has been told the whole of it. Once finished, he speaks to his son again, “To’talath, Mirozad… they and To’talath’s eldest boy were ambushed in the streets of Platinum Falls. Any witnesses there may have been have disappeared… killed off or scared off or bought off. Your brothers were strong as stone and To’talath’s boy just as strong: Mere muggers would’ve pissed themselves at the sight of them. Our enemies begin to outnumber our allies. Soon Oshinno too will no longer be safe for any trueborn Kalaz.”
Moziah puts a hand on Dur’dan’s shoulder and bids him rise. “Nal Oddosk, however dangerous it is, may be our family’s last hope. This is a sign, my son. In the week that my two eldest die my boy Dur’dan finds the entrance to a lost delve? The stone has born us up this opportunity. We will reclaim the glory of our people, by my beard I swear it. You will take a force west. Kill anything that might threaten our family.”
Moziah takes Dur’dan’s hands in his own. “My son, nothing in this world is more important than family. Remember that.”
Arrow and Kittix move north through Landfill, the crowds growing sparser as they near the Yellow Suns camp. The half-elf’s ears are hidden by his hood and he keeps his yellow eyes downcast lest they betray his heritage: This is a land of predators and the slightest display of weakness will see the wolves set upon you. As the pair passes a group of homeless wretches cooking disgusting meat over a bonfire the lizardfolk is knocked to the ground by a starving and ragged human, his beard thick with clumps of dried mud and his teeth all but gone, a rust-layered serrated knife gripped in a pair of bony hands. Four of the man’s company are with him, all descending upon the flailing lizardfolk in a mad frenzy, when the initial attacker drops suddenly, the wind knocked out of him as an arrow drives itself through his back. The half-elf stands over Kittix, another arrow already knocked into place, the attackers skidding to a stop, eyes going from him to the dying, wriggling human writhing around on the ground. He gurgles painfully, unable to draw in a breath to scream. The humans panic and flee, the nearby crowd dispersing to get out of the way of a potential fight.
Arrow helps Kittix to his feet, asking himself silently why he keeps him around. The two continue north, the dying human forgotten. Ahead, rising from the surrounding camps is a two-story wooden building, lightly armored men and their prostitute companions loitering all around it. As the pair approaches the half-elf lowers his hood, nearby men rising and nodding to him as he passes. One of them calls out to him, “You’ve got company in there waiting.”
Stepping inside, Arrow is confronted by half a dozen lightly armored elves, all armed with spears, their bodies draped over with yellow, dust-covered capes. The turn their weapons on Arrow, who takes a step back to the door, to find another soldier behind him, pushing him further in. Kittix screeches and hisses, “What you doing?! What you doing?!” The guards shove the pair further into the common room of the Yellow Suns barracks. The room has no windows and the heat is stifling. There are wooden tables and stools scattered about the room, half-drunken bottles of ale and wine at each, uncleaned mugs and silverware piled here and there. Barrels of various supplies are piled in every corner and at the center of the north wall is a fireplace, currently roaring, a huge cauldron set over it full of bubbling stew. At a table by the fire is an unarmored elf. Like others of his kind he is very tall, several inches over six feet, lithe and elegant. He is dressed in supple purple silks that match his radiant violet eyes, eyes that seem to bore straight through Arrow’s own. “What are YOU doing here?” Kittix hisses angrily but the elf merely makes an impatient gesture to his guards, who take the lizardfolk under the arms and drag him violently from the room, tossing him outside and to the ground. Kittix gets to his feet and roars at the door, slamming the scaly palms of his hands against it. “Hey!”
He looks around at the staring passerby before snarling and wandering off into the camp.
The elf bids Arrow sit. “Welcome home, Aramel.”
Dur’dan rises, and nods to his father,
“I will not let you down father. Our enemies think us weak, but they have no idea the reckoning they are about to receive. By the blade of my axe I will send them all to a shallow grave and they will forever remember the fury of Clan Kalaz.”
Dur’dan will turn (if his father is done speaking) and go visit his brother Kulrill, Oshro’s father, to inform him of the events at hand.
Jonathan Brenley, John Fredrickson and Hob Overhill make their way northeast through the Crown District, eventually winding up at the tall and impeccably-maintained wall for which their home district is known. Banners bearing the sigil of the city flutter loudly overhead, the sun shining through them and leaving stains of flickering color on the scorched flagstone street. The guards here are courteous and let the trio through without harassment. The three pass rows of glimmering limestone estates before eventually arriving at one belonging to the Hadburgs. The guard on duty nods to Jonathan, “My lord!” and hurries to unhinge the gate and swing it open for the group.
Inside the three are met by the rare green of perfectly lush grass. The courtyard has been exquisitely arranged with a sprawling lawn dotted with benches leading to a wide stone building draped in Hadburg banners. The three dismount their horses, with an attendant rushing to help Fredrickson with the noble. “By Ilmater, my lord, what happened?”
Brenley is curt with the peasant. “Take me inside.”
The group slowly makes its way into the estate, Hob lingering a few paces behind them as they go. The mansion is luxuriously furnished and attended by polite and silent servants busy with the day’s affairs. A knight in beautifully polished armor stops them midway through the building: “Gods, Jonathan, what’s become of you?” He shoos the attendant aside and slaps a hand on the side of Jon’s face. “What’ve those dwarves done to you?”
“Not the dwarves you think, Sam.” Brenley winces as he changes hands, his weight on John and Sam now.
“Here, Lord Hadburg will want to see you.”
“I don’t really think I’m in a presentable con-”
“Nonsense. You look perfect. Maybe this’ll convince him what a fool’s errand this whole operation is.” He guides Jon towards a set of doors guarded by soldiers who quickly open them for the noblemen. John is ready to request that he accompany his ward but Sam shrugs him off. “You two… go wash yourselves up or something.” Before John can respond the doors are closed in his face, the guards giving him apologetic looks.
John and Hob look at one another, the latter shrugging.
…
John is glad to finally be clean, even if he does have to wash in some nobleman’s used bathwater. He splashes water on his face and looks up at the polished glass of the washroom’s mirror. John isn’t a young man anymore, but he feels as if this latest adventure has aged him considerably. He runs his fingers along the new scar across his face that now serves as a permanent reminder of the danger he’s seen. But he wasn’t injured by a giant or an undead or a duergar… injured by a lowly goblin. He shoves away from the mirror and washtub, turning to fresh clothes which he changes into in a hurry.
He’s been back for a day now, the new morning light shimmering in through a curtained window. He can hear children playing outside. Little nobles, likely. He probably won’t ever have children of his own. Born to serve. Likely to die in service, somewhere miles from home, alone, writhing either on some battlefield or miles beneath the surface of the earth, to be toasted perhaps once by a noble who hardly knows him, only to be forgotten. The knowledge doesn’t bother him much anymore: It’s the way things are. He pulls a shirt over his arms and buttons it up and over the wide and ugly scar on his belly, a reminder of a… past failure. Once dressed he heads into the hall, where a guard is waiting.
“Johnny boy.” The two of them head down the hall together, the guard about Fredrickson’s age. “Heard you found deep dwarves out in the desert.” John merely nods as they round a corner and make their way towards the receiving hall. “What’s next, trolls?” John keeps silent. They arrive at the doors to the hall and the guard sees him through. “Good luck, Johnny.”
“I’ll see you on the other side, Richard.”
Inside John is surprised to see not Lord Hadburg on the seat at the center of the chamber, but his Viceroy, a minor nobleman named Henry Keethe. John is once again faced with the hard reality that for all the love he gives to the nobles he serves selflessly, that he sacrifices so much for, that they don’t see him as worth their time. He soldiers on, resolute.
“Ah, Fredrickson.” Keethe sneers down at John from the high seat, his face, like always, locked in a tight grimace as if he had sucked on a lemon as a child and the expression had stuck. He is only slightly older than John but has seen not close to half the things as his lowborn opposite.
“My lord.” This is what the Hadburgs and all of Platinum Falls see as his better.
“A shame you couldn’t bring Brenley back in one piece. It’s starting to become a pattern.” John’s rage mounts but Keethe continues. “Luckily for you he wouldn’t shut up about how well you served the cause. Maybe he took a blow to the head.” Keethe leans back comfortably in his seat. “Lord Hadburg thinks Brenley’s word is good enough, so here we are. He’s busy pressing his rights in Antissa,” he refers to a neighborhood in northern Underthumb famous for its restaurants, unheard of elsewhere in the city, and the location of the Thumber Bakers Guild, “… so he wants me to collect your piece on his behalf. He’s already questioned Brenley and the halfling and he’s of the mind that we should cut our losses. What light can you shed on things, Fredrickson?”
…
Hob Overhill is sitting on a human prostitute’s lap, another whore, a halfling girl, sitting likewise on his. “So there I was, surrounded by the shambling undead, when I see…” The crowd around the old hin is entranced. “… that my mug is empty.” He lifts his tankard and whistles to the nearest barmaid. “Where was I?”
“You were surrounded by the shambling undead.” A gnoll in the audience, with a doglike face and a body covered in brown fur, seems unimpressed.
“Right! The shambling undead. When I see a glint in the corner of my eye.” His vessel, full of ale, is returned to him. “It’s a sword of solid gold lying there with the dwarf king’s forgotten treasure. So just as they’re closing in I dash for the sword, take it from the pile and I say a prayer to Old Stickyfingers-”
“Yeah, yeah. And then you kill 'em all singlehanded.” The gnoll gets to his feet and turns to go with a shake of his head.
“Well, it was quite a big sword. I had to use both hands.” The crowd erupts into laughter and Hob, grinning ear to ear, gets to work on his ale.
A few minutes later the door to the tavern swings open and a pair of soldiers push their way inside. They look through the crowd, finally spotting Hob and frowning. They shove their way over, one of them picking the halfling whore from Hob’s lap (“Hey!”) and setting her aside. “Come on, Mr Overhill. You were supposed to wait for questioning.”
“You lot were taking your sweet time so I decided to step outside for a spell.”
“We’ve been looking for you all morning, come on.”
Reluctantly the halfling hops down from the human girl’s lap and saunters after the humans outside. “I’m not going all the way back to Whitewall unless one of you feels like carrying me.” The guards look at one another before leading Hob into a nearby alley. One of them picks him up (“Oh come on!”) and sits him on a barrel so that they’re all at the same height.
“You were supposed to wait to be questioned by Lord Keethe, Mr Overhill.”
“I guess I’ll just have to make due with you two.”
The guards frown. “Look, he just wants to know your evaluation of the expedition.”