Music: Drink

The Jazz Butcher:

...Because a lot of us are going to have to deal with visiting family in the next few days. 

DoT: An Unscheduled Meeting

Gazin held up a clenched fist as Vallista entered the outer office, her curled fingers forward; it was their private sign for intruders. Then she held up one finger, so there was only one of them. Vallista tilted her head, and Gazin looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. Ah. Somebody from Upstairs. There were other gestures for a danger, a discreet visitor, and a messenger. 

Though they'd practiced this, it didn't come up often. Most messengers would wait out here; and Gazin was perfectly capable of dealing with most dangers herself. A visitor from Upstairs was most likely to be able to go directly to Vallista's office and tell Gazin to say nothing. Whoever it was doubtless intended to surprise her. 

Unexpectedly, Gazin touched her throat as Vallista walked past her. What in the hells? "No visitors," Vallista said aloud. "I need to go over the accounts, and I don't want to be interrupted." She figured it out a moment later: there weren't that many people from Upstairs who would make an unannounced visit like this, and that touch to the throat had to indicate Ramantha The Voice. 

That guess was confirmed a moment later when she opened her door and saw the halfling sitting in one of the chairs beside her desk. Vallista kept her steps as smooth as her expression, closed the door behind her, and bowed. "Ramantha," she said. "Welcome."

"This isn't a social call," said the Voice. 

Vallista shrugged. "I welcome your arrival nevertheless."

The Voice tilted her head, studying Vallista for a long moment: questioning, measuring. "Your people were brawling with the Panthers in the central tower." 

Vallista crossed to her desk, turned her chair to face the halfling, and sat. It was her own office, after all; it wouldn't do to seem timid. "This is true," she said. 

"Over your father's death?" asked the Voice, shifting in the chair to face her.

Vallista considered her next words carefully. "I don't believe the Panthers had anything to do with that. Lynna Catseyes and my father were rivals, but it was a respectful rivalry."

"Then why?"

Vallista sat back, relaxing. "Because Lynna and I agreed that it would be better if people thought we were feuding. It gives our troublemakers a chance to scrap, which will keep them settled for a time and prevent any... uncontrolled  conflicts from arising. It might even teach some of them the cost of such infighting."

Ramantha the Voice nodded slowly. She was an imposing woman when she wanted to be, despite her lack of size. "And when I speak to Lynna next, she will confirm this?"

Vallista nodded. "Yes. How much explanation would you like?"

Ramantha considered. "I think I see the shape of it, but do continue."

"As you wish." Vallista leaned forward, attentive. "Someone murdered my father. Very likely someone arranged to have my father murdered, as someone also arranged for a rogue crew to be present when it happened. This same crew staged a successful robbery in my territory some time back, and earlier robbed a courier for the Mist Eyes."

"You're sure of this?" asked Ramantha. 

Vallista nodded. "I've spoken with them. They aren't Guild, and they aren't native to the islands. They've given me information on who is blackmailing them, and so far everything they've told me has borne out. Somebody pulled in outside talent to cause trouble between the gangs."

"You should have come to me with this knowledge," said the Voice. 

Vallista shook her head. "People would have noticed, known. It was better to wait for you to come to me."

"Ah." Unexpectedly, Ramantha smiled. "Your father's cunning and discrimination. You fear this is orchestrated by someone within the Guild." She paused, then added, "...Someone with access to information."

Vallista Greycloak nodded. "I fear it's someone Upstairs."

"Disturbing news. Have you no fear that it's me?"

"I would never accuse you," Vallista said carefully. "You are the Voice, and my best chance of bringing in someone from Upstairs without alerting whoever might be behind this. It seemed worth the risk to tell you."

"This is...  most unexpected. I came here expecting to have to discipline an unruly new gang-leader." She settled back, then sighed. "Of course it would be more complicated than that."

That was a sentiment Vallista could sympathize with. "I've been telling myself that same thing since before my father died."

"...What of this rogue crew?" asked the Voice.

"Cedric Bloodblade and I met with them, just a few days past. They spoke to us of being jailed and blackmailed, and they attest that they have never murdered anyone in the Guild. Cedric is of the opinion that they have to pay, but they can pay by making amends -- and since I need their information and possibly their help, I agree. We haven't said anything in public, obviously, but we consider them authorized contractors."

Ramantha nodded slowly at that. "And what does Cedric get out of this?"

Vallista shrugged. "It seems the Red Blades really have moved against the Mist Eyes. There's a missing fence... Piter, I think... and he's set this group to find out what happened, and confirm that the Red Blades were behind it. If they do, they will make amends by striking back at the Red Blades, and he'll consider all debts paid."

"Cautious," said Ramantha. "Tentative. That's good. Cedric does his duties well, and it seems that you are stepping into yours. If they help you find your father's killer, or the person who sponsored it, will you also consider their debt to the Guild repaid?"

Vallista nodded. Then she said, "There's more," and began to explain the questions she'd been asked about abomination appearing from nowhere, the Age of Beasts, and the possible involvement of the Crescent Circle. 

When Ramantha the Voice left her office, her expression was troubled. 

DoT: Misgivings

Grot stopped at Daystar's desk. "Okay, they're working on it."

"Good," said Daystar, without looking up from the appeal that he was writing. "Let me know when it's done."

Grot must have hesitated a moment too long, because Daystar stopped writing and looked up. "Anything else?"

Grot shook his head. "I just hope they're up to this one."

Daystar shrugged. "They're getting better at this... though that will become a problem in itself at some point. Did they argue about it?"

Grot shook his head. "No, they seemed pretty resigned."

"There's that, at least," Daystar paused, considering, then said: "Let me know if they start sounding rebellious."

Grot nodded. "I will." 

"Meanwhile, the stronger they get the more use they are to us. And it's not as if they aren't receiving plenty of compensation for their work."

Grot tilted his head, then nodded. "Maybe I should remind them of that."

"Maybe you should," Daystar told him.  

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty-one

It was four hours later when Graznir returned, with Crack-bone carrying a small chest behind him. "My apologies," he said immediately. "The ancestors are... touchy, about their resting place. There was much discussion: who I am, who I brought with me, how many, how many others we might bring home. But they do have some resources, so I can keep my word to our captured workers."

Crack-bone set the chest on the ground and opened it, then called to the workers. "Form a line! One at a time. Come and get yer pay!"

The kidnapped farmers exchanged glances like they couldn't believe this was finally happening, and Azrael gave Tybalt a similar look. Tybalt just shrugged. The gnolls weren't necessarily trustworthy, but they were practical -- and this was a good way to build trust with the people around Aldpond. Plus, with the opening of the crypt it seemed they could spare some wealth. 

It suggested that there were few of them and much stored away in the depths, but Tybalt wasn't even vaguely tempted to go looking for it. Seven dead kings could likely overwhelm them, regardless of what they tried, but also... whatever was down there in the dark belonged to Graznir and his people as a rightful inheritance. Jacques was either entirely too trusting or else he pulling a friends-close-enemies-closer maneuver, but either way... if the Formorians became a problem, they could deal with it later. And if they didn't, well, powerful allies were hard to come by and good to have. His father had understood that.

Graznir and Jacques both watched as Crack-bone counted out ten gold coins for each of the farmers -- probably more than they made in a decade of farming -- and handed it over. Blunt-tusk had shown up at some point, and was standing at the back of the line to make sure nobody tried to circle back into it. 

It was late afternoon, and with the farmers paid and released Graznir turned his attention to Jacques. Tybalt stepped up to listen, but Graznir merely said, "What remains in the chest is yours, if you want it."

Jacques waved that away. "Sol Povos is not stretched so thin that we cannot get by, and you will need money for any rebuilding you do. Besides, I would rather have you feel that you owe us a debt, if you or one of your kin is going to be numbered among my father's barons."

Graznir blinked at him. "As you say, and I hope your father shares your wisdom... and your charity."

"Send word to Caristhium if you need assistance," Jacques replied. "I'm sure my cousins would be happy to assist me in answering any reasonable requests." 

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part thirty

"Success!" Graznir sounded delighted; then his snout wrinkled and his next words with worried: "Surely you aren't the only ones to survive?"

"The others stayed behind. Once we take you to meet your ancestors, we'll all depart." Tybalt sounded only slightly impatient.

"Ah. Yes, that's probably for the best."

"I'll give you my word on something else, Graznir," added Jacques, as they traced their way back into the crypt. 

"Oh?"

The viscount nodded. "If you keep your word to the farmers back there, not only will my kin and I keep quiet about this, but we'll do our best to do be sure that they do too. Tell some sort of story about how they were captured and we rescued them-- which is basically true if you don't look at the details too closely."

Graznir snorted. "Ah, politics," he said. "Very well, I accept. Certainly better than having your father track us down... or hunt us through the ruins. And at least this way we'll have time to build back some of what we lost."

"You seem a surprisingly reasonable sort for a kidnapper," observed Tybalt. 

"You sound surprised," Graznir said, "but it's easy enough to explain: I am devoted to my goal. I will do whatever it takes to regain the ancient knowledge of my people and see some portion of our kingdom restored. It required kidnapping, but once we had the numbers we needed persuasion was easier -- and far more practical -- than bloodshed. And if we do succeed at this, we'll need to be able to negotiate with our neighbors afterwards. We'll need trade, allies, acknowledgement. Much easier to find if you don't go around murdering people."

Jacques nodded. "As I said before, if you keep your word I'll do my best to help. The Forgotten Desert is considered wasteland; placing it into your hands as a barony should be an easy win, especially since most of our idiot nobles see your people as savages. By the time they learn better, it'll be established and much harder to revoke, even if anyone were so inclined."

They came to the chamber of the dead ones. Graznir moved forward, knelt, and bowed his head. He growled something in ancient Formorian. 

"Rise, my descendant," said the king at the center of crescent of thrones. He spoke in common, clearly intending his meaning to be understood to everyone present. "Are these others tools, or allies?"

"Allies, Magister," Graznir said, following his ancestor's lead and switching back to the common tongue. "They, and others of their kind, helped us to find you."

"Then they should depart now. This place is sacred to Formorians, and Formorians alone."

"A moment," said Graznir. "For the assistance they gave, they deserve some reward. May I beg the use of something here to repay them, and their kin who helped us with the digging?"

"Come forward," said the Magister, and then bent to speak softly into Graznir's ear as the rest of the children of Ruin, Tavros, and Vendril gathered near the door way.

Graznir straightened after a moment and turned to them. "Await me on the surface," he said. "I will keep my word, but this place is not for you."

Jacques didn't bother to survey the others. He just turned and walked out, knowing they would follow.

Duendewood: Children of Ruin, part twenty-nine

The massive slab of stone disappeared up into the ceiling of the passage with a rumbling sound, a small shower of stone chips and dust, and almost nothing to mark it as mobile at all. Jacques whistled softly: if he hadn't seen the thing go up, he would have no idea that it could come back down. 

Beside him, Tybalt nodded. "That's some solid engineering. No wonder nobody could find them."

There was a commotion up ahead, and they started down the hall. A mixed group of humans and gnolls was coming towards them, and Jacques flagged them down with desperate movements. "Hold up! Wait!"

It took a moment for the workers to lose momentum; then they came to a gradual halt. "What is it?" asked one of the gnolls. 

"We need to get Graznir down here. This place is crawling with undead, and they don't like anybody who isn't a Formorian being down here."

"Ah," said the gnoll. "That... isn't entirely unexpected." He turned to the others. "All right, Blunt-tusk, you go get Graznir. Local farmers, get back to the surface -- you should be safe there." He looked back to Jacques and Tybalt. "Where are the rest of you?" 

"Waiting with the mummies, as a gesture of good faith."

"Brave," said the gnoll. "I'm Crack-bone, the work-leader. Technically, I'm an architect -- which is how I ended up directing the work crews." 

"I'm a bit ashamed to admit it," said Jacques, "but I really didn't come here expecting to find a bunch of well-educated gnolls engaged in an archaeological dig."

Crack-bone snorted. "Oh, there are plenty who aren't," he admitted. "With the fall of the Kingdom, our people scattered, and whatever they had to in order to survive... and we can survive on diets that most civilized peoples would find criminal. That's where "Gnoll" comes from, in fact: it's an old Formorian word indicating something feral."

Jacques tucked that away. "Sounds like it's more polite to refer to you as Formorians, then," he said. "My apologies." 

"Eh, don't worry about it." Crack-bone grinned. "It's been so long now, that's just etymology. Maybe we'll start making an issue of it someday, but it was a name we gave to our own." 

DoT: New Developments

"I think it's time to up the stakes," Daystar said. 

Grot looked up from the broadsheet he'd been reading, the Hinnom Happenings, which claimed to be the only accurate report of day-to-day events on the island. It was, of course, full of gossip and libel, but sorting the truths from the rumors was half the fun. "What do you have in mind?"

"There was a skirmish between the Greycloaks and the Panthers two days ago," Daystar observed. "This is exactly the sort of result we wanted. Distrust. Strife. Uncertainty. Let's stoke it."

"Lynna Catseyes. Have them take out that Tabaxi lieutenant of hers. I don't care if they murder him or put him on a ship to Magraven, just as long as he's gone."

Grot considered that, but couldn't find any immediate objections. "As you wish," he said easily, and rose. "I can take word to them in the morning."

Daystar smiled. "Yes, do that. Best to let them get an early start."