Eberron Adventure: Twenty-Ninth Session

So there they were…

Two of them, anyways. Shadowale the halfling rogue and Gnofulk the gnome barbarian sat, drinking silently together at House Ghallanda as both dusk and rain arrived in Sharn, the City of Towers.

Turnin, the human monk, was out following up on the party’s investments. Since the only ones the party has heard of so far has turned out to be arms dealer peddling actual dead limbs… this is probably wise. Rhogar, the dragonborn fighter, was following up with his city watch contacts, trying to figure out how and why the Daask loosed the chimera on the city. Kyllar, the human wizard accompanied by his kobold manservant, Kaz, were being rewarded with some lessons in artifice  by the chimera’s owner, an old human wizard named Winnifred who was utterly convinced that Kyllar was the one with the foresight to save her expensive “thoroughbred” chimera, which served as her mount and pet, despite overwhelming evidence and testimony that all Kyllar did in the fight was hide under a bridge. Wizards.

So the shortstack duo sit together in one of House Ghallanda many bars, drinking, and musing silently about how they lost the chance to ride a chimera, and about these murders…

A few drinks in, and the barbarian is no worse for wear, and actually feeling pretty invigorated. But the rogue, drinking drinks roughly the size of him, is starting to feel it a little.

The duo is approached by a apparently unarmed, 5’6” lady tiefling, with graceful ram horns, mahagony skin, and purple hair held together in a loose bun with some long, slim hair pins. She first addresses Shadowale, but addresses him as Falco Burrows, and the halfling is a bit confused at being addressed by his fake/real/alias/streetname.

Shadowale says he left his wallet and gold pouch in his other clothes. Gnofulk, astonishingly has some coin, and is able to buy the lady a drink, as is proper. And they discuss business.

This tiefling, whose name happened to be Comfort, and who had significantly exaggerated reports of her death circulating in Sharn, had some things on her mind. She is the madam of a …. Bath house in Sharn, named Bathomet’s Bath House, and has gleaned some information.

However… this is not the place to discuss it. House Ghallanda is known for is hospitality and its discreetness… but Comfort would rather discuss these matters in private. Plus, the halfling needs some sobering up, and the two of them could use some cleaning up. Even if the barbarian is wearing pants… he is a little grimy and wearing a skull pauldron… The trio finish their drinks, and leave Ghallanda Hall, walking out into the drizzle.

They and make their way across the sky-spanning bridges and partially covered, winding avenues around and through towers to make it to Bathomet’s Bath House, which appears to take up most of an entire level in one of the towers at this height.

The Bath House is warm and resplendent, particularly in contrast to the wind and rain outside. The party is greeted with smiles, and those not otherwise… entertaining, gracefully line up, displaying a wide feature of figures and species. They look on expectantly.

Shadowale and Gnofulk each get an assistant to help them clean up; Shadowale choosing the tallest, most slender, most flaxen hair, while Gnofulk gestures non-discriminately to ladies on the shorter end of the spectrum, and is soon joined by a red-headed dwarf.

Comfort retreats to her private quarters, while the two get cleaned up, with Gnofulk requesting a good rustic cleaning, and Shadowale dropping hints for *coughlotsofbubblescough* and *coughcoughlavenderpleasecough*. The two soon emerge smelling respectively of pine and lavender, and join Comfort in her quarters after redressing in quickly magically-laundered clothes, and rearming themselves.

The trio sit at a low table, with a tiny magical fire in the stones beneath, and a blanket between the table’s frame and top. Nice and cozy. Tea is served, and the trio gets into discussing business. Comfort has indeed learned some things.

The first is that Compassion, her lover was dead: slain brutally by some unknown murderer.

The second, is that the party had been rumored to be peeking around and investigating these murders. Comfort is in the market for some sweet, sweet vengeance, which is why she has sought them out.

Third, she has heard that Falco Burrows, aka Shadowale, has been looking for someone in Sharn – someone who happens to visit her establishment on occasion. He’s an pompus, fair-skilled elf, and… a bit of a dandy. He’s let it slip that he’s closely involved with House Tarkanan. And his name is Sandar Fancybrook.

Fourth, given that she has her finger on the pulse of the underworld, she’s noticed a trend that most others have missed related to the murders. Yes, they all appear to have been criminals… but their competency is a clue. The earliest disappearances (so… presumed killings) were nobodies. Small timers. As time goes on, the victims get more and more competent, be they killers, extortionists or lookouts. Comfort has compiled a list of some nearby potential future victims, based on their competency, a list that includes herself.

Comfort would like to corner and question Sandar, since an elf who is involved with assassinations and House Tarkanan might have insight, or even be pulling some strings. Shadowale suggests they skip the questions and they go right to knifing him. …the plan is put on hold however, when they realize that while Sandar has visited Bathomet’s Bath House before… they don’t know where the elf is at this moment, and the still-tipsy Shadowale wrings his little gloved hands in frustration as alternative plans are discussed...

Could these potential victims be brought here? Probably not, reasons Gnofulk. All the other victims have been stalked, and killed while they have been alone. Plus, the logistics of bringing everyone here? And putting the bath house at risk?

What about the tried-and-true bait method? Comfort may be a potential target… she could saunter around with the two short ones watching nearby… maybe? Though without armor… that seems a little too risky.

Uh, well, what about talking to the potential victims on the list? "Ta-taaaaaaaalk?" The word tumbles awkwardly from the halfling’s mouth. Talk? Well, it’s not knifing Sandar, or knifing anyone really, but the halfling still agrees to talk to these potential victims. Maybe more can be learned.

Finishing their tea, the trio again depart into the night and the rain, which is coming down harder. An umbrella is procured by Shadowale, but snatched up by Comfort, who doesn’t fancy being stuck in the ribs by umbrella arms. The holds the umbrella, herding her short companions a bit like ducklings.

Declaring that he wants another drink to stave off this chilly rain, Shadowale declares that they should check in on the pair of tieflings that tend to spent their time at the Naked Dwarf – a bar in Greyflood that the party has visited before.

It’s not too far away. Again, the trio walk, winding their way through and around towers, and over to the shady docks of Grayflood. They pass the familiar shipping companies and shops visited by the duo previously, and soon come to the Naked Dwarf.

The place, and Grayflood itself, has changed. Dock workers hustle quickly back and forth in the rain, coming from shift change or from bar hopping; the previous quiet terror apparently forgotten and replaced again with work and revelry, even in the rain.

The Naked Dwarf mirrors these changes. Where before it was the again widow and owner behind the bar with a few other staff afraid to go home at night... now, it is a vibrant bustling place. The staff are working; the owner is nowhere to be seen; and the place is a bit tumultuous.

The trio soon spot the tieflings of their search; Whisper, the woman and more rougish of the two is playing five finger fillet with the hand of her companion, Redoubt, whose other hand seems to be nervously moving between the hilt of his sword and the strap holding his shield to his back.

Drinker extraordinaire, Shadowale deduces what they are swilling, and the trio saunters up to the par to order a round for themselves and the tieflings. Hopping up on a bar stool, Gnofulk attempts to pay... but has seemingly run out of funds, and his pouch only contains a few bent coppers, some nuts, one fine looking leaf and a few pebbles. Comfort foots the bill, and they approach the tiefling pair.

Being a little more sociable than her counterparts, Comfort cordially introduces herself, Shadowale and Gnofulk, offers the drinks, and asks for a seat. Gnofulk is perplexed. Why did Comfort introduce themselves? Don't all tieflings just know one another?

Talk turns to the murders. Whisper is unconcerned. She views the people killed so far as rank amateurs. Her and her man can take care of themselves. The did know the harpy, Olethene though.She was good. Worked a few smash-and-grab jobs with her as lookout... but the rest? The rest were noobs. When pressed, the duo, again with Whisper-as-spokeswoman, brushes away knowledge of anyone having it out for the two of them. Sure, they've made a few professional enemies, but work is work.

The party seems to collectively sign, but Comfort catches a glimpse of the taciturn Redoubt, who is gripping his empty drink and has clearly-visable help me eyes, though the halfling and gnome were to focused on their drinks to notice. . 

The party stands to say bid their farewells, and Redoubt also rises, ostensibly to get another round of drinks for Whisper and himself. He takes a few steps to escort the party out, and with Whisper playing with knives again, he quickly confesses to the party that he's spooked. Of the two, he usually defends; she gets to round around all stabby; it's his job to worry and plan. He echoes Whisper's points that they don't know of anyone who would do this, nor anyone who would target them... but they's why there are here in the bar. Surrounded by people. They group reaches the bar, and Redoubt wishes the party luck.

The trio again step out into the rain. A bit dissatisfied with their lack of progress so far, the party takes Redoubt's worries to heart, and opt to pay a visit to Krung, an orc druid who tends to sit, rain or shine, in a nearby park... when he's not shape-shifted and being paid to shake down and threaten people with maulings.

The park sits atop a nearby tower, and the party, forced to traverse a winding exterior tower path to enter the tower, it good and soaked when they arrive. The park is large, but full. It's walls covered in ivy, and a handful of trees and numerous bushes have taken root, creating a sense of denseness and solitude in the bustling city. It seems like it would be rather pleasant, were it not raining heavily.

Comfort is shivering a bit under her umbrella now, and Shadowale has all but disappeared into his cloaks. Glad to be back in the closest to the wilds he had been in a while, Gnofulk breathed deep, and produced one of the nuts from his money pouch, and began to chitter and wander around... a little aimlessly. After a few moments, a noble squirrel is coaxed from his hiding spot among the foliage, and after circling around and up a tree, emerges on one of the boughs, which begins to droop languidly down towards the gnome.

The gnome and squirrel chitter back and forth, and the nut is handed over to the noble little rodent, who heartily munches while the two chat in the rain. Gnofulk learns that the squirrel is named Kim, and that there totally is a druid in the park; he's literally on the other side of these hedge-like bushes behind you.

Shadowale and Comfort, rather damp at this point, are less than amused at the 10 minutes wasted on attracting the squirrel and having this conversation, but Gnofulk is rather pleased with himself for still having these rather rustic communication skills, and he informs the party with a smile the the druid is just around this hedge here-

And as the party rounds the corner, the druid, dressed in scraps of fur greets them with his back turned. As the orc turns to face the party he shrugs and smirks, stating that he smelled them coming, even hindered by the rain. Gnofulk and Shadowale sniff themselves and despite the rain and the damp, and find they do still give off hints of pine and lavender. They nod to each other and give a little shrug. The druid is good I guess.

Gnofulk and Krung seem perfectly fine in the rain, but Shadowale and Comfort are eager to be indoors, and the trio jumps right in to discussing the murders. Krung is philosophic, and unimpressed. Someone strong is hunting, and the weak are falling; it is the way of things, even in the city. Sharn can be a brutal city, and these events are hardly extraordinary to those familiar with violence.

While it was assumed that one person is doing these killings, the party thinks this is the first time someone other than themselves has expressly stated it, and press the orc on it. Krung admits that he has seen the alleged killer, and thinks that even if he would come after the druid… the druid knows the way of prey and predator, and believes he could evade the killer – a keen nose gives plenty of warning. The party continues to press, and Krung tells them that the killer is a male drow, with simple, dark armor. The orc had seen the killer from a distance twice near the murder scenes prior to the murders.

Gnofulk scratches his little beard. He knew a drow once. The gnome whispers to Shadowale, wondering if the murderer could be their old adventuring companion Zyn. Shadowale rolls his eyes at the thought. C’mon Gnofulk, that’s offensive. There is more than one drow on the continent.

Krung waves them away, and Comfort and Shadowale are ready to be indoors. It’s still raining, but they are already soaked to the bone. One more stop won’t hurt anything. Again, they trudge through rain, taking brief refuge under awning or interior tower boulevards as they make their way to the small headquarters of Naman Fireslinger, a strong wizard with a flare for flames, who was rumored to be whipping a small band of thugs up into fighting form.

Fortunately, the wizard’s little headquarters is indoors, and the entrance is just off an interior boulevard of a tower. Unfortunately, as the trio drips their way down the interior boulevard and into the little alcove… they find the door broken, and swaying open. There are wet marks in the tiny hallway leading up to the broken door, but the trio is unable to determine if they were footprints, or coming, or going, or both… there’s just too many drips.

Readying his axe, Gnofulk crashes down the door the rest of the way, followed by Shadowale and his knives, and Comfort in the rear. They practically trip over a dead guard with a halberd laying nearby, and are faced with doors to their front and left, and they quickly turn to their right, to see into a conference room of sorts, with a large table, some bodies, some small fires still burning themselves out in the stone room, and plenty of scorch marks. An open window is at the far end of the room, a drow breathing heavily and rising up nearby.

Shadowale receives a magical whispered message, and the drow implores his tiny murderous brother-in-arms to leave him be and to let him work.

Shadowale takes a step towards the drow, but stops as the message is received. “Do I know you?” he whispers back.

And in fact, he does. Gnofulk’s idle stereotyping proved correct – this is in fact Zyn, the former party member with a penchant for face slashing, though the drow appears to have moved on from “ogres” to “everyone” on his naughty list.

The drow seems different though… more focused… more…. savage. His bow has been neglected, and is nowhere to be seen. Several longer blades (scimitars or short swords) are tucked in sheathes about his person, which is clad primarily with well-worn armor. Most of the superfluous clothes, like shirts, have been discarded.

While Shadowale was momentarily halted by Zyn’s message, Gnofulk was not, and the barbarian has bounded up atop the smoldering table, and is charging at the drow.

Fumbling for a potion, Zyn backpedals in surprise and jumps out the window, and the Gnome is able to catch a glimpse of their former comrade falling slowly into the dark night before being obscured by and lost in the rain.

The Gnome decides not to jump out, and the trio survey the room, finding that the last of the fires are smoldering themselves out on the stone floor, and also that they apparently interrupted Zyn, because all these faces look intact.

Naman Fireslinger is slouched on the floor near the head of the table, his robes both singed and soaked in blood. A quick search reveals some mundane weapons and a ring, and the trio swiftly pockets the latter.

Three thugs are dead around the long conference table as well, daggers and swords drawn but unbloodied, their throats and belies opened by a few vicious cuts. The halberd-holding thug by the door makes a 4^th dead thug. Add in the dead flame-chucking wizard, and the trio deduces that Zyn has uh… gotten pretty good at this killing thing.

As the trio goes to leave, they remember the other rooms in this little apartment, and throw open the door to the room opposite the front door. They find that it appears to be Fireslinger’s room. There’s a bed, a desk, a little drawer of clothes. The trio find and pocket a small case of scrolls, and perusing over the unburned papers in this room, learn that they were just figuring out some future smaller-time schemes – nothing groundbreaking or worthwhile.

The other room is a shared bedroom for the thugs. Two bunk beds, and a dresser sit in the room, and some mundane looking knives and weapons are propped in the corners.

The party decides to beat feet before someone else comes looking – they don’t know how loud Zyn was in dispatching these folks… Watching their back, they quickly melt into the night. They have the identity of the murderer. Now they need a plan… and some dry clothes.