Chapter Four: The Manifest of the Harikan Squall

"Ah, yes," the clerk says, shrinking away from Zangua. "I take your point...however...I lack the authority to --"

"See here!" one of the customers says, stepping forward. He is tall, with a squarish head and a long gray mustache. "You can't go intimidating this man in his place of employ. I know not what savage hill-town you hail from, but in this city the conduction of business is an honored thing. You'll not detain this man from his duties, or you'll answer to me." He crosses his arms, planting himself in between Zangua and the clerk.

At this moment, the clerk behind the desk finds what he was fumbling for, and begins tugging a cord. You hear the muffled sound of a bell ringing somewhere.

~meanwhile, upstairs~

Jermal ports, to Felor's best recollection, tend to be informally-run; it seems unlikely to him that any of the port towns he's familiar with would keep a copy of a ship's manifest for very long, if they took it at all.

Of elves, though, he knows more than a little. More than once Marn took him to study herblore from the small community of elves at Wichee Copse, and while he had never been there, he had heard stories of the great hidden elf-cities deep in the fir and pine forests of the Upper Gultor, said to be the largest and oldest elven nation west of the Ochlu Mountains.

Everybody in the meeting room hears a bell ringing somewhere nearby. Martjan frowns. "Domarc. Go see what's the matter."

Domarc goes downstairs to find what looks to be an awkward standoff between Zangua, the clerk Boldo Gagrippa, and the Speaker of the Dyemakers' Guild, whose name Domarc can't quite recall. Shamush is standing threateningly over the wine-seller Otomonis Firzal. All the other clerks and customers have stopped what they're doing to watch, and Ozen Carp is behind the desk near the cord that rings the emergency bell, trying to catch your eye with a pained look on his face.

Domarc cannot help but wonder what in the Nine Hells made everything go sideways so quickly.

The wine-seller slinks out from under Shamush's looming form to stand next to Domarc. The Speaker uncrosses his arms and takes a step back. The customers seem to relax, and begin shuffling back into queue formation.

The front door opens and the smiling man walks back in. This time, he is accompanied by a very short man in an ice-blue hooded robe. They take their place at the end of the queue. The smiling man looks around the room, placidly beaming at one and all.

Domarc has never seen either of those two before.

Martjan sits up very straight. "Something's going on. I believe we had best get you all out of here. Follow me." She gets up from her chair, heads out into the hall outside the meeting room, and whispers a Message response back to Domarc: "Meet us in the west storeroom as soon as you're able."

Mordred follows Zora and the rest of the party as they head down the hall behind Martjan.

~meanwhile, downstairs~

There is a sudden clamor of footsteps on the floor above you. The smiling man glances up, then looks at his short friend in the blue robe and waggles his eyebrows.

The man in the blue robe reached up into his left sleeve and pulls out a live cricket. He utters a phrase: "Buuru bakaab," crushes the cricket between his fingers, and makes a flicking motion toward the base of the stairs where Zangua and the others are standing.

Edit: The timid clerk is the first to fall to the ground. Next, the wine-seller slumps back against the wall and slides down, unconscious. The Speaker's knees buckle and he drops, his eyes rolling back in his head, and the sharply-dressed young woman standing near him topples over on top of him. Domarc feels a soft, heavy, almost pleasant sensation overwhelm his brain, like the rush of the first big gulp of strong wine, but...gentler, irresistible...he closes his eyes, the room is so bright...everything feels so distant, so unimportant...

Even as Domarc collapses at the foot of the stairs, Zangua and Shamush feel the heaviness, the pull of arcane sleep trying to drag them down, but it's not enough to take them down.

The smiling man draws a curved, filigreed silver blade from a sheath concealed behind his cape at the small of his back. "You all should leave," he tells the customers and employees who were not within the range of the sleep spell. "This business day has ended, and you may not care to see the transactions that will now take place."

Zangua and Shamush, roll for initiative.

Back upstairs, Martjan rounds a corner and turns down a hall leading to the west side of the building, then heads down a stairwell.

Those of you upstairs are free to take actions/ask questions, but you don't know what's happening in the lobby right now. Still need an initiative roll from Shamush.

"Some sort of incident in the lobby. Domarc...has his methods of subtle communication. From all you've said, I wouldn't be surprised if the Crown cult knew to watch for your arrival here." She shoots a look at Zora. "It might have been prudent to arrange for you to meet me at some neutral location."

"Arrange with who? You think I know anybody else in this stupid city?" Zora snaps back.

"Well, it's too late now," Martjan says, stopping at a landing to open a door. You follow her inside to a spacious, darkened room, full of shelves and boxes, with ladders and handcarts lined up neatly against the near wall. "There's a concealed door to the back alley. If there's danger, we should be able to give it the slip. We need only wait for the others to get here."

Candy-colored clowns dance in Domarc's dreams.