RP Session 3: "The Diemen Gambit"

Pavel indulged in a small growl of frustration -- something he would never do had there been anyone present to witness the tacit admission of defeat. But, alone, and in the privacy of his own residence, he could at least admit to himself that he lacked a clear understanding of the full meaning behind his prophetic vision. The power of foresight was wasted on one who could only retrospectively find meaning in a vision.

Perhaps I will discover its meaning in the near future, he thought. There is yet time to make use of it.

He made a non-committal grunt in response to the thought and then firmly put the topic out of his mind. He had work to do.

Pavel packed his travel bag and then walked down two flights of stairs, bringing him his ground floor shop. His hireling, Shurhandt, had left a couple of hours ago, extinguishing the lights and locking the doors behind him. "Creo Ignem," he muttered, threading his words with the barest hint of mebhaighl. In response, a nearby candelabra flickered to life, providing Pavel with just enough light to safely navigate the room. He opened a closet and retrieved a kit containing a variety of blank parchments, pens, inks, and seals -- everything he needed to enable him to attempt to protect his friend by means of some clever misdirection. Many Anuirians had the strange notion that misdirection was somehow dishonorable.

Pavel rolled his eyes at the thought. At least Erron did not ascribe to such a foolish notion.

Although Pavel considered himself a man of honour and culture, the blood of the forgotten Vos of old was still in his veins, and regardless of what his people in the far distant steppes had become the magic of deception was as much a part of him as eye or hand. Using illusion, misdirection, and deceit to protect one's friends or family or to fool one's enemies... not only was such behaviour acceptable, if done with flair it was considered art in the right circles. He wasn't sure the exact form his subterfuge would take. But he'd lose nothing in the trying.

Pavel placed the kit on the desk at the front of the shop before exiting the shop. Standing in the doorway, he glanced over his shoulder. "Perdo Ignam," he said in a stern voice. The small fires of the candelabra meekly winked out of existence. Pavel nodded his approval and left the shop, re-locking the door behind him.

He had arrangements to make.

The group found themselves on a relatively wide and well-cobbled street. Behind them was a walled property that commanded the entirety of the block. Within the walls were several buildings. Although no gates were visible on this street, the group had passed a large gate just around the corner and signs out front had proclaimed the enclave to be the property of the Port of Call Exchange, a local guild with ties to the land of Khinasi.

In front of the group was a stone-wrought three-story building that was divided into three separate units, each with its own ground-floor shop. The first was a barber's shop. The second, a tailor and clothier. The third shop -- the one Erron indicated as their destination -- had a sign out front proclaiming it to be 'Pavel's Hovel' and advertising the blazon 'Soothsayer.'

The street was only dimly lit at this time of night and all of the shops had placards in the windows that read 'Closed'. But light spilled from a lantern placed in front of Pavel's Hovel, almost as if it were waiting for them.

Naught but a moment later, the door to the shop opened, light spilling out into the street. A head peaked out but, with the light behind it, was little more than a silhouette. "Good, you are here," a voice said in a conspiratorial whisper. "There is a post at the back of the building where you can tie your horses. I need your help attending to one last bit of business before we go. The rear entrance is open."

Pavel conferred with Erron for a few minutes, allowing his friend to get him up to speed on the group's situation. In just a handful of minutes, he was packed and ready to go. He and Erron took the rear exit and Pavel locked the back door behind him. He retrieved his horse from the stable adjacent to the inn at the far end of the street, quickly returning to lead the group onward to the awaiting ferry.

Lancaelad had been in a foul mood since their narrow escape from what might have been the Rabbit Prince's vedettes – or merely poachers on the baroness' lands. He had scraped the worst of the river-muck off with the blade of his hand, but he was still caked in cold, slowly drying mud and tufted with bits of reeds and roots that made him look like some shambling bog-monster atop his steed. He shifted in the saddle constantly, squelching, but thankfully he seemed dour enough that his tongue was kept sheathed instead of lashing out at the others in the party.

As the passed north around Proudglaive he cast wistful glances at the brooding basalt-walled hulk of Castle Blacktower watching over the city. His thoughts turned to the warm fires and soft beds that would await him there... but no. They had come so far under cover of anonymity, had accomplished such a portion of the task set to them by their own craft that it would be senseless to reveal themselves now. No matter how homely those grim turrets looked...

The night's chill began to penetrate his bones, and his nerves were worn from constant vigilance as Erron lead them in to Sorren's Landing. As the reached the place that the sign proclaimed Pavel's Hovel (how inspiring...) he eyed the uncommonly tall, lanky man. His features were foreign, but he was strangely well-groomed for a Vos; the tales portrayed them as howling savages from the frozen sunless north, riding whitehaired lizards of enormous size and ferocity. A people born to strife and winter that even the Emperor Roele had been unable to vanquish.

"You are the fortune-teller Erron spoke of?" he asked dubiously, raising a muddy gauntlet to stifle a yawn. "A Vos magician seems a contradiction in terms." He frowned at the request. "What business is this? OUR purpose is urgent, I will have you know. We have assassins hounding our heels, and even this backwater sump may house spies and infiltrators wearing friendly garb... why, we fended off a small army of men disguised as guards in Bardenhold, not to mention killers on the docks of Abbadiel and informants all the way to the baroness' court..." Nevertheless, he dismounted as he complained, eager give his soggy arse and cramped legs a respite from Ogre's girth.

Pavel returned Lancaelad's gaze with a look of stoicism that was marred by the briefest hints of compassion.

"Indeed, I am a Soothsayer," he said with no hint of a Vos accent. "A contradiction?" he asked in confusion. Apparently he did not understand the Anuirian tongue as well as he spoke it. "Ah, yes, I would seem so," he agreed.

Pavel looked Lan over from head to tow. "Perdo terram.. perdo terram..perdo terram.." he chanted a half-dozen times. Each time the mage spoke, Lan felt.. less itchy. He then offered a small bow to Lancaelad, who had been stripped of the dirt and grime discomforting him. "Forgive my presumption," he said with a quarter-grin. "I can put it back if you prefer?"

"I am already packed and ready to go, I foresaw both your coming and your need. Well, actually, I got Erron's letter. The business I intend to .. well.. attend to .. is your business, good Sir. You have people following you. I thought I should do something about that."

"I imagine it would be easier to avoid muddy patches of road ahead of you," Pavel said, nodding sagely, "if you're not too busy looking over your shoulder at people following behind you." And, with that, blame for Lancaelad's previously unkempt state had been firmly placed where it belonged -- on the scoundrels who had been harassing the group since Abbadiel.

"Please" Erron interjected as swiftly as he could, scanning the darkened street "any watcher will be expecting their quarry to dash for the ferry. We are not pursued, let us measure our pace. If there are to be questions let us ask them indoors. Out of sight of any eyes that might be bought for a drink or two."

Then he paused as if realising what Pavel said. "Wait, you plan to accompany us?"

Pavel looked up and down the street to be sure he hadn't disturbed any of his neighbors. He then stood back and made a welcoming gesture, noting that Lancaelad wasn't the only one showing signs of a day's ride after fording a small river.

Pavel looked at Erron with shock on his face before laughing at Erron's hilarious joke. "You're are teasing of me," he said with a thick Vos accent. "Of course I will accompany you. If I do not go, you will die." He knew Erron well enough to he had the young noble's attention. "Because, surely you know that if you put yourself in harm's way without giving me the chance to repay the lifedebt I owe you, honor would demand that I kill you, myself." Pavel allowed the full weight of Vos logic to sink in.

A moment later, he broke the silence with good-natured laughing. Speaking perfectly in the Anuirian tongue once more he said, "I'm just kidding," he said lightly. "I know you would never put me in such a position."

"And, even if honor didn't demand I accompany you, Fate commands me to join in your efforts to save the Red Hart -- although that is more difficult to explain. Something about faceless people and a large bird of prey -- an eagle or hawk or some such. I am confident that Fate will loosen its grip on such secrets in the fullness of time."

Pavel politely greets anyone who chooses to enter his shop and offers them the same courtesy he recently extended to the now-sparkly-clean Lancaelad.

Upon entering Pavel's Hovel, you can immediately tell that it caters to a high-end clientele. No merchandise displays are to be seen, not a single item appears to be for sale. The front of the shop consists of a well appointed sitting area with a couch and a small table. On the other side of the space sits a large, sturdy desk made of dark mahogany and a comfortable chair behind it. They are positioned such that when one is seated at the desk, one's back is to the wall -- most likely used by Pavel and his staff when open for business.

The middle of the shop's consists of a wide hall that connects the front and the back. There is a door on each side of the hall, middle is empty but made slighty more narrow by what appeared to be a small closet on each side. A pair of sliding wooden privacy panels can be closed to separate the front of the shop from its rear but both panels are currently open.

The rear of the shop consists of a large round rug on which sits a large but low-built wood table built of a dark mahogany that matches the desk in front. In order to sit around the table, one must sit on the floor in the traditional Khinasi-style. Strewn around the table on the floor are piles of cushions and pillows to ensure one's experience at the table is a comfortable one.

It is to the round table in the back that Pavel directs his guests to since the sitting room is not large enough to accommodate everyone. Pavel sits himself at his customary spot, his back to a small hearth, currently unlit.

"If you wish to rest for the night, you are welcome to stay upstairs. The second floor is completely bare. No furniture, just a wood floor. But you're welcome to it should that be your desire. My sense is that you will be wanting to leave before that, no?"

Pavel considers everything he has heard thusfar. Wizards had a reputation for being intelligent and Pavel did nothing to dispel that stereotype. Paper, quill, ink were on the table waiting patiently to be used. He began using them.

"So, you managed to pick up some unwanted attention, have you?" he said slowly even as he was composing a letter. "An veritable army, was it? And spies in the royal court, too?" He looked over the message he had written with a critical eye. "How exciting!"

After some consideration, he continued writing. "Well, it sounds like these people have put a great deal of effort into finding you. Perhaps such hard work should be rewarded?"

Pavel finished writing. "Muto aquam," he whispered, causing the ink to dry on the parchment. "We must send a message to the Baroness, of course, warning her of the unwanted eyes in her court. But, if there as many people searching for you as you say, surely such a message would surely be intercepted. If the message happened to lead them astray, well, it'd be their fault for reading it in the first place. So, if you allow, I shall shroud a letter of warning with illusion. Should anyone other than the Baroness lay eyes upon it, it shall read thusly."

Pavel holds out the parchment he'd been working on, offering it to any who care to look at it.

Lan grunted in surprise and discomfort as the muck was magically schlorped off him. He started angrily towards Pavel, then paused, testing out his non-squelching boots and cling-free tabard. Good gods, he hadn't felt so clean since the time his mother had found him energetically mucking out the stables in his Haelyn's Festival best doublet and had the scullery maids scrub him down in the kitchen. He licked his teeth and smacked his lips - "Mint?" he muttered, bemused.

"No, no," the young knight held up a sparking clean gauntlet to forestall a reimmersion in grime. Like most Anuireans, he had no distrust of magic per se; court magicians and battle-mages trained at the Imperial Colleges of Sorcery were held in high esteem. Spells of bewitchment and entrancement might be a violation of a man's Haelyn-given autonomy, but there was nothing wrong with a cleaning cantrip. "In the future, cast not your spells on me without permission..." he glanced up at the sign, "... Master Pavel. But the refreshment was most welcome."

He glanced between Erron and Pavel as they spoke about a life debt, then helped Adalric Salien down from his mount. "Have you made out what that relic of old you recovered from the mire is, Master Salien?" he asked conversationally, before directing as many of the band as seemed practicable to join them indoors, starting with Lady Tovrunn and the Rhoderick of the Sea Watch, with those of lower station as room allowed.

"I will admit the road has left us weary, but I would prefer to rest on the riverboat, or even to find refuge on the Medoerean bank," he said, glancing between Pavel, Erron and Rhodri. "Is the vessel ready to receive us now, or must we wait until morning?"

Lowering himself onto a cushion with a clink of maille, he watched with curiousity as Pavel prepared the pernicious parchment. He read the illusionary document with knotted brows, which relaxed as he understood. "A cunning ruse! But a hundred gold crowns? I warrant a far higher ransom than that!" He stroked his beard, which felt as smooth as if it had been freshly lathered. "We would need a boisterous and loose-lipped messenger to ensure the message is intercepted. Our foes may be many, but I doubt they are so well placed as to snare every passing pigeon. Does anyone know of a suitable bearer?"

"Of course, of course.. how much would be a suitable amount? I'm sorry, the idea of ransom is not one that I am accustomed to." It went without saying that Vos typically enslave people they capture.

"If no one suitable comes to mind, I can always leave instructions for one of my staff deliver the missive for us. One of my helpers is a well-travelled halfling who is naturally both boisterous and fairly loose-lipped. I can specifically give him permission to stop by a few taverns along the way. He'd get the hint."

"Oh, incidentally.. when we were outside, did I hear someone mention a relic?" A look of abject curiosity betrayed the young mage's thoughts before Vos stoicism reasserted itself. His blue eyes, almost seemed to flash and flicker. It was as if the dark blue of his eyes' irises slightly drained away, making them appear several shades lighter and then they almost-but-not-quite glowed with a pearlescent sheen.

Though her ride from the edge of the river to Sorren's Landing had been decidedly more comfortable than her husband-to-be's, that did not mean necessarily that Tovrunn was at ease when they arrived. After all, being chased by assailants unknown in number did little to calm the nerves. Not for the first time Tovrunn felt a primal connection to the fox at bay.

Entering the establishment and lowering her hood, Tovrunn evaluates the scholarly Vos with a critical eye before doing the same with the interior of his establishment, capping off her cursory investigation with a nod of approval. Following the troupe into the back room, Tovrunn knelt and waited. It was good to take the weight off of her feet and she was stiff from the saddle. But comfort was not a priority now, no matter how welcome it was. There was business to attend to still.

"Salien here stumbled upon something when we crossed the Elvenmere," Tovrunn explained, speaking for the first time in hours. "He was quite insistent that we not leave it behind. We have not yet had the time to examine it closely, however. If it would not inconvenience you..."

Tovrunn leaves the question open.

"Your man is as good as any to carry a letter intended for our enemies," she said. Like the Vos, the Rjurik were not above misdirection when it was warranted. After all, it would do no good for raiders to announce their approach. "I'd caution him to be wary; these hounds at our heels are vicious and prone to violence. The less personal connection that he can speak to, the better. For his sake."

"I thought you had a people looking for you. Are you saying they all want to kill you, too?"

Apparently they did things differently in Vosgaard because Pavel looked truly surprised by the notion that a spy would actually kill someone. Of course, Vos weren't exactly masters of spycraft. But, then, neither were they masters of spellcraft. And, yet, here he is. Clearly Pavel was not your stereotypical North-Easterner.

Pavel had no immediate answer for Tovrunn. He simply turned to Erron with a silent appeal for his input.

Salien seemed bemused by the intrigues in which he had found himself embroiled, though getting off the silent street and whatever eyes the night held at least loosened his frown a little. He frowned at Lancaelad's question, hand going to his belt where the gnarled hunks of metal were tucked. "No it just... it didn't belong in the swamp. I suppose we could leave it with someone... it's well enough where it is though."

Pavel's keen examination seemed only to make the man less comfortable, and he took an unconscious step away from the seer.

Erron meanwhile considered the message. "Not much opportunity for interception a mere hour south, and I don't know that we could have reached the woods so swiftly... which might work in our favour. What if one of your assistants were to make their way to Thoeren's Landing and commission a messenger there? The message would travel back by river in the hands of a third party, depending upon the curiosity of river folk and couriers both."

The nondescript man paused, his eyes darting in thought as if weaving threads into a tapestry in his mind's eye. "I think that we can be quite certain that we were not pursued here at least." He glanced at Rhoderick "that woman on the swamp's edge must surely have been watching the roads for us, and had she not believed your ruse brother Rhoderick we would not have rode the rest of the day unmolested. Nor was she watching the swamps, or our lie would not have been enough to allay suspicion. Can we even say that they know our destination?"

"Let us wait until the town is abed - no sense leaving gossip of a late night crossing behind us in a small town - we will leave instruction for this missive to go north tomorrow, and then we will cross in to Medoere and find some hayloft to lay our heads for a few hours while we pray that our trail cools. What say you all?"

"That sounds like a good plan of action to me," Tovrunn admitted. Erron's logic was strong, and like they had trusted her to navigate the wilderness of the Elvenmere, she should trust Erron to lead their subterfuge here.

Pavel nodded in agreement with the Druidess. "A good plan," he echoed.

"You are a Disciple of Irakhan?" Pavel asked Tovrunn, "Aeric?" he quickly corrects himself, using the nature god's proper Anuirian name. "Would you care to examine this relic with me?" Pavel made a point to keep both of his hands gently clasped behind his back, making no move to take or even touch the item, himself. "Goodman Salien, would you mind holding the item in the light so we may examine what you found?"

Although his hands had been empty a moment ago, one of them now held a magnifying glass and brought it up to one eye, intending to look for any inscriptions, symbols, or any other similar etchings that could possibly be used to identify the relic. The magnifying glass conveniently (if dimly) emitted a soft glow and was clearly magical in nature.

He still had his other hand behind his back, wanting to assure Salien that his interest was academic in nature.

He turned back to Tovrunn for a moment, "Shall we take a look?" he asked with no hint of humor in his voice. Clearly he had no idea how he appeared with the magnifying glass held in front of his face.

"Show the goodman" said Rhoderick, cracking a huge yawn poorly concealed behind a fist. "I itch to get back to the water, even if for a short while."

Uncharacteristically, Ser Lancaelad nodded in silent assent to the plan. Even a few hours rest would be welcome. He watched the divination with some slight interest, but his attention was more on the object or objects themselves. What had Salien pulled from the mud? An old sword? A shield boss? A buckle or cloak pin?

"Food would be welcome," he added, echoing Rhoderick's yawn.

With a shrug Slien produced the two pieces of metal from his belt and offered them hesitantly.

Corson leaned against the wall next to the door, watching silently as the others talked.