The next day, with two more days to go until their scheduled meeting with Clan Tormtor, the companions set about some of the upkeep tasks usually reserved for such quiet times. Sack assessed his useage of arrows, and requested some more Alchemists' arrows from Kobort. The sorcerer, replying that he didn't have the necessary equipment, realized that the city presented a splendid opportunity for remedying that, and set off into the city in the direction of the Ghetto of Artisans to look for some.
Balked for the moment of his ammunition, the half-orc - having had Kobort make him invisible before he went - went outside to have a look around. Over the course of the day, he'd become aware that the building was being watched by not one, but two, individuals. One was shabby, clad in tattered rags and slightly obvious in his observation. The other was an indisticnt form in an enveloping cloak, scarcely visible and skillful in his surveillance.
The first watcher proved easy to waylay, and Sack managed to subdue him from behind without trouble, before stuffing him into the Bag of Holding and bundling him into the house. Leaving his interrogation to Hildraft and Surya, the half-orc returned to his post, ready to try and repeat the excercise with the second spy.
Inside, the cautious dwarf searched their prisoner and tied him securely before waking him. Interrogation was a slow process, with a variety of unconvincing stories being produced by a prisoner who seemed unafraid of what the dwarf was threatening. Surya, in an attempt to bring the point home better, drew the Sword of the Dead Legions and levelled it at the dark elf's nose. The spy's nerve seemed to go all of a sudden, but Hildraft noticed that his eyes were locked, not on the sharp and bloodstained point so close to his face, but the sheathed malice of the damned sword Tormentor.
His story was no more helpful; being hired by some nameless, well-dressed Fae Mhor to watch the house - perhaps Clan Tormtor, perhaps their enemies, perhaps someone neutral... Tiring of this, Surya killed him, and they hid the body in a chest in a room they weren't using.
Meanwhile, outside, Sack had caught a glimpse of his second target, working slickly through the passers-by. The professionalism of this man impressed him; never exposed from behind, always aware of all around him, his cloak seemed always to cover or shadow him completely; only fingers in reinforced gloves, and the tip of a scabbard and his boots below the cloak, were visible.
Sack approached him, unsurprised when he was spotted yards away, and indicated by signs that the inhabitants of the house wanted to converse with him. With dry amusement, the cloaked figure entered the house, and allowed himself to be ushered into the room where the others waited. Sack returned to his watch of the street, while Hildraft, Surya and Sigred spoke to their visitor.
Doffing his hood and letting his cloak fall back, the stranger was revealed as a tall, muscular dark elf, armoured under the cloak in leathers reinforced with metal. Their knowledge of the ways of the Fae Mhor was increasing, and so they were able to tell that his style of dress was rebellious, nonconformist.
As they spoke with him, the suspicion grew on them that he was not entirely as he seemed. He was unusually strongly built for a Fae Mhor, and his skin tone was paler. It seemed more and more likely that he was a half-elf of dark elven extraction. His eyes passed over the menacing shape of Tormentor where it crouched on Surya's hip like a beast of prey, but he made no comment or change of expression.
He introduced himself as Jalvan, and explained that he was watching them out of a mixture of curiosity and commercial interest, as there were bound to be people in the city willing to pay for information on such an odd group; a whole band of surface-worlders, and not the usual ones such as dark wizards seeking forbidden lore or crushed slaves toiling in chains. The conversation was tense and unfriendly, with Surya and Hildraft pouring scorn on Jalvan's description of himself and his associates (he called them "the rakes") as a subculture hoping and working for change in the brutal society of Nindolen - while not being above doing a little work for well-paying nobles, or a little burglary in the Merchant quarter. Surya called him " just a petty thief", and accused him of being a pathetic dreamer; and Hildraft, in an exchange of metaphors which forever buried the jibes against his clerical calling, described him as "a crude tool". Jalvan replied that many 'crude tools' were to be found in a shiny belt; Hildraft riposted that any tool could poke you painfully in the side if you sat down unwisely.
Clearly defeated in this exchange of aphorisms, Jalvan shook his head and said he didn't think they could do business after all, and turned to leave. Surya, direct as ever, roughly told him that they'd not given him permission to leave, as he'd not told them the truth. Jalvan half-turned back, and now real anger was visible in his face for the first time. He returned scorn to the surface-worlders, laughingly reminding them that in any negotiations in the Underdark, everyone lies; no-one ever tells everything. He proudly defied their right to hold or loose him, saying he could come and go as he chose. Surya's hand fell to his hilt.
Jalvan backed another step towards the door, and the Tellaran drew. But skilful and fast as he was, Jalvan was infinitely faster. His elegantly curved single-edged rapier climbed out of its' scabbard in a ringing blur, and the two blades crossed in the centre of the room with a musical chime. For a long moment, the two stared into each other's eyes, neither giving an inch; then Jalvan backed away another step and lowered his weapon. Surya also stepped back, and the rake put up his sword with a smile. Then, abruptly, the room went totally dark.
Cursing, Surya flung himself sideways and down, onto one knee and bringing his weapons up to parry the expected attack; an attack that never came. A soft chuckle came from near the room's door, and the sound of it opeining and closing. By the time Hildraft had brought up a Daylight spell, Jalvan was gone.
Outside, Sack saw the rake emerge and, drawing his cloak around him, walk swiftly off eastwards with the air of someone who has had bad news. Ascending to the thieves' highway, he followed the rake at rooftop height, tracking him through the sinkhole of misery that was the Ghetto of Chattels into the sprawled mire of the Ghetto of Outcasts.
This district was the eddy-pool of the city, the place where the scum, failures and rejects ended up. Hovels and lean-tos were the run of buildings; only a few more substantial structures existed. It was to one of these that Sack trailed his quarry, a battered tavern with the name of "the Nines" marked over the door. An odd name, here, in the city so precoccupied with spiders and eight-fold symbology.
The rake disappeared inside, and Sack - who'd had to come down from the rooves some way back - came to a halt. Only then did he realize how much attention he was attracting. Abruptly he realized that - for this place - he was dressed and equipped in the utmost luxury; two boots, without holes; fine armour; multiple weapons (including two with gold-fitted hilts); golden rings. Even as he considered this, three or four of the miserable wretches watching him detached themselves from the shadows and started to come towards him, hands outstretched. As they approached, he could see dreadful open sores on their emaciated bodies, and smell the disease and filth in which they lived. "Alms, master," the leading beggar croaked, first in the Fae Mhor language that Sack didn't speak, and then - remarkably - in Common.
Sack was not prone to pity. He'd passed through the slave pits of the Ghetto of Outcasts not half an hour before without blinking. But he tossed a couple of small silver coins to the beggars. As they picked them up, the leader looked at the half orc, and in a peculiar voice, stronger than would be expected from such a miserable creature, said, "Trust in the unexpected help from strange ones met unplanned." Then they were gone.
Thoughtful, Sack set off back.
En route, he was stopped by a patrol, who pointed out that he wore no green tabard. He considered being awkward, but there were rather a lot of them - ten soldiers, an obvious wizard and an officer - and he didn't like the look of the nasty little pistol crossbows. Grudgingly, he put the tabard on, and the officer let him go with a stern warning, which Sack rather spoiled by whistling cheerily as he walked away. This attracted more attention than almost anything else he'd done, as no-one whistled happy tunes in the Ghetto of Chattels.
Back at the house, the group were pondering Jalvan and whether they might have misjudged his significance. Belatedly, it occurred to Hildraft to suggest re-interrogating their first prisoner. Dragging him out of his corner, Surya drew the Sword of the Dead Legions and concentrated.
For long minutes nothing happened. Beads of sweat dewed the Tellaran's face at the strain, but finally, the corpse stirred and its' eyes opened with a groan. The companions had seen many creatures dragged back from death by the necromatic sword, and were becoming used to the pain and horror they displayed; but the dead Fae Mhor was beyond their worst expectations. Rapidly, it became apparent that, for Fae Mhor, being dead was far worse than the pain of being dragged back....
They questioned it about its' mission, and about Jalvan. The dead dark elf had in fact been a member of the Thieves' Guild - in this city a much darker and viler organization than in other cities - and that the Guild hated the rakes like poison. Jalvan's account of himself and the rakes was borne out; as far as the Thieves knew, he had no mighty sponsor, no rich family letting him play at being a rogue.
Perhaps they'd lost the chance of a useful contact...