Finnilea's Calling (IC)

[Mordae]

Spray sparkles in the salt-scented air as the bow of the Silver Saber of Suzail knifes through the waters of the Dragonmere en route to Westgate. Unlike so many of the privateers and other sundry vessels that ply the Inner Sea, this narrow-beamed vessel is built for comfort as well as speed. Finnilea rather regretfully accepted the lavish quarters near the stern of the vessel, one deck below the main, on the insistence of Lord Aunadar Bleth that she could not in good taste be berthed in a hammock with the all-male crew.

The lack of specific duties while on board left her at loose ends, a rather undesirable situation for one used to action. So it is on the second day of the journey that she finds herself on the weatherdeck, her hair caught by the wind as she discontentedly watches the sailors at their work. The crew are rather well-dressed as sailors go, with billowy yellow shirts that stand out starkly from the white sails and bloused navy trousers that are gathered neatly just above their bare feet. More than three dozen are required to trim the sails on this slender three-master, but she makes excellent time on the easterly run toward the narrow neck of the Dragonmere and the bustling merchant city of Westgate that lay just beyond, nestled on the southern shore of the Dragon Coast.

In addition to the men working the ship, Lord Bleth himself is standing at the starboard rail just forward of the stern, in conversation with Captain Blaise Fauchand--a rather stern-looking fellow himself whose bushy beard and eyepatch might make him look more at home on a corsair than a chartered vessel. His dashing uniform and military bearing, however, speak to his credentials as a seagoing gentleman, along with the splendid uniform and feathered tricorne.

There are a few other passengers on the vessel, and Finnilea was given their names as a matter of course when she was signed on as part of Lord Bleth's official security retinue. But aside from the rather overdone dinners each evening in the Captain's stateroom, she has seen little of the polite but reclusive elves.

[Mystral]

Finnilea sighs softly while combing her short, light blonde hair with her spread fingers. Her eyes idly look over the assembled crew, watch them scrub the deck, tie knots, trim the sails and all the other things that were neccessary to faciliate the seemingly effortless speed of their vessel. Were they even realising that a Paladin was watching them? Were they thinking that she was judging them? Maybe they thought she had seen them gambling or watched them whore in the port from which they departed. She had little doubts that they did, but she didn't mind. Life on sea was without much to occupy the mind, as she had the misfortune to realise herself. At least she didn't get seasick, and there was something about the practiced precision of the sailors that was to be admired. Everyone seemed to know their places, like soldiers on a battlefield. And a battlefield the ship might become any day, if Umberlee was displeased with their offerings. She, of course, had given a token amount of tribute at the shrine in Marsember, their port of departure. As little as she liked the bitch queen, or the evil aura her temple and most of her clergy exuded, if she was to travel trough her domain, she would do well to pay for the privilege. It wouldn't do if she endangered the crew and Lord Bleth by offending her.

Smothing her hand of her plain, beige dress, she lets her eyes wander to Lord Bleth himself. At the moment, she didn't wear any of her magical equipment other then her sword, which rarely parted company with her. It was slung in an awkward angle over her shoulder that made it easy to carry but quite hard to draw in the heat of combat. This was only for show of course, as a simple word would make the blade fly into her waiting hands, but many an enemy had thought her an inexperienced warrior for carrying her sword in this way, giving her an edge in combat. It was a little underhanded, granted, but as she used that advantage only against those that would attack an inexperienced swordswoman without her blade in her hands, she didn't view at as dishounorable. The rest of her things were put into a locked strongbox in her quarters, and if anything should go missing.. Well, a small part of her was hoping for that. A sailor that was dumb enough to steal from a paladin of Tyr was something that might alleviate the boredom of their travels for a while, and if she couldn't find him by the usual means, there was always the second magical item she caried with her, a scroll with a spell written on it to lead her to anything she might search. She watched the deck for a few seconds to make out a way to the Lord and Captain without disturbing the work of the sailors, she starts towards them.

[Mordae]

The sailors instinctively give way to Finnilea's movements, such that her approach to the quarterdeck is more rapid than she had expected when she started. She arrives as the captain is saying, "... tomorrow evening, but we can bring you ashore by longboat if you'd prefer."

Bleth gives the sailing master a cursory nod before turning his undivided attention and unctuous smile toward the arriving paladin. "Sister of the Maimed One, I trust all is well with the security of the vessel?" he inquires in his rich, resonant baritone voice, conveying a practiced and authoritative calm. His green eyes briefly lock with hers, a single fine eyebrow arched in question.

[Mystral]

Finnileas smiles a bit while nodding her head to both of them. She puts a hand at the railing to steady herself on the gently shifting deck. "Everything seems in perfect order, though of course, the captain is, by traditions right, the final judge in this matter. I take it that we are ariving soon, then? We are surely making good time."

[Mordae]

The Captain gestures to the billowing sails and demurs, "The winds have been kind, and if the Queen of the Depths is willing we shall continue to travel by night and day, reaching Westgate at sunset tomorrow."

Lord Bleth is about to speak when there is a jarring impact to the ship, staggering all those on deck and causing all those aloft to grab for lines lest they be tossed into the deep. Boards creak, and the ship heels sharply over to starboard as the wind-aided sails push against whatever has snagged the vessel from below.

"Spears!" calls a deckhand from somewhere forward as there is a shriek from above. One of the sailors atop the mainmast points a trembling hand at a mass of thick, green tentacles that has lashed itself to the starboard rail.

"Oghma's lyre!" the captain swears, hustling toward his quarters to fetch a weapon. "A kraken!"

{Initiative, Spot}

[Mystral]

"Speak of the Bitch Queen, and her Servants are there." Finnilea silently cursed her mistake to leave her equipment below deck. Nevermind, no time to mourn. She would make do. With a deft grip, she pulls a key out of her pocket and gives it a deckhand. "Run to my Room, bring me the backpack in the locker by the bed. Go!" she tells him empathicaly, then she turns to the kraken and reaches for her weapon. She would fight him with tooth and nails, of course, if need be, but it was good to know that her equipment was on it's way.

Initiative: 6
Spot: 16

[Mordae]

The deckhand blinks in surprise and darts for one of the companionways leading below, the key clutched tightly in one fist.

As Finnilea's blade comes flying to her hand, the battle is already joined along the rail. A couple of spears stick out from the bulbous, rubbery tentacles that grip the ship, but in return one of the sailors has been snagged by the kraken and tossed high in the air; his panicked screams carry across the deck as he rapidly gains altitude.

In the distance behind the sea monster, Finnilea notices an odd misty patch that seems out of place on the clear horizon. It appears to be gradually drawing nearer to the striken vessel.

[Mystral]

Finnilea looks up at the sailor and to the mist. For a split seconds, she ponders if she should try to fly up and catch him, but she wasn't the most nimble of flyers, and in the time she would save the man, if at all, the kraken could crush three others. "Tyr, lend my blows your strength!" she cries out and, as her sword lights up with the righteous fury of the maimed god, she takes a few running steps to the kraken, letting her sword crush down on one of the arms holding the ship. As the Blade bites true and deep, the flames flare up and spread across the wound, blackening the rubbery flesh of the kraken. This, he should have felt..

Swift: Extended Wraithstrike
Full Round: Charge, PA 8. Hit: 12. Damage: 24 + 33 Fire (Combust from Spellstore)

[Mordae]

The tiny spears had caused very little pain to the gargantuan sea monster, but Finnilea's blade definitely gets its attention. The wreathing flames crackle and lick at the tentacles, and some of the splintered wood of the rails starts to smoke as the heat reaches them. Fortunately, the ship does not catch so easily. Unfortunately for Finnilea, neither does the kraken.

All attempts to engage the crew end as the enraged beast focuses its attentions solely on the unarmored paladin who commands the power of pain. Before it can attack, Finnilea draws on her inner magical power and summons a small horde of duplicates, each posing defiantly against the foul creature of the deep.

The show does not befuddle the kraken for long, as it simply lashes out with all of its six appendages that are not currently grasping the ship's rail. The five images are immediately destroyed in various gory ways, and Finnilea is hoisted up into the air as one slimy arm wraps around her legs and starts to squeeze.


[roll0]
[roll1] [roll2]
[roll3] [roll4]
[roll5] [roll6]
[roll7] [roll8]
[roll9] [roll10]
[roll11] [roll12]

[Mystral]

Finnilea screams out in pain and struggles around in the arm in vain. Her sword can't help her now, and as she doesn't wear her feystep boots, she can do little but grit her teeth against the pain and fighting not to pass out.

Lay on Hands for 8. That's all

[Mordae]

As Finnilea struggles in mid-air, the crew on the deck tries futilely to dislodge the great beast from their ship. It's difficult to see all the activity going on while aloft, but the paladin could swear that strange fog cloud is now much closer.

Suddenly, there is a cry from the deck and a young elf comes springing from the same companionway where the deckhand had disappeared in search of Finnilea's equipment. The elf's straight blond locks flow back from his finely featured face as he flies to Finnilea's aid, his thin native blade swinging to cut the rubbery arm that binds her.

The blade strikes true twice, and Finnilea drops to the deck with an awkward thump that is gently cushioned by the severed tip of the kraken's arm.

With less movement going on, she can see Lord Bleth on the quarterdeck casting... something...


Free: Activating boots of speed
Free: Activating ring of force
Swift: Cast Swift Fly
Standard: [roll0] [roll1]
Haste: [roll2] [roll3]

[Mystral]

Finnilea does not take the time to nod a thanks. With a few gestures and words, she begins weaving a net of light around herself to protect herself from the kraken. She struggles to her feet from the chopped of tentacle and tries to ready her sword again, while still being unsteady on her feet. She hadn't expected the kraken to be that powerfull, but at least, she had survived his attack. Had it been one of the sailors, he would have easily been crushed to death.

[Mordae]

Indeed, the sailors are now fleeing the wrath of the kraken but have largely survived thanks to Finnilea's intervention. As she struggles to her feet, Lord Bleth completes his spell.

Moments later, the air becomes filled with thick white fog that obscures almost all sight. The sudden concealment is met with a strange 'plop' sound as the kraken, inexplicably, lets go of the rail. The ship wobbles to its normal position, lurching a bit as the wind catches the sails and drives the prow down close to the foamy waves.

[Mystral]

Finnilea takes a few breaths, then she nods a thanks to the elf. "Thank you, that was rather close... I saw a cloud of strange fog.. not this one, rolling in from starboard." She murmurs a few words of power to fuel her magical defenses. First, an armor of bright light rises around her, making her seem almost angelic in apperance. From her hand, Flames flicker down on the blade and make it warm up in her hands.

Then, she takes a few steps to Lord Bleth and steps next to him, partly to protect him, partly to see him clearly. "A timely intervention, your lordship. Are you well?"

Swift Action: [roll0] Sacrifice Strength Luminous Armor
Standart Action: Combust into Spellstore
Move Action: Walk to Lord Bleth

[Mordae]

The elf, whose sudden flight had carried him up into the sails, returns to the deck with a graceful descent. He doffs his feathered cap and offers a terse response to the paladin's acknowledgement. "No thanks are required; had it not been for your prompt response, the beast would have torn this vessel apart. It seems to me unlikely a kraken would choose, at random, a ship of such import. Perhaps your observation will be the key to unraveling the sea creature's motive." He gestures to the stairway where he had emerged earlier and excuses himself with a simple explanation. "I must ensure my masters are well."

Lord Bleth has already descended the three steps from the poopdeck and joins Finnilea just aft of the main mast. "As the emissary's guardian said, we are in your debt. My magicks are mere parlor tricks, sufficient only to buy time. The Queen of the Depths appears to have taken an interest in us, and I for one do not desire to meet her servant again on this journey."

At that moment the captain comes hustling back on deck, an oversized crossbow at the ready and loaded with a barbed quarrel. "Make way!" he barks, an instant before realizing the battle is over. He stares at the slowly dissipating fog and growls, "Where in blazes did that thing go? I've a lightning bolt with his name on it!"

[Mystral]

Finnilea gave a little shrug as a response to all that praise that came her way. They were right, in a way, of course, and wrong in a different way. She had acted without thinking, and had the kraken not withdrawn for unknown reasons, it might have made no difference how she acted. She was happy that the captain appeared, as she didn't have the desire to appear humbly or argue about all that happened. She willed the light of the holy armor a bit dimmer, as not to blind everyone, then turned to the captain while she sheated her sword again.

"Captain, the kraken left the ship alone, although it might still be near. More worrying still, I saw a bank of fog roll in from starboard. Maybe the kraken was only a diversion." Saying that, she pointed towards the direction she last saw the fog cloud, taking a look, too. If something was on their heels that had a kraken as a pet... This was a disaster just waiting to happen. She had to think about the safety of her charge. If need be, she could carry him to safety, although she loathed the thought to leave the sailors at the mercy of... whatever it was. One of her flying spells could carry her 10 miles, and she could carry to emissary, if need be. Land couldn't be further away then 50 miles... She mentally filled this plan under 'last resort'.

And where was that deckhand with her equipment?

[Mordae]

The captain is about to respond when the elf's voice carries up from the deck below. "Help! Murder!" Cursing again, the man spins on his heel and lumbers toward the stair. It is Bleth's turn to look surprised, and he gestures for Finnilea to follow the captain while he himself trails behind the other two.

The paladin's armor brings a brightness to the area belowdecks that illuminates the grim scene. The elf who had aided Finnilea moments earlier is bent over, examining the body of the deckhand whom Finnilea had entrusted with her trunk key. The corpse is stiffened into a grotesque backwards arch, the face frozen in rictus while a thin trail of green-flecked spittle trails down one pale, bluish cheek. A tiny spot of sticky red mars the back of the man's livery, matched by two crimson droplets on the holystoned wooden deck.

A couple of additional sailors arrive from further forward in response to the elf's cry, but the captain gruffly waives them off and they retreat up the passageway toward the crew's quarters.

[Mystral]

Finnleas takes only a second to look at the corpse. That was it, she would never again let her equipment out of eyesight, not even on her wedding day. She didn't even bother to search the deckhand for the key, it was pointless. The murderer had, most likely, used the time to go to her room, and she would not let him get away with that. "I need to get to my room, the murderer might be after my posessions." Saying this, she swiftly picks her way trough the crowd, makeing a beeline to her rooms. Murdering an innocent man to steal from a paladin? There would be a reckoning, and no mistake.

[Mordae]

Finnilea reaches her room in a matter of a dozen quick strides, and the look on her face is enough to dissuade any of the others from asking any questions or standing anywhere remotely close to her path.

She arrives to find the door as she left it, closed; none of the doors in the vessel have locks, save the captain's quarters. There is too much commotion from above deck, where the sailors are recovering from the kraken incident, to hear any sounds from the other side, even by putting her ear to the door.

[Mystral]

Finnilea doesn't even slow her step as she marches towards the door. Checking the angle of the sword, so it doesn't chip into the wall if it flies out of it's scabbarb, she doesn't even bother to put her ear at the door. Some would have kicked the door open, but she just gave it a soft push with her left hand. To hard a shove, and it would just fly back into her face. If no immediate threat is visible after opening the door, she takes a look trough it taking the time to check the angles and behind the door for assailants before continuing deeper into the room.

[Mordae]

Her room is unremarkably the same: a soft bed anchored to one wall and snug beneath a fluffy down comforter; table and chairs, tucked tightly in the far corner, an unlit oil lantern hanging from above; her trunk still nestled at the foot of the bed, unopened. The limited light streaming in from the porthole is enough to show there are no hiding threats in the room, unless they are cowering under the wood-framed bunk.

[Mystral]

Finnilea kneels down take a carefull look beneath the bed. Should there be nothing, she tries the chest and, if is isn't unlocked, she draws her sword and, if neccessary, hacks the trunk open with a few powerfull, but carefull swings. The trunk was nearly empty, only her trusty haversack lying at its bottom, filled with her clothing and magic equipment, so if she checked her swings, it should not be damaged. Whatever happened her, she would feel far more able to deal with it with her equipment on her, and as she didn't plan to part with it until .. well, ever, she didn'e need the trunk anymore.

[Mordae]

The space under the bed is empty, as it should be. The chest is also locked, as it should be, but it yields quickly to the outrage of the greatsword.

Finnilea retrieves her haversack and finds everything as it was when she last left it. At that moment, the elf comes rushing to the door, looking as though he's worried another battle has started. He checks his speed when he sees Finnilea poring over the contents of her shattered chest. "Uh, everything alright in here?" he inquires lamely, fumbling to sheathe the rapier that was in his hand just behind the door frame.

[Mystral]

Finnilea, who is at the moment fastening her belt of strength around her waist, looks up and has to smile a bit besides herself. Even if the situation was not happy, a bit of amusement was found in it, anyway. "Lost my key." she says, gesturing to the shattered trunk, and continues to put on her equipment with quick, calm motions. "I can hardly help if I'm not dressed for the occasion. You should better look out for someone who needs your protection. But thanks for your concern."

After she has dressed, which should take her less then a minute, she briskly walks out of the room and looks for Lord Bleth. Her first task, after ensuring that she was ready for everything, was to see to the safety of her charge.

[Mordae]

The elf quirks an eyebrow and holds out his off hand, revealing the small key that was cupped in his palm. "I was wondering what this was for. Found it in the hand of the dead sailor. Guess you won't need it anymore." He nods and starts back down the passage, seeking out any other problems.

Finnilea finds the sailor's body has been moved from the passageway and the captain and Lord Bleth have departed, but with a couple of inquiries determines that the noble has retired to the captain's stateroom along with the ship master.

[Mystral]

Finnilea just shakes her head to herself. She shouldn't assume so much and think more. Anyway, no real harm done, except to her dignity. After she got the information she needed, she walks briskly to the captains room and knocks on the door. There was to much going on at the moment to just run around without coordination.

[Mordae]

Finnilea returns above-deck and crosses the weathered boards to the captain's door. Two armed soldiers are standing guard there now, a new precaution, but they recognize the paladin and immediately afford her access. Lord Bleth is sitting comfortably on a leather armchair facing the great windows that look aft over the ship's wake, while the captain himself is poring through sheets of parchment at a writing desk near the starboard bulkhead, across from his walnut-framed bed on the port side of the room. Between Bleth's chair and its empty mate is a large wooden globe showing the lands of Faerun, carved in relief on the light-stained surface. A tapestry map of the Inner Sea hangs over the square table in the right-hand corner nearest Finnilea, where a trio of chairs are tucked up close.

Bleth does not turn to look at the doors, but the captain glances up to see his guest and straightens in recognition. "Good sister," he begins somberly, "The situation is worse than feared. Whomever was responsible for my man's death also struck the elven ambassador--the poor woman now clings to life in her chamber. The crew has unfurled every sail and we make haste to Westgate, in the hopes she will live long enough to see a healer." He neatly restacks the papers he was shuffling and sets them against the desk.

[Mystral]

Finnilea raises her eyebrows a bit. Why didn't they call her earlier? Then she remembered. They saw her as a warrior, of course, and maybe as a sorceress, but not as a healer. To often, Paladins were forced to use their power for destructive purposes, although that could save lives, too. "I understand. I might be able to help her, or at least stop a decline in her health until we get to shore. Is the wound poisoned? Please, take me to her, at once. Maybe I can even wake her, and she has seen her assailant." She was no healer, of course. Not a real one, at that. She owned a magic wand that could stem her bleeding and give her strength, maybe return her to conciousness. If she was poisoned.. well, at least she could give her strength and use her magic to find other sources of poison on the ship, and maybe the assassin

[Mordae]

The captain nods his agreement and strides across the gently rolling deck of his chamber. Pulling open the door, he directs one of his guards to escort Finnilea down below-decks, to a set of chambers further forward than her own. Unsurprisingly, she finds the watchful elf who had aided her earlier standing guard outside the door. "The ambassador is indisposed," he states in a neutral tone, unprompted, when Finnilea stops near the door instead of continuing on. "But I will aid your inquiry into the situation as best I can." It's clear from his words that he believes the paladin is still on the war-path.

[Mystral]

Finnilea smiles a bit and holds up her hands to show that she has no violent intention at the moment. By Tyr, but she had to control her temper. "Piece, Friend. We will look into this soon enough, but the first duty of a Paladin is in protecting the innocent, not in punishing the guilty. I have heard that the ambassador is hurt and in ned for a healers attendance. If you let me trough, I will see what I can do for her. I do not know if I can heal her, but I might strengthen her so she doesn't succumb to her injuries until a proper healer can see to her."

[Mordae]

The elf nods in acquiescence. "I did not know your hands were skilled with weal as with woe. Please, come in, but have a care--she clings to life by only the thinnest thread of fate." He carefully opens the wood portal and ushers Finnilea in.

The quarters are much the same as those occupied by the paladin, but with more comfort. The wooden chairs are upholstered in dark red leather, and the featherbed is draped with a plaited lace coverlet that is tucked up neatly underneat the naturally frail-looking face of the elven ambassador. Her two ladies in waiting sit nearby, one patting the elf-woman's forehead with a wet washcloth and the other dipping a second cloth in cool water. The stricken lady's skin is deeply flushed, and her pale blonde hair stands out starkly by contrast. Her eyes are tightly closed, and her lips are compressed to thin lines as she appears to struggle with pain.

"The wound is but a small cut on her arm," the guardian elf whispers to Finnilea as she passes by. "Clearly it is more of the dastardly poison that claimed the poor sailor in the passageway."

[Mystral]

Finnilea slowly nods. A poison.. well, she would see what she could do. This was a mistake by the assassin though, as he would soon find out. "I fear my hands give more woe then weal, but what is mine to give, I will give to her gladly." She then steps into the room and between the two ladies, only acknowledging them with a slight nod. Then, she wispers a few words and looks at the woman for a few moments, her head slightly cocked, as if listening to something, her eyes slowly wandering trough the room, up and down to the ceiling and floor. Only then, she puts her hand on the shoulder of the ambassador, lightly. She concentrates for a few moments, sending what little healing powers she has in her hands into the body of the elven ambassador. After that has been done, she takes off her Amulett and, slowly, trying not to disturb her, fastens it around the elves neck.

[Cast detect poison, have a 360° look around, up and down. Lay on hands for 10, lend her my amulet of constitution +2]

[Mordae]

Finnilea scans the room intently, but aside from the ruddy red aura that surrounds the stricken elf-lady she can find no traces of other poison within the range of the spell. The assassin must have kept the delivery weapon with him when he fled the scene.

The ambassador seems to breathe a bit easier as the divinely inspired wave of cool energy washes over her. Finnilea finds the woman's skin almost hot to the touch, an indication of just how virulent the poison is. The amulet might help her fight it off, if only long enough to reach Westgate...

[Mystral]

Finnilea slowly nods and leaves the room, waving the elf with her. She doesn't want to disturb the ambassador, it is evident that she wouldn't be able to assist them. Outside, she takes a moment to dredge up his name from her memory, then talks to him in a quiet voice and in elvish. "I can do little more, but the amulett should give her the strength to fight against the poison. Now, we should strive to find the assasin, before he claims any more lives. Aephren Tiranni, isn't it? I am able to sense the presence of poison, and of the bad karma it leaves on people. I shall take a walk and see who has the stain of evil on his soul, before he claims any other lives. I usually don't do that as a matter of course, as doing so keeps even the wisest paladin from judging people fairly, I think it is warranted now."

[Mordae]

Aephren nods. "I will remain here and inquire of my lady's attendants whether they glimpsed the attacker. If we learn enough, perhaps a wizard in Westgate can be employed to aid us with a spell of scrying."

Finnilea traverses the ship from stem to stern, searching for traces of the poison. However, aside from the blood stain on the deck where the dead sailor was found and said sailor's body, the paladin can find no other trace of poison anywhere on the vessel. Finnilea is frustratedly confident that the source is no longer on board.

[Mystral]

After traversing trough the ship, Finnilea gives a slight, frustrated sigh. She was pretty much out of options on this one. Finding the Assassin, if he didn't make a mistake, was impossible, and as she had said, the protection of his targets was her first priority now. She takes a quick walk back to the elf who guards the ambassador and tells him of her finds, or lack thereoff. Then, if he doesn't have any findings of his own to report, her way takes her back to Lord Bleth. If he and the elfish ambassador safely reach westgate, that was some kind of victory, at least.

[Mordae]

Aephren gives a quick nod in response to the report, but has nothing further of good or ill to say regarding the ambassador. Finnilea remains on the alert for the remainder of the journey, keeping a watchful eye out for krakens, assassins, or anything else that might reveal the mysteries that seem to cloud the ship like the strange fog. Fortunately for all, nothing unexpected happens, and as the sun descends like a bowl of golden fire toward the sparkling water, the lights of Westgate can be seen on the eastern horizon.

The captain does not slacken the ship's pace until the shore is in sight, forcing his crew to make a number of rapid course corrections through the increasingly crowded outer reaches. At last, he bellows "Furl sails, loose the main anchor!" to his sailors, who cheer mightily from the tops as they bring the ship to a halt in the slowly rolling waters of the harbor.

Lord Bleth has his valises packed and is standing by the starboard rail where a group of seamen are preparing a longboat to be lowered. With Lord Bleth is his quiet manservant, an unobtrusive, ordinary looking young man by the name of Alven. Also there are the elves, with the two ladies in waiting hovering over the form of their stricken mistress who lies on a stretcher borne by a pair of burly sailors. Aephren stands watchfully nearby.

[Mystral]

Finnilea stood with the others at the longboat, letting her eyes wander over Westgate. The city was known as corrupt cesspool of decadence, crime and greed, with a group of assasins called the night masks calling the shots. There would be a lot of evil to fight here, and of course, fighting most of this evil would end her up with a dagger in the back in her sleep. Sometimes, as they say, discretion really is the better part of valor. She had a mission to fullfill, but she would be damned if she just stood by... Well, she'd see. She had paid the captain for a new chest, as she had smashed the old one, and now she stood by the boat, too. She would board it as soon as his lordship and the ambassador were on it, giving a curt nod to Aephren while waiting. "Away from one assassin, into a city of murderers. I heard that there is a temple of Illmater in the city, though, I think the priests of the broken god would be your best bet."

[Mordae]

OOC: Sorry for the delay. Pink eye.

Aephren smiles very faintly to Finnilea's assessment of Westgate. "Caution is due, of course. My lady's mission to the city will no doubt be delayed on account of her illness. After she is delivered for healing, mayhap there will be opportunity for us to pursue the mystery assailant further. That is, if your own duties allow..." He spares a quick glance at Lord Bleth, but the noble is stepping into the boat at the time and does not notice.

Once everyone is aboard, the sailors gently lower the smaller vessel to the waterline, where it lands with a gentle plop. The lines are cast off and coiled back up to the main deck, and the burly sailors who accompany the dignitaries begin pulling the oars to cross the harbor to the very footsteps of the evil town. The captain graciously sent a couple of extra men to provide additional protection; these two sit, one at either end of the boat, with loaded crossbows on their laps and worried stares directed to the horizons.

[Mystral]

Finnilea smiles slightly while stepping at the boat. "To each his own duties and enjoyments." she quotes an elvish proverb in Aephrens language. Of course, it's usual meaning was that everyone had different tastes and you shouldn't meddle with someone elses, but it fitted the occasion, too. They would first see to their charges, and then they could plan on pursuing this needle in a needle stack. Finnilea sat down opposite of Lord Bleth. For a moment, she thought about taking an oar, but the sailors had taken them all, and she would have disturbed their rythm, anyway.

Seeing as the boat was protected by crossbowmen, Finnilea wondered if she should find this assuring or not. Was this just a superflous safety measure, or did you really have to protect a longboat from robbers? Muttering soft prayers of benediction, she took her own steps of preparation as she renewed some of her protective enchantments.

[I cast Shield when we are nearing the piers. Is my luminous armor still up? It stays up for 8 hours, don't know how long ago I cast it.

[Mordae]

Bleth looks relaxed and unconcerned as the little boat slides across the surface of the harbor toward the piers. His curly, iron-grey hair shifts slightly as the wind blows across the chiseled features of his ruggedly handsome face. As he notices Finnilea's prayers, he quirks an eyebrow and curls up his lips in a sardonic smile. "Nervous? You should be. Westgate is a cauldron of real danger lurking beneath a simmering surface of rough-and-tumble crime. By appearing concerned about the ephemeral thugs and toughs, we will not stand out as important enough to be targets for the masks." He gestures to the nearing quay with a sweeping curve of the back of his left hand. "When we get there, the ostentation of these armed sailors will be sufficient for my meeting. There may be... awkward questions if I try to bring a sister of the Maimed One into the hall. It would be best if you observed the building perimeter for unusual activity--in that way, you will be more free to carry that big knife of yours. No one would believe you my mistress with such armament, after all." His smile becomes more amiable, revealing his rows of pearly white teeth between ruddy lips.

When the rowing sailors finally bring the boat to bump gently against the stone sea wall, the elves disembark with their mistress as the first order of business. Aephren politely inclines his head to Finnilea and offers a sotto voce "Good luck" before he leads the litter-bearers toward the temple district. Next, the armed sailors clamber up to street level and take up casual but respectful guarding positions to either side of Lord Bleth. Finnilea is the last to exit the craft, which is quickly untied and propelled back into the bay by the efforts of the remaining crewmen.

The harbor is bustling, even as the dark of evening starts to consume the streets, calling out the legions of torchlighters to illuminate the way with beams of flickering orange. Flanking the narrow, cobblestoned streets are looming tenements that surmount ground-floor shops and taverns. On a nearby street corner, a fortune teller beckons for customers to follow her up a twisted stair to her chambers, her heavy draped robes concealing nearly all of her gnarled and aged body. Across the intersection, equally twisted stairs lead to another upper chamber, but the lady who beckons is not old, nor gnarled, nor particularly clothed at all--very little is left to the imagination of what she is selling.

Bleth's guards set a brisk pace through the middle of the intersection, ignoring the ladies and shoving a couple of passers-by out of the way as they establish their presence. Bleth flows behind them with calm, measured steps, his unarmed appearance and simple, billowing garb suggesting a man of merchandise rather than nobility. He winks subtly to the ribbon-clad young lady, but says nothing and carries on his journey with an air of confidence.

[EDIT: Luminous armor has probably expired or will shortly. Shield noted.]

[Mystral]

Finnilea raises an eyebrow as Lord Bleth suggests she might be even thought about as his mistress. Surely a man of the world, it seemed, but that would not be a problem. On the other hand, it would surely be a problem if he was left out of her eyes, to conduct his actions without anyone watching them. One of her duties was to watch not only for wrongdoings against his lordship, but also against wrongdoings of him. She decided to deflect his words with some good humor and a smile. "Certainly, my lord, it takes all sorts for that kind of buisness, doesn't it? But my giant knife shall not trouble you, of that, you can be certain." Saying this, she takes the sheath of the sword from her back and stows it away in her magic backpack, seemingly making it vanish in the pack which is a few times shorter then the elvish greatsword. "I must insist that I accompany you, as we have just evaded an assasination attempt in your vicinity. I assure you that I will not be much of a burden, and if you wish me to pose as your mistress, I only request that you give me a few moments to refresh myself." With these words, she gives him a smile that could best be described as inviting, although her features got more serious after a moment.

As they walked to the city streets, her eyes wandered trough the crowd. How many of these were murderers or thieves, or even worse things? Was that old crone a harmless hedge mage? A sharlatan, or maybe a witch who dealt with devils? Was that whore a thief or spy, or maybe the victim of a brutal pimp, or did she practice her trade according to the principles of the sharessian faith? To many things to consider, to many wrongs to set right. Many a Paladin had gone quite mad with the knowledge of all this, and many had thrown away their lifes in a pointless attempt to correct everything bad about the world, accomplishing nothing. First the mission, she reminded herself. First, the mission, then prevent the wrongdoings that you can see and identify. That would be quite enough to keep her busy.

[Mordae]

It is Bleth's turn to raise an eyebrow as Finnilea's weaponry slips out of sight. "Let it not be said the sisters of the Maimed One are not willing to sacrifice for their duty," he purrs thoughtfully. "Your attire is... suitable, I suppose; we may explain it away on account of the assassin's knife and the haste for a quick arrival in Westgate. Luer is a stickler for proprieties, however; he may graciously offer to allow you to bathe and change into something suitable. It would be disrespectful of the Croamarkh to reject such hospitality, naturally, but be on your guard--few are as vulnerable as in the baths..."

The blur of the crowds begins to thin as the retinue turns into a less active side street, where the looming tenements are replaced with stately row homes faced with brick and stone.

[Mystral]

Finnilea nods and offers the Lord her arm to hook into, closely walking next to him. In a conversational manner, she tells him "If Luer is any capacity in the criminal world, I guess that we are being watched, or will be shortly. It won't do that we start acting our parts at his doorstep, will it? And hmm you disappreciate yourself, your lordship. There is little sacrifice in this." Inwardly, her thoughts wander a bit. Such subterfuge was frowned upon by many of the more strict schools of paladinhood, but it was not against the code itself. The code demanded that she acts with honour, and it was more honorable to stay at the side of Lord Bleth and fullfill her missions, both of them. If his lordship assumed that she was willing to play this role to the bedchamber, though, she would have to disappoint him. Using sex, which was something important, dangerous and holy, for her mission or personal gain, was of course out of the question. While her thoughts wander in that direction, she entertains some light conversation with the lord, concerning the city of westgate and it's affairs and people.

[Mordae]

Bleth accepts the offered arm without question, leaning his head in close. "Without doubt we are already being watched. It is easily enough explained, but allow me to do the explaining. Now as for the plan: We will dine tonight with his excellency, but I am no fool to sleep under his roof. Keep a close eye on the alleyways and be ready to recall them as we return to the ship--once we are known to be guests of the Croamarkh, we will no doubt be under the scrutiny of the Masks..."

As the group moves further along the road, a stone-walled compound comes into view at the end of the street. Its stately gardens and domed manor halls are lit with torches, making it a spot of brightness within the general gloom of evening. The building itself is built of quarried red sandstone, and in the combination of greater darkness and flickering torchlight it seems takes on the color of blood. At the great iron gates, four guards in ceremonial armor patrol the opening, their halberds carried aloft so as to display the Croamarkh's pennants that flutter in the gentle night breeze.

[Mystral]

Finnilea takes care to let her eyes wander with something approaching polite boredom on their way, as she memorizes the streets. She didn't usually do this, after all, she could fly, but it might be usefull non the less. She only nods to the words of Lord Bleth, for now, she would trust his ways with words. And, as the explaining would likely would involve some lying, she wouldn't want to dirty her lips with that, even when it served the greater good in the situation and could therefore be tolerated. As the two of them enter trough the gate, she takes care not to let her eyes wander to long across the battlements and guards. She was a consort, now, and not a woman of the military.

[Mordae]

The guards snap to attention as the little party nears the gate, their eyes immediately drawn to the only people traversing this part of town at this late hour. Three of the armored figures are tall men, their dark features typical of Westars, while the fourth is a stout dwarf who looks slightly out of place in the resplendent bronze plate armor with silver filigree. He is, however, the one who speaks up when Lord Bleth's sailorly bodyguards approach within earshot. "In the name of the Croamarkh, lord steward of all Westgate, who goes there? State your name and business."

The toughs halt where they are, but Lord Bleth releases Finnilea's arm, pushes past his escorts, and stands a few paces ahead. "I am Lord Aunadar Bleth, Counselor to His Majesty King of Cormyr. The Croamarkh is expecting me."

The guards exchange worried glances, clearly not anticipating such a bold reply. The dwarf leans over to his fellow, who bends down ever so slightly to whisper something. Finally, the stout little fellow clears his throat and replies. "A thousand apologies, my Lord. We were not told to expect you until tomorrow."

Bleth waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "A simple misunderstanding, no doubt; we merely have arrived ahead of schedule. I trust we do not intrude on the Croamarkh at an inopportune time?"

The guard shakes his head in the negative. "No, my Lord, not at all. This way, if you please." The other guards step aside to allow the gate to be opened, and the sturdy dwarf leads the group on into the gardens.

Little detail can be seen among the shadowed hedge walls, though it seems to the paladin like there are eyes watching her every movement. Bleth moves forward with a stately pace, showing no concern, and within the span of a few moments the group ascends the short flight of steps to the landing before the bronze-inlaid doors. Without any prompting, the portals open to reveal the marble-floored, candle-lit corridor beyond. The dwarf's mailed feet clank noisily on the smooth stone as he turns and leads the group to the first door on the right side of the hall, one of several identical portals set at intervals in the sandstone walls. The guard unctuously opens the door and gestures for the others to enter.

On the far side of the door is a square sitting room with wood-paneled walls and a roaring fire in the arched stone fireplace set in the far wall. The marble floors are mostly covered in an intricately woven rug, and the mahogany furniture is upholstered in burgundy leather. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. A servant will be here to wait upon you at once, and I shall notify the Lord Steward of your presence."

As the guard turns to return to his post, Lord Bleth dismisses his own men to stand watch outside the door. With a sardonic smile, he quirks an eyebrow toward Finnilea. "Opulent enough for your tastes?"

[Mystral]

Finnilea smiles back as she slowly makes her way to one of the seats, letting her eyes wander over the walls as if taxing the worth of the wood panneling. There was bound to be someone watching or listening from the other side. She thought about using her ability to see people with bad karma hidden inside their soul, but chose not to. There was nothing to gain at the moment, and there were methods to detect such divine magic. "It is quite fetching, although I have seen better. Still, it far outpaces the comforts offered on that ship, my lordship." She sits down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and has to admit, that was rather nice. She tries to at least appear to relax a bit and not show her usual impulse to reach behind her back to take of her sword before sitting down.

[Mordae]

Lord Bleth reclines himself on the divan nearest Finnilea, idly looking around the room. "When one has the entire resources of a merchant empire at one's disposal, it is easy to go overboard. There is no accounting for taste, I suppose." He gestures toward the paneled walls; the movement causes a flash of red to be reflected from the firelight through the large ruby on the ring on his third finger. "Take these walls, for instance--the wood is imported from the Sword Coast. There must be millions of trees between here and there."

The door opens slightly and a serving girl--her exact features obscured by the heavy wrapped garment and headdress she wears, a shroud made of black velvet--wheels a small cart into the room. Set atop the intricately carved wooden stand is a crystal decanter of dark amber liquid and a trio of fluted goblets. Wordlessly, the girl halts the cart's movement before it crosses onto the rug, and, taking the decanter, she skillfully unstoppers it and pours three precisely equal amounts into the delicate stemmed glasses. She sets the decanter down and recaps it with a muffled clink of glass on glass; taking up two of the goblets, she crosses the floor on noiseless feet and presents them to the two guests.

Bleth takes his glass without so much as a look at the girl, nestling it in the palm of his free hand; the glass makes a very faint screeching sound as it comes in contact with the gold band of his ring.

[Mordae]

(OOC: Adding another post to fix the 500 error weirdness.)

Bleth raises his glass slightly to admire the color of the liquid. "In Cormyr the brandy is a bit more pale," he remarks to Finnilea. "It certainly requires more fortitude to live in such a dangerous place as Westgate."

[Mystral]

Finnilea takes the Goblet without sparing the serving girl a look, either. A consort of a Lord would never deem it fit to pay much heed to a serving girl, and of course, it was quite likely that this woman was a spy, if even a woman at all and not some.. A bit less paranoia would do her good. "And maybe stronger drink to forget the dangers from time to time?" she quips while watching the fireplace trough the dark liquid before setting the goblet down next to her, if possible. She would have enough time to drink when their host arrived, finally. "And maybe these wood holds more then just excess? Nostalgia could be a reason, or the goal to impress."

[Mordae]

Bleth nods thoughtfully as the servant departs. "In truth I know little about the Croamarkh's birth or motives. But such influence cannot go untapped if Cormyr is to remain the jewel of the Inner Sea."

The wrapped servant isn't gone more than a moment before the door opens again and a tall, thin gentleman wrapped in red robes sweeps into the room. His long, oiled beard is neatly trimmed into a near-perfect triangle of black beneath his olive-skinned chin. Dark eyes are deep-set within his narrow, middle-aged face, and his equally ebon hair is swept up underneath a golden headdress. He sweeps across the intervening space, a smile brightening his countenance as he extends both hands, palms open, to Bleth in a traditional greeting. "Aunadar! A pleasure to see you again, my friend. I had not expected you to be so early. I trust all is well in Suzail with His Majesty?"

Bleth sets his glass down hurriedly next to Finnilea's, rising to his feet and hastening to meet the Croamarkh's embrace. "The dragon's favor still rests on his shoulders, as it should," Bleth responds to the inquiry. "As for our arrival, a fellow passenger on the vessel fell unfortunately ill, and I felt no need to abide a day in port without the enjoyment of your excellent hospitality. That is, if we do not intrude upon other business..."

The red-robed gentleman shakes his head emphatically as the two complete their embrace, and he moves quickly to select the third goblet that had remained upon the cart. "Not at all, not at all. I only wish I had known sooner, or I would have had the baths filled and warm already." His coal-black eyes drift over toward Finnilea for a moment's glance; the look is piercing, not at all warm or pleasant like the man's voice. "I see you have a new consort, you lucky devil. Surely you two must retire for the evening and we can discuss business in the morning. I will have a meal sent to your chambers and the baths run at once."