Jeff the Green
2016-06-08, 04:06 PM
Maybe three quarters of an hour after you've arrived you are each sought out by another warforged servant. This one, unlike any of the servers, wears nothing but the dull adamantine armor he was created with and moves with the sort of surety and directness one associates with former military officers. "Drake will see you now, in his cabin." He points to the barge farthest from the bank, nearly twice as broad as the others with a cabin as large as some houses, before going off to find the others.
Once you arrive at the cabin you are shown in by another warforged that could be the twin of the one who fetched you—if, of course, they had been born rather than manufactured. For the cabin of a pleasure barge it is decidedly utilitarian. It is divided by paper curtains, and the space you walk into—which you estimate must comprise a good half of the cabin—is dominated by a conference table surrounded by chairs, all made of rich woods but in a rather spartan style. In the far corner is a desk covered in paperwork and illluminated by a single artificer's lamp, where a man—your host, presumably—sits scrawling on parchment. He finishes with a flourish and then rises to greet you.
"Come, come," he says, gesturing to the table. "Please have a seat. I trust you ate? I can send for some more refreshments if you wish."
He sends off one of the adamantine-clad brothers to fetch what you require, as well as some dinner for himself, before taking a seat at the head of the conference table. As he comes closer and into better lighting you can tell that he is very much not an attractive man. His dark hair falls lank to his shoulders and his face reminds one of nothing so much as a water-logged corpse. His eyes are rheumy and his lips pale, and his ears, though the normal leaf shape of his race, stick almost straight out from his head. His fingers are stained with ink, as is the corner of his mouth where he's sucked his quill. Nonetheless, he moves with the grace of a fencer and his voice is deep and resonant. He wears a black silk doublet and hose, along with a mink half-cape.
"I hope you'll excuse the subterfuge of my letter," he apologizes as he sits. "I'm afraid that what I have to ask of you is something I cannot afford to have my family's enemies know about, and no letter service is entirely reliable.
"My nephew, Albrich, is an idiot, a drunk, and an inveterate gambler, but my sister is fond of him for some reason I cannot fathom. He got it into his fool head that he was an intrepid adventurer and organized an expedition to Xen'drik. Some place called the Granite Pyramid or some nonsense like that. He raised the money and set sail, and now his troll is regenerating."
He points at a glass jar on his desk that contains a bit of nauseating green flesh and you notice that it ripples and bubbles as if animated by an unclean spirit. "I told his mother I'd keep track of him, so I gave him a troll-gut rope and told him to untie it if he got in trouble. That makes the whole thing die, you see, and the next largest bit of the troll starts regenerating. I was in counterintel in the Last War, and Karrnathi agents used the same trick. Trust them to come up with something needlessly disgusting to perform a simple task. But it works, and gut-rope's useful besides.
"Anyway, when his troll's spleen started to crawl around I had my chaplain perform a sending. The padre said Albrich got the message, which means he'd not dead, but didn't answer, which means he's either in trouble or reverted to adolescence. We've tried divination, but nothing's worked. Might be he's protected, or maybe he's somewhere the mages can't see. I have no clue where he got to, nor who else he might have hired in Stormreach, and I don't have any factors on the continent at the moment. I need someone to go figure out what happened and bring him back."
He leans back in his chair, chewing his lip for a moment. "I'm willing to pay a goodly sum—50,000 Galifars each, in coin or gems as you prefer. Or services in kind, of course; you'll find my house quite able to assist you in ways that coin cannot. More if you can figure out what my idiot nephew was trying to get and return it so I can get his patrons off my poor sister's back."
Once you arrive at the cabin you are shown in by another warforged that could be the twin of the one who fetched you—if, of course, they had been born rather than manufactured. For the cabin of a pleasure barge it is decidedly utilitarian. It is divided by paper curtains, and the space you walk into—which you estimate must comprise a good half of the cabin—is dominated by a conference table surrounded by chairs, all made of rich woods but in a rather spartan style. In the far corner is a desk covered in paperwork and illluminated by a single artificer's lamp, where a man—your host, presumably—sits scrawling on parchment. He finishes with a flourish and then rises to greet you.
"Come, come," he says, gesturing to the table. "Please have a seat. I trust you ate? I can send for some more refreshments if you wish."
He sends off one of the adamantine-clad brothers to fetch what you require, as well as some dinner for himself, before taking a seat at the head of the conference table. As he comes closer and into better lighting you can tell that he is very much not an attractive man. His dark hair falls lank to his shoulders and his face reminds one of nothing so much as a water-logged corpse. His eyes are rheumy and his lips pale, and his ears, though the normal leaf shape of his race, stick almost straight out from his head. His fingers are stained with ink, as is the corner of his mouth where he's sucked his quill. Nonetheless, he moves with the grace of a fencer and his voice is deep and resonant. He wears a black silk doublet and hose, along with a mink half-cape.
"I hope you'll excuse the subterfuge of my letter," he apologizes as he sits. "I'm afraid that what I have to ask of you is something I cannot afford to have my family's enemies know about, and no letter service is entirely reliable.
"My nephew, Albrich, is an idiot, a drunk, and an inveterate gambler, but my sister is fond of him for some reason I cannot fathom. He got it into his fool head that he was an intrepid adventurer and organized an expedition to Xen'drik. Some place called the Granite Pyramid or some nonsense like that. He raised the money and set sail, and now his troll is regenerating."
He points at a glass jar on his desk that contains a bit of nauseating green flesh and you notice that it ripples and bubbles as if animated by an unclean spirit. "I told his mother I'd keep track of him, so I gave him a troll-gut rope and told him to untie it if he got in trouble. That makes the whole thing die, you see, and the next largest bit of the troll starts regenerating. I was in counterintel in the Last War, and Karrnathi agents used the same trick. Trust them to come up with something needlessly disgusting to perform a simple task. But it works, and gut-rope's useful besides.
"Anyway, when his troll's spleen started to crawl around I had my chaplain perform a sending. The padre said Albrich got the message, which means he'd not dead, but didn't answer, which means he's either in trouble or reverted to adolescence. We've tried divination, but nothing's worked. Might be he's protected, or maybe he's somewhere the mages can't see. I have no clue where he got to, nor who else he might have hired in Stormreach, and I don't have any factors on the continent at the moment. I need someone to go figure out what happened and bring him back."
He leans back in his chair, chewing his lip for a moment. "I'm willing to pay a goodly sum—50,000 Galifars each, in coin or gems as you prefer. Or services in kind, of course; you'll find my house quite able to assist you in ways that coin cannot. More if you can figure out what my idiot nephew was trying to get and return it so I can get his patrons off my poor sister's back."