Fire from the Deep - IC

[gallagher]

CARRACK-CARRACK

You are shaken awake violently when the right-side wheels of your caged cart runs over an uneven portion of the pathway. You hear Pagong and the cart-driver swear in orcish and dwarven, respectively. You blink your eyes awake, though you can predict what you are going to see. The past several days have all been darkened by a hood drawn over your head, only to be withdrawn for bread and water. The bread was thankfully without mold, but the water had a sour taste to it.

The bump is an unusual break from the monotony; the last of you was pushed into the back of the cart several sleeps ago. The ride has been mostly smooth, as the roadway has all been worn over generations. The tunnels could have started in any of a list of ways: carved by volcanic activity, dug by a tunneling creature of the deep, or through mining activity by one of the many intelligent species that make their homes under the ground. If you follow a smooth path, you are more likely than not to end up in some pocket of civilization; those who grow up in the under-dark know not to stray from a tunnel with wheel-marks worn into a smooth path. Those lucky enough to be born in a denser gathering of persons rarely leave the cities built inside massive caves within the dirt and rock, because even the well-traveled paths are often not safe from the many denizens of the deep.

The cart goes over another bump, and one can tell that the path has turned to gravel. All of a sudden you stop, and you hear a conversation begin in orcish. You hear a key fumble with a lock, and the creaking sound of the door that opened for each of you. Two by two, you are pulled from the cart by strong arms. Many of you try to move your arms and legs, but the bindings at the wrists and ankles are heavy, and painful bruises have formed underneath them. In the end, each of you have been dragged a few hundred feet. A steel collar is placed around your neck, and you are fitted for new cuffs that allow the blood to flow to your hands and feet, and you are able to take half-steps. The hood is torn off, and you discover that you have been moved to a large pen; fenced in by tall stone walls, twenty feet in height with bits of sharp steel glinting over the top. Every so often, you see an orc or a dwarf standing atop the wall, bow and spear at hand with a lantern lit above them. The collar around your neck is chained to a part of the wall, each fitted to be fifteen feet from it’s neighbor.

Spoiler: Out of Character

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At this point, each of you is entitled to a spot check. And please roll 1d8 for where on the wall you are chained.

At the end of the chains is a person. More than twenty in total, and the shrewd among you would recall that the cart that brought you seated no more than eight. Most of these are dwarves, with the occasional orc or another ugly, brutish race. Standing out among them is a pair of gnomes, one with long hair the color of fire, the other with grey eyes and black hair tied in a bun. This must be your destination. If you spoke the orcish tongue, you would have heard that the cart was headed to a city called Araxicazzan. Those who do not speak orcish would have heard that same word spoken several times all the same, and it wouldn’t take a wizard to know what that meant.

There are two reasons to travel with a hood drawn, and to awaken in chains. Either you are in prison, or soon to be sold into slavery. The conditions of the pen, the loose fitting burlap clothes, the exchange of money that preceded your entrance to the cart… Each of you can expect to be sold into slavery in short order.

[ilinares]

Spoiler: Description

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At first glance, it would be easy to mistake Korugan for a harmless scholar. While he has the typical dwarven build - broad of chest and shoulder, but short by human standards - there is a softness to him, a combination of slightly too much weight and too little muscle. His movements tend to be delicate, and he shies away from personal contact.

A second glance reveals more. It shows a cold calculation in his pale green eyes; a hardness that is all on the inside, untouched by compassion or decency. There is intelligence there in abundance, and a certainty of his own superiority.

While looking like a man well used to his creature comforts, being sold into slavery has its consequences. The immaculate robes of black and crimson he favours are gone, replaced with a slave's smock; his black hair is currently matted and unkempt; his beard dishevelled; and his body caked in dirt. There is a sizeable bruise on one side of his face, but he is otherwise uninjured. His captors might not have spared the effort to keep him well groomed, but nor have they subjected him to needless cruelty.

Another conclusion may be drawn: he has done nothing to provoke his captors, nor attempted to escape.

***

Spoiler: Background

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Korugan prefers not to speak of his childhood. It was not a happy time; his earliest memories are of a life constantly fleeing from one place to the next, pursued by dangers his mother never named, beaten any time he questioned her. A dwarf's childhood is a lengthy affair; this refugee existence continued for decades, but Korugan was still a youth, perhaps 30 winters - he does not know his true age - when it came to an end.

It did so in a bloody and shocking fashion. A band of men in white, wearing the holy symbol of a supposedly "good" deity, burst into their home and attacked Korugan's mother. She put up a surprisingly vicious fight, producing a talisman the child had never before seen - a silver object ending in the symbol of a circle bisected by a vertical line - and using it to channel magic she had never before shown herself to possess. In a storm of destruction, she slaughtered several of her assailants; but in the end, it was not enough. Korugan's mother was slain before his eyes.

He might well have expected to perish then as well; but one of the attackers, a mage named Meldar, took it upon himself to "rescue" the orphan and raise him as his own.

Filled with loathing for his mother's killers - a group he later learned called themselves the Brotherhood of Kivesh - but not daring to fight back after their display of power, the young Korugan quickly learned to hide his hatred and thirst for vengeance. He resolved to watch and wait, to learn the secrets of magic for himself, and to claim his revenge when the time was right.

It took him thirty years. Meldar, while clearly desperate enough for a child of his own to welcome the orphaned dwarf into his life and home, was far more wary about teaching the child the art of magic. But as Korugan slowly matured to adulthood, and the humans around him withered swiftly into old age, he grew better at playing the role and their attitudes began to mellow. Meldar accepted Korugan as his apprentice, a role he endured for a decade.

Much though he inwardly resented the subservient role towards his mother's killer, Korugan soon discovered a passion for the art of magic almost as consuming as his thirst for revenge. In the subtle intricacies of spells, he discovered an enduring fascination; and in the possibilities for vast personal power, he found a route to escaping the sense of helplessness and vulnerability that plagued his childhood. He proved a gifted pupil, impressing his master time and again with his instinctive affinity for spellcraft and his prodigious appetite for knowledge. And if, from time to time, these facts seemed to trouble Meldar, to awaken a quiet dread in him, the ageing man never spoke of his reasons.

All this continued until the day when Meldar pronounced him no longer an apprentice, but a journeyman mage. Now certain he would learn nothing more here, Korugan waited until the deep silence of the small hours, crept into his master's lightless bedroom and murdered him in his sleep.

Korugan had intended to steal his late, unlamented master's possessions and, perhaps most importantly, his spellbook. But he had reckoned without Meldar's familiar. Incensed at its master's slaughter, it stood guard over Meldar's belongings and raised such a racket that Korugan had no choice but to flee, taking only his own meagre possessions with him.

The dwarf mage now faced life as a fugitive - but he had done so before. He set out to travel as far as he could from the scene of his crime, travelling many leagues until he finally came to a city large enough to lose himself in.

Wandering the city, trying to find some means of supporting himself, he found himself standing and staring at a building in a run-down and sinister part of town.

More specifically, at the symbol above the doorway: a circle bisected by a vertical line.

Tentatively entering the building, Korugan could little have guessed just how significant the choice would prove. He soon learned that he had stumbled across a temple to a sinister being whose very name is a closely guarded secret, referred to obliquely with titles such as the Schemer in Shadow and the Veiled One, a patron of deception, of magic, of seeking power through the accumulation of hidden knowledge.

In other words, he had found his spiritual home at last.

***

Spoiler: Sold into slavery

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Korugan knelt, and resented it.

In front of him, the withered crone who was the titular leader of the Cabal - the Abbess of Lies, Ivelda - regarded him through hooded eyelids, her expression characteristically unreadable.

"Korugan Greyhelm," she whispered. She rarely did anything else, her vocal chords as ravaged by time as the rest of her. "You are to be commended. Few indeed have completed the Trials so swiftly, and with such distinction."

See the lie in the honeyed words, Korugan reminded himself. Indeed, he had found himself peculiarly well suited to the Trials - or they to him. He was not fooled. The whole thing was a sham: those the Abbess considered potential assets passed.

Those less fortunate… Korugan almost shuddered, remembering the gruesome fate that had befallen one fellow initiate. Still, better her than him.

Ivelda moved slowly from behind her desk, every movement a struggle. She carried an object in one hand, a simple wooden symbol on a wire necklace: the symbol of his new Master.

"Your days as an initiate are at an end. The time has come to bind yourself to He of the Hidden Hand - to speak the words of the Pact as ancient as our faith. Ready yourself.

"Do you pledge yourself to His service, to seek the light of truth and drag it into His darkness, and to shape this world with His whispers until it is a fitting tribute to Him?"

"For the power He offers me, I do."

"Will you go where you are sent, content to know only what He would have you know, ignorant even of the name of Him you serve?"

"For the secrets only He can reveal, I will."

"Will you set aside the deceptions of this society - right and wrong, honesty and compassion, and all that keeps mortals as meek cattle?"

"Such things are as nothing to me. This do I seek: that which is to my advantage, and my Master's service."

"So be it. Take this token, Korugan Greyhelm. May it be a reminder to you always of the pact you have freely entered, knowing that power comes always with a price - and that the Schemer in Shadow offers you immeasurable power."

Korugan fought off his revulsion at the touch of the Abbess's parchment-like skin, accepting the unholy symbol being placed around his neck.

Almost immediately, a sibilant noise at the edge of hearing grabbed his attention.

"I hear Him," Korugan breathed, his tone wondering. In truth, part of him had wondered if it was all another lie; but in that moment all his doubts were burned away.

Ivelda gave a wry smile at that. "Indeed. And it never stops. With time, you will learn to understand the words He is speaking to you. But, for now, you must trust in others to discern His will for you."

She drew out another object from her desk: a black sackcloth hood. Giving him a predatory smile, she offered the object to him.

"To go where you are sent," she said with a nasty emphasis. When Korugan hesitated to take the hood, she smiled more widely. "Ah, Korugan. You should have learned by now. He will hold you to your word. And so will I."

There was a flash of light, a surge of pain; then, nothing.

The days of blindness in cramped conditions amounted to a slow torture. It was the sensory deprivation, more than the physical discomfort; with nothing to distract from the constant susurrus of the Veiled One's whispers in his ears, there was plenty of time to question the wisdom of his choice. In the end, though, it also gave him time to come to terms with his new reality; to accept the presence in his thoughts and find his peace with it.

Patience had always been a trait Korugan possessed in abundance, but this journey stretched that patience to its limits. Doubts began to creep in; the insidious suspicion that Ivelda had sold him into slavery to get him out of the way. Perhaps he would live out his days slaving beneath the earth, nothing more than a chattel, fit for manual labour alone and little enough of that.

Rationality, too, he prized in himself, and he drew on that cold reason now. If Ivelda wanted him removed, it would have been a trivial matter to arrange his death in the Trials. Come to that, she was a powerful cleric; she could do the deed herself with no more effort than crushing an ant.

Then, too, there was the undeniable presence of His voice. While His nature was only partially known, He always had a purpose when He bestowed power. He would not bless Korugan with divine magic only to throw him out with the night soil.

Korugan was certain of his logic - but that did little to quiet the fear.

His possessions had been taken from him. Well, let them think him helpless without his spellbook and unholy symbol; but his mind was afire with the stored power of his spells, ready to be unleashed at the opportune time.

But that time was not yet.

Patience.

***

The wretched hood finally comes off.

Squinting, Korugan looks around, taking in the pen where he finds himself.

Spoiler: OOC

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Position (1d8)[1]
Spot: (1d20+4)[5]

So. An assortment of slaves, of many races and varying demeanour. Some look like capable brawlers; but he knows from his own example better than to judge by appearances. He takes careful note of the others, those who clearly have not been seized for brute labour. Perhaps they, like he, have some skill in the Art.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the slavers just aren't that picky.

He looks to the fortifications. More than enough security to hold him. Not so much the chains - though it would be a desperate gamble to risk teleporting out of them, not knowing whether he would leave his hands behind, the option was there - but the surveillance, the guards, they are an insurmountable obstacle. At least, without allies - and clearly conversation of that kind would be discouraged with extreme prejudice.

Well. If he wanted to escape, he would have done it on the journey here. No, for better or worse, this is where he is meant to be. Though quite why is yet to become clear.

Hidden One, show me Your will in this place. Show me how to turn these indignities to my advantage.

[Timble]

Spoiler: Description

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Like most orcs, Vas is tall and strong. Her form is covered in muscles showing above average strength. Her black hair is messily cut close to the scalp. Her entire body is covered in tattoos, each a symbolic depiction of monstrous creatures. Mixed in with these tattoos are a series of scars, some ceremonial and some from combat. Both types of scars come in the form of bite and claw marks.

Spoiler: Background

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Vas was born with a spiritual connection with the great beasts that her tribe hunted. From a young age she demonstrated an instinctual understanding of their behaviour and was able to calm their fury. Or when necessary, enrage them. With her aid, the tribe tamed and trained savage beasts. While she felt more kinship with the beasts then her people, even her pets were just tools.
With the tribes new power, the chieftain declared war on the plains dwellers. With axe and claw they swept through villages and towns. In retaliation the plains dwellers brought forth their great druid, who used magic in the midst of battle to turn Vas's monstrosities against her people. The few survivors were rounded up and separated. What happened to the rest, she didn't know. Vas was soon sold to the slaver Pagong.

Vas sits still for the entire wagon ride. She'd get her chance eventually. Though what she'd do after she got it, who knows? Her tribe was gone so there was nowhere for her to go. Or perhaps no one to hold her back. She'd always preferred the company of beasts, she could just run off and find a nice pack of monstrosities to tame. She'd get her chance after all, her captors didn't know her secret.

Spoiler: OOC

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Position: [roll]1d8[roll]
Spot: [roll]1d20+3[roll]

Vas stood strong in her chains, carefully observing the area. So, she was destined to be a slave. Hopefully she got a soft master, an hour of meditation would be all it took to grow claws and rip them to pieces. All she had to do was wait, all she could do was wait.

[S1ndarin]

Spoiler: Description

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Gronz is simply a half-giant. It is difficult to find a 6 inch patch of skin not marred by brands or scars. Are the brands tribal or just previous owners marking their possession? A further look at this captive will reveal that his bindings are reinforced, he's even got a chain slung over one shoulder draping down to the opposite hip. When you finally look towards his face, you will notice patches of unkempt white hair sprouting out from in between the scars on his matte grey-blue skin.

Spoiler: Background

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Gronz has been sold time and time again, a lifelong slave. In his youth he was sold throughout many labor camps, sometimes to a mason or blacksmith, more often than not sold into the mines. Working for a blacksmith was his favorite, when larger orders would come in, he would get a break from fetching anvils and scrap metal to hammer away at the piece too large for an ordinary man. As he progressed into adulthood, Gronz caught the eye of a man that owned a fighting pit. Taken back by his staggering 8' 350 lb frame this man sought out to make Gronz his next champion. Gronz was provided armor and weaponry, his first possessions. It was this owner who also gave Gronz his nickname 'Crunch' as that is how Gronz would describe the sound a warhammer makes when it caves in an opponents chest cavity. Before now, any animosity Gronz would show was met with ferocious cruelty. His subservience build a lifetime of rage, and he couldn't wait to show his new master his true worth. Shortly before his first tournament, his master was killed in an attempted takeover of the region. Gronz was sold across the continent after he challenged his new master to arena combat. The caravan was raided on their journey, Gronz, among other things, was captured by the raiders. From there Gronz was sold into a different arena. He was fortunate to get to keep his belongings, afterall, what value does a fighter have without armaments? For one reason or another, Gronz was sold more times than he cared to keep track of. Gronz never saw his debut in the fighting pit, his stature made him into an attraction which made him more valuable to be sold than to actually fight. This most recent selling of Gronz was nothing new, imprisonment during transit, being forced to mule his few belongings as they were too cumbersome for most individuals. He had spent more time in chains than able to walk freely.

Gronz longed for a clean shave for cutting his hair was the only practice he could find for using a blade.

The hood is removed

Spoiler: Out of Character

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[roll0]
[roll1]

A fighting pit is all too familiar, Gronz looks around, sizing up the other captives.

Taking note of the distance between each person he thinks What kind of pit doesn't let the fighters get near each other?

After a moment he thought And what of our weapons?

It was then he began looking for the entry into the pit, listening for the familiar sounds of beasts If this is no fighting pit, it must be a feeding grounds

Gronz did not fear what would come next, as he was never without a weapon.

[esorscher]

Emma is no stranger to the darkness. As she rides in the cart her thoughts alternate between memories of her childhood and memories of the past few days. She hears her mother's voice, "Don't go too far," as she delves deeper into the mines of her homeland, past the signs marking the boundary between their world and this world, in pursuit not only of the valuable ores she and her mother have labored every day of her life for, but for something even she is unwilling to admit: adventure. When she emerged on the other side she was a curiosity, and although she kept insisting she needed to get home, it wasn't hard for the other miners to convince her to join them for a night at the local tavern. These strange people and their strange brews fascinated her, and she drank until she could not remember.

Her next memory is the first of this experience, the hood being removed and being fed and watered, like a dog. She misses her dog, Rufus T. Barleysheath, and hopes her mother is feeding him. And she misses her mother.

But now matters turn to the present.

As Emma looked around the cage, she noted the different men and women assembled there, and confident in the magic of her people, knew she need only wait. Eventually, she would be "bought." Rather, the right to attempt to coerce her to do someone else's bidding would legally belong to someone else. But still remaining would be the need for coercion--and she had both her innate power, as well as that which she had studied, if she could only find her spellbook. It would only be a matter of time before she broke free and returned home--unless, of course, the person who would call themselves her master offered her a good reason to stay.

(1d8)[3]

[Jeesits]

Spoiler: Description/Background

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Gator, the alias he was known by at the time of his current predicament, stood a whopping 4.5 feet tall. The giant of his family, which in hindsight, he hadn't thought of in many years. He was an outcast among his own people, growing up taller than the other Whisper Gnomes in his home town marked him as different, which is why he left home when the first opportunity presented itself in the form of a drow raiding party. His hair could be black or brown, it was hard to tell, caked as it was in mud and blood. His gaunt appearance hid a wiry frame hardened by years of living rough, on both sides of the law. His sharp gray eyes seemed to take everything in and let nothing of himself back out. The gash on his head from the drow he was robbing four days ago had finally stopped oozing. I should have known that witch was awake. The rock that knocked me out was attached to the wall seconds before it collided with my head.

Spoiler

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[roll0] = Chained Location
[roll1] = Spot

Looking around the enclosure, Gator noticed the huge shape of a half giant in amongst the crowd of dwarves and orcs in chains. I hope he's friendly. Might be my ticket outta here. The walls are obviously too tall to scale, and those guards on top would be a problem too. If only they hadn't been so thorough and found my spare lockpicks, don't ask where, I could make my own way out of here. The whitewashed scene to some would be ugly and boring, but in Gator's mind, the world in darkness was gloriously beautiful. The color glimpsed when the light of the guards lanterns drifted to this side of the wall revealed the ugliness of the pen holding them in.

[gallagher]

Out of Character:

Spoiler: Out of Character

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The pen is fairly circular. If this were a clock face and you were counting by minutes, the 8 from your wagon are arranged sequentially from the 57th minute to the 4th minute. Korugan is on 57, followed by an unimpressive half-orc at 58. Gronz is at the 59th position, followed by the gnomes Emma at 0 and Gator at 1. Three drow make up the other three NPCs of your wagon-load, and the last to be chained is Vas at the 4th minute.

Spot check results for above a 10:

Spoiler: Spot check: 10

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You quickly notice that the gateway into the pen is on the far left side, made of sturdy wood: a rare commodity to be had in such quantity. Above it hangs a large canvas sign that reads in Orcish, and below translated into undercommon.
Serrak's Superior Slave Market. Bidding begins at 2 Gold per pound, Double for miners and magicians.

The chains around you aren't so tight and heavy that you cannot move around somewhat. At first, it hurts to be on your feet again, but before long it felt better than sitting. The pen is one-third full, and as noted before, mostly filled with dwarves. A few of them look more than just miserable: more than one show black eyes and have blood crusting their beards. At first you didn't notice, but above the stench of old unwashed clothes hangs the odor of dried blood.

It is another ten minutes before the gates reopen, with Pagong leading another ten people into the pen. Next to Vas are three drow, another six dwarves and oddly enough, a human. Once they are all chained up, the same as each of you, Pagong remains in the pen as the doors shut. He carries a whip in his hand and a longsword at his hip. He stands among your group of eight and the new arrivals, fifteen feet from the furthest point from where your chains would allow you to move. He begins to speak in orcish, and someone from atop the wall behind you shouts in dwarven and another in undercommon to translate what he says.

Wealth in Araxicazzan is measured in three things - gold, gems, and slaves. You are slaves. The next people to walk through that gate may be your new masters. They will walk around and ask you questions, and you will answer them. They will pay us gold and gems for you. The rest of your days will be spent toiling for them, for whatever they need of you. Refuse them, and the most lenient will stop at beating you. Most of the wealthy will send you to the mines. If you steal a gem from your new master’s tunnels, the most lenient will only take a hand, and sell you to someone who has use of a one-handed slave. Most of them end up as arrow butts in the Pit. Some of you look like killers. That is fortunate, you will likely be claimed by a Pitmaster. Those of you so claimed will be blooded against each other in lethal combat. The winners among you will be chosen to fight another winner. And so on and so on until the last of you die. I haven’t seen anyone last in the fighting pits more than two years.

He pauses, and looks around for any look of shock. The human, the last to be chained up, seems to not comprehend Pagong at all. The orc slave driver walked up to him casually, and punched him in the face. The human began to fall to his knees, but was caught around the shirt collar by Pagong, who continued to punch him in the face, over and over. After the sixth punch, he allowed the helpless man to fall to the ground, where he spit out broken teeth and blood, and lay still for a while, sobbing unceasingly.

If you are not purchased today, there is hope for tomorrow. Or even the next day. The rich of Araxicazzan do not all come to the slave markets at once. Sometimes a slave will pretend to be of no value to the masters.So be it; if you do not fetch me a price, you will end up like this worthless sack of meat on the ground. He points to the crying human. Or one of them over there. He gestures this time to the beaten dwarves.

Pagong then paces the area in front of you, going past once or twice, looking you each in the eyes if you have the spine to meet his gaze. After making the rounds twice, he stops at Gator, and stoops to his level. He gives a derisive snort, and stands back up to full height. Some of you, he continues, might have the spirit to consider escape. One or two may actually have the set to try. You will fail. Araxicazzan is a terminus. Only one tunnel connects, and Lady Sarrak sat her market just outside the entry. If you got so lucky as to make it this far - Pagong lets the end of his whip drop and then strikes Gator - we will see to it that you return. The bounty for escaped slaves will buy me a luxury box at the Pit.

Spoiler: Gator - whiplash

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Gator takes (1d3+6)[8] nonlethal damage (calculate it separately from normal damage)

He continues to talk about the sure death that awaits you for transgressions, before a dwarf calls down to him. Pagong heads to the entryway, but before he makes it the gateway opens. Two orcs push another dwarf inside, this one remains in regular clothes - white cloth with a vertical stripe bisecting it in the front. While the clothes have become soiled with mud and torn, cleaned up he would have commanded a striking figure. One sleeve is torn off completely, and cuts up his arm are still bleeding. He spits a wad of blood at Pagong, and in return receives a backhanded slap across his face. The other two orcs join Pagong, and together they chain the newcomer to the position next to Vas before leaving the pen.

[ilinares]

Korugan has to fight to keep the rising surge of dread from showing on his face. His gaze is drawn magnetically to the scarred half-giant, his imagination treating him to an image of the towering brute ripping him limb from limb in a dusty arena while a jeering crowd bays for blood.

A bead of sweat forms on the dwarf's brow, and he closes his eyes briefly, focusing on the mental disciplines of two traditions to calm his racing heart.

The options Pagong laid out were uniformly dreadful. Escape is out of the question - for now. Being sent to the arena would be a swift death; the mines, a slow one, but no less certain.

So. If none of the options were acceptable, he must create new options. Perhaps one of these buyers might be convinced of his usefulness for something other than an aspiring corpse. Or some other prospect might present itself.

One thing is certain: nothing he does now can change his fate.

Leaning his head back as best he can, he watches his surroundings through hooded eyelids for any sign of change. After all, He did not send Korugan here to die. It is not His nature to waste assets. So a chance will come.

And Korugan will be ready for it.

[Jeesits]

By Raum, that ones death will not be pleasant. Gator thought as he pretended to cower away from Pagong. Glaring at his back from under his brows.

Spoiler

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(1d20+4)[13] = Bluff

Sticking his little finger into one of his ears, he digs around a bit for enough wax.

Spoiler

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(1d20+8)[14] = Search for ear wax
(1d20+2)[20] = Sleight of Hand to hide his actions

After a few moments, and alternating to the other ear, he abruptly stops and flicks the small lump of wax in the general direction of the human while muttering under his breath.

Spoiler

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(1d20+8)[27] = Concentration to cast Ghost Sound to create the Illusory sound of the human yelling out in undercommon at Pagong coming from where the human was lying in the dirt, "What's the matter Tuskface? Afraid to bully someone your own size so you gotta take it out on the little people?"

[esorscher]

Fluent in both Orcish and Dwarvish, Emma chooses this as an opportunity to notice the nuance between the two languages. The verb "beat" in Dwarven has a certain connotation, while the Orcish word carries an undoubtedly more accurate descriptor of the intended meaning. Similarly, the orcish noun "winner" has a temporal quality that the dwarven lacks, indicative perhaps of the transient nature of orcish psychology.

Outwardly, Emma shows no sign of any comprehension, except allowing a small gasp at the treatment of the human. Yet the man displays a certain futile bravado, perhaps hoping that his taunt would lead to a swifter end than the torture of slavery. For a moment she considers the possibility that his preferred form of escape could be the best option available to her, a sort of assisted suicide that would end her current predicament. That thought is quickly overridden by the same survival instinct that preserved her from childhood in the harsh miner's upbringing she enjoyed--or, more accurately, endured.

Inwardly, she readies herself for the opportunity she has faith will come--that of escape. Whether it is today, or tomorrow, or some time in the future when she has earned her captor's trust, she knows that a time will come when she is free again. For now, she waits.

[Timble]

Vas chuckles internally as the human speaks back. Brave, but not anyway to survive down here.

[gallagher]

Pagong freezes in his steps at the sound of insolence. When he turns around, you can see blood in his eyes as anger and fury well up. He roars, almost in a frenzy, and runs at the human. Pagong pushes the chained man to the ground, kicks him three times in the stomach until the man couldn’t move further, and then crushed his head with a mighty stomp. The human’s skull split like an overripe melon. A few around you gasp in horror, while others look on in stolid silence

Pagong leaves the body there and exits the slave pen, and two others appear to remove the lifeless body, less a skull. Bone fragments, blood, teeth, and bits of brain remain where once stood a human of poor-fortune.

Or, perhaps Emma was right in her thoughts. Maybe this was the best way out of the predicament. At least it was over in a matter of seconds.


You have approximately thirty minutes until your captors prepare to open the market. You may post to talk to another PC or NPC, whoever may be next to you.

[ilinares]

Korugan watches the gnome's display of illusion magic with carefully concealed interest. A fellow arcanist deserves his regard - although whether as a potential ally or rival remains to be seen.

But then, in Korugan's experience, the two are not mutually exclusive.

Almost immediately his attention is pulled to the human, as Pagong sets about pulverising him with berserk fury. Korugan feels nothing for the man on the ground - he already proved himself useless, and therefore there is no reason to regret his death. But the visceral illustration of how swiftly death can come, the unavoidable mental image of Korugan himself being beaten to death with similar savagery, occupies the wizard's mind for some time after his captor has left.

It says something, as well, about the gnome who orchestrated the death. It was done with subtlety and skill - two traits Korugan values - but there was no purpose to it. Was the utterance of the insult gratification enough? Or does it give the gnome pleasure to cause another's death? The former suggests a want of impulse control; Korugan has worked with such souls before, and it ended badly.

The latter possibility, the cruelty to enjoy others' deaths... well, he can work with that. Such passions can be a strong motivator - if they can be directed.

Such musings carry him through the initial minutes after Pagong has departed. After that, he begins to regard the individuals chained to his right and left. Neither strikes him as particularly remarkable; were he close enough to whisper to the gnome, or one of the more formidable specimens, conversation might have been profitable.

He decides to remain silent for now and listen to the conversations around him. While he does so, he tries to get a sense of his nearest fellow prisoners, trusting his intuition to tell him more about them.

Spoiler: Sense Motive

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(1d20+8)[14]

[gallagher]

Korugan scans the other poor souls to his left and right:

Spoiler: Sense Motive

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To your right are four dwarves, all of which are looking at their feet with shame on their faces. Those to your left are more interesting. While the whisper gnome is already on your radar, there is a fire gnome nearby that sticks out - a shock of red surrounded by black and gray tones. There is naught to give away any information on her, which may arise some curiosity to explore later. The others appear to be those Pagong said were destined for the mines, or the ominous Pit. Each of these look to be warriors, one of which required extra chains to be held. The new dwarf who had just been added seems muscle bound - his torn sleeve reveals dense muscles and a tattoo you cannot make out. Something else stands out - he is staring at something in your other direction, a look of concern on his face.

[S1ndarin]

Gronz smiles and holds back a small chuckle after seeing the human stomped out of existence. Not smiling at the killer, there's no honor is killing a defenseless human, but smiling at the pure show of strength as the stomp echoed through the chamber. Not speaking orcish, the beating of the human is the only part of what Pagong did that translates.

Gronz thinks of the ways he'd like to end the lives of his captors, starting with that smug orc. His fellow slaves are the only family that Gronz knows.

Spoiler: Number of ways

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(1d10-1)[3]

Turning to the gnome (Emma) beside him, he slowly approaches, unsure of the length of his bindings, and attempts to sit on the ground to have a more face to face conversation. Softly speaking, first in giant, then in common if giant-speak isn't understood Could you understand him? Did he say anything important, or was the beating his true message?

[Jeesits]

Gator notices the giant move closer to the gnome next to him and sees a chance to make an ally. If that means he has to suffer another gnome along the way, then so be it. He quietly moves up to the other side of the Fire Gnome (It just had to be a Fire Gnome), hiding as well as he could in the open enclosure, trying to use the shadows at the foot of the walls.

Spoiler

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(1d20+4)[15] =spot to see Gronz approach Emma
(1d20+9)[10] = Move silently to Emma's other side
(1d20+13)[22] = Hide in the shadows along the wall as Gator approaches Emma
(1d20+4)[14] = Listen in to what Gronz said

If Gator heard what Gronz said in common, he would blithely reply in common from the darkness, Oh just the usual. We're slaves now, going to die in the mines or in the arena. Escape is impossible, and death is preferable to the punishment for attempting it.

[ilinares]

The conversation seems, for now, too far away for Korugan to participate. He has little desire to shout to be heard, particularly when the interlocutors are trying to keep their voices down.

Instead, he raises an eyebrow inquisitively at the tattooed dwarf and tries without making it too obvious to see where the man is staring.

[esorscher]

"The man challenged the orc to 'pick on someone his own size,' and the orc rose to the challenge." Emma shrugs. She makes no effort to lower her voice, nor to raise it. "We're going to be sold, and if we're lucky, live in torturous captivity for a time before our animus is depleted, and we are cast aside like so much refuse." She pauses, pondering whether or not to continue before adding, "The sooner, the better, I think. At least it would be a change from this pit."

[gallagher]

Ilinares and Timble (since Vas is next to the new dwarf) please roll for sense motive.

Spoiler: DC 5

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His is a look of concern; he is looking at the dwarves to Korugan's right

Spoiler: DC 10

Show

more than that, it is pity in his face

Spoiler: DC 15

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and seems to be familiar with them

A few drow walk from the administrative door that Pagong had disappeared behind, each with parchment and pens. Skilled in several tongues, they choose to speak to each of you in your race's native tongue. One starts a few people away from Korugan, looks them up and down, and whispers to itself. He takes out a piece of charcoal and draws a number on the forehead of each in turn, and gets to Korugan.

Another dwarf? You're for the mines, don't bother convincing me otherwise. What is your age? He asks, and pulls out a charcoal. Korugan is given the number 41.

He next speaks to the half-orc in Orcish, takes a few notes, marks the and moves on next to Gronz.

In giantish - You are large, do you have skill with arms? You'll fetch a price, there are not many with giant blood this deep. Do you have a past with fighting? How old are you? He asks, taking notes, and then draws a 43 on your forehead.

Next is Emma. I have not seen a gnome of your kind. You do not have any obvious talent. What will cause a Master to purchase you? Do you have any special skills? Do you speak well? Do you have magical gifts? Can you read and write and count? He asks, jotting down whatever answers you give while eyeing you suspiciously. he then draws a 44 on your forehead and moves on.

Next is Gator. I know your kind. Notorious cutthroats, whisper gnomes. You will be for the pits. Do you have skill with arms? Do you have a past with fighting? How old are you? He asks, never taking his eyes from you, and then draws a 45 on your forehead with the charcoal.

The questions continue with the drow between Gator and Vas. Do any of you know Drow? If so, you may make a listen check if you so desire.

When it comes to Vas, the questions are similar those presumed to be warriors before. You are a large one, we will sell you for the Pit. Do you have skill with arms? Do you have a past with fighting? How old are you? You are tagged with the number 49, and then he moves to the dwarf chained next to her.

The following is in dwarven - Vas needs no listen check, as she is near enough. Gator will need a 10, Emma a 12, Gronz a 14. Korugan will pass with an 18.

Spoiler: For those that speak dwarven and pass their listen check

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I know that symbol on your arm. You serve Pelor! I am not selling this dwarf to the mines, you are going to the Pit. They will make a game out of killing you. The Archon might even reward the one who takes your head.

I apologize, a lot came at me really fast this week. Next post will include the rest of the prelude to the auction block, and the beginning of the auction. If you wish to interact with an NPC it will be easy enough for me to post something small between now and sunday.

[Timble]

Vas notes the dwarf looking at the rest. She wondered about how he came to be a slave. He was different from the rest. Perhaps he had somehow disgraced himself. Not that he mattered, soon they may be separated to never see each other again.

"I've rarely fought with weapons," Vas told the drow. The pit was a bad place for her to go, doubtlessly guarded against slave rebellion. "I'm an animal trainer of 20 years."

Could she use her powers to survive the pit? Hopefully she could get a side job training the creatures of the underdark rather than fighting them in the pit. If she was taken to the pit, perhaps she should keep her soulmelds secret until time to escape.

[ilinares]

Korugan briefly debates with himself whether secrecy or candour will serve him better. A mental image of himself being whipped to death in the claustrophobic confines of a mine tips the balance.

"My lord," he replies in the same tongue, with such a bow as his chains permit, "consider how little it would profit you to sell me to the mines. A dwarf I may be, but a feeble enough specimen of the breed.

"Sir, my value lies not in my flesh, but in my arcane knowledge. For many of my 80 years I have trained as a wizard, and I claim some little skill in the Art - not enough to be unmanageable, but enough to be a real asset. As you might expect, I am also a scholar of some ability.

"It is a sad fact that brute strength is far more common in this world than intelligence. And no doubt in the flesh trade as in any other field of commerce, the rarer commodity is the more valuable one."

Spoiler: Diplomacy check

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(1d20+4)[16]

[esorscher]

"Special skills? Certainly," Emma says casually, and while tempted to produce fire in her palm as a demonstration, decides otherwise. Why should she feel the need to prove herself? Beginning in Undercommon, and then shifting into each of the 7 languages she speaks, she continues, "I am fluent in several forms of communication. And yes, I can read, write, and count. What would cause someone to purchase me? I can't begin to fathom."

[S1ndarin]

Remove my chains and I will show you how I fight. I would break them myself if not for the consequence. I have been sold to countless fighting pits and here I am before you

Gronz doesn't address the question of his age, he doesn't count days or keep track of years. He no longer even remembers the day of his birth nor does he know the current date.

[Jeesits]

Spoiler

Show

Gator's listen check is almost pointless as he does not know dwarven, but (1d20+4)[13] = listen for Pelor's name which should translate pretty universally, right?

Next is Gator. I know your kind. Notorious cutthroats, whisper gnomes. You will be for the pits. Do you have skill with arms? Do you have a past with fighting? How old are you? He asks, never taking his eyes from you, and then draws a 45 on your forehead with the charcoal.

Cutthroats, yes. Fighters, no. You want a fighter, you'll take the giant, but he may have better use too. Can you tell how old he is? Must be good at staying alive, maybe keep your Mistress alive too? Your Mistress will get no pleasure in seeing me try to survive in the arena.

(1d20+4)[24] = Bluff to make both Gator and Gronz look better in a capacity outside the arena or the mines.

Spoiler

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(1d20+5)[13] = sleight of hand to hide my hand movements from all but the Drow in front of him. Saying in Drow sign language, as Gator says the above aloud in under common, "Your Mistress would boil you alive if she knew you even thought of wasting a Gnome of my talents in the Arena!

I don't know how old I am, I lost track of time for a while when I first came down here. But it has been 15 years in the underdark that I can count for sure.

Spoiler

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(1d20+5)[24] = sleight of hand to again hide my hand movements from all but the Drow. In Drow sign language. Lolth will surely make her displeasure known! Your Mistress will know that slaves are hardly noticed where Drow stand out, where Whisper Gnomes thrive.

[gallagher]

Spoiler: Vas

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An animal trainer?? The drow gave a measured look of curiosity. There are animals here and there, though most within Araxicazzan end up in the Pit or in a bowl of stew. We'll sell you along with the warrior group. Maybe your new Master will dress you as a zookeeper to fight among beasts. He says, finishing his notes and moving on without giving you any more concern.

Spoiler: Korugan

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You're a mage? The drow responds with credulity. Very well, you will be sold alongside others of your kind. The skills of a mage are handsomely rewarded on the auction block, and you are less likely to find yourself at the wrong end of a spear if you keep your head down and do what you are told. Do you have any specialty? The scrivener jots down notes and then continues to the prisoners to your left.

Spoiler: Emma

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Fantastic. The drow responds, understanding nearly every word. Many slaves end up serving a household. Your skills in language could land you with a Master of great wealth. The jewels mined here lead to much trade coming into our city, and to speak the dragon tongue would be beneficial to those that trade in goods crafted with arcane skill. He says with an impressed tone, taking notes and moving on to your left.

Spoiler: Gronz

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He does not look impressed. Many fighters speak threats to me. At least you have spirit. It will make for a better death in the Pit. Though you claim to have been sold to a fighting arena before... hmmhmm... the drow says as he jots notes. We'll see how long you last. I may place a bet on your first match. Please wait until after that to die.

Spoiler: Gator

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The drow grabs your fingers at the invocation of Lolth. The crushing grip is unforeseen, and you feel as if your index and pinkie finger will break (DM decree - the sign for Lolth is the devil horns). Slaves passing secret messages are captured quickly and die slowly in Araxicazzan. Lose all pretense of agency. Your only choice left in life is when to die. And even that is like to be chosen for you. It is the Pit for you. He says, releasing his grip and moving on. The drow looks over his shoulder at Gronz briefly and takes another note to his pad.

all the while -

Spoiler: spot only for Gator, DC 20

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We shall see. Survive in the pits as long as you can. A gnome of special talent could find a higher calling in service to the Queen. Is relayed to you in Drow Sign Language by the drow's off hand.

As the drow moves among your number, Pagong reappears with a few characters who act in unison, casting a spell that raises the ground in the middle of the area to create a platform. Two others push a wooden ramp to the new block of stone that you see around you. A series of pews are set up with their backs to the large entrance, and in the front a couple of individual chairs, with much space between them, are set in place. Not too much time passes before you hear the ringing brass of a gong from outside the pen, and the large wooden doors open from the middle inward. You cannot make out much detail from your distance, but the first four groups seem to be one or two people in attire that glitters in the torchlight from above alongside many attendants. After they are set in the front with the individual chairs, the pews begin to fill with those without a throng, clearly they are of less import than the initial group.

Pagong has an ugly smile of broken teeth and yellowed fangs, but it seems genuine enough. His initial presentation is unremarkable, but the intent is clear. He is speaking praise to the crowd and to the quality of slaves he has to sell to them: We have miners and warriors a-plenty; good to make you rich in the mines or to serve as fresh meat ready for slaughter by your reigning Champions. Many of those I am ready to sell are worth their weight in treasure, but will surely reap you a profit tenfold! He continues on in this fashion, acting ever the hype man. He then looks to the papers handed to him, and calls out to Number 1. Then Number 2 and 3 and so on in sequence - each new number called is swiftly bought in a short bidding process. Most of the prisoners were dwarves, and they were sold for the most part to the men and women in the front, though some that were described as fighters were sold to members of the masses in the pews. 39 is called, then 40, before Korugan is called up.

41! Next is 41, a dwarf that claims special talent. A knower-and-user of the arcane arts! Korugan's collar his it's chain unlinked, so that he is no longer tethered to the wall, and is pushed up to the wooden ramp leading to the platform with Pagong. At the top, he unlinks your cuffs and takes them, and says - 41, prove your arcane skills for the crowd.

You will each be led up in turn, but I stopped at Korugan because once there, he will be entitled to spot checks. Please describe what you would catch Korugan's eye. and roll for spot. Everyone else can do so as well, so that I may incorporate the results into Wednesday's post with everyone else's turn atop the block.

[ilinares]

Korugan takes a moment to rub his wrists, eyes on the crowd. He tries to see if any have shown particular interest in the revelation of his arcane abilities, in order to address himself to them.

Spoiler: Spot

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(1d20+4)[19]

Part of him seethes at being made to perform in this fashion - and resents Pagong for thrusting him into this position with no preparation and no material components. Still, his life may very well depend on proving his worth.

Seldom has he regretted focusing on conjuration at the expense of evocation - but he can hardly deny that this would be easier with a flashy list of prepared spells.

He bows briefly to the crowd, focuses his attention on any individuals who seemed interested in buying a mage - and vanishes, reappearing 10' away on the other side of the dais.

Spoiler: OOC

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Expending one daily use of Abrupt Jaunt.

Not wanting the would-be purchasers to see him as a one-trick offer, he mentally skims through his available spells for one that he can cast without components an which would produce a visible result. The choice is limited; but he swiftly moves through the arcane gestures and speaks the words of a particularly familiar illusion.

His features appear to change in an instant, becoming those of a brutal-looking orc thug - specifically modelled after Pagong, although being unable to see himself in the mirror Korugan can only guess at the accuracy of the result.

Spoiler: Disguise self

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Sacrificing Command to spontaneously cast Disguise Self. Disguise check to accurately mimic Pagong's appearance: (1d20+9)[14] (including the -2 penalty for impersonating a different race)

Korugan holds the spell long enough to be sure the demonstration has been understood, then bows to the crowd and simultaneously releases his concentration, so that he is himself again when he stands up.

He does not speak, deciding that trying to give a spoken pitch on his own behalf might lead to a beating. Instead, he decides to let his spells speak for themselves.

[gallagher]

Spoiler: Korugan

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Your spot check reveals a long list of people that are interested in your magical prowess, but none more than the parties in the front. Most of them are dressed in cloth-of-gold or ivory, but in the middle is an elder dwarf, his beard gone white but for a few streaks of reddish-brown, dressed in red with a single ivory belt. His right-index finger bears a ring with a ruby so wide it almost touches the knuckle on both sides.

The crowd sees your impression and is slightly amused, many raising to a hearty chuckle. If looks could cut like a dagger, Pagong's angry stare could slice through leather. He takes a moment to hide it in his voice, and announces:

This dwarf is a magician, and so we start the bid at Four ounces - ounces of what, you can only guess for now - but hands shoot up quickly. Pagong keeps raising the price by tenths-of-an-ounce, and after it gets to ten ounces, only the hands that remain raised are in individual seats right in front of you. The elderly dwarf in the middle, in easy comfort, is joined by one of his retinue that whispers in his ear. Two seats to his left is a drow, of an age you'd have to guess (or roll), looking resolute. She has a half-moon burned into her cheek, and is dressed in a black that absorbs the light around it, and a deep purple cape.

The drow stands and says above the murmer - 11 and a half ounces, you know not if that is a high bid, but the dwarf nods assent to his bid, and lowers his hand. You got me a good price, and you got lucky. That is Magus Ni'amoz. He must need new attendants at The Crimson Tower. Pagong whispers to you, and shoves you to the other side of the stage, where two half-orcs are waiting to rebind your hands and to reattach your collar to the wall.

Spoiler: Gronz

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43! Pagong cries out, and you know it is your turn to ascend the ramp to the block. When you look to the crowd, you bare your teeth and let out a growl. Still partiall bound in chains, you make a menacing sight. This one is destined for the pits. A violent beast of giant-blood. A rare find, and is like to bring in handsome rewards in the pits. We start his bid at two ounces, a steal!

Every hand in the pews goes up, but you see none in the front row. An aged dwarf in crimson even yawns, who sits amid a few others to his left and right. The others are dressed in cloth of gold, some in ivory, and one drow in black, and they all watch with little interest in a fighter. The bidding continues, but you barely listen, instead you focus on looking tough. A few hands shoot down, then more, and a minute later one tall and slender drow in the back is standing with his arm raised. Sold, for 3.4 ounces! Pagong shouts out, pointing to the drow with his coiled whip. He whispers to you, Fair price, I guess. You'll die in The Pit. He says, smiling with yellowed, crooked teeth. He pushes you forcefully towards the other end of the block, and a pair of armed guards return you to your chains. You see Korugan has just been returned to his place as well.

Spoiler: Emma

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44! Pagong shouts after bidding has ended for Gronz. Your curiosity at who would buy you will soon be answered. Your walk up the ramp to the auction block is slow, and your eyes remain at your feet. Pagong wasted no time once you are up. This gnome has been kissed by fire, and her skills lay with reading, writing - he is cut off, an dwarf with a white beard in the front-and-center, dressed in a stunning crimson robe stands from his seat. You can see a big ruby sitting on his gold ring.

I would exercise the Archon's Right. He says immediately. Pagong nods his head, and says to you. That is the Archon's uncle, Jabban, who claimed you. You are headed to Deepmine Keep. Go along then, be quick about it, he gestures to the other side, where a pair of armed guards return you to the wall. What fate has done for you is hard to gauge. Is it lucky to be sold to the Archon? Is it just a different kind of death sentence?

Gronz has been returned to his place, and his handlers had barely finished chaining him before they do the same to you.

Spoiler: Gator

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45! Pagong announces. Curious, Emma had only just been called up? It had taken Gronz and Korugan minutes to be auctioned off... a half-orc behind you pushed you, forcing you to begin your walk. You walk up the ramp, and have one foot on the block when Pagong begins. This may be a little gnome, but many of you are aware of their criminal tendencies. Cutthroats to the last, and you'll want him nowhere near anything of value if you want to keep it for yourself. In the Pit, he might make for a ringer! What do you say we start off at one ounce! most hands from those gathered in the pews shoot up, a few stand. Perhaps Pagong did his job well that some seem so eager. Or maybe one ounce is a low enough price that nobody feared the opening bid. A minute or two goes by before Pagong announces Sold! For three ounces! Pointing to a tall and slender drow standing in the back. Welcome to your new hell, Pagong whispers to you. You'll probably be squared off against the largest monster they have in the Pit. You'll be lucky to be alive next week. He gives a snorting laugh, and pushes you to the other side of the auction block, where two armed guards return you to your chains, and bring you to your place along the wall, where you see most of those brought in with you have been taken as well.

Spoiler: Vas

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49! You hear called down to you. You leave behind the late-added dwarf as the second-to-last to be sold. About time, you might think. You proudly walk up the ramp and ascend with head held high. Pagong is impatient and hurrying you along, knowing that his day's work is almost done. This one calls herself a beast-master. Maybe lets her be a character for the Pit? What do you say? Let us start at two ounces? No hands go up, many confused about your fit for the Pit... One ounce? Pagong says, looking into the crowd hoping for a bid. After more silence, one in the front seats, a dwarf in cloth-of-gold, says I will pay a half-ounce, a miner's price. Pagong looks around and sees nobody ready to raise the price, and surrenders to it. Sold for a half ounce. You are led off the stage to be returned to the wall. You are relieved to find that you are not to end up in the Pit with little more than a spear and leather armor.

Not long after Vas returns to her position, the Pelor-worshipping dwarf is returned as well. Minutes pass among you before the Masters arise to collect their purchased people. The elder dwarf in red has his retainers with him, all of them dwarves and most of them look to be warriors, and they collect a number of other dwarves that you could guess are for the mines. They then come for Emma, unlock her chain, and bring her with the others to leave the pen. You are ushered into another caged wagon, followed by a covered wagon richly decorated.

Next comes the drow who had purchased Korugan. He takes your chain in his hand, looking like he will lead you himself. Do not try to flee, you will get nowhere. And then with a lurch, you vanish into air, and in an instant you find yourself in an unlit room, with well-fit stones shaping the walls and floor.

Another drow comes for Gronz first, four half-orcs are with him, two of which hold the chains of an ogre. Gronz's chain is claimed by another of the half-orcs, and the drow himself takes Gator's. Finally, the last of the half-orcs take the chain of the Pelor-worshipping dwarf. his eyes are downcast, and you are led to a caged-wagon, led away from the pen and towards the grand entrance to Araxicazzan.

Finally, the dwarf in cloth-of-gold who had purchased Vas is gathered, as well as the five dwarves that had been to Korugan's immediate right. As he gets close with his retainers, you see that he is wearing a medal bearing a pair of crossed miner's picks. Like the others, Vas is led out of the pen.

Next, your first steps in Araxicazzan. You may post as you wish among yourselves before you were gathered, or with those that leave with you.

[ilinares]

The Crimson Tower? Korugan wonders, dredging his memory for any insight into the nature of that organisation.

Spoiler: Knowledge Arcana

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(1d20+9)[28]

At least the name of his new owner - and here Korugan has to fight down a surge of rage at the thought of being degraded to a mere chattel - suggests a degree of arcane skill. Perhaps, after all, he might benefit from these foul events - might learn some new secrets of magic from his would-be owners.

Perhaps a good slave would meekly wait on his master's bidding; but Korugan has no intention of letting this Magus Ni'amoz get too comfortable thinking of him as his possession.

"The Crimson Tower, one presumes, Magus?" he asks. "If I am to serve here, it would be helpful to know more of those I am serving."

[esorscher]

Emma betrays no sign of the inner disobedience, and finds herself wishing she had not been deprived of her possessions. Had she her mother's tokens, bewitched such as they were, she could have anchored the wagon in place, and in the confusion, made her escape. For now, she rides in silence, wondering. If she were destined for the mines, this "Jabban" exercising the "Archon's Right" would seem unlikely. Why use such a thing for another mine worker? She studies Jabban as she approaches the wagon, in hopes of better understanding him. (Sense Motive: (1d20)[1])

[Jeesits]

Gator decided it would be best to just bide his time for now. They had all of his belongings, and he couldn't be sure if the Dwarf had any useful magic prepared. The Half Giant would definitely be useful, his martial prowess would draw the enemies attention, and allow me to work in the shadows. The Dwarf could be useful if he had any magic that was compatible with mine. The Ogre could be an instrument of Raum's chaos in the arena, but he would have to ensure that the chaos did not force him into an untenable situation. The Half Orcs were only good for being meat shields, though they did not need to be aware of that.

Gator caught the eye of the Drow leading him to the cart, and surreptitiously flashed him a message in Drow sign language, It was smart to purchase the Giant as well. Your Mistress will be pleased with our service, even if we must begin it in the arena.

Spoiler

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(1d20+5)[19] Sleight of hand to hide his hand movements from all but the Drow.