The tavern of Infinity...

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Wild shouts ring down the alley. Duskai stands bolt upright hand shaking. Looking at the man before her, his hand held out, a bitter shot of regret courses down her body and she lowers her weapon.
"I..I am sorry, I did not mean to cause such trouble, I have done a very bad thing and will pay sooner than most" she glances down the alley as she says this.
Reaching behind her she draws out the bow, it shines like a thousand saphires. With sadness she hands it to the other thief. Then taking his other hand in hers she lays a light kiss apon it.
"forgive me" she wipes away a tear
"...and do not forget me, for If I should leave this world none other will remember me."
She turns away slowly and without looking back runs towards the sounds of battle, cloak and ebony hair flowing out behind her.

 

The two dark combatants continue to circle each other like caged lions. Overcome with pain and fatigue, Moeken hears a commotion in the alley to his left and stumbles towards the sounds of several stomping feet and the soft whinnying of a small pony.
Unable to hold himself much longer, Moeken grabs for the reins to support his wobbling legs, "The Ironbeard brothers I presume. Your arrival is most welcome." The small band of dwarven figures are making adjustments to an arsenal of odd looking weapons.
Dabbing at blood flowing freely from his mouth, Moeken continues ,"I'm afraid I won't be of much help to you, I need to rest a few moments."
The wound in Moeken's side seemed to be getting worse, undoubtedly the result of herf's unholy blade. Feeling his life blood flowing freely between his fingers, Moeken releases the pony and collapses against a nearby wall. Remembering an ancient dwarven custom, the battered monk raises a fist to his heart, "May Moradin guide you..."

[This message has been edited by Lord Moeken (edited April 23, 2001).]

 

Staring dumb-founded after the girl, Sapiryl strokes the bow string gently, causing an almost inaudible hum. Recovering, Sapiryl charges towards the end of the alley, away from the sounds of battle. Reaching the back wall of a house, he searches desperately for a way to the roof.

The back porch of one of the buildings has a covered porch, and Sapiryl vaults onto a barrel, and then onto the porch roof. Then, pulling himself over the edge of the gutter, he flings himself towards the sounds of combat.

Unfortunately, the noise and expultion of people from the tavern have caught the attention of another group of "warriors". Slowly, the Amnish garrison has mobilised, and Sapiryl can see torches and horsemen hurrying down the city lanes.

Running faster now, Sapiryl makes it to the edge of the roof, and looks down upon the messy seen below. The Kara-Turan seems to be down permanently, and the monk would soon be following. The dwarves are having some luck in keeping the warrior at bay, and the warrior himself seems to be retreating.

"Only one chance," Sapiryl mumbles, and reaches into the quiver at his side, amazed that it is still there. Two arrows remain, the rest have spilled out along the way. Drawing out one of them, Sapiryl draws the bow back to his cheek, and sites down the shaft. The slightly curved tip gleams dully in the torchlight, and the warrior's black figure seems to float on the end of it.

Slowly, deliberately, Sapiryl exhales...and releases.

 

As Moeken closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, he felt a pair of rough hands shaking his shoulders. He opened his eyes to find himself looking into the face of a dwarf. While bearing clear resemblance to the dwarf from the tavern, this one was evidently older, and his eyes were not the narrow, suspisciously darting slits of Ratchett, but rather spoke of wisdom and compassion. "Ah can see yer wounds be grevious, Lord", said the dwarf, " Ah be a cleric, and knows a fair bit o' healin'. Let me tend te ye a while." The dwarf turns to his brother and the apprentice smiths "Go," he says, " I must ensure this chentleman recovers fae his wounds, but there is no time tae waste. May Moradin be with you" He casts a quick blessing on the group, who, as one dwarf, make the sign of the hammer across their chests, then turn towards the combat. Paul turns back to the injured monk and begins to chant a prayer of healing.

As Ratchett emerges from the alley, at the head of the team of apprentice smiths, he sees herf and Shura circling each other, herf clearly weakened, his armour broken in places. Neither take any notice of the dwarves as they take up positions and train their weapons on herf. Ratchett whispers a quick prayer Paul taught him for luck, then bellows "Stand Clear!". Shura turns his head, and dives away from herf, the dwarves near the muzzle of the strange weapon fall back, Ratchett gives a hand signal to the most senior of the apprentices handling the machine and the apprentice grins, turning a large wheel. With a load roar a gout of flaming oil shoots out of the muzzle and herf disappears beneath a curtain of flame. Above the roar of the flame, herf can be heard rythmically chanting. Ratchett shouts to the weapon crew and they dive for cover mere seconds before a lightning bolt from herf ignites the flamethrower's main fuel tanks causing it to explode in a shower of smoke and flaming oil. When the dust settled the three smiths reformed and, wielding their hammers double handed, advanced on herf along with a fourth smith wielding a steam-powered rock crusher. Ratchett and the two smiths armed with ranged weapons laid down covering fire. As bolt after bolt ricoched off herf's armour, Ratchett could see that his attacks were doing no good. Glancing to the rooftops he could see an indistinct figure, which he thought he could identify as Sapyril. If Sapyril had his bow, he may well be the only person who could kill herf. If only they could buy enough time for him to get off a shot. Ratchett's crossbow gave a dissapointing click, the magazine was exhausted. He unhooked his hammer from his belt and hefted it in both hands. "Here goes nothing..."

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 24, 2001).]

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 28, 2001).]

 

Blinking his eyes, Moeken focuses on the figure before him and in his delerium raises an arm in defense. Strong, yet gentle hands relax the injured monk and soon both human and dwarf are engulfed in a pale glowing light and the deep rhythmic chanting of Paul. Sounds of an ensuing battle rage in the distance, but are soon masked by peaceful tranquility. Relaxing his muscles, Moeken allows the healing powers to course through his beaten body, relishing the soft snapping of crushed bones becoming once again whole. Divine power fills the very soul of Moeken lending the sensation of weightlessness, but in an instant the cold reality of the night returns.
Gingerly rolling his fingers back and forth, Moeken marvels at the power and completeness of the healing prayer, "You are indeed a Son of Moradin my friend, perhaps some day the favour can be repaid."
Rising to his feet Moeken quickly turns down the alley, only to be stopped short by the timeless gaze of the husky, noble priest. For a moment no words are exchanged, Moeken looks into deep grey eyes filled with wisdom beyond their years, "Be on yer way Lad. My brother Ratchett be out there and payment will be had soon enough."

Reaching the end of the alley, even renewed vigour does not prepare Moeken for the sight before him. Small bodies of injured dwarves are strewn about and the hulking contraption pulled by the pony is hidden by thick oily smoke. A roar from the street betrays herf's position, his mail encased body ravaged by flames and soot. A small trembling figure approaches the towering warrior head on, a small forge hammer grasped in it's hands.
Ratchett! Moeken's mind races as his trained eyes scan the area. Herf's screams are directed at the roof tops towards a figure with bow fully extended. The sharp snap of the gut string is heard clearly through the cold air propelling a seemingly normal arrow towards it's target.
"Ratchett, NO!", Moeken yells in desperation as the dwarf's hammer strikes herf in the thigh. Distracted by the impact, herf rolls to the side, avoiding the fatal impact of the enchanted missile. Tearing through his mail covered arm, the smouldering arrow sinks harmlessly into the ground as herf turns toward the dwarf...

[This message has been edited by Lord Moeken (edited April 25, 2001).]

 

Ratchett looked up in horror as the armoured figure of herf bears down upon him. His armour split across the chest, dented from countless hammer blows and covered with soot, ash and small patches of still flaming oil, herf still showed no sign of weakening. The apprentices lay scattered about, groaning and clutching at wounds, their weapons discarded. A few were trying to gather themselves for another attack, but it was pointless, they were smiths, not soldiers. By Moradin's hammer, herf had even been able to cast a spell with the flamethrower on him. Herf's sword came down on Ratchett, tearing his padded leather jerkin like paper and cutting a deep gash across his chest. Ratchett winced in pain and looked desperately around him. He saw an arrow, presumably from the enchanted bow, snap on the cobblestones, and Moeken running up on herf from another angle. "Thank Moradin you're back!" he breathed.

 

Running out from a side street Duskai looks at the devastation before her. Dwarves lay on the ground all around, some groaning, others, more worryingly not. The huge dark man stood amongst the carnage, apparently nothing could keep him down even for a short time. The dwarf who had been the other thief's companion lay at the feet of the evil one and seemed in trouble. The goodly knight, looking more alive than when she had last looked apon him was attempting to charge Herf, Duskai doubted if he would look so alive for long, damn shame. Herf turned to meet his blow, striding forward, solid as a stone wall.
Whilst the Herf's attention was turned to the Knight, Duskai ran around the battle field, jumping over grumbling dwarves here and there until she came to dwarf Ironbeard.
"friend, follow quickly, before the evil one can do you more harm, a strategic retreat when one is not at ones best is often for good." she whispered urgently.
"away lass, i dinna want to be seen a coward now, the good knight might be needin assistance."
"poor brave foolish dwarf" she smiled, reaching into a pocket sown into the very lining of her cloak she pulls out a flask and offers it to him. He takes a swig and coughs
"that be strrong stuff ye has there girrly, I feel the fight in me returrnin" he takes another swig.
"hey! do not drink it all, tis a valuable tonic" she snatches it back and takes a large swig herself, shuddering she slips it back into her cloak.
"now we must move, a swig of burning medicine is all well and good but in the middle of a battlefield as the fight is still raging is not the wisest of actions, come let us see what use we may be my stout fellow, I will follow, I owe you all that much, what now?"

 

"Damnation!" Sapiryl swears, both in response to his miss, and to the new smaller figure who had just run from the alleyway.

Grasping his last arrow, Sapiryl draws again, trying to predict his targets movements.

On all sides, the glow of torchlight is getting nearer, and Sapiryl can actually pick out individual soldiers. It appears that all of the cities defenses were out in force tonight. Both the Amnish guards and paladins from the Order of the Radiant Heart were rushing to the scene. The use of magical energy had disturbed the temples as well, and Sapiryl thought he heard the chants of Talos.

A sheen of sweat covered Sapiryl from head to toe, but he calmed himself and tried once again to hit his target...

 

Hearing the sounds of combat, Paul rushed out of the alley, his runic hammer glowing with a pale blue light as he gripped it in both hands. Seeing his brother wounded, Paul ran forwards and prepared a healing spell, but before he could utter one sylabble, Ratchett turned to him. "Dinna ye go worryin' fer me," he said, " t'lass's elixir's guid stuff, I'll live, but there be some as may not..." He indicated one of the more badly injured dwarves with his hammer, "Go tae them first, an' then we be needin' ye in the fight!"

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited April 29, 2001).]

 

herf the warrior person keels over and dies of natural causes, lung cancer, caused by chewing too many lotus leaves, and no amount of death mail cant cure him and he has 100% magic resistance so cannot be revived in any way shape or form and yes i do keep my magic resistance when i die and it is completely natural so cannot be removed by any dispell magic. i cannot be revived as a zombie, skeleton or ghoul or ghost or vampire.

in short, im dead.

 

Then Myrkul laughs evilly, when herf enters his domain...

 

Paul quickly casts his last healing spell on the injured dwarf, and drags him over behind a pile of crates, where Ratchett, Duskai, and the five smiths who were fit enough to walk or crawl are huddled. Ratchett looks over the top of the crates and sees herf fall. "Ah dinna like this, " he mutters, "too easy, it's some kind of a trick, I knows it."
"I'm with ye there, brother" responds Paul, "but our priority has te be tae get the injured tae a temple or somesuch. Me healin' is exhausted, an' there be at least a couple who'll no outlive the night wi'out help."
"Aye, brother," said Ratchett, "They're no warriors, and we shouldna ha' brought them at all. If any die tonicht I must be counted their murderer. " Turning to Duskai he added, "Come wi' us lass, we'll be needin' an extra pair o' hands tae get the injured on the cart, an' we kin discuss herf's little trick"

 

Slowly letting the bowstring back, Sapiryl casts worried eyes about him, and then makes a hurried retreat back the way he had come. Jumping from the roof to the ground, he quickly recovers, and makes his way to the mouth of the alley. Smiling broadly, he exits the alley and approaches the small group of wounded.

"All right then! We seem to be rid of one problem."

Eyebrows (several pair of them) are raised in his direction, and he swallows before hastily going forth.

"Look, the garrisons are emptied, and will be here in seconds. If you wish to be away from this place, follow me and don't argue. I have arranged a getaway route."

Sapiryl reaches out to help the others, hoping that they will trust him. His intensions were pure, but would they believe? And, if they didn't, he wondered if the Athkatla jail cells were as damp and uncomfortable as he had heard...

 

The cart is loaded with injured dwarves, clutching at gaping wounds and groaning in pain. One is silent and ghostly pale. Only the rising and falling of his battered chest as he draws painful, ragged breaths. Paul, at the reins, turns and fixes Sapyril with a steely gaze and says, "I am no criminal, why should I fear the garrison? If I am questioned I will protect you, for in my eyes you have done nothing wrong. My responsibilty is to these dwarves, many canna walk an' have tae be tae'n in the cart - an' any delay in gettin' them tae a temple could be fatal!"

While his brother speaks Ratchett ponders whether or not he can trust Sapyril. Trust... trust is a dangerous thing in his business. It was trust as killed Cedric. One night he went out on a "job" with a "new contact", and the next morning his severed limbs hung from the Shadow Thief HQ as a warning to others.... Paul stops talking and Ratchett is suddenly concious of the closeness of the watch, as Sapyril turns to him, he meets his gaze. "Aye," he says, "I'm with ye"

[This message has been edited by Ironbeard (edited May 04, 2001).]

 

"Well I for one wish to be away from this place, lead us away my dear. Quickly now. These brave folk need aid and this one here cannot wait" She touched the still and colourless dwarf's forehead. He felt as cold as ice. She removed her cloak and laid it over him.

 

Smiling broadly, Sapiryl swirls around, waving farewell to the dwarves in the cart.

"Very good, follow me!"

Sapiryl jogs off, rounding the now smoking remains of his beloved tavern. At the rear of the establishment is a set of cellar doors that appear to be heavily locked. However, with practiced ease, Sapiryl removes the hinges from one of the doors, and lifts up the edge, motioning the others through.

After lighting a torch in the wall, Sapiryl lowers the doors and drops a heavy crossbar into place. Then, picking up the torch, Sapiryl continues into the "cellar" pretending not to notice the concealed weapons on the forms of his comrades.

"You were quite fortunate in coming with me, " Sapiryl states, "Those above will be able to escape imprisonment due to the fact that they arrived at the Monkey after the commotion had begun. However, not all of my patrons are completely loyal to me, and you may have fallen into the hands of the garrison. 'Guilty by association' or so they say."

Sighing heavily, Sapiryl turns down a side tunnel and comes to a ladder set in the stone wall. Handing the torch to Ironbeard, Sapiryl starts to climb. Reaching the top, he shifts the trap door in the ceiling and peers out carefully. Then he whistles a short tune.

"You are officially under the strictest suspicion, so I suggest you keep your hands to yourselves, and your tongues in check."

As Sapiryl finishes, the door is lifted away from the inside, and the familiar face of Sapiryl's bouncer appears. But it is obvious that he is not alone. Sapiryl smiles reasuringly, and continues up the ladder...

 

Ratchett pauses by the bottom of the ladder. Into whose hands was Sapyril leading him? His grip tightened on the handle of his hammer. There were still a few shadow thieves who might consider his head a fine present for Aran Lindvail, and his work for Sapyril was so poor it could not protect him. But turning back now would surely deliver him into the hands of the guard. With an effort of will he clips the hammer to his belt, takes hold of the ladder in both hands, and begins to climb.

Above on the street, the cart thunders wildly forward, pedestrians scattering in its wake. Paul brings it skidding to a halt outside a nearby Helm temple. The priest and a number of acolytes come out to see what alll the commotion is. "These dwarves are grievously injured", says Paul, "I'd tak 'em tae a temple of Moradin but there's no time. Guard them, send runners to their relatives, give them all the healing they require. I've nay money on me, but I'll pay generously when they are healed. Ye have my word - as one priest to another." As Paul helps the Helmists unload the wounded from the cart, the clatter of horses' hooves is heard clearly through the still night air. A mounted Sergeant of the guard draws his horse up by the cart and glowers down at Paul. "You there, shorty!" he barks, " I've got a few questions for you about this little scuffle..."