PrP: With Friends Like These
The flyer Dagdan showed to Moire was simple:
"HELP FOR MYRDDISH REFUGEES Masthead Alley, near the docks Red door. Ask for Magda. YOU ARE NOT WITHOUT FRIENDS!"
Today, Dagdan has taken a job as a caravan guide, and Moire has agreed to go and check out the address on the flier. Both she and Dag agree, however, that one can never be too sure in a strange city and so they have sought out two of the only friends they have made in their new home, the druid war golem Owen, and the Sith Makar, Acoszotl, to accompany Moire during her investigation.
The docks, as always, are a busy place, but after being pointedly ignored by a few people, someone is finally kind enough to point out Masthead Alley. The little shadowy corridor snakes off between ramshackle buildings, residences. Overhead, shabby laundry hangs on dropping lines that crisscross the slender view of the sky.
Especially with the particular part of town. Moire's comfortable venturing down to the docks with companions, for all that there's some concern for Dagdan being off elsewhere. But she deals, focusing instead on what it is they're heading to do. She maintains her patience through the ignoring, just trying again, and again -- there's a word of thanks and a couple of copper for the person that does finally point the little group in the right direction. Right at the moment she is not running her mouth like she usually does, more focused on taking everything in as she starts looking for the red door.
Owen wouldn't typically delve far enough into the city to reach the docks, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He seems entirely out of place here by the docks. Where other war golems in the city typically make a grand showing of metallic colors, he is wood and stone with only metal bands riveted in to keep his chassis together. He's quiet for the most part, having agreed to come along in the first place because 'the refugees will just disturb places they ought not if left unattended'. His austere wooden face turns this way and that, studying the others with glowing green eyes.
Acoszotl doesn't really try to not stand out-- though Alexandria is a cosmopolitan city with many races, he's simply huge-- but he walks along with his hands folded in front of him and his head down slightly, minimizing his profile and making him seem more a penitent then warrior. The thin robes he wears helps. He lifts a hand and points the deep red of a claw silently to the door when he sees it, though for the moment that silent communication is his only voice.
The red door is easily found when Acoszotl points at it, a sturdy wooden thing with a fresh coat of paint. The home into which it ostensibly provides access is somewhat larger than the others around it, a three story abode with windows that have been barred to keep out unwanted guests. Still, there are signs that it is well-maintained: the curtains that are visible look clean and small potted plants can be glimpsed through the glass, carefully placed to receive sunlight.
Plants, curtains. Okay, this place might be okay. Moire does relax a little bit, sending a smile up in the direction of both of her very large companions. They're studied only briefly before she laughs, turning to the door to slip over to it, bringing a hand up to rap against it lightly. Knock knock knock.
Owen considers ducking out of sight for a moment, but it's already too late. Moire's knocking on the door stills the brief fidget indicating he had intended to move a couple of paces to the left. Oh well. The war golem, not quite as tall as the Sith Makar at least, stands without complaint. Bikko, the large horned owl, is alert on his shoulder, but closes his large eyes for as long as possible. The city sounds and smells are making it hard to sleep, evidently.
The Sith-Makar falls in beside Moire as she knocks, his red-clawed hands folding before him again. "What is expected, here?" he asks softly, though his voice is deep and low and a little rough when used to speak the common tongue.
There is a moment of silence following the knock, but, soon enough, a woman's voice can be heard. "Coming!" One of the curtains in a window near the door moves and a wrinkled blue eye, framed by wisps of grey hair can be seen. It widens at the sight of the Sith Makar and the War Golem before the curtain closes once more. The voice can be heard through the red door soon after. "What is your business here? I don't want any trouble."
"We're not here for trouble," Moire's voice is quick to answer, lifting to carry through the door, her tone warm. "My name is Moire; I'm from the Everwood. I saw your flier. They're with me because I am small and this isn't the best part of town, and we weren't sure if you were a trap or not."
GAME: Moire rolls diplomacy: (13)+11: 24
Owen settles his eyes on the window when he catches the motion of the curtain. For a long moment he says nothing, letting Moire do the majority of the talking. "I am Owen, Druid of the Green Word," he introduces himself in his usual hollow baritone. Bikko just fluffs a bit, looking annoyed. He is not excited about being awake.
"I am Acoszotl, my mother is Chemacu, my tribe Xocoati, but here, in human lands, I am a servant of Daeus's temple." The sith-makar hopes that invoking the Dragonfather may put the humans at ease, considering his reputation is... shining. Pretty literally. He shifts his posture to slip his claws into the robes, to further make him try to seem less threatening.
There is a pause, And then, the sound of latches being lifted and bolts being pulled. Soon enough, the red door opens and reveals a woman in her early sixties, he grey hair pulled back in a bun, though a few strands have pulled free and frame her aging face. She looks the group over with blue eyes, then beckons them inside silently. Beyond her, the interior of the house is spacious and clean, the furnishes plain but serviceable. As she ushers the trio inside, she ducks her head back into the alleyway as if checking for overly-curious neighbors, then closes the door firmly, locking it once more.
"I'm sorry for the rude reception," the woman says with a rueful smile. "My name is Magda. Welcome to my home." Her eyes settle on Moire. "Aren't you a pretty one. You remind me of my own Igraine." Magda gives a rough shake of her head. "But we best not go down that path. It is good to meet you, Moire, Owen, and Acoszotl." She stumbles a bit over the last name, but gives a smile to offset any offense.
"I have been providing refugees with employment for a number of years now. Though it is hard to keep up with the steady influx. Do you have any family here in Alexandria?"
Patient as the doors are unlocked, Moire slips into the little home as soon as she's invited, again offering up a warm smile. She moves to find somewhere out of the way to stand, shaking her head quickly for the apology. "It's fine; I understand," she's quick to say, regarding the reception. "It's good to meet you, too. I -- sort of? I mean, my --" She pauses there, stumbling only briefly before she decides on, "There's someone in Alexandria with me, but we didn't have any family that we came to, here. He's got another job, today."
Owen inclines his head in a nod to Magda, though he shares no further words. Clearly it isn't he she is asking about family. The wooden golem stands patiently for the others to walk into the small home, gauging perhaps the amount of room left over. Bikko fluffs in protest and then flaps his wings. A few flaps later and the owl takes off to, presumably, go somewhere he can sleep.
If Acoszotl takes offense at his name being mangled somewhat, he doesn't show it in the least, he simply instead bows slightly to the woman. He allows Moire to be the diplomat and speak for them, partially because he's not especially good at it, and mostly because it seems she is.
Magda purses her lips to Moire, but nods at the young woman's response. Then, she looks thoughtfully at the Sith Makar and the War Golem. "Normally, I would ask you what skills you have and then point you to a few of my associates who can use the extra hands. But today, the person who could use the extra hands is me." She offers a laugh and a shake of her head. "My husband, Vardama guard him, was a carpenter, and the basement is full of lumber, tools, and other items much too heavy for me to lift. If you could spend the day helping clear it out for me, I would pay you well. I promise." She gestures to a door that ostensibly leads down into the aforementioned basement.
Tilting her head, Moire looks just a little bit puzzled by the request when it comes out, and then she laughs. "Yes, I think we can do that," she says. "Though I'm not so good for heavy lifting, myself. What do you guys think?" She looks between her two companions, hopefully, and then glances back to Magda. "This is a sort of...we should come see you regularly, when we need work? You have different jobs depending on when we come?"
Owen watches and listens patiently, the green-eyed golem not seeming to be in a rush. As soon as it seems he might just become another piece of furniture in the small home, the golem speaks up. "A paltry task, but if it's truly what you need done..." The hollow, somewhat mechanical baritone trails off there. He casts a blank look to Moire and then to Acoszotl in turn before lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
"I am warrior-caste, but when the mothers have need of a strong back, anyone who is not on duty serves." Acoszotl bows slightly in acknowledgement, finding no offense in the task. His lips curve into what is a draconic grin but looks slightly more like a snarl, considering the shape of his mouth and such. It’s his tone of voice which may make it clear it is the grin, "Worry not, Moire, I can lift enough for any two humans." he glances sidelong at the war golem, "And I rather think he probably can as well."
"Oh! You are a lifesaver!" Magda looks like she wants to hug the trio, but she refrains. "My hope always is to provide full time employment for refugees, and I promise I will work on finding you something. But you really are doing me a great service by helping out." So saying she opens a nearby door to reveal a sturdy wooden stairway descending into a dimly lit cellar. It is impossible to see the entirety of the room from this vantage point, but some boxes, crates, and stacks of wood are visible. "I'll arrange for a cart out the front door for you to load it into. Off you go, dears!"
There is only a liiiittle bit of uncertainty when she peers down into the basement. Moire stares down, down, down, and then looks over at Magda. There's a bit of chewing on her lower lip before she summons up a smile. "Thank you," she says, and turns to descend the stairs, poking around at the items to see what all there is that has to be moved.
Owen nods his head once to the sith-makar, acknowledging his statement. "Perhaps not in one go, but I do not become fatigued in the manner that organic beings do." The golem turns his gaze again to Magda, his emotionless face seeming to just stare for a long moment. Although it looks like he might have a question, he ultimately defers to the others he's keeping company with. As soon as they descend the stairs, he speaks up thoughtfully. "Bit odd that this is what she asked of us. Or perhaps I am unfamiliar with this city's customs."
"Human mothers are, perhaps, not strong? And her men may be out performing other tasks she needs doing." ventures Acoszotl to Owen, as he carefully makes his way down the stairs, and looking around at what there is. He promptly heads over to heave up some lumber, going about to get to work without hesitation.
SLAM. The door shuts. And locks.
Turning her head, Moire stares up the steps in the direction of the slammed door before she's shifting to step back towards a wall, backing up to put her back against it. "That? Is not good," she points out for the two of them, just in case there was any sort of question. She's keeping her voice calm, but there is definite panic in her gaze.
As soon as the door is closed, movement can be heard below. Five men, all wielding clubs, step out from behind crates. They are smiling in the way men smile when they are about to enjoy cruelty.
GAME: Acoszotl rolls 2 + 2: (4)+2+2: 8 GAME: Acoszotl rolls 2 + 2 - 2: (8)+2+2+- 2: 14 GAME: Acoszotl rolls 1d6 + 2: (1)+2: 3 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20 + 1: (7)+1: 8
Acoszotl does not need to think very hard to know that this has gone pear-shaped; there is a deep, rumbling growl and the monk is instantly in action, swinging a kick that the slaver manages to avoid, but his red claws hand strikes out to hit him in the face; when those red claws come away, they are red not only for the natural color now.
The slaver cries out and grabs at his face, cut open by the blows Acoszotl has inflicted upon him. "I'll kill you," he growls, swinging his club. There is blood in his eyes, however, and his truncheon flies wide, easily avoided by the Sith Makar.
GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20 + 1: (11)+1: 12 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (1): 1 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (3): 3
The stairs have a single entry point and the door up there is locked, and so it's a good spot to stick herself. Moire turns to dart up them, putting herself out of the way of the fight as it breaks out and lifting her voice to begin singing, closing her eyes for a moment as she pushes power into the wordless tune, strength and courage wound through every note. It's a quick thing in rhythm, very stirring.
GAME: Moire rolls perform/sing: (7)+9: 16
The other four men split up, two more coming after the draconic monk, and though they try to rain blows of their clubs down upon him, the Sith Makar sidesteps them. There is a splintering sound as one of the blows makes contact with a crate instead. The other two go after the War Golem. The first of these only manages to hit the railing of the stairs, while the second, flummoxed by Owen's size, drops his club from suddenly shaky hands.
GAME: Owen rolls weapon1: (8)+3: 11 GAME: Owen rolls 1d6+2: (4)+2: 6 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20 + 1: (17)+1: 18 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d6 + 1: (6)+1: 7 GAME: You damaged Acoszotl for 7 points. 17 HP remaining.
Owen is not one to suffer an ambush. As the door slams and they are left alone with the group of armed assailants, he takes a defensive stance and readies his staff, circling to try to keep the ruffians coming after him in front of him. When one of them gets a bit too close to him, he snaps the end of his staff out quickly and catches the man right underneath the chin, sending him reeling with a resounding *CRACK!*.
GAME: Acoszotl rolls attack+1: aliased to BAB+2+1: (9)+2+2+1: 14 GAME: Acoszotl rolls attack+1-2: aliased to BAB+2+1-2: (20)+2+2+1+-2: 23 GAME: Acoszotl rolls damage: aliased to 1d6+2: (2)+2: 4 GAME: Acoszotl rolls damage: aliased to 1d6+2: (2)+2: 4 GAME: Acoszotl rolls attack+1-2: aliased to BAB+2+1-2: (18)+2+2+1+-2: 21
One of the slavers on Acoszotl, brings his truncheon around in a ferocious arc, and slams the blunt weapon into the side of the Sith Makar's head with a wallop. "Take that, you scaly beast," he says. His breath smells of brown bread and garlic, hot on the nose.
Acoszotl, warrior-caste, moves with a deadly grace and a cold fury; he spins and slams a kick into the slaver, sending him to his knees before the sith-makar's claws strike out and rip his throat from his body. Blood pools in his hand and upon the floor, and he ROARS.
GAME: Moire rolls weapon0: (19)+-1: 18 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (17): 17 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d6: (4): 4 GAME: You damaged Owen for 4 points. 14 HP remaining. GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (14): 14 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (1): 1 (EPIC FAIL)
For all that she's done her best to stay up out of the way, there's starting to be a little worry for the sith-makar. Moire's voice stays bright as she keeps her voice going, continuing to wind courage through her tones and the notes, bolstering them both. She bounds down the steps again though, making to dart at the slaver that is still in combat with the big guy, swinging at him and kicking, making him devote at least a little bit of attention to her annoying bard self.
GAME: Owen rolls weapon1+1: (8)+3+1: 12 GAME: Owen rolls 1d6+2: (1)+2: 3
CRUNCH! One of the slaver's clubs catches Owen on the side of the golem's arm, cracking into the wood. He gives a vicious smile of satisfaction. The man beside him, however, who has just managed to pick his club up, drops it again. He can't stop shaking. That golem is /really/ freaking him out!
GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20 + 1: (9)+1: 10 GAME: Acoszotl rolls attack+1: aliased to BAB+2+1: (9)+2+2+1: 14 GAME: Acoszotl rolls attack+1-2: aliased to BAB+2+1-2: (9)+2+2+1+-2: 12 GAME: Acoszotl rolls damage+1: aliased to 1d6+2+1: (6)+2+1: 9 GAME: Acoszotl rolls damage+1: aliased to 1d6+2+1: (5)+2+1: 8
Owen growls out in his hollow voice as a club smashes against his chassis. The large golem spins again, lifting his staff up as he moves. With another quick swing of his staff, he connects with another of the slavers and catches the man directly in the chest with the end of the staff. It isn't enough to drop him, but he's likely not quite so confident.
The murder-dragon glances sideways a moment to notice Moire entering the fray, and as she distracts the foe, he nods to her. That is probably a smile on his face, right? It just has a lot of teeth. Still, he swings one fist into the slaver's gut, and as he bends forward and gags, there's a loud CRACK as he spins about and kicks him in the head. The slaver goes flying. To Moire, he says in his deep voice, "My thanks, shaman of song."
GAME: Moire rolls weapon0: (11)+-1: 10 GAME: Dagdan rolls 1d20: (13): 13
Emboldened by the her successes, Moire's voice winds with triumph as the murder dragon makes with the murdering. She dances away and flashes a grin for his words before she darts over to kick the club on the ground well out of reach of the man who keeps dropping it, some mixture of threat and anger in her voice for him as the music continues to carry her.
There are only two slavers left, both of them near the war golem. The older one, the one with the steadier hands, curses as he tries to land another blow on the druid, but his club is ducked. The other, drops to his knees to get his weapon only to watch in wide-eyed horror as Moire kicks it away. He watches it skitter across the floor and bursts into terrified weeping.
GAME: Owen rolls weapon1+1: (10)+3+1: 14 GAME: Owen rolls 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5
There are no druids here! In this particular pinch where the trio of them are unprepared, Owen becomes a staff-wielding warrior. While not the most practiced with his weapon, the golem has enough natural grace to strike precisely. "Down! Stay...down!" he commands in that hollow voice. The staff arcs towards the remaining slaver and catches him across the face, felling him with a sickening crunch.
The weeping slaver clasps his hands before him as the last of his fellows falls, fat tears leaking from his eyes. "Please don't kill me," he begs the trio. "Please!" Opening his eyes, he reaches for Moire with a dirty hand uplifted in supplication. "Pleeease..."
Acoszotl stalks towards those who fight the war golem, only to still when the one falls. His deep red eyes focus upon the crying one with a hiss, "Who do you work for, human?" He crouches and lets his mouth full of teeth hang open, and his bloody clawed hand flex open and close, "Is it the mother of the house that sent us down here? Tell me and you may yet breathe tomorrow. Lie to me and I will suck the marrow from your bones."
GAME: Acoszotl rolls intimidate: (20)+6: 26
The notes cut off as the last of the fighting slavers falls, and Moire looks down at the weeping, begging man. There's a glance cast between Owen and Acos before she looks back again, pressing her lips together. No words are interjected after Acoszotl speaks, the little dark haired young woman turning to slip towards the various downed people to start rummaging for what they might have on them. She's looking for letters or the like, though coin will do just as well. "Is there some sort of signal for her?" It's asked of Acoszotl, an addition added to his questioning for when he gets around to it.
The weeping man shies back from Acoszotl, but there is a crate that prevents him from going any further. Suddenly, the smell of piss is heavy in the air. "Oh gods, please. Please...YES! Magda." He keeps his eyes firmly shut so he doesn't have to look at the Sith Makar. "She sells refugees to a man north of Alexandria. I don't know why. Please! You have to believe me. She's been doing it for years! Jesk. Jesk has a key to the cellar. He opens it when the victims have been subdued." Cracking an eye, he points to one of the fallen men, and sure enough, Moire turns up a rusty key attached to the man's belt. Along with a letter.
"J- We're moving the drop-off point. Bring the next batch to the location marked below. -K"
Owen casts his austere, glowing green eyes to the weeping man as the sounds and cadence of combat subside. Relaxing visibly, the golem studies him a long moment before responding in his hollow, creaking baritone. "I care not for your excuses nor for your willful ignorance, human. Your fate will be for others to decide." The wooden man's attention shifts then to Acoszotl and Moire respectively. With that, he watches the terrified man hand over the objects in silence.
The sith-makar inclines his head, and his expression loses the threat and he rises, "I will be in this city for some time, how long I do not know." There's a certain calm peace about the him at the moment, "For your crimes, you deserve to die, but I will keep my word. You may breathe until tomorrow: if I ever see you again, after that day, my word will have been fulfilled and I will be free to kill you. Do be certain I do not see you again." He looks from Owen to Moire, and inclines his head to her, "This Magda has much to answer for, yes?"
She looks at the note, breathes out a sigh. Moire takes the key and turns back towards them, nodding her head "We need to take him -- and this -- to the guard. There's more people that need be arrested, and this is proof," she says. "Or -- maybe one of us should go fetch the guard? After we've taken care of her, that is." She starts for the stairs to climb up them, eying the door at the top warily. "Are we ready?"
"Thank you! Thank you!" The man grovels at Acoszotl's feet, his pants soaked. "You will never see me again. I swear it! I swear! I--" Moire's words stop him in his tracks. "Please! I will leave the city. I will never come back!" He continues blabbering as she climbs the stairs to the locked door. The key in her hand looks like a perfect fit.
"That is not up to me," Owen speaks to the frightened slaver in his hollow voice. "I would, however, be remiss if I did not mention the deal was for your life. Not your freedom." Another look is cast to Acoszotl and Moire. "How the both of you choose to uphold this bargain is entirely up to you. The world would be an overall better place with this man on the inside of a dungeon." The construct's broad shoulders lift in a shrug again.
"I did not give any word that said you will breathe *free*." Acoszotl notes, inclining his head to Moire, "I had forgotten about the guard. Law in the tribes is the will of one's mother and the Matriarchs, enforced by the warrior-caste. I forgot myself and the differences in law here." He bows slightly to Moire in apology, then he turns a dark look for the slaver and growls, showing teeth, in case he has an argument to make. After, he says, "Let us subdue the woman, and then we..." He includes a nod to Owen, in both agreement with his words and including him in 'we', "... will watch over them while you fetch the guard, yes?" This last said with a nod to Moire.
"That sounds like a good plan," Moire agrees, sending a sunny smile down towards Acos. She looks between he and the golem, and then she glances towards the groveling man. "Just sit down, shut up, don't move until this is over -- if you try to run, or you try to fight, we'll just kill you," she says. "Right now, you have a chance, still." And that said, she's turning to the door, turning the key to unlock it. Once she's sure her companions are ready she pushes it open, stepping right out of the way on the stairs (flattening herself against the wall) so that they can head past her and up there to see what there might be to see.
The room beyond the door is empty, and, if the red door swinging out and open onto the alleyway is any indication, Magda is long gone. A second look at the house will yield some interesting insights, including a distinct lack of personal touches. Everything is plan, simple, and could belong to anyone. The identity of Magda, or who she works for will need to wait for another time.
The guards are easily found and, once brought back to the house with the red door they take custody of the man, promising that he will pay for his crimes. They take him out while he continues to beg and cry...much like the countless men and women he sent to slavery himself through the red door.