Ah, Curst. City of backstabbers, traitors, and exiles. A city that few decent cutters would ever find much reason to visit, barring only the fact that Curst Heartwine comes from this wretched hole of a town. Curst's other exports include desperate berks (usually the unhappy offspring of exiles) willing to sign on to the Blood War, and information.
Speaking of the Blood War, it has been the subject of even more gossip than usual lately, and not only in Curst. In Sigil it is common news that the gehreleths have doubled their numbers, a classical sign that the intensity of the War has increased drastically. Many exemplars would yawn at this, having seen everything in their incredibly long lifespans, but few mortals have seen this sort of thing in recent memory.
This particular day in Curst is unusual. Despite the fact that the city is a pus-filled blister on the surface of the Multiverse, caravans do normally come in and go out. The demand for heartwine elsewhere on the planes is strong. Today only a single visitor has come through the gates. A man on nightmare, not horse. A man who was quickly escorted to the estate of Torvus Giljaf, the githzerai who passes for the leader of the city. No caravans have entered, and since the mounted man came through, no caravans have left either.
Nim:
Rakor, the human master of the heartwine caravan she had signed on with, is a middle-aged human man of thinning hair who has a paunch, but also has more muscle than many would-be caravan raiders realize. "Take the rest of the day off, lass, we're stuck in here till three hours before peak tomorrow at the earliest, maybe later." He explains: "Happens all the time, this gate-town's notorious for it. Means the guards want a bigger garnish, usually. Or one of the high-ups is feeling real peery, even peerier than usual." It's unusual that Nim would get so much time off while working with this outfit: Rakor has a reputation as a 'tough but fair' sort, a hard taskmaster.
"I expect you back at first light, sober. Drunkards will be left behind. Don't get in any trouble neither, it's not my problem if you get yourself thrown into razorvine or hipped through the portal." Nim has long since contemplated using him as a subject of imitation: games involving 'Corrupt, Jink-Grubbing, Gluttonous Caravan Master' for example.
Of course, Nim manages to get into trouble. The Thorny Paths Inn is not the worst place for a traveler to visit, and in fact it is relatively quiet for much of the day. The rider who went through the gates earlier is a topic of interest, as is the fact that no caravans have left the city today. Nim is seated fairly near a person she had initially mistaken for a human: a tall, pale, black-haired female tiefling with a visible brand on her left hand. The newcomer had not drawn extraordinary attention upon first entering the place, but once she had casually removed her gloves, the tiefer had instantly been granted a seat at the bar. A tough-looking adventurer or mercenary had given up his seat, actually. One thing that particularly captures Nim's interest is the fact that this particular tiefling has possibly the most aristocratic demeanor that Nim has ever seen on a tiefling, reminding the changeling of some sorts she recalls from The Lady's Ward. Most plane-touched grow up in poverty, and while many tiefers are con artists, it would be rare for a tiefling to manage such casual arrogance without faking it.
The rest of Nim's day is mostly uneventful... for Curst... until very late, after antipeak. Nim had rented a room in the Thorny Paths and was fast asleep when she was very suddenly awakened by the sound of what must be a mailed fist pounding on her door. "Open up, in the name of Torvus Giljaf! You are under arrest, on suspicion of smuggling."
Nim is able to hear that, outside her own room, something is wrong. To her ears, it sounds like others are being arrested as well. So many at once? Then she hears the sound of what must be spellcasting, followed by a great deal of screaming.
Plus, she figures if the guards wander back in too soon, it'd be hard to hide what they're up to with the gag off.]
...Well, at least she got to hear
Icanthas and Lyei’Ethla’Vaar:
The Quartered Man is a rough bar. Icanthas already has a bit of a reputation, and as such she only has to threaten a single overeager male patron with castration. After that, no one tries to start trouble, though a few of the men (and male beings) in the place are bold enough to offer to buy her drinks, even after that incident.
None of the other patrons, most of whom are real scum even by the standards of Curst, attempt to push around Lyei'Ethla'Vaar, probably because no one is really eager to pick a fight with a githyanki. Though Torvus has never enacted any laws barring githyanki from the city, the bearded son of Gith does overhear open speculation about the wisdom of a 'yanki coming to a town with a githzerai as its mayor.
Tonight the Quartered Man has an unusual guest, one who must be either slumming or remembering old times. Icanthas instantly recognizes the tiefling bard Maltheniir, and even Lyei has heard of him by reputation. The bar is treated to a concert of totally undeserved quality (though Icanthas hears the bard mutter about the poor acoustics of the place more than once). Given the Quartered Man's usual clientele, though, the theme of the bard's singing is quite a gore-fest dealing almost entirely with many of the most famous battles and personalities of the Blood War. The quality of the entertainment manages to keep the usual commonplace brawling in this bar to a minimum, at least for one night.
Something odd happens during the concert, though. There is a shimmering at the door that leads toward the kitchen, and a figure steps out. That itself is not unusual in a planar bar.
"Ain't no portal there," the barkeep mutters, obviously surprised.
The figure is big, between six and six and a half feet tall, and powerfully built. It's hard to tell what race it is under the somewhat over-the-top black, spiked armor. The helm is a real piece of craftsmanship, forged in the shape of a snarling, definitely inhuman face: maybe a mix of orc and gnoll? It's likely intended to intimidate one's foes, and in that it would probably be quite effective. As the being removes its helm, though, the figure turns out to be a human male of very pale complexion, blond-haired and blue-eyed. Icanthas figures that the human might be considered handsome, if the diagonal scar across his face were not quite so ugly. The armored man is also armed: a greatsword across the man's back, and a morningstar at his belt, in addition to a few daggers. Lyei is surprised to notice, by the design of the hilt and scabbard, that the sword was forged by githyanki hands, though it is not of the quality that the People reserve for their own use. Though the Leiran has been away from the People for a long time, he believes the sword to be one that a githyanki might award to a barbarian ally of unusual worthiness. Lyei also notices that the man has what a githyanki would call a head-bag (though this one is of barbarian make), and that it is full.
The reaction of the patrons is remarkable, though. Almost the entire bar does a visible double take, much to the displeasure of the bard, who clearly would prefer to be the center of attention.
Someone in the crowd calls out. "Grisev!"
Another: "I thought you was in the Lady's Mazes!"
The armored man speaks. "I was."
Even the tiefling bard stops playing. Maltheniir looks thoughtful for a moment... then smirks. He begins to play something very different from his earlier sets, something off-beat, off-tune, dissonant. There is still something musical about it, but the sound of it is remarkably unsettling to the ears. Icanthas cannot place it, but she feels certain that she has heard, if not that music, at least something very similar to it before. On a Blood War battlefield.
The bard is cut short by a curt "Bar that, songbird," from the big human. The bar is silent for a few moments, until the bard begins playing a new tune, returning to his usual music. Many of the patrons crowd around this Grisev, and it is not long at all before the armored man is escorted to the Quartered Man's notorious back room.
The partying goes on very late into the night, well after antipeak, and both Icanthas and Lyei are considering sleep when an extraordinarily huge number of Curst's city guards appear at the doors.
"ALL of you scum, drop your weapons and show me your hands! Every last one of you is under arrest for Blood War cross-tradin'!"
This definitely seems odd to both the tiefling Blood Warrior and the githyanki priest. Torvus isn't known for making laws that ban involvement or interest in the Blood War. In fact, 'Blood War cross-trading' is a major source of visitors and income for the city.
A couple of the other bar patrons laugh incredulously.
BoGr Guide to Missile Combat:
1) Equip a bow or crossbow.
2) Roll a natural 1 on d20.
3) ?????
4) Profit!