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This plot thread was started by Irondune Dragon on the 6th of May 2000, and was last updated on the 11th of August. Participants so far, in order of appearance, are Irondune, Acheron, Tailrace, Wtcher, Helgraf, Paulon and Hourglass. Note that as usual with these archives, all posts may or may not be split, chewed up, mutilated, and stuck back together with chewing gum in order to get a coherent story out of a thread which may develop multiple branches, and to make it clear who is doing what at any given point.

 

The ship was at port.

Following the great quake, the mines had collapsed. With the collapse of the mines was the collapse of the economy. Rumors still hinted at a Liche's involvement, but that was one of the five thousand cases still pending investigation at Sud.

The island was dying.

Those who once knew it lamented the good times, but no one heard them amongst the shuffling of feet. The runners threw boxes on and off the barge. The deckhands raced to label the boxes. Many who would take the ship would arrive with new luggage.

Only one passenger was there to debark.

Shrouded in a deep blue cloak and hood, he walked down towards the nearly abandoned inn. A few still sat, the old, the young, the infirm. A few were adventure ready.

But they were too few.

Sighing, the man in the blue robe sat down. Those around him suddenly noted the time and left. Smiling, the man noted that what they realized were the runes around the fringe of his robe and around the sleeveholes. They glistened blood red in the damp light.

As people filtered out, you walk in.

A group of ragtags, you must appear to him. His well cut beard and glistening eyes seem to reflect your unkempt hair and sagging faces.

"Ah!" he says. "I've been expecting a group like you."

You pause, not sure what he means.

"Sit! Sit down!" he says, happily. His serious eyes seem out of place on his jovial face. Nervously, you do what he asks you to do.

"I need your help. This island is dead, and you know it. I'll give you a chance for some easy money, a new home, a new life, if you agree to this."

He catches you staring at the runes. "I know, I know. I'm not what I seem. I don't have time to explain." He glances over your shoulder as the sounds of a newly formed riot approach.

"I don't have time. Either you come with me, or you stay here." He points outside. "With them. Who's coming with me, and who's dying?"

"You're saying that it'll be perfectly safe if we come with you?" asks the barman as he fills up tankards for the patrons. "You've got that look that suggests otherwise, if you don't mind me saying so. On the other 'and, there's almost no business left around 'ere, so I'm interested. On the 'ouse, by the way." He indicates the drinks.

 

A woman comes running in the tavern and stops just inside the doorway panting and holding up a main gauche, eyeing the door. 6'2" reddish brown hair worn in a multitude of tresses, she looks slim but somewhat athletic. She is wearing a dark ruddy cape over a grey and light brown suede tunic and breeches ensemble. You can see the hilt of a rapier at her belt. She wears thigh high laced leather boots of the same grey as her tunic and has a sleeve made of metal on her left forearm.

She turns her head for a second and notices the robed man and the others at the table.

She continues to watch the doorway warily and asks: "Any one of you gents know if there's a back door to this dive?"

" 'Course I've got a back door!" returns the barman. "Through that door and it's straight ahead."

"Is it locked?" she asks.

"It's on the fire," says the barman sadly, nodding at the flickering embers in the hearth at the corner of the room. "And if that un'appy lot outside 'ave anything to do with you, I may be right in thinking that you'll be on one too before long. So 'op it."

He turns to the blue-robed man. "And I don't think we should be 'anging around neither. That lot are getting closer. Anyway, I'll get my armour on, before it's too late. 'Elp yourself to refills." With that he disappears into the back of the inn.

 

From his chair, the man in the blue robe looks up as the bartender reenters, decked out in his armor.

"That's it?" asks the man angrily. "I ask for a group of valiant adventurers and I get two people out of the whole damn Island's population?" he bangs his fist on the table. "Well, we're just doomed, aren't we?" he says. "I need more than just two to assist me with this..." he pauses, smiling cynically. "If there's only going to be two people, why don't I tell some Zorkian jokes? How many Grues does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Do you have to ask?" The man laughs coldly, but stops as a bottle hits the metal roof of the tavern.

"You must be from some very distant land indeed," guesses the barman, glancing from the ceiling to the blue-robed man.

The woman grins at the tavernkeeper "You got a nice apron. Must be dangerous serving drinks here"

"Plenty of the shopkeepers around 'ere were in the militia, when we 'ad one," he quickly explains. "This stuff is what I 'ad then. Never needed to use it before, though."

The woman turns to the robed man. "Look at it this way old man, better two than none"

Looking through the window she says "Besides if this crowd hadn't gone all crazy on me, you'd have only a barkeeper. Heh."

She sheathes her main gauche, picks up a tankard and takes a great swig from it.

"Well..." says the man in the robes. "I would guess that's it. Perhaps we'll pick up someone at another port." He turns to the almost deafening sound of the mob. He raises one hand almost lazily. From it a bluish bolt crackles out and envelops the door. The whole door seems to be held in a water tank without a tank.

"Flipping 'eck!" exclaims the barman.

Putting down the tankard the woman wipes her mouth. "Never thought I had so many secret admirers..." she mutters, then grins at the tavernkeeper.

"That'll hold them for the moment," he says, "but not forever." He turns towards the dwindling fire, and waves his hand. The fire sputters and dies, extinguished by an unseen force. "Where the hell's that backdoor of yours?"

"Well, as I said, the door itself is keeping this place warm, the doorway is through there." The barman points to the door into the back room, through which the less-adventurous patrons are just disappearing.

"Lead on then," says the man.

The barman heads into the back room with the others close behind. He grabs a crossbow from a nearby table as the other two slip past the piece of sackcloth covering the door, then joins them outside.

"Let's 'ead down that street. We should be able to lose them amongst the buildings," says the barman, pointing.

The small group hurries down the street and vanishes into an alley.

A young lady dressed in the rough cloth of regular commoners steps out of the alley just as the motley group of adventurers reach it. As can be expected, a collision occurs, throwing her to the ground along with the tavernkeep, a short shriek slightly muffled by the man's large torso. Another body trips and adds to the small pile of flailing forms while luckily, the other(s) are agile enough to jump over the people on the ground. Clutching a long, wrapped sheath of some length even after the accident, the young lady looks slightly inebriated. Her long, black hair is in mess, her blue dress extremely ruffled, she moans while trying to push the pair of unwanted bodies off of herself.

The slim woman gets up from on top of the pile and grabs the barkeep by his armor's armpits, braces herself and pulls him somewhat upright, allowing him to stand.

"'Ere. I'm not that old, thank you very much," the barman protests.

"W-what in the world are you people doing, running over a respectable lady such as myself?" black haired lady sputters, obviously annoyed by this turn of events.

"Trying to stay in a shape that allows us to run over people, as you should, milady. Better come with us," the woman replies as she extends her hand to the young lady to help her stand up.

"Better to leave 'er 'ere and let that crowd trample 'er. She should watch where she's going," rants the barman as he picks up his crossbow.

He turns to the subject of his tirade. "You're just lucky I didn't 'ave this loaded, or you'd be nailed to the road. Clumsy old..."

"Not that way guv'na". This from a young lad, somewhere in the 13-15 range, in well patched clothes, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood.

"What?"

"They'll nick you for certain if you go that way. Follow me - I can get you out quicker."

"For a good, 'efty payment, I'll wager," says the barman.

The sound of the riot swells suddenly in intensity.

The scamp runs off into the warren of the back alleys, not looking back to see if he's being followed or not.

The barman hesitates for a second, looks back in the direction of the riot, then turns and follows.

"Come on!" he shouts over his shoulder at the others.

From his position near the rear, the man in the blue robe narrowly dodges a well-aimed bottle. Pausing only briefly to examine the label, he takes something out of his robe and mutters: "That was a good year." The smell of burning tinder begins to manifest itself around the city.

"Pity." says the man. "Smells like a tavern. I knew it wouldn't hold them for long."

 

The battered group arrives at the dock, looking slightly ruined by the encounter. The man in the robe appears nearly unscathed, though a piece of glass did cut into his robe above the shoulder. As the barge begins to pull out, he shuts his eyes and raises his hands to the water. The sea seems to turn and sway beneath the boat, and the man staggers back under the effort in keeping such a deep harbor swirling.

"Get...on!" he manages to spit out through clenched teeth. Beads of sweat begin to form on his brow.

All safely jump aboard, though the young woman does seem to look pale.

"What's the matter, milady?" someone asks. "Sea got your stomach?"

On the shore, a figure runs from an alley, just ahead of the forerunners of the mob. Seeing the moving vessel it turns and sprints, managing to put a little distance between itself and the rioting people in pursuit.

The man looks around as the ship begins to move. He wipes sweat from his eyes and smiles weakly.

The figure jumps from the dock towards the ship. The distance is just barely too far as the jump falls short. Something long in its hand thrusts towards the vessel, stabbing into a crevice in the deck and jamming into place, leaving the figure dangling over the water.

The barman reaches over and gives the figure a hand up onto the deck. You see the person to be a dark haired man, youngish despite the metal rimmed spectacles which he wears on his face. Black shoes, blue pants of a coarse fabric, and a shirt of some fuzzy grey fabric, with a shiny black seam down the front, and a metal band around his right wrist, set with some sort of crystal, combine to make him one of the more oddly dressed individuals you have seen lately. Wherever he's from, this person is not local. He drops to the deck, breathing heavily from his exertions.

"Well, now that we're 'safe', let's go around and introduce ourselves..."

"That sounds like a good idea," the strangely dressed man replies. "I'd like to know who I owe for giving me a lift out of that mess back there."

The barman leans against the railing of the barge, removes his kettle-hat and runs his fingers through his hair. He turns his head to the crowd, now stranded on the docks, and considers shouting something at them, but desists when he remembers there are ladies present.

"I 'ope that lot don't want you so badly that they'll steal some boats to come after us. This tub wouldn't win any races," he says to the lady. "Or will you just use your necromancy, or whatever it was, to 'ave the seas swallow them?" he adds to the blue-robed man.

"The proper phrase, my good man," says the man in the blue robe curtly, "is Hydromancy, and you'd better not say it to most in my order." He looks away, saddened. "Or, rather, my former order."

"Anyway, as you say," continues the barman, "Time for introductions. I'm Alerace, latest in a long line of innkeepers at the Salt and Slug." He points a thumb in the direction of the steadily rising column of smoke above the town. "Or should I say, the last in a long line of innkeepers."

The man in the blue robe smiles as he reaches over to smooth out the cut in his robe. There is a slight pulse, and the hole no longer appears to be visible.

Alerace tugs off his buff leather gauntlets to shake hands.

The woman shakes Alerace's hand.

"My name is Ishane," she says. "I came from Lankhmar, when my contract ended. I was headed for the Goblin Steppes to get a new swordmaster contract, but got stuck here when I lost my ship fare to a game of pokiir. I was at the market square when the riot started. I saw a notice being posted on further rationing and taxing, when the mob started attacking the cryer and the two guards with him, I tried to help them. One guard got away and I'm glad I did too."

The man in the blue robe points back at the dock.

The town was ablaze.

"You see that?" he asks. "That is no ordinary mob work. That group was too well controlled to have been a mob. My guess is that the council of Mages at New Kalendor have finally decided to "elect" Marion Alakit as their leader." He pauses. "In case you don't know, Alakit's a Black Robe, a man from the Guild of Death. Why he was elected, I don't know. Why he caused this, I don't know. What I do know is that when I woke up one morning, the Archmage was reported assassinated, my runes had turned red, and there was a very angry patrol beating down my door." He pauses, as if finding it difficult to continue. "It was like civil war. Many who supported the Archmage lay dead outside, the ground around them as red as the runes on their cloaks. Blue Robes, Green Robes and White Robes, mostly. A few Purple Robes, even a Sky Robe. All of them had the red runes, denouncing them as renegades. Even me. You see the band, here?" he says, pointing at the bands above and below the runes. "That denotes me as a Master Mage. I was in contention for the head of the Blue Robes after the Archmage was assassinated, or at least I would have been."

"Here's the problem: No one mage can call another a renegade. They must use the Sphere of Enlightenment. That is the connection with the gods of magic. And they have always been fair. Never have so many been denounced. Someone, or SomeTHING, has taken control of the Sphere. I can't get to New Kalendor with this robe on, and everyone knows if I take it off the detectors will find me. I need you to-"

He stops as a cannonball roars over the deck.

"HALT!" cries a far off voice. "YOU ARE SUSPECTED OF HARBORING A RENEGADE MAGE. CEASE YOUR MOVEMENT FOR INSPECTION."

"I can't cast that damn spell again!" he says quickly. "Do something!"

 

Not too far away, a ship is slowly moving towards the band, casting ominous shadows across the waters. Its sails not yet completely unfurled although from this distance you can tell that this ship would overtake any attempt the barge could make, no matter what advantage in distance it has.

The docks are definitely out of the question.

The mainly unnoticed peasant steps forward, her light-blue dress now slightly dirty from the spill out in front of the alley.

"I don't know who you people are, I don't know why they're after you, but I don't care - it looks like I'm in the same boat as you are."

She peers about furtively for a moment, definitely inexperienced at that sort of thing.

"Look, see their ship? I noticed a few barrels of gunpowder stacked up in the middle of their deck when I was walking past some minutes before you ran into me, and I'm willing to bet that they haven't had time to store it away... and besides, it wouldn't matter anyways because we have no way of lighting their store from all the way over here... or do we?"

"Look, milady," snarls the mage (for he is obviously one), losing patience. "Look at the color of the robe." He looks at the others. "You'd want a Red Robe for this. Unless any of you have got some oil on you, It'd be better if I just jumped."

"Magic magic magic, that's all you ever think about, is it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Look, there are other ways to light things on fire than throwing a spark. Try friction for one - or if you're really desperate..." she turns to the barkeep. "You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of strong... ?"

"...dwarf spirit?" says a hissing voice just behind the girl's shoulder.

Startled, to say the least, she turns around, just to find herself looking into a pair of dark, emotionless eyes that are barely visible from the depths of a black hood.

Alerace doesn't notice the arrival of the Black Robe, having already guessed what the woman would be wanting and remembering that he had just the stuff.

"Well, I've go this," says Alerace as he reaches under his armour and withdraws a leather cylinder. He opens it and produces a small bottle, filled with a black liquid. "I distilled this myself. For medicinal purposes, you understand. 'Ere, take a sniff."

The woman turns back to Alerace, still looking surprised.

The barman twists out the stopper and thrusts the bottle at the woman, who rapidly takes a step back. He closes the bottle again and hands it to the woman.

The woman takes it, but keeps most of her attention on the two Mages. Alerace is contemplating the ship.

"'Ow do you plan on getting it to the powder, though?" He asks. "If we let them get into throwing range and all the powder goes up at once, we'll most likely be caught in the blast. I could make a firebolt for you, but I don't know where abouts the powder's stored, so I couldn't shoot it. Or would you 'appen to 'ave some experience with a crossbow?"

"That may not be necessary after all," the woman stage whispers to the barman.

The latter turns around with a querying look on his face, a look that changes to a half-comical, half-shocked gape as he notices the two Mages facing off to one another.

As soon as the mage recognizes the newcomer (apparently emerged from nowhere) as a Black Robe, he begins gesturing in the way of his Art to cast a spell, but the Black one hisses again: "I would not do it in this situation. Look, there's no time for explanations, not now. Let's get rid of that problem first" he says gesturing towards the enemy ship.

Just as the Blue tries to reply, a small, quivering energy ball generated by the Black's left hand quickly begins its travel towards the barrels...

 

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" hisses the blue robe. "Shouldn't you be with Alakit killing the rest of my order?" He pauses, not getting a response. "You're right. I don't know what the hell I've gotten us all into." Looking over, he notes the ball of energy hit something...

A spark...

Nothing.

Both the blue and black robed mages start in surprise.

"That should have worked." mutters the Blue Robe angrily. "They must have..."

There is a pause as both mages realize what has happened.

"Green Robe." they say in unison.

No further conclusions are brought, as at that point the inspectors begin boarding the ship...

A quick glance passes between the black and the blue. Without losing precious time in futile words, the black directly transfers his most desperate plan into the blue's mind.

In a matter of seconds, the Black Robe disappears into thin air, just as his words still echo into the Blue's brain: "Remember, I can charm -only one- of them while keeping myself invisible. Let's just hope that both the Chief Inspector and that Green Robe don't come aboard together..."

A challenging grin appears on the Blue's amazed face.

"Got it!" he says, smiling evilly. Then his smile folds into concern.

"You're a black robe. What are you doing casting spells from the Guild of the Mind? Never mind," he adds, looking over. "We've got company. Get the chief inspector. "Alerece?" The former bartender nods in acknowledgement. "Got that dwarven spirit on you?" Again, the bartender nods. "Give it to the kid."

Pointing at the young boy, he gestures towards the ship. "You look like someone who's had a few runs from the city guard. Get over there and hit the powder with the spirit. You," he says, pointing to the woman, who still looks a little green. "Distract them."

"Distract?" she says incredulously.

"Do something!" says the blue robed man angrily. "Tell a joke, throw a sword, kick one of them, whatever!"

The lady sighs, shaking her head at the blue-robe.

She looks about and suddenly, an idea dawns on her...

 

"You sir!" the mage says to the strangely dressed man. Think you can handle the-"

His words are cut short as a green burst of energy bowls him over.

"Well, well, well..." says a stately voice.

Coming across a vine bridge, a green robed man with golden runes adorning the fringe of his robe smiles evilly.

"I've been looking for you..." he says. The black robed man prepares a spell, but is stopped by a single mental command from the blue robe. Quickly his robe flutters in the breeze, seeming to envelop him. When the group looks again, he is gone.

Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, the young lady picks up a previously unnoticed bucket, fills it up with water and adds something to the bucket from a pouch hanging across her midsection. In moments, the concoction is bubbling with the fervour of a pair of cats in season.

With a short run and a quick jerk, the contents fly head-level into the inspectors, finding new homes splashed all over their now-grimacing faces. They flail about, temporarily blinded.

Luckily, nobody notices the commoner until too late.

"Farkas!" spits the man in the blue robe, who is slowly rising. "I should have known they'd send you after me."

"You needn't be so surprised, Jared." says the green-robed man. "I would have thought a 'mage' of your caliber would have sensed me a mile away."

"Carry on with the plan!" Yells the blue-robed man. "And as for you..." he says. "You've made a big mistake..."

A bluish bolt of energy strikes out and hits the green-robed man's feet. His feet slide, and he topples over.

"Get on with it!" the Blue robed man screams. "Get us out of here!'

Ignoring the rather rude mage, she throws the now-empty bucket in the direction of the green-robe.

Just a moment before hitting the Green Robe, the bucket makes a 'thud' sound, then rolls away on the deck.

A quick breeze, and the Black appears again: "Hey you there, am I supposed to be your target practice or what?" shouts the young woman.

"Now now, we have a guest" calmly says the Black kneeling beside the Green and putting a thin but firm hand on his chest, preventing him from rising.

"YOU!" spits out Farkas, eyes wide, a spark of terror lighting his bulbs.

"Hush, that's no time for personal matters, is it? What about retreating on your comfortable ship and continuing your patrol?" then he adds with a snake whisper "You know what I could do to you".

"No, you can't, you son of a black goat, I'm protected by my..." A sudden clap of the Black's hands, a blinding surge of light, and the Green begins grasping and shouting "I'm blind! I'm blind! Damn you!"

Jared looks even more puzzled, but the Black quickly nears him and speaks in his ear "My little magnesium trick will keep him blind only for a few minutes" shows the Blue his hand, still dirty with white powder "I hope the lad will be quick with that spirit... "

The young lad takes a few moments to gauge position, then breaking into a mad flurry of moving limbs. A nearby guard makes a grab for him as he zigs to the right, and receives a kick in the kneecap for his troubles.

Hop grab pull scramble . . . on top of a crate, opening the bottle, taking a quick swig, he then tears a part of his ragged outfit off and stuffs it into the bottle. He then shakes the bottle vigorously, and pulls something out of his pocket, striking it to produce sparks. When one catches on the rag, he lobs it hard and overhand toward the keg.

It spins end over end . . . and several horrified eyes turn to watch its progress, the soaked rag burning readily, oozing back toward the bottle as it flies true to course toward the barrel.

The young scrapper, however, confident in his ability, has not stopped to watch, but has scrambled and dropped back down to the deck, and gone looking for a hidey-hole.

 

For a long instant it seems as if nothing is going to happen. Then it seems as if time had been running far longer than just that instant as blue flames rear up over the barrels.

The flash as the barrels explode dazzles all those unfortunate enough to be looking in their direction. The blast breaks the back of the ship, which immediately breaks in half and begins to sink.

As flaming debris begins to rain out of the sky upon them, those few of the boarding party not blown cleanly off the barge by the explosion panic, and are easily defeated by the allies-by-circumstance upon the fleeing vessel.

As the barge continues onwards, the boarders are thrown overboard, to cling to the wreckage of the pursuing ship and await rescue.

The strange group gathers around Jared and the Black Robe, who still have the green-robed figure of Farkas lying on the deck before them.

 

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