For the rest of the day, and well into the following one, Ksandajja ruminates in silence upon the hag's words. She evinces little interest when the caravan stops to rest in the cool of an oasis, and she is barely cognisant of the train of dwarfish merchants driving their wagons south who stop to trade with Novoldgan.
[major event: PC negative - Grebdal Themp - Transform / Dispute]
That evening as Ilog joins a group of caravaneers in rowdy song and Ksandajja stares fixedly at the heavens, looking for a portent, Grebdal Themp joins a friendly game of knucklebones. Within the hour he has fled to Fhenteskeer for succour.
"What's the matter this time?" sighs the fire-priest, though he knows his friend's reply before the words have even formed on his lips.
"I was playing at dice with some of the warriors, and found myself unexpectedly in Cheelah's good graces. I threw Asrel thrice in a row, and won a considerable sum against the biggest of the lot. Now he's angry at me, and I fear violence at his hand."
"I'll have a word. You should probably return the silver, or let them win it back later. Which is the one you've offended?"
"It's the one known as 'The Zkkanj'."
"Hm. What even is a Zkkanj? Do you know?"
"I've no idea, but having met him, I hope I never meet one!"
"THE ZKKANJ" SKILL 10 STAMINA 12
[Cheelah is another name for Sindla, the Goddess of LUCK and Fate. Asrel is the goddess of love, and whatever game they're playing uses Titan's version of the Roman convention which names the best throw of the dice 'Venus'.
Fhenteskeer needs to roll against Bargain (covers both negotiation & persuasion) at -3 to diffuse the situation: so 6+0+3-3=6- : 2d6=6 success]
Fhenteskeer goes off to have a quiet word with the soldiers, who cease their sinister mutterings at the fire-priest's appearance. He explains to them that his companion, despite this one small run of luck, is notoriously bad at games of chance, and perhaps they'd prefer to invite him back and recoup their losses. "For he may seem to be Sindla's fool, but I assure you, he's usually just a fool."
Day 6
The route takes the caravan through a series of twisting, narrow defiles -- the perfect spot for an ambush. Novoldgan has Telnah select some of the better riders from amongst the warriors, that they might ride on ahead to scout out signs of danger. Ksandajja is pleased to be counted in their number. Her lessons must be going well.
They ride forth boldly, keeping the caravan just in sight behind them as well as they are able, and spend a long, active day riding back and forth on the dusty road, clambering up any accessible high ground to scan the way ahead, and peering into every small gap and behind every large boulder that could possibly conceal an ambush. But not a single danger do they detect; their way is entirely absent of BANDITS, RAIDERS, and every other dangerous denizen of Titan whose names -- according to the ancient tradition -- must be written in all caps in the first instance. [no encounters]
That evening they reach Tross, a small walled settlement that grew up round an oasis by a crossroads. [feature: village - planned settlement] Novoldgan takes the opportunity for some last-minute trading, but most of the caravaneers (those not assigned to guard the train) filter out into Tross' many alehouses.
[Village encounter (via Cities): 2 barbarians, seeking vengeance on government official
Q: What did the official do? Disrupt / Pleasures
Q: Are they from the same area as Ilog? doubtful (6): O6 C2 - yes, and... same village]
"What is the matter here?"
Stilki stumbles towards Ilog, her ale-flushed face brightening with recognition.
"He kicked us out of the tavern! He said we were making too much noise, and breaking too many mugs! And that we couldn't throw axes at the wall! We're going to hafta pound some sense into 'im! You can help us avenge our honour, clan-brother!" [UNE: scheming - means - friends]
"There is no honour in this!" says Ilog. "It is for actions such as these that they style us 'barbarians'." [Leadership roll at -2: 7+1-2=6; 2d6=4!]
"Your words shame us. We shall leave this village lest we dishonour our clan further."
The next day's travel passes without event. By late afternoon, the caravan has arrived at the fortified southern wall of Drammub, their destination. The city is perched on the edge of a deep, dried-up river gorge. Beyond the gorge to the north lies the deep and trackless desert, and beyond that the land of horrors known as the Blue Wastes, in whose centre the Queen of Dissolution rules from her nightmare fortress. Ksandajja fancies she can hear the wastes calling to her, mocking her perhaps in her penury, for none can make the journey to that far-off place on foot, and the six-and-fifty golden coins given her by Novoldgan are well shy of the sum needed to procure a stout camel or good horse.
As the sorceress repairs to her room at the inn to obsess over her Quest, Ilog is showing Fhenteskeer and Grebdal Themp the sealed tablets given him by the frightful duenna.
"So all you have to do is deliver these to the residence of Count Varadnis?" asks Grebdal Themp.
"That is the substance of the arrangement."
"Any idea who he is?"
"I asked round the common room. Everyone to whom I spoke says he's a retired merchant, one of the lords of the city, and who has spent a sizeable amount of his fortune in the building of public gardens."
"Still, 20 gold to deliver a letter. It sounds dodgy. If it'd make you feel better, I could probably remove the seal so we can peek inside and then put it back again."
[He doesn't actually have any levels of Sleight of Hand, but it seems like something he's done before...
Skill 7: 2d6=4, ok
Q: What is it about? UNE: inquisitive - interest - family]
Using a candle and his dagger, Grebdal Themp prises the wax seal off the edge of the wooden tablets without causing any obvious damage. He opens it, and the three scan its contents by the light of the same candle. It turns out to be an entirely innocuous private letter recounting the minutiae of daily life and enquiring after the health of someone (hopefully a pet) called Fifi.
Ilog stops before the door of an unassuming residence in a narrow side-street. He does not knock, but merely announces himself to the dragon-faced brass door knocker. "It is I, Ilog, come for an audience with Uldan-andu."
The door creeks open and the warrior steps into the cramped vestibule, and walks into the gloom of an unlit corridor. Ksandajja follows eagerly, for, to her sorceress' sight, the air is pregnant with the swirls and eddies of the hoary magics which protect the sage's demesne. Fhenteskeer and Grebdal Themp follow with rather more trepidation.
Uldan-andu sits at the table in his study, poring over a weighty vellum codex by the light of but a single candle. Bookshelves, bowed under the weight of the tomes crammed therein, line every wall, and there is no flat surface but that it be stacked nigh to the ceiling with other volumes. Balanced precariously amongst these are scrolls of papyrus and parchment, tablets of clay, and the occasional box containing lamina of bamboo, gold, or lead. Ksandajja's eyes dart from one work to the next, straining to read their indices in the weak yellow light. Thus it is that she does not notice the great, uncomfortable pause as the sage lifts a finger for silence whilst he finishes reading the page.
"No, vile necromancer! I've come that you may taste my steel!"
Both men fall to hearty laughter as Ilog strides forth to clasp the sage's hand in friendship.
"À propos of vile necromancy," says the sage, his mien suddenly darkening, "I do have a task I would put to you. There's a sack of gold waiting if you succeed. I wish you to apprehend a thief. He--"
"I accept, of course."
"Wait until you've heard the rest of it -- you may wish to reconsider. This is no ordinary thief, but a wizard. He gave the name of Thalman, though that was most certainly a lie. He pretended to consult me on weather magic, and when I left the room to procure a treatise from upstairs, he made off with a tome of unspeakable wickedness, a necromantic grimoire known as The Erudition of Revenants... I take it from the lady's sudden look of horror that she knows of this most infamous volume...?"
"The elder sorcerers of my order would give half a dozen stripes to any novice who so much as asked about such a work."
"And with good reason. I fear the designs of this 'Thalman'. For he must have no small amount of skill to have overcome the enchantments with which I'd bound it. Now, I don't much care what happens to him, but as I doubt he'll let go his prize without a fight... all I care for is that the book be returned."
"But why?" asks Fhenteskeer. "We should destroy such a pernicious tome."
"Would that it were so simple! Some books do not burn, not even by your god's holy fire. Better to have it concealed here, and with double the abjurations I'd put over it in the past."
"I see," says Fhenteskeer, blanching with the realisation. "Do you know where this 'Thalman' has taken it?"
"To Anhassuul."
"The Dead City!" gasps Ilog.
"I'd said you'd might wish to reconsider..."
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