In Dungeons with Dragons | Chapter 2
Fugitives
The escape would have been so much easier if they simply could have killed The Sergeant (one of The Lord Warden’s men who guarded the King’s Gate at the south of town), Cabal thought. He hadn’t relished the thought, it just seemed more expedient and left fewer loose ends. The cleric had intervened and had been seconded by Illyria. Cabal, decidedly, did not wish to upset Illyria.
Thank Pelor, Fallcrest’s streets had been largely empty, aside from a woman in well-worn clothes sleeping in The Market Green on a makeshift bed of crates and boxes left over by merchants or visiting traders who had come to do business earlier in the day. The children who played tag and kick-stones in this town square of sorts had long been asleep in their cozy Hightown beds following the day’s commerce with their fathers and mothers. Even the band of orphans and urchins that roved through the park at late hours had tucked themselves into a warm corner of the empty stall at Lannar Thistleton’s stables on the east side of town. They received the lodging in exchange for keeping an eye on his horses while he returned to his countryside home and larger corral a mile outside of town for the night.
As Cabal led Aerys with Faeslaightear hung like a wet towel over his shoulder, Covey, and Illyria through the streets, past the small, but well kept houses and businesses along the main streets of Lowtown, Faeslaightear woke just long enough to see The Blue Moon Alehouse, think If only I had gone there tonight, give a small wave to the dwarf Teldorthan (in no better shape than he as he stumbled down the cross street to his home above his humble armory), and hurl spectacularly on the cobbled road that spun as it flew past his eyes while he looked blearily down from Aerys’ shoulder.
Upon reaching the King’s Gate and noticing the torchlight of a patrolman walking along the length of wall that had not fallen into ruin, the party slowed to a walk.
Covey looked up at Fallcrest’s southern gate and recalled that it had been destroyed in an attack that had devastated the city long ago. Thinking back on Grundelmar’s words about Fallcrest’s history, Covey further recalled that ninety years ago, a fierce horde of orcs known as the Bloodspears descended from the Stonemarch and swept over the vale. Fallcrest’s army was defeated in a rash attempt to halt the Bloodspears out on Gardbury Downs. The Bloodspears burned and pillaged Fallcrest and went on to wreak havoc all across the Nentir Vale. As was visually apparent, the gate had still not been entirely rebuilt. One of the two paired towers is nothing but rubble, and several large gaps remain in the walls south of the bluffs.
“We should go farther east. There’s a gap in the wall where it runs through Aranda’s Forest,” Covey whispered and began to lead.
The others followed, and they made their way along the inside of the wall, clinging to the shadows looking for the gap in the wall Covey had promised.
Illyria was quite aware of the amount of noise the dragonborn and the human were making. They would not long last in the forests of the Feywild. They would be easy prey for the dark-skinned Drow, the bastard third branch of the elven races, hated equally by their elf and eladrin cousins for their worship of the god Lolth, the Spider Queen. But, the Drow, denizens of the Feydark wouldn’t bother them on this side of The Veil.
“There it is!” Covey exclaimed under her breath, seeing the gap in the wall she had promised.
“Ouch!” Aerys stifled the word. “He kicked me in the gut!” Aerys related quietly, and before he could explain further…
“Hey!” Covey interjected.
“What happened?”
“It was the elf,” Illyria informed the human, thankful for her strong vision.
“Yeah, where is he? He kicked me and then ran off.”
“And he stole the halfling’s sling,” Illyria added and Covey searched herself for a second before verifying that the eladrin was, in fact, right.
“Halt!” came the terse voice of authority.
From behind a larger pile of rubble, stepped one of Lord Warden Markelhay’s men, Aerys judged from his uniform. A sergeant if he wasn’t mistaken.
“And…?” the tallish sergeant gruffly prompted (the tiniest of twitches in his gray mustache), clearly looking for an explanation for this covert nighttime egress.
Had word already made it to the gates’ guardsmen? Aerys considered.
I’ll not spend another day in a cell! Cabal commanded himself, inching fingers towards his sword, questioning internally where that thought had come from. In what cell had he been?
“Uh unnh,” The Sergeant admonished noticing Cabal’s surreptitious attempt at arming himself, and brandishing his own sword in a blind moment. No flash, no pomp, just the deft handling of a practiced and experienced swordsman.
Illyria’s mind went to the patrolman atop the wall and his torchlight, both of which were slowly making it their way. His human ears would not hear their voices for another fifty feet she estimated, but, if he noticed them before they could escape, a simple shout could bring an unknown amount of men from the guard tower at the gate or any of the soldiers that must certainly be searching for them in the wake of the bloody brawl with Markelhay’s tieflings. And, that simple shout could just as easily come from the sergeant in front of them. But, it didn’t.
The only sound was that that a walnut makes when it bounces against a hollow log. The Sergeant’s form collapsed in front of them and Faeslaightear appeared from the shadows, only slightly shaky on his feet, and tossed Covey’s sling back to her and the two rounded stones that he hadn’t had to use to hit The Sergeant in the head.
Aerys smiled, then grinned, and was making soundless guffaws a moment later at the mental image of the tough sergeant’s eyes rolling back into his head like a toddler seeing his own blood.
Cabal’s stoic visage broke next, and he snorted to himself, barely keeping it in.
Covey and Illyria looked at Faeslaightear, the downed sergeant, and then each other, doing their best not to give in, until, like an old rope bridge with one too many hill giants, they broke into fits of nearly contained laughter.
Faeslaightear gave all a devious grin, smiled, and led the others through the gap in the wall.
Clinging to the outside of the town wall, the party made it through Aranda’s Forest, up and over the bluff to an area of trees too big to be called a stand or a copse and much too small to be called a forest just south of the eastern trade road. There, they made camp quickly, did their best to ignore the howls and growls from deeper within the wood, and all collapsed into slumber almost simultaneously.
Dawn fast approached, but the orange horizon did not yet support a sun. Illyria let her trance fall, and “rejoined the normal time of things,” as she had come to know it. Recalling the night’s meditations, Illyria’s trance revealed to her that she was absolutely part of something new and strange. She knew she could leave now. Part of her wanted to. Her culture and her upbringing urged it, but her legs remained crossed and her eyes fixed on the human. He had entered the tavern, surveyed the scene in a moment, and took action even more quickly. She desired very much to understand that. It was more than processing quickly. Illyria herself could arrive at conclusions very quickly based on near infinite information, but deciding which action to take when she knew that a single word from her mouth would alter the course of events for the entire universe forever was too daunting. She was no megalomaniac thinking that her words and actions alone had this power, but the eladrin realized that this power resided in all. The ramifications for action were everlasting, from the smallest sap slug up to the titans and elementals of old.
Covey watched as Illyria’s brow furled, and considered her own path. The world needed so much help. Evil, uncertainty, cruelty, and waste were everywhere. She had her work cut out for her and knew that most of that work would be internal. Her perception of and insight into the world around her only mirrored and magnified that which she saw in herself. She didn’t feel as though she were actually evil or cruel, but she knew she could be if she wasn’t ceaselessly focused on Pelor’s Word. She was, however, constantly uncertain, and plagued with the fear that she was wasting the opportunities Pelor granted her.
Covey had felt something anew last night in the tavern in the middle of the brawl, that feeling of belonging to something bigger and more important than herself. It sounded trite to put it into words so commonly and mistakenly used, but it also seemed right.
Aerys thought back on the actions of the previous night. The halfling’s bravery when clearly outmatched stood out. Aerys had met religious zealots before, and seen many do incredible and horrible things in the name of their gods, but he’d never seen anything done with so little thought for oneself. Aerys was more than a little curious about Pelor and how he could inspire such actions. He needed some light to keep away his demons.
Faeslaightear was repulsed with himself. What did he have to gain from these “people”? He had woken before the rest of them. Why had he not picked a couple pockets and fled? He knew upon waking that the sigil on the tieflings’ arms was not that of the gnolls he sought. But, they had spoken in the tongue of demons, and that piqued his interest. They may even bow to the same gods as those gnolls that took his sister from him. Too long had he traveled by himself. Too much of the day did he spend with the final image of his sister cut into his mind. And, he was too tired to do this alone. He had not lost his resolve, his nerve, or his rage. Those were safe, locked away, ready to be brought out when needed. Faeslaightear simply missed the distraction that company provided. He may even be able to coerce his new gang to aid in his search. He would need the right words. Probably a sympathetic almost pathetic whimper for the women. He would rouse the men to anger with talk of honor and vengeance. A few well-timed nudges and perfectly pulled strings would do the trick. Cabal could see the elf contemplating and calculating. He raised a speculative eyebrow; the elf made him nervous. But, not so nervous as to distract him from the one he sought. Cabal pretended to study the elf more closely while he stole glances at the eladrin woman. Did she look at him? How long had he been staring?
“So what’s next?” Cabal asked the group, hopefully convincing the eladrin he’d not been staring.
“I think introductions are in order,” Aerys’ voice attempted joviality, but months of brooding lent a thunderous timbre to his speech. The others, however, did not recoil. Something had happened last night during that barroom brawl. A bond had been formed. Aerys paused to contemplate the calming ramifications of this realization.
“Yeah, who in the Ninth Hell are you people?” Faeslaightear cut across the moment.
“After you, dear elf,” replied Covey, with a sure smile and an air of obviously feigned respect, resigning herself to not giving him an inch.
Sliding the hood from his head and revealing his sharp ears, he announced, “I am Faeslaightear of the Luathadharailien realm, brother of Airgeadgaoisneane, The Slain, disciple of the Meloran tenets, and slayer of gnolls,” he finished unabashed at his revelations for one so committed to secrecy. If his roguishness were his cloak, his shield, and his blanket, then his vengeance was his sword and his torch, the weapon that bled light on his path. At times, however, he felt as though he held that sword by the blade and that torch by the flame.
“Well met!” returned Aerys with noticeably less thunder in his voice. “I am Aerys, eldest and bastard son of Dragonborn King Rhogar Mavakian the fourth, former captain in my lord’s army, banished from the realm by The Winged Queen, Thava Mavakian.”
The others, knowing of no such dragonborn army much less a dragonborn kingdom, smiled at the introduction, and chose to admire Aerys for his fearlessness last night regardless of his self-imposed title.
Covey, realizing the long pause already beginning to set in, began, “My name is Covey Hawkhunter. I grew up in the Barony of Harkenwold near the White River. I discovered Pelor in the Harken Forest and have devoted my life to Him, coming to Fallcrest to continue my cleric’s training. “
Illyria had begun considering her words of introduction the second she realized she was expected to share them. As the eyes around the dead campfire made their way to her, she considered her words a final time, and said, “I am Illyria of the Argent Realm at the heart of Sildëyuir, apprentice to the Twilight Enchanter, Sehanierianna, devoted to understanding the old anew, and seeker of the further revelations of The Blank Book.”
Cabal, still slightly mesmerized by the way Illyria’s voice melodically resonated, thought back on all he had learned about himself, and said the following, “I am Cabal.”
The others, eyes still trained on the human, waited a few seconds, and, realizing he was finished, offered a reassuring smile and chorused, “Well met.”
“Can I just say, how you handled those tieflings, Illyria, am I saying that right, was simply beautiful!” Covey admitted. Illyria blushed, realizing that that was the first time anyone had ever considered one of her moments beautiful. “Thank you, Covey!” she returned adding a trilled syllable to Covey’s name. “You were quite brave facing so many with but words and a dagger.”
The men considered each other, and settled for confident smirks that communicated both deep respect for the others and masculine concision.
With introductions behind them, the party discussed the previous night’s events and considered their options. After such options as “We could confront Lord Warden Markelhay” and “How about we join the River Rats?” Faeslaightear added with a smile, the group settled on getting away from Fallcrest as the threat to their lives was simply too great at the moment.
However, Faeslaightear, offered advice that seemed reasonable to all: “We should supply ourselves and recover the dragonborn’s armor and weapons. We wouldn’t last three nights in the forests between here and the nearest village. The kobolds and goblins have grown bolder in recent months, and orcs have been seen.”
“That means going back into town. I suggest we wait for cover of night,” said Aerys.
“We should grab supplies at Halfmoon Trading House. I know it’s more expensive and farther from the southern gate, but it’s smaller. There’s less chance anyone will recognize us there. Especially,” Covey added, “if only Cabal and I go. If we start marching the only dragonborn in town and the first eladrin seen in these parts for half a decade, even the dimmest of passersby will find us out.”
Cabal nodded, happy with the part that left Illyria (what a beautiful name) out of danger’s path.
“How do we get Aerys’ weapons and armor?”
“Leave that to me,” offered the elf. “There are a few elven families in Fallcrest, so I won’t be too suspicious, and I need to resupply myself.”
“Should we grab anything from the trading house for you?” Covey asked, remembering to be of service even to those that sometimes made it difficult.
“Nah, I should be able to find what I need,” Faeslaightear added a little too smugly to make the cleric comfortable.
“Wait a minute! I’ll not let anyone offer up their hide to save mine,” interjected Aerys, once realizing that they actually meant to leave him behind. They wouldn’t last a minute. “What should we do all night, braid grass necklaces? You need us!”
“Yes!” Illyria agreed surprised at her own quick response. “We’ll not stay behind like salted sap slugs,” she continued, attempting what she thought to be a perfectly apt colloquialism.
“I suppose that can work, if you two are properly cloaked. Aerys, stick to the shadows.”
“I’ll stick to them like black to a storm cloud.” And, Covey was sure she saw sparks at the back of Aerys’ mouth, excited at the prospect of returning to a Fallcrest that had turned on them.
Now, they had but to wait for the barely raised sun to traverse the heavens and slumber once again, giving them the shroud of darkness vital to their survival.
Sneaking into the city should have been harder than sneaking out, but finding the rusted grate in the wall through which the Moonwash (a small, swift stream) flowed before it met up with the Nentir River had been a godsend. Covey would thank Pelor that night. Aerys’ scaled muscles made short work of the corroded metal, and the elf, the eladrin, the dragonborn, the halfling, and the human splashed quietly into the rushing rivulet, ducked under what was left of the grate, and paddled under the wall.
On the inside of the town, the adventurers, wet and cold from the trudge through the water and the subsequent scramble up the banks of the Moonswash, shied away from the sporadic torchlight that lit the city streets. Aerys had barely hidden his enormous form when the first citizen came into view.
A tiefling—not one they had fought the previous night, assured Aerys—made his way into Naerumar’s Imports, considered to be the finest of Fallcrest’s retail establishments and dealing in gemstones, jewelry, art, and magic trinkets.
In his four months in Fallcrest, Aerys had subconsciously recorded all information he knew of the resident tieflings to the warrior compartment of his mind. However, as a devout loner, he conversed little with the townspeople and knew even less about the social interplay between them. And, honestly, until the previous night, that warrior spirit had laid dormant within him. He had had no desire to fight tieflings on this front, when his true hatred was saved for a fellow dragonborn,…Thava. “Do you think he’s invovled?” questioned Covey as the door shut on Naerumar’s Imports.
Faeslaightear’s answer was to rest a practiced eavesdropping ear against the timber door, but he could hear nothing once the tiefling’s footfalls had entered the store’s back room.
Realizing that sneaking through town was too risky, the small company, decided to re-enter the Moonwash Stream and float down to where it met the greater Nentir River—the thought being that they could use the steep northern banks of the stream as cover from the residences and storefronts of northern Fallcrest, as they gently bobbed downstream…
After several summons to patron deities, countless bumps, numerous bruises, and a knot the size of a tomato on the back of Cabal’s head, the party had made it ashore once again.
“Did you remember the Moonwash Falls being quite so steep?” asked Faeslaightear to the crowd.
“No, nor did I remember the supports ‘neath the Knight’s Road bridge being so thick,” said Aerys’ massaging his shoulder. Cabal rubbed at his head, wincing momentarily at the flash of pain when he touched the most tender part of the raised bump.
Illyria and Covey smiled at each other, thankful for their slender build and small stature, respectively.
Hearing the voices of the porters and laborers that worked the Lower Quays of the Nentir River, the five adventurers hid among some rubble, that had once been stone cottages at the northeast intersection of the Moonwash Stream and the Nentir River. The cottages lay as an unofficial memorial to the violent Bloodspears War some nine decades earlier. Razed edifices like these covered the Lower Quays like psoriatic patches. Any destruction in the more defensible Upper Quays had since been repaired or rebuilt.
From their hiding spot, they could see men and women—halflings and humans mostly, with a smattering of stocky dwarves and lithe half-elves—cursing and yelling orders to one another to “move this crate” or “moor that boat”.
Covey even recognized a couple of the River Rats who had been in the Lucky Gnome Taphouse the night before during their brawl with Markelhay’s tieflings.
Orange light from the glass lanterns that hung from the skiffs and sloops reflected as faerie light off the gently flowing water, as the boats wended their way among one another.
The day’s work done, the workers dispersed, some making their way to their wives and husbands, some to empty beds, and most to the cheapest tavern in town, The Lucky Gnome.
When but three of laborers were within eyeshot (the trio all members of the River Rats), Aerys crept from behind the stone ruins, stole along the shadows, and emerged half a step behind the three, who stood in conversation, utterly unaware of the interloper.
All Illyria could see from her perch, even with her keen sight, was the dragonborn extend his clawed hand, scrape it against the last standing stone wall of a nearby ruin, and wait for these lowtown urchins to turn and shrink under his thunderous gaze.
Aerys waved the other four over and announced, “These three gentleman have graciously offered to grant us passage upstream in their boat…” He paused as one of the three shot an offended look his way, and quickly continued, “I do apologize…these, two gentleman and this lady have offered their boat.” And, Covey was able to see the subtle femininity of the dirty dwarf female that Aerys had mistaken for a man.
All eight climbed in the boat, grabbed an oar, and fought against waters flowing in the opposite direction. Muscles sore, they climbed from the boat on the far side of the river, just shy of the Nentir Falls.
The River Rats stepped from the boat nervously, at Aerys’ behest, and awaited the worst. But, though death would be the most convenient and logical, honor would not permit Aerys to deal it. Instead, he said this:
“I recognize you three from last night at The Lucky Gnome, do I not?” The three nodded sheepishly. “I need not remind you of what I am capable when provoked, need I?” The three shook their heads in unison. “Go with your lives.” And they backed away, almost tripping on one another, unlashed their boat, and were swallowed by the night moments later.
On the western side of the Nentir River, orchards and vegetable farms dominated. Aside from the Nentir Inn, north of the Nentir Falls, no other official commerce took place on this side.
Staying well away from the few farmhouses, the five hugged the western river banks, climbed the bluffs, and came to a stop only when their next footstep would bring them into the glow from the windows of the Nentir Inn.
The inn, a fine new building constructed of fieldstone and strong timber lodged mostly merchants from Winterhaven and Hammerfast, along with travelers who simply happened to be passing through. The inn’s lively taproom, popular with the folk who live in the vales on the West Bank of the river, had long since become too expensive for Aerys’ dwindling purse. The sounds of fiddles and flutes carried to Illyria’s ears and brought a smile to her face, as it was reminiscent of the hamadryad music of Sildëyuir. She looked over to see Faeslaightear with his characteristic smirk faded, looking positively haunted, fingers on his own flute.
“Where’s your room?” asked Cabal, and Faeslaightear was shaken from his daze, smirk reaffixed.
“Second floor, at the eastern end, overlooking the river. There’s a small reception area with a stairway to the side that bypasses the taproom.” At the word taproom, a certain elf’s eyes lit up. “But, surely, word has spread, and if someone of my stature and appearance enters the inn, there’ll be an uproar.”
Illyria suggested that she and Cabal pretend to be married and seeking a room to distract the half-elf tending the front desk that they saw through the watery window.
Cabal gulped at the suggestion and froze his face lest it give away how happy he was. He removed his armor to play the part. Wearing a loose cotton shirt and woolen trousers, he knew he would look a bit common next to the elegant eladrin. Illyria, seeing the human dressed as such, suppressed a happy gulp of her own. Regaining composure, she brushed her auburn hair so that it hid her pupil-less eyes, and they entered, leaving the door surreptitiously cracked behind them. With the receptionist drawn to the side, Faeslaightear insisted on ushering Aerys inside, while Covey waited outside. Hearing a stick crunch behind her, Covey turned to see nothing. Had she already become so dependent on the protection of her new friends?
Cabal, already inside and in conversation, stole a glance as Aerys edged through the doorway, Faeslaightear at his heels. Aerys did his best to keep the sounds from the creaking wooden stairs from giving him away, but, thankfully, the music coming from the taproom covered even the louder creaks. Faeslaightear, however, did not follow. He slipped behind the counter of the distracted half-elf, finessed open a drawer, slid something in one of his hidden pockets, and slithered upstairs to join Aerys.
Once Aerys and Faeslaightear were safely upstairs, Cabal admitted to the receptionist (incidentally named Erandil) that they could not afford the rates, and excused himself and his “wife”.
In Aerys’ well-appointed room, he located his armor, his axe, and the rest of his possessions.
“That’s your armor?” asked Faeslaightear. “It’s ancient! Where’d you get that old relic?”
Aerys looked at his armor, with the dents and scars of battle, and realized it may have needed a good polishing, but it was less than a year old. It had been forged and presented when he had made captain. Ancient? Relic? Had the elf been sneaking spirits from some hidden flask? If he swallowed any more spirits, he’d be more lich than living, thought Aerys. “Let’s get out of here,” returned Aerys a bit more gruffly than he had meant.
Knowing that Cabal and Illyria would have only been able to distract the half-elf for a little while, they had agreed that he would throw his possessions out the window, and then jump down. Wrapping his armor in the blanket from his bed, he tossed it out the window.
Cabal easily caught the armor. Covey, his pack. But, they let the axe fall to the ground, uncaught, for obvious reasons. Faeslaightear, still laughing to himself about the dragonborn’s armor, jumped from the window, landing lightly in a squatting position. Aerys, dropped from the window, allowing his knee to give, thudding to the ground in a kneeling position, leaving a matching, knee-sized crater behind.
All that remained was to stock up on provisions and for Illyria and Covey to buy some gear if they truly meant to flee town. Cloaks on and hoods up, they made their way to the Five-Arch Bridge that connected the western sliver of Fallcrest with the Upper Quays of the larger eastern side. Though, Aerys knew that a small contingent of Fallcrest guards stood watch at the toll house, Faeslaightear said he had a plan.
Upon reaching the bridge, Faeslaightear walked ahead of the others. When the guards stopped him, he simply yelled past them in a coaxing voice, “Thurmina dear…are you there?”
A gruff woman in a Fallcrest uniform exited the toll house, her bushy eyebrows furrowing in the middle. Seeing the elf, she raised one of those bushy eyebrows and asked, “Mr. Silverlock, to what do I owe the pleasure,” she grunted in gruff monotone.
Faeslaightear subtly patted a small purse of coins at his waist, and Thurmina separated herself from the other guards and walked over to him, glancing over his shoulders at his four cloaked friends.
Faeslaightear added, “Well, my dear, a couple of my friends have…, shall we say, business in town, and it would be an utter shame if their associates knew they were here before they had a chance to call on them.”
“I see….,” she returned, uninterested. “I suppose you can guess how much that costs,” she returned, both bushy eyebrows raised this time.
“I’m afraid I can,” Faeslaightear replied, sad at the prospect of parting with some newly acquired coinage.
An exchange was made, and all five were allowed to cross the timber-trestled bridge unsearched and unaccosted.
At first light, Covey and Illyria left the men behind in a small thicket of trees, just to the south of the bluffs and just to the north of Sandercot Provisioners. The women went inside, purchased the provisions they would need from Nimena Sandercot, the proprietor.
It struck Covey, that this was the first time she had been alone with Illyria, and though she had thousands of questions, at this time, the uncomfortable silence was preferable to the alternative, and Illyria seemed more than happy to oblige the quiet.
The company of five spent the afternoon hidden under the canopy of river oaks, munching on trail rations of dry bread, cured meat, and hard cheese.
“Should we not figure out how seven tieflings came to wear the uniform of Lord Warden Markelhay? I feel as though honor demands more of us than skipping town,” announced Aerys.
“Suuuuure, and we can just ask The Lord Warden if he is conspiratin’ with demons while we’re at it…” jibed Faeslaightear. Cabal broke his own silence to add, “Reconnaissance is advised, but living to fight is desired.”
Covey began, “Pelor would have us….”
But, before she could finish, a dwarf burst through the bushes, looking behind himself with wide eyes, and ran square into Aerys.
The fearsome five, already on edge, pulled their weapons before the dwarf could even regain his feet: Aerys, his axe; Faeslaightear, his bow; Covey, her dagger; Illyria, her longsword; and Cabal, his greatspear.
The dwarf fell to the ground, while Faeslaightear, putting away his bow, approached him. The dwarf cowered and yelled, “I know nothing!”
“About what?” sang Faeslaightear.
“I’ll not talk!” affirmed the dwarf.
“Is that so?” asked Aerys with his axe to the dwarf’s neck. “You’ll never find it!”
“Find what?!” growled Aerys.
Sighing and slumping, the dwarf continued, dejected, “It doesn’t matter. It’s gone. I’ll never know what it was either.”
At this point, Cabal pulled the other two men back, stared into the eyes of the dwarf, and said, “Speak.”
When the dwarf was finished, they had learned that his name was Traevus, that two goblins and a human wizard had stolen a package from him, left him for dead, and had marched down into the catacombs to do “Moradin knows what”. He even admitted that he had begun to follow them when he heard an unsettling roar coming from deep within. The dwarf handed Cabal a small brass key before clamping his mouth shut and refusing to say more.
Faeslaightear really wanted to know what the package contained. Covey wanted to know how the wizard had found out about it. Aerys wanted to know what supplied the roar. Cabal wanted to know what the key unlocked. And, Illyria wanted to know what the dwarf was really hiding.
Though it was not the lead they had wanted, it seemed too interesting to ignore. The entrance to the catacombs was very near their current position and offered four things: refuge from the town guard, the chance to do good, possible treasure, and adventure.