Chapter 2: Mysteries Afoot
It was a blisteringly hot morning in Amonthus, the sun had barely shown itself above the dawn horizon and it was already sweltering. A fine layer of sweat had begun to mix with the humidity prevalent in a port city, making movement slow and lazy. Despite this, the city was bustling itself awake early, merchants headed to and from the docks, their loud calls and raucous laughter permeated the very air of the city. Chrys awoke with a scowl and shrugged himself into movement, for there was much to do today.
The Black Mask operatives who were after Scarlett had begun by asking for her in and around Mae's former establishment, and they presumably had no idea that she was now presenting herself as Chrysanthemum, but nonetheless he had to be wary. Not for the first time, they regretted any involvement with that cursed network of thieves and assassins who were in service to the dark gods. It took less than an hour to pack everything they had with them, it was always good to travel lightly, and with a rucksack over one shoulder, Chrys set off towards the north gate of the city with a jaunty tune whistling as he walked. One of the local curved daggers, known as a jambiya, sat within easy reach on his left hip and he carried an ironshod walking staff with his free hand.
He stopped at a local watering well, choosing one that was specifically not that busy, trying to avoid as many people as he could. The Masks were looking for a Devilkin woman, but his race was rare enough that he didn't wish to take the chance of being recognized. The smells of the great city were in full effect this morning, shifting from a nose wrinkling scent of bilge water and gutted fish to a savory and spicy scent of street vendors preparing for morning business. Amonthus was famous for both of these things. Chrys' stomach grumbled at him and he reflexively checked his coin purse, frowning. Far too light.
His waterskins full, he set off towards the northern gate of the city, headed to the road to Memnon, the closest other place of so-called civilization in the desert. He stopped briefly and easily confused and tricked a kabob vendor out of a couple delicious skewers. It was a simple thing to distract them with a whispered command of magic, and Chrys had been excellent at twisting words to confuse for a long time, before any magic training at all, in fact. Chewing happily as he strolled out of the gate into the windswept dunes of the Khemet Desert, following a small group of nine to ten camels who were piled high with silks and spices by a caravan of merchants who were likely also travelling to Memnon. Chrys simply stayed at a safe distance, making certain that the caravan guards had seen him leaving the city and that he presented no threat to them, staying somewhat safer in their wake.
If they were attacked by bandits or worse out in the desert, surely the caravan would be the target, allowing him a chance to escape or perhaps even aid the caravan. This was a common practice among travelers in the desert, however, Chrys knew he had no intention of helping anyone in that case. He was alive today precisely because he knew when and where to run. High above, the sun slowly plodded towards its zenith, the heat grew, and above, vultures began to watch the caravan with hungry and patient eyes. Chrys looked up and waved at them, drawing his travelling robe about him to ward away the searing sun, as he plodded along behind the fresh tracks of the caravan.
* * * * *
Back in the city, the door to Maegwyn and Scarlett's old shop splintered inward with a horrible crash. A huge olive colored fist removed itself from the wreckage of the door and the rest of a massive form wearing a black jelaya robe stalked into the empty room. Behind him stalked a smaller form, similarly clad against the morning heat. Delicate hands reached up and drew a hood back, revealing the delicate features of a half elven woman with cool green eyes and jet black hair which was braided away from her face. A long scar ran down her left cheek, reaching from temple to jaw, marring her otherwise beautiful countenance. She made a disapproving noise and looked around disdainfully, sniffing and wrinkling her nose.
"The rats have fled the nest, it seems." She addressed the hulking figure who had changed the door from barricade into kindling. Sighing sadly, she began to stalk about the small room, opening drawers and upending them onto the floor. She turned and spoke to the man who was busy removing his own hooded headgear and shaking splinters of wood from his sleeve. "You know what we're looking for." Her tone carried commands easily, leaving no room nor time for questions. "If the old witch hid it before she died, we're fucked. She must have hidden it here, or given it to her apprentice. Keep looking!"
"Mmmmm. Yes ma'am." The rumbled reply was a deep baritone, the robe coming down to reveal the gnarled and deformed face of a half-ogre. It thoroughly destroyed the dresser and upended the bed searching for some time, while his companion rifled through the kitchen and a nearby bookshelf. The brute sifted through the wreckage for some time before declaring sadly, "It's… uhm…. Not here, Ciara." With his massive underbite, he pronounced the name as "Shee-ara."
The woman finished flipping through a tattered old book on the shelf before sighing in disappointment. "She must have given it to the apprentice." Eyes flickered around the room, noting every little detail. No waterskins by the door, no jelaya robes in the closet, no weapons or food left behind. "Gone as of this morning. Dammit."
"At least da Silver Hand guys ain't gotten to her?" He paused, flinching for an expected reprisal for daring to voice his opinion. Nothing came, Ciara was deep in thought. Emboldened, he continued. "An' if dey dunno where she is, mebbe we can still… uhm…. Y'know… find her?"
"Oh, do shut up, Darruk. Your idiocy may be contagious." She didn't even waste the time to look up at her companion, heard the disappointed sigh he let escape. "The Masks pay me to think, not you. You, they pay to hurt people and listen to me." She murmured a few arcane words softly as she took a small copper wire in her left hand, concentrating.
"Kharak, it's Ciara. Maegwyn is dead as ordered, retrieval of the artifact has hit a snag. Her apprentice took it with her, headed out of the city, my guess is north towards Memnon."
She waited silently for the magic sending to take her words back to Liadon Keep, and for an expected reply. The voice that returned was only audible in Ciara's mind, it was hollow and raspy, as if emerging from ancient lips.
"Understood. Unacceptable, Ciara. Find her, find it. Or may Annatar have mercy on your soul, for we will not."
Ciara paled visibly at this threat, although it was not unexpected. She nodded silently, not bothering to waste time or magic on a reply. Turning to her hulking companion, she drew her robe back around her face, turning to leave. "Burn this, all of it. Be quick about it, we're heading to Memnon…"
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone