Skulls in the Sewers

Summary

The Skulls, a local gang, have recently had a spree of muggings near the docks, striking from their bases hidden in the sewers. This is because another local gang, the Faces, have sent one of their emissaries -- a doppleganger named Vicissis -- to the Skulls to egg them on, while feeding information about the Skulls to the City Guard. The city guard hires the PCs to wipe out one of the Skull bases for 200gp -- so far, the guard hasn't had any luck in finding the base's exact location in the sewers, but thanks to the informant, they have a clue as to the general area

Players: Markus Sift, Rahlin Sift, Taharqa

October 17 2007

The group stands in a cramped office maintained by the city watch. "The Skulls," says the guard with a thick brogue, "One of the local gangs, has recently had a spree of muggings near the docks, striking from a hidden base in the sewers. We've been lookin' fer their hideout fer a while, but haven't yet been able to find 'em, exactly. We've got a general idea, but..." The guard shrugs. "We need some people o' yer skills to locate the base, an' crush the Skulls. Too many throat-slit bodies been found of late."

Rahlin chuckles, "Crush the Skulls? I like that, it's... what's the word, Markus?" He asks, turning to his brother, "Poetical? Yeah, that's it." He turns back to look at the guard, smiling.

"Poetical."

The middle aged man under the robes leans on his scythe, the blade pointing over his left shoulder. Taharqa listens with measured antcipation to the words spread about the room. "Ironic, perhaps?" he asks with a tilt of the head.

"We skirmished with the kobolds in Brimlad; a few thieves shouldn't be any trouble, when we find them. I guess we can just have a look around ourselves, or maybe ask around," Markus says, glancing back toward his two companions. "All in, then?" he asks, twisting his mustache, and returning his gaze to the guard without waiting for a reply. "Not to sound greedy, but what sort of payment can we expect?"

"200 gold, on provin' completion o' th' bounty. Though y'won't be able to keep a lot o' whatcha find -- some o' the true owners still be alive," says the guard, producing a piece of parchment and a quill.

"Sign or putcher symbol here. Whatever y'do find that isn't claimed, y'can keep." Rahlin steps forward, taking the quill and scrawling a rough, jagged RS on the line indicated. He steps back and hands the utensil to his brother before moving to the side. He chitters and yips, speaking Kobold to the moustached man, "Guess we'll just have to claim to have not found some of it, then, eh?"

Markus signs his own name in a practiced script. "Can't sell anything we find that way, Rahlin, except to these men they call 'fences' -- and I don't know any. Do you? The coinage, perhaps, but nothing of real value," Markus replies in that same high-pitched tongue.

"What'd they say?" The guard asks Taharqa, bobbing his head toward Rahlin and Markus.

"I..," Tah says taking the quill and leaning over to add his name in his own practiced script under the others,"honestly don't know." He smiles apologetically under his headgear and nods with a step back from the desk. "Is that all then?"

"Aye, tha's it," the guard replies, eyeing Markus and Rahlin uneasily for their kobold-speak. "Good huntin' to ye anyways."

After a brief segue through the chill winter wind, Markus, Rahlin, and Taharqa find themselves near the docks, where the chill winter wind is even chillier, winterier, and windier. Dusk is upon them, and few lanterns stay lit for very long.

"A vizard, cleric, and man-at-arms go to the docks...," The man says to himself with a sigh. "I can't say I know the mind of the thief. That being said however, where would the nearest sewar entrace be? Perhpas if we watch we can find someone to lead us home as it were."

Rahlin shrugs at Taharqa, "We'll just grab someone that looks like they know something and ask until they tell us. Or we'll toss some coin their way, a few coppers oughta be worth some information if we ask right. Or hard enough."

He glances around the docks, just then, and sighs, "Granted, the real problem is finding someone..."

"I don't see anything," Markus says after a quick squint-about. "I suppose, though, it'd be best if we didn't find people -- that'd alert them to our presence, maybe. Spread out -- they might be hidden between this flurry-sheet."

The priest nods and does as the Markus suggests. He moves cautiously into the snowy night of the docks area, eyes scanning for people.

Markus starts walking to the other side of the street, watching his feet by what little light is available.

Rahlin trudges off into the snow-cover, peering about for people, he waves a gauntleted hand at the flurries that catch in his hair and swirl about his face.

"Can't see a damn thing in this."

Cobblestone...cobblestone...*pink*. Tah taps his foot again and again recieves a metal sound. "Gentelmen, if you please," The cleric says looking from his feet to the snow-filled space and back again, "I believe I've found it."

"Oh good. Let's get some light, then," Markus says, moving over to the grating and crouching to swish the snow away. "Hrm. It's locked," he says, tugging on a padlock -- rusted so bad that its very housing sticks to the grating.

Nearby -- out of an alley just down the street, so it sounds, you hear shouting, panicked, endangered shouting that is suddenly silenced. Whoops of glee echo on the wind, and fade away.

Rahlin moves over to the other two men, peering down at the grating, "Looks too rusted to be used often. Granted... that could just be what we're supposed to think, they are a gang of thieves, after all."

He gestures Markus aside and crouches down to grab the padlock as best he can; he essentially manages to get his fingers under the rusty metal. He leans back and tugs with his arms, the metal creaking as the oxidized molecules are forced to release their tenuous bindings to each other. There's a loud creak and Rahlin falls backward, holding a fair amount of rust-powder and nothing more.

He kicks at the now free-to-wiggle padlock with his boot and growls, "Damn thing."

"What was that?" Taharqa asks with an edge of alarm as he looks down the street at the screaming. "Anyone else here something like a shout or scream?"

"Aye. Forget the lock, we can come back to it -- let's go see what that was," Markus says, pointing toward the alley with his walking stick. "Someone might be in trouble -- or better, it might be some of those thieves. Sorry Rahlin, but I've got to go stick my nose where it doesn't belong. It's how I know so much." With that, he hustles off toward the alley.

"Stupid wizard." Rahlin growls, standing up and trudging off after his brother. He brushes himself off as he moves along, "You know, I wonder how many people they catch with this trick?" He mutters to himself, reaching up to drag his falchion out of its sheath, "'Ahh, help me!' Then we hide and wait for the idiots who come and investigate."

He hefts the weapon until its weight feels like an extension of his arms and he smiles, "At least, I hope that's what they're doing." He says, a little more audibly.

"Indeed," Taharqa agrees from the rear, keeping the crossbow at his hip from jumping around with his right hand while he carries his scythe in his left. "My magics might be enough otherwise."

Lying in a pool of his own blood, a thick robed merchant groans from within the alley's entrance. "help... me.." he murmurs, blood streaking out of his nose and mouth. From deeper in the alley, the wind carries the *clang* of a sewer grate shutting.

Rahlin reaches the corner of the alley, putting on speed to reach it ahead of Markus or Taharqa, he presses against it and leans over,looking into the alleyway.

"Looks clear! Tend to the man." He observes over his shoulder, raising his voice enough to make sure he's heard, before he steps into the alley and keeps an eye on things.

"By the All father," Taharqa swears as he kneels next to the man, setting his scythe aside. "Hold on," The cleric says tring to reassure the man as his life pools under him. The Cleric pulls a potion from the bottom pouch of his backpack and pulls the man up slightly to bring the vial to his lips. "Drink," The Cleric orders with urgency.

The man drinks, and is healed for it, though he retains many of his wounds. "Thank you," he says. "Those damn thugs... they took my jewels.. I think I can feel a rib going back into place... those bastards stole my jewels, though, you gotta get 'em back... I'll pay you for it, just pound the bastards, and get my jewels back."

"Funny how the first thing a rich man is worried about is his stuff, as long as his life isn't in immediate danger," Markus growls, heading deeper into the alley.

"Shh. Rest now," The Cleric says laying the man's head down again. "I'll be right behind you," Taharqa says to Markus and Rahlin. "Just let me get him out of the street."

Rahlin grunts, walking down the alleyway, looking for the sewer grate, "Tell him we'll find his damn jewels, Tah, what do they look like?"

Aside, to Markus, in the chittering language of the diminuitive lizard-people, "Having fun? At least we're on the right track."

"I thought you said he was a cleric," Markus replies in Kobold, "Not some apocethary. But look here. Blood trail. And on the rim of this grate." He tosses his walking stick aside, and crouches down to try and lift the grate, but, alas, is a weak old wizard, and cannot do more than lift it an inch before it slips back into place.

"After you, then, brother."

"What did the theives look like, can you remember?" Tah questions the man as he sets him against a building. "Guards," he calls into the night before turing back to the merchant."Anything?"

"They looked like goddamned thieves, what the hell do you want? Smelled like shit, had shit-eating grins, and shitty clothes," responds the merchant.

"Oh, and /knives/."

"I didn't tell you to ask him his life story, cleric, come on. I meant what do the /jewels/ look like. Who cares what the thieves look like. They'll be the men trying to stab us." Rahlin calls down the alley as he lifts the grate out of the way, "Here, hold this up." He asides to Markus before he re-wields his falchion and drops down into the darkness.

Markus holds onto the sewer grate for a moment, but can't manage it for more than that -- he drops it, letting it fall onto the cobbles outside of its housing. "We'll let the guards sort out which jewels are his; let's go, or we'll lose them," he says, picking up his walking stick and climbing down into the sewers himself.

Taharqa's soulders slump as he sighs again. "They'll probably be the shiny rocks," The cleric grumbles as he catches up after grabbing his scythe again. "I don't get out of the temple much. Does it show that badly?" He poses the question as he follows behind the mage and warrior.

Rahlin's footing betrays him as he clambers down the ladder, as he allows his weight to fall completely onto a rung it snaps and falls away. He grabs frantically and manages to lock his powerful grip around a--hopefully--sturdier rung.

He pauses for a few moments, panting, and then continues down.

"Careful, some of these rungs are rotted." He calls up.

Markus stops suddenly, watching his brother's near-fall into the putrid waters below. He twitches his mustache around uncomfortably, and then continues downward, muttering grumpily.

The stone shaft descends to a narrow walkway covered with puddles of dark water and sludge. The sewer is dark and damp. The tunnel is wide, perhaps some twenty feet across with a person-wide walkway on either side. The tunnel itself stretches off into the darkness to the north and south, its vaulted ceiling fifteen feet above.

The water is sluggish, and many areas are covered with layers of green algae, floating debris, and white foam. One can hear the echoes of water dripping throughout the tunnels, and a terrible stench prevails, burning the nostrils. The horrible mix of offal, rotting food, and scum-filled water is dreadful.

Somewhere off in the distance, a grating sound can be heard, like stone rubbing against stone. The exact direction is difficult to ascertain, but the sound comes from somewhere near.

"Oh, Such smells," The Cleric says snorting in a futile attempt to clear his nose. At the grating Taharqa offers a whispered observation, "Trap door?"

"Well, I hope not." Rahlin intones as he glances at Markus, "You got any light in that spellbook of yours?" He asks, gesturing with his falchion in the direction of the grating, "I'd hate to be outfoxed that quickly."

"Not today, no," Markus replies, "Though if we can get a torch or lantern from up top, it's a simple enough task to light it. Which way did that come from?" He strokes his beard, and points into the northern blackness. "Sounded like that way, though it may be the smell of feces addling my brain."

"Allow me," Taharqa says raising his hand. A halo of blue mist swirls around the man's hand and the area around Taharqa fills with light, illuminating the festering waters and slime covered halls the group has come to find themselves in."Suffcient?"

"That'll work, yes." Rahlin intones, peering around the now bright sewers, "Let's get this over with."

He pauses, looking to Markus, "So, which way?"

"This way," Markus repeats, and heads off toward the north, keeping within the range of Taharqa's light.

Taharqa follows after the other spellcaster, watching the walls and floors for any disturbed grime or other indicator or rrecent travel.

Rahlin moves quickly, stepping around Markus and taking his place in front of the wizard, he chitters in Kobold as he passes, "Steel against steel, eh?"

He smiles as he takes the lead, peering ahead into the periphery of the light's influence.

The tunnel widens to form a chamber where four tunnels intersect. Numerous pieces of wood and other debris float in the middle of thei ntersection, brought from unknown corners of the city. As you enter the junction, the walkway widens to form a small nook or platform 8 feet across.

Obvious negclect has taken its toll on this junction, as much of the brickwork has chipped and broken away from the walls, leaving empty rectangular holes.

A few small, harmless rats, and a black-shelled wave of cockroaches scurry along the far walkway, just out of the edge of the light. "Nnh," Markus growls, kicking one of the loose stones into the water with a sploosh. "I hate this place. I'd rather books. All right, so we're looking for a secret door or something. We've probably already passed it." Taharqa approaches a section of wall, the light shifting with him.

"Hrm," he says placing a hand on his chin as he considers some marks along the wall. "I think it may be right here. These marks here, I'd call tool marks." He reaches out a hand and runs it over the stone before pressing on it. "Like this?" He asks him self.

Rahlin moves to a different wall, the low light causing him to be unable to even make out the details of the stonework, much less find a secret anything.

He returns to the light and approaches Markus, "Find anything, brother?"

"Look, up there. More empty holes. See the pattern? Look, they're exactly the same distance apart. They go diagonally, up there.. looks like we climb," Markus says, pointing toward where the crude ladder seems to lead.

"Ah," Taharqa nods. "Good eye." The Cleric steps aside, making way for the first voulenteer.

Rahlin sheathes his falchion, "Well, then, guess that's my cue." He observes, reaching up to grab the first set of 'rungs' be makes his way up into the darkness.

Markus follows as best he can with his staff clutched in one armpit. He yelps, at one point, shaking his head, and sending a cockroach falling to the ground near Tah's feet. "I need a hat," he says. "One of those pointy ones."

Taharqa Follows suit, though his Scythe gives him more trouble than Markus' staff. The man chuckles at the hat comment only to have a roach grab onto the cloth on his face. He shakes his head vigorously to free himself of the bug before he continues upward.

Rahlin pauses at the top, pressing his fingers into the wall, he reaches to one side and tugs the cleverly-disguised lizard's skin out of the way of a fair-sized passageway.

"Here we go. Come on lads, we've got miles to go before we sleep and all that." He says quietly, mindful of the flickering light from further down the hallway.

"Ah," Markus says, "So that's the trick. Well, let's keep quiet from here on in -- they probably know we're here already." He maneuvers his walking stick carefully so as not to bump it against any of the walls in the passage, which bends ninety degrees to the left fifteen feet ahead.

Taharqa's scythe comes over the ledge, then the rest of the man. He'd brush himself off, but shakes his head in stead. The priest replies in a whisper, "What about my light?"

Rahlin draws his falchion before moving along the passage way to the corner, he peeks out around it, to see what's letting off the light. Around the corner, the passage expands to seven feet tall, and just wide enough to allow the group to proceed single-file, but the going would seem easy compared to the slick and tricky footing of the sewer. Iron brackets on the walls hold dimly burning torch stubs that illuminate the passage just well enough to see. The walls and floor have been worked, leaving a smooth, well-crafted finish. The construction is obviously old, for the chisel marks have been smothed over with the passage of time. This passage extends for another fifteen feet or so, and then veers to the right this time.

Markus says nothing, holding a finger up to his lips and pointedly staring at Taharqa. He returns to the task at hand -- namely, following after Rahlin. His free hand slips into his bag, and he produces a multi-sided rock covered in runes -- a thunderstone.

Taharqa nods once and moves on the boot heels of Markus.

Around the corner of the passage, another torch dimly illuminates the entrance to a chamber. Two, low whispering voices can be heard from within, but it is too soft to make out what is being said.

Rahlin creeps down the hallway, approaching the second turn, his falchion held at the ready. He draws it back closer to his body as he reaches the turn and prepares to look out into the chamber. He looks back at his companions and motions for them to stay back a little.

Markus obeys, stopping in his tracks. He puts the thunderstone back into its pouch, and instead takes a double grip on his staff, waiting.

Taharqa stops as Markus does. As he attempts to look around the wizard's shoulder he inadvertantly taps the blade of his scythe against the wall. Though he moves quickly to stifle the noise and keep the blade from ringing, the look in Taharqa's eyes is that of dissapointment for himself.

Rahlin looks out into the chamber, scanning the room quickly, before ducking back. He turns to his compatriots and shrugs, mouthing slowly and exaggeratedly, "I don't see anyone." He looks confused, so he steels himself to check again.

Markus, in response, pantomimes a slow, silent jog, and then a stabbing motion, followed by a choking motion, and an explosion with his hands.

Taharqa is still preoccupied with his weapon for the moment.

A single flickering torch fills this room with dim, wavering shadows. The 10-foot high room is sparecely furnished with a rickety old table and four crumbling chairs in the northeast corner. Several earthenware mugs have been haphazardly tossed upon the table along with a simple leather wineskin. Beside the door lies a wooden bucket that seems to have been forgetfully tossed into the corner. Two wooden doors lead out of the chamber.

Rahlin barely catches his chuckle in time and he shrugs, nodding his agreement, he casts a quick glance into the chamber, just to get the layout and then he smiles. He's spotted a foot.

He looks back at his companions and jerks his head, indicating that they should follow him in, preparing for his charge into the room, now that he has a target.

Markus reaches into his bag and draws a piece of cured leather. Clutching it tightly in his fist, he chants quietly, and the air around his skin suddenly seems to shimmer, and finally coalesce into a translucent suit of armor. GAME: Markus casts Mage Armor.

Taharqa, sensing the time for action is near, takes his scythe in both hands now. As he does this he chants something under his breath, bring a steel-blue mist to settle on Taharqa.

Taharqa waits in the flame-lit corridor for Markus to start moving, using that as his indicator for action.

Rahlin pushes off the wall and charges into the room, angling his path for the appendage he saw earlier--an appendage that has not moved. He hefts the curved blade into a high-guard as he rushes toward his target; chambering his powerful arms for a heavy swing.

He places his feet suddenly, sliding to a halt on the damp floor, and fires off his mighty swing. The finely-crafted blade of his weapon cuts only the cloth of a hanging tapestry at first but as it continues its travels it collides suddenly with a substance that offers more resistance; but not enough.

His weapon clears the tapestry, the lower half falling to dangle by a few feet of tenuously connected fabric, and the man behind it slumps to the ground.

An instant later his head bounces out of the other side of the mural.

Rahlin continues the momentum of his swing to turn himself around and face the room. The fighter bares his teeth in a predatory grimace.

Hungry for more.

Markus follows Rahlin into the room, looking around for the other voice, pointing his staff around like a cannon toward the walls, and even the ceiling. "No one here but us rats," he says, knowing that if a second man stayed in the room, he can hear the wizard.

Tah comes into the room and drops his Scythe into a low sweeping offensive stance. His eyes dart left and right as he looks for anyone not of the group, ready to strike them down when they are found.

"There you are!" The Cleric calls out as he turns to advance on the hiding thief, "Repent!"

Repent? Not Magic Missile or some other crazy wizard thing? Well, the only response the thief can think of to that is to leap out and stab at the masked mage, though he stumbles on one of the loose pieces of debris on the ground and all but falls on his face instead.

Rahlin is swift of foot today, moving across the room in the time it takes the man to make his presence known and his ineptitude clear.

The armored man reaches the downed thief before the other man has even started to clamber to his feet after his shocking tumble to the floor. Rahlin kicks him in the shoulder to flip him onto his back and then steps forward as he swings his falchion in a low, wide arc. The blade bites into the strong, but thin bone of the man's skull and continues down.

It slices the man open from crotch to cranium.

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Markus whispers dryly, keeping his guard up. "That should be both of them, but be on your guard... now. Which door do we take? This one here on the left, or this one here on the right?"

"Such skill," Tah nods as Rahlin beats him to the kill. To Markus' question, he gives the doors a quizzical look as he considers the choice. "Perhpas we should try the one on the left first?"

Rahlin shrugs at his brother and takes one hand away from the hilt of his blade to brush a stray wisp of hair out of his eyes, "You're not?"

The warrior steps turns to face the door along the opposite wall of their original entrance, the one on the right, and gestures toward it with his weapon, "I'll check in this door first, before we commit ourselves to a path."

He sidles up to the door and leans his ear against it to listen to what's on the other side.

"Fair enough," Markus says, grinning lopsidedly and shrugging. He relaxes a touch, using his staff as a walking stick again, and positions himself equidistant from either door, waiting to see which opens first.

Rahlin looks back at his companions, shrugs, and reaches out to pull the door open and peer inside.

Taharqa nods and stnds by for a decision, allowing the more seasond adventurers to take the lead. He keeps quiet as not to spoil Rahlin;s efforts.

The door jimmies, but does not move. It has been barred from the other side.

"Bah." Rahlin grunts, turning to stride for the other door, "We go left." He offers to his companions.

"We should be carefull heading through. This may be set up to force our direction of travel," The Cleric notes. He moves to the side of the door, "Stand clear." Having said that, Tah opens the door slowly to peer in. This unlit, ten-foot long hall appears bare and unremarkable but for the door at the other end and the cockroaches scurrying away into crannies at the sudden light.

"Perhaps," says Markus, running a few fingers through his beard. "Or perhaps someone is behind the other door and would rather not be disturbed. Either way, two for left, so left we go. After you, Rahlin."

Rahlin nods and slips past Tah into the hallway, he looks at the door and approaches slowly, leaning forward to listen to this entryway.

Rahlin barely manages to stifle his surprised cry as he heads for the ground. He has enough time to turn and glare at the tripwire before a bag, full of rocks, lands heavily on his head. "Rahlin! Are you okay?" Markus says, foolishly chasing in after Rahlin trips, to help his brother up. The door at the far end of the hall emits a click as it, too, is barred from the other side. "Hrm," Tah says keeping to the left door. "Somehow, I don't think this theives intend us to move forward." The Cleric brings a hand to his chin as he thinks the situation over a moment. Rahlin stands up, rubbing his head, "Yeah... I'm fi--" The door clicking forces his head to turn, "Alright, so, element of surprise is lost. What now, brother?" He grins, "I could try and break it." "They'll be hiding, or have fled deeper into their base. I agree; enough of this sneaking around," Markus says, pulling out a thunderstone. "When you open the door," he says, holding the rune-covered rock between his thumb and index, "I'll toss this in, and then we enter. Cover your eyes." Tah smirks as well, "They should have repented." HE takes his scythe in both hands and readies himself.

Rahlin kicks the door and staggers back when his foot meets the sturdy wood, "Alright. Fine." He growls and he steps up to kick it again. Markus cocks back his arm, ready to toss the little flash-bang in as soon as the door's open.

Taharqa waits for bated breath for the door to open and the stone to go in. He's ready to cover his eyes when it is, and to move in after that. Rahlin's foot connects solidly and, powered by his newfound determination, it punches through and shatters the door inward. He steps back and covers his eyes, in preparation for his brother's thunderstone.

...which sails perfectly over Rahlin's shoulder and lands with a flash of light and an ear-ringing crack against the far wall. Markus rushes in just after the alchemical breaching charge goes off, and sweeps the area with his eyes for any of the thugs.

Rahlin races in past his brother maneuvering around the wizard and the various objects cluttering the room to close the distance with his quarry.

The man, his target, never had a chance.

Deafened, surprised and still trying to process what was happening he barely even reacts when Rahlin reaches him and slashes his falchion across the man's belly. The disemboweling move sends him staggering back to slump to the floor, clutching at his innards as his lifeblood pours out.

This smelly room contains several dusty and ragged straw sleeping mats, along with an old sea chest. The light of a single torch illuminates the area but casts wild shadows all around the room. Another door is visible on the north wall, but it is closed.

The sleeping mats are covered with the remnants of old blankets and ragged cloaks.

Markus, seeing that his brother has one of the thugs well in hand, and unable to spot any others even with the aid of Taharqa's glow, aims himself at the other door and begins to chant. The smell of burnt hair eminates from him, and his hands begin to smoke, eldritch energies waiting to be released, should anything step through.

Taharqa slides past the man as he summons his energiers arcane. In his haste to attack, the Clierc throws an awkward slash and the man, now coming out of his daze, stumbles out of the way.

One of the thieves' rapiers flickers in the dim light of the room as it whips soundlessly through the air toward Markus' back, directly hitting, but sliding harmlessly off the cloth of his cloak, a pale shimmer appearing in the air where the tip scraped across Markus' eldritch armor. The thief (#3) chuckles uneasily, and prepares to defend himself, now that he's been revealed.

Thug 1 continues to bleed out.

The second thug -- the one Taharqa noticed and tried to cull like so much grain -- lunges, his rapier just flat-out missing Taharqa's balaclava by about a foot as the cleric snaps his head to the side.

Rahlin's eyes steal a malicious gleam from the dim light in the chamber as he charges toward the man who attacked his brother from the shadows and raises his falchion into a position to strike, "Down, brother!" He cries as he whips the blade across at the neck level of the offending thief.

Markus begins to turn to face his attacker, but as his brother shouts out, he instead obeys, the wizard's knees popping as he crouches low, the spray of blood deflecting off of his mystic armor, shimmering with every drop that touches it. He returns his attention on the door, since his spell would likely hit his brother or Tah if he loosed it on the last thug standing.

As if on cue, the door slaps against the wall as someone shoves it open from the other side.

A thin sheet of flames sprays out from Markus' outstretched fingers, but the first intruder ducks beneath the wave of fire, and the second seems only minorly inconvenienced by it as it wades into the room, skin and clothes turning a pale oily hue where it is struck, and then turning back into 'skin' and 'clothes'.

Tah whips his scythe in a figue-8 pattern on either side of himself, the blade cutting the air and little else in the motion.

The second intruder, as his features resolve, appears to be Markus in the room's meager light. "You burned me!" the mage shouts at... himself, looking down at his robes in disgust.

For his part, the thief fighting Taharqa gets his rapier fouled in the cleric's inefficient scythe-spinning as he goes for a swipe at Tah's neck.

The new entrant seems to have something of an idea of what he's doing, unlike the rank amateurs who populated the room beforehand. He raises his rapier as Rahlin swings for center mass and ducks, letting the Falchion bend and slide up his flexible blade, harmlessly away from his own body.

Markus squints his eyes at 'himself'. "You're not me! I'm me!" he yells at the shapeshifter, and to prove it, attacks at the thing with his metal-shod walking stick, thrusting one end into Markus' face.

Unfortunately, Markus dodges Markus' attack with a quick sidestep and a, "You must be joking. You know we're not the physical type, our brother is."

The original intruder smirks to himself, twisting his rapier around and taking a small slice out of Rahlin's shoulder. "Tch, tch," he admonishes, flicking an index finger back and forth at Rahlin.

Taharqa rolls the figure-8 into a 180-degree slash from right to left, the blade coming horizontially. The thief just stands by as the Cleric puts on a good show but gains no ground.

Rahlin gives the flesh wound in his shoulder barely a passing glance, an appraising twitch of his eyes, nothing more, before he focuses all of his attention on the cocky admonishment being delivered to him.

There is a term, a phrase, really, in more contemporary times for what his falchion does as it travels along its bloody path after neatly severing the offending hand. A phrase that in this context is particularly disturbing. In one simple motion, scarcely an effort on the seasoned veteran's part, Rahlin's victory is complete. He makes a pez-dispenser out of him.

Markus replies to Markus' attack with a swipe of his own iron-shod staff. This one, like a thief's earlier rapier, slides harmlessly off of Markus, his invisible armor coruscating as it deflects the attack.

The thief fighting Taharqa yelps as his thumb gets crushed against his rapier's pommel by Taharqa's wild scythe-flailing. This, of course, ruins the thief's attempt at gutting Tah.

Markus takes a hop back from the other Markus, tossing his staff to the side and moving his fingers rapidly in incantation. He presses his palms in the air toward Markus, blasting him with loud light and bright sound.

Markus yelps, clutching at his eyes. He suddenly stops, and smirks. "Just kidding."

Taharqa steps forward and attempts a butt-strike with the stock of his scythe, a clumsy maneuver that the thief sidesteps as though walking around an obstruction on the street.

Markus takes a step forward and takes a swipe at Markus, the swing goes wild and doesn't even come near the mage.

This time, the thief fighting Taharqa avoids Tah's scythe with his rapier and shoves it a few inches into Taharqa's flesh.

"Hey! What's our brother's name?" Rahlin shouts, pointing his blade at the pair of Markuses. Markoos? Markii?

"Chyrka," says the Markus without a staff, taking another hop back,

"Of course." He backpedals quickly to the far wall, making room for Rahlin to take his place in combat against the faux-Markus.

The Cleric of the All Father curse under his breath as he attacks on the return, "Die!"

"I was just about to say that! He can read minds!" complains the other Markus.

He chases after Markus, striking at him and missing utterly.

The thief fighting Taharqa misses, swinging over the priest's balaclava-adorned head.

Rahlin rushes the being impersonating his brother, he hopes, anyway and launches a powerful sideways slash that opens a nasty wound in the creature/man's flank.

"Good call," says Markus, yanking a dagger out of his belt and stabbing a chunk of pale flesh out of the being Rahlin just cut into. The blood drips off of his mage armor without reaching his clothing.

A close call as Taharqa spins around, bringing the blade around with a fierce call.

The doppleganger -- he's been found out, now -- decides that it is a good time to not be here. To that end, he slips backward, turns, and runs into the room he came from.

Tah's magical armor knocks an incoming rapier blow to the side. The thief wielding it seems sad about this.

Rahlin roars, giving chase to the imposter, "Come back here you filthy-- COWARD!" He emphasizes this last word, both with a rising timbre in his voice and a violent slash that cleaves solidly into the ribcage of monster.

The blow is heavy and throws the creature into the wall to slide down into the rapidly spreading pool of its lifeblood.

Real Markus moves up behind the thief attacking Taharqa, and stabs him in the back. "Ironic, don't you think?" he whispers into the thief's ear.

"I think so," Taharqa says in agreement to the distracted theif as he whips his sythe blade in an upward arc into the mans abdomen. "Yes."

"Next room," Markus says, collecting his quarterstaff and sheathing his dagger. He follows Rahlin into the room the larger man chased his double into.

A low-burning torch on the wall illuminates this area. Compared to other chambers in this lair, this one is lavishly furnished. A single bed made of beaten and scarred oak sits alone in a corner to the south. Old, moth-eaten blankets and cloaks have been draped over the battered frame. A decrepit chest with three wide drawers sits across from it. As quat sea chest rests in the northwest corner of the room, next to a golden urn chased with floral reliefs and is painted with lavender blossoms. The urn is excellently preserved. Two feet tall, it seems designed to hold a single flower stem. In the northeast corner of the room is a well with a simple hemp rope anchored to the ceiling above.

Rahlin shoulders his falchion, ignoring the dripping gore on the weapon, and looks around, "Quite a bit nicer than the other rooms, I'd say." He moves over to the chest, eying it carefully, he looks overhead, checking for rock-bags, no doubt, "So, do we start looting?"