[IC] Draw near to your destruction [IAmAugustReigns/Oathmaker]

[IAmAugustReign]

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, beating down heat to the great walled city of Baldur's Gate. While citizens and enforcers doted about their daily tasks, both the mundane and recovery from the attacks of the most recent assailants, a new figure entered the gates and started to wander. It was a fairly tall creature, a little over average height, lithe and strong, and it carried a traveling backpack with camping supplies strapped to it. It was armored lightly, though colored as if it came from the shadows themselves, a black hue that hurt to look at with accents of violet and sanguine. Those openly saddled blades at the form's hips swayed as it walked, catching the sun with their similarly dark metal. There was an aura about this one, one that did not cause fear, but did warn of danger if crossed the wrong way. That hood was pulled down low to help hide the being's face, but even with that protection, that dark skin peeked out from underneath. Not that Baldur's Gate was unaccustomed to this one's suspected race by now, but ingrained prejudices and fear could easily turn a simple traveller into the focus of a massacre. Not that this one would mind. It'd make her life easier to not have as many annoyances to deal with.

The woman traipsed through the streets, not at all bothered by the winding roads and sprawl of the buildings. She had been here long ago after all, working as a mercenary for the Flaming Fists. Her road had taken her up north though, towards Neverwinter, where she had found plenty of more interesting work, including fighting against the demons of Avernus that so recently occurred. Up there though, she worked for a stronghold and family name, oblivious to the other events happening in other areas of Faerún. How far she had come since emerging from the dark hold of her birthplace! There was much to explore up here, wealth to be gained, power to obtain, and skills to perfect. After dealing with the fires of Avernus, she found her eyes had stung less in the typical daytime glare, so she didn't stumble on her way to one of the old taverns she had visited: The Blushing Mermaid.

Looking at the building now, the woman furrowed her brow slightly at the expansion. A lot had changed since she had last been here. She'd have to do more than just ask for rumors with a drinking mug now. With a huff of a nasal sigh, she entered the renovated tavern, and took in her surroundings.

She entered into a large room, a dividing wall ahead of her with a fireplace embedded in the center. To her left, on the opposite side of that wall, was the bar itself, though it appeared the tavern continued on behind it beyond another dividing wall. Large tables occupied the space ahead in this room, sitting six or more depending on how many seats were brought to bear, several already taken by some groups. Some adventuring types it seemed to her, but they were of no interest beyond that. The cowled drow moved towards the bar, her long, loincloth-like skirt swishing with each step. She passed a round table on her way, and spied another at the far end with what looked like another exit door, though clearly not as grand as the main door she just entered. She marked those spots mentally, just in case.

The woman leaned onto the bar at an open space, taking out a few gold for a drink as a start. She had plenty of money, though only carried a small pinch of it openly. It was incredibly rare for someone to be able to steal from her, but letting down one's guard was a stupid move. If, and that was a big if, someone were able to pilfer her gold pouch away, they'd barely touch her real vault. The woman placed the gold on the counter and pushed it in front of her, offering it for whatever she could get with that amount. A silent exchange, and one the bartender caught onto quickly after greeting the new woman and hearing no reply. Only those red eyes stared back at him, a friendly and inviting gaze with some dark fires behind them. These eyes have experience, and a certain kind of hunger, of lust, but not for paltry pleasures of the flesh. It was something more... threatening, a promise made under the guise of pleasantries. The bartender moved, offering a simple bottle of ale in exchange for her coins. She gave the bartender a nod, and unhooked her face mask from inside her hood, revealing that full face of one of the many accomplished adventurers of Neverwinter.

She was pretty, but not beautiful, with a rounded nose tip, chin, and narrow jaw. Her skin was light, even for a drow, but still obvious enough to claim her race as such. She had somewhat heavy eye makeup, black eyeliner and eyeshadow, only heightened by the tattoos sweeping across her high cheekbones under and to the sides of her eyes. There was also a scar across her nose bridge trailing towards and across her left cheek like a glancing blow from a jagged blade or claw. A little tuft of silvery hair had been loosed by her mask removal, curling around her neck like it was nabbed by her glove. The woman took a swig of her ale, playing the part of a traveling adventurer seeking a small amount of respite, but she was more focused on listening to other patrons and getting a feel for the status of the city. They went through a significant struggle, but those details were unknown to her still.

[OathMaker]

Undulations of power coursed through the Undercity, remnants of the energy that pulsated violently just several months ago still ripe for understanding, harnessing, collecting. It was difficult to ascertain how to control each strand, but nevertheless, the slow, methodical extraction of what lay beneath the recovering city would absolutely be worth the trouble. He would need to delve deeper into the Undercity, however, which would prove to be drastically difficult considering the amount of guards that the Grand Duke had posted at every entrance, grate and doorway.

Although...

He knew of the trouble that the Grand Duke faced. There were others who could sense the power he did, yet their purpose for harnessing it were malevolent, twisted. He had to find a way to thwart this new collective, one that could threaten the very fabric of a city trying to rebuild once again. He would answer the call put out by the Duke. Indeed, he would put a stop to whatever threat was lurking in the shadows and ensure that this mass of energy, of sheer cosmic force, would be utilized only for the stability of the Weave.

A broad shouldered frame seated in the northwest corner of the Blushing Mermaid rocked back against the seat it was in, eyes snapping open, breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes narrowed, breathing returning back to normal as onlookers expressed a gamut of reactions from apathy to chortling at what they supposed to be a staggering drunk choking on his fourth pint. There wasn't much that the frame could say to thwart their opinion: he sat at a round table with four other chairs surrounding it, all empty, seven tankards drained of any liquid that had once been in them and his sense of time was slightly...distorted to say the least.
"Never could snap back to it." The frame mumbled, reaching into the pocket of his black and grey trousers to find his time dial, a circular object slightly bigger than a gold coin powered by just one of his patron's many powers marked with various lines to indicate what time of day the user was currently experiencing, indicating it was mid-day. He had sat down, what, maybe soon after the sun was rising? A chuckle, remembering his purpose for being in this hole in the first place. A missive had been posted at the Basilisk gate, stamped by the Duke himself, asking for assistance in rooting out a major threat to Baldur's Gate and any of those who were willing and able to convene in The Blushing Mermaid. He had indeed met with a cohort of about six, including one Flaming Fist Commander named Lark, who informed the group of what the Fists believed to be worshippers of the very Illithids who sought to enslave the Coast. The worshippers had formed into two major groups, The Harbingers and The Conquerors, both of which were attempting to recruit followers with promises of a life free from the confines of a dying society as well as wealth, the latter of course being much more of a draw. Lark noted several skirmishes between the two groups in the Lower City and on the fringes of the Undercity, hence the heavier security in both areas. Those who had answered the Duke's call (them) were to, by any means necessary, find out more about these groups, their motivation for worshipping the Illithids and their source of funding and/or resources. Notably, Lark omitted a great amount of detail, such as how the Fists knew about the Illithid worshippers in the first place, what intelligence they had already gathered and whether or not the cohort would receive any kind of official backing from the Fists. Of course, the reward was enough for all in the cohort to accept the missive's directive without question (5000 gold was enough to fund an entirely new life, which, based on the appearance of his fellow adventurers, could use).

When the meeting ended, he had decided to descend into meditation as a way to do his own investigative intelligence, which apparently had led to several hours passing. It would be high time for him to leave, except for something...no, someone's presence was causing him to pause...

Ah.

From his table, he spotted a lithe figure come to the counter, her eyes visibly aflame from where he sat. Her stance was relaxed, yet coiled, tight, ready to shed blood at a moment's notice. Was this the one who posted the note? Or another wanderer that would imbibe, sit menacingly for a few minutes and then leave? The energy that her presence cast was unmistakably ominous, yet alluring, as if she simultaneously invited one's doom with all the pleasures of the realms. In other words, he found her captivatingly dangerous, a label he had come to understand to mean that there was something of import happening or about to happen. Her presence here was no accident, but how to discern if she was here on the same missive as him? A simple test: the classic "a drink is on me if you're willing to sit at my table".

After a server was notified and brought a glass of Debella's Vintage over to the lithe form, the frame waved, a half-smile crossing his features. Let's see if she would bite.