Chapter Text
Can I have perception rolls? Arat, with - yes, your penalty.
None under 12?
Mhmm, just a moment…
We descend to the city of Cauldron, the face of the frontier. Nestled in a dormant volcano’s caldera. Surrounded by jungle, with all the wild climate that comes alongside that, and, of course, all the internal struggle of a merchant’s city…
Right now, it’s raining.
The worn brick of the streets runs slick with grimy water like rivulets. The rainfall cascades down on the stone and pitters against shingles and windows in the night, hooded lanterns are a whisper against the wind and dark that oh-so-gently paint the streets in orange light. Monsoon season isn’t upon Cauldron yet, but every downpour is heavier than the last. This one is the kind where every droplet hits with a definite heaviness, and soaks through clothes in an instant.
Through the sound of heavy rain, Baldric doesn’t hear the chuckle until it’s too late - thieves are upon him yanking him bodily into an alley in the fourth ring. Their faces are painted half-black half-white, split down the middle, and their makeup slowly melting in the rain looks demonic.
“Give’r up, prick!” one of the men jeers, threatening him with a dagger to the throat. The blade is crude and shoddy, but it’s harshly pressed against his throat, beads of red mixing into the rain. Another thief keeps a hand against the alley’s brick, watching down the street for the guard.
She meets eyes with fire, burning and unbridled in the glowing orange irises of an approaching man - Ifrit, she decides, pulling herself back around the brick. Even through the rain she can smell how he stinks of pesh; she files him away as unimportant. The red haired woman alongside him scrunches her nose at the smell, but under her violet-blue cloak she’s unremarkable.
“Twen’y copper? This won’ buy a day’s meal! If y’ain’t got more you bett’r take off y’r boots!” The man shouts, voice overcoming the rain - this close to the lake, there’s no way they deal with trouble from the nearby tenants, but she curses under her breath as she approaches to calm the man down. He’s not so stupid that a hand on his shoulder and raised eyebrow isn’t enough, but it doesn’t stop the arrow that plunges through his thin leather padding into his shoulder. He yelps in pain and stumbles away from Baldric, who huddles against the wall.
Entering the alley, a massive stocky silhouette painted by the light behind him, a man’s platemetal armor clanks as he approaches. He slings his bow over his shoulder as the first thief sneers, letting his injured arm hang loose while he charges with his dagger in his offhand. The second begrudgingly follows suit. She steels herself - If there’s one thing that works on the hero type, she thinks, it’s a two-on-one. Their knives don’t shear through his armor, but he grits his teeth as they surround him in the tight space. He can’t draw his sword with enemies this close, much less where he can’t swing it.
The scrape of metal on metal sounds through the night as the thieves clash against his shield, but he only narrowly pushes them away. The first thief catches a glimpse of a second man approaching - footsteps as quiet as the patter of rain as he runs at the wall in a dead sprint - then, somehow, up and across it. He’s too stunned to notice the first man’s thick metal gauntlet bashing his teeth in before he’s on the ground.
The second thief swears, watching her compatriot go down, but is attacked from behind with a quick series of punches. Her flashing daggers react as part of her, slashing against the night and digging into flesh. The man behind her grunts, and she narrowly ducks under the first’s gauntlet. Trapped between two opponents isn’t the best luck, but the adrenaline in her veins thunders enough that she grits her teeth and flairs her knife again.
A rush of hot air fills the alley, and she feels herself get sluggish. Arms fall weak, knees buckle, and her vision blurs. She sees the Ifrit bastard, hand outstretched, before the first man’s pommel slams into the back of her head.
“City guard’s not gonna find anything searching corpses. Better to get this guy out of the rain, maybe Church of Pharasma?” Uriel says, thumb over his shoulder towards the stone spire faintly visible against the dark-gray sky.
“Well, maybe if someone had a better handle on his magicks, we would be able to escort him home,” Maria mutters, burying her face in her hand.
“Woah, Em, I’m not an escort. I told you, I’m workin’ with the caravan,” Arat replies, one arm idly pulling at his miraculously dry purple toga while the other lights his pipe. “‘Sides, more powerful magicks than you could ever do are never as controlled. It’s, like, a balance…” he trails off, wandering away from the civilian he dropped to search the thieves’ bodies a third time.
Varc scoffs. “All in a day’s work,” he grunts as he heaves the cursed-slumber-ing victim over his shoulder, shifting his stance. “Church of Torag’s closer than Pharasma, though,” he declares to Uriel, starting the slow march up the caldera. And, even if they don’t know him, the rest begrudgingly follow suit.