“Well that was an experience I don’t think any of us will soon forget,” Mykail remarks with a sarcasm that his allies learned long ago is foreshadowing for something biting. Despite herself Stephni let her irritation twist her face into a grimace, prompting the bard to practically howl out, “oh don’t go and get a scowl about it!” before breaking out into obnoxious laughter.
“I’m not going anywhere with him today,” the knight says, gripping the handle of her sword tightly enough that a few passerby in Ravine take notice, cautiously stepping out of her way. “Teams of two; Tanhoj is with me. Scour every watering hole in this city for any signs of the P.R.A.N.K.S.T.E.R.S. and meet back up at the Sand Beggar tavern at sunset. Practice discretion too—Vic, please go with Tekkittir—remember that if they get wind of us snooping around again, they might bolt. We can’t afford that now that we’ve come so close to stopping them. Eyes sharp, people!”
Over the course of a long and weary day, each pair of adventurers learns little more than that while the cabal’s agents were definitely active in Ravine for some time, they had all since fled to parts unknown. No amount of intimidation (whether with dagger, spell, or tree) convinces the various barkeeps and merchants to share a more telling tale and with the weight of Ullast on their shoulders, each member of the party trickles into an alleyway near the Sand Beggar as the sun sets over the horizon of Aventyr.
Using her enormous club Tekkittir handily breaks through the door to the tavern and, weapons readied, the group charges into an empty bar. After swearing in a colorful variety of languages that surprise even Justahn, Stephni dejectedly grabs a bottle from behind the counter and steps outside, complaining that the trip back to Mohkba will take forever and that convincing the guard that they’re not criminals will be a nightmare, gradually listing the crimes they are accused of with a contempt unbecoming of her title.
Most of her companions follow suit and grab a few drinks for themselves, but Nehpets’ keen elven senses catch something on the floor under the hinged bit of the bar top. “That’s not normal,” he says while reaching down to touch the gritty fluid. He smells the dirty, oily liquid at the tips of his fingers and cringes, closing his eyes in concentration. “This is from the Grave Morass! The P.R.A.N.K.S.T.E.R.S are in the Grave Morass!”