Trade of Flesh and Spirit
Twentieth Day of the Ninth Month 293 AC
While Mereth and Yrael walk off in somewhat uneasy companionship to speak to the Steel Devil in the service of Bel, you and the others approach the Bone Devil, careful to avoid the snapping jaws of the Lemure, though Dany does give it a look of veiled pity that does little to aid her disguise should any of those present be sharp-eyed enough to catch it. Thankfully the Bone Devil itself does not seem to notice, greeting you with a wide-fanged smile and a courteous bow that makes its skeletal frame creak and groan.
"Ah... a first time customer, good, good," the Devil rubs its hands together with a faint clink of bone on bone. "It seems my luck has finally turned. I had almost given up on selling the bulk of my wares due to these wretched rumors and fool's fears."
"Rumors?" you prompt, as expected of you, though you are wary indeed. To plainly admit weakness before the negotiations have even started one must either be truly desperate or wishing to seem so for the sake of some other ploy.
"There is some new plague culling the slaves and other wretches, mortals only you understand. They call it 'Nightmare's Kiss', for the marks it leaves upon the victim's bodies and the look of ecstasy on the face of those who perish from it. It will burn itself out soon enough or Lord Ezekihdich's healers will find some way to cure it." From the tone it is clear the Baatezu would rather the first occur than the second, counting the plague's victims better off dead.
"But surely such wretches are not the custom you seek," you interject, burying all sympathy and concern in your voice.
"Of course not, but whenever there is such an outbreak, there are always fools claiming it is
my kind who carried it here, or perhaps that it is some divine punishment for permuting the presence presence of Devils within this 'holy city'." This time he does not even manage a sneer, just an exasperated sigh. "And so those of us who deal in the arts of flesh and blood are oft singled out, and even those who know better than to suspect us themselves keep away for the sake of not falling under the same cloud of suspicion."
"Are new illnesses common here?" Lya asks, glancing momentarily towards the void in the sky, the second part of her question unspoken but clear.
"Aye," the Devil spits. "Too many crammed into those damn hovels, and the Archons are too soft on them, handing out free bread to soothe their delicate consciences. What do they think would happen to the ones with full bellies but no work to fill their hands? They will sit and they will stew in misery until they catch some sickness of the body or soul. The clever ones sell themselves into slavery." The words have the sound of an old and well-worn gripe, perhaps as old as the city's current arrangement.
How much power does this Lord Ezekihdich truly have? you wonder once again.
"Why don't they give them something else to do? Fix the roads or build better houses?" Ser Richard asks, sounding out the words in the dragon-tongue carefully, partly playing along perhaps, but also you suspect an honest question.
"Work gangs you mean?" the merchant shrugs. "Aye there's some of that, but the bread dole gets handed out to any who ask, so those who just want sit down in the middle of the road and wait for the end, or for 'salvation' can do it." He pauses for a moment then takes out a thin black stick covered in some bitter smelling resin and chews on the end. "At least they can't do it literally anymore, thank be to Asmodeous. The edict against loitering finally got passed two centuries back."
"This place grinds you down," Dany speaks silently in your mind.
"I don't even want to know how many kill themselves..." she trails off, horrified.
"They would be gone forever then, one more little victory for That Thing."
There is no reply you can offer that would not ring hollow, so you send instead wordless comfort like an ephemeral hug. Pushing the thought away, you turn back to the Devil and ask him of his trade goods, eager to end the conversation and at least get some use out of it.
However, nothing the merchant has on display is in any way out of the ordinary. Simple wardings and minor enchantments that you could find in the Opaline Vault and Armun Kelisk just as easily, here only bearing the emblems of one diabolical forge or another.
***
Unfortunately it soon transpires that Mereth and Yrael did not have much luck questioning the Steel Devil who had been instantly suspicious of Mereth's status and her evasiveness when speaking of her past. According to the Fury the most recent battles of the Blood War must have been going very well indeed for recruiter to be able to indulge in that sort of inquisitiveness. "If I had been serving Bel I probably wouldn't be here," she finishes with brutal honesty, perhaps wishing to test your reaction.
"Would you wish to serve him now?" you ask in turn, after only a moment's hesitation.
"No," she admits, though not speaking any other word as the eight of you head off deeper into the court in search of a celestial smith of some sort.
Your journey takes you through the patchwork of crumbling stone and makeshift hovels, past taverns and winesinks from whence the sounds of frantic revelry rise, hospices painted in peeling white standing not three steps from brothels ironically promising heavenly delights. To Vee's displeasure there is even a dog-fighting pit, though at least it comes with a seal proclaiming that the poor hounds enjoy magical healing and good food between the fights.
Finally you reach the smith Moran had heard about, the workshop perched upon a hill of crushed rubble from countless buildings that had come before, no smoke rising from the chimney.
Ser Richard knocks, first softly then with increasing strength until his armored first makes the door groan, yet still no answer comes.
You are about to leave when you her the first sounds from inside, slow shuffling steps heading for the door. The being who answers is not one of any kindred you have ever known, a lizard's frilled head upon an otherwise mannish body, but you know his nature nonetheless—an Agathion
scholar, perhaps fled from the Chaos of Paradise into climes he could better practice his craft in peace.
You are about to offer your apologies for the insistence when Mereth's voice echoes in your thoughts unexpectedly:
"He is not what he appears."
Wary, and wishing she had been perhaps a touch less laconic, you call upon the power of your enchanted earring to sharpen your senses to match hers. The smith standing in the door does not show himself to be some other sort of being, but his form could not have been more different. Instead of lustrous green scales that glint in places with a rainbow light they are dull and grayish, his eyes bloodshot, his crest almost flattened to his neck. What ails him, you wonder, and can you offer aid without being rebuffed for seeing the truth of which he is obviously shamed?
What do you do?
[] Go ahead and try to hire the smith, you will deal with his troubles later
-[] Write in
[] Try to offer help
-[] Write in
[] Leave, you do not wish to take a chance on such deceptions
OOC: Some mixed rolls this turn, but more good than bad.
