At the Root of Evil
Fourteenth Day of the Sixth Month 293 AC
Entering the tent proves far more troublesome than its fragile appearance might show. For one it is covered in a complex web of wards designed to foil even a determined mage. Simply dispelling one would set off half a dozen others, and even stilling all magic would not be enough as some of the protections are buried in the sands like the roots of some ancient tree trailing off for hundreds of yards, often under the tents of the far from welcoming neighbors. Thankfully, however, Varys proves quite adept at slipping into and at times beneath stalls, shacks, and tents in spite of the near constant stream of complaints over getting sand between her scales...
"That's the last anchoring point..." she confirms, before adding idly,
"Did you know the barber collects severed ears?"
Your answer is as dry as the scorched stone underfoot:
"I do now, though I could have done without the knowledge."
As the five of you finally slip into the sagging tent Garin unsurprisingly cautions that it is as filled with mundane traps as it had been with magical protections. One thing is clear—this
is indeed the abode of an alchemist of some sort. The smells of scores of strange concoctions simmer and mingle into a nauseating miasma that dulls the mind and weakens the flesh even as envenomed needles and strangling snares seem to guard every corner of the place. Thankfully Glyra armed with borrowed
foresight is able to make quick work of the final protections, leaving you free to explore the abode of your foe.
You find food and tellingly water far in excess of the legal limit, indicating a lack of concern with one of the Bazaar's few true rules, coins and coded notes, but it is Garin who makes the most important discovery—a heavy iron cauldron hidden beneath a pile of clothes that shines with a bruised purple light to a mage's gaze.
"Enchantment
and necromancy," Zherys muses aloud. "An uncommon mingling to say the least."
"There was blood in it recently," Garin says tightly. "Not a lot, but..."
"Any blood in potions is cause for concern," you finish, tapping your fingers along the surface of a low table. "Wisdom, could you see if we have an hour of uninterrupted peace?"
A few minutes later the smoke of augury mingles with the bitter scents that fill the tent, finally Zherys nods.
How strange to trust him this easily when you had for so long plotted his death? you ponder as you slip into your
trance. If nothing else you trust his ambition.
You see a bubbling crimson potion being brewed... a haggard familiar figure standing over the cauldron—Hermetia's ill-fated uncle.
Sometimes he stirred the mix, sometimes he allowed his own blood to fall into the potion. Between the chants he fills the silence with insane mutterings, one phrase burned into your mind as though with white hot iron: "Soon, my darling niece... soon you'll be obedient as you were meant to be from the start, and through you I will be avenged."
The plan that slowly reveals itself to your gaze adrift in time is chilling: the twice-damned magister was planning to enthrall Hermetia with a blood-brewed potion and then use her to set fire to the Heart Tree of Lys with some alchemist's concoction, consecrating the Flesh-Forge anew to his foul goddess among the ashes. The div she had faced last month had never been meant as spies called by some petty conjurer, but instead a test of her magic sent by the Bey as as show of good faith in his new-forged alliance with Ymeri.
If there is one piece of welcome news it is that the presence of Erinyes guarding the Forge and Hermetia herself has seemingly caused the Bey to delay the plan until some way to overcome their keen-eyed gaze could be devised.
Your eyes snap open and you announce: "It seems we misjudged the city where the plot was to unfold." Though anger claws at your thoughts, the words are sharp and clear as spellsteel.
What do you do?
[] Strike down two birds with one well-aimed stone, make it seem as though the servant of Ymeri assassinated the Bey, thus ensuring that your foes will continue to lash out at each other none the wiser
-[] Write in
[] Deal with Hermetia's uncle first, then return to contemplating the Bey's fate
-[] Write in
[] Write in
OOC: The Worm's come a long way, hasn't he? 
