He has no idea. He's aware that the Karaz Ankor claims during the Coming of Chaos they hid away under the mountains, which sounds plausibly like it would be associated grand defensive work but as far as he knows none of the Dwarven Holds have ever fallen, even in those days.
Just found the quest and liking it. Btw there is some circumstantial evidence that the grey cloaked wizard who finished the tower and destroyed Tylos and is known to the future Skaven as "the Shaper" was probably Constant Drachenfels. The Skaven note that the Shaper was a member of an elder race long forgotten which exactly matches that dude. Drachenfels is immortal thanks to ability to possess other people's bodies. In fact he is both old enough and powerful enough to have seen the Old Ones arrive on Mallus and potentially steal one of the Old One artifacts and used it as the first screaming bell. Plus if you look at his character sheet in the first edition of the RPG it notes he speaks both archaic Tilean and the Skaven tongue and clearly had relations with them given they raised his castle in Vermintide. Additionally he's a dark wizard not beholden to Chaos and…well doing sadistic stuff like making an evil deity and an entire army of rat-men eat a city is exactly the kind of thing he'd pull.
It's only because you walk that you notice the picket. Pleroma might be an isle only half a league wide, and sickeningly clean, but you were still cursing the effort you had to take to keep your formal toga clean as you picked your way to the theatre, keeping your back to the Tower as much as you could. You felt a stab of vertigo every time you looked at it, and tonight, you couldn't afford to vomit. But you shuffle on, and eventually reach the golden gates of the Great Amphitheatre, illuminated by bright red illusionary letters that declared to all "Tonight: The Righteous Spear!" as a floating comedy mask laughed and a tragedy mask sobbed. But to get to in, you had to cross the road, which was unfortunately blocked carriage to carriage owing to some dispute up ahead with some balding member of the Brotherhood of Moulder screaming at the operator of a magic carpet cab. So you loop around to the side entrance, which no self-respecting aristocrat would think or dare to use.
There, by a small wooden door, is an odd gaggle of five people. There is a young man with bright red hair, a blue tunic and pants, with a lightning-bolt pin that signaled he was a Hand of the Lodge of the Harvest Moon, a sort-off catch all category for wizards, for whatever reason had fallen off the cutthroat ladder of personal advancement in Thunderdome and were reduced to effectively manual labour – cloud-catching, smelting, electric work. To his right and left were two other men, though older, in similar blue tunics (a uniform?) covered by leather aprons. Laborers too, you thought. The latter was carrying a flag – the deep crimson of the Reds. The three were in intense conversation with the two main actors in tonight's show – Junius, the most famous dramatist in the Twin Cities, and his wife, Melissa. He is almost underdressed; clearly about to go into costuming; she is in a thick grey travelling cloak. There is a thin smell of a flowery perfume in the air.
You only catch the end of the conversation. The redhead says, with enough passion to make him shake "Why not tonight? They're all in there – all the bloody bastards– come on, you said you'd let us, why the hell are you getting cold feet now?"
Junius, comparatively, seemed perfectly calm. That made it only odder that within him was more Shyish than had been in Brother Sanguine, albeit mixed with scatterings of divine energy that you associated with those who had recently prayed. He said "Because I regained some sense, Gregorius. We- you- the cause needs to be safe. Go home." And at that word, a miracle. The scatterings join into a shimmering golden thread that issues forth from Junius and wraps tight around and then sinks into the younger man's soul. The rage suddenly drains from the wizard's face, replaced with an unnatural solemnity.
"As you like, Junius. Come on boys." He whirls on his heel and walks off into the city, his companions confusedly following. As they leave, Junius sighs, then turns to his wife, and gives her a deep kiss. They stand a while, embracing. But then they notice your arrival and break apart.
"Ah! Welcome to the Grand Amphitheatre!" Melissa says.
"Thank you," You reply, presenting your ticket. You're surprised it still smells, and then you realize the scent on the air is the same that was on the original letter.
You look up, shocked, but Junius is still perfectly placid while Melissa beams, the very image of a good hostess.
"Master Xenophon!" she chirps "Oh, we're so happy you're here tonight".
Your name isn't on the ticket.
"So am I?"
Junius speaks.
"You won't be."
Melissa blanches, but then recovers, forcing a laugh.
"Oh, dear – what he means is that it's a tragedy tonight – twice over, you know, because I have to miss it."
"Why's that?" you ask.
She gives a smile – all teeth.
"A death in the family.".
There is a beat of silence. She grabs her husband's hand, gives it a squeeze, and lets go.
"Well, have a lovely night!" Melissa of Pleroma says, and then walks out into the city dark.
At this point, you're wondering if the doom foretold was that everyone in these fucking cities would only be able to speak in sinister generalities. Junius seems in no hurry to clarify, as he takes advantage of your shock to breeze past you and into the theatre. You rush to follow, but by the time you get into the grand lobby, crowded with hundreds of guests, you've lost any sight of him.
"Wine?" a waiter asks. You take a glass and chug it.
…
You consider leaving but think better of it. No one said anything explicitly threatening - perhaps Junius was just sad because of his wife's departure. Sure. Also, the canapes were pretty good, and you were sick of eating only bread and figs with Pelops to drag out your savings. It was the Grand Amphitheatre, in Pleroma! What threats could their bloody be, bar an irate aristocrat. It was going to be fine. Absolutely fine.
Having perfectly regained your confidence, you choose to do that most terrifying of tasks – mingle with the upper classes. You awkwardly sidle up to the first conversation that is not about how hard it is to find good slaves nowadays or who someone's aunt's sister's brother's cousin's daughter married, interrupting a chat between a person wrapped in an illusion so thick you can't actually see him past the waves of Ulgu and an Elven woman in black mourning silks.
"Rather good turnout!" you say.
"The Princeps is due, so rather better than that," declares the illusion, who might have grey hair. "I am not sure we have met." He (?) bows. "I am the Senator Nivet of Circus, and my friend" he gestures to the Elf "is the Lady Tophania" She curtsies and asks "And you are?"
"Xenophon of … Terramorta" you say, indelicately substituting your adopted parish. "I am new to the Cities, er – just visiting for a funeral" Great save, really.
The Lady Tophania gives a gasp of horror. "My deepest condolences! You know, I just lost my dear husband – his heart just stopped working – can you believe that! – just fell down dead and it was so very hard. He was always so supportive, looking after my finances –" Nivet laughs at that. "even doctored me himself. I just think – I must be strong! I just think of him watching me and – ah, it's what makes me go on! You really must try date cakes – they really did cheer me. Oh! And Daffy's Elixir, to stop your cheeks puffing up; grief's not an excuse to look bad. And shopping – a new wardrobe is particularly important, to be respectable and - "
You are mercifully saved from further advice on funerary protocol by a shout from the other end of the lobby. Two members of the Cleansing Flame seem to have drawn weapons on each other, while a third holds them apart. A short bald man wearing red robes embroidered with thousands of eyes in gold thread and the ten-pointed iron crown of the loyalists of Solkan has summoned a flaming sword so hot it blazes blue. He is screaming "BLASPHEMY!". His opponent, wearing robes of the same color, but unadorned, has summoned a glowing Hysh net between his hands in a cat's cradle, while shouting "THE WARP LIES!" Between them, an ancient woman in robes that might once have been red, but have faded to a dull pink, holds up a single crystal key, from which a great transparent dome blooms, blocking her and the debaters inside. From her issues the power of LAW, a magic that always makes your teeth ache and your stomach churn as all that is Morr within you cringes from the merciless light. She appears to start scolding the others, as you watch their magic visibly weaken trapped in the dome, the sword sputtering, the light fading.
The Lady Tophania whispers to you. "That's Mistress Marvos, the Grand Consecrator. Those two that are being disciplined like schoolchildren are two of the Flame's finest "Patriarchs of Truth" - Floridus Ennius – head of that new rehabilitative asylum, you know the one – and Angelus Spania, my nephew and Keeper of the Prison of Mirrors –oops" she winks at you "that's confidential."
"Hysh always makes one unbearable" says Nivet. "Not surprised daemons flee from it. I would too."
"He's an elf?" you ask, admittedly indelicately. You didn't realize elves could be bald. Or that short. Or grow (bad) moustaches.
"No. I married a man." she notes, with a delicate shrug of your soldiers. You've never heard of an interspecies match before.
"They're angling for her position" the Senator notes.
"And that is?" you say.
"She is Temple's representative to Myrmidia's Spring – I am not sure someone from the colonies would be aware – the great font of magic beneath the Tower." He sighs and even through the layers and layers of illusion, you see a deep frown. "She is doing a bad job."
Before you can ask why, there's a blast of trumpets, and what seems like a whole legion of soldiers troops into the lobby, clearing a path directly to the Amphitheatre. Then, through the double doors strides the Princeps Suttar.
He looks younger that you thought he would be, perhaps thirty-five at most, though with Moulder age treatments, he may well be far older. He has handsome; dark brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a cleft chin, with wavy blonde locks that fall down past his ears. He is in ceremonial armour; a gromril muscle cuirass, on which is engraved the legendary marriage of Tyleus and Myrmidia. From his shoulders and hips are ilthmar pturges, and at his side hangs his legendary truesilver sword, Bellerophon. On his head sits his horned crown of office, the barbs of the dragon Tyleus slew to found the Twin Cities, set in gold. All of this is enormously enchanted, the full rainbow of magic blasting out from him – but you really Look and see that beyond all of his panoply, his soul is extraordinarily, shockingly radiant; brighter, bigger, realer than any you've seen – even your own.
Lord Suttar waves, but speaks to no one, and proceeds to his box, his guard following. The rest of the audience takes that as a signal to proceed to their seats, so the great exodus begins. You check your ticket, and follow, ready for the show to go on.
…
Who do you find yourself sitting next to?
[-] By Mistress Marvos, in a box directly beneath the Princeps.
[X] By Mistress Marvos, in a box directly beneath the Princeps.
It could be a trap, but I doubt the GM would put in an inescapable situation on the third update of the quest. And given what we've heard, the conspirators are unlikely to attack tonight.
