Flame Falburn sighs, shaking her head. "Dark times indeed. From the refugees, such a rumor is one thing: but you were part of his delegation. That changes things. The other dukes will need to be informed, and we'll have to call in our leaders across the Sword Coast and beyond so the Flaming Fist can keep the peace. We can't afford to have another coup attempt right now, of all times." Hex nods sagely, eyes twinkling. Hravin's question is a fair one: do they have any runners? It might make the job easier. "If you have an address, I can have any parcel or parchment delivered within the hour." Gwen's question seems to stump Flame Falburn, who ponders it. "If there have been any who tried to pass themselves off as Hellriders, Knights of the Companion, or any such member of a priesthood, I am as of yet unawares of it. There are a few who might have entered the city before we closed the gates, but they have not made themselves known. I'll check with the Elturgardian denizens: several people have emigrated to the Gate and added that to their surnames to try and disconnect themselves from those zealots in Elturel, no offense." It is true that the zealotry is distasteful to many, but it hurts nonetheless.
Soon, letters are sent, but before they leave, Falburn has a final request. "You'll only be permitted in and out of the Basilisk Gate once, so I suggest you conclude all business here in the Lower City before you head out to your friends in Stonyeyes. You'll be repermitted to speak with me come morn, but not before. Are we clear? Cloaks, this sadly must also include you despite you being subjects of the Grand Dukes. The law must be obeyed, no matter what the spirit of it."
Sorcerous Sundries offers a good central hub, so it is agreed as they head on, they will meet back up at Sorcerous Sundries. Before they leave, Hex pulls aside Keryn, Io, and Mishka. "Do remember your loyalties. No matter how much you may want to help these people, we serve the higher power called the city: your loyalty comes to Baldur's Gate before it comes to the door of any beggars, friends or no."
With that, they head out.
They each head in different directions.
Mishka, joined by Hravin, head to the Counting House, where accountants are in supply but unfortunately out of house: as it is not tax season, the accountants have largely gone home early, including Mishka's cousin, but a friend of his offers to help Mishka. A halfling by the name of Argos Thimblewithers, he is bespeckled and sassy, wisps of gray at the corner of his ears and hanging sideburns betraying his age on an otherwise youthful yet worldweary face. He will account for the group's goods and names, if he is compensated. Mishka offers the assurance of the Lords' Alliance, which is all it takes. A small success, but one none the less. He goes with them.
Keryn, meanwhile, heads to the merchant fleet of Lord Elmflight, a patriar who trades by sea. His warehouse is large, but he has a small office on the side with the scent of elderberry and sandalwood, and is still in. Almost out the door, Keryn manages to speak to him on congenial terms and convinces him that taking on new employees, albeit temporary ones given their nature as refugees, with little effort. Yet he does not agree to do so until two points are met: he meets them (and he is unwilling to do so tonight, given he will not be able to reenter the Gate once he leaves), and they secure their entry. He cannot agree to give them employment until he knows they are going to be given entry: this creates a point of contention. Will Flame Falburn agree to this?
Iolanthe begins her sojourn at the temple of Corellon, goddess of her people, and there secures quite readily an agreement to not just house the refugees but heal them of any ailments they might need... tomorrow. That is the recurring theme at most of the temples she visits: Tyr, Torm, Chauntea, Yondallah, Moradin, Waukeen, Tymora, Helm. Each one agrees to do what they can, to do the right thing, but they have duties they must attend to this evenfeast, be they official business of vespers at twilight. The sole exception is the Shrine of Suffering, not far from Sorcerous Sundries, who agrees not just to go, but to go ahead of the group. Three priests of Ilmater, all curious at the appearance of a Chosen of Ilmater, all are quite curious to meet Dara, as is Iolanthe given the way people are speaking of her.
As they all begin to head back, Gaerzil has spent hours at Sorcerous Sundries, Gwen at his back.
As they enter, the gnome behind the desk looks up at him and sighs. "Rivalen, Gaerzil's come crawling back." She winks at him. "And he's brought a half-orc with him."
Loud muttering comes from the back, as a group of boxes fall and out comes curses in the language of Halruaa. Rivalen Blackhand is a native of that returned land, a native of the demiplane that housed them for the century after the Spellplague who moved to Baldur's Gate as an unofficial envoy of his people. Buying Sorcerous Sundries, one of the Lower City's finest establishments for over a century, he set up shop here and has become famous for his mutterings, his genius in mixing ingredients, and his capricious nature. When he emerges from the back, the former and the latter are on full display.
"Confounded mad man, thinking family is worth it to even go back to... Oh, and there he is, the hero of the hour! I had feared Avernus had its iron hooks about you, but not you Gaerzil, my boy, not you!" His smile is sincere; it's the words one must learn never to trust, though his kindness, underneath it all, is his best kept secret. Soon the situation is explained and Rivalen nods along. "Sounds like there's not a mage amongst them but a few keen minds for business: I can use that. It's temporary and must remain so, but it will be useful and I owe you for your years of service. A terrible business, this Elturel drama. And we're down our Grand Duke? A pity indeed: we'll be drow
ning in blood before long. Sadly, I do have some bad news: if you're looking for your job back, I cannot give it. We were recently conned out of a great deal of money by some smoozer. Raf, his name was. I think? That's what his associate called him. Ended up stealing part of our stock and I've had to dig into our savings to repay it, as it wasn't insured: can you believe these fiddle-faddles in insurance won't insure magic sundries? What's the world coming to, I swear! Now, tell me of this caravan and of the handsome lady you've brought to me doorstep: enchanted. I am Rivalen Blackhand, at your service."
By the time Gwen and Gaerzil emerge from Sorcerous Sundries, the others have gathered outside as the market begins to die down and people begin to prepare for either the night market or, more likely, are shutting down for tomorrow. The dusk sky is marked with dark clouds and a red sky comes: sailor's warning. By this time, and in route to Sorcerous Sundries, Hravin was waylaid by his old friend: Qan-Di Cixi, an elf with the most astounding eyes, as if her iris and pupil were mixed and then her iris intermixed with the bluest of stars, as if the Tears of Selûne themselves were intermixed with them. "Got your missive, Hrav: always happy to help and especially given the circumstances." Her accent is strange, even to Keryn: she is like no elf he has ever met, nor even like Hastrine, touched by the Feywild.
As Gwen and Gaerzil emerge from Sorcerous Sundries, it is then that Mishka and Hravin notices it: moving among the stalls and streets of this part of Heapside are cloaked figures, all with the same types of daggers moving from their belts to their hands: a pentacle marked in red sits at the end of each pommel. Mishka is not familiar with this, but Hravin recalls the same type of blade as Vollis had: Vollis, the liar who killed a member of their caravan and had been possessed in the service of Zariel.
One such soul, dressed in fine purples and blues, pushes back his cloak as the woman next to him draws her crossbow. "Vollis will not go unavenged! For the Fallen!"
Only Mishka and Hravin are on the up and up.