3.5 Eberron Solo Campaign - Forging Shadows IC

[Nerd-o-rama]

It's a wonderful day in Sharn. The sky is a clear, crystalline blue in defiance of the typical rain and smog, the sun is shining brightly, a fresh breeze runs through the upper levels, and everything seems moderately less dour.

None of this, of course, is apparent to Talthran d'Thurrani on his daily journey to the underground reaches of the Upper Cogs. The air of the Ashblack district is appropriately full of the soot of forges and the shadows created by firelight. A few reasonably dressed Cannith magewrights and artisans are spots of relative color in the crowds of dirty, rough-looking goblins, warforged, and assorted other humanoids that take up most of the eye in the cavernous spaces of the district. All as usual for the daily commute of an artificer in the Forgehold.

Still, the shadows seem somehow deeper today, in contrast to the lovely weather above-ground. Maybe that's because it's Mol and everyone is burning their trash and dross as well as the regular working of the foundries, or maybe it's something more sinister. In Sharn, you can never be entirely too sure.

It's morning, and Talthran's in the morning crowds in Ashblack. His shift in charge of crafting minor magical items at the Cannith Forgehold is starting soon.

[Azaril]

"Tally! There you are!"

He had always hated the sound of that name. It was most often screamed—the idiot never spoke, she always yelled—and this also added to the layers of banality and ugliness around the lazy iteration of his name.

But over time he grew to ignore it. It was, after all, just a word. It signified nothing.

The girl yelling his name across a crowded street, however, was not so easy to ignore. She was a bright and cheery young human child whom had latched onto Talthran like a besotted, needy puppy. She thought his hair was super and that his constant cold shoulder was a project for her to thaw.

He had decided once that perhaps being nice to her would perhaps cause her to see him as less of a challenge, and that with her short attention span she would get bored. It only ended with him escorting her to some noble’s dinner as her ‘friend’. Spending just a single evening being strung along on this girl’s arm, listening in to inane conversations with haughty bureaucrats was enough to turn his demeanour back to sour.

He had the clothes for a noble gathering but he was a whirling mass of social faux pas with every motion he tried to emulate. It was finally a blatant conversation about his evident ineptitude that froze his shoulder back into an impenetrable glacier, and it had happily stayed that way for the rest of the evening. Damn those nobles to Khyber.

"I’m here," Talthran said, biting back the urge to scream at her to go away. She was already bordering on skipping to him through the crowd. "What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m busy?" Always the pinnacle of politeness.

"Ooh you’re so gloomy," she made a face, "Especially when the day is so nice, Tally. We should go for a walk once you’re out of work."

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" Talthran asked, speaking away from her as he continued to walk on. She was close on his heel, but he had no intention of turning to greet her so early on a Mol morning. He hadn’t the patience at the best of times.

"To spend more time with me, silly," she said, the cheeriness in her voice made Talthran’s stomach churn.

"I repeat my previous question."

"But I—" her voice nearly melted into a whine before it was abruptly stopped.

"Rhetorically," he interrupted. "Do you know what that means? It means you stay quiet and think about the question, because I don't want to hear your answer." Talthran made a point of always being harsh and hopefully unlikable. The girl was eighteen, so physically mature for a human, but mentally incompetent. He had no interest in furthering any kind of relationship with the girl, especially when he made a point of forcing her name evade his memory. Getting her to shut up was the highlight of any relationship they were ever to have.

Talthran didn’t even need to see her to know that she was pouting. She tended to do that after a conversation with him. A lot. However she was still following him, even with his vain attempts to pry her from his shadow.

Her little interlude had forced Talthran into taking the long route to work in the hopes of escaping her company. This meant trekking through the backstreets of Ashblack as much as he hated it, but with each new crowd of people sprung the opportunity of losing her in the rabble.

When it was apparent that her persistence was irrefutable he made enough of an effort to quickly dart into a nearly alleyway and finally watch her pass by, furiously looking for him with an indignant scowl. It was almost enough to make him smirk. He never understood why she visited him down here in the Cogs anyway; they were of a wildly different class, and it was surprising that she ever made it out in one piece, let alone make her way back.

Oh well. It wasn’t his concern.

A small chill ran along his spine and he grimaced. It was hardly cold, even in the looming shadows from above. In fact he thought it highly improbably to get truly cold in Ashblack, living amongst furnaces and forges all year around, and below a city that produced enough heat to sustain a forge of its own. He shook off the feeling and strolled down the alleyway, emerging onto an adjoining main street and continued on his journey to work. He would only be ten minutes early rather than his usual fifteen.

That damn girl, he thought bitterly, always making me late.

He arrived with exactly ten minutes to spare; just as he had calculated, and not a minute more.

He set down his things and clocked in, giving the obligatory smile to the others around him, who gave him a cursory nod in return. He still couldn’t shake the chill he felt though, and it unsettled him that such a trivial thing would be playing at the back of his mind.

He stood up straight and headed to the workshop. The only thing that was a guaranteed cure-all was to become absorbed into what he did best—tinker. Perhaps someone had left him something interesting to do today.

[Nerd-o-rama]

Talthran arrives at the Forgehold to the respectful and completely ritual greetings of the Fabricators Guild assistants. The Forgehold itself is a huge edifice of stone expertly cut and crafted, and highly polished on the inside. The neat, square stonecraft, large vaulted rooms, and the copious amounts of clean magical lighting (not strictly necessary for Talthran, but the majority of workers in the facility are human and lack an elf's visual acuity in dimness) make the place seem more like an above-ground cathedral than a forge. At least, on the upper levels. Lower down, where Sharn's natural geothermal activity was used to forge magical weapons and jewelry, or even below that in the restricted areas where only Dragonmarked House Cannith members were allowed, it was presumably far more oppressive.

As he does every working day, Talthran bypasses several magical traps thanks to the runic token added to his identification papers when he joined the Guild, and walks past several silent, still warforged guards who know him by sight. He also passes several faces he knows by sight, but by now, most of the magewrights and assistants here know better than to talk to him.

He finally arrives at his small but private lab - a token granted for his prior experience before coming to Sharn - with its heavy Darkwood door, standard for a Cannith laboratory, and the locked drop box where nightly couriers leave orders from people higher in the Guild hierarchy.

Normally, this is full of requests for alchemical products or potions and requisition forms for the necessary ingredients, but today, there's only a single sheet of paper in the box, sealed with a House Cannith symbol rather than a Fabricator's Guild stamp.

[Azaril]

Talthran’s stomach masterfully weaved itself into a knot, much to his displeasure. It had been close to twelve months since he had heard anything from House Cannith directly in the way of orders. He took the single sheet and slipped it into the breast pocket of his heavy-duty apron for safe keeping.

Later. He thought to himself, managing to drown out the sound of his heart pounding at his rib cage.

He looked around, his hands visibly shaking as they scoured the closest workbench for some unfinished project or task to become busy with. His efficiency had come back to bite him as he noticed—having known all along anyway—that his workbench was clear, and nothing else was withstanding.

Talthran finally grasped his right wrist with his left hand, taking himself to task and berating his own mind about getting so excited, not to mention terrified, about something so trivial as a House Cannith seal.

One deep breath. Two. Three. He would have to look at it eventually, so why postpone the inevitable? Four deep breaths. Five. Six. Whenever he was to look at it, it needed to be soon. He would hyperventilate if he let his anxiety grip him any further.

The first thing he would do is shut his workshop door and make sure it was locked. Sliding it slowly out of his pocket, the clarity of the Minotaur on the seal roared at him with silent grace as the seal split under the weight of his fingers. He unfolded the paper to see what this was all about.

[Nerd-o-rama]

Talthran manages to avoid any odd looks from people passing by his door before he closes it. True artificers are considered at the very least eccentric by the majority of the guildsmen, just as they're considered highly respected and the pinnacle of the craft, and they are generally only a cause for concern if they're holding a magical item while they twitch like that.

Now secure from prying eyes (and presumably Prying Eyes thanks to the wards against divination spells built into the building), Talthran can read the letter in peace in his empty office. Written on the fine paper of someone with an expense account in the neat printing of a transcribed letter is the following:

Artificer Talthran,

In recognition of your experience in the workshops of our dearly departed motherland of Cyre, and your keen analytical mind, House Cannith requests your special services in research of a relic related to your position in the Forgehold. Please report to the office of Tovan d'Cannith as soon as possible. Should you accept this commission, you will be considered on leave from your regular duties and will be paid a bonus commensurate with the challenge of this project.

On behalf of House Cannith,
Tovan d'Cannith (signed)

[Azaril]

Talthran lets the piece of paper fall to the table in front of him, his hands still visibly shaking.

"This is stupid, I'm jumping at shadows," he muttered to himself, taking a very deep breath. He'd been keeping it together until recently, but now every single official statement made him jumpy, and when anyone called his name with an unfamiliar voice he expected a knife in his back.

He hadn't cared about it before. To get yourself in a position to be targeted was work of a fool, and he knew that every step he had taken was with calculated precision. He could be watched, he could be followed, but any action taken against him would be noticed and traced easily. It had kept him safe so far, unlike what had happened to the others who thought that keeping themselves isolated would solve all of their problems.

All of it had worked precisely the way he had planned it. Talthran had been subject to nothing untoward, but that in itself had caused the unease. The others had been disposed of within a swift fashion. He even suspected the Cannith House for a short while, but that idea soon dissolved when opportunities had not been seized from within the walls of his workshop; and there had been plenty.

No, everything had been too quiet. He should have at least noticed something strange, but he hadn't, and his anxiety was starting to build to the point where a simple piece of paper would cause a panic attack. He was waiting for someone to step out of every shadow, and the fear it was building had started to consume him. It had to stop.

"Right." Talthran stood up straight, dusting down himself. It felt like it was the right thing to do, even if his front was still immaculate. He took off his artisan clothing and donned something more suitable; he may have only just put them on, but his work clothes had begun to feel very claustrophobic all of a sudden.

There only remained one problem. He had no idea where Tovan's office was located. He'd never dealt with him directly, and he'd never given much thought to anything outside the small collection of workshops surrounding his own.

"Excuse me." After hurrying out of his workshop he spoke to the guild assistant that always seemed to be milling around sorting paperwork where he signed in each morning.

She seemed to ignore him for a moment, then looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Who, me?"

Talthran wasn't all that amused. He'd stopped trembling by now, but his mood hadn't improved any. "Yes. You. Tell me where I can find the office of Tovan d'Cannith."

The guild assistant blinked twice. Once at the fact that Talthran was talking to her, and the second time for his attitude. She clearly hadn't expected him to be such a jerk. "You automatically assume that I know where that is?"

"You spend your day milling around fiddling with paperwork that contains more names than I'd ever care to remember. I'd go so far as to say that if you didn't know where his office was, you're clearly not doing your job properly. I assume that you do actually do things with that paperwork, and not just fiddle with it? Correct?" At least at this point he knew he was being horrid, but the resolve in his mind to try and shake the unsettling feelings that had developed had transferred into his tone of voice. He wasn't taking any prisoners.

At least not until he saw two Warforged begin to approach out of the corner of his eye. He sighed. She didn't say anything with words, but her eyes burned with contained fury.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sure you're very good at fiddling with papers." He paused. Perhaps not the best way to word it, but it was the best he was going to be able to come up with. "I am, however, on urgent business and I would very much appreciate it if you could inform me of his location."

[Nerd-o-rama]

The guildswoman looks furiously back at Talthran for a moment before she rummages through her workspace, digging under piles of blank or partially-filled vellum sheets and pots of expensive-looking ink before she finds a sheet of paper that's actually been written on.

"Here," she says, thrusting a directory of some kind at Talthran's chest. "If you're meaning his office in the Forgehold and not the one upstairs in town, it should be on there. They hand these out every three months, you know," she adds, spitefully.

The sheet of paper indicates that Tovan's office is two levels down within the forgehold, thankfully almost straight down. If Talthran's memory serves him correctly, it's within the general area where magical armor is forged and enchanted.

[Azaril]

Talthran inserts the piece of paper carefully into his breast pocket and gives the guild assistant—and the warforged entourage—a polite nod before shifting quickly on his way.

Concerning a relic related to my position? Talthran pawed through his catalogued thoughts with a fine-toothed comb, but the only thing his mind could settle on was the boyish excitement at the prospect of his mission being warforged related.

It was the first time in months he had walked the streets of Sharn without double checking every shadow seen in the corner of his eye, and glancing over his shoulder every fifty paces. In fact it never even crossed his mind.

Tovan's office was as easy to find as his address had indicated, and the building looked a little less elaborate that Talthran had expected. Perhaps being a direct Cannith descendant didn't always grant the luxury of finery as he had assumed.

Knocking on the door once, twice, thrice before walking straight in, he announced his arrival with a formal greeting and awaited a response.

[Nerd-o-rama]

The Dragonmarked's office, Talthran notes, is still on the "campus" of the Cannith Forgehold, which extends several stories vertically as well as acres horizontally. That might explain the comparatively secure feeling, or at least why dramatic irony is unable to intervene in Talthran's excitable state.

As Talthran enters the office - much warmer than his normal section of the Forgehold, as it's on the level with several of the actual foundries and smithies - he finds that though the office is small and modest, there is some luxury within. Trophies and curiosities from Xen'drik decorate the walls in a manner that's only tasteful because there isn't much space for them, and a rich Sarlonan carpet makes the room unnecessarily warmer. The shaved-headed man behind the bronzewood desk - clearly Tovan d'Cannith if the Least Mark of Making looking almost stamped on his bare left arm is any indication - rises to greet his guest.

"Ah, Talthran, right? It's a pleasure to meet you in person, come in," he says congenially, extending his arm across the desk for a handshake like a man who's spent more time doing that than actually working.

[Azaril]

Taking his hand with a firm grip, Talthran shakes Tovan's hand once before letting go, meeting him eye to eye.

"Indeed. I'm sure the pleasure is all mine. I'm curious to see what talents of mine you're interested in, and what you would like me to work on." Getting straight to business, as always. He even manages a small, albeit fake smile.

Talthran had no respect for pen-pushers who sit on a higher seat when he is forced to do all the work—at least not until they prove themselves to be interesting. It got him into plenty of trouble during the war, constantly defying orders. He only did it to knowingly get better results than expected, which was likely his only saving grace and why he managed to keep his position.

"So when do I start and where? If you're asking for me in person, a man who spends his days tinkering with minor magical toys for the nobility, then you're clearly interested in me for my work with the military. I'm already interested." This time, his smile was genuine.

[Nerd-o-rama]

"You're a sharp man, Talthran," Tovan says, sitting back down at his desk. With a wave of some magical item underneath the bronzewood, the door to the office automatically closes. Talthran thinks his keen ears can hear the faint hum of something magical, probably a privacy ward.

"You are, in fact, completely right. And I think you'll understand that what I'm about to show you is for your eyes only."

Opening a locked cabinet behind him, replete with several obviously magical items jumbled together, Tovan withdraws the largest and most obviously valuable piece. It appears to be something akin to a skeletal arm, made entirely out of a gleaming white-gray metal - probably silver or mithral. He lays it carefully on the desk. To Talthran's trained eye, the item is clearly magically constructed and not just some kind of morbid curiosity - the joints of the fine silvery fingers and delicately constructed wrist seem like they would function, and beneath the smooth bonelike curves of the metal forearm there are clearly tiny cords of inactive Livewood that would serve as musculature.

In short, Talthran is looking at a Warforged arm, but one far, far more intricate and advanced than any of the clunky iron models that the world has grown familiar with.

[Azaril]

"I see," Talthran said, his attention instantly turned to the arm in front of him.

Without giving a second thought he picks it up—Tovan did place it in front of his with his own bare hands, afterall, so it was unlikely to be dangerious—feels the weight and gives it a good look over. Talthran gave no piece of mind to permission. He attempts to flex all of the joints carefully to see if they are responsive, and sizes up his own hand with the manufactured one to compare. He keeps his leather gloves on his hands though; as much as he would love to touch the artifact with his own fingers, he couldn't risk his Dragonmark being seen. He'd spent every working moment wearing the gloves, keeping his secret, so they didn't hinder him in any way, but he still missed the tactile sensation his secrecy robbed him of.

Alongside the look of astonishment on his face is a secondary emotion this time; envy. He would give anything to have an arm such as this, but as no mere trophy. The creation of Warforged—at least sentient ones—was outlawed during the war, but there was nothing that stopped personal augmentation. It was an idea that Talthran had toyed with in his head for some time with passive thoughts, but now it had all sparked once more in his mind.

"Fascinating," he mumbles the word to himself, looking at the piece from every conceivable angle to collect all the information he could from sight. "It's an original, no replica. And I mean original original; it's seen no Cannith forge. It's magical, naturally. Beyond that, I can't really tell you all that much more," he smirks wryly, "then again if I could, I would be in your position and you would be standing here. I highly doubt you've asked me here to state the obvious though, but you've definitely caught my eye."

Talthran finally takes a seat, resting the arm gently back on the table, his gaze once again catching Tovan's attention. Challenging him, almost. "But given the current circumstances I don't believe I've really been given a choice but to acquiesce to your request. As you say this is for my eyes only, and if I walked out of here without signing a contract I doubt I would get very far. Call me suspicious, but I'm also incredibly intelligent, and it's a dumb assumption to believe that I could just turn my back to your plight without repercussions."

At this point he can't help himself but let loose a quiet chuckle to himself. Half from amusement and half from excitement. "By all means don't take it personally. If you know anything about me I'm not the man everyone wants to see at a party, I have problems with authority and I don't work well with others unless I deem them interesting. As it happens, I find you and your trinket rather interesting. I'll help you with what you need, whether I'm required to or not. So, for lack of better term," Talthran nods to the arm resting on the table, "what of it?"

[Nerd-o-rama]

"You are - again - 100% correct on all accounts," Tovan says with the slightly oily, but appreciative, smile of a Dragonmarked noble. "Including about your own reputation, no offense. Frankly, I was looking for someone a little less sociable and more technical than my own fine cousins and second cousins, or I'd have asked them first. Family and all."

Tovan picks up the arm again and begins checking over its joints. It's either to give himself a prop as he talks, or he's making sure Talthran didn't damage it. "This particular artifact is from Xen'drik, as you might have guessed. It was given to Cousin Merrix by one of those groups of fortune-seekers he's so fond of farming offshore work out to. Another curiosity for him to devote the resources of this Forgehold to researching," he says, a little more contemptuously than most prudent people would say it in Merrix d'Cannith's own literal back yard.

"However, I know something he doesn't think I know, and I'll kindly ask you not to enlighten him. This hand came here by way of Making, not a simple Stormreach-to-Sharn run," Tovan adds conspiratorially, setting the arm down and leaning across the desk for emphasis. "The Baron's had this on hand since at least before the Mourning, and I think there might be more to it than a simply beautiful example of construct craftsmanship from the Age of Giants."

[Azaril]

"I'm really not all that interested in starting a family feud. Any problem this might cause with Merrix would be on your hands, not mine. I may have high respect for his work, but Dragonmarked drama is best kept within the family, yes?" Talthran couldn't take his eyes off the artifact, but he managed a smirk as his mind ticked over.

Testing me, perhaps? No, he just doesn't want Merrix to find out. Likely so he can get all the glory. Which also means I'm likely to be disposable at some point. But no matter, I'll find out what I want to know regardless.

"So what exactly do you wish of me, and more importantly what do you plan as payment for my time? As tempting as it all is to find out more about that artifact for free, I still have to live in this wretched hive. As cheap as it is, you're likely to lose a finger as well as your house if you don't pay up. I'm rather partial to my fingers, though I could care less about the house." He finally managed to tear his eyes away from the warforged arm, a flat expression on his face as he met his gaze with Tovan. He would have to stop looking so puppy-eyed at the prospect of working directly with such old magic or he wasn't going to get anywhere. "After we have that sorted, then I'll start asking questions about the matter at hand."

[Nerd-o-rama]

"What I want you to do," Tovan says, taking the arm and moving to secure it under his desk again, "Is find the other pieces that belong to this arm."

After a moment of dramatic pause, he continues, "This particular artifact has already taught us a great deal about humanoid construct design, but information has recently come to my attention that there may be other pieces of whatever it originally belonged to that didn't make it here after the Mourning."

The man begins rummaging in his desk again - there's a distinct possibility that the already-impressively-sized piece of furniture has an extradimensional component as well. "I want you to take a working vacation, Talthran. Go to Korranberg and meet with a man named Jerix Baerheit. Find out what he knows about ancient construct heads and if he has any he's willing to sell to me directly."

The Cannith official draws out three documents. "This is my letter of introduction to Jerix. Don't open it. The location of Jerix's business in Korranberg is on the envelope. He's an independent seller of magical devices, so he can't be too hard to find," he says, laying out an envelope.

"This is your advance. You'll be given double this if you come back with either a positive answer or useful information," he says, laying a notarized Letter of Credit for one thousand galifars on the desk.

"And this is all the information on this artifact I think you'll find useful for identifying another piece of the construct," he says, laying the final document on the desk. It appears to be an alchemical reagent inventory, also known as an artifcer's grocery list. He taps his finger on it and intones "negative four-hundred eighty-seven platinum dragons" in a business-like fashion, and the parchment's contents warp and change into a detailed sketch of the artifact arm, thick with annotations, notes, and theories written in several different hands. With the same motion and words, Tovan changes the page back to its original appearance. "Any further questions?"

[Azaril]

If I come back, hmm? Hah, I like a challenge. Let's see how much he trusts my abilities.

"Okay, that seems reasonable enough," Talthran says, a sly grin across his face, "so you want the information to be sent to you once I get it, or shall I deliver it to you in person?"

His reply should be a good judge of what he thinks I'm capable of. It's also a good way of getting rid of someone who knows too much. Ah, paranoia, how I love and loathe you.

Talthran, as an admission of accepted responsibility, picks up the envelope and places it in his chest pocket without even a second thought about the contents. It wasn't addressed to him after all, and that level of curiosity he happily left with his childhood. He lets his fingers caress the paper as it slips into his pocket. A heavy vellum envelope with soft edges, delicate texture but the firmness of the parchment inside gives it a distinct weight and density. Committing it to memory would serve him well, perhaps.

The second glance he gives belongs to the letter of credit. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. And this little thing could get me out of that dank place I have to call a home. Talthran folds it neatly in half, wondering if his hands show the internal tremble that shakes his thoughts.

"And a few questions about Jerix. Is he likely to expect someone calling asking for a disembodied warforged head without asking questions himself? It may be outlawed to forge a living construct but not many people dealing with these kinds of things are willing to give the benefit of the doubt when you go asking for parts. Does anyone else know of this little toy of ours, or might want to get their hands on it? Is there any specified time constraints with this vacation, and is there any preferred method of travel? Lightning rail is likely to cost half of my advance but get me there in a matter of days, whereas other methods may be cheaper or faster. That or perhaps you may arrange a teleport on my behalf, but I assume that may be out of the question."

Whatever the answers to the questions wouldn't sway Talthran's determination to learn more about Tovan's plans, and how they would benefit his own ideas. The answers would just mean how he goes about it. He just hopes his excitement isn't too evident, or that would shatter the illusion of confidence he had been attempting to weave.

[Nerd-o-rama]

"Deliver it in person, please," Tovan says, as if expecting any other answer was silly. "Neither Sivis nor Orien can be trusted entirely, and frankly, long-range communication is even less reliable that trying to rig up a teleportation effect," he explains.

"As for your other questions," he continues, leaning back, "I've been unable to contact Jerix directly or through normal business channels. He shouldn't be too surprised or violent to hear someone asking about a 'Cyran artifact' when you track him down, though - phrase it like that, and he's sure to answer."

"As for time frame...well, I'm a patient man. Use your advance as you see fit; I'm unable to give you any further resources except official vacation from your normal duties. Just remember I won't live nearly as long as you do, eh?" he says with a smile he probably thinks is charming.

"Anything else?"