Café de Nuit

The Beached Alligator Inn:

The Beached Alligator Inn is possibly the finest establishment of its sort in all of Marais de Tarascon. Set at the town's main street, it is a wooden building with three stories, a veritable giant among its neighbours. The quality of its construction certainly rivalled the manor houses held by the Sieurs, the noble class of Souragne, but it lacked the vicious guard dogs and spiky fences common to such constructions.

Barely did you arrive at its threshold, all tattered, bloodied and stained with sweat, grime and worse, or servants hurried outside to relieve you of your burdens and offered you cups of tea. While the beverage was not chilled, it was marvelously refreshing.

The Innkeeper checked you all in without batting an eye at the state of you. For payment up front, she offered you replacement clothing and promised to have her seamstress work around the clock so your own attire would be restored to something fit to be worn by dawn. Each of you was given a room key, a clean robe of white wool with sandals, and an invitation to dinner in the common room at six o'clock precisely. Waiting in each room was not only a bed with a down mattress and linen sheets, but also a porcelain tub with a thick, fluffy towel. And a large bag of fine, white sand.

Even such a fine establishment as the Beached Alligator can not afford to waste water on baths anymore. The sand is very efficient at its job of cleaning you, but those who partake of it feel a bit scraped afterwards, and getting all of it off your skin is a chore.
After the bath, you are all visited by the Inn's healer, who checks and binds your wounds, and provides a much-needed massage to stiffened muscles.
The meal of the evening more than makes up for this transient discomfort, however; the common room is a grand room that could easily sit fifty or even sixty people in complete comfort, but seeing as there are a mere twenty other guests besides yourselves, it is even more spacious and luxurious. Hanging over a dark fireplace is the beast the Inn is named after; an alligator the size of any two horses you might like to name, the killing wounds that brought it low neatly hidden, its eye-sockets filled with amber-coloured marbles and its body stuffed and mounted.
Tonight's meal starts with a delightful soup, spiced with preserved herbs from the swamp. The main course is wild boar with apricots. A comprehensive cheese platter rounds out the meal. Three different wines are served; a sweet Borcan white for the entrée, a thick Barovian red for the main course, and a fine Dementlieuse port with the cheese. It is not much of a surprise that the bag of gold Warden Sarosse gave you for your stay is already half depleted at this point, but it is surely worth it.

You can feel yourselves relaxing as the clock set in the alligator's mouth ticks away the hours. A native girl sets up a large harp on a stage in the common room's corner and starts to play a soothing tune. You have some time to yourselves, time to talk, to plan.
______________________________________________________________________________

Elsewhere:

"You are an idiot."

The figure lying on the floor did not reply. It tried, but it was choking too badly to make intelligible noises. Choking, and whimpering from the pain of vicious burn wounds all over its body.

"All that expense, a complete waste. We have nothing to show for it, and worse, the fools will now believe they actually stand a chance against my works! You are useless. I should simply let you die."

"That would be a waste in itself, Master," a slight figure in the corner of the dark, rough-walled room said.

"Explain."

"Who must replace him in Port d'Elhour, Master? You? Me? One of the Failures? Their desires, their lusts are too strong. If they are left unsupervised for too long, they will run wild and cause even greater damage to your plans. Master."

The first speaker considered for a very brief moment. "You have reached the end of my patience," he informed the twitching figure on the floor. "Do not fail me again." To the second speaker, he said two words: "Fix him." Without waiting to see whether his orders were obeyed, the first speaker left the room. Black-clad figures, their faces hidden behind hoods, cowered away from him. Monstrous abominations, blasphemous mixtures of man and beast, mewled and ground their faces into the dirt at his feet. Grey-skinned, metal-clawed monsters stood silent, their stitched eyes following his passage.

The second speaker approached the figure on the ground and seized his head by the hair. With a cruel wrench, the second speaker lifted the wounded being's head so their eyes could meet. "So?" the speaker said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The wounded creature shuddered and cried out, its limbs drumming against the stone floor. Its whole body shook as if in the grip of an epilectic seizure, but when the tremor passed, its body was whole again, and it was no longer choking.

"The first Failure was a fair match for the Guardian," the once-wounded being gasped. "If not for that bit of trickery that stole my breath, we could have made meat of that old man together! The mercenaries -- they are strong, as I surmised. It will be well to let them build themselves up, to let them loom large in the eyes of the chattel." A cruel smile curved the once-wounded being's lips. "One Failure for each of them should do. When we display their dismembered corpses for all to see, then will the Master know the true meaning of sowing fear and despair."

"Excellent," the second speaker replied. With sudden gentleness, she helped the once-wounded to lie on his back and smoothed back his hair. "Rest a while. The Healing takes some of your strength, but it will return shortly. I will go to see what the Master plans next. You rest. I will come get you before the twelfth bell and take you to your other duties."

The second speaker left the room. Black-clad and hooded beings and hideous hybrids both bowed low to the creature as it passed, but the grey-skinned stood even more still than they had for the first speaker. They did not acknowledge this second being at all.

All alone in the chamber with walls and floor of unworked stone, the once-wounded, the third speaker, lay still. Only once he was certain that the second speaker was gone did he smile. "You, also, will yet learn the proper meaning of sowing fear and despair," he whispered, too softly for any of the troops waiting to hear. "You both will - in Her name!"

Goren marvels at the Inn. He is not accustomed to the architecture. Waterdeep has a different architecture. It is refreshing to
see something different. This place is new to him as well. The priest has never traveled much, and this Souragne appears to be a tropical island. This raises the question as to why he doesn't feel the heat. Everyone else seems to be sweating and he hasn't broken a sweat. Something else he wonders about is the results of his spells. The water spell failed miserably and he heard the distinct sound of thunder
coming from the swamp. His ineffectiveness against the undead was something else he wonders about. And he seemed to power the undead which is wrong.

His other spell brought forth the thunder as well, again from the swamp. The odd stone doesn't bother him in as much as he was unsure of its purpose. Blood making it sizzle was nothing natural. Did it have some strange connection to their foe? He is beginning to wonder if the swamp is important to the land. He is curious as to why Zumba is wary of the stone and praises the Maiden of the Swamp? Who is that? And why was he told there were no elves here. That child definitely has pointy ears like and elf and the hands are webbed. Shrugging, he finishes getting the last of the sand off of his body and dons his clothing.

Exiting his room, he closes the door, not locking it. He has no belongings to speak of except for his mace. He must remember to thank Sarosse for the room and offer to pay for it through services rendered. He descends the stairs and enters the dining hall. Spotting the others at a table he joins them, sitting.

After cleaning himself with the sand and thoroughly making sure he removed all the sand, Vincent goes down to the dining hall. It felt like hours of cleaning. Foruntaly he could arrange some new clothes while his new ones were being made. Even though the sand does clean, he does not feel clean like a nice hot warm bath would. His perfume should mask the natural smell that couldn't be washed off. His signet ring is hanging from the chain around his neck and even a new handkerchief has found a way on his proper.

Coming down into the dining hall he feels relieved and orders a glass of wine while he sits at the table, nodding his head and smiling as a greeting to the other people in the room. A wink here and there to some female customers. This should be a nice interesting evening after all the events.

He takes some sips of his red wine and gestures to Goren to come and sit. He smiles and looks relaxed as if in his element.
"Good evening" he says to Goren. "I wonder, if I may ask, where do you normally sleep if not attended by someone else's charity?" He gestures the servant and orders a glass of wine for Goren not asking if he wants to.

Goren nods to Vincent. As he sits, he waves away the glass of wine. Keeping a straight face he faces the man. "I do not drinking wine, it is addling my thoughts, Vincent." He taps his head and pushes away the glass even if the waiter insists.

He frowns at the mention of charity. "I accept this charity, yes, you are in the right. However, I own no possessions, care not for my personal wealthiness. I care not for my clothing or wealth as you seem to doing for yourself. I taken a vow, as I stated earlier if you was being listen. I chose to help others in need. I have no needing of wealth or possessions. Looking me. I have mace and clothing on my back. Maybe for you is important having coins and possessions, but I no judge you or suggest anything as you have for me."

Goren shrugs and looks around, curious about the architecture and construction of the Inn. "I am not in the meaning to offend you, Vincent. I just say what I is thinking. I have in fact found coins and being offered coins in the past. Mine vow is poverty, so I give to those who is needing. If we find any values together, our group, and we share? I am giving mine share to the people who is needing this. Now, do you know about Souragne? What can you tell me? What is wrong with dryness?"

Zumba cleans up with the sand, not a stranger to that process at all. It brings back memories of when there were no luxuries as bath tubs in his life. Usually, not even sand. He evokes the fraughtful images of 20 people huddled in a cabin, suffering from the lash wounds that day had brought, and trying to sleep away the pain, and gain forces for the endless work of the following day.
No bath tubs there... he washed the images away from his mind, trying to forget the memroies of the unbearable smell that came with them.

He sat on the bed for a while looking at the wall in front of him. He had never had such a luxurious bedroom, not even when he was abroad. Somehow, he almost felt like betraying his kin for being in an inn so much decorated like the houses of the plantation owners. But quickly he dismissed the thought
best make the most of it while I can, tomorrow I can be dead

He focused, inwardly for a long while. In a calm, steady posture, his eyes closed, he sought peace inside his mind and the harnessing of all his strength for the next day. Through his training, he had learned to muster his will and control his strength. And the events of the last days had brought a new awakening in him. He felt like he was discovering something new, and in a long pause of meditation and self-reflexion, he sought to awaken a new conscience inside. There was something in there, something he felt like he could reach soon but not just yet. He got up and threw a punch in the air, and somehow felt more powerful and quicker. He flexed his arms, content and more confident. He finally dressed the new tunic that the innkeeper had provided for him. It was not much to his liking, it hampered his movements too much in a fight. Wide trousers were his favourite, tunics just got in the way. But for the sake of decency, he dressed it and calmly descended to the common room, determined to take in the pleasures of the night.

Vincent listens to Goren story and sees him reject the wine. A small laugh escapes his lips as he listens. He takes another few sips from the wine.
"If you won't share a drink with me, then I do hope mister Zumba would like to" he says looking past Goren to Zumba gesturing him to let him know where they are sitting. He turns his attention back to the red haired priest sitting in front of him.
"As for not offending me" he says and pauses as if thinking "don't worry about that" he waves dismissevly "it takes more than 'telling what you think' and avoiding the actual question to offend me." he smiles. "The wine on the other hand......" his face contorts a little. "Means more for us others." he says laughing.
"Well, to answer your questions. I haven't got the faintest clue my dear man. This is my first time in this heatpacked country and it's the first time ever that I have been confronted by such dryness and mystery around it, besides the church running out of wine." He pauses for a moment. "What I do know about Souragne is its export products and manufacturing. Actually, that sounds impressive, but I don't know much about that either. Cotton & slavery are Souragne's most prized products." he says "Although they don't like to share their slaves much." he adds with a hint of sarcasm.

Zumba reaches the table where Goren and Vincent are seated at, and luckily misses Vincent's last words. He sits confidently, eyes the wine on the table.

"At last, it's good to relax a bit now" he says. "Any plans for tonight? We don't know how long we have to stay here before something happens so I guess we can rest for a while, no?"

Lucien finds himself relaxing completely under the ministrations of the healer, and he allows himself to enjoy the relative luxury of the inn. I shall have to thank Warden Sarosse for her generosity. Is that ALL you'd like to do to her, Lucien? Be quiet. Besides, encouraging distraction is clearly not part of your duties. I wonder what your new friends think? I could talk to-- I said, be quiet.

He sees Zumba, Vincent, and Goren in the dining room, a discussion already in progress. He happily partakes of the food and wine as he listens in. "Goren, you speak like someone who truly has not heard of Souragne," he says, with honest curiosity, without a trace of mockery. "Granted, some holy orders encourage cloistered lives, so I suppose that's possible.... I'll do my best to fill in the blanks in your knowledge, although this is my first visit here as well."

He looks at the three of them, appraising them in a way that he would not have been able to a day before. There's something about facing death together that creates a bond. He looks around, checking to see that no one is attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Certainly, we shall face today's enemy again. So it's best that we speak frankly about what we know and what talents we possess -- talents that can help us kill that bastard. And he IS killable. If not for that shadow trickery today, we would have had him."

Zumba acknowledges Lucien's arrival, eating and drinking merrily. Up to then, he had kept away from his mind most of the troubles of the day, but the direction Lucien brought to the conversation made him try to focus on that anew. Still, there was a haze beginning to clout his mind, an oppression due to the wine that he had indulged in. It had been a while since last he allowed himself that, or had had the coin for it.

Biting at his lip, he said a bit louder than caution would advise
"I fight! I can kick anyone in the face and break his chin, that's what!"

Vincent smiles at Zumba's explicit explanation of his prowess.
"We don't know much really" he says "at least........, I don't know much". He takes another sip of his wine, licking his lips as he finishes the glass. "hmmmm".
"Here's what I know or can deduce from what I've seen and heard"
"One, we were hired and work for the church of Ezra"
"Two, we have met this white clad man three times already and he seems to have a special knack of getting away"
"Three, every succesive time we meet him, he has more 'minions' of 'followers' to help him. This would indicate" he says, raising a finger "that we seem to have been written down on a special list".
"Four, Goren has heard the thunder several times now during casting."
"Five, we seem to be in possession of something stony, without knowing what it is."

"These are several points, I assume each has some to add?"

Zumba, regaining his composure, adds more, albeit slowly.


Foul magic... You forgot the foul magic we've seen around. This Homme Broché.... it must be a new Loah, I never heard of him before. And it looks evil, very evil to me...... if you ask me.... it's the Lord of the Dead himself, or the Lord of the Dead fears L'Homme Broché, I don't know.... it's all muddled....
There was this dream I had too... I think he was in it, kind of.... oh, my head hurts.


He rests his head for a while, holding it in his hands. Then abruptly he says again, as if he had suddenly remembered it:


"Ah!, that white man... you noticed he wears the green of Ezra too? And that his sword was one of Ezra? I think they're conected to her too.... Picture this [he says this in a half-serious, half-mocking tone] all Loah in Souragne, good or evil, are now submissive to Ezra! Ezra's priests don't care one bit about the Voodan and at the same time the Voodan want to send the Ezrans away for good. Is it only me, or this doesn't make any sense? Must be the wine..."

Lucien says, "Zumba, yes, I have indeed noticed that our enemy wears the colors of the Ezra clerics. I had thought that he might be a former Anchorite looking for revenge. But as you say, it could be someone who is trying to discredit the Church of Ezra in Souragne by dressing that way.

"Here's what I've observed today:
-- Those zombies, or whatever they were? They were NOT composed of dead flesh. Believe me, I was close enough to smell them, and there was not the typical stench of decay.
-- As we've all seen, divine magic hasn't been effective in dealing with the drought, or with the creatures today. Sometimes it even has a reverse effect. But not ALL divine magic has been twisted. Goren's healing prayers work magnificently. Thank you again, Goren. That would suggest the handiwork of someone with keen knowledge of divine magic, which again points toward a former Anchorite.
-- Those white stones... they're resistant to the acidic bile from those creatures, but are they resistant to ALL liquids?" The thought has just come to him. "Yes! The stone dissolved the bloodstains on my shirt! Could these stones -- planted across Souragne like cursed seeds -- be what's maintaining the drought? We need to examine that stone more closely."

He settles back in his chair and refills the wine glasses of everyone at the table. "After dinner, of course," the half-elf adds with a smile. "As for my background, I'm an investigator for a trading company in the Core. I possess certain talents that help me notice things that others might miss, and other talents that help me deal with problems. And our problem right now, gentlemen, is a vexing one. It would help if we understood the reason. The drought and most of the attacks seem designed to demoralize people, or to force them to renounce authority and flee Souragne. Who would benefit from that?"

Zumba casts the one aside as Lucien speaks. His theory about the stone is intriguing.

"You say that the stone could be drinking not only blood but all humidity? All moist? All water? But that still doesn't explain the unworking magic.

And who would benefit? I can see L'Homme Broché as a cult could be interested in that, but in a way as to not tolerate other religions. We must know if the other Loah have been affected, if their voodan still cast spells as normal.

Anyone could benefit, though... anyone interested in ruling the land for good, that is. But if this is right, then the Lord of the Dead must be greatly annoyed. He is the one that reclaims all the dead in Souragne (that's why we don't bury them until a few days have passed), and we all eventually pray to him. I say, he is the first Loah of all, in a way. So, if this Homme Broché wants the country for him, at least I would say the Lord of the Dead must be his enemy...... I hadn't understood that until you spoke."

A little time passes as you chat. The vicious glare of the summer sun grows orange, then red, then finally starts to dim. This does little to abate the heat, but at least the people outside should be suffering less.

A Souragnien girl comes into the dining hall to set candles in wall sconces and on tables. The girl appears to be shy, and is keeping her head covered with a thin, woollen shawl. You barely catch a glimpse of her face when she places the candle on your table, and she is soon away, all without saying a word.

More of the Beached Alligator's guests come trickling into the hall. Some seem to have dined elsewhere, or else forewent dinner completely. Among them in a young woman whose face bears the mark of Vistana blood so clearly that she might as well be shouting out loud about her heritage. Instead, she wears garb with the simple cut of Souragnien peasant clothing, but made of good material. She is tanned by the sun of this island realm. There is a necklace made of old roots and smooth stones around her neck, and she exchanges a few friendly words in Souragnien with the serving staff moving around the hall before she sits down in a corner and takes a silk-wrapped bundle out of her sleeve.

There is a very sudden hush in the background hum of guests chatting over their dinners when the young giomorgo woman unwraps a bundle of cards and starts laying them on the table in front of her in simple patterns. No one says Tarokka. No one has to. The hum of conversation picks up again, a little louder now, as if people are eager to pretend they never fell quiet.

One of the serving girls brings the half-Vistana a bottle of red wine and a glass and bows herself away without asking for payment. In the corner, the harpist plays on.

Goren observes theresidents with curiosity, but says nothing until the Haf Vistani woman enters the Inn. Chondonthan "Wow..." are the only words that escape his mouth. He then notices how a hush has come over the Inn, but he remarks not for the same reason as he. Curious about the cards and the reaction of the crowd, he rises from his chair, exusing himself.

The priest approaches the womans table. Clearing his throat, he asks Souragnien "Pardoning my intrusion, Misses. I nameing is Goren. Only Goren. Might I be inviting to sit at your table to seat?"