Mousicians… and deceit...

Our party finds itself in a Turkish bath house. Large natural stone-bowls of steaming, clear, bluish-green water dot this underground grotto, with heewn stone floors, walls and ceilings. Lichen line the walls, offering a soft glow throughout the stone maze.

Our party stares dumbfounded as several ladies approach. Too shocked to protest, they soon find themselves being expertly bathed by these exotic beauties, the dust, dirt and grime whisked away before they are rinsed in cool, clear water and then led to either the massage tables, the steam room or the soaking pools. Wine is offered freely, as are small dates and figs on salvers.

Being unfamiliar with the surprises the party has found, Martonis chooses to dress and not lounge about. He is followed by Amaril, Morgan and finally Ooma and Wik. All are pleasantly surprised to discover their belongings have been cleaned, polished, sharpened, repaired, oiled, refined, and restocked. Amaril learns the secret to the glass vase as he sees the lady pour the contents back into the vase and retop it while he is being dressed and chooses to keep this information to himself, sharing it with Wik later.

They are led from the bathing pools to a foyer, or lobby with thick carpeting, festive walls, and large wall sconces burning fragrant candles. Several ornate benches with thick, plush pillows are arranged artfully around the large space, and a few people, with khol-lined eyes, sit, awaiting the giggling-ladies to show them into the pools. The window openings to the outside are heavily draped with brilliant scarves and thick rugs.

Morgan is determined to talk to these people but is thwarted as their language resembles nothing he knows, and yet he has a sense he should.

“The Moors were Muslim inhabitants of the Maghreb, the Iberian Peninsula, Sicily, and Malta during the Middle Ages. The Moors were initially of Berber and Arab descent, though the term was later applied to Africans, Iberian Christian converts to Islam, and people of mixed ancestry. Who in modern times are found sailing the high seas as pirates...”

Opposite the doors into the bathing pools are sixteen-foot high Moorish doors, their ornamentation bright and gaudy. As the party moves towards the doors, smiling and inclining their heads politely as they pass couples, families and individuals, two large, elaborately outfitted men pull back the heavy doors, salaaming our heroes as they exit ...into a wide lobby with a red carpet with tiny gold fleur de leis woven into the deep-red carpeting, flowing luxuriously throughout the space. Turning back, the Moorish doors are already fading into blackness...

Given mere moments to absorb their new surroundings, they are whisked up a wide marble staircase by an animated young lady who is positively glowing with excitement.

“Here you are! Isn’t it exciting? Come now, we’ll have to get you seated before it begins, follow me; follow me.” She turns. “Here you are!” She holds back the curtain to a private balcony with six wide, upholstered seats. She waits for you to enter and settle yourselves before murmuring that, “The Mousicians are already entering the stage!”

As they drink from crystal goblets filled with liquid refreshments the curtain rises, and the orchestra, tiny mice, softly begins their show. Nearly asleep as our heroes wonder when they can leave without attracting unwanted attention, they fidget and peer about the large amphitheatre. Morgan and Ooma, notice mice scurrying along dropping into balconies, unnoticed by the patrons. Morgan notes that the mice have red eyes. Wik sees them racing along the rafters.

A cache of tiny trinkets is found and collected by Martonis, as Morgan points out the trail he sees leading to it. The party then make their way down the stairs and begins filing toward the exit. Wik excuses himself to visit the private loo, returning a few minutes later. “Where is Morgan?” he asks.

Morgan, seeking a different exit, leaves and then locates the party outside, on the long avenue. Undecided as to direction they peer up and down the miles long, straight boulevard.

Wik spots a sign in the distance that only brings more questions. “What’s an Eiffel Tower? Or an Arc de Triomphe?”

Undecided still, the Paige pokes her head out of the Theatre. “Are you lost? I thought you would be at the hotel. They are waiting for you.”

Martonis asks, “Why would they be waiting for us?”

The Paige goes red and stammers, begging them to forget she has said this. Martonis is adamant and wishes to know who is waiting for them.

Reluctantly she murmurs in a low voice, “You saved the child.”

“Lucy?” Ooma asks surprised.

The girls nods, “Please, I do not wish to spoil the surprise.”

“Who is Lucy? Are you sure it is the same one?”

“Oui, Lucy, heir to the throne. She is to be crowned queen.”

A silence envelops our heroes as they digest this information, and then, seemingly all at once deny that they did the deed for gain. “We do this sort of stuff. It’s kinda what we do.”

“Please don’t tell them I mentioned anything,” the Paige pleads.

“Of course not,” the party agrees.

“Your hotel is at the end of this avenue,

As they enter the bed and breakfast, they are greeted cordially, and, because of the late hour they rush the party up the stairs and into individual bedrooms, well appointed with everything royalty would expect! On a sideboard in the sitting room each hero will locate several bottles of fortifications. Morgan, being fond of rum is overjoyed to find three large bottles of the Captain’s stuff sitting beside a large cut-glass tumbler.

Thinking swiftly, he saunters across the hall to Martonis’s room, and, on the pretence of admiring the luxuries afforded them, he eyes the liquor cabinet greedily. Martonis waves his hand, “Help yourself, friend.”

Morgan wastes no time in relieving the board of its stash of three more bottles of rum. Ooma wanders in, “We should get Wik and Amaril and divide that treasure up. Maybe take another look at that vase, ‘eh?”

With Martonis and Morgan in agreement, Ooma knocks on their doors, finding Amaril in Wik’s room. “Come to Martonis’s room, and bring the vase,” she hollers.

When they arrive, Amaril is confronted about the vase. “I don’t have it any more, maybe those bath ladies took it?” he offers weakly.

Martonis challenges him. “I don’t believe you.”

An argument ensues, with Wik being dragged in as Amaril flounders on open sea. Martonis, Ooma and Morgan all disbelieving the tales regarding the loss of the vase and its treasure. “Well, I tell you, I can’t abide those who won’t tell the truth!” Martonis emphatically growls. “I remove my spell of protection from you both and don’t expect any further healing from me in the future!”

Wik laughs, “Don’t expect my help when you need a trap examined.”

Then the party does the worst thing possible. They go to bed angry. This does not seem to bother some, but Martonis is bitter at the fibs and struggles throughout the night listening to an annoying tapping sound, awakening fatigued. Others are perturbed by the wails of some ethereal form or other. Others sleep like dead-fall logs...

Hoping day break brings softer attitudes and clearer reasonings…

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XP: 150 each. (Decided by subtracting, multiplying and dividing all of the choices made...) EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s back story... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week…

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(Click for Video Version)

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anger and greed make poor comforts...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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