In the heart of Alkenstar, nestled among the hustle and bustle of city life, is the Barrel and Bullets Saloon. This rustic establishment, owned by the affable Foebe Dunsmith, serves as a haven for a band of unlikely heroes known as the Outlaws of Alkenstar. In their most recent exploit, they had infiltrated the mansion of the wealthy socialite, Christia Tombend, to retrieve a golden hand telescope, an artifact desired by the notorious Gilded Gunner leader, Sharkosa.
After their daring escapade at Tombend’s manor, the Outlaws found themselves back within the familiar wooden walls of the Barrel and Bullets Saloon. The air was thick with the scent of ale and the hearty laughter that usually filled the space seemed to have quieted down a notch. They were taking a few days to rest, to heal, and to reflect upon the victory they had achieved – a victory that came with its own set of complications.
Foebe Dunsmith, the owner of the saloon and their trusted ally, called them into one of the back rooms. This room, usually reserved for raucous card games and loud, drunken revelries, took on a different atmosphere that day. The usual clinking of glasses and boisterous laughter were replaced by an unsettling silence.
Foebe’s tone, when she spoke, was unlike anything the Outlaws had heard before. Gone was the playful banter, the teasing remarks, replaced by a seriousness that seemed out of place on her usually jovial countenance.
“Take a seat,” she gestured towards the worn-out chairs around a sturdy oak table. Her eyes scanned over the group – Dr. Qwyk, Tychus H. Carver, Miss Mercy, Silas “Silver Bullet” Biskos, and Dr. Cyrus Von Flensing. Each one of them unique in their strengths, each carrying their own burdens.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Foebe began, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.
“We’ve got ourselves in a right mess. With Mugland out of the picture, things are gonna change around here. And not all of it for the better.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. The Outlaws, despite their varied backgrounds and motivations, shared a common understanding. Their actions had disrupted the balance of power in Alkenstar. And they would need to be ready for whatever came next.
In the dimly lit back room of the Barrel and Bullets Saloon, a figure of regal authority waited. Grand Duchess Trietta Ricia sat in poised elegance, her unassuming yet finely crafted attire subtly embroidered with the crest of Alkenstar, a symbol of her high station and the weighty responsibilities that came with it. Her presence was an unexpected surprise for the Outlaws, who were more accustomed to dealing with the underbelly of Alkenstar than its highest echelons of power.
With a nod towards Foebe Dunsmith, the Duchess began to speak. “Agent Dunsmith has kept me abreast of your recent exploits,” she said, her voice carrying the cold clarity of a winter’s night. She paused before uttering a word that sent a shiver through the room – Pyronite. A highly unstable yet potent explosive, Pyronite had become a volatile centerpiece in the ongoing power struggles riddling their city.
“Anjelique Loveless is now involved,” the Duchess continued, her voice steady as a rock amidst a raging storm, “as are agents from the rival factions of Geb and Nex.” The words hung heavy in the air, like a looming thundercloud. Loveless, the corrupt leader of the Shield Marshals, was a known adversary. But the involvement of Geb and Nex hinted at a conflict spiraling far beyond the borders of Alkenstar.
The Duchess’s next words were spoken with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “Pyronite is too powerful for one nation to control,” she declared, her gaze sweeping over the Outlaws. “I believe it should be distributed equally among all nations. To that end, I have begun preparations to disseminate the formula as widely as possible.”
Grand Duchess Trietta Ricia leaned forward, her gaze sweeping over the motley. Her voice echoed in the silence, laden with the gravity of the situation. “If we can locate Loveless and the mages from Geb and Nex, we might be able to halt the spread of Pyronite.”
The Outlaws exchanged glances. Dr. Qwyk, the goblin alchemist and gunslinger, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief, couldn’t resist an interjection. “Does that mean I get to blow things up?” he asked, a hopeful grin spreading across his face.
Tychus H. Carver, the tiefling sorcerer and resident smooth talker, shot Qwyk a playful reprimanding look before turning his attention back to the Duchess. “We’ll need more information,” he said, his tone diplomatic yet firm. “Loveless has been a step ahead of us at every turn.”
The Duchess nodded in understanding. “You should seek out the Vault of Secrets,” she suggested. “It’s said to contain priceless knowledge. It may hold the answers you seek.”
Dr. Qwyk was the first to break the silence. “So, Duchess,” he began, his eyes gleaming with curiosity, “About this Pyronite? Got a recipe for it?” His question, though flippant, held a serious undertone. If they were to face the threat of Pyronite, they needed to understand it.
The Duchess gave him a stern look before responding. “In due time Qwyk.”
Tychus leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “What about Loveless and the Shield Marshals?” he asked. “How deep does their corruption run?”
The Duchess sighed, her gaze dropping to the table. “Not all Shield Marshals are corrupt, but many are,” she admitted. “Those loyal to Loveless often bear a mark – a broken heart tattoo. They are to be treated with caution.”
Silas clenched his mechanical fist. “And what of Geb and Nex?” he pressed. “Are they truly working alongside Loveless?”
“That,” the Duchess said, looking up to meet his gaze, “is something you will need to uncover.”
Miss Mercy frowned. “So, we’re supposed to tiptoe around these corrupt Marshals while digging up dirt on Loveless?” she clarified. “Sounds like a delicate dance.”
The Duchess nodded. “Use whatever means necessary, but try not to harm innocent Marshals. We need them on our side.”
Foebe finally chimed in. “We’ve faced tougher odds,” she said, her voice steady. “We’ll figure this out. We always do.”
The echo of the Grand Duchess’s carriage wheels against cobblestones was still audible to the Outlaws as they huddled around a worn table in Barrel and Bullets Saloon, their makeshift headquarters.
The Duchess’s words hung tantalizingly in the air, her promise of grand rewards for their success – with Qwyk’s remedy possibly becoming Alkenstar’s official health potion – serving as a tempting incentive.
As soon as the Duchess was out of sight, Foebe, spread a map across the table, her face etched with seriousness. “Alright, team,” she began, her voice echoing in the silent room. “Our next destination is the Vault of Secrets.”
Tychus, his tiefling eyes narrowed in concentration, traced his finger along the lines on the map. “So, we’re supposed to infiltrate this place, find dirt on Loveless, and get out alive?” he asked, his tone laced with skepticism.
“Exactly.” Foebe nodded, pointing at a specific spot on the map. “A stagecoach is coming to Alkenstar, heading straight for the vault. It’s guarded by four Shield Marshals. Two of them are most likely Loveless’s men, the others are just paper pushers.”
Silas, his mechanical arm twitching slightly, frowned. “How do we tell the difference?”
Foebe smirked. “Loveless’s men wear broken heart pins or tattoos. Watch out for those.”
Mercy, always in her human form, let out a soft chuckle. “So, we’re playing spies now, are we?”
Dr. Cyrus, inspecting his alchemical crossbow Bertha, looked up. “And we’re supposed to do all this without causing a ruckus?” he asked.
“Exactly,” Foebe confirmed. “The Vault is crawling with Marshals. A fight would be a death wish. Get in, get what you need, and get out.”
The party understood their orders and they made way their way to intercept the stagecoach.
They found themselves on a lightly trafficked street, an ideal location for the ambush they planned.
Biskos, his mechanical arm gleaming under the muted glow of the setting sun, and Cyrus, his eyes glowing with the anticipation of the impending action, took their positions on opposite sides of the street. Their task was simple yet crucial – to push carts behind the stagecoach as it halted due to their makeshift barricade, effectively trapping it.
High above the ground, Qwyk and Tychus were perched on opposing rooftops, their keen eyes scanning the vicinity. Qwyk, his goblin instincts on high alert, fiddled with his guns, while Tychus, the charismatic sorcerer, prepared his spells, ready to unleash them at a moment’s notice.
Mercy, always in her human form, was positioned on the same side of the street as Biskus. Her bardic skills could sway the tide of any situation, and this one was no different.
The rhythmic clopping of horse hooves grew louder, the quiet street soon echoing with the approaching stagecoach. The tension in the air was electric, the calm before the storm, as they waited for the coach to pull up and stop.
The stagecoach came to a halt in front of the barricade, its occupants unaware of the trap they’d walked into.
Biskos and Cyrus, their muscles taut with anticipation, sprang into action as the coach came to a halt. With a swift, coordinated push, they sent the carts rolling behind the coach, boxing it in effectively.
No sooner had the carts locked into place, Qwyk took aim from his rooftop perch. His dueling pistol, a lethal weapon claimed from a fallen Gilded Gunner, glinted ominously under the setting sun. With a sharp intake of breath, he fired at Otto, one of the Shield Marshals guarding the coach. The shot rang out, echoing through the silent street, and found its mark. Otto staggered, a look of shock crossing his face as he was momentarily stunned by the impact.
The air was electric with tension as Qwyk, without missing a beat, quickly reloaded his pistol and fired again, the deafening sound punctuating the silence. The bullet whizzed through the air, its trajectory true, hitting Otto once again.
On the top of the coach, Lillie, another Shield Marshal, retaliated. She pulled out her Jezeil, a long, deadly firearm, and aimed at Miss Mercy. Lillie’s eyes narrowed as she marked her target, her gaze as sharp as the bullet she was about to fire. With a resounding bang, she let loose her shot, and it hit, causing Mercy to flinch.
Otto, recovering from his initial shock, drew his own weapon and marked Tychus for judgement. His eyes were filled with a vengeful determination, but the action had left him winded. He would have to wait for his chance to strike back.
The dusty street of Alkenstar was a battlefield, the air thick with tension and the acrid smell of gunpowder. High atop the stagecoach, Lillie stood resolute, her silhouette stark against the setting sun. She trained her Jezeil on Mercy, took a breath, and then pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing in the still air, and Mercy fell, unconscious, to the ground.
From his vantage point, Tychus watched as Mercy crumpled. His tiefling eyes glowed with an ethereal light as he began weaving a spell, the arcane symbols dancing before him like fireflies in the night. His fingers moved deftly, tracing the intricate patterns of power in the air. He could feel the pull of his magic, the raw energy coursing through him, waiting to be unleashed.
Seeing Mercy fall, Biskos charged towards the coach, his mechanical arm whirring with a life of its own. “For Mercy!” he roared, his voice booming across the square. With a swift movement, he swung his mechanical arm, landing a punch that sent the man on the coach reeling.
Meanwhile, Cyrus was preparing his own attack. He cradled his alchemical crossbow, Bertha, whispering to it as if it were alive. “Sing for me, Bertha,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the chaos. Then, with a smooth, practiced motion, he fired, the bolt crackling with thunder and lightning. It flew straight and true, smashing into Otto with a force that made the Shield Marshal stagger.
The cobblestone street echoed with the sounds of battle – the harsh bark of gunfire, the clatter of hooves, the hiss of spells being cast. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and fear, the metallic tang of blood slowly beginning to permeate the air. The rough texture of the cobblestones, the smooth wood of the coach, the coarse grain of the sandbags – they all added to the sensory overload of the moment.
As the dust and chaos of battle swirled, Tychus stood firm, his eyes glowing with an uncanny light.
He was a conduit for the arcane, his fingers weaving an intricate tapestry in the air. Power surged from him, radiant and blinding, a torrent of energy that swept over Otto. The Shield Marshal stood no chance; in an instant, he was vaporized, his form reduced to nothing more than a wisp of smoke and the faintest echo of a scream.
Qwyk, with a smirk playing on his lips, took aim at Lilly. “Time for your medicine, darling!” he quipped, his voice carrying a note of crude humor. His shot rang out, the sound rebounding off the stone buildings, finding its mark with unerring accuracy. Lilly staggered, surprise flickering across her face.
The moment was ripe for Biskos. His mechanical arm, a marvel of engineering and strength, whirred and clicked as he readied himself. A metallic roar filled the air as he launched his punch. It was a symphony of power and precision, the sound of metal connecting with flesh echoing like a gong through the square. Time seemed to slow as Lilly was sent flying off the top of the stagecoach. Her body twisted in mid-air, a macabre ballet, before she hit the ground with a resounding thud.
Cyrus watched the scene unfold, his crossbow humming with residual energy. They had held their ground well, but there was no time to rest. Alkenstar was unpredictable, and they had to stay vigilant.
The Outlaws found themselves amidst the remnants of their recent skirmish, a scent that was a sickening fusion of burnt flesh and charred metal lingering in the air. Otto’s remains were a grim reminder of the battle, while the Paper Pushers, mere accountants more akin to victims than villains, were quickly bundled away into an abandoned building nearby.
Guided by clockwork horses, they ventured deep into the heart of Steamhaven, entering a colossal warehouse that stood as a testament to Alkenstar’s industrial might. The skeletal steel frame of the warehouse was illuminated by the soft glow of gas lamps, casting long, dancing shadows. Stacks of crates and barrels filled the expansive space, creating a labyrinth of goods and materials, while the air was thick with the smell of oil and metal, the undercurrents of industry ever-present.
Upon arrival at a platform, a chorus of mechanical clicks marked the beginning of their descent. As they sunk into the bowels of the warehouse, Vault 14 came into view. Despite the echo of footsteps from other parts of the building, the team managed to slip into room 14, which revealed itself to be an office.
Loveless’s workspace was structured as a bullpen, her desk facing out towards the others. Tychus stepped into Loveless’s domain, his gaze sweeping over the polished mahogany desk and the high-backed leather chair. Meanwhile, Qwyk, always one for making a statement, shattered one of the windows facing out of the office, the sound of breaking glass echoing through the silent room.
Their search revealed intriguing information – evidence of meetings between Loveless and Christia Townbend, five invitations to a gathering hosted by the same socialite, and a newspaper clipping announcing a public hanging in two days time. The name Rhangyl Foruza stood out in bold print, adding another layer to the mystery they were unravelling.
While they sifted through the findings, Foebe’s words echoed in their minds, a stark reminder of the danger that surrounded them. They were deep within enemy territory, and any misstep could spell disaster.
The tension was palpable as they navigated the treacherous path, aware that the warehouse was teeming with Shield Marshals.
The Outlaws found themselves in the heart of enemy territory, their senses heightened, and their wits about them. Mercy, Biskos, and Cyrus ventured deeper into Vault 14, discovering two private offices down the hall belonging to Loveless’s lieutenants. The trio entered one of the offices, a room that smelled of old parchment and stale coffee.
While Mercy and Biskos rummaged through the room, they stumbled upon a treasure trove of items – an Invisibility rune, a Law Bringer’s lasso, some Lich dust, and explosive ammo. Each item was a testament to the dangerous life Skedra led. Meanwhile, Cyrus found handwritten orders addressed to Skedra. The message was clear, “Locate an associate of Rhanyl Foruza’s, a cattle rustler named Dash.” The words suggested a new puzzle piece in the complex game they were playing.
Back at the front of the office, Tychus and Qwyk were on high alert as they heard approaching footsteps. Acting quickly, Qwyk slipped into hiding while Tychus cast an invisibility spell. Their hearts pounded in their chests as they watched the door open.
A Shield Marshal with a broken heart tattoo inked on his forearm walked in, followed by four others who were clearly not Marshals. They were members of the Leadsmiths, notorious mercenaries known for their detective work. The absence of their cyclops leader was noticeable, but the hobgoblins present were intimidating enough. The Shield Marshal ordered them, “Okay, let’s gather all this stuff and put them in these sacks like Loveless asked, make it snappy ya’ll.”
The newcomers began clearing the place of documents, presumably evidence of corruption within the Shield Marshals organization. Unnoticed by the intruders, Tychus and Qwyk held their breath. Simultaneously, in the other office, Mercy, Biskos, and Cyrus heard the Shield Marshal’s orders. With a shared look of understanding, they quietly pulled the office door shut, readying themselves for whatever came next.
As the Leadsmiths and the Shield Marshal continued their work, Tychus, shrouded by his invisibility spell, slipped past them towards the entrance. With a silent prayer, he closed the door behind him, muffling the sounds of their activities from the rest of the vault. Foebe’s warning echoed in his mind – this was not a fight they could afford to engage in openly.
With the door shut unnoticed, Tychus and Qwyk now held a tactical advantage. Qwyk remained hidden in Loveless’s office, while the Leadsmiths and the Shield Marshal were stationed just outside. Tychus had positioned himself on their other side, ready for action.
Taking the initiative, Qwyk hurled a blight bomb at the group. The toxic chemicals within the bomb were designed to rot flesh upon contact, dealing poison damage and persistent splash damage. At the same time, Tychus let out his cry of destruction, the sonic boom shattering the silence and revealing his location. The battle had begun.
Hearing the commotion, Biskos emerged from the lieutenant’s office, quickly assuming his Tangled Forest stance. His arms extended like gnarled branches, ready to impede any foe attempting to flee. Mercy also darted out of the office, positioning herself in the room next to Tychys.
Cyrus, however, took a more strategic approach. He moved towards the chaos but stopped short, taking cover behind a corner. From there, he fired his crossbow, the bolt crackling with electricity. The thunderstone he’d attached to it added an extra punch, sending a wave of thunder and lightning hurtling towards the unsuspecting target.
The surprise attack had given the Outlaws an edge, but the Leadsmiths were seasoned fighters.
They retaliated instantly, drawing their Blunderbusses and letting loose a hail of scatter shot. The pellets whizzed through the air, striking Mercy, Tychus, and Biskos. Discarding their now empty firearms, the Leadsmiths drew their clubs, ready for close-quarters combat.
The Shield Marshal, identified as Atticus, scolded his companions, his voice filled with contempt. “IDIOTS!” he roared, charging at Qwyk with his longsword drawn. His blade sliced through the air, striking the goblin. It was unclear who Atticus had been calling an idiot, but his focus was now squarely on Qwyk.
In the midst of the chaos, Mercy began her Bard song, her voice resonating with power. She then unleashed a jolt of electricity that crackled through the air, hitting both the Shield Marshal and one of the Leadsmiths. Qwyk retaliated against Atticus, his shot finding its mark in the Shield Marshal’s chest, dropping him to the floor.
One of the Leadsmiths attempted to flee the scene, but Biskos was quick to react. He lashed out at the would-be escapee, disrupting his attempt to flee and then lunging forward, his powerful strike dropping the Leadsmith. Another Leadsmith tried to make a run for it, but Cyrus was hot on his trail. Using his keen knowledge of crossbows, he reloaded while pursuing the fleeing enemy. Just as the Leadsmith reached the door of Vault 14, the air filled with the sound of thunder and lightning. Bertha had spoken, and the Leadsmith fell, taken down by Cyrus’s relentless pursuit.
The last remaining Leadsmith surrendered, but Qwyk was not in a merciful mood. Without a second thought, he ended the Leadsmith’s life, leaving the Outlaws standing victorious amidst the chaos and destruction.
As Qwyk holstered his golden dueling pistol, he glanced up at his companions. Their expressions were a mix of shock and bewilderment, some with mouths agape in disbelief.
“What?” Qwyk queried, his ears flicking between confusion and disappointment like a flag caught in an indecisive breeze. The goblin looked genuinely perplexed by their reactions. “They were trying to kill us!” he exclaimed defensively.
Tychus replied in his characteristic southern drawl, his tone carefully balanced between reprimand and understanding. “Now, Qwyk,” he began, “if we were soldiers fightin’ in a war, you just violated the rules of engagement of every civilized territory on Golarion.” His words were stern, but there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice, a gentle nudge rather than a harsh rebuke.
The rest of the party remained silent, each grappling with their own moral quandaries. Qwyk’s actions had potentially saved them from being discovered by the Shield Marshals, but they had also crossed a line they typically avoided – killing a prisoner who had surrendered. The words of Foebe Dunsmith echoed in their minds, further complicating the morality of the situation.
“Dunsmith said, fighting our way out is suicide! What if he alerted the others?” Qwyk argued, still surprised by the group’s reaction.
“We’re not mad at you, Qwyk,” Tychus reassured, “but let’s see what other options there might be before we start killing prisoners.”
The atmosphere was heavy with tension as the Outlaws grappled with the ethical implications of their actions. Despite the gravity of the situation, they were quick to return to their mission. Cyrus dragged the body of the Leadsmith back inside the door and shut it behind him. Ensuring their tracks were covered, they resumed their search for intel within Vault 14, the Loveless offices.
As the Outlaws concluded their search in the office, they discreetly retreated back onto the platform elevator.
As they ascended to the warehouse level, they could see a patrol of Shield Marshals entering the stagecoach staging area below. Their timing was impeccable; they had narrowly escaped detection.
They quickly made their way back to the Barrel and Bullets Saloon, their chosen sanctuary amidst the chaos of Alkenstar. Foebe Dunsmith welcomed them back, her sharp eyes taking in their expressions. She had been busy gathering information, ready to help them connect the dots.
“Rhangyl Foruza,” she began, her voice steady, “is a boat captain and something of a smuggler. You need goods moved, he can move them.”
The information sparked a lively discussion among the Outlaws. Tychus leaned forward on the table, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And this Rhangyl, he’s got ties with Loveless?”
Foebe nodded, her gaze serious. “Seems like Rhangyl moved some items for Anjelique Loveless, that ruthless Deputy of the Shield Marshals. Once he completed his task, corrupt Marshals concocted a murder and framed him for it. Now, he’s going to be hanged at high noon.”
The news hit the room like a physical blow. Mercy frowned, her fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop. “But what was he moving for Loveless? Could it be something we can use against her?”
Foebe shrugged, her expression turning grim. “No one knows what he was moving. But if you can save him, you might be able to find out.”
The revelation spurred more questions and theories among the group. Cyrus, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, pondered aloud, “We need a plan then, a good one, to get him out of that noose.”
Biskos nodded in agreement, his mechanical arm whirring softly as he clenched his fist. “And we need it fast. High noon isn’t far off.”
Qwyk, ever the pragmatist, chimed in, “Let’s get to work then. Time’s a luxury we don’t have.” The room fell silent, each of them lost in thought, planning their next daring move.
As the Outlaws, with their varied pasts and peculiar talents, stared at the newly minted gallows by the Docks, they understood that a brazen rescue would be akin to dancing on a powder keg. They huddled in the shadows, their minds spinning intricate webs of strategy.
Biskos, his mechanical arm catching the moonlight and casting an eerie glow, gestured towards the looming gallows. “That contraption looks like it can bear the weight of a mountain,” he rumbled, his voice a low rumble echoing off the silent harbor.
Cyrus, ever the nimble-minded dhampir, latched onto his words. His eyes twinkled with a predatory gleam as he responded, his voice laced with mischief, “Indeed it does, but perhaps we could… recalibrate it, so it cannot.”
Qwyk, the goblin with a silver tongue and a knack for alchemy, couldn’t suppress a toothy grin at the idea. “I reckon I could tinker something up,” he piped up, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Let’s revisit this place when the stars are our only witnesses.”
As the skeleton of a plan began to form, Tychus and Mercy exchanged a glance, their shared understanding as silent as the night around them. “Tomorrow,” Tychus proposed, the ‘H’ in his name standing for ‘hopeful’ in that moment, “before they parade Rhangyl out, I can work my magic on the crowd. Enthrall could turn even the Shield Marshals into puppets.”
Mercy, her kitsune eyes gleaming with determination, added her piece. “As long as we don’t show our hand too soon, anyone who is enthralled, stays that way.” Their voices harmonized in a solemn pledge, “That’s when we strike.”
“I can probably rustle up some invisibility potions,” Qwyk offered, his voice steady as a drumbeat, brimming with resolve. His eyes glowed with a determined fire in the dim light. “I’ve got some ties to the Powderkeg Punks in the city’s underbelly who owe me a favor or two.” He had a bargaining chip up his sleeve – the coveted Alkenstar Ice wine, a rare vintage that could buy the loyalties of even the most hardened criminals.
As the cloak of nightfall draped itself over the city, Qwyk, armed with his tools and expertise, found himself back at the gallows. The solitary Shield Marshal on duty was blissfully unaware of the goblin’s sabotage. Under the veil of darkness, Qwyk’s nimble fingers worked their magic, manipulating the structure of the gallows and the platform. He rigged it cleverly to collapse then catch fire under any weight exceeding 300 lbs.
With the moon as his silent accomplice, Qwyk slinked back into the shadows. The first step of their audacious plan had been flawlessly executed.
The following day, the motley crew of Outlaws made their way through the bustling square, the atmosphere was a curious mix of everyday life and grim anticipation. Street vendors shouted over the din, peddling skewers of sizzling meat and cups of sweet, sticky pastries to the gathering crowd. The execution was becoming a spectacle, an event that drew onlookers like moths to a flame.
A coach arrived, flanked by six steel-faced Shield Marshals. The executioner unrolled a parchment, his voice booming as he read out the charges and the impending punishment. All eyes turned to the condemned man being led towards the gallows – Captain Rhangyl Foruza, his face a mask of resigned dignity.
Tychus moved center stage, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp air, his chest swelling under the worn fabric of his coat. His voice, when he spoke, was soothing, the practiced cadence of a seasoned pastor that filled the square with a hush of anticipation.
“Fellow citizens,” he began, his words rolling off his tongue like a melody. The crowd’s chatter ebbed away, replaced by a palpable silence hanging heavy in the air. “We find ourselves gathered here not in joyous celebration, but in solemn contemplation.”
His gaze swept over the faces before him, each one a canvas of curiosity and apprehension. He could see the Shield Marshals too, their stern expressions softening under the weight of his words. “Contemplation of what justice truly means,” he continued, “And the inherent value of a single life in this vast universe of ours.”
Every syllable was laced with an unspoken plea, every pause filled with loaded silence. His voice echoed through the open square, reverberating off the stone buildings that lined the streets. It was a sermon not of faith, but of humanity, of the shared bond that connected every soul standing there.
As Tychus’s words wove their magic, the crowd was drawn into his oratory web, captivated by the tiefling sorcerer’s eloquent speech. Even the Shield Marshals, trained to remain stoic and impassive, found themselves swayed by his compelling narrative.
However, one Marshal noticed his comrades’ strange fixation on Tychus’s sermon and grew suspicious. But before he could act, the gallows exploded into chaos. As a Marshal stepped onto the platform with Rhangyl, it collapsed under them, splintering into a thousand pieces.
In the ensuing confusion, Cyrus downed his invisibility potion. A stray shot from a Shield Marshal clipped him, but he powered through the pain, rushing onto the remnants of the stage to slip another invisibility potion to Rhangyl.
As they melted into the crowd, the Enthrall spell held. The Shield Marshals and the onlookers remained entranced, almost blissfully unaware of the stage’s destruction and the escape that had just occurred right under their noses.
Then, as if on cue, the Powderkeg Punks barged onto the scene, adding to the pandemonium. They sowed chaos amongst the Shield Marshals, ensuring an easy escape for the Outlaws and the man who was meant to face his end on that ill-fated gallows.
The Outlaws retreated to the familiar confines of the Barrel and Bullet, the din of clinking glasses and murmured conversations a comforting backdrop to their clandestine meeting.
Rhangyl Foruza, now a free man thanks to their efforts, was waiting for them. His expression held no surprise when they mentioned Loveless.
In the dimly lit backroom, the aroma of aged whiskey mingled with the faint scent of gunpowder, a reminder of their recent exploits. Foebe Dunsmith was present as well, her stern gaze softened by a hint of gratitude.
“She and a wizard named Ibrium from Nex,” Rhangyl began, leaning back in his chair. “They hired me to transport some chemicals – soda ash, white salt. Delivered a hefty amount to a rustler named Dash in Steamhaven’s cattle yards. But once the job was done, I got framed for murder.”
He paused, glancing around at the crew of Outlaws. “My riverboat’s been confiscated, but I reckon I can get it out. And if you ever need a hand, I owe you one.”
Silas nodded in acknowledgment. “We appreciate your offer, Rhangyl. We might just take you up on that.”
Dr. Qwyk, chimed in, his bright eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just make sure that boat of yours is stocked with good booze, eh?”
A ripple of laughter echoed through the room, easing the tension. Miss Mercy raised her glass in a toast. “To new allies and unexpected turns.”
Foebe’s gaze swept over them all, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And to the Outlaws of Alkenstar,” she added, raising her own glass. “May you always stay one step ahead.”
The Outlaws, tucked away in their headquarters at the Barrel and Bullet, were deep in lively discussion. The topic? Fashion choices for an art exhibit they planned to infiltrate, hosted by the socialite Christia Tombend.
Qwyk held up a frilly cravat, his goblin eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you think?” He asked, twirling it around his finger.
Tychus snorted, trying to hide his amusement. “I think it’s perfect for you, Qwyk.”
Across the room, Mercy was giggling as she sifted through various dresses, her eyes twinkling when they landed on a particularly extravagant one. “Cyrus,” she called out, holding up the dress. “I found the perfect one for you!”
Cyrus, busy inspecting his crossbow, looked up with a smirk. “Very funny, Mercy.”
Once they’d finally settled on what to wear, they donned their hats of disguise and rings of discretion, their armor and weapons disappearing beneath the illusion of ordinary clothes. They left for the art exhibit, their identities concealed beneath a veneer of high society elegance.
Stepping into the skyscraper, the Outlaws made good use of their hats of disguise to further modify their appearances. Among the familiar faces was TanQuira, the artist they had crossed paths with on the airship, as well as Irving, a man whose name the group recognized from Tombend’s black book, where he was rated a paltry 2 out of 10.
Mercy, ever the quick-witted bard, found the situation too tempting to pass up.
With an impish gleam in her eyes, she sidled up to Irving, her voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Irving, dear,” she began, her tone light and teasing, “I must say, it’s quite impressive how you still manage to stand out in such esteemed company, despite… well, you know.”
Irving blinked, his expression puzzled. “Despite what?” he asked, missing the insinuation completely.
“Oh, nothing much,” Mercy replied with an innocent shrug, her eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s just that not everyone can pull off being a ‘two’ with such panache.”
The rest of the Outlaws, privy to the joke, had to suppress their laughter. The poor man remained oblivious, only adding to their amusement. It was moments like these – filled with camaraderie and shared laughter – that reminded them why they stuck together, despite the danger and uncertainty of their adventures.
As they stepped out of the elevator, they were met with a sight to behold. The ballroom was grand, its crystal chandeliers casting a soft glow over the crowd. Two dozen sculptures, a blend of mechanical and natural designs, were strategically placed around the room. A banquet table, covered in delicate foods and drinks, served as a tantalizing centerpiece. The room was filled with the city’s elite, their laughter and conversations creating a lively hum.
Among the crowd, a dozen or so Leadsmiths stood out, their Hobgoblin frames hard to miss. Their leader, a hulking Cyclops gunslinger, was an imposing presence amidst the opulence.
The Outlaws blended seamlessly into the crowd, their eyes alert and senses attuned to any hint of Loveless’s dealings. As they moved through the room, the tension was palpable beneath the surface of their casual banter and laughter, the danger lurking just out of sight. And yet, the Outlaws were ready, their determination unwavering. After all, they had a reputation to uphold – one of victory against all odds.
