"It's like a bad joke, a dwarf lord and a fat noble are tied to a gnome girl..."
"Har har, Garthur." Vick's rejoinder was punctuated by the impact of a steel gauntlet against a mailed shoulder.
"My Lords, just because they can't see us doesn't mean they can't hear us," Farangalia's voice piped up, high and shrill.
"Are you sure we have to be tied together?"
"For now, Lord Varonne. My spell only shields you from view out to a certain distance, and you two already almost wandered off six or seven times on the way down here."
"Hey, you three," Alan hissed from the mouth of the alleyway. "This is an infiltration, not a party. Be quiet, please!"
"But isn't it a party too? I mean we're technically a party bent on infiltration."
Alan and Daphne both face palmed at the gnome woman's words. Casting aside imaginings of how far he could punt Farangalia, the rogue finally cleared his throat and spoke in a stern, but quiet tone, "Alright, here's the basic plan. There's an entrance through the sewers, but we need to minimize escapes while we clear the place out." He gestured out of the darkened alley they crouched in, toward the structure that housed the thieves' guild.
It was the largest of the guild's safe-houses, and served as de facto guildhall since the destruction of the old guildhall by the forces of Jaron Daar. A mansion that would be the envy of any of the merchant league, tucked into one of the most bustling parts of the city, the structure dominated the corner at the intersection of Winston Street and Old Vineyard Lane. It was a tall, brooding building of gray brick and tan plaster, with wood framing the upper two stories. The roof had recently been re-shingled with red tiles, and the windows on all floors were of darkened glass. An eight foot iron fence and a brief, truncated yard separated the building from the street and its nearest neighbors alike.
"So here's what I think the best plan of action is. Daphne, you get up top unseen, watch the rear of the building for anyone who comes out. Feel free to pick off stragglers."
When the stunning elf maid nodded to his words, Alan continued, "Vick, Garthur, uhm... Gnome, you three watch the front, get close as you wish while invisible, but keep in mind there may be folk outside or just inside that you can't necessarily spot. They'll be able to hear you. If folk start fleeing in force, engage them. Meanwhile, I'll head down to the sewers and come up through the secret entrance. That'll put me near the front of the building. I'll come open the door, then you three can come in and start clearing out the ground floor, while I head back to open the rear door for Daphne. Daphne and I will sweep from the back, we'll all meet near the grand foyer, and head up together."
Of course he couldn't see any nodding or other expressions, so he asked "Is that acceptable?"
"You told us to be quiet," Farangalia piped up.
Visions of backhanding the gnome woman swam in Alan's head, before he just let out a heavy sigh, "Well?"
"Sounds good, boy," Garthur sounded almost jovial, "It feels good to be back in action again."
"Just like old times," Vick concurred.
Alan offered a smile, then looked back to Daphne. The elven woman slipped her long nailed hand up, and traced his cheek with her cool fingertips. "Good hunting." She purred the words out, and her tongue played over those pouty lips. And then, she was off. She seemed to fade back into the shadows, then vanished into mist.
With her on the way, Alan nodded to where the rest presumably were, before he took off himself. He had nothing so impressive as a misty form, just his own two feet. Those feet, however, were well practiced in the art of stealth, and he moved easily and silently down toward the nearest grate cover to the sewer. The things were usually heavy enough to require two men to lift, but as he hooked one hand through the metal cover's handle, Alan was pleasantly surprised to find it was still as accessible as ever. Long ago, the guild had modified these things for easy access, and no one had seen fit to make it more difficult to remove. With the lid popped, the old rogue descended into the sewers.
The tunnels below were as dark as ever. The darkness and rank smell was the least of Alan's worries, however. Brick walls seemed to close in on all sides, and the ceiling was low enough to require a constant ducking. A river of vile fluid coursed down the center of the circular passage, and it was all Alan could do to avoid treading in it. Distant squeaking and splashing echoed down the brick-lined passages, but thankfully no human sounds reached his ears.
The darkness ahead was impenetrable, and while Alan knew the route by heart even after all those years, he couldn't count on the traps having remained the same. A moment later, and a torch was produced from his pack and lit. The flame sputtered and flared occasionally in the poor quality air within those sewers. Still, the flickering glow was better than nothing, and he made his way carefully down that passage.
What was only a few dozen yards and a few intersections could easily turn deadly to a careless explorer, but Alan was expecting the place to be rigged. He proceeded slowly, keen eyes roaming the dark, stained brickwork. A loose stone to be avoided here, a hair thin tripwire there, Alan was thankful he'd chosen to go this route alone. With the others tagging along, he would have had to stop to disable each trigger in turn, rather than simply step past. Past experience had taught him that dwarves and men in armor seemed to stumble into every thing left in their path.
Then there were the rats. Most of them fled before Alan's footsteps and the sputtering, flickering flame of his torch as it struggled to burn against the foul air. As he neared that stretch of brickwork where he'd have to start looking for that telltale crack in the masonry that marked the entrance he sought, two large black rats refused to retreat before him. The sleek, well fed creatures simply watched as he approached. Cursing under his breath, Alan waved his torch toward them, but only managed to almost douse the flame. The rats seemed supremely unimpressed.
Conscious of the need for haste, and wary of making too much noise, the old rogue turned his back to the rats and studied the damp bricks before him. There was the crack in the mortar, as he remembered, but someone in those passing years had outlined it in chalk. As he muttered about the laziness of youth, Alan drew his fingers along the crevice, toward that single brick he remembered so well.
With a faint click, and a slight grinding, the wall began to pivot inward. Alan hoped the noise would scare the rats away. The beasts had unnerved him ever since the prior night. As the brick wall swung inward, revealing the brief, darkened passage beyond, the memory swam in his head, of the battle with the rat man and the thugs in the street. His eyes shot wide as the realization of what those rats could be finally hit him, and he half turned to illuminate the empty spot where the rats had been with his torch.
It was this sudden movement that saved him, for a crossbow bolt whistled out of the dark passage just revealed, and slammed into his shoulder. If he hadn't turned, it would have buried itself in his chest. Still, while the wound wasn't immediately fatal, it very nearly crippled Alan's sword arm. His torch tumbled to the ground, where it lay, fortunately not extinguished. As he ducked to the cover of the brick wall, within the secret passage a strange and unwholesome figure was illumined from below by the weird flicker and glow of the grounded torch. Like the previous evening, the sight before Alan was a twisted amalgamation of man and beast, a furry humanoid figure with claws, an over-broad chest, a long tail, and a ratlike snout.
Cursing, Alan dropped his good hand to draw the silver dagger strapped to his thigh. After last night's encounter, they'd all taken precautions, but it looked woefully inadequate based on what he now faced. The pain of the bolt penetrating flesh and bone was agonizing, and it was all he could do to keep from passing out at each accidental movement of his shoulder. If he lost it now, however, he'd be dead and his wife would be condemned to whatever her captors had planned.
He could hear the wererat approaching, but it was moving slowly, no doubt fully aware he wasn't dead from that shot. With his options limited, Alan began to back down that sewer tunnel. With the silver dagger clutched in a white knuckle grip in his off hand, he gritted his teeth against the pain blossoming from his wounded shoulder. Forcibly, he struggled to fish a glass vial from his belt with that arm, even as blood coursed down his wounded limb.
As soon as the black-furred rat man rounded the corner, Alan flung that vial weakly forward. It was a haphazard throw at best, and the forced movement of that wounded arm brought a pained roar from his own lips. He didn't hit the rat man, but he didn't need to. As soon as the glass impacted the rough brick near the wererat's head, it shattered. The fluid within splashed out in an arc from the point of impact, and where it landed, there was a smoldering sizzling. The wererat cried out in pain as the splash from the acid began to eat into its flesh.
Enraged, the rat man abandoned all pretense of using that crossbow for another shot. It tossed the mechanism to the ground with a noisy clatter, then charged Alan. The old thief ducked under the first swipe of its claw, and pushed past it, causing those jaws to snap on air just where his head had been. The second of the brute's claws impacted his side, sending him into the wall. By the gods' graces alone, its claws didn't manage to penetrate the tough leather that sheathed his form.
