The cultist looks around at those arrayed around him. He is bound to a chair, unharmed due to the magic that laid him low. Maybe 21 years old, leaky grey eyes, snotty nose and pale skin. The governor confers with Escobert the Red in the corner. There are several guards in the room, barely restraining themselves from harming this young idiot that was part of the raid on their fair city.
Scribe approaches the lad slowly with his hands out in a non-threatening manner. He has deep calluses on his writing hand as well as ink stains, something that you probably never noticed before. He says to the boy in a low voice only meant for him and possibly the other heroes standing nearby:
“The others that attacked us didn’t get the chance you’re getting. We’re not even here for you. Just tell me what the dragon cult is doing here in Greenest so I can tell the others and we can all go our separate ways. Quick though; I don’t know how much time we have…”
The boy, Ashant is his name you later learn, looks hard into Scribe‘s earnest eyes. A moment passes, then tears well up and he explodes in a fit of sobbing.
“I don’t know why I am here! I joined the cult after I ran away from home a year ago. My da was a fisherman and used to beat me, one day I hit him and ran. The cult has been my only home since. I just want to go home, I never hurt anyone in the raid I swear I just ran around and stood by and watched.”
He continues to sob and tell his story. Here is what you learn:
He is a member of the Cult of the Dragon. They are collecting loot “for the great hoard that will usher in the reign of the Queen of the Dragons”. The leader of the raid is Frulam Mondath, female cleric. The cult has a clutch of dragon eggs under heavy guard in a cave at their camp. Upper-level cult members are referred to as Wearers of Purple. Frulam is one such. There is another leader type often at her right hand but the boy has been too scared even to look at him. He is large, wears blue and has a temper. He thinks the raid will last through the night until they have amassed enough loot.
The room is still and quiet as the cultist boy’s tale of woe comes to a close, not even the commotion outside can be heard down here. Still sniffling, his dirty face streaked by drying tears, the boy’s gaze lies fixed and unmoving on the rough-hewn stone floor.
His gaze pinned low by the weight of his heavy heart…. the metaphor comes quickly to Scribe; his thoughts already on the proper re-telling of this tale…
It is dawn and the city of Greenest lays quiet, smoking and broken in front of you. All around look exhausted, covered in grime and soot from fighting fires, blood from fighting enemies and tears from mourning loved ones. You have done what you could to help and are considered heroes by many present, this you can tell by the look in their eyes and their hushed whispers when you pass them.
Governor Nighthill visits Luther where he is receiving Foluwa‘s ministrations in his own private chambers. He silently presses two potions into Foluwa‘s hand and mumbles something about his private stock (2 healing potions).
“A brave thing he did, that boy. A brave thing” he mutters. He then looks at all of you, one by one, gaze lingering on each for a few moments.
“All of you, well done. I don’t know where you came from, but the gods could not have chosen a better time. Yes, we have lost much. But we sincerely thank you for your help. Now I must beseech you all to rest. Use these rooms if need be. In the morning I have a proposal to discuss with you.”