“You look pale.” Bartholomew says matter-of-factly to Gerrick Greystone. The two of them sit huddled alone in the deep sewer tunnels beneath Baldur’s Gate. The lingering stench of filth and rot is overwhelming, but neither man makes reference to it. The drip of sewage water is constant.
“I feel sick.” Gerrick says, his face worried. He looks again at the red welted bite mark on his arm, “Do you think it’s infected?” he says, gesturing to the wound.
“Yes.” Rhum says, “Nevermind the diseased creature that bit you, I can’t for the life of me figure out why you waded through filth to make it worse.” Gerrick’s face reddens in anger.
“I did it to protect you!” he exclaims, barely managing to keep his voice down.
“Whatever the reason,” the cleric says, ignoring the obvious rage boiling over in the dwarf, “you should take better care of yourself.”
“I should take better care of myself?!?” Gerrick’s replies, his voice low and dangerous.
“Yes. That’s what I was saying. How is it you don’t hear me when I speak with ears that big?” Bart says bluntly.
“I hear you just fine!” the dwarf states, the last word coming as a shout, “I’m just surprised that a habitual drunkard, prone to stupidity, would lecture me on taking care of himself!” Bartholomew turns to face the dwarf, his face calm.
“Yes, exactly,” Rhum speaks as if he is unaware that the dwarf has lost his temper, “after all, of the two of us, I believe I am the only one trained in the arts of healing, which means I’m better suited to make that advice.” The cleric shakes his head in disbelief, “…and you call me stupid?” he mutters under his breath. Gerrick’s face has turned purple with rage at this point. He takes a deep shuddering breath.
“By MORADIN!” Greystone bellows his hand falling to his craghammer, “I’ve never been closer to killing you than I am now! I dare you to insult me again, I dare you!” There is a silence that lingers, before Bartholomew opens his mouth, ever so slowly to say something.
“Idiots!” comes the whispered warning of Asturean, as he appears from the shadows ahead of them, returning from his scout mission with Omarlyn and Morpheus, “These tunnels carry sound for leagues; you need to keep your voices down.” Gerrick, his rage beyond measure now, barks incoherent noises, and shoves his way past the elf.
“What’s his problem?” Asturean asks Bartholomew.
“I suspect he doesn’t get enough sleep,” the cleric responds, “he should really take better care of himself.”
Omarlyn and Morpheus move silently up to the dwarf, who appears to be sulking off in a dark corner of the sewer tunnel. Gerrick glances at them then back down the tunnel where the faint sounds of Bartholomew and Asturean approaching can be heard.
“Did you find anything,” the paladin asks, his voice hoarse as he whispers to his two companions.
“Yes,” Omarlyn replies, “a hidden passage that leads to a spiral stair leading even further down.”
“How far underground do you calculate we are, Gerrick?” Morpheus asks.
“We’ve been travelling a steady pace down,” the dwarf answers, and then coughs, his forehead a sheen of sweat in the dim light, “so I make us at least sixty feet below the surface. And this is ancient stonework, here. This place existed long before the Spellplague”
“The stairway looks like it will bring us a further sixty feet straight down.” Morpheus adds.
“Are you alright?” Omarlyn says to Gerrick, “you look unwell.” The dwarf glares at him for a long while, but does not speak. Finally, the rest of the group arrives to witness the awkward silence. Gerrick stares angrily at Bartholomew, but says nothing.
Silently, the group descends into the darkness via the spiral stairs. It seems like they follow the narrow stairway for an eternity, before it finally levels out. Morpheus gestures for the dwarf and cleric to remain at the base of the stairs, while he and the other two members of the party move forward and scout.
The stairway ends in a medium sized stone chamber, but a wide passage seems to extend from this room. Omarlyn, Morpheus, and Asturean creep silently to the edge of the vast hallway and peer down a long wide corridor lined with statues that opens into a massive domed chamber beyond. The chamber beyond is well lit, and in the center is a raised stone platform where four figures speak, though the group is too far to make out the words.
The central figure, the man who is obviously the leader, stands with his back to the three hiding companions. When his face turns slightly, enough that the light reveals his profile, Asturean’s eyes narrow.
“That’s Homfray.”
The three man move back to the stairs and meet up with Bartholomew and Gerrick, who have not spoken to each other the whole time.
“He’s here.” Asturean says to them.
“Has the ritual started?” Batholomew asks.
“It does not appear so,” Morpheus states, “or perhaps we are too late?”
“Remember,” Gerrick coughs roughly, “we need to take the bastard alive.”
