A Comedy of Errors, a Tragedy of Fate

Faking Menir's Death

We've All Had Weekends Like This

Any plan involving chicken blood, a drunk, and riderless wagon has to work. It just has to.

Menir stumbled home from the Golden Rose, reeking of wine and something else that might have been garlic. While the cleric, the wizard, and barbarian hid inside his home, the rogue, the bard, and the warlock guarded the wagon. It was a fool proof plan. The wagon, loaded down with bolts of various fabrics, along with random crates and barrels from a recently robbed warehouse, provided a convincing disguise. They were a group of 6 interior decorators leaving the Palace District after helping Amir with some “remodeling”. Surely the guards at the gate wouldn’t notice the body of the Vizier of Trade hidden among the goods in the wagon. Stumbling into his darkened home, Munir El-Amin was not surprised to find himself tripping over furniture and bumping into walls. What he didn’t expect was coming face to face with a large female barbarian in his kitchen. In a flail of drunken kung-fu, Munir El-Amin lunged at the intruder letting out a fierce battle cry…or it might have been the hiccups. Fearing the attention the noise would bring, Munir El-Amin was quickly subdued and knocked unconscious. His limp body was then unceremoniously wrapped up like a Mulan burrito and loaded onto the back of the cart. Rolling up to the gate, the Drow addressed the guards. While the official seal of Aamir Ajam may have been enough to satiate their concerns, it did little to satisfy their curiosity. The began to poke around in the crates, barrels, and bolts of cloth. By sheer dumb luck, or perhaps because this “wasn’t the vizier they were looking for”, the guards waved the party through into the night. However, they weren’t more than half way through the market district before they heard the repeated clang of alarm bells ringing behind them. Knowing that they needed to ditch that which made them identifiable, the decision was made to split up, and separate the vizier from the wagon. The women took Munir El-Amin through town, headed straight for the safe house. Meanwhile, the rest of the party attempted to ditch the wagon in the slums, knowing it would be picked clean. Unfortunately, the increasingly loud hoof beats told them that they didn’t have much time. Without a second thought, they hopped off the wagon, smacked the ass on the, um, ass, and the cart was off down the street. It careened down the road, bouncing off merchant stalls and popping up on two wheels as it disappeared around a corner. Meanwhile, Kitaryth “Kit” Orilaia and Umara have attracted the attention of a couple of drunk and frisky half-orcs. One half-orc in particular takes a shine to Umara. Not wanting to start a fight with an unconscious Vizier on her back, she bites her tongue and tries to brush past the obnoxious cat calls. Not relenting, the half-orc pursues Umara only to be cut off by Kitaryth “Kit” Orilaia. Kitaryth “Kit” Orilaia convinces the half-orc that sleeping with Umara may not be the best thing for his health, and any future sex-life he hopes to have. As sharp as a cannon ball, he eventually gets what Kit is trying to say, and abruptly turns his attention to her. Short on patience, he quickly escalates the situation with the tiefling cleric. Physically overpowered, Kitaryth “Kit” Orilaia must rely on her wits and her faith. With her last prayer, she calms the torrent of emotion that the half-orc is feeling at the moment. The half-orc quickly goes from burning with the heat of a newly forged sword, to the heat of a day old bowl of fish stew. The party then rejoins in time to see a very confused and unsatisfied half-orc wander off down the road. At that moment, Umara’s oddly shaped backpack begins to kick and thrash as he starts to come to. Zilt quickly charms him in order to settle him down and explain the plan. Munir El-Amin then began to enjoy his position on Umara’s back a little too much. Turning down the last alleyway before the safe house, the hairs on the back of their collective neck begin to stand up. A pair of figures close in on them from in front and behind them in the alley. The shadowy figures offer a simple solution, drop all of your valuables, and you are free to walk away. These bandits clearly didn’t know who they had just picked a fight with. The party made short and messy work of the brigands, who were little more than slum dwellers with short swords. One of the bandits appeared to have an unexpected agenda. With his dying breath, he thrust a coin purse into the hand of Immartus Sondassa and asked him to give it to the poor of Al-Qahira. As the last remaining bandit made her escape, he tossed her the coin purse and told her to keep it. The frantic woman’s expression contorted from fear into confusion. After hesitating a moment, she sprinted down the street disappeared down an alley. As they walk up to the darkened warehouse, Masud, the warlock’s contact emerges from the shadows. He welcomes the group to their home away from home. Winding through stacks of crates, he walks up to a blank wall at the back of the warehouse. Sliding the wall aside, he reveals a hidden room where illegal and stolen merchandise is hidden. The warm humid night air gives way to an overwhelming stench. The room reeks of urine, feces, and men who haven’t bathed in weeks. On the floor of the room men in rags crouch in groups of four, chained to heavy iron rings that have been driven into the floor. “The Imperium won’t find him here. Nobody will.” Munir El-Amin flies into a rage. “You’ve brought me here?!? To the den of a slaver!?!”



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