The Endowed arise early enough to gather their things and make ready for departure; the hustle and bustle of Hammerfall seems to never die, as the time of day matters little when there is no sky to tell people when it is night and they should be asleep, resulting in a populace that lives on their own schedules.
Barrow, however, seems to care very much what time it is, and is particularly grumpy this morning. "I'm not the one going anywhere," he mutters as he brings the horses and wagon around the front of the inn. "Don't see why I should be up. And fer what? T'trade fer th'wee pixie devil? Bah! Best t'let 'em keep 'er, that'd be greater punishment than anything we could think t'dish out!"
Anyone looking closely, however, can see that he seems to be wringing his hands and tugging on his beard more than usual.
#
The trip down into the lower levels of Hammerfall is uneventful, though not particularly easy, and definitely not performed without notice. While the means to navigate a horse-drawn wagon down into the depths exists, it is rarely utilized as such; most goods are transported by a series of platforms mounted on pulleys, though these are all unsuitable for this task since none of them are large enough to accommodate the wagon. The lower levels, being less populated than the higher ones, are notably less active than on Thosar and Sagishi's previous visit, as apparently the people down here are accustomed to keeping a more uniform schedule for one reason or another.
At the very bottom, Barrow stops the wagon on the far side of the bridge across from the looming black metal gates and finds reasons to make himself busy. The guards, for all their alleged diligence, don't seem to pay much mind to anything that's not on their side of the bridge, it being the only means of approaching the gates anyway.
The mournful sounds of the bells tolling the hour echo down the chasm, each peal multiplying a hundred times until the air fills with a riotous cacophony of sound. The guards abruptly stand alert and march dutifully across the bridge and past the Endowed, never paying them the least bit of mind. As the sounds of the bells die away, the party finds themselves completely alone on the shore of the swift-flowing river.
A slight splashing sound comes from upriver, then again. Into the light of the alchemical lamps lining the bridge slips a flat-bottomed barge, all painted black and manned by half a dozen figures in black cloaks. With practiced motions, they tie the boat off and leap ashore. All but one seem to be rather burly-built dwarves, the last being considerably taller with the protruding canines of orcish heritage visible beneath the shadows of his hood.
"You have it?" he asks, gazing at the barrels in the bed of the wagon with naked avarice.
