1. The Cloakwood

Noctalia's exit comes at just the right time, and she's gone before any of the guards can set up a good shot. A few moments later, though, a cry of alarm goes up as one of the guards, now carefully watching the trees, spots Dieter!

Dieter's words are enough to keep him from being instantly shot, but the camp is mobilized for trouble.

Koveras' crisp psture returns instantly as the group makes its way around to the camp entrance, and he calls out to the guards in a formal recitation: "We shall rule them from an Iron Throne..."

Several of the guards seem to recognize the half-orc, or at least suspect who he is. There are some quick whispers, and then one of the guards replies: "...built of the weapons of our trade."

The guard who spoke out keeps his hand near the hilt of his longsword. "Thought you might have been some of those troublesome Shadow Druids. What brings you here? We received no word of your coming." He frowns at the rest of the group, obviously trying to place them.

Koveras glares at the guard. "Rieltar suspects the mine may be attacked soon." He drops his foster father's name into the conversation like an anvil. "My entourage and I are here to make sure my father's commands are carried out to the letter. I don't mind making a few heads roll to ensure this position remains secure, but hopefully it won't come to that."

The guards flinch appropriately, and their speaker makes a quick bow toward Koveras. "Of course, sir! I will let Davaeorn know at once!" The gate swings open.

The guard turns to leave, but Koveras' barked command freezes him in place. "Stop! You will not speak of me to Davaeorn. If I am to properly assess the camp's vigilance, it must be without the wizard looking over my shoulder." The half-orc clasps his hands behind his back, broad chest thrust forward and head high. "I suggest you double the patrols out in the Cloakwood, that you might be forewarned if an attack does come. Now stay out of my way." His voice sharp enough to cut stone, he gives a final command: "Dismissed!"

The group of guards pulls away, shouting orders and organizing more patrols. Koveras turns his head slightly towards Aiwe and winks without letting his pose sink in the least. "The ruse works thus far..." he whispers, then cocks his head, listening for further instructions.

Koveras nods curtly, eyes sweeping the camp. "It's probably best we procure a map, then."

He strides forward and calls out to the guard with whom he spoke earlier. "I don't plan on wasting my time getting lost down in the mine. I will need a map of the current operations here."

The guard salutes. "Understood, sir! Unfortunately, we have no maps up here. Our operations room is a couple levels down. But if you find it acceptable, I can assign a guard to accompany you, or even give you a tour myself."

Koveras boldly steps around the guard, making a show of looking him up and down and examining his equipment. For his own part, the guard remains still, eyes focused straight ahead. When the half-orc is in the guard's blind spot, he glances at Aiwe with a raised eyebrow.

Koveras waves away the guard's offer to accompany the group, and instead points at the guard Aiwe indicated. "You! You're with us. Let's get a move on."

The new guard jumps to attention. "Yes, sir! Right away!" He leads the group to the wooden lift in the middle of the camp. "Down we go!"

With everyone in place on the lift, the guard throws a lever and the group begins its descent. "First level's the biggest, it's the mine itself. Sprawls everywhere! Next one down is the citadel. Leastways, that's what we call it. It's where the dwarves who built the place used to live. We've refitted it all for operations, and also a prison to hold slaves what need a reminder of who's in charge." He chuckles at that and pats the club that hangs opposite his sword from his belt. "And below that? Well, that would be Davaeorn's own place. Never been down there myself!" He scratches his chin. "Not many do, and even fewer come back up."

The lift reaches the first level down, the mine itself. A large cavern opens up here with torches placed every so often. Numerous tunnels spider out from here. Some haggard slaves, most of them human, look with open fear at the newcomers on the lift, then throw themselves into their tasks in an effort to look as busy as possible.

The guard pulls the club off his belt and rests it casually on his shoulder. He seems to enjoy the way the slaves shrink away from him. "Well, sir! Do you want to examine our work force yourself? I think you'll find we've conditioned them pretty good, but they can always use some more... encouragement." He smirks and flips the club around in his hand, offering the handle to anyone in the group who wants to try it out.

The slaves glance at each other in confusion at Aiwe's use of the club. Though they try not to show it, some of them edge closer to listen to these odd newcomers.

Meanwhile, the guard pales at Aiwe's casual threat, then stares at Dieter. "Um yes, sir... Quite enjoying my... duties! And confidence in my chain of command has never been stronger!" He coughs and splutters. "Not that it was ever weak, no. Erm..."

The guard's eyes dart over the various tunnel passages, and then he brightens as he finds a way to take attention off of himself. "Of course you'll want to see the Plug! It's a bit of a wonder, and completely secure! Come, it's just up this way here..." He takes a few steps towards one of the tunnels, then looks back with a weak smile. "Coming?"

The guard swallows hard. "Uh, Lord Anchev... Where might I take you and your party? If you don't want to see the slaves or the Plug, then there's our operations room, the prison... Perhaps the mess hall, if you're feeling hungry? Or I can take you straight down to Davaeorn..."

The guard's eyes widen and he nods shakily. "To the wizard himself then!"

He sweeps his eyes over the group to make sure everyone is safely on the lift, and then he pulls the lever again. The group descends to the next level.

Where the mine walls were lined with rough-hewn stone and thick wooden beams, this level of the Iron Throne's operation is nearly breathtaking in its craftsmanship. The dwarves who created the place weren't a numerous underground kingdom, but a small clan of artisans. The entryway here isn't large, but the carved columns lend the place a solemn and respectable dignity. Or at least they would, if not for the Iron Throne mercenaries who have made the place their home.

Coarse laughter echoes off the finely-worked stone, accompanied by the rattling of dice and clink of coin. Humans outfitted in chainmail and leather sit at several tables placed between the room's columns. A few hobgoblins and other humanoids are scattered among the rest, and everyone seems to either be eating on tin plates or participating in one of the various games set up. Everyone except the the two guards who approach the lift, halberds in hand.

The guards seem to take in the newcomers' purpose with a glance, and they fumble for just a moment before snapping to attention. They don't ask the group any questions, and the rest of the room's inhabitants don't seem to be paying much attention.

The party's escort nervously clears his throat. "As you can see we take the recreation of our mercenaries very seriously. They don't exactly have a city to traipse off to when off-duty, so..." He coughs into his fist. "Well, let's be on to the big wizard boss, aye?"

He leads the party across the room and into a hallway of similar craftsmanship. As the noise of the previous room grows distant, the companions notice a handful of doors on either side, an open one indicating that these are all living quarters.

The end of the hallway opens up into a spacious chamber; the operations room, apparently, judging from the tables and desks covered in sheaves of paper and large maps. A handful of men and women wearing officers' badges look up from their work, and-