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Namfoodle clapped slowly as Solomon decided he'd be going along. An arrogant grin spread across his face as he got his wish. Good, the idiot orator thinks its punishment no doubt, Oneshoe thought. He finally had a shot at a lead to yet more power. Arcane secrets, lichdom, artifacts that control the very world. Perhaps a whle faction could be targetted, but Namfoodle was a single sly, stealthy gnome. He could rule the world with those scales, if he could obtain them for himself. He could take Asmodeus' job, he could create new worlds to rule once he ruled this one, he could create magic power instead of having to search for it. Oh, endless possibilities, and all it took would take is a little killing. He could perhaps make some pawns of the adventurers in his group to help him, too. Perfect.

Namfoodle swaggered down to the center of the meeting hall, raising his staff. Red sparks sprayed from it as he invoked a simple spell. He yelled above the crowd as the staff shot sparks from itself, "Final group, to me! Let us move!" He chuckled quietly to himself. He was the leader, and he'd make sure everyone was aware of that as soon as he could.

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RPs:
Warhammer 40,000: The Inquisition Sci-Fi Rp. Go for it.

Immediately after Solomon finished saying the word “Asmodeus,” her whole table began to squabble and debate noisily, keeping her from hearing the rest of the organizations in their group… Her group. None of these insignificant servants would take this honor away from her. She swiftly stole a savage dagger from the raggedy man on her right, jabbing it into the sumptuous table with a thunderous thud. The men surrounding the table jumped skittishly, becoming completely silent as she stared at them.

“Now then.. Surely, none of you want to risk your life by taking on this mission. Also, if you were to somehow fail, yet live through the ordeal, would you want to be hunted and tortured by Asmodeus himself?” Her tone changed to one of feigned amusement. “Or by me? Remember Mesule?” All of them blanched suddenly, bowing courteously in her direction to show their decision “It is set, then." She paused for a moment, before giving them instructions, "All of you depart from this palace and return to whence you came. Leave anything you think I may find useful.. Keep in mind that if I do not succeed, Asmodeus will most likely send some (if not all) of you, so be generous with your gifts." A hint of a smile graced Myr's smooth, slightly purple lips.

But that smile faded as soon as Namfoodle shouted for the "final group." Myrenae followed his instructions after she collected the things her company had left behind, striding over to him with deathless grace. She would go along with this little charade of "follow the leader," but she would not roll over. She would not allow herself to be anyone's toy.

Myr grinned soullessly.

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At the gate, a group of gnomes were unpacking crates. Several wagons had been brought around and were being harnessed by servitor contructs. One of the gnomes, who had been telling the others what to do rather than actually doing anything, was trying to direct the various teams away from each other.

"All right, all right, stop complaining. Everyone! Everyone, listen! Each team gets a wagon, which comtains the gear you will need. No, stop that, they're all the same! No, you can't have two. Okay, the wagons have food, tents, rope, climbing gear, firewood, and all sorts of boring stuff. The important things are the masks. Six per wagon, they cast illusions on the wearer. What? No, you can't be an elf. Because you're even shorter than me, that's why. I don't care, shut up."

He waved his hands, and the halfling that had been threatening to stab him in the eye was sealed in a slightly translucent sphere. It started rolling away until the rest of the halfling's team managed to stop it.

"The next one will have spiders in it. No, shut up. Okay, the wagons are fitted with a small divining rod. That's the iron bar set on the pivot right up there where you would sit to steer. There are eleven pieces of the Scales, and the bars will point to a piece that is not being pointed to by another bar. Once you have a part of the Scales, put it in the small box secured to the underside of the seat. it's a Box of Holding, and the rods will stop pointing at it. When there are fewer than six parts left outside of the boxes, then two teams will end up chasing the same pieces. The small red pointer set next to the bars point to the other wagons' boxes, in case a team gets wiped out. What? What? Yes, we planned this. We're gnomes, of course we planned this. We plan for everything. Shut up."

The groups bickered among themselves, but generally congregated towards their own wagons. Eventually, they were ready to get going, but not before the orc representative threatened to twist someone's head off if he didn't get his horse back. It was brought around, and his hostage was let go.

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"There are three kinds of plan. The fast plan, the good plan, and the sneaky plan. The fast plan works because by the time anyone knows you're there, you're already stabbing them in the face. The good plan works because they know you're going to stab them in the face, but they can't do anything about it. The sneaky plan works because while you were listening to me explain all this, I stole your sandwich."

Jack shook his head at the antics of his "colleagues." First, the little gnome calling for his group to join him... as if Jack would follow a malformed midget. He had been instructed to go to the front of the gate; he little cared to group up and walk out together.

Hearing the disjointed speech of the gnome official, Jack quickly walked over to his wagon, and vaulted into the forward seat, over to one side. He did not wish to drive the wagon, but neither would he walk. If someone else got up to drive that would be wonderful... except for the damn gnome. Jack wondered why anyone would do something so stupid as to turn everyone in their group against them in the first few seconds.

Jack made himself comfortable, waiting for the rest of his group to show up. It wouldn't be long... and he was anxious to see what sort of mix they had. He was a fast fighter, the gnome seemed to be some sort of useless caster... they had an ork, who would likely be some sort of brawler... The rest were unknowns.

(Kinda weak post, but I'm drowsy from medication. Oral surgery, etc. Sorry. ._.)

Namfoodle didn't wait long for his allies to gather about him anyways. It was more of an attempt to shepherd he stupider of his allies in the direction they needed to go. He got one though, actually, the dead-elf-wench. Oneshoe shrugged, and walked for the gates of the audience hall, staff tapping the marble floor every few steps. He beckoned to Myr, as he went with a smile. He didn't know what to make of her, an unusual sort of person. She was an elf, and as such, not as stupid as most. She was undead though, perhaps stupider, or weaker because of it. She seemed to be a championess of Asmodeus though, and so that was enough cause for Namfoodle to be wary. He stepped under the wide archway, back out into the lit city-streets. He looked back at her and spoke as he kept moving for the main gates.

"We should make haste, so those of our group who went ahead do not forget us, no?" he said, and then added, "I'm sure you heard my name, what's yours, my lady?"

He rounded a corner onto a wider, less well-kept city street, the approach to the gates. There, many carts were lined up. Large ones filled with supplies, and now people. Oneshoe caught the end gnome overseer's instructional speech, and then began to look for his group's carriage. He spotted the human pickpocket near one, and approached it. Namfoodle peered at the human, absorbing every detail of him before speaking to him in an arrogant tone. "I believe you're in my group. We should at least know each other's names. Is this our wagon?"

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RPs:
Warhammer 40,000: The Inquisition Sci-Fi Rp. Go for it.

Herbert, being rather preoccupied with black death in his mind and tentacled staves in his gut, entirely failed to notice Namfoodle's conceited command. Once he'd crawled to his feet, he was quickly shoved toward the exit by his fellow cultists. Not one to argue (and not possessed of the physique to fight his way back past the tide of bodies), Herbert was quickly swept away toward the main gate. Eventually, he ended up by the wagons - somewhere along the way, however, he'd managed to ditch his robe and was now clad in rather nondescript adventurer's gear. Considering how he'd previously kept his face concealed, he wouldn't have been surprised if no one recognized him - at the very least, he wasn't clad like any mage he'd ever encountered... even if he were a bit different from your average wizard. At his side hung a long scabbard that must have been terribly uncomfortable beneath the robes, and from its open end stuck the hilt and pommel of a well-crafted sword. If one didn't know better, one might have thought that, on one or two occasions, the young lad bent down as if to talk to the weapon.

Picking his way toward his own group's wagon, he arrived just in time to see the rogue jump to his seat, and decided to follow suit, himself. Climbing up to the seat right next to the bouncer, he flicked his wrist in an absent gesture of greeting - at the moment, he was rather more interested in those he did not know belonged to his own group. The Long Fang Tribe, they had said, as well as the church of Asmodeus, the necromancers, the Thieves' Guilds (the guy right next to him, obviously) and one of their own. The gnome would either be a great sorcerer, or a bumbling fool that Herbert would have to disembowel for the safety of the group. From the necromancers he expected, well, a necromancer. Sickly-looking old necrophiles... were there any other kinds? The Long Fang tribes would send some frothing barbarian, no doubt - Herbert couldn't wait to see how those people killed. It had to be a delightfully bloody affair! The church of Asmodeus was something else, though - first of all, what in the name of all that is dark and unholy could an Asmodeus be? Sadly uneducated in the attitudes and doings of demons, Herbert was left to ponder on his own... at least until the others arrived.

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