Prelude – Scratching a Living
There is a saying that goes, ‘You have to spend coin to make coin.’ Avar could appreciate the meaning behind the statement, but it sure was a pain to get that money in the first place. You would think a minstrel like himself could cut a decent living out of this city, and he probably could, if he only desired a common life of playing the same music or telling the same stories and the week to week living that such an occupation could supply. But, he had ambitions. He didn’t want to have to hoard away every loose coin for years in order to rise above his station. He wanted the good life, and he wanted it soon. And that meant an excessive amount of coin to buy the extravagant pleasures he dreamed of as well as being able to make investments that paid off without him having to do more than make sure those who borrowed his money came back with it and more.
So far, Avar had a couple small time rackets going. His first was the more legitimate pastime of telling stories or playing the lute at ale houses and common rooms throughout the city. The problem with that was twofold. One, that would be the long path of dedicated study and slow build up of wealth; and two, the town had an abundance of entertainers flowing through it, almost as quickly as the river upon which it was built. Now, there were a few notable musicians and balladeers that made the city their home and commanded top pay for their performances, but Avar didn’t measure himself in that league. He also didn’t feel that that level of notoriety would suit him. At best, Avar the Storyteller could get one or two nights a week at the middle class pubs or on occasion set up on a street corner during the festivals the town had.
In conjunction with his performances, he kept his ear to the ground and noted what scraps of information he could glean from overhearing the patrons’ conversations, or engaging the garrulous in chitchat between sets. He had a few acquaintances that valued being abreast of the happening in Kell Na’dar as well as events occurring up and down the mighty river. On occasion, he would chance upon the right crumb of knowledge and sell it for more gold than he could make in a month of entertaining.
Avar played those same games on the rougher side of town. He knew better than to walk around the Dregs or the low docks after sunset with a flashy cloak or an expensive and unconcealed instrument. He felt it appropriate to have a stage name for both aspects of his life and so while Avar the Storyteller could be found in a well lit brew house in the trade district; it would be Tidbit who’d you see singing a ribald song and pulling the bow across an ever so slightly out of tune fiddle at a brothel’s ‘hospitality’ room or the shops that served porridge or ‘stew’ that was barely more than boiled chum.
Tidbit’s latest foray into the gold generating market was working as a part-time fence. So far he had found it more lucrative to work the small and more common, while less valuable, items as opposed to the expensive near and dear items that someone might spend a lot of time looking for. It was much easier to move silvered hatpins, a gold tooth, or silken handkerchief that nobody would miss or knew better than to go looking for as opposed to an ensorcelled and bejeweled dagger or family heirloom that needed to be kept in a leaded box to prevent scrying until the heat cooled down. Maybe if he had some contacts downriver, he could move the items out of town quickly and prevent the need for sitting on such items and worrying about getting caught with them…. a thought for another day. Unfortunately, being a fence had the same problem as being an entertainer. There were a slew of them, and many of those protected their territories or specialties rather aggressively.
As of late, Tidbit had taken to hiring a bodyguard from the Rock Biter crew when making his pickups or drop-offs. It cost him, but he didn’t want a repeat of the black eye and bruised ribs he had received on one of his earlier forays into the world of petty crime. The Rock Biters were a surly lot of dwarves, but that wasn’t all bad when the coins had them on your side of a quarrel. Because of the saturated market for fences, Tidbit operated more by opportunity than anything else, but he did have a few haunts that he’d drop by on a fairly regular basis to see if they had any goods they wanted moved. One of those places was the cathouse known as the Gilded Queen, thought the only queen there was the proprietor.
Though a bit eccentric in her dress, she ran a tight ship. Between her meaty forearms and cudgel, and the dark dwarf she kept on hand with the metal capped teeth and look of impending violence, all her customers paid, whether they had the coin or not. And for those that took too many liberties with the wenches, they ‘donated’ what they could to the girls’ education fund. Those that were desperate or donated to the charity often paid in something other than copper and silver and the proprietor needed a way to turn that into coinage, and Tidbit offered that service. He was well versed in what the second hand stores would pay for such items and made sure to negotiate the deal so as to make a little profit while covering his costs.
Tidbit didn’t usually take along any muscle when he went to the Gilded Queen, because he had the cover of playing music there to entertain the guests as they imbibed their swill and waited for their turn with one of the proprietor’s ladies. He doubted many of the Rock Biters would have gotten along well with the duergar anyway. Dhent wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and only seemed to express emotion when one of the patrons needed a hand in exiting the premises. That emotion seemed to be anger with just a hint of sadistic pleasure. Other than that, he seemed to be content to sit near the door, cast his beady red gaze over the common room and on occasion rub his neck.
All in all, Avar was surviving, and had accumulated a fair amount of personal wealth. However, most of it was wrapped up in his belongings which helped keep him alive on the streets of Kell Na’dar. Something had to change soon, if he wanted to achieve his dream while he was still young enough to enjoy it. He was keeping his eyes out for a big break and was ready to leap at any opportunity to make his fortune.
Prelude – Grave Matters
It had been a dull evening. Tidbit was playing a nameless, open air drinking dive near the docks. It wasn’t much more than a ramshackle awning, with rickety tables and benches jammed under it. It was a place for getting drunk. It was also a place poor enough that anybody stumbling away wasn’t worth the effort to rob, as they had probably dropped every clipped copper they had on drink. The hunchbacked man running the stalls had just tapped the bung on another barrel of washroom pigswill. It was an immature vintage to say the least, as the alcohol evaporated on the tongue and the only ‘taste’ was an acidic burning. Even when diluted into a cup of water, one sip of his complimentary cup of grog had been enough to make Tidbit stay away from it for the night.
Two halflings ran up and down the centers of the butted tables with pitchers in hand, filling the cups of patrons that tossed copper bits onto the stained and scarred wood. From time to time, a newcomer would try to have some fun by trying to trip up one of the scrawny but agile wee fellows. A blur of motion, a splash of blood, a grunted curse and the halflings would carry on as the vagrant would suck on the shallow gash his hand had just received. Those around him would laugh at his misfortune and continue on their quests to find temporary oblivion.
The patrons were mostly low class cargo haulers working wherever a spare hand was needed on the docks. The rest were quay scroungers. With the city being partially built over the Kell, it was common for things floating down the river to get stuck among the piers and piles. The city maintained a core of engineers and maintenance workers for such things, but their efforts were focused on keeping the main shipping lanes open and the more prominent parts of town free from garbage. The less prosperous docks and living areas would have turned into floating dumps if not for the scroungers. Driftwood, trash, and the not uncommon carcasses of animals and humanoids all littered the wharfs. These river rats used gaff poles and the occasional cobbled together raft to get at these piles of detritus and took whatever bits they imagined they could sell. One of the beneficial side effects of their labors was to break up the unwanted heaps to continue traveling on downstream. Tidbit came to this place to hear what goods were being loaded and unloaded on the cheapside docks as well as to try to confirm which missing persons were really belly up and most likely dismembered for the bone collectors or the stewpots in the Dregs.
It was late into the night when Tidbit noticed the man on the end of one of the far tables. The man was staring at him and seemed fairly familiar. Who could it be? His gaunt face reminded him of someone, ah, N’Alen. Gods, the man looked sickly, he thought. It had been a couple months since he had last talked to the scribe. He had met him about a year ago, when he was trying to dig up some information on a few religious relics that had come into his possession. N’Alen hadn’t asked too many questions on just how the items had come to Avar, and so he had contacted the cleric on a few other occasions for business purposes. When he last inquired about him at the temple to Aurthas, one of the priests said he hadn’t shown up for weeks and suspected he had moved on.
As the night wore on and more of the clientele passed out where they sat or stumbled out into the night, Tidbit wrapped up the entertainment with a slow lament on the fiddle accompanied by a sad sonnet that few, if any paid attention to. As he packed up his instrument, the barkeep slouched by and dropped a small canvas pouch containing the equivalent of a few coppers next to his case. Tidbit nodded his appreciation then made his way over to where N’Alen still sat.
“Been awhile, N’Alen.” He noted that N’Alen had a faint stink about him, but what didn’t this near the water’s edge.
“It has. I’ve been looking for you. I could use your services. I have a … problem, and I need to be put in touch with someone who could help me.”
Tidbit raise a quizzical eyebrow and N’Alen quickly said, “I can pay.” As he fished something out of his pocket and dropped a couple golden rings onto the table.
Tidbit was quick to cover them with his hand before anyone else saw. The night had just become quite a bit more interesting.
“This isn’t the best place to talk. Follow me. No guarantees, but regardless of your difficulty, I should be able to get some leads for you.”
The two headed out along the street. Tidbit made sure to keep an eye out behind them and to peer ahead at the alley mouths to make sure no one who might have caught a glint of gold on the table was lying in wait to relieve him of his fee. Asking a few questions for N’Alen shouldn’t be too big of a deal, and the rings he now had in his pocket would more than make up for his lackluster evening at the dockside drink stall.
Entry One – Opportunity Drops
Avar looked left and right down the alley before sliding the key into the lock on the warehouse’s side door. Seeing no one in the early morning light, he entered. He pulled the door closed behind him and locked it. Rubbing his bleary eyes as he mounted the stairs up to his flat, he looked out over the nearly empty warehouse floor. Two medium sized crates and a couple barrels covered with a tarp made up the entirety of its contents. His deal with the owners of the building seemed to be mutually beneficial. He and another man paid a paltry sum monthly to reserve the former office quarters of the building for themselves. In addition to this, they made sure that no squatters took up residence in the warehouse. The business owning the storage facility must have been down on their luck, because there was never more than a wagon’s worth of goods in the space that could have held twenty times that amount. It seemed that a few burly draftsmen came by every week or so with a cart to take or leave a couple containers.
Avar shared the flat with a young man named Dante. For as little time as either spent there, the space proved more than sufficient. When they did cross paths, Dante usually had his nose in a well worn book. It had not escaped Avar’s attention that the cuffs of his roommate’s sleeves sometimes had blood on them or that he spent an inordinate amount of time sharpening the razors that he always had on his person. He tried not to be too nosy about it, since that was a good way to end up as a corpse floating down the river or as another rotting lump in a dark alley.
On one occasion he had followed Dante on his daily outing and saw that he had set up a stool, mixed up a cup of shaving cream, and offered his services to sailors coming off the vessels for a night on the town. Avar had disguised himself as well as he could to seem like one of the many urchins that loitered around the docks, but Dante seemed to look his way more often then not, and he moved on before rousing his suspicions too much. The man had secrets, but as long as they didn’t endanger Avar directly, he’d let him keep them. Avar had his own secrets and could appreciate wanting to keep them that way.
As he entered his room and carefully laid his lute case in the corner he thought back to last night. He had spent the evening in the taproom of the Stalwart Prow. It had been a pleasant evening strumming his lute to accompany his stories for the captains and wealthy traders that had ships docked at the river port. He enjoyed his evenings at these upper middle class establishments. They also wetted his appetite for the prosperous life. He traded off sets with a pretty young lass who sang passably and could play some merry tunes on the pipes.
He had made a few coins from the proprietor and a few more from the patrons whom his stories had touched, but the real money would come from the knowledge he had picked up in his downtime. It seemed that three barges of sweet leaf would be heading downriver early next week, but they needed to hurry because the leaf would soon spoil. Avar knew a certain customs officer that could use this information to turn some quick coin. If the officer held up those barges for a few days, rival traders would be willing to pay.
Avar would find the customs officer after a quick nap. It had been a long night. He kicked off his boots and walked over to the window to draw the curtains. He stretched his arms and looked down seeing two white marks on the outside sill. To anyone else they would have been two random bird droppings, but to Avar, they signaled that one of his more nefarious contacts, the Rock Biters, desired a meeting.
So much for a nap, he thought to himself. He tossed off the cloak of Avar the Storyteller, and picked up the dirty tattered bit of sail cloth that Tidbit favored. He grabbed his walking stick and smudged his face with some soot from the room’s lantern. As he walked back down the stairs, the confident gait of Avar became a slightly hunched and jerky motion with a hint of a limp that Tidbit used when wandering the streets or singing for his supper near the docks or the Dregs. Hopefully the meeting would be a lucrative opportunity for him. The Rock Biters had their stubby fingers in a lot of pots these days, but they were usually more of the shoulder thumper type, guards, or the heavies used to squeeze some protection money out of the less than willing. None of those activities were quite Tidbit’s style, but that didn’t mean he’d turn away the chance to pocket some gold.
Entry Two – Murderin’ the First
Avar had hurt people before. Some of them may have not survived because of it. But today was the first time he had set out with the intent to kill someone. He knew dozens of stories in which the main character would kill out of necessity or out of blind rage or for ‘love’. Many of those stories tied some intense emotion with the act of taking a life, and Avar fully expected to feel some such thing. Whether that feeling would be remorse or pride, or jubilation or introspection, he didn’t know. The interesting thing was that he felt nothing. Not the inner void of someone who was numb from shock, but an actual apathy about the whole matter. Whenever his mind wandered back to his blade piercing the cleric just an instant before N’Alen’s dark magics struck him down, all he could think of was the gold.
The group of ruffians he had gathered together to take on the grim task had proved more capable than he had thought they would. Avar had done his part by pulling the mark into the ambush, throwing a few spells, and boosting the prowess of his hooligans with his bardic skills. Dhent had provided the muscle and Avar was glad to have his sword around when the other guards showed up. He knew Dante had probably used his razors on more than just hair in his day, but the methodical slashes that opened up veins on necks and wrists were almost like a macabre surgery being performed before his eyes. N’Alen’s ‘predicament’ had been a key factor in pulling the servant of Ariel further into the trap, and his divine powers had helped seal the deal.
The whole event also raised a myriad of questions. Who exactly were these fully armored soldier types? What was a priest of Ariel doing snooping out the city? The city guard had showed up because of the disturbance, but the plate and chain wearing backup raised a few more questions.How many of them were in town and how much heat would they bring in reaction to the killing? Avar figured he could lay low for awhile and make sure to only go out in a different fashion, but someone like Dhent might have a bit more trouble in that regard. And what exactly had happened during that fight? A few unaccountable arcane magics had been flying around and seemed to have actually been beneficial to Avar and the crew. Who had cast them and why? Also, who had wanted the cleric dead and why had Smooshi picked up the contract only to turn it over to an unproven assassin like himself? Sure, Smooshi was still getting his cut, but had he really had much confidence in Avar’s success? There were people that did this kind of thing for a living, and they definitely had representatives within the walls of Kell Na’dar, if you knew where to look. Even if you didn’t look, they would find you if you were willing to part with substantial amounts of gold for an individual’s early demise. All these thoughts were running through his head, but none carried the weight of the most important questions. Where in the nine hells was Dante and that head?
Entry Three – A Brief Taste of the Good Life
Making the drop had had Avar’s guts in a twist. So close to his first sizeable score, and so much could still possibly go wrong. From Dante’s description, it sounded like C’Hant had tried to sweep in and claim the hit themselves. The notion of honor among thieves was as false as the devious characters themselves; however, it was generally understood that if you were going to double cross someone, you might as well kill them or they would cause you to suffer some day down the road. With organizations as large as some were in Kell Na’dar that could mean an urban war that would destroy most of the city. And so, there was a delicate balance where sides left each other alone in certain matters and fought bitterly through agents and gangs in others.
The unfortunate thing was that neither Avar nor any of the members of his team carried much weight, nor were they well connected with any of these groups. It did seem strange that the Kingdom of C’Hant would try to cross the Rock Biters, though. The Biters weren’t a large crew in comparison, but they did provide a beneficial service to the seedier denizens of the city. It occurred to Avar that gaining the backing of or at least building an understanding with one of the more powerful crime organizations along the Kell might just help him live long enough to spend his ill gotten gains. In the long run, assembling such an organization with him on top might not be a bad idea.
All those things could be thought on tomorrow though. Tonight Avar, or Sedrik, as he was calling himself was enjoying his time in a fine establishment within the Northern Floating District. The lights of the Duke’s palace could be seen from a nearby south facing window, if one cared to look away from the sights within. It was a place where the wealthy could indulge in their secret desires. Discretion and mystery abounded in this place. Most patrons wore masks of makeup or magic, though they spanned the gamut of ensorcelled hoods to bits of ribbon barely covering the skin around the eyes. Some were much more concerned with their identities being known than others, and that was the power of wealth.
Avar was doubly masked this evening. With an eye for disguise and a knack for mystic arts that he had acquired over the years, he had added ten years to his apparent age and thirty pounds to his frame. He looked much more worn by sun and wind than he normally appeared. He had also subtly alluded to himself as being a river captain named Sedrik that had just collected a considerable sum for the cargo he had brought to town. Secondly, he was sporting a half mask such as many stage actors wore. This lacquered piece of wood colored blue and white helped further break up his facial features.
The money from the assassination could help him live like a true lord of the city for a couple months. Avar was not stupid enough to blow through it all on simple, fleeting pleasures only to return to the dockside hovels. He had already spent some securing the proper papers to allow him into the Floating District with minimal harassment from the bridge guards. Another portion he had used to purchase a stake in a midsized money lending firm with assurances that his investment would make him a wealthy man. The firm was underhanded enough to be sure to make a profit, but upstanding enough that Avar seriously doubted they would make off with his money. He figured his returns would be mildly profitable, even with the lenders skimming them. He had also allotted some of the coin to himself to pick up a couple new trinkets as well as a fine set of clothing and a few days worth of indulgence among the truly well-off in the city.
Avar inhaled and exhaled slowly. The scent of perfume and exotic pipe weed filled the air about him. Braziers of coals throughout the room kept it pleasantly warm despite the cool breeze off the river that occasionally swept through the space. A handful of patrons were reclining on overly stuffed couches enjoying fine vintages or the mellow, spicy smoke from the pipe bowls they held. Women of astonishing beauty clad in wispy garments of smooth silk wandered the room offering delicately prepared foods, foreign wines, fragrant leaves, and much more personal ministrations should the patron desire. This house of pleasure was divided by floors, each dedicated to different sets of cravings. This one was more suited to extremes of relaxation. Even at this moment of peace, Avar hadn’t completely given up on business. Even with the disguises, he was pretty sure he had identified three or four of the lesser notables and had added a few more details to his memory from the bits of conversation he had heard.
He closed his eyes and let the music of the harp being played in the corner wash over him. The player was skilled, probably a bit more so than himself. The warm melody brought a hint of a smile to his lips. Today was a good day, and he looked forward to the day when it would be his customary lifestyle and not just a vacation from his life. He opened his eyes and raised a gilded goblet to his lips. The fine red he had been drinking had the faintest tastes of cinnamon and vanilla. He hesitated for the briefest instant as he tilted the cup toward his mouth and noted a waxy capsule in the dark red vintage. Having already drunk half its contents in the last few minutes, he doubted it was poison, as he was still very much alive. He took the capsule into his mouth, and with a bit of legerdemain transferred it to his hand. Cracking the wax with his thumbnail, the contents revealed themselves to be the smallest bit of paper. With a slight motion, he adjusted the scrap so that he could read the message upon it.
‘Behind the pleasure house. Be swift.’ It read. A stylized black flower adorned the corner of the paper.
So much for a good day, Avar thought to himself. What could the Dark Lady possibly want with him? To his knowledge, he had never really interacted with any of her agents. Using sleight of hand, Avar returned the paper to his goblet and drank it all down. Gently rousing the young woman that had been resting her head on his thigh, he arose and made his way down the stairs. The main floor behind a thin curtain resembled a taproom that could be found in the docks or Dregs and catered to those higher-ups that wanted to experience the slums without the danger or the smell. Hired actors and fall-men were paid to cause a bit of a ruckus now and then, and if the patron paid extra, they would initiate a quarrel where the patron would be allowed to administer a few blows to the actor in defense of his own or his lady’s honor. Strangely, this appealed to quite a few of the wealthy merchants and nobles, as the room was rather full at the moment.
“Will you be departing us, Master Sedrik?” asked the elderly man behind the counter. His wrinkles and short grey beard gave him a grandfatherly look, but the shrewdness in his eyes made one think that he may have already sold his grandchildren for a substantial profit.
“Alas, I must. A life on the river is rarely tranquil. I will treasure the moments secretly stolen within these walls,” answered Avar, as he left a generous tip upon the board.
“Be sure to return to us again as your fortunes rise,” stated the doorman as he eyed the small mound of gold and handed Sedrik the coat of a river boat captain.
Avar donned the jacket and stepped out into the night, crossing the street. He checked over his shoulder as he made his way between buildings. The Floating District was well lit compared to the Dregs, but more was still in shadow than not. Noting that no one left the pleasure house after him, he lapped the block and doubled back behind the building. At first, Avar did not see anyone, and then as if stepping from a flickering shadow, a darkly dressed figure detached itself from the wall and motioned him over.
“The Lady requires your presence, Avar. You will come with me.”
Knowing the reputation of the Dark Lady and her minions, Avar didn’t really regard himself as having much of a choice. He followed the cloaked and hooded figure. If she wanted his death, he thought to himself, he’d be burning in the nine hells by now. So, alive it is, at least for the moment. As he walked, he continued to ponder the ways of how he could turn this potentially fatal attention into an opportunity to take another step toward prosperity.
Entry Four – Striking the Iron
“Master Avar, how good to see you,” said the shriveled old man. “Please come in. Have a seat there if you please.”
Avar took a seat across the desk from the graying man with the ink stained finger tips. “Greetings, Gerald. I’ve come to check in on my accounts.”
“Let’s see…hmmm….,” Gerald mumbles to himself as he moves a giant ledger from the side of the desk to a spot in front of him, opening it up and flipping a couple pages. “…yes, yes. You’ve only had an account with us for a short while…” He glances up at a large chalk board along the wall with numbers and commodities listed on it. “…but it appears, that your investments are doing quite well.”
“Excellent, in that case I’d like to invest a little more.” Avar produces a thick leather satchel and lays it on the heavy desk with solid thump. Gerald’s eyes light up, and his fingers wiggle unconsciously as they move to clutch and draw the bag closer.
Gerald deftly counts the coins twice and makes some marks in the ledger, and fills out a form in triplicate, putting one in a leather scroll case for Avar. “Most excellent, Master Avar. I’m sure you will netting gains on this investment in short order. Is there anything else I can do for you? Marcus and Marcus is running a short term investment opportunity in Gracian vineyards.”
“No thank you, Gerald. What we’ve already discussed will be fine. I am however interested in acquiring some property. I’m thinking about something with some commercial interest and maybe some living space attached. Diversify the portfolio a bit, you know. Perhaps something of a fixer-upper. I’m not above getting my hands dirty to turn a profit.”
“Some property, you say…good, good. Marcus and Marcus own, rent, buy, and sell quite a bit of Kell Na’dar. It can be a very profitable venture if you keep your eye on such things.” Gerald gets up from his seat and moves to a solidly built cabinet behind him. Taking a key from his belt, he opens it up and grabs another massive ledger, bringing it to the desk. “A commercial building, there are quite a few available. A little worn, but still good. I think we have a couple of those. We have a chandler shop just off the Trade district that has recently seen a tiny bit of fire damage, a clothier shop in the commons that had the roof cave in, a bad bit of business that was, and a smithy down toward the docks. It looks like the smith turned up missing and no one noticed for a couple of months till it came time to pay his mortgage. Any of those sound promising to you?”
“A smithy by the docks, that could be appealing. Could I have a look at it?”
“Most certainly, Master Avar. I’ll have young Willum fetch the keys and escort you down there. I think it might just be what you are looking for.”
…
Avar could still feel the clawed fingers like short blades of icy iron scrape across his bicep. Those undead creatures they had encountered in the depths of the Undercity had left their mark upon him. It had been as if a little part of his soul had been ripped out through that violent caress along with some skin and meat. There had to be someway to shake this feeling. Living with such a malady would be uncomfortable at best.
The Lady had paid to keep things quiet, so that meant staying away from the regular chirurgeons, maesters, and clerics. They always asked questions, and some had ways of getting the truth from you whether you wanted them to or not. He’d have to go a route he’d rather not take. There were always sawbones and snake oil salesmen about town willing to throw a bandage on a wound or sell a potion of cure-all ( made up of only the gods knew what ) to those in need. Not that Avar would trust any of them with a paper cut or a hangnail, but this matter required someone of actual skill, and that meant he’d need to find Stitches.
Stitches was a man half insane. Rumor had it that he’d spent time as a battlefield medic and also as some lord’s torturer. He had spent as much time inflicting pain as soothing it, if the stories were true. Gossip about unusual experiments he conducted on his patients in lieu of payment were also whispered about. What Avar did know was that the man knew more about the humanoid anatomy than a whole school of physicians. He also seemed to have some mystical healing powers, but never professed any faith that he had ever heard.
It took a good part of the morning to locate the man. He was leaving a tenement in the Dregs and seemed to be distracted by something in his hand. It was a jar containing a round and bloody object, an eye. About his dark robes, Avar could see implements of his trade: vials, an assortment of small and oddly shaped knives, thin leather bound volumes and a wicked looking hand sickle. Another distinguishing feature about Stitches was the inordinate amount of scars on his body. Almost all of them were on the left side. Avar had seen his arms with the sleeves rolled up and the thin scars covered nearly every exposed inch on the left. There were also many on his neck and a few that trailed up the left side of his face. Avar had heard that most were self inflicted and done in the pursuit of the knowledge of pain and the make up of the human body.
“Stitches, a moment of your time, if you please,” said Avar.
Slowly shifting his eyes from the macabre contents of the jar, Stitches turned his feverishly piercing gaze upon Avar. He mumbled a few words and blinked very slowly. “A touch of death is upon you, is it not?” He said in strained voice.
“I am in need of healing, can you provide it?” asked Avar.
His dark eyes traveled up and down Avar’s form. “Yes, but it will strain even my abilities. You are a musician are you not? I’ve always wondered if the dexterity of their hands manifested itself in the structure of the hand muscles and finger bones. Would you mind if I took a look while I see about your current condition. I could reduce my fee if you were to let me make a few minor cuts and take some notes. I of course would mend the incisions once I was done.”
Rubbing his hand protectively Avar shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I find myself with a little spare coin this morning. So I will decline the extra bit about the hands. I will however make sure to direct any parties of interesting physiques to you in the future.”
“That would be most appreciated. Please, follow me. I have a small office down the road a bit.”
…
Avar had just come back to the Commons from the Market district. His canesword now had a bit of magic infused within it, thanks to a rather talented enchanter. He also had an order in with a dwarven armor-smith that should hopefully keep him alive should he find himself in a situation where someone wanted to stick sharp bits of metal in him. Unfortunately, this seemed to be happening quite a often lately.
As he rounded the corner, he spied two men yelling at each other in front of a blacksmith shop. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been your damned journeyman for two years, and your apprentice for five years before that,” said a hulking man, holding a maul.
“Yes, and in that time you’ve learned a lot. Much of your work still needs refined, but being a smith is a life long journey in learning. But, the fact remains that you have not finished paying your apprentice fee yet. I cannot endorse you to the guild until that fee has been met. And at the rate you are going, with all the food you eat, it will be another two or three years before you can clear your debt.”
Avar eyed the two men, one young, the other old. Both had barrel like chests and arms that could swing a ten pound hammer for hours. The old one left the younger standing in a huff in the road, and walked back into the bricked off area of the forge. An idea struck him. “Good smith, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. If you are of a mind, I have a deal to propose to you. It seems I have found myself with a forge and an anvil, but without the skills or the proper tools to see it put to good use. Depending on the sum, I’d be willing to buy out your contract, if you would come and set up shop at my forge. A portion of what you make would come to me as rent for the facility. The rest you would keep to make a living as you are able.”
The man’s eyes locked on to Avar’s as his jaw dropped slightly. “Are you serious? I could wish for nothing more. A forge to work without this old man looking over my shoulder and collecting all the profits for himself would be a prized opportunity. If you are true, I promise to work hard so that we both may benefit. My name is Tate. ‘The Hammer’ some call me.”
Avar truly took a good look at the young man. He was strong and the fist holding the handle of the maul resting on his shoulder showed a few scars and the sunken knuckles of a man that had seen a few back alley scraps in his day. Perhaps he was getting a better bargain than he had hoped for.
…
It had been a long day, but many things had been accomplished. Avar felt he had earned a bit of rest. However, he had to keep up some appearances and discuss a few things with some of his acquaintances. With a little make up, and a touch of magic, he took on the visage of Tidbit, a pauper bard. He made his way to the nameless pub that Gaz ran near the docks. A handful of rivermen trading bits of copper around a cup of dice made up the majority of the patrons. Gaz was over near the bar cutting his swill with a pail of water so it wouldn’t burn the tongues off anyone or make them retch on one of the few shaky tables still standing in the hovel.
A few other ne’er-do-wells dotted the sagging benches of the so called establishment. Among them was Selvin Finn. In the time since they’d met, Selvin had become a regular associate of Avar’s, coming by with interesting things he’d found out, baubles that needed sold, and both bringing in and asking for leads on odd jobs. The man was right quick with his thick, curved kukri knife and not on the short end of the smarts stick either.
Tidbit sat down next to him and dropped a copper coin on the table. An instant later a swift little halfling dashed by pocketing the money and depositing a tankard of murky looking grog in its place. “What’s the word, Finn? Seems like a couple big players have been making some moves lately. Keeping your nose down?”
“Aye, Tids. The big fish are being subtle about it, but the underbelly suspects something. The smaller gangs don’t know what’s going on, but they are buying up weapons and magic and the leaders are keeping their heavy hitters close. A lot of the freelancers are going to ground. A few of the risk takers are going for big scores though, since peoples’ attention is elsewhere. Nerves are on edge, and if something doesn’t go down in a week or two, I suspect the lesser gangs will turn on each other out of impatience and stupidity. I wouldn’t be surprised if some territories change hands in the coming month or so.”
“Sounds like a spot on assessment. Speaking of freelancers, you been keeping a watch out like I asked?”
“Aye. I think I even got two that could haul their own weight without shaking the boat. One’s a bit of a pickpocket and the other fancies himself a bard. He plays a lap harp well enough, but the voice could use a lot more practice. Both show some interest for working with some professionals such as us.” He let out a bit of a self-deprecating chuckle at the mention of professionals. “They both got a good set of eyes and ears on ‘em, too. Should help us learn a few things afore the waves start coming over the bow.”
“A proper job as usual, Finn.” Tidbit made a subtle motion with his elbow and Finn nodded almost imperceptibly as he deftly picked a small pouch out of Tidbit’s tattered coat pocket. “If you would, bring them by Pike’s Pier an hour after sunrise tomorrow. There’s a rundown warehouse and smithy just east of it. I’ll need a few extra hands to help clean it up.” Selvin raised a questioning eyebrow to this. “I suspect that a respectable shopkeep is just one of many faces I’ll be showing to this city in the days to come.”
