Category: campaigns

The Turn
He just remembers trying to scream. His muscles seem locked somehow or asleep. He wasn’t being held down by magic, so it must be some sort of potion or concoction that the pale lady had given him to drink to signify their deal. He had drunken deeply from the cup but apparently not enough. All he could tell was that his hands and feet were bound and that he was hung upside down on what appeared to be a wooden table. There were all sorts of distorted figures he could make out hazily walking around him and making awful noises and the stench…the stench was unbearable. Wherever he was it smelled awful of rotting and decomposing flesh.

Elan was a mess. He hadn’t slept shaved or bathed in too long. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to either be asleep or sit at the table with his cup and jug and drink till he was asleep again. Liliana wouldn’t approve of this behavior Elan had never drank when they were married but now it seemed to be the only recourse for his pain. One night just shy of being comatose again, he called out from the depths of his soul for anyone anything that could help take the pain away. If he could only be with his beloved Liliana again he would do anything. He didn’t know if it was really happening or in a dream as that line seemed to blur in his drunken stupors, but he dreamed that night of he was approached someone who referred to themselves as the “pale lady”. They had struck a deal or so it seemed that this lady could reunite Elan with his beloved for a small price and she seemed to genuinely want to help him so Elan didn’t even think of asking what this price was for something so great. She had promised to meet him later that week in the same place he had no idea where he was and thought he might be dreaming. She had said she would bring him to meet his beloved.

The same pale lady now approached dressed in a black gown that seemed in disrepair but yet could still be only called a gown fit for queens. She knelt down beside him and put a hand on his face oh my ” ” was her hand cold he thought. She peered into his eyes and he saw nothing as they stared back into his own. They seemed lifeless and as he slowly focused his eyes more on her features he began to shudder at the sight. Her flesh was rotting. What appeared to be a once beautiful woman was now nothing more than a rotting corpse in front of him. “Ah you seem to be waking up now finally sweetie we were beginning to wonder how long you would take to regain some of your sense. Welcome to my humble abode. Now we just need to take care of some tidying up her with our contract here and then we can get down to business. “Her voice was oddly melodic to Elan but it seemed to echo in his mind coldly. She produced a piece of parchment and a pen from where he couldn’t see and said “Now you seemed to want to see your beloved Liliana or something again correct. I will take your silence as a yes” she smiled and laughed. “So good of you to agree. In return I require your service for a period of time as I see fit but will remain undetermined for now. Your duties I will determine later after I can assess your abilities and what you might be useful for. The more useful you are the less you have to do…maybe. All I need from you is your signature. “Warning bells were going off in his head and he was realizing that his initial meeting with this pale lady was not in fact a dream but reality. He went to say anything but found he was still paralyzed and numb. “Can’t say anything or move sweetie…that’s okay I will just sign for you and assume that this is what you want.” He could only stare in horror as the quill magically and effortlessly floated over to the line marked with an x on their contract and watched as it perfectly replicated his name and penmanship. “Done and done I’m so glad we could agree on this aren’t you” she smiled and seemed very pleased with herself and whatever hold over him she had just won. She stood back up and smoothed the front of her dress and this time in a completely different voice that sounded nothing like the sweet voice that had just bullied him into a contract of servitude “cut him and drain him I want him ready to collect my other debtors by the beginning of the week. And be careful with this one he seems special and I have big plans for him” That last part sounded like a death threat if he had ever heard one. It was in fact a death sentence and even though for the next two days as he was slowly drained of all fluids and ritually sacrificed to dark powers he had wished for death it wouldn’t come…at least not the death he was hoping for

Old Friend
He walked into his house which now looked like it was abandoned. If someone had used to live here, it wasn’t apparent. He threw his things into the corner and flopped on the pallet that he slept on now. His large, down filled bed sat unused against the wall.

His few thoughts were being drowned out by a mixed cacophony of crying, moaning and then oddly enough laughter. He could understand the crying, he had just seen another ghast drag down a soul to the abyss. He could understand the moaning, the undead he now frequently associated with made noises that made his desiccated insides shiver. The laughter on the other hand, he had no clue whatsoever why that would be in his mind.

He laid there for a while as he relived the moments that had transpired just hours before. The nice thing is that even though very many of his ‘clients’ were from the Dregs, almost an even amount seemed to be from the nicer parts of the city. His hands reached for his pockets and pulled out 2 gold rings, 1 necklace with pearls and some fine silverware. Not too bad in all honesty. He didn’t pilfer these items for some need of money though.

Food, meh. Place to stay, he had his old home as well as a new place to lay low, the sewers. He almost preferred his new hiding spot in the fetid sewers running below parts of the city, the rats there were decent company and didn’t remind him of his wife. Clothes, well he did kind of need to keep them fresh actually. His old acquaintance, Avar, had his proverbial ear to ground and seemed to have his fingers dabbling in about half of the honey jars in Kell Na’dar. If anyone knew some way to get out of his ‘predicament’ he was as good a place as any to start. Now to just track down Avar … or would he be Tidbit tonight?

The Taste
He was exiting the abandoned warehouse where he and Avar had just set up another deal like it was in the old days. He and Avar had been associates before. When he was still enrolled in the College of Wizardry studying contently during the day and spending the evenings with his wife at home where she kept a neat house and a warm bed. He was a cleric in the church of Authras, if it could be called that. Sermons for him were mainly just long winded thesis statements on the revolution of the earth and moon and the orbits of planets. Sometimes it would be about some obscure plant or animal that one of them had discovered or it would be about the economical status of the nation and how they were heading into troubled grounds for their future. Occasionally though it would be about some topic that piqued Elan’s curiosity. Maybe something about a new holy relic being discovered some expedition into unknown tombs or ancient kings or the theological differences between Bramd and Dela’Dorn. He and Avar were business partners of sorts. Elan didn’t hang out in the dregs too often at this time and Avar didn’t have access to some of the resources that Elan could use. They were both interested and trafficked information, Avar for wealth and Elan for his natural hunger for knowledge. Sometimes they paid each other for the other’s services and other times there was a mutual agreement for services. Now however, he was rather desperate for help and proved that to Avar by putting money up front in return for some potential information on how to reverse his current condition. He knew Avar was sharp enough to most likely have figured out what was going on. He had laid out roughly what had happened to him in the past few months and it was a bit of relief to actual be able to confide in someone again and get it off his chest.

He continued further into the dregs towards a seedy brothel. He had been tracking his newest quarry for some time now. Earlier in the morning he had watched the man go from the docks to a tavern back to the docks and then finish off his shift back at the alehouses. As his newest debtor had teetered on drunken stupor, he watched him head to a house in search of more feminine company. It was then that Nalen left him to his devices and decided to delay the inevitable and look up Avar while in this side of town. He waited for maybe half an hour while on the other side of the terribly maintained street after his business meeting with Avar when there was bit of commotion in the house he was watching. Suddenly the front door was burst apart as a man come flying through it. A dwarf whose only features he could make out in the darkness were his red eyes and flashes of metal when he growled at the man now lying in the street.
“Really Dhent? I have asked you three times to open the door then throw them out. Is it really that difficult?”
The dwarf almost managed to look regretful for what he had did…almost. The dwarf walked out into the street to apparently finish the job when Nalen emerged from the shadows and walked towards him as well. “Mind if I finish this one off for you? You can search him for anything valuable first if you want I have no desire to rob him. He owe me but it’s not money I’m after” The dwarf seemed not to give a shit and looked disapprovingly at Nalen. From the brothel came another scream and the call of “Dhent”. “Seems like you are needed elsewhere as well.” The dwarf sniffed uncaringly but almost seemed to relieve to head back inside…almost. Nalen headed back to the man that was drunk, beat up, and now semi unconscious. He mumbled a few words under his breath and slowly willed the man to stand up and follow.

He walked around to the other end of the dregs where the sewer gate was slightly loosened and led the man into his new favorite place to collect debts. He twisted his way through the dank tunnels until he came to a slight clearing where multiple sewer lines converged and stepped up onto the slightly raised platform off to the side where the city workers staged their repairs from. He brushed off a small amount of debris with his boots and then intoned the words that brought forth the undead to this realm. The now familiar smell of rotting flesh and acrid breath didn’t bother him too much anymore and barely even flinched as the horror appeared before him.

“You have been busy Nalen the other collectors aren’t pulling as many numbers as you have been this past week. Trying to show off for Azerot and earn her favor?”

“No just the last couple people have had unsavory lives and I almost jumped at the chance to drag their souls from their bodies it’s starting to be invigorating almost” He lied outright. He hated this. The look in the eyes of those whose souls he was ripping from them. The anguish in their faces as potentially it wasn’t them that were paying for their debts but maybe a loved one. Invigorating no.

“Good I hear that enjoying your work leads to a happy life…or in your case unlife” the creature hissed at him and gave a wicked smile.

“Shut up let me release him and get this over with.” He released the spell on the drunk man and he immediately vomit as his faculties were returned to him and then he fell face down into the pile. Nalen sighed and then turned his head sharply as he could swear that he could hear laughing. “You hear that?” he asked the ghast next to him.

“Hear what?”

“Nevermind, I’m not going to read him his contract he is too drunk to know what I am saying and it’s not like this is exactly the High Courts so who cares.”

“One of these days you will have to learn to do this by yourself we grow tired of helping you or at least we would if we didn’t enjoy this so much. Come over here in fact” the ghast commanded.

Nalen walked over as he watched the ghast produce the chain that would wrench the soul from the drunkard. He lashed out with the chain as it caught the main around neck and wrapped around his throat. He handed the chain to Nalen and said simply, “Pull.”

He tugged on the chain as he had seen the others do but it only pulled the man back face down in to his own vomit again. “No,” said the ghast, “pull his soul.” Nalen tried again this time but focused on pulling the soul with the chain and not the man. The man came nearly fully out on his first pull “it is easier when they aren’t resisting” said his undead companion, “but not nearly as fun. Pull him all the way out now.” Nalen continued with another pull and the man free of his own body. The man’s ghostly apparition was being dragged face down into the sewer and as the last part of him came free a strange surge slowed up through the chain around the man’s neck and into Nalen. It filled him it seemed with a vile prescence. It invaded his mind but for at least for a few seconds the sounds in his mind subsided and gave him a moment’s peace from the noise. “At least you can do that part now, we just have to get you to be able to take their souls below and then you won’t have to call upon us anymore.” The ghast walked over to the drunk mans soul with his hunched gait and picked him up. “If only it was my turn for a soul he would be mine.” He licked his lips hungrily at the pale image of the man hungrily and sighed. “Maybe next time.” He took the chain from Nalen and then led the man back to underworld.

Nalen backed away from the body after shoving into the main tunnel and he walked back into the clearing and put his back to the wall and slid down till he was sitting. His eyes looked wild and his thoughts were racing. The strange surge from pulling the man’s soul was having some weird effects on him. He felt stronger he felt as if he had eaten a full meal and rested even though he never slept or ate and never felt hungry or tired anymore. It was odd to feel this way after months of feeling just, well dead. His mind was a little clearer than normal without all the background noise. His thoughts were drifting randomly to his wife when suddenly he felt a stabbing pain his neck and that laughter again. Shaken from his drifting memory he had an odd thought. He nudged the soulless body as he walked out back into the main spillway so it would drift into another part of town and exited the sewer and headed back into town.

A New Deal
N’alen was fleeing down the streets of the dregs with Avar trying to look inconspicuous when he noticed something. His breathing wasn’t heavy and his heart was racing. In fact his heart wasn’t beating at all. This was odd to him; he hadn’t had any exhilarating experiences since his life was ripped from him slowly. His pause was momentary however, whether or not his body was acting like he almost was destroyed, it had happened nonetheless.
Avar motioned for him to follow him through the streets the bard knew so well. He directed him through a small alley that opened up into a decently busy market. He looked at his cloak and saw some blood splatter. Removing the symbol he had just retrieved from the sewn secret pocket and some loose gold, he tossed it into an alley. Moving to a nearby table he picked up another cloak and tossed the man a silver piece as the merchant started to haggle price. He moved on.
After feeling safe that he wasn’t being followed Avar turned to N’alen. “I have some business to take care of so I’m off. I will see you tonight where we already talked about.” And with that the bard winked, turned and walked off with his signature jaunt. N’alen took a brief bearing of where he was and made his way to the edge of Kel Na’dar.
After reaching the city walls he glanced over his in both directions and feeling confident no one was watching he slipped through the gate and made his way down the sewers to his home as of late. He followed the tunnels till he reached his little landing where he frequently stopped during his long nights. He pressed his back against the cold, wet tunnel wall and slid down it till his knees were at his chest. He closed his eyes briefly and reached into his pocket and pulled out the recognizable symbol of Ariel, a slight burning sensation tingled through his hands. “I got something for you, we need to talk.”

There was a moment of odd tugging and felt himself standing now…and the smell was awful, a mix of death and rot. “What is it you have?” the words almost seemed to be hissed as they lingered in the air.

N’alen held up the symbol of Ariel showing it to Azerot and she visibly flinched at the sight.

“Where did you get that?” the hoarse voice spoke again.

“Cleric of Ariel found himself in the wrong part of Kel Na’dar and on the wrong person’s list. He didn’t need it anymore, thought I would take it.”

“You seem to be in a bartering mood, what is it you want?”

“This symbol is of your enemy if I remember my studies correctly.” The reply came flat and emotionless. “Think this could be part of my debt I owe, this has to be worth more than just 1 person’s soul. This cleric had swords that seemed to erupt within me, he hunted the undead, and he was hunting me. I want to speed up this payment plan we have arranged. If I collect their souls as well as the people that owe you debts, I think that should count as extra.”

“You make an interesting proposition N’alen. I think we can make something like that happen; you’re not prepared for it though. They are trained to hunt you, how do you think you can protect yourself. Come here; let’s see what I have to work with”

N’alen walked over cautiously as Azerot placed her pale hands on his temples, “No this won’t do at all, relax your mind N’alen, this is going to hurt.” There was a long silence and a change in her face, “but not as much as it will hurt Ariel.”

The sound of Azerot’s cruel laughter filled the chamber…

Caught Between a Rock…and a Wall
Nalen looked down at his right arm again and cringed. It had been crushed in the doorway when the room finally slammed shut. It had crushed the demons left inside that cell he had previously been trapped in. His mind flashed back to a few minutes earlier. The piles of flesh had lashed out at him with cruel claws and he raised his new shield to ward off their blows. Every now and then he would lower his shield and try to strike back at his attackers. Each time he did so he felt like his attempts were futile. His magic seemed of ill use too. He had desperately called out to Azerot asking that today not be his last. She must have heard him and found some pity in the cold black heart because his companions had pried open the door barely enough at the last second.

He remembered again the sight of his arm when it had just been crushed and how it just simply fell off with no resistance. His companions had looked at him rather oddly when there was no blood and that his arm simply lay there on the ground now. He picked it up trying to remain calm and it into his sack where he had just previously stored a skeleton. Speaking of the skeleton it stood there along with the wights staring back at him blankly. Avar had started to set up some bedrolls for himself and the others looked to be getting into a position to rest and the preseence of the undead seemed to make them uneasy. He mentally dismissed the trio and stationed them at the exits of the corner of the sewers they were in and informed them to alert him of any other presences if they came this way. With that command the wights went to the to exit and the skeleton with shield and sword still in hand the other. The others seemed to be momentarily relieved that sets of blank eyes were upon them and Nalen allowed himself to relax his muscles as well.

“Curse this decrepit body.” he muttered to himself. He put his back up against the wall and slid down His chain mail making a grating sound on the pipe wall behind him. He shook his shield off his left arm and looked again at the stump on his right. “Azerot,” his thought went out “your servant desires your counsel if you please.”

“Aahh poor Nalen, I thought you would be calling me soon. I see you have lost a limb you pathetic weakling. I suppose you want me to do something about that, another bargain perhaps?” The question seemed to echo in his mind mockingly as the last syllables rolled off her tongue in his head. He cringed at the thought of being even more in debt to her service but he had since given up at this point to ever being free. His only option at this point was to just grow as powerful as possible in her presence till one day…he left the thought silent as she was in his mind.

“Prove to me that you can be useful with one hand Nalen, and then I will see if you are fit for my blessing. I think you are up to the challenge apparently you’re not as weak as I thought, it seems that you have been able to at least command some simple undead to do your bidding. I am not surprised due to your kinship to them. I tell you what worm, you get out of the Undercity, which I doubt you will and prove yourself to be a true servant and I will give you my blessing and the gift of power you can’t even begin to fathom. When you return the dregs of Kelnadar I will put in contact with one of my more esteemed living disciples name Detrach Kach. He will be able to give you what you need, only if you ask me of it first. List me your demands. I will let him know what to prepare should make it out of here with your unlife. “
Nalen thought and paused for a moment.

“My current company seems to be unarmored and frail in the front lines of combat. I wish to have armor that will let me withstand the blows of our enemies that I might reave their life from them and offer you their souls. I wish to have the touch of the wights that I command, that my mere touch weaken my enemies. I demand a replacement for the mace that I just lost, I want weapon worthy of a commander of your undead servants. Grant me another arm stronger than the one I was born with. Give me access to the collective knowledge of the undead. Let me tap into that ancient wisdom of necromancy and connect my minds with theirs. Through this knowledge my power can only increase, and with my power comes your glory and infamy. If you will not grant me this knowledge then I demand the ability to sacrifice some of my power of the undead to raise the power of my magic to new heights. “

“You demand from me you filth?”, her voice raising an octave. “This is a side of you I am not used to seeing. You normally go about sniveling and fawning to everyone. Maybe you aren’t useless after all. Let’s start small worm and we will see about your other demands if you don’t survive the rest of the Undercity. You want the knowledge the undead possess Nalen, careful what you wish for next time.”
And with the final words, her presence was gone in her mind. His mind felt relaxed for minute and wondered what she meant. Then all at once it him, his mind reeled back from the sudden rush of information. Memories, images, smells, sounds, thoughts all come flooding into his mind and invading his thoughts. The intrusion of his mind lasted for several minutes and then it stopped. His mind seemed to swirl with new thoughts and ideas. It was almost like a constant chatter in a guttural tongue of many voices. After a while he realized he could push the voice out and bring it forth again. He recognized a voice in his head, it was the man he had first collected. His thoughts and memories were now a part of him and apparently he was very talented stonemason.

Back to Work
He was walking amongst the shops in the dregs for the first time in a few weeks. He had changed clothes and washed what was left of his still thinning black hair. He was perusing some of the wares of an out of the way shop when felt the pulling in the back of his mind. His eyes went distant for a minute and then the directions came. He turned around and got his bearings in the city and then started a purposefully march in the opposite direction. Someone wanted to save their son from dying 3 years and had pleaded to the gods for mercy, only one turned an ear to help. Azerot the merciful, he laughed to himself at the thought. The only reason Azerot would ever be merciful would be to let them build false hope only to rip it away later. “Merciful my rotted ass” he said as he passed the street that led into the more common area of the city. He was almost anticipating this one for some reason…

Later on that night, Nalen was back in the sewers to check his traps. He had moved some of the looser stones in the brick work of the sewer. He laid the bricks down and propped one end up with old arrow shafts he kept from the old marksman he paid a visit to the other night. Attached to the bottom of the arrow shafts were small bits of string which were looped around various pieces of dried fruit or bread he had left from the rest stop outside of Chant before the misadventures in the Undercity. His plan was the various rodents to grab the cheese, pull the strings and hope brick would fall on them. As he approached his first trap, he could see the rock still standing. The same for the second and the third. The fourth one was down but no rat. He was heading towards his last 2 when he felt a sharp pain in his side. Running his hand down he felt that there was an arrow in him.

“why did you put strawberries on the floor!!!!!” came a tiny voice from behind him. He turned and looked but could see nothing.

“kip?” he questioned empty space.

“well who else stumpy, a different 1 armed man?” and with that a tiny pixie appeared covered in various shades of green all over his person and a small bump forming on his brow.

“I am sorry Kip, I am trying to catch rats for an idea I have, I had no intention of harming you” he said flatly and softly.

“OOOOOHHHH catching rats?! I like those, i caught one once when we in the Undercity and it was squirming and it was like holding onto a tornado all wiggly like.”

“well if you like catching them, i will buy you some green dye from the market tomorrow if you catch me some”

“Green dye?” the pixie squealed thrusting his arms and legs out in front of him in excitement, “deal.”

Nalen extended his hand and the pixie came up and grabbed Nalen’s little finger on his remaining and they shook. As they did, the tip of Nalen’s finger fell off into Kip’s unexpecting grasp. Kip’s eyes went wild for minute in surpise and after looking at the finger, then Nalen, then the finger again, He squeaked in excitement then promptly vanished and flew away. Nalen could hear the final thoughts of the pixie.

“I am gonna put this in someone’s soup!” as the sound of laughter carried on down through the sewer corridor.

Nalen looked down at his hand missing a part of digit, then looked at the cloth wrapped stump on his right arm and dropped his head with a sigh.

Stepping Out
He made the final touches to his face then and then looked into the reflecting glass to check himself one more time. Not too shabby he thought to himself. Nalen had been busy since he and his friend’s last adventure. He was doing more work for Azerot than before and it was showing. He wasn’t so gaunt and his skin almost had a tcouh of warmth to it. He had decided to use this period of not looking like death to do some purchasing of supplies he felt would be needed on the upcoming days working with Avar again. He had acquired some nicer clothes during a collection of a slender nobleman that was about his height. He had pilfered them and wrapped them up in cheap rugs he had also found in the residence. Now those same packages were tied with twine and Nalen loaded them into his packs. He wakled out through the sewers and climbed up onto the surface of the city. He went behind an old abandoned building and changed into his nicer clothes to to seem more apprpriate for his new wealth and the items he wished to purchase.His doublet was of a deep black trimmed in grey around the hem and the neck. It was laced up the front with a black lace and the two ends hung at the bottom. His doublet extending to about mid thigh and came to a lower point in the front. His pants were of loose linen and his boots of soft leather that had some wear to them already. His under tunic was of a soft, dark grey linen that was open and loose at the cuffs. His stump arm he had pinned the loose fabric together and hid it under his cloak. His new cloak was again a deep black trimmed in matching grey with a silver clasp at the front that held a chain across with rectangular links. He wore his pack underneath the cloak and behind him to conceal its small bulk.

He had the list in his head as he walked through the busier parts of the market. He ducked into a shop parting the beaded curtains that hid its wares partialy from the outside view. The shopkeep was an older wizened man with a long white beard and deep blue robe.
“Welcomes young master,” the old man sang out as Nalen entered the shop, “What can I help you find this fine day?”

“Good morning to you as well,” Nalen replied “I am looking for a few rods that have magical properties. I remember reading about when I studied the arts long ago. They had the ability to effect the spells you were casting in various ways. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes, yes I think I have just what you are looking for. Come over here” The old man hobbled over to the far end of the shop where he had a table with multiple rods laying out for display. They all had various engravings and symbols etched into their various surfaces, some of metal and others of exotic woods. “Is there a particular type of effect you are looking for in particular?”

“Yes.” Nalen reached down and picked one up that had 3 circles linked together engraved into its dark wooden surface. “What does this one do?”

“That one there is Rod of Chaining. Here let me show what it can do.” The old man took the rod in his hand and with his other drew out a small pinch of some dust from his pouch at his side. With a blow of his breath to his hand the material took flight and he murmured a word under his breath and pointed a finger from his now empty hand into the wand and 3 small burts of fire in short succession to light 3 tallow wicks standing on a nearby candlebra.

“Very impressive” Nalen clapped his hands together in joy. He was trying to play the part of spoiled nobleman easily impressed by these parlor tricks. “I like that one a lot I do. What about this one?” Nalen picked up another rod that seemed longer than the others lying near it.

“Oh yes another good choice young friend. This one will extend the length of any spell you cast through it up to a certain degree. The more powerful, deep magics won’t be effected by it.” The old man lowered his voice and made grandiose gestures as if to impress his newest customer.

“Oh that would be much much, beyond anything I could ever hope for, I don’t have nearly the gift and power that someone such as yourself would have. I merely want to impress some ladies and make the other nobles jealous at my parties with some entertainment.” He snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “thats the other thing I want! There is another man that does magic at his parties that does a small teleportation trick, I have to be able to do something bigger to best him.” His volume growing to emphasize his point.

“Well then you are in luck today.” The old man walked over to another part of the shop and opened up a chest that was filled with all sorts of trinket and jewelry. Its top lining had slits sewn into and held rings while the bottom portion was sectioned off and compartmentalized with layers of trays. He pulled out a few trays and seemed to rummage through until he stopped and picked up a thin circle that was double braided with gold and silver, on it hung a single charm that resembled a pair of boots.” Here put it it on,” the old man insisted.

“How?” Nalen asked acting dumb.

“Simply push it on, the ankle will take care of the rest, the nobles would definitely be impressed by this, I haven’t sold one in quite some time.”

Nalen seemed to disbelievingly put the anklet on around his leg as the material let his body pass through until it was on his leg.

“Now concentrate on a point not too off and mentally put yourself there.”

Nalen focused then blinked to a spot in the shop about 10 ft away. He turned around wide eyed “Perfect! The ladies will love this!”

The old man and Nalen went over a few more trinkets and he picked out another ring. Finally Nalen said he other things to attend to and wanted to settle the matter of price. The old man tossed out a number than Nalen wanted to pay. Nalen reached behind in his cloak and grabbed his money pouch and pulled a few platinum pieces from it. “I had a different number in mind. You have been a great help and I would love to continue to purchase these rare treasures from you as my father gives me more of my large inheritance and I have nothing else I would rather spend it on.” He let the words sink in before continuing, “I just don’t have all that much on me currently, but trust me I will be back assuredly to purchase more. Think of it as gaining repeat business. All I have on me is 20 platinum pieces for the 2 rods, the ring and the anklet. I haven’t even looked at other shops yet to see if there are other items I could purchase for a better price…” He left the words hanging as if to let the old man know it was his turn in the game.

__

Nalen continued his walk through the markests looking for the armorers row of shops. He finally found them by simply folowing the smell of smoke and sound of the hammers ringing against various metals. He walked past several until he found the sign he was looking for and stopped at the entrance waiting to be noticed. After a few more blows of the hammer, a man looked up from his worked and eyed Nalen. He was an ugly looking man. His face was pockmarked and his eyes bulged in their sockets and he was bald. His arms were bare from the burned scarred white tunic the man whore. He was well muscled and about half a hand shorter than Nalen.

The man squinted and inquired roughly, “Whaddya want fancypants?”

“I come looking for a blacksmith named Detrach, I was told this is his shop, my mistress informed him to make some armor for me and I am here to pick it up.”

“Never heard of him, leave.” The ugly man snarled back.

“Are you sure? I was told this is his sigil and the location, I have platinum to pay for the piece that was commisioned for me, its purpose is unique to me.” he left it hanging to entice the man to reveal himself.

“Come ‘ere, let me touch your skin, want to see if you are who I think you are.” Nalen walked forward as the man reached out a hand and put it around Nalen’s neck and squeezed. Nalen looked on unphased. “No pulse eh? Alright, ya im Detrach, and don’t get to spreadin’ it aroun neither.”

“No fear of that, is my armor ready?”

“Ya its here, step back with me here a moment, I don’t keep certain things out in the front for everyone to see.” Detrach led him through a sturdy oak door and into an open room with a cellar door in the floor and heavy metal ring on top. Detrach lifted the door and took a candle from the wall and led Nalen down an old ladder of lashed wood. Nalen could see why he kept this hidden, the room was full of grotesque looking weapons, armor and various other tools that reminded him of his time during his transformation. Detrach picked up a black breastplate from a shelf that looked newly dyed and held it up. “This wat your lookin fer?”

Nalen eyed it up and down. “Yes, that is perfect.”

The breastplate was of thick leather and the top portion covering the upper chest 1 solid piece with smaller tiers coming off of the bottom extending down to the waist. It was enclosed on 1 side and the open side closed with leather strapping. The pauldrons covered the upper half of the arm and leather scales extended down from the bottom to cover down to the elbow. The armor was engraved with various sigils around all of the edges almost as if they were sentences. The front of the of the armor was a wicked stylized visage of a creature Nalen didn’t see too often tooled on armor. All over the armor there were leather spikes riveted to the surface giving it a sleek but deadly look.

“Now we talk price.” the old man grunted as he sat down on a nearby stool. After debating the price and handing over the requested amount Nalen noticed something on closer look of the smith’s arms.

“What are those symbols on your skin, I didn’t notice them at first, are those divine symbols?”

“Aye, it marks me in 2 ways. I have little ability to cast spells myself of moderate power. Back in the days that I did work like you I didn’t have enough in me required to do collecting and the blacksmithing work she asked me to do for her minions. She appreciated my work down here enough eventually that I don’t have to do grunt work like yourself. I use these sigils to instill the power into the armor. Your armor’s ability to drain the life from others comes from this sigil here. All I did was purchase some leather armor from a fella two shops down and infuse it with power. I added some artistic touches too.” Detrach noted as he pointed just above his elbow on his right arm. “She stitched me herself actually. The symbols are the spells she inscribed into my skin. Painful process really and took quite some time.”

“Interesting” Nalen mused aloud rubbing his chin.

“Interesting or interesting?”

“Interested actually. Why do you ask?”

“Come back to me when you got more coin on you grunt, your purse looks too thin to undertake this work. Come find me when you’re richer and in the mood for pain.”

The Ballad of Sir Bah’Rane and Dragons of Darkness
… and as Sir Bah’Rane threw down his shivered lance and turned his charger to look upon the death throes of the fearsome beast, a brief instant of terror took him. The dragon was not gasping its last, but instead swelling to an even larger size and screaming its rage into the sky. As his gaze followed the beast’s change, an even more stunning and fear invoking transformation took place. The giant, black dragon became a dark mist which then poured out into three forms. In mere moments, Sir Bah’Rane was facing not one, but three devilishly dark dragons. Through sheer force of will, he quenched the flickering thoughts of flight, drew forth his sword, Silver’s Flame, and spurred his destrier into a valiant charge…

Dockside Chant
And it’s haul boys, haul
Make fast those ropes to the pier
Help the river lads stow their gear
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
Roll those barrels down the dock
Winch that crate, carry the crock
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
Drive that stock to the stall
Care with that casket and the pall
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
Shoulder those sacks of wheat and beans
Move and load those bundles of greens
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
Pushing that freight for a hard day’s pay
Spent on drink, soothe the pain away
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
With a smile and a wink and a touch of luck
You’ll charm a pretty wench, and get a fuck
And it’s haul boys, haul

And it’s haul boys, haul
An hour before dawn, it’s back to the quay
Heaving those bales for another damn day
And it’s haul boys, haul

Kell Na’dar City Guard Cadence
Hup, hup, hup, hup,
One, two, three, four,
Hup, hup, hup, hup,

You wanna walk the highborn runs,
Gotta ‘ave the birth or get the funds,
First you’ll have to gain the rank,
Then wash off the city’s stank

Hup, hup, hup, hup,

If you get the Floaters, you are made,
A fine bit o’ walkin on the promenade,
Guard those bridges, check those cards,
Do your work, gain the rewards.

Hup, hup, hup, hup,
Hup, hup, hup, hup,

You might just get a Trades patrol,
Learn the merchants, know your roll,
Watch for the thief, watch for the cheat,
Don’t let ‘em scoot on your beat.

Hup, hup, hup, hup,

In the Commons, you’ll earn your truck,
Good or bad, it’s all about the luck,
A common place for the common man,
Pace the streets, stick to the plan.

Hup, hup, hup, hup,
Hup, hup, hup, hup,

The Docks are nice, by the day,
Not a bad place to earn your pay,
If by night, keep a wary eye,
You’re tossed in the river if’n you die.

Hup, hup, hup, hup,

Skirt the Dregs, if you can,
It’s not worth the life of a man,
If you have to turn that stone,
Don’t get caught on your own.

Hup, hup, hup, hup,
One, two, three, four,
Hup, hup, hup, hup.

River Ditty
And it’s down the Kell we’ll go,
Driving cargo to and fro,
Tie off the ropes and grab a pole,
Catch the wind to ease the droll.
Smell the scent of the river clean,
Enjoy the time in the shaded stream.

Don’t get fooled by the tranquil sound,
It’s a whole lot of work ‘fer where we’re bound,
Toil and trial awaits the hand,
A day on the river is rarely bland,
‘Ware ye be of the sunken log,
‘Ware ye be of bandits in the fog.

With a fine crew, we’ll make the dock,
Unload the goods, roll out the stock,
Grab our pay, brush off the mist,
To the tavern, ‘n get good and pissed.
If those dockside boys want a row,
We’ll show them all, with a heave and a ho.

Mally’s Ride
Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

A late one morning, did sleepy Mally rise
To spy the army’s dust hanging on the skies
His armor and his sword he did don in haste
And off to the stables Mally he did race

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

The stalls were all but empty, and Mally did cry
The hand saw his plight and to help he would try
For a wild willed pony was kept out in the yard
And a close fight it was, to saddle that wee pard

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

And off down the road strong Mally he did ride
For that wicked little pony she had a wicked stride
Nigh shaken to bits, when the army Mally saw
Taking cover by a fence behind the stony wall

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

Mally pulled the reigns to slow his hurried gait
But the little pony whinnied and speeded up her rate
O’er the stone fence the pony she did take flight
And Mally’s face fell as of the enemy he caught sight

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

The soldiers sounded a cheer as Mally led the charge
And o’er the wall they went, the tiny and the large
T’was the adversary’s face then that darkly did fall ill
As Mally on a pony led the army down the hill

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

The rival line then chose to scatter, break and run
As Mally crossed the tattered ground on his minute dun
Again the army cheered as their charge came to a halt
But great Mally kept on riding, at the pony’s fault

Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys
Ride for the boys, Mally, ride for the boys

She was perfect, a tangential sojourn from mediocrity.

It had been weeks since my bloody exodus from father’s oppressive parentage, and I found myself in the grip of a desperate need, a hunger: not the hunger that insures one’s meager survival, but the emptiness associated with a powerful loss. In the wake of such nourishing violence, nothing could satiate my sanguinary desires besides more, more, more… It was a phantom limb; I was on the precipice and this woman would be my salvation.

She was pawning various curios in the dilapidated markets of the Dregs. She was beauty beyond the words of the most celebrated poets and lovelier than anything I could ever dream into existence. She was impossible. A normal man could lose himself in her fiery locks, made radiant in the dappled sunlight of the mid-afternoon sun. However, for all her charms, she seemed crippled by an abject sadness. It was in her eyes, those salient pools of emerald bliss, and in the weakness of her smile, a ghost of remembered joy. I was thoroughly intimidated and afraid, but I needed her.

I approached, guarding my eagerness with all the skill of an amateur player upon his first night on the stage. I was a wreck, but I could not allow her to penetrate my nebulous guise if I were to feed freely that night. Luckily, I was halted by a fortuitous triviality, and a plan soon formulated. With a defeated hand, she withdrew a most interesting novelty from her satchel: a simple player’s mask of matte white and void of pronounced features. It was macabre in design, and it reminded me of Sinclair’s theory of Metaphorical Masks, Chapter 2 paragraphs 17 – 25. My sagacious mentor championed ideas of bloodlust and murder; central to these philosophies were personae construction and the optimization of predatory relationships. I needed that mask as much as I needed the woman, and I would have both that night.

I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Excuse me, ma’am. I have been perusing these reputable stands for hours seeking items of unique make. I was just about to retire, when I was struck by that curious mask you have there. Would you be willing to part with it?” I could sense her hesitation, not at the proposition but at the approach, so I shot her a reassuring smile. Ms. Fleischer of the Rock Bottom Tavern would endlessly drone on about my inspiring smile as she served up mugs of her famous bitter ale. Ostensibly, this woman was equally inspired and reciprocated as joyously as her sadness would allow.

“Of course, sir, but this mask is simple and unadorned; it cannot be worth much. To be honest, I only found it this morning outside the playhouse. It mustn’t have been that important.” Her voice rang out like a melancholy dove.

“Worth is subject to the buyer alone. I would be willing to pay as much as 10 gold pieces for that mask.” Her face transformed, a hopeful sunrise emerging from endless night. “Before you answer, we should surrender to more private quarters. There is a quiet spot just around the corner from the market we can discuss our arrangement.”
Her smile retreated quickly. “Sir, I’m married.”

“Congratulations are in order, ma’am. I assure you, I do not endeavor such dalliances; I simply wish to secure our agreement away from more vulgar suitors. However, forgive my boldness, but you are radiant. You must have been spun from the sun!” I laid bare my pouch of coin. “I am merely an eager bidder.” I was fumbling through my undeveloped charms, but she submitted.
She blushed and replied, “Of course, sir. Forgive my haste.”

In the seclusion of the foreboding access, we came to agreeable terms. “Thank you, truly! My husband and I were in dire need, and I did not wish to part with my modest wedding band. My dear, Elan. He has been troubled so.”

“It is I who is thankful, ma’am. You have made this curious collector very happy indeed.” The mask was in my grasp. I could feel the life-force of Sinclair pulsating through my hands in perfect harmony with my quickening heart beat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide my intentions. I adorned the mask…astounding! Every breath became a violent gust and every thought a nova of anticipation. “How do I look?”

“Dashing, I suppose. I’ll be off then, sir.” She turned, her gentle frame moving toward the sanctuary of the market. She turned…so did I.

With a simple flick of the wrist, my father’s strop razor was in hand. I surged, taking the fine mistress hard to the ground. It accepted her with harsh reprisal. I had her pinned with what I thought was a powerful hold, drew back her head with a handful of her glorious, ardent hair, and was ready to draw the blade across her pale throat. In my zealous strike, I relaxed my guard. With fight-or-flight strength, she lithely turned and caught me on the temple with a sharp blow, cracking the delicate mask of my abhorrent desires. Stunned, my thoughts swam through a thick pall and my vision was momentarily hindered. She continued to struggle, but I was able to regain my placement as the fog cleared. Then, as the first note of panic escaped her lungs, my blade finally met its mark. I pressed her face against the ground as her last shallow breaths bubbled forth. What little light was left in those vibrant eyes was soon extinguished. Her arm twitched, drawing closer to her body as if she was desperately changing the current of her essence. Then nothing.

Sweet relief. It fills me up, a cornucopia of murderous delight. This city is a stage, my playground. Its dregs…mere players in my tome of violence.

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.”

Day 41
He woke in a cold sweat. It must have been a bad dream. He wiped his face with one meaty hand and peered over to the soft snoring beside him. A sharp snort as he recalled how she got there.

Bloody wench had crawled into his room the night before to avoid an overly noxious patron. Literally noxious as he smelled like he had taken a bath in the Kell. He had awoke to the commotion from the common room long before she had entered to a lone open red eye that greeted her.

“S-sorry, sir. I expected you to be asleep.” she stammered out as she creeped towards his bed. “May I sleep here.”

He had answered her the same way he answered any of the whores who worked there, he rolled over and grunted his approval. Most of the girls felt obligated to give him thanks. Those were met with a strong backhand and a night on the rug. This particular girl was content with sleeping back to back with him. There was always contact but it wasn’t enough to bother him. He felt a fear within her that spoke of respect and she wouldn’t push their relationship further. He appreciated that and let it slide.

He remembered that the other girls disliked her. The mouther ones liked to talk when he guarded them. He pretended to not listen but in truth he was hanging on their every single word and inflection. They called her the “Princess” because of the matron’s special attention. She was given the best clients and the best rooms. All because she was ‘unspoiled’ as the girls put it. He had no idea what that meant but he intended to find out eventually. Gods be sure he wasn’t going to outright ask them.

“Always at arms length.” He reminded himself in a gruff mumble as he took in the sight of her, barely covered by the sheets on the bed.

He looked away from her and looked down to his hands. No job had ever got him as jumpy as this one had. He had dealt with divine forces before. The Spider Queen’s many priestesses were a constant in his old life in the underdark but this was different. This was so odd. What word could he really use? It was so ‘good.’

He had felt the energies wash over him as he squared off with the cleric. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or part of his dream that was fabricated by his overactive mind but he thought he heard a woman’s voice urging the man on. The Spider Queen ruled through fear and tyranny. This ‘Ariel’ seemed encouraging and joyous. It was utterly nauseating to him.

Another thing kept gnawing at the back of his skull.

“You’re one of the few bloody flaming fucking Duergar in this city and I didn’t wear a mask?!” he snarled as he launched a water pitcher on his bedside table at the wall. He expected his bunkmate to wake but she always slept through his outbursts. He liked that about her. Especially considering how many of those there had been since he was freed.

Who could he find to make him something to conceal his heritage? Who at this brothel was hiding something? The answer made his lips curl back in a cruel sneer.

He hopped down from the small bed and headed into the hallway. The second he exited he heard the tumbler fall into the locked position. He looked back, nodded and moved on. Many of the girls were meandering in the corridors that led into the rooms of pleasure. They would move out of his way without even acknowledging him. Most of them knew him by reputation and needed no more than that to be weary of this black creature. He preferred it as such.

There was a hallway that led up behind the bar where the beast of a matron was leaning over the counter, showing off her ‘assets’ to the men waiting for their ‘custom.’ As he meandered through the curtain, the face of a man covered in rogue turned to him and smiled sweetly.

“Well met my cunning pugilist. What can this lovely maiden assist you with?” purred the matron.

“It ain’ teh maiden’s advice I be needin’. I be needin’ to speak wit yer husband.”

The smile melted from the face into a cruel sneer that was born from years of abuse. Asking for the matron’s husband was a clever way to address that they needed to speak to her other person. She spat at the floor near his feet and bid him to wait in her office.

He sad on the hard bench in her cramped office and waited patiently, taking a drag from the giant hookah that decorated the center. It was always lit and kept ready for its mistress.

As the matron entered, she ripped the wig off ‘her’ head and tossed it onto a wooden head on the right side of her desk.

“What the fuck do you want, little man?” he growled at him in a voice that was anything but feminine.

“A mask. Ah need teh look like an average chalkie Dwarf.”

The heavy eyebrow lifted as the matron grinned. “This is going to be interesting indeed.”

Day 40 – A New Crew
As he reached the sewer he began to clear off the blood and chalk. Avar had mentioned Dante had disappeared with the head. While he was enraged by the probability of failure, he had other concerns to take care of first. The events of the last few hours began to rush through his head as he began to catalog the information.

N’Alen. No blood? The cleric’s intense hatred towards him? There is something going on there. The punches he delivered at the beginning of the encounter definitely felt off. He didn’t see much of what N’Alen actually did during the fight, but he assumed he would see more of it as time went on with this crew.

Dante. There was a gleam in that man’s eye. He killed with a quick efficiency that was told of a talent. His killing blows on the soldiers spoke of a gruesome enjoyment for carving a body to pieces. He would have to watch that one closely. He would also avoid meeting him in a dark alley. Ever.

Avar. He wasn’t sure what the man was doing, but he had a feeling that his bravado is what caused his blade to meet its mark so easily. He had become the de facto leader which suited Dhent just fine.

As soon as he was cleaned and calmed, he emerged from the sewers with his hood drawn up. He needed to disarm and law low for a while. That many guards having seem him and been allowed to live? He wasn’t exactly one of MANY of his kin in this city. If there was a rumor of a murderous Duergar, he would be singled out immediately. He needed a plan.

He made his way through the back door of his common haunt, the Gilded Queen, and hunkered down until it was time to meet back up with his crew. He had a feeling the violence wasn’t over yet. If Dante had escaped with their mark, he wouldn’t be breathing much longer for sure.

He let his eyes close as he relaxed with his back resting on the door to his tiny chamber. There’s always something.

Day 27 – Respite at Last
These chalkie louts are a joke. They all gather together in safe houses to sleep, trusting each other to watch their backs. Problem is, they’re all fuckin’ crooks. Not a single bloody one is worth the skin he’s made from. I couldn’t begin to give them to satisfaction of slitting my throat in my sleep.

So I wandered for a bit. Inns cost me gold. Alleys weren’t safe. Abandoned warehouses had rats and urchin children who eyed my purse. I needed somewhere that no one would expect me to be.

I was wandering back to the makeshift hole I was sleeping in when I saw a chalkie fuck pulling on the sleeve of a wench outside a fluff house. I had just come back from a mission where I didn’t get to hurt anyone, so I broke his leg in three places with a swift kick. He crumbled down and the wench dove into the door of the house. Seconds later the matron emerged with a cudgel and whacked the stricken chalkie in the temple.

Impressed, I helped her toss him bodily into the alleyway. This matron wasn’t exactly… motherly as you would expect the proprietor of a Fluff House to be. I only say that because ‘she’ was a bloody man wearing the trappings of a chalkie noble. I’m not one to judge so I let it go. She offered me a night with one of her girls, but by now I was so bloody exhausted I just asked her for a room. She was dumfounded, but obliged.

In the morning, I awoke with a start, pointing a dagger at the throat of a half naked ebony serving girl bringing me breakfast. The sound brought the matron in laughing, ushering the poor wench out of the room.

“I expected you to enjoy that one, she’s your ‘type’ after all.”

“Ain’t got ah type.”

“Is that so? What if I told you that you could stay here from time to time if you do some work for me?”

“Ahm listenin’.”

She laid it out for my straight, assuming my grasp on common was passing at best. I like it that way. She said if I helped keep the girls safe, she would allow me to stay there from time to time or hide from the chalkie authorities. Only deal was, I had to keep it quiet and quick. Those being my specialties, I agreed.

“You sure you don’t want a nice bed warmer from time to time?”

“Ain’t wurth teh trubble.”

And that was that.

Day 6 – Adjustments
How many chalkies do I need to punch before they learn to mind their business? I’ve NEVER in my years heard so many people jaw off for so long about nothing at all. The boss thinks its funny how short my fuse is, but it’s getting tiresome. Luckily its working and everyone leaves me be.

“Ah, yeah, that’s Dhent. Watch out for that bastard. He’s got a mean right hook.”

“Aye, his bloody left hook isn’t anything to laugh about either, mate.”

“Feck off about ‘is meat ‘ooks, watch out for ‘is blasted fangs! McCormik lost ‘is ear!”

As my notoriety grows, more of the nosey chalkies leave me alone. I like it that way. Mind you, the people who matter are definitely watching me more closely. The people with the coin and the information.

“He’s quick, he’s clean, where the hell did he come from?”

“I heard he came from the Underdark, those blood dark elves used him up something fierce.”

Let them talk. The more they talk, the more I earn.