Fantasy Ust Natha: City of Curtains (Underdark Intrigue)

[Bone2pick]

As darkness falls, the dark elves rise
to serve their Spider Queen.
The world below is the Underdark —
a blinding darkness to behold.

If you dare upon the drow elves' lair,
their dark hearts and swords will fly.
Like spiders in their webs they wait,
for you, alas, are simply bait.​

Inside Job​

The yard in front of the Smiles and Tears' office was crowded with anxious mercenaries. Zeerith was in the process of restructuring his company, so he'd called in all his recently recruited muscle. New team rosters were posted along the building's porch, and after looking them over, the five of you found each other and introduced yourselves. None of you had worked with each other before, but that wasn't surprising, as the lot of you were fresh mercs.

You had more than enough time for small talk with your new teammates before Jenvyre, Zeerith's tiefling lieutenant, called your team inside. Jenvyre's fiend-touched face was expressionless as you moved past her and inside the rustic stone office. The company headquarters, while dimly lit and dusty, was undoubtedly sturdy, but its design lacked any sense of artistry—which was clear evidence that it wasn't drow craftsmanship.

Jenvyre led your team down a corridor until it opened up into what appeared to be a room for both weapon training and bookkeeping. Zeerith, bent over a spindly iron table with scrolls and coin purses scattered across it, stood up and grinned as you filed inside. A faerie fire torch glowed behind him.

"It's refreshing to see so many drow faces," He announced. Zeerith's tired smile melted when he eventually spotted Ravel. "Eh, you'll have to excuse me, Ravel. So many of my new hires have been half-orc, tiefling, and hobgoblin that I was beginning to feel I'd left Ust Natha." The one-armed mercenary circled around the table and stood in front of it. "What can I do? I've got a company to run and I have more work than interested drow muscle."

"That's a blessing in disguise if you ask me," Jenvyre said as she poured herself an ale. "No offense Zeerith, but your kind too often prove dangerously ambitious." As she tipped back her drink her burning orange eyes lingered over you and your teammates.

Zeerith's eyes flashed devilishly before he nodded. "She's not wrong. Over the decades that I've mastered this company, I've had to. . . sever ties with my share of disgruntled employees—the overwhelming majority of which were drow."

He sighed and shrugged, but his grin swiftly reappeared. "Of course our infamous disaffection is part of our charm, is it not? It helped us build this wonderful city, that so many other races also enjoy." Zeerith sneered at his lieutenant, who rolled her eyes in response. The one-armed drow promptly returned his attention back towards your team.

"As much I'm enjoying our small talk, I do have other teams to meet with, so let's get into your assignment with your new team. . . I have some employees I need you to speak with. A pair of krinth brothers—Jask and Vousk—who recently got smacked around while working a protection contract for us. They were part of a four man crew who guarded a weekly rancor beetle fight here in East Outward. As you might imagine, lots of bets are placed at these fights. Which means there's a lot of coin on the premises. Brashi, the half-orc female that runs the fights, does rather well for herself."

He continued. "Two nights ago, after the fights were over, Bashi and my team were attacked and robbed. There were over twice as many masked thugs as their were armed guards—at least that's the story the surviving brothers told us. Bashi doesn't remember anything, but she's got a nasty lump on her temple, and we think she went down first. The thieves murdered the other two guards, but left Jask and Vousk unconscious."

"It smacks of an inside job," said Janvyre. The tiefling was now perched on an iron stool beside the table. She tongued one of her enlarged canines before adding, "And not a particularly clever one."

Zeerith nodded. "Indeed. We believe the brothers were in on it. Your job is to track them down, get them to confess, and then find punish the scum who dared to hit one of our clients. This company depends on its reputation. If word gets out that we can't protect out clients—or worse yet, that we double cross them, well. . . We'll all need to find a new line of work."

Janvyre hopped off her stool and handed the nearest teammate a folded slip of paper. "Here are directions to Jask and Vousk's residence. The purses on the table are filled with twenty-five silver; there's one for each of you. As usual, you'll get another twenty-five once the job's done."

Zeerith stepped aside from the table to allow you and your teammates to collect your payment. "Once you get to the brothers you'll want to hurry and find their accomplices. Otherwise they'll go into hiding once they learn you're coming for them."

"This won't be a delicate job," Zeerith admitted. "You'll have get your hands dirty and rely on whatever street smarts you have. You all look capable enough, but even if you are, you need to prove you can work as team. Speaking of which. . . Every team needs a leader, and on this assignment yours will be Scheyana." Zeerith gestured to the tall and beautiful warrior. "Out of your crew, she and I have the most history. So for now, she'll have the final say."

Zeerith studied the five of you as he circled back behind his table. "Any questions?" He asked.

 

[Magnar]

As she entered the room, Scheyana could barely keep the disdainful sneer from features of ebony night. Not for the first time she despaired at what she had been reduced to. Once a member of a powerful drow house — chosen amongst them no less, she had fallen far to be forced to work together with outcasts and worse......males. And a human male among them at that.

The drow swordswoman stood at an almost unnatural height for her race, standing at over six foot tall. Dressed as she was in her obsidian armour and curved scimitar belted to her waist, there was little doubt that she made for an intimidating sight. Today her snow white hair was tied back in a pony tail falling to the nape of her back, however there were occasions where Scheyana deigned to let her hair fall free.

There were many who would take great delight at her fall, and many more who would want to see her dead. There was nothing better after all than watching a former rival be utterly destroyed at your hands. Worst of all was the fact that this was the best case scenario she could hope for. Worse still was to fade into complete and utter irrelevance — as she had,

Scheyana nodded her head towards Zeerith as she entered, folding her arms patiently. Unlike most of the filthy males she had had to deal with over the years, he was one of the few that she had any time and respect for. It was a respect that was borne out of seeing the warrior’s combat abilities firsthand. There’s was a friendship borne from a love of the martial pursuits, and although he had lost much of his potency in the years since he had lost his arm Scheyana still respected him for who he once was.

When she found herself cast out of her family, she had turned to Zeerith and his mercenary company as there was nowhere left for her to go. And although it rankled her to lower herself to be nothing more now than a common sellsword rather than Matron Mother of House T’uan, it was still better than the alternative.

Just.

And so it was that Scheyana, once the scion of House T’uan, found herself taking coin like a common mercenary would. She listened attentively to Zeerith’s details though, nodding every so often as an indication to him that she was taking on board his words.

When he finished speaking, Scheyana spoke. “And if their guilt is proven, what fate would you wish to befall the brothers? Do you wish us to make an example of them, or should their lives be spared?”

A cool smile slowly crossed her face as she spoke, turning twin orbs of steel grey on the others.

“No disrespect Zeerith, but are the males truly necessary? I find the male species in general to be somewhat.....lacking, yourself excepted, and I have little need of talking pack animals on this mission. They may even draw too much attention to us than is beneficial.”

The corner of her mouth turned itself upwards in a look of disdain.

 

[Dalamus Ulom]

"How clever of you to point out, my lady. After all, any strong willed drow would be able to kill their opponents. But then again, seeing as how you're well known for that silly thing these humans call... What was it called? Come, my little human friend, what is it that makes your race so utterly weak in every regard? It's on the tip of my tongue. Ah yes, now I remember! Mercy! Since you're so well known for your weakness in battle, I wouldn't doubt that if you were told to kill those little pests, you'd let them get back up and stab you in the gut," Vrinn would say to the drow woman, a vicious sneer spread across his face.

"I mean, what sort of leader would let the prey flee before the killing blow? A foolish one, no doubt. After all, if I were one of these mongrels and lowlifes, thank Lolth that I am not, then I wouldn't be worried upon seeing a weak little human and a drow man. But THREE drow women? That's a cause for alarm in this part of town. Men have died near fewer, after all. So if anything, I'd say that you and your milk sop friends here will end up warning those krinths of our arrival." He would inform her in that venomous voice of his as he would play with the simple silver and obsidian band on his finger. A sign of nervousness, or defiance? It's unclear, as the look on his face held nothing but utter contempt, while his muscles were taught, ready to jump for his blade at the slightest threat.

Though he wasn't as imposing as some of the other members in the group, Vrinn was still lean and strong, with barly a shred of fat on him, but was still strongly built and muscled. And as his hand would slowly move to rest on his dagger, an old phrase from his youth would come to his mind.

The shortest blade cuts first, and the sharpest cuts deepest.

 

[Bone2pick]

“And if their guilt is proven, what fate would you wish to befall the brothers? Do you wish us to make an example of them, or should their lives be spared?” Scheyana asked.

"Destroy them," Janvyre answered. The tiefling walked in front of Scheyana, which forced her to look up at the towering drow. "If guilty—and we're certain they are—they would have attacked our client, disgraced our company, and allowed the murder of two of our own. . . They would owe us more than their lowborn lives, but that is all they have to pay."

Zeerith nodded from behind his lieutenant. "And pay they will. Kill the brothers, and kill whoever ordered the robbery. My gut tells me that it was neither Jask or Vousk."

Scheyana then voiced another question. “No disrespect Zeerith, but are the males truly necessary? I find the male species in general to be somewhat.....lacking, yourself excepted, and I have little need of talking pack animals on this mission. They may even draw too much attention to us than is beneficial.”

Before Zeerith could answer Vrinn interjected, which evoked a frown from the master of the Smiles and Tears. "How clever of you to point out, my lady. After all, any strong willed drow would be able to kill their opponents. But then again, seeing as how you're well known for that silly thing these humans call... What was it called? Come, my little human friend, what is it that makes your race so utterly weak in every regard? It's on the tip of my tongue. Ah yes, now I remember! Mercy! Since you're so well known for your weakness in battle, I wouldn't doubt that if you were told to kill those little pests, you'd let them get back up and stab you in the gut."

Zeerith's eyes narrowed and flicked between the two tense drow teammates. During Vrinn's outburst Janvyre had moved towards a weapons rack against the wall to swipe a heavy crossbow off it. The stoic tiefling almost seemed bored as she cocked and loaded the weapon. When she finished she turned and faced the team, her ready crossbow pointed towards the floor.

"Let me make something clear," Zeerith said, his voice vacant of any amusement. "I constructed your team for special assignments. For work that will often require investigation, acumen, and efficiency. I already have one such crew, and I'm hoping you five could be a second."

He continued. "What I don't need are hotheads who would rather fight with their teammates than do their job. Consider this assignment your audition."

Zeerith approached Scheyana. "You're going to have to get use to working with males here. I employ four male mercenaries for every one female. Just be grateful you'll be working with a drow and a wizard, and not a dull krinth and a mangy hobgoblin."

 

[mothspit]

Ka'rte entered the room, on hand placed expectantly on the hilt of a long broadsword. Her stern, porcelain brow scanning her teammates, out of which she seemed to stand out, what with her bright white armor and elegant poise. The former noble clearly had a knack for perfection; There wasn't so much as a stray hair from her head not laid in place. She made it point to join eyes with everyone in the room, but when her eyes fell on the human, she faltered, a brow raising. She scoffed to herself, and straightened out her posture when the one-armed man began speaking. An interesting job, to be sure, but it didn't help that one of her fellow drow had begun to make a mockery of himself-- Namely by shaming his female counterparts. With a tilt of her head, she casually began sizing up the man standing next to her. They seemed similar enough in both height and stature, but clearly differed in temperament-- Talk like that around some of her sisters, and his tongue would be hanging from a doorpost.

Luckily though, she didn't need to put the poor bastard in line. The woman Janvyre had asserted her authority well enough without having to speak, and Zeerith affirmed her position. With a roll of her eyes, Ka'rte piped up, "You needn't worry, I've encountered many males," Her gaze wondered over to Vrinn, sharp and authoritative, "With rampantly unchecked ego's. For all you profess us to be, time and time again you prove unworthy of our.. uncomfortable hands. Deserving, though, is something much different." She spoke rather matter-of-factly, a relaxed and unassuming posture coupled little to no emotion expressed in the undertone of what she was implying-- Yeah, we'd kill you, but chances are you deserved it. The woman didn't dislike males; To more trusting ears, she's been known to claim the opposite. But it was the cocky ones that had a tendency to get on her nerves.

Returning her attention back to the task at hand, she regarded Zeerith with a thoughtful nod. This seemed like a typical enough job, and if anyone here planned on getting it done properly, it was her, "I will personally see that this mission reaches it's conclusion, one way or another."

With a firm posture, Ka'rte oozed an aura of all work, and no play.

 

[Magnar]

Scheyana sighed softly, eyeing up Vrinn with the same expression that one would eye up a particularly irritating gnat. Opening her mouth, she began with a particularly vitriloic retort when Zeerith stepped in. Listening to the one eyed drow with respect, the tall white-haired drow inclined her head. And indeed, in truth, the thought of being paired with a krinth and, worse, a stinking hobgoblin, caused her to shudder involuntary.

“Perfectly understood Zeerith. And to set the record straight, irrespective of what the whispers echoed by lesser individuals would have you believe, I only spare lives when killing is wholly unnecessary. Unlike the apparent beliefs of some.....”

Her eyes flickered over to Vrinn for the briefest of seconds before falling back on Zeerith, “......I feel it a waste of time having to constantly put down a troop of angry revenge-angst relatives coming after me because I killed someone they care about. If these brothers are guilty, they will die.”

Moving over to Ka’rte, Scheyana shot a final glare over to Vrinn.

“If we are to work together shebali* I suggest you learn to respect your superiors.”

With that rebuke, Scheyana looked Ka’rte up and down, her gaze approving. With a smal, soft smile, Scheyana inclined her head respectfully to the beautiful drow female.

“It is good that I have been paired with at least one person here with some common sense. I am Scheyana of House.....” Scheyana stumbled over her words, suddenly realising that she was not now part of a house. “....Scheyana,” she quickly recovered.

Reaching out to clasp Ka’rte’s forearm, Scheyana looked into the pretty drow’s eyes, gazing at her intently.

“It will be an honour to fight alongside you, abbill*”

Spoiler: OOC

Shebali = Drow word for lower one
Abbill = Drow word for ally

 

[Noam]

Working as a low rent mercenary had seemed like the one job where she wouldn’t have to deal with pompous, murderous blue bloods dragging their egos all over the carpet, threatening people with graphic dismemberment at the slightest opportunity. And yet here she was, yet again trapped in a room with two of them. Two of them and a man who was going to get his damned self killed if he didn’t shut up. Malli took a pointed step away from Vrinn and debated lighting up indoors. Probably better to save that little experiment for when Janvyre wasn’t both armed and irritable.

She also debated running to the post office and begging for her old job back. At least there nobody had expected her to use teamwork.

But the post office didn’t pay twenty-five silver just for saying you’d do a job. Malli slipped her share into her pocket and took the instructions from Janvyre. A quick glance confirmed that they were short and printed large enough that she might actually be able to read them.

“If we’re done with introductions,” she interjected, forcing her voice flat and her eyes upwards to meet her teammates’, keep it calm, keep it professional, “Let’s sort the rest of our business outside. I need a smoke.”

 

[mothspit]

Ka'rte regarded Scheyana with the smallest of nods, her expression somewhere between disinterested and annoyed, like an accusing stone statue following you across the room. Though she dared not speak it, lest it cause another skirmish among the group, neither of those that had spoken thus far proved to be anything more than squabbling siblings, and she the tireless mother. And of all things she most certainly did not want to be, it was that.

"Ka'rte," She said plainly, firmly pulling back the arm her fellow lady had grabbed-- Touching was a big no-no, "Call me Art."

It wasn't a request, rather a command. Independent of how she carried herself, Ka'rte still shared Scheyana's sentiments, if only slightly. She seemed capable, and that would surely become useful later. And the way she seemed to catch herself, realizing she no longer claimed a house; Ka'rte could relate, but showing that was a weakness the hardened noble would refuse to give into. Regardless, she'd have her title restored soon enough. Just have to deal with these two in the meantime..

"You'll forgive my.. Insensitivity. The sooner the task is complete, the better.. abbill." Her eyes met that of Malli's, concurring with her statement.

 

[Qazi]

A Year Earlier

“The perforations in the waiting world say otherwise—they say I'm not like them, and it's their passing fancy, their winding susurrations, by the whims of whatever dwell within me too, that they corrode the machinations of this world. I, born in this wayward age, of the familia of the underworld. To them, this is not inconceivable.” He closed his eyes, thinking less, saying more, though he couldn't recognize whether he was saying or merely thinking: “I'm not like the others—are their behaviors compatible with the paths of this world? With this surrounding entropy, the arcane? As it is with me? No. . . but. . . so what if. . . yes, that is true. I did promise myself, yes I did, quite in fact, with loving affection and words thirsty for romance, that I would stay away from these land-borne abominations, to stay invariably in their accursed states and roam this world. . . and I promised to pay heed to the smaller effects of life, though it's plain fact that I don't care for promises. Yes. . . a few weeks at most and I'll be back. Oh, it'll be good, it'll be good. . . but come trouble, come trouble today, tomorrow, whenever and whence but it's inevitable and I I can feel it in my bones, this unholy dark, blasted, there, and I am here now, knowing this world is a delicate membrane from the outer evil of the nethers, knowing I'm closer to the edge more today, tomorrow, whenever and whence than ever. . . how. . . wretched beast, made of grits and gristle and bones, made of crystals and gems, numbers, arts, go to hell.” It was a monologue that ended with despondency, a dearth of wisdom, these thoughts of his. He sat down on one of the crates and resumed gazing at the piers and the docks and the bareback sailors shouting and hauling crates from boat to boat and the starry mirror water. Then he rubbed his forehead, try-hard weaving knots in his brain to no avail, an action which devolved later into smoothing his hair; one look at his pocket mirror revealed everything: hawk-eyed, right eye twitching like a nervous tic, bloodshot, skin pale as a corpse's, and hair long, matted, greasy. A face ravaged if anything.

A sudden voice, ringing sharp even in the midst of the growing footfalls, emanated out from opposite his wooden throne, and it said: “A face ravaged, far too much,” echoing his own emotions.

Ravel, startled, looked toward this cavernous and disembodied reason and saw only this nightmare: a demon dressed in fire, born of abyss perhaps, swarming with eyes and teeth and embossed with sinews and flowing ichor.

“Why do you start so?” this creature said.

And his fear turned into anger. “By the dark, I've met demons before—they're not pleasant company, I can tell you that—but I've never met one like you. Who are you?” he said.

“I am you.”

“And I kill children. You kill babes. Tell me the truth, me, I don't recognize you.”

A grin, more a grimace, of needles. “You cannot, so I am.”

Ravel was cognizant of this monster, knew it was here, knew its presence, and if it was indeed here and there, then it was detached from reality and so was he. “You shouldn't be here,” he muttered, unnerved, nervous, nerves shot, que sera, sera.

“But I am,” and grin subsiding, teeth there nonetheless, “but that is not of import nor is it a weathered constituent as to why I am here.”

Ravel deduced that this thing was a black hole.

So he said, “Then why are you here?”

And the demon said, clearing his throat, in reply: “Are you not angry that you're being shipped, as fodder, offal horseshit, off to that black country? They want to get rid of you.”

“They can't kill me.”

“Oh, they can—if there's anyone that can kill you, it's them.”

Ravel, confused, asked for information on this misted omen. He only received the city's name in response.

“Why Ust Natha?” he said.

This demon ventured a finger towards the horizon. “Black country, ever dark.”

“You keep—”

“But tell me something, Ravel, you said you kill babies. Why?”

“I didn't.”

The demon shook his head. “You did.”

He pursed his lips, frustrated, and said: “I once saw this dream, demon, and in this dream there was a pile of little arms and on this pile of little arms there was a sword. The sword was fixed on the arms and I couldn't help but think, ‘This is a pedestal,’ because it couldn't have been anything but that.” And he was adrift in a sea of blood but he didn't say that. “What do you think? Everybody's killed a baby at some point, somehow, in their lives, and they'll answer for this culling of infants.”

“Who'll answer for your death?”

“Me,” and, almost involuntarily, he said, “There goes my desolation there, waiting.”

The demon leaned forwards, eyed him, in the eyes, with its many eyes. “Or it could be their desolation, instead of yours.”

Ravel returned the stare. “Whose?”

“Ust Natha,” a pause, “and the hidden dagger.”

“That city can't kill me.” He exhaled. “I am shadowed but I'm not dying. Not yet. But you are.”

And the demon vanished.

Ravel spat on the floor. The deep of his mind could only say one thing, in fact was now impervious to all convocations except for that one fact: he was now teetering on the brink of insanity—or rather, the flitting gaps of insecurity in his otherwise apathetic disposition— and he was aware of it. The awareness was tapered and weak. In his arrested life: the margin flew wider still, agoraphobic, but no sight of sanctuary.

He wringed his fingers, turned sallow from the discomfort in the air, clammy and all too reflective of his besieged inner haven. He turned to the skies, the sojourning clouds covering the sun, downcast. What exactly was his problem, he thought to himself, that he spurred on these provisional spurts of sophistry? It was insulation: he was scared. He was always scared and he knew it, if not as consciously as he knew of his present desires. To be—a challenging prospect in this ongoing epoch— and to reconstruct the self in the face of those pedantic tutors of life. The people, at least the type he'd seen over the past few days, that is the common people, were all scared. He didn't think he was like them. His concerns stood on a different field: the crucible of debauchery and immoral slithering and beckoning hither. Their problems were of the more literal sort, which were dealings he had yet to be accustomed and had never witnessed in his earlier days: poverty, rampant blindness, usually of the eyes or the soul, turning grey, turning into those freaks held tight and bound in the leprosy wards and forced to commit suicide in the riverrun evils in front of the spiritborn eyes, eyes of god. He was different from them, better he thought, with no interest in the abstractly brutish impact of absolutism and liquid, uncaring life, even if he was to an extent uncaring toward the human element. But he had his problems too, and which he was trying to reconstruct, inevitably against the tides of pedantry and the condescension of the grand narrative perhaps existing ready-made and devious.

Apophantic Ravel was born past that same riverrun host to the suicide alley, coloured with morning-glory weeds, artefacts, half-built monoliths and ruins archived in dirt and human filth. One could see it from the upper tiers of the ringed city. His birth, precisely, had occured at the estate of the Caravaggio family, somewhere near that river beside a cliffside called the peak cattolica, by birth named Comte de I'm unculturedan, happening sometime during midnight though everyone was far too sucked into their brio to notice the exact time, but see: the son of the family's head consular, Jose, his wife Josephine, gremlin-faced and hideous. He grew older, and his brother and sister, comparatively more handsome, grew older too until it became that his elder brother was to take his father's occupation. He, Ravel, was to be sent to an abbey somewhere near the mountains, while the third one, the daughter, was auctioned off to a mercenary company—auctioned being a crude word in this instance, as there weren't mischiefs involved but a lot of waiting and pandering and such instead. It was decided before his birth and he had discovered that fact perchance through eavesdropping and rifling through his father's cabinet, which included a meticulous log of all his machinations and accounts. He had no experience dealing with thieves like his father; but this second son, middleman, Ravel, knew he had little business dallying in the claustrophobic confines of a winterhold and he was as less a fatalist as the same and linear riverrun he'd always lain observation upon in his diffident state of youth. He was not decided before birth—the notion was absurd. Strike the gong! Surely enough, swearing on the sword and satchel every monk was sent with, he soon escaped the wagon and traversed to where he had once glimpsed the crystal systems of the nightless city. The ringed city, walled like a nightmare, trauma, made of stones baked and sculpted with blunt chisels by the giants, defaced with squalor. But that was as much a simpleton's pleasure as he could've ever wished for.

This city was dead now. The years were not nice—not on him, not on the people and especially not on the city. Or rather, it was afraid. Nibelung, gateway for the valkyries. Yes indeed, the city was afraid, woe be upon anyone to witness such an urban destruction: no pleasure, no simplicity, nor even the contrary grandiosity of the streets-betide passions. Everyone was scared, shitting bricks, god knows what else. The hordes, they said and they only spoke of it in whispers, was coming: shut your doors, your trap, your spouse's trap and the trap of your dogs. He remembered a certain immolation back two evenings ago that he felt deserved a semblance of attention and was central to the follies of the people, and he had relayed this fact to the master thusly: the smell of eyes and teeth burning, melting, screams of forlorn hope, of a girl, voice shrill and strained, what a witch ain't she? they're saying and laughing, yet the grim faces plastered on them showed the possible ramifications to that chaotic act. He was the ramification. He was death. They were scared, true enough. Scared shitless, shirtless, out of their wooden and brick homes and into their iron armors. Ravel was wise. . . just wise enough to know that scared people were either cut fools or the smartest damn blades in the compound.

“How does it feel, Rosencrantz, to be surrounded by thieves?” he said to armored man on the left, directing the crews and the ship—though the captain insisted on taking over for him—with one gleaming arm and two raised fingers wandering over here and there. “I'm sure they're coming for us, and they'll ask, who's responsible for this? They don't know but they don't want it and they know it's coming for them. It's a bleeding purgatorio, isn't it?”

“You could be right,” said matter-of-factly, face set sternly like those bronze statues from the town square and their muscle-engraved breastplates. “Or not. Who is this they? What bearing do they have on us—well, at least you?”

“I can't figure out who they are and that worries me. I try to think about them, I try to reconstruct this idea of them, this idea I've developed about them, but I can't. I don't have any memories. It goes nowhere, a dead end, that trail in the wood you always take, a wood-path, and it's a circle that ends in a circle with not clear end. I mimick this.” Pursing his lips, he continued, “You saw what happened those few days ago. She got sapped, flames sticking to her, undying, worse than whatever phantom plague's running around. It's ominous, saps the air, true fire.”

“You fear for her life? You never struck me as the compassionate sort.”

“I'm not afraid for her, but I'm afraid for myself.”

“You and your phantoms. You do realize what your masters speak of.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I cannot spare motions for silent words, Rosencrantz. The air's aquiver. There are more immediate dangers in the left field.”

“Your masters knows best.”

Ravel scowled. “Our master, Rosencrantz. Don't forget your allegiance.”

He waved away the hostility with a hand and a smile. “Not quite. You're his beloved student after all.” More teeth, revealed, alongside words: “You might forget your own allegiance, I warn you frankly.”

“If I had, I would've tried to flee. This place I'm going to, this place.”

Rosencratz pointed towards the horizon. “Ust Natha, drow empire, host to one of the many portals to the Underdark. Lolth's own world. They say even Lord Bane's reticent to extend his influence to their unreason.”

Ravel licked his lips. It was this nightmare.

He muttered, barely audible when contrasting the commotion everywhere: “Unfortunately.”

Rosencratz exhaled. He reached into his pockets with his gloved hands and flourished a small box. “Dices, beguiler, scoundrel. You'll need them. I know it.”

He took them. “I might be dead already.”

“But you're not.”

Ravel gripped the case. “Then I have the boon of Lord Bane and may he continue to shield me from all chaos.”


And Now

The screams punctured the air—the screams of sordid thoughts, of hatred, of coupling vices, raw and unrefined in the company of sword men dropped in this ecstacy of violence. He winced as they made way to the room, lined into an assembly, a none too professional assembly if one were to look at it from close by. If anything, a ragtag group of nothings and somethings. The flying company, of mercenaries, was called Smiles and Tears, though to what end he was confused. His circumstances, presently, said nothing to suage that confusion: by nothing less than a happenstance, he had ended up in this company, though he would've preferred other means of employment. Unfortunately, his first and most primary employer, the Voraben, were intent on killing him off. He was sure of it.

He had crossed the fifth and sixth avenues of the lower wards of Ust Natha, off his home of which he knew little and which he was not fond of by any means—the landowner often appeared out of nowhere with distinctly obtuse expressions, for public eyes to behold, and items keep disappearing from his home, specifically the set of dices that earned him some meagre income and which had vanished into a certain someone's pocket—, laying waste to one wandering critter and eyeing the more sentient ones: their eyes saw him with hate, thinking perhaps, ‘This lowly human, wandering, sickly,’ and correct too with that particular train of thought, though he was not as much a babylon whore as they thought him to be; as their hands moved to their swords, to strike him down and practice the edge of their blades; and their boiled leather armour, stinking, and tiny iron maces seemingly more fit for a farmer than a rogue trooper. He knew he had entered the territory of the mercenaries by the sight of those brood defects and curs—or for that matter, he had returned into present occupation than the nihilism he'd surrounded himself in apprehension of a coming something, and though he was unaware of the tide of events, he could feel the cogs pulling him the way of skirmishes and further conflict.

The name: Smiles and Tears, though he could hardly care for the conventions and sentiments that led to that romantic name.

The master of the stone room, Zeerith he thought his name was, rightly founded remembrance being distant, gathered them around. To his sides: a few black crows, none of the humankind or surface specie, of males and females compounded, and of them all, he knew none. In all fairness, he had scarce ingratiated himself with the locales of the world in the single year he'd spent licking his wounds.

He had no love for the grand narrative's superimposition on his life, he had no respect for it, but he had no power to fight it either—not yet, not in this weak form of his—, and the only thing he could was look toward the unknown gods and pray for unholy guidance; by his lonesome, he himself was a critter, if the largest critter in an otherwise small cistern. Knowing this, he listened, without paying much focus however, to Zeerith and the odd bop that was his lieutenant, and their conversations which mostly lay prélude to their objective: two men of no exceptional being, to be tortured and perhaps killed too, and as men of unexceptional being tend to do, they had build this foundation of betrayal. Nothing concrete, but nothing ever was concrete in this land—he knew when to kill people, when not to kill people, and this was one of those days. Strange days. Jask and Vousk were dead men walking, fodder for the gods, but as the grand narrative demanded—Ravel genuinely couldn't fault them for their actions, but they were perpetrators nonetheless, and every action had some reaction of sort to it. In their case, it was not to their benefit.

Zeerith appointed the leader: Scheyana, the noble twit in her vacuum-washed clothes and her prim-and-proper hair. Nothing wrong with that—on the contrary, Ravel preferred it that way—, and he would've thought that himself, said so even, if it wasn't for the accompanying behaviour. Of course, scorn from drows was what he was used to, but this scorn was a threat. She was a vicious fool, the worst kind of fool, someone who could not cap the knees of children or preside over a court of reason. He almost sneered.

Her antithesis: a male drow, crow, black and bitter but nowhere the black wizards as he so highly prided himself to be similar to, in no way deserving of such solar pride, who seemingly picked Ravel for the demonstration of his superiority—Ravel, himself, so sickly. He was just another one of those downtown losers who kept committing suicide at the hands of the mindflayers. A corpse from the start.

And from the hinds, this woman called Art, ironically enough with no affinity for that field, so he guessed. And slithering behind that woman, this girl, voice of reason perhaps, but could've been merely someone with no amount of love for camaraderie and banter, vitriolic or otherwise. He could empathize with her.

Ravel watched blankly. He could not fully realize the events occurring but he still decided to interject, saying, “I pay homage to the ancient ones,” and then looking at the others—the pimp, the bourgeois whore, the new and fresh entree, the kid—, shaking his head, “and this braggadocio is ruination.”

 

[Bone2pick]

“I pay homage to the ancient ones, and this braggadocio is ruination."

Zeerith merely glanced at the gaunt and hollow-eyed human, but his lieutenant cocked her head in confusion at Ravel.

"What's that suppose to mean?" Janvyre asked no one in particular.

"I believe," her one-armed master answered, "our new wizard is just expressing his concern for the boiling tension within the team."

The still-armed tiefling seemingly lost interest in Ravel as soon as Zeerith translated the man's remark.

Ka'rte spoke next. "I will personally see that this mission reaches it's conclusion, one way or another," the drow said.

Zeerith arched a silvery eyebrow and then grinned at the elegant and haughty female. "Good. And while you're at it, see that its conclusion is in my favor."

"To set the record straight," Scheyana stepped forward, "irrespective of what the whispers echoed by lesser individuals would have you believe, I only spare lives when killing is wholly unnecessary. Unlike the apparent beliefs of some.....”

Zeerith responded with a reassuring nod. "Of course, I would have never employed you otherwise. This profession demands we live and and die by the sword. . . Preferably live. And the only way to prosper down here is to assert your strength. Mercy will only serve as an invitation for your enemies."

“If we’re done with introductions,” Malli interjected, “Let’s sort the rest of our business outside. I need a smoke.”

Zeerith held up a finger to ask the team to pause. "There is the matter of the stolen money, should you find it. If you do, return it me, so that I may return it to our battered client. If we're very lucky, Bashi might do business with us again in the future."

Zeerith turned and approached his lieutenant. He smiled, patted her shoulder with approval, and then gently pried the crossbow out of her hands. "Janvyre will walk you out," he announced over his shoulder. The tiefling hissed, bared her pointed teeth, and then grinned at her master before ushering the team out of the office.

 

[Noam]

So the human was mad. Of course, all humans were mad; it had something to do with being under bright lights too much as a baby. But this one was very mad, and the other man was suicidal, and the women both seemed basically competent but also like they might snap and rip a person’s spine out at any moment. They were the kind of glittery and posh and heavily armed that Malli associated with imminent violence, and she didn’t know what the fuck their deal was. Didn’t know much, and not knowing set her teeth on edge.

She waited for everyone else to exit the office out before following. She didn’t trust any of these fuckers at her back.

The porch was a broad slab of rock overlooking the avenue. There were three goblins playing five-card draw and insulting each other cheerfully in Goblin, though they paused and gave the elves (and Ravel) wary looks as they emerged.

“Hey,” one of them said cautiously in Undercommon.

“Hey,” Malli said in Goblin, “The chick with the earring has cards up her sleeves.”

The chick with the earring squawked, and the game devolved into a noisy argument. Malli hopped up onto a broken stalagmite, her back to the wall, and busied herself with the familiar motions of packing her pipe. Her hands were shaking, and on her first attempt she spilled tobacco on her pants. She scowled and forced her fingers flat and still.

There is no fucking reason to have a fit right now, dumbass. Nothing’s more dangerous than it was yesterday. You’ve got a bow and arrows and twenty-five silver in your pocket. This is the best day you’ve had all year.

The first inhale of tobacco made her feel better. Malli breathed out a cloud of smoke, then unfolded the instructions that Janvyre had handed her.

“Looks like these motherfuckers live in the Shade,” she said, squinting down at the paper. It was close to Smile and Tears, headquarters, which was about the only good thing about it. “Don’t suppose any of you have been there before?” She raised an eyebrow at the rest of them. Technically, Malli had only been to the Shade twice, but they didn’t have to know that.

 

[Dalamus Ulom]

A silent nod of his head would be his only response to the guildmaster, before taking his silver and departing with the rest of the group.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting from anyone in that room. Maybe he had hoped that Zeerith was an ally. A brother. But of course not. He's just another self prostrating, female-loving bootlicker. He still had to get used to how things worked in Ust Natha. After all, it had been ten years-

His train of thought was cut off then as the... Neutral woman mentioned that their quarry currently resided in the Shade. He only been there once, when he had come to city about a year before. It was not something he cared to remember.

"Once. And only for a brief time," Vrinn would say, a sneer on his face as he remembered the place. "It is not an event recall with much relish."

 

[mothspit]

Ka'rte nodded, promptly taking her share of silver and stuffing it into the breast of her armor. She followed the man out next, and after she, one of the other women among them had caused a skirmish between a trio of goblins. Ka'rte didn't speak a lick of their strange language, but regardless of whatever nonsense they were chattering away about, the display was irritating. She approached them, a stern, violent scowl across her delicate face, and with three frightened gulps, suddenly they were less talkative.

The noble turned back to the others, arms crossed. The Shade? Ka'rte herself had been to the area once or twice, and if she recalled properly, she was traveling with someone from the Neth--

"Can't say," She said firmly, stopping her wandering mind from recalling those events, "Perhaps once, some time ago. Shall we?"

 

[Bone2pick]

Black eyes have tracked your every step since your team entered the East Outward neighborhood known as The Shade, Ust Natha's only krinth community. The cold grey mud-brick buildings and iron-barred windows that flanked this area's streets perfectly reflected the stoic and grave temperament of its residents. You've attracted nothing but uneasy looks from the locals, which suggests that outside of the occasional Web Watch patrol, groups of drow rarely find their way over here.

Before you arrived Janvyre had caught up with your team to pull Scheyana back in for reassignment. Evidently Zeerith's other investigative crew was unexpectedly short on manpower, so the Smiles and Tears master decided to use the beautiful drow warrior to stand in for them. Scheyana's removal meant your team needed a new leader; Janvyre informed everyone that Ka'rte would take charge on this job. The lieutenant didn't mention if that was her idea or Zeerith's.

Few krinth were out and about at this time of day. This wasn't surprising, as most of the locals were likely at work in other parts of the city. Jask and Vousk's hovel was one of four homes above a tattoo parlor and a butcher shop. Their second story residence had a small balcony that overlooked the street, but its door was around back, facing an elevated hall along with the other three homes. A staircase behind the butcher shop led up to the hall.

In a likely effort to attract patrons the entrances to both the tattoo parlor and butcher shop were wide open. No one was on the Jask and Vousk's balcony or in the building's hall, but wisps of smoke wafted above the brother's tiny mud chimney.

Dalamus Ulom Noam mothspit Qazi Magnar

 

[Noam]

Malli tugged her hood down and her scarf up, obscuring her pale features as much as she was able. It didn't help--tall and willowy, with bright white hair, three drow were bound to draw stares in The Shade. And of course, Ravel was strange-looking wherever he went. A krinth woman scowled at them from behind the counter of the butcher shop, knuckles tightening around her cleaver. Across the way, a child playing with an abandoned lizard skull stopped and gawped at them openly, black eyes wide and gleaming in the light of a nearby lantern. His father hurried out of the house, snatched him up, and vanished back inside.

Her neck itched with all the eyes on it. "Think we oughta get in and out of here as fast as possible," Malli muttered up to Ka'rte. Careful not to make it sound like an order. It rankled, but Ka'rte was bigger and stronger than she was, and Malli had no desire to get into a contest that she was bound to lose. "They don't like our sort down here."

She looked up at the building, fidgeting with the bow over her shoulder. "There might be a back entrance. One of us could circle 'round and see."

 

[mothspit]

Ka'rte watched Scheyana depart nearly as quickly as she arrived, accepting the adjusted orders accordingly with a firm nod. Though the previous drow woman would have undoubtedly led them to victory, Art would be lying to herself if she didn't feel a twinge of gratitude for this position; It was natural, she felt, to take charge. Less room for error, she thought. When it was finally time to depart, the human Ravel was the first issue on her mind-- She made it a point to have him stick by her side until they reached the home, "Or else you'll find just how capable of living you are without most of your skin."

Indeed, The Shade was filled with prying, unwanted stares. Ka'rte had no such coverings as Malli, and with every gaze returned, heads were lowered and eyes closed. She scoffed at them-- Spineless rats. The noble regarded Malli with a nod, her eyes a strange mixture of authority and camaraderie, "I'm aware. Keep your eyes forward, they'll not bother us."

Her eyes trailed around the surface of the building, pondering the right course of action. A back entrance sounded useful. She nodded again, and gestured down the side of the building, "Go. Take the human with you." She jerked her thumb toward Ravel, "Vrinn and I will enter through the hall."

Raising her brow to the man in question, she crossed her arms across her chest, "..Any objections?"

Dalamus Ulom Noam Qazi Bone2pick