Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 5, 2014 15:38:44 GMT
Orgrus IM 1005
In the heat of the new season the filth of the city baked upon the uncertain rooftops of Deci. With the passing of the pestilence season it was fortunate that the settlement had seen fit to export the bodies of the dead, suffered over the previous six months, into the rivers and thence onto the ‘village’ of Eartholme.
With the days lengthening the city was quiet during the bright light of day. In Cheapside the clots of people that were awake hung about in the plentiful shadow for as in most parts of the city little of the sky stood to gaze between the close guttering above. Certainly in Hightown the lower depths only suffered the light for an hour or so a day, the narrow abyss that nearly surrounded the Quarter blocking near all of the unwelcome heat.
Deci seemed quiet. Even as the hated sun dipped and drifted and the majority of the settlement woke to its duties nefarious much of the murderous heart seemed reduced. With people talking about the hundred guilds, their restoration and recuperation, civic pride might rise in loyalty to their settlement if the number of the old-returned continued to increase.
But as ever it would be Cheapside that would lead the opinions. Not only the most populace Quarter it was also the most traditional. Here more than anywhere lay what Deci was. Lawless by writ but arguably protected and guarded by a balance of power and tradition it was no coincidence that Deci’s overt city spirit rarely left the Quarter at all.
New powers were rising amongst the gangs. Like most, they had their core of perhaps a dozen men or women but counted their number by the many more that claimed allegiance or just clapped such on the shoulder in passing. The Bhaalist murders had seen the formerly great slaughter one another and new fish rose. Not large enough yet to clash, Cheapside had a lot of territory. Already the filthy folk were watching the likes of Slice, Lady Goodnight and Blackjack and their recent growth in power and renown.
Amongst all this the lean form of a walking wolf stood just within the open doorway of the Cheapside Watch House. It was no different to any other he had come to in the last few hours being small, mostly empty and covered in the filth of last, scared or just defeated men and women. It had not even been maintained for several months and still there were signs of recently patched walls. The city stank, all cities did, but to the sensitive nose of the wolf the smell was nigh on sickening.
He stepped inside, peering at the worried looking fellows within. Most were tossing dice but four were washing their smalls in a bucket of dirty water.
“Why aren’t you on patrol?” The wolf snapped.
One of the Watchmen stood up, tugged a thick belt up about his expanding middle and rubbed the back of one hand along his bristled jaw. He belched. He was filthy. “Piss off.” He finally snarled. The wolf crossed the room in three long stride and hoisted the fat figure up against one wall by the throat. The barrier shook at the impact and crusted dust pattered the air like so much grimy confetti. The remaining Watch roared to their feet and shouted at the wolf to release their sergeant. None of them actually did anything though.
“That’s piss off, Sire.” The wolf snapped. “I’m Berek, Grand Watch Captain of the Empire. Where’s your bloody Watch Captain?”
“We ain’t got one!” Whined a voice amongst the nervous mass.
“Get out there and sort our murderers. Your Watchmen, act it!” Berek tossed the fat sergeant aside. He Watch picked the man up, snatched up their belongings and ran out. Berek gave them time to form up into small knots ready for his orders but when he reached the street the men and women of the Deci watch had all run away to hide.
They’d have been no use to Berek anyway. At least he’d found somebody in the Cheapside, most of the Watchhouses had been deserted. He suspected the cities guardians turned up occasionally to kip, hide or get their miniscule pay but they hadn’t arrested anyone since… well, since anyone could remember. It was dangerous out there. The city’s Lords and Sires had their own guards where they lived. The Guilds looked after their own. But in all but name there was no Deci Watch. Berek snarled, turned on his heel and decided to do what he could. He was a minute into his patrol when he smelt something n the cobbles. A scent that changed all his plans for at least that night.
Hightown
The nails that studded the low boots left sparks in their wake as the skinny, slightly hunched figure crossed the courtyard of the Diviners. It was a fine Guildhall, as one might expect for a Guild of such power and preserve. Needing light more than most guilds the narrow windows of the Guilds might be barred but each was arrayed with slivers of polished metal that cast the day upon the chambers of the working Guildsmen. Plants grew like wreaths about the inner walls and Anath was forced to stop as a scrum of apprentices tumbled passed as they fought for possession of a ball that the cities Craftenguilder couldn’t actually see. He noted that a number of the Guildsmen apparent dotted in the shadowy areas of the courtyard wore both armour and knives. Scabbarded swords were leant nearby. Anath nodded to one of these mercenaries and wondered how many others lurked in places concealed by the worthy arts of the Diviners.
One door stood open and the visitor took the stairs within until he came to, then entered, the round room at the top.
“Master Anath.” The corpulent man beyond looked up. Master Mutters did not head up the Guild but he did control its finances. Without Mutters agreement there was no point in taking his needs higher up. Anath smiled. Knowing he would need to tread carefully the Craftenguilder accepted a goblet of watered wine to chase away the tiresome heat of even the night. In Deci, to accept a drink from another was the height of politeness, even honour, to the host.
Cheapside
Arken Grugg had been in Cheapside for three years. He’d been born there, grew up there but badly beaten by the Rooftails he’d left to join in with the fighting further south. The horror of Rorthril had been enough for Grugg and he’d lain in the mud of the battlefield for a day, terrified at what he had seen. His Held had been mostly made up of hearty, stupid men from the Heartlands and they’d been crushed on the first charge of the Bulaslavian spearmen. Outfight by the close order of the Baronies, the arrogance of his fellows had seen them stuck, gutted or slashed by more orderly spearwork.
When the dead rose up at the call of the distant knot of ritualists Grugg had stood up with them. Now scared almost witless by the shambling dead that had made up his new Held, Grugg had hidden in the fens as they crossed their fringes. He’d not even seen Amora’s Doom, heading instead across the land and away. He’d been a brigand, a thief and a robber. A second winter in a village that he and his fellow brigands had cleared of the living and decided in him the will to return home. Deci was nasty but it wasn’t a battlefield and even the murder of recent months, the bloodied sky of Bhaal, hadn’t compared to the death he’d seen in the eyes of spearmen. The murderers of Deci had lusted for his heart and Grugg had instead killed the four or five he’d fallen foul of. The spearmen on the field of Rorthril hadn’t even cared about his death, he’d just been an obstacle and to Grugg that was far more fearful.
But he’d done well in Cheapside. Alongside other deserters Grugg had made a turf for himself. He’d even found a girl that wasn’t too filthy and didn’t charge too much. He’d spat in the face of the orc and now Grugg remembered the mud of Rorthril as the cudgel first caved in the side of his head and then there was nothing as his brains were spread like city jam across the broken street in Cheapside.
“Stoopid fahk!” Blackjack kicked the body. There was a cut across his forehead that bled freely down one side of his face but it was about the worst that had happened to he or his followers. In all a dozen dead lay about the alley and half as many again were crouched in a nearby square. The orc kicked the body once more, crossed into the irregular gap and seized the dirty blonde hair of the nearest girl. “Yer wiv them?
“No!” The girl shook her head as best she could.
“Lyin’ filth.” Blackjack could smell the touch of the dead all over her. Puling her upright he cracked his cudgel into her stomach and flung her to the ground. “Burn ‘em.”
His gang looked at their leader for a moment in shock. Blackjack snarled but was stopped from saying anything when one of the newer lads, a sticky, ugly little man simply called ‘Marmalade’ broke open the nearest shuttered window. Bashing out the wooden bars he snatched up a lantern, walked to the begging prisoners and grinning, lit the wick. Bowing them a kiss he then smashed it on the nearest. Seeing that if they didn’t do what they were told then they’d be next, the rest of the gang kicked and hit the rest of the prisoners. Some fetched dry wood, tearing it from walls and Marmalade turned up a bucket of pitch, which he smeared over the screaming youths and women.
“That’ll learn em.” Blackjack grinned with jagged teeth as the sooty blaze went up. He’d taken to the streets to spread the word. One group had come to speak as offered and he’d cut their throats. After that word spread and the little gangs nearest had either capitulated or died. With most of the famous gangs expanding into the rest of the city Cheapside was up for grabs. He’d killed anyone that had looked at him in a funny way, or even at all. He’d crucified kittens, pared the nose from a scampering rat folk and cut bits of two drow just to enjoy the puffs of darkness that resulted.
The Beak was Blackjack’s. The interlacing lanes (both up and along) were daubed with the smear of paint that passed for his sign. No one was laughing at Blackjack. If there were two flies to annoy it was that Molly Bride, far from slipping up, had closed ranks and word was that mercenaries had been hired – and that Marler had sent back Blackjack’s messengers without their noses.
Marmalade had tried to warm his boss that Marler wouldn’t be an idiot. The big ‘priest’ was mad, but not stupid when it came to dirty little bastards in Cheapside. Blackjack had snipped away the little gangs, the bravo’s and street scum about his turf but time was coming close to when he’d need to deal with Marler. Already, Marmalade had discovered, the priest was gathering the faithful to him in preparation for a holy war against the faithless orc…
Blackjack didn’t care. He’d got to kill lots of people and if Marler was gathering people then that just meant there were more for him to take over.
“Goin’ dahn…” Blackjack whispered.
“Boss?” Marmalade looked up from the fire.
“Marler. I’m gonna wear ‘is ‘ead like an ‘at. ”
“Yes, boss.” The ugly henchman nodded eagerly.
The Forgotten Hills
The horizon now was nothing but jagged peaks and even the hills about them had an unwholesome, cold look to them. The clouds were low here and on several occasions when Jander had walked the extreme edge of the Deci territories he had passed through the damp masses.
It had been a long few weeks of travelling. With the chapterhouses established for the miners both Staggerpeak and Staggerback in the Forgotten Hills could be worked, mined even. Both were difficult to reach but trails existed where carts might cross. Jander had walked them himself and had noticed the remains of fires and the odd body that to him looked like Brigand work. With no sign of Siren or her followers now in the territories it was only going to be so long before word spread. Besides, with Martin of Gothiel continually hunting the lands of his city few of the robber folk liked it there. Jander had crouched at one or two of the old fires and had even seen signs that showed people moving north. But he was no great tracker and besides which had other things to do.
A settling, just three huts built up about depressions in one stony slope had warned Jander that there were giants to be found about Staggerback! Given that the ignorant yokels had never travelled more than a league in any direction from their huts Jander had kept his own council as to the veracity of the claim.
It was much later that saw the carts from the traders head north with food for the Brother Finedelve. The Gather had dragged everyone together they could but like Anath, Jander was finding that free carts were in terrible supply in the fair season. Not only because of the good travelling weather but also because anyone with a cart, wagon or wheelbarrow was going to want to be in the Heartlands in good time for the harvest. There was after all very little point in being in Deci when the price of food soared. At that time a trader wanted to be snapping up cheap bundles in the fat Heartlands.
Nonetheless, carts had been found, just, for food and so it was that Jander came to where he had been led to believe Stakes Mount could be found. Only that it wasn’t. Nichal Ogder had come here with Dog Gutter as a guide but the man was nowhere to be found in Deci. As a trader it was just possible he’d gone hunting food as well. After the previous year, everyone knew roughly what to expect.
By the time Jander returned from another fruitless hunt the traders he had convinced to help him out had pitched camp. They were a rude, nasty looking lot but none of them were actually evil. He whose cart Jander had ridden looked up at the Forge’s approach, raised a hand in greeting and then dug into one of several lean forms that had been scorching by the fire. He Forge caught the lump of hare that was tossed to him and bit into it thoughtfully.
“Any luck?”
“Not really, Badvel, no.”
“It’s in the Mittlenacht, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you ain’t no Mittle-laddie are you?”
“No Badvel, I’m not.”
“So how are we going to get into Stakes Mount?”
“I am considering that.”
“Only,” Badvel pointed out, “they’ll be starving to death in there now, won’t they?”
“Yes. Thank you for that.” Jander said politely enough even as his sword whipped from its scabbard. Badvel fell over so quickly did he duck backwards, one hand already on the hilt of his own blade but Jander was facing the other way. The tip of the Forge’s sword moved not at all, stable and firm no less tan six inches from the chest of the shape Jander had been watching for several minutes.
Filthy, ragged but possessed of an enormous grin the stranger moved both his hands outwards until they stopped in a indication of submission. Jander took in the dun coloured hair, round nose and impressive chin with no more seeming interest than he took in the patchwork cloak, tunic and sagging cap. Apart from a knife the stranger did not seem to be armed at all but Jander saw the wood framed pack and string of pouches that sat beside a clutter of rocks thirty or so yards away.
“Your name, master peddler?”
“Gannet, y’honour.”
“Sneaking is frowned upon in my presence, master Gannet. ” The Forge sniffed. “You don’t have the look of an evil man, but I can smell a roguish heart about you, sir.”
“Nervous work peddling in the hills, y’honour.”
“All that thievery no doubt?”
“Aye, y’honour. Why only the other month-“
“I meant your thievery, master Gannet. Now come, for one so readily caught you clearly have a purpose to your approach? Peddlers don’t steal from traders in the wilds unless they are supremely confident. How much have you heard?”
“Much, y’honour. I’d be right in thinking you have none about you able to find the further paths?”
“I see. How much?”
“Only so much treasure a man might carry, y’honour. But there are things a man might hold more precious? His head for instance? Might be needing a pardon, see…”
Jander did not move his sword. “So you’re a wolfshead then? An outlaw?”
“Maybe. I’m not so easily read. But I can show you the ways, lead others through them perhaps if a certain Rhodri Task was pardoned by the city for certain thievery a good eight years gone.”
Jander tilted his head. “You take risks boldly, master Gannet.”
“We all have to throw the bones sometimes.” The peddler continued to grin, even if is eyes did not share the confidence displayed in the smile. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jander Sunstar?”
By Alan Morgan (CI7V6)