Fading with the Sun

[Paladin]

To: Flaming Fist Headquarters, Attn: [REDACTED]
From: Private Matthew Dubois, Flaming Fist Unit [REDACTED]
Re: Dockside Patrol and Recon
Date: [REDACTED]


As per my reassignment, I started to patrol the western harbors last night, and am now filing this report.

The situation in the docks shows no signs of improving in the foreseeable future. No ships arrived today, and I am given to understand that this has been the situation for a matter of tendays. Consequently, trade has slowed to a crawl, the majority of the docks is out of legitimate work, and crimes are markedly more frequent.

I intervened in no less than five disturbances today, all of them resolved at the scene. However, I also found two bodies, both murder victims. Please refer to the following summaries of the incidents.

Incident #1 - Closed
Robert Shaefer, a human in his 20s, assaulted Adon'elle La'quine, a half elf of no more than 150. Incident occurred outside of the warehouse at the corner of Fisher's Lane and Cobble Street. I intervened and arrested Robert Shaefer, who is currently in prison for two days.

Incident #2 - Closed
Heard sounds of struggle coming from the alleyway between 9 Woodrow Street and 11 Woodrow Street. I ran to investigate, and saw two masked humans running away at the sound of my approach. I shot both of them in the back with my longbow as they fled. Names unknown. The victim, Mari Cann, a human in her late 20s, was shaken but unhurt.

Incident #3 - Closed
Interrupted an ongoing burglary at 19 Woodrow Street. Perpetrator was a large half orc in his 40s. Perpetrator resisted arrest and was killed at the scene. Name unknown.

Incident #4 - Closed
Armed assault by Harrison Gilles, 41 year-old human, against Jackson Gilles, 39 year-old human, also his brother. Incident occurred outside their home at 5 Cobble Street. Victim did not wish for assailant to be arrested. Harrison Gilles let off with a warning, dagger confiscated.

Incident #5 - Closed
Ongoing burglary at 3 Miller Street. Two masked halflings, sneaking out of a window. I stopped and searched both of them, finding copper jewelry on both of their persons. When I moved to arrest them, both of them resisted. They drew daggers, and I was forced to kill them at the scene. Names unknown.

Incident #6 - Open
While on patrol by 9 Cobble Street, I heard loud sobbing coming from the building. I investigated and found a human child and two dead human adults. The adults were dead from multiple stab wounds in their chests. Victims identified as James Sears and Merry Sears. Identified by the child, Jeff Sears, 12 years old. Suspect is an elf or half elf, who broke into the residence earlier in the night, stole some property, and killed the parents. Suspect is still at large. I took Jeff to his aunt's home next door, at 7 Cobble Street, where he is currently residing. Recommend posting a guard for child's protection.

It is this officer's opinion that any solidarity between criminals that may have existed before the Tiamat incident has deteriorated. The docks are now more dangerous than ever, for both its denizens and for those passing through.
Therefore, in light of the frequency and severity of the crimes encountered just on his first night in the docks, it is this officer's respectful suggestion that more men be assigned to patrol the western docks.

[Kage]

She approached the dark-skinned man in the corner... his cowl was pulled low over his eyes, and his head drooping, his right hand holding a bottle. She knew him well enough to know he wasn't asleep, but she smirked a bit and reached out to shake him anyways.

"Edge." He said in a calm, stoic voice. She frowned, and to make matters worse, he continued. "You have a particular swagger when you walk."

Rising slowly, he looked over her face. "Time then, eh? How much you figure he made us this time?"

"I'd say fifty gold more than he'll tell us." She replied.

"I'll put my bonus on one hundred." He said non-chalantly as he tightened his leather tunic, carefully setting the empty bottle aside. Edge followed silently as they approached Slick's merchant stall at the end of the day. The short man looked up with recognition, only a few trinkets they'd supplied remaining amongst his stock.

"You're... a little early, mate... 'aven't finished counting it all yet, aye?"

Creep barely missed a beat, inspecting his gloves. "Right, well. Figured there was no point in waiting another hour... seems the street's empty, anyways, hmm?" He stepped up to the wares.

"Where's Edge? Aint she norm'ly clingin' to yer bootstraps?" The merchant said, thinking himself sly.

"Oh... she was busy. Some guy." Creep shrugged, noting that the golden amulet he'd stolen was gone.

"Some guy?" Slick said, snickering. "An' here word on th' street said-"

"Word on the street is wrong. Go to the tavern yourself, Slick. Some snobby older man."

"Older man? Hoho, looks like you go-"

"That's enough stalling, Slick." Reaching forwards, Creep moved Slick's hand aside from the day's earnings, looking at it. "Take it that bag's mine."

"Which ba-" Slick's shoulders drooped as Creep took the larger of the two. "Aww, y' know I'm in a tough spot. It's not that much a difference. 'sides, it'd-"

"Well, I figured since it's not that much a difference, you'd be 'slick' enough to turn yours into more capitol." Creep smirked, turning to leave, and in an imitating voice, "Evenin', mate!"


Further down the street, Creep snickered to himself as he heard a mourning, yet perhaps slightly amused cry. "Where'd he put it this time?" He whispered to the air.

"Oh... strapped to the bottom of the upside down basket. Think he gets tired of losing at his own game?" Edge chuckled.

"I think we keep it interesting enough. How much was it?" He muttered, eyeing the small pouch of gold she'd taken.

"... Seventy-five. We tied again..." Edge frowned.

"Well then, ad-"

"Yeah, yeah. Add it to the pot, and when there's a winner, winner takes all."

"My, my. You do catch on after a while. Even if it is a long while."

With a hushed protest, and shove, the two wound through dark alleys, fading into the evening mist.

[Considerate_]

The Ansgot, a blessing for a curse

A sharp cracking noise interrupted the otherwise peaceful sleep of Elissa, the day had been exhausting enough but more than profitable. An agreeable merchant from the southern Dalelands had recognized the ritual most others would’ve perceived as nothing more than simple begging, and filled the wooden bowl to the very brim with coins.

Elissa had taken only what was required for her family to survive the next two ten days, it was one more ten day than she should have according to her faith, but she knew full well that her husband would be furious if he discovered she had only taken this modest amount. The rest, a considerable sum even in these desperate times, were divided up into several smaller portions that would be given out to aid other families for a few days if nothing else.

Elissa was still trying to emerge from the clouded state of her dream, not consciously registering the second cracking sound. The dream had been a very recent memory more than anything else, she faintly remembered the puzzled expression on the features of a middle-aged woman, undeniably beautiful to look at with those natural blond curls and intense blue eyes, as the coins was offered with Tymora’s blessings. There was a broken look in those sky-blue eyes, which was the reason she had chosen to give the coins to this woman, it was a subtle thing but Elissa knew it well from the eyes of other women who ‘worked the streets’ out of necessity.

It wasn’t much she had given out, most certainly it wasn’t enough Elissa knew in her heart, but it was all she could do in these strange lands with customs so unfamiliar to her. The small fortune was given by a special rite to beg for Tymora’s favour, but one that demanded the boon given be shared. Of course, Eric believed none of that and even in better times had given her less than complimenting remarks for what he perceived as neglecting their children. A third muffled crack followed, however this time the sound of wood splintering accompanied it ominously.

She was awake in a split second, registering the sound fully this time, her thoughts instantly careening to the two children in the room next to her. A tug inside her regretted that she had kept refusing them to sleep with her in the bed since Eric left. The argument she had used that they were ten and fourteen, almost grownups by most standards, but how hollow it seemed to ring in her ears now.

“Come on you pansy, no one is home!” the coarse male voice was barely audible inside her bedchambers, judging from the direction of the sound they had entered by the front door! Elissa couldn’t fathom the nerve of such a bold entry, her home was being invaded… she had to think quickly, the kitchen lay just between her room and the small corridor leading from the front door to either the kitchen or the living room.

Elissa pushed open the door leading into the kitchen, each shift of her weight made the floorboards creak incessantly to her own ears, though the casual tone of the two burglars suggested they weren’t aware she was up and about. She spotted the kitchen knife lying on the table at the far end of the room next to the heavy wooden spoon, closest towards the other door leading into the corridor… and whoever it was, just behind that piece of wood called a door, a piece of wood that suddenly seemed all too thin to make a real barrier.

Elissa couldn’t make out their words any longer, whether that was because they had lowered their voices or because her heart was beating like a smiths hammer on an anvil, drowning out all other sounds in her mind – she couldn’t be sure. She felt the edge of the cold kitchen table against the moist palm of her hand, inching closer and closer to the only defense against these foreign intruders.

She was almost there, just a foot out of reach from the knife when the door violently burst open. Two tall men stood in there in the door opening, their imposing physique filling out the entirety of the doorframe covered by the dark of night. The one furthest back almost looked as startled as her, though she didn’t have any time to ponder the expression as the first had obviously caught on to what she was doing.

As one they both lunged for the knife, shoulders colliding violently as she matched his sheer bulk with a ferocity of a mother badger defending the cubs. She grabbed onto the handle and slashed with all her strength at this man’s head, this man who had violated her privacy, this man who threatened the very survival of her children, feeling the heavy impact keenly but too far gone in outrage to even contemplate her actions.

“Nghm, you bloody harlot!” he roared furiously at her, and at the same time as she noticed the blunt wooden spoon in her hand with a perplexed look on her face, she felt a sudden lightning stabbing into her stomach, followed by a warm tingling sensation that flooded down her nightdress. The kitchen knife embedded to the hilt into her abdomen, Elissa didn’t have the presence of mind to realize she was clutching onto her assailant in what could've been percieved as a tender embrace.

Those dark eyes fixed on the second man, her chin resting on the shoulder of the first, as she spurted out a bit of blood with a single pain stricken word that took the last of the air from her lungs: “Leeeave!”

She wasn’t aware her assailant had let go of her, she wasn’t aware that her body was tumbling backwards, she wasn’t aware that the floor was rushing up towards her.

All she knew, was a fleeting darkness that threatened to engulf her fully…

[LeslieMS]

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

She had left that morning before Michael came home. She was smiling. The weight of the coins in her pocket seemed almost unreal. She still kept waking, thinking that surely she would wake to find it a dream, or her husband dead. Tonight their young son would eat well… and it was all owed to the generous stranger. She had begged the gods for some sort of answer. She couldn’t help but think that they had indeed answered, subtle though it had seemed.

She had just been walking by, hurrying away from the filth she had tread upon. She’d been furious. She’d never been more humiliated and insulted! In that moment she had been cursing the gods. She gulped back tears as she tried to think of ways to explain the fresh welts, and the few coins she now had, the amount was even an insult.

Suddenly this woman was motioning her closer. Vera had wondered how much worse the day could have gotten. Then she realized how different this woman was. She discretely took coins from a wooden bowl, and thrust them at Vera. Vera had started to argue, but the woman was reciting a blessing to Tamora… Vera had stood in stunned silence, and the woman had merely smiled.

Something in that smile smoothed away the worst of the day’s discomforts. She had tucked the coins away. She had even started to thank the woman, but she was already turning away. Had Vera not recognized the subtle signs of a desperate mother in desperate times, she might have thought the woman was a figment of a wishful imagination. But the coins she was now handing to the merchant in exchange for the food proved the reality of it.

The rest of the day went well. For the first time in many tenday, they didn’t leave the table hungry. Michael and Vera put aside their usual argument over who had needed the food. That night… well that night started out with a lover’s promises, sweet and full of a newfound hope. She didn’t know it then, but it had been a precious, fleeting hope.

Their son had fallen asleep quickly with a full belly, and they stood facing each other in the dwindling firelight. She couldn’t help but think that now it would have been better if she had waited before the fire had fully died…

Whatever passion had been there, died as his hands touched a tender bruise. The wince drew his attention to the ugly bruises that stood out like ash on snow. She’d turned her blue eyes to Michael’s darker ones, and tears welled up at the fury and anguish there. She knew his anger wasn’t with her, but she apologized anyway… an apology he cut short with a kiss which sought to convey his want to make right what he felt he had failed her in… He had stormed out moments later, promising only that he would be home when he had made it right. She cried herself to sleep…

How Could They?! The demand played over and over in his mind as he thought of his beautiful wife. The Bastards! He had stalked the streets for nearly an hour trying to calm his anger. It was his job to keep her safe. It was his job to provide for her. How he could do that when all he knew was fishing, and no one was taking on hands to do so … he didn’t know. She shouldn’t be out there having to do that just so they could eat! What right did they have to defile her so?!

“Michael? Is that you?”

The question had come from a distantly familiar voice, but had to be repeated twice before it broke through his furious thoughts. He blinked a few times only to see a familiar face.

“Hells! I thought surely you had fled the Coast before the war. What are you still doing here?”

Michael said as he had managed a tight smile. Friend for years, though he had never agreed with his choice of work in life, they had kept in distant touch. He’d never asked Michael to cover for him or anything like that. He had respected Michael’s wish to keep his life separate from the less legal aspects. Though he hadn’t seen him since Daggerford, it seemed he was well, or well enough in these times…

“Well, I was on a ship away from this cursed place before pirates sank it. Been stuck here ever since. You look like you’ve had a bad day. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

It wasn’t long before the two were trading stories of the last few years. It wasn’t long after that, and a few pints later, that they were discussing current situations. He was persuasive as ever, and before long he had coaxed from Michael the truth of what was bothering him. They talked about it a while, Michael vented, though just above a whisper, it still helped. When he finished, his friend was smiling that one that meant mischief, trouble, something illegal or all of the above. Michael started to shake his head no.

“Well you want to keep her from the streets don’t you? Come on. I just need an extra pair of hands. I need someone I can trust in times like this. No one will even be there, it’ll be easy coin…”

Michael still started to say no, and sensing he was losing the argument, his friend threw out the most tempting bait of all.

“It’ll be enough coin to keep you and your family afloat a while. Keep your lovely wife safe.”

Michael drained his mug of the last vestiges of dark mead.

“When.”

“We could go now. You have a blade?”

“Thought it was empty? What am I going to need a blade for?”

“To get in the door.”

Again Michael started to argue that maybe they shouldn’t, but he was assured it would be alright, and he really did want enough coin to take care of his family… Before he knew it he was getting dragged out of the tavern and into the streets.

The door to the small house took more than a blade to get into though. Each time the wood cracked Michael thought for certain the guards would come running. There were no guards however, and soon the door gave. Michael hesitated.

“Come on you pansy! No one is home.”

He sighed. It was too late to turn back now. The coin Vera had made wouldn’t last long enough. He needed to keep her away from these streets… because of people like us, he’d thought… He stepped into the house, his friend already looking for anything of value. This would be easy. Take what they needed, and pay penance to the gods later. Anything to keep Vera from the abusive bastards who threw coins at her like she was an object… not the beautiful creature she was.

“I bet the valuables are in the bedroom.”

His friend’s whisper came matter of factly. Michael could do little more than nod mutedly. Face to face in an alley was different. They knew what was happening and why… He could explain why if he needed to… whoever lived here would return to find their life violated.

“This wasn’t a good idea. Did you hear that?”

“Too late, now, and no one is here. Relax. Besides… if you leave now, some other swine will just paw at your wife.”

That thought infuriated Michael, causing him to reach around his friend and open the door with a force he hadn’t intended. His fury was almost instantly replaced by surprise as a woman’s face greeted their brazen entry. The words ‘Too Late Now’ echoed through Michael’s mind as what unfolded next seemed to happen in slow motion.

The woman and his friend both launched themselves at a table. The fear that had been in her eyes was replaced by a rage that terrified Michael, and froze him in place. She reached for the knife there, but he was faster. In her state she didn’t notice that she had drawn a spoon, deadly in the hands of some perhaps… the THWACK of the spoon colliding with his head caused her to pause. She looked at the spoon, trying to figure out how the knife became a spoon.

“Nghm, you bloody harlot!”

Then her expression changed. She looked at him, her dark eyes desperate as she clung to his friend, turned partner in crime. She clung to him, almost lovingly. Michael thought maybe they did know each other. It wasn’t until he saw his friend trying desperately to free himself, and the blood pass over her lips that he realized something was very wrong. Her eyes stayed locked on Michael over the other’s shoulder.

“Leeeave!”

The sound was … horrible. As the embrace was finally broken, Michael noticed the dagger, deeply imbedded in the woman’s abdomen, and his thoughts began to sink as she did, to the floor. The thud she made upon the floor was deafening. Her eyes drifted closed as Michael jerked away from his friend, who had drawn her blood all to easily.

“You said it was empty!”

“You wouldn’t have come with me if I had said otherwise. You should have seen the bulging sack of coins the Chondathan merchant gave the wench. It was an easy mark. We need to go!”

“You killed her!”

It was as questioning as it was fearful… but his former accomplice didn’t hear him. He was already out the door. Michael look to the pool of blood, bile rising in his throat. He knelt, if only because his legs refused to hold him up.

“I’m sorry. Gods I am so sorry.”

He half choked on a sob as he looked at the woman. He reached to move her hair from her face, it was then that he realized she was still breathing, if just barely. He jumped away as though she had the power to set him on fire.

“Oh Gods… Oh Gods… Don’t die. I’ll be right back. I’ll make it right”

He had begged the gods let the woman live. Begged them to let her live all the way home. He begged the nameless woman to hang on. He wasn’t sure what else to do as he shook Vera awake. His words were hurried. He repeated some over and over. Vera was confused and sleepy. He told her to hurry. Kept asking if she remembered anything her mother had taught her. Her mother had been a simple healer. Maybe they could fix it. Maybe they could fix it…

“Michael, fix what? You’re scaring me! Let me get dressed!”

“There isn’t Time! Get Gregory. We have to go NOW!”

She gathered up her sleeping son, throwing a heavy robe over both of them as they hurried into the rainy night after Michael.

[Considerate_]

The Ansgot, what of the children.

Having opened the bedroom door just enough Will, as the oldest of the two, had seen the horrifying scene from the very beginning to its gruesome conclusion.

Max had hidden under their bed at the first cracking sound, he always was the skittish one; hiding behind mothers skirt at the first sign of trouble... Or in more recent times under the bed, after several firm scoldings from their mother about 'manning' up when he sought her out for protection. Will knew that she meant it well, that it was just a facade, a necessary act. Just as he knew it hurt mum all the more to act in such a manner, than it did Max who needed to learn so much about life.

Initially Will had wanted to call out for his mother, as she crept along the kitchen table. But something had stopped him, that very real fear chiseled on Elissas face seemed contagious; giving pause long enough for the events to unfold. Will had always thought himself brave, but at the sight of two fully grown men bursting through the door he froze as surely as if he had met a basilisks gaze. That knife catching the reflection of some distant light source was forever burned into his memory, and he kept replaying the macabre scene of his mother falling to the floor even after the two men had left.

Although Will was conscious about what he was supposed to do, all his heart told him was to run for his mother. To hold her, cradle her, and comfort her in what would surely be her last hours. He had even taken a step forward to just that course, when a muffled whine from underneath the bed reminded him that he had a duty to one who still had both feet firmly planted in the world of the living. They had to leave... Now. They were coming back, one of the intruders had said as much.

For the young boy, turning his back on his dying mother was the most difficult thing Will had ever done in his life. For the young boy, turning his back on the woman who had loved him even when he was at his worst, a woman who had made him smile even when all he wanted to do was cry... Lost a very real part of his soul.



The draft had swung the childrens door wide open, and with an effort that strained the very last of her fast fading strength, Elissa watched as her two children, Will of fourteen and Max of ten, slipped out the window and disappeared into the dark streets. Even from this distance she could see the wet stain on Max's pants, how she wanted to go to him then and there. Wrap her arms around him in a tender hug, while humming a comforting song into his ear filled with promises of a better tomorrow.

But her life blood was pooling around her, slowly but certainly, like the darkness that crept in around the peripheral of her vision, it threatend to consume her. She barely had the strength to breath, let alone talk. Standing, walking, would have proved an impossible task and she knew it. In her heart she knew she would never see her husband or her children in this life again.

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth into a smile through the pain, with the eerie calm of one ready to face death. Her last conscious thoughts was centered around her beloved husband and their two beautiful sons.

[b00seven]

SURVIVAL AMID THE SQUALOR

The docks are quieter of late, quieter than usual. Less ships, less cargo, less workers, less scraps to find lurking from stack of crates to stack of crates. There was a time when these docks were busy, bustling. One could wait in the corner for a worker to drop some scraps or wander off leaving a half eaten meal behind. Those were good days, half a chicken leg, half a sandwich, apple core. I would bolt out of my hiding spot, grab what I could take with me, and be back in the shadows before anyone even had time to glance arround. There was that old fellow, use to pass me a piece of bread and some cheeze from time to time. Haven´t seen him in some weeks. One less dock worker needed around the docks to be sure.

These days, dock workers don´t even stop to have lunch most days. Even then, I find at best an old banana peel if I´m lucky. I spend my days hoping that one of these sacks ruptures when they are moving it. Just to get some dried corn, or grains, anything to stop this rumbling in my stomach.

I move from the shadow of one palet of crates to the other. these look to have corn in them. In despiration I claw at the seam of one of the sacks. Someone hears me.

´Get that little gutter rat thief!!!´ yells a dock worker. Another starts to run my way. For a moment my limbs go limp with fear. Then the suvial instict kicks-in. Run, Flee! I start for the small passage I found that led me in here... the dock worker is on my heels. He kicks out with his large boot... narrowly missing my hide. I dive into the passage squeezing through to the otherside. The doc worker reaches after me but cannot follow.

´So, that be where you get in here from.´ I can hear the pounding as they board up my entrance with hammer and nail. I decide to take off before they come around to looking for me. It is dusk now. Another day without food. I wander through the streets aimlessly. Most of the people wandering about ignore me entirely, though I am increasingly better and better at keeping out of sight.



The rain starts to fall. I make no attempt to find shelter, my gut rumbles in hunger. I pass a tavern. Another drunk getting tossed out, unable to pay. The bouncer yells slurs at him as he is tosses him into a freshly made puddle. The drunk is crying as he lay in the filth. Hard times this, and better times that... I eye him as he rises, foolishly thinking I could take advantage of the situation. But even I know he has nothing, I watch from around a corner as he stumbles off, rain soaking clothes, it doesn´t appear either of us will eat tonight.



Noises behind me! ... I quickly find something to hide under. He passes me, one of the dock workers. He didn´t see me. He´s eating something, I think its meat. Perhaps I´ll follow him. At the very least I could have a bone to gnaw on tonight.

I follow, from shadow to shadow, alley to alley. He stops... looks around... continues. I continue after him. After some ways he stops again. THe alley is silent, except for the sounds of the man sucking on he bone... I am fixated... succulent ... meaty... so long since I´ve had any meat. The man looks around nervously... he starts to pick up pace. My meat... I follow, still scurrying from shadow to shadow, trying not to lose him, not to lose my meal. He ducks into a corner. I follow. He stops... falls back on his bum. Another poor sod in a freshly laid puddle. He looks up, a rather large half orc stands above him, drawing a dagger. I see shadows out of the corner of my eye, I find something else to hide behind.

Two more rogues approach... then I see it... the bone, it fell when the man dropped, not but a few meters from where I am hiding. The Bandits approach the man. I hear them taunting him, cutting off his escape, instilling fear with every threat. They move in close... now is my chance!

I rush from my hiding spot and grab the bone, running out of the ally as fast as my little legs can carry me. I try to ignore the grewsome scene I leave behind. I cannot but overhear the gutteral cry of the dock worker as a blade pierces his gut. A muffled wimper as one of the rogues holds his hand over his mouth, while the other thrusts repeatedly. His fate is his own, for me, but a morsel for the night.

I make my way to the sewer grate, proudly with my meager prize. Home sweet home... I make my way past the sewer grate and into the darkness. Slowly the lights appear, barrels with fire lit inside them. The other dwellers here try to stay warm. I find a dark quiet spot, and gnaw on my prize. The taste of meat... it feels like its been ages. My day is victorious, I savour what little there is to savour from my hard earned prize.



´What is this? Have we some meat? What have we here´ No, my prize... you can´t have it. I hiss at the creature who approaches who would have my prize... but I am too small. She grabs me by the colar and lifts me up to the light. `well... what have we here... you´ll make a nice morsel *she snickers*´ I struggle but I cannot break free. I use all in my arsenal, trying to bite claw and kick my way free.

She yanks me towards a table. She thrusts my head down onto the board. What does she want with me? I only wanted to enjoy my precious meal in peace. She holds my head down. I struggle to see, she presses my head hard against the table. Fear strikes me. I see her reach her other hand out in the corner of my eye, snickering as she does. Another sewer dweller approaches. ´what ave ye there Cindy?´ He asks, she just starts to chuckle as she grabs the blade. I see the large cleaver wedged into the wood. Fear strikes me. I see her lift the blade... meat... I only wanted some meat... I see the look in her eyes as she stands above me... chuckling ... the blade comes down...


--------------------

Another quiet night at the Gate. And here I am watching, I strech upon my perch, ever watchful, my gaze narrows to mark my prey. A blade crashes down, my eyes dart to the East. I peer through the sewer grate. Squint at the night. Another lost bounty, another who will feast tonight. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that it will not be I.

I spread my wings and take to flight. To the East, I fly over the city, steam rises from the freshly rained on alleys, I leave the squalor of the Gate behind. Perhaps the farmers will have a better bounty for me amid the quiet of night.

[Whisper]

Teela and Vicious III

Stunned from the blow to the back of her neck, Vicious fell to her knees and nearly passed out. Her vision was blurred and she tasted iron from blood in her mouth. She stared blankly at the vague outline of the merchant standing over her, he was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words; her ears were ringing as well. A gruff laugh came from behind her: the man who had hit her with the piece of wood, a scraggly sailor type. Everything slowly began to come back into focus.

“… and quite frankly I’m not making enough coin to keep paying this ‘tax’ to the thieves. The damn war’s brought hardships to everyone and I’m especially seeing this trying to sell my wares on the street, no one wants to buy because there’s not enough coin to buy anything with.”

“Maybe we should teach this witch a lesson. The captain’s paid much more than his fair share here. And where do you think the thieves are when the Fist come a-calling and puttin’ their noses where they shouldn’t be? Nowhere, that’s where! We’re losing a lot of opium because we can’t get their men to show up when we need em, like they said they’d be, mind you.”

The merchant’s enforcer pulled her arms behind her back, tying her hands with some type of rope and then he grabbed Vicious by the hair and pulled her to her feet to face them.
“You know you are only going to make it worse on yourself.” Vicious hissed at the merchant.

She vaguely wondered where Teela was, they were supposed to have met back up to collect from protection money from the merchant but Teela was late as usual and so Vicious went ahead with the work, not expecting trouble.

“Oh we’ll see about that” the merchant remarked, and Vicious lunged at him, landing a kick right in his midsection, doubling him over. Before she had a chance to react further though, one of her legs was kicked out from under her by the sailor who stood behind her. The merchant sneered at her as the sailor dragged her back to her feet, and slapped her as hard a blow as he could muster. It hurt like the hells, too and bloodied her nose and she fell to her knees again.

The sailor enforcer laughed hoarsely, but the laugh turned into a gurgle when a dark figure suddenly darted from the shadows. In a short moment he was clutching at his throat trying in vain to stop the flow of blood. Seeing the figure dart from the shadows, Vicious knew who it was, and she lunged at the merchant with the only weapon she had available: her teeth.

Momentarily distracted by the dark figure emerging from the shadows, the merchant had no time to react as Vicious barreled into him, her teeth sinking into his neck and they both fell back onto the ground from the force of the charge.

Within a moment the dark figure swarmed over the merchant, who was now thrashing on the ground with a bleeding bite mark in his neck. The man put up both his hands in front of him.
“Please, no! I’ll give you the payment!” he said, as the glint of a dagger came into view.

Teela paused, holding the dagger in front of the merchant, prepared to end his life at a moment’s notice.

“Change your mind, did ya?” she grinned at him, although it was by no means a friendly grin. She glanced over to Vicious who was on her knees, blood coming from her mouth and a lot of it not her own, she appeared to be trying to hold it together.

“Are you alright?” Teela asked her, glancing in concern to her closest friend. Her friend held up one finger as if signaling to give her a moment, then sharply turned her head to the side and vomited.

“I…ugh..I will be…” she trailed off. Teela frowned and the nodded and turned her attention back to the merchant.

“Now, you’re going to give me the money quietly. Then you are going to get up calmly as we walk out of here, and you are going to clean this place up without anyone noticing and without saying anything. Am I clear?”

The merchant nodded in understanding and a few minutes later scurried to his lockbox when Teela let him up. He paid the protection money, plus extra for the day’s events and then eventually the girls left and he begin to clean up the mess.

Later than evening back at their house, Teela bandaged Vicious’ wounds as the latter lay on a cot in the living quarters of the house.

“I’m so sorry about that, dear.” Teela said, delicately wiping blood from the corner of Vicious’ mouth. “The collecting is getting much harder now since the War has taken place….I won’t have you go alone again.”

“It’s alright…it’s not your fault, anyways. I think I’ll let you collect on the next one though. That slap really hurt.” Vicious managed a grin and closed her eyes.

[gimchi]

Stories from the Glass Factory: 3

Ever since that first night when the crowd had melted away after the final match, and Beagan had watched the big man drag his dazed and battered opponent into a sitting position, then take a bucket of water and a sea sponge and carefully swab the man's face clean of blood, his heart had warmed to the oddly gentle fighter. When he saw him tuck half of his own winnings into the the baker's pants pocket, then haul the groggy man to his feet and begin to walk him home, he had called out with an invitation.

"If you have nowhere to sleep big man, you're welcome to doss down here. There are a few spare beds upstairs."

"Much obliged," Mikull had said over his shoulder. "I just might take you up on that."

Now it was fight night once more and Beagan made a last check of the factory. The past Tenday had flown by and the gnome had enjoyed Mikull's company far more than he had expected to. The fighter had a seemingly endless wealth of tales, and whenever Beagan spoke with passion about the making of glass the big man listened with interest and asked clever questions.

In exchange for board and and the factory floor to train in, Mikull had undertaken minor repairs to the structure and had rearranged the the great bins and workbenches to better suit the building's new purpose. He had entirely boarded closed the little storefront on the main street side of the factory, though there was no longer anything in it, and removed and packed away the delicate stained glass windows from the ornate single door. All was ready.

Down on the docks the major challenger for the night was making his way up to the Harbor Gate surrounded by an admiring and supportive crowd. Tegar Bearclaw was a monster of a man and his followers loved, respected and feared him in equal parts. One of the toughest men in the harbor district, he ruled the south side dockworkers with an iron fist and a savage will. That he was a barbarian was never in doubt, but where he came from nobody knew. He had never spoken a single word about his tribe. Some said he was from Chult, others said his tattoos marked him from Chondalwood, but it was just speculation. All that was known for certain was that Tegar had disembarked from the decks of a storm-wracked merchant ship and had sworn on three different gods never to step foot aboard a sailing vessel again.

Tegar had risen quickly through the ranks of hard men when he first arrived, and had claimed the top position in less than three months of cunning planning, and a quick succession of viciously executed challenges to those above him in the south side dockworkers hierarchy. He had originally thought only to carve out for himself a place of modest wealth and power, but that was long ago, and had all changed once the south side workers bowed to his will. To his surprise his deeply ingrained belief in tribal culture had led him into unexpected feelings of protection and responsibility to the men and the families who looked up to him as leader, as Chief. And now that the city was falling apart and the docks had slumped into brooding silence, he had taken the welfare of his followers even more closely to heart.

Crime was on the rise, and the harbor districts usual fare of beatings and robberies had escalated into more frequent murders. Tegar organized a watch system over the houses of his crew, and the wives and children went nowhere without protection. He called them all together, husbands and wives, and insisted that every household share the present hardship equally. He had spoken persuasively about them being one big family and demanded that they all contribute to a common pool of goods and coin. He opened the fund with a large donation from his own purse.

He found himself visiting the families in their homes more often, and listening gravely to their worries and replying to them with words of comfort and encouragement. Tegar moved among his people like a mammoth priest dispensing solace and hope as best he could. Recently the weary acceptance on the faces of the constantly underfed children had begun to gnaw at him like an evil rat burrowing in his stomach. Prices for even staple foodstuffs had escalated as supplies dwindled. The news of organized fights in the inner city and reports of the growing prize money had made him bellow with relieved joy.

"Easy money lads. We'll all dine on chicken and potatoes next week!"

Now the time had finally come. The first three fights had been vicious, long drawn out affairs, with the combatants in each bout fairly evenly matched. The crowd had near screamed themselves hoarse as they urged first one then the other fighter to victory. Now a hushed silence descended on the factory as the men from the main event faced each other across the sawdust strewn floor. Mikull was a big man, bigger than most, with long powerful legs, a narrow waist, broad shoulders, a deep chest, and arms like a blacksmith.

Tegar was easily a head taller than Mikull, outweighed him by around fifty pounds, and was muscled like a troll. He wore only a loin cloth and a pair of rune carved iron bands that sat above his bulging biceps. With not a visible hair on his slickly oiled body he resembled a collection of glossy granite boulders stacked one on top of the other. From the huge domed head on top of his almost non-existent neck, to his massively sloping shoulders, great rounded belly, and legs the size of small tree trunks, the barbarian looked every inch an unstoppable and deadly warrior. The two men stared coldly at each other across the short distance, and the punters watched and held their breath.

The voice of Black Eric broke the spell. "Gents and Cutters, Sailors and Lubbers, Gamblers, Sinners and those of you too Foul ta mention! Here they are! The Fight ya all been waiting for! In the Main Event of the Evening! On my right hand is The Pride of the Docks ... TEGAR the TERRIBLE ... Bone-crusher and Bald-headed Beast! ... To my left is the one and only, the Killer .... COLOSSUS! .. Winner of Last Week's Event and a Rough and Ready Man!" He looked at the sea of upturned faces then pointed first to Tegar, and then at Mikull and screamed.
"DON'T LOOK MUCH LIKE A COLOSSUS TONIGHT DOES HE!" The noise of the crowd roared back and the betting began again with renewed frenzy.

Black Eric looked smugly pleased with himself. Tonight he would make good money. Tegar Bearclaw was the clear crowd favorite and the odds were set to drop even further after his clever introduction. Eric had squeezed the spread just right and he knew he would fill his pockets later. The profit would be even better if Mikull won, but he wasn't going to place any personal bets on that particular outcome. The bookie's margin would do him fine no matter who the fight went to, so there was no need to take unnecessary risks. He gave the crowd a minute more to place their last bets then rang the bell in his sweaty hand and screamed out the old formula.

"TILL ONE MAN IS LEFT STANDING, OR UNTIL QUARTER IS CALLED!"

[LeslieMS]

TANGLED LINES

Michael had done nothing but apologize since they arrived. Vera had gasped at all the blood. These two facts seemed to be related, but her worry had no place now, nor did her fear. Her dear husband in tears as he rocked their young son, still sleepy, and blissfully unaware of what had happened. For now…

The second realization was that she knew this smile. Gone from it this day was any trace of the kindness and understanding that had touched it. The memory of the face that handed her the coins so recently clashed violently with the bloodied smile of a woman who had already made peace with her life… and her death.

“Please, please gods… don’t let her die. It wasn’t my – I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. So sorry. Sorry-”

She cut off her husband’s rambling whispers with a hiss for rags and water. Vera was by no means a healer, but she could at least try to help. It wasn’t fair. Here was the woman who had offered her a respite, who had allowed her to offer her family something pleasant, however brief it had been. Vera wanted answers, and every time she looked at her husband, she had to ignore the knot of dread that weighted her. It had begun to root her next to the woman.

Michael brought what she asked for, Gregory sat on the bed that the poor woman had no doubt risen from, only to fall so close. As Vera worked, she prayed the woman’s dreams would keep her. Thankfully some of the salves she had gotten from the temple for her own cuts and bruises were still in the pockets of the lightweight overcoat she had grabbed on the way out the door.

The cut was deep, but if there truly was any good fortune that the gods could truly spare, it would mend. The fact that the blood had slowed so much, terrified Vera. She was running out of time. She wasn’t sure when Gregory had fallen asleep on the bed, and only vaguely aware of Michael and the silence he had fallen into. He silently did everything she asked as she tried desperately to mend the wound.

The one time she met her husband’s tortured gaze, his remorse and fear turning his eyes into chasms of deep pain, and it broke her heart. She cursed the war and the dragons and the pirates as she struggled with the sewing needle. It was just like mending clothes. And she almost believed the lie until the blood slicked needle slipped from her fingers.

By the time the bleeding had truly stopped, and the wound was dressed with makeshift bandages from the shredded sheets the woman no longer had immediate need of… Michael had gone utterly silent. Dawn tinged the room, making the whole macabre scene that much more garish. The pale wash of it only made their faces more pale and terrified looking.

“Like ghosts…”

She wasn’t aware that she spoke out loud until she realized Michael was looking about worriedly. She distracted him by asking for rags and more water. Vera distracted herself by cleaning. Before long, only the woman’s deathly pallor and the blood soaked nightshirt were the only traces of the death that hovered above her. Her breathing had calmed. It was nearly noon. She had sent Michael home with Gregory so that she could tend to the last few things. Before he had left, he had helped Vera lift the woman to the bed, Vera had changed her into a fresh nightshirt. Vera had also borrowed a dress, so that she could change out of her own blood soaked nightshirt. She sighed and pulled the blanket up to the woman’s chin, and brushed her hair from her face.

“I don’t even know your name… Please stay… I hate leaving debts unpaid…”

Her words sounded … wrong, but it was the best plead she had for the woman. She frowned as she realized what role Michael had played in this… Poor gentle Michael. He would never have harmed her… but if not Michael, then who? She looked around the room for clues, finding a spoon on the floor… a scratch where the handle had hit the wall behind. She returned to the woman’s side and smoothed her brow, whispering softly to her…

“If you won’t stay for my sake, please… please stay for my husband. I don’t know what happened, but I’ll see it all set right. I promise… but you have to stay…”

In her search for answers, and her desire to keep her own promise, she made a show of tidying the small room. She looked half expectantly to the woman as if to say “See? I’ll do my part…”

The house was modest, much like her own. The woman wore a wedding band, but there was no sign the husband had been about recently. A pang of sadness overcame her as she wondered how she could stand to be apart from her husband. Without Michael, she was little more than her own sort of ghost. She prayed this woman was not a widow, left alone as no wife should be…

She thought to check the rest of the house, make sure nothing else was amiss. When she stood and turned to step out of the room her eyes fell to something on the floor across the small hall, to a room with two small beds and her blood ran cold.

The small, beloved stuffed bear sat on the floor. Morbidly, Vera thought how the small bear’s position was not much different than the position that the woman had been. Vera said a silent prayer for the children when she didn’t find them. Perhaps they were with their father. To occupy herself while she waited for Michael to return, she mended the bear.

She checked on the woman frequently, but she never stirred. When Michael returned with Gregory and some things they would need from their own home, he also came bearing a few more supplies. Bandages and such, the look he gave her as he passed them to her said it was best if she didn’t ask how he afforded or acquired them. So she didn’t. Instead she moved on to more pressing questions.

Michael explained what happened through panicked whispers, tears staining his face as he promised her that he never would have caused her harm. By the time he was finished explaining what had happened, Vera had finished mending the bear. The bear’s injuries were far less grave than the woman’s. Michael’s face somehow became more pale at the realization that there were children who may have seen it.

She prepared an early supper for Gregory, and put him to sleep on a palette near by enough that she could watch her son and tend the woman. The things Michael brought would help, but Vera worried it wouldn’t be enough. She had cleaned the house, putting everything back in to what she hoped were the right places for each. She had explored the children’s room. The clothes there and toys suggested that Michael needed to find two boys. She sent him with the newly repaired bear, and prayed they were alright.

She returned to the woman, if only to distract her from contemplating what Vera would do if she ever lost her husband or her son… The day had passed, and now another long quiet night stretched ahead of them. Finally she sat in a chair next to the woman and took her hand, so very pale and fragile seeming… The once strong hand that had passed her coins, and brought her a few days’ peace… A chance to take care of her family. A chance to take care of her son… She leaned close to the woman’s ear and her whisper barely broke the silence.

“We’ll find your children. It will be alright. Michael is looking for them now, we’ll see them safe. You just have to wake up. Please just wake up…”

Whether it was Vera’s words, or some fleeting dream, or perhaps just Vera’s imagination… she thought she saw the woman smile. To pass the time, and clinging to the hope that the woman had indeed smiled… She told her all about the son, her precious Gregory, that the woman had helped to feed in her kindness. She asked the woman to do her one more favor… and live so that she could thank her properly.
~~

[gimchi]

Stories from the Glass Factory: 4

He had never been battered like this in his life before. Breathing was difficult. Breathing hurt.

The pain was a massive throbbing ache that peaked into splinters of fire on every inhalation. Both sides of his chest had been hammered like aging meat being tenderized in a butcher's shop, and already the individual bruises were merging into solid swathes of angry red. He raised his fists again and roared at the people who were scrambling and pushing back to get away from him. His face was a bloody mess, the flesh on his brow and cheekbones pulped and split, and his right eye swollen completely closed. His left eye was well on it's way to doing the same but there was still enough vision remaining for him to vent his fury on the man crumpled before him. The snapping of the neck had been over far too quickly to appease him. The last frayed strands of his control shattered under the pressure and his terrible rage burst free and consumed him completely. Tegar raised his foot and stomped down again and again until the skull was a crushed and splintered wreck, and the head no longer recognizable as having once been human. He didn't even register the cries to stop, or the smell of vomit that arose around him.

.....................

A full Tenday had passed since the killing and the little gnome stared morosely at the stubborn stain on his factory floor. He had been so certain that Mikull would win. The man had told him a lot about his past since he had been living there. He had watched the big man training and seen the skill with which he moved, seen the dazzling hand speed and the array of combinations that he so effortlessly put together. He had no doubt that Mikull was a fight veteran and had been telling the truth. Since watching him practice he now understood how the big man had carried that first fight and extended it far longer than he needed to bring it to its inevitable conclusion. He understood how the big man had hidden much of his skill, and permitted the baker to pound him in turn.

"It's important to put on a good show at the beginning of a competition," Mikull had told him. "You have to let the punters get value for money, and get them to underestimate you. If the punters think they have a decent chance at winning the majority of them will back the local lads time and time again. The secret is for me to make my wins look like close calls."

A wry smile crossed Mikull's lips as he realized he was quoting the words of his old boss, the Ringmaster Wallpole. "Eventually they will learn that I am no easy mark, but by then pride will undo most of them. They will want to see me humbled. Just keep betting on me Beagan. I haven't lost many fights in my career, and I have never, ever thrown a fight or called for quarter."

Beagan scuffed at the floor stain with the toe of his boot as the memories continued. As soon as he had known the draw for the fight, he took Mikull down to the docks early in the morning to get a look at the chief of the south side. It was Tegar's habit to stretch and complete an hour long combat routine at the start of each day. He would take up his old greataxe and work through a series of whirling attacks and savage blocks down near the water's edge. Mikull's face set into grim lines as he watched. After they returned to the glass factory the big man had doubled his training regimen.

"Can you do it? Can you beat him?" Beagan had asked with concern.

Mikull stood very still then nodded slowly in reply. "To tell truth my friend, I doubt I am fully ready to fight someone like that yet. There's not an ounce of fat on that pig ugly giant and he looks in superb condition. I usually work my way through lesser bouts, and the fighting hardens me and brings me to peak fitness. I am not at my best now. I've been on the road traveling to Baldur's Gate for a month, taking it easy apart from keeping out a wary eye for brigands and bandits. I would not have chosen that man for my second fight if it were up to me."

He paused and turned to Beagan and met his eyes. "This is my profession though. Ring and pit fighting has been my life for years now and no matter how tough this Tegar is I will wear him down eventually. This will be brawler pitted against professional prize fighter, and my art will bring us the victory."

Beagan had looked back at him and swallowed the questions he had about the fights that Mikull had lost. Art was art after all, and he understood that well.

What a pity my understanding wasn't matched by the ability to see into the future. He cursed aloud though it did little to ease his mood."Gods rot my evil luck!" The gnome marched toward the delivery doors at the back of his factory, his little boots clacking out his disgust with each quick step. "All that money lost betting on Mikull and now no fight tonight, or until this mess gets sorted out for good."

A carpenter's tool belt holding a hammer, a small coil of measuring rope and few ounces of assorted nails was lying on top of one his workbenches. As he passed by he swept it to the floor in irritation, then kicked it hard across the floor. He scowled at it for several long seconds then threw open the left hand door and stepped out into the slightly cooler night air.

Beagan nodded reflexively at the Flaming Fist patrol as the two armored men walked by. They didn't acknowledge him at all, just fixed him with a stony glare, and after they passed he made a circle with one tiny fist and then thrust in the index finger from his other hand. He repeated the motion several times until his irritation passed. At least those sour-faced bastards don't seem to have caught wind of what happened here last week. He took a deep, calming breath and reviewed the situation.


In the aftermath of the fight Black Eric had dealt with a lot of complaints. He had dealt with the loudest complainer first. He listened carefully for a few minutes then stepped in close and slit the man's throat from ear to ear. As he expected the tumult of complaints dried to an unhappy murmur.

"What's done is done," Black Eric told the rest of the losing gamblers as he eased the twitching body to the floor. "Call it Providence, call it Fate, call it Rat-cursed Bad Luck. Call it any poxy thing yer like, but fact is that Bearclaw won, and there ain't no changing that. Now, is anyone lookin' ter be the third corpse here tonight?" He wiped his hands clean on the dead man's pants and waited for an answer. There were no volunteers.

The next day he had met with the gnome and agreed to postponing fights the next week until things quieted down a bit, and until raised seating could be built and installed in the factory. Ironically it had been Mikull who suggested the stadium style benches after the very first fight, pointing out how not only would it create a more defined circle to fight in, but with tiered seating they could squeeze in many more folk and give them a damned fine view.

"And just where is the timber supposed to come from?" queried the little glass artisan at the time.

"Take a look at all the shelving lining your walls Beagan. It isn't doing you any good now, but it will provide the bulk of the bench tops."

The gnome looked outraged but as he opened his mouth to speak, Mikull hurried to cut him off.

"The wood will still be useable when you go back into business again. Might have to adjust a wall fixing or two, but you'll get your shelving back. What we do have to find though is a great deal of heavy support timber for the structural framing, and that could be a little tricky."

The gnome was silent for a moment, then his face settled into resignation. "There is still a little building timber stored and left over from the reconstruction of the Palace quarter. I can pull a few strings and get what is needed before it's shunted off to some other purpose."

It had taken most of the past week to arrange. The chief city engineer had been surprisingly hard to convince, he was as short-sighted in outlook as he was in reality, but he had finally accepted one of Beagan's few remaining pieces as payment. When the economy finally recovered it would sell for a small fortune.

It was an exquisite glass swan. Its wings were half raised, the tail slightly flared, the head tilted and turned to one side and set upon a neck so breathtakingly perfect in its length and curve that even Beagan's fingers ached to stroke it. Depending on the whim or the angle of the viewer the swan appeared to be just landing, or preparing to spring into the air, or perhaps even partway through the act of bathing and preening.

In the right light though something remarkable happened. Somehow the light would move inside the bird then leap and shine along previously unseen filaments. It would flicker and glow across a connected scattering of tiny glass occlusions until it resembled a collection of miniature stars, a luminous nebula deep inside the figurine. This was one of Beagan's great secrets, one of his master skills. In the right light any of his works based on living creatures would seem to shimmer into life, and their bodies sparkled and flashed with internal radiance. Beagan Prazoor was an Artisan of the First Order.

"Consider this a nest egg." Beagan smiled through gritted teeth and felt like a traitor as he handed the beautiful glass bird over to the engineer. The man clearly had about as much appreciation for fine art as a drunken sailor.

"A nest egg eh? Consider the future eh? That I will do Master Prazoor. That I will do," gushed the engineer with mounting enthusiasm now that he had committed to the deal. "A pretty little bauble for a distant princely sum. A swan that becomes an egg in time instead of the usual way of things. Swan to egg, not egg to swan eh? And the hatching of it will see my pockets swell with coin. Glass to gold eh? Mayhap you are an Alchemist and not an Artisan. Haw, haw, haw." He brayed like a donkey, delighted with his own wit. "Quite the clever conundrum eh? Quite the comic little focal point this naughty bird will be. Quite the talking piece on the fire mantel at home." The ruddy-faced engineer babbled away as he wrapped his pudgy hands around the swan. Beagan locked his smile into place and imagined driving small glass spikes into the eyes and ears of the horribly irritating man.


The heavy timber had arrived yesterday and work on the framework commenced immediately. Several of the smaller sections were already completed and stacked against the west wall, and tomorrow or the next day his shelving would be pulled down. By the following Tenday all should be in readiness for the grand re-opening. Beagan took another slow, calming breath of the night air.

He released the breath in a slow sigh and spoke into the uncaring darkness. "At least it will be a minor blessing when all this infernal hammering and sawing is over and done with. How any carpenter can think clearly while he beats and thrashes something into crude shapes is utterly beyond me. Where's the finesse? Where's the Art?"

A surge of emotion rocked him and tears sprang in the corners of his eyes. For the life of him he couldn't tell if they were tears borne of despair for carpenters who lacked in grace, or for the pervasive sense of loss that had plagued him all week.

[Considerate_]

The Ansgot: Knock, knock

It was surreal standing here in a strangers door with an open letter and small coin pouch in hand, addressed to someone she barely knew. It felt like unwittingly treading on private ground, intimate even. Vera didn’t know what to make of it or how to respond to this travel weary man standing before her. “Yes… yes of course, thank you.”

Somewhere deep down inside of her, she wanted to cry out and confess everything to him. Of course she did. Wouldn’t she have wanted Michael to know if she was grievously injured? If Gregory had run off into the dark of night all alone? Deep down inside a mother’s heart she knew… of course she would.

Those emotions rushed against a brick wall of pragmatic thoughts. Not least among them were Michael’s fate, breaking and entering, theft, and accessory to attempted murder… maybe even murder if the gods had no more mercy to spare this day.

What would they do without Michael if he was taken away to jail? It wasn’t his fault, not really. Michael had his faults like any other man, but he was not a murderer. This all spiraled down to his so-called friend, he was responsible for this mess and had left it to us.

She offered an uncertain smile at this messenger who supposedly came from someone called Eric… Elissa’s spouse? Surely this messenger hadn’t seen either of the women before Vera mused or he would’ve noticed straight away. They were so different, as night and day. Elissa’s black thick and unruly mane and darker skin, stood in stark contrast to Vera’s fair blond hair and much lighter complexion.

But if she took this step, she would have crossed a line… she would’ve helped covering up for the deed. Still, other thoughts made their way into her mind, if Eric was to give up his job then that alone might spell disaster for the already stricken Ansgot family. It wasn’t an excuse, it wasn’t a defense for what they had done to the poor woman. It was an honest concern, and one Vera knew would’ve weighed on her conscious mind if the situation was reversed and Michael had been so fortunate to have a job in these desperate times.

In the swirl of emotions and thoughts, she didn’t even register that the messenger had run along with his bag full of more correspondence. It was too late to call out and stop him, to confess and let the truth be heard. Vera couldn’t help but wonder if that was for the better or worse as she closed to door leading into the small house.

[LeslieMS]

CHOPPY WATERS

He tried his best to look calm, he wasn’t sure if he actually succeeded or if no one actually cared. He didn’t have much to go on, not really. Just a general age, an assumption that they might look like their mother, and a bear he prayed someone who wouldn’t turn him into the Fist or City guard would recognize. In truth he was panicking. He was infinitely grateful no one could read his mind. More grateful to have some time away from that house.

What had he been thinking. It had sounded too good to be true, and it was. Now that woman may die. He didn’t even know who she was. Vera seemed to… were they friends? Oh gods… Not only could she die, leaving her children behind… but it would cause his beautiful Vera pain.

“What have I done…?”

The newly repaired bear just looked at him, and made no effort to answer. He clung to it, much as the child who left it behind might have when a nightmare stirred him. This was a nightmare unlike any other. Gods if they saw… what they had done to their mother…

He nearly wretched. What if that bastard came back? What if he knew about the children? What would he do to avoid getting carted off for murder? Would he harm children so easily as he had a mother fighting to protect them? Would he let Michael take the fall for it? If that happened… what would happen to Vera and Gregory?

He looked in all the places he would hide as a child. Many he sought refuge in when he was afraid, but they were empty save for rats and mold. He had started nearest the little house, searched much of the pre-dawn hours, and the morning. By the afternoon he had branched out and prayed the children hadn’t gone in the other direction. He settled on as much of a spiral pattern as the city would allow.

How sad it was to see this beautiful city so crippled. They were not the only ones who were in dire straights, Michael knew this. He wondered how many of the desperate faces that met his gaze was responsible for destroying a family? Michael had likely destroyed two. The woman who Vera was trying to save… and his own.

He begged the gods repeatedly. Even if she lived, she had surely seen Michael. No amount of finding her children or begging his wife to keep her from dying would garner him forgiveness for his part in her plight. Would Vera forgive him? What of these children… If they had seen, they surely would be terrified of Michael.

Again Michael wondered what his former co-conspirator would do if he found the boys. The possibilities sickened Michael, and he vomited in the empty shaded corner he had hoped would shelter two small boys. Nothing. Hells. What was he going to do? Gods… If any of you possess any kindness for your petitioners… give me the chance to fix this. Just the chance and I will try not to blow this…

He promised the whole of the Seven Heavens all manner of things. That he would find work somehow, pay back everything he had taken from the temples, and what he was going to take before he would have the means to repay it. He begged the gods to understand that he was only taking it so the woman he endangered wouldn’t die. He truly meant to repay it. If only they would let her live. Let her live and let him find her sons and bring them home… Though he dreaded bringing them home if she was truly going to die. For whatever reason the boys obviously hadn’t gone to the guards or they would already be swarming all over the house. All their fates would already be sealed then…

He tucked the bear away, its button-eyed gaze now seemed accusing. He slipped into the temple. He milled about the petitioners of faith, the beggars who hoped temple tithes could get them the meal they desperately needed, the medicine they had to have. He had learned to be patient. As busy as things were, he had the opportunity to take a bit. He never took more than he would need for a day or so, and never from the more watchful temples, never from the same place twice in a row. There were a few he alternated through.

As the night stretched before him he left, bandages and such for the woman who lay under Vera’s watchful gaze. He was exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. More than once he thought his misdeeds had been discovered. Every guardsman was surely on to him by now. Fortunately the reality was they were all too wrapped up in bigger problems to care about a thief of bandages. Things to worry about, like murderers… which Michael might as well be…

He scurried back toward the woman’s house. Vera had said it would be best for them to stay there, as the woman needed constant care if she were to have half a chance at surviving. His eyes kept scanning near the house, hoping the boys would linger near home, and maybe try to return. He only prayed that he found them before someone worse did…

He entered the house silently. Gregory was already sleeping. His wonderful son, saw this as some sort of blissful adventure, and was blessedly unaware of the danger they were all in. Vera sat in the chair she had scooted next to the woman’s bed. She had a letter in her lap, and tears in her eyes.

She stood and faced him, letter in hand. He set the bear next to the woman and wrapped his precious wife in his arms. She cried and asked what they were to do. He had no answers… only apologies. To Vera and to the dark haired woman sleeping silently next to them.

Vera recovered, and she hushed Michael's apologies. He handed her the supplies from the temple. Vera set the letter down and redressed the wound. The sleeping woman looked less pale, but still didn’t look well. His eyes rested on the letter next to her. He picked it up, and looked to Vera who just shrugged.

It felt like a sort of trespass to open it, but Michael couldn’t see how they could violate this family worse than they already had.

[Whisper]

Teela and Vicious IV

Teela bid farewell to several in the group of six or so thieves. The warehouse job was finished and had gone smoothly. Thank the gods for that, and the pay had been good too. The two men she was familiar with headed in the opposite direction toward the docks, presumably to meet back up with the men who were supposed to be guarding the warehouse but they had paid to look the other way.

The other four, neither she nor Vicious were familiar with, two females and a male clad all in black with masks that covered every part of their face and a little hin female with them. After switching out the goods in the warehouse, the four separately left the warehouse seeming to fade into the shadows of the evening and disappeared.

“How about a drink?” Teela asked Vicious as the two met at the alley, watching the others disappear from sight.

“Mhm…the usual spot.” Vicious replied, nodding her head in answer to the question. She walked by her companion’s side, glancing in the direction of Teela who was still watching the scene behind them as the two headed down the alley. “What do you make of all that?”

“You know, I’m really not sure, dear. But with the pay this good, I’m not inclined to ask too many questions.” Teela turned toward Vicious and grinned. Indeed the pay had been good for this particular heist. Teela recognized they were obviously dealing with members of one of the more powerful underground groups of Baldur’s Gate. She had encountered these types before: a lot of coin at their disposal and powerful connections.

These types paid well, expected perfection, and demanded silence. And any who worked for them remained silent about anything they saw or did, unless one was inclined to swim with the fishes. These were hard times to, what with the end of the war and the tightening of coin, a wise thief was one who did his job and did not ask too many questions.

And occasionally a smile time crook would have too much to drink and open his mouth to reveal more than he should have, and sure enough by the next day or two said crook would be found having taken up residence in the local harbor waters. Teela glanced to Vicious and saw her nod understandingly at the statement, and then Teela reached up to pull back the hood she had been wearing, her dark hair cascading down as she enjoyed the soft evening breeze that suddenly flowed through the alley.

After a few twists and turns through the alley, the two ladies reached their destination, the local tavern. Upon entering the smoke filled interior, the pair made their way to a quiet corner and sat down for a drink.

“I think it’s time we pay the ole Captain and his ship a visit, what do you think Teela?” Vicious asked, glancing up from her drink a short time later. It had been a good ten-day since the incident with the merchant, although neither had brushed off the incident nor would they forget it anytime soon.

“I agree with that. I think he needs to learn a lesson of what happens when you don’t want to pay coin for protection. We’ll give him something to think about, what do you say?” she asked, grinning at the blonde.

In answer, Vicious smiled and nodded, taking a drink of her wine and glancing around the dimly lit interior of the tavern. The usual array of downtrodden regulars occupied tables here and there with the tavern. The tavern hosted mainly seafaring types and other assorted commoners, certainly not catering to nobles and their ilk. Indeed this was a tavern for the common man, to come and escape the hardships of the day for a short while.

“Tomorrow night we’ll head down to the dock late and get aboard his ship. A loss of cargo will give the fool something to think about!” Teela said, a grin emerging at the thought of getting some revenge. The captain’s ship, The Angry Mermaid, was currently in port and probably would not be leaving for another three days. That was plenty of time for the girls to get aboard and teach the captain a less about not paying protection money.
Satisfied that they had a good plan to get their revenge, the pair spent the rest of night enjoying drinks in the tavern before returning home during the early morning hours.

[gimchi]

Stories from the Glass Factory: 5

It was dusk down on the docks. A lone lamp-lighter shuffled along the wharves cupping a flame to one out of every six lanterns, then hoisted them high and back onto their hooks. The old man muttered constantly to himself as he moved. The endless string of complaints flowed from his lips like a river of minor misery. "Too blasted hot. Damned knees ache worse than me back. Ain't had a sausage or a hot pie in two weeks. Think me back tooth is coming loose. Ain't got more than two coppers ta rub together..." Lamp oil supplies were being carefully rationed along with everything else in Baldur's Gate and a greasy little official at the Palace had instructed him in his new duties and then promptly slashed his pay by two thirds, citing that now he was doing much less work. "Putting the rest o' my money in his filthy pocket he is. All the same they are, them fat greedy bastards in their fancy shoes. Ain't no one gives a flying turnip for an old gaffer like me ...." The complaints kept coming in an unbroken stream.

Behind him the thin line of lanterns swayed back and forth in the dying evening breeze, tiny islands of light in the deepening gloom. From every building the shadows crept slowly out over the Harbor district, heralding the dark to come. In the dens and holes, in the nests and hideaways, in the sewers that ran beneath the city streets, the night crawlers began to wake and stir.

In his modest dockside home Tegar Bearclaw was drinking his favorite cheap wine - a sour Luskan red - and was contemplating the current state of affairs. Murder, robbery, muggings and random acts of violence were still escalating far above normal levels as the desperation in Baldur's Gate increased. The Flaming Fist had doubled patrols in the area, and though they occasionally caught and arrested the unwary or the too slow, most of the criminal element simply faded out of sight as they approached, and then flowed back in like a sinister tide in the wake of their passing.

Tegar's planning and organization was still paying off, and none of his crew had suffered yet at the hands of villains. Twenty five families now looked to him to lead them, to find them work and feed them. Twenty five families that now watched out for each other, that came together in times of hardship or grief, and that swore to take care of the children should any parents disappear or perish.

He couldn't say the same for the north side workers though. He had heard of two families over there butchered in their sleep for near worthless trinkets. Other rumors were also making themselves heard. Word had it that his rival Redleaf Jake was consuming larger quantities of Ziran and spending more and more time in a drug-dazed stupor. Word also had it that neither Jake nor his lieutenants had been seen for several days, and his people were growing increasingly disgruntled with his neglect of them. It might finally be time to make a move and quietly ask if any of the north side families wished to change allegiance and join his family. He had no wish to start a war, but if Redleaf Jake could be carefully dispossessed that would be fewer folk that suffered the abuse of the Ziran chewer and his thugs.

"If I can find a way next week I will speak with some of those that live the closest, once my ribs have improved and I can move more freely." He spoke softly to himself then took another gulp of the wine he was holding and allowed his mind to drift back to the fight of the week before. What a joy it had been. What a complete and absolute joy. It had been years since he had felt as fully alive as that night and the memories still sang strongly inside him.

..............................

The man stands opposite him and shows no sign of fear. Tegar runs through the rules in his head a final time. Fists only. No elbows, feet or knees. No grappling. No biting. No headbutts. When a man goes down step back and let him get to his feet again. This is not the way he usually fights. If there is no axe in his hand, then he simply crushes backs, snaps necks and limbs, or hurls his enemies to the ground and tramples over them to get to the next. Regardless of these ludicrous rules he is confident that he can win. He can pound his way through a warehouse wall if he needs to. He is Tegar Bearclaw, Chief of the South Side Tribe, and once a warrior of the Red Lion Clan. He glares ferociously at the man in front of him, waits for him to blink and look away - but it doesn't happen. The voice of Black Eric finally rings out above the noise of the crowd like a blessing in his ears.

"TILL ONE MAN IS LEFT STANDING, OR UNTIL QUARTER IS CALLED!"

Tegar smiles like a child given candyfloss and steps forward. The man is standing strangely. He bounces up and down on his toes and holds his hands high like an exotic insect or a priest at prayer. Tegar moves in and throws a wild flurry of punches that are hard enough to fell a horse. The man sways aside from each one at the last second and Tegar's punches whistle through thin air. Suddenly the man's left fist is in his face. Once, twice, three times. Almost too fast to see coming, and jolting his head back with each strike. The man skips away. Tegar drops his hands in surprise and in the blink of an eye the man skips in close again and delivers a savage right hook to his jaw. There is power in the blow and his head rocks sideways. Tegar's hands come up quickly and he bellows in a mixture of anger and happiness.

This could be a decent fight after all.

Time passes, is measured in hisses and grunts, and the solid thud of fists on flesh. Tegar learns from every exchange - is still learning. He begins to ape Mikull's posture and movements as best he can. The stance he uses to deliver huge swings with his axe is no good here. It is too wide-legged and he misses the counter balance of the axe weight. In this small arena his usual stance doesn't let him change direction or balance quickly enough. He brings his feet closer together but edges his right foot just a little more to the rear, copies Mikull almost exactly. He lifts his fists higher now, keep his forearms more vertical and elbows closer together. He protects his head and face and he curses silently now that a cut has opened up over his right eye. Because his hands are held higher now, the other man begins to hammer at his body more often. Tegar can't quite believe how difficult it is to hit the other man, nor how easily the other man is hitting him. He holds tight to his growing rage and with a massive effort of will he pushes it down, turns it into a slow burn held deep in his belly. Wild rage and mounting frustration are also his enemies tonight. If he loses control he believes that this elusive man will make him pay dearly.

The minutes keep grinding by. Both men slow a little. The cut on his brow is bigger and he is spattered and smeared with his own blood. Despite the pounding he is taking, he is landing punches of his own a little more often. Mikull's shoulders and upper chest are both turning fiery red from absorbing blows but Tegar hasn't landed a really solid hit to the big man's head yet. He has managed to clip him there a few times, but somehow always Mikull rides with the blows, and takes much of the impact away.

Mikull's counter punching is ferocious and Tegar is punished for every strike of his own that does hit home. Doggedly he keeps pushing forward. A lump slowly forms on Mikull's right cheekbone and Tegar focuses on that spot. He copies a combination of punches that has been used against him several dozen times already, strives for every last scrap of speed he can muster, and breaks cleanly through for the first time. Left, right, left and crunch! Mikull's head is slammed to the side but as Tegar leans in to follow up, the man skips quickly back and circles to the right. He is clearly dazed, shaking his head to try and clear it, but he keeps on circling away. As much as Tegar tries he can't quite catch him.

The man is a god-rotted Wraith!

Someone in the crowd suddenly pushes Mikull in the back, shoves him directly into one of Tegar's massive left hooks, and the big man goes down. For a split second Tegar is about to hurl himself on the fallen man and finish the fight for good. But somehow he remembers the rules, masters his killing instinct and whirls instead on the crowd. He roars at the man who intervened, blood and spittle blasting into his face, and the entire crowd sways back from his fury.

Mikull rolls over, gets on his hands and knees, then pushes himself upright. Tegar waits until Mikull looks at him, then raises one hand and signals wait. He mimes drinking water and the big man nods. They are both given small cups and they rinse out their mouths then drink the remainder.

The fight resumes. Minute blurs into minute until time seems suspended. Both men are bloody and battered. Neither man calls for quarter. Mikull is still landing two or three blows to every one of Tegar's though both of them are visibly tiring. His superior skill takes an even greater toll as the barbarian's strength wanes. Mikull's jab is a vicious serpent, always in his face. Always setting him up for something, or distracting him from closing in. The screaming crowd fades into the distance. To Tegar's ears it takes on the sometimes dreamlike quality of a battlefield. Only the sounds of his rasping breath, the thudding of the punches, and the grunts made by himself and the other man have any real meaning. His right eye swells closed. The world shrinks to hold only the two of them.

Another blow slips under his guard and hammers his right side. His left side feels pulped, but in the right side he knows something is already broken. The man's right hand is a warhammer, and Tegar folds over and into the pain. His guard drops and something like thunder explodes inside his head. He opens his eyes and cannot understand why he sees a wall of legs spinning around him. Has the world turned sideways?

The legs revolve around him again then steady. Understanding comes. He is on his knees. He hasn't been in this position since he was a young boy. Not since his father forced him down to pray for forgiveness at the clan totem, for taking the waraxe from his uncle's tent. He looks up and sees Mikull signing to him to take rest and drink.

Something deep inside Tegar unfolds like a desert flower taking in rain. This is what it is meant to be like. This is how it used to be. This is true battle. This is what a warrior lives for. Not for brief skirmishes on a city street, or cowardly knives stabbing in the dark. Not for pathetic opponents that are crushed like flies. A warrior needs mighty enemies to measure himself against. A warrior needs to walk the razor's edge. Oh how he had burned to take the fight to the Undead that attacked the Gate last year, but his people had pleaded with him, and held him back, and reminded him of his duties to them.

He continues to look at Mikull as he levers himself slowly to his feet. His heart swells with respect and something almost like love for the man in front of him. For the first time he speaks to his opponent.

"Good fight," he croaks. "But that's the last time you will put me down."

Mikull looks over and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

A glint of weary amusement appears in his eyes. "You talk too much to be a decent fighter."

They both nod when they are ready and step back into the center. The fight rages on. Mikull dances back less often now. His lack of match fitness is beginning to tell. His hands are still faster than Tegar's, but his legs have turned to lead. They are spending more time toe to toe, raining blows on each other, trying to finish it. Mikull has taken a savage beating now, but he rises above the pain as he has learned to do in the past. He can feel the end is close. Tegar's body is on the verge of betraying him. The unrelenting damage is crippling him. He can only see through his left eye now, and that too is beginning to close. His indomitable will is the only thing keeping him going.

Tegar sucks in another ragged breath and launches one more uppercut. His right hand begins at waist height and drives up with all the weight of his body behind it. He has learned well. He twists his hips and shoulder, leaning fully into the blow. It is the most perfect punch he has thrown in the entire fight.

He fully expects that once again Mikuul's head will slip almost magically to the side, and it will be just one more useless, energy sapping swing at the air. But behind Mikull the pressure finally gets too much for another of the spectators, one with big money riding on Tegar. Driven to distraction by the length of the fight the gambler loses control and kicks hard into the back of Mikull's knee. The big man collapses forward, completely off balance, and Tegar's mighty uppercut catches him flush beneath the chin, straightens him up and rips his head viciously backward. Mikull seems to hang in the air a moment then crashes to the floor like a fallen tree. There is no movement in him at all, not even a finger twitch.

A shocked silence falls over the glass factory. Tegar howls in disbelief and the rage inside him surges free. For a timeless moment he remains staring down at Mikull, then his head lifts up with a slowness that is terrifying. He focuses on the man who kicked out at Mikull, then leaps at him like a ravening animal, takes the man's head between his hands and with one sharp twist he snaps his neck like a rotten twig. A red mist swamps his mind and he hurls the lifeless carcass to the floor and begins to destroy it. He stomps down again and again until the head becomes a bloody ruin. The crowd scrambles in horror to get away from him.

.........................................

Tegar shifted his thoughts back to the present, raised his goblet and made a toast. "To warriors!" he said and took another large drink of the sour red wine. Sprawled in a deep armchair on the other side of the room Mikull raised his own goblet and echoed the toast. "To warriors!"

The barbarian chief studied the mass of bruising on Mikull's jaw and face. In some places it was changing from the darkest purple to a sickly green hue. He knew that his own face and body bore all the same colors, and he wore them like a flag of pride.

"You are an ugly son of a Warg." Tegar offered his opinion without rancor.

Mikull responded with equal deadpan pleasantness. "Better that than an ugly son of a Yeti like yourself."

Both men grinned at each other. A burgeoning friendship had sprung up between them after their epic fight, and they had learned they shared a very dry sense of humor. Today they struggled to keep it in check. They were both determined to say nothing else, to avoid going any further with their jests. The pair of them looked away at the same time. Mikull studied his boots as though he had never seen them before. Tegar examined his wine with the focused dedication of a gourmet. Neither of them liked to laugh a lot these days. It was dangerous to do that. It still hurt far too much.


// To Wes .. Gotcha! Hook, line and sinker!

[Considerate_]

Ansgot: How I miss Sweet home

It was with trembling hands Michael had read the letter, it was written with a meticulous handwriting, the writer obviously put quite the effort into making every single letter as near to perfection as he could muster.

My dearest love,

The days wear on me in the eternal cycles of sleeping and working, there’s nothing in between any more to separate the repetitive nature of what we do. I don’t remember when last I had the time to watch the sun set or rise, though surely it feels as if it’s done so a thousand times since last I wrote you.

It’s the memory of you that keeps me going Elissa, when my hands are raw from work and my limbs trembling from exhaustion, all I have to remember is the day you and I were wed before the eyes of gods and men, taking on the family name of Ansgot. Then I go on, even though it feels as if my body can’t continue, then I nourish on our love and stand the taller for it.
Just as it’s the knowledge that every piece of copper I forward home, goes to the welfare of our beautiful sons. That’s my comfort in the dark of night when we lie in the barracks, I’ve stopped carrying how crowded they’ve become, how shabby our living conditions are these days, because when darkness fall over these lands, I close my eyes and I’m no longer here.

I’m home with you, playing with Max and Will. Next season perhaps, or the one after that… I’ll be home and doing just that, I hope you know how much I love you Elissa?

- Eric

Michael had dropped the letter and was out the door before he had even thought of devising a plan, something had to be done… Regardless of whether he knew what that was or not, he couldn’t just abide by sitting still and watching the black haired—no, Elissa. She had a name. A name for his guilt. Elissa.

Shaking his head resignedly as he turned another street corner, he couldn’t help but smile hopefully – despite the odd sight it must’ve been, as he weaved through the familiar streets of the Gate with a little teddy bear clutched in hand and two names on mind, Will and Max. He had to find them and fast!