Footsteps echoed in the darkness, becoming confused in the confined space of the old courtyard. Strange shadows played on the ancient stonework, dancing shades caste from the dying glow of a much-repaired brazier. Doleful eyes stared from dank ginnels and dark stairways. Suddenly light and laughter spilled from an open flung door, briefly illuminating a timeworn sign hung above the lintel of the old building set some feet back from the square. Five feathers. No name, just five feathers.
A shadow-clad figure entered the sanctuary from the chill night, his breath hanging about him like a misty veil. Glancing about from the refuge of a voluminous hood, he made his way through the crowded isle to the bar, hidden beneath a wooden walkway upon which all manners of folk laughed, drank, sang and talked. Lusty bar-wenches threaded their way between table and groping hand, teasing with uncovered thigh and heaving bosom.
The newcomer leaned forward and spoke to the barkeeper in a voice barely audible above the clamor of the inn. The barman nodded and disappeared through a door hidden in the gloom at the back of the bar. Leaning casually against the bar, the cloaked man pushed back his cowl and surveyed the scene before him.
The vaulted hallway was lit by a score of smoking tallow candles raised on a great iron girandole, and numerous oil burning bronze nightlights. A thick, grimy, detail obscuring smog hung in the air. The walls, made of large granite blocks, were grime coated, bare of decoration and, with the exception of two barred and shuttered windows either side of the door, devoid of any vent or issue. Two wooden stairways ascended to the pile-supported walkway that snaked, crowdedly, around the place, giving vantage over the entire hallway. A cheer rose from a nearby table as dice clattered and coin changed hands. Ale flew in all directions from the gantry as a difference of opinions was voiced. Shouts of encouragement were lost in the tumultuous uproar as a brawl erupted on the arched balcony above the gamblers tables. An unfortunate toppled helplessly over the flimsy railings and crashed heavily onto a huckster's bench-board, sending coins and cards dancing across the flagstone floor. Folk deep in drink dived and scrambled to recover the unexpected windfall, spreading the confusion and upheaval to all corners of the bar.
The visitor turned as the barkeep reappeared from the back room. 'Just another night', he said and smiled, 'never changes, eh?' he took the package from the barman and made his way carefully into the night...
There are no regulars at the Pigs Gut. No familiar faces, at least not friendly ones. None of the clientele is here to drink and none are here to enjoy the atmosphere. The owners never make a profit from selling liquor, although the prices are fair. Like the belly of a whale some enter and are never seen again, most do not even try.
The Pigs Gut Tavern has only one reason for existence, one undeniable and very dark purpose - the illicit business of the covert meeting. Meetings for a myriad of diverse reason, incubators of devious plots, but always most secret and only for the eyes and ears of the intended participants. Unfortunately that was exactly what Strat wanted to do. He was an accomplished spy with an air about him, attuned to the eavesdropping of closed conversations but never in a place like this. No normal benches and tavern tables, the whole rancid place was full of closed booths, made from thick oak impregnated with hundreds of years of silent secrets. Here he was, sitting in one of the said booths two away from the conversation he was being paid to know about and not able to hear a single word. The chain mail curtain blocked his view of the common room but it felt as if a score of hidden eyes were boring into him. This whole thing was starting to look bad. In mounting desperation Strat looked towards the heavens pleading for inspiration. The idea hit him like a ton of rat droppings. The damn roof was missing from his booth, which was probably why it was unoccupied in the first place. If he could just climb along the top of the booths, surly he could hear the proceedings from above.
A cautious head rose from the booth, the common room was black as night only a dank smoke hung in the air illuminated from the odd improperly drawn mail curtain. He eased himself onto the divider between his booth and the next, muscles quivering with silent effort. Inch by inch the distance between him and the target booth grew less. The rough wood of the booth vivid in his perception, who knows what shady deals were being struck in the spaces below him, he didn't let his mind dwell on them only the booth in front of him was of importance. Every breath, every creak of the wood seemed amplified beyond measure, if he was caught now, it would be a river water breakfast.
After what seamed like an eternity Strat reach his goal, now he would have results. Hushed words began to filter up to his keen ears. Then the bottom fell out of Strats' world or more accurately the top of the booth, a thousand times a thousand families of wood worm had done their work well. The table rose up to met him in a cloud of dust and splinters, men stood in a single gasp, like lightning steel grew from grubby hands. Then silence fell, a voice coughed in an atmosphere gone thick. Strats' mind raced, to fight was useless. "Err...rat catcher. There be a big-un in this here tavern. You seen 'im?"
Strat didn't enjoy his breakfast....
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"You don't want to go there, friend. No sir, that's not a place I'd care to show my face on any night, no sir".
"Do you, or do you not know of such a place......... friend". There was something in the way the outsider said 'friend' that told the bravo here was trouble and that if he wanted to smell the smog of a new day he'd better be straight. There was no denying it, all the signs were plane to see for one who knows. That certain walk, casual but full of contained intent. A slight awkwardness of step that said there was probably a blade strapped in a hidden place. It was in the way he held his shoulders and how the folds of his leather didn't quite mask what was underneath.
He wore his brown hair in long tightly woven braids that hinted at a military background. Ground glass skin stretched over a lean face with eyes that penetrated and cut into everything hidden. Oh yes, this was a dangerous man and he didn't try too damn hard to hide it.
"Ain't easy to find, you gotta look good. See that side street down there, follow it to the end and turn sharp left at the burnt out warehouse. Go on down the slope a way, on your right there's a covered alley with steps down. Bad looking place, it's easy to miss. Just look out for the snake chimney above the arch. Follow that all the way along the ally... there you are - The Serpents Gain".
The eyes blinked lizard like, digesting the information sorting the moves planing actions.
"You sure you don't want me to get one of the beggars to show you the way?" Just a little push, stretch the man see how far you could go, It might stand you well to have the measure of a man like this. The tight skin creased pulling a half smile out of the thin mouth, letting out a little breath to be lost in the stagnant night air.
"Not necessary... friend". One last glancing cut with those eyes and the stranger turned, moving off with his half limping fluidity that just wouldn't let him blend in.
"Yes sir, there goes a whole canal load of trouble that's wound real tight".
extract from 'Burning Bridges'
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The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
Extract from 'Shadows People'
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That winter smell had come to Solis. Fresh winds penetrated deep into her intricate alleyways and boulevards sweeping away all taint of warmth; it was as if the summer had never been. Multitudes of garishly clad street hawkers proclaimed their wares as excellent protection against the coming cold and the food markets dwindled with every passing moon. The fervent days of high summer were gone like long lost friends. Heat wrought apathy was replaced by the anxiety of lean times to come. The nights drew closer, extending the dark hours when men feel the calling of their blackened hearts for activities nefarious.
Winter was coming.
Rain descended like a thin gossamer web from a sky the colour of old straw, almost imperceptible but it left everything soaking. The ramshackle buildings of Dockside glistened in its oily residue and many were the occupants who wished they'd paid more attention to roof repairs.
One such tenement, a drinking hole called the Welcome Grave, sat at the nether end of an open courtyard, its rotten and stained facade defiant in the prospect of another hard winter.
Malice sat alone in the main room, all other patrons having left with the passing of the night or been dumped outside to sleep off the drink. A full mug of flat ale rested on the table in front of him and a small black pool of dried blood stained the floor by his right boot. Malices' dark hard face was splashed with mud or something, a two day growth of stubble shadowed his chin and his piercing eyes were red rimed. No one had come near him after he had entered last night, staggering slightly and carrying that pitch-black sword. Only the barman, unbidden, had approached to place the mug at his table. Malice hadn't even acknowledged his presence, and the barman did not ask for payment.
He sat there all night wrapped in his own dark, dangerous thoughts.
Extract from 'Wintersign'
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A word or two to the wise
Shadow’s people
The sweat of the nights work was dripping like black blood down the face of Death himself. Holding that so sharp of daggers, he felt elated. The blade gave him will and purpose. It fulfilled his very essence, it filled his dark heart, it filled his black soul. That brought a smile to his face. They called him Malice, or Shadow, or Death. They said his soul had rotted in the pits of Hell long ago, they called him soulless. They said much about Malice, but never did they say it to his face.
He stood in the doorway of a small room, his dark eyes fixed on the dark shadow that was its occupants bed. His pulse surged through his temple, drowning out all sound, masking his awareness of everything except the blade in his hand, gripped tight, and focusing his mind on the prone form, asleep, unaware, oblivious. Malice licked his lips, his mouth sticky, his eyes focused as if he stood in a long, dark tunnel.
‘Not tonight, my friend, not yet’. The words formed only in his mind, no breath issued from pursed lips. ‘I am not finished with you’. Words and thoughts mingled, flashes of steel in moonlight. ‘You are still too useful’. lips now moving, almost imperceptibly, visions of eyes wide with terror and the gurgle of a mans last breath. His finger running up the edge of the blade. His thoughts moved back through the miasma of his mind, back to events of earlier....
The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
The images of the remembered events brought a fresh wave of elation welling deep within him, spreading like quick poison. He held onto the door frame for support, to stop the swoon, but couldn't even feel the rough wood, only the coldness of his blade seemed real to him.‘Too useful to me Feyde’ his eyes staring, cold, yet burning with the flames of Hell. ‘Not yet’, black thoughts becoming the murmur of half formed words, silver edged on a single dark breath. "Not yet" The rush passed. He moved back out of the room, his body so attuned to stealth that only the air was disturbed. The band of weak light across the floor thinned then disappeared altogether with the closing of the door.Now the only light in the room came from the stars through the half shuttered window and even that was partially blocked by the figure perched on the ledge. Observant to all that had passed in the small room, contemplating the quiet words he had heard issue from the mouth of Death, Feyde sat, deep within his own shadowy thoughts.
Copyright 2000 R.S. Barnes & A.J. Warner
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Silent killer all that glitters
Guttering torches cast eerie shadows that dance along the wet, slimy walls of the long forgotten catacombs. Water lies stagnant and still, pooling where the age old floor has fallen and worn away. Ahead in the dark, reflections glitter gold and silver, shimmering as the torch flames flicker closer.
As the tomb robbers approach, a glistening film retracts into the dark, leaving only a thin sticky film over the scattered coins, bits of armour and other debris that lies scattered among the moist dirt of the passage floor. Eager hands grab and claw at unguarded treasure, turning up old belt buckles, bits of tough leather and the odd half decayed old shoe among the coins. A glistening gossamer slurry descends the walls and forms into a quivering mass, silently enveloping the would be robbers, who realise, too late, All that glitters is not gold
A scream as burning pain sears bare hands and faces, cries of anguish as movement is curtailed, gelatinous slime oozing around legs and bodies, eating into cloth and leather. Desperate frenzy of movement, fight, fight, slash, flail.... the cold grip of Death veiled in the glistening guise of a silent, mindless killer.
A hiss and sputter as bright fire shoots pockmarks and boiling hollows into the enshrouding mass, causing it to recoil, at least in places. A breath of air roars into bursting lungs as the slimy tendrils retreat from the heat of flaming torches. With great effort, bodies pull free from the cloying gel, pain still searing their skins. Compatriots they ignored in the rush for wealth pull them clear of the massive slime now coalescing into a huge uneven blob with writhing fluid tentacles, pulsing with violent colour and shooting acid coated tentacles like whips into the fray.
Wielding torches like swords in battle, the group retreat up the strangely worn steps into a large room, their mindless foe slurping and slipping after them with strange sounds, still pulsing vibrant threats of rage tinted colour, leaving an acid coated trail smoldering in its wake. Victims are washed clean, with water, wine, holy water, washed in the putrid pools, anything to stop the acid rot, their screams still echoing in the dark, haunting the many passages like woeful souls.
Copyright Andy Warner 2004
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Boom Pearlman stood in the shadows of Curio Court, welcome relief from the hot sun that brought the smells up from below streets. You could even smell the sea, when the wind blew from Dockside. He was beginning to loose patience with the beggar sat trying vainly to polish his black leather boots with an old bit of rag.
"Enough, boot boy, Your rag is cleaner now than before, and my boots stained with gods know what!" It was then that Boom noticed the rag was really rather plush. Red satin braided with gold under all that grime and festering filth. And a badge there too, in gold thread. He snatched it from the gnarled hands of the beggar, who seemed not to care.
A quick wash in the slop bucket and, yes, he could see now. An embroidered gold badge of office, or something similar. The crest of the house of Karu Gan, late of Dalhaven, now of Solis?. And how come an old beggar had this, worth a few coin just for the gold, and possibly more to the right person for the knowledge it contained.
Pearlman followed after the beggar, down by the Grey Lady Arch and into the Dive beyond. A twist and a turn later, the beggar was gone. No trace, not even on the wind. Pearlman cursed.
"To the Hells with you, stench bringer, damn you to....." it dawned on him "to the sewers!."
Within moments Boom Pearlman was standing at the entrance to a dark and fetid cut, half hidden by dilapidated buildings and rotting garbage. Half hidden, but most definately an entrance to the ways below streets. A pair of beady eyes watched as Pearlman carefully made his way into the dank and the dark. The place of beggars and thieves. The den of the outcast and the rogue, the places where the Rats Run.
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"The trouble with Galen Bar" Malice started, "is that he has lost his fear." He stared at Trivitt Blain, collections officer for the prosperous Moneybelt district that bordered what passed as high town in this accursed city.
"No fear, no payment. Isn't that right, Blain?"
Blain said not a word, but his scheming mind was working overtime, and sweat beaded his brow.
"Well, lads," continued Malice, " I happen to have here a rather useful map at my disposal, showing our good friend Galens home and castle, over on Cash Street." He motioned to three of the better housebreakers sat in the meeting room. "Go make good the discrepancy, lads. The vault is marked, and we seem to have a way in too, if Blains quill-boy is to be believed". Another knowing stare at the now downbeat Blain.
Javis Gan took the map from Malice with a smirk. He knew the way to play this one, he had done Malices' bidding oft before. Just had to find another horses head before tonight, nice and fresh, maybe one eye gouged out and left staring from the piles of coin and notes of promise. They would have no more trouble with Galen Bar after tonight.
Now all is not what it seems at the house of Galen Bar, and Trivitt Blain knows it all too well. No horses head left in the money pile would make Galen regain his fear of the Guild. No intimidation or threats, no suggestions of deeds most horrid, no nothing. For Galen Bar is no more a money lender and extortioner. He is simply dead. And has been for a few weeks now. And if you were to look real close at Trivitt Blain, you might notice a bit more jewelry on his fat little fingers than usual, a new cut to his cloth or a few more coin in his pouch. For Trivitt Blain has had Galen Bar killed, and now he fears for his own life, for no one outwits black hearted Malice, heir apparent to the dark throne of Underground Solis.
The map is more or less accurate. Alas there is a big pile of logs stacked over the trap door in the outhouse, and shifting it is out of the question. So another way in is needed, horses head and all. Take a look around and about. The buildings nearby provide ample vantage points and can be climbed easily with rope and grapple. The gaps between buildings are small enough to jump (well, just about) and from the higher roof near by, a small skylight can be seen in the rear of the tower where it joins the main roof. With no map of the upper floor, the footpads will have to be extra vigilant as they make their way to the vault. The place now houses a couple of Blains boys who are not Guild members, and the rest of Galens family are locked in the cellar below the kitchen (not marked on the map). Picking the vault lock should be tricky but not impossible - play up the situation, make the sweat drip! Once inside, the horse head can be left staring from the money pile. Now Malice didn't say to take anything, did he? But he didn't say not too either! Get my drift, Nightboys?
Can Trivitt get away with this one? how long before Malice finds out? Will it matter to him anyway? If Trivitt pays the dues, Malice might let him continue his new career. We will just have to wait and see now, wont we.....
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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A body, all wrapped up in a cocoon of rich cloth, like some ancient funeral smock, bedecked with signs and sigils. Funny place to find it, caught up behind the valve of a sewer gate down on dockside, smelling worse than the fetid mud and slime that made every footstep risky....
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Kurly Burr looked around for something a little more substantial to scibe onto this time. His last masterpiece had fallen apart in the hands of an apprentice housebreaker deep within the maze of tunnels under the old Bastion. It took them three days to find him down there, and by that time he wasn't best pleased, and for some reason didn't seem to care much about substandard papermakers, rough rag and high acid contents. Burr rubbed the still tender lump under his thick black hair, now grey flecked, that gave him his nickname.
He carefully unwrapped another package of expensive, imported (and somewhat stolen) high quality paper from Dal Haven. A cursory inspection told him this paper was no better than the rest. Not waterproof, and too light, it would never do for this particular map. Sitting and pondering, he started to doodle on the corner of the discarded wrap, but the ink in his quill didnt take, it just puddled up in tiny inky balls. Chasing them with the fine nib, they wandered across the waxy surface and it occured to him that the wrapping might be more use than the contents it was protecting.
A quick check and yes! the other side of the heavy paper was not waxed and took the ink perfectly! Setting his small half glasses on his nose he dipped the quill in squid ink and, working quickly but accurately, Burr the cartographer started on his latest assignment - the description and mapping of an old Thieves den in the heart of South Well Place, just off the main Dock road by the Bonded Warehouses. He chuckled as he noticed the repeated pattern printed on the paper, a merchants seal and the words 'Bonded Warehouse 0275' - a building he knew stood right above the catacombes he was even now colouring with titanium white and a bit of yellow ochre.
A sketch of South Well Place that will be Burrs next project.....
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"There's nowt yer but barrels, like he said Cap'n. An' all wi' the bonding masters sign on 'em, right proper." The guards just stood there, looking at the Captain, mindless now that the trail was cold.
'Not a brain between them' he thought as he pondered the situation. He had seen the pilfering little sneak go into the tavern. He had most definately not seen him leave, and he wasn't here now. Well, unless he hid better than a rat in drainpipe, that is.
"Rat in a drain pipe" tapping his lip now, mind linking the pieces of this jigsaw. " Search again boys, and then again. Go through this place inch by inch. Take up floor boards if you need to, but find that petty little thief. Find him and I double your pay tonight."
Blagg the barman watched nervously, the last thing he wanted was some petty guard captain using the tavern as a step stone to promotion. He could risk them finding the hidden cellar, many places had hidies and the such, but it was not to his liking. "I got another cellar, captain, afore yer lads go tearin' my liveli'ood t' ruin" he motioned up the steps "up 'ere, I keeps it fer me special bits, like."
And so he showed the guard over to the hidey, and protested much when they insisted on watching him open it up. "Not much use now as a hidey" he muttered, as the last guard disappeared into the darkness. Still, the Stone foundations that supported this canal cursed city held many secrets, a few more bleached bones wouldn't make much difference. He grimaced as he heard the first stifled yell from below, and pushed the well concealed trapdoor firmly back into place. He slid the bolt as the first fists beat at it in frenzied terror. He laid the carpet back down - that helped dull the noise - and soon the yells died down, soon there was silence.
Blagg hoped the guards wouldn't be missed, not least until his story was straight, anyway. "Guards? what, here? No sir, they wouldn't be drinkin' in a dive like this now would they, Sir? Not that I wouldn't want the coin an' all, Sir, but your boys, they got standards don't they, Sir?".......
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"So that's your task, boys. Pure and simple, bring me the Book of Names." It had taken Malice some time to locate the old Book of Names. Until earlier in the week, he didn't really believe it existed, now he not only knew it did, but where it was located. Rennago was a collector, of the odd, the esoteric, the exotic, and of course the ancient. How he came to own the book was unimportant. How he would be relieved of it was the uppermost thought in the machinating mind of Malice.
Javis Gan was having a good month. A recent mission at the house of Galen Bar had brought him to the attention of Malice. Unmasking Trivitt Blain as an embezzler and swindler has further promoted him in the eyes of dark Malice, and now he was reaping the rewards. He took the depiction of Rennagos house from Malice without a word. No map this time, not that the last one had been any help. Javis Gan liked to work on the edge, rely on his wits, live dangerous.
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The clunk of the lock mechanism yielding to a professional touch and slight groan of rusted hinges sounded as thunder in the ears of Strat, the foremost spy in the city of Solis.
Dark as it was in the shadow haunted stairwell that led from Black Court down into the bowels of Curio, Strat felt strangely visible. He never liked visiting Curio in the day, let alone at night. In the day he could at least melt into the crowds that thronged the place, haggling over pennies for curios from distant lands or rooting through crates of oddments, dusk laden and dirty. But at night, Curio Court was empty. Dead. Silent. Only the shadows and his own guile could protect him from watchful eyes.
"Ideal for a spy, Strat! No-one to disturb you eh? No-one to dump you in the briny!" He was talking to himself again, never a good sign. More squealings and groanings from the old hinges were soon pacified by the application of Strats specially prepared mineral oil. A few seconds later and the shadows at the bottom of the steps under Black Arch were home to more than just rats.
Peering from the dark into the gloom that was Curio Court, sunk deep into the city like some dark well whose sheer sides were a multitude of dwellings, shop fronts, workshops and residences, Strat watched, and waited. And waited some more, as there were more than the eyes of rats to avoid, for Curio Court was a strange place and no mistake.
Far too late for the Watch now, Strats heart beat faster. He could hardly contain himself. Then it started. The strange, sonorous voice he had heard a few nights previously, floating on the night breeze. It transfixed him now as it had then, he could hardly move. Slowly, he regained his composure, breathed again and peered into the dark.
The beauty of the enchantment wound itself around him, caressed his cheek, filled his very heart and mind, drawing him into the Court, into the open. Caring not for hidden watchers, Strat stepped out of his hidey, darkness falling away from him like a cloak discarded.
Strat froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide. There before him, wrapped up in her own sweet song, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She moved slowly, swaying in time to her own music, her face hidden from him. Around the well she went, carefree and winsome, and very, very naked. And as she sat on the well edge, her toes making circles in the cold, clear water she turned to see the unwanted guest. Her singing stopped of a sudden, her face a visage of alarm. A heartbeat they stared eye to eye, a heartbeat that would haunt Strat the rest of his life. For a heartbeat later, she was gone. Simply gone. No more of her remained than a song in the memory of Strat the Spy and a ripple on the water in an old, old well.
And from a window in the Grey Lady Inn, hidden in the shadow of the vines, an old man watched with tired eyes. He managed a thin smile as he watched Strat steel into the night, wiped a tear from his time worn cheek and sighed a longing sigh that faded into the dark.
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At Night, in Curio Court.
Heavy, laboured footsteps on the wooden walkway sent a shower of debris to the alley floor 20 or so feet below. Feyde Jen Jorhan stoped to catch his breath, clutching the sodden handrail and breathing out a dragons breath into the cold night air. A deep breath, and off again, quietly this time, careful footsteps on the slippery woodwork that could easy send the unwary to a hard landing in the dimness of Kanker below. The dark cloak of night did its best to hide him, but as heavy clouds parted momentarily, a half moon left him caught in its eery light, silhouetted against a backdrop of roofs and chimneys, easy pickings.
'There lads! theres the bastard!' they cry went up and chase was given. Fleeting thoughts of turn and fight were quickly dismissed at the bright flash and whizz of lead in the air around Feyde. The thunder peel report caught up with him as he jumped to the nearest flat roof, landed at a run and vaulted a low parapet to another roof below. The sound of so many on the walkway behind him and the thought of their weaponry gave him an extra boost as he clambered down an old drainpipe to the safety of the shadows and alleyways that wound about the warren that was Kanker Court.
The sound of splintering wood and creaking pilings could herald only one eventuality, the chase was about to descend to the floor the quick way. Taking a moment to orient himself in the confines of Kanker, Feyde set off into the dark of a nearby alley. Shouting and commotion behind was opening doors and windows, and the eyes of Kanker were peering into every nook and crany. Feyde flattened himself against a wall below an old brick overhang, one with the shadows. Slowly, as a shadow himself, he made his way deeper into the maze. Left, right, right, up the narrow steps behind an old warehouse, hold, watch, listen, gods even breath a bit. Feyde was not happy. Kanker was a bad place to get lost in, too many cuts and lanes, too many steps and arches that all look the same.
'Damn my stupidity' he risked the words under his breath, as he heard the soft steps of wary persuers now caught in a game of cat and mouse, his hand moving to the place his rapier hilt should be. 'Damn your stupidity Feyde Jen Jorhan' thought this time, not said. The ruddy light of a guttering torch lapped into the dark that held him, reflected momentarily off some exposed trinket still dangling from his pocket and the cry went up.
Like a pack of dogs the bravados charged in tumolt into the narrow alley, crowding and snarling at the base of a wall as Feyde just managed to fling himself over its top. Cat and mouse? no, he thought as he regainded his feet, cat and dog! Another climb up risked a shot from unseen muskets below, but it was up, or be caught. Old plaster fell away from the wall in chunks as He just managed to gain the roof above, another climb, reach out and stretch and he has on a flat roof again, high above the floor below. It was not raining, but the sea mist was sending tendrils creeping into the heart of Old Solis, making everything wet and treacherous. Below he could see the Dogs gatherings, pulling new pack members from hitherto un-noticed places, could see the glow of torches and lanterns iluminating the mist making it an eery sight.
Grim faces were illuminated in an instant of powder fire, a volley of shot screamed in the heavy air. Feyde dived for the uncertainty of the a walkway below, hoping it would hold his weight on impact. Luck was with him, at least for now. At a pace too fast for safety he charged along the boards, jumping the gaps and rotten bits, slipping where wood was sodden and mildewed, snagging his cloak on rusty nails and jutting timbers. Down some steps, slamming into another walkway as they gave way under his weight.
Torches in procession danced behind him in a many pronged attack, some up above, most down below.
Breathing hard and fast he rounded a corner at speed. The walkway ended. No rail, no handhold. No sound either, just the wind as he carreered downward toward the uncertainty below. With a crack and splintering Feyde hit the ground. But he did not stop, as rubbish engulfed him, covering his track he did not stop. His mind raced as he continued to tumble, and he felt something crack as he hit solidity. But still he did not stop, over and over, smack into a wall, crash off a ledge, the wind driven out of him and the sense knocked out of him, disorientation and more falling until at last he lay crumpled and broken in the cold, silent darkness that could become his grave.
extract from Fight or Flight
copyright 2001 Andy Warner
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
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Grief showed itself in the face of Chenyaya. In the way she stood, in the way she stared, in everything that she had become. For so long she had searched for a missing part of her life. In those times she had felt empty and alone. Then Solis loomed in her path, dark, evil Solis. Perhaps it seeks out those who are lost. Those who are seeking something they cannot describe. They are destined to end up here in its twisted streets, ever to search a maze more tortuous than any devised by man, for a prize that does not exist. But Solis gave her hope. All around were the dross of Humanity, the downtrodden, the lost, the hopeless. And here, she was, above them, better than them, destined for more than they could ever hope for.
But time went on and still Chenyaya felt empty, alone. Even among the throng of human detritus that crowded about her she could not grasp that missing piece, that something else. Until the day she met him. Oh how the Fates are cruel and whimsical. For too short a time she knew what she was missing. Love, yes, but more than that. Companionship, a bond, an empathy a tie so close they could almost be one. And now she knew a fate more cruel than death. She knew grief. A grief that can never be wiped away, that knifes to the deepest core with a blade of ice and fire. A grief that she could never imagine in her life Before. Some say it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all. Chenyaya knows different.
But there is a relative of grief, close as a brother, but grim as Death, and its name is Revenge. Rue the day, Solis, that Chenyaya takes up the Mask. Wish you were elsewhere, wish you were gone, wish even that you were dead before now. Grief is a hunger that can never be quelled. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
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Walking the jetties and quays of South Dock alone, at night is akin to walking the plank - not a good idea at the best of times. But Foyle had no choice tonight. Down under the shadow of the Spur, where the Scar Bridge loomed above the dark water, was moored the Sea Dirge. A small, battered and decidedly unshipshape craft from Thanat, to the North. And on the Dirge, Foyle would find his sometime benefactor and patron waiting his audience.
Foyle had never liked working for the petty Thanat lordling who considered the world owed him a better living. But this subterfuge paid for board and lodging all around the Hinterlands, and so long as Foyle was useful, he would be paid. He knew that. So down to South Dock he would go, like it or not, without even a half moon to light the way.
"Lost, are we matey?" came a voice from the darkness that quickly formed into a bunch of ill smelling rough spoken sea-dogs. "Coz if thats the case, landboy, we'll take yer in!". The gang were spreading out now, all gold teeth and trinkets, cudgels in hand and mean looks in the eye. It didn't look good for Foyle at all.
With a lightning move, cold iron danced and was coloured crimson within an instant. One dog crumpled to the slick cobbles in a silent daze, another spun clutching his head with a wail and a curse as blood spattered the jerkin of the third. Another deft feint brought the fourth within easy reach. Foyle picked his spot. And then there was one. Foyle regarded him with disinterest.
"My thanks, friend, but I am not lost" he said coolly, wiping the remains of the fracas from his thin blade. "And if it is of no bother to you, I shall be on my way". His sword hissed as it entered its scabbard.
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Even the most persistent of the moons searching rays could not penetrate the depths of Black Court. Deep in the heart of twisted Solis, where the day is enemy to many, and the night friend only to some, Malice moved with practiced ease, like an inky shadow across the contours of the street.
'Come to meet someone, Malice? come to kill someone?' the voice halted him in his tracks.
'Was I here on business, Scarrow, you would either be ignorant of that business, or its subject.'
'This is my patch, Malice, I know everything that goes on here. Its my job to know everything.'
'and to report everything to me Scarrow, before I find things out for myself..' Malice stared into Scarrows eyes. Oh how they reminded him of himself, a few years ago, trying to get the upper hand of his superiors, testing, pushing, just so far, finding the limits.
'You have found my limits, Scarrow.' he whispered as he turned and stalked off into the cloak of a nameless sidestreet shadow.
A look of perplexion crossed Scarrows face, momentarily illuminated by a brief break in the clouds. An instant more and he understood. He had watched treacherous Malice rise to power, at first in awe, then with envy. Scarrow decided his opening move was not one of his best. He considered the knife in his belt, considered his opponent, considered his odds. Long ones, and chance was not his best game.
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To the Underdeeps
Haunt of the Perytons
Deep in the heart of the Old Wood, where the river runs slow and dark, there is a place forgotten. And if ever you should tread the moss grown paths and long lost tracks to its eerie courtyard, remember well the warnings you heard.
Dwelt there an age ago, a twisted mind, a soul sold to Dark Devices and caught up by the Magic of Night. Wrought there, an age ago, torment and suffering for the persuit of selfish desire whose bounds knew no limits. Tormented there, an age ago, abominations crafted with hideous incantations offered up to Dream Spawned Terrors. Doomed there, an age ago, the follower grown too sure of his own ability.
That misery tower, where once a twisted mage worked his strange incantations, holds many secrets. Many arcane experiments went on in its seclusion, hidden from an untrusting world. Calling forth Dark powers with binding rituals, the mage channeled magical spirits of the Underworld to his work. Twisting nature was his game, forging blood and sinue with bark and root, forcing hoof and beak to meld as one, grafting wing with claw, fang to feather, brain and brawn. But the perils of Dark worship are many, and the Rituals hard to master. And in his self importance, the mage became lax, and his incantations became flawed, binding the Powers he tapped with bonds no longer strong and sure.
His terrible cries were lost in the twisted wilderness that shrouded his lonely laboratory, heard by no living soul and headed not by those others that lurked in the dark and gloom he had created.
And now? When you hear the wail of the banshee in the dark wood, do not tarry! For the hauntings and apparitions are the fruits of a mad mans labours, and they are as twisted as the mind that concieved of them, and as dark as the powers that made them.
The woods and delves around the tower are home to strange unearthly crossbreads. Owlbears stalk the woods where Dark Trees cast their shadows, Leucrotta hunt Catoblepas in small packs, DarkenBeasts scurry and flit in the gloom, preying on the unwary. And in the old ruins of the tower itself live a group of Perytons, dark, brooding and dangerous.
So when you hear some ungodly screech or otherworldly roar, check your weapons, double your guard and, with haste, retrace your steps to safety.
Winner of the Legendgames / Valkyrie map competition.
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
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