Ontor nodded and was gone. Moments later she saw him appear at the other window. Jordyar once more laid the poker on Gaval, this time applying it to his chest. Naphrax watched with stoic attention. Fully occupied by Gaval's shrieking and squirming, neither man noticed Ontor's acrobatic contortions as he fit himself, legs first, through the tiny window. He dropped to the floor with a muffled thud that at last turned their heads, but only in time to see him draw his knife and slash open the ropes binding Rieslan. Then he bounded up to grab the holy symbol from the rafter, tossed it to the priest, and threw his knife at Naphrax. The spellcaster only barely managed to duck out of the way, yet the blade succeeded in interrupting his gesticulations and spoiling whatever spell he meant to cast.

It's Labor Day here in the States, which means that all the goblin-wranglers and libromancers at Paizo are taking a well-deserved day off. To hold you over until the next blog post, here's the unadulterated cover illustration for Robin Laws' new Pathfinder Tales novel, Blood of the City--a story revolving around Luma, an urban druid, and her family of high-end mercenaries in Magnimar.

The trim, white-haired man responded with seasoned stillness to Luma's knee and sickle. His foreign-accented voice purred soothingly, with a hint of disarming irony. "Who am I and why I am I following you? I might equally ask whose blade caresses my jugular."

Warming to the subject, the dwarf puffed out his chest and paced the room, gesticulating with the axe. "Oh, what that cost us! We fought giants, demons, mind-eaters. Upon entering the Demonsweald's innermost crypt, the best of us all, Corin the Bright, was beheaded by a trap. Which Aruhal thereupon disarmed." Jordyar stomped into the hallway, then returned, holding aloft the strange doorknocker that had tweaked Luma's curiosity on her way in. "This! This is the flying ring that sliced through Corin's neck. I can't believe that he would take that and display it on his door, as if mocking the memory--" A frustrated groan caught in Jordyar's throat. He backhanded the ring away; it lodged, quivering, in the wooden lintel of the sitting room's doorway. A fresh flush of crimson rose through his face. "So yes, Aruhal owes me. This treasure, we had a deal to sell it for a wagonload of gold. Enough to forever conclude my grubbing and sweating, sleeping in cold crypts with the doors spiked shut, fighting for rest as ghouls and bloodsuckers scratch at the sill. To retire for good and all, on the one great score every looter dreams of. That is the life Jordyar deserved. The life that Aruhal plucked from my grasp!"

Luma sank further into her characteristic shoulder-slump. Though older than Iskola, she looked younger. She owed her callow appearance, at least in part, to the elven blood which her five siblings, children of her father and stepmother, did not share. Together, her lithe frame, wide eyes, and boyish figure conspired to hang about her neck an unshakable air of adolescence. Her siblings, who were also her teammates, had learned--or perhaps been taught, by her unkempt red hair, her shrinking posture, her downcast gaze--to treat her not as a woman, but as the runt of the litter. It was her own damn fault, but that realization had so far not helped her one whit in altering the way they regarded her.

In Blood of the City, Luma Derexhi is a cobblestone druid, a spellcaster who fights alongside her siblings as Magnimar's most infamous and wealthy mercenary company. Yet despite being the oldest child, Luma gets little respect—perhaps due to her half-elven heritage. When a job gone wrong lands Luma in the fearsome prison called the Hells, everything she knows to be true begins to fall apart, leaving her to unravel a bloody web of lies and politics if she wants to survive...