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The Cage, The City of Doors, The Laugh, The Center of the Planes, the city had as many names as there were tongues and then some, but all who knew her, knew her by Sigil. Older than the memories of the wisest Sages, more enigmatic than the most secretive Yugoloth, as open as the smile of a Celestial and closed tighter than Baatezu contract. A City of paradoxes upon paradoxes, a city that connected to all planes and yet was not truly part of any one; where creatures of every walk and affinity walked the streets in a forced toleration of each other. That's not to say that Sigil was peaceful, Powers no! Crime was as common there as it was in any place where creatures and creeds clashed. But Our Lady kept it from ever experiencing open warfare upon its streets. The Lady of Pain's silent procession through those streets kept us all in mind of what could happen if you caused too much ruckus. Didn't stop some from trying, but those disappearances and flayed forms left upon the streets always reminded us.
This is a story of Sigil, not necessarily of the greatest of its heroes and villains; but instead of a few of its mere, but able, inhabitants. Some started as clueless Primes, wandering in from some backwash material plane; some were canny Planars who already knew a few darks about the Great Wheel. This is not a story of their destiny to reach greatness, this is not a story of their fall to the greatest of evils; this is a story of Sigil, the same story that it tells everyday, the story of lives, of deaths, of hopes realized, of dreams crushed…
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The Great Bazaar. Flanked by Bizarre (That’s right, Bizarre) Boulevard to the downward and Revel Street spireward, it is perhaps one of the busiest places on the planes outside of a Formian hive. It was said that if it could be bought upon the planes, the Great Bazaar had it somewhere. While some of the more nefarious trade-goods required the right nod and wink to find, that vast majority of peddlers were more than happy to scream their wares at the top of their lungs in the hope of getting a piece of the flow of jink running through the streets.
On one corner of the Bazaar, just past Swan’s Way and on the edge of Risvold Street, sat a small establishment that acted in part as a soup kitchen for the Sigil’s massive homeless population and a simple chapel to Meriadar, the mongrel god of patience and crafts. Its proprietor, one hobgoblin named Father Dar’Buuk Atcha, called the place The Blessed Bowl. As long as one was willing to share a bench with some misplaced Hivers and deal with the occasional rants from Father Atcha’s dwarfvish cook, The Blessed Bowl was willing to share a meal and give a quiet reprieve from the flurry of color and sound just outside its doors.
” The Blessed Bowl soup kitchen and mission welcomes all volunteers, and any Cager who finds itself in need of alms. We offer soup at the door, and limited bedding for a night to call kip. The Hand of Peace is patient, and he knows that the road to recovery and greatness is a long one. Take the first step at the corner of Swan and Risvold! Come if you wish for help, come if you wish to help!”
Father Atcha himself, wrapped in a patchwork cassock, stood at the door’s entrance ringing upon a singing bowl and smiling widely to all passersby. Some might come in for a meal, some might throw a few greens into the bowl, some loitered about keeping an ear out for the latest gossip…
Nearly a block away from The Blessed Bowl, a large pile of refuse begins to stir. In moments the pile of garbage loses form and out from it rolls a very dirty goblin. He's dressed in wooden armor, with an oversized backpack on his back.
In a moment of panic, this goblin feels his head and begins to look intently around the junk pile. After a few seconds, the goblin dives back into the filth heap. In a few moments, a sound of jubilation erupts from the garbage pile, along with the goblin smiling, holding a strange mirror cap.
The goblin smiling, put the odd hat on his bulbous head.
Scratching himself, the goblin looks around to see where last night had brought him.
Quickly checking his possessions, the goblin begins to walk toward the familiar voice of Father Atcha down the way. As he walks, the goblin continues to scratch himself and belch any remaining air from his gullet. Upon arrival at The Blessed Bowl, the goblin greets Father Atcha in their racial language.
The goblin pulls two silver from a pocket and plunks them into the hobgoblin's singing bowl.
Gath rises early and takes to the streets.
Living with his parents was a great blessing on those occasions when he found himself short on coin, or just didn't feel like spending it on inns, but the danger of a chance encounter with Briana was one he sought to minimize. Sure, there was a part of him that desperately longed for another glimpse of her kind eyes and beautiful face, framed by her long golden-blonde hair--another chance to hear her eloquent words flow out in her soft melodic voice--but the pain of being so close to her and knowing that he would never be as close as he would like was too much to bear. So, he rose before she did and left to wander the Cage looking for... anything to distract himself. Some days he found places to explore, some he ended up at the Hall of the Sensates, and sometimes he found paying work. The one thing everyday lately had in common was that he started them at the Blessed Bowl. He really didn't care much for most of the clientele--drunks and folk too lazy to work most of them--but helping Father Atcha serve people seemed a good thing to do. It didn't hurt, either, that from time to time solid leads on suitable distractions might be overheard.
Dressed in a well-worn, but well-maintained, chainshirt and a cloak that conceals most of the boney plates and protrusions that mottle his blue-tinged skin, the large tiefling nods to Father Atcha as he enters. Unaware of (or unconcerned about) how strange and off-putting it is, he leaves his heavy greatsword strapped to his back as he takes what has become his usual spot spooning soup into bowls. He does not smile, but he nods dutifully to anyone that smiles or expresses gratitude to him.
Once the initial rush dies down he hands off his laddle to another volunteer and sits down with a bowl of his own. He makes no effort to strike up a conversation with anyone but he listens closely to as many conversations as he can hear and understand.
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Gardel grew tired of couch surfing.
Every night a new home, depending on the haunt from that night. A Beholder's tavern, a Fey hole in the ground, a Bleaker beat night. He did alright. Dolores tended to hate him; she was a particularly moody llama and always judged him for his choices. The shrubbery at this house did not taste good enough; the windows at this apartment were too high. The stable-mates taunted her. She never actually spoke, but that was besides the point. Gardel Cottonfoot knew. He'd always known. Dolores always spoke to him in the darkest of times.
And made things worse, mostly.
This morning, Gardel was quick to sneak out of the hive of Thri-kreen who were particularly enraptured by his lute (less so his voice) and finds himself, conveniently, near the Bazaar, off Bizarre. He needs a warm meal to get his fingers flexing. Looking about to make sure the Lady of Pain isn't floating around, he has to make sure he isn't going to get in the middle of a interplanar gank. After all, this foot kitchen has business with the god of arts and crafts. Can't be far enough away from shrines in a place like this.
There were half a million places he could go to work right now, but after last night, with that one Thri-kreen eyeing him like he was the most delectable morsel this side of Athas (and not in a food way) he wanted nothing to do with that kind of stuff. He wanted a moment for himself. Not a place to call kip, or whatever that was, but... something more simple.
"Come on, Dolores, stop lookin' like your gonna start bobbin' every garden and vegetable stall. Swear to a Power, Dolores." She was more interested in eating those peppers at that Aasimar's vegetable stand, but he had other ideas.
He just wanted to sit down, have a bite, and not have to think about where he'd be calling kip tonight. Only one of these things would be happening, at this rate.
Kaj walked briskly through the Bazaar. Although he was intent on his destination, his eyes still darted back and forth, observing all those around him. He noticed which merchants seemed to recognize him – and if any of those tried to hide any, quite likely illegal, wares as he passed.
The githzerai also scanned the crowds for pickpockets and thieves. However, he did this more out of habit and practice than any real desire to catch anyone in the act. The Harmonium guards should be marching through soon. Even if they were too dense to be useful investigating complicated crimes, at least their presence could diminish the petty crimes.
Lastly, he also looked for those who carried maces and warhammers rather than the more traditional swords and other blades. Kaj knew it was fruitless, but he needed to look – he needed to search, especially while walking through suck crowds.
He had no other solid leads on the Bazaar Bludgeoner, as the murderer had come to be called. Kaj had tried to investigate the murders earlier, but found little support from the other Mercykillers, and certainly nothing useful from the Harmonium. It wasn’t until a close relative of a mid-ranking Guvner was killed that the investigation became any sort of priority. Kaj had followed several potential leads, but had come up empty.
Now, he was trying one of his back up plans. His contacts rarely had useful information, and if he was having to rely on them, then the case must have gone remarkably cold. Enough Hivers and other lost passed through the Blessed Bowl that hopefully someone had seen something. Kaj doubted he would get anything useful today, but alerting Father Atcha to keep his eyes and ears open might lead to something days from now. Or it might lead to nothing. But it cost only a bit to try.
As Kaj approached the Blessed Bowl, he slowed his pace and tried to blend in more. He pulled his jacket closed to cover his fine, perfectly pressed shirt and vest. Even with his “commoner’s coat” as he called it, it was hard to look too downtrodden and poor. But Kaj tried nonetheless.
Approaching Father Atcha, Kaj reaches out to shake the hobgoblin’s hand, ”Greetings, Father. How is the soup today?”
The interior of the Blessed Bowl was as simple as its meager budget; plain whitewashed walls, a couple of long unvarnished tables and benches where the unwashed masses ate their meals, and a small fire that did duel duty warming the patrons and the soup. Nainla, a female dwarf, or at least a dwarf who wore lipstick and braided their hair into pigtails, managed the pot and kept the flow of traffic going. A bowl of soup, a crust of bread, and a tin cup of coffee, payments were welcomed but not expected.
Father Atcha smoothed out his muttonchops and smiled as a few of his better off clientele walked in from out of the street. He gave Gribblix a fatherly pat on the head.
As the massive tiefling wanders in, the hobgoblin warmly patting him on the back and motioned him in.
"Ah, Gath, good to see you! Nainla will be happy for your assistance, be sure to help yourself to a bowl when your shift is over. A big lad like you needs to have plenty of protein."
The halfling and his half-wit llama wandering close by attracted Dar'Buuk's attention, the middle aged hobgoblin beckoning them over. "Come now, come now, better ways to getting a free meal than stealing produce and having to pay the music later. I'm sure we have some spare hay and perhaps a carrot for your fuzzy friend there."
His attention was pulled away again when the immaculate Githzerai approached. Taking the limbo-native's hand in paw, Dar'buuk gave it a firm and friendly shake. "Good to see you Zah'Kajin," Father Atcha always spoke the Githzerai's name in full as something of a nicety since so few people knew how to properly pronouce his own name. "Ah, Nainla has a nice thick pottage today, lentils and chicken I believe, though we might be a bit light on the chicken. Something to stick to the ribs though, eh?"
Most of the vagrants that filled the Blessed Bowl were focused on their nourishment, but where you have more than one body, gossip and rumor arises. A strong undercurrent of conversation involved the so-called Bazaar Bludgeoner, the last of his victims was apparently some Signer big league barrister but the Bludgeoner's victims have been from all social classes. Others spoke of the recent odd happenings around the Modron March starting far far too early, apparently Father Atcha was there for it but he's kept mum about it. In one corner of the room a barmy mumbled nonesense that took on rainbow hues and floated around his head, "" the Truth me? The know but let anyone don't know of is this is the but gods anyone day, the I cheese Lady, to listen else! does delicious. greenest so Tuesday or By?"
Zagathoth's keen perceptions could hear the conspiratorial whispers of a pair of hunched fensir, Ysgardian trolls as some call them. "So I hears this man, brother, I hears this man talk'n screed 'bout a gate to one o' da Lady's mazes. Says it's got some old Factol in dere, holed up wit his prize sword what got him Mazed in the first place for."
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Pulling on her reins, Cottonfoot attempts to do his damndest to bring Dolores onward but instead only meets resistance. It doesn't take long for others to notice this, and with the words he's already said, it sounds like he's halfway to thieving and that Dolores is already a guilty party. Go figure.
As soon as he mentions a carrot and hay, the llama stops resisting and begins to follow the Hobgoblin. "Oh, that is just like you, lovin' on the orangey just 'cuz he said something about food. You old heifer." She honks at him, turning back with the glare she gives when she is prepared to spit, but already the Hobgoblin has turned his attention elsewhere, to one called Zah-Kajin. Or something.
He supposes the mention of lentils will be useful to going forward, and he walks not far from this Githzerai. "Nice of'em to put all this up, hm? I take it you're a regular berk 'round these parts?" As they head onward, get their bowls (and carrots) and he finds a place to tie Dolores up while she can munch on some intentionally loosened hay from the Outlands, he takes a seat and listens to the rumors, about the Bazaar Bludgeoner, about how that awful business stands. "Glad I don't play those crowds, but... this Bludgeoner seems t' get 'round, eh? Wonder if he's got twenty-three on the head."
The food is not bad, the congregation not so bad either. Well, for now. He munches, and listens, and makes small conversation. He is very small, after all.
Gribblix quickly gets in line for the soup, especially since it looks like a llama and his cart are right behind him.
Hmm. Is that a gnome, I see, thinks the goblin, as he hasn't had sweet gnome flesh in nearly a year. Yeech! it's just a halfling!
When the goblin receives his bowl of food, he finds a empty bench and begins tro gorge himself on it, finishing his meal in less than a minute, much to the dismay of those around him.
After licking his bowl, face and hands clean, Glibbix absentmindedly start making small scratches on the table with his claw, mapping out the rest of his day in his mind.
The goblin's attention is drawn to the fensir conversation. He makes adjustment's to his vigil cap to see the conversation as well, without making clean of his easedropping.
Gath looks disapprovingly down at the goblin defacing the table with its claw. "You ought not do that," he instructs, "if you ruin the table there won't be anywhere to sit and eat. It's not right."
Though he faces the little green man while he speaks, the tiefling watches the Ysgardian trolls out of the corner of his eye.
no sense asking them where this gate is, they wouldn't be whispering if they cared to share that information... I can trail them though. Hopefully they'll have a sense of urgency and I won't get stuck following them around on errands all day...
"The marks I make aren't too deep to ruin the table, but I'll stop", complies the goblin.
Continuing to make adjustment to his vigil cap, the goblin continues. "I've seen you here a few times, helping out in the soup line. Good on ya, mate. This is a fine building that serves a fine purpose; just what Sigil needs."
Wiping his hand on his bark armor, the goblin extends it to the tiefling.
"I'm Gribblix. City guide by trade, city tender by calling."
The large tiefling cocks an eyebrow at the goblin's shimmering hand and looks around a bit incredulously.
'he seems friendly enough...' he ponders, 'and I doubt he'd try anything foolish in here, especially knowing that the regulars and other volunteers all know me...
After a moment he cautiously reaches out and shakes the small green hand. "I'm Gath," he answers, "I serve soup, and explore places. And, I don't know that I've ever talked to a goblin before... tell me, Gribblix, are you male or female? I assume goblins have males and females, don't they?"