"Like these." Taurven touches the goggles that hang around his neck. "These cost me a lot of gold. A lot." Taurven tops off the glasses of those who need it. Including himself, though he is sipping slowly and savoring the wine. Swirling the wine in the glass, and smelling at it as much as drinking.
"I guess we should pawn the stuff and see how much gold we can get."
"Well I would suggest something to battle evil outsiders and Drow! Good-aligned weapons would be my first step, then protection and healing. I myself would like to see how much it would cost to have a temple or church place a blessing of goodness on my bow, and perhaps some sort of spell so I do not have to worry about ammunition."
"I have a spell that replicates arrows, so that's an easy one."
Taurven gets up, finishing his drink in a gulp. This place is really too nice. They need a tavern with just the right amount of seediness. A place where secretive types broker information.
Sigil might well hold the honor of being both the best- and worst-protected city in the multiverse. It has no walls or gates, so it has nothing to fear from sieges or any of the other threats that face a typical city. On the other hand, just about anybody or anything can walk right into the city whenever he, she, or it pleases through the portals that connect Sigil to other planes.
The portals aren’t specially marked or decked out as ornate gateways, but look like average doorways, windows, arches, fireplaces, and the like. That’s just what they are. Any bounded space big enough for somebody to walk or wriggle through—from a sewer entrance to a wardrobe—might double as a portal to another plane.
But a visitor to Sigil need not worry about opening his bedroom closet and accidentally tumbling through to the Abyss. Portals need a portal key to activate them—usually a specific object that has an affinity for what’s on the other side, but sometimes merely a word, a gesture, or the right state of mind. Without the correct key, a portal is just an open space. The city’s natives are more than happy to sell keys to specific portals, or at least sell the knowledge of a key’s nature.
Some portals don’t cooperate with the commercially minded, however. Many don’t linger long enough to become well known, and some don’t lead to the same place twice in a row. But since nobody knows how to make or control portals, little can be done to improve the situation. Furthermore, there’s no way around the portals, no special back door to get into or out of the Cage. You can’t call or summon creatures into or out of Sigil (even with a gate spell), nor can you use plane shift to get in or out. You also can’t use astral projection, although, strangely enough, the various teleportation spells work just fi ne within Sigil itself. Since the city resides on the Outer Planes, no connection to the Ethereal Plane exists. Even the deities themselves can’t (or don’t want to) overcome these restrictions.
No one knows how Sigil came into being. Some say it was built ten thousand years ago by a deposed duke of Hell. Others claim it was unconsciously created by an insane demigod while he dreamed in an extradimensional prison. Still others contend it was constructed from the leftover bits of the Outer Planes just after the time of creation. Inhabitants of the Cage don’t care about their city’s origin. Still, nearly everyone agrees with the following handful of historical facts.
In some distant past, Sigil was run by guilds—powerful organizations that kept order and peace—and the philosophy-based factions were nothing more than dozens of splintered groups that squabbled incessantly among themselves. Then, six or seven centuries ago by most accounts, came the Great Upheaval, when the Lady of Pain decreed that the fifty-plus warring factions would be cut down to a mere fifteen.
Despite this shock to the system, people agreed it was a good decision, because it ended countless feuds nearly overnight. Unfortunately for the guilds, it also meant the end of their power structure, as the factions quickly came to dominate local politics.
The stability proved short-lived. Soon enough, those fifteen factions started putting themselves on pedestals, each believing that its way was the right way, both for its members and for Sigil itself. The factions grew to believe they had a right to run the city. A few years ago, though, the political strife turned physical, and the streets ran with blood in the Faction War.
The Lady decided to start over again. As commandments go, it was a simple one, delivered to the leaders of each faction: “This city tolerates your faction no longer. Abandon it or die.”
Opinions varied as to what exactly the Lady meant by that, but everyone paid attention. Three of the factions simply disbanded, ceasing to exist. Six more moved out of town to other locations and kept preaching their beliefs to any who would listen. The other six remained in Sigil but gave up on anything resembling an organization. Whether those six were the bravest—deciding that the Lady meant “no factions” but not “no beliefs”—or the most foolhardy is open to question.
Sigil is divided into six regions, called wards. The wards aren’t official designations—no walls divide them from one another—but everyone knows the difference between one ward and the next, even if they don’t agree on exactly where that difference begins and ends. Still, it’s important for visitors to know what’s where, so they don’t wander where they aren’t wanted. In some locales that might earn them a warning, but in others it might get them a knife between the ribs.
Lower Ward: The Lower Ward is symbolic of the Cage as a whole. It gets its name from the large number of portals to the Lower Planes found here, through which a foul, sulfurous stench billows, filling the area. Still, it’s hard to avoid the Lower Ward, since the majority of the city’s craftsfolk live and work there, and the place is full of forges, mills, warehouses, and workshops.
The Lady’s Ward: Going counterclockwise around the ring of Sigil, the next stop is The Lady’s Ward (and yes, the locals emphasize the capitals on all three of those words). The Lady of Pain doesn’t actually live here, but rich citizens do, and most of Sigil’s temples lie within this ward. The Lady’s Ward has power, wealth, and majesty, and knows how to show it off.
Market Ward: In the Market Ward, everything is for sale. The wealth of Sigil might be concentrated in The Lady’s Ward, but it’s spent here, on goods, services, information, reputation, or anything else your heart desires. The best place to get it all is the Grand Bazaar, an immense plaza filled with shops, tents, and stalls offering wares from dozens of planes and strange worlds. As the old saying goes, if you can’t find it here, it probably doesn’t (or shouldn’t) exist. Prices can vary wildly, from dirt cheap (for merchants with an unexpected overstock) to many times the normal value (for goods in sudden short supply, due to a faulty portal or a band of planar marauders). Prices are unrelated to Material Plane prices, since everything is imported. Water is expensive, for example, at ten times the Player’s Handbook rate, but metal is (comparatively) cheap (normal PH prices). This is because so much more water must be brought into the city than metal, and transporting liquids is more difficult in the tonnages required.
Guildhall Ward: Visitors can’t tell the difference between the Guildhall Ward and the Market Ward. Even some locals claim that only tradition separates them. Since guilds haven’t played a particularly significant role in Sigil for centuries, one can guess that the name owes a lot to tradition. Today, the Guildhall Ward serves as the domain of the middle class of Sigil. Merchants who hawk their wares in the Market Ward during the day sleep here at night, and many who deal in services (rather than selling finished goods) live and work here as well. The Guildhall Ward also houses racial neighborhoods, from the transplanted halfling hill of Curly-Foot, to the bariaur neighborhood of Ghundarhavel, to the githyanki community of Git’riban.
Clerk’s Ward: Before the Great Upheaval (see History, above), the Clerk’s Ward held the bureaucracy of Sigil, but that’s all gone now, and some wonder what keeps the Clerk’s Ward busy. The concern appears well founded; many whisper that the Clerk’s Ward is starting to crumble at the edges, as the filthy Hive encroaches upon its territory. Behind the scenes, though, the Clerk’s Ward is finding new purpose as a quiet place to get things done without a lot of attention. Some criminal organizations looking to improve their lot have moved from the Lower Ward or the Hive into the Clerk’s Ward, and the fact that the locals here respect each other’s privacy encourages activities of an illicit nature. Of course, it wouldn’t be Sigil if everything made sense, so the Clerk’s Ward is also home to one of the flashiest places in the city—the Civic Festhall. Run by a group calling itself the Society of Sensation (a faction, back when The Lady allowed such things), the Festhall combines the best aspects of a concert hall, museum, and tavern while simultaneously serving as the centerpiece of an artistic neighborhood that brings travelers from across the multiverse. It’s the best place in Sigil to see or be seen.
The Hive: Locals claim that the Hive isn’t a ward as much as the lack of a ward. Both the name for the region between the Lower Ward and Clerk’s Ward and for the chaotic, sprawling slum in its center, the Hive crawls with scum and villainy of all stripes. The lowest of the low live in the Hive—those who can’t afford (or don’t dare) to rub elbows with more fortunate folks. In effect, the Hive is like a miniature version of Sigil itself, with everything that is needed in daily life: taverns and inns aplenty, entertainment, and services from escorts to sellswords. The quality might be questionable, but the prices can’t be beat. The Gatehouse Night Market offers nearly everything one could find in the Grand Bazaar (and a few articles one couldn’t), though it’s best not to think too hard about where the goods came from.
"We can sell our loot right here in Market Ward. We might as well do it while we are here."
"Well let us find a place to stay for awhile and then search out some shops to sell this loot. Once we have some money, then we can decide on what to spend it on and go looking for this Oarman's place. What do you all say?"
After drinking and chatting, the group decides to sell their hard earned loot, while they are still in the market ward. There are shops aplenty, with all kinds of weapons, armors, consumables, anything any adventurer may ever dream can be found, and because the quantity of stores, it’s easy to sell and even more easy to buy.
--
Deciding the best course of action is to hire a guide, to take them to their destination, the group leaves in search, but soon, you take a shortcut to avoid a religious procession that is freely scourging bystanders. You duck into an alley littered with dirt and filled with scurrying black rats. Bits of rotting cloth, sewage, and rubbish give the alley a pungent reek.
You’re halfway down the alley when you hear the voices: hundreds of tiny voices, like children, all speaking together. You must listen to us. Listening? Yes? Scuttle very carefully through this sewer. Demons are triple liars, but angels are eager to make you martyrs. Go, and trust neither heaven nor hell. We mean victory for you and defeat for the Spider Queen.
There’s no sound; the voices are entirely in your head, and they aren’t leaving.
You notice that the rats have exposed brains and the sound of their chittering seems coordinated, as if they were speaking to one another.
This swarm is known as cranium rats, a pack of magical beasts, with strong magical capabilities.
You know its swarm traits and that it has spell-like abilities (even tho you don’t know which.)
It resists magic, and can cast spell as a sorcerer of high level.
It is immune to cold, non-magical weapon damage, critical hits, flanking, and can use at will a mind blast attack, which stuns everyone in its path.
At the mention of the Spider Queen, Gargamal's face drains of colour. His voice is strained when he asks, "Did anyone else hear that?"
Azreal, the great elk stands still, almost as if he too were listening.
"Eh. Hear it. Can't quite pin down where, or what."
Taurven looks around puzzled. "Or why for that matter."
Perception:
The voices seem to be waiting for an answer. Not listening? Don’t trust them. Don’t trust the angels. Tell us you don’t trust anyone, and we’ll let you go.
"Trust is something to be earned, not given lightly. Who are you? Come and show yourselves. If this has anything to do with the Drow, I am a sworn enemy of the dark elves!"
"Sure, sure. trust no one."
Strangeness, in a city full of strangeness. Taurven certainly doesn't trust the voices in his head, right now.
They lie, but that is enough. the voices says dispersing, and with that the rats scuttle out of the way, giving you free passage through the corridor.
After that, it’s easy to hire a guide to take you to the where you want to go.
Located in Sigil’s Lower Ward, the Styx Oarsman typifies the multiracial planar metropolis. The patrons run the gamut from good to evil, with the scales tipping toward the dark side of life. This inn caters to a mostly humanoid crowd. Humans, elves, dwarves, halfl ings, and githzerai compose the majority of the clientele. A few drow, gnomes, and githyanki visit the Styx Oarsman. Buommans, mephlings, and spikers also hang out at the inn.
The inn prides itself on its acceptance of the more exotic beings in the city. The clientele tends toward those from or touched by the Lower Planes, including tieflings and even an occasional demon or devil. The Styx Oarsman is a discreet location to meet and do business.
Because it’s such a safe and self-policing place with a reputation for discretion, over the years, the clientele expanded to include all types of races, even a celestial from time to time.
You have found your way to the Lower Ward, a section of Sigil inhabited primarily by creatures of the Lower Planes, but also by humans and the floating dabus. You even spot occasional darting lantern archons, their light shining pure and holy through the smoke and gloom—and moving very quickly through this ward.
The Oarsman is noisy, and you see three squawking vrocks come stumbling out of the open archway that is the entranceway. Within you see barbed devils playing at cards, a beautiful human woman confidently serving goblets of wine to monsters, and a motley collection of customers. The bartender has six arms. It’s not the type of inn you’re used to.
No one gives you as much more as a look, as you enter and no one seems bothered by your presence in the place.
Gargamal is brought up short when Karla stops in the doorway. From her posture, he can tell enemies must be near.
"What is it Karla? What do you see?"
He readies his bow, an arrow nocked and ready to fly.
"Must be inflation." Comments Taurven in response to Karla's thoughts on guide rates. It does seem pretty high even for here.
"I guess I should have mentioned. This place is known for having a clientele that hails from the lower planes. Nowidays it's developed a reputation for being a place to do shady, or 'discrete' dealings."
Gargamal still eyes the Drow in the building, as well as the Vrocks.
"I am with you Karla. I will attempt to curb my distaste for these creatures, but let us hurry."
"Let's get a table." Taurven leads the way to the most secluded corner table (or booth) that he can find. In a low voice, that forces his companions to lean in, if they want to hear, he says: "The letter says that the messenger should present it, to receive more information. Trouble is: We don't know who to present it to. Maybe the proprietor. That's a wild guess though."
Taurven looks to the others. "Any thoughts?"
"Well that would be my thoughts as well. At least maybe the proprietor could point us in the right direction."
All unsavory characters seem to reside in this inn. The bardmaid, a Marilith knows as Marilith don’t give you any attention at all. The other devils and demons, most of them being able to detect goodness, seems bothered by your presence, but no hostile actions from any or anything.
In all, no one seems to be expecting or particularly in interested in your arrival.
"Perhaps someone here could tell us about this Rule-person."
"So, we just walk up to the bar-keep, and ask for Rule-of -Three? Taurven smiles wryly "I don't think I like that plan, but I don't have a better one..."
The party sits and began to discuss with each other, one more afraid than the other, in fear of talking with the locals, even if they never would admit it.
As the times passes, they keep discussing, until the bartender, a female demon with six arms and half serpent body approaches the table and in an impatient voice says ”This is no child playground. If you got no business, leave.” and by her tone of voice, she means quite immediately.
"Uh, well... We were supposed to meet someone here actually. Our mistress neglected to give us a description of what he looks like. She told us to be subtle, so we were wondering how to go about it."
Taurven gives his best rakish grin.
"So subtle is out the window. We're looking for a bloke called Rule-of-Three. I don't suppose you know him?"
“Do I look a servant? Do I look like your personal guide? No? Then stop treating me like one before I eat your entrails! Oarsman is for private business: no law, no Rule-of-Three answers, shut your trap and get out!” the bartender snaps. The entire place gets quiet, and every demon, devil, yugoloth, and other unsavory character in the bar turns to look at you. A circle of creatures pulls back from the table.
A githzerai scholar parts the wall of spiky and deadly creatures with a wave of his hand. “Did someone mention my name, call me out, and summon me? They call me, I call myself, the world knows I am Rule-of-Three.” He scatters coins to the offended devils and yugoloths, gestures at the table, and the bar carries on as if the shouting never happened. Cards are dealt, ale is poured, and the noise returns to deafening levels.
“New in town?” asks the elderly githzerai, stroking his wispy beard and watching you carefully. “Your type, your disposition, your shining characters don’t generally come to the Lower Ward, the wrong side of Sigil, the Styx Oarsman. I like the cheap beer, rough company, and rampant rumormongering. What brings you here?”
Gargamal looks like he is ready to do something foolish to the demon until the Gith speaks.
"Yes we are new to this ..umm..place. It is a pleasure to meet you sir. May we go someplace to talk?"
"An interesting name: Rule-of-Three. What does it mean? If you don't mind telling of course."
The old Githzerai leads you back to his ‘private’ table, which is one smartly placed in the corner of the place. From there, you can see almost the entire tavern, and there’s no one else that close which would be listening to your conversation, also the noise level, makes almost impossible to listen to anything.
”The meaning, significance, the reason for my name?” he repeats the question giving some time and then asks again ”What brings you here?”
"The need for information. That's what you broker, right?"
Taurven regards the Gith with narrowed eyes.
"I won't play with you."
"One of your clients, a drow called Lithara used the information you sold her to launch attacks on our world. We dealt with her minions, but have no desire to tolerate a continuation of such attacks." Taurven leans back in his chair, and arches an eyebrow at the old githzerai.
"Since you enabled the drow to attack our land, it seems only fair that you even the playing field, and show us which portal leads to her homeland."
Taurven makes a smile that does not reach his eyes. "I assume it's important that you be perceived as a neutral party. It would be unfortunate if word got around that you favored a particular faction over another..."
Gargamal watches the Gith as Taurven speaks to him. He has no trust for any of the creatures in this place, but if the old Gith can help them, that is OK.
’I do like to know things, to comprehend, as to say to grasp what is happening, but I’m not a middleman, an intermediator or a peddler.’ the Gith loos unfazed by your blackmail attempt ’I know many, a innumerable amount, a myriad of contacts. Be it drow, Devil or Angel, the one you speaks about, that is converse, articulate, is not known to me. ’
’What made you think, pointed you, give you the impression that I had something to do with those attacks? The drow are stirred up everywhere, on the Material Plane, here in Sigil, and in the Demonweb where Lolth spins her plots.’