Climbing the Bloodworks
Ave! Imperator, morituri te salutant.
Suetonius, "Life of Claudius"
Once on the field, too late to shirk the fray.
Juvenal
”Kill him!”
”Beat the lousy pinkskin into the ground!”
’Blood!”
The harsh voices of the crowd filled the desert air, dinning Zache’s ears. The human swashbuckler had heard worse…but not often. Clearly the crowd was eager for some action today but when did the people of Urglin not want violence? It seemed the foundation the city was built on.
Zache licked his lips and the dust tasted as bitter and acrid as the crowd’s words. No surprise, the soils of Urglin was nearly as inhospitable as the inhabitants. Even when it rained, rarely, few things grew apart from tough scrub and stunted trees. Only along the slow moving Ooze River did anything natural really thrive.
Not that he could see any of that at the moment. Right now, Zache’s world was this nameless humble fighting pit. A natural hollow had been hacked out to become a waist deep depression in the rocky soil, fenced by rough wooden rails, now packed with at least three dozen spectators. Most of the baying crowd were orcs, of course, but there were plenty of Outlanders among them. Humans, halflings, dwarves, many were learning to love the blood and chaotic violence of the Bloodworks. There seemed to be something in the air of the Shattered City that drew people to such spectacles. Few of the faces looked familiar to Zache of course, he was a newcomer to the remote city and even if not, the population seemed in a constant state of upheaval. Still, he knew who the blurred faces were.
Traders, adventurers, explorers and outcasts from all over Golarion. The dissolute city had long acted as a refuge for those with nothing left to lose, far past the grasp of ‘polite society’. Now however, after the opening of the gate to the Plane of Earth, traffic to Urlgin had exploded. Thousands had arrived, trekking towards what they hoped was fortune and fame. Indeed, it was that same trade that had brought Zache here, as caravan guard. Looking up, Zache saw the one familiar face in the bloodthirsty crowd, that of his employer Halman Wright, the human owner of the caravan. Honest enough, Wright had proven to be fair with pay and duties, which is why Zache was now in this dusty pit fighting for him.
Zache could see money changing hands as bets were made on both he and his opponent. Speaking of his opponent, the young man let his eyes drift away from the bustling crowd to the other figure in the pit with him. They were almost too stereotypical. A muscular half-orc who definitely looked the part of a pit fighter. Bare chested, his green tinted skin gleamed with sweat in the bright morning sun. Small tusks glinted white in a heavy-set jaw. But Zache was more focused on the heavy hammer they held, dark metal and wood. A dangerous weapon, if it was allowed to land.
Was this all really worth it? Glancing up he saw Wright nod slightly, as if reading his young worker’s mind.
”We want a fair fight!” A voice rolled out from an figure standing at the rail of the pit. A tall Shoanti with bits of makeshift armor, the streaks of red paint on their torso marked them as a member of the Blood Watchers. The Blood Watchers are an uneasy alliance of clerics and priests who oversee the Bloodworks and their fighting pits, making sure the few rules are followed (and far more importantly) that wagers and results are kept. The Blood Watchers were an old group but have recently come to more prominence as the Bloodworks has become the foundation of the violent new society arising here. The closest thing to order Urglin has.
It wasn’t much.
The crowd gives loud boos to the idea of a fair fight. The Shoanti raises a hand and then smiles saying, ’Well, then we want a good fight!” Cheers and whistles from the jostling crowd. They are certainly eager today. A few even throw dirt clods at the fighters, as if egging them on. As long as it doesn’t shift to rocks…..
”Do the two agree to the contest?” The Blood Watcher rumbles, deep voice cutting through the crowd’s shouts. ”A battle to surrender over a market spot?” A few groans from the crowd at this. A fight to surrender usually meant no one died, and few people got excited over marketplace stalls. Still, Halman Wright needed a spot and in a place like Urglin, you only earned it via the pit. In another city you might pay a bribe, submit a form or even politely join a waiting list. In Urglin, you sent a fighter.
Zache’s rival gave the Blood Watcher a quick nod, not taking his quick eyes off the swashbuckler. Somewhere above the half-orc patron's must be watching, surely this man was merchant.
"Outlander, you agree?" The Shoanti bellowed again, looking at Zache directly with dark eyes. Hoots of derision from the crowd.
Zache's silent answer seemed to ring true, for the Blood Watcher returned his nod with one of his own. Then the tall Shoanti raised a hand into the bright blue desert sky, armor glinting dully. Then it dropped as he shouted, 'Then....begin!"
The crowd gets restive, hammering fists on the flimsy wooden rail enough for it to creak and waver. People stamp feet on the dusty ground while one full blooded orc simply howled wordlessly in excitement. The final bets change hands, either coin or favors. Most seem to favor the half-orc but that is to be expected. Respect in Urglin, doubly so for Outlanders, is something hard earned, usually in blood.
The half-orc is quick off the mark, but Zache is faster. He finds himself reacting just a hair quicker then his opponent. The advantage is the human's...for now. Above Halman Wright's usually impassive face cracks slightly with relief. At least his hired guard wasn't going to fall utterly. Zache has just enough time to be hurt by the caravan's masters apparent fear.
Zache's mind flashed back, as if often did when he assumed a fencing form, to the Warrens of Kare Maga. The hours spent training in those crumbling, dizzying buildings, often high above the dirty city streets. He had any number of tutors in those days, anyone among Freemen who would learn. One of his favorites had been Mistress Zalaria. A halfling, she had been a master of the more noble fencing arts and had taught the teen Zache everything she knew. He blessed the crusty old woman now, for her endless drills and carping about form.
It was due to that endless practice that his first strike, here and now, was true.
The darting blade floated through the half-orc's guard with ease, as Zache stepped forward with a motion as smooth as any dueling salon.
The razor blade sliced through the enemy's shoulder like hot knife through butter. Zache barely felt any resistance until it grazed the shoulder bone. Withdrawing, a spurt of bright red blood flashed into the air, a sparkle of crimson.
The crowd roared approval although Zache could see doubt on some faces. Had an Outlander really scored such an easy blow, right away? What was happening. The Blood Watcher raises one eyebrow in obvious but welcome surprise.
For his part the half-orc looks shocked as well, staring at the bloody rod of metal in Zache's fist, disbelieving the solid hit. Still when Zache tries to mock him, the words seem instead to merely agitate the local.
He hefts his hammer in a knotted fist and says, in rough accent Common, "You will pay for that trick, Outlander." With that, he swings the hammer down like a blacksmith beating a sheet of tin.
Zache tries to parry the blow but it is too fast and strong, throwing back his rapier. Still, he does manage to nimbly dodge the falling hammer, stepping back. The half-orc lets out a roar of anger as the swing merely slices through air.
The crowd groans, and a few more dirt clods are hurled into the pit.
"Come on Zagr, get on with it!" A heavy-set man says from the rail, his skin shining with sweat. "No blood, no pay!"
Looking up Zache sees a bewildering set of faces, many of them yelling and shouting. It is hard to tell anything for sure in the rollicking, frantic audience but one person does catch his eye. A robed human woman, watching him intently and silently. She is tall, and bright eyes shine under the hood.
Zache is distracted however when he hears a familiar female voice, "Get 'em, Zache!" Looking over he spots one of the other caravan travelers. Tajai, some distant female relative of Halman, had been the friendliest of the caravan crew on the long trek northward. Red-haired and close to his own age, she seemed to always have a smile even when faced with the seedy world around them. Now she held up her arms, urging him on.
It was a welcome sight in an otherwise unfriendly crowd.
Zache advances again, mind shifting back to the fight. One thing is clear, as he advances. Zagr was not used to fighting a duelist. The fighting pits usually descended to little more then bloodthirsty brawls and wrestling. An opponent using classic swordforms was probably as alien as the Plane of Earth.
Zche stabs again, this time in a slashing motion that tears open the half-orc's left pectoral. Blood sheets down from the cut, staining his skin and trousers. The crowd roars in approval at the sight. Blood, any blood, is always a pleasure in Urglin.
The half-orc staggers back from the attack but Zache could tell it was a feint. True, the half-orc was injured badly but why fall backwards against the dirty side of the pit. Was he ready to surrender, perhaps? Above the gasping reeling half-orc is the sweating merchant who had shouted his name. The man bends down, clearly irate.
Something flashes in the sun, a glitter of glass. With a juggler's skill, the fat merchant secretively hands Zagr some potion.
Mock reeling away from his patron, Zagr holds up the potion and drinks it in open sight of the crowd. There is chorus of hisses and boos from all watchers but no one shouts cheater. The Blood Watcher is motionless, standing still as stone. Clearly drinking a potion isn't against the rules but having one smuggled to you probably is.
Some of the half-orcs worst wounds patch up, or at least grow shallower. The blood from his chest hardens and dries, clotting the slashed wound. His eyes clear a bit and he steadies himself on his feet.
Zache watches the half-orc carefully for a moment, with fighter's eyes. It is difficult to see anything in the blur of color that was the arena. Shouting people, swirls of dust, the bright sunshine. The taste of blood on the air. But one thing seems clear. The half-orc favored his left side, not quite trusting his right leg. Some old injury, perhaps? In any way, Zache had been taught how to deal with such things.
Step, lean, thrust.
It was right out of a fighting textbook (not that Zache had ever read one).
His rapier snaked out with lightning speed and cut open the half-orcs side. Muscles peeled back into bloody ribbons, and Zagr staggered for real this time, slumping against the walls of the pit.
The crowd roared, although the swashbuckler was unable to tell with joy or rage. Zagr huddled there for a long second, then two, then three. Above him his merchant patron shouted, "Come on! It's only a scratch! Idiot!"
Then the Blood Watcher intoned, "Zagr, do you surrender?"
For a long moment the half-orc did nothing, merely breathing hard, gripping the dirt wall as if his life depended on it. The crowd shouted for more, some even egging Zache on to finish him off. But then the half-orc hung his tusked head and said, barely audible over the crowd.
"I surrender." And slumped to his knees.
The crowd went wild with shouts and jeers, for both. Haggling and bickering broke out as the few bettors who had backed Zache collected. The Shoanti Blood Watcher nodded and said, "The Outlander is the victory and all spoils to he and his patron. It is witnessed." With that he turned and left, striding through the crowd, which slowly broke up.
'Wow!" Tajai said, her youthful face sparkling with a mixture of awe and concern. 'He didn't even touch you! Where did you learn to fight like that?" She leaned under the railing and offered him an arm. "I bet they didn't expect that!"
The crowd hadn't and Zache gets more then his fair share of dark looks. Clearly no local liked seeing an Outlander wallop one of their own so thoroughly. Among the watching Outlanders though, many eyed him with some interest and respect. He might be a fighter worth watching.
And that could mean a great deal in Urglin.
Zache got a few claps on the back from the drovers and other caravan guards who made it. Not everyone had attended the fight but those that had were clearly impressed. It had been a safe trip north and Zache had never drawn his blade in anger. Apparently he guessed his skill.
’Of course he is happy!” Tajai broke in, all smiles. ”You won!”
Halman Wright though seems…less then pleased. His usually impassive face shows a trace of…guilt? Even his usually even voice wavers slightly when he replies, ’Of course I’m happy. That stall will be the foundation of my business here, or so I hope. I didn’t expect anyone to bleed for it. Even in Kaer Maga, one didn’t bleed for a market stall. “ He shakes his head, ”No, it is your victory that makes this harder.”
He straightens, ”Since I’m going to have to let you go.”
”What?!” Tajai shouts, confused.
The caravan merchant shakes his head, ”Nothing personal, son. But this is how it goes. I won’t keep everyone on, that was just for the travel. Now that we are here….well, it’s over.” Zache looked and saw understanding nods from most of the other workers, those who had acted as colleagues and perhaps, even family, over the past few weeks. Clearly for them, this was the way of the road.
”I will pay everyone off fairly, of course.” Wright was going on, ”You all provided excellent service, more then I could have expected. Any of you, especially you Zache, are welcome to stay the night while you get your affairs in order. I’m not kicking you out but, this is the end of the caravan.’
Halman Wright nods, and turns to the various (former) caravan workers. ”Indeed. As is tradition, we will have one last meal between us. Hopefully I can find something better than hardtack for it, eh?” A round of cheers from the assembled, who have all grown to loath the dry bread that sustained them for so many days. Hardtack kept you alive but it did little to nourish the soul. Zache nods the older and more experienced hands approve the most, clearly not all masters treat their leaving workers so well.
Around them the crowd is breaking up, leaving the side of the pit. As it does so, Zache can see a bit more of his surroundings. There is plenty to see.
Around him is a sea of tents, yurts, and tipis laid out in a bewildering network. They are in possible color and shape, from emerald green to rich purple. Some are mere hovels, little more than a cloak propped up on sticks to elaborate magical palaces complete with picket fences and roaring fireplaces. People, animals and carts clog the makeshift roads between them, often breaking down into bickering arguments. In the distance, Zache can see the outer wall of Urglin, a crumbling cliff of desert-worn stone.
Only a short time ago this busy place was merely more desert scrub, well outside the city. Now it was the district of Outwall, the place where all the new arrivals seemed to be pouring. The locals guarded their own city tightly and few Outlanders made residence within the walls. Instead they inhabited the vast fair-like , impromptu world of Outwall. Zache knew there was another new district as well, Planeward, growing up around the new planar gate. The swashbuckler had not seen it in person but it was said to be…quite strange.
Outwall was enough for anyone, it seemed to him. It was as if someone had turned Golarion upside down and shaken it, so interesting pieces fell out. Even from his vantage by the fighting pit, Zache could see a group of Highelm dwarves deep in talk with an Andoran trader, while on the next street a group of Osiron clerics avoided speaking to a Ulfen champion. Someone who must have been a Shackles pirate rubbed shoulders with a disgraced Taldane diplomat. People rode horses, axebeaks and (for halflings) large dogs.
The merchant who had backed Zagr (and helped him cheat), came around the side of the empty fighting pit. Sweating more then ever, he made a face at Halman and said, ”I Have until tonight to strike my spot. That was the deal.”
Halman shrugged, ’Of course.” He seemed unconcerned but went on, ”I would have simply paid you, you know. There was no need for…all this.” Zache’s former employer waved a hand at the somewhat bloody depression.
The sweating man shook his head, ”Not how it works here. You’ll learn.” Then a nasty smile, ”Or not.”
The merchant then inclined his head toward Zache, ”You’ve got a good fighter there. With some training, he could be a contender. Is he for sale?”
Wright’s face hardened, ”All of my workers are freemen.”
The sweating man rolled his eyes, ”Sure, sure. Well, see you at sundown.” He scurried away with a rat-like scuttle.
Before anyone could react a new voice rung out, ”A good fighter? Bah, it wasn’t a real fight!” A full blooded orc appeared out of the swirling crowds. Zache thought he had been watching the fight, but he wasn’t sure.
The orc, a large rangy figure with long arms and yellowed tusks sneered, ”Outlander fights? What is next, children?” He laughed at his own joke before taking a step toward the various caravaners. ”You should never be allowed in a pit, not even this sad excuse for one.” he spit at the shallow fighting ring. ’A disgrace to the Көрәш.” The last is a pure Orc word that directly translates to ‘Struggle’ but Zache isn’t sure what it means here exactly.
The orc freezes at Zache's words, eyes widening. For a moment the swashbuckler hopes it is means the newcomer is calming down at hearing his own tongue. Instead, the orc's skin flushes a deeper green of rage and his teeth grind.
"You dare,"[/b[ He says in Common, [b]"to speak the Дөрөҫ телмәр?"The last is the Orc name for their own language, roughly the 'True Speech'. Zache notes that while he can understand them easily, their accent is much different then the half-orcs he met in Kaer Maga. Richer, fuller, more subtle.
"How dare you!" The orc says, clearly enraged. They take another step forward, hands reaching for a short sword on the belt.
At this Halman Wright steps forward, looking suddenly quite small compared to the tall orc. Still, he seems unfazed and says firmly, "Һүҙ ирекле."
The orc stops again, blinking, "You all dare...this is too much. Outlanders first steal our land," he waves a long-nailed hand at Outwall and it's busy denizens. 'You steal our language? Next, you try to steal the Көрәш?" They growl, "Never. Remember this Outlander. All of this, all of your clever schemes. They will come to nothing. This is our city and we will not lose it to a pack of pinkskins!"
Without a word they stalk off, pushing through the crowd with angry abandon.
While he talks, the caravaners begin making their way back to their temporary quarters a few blocks away (although ‘block’ is a very misleading term for a district as amorphous as Outwall). Zache can see a city taking shape around him complete with blacksmiths, cobblers, coopers and every other sort of artisan. Tiny markets flourish here, selling everything from weapons to cutlery. Impromptu tavern tents sit at crossroads of ‘streets’, enticing in busy passerbyes. There are even tiny cloth temples here, of every God Zache has heard of and plenty he hasn’t.
Halman answers him as they walk, pitching his voice over the hustle and bustle of the crowd, ”I have no secrets, Zache. Merely a lifetime in a busy city with many people. But I know one thing, it is a man’s reputation that wins or loses. Words are cheap but actions build reputation, and reputation is loud.” he waved his hands over the teeming huddle of tents. ’Even in a place like this. Do what you think is right, and everything else will follow.” The merchant paused, ’At least, I hope so.”
One of the caravan drovers, an older cross-eyed man added, ”And it helps stay quiet. Silence can get you a long way.” There is a murmur of agreement at this and a few bits of laughter. That drover was known for being silent for hours. Still, it was good advice.
Tajani rolls her eyes though and says, ”Uncle, I think we’ll need some supplies for that dinner tonight. Maybe Zache and I can go to one of these markets? I think I saw one with Varsian food back there.” The older man gives her a knowing smile look but shrugs, ”If he is willing. I’m not his employer for much longer, he is a free man again.” A twinkle in his eye at the double meaning of the phrase.
Zache was indeed free. And in the crush of the busy street corner, maybe a bit too free.
"Family business, like always' The redhead said shrugging, as they both picked their way around a halfling knife-sharpener and gnomish chandler. Tahaji doesn't sound very excited by the prospect.
"Uncle Halman has no children and wants to keep the trade in the family. I have a brother but he is minding the store back home." She jerks a thumb toward distant Kaer Maga. 'So it falls on me to be the heir. I think he has some plans for 'training' me..."
Her words trail off as they stumble into the next street which seems to be some sort of entertainment district. Buskers of every sort imaginable crowd the throughfare. Jugglers and acrobats, sword-swallowers and mimes. A man shoots flying balls of water over the crowd, drenching giggling children while a short dwarf woman runs an elaborate puppet show.
Farther down a man turns the handle for an old street organ, filling the air with festive music. Someone else is selling fried bread dipped in sugar off a cart while a more magically inclined salesmen summons up blocks of ice. A half-orc double act jumps through fiery hoops, over landing on their hands to widespread applause.
Fortune tellers, weightlifters, ventriloquists, shadow dancers and snake charmers round out the street. Everyone has a hat, a can or a box out to catch a few coins from passerbyes. Zache sees food and drink given as payment too, or even finer things. One knife thrower has an gleaming jeweled cup in his humble bowl.
"Oh!" Tajani says, eyes sparkling, "I never would have guessed!"
Zache is about to reply when he hears a rich, rolling voice behind him. 'Clear the track!" Looking back the swashbuckler sees three horsemen barreling down the street at breakneck speed. Men and women dodge away, narrowly avoiding the pounding hooves. The riders seem ignorant of the danger they pose, laughing and jesting as they urge yet more speed from their lathered mounts.
To his shock Zache spots an old half-elven woman in the middle of the street, hunched over a battered cane. She is right in the path of the horsemen who don't seem to be slowing down!
Zache can feel the wind of the riders just behind him, and the thunder of the hooves fills his ears. Still he manages to get himself and the woman to safety (and managing to not smack into other pedestrians).
"By the Guiding Hand, you saved my life, young man." The elderly woman wheezes, gripping onto her cane. "I didn't even see them."
The swashbuckler turns and sees, to his relief that Tajani had enough room to avoid the riders. They pelt past without a care, nearly trampling a few others. To his surprise, Tajani jumps out onto the road behind them and shouts, "You are going to kill someone!"
The lead rider checks his horse and expertly turns it, easily handling the massive beast. The other two are slower at the mark, with on knocking over the fried bread seller's wares trampling the food into the gritty dust.
The lead rider ignores this however and slowly canters back toward Tajani. The rider is a human man, with the pale skin and fine robes that mark him as a Chelish noble. Zache has never dealt with Chelish much but the man's fine but sneering features seem to confirm every stereotype he has heard.
For a moment Zache is worried he might ride Tajani down, but at the last moment he swings out of the saddle, landing lightly in the road on his fine leather boots. Well over a foot taller then Zache's friend, the man looks down at her and sniffs loudly.
"In civilized lands," he says in a educated voice, "riders, not to mention well-born, have the natural right of way. These...people should watch where they are going." he waves a gloved hand at the assembled masses, most of them edging away from the confrontation.
Tajai is not cowed however and spits back, 'In civilized land, well-born men are gentlemen, not rogues."
The man's eyes widen and he says in mock shock, 'You speak back to me, scion to the House of Arionne? A spirited wench!" he turns to one of his companions who is finally riding up, a weaselly looking man wearing overly ornate robes. "Look here , Sir Janus! This is how their commoners speak to their betters. " he turns back to Tajai and grins, 'We will have much to teach them, in time."
The third rider appears, a heavily armored figure, wearing black armor that seemed to suck in all the bright sunlight into a unknown abyss. The voice that issues from the helm is flat and devoid of all hint of gender or age.
"Enough. She is not worth your time, we have duties to attend to."
But the 'scion of House Arionne' ignores the imposing figure, waving the armored person off.
'I should teach you some manners now." He barks at Tajai, 'Something to remember me by." He toys with a riding crop in one hand.
Zache edges in closer, ready to move if needed. As he does so, he racks his brain. Does he know this family?
Indeed he does. House Arionne is one of the most notorious Chelish houses in Kaer Maga, because they are deeply invested in the slave trade. While not a major house by Chelish standards, they have considerable holdings outside Cheliax, to protect their human trafficking. Zache had watched many a slave sold on the Arionne block back home.
He doesn't recognize the armor or insignia, but he can guess one thing. A Hell Knight. Those armored protectors of Chelish law feared and respected by all.
Tajai seems to not need help however, for she raises a hand and then, to his surprise, snaps her fingers. There is a spark and a flash of fire mere inches away from the young noble's face. He jerks back, stumbling into his horse, which rears up.
Zache's friend laughs scornfully at the suddenly comic display.
The noble's face whitens and he raises his whip. Zache tenses, hand going to his own blade before the armored figure intones, "Enough of this. Sir Citasio! Leave her. We should not be delayed for our meeting, they will not accept tardiness. Remember why we are here!"
The Chelish noble stops and collects himself, face calming. Still he does give Tajai a final look and spits, 'If we meet again, girl, it will not go well for you." With that he easily swings back into the saddle of his charger. In a moment all three of them are gone, leaving at a slightly more sedate pace.
Slowly the festive atmosphere returns, like a flame returning after guttering in an unwelcome breeze.
Tajai looks to Zache, face still red from anger, 'I hate bullies! And where were you! " Then she sighs and shakes her head, "No, I know. You were trying to keep calm. Maybe I should have as well. My Uncle says my temper will get me in trouble some day."
Tajai grins, looking a bit embarrassed herself. She opens her mouth to speak but is cut off from a voice from the shadows between two nearby tents.
"Do not speak so poorly of yourself. The more I have watched, the more impressed I am." The voice is deep and throaty, with a musical accent Zache cannot quite place. The swashbuckler looks and sees the tall, robed woman that had been watching him during the pit fight. She is standing very, very still, bright eyes like stars under the hood.
She inclines her head at his gaze, then pulls back her hood. It reveals a woman of middle-age and striking features. A cascade of dark curls flows down to her shoulders, only partially tamed by a bright headscarf. She has the dusky skin Zache associates with native Varsians. But it was her eyes that drew attention. Bright and sharp, as if they were made of diamonds and could cut through whatever they looked at.
"My name is Tasaristina. I have a...proposal for you, Zache the unblooded pit fighter. It will be worth your time, I promise you that. There is a small tea shop on the next street. If you wish to speak, I will be waiting." Silent as a shadow and with the grace of a dancer, she vanishes back down the alleyway.
Tajai watches her go, mouth agape. After a moment she blinks and turns to Zache, "Chaotic is right. Anything can happen here!" She starts looking around for a way to this tea shop, clearly not even questioning that they will go.
It doesn't take them long to find the teahouse, only a short distance back the lively entertainment street. This area is a bit more quiet , although that isn't saying much after that rather frenetic festival atmosphere.
The teahouse is a small cloth tent, of simple but well-kept brown canvas. A small patio has been swept clean but the seats there are empty. After carefully looking around, Zache and Tajai duck through the pinned-up flap.
Inside they see low tables with cushions as chairs. Thick carpets of green and gold cover the floor, softening their steps. Along one wall, under a simple opening that acts as a window, are a few chests. They are open, revealing several stacks of fragrant tea leaves in various stages of processing. Kneeling at a table, carefully crushing leaves is a half-orc whose rather scarred visage is undermined by a pair of spectacles perched on his battered nose. He eyes them as they enter but says nothing.
The only other person inside is Tasaristina, sitting cross-legged at one of the low tables. She still has on the robes, although she has opened them slightly as a concession to the warm interior of the tent. Zache catches a glint of silver at her throat, a butterfly with wings delicately outstretched.
The holy symbol of Desna.
The Varia women nods at them, "Ah, excellent. You came. Please, have a seat. They have an excellent nettle tea here and passable covrigi."
"Passable?" The half-orc growls, looking up momentarily from his work. "It's my father's own recipe!"
Tasaristina shrugs her slender shoulders and says simply, "I have high standards." The half-orc rolls his eyes and keeps crushing leaves, but not before letting out a small snort of disapproval.
The Desnan looks up at Zache and says softly, "You must be wondering what I am about to say. It must seem all very mysterious. Forgive the melodrama, but some things are best not discussed on the open street. Outwall has many ears."
Tajai seems quite excited by the whole turn of events, and takes her seat without much concern. Zache, for his past, is slightly more wary. An adventure this may be, but one still needs to keep their eyes open. A lifetime in Kaer Maga taught one to be careful. Still as far as the swashbuckler could tell, Tasaristina seemed to be telling the truth. She was, at any rate, apparently entirely at ease.
"Courtesy is a rare commodity indeed." She replies to Zache's comment. Before she can go on the half-orc shufflers over with a wooden tray that holds three dainty cups, a hot kettle and a small pile of sememe covered covrigi bread rolls. The tea's scent is hot and rich, making Zache think of a wild overgrown garden, thick with life.
After thanking the proprietor, Tasaristina waves at the food, "Please help yourself." She pours herself a cup of the tea and drinks it slowly, clearly savoring it. 'Excellent, most excellent." Zache notes she has a strange bracelet on her wrist, made up of carefully painted wooden beads that clack every so quietly.
The woman sets it down with a sigh, almost reluctantly. Then he bright eyes find Zache's own. "Well, down to business then. So, do you know what the word Hakimlyq means?" She pronounces the orc word with a non-speaker's accent.
Zache's face must reveal he doesn't for she goes on, "It means, roughly, Rulership. In this context it refers to....well...how should I explain."
The woman pauses, gathering her thoughts before venturing, "Urglin is going through many changes, as you may have gathered. Where we were sitting was, a few months ago, scrubland inhabited by rabbits and now it holds...all of this." She waves her hand at the teahouse and, by extension all of Outwall. "Changes beget changes. To make a long story short, Urglin has decided it needs a leader, someone to help chart the course into an unknown future."
Tajai looks confused, "But Urglin has never had a leader. My Uncle told me, it's like Kaer Maga but even...more. It rules itself."
Tasaristina inclines her head at the younger woman, "Correct, but times change. The powerful of the city had decided to choose a First among them. And how will they choose? Not through elections, I can tell you that." She takes another sip of tea, "No, they will use the Bloodworks. They are planning a great contest, the Hakimlyq. Quite simply, whoever wins will become ruler of the city. What that means, how much power they have, all of that remains to be seen. Still, it is a heady prize for many."
Tajai doesn't take it quite as calmly however and breaks in, 'What? That's an idiotic way of picking a leader! All they will get is some thug who knows how to punch people in the face."
Tasaristina looks amused and says, "Perhaps, but in their defense that is a useful administrative skill in Urglin. Also, it seems to be thought that the winner will represent some faction more then personal rule. " She shrugs and takes another sip, eyes slipping back to Zache.
"Even as we sit here, the various warlords, clan leaders, shamans and others are bickering about the Hakimlyq. The rules and such, such as they are. Not that Urglin is heavy on rules." A brief musical laugh.
She sobers then and says, "I shall be forthright with you. There is much at stake here, with the new Planar Gate. Fortunes will be made, yes but even more. Any time there is an intersection of planes....things can be in flux. The risk for disaster can be very high."
Tasaristina, "Which is why I want a sea at the table. The head of the table, if I can arrange it. Gods know, there will be others. Some less wise or others outright evil. In order to get that seat, I need a champion. Someone who can win the Hakimlyq." A dramatic pause and then, "I think you, Zache, can be my champion."
Tajai absently grabs a lock of her hair, twisting it while muttering out of the side of her mouth, "Zache, you can't possibly be considering this, can you?"
Tasaristina, for her part, merely sits back in her chair and smiles, "Fair questions. I can answer your first and last ones at the same time. I represent myself, I am a faction of one, you might say." Then she pauses and touches the holy symbol around her neck. 'Unless, of course, you count The Song of the Spheres. While a powerful ally, I have found she tends to...help those who help themselves." A small laugh before letting the holy symbol drop back to her skin.
"One does with one has. I have no Order of paladins at my command or a vast treasury to buy mercenaries. No loyal retainers or spell summoned warriors. And while I am not entirely devoid of...personal resources, I am no pit fighter."
She shrugs and Zache can detect no lie from the woman. The teahouse is quiet, the bustle of the street surprisingly muted by canvas walls. The half-orc has started weighing his leaves now, the tiny scales creaking ever so quietly.
"As for why I think you might win..." She narrows her bright eyes, "Someone might say your performance in the pit shows promise. That with training, guidance and luck you might well become a contender. I would not dispute it. But for me, at least, it was the old woman that convinced me."
"The old woman?" Tajai says, confused.
Tasaristina nods firmly, "You saved with her hesitation, without question. Putting a good deed before yourself. Call me a hopeless romantic but I believe it is the heart of a champion that matters, not his arm."
The Desnan leans back on the cushion, spreading her hands. "Well, there you have it. That is my offer. Nothing more and certainly nothing less."
'Questions are the path to wisdom, so we are taught. I do not mind them...to a point." Tasaristina says but adds, "First, I want to try one of these rolls." With practiced grace she picks one up and eats it.
At his side Tajai looks a bit restless, looking at the other woman carefully, obviously getting little more out of her face then Zache is. Whoever this Desnan is, she would be a dangerous card player.
With elegant manners, Tasaristina sweep up a few crumbs before speaking, "No coincidence. I had a feeling someone would reveal themselves, but chance favors the prepared mind. I have been stalking the lesser fighting pits for weeks, looking for...someone. I will admit, I expected to have to follow you longer to ascertain your character but, well, perhaps Lady Luck was on my side."
"As for my goals, that is a harder question to answer." The woman flexes a hand, rolling her long fingers, making her bracelet jangle int he quiet. 'You will have to forgive me if I am at least somewhat circumspect. After all, I know nearly as little of you, as you know of me. Let us just say...I take a wider view then most in Urglin. But, more relevant to you, I value peace, freedom and expression. Three things in precious sort supply. For one thing, I find slavery to be abominable and would be at the top of the list to curb, if not outright eliminate."
'As for power..." The woman smiles again yet it is not soft or warm. It is the cool smile of calculation, of calm consideration. For the first time Zache gets a hint of danger from this woman, but not directed at himself. A glimpse of veiled power. It flickers as quick as an eyeblink, so fast Zache isn't sure he imagined it..
'Well, Absalom wasn't built in a day, after all." V says, taking another small sip of the cooling tea. "Power breeds power, and success engenders success. If we do well, we can perhaps bring others behind us. After, this morning I was one and now, perhaps I will be two." She gestures toward Zache with the teacup. "Densa teaches us the value of change and opportunity."
Tasaristina seems amused by his nonchalance, and her smiles warms slightly. "If I have any talent it is having a knack for...people. For what they will do, what they are thinking, how they will react. A talent I have honed for many years, my young friend. And trust me when I tell you this, I have no time for fools. Happily you are not one."
She wiped her hands together and then stood up in a graceful, smooth motion. "You need not give me an answer all at once. I understand it is a great deal to ask anyone. You have till tomorrow, at dawn, if I guess rightly. If you agree to my little proposition, meet me at Urglin's main gate when the sun rises. If not, then we need never meet again."
She shrugged but added, "I do hope you take me up on it though. I think we could do quite a bit of good together." Tasaristina leans over and touches the sword with two fingers. The blade glows blue ever so faintly, and there is a tinkling sound like that of distant bells. She grins, looking suddenly girlish, silvery eyes gleaming. "Consider it a token of good faith."
With that she nods to each of them, to the half-orc and saunters out of the tent without another word.
Tijai lets out a whooshing sigh and sits back on her cushion. Blinking she says, 'Wow. That was...um...quite something. You ever deal with someone like that before?"
The half-orc shakes his head, glasses catching the light with a flash. "Nothing. The other one already paid." He nods toward the door after Tasaristina. "Good customer." He says firmly and goes back to his tea.
Mind still awhirl with all of this, Zache and Tijai head back out into the street. Buying the food for the farewell dinner is more difficult then Zache would have guessed. Unlike a proper town Outwall has no apparently no rhyme or reason to it's layout. You mind find a glaizer next to a tanner next to a silk merchant. There seemed to be no regular market district, or guild system. Everything was just catch as catch can.
Still Tijai seems to have a nose for such things and they eventually do find the proper stalls. Bread and salt, grease and butter, sugar and meat. Zache is soon loaded down enough they are forced to buy a basket (from a blind weaver peddling his wares) to carry it all. Zache notes one other thing during their whirlwind shopping spree.
Several times he spots an orc on the streets, lean and tough looking. Most are adorned with paint or tattoos whose meanings are lost on the swashbuckler. What he can see however is that they treat the Outlanders with obvious contempt, sneering at the whole collection of traders, travelers and others. Twice Zache even sees them grab something off a tinker's cart without paying, simply ignoring the feeble protests. A bubble of fear surrounds them, a space few Outlanders dare enter.
They find their way back to the caravan spot while only getting lost twice (which Tiaji says is 'not bad!'). The caravan cook, a rather heavy-set halfling is delighted with their finds (although outraged at the cost. Food is expensive in Urglin). Taking it all she says, 'One first rate feast, coming up!" In short order she has her helpers stoke the fires, scrub the pots and prepare the ingredients. It is a well-oiled process, sharpened by many days on the trail where speed is more important then taste.
At first Zache has more trouble then he expected. The area around his caravan's final spot is more or less set aside for new arrivals. It is a sort of temporary dumping ground of corrals for the freshest travelers to Urglin, and for those who did not intend to stay long. There were plenty of the latter, merchants and traders who merely came up the long route from Kaer Maga, sold their goods, purchased new ones, and headed back down without staying long.
They knew little of what Zache wanted, so he found himself wandering farther afield, into the longer standing Outwall districts. Not that much in Outwall was long standing. Even the oldest structures were less then a year old, and most far newer. Still, every society builds up rhythms and customs, some sort of hierarchy. And so Zache set off into the taverns, the markets, the clubs and the tea gardens.
He hears much.
On the Chelish he hears quite a bit. In the first place even before the opening of the Planar Gate, the Chelish were not unknown in Urglin. The slave trade brought them up the road, as surely as vultures to a rotting horse. Granted it was usually merely their agents but the small orc-filled city had always been a nexus of human traffic flowing from the Hold of Belkzen. Since the opening of the Gate, more had arrived of course. Again, mostly their lackeys and agents, House Arionne seems to be the only one to send an actual blooded noble north. Zache got the feeling the Chelish were bickering amongst themselves, as usual.
Next Zache gets a crash course in Urglin pit fighting culture. He learns the difference between the two of Orc terms. The Көрәш and the Hakimlyq.
The Көрәш (or Struggle) is the long standing system of pit fighting in the city, used to settle arguments and disputes. It was more then just fighting however, even if that was the ultimate expression. It was an entire culture of spiritual, social and even political norms. It guided activity, guided the raw violence inherent in orc society and even produced a sort of guardrail around it. It was serious, real and very bloody. What Zache had fought that morning was a very debased, feeble shadow of the 'proper' events held in the more sacred arenas.
Rules differed from event to event. While it was often fought to the death, battles to first blood or surrender were common for lesser affairs. Sometimes there were other rules, such as no magic or no weapons permitted. All proper fights within the Көрәш were overseen by the Blood Watchers and took place in ritualistic pits. Otherwise, they were just seen as vulgar brawls. Fun, maybe, but not religiously binding.
The Hakimlyq (Rulership) on the other hand was the name given to the recent tournament being forced to decide the first rule of the Shattered City. While everyone was talking about it, it was still mostly rumors. Apparently, as Tasaristina suggested, it was still being decided by the elites within the city proper. Zache heard rumors of all types but not much that was useful. All seemed to agree however that it would be a range of fights arranged and overseen by the Blood Watchers, and that many desired to enter and become First. To Zache's surprise he heard of many who wanted to enter simply for the thrill of it, for the glory and prestige more then any real political desire. Some had come to Urglin for the sole reason to compete.
On one fact Zache learned nothing. Tasaristina was a total enigma. No one had ever heard the name and even her description yielded no answers. Clearly the woman worked hard to remain little more then a shadow.
On the Hakimlyq Zache gets some useful information out of a gnomish rug dealer who seems to enjoy talking to anyone and anything. Apparently the elites of the old city are arguing right now about the Hakimlyq. As in, as Zache is standing here, orcs, half-orcs and others are ferociously arguing in some closed off chamber. While no one, not even the rug dealer guesses when agreements might be made let alone announced, perhaps Tasaristina has inside information?
Finding a Desnan tent is difficult, which isn't very surprising. The followers of the Tender of Dreams tend to be a nomadic group. Unlike say the follows of Abadar or even Calistria Desnan don't go in for grand cathedrals or churches. Yet, in such a swirling mass of visitors, travelers and voyagers Outwall is natural place for Desnan. Finally, quite close to the caravan site actually, Zache finds a small dusty silver tent, emblazoned with butterflies.
Inside he finds an aged human woman, and a young halfling apprentice. Both wear the silver robes of their order, but seem to own little else. On a small humble stool is a a copy of the Desnan holy book, the Eight Scrolls, and a small carpeted area for prayer. Zache gets the feeling they provide advice and guidance to the more wayworn travelers that make it to Urlgin.
They, of course, don't know anything about Tasaristina. That would be too easy. Still, the elderly master admits that followers of Desna can be loners at times, finding their own wandering ways. She admits in her own youth, she once spent a year in Ashwood without speaking to a single soul.
Yet they do provide something of note! When Zache mentions the bracelet Tasaristina had on her wrist, the old woman perks up. She orders the apprentice to grab the copy of the holy book off the stand. Opening it up to an illustration, she asks if the artwork is the same.
It is, the same carefully colored wooden beads in a particular order.
The old holy woman nods, "A rare sight young man. This is the sign of the Spherewalkers, a most ancient and holy order without our church. I do not know it well, but they are the most dedicated explorers and wanderers. Some would consider them the most pure Desnans. The beads are the planets, Aballaon, Castrovel and so on."
She has little other information on the topic to give.
The young apprentice also tells him his sword has been blessed by a spell known as the Moment of Prescience. It gives the blessed subject a great power that can be used to adjust fate once in a given day.
It takes Zache longer then he thought to find a Blood Watcher. There are not that many fighting pits in Outwall apparently, at least official ones. Still the swashbuckler roams around, asks bystanders and eventually finds himself in a district mostly consisting of rowdy Ulfens in various stages of drunkenness. Here, wedged between several tents is a irregular pit under construction.
It is only knee deep at the moment, the floor lumpy with rocks and piles of clay. The only person at work is a young Shoanti woman stained with the same red paint Zache saw previously. A Blood Watcher? Surrounding the site are wooden sticks etched with geometric designs. The woman has a shovel and is working with a will, sweating freely.