Helina was working at the Inn she lived in, New ale had just arrived and she was keeping watch as the was taken off the aggen to the Cellar.
Kaelan will be arriving to town in search for a rare ingredient for a ritual.
Danash is a native of the Foundry District in Deeptown, so the caravan brings him home to his workshop. He isn't a traveler by nature, so he spent the journey quietly cataloging the terrain’s structural weaknesses, ensuring that if this caravan runs into trouble, he’s already mapped out exactly how to turn the environment against any attackers.
Danash stands lean and wiry, possessing the unmistakable, ethereal pallor of his sylph heritage. His skin has a faint, pearlescent sheen that seems to catch and scatter light, and his hair—a wild, static-charged mop of ash-white—rarely settles into place. He wears practical, dark-grey traveling leathers stained with soot and alchemical residues, covered by a reinforced leather duster filled with hidden pockets for components and scroll cases. His most striking features are his eyes, which are a deep, cloudless sky-blue, often narrowed in calculation as he judges the structural integrity of whatever lies before him. He is rarely seen without his Galvanic Amulet resting against his collarbone, the raw fulgurite pendant humming faintly when he is agitated or focused.
Barad is a Dwarf mercenary from Numeria, which sells her stony-formed blades for coin. Rarely staying in a single place at once, her morals are dubious and he likes to think about herself as free spirited. She'd usually be accompanying caravans or roughing up people with debts.
She stopped unloading the wagon, a full Ale Cask of Dwarven ale on her shoulder, and watched the caravan heading to town, Meant more customers tonight, she better tell Old-Bob. Then she swung the cask down and dropped it down into the cellar. The was a shout become below as it hit the straw matting and was rolled off.
"Thats all of it lads, put them in the new racks and tell Bob we have a caravan coming. Best get the stew cooking."
She paid the wagganer and then took out her pip, filling it, lighting it and having a smoke as she looked at the caravan some ways away. Her room was nice at the Inn and working as a doorwoman and helping hand meant it and her eating was paid for. But she was getting that itch again. Seeing the caravan come form other places, made her think it was be time to move on again. Her Axe was getting rusty and she shill wanted to catch a black Bear. Helina was big for an elf just a little under 8 feet tall. Her body was a mass of mussels. That was the frost giant in her blood and gave her strength most elves could only dream off. She took another puff of her pipe. And flexed her fist, a fist that could smash through a wall and had mashed may a drunks face when they got to fighting. The locals now knew not to upset the "beast" as they called her. Her pipe in hand she picked up a massive Axe and walked onto the Inn, best check Old Bob has things going for the rush letter.
Nemib walked alongside the caravan.
Deeptown represented more than another stop along the trade route—it was an opportunity to earn enough coin to keep an increasingly impatient merchant consortium from collecting the debts of his failed venture.
Nemib intended to prove that wit and precision could outmatch size. Resting a hand on the hilt of his rapier, the little wayang allowed himself a faint smile and muttered.
“Fortune has always favored those willing to stack the deck!“
Nestled in the heart of The Deeps—a rugged valley in the northern part of the Aspodell Mountains, named because the towering peaks frequently put the valley in shadow—Deeptown sits directly on the shores of Shadow Lake, a largish body of water fed by two mountain rivers, Forks and Dream, descending from the north.
Located right along an important east-west trade route in Isger, just east of the infamous Chitterwood, Deeptown is a hardscrabble hub of commerce and survival. If your character is from here, you didn't grow up with fairy tales about chivalrous knights; you grew up learning that the world is sustained by high walls, sharp steel, and hard coin.
Geography and Layout
Shadow Lake & The Rivers: The cold, deep lake and the rushing waters of the Forks and Dream rivers serve as the central anchor for the settlement's docks, water supply, and surrounding districts.
The Mountain Basin: Looming directly over the settlement are the jagged peaks of the Aspodells. The town lives in their shadow, which funnels icy winds down into the valley and creates a natural choke point for all overland trade.
The Earthen Enclave & Towers: Deeptown is an octagonal walled enclave roughly two miles in diameter. The defenses consist of sharp, twenty-foot-high earthen mounds rather than worked stone—steep enough to slow down any attacker, but climbable if you're desperate. The perimeter is fortified by thirteen wooden towers rising an additional fifteen feet, uniquely set at a 45-degree angle so that two walls face the exterior.
Gates and Gridworks: The wall is broken in three places by sturdy wooden gatehouses centered on the east, west, and south walls, each featuring an iron portcullis operated from the roof platform. Inside these gates, Deeptown is laid out on a rigid, highly organized strict grid system of streets.
Society and Daily Life
Life in Deeptown is gritty, pragmatic, and entirely driven by business.
The Ruling Merchants: The city is governed by the Trade Circle, an oligarchy of merchant lords who care more about profit and open trade routes than laws or high morals.
The Shadow of the Wilds: Situated on the borderlands, the city constantly feels the pressure of the untamed Chitterwood to the west and treacherous mountain passes crawling with rival bandit syndicates.
Pragmatic Neutrality: Deeptown welcomes anyone—smugglers, mercenaries, unorthodox cults, and desperate refugees—as long as they have coin to spend and don't disrupt business. Bribes are just tariffs, and corruption is simply how things get done.
You’ve been slogging along the shadow-drenched fringes of the Chitterwood for days, your nerves frayed not just by the looming, gnarled canopy of black timber to your west and the frost-rimed Aspodell peaks to the east, but by the relentless, maddening tink-tink-tinker of the dozens of tiny brass bells dangling from Master Barnaby Geddings's wagon.
Barnaby's lead wagon rattles to a halt at a narrow switchback as the sun dips behind the jagged peaks. The merchant doesn't look back or check a ledger; instead, he immediately twists around in his padded seat, wiping a sweaty brow with a checkered handkerchief while his mustache twitches with breathless energy.
"Ah, halt! Glorious, sweet cessation of wheel-creak! Do you hear that silence, my stout-hearted defenders? Well, you don't hear it because of my little brass guardians—bless 'em, keep the bad juju away, yes they do—but you catch my drift! Feet killing you? Oh, I know, I know, boots from Deeptown are notoriously stingy on the arch support. My cousin Pipin always said a good cobbler is worth two priests, and look at us now, miles deep in goblin mulch and mountain scrub!"
Barnaby slaps his knee, sending a fresh cascade of metallic chimes rippling down the wagon line, and beams with sudden, irrepressible enthusiasm.
"Though we've only got a few more miles of this winding trail before we're back behind those earthen walls, thank the gods! Because do you know what that means? The Festival of Plenty is just around the corner! Oh, I can taste the spiced wine and roasted mutton already. Three whole days of music, crowds, and absolute glorious chaos—my favorite time of the entire year! If we push hard tomorrow, we'll make it back with plenty of time to spare before the opening feast."
He leans forward, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial, highly theatrical stage-whisper that still manages to carry over the jingle of his bridle.
"So keep your eyes on the trail, maintain a cheerful disposition, and let's get these wagons home so we can all drown our road-dust in tankards of ale! Oh, look at that cloud rolling over the ridge... reminds me of the time I tried to smuggle three hundred wheels of goat cheese across the border... anyway, let's roll!"
With a sharp crack of his whip and another merry jingle of brass, Barnaby snaps his reins forward, waiting to see what his guards will do or say as the caravan prepares to move again.
The heavy leather of Kaelan’s boots felt less like footwear and more like lead weights sloshing through the dirt. Weeks on the road had worn the soles down thin, every jagged rock along the trade route biting directly into his arches. His broad shoulders throbbed beneath the weight of his layered robes, where the stonecarved charms and animal fangs clinked in a slow, rhythmic cadence with every exhausted step.
Even from a distance, the scent reached him first—the crisp, biting chill of Shadow Lake mingled with the greasy, woodsmoke haze of a city preparing for a feast. The Festival of Plenty was around the corner, and the air hummed with distant music, shouting drovers, and the unmistakable murmur of thousands of souls packed into an earthen grid.
He lets out a long, heavy breath that turned to mist in the mountain chill, "All I want is a hot bowl of stew and a deep tankard of dark ale as soon as we arrive." he says looking at Barnaby before they resume their march.
"Hear, hear."
The voice comes from behind, and sounds a bit lower than what would be expected. A young, almost teenager-looking female Dwarf walks, heads down, in what looks to be heavy steps. She's skinny, with the hair cut short and bleached light, pale skin, and a simple chain shirt. She carries a backpack but it seems light as well.
"'Aye could go for sum' good ale as well, too. Tha' thick one, not tha' watered down I've seen 'round." - she completes, as unpleasant speaking as she is on the eyes.
Helena could see the lead wagon an odd chap driving it, with some travelers walking on each side. A female Dwarf traveler and what looked to be a Human Shaman. That was a good sign, many races traveling as one. Not like some of her Elven Braveren who looked down on other races. They all looked famished and in need of a good ale. We time to drum up business. She Went back inside can came out a moment later with four large stains of dark ale in one hand.
Hide armor, basic clothing of a Babarion, on her back a two handed massive Axe. She moved fast for her size, barging a few of the others seeking to get the convoy of wagons 1st and sell there wares to the newcomers. One poor fellow from a ravil Inn was bonked on the head with the stines as dark Brown Ale sloshed out a little over him as he fell, out like a light ot the grimey street.
"Sorry there did not see you down there!"
She called back to him as she kept going out the gate and on to the lead wagon. For someone her size she moved surprisingly fast. and with deft maneuvers.
She came to a stop by the wagons and started harking in common her loud voice, Drowning out others who where doing the same.
"Weary travelers!! You must be in need a rest and fine food and drink, think no more The Blue Pirate Inn offers fine ales, wines and holsum food that will overflow your plate. A hot meal every day you stay all in with the bed price. Flop Dorms at reasonable rates for those short on coin, and rooms for those who are not short. little more and a room to oneself if you have the coin. So what do you say, I have samples mugs of ale for any who will come with me now to sign for a room."
She waved her hand with the Stains in, ale sloshing some more.
Nemib lets his gaze wander from Barnaby’s jingling wagon to the bustling crowd gathering outside Deeptown’s gates.
The promise of a warm bed and a good meal catches his attention.
A smile appears on the his face as he watches the towering elf enthusiastically offering mugs of ale to every traveler within earshot.
“That is certainly one way to command an audience. I suspect refusing your offer requires more courage than facing a bandit.”
He steps closer to Helena a polite nod.
“If your stew is half as impressive as your sales pitch, you probably earn yourself Lots of customers. Though I am curious… is Deeptown always this lively, or does the Festival of Plenty simply convince everyone to empty a newcomer’s purse before sunset?”
She hands her 1st catch and Ale, Looking down at Nemib
"You would be right there my Friend, and I have not meet a Shadowkin for a long time. I am from the great white at the top of the world, we have long nights there. As for Deeptown."
She moves waves her arm to indicate the town.
"They say it never sleeps, which means you can get a drink somewhere day and night. But the truth is with the Festival of Plenty it's more lively that normal, and.."
She leans down to only Nemib can hear,
"Good rooms are going fast, So best get on at the Blue Pirate, You will not be robbed, I will be there to keep slippery hands away."
She pats Nemib on the back, leaning back up she calls out to others.
"What say you others, take a room at the Blue Pirate, and the 1st ale is on me"
Kaelan let out a low chuckle, the rumble vibrating through the heavy wooden charms at his throat. Watching a woman who could likely snap an ox’s neck with her bare hands play the part of a welcoming tavern host was a surreal sight, yet she handled the transition with a terrifying kind of grace.
"If a woman of your stature guarantees my purse stays in my belt, I’d be a fool to turn it down," Kaelan says, his voice carrying the deep, gravelly cadence of the Varisian hinterlands. "After two weeks of trail rations and cold dust, a soft bed and a free ale sound like an act of divine mercy."
Danash continues to be preoccupied in his thoughts as they approach town.
"Did I clean up my shop before I left? I might have to when I get back. Wait, yes... no... yes. I did clean it up."
He smiles to himself.
"I will be able to get right back to my projects."
He is surprised when steins and ale begin to make an appearance. He puts his writing materials away.
"Did we stop at a tavern while I wasn't looking?"
She hands Kaelan an ale with a big grin.
"I ran up quit a tab drinking and if I bring in new customers Old Bob the landlord will wipe my slate clean. You can trust me, no one will dare rob in the place I drink."
Then as Danash stops before her she hands him her her second to last stain of Ale.
"Not yet we are at the town gate, but if you drink that ale I will take you to the Inn it came from with your fellow travelers. Fine rooms and fine ale await"
She has one Stine left she looks at it.
"Waste not want not"
And she downs it in one.
She looked around they where in thick woods, forgot how fast she moved and was some way for the City gate.
"Me and my long chankes, ran here all the way and now its going to be a while to the city."
The earthen walls encircling Deeptown are surrounded by makeshift tents and pavilions, creating a colorful patchwork of patterns. Wagons and beasts of burden sit awkwardly along the wall itself, sandwiched but still noticeable thanks to the height. Guards wearing red sashes flank the entrance to the festival.
Penants wave as the wind blows across the lake, carrying the scent of burning wood, tantalizing spices and exotic perfumes.
Barnaby’s long, stringy frame practically snaps upright in his seat as the sound of sloshing ale, booming Arctic elf sales pitches, and the dull thud of an unfortunate civilian taking a flagon to the skull ricochet off his lead wagon.
For a split second, his mustache freezes mid-twitch. His wide, panicked eyes dart from Helena—tossing around steins like a professional brawler—to the group and the milling crowds outside Deeptown's gates. Then, the pragmatic merchant reflexes kick in. He breaks into a wide, theatrical grin, waving his bony hands frantically to catch the attention of the surrounding crowd and his guards alike.
"Ah, look at that! The legendary hospitality of Deeptown! That’s what I’m talking about, my stout-hearted friends—civilization! Warm hearths, cold brew, and absolutely no more goblin mulch between our toes!"
Barnaby stands up half-way in his padded driver's seat, nearly losing his bell-adorned hat to a sudden gust of wind rolling off the Aspodell peaks. He points an accusing, laughing finger toward Helena's impressive display of tavern salesmanship.
"And look at her! That's the spirit of the Festival of Plenty! Though maybe go easy on the locals' craniums, my fierce towering friend—we need paying customers alive to buy my... ahem, wondrous and novelty goods!"
He turns back to the group, giving the reins a reassuring, rattling shake.
"Well, this is it! The end of the road. Let's get the wagons parked tight boys and girls, and then we can get squared up."
With a final, deafening cascade of brass bells, Barnaby guides the caravan along the makeshift market.
She gives him a grin, as he talks about her ravil harler form the Raven Inn. But his words court her attention, wondrous novelty goods. Now that would be interesting. The ones she had given drinks too looked like they were some of the caravans guards. Humm..
"Would you mind if I tag along with you caravans guards. That fekkow somes to have some interesting things for sale."
She says a wide grin on her face. A caravan guard job would be nice, she had been looking for new work from odd jobbing at an Inn for bed and Board.
At the sight of Barnaby snapping upright, eyes wide and twitching with pure panic, the shaman’s blood ran cold. Ambush. In a split second, Kaelan braced himself, his senses flaring as he reached instinctively for the primal spirits hovering in the shadow of the mountains. He half expected a hail of goblin arrows from the earthen mounds or a bandit warcry to pierce the cold lake wind. His sore feet were forgotten, traded instantly for the sharp, familiar tension of imminent violence.
Then, Barnaby started waving his bony hands and shouting about goblin mulch.
Kaelan froze, his fingers slowly relaxing their white-knuckle grip on the wood. He stared at the merchant. It wasn't an attack at all, just a theatrical explosion of merchant panic, triggered by the chaotic roar of Arctic elf sales pitches and the dull, sickening thunk of a flagon meeting a local's forehead.
A heavy, exasperated sigh escapes Kaelan's lips, turning into a plume of white mist in the Aspodell chill. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the stonecarved talismans at his chest clinking softly as his broad shoulders slumped in sheer annoyance. Of course. Leave it to a trader to react to a tavern brawl like it was a dragon attack, only to pivot seamlessly into pitching his own line of bell-adorned novelties.
"About time, if you ask me" replies a tired Kaelan.
Nemib waits for Barnaby’s bells to finally fall silent.
“Yes. A performance worthy of a stage, Master Barnaby.”
He glances up at Helina with a smile.
“Your recommendation convinces me, Lady Helina—if the Blue Pirate is safe under your watch, I suspect it is safer than most fortresses, and I would be honored to rent a room there.”
Turning toward Kaelan, he inclines his head respectfully.
“Master, I admire a man who prepares for danger before laughter, yes, that habit tends to keep people alive.”
His eyes then settle on Danash.
“And if your greatest concern after weeks on the road is whether your laboratory is tidy, I envy both your optimism and your confidence that nothing has exploded in your absence.”
Still somewhat detached, he looks over at Nemib.
"How could it explode? Nobody is using it right now."
He hops off of the caravan and takes in the Blue Pirate.
"So, this is where you're all staying?"
The Blue Pirate Inn stands in Lower Deeptown, just beyond the edge of Old Town. A modest two-story inn, its dark-stained timber frame enclosing weathered wattle and daub, exudes a rustic charm. Like many of the surrounding buildings, a wreath of fresh flowers hangs upon its heavy timber door, while banners of deep blue drape from the upper windows.
Stepping inside, visitors are welcomed into the great room, where sturdy wooden tables fill the space around a well-kept bar. The exposed timbers and plaster walls mirror the inn's exterior. Along the walls, an assortment of ornate masks hangs in colorful garlands, partially concealing the inn's usual decorations of mounted antlers and well-worn furs.
As Helina entered the Blue Pirate Inn, she walked to the bar and put down the empty Stines.
"OLD TOM!! I have got some!!"
The old Dwarf who comes around the Bar looks up at Helina then over at the newcomers.
"Come in, come in, take a seat, I take it you need rooms far travelers. SALLY!! SALLY!! Bring food"
Soon from the bar comes a Half Elf barmaid carrying bread and cheese.
As Old Tom dusts off a table with a cloth from his shoulder.
"And what would you like to drink fine Guests."
Helina nods at Sally as she picks up the empty stines and heads back into the Kitchen.
Tea please
Danash mutters meekly, picking a barstool to perch upon. He looks more like a frail bird atop it.
Nemib observes the situation and orders.
“Water please. Nothing more!“
The half-elf returns from the kitchen carrying a simple stoneware teapot and cup, setting them before Danash.
"Let it steep for a few minutes before you pour," she says before hurrying away.
"Hoy! Another pitcher over here!" bellows a square-jawed man from the next table, slapping the tabletop with an open palm.
He and his burly companion are broad-shouldered and fair-skinned with red hair and prominent noses; one with sideburns flanking his jaw while the other wears a black eyepatch.
Sally gives them a patient nod, gathers their empty pitcher, and disappears toward the bar.
The square-jawed man watches her go before his eyes settle on Danash's teacup. His grin widens.
"Tea?" he laughs. "Perfect! Means you've got all your wits about you!"
He sweeps an arm toward his companion as though introducing a royal court.
"We're about to play I'll Kill You, and every proper match needs a judge. Someone honest. Someone sober. Someone who won't start arguing halfway through."
He flashes a crooked grin.
His companion snorts, "That rules us out."
The square-jawed man ignores him with practiced ease. "So, tea boy," he says, pointing dramatically at Danash, "care to preside over a contest of skill, wit, and impeccable honesty?"
Despite his usual aloofness, Danash is a little tickled they're even paying him mind. He grins back and scratches his chin, hopping off of his barstool perch.
"Okay, I'm game. What are the rules to this game? Or rather, how do I properly judge your performances?"
Barad limits herself to sit more towards a shadow corner and order some regular ale. She's tired from the traveling, and not really looking too forward to noise or games. Some strong alcohol and a bed, that's what she'd aim for; baths at this point were optional.
To play, the opponents sit across each other at a table with copious supplies of beer, wine, or other drinks. A third person serves as the judge; he or she must not be allied with either player, and is typically a random bar patron.
The players take turns describing, in gleeful detail, exactly how they will kill each other, beginning with the words "I'll kill you..." They must take a sip of drink after every single word in their threat, and they must make the threats as entertaining and unusual as possible. After each player has made his or her threat and had the appropriate number of drinks, the judge decides the winner of that round, either by fiat or by acclamation of the crowd. A typical threat is something like "I'll kill you by ripping out your innards on the horns of a live goat!", which would require the speaker to take fifteen sips of drink. To win the game, you want to make the most entertaining threat in the fewest words possible. The winner of each round goes first the next round, allowing him to set the number of words for his opponent to play against. Play continues until one player passes out or gives up, which usually means buying a round for the bar, or until a fight breaks out.
The square-jawed man's grin widens as Danash accepts.
"A fine choice! A wise choice! A choice that proves you are either brave, curious, or have no idea what you've just agreed to."
He pulls out a chair and motions for Danash to join them.
"The game is simple. Two players. One table. Plenty of drink. And a judge to keep things fair."
He points to Danash.
"That's you."
He taps the table between himself and his companion.
"We take turns telling each other exactly how we're going to kill the other. Every challenge begins the same way: 'I'll kill you...'"
He raises a finger.
"And every word earns a sip."
He demonstrates with exaggerated seriousness.
"I'll. Kill. You. By. Ripping. Out. Your. Innards. With. The. Horns. Of. A. Live. Goat."
He lowers his hand with a satisfied nod.
"A fine threat. Fifteen sips. Terrible for the goat. Excellent for the audience."
His companion shakes his head. "You only like that one because you came up with it."
The square-jawed man turns back to Danash. "Because it was brilliant."
"Your duty is to decide who wins the round. Not who has the longest threat, mind you. Anyone can ramble until their cup is empty. The winner is the one who makes the crowd laugh, the opponent worry, or the judge wonder if they should report something to the authorities."
He spreads his hands.
"The winner starts the next round, which means they get to set the challenge for the other player. The game continues until someone admits defeat, runs out of courage, runs out of drink, or decides they've suddenly become very generous and wants to buy the whole tavern a round."
"Clear?"
"A fine choice! A wise choice! A choice that proves you are either brave, curious, or have no idea what you've just agreed to."
"The last option. I have no idea what I just agreed to."
He pulls out a chair and motions for Danash to join them.
Danash hops up and perches on the offered chair, not sitting very naturally on it and likely drawing some funny looks from his "new friends."
It's at this point that they might notice that the air very close to his skin is a continuously flowing breeze. Right now it is light and gentle, but strangely there no matter how he moves or positions himself.
He points to Danash.
"That's you."
The sylph stares back blankly and blinks, waiting for the instructions to continue.
... "We take turns telling each other exactly how we're going to kill the other. Every challenge begins the same way: 'I'll kill you...'"
Danash frowns slightly, awaiting the confirmation that the threats won't be carried out.
His companion shakes his head. "You only like that one because you came up with it."
The square-jawed man turns back to Danash. "Because it was brilliant."
Danash nods in agreement, dutifully.
At this point I've agreed. How regretful I will be... let us see.
"Your duty is to decide who wins the round. Not who has the longest threat, mind you. Anyone can ramble until their cup is empty. The winner is the one who makes the crowd laugh, the opponent worry, or the judge wonder if they should report something to the authorities."
He spreads his hands.
Danash looks around the room for his laughers.
"Should I... count them or just judge their collective gusto and noise level?"
"The winner starts the next round, which means they get to set the challenge for the other player. The game continues until someone admits defeat, runs out of courage, runs out of drink, or decides they've suddenly become very generous and wants to buy the whole tavern a round."
"Clear?"
Again, he nods dutifully.
Then suddenly his face lights up with a last thought.
"Oh! Am I also responsible for ensuring each participant takes the correct number of sips? Can a sip be too big or small? What happens if one of you brings the cup to your lips but only fakes taking a sip? Or takes a gulp? Or are these matters left to your honor?"
Well, at last it seems they won't really be acting out the threats.
Nemib watches the exchange with amusement.
Helina, looks on for a moment, she knew the drinking game and it was a bit of fun, until some drunk sot lost it, and she needed to step in.
But right now she was talking to old Bob about wiping that slate.
"A sip is a sip. The judge decides if it's proper. A swallow too small, a fake sip, or a dramatic performance with no drinking involved?"
The man shakes his head solemnly, sideburns quivering.
"Dishonor. Immediate dishonor."
His companion snorts.
"You say that like you didn't once try to hide ale in your beard."
The sideburned man ignores him.
...
As the game begins, the pair's increasingly elaborate threats and boisterous voices quickly draw attention. Laughter erupts from nearby tables as each tries to outdo the other with ever more outrageous boasts. Before long, a crowd gathers around them. Seated patrons drag their chairs closer while others stand behind the table, a colorful mix of locals in practical dress and travelers adorned for the festival.
...
The sideburned man pounds a fist against the table.
"I'll kill you..."
Sip.
"...by..."
Sip.
"...shoving..."
Sip.
"...you..."
Sip.
"...headfirst..."
Sip.
"...into..."
Sip.
"...a..."
Sip.
"...griffon's..."
Sip.
"...arse!"
He drains the last sip with a satisfied grin.
"They say the beak's the dangerous end. They never mention the other one."
A few patrons bark with laughter.
The eyepatched man snorts.
"Too quick."
He raises his mug.
"I'll kill you..."
Sip.
"...by..."
Sip.
"...feeding..."
Sip.
"...you..."
Sip.
"...to..."
Sip.
"...a..."
Sip.
"...troll..."
Sip.
"...one..."
Sip.
"...finger..."
Sip.
Hiccup.
"...at..."
Sip.
"...a..."
Sip.
"...time!"
He slams his mug down.
"By the time it reaches your elbows, you'll be begging it to hurry!"
The crowd groans and laughs in equal measure.
The sideburned man grimaces.
"That's disgustin'."
"Aye." The eyepatched man grins. "And efficient."
Both men turn to Danash.
"Judge?"
Before Danash can answer, the crowd chimes in.
"Griffon!"
"Troll!"
"The troll was better!"
"Nah, griffon's funnier!"
The laughter dies away. Both ruffians turn to Danash, their grins fading into hard stares. Around them, the crowd waits in expectant silence for the judge's verdict.
Danash looks sheepishly back and forth at the two.
Well... the troll threat activated a higher portion of the crowd, both in laughs and groans! A robust response. The troll has it.
He pauses to see if this judgement will draw ire.
Kaelan just looks amused at the scene wondering who came up with such a game. Probably a dwarf ... or a troll.
Anyway, he's not very interested in it, as he'd probably be unconsious before finishing the first threat.
The sideburned man's grin slowly disappears.
“...The troll has it?”
He looks at Danash. Then at the eyepatched man.
Then back at Danash.
“The troll?”
The eyepatched man gives a satisfied little nod.
“That's what he said.”
The sideburned man's eyebrows knit together.
“You don't think mine was better?”
The eyepatched man shrugs.
“I think the judge has spoken.”
A tense silence follows. The sideburned man pushes away from the table.
“Maybe I oughta demonstrate exactly how good my judgment is.”
The eyepatched man grabs his sleeve.
“Sit down.”
“Let go.”
“You're drunk.”
“I'm inspired.”
A few nearby patrons laugh.
Stood by the Bar talking to Old Tom and getting her slate cleaned off because of the cutsem she brought in. Her Axe leaning on he bar as they finish off there Chat with a hand shake.
The Wayang stays back and laughs.
"I am just glad that I do not have to play this game!" he whispers.
"That's quite enough Mr. Bastington. The judge's services are still... under contract." states a smaller man in the corner.
The sideburned man takes a moment but stops, turning to the direction of the voice and pauses, as if slowly contemplating.
"Hrmph. So be it."
The smaller man waits until the attention of the crowd begins to drift back toward their drinks and conversations. Then he makes his way toward Danash, hands clasped nervously before him.
He offers a thin, ingratiating smile.
"You handled yourself rather well back there, Master Danash."
His eyes flick briefly toward the two ruffians before returning to Danash.
"As it happens, I may have a bit of... work that could suit someone of your particular talents."
He lowers his voice.
"Nothing complicated. Nothing that requires the magistrate's attention."
A pause.
"Just some rough work."
His smile widens, though it does little to make him look less nervous.
Danash gives Bramble a curious but dubious look.
He responds in kind, quietly.
Nemib smiles faintly and turns his attention toward the men who have been drinking and playing their game.
“Hey. A complicated game and some rough work… those are usually the words people use immediately before things become very complicated, but you handled your game well. So gentlemen, since you clearly know the people around here better than we do, perhaps you can satisfy a newcomer’s curiosity.”
His eyes move around the room for a moment before returning to the players.
“Who actually holds power in Deeptown, I mean you might know that?! Like, are there any factions, families, gangs, or other ambitious people currently struggling over who gets the largest piece of it? Knowing whose toes not to step on seems like useful information when one has only just arrived in town.”
Kaelan just makes himself scarse, wanting nothing to do with the game or its participants. Drunk people? No, thank you, he thinks to himself as he eats his dinner.
Deeptown has a Town Council, which is responsible for governing the town.
Contract disputes and violations of civil law are adjudicated by the Trade Circle, a self-appointed group of the seven most prosperous businesspeople in town. Everyone also knows that the Trade Circle has considerable influence over the Council.
Exactly how much power the Trade Circle has is a matter of opinion. Some say the Council merely listens carefully to the merchants. Others say the merchants are the ones actually running the town.
What's Deeptown like?
Business comes first. Deeptown depends on trade, and the authorities take anything that threatens it seriously.
Money talks. Wealthy and influential people tend to receive better treatment than ordinary travelers.
The town is cosmopolitan. People, customs, and religions from all over the Deeps can be found here.
Crime is commonplace. Smugglers, thieves, fences, and other unsavory characters are hardly unusual.
The law follows the money. The authorities care more about keeping the peace and protecting commerce than enforcing every law to the letter.
The roads are dangerous.
Travel outside Deeptown can be hazardous. Caravans are sometimes attacked, particularly in the more remote parts of the Deeps.
There are stories of powerful outlaws and raiders who control stretches of territory and prey on travelers. Most people couldn't tell you much about them beyond rumors, and the stories tend to contradict one another.
Some say certain merchants have arrangements with the raiders. Others say that's nonsense.
Nobody wants to find out firsthand.
Religion
Deeptown has numerous temples and religious groups. Some are respectable; others are viewed with suspicion.
The town generally tolerates unusual beliefs as long as they don't cause trouble or interfere with business.
Like Kaelan, Barad just keeps to herself. The mercenary was grumpy even for Dwarven standards, antisocial, ugly, and constantly angry looking. At this point, she just observes the present, taking mental notes and focusing on eating and drinking. She very much wants to get drunk herself - but the kind of drunk that simply goes to her room and passes out.
As the drinks keep on pouring, the formerly sober Kaelan starts sighing heavily. He'll beckon his fellow caravan travelers and talk about Deeptown.
He speaks in a low voice, eyes scanning the place as he talks.
"First thing to understand: Deeptown runs on coin, not courtesy. If your purse is empty, you're invisible at best, prey at worst. The guards won't lift a finger unless your business matters to theirs. Merchants smell desperation like blood in the water. I've seen a man pay triple for a simple poultice because he winced at the price. Keep your needs close to your chest and your coin closer. Let them think you're just passing through."
He leans in, voice dropping.
"Second: this is a city of masks. Folk from a hundred places. Dwarves, elves, tieflings, priests of gods you've never heard of. Everyone's here for business, and business means no one asks too many questions. That's a blessing and a curse. You can disappear into the crowd. But the man smiling at you over a drink might sell your route to bandits for a handful of silver. Trust your gut, not a friendly face."
He glances at his worn hands.
"Third, and this one keeps you breathing. The roads outside these walls are hungry. Deeptown itself is rough but has walls and guards. The moment you step beyond the gates, you're in a different world. Caravans disappear. People vanish. There are things out there that don't follow the rules of nature. I've felt that kind of hunger before. It waits. So don't go alone, don't go at night, and don't stray from the path. I'd rather face a Deeptown cutthroat than whatever's gnawing on the bones out there."
He pauses, weariness in his eyes.
"And the last thing? The most important thing." He taps the obsidian stone at his throat. "Remember what you're here for. This city will chew you up and spit you out. It'll make you forget your name, your purpose, your people. Hold onto your reason. Cling to it. Because Deeptown won't give you anything. You have to take it, or buy it, or fight for it. If you don't know why you're fighting, you've already lost."
From behind Kaelan, Helina, adds.
"He's not wrong, this place will eat you up and spit you out."
She chuckles and her hand rests on her massive great axe.