GM Mowque's page

Ell gives Zache a disgusted look, 'Saucy today, aren't you? Going off to bleed in an arena get you going? Tasaristina knows how to pick 'em, that's all I'll say about that. Just remember blades go both ways." The Desnan wipes his nose with a finger, the sound oddly loud.

"Society at large, preferably." Ell says, with a twinge of annoyance plain on their face. 'Unlike some people, I am still looking out for the greater good here, instead of playing games. Games that count the score in blood, might I add. Not all death is going to be reverse, I'm afaird, like your friend last night."

"If you end up in trouble today, I'm just going to laugh. No one is coming to rescue you this time. Odds are, if you fall in the arena today, might be better for everyone. Maybe Tasaristina will give up if her vaunted....champion, fails." 'Champion' has a strange paused before it, as if they almost chose another, entirely different word. Ell gives an ugly grin, "Maybe I should change my advice. Die, the world will be better off without you. How about that for divine wisdom?" Zache gets the feeling however, whatever Ell is saying they don't quite hope Zache gets impaled on a spear for the delight of the crowd.

Or maybe they do.

They are a hard person (?) to read.

"Well, I see you are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after your little adventure last night. I suppose a little casual death doesn't put a pit fighter off kilter." Ell says bluntly, looking Zache up and down. They remain in the shade while Zache sweats in the bright sunlight. The Desnan doesn't seem to be sweating at all actually, a clear sign of magic on a day like today when even the very rocks seemed blistered.

They snorted, "Tasaristina is going to be away for awhile. I did her a favor last night and she is returning it. I would prefer if she made her absence in this fine city, " They pause and kick a small bit of discarded trash out of the alley, "permanent, but no such luck. Never is with Tasaristina."

"I'm only telling you this because she downright begged me too. Didn't want you thinking she had just taken off into the blue. Cost her another favor but she paid it willingly enough." Ell paused as if considering this, but then dismissed it. Instead they gave Zache another dark look, "I would ask if perhaps this chain of events had led to some second-guessing on your part but that is too much to hope for. Even I can see that much. So instead of asking you to go home and find a new hobby other then killing folks for sport, I'll say this."

"Try to at least limit the damage today, all right? Is that too much to ask?"

The heat is just as intense as yesterday as Zache steps out into the street. Sweat springs from his skin at his first steps, then wicked away by the burning unrelenting sun. A whitish haze seems to shimmer around Zache, filtering away color and distance into a flat heat. Heat waves are already starting to appear here and there.

Did the Boneyard have shade?

The Hellfire is quiet, as usual in the morning. It was a late night type of district, and today there aren't even the usual work crews on his house. Zache roams around a bit, looking for someone but sees nothing but empty porches, deserted for cooler retreats. Even the feral dogs and cats seem to have vanished, hidden away in underground dens.

It was bit unsettling.

Zache was just outside the somewhat familiar confines of the Hellfire when he spots a figure waiting in an alley, the only scrap of shade in sight. The figure is long and lean, wearing dusty leathers. High worn boots sit deep in the dust. A wide brim hat is pushed aside and there is Ell, large as life. Their pale face is unreadable as ever, strange eyes bright in the gloom. The Desna agent unhappily waves Zache over.

"He woke up early." The dwarf said, "Sent the night workers off, and told the oncoming crew to take the day off. Then he told me that he'd be gone all day, had some errands to take care of." The dwarf shrugged clearly a little uncomfortable about playing message for people he did not know. "The orc went off too, right after the sun came off. Didn't tell me anything."

The house is as quiet as Zache has ever seen it. The only sound being the crackle of the small cooking fire.

It is not a pretty result, of course. Zache has taken the colors, emblems and designs from Dretha Uldeth and...altered them. The streaks of red have faded to weak pinks, dribbled and dripped. The white grasping hand is a wrinkled mass, feeble as an elderly misers. Even the clan symbols that weaved over her imposing shoulders have been mocked become rabbits and shrews, little hiding creatures of the fields. No one, not matter how unaware they were of Orc symbols, would see it without understanding. This was a cruel jape at her expense, a wordless rebuke and insult.

Downstairs he finds Onrak, stirring a metal pot over a small fire. At seeing him the dwarf quickly ladles some into a humble wooden bowl. Not quite looking up the chef says, 'I..I don't know much about fighting. But this is what my father enjoyed before long days at the forge."

It is a thick luxurious oatmeal, as rich and creamy as a lord could have desired. The food is well mixed, and probably the result of careful labor. The rich scent is stronger now, a heavy nutty flavor tinged with spices. Zache spots tiny pools of honey floating on the surface, gleaming like tiny jewels. A few bits of apple float among it, tiny islands.

"I hope it serves..." The dwarf said, obviously still very nervous about this whole thing.

Zache did not sleep well. His dreams were a tangle of flames, unfolding papers and flashing blades. Several times he woke to see the bright Moon overhead, glimmering through the yet unfinished windows. While unharmed by the day's adventure, it clung to him, as sure as the smoke smell.

Yet when morning came he found he must have slept, for he awoke. The day was bright and hot, sunlight streaming in with fierce intensity. There was no sign of Tramp's workers just silence.

The smell of cooking oats greeted him, rich and tasty.

Today was the day he would fight.

The swarm follows after Zache, a fluttering unfolding carpet of paper. Happily it isn't quite fast enough to catch him, assuming he keeps his wits about him. The swashbuckler, thanking Trarn's constant training of his speed and nimbleness, darts out of the alley and back toward the fire.

A rolling layer of insects swarms after him, biting at his heels. Shortly he crosses the bare firebreaks and is running over the burnt ashes near the edge. Heedless the paper bugs follow him, crawling over ropes, canvas and wood. After a few seconds, Zache finds what he is looking for. A bit of fabric still burning merrily, the size of a small campfire. Zache runs directly for the crackling flames, boots kicking up ashen dust. The strange constructs follow relentlessly , tiny legs moving faster then ever.

Zache reaches the fire and leaps over it, graceful as a dancer. The paper follows, swooping upwards in the hot draft from the flames.

And then ignites. Like a magicians trick the whole swarm instantly alights in a dazzling flare, bright enough to illuminate the whole area. For a second Zache can see the harsh outlines of the fallen tavern, the faces of the few onlookers and the outlines of the rest of Outwall. Then the immolation is gone and the insects are gone, ash in the wind.

Zache is alone, again, admist a burnt ruin.

Zache left the body where it was, rifled through and fallen. Paper in hand, Zache withdraws toward the fire, which is still burning cheerily. The crowd has mostly dispersed by now, all the excitement gone. A few more civic minded folks remain to guard against stray embers and sneaking tendrils of flames. A few less civic minded folks also remain, waiting to pick over the cinders and ash for plunder. Kant is gone, probably drinking away his woes (or perhaps fleeing debt).

Tasaristina is also absent, along with Nicul and Tarylin.

Alone, Zache holds up the light blue paper to the firelight. The folds seem like the shape of some small insects or animal, crumbled slightly in his grip. Hoping against hope it holds a clue, he unfolds it. The paper is smooth and creamy under his fingers, and it bends easily. Too easily.

Something odd happens. The paper keeps folding, moving on it's own. Like some strange kind of plant it starts to grow, stretching out. It splits, replicates. Paper falls to the ground, where it too folds and duplicates. Soon Zache finds himself ankle deep in a small blizzard of blue moving paper.

Looking closer Zache can see each clump takes the shape of a crawling insect. Spiders, centipedes, beetles, all manner of vermin. Then, without warning they seems to come to life. A swarming carpet of paper insects scuttling right for him, biting at the air.

You are up, there is a swarm of paper insects attacking you.

The fallen mage remains where Zache left him, face down in a small alley. The blood has cooled but is still a sticky puddle under him, dark in the dim light. Still full of conflicting emotions, Zache searches the body.

He finds little reward in his macabre task.

A bag of arcane components, alongside a rather hefty purse of gold and silver coins (70 gp). In a more hidden pocket, Zache finds a handful of smoke pellets, a tindertwig and a bottle of unstable accelerant.

In the man's hand, the last thing he was grasping for, is an intricately folded bit of light blue paper. It looks quite small in the man's pale, corpse-grip.

There is nothing else but lint. Zache notes the man's clothes and boots are of very fine quality but without maker's mark or sign. No names stitched into the clothes, nor rings or jewelry.

No one replies to Zache's words, and they seem to echo in the night air.

Tasaristina, nearly at eye level with Nicul says quietly, "What god did she worship?"

The question surprises Nicul and he stops crying for a moment, shaking his head. "I...I don't know. We never..."

Tasaristina nods in understanding and says, "Then sit here and pray to the Gray Lady. Pharasma listens to such things." The cleric stands and dusts off her hands hands from fire soot and smoke.

"I do not know enough to say much." She says quietly to Zache, looking out over the fire. "I would guess this is a message, sent to frighten you. To frighten us. I must confess, it is a potent one." She glances down at the girl, her bright eyes dimming now, no longer painfully sharp. "It should not fall to her to bear the price of my failures. Or to you."

Tasaristina sighs, "Go home. I will take the girl and the boy. I am a cleric after all, it is part of my job to right the wrongs of the world." This last is so bitter even Zache in the depths of his own despair, is shocked by its acrid taste.

'At least Ell will satisfied. Maybe he was right..." She shakes her head, shoulder's bent. All of a sudden Zache's patron looks very old indeed, worn out. Still, she nods, "I will raise the girl, assuming her spirit is willing. One so young should get the chance. I have enough power and influence for that much at least, to undone some of the damage done today."

A longer glance at Zache, "It may suit us both to take more care. Even those who follow Desna can misstep. You have a dangerous day tomorrow, and I may not always be able to repair bad chances."

Tasaristina's face was unreadable, although Zache wasn't sure if that was due to the dark, the shifting firelight or some priestess skill. She takes in Zache's words silently, eyes bright. All she says, after he runs otu of words is, 'The deals of the Aspis Consortium are not lightly turned declined."

Still, her back is high and straight as they edge along the ruined tavern, stepping in the cleared out dirt and dust of the firebreak. Close at hand the ruins are in full flame now, a roaring fire that sends the crowd scurrying for cover. Tasaristina however gives it no more concern then she would a lit candle, and Zache does his best to follow suit (although it is hot enough to redden his skin). He still carries the blackened and grimy Nicul in his arms.

All too soon they find the body, just where Zache had laid it. It looks very small and very dark in the dirt. Tasaristina kneels down beside her, her own silvery cloak pooling around her. She rasies a hand and touches some of the girl's hair, still unburnt.

"So young..." She murmurs, barely audible over the fire. 'Who was she? This Tarylin."

'She was my friend." Nicul says, sliding out of Zache's grip. He crumples to a heap besides the corpse, close but not quite touching her. 'I knew her...from the streets. She was the smartest..." The gambler boy breaks down in tears, clean streaks on his blackened face.

"Adopting street orphans now?" Tasaristina says, her voice dark and bitter, dripping with reproach.

Zache Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (10) + 4 = 14

Zache realizes with a start, the toxic brew of her words is not aimed at him.

But at herself.

Tasaristina says nothing but gives Zache a searching look, "Tried to question him? What became of him then? Aspis? What is going on?" Before Zache can add anything Nicul speaks up, "Tarylin! Where is Tarylin?"

"There is another?" Tasaristina said sharply, turning as if to re-enter the now burning wreckage of the building.

Nicul shook his head, "He had her.." He points to Zache, 'Is she..." The unspoken question hangs in the air.

Zache's face must reveal something in the harsh firelight because Tasaristina's face slips slightly. The stern quality is suddenly mixed with weariness. "Take me to her. Let us see what will be seen."

'Tell me everything as we walk."

The crowd does not approach, unlike when Kant emerged. Tasaristina face and eyes seem to ward them off, like a lighthouse over dangerous shoals.

Zache hacked away fabric and ropes with wild abandon, risking slicing Nicul in exchange for speed. The fire was like a rising tide, surging toward them, throwing waves of skin-scalding heat. The swashbuckler knew the exact moment it was too close. He stopped sweating and starting smoking, as his clothes smoldered.

Still he hacked and was rewarded for his effort. A final heavy canvas layer parted under his blade and revealed Nicul. The lad looked younger then ever, a mass of black grime. He was thrashing wildly, like an animal caught in a biting trap.

"It's got me, it's got me!" His voice cracked, sounding like a child's.'Just like it got her!"

Zache looks but there is no monster, no trap. Just a haphazard knot of fabric locked around an ankle, drawn tight but Nicul's frantic exertions. In his panic, he had nearly sealed his own doom. A blow and the canvas parted instantly, and the boy rolled free.

It was almost enough. Almost.

The fire roared around them, a shimmering haze of painful heat that blinded and burned at the same time. The fabric and ropes around them burst into red anger, flames suddenly everywhere. Nicul screamed and Zache realized it was too late. The fire had caught them and now they would-

SPLASH

A torrent of cold dark water suddenly drenched them.

"That's quite enough of that." He heard a female voice say close at hand. As if his wish had become flesh, it was Tasaristina, standing on a suddenly very damp section of fallen tavern. She was dressed the same as ever but her eyes held no twinkle, none of the usual mirth. Instead there was...intensity. A power revealed, blazing like bright stars.

She raised a hand in the air and twisted it.

There was another douse of the cooling water on both Zache and Nicul. The fire around them sputtered and went out, sizzling with steam.

"Carry him." Tasaristina said, cool voice brooking no argument, pointing at the still prone Nicul, "The fire will return, this is no place to linger. There is nothing left to save." And indeed, like an animal coiling to strike, the fire was building at the little wet circle. Zache felt his clothes start to dry already from the ambient heat.

It is like being in a nightmare, the clinging tangle making it impossible to run or jump. The world was a smokey haze, the color drained away by the ever present soot. The tavern was jumbled mess of ropes, poles and canvas, humped and heaped in odd ways over fallen furniture and itself. This was bad enough but then Zache sees the real danger.

The fire is coming.

Like a sweeping storm, a line of leaping red flames are racing across the fallen detritus. Every bit of it, from the brightly color tent fabric to the torn ropes to the trampled carpets is fuel. To Zache's despairing eyes, the fire seems like a living, breathing thing. A hungry thing, eager to devour everything in a burning maw of incineration.

Then, over the roar of the flames Zache can hear a thin voice shouting, 'Help! help, it's got me!" The voice is wild and ragged, cracking like a child's. It takes Zache's bewildered brain a moment to realize, it was Nicul's voice, coming from a mound of fallen fabric not far away.

The fire is racing toward it, long tendrils already dancing over the outer edge of the pile.

The body is light in his arms, after the weeks of carrying iron bars, sacks of rocks and dead pigs under Trarn's judgmental eye. For all that, the loose shape seems to drag him down with more weight then a millstone. But there is no time for that as the tavern starts to collapse like a circus tent or perhaps more like a silken spider's web, falling with delicate grace to suffocate and entangle.

But Zache is not so easily caught. He darts for the outer wall, weaving among falling canvas and ropes. Not everything falling down is light. Wooden crossbeams worthy of a barn swing down toward him, crashing to the earth hard enough to gouge out craters, while heavy metal lamps clang like crazed cymbals. A heavy chain slithers in front of him, nearly tripping the swashbuckler. It is a crazy kaleidoscope world of sliding walls, falling roofs and flying ropes. Everything is imbued with smoke and dust, enough to blind the eyes and make Zache's lungs heave.

Above it all comes the hungry crackling of flames as the race toward them. Even now, Zache can see orange and red lights shining through the falling fabric.

Zache reaches the edge, the young woman still in his arms. Ahead lies the sweet dark outdoors, just a step or two away. But Nicul is nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the collapsing building. He could not be that far away he had just seen him...hadn't he?

His shout, in that strange unknown language, seems to somehow fit the setting. It swirls with the thick layers of smoke around him, mixing with the crackling sound of burning canvas. It carries over the roar of devouring fire, rising above the heat toxic clouds of smoke.

Yet the reply is not in the same tongue. Instead it is Common, creaking and gasping.

"You are too late." Nicul comes staggering from behind a broken torn partition, carrying a limp figure. It is the female agent that rushed in after him. 'The monster...whatever it was. It's gone..." The youth coughs horribly, a racking ugly thing.

Nicul is covered from head to foot in thick black soot, caked like a man working the black gang in a dwarven factory. He is limping but standing, although the black residue would hide any injuries. The same cannot be said of the poor body in his arms.

It is kindest to simply say she is burned. Arms, chest and face. All blackened and charred. It is more due to the clothes then any remaining features that Zache recognizes her.

Around them the heat continues to build, the smoke billowing in great curtains of gray and black. A reek of burning rope, wood and far worse mixes in Zache's nose. Above the cloth roof wavers and whips, like a sail caught in a storm. Tie lines snap, poles are dislodged. Without warning the whole thing starts to collapse in on them.

Zache bolts away, even as the corpse continues to ooze onto the dark earth. Turning around he bounds back up the alleyway, threading between tent pegs and ropes. In a few moments he is back in the larger cleared space.

The crowd is smaller now, the less hardy having retreated at the sound of 'monster'. Still, a fair few remain, upturned faces lit by the raging flames. The tavern is now at least half-engulfed now, a rising inferno. Twisting columns of flames dance in the air, at least fifty feet tall. The crowd has done good work however, and it doesn't seem to be spreading.

Looking around Zache sees no sign of Nicul or the female contact.

"How did you.." The mater sputters, totally at sea. His eyes rove around, seeking a way to escape but the rapier leaves little room to maneuver. In a second the man makes a choice and a hand dives into a pocket of his robes.

Zache does not make the same mistake twice.

The razor-sharp blade lashes out, the arm behind it forged from a lifetime of training. It does its work well, perhaps too well. In an instant the man's throat is a bloody mass, slashed open.

The man falls forward with a horrid gurgle, hitting the ground hard. He spasms for a moment and then grows still, blood pooling under him.

Zache darts away from the fire and crowds with the speed of a racing hound. His boots barely hit the dirty streets as the rapier flashes into his hand. Zache does not intend to be caught unarmed a second time.

Zache is far faster then his prey, and soon the young man is within striking range of the cloaked figure. The man is breathing so hard Zache can hear it in the dark, clearly this man isn't the most fit individual. Then again, maybe h simply hasn't had the benefits of Trarn's training. He gets within five feet of his quarry, matching him step for step.

So far, the cloaked figure hasn't made any sign it knows Zache is near.

Behind him he can still hear the crackle of flames and babble of voices from the crowd. It is growing fainter however, as each step takes Zache farther away. Around him the night closes in, deep and dark. Outwall doesn't have street lighting, and the Moon is not yet risen. Only the dim stars gleam overhead, too faint to provide any guidance.

The man nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns to Zache and the swashbuckler can see confusion, surprise and utter fear cross the man's face, all lit by the orange firelight. Then, he mutters some word and before Zache can react, vanishes into thin air.

It would provoke but you don't have a weapon out

Zache looks around wildly but sees no sign of his quarry.

Even as he does so a wall of the large tent parts, and a few smoky figures tumble out. On-looks rush forward with towels and water, helping them get away from the burning building. Zache catches a glimpse inside and sees nothing but a black mass of roiling, choking smoke.

"Ah, Kant. You made it!' One onlooker says, wiping soot off one of the escapes face. 'Anyone else inside? Plan is to just let it burn itself out."

Kant, the tavern keeper, shakes his head, "Trapped, they are trapped inside. Some kind of fire monster." At this the crowd exclaims in more concern. A fire was made enough but a monster? Gods only knew...Some of the onlookers retreat, getting away from the inferno. As it does so, Zache is given a gift.

There, down a dark alley not 50 feet away, is the pale man. Running flat out, away from the fire, the crowds and Zache.

Even as the swashbuckler notes him though Nicul agent says, "Nicul could be in there!" And she runs toward the burning tavern, sprinting through the open cleared space around it.

Zache finds himself on the edge of a growing crowd. Luckily, being taller then most, he can see over the heads of the jostling group of humans, half-elves and half-orcs (the poor gnomes and halflings). Ahead is a large canvas construction, taking up nearly an city block, or at least what passes for a block in Outwall. Sweeping canopies of fabric are draped over a complex network of posts, cross-breams and guy wires to create a large covered space, quite palatial by Outwall standards. Near it are a few flimsy shacks made of wood that act as stables, storage and privies.

The fire must have only started recently for only a third of the structure is aflame. Curling tongues of orange and red leap into the dark sky, dimming the distant stars and casting cavorting shadows over the crowd. Red embers are tossed up with abandon, like swarms of demonic lighting bugs.

Already the crowd is starting to take action. Nearby tents and shacks are pulled down and dragged clear, to deprive the fire of fuel. There is no bucket brigade however, for they are far from the river and Outwall has few wells.

Zache spots one unusual figure amid the bustling hurrying crowd. A dark clothed man standing near the edge of the crowd, the firelight playing across his bearded face. Unlike the others he is not moving to help, run or panic. Instead his eyes seemed fixed on the rising flames, watching carefully.

Just as Zache is decided what this means he feels a tap on his shoulder.

'Zache!" The swashbuckler turns to find himself face to face with one of Nicul's gambling agents. Zache can't recall the name, but he recognizes the young woman. She looks distraught, face pale.

'Zache, what are you doing here?" She says, confused. "Nicul said we were supposed to meet at the tavern tonight, something about a new contact. I got held up by something, I'm late. Were you there? I don't see Nicul..." She looks at the hungry flames with growing horror.

"You don't think..."

Zachle leaves the Hellfire District at a quick walk, boots hitting the road with considerable force. As he walks he eats the apple, the familiar taste a balm for his worried mind. The crunchy interior, the spiced skin, the soft gooey juices that run down his face, it all takes him back to Kaer Maga. The city of his youth and what still, in his mind, seems like home.

The streets of Urglin are busier now, as everyone emerges after a day of hiding. On one hand Zache feels somewhat anonymous as he makes his way to the gate. No one calls his name, waves to drops in step for a chat. The swashbuckler just moves along the growing crowds, unattached and unbothered.

And yet at the same time, he feels very very exposed.

Zache gets some luck at the gate which is still open, and manages to slip through before the desert giant closes it with a heavy thud. Past the gate and into Outwall.

If Urglin was crowded, Outwall is teeming. It seems that everyone wants to pack whole day of activity into a few hours between dusk and midnight. Deprived of a day by suffocating heat the public now erupts in an orgy of partying, business and exercise. The impromptu streets are full of people, carts, animals and goods. Nightmarkets pop up in every corner, sporting events blossom around canvas, and traffic seems conjured up by magic at every corner.

In Some places Zache has to literally push his way through packed crowds, shouldering through them like a man tramping through snowdrifts. He heads north, following Riff's directions. This is a party of Outwall Zache doesn't know well, drawing near Planeward, that strange area effected by the portal to the Plane of the Earth. You heard all kinds of rumors of unusual stones, gems growing out of the earth and weird weather.

For now however, in the dark crowds, it seems the same to Zache, if Outwall ever felt the same. It takes the swashbuckler awhile to find the right place, a tent city of constantly shifting alleys and buildings. Zache was just about to admit he was lost when he heard a loud rumble of voices and shouts to his left. Pausing and cocking his head, he can make out some of the words being shouting in the dark.

And his heart dropped.

"Fire! Fire! Kant's tavern is on fire!"

The man leaves quickly, mounting his horse with grace and speed. In a moment, they are gone down the now slowly filling street. The sight of a human on a horse in the Hellfire District catches many eyes but Vasis merely nods to passerbyes in turn, seemingly unbothered.

Zache, concerned, heads indoors and finds Riff holding a roasted apple. The orc is eyeing it suspiciously, sniffing it while Onrak watches. "Are you sure this is it? Is it a kind of joke, like it's a made-up food?"

The dwarf shakes his head and Riff goes on, 'But where is the meat? Why would you-" He spots Zache and stiffens. Clearly Zache's mood is evident on his face.

'What's wrong, boss?" The gambler says, "Something wrong? That guy outside trouble?"

When Zache asks about Nicul, Riff frowns, "He told me he had a meeting, way up by Planeward. Some new contact or something, the kid thought he might be out all night. He didn't know who the person was but that isn't unusual, we deal with lots of folks who don't like using names." His face falls farther, "It isn't trouble is it? We haven't done anything lately, just the usual odds and money taking. Betting has picked up since they announced the first fight."

Vasis looks disappointed but not surprised, "I had feared such a thing. One always seeks to find a mutually beneficial arrangement but it is not always possible."

"As for ends, I cannot speak. Unlike yourself, I am not a free agent, merely an employee of those well above myself. However, I will say, the best deals are always to be found early. As time progress and events unfold...." Vasis shrugs, "I doubt you will find the terms so generous."

The man hesitates, "A trader's job is not to force a deal or push when no longer wanted, but still I feel it would be amiss if I did not add. Your value is greatest right now Zache Slobodo. The longer you wait, the less you have to offer. Right now you are a relative unknown in a large field. Soon you will be a known quantity, with a known price. A price that may be considerably lower then the question mark that is being offered now."

"But your time and actions are your own." Vasis takes the contract, face slightly troubled, "I will take your reply back to my employer. At the very least this matter with the slaves is cleared up, to everyone's benefit. One must enjoy the gains made, instead of pining over what is unachieved. Don't you agree?" He gathers up the little portable implements, packing them away as carefully as a teamster with his wagon load.

Around them the world is shifting toward dusk, the sun vanishing into the western horizon. Overhead the sky is a blazing rippling field of crimson laced with orange streaks. Slowly, mercifully, the air grows somewhat cooler. Bird sogn starts, as animals emerge from hiding.

"Good luck tomorrow." Vasis says, "I am told the fights will be...potent."

Vasis Ilica pauses at this, quick eyes a bit surprised that Zache would hesitate at all to sign such a good deal. "Hardly signing your freedom away." He says mildly, "This is not exactly a covenant of indenture. Merely a recognition that you will seek arbitration and consultation before action. Reasonable enough, I would say."

"The other proposition..." The man ponders this, "I prefer to do one thing at a time. It helps to be able to focus on one item, instead of lingering doubts about something else. It distracts and confuses." But the commercial agent eventually smiles, "However, seeing as you seem a reasonable man, I will explain. I will stress however, the two things are not linked in anyway save by chance."

"Indeed my employer was desirous of a meeting between us, and was arranging one even as this matter raised it's ugly head. Still, even this unpleasant incident can be turned to the good." Vasis goes on, still un-sweating despite the bright sunlight slowly shifting to sunset orange around them.

"As you are no doubt aware, the upcoming Hakimlyq proposes significant changes in the ruling structure of Urglin. I.e, providing one." A small smile at the joke flashes across his pale features, "Clearly this means any parties who have a vested interest in the region, now naturally have interest in the tournament itself."

"At least in the winner, at any rate. You can understand this places the contestants, such as yourself, in a considerably powerful bargaining position. Like the traders in a closed market, this is a whole arena in which you have a freedom of action closed to others. Profitable, eh?"

"The proposal is simple and straight-forward, as befitting an honorable man as yourself. My employer simply wishes you to withdraw from the Hakimlyq. While we understand this may be a blow to pride, ego and personal plans but it contains no real risk. There is no penalty for removing yourself from consideration at this stage of the contest."

"As for the other concerns, we find that such concerns can be...smoothed. My employer is quite wealthy and powerful, which means they can provide considerable incentives. Money, power, among other things." The man shrugs, "Even laws can be discussed. A ban on slavery for example, would be within the bounds of discussion."

Vasis gives his most disarming smile yet, "However, I do not wish to waste any of each others valuable time by discussing ultimately unimportant details. Is the proposal of any interest to you, as a matter of principle? "

"Generally a good habit." Vasis allows, nodding, "Although one should never let a good general guide interfere with an excellent specific case. I represent a wealthy and well connected collection of merchants who pool their resources. A consortium, if you will. Of aligned interests and missions."

The man smiles, 'Many hands make light work, as they say in the fields."

"I believe I have a pen handy..." From the same pack he withdraws a well-made clerk's traveling case. With expert precision the man opens it and quickly reveals steel pen, ink and a small table for writing on. Everything is of the absolute highest quality but unadorned, even understated.

"Any further questions? I think you will find the other matter more...interesting, perhaps. More profitable, certainly."

Vasis Ilica makes a sad face, "Threaten is an ugly word, my friend. One entirely misplaced here, I think. I was merely postulating what might occur, if things were left untended. Unfortunate things. Indeed, I was sent here by my employer with the express, if not quite sole, purpose of preventing such a chain of events."

"As for what I am asking you to do, very little." The slim man went on, confident as ever, as if the talk of threats had been put safely and firmly behind them. "In the interests of good faith and a sign of common desire for harmony, my employer is willing to do most of the heavy lifting in making our clients whole. Hongar and Amander Rensslar will be made whole, probably via payments but there are other inducements on offer as well. Nothing you need to worry about, just that will prevent any hard feelings on their part."

"Your contribution would be small. Merely a promise to my employer that you will not engage in such reckless actions again. Not that you have to love slavery." Vasis hastens to add, "It has been noted that this particular site was being run poorly, with little concern for the lives and well-fare of the slaves. I am sure that was what understandably drew your ire and caused such...definitive results."

"We merely ask in the future, you can consult with us before such events transpire. Agreements are easier to reach before blood is spilled, eh?" Vasis says easily, 'That is all we ask. Well that and that you will hear me out on a separate, unrelated matter."

"I assume you have no problems with such an agreement?" Vasis says, reaching for a pack on his horse. He pulls out a ledger book, and from it, a single sheet of paper. "Your signature on this line would do nicely and confirm all the particulars to the interested parties."

"Not that I doubt your word, of course, but you know merchants. They so often prefer things in writing." Another disarming smile.

Vasis is surprised at Zache's abrupt launch into business, but covers it well. The slim man gives a disarming smile, holding out his hands. "Not so unusual, I think." For a moment the commercial agent sizes Zache up, pale blue eyes scanning him.

"Come, come," He finally says, with the air of one making a grand gesture, "You seem like an honest man. We can dispense with the usual half-truths and standard merchant equivocation, I think?"

"We both know your little paper means nothing. This supposed Көрәш combat holds no weight, even by Urglin's meager standards. It was not held on sacred ground, it was not declared in advance with the assent of all parties and, most importantly it was witnessed by a Blood Watcher. We have nothing to go on by your own signed word. By all rights, customs and laws of Urglin and Varisia, these men are still patently slaves. Pretending otherwise does neither of us any credit. " This is said with an air of disappointment, as if he would love nothing better then to be wrong.

"My employer, and their clients, would be well within their rights to re-capture their property as well as take action against someone who encouraged such escapes." Vasis shrugged, "Do you really think the Blood Watchers would side with you, if we brought this before them? Of course, this is Urglin, the frontier. Such a move might simply turn into organized combat, where your competence is unquestioned."

Vasis gives a nod, "Your removal of the hag places all travelers in your debt, Master Slobodo. Still, and I speak from experience, such things can become personal. Who knows what our clients might do, feeling so slighted and cheated without even a proper figleaf of law to hide their shame. You leave them little option but vengeance."

The little looks up at the sky, "I am sure you yourself are without fear of course. A man who willing enters the Boneyard is not frightened of a slave dealer or a spice merchant." A ghostly smile, "But such matters tends to spiral out of control, eh? Your friends, allies, all might find themselves.... inconvenienced by such a struggle. Your agent Nicul and his little gambling empire, your new-found friends among the teiflings, or maybe even the honorable Halman Wright. All might find their lives disrupted by insistence on 'legality' for your little maneuver."

"Not even the escaped slaves would prosper. Outwall is a large town but not that big. They would, in time, be tracked down and punished. Could you really protect them all?"

Vasis shakes his head then, dismissing all of that, "I think you would agree that would surely the way of folly. Of letting blind pride and stubbornness on both sides get in the way of a reasonable settlement?"

Zache watches the man closely, as they gather the horse's halter and lead it to a shady spot near the house. The man moves easily, without any anxiety, fear or the tension belaying violence. They do give Zache a small smile however, at the question.

It is entirely without warmth or any kind.

"Of course, of course. A busy man I am sure. Hakimlyq competitors have considerable demands on their time, I am sure." They tie up the horse with a good knot.

"As for why I am here...well, a commercial dispute, I am sorry to say." The smile fades, replaced with mock sadness, "You had a slight...how shall we say, altercation with the worksite of a client of my employers. A small matter of some slaves. Such things happen, of course." Vasis shrugs, spreading his hands, "Amander Rensslar. I imagine you recognize the name?" Zache's face must have revealed it for the 'commercial agent' nods.

"And of course, Hongar himself as well." Vasis gives Zache a long look, "I suppose you can imagine, nether man is pleased with your actions. The loss of nearly three dozen slaves is a considerable capital loss, not to mention the disruption of the building site." The mouth quirks in a strange frown, "And the the regrettable death of a treasured employee."

"I hope you will, at least, not bother denying it? We have several witnesses, and of course, your own signed statements." This last is said almost apologetically.

As if to change the subject Vasis looks up at the large house, still obvious signs of work going on. He makes an appreciative sound, adding "Very nice place, I must say. Urglin has been good to you. You must have a talented architect on retainer." He glances around, "Interesting neighborhood, as well. Would you believe, the locals tried to block my way?" He says this last carelessly, as if it was minor trivia, nothing more then small talk at a party.

"Happily, after such discussion, they had the sense to see that an unarmed man on business was no threat to them and theirs." Vasis shrugs, as if such things happened all the time. He brushed some nonexistent dust off his jacket.

Zache steps back out into the dazzling light. It is late afternoon by now but the day's heat has hardly abated, despite the growing shadows along the street. The swashbuckler squints toward the road.

To his surprise, he spots a horse, a rarity in Urglin. The animal looks well kept but sweaty, standing under the brutal sun. Atop it sits a man, who in turn is shading his face from the light and heat. He doesn't look like a kidnapper or slave hunter however. Small, slim and lean, with the pale skin of someone who spends most of their time indoors. Their clothes are quite fine but not ornate or ostentatious, made in a classic Varsisian style.

At Zache's approach the man nods, and swings off his mount. "Ah, excellent. You must be the Master of the House. Zache Slobodo, I hope?" Fine leather boots seem to repel the clinging dust of the Hellfire street. "Any place I can put my horse? It is not the kindest day for it to be out and about." The man doesn't seem to be sweating himself however, whatever his words.

His words are cultured and refined, showing clear signs of education. More eloquent then Zache himself, at any rate.

"Ah, my manner." The man adds suddenly, giving a slight bow, "Vasis Ilica, commercial agent. I presume your servant gave you my card?"

Onrak looks devastated when Zache pushes right past him (and the tantalizing tray of roasted apples). The dwarf shrugs and places the food down and starts packing his things, clearly sure he has lost the job. Zache manages to stammer out an apology and tells him to stay, before heading off to find Nicul.

This takes longer then one might think. Searching the house is an undertaking, considering the construction underway and the high turnover of guests. Agents, gamblers, workers, Zache has to search them all. Nicul's company is varied and ever shifting. Worse, he often holds court in out of the way corners of the house, out of sight. So Zache has to peek into every room and closet.

Nothing.

The swashbuckler heads for the door (after a quick shout to Tramp informing the ex-slave where he is going). There, strolling up the now-finished porch stairs was Riff. The orc looked rather jaunty, quite different then the addict riven man Zache had seen all those weeks ago.

"Hey, boss." Riff says, not catching Zache's mood. "Someone waiting on the street for you." The orc hands the swashbuckler a small white card. It only has two lines of text, engraved with indigo ink and a fine hand.

Vasis Ilica
Commercial Agent

"Says he wants to talk with you. Want me to get him?" Riff says, pauses and sniffs the air, "What's cooking? Smells weird." Then he looks closer at Zache's face.

"Trouble? The guy out front? He didn't seem overly dangerous, he came alone."

The clouds refuse to part for Zammir's name, and all too familiar experience for the swashbuckler. Some nights, despite his best efforts, nothing reveals itself.

So it is with considerable expectation of disappointment that Zache moves on to his next target. Hongar.

Mist spins under his hands, the glass ball ever smooth and cool. His vision is drawn in...

"You'll pay for this!" A thickly accented voice rages. "All of this!"

Zache finds himself looking at a small office in what must be an Outwall tent. The walls are made of taut cloth anyway, pierced by a few curtain windows. Bright afternoon sunlight streams in, revealing the usual furniture of a trader. Desks, crates, a few ledgers. Other furniture is more for comfort. A carpeted floor, colorful wall hangings, padded seats.

The shouting figure takes up most of his view however. Short and overweight, they have the olive-colored skin of a Taldane, although their accent is only a rough echo of the usual refinement. Their clothes are spotted and stained, worn out at elbows and knees. Not through overuse or poverty Zache guesses but simply through laziness. A red flush darkens his face.

"Three dozen slaves!" The short man barks, waving a thick callused hand in the air. 'Do you have any idea what that costs?"

"Of course, Hongar. I was renting them, wasn't I?" Zache's visions hifts slightly, revealing a man sitting on a cushioned ottoman behind a table, facing Hongar. The sitting man is lean and tidy, the theater's image of a merchant.

Hongar the slaver dealer snorts, "Yes, you were renting them. Which makes this your problem! How are you going to pay me back, eh? This whole tent would barely cover half the cost, Rensslar."

The dapper man shrugs, "I'll take care of it."

"Take care of it!" Hongar says sarcastically. 'And the money isn't even the worst part. "/b] He pulls out a bit of paper from some greasy pocket and then tosses the untidy wad at the seated merchant. [b]"Look at this!"

Rensslar did not deign to touch the ball. "I already read the ones returned to me. What of it?"

'What of it‽ What is all this nonsense about freedom and Көрәш?" He butchers the orc word.

Rensslar shrugs, "Some local custom, related to the fighting. I asked around, this Zache fellow seems to be one of those pit fighters."

Hingar throws up his hands, "I came here to get away from the Freemen and their annoyances. At least they paid fair price, instead of stealing my property. What do you mean, local custom? Urglin is supposed to be a slaver's paradise."

The other merchant shrugged, "I said, I'll take care of it."

'How?" Hongar says, taking a step forward, "Because if you try to stiff me, merchant, I'll hunt you down and-"

"I have taken the matter to my business partners." Amander Rensslar says smoothly, coldly.

For the first time Hongar looks uncertain, heavy face growing slack. Anger mixes with concern. "Ah...you did?"

"Indeed." Rensslar says, adding, "And I was assured they are taking a personal interest in resolving it. Do you doubt them, Hongar?"

The slave trader coughs and actually takes a step back, 'Well, no, of course not. It's just...well, a great deal of money...times being what they are....difficult business. You understand.."

"Quite." The smaller man says, "In any case, I will inform you of what happens. Satisfied?"

Hongar coughs again and starts looking for the door.

The vision slowly fades away.

Tramp is upstairs instructing the work crew on the finer points of laying tile. The former bandit has a taut string, coated with chalk and is using it to make square marks all over the floor.

"See? Make the grid first and then follow it, it's not that hard..." The older man spots Zache and nods. At his words, the ragged face lights up, a kid on Crystalhue night. "Proper ones? Tell him I want mine on a stick. Gods, how long has it been since I've had a proper roast apple?" The tieflings looks amused but unsure exactly what is being discussed. As Zache leaves he hears the man call after him, "And make sure he leaves the skin on! That's where the flavor is."

In the basement, Zache finds the darkened room peaceful as usual. It is getting increasingly barren after Halman's purchase and Riff's slow sell-off. Perhaps only a quarter of the original hoard remains, gleaming dully. The broken water jug is one of them, despite the obvious value. Maybe Riff hadn't found anyone who could repair it?

Setting the matter aside, Zache looks into the cloudy ball and thinks, firmly, "Walela."

The clouds swirl, dance and then part revealing....

A bright sunny outdoor scene.

"All is arranged then?" Walela says, the rather tall male Blood Watcher walking under bright sun. Another Blood Watcher is at his side and, with a start Zache realizes it is Annawan. 'This is the first fight of the Hakimlyq. Everything needs to go smoothly. A mistake now, would undermine everything."

Raining Summer Moon nods, "Everyone should be prepared by tomorrow. Do not worry about that. I inspected the Arena myself, it will be a fitting location." A pause, "Assuming all the fighters show up. Do you think they will?"

Walela seems surprised by this and says, a ghost of a smile, "You seek to distract me. Fair enough." The man ponders this for awhile, as they walk past sun-blasted rocks and sand. They seem to be among the usual ruins of Urglin.

"Vrem and Grusar will show, their Houses are too proud to allow a withdrawal. Besides, they love a fight. The paladin too, seems quite content to enter the Көрәш. Too eager, perhaps."

"And the other, the human fighter? The one who claimed the stars that wander?" Annawan's face is carefully neutral, voice pitched nonchalantly.

Walela shrugged, 'Who can say? They say old Trarn is still training him. Gods only know how that is going. Imagine that old relic as your Ögötsö. A bout in the Boneyard might be a relief. But few humans have the temperament...I would not be surprised if he fails to show. It would make our job easier."

Annawan shrugs at this and is silent for a moment. Ahead, Zache can just make out a door. Annawan then goes on, "You do me honor, Rock Falls in High Place. In choosing-" They step in the dark door and Zache's vision cuts out, like a candle blown out in a high wind.

Something had blocked the vision.

"Well....hope for work." The dwarf says somewhat evasively, avoiding Zache's eye. 'Isn't that why everyone comes to Urglin? Up and coming place, and people always need to eat. Although getting in ingredients seems like quite a trick..."

The bearded figure approves of the partially complete kitchen. Tramp has the walls and floor long finished, but otherwise it is a fairly bare space. The planned closest and pantries are bare cubbies, without door or cover. Two small ovens lay close to an outer wall, both unfinished (although one is already being used to make meals for the workers and Zache's friends).

Onrak nods, approvingly, "Nice large space. Areas for preparation, storage...the larger ovens will be outside? As for demonstration...Do you have anything stored?" They do, of course. Zache's little household requires a bit of planning to feed, clothe and house. Himself, Tramp, Lassi, Riff, Nicul, the odd teilfing worker that stays the night, whatever random gambler 'agents' that might show up.

The dwarf looks over the meager stores and then shrugs, "How about roasted apples? You've got quarter of a bushel left, and the other stuff. When was the last time you had a proper Downmarket street apple? We an even put them on sticks, if you like."

"Well, it's no Highside Stacks, that's for sure." The dwarf says carefully, agreeing but not insulting the new city. It was probably a tough line to toe.

"I haven't been here long, just a few weeks. Been living in Outwall, making ends meet. Just like everyone else." The dwarf glances around the still under-construction home, and nods slowly. Then he shrugs, "Before that though, I suppose we need to see if you want me. I know Stoneface gave me a recommendation, but you still have the final say."

"My father is a copper smith, and always said 'Business was like getting a tooth pulled. Sooner begun is sooner done.' So I'll get down to brass tacks."

"My name is Onrak Boldrummn. I know the Seven Arts of the Ignatul feast, all four Great Breads and I can make a zelnik that will put hair on your grandmother's chest."

This was rather impressive.

The Ignatul feast was a yearly Kaer Maga celebration, where (the better off families) slaughtered a whole pig and made seven dishes from the single animal. Spicy cubed pork, jelled 'cheese' made of the face and hooves, liver sausage, a wine-based stew, dried pork jerky, a black pudding, and garlic sausage. It was quite the experience, usually eaten over many days (although the rich or poor usually just bought the items separately).

The Great Breads were the mainstays of the city. In themselves, they were nothing special. All had differewnt names of course but the types would not have shocked most. A fermented Rye, a particular spongy flatbread, a cornbread and, of course poppy seed roll. But turning these to 'Great breads' required particular skills. The rye had to ferment for just the right number of days, the cornebread had to be made out of just the right corn, cooked in the correct underground fashion. And the poppyseed needed a kick as well as sweetness.

Zelnik was, of course, a savory pastry made by nearly everyone in the city. Everyone had their own recipe, varying wildly. Zache had seen rice, cheese, leeks, eggs, spearmint and every form of meat possible. The only constant was pickled cabbage, the stronger the better.

This is greeted with hoots of approval and much back slapping, and even the tentative slave gives a smile. 'Sure thing. I'll take word back. Will be worth it just to see the look on his fat face."

One by one the slaves trickle away, carrying their papers with as much reverence as jewels. Zache wonders what might be become of them. he knew, from long experience with the Freemen, an exit from slavery was not always quick or easy. Did these men have homes to go to, families to care for, a trade to rely on? Would a signed paper really keep away the lash and the chain?

Still, one thing. None would die here at this building site. Well, apart from the driver.

Zache heads home, winding through the empty streets. The late afternoon sun is punishing, turning the city into an open-air clay oven. Even the Hellfire District is quiet, pummeled into obedience by the fiery disc above. Still, Zache's own building site is not entirely empty.

Tramp has a small crew working inside, well in the shade. The swashbuckler notes plenty of water and even stools for the men to stop and take breaks. Seems to mostly be laying new floor, both wood and tile. Zache is about to talk with them when, on the broad half-finished porch, a figure emerges from a shadow.

"Uh, sir?" A dwarf says, stepping up. Their beard is short and elegantly braided, dyed with blue streaks. They are wearing clothes that instantly make Zache think of home. Kaer Maga cut, from Cavalcade if Zache is any judge.

'Stoneface sent me." The dwarf goes on, his Kaer Maga accent creeping in, "Said you needed a chef?" He holds up a heavy leather bag. It clinks lightly.

In a moment Zache is swarmed with slaves who, with little else to hope for, figure this is better then their current lot. For a moment they are stymied with a lack of writing utensils, but a quick plunder of the building site turns up some ink and iron quill (used for blueprints).

Zache signs until his hand cramps, writing 'free due to Көрәш – Hakimlyq fighter Zache Slobodo' in both Common and Orc over and over. The various slaves grin at this and a few mention they will have to watch the bouts now.

A few of the slaves seem less pleased however, and do not hand over any papers. One, a bit older then rest says, "I...I'm not sure this will go over well. Hongar might just accuse us of lying and beat us all, or worse. Sell us to the plantations." Anyone listening shivers at it and the slave adds, 'Not that I want to put you out, sir. Killing the overseer...well, I don't think too many people will be sad over that. A rotten man, that was plain. But freedom isn't so easily gained. I think I'll pass on any signature. Might just make other folks mad."

The slaves react with surprise, staring at Zache for a long moment. Then, with grins that worry the swashbuckler a bit, two teams quickly form and have at it. To Zache's relief, no one seeks to kill or even main. Instead it just seems to be a flurry of fists, kicks and shoves. No one picks up a shovel or a hammer (maybe Nulgreth would be disappointed in that). In short order one group is the clear winner, and starts drinking.

The losers look on, nursing their bruises and cuts.

"You like watching us fight, eh?" One ragged looking man sneers at Zache, contempt dripping from his voice. "Maybe make us dance next? Or maybe kiss your boots?"

'Idiot." Another loser says, his voice not quite as rough. Indeed, he is almost softly spoken, his clothes a tad neater. "Don't you see what he is trying to do?"

That man turns to Zache, "I don't know if it'll work though. This isn't really a fight, you know. Rensslar, and Hongar will not be pleased." Seeing Zache's face, "Hongar is the fellow who rented us out. They'll be after you, sure as the sun follows dawn."

The orcs take off without another word, vanishing into the empty streets. Zache wonders if it really was the heat, most orcs enjoy getting a free fight in.

Or maybe Zache's prowess really was visible.

Removing the shackles is work of the moment. And soon the slaves are free of the various manacles, leg-irons and collars. Another one or two take off, braver or bolder then the others. The rest remain, at least two dozen, all men, mostly humans. Even for slaves they seem to be in a bad way, poorly treated.

To Zache's surprise, some do have papers. Papers of a kind he recognizes. Whoever is running things here is taking notes from Kaer Maga, and uses the same type of documentation. Reading through Zache notes most of these slaves are merely being rented for this job, and are owned by some bulk slave supplier in Outwall. The renter is some name Zache doesn't recognize, clearly a merchant of some kind.

Amander Rensslar.

Zache is still grappling with this when he hears raised voices. Looking over the slaves are quarreling over the single water barrel. Everyone is thirsty and tempers are being snapping. Even as the swashbuckler glances over, Zache sees one slave punch another hard enough to send the other man staggering. A mass brawl is on the verge of breaking out as desperate thirsty men lunge for the life-giving liquid.

It was strange, after the fight in the tomb. There his motions had been matched, calibrated, contained. Controlled by a force far stronger then his own. While he had not felt sluggish or weak, Zache had by comparison, felt constrained.

Not here, under the bright light of day. Here his sword moved swiftly and surely, the steel flashing in the sunshine. It moved with all the surety of moral purpose, backed up by long training.

The slaver was dead before he hit the ground.

His corpse clattered to the dirt with little ceremony, a halo of dark blood instantly sucked up by the greedily earth. The slave driver looked very small there, crumpled in a heap. The whip lay at his side, a dark tendril of knotted hide, limp and loose.

A few of the slaves, seeing their chance bolted as fast as their manacles would let them, but most simply stood dumbfounded. The two orcs paused, looked down at the dead man and shrugged.

"So much for that." One says, then looks at Zache warily, "You look like you know how to use that thing, human." The last word is said with only a hint of insult, as if the orc didn't even notice.

The orcs look at each other and then back to Zache, "Call it off? Like I said, it's too hot for fighting." They take a step back, watching Zache to see if he pursues.

The slave driver's eyes narrow, catching both Zache's threat and the confidence behind it. He looks for a weapon and sees nothing, which gives him heart. Still, obviously wary he says, "Fine, you want to play it that way?" He raises two fingers to his lips and gives a shrill whistle.

From behind a pile of bricks come two lumbering orcs, armed with heavy clubs. They look mean, ugly and not too well fed. Slave minding must be fairly low on the orc hierarchy of wanted jobs. Still, they looked big enough to do some damage. They give Zache nasty grins but one says, 'Too hot for fighting, boss."

The slave overseer sneers, "Then it'll be too hot for payment. Now, get to it and get this trouble-maker off my lot! I have a building to build." And, turning away from Zache, his eyes fall on a slave who has paused to watch the going-ons (and take a break from carrying a heavy bucket of stucco mix).

'Gods! How many times do I have to teach you a lesson!" With that, the lash snakes out and snaps in the air, as the overseer prepares to beat the poor man.

Meanwhile the orcs move forward, clubs out, 'Come on, make it easy on yourself and we'll only break you a bit...instead of all the way." They seem happy to do so, even though they are dripping with sweat.

The orcs are fifteen feet away to the side, closing at an angle. The overseer is ten feet away, looking off to the side.

The overseer nearly jumps at Zache's touch and then scowls. "Who the hell are you? I said get. Do you have some kind of problem?" The man is a bit older then Zache, face worn and weathered from long hours in the sun.

The man then gives a foul grin, "Or are you looking for work?" The slave driver laughs at his joke, knowing full-well no one is looking for the kind of work he can provide. Zache glances at sees the slaves who, even by the low standards Zache is aware of, are poorly treated. Each one is sunburned, dirty and worn-out, with more then a few bearing marks of the whip. The mere fact they are even working today is a sign of their owner's brutality.

"Now, get lost before I lose my temper. Some of us have honest jobs to attend to." The overseer says, pushing roughly past Zache. "Maybe you can get invited when it's finished. It's going to be some rich merchant's house."

Trarn gives a frown, not at Zache but the whole world. Whatever weight has been pushing on him seemed to increase, his proud shoulders dipping under the load. 'I have not set foot in the Great Arenas since...since my last. I made a vow then, to the sun, the sands and the gods of battle. So far, I have not yet missed it." He turned to spit, saw a grave and then thought better of it. He shrugged, 'Worry about yourself Zache. Tomorrow will be a trial."

Zache left the graveyard alone, mind full of thoughts.

So he wasn't as aware as he usually was, walking the sun blasted streets. This didn't matter much since the heat was enough to send even the most hardened Urglin residents scurrying for shade and comfort. The heat rose and danced off every surface, creating curtains of rippling light and twisting the world around him. Buildings swooned, dipped and dived.

Which is why Zache was nearly bowled over by a small gang of men carrying a beam.

'Watch it, idiot!" A harsh voice barked. Zache looked up and saw he was amidst a building site. On what had been an empty lot, a new building was going up, a fairly large one. Made of heavy bricks, it already reached nearly two stories up. Gangs of men were hard at work, carrying timbers, mixing stucco, lugging bricks. Their work had them spilling out into the street.

Not just men. Slaves. Zache saw collars, shackles, all the cruel accoutrement the swashbuckler knew all too well. In his ears rang the clank of chains, the shuffle of bound feet and, above it all, the crack of the whip.

"I said, watch it!" The voice barked again and Zache found himself face to face with what must be the overseer. It was no Orc but a man, with a bright red beard. In one hand he held a coiled whip, and a stout club rested at his belt.

He pointed down the street, "Get a move on stranger, we have work to do." Something caught is eye and he turned with a growl. A slave had broke ranks, tripping among the bricks and heat. In an instant the overseer was looming over him cursing, "Get up, you lazy shirker! You think you are getting fed to lay around on the job? Get up or you'll wish you'd never been born!" The slave groaned heavily and struggled to his feet.

Trarn looks pleased with this but it is hard to tell. The orc looks stump-like as ever.

"No training today." he says shortly, gazing at the uneven graves around them. "Would be a bad time to sprain a wrist or crack a bone." A fairly likely chance with Tranr's approach to training. Over the last month Zache had picked up any number of minor (and some not so minor) injuries. Once could be pushed down a flight of stairs so many times before something gave. Magical healing worked wonders but it still often left...some trace.

"I have given you what I can." His Ögötsö said, "Now we will see what good it does. Take the day as you see fit. My advice? Your body is ready. Prepare your mind, your soul. That is where victories are made, not in the hand. "

"What you are supposed to do?" Trarn says, "That much is clear enough. Fight! With power and pride in yourself, for what you hold dear. To do as you see fit, for both good and for ill." The orc paused, 'I forget sometimes, that you are young."

"You fear the world is full of treachery, lies and twisted figures. You are right but the arena....that is one place is is clean. Let the plotters plot, the Blood Watchers scheme, the gamblers wager. On the sand, before the crowd, a sword in your hand...you are free! That is the one place, where will matches will, open and clean. Or at least, as close as we can be, this side of the Gray lady's realms. Embrace that Zache, and victory will follow you, like dust following a storm."

At Zache's questions Trarn pauses and actually looks around, like a slightly guilty child. Then, scarred face outlined by the blazing rays of light. "Every time." A nod, "Every time. Always mixed with joy and the thrill, but it was there. The fear, the worry...the doubt."

A harsh and painful smile, revealing broken and yellowed teeth, "Well, except for the last time. But that is not a tale for today."

Trarn looks very old in the blinding daylight, his face a mass of scars, burns and other unknown injuries. He almost looks to be made of battered driftwood, worn by wind and salt yet still tough.

"My Ögötsö did not see me in my full strength." Trarn says quietly. "Olugar took me....well, he was like a father to me. Trained me, raised me, turned me into what I am. Death took him before I truly began my time in the Көрәш. I have long wondered how much they would know now..." The face is unreadable.

"He knows what my answer would have been. Victory, what else? I had no other goal, in those days. To win, to be sung of, to rise to the top! What other dream seemed worthy to a young man, full of strength and promise? What else seemed admirable to achieve? To conquer all the odds and cast down the naysayers with the power of my arm and the bite of my steel."

For an instant Zache can see the flicker of what Trarn must have been, once. Lean and hard, hungry as a wild wolf. Standing on the flat sands of the arenas, indomitable will. A man who strode toward danger and mastered it, bent it to his will.

Trarn then shrugged, "It was a long time ago." A long pause and then, "You fight tomorrow, the start of the Hakimlyq. You are nervous?" he says this last question as if it is a fact of life.

Zache wasn't sure what he expected, but it was not this.

An echoing booming laugh, deep enough to shake the roof of the chamber. The blades on the altar clattered and shook, dust fell on Zache's head.

'Ah." The ghost of Olugar says, "We see Trarn has not changed his ways. Passing on his distrust of the Blood Watchers to a new generation. Good, very good."

The avatar becomes more solemn again, pondering Zache's question. "A worthy question however, one asked by other fighters here before you. Nulgreth is not the God of the Көрәш, and sometimes finds it's rule and methods too confining. A restraint over what should be most natural and free. To struggle and kill, to die."

The ghost pauses and then goes on, "Your Ögötsö would have an answer to this question, if you asked him. To win, to win so clearly as to place your victory above all doubt. To rise above stratagems and tricks, clever deals and ploys. Prove, with your blade in the sight of all, that you are the true warrior. That you uphold the Көрәш, unquestioned."

The ghost shrugs, "A fair answer but I would add this, Zache Slobodo. The Көрәш and the Hakimlyq are not just a matter of mortals. Other forces are here, some of which may aid you, in this fashion. We think this will not surprise you, we think, for we can see it around you now. A halo of silvery stars. The Goddess of Fortune walks with you."

The ghost holds up a pale, transparent hand, "Do not fear. Nulgreth is not a jealous god and does not envy their warriors. Indeed, he revels in such contests. What could be greater then to pit a divine warrior against others?"

"But in any case you are not alone. Perhaps the Көрәш is not a burden you must carry?" The ghost seems to be growing fainter, the light fading.

The ghost lets out a sigh and turns away, toward the coffin. With obvious reluctance, it places Angrim back atop the stony box. It rings slightly, metal on stone. 'Our time comes to an end. At least for now. We meet again, Hakimlyq fighter, in other places and times. Whenever they fight, wherever they bleed, Nulgreth is there." The image fades to a mere outline, shimmering in the dark. The voice fades to a whisper.

"Go, Zache, go with what blessing or curse the God of Blood and Battle can convey. Your arm will be strong and your eye clear.....and maybe some wisdom. As you asked. Go."

Then, so faintly Zache has to strain to hear it, the figment whispers, "Tell your Ögötsö.... we are proud..."

And the light fades, leaving Zache in subterranean blackness so absolute, it is as if he has gone blind. The world is silent, suffocatingly so.

Finally, the ghost entered a complicated cross-guard block, hilts banging against each other. This time Zache was not quite quick enough and Angrim flashed down like a hawk stooping on a chicken. The razor blade sliced his hand, just enough to draw blood, a cut more fit for a surgeon then a fighter.

Olugar drew back into the shadowy space of the chamber toward the altar, the floating figure unchanged. Zache was left, sweaty, shaking, bloody and...stronger. The lessons that Trarn had taught him were now imprinted, branded into his body and mind by blood and steel.

You now have Grudge Fighter and Deft Dodger

The ghost smiled, a strange look on its otherwise stern face. "Trarn never quite mastered that last trick and I see he still has some to learn. That is good, perfection is a dangerous thing to achieve." The ghost sighed and became somber again, 'Our time grows short, Hakimlyq fighter. Yet you have pleased Nelgreth. Speak, what would you ask the God of Blood and Battle? For he knows much that concerns the ways of violence. You may learn something that is profitable to you."

It was not a fight. A fight implied struggle, a context of skill, even if unequal. The instant the (very real and solid) blades touched, Zache could tell this was not that.

It was not that ghost was strong, even though every blow fell like a hammer. Zache had fought strong people before.

It was not that the vision was fast, although it was quick as thought. Zache had matched speed with those whose reactions verged on precognition.

It was not even that the apparition's form was perfect, but of course each move was perfection, a tight as any textbook of fighter's guide. Zache had learned from a master who thrived on texts.

No, it was the fact that Olugar (or what remained of Trarn's old Ögötsö ) seemed to know Zache's capabilities better then the swashbuckler did himself. Every cut, counter and block was met exactly, with no hesitation or delay. It was like fighting a mirror, not even a semblance of a chance of breaking the pattern.

And yet it was not a mirror because the ghost actually pushed him beyond what he thought was possible. The attacks were carefully timed to leave just enough time to block, if Zache was clever or quick enough. The Ögötsö's block left just enough space to counter- if Zache recalled Trarn's training. Each motion, each sequence of moves seemed to highlight his recent training. Footwork, balance, rugged resilience, all were not only tested but enhanced. Like a horseman trying a new mount, the ghost put Zache through his paces, including some he did not even know he possessed.

The ghost seemed surprised at this non-answer but took it in stride (well, metaphorically). It looked hard at Zache again and said, "Perhaps, perhaps not. Well, you have come all this way and brought us our old sword. Come, spar with me."

The ghost glances toward the sword and, with an odd expression says, 'I wonder...." They hold out a transparent hand over the blade, fingers splayed. To Zache's shock, the blade leaps up into the waiting grip. Not a ghostly outline of the sword, or a arcane copy but the real blade and scabbard.

'Ha!" The ghost barks a laugh, "We had hoped.... The Blood God is strong in this place and favors all contests of blood and steel." The ghost draws the blade slowly, clearly savoring it. The sword catches the ghostly light, turning the metal to a silverly stripe.

The ghost twists it a few times, rolling it in a warrior's grip. "It feels good to hold it again. We have missed you Angrim, Biter of Flesh. Trarn has tended you well."

The ghost turned back to Zache and waved a hand, "Up, up. Show us what your Ögötsö has taught you. I have long wondered how Trarn would fare as a teacher." The old sword is raised in a defensive guard, "Do your worst Zache Slobodo, fighter of the Hakimlyq. Begin!" And the ghostly orc lunges toward Zache, quick as thought, faster then a blur.