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The three headed out into the streets, Zache, Riff and Trarn. They probably made quite a sight, the aged hunched veteran, the still dreadfully skinny gambler and a slightly blood-stained human. They left the pig behind, Trarn commenting a few hours in the heat will make it that much better of a lesson.

Zache wasn’t looking forward to it.

Trarn and Riff lead the ay and Zache finds himself heading into a part of Urglin he has not gone before, heading down closer to the Ooze River. The swashbuckler can’t see the sluggish unpleasant watercourse, but he can smell it. Others are walking along to, clearly headed toward the same place. Apparently Riff was not the only one to hear the news and come running. Indeed, assuming Zammir wanted spectacle, he had probably spreads the news far and wide. Still, it mostly seems to be orcs and other residents of Urglin, not many Outwallers.

The buildings grow newer and nicer as they walk, not the ramshackle huts among ruins or ancient buildings of a previous age. Instead these are fairly well built stone and rammed earth dwellings, rather austere on the outside with little art. Most have a look of a fortress about them, ready to withstand a miniature siege. But there are signs of comforts, some with verandas and porches, usually on a second or third floor.

Then Zache spots an entirely different shape, a large round curving wall of wood that is at least twenty feet high. Dirt streets ring it, showing a great deal of traffic.

”High Point.” Trarn says, nodding at Zache’s rather surprised face. He hasn’t seen anything like this in Urglin before. ”One of the Great Arenas.” Zache can hear the capital letters fall into place. To his surprise Trarn’s face gets a bit distant. ”I have not come this way for many a year…”

Riff meanwhile looks less moved, but more intent. His quick eyes darts here, there and everywhere. He adds, in a low voice, ”Already bets on which of the Great Arenas will be used first. Have to see if there are any signs.” And the small orc vanishes off into the crowd. Trarn makes a face, ”Wagering.” And snorts dismissively.

Only a block away from High Point (Zache can still see the wall behind him) is a square patch of bare sand. It is ringed by a few simple wooden stands that are totally packed, wedged as tight as a merchant’s pickle jar. Clearly this is not a place used to many spectators.

The sand is not totally featureless however. Wooden pillars and posts stick out in odd places, reminding Zache of his own much smaller training site. Indeed, this seems to be the same idea just larger, set up to be flexible and allow any sort of training. Scaffold for climbing, a waist deep pit for jumping, posts with arms for hanging things. To his relief there are no pigs in sight.

Zache sees no sign of either competitor yet. More annoyingly, it was going to be hard to find a good vantage.

Trarn gives Zache a knowing look. "Scared of death? Good." Whatever Zache had expected to hear, it wasn't that. Wasn't this whole blasted city always going on about death in fights?

Seeing his face, the old orc gives a rasping chuckle, mixed with a painful cough, "Any fool can march into the pit, sure of victory and have his head bashed in with a rock. A true warrior knows death is ever at hand and seeks to master it, defeat it, if only for a day. Luck, skill, cleverness. Whatever forms it takes that day, that fight. The fear of death is what ever good fighter needs."

"As for the Hakimlyq, ' Trarn shrugs, "That has never been a Hakimlyq before, so who knows? The Көрәш is not always, but often is. Zammir must want to make a statement. A bloody one." Trarn sounds eager to witness such a gory spectacle.

Riff adds, "Yeah, heard it on the street. Everyone in the city is talking about it. Zammir always puts on a show, when he is in the city."

Riff still looked a bit nervous, glancing at Trarn who prowled like a lion. Coughing he says, "Um...Zammir is back in town and he has challenged another Hakimlyq fighter to an early bout. To the death!"

Trarn perks up at the last, looking interested, "Zush's adopted son I know. Who is the other fighter?"

Riff shrugs, "Some oread no one takes seriously. Still, they are entered and would be fighting."

Trarn looks thoughtful for a moment, staring at the swaying, bleeding pig. "A show of force? Or merely bloody mindedness? Either way, a foolish ploy." The elderly orc looks at Zache, "He reveals his fighting style and state of mind. Something we should not overlook. When is the bout?" Trarn says, without looking (Riff seems perfectly fine to not make eye contact with the gnarled, deformed orc).

"Um..in an hour. They are holding it in the Sweat."

Trarn frowns, "A training ground? Why there?"

Riff shrugs, "The oread says he was nervous and that is the only place he has been so far."

Zache thought back to that lone oread, meditating before the closed gate. The same person?

Tasaristina laughs, ”I would not worry overmuch about that.” The cleric gives him a look, ”Imagine it from the point of view of a local. They have never known order, barely dreamed of it. To such a…anarchist a new leader is out of their ken. Even for the Outwallers, most are on the run from kings and masters. They will realize what is going on.” Her face darkens and grows a bit sad, ”Even if it is too late.”
Then she shrugs, ”All the more reason to put on a show on our way to victory, eh? Much may rely on the reach of your rapier.” A glance at the fallen golem, ” Still, you seem capable enough. Not even a scratch.” Once again she hesitates, pauses and then says, ”I have found a great deal of wisdom in the value of…determination. Stick at something long enough, and it tends to work out.”
With that they went their separate ways, into the dark of Urglin. Zache back to his home, Tasaristina off to…wherever she went. Where did she sleep? Did she sleep?

Two days later….

”Put your back into it!” Trarn growled, voice as harsh as the baking sun. Zache stood, stripped to the waist, sword in hand, confronting….a trussed up pig. Trarn, having heard about the blood golem, has decided his charge needed more experience with blood and gore. Hence the dead beast hanging in front of him. He was to practice his sword strokes on it, ignoring the viscera that soon liberally coated the area. The animal as fresh (thank the gods of men and orcs) but flies were starting to hone in on the iron scent. Farther away a few crows watched, black feathers gleaming in the bright light.
It was a hot day even by Urglin standards, without even a trace of clouds. Just a pure blinding sun. A great day for butchery, Trarn had said.
Zache was gearing himself up for another round when a figure arrives off the street, furtively slinking into the training area. It is Riff, the little orc looking anxious. He coughs nervously. Trarn looks at him then grins with broken, stubby teeth. ”Ah, grist for the mill. You will do even better then a pig.” Riff glances at the semi-mutilated porcine target and visibly pales.
”A…message for Zache.”

"Often?" Tasaristina said softly, "No but I would be amiss if I didn't admit I have occasionally be found to be...undesired by certain parties. Given your words about Zush, I would be foolish to ignore the possibility. That said, a blood golem doesn't really seem his style." She eyes the bloody remains with obvious displeasure, 'And I will also add, rarely have I been attacked with such a...disgusting weapon. Still, it could also have been after you, of course. Any fighter is a target."

She looks thoughtful at this, looking from the fallen construct to Zache. Her mouth opens as if to speak but she second-guesses herself and remains silent.

At his words about the Hakimlyq She brightens somewhat, 'I might be able to help you there. Through rather assiduous searching, I have some inkling of what may lie ahead. It seems the Blood Watchers are thinking some major brawls to start off, something to catch the eye of the populace. Unusual and dramatic. Then, once the dust settles, and they have....shifted the chaff, things will settle to more traditional one on one duels. They expect it to take some weeks, at least."

"I have it on good authority some monsters and beasts have been acquired, to be used in some fashion."

At his comments about Trarn Tasaristina is less certain. 'I am not expert on orc culture. It is not something I have studied before coming to this place. Much like you, I am an...unintended participant. From what I gather however the Ögötsö is a tradtional role given to a trainer, a guide, a mentor to any young fighter. It is an old fashioned concept, one that has mostly fallen out of favor as the Blood Works have become more...How would one put it...debased? It is more of a social, martial and even commercial event instead of a religious one. I gather the Көрәш was once more of a spiritual event, even if just as bloody."

Zache's first blow dives deep into the construct's chest, strong enough that it would have killed any living thing. For a machine however...it merely left a gaping, weeping hole. The sight of bubbling coagulating blood was disturbing enough to throw off Zache's next strike (which would surely have annoyed Trarn. Something else to train on?).

Still, he set his feet and waiting for the lumbering giant to strike back and, thus, open to more attacks. Aggressive attack, patient defense, crippling counter blows. That was how Zache had always fought and Trarn had done nothing but encouraged it, pushing Zache to greater creativity and mobility.

Here was the training in action.

Blood Golem smash: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (12) + 10 = 22

A sopping dripping arm swung down towards Zache with the force of a runaway cart. The swashbuckler danced away however, feet barely scraping the gritty dirt. Then, with a flash, Zache counter attacked, stabbing deep into the now exposed armpit. The construct did not react, of course, but merely followed up with another blow.

Slam 2!: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (6) + 10 = 16

This one was even slower, and Zache was ready. He dodged to the left, leapt up on a knee bit of stone and launched himself upward at the looming shape. The sword flashed and then slammed into the half-formed face of the machine. With a sickening slurp the blade vanished into the head, a fountain of blood gushing out.

With a gurling sound the construct toppled, nearly pulling Zache down with it. Instead it hit the ground alone, hard enough to burst whatever magics were holding it together. Like a butcher's accident it splattered itself across the ground in a bloody, oozing mess. It reeked even worse, am unholy combination of old wounds and fresh meat.

Nice rolls and crits! You won, without a scratch

From her spot Tasaristina makes a disgusted face, and waves her hand. The light slowly dims, flickers and goes out. 'I don't think we need more attention then strictly required." The cleric says. She looks at the fallen construct, "The real question, of course, was it sent for you or for me?"

The Desnan quirked a smile at Zache, "So the training seems to be working?"

Tasaristina looks surprised but quite scared of the disgusting thing lumbering toward them. She raises an eyebrow at it, "A blood golem. How revolting." With alacrity she steps back, like an actor yielding the floor to Zache.

Still, even her words give the swashbuckler some help. A golem is a construct. This is not some natural beast or even mistaken necromantic byproduct. It is a machine, a purpose built creation.

'I think some light will be well received?" Tasaristina comments, raising a fair hand. Close by a knee stump of some long forgotten pillar starts to glow with a silvery light, strong enough to cast shadows.

You are in normal light

The construct seems unbothered by this and simply comes at Zache with all the grace of a drunken boxer. And perhaps the power of one too.

As soon as it steps within range, Zache lashes out with his blade, which shines as bright as any star in the divine light.

...and it simply bounces off a hardened scab like protrusion.

This is going to be harder then he thought. Zache has just enough time for this before a poorly shaped fist swings toward his head.

Golem Punch!: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 20

Zache manages to dodge and weave out of the way, using his blade to guide the swatting hand. It passes without damage (except for the rank stink of the dried blood).

The golem is at least a head taller then him, a greasy tower of oozing blood. Scarlet liquid seeps out of a dozen places, pooling in sticky puddles around its feet. Zache had a horrid thought. Where had the blood come from?

You are up, it is right next to you

Tasaristina raises an eyebrow at the news about Zammir, "I hadn't heard that. Where did you come across that slice of information? If it's true....keep your sword close. Zammir has a reputation as black as a coal shaft. Odds are, they will try to thin out the competition before the matches even start."

She chuckles at the idea of being a 'worst enemy' saying, "Vakk Zush carries his own enemies with him. I hardly need do anything to upset his balance. Too clever by half, that one." A statement that Zache might apply to others, closer at hand....

His words about the Taldane seem to get through to her, and she stops her graceful, meandering walk. For a moment she is silent in the gloom, face hidden by shadow. "I will fully admit, Master Hispalla seems...formidable. A monster however? A charming one, if so. But your point is well taken, the Aspis chose well with that I think, at least if one only weighs martial prowess."

Here come the platitudes, Zache can almost taste them on the night air. How he had 'heart' or 'purpose', or maybe even some remark about Desna. All of that seemed thin armor to a man Zache just saw nearly butcher three orcs in a handful of heartbeats. Unarmed.

"You are scared."Tasaristina says, mildly, with no judgement in her voice. "I can hardly blame you. But I would not lose sleep quite yet. No one, at least as far as I am aware, has an Ögötsö, let alone one as....redoubtable. None have slayed a hag, or survived a volcanic eruption or..." Her smile is visible as well as audible, "Earned a Spherewalker as friend and ally. Surely that all counts for something, Zache? I would not send you forth if I had no hope in your victory."

'At least, I hope you know that." She says, voice suddenly soft, as if worried Zache might just think that of her.

Before she can go on, there is a noise. Something in the shadows, something not very careful or quiet. Footsteps scraping in the dust. A figure looms from behind a pile of stones. Before Zache can move, it staggers into the dim starlight.

It is a sickening horror.

A humanoid shape, but taller and broader then Zache made out of clotted, drying blood. It is poorly shaped, as if by a child's hands but it seems large and strong despite that. The iron tang of blood fills Zache's nose, wafting off the creature. It raises a nauseating fist and moves toward them at a strange, almost mechanical gait. It makes no sound except a disturbing creaking and sloshing, as if the inside is filled with thick liquids.

The construct is 25 feet away, dim light. Moving toward you. You get the first move

The dwarf grunts sourly and says, "You might s well grab a seat then. You can be the second human to beat be at Stromgir tonight." He gives Tasaristina a stern look.

The woman just shrugs and laughs lightly, "Call it beginners luck, Horgroth. Maybe it is just my night, eh?"

Horgoth grunts again, chair creaking.

Zache wanders out of the room, into the dark outdoors. Well, sort of outdoors. The Urglin wall looms close at hand, a black massif of cracked and gnarled stone. Around him there is a somewhat open space before Outwall really begins, a bare of open ground area just under the wall. The soil is gravel and sand, marked here and there with fist sized stones.

Above the stars and Moon shine brightly in the darkness, undimmed by any torch or firelight. White, red and blue gleams, endlessly distant. Somewhere a nightbird cries, cutting through the night. Zache is not out there long before a shadowy figure appears at his side.

Tasaristina's smile is visable in the dark, bright teeth shining in a her dark face. Once again Zache is struck by how the woman is both beautiful and ageless. She isn't...young exactly but certainly not old. Her dusty cloak glides across the dirt with elegance.

"Sorry I have not visited lately." She says, voice low in the dark. "Social obligations have kept me busy. The training is going well, I trust? Trarn has kept at it, so you must be reaching his standards. Good, good. And the house? All goes well in the Hellfire? Worse places to build."

She slowly paces away from Stonefaces, keeping to the empty liminal space between wall and town. The darkness seems to hold no danger for her, and she walks as confidently if it was midday.

She looks out at the shacks and tents at hand, the lights distant and muted. "So, to what do I owe this increasingly late visit? I hope nothing too worrisome."

Stoneface shrugs, obviously not much to say but then brightens, "Actually. I heard through the grapevine you are opening a restaurant in that place of yours, in the Hellfire District. Bold move, but aside, I have a possible chef in mind. Down on their luck, looking for work. I'll send them your way? No promises, you be the judge.Just being a friendly neighbor." The man smiles and Zache knows, while it is a friendly gesture, it also binds them together just a bit more.

No one seems to mind having a Hakimlyq as a friend.

For now.

Business done, Stoneface allows Zache to enter the main room, adding that if the swashbuckler wished to stay, he was welcome.

The room was not quite as crowded as the pervious evening, and a few tables and chairs are empty. Still, there was at least three dozen people drinking, talking, dancing or gambling. Zache sees a range of races and peoples, but no orcs or Blood Watchers.

Zache pauses at Tasaristina's table, casual as any random passerby. The cleric doesn't say anything but her eye meets his, pleasant surprise in their bright pupils. Still, she turns back to her game.

The dwarf, looking up, notes Zache, "Somethin' I can help you with?" His voice is a bit curt and rude, but not offensively so.

Stoneface looked unsurprised at his first words. 'Figures." The man said, his nod almost lost in the dim light. Through the thin wall, Zache could hear laughter and drinking, only somewhat muffled. "Aspis boys are paying him too much to back out. Enough to buy a a province, they say."

"It'll change the betting odds." Stoneface adds, "Anyone they bring it from that far, they'll be good. I don't know much about Taldane pits but odds are he knows which end of a sword to use. " The man gives a lopsided smile, part of it quirked by the frozen stony skin. "So do you, I hear. Training under Trarn Igzuuk himself. He was before my time, but you hear the stories. Is he all they say?"

Feel free to answer

Zache's other news came as a clear surprise to the man, who stiffened. "Zammir....I wondered." Stoneface's words are a whisper, more to himself then to Zache. "Old Vakk's adopted son....trouble on two legs. If he is coming back to the city....." He looked right at Zache, "All bets are off, literally and figuratively."

The man pauses, "That is worth more then a tidbit. I am in your debt. You say just out for a bit tonight? You need help getting where you are going? Or a quiet word in your favor? I know people in Outwall, more every day."

It was easier said then done, finding the spot where Stoneface's tunnel emerged. Last time it had been dark and Zache had been going the other way. Still, weeks in the city had given the swashbuckler at least a general grasp of the local geography.

And it was night now.

The streets of Urglin felt...unsafe. They always did of course but tonight Zache's finely tuned senses (gained after a lifetime on Kaer Maga's streets) warned of danger, of watching eyes. The swashbuckler saw nothing but what did that mean?

At the crumbling shack, he stepped inside, only to find the same guard as last time. The man sized Zache up, shrugged and said, "Go on.". And so Zache went down the dark tunnel, under the wall. It was just as dark and quiet as before, more so since he was alone. The only sound were his own footsteps and breathing.

At the other end, Zache found himself once again in that small closet like-room. There was another guard, someone Zache didn't know. The heavy-set half-orc scowled at the swashbuckler. "Wait here." They intoned, voice deep. "I'll get the boss."

They left Zache alone in the little room. To Zache's surprise they left the door slightly cracked behind them, the hinges a bit rusty. Zache peered through the narrow strip of light at the much larger room beyond.

To his surprise, right in the middle of his limited viewing....was Tasaristina!

The Desnan cleric, wearing her usual silvery robes was seated at a small table in a back corner. With her was a stocky dwarf, beard braided into intricate whorls. Both of them were doing...something?

A teetering tower of small metal sticks lay between them, reaching up off the wooden table. Slowly Tasaristina reached out and removed a single metal piece. The tower wobbled but then settled. The cleric grinned. The dwarf did the same, removing a tiny sliver of gleaming steel. The tower wavered, leaned and then, with a loud clatter, fell over. Pieces scattered everywhere, the table, the floor and even in Tasaristina drink.

The dwarf grunted something in his own language and then grabbed a tankard and started drinking. Tasaristina started picking up metal bits and re-building the tower.

Before Zache could ponder this strange sight any further, Stoneface came in. He closed the door behind them, placing them in the dark. The...gambler? Criminal? Information broker? looked just as rough as before.

"You know, you are the only Hakimlyq fighter sneaking around. The rest have people for this sort of thing." He idlily scratched at his petrified cheek. "What can I do for you today?"

Riff is looking healthier after several weeks. Under Lessi's watchful (wrathful) eyes, the orc hasn't had a taste or touch of leaf and it has done him well. He has filled out, somewhat, and has lost some of his shakes and tremors. With the weight has come some confidence, a bit of a swagger.

Zache hoped it wouldn't go to his head.

The swashbuckler finds the orc seated at a table in a half-finished room, one free of Tramp's workers. On the table is a small pile of ancient coins that Riff is eyeing, weighing, spinning.

Spotting Zache he gives a grin, "Trying to find the shaved ones. Seems like even in ancient days they were trying to cheat the scales." he laughs, 'Turns out the collectors like the clipped ones more. Funny!"

At Zache's question he taps the table with a skinny finger, "They are being close mouthed about it. Part of it, I think they are making it up as they go. You hear all kinds of crazy rumors. Animal fights, monster fights, surprise duels." Riff shrugs off most of these but then says, "One thing I heard, from someone who usually knows a thing or two....they are considering team fights. At least at the start, with so many people signed up. I've never seen that before, would be something to watch. Would make betting complicated."

Vigor was needed.

Trarn's mood seemed to darken on the next week, although Zache had no idea why. Maybe the old orc was missing the bottle (the swashbuckler hadn't seem him drunk again yet) or maybe he wasn't happy with Zache's progress. In any case, the Ögötsö pushed him hard.

For one entire session Zache was ankle-chained to a post, and forced to spar with a series of orcs. Zache never got their names, and he had the feeling Trarn hired them with one order 'make the pinkskin bleed'. Being nailed down was crippling for his fighting style, but that seemed the point.

Another day was spent scrambling some crumbling ruins of the city. Waist high walls, drunkenly leaning pillars, knee deep pits. After hours of leaping, rolling and diving, Trarn abruptly upped the ante by releasing a pack of semi-feal dogs into the mix. They didn't bite (thankfully) but they weren't very gentle, tackling the swashbuckler when they could catch him.

A long day.

The house in the Hellfire was coming along under Tramp's careful eye. Roof beams were replaced and tiles reattached. Walls were gutted and repaired, floors re-laid. Dust was everywhere, along with the sound of hammering, sawing and shouting. It wasn't the most restful place but already Zache could see order arising from chaos.

Riff made progress selling some of the artifacts as well. The rangy orc was careful to do it slow to avoid flooding the market. One by one Thassalioan items went out and money returned. It helped offset the cost of paying Tramp's ever growing work force.

Zache's evenings were taken up by scrying. To his annoyance, more then one night passed with nothing but clouds. The magic seemed capricious at best and he dared not push things too far. The last he needed were for some of his (enemies? rivals? Neighbors?) suspecting a magical snoop. And some just proved too stubborn. Ell, for example, never revealed themselves again.

But some evenings....

Vakk Zush Zache thought, hands running over the smooth surface. So far the orc warlord had proven elusive, despite Zache's great intent. After Tramp's stories and everything else, the orc seemed a key part of the Urglin ecosystem. One that Zache did not want to confront blind.

So it was with delight when, on this late evening, the magical clouds parted. Zache leaned in close, eager.

Music filled his ears. Not just any music but beautiful, liquid notes wrung from unseen strings. They rolled in his mind, shimmering gossamer, delicate as spiderweb's, each connected to the other, building, interweaving, interlocking. Zache was no musician but this sounded....if Sheyln herself wanted music, this is what she'd want to hear.

An image appeared of a large stone room, lit by orange firelight. Furred skins and hides covered the floors and wall, softening the harsh stone. Colorful banners hung there too, lost in the flickering shadows. The room was full of furniture and furnishings. Heavy wooden tables, ornate carved chairs, lanterns hanging on iron chains from the unseen ceiling.

One wall opened onto a shadowy veranda that seemed to overlook an urban landscape, presumably Urglin. Plants grew there, gnarled and knotted trees with dark green leaves.

In the center of the room a male orc sat, hunched over a strange stringed instrument. They were well-built and strong, but not overly muscular. Entering middle-age, the orc's head was covered with stringy hair shifting gray and their tusks had the distinct yellow of long use. Despite their large frame though, their fingers seemed careful and clever, working the strings without faltering, without misstep.

A knock came from a heavy wooden door. The music faded, vanished into the darkness.

"Enter." The seated orc said, straightening from their instrument. The face was lean, almost hollowed out, with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. A savage scar from from one ear to the nose, puckered with age.

To Zache's surprise, he recognized the figure that entered the room. It was Murzol, the orc that had allowed his entry into the Hakimlyq. The newcomer took a few steps and bowed slightly.

"Clan father." They said respectfully, eyes downcast. "I have come, as requested."

"Good." The seated orc said and Zache realizes it must be Vakk Zush. "Took you long enough." With a bit of a grunt, they stood up, leaving the harp-like instrument aside. Instead they paced to the darkened balcony and stood for awhile, a black outline against darker night.

"The Taldane has been entered." Murzol finally said into the silence.

Zush grunted and replied in a harsh voice, "You were supposed to keep Outlanders to a minimum and yet there seem to be more every day. They outnumber our own fighters already and now you tell me the Aspis pet is competing?"

"The Blood Watchers are not...easy to control." Murzol said finally, "The event is taking on a life of it's own. Growing."

"Like a wildfire." Zush said sharply, turning. The thin face was unhappy, "I did not want a wildfire. Things are bad enough as it is."

"They are not so bad, Clan Father.." Murzol offered, "The Outwallers are troublesome yes, but not entirely bad. Our plantations are doing well and making more profit then ever. The slave trade is booming, even if the Chelish are trying to cheat us. Our clan is strong, with more fighters then ever. I just added two new fighters today, to patrol our share of the market. Who can challenge us?"

Zush reached out and grabbed a finely worked bronze cup from a table. The beaten metal dully caught the firelight. Then, with sudden savagery, the orc threw it at Murzol. The orc dodged and the cup cracked loudly against hard stone.

"Profits! You stand here and speak of profits. Or other clans. Are you so blind?!" The orc warlord boomed, "You think that will matter if an Outlander seizes the Hakimlyq? It will destroy all we have built. That [b]I[/i] have built. Chelish nobles or Aspis merchants or jeweled golems from another Plane. Those are our foes! Not to mention the dusky priestess." The last was said with a twist of the thin lips and a flare of hate in the eyes. "They all gather around us, plotting, scheming, gathering strength. Seeking to destroy us! And you sit and speak of plantation profits!"

Murzol stood silently, eyes downcast.

"Happily, I am Clan Father, and you are not." Zush said in the silence, voice more normal now, "And I have not left things to chance. To be decided by a random bout in the arena. Foolish." He shook his head. "Get out and do some good. Gather the scouts and send them out. I want Zammir in the city by the end of the week. The time has come. I want them sent out tonight!" Murzol bowed and left, gathering up what dignity he could.

Alone again Zush grimaced and knelt over to pick up the broken cup. Holding it, the orc Clan father slowly crushed it in his grip, bronze creaking then crumpling like dried leaves.

"Chance, indeed."

The vision faded.

Nicul ponders the question for a long moment before answering, rather more carefully then Zache expected. "You sounded like you believed in something. Like the heroes in the stories, the good ones anyway. You had reasons for doing things." Then he shrugs. Riff seems amused by the rather slight lad, probably enjoying being bigger then someone else for a change.

Zache wonders if the newest recruit will run off screaming or enter an even worse life of crime.

Meanwhile Zache descends to the hidden artifact room. As always the orb is happy to be used, eager to spy on others. Zache thinks Olytrio's name and, to his delight, the cloudy interior swoops and clears. Zache leans in close...

"By the Emperor and the Gold-Fist, another one?! Olytrio's Taldane accent rings out in plaintive despair. 'Do they do anything other then argue? Are there no brothels or taverns in this city?"

The Taldane gladiator is outside, seating on a simple wooden chair in what seems to be a dusty square. Zache guesses it is Urglin itself since there are stony buildings on the edge of his vision. The gladiator looks sweaty and annoyed, still wearing all of his armor and weapons. Standing next to the chair is a Blood Watcher Zache doesn't know.

The man shrugs his shoulders, "Not every debate is solved by the Көрәш. Some, and more since the arrival of the Outwallers, prefer to simply have us decide. It is the role." He nods and waves a hand, 'You may leave at any time."

"Not bloody likely," Olytrio mutters under his breath, "No refunds in this business." Then, wearily, 'Bring them on then."

Two figures approach the chair, forming out of the mist at the edge of Zache's sight. One thin orc and an even thinner half-orc. Both instantly started shouting and quarreling, reciting long litanies of complaints. It seemed to be some sort of business argument about shaved coins, bad produce and late deliveries. It had the sound of a very long running issues, and both shouting details over the other, trying to be heard. Claim and counter claim, insult and bickering.

Finally Olytrio held up a hand and barked, 'Quiet!" Then fell into an oddly thoughtful silence. Zache was surprised the man actually cared enough to think. Is it possible the Blood Watcher assignment was changing the man?

When the Taldane speaks, it is with his usual bluntness, "The problem you are both idiots. I'm not getting into the details. My choice is easy, you are both banned from dealing with each other. Ever. Consider all your arguments settled and forget about it."

'But my-" The half-orc dares but the gladiator stares him down into silence. Eventually both interlocuters stiffly bow and stride off, clearly very unhappy.

Olytrio turns to the Blood Watcher, "Walela. Please. I beg you. Let me go. I suffered less training in the pits."[/b[ The Blood Watcher seems amused but finally nods, [b]"For today, you are done. We begin at noon tomorrow. Some argument over housing rights."

Olytrio visibly shudders, powerful shoulders twitching. Without delay he hops off the chair and moves down a side street. As before his stride is smooth and controlled, the gait of a hunting cat. Not a single wasted motion.

Two streets the man pauses, and Zache thinks he spots a trace of a grin. His voice though is stern, "You can come out now. You breath louder then an ox."

Out of an alley come three orcs, swords at their belts, swaggering with their usual confidence and superiority. Seemingly out of instinct, like hunting dogs, they surround the human on three sides. Left, right and behind. Olytrio seems unbothered, but his eyes see everything.

"A pet for the Blood Watchers." The largest orc sneers, "Pretending at importance. Like a dancing dog!"

Olytrio raises an eyebrow, "Dogs bite, my friend. And wolves kill."

The orcs all laugh, utterly sure of themselves and the reason becomes clear when the lead orc speaks, "You threats are empty, human. All know the Blood Watchers forbid you to pull your blade. You touch steel and you forfeit the Hakimlyq." The laugh again and grin, showing sharp teeth.

Olytrio laughs as well, not a sneer of derision but an honest laugh. The orcs trail off, confused at this unexpected response. One is smart enough to frown. 'You think I need my blade to beat you?" The gladiator says, still chuckling. "If you think that, you really are as dumb as you look. And that is saying something."

The orc snarls and reaches for his own blade. Olytrio is faster. Far faster. The man goes down to one knee, down onto the gritty street. As he falls his left hand grips the orc's in an iron grip, preventing him from pulling a weapon. The orc awkwardly stoops, dragged down by the Taldane's surprise move.

With his right, Olytrio pulls the shield off his back. Raising it high in a fluid motion, the metal catches the light, gleaming brightly. Then the gladiator brings it down with all the force of a Galtan Final Blade. Their is a sickening crunch as the metal edge shears right through the orc's forearm. The orc screams, as high pitched sound of raw pain.

The orc to his right is already bearing down with a notched sword, but the Taldane merely tilts the broad shield over his head. The sword clangs off with a ringing clash. As the orc staggers slightly, Olytrio explodes out of his crouch, hitting his enemy like a battering ram with the out-thrust shield. The orc is hit hard enough to slam him into the wall of the alley, his head audibly bouncing off the bricks. They collapsed in an unconscious heap, sword clattering to the ground. Yelping the last orc simply turned tail and ran back down the dirty alley.

It had taken less then five heartbeats. One enemy crippled for life, another knocked senseless and the last running in fear. The man was not only unmarked, he wasn't even breathing hard.

Olytrio shrugged and rolled his shoulders. He looked down at the screaming orc, writhing in the muck of the street. Shrugging again, the man tossed their own bloody hand at them, the detached appendage bouncing. 'If you hurry, the clerics might be able to reattach it."

Without another glance back, the gladiator turned and continued on his way.

The way through Outwall into the city went smoothly, with none of the drama Zache had half-expected. No hidden attacks or surprise training sessions (the swashbuckler wouldn't be entirely surprised if Trarn hired some thugs to take a swing at him). Instead he simply got hear Nicul's rambling stories.

Some are of himself. Zache learns he is an orphan (no surprise) of a traveling set of theater players. They had come to Outwall and it's growing market, only to die in one of the all too frequent plagues that swept the poorer areas. Sanitation was rare among the crowded tent cities. On his own Nicul had barely survived, stealing and begging. An all too common story.

Some of the stories are of the other Hakimlyq. Zache isn't quite sure which are true and which are fairy tales. The one that a jabali prince had an emerald palace and a harem of statue-like maidens seemed too fancical to be real. Others though, such as Olytrio being forced to judge minor disputes and argument under a Blood Watcher's eye seemed likely enough. Is that what his task was? It seemed unlikely the gladiator was enjoying it.

Feel free to ask me any details

The lad seems bemused when they enter the Hellfire and the population abruptly shifts from orcs to tieflings. The orphan doesn't seem to be prejudiced, just surprised at the change.

'Like Zerte in 'Over the Black Water'! They even have the horns! Zache vaguely knew it was a play with a tiefling villain but nothing else. Would ever allusion go over his head?

As usual the house is a busy place. A work gang is busy on the roof, removing the old tile and carefully saving intact ones. Skin every color from carmine to indigo sweats under the blazing sun. They sing as they work, in some language Zache doesn't know. Tramp is pacing on the ground under neath, directing the work as best he can.

A water barrel has been set up, and occasionally a worker descend a ladder just to dunk his head.

The ex-bandit spots Zache and Nicul, making a face. "He's a bit young for roof work."

"I've never been there." The lad says easily enough, looking unconcerned. "Never had any reason. But for spying..." He looks at the distant walls with a curious eye now, as if new vistas had been revealed to his young eyes.

"Nicul." The dirty young man says after a moment, clearly weighing his options. The idea of food and a roof over his head are clearly very tempting warring with what seems a well founded sense that good things rarely visit street urchins. Yet Zache was getting the sense Nicul was not a long-term resident of the streets (like Zache was in his youth). Nicul seems too....unscarred.

"Picking up stories....of the other fighters?" The boy says, falling into step with Zache. "Only the true ones or do you want the lies too?'

The kid's eyes went wide as he said, "You mean like a spy?" Many folks would have disliked such a label, laden with the usual baggage of treason, betrayal and lies. This street urchin's face, instead, lit up with excitement.

"Like Orsham the Black in the Everwar!" Zache vaugely knew Orsham was some famous spy out of a opera or something, but nothing more then that. How had this would-be thief known? He didn't seem the kind to hang around theater houses.

"Do you mean out here?" He waves a hand at Outwall, "Or do you mean, like, inside the city?" The boy points again toward Urglin. His face shifts from excitement to wary hunger, "And you mentioned money?"

The boy's crossed arms did not loosen at Zache's charm, but he didn't run off either. All around them the crowd hustled and bustled, the tramp of feet mixing with the music and chattering of people from all over Avistan (and farther).

The lad says, 'I asked around..." He says this with a great air of someone who pretends to know someone but was probably just gutter gossip. "They say you really are a Hakimlyq fighter, and that you went off to fight a hag or something. Came back and now living in the city." He jutted a chin towards Urglin as if it was some foreign country.

Slowly his face softened a bit, "They said you can really fight. And that you are from Kaer Maga. So what do you need from someone like me?" The last sentence is filled with more then a bit of self loathing, as if he knew a mere thief-boy on the street wasn't worth much to outside eyes, whatever he might think of himself.

Zache manages to find the place where the kid had tried to pick his pocket. In usual Outwall fashion, it isn't quite the same corner as it had been then. Many of buildings had been torn down, expanded or entirely remodeled. New tents packed into tighter spaces, of every color imaginable. It was still a busy street however, full of buskers and performers. A pit pocket's dream.

Amid the swirl of passerbys, Zache finds, somewhat to his surprise, the young teen leaning against a tent pole. They look dirty, hungry and....curious. Wary though, like a dog sniffing out food found alongside the road. Ready for a trap or poison.

"You came back." The lad says shortly, raising an eyebrow in some surprise. "Didn't think you would.' The tone is a bit begrudging. This was a young person who didn't enjoy being wrong.

Zache a very busy few days.

Halman and Tajani come the following night to survey the artifacts and relics in the basement. It is a pleasant visit (and Zache is pleased to see the merchant isn't bothered by his tiefling neighbors). The Kaer Magan man isn't an expert in such antiques, but as usual, he is a fair hand at everything. They mostly back up what Riff suggested, although they indicate finding good buyers for everything will take more time and energy then they would want to bother with. Tajani finds no further magical items then what is obvious. Both are deeply impressed with the scrying ball (and Zache gets the feeling Tajani would have tried it if she could).

The house work also comes along. Via Rinvald Tramp gets all the workers he could want and more. The tieflings seem to find the idea of working on another race's house to be a novel one and throw themselves. Even after only a few days, Zache can see progress. Garbage is cleaned up and carted off, broken items removed, plans discussed. Tramp can be seen stumping around the grounds, pointing, explaining, drawing items in the dirt. There is no sign of any formal blueprints or whatever. Everything sits in the battered old ex-slave's head.

Trarn's training goes...less smoothly. The Ögötsö's training is unorthodox even to Zache, who grew up learning to fight in dusty attics of the slums. Trarn rarely felt the urge to explain why they did this activity or that, so Zache often felt like some dumb animal led into danger.

And danger it was, although nothing quite rivaled the double battle with Uldeth and the scorpions. The orc seemed to revel in causing his new charge pain and discomfort. Even in only four days, Zache found new levels of concern that he might not survive this.

One day he spent being blindfolded and pushed down stone basement stairs. Over and over again with little varation until he was a bruised mass of scrapes, welts and bumps.

The next day, still aching, he was set to swim the Ooze river. This was not only difficult (the river fairly wide here and even in the dry season had a decent current) it was disgusting since the whole city poured waste directly into the river. Grime of every sort clung to the swashbuckler, and when he emerged, he was dirtier then when he jumped in. His reward for crossing was to swim back, this time while holding a knife between his teeth.

Sometimes Trarn talked during these training sessions, sometime she merely watched silently, judging. Zache was unsure how much progress he was making, if any. For now, he just felt like a punching bag, to be used and abused.

The woman looks wary but then glances around the street, as if realizing this is probably not a conversation fit for a doorstep. She steps back and lets Henry slips inside. The door snaps shut behind him.

Henry finds himself in a...odd room. It is an empty abandoned shop with half of it turned into a painting studio. Half finished canvases fill the walls, a crate of paints, and plates of brushes are laid out. It has a the feel of a workroom. There is no sign of else, except stairs leading upstairs along the back wall.

The half-elf gives Henry a long look and says, "What is your name? And what exactly do you do for...Crowl?"

Their is a resounding, ear-splitting crash as the machine hits the rocks below. Sparks scatter in the dark night as metal slams against rock, and echoes reverberate down the canyon. She hears Thak's voice, "We are...mostly all right. Perey got a bit of metal in his arm, we'll work it out!"

Meanwhile Awenasa reforms to her solid self. The fallen man is still on the ground, but weirdly divided. It looks as if he would enjoy nothing more then fleeing but also is reluctant to do so. Awenasa can feel that strange pull, clearer then ever, tugging at her from the direction of his little campsite.

"Huh." Tramp says, looking around, "I've never built anything like that before. Would be a challenge...You would never cooking area, preparation areas, seating. We would have to fix up the old pantry, of course. Maybe some awnings out by the street for tables? Hmmm..." Zache leaves the older man still muttering about brick-fire ovens and outdoor patios.

Zache crosses through the still mucky mess of the basement room into the room of artifacts. All seems as it was, so at least Riff hasn't been moving anything without permission. A good sign.

At his words and touch the ball come to life, eager to spy on people.

"I knew you'd be back." The voice purrs in his ear, "People always come back...so who are we looking in on today? Hmm?"

First Orn. Let's roll them dice

The ball remains stubbornly cloudy. Surprising that he had glimpsed Ell the first time but surely the far less powerful orc spy proves elusive. He can only hope Rivald was correct and the orc would not try again tonight.

Zush. See what the dice say.

Again nothing, but the ball comments,"It felt like a weaker connection. Have you not met this person? That always makes it harder. Always better to look in on people you already know. Scheming siblings, controlling parents, that sort of thing."

Finally Rinvald...Love it

And for a third time, nothing happens. Clearly having a crystal ball isn't the answer to all of Zache's problems. The thing barely worked!

Tramp holds up his callused hands in self defense, "Easy Zache. I'm not Lessi. I've been around too long and with too many people. If folks want to work, I can manage anyone whatever color they are or even what language they speak. Horns or no horns. A job's a job."

'I just didn't consider them because everyone knows tieflings are...clannish. Keep to themselves. I didn't exactly want to go bother people on the street for a job I figured they wouldn't want. But if you have an in..." The man rubs his chin and looks around, "Then we really may be on to something here."

"So what do you have in mind, anyway? What should we be looking at, besides the obvious." The older man gives a broken toothed grin, "Should I be planning a sunning pool and a topiary garden? Maybe a chilling wine cellar?"

He grows a bit more serious, walking through the ruined rooms, eyes sweeping, "Or are we hoping to match the locals? Not sure if they'd see that as a compliment or an insult. People can be strange. Or," A glance at Zache, "Are we making a fortress? You mentioned a business. Deciding that now would be wise, we can build it for the future. If you want to move a butcher's shop in here, I'd like to know."

"I will do that." Utover says, nodding, "It will be nice to have on less ruin in the neighborhood."

Zache finds the house empty on his arrival, looking exactly how he left it that morning. Disappointing, part of him had expected Tramp to have the roof torn off and new plaster going up. Seeing everything still a pile of crumbling stucco took some of the wind out of his sails.

He doesn't have long to reflect on this however, because Tramp does come in. The old ex-bandit stumps in looking as disgruntled and negative as ever. He runs an eye over Zache before saying, "You look terrible. Did things with the orcs not go so well? Looks like they tried to run you over with a cart." He gives the dark laugh of a man who knows exactly what it feels like.

The ex-slave goes on, "So we have a problem about the house." He waves a hand at the cracked walls, holed roof and missing doors. "No one wants to work in this area. Turns out the Hellfire District is not a popular place. Folks don't want to work near someone they afraid are going to eat their children or whatever."

Tramp shrugs, "I can probably convince the experts. I want at least a mason, a solid stucco person and a framer. We can bribe them to make the trip but the actual laborers...no dice. Unless you want to pay out the nose, triple the usual rates. Which are already outrageous."

The woman looks surprised and confused at Henry's words. She holds the door firmly, not allowing him to push in, but she also doesn't slam it.

Her pretty eyes narrow slightly, "You are one of Cowl's? I don't recognize you. What's your name? Is something wrong? He only left an hour ago..." Her voice trails off and Henry gets the sense this woman worries about Cowl quite often. Fitting, considering his career.

Untover Rinvald seems unbothered by the long pause, standing under the broad bright sunlight. Whatever he might say about enjoying the dark, the day doesn't seem to effect him in any way.

At Zache's word, he answers the last part first. "Walls can be good, my young friend. They can keep an enemy out, and friends together. They can be a rallying point, a source of strength and unity. Do not dismiss a well-built wall." The man shrugs his solid shoulders, "But your point is well taken, both of them."

"As for the Hakimlyq...." The tiefling's face is hard to read. "Would it surprise you that I have little hope for it? If I could choose, I would want things to remain as they have in my and my father's time. An impossible dream, of course, but one is allowed dreams. Or so the bards say." He smiles, and his teeth are not the razor points of tiefling legend, but the same as Zache's own.

Anything else, the conversation seems to be winding down

Utover considered this and finally said, "I appreciate the thanks, I truly do but we did not do it for you. Life can be...hard here. As you surely have seen, Urglin is no place for the weak. The day we stop defending ourselves, is the day we lose everything we have built."

He shrugs, "I only have one thing left to say. The opening of the Gate has changed many things. All of us here are still debating what is good and what is bad, and how to handle it. I myself tend to be more...optimistic then others." Utover brushed some unseen dirt off his shoulder, "But my view is not the only one. Some have expressed concerns that you shouldn't be allowed to live here at all, that letting outsiders in is the first crack in the wall. Let it slide and soon....you have no wall."

The man looks at Zache with bright eyes, "What would you say to these people, my young friend? I have some influence to keep things in check but your own feelings could be of help to me." He turns to Zache as if sizing him up, "I will say this, for my own part. I am encouraged. Few people I have met would openly walk, eat and talk with me. There are orcs I have worked with for many a long year who still call me Pitspawn and refuse to pass me on their left side. It is refreshing to meet other views. Gives me hope for the future, perhaps."

Zache can tell he caught the man off guard with his remarks at being an outsider. Utover is apparently ready for anything except comparisons between his race and Zache's circumstances.

'I am...a business owner, among other things." Utover says blandly, but then pauses. For a moment he considers his words but then shrugs, "A night soil business. The night soil business you might say, actually. We gather it from all over the city and sell it on tot he farms and plantations on the other side of the river. We gather from Outwall, too, these days. One of the few industries the orcs permit us. We work mostly at night of course, but that suits us. Tieflings tend to prefer the dark, for a whole host of reasons."

The man runs a emerald hand through his short brown hair, and shifts the conversation back to the house. "No problem....one would hope."

"As you might have guessed, few orcs enter the Hellfire District. By custom, tradition and common sense, we keep to ourselves. Our own little oasis, you might say." He looks back from the mural to Zache directly, "So imagine my surprise when this morning an orc and several of his fellows tried to set a watch on your house. A rather disreputable fellow too, even by orc standards."

He shrugs, "We are not defenseless, of course. Urglin is a rough city. You may have noticed we patrol at night? During the day we are less...agressive but no less.... watchful." The teifling laughs a bit, 'Most of it is old women and men who enjoy gossip but still effective."

The man shrugs, "The orc and his comrades were forced to leave. I doubt they will return." Utover looks at Zache, "Can you speak on this? It would be a relief to me if you could say you are not bringing trouble to our oasis."

'Even a simple Varisian is a novelty in the Hellfire." Utover says easily, taking his own food. He takes a single bite, face blossoming with enjoyment (and a bit of grease roll down his chin). The man turns to Hucra, 'Excellent as ever, my friend. A good day to you. Oh, I will see your sons tonight, yes? Good."

Meanwhile Zache taste the food and finds it very spicy, very good and very rich. Compared to the dried aurochs it is like manna of the Gods themselves, fine pork cooked to perfection and simmered in some spicy sauce Zache doesn't quite know. Onions, certainly. Peppers....was that orange? Those were very rare....

"Come, let us walk and eat. It is good for the digestion, they say."

The street is hot and mostly empty, but neither seems to worry Zache's latest companion. They stroll past crowded apartments, a few shops and a several buildings that are just ruins. These last seem to depress Utover and he obviously tries to avoid looking at them.

"The house, yes." The man says, speaking around another bite. "It has been a ruin since my grandfather's time. he told me, in his own youth, an old eccentric lived there." Utover shrugs, "It hasn't been lived in properly since, changing hands but always falling down. I bought it a few years ago, hoping maybe to expand."

He waves a green hand back to the locked up warehouse, "I own that business you were so admiring. Still, it seemed a shame to tear it down. As you said, the bones are still good. So I was glad when I lost it to someone who had plans for it. And I see the plans are you? So, what do you plan to do with it? Live in it as a home, I suppose?"

He nods his head to Zache in a friendly enough fashion. He pauses in front of a brightly painted mural of a tiefling playing a guitar. The man finishes his pork with a final swallow.

"May I be direct?" He asks politely, 'What do you know of tieflings, my friend? There are not many of us in Kaer Maga, from what I have gathered from traders and travelers. Perhaps then I can tell you one thing that may help."

"We are a people of custom, of habit." The man swept his hand around him, as if to encompass the whole district. "We do not enjoy change, for it is rarely for the better. What seems innocent to some can be taken as a...threat by us. History has not been...overly kind to my people."

'Well," The solid looking man says easily, "I like to think of all of us as neighbors. All of us in the district, I mean. It is not a very large place after all. We need to stick together, makes things work smoothly." Utover looks up and down the street, then back to Zache, "Are you free? The man on the corner there makes the best carnitas. Braised pork. Very good, I promise." He adds, clearly not expecting for Zache to recognize the word.

"Maybe you could spare a bit of time for talk as well? Like I said, I do enjoy getting to know any new neighbors."

Seeing Zache's agreement, the man smiles, 'You will not regret it. As long as you can handle spicy food."

As they walk down the street, their backs now to the warehouse, "So, dare I ask what brings a human Hakimlyq fighter to the Hellfire District?" the man shrugs, "I like to keep abreast of what goes on the city, it's....good for everyone."

'Our...mutual friend, the charming woman who bamboozled me with a pair of Crickets, did not say anything about you. Just that a 'friend' was going to be taking the house. I confess, I did not... expect someone like you. As you may have guessed, we get few strangers here. By old custom, we tend to keep to ourselves and expect the converse."

The carnitas seller is an aged tiefling with nut brown skin and a long beard. He gives Zache a startled look but calms down when Rinvald waves a practiced hand. "Two please. My usual and..." A glance at Zache, "How spicy would you like it? A word of warning, old Hucra here can turn up the heat. The food vendor chuckles, puttering away with the food, mixing sauces, meat and some kind of flat dried bread-thing. It all smells amazing.

No money changes hands.

'You thank me?" Trarn says in Common, obviously surprised. He frowns, "Then I was too easy. Tomorrow, I will not be so gentle. Go and save your thanks! Rest instead, you will need it."

With that.....somewhat pessimistic farewell in his ears, Zache heads back the Hellfire District. It is somewhat more subdued during the day it seems, and less crowded. Indeed, it seems that most of the district is sleeping or at least waiting. Still there are plenty of people about, doing normal people things. Children playing, artisans working, even a few (small) merchants selling.

Zache's reception is...strange. The people are not rude to him, merely distant in a bemused sort of way. As if confused at what exactly the swashbuckler is up. Expecting a cruel joke or trick. Every face is guarded and there is nearly audible relief when he moves on. Zache also feels every eye on the street is on him.

And he sees no one of other race in the district, every single person is a tiefling (although they seem to come in every skin shade from ivory to charcoal). While they use Common to speak to him and sometimes each other, he also sometimes catches another language, one he does not know. Signs and banners are also sometimes in a script he doesn't recognize, looking quite alien.

He pauses in front of the warehouse, reaching it without difficulty. It is mostly shut up, as if closed. Yet it is certainly not abandoned, there are no weeds or crumbling walls here. Everything from the hinges to the many work ramps are well kept. Clearly this is an active place just...not right now. Zache sniffs the air and it smells of rank...waste. Like an open sewer. Exactly like an open sewer.

'Ah, you must be our new neighbor!"Zache turns to see a portly tiefling striding toward him. His skin is a bright emerald green, dotted with geometric tattoos on the arms, interlocking squares. His clothes are quiet and modest but well-made. He moves with confident grace toward Zache, holding up a hand in welcome.

"I am Utover Rinvald, past owner of that pile." He points to the crumbling house beyond the warehouse. "I had planned to visit tonight to...introduce myself. My wife makes the best glazed chiles in the district. " He adds in a mock tempting voice, but goes on "It is not every day the Hellfire District gets a new landowner. "

His tone is light but the bright eyes are serious, guarded. Utover is, Zache guesses, ready for anything, good or bad.

"I had hopes." Trarn says shrugging, "She seemed easy to goad. Remember that, it may prove important."

About the insects the orc shakes his head, "No. I assume some trick, hoping to remove enemies before the fights begin. Not very honorable but cunning. You must remain on your guard, they may try again and with greater power. "

The battered Ögötsö grins at his final question, "Not always. I have fought beasts in the pits, and groups. Whatever the Blood Watchers may say, Көрәш is not about balance or unity. It is about struggle and what is a greater struggle then unfairness?" The orc suddenly lashes out with the stick, leaving another greasy burning stripe.

'No more questions. Back to training! You think the others are sitting and talking all day? No, they are preparing, practicing to kill you." Trarn roared and urged Zache back to his feet.

Zache did not touch a sword for the rest of the session. It was like being sent back to his beginnings. Trarn had him run, jump, roll and dive. Zache was good at it of course, but it didn't seem that skill was what Trarn wanted. He wanted repetition, endless repetition. Faster, slower, the tempo changed but the routine did not. It was mindless boring effort until a blazing sun.

No water or break were offered, although Zache noted Trarn did not rest either. The orc stayed at his side, hobbling along, shouting instructions, commands or simple advice. He stayed under the burning sun was just as long and took no drink.

It was midafternoon when Trarn finally called a halt, sweating freely himself. His fine paint had run, the deer turning to nightmare shapes. "A start. A bare start. Tomorrow, we begin in earnest." Trarn says and grins, clearly looking forward to it.

Dretha looks at Zache, her mouth still full of his own blood. The hulking orc, heavily injured, looks like a horror out of a children's' tale. Some beast of the wildlands come to feast on civilization.

"Another time." She grunts and takes off in a loping run, a dog after a hare. Zache looks around but sees no sign of any caster or anything else. Whoever had done it had come and gone.

Trarn leaves his spot, hobbling over to a chest Zache didn't spot earlier. The orc rummages around in it and pulls out a small flask. "Sit down." The orc says, pointing to a hunk of old wood near the wall. "Drink this." He hands the flask to Zache, and it gurgles slightly.

"This is better then I dared hoped." Trarn went on, pacing in front of the battered, bleeding human. "I saw Dretha in the square and hoped to bait her. I did not expect the summoned monsters. Very good timing."

"I saw much of your style. Some good....some not so good." Still, the orc sounds more curious then anything else, like an expert artist faced with a new pigment or a musician hearing an unusual chord.

"You fight like no orc I have ever seen, or anyone in the pits." Trarn growls, before adding, "This is good. More then I could have asked Gorum for."

He turns to face Zache squarely, "Do you know why I was triumphant in the arena? I was quick, I was strong and I was ferocious. But I was not the quickest, the strongest or the most ferocious. No, it was because I used my cunning. To adapt, to improvise, to strike when and where no one expected. This is the key to struggle, to success. To seize the initiative, one must be both unpredictable and capable. "

Trarn looks down on him, 'We may yet achieve that, with you."

If you drink it, it is CLW, caster level 3

Dretha replies with a growl that might be agreement...or derision. Zache decides to not take his chances, and darts out of her reach. Instead he hurtles toward the nearest insect, blade held aloft. He takes up a fighting stance, searching for a weak spot.

"Never the same spot twice!" Trarn shouts from his vantage point, "Keep the enemy off balance."

Zache does as he is told. His first strike hits a weak joint in an arm, severing nerves and muscles. As that claw goes limp, Zache is already spinning to face the next attack. From above the huge stingers drops like a bird of prey, the razor tip glistening with some foul poison.

Claw: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 20

No matter. It is nothing more then a clumsy attack. Zache parries it aside, his blade scraping on the hard chitin with an ear-splitting noise. In the opening Zache lunges forward, rapier extended right for the creature's face. The razor blade punches right between the snapping mandibles and the green eyes with a sickening slurp. Zache finds himself elbow deep in slime and ichor. The beast twitches and then crumbles. Even as it hits the sane however, it vanishes, fading away like a dream.

"Summoned! Mere tricks." Dretha roars, speeding past him. She attacks the other scorpion in a full blooded raging charge, smashing the carapace beneath her hammer. Ichor flies everywhere, drenching her and mixing with the blood and dirt. In short order it too is defeated and fades away.

Leaving Dretha and Zache alone again (well except for the watching Trarn).

Leaving it open here for you

"Quick," Trarn says with grudging admiration, "Keep up your defense..."

This is not going at all how Dretha Uldeth has expected. Zache could tell she expected this to be a romp, like how one might spar with a child or a novice. Rub their nose in the dirt, maybe break a bone. She hadn't expected to be hit at all, let alone the slashing Zache was dishing out.

But there was something worse. Dretha was obviously an experienced warrior but in a particular culture, one that valued strength and ferocity above all others. When one hit, the other hit back harder, matching blow for blow. This parry and counter was foreign to her, and it was irritating her even more then the bloody wounds opening her chest. Zache can tell his attacks were causing real damage....

With a roar that makes Zache's head hurt she swings the warhammer toward his head in a reckless attack. Zache raises his guard, eager for the chance to punish her again. Exactly what he wanted...

FulL Round Attack

Attack, Raging: 1d20 + 16 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 16 + 2 = 36
Damage, Raging: 1d6 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 5 + 2 = 8

It's like being hit by a runaway cart. The hammer slams his rapier aside as if it were a blade of grass, almost throwing it aside. Undeterred the blow catches him in the chest with a cracking crunch that makes his lungs squeeze. And the orc is not done. Still filled with blinding rage she contuines to hammer at him.

Second Attack: 1d20 + 9 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 9 + 2 = 27
Damage: 1d6 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 5 + 2 = 12

The second attack is just as savage, the backswing catching his chin. And still the orc is not finished. Worked up in some sort of blood frenzy she leaps at him, gnashing like some kind of wild animal.

Bite Attack: 1d20 + 8 - 5 + 2 ⇒ (13) + 8 - 5 + 2 = 18
Bite Damage: 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

Orc teeth clamps down on his forearm, slashing through skin and drawing blood. Dretha grins around the wound, shaking her head like a rabid dog before tearing free. Her mouth is a gory mess and she raises her head to the sky and lets out a howl of victory.

Then Zache spots something out of the corner of his eye. At first he assumes his brain has been addled by the barbarian's blows. But no, it is real.

A scorpion the size of a horse is creeping into the increasingly crowded fighting area. No, two scorpions!

Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (7) + 9 = 16

There was a strange...translucent quality about them, as if they were not quite real. Still their barbed feet left tracks in the sand and their pincers looked quite sharp.

Just to make clear, they are NOT illusions

Trarn who had merely looks interested before, now looked down right pleased when he noted the new arrivals.

"Arms up!" he shouts a command, "Multiple enemies are not just a danger, they are an opportunity. Move your feet!"

At his words the bloodraging orc turns and spots the newcomers. Her bloody grin does not waver. "More food for the crows!" Zache does note she turns toward the insects however, as if ready to direct her next blows toward them.

You move, then Dretha and then the new bugs. They are twenty feet away, to your right. One is fully inside the other is crawling over the ruined wall

Zache's lunging blow lands hand, giving the orc a bloody stripe from shoulder to waist, slicing through hide armor and skin with abandon. As he takes up a countering stance he can hear Trarn commenting, "Good, good. Move your feet!"

'A good idea!" Dretha shouts, unphased by the wound. Instead she lets out a howl of anger and rage, and she seems to grow...larger. Stronger, tougher, faster.

Not great.

She whirls the warhammer but to Zache's surprise she doesn't swing it at him. Instead she pummels the ground with a horrible fury. The sand is churned up like the sea in a storm, gouts of it heaving up like splashes. The earth trembles under Zache's feet and he has a flashback of the volcanic eruption. To his surprise the orc's attacks are strong enough to-

Reflex, DC 15: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (2) + 11 = 13

Love to see it

-knock Zache over. The swashbuckler hits the ground and takes a mouthful of warm sand for his trouble. Above him Dretha laughs, the sound a pitiless terrible thing.

"I am going to enjoy killing you." She adds, rolling the handle of her weapon in her hands. 'In fact, I already am!"

You are prone right next to her. All the terrain in a five foot ring is difficult terrain. No damage taken

Initiative: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15

The orc snarls at Zache's words. "You are as insolent as he, without even the excuse of a feeble mind." She jerks a chin toward Trarn, still casually watching. "It will be a pleasure to teach you both some respect. Pray to whatever god you worship, pinkskin. Maybe you will soon join them."

Pulling her warhammer free, she gets ready for battle.

She is 15 feet away, the ground is smooth sand. We do have some thick wooden columns near at hand if you want to use them, just ask.

A sneering laugh fills the air, harsh as a saw on bone.

"Now I have seen everything!" Zache glances out to see Dretha Uldeth strolling into the training area. "A pet and their master, playing at fighting." The female orc is fully armored and armed, heavy boots leaving treads.

"The real question is, who is the pet and who the master?" She grins and spits on the ground. Trarn seems unbothered by all this, eyes watchful....curious. Somehow it reminds Zache of Halman Wright seeing a new customer and judging how much they pay spend.

Dretha goes on, looking at Zache, "So, pinkskin. They gave you a mark? I saw you leave the Ancient Snarl."

"I too have a mark." She bares a forearm and Zache sees a blood red tattoo there on her rust-colored skin. A closed fist. 'A real mark." The female orc sneered.

At this Trarn broke out laughing, a real laugh. When Dretha turns on him the older orc says, "You take pride in that? You are a slave showing off her chains! You fight for others, a king! Just like the humans. Bah, you know nothing." A hand is waved dismissively, derisively.

The female orc takes a half step closer, hand going for a the handle of her weapon. "I will slay you where you stand, if you were not a old, crippled fool."

Trarn shrugs, and takes off his feathered robe, hanging it on a dusty peg. He talks as he does so, 'Old, yes. Gods yes. Crippled....maybe." Zache's Ögötsö turns toward the rude interlocuter. 'But fool? Not yet....not today."

Trarn looks to Zache and gives a twisted smile, "Your training has begun. Kill her." The orc hobbles out of the way between human and orc.

Dretha Uldeth is so surprised, she forgets to laugh. 'You are hiding behind a human student? And to think, I had almost believed the stories."

Trarn shrugged, leaning against a wall, "Dogs do not get to play with lions." He rose his voice to Zache, "Or don't kill her. Whatever you want."

The female orc looks silently at Zache for a moment, a slow hungry smile forming on her face. 'Very well then.."

They wind through the streets of Urglin. Trarn says little else, simply leading the way into the side alleys and byways. Others (almost all orcs) spot them with surprise, but no one dares says a word. Trarn's stern visage seems to be enough to silence even the most impertinent passerby. His feathered cloak billows after him, at least making him easy to follow.

They enter again what Zache can only think of as slums. Small hovels, dirty streets, piles of garbage. Crumbling buildings on all sides and dark faces peeping out of windows and doorframes. Trarn ignores it all, leading Zache to a partially abandoned lot seemingly like any other except maybe in worse condition.

It had once been a small stone house of some kind, but had long fallen into disrepair. The roof was long gone, leaving only a shell open tot he sky above. One of the walls was a crumbling memory, less then waist high. Trarn gestures them inside.

To Zache's surprise the interior is....nicer then he expected. Still ruined, someone has laid out a fresh layer of sand on the old crumbling foundation. Wooden poles were sunk into the earth at random points and the swashbuckler was unsure if they were remnants of old interior walls or new additions. Still, it provided a semi-private open square of training ground.

'This is where my master trained me." Trarn says, pointing for Zache to stand in the center of the room. "And it is where we shall see what can be done."

The old orc starts to circle Zache, pacing like a hunting dog. His feet make clear prints in the fresh dry sand, the crunch loud in Zache's ear.

'So, you are proud, eh?" Trarn says, voice a low growl. "Impressed the Blood Watchers? Passed your initiation?"

"Given a mark and ready to face the arena? Ready to face the Көрәш?"

'No!" The last shouted word in punctuated with a blow as Trarn strikes Zache with the painted stick in his grasp. The blow is not very hard or painful, not enough to even make Zache flinch. It leaves a greasy streak on his skin however, a stripe of red.

"If a day comes when I do not make a mark." Trarn says, still pacing around him, "Then that day your training will have perhaps truly begun."

To his annoyance, the paint burns on his skin, an unpleasant itching sensation. It prickles painfully, not entirely unlike his new tattoo.

He goes on, "No one is ready for the Көрәш. No one is equal to it. Look at me." The battered orc waves a hand at his injured frame, "One hundred bouts in the pits. Victories beyond counts. Master of the fight, rivaled by none."

"Then one moment of hesitation, one mistake." He points with the wooden stick to his withered leg. Zache notes an old tattoo there on the thigh, disfigured by the injury. Some sort of tall slender animal...

"So no, no one is ever truly ready for the pits." Trarn goes on, "But, if one is lucky, one can be worthy. I will make you worthy Zache. It will not be quick, it will not be easy, it will not be like how humans train. But it will be Көрәш. I will make you worthy of the struggle, of the suffering, of the pain to come."

Small Tree looks surprised but pleased with his question. "You may ask and I may answer. It is with pleasure that I can say Ewahee has joined the ranks of the Blood Watchers. She might still be celebrating somewhere, if I guess. " A smile at some misspent youth crosses her aged face, "I will be sure to pass your own congratulations on, next time our paths cross."

She turns her blank face to Trarn, "Interesting, guide, that your student is friends with a Blood Watcher, no?"

Trarn's face warps to a sneer but Zache has a guess it is...an act? Something automatic, a reflex. But why? Surely Trarn would be upset? So far he seemed to have nothing but contempt for the Shoanti.

"Who can tell what will be?" The orc said instead, feigning disinterest. 'I am no oracle."

"And neither am I." Small Tree said simply. "You may go."

Their path out is just as dark and dry as their pathway in. Zache's new tattoo burns fiercely on his skin but a single glare from Trarn keeps him from touching it. When they step back outside into the harsh light of day the orc speaks.

His voice is raspy and stern, not at all welcoming. "Your training will begin today. Follow me, and we shall see what I can make of you."

It is not a pleasant or swift process. Small Tree gives up her stool, nimble as a bird, for Zache. He sits near the young tiefling who readies her tools. Bone needles, bowls of ash and, something he had not expected or noticed, a coil of thin string. Zache had seen men and women tattooed himself, of course, both with and without their consent. Tramp's old slave tattoo flashes through his mind. The process had always seemed haphazard to him, lazy slashes in skin filled with wood ash, left to scar and stain.

This was nothing like that.

The young artist had two techniques, which she used with skill and grace. The first was straight forward if delicate. Carefully she dipped the tip of a needle in ash, then pulled his skin taunt as a drum. Then she stabbed him, repeatedly, sinking the ash in under the surface layers. Specks began dots became shapes.

The other process was more painful. Here the woman actually threaded the needle with ashen soaked string and, like a seamstress fixing a tear, slid the needle into his flesh. In and out she pierced him, dragging the stained thread behind which left behind a dark wake.

All of this burned and stung enough that Zache, no stranger to pain, felt his eyes watering. Trarn and Small tree watched with dispassion, clearly long used to it. Slowly it went on, his neck growing sore.

Finally, after what seemed at least a week, the tattooist nodded and sat back. "It is done."

"Well?" Small Tree said, faintly amused, "Ögötsö, do you approve?"

With a growl he stepped forward and looked down. "It will do. The mark is made and your judgement passed. Do you now require us to bow, as the humans do for their kings? Maybe kiss you feet?"

Small Tree laughed at this, but there was an edge there. Something about it struck home. Her blind faced turned to Zache, "You will be summoned when the fights are to take place. In the meantime you make do as you see fit Zache, there are no bounds or chains set on you. "

"Do you require anything else?"

Small Tree nods, although Zache catches a trace of reluctant, "Then so be it. May old wounds not fester forever, or at least not make ones anew."

The blind woman shifts on her stool, facing the swashbuckler more directly, "So, Ewahee's report gave us quite a stir last night. Which was by design I think. Raining Summer Moon always enjoys his...unorthodox tests. Bandits, monsters, treants." Small tree waves it all away as if it didn't matter. "All that mattered to me was what Ewahee had said about your eyes. Clouded but still seeing. That was enough for me and my vote."

A pause, "Maybe you do not yet understand?" The old woman sounded amused but Trarn mutters, "Always riddles."

The Shoanti woman ignored the orc and went on, "Then I shall make it plain." She raises an old wrinkled finger to her own face, touching an eyelid. "You see, when I went to the hag, I was not so pure of heart."

Trarn lets out a hiss of surprise, eyes narrowing. Clearly this was not common knowledge.

'Oh yes," Small Tree went on, "I too made the journey to Mother Ember. Why is not important, I was young and foolish. And like so many, I paid the price." A shadow crosses her face but it vanishes in a moment, "I am wiser now, and sought to use my old blunder to aid us. Who better to judge evil then evil?"

Small Tree nodded, "And it has gone better then I dared hope for, as the hag is now dead well. I am glad. Not out of old revenge, but out of pity. A twisted spirit has been freed of the torment of life." The Blood Watcher points to Zache, 'The city is ever so slightly in your debt."

She smiles, "And so I commend you Zache Slobodo. You have passed the initiation, you may now enter the Hakimlyq and fight under the Көрәш. You are Outlander no longer. May the spirits and gods strength your arm and thicken your blood."

The old woman points to the teifling, "As is custom, for all who pass the initiation, you must take a mark. A sign of your spirit and strength. What animal do you choose and where do you wish to receive it?"

"Яҡшы, һәр сецерт ҡорал хәҙер" The orc rumbled, looking up at the building.

Trarn nodded and then switched to Common, "Let us go. We will show them they are not masters of all they survey. We too have pride, power and purpose." A pause and then, irritated, "And stop your grinning, you look like a child."

With that he follows behind Zache, moving at a dignified pace only slightly hindered by the clunking of his crutch. They climb the shallow stairs to the open door. Just inside they see a middle-aged Blood Watcher Zache does not know, spinning yarn. They quickly put down the distaff as Zache and Trarn arrive.

The Blood Watcher looks at the orc with unconcealed surprise, blinking several times. The orc growls ever so slightly and the Blood Watcher flushes. Trarn gives a grin, satisfied and takes a step back, cloak billowing.

The Blood Watcher coughs and turns to Zache, "You are here to present yourself for consideration?" Without waiting for a reply the Blood Watcher gives directions to them, indicating which way to go.

When they go, Trarn moves to follow, crutch loud on the old stones. The Blood Watcher pauses, opens their mouth and then shuts it again.

The interior is cool and dry, the passages just as complex and maze-like as before. Dim colored lines trace on the floor, blurred and faded by age. While there is little art Zache suddenly realizes something, or at least confirms something he suspected. This is a Thassalonian building. How...how old was it?

Another open door, and after a moment, Zache passes through Trarn close on his heels.

The room is small and nearly bare, containing only two figures. One, to Zache's surprise is a young female tiefling with skin the color of a robin's egg. At her side is a small table covered with needles and small dishes of dark powder. She gives Zache a small smile.

Seated on a stool in the middle of the room is Small Tree, the blind Blood Watcher Zache had met during his....application?

A crackling brazier in a corner fills the room with smoky light.

Small Tree turns her filmy eyes on them and gives a small smile. "Ewahee said you would be prompt and, as usual, she is perceptive." Her face grows more solemn, almost sad.

'I had wondered if you would come Trarn. After Ewahee told us...some thought it was merely a bluff, but I guessed it was true."

Trarn's own face, jagged in the dark, is motionless, solid as a rock. "You doubted my courage? That I would hide?'

'Never your courage," Small Tree says softly, "But I can tell you still have not forgiven me. Even after all these years?"

"Sounds wounds are not healed by time." Trarn spits and Zache thinks he is not talking about his partially withered leg.

"You could get your revenge now, Trarn." Small Tree says, nearly whispering now. "The boy and the girl would not stop you, if you moved fast enough. I am a blind woman hobbled with age, alone. You could do much before others arrived."

Trarn looks at her with surprise, then sets his face back into a sneer, "It would not be enough. You flatter yourself. Leave aside these temptations and look to your precious duty. Is that not why you are here?"

"It is." Small Tree says, nodding, "But why are you here, if not vengeance?"

Trarn drew himself up as straight as he could, "I put myself forward as Ögötsö." It was a complicated Orc word, something like trainer, guide and overseer all wrapped in one.

Small Tree raises an eyebrow over a sightless eye, "Do you indeed? And you think we must accept?"

Trarn raises the stick in his hand, as if it were a talisman. "I do and I challenge anyone who denies it. You may serve the Көрәш woman, but I am the Көрәш! " His aged voice rings out and for a spilt second Zache can see him as he must have once been. Proud and lithe, a deadly blade in the arena, a ferocious warrior who slew all before him. An unstoppable fury born of training, mind and nature.

Small Tree purses her lips, as if she too can see it. Slowly she says, "Very well then. Ögötsö you shall be, if you wish it so dearly. Let us hope it does not devour you Trarn. Or devour us."

The Shoanti woman turns to Zache, "Assuming you agree of course." She leaves it open if Zache wished to interject.

Riff's eyes light up at 20% at the suggested commission. It's more then the usual percentages for such a deal. Instantly the orc starts to mention various buyers he'd like to make contact with and 'test the market'. Lessi agrees to go with him to keep an eye.

'And remember our deal,' The dark eyed woman says sternly to Riff. "Not even a sniff of leaf, or I'll break your fingers." The orc slowly nods. Zache is not sure how this method of breaking addiction will go but at least it seems to have caught the orc's attention.

For his part Tramp takes the money and nods, "It'll be a big job. We will need at least some helping hands. Some of the walls will need to come down, and the roof work is at least a crew of five. Ten if we can manage it. I'll nose around today, maybe." He pauses and then says, "Good luck."

Zache heads back out into the city. Again he is watched by various tieflings but there is no sign of Ell's spy network. Was it because they weren't there or because they were too well hidden? Now ay to find out without descending into unbridled paranoia.

Zache's path takes him out to the main throughfare between the (now long open) main gate and the central plaza. Now that he knows what to look for, he notices it instantly.

The swashbuckler smells it first, of course. The reek of human odor, waste and despair that marks every slave market in Golarion.

Zache knew them well. Indeed, few slavers even knew the markets as well as the Freemen. The stark harsh lines of the Urglin market were like seeing an old and familiar illness flare up. The cages, platforms and benches were all empty at this time of day of course. Slavery was not an early morning sort of business. Still the swashbuckler can easily hear the crack of whips, the crying of slaves and the harsh call of the auctioneers.

All too well.

The plaza is mostly empty this time. A few orc casually walking among it, talking with each other. It is not a market area, for Zache sees no stalls or goods for sale. One building that might be temple seems busy, with orcs coming and going. What might an orc ceremony be like?

Slowly Zache approaches the large ancient building where he swore to enter the Hakimlyq. It seems even more dark and forbidding then before, although the front doors are propped open. No one waits by the doors or steps today.

Zache is walking toward it when he notes a figure. A heavily cloaked figure approaching him out of a shadowed alley. Great, just what Zache needs, more mysterious strangers. Did Urglin grow them in bunches? What would this one want?

Yet, as the figure draws near, Zache can see a familiar gait under the cloak. An odd rolling walk that must mean-

The cloak falls free and it reveals Trarn Igzuuk, but not the same Trarn Igzuuk Zache had seen a few days before.

Gone was the dissolute drunk who could barely stand. In his place was a ferocious and proud orc who, despite leaning on a bone crutch seemed every inch a warrior. He wore only a simple loincloth, revealing painted skin from neck to thigh, an endless herd of running deer. The orc's skin gleamed with aromatic oils, his head shaved smooth. His wounds were not horrors today but badges of honor, relics of mighty battles. A short robe covered with swan feathers was draped lightly across his shoulders, brilliant white rippling in the morning sun. In his free hand he held a small lacquered wooden rod, dyed black and red.

"You came." Trarn said, his eyes measuring Zache. His voice was raspy but seemed more whole then before. More solid. "For today, it will do." A vicious smile played on his face, "Today marks the start. For both of us."

Zache's words are punctuated by Tajai's interjections of surprise.

'Monsters‽ Where?"

"A house? And you just took it?"

"Treasure in the basement? That just happens to be yours now?"

Still if one thing can settle Tajai down it is business. Clearly she would rather hear more about his various adventures, but she does hear out his proposal.

She rubs her chin, "Well, Uncle doesn't really go in for artifacts and such. Says it is too 'speculative' and hates waiting around for the right buyers. Magic items are always good though, and always sell fast."

"First pick is a good offer though." The young woman goes on, thinking out loud. "Could be a useful side line, we are still establishing ourselves. Uncle still has some starting capital, since it turns out you fight so spaces instead of buying them here. We are still getting used to that." She gives a bit of an awkward smile, "You seem to be taking to it though. Lots of rumors about that orc fighting contest." She waves a hand at Urglin as if the city is 100 miles away.

"So, you really are going to do it. Fight for this woman you just met? It's very....bold." She says, with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. "Everyone says it will be very dangerous, that the fights always are. Are you sure you want to do that? There are other ways to go through life..."

Seeing Zache's face however, the young woman gives up and some small unstated dream of hers fades away like morning fog. A sigh and Tajai says with a sad sort of smile, "I will talk to Uncle today. Come back tomorrow and we can work out the details? I can talk him around but he won't need much convincing. He always liked you."

She waves a hand at the market place, 'After all, you helped win him all of this."

'Market stall' might conjure up images of a small wooden counter, and maybe a wagon at the local farmer's market day. Halman wright's affair was considerably bigger. Seven wooden counters faced the busy street interspersed with other racks, displays and tables. Just as many heavy duty canvas canopies covered it all, providing needed pools of dark shade. There were benches and seats for customers to sit and enjoy while they browsed, while a carpeted area was set aside for the more serious buyers, where Wright would dicker personally over large sales. A number of wagons dotted the area, both for merchandise and as temporary housing for them all.

Things looked bright and prosperous to Zache's eye. Two workers he recognized from the caravan were placing out items for sale, higher prices things like buckets, nails, mirrors. They gave Zache a nod. On a small step stool a red-headed woman was hanging a fair banner that said 'Halman Wright's Trading'. She is just finished tying it up when Zache steps up.

Tajai's face lights up like a Crystalhue lantern when she spots him. The young woman jumps down with a grin, 'Zache! I wondered-" Then she spots his eyes and her face falls, "Are you all right? I heard the wildest rumors, that the orcs were going to kill you or make you fight monsters and Gods knew what else. Last I heard you had to leave the city? You have to tell me everything!"

Zache notes as he leaves the Hellfire District, a few Tieflings are watching him. Mostly from stoops or open windows. The faces are not hostile, but they are also not overly friendly. No one speaks or waves.

Outwall, at least the artisans, are up with the sun. Daylight is simply too useful to not take full advantage of. As Zache walks he sees everything from ropemakers to chandlers to cobblers setting out their tools, to work in the bright sunshine. It creates a bustling productive atmosphere, full of comings and goings.

The swashbuckler, after some effort, finds the Desna shrine. The old woman is out front, sweeping the carpet entryway. She smiles and waves him inside, explaining her apprentice is out buying supplies. Inside, Zache notes a few people still sleeping in isolated corners. The aged cleric explains Desna temples and shrines often act as a refuge of last resort for travelers. Indeed, some pilgrims roam for years from shrine to temple and back in a wandering route that values journey far above destination.

Alas, she is not as helpful as Zache would have wished.

She knows nothing of his gray clouded eyes or Ell.

The cleric does say that the House of the Moon is a famed and semi-fabled Desna temple in the Cinderlands. Some distance to the west, it is a tall tower on the shores of the vast Stroval Deep, a large salt lake. It is not a typical temple and is more of a meeting place of the mightiest and most powerful in the Desnan Church. You get the sense from the old cleric this is the higher circles of the church and a group she doesn't think much of or much about. It isn't secret and she gives directions exact enough to find it, if one was willing to travel the week or so at least required to get there.

They had hungry enough that the food tastes good, like something from a nobleman's table. Zache is experienced enough with hunger however to do this is actually a pretty poor example of orc cooking. The meat is a poor cut, overly cooked and the bread is stale. Still, it is ballast in the stomach.

They keep up a lively conversation over food. Zache learns that Urglin has two main slave markets. The older one in the city near the main gate and a new one is Outwall, catering to Outlanders. The latter is a source of some friction since some Outwallers have come from lands that do not admire the slave trade. Zache is not alone in his disgust for it.

Riff is happy to talk about his old career, eager to move past his theft. It seems betting on the Bloodworks has a long tradition, even among the locals. The Blood Watchers frown on it, but have never tried to ban such a widespread activity. Instead it has simply become a bit...unseemly. Wagering is something one does in private, or at least not openly.

Riff explains there is a network of bettors, gamblers and groups that absorb the wagers and then pay out. As he mentioned this has lately been increasingly taken over by outside forces such as Aspis and the Chelish. Still it is a large and diffuse network, with no real organization. Fighters wager all the time, no one thinks twice about it. It is Urglin after all. Throwing a fight isn't a concern in a sport where death is often the wages of defeat.

They take turns pulling watches but the night is quiet. Very quiet actually. During his turn Zache only sees movement on the street once, a small group of teiflings moving with oddly organized movements. A patrol of some kind, doing the rounds. The other report much of the same (there is an audible sense of relief when Riff manages to stand a watch and not steal anything, although Lessi accuses him of falling asleep).

The next day dawns bright and hot, a true Urglin day. The sky is almost painfully blue, a perfectly featureless plane from horizon to horizon.