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Hey all,
I've admired the work of certain authors on ENWorld's story hour board, specifically the "story hour" by LazyBones. For those not in the know, this gentleman took the Shackled City Adventure Path and conceived of an entire party (plus stats) whose journey through the campaign he described in beautiful and exciting detail.
This was not a campaign journal, as no dice were actually thrown and no players laid claim to these characters, but it was a fascinating travelogue through the written adventure.
In a separate vein, I found myself drafting a high-level psionic group to see how they might fare in "Wormcrawl Fissure." The playtest was short-lived, but my "iconics" stuck with me. Now, with much time on my hands as a substitute teacher, I began to write their story from Day One (or Level One ;)) with the same plan in mind-- to foretell how this group would fare in the Age of Worms Adventure Path.
I can't promise dice will be rolled to back-up my narrative, but I will try hard to keep to game mechanics as I proceed. With any luck, you'll enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
Warnings: There will be obvious spoilers for plot lines. Additionally, I will be incorporating rules mechanics from Complete Psionic and fusing this into the PF Beta system. Thus, I can't post full character stats (as LazyBones has done) in respect for Paizo's policies regarding copyrighted third-party material.
Ask questions as you see fit and I'll do my best to answer them.
No promises on the frequency of my posts will be made.
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Prologue
Whether shrouded in silk or smoke and arguing over vintage liquors or rotgut swill, the idle rich and the penniless academics each gnaw at a particular bit of philosophic gristle—Is a man’s career path dictated by his talents, or does his path determine what talents innate flourish as others wither on the vine? And is a talentless man destined to brigandry, or is the lack of a guiding hand that leads him to this end? A common dialogue goes as thus:
Proposal—a vintner’s success hinges on his tongue detecting the acridness of souring wine, just as a baker’s nose capture the smell of pasty and loaf at their gustatory apex, the jeweler’s eye spies facets and flaws that divide gem from glass, and the minstrel’s ear guides her tune to perfect pitch to meet her audience’s mood.
Rebuttal—could not the wagoner, farmer, alley thug, or bodyguard each turn their own senses to the task if proper training were presented?
Perhaps the irony is that prince and scholar claim the intellectual merits to hold this discourse, in the same breath denying their counterparts the same perspective and privilege, and yet never consider asking the brigand himself.
Brevrecht Allogenuous’s ears had rung with these words in ale-reek taverns and noble court alike, and each time had concluded that it did not matter what a man noticed that struck his fancy, but what a man could be made to miss—the silver coins of his money purse, for example. Brevecht had traveled for nearly a week on the padded cushion at the fore of a rickety conveyance, an ox-drawn wagon turned caravan, the vehicle wending its way over empty stretches of road toward his final destination.
Swaying in his seat, he drew in the essence of Diamond Lake, with all his senses, begrudging each in turn. The vintner’s tongue would recoil at the bitter smoke filming the air, the baker would wrinkle his tool of trade at the stench of humanity lolling on the fetid eponymous shorelines, and the architect’s eye would flinch at rutted, mud-spattered roads and sagging buildings. Even the minstrel would be pressed to present a tube that could allay the ennui and misery that lined the faces and creased the minds of these citizens.
Himself an artisan, Brevecht grimaced at the appalling and unwelcome lack of wealth to be seen on the grimy miners, prostitutes, and other day laborers that slogged through the morning streets. Desperation can blind a man with greed, but what’s the use if he lacks the coin to be taking under his unseeing eyes?
Fingers idly tugging at his shoulder-length silvered locks, the self-titled “Conte Brevecht Allogenuous of Deremor” continued his languid journey through the decrepit town, eyes lighting at the appearance of Diamond Lake’s “Emporium” and the glimmering rings that decorated the hands of its clientele and their escorts. There’s the place! Brevecht rose, legs bending to meet the lurching floor of the cart, and agilely lept onto a single cobblestone, drowning in the sea of mud.
The wagoner's scowl at an unpaid departure vanished behind naked greed as five silvers flashed toward him—he nearly hurled himself from the seat to capture an errant sixth silver—embarrassment hidden behind a broad grin. “Safe roads before you, sir!” he shouted as his snorting oxen bore on through the muck.
With luck, he’ll not notice those six still bring him four short from the journey’s start. At least, not until either he or I are out of sight. With his own grin, “Vex” spun about and approached the three brutes that served as the Emporium’s security force, standing astride the burlesque’s entrance. “Gentlemen,” he said with a wink and the gleam of four silvers, “Master Balabar Smenk is expecting me.”
* * * *
Minutes stretched on, mired in the wagon’s trek through Diamond Lake’s midden-heap streets. The “best” part of town, along with most of the vehicle’s passengers, had slipped away long before. Cocking a look back, the wagonmaster grimaced at the lone patron left in the rear of his splintering cart—rags and bandages enshrouded much of the figure, masking all but dark eyes and a black slit for a mouth. Damn beggar, didn’t even see them get on. Could’ve done me a favor and fallen off at some point as well. Perhaps later, he would recall that not once had the wretched figure approached him during the journey, where he, his money pouch, and the affable “Conte” had sat. For now, he scowled as the beggar rose to their feet and clambered over the sign of the wagon, landing hard in the mud, leaving behind five silver “friends.” How’s a beggar got that much coin? And why’d they leave four extra?
* * * *
The “Conte” sauntered into the heart of the Emporium, a multitier building where glitter and gaud coupled in a wreath of rainbow smoke. At least half of those substances are banned in Free City. I suppose anything goes in a place like this he reflected with a subtle grin. Inebriated men and women lounged on plush but stained divans, sipped brews, inhaled from hookahs, and chewed and spat from wads stuffed into their cheeks; all were laughing and spending their coin on ephemeral excess. Brevecht also noted gaming parlors scattered about the main floor, with card and coin swiftly changing hands, as well as dragonchess boards that allowed would-be generals to unveil their grand, drug-diluted stratagems through onyx and alabaster foot soldiers. Glimpses of pointed ear, childlike stature, and thickly bearded face hinted that more than just the race of man cavorted here.
Navigating the den of vice, Brevecht reached a private lounge whose bouncer beckoned him to pass beyond a thick velvet curtain. Walking behind the heavy drape, which ably served to ward sound and smoke from the chamber, he found himself in the company of four men. Two burly toughs stood at the lounge’s entrance, blades sheathed but accessible while their patrons, a man and a dwarf, reveled.
“Conte Brevecht Allogenuous I presume?” Grandiloquent and obsequious tones carried these words, spilling from the seated human’s bulbous lips. Balabar was a man of great appetite, as ruddy cheek and bulging belly confessed, but Brevecht could see a cunning mind nestled in his porcine eyes.
We are men alike, Mr. Smenk, crafted facades hiding our trickster’s wit. But you’ve got the long con here, while I am merely transient. Vex had heard of the philanthropy of “Master Smenk” long before walking the sodden streets of Diamond Lake—the man had produced orphanages and funds for widows of unfortunate miners, a hazardous profession anywhere, but worse when “safe practices” and “structural soundness” were ignored in the name of a mine baron’s “bottom line.” There were, of course, rumours of less savory deeds—debts collected in pain—but on the surface, Smenk was of the impoverished and de facto king of this sordid burg. “My dear Mister Smenk! It was indeed gracious of you to invite me to this scintillating establishment! Even more gracious to offer me lodging as we discuss the wealth I could be making for investing in your operations!” Play the fool, and they’ll expect nothing.
“Of course, of course my dear Conte!” smacked Smenk with a hearty laugh, “may I introduce the owner of our most lucrative mines, Gavine Dourstone?”
A sooty cough punctuated the dwarf’s arrival into the conversation. Eyes rheumy and bloodshot from clear intoxication, the mine boss extended a stubby arm across the polished wood table, the other limb entrapped in the sinuous curves of a hookah, purple haze sweeping from its stem. Brevecht was forced to lean to practically genuflect to briefly meet the grimy grip; greenish plumes of smoke rolled from the inebriate’s lips, as he fell back into his cushioned seat with a whoosh of breath.
“As you can see, dear Conte,” Smenk interjected, “Master Dourstone might prefer negotiations and discussions on the morrow. Perhaps you’d join us for a drink?”
That’d be a one-sided affair, old man. Dourstone can barely form a coherent thought—at least one considered coherent for a dwarf—and you haven’t touched a drop I’ll wager. “You are too generous, Mr. Smenk, for this meager village—you’d cut a dashing and welcome figure in any court I’ve spent my time in. Still, the travel wears too heavily on me to enjoy a stiff drink over a soft bed. Perhaps I might be shown to my lodgings?”
Dourstone giggled in hoarse rasps, though whether at Brevecht’s supercilious manner, his compliments, or the dwarf’s addled imaginings was left unsaid.
Casting a gracious and apologetic glance for his partner, Smenk smiled broadly, “of course my dear Conte, my manservant, Jenson” he indicated one of the two bouncers, “will show you the way.”
Brevecht bowed, and allowed himself to be led back into the smoky commons and outwards for Smenk’s manse.
* * * *
Balabar Smenk sneered once the “Conte” had departed. “Never trust a nobleman without his own servant and a parcel of luggage, Dourstone. A man unburdened by others is one prepared to run at the slightest trouble.” Smenk neglected to mention that he had at least three contingencies for escaping from Diamond Like with life and wealth intact, should the need ever arise. “Caleb?”
The other bodyguard suddenly focused on his employer’s words, “Yes, Mister Smenk?”
“Keep a weather eye on our dear Conte, and let me know if he strays far from the Emporium or the manse.”
Caleb had served Smenk for six years, and knew exactly what to do if the fop failed to comply with his boundaries; he’d buried his share of bodies. “Yes, Mister Smenk.”
Balabar had already returned to his musing, “Never trust a genasi, Gravine. As capricious as a gnome and light-fingered as a halfling, that breed.”
An indelicate snore marked Dourstone’s thoughts on the matter.
Balabar rose, disgust writ plain for the dwarf’s intemperance, “I fear for Mr. Dourstone’s miners tomorrow, Caleb. He’s a hog when he’s sober, a boar when he’s drunk, and an ogre when he’s hungover!” Chortling at his own wit, Smenk left the Emporium imagining the pain he would inflict on the “Conte Allogenuous” if his guess was right. Don’t con a conman, genasi; he’ll keep you dancing until you swing!
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Chapter 1- A Miner’s Life
The next morning…
A cluster of grim-faced men huddled in a twisted narrows of rock and timber, deep beneath the surface. Rock dust and sweat blended into the dun cosmetics of the miner, slicking the splintering handles of their picks.
“If she’s late again, I swear the foreman will see her swing,” grumbled one of their number.
“Aye, you can’t save her this time, Raamson,” chimed the second, a bearded native of the earth, like the first. “The boss is in his temper and the foreman’ll take it out on those he pleases. Quel ain’t his favorite, y’know.”
The third member of the group mused for a moment before muttering a bass retort to the second, “Quel takes her own risks, I’m not her keeper, Sethe.”
Sethe frowned in the dim lantern light, “Sure, m’boy, but that won’t stop you from speakin’ in her defense—it never has.”
Raamson sighed deeply, shifting slowly in the narrow confines of the tunnel. His bald scalp nearly scraped the timbers, as it rose a meter above his fellows’ heads; his forearms, as thick as the wooden supports surrounding them, clenched hamfists tight about his oversized pickaxe. He could scarcely hide his giantish heritage, evident in his tremendous size and strength, slate-grey skin, and the ease in which his eyes could pierce the darkened crevices of the earth. It was this last trait that placed him amongst this “depths crew”—when wick dimmed with dust-choked air or long shifts exhausted the oil supply, this crew could soldier on in the darkness. Being a member of the elite team had its advantages, though Raamson could do without the constant company of cramped muscles and sore joints from labour in such confinement. His even-tempered manner complimented his slow & precise movements—both a blessing in the claustrophobic depths.
Mining the depths had comprised the sum of Raamson’s four decades of life and labour—his fellows joked that he was born with a pickaxe in hand, gods save his poor mother. The giant’s strength and determination made him a favorite of the foreman and even Mr. Dourstone, whose dwarven tongue was rife with invectives for giant-brood, had offered grudging admiration for his prize worker, or so said the rumours. The giantkin squared his shoulders as the reedy voice of their foremen echoed through the tunnel.
“Best be ready to cash in some of that status, Raamson… she’s going to catch it.” Sethe had admiration for the fellow, but envied the giant’s seeming immunity from the aching joints and weary bones that accompanied his own twelve decades. He held a similar duality in his regard for the demihuman, “Quel.” A wisp of a girl, she had joined the crew seven months prior, when Sethe’s cousin was caught in a tunnel shift that trapped both arm and foot under a ton of rock—he lost both in his battle to survive. Needing a compliment of four, the team soon received his “replacement,” a sprightly and nimble creature whose speed of speech was dwarfed only by her speed of limb. The old dwarf could have considered her a niece, of sorts, if not for her luminous feline-green eyes, set in her chestnut-coloured face, and her tangled black topknot crowning her bare skull. Its not natural for a woman to be lacking so much hair
She and Raamson were a true pair—hairless and young, each orphaned as children, each granted a lease on life by the generosity of Master Smenk and his philanthropy. Looking up from his musings, Sethe spied the creeping, yellow tendrils of the foremen’s lamp. “Dammit girl!” he whispered, “you’re going to catch it!”
* * * *
A hopeful mantra pounded in Quel’s (Quelisania, according to the small pendant that served as her only material inheritance) brain, I’m not going to catch it! Foreman’s not going to catch me! Her limbs stretched in full service to the sprint, as Quel darted into the gloom of Dourstone’s mine, grinning at its surly guardians and sagging laborers as she ran past. The xeph, as her race was said to be, never saw a need for flame in the dark; her eyes rendered it a jagged landscape of gloomed hues, allowing her to navigate the earthen tubes free of torch or lantern. Her nimbleness also proved an asset, haste plunging her toward frequent near-collisions with laborers burdened by pails of rock & ore and fatigued by brutal labor.
Quel gave little thought to the “why” of her lateness—time had simply slipped by, its limbs faster than her own—but the “consequence” was foremost in her mind. If the foreman finds me missing, Raamson‘s going to defend me—the fool’s going to get in trouble again. Without pause, she plunged into a rock chimney, the entrance to the “depths,” grasping at the occasional rung of the metal ladder to slow her descent. She curled up as she reached bottom, pushing off the wall to continue her headlong rush through the mine. Her eyes captured the startled faces of the odd crewman—in these depths, only the most experienced (‘or expendable,' as Sethe often grumbled) labored; these tunnels were largely deserted.
She neared a fork in the rocky tube; its right branch led directly to her team’s present worksite, while the left languidly curved past other expended veins before reaching the same point. The pair provided an assured escape route, if one branch collapsed, though her crew had shared concerns if both were to suddenly give way. As he she began to run down the right branch, she spied the brilliant yellow glare of the foreman’s enchanted lantern—never dimming and vividly coloured to herald his arrival and urge his workers to labour more quickly at his approach (especially when accompanied by the boss).
He’s almost there! Can’t pass him! Have to take the long route!
Attitude never wavering, Quel spun about, grit and pebbles cascading about her feet. Time to run! With a thought, she tapped into her race’s latent power—her luminous eyes sparkled with bursts of green energy—limbs a blur, she raced back to the fork, covering ground faster than before. She wouldn’t be able to keep this pace for long, but it would be enough, she hoped. He’s not going to catch me!
* * * *
Raamson sharply sighed as the foreman’s luminous aura coalesced into a blaze of light—its glare needling his gloom-adjusted eyes. Quel…why do you do this to me? He prepared himself for the tirade to come; the foreman was a bombastic champion of “work ethic”—never mind that his spittle-filled, profane rants on the subject, which left ears ringing and the portly human out of breath, were hardly brief or even coherent. The foreman stepped into the tunnel’s entrance, only five meters from the crew, and began to navigate the rubble-strewn floor—he was already breathing hard and seemed to labour even to lift the prized symbol of his office.
“Picks down and eyes up you lazy moles!” rang his strained voice.
Raamson didn’t mind the ill-aimed slur, but he spied Sethe and Romet’s fists clench at the insult. Why does he antagonize the dwarves? Is it because Mr. Dourstone is one? This encounter needed to be resolved quickly, before Raamson’s compatriots were insulted further.
The glare of the lantern suddenly dimmed, as an alien silhouette filled the space between crew and foreman. The dwarves grumbled a prayer as the foreman jerked back in surprise, sending lantern rebounding off a near rocky protrusion.
“You f***ing bug!" the foreman shuddered with rage, "Don’t’ you f***ing ever try and sneak up on me! I will see you put down if you do that again!” His voice was reaching a fevered pitch as further invectives spilled from his sputtering lips, aimed at this new offender.
Shadowed as it was in the eldritch light, even Raamson could feel a chill at the creature’s surprise appearance. Vaguely humanoid, the mantid laborer’s body was a nightmarish composite of dun carapace, twitching antennae, and sickle claws; insectine mandibles shivered between a pair of glaring, sallow eyes and the creature’s upper limbs clutched a pair of picks and rock pails, its lower set bent and taut like a cricket’s.
Picks… Raamson recalled Quel’s nickname for the beast; he couldn’t understand her fascination with the mantid--like a child towards a pet. No pet that. More a monster waiting to strike. He had never seen it act in violence or anger, aside from the dual strikes of its picks against a rock wall. The creature tapped out an alien rhythm as it laboured, blows alternating with the scrabble of its lower claws as they wrestled broken rock into its twin pails. Still, all of Dourstone’s miners whispered over their mugs after a day’s labour, trading rumours of men gone missing and found dead with deep gashes in their backs.
Raamson and the dwarves remained silent, watching the foreman fume and flail at the immobile mantid—its only reaction to the man an unwavering gaze. Abruptly, as the foreman’s bellowing threatened new levels of profanity, the mantid shifted forward and stalked past the man—-ore buckets swinging lightly as its insectine feet clicked across the rock. It passed out of sight, leaving the foreman to gasp and gape. Turning his bloodshot eyes back toward the crew, he croaked “AND YOU… Four?!”
Startled, Raamson turned about, his chest meeting the elfin gaze of Quel, quietly standing agrin.
She looked up, whispering, “Hi, what’d I miss?” Without waiting for his answer, she leaned past Raamson’s bulk and exuberantly waved to the foreman, holding up a half-full pail of ore. “Hey boss!”
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Chapter 2- The Longest Night, Part I
Ten hours later…
Quel, Raamson,, Sethe, and Romet huddled around a splintering excuse of a table in the Mad Dog tavern, gulping down diluted ale to wash the grit from their mouths. The taproom was abuzz with the mutters and weary laughter of other mining crews; their humour seemed forced to Raamson’s ears, exhaustion blunting all emotions not sapped by the drudgery of their lives. As always, Quel was the exception…
“Really? Picks showed up right before me? Wonder what he was doing so deep…”
Sethe shrugged, “Who cares, Quel, aside from the fact that it kept your scrawny neck from the rope.” Sethe was good-natured for a dwarf, a slight smile shaping his intent.
“Well,” she piped back, “I care… I know all are scared of Picks and say he’s a mindless beast, but I’m glad he was there. And besides, Dourstone never sends him into the deep veins; he’s always near the surface so they can keep an eye on him!”
“There you go agin, girl. Him! It’s a beast, like a rock roach or spider,” Romet barked, eyes fixed on his mug. Quel pouted, emerald eyes pleading Raamson for a kinder word.
The giant-kin sighed deeply, “I suppose he did no harm today, seeing as he kept the foreman from catching you. Still, I wonder why his rock pails were empty when he left; he had to be there before the foreman…”
“See!” Quel flashed a triumphant smile, “Picks was there to help me.” The dwarves snorted in unison, swapping glances before resuming their drinks.
Raamson let his eyes wander the room as silence reigned at the table—every night, the tavern was packed with poor laborers desperate to exchange meager coin for cheap ale. At the bar, a rugged set of regulars bellowed and laughed amongst themselves—Kullen’s gang.
There were few ways for a woman to gain coin in Diamond Lake and even fewer for men—one could be a rockbreaker in the mines, a sorter of ore from the rubble, a hand on the shipping wagons, or a laborer in the refineries, where coal and wood burned on the pyre, yielding pure metal for their sacrifice. There were odd jobs as well, but the mines ruled Diamond Lake. No, Raamson corrected himself. The mine barons ruled, and the enterprise of delighting these wealthy few was the foundation of places like the Emporium and its Carnivale of Oddities.
There was a final way to get by—serving as a “self-made” man on the town’s streets, or in employ of the barons or the Emporium. A brigand, swindler, or mercenary in other words. Kullen’s gang was of the latter, though it was said that its leader owed allegiance to Mr. Smenk; with snow-white skin unbefitting a rugged orckin, Kullen would have otherwise found himself as an attraction in the Carnivale. So would I, if Mr. Smenk hadn’t taken me in at his orphanage and seen to my job at the mines. I owe him my life as anything but a sideshow exhibit.
Reflecting on his current state often led Raamson to consider what came before—Quel thought him dour and “moribund” in these moments—and he treasured what he could recall; his mother had come to Diamond Lake with young child in tow—her size and fierce mien made her better miner than Emporium dove--and she seemed to thrive in the tunnels. She worked for a now-defunct baron for four years, raising Raamson to early childhood, before her life was snatched away. He found grim irony that a tunnel collapse—indeed she had survived three—could not bow her, but a rampant malady—“rosebloom fever” as it was called locally—had taken her and left a clumsy boy, nearly two meters at seven years of age, to live alone. To you Mr. Smenk. Raamson raised a mug in silent toast and was surprised to see his benefactor stride into the taproom. Mr. Smenk? Here?
He began to turn, but Quel’s words were faster, “I see him too, Raamson!” Quel’s parents had been performers in the Carnivale, before the ringmaster’s penchant for drink and debt had mired the dynamic traveling show in Diamond Lake; “bottom line” had cost her parents their lives, as the owner’s unpaid debts to a local baron (now also defunct) brought deadly reprisal upon the show. Once again, Smenk’s orphanage had been there to pick up the pieces of a child’s shattered life. “What’s he doing in a pit like this? And who’s with him?” she whispered. Mr. Smenk always traveled with his two manservants—Jacob and Caleb were often the agents of his patronage—but a slender, effete figure had now been added to his entourage; the man was striking in appearance, as lithe as Quel but nearly two meters in height and clothed in a cerulean outfit fit for a noble and unsmirched by the omnipresent mud of Diamond Lake. He kept a rapier in a sheath as silvered as his hair, pulled back into a fencer’s knot that rustled as if windblown.
He seems sprightly for an old man…grey hair but face unlined… mused Raamson.
“A genasi? A real genasi, Raamson!” chirped Quel. At his blank look, she continued, “They’re people with genie’s blood—they are said to ‘speak with the elements.’” She mimed the dramatic tones of the Carnivale’s fire-haired fortuneteller, who claimed the same heritage.
“Elements? Like fire and water?”.
“Yea! And rock and sky. He’s so slender, so tall, and look at his hair! It’s like he’s got his own private breeze whirling about his head! I bet you he’s an air genasi.”
Romet snorted awake, looking at the subject of conversation. “Bah, just some nobleman slumming, maybe playing investor or would-be slum lord. Forget him!” He settled back into his cup.
“Oh…” Quel wilted slightly. “Still, even if he’s just passing through or slumming, he’s still new and handsome enough for my eyes…I bet he could have any girl’s bed in this place.”
“Even yours, Quel?” Raamson had an earthy sense of humuor that belied his stoicism.
She blushed, “Raamson! Well…I wouldn’t say no, if he even bothered to ask.” She scrubbed at her dusty cheeks, then supported her head with arm braced against the table. “I can enjoy looking at least,” she sighed.
Raamson returned his gaze to Mr. Smenk—he had moved through the crowd to Kullen’s side at the bar. They conferred for a minute or two, a purse passing into the half-orc’s pale hand, which began to secret the prize behind his chain vest. Mr. Smenk halted this action with a word, gesturing to the crowd with the sweep of his arm and a winking nod. Kullen scowled, briefly, and then turned on his stool as Smenk motioned his entourage to follow him out of the tavern.
Kullen’s voice, lisping about his lower tusks, boomed through the tavern; the murmur died. “Two drinksh on the how-sh for every man! Curt-eshy of the generoush Mr. Shmenk!!” The room roared in approval, though their benefactor had already stepped out with a brief wave of departure.
Eyes twinkling, Quel grinned at the table, “Well, fellows, what’ll you have? Piss-ale? Rotgut? Mop water?”
The giant shared a smile with his diminutive friends, “Whatever makes tonight pass and the morrow come quicker, I’ll have it.” Sethe and Romet snorted in approval.
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Hope all had wonderful holidays!
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Chapter 2- The Longest Night, Part II
Emerging from the smoke and tumult of the crowded taproom, the fresh air, if Diamond Lake could be said to have such, washed over Raamson and Quel like a purifying ablution. It had been several hours since the free drinks had come round, and fatigue drug at the xeph and giantkin’s heels.
The pair set out for the barracks—the bunkered housing established by Mr. Dourstone for his laborers—plodding through the twilight in silence. For all the delight Quel found in cheerful banter, she enjoyed these quiet walks with stars cavorting in the smoggy skies above. Despite her fatigue, Quel’s endless energy manifested as the constant motion of her eyes, alighting from building to cobble to star. And thus, she noticed a muddled shape in a near alley—her “nightsight” discerning the grays of cloth and rag from the black mud—a beggar, face-down and writhing in the murk like a wounded animal.
“Raamson!” she gasped, darting down the narrow way for a closer look. “Someone’s hurt!” came the echo of her cry. Quel’s eyes ran over the beggar’s shuddering form, looking for the source of their pain—dark blooms about the shoulders, ribs, and head spoke cried testament of recent blows. Kneeling, she tried to roll the man (woman? human?) on their back; No one deserves this…beaten and left to die in the mud. Quel grimaced, as even her lightest touches evoked rasping gasps from the beggar. “Raamson, they need help right now! I’m not strong enough to carry them without hurting them more!” Quel’s arms were lean, muscled from daily labour, but her strength paled to the raw power within her companion’s towering form. I’ve yet to win a strength of arms contest out of fifty with him… She shook her head; panic made her thoughts wander, but they were reined in by sympathy pangs as the victim began to wheeze.
Raamson strode into the alley with careful purpose, wary of the mud’s unsteady purchase. “Quel, what do you think we can do? I’m no healer.”
“I know that, Raamson!” Quel snapped, determination honing her voice. “Just…let’s…take them to the Cuthbertians by the old mill; they might be able to help.”
“Those fanatics? They whip themselves to bloody tatters, Quel; they live in pain. They might even see this as a proper state and all.” He frowned at the beggar’s silent suffering. Who would want to live in this pain?
“Come on, Raamson, they still might help. Or, the Heironeans?”
“You want to drag a beggar seven miles to the garrison’s door and beg to track mud into their sacred chapel? They barely give notice to the trouble of Diamond Lake’s citizens, let alone a stranger to this area.” His voice grew hard, shaped by unfamiliar anger. “They have no time for those worth nothing in their eyes.”
“Any street-seamsters?” Most are butchers, but anything might help…
“No coin, Quel; we’re both still paying our dues to the orphanage.” I ate enough for three children…I’ll be paying forever.
“We have to do something! We..” Quel paused, swinging her upper body toward the mud, head inches from the beggar’s lips.
Broken words rasped in her ears, “Cuth…shelter…hurry”
“'Cuth?’ They want to go to the Cuthbertians. Maybe these bandages are to hide scars from the lash?”
Raamson stared up at the stars. She’s going to be the death of me.
“Let’s go!”
The half-giant knelt, cradling the beggar as he rolled them over. His eyes narrowed; a thicket of cuts and bruises shrouded their face, revealed where bandages had loosened. Dark eyes met his—unwavering within a sea of pain. He grimaced and lifted them from the mud. What did they do to deserve this treatment? Are they even a Cuthbertian? The real fanatics don’t stray into town this late.
His thoughts stewed amidst the sea of Quel’s worry-driven chatter; a sharp note of panic entered her voice, “Raamson…turn around.” He rose from his crouch, lifting the beggar from the clinging muck, and looked to the alley’s entrance—two figures, men in leathers w/ blades sheathed at their waists, stood illuminated in the wan moonlight.