CG human Commoner 2/Rogue 1

Eric likes to think he has everything under control.

He doesn’t.

Eric was born and raised in the farmlands outside Otraxis. When his father died suddenly with his hidden gambling debts unpaid, Eric’s poverty-stricken family was left in something of a bind–they didn’t have the money to pay the standover men who demanded recompense, and they couldn’t offer anything of value in barter or down-payment. Eric has, consequently, turned to a life of crime in order to pay off his father’s debts.

Snatching up a shortsword that is more heirloom than weapon of war, and creating his own armour out of heavy woolen blankets, Eric is every inch the bumbling buffoon. What he doesn’t realise is that the shortsword he treats so carelessly is–below the patina of rust–an intelligent magical weapon worth more than his family’s entire farmstead and all the land they work.

Eric owes the fact that he is still alive to the weapon–when Eric is faced with a foe he can’t beat or escape from, it unleashes its special ability to daze its opponents. That, and the fact that the weapon cannot kill unless a command word is spoken, has kept Eric out of any serious trouble so far.

Eric stalks the streets of Otraxis at night, waylaying  the rich and adding their coins to his own purse. He hasn’t been caught yet, but it’s only a matter of time, and when he is the men who are looking for money won’t be too happy to find that he’s been holding out on them with his family’s magical sword…

Eric’s Sword

+1 merciful keen shortsword, Int 12, Wis 10, Cha 12, Ego 6

Daze monster 3/day

The Creep hasn’t always been the (relatively) safe place it is today.

Because the Creep is officially outside the City of Otraxis, guild statutes prevent the City Watch from enforcing Otraxin law within the former Perellian Mining Complex. Moreover, scrying into the complex is impossible thanks to the legendary orb that Thane Arred reinstalled when the Creep was first founded.

Although the City Watch is all-but powerless to operate inside the Creep, the Duke’s standing army is not. The very same guild statutes that deny the City Watch jurisdiction  mean that those within the Creep are subject to common law rather than Otraxin law, and that gives the Duke the right of conquest over the tunnels, regardless of the convoluted legal entities set up by Arred to manage their ownership.

In practice, however, the subjugation of the denizens of the Creep has always been both politically and economically unviable, and the Duke is only rarely motivated–usually by the Miners’ Guild–to muster the banners in order to flush the Creep out.

This lack of law enforcement once made the Creep a particularly attractive place for those who sought to operate outside Otraxin law, from merchants of questionable character who merely wished to escape the city’s punishing duties on some imported goods, to hardened criminals who needed a place to lie low or a base from which to run their operations. It was typically a simple matter to find out ahead of time when the army was coming, and either hide or decamp temporarily.

The sequence of events that changed all that involved the entity that became known as the Shadow of the Creep.

Roughly fifteen years ago, Creepers started dying. There had always been accidents, and in the particularly lawless depths of the Creep murders were not entirely uncommon, but this was an entirely different order of magnitude. It started with the death of Martha Tabram, whose body was discovered with more than thirty stab wounds. Over the following days, more victims were found, and although the Shadow’s first victim was a woman, the killer was largely indiscriminate in the killings that followed, with victims ranging from a 75-year-old woman to a seven-year-old boy. As the days stretched into weeks, and the Shadow had still not been brought to justice, the killings became progressively more brutal. The killer began removing organs from victims, and mutilating the corpses–sometimes beyond hope of normal means of identification.

The Creep was in uproar. The Duke was considering sending the army in to clear the place out once and for all. The citizens of Otraxis proper were terrified that once the killer tired of the Creep, he or she (or it) would come after them next. In the Creep, neighbour accused neighbour and total anarchy was dangerously close; the entire community teetered on a knife edge.

Then, the killings simply stopped. Speculation since then has suggested that the killer simply moved on or tired of his ‘game’. Or perhaps he was finally killed by one of his or her victims who fought back.

Whatever the case, the Creep slowly settled back to some form of normality, and as a direct consequence of the killings, the Creepers formed their own volunteer law enforcement agency, albeit one that operates on a different set of laws to the city of Otraxis itself.

One thing remains on everyone’s minds, though, and that is the prospect that the Shadow may one day return to the Creep, and begin the killings anew.

Arred sat sullenly on his table at the Rock and Gemstone. “Waitress,” he called quietly, but she ignored him. More likely, it seemed to Arred, she simply didn’t notice him. Arred wasn’t nondescript as such – he simply didn’t command much attention. Arred was short and weedy, and his hooked nose, bulging eyes and facial ticks made him look permanently suspicious. He was also more than a little dirty, and it was a poor person’s dirt – the uncleanliness resulting from no baths rather than excessive outdoor labour. Even his close shorn scalp showed visible signs of grime.

Eventually, a waitress paused for long enough to take Arred’s order: potato stew. It was all he could afford after paying for the night’s accommodation. If he couldn’t find work tomorrow, he would have to go back to Derston Vale empty handed.

Arred’s stew eventually arrived. It was almost cold. They must have left it just sitting there on the kithen bench while Arred himself sat there, hungry as a starved dog. “Waitess!” he yelled. Arred of Derston Vale had had enough. As he glared at the waitress, who was rolling her eyes and no doubt preparing some condescending reply, Arred noticed two figures entering the taproom.

The first figure was a man, clearly overweight and balding. He was dressed in fine blue robes with silver trim – he may as well have a Faerie Fire sigil on his forehead saying “Mage”. If Arred paid attention when he was read the city civics, he’d know the blue robe was a Guild robe, and the silver trim put this wizard as one of the seventh circle.

The second figure’s features were obscured beneath a perfectly crafted suit of plate armour. Arred didn’t need to see beneath the armour to know the wearer was an Elf. Lithe movements and slim build aside, Arred had met this Elf before – and his fat friend.

The fat wizard, Rax, gave Arred a friendly smile. Jarim, the Elf, on the other hand started with purpose toward him. Arred glanced ever so briefly at the Elf’s exquisitly crafted, cold-forged Elven longsword and then bolted. Arred sprinted through the kitchen, knocked over a pot of boiling hot potato stew to hinder his pursuers, wrenched open the exit and fell flat on his face.

“Trip wire,” explained a rugged voice next to him. Arred looked up slowly, fear gripping him. Staring down at him was the strangely neat bearded face of that ranger, Lorn. Arred could hear the footfalls of Rax and Jarim behind him as Lorn’s companions blocked his only avenue of escape.

“No cause for alarm,” said Lorn conversationally in response to Arred’s wide eyes, giving him a hand up, “We are, in fact, here to help you.” Arred’s eyes widened still further. “You could even wind up being a hero to your people…”

“Or a martyr,” snickered Rax, earning himself a sharp jab to his ribs from the Elf.

“Listen carefully, Arred,” continued Lorn, “We haven’t got long. Any minute now, Migel…”

“M… M… Migel?!” stammered Arred, starting to sweat visibly, “Migel Del C… C…”

“Yes,” interrupted Lorn, losing patience, “Migel Del Coza, Head of Operations for the Miners’ Guild. Very soon, he will be visiting his diviner friend at the Wizards’ Guild, Ezrendra…”

“Filthy whore,” snapped Rax.

“…and they will begin scrying on our every move.”

“But… what about the Sphere?” asked Arred, regaining his wits somewhat.

“Useless unless it’s on its pedestal,” explained Rax, throwing the artefact to Arred, who stared at it in utter confusion.

“We want to take you up on your offer,” said Lorn calmly, “You and your people can work the mine. We have the full deed.”

Arred was shocked. He had asked the adventurers only weeks ago to allow the people of Derston Vale to mine the mine before giving it to the Miners’ Guild. The trio had refused outright, threatening to have him arrested if he ever crossed their paths again. Arred had foolishly threatened them as he left – saying that, one day, he’d kill them while they slept. His backside still smarted from those bolts of energy Rax ad scorched him with. Now, something had made them change their mind. Arred was in no position to interrogate the three, however, and the thought of being caught by the Miners’ Guild was enough to secure his cooperation.

“What do I need to do?” Arred asked.

“Not much,” said Lorn slyly, “Just return that sphere to it’s resting place, gather your folk and whoever else is in need of food this Winter, and occupy our mine. It has tunnels connecting all the way to Otraxis, and plenty of room for any willing to live below the surface. Some of it is even furnished.”

“And…” Arred began cautiously, “What would you ask in return for all of this?”

“Oh, not much,” replied Lorn whimsically, “Just provide a cheap source of mining for the mines near Otraxis and severely eat into the Guild’s profits.”

Arred went white. Go against the Miners’ Guild? That was death… or worse.

As though reading Arred’s mind, Jarim piped in, “The Perellian Mining Complex is technically not a part of the City. You won’t be bound to obey the Guild Civics – but you will be near enough to competr with their labour force. Just think of it, plenty of work available, paying much more than a farmer’s wage… and no crop shortages to worry about. With no guild fees to pay, you’ll be able to make almost as much as another miner, but for half the price. What’s more, you’ll be unscryable, and under our protection.” At that, Rax shot Lorn an incredulous look. Lorn simply nodded, agreeing with Jarim – much to Rax’s chagrin.

Arred’s mind was a blur. He could live on a tenth of a guild miner’s wage. Farm life had not been kind to the folk of Derston Vale… or, for that matter, Thraan Valley, or Prenton, or Likor Village… all were desperate, facing starvation this winter. Arred could save them all. Then he’d be noticed. “I’ll do it,” said Arred resolutely.

“Whoopie,” grouched Rax.

“Good man,” Lorn complimented Arred, ignoring the wizard, before turning to Jarim, “Now, where would we be now if we had made straight for the Pig and Barrel?”

“Cray Street?” suggested Jarim.

“No, past the docks… Tala Road? Near Flavin’s Pie Shop?” asked Rax.

“Nowhere near there,” argued Jarim, “Stop thinking about your fat stomach for once.”

“Half way, then,” put in Lorn quickly, before another fight broke out, “Fir Street, near the mill.”

“Very well,” said Rax, “But we’re stopping at that pie shop, or you’re paying guild rates for this spell.”

With that, Rax snapped his fingers, and the three of them disappeared. Arred sat down aghast. Such power. These were good friends to have indeed. He paused in thought for a while – or bad enemies.

* * *

One month later, during the harshest Winter in an Age, the Creep was founded and Thane Arred of Derston Vale became a hero and leader to many.

50 years before present day

The three weary travellers stared at the path through the enormous stone gate that led up to the Guild Palace. Spruikers at the market could be heard clearly above the general cacophony of city sounds. The outlawing of voice augmentation glamours had been overturned last year when the Guilds managed to achieve a majority representation on the city council.

“Best green goods in town!” came a cry from a burly grocer. “Ressurect your friends for only five easy instalments of three thousand gold. Don’t lug the corpse, all we need is a finger!” shouted another salesman, no doubt a priest of Chemosh. “Find ultimate fulfilment at Tasha’s House of Plenty!” bellowed a seductive female voice, “Disease free for 10 years!” [how Tasha had convinced that Paladin to work for her was anybody’s guess]. If you needed it, Otraxis had it – and in several varieties.

The travellers climbed the path with renewed vigour. By Emesh it was good to be home. The trio rounded Silver Street on their way to the Miners’ Guild.

“So, 50 gold says this orb belonged to old Farnour’s mother,” cloyed Rax as he bounced an ornately inscribed and clearly ancient metal orb on his pudgy hand.

Jarim sneered – a difficult gesture for him, given his face was mostly obscured by his many-runed Elven helm. “Do you really think that a thousands year old relic belonged to the woman who spawned that fool Farnour?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” replied Lorn, clapping a friendly hand on Jarim’s plated back, “Rax is just baiting you.”

“And picking on Farnour’s age,” put in Rax quickly, “He must be nearly 80 years old!”

Jarim turned his nose up in disgust. “80 years is nothing. I have lived for over three times that number of years…”

“Yeah, but the first two hundred were spent toilet training,” sniggered Rax.

“Rax…” cautioned Lorn.

“Take that back, you fat oaf,” cried Jarim, “Before I skewer you!”

Rax’s hands crackled with arcane energy, “Just try it, you malnourished tree fucker!”

Jarim’s sword was nearly out of it’s scabbard when Lorn stepped between his two comrades, “That’s enough! We’re almost there and I will not have you pair duelling in sight of our benefactors. We stand to make a large and ongoing profit from this deal, and you will behave!” Lorn favoured the pair with one of his famous roguish grins, “At least until we get to the Pig and Barrel. You hear me?”

Both Rax and Jarim smiled and nodded. The Pig and Barrel was their favourite tavern. Where the Children of Emesh were concerned, it was everyone’s favourite tavern. The food was hearty but standard fare. The ale was average. The wine was decent, but overpriced. The spirits could rot your insides by their smell alone. The reason adventurers loved the Pig and Barrel was the exceedingly expensive and permanent mending spell that was cast long ago on the building and all the furniture. No matter what mad raucousness happened of a night, come dawn, everything was back as it should be. The tavern even had a priest of the fourth circle on staff to heal those in need – for a ridiculous fee that only a wounded, drunken and treasure-laden lout would even consider paying.

Thoughts of the night to come spurred the trio on, and cooled – if only temporarily – the tempers of the portly wizard and his Elven companion.

The Miners’ Guild hoved into view as they crossed Elm Avenue. Almost in defiance of its members’ working conditions, the Guild sported enormous vaunted ceilings, and towered many storeys into the sky. The frontage was lavish in the extreme. Bested only by the House of Plenty for sheer gaudiness, the Miners’ Guild sported ornate frescos, coated in golden paint and speckled with rare gemstones. Only a guild very secure in its power would dare have such valuables external to its headquarters.

“Wait outside,” ordered Lorn. Before the pair could protest, he added, “I want you to keep an eye on the Rock and Gemstone Resting House. Let me know if our good friend, Arred from Derston Vale, is still calling it his home in Otraxis. He’ll need to be taken into custody when all this is over.” With that, Lorn stepped inside.

Lorn was uncomfortable. As an outdoorsman, he far preferred his hunting leathers to the merchant’s garb he was currently sporting. His long, brown, matted hair was tied in a restrictive pony tail that flopped forlornly against his back. Lorn’s hands were free of their usual muddy grime, and smelled of perfumed soap – a most distasteful odour. The final discomfort was his beard. While Jarim could not convince him to shave, Lorn did concede to his first comb and trim in five years. He must have lost half his beard to that Elven butcher.

It wasn’t just Lorn’s clothing and grooming that was making him uncomfortable, though: the luxuriant interior of the Miners’ Guild was of a class in society completely alien to Lorn. For a man who would rather sleep on the hard ground beneath a starry sky, the sight of fine tapestries and silken cushions alone made him feel out of place.

“Lorn! So good to see you,” came a smooth voice from one of the overly large doorways. The voice belonged to a middle-aged gentleman, dressed almost like nobility. His red spidersilk shirt alone would have cost enough to feed a family from Lorn’s home town of Hornsridge for several years.

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Del Coza,” replied Lorn, struggling to keep the discomfort from his voice.

“Migel, please, my friend. You’ve more than earned the right to use my first name. Please, step into my office.” Migel gestured toward the door behind the one he’d just entered from.

Office? He must be kidding, thought Lorn as he entered, I’ve seen entire taverns that weren’t this large.

“Excellent work clearing out that old mining complex,” said Migel as soon as Lorn had taken a seat on an exquisite leather seat opposite his ostentatiously large teak desk, “A first rate job. Especially in killing that Beholder. Most remarkable.”

“How did you…?” began Lorn.

“Oh, easy, my boy,” Migel cut him off as a smug grin spread its way across his face, “Once you’d removed that pesky orb, we were able to scry on your progress. It was a most entertaining display as you worked your way through that horde. We should have charged for tickets.”

“Yes… well…” Lorn faltered. His prepared account of events was clearly going to prove unnecessary, “Well… then… erm… speaking of charging…”

“Of course, lad, your half of the mine,” said Migel, solemnly sliding some papers Lorn’s way, “Actually, more than half. Twice that, in fact.”

“A full share of the mine?!” balked Lorn, “But… but… why?” Lorn was totally taken aback. The deal was to remove the orb from its sconce in the heart of the old Perellian Mining Complex – and to clear out any creatures that had come to call it home since the death of Arthus Perellian – in return for half the land rights and a half share of the revenue.

“Why? Well, it’s the least we can do, my dear Lorn,” replied Migel, a sly smile replacing his friendly one, “Especially since the mine is worthless.”

“What?!!” screamed Lorn.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” said Migel, feigning sadness, “Old Mr. Perellian, it seems, was broke a well as dead. Either that, or the new inhabitants knew how to mine.”

Lorn was fuming, “Then why…?”

“Send you in the first place?” Migel cut in, “We needed confirmation that the mine was indeed empty. We couldn’t get that until you removed the orb from its holding place. Pesky little anti-scrying setup, that.”

“You cheating bastard!” yelled Lorn, throwing his chair backwards and waving the worthless deeds at Migel, “I want to speak to Farnour right now!”

“Now, now,” chided Migel, “There’s no need for that. Farnour fully supported this deal. You got what was agreed – twice what was agreed, in fact.”

“Twice nothing is still nothing!”

“Yes, well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Feel free to mine it yourself. Just don’t forget to apply for a permit. You can pick up the forms on your way out.” Lorn wasn’t sure whether to cut his losses or run the man through. Almost as if on cue, two immensely muscled and well-armed security guards entered the room, and held the door open for Lorn to step out.

“You and Farnour have played us for fools, Migel. We will not take this lightly. The day will come when you both regret your folly. As my name is Lorn Arneth, you will suffer, Migel, as we have suffered, one hundred times over.”

Migel’s face darkened, “That’s Mr Del Coza, to you. Now get out.”

Alun trudged along the mountain path along with the other score or so workers from Barstow’s illegal mine. It was a good two hours back to Otraxis, and with the snows coming early this year he was keen to get back to the relative safety—not to mention warmth—of the Creep. Ahead of him, Quentin cursed and stumbled as his too-often-repaired sandals came apart. Alun bent to help the old man, his younger fingers better suited at coaxing the leather into a temporary knot.

Quentin smiled his gap-toothed smile as Alun knelt down. “Thank you, young’un. Fingers ain’t what they used to be,” he said.

“It’s all right Quentin. Most of us would be dead without you. Helping you out with your sandals is hardly a decent repayment.”

“You’d be surprised, Alun my boy, you’d be surprised…”

His task completed, Alun straightened up again and turned to resume the descent. “We really need to find you some new shoes,” he said, negotiating his way carefully down a narrow rubble-strewn defile.

“And by ‘find’ I suppose you mean ‘steal’?” asked Quentin, putting his hand out for assistance with the last few steps across the treacherous shale.

“Not necessarily,” Alun lied, his cheeks already flushing. He turned away from Quentin so the old man wouldn’t see—which was when he saw the girl. She was just behind them, at the top of the defile they’d just passed through, and obviously uncertain about where to put her feet.

“Hey,” Alun called up to her. “You need help?”

Quentin turned to see who Alun was talking to.

“No thank you,” the girl replied. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Alun. “We’ll stay here though, in case it takes you a while and you get lost.”

The girl simply glared before she started down herself.

Alun turned to Quentin. “Hey,” he said quietly, “have you ever seen her before?”

Quentin squinted back upslope, one hand absently combing his scraggly beard. “Nope,” he replied. “Not that I remember, anyway.”

Alun turned back to watch the girl making her way carefully down. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days, but that had obviously once been good quality—nothing like the third-generation rags that he wore. Twice he cringed as it looked certain that she’d tumble down the rocks and he’d have to look after her—all the way back to the city—but she eventually made it without incident, and came across to stand before Alun with her hands on her hips.

“See?” she said. “I don’t need your help.”

She pushed past Alun and began heading further down the mountain. Alun turned back to Quentin with his eyebrows raised, but Quentin just grinned his infuriating grin and started down after her.

“Come on,” Quentin called. “You know how Bethany gets if we’re late for dinner.”

Alun sighed and began following them both back toward the Creep.