Chapter 1- Untitled due to spoilers...(But really its called One Last Job)

[SirLoganofGilead]

One Last Job

 

Earlier in the day, you had received a note from a young child.  At first, the fact that a child would approach you surprised you a bit.  Not just any child either, this particular child had been filthy, you could smell them coming almost before they had seen you.  The child was human, but its filthiness made it hard to guess if it was a boy or a girl.  When the child held out a note, you were even more surprised.  As you reached out for the note, the child flinched slightly and ran off as soon as the note was in your hand.  You recognized the handwriting immediately.  This was not the first time your mysterious new benefactor had delivered a note to you.  It WAS the first time they had used some dirty street urchin to do so.  

 

The note is folded in such a way that it makes a sealed square, but the top of the note says "Read Immediately".  The penmanship is perfect, with no stray marks, and straight perfect letters, it's not the first time you have wondered at the beauty of the handwriting.  Taking the message at face value you unfold the paper, and only then realize how intricate the folding pattern is here.  The letter isn't long, but the letters manage to take up the whole piece of paper, almost as if someone measured everything before they started writing to create a note that pleased the eye.  Inside the letter reads, "Tonight. Midnight.  The Pump House.  Southern District. "  At the bottom of the note was a symbol you had come to recognize.  You were unsure whether it was a symbol for the guild or just a sigil for your contact.  Either way, it was an ace of spades with a keyhole in the center of the spade.

Sigil

The Pump House was the closest thing The Southern District had to a tavern.  You were somewhat surprised that your contact had even heard of the place, it was not considered...savory.  Still, this would be the place to go if someone wanted to be unseen by other more prominent guilds.  The only other guilds that might have members there would be The Beggars Guild, or maybe some dockworkers.  It's only noon, you still have plenty of time before your meeting.

OOC Note

I'm going to move this forward but please feel free to tell us what you did during this time in your first post.

It's dark now, and the Southern District is still alive with movement.  This section of the city seems to never truly sleep.  The people moving about are slow and deliberate.  Most of them try to avoid catching the eye of someone else.  Some of them are doing illicit things in dark alleys, and some of them are just used to not being looked at and prefer it that way.  You make your way down whatever alleys, or things that call themselves streets but are not, bring you to your destination.  As you round the final turn you can see an odd glow coming from the door.  Upon closer inspection, you can see it's just the way the darkness and the fire from inside are playing with each other, but it still looks odd.  It might be a sign if you believe in such things.  

 

[matt_s]

  

Glanton Cavrenon

Glanton's mind wandered as he went about various errands in his afternoon. A missive from a curious messenger. But there was logic to sending a street urchin as courier. By their very nature, they would have passed without any notice beyond perhaps a sharper eye on one's wallet and a quick check to confirm that yes, none of that grime had spread forth. A few coppers, and one could have a letter posted far faster than the Postman's guild ever could. Glanton imagined that the lettercarriers would take some umbrage at that. A stop by the fletcher to pick up some new arrows, a visit to the tanners to drop off a curious hide, checking in with a few of his other contacts and mates whiled away a few hours until the time for the meeting approached. Every few minutes, Glanton's fingers would drum a tattoo on the card sequestered in his coat pocket.

 

This particular region of the Southern District was not well known to him. A mind for personal survival therefore motivated a visit well within the hours of daylight. Glanton did not fear the dark - fear of the dark was a fear of absence, an absence that his eyes no longer heeded - but he did fear what lurked within it. Anyone sensible did. About an hour of idle strolling were enough to get the lay of the land. Satisfied, Glanton departed the District, to return half an hour before the appointed meeting. Punctuality was a virtue, after all, and showing up early was a way of having a measure of agency in his dealings and went a long ways towards avoiding unpleasant surprise. With a sigh, Glanton reached for the door at the appointed hour. The oddity of the dancing flames meant little to him. Plenty of evils in the world without inventing new ones. There was work that needed doing.

 

 

 

 

 

[Butchern]

It had been a few days since Olive had any work other than shooting rats down at the docks, so she was happy to receive the letter . . . even if she was less than thrilled at the method of delivery. Olive had been on the street. She had seen many children just like this one, and like this messenger, Olive had done many thing she didn't want to do and was scared all the time.

 

But that was in the past. Now, Olive had a bow and a hatchet and wasn't scared of anyone.

 

With some hours to kill before the meeting and no work to be done, Olive went to see her brother and sister. She never went into the elf's tavern where they had been indentured—the proprietor would not have tolerated it. So, she watched from across the street and waved at the children when they noticed her through the windows or when they went out to the alley to dump trash.

 

When the sun set, Olive set out for Southern District. She knew the area reasonably well, but the city always looked different at night. Olive had tied her hair back, raised her hood, and pulled her scarf up to just under her nose. She felt her hatchet bang against her leg as she negotiated the narrow streets, and when she reached the Pump House, she pushed open the door and entered without hesitation or ceremony.

[herastor]

Istria Mare

The rhythm of her steps on the cobbled street ceased immediately as soon as the child engaged with her. For the umpteenth time since her arrival in this strange land she had to take in, breathlessly, the vast difference between her old home and this new one. It was the acrid smell, mostly. That no one, not a single person, had bathed this child was beyond her. Cleanliness was the root of all good health after all, dirty or not.

 

As the child quaked and held out their missive, Istria took the time to gather one of her cloth wrapped rations and slip a few copper coins into the folds. Once the package was prepared, only then did she take the note. Her guess was proven correct when the child absconded as soon as the paper left their hand. The care package would remain though. She was certain someone would take it.

 

In contrast, finding her way to the Southern District proved much harder. From the market place, several districts stood in her way. As each was traversed, another stood in her path. For the outsider navigation came to be more a matter of brute determination than any sort of genius. The locals weren't much help either. Too busy, too rude, or too convoluted with direction. When she did make it to the Pump House, it was very nearly time for the meeting anyway. Her feet hurt, her head ached, and the grime of the dilatated streets clung to her boots as firmly as it had to the child.

 

She composed herself at the door. A spark of power wiped away the stains of the day before her hand met the wooden frame. The taps rang out and she breached the doorway in their wake.

 

[BlackHat]

If the morning had been eventful, Sutter Tredat would have been unaware. His mind was elsewhere, for sure. It was early afternoon before he set out to the market to restock some of his supplies. He was dressed in fine clothing, although it was as worn-looking as he was. His demeanor was that of someone who had once known wealth but who had fallen on hard times. Surely, he thought he looked more impressive than he actually did. Sunken eyes, pallid skin. His lips were tinged with something. For a man of medicine, Sutter did not look very healthy. He looked like someone plagued by sleepless nights. And guilt. 

 

He wore his equally-weathered alchemist’s bag over his shoulder. An intricate pattern glowed on the chemical-soaked leather flap. Within the bag, something stirred accompanied by the muffled sound of a delicate chain and the clinking of glass against glass. The ceramic gallon-jug, which was strapped to the satchel and covered in crudely painted glyphs, sloshed around as he walked. To most of the population of the city of Orbulaandal, the arcane symbols might have looked like the mark of a spellcaster. Perhaps runes of enchantment or binding. To those familiar with alchemy (and the ciphers and symbology used by the alchemist’s guild to conceal their secrets) it was both a warning and an advertisement. It telegraphed Sutter’s familiarity with the field. That he and the observer, who saw them for what they were, shared a common interest. That, perhaps, they could do business. Discreetly, of course.

 

---

As sunset fell across the Market District, Sutter found himself darting between stalls, drawing a number of strange looks from vendors and shoppers alike as he frantically seemed to be hiding from someone or something. After being shooed out of a shop by an old woman, he ran into a man and clumsily apologized, while looking over his shoulder and generally appearing frightened and alarmed. "Whatever is the matter?" asked the startled bystander, just as Sutter’s bloodshot eyes went wide.

 

"Did you see it, too?" Sutter asked. The man’s confused expression suggested he had not. Sutter pushed him away and stumbled down the street. 

 

It wasn’t long before it caught up with him, again. It had been following Sutter all day. It couldn’t be a coincidence. At first, he had thought nothing of it. After seeing (and smelling) the child for the third time that day he began to get paranoid. Everyone else in the market seemed to be pretending the urchin did not exist. Did it? Sutter found that he could not be certain. Whether it was a spirit, a hallucination, or a common pickpocket, Sutter thought it was wisest to get away from it and back to his friend’s house, where he could peacefully ride out the effects of his latest elixir.

However, Sutter had become lost on the dark streets and his glowing bag made him easy to track in the dim light. Before long, he found himself in an alley rustling the locked side-entrance of a shop that had closed hours ago. "Hey, mister!" Sutter froze at the sound. A dozen times today, the street-rat had tried to hand Sutter something. What could it be? His mind raced with horrific possibilities. An omen? Teeth? A tiny version of himself? This time, cornered as he was, Sutter tentatively took the letter with his own shaking hand while clasping his pack firmly in the other. A much smaller hand reached out of the folds of the bag, grasping desperately for the child who wasted no time in running away from the terrifyingly unhinged man that it had been chasing around for most of the afternoon. 

 

---

 

Hours later, in the middle of the night and in a much calmer state of mind, Sutter managed to find his way, across the city, to the Pump House. His bag no longer glowed, although the ceramic jug still bore the painted markings of his trade. He moved through the dark alleys with as much purpose and desire to be ignored as anyone else did at this hour. He paused at the door to the 'tavern'. Sutter Tredat absolutely believed in signs and entered the Pump House with quite a bit more hesitation than was probably warranted by the eerie glow. Then again, it was quite common for him to experience things beyond the limited awareness of others. 

Edited October 19, 2022 by BlackHat (see edit history)

[RillaTaj]

Brekill snorted with amusement as she read the note- so terribly cliche, to carry out mysterious business at the stroke of midnight, but she could appreciate a bit of atmosphere. At least she knew the Southern District fairly well. In fact, she had a room there right now... though if more jobs didn't show up, she might have to forfeit even that soon. Crusading for justice didn't exactly pay well and she absolutely refused to crawl back to her parents and the Masons.

 

The next few hours weren't all that exciting. Brekill used the opportunity to nap; if there was business afoot later, she'd want to be well-rested for it. The she dawned cloak and hood and made for the Pump with wary glances around her -she doubted her enemies were the type to frequent the Southern District, but their money could surely afford those who did- and slipped inside to seek the closest dark corner from which to read the room.

[SirLoganofGilead]

Inside The Pump House is a unique experience.  The floor is covered with a mix of peanut shells and sawdust.  The source of the shells is obvious, there are peanuts on most of the tables and barrels filled with the things at different spots in the tavern.  The sawdust appears to be laid down because the floor is dirt, you assume they need a way to cover the mess that people make from either overdrinking or fighting.  It does remarkably well at covering any smell, and you can see some plants are starting to spout in places.  All of the seating seems to be made quickly to fill the space, some of it seems to be old stumps with the roots cut off, and others look like former pieces of other things turned into benches and tables.  The room is windowless, and as far as you can tell, the doorway you came in through is the only way in or out.  Everywhere a window is supposed to be is a squarish wooden sign with the words "The Pump House" carved into it.  The actual bar seems to be an old tabletop laid on top of a row of barrels.

 

The room is crowded.  There seem to be representatives from every race in the city in the room, and all of them look like they barely have a copper to their name.  There is a dwarf behind the bar, who seems to be all smiles.  Someone in one of the corners is playing an instrument, it looks homemade, and everyone is singing along making the room incredibly loud. To the left is a fireplace keeping the whole room bright and warm, the fire still looks a bit...off...but you can't seem to put your finger on whyFeel free to make arcana check for more information..  A quick scan of the room does not reveal your benefactor, but in the far right corner there is a dirty-looking kid, not the same kid you saw earlier, but with the same dress and the same level of filth.  As they see you enter the room they hold up a card with the ace of spades...there is no keyhole on this one.

 

OOC

Since you all came in at roughly the same time, you can decide if you literally bump into each other or not as you post.

 

[BlackHat]

Sutter certainly looked a little over-dressed for the occasion but made his way across the uneven floor of the Pump House. His eyes darted around, as he moved, occasionally glancing at a plant that had pushed its way up through the sawdust and shells - ever on the lookout for unusual sources of ingredients - but his gaze always returned to the fireplace. Something seemed 'off'. He considered various compounds that he might experiment with to test the reaction of the flame and deduce its nature. Although, this was not the mystery that brought him to this dismal place at this dismal hour. 

 

He froze in horror when he spied the urchin, flashing the ace of spades. Was it the same child? He could not be certain. With his wits more about him than before, he recognized the symbol as that of his mysterious patron - or close enough, he supposed. This calmed him only slightly. He remained quite unnerved, as he looked around at the patrons of the tavern, going about their business, paying the wretched creature no mind, and - of course - it was only natural to come to the conclusion that, perhaps, he was the only one haunted by the sight. Of course, they largely seemed to ignore his presence, as well. Sutter decided not to indulge this line of thinking much further, lest he cast his own existence into question.

 

No. Wait.

 

The child revealed the card again. This time... yes, to the person, near the bar, who appeared to take note of the card, although with less shock than Sutter had. He made his way to the makeshift counter, approached the stranger, with whom he must have something in common, and mused, "Perhaps a stiff drink is just the thing to calm our nerves at this ghastly hour...."

 

OOC

Anyone else who wants to riff on this, feel free to decide that your PC is the one Sutter noticed and approached.

 

Edited October 19, 2022 by BlackHat (see edit history)

[matt_s]

Glanton stepped across the threshold into the Pump House. A quintessential dive, this establishment, with a floor that no doubt devolved into mud at the slightest hint of rain and was hard as granite after the first frost. The crowd appeared destitute but friendly enough. Pickpockets were omnipresent in the city (Glanton bet they also had a Guild) but he doubted one would risk their welcome in the local watering hole for a purse of coppers. Glanton stepped up to the bar to ask after his patron and order a cider. The drink order was curtailed by Glanton's realization of the extent of the grime on the mugs (did that blotch of dirt move somehow?).Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the sigil held by the small child. Another member of the Equally Diminutive and Filthy Urchin's Guild. At the same time, a curiously and recklessly overdressed patron did a visible double take. That one ought to try to blend in more. Fine attire drew attention, and sometimes the lamb would find a shepherd, and sometimes the wolf.

 

The stranger approached Glanton and began to strike up a conversation and proposed that they order drinks. Glanton murmured

I have no particular infatuation with temperance, but I am not one for drinking on the job. Besides...

he gestures and grimaces at the general glaze of dirt about the establishment. Not good old natural dirt either, but the sludge of Civilization that ran thick and rancid in every gutter of the city.

[BlackHat]

“Ah yes. A minor inconvenience, but we are, as you said, on the job, and all of this seems to be the price of business, these days.” Fishing around in his alchemist’s pack, he quickly produces two glass flasks. They were simple but far better than the broken bottles used as cups in this establishment. “Are you sure that I cannot persuade you to toast to new business opportunities?”

[Butchern]

Olive entered the Pump House, face covered and ready for a fight. What she found instead was a fairly typical "flea bottom" tavern. It looked like a decent place, all things considered. She first noticed the two people at the bar who were not singing and looked a bit too dangerous when compared to the rest of the patrons. As she scanned the room, the little girl flashed the card in her direction. Olive nodded and discreetly held up the folded piece of paper as she approached the little girl.

 

Olive stood near to the child without standing too close and said, "Buy you some food?" She produced a coin sufficient for a hot meal and held it up, not quite offering it to the girl yet.

[herastor]

Istria Mare

Istria didn't have much of an expectation when she entered the Pump House. It was a good outlook to cultivate. Expectations could easily become unreasonable demands if they were not met. That said, this place could truly de dubbed a dive. A place that Orbulaandal deemed to send the people it considered refuse. There was still life here, sitting in chairs and sprouting from the floor. To her eyes a tapestry from a place and time. Instead of marching straight up to their patron, she decided to insert herself into that image.

 

Her steps carried her to the bar. From the dwarf she ordered something simple and cheap. That's exactly what she received. The odor was a little foul, but the taste wasn't nearly as bad. But it was still bad. The grog's lemon and cinnamon certainly tried to hide the fact that it had probably been fashioned from turpentine. She choked it down with the certainty that the drink would come to haunt her later.

 

When she successfully fought off gagging she finally took note of the two gentlemen beside her. A gaunt man seemed to be held up by the stiffness of his coat and another that seemed a little hollow. The hollow one mentioned a job. It didn't require a great leap of logic to surmise that they were here for the same reason she was. 

 

“Are you sure that I cannot persuade you to toast to new business opportunities?”

 

"I think I could be persuaded," she spoke, her accent thick any syrupy from the fire in her throat, "Istria Mare. It's a pleasure to meet you."

 

 

Edited October 20, 2022 by herastor (see edit history)

[matt_s]

Glanton politely demurred the offer of a drink with a brief wave of his hand. Instead, he took a brief swig from the waterskin tucked away within his coat. Looking about, there were three of them at the bar, and a woman had entered the bar that he wouldn't bet against making four. Curious indeed.

 

What has me thinking is the precise nature of the task that will be set out before us. We have been brought here in numbers, and it goes without saying that no employer would pay for several hands to do a job when one pair would do just fine. Therefore, it stands to reason that what we must do is either challenging or complex, or more likely both and more. We have an apothecary of sorts - nodding towards Sutter, although he does not know the name - and you have a priestly look about you. The naive might say the two of you are here for healing, but I know well that prayers can scorch the wicked as easy as cure the righteous. As for myself, name's Glanton, and I'm a hunter of sorts. Bringing me on, I reckon either something needs tracking, or something needs killing. The cards are dealt, and we only await the dealer.

[RillaTaj]

Brekill took note of the trio at the bar that didn't quite belong as she scanned the room, but didn't join them: business before pleasure and she didn't like to have her wits compromised before a job. Once she was satisfied the establishment held no immediate threats, she gave it a more thorough look and a grudging nod of approval. She'd seen worse for mysterious meeting places.The fire was interesting, but the grubby child and flashed card quickly drew her eyes from it and she made her way across the room (with the discreet application of an elbow or two to the sides of taller folk too drunk or oblivious to look below their own noses) to join the woman offering to buy their messenger child food.

 

Brekill awarded her a brief but approving smile, tentatively classifying her as 'good people'. "One would hope our mysterious summoner has provided for their hires already. They've certainly earned it." There were much worse jobs in the city than playing messenger- and it was one of the few jobs available to the non-guilded. Unless, of course, one had laid claim to it when she wasn't looking.

[BlackHat]

"... and you, as well." Sutter responded to Istria's introduction. "My name is Sutter Tredat," he said, introducing himself as he tried, in vain, to get Glanton to accept either or both of the flasks. Sutter then noticed Istria holding the local grog and seemed concerned, "Oh dear, I have just the additives... to sanitize, purify, and enhance.... Could you hold these for a moment?" Sutter once again attempted to hand Glanton the glass flasks, and then began digging around in his pack for more ingredients, whether he was relieved of the flasks or not. As Glanton revealed what he had assumed about each of them, Sutter looked up. "... 'of sorts' indeed! Surely, if the Alchemist's Guild heard you suggest that I might be hired, as an apothecary, without their express approval... well, that would cause all sorts of distress, wouldn't it. Best we not ruin the evening with such fanciful thoughts...." Whatever he was getting at, he trailed off as he found what he was looking for. A pinch of this, a few drops of that, and a bit of dried fruit with a caramelized glaze, and suddenly Istria's drink looked and smelled quite a bit more appetizing. The cocktail he concocted for himself looked absolutely otherworldly. Wine, perhaps, though swirling within the reddish fluid ran veins of something purple, which gave off a dark smokey flavor one could taste a few feet away. He inhaled vapor from the flask, savoring it, before holding it out towards Istria for the aforementioned toast, and offering the second flask to Glanton - one last attempt to include him in the ritual he had refused thrice, already. "...may we all have the chance to prove that money cannot make us happy."

Edited October 21, 2022 by BlackHat (see edit history)