The Shackled City

Ruuk strides the hillside to the south, a scout for his tribe. The mountains of the Old Sparr drink the sun from the sky, and Ruuk welcomes the coming dark, his keen senses coming to full power in the gathering gloom. Cresting a rise, Ruuk spies the waters of the south, a boundary never seen by many from his people, and Ruuk offers prayers to Gruumsh for his safe arrival. Scanning the waterline, Ruuk sees no ships, though he does not expect to. Humans of the south have bartered information with Ruuk’s tribe, and they say the south is cursed. Turning west, Ruuk eyes the coastal plain and frowns at the shifting lands he can see. With no wind, Ruuk is puzzled at the movement, and absently swats a spider from his arm. That Lord Blackblade chose Ruuk for this task is a source of great pride for Ruuk, and determined to succeed, Ruuk descends the western slope to the plains below, his longbow readied. Crushing another insect from his leg, Ruuk begins to see centipedes and spiders dotting the rolling grasses. Wary, Ruuk stops his mount to alight and examine more closely. Setting foot to ground, Ruuk is immediately beset by the insects, and the pulse of the plain before him grows hurried as the swarms of insects rush towards their new prey. Realizing the peril, Ruuk whispers some words to the mount, and sends it rushing away. To his knees beneath the furious swarm, Ruuk watched as the mount clears the hill, hoping that even in death, Ruuk has lived up to the trust shown him by Lord Blackblade…

It is with anger that Lord Blackblade is awakened from his slumber, the morning barely breathing its way into his hut. His anger turns to concern, however, when Ruuk’s mount is shown him, gasping at air and littered with envenomed bites. Healers and tenders are summoned, and a shaman particular attuned to beasts is brought to seek the truth of Ruuk before the animal dies. An orc bearing numerous totemic artifacts leans to the animals throat, slitting it with a bone dagger. The spilling blood is cupped in his hands and raised to his cracked lips, bringing a gasp to the shaman’s lungs. Lord Blackblade counts the day costly, as the message of the deadly swarm is told him just before the shaman’s husk joins that of the slain mount.

Harilkaniv stretches a twitching wing, and muses on the boredom that consumes him. Here to guard something he is not allowed to see, only the legendary wrath of his suzerain prevents him from exercising his curiosity. Still, his curiosity and the lack of any creditable threat to the sanctum provide him with ample opportunity to puzzle over the vault’s contents. This day the sands blow with ferocity, and he knows that his companion will find no caravans to pillage or merchants to terrorize. Besides, the traffic has dwindled in recent years, as the elven kingdoms turn their attention to the assault from the south. Harilkaniv suspects that his suzerain is in league with the southern warlord Yserdor, though he does not know why. With the elves no longer crossing the desert, entertainment has been rare, as the nomads of the deserts bear little of interest from their trades with the Sunadi.

Kasghirian burrows into the lair from their entrance chamber and eyes her mate’s distractions with contempt. She knows that their suzerain has only disgust for Harilkaniv and trusts that she will be the watchful eye the treasure here needs. If Harilkaniv were to find out that she knew what was within the fault she would have to slay him to keep him from entering, and though he was foolish, he was still her mate, and the suzerain had demanded offspring, knowing that the vault would need a flight of dragons to protect it should the elves discover its existence. Settling next to Harilkaniv, Kasghirian closes her eyes, knowing that for now she may rest…

The taverns of Cauldron are packed with patrons, and all are talking about the disturbing stories of the most recent Herald. Between the slaying of High Priest Sarcem Delasharn and the flooding of the slums nearest Crater Lake, few pay much attention to the mention of a robbery at Taskerhill Mansion. In the corners of the Slippery Eel, however, there are those who take heed. Unveiling her face, Jil whispers in a cant known to those of the Guild a litany of phrases, each a key to earn the other’s trust, though in truth no sound escapes her lips; her company at the table reads the keys from her movements alone. Having completed the necessary requirements, she answers the unspoken question from her companion with a single name. “Julius”. The Jester leans forward to examine the features of her face, trusting in an ability to read the features of this lieutenant’s face. The commotion and drunken worries seem to form a curtain of darkness around the table, and Miss Annie ensures that no barmaids find their way to the corner. Confident in Jil’s assessment, the Jester nods and returns to a relaxed position in the shadows, awaiting her suggestion for a solution.

“I will deal with him,” she asserts, but the Jester immediately refuses the idea, suggesting an alternate one with a single word; “Westrik”. Long since having learned not to question her master, Jil simply nods and rises from her seat. As always, she attempts to see how the Jester manages to disappear from his seat before she has reached her feet, and as always she fails, knowing that the darkness that once held him now holds nothing but itself. Sighing silently, she quickly catalogues where she might find Westrik to give the assassin his new target…

Beneath Cauldron, in the ruins of a kopru village, five adventurers consider their options amidst the oozing carcasses of ettercaps and spiders. Believing the Ebon Triad to be nearly dispatched, they weigh the possibility of delivering the finishing thrust against the diminished abilities of their compatriot Julius and the scarring wounds of the knight of Wee Jas. To fight on, or seek respite, the choice vexes them, and much may be decided by the choice they make.