This blog is a narrative outline (a literary embelishemnt if you will) of a campaign and setting that I created for 2E when I was in college. I adapted to 4E and am currently playing out with my son, who has followed in his father's love of the game.
V - A Thief in the Night
Posted 27th December 2008 at 07:15 PM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 1st January 2009 at 04:43 AM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 1st January 2009 at 04:43 AM by H.M.Gimlord
V- A Thief in the Night
By this time, the sun had long gone down, and the light in the room had taken on the look of dock-side nightlife. A fire was blazing on the common room hearth and customers were nodding off in their ale. Conversations in the room took on a low and fanciful drone. Firebyrne drained what remained of his drink and once again shouldered the chest that carried his possessions.
“Innkeeper. I’d like to see my room.”
“O’course Mr. Firebyrne. This way.” The innkeeper pulled a key off of a pegboard behind the bar, lit a taper with a nearby lamp, and squeezed through the half door once more to lead Firebyrne upstairs.
As they ascended from sight, the common room adjusted itself in a vain attempt to return to normal. The drone grew louder, but there were no songs or stories left to tell tonight.
“Here’s th’room. Numba Six.” The innkeeper fitted the key into a lock of blackened iron which was so well oiled that the bolt drew back without a catch. The door and swung open on greased hinges with surprising ease to reveal a small, dark room, sparsely furnished, with no windows, and just big enough in which to turn around. The bed was waist-high with room underneath for storage. A little table stood at the head of the bed with an oil lamp, a basin, and a stool. At the foot of the bed, a chamber pot was placed, discreetly just inside the frame. Firebyrne was not accustomed to inns and taverns, but he knew enough to be impressed with the cleanliness, and care with which the room had been prepared.
The innkeeper scurried in ahead of Firebyrne and held his taper to the oil lamp. Light filled the room, and gave it a cozy glow. “It’s a small’n, but I’magin you won’t be needn’ a palace. M’name’s Blagarm Barblacken. Call it if y’eva need anythin’.”
Blagarm handed Firebyrne the key to the room, hanging the key ring on one of his claws. “The keys’re a silva’ an’two coppas a’piece if ya lose’em. Cost me a day‘n’a room to get a new’un. I’ll be serven’ brekfust at five bells. Three coppas fa food. Two coppas fa drink.” Before Firebyrne could say “Thank you,” Blagarm bounded back down the stairs to make sure that the folk in the common room were behaving themselves.
Firebyrne closed and locked the door. Pocketing the key in his tunic, he made his way wearily to the bed and dropped his oak chest on the floor with a dull, but loud, thud. Until now, he had not realized how tired he was, and he could think of nothing better than sleep to prepare him for his first day of work in the morning. Without bothering to remove his clothes, he kicked the chest under the high bed, sat on top of the blanket, and fell backward. He was asleep before his head lit. Unconsciousness set in on him so quickly and so completely that he didn’t notice the visitor who entered his room four hours later.
Blagarm had snuffed out the hall lamps for the night, so no light fell into Firebyrne’s room when the door silently swung open and a small creature slipped through the gap. Casting no shadows and unhindered by the darkness, he padded on bare feet across the room to the bed where Firebyrne lay asleep.
The intruder found Firebyrne’s chest as though the dragonborn himself had told him where to look, and slid it out from under the bed making no sound all the while. He drew two small, metal tools out of his tunic and, with the hand of a trained engineer, set to work at the lock on the chest. In seconds, the lock fell open making no sound as it came to rest in the palm of his hand. As the chest lid was slowly raised, a small, blue spark issued from the hinge. The little fellow started for a moment but, hearing no sounds, resumed his task and crouched behind the vertical lid to inspect the contents of the chest.
The reward was disappointing. The chest had nothing except some clothes, a sword (which was too heavy for him to lift), and a hauberk that would make too much noise if he tried to remove it from the chest. It seemed that the weight of the trunk lay more in its structure than in its holdings. Swearing to himself he reached up to shut the lid.
It was fortunate that Firebyrne had not taken the time to undress before he fell asleep. Otherwise, his purse might well have become a consolation prize for the thief. It was also fortunate that he regularly took the time to place a paste of quartz powder on the hinges of his chest. The resulting electric spark had silently awakened him with the smell of ozone.
When the lid came down, the burglar had only enough time to see two bright blue eyes staring through the darkness directly into his own. After that it was too late to act. Electricity arced from between Firebyrne’s bared teeth, through the air, and into the thief’s chest stopping his heart momentarily. Firebyrne casually made his way across the room toward the halfling who was slowly regaining consciousness. As the thief’s eyelids lifted, Firebyrne dug his claws into the thief’s shoulder, and lifted him up until they were eye to eye. Firebyrne’s voice took on an intimidating tone.
“Tell me, hobbit: did your mother not tell you that the dragonborn can see in the dark? Where I am from, the penalty for burglary is death. You are lucky that we are not there.” Firebyrne moved to the open door and shouted down the hallway, “Blagarm! It appears that we have another Freak at the inn today! Call the night watchman!”
There was a stir of people coming out of their rooms into the hall, but when they saw the dragonborn holding the squirming halfling by the shoulder, they quickly shut themselves in their rooms. Blagarm came stumbling up the stairs in nightclothes and cap, fumbling a hand-lamp as he tried not to trip over his skirts. In his other hand, he held a makeshift nightstick fashioned out of a broom handle.
“ What’s all th’fuss ‘bout!? – Smoc! I might’ve known.” Blagarm brandished the broom handle in the halfling’s face. “Much thanks, Mr. Firebyrne. W’ve been lookin’ fa this’un ‘long time now. Did’ee take anythin’? ”
“Luckily, I got to him first, but I’d be willing to testify against him for charges of unlawful entry.”
Blagarm drilled his eyes into the halfling’s – an act that looked more comical than intimidating, but the claw in the halfling’s shoulder kept him from laughing. “Y’ll rot’n th’stocks fa this. An’if yer’eva tried fa pilferin’ m’shipments o’mead las’month, y’ll see the inside of’a dungeon sureas ya’can blink.”
Smoc blinked defiantly, but the gesture did not go unnoticed by Firebyrne. The dragonborn tightened his grip, and blood blossomed from beneath his foreclaw much like ink stains a shirt when a quill is misplaced upon it. Taking no care to be gentle, Firebyrne carried Smoc downstairs, through the dark common room, and out the door. Blagarm followed behind, still in his night clothes.
Blagarm lit the lamp outside the front door of the inn with the wick of his hand lamp and called for the night watch, “Jahred! W’ve got us a thief! Jahred!” A few seconds later, a tall, stalky human appeared in the glow of the inn’s lamp light. He was dressed in a mail shirt with leather bracers, and a long sword, hung from a scabbard at his waist. The crest of Rioc Alair was embroidered on the chest of his tunic which hung over the mail shirt.
“Jahred! Ya tell tha’ captain o’yers ta take better care o’his charges. This’un’s given us trouble a’fore, an’I can’t afford loosin’ more customers. Mr. Firebyrne, here, caught’im thievin’ in’is room.
Jahred’s eyes widened at the sight of the dragonborn, but he maintained his composure. “Don’t worry Mr. Barblacken. We’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore.”
“Ya better! Chain this thief an’hold’m in th’geol ‘till we try’m. I’m willin’ t’test’fy I’the’mornin’, and so’s Mr. Firebyrne.”
Jahred turned to address Smoc as he pulled out irons and chains from a hook on his belt.
“All right then. What’ve you got to say for yourself.”
“Oh go stick it in your eye!” Smoc wiggled defiantly within Firebyrne’s grasp and kicked at Jahred, the blood now saturating the coarse fibers of his shirt. Firebyrne, with his free hand, restrained Smoc’s legs while Jahred clamped the irons over his wrists.
When Firebyrne was satisfied that Smoc wouldn’t get away, he released his grip and let Jahred take him away. “Thank you Mr. Jahred. It is good to know that men like you stand ready to do what you must.”
“Don’ ‘spect n’thanks fro’me Jahred! Ya should o’had'im locked up months ago!” Blagarm turned to Firebyrne with a sheepish look. “Welcome ta Rioc Alair Mr. Firebyrne. Thieves’a like rats here. Once ya think ya got’em all, tha’s anotha’ comin’ out from behin' th’wall.”
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