Andrew D. Gable
First Post
The frigid, black waters of the river flowed swiftly through the dreaming city. Squatting like a great toad above the torch-lit streets of the nighted metropolis, on a vast cliff overlooking the river, was a large square building, its spired domes scraping the night.
One region of the city was especially rank. The odors of blood and sweat filled the narrow streets. This was the thieves' district of the city of Ianthe, the capital of Ophir. The city guard scarce ever entered the narrow, crooked streets - even armed and mailed soldiers fearing the thieves and scoundrels which preyed upon the unwary.
It was in the Wandering Eye, one of the taverns crowding this district, where the red-haired barbarian Thorkin Bearkiller sat at a table with a self-styled "King of Thieves", Santoro of Shadizar. Thorkin had wandered down from the wastes of Vanaheim to seek his glory among the kingdoms of the southland, and Santoro was one of the fastest friends he had made upon arrival in this golden city.
Into the Wandering Eye strode a tall man, swarthy-faced, with the look of a man hardened by a life of wandering the desert. A waxed and pointed beard adorned his face, and a long scar ran down his cheek. The man sauntered up to the bar and retrieved an ale. Then he strode back through the tavern, eyes lighting up at an empty chair across from the two rogues. Without pausing for invitation, he pulled out the chair and sat himself down. He began guzzling his ale. The man slammed it on the table, and it foamed over his calloused hand.
"So, friends," he said to Thorkin and Santoro, his first words of greeting to the pair, "what manner of folk be you? You resemble not the lazy, well-fed dogs of this city."
One region of the city was especially rank. The odors of blood and sweat filled the narrow streets. This was the thieves' district of the city of Ianthe, the capital of Ophir. The city guard scarce ever entered the narrow, crooked streets - even armed and mailed soldiers fearing the thieves and scoundrels which preyed upon the unwary.
It was in the Wandering Eye, one of the taverns crowding this district, where the red-haired barbarian Thorkin Bearkiller sat at a table with a self-styled "King of Thieves", Santoro of Shadizar. Thorkin had wandered down from the wastes of Vanaheim to seek his glory among the kingdoms of the southland, and Santoro was one of the fastest friends he had made upon arrival in this golden city.
Into the Wandering Eye strode a tall man, swarthy-faced, with the look of a man hardened by a life of wandering the desert. A waxed and pointed beard adorned his face, and a long scar ran down his cheek. The man sauntered up to the bar and retrieved an ale. Then he strode back through the tavern, eyes lighting up at an empty chair across from the two rogues. Without pausing for invitation, he pulled out the chair and sat himself down. He began guzzling his ale. The man slammed it on the table, and it foamed over his calloused hand.
"So, friends," he said to Thorkin and Santoro, his first words of greeting to the pair, "what manner of folk be you? You resemble not the lazy, well-fed dogs of this city."
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