JollyDoc
Explorer
Hello all!! Just wanted to share with ya'll a little preview of our Pathfinder: Council of Thieves campaign. I'll be posting the complete story hour at our new website, www.jollydocbasement.com, which is still currently under construction. And not to worry, I'm still working on completing the Curse of the Crimson Throne story hour!!
A NEW DAWN
Donal meandered through the narrow stacks of the old, musty bookstore, hoping but doubting that today would be the day that he might find a new, hidden treasure. Alas, most of the tomes and scrolls contained on the shelves were the usual assortment on the ‘approved’ list drawn up by the Order of the Rack. How the scrivener despised the Hellknights. For years Donal had toiled away as a minor functionary in the government of Westcrown. He notarized documents, probated wills and trusts, made copies, cataloged manuscripts, etc. Hardly the stuff of adventure. Nevertheless, the middle-aged scribe had a secret – he loved the romance of adventure and derring-do. Well, he loved reading about it anyway. One of the benefits of his position was that Donal ran across many different kinds of literature. Most were the usual stuff, but sometimes he happened upon some of the wilder political tracts from Andor or Galt. He actually owned a first edition copy of Hosetter’s Imperial Betrayal, his most prized possession. But Donal’s true passion was reading the Pathfinder Chronicles. The tales of intrepid explorers, daring rescues, lost continents, ancient cults, and unimaginable horrors had become almost an obsession for the balding, overweight scribe.
A few years back, Donal’s life became more difficult when the Order of the Rack began their crackdown on all seditious knowledge in Cheliax and Westcrown in particular. While it pained the bibliophile in him greatly to watch the book burnings every Oathday, the real problem was that he had an increasingly hard time getting copies of the Pathfinder Chronicles, and Donal needed his fix. The old Pathfinder Lodge at Delvehaven had been closed for some time, and the group was outlawed in Cheliax, but that had not stopped the Chronicles from circulating. Now, though, things were getting tougher. The government was coming down even harder. Their oppression was becoming brutal. One day, agents from the Order of the Rack found a stash of back Chronicles issues during a raid at Donal’s shop. When questioned, he quickly replied that the scriveners lawfully confiscated such seditious tracts from customers and kept them to eventually be turned in to the Order for burning. Fortunately, the Hellknights bought his story, but they took all the Chronicles as well as several other documents they deemed inappropriate for public consumption. That night, Donal returned home with mixed emotions. Though terrified by his close brush with the Hellknights, he was also angry…angry at the audacity of those intolerant zealots…angry at the injustice of it all. Someone should stand up, he thought. That’s what they did in Andor. That’s what they did in Galt. If only someone had the courage to do that in Westcrown…
Donal had fallen asleep in his favorite reading chair with his treasured copy of Imperial Betrayal across his lap. Soon the dreams had come. He had seen a rose blooming between the cobbles of a bloody street. He saw a gentle female face crying tears of blood. He heard the call of Milani, the Everbloom, goddess of hope, devotion, and uprisings. When he awoke, Donal did two things: first, he fell on his knees and prayed to his new mistress. He felt divine power flow through him, and he felt confident in his task. He also wrote several small notes. He wrote them in a cipher that he had found in one of the Pathfinder Chronicles issues, and he posted them on the common boards in several local taverns. To the untrained eye they appeared to be random doodlings, but he had hoped that this message would find the right people. Two days later, Donal arrived home at his locked apartment to find a mysterious package on his table. Upon opening it, he found a brief letter written in the Pathfinders’ cipher. It encouraged him to investigate the lodge at Delvehaven and to report his findings back to the agent, who could be reached through special channels at a certain local tavern. It also included the latest issue of the Chronicles, autographed by Katarina (a.k.a. the Cat) Veduny, one of the newest rising stars in the Pathfinder organization. Finally, it had contained a circular object wrapped in an oily cloth. It was a Wayfinder, a Pathfinder compass. The model had seen a fair amount of use, but it still worked. Donal had slipped the Wayfinder into his jacket pocket, felt the gentle weight, and smiled. For the first time in his life, he was not just going to read about the daring deeds of others – he was going to do some deeds of his own.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his musings.
When he turned, afraid the Hellknights had caught up to him, he was relieved to see an attractive woman who’s beauty was somewhat subdued by the rough clothing and worn leather armor she wore.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “My name is Janiven. I represent an organization of concerned citizens who feel that the draconian tactics of the Hellknights have gone on long enough.”
Donal was aghast. In the first place, it was if the woman had been reading his mind, but in the second place, it was borderline treason to speak such words aloud!
“If you feel the same, as I think you do,” Janiven smiled, “then meet me for supper this evening before the sun sets. I’ll be at Vizio’s Tavern. Ask around.”
With that she turned and left, leaving Donal confused, and strangely intrigued.
________________________________________________________
Dmitri pressed his face against a glass case that contained an assortment of wands, expertly crafted from all manner of materials, from bone to crystal. He sighed deeply, his breath fogging the pane.
“You buyin’ anything or just takin’ up space, half-breed?” the proprietor sneered, glaring directly at Dmitri’s horns.
The young tiefling was used to it. After all, his own family was ashamed of his existence. Even though he’d born into the nobility, never mind the fact that House Khollarix was relatively far down in the pecking order of the Great Houses, he’d been kept a virtual prisoner in the manor for most of his life. Nevertheless, he was quite proud of his family’s heritage of producing wizards of some repute. Though he had been considered not worth educating by his father, Dmitri had managed to squirrel away many hours in the family library, mostly stumbling his way through the ancient tomes. Every now and then, however, he’d had a breakthrough, almost as if his ‘other’ blood knew instinctively how to perform the required spells. He should have known it would be too good to last. Eventually his father found out about his illicit studies, but the old man couldn’t simply banish him outright. It wouldn’t look good to the other Houses. Instead, he gave Dmitri his inheritance in one lump sum on the condition that the tiefling leave and never return. Dmitri had little choice. He packed his meager possessions, including the signet ring that bore the family crest, and left. He’d taken up residence in a rundown tenement near the Pegasi bridges, which connected the seedier sections of the Parego Spera and the ruins of the Dospera. Now he spent his days hanging around magic shops in the hopes of attracting the attention of a mentor who might see some potential in him.
“He’s with me,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. The shopkeeper’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then his mouth sneered in contempt.
“I see,” he said. “You’re one of ‘those’ women.” He winked lasciviously.
Dmitri turned and saw the attractive older woman standing behind him.
“I’m Janiven,” she said softly. “Can I have a moment of your time?”
She turned and walked out of the shop and Dmitri followed. Once they were out of earshot of the watching shopkeeper, she turned again.
“Dmitri Khollarix,” she said, shocking the young wizard, “I represent a group of individuals who has a vested interest in seeing the Great Houses, especially Drovenge and Oberigo, lose the strangle-hold they have over this city. For too long has Westcrown suffered under the inequity of their rule, its people dancing like puppets at their whim. If you are of like mind, then I invite you to dinner this evening at Vizio’s Tavern.”
Without a proper goodbye, Janiven departed, leaving Dmitri with his mouth hanging open.
__________________________________________________________
William strolled through the idyllic park located at the southern end of Karhal Island, in the Rego Aerum. For as long as anyone could remember, the stretch of land had resisted any attempts to build permanent structures upon it due to a series of unusual accidents. Eventually, it had been ceded over to park land for the idle rich. William found that the height or irony…a land that refused to be dominated by Westcrown’s self-chosen elite, nestled in the very heart of their noble bastion. It spoke volumes to him. He had actually been born into the social strata that he so abhorred, yet at the age of eight years he was sent to a monastery dedicated to Irori. There he received rigid instruction and training in self-discipline and self-perfection for the next ten years. It was his parents’ wish that he use his monastic skills to train bodyguards for Westcrown’s nobility. After all, his family had risen to their position of prominence by doing just that…providing security for the Great Houses. In most diplomatic and political meetings, weapons were forbidden. What better way to get around that little inconvenience than to bring your own living weapon with you? Yet William had other ideas. When he returned to Westcrown, it was with an entirely different world view. While he held with the notion that law and order were necessary in society, enforcement of that structure with an iron fist, and at the expense of choice and free will was abhorrent in the eyes of Irori. He would not become a tool of what he had learned to despise. But what was one lone monk against an entire city devoted to diabolism?
“Penny for your thoughts,” a woman’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Ah, but one such as you would not be interested in monetary gain, would you?” Janiven asked.
“Do I know you?” William quirked and eyebrow.
“No, William,” Janiven replied, “but I know you. I also know how you feel about the current state of affairs in our once-beautiful city, and I and other like-minded individuals would like nothing more than to see rulership of Westcrown returned to its people. If you would like to learn more, meet me this afternoon at dusk at Vizio’s Tavern.”
______________________________________________________
Columbo watched the Order of the Rack’s squad of new recruits goose-step past with a mixture of contempt and raw, animalistic fury.
“You ok, buddy?” Janik asked, chuffing him on the shoulder.
Columbo glanced at his squad mate and nodded.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
“Yeah, well,” Janik said, “just another glorious day in the dottari, right? Shift’s over. Wanna go grab a drink?”
Columbo shook his head. “Nah. Gotta get home. Nona’ll be…,” He paused, and looked down at his boots. Janik patted him on the back and walked away, headed for the station. Columbo shook his head again. He thought he’d be over it by now. After all, it’d been almost a year since she’d died. No, strike that. Since she’d been murdered! A year might have passed, but he still remembered it like it was yesterday.
Nona had been a true believer. She had come from a long line of priests…priests of Aroden. When the God of Humanity had died, her family had continued to honor His memory by devoting themselves to His herald, Iomedae. Nona had continued that tradition, and though worship of other gods was technically permitted in Westcrown, the church of Asmodeus frowned upon proselytizing. Yet Nona was a believer, and she was not content to worship in private. She felt that Iomedae’s word held hope for the hopeless, and she was determined to take her message to the streets. The Order of the Rack took her. It was the Hell Knights’ imperative to stomp out heresy wherever they deemed it to be. They had dragged Nona Columbo from her home in the middle of the night while her husband was ‘protecting’ the streets. When he got off duty the next morning, he’d found her gone, and the Order of the Rack’s calling card in plain sight. His appeals to his superiors had fallen on deaf ears. It was out of their jurisdiction. He was ordered to forget about it and continue with his duties…or else. The threat was implicit. Columbo had done his duty every night since…protecting the people of Westcrown from themselves, turning a blind eye to the rampant corruption within the dottari, fooling himself into believing he could make a difference…that he could carry on Nona’s work. It was all a lie.
“Officer,” a woman’s voice intruded on his brooding.
“I’m off duty,” he grumbled.
“I’m not interested in you in an official capacity,” the woman said.
A prostitute, Columbo sighed. “Look lady,” he said, “move along before I run you in on general principle.”
“My name’s Janiven,” she said, “and I’m not interested in that either. What I am interested in is talking to you about the Order of the Rack and some of their…nocturnal activities.”
Columbo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you talking about?” he growled.
“Vizio’s Tavern,” Janiven said, “dusk. See you there.”
_____________________________________________________________
Darius Jeremiah Shady, known as DJ to his friends (of which he had very few), made his way through the Dusk Market, blending into the background as naturally as a chameleon. The Dusk Market was located in the Rego Cader…the Dead Sector of Westcrown. It was a wandering bazaar that set up within the shells of formerly opulent temples, viras, theaters, and other grandiose ruins. It was a semi-secret marketplace where drugs, exotic poisons, strange creatures, kidnapped slaves, and nearly any other vice one could imagine were traded freely. It took its name from the fact that it only operated in the two hours before sundown, each evening in a different location.
DJ was an elf, and like most elves in Westcrown, he was poor. He didn’t choose to be poor, and he most assuredly did not want to be poor, but it was a simple fact of life. His parents had come from the forests of his ancestors, hoping to make a better life for themselves in the city. Instead, they scraped by doing odd jobs, barely able to put food on their table. From a very young age, DJ had learned that money and wealth were available…just not to him. He’d learned how to spot the ones with money, however, just like he was doing this very evening. He had also learned that they were oblivious to such as he, and he took full advantage of that. He took what he wanted, he stole what he could, and he killed if he had to. He brought home food and gold to his parents, but he lied about where it came from. It all came very naturally to him, and he was very good at what he did. Still, he was starting to feel it was time for a change.
“Any good marks tonight?” The woman’s voice momentarily startled him, and DJ didn’t startle easily. She was very good if she could come upon him so quietly that he failed to notice.
“I work alone,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, his hand drifting down to the kukri sheathed in his belt.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “I’m not looking to horn in on your territory. Just wondering if you’re looking to branch out?”
DJ cocked his head.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’m Janiven,” she said. “I’m looking for certain kinds of people…people who are looking to see change come to Westcrown. It’s time for the Haves to share some of what they’ve got with the Have-Nots, know what I mean?”
DJ nodded once. “What’s the angle?”
“Meet me in an hour,” Janiven said. “Vizio’s Tavern.”
________________________________________________________
Tal made his way towards the Obrigan Gate, the massive gatehouse that stood in the wall between the Rego Crua, or Blood Sector, and the Rego Cader of the Dospera. It was the job of the rundottari, of which Tal was a member, to man the Gate and keep all threats from the Dospera out of the Parego Spera. In other words, they kept the ‘unsavory’ types in the Westcrown ruins from discomforting the more upstanding citizens of the city proper. Yet that wasn’t the reason Tal had joined the rundottari. The half-orc was an oddity among them, but in a city rife with tieflings, his mixed heritage didn’t merit the scorn that it would have in countries beyond Cheliax. What made him more of an outsider, however, was his devotion to the Founder Dotara, a fact he did not openly brag about, but one which he did not keep secret either. His personal calling was not to wither away in the cloister of some church, but to bring Iomedae’s word via the steel of his sword to the forces of darkness. In a city full of darkness, that could be a truly daunting task, and so it was that Tal had joined the rundottari, for it was they more than any other branch of the dottari that faced the nightly scourge of the shadow beasts head-on.
It all began over thirty years ago, in Rova of 4676 A.R. What started as stories of strange creatures slinking through the shadows became a citywide panic when Wiscrani began disappearing off the darkened streets. Rumors had spread quickly of a return of the White Plague, or a resurrection of the infamous Council of Thieves, but those tales were soon replaced by reports of a shadowy calamity at Delvehaven, the local Pathfinder lodge, and sightings of dark and insubstantial beings hunting the streets. After months of ignoring or dismissing the problem, the government eventually launched a campaign to seek out and put an end to what they downplayed as an infestation of giants rats, goblins and goblin dogs. Yet the dottari proved ill-equipped for those midnight hunts, and the office of the mayor offered only empty promises. Growing fear and anger led to scapegoating and suspicions of insurrectionists from Nidal, which culminated in a mob’s daylight burning of twin Nidalese coasters. Finally, for the populace’s protection, a curfew was enacted throughout the city while a small army of dottari and experienced mercenaries were commissioned to deal with the shadowy curse that had afflicted the Wiscrani night. Numerous raids and hunts were conducted in the Dospera and ancient city sewers, only to result in the loss of many hunters with little apparent gain. Thus, the nightly curfew remained in effect for more than thirty years, with the unwary risking their very lives.
Today, with the dying of every day’s light, businesses hurriedly closed and respectable homes lit lanterns outside their doors. Members of the dottari lit pyrahjes, man-sized torches, throughout the Parego Regicona, and in the major plazas of the Parego Spera, patrolling between such islands of light in groups of seven. Taverns, festhalls, and similar establishments maintained sleeping rolls for those who stayed after dark. Those forced onto the street at night typically carried halorans, seven-foot-tall hooked staves hung with bright lanterns, made publically available along the city’s most traveled avenues. Weekly, however, new tales arose of deadly attacks on curfew breakers, assuring that the nightly ban was widely maintained. Several times a year, the lord mayor made a show of decrying the plague of mysterious hunters stalking the city’s streets, promising renewed efforts to put an end to the menace. Tal knew they were just platitudes and empty words. He had made it his personal life’s goal to see an end to the reign of the shadow beasts of Westcrown, but in his heart he felt that the ultimate means of doing that lay not in the streets of the Dospera, but in the halls of the Regicona.
“Hunting the hunters again, officer?” A woman’s voice came from his shoulder.
Tal glanced at the human woman and gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Perhaps I can offer you an alternative this evening,” she said. “I’m hosting a meeting tonight of concerned citizens. We feel that the local government has not followed through on their promises to make our streets safe again. We feel that something needs to be done…decisively. Vizio’s Tavern if you’re interested…tonight.”
A NEW DAWN
Donal meandered through the narrow stacks of the old, musty bookstore, hoping but doubting that today would be the day that he might find a new, hidden treasure. Alas, most of the tomes and scrolls contained on the shelves were the usual assortment on the ‘approved’ list drawn up by the Order of the Rack. How the scrivener despised the Hellknights. For years Donal had toiled away as a minor functionary in the government of Westcrown. He notarized documents, probated wills and trusts, made copies, cataloged manuscripts, etc. Hardly the stuff of adventure. Nevertheless, the middle-aged scribe had a secret – he loved the romance of adventure and derring-do. Well, he loved reading about it anyway. One of the benefits of his position was that Donal ran across many different kinds of literature. Most were the usual stuff, but sometimes he happened upon some of the wilder political tracts from Andor or Galt. He actually owned a first edition copy of Hosetter’s Imperial Betrayal, his most prized possession. But Donal’s true passion was reading the Pathfinder Chronicles. The tales of intrepid explorers, daring rescues, lost continents, ancient cults, and unimaginable horrors had become almost an obsession for the balding, overweight scribe.
A few years back, Donal’s life became more difficult when the Order of the Rack began their crackdown on all seditious knowledge in Cheliax and Westcrown in particular. While it pained the bibliophile in him greatly to watch the book burnings every Oathday, the real problem was that he had an increasingly hard time getting copies of the Pathfinder Chronicles, and Donal needed his fix. The old Pathfinder Lodge at Delvehaven had been closed for some time, and the group was outlawed in Cheliax, but that had not stopped the Chronicles from circulating. Now, though, things were getting tougher. The government was coming down even harder. Their oppression was becoming brutal. One day, agents from the Order of the Rack found a stash of back Chronicles issues during a raid at Donal’s shop. When questioned, he quickly replied that the scriveners lawfully confiscated such seditious tracts from customers and kept them to eventually be turned in to the Order for burning. Fortunately, the Hellknights bought his story, but they took all the Chronicles as well as several other documents they deemed inappropriate for public consumption. That night, Donal returned home with mixed emotions. Though terrified by his close brush with the Hellknights, he was also angry…angry at the audacity of those intolerant zealots…angry at the injustice of it all. Someone should stand up, he thought. That’s what they did in Andor. That’s what they did in Galt. If only someone had the courage to do that in Westcrown…
Donal had fallen asleep in his favorite reading chair with his treasured copy of Imperial Betrayal across his lap. Soon the dreams had come. He had seen a rose blooming between the cobbles of a bloody street. He saw a gentle female face crying tears of blood. He heard the call of Milani, the Everbloom, goddess of hope, devotion, and uprisings. When he awoke, Donal did two things: first, he fell on his knees and prayed to his new mistress. He felt divine power flow through him, and he felt confident in his task. He also wrote several small notes. He wrote them in a cipher that he had found in one of the Pathfinder Chronicles issues, and he posted them on the common boards in several local taverns. To the untrained eye they appeared to be random doodlings, but he had hoped that this message would find the right people. Two days later, Donal arrived home at his locked apartment to find a mysterious package on his table. Upon opening it, he found a brief letter written in the Pathfinders’ cipher. It encouraged him to investigate the lodge at Delvehaven and to report his findings back to the agent, who could be reached through special channels at a certain local tavern. It also included the latest issue of the Chronicles, autographed by Katarina (a.k.a. the Cat) Veduny, one of the newest rising stars in the Pathfinder organization. Finally, it had contained a circular object wrapped in an oily cloth. It was a Wayfinder, a Pathfinder compass. The model had seen a fair amount of use, but it still worked. Donal had slipped the Wayfinder into his jacket pocket, felt the gentle weight, and smiled. For the first time in his life, he was not just going to read about the daring deeds of others – he was going to do some deeds of his own.
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted his musings.
When he turned, afraid the Hellknights had caught up to him, he was relieved to see an attractive woman who’s beauty was somewhat subdued by the rough clothing and worn leather armor she wore.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “My name is Janiven. I represent an organization of concerned citizens who feel that the draconian tactics of the Hellknights have gone on long enough.”
Donal was aghast. In the first place, it was if the woman had been reading his mind, but in the second place, it was borderline treason to speak such words aloud!
“If you feel the same, as I think you do,” Janiven smiled, “then meet me for supper this evening before the sun sets. I’ll be at Vizio’s Tavern. Ask around.”
With that she turned and left, leaving Donal confused, and strangely intrigued.
________________________________________________________
Dmitri pressed his face against a glass case that contained an assortment of wands, expertly crafted from all manner of materials, from bone to crystal. He sighed deeply, his breath fogging the pane.
“You buyin’ anything or just takin’ up space, half-breed?” the proprietor sneered, glaring directly at Dmitri’s horns.
The young tiefling was used to it. After all, his own family was ashamed of his existence. Even though he’d born into the nobility, never mind the fact that House Khollarix was relatively far down in the pecking order of the Great Houses, he’d been kept a virtual prisoner in the manor for most of his life. Nevertheless, he was quite proud of his family’s heritage of producing wizards of some repute. Though he had been considered not worth educating by his father, Dmitri had managed to squirrel away many hours in the family library, mostly stumbling his way through the ancient tomes. Every now and then, however, he’d had a breakthrough, almost as if his ‘other’ blood knew instinctively how to perform the required spells. He should have known it would be too good to last. Eventually his father found out about his illicit studies, but the old man couldn’t simply banish him outright. It wouldn’t look good to the other Houses. Instead, he gave Dmitri his inheritance in one lump sum on the condition that the tiefling leave and never return. Dmitri had little choice. He packed his meager possessions, including the signet ring that bore the family crest, and left. He’d taken up residence in a rundown tenement near the Pegasi bridges, which connected the seedier sections of the Parego Spera and the ruins of the Dospera. Now he spent his days hanging around magic shops in the hopes of attracting the attention of a mentor who might see some potential in him.
“He’s with me,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. The shopkeeper’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then his mouth sneered in contempt.
“I see,” he said. “You’re one of ‘those’ women.” He winked lasciviously.
Dmitri turned and saw the attractive older woman standing behind him.
“I’m Janiven,” she said softly. “Can I have a moment of your time?”
She turned and walked out of the shop and Dmitri followed. Once they were out of earshot of the watching shopkeeper, she turned again.
“Dmitri Khollarix,” she said, shocking the young wizard, “I represent a group of individuals who has a vested interest in seeing the Great Houses, especially Drovenge and Oberigo, lose the strangle-hold they have over this city. For too long has Westcrown suffered under the inequity of their rule, its people dancing like puppets at their whim. If you are of like mind, then I invite you to dinner this evening at Vizio’s Tavern.”
Without a proper goodbye, Janiven departed, leaving Dmitri with his mouth hanging open.
__________________________________________________________
William strolled through the idyllic park located at the southern end of Karhal Island, in the Rego Aerum. For as long as anyone could remember, the stretch of land had resisted any attempts to build permanent structures upon it due to a series of unusual accidents. Eventually, it had been ceded over to park land for the idle rich. William found that the height or irony…a land that refused to be dominated by Westcrown’s self-chosen elite, nestled in the very heart of their noble bastion. It spoke volumes to him. He had actually been born into the social strata that he so abhorred, yet at the age of eight years he was sent to a monastery dedicated to Irori. There he received rigid instruction and training in self-discipline and self-perfection for the next ten years. It was his parents’ wish that he use his monastic skills to train bodyguards for Westcrown’s nobility. After all, his family had risen to their position of prominence by doing just that…providing security for the Great Houses. In most diplomatic and political meetings, weapons were forbidden. What better way to get around that little inconvenience than to bring your own living weapon with you? Yet William had other ideas. When he returned to Westcrown, it was with an entirely different world view. While he held with the notion that law and order were necessary in society, enforcement of that structure with an iron fist, and at the expense of choice and free will was abhorrent in the eyes of Irori. He would not become a tool of what he had learned to despise. But what was one lone monk against an entire city devoted to diabolism?
“Penny for your thoughts,” a woman’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Ah, but one such as you would not be interested in monetary gain, would you?” Janiven asked.
“Do I know you?” William quirked and eyebrow.
“No, William,” Janiven replied, “but I know you. I also know how you feel about the current state of affairs in our once-beautiful city, and I and other like-minded individuals would like nothing more than to see rulership of Westcrown returned to its people. If you would like to learn more, meet me this afternoon at dusk at Vizio’s Tavern.”
______________________________________________________
Columbo watched the Order of the Rack’s squad of new recruits goose-step past with a mixture of contempt and raw, animalistic fury.
“You ok, buddy?” Janik asked, chuffing him on the shoulder.
Columbo glanced at his squad mate and nodded.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
“Yeah, well,” Janik said, “just another glorious day in the dottari, right? Shift’s over. Wanna go grab a drink?”
Columbo shook his head. “Nah. Gotta get home. Nona’ll be…,” He paused, and looked down at his boots. Janik patted him on the back and walked away, headed for the station. Columbo shook his head again. He thought he’d be over it by now. After all, it’d been almost a year since she’d died. No, strike that. Since she’d been murdered! A year might have passed, but he still remembered it like it was yesterday.
Nona had been a true believer. She had come from a long line of priests…priests of Aroden. When the God of Humanity had died, her family had continued to honor His memory by devoting themselves to His herald, Iomedae. Nona had continued that tradition, and though worship of other gods was technically permitted in Westcrown, the church of Asmodeus frowned upon proselytizing. Yet Nona was a believer, and she was not content to worship in private. She felt that Iomedae’s word held hope for the hopeless, and she was determined to take her message to the streets. The Order of the Rack took her. It was the Hell Knights’ imperative to stomp out heresy wherever they deemed it to be. They had dragged Nona Columbo from her home in the middle of the night while her husband was ‘protecting’ the streets. When he got off duty the next morning, he’d found her gone, and the Order of the Rack’s calling card in plain sight. His appeals to his superiors had fallen on deaf ears. It was out of their jurisdiction. He was ordered to forget about it and continue with his duties…or else. The threat was implicit. Columbo had done his duty every night since…protecting the people of Westcrown from themselves, turning a blind eye to the rampant corruption within the dottari, fooling himself into believing he could make a difference…that he could carry on Nona’s work. It was all a lie.
“Officer,” a woman’s voice intruded on his brooding.
“I’m off duty,” he grumbled.
“I’m not interested in you in an official capacity,” the woman said.
A prostitute, Columbo sighed. “Look lady,” he said, “move along before I run you in on general principle.”
“My name’s Janiven,” she said, “and I’m not interested in that either. What I am interested in is talking to you about the Order of the Rack and some of their…nocturnal activities.”
Columbo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What are you talking about?” he growled.
“Vizio’s Tavern,” Janiven said, “dusk. See you there.”
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Darius Jeremiah Shady, known as DJ to his friends (of which he had very few), made his way through the Dusk Market, blending into the background as naturally as a chameleon. The Dusk Market was located in the Rego Cader…the Dead Sector of Westcrown. It was a wandering bazaar that set up within the shells of formerly opulent temples, viras, theaters, and other grandiose ruins. It was a semi-secret marketplace where drugs, exotic poisons, strange creatures, kidnapped slaves, and nearly any other vice one could imagine were traded freely. It took its name from the fact that it only operated in the two hours before sundown, each evening in a different location.
DJ was an elf, and like most elves in Westcrown, he was poor. He didn’t choose to be poor, and he most assuredly did not want to be poor, but it was a simple fact of life. His parents had come from the forests of his ancestors, hoping to make a better life for themselves in the city. Instead, they scraped by doing odd jobs, barely able to put food on their table. From a very young age, DJ had learned that money and wealth were available…just not to him. He’d learned how to spot the ones with money, however, just like he was doing this very evening. He had also learned that they were oblivious to such as he, and he took full advantage of that. He took what he wanted, he stole what he could, and he killed if he had to. He brought home food and gold to his parents, but he lied about where it came from. It all came very naturally to him, and he was very good at what he did. Still, he was starting to feel it was time for a change.
“Any good marks tonight?” The woman’s voice momentarily startled him, and DJ didn’t startle easily. She was very good if she could come upon him so quietly that he failed to notice.
“I work alone,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, his hand drifting down to the kukri sheathed in his belt.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “I’m not looking to horn in on your territory. Just wondering if you’re looking to branch out?”
DJ cocked his head.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’m Janiven,” she said. “I’m looking for certain kinds of people…people who are looking to see change come to Westcrown. It’s time for the Haves to share some of what they’ve got with the Have-Nots, know what I mean?”
DJ nodded once. “What’s the angle?”
“Meet me in an hour,” Janiven said. “Vizio’s Tavern.”
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Tal made his way towards the Obrigan Gate, the massive gatehouse that stood in the wall between the Rego Crua, or Blood Sector, and the Rego Cader of the Dospera. It was the job of the rundottari, of which Tal was a member, to man the Gate and keep all threats from the Dospera out of the Parego Spera. In other words, they kept the ‘unsavory’ types in the Westcrown ruins from discomforting the more upstanding citizens of the city proper. Yet that wasn’t the reason Tal had joined the rundottari. The half-orc was an oddity among them, but in a city rife with tieflings, his mixed heritage didn’t merit the scorn that it would have in countries beyond Cheliax. What made him more of an outsider, however, was his devotion to the Founder Dotara, a fact he did not openly brag about, but one which he did not keep secret either. His personal calling was not to wither away in the cloister of some church, but to bring Iomedae’s word via the steel of his sword to the forces of darkness. In a city full of darkness, that could be a truly daunting task, and so it was that Tal had joined the rundottari, for it was they more than any other branch of the dottari that faced the nightly scourge of the shadow beasts head-on.
It all began over thirty years ago, in Rova of 4676 A.R. What started as stories of strange creatures slinking through the shadows became a citywide panic when Wiscrani began disappearing off the darkened streets. Rumors had spread quickly of a return of the White Plague, or a resurrection of the infamous Council of Thieves, but those tales were soon replaced by reports of a shadowy calamity at Delvehaven, the local Pathfinder lodge, and sightings of dark and insubstantial beings hunting the streets. After months of ignoring or dismissing the problem, the government eventually launched a campaign to seek out and put an end to what they downplayed as an infestation of giants rats, goblins and goblin dogs. Yet the dottari proved ill-equipped for those midnight hunts, and the office of the mayor offered only empty promises. Growing fear and anger led to scapegoating and suspicions of insurrectionists from Nidal, which culminated in a mob’s daylight burning of twin Nidalese coasters. Finally, for the populace’s protection, a curfew was enacted throughout the city while a small army of dottari and experienced mercenaries were commissioned to deal with the shadowy curse that had afflicted the Wiscrani night. Numerous raids and hunts were conducted in the Dospera and ancient city sewers, only to result in the loss of many hunters with little apparent gain. Thus, the nightly curfew remained in effect for more than thirty years, with the unwary risking their very lives.
Today, with the dying of every day’s light, businesses hurriedly closed and respectable homes lit lanterns outside their doors. Members of the dottari lit pyrahjes, man-sized torches, throughout the Parego Regicona, and in the major plazas of the Parego Spera, patrolling between such islands of light in groups of seven. Taverns, festhalls, and similar establishments maintained sleeping rolls for those who stayed after dark. Those forced onto the street at night typically carried halorans, seven-foot-tall hooked staves hung with bright lanterns, made publically available along the city’s most traveled avenues. Weekly, however, new tales arose of deadly attacks on curfew breakers, assuring that the nightly ban was widely maintained. Several times a year, the lord mayor made a show of decrying the plague of mysterious hunters stalking the city’s streets, promising renewed efforts to put an end to the menace. Tal knew they were just platitudes and empty words. He had made it his personal life’s goal to see an end to the reign of the shadow beasts of Westcrown, but in his heart he felt that the ultimate means of doing that lay not in the streets of the Dospera, but in the halls of the Regicona.
“Hunting the hunters again, officer?” A woman’s voice came from his shoulder.
Tal glanced at the human woman and gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Perhaps I can offer you an alternative this evening,” she said. “I’m hosting a meeting tonight of concerned citizens. We feel that the local government has not followed through on their promises to make our streets safe again. We feel that something needs to be done…decisively. Vizio’s Tavern if you’re interested…tonight.”
