This place is both new and familiar. It is my first time in this tavern, but I’ve spent hundreds in ones just like it. The stout fishermen, muscular from days spent hauling nets and guiding boats could just as easily be miners or farmers. The salty tang in the air could just as easily be the smell of coal, iron or manure. Either way, people in this type of bar are the ones who don’t mind a fight. It they did, they’d pick a different tavern or stay home.
A man sits alone at a small table, twirling a knife idly in his hand as he stares at me. I could be anyone unfamiliar and weak looking; his actions would be the same. Ever seeking to show himself as a fighter, ever seeking respect. I used to be that man, in other taverns, miles and years ago. This was before I learned that respect could get in the way, when it comes to fighting. I let my eyes wander around the tavern, looking for telltale signs. The man with the knife will not be a problem, nor will the commoners. Across the room, under a trophy marlin, is an adventurer replete with breastplate and a sword. He looks to be here for the stew, and to bed the red-haired dwarf serving wench. To each his own.
Another man sits at the bar, paying no mind whatever to me. He might be a problem. He carries himself with an ease that a one in his garb shouldn’t, and locals give him a wide berth. His actions are those of one trying to fit in, but those around him show this story to be false. The question is, am I the object of this false story?
My eyes pass back over the man with the knife, still staring, still twirling. Does he know the soft place under the 12 rib where only skin protects the kidney, where even a small blade can end a life in moments? Does he know exactly how to slash a throat to leave the victim dying with no chance to speak? Would he ever guess that if I strike first, there will be no second strike? And oh, I would strike first against this one. Shall I teach him these lessons, so that in his death throes he might learn? No, tonight this man plays well into my story. I allow myself to meet his gaze momentarily. I allow myself to quiver before quickly looking down and feeling for my very obvious hand crossbow. It is a weapon of nobility, but also the weapon of an assassin. Tonight, I will be seen as nobility.
“Is that man bothering you?” asks Melidas. He is a good lad, old enough to have the body of man and young enough to think he’d stand a chance. I accepted the smith’s offer that the boy accompany me as security. The smith carries some weight in this town, which should keep the local thugs from trying anything that would be the end of their lives and my cover. Besides a noble like myself looking to smuggle illicit drugs would need a bodyguard.
I twitch the muscles in my arms as I look down at the table, “I don’t want any trouble”, I stammer loudly. Too loudly? The man at the bar glances my way for a moment. His hand strays from his drink for a moment. To the average observer, he would seem to be stretching and flexing a stiff hand or wrist. To a member of the underground, there is meaning these subtle gestures: “you are known to us”. The man drops a few silvers on the bar and makes his way out. Known to who? The local guild most likely. Fortunately, the man I am to meet is a foreigner.
It seems I’ve been in this region too long. To be an assassin and be known is to have your days numbered. I glance around the tavern again. A new face, by the rear door, glancing quickly away as I look. He is strong and probably not alone. The front door swings open and a swarthy man with a half-orc bodyguard walks in. His face is a study in criminal intent. Good, the element of surprise will be on my side. I won’t be able to kill him and get out of town, but I should be able to escape. A dropped coin purse, a slashed Achilles and I’ll be on my merry way. I feel a twinge of guilt for Melidas, but sooner or later he’ll have to learn to be less trusting. This lesson will less painful than my own.
I can feel the tightness in the tissue just below my right ear. The back of the neck is an inconvenient place for a scar, when one wishes to remain anonymous. I could have it taken care of, with a donation to any number of temples. It would certainly make disguise easier. Still, the lesson that came with it saved my life many times over. I can still hear that charlatan Pithiges, or whatever his real name is, taunting me, “I thought the art of assassination was being unseen.” I can still feel his heated blade slowly tracing its path while his henchman held me. He was right. I always strike first now, and I owe part of my success to that son of a whore. Gratitude? For the lesson, yes. For the man, no. If I come across you again, Pithiges, I will see you dead. You’ll get a gift of exotic brandy and an elven girl, the kind you like. You won’t recognize the poison, and it won’t affect the food tasters that accompany you. Well, maybe when they come running it will. When your heart rate rises, it will spin out of control and leave you a corpse. Will your god Olidammara intervene? I think not. It will be, at least, a pleasant way to go.
The man, Drystal will be his name, has made his way to my table. His voice is gravelly and low, “You’re Nahabin, right?”
I nod quickly.
“I’m Drystal. We’ve got just what you want”, he responds, “come with us.”
The walk will be safe for at least a few blocks, before they herd me into an alley or a warehouse. Time for me to think; to plan. I’ll have to leave town, of course. Where to? If I’m known here, how long before I’m known back in Avaren. Hell, maybe my own man Betrus sold me out. Gods know I have enough dirt on him to bury him three times over. Maybe it’s time to hit the road, go see some mountains. Maybe I’ll get on a ship and leave this place entirely. <insert name of my criminal contact here> said that they can always use good talent there in <insert starting base here>.
We’re out on the street now, where we’re outnumbered by rats happily chewing on fish innards beside the road. Our foursome is being unofficially accompanied by two goons about 15 yards behind and another 15 yards ahead. I make a note to study with druids wherever it is I go next. To become a rat or a crow would make these escape situations so much easier. It would make killing easier too. To set loose an adder in a man’s quarters leaves a good deal to chance. To become an adder, now that would make things easy. The druids have their own motivations, of course, but the more time I spend in these shitholes, the more I think they may be onto something.
A burst of voices from a brothel to our left, as a man is being thrown out. My three companions turn their heads, smirk and chuckle. I finger the coin purse on my belt with my left hand, ready to drop it. The dagger hidden in my pant leg isn’t much, but it’s more than enough for the half-orc’s achilles. The low rooftops here will make for an easy climb, and none of these goons look up to the challenge of a chase. I take a calming breath; it’s show time.
This place is both new and familiar. It is my first time in this tavern, but I’ve spent hundreds in ones just like it. The stout fishermen, muscular from days spent hauling nets and guiding boats could just as easily be miners or farmers. The salty tang in the air could just as easily be the smell of coal, iron or manure. Either way, people in this type of bar are the ones who don’t mind a fight. It they did, they’d pick a different tavern or stay home.
A man sits alone at a small table, twirling a knife idly in his hand as he stares at me. I could be anyone unfamiliar and weak looking; his actions would be the same. Ever seeking to show himself as a fighter, ever seeking respect. I used to be that man, in other taverns, miles and years ago. This was before I learned that respect could get in the way, when it comes to fighting. I let my eyes wander around the tavern, looking for telltale signs. The man with the knife will not be a problem, nor will the commoners. Across the room, under a trophy marlin, is an adventurer replete with breastplate and a sword. He looks to be here for the stew, and to bed the red-haired dwarf serving wench. To each his own.
Another man sits at the bar, paying no mind whatever to me. He might be a problem. He carries himself with an ease that a one in his garb shouldn’t, and locals give him a wide berth. His actions are those of one trying to fit in, but those around him show this story to be false. The question is, am I the object of this false story?
My eyes pass back over the man with the knife, still staring, still twirling. Does he know the soft place under the 12 rib where only skin protects the kidney, where even a small blade can end a life in moments? Does he know exactly how to slash a throat to leave the victim dying with no chance to speak? Would he ever guess that if I strike first, there will be no second strike? And oh, I would strike first against this one. Shall I teach him these lessons, so that in his death throes he might learn? No, tonight this man plays well into my story. I allow myself to meet his gaze momentarily. I allow myself to quiver before quickly looking down and feeling for my very obvious hand crossbow. It is a weapon of nobility, but also the weapon of an assassin. Tonight, I will be seen as nobility.
“Is that man bothering you?” asks Melidas. He is a good lad, old enough to have the body of man and young enough to think he’d stand a chance. I accepted the smith’s offer that the boy accompany me as security. The smith carries some weight in this town, which should keep the local thugs from trying anything that would be the end of their lives and my cover. Besides a noble like myself looking to smuggle illicit drugs would need a bodyguard.
I twitch the muscles in my arms as I look down at the table, “I don’t want any trouble”, I stammer loudly. Too loudly? The man at the bar glances my way for a moment. His hand strays from his drink for a moment. To the average observer, he would seem to be stretching and flexing a stiff hand or wrist. To a member of the underground, there is meaning these subtle gestures: “you are known to us”. The man drops a few silvers on the bar and makes his way out. Known to who? The local guild most likely. Fortunately, the man I am to meet is a foreigner.
It seems I’ve been in this region too long. To be an assassin and be known is to have your days numbered. I glance around the tavern again. A new face, by the rear door, glancing quickly away as I look. He is strong and probably not alone. The front door swings open and a swarthy man with a half-orc bodyguard walks in. His face is a study in criminal intent. Good, the element of surprise will be on my side. I won’t be able to kill him and get out of town, but I should be able to escape. A dropped coin purse, a slashed Achilles and I’ll be on my merry way. I feel a twinge of guilt for Melidas, but sooner or later he’ll have to learn to be less trusting. This lesson will less painful than my own.
I can feel the tightness in the tissue just below my right ear. The back of the neck is an inconvenient place for a scar, when one wishes to remain anonymous. I could have it taken care of, with a donation to any number of temples. It would certainly make disguise easier. Still, the lesson that came with it saved my life many times over. I can still hear that charlatan Pithiges, or whatever his real name is, taunting me, “I thought the art of assassination was being unseen.” I can still feel his heated blade slowly tracing its path while his henchman held me. He was right. I always strike first now, and I owe part of my success to that son of a whore. Gratitude? For the lesson, yes. For the man, no. If I come across you again, Pithiges, I will see you dead. You’ll get a gift of exotic brandy and an elven girl, the kind you like. You won’t recognize the poison, and it won’t affect the food tasters that accompany you. Well, maybe when they come running it will. When your heart rate rises, it will spin out of control and leave you a corpse. Will your god Olidammara intervene? I think not. It will be, at least, a pleasant way to go.
The man, Drystal will be his name, has made his way to my table. His voice is gravelly and low, “You’re Nahabin, right?”
I nod quickly.
“I’m Drystal. We’ve got just what you want”, he responds, “come with us.”
The walk will be safe for at least a few blocks, before they herd me into an alley or a warehouse. Time for me to think; to plan. I’ll have to leave town, of course. Where to? If I’m known here, how long before I’m known back in Avaren. Hell, maybe my own man Betrus sold me out. Gods know I have enough dirt on him to bury him three times over. Maybe it’s time to hit the road, go see some mountains. Maybe I’ll get on a ship and leave this place entirely. <insert name of my criminal contact here> said that they can always use good talent there in <insert starting base here>.
We’re out on the street now, where we’re outnumbered by rats happily chewing on fish innards beside the road. Our foursome is being unofficially accompanied by two goons about 15 yards behind and another 15 yards ahead. I make a note to study with druids wherever it is I go next. To become a rat or a crow would make these escape situations so much easier. It would make killing easier too. To set loose an adder in a man’s quarters leaves a good deal to chance. To become an adder, now that would make things easy. The druids have their own motivations, of course, but the more time I spend in these shitholes, the more I think they may be onto something.
A burst of voices from a brothel to our left, as a man is being thrown out. My three companions turn their heads, smirk and chuckle. I finger the coin purse on my belt with my left hand, ready to drop it. The dagger hidden in my pant leg isn’t much, but it’s more than enough for the half-orc’s achilles. The low rooftops here will make for an easy climb, and none of these goons look up to the challenge of a chase. I take a calming breath; it’s show time.
That reads well! I like how you even left an insert for your contact in a new region to help this character fit in with the campaign
thanks!
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