Encounter in the Feral Dog
Morning cut through the town of Diamond Lake, bringing with it the fresh smell of damp grass and the singing of a few mournfully hopeful birds. Serraent watched through the now-clear window as townsfolk passed below his room in the inn on their way to work, the crack of dawn their signal to begin mining. There were people of all kinds – orcs, goblins, the seemingly ubiquitous humans, half-elves, almost anything you could care to name with enough intelligence to rub two words together could find a job in this town.
No drow, though.
Eventually, once the throng of workers had reduced to a trickle, the black-skinned elf turned from the window and strapped his pack across his back. His board for the night had covered the room and a morning meal, thankfully a standard rate so the innkeeper could not conveniently ‘forget’ when confronted with a more unsavoury customer than most. Serraent understood the hatred most people carried for his race. When the traits that first sprang to mind at the mention of what you were seemed universally to be ‘murderous’ and ‘evil’, instinctive dislike was more a safety mechanism than anything else. Regardless, it meant his attempts to do anything in regular society without being stabbed in the attempt very difficult.
He listened at the door before he exited the room, just in case, and walked swiftly down the stairs. The innkeeper was on the bar, cleaning glasses as they always seemed to be in every town across Greyhawk. He cast an eye at Serraent briefly, his expression one of bored disinterest.
“My thanks for the room,” Serraent told him. The thick-set man grunted in acknowledgement.
“I s’pose you’ll want feeding,” he grumbled, as if the service Serraent had paid him for was some kind of chore. “Anything your kind’re averse to eating?”
“No,” Serraent responded, leaning his elbows against the bar to wait as the innkeeper walked off into the back, grumbling under his breath. There weren’t many people in the tavern at this time of the morning. In the corner sat a very drunk-looking half-elf whose dress and general appearance implied he rarely left, a pair of travelling holy men sat eating with sparsely-packed bags at their sides, and a few tavern regulars who were not yet drunk, but clearly planned to be, were exchanging words and drinking ale at another table. The food did not smell particularly appetising, and when a plate was eventually dumped in front of him the food appeared to be made more of fat than anything else, but Serraent was hungry and longed for variety, no matter how distasteful a shape it came in.
He sat at an empty table and picked his way through the food carefully, trying not to notice as the tavern began to fill. Miners were leaving the night shift, and, despite being out of the way, several people who were clearly dressed for travelling began to drift in. When it became too noisy for Serraent to pick out individual words, the tables nearly filled with people, he made the executive decision to stay until the throng had cleared somewhat, no matter how long that took.
He ended up sat at the only empty table in the tavern at the height of noon, resting his head in one hand and running a finger around the top of a mug of the tavern’s local ale in the other. He didn’t often drink, needing his wits with him on the road, and after having a few mouthfuls of the beverage in front of him he’d come to the conclusion that it tasted like the urine of the tavern’s namesake. Still, he’d paid for it, so he was damn well going to finish it. He hadn’t exactly earned the money legitimately, but it was hard-gotten nonetheless. Besides, he didn’t want to kick up a fuss with so many tavern-loyal miners in the place, not when they were both taller and likely far stronger than him. He wasn’t a fool.
“This seat taken?” Serraent glanced up from his ale to see a human boy, barely an adult, with one hand on the empty chair opposite him. He looked... like an amateur. His armour didn’t quite fit him, the splinted leather old and clearly second-hand, and he didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the kit on his back. Serraent wondered if he’d ever even used the falchion hanging in a scabbard from his belt.
“No,” he replied, judging him as non-threatening and staring back at the table with disinterest. Maybe if he drank enough of the ale it would begin to taste halfway decent. He doubted it, though.
“I’m Loren,” the boy offered, sitting down with a crack of leather that made Serraent wince inwardly. He seemed uncertain – a common reaction around drow, in fairness.
“Serraent,” he responded, taking another mouthful of the ale and
grimacing. Still no better. Possibly worse, in fact. Perhaps that was why the tavern regulars drank so fast and got so drunk. The boy was eying the mug with curiosity, so Serraent cut his losses with a sigh and pushed it across the table to him without a word. His reaction, after the first taste, was remarkably similar to Serraent’s. That was somewhat comforting.
“So how come there’s a drow in Diamond Lake?” he asked, pushing the mug a few inches away from him with the back of one hand. Serraent glanced up at him once more, seeing a determined look on his face and suppressing a noise of irritation.
“Travelling,” he responded curtly. He wondered why the boy even cared. He certainly didn’t seem to persevere after the initial failures, shrugging and tentatively drinking more of Serraent’s donated ale.
“Ugh, what do they make this stuff out of?” he complained, just as disappointed as the previous time. A few nearby locals glared in his direction, making Serraent move back a little to try and distance himself from them. “Bah, whatever,” Loren continued, getting up and leaving the table, heading in the direction of what was clearly a group of travelling adventurers at another table. Serraent exhaled wearily, retrieving what was left of the ale, steeling himself, and drinking the remnants as fast as he could manage. It almost made him gag, but under the accusing stares of the regulars he managed, somehow, to keep a faint look of satisfaction on his face.
“Hmph. Only free table in this entire disgusting establishment, and it’s tainted,” a feminine voice sneered. Serraent once more afforded its owner a brief glance. She was a tanned, elfin-looking woman, with long, flowing robes and beads in her hair or around her neck. From her clothing, Serraent would have guessed at either someone who played with magic, or a whore. From her attitude, he suspected the former.
“If you have a problem with me, you need only sit elsewhere,” he informed her, voice calm. She curled her upper lip in disgust, moving further away from him with slight movements of her body. Subtle, but still clear in meaning. He made a dismissive noise, not wasting any more words on her, and instead turned back to examining the knots of wood on the table.
“So, I heard you talking about leaving the village for the cairns... got room for one more?” the boy was asking the adventurers. Serraent overheard a man, probably the one of the trio with the heavy armour, let out a hearty laugh. Serraent twisted around, notably ignoring the way the woman stiffened and brushed off the part of her robes where he’d passed closest, in time to see the woman cut off his laughing with a quick and precise elbow to the side. Serraent’s face twitched into a smile.
“I’m afraid not,” she apologised, a grin on her face despite that. There was a mischief in her blue eyes that Serraent had seen in a lot of the thieves he’d met over the years. He wouldn’t put it past her being part of one of the big city guilds, with aim like hers. “Closed group. Could try asking around the tavern.” She cast her eyes around. “Those two look like they might be leaving soon,” she offered, angling a thumb in Serraent and the tanned elf’s direction. Loren grimaced upon meeting Serraent’s eyes, and the elf seemed somehow offended. With a slight raise of a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, she made her way imperiously over to the table. Serraent simply continued to listen, face resting on one hand as Loren looked away. “My name’s Tirra, anyway,” the thiefly woman continued, holding out a hand. Loren shook it uncertainly, one hand over his pockets in protection. Apparently he’d noticed her air, too. “Who’re you?”
“Loren,” he returned, a faint smile on his face. It swiftly disappeared when the elf broke the crowds and put her hands down on the table imperiously.
“And I am Rhasslariel. What is the cairn you speak of and what do you seek within it?” she demanded fiercely. None of the three seemed intimidated. The thin, bearded man in Seeker robes simply twirled a wand around in his fingers, and the big man leant back in his chair, completely at ease.
“Huh. I was sure you were from the establishment down the road,” Loren remarked blithely. Tirra hid a laugh as the woman bristled at him, the first hints of power crackling around her fingers.
“Take that-” she began.
“We’ve got dibs on the Stirgenest out west,” Tirra cut in absently before the situation became more heated. “One of those unwritten laws of adventuring, you know – you don’t cut in on another group’s call.”
“Unless you want to get cut up,” the big man agreed, clearly thinking he was witty. The robed man cringed.
“But there’s others,” Tirra added. “You’re from the area, right? Nearly hundreds of these babies out of town. Most of them looted dry by now, of course, but you could always try asking old man Allustan.” Loren nodded in agreement. Serraent mentally noted the name and moniker, and resolved to avoid the direction the adventurers were headed in. Rhasslariel, however, was undeterred.
“What do you seek in this ‘Stirgenest’?” she demanded. Tirra waved in the direction of the red-robed man.
“Khellek here says there used to be some sort of empire ‘round here. Left all kinds of shinies in the cairns,” she replied. Serraent expected that they would also find stirges judging by the cairn’s name, the horrible, oversized mosquitos that they were.
“Grimoires and spellbooks, then?” Rhasslariel translated, her eyes seeming to light up and the mere thought. Loren seemed to be trying to retreat into his armour, acutely unhappy with being anywhere near the self-righteous woman. Idly, Serraent traced the spirals of the wood with one finger.
“Grimoires?” The red-robed man, Khellek, spat out. He slammed a hand down onto the table, making the elf jump slightly. “I’m a member of the Seekers, you half-brained wind chime of a woman. I’ve held tomes more valuable than
you.” Rhasslariel composed herself remarkably, drawing herself up to her full height. Serraent imagined she was probably taller than him, not that it was particularly hard feat to accomplish.
“And that is why you have assembled in this urine-stained tavern to lord your valuable grimoires over the lesser folks?” she spat back. Tirra grimaced, her companion hitting his forehead with one hand and shaking his head in despair as a stare-off began to develop between the two angry mages.
“She got you there,” Loren pointed out, earning the full might of Khellek’s venomous glare for his troubles.
“Sorry about grumpy over there,” Tirra apologised smoothly, her grimace transforming into a bright smile. “He’s crabby before dinner. And after dinner, actually.” Khellek’s glare transferred to her, as well as a few non-so-polite words muttered towards her under his breath.
“You and Auric are only the meatshields and you know it,” he spat. A circle had cleared around them now, the tavern patrons clearly expecting a good fight and enjoying the verbal spar preceding it. The ties between the three adventurers were clearly business only, and the tension showed.
“Hopefully they ‘forget’ their roles when you most need it, brazen fool,” Rhasslariel growled imperiously. Loren seemed uncertain as to what to say, clearly wanting to hear more but not wanting to be involved in the dangerous word games. If it hadn’t been for the ring of tavern patrons around them, he would probably have retreated. Auric, apparently oblivious to the tension, just cracked a grin. His face was anything but perfect – two of his teeth were chipped, and a scar from an old battle wound cut its way up the left side of his face.
“Best meatshield in Greyhawk, at your service,” he remarked. “Got the proof of it, and all. As you’ll see when I claim the title again at the Free City Tourney next month.” The tension seemed to evaporate as Loren perked up at this new topic, Khellek turning away with a grunt and Rhasslariel reluctantly subsiding, although she still stood with that imperious cut to her stance.
“Tourney? There’s a tournament soon?” Loren asked, pushing for more. Tirra leant back, bowing out of the conversation to let the clearly more qualified Auric take over.
“Oh, aye,” he agreed with a quick nod. “We’re just finishing off here, then we’ve got one more job before we head out for bigger places.” Tirra’s face clearly added ‘and richer pickings’ to the end of the sentence, but she didn’t actually say it aloud. “Biggest event in the country. Annual thing. Run by that slaver of a drow who owns the place.” Serraent repressed the twitch of anger and rose from his chair at that.
“Slaver?” Loren repeated dubiously, before making a noise of surprise as Serraent slid through the crowd to confront Auric. Rhasslariel visibly flinched away from him, disgust written plainly on her face.
“Tell me what you know of this tournament, if you will,” he asked, voice low but urgent. Auric looked up at him, his expression neutral but one hand hovering by the hilt of his sword.
“No offence, but I don’t mind stabbing your kind for gold,” he remarked, a false pleasantness in his voice. Serraent bit back a curse at the problems of his race.
“Usually a wise course of action,” he agreed, smiling thinly. “But I mean you no harm.” His eyes went briefly to Tirra. “And carry no gold.” Auric’s face broke into the big grin from before, and he let out a hearty chuckle.
“Oh, no doubt!” he agreed, leaning over to clap Serraent on the back with enough force to make the small drow stagger. Rhasslariel moved backwards a step as he was pushed closer to her, although she seemed amused at his distress. “It’s strictly business, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Serraent agreed weakly, moving his shoulder around to try and ease the sting. Auric was a human with the strength of an ox.
“It’s his tourney, anyway,” Auric continued, leaning back in his seat and lacing his hands together behind his head. The innkeeper scowled at them across the room as Auric’s heavy boots hit the table, his legs crossed, but he didn’t seem too keen to argue with a full six foot of muscle mass with a sword and, contrary to all expectation, a decent amount of intelligence to go with it. “You know the kind. Rich berk. Doesn’t care overmuch about letting a few of his pets get stabbed.” He cracked a smile. “Never bothered learning his name. Don’t tend to, with the scum.” He glanced over at Khellek. “Who’re you again?”
“Your rapier wit astounds me,” Khellek grumbled, folding his arms. Tirra pulled a face at him, as Serraent clenched his fists and turned away from the table slightly.
“So, uh, any of you going exploring some of that stuff mentioned earlier?” Loren asked, sounding vaguely hopeful. Rhasslariel just laughed disdainfully, turned around, and sauntered out imperiously. One tavern regular, reaching out a hand in the misguided hope of touching flesh, got a crackle of magic around his hand that made him yelp in return, and people cleared a way for her after that.
“I... find myself more interested in this tournament,” Serraent responded, wondering if the hatred showed in his eyes. Auric just raised an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed by Serraent as a whole, but said nothing.
“Me too,” Loren agreed quickly. “But I want to get a feel for things first.” He seemed more enthusiastic now that Serraent had said a full sentence to him, rather than just barked-out words. Auric nodded, attempting a wise expression but not really pulling it off.
“There’s a big prize on that puppy,” he agreed. “But there’s time to kill in the meantime, and neither of you look like you could take me on.” He grinned. “No offence meant. Best get practising.”
“Get more powerful,” Loren agreed, a faraway look in his eyes. He gave Serraent an expectant look, and the drow sighed, relenting.
“You speak the truth, adventurer,” he told Auric, straightening up. “My thanks for the information, regardless.” Khellek rolled his eyes.
“Hrmph. Wit the size of a gnat’s teeth and you’re thanking
him for information? Sorry state this town is in,” he grumbled. For some reason, not a single person at the table acknowledged what he’d said, so he just grunted and folded his arms.
“Do you have an exact date on this tournament?” Loren asked the other two. Auric shrugged, an action mirrored much more gracefully by Tirra.
“About a month,” she replied, waving her hand to demonstrate the inaccuracy of the statement. “We know about when it is, but we can’t give you exacts because we haven’t been back to the Free City for a while.” She made a dismissive motion. “Just head there, you’ll know.” Serraent inclined his head once, in acknowledgement, and made to turn away from the table when Loren grabbed his wrist. Serraent glanced to him, not resisting, a questioning look in his eyes.
“You seem excitable, human,” he observed. Loren laughed, letting go of him to rub the back of his head uncertainly.
“Looking forward to leaving,” he replied. “Been stuck in this dead-end town my whole life. Can’t wait for a chance to get away.” Serraent cast a new eye over him, in his ill-fitting splint mail, his not-quite-new falchion, and his well-kept but patchwork clothes. He was young, excited, and wouldn’t be expecting a good deal of what he would find out in the wilderness, no matter how well-practiced he was with that sword. If he ran into the slavers Serraent had encountered on the way to the village... he suppressed the shudder.
“You want me to accompany you to the cairns tomorrow,” he surmised. Loren nodded, apparently relieved he didn’t have to ask outright.
“Nobody ever sets out on their own,” he agreed, before pausing to consider his sentence. “That comes back, anyhow.” Serraent smiled faintly, amused by his attitude.
“I will go with you, if you wish,” he agreed. At the very least, he could steer him away from the slavers, unless they’d left the area. If not... he had little else to lose. And perhaps having a friend on his side would be useful in a month’s time.
“Gotcha,” Loren agreed, nodding his head. “See you in the morning, outside the tavern.” Serraent watched him as he went over to the bar, ordering something that he hoped wasn’t the foul ale from before. It was better than drinking while on the move, marginally, he supposed. With a shake of his head, Serraent wove his way through the thinning crowd and out of the tavern.
What have I got myself into?
Rhasslariel, disinterested in the antics of the drow and those who would associate with his kind, instead tasked herself with finding the location of the man who could possibly point her towards spellbooks she could use. Asking around the town pointed her almost universally in the direction of a restaurant called ‘Lazare’s House’, so that was where she headed. It seemed incredibly up-market, especially for the rather filthy, loutish town she was in. That was good.
“It’s 5 Gold for entry, ma’am,” one of the bouncers on the door told her as she approached. Rolling her eyes, Rhasslariel dug into her pouch and extracted the coins, handing them over delicately. The bouncer let her through with a nod, so she pushed open the door and glanced around. She saw Allustan, a middle-aged man with a thick, bushy brown beard, sat at a table with another, much less sophisticated man. She stopped a short way away, observing. They were playing what looked like dragon chess, although why anyone would willingly play anything with the ‘most intelligent man in Diamond Lake’ was beyond her. She watched them for the entire game – which Allustan won, of course – before the man looked right up at her. She blinked, startled, but quickly regained her wits.
“Allustan, I presume?” she began. He inclined his head sagely.
“Yes, that's me. Are you here for my Questions?” he asked. Rhasslariel tossed her head haughtily.
“I am seeking knowledge and it was my hope the cairns surrounding this forsaken town will yield something of worth,” she corrected him. “Have you heard of a cairn that holds a great tome?” He held up a cautionary hand.
“Hold, ma’am,” he requested. “The price is twenty gold pieces, for a question well-asked.” Rhasslariel pursed her lips. 20 Gold was a lot of money.
“For a question well-answered, I hope,” she muttered tersely. Allustan smiled faintly.
“I believe you can be the judge of that yourself,” he responded blithely. With an irritated sigh, Rhasslariel dug yet more coin from her pouch. This was proving to be an expensive quest. If it didn’t pay off, she would be most annoyed. He pocketed the gold with a nod that seemed far too smug for Rhasslariel’s liking. “I believe it’s your turn to speak, ma’am,” he offered. “Unless your question is silence, in which case I would recommend asking a monk, rather than myself,” he added with a small chuckle. Rhasslariel was not impressed.
“Have you heard of any great magical tomes that are hidden away in the cairns that surround this town?” she repeated, exasperated with the hoops she had to jump through to get her answers. Allustan ‘hmm’ed at the question, then shook his head slowly.
“The truth of the answer might be 'no', but my guarantee is not truth, but the answer you are looking for,” he responded eventually. Rhasslariel narrowed her eyes. “What do you know of the Cairn Hills, then? They are a specialty of mine.” She tutted.
“Then divulge with your specialty,” she snapped, pushing an errant
strand of golden hair back behind her ear with a flick that made the beads in her hair clatter together. “I am not from this region and only wish to remain as long as needed or as long as there is something worthy to tether me here.” Her voice showed the distaste she felt for Diamond Lake, and indeed the entire dull, misty, mirey region it was in. Allustan closed his eyes for a moment, looking harried.
“If you wish to hear all the information ever recorded of the Cairn Hills, you would be better off purchasing a library than a question,” he advised, attempting to steer her towards a more productive question. Rhasslariel just put her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to answer the question or not?” she demanded, unimpressed. “Have you heard of a tome containing great magical knowledge and its location?” Allustan just shrugged shallowly, clearly unimpressed with her theatrics.
“Yes, I have. Is that the answer you sought? No, it is not,” he replied. Rhasslariel clicked her tongue against her teeth, even more irritated than before. “I suspect that your question is very far off the mark - there are no famous tomes of magical power hidden in the Cairn Hills, though if there were, it would have been discovered and taken away, no?” he finished. Rhasslariel drummed her fingers against her hip.
“Since you are apparently oblivious to what I seek, then the very least you could yield information as to why Stirgenest seems to be on the mind of adventurers around here,” she suggested primly. Allustan sighed and nodded fractionally.
“At last, you begin to ask something close to what you wish to know,” he congratulated wearily. Rhasslariel narrowed her eyes at him, feeling patronised. “And yet still you are one step away. Those three individuals have asked questions themselves - more pertinent ones, mind you - and their questions led them to that destination,” he finished. Rhasslariel made a noise of impatience, tapping her foot on the floor.
“Simply tell me what Stirgenest holds that brings adventurers to this place,” she demanded. Allustan pressed the fingers of one hand against his forehead, looking hassled.
“Unexplored chambers. Nothing more, nothing less,” he finished.
“I must say, I will not recommend your services to others,” Rhasslariel snapped, finally losing patience with the charade. “In fact, I will point them elsewhere.” Allustan bowed his head, smiling thinly.
“I am sure those who have met with your ascerbic tongue will treat that as a recommendation, ma'am,” he responded, looking faintly amused.
“I would sooner point them in the direction of a dragon’s maw before directing them to you,” she finished, turning on her heel and heading imperiously towards the door, head held high. She glanced coolly at the bouncer as she left. She heard the word ‘bitch’ spat in her direction from behind, but she ignored the crude, untutored remarks of the residence and continued on her way. They were all only jealous of her, anyway.
