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"It used to be easy to make money in this town!"
greyhawken777
Member Posts: 56 Arc User
...stated my rebel mercenary forcefully as she hefted her two-handed blade off her shoulder. Her expression was not the happy one I was expecting given that I'm finally settling our bet with the cold drink I had promised her. Looking capable and dangerous despite her short dwarven stature, she eyed me expectantly for an answer as she positioned herself across the table.
I glance through the smoky haze over to my motley group of men-at-arms lounging lazily in booths along the far wall of the Driftwood Tavern. Normally, they'd be led by my hero while constantly escorting some diamond shipment, or laying havoc on some hapless enemy camp--normally very profitable ventures in times past. But no more. I shake my head at them, wondering if the monies I've spent on their training and equipment could have been better used elsewhere, perhaps in some debauchery at the Moonstone Mask or some appropriately shiny bauble. I wonder idly if I might be able to train them to be alchemists, or jewelcrafters.
"Our fortunes can only change for the better." My reply didn't have the conviction of truth and my rebel mercenary knows it. I shift to face her as I raise my tankard. The Driftwood Tavern serves the best ales, but don't say that too loudly. Those reprobates at the 'Mask will surely disagree, and we don't want a repeat of what happened the last time that happened. "Besides, there are rumors that we'll soon have better ways to earn our keep what with this latest demonic threat to the city."
She raises her own tankard and taps it against mine. Her eyes were elsewhere, far away, remembering more prosperous times. "It used to be so easy to make money in this town," she repeated, her tone more rueful than before. I nodded slowly in agreement.
(Background. I was ambling about PE doing the usual "log in/invoke" dance when I heard that phrase. At first I thought it was some nearby merchant in the market. After realizing that it was actually from my mercenary companion, I chuckled for several minutes. "Out of the mouths of babes..." Given the changes to AD, who would have guessed that a game companion would be so insightful.)
(Correction. I was mistaken. This phrase is actually from another character: Grace Rathburn, an NPC leaning against the outside wall northeast of the market, next to the merchant by the wagon near Deekin Street. The phrase still holds true regardless of who says it.)
I glance through the smoky haze over to my motley group of men-at-arms lounging lazily in booths along the far wall of the Driftwood Tavern. Normally, they'd be led by my hero while constantly escorting some diamond shipment, or laying havoc on some hapless enemy camp--normally very profitable ventures in times past. But no more. I shake my head at them, wondering if the monies I've spent on their training and equipment could have been better used elsewhere, perhaps in some debauchery at the Moonstone Mask or some appropriately shiny bauble. I wonder idly if I might be able to train them to be alchemists, or jewelcrafters.
"Our fortunes can only change for the better." My reply didn't have the conviction of truth and my rebel mercenary knows it. I shift to face her as I raise my tankard. The Driftwood Tavern serves the best ales, but don't say that too loudly. Those reprobates at the 'Mask will surely disagree, and we don't want a repeat of what happened the last time that happened. "Besides, there are rumors that we'll soon have better ways to earn our keep what with this latest demonic threat to the city."
She raises her own tankard and taps it against mine. Her eyes were elsewhere, far away, remembering more prosperous times. "It used to be so easy to make money in this town," she repeated, her tone more rueful than before. I nodded slowly in agreement.
(Background. I was ambling about PE doing the usual "log in/invoke" dance when I heard that phrase. At first I thought it was some nearby merchant in the market. After realizing that it was actually from my mercenary companion, I chuckled for several minutes. "Out of the mouths of babes..." Given the changes to AD, who would have guessed that a game companion would be so insightful.)
(Correction. I was mistaken. This phrase is actually from another character: Grace Rathburn, an NPC leaning against the outside wall northeast of the market, next to the merchant by the wagon near Deekin Street. The phrase still holds true regardless of who says it.)
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Neverwinter Census 2017
All posts pending disapproval by Cecilia
“It is just the two of us, Grendel, against fourteen.” His voice was a low grumble, more due to how his deep chest moved the air through his body past his scaled lips. He even sounded mildly amused. “I will not go off half-cocked like the last time we did this. I want to be certain no other enemies are nearby. I don’t want any surprises this time.”
As a dwarven rebel mercenary, Grendel is not used to seeing so much introspection and planning before a fight. Her general rule is to simply wade in, her massive two-handed sword swinging left and right, her powerful strikes penetrating armor and muscle and bone as she carves her way through whatever opposition stands in front, to the side, and behind her. Her fighting style is pure aggression with little, if any, finesse, unlike her employer. Still, it’s not all bad. He pays her well enough considering that money no longer comes as easily as it had in the past when jobs protecting Neverwinter were more plentiful and certainly more lucrative.
As if sensing her thoughts, the rogue takes a deep breath. The air around him rumbles a low growl. He nods to Grendel, signaling his intention to approach the group with stealth from the left. He stares at the larger members of the cultist group, lesser demons by the looks of them. His red-tinged eyes narrow as he reflexively marks who among the demons he will hit and in what order, his scaled head nodding slightly at each one in turn. Grendel nods in understanding as she picks out her own targets on the right. “Good choice, boss!” she whispers with glee, her battle lust building.
Caught by surprise between the Dragonborn’s twin, blue-hued blades and the rebel mercenary’s flashing sword, the fight was brief and deadly. The cultists never knew what hit them.
Of course, whatever task the rogue receives is by default one also assigned to his mercenary companion, Grendel, who is just out of earshot behind him. Her massive two-handed sword strapped across her shoulders barely clears the ground behind her. The effect would have been comical to see such an outsized sword on the back of one so short as a dwarven battlemaiden. But the few who made that mistake in the past of hazarding an untoward remark her way learned that it is not the wisest of moves to tease one so intense in her approach to fighting.
Grendel looks on impatiently as the rogue finishes his transactions with the Harper. Barely half again the rogue’s size, what she lacks in height is more than made up with her fierce and unrelenting spirit. She has been with the rogue, her “boss” as she likes to refer to him, for many months now ever since her option was released from her clan from deep in Icespire Peak to assist Neverwinter, first as a guard for the mithral mining runs and now as a direct companion to one of the many heroes that have flocked to the city. Her boss, being a dragonborn, is part of the first contingent of a sizable force led by General Bharash. Sworn enemies of the evil chromatic dragons, Lord Neverember welcomed the dragonborn with open arms. That would explain the ease with which Grendel was able to readily exercise her option, something that would have taken years otherwise. Icespire needs her warriors, but the clan elders felt it be better for Neverwinter to be able to borrow them instead, at least for the time being. And the fact that dwarven mercenaries are well sought-after and therefore highly paid is just extra cream atop the draft. The rogue turns from the Harper to amble back to the dwarf.
“Finally!” she thinks to herself.
The rogue smiles, or at least stretches his lips along his scaled jaw to approximate the expression. Instead, the motion reveals several canines behind his lips, all sharp and looking feral. He ambles back along the cobblestones towards the Shrine of the Gods. The altar there provides a grand view of the city below. And it is always a good thing to invoke the gods’ blessing whenever you are about to embark on some adventure. The latest tasks from Boward will certainly be challenging as she has asked the rogue to assist the Zhentarim in the Whispering Caverns.
“We’re off once again, my battle-hungry friend! To the Whispering Caverns this time.” His voice rumbles low. He keeps his steps measured, and slow to enjoy the view of the rooftops in the expanse of Neverwinter before him, and the far-off shape that is the floating earth mote holding the Moonstone Mask. It also allows the battle maiden to stay in step beside him without too much trouble. The last time he forgot had her scrambling to keep up prompting some nearby commoners to joke at her plight. It took the better part of a week to finally get her absolved of all charges from the resulting tussle. The hardest part was not posting the bail, or the many favors the rogue had to use to keep her out of jail. No, the hardest part was convincing Grendel to apologize to the commoners for the many abundant and creative cuts and bruises she generously heaped on them. But they should have known better than to compare her running gait to a half drunken duck on fire. It’s a lesson they won’t soon forget.
Grendel glances up at the rogue. “He’s not such a bad boss, this one,” she thinks to herself. “I could certainly do worse.” She shifts her shoulder for the sword to sit just a bit more comfortably across her back. Her smile is wicked as she thinks of the next fight. “Just point me at the bad guys!” she replies as they approach the city gate.
“I shouldn’t take too long, Grendel,” the rogue explained to the dwarven battle maiden as he approached. “I have some business with Sergeant Knox at the upper plaza. Until I return, feel free to make use of the services they have here in the Trade of Blades.” He drops a small pouch into her palm and nods towards the nearby battle master. “For later, when you’re done,” he reminds the dwarf.
“Tryin’ tae get rid o’me already, eh, boss?” From his slight grimace, Grendel knew the rogue is still working to accept that appellation she has hung on him. Sure, she could call him a more respectful “Sir,” or the more familiar “Rashi,” or by his more formal and complete clan-given name Zedrashiraxx, but where’s the fun in that? “Boss” is direct and much easier to say. “To try and say his full name would just have me sounding as if I was gargling seashells, or worse,” she thought to herself. As her boss made his way down the darkened hall past the battle master on his way out the heavy double doors, Grendel turned her attention to the target mannequins neatly arrayed on stakes in a row inside the training pit. A familiar tingle flows across her shoulders into her hands as she unhitches her deadly looking two-handed sword from its sling across her back.
The Trade of Blades is where many in Neverwinter go to try out weapons and armor newly acquired from battle or, more mundanely, from the safer auction house. For Grendel, there’s no substitute for battle prizes, often slick and still steaming with the enemy’s blood. Unless, of course, it is a time tested family heirloom handed down for generations or a finely crafted sword made by your own hands. For Grendel, her two-handed sword is a combination of both. The long blade has been in her family for years. It was recently made hers as part of her affirmation into her warrior profession. The hilt, cross guard and the pommel, however, were her own creations--additions that augmented the original forging to fit her fighting style.
At the moment, that style consisted of measuring her “opponent” and envisioning an attack line. Standing almost twice her height, the training mannequin stood impassively, unaware of what is just about to happen to it. Grendel looks around at the nearly empty space. Typically, the ‘Blades is more crowded but it seems that the boss chose a quiet evening to work out. All the better. “Would’nae want tae hurt anyone by accident now, would we,” she mused idly.
Her sword is a blur as it flashed out from its resting position on her shoulder into the mannequin. Straw and splinters flew out in a dull stream flowing after her blade. She lets the blade’s momentum carry her left forearm out and away, perfectly positioning her for a backswing as she feels the smooth pommel slam into the edge of her right fist. With a grunt and a heave, the blade is moving again, just a wink from when it first bit into the target. With her eyes still on the target, she twists her torso feeling the power flow up from her widely-planted feet, up her legs, and through her twisting waist into her arms. The blade whistles through the air, no longer a thing of metal but just a blur guided by her hands gentle yet firm on the leather-wrapped handle.
More straw and splinters explode from the target, again and again. With each strike, her breaths burst out with exultation and triumph. Twist, strike! Back step, swing again. And again. The mannequin is reduced to a rough pile of kindling. Smiling self-consciously, she shrugs at the battle master. He shakes his head at her, his silver locks falling away from his pointed Elven ears.
“Your technique is getting better,” he smiles at her. “It would seem that your time with the rogue has expanded your repertoire. However, you truly should study his overhead strike technique. Strong as your slashes are, that variant could prove useful someday.”
Grendel knew the elf was correct, but at the same time fundamentally wrong. “Thankee, Sir Elf,” she replied, trying to keep her fiery temper in check. “But I think I’ll jest be stayin’ with what works for meself.” Being a dwarf, she just does not have the physical stature to be effective with an overhead strike. The motion would be easy for her opponents to spot and could be blocked just as easily either with a simple parry or a quick step backwards leaving her exposed to an inevitable counter. But her slashing attack, now, that’s something to be feared. Being low to the ground, a wicked strike like that often starts just outside her target’s field of vision. By the time her target makes an attempt to parry or evade her blade is already biting home. But maybe, just maybe, the elf has a point.
“Time of more, Mistress Dwarf?” The elf raises an inquiring eyebrow at her. He motions to a nearby pile of fresh mannequins, replacements for ones that don’t seem to last as long as they used to before the recent refinements Lord Neverember released to the many heroes flocking to the city. He watches his attendants clear away some of the debris from the pit.
Grendel smiles readily. She’s just getting warmed up. Of course there is time, for more. And the pouch of coins her boss gave her earlier should buy her another hour’s worth of targets. Her smile is eager. “Point me at the ‘enemy'!”
“You do not look happy, Zed’rash’i’raxx,” the general intoned, using the rogue’s formal name. To call him ‘Raxx as his squad mates or those more familiar with him often do, or “Zed” as many Neverwinter citizens do, would seem out of place for a subject that is prefaced with such a somber expression.
Zedrashiraxx shifts slightly. Something sounding like a rumbling sigh escapes from him. “No, General. I am not happy at all. It has been some time since our people have joined in protecting this city. We have been welcomed with open arms as we lent our strength to Lord Neverember. Our forces range far and wide within the city and beyond. We’ve gained great fame and renown achieving levels beyond many among us thought possible.” The rogue paused to gather his breath. “And yet, those of us who have come after The-First-Among-Us are seeing a diminishment in our abilities to proceed in that very advancement, as if a ceiling has been placed above us.”
It was the general’s turn to shift slightly. He stands up from the map table. This is not a new subject, but for Zedrashiraxx to bring it up means that the dissatisfaction is now not limited to just a few but has now moved to a larger discontent. He nods to the rogue, motioning him to continue.
“I bring this matter to you, not as a complaint, but as you have taught us, as you have taught your people to speak when a grave matter concerns them.”
“And this grave concern, Zedrashiraxx, is…?” asked the general letting his voice trail off, knowing what answer will be.
“…is the overall and disastrous slowing of progression of our force, of those among our later members, of those who have joined after the radical changes imposed on our ability to gain coin to further our advancements and our ability to better ourselves and refine our weapons,” Zedrashiraxx finished the sentence for the general. He looked the general in the eyes wordlessly underlining each word in his answer.
General Bharash fought to keep his expression blank. He could not tell the rogue know how much he and Lord Neverember had argued over this very point. Of how he argued against the decision to disallow arbitrarily the lucrative profession and trades found in leading various guarding, protecting, and attacking tasks that had formed the backbone of many an adventurer’s method of acquiring their wealth, wealth that allowed them to quickly refine and bolster their abilities. To make matters worse, the Merchant’s Guild, seemingly sensing a way to channel adventurers into the questionably profitable Zen markets, kept their prices at their previous levels with the resulting effect of making everything more expensive. When there is less wealth in the economy, it seems natural that prices should go down but the mercantile princes in the city, for whatever demented reason, decided otherwise. There were even rumors that Lord Neverember is deliberately creating this crisis.
The overall unrest has now reached the point where many adventurers have resorted to doing just the barest minimum for the city just to maintain a bare, subsistence level instead of freely ranging as before. For Bharash, this growing concern has caused many restless nights as he wrestled with the validity of completing his people’s mission here in Neverwinter when it feels as if the city itself is working against him and his people. If not for the cleric’s reminder that he is not here not just to lend aid to Neverwinter but to also seek more evidence that may shed more light on The Impending Calamity That Haunts our Sleep, Bharash might have already listened to his more strident lieutenants to leave the city.
“You are not the first to bring this to me, nor will you likely be the last,” Bharash said gravely as he laid a sympathetic hand on the rogue’s shoulder. “And I agree with you that what we are facing today is less than what I would like to see.” He steps forward to face the rogue directly. “But a stone can only be a stone. It cannot be anything else. It is what it is. And this is the stone we must carry for now.” Bharash walked to one of the braziers and threw more wood into the fire. Fresh embers flew into the air.
Bharash pointed to the invigorated flames. “We cannot let the present difficulty lessen our efforts. Like this fire, it must be fed to continue its heat and its light.” Bharash reached down and picked a map off the table and examined it with sad eyes remembering the efforts it took to have it be drawn as he now held it. It showed lands around the Dread Ring, now pacified for the most part. Crumpling it into a small wad, he threw it into the fire as the rogue looked on with confused concern, making an attempt to reach in to save it before it was consumed. The general’s hand on his arm stayed him.
“The fire must be fed, Zedrashiraxx. And if wood is not readily at hand, then another fuel must be found.” The ball of parchment darkened as the fire took and completed its work. The faint smell of eucalyptus, one of the Dragonborn’s favorite ingredients for map ink, fills the air.
Zedrashiraxx nods slowly with a growing comprehension. “I think I understand, my general.” He frowns at the shrinking ball, the renewed flames reflecting off his armor and eyes as if something else is renewed.
Bharash chuckles indulgently. “It’s not all as bad as you may think.” He motions towards the nearby dome where Lord Neverember holds daily court. “Neverember has tasked his advisers to discover other ways for adventurers like you to gain what had been taken from you. No, it may not be exactly in the form with which you are most familiar, but Neverember assures me that the prizes will be as great if not better for those who would dare.” Bharash glances back at the dome. “I just wish he wouldn’t be so cryptic!” he thought to himself.
Bharash moves past the rogue to stand at the top of the steps leading down towards the middle courtyard. Through the afternoon’s light haze, he can see the jagged rooflines and the city wall far in the distance. The city’s rebuilding is progressing better than expected. Soon, the city will once again be the splendor of the Sword Coast as he once remembered it long ago. Perhaps there are lessons here he can bring back to his own home once his mission is complete. But for now, his work here continues. And that means keeping those that have proven themselves valuable to the mission, like Zedrashiraxx of the First Contingent, Who Always Returns from Battle with Red Knives, of the House of R’ash, remains engaged.
Bharash nods at the dwarven battle maiden waiting nearby, Grendel I think is her name, that Lord Neverember had assigned to Zedrashiraxx. Grendel glances back fiercely, her nod more a challenge than an acknowledgment. The general chuckles inwardly at their mismatched fighting styles, hers of pure aggression, his of calculated finesse and speed, and how they seem to have made it work. But soon, he thought, as Bharash allowed himself a rare moment of melancholy, ‘Raxx will see how new challenges will prompt him to look for a new fighting companion.
He motions for Zedrashiraxx to join him. “Here,” he says as he places a coin purse into Zedrashiraxx’s hand. “You look like you could use a diversion. The Trade of Blades should be sparsely attended tonight with the start of the Winter’s Fest. I know of your disdain for crowds so tonight is an especially good night to try out those new refinements you’ve had forged.” Bharash glances down at the rogue’s sharp knives. “Afterwards, be sure to seek out the good Sergeant Knox. I think he has an interesting task that you might consider accepting.”
As if remembering another thing, Bharash places a second coin purse into the rogue’s palm. He nods towards Grendel. “Bring her, too. She looks as if she could use an outlet after waiting so patiently for an old general to finishing talking with his nephew.” Raxx looks back at his uncle and nods respectfully, his initial somber expression now one more of familial affection.
Further down the steps, Grendel looks on as the two Dragonborn exchange their good-byes. “Finally!” she thinks to herself, impatient as ever to get the next action.
(Author's Note. The segments seem to have gotten longer with each new entry. I guess I could do a "tldr" version, but where's the fun in that. I just hope that you find these stories, inspired by a few well placed pixels on screen backed with the barest amount out voice-over work, enjoyable).
A soft western breeze wraps around him. The pungent smells from the nearby Shandakul mount dealer fills the air. Horse dung mingles with dragon dung along with the sour smell of sweat from labourers and busy tradesmen. He sniffs the air deliberately. “Are those remnants of tiger and wolf and...howler I detect?” He shrugs his shoulders as he steps away making for the stairs to the upper courtyards. Sergeant Knox is up there. He picks up his pace. The Sergeant is not one to be kept waiting.
Knox was not having a good afternoon. There is always a problem that needs to be solved and Lord Neverember expects solutions. Because of this, his face is forever etched with a perpetual frown. Sometimes, the problems are straightforward like ridding the city of a particularly bad infestation of sewer rats or to investigate rumours of sedition or rebellion. Sometimes the problem is much larger, like the time that demon lich queen Valindra threatened the city with a direct invasion. Thankfully, there is a ready supply of adventurers eager to be the hero that Knox can draw on for that. But today, Knox is in need of someone who can be a bit more delicate, someone proven and trusted. Who better than the nephew of the general leading the Dragonborn sworn to protect the city.
Knox watches stoically as Zedrashiraxx topped the stairs up from the lower courtyard. “He’s tall like most Dragonborn, and walks with an easy grace that belies his size,” Knox mused. He notes the dark leathers and the deadly looking daggers hanging easily from the Dragonborn’s belt, deadly tools favored by thieves. Or rogues. Some may say there is no difference between the two, but Knox knows better.
The rogue nods respectfully to Knox. He’s completed several tasks for Knox before and he’s no stranger to the sergeant’s way of doing things. As he expected, Knox spent time looking him over carefully as if the rogue was an insect under a apothecarist’s eye or, more likely, as a surgeon contemplating a sharp cutting tool that if wielded poorly would surely result in injury to the patient. Or to themselves. The rogue waited patiently, his strong arms easy along his sides as he balanced himself lightly on his feet.
Presently, Knox grunts loudly, a noise that passes for approval over what he’s seen. The sergeant steps off his small dais, really nothing more than an overturned wine crate, something Lord Neverember insisted that Knox use to be more visible amid the crowd of adventurers that often gather about him. Knox had accepted begrudgingly although he secretly wished Neverember had provided a more "refined" platform.
“Zedrashiraxx, it is good to see you,” Sergeant Knox allowed. “It would seem that our fair city has a need for your services once again." Knox pauses for another assessing look. "You come highly recommended.”
“Sir,” the rogue started slowly, “it is an honor to serve where one can. As for being ‘highly recommended,’ I suspect my uncle is involved.”
Knox chuckles inwardly. He clears his throat gruffly to his a sudden urge to smile. “I see you are as perceptive as ever. Yes, I must admit, I did have a conversation with the General about a task important to our city. And your name was mentioned.” Knox peers closely at the rogue. “Are you interested?”
Zedrashiraxx takes a deep breath, something Grendel would have remarked as the rogue's way of starting a deep thought. “Boss, sometimes ye think too much,” she would say if she were here instead of surely wreaking havoc against hapless targets in the Blade. A slow rumbling sound escapes as the rogue lets out his breath. “Sergeant, you know as well as I do that I am duty bound to accept any quest that you order me to do. You asking if I am ‘interested’ only makes me more so. The rogue pauses a moment as he eyes Knox closely. The two are nearly of equal height, with the rogue just half a hand taller. “What is it that needs to be done?”
Knox examines the rogue once again, looking at him up and down and noting the recent enhancements the rogue has made to his gear. “I’m glad you’ve taken the time to maintain your armor and weapons, Zedrashiraxx. Poor is the adventurer who lets rust tinge their edges.”
“And poor are the adventurers who can no longer earn their coin as we once were able to,” retorted the rogue, not able to restrain himself in time, surprising even himself at how forceful the comment came from him.
Knox looked pained. He’s well aware of the dissatisfaction among many adventurers after Lord Neverember imposed what many still think are arbitrary limits to how coin can be earned. In fact, there were several weeks after the decision to stop paying for long accepted guarding and escorting tasks where there were rumours of open rebellion against Lord. In the long run, Knox knew it was the correct decision to reign in the wayward merchant princes and the cartel guilds playing fast and loose with the city’s economy. He was just not yet ready to admit there were other less disruptive ways to solve the problem. He certainly was not ready to discuss this with the Dragonborn before him.
Knox clears his throat. “I understand your frustration, Zedrashiraxx. But that discussion is something that must wait for another time.” Knox turns to look up at the dome over the Hall of Justice, glinting from the recent rain in the late afternoon sun. Deliberately, he turns his attention back to the rogue. “You can only fight what your knives can reach, young rogue, and today I have something that is certainly within your reach.” Knox pauses once again, glancing sideways at the rogue. “That is, if you are interested….”
Despite himself, Zedrashiraxx couldn’t stop the smile slowly appearing on his lips. The effect is fearsome as sharp fang points appear. “Yes. I am interested. What is it you need done?”
Grendel smiles good-naturedly at the elf. It has taken some time for both to reach this level of amicability. The constant attendance here by both her and her 'boss' has paved this path that they now tread on and enjoy. Grendel shakes her head. Her tight braids fly around her. Stray bits of straw and mannequin stuffing rise from her shoulders. She rubs a forearm across her brow to catch a glistening bead of sweat.
"Most definitely, Sir Elf." She pauses to catch her breath. "'Twas almost as good as hewing actual demons themselves."
She caresses her wide blade before sliding it back into her shoulder scabbard. Had the dwarf been slashing at actual demons instead of training mannequins, steaming black ichor would have covered the blade from point to hilt. Black pools would be scattered about in random patterns. Instead the dwarf shuffles through the remaining piles of chaff and hay and matted cloth and wooden frames now reduced to raw kindling. This constant effort to practice and train is just one way she stays sharp, something her boss has always encouraged her to do. Given the many enhancements and runestones she's had to assimilate recently, visits to the Trade of Blades have become a regular necessity. She rolls her shoulders with practiced fashion feeling the muscles warm and loose. "Now, this is my kind of "rolling in the hay!" she thinks salaciously to herself.
As if reading her thoughts, the elf chuckles and winks knowingly. "You, and your boss, are always welcome here, Mistress Dwarf." He bows low as he gestures widely across the training pit. He motions towards the bar, barely visible through the low haze. A small kobold approaches bearing a tray with a large goblet of frothy ale. Timidly, the kobold offers the beverage to the dwarf. Grendel nods to the servile creature, and then to the elf.
"I see yer hospitality remains as excellent as ever, Sir Elf. This, I drink tae yer health," she proclaims as she takes a thick gulp, "and this, I drink tae me thirst!" Grendel finishes the last of the ale and lets out a hearty burp. "Yes," she agrees and not for the first time, "ales from the Driftwood Tavern are the best in Neverwinter."
After dropping a pair of copper coins onto the kobold's tray, she turns to gather the rest of her gear. She still needs to complete one task her boss had given her before she can turn in for the night. She eyes the scroll case her boss had given her to pass to the various retainers under his employ.
"Zedrass...Zeddrahxs...Zedracksi...oh, what's the use. I'll never be able to pronounce that name. I'll just have tae keep calling him 'boss.' Besides, I think he's finally getting tae like it." She chuckles as she catches herself. Her mood is light, made even lighter by a blood-pumping workout and that fine Driftwood Tavern ale.
Whistling tunelessly, she makes her way across Protector's Enclave pass the main square dominated by the gigantic druid's tree. Not as many adventurers seem to be feeding it with hard-won spoils as before. She remembers back when she and her boss completed the many quests the druid had given them along with that lunatic giant of a fighting man and his rodent. "For a lunatic, he can surely fight and well at that. I should not talk too loudly. Boss often thinks my way of fighting borders on lunacy, too. Och! No use wondering on things I cannae control. Best tae keep me mind on what was given me tae do."
Presently, she finds herself standing by a building near the southern city gate. The building is one of the older ones in Neverwinter. The dated architecture mimics a gigantic gate of sorts. Three gates loom along the base with three more stacked atop that, and then three more atop that. Each layer ascends to a dizzying height. Then again, anything taller than a chapel door is dizzying when viewed from a dwarf's vantage point. The building's facade is festooned with various scripts and scrolls hanging from the many niches and shallow recesses stuffed beyond their capacity to hold more. At least it normally is.
Instead, workmen are milling about, busily removing the last of the paper and other notices left there meant for artisans, men-at-arms, smiths, and other retainers employed by the adventurers in Neverwinter. Adventurers like her boss. Papers like those she's carrying in the scroll case in her satchel. Several others and more than a few adventurers are standing around, puzzled as she is at the activity. The lower apertures are have already been cleared. A rickety scaffold holds against the building allowing several nervous-looking workmen access to the upper stories. It appears that another work gang is about to plaster over the openings along the lower gallery preventing anyone from ever inserting the smallest slip of paper. Upon spotting the foreman, she makes her way through the crowd to confront the beleaguered looking man.
"Eh, you there! What's happenin' here? Why are ye be taking down the Gateway?"
The man's shoulders slumps slowly. Thin and gaunt from overwork, he shakes his head morosely. "Haven't you heard? The powers that be have determined that it is too much work to maintain the Gateway. That any effort that would normally be expended here will be expended elsewhere." He gestured with a mud-stained hand at the structure. "I'm afraid that in the next fortnight or two, the Gateway will be no more."
A slow feeling of dread crept up Grendel's spine. "But, how...? Who...? How will adventurers detail their intentions when they're away from the city doing the Lord's bidding? " She reaches down and removes the scroll case from her satchel and shakes it at the foreman. "Now, what the hell am I suppose to do with this?"
"That I cannot tell you. All I know is I have work to do. Neverwinter must survive and we will continue as best as we can. For now, I suggest you find your master and share this news if he doesn't know it already."
The crowd around the Gateway has grown. The mood is restless, guarded. Many are frowning and muttering among themselves. Nearby, a group of leather workers are arguing loudly with another group of tailors. "Do you know what's going on? Have you heard from your master? No, I have not heard anything in weeks! Perhaps she's dead? No, no one can vanquish my mistress! How else will we make money in this town? Something else must be going on."
Grendel makes her way back the way she came. "The Gateway is nae more," she thinks to herself. "And just when ye think things were beginning to settle down...." She doesn't finish the thought. Her arms and shoulders are still warm and loose from the workout. The ale is still comfortably cozy in her belly. "So why do I feel a cold dread coming on?"
@strumslinger I don't know if you've read these. Yay, topical fanfiction.
Neverwinter Census 2017
All posts pending disapproval by Cecilia
Lord Dagult Neverember, Open Lord of Waterdeep and Lord Protector of Neverwinter of the Sword Coast sat fuming while seated at the apex of the horseshoe-shaped table of The Council of Thirteen in a stone vaulted chamber high above the Hall of Justice. Seated on ornate chairs along the outside wings to his left and right are various city officials, advisors, councilors, ambassadors, diplomats, administrators, and soldiers he has invited to help him find a way to deal with the current crisis. “There’s always a crisis,” thought Neverember as he let his gaze pass among the bickering members who have been arguing back and forth for over an hour now. “Blast this city’s tradition of discussion and debate. Time grows short and we need action, not this useless partisanship,” he continued to himself.
Looking farther down the table to his left, his eyes spot Sergeant Knox, his ever-reliable soldier who at the moment seems to be lost in thought while staring up with his one good eye into the chamber’s dark upper vaults. Directly across from Knox on the other wing of the table sat Mayor Soman Galt in a heated discussion with Aralyn the Pious to his right and Anton Omeris, the city’s guild registrar, to his left.
“Galt, surely you would not want to go against the will of the gods?” intoned Aralyn, her voice deep and reverent.
“But what use are gods if there is no one to revere them? Each day we see fewer attendants, and the few that appear are less than adequate,” interjected Omeris.
Aralyn’s fine features become stern as she leans across Galt to face Omeris directly. “Regardless of the number, the gods remain constant and generous with their blessings.” Her eyes narrow to daggers against the guild registrar. “…Unlike some who pray only to a tally!”
Galt makes a rude noise, his mayoral insignia gleaming dully atop his noble finery in the chamber’s firelight. “Bah! Gods! Guilds! The city must survive regardless of who, or what, these Adventurers follow!”
Neverember clenches his fists below the table, his temper rising. The motion earns concerned glances from his two generals seated on either side of him, General Bharash to his right and General Sabine to his left. The Dragonborn remains silent but his frustration is evident from his heavy sigh. Sabine makes no effort to hide her disgust at all this prattling. She’d rather be out in the field with her troops to complete routing the Cult of the Dragon’s latest attempt to breach the city walls.
Sitting quietly next to Bharash, Liset Cheldar of the Moonstone Mask sips wine from a silver goblet, one of a matched set placed in front of each member at the table, thirteen in all. A few goblets, like a few plates holding the sumptuous meal in front of each seat at the table, remain untouched despite assurances by the nearby devoted clerics of the food’s wholesomeness and safe purity. Other goblets have been used and refilled several times with the forever thirsty dwarves at the table, Galt and Amario Glavus, the Keymaster seated next to Sabine, keeping the retainers the busiest.
Glavus, for his part, is also in a heated discussion with Harper Boward next to him. “I cannae release morr keys ta Adventurers. That would surely upset the balance!” Boward, for her part, cannot agree more, but something has to be done to keep Adventurers interested. Her daily quests and tasks that previously had been met with great interest no longer seem to attract that many of late. “We have to nurture and encourage the Adventurers’ spirit to keep them constantly patrolling to keep the evil that encroaches upon us daily at a safe distance.”
Farthest from Neverember’s right sits the Iliyanbruen Silven Wilten. Usually seen in the Hall of Justice as part of Lord Neverember’s retinue, she’s here as a guest, one of two for the table. Seated immediately across from her, farthest from Neverember’s left and looking very out-of-place, is the other guest, the diminutive kobold, Rhix. His narrow, toothy face is busily devouring the remains of the meal served earlier after the Gathering Prayer before the entire meeting turned to s hit.
Wylander Ilmarin, seated between Knox and Rhix, seems torn between watching Galt argue with his companions and watching Rhix finish off the rest of the pheasant on his plate. Seeming to come to a decision, she instead turns to Sergeant Knox laying a hand softly on his arm. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” she whispered.
Knox slowly looks back down from staring up into what would have been a starry night sky outside if the chamber was not vaulted in stone. He glances around the table taking extra moments to note Lord Neverember’s furrowed brow before replying. “Wylie, you’ve been here before. You know how these things go,” he reminded her, his deep voice sounding old.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “But this time is different. The crisis we face is not from a foe we can touch. It’s one thing to fight off dragons or the undead. It’s another to fight off something that threatens the city’s livelihood, its commerce, its economy.” She tried not to sound lecturing but Knox’s pained expression tells her she failed miserably. “Sergeant, all I know is this. The city is dying. We are losing people. And we are losing an essence that makes the city the gem of the Sword Coast. Not because of death from battle wounds or each other’s wanton brutality.” Wylie pauses briefly, surprised at how open her emotions are. “There’s something unseen at work here that if left unchecked will doom us all. And with that, everything that Lord Neverember has built, everything that we’ve all aspired and dreamed for, all our glory, all our treasure, all our renown, will be gone.”
Again, thank you. I'm glad these stories continue to entertain you. I hope to pick up the pace between each installment. Thank you for thinking enough of these stories to recommend them to others.
Dagult Neverember brought his fists out from under the table and slammed them down in front of him. The plates and cutlery set in front of him clattered noisily. The silver goblet tripped and fell spilling its contents. A red stain trailed away looking like blood in the chamber’s dim light. The room was immediately silent as all eyes turned to him. In the silence, only the Kobold’s noisy slurping could be heard as he savored the last of the pheasant’s juices from his fingertips.
“Enough of this!” Neverember bellowed his frustration, his eyes fixing on each seated figure. “The hour grows late yet we have not determined a course of action. If this is Waterdeep, we would surely have implemented the many actions I have already listed.” Neverember motions behind him. A clerk, one of two tasked to record any conclusions from tonight’s meeting, nervously hands him a sheet of parchment, heavily gilded with the Neverember’s crest. Snatching the sheet, Neverember waved it roughly at the assembly.
“But this is not Waterdeep, my lord,” Silven Wilten replied smoothly. Although her face is covered by the red and gold battle helmet she wears constantly, her voice carried easily across the room. Her only competition is the noisome Kobold directly across from her. “Here, the tradition is to discuss actions that most affect this city. A discussion among those in this council. A council you had agreed to honor when you offered to save the city with your….” Wilten pauses, searching for the correct term. “…with your ‘generous’ offer.”
Several heads around the table nod in agreement. More than a few still wonder secretly if Wilten is herself a Waterdeep lord given her habit of always wearing that ornate battle helmet anytime she’s out in public. Wilten’s helmet, mimicking an older style with full cheek plates and chin guard, covers her face completely leaving only her deep green eyes visible. Waterdeep lords always conceal their identities as part of that city’s tradition. The rare exception is Lord Neverember becoming an Open Lord of Waterdeep when he ascended to take the position of Protector of Neverwinter.
“I must agree, my lord,” Harper Boward found herself saying. “The last thing we need is for the people to once again be reminded of how you, with a heavy hand and draconian measures, abolished several legislative bodies and long-standing merchant guilds during the city’s reconstruction.”
“Those measures were needed, and you know it, Boward!” countered Sergeant Knox seated next to her. “Those measures staved off a greater disaster. Order and discipline were desperately needed then.”
Boward turned in her chair to face Knox. “I will not argue with you, Sergeant. I just want all at this table not to forget how close we came to an outright civil war with the Nashers and other factions who vehemently disputed Lord Neverember’s rights and ascension as Protector.” The Harper turns back to the table resting her eyes on Neverember. “We’ve had our differences in the past, my lord, but the Harpers remain true to our pledge to protect this city against all who would do it harm.”
“That’s easy for ye tae say,” snorted the dwarven major, Galt. “All ye have tae worry about is tae send out adventurers on yer many tasks, never having to worry about what it takes to run a city. What do ye know of making sure those who make this city their home are truly taken care of?” Galt pauses to have his goblet re-filled. After a moment to take another drink, he motions with the goblet to the Harper. “Day and night, all ye do is listen to yer adventurers regale you of their conquests and triumphs against foes who no longer matter, who no longer are a challenge to true adventurers!”
“Part of this is due to the changes you authorized for guilds, my lord,” added Austen Omeris, seated next to Galt. As the Guild Registrar, Omeris oversees the various guilds formed by adventurers that have flocked to the city. “As you had ordered, we enabled various commissions and ranks resulting in adventurers creating guilds that have now become much stronger than we’ve ever anticipated.” Omeris tried to meet Neverember’s glare but failed. Instead, he turns to the rest of the table with his most reasonable sounding tone. “The strongholds are now becoming small principalities, often warring with each other, often seeking ways to gain advantages that allow them to dominate any battle, any situation. Although not all behave this way, there are enough that no longer adhere to the idea of honorable combat, or gaining rewards from deeds ably done. There are even guilds in name alone, mere hollow shells, of lone adventurers seeking to gain advantages afforded to guilds as Lord Neverember envisioned.”
“I’m nae sure of why adventurer’s do what they do,” offered Armario Glavus. “All I know is that there’s been a steady stream o’ them seeking passage and direction to the many known dungeons within the city and across the lands.” Glavus holds up a small key to illustrate his point. “Business has never been better.”
“I have an idea why adventurers do what they do,” Liset Cheldon’s smooth voice replied. Sounding a bit tired after the recent Liar’s Night celebrations, she glances at Neverember before continuing. “We hear this all the time at the Moonstone Mask. Adventurers, as their name implies, crave adventure.” A soft chuckle floats collective across the chamber at this very obvious conclusion. “No, hear me. For those who have not ventured out in the wilds for some time, or ever,” here she fixes her eyes on Galt and Omeris, “may I remind you that adventurers crave a challenge. But not just any challenge. The challenge must have meaning. The challenge must have purpose. The challenge must place them where their abilities are stretched, where they have the chance to excel, and to do it in a way that is novel and exciting.” Liset looks around the table at the faces turned to her. Even the Kobold is paying attention. “Without that, it is no longer an adventure but a routine task, as if you are watching a farm, or grinding grain for bread. An important task, yes, but ultimately mundane.”
A slow clapping sound wafts up from the last seat at the table. The Kobold, having finished licking this fingers of the last of his supper, is smiling toothily. “Anything you’d like to add, Rhix?” said Neverember from the top of the table.
If Kobolds can shrug, Rhix just did. “Rhix has seen all. Rhix has seen the city while prosperous. Rhix has seen the city while under siege. But always, Rhix has seen the city in motion. Always in motion. Something always needs doing. Adventurers, many adventurers crowded to see Rhix, to hear, and to know, and to gain coin. Today, Rhix no longer see adventurers. Instead, they see him.” Rhix points to Glavus further up the table. “They seek him to ask for permission, to ask for a key for their pitiful allowance to gain coin. No longer do adventures seek challenges for there are no longer any. No longer do they ask Rhix to what distant place they will travel, what they will risk life and limb on.” For a moment, the Kobold looked wistful. “Today, adventurers only seek the fastest way to meet the restrictions imposed on them.”
edit. My thanks to beckylunatic for the correction
http://forgottenrealms.wikia.com/wiki/History_of_Open_Lord_of_Waterdeep
(Really, just a simple edit of "the first Open Lord" to "an Open Lord" fixes it completely.)
Neverwinter Census 2017
All posts pending disapproval by Cecilia
Regardless, thank you for the correction. I appreciate you offering it. I hope these stories continue to entertain you and other readers as much as I have enjoyed creating them.
Just to be complete so there is no question, these fan fiction stories are inspired by characters and settings in the game Neverwinter, which belongs to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.