Date: First of March, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)
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Job Arseoth looked about the fields and had to groan at his predicament. The best person to help him out would be Head Archivist Innoch, but he was all the way over in Trebor, not on Bera. That meant getting to one of the inter-island ferries and paying for a trip. Selling the potions or the magic items would go a long way towards raising the needed funds, but Job decided against it. Selling those things would draw attention, and questions, that he could ill afford. Princess Miara or lady Silon’dez’monah might be able to help as well, but Innoch was the first person Job wanted to talk to when he got back to Trebor.
Which left getting there as the primary problem. Job fingered the SiDiabolo Deck and pondered. There might be something in there that could help out. Enra had mentioned a lot of Reincarnate and Wish like effects on the cards, so perhaps drawing one of them might prove useful? The other cards were something of a risk; but even they might yield some benefit.
“Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Job drew a card form the SiDiabolo deck and was nearly knocked unconscious by a bag of rocks falling on his head. Rubbing at the goose egg on his head, Job pawed the bag open to check the contents and gasped in surprise. Twelve plack pearls, each the size of his small fingernail, were nestled in the bottom of the silk bag. Job drew in a breath. Jewelry featuring such gems was worth a small fortune from what he had seen. But selling these gems would bring on the same questions as selling the gems from Mevada. Sly knew the places where they could be sold with few questions, but Job didn’t. There was always the Guild, but it was widely publicized that they would give you a fair appraisal of the gem’s worth… and refuse to pay you more than half of that.
“It’ll have to be the Guild then. I just don’t know enough to not get ripped off selling gems.”
Job pondered this while he gathered up his things. The Guild had branches in every major city, which meant that they had one in Bera and one in Trebor. The Bera branch was closer, but risked interference from Lord Bera over the mistreatment of his heir. It would be safer to just pass on through Bera and take the ferry to Trebor.
“Talking to myself already. I’m probably going mad aren’t I?”
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Ved’Qeth stalked the empty streets of the underground city. He had been raised with no more then the rags about his bones. His Deity, the Lady of Darkness, had granted him two boons. The first was his limited telepathy, to make up for a lack of vocal chords. The second was the holy icon about his neck; a silver heart on a silver chain stained black by the soot of burning homes. Ved’Qeth left it to hang in the middle of his ribcage, where his mortal heart had once been, in order to better protect it.
He was looking for a weapon, something better than the sling on his hip or the broken spear in his hands. In life, Ved’Qeth would have been terrified by the mere prospect of being alone, much less going out into a hostile area without any help. In unlife, he did not fear at all. Ved’Qeth had neither heart that would race nor stomach that would churn. The Lady of Darkness had chosen him, and he would not fail her orders. And simple orders they were: grow strong and crush those who stand in your way. Ved’Qeth had only found a longsword worth keeping, but it would do for a start. This city was dead, there was nothing and no one left here to rule. But the caves of his one-time master and the cities of the surface… they would one day be his.
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Grurvum, Black Drake of the Deeps, Shadow Lord of the Islands, counted the days again. The number came out the same, just as it had the last six times. He slammed his tail into his bed of golden coins. The Black Egg would hatch soon, and his kobolds had failed to bring it back in time. This angered Grurvum greatly, as it meant that he would never get the great satisfaction of lording his power over not one but two dragons. It also reminded Grurvum that the one dragon he had managed to bend to his will had escaped his domain and control.
His kobolds knew this mood all too well. They hid away in their village, riding out the temper tantrum, awaiting the return of their Lords’ usual cold demeanor. The wisest and most valuable members of their community were moved to special tunnels high in the rock walls of their cavern; dug to be especially difficult to flood with acid. Eventually there would be enough space in enough such tunnels for the entire tribe, but there wasn’t yet.
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Silon’Dez’Monah curled protectivly about her one egg. She wanted to wrap it tightly in her warmth but instead let it sit loosely. She could feel it shake from time to time, the as-yet unborn mind of her son pulsing as it strove to break its body out of confinement. The acid-darkened shell of the egg chipped, cracked, and then split. A beaked snout and two sets of claws pried at the gap, pulling it wider. Silon’Dez’Monah hoped to see a reflection of her own silver scales, and her heart dropped when her son emerged with scales the color of an oil slick. It leapt again when her son to his first breath and roared out a small splash of ice, a sure sign of a silver dragon.
“Stained while still in the egg and womb, but not scared like me.
Riiseiiz’Ruvaak’Ahrkviin coughed up more ice and grasped about for his mother. She drew him to her chest and began to lick the egg fluids off of his face.