Sonagh’s alive, but from what I can tell that alone is a bloody miracle, clearly one of Krakka’s Moon goddess’ making. He was able to heal the wounds, but the poison’s done a hell of a number on him, it’s nasty, exotic stuff, and no matter what the tengu cleric tried he couldn’t bring him out of the torpor he’s become locked in. The consensus is that he’s essentially shut down while his body recovers from the poison’s debilitating effects, Krakka’s blessing countering further effects but unable to fully dispel such a powerful dose. This was certainly agreed with by the cleric of Brigid, the Midwife, one of the powerful healers from the nearest temple, that one of Sonagh’s regulars raced off to fetch as soon as the situation had been defused. She tried everything she had too, experiencing no better luck with a considerably larger array of healing spells than Krakka has.
All the attackers are dead. Apparently most were either directly killed by Yeslee and Art or by dint of falling off the rooftops, although it seems more than one of those seems to have ultimately succumbed to something similar to what killed our intended prisoners. When we returned to the square we found that one of the ones who’d tumbled off that first rooftop in the fight had been one of these, so once we were all together again I pointed Gael to the body and they spent what felt like a very long time inspecting it. When they finally returned to our nervous cluster they looked more troubled than the rest of us felt all put together.
It's magic, apparently, but not something that she’s ever actually seen directly used. It’s a curse, a really nasty one, the result of a rather complicated sigil tattooed on each of the people who fired on us, it seems. Kesla suspects it’s an insurance policy of whoever it is that ordered the attack, meant to ensure that should any of them be taken alive, they won’t stay that way long enough to answer any questions. It’s a truly horrible idea, one that makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it, and I’m not alone.
Seeing that man die … I’ve seen bad things in my time, especially in recent months through my brief, unpleasant association with Erjeon Ashsong, but that was still a new order of monstrous to witness. Whoever we’re up against, they’re real sick puppies.
By the time we returned from our failed attempt to capture a lead, the situation was largely resolved, but it had still come worrying close to escalating into something a good deal worse. When Sonagh’s bugbear friend, Dow, made it upstairs to investigate the chaos, seeing Sonagh sprawled out and bleeding with a group who were still essentially strangers around him looked very bad. Thankfully the orc’s children were able to set him straight, but there was clearly some tension and suspicion from the various shady locals forming Sonagh’s regular customer-base in the tavern below.
So Gael sent one of her strange projected messages to Mistress Daste, informing her of what had just happened and requesting she do whatever needed to be done to take care of things in the Rare Lady. After that it was clear we’d run into another solid wall in our investigation, at least until Sonagh’s in a fit state to talk to us again, so we have nothing to go on.
Or maybe not … we never got that last piece of information we were promised just before the attack, but even so Sonagh’s at least pointed us in the right direction to try another avenue. It was Art who came up with the solution in the first place, and I’ll admit I’m a little dumbfounded none of the others thought about it sooner.
Those children have kept up with us the whole time we’ve been making our way through these tight, winding streets and back-alleys. Some simply wait around corners to follow us with their cool, watchful eyes as we pass, but others are actively following us now, and not making any effort to hide it either. As we move I can tell Kesla’s getting as uncomfortable about it as I am, but every time we bring it up Art says to just ignore it. I know I should defer to his knowledge on this, these are his streets, but it makes me nervous all the same.
The day’s getting on a bit now, although it’s still bright out, which is taking a little for me to get used to. Even during our travel south from the Reaches to Bavat, I found the lengthening days a little hard to deal with, but this second day here is starting to work on me something fierce. I’m so used to the sunset at this time of the afternoon, but without it I think I’m starting to understand the unseasonable warmth too, even if it’s supposed to be the end of the harvest months when winter’s chill should be starting to make itself felt. Instead this place still feels like it’s holding onto the summer, and I’m starting to get uncomfortable in leather now. Honestly, I don’t know how Art does it.
The road ahead opens out a bit, a conjunction with three other streets leading off in various directions, but instead as he leads us around the corner we seem to be heading down a rather tight looking stair leading down to the basement entrance of a long, thin building. It’s an unusually tall structure in this neighbourhood, usually three storeys seems to be the limit but this one must climb to eight, shaped like a long wedge that starts narrow here but spreads into a gradual taper further down. It’s particularly dark, too – many of the buildings in this section of the city seem almost gloomy, the blackening of their stone clearly the results of decades, or probably centuries of dirt, neglect and smoke. This building, on the other hand, simple and monolithic as it seems, is specifically built from the darkest granite I’ve ever seen. There are windows in the structure, but only in the upper levels, and they seem to be long and thin, clearly intended to dissuade anyone attempting to climb in, if anyone even could scale these smooth walls. Just looking at it, I know where we are without needing to ask.
“Art?” Kesla stops him before he’s more than a few steps down. He turns back, and while he simply cocks his brow in that curious way I’m beginning to find endearing, it seems there’s something a little more complex behind them now.
“Yeah, boss?”
“This is the place?”
“What’d you expect, some supersecret entrance?”
Kesla’s frowning now as she takes the place in. “Well no, but … it’s a bit obvious, ain’t it? I thought you lot didn’t like to advertise yourselves.”
“Maybe, but that’s why the other entrances are hidden. The whole point of this place is so folk know not to fuck with us.” He starts climbing down again, but Kesla just keeps frowning as she looks up at Driver 8 as he emerges from the alley we’ve just left.
Finally she sighs, not quite rolling her eyes but still short as she calls out: “Art!”
This time he doesn’t respond at first, taking another step down before finally stopping to turn back, and the cockiness seems to be gone now. He looks … gods, is he worried? He’s been so chill since we came here, and this was his idea. What they hell’s he so concerned about now? Whatever it is, he just looks at her, expectant, doesn’t answer back. Making a point, I think.
Ignoring that look, Kesla simply cocks her head. “What about Big Man?”
Art frowns too now, looking around for a moment as he takes in his immediate surroundings. The stairs are tight, and pretty steep, and the steps aren’t particularly deep. He can make it down there with ease, but the golem’s going to find this very difficult. “Shit.”
“There another way in, maybe?”
“Not right now, not if we wanna be discreet, an’ I figured we did right now. Y’know, after what just happened.”
Shit … “He’s got a point.” I weight in.
“Yeah, well …” Kesla looks up at Driver 8 again, looming over us as we cluster around the top of the stair. Casting quite a shadow in the lengthening day, in fact. “I don’t like it. Big Man won’t make it down this, and leaving him out here right now seems like a bad idea too.” She turns back to Art, giving him a pointed look. “In light of what just happened. Don’t you think?”
Hissing through his teeth, Art starts climbing back up with a particularly dark look, now. “No, reckon you’re right. Might be a batter way, after all.”
I turn to Kesla as he reaches the top, but she just shakes her head. Clearly she’s picking up on his general discomfort same as me. There’s clearly something going on with him right now, and she doesn’t like it any more than I do.
Even so, we still fall in behind him as he leads us down the next street along, which is a good deal wider than some of the one’s we’ve had to take lately, rolling on a gentle slope down towards the docks. It looks like an interesting mix, residences rubbing shoulders with various stores, although we’re not far down before he stops us, pausing in front of a large gate leading into an enclosed courtyard. There are no signs or posters on the flaking stucco of the wall, but the gate’s certainly wide enough for wagons, which makes me think of a livery stable.
Taking a step up to the gate, Art hesitates in reaching out, faltering as he seems to tense up. “Um … yeah, maybe this ain’t such a good idea –”
“Art, it was your idea.” Kesla steps to his side, laying her hand on his shoulder. Her voice is low, cool and soothing. “You’re our way in here, we can’t do this without you.”
For a long moment he just looks up at her, and it’s almost like there’s a battle of emotions going on behind his eyes. Finally he looks at the rest of us, and his eyes linger on Gael for a moment, who’s just smiling at him, gentle but reassuring as Kesla now. They seemed unusually cold towards him this morning, but seems to have mellowed since the incident in the Drumhalt.
“Okay. Just be careful, yeah? Keep quiet, don’t make any sudden moves.” He looks up at Driver 8, frowns for a moment. “Um … yeah, Big Man? You just be yourself.”
“I believe I understand, Art.” the golem rumbles at his lower conversational level.
This simply makes Art frown a little deeper, but he nods all the same, pushing both the doors open and letting them swing wide as he strolls right in. Kesla follows without a pause, but I find myself hesitating now, turning to look at Gael while the others seem to share my apprehension. The half-elf must get the message, hefting their staff and starting after Kesla, and I take a deep breath as I lay my hand on the hilt of my sword, uncomfortably self-conscious now as I step through the gate.
The courtyard’s essentially empty, just a few scattered boxes lying around on the hard-packed but worn earth, broken and lonely and more than a little sad. The building beyond looks incredibly rundown, worse than many of the disused places we’ve seen passing through these neighbourhoods, but there’s something a little different about this one, something I can’t immediately put a finger on. The windows are mostly devoid of glass, boarded up but only sporadically, and now I’m looking I think that’s less to dissuade intruders than to cover anyone who might want to watch from inside. The main doors look to be in surprisingly good condition given the rest of the place, the wood worn and the paint peeling but otherwise still very solid, and very closed.
Art stops again a good six feet short of the entrance, looking up at the building now, and after a moment he slips his hood back off his head. Then, just as I’m sure Kesla’s about to offer some more encouragement for him to carry on after all, he spreads his arms out and raises his hands in clear surrender. Kesla pauses now herself, looking round, then takes a little step back before following his example. After a thoughtful moment I stop where I am and do the same, Gael taking a moment to stick their staff a little into the dirt to let it stand before they raise their own empty hands. Through the corners of my eyes I see the implied message spread through the rest as they all follow suit.
It's probably purely because I’m looking up that I catch it at all, but I see movement in one of the first floor windows, through a gap in the boards, and I realise there’s a bowman up there, drawn and aiming. Right at me, I realise. Okay … yeah, this seems like a good idea, then. Undoubtedly there’s more I can’t see, maybe every single window has one.
Then there’s the sound of locks turning and bolts shooting from behind the doors before they slowly split and swing outwards, and while they’re still moving two more archers come out fast, each moving diagonally to either side. They both stop several feet short of us and draw the rest of the way, not aiming at anyone in particular but making the threat all the same. A beat later two more appear inside the doorway, but don’t come out, instead drawing where they stand.
“Like I said,” Art mutters under his breath “Just be cool.”
A man walks out now, moving between the two archers with a casual swagger and cool air of authority that might as well be writ large across his face. He’s a half-elf, tall and lean and very pretty, and he clearly knows it too, I can almost feel his arrogance as he looks us all over with just the slightest hint of a cocked smile on his full lips. He’s dressed head-to-foot in black leather just like the rest, but his clothes are a good deal richer and more well-appointed, certainly out of place in this locale. His hair, jet black but streaked with silvery white, is worn down to his shoulders, clearly arranged with an artful hand rather than just naturally tousled. His pale grey eyes, however, are his most striking feature, sharper than a hawk’s and already sparking with amusement. Especially when he takes in Art.
“Bloody hell, it’s you. I thought you wanted to see the world.”
“I did, least enough to know you ain’t anything special after all, Glyn.” Art really seems to be pouring on the sarcasm, and I wonder if he really had any intention at all to heed his own advice before this self-absorbed dandy started speaking.
“So what the hell you doing back so soon, then? Didn’t reckon we’d see you again for years, if we saw you at all.”
Letting go a deep sigh, Art just drops both his hands, so casual it’s like he just can’t be bothered with this anymore. There’s a little bit of that strain back in his face now, but I think he’s reining it in a bit now, or at least trying to. “Gotta talk to Cobb. Figure he can help us out a tough spot.”
The smile seems to fade from the half-elf’s face now, the slightest touch of a frown replacing it. The crease that forms between his brows seems entirely alien on that perfect face. “You brought trouble here, Art?”
“No, least I don’t reckon so. We just come up against a wall, we need some help seeing past it. Cobb might be able to help us.”
“Help you, you mean.” He looks over us all again, more critical now, and his gaze lingers long indeed on Driver 8. “Bloody weird company you’re keeping these days. That thing’s a threat all on its own.”
“He is with me, just like the rest. I’d rather they were shown proper respect while they’re here.”
Thoughtful for a few moments, he looks Art over again, finally smiling again, seeming amused now. “Yeah, what the fuck? Might be worth it just to see what that toothy old bugger does to you for bringing outsiders into the Arrowhead. Reckon the nightmare machine’ll be just what it takes for him to finally rethink what he sees in you.” He waves his hand off to the side once and all the archers relax their bows as one, the pair in the doorway already moving back inside while the ones who came out ahead of our new host move to follow.
With another heavy sigh, Art moves to follow him, and I step fast to get in alongside him, leaning in close as we go to whisper: “Who is that?” I notice Kesla’s watching us sidelong too, listening in.
“Glynven Sparkheel. He’s one o’ the local captains.”
“That make him a big deal, then?” Kesla ventures.
“He likes to think so, but he ain’t so awesome as he likes to pretend he is.” Art shrugs. “He’s got a bigger rep than he really deserves, you ask me.”
“Is he what’s got you all worked up, then?” The words are out before I can stop them.
Art gives me a particularly sharp sidelong glare, but looks away quickly. “Just keep your eyes open. Be careful. Both of you.”
Kesla and I exchange a glance over his head at that, and I can see her jaw visibly tighten. The implication behind Art’s stubborn dodge, whatever the hell it actually is, starts to work on me too, and I can’t help laying my hand on my hilt again, just to feel something reassuring.
Inside it seems like my guess on this being an old livery stable was well-founded, although it’s clearly not being used as one now. The floors are grimy and scattered with dirt and broken pieces of rubbish, the stalls empty and all former accoutrements seem to have been removed long ago, likely refitted for other things or simply sold for scrap. There are a few lamps burning here and there in the relative gloom, but this is clearly purely in deference to those among them who don’t have natural nightvision. This definitely isn’t a working establishment anymore, merely a cover for … I really couldn’t guess what, really.
There are more of these black-clad individuals in here besides the archers who’ve already followed inside before the doors close again behind us. Various shapes and sizes, more than a few different races too, a pretty motley crew once I’m able to get a look at them, even if their manner of dress does give them a loosely uniform appearance. At least so much as Art’s own – clearly his particular fashion sense comes from here.
Welcome to the Thieves Guild, Shay. You’ve heard talk about them often enough, but never really thought you’d actually find yourself in their company. And yet here we are …
There’s a moment of awkward silence, and I notice every one of them is regarding Driver 8 with obvious nervousness. I can’t blame them, I’m still finding it hard to feel comfortable around him myself. Sparkheel’s covering best, but I pick up a distinct wariness as he licks his lips and shoots the subtlest look the golem’s way before turning to Kesla. “I take it you’re supposed to be the one in charge here, right? You seem the type.”
“And just what d’you mean by that, Master Sparkheel?” Her tone is casually conversational and she gives him a cool little smile, but I detect a little edge to her words all the same, and I think the half-elf’s sharp enough to pick up on it too.
If she shakes him by using his name he doesn’t let it show, simply giving her another quick look-over before carrying on. “I mean that you’re the one’s gotta be held responsible for the rest o’ your folk if you get … uppity while you’re here. So I just wanna make sure I got the right head if I gotta cut one off.” He gives her a cocky smile, as if his words are in jest, but I doubt they really are.
“In that case, I’d say you’re right.” Kesla’s own smile doesn’t change in the slightest. “But if you were to try, I’d best warn you now you likely won’t get the outcome you’re hoping for.”
He looks her over again, eyes this time lingering for a moment on the hand still laid on the hilt of her bastard sword, very much mirroring my own unconscious sentiment, I realise. Another frown creases his brow for a moment before he composes himself again. “Well, whatever … while you’re here, you’re expected to conduct yourselves with respect, and do what you’re told. You’re guests here, but barely tolerated ones.” He shoots Art a particularly reproachful look, and while he visibly bristles he keeps his mouth shut. “That one’s the only reason you’re not all full of arrows already.”
Then he’s gone, he just walks off without a word, and Art gives a very quiet growl, just under his breath, before he starts to follow, giving Kesla a rather apologetic look as he passes. She simply turns to Gael, raising a brow, and the young wizard responds with a noncommittal shrug. Then she starts off after Art.
Most of the other Guild members remain where they are as we move further inside, and it’s clear that most of them must be deployed here full-time, guarding this … well, I assume this is some kind of entryway to whatever underworld lair it is that Art intends on taking us to. Originally we were headed into the Arrowhead, so I suspect this is some alternative and far more covert means of accessing the Guild’s headquarters here in Untermer. Whatever it is, only Sparkheel and three of the random assortment accompany us deeper in, and none of them are the original archers.
Sparkheel leads us through a door at the back of the former stable itself and into a corridor beyond, bare and gloomy lit only by small lamps mounted in sconces cut into walls that seem to spread down into empty distance on either side. He leads us to the right, but before we’ve cleared twenty paces he turns into a wide alcove cut into the wall, an antechamber beyond with a substantial steel door mounted flush into the back wall. There are a good half dozen more of these mismatched black-clad individuals standing guard here, or at least that must be the intention – in truth while two are actually genuinely doing their jobs as they stand on either side of the door with spears propped at their sides, the rest as just slouching against the left-hand wall and laughing over some private joke. They don’t even know we’re here until Sparkheel loudly clears his throat and they scramble to straighten up, looking very sheepish indeed.
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“Shit …” one of them mutters under his breath before he can catch himself, turning quite red as he winces at his mistake. “Uh … sorry, boss. We were just … fuck me …” His eyes go wide as Driver 8 ducks as low as he can while staying reasonably upright in order to enter the antechamber behind the rest of us.
“No chance, Durit.” Sparkheel makes him shrink with one withering glare. “I’m way outta your league.” He turns to the two who are actually doing their job. “We’re coming through.”
The guard on the left frowns just a little, clearly as rattled by Driver 8 as the others are, but his compatriot simply transfers his spear to the other hand and reaches across to thump his fist on the door. Once, then twice in quick succession, then once again after another pause. A beat passes, then the muffled sounds of more locks turning can be heard through what must be very thick steel indeed. When it opens it swings outwards slowly, and Sparkheel’s already stepping through while it’s still moving.
This time when we all start to move, Art just stays where he is. He actually looks rattled now, reluctant to move, and as I move to his side Gael seems to pick up on it too. They lay their hand on his shoulder before I can, leaning in close. “Are you all right?”
Art blinks, looking at them with wide eyes, and it’s almost like he’s genuinely been startled into recognising them again. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, then he frowns and looks down at his paws, working his fingers for a moment as he raises them before him. Finally he takes a deep breath and nods, turning to look at Gael, then at me. Finally at Kesla, who we find is waiting just inside the now open doorway, watchful but still cool as ever.
“Ask me that later on, maybe.” He lets go a very heavy sigh indeed. “Right now I ain’t got a clue how I’d answer.” Reaching up, he grips Gael’s hand as it’s still laid on his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, then starts moving at last.
The look Gael gives me at that is pretty complex but clearly worried, and I have no idea how to respond to it. I think I’m starting to understand how Art’s feeling, though.
I stick close behind Gael as they step through the big round doorway with Art, and I realise my hand’s come to rest on that hilt again entirely unbidden. We’re guests of Art’s supposedly, this is very much his territory, so in theory we should be safe with him, but the way he’s acting right now doesn’t fill me with much confidence. The spelled-out threat of arrow-based death definitely stuck with me, and now we’re going all the way into Guild territory I suspect there could be much worse waiting for transgressors now.
Inside the vault it’s darker than the corridor we’ve left, lit merely by a few torches set high in the wall on either side of the passage we’re now in, while the relatively rough stone walls are a good deal darker, looking almost like unrefined terracotta in this light. After ten feet the floor turns into a shallow ramp descending below ground, and from what little I can see in this gloom it just vanishes into darkness. Might be a long way down, maybe. Roomy, though, which is good. Easily enough room for Big Man to keep with us right now.
Seems the others may share my nervousness, though, the group remaining pretty quiet as we make our descent. We go down for a while, but after maybe ten minutes it finally levels out again, and I hazard we must be at least fifty feet under the street right now, and it’s pleasantly cool now. The corridor continues to stretch out ahead of us, but before long pipes seem to emerge from the walls around us, running the length of it, thick, battered copper from the look of them. There’s a subtle hum coming from some of them, and every once in a while as we make our way one of them gives off some pretty odd noises. A low, wet gurgle, or a weird rattle, and more than once there’s a subtle popping bang that makes us all jump. Even our erstwhile hosts freeze for a moment, Sparkheel tightening up on himself for a long beat as he watches the pipe in question, as if expecting something deeply unpleasant to happen at any moment.
Nothing does, and slowly he’s able to relax. He still gives that section of pipe a wide berth going forward, and he’s not alone.
A little further down, a subtle, wafting cloud seems to be jetting from that same pipe, but it seems to be dispersing in the air pretty quick. Sparkheel skirts this widely as he passes as well though, and as we continue I follow his example, watching the leak cautiously. The air’s warmer here, and wet too, I realise. It’s steam. That one, at least, seems to be a steampipe. I’ve never encountered such a thing, but I’ve heard about this new-fangled technology they’ve been utilising up in Tektehr that they’ve started to bring down here since the Occupation began. Something to do with heat and pressure, although I’ve never heard enough about it to really be able to make sense of it. Mostly it just makes me suspicious.
Soon after the tunnel seems to open up ahead, and beyond it seems to be brighter. Staircases lead up on either side, but the tunnel itself simply rises in another ramp that vanishes into the light beyond the ceiling. Seeing this should improve my mood, but one look at Art tells me he’s more troubled than ever now.
Clearly Kesla’s been following the same train of thought, turning right round to confront him now. “All right, spill it. What the fuck has got you so pent up all of a sudden? You look like you’re all plugged up but you still gotta take a massive monster shit.”
Art gives her a look with particularly wide eyes, and for just a moment I wonder if she regrets speaking so forcefully to him. Even so, it needs to be said, we need to get this out. Finally he sighs, long and deep and proper regretful, and hangs his head a little as he finally answers. “I left under … kind of a cloud.”
Gael turns to Kesla, the concern in their face deepening now. She licks my lips and just plods on. “What kind of cloud? Are you in trouble? Are we in trouble now?”
“No, no … nothing like that. Not exactly. It’s more … I had problems my last months here, and they’re the reason I left the way I did. It’s kinda complicated, actually.”
“Is this gonna cause us problems being here, Art? Seriously, we need to know. This is important shit we’re here for, you do realise if your problems fuck this up it ain’t good.”
“We should be fine.” He says it a little more forcefully than I would’ve expected, and his face is harder now, along with his eyes. It’s not something I’ve seen outside of combat, and it’s enough to put me on the defensive on its own. “It’s my problem, I can deal with it. Or not. Don’t matter to you either way.”
I see Gael open their mouth, ready to speak, and I know exactly what they’re gonna ask, but it’s clearly not the time. Then Kesla raises a hand, low but clear enough they catch it, waving them off. They frown at her, a little hurt now, it seems. I don’t know if Art catches it too, he might be too worked up right now to be thinking clear enough.
“All right then, we done?” As she turns to Sparkheel I realise we’ve all come to a complete stop now, just short of the second ramp, and the others are waiting behind us with varying degrees of concern in their faces. The half-elf, on the other hand, mostly just looks irritated, arms folded across his chest while he taps one toe in a clear show of impatience. “I mean, ain’t like I don’t have shit o’ my own to be getting on with.”
“Then go do it.” Art growls, and he’s actually bristling a little bit. His face is still reasonably gentle, but there’s clear tension in his stance, even more in his knuckles. “I can take my friends through fine on my own, you don’t gotta be here.”
“Yeah, no, actually reckon I do. Ain’t that I don’t trust you, it’s more that …” He shrugs after a thoughtful moment. “I don’t trust you. But then that’s just me, y’know?”
Art glares at him for a long, drawn-out moment, and I wonder if this is about to escalate in a way that could be really bad for all of us. It was clear at the start these two don’t get on, but I’m genuinely worried that in his current state he might be about to do something he really can’t take back. Gael seems to be thinking the same thing, shifting their stance a little in the hopes of intercepting him if he does try something, and I find myself mirroring them.
Then he just growls again, no words this time, just frustration, and waves his hand vaguely down the tunnel ahead, signalling Sparkheel to carry on as dismissively as he can. Intentional, I don’t doubt. Certainly the half-elf gives him a stinkeye that makes it clear he thinks so.
We start moving again, though. Kesla leans close into Art’s side as we go, muttering: “We’re gonna talk about this later.” When he chances a sidelong glance at her she adds: “Not open for debate.”
For a moment he opens his mouth, looking dead ahead, and I wonder if he’s going to say something he’ll regret, but he stops himself at the last and just continues on his way, quietly fuming now. I’m not sure if I prefer it this way, the tension might’ve been better.
Making our way up the ramp doesn’t take anywhere near as long as the descent, at least. We emerge into the open almost before we realise it, light pouring down on us from above, and when I look up I can almost make out the clear blue of the Untermer sky through the perfectly round top of the atrium several storeys above us. The shaft itself is broad and dark, the black stone of the walls largely smooth and featureless save for uniform balconies cut directly across from us rising to the light. At ground level there are passages leading off in various directions, but each seems as gloomy as what we just left.
The floor under our feet’s the same black stone as everything else, but there seem to be mosaic tiles inlaid across it, creating patterns that twist and swirl amidst the mineral darkness. It takes me a few moments to quite work out what it’s supposed to be, the angle’s not great here and I suspect it’s better interpreted from far above, but slowly I’m able to make sense of it. There are three animals, picked out in heavily stylised black and white. A cat, a fox, and a snake. It’s quite beautiful, but something about it seems a little threatening, but for the life of my I couldn’t say why.
There are a few people moving around down here besides us, but for the most part it seems as empty as the tunnel we just navigated. Sparkheel leads us out to the centre of the floor and then turns to face us all, looking mostly bored now. He spreads his hands wide and sighs: “Welcome to the Arrowhead. I’d wish you luck in whatever your endeavour is, but honestly, I really couldn’t give a fuck.” He looks to me now, and tips a salute. “Hope I don’t see you round again.” Then he just starts back the way he came, and as I turn to watch him go he waves to the other three to follow him.
Shooting a look at Art, who’s just frowning hard after the half-elf, Kesla takes a step after him. “What the hell –"
“My apologies for Glynven.” The newcomer’s voice is so cracked I can feel the gravel in every bass note in his words right through my bones, and it makes me jump as much as Gael. “There’s days I ain’t got the first bloody clue what to do with that boy, I swear.”
The tall but lean human who seems to have just materialised beside us in the middle of the floor looks every day as old as his voice would’ve suggested to me – his sharp, hawkish face is deeply lined and his thick beard and swept back black hair’s largely gone to grey by now, but his pale green eyes are sharp as a hawk’s, and his stance is straight as an iron rod. Feet planted close together and hands clasped in the small of his back, his surprisingly broad shoulders are squared in a way that makes me think more of a military man than a thief. His dress, on the other hand, seems more indicative of a cleric, a simple black linen cassock with a slate grey sash tied about his waist, with only the single curved knife tucked on the left of his belly to indicate he’s clearly not a holy man.
He looks us all over one at a time, probably taking in the sheer surprise in many of us at his thoroughly unexpected arrival, but his expression remains as cool and detached as ever. Now I’m looking I can see a deep-seated, icy hardness in those sharp eyes that puts me on guard as sure as Art’s clear discomfort as he recognises this man. I leave my hand where it is on the grip of my sword.
Then he smiles at Kesla, and it’s about as friendly as a cat preparing to eviscerate a mouse. “Oh yeah, of course. I’m sorry. Kur Yevnik, at your service.” He extends a long-fingered hand with skin like old paper towards her.
Art’s looking right at her now, his expression a good deal more complicated. That mixture of shock and anger’s still there, but there’s more of an edge to it now, a strong dose of fear, and he barely has a rein on it. It’s clear that Art genuinely hates this man, but he’s also quite terrified of him. I can’t help taking an instant set against him myself, seeing that.
To her credit, Kesla’s cool as ice as shakes his offered hand. “Kesla Shoon.”
“Indeed?” Yevnik holds her hand for a few beats longer than appropriate before releasing it, his eyes scanning her without any attempt to hide their intention. Measuring her up sure as she’s doing to him. I realise now he just might be one of the most dangerous individuals I’ve ever met. I’ve met stone-cold killers in my time but this one’s ice.
“Honestly, it’s a proper pleasure to meet you, Mistress Shoon. Your da was a hell of a warrior from what I heard. Expect the apple don’t fall far an’ all that.”
“You could say that.” She’s working her hand now it’s free, his touch clearly set her skin crawling. “Ain’t here to talk about me or mine, though.”
“No, course you ain’t.” He turns to Art at last, and if his smile could become any more menacing I think it would. Gods, this man’s a wolf in human skin. “But it is good to see your prowler again.”
“Really can’t return to sentiment, Yevnik.” Art growls through his teeth, his anger winning over the rest of his emotions now. I think he might be growing protective now this man’s clearly showing such an interest in his best friend. “I could’ve happily gone the rest o’ my life without seeing your ugly mug again.”
The smile fades, but slowly. He looks Art over with that same appraising eye, and one of his brows hitches up just a fraction after a moment, but there’s none of the offence I would’ve expected a clear senior member of the Guild to take. “I see you never learned that tact you were always missing when I was training you, then. Not that you left here lacking in appropriate life-skills, of course.”
“Not sure I agree with you on that one.” He’s flexing his paws now, itching to draw, I think. His eyes haven’t left Yevnik’s though. “What I seen of the world since’s taught me it takes more’n a sharp blade and light fingers to really get what you want in life.”
“You mean friendship?” The grin returns, more mocking now. “Now that’s some overrated shite if I ever heard it. You were part o’ something once, Art. Something special. Then you turned your back on it. If you’d listened to me you could’ve been something great.”
“No, if I’d listened to you I could’ve been a monster. No thank you, Master Yevnik.”
They watch each other for a long moment, neither moving, their expressions fixed, and I start itching seeing it, wondering if one or more of us might have to jump in to stop a fight after all. Right now I’m really not convinced who’d win if we did let it happen.
“There you are.” Another newcomer takes most of us by surprise, but this time at least we have reason to be distracted. “Sorry I’m late.”
It’s a hobgoblin, which doesn’t take me by surprise as it might do some. They’re even more a rarity in cities like this than full-blood orcs, but when you do run across them it’s almost always in these kinds of environs. The criminal underworld is prime ground for them to really thrive in, which might sound vaguely insulting, but they’re perfectly suited to sneaking and thievery, so I’m not surprised to find one in Untermer’s Thieves Guild.
He's definitely more diminutive than Yevnik too, a few inches shorter than Art and similarly lean and wiry, at least as much as I can tell since he’s dressed in well-made black leather armour very much of a style with our prowler’s. The bristled hairs lining his muzzled jaw and chin are cropped tight, while his shaggy black mane is tied back in a short ponytail. His horns are jagged but otherwise surprisingly understated, curling tight around the sides of his head to tuck in under his broad, pointed ears, and his eyes are as darkly sharp as any of his kind I’ve ever met before. He’s pretty young from the look of him, perhaps of an age with Art, and he certainly moves with similar springy ease and silent dancer’s grace. Likely he’s as adept in the handful of knives I see him wearing and the many I can’t.
“Zuldrad, yes.” Yevnik’s smile fades more quickly now, as if he didn’t expect this interruption. “Young Art and I were just getting reacquainted.”
The young hob doesn’t even blink as he looks from the senior thief to our own, but then I wouldn’t have expected a great show of emotion, his race make for truly masterful card players. Instead he simply takes us all in at a glance before clasping his hands together and dipping a very subtle bow to his superior. “Yeah, sure. Cobb wants to see ‘em right now, he figures it must be urgent if Art brought ‘em all in here with him.”
“Very well, I can take ‘em down with me now, then.” Yevnik starts to step away towards the entrance to the stairs, gesturing for us to follow him.
“Yeah, ‘bout that.” The hob, Zuldrad I take it, cocks his head. “Cobb wants me to bring ‘em.”
“That’s fine, I really don’t mind.” The brittle, razor-edged tone that slips into Yevnik’s voice says different. “I’m heading that way myself anyway.”
“No, Cobb insisted it be me did it.” Zuldrad pauses for a moment, and while he’s clearly considering his words I think there’s a very subtle gleam of amusement twinkling in his dark eyes. “Essentially he made it clear he’d be a whole lot happier if you weren’t within a mile o’ young Art while he’s in the Arrowhead. Not after what made ‘im leave in the first place.”
Yevnik regards the hobgoblin for a drawn-out moment, lips sucked in like he’s having to chew on a particularly tart lemon, then turns to Art, breathing a low hiss through his teeth. Finally he turns Kesla’s way and his brow cocks as he starts to smile again. “Mistress Shoon, as I said, a pleasure. If you were inclined to stick around I’d love to pick your brain about your da some. Maybe hear ‘bout your own adventures too?”
She smiles back pleasantly. “Not if you fucking paid me to, you unpleasant bastard.”
His eye twitches slightly, but his smile stays where it is as he gives a very clipped bow and folds his hands back behind him. “Right. Another time then.” He gives Art one final glance which I couldn’t read if I tried, then turns and stalks off in the direction our original escort went.
Mindful of how our voices carry in here, I wait until he’s already well down the ramp before I lean in close to Art to ask: “Who was that arsehole?”
Art’s just watching him go, eyes narrowed almost to slits as tight as his pupils have become, and I start to think he didn’t hear me. I’m about to prompt him again when he finally looks away with an angry growl and answers after all: “Yevnik’s Master of Assassins here. He … taught me to kill.”
“To fight.” Zuldrad corrects him, although according to the emotion I can read in his stony face he’s none too convinced by his own words. “Taught all of us, really. All the prowlers. You show any aptitude they send you to him, whether you’re gonna kill for a living or not.”
So that’s it, Zuldrad’s a prowler like Art. Not just your garden variety pickpocket, cutpurse or burglar, he’s one of the Guild’s elite. My suspicion that he’s as dangerous as Art is pretty accurate, then.
“Ain’t what Master Yevnik planned for me, though. Bastard got one look at me an’ figured he could turn me into one of his pet killers. Not that he let on that’s what he was doing, an’ it took me a long time to catch up to that fact. Could’ve killed ‘im on the spot when I confronted him an’ he just confirmed it, like it was a fact o’ fucking life.”
“Except you didn’t, which is why you’re still alive.” Zuldrad cocks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction Yevnik intended to lead us before. “Can we go? Cobb ain’t the most patient bloke round here, as you well know.”
Art blinks, looking at this newcomer for the first time, and his face goes through a subtle transformation as recognition seems to hit him. “Oh … hey.” He smiles at last, first time we’ve seen it in a little while and while it’s still pretty fragile I’m happy to see it. “It’s you.”
Blinking, Zuldrad just frowns at him. “Yeah, I know it’s –”
While he doesn’t exactly pounce, Art still steps forward and grabs hold of the hobgoblin to pull him into a hug so quick that he has no time to react, his dark eyes widening for a moment as his defences must go right up. He returns the hug soon enough, though, smiling a little too as he gives Art a good crush to compliment the one he’s receiving himself. “Yeah, yeah, all right. I missed you too.”
Pulling back at last as he seems to remember himself at last, Art’s looking pretty sheepish now, but at least he’s finally loosening up again. “Shit, yeah … sorry ‘bout that.” He blinks, turning to Kesla, and his eyes widen for a moment. “Oh! Of course … this is Zul. Zuldrad, my brother. KInda. We grew up together in the Guild.”
That means he’s another foundling, like Art, which explains the instant connection. Kesla offers her hand to the hob immediately. “Kesla Shoon.”
“Oh yeah, wow.” Zuldrad grabs her hand right away, grinning now with surprising warmth as he pumps it with gusto. “I can totally see what he’s meant now. Art told me all about you in his letters.”
Surprised, she turns to Art, likely barely registering when he lets go of my hand. “You write letters?”
“Sometimes.” The look he gives her could almost be reproach, like she’s insulted him. “I got layers. Like an onion.”
Cocking a brow, Kesla reaches out and gives his furry crown a little ruffle before he can stop her. “More like a head o’ cabbage.”
“Which one’s Gael?” Zuldrad cuts in before Art can shoot her the comeback he’s clearly scambling to come up with.
“What?” Gael blinks as they’re also clearly taken by surprise. “Um … yeah, that’s me.” After a beat they remember themselves again and hold their hand out to him.
“So you’re the whiz-kid from the Order, huh?” Zuldrad shakes their hand with similar enthusiasm. “Yeah, Art told me a bunch about you in his last letter.”
“Really?” They turn to give Art subtle glare. “Well that’s just lovely.”
That really gets Art squirming now, but his old friend either doesn’t seem to pick up on it or, more likely, just ignores it. “Yeah, I know about all o’ you.” He frowns for a moment as he looks me up-and-down, then Tulen too. “Well, most, anyways.” Finally he blinks as he cranes up to take Driver 8 in, but if he’s intimidated it certainly doesn’t show. “Specially you, Big Man. I definitely get what he was on about with you.”
Driver 8 turns his full red stare on Zuldrad, and the hob just looks back into it, seeming unfazed. I’d admit to being a bit more impressed if I hadn’t grown up knowing hobgoblins so well already, but even so he seems to be taking all of this in his stride. Big Man, on the other hand, remains his stoic self. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Zuldrad, since you are friend and family to Art.”
Okay, perhaps there’s a flicker of surprise that crosses his face hearing that, then he smiles, nodding as he replies: “Same to you, sir. Always wondered about your kind, gotta admit finally meeting one’s definitely lived up to the hype.” He turns to me now. “You’re … yeah, I dunno who you are. Or your very striking friend.”
Blinking, I turn to see Tulen’s moved up beside me, looking a little sheepish now. I smile, inwardly relieved I can finally summon one again after all that tension, and hold out my hand. “Shayline Swift-Kill, although you can call me Shay, since we’re all clearly friends here.”
“Shay.” He nods and takes my hand, and his grip’s as powerful as I was expecting, despite his relatively diminutive size. “I like that. So you’re new?”
“Brand new, yeah.” I nod to Tulen when he lets go at last. “This is Tulen. Mistress Tulen Kelsira of the Silver Order, although she’s as informal as the rest of us, I’ve found.”
“I am?” Tulen falters again in her surprise, but scrambles quickly enough to recover as she remembers her manners, offering her own hand. “Um, yes. That’s right, I suppose. I am. Tulen. Sorry.” She starts pumping his hand with considerable gusto, perhaps making up for her accidental reticence. “Hi.”
“Okay, okay.” Kesla interjects at last, looking serious again, finally reminding us we’re here on pretty urgent business. “That’ll do. My apologies, but we ain’t here for catching up, which I reckon y’already figured. You said your man Cobb’s good to talk, right?”
“Yeah, he is.” The hob gives a more curt nod, smile gone in a snap. “This way.” He waves us after as he starts across the floor towards the stairs.
“Y’all right now, then?” Kesla asks Art now, beating me to my own question as we follow.
“Huh?” He just blinks at her, as if snapped out of a trance, which is answer enough on its own, I think. “Oh, um … I dunno. Maybe. Ask me again later, maybe?”
The look she gives me as she lets him go ahead is a wary one, and while I still don’t know her well enough yet to really pick up on every one of her worryingly subtle nuances I think I can fathom that out well enough. She’s worried about her friend, this is clearly messing with him a great deal. She’s not alone …