Fran approached Azgadal's south entry with music in his head.

He didn't know how recently the city had become a prosperous haven for trading, adventuring and plotting, but it was clear that the ruling devotees didn’t think much about protecting the city limits. A monotonous wooden palisade lined the south side of the city. There was a 10-meter gap for a gate, except there was no such thing, just an open space. How would they close it if the Empire decided the city was too rich not to invade? They'd have to deal with the dragon first, Fran knew that was the answer. But how powerful was Azgal the black dragon? Imagining a jet fighter plane in a world of medieval peasants helped. However, a fighter plane armed with cannons didn’t have the same firepower as one loaded with B61 nuclear bombs. He wondered which one Azgal was.

At the gate, a handful of guards wore padded quilt armor and held spears. They chatted leisurely and ignored the crowd moving in and out of the city. They didn't seem inexperienced, though. An older-leaning motley crew of all races, the guards held themselves with the assurance of men who have seen the darker side of a dungeon, lived to tell the tale and grew old enough for regular visits to a cleric of Aninncara, goddess of healing.

One of the younger ones, a bald human with a blond beard and the body of a ballet dancer, readily climbed on a barrel, tapped it rhythmically with the handle of his spear and shouted at the crowd.

“Traders, merchants, fortune-seekers and other creatures of questionable morals! This is Ofgdal, watchman of this noble city. Azgadal, the only free city this side of the fucking Empire, welcomes all and punishes anybody that doesn't behave.” He pointed at travelers at random to make his point. “We don't care if you're an exiled prince! We don't care if your wife betrayed you for a Minister of the Heavenly Court! We don't care if barbarians stole your wares or elves burned your forest! Respect our fucking laws or die!”

The travelers moved on without lifting their heads. The blond spearman’s colleagues ignored his tirade too, and continued to exchange anecdotes about close calls with ogres and cheap back pain remedies.

“Ask about our rules now or regret it later! This warning will be repeated every hour on the hour. And be assured, you little reindeer calves, that ignorance is no defense.”

The guard descended the barrel carefully but his boots splashed mud onto his blue wool pants anyway. He swore. Then his eyes fell on the man standing in front of him.

“What do you want?”

“To learn the rules. My name is Dhenn and I'm new to the city.”

The man considered the question and spat on the ground.

“You're going to make me work, aren’t you? Well, better that than a moon-lit chase among the alleys downtown. Every night we get a handful of geniuses who knew better than to ask for the rules.”

Fran nodded as the guard sized him up. He didn't seem disappointed in what he saw.

“Listen, Azgadal means the city of Azgal, but the dragon doesn't waste his evenings making laws. That's what the Blood Robes are for. They convinced the most powerful dragon on the continent to grant them protection and allow them to create this city. They're not idiots. And they don't nitpick either. Their rules are simple. Respect them, or you'll end up part of the rituals that are the object of their interest. Sometimes I see them exit the cathedral in the morning, holding half-cleaned bones in their hands, and it all gets a bit too much for me.”

“Are they evil or chaotic? I know there's a difference, but I'm not clear on it.”

“What kind of fucking question is that? You're gonna get in trouble, buddy. And what does it matter to you? Head back to the Empire if you care about distinctions like that.”

“I don't. I just want to know where I stand.”

The watchman breathed heavily.

“That's fair, I guess. They really get to me and… I don't know if they're any of those things. They're no good, I can tell you that. Nobody knows what they offered the dragon, I guess more gold, obscene amounts of it. And then they created the rules so that they could focus on their blood-chilling reseach.”

Fran nodded.

“Listen carefully: Number one, ignore the locals, they're protected. They wear a black circle on their forehead or their cheeks. They stay at the Inner Quarter by night and we close the gates anyway.” Ofgdal waved vaguely to the walled, cramped neighborhood on the upper side of the slope.

“You mean they're slaves?”

“Fuck no, they love it here. They're a mix of humans and gnomes, with some dwarfs thrown in for good measure. Deserters from the siege of Anvil Mountain, I hear. Don't annoy them or the devotees will take you.”

One of the other guards interrupted the chat, calling out for Ofgdal to join him at a tavern. “It's lunchtime, time to get drunk!”

“Just a moment Jhuren, I'm saving us some future trouble here. So, yes, locals are protected. More. The Blood Robes are untouchable. Stay out of their way no matter what. Don't speak unless spoken to. I presume you already know the basic stuff. Everyone from the Emperor to the lion men of Ganora have heard of their little tests. I saw a lion man today, can you believe it this far North? First time in my life. He was here just a minute ago. What else? There's insane amounts of commerce during the day, the market's a sight to behold, but it's an adventurer’s city by dark. Don't get the wrong idea, though. If you get in a fight with some brainless sword for hire, we'll lock up both of you and the Blood Robes will decide who pays. There are no lawyers, investigations or appeals, so use your brain more than your fists. Oh, one last thing. Important to you, probably, you look like destitute like a farmer in a drought year: Jobs are announced at the Four Fangs square every day at the ninth hour.” The watchman gave Fran a knowing look. “But the real work is at the adventurer taverns. You'll find them. And now stop distracting me from my lunch. I haven't had a beer since breakfast.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Ofgdal ran to catch up to his friends, who had decided that patience is best practiced on a full stomach and sang as they disappeared down a small alley.

Fran was watching him go when a powerful gust of wind almost threw him to the ground and the sun disappeared in the sky. He turned to see a moving black shape. Looking up, Fran opened his mouth in awe at the majestic creature above. Over a hundred meters long and covered in scales of the purest black, Azgal the dragon flapped his powerful wings right above. Fran saw ivory fangs the size of an adult human and claws sharper than any sword. It took several seconds for his body and his powerful tail to pass. The travelers around Fran were visibly scared and dead quiet. The wings flapped once more and Azgal inched up towards the top of the mountain, his mountain. He landed at the top, looked down upon the city and let out a sharp cry that broke into the ears of every creature in a radius of a hundred kilometers. Thousands covered their ears in pain and fell to the ground. A second cry came out, shorter, followed by a longer one. Then, the dragon disappeared into his mountaintop cave.

Fran could have been watching Azgal for hours. Such presence, such might. He smiled admiringly, picked himself up, and followed the stream of newcomers to the main plaza. It wasn't the crowd of adventurers he was expecting. Most were traders with a handful of carts, their wares covered by cloth or even by a thick iron lock in the cart's back.

He made a note of the traders' clothes. They were experienced travelers, and he could do worse than take a page from their book for future trips. Weathered leather capes and excellent boots. Comfortable and dry.

The merchants hid their fortune well if they had one. Conversely, they made a show of their weapons. The ones with the bigger convoys had bodyguards who made an even more blatant display of their double axes, long swords, and ruthless fighting claws. Their armor ran the gamut from minimalist barbarian chic to armored robot cosplayer and everything in between.

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The square was the heart of the city. Comparing it to the one at Kliogos would have been humiliating to the peasants and shepherds of the Imperial frontier town, so imbued with local pride. Azgadal's square was ten times bigger and lined with double stone arches of blue-grey marble. The ubiquitous banners that enhanced the Mediterranean beauty of Kliogos were absent. Winter colors everywhere. The variety and local flavor came from the bas-reliefs that covered every inch of stone. Fran stopped to inspect one. Dragon, dragons everywhere. Trampling people, flaming them, making them run for their lives, defeating them and receiving their tribute. The walls didn't include any writing. None was necessary.

Color wasn't the only thing missing in Azgadal's city square. The joyful flute and drum music of Kliogos didn't have a local equivalent. Fran noticed there wasn't a single child in the whole plaza either. And the smell of food was conspicuously absent. He looked at the stalls and realized why: In a city a hundred times more prosperous than Kliogos, sausage sellers and pie vendors couldn't afford a stall in the main square. All sorts of manufactured items were sold instead. Some weapon stalls only had a display with a mere dozen selected items, a sure sign that negotiations for larger quantities took place in more discreet places.

Azgadal's heartbeat couldn't be more different from Kliogos' relaxed atmosphere. Anticipation was in the air. Nobody just happened to visit this city on the way to a more important place. Everyone at the Dragon City visited for an important reason. The result was a forest of serious expressions, suspicious glances, and hood-covered faces in the mid-day sun.

A small bell rang a diaphanous sound and everyone moved to the side of the street. They looked away too, except Fran, who glanced straight at the oncoming figure. Here he was: a Blood Devotee of Azgal the Black Dragon. Thick red and black robes covered his body, and a wide hood did the same with his features. His belt was made of cured black leather, and a silver metal chain with a perpetually ringing silver bell hung from it. Short and squat, the creature's steps were nevertheless long and fast. A man who knows he owns the place but couldn’t care less.

Fran snapped out of his thoughts when he glimpsed a familiar face. He smiled at Bertrán and his smile turned sour immediately: It was Urume's face he'd recognized. Lost in his thoughts, the explorer walked intently through the crowd. Fran could swear that Urume's look of anger and hatred was a clamor for revenge against his baitman's perceived betrayal. He wondered if he was the victim of an overzealous imagination. With no reason to follow him, Fran moved away from him using the crowd as a protection screen.

It was noon, and the place was brimming with a collection of the most extravagant creatures ever witnessed, be it in a video game or in real life: Elvish exiles, dwarf mercenaries, cyclops, gnomes in groups of a dozen, sorcerers, druids with their animal familiars and even a robed skeleton, lit by a blue flame in the hole where his chest should be. Clerics from banned cults and sects, haughty sorcerers eyeing each other with distaste, and the big, snowstorm eyes of psychics. He'd even seen the regal lionman the guard had told him about. Easily two meters tall and built of pure muscle, he wore yellow baggy trousers and held a mustard traveler staff.

Fran figured spending a lot of money on meals was best left for when he had more definite plans, so he asked one of the guards where he and his buddies ate. At a mediocre but cheap inn, it turned out, with plentiful portions and watered down beer.

His stomach full, he returned to the plaza for the 3 o'clock bell. Taciturn men with black spots on their cheeks did the honors in the plaza's bell tower.

This time, Fran decided not to take any risks and avoid being seen. He supported his back against one of the outer stone arches and walked along the wall without venturing into the square itself. There was no trace of Urume, Merkes, Dalamaru or Alsu. But no trace of the people he was looking for either.

He reminded himself to be patient and began wondering what to do with his free time until his new friends showed up. Finding an inn, asking for good fencing instructors. What else? He'd love to read about Melan history, but the three scripts he'd seen in Kliogos and Azgadal had nothing to do with the Latin alphabet of Earth. He wondered if the Empire's Chinese script was like the actual Chinese ideograms of Earth or if they just looked similar to the untrained eye.

Fran’s boots walked over dried mud as he exited the paved plaza. He stopped. The lion man stood right in his way, tall, vigorous and hairy. His features gave off that air of relaxed nobility typical of lions, but Fran had watched too many documentaries about lions to trust that face. His right hand inched toward his sword handle.

“Too aggressive,” said the lion. “If you get that twitchy around strangers, someone will respond to twitchiness with twitchiness and you'll die in a pointless fight.”

“Excuse my manners. My name is Dhenn,” said Fran. “Who am I talking to?”

“Dhenn? Where did you get that name? Does it mean something? You're talking to Bertrán. Who else did you think this handsome face belongs to?”