In the Gold District of Barg’s Refuge was where any visitors or citizens could find those who spend their time and talents on the age old practice of taking others money in a usually legal and consenting way. It was where you would find the casinos full of chance, fun and strategy, where you would find banks to deposit your money for them to use to accumulate interest, where you could find lenders of coin, be they sharks or simple lenders, and of course, the cousins of the casinos, the betting halls.
These places of screaming, shouting and brawls about odds, payouts, and accusations or rigging were the home to some of the most honest folk in the city. The largest, most vital of these was the Keeper’s Guild. A group of those devoted to the God of chance and order, and one of the examples of a religious organization allowed within the city.
These clerics, practitioners and lovers of fate, chance, and prediction swore an oath to their patron. That if they lied, stole, or rigged any bet they were involved in, they would be smote by their patron, right there. The god of chance and order had very few followers and culled them regularly and violently of those who used their name to enrich or swindle others unfairly.
The Guild was technically not a church, but a requirement of being a member was this oath. They were the hub, the gold standard and main choice of those who enjoyed placing bets on any and everything. Do you want to bet on how many kittens your neighbor’s cat will have next week? Do you want to place a bet on who will win in an upcoming pit or tournament battle? Do you want to speculate on if a racehorse will poop while running tomorrow and still win? The Keeper’s would accept, record, and hold the funds until the bet had concluded. Taking a percentage of one in five bets placed by a customer if below a platinum in value, and one in three if over.
For every citizen, they had made or been a part in a bet at some point in their life of the city. It was as much a public commodity as the wells or small temples and shrines. And on the day after a major political event, the head of Keeper’s Southern Office, Brelta, an old fey man of incredible beauty and definition, sat at his desk with his throbbing head in his hands. Cursing the Mayor and Glora Clan’s head.
“So much wasted opportunity, so much wasted action!” His words were barely audible to his own ears at the building hummed with clamoring chatter and betters trying to make bets on the political outcome and repercussions of the guild and clan war that erupted last night.
Thankfully the Mayor had informed the head office about the battle, but she had not included information on who would, if any, would be assisting the Glora Clan.
It was a wonderful chance for speculation and possibilities, and the fey man had won a fair bit of coin for betting on assistance from an outsider force to the city. But now they had to deal with everyone trying to make bets now. And the Keepers were busy trying not to beat the rabble unconscious for their outlandish and foolish bets. Brelta had heard a man bet three platinum that because of the battle and the unrest and tension it caused with the Black Hands, they would form an army with a minimum of three owlbear riders to try and raid the city within the year.
The fey man had made similar insane bets several times himself for fun, but the man seemed to believe it with his very soul. The devotion to the game of chance and speculation inspired the office head to place a single gold piece on the man being right, and ten platinum on him losing his bet.
The fond memory was interrupted when a note was dropped through the door and into his letter box with the official Guild Seal upon it, with his name written in red.
Brelta knew what was about to occur when he saw the red swirls of his name. A new wave of insanity and speculation was coming. And with the hand of the author, he knew it was not to be taken lightly.
Taking the letter and placing a drop of his green, glowing blood to the seal, caused it to open. The contents within were simple, but they caused the seasoned speculator to pause. Implications and possibilities opened in thousands of ways, but only one was true, would become reality, the order of the world from infinite possibilities.
“The pit master has accepted a bribe from Glora Clan to hold a previously unplanned Blood Drowning. It will be a restricted attendance event, and broadcast to Keeper Offices and other facilities directly. Street mobilization and stall stations will be doubled in the pit and tavern districts.”
“Report from our Pit Master’s informant indicates that Glora traded something to bring this into reality in less than 48 hours. We have been given permission to put this piece of information up for speculation.”
“We have 24 hours until the event occurs, two hours until the public announcement, and have already called on our reserves of contract keepers. Expect blood sports betters to arrive after the fourth bell and be prepared. A list of preliminary odds and expected bets are being worked on now.”
“May the Lord of Chance and Order strengthen our resolve and burden our coin purses.”
Brelta sat, stunned at the letter lying on his desk. He had very little interest in the Blood Drowning event, but he knew that these were normally something made into a show, an event, a miniature festival. For it to be a limited audience, with only broadcasts, and the news that the Glora Clan paid with something more than coin for this to happen, so much could be in play.
Was this to be the Glora Clan’s attempt to establish a new image? A new level of influence and power? Was this a political move, or personal one? What motivated one of the most influential people of the city, to accept the insane demand of condensing two months' worth of effort and planning into a single event only two days later?
To the fey, nothing but a personal favor or promise could rival the loss of revenue this would mean for the pits. It was something either so ridiculously profitable, that the squandering of a once in five-year event, was peanuts. Or something so personal, that the expenditure of literal fortunes to accomplish in a few days what should take months, was worth it.
Brelta’s mind chewed over the thoughts as he wrote out a list of predictions and outcomes in the immediate term to place bets on and to give to his underlings to prepare for the surge to come in a few hours' time.
“The slave markets will be almost bought dry… The orc tribes came in last week with a horde of kobold slaves… That man with the owlbear bet, could it have been a sign? It might have been. It is prime time for hunting them…” He whispered to himself in what to others might look like a sleeping trance.
“So many possibilities… So many opportunities… Will the Claws of Glora even survive?... Oh, I must make the table for if he will use the earned potions or save them…” He grumbled while ringing the bell to summon his assistant who delivered the letter.
He gave it to the half elf without a word or order. Good assistants didn’t need to be instructed in everything. They knew what their boss desired before they themselves did.
“May you survive the chaos and disorder of combat Dagger Glora.” Brelta whispered a prayer to his deity as he stood and grabbed his abacus. “You shall need it. And if you survive, the winnings will be spectacular!”
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The lad and lass of the Glora Clan stared at a report before them, considering it intently. They had gotten lucky, only needing a few hours to find a solid lead on their goal. To the northeast of the city, came reports of an owlbear of some kind with abnormally large wings, with the capability of limited gliding.
An orc slaving group reported it after it had poached multiple members of their wares. It snatched up two kobolds and four Shtacor, a small ratkin race, before disappearing into the night. After the first attack, the orcs set large bonfires that seemed to ward the creature away, but they saw signs of it following them for nearly two days after the first attack.
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The two teens looked between each other, unease in their hearts. An owlbear was a dangerous creature. But something the two should be able to deal with normally. However, with the factor of a mutation, possibly an elemental affinity, the danger rose much, much higher. Owlbears could not glide, let alone fly, normally. But this one could. At least to some degree. And was brave enough to hunt what was a large herd in its eyes.
“We have only eaten the creatures, never hunted them.” The gnomish lad said quietly, his face rather stiff as he looked as his halfling companion. “And if we could...”
“It’d match some of the feats the others have done...” The lass added, her voice trailed off, but she took a large and deep breath that brought strength back to her voice. “We won’t be caught out; we’ll be the hunters of this thing.”
“And we still have time to investigate and track other reports. This is just the direction we can head in. With Spoke, I think we could handle ourselves with two or three of these things.” The lad mirrored his sister’s rising confidence. “Grandpa has trained you well in survival, and I have the skill and spells to handle the creature if it is an elemental affinity variant.”
The two youngest clan members looked between themselves, and the paper scroll containing a guard report made by the orc slavers. Would this be enough to prove themselves capable? Would it be too much? The fear and questions bubbled up in both their minds. But with the clapping of their hands together, a small, slender hand of a wizard and the rough and calloused hand of a rouge fighter, they settled on their next course of action.
They would begin their duo hunt for a variant owlbear. No lifelines, no safety nets. Only their preparation, wits, and personal strength and power would see them through to the end of this hunt. But they would not face it alone, and they both felt that was enough to face anything.
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Tanny and Spoke were in the middle of discussing with the hedge witch Agatha. Speaking of the information she purchased from their youngest duo. But of the notes and documents recovered, they were of little use to any in the clan, only an alchemist could gain something from them. And Tanny, as a healer, was the closest they had to one. But her tinctures, salves and poisons, could not compare to the necrotic horror that the Black Hands had hoped to create.
Between the three sat a set of six glass bottles with a unique colored liquid inside each of them. One was opened and occasionally sipped and savored by the hag as she discussed the range of uses the concoction had, as well as common antidotes and detectors for the poisons the Black Hands had records of common use.
“So, the Black Heart Gingerroot ain’t effective on anything soluble in liquid. But would work well fer testin’ inn food or such.” The hag picked up her bottle and took a loud, satisfied gulp of the purple and bubble filled drink. “Damn that ogre can brew a drink... But I would suggest usin’ y’er gnoll brother to test fer any posion if ya are worried about it.”
“He isss reissstent to poissson, not immune.” Tanny shrugged as she played with a small wooden tube, spinning it between her fingers as she spoke. “Mother and I will handle any sssituation that comesss up.” Twirling the wooden tube, she places it to her lips and sucks in slowly. The concentrated scent of mint, spices and coca leaves fill her mouth. “But, I will cassstrate any who attempt to poissson us long before they have a chance to.” The tabaxi said with a nod of agreement from her goblin brother.
Spoke had little to discuss to prove his namesake accurate this discussion. He mainly focused on judging his sister’s negotiation performance and speaking. She seemed to be making an effort to avoid using words that would cause her to hiss with her tick. But was not successful at removing them entirely. Most of the complicated discussion on biology and alchemy went over his head and out his shallow pond of knowledge when the hag mentioned applied pressure to the mist produced to- yada yada, dangerous necrotic poison was the final result.
Spoke noticed the hag pause in her sip as Tanny spoke, her eyes subtly shifted towards the direction of main street, the main alleyway leading to the witch’s home and shop. Then Tanny’s ears shifted next, swiveling in the same direction. But neither seemed to become alert or prepared for an attack, so the goblin bard simply continued to fiddle with the blank copper coin he used when performing small sleight of hand tricks.
In the next few moments, came a heavy and persistent knocking on the door to the hovel. The two guests looked to the elderly woman who let out an annoyed sigh and called for them to enter.
From the doorway came the light of early afternoon, and a tabaxi who had clearly overexerted themselves in a dash to arrive here. He wore simple clothing but held himself like someone who had seen combat. With the seal of a crowd looking into a pit held in his hands, it was clear the male was some messenger of the Pit Master.
“Madam Agatha, Garrusss Sirtiusss hasss sssent me on an urgent emergency order.” The runner hissed out, his eyes shifting into the darkness of the shop and taking in the two guests. “My apologiesss, but the Pit Massster hasss no time to wassste.”
The hag paused as she closed her lips to stop herself from shouting in anger at the man. And looked towards her guests who simply gestured for her to continue and remained quiet. The runner then began by first handing her a small sack of coins, explaining the Pit Master had attempted to place a large, urgent order at a number of alchemists. And succeeded in procuring eight of the twelve potions they would need for a last-minute event that would occur at noon the next day. But the master needed four more potions, ones of higher grade than what was on hand for sale. And was informed, that if he wanted to get the potions on such short notice, the only one capable, would be the Hedge Witch Agatha.
The Glora Clan members watched as the anger rose on the old woman’s face. Her normally tan and wrinkled skin bloomed into a deep crimson. When the runner was finished, the flood of nearly two dozen different languages’ curses were to begin raining down and pelting the poor runner as the hag’s wrath grew to extreme heights. Only to be muted by the removal of a single, red crystal vial that looked to be some kind of blood pudding.
“You... The daft fool bastard of a maze loving harlot. He thinks waving a few goodies in my face will get me to break my back in work for him. Fool, fool I say!” The hag more screamed than spoke. She snatched the vial and gave the tabaxi a withering stare that made all in the roof feel a prick of fear. “Tell your boss that if he wants to make another order like this, he’s gonna have to trade his life seed to me. Or his soul. Scram ya kitty ‘for I bite your head off anymore!”
She slammed the door on the tabaxi before he could respond and stomped back toward the table and picked up the bundle of bubbling drinks, bringing it and the red vial to her back room, before reappearing again, wearing her work apron and wielding a large wooden spoon.
“I do ‘plogise my ol’ friends. Mister Minotaur Moron has placed an order for me. And now, I am gonna spend my evening slaving away over a cauldron for the stupid death of another daft warrior.” She sauntered over to her shelves of plants and ingredients, beginning to pull them down and prepare them.
“What do you mean Miss Agatha?” Spoke finally spoke up, interested in the sudden display, and numerous curses he had never heard before. “Wait, are those potions to do with the Blood Drowning?” He stood on his stool, looking at the array of monster parts and plants with his sister.
“Yep, they make the challenger make a choice every half hour they fight.” Agatha complained, her eyes and face never shifting away from her inspection of the bottles and plants before her. “Take a small restoration potion or wait and gain a stronger one. Damn fighters have ta pick and weigh using one of their earned potions or keep fightin’ for one that will give ‘em more than just energy ta keep fightin’.” She pulls down a large cage with a living scorpion in it, and sticks her hand in it, letting it sting her. “Get a small sip of water now, or a gallon if ya keep goin’ kind of thing. Meant to keep the audience on edge, and fighter weaker fer more fights. And this old lady is the only one who can make the biggest potions for that stupid challenge. Last three waves, and ya get my work.”
Spoke was listening intently. He was not alive with the last Blood Drowning occurred nearly eighteen years ago. But he had read a few retellings of the events. And a conflicted sense of pride and concern threatened to bubble to his face but was held back as the two clan members watched the witch work and prepare for her potion brewing. Until she dragged her cauldron out from the back and shooed the two out like lingering cats who were going to knock things over.
The siblings stood together, looking at each other. They had learned of their mother’s plan to put Dag in a Blood Drowning event but had not been told how she had managed to get the pit master to agree. And seeing firsthand that the man would shove something of such value into the face of the greatest potion maker in the city, just for the making of a few potions last minute, made the two children feel a pang of fear. Less a fear of their mother making a mistake, but of not being aware of her plans or desires.
The Mad Gunman was not a title she earned because she was consistent or logical in all her actions or plots. In fact, the two had known their mother long enough to know, she truly did not plan in detail her actions. Many of her plans or decisions are spur of the moment, directing her towards a general goal. The goblin gunman was a creature who had such confidence in their own abilities, that the need to plan carefully was usually ignored.
Spoke personally felt that his mother fumbled her way through nearly half of her decisions, like the one to take on the Black Hands with literally no warning for the clan to prepare for. It was an insane plan, that she most likely did not plan out meticulously, but merely set a goal and aimed to head towards it at every turn thrown at her.
This, to Spoke, felt like one of those decisions. One made not for a greater goal per say, but to accomplish a single thing. Glora wanted Dag to be reformed in a crucible of blood and struggle to earn his place within the clan once again. But he and Tanny worried she traded more than she should have for it.
The two siblings looked between themselves, and Spoke began to cast a spell, intent on sending a request to meet his mother for a much-needed discussion about the eldest brother of the clan.