Across the land controlled by Barg’s Refugee, there are places where decomposing trash is thrown. The left overs of carved beasts, the rotting skins and flesh of produce, the ‘processed’ food and drink of the residents, all these things were gathered and sorted through, to be discarded. These pits of trash were left to bake and were occasionally churned by workers of the city.
These pits were both a blessing and a curse for the citizens. These pits were a public service in part as a supplement for the farmers on the most western Emerald Dunes of the city state’s reach. The verity, the richness and quality of fertilizer taken from these pits did wonders to promote the magical crops shipped across Madra’s Isle. It brought up crops of superb size and only rivaled in quality by the greatest farmers and gardeners from all the corners of the Isle.
The curse came in that these pits, due to their size and need to be stirred up and cared for, were horrendously awful to live near. The smell was so strong that smell wards would break or fail nearly a dozen times faster than advertised. And even when they were at full strength and supplied with replacement wards as soon as ware began to show, every resident and visitor to the city swore that the smell still permitted from it for a dozen blocks around it.
This trash, of course, attracted creatures, rats, mice, vermin of all kinds, found their way into the heaven on earth. They would grow larger, more territorial and eventually began to fight the workers who came out to stir the pits.
The heaps would occasionally spawn, or form slimes, gelatinous monsters, and for the first time in recorded history, a refuse elemental, a combination of water, earth, life and death that required intervention by an almost mythic adventuring party to slay.
But the worst things attracted to the pits, were not vermin, they were not monsters. They were those beaten so horrifically by the world that they could only find relief in the pits of scraps.
Three of these creatures found themselves in the pit this day. One was an elderly goblin who lay down in where the start of the small bit of joy they had been able to experience in the past three decades. The second was a gnoll pup, a creature who barely understood their own race’s language, let alone the common tongue. The third was a starving, beaten and wrath filled tabaxi that could barely comprehend their own thoughts as the pains of hunger and emotions drove her to a primal, instinctual state of survival.
****************************
Tanny, a tabaxi in her mid 20s, stood as she watched her brother struggle in a fight beyond unfair. Her sandy and patchy fur rose as anger filled her. Dag was being stabbed, punctured and beaten. He had started this fight all alone, but she would not let him end it alone.
The gnoll spun with a ferocious grace that filled Tanny with a level of pride in her sibling. He was a warrior, the Claws of their small clan. And he had earned it through years, well over a decade of unrelenting battle in the fighting pits. She stood beside him with their mother, as he entered every major fight. She was there to catch him as he stumbled out of the ring, or was the one to rush out and drag him back into their corner when he bit off more than he could swallow.
Mother had told her with a simple message that this was where Dag would be going after she freed him. But she had not expected a duel to the death. She was not aware just how much money Dag had lost, but for his punishment to be this… It made her stomach swirl like the scent of the trash pits did.
Her eyes had not stopped tracking her brother’s fight. 15 men against one monk. Anyone who bet on fights would have loved to watch. But this headlining fight was nothing more than a punishment from their mother, a creature who could likely kill them all with such speed, even her kinds speed fiends would be left astonished. And she had only gotten slower since their meeting so many years ago.
The motions of her brother began to slow, and he was thrown to the floor with a shield slam that seemed to leave him stunned.
Her arms tensed and she prepared herself to pounce. Before she could, the ice cold and wrinkled hand of her mother wrapped around her neck. Fingers coiled around her throat like snakes that held her in place. A stream of panic and adrenaline flashed through her. Her mother had grabbed her neck and then her scruff, something she hadn’t done in years. It was her way of silently saying “You failed your stealth Kit. Do, not, move.” And other similar threats.
Her eyes lowered and narrowed in shame. Not just at being bested by the mother she believed she finally became equals with, but because she had been caught about to interfere with her brother’s punishment. Something she had tried, and failed, to do so many years ago. It seems both she and he were not as ready or mature as they believed themselves to be.
Tanny’s mother didn’t let go of her scruff as they stood above, watching their gnoll surge with something different than before. He moved in a new way, no, more… focused and directed way. Before, he was the unrivaled, unflinching alpha predator who relied on their superior skill, power, speed and senses to overwhelm all opposition. Here, he was the dagger, the claw that struck out with truth and precision that 20 years of combat drilled into a being. Skills honed to an edge so fine that a swipe across the air would still cut what was beyond its physical reach.
The two clansmen watched the birth of something fearsome, something dangerous, something… Powerful. The dance of primal savagery blossomed into the whirl of ferocious war and horrific battle. No longer was Dag enjoying his challenge, enjoying and pushing his abilities to another level. He became what his role in the clan was, he was the claws, the simple, brutal weapon to be wielded against its enemies.
They watched the final blows, final words and offer, and then the final moments of brutality. Their Claws ripped into the former gang leader’s corpse until there was no way for him to remain a threat to them.
Tanny watched her brother, his eyes were dilated to pins before that focus disappeared and he let out a soft chuckle as he collapsed into the mash of flesh.
She dropped down without a sound and rolled him off the corpse. She began to treat him with alacrity and proficiency. Her mother watched from above, making sure she didn’t slip Dag a potion or medicinal plant before falling down from the rafters just in front of the open doors. A crowd of the cowards who didn’t fight, and some lucky pedestrians who managed to see some of the battle had slowly gotten closer. And when the Mad Glora fell to the ground without a hint of her presence, they all nearly scattered in fear.
“Today,” the goblin spoke in her gravely, crushed glass cadence, “Clan Glora had claimed a piece of the merchant district. I’se don’t want it, nor the men left of the Bruisers. So, I’se am selling the remaining gang as men to the Red Star Brothel. And the spot… We’se will see.” She spun from the stunned crowd with a flourish. Her light colored jacket fluttering. “Spread the word. I’se will personally crush any challengers to my’se claims.”
****************************
Spoke stood on a bar stool to be eye level with the others around the table. His black eyes shifted around the table to the folks he was meeting today.
Around the table were the speakers for four of the other Great Clans in Barg’s Refugee. Each was one piece of the weakest political alliance in the city, the Clans. This was a regular meeting the Spoke was ordered to attend and maintain the agreements with each of these clans.
He didn’t only have to meet these four today. He had to meet with the fencing clans, the thieves guilds and gangs, as well as the ‘official’ government and politicians of the city and its merchant houses. He was expecting the next two days to be a boring slog.
When the group was in the middle of discussing the trade stoppage from the south, and possible adventuring contracts for younger clan members, the Speaker for Clan Harper paused as his message crystal pulsed. He paused and listened to it before his eyes went wide and he swung his head in anger at the dark goblin.
“What in the heaving heifer hills of Madra are you lunatics doing?!” The humanoid bird squeaked from his beak with anger, annoyance, and a bit of apprehension.
Spoke had no idea what his clan had done. But he could hazard a guess with the burning rage his momma held when he saw her and brother this morning. His back straightened as he calmly glanced toward his counterpart, projecting an air of casualness that he did not feel.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“My family is constantly doing things that others consider insane.” His posh, noble like voice drifted across the room, carrying with it his air of relaxation. “Who of my siblings, or perhaps my very Mother committed the act that startles you so?”
“Dagger, has claimed the Bruiser Street Gang on his own. Killing nearly 15 men before they surrendered, including their boss after challenging the gang for their territory in the merchant district.” The bird man stood, shocked at his own words.
Everyone in the room remained silent as they ran the mental calculations and predictions for what this meant for their clans, agreements, and profits. The speaker for Clan Dory whispered his conclusion aloud.
“This... This could be minor, or could cause a feeding frenzy...” Her own bead began to glow, filling her elven features with a soft blue light.
“No, not if my Clan is staking the claim.” Spoke spoke up to his gathering with a resolute nod, he had no knowledge of this plan, but knew his momma wouldn’t allow a frenzy to occur. “Matriarch Glora is aware of the possible consequences. She gave a declaration of ownership, like she has done with the other pieces of the city we claim.” His dark eyes turned to the two who had received the messages and they nodded in affirmation.
“Still,” the Dory speaker continued, “whoever she gives it to will need to be strong enough to hold it. The Bruisers sold sewer access to the local thieves and smugglers. Their position as the first stop when entering from the west will mean it is prime meat.” Her long fingers glided down her chin in thought. “If the new Blank Hands guild council do not like who the recipient is, like, say, the Law Groves, they may react violently. Do not forget how they reacted when the Shadow Blades tried to step into the city. That left nearly 200 dead, and they now hold a renewed grip on assassination and spying in the city.”
“Yes... They may decide to forgo the selection of the new owners, because of the Wraith...” The only other vertically challenged attendee, a rather rotund halfling with over a foot on the dark goblin, spoke and was meet with visible surprise from all but Spoke. “We have a lot better idea of the temperament of the Council. They are the young, talented recruits from their schools. And every one of them is hungering to claim the position of the next guild master. With the chance to secure a valuable sewer connection, the opportunity to put down the clans by openly challenging the Glora Clan, and the chance to display their skill in killing the Wraith of Glora, this could turn into a much bigger problem...” The speaker for Clan Hobble trailed off.
Spoke listened to the Hobble speaker, he was surprised by the man’s forthcoming evaluation. If he had not spoken, it would be very likely his clan would be attacked by a force much, much bigger than they would have expected. He and Momma spoke about the Black Hands’ grudge with the eldest sister’s ‘freelance’ jobs as an assassin. When the word to keep the spot came, and her declaration to fight for it, showed, at least to him, that she wasn’t planning on giving it to the Black Hands. She would have said her claim was for sale, or trade. With her wording, it was more likely that she already had someone- The Mayor. She was going to sell it to the Mayor’s shadow faction. Spoke’s wide smile broke into a grin, and he started to chuckle almost madly.
“Oh Momma, you mad whore. You mad, mad whore!” His words struck a chord in the speakers, a cold dread filling them.
Spoke’s words carried with them the unintended spell, a conditioned response from his performance training. The lights candles, magical stones and objects were smothers, plunging the room into a darkness only he could see perfectly in. For all the rest, the only source of light, was the dark reflections of shadow that seemed to glow with darkness in the goblin’s eyes
“This, this is going to be madness in the night! And we must plan for it. Who of you is ready, to strike at the pompous guilds?!”
****************************
The youngest siblings of the Glora Clan walked together towards the civil center of the city, a district full of bureaucrats, politicians, and other soulless beings. Their goal was simple, to find some work that two small adventurers like themselves could do. Usually, when they were done with their daily errands, they would be allowed to take some odd jobs, both for money, and to give them experience outside that of simple sparring, crafting practice or studying. It was also a test of their other skills; one the stubborn halfling was rather better at than her younger book worm of a brother. She could find the root or thread of connections between the jobs or potential opportunities that lay beyond them.
When there were more than two or three pit cleaning jobs, I.e., killing dangerous creatures inside them, available in a single day, or published at one time on the boards, it was close to the time for the transporting of fertilizer from that pit. When certain plant or ingredient quests were placed more often, it could mean a few different things. If every apothecary did it, it meant the demand for an ingredient was up, or a new recipe was circulating. If it was a single person who was posting it, over and over, but the rumor mill said they were having money troubles, it could be they are close to a breakthrough in a recipe, or a new discovery. This could lead to a spike in demand. Every piece of information offered publicly could be connected, could be analyzed, and could be a future boon to the clan.
The halfling girl smiled as her brother sighed, giving up looking at the dozens of opportunities that were disappearing as quickly as people put them up. Dozens, maybe even a hundred different people of all races, sizes, ages and creeds were going over the information on the boards. Some were small adventuring groups, others mercenaries in-between jobs, some were younglings trying to find something interesting, like themselves, to spend the remaining daylight doing, while a few were those who looked fairly beat up, downtrodden, these were those who had hit a rough spot and needed some extra silver to make it through the week, or even day.
Barg’s Refugee was not a place for everyone. It could be a loving, safe, and relatively crime free to any substantial level, in most respectable areas. But it could be as ruthless as an executioner if you were not prepared. It was a place where a hundred meaningful and happy lives can be made, but just as many could lose it all. It was as much a paradox as the All-Mother Madra Herself. But less than a hands worth of people died in the city due to starvation a year. Same with deaths from crime if it was perpetrated upon a normal citizen. Money, food, opportunity, and true generosity could be found on every corner, every street and every district.
The halfling drew her eyes from the needy folks who had pulled down fliers for temporary workers in a bakery. And she started to scan, looking for patterns her sister and momma taught her were most common. She leaned on her wooden sword, resting her chin on the pommel.
“Bro... Do ya remember w’ot, uh, rhyme bowl root is?” Her eyes narrowed as she tried to read the long, arcane sounding name of a plant she had been seeing across the board.
“Rhyme bowl root?... Maybe, Rimebowel Root?” When his sister nodded, pointing to the strangely written name. “Yes, it is a common medicinal herb, mainly used as a laxative.” He stepped closer to the flyer and read the quantity. “Madra’s marry mounds! While would you ever need a wine barrel’s worth of it or its extract?!”
The gnome thought furiously, trying to think of a reason. The halfling went back to looking, glancing along the names, quantities, delivery locations, prices, and mentioned to her brother.
“The Hobble Clan, an’, I think some businesses of the Black Han’s are makin’ the orders...”
“... Oh, that is, okay, that makes more sense, but, why so much? There is a slow acting poision you can make from the root, the is very similar to illnesses or diseases in the symptoms...”
“The orders have been posted, ugh, the one I see that’s the oldest was posted two weeks ago. Payin’ jus’ ‘bove market price for every pound of root ya bring in. They mus’ be uppin’ the reward by, ten percent e’rey day? Look, dat one was posted an hour ago. It only has two poun’s of it. The Hobble Clan is tryin’ to hide their desire. The Black Han’s threw away their secrecy cuz of need.”
“They are paying, nearly 30 gold for a barrel of it?! That is more than if it was full of actual wine... Sis, this, this feels very bad. The Hobbles are probably experimenting with something, but the Hands seem to already have something.”
“We need ta go by Auntie Agatha, she probably knows more t’en us. If the demand for the root is so high, she probly already sold her stock ta someone.”
The siblings nod to each other, grins breaking across their faces. They had found their own adventure for the day, the kind where the smell of risk and reward was overpowering.
****************************
Along the alley streets in the wall district on the west side of town, Auntie Agatha, an old human looking woman sat at her potion pot, brewing away and laughing to herself. Agatha was a witch to most all in the city, but the most in the know, knew her for the truth of it. She was a Hag, a creature of power, fear, and magical secrets. But, like most hags, she had her own unique desires and quirks. Long, long ago, she had met a lone tortle. The creature was obsessed with potion brewing and was seeking to learn all the various techniques across the Isle of Madra and beyond. She had intended to humor the short-lived creature before eating him and his small amount of knowledge in a stew.
She made him a bet, whoever knew more about potion making, would become the student of the other. The tortle thought, and gave the hag a counter offer. Whoever had discovered more about potion making themselves would be considered the winner. The Hag was slightly confused by his clarification but agreed. When the match began, the Hag tried to speak on the thousands of years of potion brewing knowledge she held but froze. She, Agatha, had not discovered any of her knowledge. It was shared with her, taught to her, by her hag coven sisters. Shared between them magically. The tortle, he had discovered so, so, so much in his 35 years of life, that even if the knowledge imparted by her coven could have been considered her own, she would still have lost.
This moment humiliated the hag. And worst of all, the tortle had not gloated, he was only delighted to have someone beyond his future children to share his knowledge with. Now, some centuries later, the Hag had changed much, influenced by the tortle after she was banished from her coven. She was content to spend a few more decades simply enjoying the practice of simple, barely or even completely nonmagical potions and tinctures.
She stood in front of her small shop, thinking about the gossip that was burning through the town. The Glora Clan, the most powerful, at least in combat or direct confrontations of individuals, of the Refugee Great Clans, had smacked a Giant Hornet nest with a honey covered stick and then shoved it up the arse of a bear. The hag turned hedge witch cackled to herself as she looked down the mostly empty road and saw two small folk walking towards her shop. The younglings of Clan Glora.