The Assassin's Guild, The Black Hands, is a broken branch from an order of religious rouges and cut throats. The training of the founders was based in the arts of death and killing in the name of one god or another. They moved to the Isle of Madra some three or four centuries ago, hoping to fill a role in a land where religious assassination was the height of blasphemy. Their goal was to grow and expand beyond what they were intended to be by their previous masters and rise on their own.

Just a short decade after their arrival, the Empire’s Sundering occurred. At the time of their arrival, the Green Field Empire spread across all the southern half of the Isle, reaching from the southwestern most tip, to the towering Dividing Range and dwarven hold of Ashbrew Lake. They had managed, for the first time in recorded history, to control so much of the land of Madra. They had been led by a powerful Emperor who could blow the ranks of his enemies with a raise of his hand. Nearly half the Isle was swallowed up under his reign of nearly twenty years.

And just as quickly as his tide rose across the land, it was stalled as it crashed against the shores of reality. The wild clans and tribes, forced out of their homes or enslaved by the Empire, driven to the edge of ruin and destruction. When one warrior, an orc forged in the fires of war, and blessed by their father god and mother goddess, stood upon the fields, the dunes of sand and ruin. He rallied the scattered clans, the threatened races across the Dividing Range, the dwarves and even convinced the guardians of the Dwarves and mountain gnomes, an ancient Magma and Smog elemental, to join them in the repelling of the destructive empire.

They forced the emperor’s hordes back hundreds of miles, back across a third of their newly conquered lands, to a massive fortress built long ago, in a forgotten age of dwarven and gnomish dominance. At this fort would be where the most destruction, death and violence of empire would be displayed. The emperor was a ruler for a reason. The siege of the land raged from the banks of the Emerald Veins, across the Emerald Hills and into the sands of the desert beyond. Lines and fortifications shifted as the bridges across the grand rivers were fought over night and day. The blood of the armies soaked every inch of that once peaceful land. Spreading from the lake of blood at its center, the forgotten fortress.

Years of war bleed all involved. The elves were forced into cooperation with the empire, bolstering the defenses of the Empire. The Refugee army had managed to send word and requests for aid from the Elemental Isles just off the shores of the Empire’s heartlands. Elementals of all varieties were bargained with and brought to the warfront.

After nearly a decade of war upon the ruby stained hills, the final assault would begin. The empire would be shattered, sundered in their defeat into a multitude of factions that persist to the present. The Refugee army, was equally as destroyed with the death of their leader, whose sacrifice in the end, enabled to fall of the fortress and forces within. The warrior sacrificed himself by fusing himself with the abused, natural elementals of the Emerald Hills who had been drowned in blood. This sacrifice enabled the scattered elementals of the hills to gather and merge to form a single being, single elemental construct that held the wrath of the land itself.

And from it, a city, a monument to the sacrifice of the great hero, Barg, and his sacrifice to form a refugee, a chance for all creatures of all shape and form, to find a place for the true possibility to prosper. A land slowly expanding from the center of the battle against the now ruined empire, a city state ruled by the land itself.

And from this strife, this insanity and brutality, dozens of organizations that managed to survive, would rise to new heights. The Black Hands were one such group. The elves who had witnessed and survived the horrific final battle were another. They would steal away the knowledge of this new elemental magic and form a secret group to study it, the Ceisiwier. The Black Hands however, would sprint into the spotlight of the underworld, fighting for the remaining nobles, royals, and councils that attempted to maintain control in wake of the empire’s collapse.

They grew in power, influence and wealth. Forming smaller guilds, creating training facilities, and over the coming centuries, would bloom into a criminal guild that spanned all the former lands of the empire’s shattered shadow. And in the place that allowed them to rise to prominence, they held a guild of their most talented, most promising students who would test their metal in a city rife with opportunities. The Barg’s Refugee branch of the Black Hands.

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The darkness of a room once bathed in light, once a small indoor shrine to the All Mother, bathed in the noon day rays from above, is now covered and painted over. This room was a gathering for a young merchant company some decades ago. Now, it is the lounge, a place of disrespect and derision against the gods above and below.

Around a table sat five young adults, and two teenagers. At their head was the eldest and most fearsome in their group. A male high elf, his skin pale and hood thrown back. His nose tilted up as he stared down at the folk before him as his lessers, even if none were above each other in rank or political position.

“Those foul monsters of the Glora Clan have started making waves again.” Almar said with an even tone, tinged with wrath and disgust. “The reports are the Clawed Pit King slaughtered the Bruisers.”

“So? We don’t control them. And their tithe wasn’t going to us.” A shorter, charcoal skin female, with softly pulsing blue eyes spoke. “The Clans make these moves often enough. Even if that arrogant Wraith’s clan doesn’t move about often, this shouldn’t be an issue to us.”

“Ollya, you are short sighted.” The second oldest person in the room spoke. His rough dwarven drawl carrying to the fallen girl’s ears. “They do not act without a plan. Their members that are worth anything carry out missions for a reason.” The dwarf’s fist slammed against the table. “I knew that gnoll bastard was locked up for a reason. This was their plan. To appear weaker, that they were losing their edge and baiting the Bruisers into a slaughter.”

“That is just conspiracy drivel.” Another elf spoke, his features much more human like and his ears lacking the defined points of pure bloods. “The cost of if that plan failed would have been horrific. It is more likely this strike was to reinforce their position after such an embarrassment.”

“Hehe, Jewel is too much of a nut. Houh, the Clawed Bitch is noth-hehheh-ing more than a spoiled noble clan fighter. Lyphase is more accurate.” A crouching gnoll of dark, reflective fur like that of obsidian, hissed out. His body hunched forward and jaw clenched as he thought about that female who strutted around like an alpha when she wasn’t worth a quarter that.

The two youngest in the group, a human and a reflective, metal coated form painted matte black, looked conflicted. Their senior members were arguing and if one got too heated, they might be caught as ‘stress relief’ to beat up on after.

“Hush, all of you.” Almar growled suddenly. “I will not take more of this. Regardless of the reason they attacked the gang, they now hold a major artery that leads to some of our safe houses and our entrance through the west walls. As well as the staging ground for our drug and potion production.”

The elf stood tall as he turned and stared into the face of the once statue of a beautiful middle aged woman, cradling a lamb and wolf pup. His hand came up and wrapped the statue in a pale, sickly green light. Necrotic magic ozzed from his palms and slightly melted the once holy symbol. With his rage at the disruption of the plans he and the council had been creating forces upon someone besides the rabble around him, he turned to them once again.

“The Wraith of Glora and the Ceisiwier Butcher have been hampering our plans in subtle ways. I had hoped the clan head would offer us the piece of the district as a token to soothe our relationship. But no. When my men approached, she maimed them and sent them away like batting away flies. He did that only to us!”

Almar and Jewel’s fists slammed into the table with frustration. The goblin patriarch was finally going to make his move against them. The remainder didn’t hold the same conspiracy thoughts, taking this more as a claim to the clans claim for the operation of the Wraith outside their monopoly.

“This, this needs a reprisal.” Ollya spoke next. “If we do not respond with anything more clan shadow killers will start operating. The Wraith already steals a fair percentage of our jobs.” Her eyes shifted to a notebook of ledgers and accounts in her lap. “If even four or three more start, and they rival some of our higher ranks, then that loss will be felt in the platinums.”

“But what would be appropriate?” Lyphase spoke up next. His hand stroking a dagger before her began twirling it in his fingers under the table.

“… There are only two.” Almar spoke softly as he looked to the youngest. “Unless your project is baring fruit?” When they show their heads no, he nodded.

“Two? There is only one option. Full on war.” Jewel hissed. Spit flying from his vengeful lips and landing in his empty mug.

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“Full on- What?!” Ollya, and the two youngest said in unison, the surprise on their faces clear.

“The Glora Clan is six members strong. And they only hold one place in the city beyond their aquired land today.” Lyphase spoke, a frown on his face, but a glimer in his eyes. “Glora is said to be the strongest living being in the city. His children all prodigies unrivaled in combat. The trail of bodies from them is clear of that.”

“But they are only six. Even the Butcher couldn’t fight against our full strength. He is not the Green Field Emperor.” Almar spoke with the high-elven disdain for the lowly goblin. The others were less certain or fanatical in their hate for the Mad Gunman that he held. “Glora is powerful. But he is aging. He is not immortal. If he were to fall, regardless of our casualties, the Great Clans would falter. The Glora Clan is a pillar and example of how powerful they can be. But if a guild can remove them…”

“Houh houh! We can begin a bloody frenzy. With their power questioned, we can stir the pond with blood! The gangs and other guilds will pounce to devour them whole!” The gnoll howled in glee, his hackles rising and pushing him over the elf’s height as his bloodlust burned.

“We will use the opportunity to crush the Glora Clan. Pushing it further to topple the pillar of the Great Clans.” Almar spoke faster, and all in the room felt their hearts pound as opportunity was mentioned. Their eyes were filled with images of displaying their powers, plotting and angling for a higher position. “With the destruction of a single clan, we can use it as leverage to impose on the city, our strength and power. The previous councils were too cautious. We will show these pathetic clans what true power looks like.”

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Yelzumin Nisaphosh sat in her office chair, papers scattered on her desk, a bottle of wine held between her hands as her dark eyes gazed out into the void of her mind. Memories of destruction and life spent in the caves, the tunnels, the chasms the size of cities. Thoughts of her training in the Underdark, studying books and gardens on the ways life and nature found a way to survive in a place so devoid of what felt like anything but hate, rage, and distrust.

Her mind shifted from the lessons to the rangers who guided and guarded the Green Weaver’s Grove members on their excursions into the wilds. They morphed and changed as one face after another appeared and disappeared in her meditative state. Events, trials and tests abounded in her younger years, moving on to when she entered the Green Weavers and entered her first circle in truth.

Her thoughts were disrupted by a familiar voice and magical spell.

“The deal is accepted. Twenty-five will arrive by sundown. Make arrangements. The True Mistress of Webs embraces us with Love. Cult of the Green Weaver.”

Yel feels a pang of nostalgia as her native language of Undercommon enters her mind.

“West Gate enters. Robes of green and red, carry torches of blue and purple. I forsake the Dark Usurper, Despiser of All Nature. Yelzumin Nisaphosh.”

The spell accepted the Mayor’s reply, sending it to her once mentor and comrades. As the magical spell left her mind, a new presence pressed against her and the very fabric of her being. She groaned as the pressure built until it was almost physically harming her.

“It- I am not, not, going to, betray, betray the oath! I am accepting a new faction into our region! One that does not want war with us, only to fight those that dig into our lands from below.” Her words came out ragged and roughly. The presence that held her magical oath to the land, the city, and the people she was tasked to care for lessened but didn’t end. “I, I am, obeying, obey the laws. I have not, cannot, return to them again... They only speak to me to obtain their new base for operation. The fact that they can arrive so quickly implies they didn’t need me to enter, only to accelerate it... This is no different than when I gave aid to Glora many years ago. They were not a faction then, only a resident, seeking their betterment. The Grove, the Cult, do not want the city’s power. They are here because the Underdark seeks the surface.”

Moments passed and Yel waited patiently for the city spirit to ascertain and consider her words, before slowly drawing away. Barg’s Refugee was an immensely powerful, and extremely stubborn spirit of nature. It was a blend of the natural order and elements with the concepts and passion of civilization and progress. Yel found a beauty in this land that few other druids could understand. It took a deep and religious connection or understanding of Madra to see why She helped push Barg’s Refugee into this state. One more step along the evolution of the universe, one more step or branching path towards the infinite possibilities and permutations and evolutions of life and nature.

“I swore myself to you and the All-Mother's vision. I have lived here now for longer than I did below... You are my home as much as the Underdark was. More, as I cannot return...” She spoke until the connection with the spirit was only slightly stronger than usual.

As the connection held in place, an image was pushed into the for of the mayor’s mind. An orc, standing on the walls of the Refugee, staring longingly to the west, the sandy hills from which he was born, but can never step upon again. And the connection slips, returning to a passive state.

****************************

The Glora Clans youngest members stood in front of an elderly woman, famous for her tinctures meant for the everyday needs of the citizens, rather than a focus on the expensive and flashy potions most alchemist made. Agatha stirred her pot with a smile on her face, tilting her head curiously as they approached.

“Glora’s newest collected pieces, what are ye folk doin’ visitin’ an old lady like me?” Her voice was worn and stretched but carried a hint of mirth and contentment.

“Madam Agatha-” The gnomish boy bows, trying to answer her before he is interupted.

“You been learnin’ from that perverted goblin brother of yours.” She lifter a hand carved spoon from the pot, wagging it at him threateningly. “He an’ his pretty words are poision, and I ain’t delt with that since my times before learnin’ proper potion makin’. And I ain’t plannin’ to start again.”

“I-I did not mean to-” The young wizard blushed at her accurate, if not whole picture, of their shortest brother. But his sister stepped forward with a smile.

“Gran Aggy, we came by for a lil’ chat. Ya have a better look at your trade than y’ungins like us.” The halfling tried to smile. Her brother usually never put his foot in his mouth this bad with his fancy words. She felt nervous trying to use her limited social skills to smooth this ‘transgression’ over.

“Bah.” Agatha dropped her spoon, not truly angry, simply annoyed at the term he had used. “Glora has been a good customer while I been here. Can’t let that go fer a lil’ brat stumblin’ over his words.” She sniffed the pot before tossing in a dead toad and covering the pot to look down at the children. “What is it you lil’ ones need? I ain’t got a lot y’all usually want. Specially fer yer older sis’er.”

“We, um, we wanted to know if you had been asked about, or would know anything about the spike in Rimebowel Root.” The gnome boy spoke up when his sister seemed hesitant to speak. “Sis was looking over the request boards in the civil center. She saw a pattern of the sale, procurement, and extraction of the root. She even noticed the main buyers to be the Hobble Clan, and what we think are Black Hands fronts.” His sister blushed and mumbled as he looked at her proudly, even the elderly woman nodded in appreciation.

“That’s a good eye ya got there lassie. You and your father have a knack for that kind of detail. Though his is more a necessity, yours was a gift of Madra Herself.” She grinned, stepping closer to the halfling girl as she blushed and looked everywhere but at her. The witch laughed out loud as she noticed the weeds growing between the cobbles below her begin to bud with small dandelions. “Come here you two. I know a weee bit ‘bout that. Though if ya lookin’ to buy some, I ain’t have any for sale.”

The witch lead them both into her small, wooden hut. When the door opens, dozens, maybe hundreds of jars and boxes of herbs and plants line the walls and floor that leads to a table that acts as Agatha’s counter, dinner table, and work bench, scattered with the tools of all three. The two would climb up onto stools as the witch went into the back room and came back with three clay cups and a jar.

The siblings watch her, curious as of the five times they had been brough to see the witch, she had never offered the same refreshments twice. Agatha set her burden down and with a twist of the clay lid, broke its seal and the natural, delectable scent of a mix of berries. The children’s mouths begin to water as the juice’s heavenly and sickeningly sweet smell excited their young stomachs.

The gnome managed to act properly, watching Agatha ladle out three servings for the table. The deep purple juice seemed to sparkle with a familiar light of green sparkles for the halfling. She had a harder time hiding her desire for the drink, but once she laid eyes on it, her breath caught in her throat.

Her brother noticed her reaction, his gaze shifted to her, concern blooming as her tan and rosy face paled. Agatha seemed not to notice as she pushed the juice in front of each of them.

“This, my small ones, is a rare juice for the southern part of the Isle. It comes in wine, but I don’t fancy an angry bullet through my pot again, so ya get the juice.” She picks her cup up, sniffing the juice and swirling it around like wine. “I got this almost two years ago from a pair of slavers. Men got the Night Walkin’ Itch, they did.”

The witch began laughing at the memory of two men who basically threw a case of the drink at her for a fast-acting cure.

“They were up in the, oh where was it again?... I know they damn said it.”

“Go...” The halfling girl started to stutter and shiver as she picked her cup up slowly. “Goodberry...”

Her lips suddenly felt chapped, her mouth and throat dry and sore as the cup pressed to her red lips. She tilted her head slowly, letting the liquid pour across her lips and into her mouth. Her eyes clenched shut as tears started to stream down in ugly rivers. The taste of the juice was one of a mix of the berries native to the Mvir Ghlas.

Each one is stripped of its seeds by the deft and delicate hands of the halfling clans who live among those rolling hills. Their skin removed and pealed back, saving as much of the juices as possible. Next, once a barrel of berries was filled, in the desired ratios and mixes, they would be stomped and pressed. Mashed into a juice, strained of pulp, and the process was repeated one time for every member of a clan. But, every clan would do their best to stand out or above the rest. Many sang to the berries, some soaked them in alcohol, others dried and then rehydrated them. But one clan, a clan of halflings known to be blessed with a connection to nature naturally strong enough to make many druids green with envy. This clan was able to grow and use Goodberries, created through magic and then planted and cultivated. They would then add the dried and roasted seeds of the goodberries back into the juice, giving them a sparkling effect as the miniscule seeds bobbed in the mixture.

When the cup was empty, the halfling dropped it as her brother leaned over, grabbing her in a tight embrace. Her tears were ugly and came from a repressed source of pain.

“Mvir Juice... The Goodberry’s Melody...” The halfling managed to squeak out as her vision was consumed by orange and smoke.