For Dalthan Sol’Magor, the trip through the Well of Sins dredged up a long-forgotten memory of rain, wind, and chaos. He wasn’t sure how old he’d been when the storm of ‘43 smothered Wavecrest beneath a blanket of black clouds. Some days his pa claimed he’d been six when the infamous hurricane hit. On other days he’d say the storm drowned the city during Dalthan’s fifth summer. The thief himself had never put much stock in birthdays. Why would he? Growing up, their date had changed every year and the Naming Day gift had ranged from a bottle of beer on a good day to a beating on a bad one.
Whether he’d been six or five made no difference to the rogue. It didn’t change the tingle of fear he’d felt while the wind howled like a mourning widow. Driven by the shrieking squall, an endless torrent of rain had slashed bucket-sized holes in the ragged roof of the Low Town shack he and his old man had shared. He remembered the walls shaking like a Wraithbone addict’s hand when they were searching for a fix. He’d seen the strobing flash of lightning illuminate vacant patches along the city street where better folk than he and his pa had simply been erased as if they’d never been.
And yet, despite the terror woven through those memories like the thread stitching together a patchwork quilt, it was not the anxiety of those fearful moments that stuck with him the most. Nor was it the crazed shouts of his father yelling obscenities at the Gods who’d sent the storm to punish him. Amidst all the swirling chaos, it was a sublime moment of calm that the young boy had etched into his mind. He’d committed it to memory with the care of a doting daughter chiseling her dad’s epitaph into a granite headstone. Even now he could close his eyes and feel the wave of silence as it descended upon them in an avalanche of nothingness. Everything had simply stopped. The young Dalthan had been so amazed that he’d ignored his father’s cursing and threw open the door so he could gaze up at the bright sun blazing through a window of clear sky.
His father had beaten him half to death after pulling him back into the shack. As the wind picked up again, shaking the walls and scratching at the doors, Dalthan had curled up on the floor and weathered a different kind of storm. It wouldn’t be the last time his father raised a hand to him in anger, but no amount of split lips and black eyes had ever knocked the memory of unassailable peace from his mind.
Later in life, he would come to equate that sensation with power and influence. When a person grew to such stature they became a force of nature in their own right. The winds blew at their whim and the rains stopped at their command.
Lady Belial wielded that kind of power.
Despite the tumultuous tide of the city’s denizens sweeping across the Well of Sins, no one dared to intrude upon the serenity that enveloped the captivating woman. However, their lack of intrusion shouldn’t be taken as a sign that the priestess’ interest in the dreg was beneath their notice. Dalthan caught more than one set of eyes watching him with the kind of jealousy normally reserved for a lottery winner. Then again, when he felt the supple warmth of the dark elf’s fingers entwined with his, Dal felt like he’d just won a bet he didn’t remember placing.
“May I call you Dalthan?” Belial asked as she tossed a coquettish look over her bare shoulder.
“Only if you tell me how you know my name,” the thief said, doing his best to ignore the scathing looks from the various figures that swirled around Lady Belial’s zone of calm like hyenas skulking after a plump gazelle.
The priestess laughed like a lover sharing a scandalous secret. “Don’t worry, my dear Dalthan. My Lord’s high priest, Ancev, is charged with keeping an eye out for anyone of exceptional mettle. He recognized you for your wit and skill.” She turned back to face him, taking his captured hand in both of hers. Her hips sashayed sinfully as she backpedaled until the provocative curve of her hips struck the edge of the altar behind her. “But the Ur Priest failed to mention how very charming you are. Humans are often so dull. So boring.”
Belial’s smoldering red eyes held his gaze as if she could flay the layers of his personality away until she revealed his bare soul. “You won’t bore me, will you?” she murmured as she drew him closer with a tug at his captured hand.
Like a dog on a leash, he followed the pull of her hand. The glimmer of her eyes reminded him of a heat shimmer rising from a sandy beach on a hot summer day. He almost let himself melt beneath the scrutiny of those red eyes, reduced to a puddle at her feet like a candle whose wick had burned precariously low.
Like a switchblade in the dark, the smile written across her lips opened into an expression of deadly revelry.
That’s when, in his addled mind, he heard old man Sloefoot prattling on about the Handbook. He’d taught a young, orphaned Dalthan the tricks of a rogue’s trade. The old fool had been caught by the Yola Cartel a decade and a half before Dal was born. He’d had his leg broken in too many places for a healer to fix, leaving him a bum cripple living on the streets. Desperate and isolated, the shattered man had been all too willing to take on an apprentice for a few hits of Wraithbone to kill the pain.
Feeling himself fall into the devilish smile splayed across Belial’s blue lips, Dal heard ol’ Sloefoot preaching like a priest at a pulpit. ‘Listen to the Handbook,’ ol' Sloefoot said while one of the old man's crooked fingers pointed imperiously at the recently orphaned boy. ‘The rules will keep you alive when everything around you loves nothing better than a dead thief.’
Rule fourteen of the handbook said that nobody liked a thief. Only what a thief could do for them.
The voice in his mind shattered the sensual spell like a rock thrown through a stained-glass window. It took a force of willpower that he didn’t know he had to tear his emerald eyes away from Belial’s mesmerizing gaze. As he did, he leaned back, resisting the insistent pull of her hands in a smooth motion that broke the tantalizing touch of her fingertips against his flesh. He felt his heart give a fluttering somersault when he saw the look of disappointment that briefly flashed across her face.
Then the moment had passed, and the charismatic rogue was flashing the beautiful woman his best smile. From a safe distance. A stipulation that he knew she did not miss from the faintly bemused tilt of her head.
“I’ve been a criminal all my life, Lady Belial, but for a thief of my talents to be boring would be an unpardonable offense.” The rogue lifted a hand to place his palm gallantly against his heart. “I would never be able to live with myself if I left such a lovely creature wanting more.”
Amusement flickered in the depths of her incarnadine eyes as she watched Dalthan try to rally to the moment. “Oh? We can test that determination right now, my dashing rogue.”
Dal’s green eyes flickered across the crowded room. He did well to hide a wince as he carefully chose his words. “I would hate for distractions to interrupt our time. Besides, why not wait until we can spend our evening in comfort?”
“But I have eyes only for you, dear Dalthan. Nothing will distract me.” Belial said, her voice taking on a teasingly mischievous tone. “As for comfort, this should be adequate for my needs.” Her open palm pointedly patted the broad, flat top of the altar behind her. “My Lord always provides.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The rogue’s green eyes blinked for several heartbeats as his brain struggled to keep up with the priestess’ game. “But wouldn’t that be sacrilege?” Dalthan blurted as his gaze flickered between her and the altar she leaned against.
The sultry smile she shot his way would have sent weaker men sinking to the stone floor. “You’ve so much to learn. Pleasure isn’t blasphemy to my God, Dalthan. It is worship.”
“Maybe you should wait until we’re in a more private setting to instruct me in proper prayer,” Dalthan began, lifting the hand against his chest to hook one long finger into his collar. As he tugged at the stiflingly hot shirt, he tried to ignore the way mirth blossomed on Belial’s face like a tulip unfurling in the spring. Recognizing a losing battle when he saw one, Dal tried to retreat to a more tame subject. “You said something about experience points?”
“Mmm…” the dark elf mused, crossing an arm against her chest to frame the provocative contour of her body. “Did I?” she asked, taking on an exaggerated look of contemplation as she tapped her plump lips with the tip of one well-manicured finger.
Dalthan tried to ignore the effect her mock cruelty had on him. “You did, Lady Belial. Forgive me if I’m impatient, but I would very much like to exchange my outfit for something more fashionable.”
Her genuine laughter held none of the playful mockeries she’d teased him with earlier. “Fair enough. I suppose there is something to be said for addressing business before pleasure.” The woman shifted upon the high heels she wore to stand at her full height.
“Alright,” Belial said, her voice brisk but not impersonal. “The first thing you need to do is take out your character sheet.”
Dalthan held out his open palm and, with a bit of mental exertion, conjured a yellowed piece of paper into his hand.
“Now, it's important to know that no one can take your character sheet. No one can even read your character sheet unless you expressly allow for it. The closest thing anyone can do to reading a character sheet is identify.” The dark elf paused then, studying Dalthan’s reaction. “You have been identifying people, correct? It can be very important here to know the people you’re dealing with. Those who call The Hub home are, oftentimes, more than meets the eye.”
Dal’s eyes fell to the floor as a heavy sigh slipped past his lips like the sound of a martyr making peace with his execution. He dreaded disappointing the powerful woman, but lying to her would undercut the advantages of guidance. “It was a bit overwhelming. I did manage it for a moment, but I shut it off again before I left the Mausoleum.”
“Hmm…” Belial said, her fingertip idly tapping against her luscious lips again. “I think it’s simply a matter of focus for you. Instead of trying to divine everything that is going on around you, focus on a single person. Make the nature of your question about what a person is instead of who they are.”
Dalthan’s dark brows furrowed in concentration as he rolled her words through his mind. It certainly sounded simple enough. With nothing to do except try it, Dal looked at Belial and followed her advice. A split second later the ghostly white lettering returned to his sight, the bracket over her head reading [Elven Paragon Archpriestess].
“It worked!” Dalthan crowed, then immediately tried to tramp down his excitement. It was unseemly to take pride in something so simple. He had a suspicion that is exactly what a dreg would do.
There was no judgment written across Belial’s lovely face. Only encouragement. “Excellent,” the woman said. “Now we need to look at the character sheet. Do you see the numbers written along one side? Those are ratings for your attributes. They inform you as to how capable you are in a given field. The same applies to the skills that are listed below them. Feats are special abilities that you have access to. Usually, those are a product of your class and race, but sometimes they can be generated by unique experiences or influences.”
Name: Dalthan Sol'Magor Class: Rogue
Race: Demi-Human
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Milestones: 0/2 Level: 11
HP: 45
MP: 33
SP: 0 Skills
Appraise 5 Jump 10 Search 14 Attributes
Strength: 12
Dexterity: 19
Constitution: 10
Intelligence: 17
Wisdom: 9
Charisma: 20 Balance 14 Listen 10 Spot 7 Bluff 14 Move Silently 14 Disguise 9 Feats Climb 7 Open Locks 14 Read Lips 5
Silver Tongue, Devastating Backstab,
Ambidexterity, Uncanny Dodge, Acrobatic, Urban Stealth, [ Redacted ], Supremely Skilled, Identify
Escape Artist 12 Perform 14 Sense Motive 1 Forgery 8 Pick Pocket 14 Swim 7 Gather Information 12 Sleight of Hand 14 Use Rope 10 Hide 14 Tumble 10 Disable Device 10
The frown that was written across Dalthan’s lips grew steadily deeper the longer the dark elf spoke. “Some of these things on here can’t be right. Even if they were, I’m more than just a list of words and numbers.” For the first time since they’d been introduced, there was a gleam of open defiance in the rogue’s eyes when he met her sparkling gaze.
“You are,” Belial immediately agreed, much to Dalthan’s relief. “All of us are more than a list of numbers. However,” she continued, gently trying to prod him toward acceptance, “the sheet is still a valuable tool. It can allow you to chart your growth and give you an idea of how challenging a chore will be before you accept it.”
Slightly mollified, the rogue moved on to the other questions he had. “And that’s how I raise this experience number? It says 0/2, so that means I need to complete two of these jobs? What happens then?”
The woman nodded, her white locks swaying alluringly with the motion. “That is broadly correct. Some chores are worth more than a single experience point. Others could award additional points depending on how exactly the mission plays out. Once you earn the required experience, you’ll move up a level. This will allow you to raise your attributes, improve your skills, or even develop a new feat. As you progress through your levels, your title will change and you’ll gain access to new chores on the higher floors of the Well of Sins.”
“And these chores are available on the wall over…there…”
Dalthan’s voice stuttered to a halt when he caught sight of a trio of figures that seemed to be engaged in casual conversation. One of them looked like a boulder that had somehow sprouted arms and legs made from the same coarse granite as its body. Beside it was a willowy woman with a bow strapped to her back that was nearly as tall as she was.
The two of them were talking to an old man in black robes that was wearing an entire jewelry shop’s worth of baubles and trinkets. When Dalthan saw him, the thief murmured a single word with such caustic venom that Belial arched one perfectly shaped brow in concern.
“Zaplixel.”