“Yet another day at the Grit Pit. At least the coin for this fight seems promising.” Aetmir muttered under his breath, sitting on an uncomfortable terracotta bench in the dim holding room. The odor of old sweat mixed with the smoky scent of a smoldering incense stick in its sconce. Thick haze filled the air of the small chamber, only disturbed by his movements as he got ready for the arena.
Aetmir wrapped his hands with the blood-stained cloth provided by the Seared Seekers for the unarmed match, winding them tightly around his fists. Heavy footfalls swiftly clunked down the narrow hallway behind him. Strained and ragged breaths fought their way out of the man's throat as he spoke.
“Aetmir, I j-j-just wanted to warn you,” he stammered, “you're fighting Cobra!”
“Shit, you're kidding, right, Daren?” Aetmir's heart sank, a surge of dread spreading through his chest. “They set me up against that prick?”
The large man shook his head, a few beads of sweat fell from his balding head. Aetmir broke eye contact, his eye darting around the dimly lit chamber, searching for something—a weapon, anything—that might help him. Unless he was allowed to swing a torch sconce out in the pit, he decided that nothing in there would be of any use. Aetmir shrugged, muscles flexing in the low glow of a dying torch. He stared at the rusted iron door, appearing almost unbothered by the news.
“Its just another brawl, anyway. Besides,” he said, grimacing at the thought of his next words, “the bastard can't use his poisons here.”
The orange-encrusted, flake riddled door to his chamber swung open abruptly, throwing the metallic barricade into the wall just outside on a hinged trajectory. Aetmir shot a worried glance at the rotund man before stepping into the pit. Arcane lights flickered to life along the circular edge of the underground arena, casting shadows along the hardened clay walls. Their dim, blue glow betrayed the presence of the floor below them, illuminating a coarse, yellow sand littered with streaks of blood stains. There were four, evenly spaced cylindrical pillars made of polished sandstone that rose ten feet from the floor in the four cardinal directions. A cloaked and shadowy figure sat just beyond the light's radius, holding what looked to be a notebook and quill.
Aetmir's twin, spiral horns curled out through his long, black hair on either side of his head. Linseed polish made them gleam in the low light. His aged, off-gold scars were visible across his exposed torso, with several of them just barely peeking out from beneath his eyepatch concealing one of two bright, solid red eyes. Aetmir made the effort to stand straight as he walked, as if some unheard voice was scolding him for slouching. His stocky tail trailed behind him as he traced a narrow line in the sand with its spade-shaped tip.
The door on the eastern side of the arena creaked open as he found his place in the arena. A slender half-elvish man with dark, greased-back hair confidently slithered through the entryway. The man sported several winding, verdant tattoos that wrapped and snaked around his arms, covering most of his exposed skin. There, in the center of his chest, a brand of a vertical sword could be seen; the mark of the Seared Seekers’ mercenary group. He waved to the person looking down into the pit from the few seats littered about the top. A hoarse, sputtering cough emanating from the hooded figure was the only response to the otherwise friendly gesture.
The two men walked to the center of the dusty arena, nodding to each other with a mix of respect and venomous rivalry. Upon reaching the center, Cobra put a balled fist out in front of him, and Aetmir did the same. After a brief and sportsmanlike tap of knuckles, both men scraped back along the gritty floor roughly five feet, leaving an open streak in the sand where their open shoes had shifted. There was a pause that hung heavy in the humid, subterranean air as the two stared each other down. The faint drip of water hitting polished stone echoed from a distant corridor as the two stood, waiting.
“For the record,” Cobra hissed, his fists clenched, “if I beat you within an inch of your life, it's nothing personal, hellspawn.”
“Right, as if I'm about to lose to some defanged serpent,” Aetmir said as he pushed himself into a defensive stance.
From the shadowed seating, a low, haggard voice echoed down to the duo below.
“Begin!”
There was a brief hesitation. Cobra used it to close the gap, his movements a smear through the air. Aetmir thrust his hands up defensively and lowered his stance further, bracing for the initial strikes. Cobra's right hand shot out like a viper, barely missing Aetmir's stomach as he back-stepped. A rush of purple followed through the evasive maneuver with a heavy strike to his chest, forcing Cobra to stagger back. Aetmir taunted the half-elf, putting a palm out and curling his hand back twice.
“Is that the best you've got, honeyloaf?” Aetmir taunted, a smirk spreading across his face.
Cobra snarled at the provocation and darted towards him. The two fighters danced about the grit-filled floor, trading punches for elbows and kicks for knees. While Aetmir stayed relatively still, pivoting to block when needed, Cobra was a blur of motion around him. The half-elf eventually managed to land a few swift, keen blows on the infernal's gut which forced him to keel over. Cobra seized the moment, striking pressure points on Aetmir's exposed form with quick, precise jabs. His left arm fell limp to his side as he tracked Cobra's movement around him on the worn floor.
When he pushed himself back to his feet, Aetmir saw a tiny opening in the half-elf's snake-like defenses. Not one to pass on a golden opportunity, he used his good hand to clamp down on Cobra's shoulder, ripping him out of motion. The green whirlwind stopped in his iron grasp as he brought about a mighty headbutt. It connected true and the base of his horns cracked straight into Cobra's forehead. In his daze, the half-elf's wrist was grabbed. With a fluid, well-practiced motion, Aetmir swept Cobra's feet out from under him, sending him crashing into the sand. It was now or never.
Despite what must have been a concussion, Cobra twisted desperately, trying to break free from Aetmir's grip. Using both weight and momentum, Aetmir brought him into a spin and slammed him into the eastern stone pillar—back first. Cobra slumped over onto his side, holding his head on the sandy floor. A stream of crimson trailed across his face and brought the taste of hot iron to his lips as he tried to sit up. The familiar, gruff voice echoed down as Cobra struggled to rise.
“Stop. I've seen enough.”
As Aetmir collected his rewards at the guild hall's reception desk, a few of the more active members sneered and jeered at him. He knew why: he wasn't a member, and he made them look bad time and time again in the underground matches. Most of the mercenaries watching the hall's scryer during his match with Cobra had bet against him, and lost it all when his head collided with the serpentine half-elf's. Finally, the scarlet-skinned orcish teller broke the silence in the hall, sliding a heavy leather pouch across the counter.
“Here are your winnings. Sixty gold pieces, eighty-nine silver, and the copper—a surprise.” He gave a painfully forced smile. “Happy counting,” he grunted, exposing the tusks set in his lower jaw.
With this kind of coin, he thought, nodding silently to the hulking teller, I could set up somewhere nice and cozy for weeks!
After he collected his coins, he went down a flight of stone-hewn stairs to the guild's healer's ward. It took an extensive ritual from one of the less-than-busy healers and a majority of the day for his limb to recover. Finally exiting the Seeker's guild hall, pins and needles haunted his arm as he juggled the fist-sized coin purse. Despite this, he made his way through the streets of the city and headed to an all too familiar place: Slum Row in the Northern Quarter.
Run-down buildings stretched endlessly along the haggard road, street urchins clambering in and out of boarded up windows playing their dangerous game of Needle Tag. A distant “Ow!” could be heard as the next chaser was pricked with a sewing needle. Peddlers selling middling wares pushed their worn carts down cobbled pathways, calling out to the errant passersby. The chefs that never made it in the nicer parts of the city manned the occasional food stand, cooking on scraps of steel over open flames. The stench of gutter grime, tobacco spit, and burnt rust swirled feverishly around him with every step. Just like home.
While still fiddling with the sack of coin, he caught a slight movement from in a dark alleyway. When he remembered where he was, he quickly tucked the coin sack into his old, patchwork satchel. The dull clink of metallic coins emanated from the opening just before the dusty leather flap folded back over top. Still, he noticed the movement again a few alleys down. Someone was following him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as he kept up his guard and tried to ignore it, knowing damn well there was no help for him there.
Muggings, robberies, and beatings were a daily reality in this part of the city, and the Stains had long accepted it as a fact of life. The Wrought Watch rarely ventured into the poorer districts, believing the unwashed masses to be beneath them. Those that couldn't produce, provide, or protect at a guild-acceptable level all trickled down the social ladders, eventually sliding so far they end up in Slum Row. This was the grim reality of Stahlrest; if someone slipped through the cracks, they would be ground up by the ever-turning, well-oiled gears of progress. No one ever reached out a hand to help them, the Stains, for fear of getting caught in the machine themselves.
While these thoughts clouded his mind, his spade-tipped tail flicked anxiously at every notion of motion. After about the third time he caught the blur of movement from the alleys, it seemed to stop all together. Paranoia overtook him as he threw a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see some black-clad, cloaked thief brandishing a knife to his back. The streets, aside from the usual fare, were empty. The Sister Moons rose overhead, casting their bright white light across the dim streets. The artificial sun constructed in the center of Stahlrest was only so luminous, and its yellowish light barely reached this far.
“Damn, when was the last time I ate,” he groaned, holding one hand to his rumbling belly. I could have sworn the Roost was around here somewhere...
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another figure darting from the rooftops. A flicker of dark cloth danced in a narrow alley to his left. Swift, light footsteps echoed to his right soon after. Adrenaline pumping, he remembered where the pub was and who was still waiting for him. He turned left, then right, then right again, weaving through the thin, winding alleys of the crammed city. When he no longer heard the thieves' footsteps, he doubled back and hung a right. About two hundred feet down the street, a crooked sign dangled from a single chain: Rocky's Roost.
Aetmir stepped through the creaky wooden door of the run-down pub and was assaulted by the sweltering aroma of stale beer, old vomit, and roasting meat. He blinked against the warm, uninviting air as he took in the nearly vacant room. Only three patrons were in the pub at the moment. He knew night had already swallowed the streets outside, and it wasn't unusual for the Roost to be quiet at this hour, but something still felt off.
To his left, an old and haggard gnomish fellow was nursing a near-empty mug of something frothy by the smoldering fireplace. Several empty, overturned wooden mugs lay scattered around his crooked stool. On his right, a tired dwarvish woman sat on her own and picked at a half-eaten plate of various grilled vegetables. The last individual was a dark skinned human man who sat alone at the back, studying a weathered tome. Typical Esorin—reading at a pub instead of eating or drinking.
Aetmir shook his head at the sight of Esorin hunched over in his embellished, light blue Wissian robes. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst this motley crowd, not because he looked like a well-learned mage, but because he was the cleanest person there. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who thought so. The drunken gnome broke out of his stupor in occasional bursts of clarity to stare at Esorin, probably hoping to find where the mage was keeping his coin purse within his robes.
Every step he took brought a peeling crackle as his leather boots stuck to the sticky grime coating the floorboards. Behind the bar, on the far side of the room, stood Rocky, an older bird-folk with brown mottled feathers. His taloned digits were wrapped in a ruined cloth while he cleaned a dirty mug when Aetmir came to rest on a vacant stool in front of him. Aetmir produced the metal laden pouch from his satchel and set it down on the bar. The unmistakable jingle of coins chimed as it came to rest.
“Ah, what's this?” the aged avian cooed. “Finally paying off your tab, Eight?”
“Something like that,” Aetmir said, grinning as he untied the pouch. “For you, old friend, a whole Sol!”
He took out a small, round, golden coin with a square punched out of its center. He placed it on the counter and slid it across the stained, moldering wood of the bar top. The few haggard eyes in the room lit up at the mention of gold. Rocky, not missing a beat, set down the grimy wooden mug and snatched up the coin in a single, fluid motion. He held it up to his bright yellow eyes, inspecting it closely as if expecting it to be counterfeit.
“Aw, come on, Rock. Its real this time, I swear!” Aetmir said, putting up his hands defensively. “Got it from the Seekers—you can ask em' yourself if you don't believe me. You know they don't screw around with coin like that.”
The bird-folk flipped the coin around in his hands and it glittered in the dim light of the candelabras littered about the tavern. His pupils traced the central square hole, scanning it for nicks and cracks. Rocky scraped the coin's ridged edge, checking for signs of tampering. After what felt like an eternity, his eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of the small golden coin resting in his palm.
“Don't forget, Eight, you still have another seven silver racked up behind this,” he squawked, pocketing the now-forfeit money.
“I know, I know, Rock. Will that hold you over till' I can get the rest?” Aetmir asked.
“Fine, but only because you're my favorite street rat. Now, what're you having?” Rocky asked as he leaned against the counter on feathered arms.
Aetmir didn't dwell long on his answer. Images of golden, crispy-fried murkfish with lemon floated through his mind. The phantom scent of roasted potatoes with herbs and a knob of butter filled his nose. Memories of their savory flavors danced across his tongue and he began to salivate at the very thought of good, hot food.
“I want your fried murkfish and potatoes, and I think ‘Sorin would appreciate whatever meat you've got back there smothered in onion gravy.” He paused and grinned at the bird-folk. “Add it all to my running tab, would you, Rock?”
Aetmir patted the bar twice and stood up from the uncomfortable stool. He walked to the very back of the Roost towards Esorin; the mage he had met roughly two years prior. The gnome's sight drifted from the crackling fire towards Aetmir as he moved, and he calculated how to snatch Aetmir's load of coins to use for his next drink. Aetmir ignored him, and promptly plopped down on the cushioned seat opposite Esorin. The mage didn't even check up from his book at the disturbance.
“Evening, out-of-town wizard,” Aetmir leaned onto the wobbly table and tilted his horned head to one side. “You seem lost, need me to point you back to where you came?”
“Ha ha, very funny, hellspawn. I could say the same thing,” Esorin closed the bulky tome in front of him, pushing it aside. “While you were out collecting bruises, I believe I found the information you've been looking for, despite the description of the event being vague.”
Esorin reached out beside him and a thin, wire-like line appeared in the air. His hand disappeared when it moved past the barrier and he continued to reach. A moment passed and, from the disturbance in the air, Esorin produced a scroll that was tightly bound in its center with twine. The mage held the scroll out to Aetmir across the table, letting him take it. Aetmir turned it about in his hands, examining the exterior. Stains and tears lined the exposed edges of the document. Great, an old dusty document—just what I needed after a beating.
“You know that those are meant to be opened and read, right? Take one too many to the head, Eight?” Esorin grinned.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn't,” Aetmir shrugged, undoing the twine binding. “Let's see what this thing says, shall we?”
Dust puffed from the old parchment as Aetmir unrolled it. Silver filigree lined the interior edges of the paper and, coincidentally, the rips and tears at the edges of the scroll stopped there. Aetmir scanned the first few lines of the scroll and looked back up at Esorin with a look of confusion. The mage smirked, extending a hand as a light blue mote of arcane energy left his finger tips. Spectral bifocals appeared on the end of Aetmir's nose shortly after, sparkling in front of his vision.
Words on the paper moved into place, forming themselves in a language Aetmir actually understood. As he read through the aged document, the door to the tavern lightly swung open. A moment later, Rocky delivered the food Aetmir had ordered to their table. The avian unloaded the tray, leaving a trail of wonderful aromas behind him when he turned to face the newcomer.
“Just a moment, miss. I'll be right with you,” he squawked, pushing through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
Quiet footsteps brought a familiar crackling as the woman moved across the room towards the colorful pair in the back. Wide-eyed, Aetmir looked up at Esorin over the mounds of meat when he finished reading the scroll. His good eye sparkled in time with the enchantment behind the ethereal glasses. Thoughts ran through Aetmir's head as his mouth moved to form words but none came out. Esorin nodded towards the approaching woman, prompting Aetmir to glance back.
Dark leather armor covered the majority of her body, with even darker cloth beneath it. Daggers were sheathed in a bandolier across her chest, numbering four in total. A long, thin rapier rested in an ornate scabbard on her right hip and it swayed with every step. From beneath a shadowy cowl and silver-hued bangs, her gray, focused eyes stared down at Aetmir. He met her gaze and froze, recognizing a woman he hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime. Another lifetime of silence passed before she finally whispered, disbelief evident on her face.
