THEChanger
2012-12-22, 11:59 PM
There are many benefits to living in the city. Shops on every street corner. Water pumps every other. By the Nine, there are streets. For those who succeed in the city, it can be a paradise. Tubs lined with gold, grapes from vineyards far to the west, silken robes woven by elven hands far to the east, and power from the realms far above and far below. Yet, even for those who succeed, there is no rest in the city. Even the greatest among the citizens of Marid’s Fall are constantly on watch, and even now their schemes are in work.
In the Wildren District, in his gleaming mirror tower, the Guildmaster of the Masters of Avalon, the Ruin Chanter sits at his desk. Once, Marid’s Fall was his ruin. But mortals came, and rebuilt his home. And as they built it up, so they built him up. Now the Ruin Chanter was a being of the city, sure as any of the mortals who ran beneath his feet. A giant chessboard was laid out before him, and as the sun set beneath the horizon, the Ruin Chanter played a game with rules only he could comprehend.
Below the streets of the Smithy district, a council was being held. Nine dwarves, faces colder than iron, sat around a mighty stone table. At the head, a tenth figure, surrounded by a shroud of steam, pointed a single gauntleted finger at a newspaper which had been printed that morning by the gnomes of the Daily Gazette. Not a word was spoken, for no words were needed between these ancient beings of earth. They were almost as old as the Ruin Chanter, and twice as vindictive, and they would not take these offenses lightly. The traitor would be found, and the status quo would be enforced.
As the shadows of dusk lengthened, in the Butchers’ District, a man purchased a flank of beef. Coin was exchanged, as were pleasantries. A scene completely ordinary to an outsider, but anyone who knew the city well would note that the shop in question belonged to the Bloodletters’ Guild, who catered to the elven population of the city-who were restricted by religious law from eating the meat of plains animals. That, and the coins exchanged were certainly not gold.
In the center of the city, Portal Square, a solitary figure stood. Massive, encased in armor decorated with onyx and bronze but carrying no weapons, the gigantic man stared at the nearby clocktower. As the first bells began to toll, he stepped through an archway of bronze gears and brass pistons, but did not appear on the other side. Nearby, the man’s master nodded once, and returned to the simple quarters which housed the Ringwarden’s Guild.
This, as dusk fell over Marid’s Fall, the city.
Now enter Marid’s Fall, the prison.
For though a city has many benefits, there are costs that come with it as well. If you asked an average citizen of Marid’s Fall what their least favorite part of living there was, the answer one would inevitably receive over and over again is “How quickly things spread.”
News.
Poverty.
Plague.
Fire.
In the depths of the Elven Quarter, a dimly lit room hold hosts to a strange sort of party. The men and women attending wore clothing of varying states of disrepair and wealth. Elves all, the one thing their dress had in common was the masks. For each wore a mask stylized to represent the Forest, an ancient elven deity. And commanding the subtle attention of each party-goer was the pair standing deep in conversation-one in a crisp, three-piece suit, the other in a gown woven of ancient leaves.
By the Southern Gates of the city, a place known for the high amount of fiend-touched who live there, the clinking of chains could be heard. A line of ragged and starved mortals, maybe fifty of varying origin and culture, were being led through the dusky streets by a group of men with red-tinged skin. Each carrying a chain which in the fading light almost seemed to writhe on its own accord, the men directed their charges into a cemetery, and down the stairs of a deep mausoleum. There, in a room lit by molten metal, ancient rites were being conducted, and unholy words spoken. A pact of cold, rusting iron was being made, and for these men, nothing was stronger.
Between the Butcher’s District and the Milltown, by a mortal-fashioned river of blood and dye run-off, two former enemies met in secret. Two madmen, by the dying light of the holy day, sealed their contract in blood, drug, and steam. Though no formal agreement had been reached, two Families were rapidly approaching the day when they would become one, and for his part, Crazy Bob was most pleased.
In a much nicer part of town, the Three Stars Theatre had just finished the final performance of an old favorite, The Desert King and the Raven. Sophia Wood, reprising her seminal role as the Raven, had given what many would agree was one of the best performances of her career. For a select few however, this night was not so much about what Sophia did, as what she didn’t do. The message received, the two Aasimar quickly departed the theatre. When Sophia returned to her dressing room, she knew her duty was complete, by the single phoenix feather upon her vanity.
And, finally, as Marid’s Fall’s clocktower struck the final peal to signal seven in the evening, five associates met in an abandoned warehouse by the common docks, to begin the most dangerous, and possibly most profitable, venture any had been a part of to date.
Finally, the sun set. The jewel of the Confederacy of Blades slept. Yet that night’s activity had barely begun…
In the Wildren District, in his gleaming mirror tower, the Guildmaster of the Masters of Avalon, the Ruin Chanter sits at his desk. Once, Marid’s Fall was his ruin. But mortals came, and rebuilt his home. And as they built it up, so they built him up. Now the Ruin Chanter was a being of the city, sure as any of the mortals who ran beneath his feet. A giant chessboard was laid out before him, and as the sun set beneath the horizon, the Ruin Chanter played a game with rules only he could comprehend.
Below the streets of the Smithy district, a council was being held. Nine dwarves, faces colder than iron, sat around a mighty stone table. At the head, a tenth figure, surrounded by a shroud of steam, pointed a single gauntleted finger at a newspaper which had been printed that morning by the gnomes of the Daily Gazette. Not a word was spoken, for no words were needed between these ancient beings of earth. They were almost as old as the Ruin Chanter, and twice as vindictive, and they would not take these offenses lightly. The traitor would be found, and the status quo would be enforced.
As the shadows of dusk lengthened, in the Butchers’ District, a man purchased a flank of beef. Coin was exchanged, as were pleasantries. A scene completely ordinary to an outsider, but anyone who knew the city well would note that the shop in question belonged to the Bloodletters’ Guild, who catered to the elven population of the city-who were restricted by religious law from eating the meat of plains animals. That, and the coins exchanged were certainly not gold.
In the center of the city, Portal Square, a solitary figure stood. Massive, encased in armor decorated with onyx and bronze but carrying no weapons, the gigantic man stared at the nearby clocktower. As the first bells began to toll, he stepped through an archway of bronze gears and brass pistons, but did not appear on the other side. Nearby, the man’s master nodded once, and returned to the simple quarters which housed the Ringwarden’s Guild.
This, as dusk fell over Marid’s Fall, the city.
Now enter Marid’s Fall, the prison.
For though a city has many benefits, there are costs that come with it as well. If you asked an average citizen of Marid’s Fall what their least favorite part of living there was, the answer one would inevitably receive over and over again is “How quickly things spread.”
News.
Poverty.
Plague.
Fire.
In the depths of the Elven Quarter, a dimly lit room hold hosts to a strange sort of party. The men and women attending wore clothing of varying states of disrepair and wealth. Elves all, the one thing their dress had in common was the masks. For each wore a mask stylized to represent the Forest, an ancient elven deity. And commanding the subtle attention of each party-goer was the pair standing deep in conversation-one in a crisp, three-piece suit, the other in a gown woven of ancient leaves.
By the Southern Gates of the city, a place known for the high amount of fiend-touched who live there, the clinking of chains could be heard. A line of ragged and starved mortals, maybe fifty of varying origin and culture, were being led through the dusky streets by a group of men with red-tinged skin. Each carrying a chain which in the fading light almost seemed to writhe on its own accord, the men directed their charges into a cemetery, and down the stairs of a deep mausoleum. There, in a room lit by molten metal, ancient rites were being conducted, and unholy words spoken. A pact of cold, rusting iron was being made, and for these men, nothing was stronger.
Between the Butcher’s District and the Milltown, by a mortal-fashioned river of blood and dye run-off, two former enemies met in secret. Two madmen, by the dying light of the holy day, sealed their contract in blood, drug, and steam. Though no formal agreement had been reached, two Families were rapidly approaching the day when they would become one, and for his part, Crazy Bob was most pleased.
In a much nicer part of town, the Three Stars Theatre had just finished the final performance of an old favorite, The Desert King and the Raven. Sophia Wood, reprising her seminal role as the Raven, had given what many would agree was one of the best performances of her career. For a select few however, this night was not so much about what Sophia did, as what she didn’t do. The message received, the two Aasimar quickly departed the theatre. When Sophia returned to her dressing room, she knew her duty was complete, by the single phoenix feather upon her vanity.
And, finally, as Marid’s Fall’s clocktower struck the final peal to signal seven in the evening, five associates met in an abandoned warehouse by the common docks, to begin the most dangerous, and possibly most profitable, venture any had been a part of to date.
Finally, the sun set. The jewel of the Confederacy of Blades slept. Yet that night’s activity had barely begun…