Osric shook his head as he entered the tavern. 'This is foolishness,' he thought to himself, 'what use could a couple of vagabonds bein our journey?' But the dwarf had insisted, and he was the one with the gold. Now where could they be?
He glanced around the room. One side of the room held a small stage for the use of bards and other entertainers. A lightly bearded man dressed in dark silks stood on the shadowy stage, an unbound rapier on his belt. He held the focus of the entirety of the inn's occupants, and appeared to be preparing a speech. Osric scowled at the man and approached the barkeep, intent on getting information about his quarry. As Osric began to speak to him, the barkeep flicked him a frightened glance and frantically motioned him to silence. Rolling his eyes, Osric returned his attention to the stage. Moments later, accompanied by an overly dramatic flourish, the man in black began his tale.
As the narrator begins to speak, an owl hoots from the rafters and an image of an old man materializes. Throughout the performance the shadows shift to resemble the various actors and scenes.
"All in Brineshore know of Abner the Elder, head and founder of one of the city's prominent merchant houses. Born on the wharves of Brineshore to a sailor's impoverished widow, the sea itself was his father. He took his first steps on a rolling deck, and could sense a storm hours before even the oldest bones began to itch. He gained his first captaincy after having seen only a score and four winters, and six later would find him heading his own merchant fleet. The rising demand of leadership would cause him to settle once more in Brineshore, where he married a minor baron's daughter. Their son, Abner the Younger, catalyst of the forthcoming events, would be born a year later. In the coming years Abner's influence in the city would rise, gaining prominence in the merchant's guild and noble circles alike. He would not forget his origins, and his continuous contributions to the improvement of the harbor district would see a rise in wealth and integrity of the working classes.
A quick jump forward through history. Brineshore, roughly a decade prior to the telling of this tale. An unwelcomed stowaway arrives on an illicit trade ship from the far west, slipping through the checks in place on palms greased with noble gold. Plague strikes Brineshore. Death's harvest is bountiful in the harbor district, leaving orphans to wander the streets, and Abner to mourn the loss of his wife. Spurred by the tragedy, Abner redoubles his efforts against the poverty in the streets, founding orphanages and importing foodstuffs, curbing the devastation. Two newly orphaned youths catch his eye, similar in age to his now teenage son. Wild, half-starved rascals that remind him of his younger days. He removes them from their life of food-scrounging and gang violence, giving them to the care of the monks at Darkwood Abbey in hope that the strict discipline would temper their spirits. The two would become fast friends with the younger Abner, and it truly was his influence that would prevent them from regressing to their wilder origins.
Such good deeds however do not go unpunished. The honor of a man can only be matched by ruthlessness of his enemies. Lord Cerdonte, patriarch of the Heriont family, had amassed a great deal of wealth by using his influence in the government to smuggle contraband goods. Abner's reforms of the harbor district begin to take a toll on his profits. Threatened also by Abner's ever rising popularity and strength of the lower classes, he begins to take action. Tariffs governing Abner & Co.'s primary trade-goods increase, responses are delayed to the fires that start springing up in the wooden harbor district. Nobles begin avoiding the Abners, the elder's influence with the powers governing the city wanes as he is cut off from his former allies. His many reforms for the well-being of the citizens are undone. Of course, there is no direct evidence Lord Cerdonte is responsible, he keeps his hands clean and his lackeys on a tight leash. Everyone knew who was responsible, and if you didn't you were probably paid not to. The ruin of Abner's house seems imminent.
Enter Abner the Younger, now a young man, still filled with a boy's brashness and sense of invincibility. He would put a stop to this jackal's machinations against his father; the powers of Honor and Justice were on his side, that vile man had no chance of succeeding. His father's attention fixed on averting disaster to his precious city, Abner is free to act as he pleases. He spurs the population to action, the people call curses down upon the Horient clan in the streets, the younger nobles flock to his cause, nothing but a game to them, a chance to thumb their noses at their elders, they spur him on. Powers finally converge, a young man blinded by righteous anger issues a challenge, the spider welcomes him into the web. A duel, Cerdonte's estate gardens, the time is set. First blood only, he was just a boy after all, this would put him in his place, or so Cerdonte said.
The night before the duel, the younger Abner is accosted in his rooms, the brutes beat him, taking care to leave no obvious signs on his face, and making sure to injure his sword arm. They escape into the night as the alarm is raised. Abner refuses to forfeit the duel, arriving at the gardens armed and ready. It is a fast affair, a few testing advances, then a viper quick strike from Cerdonte pierces Abner's gut, the boy's parry slowed by the weight of his injuries. The killing blow was an accident of course, a feint he was expecting the boy to parry handily, the youth was in prime shape was he not? A most unfortunate calamity, no charges are made. Cerdonte claims Abner's rapier, the work of a master smith in a distant land - a gift from father to son celebrating the ascent to manhood, as his prize. The elder Abner buries the younger at the monastery, witnessed by his foster sons, the only family left to him. An old and broken man, he gives the remains of his wealth to the monks, and they welcome him into their order. The next morning the two young monks cannot be found in the monastery. Abner and the abbot alike fear for their safety, not even the monks' training had fully tamed their wild spirit.
Days later, Lord Cerdonte has thrown a garden party. No reason given for such a grand fete, but those invited were in the know. A rich table is laid out on the site of the duel, laden with delicacies of distant lands; praise is showered on Cerdonte for this magnificent display of his wealth and power. As the guests finish gorging themselves, Cerdonte stands for a speech, hand on the hilt of his prize, deliberately drawing eyes to the sight of his recent victory. He raises his glass, opening his mouth to -
A sudden commotion. A shadowy figure forms opposite the shocked lord. While the features are somewhat indistinct, it is recognizable by all as the young Abner. He stands as he did in life, bold, cocky even, a wry grin on his face. But his eyes are that of nightmare as he thrusts an accusatory finger at Cerdonte, whose face is wroth with anger at this invasion of his seat of power. A man strides from the shadows behind the ghostly figure, clad in black silks of the same cut and style of the apparition, his face hooded. A clear voice carries from him, its tone hints of a cold anger barely controlled, a cacophony of eerie voices rising from the dim as he speaks.
'The shadows witness as darkness defiles the light,
The merchant knows every action has a cost, for every deed the price will be paid,
The shadows' voices rise in memory of the light,'
He walks into the apparition and halts in the same pose as it dissolves into him, the voices reach an ear pounding crescendo, but still his words cut through them.
'Hear them howl, blood for blood, they demand life's ultimate currency.'
The pointed hand is upturned as the man haughtily beckons the lord, lowering into a dueling stance. Anger clouds the face of Cerdonte; his fury rides unchecked across his features. Realizing all eyes are upon him, he reigns it in. A cold smile, he laughs, condemning the scene as a farce. He would unveil this so-called phantom avenger as a fraud before all present. The fool had no weapon, did it expect him to arm it? He draws his sword and motions for his opponent to prepare himself. The hooded man chuckles in response, and with a light step he is at the table, brandishing an exquisitely jeweled spoon.
'Your own avarice shall suit me fine. Come, let us complete our transaction.'
Roaring, Cerdonte charges the mocking figure, who awaits him at ease, as if unmindful of the apparent peril. The fine rapier reaches within an inch of the figure's chest, the same thrust that pierced Abner, an instant later it falls from Cerdonte's hand. The man is in Cerdonte's shadow, jamming a spoon into his sword arm. The rapier is nimbly plucked from its descent and pressed to Cerdonte's throat as he is forced to the ground. The man pulls up on Cerdonte's exquisitely curled braids, directing his vision on the estate house. Fires lick the building, the flames piercing the sky, shrieks arise from the few women who have yet to feint.
'The debt is paid', the man whispers. A few quick flicks of the rapier leave bloody lines across Cerdonte's face. 'Signed', a final dart of the rapier across the noble's left eye, 'and sealed'. The man stands and strides back into the shadows, sheathing the rapier. Cerdonte's guards, too frightened to have approached earlier, rush to their lord, clearing the blood from his face. Clearly marked by the rapier's kiss reads the rune 'vengeance'. So ends my tale"
Scattered, unsure applause rose from the audience. The narrator grinned and bowed theatrically.
'And now I shall tell of the blood of dragons-'
'Ay, I've heard enough of this bollocks,' a drunken, hulking, barbarian grumbled loudly as he shambled to his feet, 'I dunno why ev'ry' one's so afraid of yeh, but I've had-'
A scorching ray of fire lanced from a side table, searing a hole in the drunk's table, who jumped back in shock. A bark of laughter issued from the shadowy corner.
The narrator sighed, 'Morris, what'd I tell you about harming the audience?'
'I didn't hit him…'
'You should have! He insulted your acting, the uncouth swine!'
'I believe it was your narration he -'
'Why you', the drunk growled, as he picked up his stool and marched towards the stage.
The narrator held out his hands entreatingly, 'Admittedly, it's more puppeteering, but I'm sure this could be resolved all civil like if we-'
As the drunk attempted to ascend the stage, the narrator's fist lashed out at blinding speed, knocking the barbarian to the floor, out cold.
As the drunkard's back hit the floorboards the city guard entered the tavern, drawn by the commotion.
'Well, guess the shows over, play us out will you?' The narrator remarked to his companion.
At his words a cacophony of unseen voices erupted around the tavern, startling the occupants. The room filled with a heavy mist, obscuring the scene. In the ensuing confusion the duo disappeared from sight.
Osric sighed. Why schedule a meeting if you're just going to disappear before it starts? Ah well, at least I can have another drink while I'm here. He pushed his way through the commotion to the bar. Reaching for his belt pouch, he felt a note tucked into his waistband, eliciting another sigh. What now? Southern Gate, no weapons? Why do I go through with this… He shrugged and left the tavern with a slight smile. Maybe the dwarf would pay double.