Commission.
"Is this it?" Neysea wrinkled her nose at the decrepit two storey building before her.
"It is," answered the man standing at the girl's side. Then added with a little incredulity, "Are you sure this is where you have to go? The Lords summoned you here?" He looked out of the corner of his eye at the girl, still wondering how she had managed to get herself so far without getting herself killed several times over. All that she had told him about her four and a half thousand mile journey was that she 'had assistance' along the way, any persistence on his part resulted in the girl becoming very quick tempered.
He had found her, or rather she had found him, wandering alone in the High Forest, seemingly lost.
Morning light filtered down through the thick canopy overhead. Birds chirped merrily to each other as the sun finally dragged itself completely out from behind the relative safety of the horizon.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Targon Crypthound drew back on the bow string. He sighted along the arrow shaft with the patience and precision that his mentor, Forrich Brimsteed, had taught him. Unaware of the impending flight of the deadly missile, the deer continued grazing on the lush greenery of the forest floor. The ranger held the breath and relaxed every muscle that was not needed for the kill, slowing his heart to diminish the movement and sound caused by the involuntary beating.
He smiled to himself, marvelling at the superiority the human race practised over other animal life. He knew that, even had the deer looked directly at him, he would not be sighted. His hunting garb harmonised with the forest around him as perfectly as any elf magic, the green-brown tunic and slightly darker pants had been shaded in areas to match the shadowed foliage. His hooded cloak of the same colour and pattern made him almost invisible from the rear and cast his face in shadow.
It also hid his hair, hair that he knew would cause him to stand out in a forest like a silver dragon among goblins. His straight, shoulder length hair had prematurely greyed from dark brown to almost white by the time he was thirteen. Nobody knew why this had occurred. Some thought it was a curse, others a blessing. To Targon it was just hair.
On two, his mouth soundlessly spoke the words he was thinking. One, two.
"Excuse me?" a female voice from behind him sent the arrow he had almost released careening over the head of the deer and into the bushes beyond. The animal immediately took flight into the undergrowth.
Holding perfectly still, Targon screwed up his face in anguish of the lost meals and wasted effort. He did not wish to reveal himself had the greeting not been directed at him. Footsteps approached behind him, the person responsible clumsily finding every dried twig in the forest. Targon felt a light tap on his shoulder and knew the words were for him.
"What?" Targon said harshly, whirling to face his irritant.
A young girl, perhaps not quite twenty summers old, stepped back a pace in surprise and fear. Her light blue short sleeved shirt and white breeches contrasted starkly with her darkened complexion and flawlessly black hair. She wore her hair tied back in a tail that fell down past her shoulders. Eyes almost as blue as her shirt looked rapidly from side to side and at Targon, searching for possible escape routes should one become necessary. A short sword was sheathed at her left hip and a heavy pack slung over her left shoulder. Her only other adornment was a slim golden band that passed around her head, just above her eyebrows. She looked uncomfortably warm, even standing in the shadowed forest and wearing such light attire.
The ranger knew that she was a long way from home.
Neysea Snowwolf. Targon spoke the name in his mind, as he had done often in the past days. The girl had asked him how much further Waterdeep was, saying that she was destined there but failing to name her mission. When he had informed her that it would take at least a week, if she knew where she was going, she had looked so defeated that he had agreed to accompany her.
During the eight day journey the two had shaped a friendship of sorts, the girl still refusing to divulge anything more than was necessary. Targon now knew that she had travelled 'with assistance' from Sundice, in the northern land of Sossal. Targon immediately understood her discomfort in the forest, a far cry from the bleak and frozen north. She had been summoned by the Lords of Waterdeep, though she claimed ignorance when asked why.
They now stood before the Walk Onn Inn, Neysea's ultimate destination and, to Targon, one of the tackiest sounding taverns along the Sword Coast.
"Are you sure you do not want to tell me what this is about?" Targon asked one last time.
"We will never find out if we stand in the street all morning," she answered, looking at the ranger and then back to the doors of the Inn.
"We? I thought they only wanted you."
"I have never even imagined a city of this size, without a guide I will likely be lost before I even reach those doors. Besides," she smiled as she remembered their meeting, "I owe you breakfast."
Targon smiled back and lead the way to the entrance. Opening the door he motioned Neysea to continue, entering close behind. They were both surprised at the interior of the inn. Though hardly worthy of a king, the proprietor had done a fine job of decorating, furnishing and generally keeping the place clean.
The large common room appeared to fill the entire lower level of the building, leaving only space for a long serving bench along the far wall. A door behind the bench allowed access to what Targon guessed, from the sounds of sizzling and shouting heard within, to be the kitchen.
Six round tables, each with six sitting places, fit easily within the confines of the common room, leaving space for two more tables-for-three along each wall to the left and right of the entrance. Uncharacteristically, no fire blazed anywhere within the room, which remained comfortably warm regardless.
Morning light sifted through several frosted glass windows that had been strategically placed along the only wall that faced a street. Other buildings prevented such convenience along the three remaining walls and so small oil lanterns had been hung over each table. A concave mirror above each lantern reflected light down upon the chairs below.
Despite comfortable seating for almost fifty patrons all of the tables were deserted save for one. Three guests had seated themselves at one of the larger tables, mid-distance between the bar and the door. All three wore long robes, one had pulled the hood over their head, shrouding their identity. The two that had revealed themselves were obviously elves, a male and a female, seated one each side of the hooded figure.
The female, seated to the left of the hooded person, had blonde hair that cascaded past her shoulders to an indistinguishable length, for it had been tucked into her robe. Targon surmised that she had recently worn her hood. A silver clip on each side of her head held the long strands away from her face and over her pointed ears. She appeared pale in the dim lighting of the room, accentuated by the deep red robe that covered all but her face and hands. The index finger of her right hand was decorated with a ring, but Targon could not make out any details.
To the right of the hooded figure sat the male elf. He had light brown hair, cut short to a few inches. A white robe rested lightly on the man's shoulders which, unlike his female counterpart, he allowed to fall low around his neck and folded high up his forearms. Targon could see a little of the black shirt that the elf wore beneath his robe.
Nothing more than the dark blue robe, trimmed in golden thread, could be ascertained about the figure seated between the elves.
They talked quietly amongst themselves until a serving girl approached with a tray. Sitting back, the three waited patiently for the girl to place a drink in front of each, recommencing their discussion after she had left.
"Welcome to the Walk Onn Inn!" a man boomed at the two newcomers from across the room. He was of average height and build, approaching middle age. Walking around from his position behind the bar, the man fixed his gaze on Neysea.
"You mus' be Neysea Snowwolf!" the man continued, his voice retaining its boisterousness though he now stood two feet from the couple. He then shifted his eyes to Targon, looking him up and down. "And Feonax the Conquerer? My, ya not quite what I 'spected!"
"I-I, my name is not Feonax the Conquerer," the ranger stammered, frowning at the innkeeper in confusion and wondering how he knew Neysea and claimed to know Targon himself.
"Is not?" the man turned his head and looked back to the three seated at the table. All three had fallen silent and now stared fixedly at the new arrivals.
"Let them in Borgash," commanded the hooded man, his deep voice betraying his gender. He waved Targon and Neysea to be seated. Neysea took hold of the ranger's hand and led him over to the table. They sat opposite the three current occupants, leaving a comfortable space between the two elves.
"Feonax will not be able to attend I am afraid," the hooded man said after Targon and Neysea had settled themselves, "he was proven unworthy."
"Unworthy? Unworthy for what?" Neysea said, squinting slightly in a futile attempt to see the man's face.
Targon, however was glancing sporadically at the two elves, trying to discover as much about each as possible. He noticed almost immediately that the male was in fact a half-elf. His ears were not quite pointed and his facial structure was more dense and less refined than that of the elves he had seen. He had brown eyes, matching almost exactly his hair colour.
The female was most definitely an elf however, with her light coloured hair, her smooth, cultured face and her violet, almond shaped eyes she could be little else. Her ring was a small gold band set with a single gemstone of an unfathomable purple, such as Targon had never seen before. His gaze caught in it, he wanted to reach out and touch it, look closely into it. Someone cleared their throat loudly and Targon looked at the elf, seeing her violet eyes burning into him. He quickly looked down at his own hands, his fingers wrung together on the table before him.
"What is your name?" the hooded man demanded with a raised voice, his head turned toward the ranger.
Targon's eyes flicked to the man's hooded face. Feeling like a chastised child, he answered, "Targon Crypthound."
"Crypthound," the deep voice repeated, his head bobbed once. Then the man slid a hand into the folds of his robe and produced a roll of parchment. He passed it to his right and the half-elf unrolled it. His brown eyes perused the missive quickly, his mouth moving slightly as he did so. Targon could not discern any of the words except the last, which was mouthed by the man slowly and concisely; Khelben.
Finished with the letter, he allowed it to roll back up and handed it across the table to Targon. Placing it on the table so that Neysea could also see it, Targon unrolled it and began to read.
Piergeiron,
I have investigated your concerns, my friend, and I am afraid the news is not good. More than that, it is maddening and frustrating. The signs of evil are clear, as you know, and growing. Before I left, I heard rumours of assassins in the city, by Tyr. In Waterdeep! I am not sure what to believe any more.
I have visited both Amn and Calimshan, these cities have given us trouble in the past. I suspected that our problems now might be their doing, but I find no evidence of it. My informants seem clear of this point at least. None have even heard of our elusive Xanathar. No, these traces of evil are not from outside Waterdeep, but from within... or perhaps below? My magics did detect the evil, but not its source. All of our attempts to find its cause have been for naught. The only thing that we have 'learned' is that the name Xanathar recurs with grave persistence. Where have we NOT looked, Paladinson my friend? Where is it the City Watch never patrol? Where would YOU hide from the Watch and the Lords of Waterdeep without leaving the area of the city? I can only think that we are overlooking something under our very noses.
I will return to the Council soon, my investigations here are clearly fruitless. But do not wait for me - hire adventurers as the other have suggested. They may not have our biases. Perhaps a new outlook will help.
Your trusted friend,
Khelben.
"There is great evil in our city and we now believe that it cowers in the sewer system," the man said after the elf woman had finished reading. "We have convened many times and it has been unanimously decided that action, of any kind, must be taken. Therefore, it has fallen to me to select a small band to navigate the sewer and find out once and for all if this 'Xanathar' is in fact hiding under the city."
The half-elf shot the hooded man a look of utter mortification, "You expect me to wallow around in the... excretions," he forced the word out, "of one hundred thousand people?"
"Nobody expects anything of you Falhnen," the man was unmoved by the outburst. "Furthermore, the Council has declined my suggestion that you be equipped from the city armoury. They have insisted that this is a fact-finding mission only and have left it to yourselves to find adequate trappings to aid in your search. Confrontations are to be dealt with at your own discretion, the Lords do not send you to eliminate Xanathar's entire entourage, if the man exists at all."
"What if we are all killed or maimed? Will the Lords accept responsibility and retrieve our bodies?" the elf woman calmly asked. She did not like the idea of death claiming her underground, in a sewer.
"In the event of your failure to return, the Lords will not send a rescue party. However, should we decide that others be dispatched to investigate, they will be informed of your demise and asked to return what they can," the cowled man stated simply.
"And what do we get if we do return, with or without proof of this Xanathar person?" Targon thought he had better find out a thing or two.
"The Lords have decided that, since this is primarily an information gathering expedition, that there will be no reward as such. No pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. However," he continued, determined to intercept any objections, "there is reputedly an ancient dwarven ruin constructed deep below the city. This ruin is said to be home to powerful artefacts and weapons. The Lords are also interested in confirming the existence of such a ruin, however your primary objective will be the discovery and, if possible, elimination of Xanathar. Your reward will be this; you will all be given free passage beneath the city and anything that you can carry back to the surface with you will be yours, by right of conquest. Be it gold, artefact or jewel," the man leaned back in his chair with his head facing Neysea, though none could see to whom his eyes were looking. "We are unsure of how deep Xanathar has constructed his nerve centre, nor what defences he has, so great caution is advised. We also do not know how long it will take you to find the answers we seek, although you should prepare for a few days at least." He paused again, awaited any further questions.
"Why us?" Falhnen asked simply.
"That, I fear, shall have to remain unknown to you. I only ask that you have faith in my choice, I have studied the three of you closely," he waved his hands casually, indicating the elf, the half-elf and human girl, "and have every confidence that you will return victorious. You have no doubt realised that Targon Crypthound was not amongst the four that I had chosen, though I feel now that he will be an even greater asset to the team than the Conquerer.
And now time grows short. I do not wish to hurry your decision, but I must return to the Council immediately. Do each of you accept this task that has been brought before you?"
Neysea looked at Targon and smiled nervously, obviously unsure of herself in the company of the strange people and in such strange circumstances. Targon looked from the elf to the half-elf, if he accepted the hooded man's, who he now assumed was one of the Lords of Waterdeep, proposal then he would be spending a long, intimate journey with each of them.
"I do," the elf woman said.
The half-elf seemed more chagrined about stomping around in the sewers than facing the prince of assassins. After brief moments in thought he eventually nodded his head, wordlessly stating his intention.
"Yes," Neysea's answer took Targon by surprise. He had not expected an affirmative response from the girl so quickly. She looked at the ranger and explained, "I have travelled this far, this is my destiny."
"Indeed," Targon said. "Very well, I too will accept the Lords' proposal."
"Excellent," the Lord sounded obviously delighted with the answers. He then continued formally, "Kathralanarshah Shallowtaint, Falhnen Greenwood, Neysea Snowwolf and Targon Crypthound, you are hereby commissioned into the service of the Lords and sovereign City of Waterdeep. You are to proceed into the sewer beneath Waterdeep on the morrow, your task will be to discover evidence of the criminal overlord named Xanathar and eliminate his influence if it is within your power. Any treasures or artefacts that you discover under the city are yours by right of conquest." He produced a second roll of parchment, "This is a formal document stating all that I have announced, if any loyal citizen of Waterdeep interferes with your progress, this letter of marque should persuade them to step aside." He passed the letter to Falhnen, the half-elf.
"Now, my friends, I must return to the Council. Borgash will show you to your rooms. I will send an aid to fetch you in the morning and he will lead you to one of the entrances that we believe Xanathar's assassins have been using. You had best spend what remains of this day in preparation and getting acquainted. Get as much rest as possible tonight, I can not imagine the sewer will allow many places to sleep."
Ancient, wrinkled hands held fast a crystal ball. Held it aloft, but did not touch it. The ball wavered gently between the hands, seemingly of its own will, but would have fallen to smash upon the majestic purple stones had the hands retreated.
In the centre of the perfectly clear sphere a scene was played out in miniature. The scene involved five figures; a cleric, a magic user, a warrior and a ranger accompanied by a retainer of the Lords of Waterdeep. The watcher observed the Lords' serviceman lead the four adventurers through the west gate of the city's perimeter wall.
"Master, they think they have found a solution," the soft glow sifting from the crystal ball could do little to banish the darkness obscuring the speaker's face.
"This is it," the Lords' guide, Arnold, announced once they had reached their destination. "This will lead you to the area we believe Xanathar has been inhabiting." He looked around briefly and, content that nobody was within earshot, continued, "Beware that the Plumber's Guild has not been active through this section of the sewer for some time now, activity in the past has created too much danger for the workers and the location had not been deemed vital enough to finance a sortie to clear it out. Of course we now suspect that the Thieves Guild may be responsible but time is short and it will take time to prepare for a thorough expedition. Take extra care."
A gaping entrance, seven feet high and six feet wide, had been constructed into the side of the retaining wall that prevented sections of the Dock Ward from slipping into Deepwater Harbour. A huge iron grate had been attached to the opening, supposedly to prevent free passage into and out of the sewer, though it now stood ajar. Raw sewage oozed slowly from the darkness beyond the grate, snaking its way through the surrounding rocks to mingle with the pounding waves of the sea.
"I do not think I will ever go swimming here again," the elf mage, Kathra, stated quietly.
"Historians are already marking this date," Arnold said conversationally as they approached the gate. "The Lords and City wish you good fortune and a safe and swift return. Godspeed and good luck friends."
Smiling a little nervously, the four explorers nodded a quick thank you.
"Well, no time like it," Targon said and started toward the sewer entrance. He was almost overpowered by the stench of the place before he had even reached the heavy iron grate.
"Oh I almost forgot," Arnold walked forwards. "Here, this will dampen the stench to a bearable level." He handed each party member a small package. "Crush it with your fingers and wipe a little under your nose. Unfortunately this is all that could be spared, it is not a common commodity. It does last for some time so you should not run out before a thorough search can be conducted."
Accepting the package, Falhnen unwrapped it. Immediately the sweet fragrance of mint assaulted his senses. Doing as the guide had suggested, the cleric was amazed at the difference that the mixture made. "What is it?" he asked curiously.
"It is probably better that you did not know," the man replied with a strange smile.
"Alright, let's get moving then," Targon, armed with a mint package of his own, struggled against the rusted hinges of the iron grate.
Taking one last look at the sky, Kathra followed her three new friends into the sewer.
"Well, this is not so bad," Falhnen said to himself, hitching his robe up so that it did not drag in the filth.
"Oh spare me," Kathra said as she moved past the half-elf, her own robe trailing behind her.
Suddenly a soft rumble sent small tremors through the floor on which they were standing.
"That's nice," Falhnen looked at Kathra. "I told you those eggs were bad."
"Silence heathen," the elf hissed, unamused.
Anything she was about to add was prevented by another rumble, louder and more forceful than the last.
"Maybe we should not be here," said Neysea, looking at the ceiling. A small stone chip flaked off and landed on her cheek.
"We have them," a voice croaked gleefully. The crystal ball wafted smoothly between wrinkled hands. The voice spoke again, softly this time. Spidery words of magic crawled from between parched lips. Evil words, words that caused all within earshot to imagine a thousand horrifying tortures and a thousand ghastly deaths.
Suddenly the voice was silent. Bringing his wasted hands toward his face, the wizard looked closely into the ball. A twisted, malevolent smile became apparent in the soft glow. The scene in the centre of the crystal had changed. Now four figures could be seen scurrying deeper into a sewer as tons of stone and rock crashed down around them.
Once the avalanche had settled the wizard gently guided the sphere onto a small golden stand. He stood with his hands resting on a large stone desk, hunched slightly from the exertion. "Their fate is sealed," he rasped.
Across the room behind the man, large, sharp fangs glinted in the darkness. Xanathar was pleased.