He felt them. Their stares. He felt their hesitation. Their fear. But it was not as large as their greed. He could tell what they wanted. Dalchiel knew: money. A few gold pieces was well worth it for one person, if they called tieflings people. "100 gp per tiefling brought to the Kamdel Guard."
The tiefling on the poster was not Dalchiel, but all tieflings looked the same to racists. He had a swig or two of cider left in his cup. He drank the last of it and set the cup on the counter. "More?" Said the bartender nervously. Dalchiel shook his head. The bartender nodded and went back to cleaning the cup he'd been cleaning for the past 5 minutes.
"So… you enjoy your drink? You done now, devil?" The voice came from behind him.
Not surprising, but definitely not pleasant. He heard footsteps following the jibe. Three, no, four men walked up to him. Three of them rested their hands on their weapons, two shortswords and an axe. The last was cockier, resting a hand on Dalchiel's shoulder.
"Get him another. He'll need it for the ride."
"I don't think I'll make it. My dearest apologies," he said, without turning his head. He stopped the bartender from pouring him another glass.
"Oh ho, don't think you'll make it, ye say? Don't worry, we got a seat on the cart just for ye. Come along now." He grabbed Dalchiel's arm only to get shoved away.
"Leave him alone. The man just wants peace."
This was new. Dalchiel was not used to a 3rd party, aside from bystanders. He looked at the owner of the voice. An elf woman, perhaps an inch or two shorter than himself, was seated at the stool next to him. A long swath of red hair cascaded down her shoulders to her mid back, covering the bow resting there. She wore an annoyed expression and held a drink in her right hand. The left she used to shove the Devil Trapper, as they were called.
"Well, well. If it isn't the lady in the paper." He held up a different poster.
"150 gp for the capture of this woman. Deliver to the Kamdel Guard ALIVE."
She did look familiar.
It showed her image above the words. She cursed and turned back to the bar.
"Oh no, you aren't getting off that easily. We've already got 100 gp right here, we aren't about to pass up an extra 150."
He grabbed her shoulder. Big mistake. She lashed out with a dagger and removed his hand from his arm. He cried and collapsed to the floor, weeping.
The three others behind him now unsheathed their weapons, causing the bartender to grow pale and crouch behind the counter. Dalchiel knew that he couldn't sit any longer, but he really didn't want to get up. He made a decision, however, when the man with the axe swung at him.
He darted to the side, causing the axe to embed itself in the ale-stained counter. One of the sword wielders lunged at him, aiming at his chest. The blade didn't meet him, as he parried the strike with his rapier. He followed up with thrust of his other hand, creating a magical flame, scorching his opponent.
The elf was engaged in her own fight, but she had already won. The last man capable of fighting swung toward her neck, but was quickly dispatched when she went low and gave him a gash across his inner thigh. He quickly crumpled and cried.
The axe man decided to abandon his weapon for a dagger. Being the last man standing, he was at a disadvantage. The elf woman drove her dagger into his back while Dalchiel slashed his rapier across his neck, ending the fight.
Dalchiel heard the bartender whimper behind the counter. He sighed and set 20 gp on the counter. "Sorry for the mess." That was all he said as he walked out of the tavern.
It was night time, about 11 or so, and raining.
He noticed the iron wagon the Trappers would have put him in. Inside, there was a middle aged tiefling woman. She shivered as her clothes were soaked from the water leaking through the roof. Dalchiel looked around, hoping not to see any guardsmen or Trappers nearby.
Luckily, there weren't.
He summoned a flame and threw it at the lock on the cage. The lock blew apart, the sound startling the woman awake. She jumped and moved herself as close to the wall as she could, not registering for a moment what was happening.
"You're free now. Be careful." Dalchiel said, and then walked off. He heard her exit the wagon a few seconds later.
He turned to go down an alleyway, but stopped as soon as he saw a figure waiting for him. Although humans couldn't see in the dark, tieflings were able to do so. He quickly recognized the figure as the elf woman from inside the tavern.
"A thanks would have been nice." She called from down the alley.
"I didn't ask for your help." He replied.
"Yet I helped you out anyway."
"Will you demand payment for your services next?" He sarcastically asked.
"Not a bad idea, but no."
He read her, noting that her hand was not on her bow nor her blade. He walked toward her, not much caring for her delaying him. As he tried to pass her, she thrust out her arm, blocking his way.
"Okay, then what is it you wanted?" He asked after a moment of silence.
"That's better." She left her arm fall. "You're a magic wielder. For hire?"
He shook his head. "No. I am not looking for work."
"Not even for a good cause?"
He paused and looked at her again. He took note of the situation. He did not know this person. She was not of his blood nor was she anyone he knew. She did, however, seem to treat him like a person, unlike the majority of the population, which treated him with less dignity than sod.
"What cause?" He finally asked.
She turned to face him and straightened a bit. "You know of the Warich Bank and Loan, yes?"
He then recalled who this woman was. "I am not robbing the bank." And started to walk away.
"Think of how many people that place, those rats, have put into debt. Think of those who died because they could no longer buy bread. They call in their debts, knowing full well that those souls will lose everything they own. You know it's right to take from them."
He continued walking. Dalchiel was not about to put himself on the line when he didn't need to. He left her standing in the alley and made his way home.
He closed the door, letting an invisible weight fall off his shoulders. Immediately, Dalchiel felt better. He could smell the incense, slightly heavy in the air. The arches went high above his head. They normally made people feel insignificant, but Dalchiel always felt comforted underneath them.
The temple of Helm. The only one for a few miles.
He walked through the halls until he reached the door leading to his room. He didn't go in, not just yet. He, instead, walked to the right and went into a doorless room. The room was carpeted with vibrant reds and yellows, no cold colors. Sitting cross-legged in the center was a rather small man, aged about 70. He had very little hair left on his head and looked frail. Despite this, Dalchiel knew that this man, Menou, had never contracted any disease. No common cold nor fatal illness.
"How was your walk?" Menou piped up after several moments.
Dalchiel shrugged. "Rather uneventful, for once."
"Schrine. You're lying."
Schrine was a word from another long lost human language that, Dalchiel deduced years ago, meant a bluff call.
"How would you know what happens when I walk?" Dalchiel asked, already knowing the answer.
"I am a seer. It's my job."
"Then what happened?"
"Why would you need to know? You walked that path already."
Dalchiel chuckled a little, and turned to leave.
"You wouldn't happen to be thinking about joining her, would you?" Menou asked.
Dalchiel stopped and pondered for a moment. This was a new question. One he had not expected. If anything, Dalchiel had half expected Menou to say his choice was right, if his choice were even brought up at all.
"No." He blatantly stated, and left for his room.
Very modestly furnished, Dalchiel's room was not much bigger than a closet. However, it was all he wanted. Along one wall was his bed, just big enough for him. He had a small dresser tucked along another wall, with an unlit candle, a small book of holy text, and a vial of holy water. The last wall left barely enough room for a desk, but that's what was there. On top was an ink well with a quill and a few blank sheets of parchment.
Very modestly furnished.
Dalchiel slumped onto the bed, exhausted from the day. While his walk wasn't uneventful, his day was. He had done nothing earlier except leave for food, complete a few odd jobs (which hardly earned him one gold piece), and prayed. That was when he left for the tavern. Generally, Dalchiel drank no intoxicating beverages aside from wine, but even then very little. However, he felt that today was a day for hard cider. He decided that he would not return to that tavern for a while if he could help it.
He reached under his pillow, practically a sack filled with straw, and pulled out a paper cache holding the one talisman he dared to keep: a necklace. It was comprised of silver links, not even half a centimeter across each, and adorned with what many would mistake for a ruby. In fact, it was actually a spinel. He held it up, gazing at the gemstone as it slowly turned right, then left. He wrapped it back in the paper which concealed it and tucked it away again.
He didn't remember how he got it. Just that he had it. It had been with him before he was offered the sanctuary of the temple. It had been with him during his time in the streets. It had been with him when he lived in the sewer system. It had never not been with him, as far as he remembered.
He sat up, went to the dresser, and grabbed the book, although he barely needed to walk to do so. He opened it to where he had left off. He had been reading on divine protection, as was his god's specialty. He had recently passed through the determination for protection and was now reading about the process itself. It was generally a hard read for common folk, but clerics were taught to understand the multitude of religious texts, phrases, and miracles.
He read for a while, ignorant to the world. Just letting himself enter the pages of the book. After a while, he set it back on the dresser, laid down, and allowed himself to drift off.
He felt heat. Burning. He smelled it. The scent of wood, straw, flesh. He opened his eyes, greeted by the ruins of some street he could no longer recognize. He saw the cobbles littered with debri and viscera alike. It was night, but bright from the flames. Dalchiel looked about for some sign of life, but found only the remains of those who once were.
He heard it… breathing. He turned to face the sound, rushing over to the wreckage. As he went to move the scorched boards aside from the source, he felt something. Something wrong… something that shouldn't exist here. He noticed how deep the breaths were. How heavy the lungs sounded. He stepped back a few paces.
I can feel you.
It reverberated in his skull. It felt like hot iron pressed against his mind.
But you aren't here, are you?
He couldn't stand. His legs suddenly didn't work and he fell to the stones.
I can feel you, Devil-spawn.
The rubble shifted, shuddered, then started to fall away as the creature beneath it rose. At its height, it stood at about 8 feet. Its arms and legs were rippled with muscles and its hands had only meaty 3 fingers. The eyes were an ugly yellow, glowing slightly beneath a ridge of spikes running along its face. The spikes continued down its back, contributing to the intimidating presence it exuded alongside a truly horrid stench. It almost resembled a large, malformed toad.
Perhaps you could be useful. It commented as it brushed a severed human arm from its shoulder. You know my kind. You could be useful to my master.
Dalchiel felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn't think straight, the odor and the aura of the beast overpowering him. He saw blackness covering the edges of his sight, approaching the center.
We shall meet again, Ulathovil. The fiend said as Dalchiel fell away from the scene.
Hey guys. This isn't actually my campaign, but just an original idea for a story following the general sword-and-sorcery nature of D&D. Trying to incorporate a little bit of mystery into it. Those of you who play D&D, little question for you: Favorite playable race and why? Anyways, thanks for reading. Questions and comments are always appreciated. Thanks and until next time,
Bye!
Andre (3/4/20)