untitled David Smith project

Art by https://www.instagram.com/hylesgallii/  

Grant wiped some of the blood from last night off the counter. He grunted but didn't make much of an effort. It more than likely wouldn't be too long before some asshole Paladin would get holier than thou over a perceived moral sin, one of the Rogue's dice players would be accused, rightfully or wrongly, of cheating or some poor sap would look wrong at the half-orc sat in the corner. Or just look at her full stop. And then the brawl would begin.

The Elf Tavern was a known Delver's pub which had it's advantages for sure. They had little concept of local economies so you could massively over charge for cheap watered down pissbeer. Many had more coin than sense. Half of them could settle down to a life of luxury if they weren't so punch drunk, always looking for the next fight, the next evil dragon, sorceror, vizier, bandit King or whatever was in their bonnet this time. The other half of course would not make it that far, the permanent death that hangs over them means they are freely generous with any money they do have.

And besides, every now and again they save the world, if the tales they tell everybody are true.

With the adventurer's would come hangers on. Archivists, scribes, historians, they wouldn't dream of daring tombs or dungeons but always hankered for any knowledge gleamed within. And that meant buying expensive drinks for whichever barbarian they wanted to question.

Some of these glorified thugs gain celebrity, or notoriety at least, so fanatics, groupies, sometimes rivals (more fights, ugh) would want to see or be seen. And that all meant more pennies in the pot. More than made up for the cost of replacing a few broken stools and tables every so often. His brother ran the local carpenters so he got a good deal on furniture anyway.

It wasn't especially busy right now. A wizened old man sat by the fire despite it not being particularly cold. There was almost always a wizened old man. Dungeon delvers, adventurers, fortune seekers, glory hunters, they all seemed to flock to an old geezer in robes. Grant occasionally would hire someone to fill in that position to keep customers coming. Paying some mummer a few pence to tell anybody who would listen long winded but ultimately hollow gossip about local crypts and strange goings on. But generally he didn't need to. He didn't think he had seen tonight's one in before but who could tell? They all wore dark grey form hiding frocks and had long white beards. The coot was on his own right now, but Grant didn't think it'd be too long before someone would approach him or vice versa.

One man who would not need to for sure was drinking a merry hell of liquor at the bar itself. Duke Bottomley-Smythe could certainly imbibe with the best of them. Grant recalled the last time the self appointed Duke was in, some months past, drinking a gang of Dwarves under the table. No mean feat. But tonight he sat alone, usually you couldn't shut the garrulous fool up, but he looked sullen and withdrawn. His eyes blank. Grant had seen that in Delvers before, too many friends lost to monsters, traps, and bad magic could turn you. He should really get out of the game but Grant knew the death wish fever was on him and had been doubling the price of shots given, knowing this was more than likely the last time Bottomley-Smythe would be seen here.

Someone else had taken notice of the faux Duke, sat a few stools away. A fanatic, grant could tell. He kept glancing across at the famous Delver and giggling to himself. Every now and again he would jot something in a little leather wrapped parchment pad he had. Before long he would get up the courage to talk to Bottomley-Smythe, but Grant considered intervening and letting the poor man have his grief alone.

A Halfling sat at a table with a woman. Grant knew her as one of the town's many whores. A substantial amount of the money he made came from renting rooms, little more than a bed and a door, for an hour a time. The Halfling had been talking to her for a while now and no money seemed to be changing hands. Perhaps he was a new hire learning the ropes. A magician rather than the trick. Either way, Grant didn't like him. He distrusted small people. Whether by virtue of race, age or breeding, shortness was bad news. They always felt they had something to prove. Troublemakers. He would keep an eye on this one.

The half-orc he had seen in here recently. Tended to nurse one drink all night. He'd kick her out but, well, half-orc. Best to leave alone. If anyone approached her she would not look out from the book she was pretending to read and ignore them. Didn't see much of her kind around, most people feared or hated them but Grant just wished she would buy more drinks.

The only group in tonight seemed like the usual reprobates. Clearly an Elf - probably a druid, a barbarian looking lass, some kind of magic user, a grizzled looking cleric of one God or another and a non-descript woman who seemed in charge. They were talking to a Scholar from the nearby University. Picking up some empties Grant overheard nonsense about mystical artifacts or runes of dread power, he learnt early on to fade all that shit out. Focus on coin for cup, dodging carelessly thrown chairs and making sure the rooms upstairs stayed at least somewhat stain free (he has standards). Leave the heroing to idiots and wankers.

Not that it mattered, for within a minute Grant would be dead.

Marmaduke Bottomley-Smythe should have been exceedingly happy right now. The delve into the deep pits of Krazx had gone about as smooth as any he had done. Krazx had been rumoured to hold the secret of immortal life or so the old sage had told him and his fellow adventurers. Truth be told Bottomley-Smythe didn't much care what was in there. It meant excitement. It meant being with Melissa and the others. Side by side, taking on the odds, vanquishing foes.

They had travelled far, Krazx was in a remote (aren't they all) part of the kingdom, deep within the Hujta mountain range. The trek was perilous but no more so than usual. Some hill goblins had set up camp outside the entrance to Krazx but his sword, Melissa's axe, Jon's bow, Grimes' magic bolts and Rek's stealth had done them in with little problems.

As he downed another shot and nodded at the barman he reflected on the unfortunate side effect of the magic that had imbude him with great fortitude had lessened the effect alcohol had. He wanted nothing more than to get royally fucked right now.

Krazx had proved such fun. A classic. Right from the start his careless step onto a slightly askew flagstone had nearly toppled him into a shaft filled with nasty looking stakes. Jon's attentiveness and quick reflexes grabbed him just in time - paying back for the goblins Marmaduke had heaved off him in the previous melee. And that was by no means the only trap to await them. A rolling boulder! A real life gosh darned rolling boulder trap. Melissa said she didn't know which of the crashing rock bearing down on them or Duke's laughter was the louder. She always knew how to make him smile.

There was a puzzle involving rotating statues and sliding walls that took them longer than perhaps it should. Grimes and Melissa got stuck away from the group for over an hour. Oh! If only he had seen it then. What a fool he was. But the dungeon had it's hooks in him as ever.

Marmaduke look around the tavern. He was fairly certain he had been here before though not one hundred per cent. These places all folded in to one after a while. He could tell you the exact hue of a wall in a delve he made years ago but cities and towns all blurred in his memory, even as he was in them.

A halfling seemed to be sharing some jape with a lovely looking lady. Her auburn hair reminded him of Melissa, even though her hair had been black for as long as he had known her. Everyone now reminded him of Melissa. The old guy by the fire looked just like the Wizard who had first given a quest to their merry band. The half orc was reading a book. Melissa loved books.

They had found a library deep within the pits of Krazx. Rek had little time nor patience for stuff that didnt shine but they spent some time looking through the shelves. Jon knew that some literature could be worth more than any bauble to the right person but unfortunately picked up the wrong tome causing a fireblast to scorch the entire room leaving nothing of worth but bronzing their skin and singing eyebrows. Melissa joked that knowledge sure could be dangerous and everyone should be more like Rek. How they laughed!

The secret to immortality turned out to be a bust of course. A necromancer had set up store deep in the bowels and after wading through skeletal hordes (“Not my idea of living forever” Melissa said) the party approached the evil Liche's lair. It went like clockwork. Grimes laid down a cloud of fog, disorientating the living acolytes the necromancer had gathered around him, Rek dispatched of many of them silently from behind, they never knew he was even there. The rest took on the Dead Lord and summararily dispatched him, Marmaduke getting the kill with a blade through the throat. Treasure was plentiful and the group headed back to civilisation with haste.

Marmaduke heard the high pitched giggle coming from his left again. A fanatic. Would that this was any other post adventure repose. He would be shouting the story from the roof tops making fools like the giggler hang on every word. But alas. As the group had got to town, Melissa had wanted a word. She and Grimes were getting married. And retiring! Jon and Rek had sorted out another adventuring company to join, some fellows from down south. They were all leaving Duke! How could they? Melissa invited him to the wedding but he wasn't sure if he would go.

Not that it mattered, for within a minute Marmaduke Bottomley-Smythe, known to most as Duke, would be dead.

Lycelle Argent walked into the tavern with Hugo. She met him at the Theatre where he had amused her with tales of seeing some of Detlef Sierk's works back in the day. As she came in Grant gave her a malicious smirk. She knew he thought her a prostitute and though some days she had considered it (her friend Jess plyed the trade) working as an actual dancing girl as opposed to a 'dancing girl' kept her busy enough and mostly in pocket. Occasionally she would drink in here with actors or writers, they would be looking for the next big story to adapt fresh from the Delver's mouths. She wasn't sure why the unusual Halfling had wanted to go in here but for a stranger seemed versed in it's history. Many assumed The Elf Tavern must be owned by one of the haughty race, or maybe it be a stop for those travelling from the nearby Yotor Forest, filled with their folk. Lycelle hadn't really thought about it but Hugo informed her it came from a corruption of Health tavern. Delvers back in the day would stop here to rest up, apply salves and ointments. That was still true to a large extent.

She hadn't really met any Halflings quite like him, most seemed shy or obsessed with food. Though she wasn't sure she had met anybody quite like him. He wore thick blacked rimmed glasses and it was only after talking to him for a while that she realised they were some kind of affectation, having no actual lens in. He was clearly quite intelligent, and well travelled, whilst giving an interesting critique of Sierk's last play he talked of the far off region it was set in as though he had been there. Lycelle had barely left the town. Once as a young child her mother had taken her to the next town over to see a Crown Prince pass by. She recalled bunting and streamers and everyone cheering but from her diminutive vantage she could just see legs and ground. As the day wore on it rained and the dirt beneath became muddy, the Crown Prince never even leaned out of the carriage and her lasting memory was of her pretty blue dress becoming ruined. It was the last thing her parents bought for her before they died.

There wasn't anyone in the tavern beyond Grant that she recognized, though she thought the piece of beefcake knocking back shots was probably famous. Certainly he seemed to have an admirer or two, though no-one was talking to him.

She had been in a couple of plays about Delvers, they often proved popular. Not her favourite things though. She normally ended up as a sprite or wood elf in the back ground of scenes where a regal looking Elf lady (just a human with wax pointy ears for the most part) imparted some great wisdom before the heroes set off to defeat blah, blah, blah. She prefered comedies. Delver Plays had some of course but it tended to be more of a knockabout, slapstick kind which could be hard to do well and she rarely saw it done well. She could dance an elegant, majestic piece enough to make you weep but timing a fall over a fake tree stump? Totally flustered her.

She was getting on with Hugo pretty well. He seemed genuinely interested in her life tale. She told him of the time after her parents had gone. Living on the street, performing self choreographed routines for loose pennies. She even told him of her less legal approaches to surviving. Well some of them, though she thought he had quite cannily perceived she was holding back at least he had the good graces to not push the issue. There was something just slightly off with him though. He seemed a touch on edge. He was attentive, and filled any silence in the conversation, but one eye (out of those lensless frames) seemed on the rest of the room.

Lycelle wasn't sure who he was looking at. The group of Delvers that had come in after them certainly seemed interesting. Maybe. They were talking to some nattily dressed clerk type. Although his bowtie clashed with the waistcoat he was wearing. The other side of the fire sat a man smoking a pipe. He was attired in almost mockingly cliched 'old wizard' garb. She was pretty sure she noted streaks of stage paint in the beard as if to make him look older. By the bar, opposite the fire and constantly glaring at Sullen Beefcake was a dorky looking fella. Still wearing his raincoat indoors. She had seen his type before, often hanging around the theatre if a Delver play was on and the Delvers in question were thought to be in attendance.

Hugo had chosen a table by the wall with the fireplace so she was perfectly situated to see the giant burst of flame shoot out from by the fire and engulf the room

Not that it mattered, for within a second Lycelle Argent would be writhing on the floor in massive pain wreathed by flame.

Norin was super psyched. Only Marmaduke Bottomley-bloody Smythe had just come in The Elf Tavern. He had missed 'the Duke' the last time he came to town and stupidhead Lara had been lording it over him that she got his auto before him. Duke was at least a twelve time-er. And if he was here that probably meant at least one more Delve complete. Most didn't survive beyond five and to collect something from a Double Digit Delver would be a coup for any fanatic. But it needed to be more than just a signature. He needed to rub it in Lara's smug face. Sometimes he felt solely defined by his hobby. He would spend his days at work dreaming of Delving or to be more accurate the Delvers. He had no interest in Delving himself. Why the very thought of his skinny, ungainly form trying to keep up with a Duke or Weldon or Axe-Biter made him laugh. Sure doing the books for a Kingdom wide Antiquities dealer was not precisely exciting (though it did tangentally relate to his past time as many of the curios and items of import passing through Salridge and Sons came from Delves) but it paid well and had significantly less chance of being crushed to death by moving wall traps.

Norin made notes of everything Duke wore, sketching little details as best he could. A triple D keepsake would wipe that smile right off. It seemed unlikely that Duke would offer anything up though. He looked as sour as the milk Norin had left out last week. That meant he would have to be sneaky. Last month he had managed to snip a lock of Clara Weldon's hair and that had only cost him one black eye. However he was still feeling that now, especially any time he looked at a bright light. No, this task would require more finesse. The scarf perhaps? How would he get it off? Maybe he could wait and see if Duke used a handkerchief that might be easier to pilfer without the Delver noticing straight away. Given how much drink he was putting away maybe he could just wait for Duke to fall over senseless, though if stories were to be believed (and stories are only there to be believed) that might take quite some time. He couldn't wait to flash up his find in front of the monthly meet up. So he had to be careful.

The bartender might have clocked him but everyone else seemed tied up in their own business. He thought he recognised the plain young lady sat with a halfling but couldn't place where. A party of delvers were also in, though none worthy of the attention of a Duke Bottomley-Smythe. They looked like one-ers or two-ers at best. The lady doing the talking (to a dapper looking gent) was the only one he thought had the bearing of a survivor, the others was dead meat walking, he'd put money on it. Norin made note of her description, thinking he would catch her name at some point this evening for his records. But she could wait. The Duke was in attendance.

What he really needed now was some kind of distraction.

The large fireball eminating from the back of the room was perfect.

Not that it mattered, for within a few seconds Norin Goldsmith would be dead.

Kans Johansson had been waiting impatiently for almost an hour before they arrived. The Delve group had contacted him through the University about findings they had made on a trip to the Desert wastelands. The Elf tavern had been empty save Bottomley-Smythe, with whom he had had dealings with before and an old wizard he didn't recognize. As he took a table towards the middle of the room the wizard moved from the doorway to next to the fire. Maybe he had brought a blast of cold air in with him on opening the door but it was quite a mild day out. He noted a stew pot burbling away above the fire but knew better than to trust the days old slop contained within. If he saw the wizard going for some he would try to surreptitiously warn him away, as long as Grant didn't see him and get angry for costing a pennies worth of profit.

Each time the door opened Kans composed himself, ready to deal with whatever ruffians he would be talking to today. The note had certainly intrigued him, if what it had hinted at in vague terms (never can be too careful with claim jumpers and ne'erdowells – the fight over antiquities and findings can be vicious) was even close to being true it could mean an expedition. An expedition in his name. Finally after a few false hopes (he didn't think the half-orc could have written the note but you never knew) a party of clearly Delvers tromped in and clocked him immediately.

There were five. An Elf clearly looking like some kind of nature wizard. She had woven vines of ivy through her clothes and carried only a dagger that he could see. She took a seat in a position that had the last of the sun shining onto. Another magic user sat beside her. A hooded robe covered him but he too may have Elf blood. He leaned heavily onto a knobbled staff. Holding the door as they came in and scanning the room for danger was a muscular human woman, a large broadsword slung over her back. Next though came a heavily armoured warrior of Peyton. Kans knew little of that particular religious order, one of many that seemed to spring up every day around protecting Delvers. He guessed the Gods might not be real but the powers of their acolytes sure were. Finally in came an average looking woman. She wore plain leather armour, nothing was distinct about her except the company she kept. Yet she was clearly in charge. Her movements seemed clipped and precise, she was a little older than the rest of them. Kans suspected she had held a military rank, many soldiers would try their hands at Delving when their commissions were up. Some, even before then, though the Kingdom took a dim view on that kind of thing.

The note had more than piqued his interest. This was supposedly not just another ancient artifact but something...new. His God, and most in that Pantheon or any other, knew he could do with a tick in the success column. Just recently he had lost a fascinating piece of Arcana, a box that supposedly contained the rules of the universe. He had even retrieved it himself for awhile, some things just belonged in a museum, for the betterment of civilisation and Delvers were untrustworthy even at their best. He'd lost track of the times some adventuring group had snaked a claim, or sold something promised to the University to a private bidder for a larger sum.

He'd tracked The Rules across three different kingdoms over two different continents but finally messed up on an island off the coast of Griasot. The Collected Kingdoms of Tanlok had an agent out for it as well and the box proved more dangerous than anyone knew. Many died. And now it sits locked up by the barbarians who run Tanlok. The university were not happy. Kans was not happy.

The leader of the Delvers introduced herself as Barb Stigerwitz but merely motioned to everyone else as her companions.

She immediately got to the point telling Kans where she had been (though not exactly he noted, showing she had some canniness about her) and placing a small pouch in front of him. Some of the found items. She did not let him spend too long with each piece before taking it off him and pulling out the next. First was a tiny, exquisitely made cog. Smaller than any he had seen, the craftsmanship was astonishing. A touch (a lot) above the clockwork quality in his pocketwatch but he played it cool. The next was a small tube, see through but not glass. Held up to the light it seemed to contain a viscous liquid. He touched the end to his finger and it left a blue mark. The next was the most interesting. A metal hand crossbow with no string, no place to put a quarrel. It's purpose screamed death but it was not obvious how it worked beyond the trigger mechanism. He had seen enough. The rumours were true.

'We're going to need a big team,'

Not that it mattered, for within a few seconds Kans Johansson, Barb Stigerwitz and her party would be dead.

He had been waiting for his quarry most of the day. His disguise was to allow him to blend in but he worried he could attract undue attention. Delvers wanting to know some hook for their next great adventure. He had a few lines he could throw anybody but mostly was relying on pretending he was waiting for the One. Delvers respected that kind of mumbo jumbo but as luck would have it he was left alone anyway. He had to reposition once, and hoped it was not too conspicuous but he needed to confirm the target was valid before striking. A few others had come in, and of course there was a man tending the bar but collatoral damage could not be helped. They were spread through the room so some on the edges may even survive which could cause problems as potential witnesses but what could they say but 'A Wizard did it' so he remained generally unconcerned but did the maths for a larger explosive wield. He was now glad his handler had suggested he packed an extra fire rune or two. They were not cheap but the one supplied to him should do the job. His breath caught a little as he got a positive on the target. He liked to pretend he was simply a professional, doing a job, nothing more, but his crotch stiffened slightly as he readied the runes and mentally prepared the incantation. It would take split second timing. He wanted to confirm the kill but egress was also paramount.

Activating the runes a fireball surged outward, heat unbearable, engulfing the target area. Nothing would survive that. A quick scan of the room in the blink after everything was aflame suggested almost everybody was caught, though the half-orc had reflexes he did not expect and dived through the door and something else felt amiss but then the backblast started to wash over him.

Not that it mattered, for within a second the assassin had teleported out.