New to Glyphlight? Start here:
Character Sheet
Xernon Montgomery Huxley, artificer (44M)
Inventory:
Shock baton1
Binding ward2
Light stone3
Salvaged artificer toolkit4
Depleted power-cell5
Outer City access chit6
Threadbare longcoat7
32 Union marks8
Strange sarithal component9
Conditions:
You check your timepiece for the third time in five minutes, then glance across the cobweb-ridden room at the door. Jerrim, your Thieves Guild contact, should’ve been here half an hour ago. It’s not like him to be late.
Seventy-two hours… closer to seventy by now. If Jerrim doesn’t come soon, you’ll have to–
The door creaks open. You shudder, heart lurching as you reach for your shock baton.
“Montë?” Jerrim steps inside and quickly shuts the door behind him, then pauses, studying you. “You’re looking… well.”
The years haven’t been kind to him either. His face is more creased than you remember. His dark hair is a little thinner. At least he still wears the same leather jacket, although now it’s thoroughly scratched and scuffed.
You can’t help but smile. “Thank you for coming, Jerrim. It’s good to see you.”
The hint of a smile touches the corners of his mouth, but he suppresses it. “I wish I could say the same. What are you doing? You can’t be here, Montë.”
“Why? Is this place compromised?”
The binding wards below the boarded up window and around the door frame have long-since burnt out, but as far as you can tell, the null-stone inset into the ceiling is still active.
“No, it’s secure. But you can’t be here. These old safe houses are for Guild associates only. You know that.”
“I am a Guild associate.”
“Not anymore.”
The relief you felt at Jerrim’s arrival is quickly disintegrating. “Jerrim, you owe me, remember?”
He sighs and his shoulders drop. “Yeah, I remember. That’s why I came.” He walks across the room and leans against the wall beside you. “Look, Montë, this isn’t a good time to be calling in favors, okay?”
“Is there a good time?”
He chuckles grimly. “Yeah, I guess not. Okay fine. What do you need? I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any promises.”
“I know about the depot.”
Jerrim’s face hardens.
“I want in.”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, Montë, but–”
“Don’t play dumb, Jerrim. I know you guys are gearing up for something big. I know your cell is the one that will be doing it. I can help. You know I can.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Don’t we all.”
“So?”
“Even if I could get you in, which I’m not saying I can, you want to stay away from this one. I can’t even believe I agreed to it. It’s crazy, Montë. Veyra wants to hit one of those maximum security depots out on the waterfront. One of the ones where they keep all the military-grade–”
“I think you’ve said enough, Jerrim,” a sharp voice says. Jerrim freezes.
Veyra stands in the doorway, hooded and cloaked. Her eyes are just as cold as the last time you saw her, just as piercing, seeming to cut right through you. Her pale skin is marred only by the web of scars running down the left side of her face. She’s short and thin, yet her icy presence fills the room.
You didn’t hear the door open. How long has she been standing there?
“Veyra?” Jerrim gasps. Sweat glistens on his brow. He’s shaking. “I… I wasn’t…”
She raises a hand and he falls silent, bowing his head.
She steps inside and Volkir steps in behind her. The wildling stands almost seven feet tall with feline eyes and a beastial face. His muscle-corded arms are matted with coarse, fur-like hair.
He closes the door and leans against it, resting a hand on the pommel of the heavy sword hanging from his belt.
“Veyra,” you begin, “I–”
“Silence,” she says in a voice steeped with power. The word hangs in the air for a moment. Her eyes shimmer with the faintest hint of green.
Your throat tightens. Your tongue numbs. Your lips seal shut.
She turns to Jerrim. He shrinks back.
“What are you doing?”
“Ju… just meeting with an old friend.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Really, Veyra.” Jerrim forces a smile at you. “I haven’t seen Montë in years, and–”
“And you just happened to be telling him about the depot job?”
Volkir rolls his shoulders and clicks his neck.
“I wasn’t–”
“Don’t lie to me, Jerrim. You know better than that.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
“You will be. How do I know that you’re not double crossing us? That he’s not an informant for the Artificers Guild?”
Your hand inches towards the shock baton tucked into your belt, although you know to draw it would be suicide. Volkir’s watching you hungrily.
You try to speak, but your mouth’s still sealed. You manage a muffled grunt.
Jerrim glances at you and swallows. “He… he’s a valuable asset. You know how skilled the Huxster is at glyph-work. After Darrad was arrested, well, we need a new artificer. We’d be crazy to go ahead without one. We can use him, Veyra.”
“A new artificer just falls into our lap right after Darrad goes down? That’s a little too convenient. How do I know I can trust him?”
“You can. I’ll vouch for him.”
“You? Your word isn’t worth what it once was, Jerrim.”
You manage another grunt, pulling her attention. You feel naked beneath the weight of her gaze.
“Well Huxster? Can I trust you? Or are you just another liability? Speak.”
What do you do?
(Confident): “I’m the best artificer in this city. You know I’m a valuable asset, Veyra.”
(Familiar): Come on, Veyra. After everything we’ve been through, you know you can trust me.
(Obsequious): “I’ll do whatever I need to prove myself. Just give me a chance.”
(Deceitful): “I know all about the glyph-work the Artificer Guild uses for its security systems. I’m the only one who’ll be able to get you inside.”
(Desperate): Draw your shock baton and charge Veyra.
Thank you for your time and attention.
A collapsible steel rod with a power-cell on one end and a series of lightning-glyphs on the other. Illegal to carry without a permit, which you don’t have.
A small glyph-worked pad which when primed will briefly blind and paralyse the next person who touches it. Single use, although a clever artificer might be able to salvage it.
A fist-sized sarithal which, when activated, will produce a steady white light and hover just above your head. Good for about twenty-four hours of continuous light.
A battered collection of tools, pieced together from scrap yards, abandoned Guild depots, and trash bins. Barely functional but well-loved.
Still warm to the touch. You keep telling yourself it could be recharged or bartered with, but maybe it’s just weighing you down.
A Union ID modified to provide you with access through all Outer City checkpoints free of charge. It works most of the time.
Patched, frayed, and splitting at the seams, this coat has been keeping you warm for well on a decade now. Lined with hidden pockets, and reinforced with flexible but heavy chitinous plates.
A sad collection of coins and credit chits. Enough for a hot meal or two and a ride on the train.
Humming and inscribed with a mode of Siris Script with which you’re not familiar. You don’t know what it does and you can’t remember where you got it.
You hurt your knee almost six months ago and it never seems to get any better. Getting old is no joke.
Unless you’re in a null-zone, Zal Kerrith will know where you are and what you’re doing.
A little over seventy hours remain.
I don't trust any of these blokes, nor should Montë. Had I been a younger man, I would have charged the B!tch.
(Btw, I like the audio, I was able to listen while driving.)
A little humility against overwhelming odds is never a bad idea.