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:
Aching knee10
The stairs creak as you descend into the basement of this long-abandoned Outer City warehouse. Your light stone floats just above your head, humming and casting its steady white light over the chipped masonry of the walls. Your left knee aches with every step. The stink of mould hangs heavy in the air.
You pause at the bottom before the splintered door. Something doesn’t feel right. This is the place the buyer requested to meet. But it’s too still, too quiet. You consider leaving, but reach for the door handle anyway. This guy wants a binding ward and you need the marks. Just another illegal sarithal deal. No problem, right?
You rest your hand on the grip of your shock baton and push the door open. It screeches on grinding, rusted hinges. Within the dusty cellar, a hooded man sits at a table beneath the faint glow of a flickering rune-lamp–It must have some rusting on the internal glyph-work, probably somewhere along the power-cell conduit. An easy fix. Maybe you’ll be able to get a few extra marks for a quick repair job.
You step inside. The door slams shut. Two more men in ragged street clothes are standing to either side of you. One is tall with an oft-broken nose and a crooked scowl. The other is short, but stocky, with a jagged scar over his forehead and dull eyes. They’re both carrying standard issue City Watch short swords. The short one grabs your light stone and clicks it off, and only the unsteady light from the lamp remains.
“Take a seat, Xernon,” the hooded man says in a flat voice, gesturing to the chair across from him.
You clear your throat and try to keep your voice steady. “I’d prefer to sta–”
The tall thug grabs your shoulder and presses his sword against your back.
“I wasn’t asking,” the hooded man says. “Sit. Now.”
The tall thug shoves you into the chair, then remains standing directly behind you, bared steel uncomfortably close to your head.
The man sitting across from you lowers his hood to reveal a thin and hairless head. His cold eyes betray no hint of emotion.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks.
You study him for a moment. “Senior Inspector Zal Kerrith.”
Everyone in the underworld knows, or at least knows of, Zal Kerrith. Untouchable, unscrupulous, and utterly corrupt.
The barest hint of a smile touches his mouth.
“You’re looking for a contraband binding ward?” you ask.
“You know that’s not what this is.”
“Then why–”
He pulls a palm-sized copper disk from his jacket and lays it flat on the table. The spiralling glyph-work across its surface shimmers with a soft green glow. A cipher glyph. “This contains some memory files I think you’d find very interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“Do you remember the Outer City riots five years ago?”
You’re not likely to forget. Images of chaos and destruction flash through your mind.
Houses in flames. Blood on the streets. Shop-fronts smashed and lives destroyed.
Kysha in the midst of an enraged mob, trampled under foot, crying out for help. You hesitated, then you ran. Her screams haunt you every night.
“Kysha,” you whisper.
“We know you played a pivotal role in the incitement of those riots, Xernon,” Zal continues. “All that violence. All those deaths. Deaths of Watchmen. Deaths of Guild officials… Her death.”
Your throat tightens. “I… I didn’t,” you manage to croak.
“Oh?” He taps the cipher glyph. “We have memories which prove you did.”
“They’re fabricated. They must be. I never–”
He waves you to silence. “Fabricated or not. You know how this will look in the Justice Courts. The Union has been looking for those responsible for the riots for a long time.”
You clear your throat. “What do you want, Zal?”
“That’s more like it. I know a Herazor Void Sceptre has entered the city through the smuggling circuit. I know you have contacts in the Dregs blackmarket. I want you to go and get it, then bring it back to me. Simple.”
You shake your head. “The Drover wants ten-thousand marks for it.”
“And?”
“And I don’t have that kind of coin.”
Zal shrugs. “I’m afraid that’s not my problem. You have seventy-two hours to bring me the Sceptre or…” He taps the cipher glyph again. “You’ll be spending the rest of your miserable life in Grey-Island prison. The choice is yours.”
“But how am I even going to–”
“You’re a resourceful man, Xernon. You’ll figure it out.” He nods to the thug behind you. He steps forward, grabs your arm, and pulls up your sleeve. The short thug retrieves a glowing glyph-brand from his belt. You struggle for a moment, but the tall thug presses his sword to your throat and you fall still.
The short thug presses the brand into your forearm. It burns. You grit your teeth, stifling a scream. Then after what feels like an eternity, the thugs step back. You’re left panting and slick with sweat, swaying unsteadily in your seat. The fresh scry-mark branded into your arm glistens an angry red.
Conditions gained:
Scry-marked
Blackmailed
Zal is standing now. He places the cipher glyph back into his pocket and raises his hood. “Seventy-two hours,” he says. “We’ll be watching you.”
The short thug tosses your light stone onto the table, and the three file out of the cellar and up the creaking stairs.
You remain seated for a few more moments, catching your breath. Then you stand and turn to leave.
Ten-thousand marks…
Seventy-two hours…
A life sentence in Grey-Island Prison… If half the stories about that place are true, death would be more merciful.
You weigh up your options as you climb the stairs.
A loan shark called Garah operates out of a nightclub on the waterfront. She might have that sort of coin, but honestly prison would probably be better than being in that much debt to her.
You’ve also heard a rumour that the Thieves Guild is gearing up for a heist against a major Artificers Guild supply depot. It sounds like a suicide mission, but if you can get in on it, the takings should be more than enough to cover the cost of the Sceptre.
Or, you could just meet with The Drover and try to steal the Sceptre. Easy enough. Except he’s got an arsenal of some of the most advanced weapons-grade sarithal you’ve ever seen. And he’s surrounded by a private army of alchemically enhanced superhuman thugs. And, while you know how to arrange a meeting with him, you’ve got no idea where his lair is. Somewhere in the Under City apparently, although that’s not much to go off.
On second thought, maybe not so easy.
You step out onto the street and pause to rub your knee. The smog is sitting low today, casting a dirty haze over the cracked brick of the buildings and the grimy cobbles of the road. A loose newspaper tumbles past, and a thick oily muck bubbles up from a nearby sewer grate, filling the air with a rancid stench.
Across the street is a bar adorned by a humming glyph-worked sign, flickering intermittently with a sharp neon glow. Three men are clustered out the front with stooped shoulders and wan expressions, drinking and smoking, and talking in subdued voices.
Then from the corner of your eye, you glimpse Zal and his thugs turning into a side street halfway down the next block.
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.
You run down the street, "Wait, Zal! I'll fix that flickering rune-lamp for 5 marks and five extra hours!?" Some how I don't think he'll take to that deal.
I like the "Conditions," and immediately regret voting to be 41-50, but I think their will be some benefits later: experience and relationships I hope we can rely on... or maybe more people to backstab us...
Tough tough choices...
I keep leaning towards the bar. I don't want to drowned our woes... just spend an hour mulling over our options with a little liquor induced confidence boost.
"Untouchable, unscrupulous, and utterly corrupt." No sense trying to get anything from Zal.