The door to the small tavern opened as a patron walked in, taking a seat at the freshly washed bar. The air was thick with the smell of ale and wine, undoubtedly ingrained into the building’s very structure after years of spills and the occasional brawl; yet the pleasant aromas of cooking meat, eggs and bread countered the acrid odors, telling the patrons that morning had arrived and another day was to be prepared for. The young man who had just entered was followed by the cooler breeze of autumn, sending shivers through some of the men at the bar. The summer months grew old, and now that the leaves were turning, many of Burrowshead’s natives made preparations for the harvest and all of the festivities that came with it.
The northern city was known for it’s timber; in fact, many would argue that it would not exist if not for the crucial export that it supplied to the rest of the Isles. Calad Brae was too stubborn to cut any of their resources down, explaining that it was a defensible position to leave the large forests surrounding the metropolis. Arathax and the northern cities were constantly fighting the winter months for access to proper trade routes, and convincing the southern druidic regions to use wood as a trade item was like asking a tavern owner to give you a bottle for free. So the lumber yards grew, and in a few short decades, Burrowshead was able to name their price on all of the building materials being shipped throughout Alaron.
Cutting the trees had it’s advantages as well. Rich farmland was easy to come by after sections of the forests had been removed; it was cheap and given in great quantity to the city’s residents, leaving them with an ample supply of crops every year which they were also able to sell in surplus. No one was ever left hungry, and the dinner tables were always full. While Burrowshead did not have the pristine nature of it’s trade partner Calad Brae, or the magical wonder of southern Feymore, or even the seaside beauty of smaller villages such as Codfin, it had much to be thankful for.
It was for this reason that the harvest drew upon many of Alaron’s nobles and commoners alike for its annual Vesper Epulum, or “Evening Feast” in reference to the waning sunlight during that time of year. It was a tradition, to be sure, but it had blossomed into so much more as the years had passed. While it started out as nothing more than a farmer’s market for vendors to peddle their wares and engage in friendly conversation after the summer toils, the arrival of nobility and those who sought to make a good bit of coin seized the opportunity to commercialize the experience. It was not a difficult decision for the magistrate of Burrowshead to make – the more people in attendance, the more copper, silver and gold coins would flow inevitably into his pockets. Before long, entertainers had been hired, shows were arranged, a separate market for wares was built (almost as an afterthought) and the idea of excess became one to embrace. What was once a celebration of thanks, was now a decadent and stimulating theatre of money and overindulgence. Every year, the acts became more outrageous, the food more succulent and the competition more fierce. The “Evening Feast” had grown into a well from which the city could support itself for months on the profit, and it soon demanded the attention it was due.
As the years wore on, the timber that had built the city into it’s being, now gave way to the rich farmlands that the residents cared for. Over time, a new timber supplier arrived in the form of a small village known as Ogden. While Burrowshead focused on the crop and the lavish profits from their wares and festivities, it’s sister town began building identical lumber yards, profiting from the sales and following the exact same path as the northern city had over a hundred years ago.
The attention that Burrowshead received, however, was not always desirable. During the advent of is newly acquired wealth, the underbelly of the city began to grow, bringing with it brigands, thieves and the political entanglements that every other larger city dealt with. Crime in the city to this day is sometimes uncontrollable, and the offices of authority are usually not a lot to be trusted, but not for the reasons that one might think. While one might feel the need to clutch onto their coin purses while walking down the street, many of them have nothing to fear. It is not the small pile of coins that one holds that attracts the deviants in this city, rather the large mounds of treasure that come in and around it on a daily basis. The thieves of Burrowshead are unlike any others, which many would attribute to the high volume of Mask clerics in the area, for they are organized and calculated. Typically, a thief steals your coins. In Burrowshead, you hand your coins to the thief freely, knowing full well that they are a payment for protection.
Despite the obvious dealings and undermining that now seemed to be a staple of the city’s daily life, the festival reminded everyone involved what it meant to be a member of the prosperous community. Indeed, the air itself carried with it the expectations for five days of celebration and merriment; and not at the bottom of anyone’s list by any means, a bit of coin.
Hammers resounded as the stands, stages and booths were erected, colorful streamers were being put into place, and the city’s council worked side-by-side with hired magi and performers to make the experience the only one on the island that could top last year’s festival. Even now, the streets were busy with onlookers hoping to glance at what wonders may be unveiled this year, as close by the vendors and salesmen prepared their areas for what was sure to be a large group of prospective buyers. Luckily, the western winds had calmed, bringing with them not the cold rains of the coming winter, but the soft cool breezes that told one these final days were to be cherished. In a few short months, the northern snows would be upon them, and the trade routes would be shut down. One last surge of gold into the city would be enough to ensure that the winter went by comfortably, with the women and children in front of glowing hearths and the men enjoying warm brandy and reminiscing with older tales.
One particular tavern, located conveniently in the middle of the entire construction spectacle, was Armand’s. It was a small place, one of the founding gathering places in the community, and as such, retained it’s coveted location in the town square. Bigger structures stood on either side of the tavern, seemingly crushing it with their size, but the tiny inn held fast. It was if the builders had squeezed it into the small alley that the larger buildings created, giving one the illusion the very walls bowed from the inside, and that any given moment the place would be reduced to a pile of wood, stone and dust. To a large extent, that was true. The building was old, but it was built strong, and despite what people may have thought, Armand’s actually received a bit of reinforcement from the larger structures, allowing the weight of the years to lean on younger, stronger stone.
Inside, excitement was in the air.
The young man who had just walked in took a seat at the bar, inhaling the pleasant aromas coming from the kitchen, taking in the rather lively atmosphere for the tavern this time of day. It was early morning, and while a typical breakfast would be had sitting next to someone nursing the after effects of too much apple brandy, all of the patrons today were wide-eyed and energetic (or at the very least hiding their afflictions well). It was a scene not lost on the eyes of two men playing cards at a small table in front of the tavern, enjoying the excellent view of the coming festivities. One of them, draped in rich silks and leathers and gazing out the large front window of the tavern, ran his fingers through a thin black moustache as he brought a cup of hot tea to his lips. Across from him sat a stout, bald man, dressed in equally impressive clothing and looking through dark-tinted circular glasses puffed on a thick cigar.
Turning his eyes away from the windows and looking down at the hand of cards he was dealt, the thin man put his tea on a tiny plate to his side and surveyed his options. He gave a nonchalant sigh and raised an eyebrow, apparently sizing up the fat man sitting across from him, trying to gauge what he might be holding. It was a game he enjoyed playing, even though he knew seconds after the deal what his opponent was holding. Instead, he folded his cards and pushed them towards the middle of the table. “You have quite the poker face.”
The larger man chuckled deeply, a coarse grating sound as a the smoke from his last puff trickled out of his mouth. “It’s one of the many advantages of undeath. You should really try it sometime.” Again, he laughed, amused by his own dry and self-perceived witty humor. The man across from his rolled his eyes and then turned them back out the window as another hand was dealt. He had met the fat man over six months ago, and not by chance, either. It was, for lack of a better term, a partnership that was forged in having a common enemy.
Taking another sip of his drink, the man with the black moustache smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Your friend Marzul was rather displeased to hear of my arrival. I would have expected a bargaining chip of some sort, a resistance that was worthy of your once-strong alliance with him. ” Sighing, he looked at his fingernails and then again out the window. “It made me realize how much I absolutely abhor you rotted, filthy excuses for corpses.” He waited to see if his words would have intended effect on his target, but instead he received a perfectly composed response. “I must admit that I’m surprised to hear your harsh words. Especially considering that I have overcome your brother Demogorgon once, sent your sister’s heart hurtling toward the Sword Coast and left your poor sibling Lathander with thoughts of suicide.” Now it was the larger man’s turn to smile, “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me. We’re in a position to bargain, and that is what I intend to do.”
Mask stroked his chin and cocked his head. A thin smile purposely betrayed his glee in making this partnership. This fat man who sat in front of him, the one who called himself the Pale Commander, was in for such a brutal and torturous future that even the powers of undeath could not save him. But that would be later. For now, he had to admit that an alliance with him would prove extremely useful. Now that Sorrow’s Memory hung closely by his side, it was time to exhume past rivalries and seek out those who stole it from him many months ago. At this moment, it was time to bargain.
The pale Commander took another puff of his cigar and looked over the tint of his glasses across the table. “My minions have remained in the town of Cherrywood, but the Harpers have been alerted to my plan. I can only assume that it was that fool of a magistrate named Omus who led them to me. “
“Omus will be dealt with, I can assure you.” Mask replied, which drew a hearty laugh from the Commander. “Of course, dealt with. The man has only succeeded in a military coup of the island’s most powerful city. I must say that I give credit where it is due, and I am of the strong opinion that our wizardly friend has carved a nice battleground for himself.”
Mask continued, squinting just enough to let his partner know that he was becoming annoyed. “His goals are skewed. He will make a mistake.” He wondered if he should let the Commander in on the information about Omus. Did he know how the current magistrate gained his power? Was he aware of his relationship to the Acropolis? No, he couldn’t have. For now, Mask decided it was best to keep that information to himself.
“And if he enters the Acropolis before us?” came the reply. “Or more importantly, what if he obtains the other two shards from his loyals?” Mask shook his head and raised the cup to his lips again, “If you are referring to the adventurers who hurry to their deaths, they are anything but loyal to him. They are running through the catacombs of Red Ribbon as we speak, if they are not dead yet, they will be soon.”
“They are not dead,” spoke the Commander with a grin. “They carry the skulls.”
“Ah yes. I must say that Marzul was quite disheartened when I got my hands on that. It’s amazing how something so beautiful can hold something so vile.” He let the statement linger just a moment longer, enough to let the gravity of it sink into the Commander’s thoughts. Marzul was dead. It was a show of power that they both knew could be easily duplicated; right now, it was all a matter of who had the most to offer, who was holding the best hand. Looking at his cards, the Commander laughed at the irony of it.
Breaking away into a sudden moment of levity, Mask brightened his expression in mock interest, “Will you be performing at the festival?”
“Of course. There are so many people to entertain. It will be nice to bring my show to those who haven’t seen it yet.” The response was laden so heavy with the sound of a deviant pleasure that anyone who might have heard it would have been filled with the greatest unease. “This whole experience will be one for the ages. And you?”
Mask replied, “I won’t be performing myself, but some of my students will be in attendance.”
“No hints?” the Commander asked.
“Mum’s the word.” was the only reply, delivered with a smile that held sarcasm, mockery and delight all wrapped up into one. Once more, the fat man glanced at his cards, enjoying the three kings and pair of aces that looked back at him. It was going to be a fantastic partnership, but in the end, another god would fall under his hand. It was a thought that brought excitement to him, the thought of death, and the red glowing eyes through his tinted glasses flared like embers in a chill night wind. It was expression that Mask did not let slip by.
“It may seem like we are helping each other. As though we both have something to gain, something to lose. And it may even seem like you have the upper hand. But tread lightly…” Mask put down his cards, smiling deviously with a pair of aces. To the Commander, it was perfect. He roared inside with laughter, making note to savor the feeling as he spread his full house down on the small table, aces over kings. As his laughter died down, he looked Mask in the eye, bearing his gleaming red stare into the eyes of a god. A god who was still grinning that stupid smile.
Looking once more at the cards on the table, the Commander noticed that his full house was no longer, but it was instead three kings, and ace and a jack. Where had the other ace gone?
“It only seems that way.” came the reply from across the table. Mask stood up and spread out his cards on the table, now consisting of three aces. Ruffling his thick coat, he put his hand on the Pale Commander’s shoulder. “When you have no more cards to play, you are of no more use to me.” He walked out of the tavern, leaving the fat man to sit there, finish his cigar and contemplate if he had stepped into something that he couldn’t control.
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