The Siege

The Siege
Hour 8
Six hours ago, they had worked out that the thing was using the shadows, and so Command had pushed the ship’s lighting up to its highest setting, and ordered all personnel to remain away from any areas that were not sufficiently lit, no matter what.
Five hours ago, there had been a small explosion in the reactor room – not enough to cripple the ship but enough to cause non-essential systems to drop into low-power mode.  As far as the ship’s limited AI had been concerned, lighting came under the non-essential heading.  Of course, Command had ordered Engineering to get the lighting systems re-classified as “essential”, but less than five minutes into the process they’d all been butchered.  After that, Command had not been willing to send more engineers out to die and had instead ordered all remaining personnel on the ship to make their way to either the command deck or the med bays as a matter of urgency – they were the only zones on the ship whose systems were all marked as essential.  They had lost another forty-seven crew in the ensuing scramble – eight of them to friendly fire, and four due to accidents en route; the rest had been butchered.
One hour ago, all contact with the Medical Centre had abruptly ceased.  There had been no call for help, and the comms seemed to be working fine, but nobody on the other end was answering.  There had been suggestion amongst those on the command deck that perhaps those crew members there had tried to make a run for it to join up with the ship’s Command, but nobody really believed that.  Nor did they believe that the crew there were keeping radio silence to try and fool the thing that was stalking them.
Now, the command deck of the flagship Chani IV was uncomfortably crowded, with the ship’s climate control systems struggling to cope with all the extra bodies putting out heat.  There was also the issue of supplies – food they could cope without for several more days without any serious issue but, between the heat and the adrenalin of terror, dehydration would become a serious problem sooner rather than later.  Seventeen people from an original complement of nearly two hundred; that was all that was left.  They hadn’t even been able to contact the other ships in the small siege fleet as the long-range comms had been the first system to go down, and with quarantine protocols in place – how the thing had known about them was anyone’s guess – the surviving crew of the Chani IV were not anticipating help anytime soon.
 
Hour -1
“Sir, they’re hailing us.”  Admiral Fendo looked up blearily at his subordinate, taking a few moments to recall who the man was and what he did.
“Who is?” he replied, the tiredness evident in his voice; it had been a long siege.
“The Tallawan shuttle, sir.  The one our scanners picked up leaving the planet’s orbit three hours ago.”
“Oh, yes.  Yes, I asked you to keep me updated, didn’t I?”  Fendo straightened up in his chair and brushed his hand down his crumpled tunic.  “Thank you, ah…,” he squinted at the man, “Lieutenant Roni.”  The communications officer gave a quick nod and sat back down.
“Shall I put them through, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, yes.  Voice only, mind.  Don’t want them to see that we’re as tired of this siege as they are.”  The officer nodded again, then opened the relevant channel and signalled to his commander that he was now connected.  “This is Admiral Fendo, of the Chani IV, representing the fleet of the Serket Hegemony.  To whom am I speaking?”  There was a pause lasting several seconds before the reply came through.
“Greetings, Admiral.  This is Ambassador T’Vorcia, speaking for the Royal House of Tallawah.  I am accompanied by Princess Talija ní Tallawah.  We wish to parley.”  Fendo sat back in his chair, blinking several times.  They were sending a member of the royal family to parley with them?  Optimism began to stir in his heart.
“Very well, Ambassador.  You may proceed to docking distance… masked coordinates to the bay are being transmitted to your ship’s AI now,” Fendo gestured to the comms officer, who began tapping away at the screen before him.  “You are, ah,” he looked to the officer, who held up four fingers, “approximately four minutes out.  We shall speak more when you arrive.  Admiral Fendo out.”
“Understood, Admiral.  Ambassador T’Vorcia out.”
There was silence in the command deck once the conversation finished, and Fendo found himself being stared at by his officers, their weary eyes allowing a glimmer of hope to shine through.  Fendo raised a cautionary hand.
“I know what you are all thinking, and believe me when I say I am thinking it too – the first attempt to parley in person since this siege began, and their ambassador is accompanied by one of their royal family.  But let us not get carried away.  Remember how we all believed that the destruction of Asherah would finally bring a Tallawan surrender, and instead they just dug in deeper?  Or the battles in the Endiku system, where they refused to surrender despite our overwhelming force, and instead fought on till the last of their ships had been destroyed?”  All around him, eyes lowered as reality chipped away at their optimism.  “The Tallawan are a stubborn people, and a proud people.  I would not be surprised if this attempt to parley is a stalling tactic, or even a distraction.  We need to be on our guard and remember that the war is not over yet.  But…,” Fendo shrugged and allowed himself a slight smile, “that they’re approaching us at all does mean they’re weakening.  So even if this isn’t the formal surrender we all hope for, it does at least suggest that the end is in sight and that we might get to go home to our families before you’re all as old and decrepit as me!”
There was a chorus of polite laughter.  Admiral Fendo, the “Grand Old Man” of the Serket navy, was a popular figure amongst his people.  To those under his command, he was almost like a grandfather, and to the citizens back home he was a war hero and a legend in his own lifetime.  There was not a man on the ship who did not respect the Admiral, and who would not lay down their life for him without hesitation.
“Sir, the ambassador’s shuttle has reach auto-dock range.”  Reported the ship’s comms officer.  “All scans have come back clean – no weaponry of any description found on board, not even personal arms.”  Admiral Fendo raised an eyebrow; no arms at all?  He would have expected a sidearm for the ambassador at the very least.  Of course, the ambassador would surrender it immediately upon boarding the Chani IV, but it was a matter of appearances.
“Hail them,” he replied.  “On-screen, this time.”  The officer nodded, and a few moments later the main screen of the command deck was occupied by the fur-covered features of a Tallawan.  Admiral Fendo knew enough of the Tallawan people to know that he was looking at a male of fairly advanced years.  Not so advanced as his own, however – Fendo was of the Alkonost, the dominant race in the Serket Hegemony, and a people for whom seeing a third century of life was not impossible, with a good diet and a bit of care, and Fendo was considered old even by those standards.
“Admiral Fendo,” said the Tallawan, giving a small nod of respect.  “I had presumed you to be a descendent of the Admiral Fendo I knew of.”
“The original, I’m afraid,” replied the Admiral, smiling politely whilst trying to look as composed and refreshed as he could.  “Am I correct in assuming that you are Ambassador T’Varcia?”
“I am,” confirmed the ambassador.  “With me is Princess Talija ní Tallawah.”  The ambassador leaned to one side and redirected his shuttle camera to point at a much younger Tallawan seated in the chair beside him.  Fendo was no xenophile, but he had to admit that the princess was quite a striking creature, with the most vivid purple eyes he had ever seen.  They reminded him of some of the flowers his third wife had been so fond of.
“Well met, Ambassador, and well met Your Majesty.”  The princess gave a nod so slight that Fendo almost missed it, and said nothing.  The camera swung back to the ambassador.  “Our scans tell us that you are unarmed, Ambassador.”  The admiral’s tone suggested that he wasn’t entirely sure the scans were correct.
“Our people have been at war for decades, Admiral.  The Princess here was not even born when the Serket Hegemony stopped politely asking us to join and resorted to force.  And for all this fighting, can it be said either side has benefitted?  We both have lost countless numbers of people, ships, and resources.  No, Admiral, war impoverishes us all and weapons are nothing more than a crutch for men who would sooner strike than speak.  Their time has passed, so let us end this war without them.”  The ambassador smiled thinly, and Fendo found himself somewhat taken aback by the little speech.  There was no part of it that was untrue – though the Tallawan were very firmly on the losing side in the attrition stakes – but to hear a Tallawan official as good as admit that they wanted an end to the fighting was nothing less than astonishing.  In all the wars he had fought, he had never met a people so intractable.  The few prisoners they had managed to take during land battles and ship boarding actions had been about as communicative as statues.  Even under the most advanced interrogation methods they revealed little, and had shown an astounding courage and fortitude.  He himself had personally witnessed a Tallawan soldier – a young female, barely an adult – kill her interrogator with her bare hands and then take her own life, all while heavily restrained and weakened from blood loss.  After that incident, they had taken to keeping prisoners at gunpoint at all times, even when they slept or were unconscious.
Fendo stared at the ambassador, willing him to give something away.  The man’s cat-like face was almost impossible for him to read, however.  Apparently the trick was to watch their ears and whiskers, but Fendo had found that did nothing more than give him a vague urge to pet them.
“Are you talking about peace, Ambassador?”  He said at last.
“We all wish to end this fighting, Admiral.  You and all those in your fleet have family and loved ones who miss you, and we all have those we need to mourn.  We would not see one more Tallawan life lost in a war we cannot win.”
“I… no, of course.  You are right, Ambassador.  This war has gone on for far too long.  It will be good to see its end.”  Admiral Fendo turned in his seat to address the comms officer again, “Give the hangar team permission to dock the ambassador’s shuttle, Roni.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, unable to keep the grin from his face.  On screen, the Tallawan ambassador looked away for a moment at something to his right – presumably his ship confirming their docking procedure – and gave a small nod of satisfaction.  Fendo saw him say something to the princess next to him; he didn’t know enough Tallawan to make it out completely, but he caught ‘Thank you’.
“Admiral?” said T’Varcia, turning back to face his comms screen.
“Yes, Ambassador?”
“I lied.  There will be one more Tallawan death.”  The screen went blank as the line disconnected.  Admiral Fendo found himself staring at it for several moments, puzzled.
“What did he me-,” the Admiral stopped mid-word as a flashing light on his report screen caught his eye; he knew immediately from the colour that it wasn’t one of the nice ones.
“Detonation reported at docking bay seven, Admiral!”  Yelled a midshipman.
“What in the Hells happened?!”  The junior officer had already turned back to his screen, quickly scanning the damage report as it came in.
“It… I…,” he half-turned in his seat to look at the admiral.  “The shuttle, sir.”  The young man swallowed nervously before continuing, “The Tallawan shuttle exploded, sir.”
“Exp-,”
“Casualties reported in docking bays five, seven, and nine, sir!”  Interrupted another officer.
“Long-range comms are down, sir,” continued the midshipman, “and we have a major hull-breach.  ETA till sealed fourteen minutes; relevant sector already locked down.”
“Both of you, shut up!” Bellowed the admiral, standing from his chair.  “Nothing turns an accident into a disaster quicker than people panicking.  Now, Midshipman Teve, please be kind enough to take a deep breath and then give me a full damage report.”
“Yes, sir!”  Replied the officer, regaining some composure.  “The Tallawan shuttle detonated without warning shortly before docking completed, sir.  We do not yet know why.  Docking bay seven has suffered catastrophic damage and is completely offline.  Docking bays five and nine have also suffered damage and are experiencing containment failure.  Additionally, the explosion has caused a hull breach through to the auxiliary hanger; the hanger has been isolated without any significant atmosphere leak or damage to neighbouring sectors.  It is, however, now offline pending repairs.”
“Right, thank you.  Rewill,” he turned to face the officer who’d reported the casualties, “what’s the loss of life at?”
“Sir, the entire crew complement of bay seven has been lost.  Bay five reports no loss of life but four crew members are in need of medical care.  Bay seven has lost eleven crew members to the explosion and subsequent leak. Aux. hangar reports no loss of life, and no injuries.  Sixty-one crew total, sir.”
“Severe injuries?” asked Fendo; the officer glanced at his screen again.
“Not life-threatening, sir.”  Admiral Fendo nodded, and drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the back of his chair.
“And we still don’t know what caused the explosion?”
“No, sir,” replied Midshipman Teve.  “The Tallawan shuttle was orienting itself to land when it just… exploded.”  Fendo stared at the officer for some time, recalling the ambassador’s last words about there being one more death.
“Fuck,” he announced, his voice completely calm and level.  “They didn’t come here to parley at all – it was a suicide mission.”
“But what about the princess, sir?” pointed out Lt. Roni.
“Ever seen any of the Tallawan royal family, Roni?  How confident are you that you could pick them out in a line-up of Tallawans?  The woman on that ship could have been anyone.  Hells, she may even have been the one who detonated the ship, for all we know.”  There was silence on the command deck for some moments before Roni spoke up again.
“Sir, what are your orders?”
“We continue as planned, Lieutenant.  As regrettable as the loss of life is, it changes nothing: our ship is still operating within acceptable parameters, and the rest of the fleet is unaffected.”  He paused, then reconsidered.  “Hmm, we’ll need to ready a short-range shuttle to contact Hammer and let them know what’s going on, also to forewarn them of my arrival; I can’t very well command a fleet from a ship with no comms, and the Hammer of Lianii is our next best-suited vessel to serve as a flasgship.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have the…,” Roni paused when he saw an incoming call.  “Sir, I have Commander Varde calling the deck.”
“Put him through, Roni.”  The admiral tapped his ear implant as the call was directed to his private channel.  “Commander Varde, what’s-,” Fendo stopped as his second-in-command talked over the top of him.  “What?  Varde, slow down, I-,” adjusting the volume of the call, the Admiral glanced over to his Midshipman.  “Teve, get me footage of the Commander’s sector on-screen, now!”  The whole command deck turned to stare at the images that appeared on the main-screen, eyes wide and mouths open. 
The entire sector was in chaos; none of the twelve viewpoints offered by the sector’s security cameras looked as they should.  Walls were covered with scorches and small impact craters from weapon-fire, and the Admiral could not even hazard a guess as the total count of bodies that lay strewn on the floors.  He saw a group of three crew members running down a corridor, one of them looking back to fire behind him with his sidearm.  A light flickered and then went out, and a blurred figured leapt out at the three men.  There was no audio on the security feed, and for that the Admiral was sincerely grateful – in a handful of seconds the three men lay dead, their blood sprayed liberally about the corridor, and the figure was gone.
“Varde, what in the Hells is happening down there?!  Yes, yes, I can see that, but what is it?  I… No, I can’t- wait, yes I see you now.”  On-screen, the commander came into view on one of the images, facing the camera directly as he continued talking to Fendo through their direct link. 
“Varde!”  yelled the Admiral, reflexively pointing behind the Commander at a blurred figure that had entered the screen from the top.  “Midshipman, get a full security detail down there, immediately!  And get that sector sealed from the inside – I don’t want anything or anyone coming out without my say-so!”  The officers aboard the Chani IV continued to watch in fascinated horror as Commander Varde edged away from the thing that approached him, backing him into a corner.  They saw him raise his gun and fire off two shots.  They saw the thing move with preternatural speed to dodge them, and then brutally and literally disarm the Commander.  Fendo heard the man’s scream as he lost his hand, and slid to the floor, clutching at the gushing stump. 
“Now, Midshipman!”  The officer snapped out of his stupor and hurriedly tapped away at his command screen.  Fendo watched on as the creature on-screen lowered itself down to the stricken commander’s level.  He heard a voice like a primal growl that sent a shiver down his spine as the thing extended a limb towards Varde.  The commander screamed again, and then went silent.  Admiral Fendo could not be sure, but he would have sworn that the blurred creature looked up at the camera then.
“Roni, cut the feed,” he said, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice.  He looked around him at the pale, terrified faces of his officers.  “What in the fuck was that thing?” he muttered.
 
Hour -3
Miles below the orbiting Chani IV, Emperor Ferri III of the Tallawan Empire stood in the council room of the royal palace, hands clasped behind his back and his eyes surveying the skies of his homeworld through two-inch thick bulletproof windows.  Standing by the council table, his Minister for Intrigue politely cleared his throat.

Storm of Zehir

STORM OF ZEHIR
-
A FORGOTTEN REALMS TALE
Illyra stirred upon the pile of furs that comprised her bed and rolled over to regard the male she’d had the fortune of spending the night with.  He was a little wan, perhaps, and more slightly built than most women would find appealing, but he had wonderful cheekbones and Illyra had dearly loved the feeling of his ribs digging into her while they’d made love.  She looked about the room, taking in the hastily discarded clothes, the overturned lectern, and the handful of candles that had been knocked onto a fur rug and there sputtered and died.  “Made love” was perhaps too delicate a term for what had transpired last night.  In truth, they’d fucked like beasts.  Or, rather, they’d fucked in such a way that even beasts would be ashamed, should they feel shame.  She stroked a finger down the young man’s arm as he slept, and smiled to herself as she recalled parts of the night before.  Poor thing, he’d been utterly exhausted after the first couple of hours.  Fortunately, Illyra had in her possession a number of balms, ointments, and potions to help keep her lovers envigored for as long as she needed them.  It seemed she needed them for longer and longer, these days.  The Illyra of just a few years ago would have been content with a few minutes of passionate rutting.  Content, if not overly-impressed.  But now, she expected her lovers to continue till the break of day, and still she found herself wanting more.  Sadly, all the potions in the world would only help so much, unless she actually wanted to make love to a corpse.  Not that the idea didn’t have a certain appeal to it, but that sort of thing was bound to get noticed and result in people asking the wrong sort of questions.
Illyra Payne, affectionately known as Illyra the Pale by her elder half-brother, Ilrym, had arrived at the Sword Coast earlier that year, shortly after the start of what passed for spring in the frozen north that they had left behind.  In Icewind Dale, Illyra had established a reputation as being gifted at the re-setting of bones, a skill that kept her busy in a region consisting primarily of ice, rocks, and icy rocks, and which was nearly as in-demand in the treacherous lands around Neverwinter.   Ilrym had also found gainful employment in the area, primarily as a caravan guard for the many merchants who travelled through the area.  In the less cosmopolitan north, his questionable heritage – for he had pale, almost white hair, dark skin, and quite obviously elven features – had seen him struggle to find work, with only the less reputable employers prepared to hire him.  In Neverwinter, however, it seemed most people were prepared to overlook the suggestion of Drow ancestry in favour of someone with excellent night vision and skill with a blade.  Between the two trades – healer and swordarm – they made enough to get by, and enough that Illyra could keep her other, more arcane, talents hidden from the general populace. 
Ilrym knew only half of his family – while his half-sister’s father was a tailor, his had been a Drow raider.  Illyra had always had an interest in the macabre, and seemed utterly fascinated by the taboo that surrounded her brother’s ancestry.  She had sworn that they would, one day, travel into the Underdark to find out more about that side of his family, though they did not imagine for a moment that Ilrym’s father, assuming they could even find him, would accept his bastard offspring with open arms.  What little knowledge they had been able to glean about his subterranean kin pointed towards a people who were cruel and unforgiving, and who absolutely did not tolerate weakness.  Beyond that, they had found depressingly little, as all the scholars they had spoken to on the subject had been frustratingly tight-lipped about the matter of Drow society, especially after taking notice of Ilrym’s appearance.  While Illyra had tried to find information out on her own, she had not had much more success than when accompanied by her brother as, in a cruel twist of fate, it was Ilrym who was by far the more charismatic of the two siblings, with Illyra having as much warmth as the grave.  Her successes in more carnal relations owed little to her charm, and almost everything to her looks, frank approach to the matter, and the fact that most men were reliably shallow.  Ilrym, meanwhile, could charm even the most ardent virgin out of her maidenhood, and would probably have made a very successful bard if he’d possessed even the smallest amount of musical ability.
Rolling over in her bed, Illyra tried to ignore the snoring of her most recent partner.  Though he may have been utterly spent, she still had plenty of both energy and intent, and opted to take matters into her own hands. 
It was a few minutes later, and just as she was sinking into the warm, blissful glow that followed the crescendo, that she was disturbed by a polite cough from the other side of her bedroom.  Illyra didn’t look up, knowing full well who the cougher was, and simply sighed before asking, in mildly aggrieved tones, what her brother wanted.
“Good morning to you too, dear kin!” replied Ilrym, unreasonably chipper despite the early hour, “Did you sleep well?”
“You know I don’t sleep, Ilrym,” she glanced across to where last night’s lover was doing just that, quite audibly.  For a moment, she almost remembered his name.  “Now what is it?”
“An opportunity!”
“Stop being so infuriatingly cryptic and vague.”  Glaring at Ilrym, she sat up in bed, rolling her eyes as his gaze predictably dropped to her bare breasts.
“You need to relax, Illyra.  Perhaps take a lover or five!”  He grinned, neatly ducking the bolster that was thrown at him, before continuing, “There is an explorer in town, a man by the name of Volo...thamp… something,” Ilrym waved a hand dismissively, “Regardless of his name, he’s apparently an adventurer and a writer, and he’s looking to make an expedition to Samargol, in Samarach.  It’s a city a long way south of here,” he added, noticing his sister’s blank look.  “And he needs a bodyguard.  Apparently the area’s quite dangerous, and the people of Samargol are exceptionally mistrusting of outsiders and foreigners, believing them all to be Yuan-ti spies.”
“You’re not selling it to me so far, Ilrym,” muttered Illyra as she climbed over the unconscious youth that lay next to her, and started to gather her clothes up.
“Well, they hate everyone equally, so my heritage really shouldn’t be a hindrance.  And I hear that Samargol is a city practically overflowing with lies, deceit, and intrigue.  Your tunic’s over there, by the by,” he added helpfully, pointing towards the item of clothing.
“Hmm, when you put it like that, it does sound rather more interesting than Neverwinter,” Illyra pulled on the last of her clothes and fastened her belt about her waist.  “When is this Volo person planning on leaving?  And what’s the pay like?”
“At first light; and a hundred gold a day, plus relevant expenses.  I understand there have been relatively few takers.  Something to do with the jungles of Samarach being infested with giant, carnivorous lizards,” He shrugged indifferently.  Illyra pulled aside the curtain of the single small window in her bedroom and peered out into the early morning gloom.
“First light today?”
“Yes.  Sorry, I meant to tell you last night but you were,” he gestured to the still-snoring man on his sister’s bedding, “otherwise occupied.  And I know how much you hate to be interrupted.”  Illyra ignored her brother’s jibe as she looked about her rented dwelling.  The few possessions she had of value were small and could be readily packed for travel – her scrolls and tomes, and a few minor artifacts – and most everything else could be easily and cheaply replaced.  Ilrym continued, knowing he had his sister’s interest, “The ship’s called The Vigilant.  The captain’s a Halfling but you can’t have everything.”
“I hate Halflings,” commented Illyra, practically spitting the word out.
“I know, I know.  Like I said, you can’t have everything.  Come on, it’s the chance to see the world, explore new places, kill exotic creatures, and get paid a not unreasonable amount of money in the process!”  Illyra hesitated, drumming her fingers on her hips while her brother continued to try to persuade her, “Loooots of crypts down that way, I’m given to understand.”  Illyra stopped her drumming and turned to look at her brother, one eyebrow raised,
“Hmm.  Well, I suppose we could do with a change of scenery.  And the money.”
“That’s the spirit!  I’m already packed, so I’ll see you down there.”
“Right.  Leaving at first light, you say?” her brother nodded, and Illyra again looked out of the window, “Suits me.  I’ll be there shortly.”  As her brother grinned and left her small home, Illyra took a carved obsidian dagger from her desk, and walked back to her bed.


Leaning against the railings of the Vigilant, Ilrym smiled as he spotted his sister making her way down the pier to the gangplank, a pack slung over one shoulder and a porter following behind with her travelling trunk.  Behind her, the taller buildings of the city of Neverwinter were just starting to catch the rays of the early morning sun, their grimy and smoke-covered brickwork briefly looking glorious.
“So glad you could make it!” he hollered from the ship’s deck, waving down at the younger of the two Payne siblings.  Illyra gave a thin smile in return as she walked up the gangplank to join her brother.
“You know me, always ready for adventure,” she said drily, while the porter set her trunk down on the deck behind her and then held his hand out for payment.  A couple of coins changed hands and the porter gave a brief nod before walking back in search of further customers
“Quite.  By the by, you missed a spot,” Ilrym gestured towards the corner of his sister’s mouth; she hastily licked a fingertip and wiped at the small smear of blood there.
“That’s the problem with not having a mirror.  Too easy to miss things like that.  Hmm.  Probably explains why the porter kept giving me strange looks.”
“Ah well, no harm done!  Well, not to us, anyway.  Might I say you’re looking much invigorated?  Practically glowing, dear kin.”  Upon the aft deck, the ship’s captain was bellowing orders out to her crew.
“Ugh.  I just remembered that I hate sailing nearly as much as I hate Halflings.”  Looking beyond her brother, she spotted a well-dressed man with a tidily kempt beard walking over to them, a cheesy grin on his face and his arms spread wide in greeting.  “Who’s this idiot?” Illyra muttered to her brother.
“Friends, welcome!  I am Volothamp Geddarm!” announced the bearded fellow, unintentionally answering Illyra’s question.  By her side, Ilrym grinned and gave his sister a wink before reaching out to give the bard’s hand a hearty shake.
“Volo, so good to see you again!  This is my lovely sister, Illyra.”  He stood to one side as he introduced their new employer to his sibling.
“Ah, Illyra!  Wonderful!  I have heard so much about you, though I do hope your healing skills will never be called into use during our little voyage!”  Illyra feigned a smile as best as she was able, before likewise shaking Volo’s hand in greeting.
“I would be equally pleased were our voyage to be that uneventful, Volo.”  She paused, looking around, “Is this it?  Is it just the two of us accompanying you?”  Volo grinned and shook his head,
“Fear not, no!  We have a fourth member to our little group, who is already aboard and settled.  And the sponsor of this journey, Lady Sa’Sani, has sent two of her representatives.”  Volo waved his hand in the direction of two men leaning against the railings on the other side of the ship, both of them in studded leather armour and with short swords hanging from their belts.
“They look a little… underwhelming,” said Illyra, her brow furrowed as she regarded the pair, neither of whom gave the impression of being seasoned warriors.
“Oh they are primarily here as envoys, to ease our arrival in Samargol.  But between your spellcasting powers and your brother’s legendary falchion,” Illyra turned to her brother, one eyebrow quirked as Volo spoke, “I do not envision us having any difficulties!  Now, I shall leave you to get settled and meet the rest of the party, while I discuss our course with Captain Kassireh.”
Illyra waited until the bard was out of earshot before turning to her sibling and hissing at him,
“Legendary falchion?  And my spellcasting powers?!”  Ilrym raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, backing away from his sister’s anger.
“I… may have overstated our capabilities but it was only in order to guarantee employment.  Besides, you can cast spells and while my falchion may not be legendary it is at least enchanted.”
“I know exactly one spell that isn’t a cantrip, Ilrym, and the enchantment on your sword is to stop it rusting or breaking!”
“Ah well,” replied Ilrym, shrugging his shoulders and offering a broad smile, “There’s always the other guard that Volo hired.  If things turn out nasty we’ll just make sure he’s at the front!  Or whichever direction it is that we’re being attacked from.”  Illyra let out an exasperated sigh at her brother’s blasé attitude, and stalked off towards the stairs down to the lower level, dragging her travelling trunk behind her.


The accommodation belowdecks was basic, to say the least.  They were, at least, not expected to sleep in hammocks, like the crew, but Illyra and her fellow guards had a single room to share, with the beds little more than straw-stuffed mattresses on the floor.  Not that she was used to much better, and not that she really needed a bed anyway, but the lack of privacy was not something she relished.  Four beds, Illyra noted, and just the three of them hired for Volo’s voyage; clearly he had hoped for a better response to his offer of employment.
Already having claimed one of the beds was a man dressed in lightweight combat leathers, his back to the ship’s hull as he lounged on the mattress, apparently reading one of Volo’s guide books.  He looked to be not much older than Illyra and her brother, though his head was bald of hair and instead had a single scaly ridge that ran the length of his scalp.  That, however, was not the most unusual thing that Illyra noticed about her new roommate – besides the ridge, his skin had a vaguely reptilian look about it, and was a soft shade of greyish blue.  Well, at least her brother would receive less attention about his own non-standard looks.  Placing a leather thong to mark his page, the blue-skinned man closed the guidebook and looked up at Illyra with eyes the colour of sapphire, offering her a broad smile.
“Ah, you must be one of my fellow hired swords.”  He stood gracefully from his bedding, laying the book down and walking over to offer his hand to Illyra, “I am Draca, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”  As he got closer, Illyra found herself unable to avoid staring at her eyes.  His pupils were vertical slits in his eyes, and the blue of his irises was iridescent, like the wings of a butterfly.  The irises seemed too large, as well, with the whites of his eyes only visible at the edges.  She stammered an apology as she realised that he was still standing there, politely smiling and with his hand out, while she gawked at his eyes.  “It’s quite alright,” he replied, “I’m used to people being caught off guard by my eyes.  One of my ancestors was seduced by a dragon and, well, that sort of thing tends to linger in bloodlines.”  Illyra nodded as she gave his hand a distracted shake, noticing that there was a hint of scale on pretty much all of the bonier areas of Draca’s facial features – his cheekbones, around his eyes and along his jawline, and, most prominently, on his chin, where the scales were evidently thicker and protruded almost like a short beard .
“Illyra,” she managed at last, releasing Draca’s hand, “and my brother, Ilrym, is currently topside.”
“Ah, yes, the Half-Drow with the falchion.  We met a little earlier; I think he will add good balance to our little group.  My preference is to avoid face-to-face fights where possible, so his strength and more aggressive style should come in handy.


They had been at sea for three days when Ilrym found himself awoken by a noise that took him some moments to identify, in his half-asleep state.  Looking across the unlit cabin, he nonetheless saw in total clarity the sight of his half-sister on all fours, her small breasts jiggling as she was ploughed from behind by the other member of their little mercenary bodyguard.  He was mildly surprised – Illyra tended to prefer slender, boyish looking men, something that this Draca fellow was very much not.  Maybe it was the eyes, he mused to himself, certainly blue was her favourite colour.
He made a pillow of his hands as he lay there to watch the pair going at it, smirking at the sound of Illyra’s moans of ecstasy and the grunts of exertion from her newest lover.  All in all, he considered, it was just as well that Illyra was a gifted healer, else she’d have by now spread the clap or some pox or other to half the Sword Coast.  Ilrym considered making a humorous remark, but in all honesty he was rather enjoying the show and had no desire to interrupt it.  Besides, for some reason or other his sister didn’t particularly like being watched during the act.

Bastard for Hire

BASTARD-FOR-HIRE
-
AN ERO THE UNDYING TALE

Chapter 1 – Why Can’t I Just Have a Quiet Drink Anymore?

Across the Warmlands - or, indeed, any other plane with sentient life - there are taverns, or the local equivalent thereof, that invariably attract patrons of a more criminally-inclined nature.  The sort of people who would cheerily murder their own mother for a handful of currency; who would strike a man - or woman - down for the seemingly minor crime of "looking at me funny"; and who would consider thieving to be an honest job with good hours and prospects of promotion.  These places are usually in an undesirable part of the town, city or spaceport.  Or at least somewhere that nobody goes without good reason and possibly an armed escort.  The lighting is always low so that nobody has to see the floor and can assume that the sticky puddle that they just trod in is nothing more unsavoury than a spilt beer and that the things that keep crunching beneath their - probably hobnailed - boots are just wood chippings; and furthermore so that the bar staff - brave and hardy individuals that they are - don't have to see too much of the almost-certainly scarred and disfigured faces of their clientele and can thus plead plausible ignorance when asked by a person of law if they have "seen this man/woman/thing".  The ceilings will tend towards exposed beams or other structural workings with little to no insulation - after all, these are not places where you would profess to feeling "a bit chilly" unless you had a death-wish and up-to-date life insurance.  The decor will be austere in the extreme and the furnishings will be threadbare, ramshackle, and replaced on a regular basis due to breakages.  However, contrary to Movie-Law, the average chair is marginally stronger than the average head... for the first few impacts at least.  Glasses are replaced with even greater frequency, such that even with the bartender's likely tendency to use "Spit & a Rag (tm)" as a cleaning aid they won't have time to develop any life more intelligent than the bar's patrons.  The beer options will be "beer..." and not so much bought as rented for a few hours.  The washrooms we will not even delve into except to say that they, in all likelihood, have developed life more intelligent than the customers.  Another common feature of these establishments is that they will have an agreement with the local dog-food factory, dead-collector or suchlike or will conveniently back onto a deep or at least fast-flowing river.
This squat, ugly and decidedly run-down structure on the leeward edge of the squat, ugly and decidedly run-down town of Willemstadt is just such a tavern.  Towards the back there is a booth that somehow manages to be dark and dingy, even in a room that is already definitely "dark and dingy" and cut off from the outside world - and fresh air - by a short set of heavily worn stone steps and a solid, wooden door - only just installed after its predecessor was smashed in an especially rowdy bar brawl. 
And, sprawled in that booth, his booted feet crossed at the ankle and resting on the bench he sits upon, his fine, feathered chapeau tilted forward and down to shade his features from all but the most suicidally-persistent of on-lookers and his eyes following the hypnotic movements of Lurleen, the bar’s squirrel barmaid, and her delectably swaying rear as she weaves through the pressing throng of drunken customers, is a cat.  The cat goes by many monikers, a goodly number of which cannot be repeated in polite company, but we shall refer to him by the name that himself most commonly claims to go by.  His name is Ero and he is a bastard.  More importantly, he is a bastard-for-hire.  I feel it pertinent at to point out at this juncture that I do not mean by this that he will – for a fee – arrive unannounced at weddings or other important parties and claim to be the lovechild of the bride, groom or guest of honour.   I mean that, for a very reasonable fee – or sometimes “unreasonable”, depending on the job in question and how many corpses it’s likely to involve – he will happily carry out a variety of dastardly criminal activities on behalf of someone else; including but not limited to murder, theft, arson, rape, stalking, loitering with intent, jaywalking and genocide.  In fact, he is not just plain old “Ero” but “Ero the Undying”.  Or even “Ero the Destroyer”, “Ero the Scourge of Six Hills Valley”, “Ero the Rapist of St. Isaac’s Convent” and “Ero the Bastard Who Owes Me Fifty Silver I’ll Kill Him If I See Him”.  Right now, however, he is simply “Ero the Bored and Jobless” and he’s currently just killing time in his favourite haunt, waiting for either some excitement or a job or, ideally, both in one nice and convenient little package.  With a wistful sigh, the moggy finished the last of his pint of watered-down beer – able to be called that only because nobody in this town had heard of the Trade Descriptions Act – and stood slowly but gracefully from the unpadded bench.  Then, empty and battered pewter tankard in paw, he made his way leisurely over to the bar, where Lenni the landlord was using a filthy rag to move the dirt on the bar around so as to ensure that it had a nice, even coating.  Ero’s intent was merely to get a refill without paying but, after only a few short steps across the sticky, warped and largely rotten boards of the tavern’s floor, he was intercepted by a fall-down-drunk bear who slurred aggressively at our heroic protagonist.
“Oi!  Gerroutofmefugginway!  Ya dumsunnuva-“ Ero’s response - a sharp kick to the ursine’s leading kneecap followed by the time-honoured pub-brawl tradition of using his mug as a large and painfully effective knuckleduster – was far from his usual adroit repartee but nevertheless served a purpose.  As the hairy oaf crashed loudly to the floor, drunken slurs still bubbling from his broken mouth, Ero regarded his somewhat ruined tankard with mournful eyes before making those few, final yards to the bar with no further interruption.  Indeed, having seen the speed with which the bear was put to the ground by someone half his size, the considerate people at the bar had even made the unanimous decision to shuffle to one side and clear some space for the chapeau-wearing felid fella.  It took him a few moments to catch the landlord’s eye – the grizzled old raccoon only having one eye left to catch and that being on the other side of his short snout from Ero – and when he finally did, the reaction was less than conducive to fulfilling Ero’s epic quest.
“Gah!  No, not again!  There’s no more bloody room on your tab until I see some coin!” Snapped the tender, flicking his bacterial-breeding-ground of a bar cloth at the moggy’s paws as they rested upon the counter, cutting Ero off before he could even start.
“Lenni, Lenni, Lenni...” Began our hero, his paws raised in a conciliatory manner and his tone gentle and smooth as silk. “Lenni.” He added, for emphasis. “I have no doubt as to your adamantacy with regards to my henceforth lack of remuneration vis-à-vis lended monies for the purpose of pursuing the purchasing of purportedly inebriative beverages.  And as such I feel honour-bound to offer this humble chunk of pewter as a means to recuperate some of my access to your most munificent financial forestalling.”  With that most flowery and barely-intelligible of lies, Ero presented the sorry-looking and heavily misshapen tankard to Lenni and smiled magnanimously, his pearly-whites glinting in what little light the numerous sweaty candles dotted around the back shelves of the bar threw forth.
“That” began Lenni “is one of my tankards.  And it’s goin’ on yer tab!”
“But dear Leonard, I thought you said there was no more room on my tab for any further additions?” Asked Ero, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.  The raccoon tender growled with annoyance and grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand, launching it at his most antagonising of patrons.  Rather conveniently for the drink-seeking feline, said object just happened to be another tankard.  And so he snatched the projectile nimbly from the air and doffed his wide-brimmed hat with his free paw before murmuring his thanks to the incensed bartender and grinning broadly as he ducked away into the crowd that filled the small bar.  Quickly he made his way back to the gloomy corner booth and retook his seat, much to the displeasure of the bar patron who had claimed it in Ero’s absence and now found himself sprawled upon the bar floor.  So, he’d recouped his loss and found a fresh tankard but that still left him in need of a fresh beer to fill said vessel.  Or at least a beer of some description – “fresh” might be asking a bit too much in this place.  The cat’s eyes lit up and he let out a loud, shrill whistle as the curvaceous figure of Lurleen sailed past with tray full of empty mugs and glasses held high above her head.  With a slight wince at the noise and a resigned sigh, the squirrel femme stopped and turned around to face the source of that noise.  She didn’t need to look to know who it was trying to get her attention for at this time of night there was only one likely customer who had enough muscle control and remaining teeth to produce the sound.