Gar did his best to hang to the shadows as he seemed to slither his way through the darkened streets of Morlad, his rich, dark cloak hugging his tall leather boots. As always, the faint gleam of candles through tightly closed shutters on the humble little cottages he passed filled him with disgust. "What fools...." he thought to himself. "As if those feeble lights and weathered planks will protect them and their brats from the horrors all around them, the horrors that are coming. Serves them right..."
As if on cue, a howling came from beyond the city walls, the rush of running beasts, a chorus of snarls and then silence. The pack grew ever bolder, the night ever darker....which convinced him he was right.
Garfield Nightshade, Black magician of Morlad and Agent of Shadow paused, gloved fingertips smoothing his carefully waxed mustache as he watched the door of The Widow's Walk, the only tavern in sad little Morlad that would still take his coin....or that of anyone who dared step out of their sweet little circle of mindless hope. The realists, the hardcases, the outcasts, the opportunists...the ones who saw the way the wind was blowing and were knew when to call a spade a spade.
He winced in annoyance as he mixed metaphors in his inner monologue, but gave an evil chuckle anyway. He carefully straightened his blood red tunic, the heavy irons chains around his waist rattling gently, festooned with runes of power and small animal skulls. He glanced down and caught his reflection in a puddle and smiled cruelly. He certainly looked the part of a black magician, and one day, if he played his hand right, these pitiful idiots of Morlad would be begging HIM for protection, for a good word with the local evil overlord. He had cast enough bones, he didn't even need to mumble the ritual to see his future...he was going places.
This night was looking up....one of his minions had told me an elf girl had ridden into Morlad that morning, obviously with plenty of coin and ego as well as some kind of halfling servant, looking for someone who could guide them along the forbidden paths through the Vale up to the gateway under Dwimoberg. Clever Master Nightshade had walked that path dozens of times, gathering small relics and bits of scrolls, as well as the occasional coins from the pockets of unfortunate travelers. He had even once actually stuck his head through the black door into the realm of the dead. No one in these parts knew that road, or the ways of the dark better then Gar Nightshade...ask anybody.
The minion, a street urchin named Gwendi, had told the elf that a guide would meet them in the Widow's Walk after dark, and she even made a couple coppers for her trouble. Disgusting. Elves were typical of the cocky lightsiders who wandered through here from time to time. Starry eyed and always babbling about honour and battling the "enemy" and other rot...Just more victims for the pits of the Black land as far as Nightshade was concerned, and good riddance. At least they always threw coins around as they went. Gwendi made a good profit off the lightsiders due to that limp and heavy wooden cane of hers...if only they knew she could scamper away into an alley faster then they could say "I say there, Sir Pretentious, where's my purse?"
Well, it was time for Master Nightshade to make his grand entrance he thought to himself, assuming that the normal crowd of the Widow's Walk hadn't already made short work of this elf maiden and her stupid halfling servant. Place should be full of cut throats and bad eggs by now. Old Krego was usually in his cups by now on a Tuesday night, and the massive bruiser hated elves especially after his old evil henchman days had come to a close. If he was drunk, he wouldn't know when to stop, god help that elf girl. Hopefully they would all lay off and let him make his dramatic pitch to the poor thing. Then, in the dark in the Blackroot Vale as the dead howled beyond the gate, whose to know where the knife came from that slit her from behind? Poor little girl doesn't know what she has walked into...but she will, or his name wasn't Nightshade.
Striding forward, small smokebomb for dramatic effect at the ready, he swung the dark oak door of the Widow's Walk wide, to behold a scene of chaos served cold. Not a piece of furniture seemed to be in one piece, and the massive iron chandelier was smashed into the side of the bar, bits of cheap mirror shattered in all directions. Fully a dozen local cutthroats and sell swords were scattered around the tavern, most groaning, some unconscious, a few in pieces. Looking down, Gar realized that he had just stepped on a hand..no arm, just a hand, and spoiled the gleam of his patent leather boots.
He spun to dash out in revulsion to find the door was shut again, a halfling holding a broken beer bottle stood menacingly between him and it....a green, furry halfling with a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and a long blond wig, wearing a stained Shire jerkin, his voice a rasping whine. "You no go nowhere new meat...Me nice little hobbit, hey ho hey ho, and me rip your meaty guts out if you try and scarper, or me name not Reznik. Now you wait ta talky talky nice to Knife Ears or me EAT yer taters, hey nonny nonny. "
Gar Nightshade raised both hands and turned slowly to behold mighty Krego, on his knees in the middle of the destroyed tavern, apparently crying as an elf girl had him by one ear. In this position their heads were about on the same level. The elf raised her other crimson gauntleted fist, and punched the enormous tough again. A wet, popping sound echoed as Krego's badly kept teeth sprayed all over Gar's expensive cloak and the former henchman toppled backwards onto the remains of the chandelier, whimpering softly.
The Elf brushed off her hands happily, turning so the firelight gleamed off her crimson plate armor as she reached for the Greatsword she had rested against the bar. "Well, now that is what I call a feckin WELCOME. By Sauron's Little Nazgul I could LIKE this dump...GROG ALL AROUND!!!" Sadly the bartender had fled long ago so there was no-one to follow through on Xandilif the banshee's generosity and no one was still standing to drink any toasts, but it was a nice gesture none the less.
The "Hobbit" cleared it's throat and tried to sound small and cute, forcing Nightshade forward at broken bottle point as he spoke. "Oh Yelpy Knife Ear, this new meat look like the butt-leech that sneaky limpy kid described, don't he? Umm...Ring a ding dillo?"
Xandilif drove the point of her Greatsword, SilverWand, into the hard wood floor of the tavern and leaned against it, smiling at Nightshade. "That he does, ya gormless little miscreant, that he does. Now then, you are gonna lead me to the fecking doorway to the paths of the dead and you are gonna do it alive, or as a damn spirit...you choose, sunshine."
Master Gar Nightshade, Black magician of Morlad and Agent of Shadow could do nothing but stare at the grinning elf in confusion and horror for a long few minutes...finally finding his voice, but noting it was a good deal more quavery then he would have liked. "But..umm..of course...but...why do you wish to go there? It..well...it is...made by the dead and the dead keep it, or so I have heard, no?"
The Banshee nodded and shrugged. "Yeah yeah...I know...but I promised to meet my apple-headed sister and her traveling brothel at the Shadow-Watch. They are headed into Gondor from Rohan on personal-like business..and if I end up looking like a moron by bein' late, I am gonna feed ya to my Hobbit here chunk by chunk, ya follow?"
Nightshade simply nodded numbly as he watched the strangely Koboldish Hobbit smile hungrily and lick the last remains out of the broken beer bottle he was holding with a long, snake-like tongue.
Reznik shrugged....Might be ale, might be blood..at least it was wet.. Hey dol merry doll.
