In the seventh installment of A Grey Beginning, we learn of a fated night - a night that would one day determine the fate of all of Crown. While it seems innocent enough at first, the night whereupon the demonic were-rat Szeethe first hears of the Fiend Fighter is anything but! Join us now as we eavesdrop on a conversation which many would consider no more than a passing trifle...
"It should be a good fight, tonight," said a mild, somewhat jolly voice.
Szeethe turned and looked down the well-worn and heavily stained bar in The Half Crown, one of the many nondescript groggeries in the city. He had come to this particular inn on a scouting mission, as word had spread about some strange disappearances of customers at the taverns near the water front. He needed some new hunting grounds. Located not far from the Arms Crescent, the tavern served mostly locals.
It was a dry run, but as he had paid for his drink, he would sit and drink it in the meek and unobtrusive manner of his kindred. It would not pay to rouse any unwanted attention. His mere presence had already brought enough of that, telling him that this fishing hole would not be productive.
Down the bar sat two merchants, a halfling and a human. The halfling, short and somewhat round with long whiskers and dark, curly hair, was nursing some sort of wine. His clothing was not quite fine, but better than most middling merchants. The human seemed merely a larger version of his companion save for his clean-shaven face. About his shoulders was a long cloth tape, indicating he was some sort of tailor. That his clothes were not particularly fine seemed to indicate that he was not from one of the better clothiers in Crown.
"For you they are all good fights," said the man before taking a sip from his own glass of wine.
"Fight nights are always good, even if my own partner does not fight," replied the halfling, "I cover wagers for more than just the Fiend Fighter.
The chubby man held up a thick-fingered hand. "Your pardon," he said, "I did not mean to imply a thing."
"I took no offense. My best nights are still when he fights, and that is the truth."
"Indeed," answered the man, nodding, "And how long have you been paired up with him?"
The halfling cocked his head and raised a brow, "My dear Carunin, I do not ask about the bolts of linen you get nor of how many trousers you sew."
Chuckling, the man replied, "That you do not. Forgive the question."
"I do not share my business, not even to my son," replied the halfling.
"You do not?" asked the tailor, "Young Alfem must be past the age of reckoning with your kind. Shall he not follow in your foot-steps?"
"Oh, you mistake me," replied the halfling, "I have taught Alfem the business very well. But he has his work and I have mine. The only way to keep secrets is to tell them to nobody, not even your son."
"True. My son is not so good as to get much from me," answered the human, "He spends more time wall-propping in the shop than he does learning to pass the needle. Going to dig ditches, I have told him more than once."
The halfling drained his glass and slapped the man on the back. "Our talks are always good, but I have to get to the Valor to finish working up the odds. The Fiend Fighter will be fighting Orsund the Broad tonight."
"Have a profitable night, Falem," called the human as the halfling left.
Szeethe turned once more to his own cup and considered what he had heard. The were-rat knew of the Valor, or more correctly if not quite correct, the Broken Valor, the tavern adjacent to the fighting pits. One of the seedier places in Crown, the place was not for the high-born nor the overly moral. Few citizens would admit to attending the fights, fewer still to placing wagers on them. Betting over life and death was still considered poor form by most in the city.
Yet, the place did a bustling business. For some time, Szeethe had tried to figure a way to get his brethren into the pits to handle the care of the bodies of the slain but to no avail. Were-rats were discouraged from even entering the Valor, much less entering into business arrangements. As of yet he had failed to make any inroads in that very valuable resource.
Carunin the tailor drained his own glass and stood, leaving some coins on the table before making his way to the door. Szeethe saw an opportunity and quickly finished his own drink. Leaving his own payment, he made his way out the door, looking in either direction. He quickly found his mark and stepped into the street some ten yards or so behind, walking quietly. Perhaps this fat man could tell him more about Falem and his son...
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