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The Underworld

Standing at the entrance of one of the dozens of back alleys and side streets that lay within the heart of the city, you debated the wisdom of following the dark-cloaked figure you followed from the docks. Curiosity urged you to move forward. Prudence told you to walk away. It didn't take long for curiosity to win, and you were soon treading quietly into the alley with a wary eye and a careful step--a token gesture to the prudence whose advice you formerly ignored. The alley grew darker the further you moved from the main street and the light the open avenue had provided. The familiar sounds of the docks and the sea began to fade as well, muffled by the buildings that loomed high on either side of you.

About thirty paces into the alley, your path was intercepted by another back street, presenting you with a decision as to which course to take. Prudence again suggested turning back, but the flash of a dark cloak and the faint sound of a door down the alleyway toward your left propelled you onward, curiosity now fairly humming in your blood. Within a dozen heartbeats, you reached the end of the alley and found a lone door which no doubt led to a storeroom or warehouse utilized by one of the many merchants or shippers in this port city. It had a look a disuse about it, however, and the stain on the door had been largely eroded by the sea air. Ever-inquisitive, you were about to press your ear against the door when a shrill scream pierced the heavy silence of the alley, echoing from behind the door. It was followed by the sound of a scuffle, which you barely had a chance to hear as you drew a weapon and forced your way through the door.

Within the room, three black-clad figures surrounded a plainly dressed woman. A deep gash on her left arm and the steady flow of blood therefrom told you that hers was the scream you had heard from the alley, and the look of terror in her eyes as they locked onto yours told you that she feared greatly for her life. For an instant, you stood paralyzed within the doorframe, but when one of the dark-robed attackers broke from the other two and headed towards you, all hesitation was gone.

Rushing to meet your opponent, you took him by surprise and easily dropped him, allowing you to advance to attack the other two. They were ready for your assault, however, and you found them more than a match for your skills. Still, your efforts were enough to afford the woman a chance to escape, and she fled quickly from the room and out into the alley beyond, disappearing into the cobblestone maze that existed behind the city's main streets.

A second later you found yourself flat on the ground, dropped by the attacker you thought you had dispatched. You struggled against the three ruffians as they pinned you to the ground and clasped irons about your wrists. It was only then that you noticed the small insignia each wore on his chest and realized that you'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.

"The High Justice isn't going to be happy she got away again," one of them muttered, wiping a mixture of blood and grime from the corner of his mouth. Another grunted as he checked the soundness of the chains that now bound you. "No, he isn't. But," he added, pulling you to your feet, "at least we got her accomplice."

He hid hunkered in the dank shadows of the alley, shivering against the cold wet air and pulling the heavy cloak tighter about his shoulders. The waning light of the lanterns on the cross street ahead lit the alley in uneven patches, but it kept a careful distance from his small den of shadow hidden behind the group of weathered barrels. Creosote, pungent and sickening, leaked from the splintering wood, trickling slowly down the sides of the kegs and across the black-stained stones towards the man's boots. It was hardly a place for celebration, but a cocky smile glimmered on the man's face as he reached into a leather pouch and wrapped his fingers about the item within. He had bested Striker, and it was his. The smile broadened as he turned the object about in his hand and savored his victory.

� Copyright Valerie Valusek, "Zulkir Lauzoril"
Spellbound Forgotten Realms Source Book, (1995)

Striker Kel. They said he wasn't human, that his grey eyes hid a cold, dark spirit that knew neither leniency, nor mercy. He'd heard stories of the man. They all had . . . stories that sped their hearts and chilled their blood. He hadn't believed them, well, not all of them; but he had fallen victim to the withering stare of the guildmaster, finding himself frozen like prey beneath the screaming talons of the hawk. It was this, he thought, that had birthed the tales of darkness he'd tried to discount as so much fancy. Now, clutching his hand about the pouch, he knew himself to be right. He had won, and Striker was none the wiser. He laughed quietly.

The sound rippled through the shadows, a low, self-assured chuckle. It echoed off the eaves of the building and floated back down, changing into rasping gurgle as it landed at last beside the still and quiet figure. In the silence that followed, the man's hand went slack, dropping the pouch and the prize it held to the fog-slickened street below. Within the sudden hush, a grey eye pierced the shadows. It flickered briefly across the man's shock-filled face in an unnamed expression before a gloved hand snatched the pouch from the pooling mixture of black and crimson that seeped slowly into the shadow-covered cobblestones.

Guildmaster

Within Stormpoint, as within any city, there are the other, less known residents who are seldom seen save from the corner of a wary eye and who disappear completely beneath the gaze of the vigilant. Shadow-wrapped strangers who slip wraithlike through the darkened streets of Stormpoint, they vanish and reappear seemingly at will, delighting in the never-ending game where predator becomes prey in a single heartbeat.

Thieves, rogues, spies—call them what you will; but remember, it's hard to name what you've never seen . . . and harder still to escape it. Take heed of those who advise you not to wander the city alone after dark, for their words are wise. But should you ignore their counsel and venture alone into the cobblestone maze, hope that when you feel a pair of unseen eyes resting hard upon you that it is one of these phantoms that follows you through the fog-slickened streets, for there are other, darker things that dwell within the shadows of this storm-torn city—things whose appetites are not sated by the glint of gold.

� Copyright Cheryl Mandus, "Masquerade" (1988)

Quaralyn is currently one of the former. Currently ....... and within the shadowy cloak of night she hunts, moving in skillful silence in search of gain, glory, or perhaps simply a diversion from the endless line of days that follow one upon another in slow monotony.

Loose tendrils of flame red hair sweep the small of her back and her eyes are a curious shade of green, lying somewhere between olive and jade . . . for now. What she may be when night falls again, who can say? She has taken many names, worn many faces, and been many things. Secrets follow softly in her footsteps, reminding her always of the past and of the truth that she alone knows . . . the truth of who she is, or who she might be. But for now, she is Quaralyn, and, clad in the sweet deception of illusion she remains, as she ever was, a learner of secrets, a weaver of wiles, and a child of shadow.

Guild member

The words were spoken softly behind her back, whispered so that she would not hear. Indeed, she did not appear to hear anything that was said, or at least she didn't acknowledge a word of it. She sat by herself in the corner, those piercing eyes, each a different color, one amber, the other blue, watched those around her, causing faint shivers when their passage was noted.

� Copyright Jennie Seay, "James" (1999)

Dressed wholly in black, she seemed the obvious target of scorn, only fools would announce themselves so clearly. It was all there, the black, the way she walked with a predator's grace, the way she watched everyone as though she expected them to leap up and attack her, but was unafraid. The woman must be some sort of shadow skulker, but what kind of foolish person would so blatantly declare such a thing? No one dared denounce her. There was too much confidence in the stride, in the way she wore that blade at her hip. There was something about her that seemed to declare, "I know you all know what I am, but I don't care," and that was enough to keep people from denouncing her, it was enough to make them worried.

That wasn't the end of the strangeness, though, that was yet to come. It came in the form of a huge black panther, slipping in through the door, watching those that watched her scornfully, as though daring them to try and stop her, daring them to do anything. She padded to the back of the room and curled up at the feet of the woman, eyes open and watching all those that might dare to approach them.

A dark scowl lit the face of the man who, driven by rage-filled ambition, schemed and waited. He boasted and impressive set of skills and the wherewithal to use them, traits that should be beyond sufficient to secure a position of power within the guild. Something, however, prevented this coveted rise, something that he wouldn't speak of, and something that had followed at his heels liked a dogged mark of Cain. He'd hoped that each new city, each new guild might provide the proverbial chance to start anew, but he'd chosen the wrong profession if he really believed such things were possible. Though he traveled swiftly and silently, secrets, unburdened by flesh or border, traveled faster.

� Copyright Todd Lockwood
Used with permission of copyright holders

He'd decided to stop running in Stormpoint, to make a stand against the past and carve a different future. He should have kept moving. Remaining served only the feed the cancerous ire within as he watched, mired in the sucking grip of stagnation, while those around him, those with what he deemed less talent and less wit, rose in power. He hated them with a venomous passion, but had stayed both his tongue and his hand ... and it had paid off. After long years of hate-filled silence he'd finally found a soul as malice-ridden as his own, and had been called to serve at his side. It sparked a dark glimmer of twisted hope which grew to a barely controlled blaze as more years passed, bringing with them a taste of the power he so craved. He would succeed his master, he knew, and use his newfound position as a stepping stone to more.

Plans were in place and prices were paid, but promised joy was doused when his master's downfall came not from his readied hand, but from that of an outsider who thus wormed her way into both the guild and the position Dagen had coveted as his own. He now hated her as he had no other, and he would find a way to make her pay.

Guild member

� Copyright Jennie Seay "Iris"

Many people underestimate the effectiveness of a smile and a clever turn of phrase. Jaryssa, would not be among this group, having used these assets to earn a comfortable living at the expense of others. A less than honorable profession, perhaps, but one of infinite amusement to this swindler and her equally malfeasant brother, Brextyl.

True, quick thinking and fast talking go only so far, but when these skills alone are insufficient Jaryssa has a fair amount of other talents to draw upon. A lithe and agile frame makes hiding in shadows and vaulting over walls of little difficulty, and a deft hand makes light work of most locks and pockets. She thus finds Stormpoint to be a wealth of opportunity.

On those less active evenings, however, when pickings are not fully ripe, one might chance to see, or more precisely, "hear," a different side of this larcenous femme, as she and her sibling have been known to supplement their thiefly take by posing as bards in some of the more solvent taverns. Take care, therefore, should you be approached by a dark-haired songstress while visiting such establishments, for she may be after more than the few coins tossed her way by you and your fellow patrons.

Guild member

� Copyright Claire Salvatori, "Noreil" (1997)

A rogue in the truest sense of the word, Brextyl possesses a natural charm that lulls both the unwary and the wary alike into an easy sense of trust ............. a trust which he and his sister, Jaryssa, quickly turn to their advantage. A history from the stage serves him well in this regard, allowing him to talk his way in to several of the more lucrative homes and business of the city and walk out a richer man.

But though he favors the confidence game, his prowess and agility make him equally adept at the more physical forms of thievery. He thus finds himself right at home on the guild's burglary team despite his continuing suspicions regarding the team's current leader. Having had the benefit of experience, he knows enough to keep quiet on the point, as people who openly questioned the Guildmaster's appointments had a disturbing habit of disappearing. Finding much in the city to keep his interests engaged and his pockets full, Brextyl and his sibling have adopted the wise policy of keeping their eyes open, and their mouths closed.

Guild member

� Copyright Marina Fahrenbach, "Alice Frost, 9 years"

The streets of Stormpoint are a lonely and dangerous place for any, but especially for the young. Still, the city boasts its unfortunate share of urchins--children without family or home who live at the mercy of strangers and dwell in the shadow-filled alleys, safely hidden from those who turn a blind eye. For such children, Life is a harsh teacher, and those who would survive learn their lessons quickly and completely, for there is rarely a second chance. But the skills learned in the face of this adversity are not entirely without merit. Those who are clever can earn enough coins to fight back the grim fate that awaits them by serving as an extra pair or eyes or ears, able to venture unseen, or at least unobserved, into areas where no child should tread. Kit is one of these, one of the fortunate, and her "talents" have carried her from the streets and earned her a place of relative security with those of like ability. To her, the guild is home, both father and mother, and she brings the sum experience of her ten years to whatever task is placed before her; and though she has seen much within those ten years, at times her eyes still shine with the innocence of her age—a useful expression, but one not entirely lacking in truth.

Guild member

� Copyright Norma Peters, "Darshak"

Galyn didn't start off as a thief. Not that many folks did, but Galyn's journey towards the shadowed profession followed a different path than most. Quick of mind, his talents leant naturally to the study of magic. Too great a taste for wine, women, and games of chance, however, soon landed him in debt to the guild. He thought he'd be able to pay his losses in gold. The guild had other ideas, forcing him to work off his debt directly. His talents served the guild well and he was assigned to the burglary team, obviating magical traps that yielded to neither skill nor strength.

If he had had a greater degree of restraint or concern, his servitude would have ended years ago. Lacking such, he managed to turn one year into another, and then another, adding to his debt faster than he could work it off. At his current rate of accumulation, it's doubtful that he'll ever leave the guild, but it doesn't seem to bother him. In fact, so far as it allows him to feed some of his more expensive appetites, he finds the arrangement a fair exchange.

Guild member

Your captor's hand clamped firmly onto your shoulder, and
his rough voice announced that you were in the custody of the rangers.

Care to consult your ?

� 1999 Stormpoint Writers Guild
All rights reserved

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