Another stream of sand fell from the ceiling, grainy and pattering as it settled onto the dirty floor. The room of a tavern cellar dimly lit by one or two small candles, whereas the rest were snuffed, and it is this light that barely illumes the suffocating, humid cellar. Howe'er the humidity betrays the nature of the cellar; it is dry, devoid of water. A layer of sand or a film of dust and cobwebs lay over everything; between the cracks of the limestone bricks, the barrels and crates, and collapsed supports and beams and floorboards from the floor above. The air is, in addition to the humidity, musty.
A young man sits sprawled out in a far corner, away from what little heat those tiny candles could provide, but also away from the unstable dam that made up the destroyed tavern. It was the innkeeper of this tavern that he was to meet and establish negotiations with, to put him under Arastoph's thumb, strong-arm him into joining his cartel – the Xylem Cartel; Arastoph himself, after whom it was named. Alas, there came the raid of goblins and orcs and ettins and bandits. A peculiar mix, to be sure, but there was barely time to question the logistics when the town in which the trader was residing burned to the ground. Arastoph locked himself in the cellar in his attempt to flee. While pursued, he was only so fortunate there was a group of adventurers conveniently passing through town and willing to defend against the raid.
Only so fortunate, of course, as the ettin they had fought was toppled over the tavern and crushed most of it. Arastoph himself had narrowly escaped the debris. Assuming he got out of this alive, there was still the matter of surviving the rest of his travels. In the chaos that had ensued, his coin purse had been lost. The coin purse that was to cover all expenses of his excursion. He would have to scavenge some loot from the ruined town, such as perhaps the two wine kegs in this very cellar – but with no employable work and no horses (and his carriage had likely been destroyed in this mess, too), there was no question that there was no easy way out of this scenario.
Still, giving up now would be a tremendous waste of all the years he spent getting to this point.
Arastoph pushed himself to his feet and paced over to the collapsed mess of beams and boards. There was the chance he could loosen some of the debris and force a way out and–
“What's that, I wonder...” Arastoph muttered to himself. He crawled further up into the mess and pulled out what looked to be a piece of fabric. Upon touching it, he found it to be courser than regular cloth. It was wool. Brushing aside debris, he was able to pull whatever it was from the wreckage; the dirty wool ripped free from whatever it was caught on, and taking another look, Arastoph found a hand, sticking out limply from beneath the pile. He left it alone, not batting an eye. But there was something else near the body. Shifting aside a large, heavy beam, the pile of debris suddenly shifted.
Arastoph kept very still, listening for any creaking in the pile. It was silent.
The merchant continued looking. Further in, he found... a hat? A wide brimmed hat. Its color was dark, and the shape reminded him of a sun hat. Whoever this belong to must have had some kind of money, as not just any peasant owned one. Upon looking at it, he found it was nothing exceptionally valuable, but it is at least a good start to make some money once he got out of here. Forty or fifty gold. Nothing extraordinary. With his stiletto, he poked little inconspicuous holes in the sides of the hat and threaded the long strip of wool and tied a knot on the other side. He did the same for the other end of the rim. He stuck his head through the loop and let the hat hang around his neck. 'That'll have to do for now...'
Sounds of metal rhythmically clashing penetrated the wood tomb. Were there still raiders above? Were there still people defending the ruins? What purpose did those fools have for remaining? Surely there are no other survivors of this raid aside from he. Arastoph was just modest enough to admit he was lucky. He doubted that same luck extended to the villagers of Ravenwood; clearly they weren't so lucky as to be spared from this disaster.
But the clanging metal continued. He noticed something peculiar about it: it was easily heard. It penetrated the confines of the cellar with ease. This meant there had to have been an opening somewhere. He looked around the pile of collapsed wood, and then up, where he beheld a wondrous sight! A hole, not very large, but just enough for him to fit through. The black night sky melded with shades of gray from the dust and smoke-filled atmosphere. But should he leave now? There was danger out there, for certain. He listened carefully as the clashes of metal temporarily subsided.
“... Noble offer, one generously accepted … against mine … among us worthy of victory.”
“Good, glad to see … die by my blades instead … fires of war ….”
There were two different people. At least, two different parties. The first sounded more honorable and good-intentioned than the latter. While the former sounded something of a stick in the mud in comparison to the latter, it seemed that the latter was the more violent of the two, and was likely the one Arastoph should be looking out for. If the first man was one of the adventurers that had been attempting to defend the village during all this time, it might be better for Arastoph to align himself with the knight – even if it is just to preserve his own life.
He'll evacuate slowly and carefully, in that case. Help the knight out, perhaps, if it was just the one raider alone.
Arastoph stood atop the rubble, steeling his nerves as he heard the creaking beneath his boots. He grabbed onto the edge of the floorboards above and test its strength by gently pulling on the edges. Once he found an adequately secure ledge, he hung from it and hoisted himself up, swinging his feet around to make the best of the inertia and to lift his chest over the edge and planting it down on the floor above, before brining his legs up and crawling to safety. He sat in a corner of the building, where the walls around it and even the ceiling was destroyed.
The moon was unusually bright tonight.
He turned his head around the corner, taking advantage of the darkness that had concealed him, and observed the event taking place in the center of the ruined town. The knight and a swordsman were locked in combat. Four other people stood off to one side, and two off to another.
'So it would seem the raiders have gone,' thought Arastoph, 'but it would also seem that looters have taken their place.
Quick inspection.
The man fighting the knight wielded two swords. Taking him out would remove much offensive presence and perhaps save the knight from a potential defeat. Another warrior, but this one had one weapon, a flail. Ultimately a non-threatening weapon. Difficult to use effectively, heavy, and was mostly used for disarming opponents. Two people wielding crossbows. The knight can defend against them, but are easily the biggest threat to himself. But take out one, the other will take cover, and there's still a problem. The other... it was difficult to tell. A magi or wizard, perhaps. A practitioner, judging by the robes and staff. Could even be a priest, in that case, healing magic was able to be implemented. Whatever the case, torrents of fire or healing the wounds of his allies can turn the tide of a battle. In a general sense, the robed individual was the greatest threat. If he took that person out, then perhaps they'd all be alarmed. Distracted. If the knight was smart, he'd take advantage of that opportunity and slay the swordsman. Arastoph had no intentions of dying today.
He drew back into the safety of the darkness concealed corner and looked into his cloak. He had five handfuls of pellets. Five shots.
“Is that all you got? Stop hiding behind the shield and fight me blade to blade.”
From the sounds of it, there was little time to debate the decision. His only chance at survival is in a bad position.
Arastoph reached into his cloak, and out of the pockets, grabbed a small pouch of pellets and gunpowder and easily poured the contents into the lipped barrel. He threw the pouch on the ground next to him. Another pouch in his left hand. Carrying one pouch in his teeth. Three shots. He'd have to execute his maneuvers wisely. Hopefully the knight's companions weren't stupid, either. He peered around the corner to glance at the pyromancer carefully once more. He took a deep breathe and stood up behind his barrier.
Quickly, he side-stepped out from his hiding place with his pistol drawn and aimed at the unarmored pyromancer. A loud explosion vibrated through the air as he pulled the trigger, and dozens of lead pellets whistled as they cut through the air. He took cover behind the corner just after the shot was made, focused on reloading.
