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I like Star Wars.

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co-written with Nox Grimoire


"Gre..ahem..Greetings," He managed to stammer. "Arathys Menenon here for admission..."


Cildran Hall was a cavernous building, the university’s largest, with an open view of the ceiling some seven stories above the ground floor. From his vantage point, Arathys could see people, no less than a hundred, he thought, moving from room to room on the floors above.

Cildran was the only university building open to the public, which meant that the people of Teres were welcome to explore its halls, visit its classrooms, and browse the tomes of its library. The Cildran Archives were not nearly the size of the Stacks under the Tower of Terwen, which held some ten times ten thousand books, and possessed not nearly the same depth of content, but it was certainly something. People from all over Northmarch came to avail themselves of its resources.

It was a busy morning on Cildran's first floor, with dozens of prospective students crowding the halls alongside the mix of arcanists, current students, and upper class Teresians with the leisure to visit. The admissions clerks, three of them, sat behind a long, tall desk, about chest high to the visitors, and each one was busy processing the enrollment of the incoming students. It was nearing the end of the month, Arathys overheard, and the College's enrollment period would soon end. This must have explained the number of people present.

The admissions clerk, a wiry woman of sharp features and pale complexion, considered the mage from above through a pair of over-sized spectacles. She pushed them up her nose. “Well, you’re just about on time. Open enrollment lasts through the 32nd of Kindling.” It was the 28th of the month that day. “Are you already registered, Mr.. . . ?” she asked, prompting him for a name.

"M..Menenon," He replied. "Arathys Menenon. And no, I'm not registered" His mouth was dry and his hands were clammy. He couldn't believe that he was so late in the enrollment cycle. But then, when he'd arrived in Teres, it hadn't exactly been his intention to enroll at all. It was more or less a whim, at the direction of his old master, that he stood here now. Now he only hoped that he didn't bungle it. "So, how does this this work?" He asked nervously. "Is..is there some sort of test, or..."

"Hm." The admissions clerk pulled open a drawer and drew from it a small stack of parchment, which she passed to him across the desk. "Please fill this out, legibly. I will see if we have someone on hand to interview you." With that, she got up and left, walking through a door behind the desk into a back office of some sort.

The paperwork was not particularly interesting. It involved basic warranties and representations about the applicant's name, age, race, place of origin, and so on, the stuff of a bureaucrat's design. There was a section that requested a description of the applicant's magical aptitude, which was more interesting, and a few lines that requested a brief "statement of interest," which Arathys could correctly deduce invited some comment on why he was applying to the Teresian College of Wizardry and what he wished to accomplish here.
"Is there anyway I could help?" He was practically beaming with energy, his recent embarrassment entirely out of his mind. With an outstretched hand he introduced himself, "I'm Tergo Orryn Pip Veris Scheppen, nice to meet you."


The dwarf considered the gnome for a moment before shaking his hand. "Watchman Ironpike, at your service," she introduced herself, her grip strong. "And if you're in the 'business of goblins,' Tergo Orryn . . . Scheppen," she answered, stumbling over his name, "in the sense that you kill goblins, maybe you could be of service to the realm. Follow the Searoad half a league north and you'll find the caravan. Might be there's hope for that little girl after all."
"I have no idea who this man is," the halfling answered excitedly,"never seen him in my life! You have my great thanks, Madame Dragonborn," he continued, and gave her a deep, theatrical bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, kindly give my protectors a round of applause!" he requested, and they obliged, though not with any great enthusiasm.

All the while, the man on the Tavern's floor groaned and cursed them.

The City Watch arrived a few minutes later, and though at first glance the scene was not favorable for the dragonborn, the testimony of the various eyewitnesses there was enough for them to cart the assailant away and leave the dragonborn and the gnome unharassed. His companion slinked away into the crowd after answering a few questions, clearly not happy with the situation but not at all interested in pressing the matter further against the dragon-woman who had shattered his friend's knee with such ease.

As the matter resolved itself, a City Watchman, a dwarven woman Durwith was acquainted with by the name of Inga Ironpike, approached the dwarf. She was shaking her head exasperatedly.

"Got news from the gates," she said in greeting, "goblins just raided another caravan down from Whitewood, kidnapped a little girl not half a league from the city. And the captain--may that man be thrice damned--still won't send us after them." Captain Gerald Mott of the Teresian City Watch had his reasons, of course. There were too few watchmen to send them off beyond the city walls and into the wilds to chase goblins through the woods, but that made it none the better. Keeping the rule of law was a bitter business, and it showed on her face.



Graham Douglas pushed the door of Coria's Inn open and entered, stepping across and into the Dockyard District brothel. Coria, a beautiful tiefling who was neither young nor old, greeted him with a typical, flowery welcome, suggestive of the pleasures he could find within the walls of her establishment. But he was here on business.

"I need to speak to One-Eye," he answered curtly, and she nodded, dropping the facade of charming madame.

"Same room as always," she said. Graham nodded, slid her a silver half-mark, and made for the stairs.

Coria's Inn was not a high end establishment. He would never find a nobleman in here, nor any nobleman's daughter, but Coria had a sense of decor. The red, white, and pink satins and silks that decorated the brothel gave it a plush, rich feeling. You could almost forget it was by the Docks, were it not for the faint smell of the sea that could never quite be kept out of the buildings in this area of the city.

He passed several women of the night onn his way to the last room on the left and opened the door. There, he found One-Eye.

Jaska Selley, wanted for highway robbery, theft, and on suspicion of murder, stood at the dresser, quite naked save for the black patch over his left eye. A woman lay in the bed, fast asleep under silken sheets, head laid on a fine feather pillow. He was pouring deep red wine from an elaborate looking glass decanter into a goblet of fine Yvennese ceramic.

"Graham," he greeted him. The highwayman averted his eyes. Jaska set the decanter down and dressed himself for his guest's sake, at least up to the waist. Graham looked up to look him in the eyes--or the eye, at least. Jaska was a handsome half-elf, his one good eye sky blue, his ears coming gently to points, his face clean shaven, or rather devoid of any facial hair at all save his eyebrows. With a hat on, it was the only indication that he might be anything but human.

"Jaska, I have a favor to ask," Graham said. "I've got a job, with some good pay in it for any men you can spare for it."

"What kind of job?" Jaska asked, voice dripping with disinterest. Graham explained the situation, about the dark elf in the alley, the quest, the key. And at the end of it Jaska shrugged and drained his goblet of wine. "You mean to tell me," he started, pouring another glass as he spoke, "that an invisible elf in an alleyway gave you a quest, to go on an adventure deep into the Boarwood to recover a key, and your reward for completing this task is . . . whatever you find?" he says, clarifying. Graham nodded slowly. "That's a shit job, Graham."

"Well, he seemed convinced there'd be a good payout for doing it," Graham replied, but his voice was uncertain even as he tried to justify his choice.

"No, he convinced you there'd be a good payout for doing it," Jaska One-Eye said cuttingly. "You're free to go chase this key or whatnot, but I'm not wasting my men's time with anything of that nature. If you'd like a real job, though, you know, the kind that pays in coin instead of promises, I've got an alternative offer."

"Oh?"

Jaska smiled. Well, it was more of a smirk. Jaska did not smile. "A heist for the history books."

Graham was interested.
Brawl at the Tavern
Fishmonger Initiative: 6
"You're not going to do anything unless I say so," Quilrith warned.


Tergo . . . allowed himself a smirk, and continued. "I'd like to know, if you wouldn't mind me asking, exactly why you've interrupted our fine evening?"


"Halfling tupped his wife," the second man--the one with the untupped wife--answered Tergo, voice almost puzzled. This one seemed much less interested in the brawl after Quilrith's intervention. "Ye didn't hear 'im the first time?" he asked, pointing his rod at the first man.

The first man, though initially stayed by the dragonborn's threat, found himself bolstered by the reminder of his wife's infidelity. "Oi then, if you want to stand by 'im, I'm 'appy to beat you down too!" he shouted, and went to take a swing at Quilrith with the iron rod.

Roll Initiative!

As Quilrith made her way through the crowd and came near the bartender, she noticed a large board behind the bar, covered in leaflets nailed to the cork. Each leaflet featured a charcoal drawing, a rough approximation of a face. Below the image, in large, boldly written words, the leaflets proclaimed the size of the bounty and the reason for the posting. There were as follows:

BY ORDER OF THE CITY WATCH
AWARDS PAID BY THE OFFICE OF THE MASTER OF COIN


1 Silver Jack per Goblin Hand
for Their Crimes Against the People of Northmarch

1 Gold Mark per Bugbear Head
for Their Crimes Against the People of Northmarch

50 Gold Marks for the Capture of Jaska Selley
for the High Misdemeanors of Highway Robbery, Theft, and on Suspicion of Murder

75 Gold Marks for Each of the Heads of the Boarwood Ettin
for Its Crimes Against the People of Northmarch

100 Gold Marks for the Capture or Head of Yakree Elf-Killer
for High Crimes Committed in the Service of the Enemies of Teres

100 Gold Marks for the Capture or Head of Zaghaz the Sneak
for High Crimes Committed in the Service of the Enemies of Teres

200 Gold Marks for the Capture of Melvius Schotz
for the High Crime of Malfeasance

500 Gold Marks for the Head of the Hag of the Boarwood
for Her Crimes against the People of Northmarch


There was no further information on any of them, but perhaps the name and promise of gold was enough for a bounty hunter worth his salt.

Passing the bar, Quilrith noticed that bartender present a patron with a filet of cod and a tall mug of dark beer, and her nostrils were met with the overpowering smell of fish. It was not from the dish, however.

She felt a shove as two burly men, local laborers by the look of them, pushed past her and moved to the front of the crowd. They moved forward with purpose, pushing patrons out of their way as they advanced. These two had not come to engage in drunken revelry or listen to music, but they moved inexorably toward the halfling flutist at the back of the tavern. He stopped playing as the pushing became shoving, and what had initially seemed to be a pair of rude patrons became potential instigators of a bar brawl. Flute lowered from his lips, he posed a question.

"What's this about?"

"That's 'im!" the first man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the four foot tall flutist. "That's that sod who tupped my wife!" A quiet fell over the tower as the shouting started. The crowd backed away suddenly with a few cries of surprise as these two fish-scented interlopers drew iron clubs from their waist belts and advanced, clearly intent on beating the living hells out of this halfling. The lutist backed up, but found his back against the wall. He turn his head to the crowd, his look imploring, as if begging someone to jump to his defense. The bar's patrons did not answer.
"Well, have come a long way to attend your fine institution, and I was wondering you could direct me toward the admission office?"


"Oh, well, it's very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Menenon! It's always a pleasure to meet another student of the arcane," the gnome said warmly. "You should go by the college tomorrow morning, they have officials who can point you in the right direction. You will have to pass an entrance examination to receive an acceptance, but I wouldn't worry about that. An accomplished wizard like yourself should have no issue with it."

Fillion described the location of the Teresian College of Wizardry, which Arathys would be able to find in the Sea District, north of the Tavern and Dockyard District and overlooking the World Sea. The Tower of Terwen, a tall, white stone tower that any sailor and traveler arriving at Teres has seen before, was the center of the College, but Fillion explained that Arathys's first stop should be Cildran Hall, which was open to visitors. He suggested that he stop by tomorrow morning.
Finding his courage, Arathys finished his brandy, and made his way over to where the student sat.

"hel...Hello..." He said nervously. "Might I sit down?"


The gnome looks up, pushing his reading glasses down his nose to regard the human with quizzical curiosity. He is dressed as a mage, in the flowing blue robes of the Teresian College of Wizardry. He sits with an open book of lore, some arcane marks scrawled across the pages, a spellbook, and a mug full of a strong dwarven stout. He's young, with a full head of hair and a golden mustache and goatee, and smiles cheerily. "I don't see why not, friend," the gnome says, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Fillion Flexner, how do you do?"
"If you want more people than just the two of us, I can help with that" Graham said once Artimeres had finished speaking "I know a guy. With a word to him, he can make it known to the more trust worthy side of the Teresian underworld there's treasure to be had".


"Pleasure doing business with you," Artimeres says with a broad smile. "We'll leave tomorrow, eh? Say, ten in the morning as the bell tolls? You'll find me at the Tavern by the bar. And do be prepared for a trip. We're likely to be camping out a bit on the road, two, maybe three days to get there and back again. I hope you two are fans of the outdoors."

And with that, Artimeres struck out for the street, leaving the two behind. As he stepped onto Water Street, he spoke a barely audible word and seemed to split into two indistinguishable copies of himself, with one Artimeres Briyazh walking left, the other walking to the right. And with that, the dark elven minstrel disappeared into the Teresian night.
"Oh, and do remember to bring some bread." He added politely. With a nod of his head he indicated that his order was finished and turned his attention to the halfling fellow, humming along to his melody as he patiently waited for his food.


The serving girl, who introduced herself as Brielle, was happy to oblige, and provided the new gnomish patron with a glass of local white wine sourced from the vineyards at Norring Hill, and a decent enough filet of cod, along with the bread and potatoes Tergo requested. The food at the Tavern was nothing to write home about, but the wine was good and the music was even better.

The halfling minstrel, one Elliot Flammel, finished his song with a bow, and upon the request of the dragonborn seated at the adventurer's table began a flute rendition of the Lay of Sir Florian. Though traditionally a lutist's tune accompanied by sung lyrics, Flammel proved a competent musician again, and the audience, impressed at his skill, gave him some scattered applause as he got to it.




"Where is this key exactly?" Graham asked.


”Now I don’t know what went down, but I am damn certain that you were drunk a few moments ago . . . I refuse to go along with a mysterious magic man on some quest to get a key. This must be a trick, especially if this man is a trickster.”


"I get that a lot," Artimeres answered Melancholy with a wink and a smile, "but let me tell you it is very difficult to earn your keep on the lute if you play drunk. Gotta learn to hold your liquor if you want to make it as a minstrel. And trickster might I be, but your friend here seems like he's got a good swing behind that flail, and you seem to have your wits together. The two of you strike me as a useful pair of cutthroats, and at this moment I happen to be in the market for just such a pair of cutthroats. Savvy?"

"So, now, where is it exactly? I'm not going to tell you that," Artimeres now answered Graham with a laugh, dismissing the illusion of the key with a wave of his hand. "I'd like you to have a reason not to slit my throat while we're on the road, you see, and what would you need me for if I told you exactly where you needed to go?"

"I'll tell you this, though. We'll be going north about a day's journey, off the road and into the Boarwood. Not a safe place up there, plenty of goblins and the like. We may want to find some more adventurous types like yourself to come with us. Now I already know you're not going to like the idea of splitting the pie up more than you have to, but here's my two copper for your consideration," the dark elf says, punctuating his words with flamboyant gestures as he speaks, "what good is the loot if you don't live to spend it, eh?"

"So what do you say?"
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