strange2: forum

The year is 968 AD. On a lonely little island less than a mile from the shore of northern Jutland, today known as Denmark, there was a mead hall. It was called Gunn Hall, after the roving Scotsman who had supposedly built it. It had grown mightily since it had been founded, and had expanded into quite the building. It was a great longhouse which fed, sheltered, and served as the home of over 100 souls, more if you counted those living in the outbuildings around it. While the structure itself is impressive, and will become important to us later, dear reader, it is not nearly as important as those who lived inside it.

Gunn hall was the esteemed home, administrative structure, and place to relax of the Band of Merry Friends.

The name was more than a little misleading, but this was intentional. For you see, the Band of Merry Friends was feared throughout Scandinavia, the Germanic states, and the British Isles. The Band of Merry Friends was a mercenary group of great esteem and glory. When there was a Chieftain, King, or Prince who needed muscle to back up their words, they would hire the band. When such work was not available or forthcoming, the band would load their longboats and go raiding.

The Band of Merry Friends did not have a leader. They had no Jarl or Laird. They considered themselves an association of friends, and as such attempted to solve all problems by vote. When this did not work, then they attempted to solve problems by shouting match. Should this fail, then the matter would be decided by trial of combat.

The Band of Merry Friends had existed as such for over a hundred years.

The Band did not yet know it, but they were approaching a crossroads it their existence. They would soon come a road with three forks in it, one leading to a new path, one much the same, and one leading nowhere at all.



This is where the story of the band becomes ours, dear reader.

We must take up arms as members of the Band of Merry Friends, and guide them on a path to the future. The path is ours to choose, and our choices will have a great effect on the band.

Joining could not be simpler. Simply state the name, age, nationality, general appearance of, faith, and skills of your character. This can be done with a form, or typed out. it is not important how the information gets across, as long as it gets across.

If you have any questions, feel free to mail me.

Cauldrons bubbled and brewed, some released steam as they cooked, while others glowed as their regents battled for supremacy. Yet others seemed to absorb light above them, a black haze darkening the dim atmosphere of Attila's tower. 

Bony hands worked spells over ingredients and potion alike. A dash of this, a pinch of that, foul ingredients were combined in the chosen pot. A gesture or thought fanned the flames, licking higher and higher up the black iron vessel. A ladle was dipped into a glowing blue cauldron, and this was introduced to the brew which ate light. 

Noxious fumes rise! A skeletal hand forms a sigil and those fumes are blown away before any acidic miasma can etch ancient bones. The brew simmers and whatever catalysts finish their reaction, leaving an almost translucent slime. Bubbles rise and splatter gently as the heat is lowered. 

A small flame is lit and a heavy gold alembic is placed over it. The slime is introduced through the neck and bubbles at once. Component vapors spew into a waiting flask. A few minutes pass and the bubbling stops, the flask now half full. Long bony fingers wrap the flask and lift it to what was once a nose. Lipless lips attempt a smile at the aroma. 

A small rubber hammers raps against the outside of the alembic. A few screws which hold the base to the alembic's bulb undo themselves before Attila's gaze. The top removed reveals a forest of gently tinkling crystals. They sparkle with a florescent light, and a gentle sound like a tiny wind chimes is barely heard as they shine. 

Attila's new product is all but ready for the streets. 

One of the problems with the valley was that there was topography, and even the ancients had been unwilling to move a lot of it. Small roads, seemingly older roads, snaked around forests, ponds, deep valleys, and tall peaks. It made them unpredictable, and could lead to predicaments for the unprepared and unfamiliar. 

Apparently Strange was both. The road that he'd hoped would snake to Redstone without attracting attention had turned into a winding trail through tiny forgotten Burgs. 

This one had a steel sign flipped upside down in the weedy gravel at the roadside. It said Felton, which meant not a thing to Strange. Ruined houses and rusted hulks lined avenues which were being eaten by overgrowth and fallen facades. It didn't take a lot to figure out that people didn't come here. 

Strange scratched at the side of head head, pondering. No traffic could mean good scavenging. He looked back the way he had come, new-growth forests had pushed through what had once been farmland and would overtake what was left of the pavement in a single lifetime. 

No traffic also meant that the dead could abound with no one to control their numbers. 

He put his eyes back on the town and his vision was drawn to an unbroken window. It overlooked the junction were his road came to a T. He began rummaging through his pockets, eventually selecting a small steel frame with some tubing carefully tied to it. He moved to a rusted car-carcass at the roadside, reached through a broken window, and pulled out the cigarette lighter. 

He raised the slingshot to his eyeline, loaded the lighter, and took bead on the window. 

The ensuing crash and clatter was the only sound in the town for a moment before the silence of the apocalypse returned. Strange hunkered behind the car, out of sight, and waited for shuffling footfalls that he hoped would not manifest. 

Delicately folding, a crease here, a gentle suggesting there. Magic was affected by physicality as much as physicality was affected by magic. Some viewed magic as separate from the natural world, but Strange suspected that this was nonsense, whereforth otherwise would it spring? 

As such, the hexes and incantations on the scrolls could not be simply jammed into an envelope and thrown at his target. They must be layered, like a dormant flower. When touched by the sun, or the activation phrase in this case, to unfold perfectly, and unfurl their evil forth. He began tucking the, well, bomb away when the door opened. Some young dandy waltzed into the Beat Inn as cool as you like. 

Strange wondered how he'd made it through Creek without having his pockets turned. 

The dandy then asked the barmaid if they knew a Strange Mage, or a mage named Strange. The barmaid of course declined. He knew full well the staff would prefer if he was not here, but that was not for them to choose. 

Strange whistled. "Hey, Nobleman! You found Strange!" He said over the spread of empty bowls in front of him. Strange took in the Dandy, and felt something interesting. He didn't to cast a spell to detect magic around the noble...

Join It Could Never Be Enough, we are the slowest around! 

"If you keep putting one foot in front of the other, well, you might just get somewhere." Strange mused to himself as the packed earth of the roadway gave way to ancient pavement, patched inexpertly in spots with whatever had been handy. It was a miracle that it had lasted this long, but then again, a cart was a much lighter load than the smoke belching machines for which this had been designed. 

Improving roadways were likely to mean one of two things. He was either on a road truly less traveled which simply had not decayed as much, or he was getting closer to town.  This was good, because he only had so much food, which is to say little. It was bad because towns smelled and sounded like people, and the dead could still smell and hear. 

Fighting was a mugs games, especially with the dead. They only had to get lucky once and you may as well be toast. 

So Strange did what he often did, and got off the main road. An old compass held together by a diverse handful of screws selected an old side road that, by Strange's reckoning, would still head towards Redstone. 

Gravel long ago pushed into mud croaked beneath Strange's moccasins as he made a slow, quiet way down the overgrown roadway, overhung with Beach and Oaks, the rusty out body of a long lost car poking nose or bumper from the ditch on either side. 

He should make Redstone by nightfall, unless he got distracted of course. 

It didn't take long for word to travel, but it never really did. Rumors percolated between the Districts of oath, small waves of truth following somewhere behind, though often overwhelmed by the tides of paranoia and rebutted by the levees of doubt. 

So it was that the city, at least those interested in the politics of Wizards, began to hear of the Battle of Northbank. An ignominious tale of preventable failure to most, but a story of hope to others. No doubt the conclave would be on damage control, no doubt the paladins would claim they bore no responsibility, and as such their oaths were intact. 

But in alleys and gutters of the city, beneath bridges and in abandoned dungeons, evil heard the news. Trolls and ghouls bore no love for the paladins that smote them and hedge wizards and necromancer cast scorn on the conclave that shunned them. The looked to this new Dark Lord Attila.

Attila looked down upon them with disdain and scorn. 

Things fall apart. Bearing wear as they spin, pistons eventually eat their rings, a wheel can only take so many bumps, and the barrel of a rifle only has so many shots in it. Things fall apart, but knowledge doesn't have too. 

A long, narrow man walks the path to north towards Redstone, coming up from the south. The greying beard that rings his face does little to conceal that his head it just as long and thin as his body. The gentle rain, ever so common in the valley, pools and runs off the shoulders of a long coat that has been patched so many times it cannot be said to be made of any one material, just a variety of stiff textiles and leathers. The straps of a heavy back crease the coat, and provide a convenient route for water make its way down to the road. Only the clever arching of the road bed prevent it from pooling. This is a miracle of the ancients that still bears fruit, even through the layers of packed earth which now cover their design. 

For forty years the man has wandered. He is no great warrior, nor a particularly skilled scavenger. He is Strange, the Tinkerer. 

Beneath his coat, some tethered and some swinging, are a variety of tools. A traveling fixer, he heads north now to Redstone to ply his trade. 

He comes to a stop on the road, moccasins quietly oozing water as he raises his hand to wave. Coming the opposite way is a wagon, empty and slat sided, pulled by an ox. 

"Hail teamster!" Strange says, showing an open hand. 

"Hail wanderer!" The cartman says back, showing only a leather crop in his hand. The two approach, and the wagon heaves to a halt. 

"Hardly a fit day for business." Strange says, gesturing at the puddles. 

"Ach!" The cartman spits tobacco pulp, having the goo graces to do it over the  side of the cart away from Strange. "If I didn't work in the rain, t'wouln't work at all." 

"Coming from Redstone? I'm headed that way to look for work." Strange inquired. 

The cartman gave a look that suggested that may be in short supply. He shrugged as he explained.  "Things t'aint what they used to be there. Water in that Crik what runs through has gone bad. "

"Huh." Strange said as the Cartman eased forward, back to his duties. 

"Amplification..." Strange muttered as his quill flew over vellum. The scratching only ceased when the hand was employed to deliver food to his waiting maw, then it would resume. 

"But to broadcast it...?" Strange pondered looking to a blank sheet. His table in The Beat Inn was two third scrolls and the remainder piled with food and drink. Many pages were already covered in scrawled invocation, and many glasses and plates appeared to have had only one or two bites taken from them. Strange knew he was losing weight, but why should he care? 

"No reason to turn my back on an old friend." Strange muttered as the runes to create an explosion were scratched into yet another sheet. The bar patrons were pointedly not looking at him as he crafted what would likely the darkest thing Redoubt had ever seen. 

So far anyway. 

"Kram send you this, Wizza" A goblin's crooked nose peered over the end of Strange's table, a clawed hand reached up and dropped a hefty ruby in front of the short wizard. Strange smiled and picked it up, holding it to the sunlight of the window. 

"We don't even need to fight the bluebloods, they'll crawl to us for our product." He said to the goblin, who nodded with visible confusion and rising disinterest. 

A ruby was nothing more than a layered series of crystals. He knew that in his mind, but the effect was still charming. The light entered the gem and past through with only minimal disturbance. He looked back to the pile of scrolls. 

, 

"Not enough to put down the right spells, they must go off at the right times, of course. First the amplification, then it must be the blast." He muttered as he added accents and sigils to the runic descriptions. He paused to consider. "Then, then a wave of wind to spread." He pulled a fresh sheet of vellum from the pile and refreshed his ink. 

Phlogiston bustled. The streets were well worn with cart tracks,constructed with built in drains so that Oath's frequent rains would not interrupt the flow of reagents in or potions out. Most of the potions used in the city were brewed here, ranging from dubiously esoteric ointments to treat a common rash, to tinctures of the rarest herbs with the most powerful effects. The Unitied Alchemists were numerous, and when they weren't trying to bewitch their way to gold they were more than happy to make it through commerce. 

A Wizard could walk Phlogiston all day without a second look from anyone. Alchemists, covered in their sacred runes and emerald pendants were out on the streets conducting business of all sorts, stalls selling glassware and pickled deep sea creatures were nearly mobbed by apprentices. Auras were confused here, a haze of magic of all sorts hung over the district like cloud. Alchemists were a famously morally neutral bunch, in that they rarely let something like magical schools or alignment get between them and whatever grand scheme they were currently chasing. 

So Strange spent the better part of a day walking and watching. He did a few larger loops through the district, but mostly took irregular paths that lead past the gate to Redoubt. Sure enough, predictable as the moon, carts laden with goods of all sorts went back and forth. The gate was guarded by Elvish soldiers and they made an effort to paw through carts, but the sheer volume of trade made their efforts cursory at best. 

A plan was forming, but he'd need the right cargo. No doubt after his first attack, security would increase as much as possible. Unless, of course, it could be made to look like an accident. 

He needed to ponder, so Strange hit the cobblestones back to the Creek. His stomach was calling up his spine to him that it was time to look after his body. This reached his attention after he'd gotten back to Creek, and he immediately spied a familiar establishment. It was The Beat Inn, where he had dismember the guard's paymaster not too long ago. 

He pushed through the door, and stared down any looks he got as he entered the Inn. They'd have to accept that he ran this show now, if that was a problem they could resolve it. 

"Stew, wine, some bread, some pudding, and a tea." He said plainly as he slung a handful of silver across the bar. If the Innkeeper had an issue, they did not express it. 

The skirmish between Paladin and Wizard lasted for a few more minutes. In such a conflict there was not, nor could there be, a winner. The closest was Malacai, as he had played his hand and then left the table. His teleportation and even the appearance of a Middle-management devil were but sideshows in the greater attraction of pointless slaughter. 

In the end, smarter wizards and clear-eyed paladins looked across the mangled bodes of caster, knight, and tweaker strewn across the street. Their forces were spent, and many were beginning to think that this fight had probably not been that wise to begin with. The two forces beat ignoble retreats, collecting what wounded they could. The moans of the injured could be heard taking two different routes from Northbank back to Old Town, so as to avoid awkward conversation. 

Attila cackled in their tower. 

In Creek, Strange reconnoitered. Creek no longer posted guards at its gates as it no longer had any to post, but the gate it shared with Redoubt was more than guarded. It was closed, gate bolted from the other side with heavy portcullis in front of it. The top of the gatehouse was patrolled by tall, thin soldiers in mithril armor with bows just shorter than they were. 

Strange did not see that as a productive avenue. She he walked along the shared wall with redoubt. It was about twice as high and thrice as sturdy as all of Creek's other walls. Sure, a few drains crossed this edifice, but these bore heavy grates on both ends, and no doubt the base of the wall on the other side was patrolled. 

That was of course, the actual problem. Redoubt had real troops, competent and well equipped. Strange doubt that he could even walk around Redoubt without being challenged, without some do-goody scrying his aura, without a lance through the chest. 

He walked through creek as he pondered, kicking at the occasional loose cobblestone. All you ever needed was a little gap in the armor that you could get a dagger in, and all he needed was a distraction. If he could keep even half of their forces busy he was sure that he could start to chip away at that noble edifice. 

He turned a corner, and found himself in front of the Creek sickhouse, staffed by an ever decreasing number of life clerics and populated by an ever growing body of Tonic addicts. On the steps up to the dim granite edifice a woman sat. Her gaze was cloudy, skin inflamed, blood dripping from her nose and staining the corners of her mouth. 

Of course, how did you win any siege? A plan began to form in Strange's mind, and a grin began to spread across his face. He headed across Creek towards the alchemical district of Phlogiston, he needed to see what kind of traffic crossed between the two districts....

Zeta was probably one of my favorite threads I've ever worked on. 

Time meant less and less to Strange as he became more and more wicked. He knew not how long he had slept after the destruction of the Creek Guard, but he knew that it was dim outside when he awoke. Morning or evening, who cared? It didn't matter when there was business to conduct. 

The Crosst Unicorns was increasingly a den of despair. Figures shuffled in to purchase from Kram the hobgoblin and disappeared into shadows as quickly as they could with their glowing blue prize. There was no doubt that theft was on the rise in Creek, but in the next week it would like increase eight or ten fold as the class of junkies grew and spent through their savings. In another month it would be a graveyard adjacent place like Northbank. 

The table before Strange held a few things. It was small, one of the bar tables at the Unicorn, and piling too much on it invited shuffling goblins to knock things off. A glass of wine from one of the remaining casks in the cellar in one corner. Strange's tome, open to a page Atilla had put in that he had not yet deciphered in another. In the middle, a map of the great City of Oath. Strange knew not of the Conclave's siege of Northbank, his mind was on what was next. 

His eyes fell on his home district of Below-Town, but it was too far from Creek and Northbank. Someday, someday. West of Creek was a small district called Phlogiston, controlled by the United Alchemists, a union of Brewers and Casters that were nominally subserviant to the Conclave but truly only served the pursuit of esoteric secrets. 

Not now, and if Strange had his way, not ever. 

South of Creek though, there was the Redoubt, a fortified barony district. It was controlled by the Baron Nerya and his family. Elven warriors, a warlord in all but name. 

It would be a challenge of course, they'd cut a caster down in a heart-beat, but well, nobles have a lot of cash...

A bony hand reached over the obsidian scrying orb, it flexed and felt at the air as though searching.

Searching it was, feeling through the minds of the wizards it portrayed. The scared and leaderless goons of the conclave's attack squad, more aimless than usual due to the conscious of an ancient warlock. He needed only one, just one caster of weak will. 

The helpless junkies pressed and cried against the shieldwall of the paladins. The Pallies could not conceive of raising a blade against such a miserable crowd, and now their eyes were upon Wizards behind them. They were confused, at a crossroad of their oaths. The murder of the platinum wizard was a foul crime, but he had given the order to hex the crowd of poor souls. Were their not still Wizards with lightening in their hands? Holy swords began to shine with condemning light. 

Barney, whom insisted on being addressed by his family name of Von Hammer, had a good idea of what he was going to do. He was a silver rank wizard of the conclave, and he would not have bronze rank upstarts challenge the hierarchy. A fireball in his hand, he took aim at Malacai. 

But the scene faded from his eyes, in an instant he found himself elsewhere. A realm of fog surrounded him, absent from everything but an unnaturally tall, thin figure with glowing eyes. 

"Bewitch me!" Barney said incredulously as he attempted to let the fireball fly. It was no longer in his hands, he no longer had hands.

"Quiet now Barney." Attila said, and it was. "Don't fret, I just need to borrow your physical form for a moment. You'll get it right back. "

Barney's psyche felt magic it had never felt before as his flimsy warding was stripped away. Attila continued to speak. "You should thank me Barney, no doubt your friends will have never seen you cast real magic like this before. "

Back in reality, Barney's eye went red as rubies. He spun and the fireball left his hands, plowing straight into the ranks of the assembled junkies. Barney screamed at the top of his lungs "THE PALADINS ARE BETRAYING US! THEY SERVE THE NECROMANCER!" as beams of sickly green light left his fingers, spraying the backs of paladins, junkies, and conclave mages alike. Wherever it touch, flesh fell away in clumps. 

Barney was, as promised, returned to his body as this spell ended. He found that chaos now reigned totally. Junkies fled screaming, Wizards casted indiscriminately with hope that some incantation might get them out of this, and a Paladin swung his sword into Barney's neck, ending his observation forever. 

Attila cackled in their tower, the sound seeming to echo over all of Northbank. The orb focused on Malacai, and when the dry, rattling laughter subsided, the ruby eyes took in the ancient pact-caster. 

"I suppose I owe you for your part." Attila muttered to themselves. 

I sincerely doubt you've ever studied anything in your life, just regurgitated talking points whenever you felt it might get a rise out of someone.

Posting bait like this will never provide any meaning to your life, it will only make you a sad, strange little man. 

This has got to be a permanent forum ban right? Not just a slap on the wrist? 

The miasma of Northbank was nearly palpable, no, it WAS palpable. Misery could be tasted on the air, acrid and encompassing. It coated the whole tongue and gave the impression one would taste it long after they left. 

The paladins, as their oaths demands, fell over themselves to get through the breached gate, not that it had been much to write home about at this point. No doubt visions filled their head, swarms of grave fiends rent by holy blades, apprentice necromancers smote by pray-fueled strikes, and ultimately they carrying the day by the skin of their teeth. 

How many times had Attila lived through this? How many times had they learned hard lessons at the spells and blades of the righteous? The answer, of course, was enough. Enough times to know that paladins loved the struggle, loved the blood and the clang of swords. They, however, hated to think. Their oaths bound them to certain codes of conduct, required them to hate much magic, and required them to maintain a certain level of righteousness that made them, well, manipulable. 

The paladins made it not even a block into north bank when the noise began. Wailing, pitiable and hideous. Men, women, children, humans, elves, orcs, gnomes, the good people of Northbank began to pile out onto the street. Their clothes were ragged, their frames emaciated, eyes sunken, lips stained with Tonic. 

They carried no weapons, only joining hands across the street, ringing the regiment of paladins. 

"Mercy!" The crowd screamed. "Leave The Wizard!" They moaned. "We cannot live without him!" They cried, tears falling onto shining breastplates as they pressed against the paladins. They threw no punches and lunged with no rusty kitchen knives, they were desperate addicts, the most pitiable folk that one could imagine. 

The great obsidian scrying orb in the dark tower showed the scene to Attila, the bony fingers steepled before ruby eyes. It was delightful to see a new plan working. The promise of free flowing Tonic for a day was all it took to create this wall of tearful meat. Why possess people when you could make their subconscious do it for you?  Why raise corpses to swing clubs with decayed malaise when blows to the spirit hurt so much more?

But more than anything, Attila wanted the immoral knaves of the Conclave to show their true colors in front of the oh-so-correct paladins....

-A district over, in Creek-

Strange napped soundly on the third floor of the Crosst Unicorns. He'd been working since the departure of the innkeeper and had earned a little shut eye. He knew that it was coming now, and sure enough, he was awakened with a shout. 

"WE'VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED UNDERBERG. WE KNOW YOUR NAME, WE KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE WITH YOUR MINIONS."

Strange rose snappily and rushed to the window. He popped it open and stuck his head out, all smiles. It was indeed the captain. He stood in the middle of the street in all of his epaulette'd finery. He was, as always, ringed by his goons. Thugs in watch breastplates. The more Strange  looked at them, the more he felt was right to slay them. 

"Yes Captain, can I help you?" Strange asked with a yawn. 

"DON'T FOOL WITH ME MAGE! THE CONCLAVE WANTS YOUR HEAD, COME OUT AND FACE THE MUSIC OR WE'LL BURN THIS HOLE TO THE GROUND!" The captain barked with a series of hearty gesticulations conducted with a shining shortsword. 

"If I give myself up, will my employees be shown leniency?" Strange asked with a blank face. He was a wizard, not an actor. 

"Of course!" The captain lied. 

"Oh well, let me get dressed then and we can discuss terms. " Strange said as he closed the window. The shouting continued outside, but it was of little concern now. The terms were set after all. He pulled on his robes and chains of gold and silver, tied a silk sash around his waist, and cocked his wide hat on his head. 

A minute later, the doors of the Crosst Unicorns opened and Strange stepped out. "Well Captain, I'm here. What terms will you offer for my cooperation?"

The captain's red face reddened at the sight of Strange. More and more people were started to gather to rubberneck at his spectacle, and both parties couldn't lose face here. 

"A trial, jury of your peers, and a noble's execution by sword here in Creek if you come quietly. The conclave would do worse, since I doubt you have their guilder. "

"No doubt they would, and you are right that I don't. " Strange tapped his chin, seeming to ponder. "Well, it's a better offer than I thought you'd give, but being told the outcome of a trial before it happens doesn't fill me with hope." 

"Men! draw steel!" The captain called. Swords rasped from scabbards and the captain's lips began to form his next order when he saw Strange raise his hands palms up. 

"Hold now Captain! let's not rush to violence. "Strange said, lowering his hands. "There is something I've wanted to tell you for a long time, and this seems it may be our last chance."

"What? What are you talking about mage?" 

"Captain, Wizards NEVER fight fair." Strange said as the wards inscribed onto the bottom of the cobblestones the guards stood on activated. Ice raced up their greaves, freezing them up to their shoulders. The squeals of goblins filled the air as the little green guys boiled out of the alleyways around the Unicorns. The guardsman rages against their frosty bonds as rust covered knives and wooden cudgels sought weak spots in their armor. 

Strange turned to go back inside. "Throw them in the river when you are done." Strange said without a glance. Scribing those wards and runes had taken every drop of mana and plain old energy he had, but it was over now. Now he could rest, and go to rest he did, fearing that anything else he did may cause him to topple over in the street. 

In front of the Crosst Unicorns was a peculiar sight. A hobgoblin held out his hand to a few downtrodden humans, gesturing impatiently. They crossed his palm with silver, and he handed over a vial of the Tonic. 

Strange watched for a moment, and approached when the customers left to squabble over who would get the biggest sip. 

"The Wizza..." The hobgoblin said as the wizard that barely came up to his chest approached. "...No disrespect Wizza."

"None taken." Strange said. He took in the hobgoblin. A hairy brute in assorted stolen finery and work clothes, a watch sword hung at his waist with blood on the handle and the blade. "You steal that tonic?"

"Take, only right. Goblin small and faint." The hobgoblin said shamelessly. 

Strange gave a toothy grin. "You're in luck fellow, you're just the kind of freak that I need." Strange opened the crate of holding he had been lugging to the Inn, showing the nearly bottomless vials that glowed within. "How'd you like to go full time? I don't speak goblin anyways."

The hobgoblin couldn't look more eager if he tried. "I want third"

"A tenth." Strange rebutted. 

"Two tenth, no less! My Risk, I must find good goblins to help!"

Strange offered a hand, which the hobgoblin's paw engulfed totally. "Chilla" Strange hissed, and ice began creeping up the hobgoblin's arm, icicles hanging from the fur. 

"Cross me and I'll keep you as a living trophy. I'll leave your head unfrozen so you can watch as my goblins chip your legs away." Strange's increasingly reddened glinted madly as the hobgoblin hissed affirmations and whined. The ice left as quick as it came. 

"Let's speak to the innkeeper...What you're name?" Strange said, realizing he didn't even know his new associate's name. 

"Kram." 

"Kram, good. Let's let the Innkeeper know that you work here now. Keep the tonic cheap for another week, then double the price. "

Kram looked at the Inn. The Crosst Unicorn wasn't the finest inn in creek, but it was certainly nice. It wasn't the kind of place where he would be welcome. "You own?"

Strange looked back and smiled as he crossed the threshold. "Kram, The Wizza owns Creek. Anyone that disagrees, well, they just haven't been told yet. "

Strange and his new minion pusher minion were in the Crosst Unicorns for less than five minutes before the door opened again, and the former Innkeeper was thrown into a pile on the street. 

"This won't stand Strange!" The aproned man said as he righted himself. "I'll bring the guard down on you! We won't roll over!" 

"I'm counting on it." Strange said politely as the innkeep took off to seek what help he could find in his dying neighborhood. 

Amashiro is leading some of the best torn oriented RP we've had in this forum. If that is what you are interested in, then you should definitely get  involved. 

The paymaster was a legless, armless corpse. Strewn across the street in front of The Beat Inn, an establishment Strange suspected he would not be welcome to return to. It had taken the severing of both legs with blasts of magic to loosen the paymaster's lips. The arms? That was just for being a guard. Now the paymaster's heavy gold sigil hug around an altogether different neck. 

The guard's payroll gold was being stored at a local money changer, awaiting final transport. Its safety relied upon secrecy, and with that removed there was no meaningful security. Strange didn't even both to go into the half-timbered structure himself, sending his goblins to ransack it for all that could be carried out in exchange for vials of Tonic, handed out generously. All that was left when the gold was in hand? A fireball through the front door and a shape stone spell to etch a moral lesson into the cobbles in front of the money lender's, former, shop. 

"PROTECTED BY THE CREEK DISTRICT WATCH."

There would be a new order in Creek, and not one established by a few badges and their rich masters. 

While the guard captain still lived, Strange felt a pull towards Northbank and his master. The guard's pay would make a fine tribute.

 Cutting through alleys, watched by green eyes from every shadow, Strange soon found that the gate to Northbank was no longer even guarded, no doubt the causalities were starting to add up. Northbank was more like a crypt than a business district. Nearly every building looked empty, plaster peeled away from stone at an unnatural rate, and  the few eyes that could be seen through windows endeavored not to look or be seen. Attila's tower was twice the height it had been just a few day ago, enthralled men and women worked busily around the base of the tower, replacing stones that showed recent damage. The street was pitted with blast marks and spears or ice melted slowly where they were embedded into stonework. Ash blew in the wind, smelling of iron and sulfur. 

Strange let himself in, opening the door to be greeted by imposing golems of stone and steel, most showing some not yet repaired damage from blades and hammers, those very weapons were scattered about the entryway, smashed and bent. Strange gave a small nod to these automata and headed up the stairwell, straight to his master's library at the top. 

The library was dark, the first light that came into it came from Strange opening the door to the stairwell. There was a second pause before the fireplace roared into life, casting bright flickering light over the tomes, tables, and the gaunt figure of Attila. The lich loomed in the center of the room, ruby eyes, gems, and gold glittering. The lich's robes showed some tears and scorching, though Atilla itself did not appear harmed. 

"Master, I come with tribute. " Strange stated plainly, placing a wooden chest on one of the library tables, and popping the lid to show the gold which had once belong the guard. 

The lich nodded, gliding over the floor to jam a bony hand into the gold. It rooted around for a moment, assessing the weight. 

"The stagnant powers of this land fear us, Underberg." The lich's omnipresent voice filled the room regardless of volume. "Their paladins and tame casters attempted to take me today."

Strange nodded. He would not have brought it up if Attila had not. "I saw their ash on the way here. "

The lich gave a rasping laugh. "This whole block, no district, fiends for my tonic, hungers for my dark magic, and they think a few stunted mages can claim me? This place is ruled by my freaks and my magics. "

The lich paused to assess Strange. 

"You've been killing in Creek." 

Strange nodded. 

"Continue. Make them fear, spread the Tonic. We will sip the souls of this city like brandy in due time. I am working on new products now. "

Attila gestured at a box of holding. "That should keep you supplied for awhile Young Underberg. Let me reward your efforts, I will teach you some frostbite magics like you saw outside and place an incantation on that guard medallion you now sport. The bling isn't just for looks, after all. "

A thicker tome in his robe and a chest of poison under one arm, Strange returned to Creek. He made tracks for the Crosst Unicorns to plot. 

The Beat Inn was easy to miss, small and wedged between larger townhouses with storefronts on either side. Behind it was a narrow alley, with  craft shops lining the dark cobblestones. It was perfectly typical for Creek, a perfect place to meet in privacy. 

The alley was easy to deal with it. There was no alley in all of Oath that couldn't hide a few goblins. If the paymaster attempted to make a quiet exit through the rear, well, he'd better be ready for a rusty blade in the dark. The front opened onto a populous boulevard. People walked the streets to home or work as merchant cart's iron bound wheels sparked on the cobblestone with each pothole. 

Across this boulevard, Strange lurked. He leaned in a shadowy door and weighed his options. It would be easy enough to wait, let the sun dip until the paymaster got nervous and nab him when he tried to slink away. Strange absentmindedly rolled a little hit of the Wizzard Weed, barely noticing as it lit on its way to his lips. 

The smoke filled him, and a new idea came into his mind. 

Why wait? 

What's a lawman to caster? Did a real wizard obey the norms of the district? He'd break them. The guards had the nerve to march their riches into his turf? He'd take them. 

Strange strolled into the bar, one hand in the pocket with the hex knife, the other opening the door with a cantrip. He went straight to the rail, not bothering to look around at the patrons, let them whisper. 

"Wine, a good one." He said to the bartender, tapping the counter with a few silver coins. Only when the wine was poured and in his hand did Strange's reddened eyes fall around the room. It was dusty in the bar as it had been in the lobby, dusty patrons inhabited the chairs and stools sparsely, most averted their eyes from him. One did not, a plump man sitting behind a roast bird. A gold chain with the heraldry of the guard hung around a pink neck. 

Strange gave him a smile that brought no reassurance. Wine in hand Strange strolled to the paymaster's table.

"Where's the gold crownling, produce it if you want to live." Strange said plainly. 

The paymaster shook his head, and cast his eyes around the bar for help that didn't seem present. 

There was a resounding crack as a force spell detonated the roast chicken, spraying succulent meat over the guard-enabler. When the paymaster's eyes opened again, he was looking at the point of the hex knife pointed between his eyes. 

To his credit, the paymaster's resolve was strong. He shook his head again, sweat and chicken fat beading on a furrowed brow. There was another crack of magic and the screams began in earnest.