Direction

[Chiangtao]

Nearly eleven months ago...

Sirin walked quietly down the Old Road. He was excited, but had no reason to break the calm of the morning mist. Those at rest in the Necropolis were doing just that - resting, as they should. We all deserve a little rest, thought Sirin, as he padded past grave after grave. "But 'deserve' has got nothin' to do with it."

Sirin loved that quote. It captured so many things for so many different people. For some, it let them escape duty. Others used it to write off the randomness of the world around them. And there were those who used it to justify their deeds and actions. Things happen. Death happens. It's inescapable.

He reached a fork in the road. He veered east, down a smaller overgrown path. He knew the main gate would be watched. Someone was always watching there; sometimes us, sometimes them. Like the quote, the Necropolis was so many things for so many different people. Zealots, robbers, guardians, tyrants... heck, even the occasional mourner came to visit the City of the Dead. But he was done playing watchdog himself. He was a street dog once again. The road was his home.

Sirin reached the end of the path. The gate was rusted and badly needed oil, but it was still functional. He brushed the vines away from the handle with a soft hand. The excitement had built inside, but he held his breath as he stepped through the gate to keep the quiet. He shut it behind him, lingering a few moments to memorize the scene.

The morning fog settled among the graves like mounds of moving cotton. The tombstones poked through the fog, dotting the ground with granite. Grey upon grey, thought Sirin.

He released his breath. Satisfied, he turned and headed toward Miramar.

[Chiangtao]

The first three weeks of Sirin's trip were miserable - at least for him. He needed to keep a low profile, lest he be spotted or tracked by his allies. He kept his cowel low and his spell protections high. The Non-Detection ritual became a chore he renewed so frequently he could not keep proper sleep patterns. Discipline was not in his nature. But it pained him even more to keep his mouth shut on the road. He avoided conversation unless it was absolutely necessary. His mouth felt dry from lack of use. This was no life for a bard.

Once past Miramar, he headed south. The weather warmed slightly and so did his outlook. So, he afforded himself a little leeway and looked into the first roadside tavern he could find.

"The Rooster's Pride" gave him a laugh. Somewhere in his head, a joke about "the biggest cock in the room" floated about, but it didn't fully materialize. He was too happy to really think on it. Finally, a place with floorboards, was all he could focus on. And people!

He kept his cowel up as he entered, deciding he should get a read on the place first. It was an hour after sunset. Most customers were fed and the drinks were starting to flow. A fire was roaring to the right in an oddly-colored pink stove. None of the customers bothered to turn their heads as he entered, but he received no ill looks. This was a tavern well-accustomed to strangers, he decided.

"Bar keep - how far are we from Cormyr?," Sirin shouted with a grin.

"Hope you brought a spelljammer," laughed a patron.

[Chiangtao]

Sirin had been heading southeast from the city in hopes of reaching Cormyr by circumstance. He was happy to let his feet take them where they may, so long as it was southeast. Sooner or later, he'd find the right road or the right caravan. He was far enough away from Sundren where he could enjoy a bit of the spotlight. He dabbled in tavern performances and visited graves whenever he could spare a moment. The journey itself was half the fun, he recited to himself every night.

But then the blisters set in, and his money started running short. The taverns paid here and there for good song and cheer, but not nearly enough in the rural areas his feet had taken him. And his feet began to ache. He had sold his horse when he ran out of money; and that put him in the green again, but his toes were a purplish shade of red.

When he finally reached Tribor, he decided it was time to buy a map. He found a simple merchant in the town square. He stuffed it under his arm and found a quiet, dark seat in a local inn. After ordering some wine and bread, he rolled it open and began to plot his course.

Sirin set a little bread crum on Tribor to mark his current location; he set another crum on Cormyr. He looked between the two and frowned. "I've heard a straight line is the quickest way between two points, but I see nothing of the sort here," he quipped to himself. Indeed, no road ran directly from Cormyr to Sundren. Most roads followed between the major cities. As goes the gold, so go the roads, he thought. Or maybe it was the other way around?

After five minutes thought, he bit his lip and made the hard decision. "I've got to go south, then travel the Trade Way to Scornubel. It's the only real way, yes." He traced a delicate finger around the rim of his glass, letting his gaze go wide. "Waterdeep," he bemoaned distantly. "Back to where it started."

[Chiangtao]

1358

It began as a sunny day on the docks. Sirin and his band were rehearsing dockside. An audience was growing, so they set out a peasant's cap to collect. Sirin strummed his lute with all the mediocrity he could muster. Jemmy sang her lungs out while the twins played their drums. Ribbon was the real show; she danced and played the flute, moving her hips perfectly to the twins' rhythm. If Ribbon had any ambition, she'd be playing solo in the North Ward, thought Sirin.

Sirin lusted for Ribbon, and they both knew it. They shared beds together on many occasions - nights Sirin treasured and Ribbon thought routine. Ribbon could, and did, have anyone she wanted; but never for more than a night. In that, at least, Sirin had trumped them all.

Ribbon wasn't the prettiest girl - by beauty alone, Jemmy could have sat for masters' paintings. Ribbon's draw was all in the hips. The way she swayed when she walked; the circles she drew when she danced; the perfect crown they formed when she bent just the right way. Her skirts were tailored to her benefit, flowing effortlessly, but easily showing enough skin when she wanted them to. She could have charmed snakes with her dancing, thought Sirin.

But time and again, Sirin had seen her limits. Life was just "fun" for Ribbon. The dancing, the singing, the fucking... it was all just for laughs. After their second roll in the hay, Sirin's elven ways got the better of him, and he questioned her about this fast-paced approach to life.

"Why not?," she replied with a short laugh. "Not like any of this matters." That was her approach to the world. Though Sirin sat in bed feeling wounded, she giggled and teased him. "Oh, it's not you. None of you matter! Hells, I don't matter. We enjoy ourselves Sirin - live in the now."

As he got to know her better, Sirin began to appreciate this approach to life a bit more. Maybe the sex had something to do with that, too. But as he played in the sun on the docks, watching her hips move in smooth little ovals, he thought that this was his favorite "now" of all.

After an hour, the band took their leave. The docks never paid well, even if it was only a rehearsal. They needed a break for the long night ahead. And the night to come would be longer any they had known.

[Chiangtao]

If Ribbon had any ambition, she'd be playing North Ward, Sirin said with regret. Even with the rest of the group holding her back, she could have carried us to Shade's Mist Pub in the Trades Ward. Instead they were stuck playing Mistshore again, and Sirin loathed the town.

In truth, Mistshore wasn't quite a town. It was considered part of Waterdeep itself, but was so run-down that no politician in his right mind would lay claim to it by name. It was the "old harbor" of the city. Rumor had it there were more shipwrecks there than women. Sirin's band might improve those odds a bit, but that didn't mean they'd see much coin from its denizens.

Their band negotiated a fair deal at Eddie's. The tavern was small, but very close to one of the few functional piers in the district. Piers always had people coming and going. More traffic gave the potential for a somewhat lucrative night. But a quick review of the clientele had Sirin thinking otherwise.

The tavern was only half full tonight, and only half of those patrons were of the usual sort - cutthroats, sailors, and cargo men. He lumped the thieves together with the blue collars; they paid about the same and rarely had much cheer. But the other half in the room is what gave Sirin a start.

This other set of patrons were dressed in formal black. Some wore robes; others wore doublets. None of them sat. They were spaced about the dining area in groups of two or three, keeping their distance from everyone else. A spider on the ceiling might think the floor had leopard spots, thought Sirin.

The oddest part about these men were the farm tools they brought. In various corners of the room, Sirin spotted several long instruments with large curved blades on one end. Sirin had never farmed and had no desire to mingle with rubes. But a streak of crimson along a blade caught his keen elven eye; these men were not farmers.

"We should cancel," Sirin said quietly to Ribbon, his eyes never leaving that blade.

"Nonsense, sugar-ears," she replied with a giggle. "You're not really in it for the money, are you?"

"It's not the pay I worry about tonight," said Sirin. "Something is going to happen here. Something bad."

"Suck it up, sugar. If I don't find a rich mark tonight, I'm all yours," Ribbon teased, not bothering to even look at Sirin. "In a place like this, how do you like your odds?"

Sirin set a knee on the nearest chair and began to string his lute.

[Chiangtao]

It was dark far too early that night. Blackness swelled about them, even permeating the torch-lit tavern where Sirin's band played. Sirin closed his eyes and swallowed; he swore he could smell, even taste that blackness.

Sirin heard a loud bang. His band stopped playing. He opened his eyes. Two men in black had barred the door, their farming tools in-hand.

"Keep playin'," yelled a drunk sailor. The fat, unshaven boatsman was too drunk to sense what was happening.

"No one speaks," replied someone in the back. Sirin thought it was a woman; he assumed it was one in a black robe.

"Keep playin'," shouted the drunk again. His head bobbed, his beard dangling into the ale mug on his table. A swift movement happened, and an arcing flash of silver ran across the air. The drunk's head bobbed all the way forward, his chin resting fully in the cup. A great gash ran along the back of his neck, and his head head bent awkwardly like a worn shoe. Blood ran down his black sweaty hair.

Before she could scream, Sirin yanked Ribbon by her hair a hand and cupped her mouth with the other. His lute crashed to the floor carelessly and a string broke, setting a sour, flat twang onto the scene. None one else moved or spoke.

The woman who gave the order came to the forefront of the room. "Wine for all, barkeep," she spoke authoritatively. Then she turned her attention to the crowd. "Tonight may be your last. But it may also be your first."

The barkeep nervously poured wine for everyone in the room. It was an arduous task at best. The fellow was shaking so badly, the wine had bubbles. He dropped two bottles on the counter, spilling half of each before he was able to finish the task. Finally, twenty-seven glasses of Port red were spaced unequally along the counter. The splash of red made Sirin think of only one thing - great goblets of blood ready for a party of dead men.

The woman gave a signal to another man in black. He scurried to the counter quickly - quickly enough, Sirin thought, that he must be the lowest in their rank. The man set a full wine glass before each, both captives and assailants.

A simple dockworker took the glass gratefully into his hands. He raised his glass to his lips, but paused just in-time as the woman spoke. "No one drinks or speaks until it is time," she cautioned fatally. The dockworker set the glass down, careful not to spill a drop. He shook madly, and the man moved his hands back quickly as though the red wine were now poison.

An hour passed.

And then, commotion outside. The floorboards shook. There were voices from beyond the tavern door - military orders, zealous cries, and shrieks. Horses called out in the night. Men were fighting and dying.

At last, a trumpet blew thrice in succession from somewhere in the distance. In unison, the men in black placed hands over their hearts, pledging silently to something unknown to the rest of the room. It was the first sign of life they had shown in the hour; small graces, Sirin thought.

Finally, the woman commander broke the silence. "Raise your glasses," she commanded.

Two mercenary-types in the corner decided to draw blades instead. They were quick and deadly. The pair sprung to their feet and thrust daggers into the eyes of a captor before them. They spun, keeping their backs to each other smartly, and fell upon the next man. The second captor's weapon was too slow; the great, swooping arcs were no match for the speedy dagger thrusts in the tight quarters. For a moment, Sirin eyed his own dagger in his boot. For a moment, Sirin saw a chance. And in a moment, the commander lifted but a finger. She pointed at one of the mercenaries, and he simply dropped.

"No!," cried the second mercenary as he dropped to he knees. He let his daggers drop and put his hands in the air, surrendering. "No!," he repeated, true fear in his eyes now.

"Yes," replied the commander. Her hand still extended, she now draped her fingers downward. She twitched them slightly, as though pulled on marionette strings. "The inevitable has come tonight!"

As the mercenary cowered to the floor, his partner rose behind him. The risen man's eyes were vacant and his movements cumbersome. But he was close enough to catch his former partner before he could avoid the lunge. They wrestled to the floor, screams of shock coming from the first; only silence from the second. What quickness the second man had was gone now, but replaced by some great well of strength. The first clawed at his former partner's eyes until they bled, but the man made no sound. The second finally put the first into an implacable hold, wrenching his arm behind his neck. He pulled until the first man's muscles tore, and pulled more until the joint itself popped. The second man swung his boot to the back of the first man's head and still pulled harder until finally the arm was torn free of his body. Blood sprayed as the arm was pulled free; the first man slumped to the floor.

Sirin held Ribbon's mouth tightly yet again. She reached for his hand. Selfishly, Sirin held it. He felt tenderness in this moment, even with all the horrors before him.

[Chiangtao]

"Drink," commanded the woman.

She was short for a human, but seemed to tower before her cowering captives. A bald man with a big nose was the first to garner her attention. He took the cup in both hands and bowed his head. As he lifted the glass, a man grabbed his head forcefully and thrust a dagger to his lips. The man pressed the flat of the blade across the bald man's mouth, drawing blood as he did so.

"You drink to the inevitable tonight. Name it, give it your fealty, and you may live," she riddled.

The bald man parted his lips and spoke from behind the dagger. "I give myself over! I am yours, I pledge myself to you, m'lady!," he proclaimed.

The dagger flicked outward, then inward again with a thrust through the bald man's temple. He slumped over mindlessly, slain in one blow. The woman and her dagger-wielding companion moved to the next table.

"Drink," she commanded again. At the second table, a couple sat, huddled together in terror. They held hands with their interior hands, but were swift to raise their glasses with their outer ones.

"P-please, we'll do anything, anything. Just tell us," said the woman of the pair.

The male looked to his mate's eyes longingly. He was calm; in truth, calmer than the commander herself. He let his gaze linger a moment on his mate, but then spoke. "Love. Love is eternal. I will be with you, always," he said to his mate.

Shaking, she turned to him in surprise. Their eyes locked on one another, and there was a pause that lingered. But there was no compassion in that pause; the dagger flicked yet again, and the man's throat was cut. His mate screamed and jerked back from the table, her chair catching the dagger-wielding man in the groin. She made a dash for the stairs.

The commander raised a hand again, and the fleeing woman froze in place. She held her there until the dagger-wielding man could recover. The commander cast him an impatient glance, her arm still stretched out toward the frozen woman with a clenched fist.

The man strode over angrily. He thrust his dagger five times, piercing the frozen woman in her torso repeatedly. Blood trickled to the floor, forming a great red sticky pool at the frozen woman's feet. The commander held her for five minutes or more, letting her bleed and bleed. When the woman was finally released from her magical prison, she had bled out entirely. The fleeing woman slumped to the ground, her skin paled and her body lifeless.

"Your new master!," shouted the commander impatiently. "The eternal! Name it, name what is inevitable!"

The next man was ordered to drink. He spat in the commander's face. He too was killed.

Hatred. Revenge. The Light. War. They were all named, and their speakers were all slain.

At last the commander came to Ribbon. Sirin released his grip on her, knowing that could only make matters worse. "Drink," the commander spoke again, this time citing Ribbon.

Bravely, Ribbon took her glass from its position on stage at her feet. Her shaking had stopped, and she did not wear fear on her face. Sirin knew this was an act; she was good at deceit when she needed to be.

"Tonight, I drink to death," spoke Ribbon confidently. "Death comes to us all. Rich and poor; noble and cowardly; knight and thief. In the end, the only thing we will know is death."

With her words, the commander smiled. She nodded to Ribbon, who took a sip of her glass. Ribbon did her best to savor the wine, but even her best acting could not prevent some of the wine from dribbling from her quivering lip.

The commander took a step forward toward Ribbon. She took Ribbon's hand into her own - her own blackened, decayed hand - and said, "Good, child. Good. But I want your service, not your lies."

The commander released her grip on Ribbon, and torment set in. Ribbon convulsed, her flesh rippling on her arm. It looked as though an ant colony was trying to burst through her skin. Ribbon cried out, her mouth open to the sky in a great black circle. Maggots crawled from her eyes and flies hatched from her mouth. Her flesh turned a sickly gray as she sank to the floor lifelessly. Her head banged the floorboards and blood trickled from her nose.

Ribbon was dead. Her head was turned awkwardly sideways, staring back at Sirin. The blood that ran from her face smeared a great red smile on her mouth, even though it was frozen in horror. And even with all that had come to pass in the tavern, the murders and senseless horrors he had witnessed - in the loss of his heart and friend, he could only imagine her as a sad clown collapsed in a drunken stupor; her blood a ghastly crimson makeup. And he laughed.

A scythe flashed toward Sirin, and he swiftly dodged it, laughing louder and louder.

"Stop!," shouted the commander to her men. She clenched her fist yet again, and Sirin was frozen in place. But still he laughed.

"Why do you laugh?," fumed the commander. Her hand clenched tighter.

Sirin had tears in his eyes. He'd lost her, his Ribbon. But she was never really his, never really anyone's. His laughter slowed, and his belly ached, but he caught his breath enough to speak his mind.

"The good we do, the hearts we break; the men we slay, the friends we make.," he sang. "Oh Ribbon, my sweet Ribbon, you already knew. I didn't see it, but now I do! Why not?, why not?, you'd always say. You learned the crux of it today." Sirin paused a bit, stiffling back a sob in-between his maddening laughter. "Nothing matters in life, so I laugh with glee. Now give me death and Eternity."

The commander released her grip on him. "He sees," she said. "Give him his wine."

[Chiangtao]

The Present (well, ten months prior to)

The elf had adopted the guise of a farmer in recent days. The scythe he had strapped to his back brought the kind of attention that gets you killed, he finally realized. Some fanatic on the Long Road, twenty miles north of Waterdeep, stopped Sirin at sword point. The man's eyes saw Sirin's scythe, arousing suspicion. His nose smelled the evil within Sirin, the black comedian that he was. And, ultimately, his neck felt the measure of Sirin's weapon. "Well, look at that," proclaimed Sirin to himself. "My patience does know bounds." One bloody corpse was easy to hide - he rose the man after his death and ordered him to march west, into the ocean. But traffic would only grow, and confrontations like this would make life difficult. So he hid his armor in his belongings and donned a sun hat. He bought a burro and wagon, filled it with hay, and buried his instruments within. At least the scythe would blend in.

The farmer's guise suited him well-enough, but it wasn't perfect. He was still an elf in human lands. And those who didn't give him odd looks gave him sinister ones - a farmer is a vulnerable traveler to brigands. So when he arrived at Waterdeep, he decided to make a change. But to what?

He led his burro to Mistshore. He spied a dockworker struggling to load a boat with twenty-or-more crates of carpentry goods. "Fifty for the fine animal, and your back may not break this day," he offered the man. "Twenty," the man countered, "and my wallet won't." They settled on thirty gold. Sirin kept the wagon.

Sirin sat keeping watch on his nothing-drawn wagon, perched on the railing. The wagon had only one axel, and the weight of his armor kept the rear heavy. The wagon was tilted diagonally, and Sirin perched at the top, the king of his hay stack.

The docks were not as he remembered. The times had been good to Waterdeep, and it had grown into the crown of the North. Amazingly, some of that money had trickled into Mistshore. Someone thought it was a good idea to rebuild the docks there, even though the shipwrecks still made it terribly difficult to navigate the harbor. Eddie, a human, did not outlive Sirin; but, neither did this tavern. A shipping company had bought his property, and the money-counting men moved in. Clothes were more muted than they were back then- the sweaty blue-collar men were donning tans and grays now, not the reds and blues of the old days. Times change, and so do the living. How meaningless all that change was, he thought privately.

And then, the music man came. His song came to Sirin from a block to the east, down a residential alley. It was strong, but had a delicate, respectful touch. To those listening, it was impossible to miss; but it would not disturb the workers. It could have been a town crier, belting the hour and news of the day. But, fortunately...

"Bring out yer dead!"

The undertaker had come calling. The man led his cart from the alley right past Sirin. It was a simple cart, painted black to hide the stains. In it, three bodies were wrapped in grey tarps. A singular arm was exposed, showing puckers and sores. A sickness must have come to town. "I would have never confused Talona with Tymora, but thank you both, all the same," thought Sirin.

The undertaker never stopped his slow, sad pace to the next alley. Sirin slinked along behind him. The man turned another corner to the south, taking the cart down a shadowed unoccupied alley. After fifty paces or so, the alley ended. Sirin made no attempt to hide as the man reversed his course.

"Bring out... undertaker business. Ain't got no coin - paid by city contract," the man spoke when seeing Sirin. All the same, the man reached for his belt, presuming he was about to be robbed.

"Oh, don't mind me, my good man," replied Sirin. The elf gave a nonchalant flick-of-the-wrist as he spoke, one which the man easily dismissed as a gesture in conversation. Something stirred in the air. "I'm just looking for Eddie's. I knew the owner from long ago, you see. He was there when I was born. Do you know the place?"

"Ain't here," said the undertaker, sourly. "This here's a dead end."

"Oh, no my friend," said Sirin with great amusement. "This is a beginning."

Four sickly arms embraced the undertaker, clasping his mouth and arms in a ghastly embrace. Two of his dead lumbered over the cart side and wrapped their white, pox-laden flesh around their escort, leaving him no room to scream or flee. They bit down, sinking their rotten teeth into the man's flesh. Finally, some color in this town!, thought Sirin, as the struggling undertaker sank into a pool of his own blood.

Sirin acted quickly. The undertaker finally passed - Sirin felt his soul depart, leaving the shell behind and a gift for his lord. He stripped the man of his hat and gloves, then ordered his own dead men to carry the body to the cart. The man was set inside, and the two walkers laid down beside him. "Commendable service. You've certainly earned a tip," said Sirin. He placed coins into the teeth of each dead man, then wrapped them back in their shrouds. And to the undertaker, he left three coins. "A lifetime of service is certainly worth more than a minute's."

Throughout, luck had been on his side. The horse had its back to the entire scene, and though its nose caught the scent of blood, its eyes had not. It was spooked, but serviceable. In his new disguise, Sirin hopped on-board and turned the cart around. He set course for his old cart to collect his things.