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Before the Sundering, life was simple . . . though not without hardship, Maxwell thought, while gently scraping a gelatinous adhesive free from his scaled boots with a dagger. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it, his eyes kept drifting from his boots to a ring on his right hand which he had recently purchased – it cast a soft blue light about him. And although he had the ability to create his own light, something about the ring’s hue made his emotions less stormy. Besides, using such an ability often fostered a beating from his father during Max’s childhood. Duty Duty Duty . . . the words of his father nearly vocalized in his ears, as he rested a moment upon a foothold which led to the streets above. Maxwell shook his head, letting out a soft chortle through his nose, a somber half smile formed upon his lips as he thought, momentarily, of his youth. “I suppose, in a sense, you did right by me,” he stated softly as he examined his ‘work’ of cleaning his boots. He leveraged his sitting position to press his feet firmly into the ground – there was noticeably less ‘squish’. He stood up and took a few paces. Better but I’ll still need to clean them later to prevent tarnishing, he noted to himself.
I suppose I should continue with the task at hand . . . but what good am I, to anyone, dead? He asked himself, while observing his surroundings. Maybe you can find someone in Cheapside to help . . . there are tons of refugees, who are starving and quite possibly desperate enough to take on the risk to earn some coin. Looking back over his left shoulder at the footholds leading to the streets, he turned and made for them, climbing his way out of the foul smelling sewers in search of assistance.
Hours had passed since his attempt at stalking the sewers, and dusk was setting along with a thick eerie fog that ambled over the streets of Cheapside. His boots were a pristine clean, without a trace of the ooze that had swarmed and surged up his legs earlier. Having nearly given up the search for assistance; movement from his left was caught in the peripheral. A sharp angled elf moved confidently through the fog, and into a clearing at the center of the district. Bow strung, and in hand nonetheless! Maxwell thought. A smile formed, though was quickly dismissed as he approached the elf, which he chose to adopt a more serious manner. Stopping short a few paces, “Why are you walking about with your bow drawn?” Maxwell inquired. The elf spun about with a smoothness that graced his kin, which was all the time he needed to nock an arrow from his quiver and present the loaded longbow. The bow rested at a downward angle threatening to kneecap Maxwell. “These streets are deadly this time of night, here in the slums, it's best to be ready . . . besides I’m doing work for the guard,” said the Elf, with a forced smile.
Maxwell studied the elf for a moment, judging him to not actually be a threat to himself – currently – but there was a lethal look in the eyes of this one. It was a sight he had seen before, one that sent chills down his spine. Maxwell shook his head in order to clear his thoughts for the matter at hand and inquired more on this ‘work for the guard.’ He determined that they were working the same or a similar task, “I’m Maxwell, perhaps you could use some assistance in dealing with these Night’s Edge thugs?” Celand eased the tension in his drawn bow, “I have nothing to offer for helping me, but experience in journey,” he stated. Maxwell raises his right arm, motioning towards the entrance of the aqueducts, “We all have a duty of some kind or another; let us see how ours unfolds. And besides, I scouted the area earlier and believe I know where to begin.” Celand nodded in agreement and so the duo made their way to the sewers.
The light which filtered down during the day had disappeared leaving Maxwell more or less blind and dependent upon his ring. “I hope this light isn’t bright enough to dull your vision, otherwise that bow of yours won't be very useful,” stated Max “but without it, I won’t be much use either.” Celand shook his head, “the light is dim enough that it does not interfere, its hue blends well with the darkness around the edges of the light.” Abruptly, Celand crouched low, pressing a finger to his lips signaling for silence, an arrow already nocked, peering down the corridor, his eyes trained beyond Maxwell’s vision. Celand moved out of the light and into the shadows, stopping as a group of three rounded the corner. A halfling, a gnome, and a human, sporting the details reported to mark a member of the Night's Edge. “Hey, check out that lig–” the man’s words cut short as an arrow ripped through his upper torso. The force pushed the man backwards, which caused him to trip over the halfling behind him. The back of his head crashed into the stone floor – a sickeningly wet crack echoed down the corridor. The gnome had just enough time to cast flare before an arrow tore through his skull. Celand shielded his eyes from the intense light. Maxwell wasn’t affected, and caught a glimpse of the halfling as she ran back around the corner. “Runner!” Maxwell exclaims in a low voice, “she’ll likely seek allies . . .”