The first rays of light from the rising sun stirred Hoggle to wakefulness. He shifted uncomfortably as the memories of the night before came unbidden to his mind. Humans sometimes called the beverage “the devil’s liquor” and now Hoggle knew why. He’d tried to match the human brute drink for drink, forgetting entirely that he was less than half his size. The sunlight hurt. The ground hurt. His head hurt. His body hurt. Everything hurt.
Hoggle forced himself to sit up. He was still where he’d passed out the night before, an alley behind the tavern where he’d been bested in the drinking contest. He checked himself over. No thieves had molested him in the night; all his gear and effects were right where he’d left them. Then again, that probably wasn’t all that surprising, even in a town as rowdy as Port Nyanzaru. Humans feared goblins, and Hoggle was as fierce a specimen of his kind as one could find. One might ask why a goblin would travel so far from the North and come to a human town on the edge of a jungle wilderness. No ordinary goblin would do such a thing. But Hoggle was not ordinary. Once he had been, a chieftain of a raider tribe who wandered the fields and forests outside Baldur’s Gate. But then he’d met the One, the One Chosen, the One the gods had blessed. The One the prophecy spoke of; Hoggle didn’t know which prophecy specifically, but it seemed there always was one when it came to such figures. The One, the future Goblin King, had shown Hoggle a new way and his life had never been the same since. Hoggle left his tribe and took up the life of a freelance adventurer. He’d spent much of the last year working for the wizard Zaphiel in his quest to acquire rare and valuable artifacts. Now Hoggle was on his own again, determined to prove his worth to his King the only way he knew how: Through axe and sword, battle and blood. Chult, with all of its rumors of curses, seemed the best place for that. Hoggle found his feet and the world spun around two or three times. He was in no condition for blood and battle now. He tried to blink away the hangover and when that didn’t work, he focused on his surroundings. The alley was largely empty except for the detritus of human civilization, broken boxes and bottles, scraps of cloth, and more than a few piles of excrement. One thing of interest stood out. At the edge of the main street sat a rain barrel. Hoggle staggered over. The barrel was lidded to keep mosquitos out with only small hole for the drain pipe that was anchored to the tavern building. Hoggle yanked the lid off and stared into the cool water. It reflected his image and Hoggle looked himself over. Beady eyes, now bloodshot from the hangover. A small almost canine nose. Stringy black hair. Yellow teeth and yellower skin. Scars galore from his many fights and scrapes over the years. He wasn’t a bad looking goblin, but beauty was not the goal of the One. Strength was and Hoggle had much yet to prove. He plunged his head into the water forcefully. The shock of the cold shook him to the core, precisely what he needed to shake off the torpor of the night before. It probably also didn’t hurt to get some of the stink of the alley off of him. Humans didn’t like goblins, didn’t trust them. The less presentable he was, the more likely they’d express that distaste with violence. Hoggle didn’t mind the idea of fighting one or two or maybe even a half dozen, but the whole town was probably too much to handle and it was wiser not to tempt fate. He pulled his head out of the barrel and shook off the water. He could hear the bustle of the city beyond as the morning crowds began to file out into the streets. But amidst the crowd noise he heard a scream. A woman was in trouble. If a woman was in trouble, that meant a fight was likely to follow. Hoggle grabbed his things and dashed out to find the trouble. --- The whore landed face down in the mud. She turned back to her assailant, her eyes filled with fear. The huge half-orc glowered at her. “I pay for pleasure.” He snarled. “You give pleasure. That’s how this works.” She tried to scamper back, the bruises on her naked body quite obvious. It was clear the half-orc had been more than a little rough with her. “No,” she pleaded. “No more.” “I wasn’t done.” growled the brute. His two friends moved in behind him. “And neither were they. We paid good money for you.” A tall lithe woman in dark leathers stepped between the frightened whore and the three thugs. Her braided hair was the color of blood and she cut a striking figure. “I think she’d had enough.” said the rogue confidently, pulling a metal mask down over her face. The half-orc chuckled. “You even uglier with mask. I'll break it off and then maybe you can suck my cock after I knock all your teeth out.” He swung a hard right punch at the woman’s face. It struck the mask hard and the half-orc yanked his hand back in pain. “You were saying?” mocked the rogue. Humiliated, the half-orc bolted to his feet. “Kill them. Kill them both.” He snapped. With a back flip, the rogue put some distance between herself and the half-orc, pulling her out a strange weapon from her back. With a single motion, she brought the weapon to her chin and fired. Out the far end of the weapon, a blast of flame emerged, launching a small stone bullet. It struck the half-orc beneath his chin, right into his throat. The shot didn’t kill him outright and the thug reached up reflexively to grab at his wound, as if he might dig the round out. Before his hand could reach it however, it exploded in a flash of magical flame. When the flames cleared, there was nothing left of him from the neck up. His headless corpse flopped unceremoniously into the muddy street. His two partners were on the rogue in a flash, trying to take advantage of the time it would take her to reload. It was at that moment that a screaming blur of yellow roared out of a side alleyway. A frenzied goblin hefted a battle axe two handed and firmly planted it in the skull of the rightmost thug. The surviving thug knocked aside the rogue’s crossbow with his cutlass and then turned the blade back to strike her down. Three darts of blinding light came out of nowhere and smashed into his body, knocking him to the side. Right into the goblin’s follow-up swing. The rogue looked to her left quickly to seek out the source of the darts, the wizard who’d cast the spell. Standing on the edge of the crowd was a tall half-elf with two women. “My thanks.” she said, nodding first to the wizard and then to the goblin. She turned and helped the still-terrified whore to her feet. “No one will harm you now. Go to the healers and tend those wounds.” The whore ran off. “As if we needed further proof of the barbarism of this place.” growled one of the wizard’s companions, the tall dark-haired woman in heavy armor. The rogue looked at the goblin. “You must be Hoggle.” “You know me?” “Know of, more accurately." said the rogue, removing her mask. "My companion Kiniko was among those Zaphiel hired along with you to seek out his treasures.” The wizard stepped forward. “Good to see you again, Hoggle.” “You know me too?” “We only met quite briefly. In the Doomvault about six months ago. I grabbed you and dragged you to safety when the phylactery chamber began to implode on itself.” “That was you. I remember. You know my name. I know not yours.” “I am Athasen. These are my companions, Lortessa and Saiah.” “Athasen? Kiniko has spoken of you as well. She too was at the Doomvault.” “I’m afraid I do not remember her. There were many of us recruited for that raid.” “She remembered you. But regardless,” the rogue flashed the badge on her belt, the symbol of the Zhentarim. “I’d know you, Captain of the Darkhold Guard.” Athasen looked the rogue over. She was nearly as tall as he was, unusual even in a human woman. “As I had advantage on our goblin friend," he said to her, "so now you have advantage on me. Your name?” “Langley. My grandmother served in the guard in the days of Haplo.” Intrigued, Athasen let his curiosity get the better of him. “Really? Was she a Steelbringer?” Langley smiled. “You know your history well if you know that term. No, she came to the guard after Haplo returned from his exile. We’ve served the Zhentarim ever since.”
Athasen gave her another long look. Not a Steelbringer who left with Haplo to go to Athas, but perhaps a descendant of one of those, like Avouz, who came back from that world. That would explain her height.
"Quite a weapon you have there." commented Athasen.
"It's called a rifle or so the clerics of Gond on Lantan named it. Uses an alchemical powder to fling a sling stone out the barrel at speeds far faster and stronger than a human arm. The noise it makes is a nice touch for scaring the unwary. I've also made a few other modifications. There's a fire giant rune carved into the butt here. Enchants the sling stones with fire."
"Remind me to stand clear the next time you fire it." he said, giving the headless body of the half-orc a kick for emphasis. “Forgive my ignorance,” interrupted Lortessa. “But what was a Steelbringer?” “The necromancer Haplo was once forced to flee Darkhold," Athasen explained, "and he found his way to another world, a primitive one where iron and steel were rare commodities. Haplo showed up with a whole army of Zhentarim outfitted with plate and sword, axe and shield and the locals came to call them Steelbringers as a result.” “With a name like Athasen,” said Langely, “I take it you’re tied to those few who came back with Haplo when he returned. ‘Son of Athas’ is not a subtle name.” “Anaelar is the head of my household.” said Athasen, repeating his lie. “And Avouz was his father, so yes, you do have ties to all that history. Family ties.” said Langley. Athasen frowned briefly at the mention of his real name, but it did not seem anyone noticed. “How did a member of a wealthy merchant family end up in slavery in order to give birth to you?” wondered Lortessa aloud. It was not the first time she'd probed Athasen's past. With this conversation dwelling on such, she'd found another opportunity. “My mother never told me that part.” Athasen hedged. “Perhaps Avouz left some bastards around during his adventurers or perhaps my mother was taken as hostage or prisoner and made to breed for her slavers. Perhaps both. I only knew that...” He paused when he saw a company of city guards march up the street to their position. They immediately moved to surround the conversing adventurers. “What is the meaning of this?” barked the guard commander, motioning with his spear towards the three corpses on the ground. “You’re rather timely, captain.” mocked Athasen. “The fight’s been over for sometime.” “You will surrender your weapons and come with us peacefully. You are under arrest for the murder of these men.” Saiah reached for her blades, but Athasen stopped her. He spoke again. “We protected a citizen of your city from rape and assault. This is no murder.” “A whore a citizen? Hah!” mocked the commander. “Whores are slaves and slaves are worthless. Freemen are worth many times the value of slaves and there are three of them dead on the ground. You’ll pay for that I promise you. Now come with us peacefully or don’t. Personally, I’d almost prefer you’d refuse.” To hear such disdain made Saiah almost red with rage, but discipline kept her at the ready, waiting for a signal from Athasen. Beside her, Langely was equally infuriated and was quietly sliding a stone bullet into the chamber of her rifle. “I would think twice, Sergeant, before picking a fight with the likes of these.” said a voice. Emerging from the brothel was a halfling woman, dressed in the manner of a harlot. Her red silk attire left very little of her to the imagination. Her voice was curiously accented. She was no local, but neither was she a native of the north of Faerun where Darkhold lay. “Besides, perhaps you could tell me how much a good whore costs in the slave markets? Especially one as beautiful as Maira? Would you truly want to responsible for paying for her replacement, given how slowly your guard responded to this incident?” She was moving her hands in both grand and subtle gestures, and only Athasen’s trained eyes could tell she was casting a spell of charming. “Lady Jhera,” the sergeant began. He paused and blinked a couple of times. “We would never wish to offend one such as you. You are right.” He turned to Athasen. “Forgive me, sir, ladies. Jhera is right. You have done a service to the city and to Maira’s owner. Company, form ranks. Let’s return to the barracks.” “You should have made him apologize for calling Maira a whore.” growled Saiah at the halfling as the guard retreated. “Well, she is that and a very good one. I’ve been her client twice now since I arrived. I am Jhera, halfling of Mulhorand, servant of Sharess.” “I knew I’d heard that accent before.” said Lortessa. “Same as So-Koth.” So-Koth was a Mulhorandi wizard’s apprentice to Alandar and was a frequent guest in Darkhold. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve heard the name Sharess. I thought she was lost when the Mulhorandi gods were banished from our world a century ago.” “They have returned and she with them. She who was once called Bast has returned.” said Jhera confidently. “Our approaches may be different, servant of Sune, but our churches and our goddesses have always been allies. I could not, in good conscience, allow you to be arrested for what you did. Standing up for one who gives so many so much pleasure.” Langley looked confused. “I’m no scholar of the gods. Who is Sharess?” Lortessa answered. “Goddess of pleasure and hedonism, of feasting and celebration. Also, the goddess of cats, if I recall correctly.” Jhera nodded. “You remember your lessons well, young priestess.” Hoggle kicked at stone from out of the mud of the street in boredom. “God talk. People talk. Too much talk. And now the sun is above the treeline. Time to go get work. Time to find something else to fight and kill.” “Agreed.” said Athasen. “Well, enjoy. I’ll be here if you need me again.” Jhera pointed back to the brothel. The rest headed down the street.
