For Interested Parties...

[Malaroth]

Word has gone out, whispered and shared amongst circles looking for money and who are willing to do daring things to get paid. The soruce is unknown yet the voracity of the opportunity is attested to most assuredly, most vehemently, as many vow to see it done.

There is one who seeks the urn that once belonged to the Ashfiend.

And the interested party is willing to pay most handsomely for it.

The one who finds it, it is said, should leave word at a certain home on the outskirts of the Hollows in Myrkentown.

[Carnath-Emory]

The Floating Dragon is one of Myrkentown's more disreputable dens of liquor and cardplay. It attracts a certain flavour of clientele -- who in turn attract the sort of people who like to do business with them. It even caught a swordswoman's eyes, two years ago; she had become a regular face there then, had not much deterred herself from the place during the months since.

The name she uses there was given her by a half-forgotten mother, seventeen years before. Nowhere else is it spoken. Here, she'd mentioned its meaning once, just once, and there'd been approving laughter at the card-table on account of it.


Word has gone out, whispered and shared amongst circles looking for money; willing to be daring for it, which is to say that it reached the Floating Dragon very quickly indeed. By dusk that very evening, there has been an approach made towards a certain home on the Hollows' outskirts; an approach, a visit, leaving in its wake a folded slip of paper beneath the home's door.

Someone wonders, it conveys in small, deftly-penned words, what the reward for such a remarkable item might be. The interested party might detail such things in a letter and, it adds almost as a postscript, leave it with the barkeep at the Floating Dragon.

[Kait]

The streets of the Hollows have ears, certainly, but over the past handful of days they have gained watchful eyes as well. Anyone approaching a particular house on the edge of the territory would have a loose escort: a little waif who might pass for a scullery maid for a few blocks, the usual collection of urchin rabble who run to and fro in these streets both day and night, and perhaps a saucy whore to sashay and hawk her wares on those corners nearest. None are out of place, or overly watchful; folks in the better parts could keep their constables, here in the Hollows they can look out for their own, and tend to do it without being noticed.


"Now, these're yer prizes, ya see? Magic lanterns 'cus don't nobody believe that mess 'bout tha lamps. Kid's stuff. These here be the real thing. Salvaged from one a those flyin' airships what crashed in Ghreu Fenn. Oh, ya didn' hear 'bout that? Course not, can' have the amateurs muckin' bout, gettin' thereselves drowned in the search fer treasure." Octavious Swift commands an audience at the Devil's Rook, an odd collection of wizened cons who nod as the child speaks and those grubby fingers caress a cheap, though ornate lantern. "Now don' go embellishin' too much here, s'temptin', I know. Yer all old 'ands at this though, an ya know their 'maginations is what t'go fer. They'll fill in the details, ya give 'em the broad strokes an' ..Wha's that? One second boys."

The swaggering urchin retreats from the table of swindlers for a few minutes, only to begin speaking in hushed tones to an older child. This girl is no less grimy than Octavious Swift, and the eyes that watch from that abandoned table with vacant interest easily recognize her as a local pickpocket. "Is tha so? Thanks, Moira. Say hi t'yer ma fer me."

"Right then boys, where were we?" With a crooked grin and a crack of a tiny set of knuckles, it's back to business for Swift.

[Malaroth]

Cloaked and hooded, would adequately describe the one who relayed a message back to the Floating Dragon. It was an accurate description of many who carried on business in the damnable Hollows. There was, most certainly, a response - and one left that same evening.

Quite bluntly, the response is that the treasure promises to be an audcaious sum of gold coin. Failing that, there are offers of lands and even very minor titles. Or, the letter ends with, different forms of payment would most assuredly be considered. Many people had different prices.

The urn, it implied, was a high price indeed.

[Macha Luain]

Men far from home, men uniformed and armed and in service to Flag and Crown - such men do sometimes game at cards. Beneath the notice of their superiors, frequently, and with some care for the nature of the stakes they place: it's favours that they play for, simple favours. A thing borrowed, a thing fetched; a piece of noxious duty exchanged for one that's a bit more palatable. It's safer that way, no-one being particularly incensed over a loss that costs so little. It's safer, and it doesn't draw the eyes of ranked officers, those sorts having a habit of shutting games down. Some Myrkentown taverns keep the same habits, and mostly for the same reasons.

The Floating Dragon does not number amongst them.

So that it's doubly-strange that pretty Macha Luain would have been sent out upon an evening like this, and on an errand that was not his own. This being, after all, the sort of simple favour that frankly isn't simple at all. This being nothing more or less than the result of some cards gone bad, or made to go bad, if one presumes that a woman had willfully cheated -- and he's had suspicions in that direction, he really has, suspicions and a resolve that next time it's coin they'll play for, just like it always has been.

Coin, and a reckoning.

This evening, though, has been spent moving through the filthier corners of town, and not with much discomfort; it was the definition of the job that grated, not the actualities of it. What grown man wants to play errand-boy? By contrast, the environment was tolerable: he'd been born to the Hollows himself, after all.

Some men never quite lose their taste for the sewers from which they crawled.

So that it was mildly enough that he'd tolerated this insistent little urchin-thing at first, but with the sort of amusement that eventually devolves into slight impatience.

"Get on back now," he'd advised it at some point.

"Go on, no place for a wretch your age," he'd added, minutes later.

"There now, look what you've trod in," he'd mentioned soon after, in hopes that it was something truly awful.

But eventually he had paused, had reached a hand into a pocket. Had pressed a clutch of dirty little shilling-bits into the dirty little urchin-hand.

"There you go, sweet," he smiled, wiping his palms clean against his trouser-knees. "Now go home and frig your mother."

Straightening, he continued upon his way.

[Carnath-Emory]

There'd really been no point to asking the bartender for a description of that emissary. A man who hides behind closed doors and the deliberate spread of rumours does not show his face without cause. Still, when she'd next visited that tavern, this was amongst her first questions for the barkeep.

There's no harm in making the occasional concession to Chance.

But when the answer proved unsurprising, she consigned herself again to certain inevitabilities, and some few games at the card-table of Macha Luain, where she had the grace to lose convincingly. And it was not until well into the evening that a second letter would slipped beneath the door of that small and particular house.

This time, it is not Luain who performs the errand.

It had been a simple message the first time, and while the handwriting slightly differs, the concise construction of sentences does not. The writer acknowledges that the urn is of particular worth to a particular person -- a particular spreader of rumours and wants. The writer implies that the urn has worth to others, as well. Acknowledging the awkward nature of such circumstances, the writer does not require a guarantee --but simply a token of good faith, an assurance of honest dealing.

There can be honesty amongst masked men, after all -- can't there?

[Malaroth]

Another message returned by a figure hooded and cloaked, who said little but paid much to ensure the message's delivery to his, or her, correspondent.

This time, the message was of considerably more weight than a mere simple piece of paper. Enclosed within it Ariane would find a rolled up copy of a land deed, bearing seals and authority, but no name to trace it to, and letters at the bottom which carefully spell out that this is a copy only and has no legal significance. Yet such scripting to an observant eye is, indeed, composed of fresh ink. The amount of land is certainly not obscene; several acres of arable Myrken land in the countryside.

Enclosed within this, and the true weight of the message, she would also find a ponderous golden doubloon.

There could indeed be honesty between masked persons, but there was a certain irony in expecting someone who dealt in shadows and silence to be open and honest about things.

[Carnath-Emory]

The Floating Dragon hosts a certain flavour of clientele - but the business in which they involve themselves is diverse. Certainly the evening bartender is accustomed to such transactions as these, and has proven accomodatingly discreet throughout this one; there are few questions, few words involved at all. Of course, the weight of this recent package could have something to do with that.

Trust that a man who frequents this place knows rich coin when he comes across it.

All of these things earn a swordswoman a long glance, when she returns to claim what has been delivered. But it is to a room that she retires to inspect those items given to her, and a half-hour's thought later, there's another man's time bought with a glass of excellent wine, so that once again the new missive's penmanship slightly differs.


[INDENT]Your sincerity is clear, your generosity beyond doubt. The same cannot be said of your motive. Your token is received, we pause now to consider.[/INDENT]

This, too, delivered by some nameless somebody - but this time with some measure of haste.

[Malaroth]

A simple message in return, delivered by a simple and darkly clad messenger.

In the wrong hands it is a dangerous and evil thing.

[Khalika]

this is a big fat joke. Chris is sitting on a big fat joke. Terry was pointing a weapon at the crowd. Terry was fat. Terry is very obese.

Some people are convinced that the Dallas Cowboys are a football team. Little do they know, FIRE WILL CONSUME THEM. Then, and only then, will the Popo's magical abilities be restored. The Popo will rise up, and then the Popo will get down. SO buckle up. It's a long ride ahead of us kiddo.

[Khalika]

The hollows are filled with such happenings, such dark and shadowed dealings. It is a normal happenstance where people of such desperation are clustered together. When desperate times bring forth desperate measures. When righteousness and morals are replaced by a basic need to survive and provide. It leads towards such things as handling unknown missives, and delivering packages without knowing the details of the delivery. It also leads to other things... grifting and smuggling, robbery and theft. That is the life of a Hollow resident..

But there is a rule within the Hollows, even amoungst the theives, sharks and charletons. There was law, not Myrken Law....Hollow Law. And one name that was whispered like Gospel, one person who all knew not to tempt or play the fool...The Gypsy..

Her names was never spoken full, only aliases and illudments. It never laid upon any letters, deeds, or ties to the underground workings of this small unspoken stain upon Myrkenwood. But her hand...her presence was undeniable. For money she had, and money she spent to see her operations move smoothly, and information of all sorts, passed through her network. shopworkers, barmaids, labourers. She bought a man a good solid workhorse and wagon, so he may start a delivery service for all kinds of need. From food deliveries to aid during the FoggyBottom affair. He was a good man, an honest, hardworking man. Who charged a fair price for service. And when the need was dire. Voulenteered his service. It was a profitable situation for both of them.. He was able to earn an honest living and provide for his wife and childern. She intern received interesting tidbits about the goings on about Myrken. sometimes it came through word of mouth. For he was a likable chap and many found ease in conversing about any number of gossip with him. Sometimes through the manner of job itself, it amazing what someone can discover through such simple things as transportation. He was but one branch of an ever growing tree of informants and gathers. All employed in similar fashion. It is so much easier she has found to garnish loyalty through trust and graditude then through fear...Though she uses fear enough, and the less savory sort that line the muddy streets of the Hollows. They know to keep their business out of hers, and to keep their heads down in the meantime. One who thought he could profit from spilling her secrets, has still not been found...

It is through this network, that a keen eyed and sharp eared barmaid who work the evening shift at the floating dragon came upon an interesting rumor. One she knew her "friend" would find of specific importance considering the nature of the object.

A note is written on the back of a torn piece of parchment and slipped into the jacket pocket the Wagonman. Who took his supper at the Floating Dragon, and at times a turn of cards when invited. it read only this

Someone seeks the urn of Teron Ashfiend...

A full telling of what is known will come in a face to face meeting, it will include the location of a certain home in the Hollows. From there the network would spread like shade in the late afternoon. Questions posed ever so delicately. Though not in a manner to raise suspision, nor is any outward action taken as of yet to move on the information gathered.

It seems someone has placed themselves within the Gypsy's business....A dangerous step indeed...

[Malaroth]

Mortimer Adler made it a point to follow orders. If the accursed Thessilane Duke had done as he was supposed to, to pay with obedience, taxes and homage to the Trae Kelsan Crown, he would never had lost his home and livelihood. He would enver have been forced to relocate to accursed Myrken Wood, the festering heart of villainy in the entire provincial region, blighted with fiends and worse. He had heard an old legend from his Frum Bearn grandmama about how the First Born had sealed an ancient, festering evil within the heart of the land - she had named the land Myrken Wood.

His orders were to stay at the house for days on end, anywhere between three to six, with sufficient food and water to last him well enough. It was not his coin which provided it, and there was additional coinage paid to procure his services and help him maintain a modest lifestyle. It was not bad work, to be a glorified house sitter and messenger. The Hollows were a vicious neighborhood, whose inner avenues threatened to lose one upon strangled confusion within the maze-like streets.

He had learned to walk swiftly, surely, and with a low hood and a carefully neutral expression to avoid notice. One more cloaked figure hardly drew attention, and further precautions were taken to leave at various, ever-changing hours of the evening and, occasionally, daylight. There were others like him, who had fallen into the yawning cracks of the Hollows, displaced from Derry and forced to flee the Chapter House when the mosnter attacked if they had not left already. These others had shared easily, for word had reached them of rumors that the monster who smashed the knighthood, that his urn was now being sought. These fellow Derryborn shared easily and without coin, for it was simple gossip, and allowed Mr. Adler to keep his secretive job quiet and unspoken.

Many were interested. Some had even offered false urns and had soon been discovered in their deceit. Mortimer wasn't sure if he wanted it to be found as it might mean the end of his coin. But should it end, he might have enough saved to move along in life and far from accursed Myrken Wood.

[Inajira]

Occasional walks and evenings spent skulking about the Hollows had done little to mark him as one of the locals' own. They knew, the slinking thieves, thugs, and worse, who belonged to their loose tribal affiliations sworn with blood, coin and other, more bizarre things. To the lean and cloaked stranger, he marked it with an interested eye and imagination.

Especially the growing word that a certain urn was being sought. Those he spoke to on the street attributed any number of special abilities, such as the power to heal wounds, increase one's physical strength, speak with or even command the dead, or raise the slain back to true life.

Furthermore, someone had offered a fortune for the thing.

It was worth a single, simple and inquisitive message to his provider.

[Malaroth]

It was too soon for the Ashfiend to be forgotten. A legacy of brutality, terror and sheer destruction had burned itself into the hearts, minds and memories of the people. It was not lightly that the monster had been dubbed the Scourge of Myrken Wood.

As word spread that the creature's urn was being sought, stories began to fly. Some might have been true, some might not have been. They spread, however, all the same - a virulent pestilence for ears, mouths and minds.

Some claimed that the urn had power to communicate with long lost relatives and loved ones, across even the shroud of death.

Others asserted the urn could cure any illness.

And still more heard it said that the creature never allowed the urn to leave his side, guarding it as his only precious thing, and had engaged a Broken Dagger full of its usually dangerous patrons to murder its thief in their very midst. Whatever it could do, such words surely followed, was potent indeed - potent enough for the 'Fiend to risk much to see it securely within his hands.

There were other whispers, much more quiet and rare, that supposed that with the urn in one's possession that vast magical power would be at one's command. Perhaps enough to command the powers of life and death.

Perhaps enough to command the Ashfiend himself.

Such were the rumors that the conniving Saul Barband heard even as he considered peddling his false urn in the streets. By the time anyone realized its being a fake he would be long gone with money enough to start over for himself.

Or so he thought.

[Malaroth]

Saul settled upon his chair in the Floating Dragon, brushing back a dusky brown, faded cloak and leaving the hood down with a small, private smirk. Hands slipped together beneath the table, knitting together, squeezing anxiety into opposing palms as he waited with trepidation. He had made no secret of the small sack he carried in being valuable, tucked astutely and obviously beneath one curled arm before being set on the table before him.

Curious gazes flickered across that package with a casually larcenous thought. Every creak of the door caught his gaze, hopeful and bright with the imagination lovingly caressing suitable coin, however ill-gotten.

The door distracted him enough by sight sound and imagination that he missed the figure he was eagerly awaiting. The nervous energy bled freely from him, some might even call it a certain stink, causing him to catch his breath as a figure settled in across from him.

"Do you have it?" A murmur in the crowd, nearly lost amidst clinking steins and tankards, oaths and curses aimed at one who allegedly cheated at dice. It was deliciously cliche and broadened the smile that lurked in the corners of Saul's mouth.

"Yes," he offered, laying a hand upon the sack, allowing it to fold lovingly about the object within. "Of course I have it. Authentic to boot, you can tell by the engravings. Genuine Pumarian," the outrageous lie left him easily, Pumarian being an orcish dialect far more common to Zachean ears than locals'. If Saul had even heard of Zachea, however, he would struggle to pronounce it.

"Let me see it."

Saul's eyes widened in horror. "I can't," he whispered loudly as if performing his heart, which stirred at the drama of it all. The danger of this den, the closeness of the buyer, the prying ears; it fed and nourished his private narcissism and he loved it. He loved it.

Perhaps there was a future in it.

He left it aside as the other scowled at being rebuffed. "It is simple honesty I ask for. If you deal honestly then you have nothing to hide."

It was a bald-faced lie and Saul might have recognized it for what it was, until that silent dream of coin danced lewdly for his mind's eye, bidding him to open the sack's protective mouth and draw forth the object within, holding it closely within hands that struggled and incompletely encompassed it:

A small, silver urn.

The other leaned forward, nodding sagely, himself knowing it to be a forgery and Saul too much the fool to capitalize upon its inestimable value in the right hands. This other had forgotten secret seekers of trophies - there were others; necromancers, and worse, who would forswear food for a year for the chance to grasp the urn of the Scourge of Myrken. His only response was the passing of a sack of golden coins, opened by Saul and greedily counted by the eye.

This other stowed the urn in the sack and stood as Saul offered eyes bright with greed.

"Enjoy the Ashfiend's urn."

This other stood in slack-jawed silence, awed by the sheer awesomeness of Saul's rampant stupidity. The beginning eagerness with which he drew the sack tightly closed and began to shoulder it accompanied by the scraping of chairs and stirred footsteps.

By the time he got to the door a circle had formed around him, Saul forgotten by everyone. The anonymous buyer wondered, secretly, who had proven to be the bigger fool.

"Is that the Ashfiend's urn?" growled a voice like gravel, thick eyebrows raising upon a heavy brow. Hamfists loosely curled at the towering oaf's sides as the sounds of dice-rolling quickly perished. It wouldn't matter what the buyer said, he knew this, and lowering his head lunged for the door. For a second he believed the speed of his movement had caught them unaware, the door grew closer, escape a true possibility -

all smothered by rough hands grabbing, pulling, seeking the sack which gave way to reveal the urn, rolling briefly in their midst, kicked by an unknowing foot, before it peered up at them with greedy silence.