Beginnings
The city of Salta. It didn't have a romantic name, or a pretty name, or even a sophisticated name. In fact, it had a short, ugly little name. And yet, it was the best known city in all of Kethem. It wasn't built on top of the pre-fall ruins of Kuseme, didn't have the mines of Telen, or the deep sea port of Kolki, or the bustling Lanotalis and Cair sea trade of Bythe. It wasn't strategic like Ostenar, or have the dark history of Hediro, or the stature of Fobin, the current seat of the high council.
There was art, in the form of elaborate holder's palaces four times the size of most in Kethem, with architecture that looked elegant and simple and had taken hundreds of years to design, build, and decorate. There were galleries as well, and a large Hectlac library that was elaborate enough to raise eyebrows, given the Hectlac's normally eclectic style. There was wealth in Salta, wealth spent more freely on such things than in a typical Kethem town. But this was not what put Salta on the map.
For two hundred years, Salta was a name synonymous with power, and within that, a darker tinge of intrigue and treachery.
Bradford Great-hold was the latest in a line of Great-holds out of Salta, unusual only in that it had held that position for the last fifteen years. Of the seven holds around Salta, each had been Great hold at one time or another, some for a single year, more usually for three to five years. This was not unusual in and of itself; every year major and great holds shifted in a never ending dance of changing power and fluctuating alliances. But for two hundred years, Arketh providence had never had a representative on the high council that was not from a Salta Great-hold, and this was not true anywhere else in Kethem.
The kind of political maneuvering it took to maintain that seat came at a price. There was a saying about Salta. If two people know a secret, its not a secret, except in Salta. There, if one person knows a secret, its not a secret, because they always report to someone else.
Not that everyone in Salta was part of the political game. In fact, the vast majority were not, more common folk with more common needs that rarely rubbed shoulders with those striving for a place on the political map. But here and there were occasional places that were exceptions to the division of the players and non players. The Copper Kettle, a small pub on a side road near the outskirts of town, was one of these.
Most of the people scattered through the common room did not think of themselves in that light. The Copper Kettle was an adventurer's inn, one of many places that had reduced rates and special perks for out-of-towners. The Copper Kettle would more than recoup any losses for their "generosity" in the extra patronage such residents would bring to the pub, for there were always the young, the restless, the curious, who were fascinated with the tales told of Tawheim witches, Urakai skirmishes, or more exotic tales from a Raider's run across the Cair. But travelers rarely came to Salta except as pawns in the game, whether those listening to an evenings tale recognized it or not.
Aleath was one of the unusual ones, someone who with a razor sharp intellect recognized a larger picture in the seemingly random chatter in the room. This evening, he reflected, was shaping up to be one of the more interesting nights at the Copper Kettle. There were quite a few regulars he knew from previous visits.
The dark, grimly handsome El Sid sat at one of the smaller corner tables, radiating his normal air of focused intensity. Across from him was his almost constant companion, Don Perignon, a more non-descript person who's eyes, if looked into, caused involuntary shivers. Both were armed and in leather, as always, El Sid's immaculate, jet black and unmarred except for the slight scuffs where chain would augment its protection in a more hostile environment. The two of them were a little creepy, and Aleath often wondered about them; few people felt it necessary to wear the stiff, uncomfortable leather around town. But both were closed-mouth sorts, except for El Sid's almost poetic sweet talking of the women that seemed to flutter around him like moths around a flame.
Across the room sat Aron and Tristan, along with a couple of other people Aleath had seen before, but who were clearly part of a different class of pub crawler. The type that came here to vicariously experience a life that sounded exciting, but which they would never have the initiative or courage to pursue. Aleath discarded them mentally and focused on Aron and Tristan. Friends, obviously, but it would be hard to imagine two less compatible people. Tristan had the handsome, boyish looks and supple, liquid grace of a actor, and a personality that was so boisterous it was almost overpowering. He was competition of a sort; while El Sid was as handsome, he attacked a different kind of women than Aleath was interested in. Tristan... he was a chameleon, shifting here and there to make his audience more comfortable, and he and Aleath had from time to time competed for the same winsome lass. Aleath gave Tristan the edge in looks and personality, but won more than his fair share of these little games because of two things. One, Tristan was a little more steady than he; Tristan usually stuck with the same woman for a while, sometimes weeks (why?). The second was Aron, who was usually hanging around with Tristan.
Where Tristan was the all-Kethem boy, Aron was the cur. Where Tristan wore robes and was clearly looking for a good time, Aron wore Leather armor, had the handle of a huge two handed sword ready to grab rising out of a rapid-draw sheath strapped to his back, and was just as clearly looking for a fight. Not ugly, not handsome, but different enough to be striking. Urakou, or maybe Urakai, blood was somewhere in his lineage, and this was enough to make him unusual (and despised, in most cases). But even if he had been purebred, he would have stood out; he was also huge. Where Tristan moved with the elegant, delicate motion of a cat, Aron moved with the ponderous, unstoppable motion of an avalanche. It was more than the size. Muscles stood in huge knots across his shoulders and legs, muscles that barely rippled when picking up a man in chain and throwing him contemptuously across the room into a wall. Aleath had seen it in this very room a month or so ago, when a traveler from Pranan had made a disparaging comment about Aron's genealogy. He simmered with a barely controlled anger that made most intelligent people avoid him.
Near them were two other tables hosting guests. One had a group of friends that visited the pub occasionally, drinking and laughing too loudly. More spear carriers. Beyond them, at the other table, sat... Aleath searched his memory for a moment... Morgan, a fairly frequent guest, sitting with a stranger. Aleath smiled slightly. Morgan was a good egg, and under different circumstances, acceptable company. But Morgan's tendency to accidentally spill beer on his drinking companions was so well know that the table would not be filled until the room was and there was no other choice if you wanted a seat, or you were new to the Copper Kettle like the person sitting next to him now. When the table did finally fill up, however, it was just as typical for a group to form around it, as Morgan gently maneuvered the others at the table into a game of Dragon Poker. His luck at the game was infamous.
The stranger sitting next to Morgan was likely to be particularly irritated when... and it was when, not if... Morgan showered him with Beer, since he was wearing a embroidered silk tunic and long wool cape with the seal of some non-local hold, a red serpent rising out of a emerald sea in front of the blade of a sword that also ran down into the water. Formal attire for some big-wig Hold reception or meeting, maybe a representative from one of the Major Holds reporting to their Great Hold. Unusual for such a person to be staying, or drinking, at a pub like the Copper Kettle, but you occasionally got a few that enjoyed the stories enough to take a break from the more politically correct inns closer to the center of town.
The other guests were also people Aleath didn't know, but who appeared much more interesting that the ones he had already examined. Farthest from him was the most interesting of the lot. Sitting and gazing into the fire, beer mug in hand, was the oddest person he had ever seen. Short... probably not more than three and a half feet tall, but barrel chested and long limbed. A dwarf? But he... it?... moved with lightning fast precision as he filled a long, bulbous pipe with tabbac and lit up. The only dwarfs Aleath had seen were slow and awkward with their deformity. This individual moved and acted in a way that made his size and shape seem natural. There had been rumors in town, rumors of a new race never heard of before... or at least since The Fall. Aleath took it with a bit of salt, but you never knew. Last time, the rumor had been true. He had seen the now famous Hobbit himself when the small individual and his friends had been here on trial for some crime against Kethem Naval Intelligence. Greedo? Some odd name like that. [ed. note - Guido was from the previous campaign]
Directly across the table from him were another pair of interesting people, some kind of nobles from Kanday. Dressed in Chain, one of those quirks Kanday folk were famous for. As if you had to worry about combat in a pub in the middle of Kethem. Both were your typical loud-mouthed fighters... there were already a half dozen empty mugs in front of them. One had a sword with a hilt in the shape of a jumping cat, and if Aleath was not mistaken, it had two small but perfect emeralds as eyes. One way to get in trouble, even in Salta; a foreigner flaunting wealth was a tempting target for the less honest of the population. Aleath looked more carefully, noticed the easy motion of the hand that always seemed relaxed but never wandered far from the handle of the sword, the more heavily muscled arm connected to that hand. The subtle signs of a man who knew the sword well. Not an easy target. The glints of light off his armor, resting underneath the traditional and very plain Kanday homespun shirt over it, were odd, almost silvery. Aleath had heard that many lords in the Pranan City States wore armor that had been plated in silver or even gold. But it wasn't standard in Kanday.
His companion, even given the similarity caused by the swarthier skin of Kanday, looked too much like the other not to be related... brothers? cousins?... and also wore the traditional homespun, leather and chain of Kanday. But overlaying it all was a large, blood red sash tied around his waist with a perfect knot. He was more jovial than his companion, with a mirth that was not forced, but none the less was too exadgerated, lending an air of borderline insanity to the man. From their conversation, which was in Stangri, Aleath understood they had just arrived in town.
Down the table from him was another newcomer. Heavy brows sat over deeply inset eyes, giving him a brutish, wolfish look. Dressed in robes, a little on the grimy side. The face and hands were wrinkled and leathery, but the face was young. Someone who had spent a lot of time outside. The robes were a deep green, and he had an amulet with the symbol of a wolf. A Druid? There was some sort of gathering in town, or so he had heard. It seemed to fit.
All in all, a respectable crowd for so early in the evening. Aleath, like many in the room, was in silk shirt and cotton trousers, his traditional sword and dagger weapons combo on each side of his waist. It was, at this time in Kethem's history, considered somewhat macho to walk around armed, as if you fought a duel every afternoon, or assassins were lurking around every corner. Maybe the Kanday fighters were just ahead of the fashion trend wearing chain armor around for the hell of it. Aleath had a momentary vision of everyone in the room trying to down food and drink or chat with one of the larger breasted bar maids wearing plate and smiled. Not a likely fashion trend.
Aleath caught the scent of cooking meat and began to think about dinner. Dark had just fallen, and the crowd would begin to build shortly, with an accompanying drop in service.
The Copper Kettle, like many inns, had the kitchen in a back room off the main pub. The fireplace the dwarf was sitting in front was two sided. The other side opened into a large barbecuing pit, the main feature of kitchen, which was practical from a use of the fireplace standpoint and from a make-the-guests-hungry standpoint. Soon plates of steaming meat would be coming through the door in that wall, carried by Julia... or at least he hoped Julia was working tonight. There were two other doors to the room, one that lead to the street, and one that lead to a narrow corridor that would take guests staying at the inn upstairs to their rooms. The stable, where his horse was currently tethered, was on the other side of the hallway. Other than a few windows, there were no other entrances or exits to the room.
There was a sudden breeze as the door to the street opened and a cowled figure strode purposefully in. Most people looked up and then turned back to more interesting things... the cowl was greasy looking wool, poor quality in both materials and workmanship. Aleath was about to turn away, but a thought stopped him. What was a poor commoner doing in the Copper Kettle? Food and drink here were at least double what you would pay in a poorer part of town, one way the Copper Kettle made up for the cheap rates for the inn. Although the cowl hid the face under it, Aleath could tell the man was scanning the room. The figure's search ended, his attention focused. Aleath followed the stranger's gaze, and found himself looking at Morgan's table. He was just in time to see Morgan, who was chatting with the other guy at his table, make a sweeping gesture and knock his beer off the table. Fortunately, it was on the opposite side of the table from the stranger. As Morgan bent over to pick up his mug, face already reddening, Aleath turned back to the strange cowled figure, who was muttering and gesturing... Aleath's blood froze. It wasn't the random motion of a mad street beggar. The figure was prepping a spell.
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