The Classless Sorcerer's Self-Stealing System

Interlude 1 - Skaldan: Streetwise

The Knave was as much a fortress as it was a tavern.

Anyone who thought otherwise needed only to inquire with the city guard, or perhaps with the chancery, to know that despite all attempts to permanently close the notorious establishment's doors, that place was a kingdom unto itself. And as far as its "kings" were concerned, well… their power was absolute.

Pulling his hood up just a bit further up and over his head, Skaldan looked both ways before beginning again down the crooked alleyway. His lax, inconspicuous movements were well-suited to the dusky gloom of Frostwall's evening streets, otherwise using the shadows to his advantage as much as he did his slighter stature.

Both were convenient for the type of sleuthing he was predisposed towards and worked well for him as he moved discreetly through the emptier streets.

It wasn't beyond reason to assume that passerby would look upon him and see only an urchin.

Rogue's Passage was not exactly short for poor and mischievous youths. But then, all of that only stood to work in Skaldan's favor. After all, someone of his age and appearance, creeping about at this time of night and so close to the Knave, could only mean one of a few things. And the one thing he was counting on? The one that posed even the slightest possibility that he was working for more dangerous people? Well, he hoped it would ensure that no one got any funny ideas about stopping to question him, at the very least.

In truth, Skaldan had no business whatsoever with the Three Kings, much less being at the Knave, and he certainly wasn't one of their runners, but neither did he have any quarrels with them.

Not that anyone ever asked for his opinion, but he had come to his own understanding some time ago that the northwesternmost ward of the city would have all but certainly spelled disaster for the rest of Frostwall years ago without the kings and their… activities. Before their time, though Skaldan had only heard as much from hearsay, the Passage had once been a pitiful cesspit, riddled with squalor and crime of the highest degree. Not even the crown seemed to have possessed the means to stamp out such a proliferation of indecency in those days.

That was… until the Three Kings arrived.

Slátra, the King Skultr Rats, and the Grey Bloods were powerful gangs in and of themselves. As a trio, the syndicate was largely untouchable; it was the kind of organization that had defeated the odds by putting aside past feuds, coming together to rebuild and reshape an entire city district with cutthroat efficiency. They weren't to be trifled with under normal circumstances, at least not without nailed-on cause. And their stronghold, the Knave, was a den of wolves—a place no one dared to enter uninvited, unless otherwise in pursuit of their own chances against fate.

But as it happened, Skaldan was feeling somewhat lucky, and marginally unconcerned by the rules of the street. He had business here for one night only, important business, and he wasn't leaving until he got what he came for.

Soon enough, the alley gave way to a dingy, lantern-lit plaza, upon the other side of which the entrance to the Knave stood in all its majesty. No less than a dozen glory hounds, lesser members of each of the gangs loitered and cat-called one another, most drinking or smoking drakeroot, a few gambling at the King's game, Triple Stallion, and fewer still just itching to cause trouble.

Despite the bitter cold, heat lamps allowed tantalizingly dressed escorts to work their own hours, and their presence certainly seemed welcome amongst the rabble, though each of whom was otherwise preoccupied, no doubt, with trying to garner the attention of those who already dwelled inside the tavern, perhaps even vying for just the chance to get a glimpse of such a hallowed hall themselves.

The two, hulking half-giants standing guard at the entrance made the hairs on the back of Skaldan's neck stand tall. He didn't envy anyone who had to stomach a frisking from those two brutes, delighted and more than a little relieved to know that he had alternative means of getting into the tavern tonight.

Sticking to the perimeter of the plaza, Skaldan kept his head down and pushed through the crowd, drawing no more attention to himself than the refuse that lay at his feet. Quickly, but steadily, he reached a corner of the tavern wall where the light of the lanterns did not reach, and where the pocket of shadow spread out too greedily for anyone to take notice of him.

There was a slender crack in the stonework, far too small for anyone to concern themselves with, and much too narrow to act as an entryway. But Skaldan simply drew one of his daggers and made a delicate cut along his palm, caring little for how wide the crack was.

The pain was familiar as he cut, negligible at that, and as the blood started to drip around his hand, he squeezed his palm shut into a fist and gestured for one of his class abilities to activate. The familiar tingle that he felt a few seconds later told him that it was ready, and so Skaldan exhaled, before he began to push his arm straight through the crack.

Flesh and bone morphed to the narrow opening, passing through with no greater difficulty than if he were made of water. Thus, Skaldan simply slipped into the tavern as sneakily as a roach, as he often did.

The back room was dimly lit and mostly cluttered, an ideal entry point. Skaldan looked behind him, inspecting his work for any traces of his presence. There was nothing. Or at least, nothing anyone would be looking for actively.

He couldn't be sure how long that crack had been there, as he inspected his surroundings for a moment. It had certainly been there the first time he'd ever tried to morph through it, and that was over three months ago already. He doubted anyone noticed it either. There weren't many, if any, other bloodbornes in Frostwall as far as Skaldan knew.

Such a class was the privilege, or the curse, of Skaldan alone.

The wound on his palm had already dried and was beginning to heal, all in the span of time it took for Skaldan to reach the door on the far side of the room.

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Cracking the door slightly, Skaldan regarded the sounds of the tavern for a moment and inspected the hallway for anyone coming or going. Everything seemed clear, and so he quietly made his way to the other side of the hall, his boots as light as feathers, ascending the stairs thereof to the second floor, and then the third.

The hallway was dark, lined on either side with doors, as Skaldan proceeded forward. He stopped at the second door on the left, tapped the door twice fast and then twice slow, before continuing inside without delay.

"Good, you're finally here—" A gruff voice stammered, and the door behind Skaldan was immediately closed in the same second that he had entered the room, "We can get this over with. I trust you've got my coin?"

Skaldan smirked somewhat, regarding the burly, brown-headed man for a moment as he crossed to the other side of the small bedroom with anticipation. For a man of his size, he sure seemed to spook easily. Stepping forward slightly, Skaldan reached down and tossed a coin bag hidden on his person towards the fellow on the far side, saying, "All of it, Ljaro. And the rest of what I owe you from last time."

Ljaro felt up the bag in his fingers, almost as if he could count every gold piece that was inside by touch alone, before nodding, "Alright then… that'll do."

"What do you have for me?" Skaldan crossed his arms, though he didn't lower his guard so easily. If anything turned south here, he was ready to act in the blink of an eye.

Not that he expected anything to come from Ljaro's end this time around. He was the Kings' best info broker, sure, but not one to get himself involved in matters outside the syndicate. And yet, he was a consummate professional, and loyal to his friends. Skaldan wasn't a friend, per se, but his older brother had been, and that made all the difference in the world.

"Enough to help you find the trouble you're looking for." Ljaro shook his head with a long sigh, adding, "You've got Gray Cloaks killing cultists, cultists killing Gray Cloaks, and neither of them any closer to finding the man they're looking for. Though it is likely that he's in the city somewhere, as we previously speculated. This blood mage though, this… Nárthimr, he's got the city guard shook to the core. Me as well, frankly, and lots of my ilk. Worshipers of Harkkus is bad enough, but these… sick, twisted fuckers are something else. Anyway, no traces of your man."

"He's got to be somewhere though." Skaldan insisted frustratedly, bordering desperation, "There can't be that many spots an artificer from Kuldir Khag, of all places, can hide out in Frostwall, not without someone seeing something. He's a dwarf, and he's missing an eye, and a leg. I mean, come on!"

"Keep your voice down, boy—!" Ljaro hissed quietly. However, his expression turned suddenly, as if he remembered something quite serious, and said more calmly, "I'm…. sorry, Your Highness. That was uncalled for, forgive me."

Skaldan reddened somewhat, "Sheesh, would you quit it with the honorifics? You never called my brother that…"

"I—" Ljaro started, but paused. He then turned, seeming to study a simple painting that hung on the wall for a long while, before sighing, "You're right. You and Skeggan are like family, and your parents have always done right by me. It's just… it's bad out there, Dan. Getting worse by the day too. This Cynric fellow that everyone's looking for, that you're looking for, he's involved in something serious. You'd be better off leaving it alone. I don't want to see you end up hurt like—"

But Ljaro didn't finish this thought, though Skaldan knew what he trying to say well enough.

A lump suddenly formed in the back of Skaldan's throat, and the idea that he would give up was sickening him somewhat, as he replied coldly, "And if he was involved with what happened to Skegg? Or if he knows something, then—"

"Then you're going to get hurt." Ljaro interjected, "Because you are not the only one looking for him, and I'd bet all the gold in this sack that you're by far the least powerful among them. I… I pray for your brother's swift recovery. I do. But this, Skaldan, this is foolish."

Skaldan bit his tongue.

The man wasn't necessarily wrong.

The Cult of Harkkus wasn't anything new to Frostwall, the Order of the Gray Hilt had been nipping at their heels for centuries. Skaldan was pretty certain that his great great grandfather had been a Gray Cloak, not that it really mattered in the current context of his end goal. Ljaro was probably right, stepping between either of those two factions seemed like a bad idea.

But this Nárthimr…

The followers of Harkkus weren't blood mages, and there had never been blood magic involved before now, in so far as Skaldan was able to find out. Harkkus was an unholy mythical creature, by all accounts, and it was the ancient enemy of the Triskelion. However, it wasn't that kind of unholy. Blood magic seemed to be a recent development, and it wasn't a coincidence either that Harkkus's most loyal servant happened to go by the same monicker, Nárthimr, and had utilized similar magics.

It was almost as if this person, whoever they were, idolized the spectacle of it all; like they were trying to recreate the myths of old themselves, or mocking it even, as if to write their own story over it. But the problem was that was all this person was right now: a story. They were elusive, and were known by name, and deeds, and sycophants alone.

Skaldan had no legitimate proof of anything for what he was after, nothing but the manner in which his brother's injuries manifested on his body, and Skaldan's gut feeling, but he had no choice but to believe that it was all connected.

The timing wasn't lost on him.

Figures and factions moved in the shadows while the King grieved, and the city mourned and prayed for the return of their hero prince. Why Skaldan should have to work alone, skulking in the darkest recesses of the city for what everyone else told him was just a conspiracy, he couldn't say.

But he wasn't going to stop, that much was certain.

"Look, if you intend to keep this up, you should at least speak with Nelkaar." Ljaro insisted, after a long pause between them, "She met with your brother often in the weeks before his… accident. Her position in the Undaunted might open more doors for you with the Adventuring Hall. I may not have all the answers you want, but I do have this: Cynric has an open quest with the Hall. Or it was open, at least until a few months ago, before it was mysteriously closed."

"Skeggan…" Skaldan murmured, but looked up, thinking to ask, "What was it for?" The quest?"

However, before Skaldan could get his answer, there was a knock at the door.

"Ljaro? You in there?" A muffled voice said from beyond the door, "You're needed downstairs. King's asking after you."

"Uh—coming!" Ljaro replied straight away. He moved through the room quickly then, gathering a few things, before heading for the door. He stopped himself short however, and turned to look at Skaldan, handing him something with a frown, "Take this, and don't open it until you get home. Understand?"

Skaldan accepted the sealed parchment and nodded.

"Keep your head low and your wits about you, Your Highness." Ljaro said with a grim expression, "I fear His Majesty will not be able to recover from the loss of one son, much less two."

Without another word, the info broker departed, leaving Skaldan to trek his way back outside on his own.

In no time at all though, he had slunk back onto the alleyway that had taken him to the Knave in the first place. There was a much stranger feeling fluttering about his stomach this time, and he wondered about the parchment he'd been given, though begrudgingly he kept his word and decided to wait.

Skaldan sighed somewhat as he exited Rogue's Passage and broke onto more suitable, homely streets.

Maybe Ljaro was right.

Maybe Skaldan should have just forgotten about his mission—go back to being the second son and just try to be by his parents' side. They deserved to see him grieving with them. They deserved to see him… present. But then, they were grieving for what they'd lost, or perhaps for what they were about to lose.

Suddenly, Skaldan clenched his teeth and shook such a nonsensical idea from his head.

As far as he was concerned, losing simply wasn't an option.