Izzy's Kid
I was born in Cauldron, at least I think I was. Mom didn't like to talk about the past. I'm not sure if that's because it was unpleasant or because she didn't remember it, probably a little of both, I suspect. See, mom was a whore. Not the painted and perfumed kind you find at the red temple though, mom was an independent. Oh, she was pretty enough to be a red lady, but the priests didn't want her. I never understood why.
Instead she was forced to ply her trade in the Waterfront District. Often that meant taking on clients who's kinks even the Red Temple refused to satisfy, or who required more discretion than the Red Temple could provide. It was the latter from which she earned her reputation.
When I was born, my mom, in one of her many moments of poor judgment, named me "John". She often joked that I was named for my father. The joke got old long before she stopped repeating it. Fortunately, John is a common name and nobody but mom ever called me by it. Everyone else mostly just called me "Griff".
For those who have never visited Cauldron, the Waterfront District is not nearly as idyllic a setting as you might imagine. It sits perched along the edges of Blackpool Lake, a murky reservoir of the foulest water ever to find rest inside a city of man. It's a tepid, odious mix of steeped garbage, brimstone runoff, and greywater from the Bath District. I'm told it's used by the Vulcanist Guild to help manage the magma flows under Cauldron. (Some less reputable apothecaries also use it to manage ‘bowel flow’, but that’s not a story I care to repeat, ever.)
We had a small apartment in the attic of Earlobe's Tavern, an alehouse about a block from the water. It wasn't much; cramped and cold in the winter, but it had a warm stove and window where you could see the fog roll in from the lake at night. I remember spending many nights sitting at that window waiting for mom to come home. She often returned with bruises and other injuries and no memory of how she got them.
Mom's given name was Isabel Griffen, but almost everyone knew her as "Dizzy Izzy". It wasn't that she was particularly dumb, at least not when she was sober. The problem was those secretive clients I mentioned before, who insisted that mom take a lethe draught when she was with them, what the apothecaries call an "elixir of forgetting".
It probably wouldn't have been so bad if she'd only used them when she had to, but mom was an addict, and when she wasn't out of her head on lethe she was generally at least a little drunk. She spent most of her days innocently giggling her way between the Waterfront's bedrooms, backrooms, and alleys.
I didn’t have a lot of friends as a kid. Nobody wanted to play with Dizzy Izzy’s boy. I didn't really mind it much though. The city herself was the best friend I could have hoped for. She had parks and tunnels and other great places to explore. She had plenty of food if you knew where to steal it, and a wealth of nooks, alleys and rooftops to safely hide in when the big kids came looking for me.
I spent a lot of my time alone exploring the city and the tunnels beneath her. I used to catch rats in the underground to sell to old Dribber who sold meat pies, sausages, and “dribblin's’” in the market. It was kinda like a pig-in-a-poke scam; except it wasn't cause everyone knew his pies had rat in 'em.
Unlike me, mom had lots of "friends". One of them, a man named Cornelius Dodge, used to help her find clients. Most people around Waterfront, including mom, just called him the Dodger. He had a couple of heavies who worked for him and he used to send one of them with mom whenever she had one of her "special" clients to make sure she got paid… and that Dodger got his cut.
As a kid I knew him as "Uncle Dodger". He used to let me hang around with him in the Market. He said being with a kid lowered his profile. As I got older he taught me about confidence tricks; shell games, drop swindles, the pig-in-a-poke, pigeon drops, and half a dozen others. Under his tutelage I could do a perfect melon drop by the time I was eight and could run a pretty mean three-card game by the time I was ten.
John Grifter
Had things not changed, I suppose I might have gone on like that, playing Dodger’s partner and shill. However, when I was twelve, The Change came to Cauldron.
I’ve heard professors and pedants call it the “arcane quickening”, since it only effected arcane magics and not divine ones, but most folks just call it The Change. The effects in Cauldron were pretty minor compared to places like Khorinis, were I hear they had fire and brimstone and such. In Cauldron we a steam geyser that lasted for several days and a few people running crazy through the streets, but that was about it.
After The Change anyone who made the effort could learn to do magic. Of course the Dark Caste tried to keep that knowledge from us, but word leaked out anyway and before long witches, hedge wizards, and petty sorcerers started showing up in Cauldron. The ‘caste arrested them when they could find them, but whenever they took one down another seemed to pop up elsewhere to replace him. They were still struggling with the problem almost a year later when word reached Cauldron that Saint Salinius had slain the Dark King at Jacarepaguá. Everything changed in the city after that.
I hear they're calling Saint Sal a god or an avatar or some such nonsense now, but I can’t help still thinking of him as a saint. It's what they called him when word of his deed reached Cauldron. If the man thinks he can grift his way into godhood from there then I wish him luck. It'll be a cold day in the Stoval Shaft when you see me bowing to the golden god or his minions.
Not that I have anything against the Blue Temple or religion in general. Religion is a good con if you can stomach all the sanctimonious navel gazing, and the Blue Templars themselves are mostly decent folk; good bankers and lawyers, and their coin spends better than most. However, all their talk about numerology, divine accounting and the economy of god is more than a little cracked. I guess a bank preaching a religion of money is just a little too transparent for my taste.
When word of the Dark King's death reached Cauldron the dark caste was quick to take over. Cauldron is a valuable city and they had no intention of seeing it break away from the empire like Khorinis did. In the months that followed, the armies at Cauldron were reinforced by a variety of stragglers returning from the war to the north. Most returned singly or in small groups, their units having fallen apart or turned to banditry in the aftermath of the Dark King's death.
However, one company was different. Led by Captain Wil Blackwood, a career soldier, patriot and native son of Cauldron, the Cauldron First Company of Foot, known as The High Guards, returned triumphantly intact. Through discipline and determination they had held together as they pressed south through the winter, fighting bandits, beasts, and rogue 'caste along the way. The protection they brought was badly needed, and once the city leaders had determined they were not an invading army, they were greeted as heroes.
Six months later they demonstrated their valor again when a group of rogue soldiers, bandits and mercenaries infiltrated the city and tried to take over in a bloody coup. After several hours of fighting in the streets, Blackwood and his High Guards managed to put down the coup, but not before the infiltrators had slain the leaders of the current regime, including every member of the Dark Caste in the city.
In the weeks that followed, Blackwood’s men kept the peace while representatives from each district along with the heads of the most powerful families in Cauldron met to determine what to do. The result of all their deliberation was the government of a new, independent Cauldron, and at its head was a new leader, Wil Blackwood.
A war hero and a native son of Cauldron, he really was the perfect man for the job. Most people liked him and those that didn’t at least respected him. He was also a proven leader and military commander, something we would need if we intended to break away from the Empire as it appeared the new government intended to do.
There were of course those who said that Blackwood was behind the whole thing. Some folks swore they had seen Blackwood at the Rum and Rumble, drinking with the infiltrator leaders the night before coup. However, most people didn’t pay any attention to those disgruntled naysayers, at least not for long. That was partly my fault.
At the time I didn’t care whether Blackwood had stolen the leadership of Cauldron or not. I still don’t. The way I see it, if he’s got the stones and wits to pull off a scam of that scale, then he’s welcome to his royal chambers at the top of the Citadel. The last place you’ll see me is standing amongst his enemies, at least not openly. What I did see in the situation was an opportunity, one that I wasted no time in acting upon.
One of the things Dodger had taught me about over the years was what the ‘caste call “The Law of Contagion”. According to the law, if two things have been in close contact for a while they become magically “connected”, and if they become separated, a ‘caste can use one of them to find the other.
He said it was important to remember when I was stealing stuff. Coins and other money are generally safe since they move around between people so much, but jewelry and other personal items could be risky since if you’re caught with ‘em a ‘caste could use them to find the real owner and prove you stole it.
In the years since Dodger told me about it, I’d sometimes wondered if there was a way to make the law of contagion work for me. When Jimmy the Swift offered to sell me a handful of letters he’d snatched from the corpse of a fallen mercenary on the day of the coup, I saw my opportunity.
With the help of a scribe who wasn’t averse to the odd bit of forgery, I washed the writing off the old letters and used them to create “absolute proof” that Blackwood had orchestrated the coup on Cauldron, all written in code of course. Any ‘caste who tried to trace their owner would find that they belonged to one of the attackers from the coup.
When translated the letters were mostly just a hodge-podge of tavern songs and disparaging comments about the intelligence of anyone who would pay money for them. However, they were good enough to fool the conspiracy theorists who bought them and the drunken rogue ‘Caste they hired to inspect them.
The marks who bought the letters were foolish enough to go to the guard once they discovered the fraud. Once word got out that a thirteen-year-old boy had grifted them out of five hundred Sals nobody took them seriously anymore. When word reached Dodger he started calling me “John Grifter” and the name stuck. I didn’t mind though. John Griffin was just the son of a whore, but John Grifter was a confidence man in his own right.
After selling the letters and paying off the scribe I had enough money to pay the rent up for the next six months and still have some left over. Mom cut back to just a few regular customers and I was able to get her off the lethe and down to just a few drinks a day.
Johnny the Knife
The next winter, and the spring that followed were the best of my life. Mom was happy, genuinely happy, for the first time I could remember. After a few months away from the apothecary she even found a boyfriend and stopped taking customers altogether.
His name was James Locke. He wasn’t a young or handsome man but he adored my mom in spite of her shady past, and she doted on him. He was strong and lean, with graying hair and a rough face; evidence of a life hard lived. But underneath his granite exterior he was good man, and he seemed to know a little bit about everything. He also had enough money to pick up the slack when mine finally ran out.
James taught me wrestling and knife fighting that winter as we stayed indoors near the fire. He used to tell me that “a sword will get you kicked out of lots of places, but you can carry a knife almost anywhere”. James was a good teacher and I learned his lessons well. By the time spring and warm weather returned I was almost competent.
We celebrated my 14th birthday together in March. It’s the only time I can remember having an actual birthday party. Mom baked a cake and James bought me a knife. It was a clean, simple design. Perfectly balanced with an ebony handle, bronze fittings, and a blade made of the new “enhanced steel” by one of the best smithies in the Forge & Quarry District, it was not a prince’s showpiece, but the sturdy tool of a fighting man.
I should have known that our time with James was too good to last, but I was too caught up in my own happiness to think ahead. It all ended in the heat of the summer when a pair of bounty hunters came looking for “Jim” Locke. They had bribed all the right people to take him out of Cauldron and the city guards refused to intervene his behalf.
I followed the group as they led James, in irons, out through the Market Gate and into Gatehead. I had been shadowing people through Cauldron for almost as long as I could remember and wasn’t spotted. When they arrived in Gatehead I learned a bitter truth.
After looking around to see if they were followed, the group went to a nearby alehouse where they met with their informant, paid him a few coins, and then went on their way. I was so fixated on the face of the informant that I hardly noticed when they left. It turned out that “Uncle” Dodger had brought the bounty hunters to Cauldron.
I knew he had been bitter about it when mom stopped working, but I never dreamed that Dodger would go this far to get her back. Mom was heartbroken, of course, and Dodger wasted no time in swooping in to the rescue with a bottle of lethe and a list of clients.
I was furious. I thought about killing Dodger, but I lacked the courage to act on my anger. Without money or James to protect us we were at Dodger’s mercy. Before long mom was whoring full time again and I was running two bit scams in the towns around Cauldron. It was harder this time than it had been before though. Mom and I both had a taste of a better life and returning to our old routine was almost too bitter to swallow.
Mom drank constantly and it seemed that that no amount of lethe could erase the pain of James’s loss from her mind. Her clients began to notice and stopped seeking her out. Dodger noticed as well, and knowing that his profitable ride on mom’s petticoats was almost over, he started using her to run badger games against her old secretive clients.
Dodger had almost fourteen years worth of “goods” on various lords, merchants, wealthy citizens and government officials who had used mom’s dubious services. He just started at the top of the list and worked his way down. The victims were, of course, furious, and one of them, being unable to get to past Dodger’s thugs to the man himself, decided to take it out on mom. They found her the next day, beaten and bloodied, floating face down in the Blackpool.
It was that tragedy that finally gave me the courage to do what I knew needed to be done. With my knife tucked in my boot, I began hunting the Dodger. I shadowed him from the press of the streets during the day and stalked him from the rooftops and alleys at night, learning his routes and habits.
It was nearly two weeks later in Kingswood when I finally found my opportunity. He was on his way home after a late night in the Bath district. Dodger only had one bodyguard with him and, at the moment, he was twenty feet away on the other side of a hedge, distracted by a dropped coin purse, one of several I had planted earlier for just that purpose.
The kill was almost perfect. Waiting in the shadows of an enormous willow tree I looked like just another random shadow until the Dodger was in position. When the moment came I did exactly as James had taught me. Swiftly stepping up behind him, I applied the steady press of my knife tip to Dodger’s side until it slid between his ribs and penetrated his heart.
I didn’t announce my presence, or tell him I was there to avenge James or my mother or myself. All that was pointless, and would only add risk to the murder. I simply killed him, carefully, cleanly and efficiently. When his struggles were done I kicked some dirt over the splattered blood and drug his corpse a dozen yards to a nearby storm drain, his bodyguard still oblivious as he struggled with the coin purse I had left to occupy him.
I dumped Dodger’s body in a magma vent I knew about from years before when I spent my days hunting rats and exploring the tunnels beneath Cauldron. It was some relic from the Vulcanist Guild’s never ending efforts to manage the volcano beneath Cauldron. There was enough heat at its bottom to thoroughly destroy the corpse. I threw my own soiled clothing down the shaft as well and kept nothing from the corpse that could lead the guard to me, magically or otherwise.
It was several days before the guard came looking for Dodger. After all the trouble he’d caused with his badger scams I suspect there was money being offered from several quarters to sweep his disappearance under the rug. The one person who might have been able to shed some light on the investigation, The Dodger’s ineffective bodyguard, had left town shortly after the murder, probably to seek employment in a place where failed to protect his charge.
With mom and Dodger gone I was left entirely on my own. School had always been pretty optional for me, but I stopped going completely after the murder. The meager income I made from grifting wasn’t enough to keep up the rent on mom’s apartment let alone put food in my belly, so I started looking for other work.
The only problem was that I didn’t really have any marketable skills. Under James’s tutelage I had become pretty good with a knife, but I was too young to get work as a bodyguard and too small to work as an enforcer. After a few lean months of running odd jobs for various fixers, shysters and con men I wound up at the last resort of desperate folk in Cauldron, The Pit.
Most decent folk have never heard of The Pit, or if they have it’s only as myth and rumor. However the place is quite real. It’s a small fighting arena in the old dwarven tunnels under the Shades, the kind of place that always seems to crop up in towns that have money and no legal outlet for violence. It’s a place where the upper crust can mingle with the lower, experience the vicarious thrill of violence, and, of course, bet on the winners.
The pay can be pretty lucrative for an experienced fighter, but for someone like me who was young and unknown it was barely enough to pay the entrance fee and bribe to the shady priest who stood on call during the fights.
I took some pretty serious beatings during my first few months in The Pit. I almost died twice, once to a horrendous beating by Bill “The Mattock” Freeman, and once due to a bleeding knife wound because the priest who was supposed to heal me decided I hadn’t given him a big enough “tip” before the match. However, I learned quickly and got better. Nothing motivates a person like the fear of violent death, and within a few months I was winning more often than not and had earned a new name, “Johnny the Knife”.
With my new name and growing reputation came other benefits as well. The rich folks who came to The Pit would often hire known fighters for odd bodyguard and enforcement jobs, gambling that their reputation would make any troublemakers think twice. Some fighters would even receive gifts and sponsorships from wealthy patrons, although some of those benefactors wanted payment in… other services.
One of the my most generous supporters was Lady Shay Aida. An old cougar with old family money, Lady Aida had made extensive use of vanity restorations and magical alterations to preserve an appearance of youth. However, despite her efforts there were still nagging clues such as age spots and old people breath that exposed the truth behind the illusion.
She often asked me to escort her to balls, parties and other social engagements, and when money was tight, I occasionally took her up on her offers. However, despite her sometimes blatant propositions, I always remained distant and professional. She really hated that. I don't think she ever understood that my refusal to bed her wasn't due to her appearance but to my utter disgust at the idea of prostituting myself for her cash.
Shay wasn't the only sponsor I interested in me, and by the time a year had passed I was making more money than I ever had in my life. I wasn’t rich, but I wasn’t poor anymore either. Unfortunately I chose to squander most of my profits on drink and other foolish luxuries. However, there was a ready supply of work to replace the money I wasted and things were generally good.
Recruit Griffin
Had it not been for a second, life-changing event I might have gone on like indefinitely, eventually dying, retiring or joining the house guard of one of my benefactors. However, on the night of my sixteenth birthday, my youthful foolishness finally caught up with me.
I had spent the day in the Bath district with a few friends, Spider, Kali, and Mattock, who had become a fine friend despite the beating he had given me a year before. We had been enjoying the Baths and drinking overpriced liquor in a place called The Seven Selkie Club when the barkeep decided we had become too rowdy and called the guard to have us removed.
The guardsmen, when they arrived, were rude, condescending and seemed to be looking for a fight. Being young and drunk, I pulled my knife and gave them one. I don’t remember much of the actual fight but I keenly remember that when it was over one of the guards was looking at his own intestines spilled across the floor and the other was backpedaling for the door while furiously blowing his whistle to call for more guardsmen.
They kept me in the dungeons beneath the Citadel for nearly a month before they finally took me to trial. Lord Judge Porter, a stern man with a long track record of harsh punishment and public hangings, oversaw the trial. I had no real defense. There were dozens of witnesses. When the evidence was presented all that was left for me was to throw myself on the mercy of the court, assuming it had any.
Even if I live to be a hundred I will never forget the words that came out of old Porter’s mouth at the end of the trial.
“John Griffin, AKA John Grifter, AKA Johnny the Knife. This court finds you guilty of assaulting a guardsman and attempted murder. You have a history of petty criminal activity and disregard for the law and it is the opinion of this court that you are irredeemable. As such I am left with no choice but to sentence you to fifteen years hard labor. However, considering your youth and your willingness to accept the consequences of your actions by throwing yourself on the “mercy” of this admittedly merciless court, I will suspend your sentence on one condition: that you agree to put your considerable martial talents to work in the service of the Republic of Cauldron by enlisting in the Army for a period of ten years, the maximum allowable by law.”
As you probably guessed, I chose the enlistment.
When the trial was finished I overheard a good deal of discussion about why Judge Porter had been so uncharacteristically lenient with me. I don’t know for certain, but I can think of a couple of reasons. The first, obvious answer, and the one most people chose to believe is because there’s bad blood between his family and the family of Clayton Shaw, the guard whose guts I spilled across the floor of The Seven Selkie Club. The second is a far more personal reason, one I believe only he and I know. Judge Porter had been one of my mother’s “special” clients from the time I was a small boy. Perhaps he did it for her.
Being forced to enlist really wasn't as bad as it seemed at the time. Most young people spend a couple of years in the Army when they turn eighteen anyway. It’s one of the conditions of citizenship under Blackwood’s “civil service” law. I just got to start mine a couple years early… and had to stick around for an extra eight years. It sounded like an eternity at the time, but it was better than fifteen years of hard labor.
Unfortunately for young folks like me things weren't as fair as the new civil service law made them sound. Blackwood may have turned Cauldron into a Republic, but the old families of Cauldron still wield a lot of power in the city's old institutions, including the Army. What that meant was that the sons and daughters of “good' families got to cherry pick the best jobs and postings while undesirables like myself were relegated to the disposable ranks of the skirmishers, usually somewhere on the sharp end or else at the ass end of nowhere.
Life in the army was a big change from life on the streets of Cauldron. However, it didn't take me long to find the old familiar grifts, scams and power struggles hidden beneath its veneer of rigid discipline. In a way it was comforting to discover that people remained “human” even amid the rigors of military life.
At first the hardest part was just staying alive long enough to learn how to avoid getting killed. For the first two years of my enlistment I was posted in the Southern Marches where “Imp Raids” and “Monster Hunts” are a regular fact of life. Although I've always been a bit of a loner, it was only by learning to rely on my squad mates that I survived the raving hordes of Imperial loyalists and the wandering monsters that plagued our post.
There were five of us who came through the whole ordeal together from recruit training to the end of those first two years. There were others who came and went along the way, but the five of us were the only ones survived it together from start to finish. In addition to myself there were the Ratling brothers Budo and Skitch, both masters of dirty tricks and close combat; Hena, the skinny dwarf girl with smiling eyes and the grip of a blacksmith; Jobe, the farm boy who would have been an archer if he hadn't had the gall to tell the training sergeant that his sling was better than her bow and then had the audacity to prove it.
It was a novel experience having friends I could trust, and when it was over I was sad to part ways with them. However, after two years they had all finished their enlistments and earned their citizenship. We said our farewells and they left after that. Jobe, however, did leave me with his sling, something to keep me safe, he said. I still have it. Mostly I use it to tie my hair back out of my face, except when I'm using it to hurl bullets with bone-shattering force.
Shaw's Dog
By the end of two years I had earned veteran status and was allowed to request my next post. I asked for, and was granted, a transfer to Goebel Keep, an old fortress on the trade road between cauldron and Khorinis. I figured it would be easy duty and and good place to grift a few extra Sals. I didn't know it at the time, but It was probably the worst post I could have requested.
With the new post came a new commander, Captain Aric Shaw, the uncle of the guardsman I gutted in the Seven Selkie Club two years before. Shaw knew exactly who I was and wasted no time in making me as miserable as possible. Veterans are usually exempt from the worst duties of common soldiers such as cleaning dishes and digging latrines. However, I was the exception in Shaw's army.
Shaw had two of bodyguards, a burly thug named Keth and a weaselly old soldier named Josip that he had harass me when he was too busy to do it himself. They would take me out for “remedial training”, which usually meant running up and down a hill until I puked or carrying a heavy rock around until my arms didn't work. I was often flogged when I refused or failed too quickly at whatever task they gave me.
After about six month I knew I couldn't take much more of Shaw's abuse. I called in every favor and pulled every string I could to get out of his unit. I wrote letters to his superiors, bribed officials and blackmailed one lecherous old officer. Nothing seemed to work. I even went so far as to contact a Blue Temple Priest looking for a legal angle. Surprisingly, that was the only place I learned anything remotely helpful.
The priest I spoke with was a Cryptorian named Fester Payton. As a license judge he often traveled between villages and outposts resolving minor legal issues. After examining the particulars of my situation he explained to me that because of the sentence from my trial in Cauldron had been fulfilled the moment I signed the ten-year enlistment contract, and that all I needed to get out was a signed discharge paper from my commanding officer. Although it didn't seem likely that Shaw would willingly sign them for me, I had a set of formal discharge papers drawn up in the hope that I could trick or blackmail him into signing them.
Fortunately, my circumstances changed before I had to put any risky plans into action. Two weeks after I spoke with Justice Payton the Imps launched another campaign. This time down the Litz river to the east. Shaw and all his men were ordered to reinforce Khorinis against the Imperial advance. With the help of reinforcements, Khorinis held the Imps at bay for the better part of a year, and with a real war to fight, Shaw and his cronies were too busy to waste time hassling me.
We left Khorinis soon after the Imperial Army retreated south, but I didn't have to return Goebel Keep. It turned out that during the fighting, dozens, if not hundreds of Imps had slipped past Khorinis and into the Myrkwild northeast of cauldron where they were raiding villages and trade caravans. I, along with skirmisher detachments from several other companies spent the next six months hunting them down.
It was during this that time that I finally put myself into a position to resist some of Captain Shaw's abuses. It happened while we were hunting a group of raiders that had been capturing ships moving cargo up and down the Leuce River. A group of us, led by a lieutenant, had taken passage out of Highport with Elexa Bo and three of her family's boats. Elexa was a Batou, one of the boat gypsies who trade along the rivers around Inaria. The plan was to bait the raiders into attacking us by pretending to be a boat caravan and then take them out. The plan worked perfectly, except that the lieutenant and his second were killed in the first volley from the riverside.
Being the most experienced man left I took command and organized a counterattack. We tracked the raiders for three days through the backwoods and brambles of the Myrkwild before we finally caught up with them at their base camp. The fight that followed was swift and brutal, but my little band of skirmishers managed to kill or capture almost everyone in the camp
The camp we found turned out to be the main base for the raiding parties operating in northeast wilderness. By destroying it we had broken the back of the Imperial guerrillas in the area. Without consulting Captain Shaw, the commander in charge of the Myrkwild expedition recommended me for commendation and promotion, both of which were approved. By the time I finally returned to Shaw's command, several months later, I was a non-commissioned officer, and exempt from most of his petty abuses.
Left with little choice in the matter, Captain Shaw returned me to his skirmisher ranks where, as a corporal, I was given my own squad. For the first month or so my squad consisted of myself and two career veterans. The unit was short on recruits at the time and Shaw had decided to give me the short end of the stick. Of course, that didn't stop Shaw from expecting a full squad's worth of work out of us.
After six weeks of punishment, during which Shaw tried to make me screw up bad enough to yank my stripes, the unit finally got a batch of new recruits and I was given a full squad. The recruits were the usual bunch of misfits, lowlifes and street kids as well as a couple ratlings and a half-orc girl named Bala.
The few orc-human half breeds I've seen over the years have been pretty savage looking, but Bala was different. The best attributes of both races had been preserved in her; the smooth skin and refined features of a human combined with the sleek musculature and exotic ears of an orc. It wasn't long before I found myself quite attracted to her and it was apparent she felt the same way.
However, as an NCO, fraternization was out of the question so I buried my feelings and just did my job. Unfortunately, ignoring how I felt didn't do anything to stop people from talking and within a few months, rumors about Bala and I had spread. When the rumors reached the company commander, Captain Shaw, seeing a new way to hurt me, decided to transfer Bala out of the company entirely.
Bala and I heard about the transfer through the grapevine the night before it was to happen. Since we were being punished anyway we decided we might as well commit the crime. Together, we slipped away from Goebel Keep that night to a nearby lodge, where we committed every lewd act that we had been accused of plus a few more that the rumormongers hadn't thought of yet. The next day, Bala packed her kit and left for her new unit. I have not seen her since.
In the weeks and months that followed, I kept myself busy with my duties and training my new recruits. As a result, my new squad excelled, pleasing my superiors and infuriating Captain Shaw. Unwilling to stand by and let me succeed, Captain Aric Shaw once again intervened.
I had been back at Goebel Keep for just over six months when Shaw took away my squad and reassigned me to “special” duty. The duty was essentially that of a courier, carrying and retrieving messages from people all across Cauldron. The need for individual initiative justified Shaw in assigning a corporal, and, much to Shaw's satisfaction, the job was almost guaranteed to keep me away from the eyes of other officers who might notice any competence on my part.
I didn't mind the duty at first. I enjoyed the solitude and got to see a lot of new places. However, after a while, Shaw started giving me additional jobs; murdering an “Imp spy” here, burning the farm of an “Imp sympathizer” there. I generally try to limit my murdering to those who I think deserve it, so I didn't much care for the new duties being assigned to me. Still, Shaw was my commanding officer and it's not like haven't killed my share of folk, so I gritted my teeth and carried out my orders.
It took me nearly a year to figure out what it was that I was really doing It wasn't until Shaw ordered me to execute another Imp spy that I learned the truth. The “spy” turned out to be the poor sucker who had been doing my before Shaw assigned me “special' duty. In an effort to buy his life the man explained that the missions Shaw was assigning me weren't for the Cauldron Army. Instead he was using me as a courier and hitman for the Shaw family.
I still killed him of course. Not because Shaw ordered it, but because the man deserved it. In the course of interrogating him I learned that he had executed dozens of people, including women and children. That wasn't why I killed him though. I killed him because among those “dozens” he had killed was the family and person of Jobe Godwin, the farm boy whose sling I still keep tied in my hair.
Having learned the truth, there was now way I could keep working for Aric Shaw, Timing my journey back to Goebel Keep so that I would get there in the dead of night, I slipped past the sentries and up to Aric's rooms when I arrived. After covering the mirror and other reflective surfaces in his room, I woke the man with a knife to his throat. I told Aric what I knew, and then, through a mix of threats and blackmail, forced him to sign the discharge papers I'd had prepared several years ago, before the siege of Khorinis.
Shaw's bully boys, Josip and Keth tried to catch me after I slipped back out of the Keep but I managed to give them the slip. I had assaulted and blackmailed my commanding officer, but if Josip and Keth had caught me there would be no trial. They would have just killed me, quickly and quietly. Neither Shaw nor I could afford the things that might come to light in a trial.
Griff
After wandering around the countryside, avoiding Josip and Keth, I finally made my way back to Cauldron a few days ago. She has changed a lot in the time I've been away. Where I arrived in the Market District colorful banners decorated the walls and brilliant awnings shaded merchants whose carts overflowed with produce more lush, vibrant and delicious than any I have ever tasted. Streetlights, bearing the logo of Cauldron Mana & Light, illuminated her walks and byways. Street kids cast cantrips openly in the street, and Dwarves, Ratlings and even a few greenbacks moved freely among the crowded streets.
She was displeased with me when I left. I had spurned her love and care, foolishly attacking one of her protectors, a city guard, who was just doing his job. She punished me accordingly. However, I have payed for my betrayal, and I sense that my oldest friend, the city herself, is welcoming me back with open arms.
Clayton Shaw was on guard duty at the front gate when I arrived. He didn't seem to recognize me, but I recognized the knife on his belt. It was the same one I had spilled his guts with seven years before, the one James gave me on my 14th birthday. I think I will have to find a way to get it back...soon.
I spent most of my first day back trying to track down old friends and learn how things had changed since I left Cauldron. I kept my discharge papers with me in case anyone questioned my early discharge, but nobody seemed to pay much attention to me.
Many of the acquaintances I knew growing up are still around doing the same things, however, It seems that few of my genuine friends have remained. I found Bill “The Mattock” Freeman working for Lady Aida as the head of her huscarles. Shay was her usual sultry self and it was apparent from Bill's demeanor that if he was doing any “side” work for her the arrangement wasn't exclusive. I was as polite as possible while still making it clear that I wouldn't be crawling into her bed anytime soon.
Bill told me that Spider and Kali had moved on when The Pit went public and was overrun by wannabes and bored university students. He said that there were only a few of the old fighters around and most of them had moved on to other professions. It was nice to catch up with Bill, but he really didn't have any good news for me. He did indicated that Shay would probably let me live in the mansion for while if I needed a place to stay, but the idea of constantly fending off Shay's advances makes my skin crawl.
I suspect Budo, Skitch and Hena are living somewhere in the “Dwarven District”, a big section of the underground that has been “tamed” by the underground races. Somehow I suspect that “tamed” is a relative term. I spent a lot of time down in the tunnels as a kid, and the place has all manner of dangerous things living down in the deeper tunnels, some of which go on for miles. I've heard reliable reports of trolls, goblins and other monsters living down there. Ducky Fisher even swore to me once that there was a mermaid living in a sediment pool under the Bath District, but Ducky always was a little touched in the head.
Dwarves and Ratlings have never gotten along very well, and putting a bunch of them down there together with a few heavily muscled greenbacks sounds like a recipe for chaos. Bill told me they've tried to make it a “legal” District a couple times with a representative in the Council of Commons and everything, but every time they do the Ratlings and greenbacks start rioting because they don't want it to be called the “Dwarven” District.
The end of the day found me standing in front of a polished wooden door in an alley on the edge of the Market District near Waterfront. Attached to the wall next to the door was a flat, rusted metal box. not rusted in an old worn out way, but more in an “I'm too cool to notice rust” way. Cut into the face of the box in carefully careless script was a single back-lit word... “Dribbler's”. The area around the door was heady with the aroma of spiced meat and good ale, and when I stepped inside it was hard to reconcile the dapper looking proprietor before me with the old man on the Waterfront for whom I hunted rats as a small boy. Dribbler recognized me immediately, a huge grin creasing his wrinkled face.
We spent a good hour catching up, talking while he cooked as we had in the old days. It turns out that with the growth of the Dwarf, Ratling and Orc populations, Dribbler's reputation as the best (and only) rat chef in Cauldron resulted in a big upswing in business. He opened his own restaurant several years ago and things have only gotten better for him since then. His menu has changed a little, he serves vegetables with his meals now, but the core of his cuisine remains the same: free-range corn-fed rat and dribblin's.
Dribbler invited me to use the extra room upstairs for a while, an offer to which I readily agreed, and then excused himself while I finished my meal. The plate of spicy grilled rat, mushrooms and drippin's he had served me was good enough to make Sal himself weep with joy. As I ate, the only other human in the place came over and introduced herself. She had overheard my conversation with Dibbler and was thrilled to meet the “real” John Griffin.
Her name was Astrid, and aside from her outright cuteness, the most striking thing about her was that she had elf ears. According to Astrid a group of real elves had been discovered living in the Kingswood during the last year and there had been a big public dispute over land ownership, habitation rights and other legal issues. She, along with a bunch of other under-worked university students had gotten together and had their ears altered as a show of “elf solidarity”.
It was pretty clear that Astrid came from a family with money. She was a student at the university but she dropped out to peruse her interest in music, myth and folk tales. Now she scrapes by performing for tips at taverns and clubs around Cauldron. It seems that in my absence the adventures of my youth have grown in the telling. Astrid knows half-a-dozen bar songs of which I am the primary character, and several more in which I am mentioned. She sang a few of the more popular ones for me, and while she had a nice voice, the stories told in most of the songs were bore little resemblance to reality.
I can't imagine what circumstances must have conspired for Astrid to have been there in Dibbler's place on the very night of my return. It seems beyond belief that such a beautiful, worshipful, and willing girl would just happen to be there when I arrived. However, it happened, and I'm not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. I think I prefer to think of it as a “welcome home” gift from Cauldron herself.
Day 1
I've been up most of the night writing this now. There is much written here that I have never told anyone, nor do I intend to start now. I began writing last night in annoyance at all the falsehoods and exaggerations that seem to surround the story of my life. However, now that's I've written it, it's clear to me that nobody should ever read the accounts and confessions in this journal until I am dead and beyond consequence. Still, it seems to me that it would be good to leave a true account behind when I pass from this life. Maybe I will continue writing here from time to time... just to set the record straight after the reaper comes calling.
I'm not really sure what I will do with my life from here out. I never finished grammar school, so the University is out. I have too many enemies in the Guard to ever find work there. I'm several years behind on taking an apprenticeship and I don't know anyone to get me into one anyway. The only people I do know are thugs, shills and confidence men, and if I'm caught doing any of that again I'll probably be sent straight to Asher Quarry or back to the dungeons beneath the citadel. I think maybe I'll just relax for a while and see what turns up.
Cast of (Living) NPCs
James Locke – A mercenary and father figure to Griff, James Locke was last seen being escorted out of Gatehead by several bounty hunters.
Bill “The Mattock” Freeman – A former Pit fighter known for his tendency to use a digging mattock in his fights. He is now employed by Lady Shay Aida as a full time bodyguard and sergeant of her huscarles.
Spider & Kali – A pair of former Pit fighters who left Cauldron when the The Pit went public.
Lady Shay Aida – A wealthy “noble” with a fondness for young men. Lady Aida is well into her sixth decade of life but maintains an appearance of youth through liberal use of restoration and alteration magic.
Lord Judge Porter – A politically connected nobleman and appointed judge with a reputation for harsh penalties against criminals. He is the current head of the Porter family which has a long running feud with the Shaw family.
Budo and Skitch – A pair of Ratling brothers with whom Griff served in the Southern Marches. They are currently living somewhere in the Cauldron underground.
Hena – A dwarf girl with whom Griff served in the Souther Marches. She is unusally skinny for a dwarf giving her a somewhat “childlike” appearance to most humans.
Aric Shaw – A captain in the Cauldron Army and on of the leaders of the Shaw family. Aric is engaged in numerous illegal activities presumably intended to build his family's power base in Cauldron. He hates Griff and will take any reasonable measures against him so long as they don't put him at risk of discovery.
Josip & Keth – Thugs in service to Aric Shaw. Josip is older with a “weaselly” demeanor, Keth is young and burly.
Fester Payton – A Blue Temple Cryptorian serving as a traveling judge for the Cauldron.
Elexa Bo – Owner and captain of several shallow draft river boats that trade along the Leuce, the Litz and the Lumba. Elexa is one of the Batou, a band of wandering boat gypsies who trade along the rivers around Inaria. They have historically been unwelcome in Imperial lands, but have experienced a resurgence since the fall of the Dark King.
Bala – A female half-orc that Griff met while serving in the army. She is the only signifigant love interest in Griff's life to date. Her current whereabouts are unknown.
Dribbler – Currently the owner/operator of a restaurant in Cauldron that specializes in “underground cuisine”. Dribbler has known Griff since he was an small child and is probably the closest thing Griff has to “family”.
Astrid – An eccentric rich girl with a obsessive fondness for music myth and folklore. She appears to be interested in Griff.
Locations
Earlobe's Tavern – (Note: A chunk of this section was adapted from Eric Flint's The Philosophical Strangler. Good stuff.) One of the seediest bars in all of Cauldron, Earlobe's is less than a block from the Blackpool in Waterfront. Any Cauldron low-life worth his salt is familiar with the place. The bar at Earlobe's is regarded by some as one of the seven wonders of Cauldron. It runs the length of one side of the taproom, and has a history as shrouded in myth as the building itself. From the door you can't really see the end of it, on account of the smoke and gloom. It just fades out like any good religious mystery.
The bar at Earlobe's is composed of four or five sections, depending on who you ask. The first fifteen feet are known as The Old Bar. Built on a pair of upturned watering troughs, The Old Bar is reserved by right and tradition for the oldest patrons of Earlobe's. The next section is “Anselm's Cursed Yard”. Nobody ever sits there If you don't know who Anseslm is, well, there's some things you just don't talk about. After the cursed yard is “The Blessed Planks”. The oak slabs which make up most of the bar are missing here, having been replaced sometime in the dawn of history with planks of cheap pine. Miraculously, as the years wore on, the pine lasted, pristine and perfect. Given the nature of Earlobe's this is an obvious miracle, and many patrons believe that a mug of ale served up on the Blessed Planks is better than any served elsewhere. Beyond “The Blessed Planks” is a final stretch known simply as “The New Bar”. New being a relative term.
In recent years, many Earlobe's patrons have added a new designation to the first six feed of The New Bar. It is now called “Johnny Griffs”, or more formally, “The Stretch where John Griffin was Probably Conceived”, or among the more pessimistic, “Izzy's Folly”.
The Stoval Shaft – This is generally thought to be the deepest, hottest vent shaft under Cauldron. It is analogous to hell for many Cauldroners. Whether or not this is true is open to debate. The Vulcanist guild isn't talking.
The Pit – Once a secret gladiatorial arena under Cauldron, The Pit is now a public fighting arena regulated by local laws. It remains a popular destination for many, but attending a match at The Pit is now more akin to attending a boxing match than a real fight. Weapons must be blunt or dulled, and while injuries still happen regularly, official white temple priests are on hand to prevent death.
The Southern Marches – The region south of Cauldron that borders on wilderness and Imperial controlled lands.
Khorinis – An independent city east of Cauldron. Khorinis is perched on a large hill overlooking the Litz River and is one of the best places to control the flow of traffic moving down that river.
Goebel Keep – An old keep that sits on the trade road between Cauldron and Khorinis. Once known as an “easy duty” post in the Cauldron Army, it's importance has grown in recent years as relations between Cauldron and Khorinis have deteriorated.
The Myrkwild – An untamed area of wilderness north of Cauldron with a reputation for swallowing up unguarded travelers and caravans.
Asher Quarry – A state owned stone quarry used as a hard labor penal camp for convicted criminals in Cauldron.
The Litz, the Leuce and the Lumba – The three main trade rivers in the region around Cauldron. They are analogous to the Cowlitz, the Lewis and the Columbia rivers in modern times.