A View of the World

Captain Tarbiter had survived the Thirteen Gales of the Southpoint Seas, a claim he loved to boast about to anyone within earshot and beyond, whether or not they had already heard it a hundred times before.  In truth, it was a claim worth boasting of, for the Thirteen Gales had devastated many of the Sea’s islands and very nearly destroyed the port city of Stonebeach, something hordes of pirates and foreign invaders had never come close to accomplishing.  The specifics of his survival seemed to change according to the listener: to strangers, he was a courageous seadog who had safely guided his ship, the Gertrude, through all thirteen of the Gales and back to harbor, but to those who knew him, the tale most revolved around him courageously fortifying the port ahead of the seventh and deadliest Gale.  Residents had long since given up trying to corner him on one version or another, because he was an exceedingly loud and annoying man, and the stench emanating from his thick, crumb coated beard had enough bite on its own to match his impressive bark.

Needless to say, Tarbiter didn’t have many friends, nor did he have many lovers, who were generally put off by his stench and his reckless disregard for personal maintenance.  He preferred to blame their aversion to him on “peg leg prejudice,” though even a cursory glance at his tavern of choice would prove him wrong; if anything, the ladies of the evening were particularly kind to the “woodenly abled” as they preferred to be called.  Tarbiter’s nights, therefore, were primarily filled with the persistent badgering of newcomers, many of whom were neither polite nor strong-willed enough to put up with him and his companion funk.

However, every now and then, a kind soul would entertain Tarbiter’s many stories for an hour or two.  Tarbiter lived for those nights, and he thought he had struck gold when a strange hooded figure sauntered into the tavern late one night, requesting little more than a weak cider and a corner table at which to entertain locals.  The barkeep was immediately put off by the visitor’s dark demeanor and thin rasp of a voice, but Tarbiter was hooked the moment he heard the word “entertain,” and immediately offered up his services.

“I’ve got some stories to tell you, I have,” he barked, shoving himself in between the raspy man and the barkeep.  “Survived the Thirteen Gales, I did.”

“The Thirteen Gales?” the figure asked in his strange whisper.  “Pray tell, what were those?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, I will.  Come on, let’s pull up a chair.”

Tarbiter gave the barkeep a smug smile and ushered his new friend over to a table.  He put his hand on the stranger’s back to guide him and nearly recoiled as his touch was met with a thin, bony frame lurking underneath the dark cloak.

“By Umbree, old man, you’re skin and bone!” he exclaimed.  “You should get yourself a stew, you should.  It’s shit, but at least it’s thick.”

“No need, I assure you,” came the whisper.  “I am nursing myself back to health, slowly but surely.  Thank you for your kindness.”

Tarbiter decided not to push the matter and instead pulled a chair out for the thin creature, who sat and nodded his head in thanks.  Tarbiter then swaggered all of one step over to his own chair and sat down, ready to launch into his rollicking tale as soon as his posterior hit the wood.  It was only when he sat down that he finally got a look at his companion’s face, or what he could make of it, which was enough to give him pause.  He could only really see hints of muddied red by the jaw and perhaps the outline of a long, thin nose with a pronounced tip.  He also noticed the peculiar shape of the hood: it seemed to have odd lumps in it, as if it were hiding something underneath.  It was then he realized what he was dealing with.

“Hope you don’t mind me saying,” he began conspiratorially.  “But we don’t get many of your kind around here, even in this place.  A few stick around but most of them pass through quick, they do.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the figure said, raising his glass with a gloved hand and taking a sip.  “Many of ‘my kind’ prefer to keep to themselves anyway.  Bad reputation and all.”

“I’ve no intention of judging you, I don’t,” Tarbiter said with a half chuckle.  “I just thought it worth mentioning.  What brings you here?”

“I thought you were the one doing the talking.”

“Well…”

“Tell me about these Thirteen Gales.  This sea.  These lands.  Tell me everything.  I’ve been gone a long, long time.”

Tarbiter was taken aback.  He had never actually been asked to talk about anything, not even his famous story.  He was so baffled by the request that he simply stared at the mysterious Tiefling with his mouth agape. 

“Let me get you started,” the figure said.

Tarbiter watched as he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a scroll, which he gently unrolled to reveal a map of the known world.

“Tell me,” he began, “what’s going on here?”

He traced a large area in the West with the tip of his finger.

“What’s going on there?  Well, um…how long have you been gone?”

“Almost one hundred and fifty years.”

Tarbiter stared, unsure what the intelligent, or even polite, thing to do was.

“That’s…a long time,” he stammered, pleased to have said anything at all.

“Yes, it is,” the figure whispered, harsher this time.  “I have a lot to catch up on.  Tell me what is going on in these places.”

Not for the first time, Tarbiter began to wonder if it wouldn’t be best to see himself out of a tricky situation and live to talk another day.  Not only was the task of explaining all that was going on quite a monumental one, but his new friend, if one could call him that, was starting to make him rather uneasy.  As if sensing that, the figure retreated his hand into his cloak once again and produced five shiny gold coins, the likes of which Tarbiter had never seen before.

“If it’s money you want, I’ve got it,” said the Tiefling.

Tarbiter briefly eyed the gold and came to the realization that he didn’t have anything better to do that night than to earn some money giving history and geography lessons to a complete stranger in a tavern.  So he cleared his throat, took a swig of his salty mead, and set off.

He explained to the Tiefling that the West had descended into chaos after the so-called Great Schism and that the great cities of Laurynvale, Shallow City, and Neverwinter, among others, had fallen into disarray.  Laurynvale and Neverwinter were sectioned off and ruled by assorted crime syndicates and loose associations of nobles whose ancestors had long since been dethroned.  The other towns and small kingdoms around them had been burned to the ground or turned into havens for thugs, traveling merchants, and refugees.  Shallow City, meanwhile, was now a stronghold of the Orcs, who had constructed themselves an impressive navy to go with their already formidable ground force.  The Halfling shire of Littlemoor had been overrun and converted into a slave colony where the Halflings were put to work making trinkets, clothes, and other wares for humans to sell.  The Dwarf clans of the north were locked in another long grudge war, yet no one dared take advantage of their distraction to make a grab of their precious mines lest they be dragged into the conflict and bashed into smithereens. 

The East, of course, had escaped much of this mayhem and was relatively calm.  Large, relatively young kingdoms like Drogsheim, Wanderbelt, and Blackplane were stable but brutal dominions over the vast planes and wastelands that spread over the center of the continent.  Most of their goods came through trade with the Punjabar and Soa-Teran peoples of the Far East, primarily through the Spice Aisle, a large swath of land that extended from Stonebeach to Bright Mountain.  The Spice Aisle was practically a nation unto itself, a place where commerce reigned and people of all shapes, sizes, colors, faiths, and dispositions could mingle.  It was a dangerous place, though, especially for a thief or a fool, neither of which were tolerated, particularly by the Overlords, who looked after their stores as greedily as dragons.

Tarbiter mentioned dragons offhandedly, but it seemed to pique the Tiefling’s interest.

“What of the dragons?” he asked, shifting ever so slightly closer.

“Well this island here,” he said, tapping at a large mass of land to the south and east of them, “is teeming with Dragonborn.  Nasty creatures, they are.  Just like Dwarves – always fighting among themselves, every clan for their own.  They’ve been antsy every since the dragons started to stake their claim to lands in the West.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.  Rumor has it – and this is only a rumor because no one’s foolhardy enough to get too close – rumor has it there’s a nest of dragons who have taken up in the old city of the Elves that was destroyed.  They say the dragons are the ones that really rule the West.  They’re quiet for a now, they are, but there was a time when they would ravage anything in sight looking for even the slightest speck of gold.”

“The gods are gone and the dragons play,” the figure mused softly.

“So some people say.  Never put much stock in the gods meself, no sire.  Big waste of time praying to a bunch of jumped up giants who are no better than the rest of us.”

“I would have to agree with you on that,” the figure whispered with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.  “Tell me, do you make trips to the Dragonborn island?”

“To Dragon Isle?  Never.  Few do, very few do.  The Dragonborn are angry types, they are.  Very difficult to deal with.”

“What might persuade you to take me for a visit?”

“What do you want to do with them?  They won’t like Tieflings, they won’t, you can be sure of that.”

“I think I can persuade some of them to like me.  I’ve persuaded you.”

With that, he reached back into his cloak and produced yet more gold for Tarbiter to stare at.  Tarbiter obliged, his mouth salivating as his eyes traced the glinting edge of each coin.

“It would make for some lovely stories to tell, don’t you think?” the figure whispered seductively.

“You can say that again,” Tarbiter whispered back, his mind made up and his fingers trembling with ecstasy.  “I can rustle up a crew and be ready in a few days, I can.”

“Promise them gold and have them ready by morning,” the Tiefling countered.  “I am in a bit of a rush.”

“Consider it done, mister…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Forget the name.  Part of the pay is for discretion.”

“Oh…I see.  I’ll just get to work then…”

Tarbiter, thrilled to be working on a job that was both profitable and mysterious, got up to go about his business, but was stopped when the figure’s thin but strong hand reached out and grabbed his forearm.

“I do mean discretion,” he whispered with a trace of menace.  “No one needs to know I’m here.  Not even your crew.”

“But it’ll be hard to keep you hidden on a boat for that long…” Tarbiter ventured delicately.

“I have ways.  Just keep quiet.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The figure released Tarbiter and went back to his cider.  Tarbiter turned and scuttled off, a chill running up his spine.  When he turned to make sure his new employer could see him hurrying, he found that their table was now empty, save for the flagon of cider.  There was no sign of a rushed departure, and the crowd that was chatting and milling about seemed entirely nonplussed.  Tarbiter scratched his head in confusion and wondered if he should have gotten his gold first.

“What’s that, Tarbiter?” the barkeep chuckled huskily.  “You scare another one away.”

The barkeep’s mockery emboldened Tarbiter and he set off once again for the door.

“Up yours, Muckley, I’ve got work to do.”

And with that he burst out into the night to rustle up a crew, quite uncertain about what he had signed up for but determined to see it through regardless.