Vexumin
Whiskered Wizard
The city of Katon. Home of pride and passion.
A city of dreams lorded over by the aristocracy. The nobles of Katon are benevolent individuals, spurring the people into pursuing their goals in life with a preference for sponsoring the creative minds that call the place home. Artists, performers, researchers, thinkers, dreamers! Any and all are welcome if they have something to provide the city.
At least, that is how it appears upon the surface.
It is true that Katon is the sanctuary of the creative, but just what about the lesser folk? The downtrodden and hopeless? Well, there is indeed a place for them here. While the nobles play at being gracious leaders quick to reward the citizenry, this could not be further from the truth. Many were cruel behind the masks that they made for themselves, tending to indulge themselves and their unsavory desires at the cost of the forgotten masses within Katon’s slums.
Katon is more than a paradise, it is a cesspool of crime and debauchery controlled by the noble factions living lavishly in the marble towers and spires atop the city. They rule this place with an iron fist, sparing no pain from those that would cross them or their will. Through fear they reign and make a profit. Through suffering do they keep their subjects in line and obedient.
However, just how long could this last before someone finally said “enough”? Not long at all in truth. There are those that are discontent with the status quo and yearn for a change.
Gummy Worm
“Good Harper, good Harper, play not your song.
For any that hear it will not be here long.
The children are sleeping, they lie in their beds.
The wicked are screaming, their minds full of dread.
Good Harper comes stalking, hear not his tune.
Just like those that hear it, you’ll be gone too.”
The horrid nursery rhyme was sung by a woman along one side of a darkened road. She sat upon the stone in rags, holding aloft a wooden bowl with withered old hands. She was singing for coin and already managed to earn a few coins for her efforts. The moonlight reflects off their metallic surfaces as they sit in the bowl. They catch the eye in a way, but one could tell that the old woman had a wary eye on her earnings. Some folk have likely tried to pull a fast one on her before and snatch up her food money when she wasn’t expecting it.
Little did they know she was ready for a thief to try something. One of her fingers lightly grazes the hilt of a rusty dagger hidden beneath some dirty old blankets.
Her song did not end up going unheard. From the shadows a man emerged, his footsteps soundless as he glides across the shadowed cobblestones underfoot. He did not appear all that strange. He was dressed in a poet‘s shirt, form fitting cloth trousers and some simple leathers shoes. The man seems to be a dark elf of sorts, though his skin is a bit on the lighter side compared to his kin. Perhaps he is sick? It was difficult to tell. His face is slender and rather handsome. His long, silver hair is tied back.
The man smiles as he looks at the older woman. A hand extends forward and drops a coin into her bowl. Once the coin clinks down and settles, the wary older woman withdrew her bowl a bit.
“Thank you very much, kind sir,” she says with a feigned smile.
The elvish man simply returned the smile, although his was seemingly far more genuine.
“Think nothing of it, madame. Thank you for the song. It has been such a long time since I heard that nursery rhyme.“
”Mmh, yes. Folk seem to forget that Good Harper is still out there. All these thugs appearing, forgetting fear they ought to keep in mind. If they forget so soon, Good Harper might get them too.”
The elf chuckles lightly before he fetches another coin from his pouch, rubs his thumb over its lustrous surface and tosses it into the womans bowl. With that, he returns to his stroll.
Harper smiles as he once again slips into the shadows. It has indeed been such a long time since he heard anyone openly sing his song. It was a subject of fear once upon a time, but these days people think him to be an old wives tale. A fake. Perhaps fathers and mothers still use his name to put fear into their children and keep the little tykes from slipping out at night. The only thing that Harper didn’t quite appreciate was that the song made him out to be some manner of mass murderer. He does not kill on a whim, you see, for he is a assassin.
Harper took pride in his profession, but recently it has been tainted. He was no longer a freelancing killer with the goal of accepting jobs targeting more vile marks. At the moment he is a pawn of the nobility. He bends to their beck and call, killing who they wish without question. He has long grown tired of it all. He wanted to be free. Certainly there had to be others out there that agreed with his sentiment.
Other cities adopt guilds when they wish to form an organization of likeminded individuals that share a similar career. What kind of guild would suit a contract killer? Harper was familiar with thief guilds. Perhaps assassination could also fall under such a term? It was worth a serious thought. Whatever the case, the time was coming to break free from his gilded shackles.
A city of dreams lorded over by the aristocracy. The nobles of Katon are benevolent individuals, spurring the people into pursuing their goals in life with a preference for sponsoring the creative minds that call the place home. Artists, performers, researchers, thinkers, dreamers! Any and all are welcome if they have something to provide the city.
At least, that is how it appears upon the surface.
It is true that Katon is the sanctuary of the creative, but just what about the lesser folk? The downtrodden and hopeless? Well, there is indeed a place for them here. While the nobles play at being gracious leaders quick to reward the citizenry, this could not be further from the truth. Many were cruel behind the masks that they made for themselves, tending to indulge themselves and their unsavory desires at the cost of the forgotten masses within Katon’s slums.
Katon is more than a paradise, it is a cesspool of crime and debauchery controlled by the noble factions living lavishly in the marble towers and spires atop the city. They rule this place with an iron fist, sparing no pain from those that would cross them or their will. Through fear they reign and make a profit. Through suffering do they keep their subjects in line and obedient.
However, just how long could this last before someone finally said “enough”? Not long at all in truth. There are those that are discontent with the status quo and yearn for a change.
Gummy Worm
“Good Harper, good Harper, play not your song.
For any that hear it will not be here long.
The children are sleeping, they lie in their beds.
The wicked are screaming, their minds full of dread.
Good Harper comes stalking, hear not his tune.
Just like those that hear it, you’ll be gone too.”
The horrid nursery rhyme was sung by a woman along one side of a darkened road. She sat upon the stone in rags, holding aloft a wooden bowl with withered old hands. She was singing for coin and already managed to earn a few coins for her efforts. The moonlight reflects off their metallic surfaces as they sit in the bowl. They catch the eye in a way, but one could tell that the old woman had a wary eye on her earnings. Some folk have likely tried to pull a fast one on her before and snatch up her food money when she wasn’t expecting it.
Little did they know she was ready for a thief to try something. One of her fingers lightly grazes the hilt of a rusty dagger hidden beneath some dirty old blankets.
Her song did not end up going unheard. From the shadows a man emerged, his footsteps soundless as he glides across the shadowed cobblestones underfoot. He did not appear all that strange. He was dressed in a poet‘s shirt, form fitting cloth trousers and some simple leathers shoes. The man seems to be a dark elf of sorts, though his skin is a bit on the lighter side compared to his kin. Perhaps he is sick? It was difficult to tell. His face is slender and rather handsome. His long, silver hair is tied back.
The man smiles as he looks at the older woman. A hand extends forward and drops a coin into her bowl. Once the coin clinks down and settles, the wary older woman withdrew her bowl a bit.
“Thank you very much, kind sir,” she says with a feigned smile.
The elvish man simply returned the smile, although his was seemingly far more genuine.
“Think nothing of it, madame. Thank you for the song. It has been such a long time since I heard that nursery rhyme.“
”Mmh, yes. Folk seem to forget that Good Harper is still out there. All these thugs appearing, forgetting fear they ought to keep in mind. If they forget so soon, Good Harper might get them too.”
The elf chuckles lightly before he fetches another coin from his pouch, rubs his thumb over its lustrous surface and tosses it into the womans bowl. With that, he returns to his stroll.
Harper smiles as he once again slips into the shadows. It has indeed been such a long time since he heard anyone openly sing his song. It was a subject of fear once upon a time, but these days people think him to be an old wives tale. A fake. Perhaps fathers and mothers still use his name to put fear into their children and keep the little tykes from slipping out at night. The only thing that Harper didn’t quite appreciate was that the song made him out to be some manner of mass murderer. He does not kill on a whim, you see, for he is a assassin.
Harper took pride in his profession, but recently it has been tainted. He was no longer a freelancing killer with the goal of accepting jobs targeting more vile marks. At the moment he is a pawn of the nobility. He bends to their beck and call, killing who they wish without question. He has long grown tired of it all. He wanted to be free. Certainly there had to be others out there that agreed with his sentiment.
Other cities adopt guilds when they wish to form an organization of likeminded individuals that share a similar career. What kind of guild would suit a contract killer? Harper was familiar with thief guilds. Perhaps assassination could also fall under such a term? It was worth a serious thought. Whatever the case, the time was coming to break free from his gilded shackles.
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