Iconic Bard: Tog'gin

by Frank Gori

Tog’gin

The Mage was waving his hands and speaking some nonsense when Tog’s thunderstone bolas hit him. They swiftly entangled his arms and clapped together in a percussive sound that in all likelihood left the ears of Tog’s target ringing. The quad of brute squad bruisers that accompanied the two hired Mage’s Guild security specialists ran in Tog’s general direction. They managed to trip on the well placed wire and set off the smokesticks and land in the caltrops that the Krishtog had scattered a few minutes ago in stealth.

Tog murmured a few choice phrases and gestured with his palm towards his foes and gently blew over them. Glittering motes of irradiance fanned out and stuck true to the brutes that dared pursue him. Another gesture commanded the small air elementals he had summoned to attack his enemy caster. Tog had about a dozen more loud and flashy tricks to draw out all the security for the warehouse and the local watch after him. He had set traps and hired a few locals to do seemingly simple tasks that would confound and draw attention away.

Tog loved nothing more than the thrill of a crowd, or in this case a blood thirsty mob. He is leaping, climbing, swinging, gliding, and swimming and tonight would, with any luck, test all his abilities and skills. He’d prove himself worthy of his own crew and score a nice cut of tonight’s take, it made him feel like singing.

On the surface the Music Guild is about entertainment: to those in the know it’s a den of spies and thieves. The truth is less delineated than all that, some like to be both performer and thief, taking in the admiration of the crowds by day and robbing them in their sleep.

Tog’gin grew up in the anarchy of the Krishtogalog like most Krishtogs. He had a natural gift of song that was hopelessly average in his community and considered a fine and rare gift anywhere else. Unlike most Krishtogs Tog craved both a sense of structure and the thrill of being the center of attention. He was lucky to be noticed by a Music Guild talent scout.

Now Tog’gin has the honor of being one of the opening acts for Jax, and he’s well on his way to earning the right to run a crew in the evening. Leading a double life is easy when to the outsider all Krishtog pretty much look alike.

Tog’gin is a bit of an adrenalin junkie and seems to like to take big risks, trusting his planning and varied skills to get him out of tight spots. The few times that hasn’t worked magic and the natural charms of being a bard have.

On one hand the guild sees Tog’gin as a liability having a public face and taking such risks can only be effective for so long. On the other hand Tog’gin has repeatedly brought in highly profitable scores and earned a reputation among his peers as being a shrewd and wily planner.

Recently Tog has begun opening for Jax, some say it’s because Jax’s advisor wants a closer look at the up and comer. Others have speculated that Jax might be fostering some professional jealousy from the diva like bard.

The Winding Road: Honeypot

by Frank Gori

Ballany paused in front of a conjured mirror for a moment. She was still adjusting to being a brunette. Men sometimes missed noticing her as a brunette which was never a problem as a blonde. Her normal high quality cosmetics wouldn’t do tonight so she simply applied a very inexpensive khol and some cheap red lipwax.

The shirt Bellany wore was a slightly too small men’s button up strategically buttoned and torn. The belt she wore above her wrinkled and somewhat worn skirt was about two weeks from being retired. If the brutes even bothered to consider things, she’d look the part of a pretty half elf girl out of work who was about to wash out of the Workman’s Guild because she hadn’t paid her dues in nearly a year. That kind of girl turned to tricks commonly enough.

The tavern she picked was close to the jailhouse and had a few rooms for rent upstairs. Today three of the dozen or so human guards came into some lucky money. Malleck proved to be talented at disguise work and shockingly adept at the sleight of hand needed to properly deck stack. A hummingbird would be hard pressed to catch the caravanner’s work!

It was roughly a five minute walk to the tavern from the jailhouse. B- Shift ended about five minutes ago. Meaning one of her three possible targets was extremely likely to walk into the bar soon with a pocket full of easy coin and hopefully a taste for brunettes.

Being half elf always added a little spice to this routine. Some men just wanted to hurt anyone with elf blood even if she was born long after the empire crumbled. For other men it was a turn on, they had a fascination with the idea of melting a heart made of ice, or they got turned on by pointed ears. Whatever it was she could always see a perverted gleam in the eyes of that sort.

Bellany was no stranger to the honeypot routine. Being with Jax earned her no special privileges when it came to using all her assets to complete an assignment. She was an excellent actress and she had a pretty enough face to bolster or tone down. Without any of her arts she was the type of girl next door pretty that men convinced themselves they had a chance with regardless of their looks.

Tonight Ballany’s sob story would put bad men in the mind of how they could take advantage of her and good men in the mind of how they could rescue her. Either way one of her targets would end up in her room and in a compromised position. Men were men inside no matter if they packaged themselves as kind or cruel.

Bellany was intimately aware of dozens of way to incapacitate or kill without arms or magic, not that she was ever without either. Unlike some of her peers, Bellany took no pleasure from taking lives. She enjoyed challenging assignments but not the act of killing in and of itself. Her mentor Pesh took pains to avoid killing the same way twice. He felt each death should be unique and to repeat the same circumstances would be disrespectful to the victim. She knew others that killed with a signature so that each death would add to their reputation.

When Bellany killed she did so in the fastest most effective way available. She chose detachment: a job called for dancing death or it did not. Her victims died quickly, and mostly without pain. Death was business.

It was Jax who decided to go and mix business with pleasure. The thought of what she had to do almost brought a tear to her eye but she shoved that thought deep down to her torn insides where it belonged. If she had any doubts about allowing Jax’s seed to take further root he quashed those doubts by setting her up to get killed. Such thoughts were… unprofessional at the moment.

Two of her three possible marks arrived together with a third guardsmen, a thickly muscled ogre.  It took all of Bellany’s art to sway her hips as inexpertly a she did while she approached the trio. The humans smiled: the ogre didn’t. Her human marks had already ordered strong drinks the ogre just a light beer. Her assessment the ogre was on duty.

At the last moment Bellany changed course and fluttered her eyelashes at a half orc mason instead. From the corner of her eye she saw the two human’s body language shift. Playing hard to get was the right play since the boys apparently had a chaperone. For once the Workman’s Guild was being competent. Sending an extra guard to make sure the off duty guys didn’t lose their heads at a bar was a smart move.

“Well what can I do for you little lady” said the half orc with a gruff voice.

Well aware she was dressed like a cheap harlot, Bellany played at demure. She began to relay her story, knowing full well the humans were listening in.

The price on her belt renewal was of course out of the mason’s pay range as his belt identified him as a mere third year apprentice, and she knew the guards had it. The mason surprised her by politely offering her some coin but did not press the advantage, said he wished he could do more and carried on. Bellany didn’t expect such a reaction. She expected a fight and to the victor she would have gone, the odds being in favor of her targets three to one.

Bellany felt a brief moment of shame, some folk were simply good people. Her work had made her jaded and she’d return the mason’s money later if she could.

When the half orc walked away, another took his place dropping a goodly portion of the money she mentioned. “Let’s go upstairs whore,” even looking for it Bellany almost missed the subtle toss as Malleck sloppily lurched forward and cupped her breast. “Ya got some fine teats, let ME take you upstairs,” he slurred. Her brave brutes rose to their feet at last, the ogre downed the remains of his ale in one long pull.

“Unhand her at once you oaf,” the darker prettier one said as his hands reflexively slipped down to his baton. “Get out of here before we have to teach you a lesson in manners.”

The ogre then rose to his feet presumably to support his brothers-in-arms. Instead he lurched forward a bit and vomited. Were he not in such a revolting disguise Bellany would have been tempted to kiss Malleck in that moment, but as it were he was about to get “bounced” out of the bar.

With the exception that both men escorted her upstairs the rest of the night went predictably. With just two of them mostly in their cups the odds were very much in Bellany’s favor. Two prisoners to tell them the layout and two guardsmen belts, three if Malleck managed to sneak back in and take the ogre who was passed out on the floor. All in all a good night’s haul indeed!

The Winding Road: Dancer Bellany Mendel

By Frank Gori

A rough calloused hand missed Bellany’s bottom by an inch. The hand belonged to a Minotaur who, despite appearing to have recently gained lucrative employment, proved to be a poor tipper. An inch would be as close as he came, though she enjoyed teasing him with missed opportunities. Amateurs could display graceful movement, but it took a true professional to control their every motion while seeming to lack grace. Life was a dance, and dancers were ever aware of inches. Inches were vital, inches were life. Inches were death.

The painful cost of imprecision was written in Bellany’s memories, if not her flesh. The lessons served her well: she had once dodged a mage’s bolt of lightning by an inch before opening his throat with an inch of steel. She had avoided her death by poisoned arrow, naked steel, claws, and magic by minding every inch. Her devotion to the inches made her a favorite tool for her sometimes lover and guild master Jax.

Tonight she was just a “little birdie,” waiting tables with her eyes and ears open to tonight’s dance. Later she’d sing what she had learned to Jax. She already had tidbits for his ear and they were just appetizers for the main course. Soon the Chaos Man would arrive, the meeting would begin and secrets would become hers to trade.

The bar was overfull of sweaty workers, practically buzzing with emotional energy. Someone stirred up the beehive tonight and the honey would be sweet to opportunists. Shenanigans would soon be afoot and Jax would be pleased at the news. Bellany could always count on a lot of work when Shenanigans was called, a corpse or two in the chaos was hardly remarkable. She’d feel the exhilaration of dancing with death once more.
 

Another useful tidbit she’d already gathered was that there appeared to be a new employer in the Workmen’sGuild. Roughly a dozen carpenters of various trade levels were carrying blue hand axes in the employer loop. Must have been a rich one too; from the looks of those hatchets, they were all masterwork quality. The men hired all had a desperate air to them. Each was mindful to protect their food and drinks and all shared that hard look.
 

Bellany swayed in graceful inches toward her next customer.  The bad-blood Orc Caravaneer was a bit of a disappointment thus far. His tips were generous and he was pleasant to look at, but he seemed immune to Bellany’s flirtations, which was just plain insulting. He was clearly distracted by his thoughts and frustrated with the predictable tardiness of the Chaos Man. He’d be easy to kill if she desired, though his bodyguard would likely be trouble. The lizardman had the aura of menace that comes when a man has befriended Daras. His deadly confidence was practically palpable and his predatory gaze constantly swept the room for threats. Not a simple bodyguard but a Sunder then, a true pro.  Bellany left him a drink, a smile, and moved on.

 

As Bellany moved on to her next customer, her thoughts linger a moment longer about the bad blood. Caravaneer Malleck’s attempt to blend in was comical, for starters his workbelt was out of date. Having an out of date belt meant you were either a fraud or you weren’t up on your guild dues. Whoever set him up with that belt from the merchant guild was either incompetent or spiteful. While lacking ornamentation typical to high ranking merchants, his clothing was unmistakably fine, which marked him as a phony to anyone who bothered to pay attention. Wearing that he was in the very least asking for a bar fight, and with tonight’s charged climate it could easily escalate to something much worse.

To her eyes every inch of him displayed a man accustomed to wealth and power. Those with money never understood. There is an assortment of little habits and assumptions made by the rich, behaviors painfully obvious to the poor. He was drinking the bar’s best beer while everyone else was drinking the cheapest, he tipped casually and often while everyone else tipped once and usually minimally, and his posture was too straight, a dead giveaway. Those who labored hard for a living didn’t have great posture. When your shift is over you relax and lean into your chair, and if you have to stand, you slouch. If Malleck was badly beaten and mugged no one in this bar would intervene. Heck, with the energy in the air tonight the workman would probably care less if an outsider was killed.

 

The thought hit her like a cudgel to the face, it’s not a coincidence. To many elements were awry, the belt being wrong, the Blacksmith bodyguard on a night where the buzz was on a rumored price increase, and the blue hatchets. A group of apprentices wearing the hatchets kept glancing at Malleck, she knew that he was a target. They must have wanted the Chaos Man too, or they’d simply act.

 

Wasn’t much of a logistical leap for Bellany to realize her presence in such a potentially hazardous environment was unlikely a coincidence. Jax lingered after their last dalliance, he left allot of pregnant pauses as though he held great news or expected some. Sending her into a deathtrap as a way to break up would not be out of her lover and guild master’s character. If he had someone tail her to the herb woman last week he might have cause.
 

Life was lived an inch a time, so she timed her “clumsy spill” in a way that doused one of the hatchet men in whiskey, and threw her into the arms of another. He wouldn't notice the prick or the poison until he took a few more steps, nor would his companion. She dealt with three of five, the sunder had to handle the rest.
 

The ring of a crossbow bolt striking drawn steel chimed a perfect beautiful note before someone yelled “Shenanigans!” and the bar erupted in chaos.

Surviving the night would be fun. Bellany vowed to herself she’d takes it an inch at a time.

Music Guild: An Overview

by Matt Bennett

The corruption of the Music Guild plays a four-part harmony. The “bass line” is the fact the Music Guild is also the thieves’guild. Every musician on the payroll can’t be a cutpurse too, but the highest level of the Music Guild is a front for organized crime. Whether a caravan of balladeers side-by-side with a pair of cautious pickpockets, or a massive concert to keep ears from a merchant’s treasury, the fusion of plainsong and pilfering is always about. Two things have protected the Music Guild from discovery: one, what members call the Refrain; and two, a closed application process. A fully pledged member of the Music Guild swears the usual oath of secrecy and loyalty, but also an oath to refrain from stealing more than a “semitone” of any one person's wealth. The smallest of all musical intervals, a semitone translates as one-twelfth. The penalty for failing to “play the Refrain” is serious and swift—it can mean losing your hands, your vocal chords, or even your life. The Refrain ensures the Guild’s activities stay unnoticed. 

The Music Guild's rather snobbish standard of admittance also protects them. Unlike the other great guilds, they never accept applicants; rather, the Guild sends talent scouts across the countryside. While the public assumes they are seeking musical prodigies, in reality they enlist thieves, street urchins and seasoned con men. Should a thief possess musical talent, all the better, but usually a new recruit is rigorously schooled in some instrument—away from the public—while he is simultaneously prepared to fill the Guild coffers with the wealth of others.

The “baritone” of the Music Guild is a spy network, run primarily by the house bards and the common entertainers in rundown dives. Hired musicians, especially on staff, is able to glean all the gossip of a manor or city quarter. Traditionally, and philosophically, the Guild looks upon spying as a sort of theft, and thus applies the “ethic” of Refrain to their divulgence of secrets. To protect themselves from being discovered, a Guild spy chooses what twelfth of his information he will sell—the piece least likely to harm him or the Guild. When a piece of information is sold outside the Guild, it can only happen with the permission of a local overseer, usually a house bard. Worth noting, however, is that they do not apply the rule of Refrain when sharing information up the Guild hierarchy, and they never sell information to other guilds. For the most part, they steal information to serve themselves and future schemes, particularly anything which  grants leverage over the Workman’s and Merchant’s Guilds. 

As the Music Guild runs an array of theatres, concert halls, taverns and even brothels, in Hub and elsewhere, they forever haggle with the other guilds over prices. Although they soft-pedal, the Music Guild isn’t beyond blackmailing foremen in order to bring down brick prices or ply a Master Smith at a Guild brothel. To be sure, whenever the Mages Guild tries to kidnap or woo a rising star of the Bardic world which the Music Guild wants, they use their intelligence network to hit back with as much damage as possible. For decades, the Music Guild has been inflaming various Schools within the Mage’s Guild, funding and arming whomever pleases them.   

The “countertenor” of the Music Guild is a stable of superstars. These musical elite, many of them Orkhan and Krishtog Frogmen, are widely referred to as the Prodigies. They are what seems, to casual observation, to sustain the Guild. The Prodigies attract enormous adoring throngs and the deep pockets of wealthy patrons. Any sheepherder child with a harp dreams of becoming a Prodigy of the Guild, and her dream may come true regardless of her aspirations to be a thief. Often the Prodigies are kept in a cloud of ignorance concerning the true nature of the Guild, used only for their talent and ability to distract the right people. During the concerts of Prodigies, the biggest burglaries are done. To be safe, the Guild never robs the house of a host, and rarely do they rob more than one special guest of a performance. Through subtlety, patience and the honor of thieves they have survived the centuries.

The “tenor” of the Music Guild is the renowned Prodigy Vocalist and Fiddler, Jax Jover, purported to be the descendent of Romar the Rhymer. He bears a botched Orcmark. When he was marked with the customary hot chain, his vocal chords were partially melted, giving him a distinctive, brooding growl. Before the mark his voice was clear as a cloudless day, but he refused any healing. Almost born with a fiddle in hand, Jax also became a master thief by age 10. One of few to sneak in and back out of the Great Library at Salastria, Jax became an instant superstar in the Guild. With his musical talent and heritage, he was destined to become the Guild's figurehead, as Jax attracts a crowd like a lantern attracts moths. 

A deft manipulator and trained Orkhan, Jax has successfully seeded rumors that he serves as a mere lapdog of the Music Guild, or for those in the know, a patsy of the Thieves’ Guild. In actuality he has a finger in everything the Guild does or thinks of doing. When a member hits a wrong note, they may be punished personally by the wrath of temperamental Jax Jover. Rumor has it he even employs a Master Smith just to supply magical tools of torture. If you aren’t a spy yourself, Jax Jover seems nothing but Jax Jover: an empty-headed crooning puppet loved by Workmen’s daughters. 

When it comes to the Music Guild, people hear what they want.