In Dungeons with Dragons | Chapter 1

Brawl at the Lucky Gnome

As a rule, tieflings are best left alone. The descendants of human nobles who bargained with dark powers, they are heirs of an ancient, infernal bloodline. Though now, having no realm of their own, but instead living within human kingdoms and cities, long ago, their empire subjugated half the world by means of their pacts with demons. Most modern tieflings, however, bow to no gods or patrons, but, instead look to and rely upon themselves.

That is, most of them. There are yet those who pay homage or greater prices to those demon gods of old. The seven tieflings who burst into The Lucky Gnome Taphouse that night wearing armor, slightly stumbling, bore no devilish brand, wearing instead the sigil of Fallcrest’s own Lord Warden Faren Markelhay: a crater-pocked full moon overlaid with the silhouette of the bust of a sheep. No, it was their tongue that gave away their archfiendish allegiance. Through sharply pointed teeth, they spat out the serpentine syllables of Low Abyssal, a demonic language all are familiar with but none understand or dare speak (Deep Abyssal being saved for the darkest and most powerful of devils), at the dumbfounded Kelson, as he hurriedly pulled porters for the patrons he did understand, paying little heed to the inebriated ramblings of the lowest race.

Ignored and insulted, these horned men grew eerily silent. Though tiefling skin color covers the normal human range, even the darkest tiefling present that night had a ruddy reddish caste to his skin. The red in all of their skin burnt a bloody hue as their tails, easily the length of a tall dwarf, twitched unnervingly. The solid black, red, and white orbs of their eyes seared holes in the barman. A tiefling in the middle of the pack, with tensed muscles, and a twitchy white eye, grabbed the tankards off a nearby table at which two humans and a dwarf were negotiating the recapture of some goods stolen by kobolds. The first, he chunked at the general public clipping the pipe from a halfling’s lips. The second, he hurled at the smoky mirror behind the bar, reducing it to a spiderweb of glass shards.

Kelson nervously served a young dwarf at the end of the bar, both stealing glances at those he’d offended and doing his best to maintain nonchalance at the sounds of his mirror breaking. Stoically toweling off the spilled foam from the bar top, Kelson steeled himself and proceeded to return to those he could no longer avoid.

“What can I get ye?” Kelson attempted.

The tallest tiefling at the back pushed a couple of his brethren aside while the other four made way for him. Tapping the sheep-moon sigil on his shoulder, he spoke his next words in Common: “Markelhay says our ales are on the house!” he exclaimed, sliding an evil blade (unlike any Kelson had seen Markelhay’s guards ever carry—but, then these were the first tieflings he’d seen with The Lord Warden’s mark) from a hidden sheath. The tiefling’s voice carried through the tavern so that all eyes landed on Kelson, waiting with bated breath to see what the sweating barkeep would do. A tiefling with black eyes at the back, one the leader had pushed aside, muttered something in Low Abyssal to his cohort, motioning towards the barman. Kelson, searched himself for a reserve of strength that just was not there. His eyes that he had worked so hard to keep trained on the pupil-less red eyes of the tiefling leader began to lose their purchase. He blinked.

“Excuse me.” A small voice coming from an even smaller creature cut in. All seven trained their eyes on the source of the interruption. Covey Hawkhunter stood before the seven towering tieflings with bright fire in her eyes and sunshine in her heart. She was, however, not looking at the leader but at one in his retinue, the one who whispered to his friend in the demonic tongue. She spoke to him, “If you mean to ‘gut the barkeep’ at the most affordable bar in town, yes, I speak a bit of Abyssal,” Covey said acknowledging the dumbfounded look on the tiefling’s face, “I have three bits of advice for you. First, You might be misunderstanding how the ales make it from the back of the bar to the front. You should fill that knowledge gap. Second, it’s always best to wait until the laborers and porters from the quays are either too drunk or passed out to stand.” At this point, Covey slid her hand next to her mouth in mock stage whisper and continued, “This particular barkeep just happens to organize a small group of men in an effort to put a bit of extra copper in their pockets,” she motioned to the now dozen men known locally as The River Rats who filled several tables along the back wall. They suddenly seemed to remember how many of them there were and glanced at their comrades to either side. “And thirdly, Pelor commands his children ‘to love one another as he loves us.’”

The last was just too much for the tieflings. Growling and roaring, all of them unsheathed hidden steel. Covey simply whipped her tiny dagger from the scabbard at her waist, stabbed the closest one in the knee, dodged a sinister blade, and darted between legs. (Apparently, a bit of her family’s roguishness had found her.) This evil-smiting was invigorating. And she couldn’t quite remember what it said in Pelor’s Book about stabbing others in the knee…

The River Rats were still rallying their courage against this entourage of demon kin, when the hulking form of a dragonborn emerged from the shadow-strewn corner, wooden chairs and tables scraping against the floor as he pushed past, making his way toward the tieflings.

Aerys wore no armor other than that he was born with and carried no forged weapons but was armed nonetheless. In his short time working for the Lord Warden, Aerys couldn’t remember any Tieflings in his service. And, he definitely would have. The dragonborn had been at war with the tieflings as long as he could remember. His father, King Rhogar Mavakian IV of the Dragonborn, coauthored the armistice with the Tieflings bringing a tenuous halt to the decades-long battle for dominion. Aerys was honor bound to observe it, honor, of course, being paramount to a dragonborn. However, to allow a halfling female, one who appeared to be an apprentice cleric no less, to fight a horde of tieflings unaided would be suffering a dishonor too deep.

The tiefling sporting the bone-deep hole behind his patella, fell to his other knee. The other six stepped forward, around him and growled again as the dragonborn stepped up.

Taking a healthy breath, Aerys leaned forward, letting loose a roar that rattled the glass covers around the candles in the hanging candelabra, their glow, a shuddering orange blanket on the fight to come. Aerys’ hot breath hit like desert noon and dragonspit flecked the faces of Markelhay’s men.

They unconsciously took a small step back as a group. Tieflings so often lived in tiny groups as a minority among other races. Though fiercely independent, many have come to rely on those in their clans as a matter of survival. Each remembering his brethren, the leather armor on his back, and the blade in his hand, they struck en masse at the scaly interloper.

Feinting to the right and shifting to the left, Aerys missed the sharpest points and edges, but took some blows from fists protected by the knuckle guards on the tiefling blades.

Faeslaightear watched on, dodging the first tankard and the sprayed glass from the second, completely enjoying himself. Though confused as to why a clearly unmatched halfling would step forward or even care other than the fact these tieflings were wasting perfectly awful mead by tossing tankards about. And the dragonborn! He was under no obligation to stick up for some pipsqueak preacher. That dragonborn honor was going to get him killed. Didn’t he know that it was honor (well, that, and a fair amount of pride) that brought the dragonborn empire to its knees? The elf raised an eyebrow, shook his head, and returned to the free show and the smoky spirit in the cloudy glass in front of him, allowing the calming effects it promoted to wash over him. His head a little fuzzy and his eyes beginning to see double, Faeslaightear knew there was something he was missing. The, all too familiar language, the same sacrilegious speech as that used by the gnolls, that weird sigil on the tiefling’s shoulders. What was it? A dog’s shadow against the sun? No, that’s not it… The outline of a dire wolf’s head on a plate? No!!! It was a hyena’s head, no no no, a GNOLL superimposed on The Stolen Shield, yes, it had to be, the sign he was seeking, the information he ripped from that gnoll!! Why were tieflings wearing the mark of the gnolls, especially the exact gnoll tribe he had been tracking? Is that who the gnolls were working with,…for? Was there someone else they both served? The elf’s head swam with questions, possible answers, and feelings of nausea.

The lead tiefling howled something in Low Abyssal, probably orders to his small platoon, but Faeslaightear heard the voice of the gnoll who flayed his sister, excoriating her body with deft precision.

Abandoning his roguishness, which is to say, his armor, his personality, his identity, Faeslaightear charged headlong at the nearest tiefling, blades in either hand each searching for arteries, vital organs, eyes, jugulars. He found his mark in the solid white eye of the the tankard-hurling tiefling, bringing his twitch to a rest and eliciting a skin-crawling scream made worse by the demonic lilt to his voice.

The patrons at the Lucky Gnome Taphouse, quite familiar with a fairly regular tavern brawl were quite unfamiliar with fights involving so many blades. They were a rough bunch, yes, but fighting was merely an activity one undertook to show off, vent, have fun, or remind oneself of one’s own vitality, meaning vigor and personal stamina not one’s ability towards or capacity for survival.

Most had retreated to the periphery, hiding along back walls, behind the sturdier tables, edging their way to the door, following those who had already made their way out. Even the ever so tough River Rats sat, bound to their seats, as if by a spell. Covey had had a feeling that they were more brash and bravado than guts and glory, and they were only meant as an attempt at a bluff to stop the fight before it began. Well, it was worth a shot.

Covey crouched beneath one of the few remaining upright tables, giving herself a moment to consider her current situation and another moment to berate herself. It is Pelor’s place to judge, not mine. I assumed these horned men were evil and took straight to smiting them. Pelor is capable of forgiving even Asmodeus, father of all devils and ruler of the ninth and deepest hell, Nessus. I must seek to smite evil, not men who have strayed from Pelor’s Path.

Covey climbed up on the table under which she had been hiding. At the top of her tiny lungs, she screamed, “Stop!” However, the din was too loud and her lungs too small. The fighting continued, and Aerys was thrown towards the table on which she stood. Covey cringed, having no time for anything else.

Covey, now in a heap, having landing on her back on top of a pile of splintered wood and Aerys’ overturned body, managed to open her eyes just in time to see Faeslaightear take a tankard to the back of the head from one of the braver River Rats, who had missed his mark trying to hit a tiefling and help out. “Thanks,” he sardonically muttered to himself and gave the man a weak smile before returning to the fray.

Aerys stood himself up, shaking off what was left of the table and a barely conscious halfling. Not noticing Covey in the debris, the dragonborn ran back toward the fight, his roar seeming to charge the air.

The tieflings had so far withstood the attack against the halfling cleric, the inebriated elf, and the outnumbered, unarmed dragonborn. They had, however not done this without casualty. A lost eye, torn tendons, and multiple lacerations, the tieflings still outnumbered and outarmed their adversaries.

Their red-eyed leader, who had suffered little damage from the back of the pack, grabbed two of his men and shoved them toward the dragonborn, bellowing in Low Abyssal. Covey understood the words, ‘kill’ and ‘small one’, and those two tieflings turned from the dragonborn’s claws and the elf’s blades and, instead, advanced on her.

Once the fight had begun, Illyria hadn’t considered backing away or escaping the tavern as the other patrons had done, not owing to some misplaced sense of bravery, it just hadn’t occurred to her. This world was so much stranger than the Feywild, and in its own ways, wilder. Illyria loved it. Her sylvan home in the forests of Sildëyuir was the epitome of ethereal elegance, and had no shortage of dangers. From the giant, cave-dwelling fomorians and the cyclopses that served them in the Feydark to the sorcerous nilshai that bring rot, corruption, and death to all the living things in the territories upon which they encroach, the Feywild is far from safe, but Illyria grew bored with the monotony, the quietness, the slow passage of time, and even the never-ending consideration that her people gave the simplest of questions, for “there were no simple questions” and “all decisions have effects that ripple through time for far longer than it takes to make them” (even if made painstakingly slowly).

Illyria also loved this ‘tavern’, the word strange and exotic to her mind’s ears. The dim lighting was nowhere near as delicate or subtle as the perpetual twilight of her world, but it was much gentler on her eyes than the ever-changing day and night, to which she was very slowly becoming accustomed. No, what she really loved about this tavern was how quickly its patrons made decisions, reacted to stimuli, answered questions…

This activity known as “fighting” was also of interest to her. It reminded her of a very crude form of the dancing and swordplay she had leaned in her childhood and adolescence. Though Illyria was considered to “have the elegance and poise of a fomorian” by her people, she was sure she would be considered quite deft and adroit by these, so long, of course, as she didn’t have one of her moments…

She watched as the dragonborn with whom she had been speaking charged a single tiefling, hooked him in closer with curved claws, and sank draconic teeth into his unguarded jugular only to be struck from behind by one of the tiefling’s cohorts. The blade connected with his shoulder, fortunately, for his scales were denser here, and the blade did little lasting damage. However, the bone-shaking percussive force of the strike was another matter. Aerys felt the blow in his knees, to which he almost fell. Staggering, but maintaining his legs, Aerys spun wildly, dealing his own blow to the tiefling, who did not manage to keep his feet.

The elf was doing quite poorly, considering the fact that he came armed and had Fey blood in his veins. The elves, close cousins of the eladrin, most frequently live on this side of The Veil, but no distance from one’s Feywild roots would excuse this lack of grace, this poise-less stumbling over one’s own feet. The amount of alcohol imbibed might, however. Illyria could feel the disdain of her people coming from within herself as she guiltily judged Faeslaightear, quickly remembering she had no place to cast such judgments and rebuking herself further for momentarily embracing her culture’s worship of beauty and elegance, resolved instead to find beauty and elegance where it was, unconstrained by her people’s preconceived notions of what is should look like.

Her mind on beauty, Illyria’s gaze found the small warrior under the table. She had confronted seven creatures, each many times her size, because she felt it the right thing to do. This was beautiful. A beauty that deserved preservation… Covey quickly scanned through Pelor’s Book in her mind, considering the correct words for the tieflings who advanced. She kept coming up with proverbs on being kindly toward one’s neighbor and parables encouraging “turning the other cheek”. Covey couldn’t quite bring herself to extend a hand in friendship—not with the murderous look in their eyes—, and she imagined it quite difficult to offer her other cheek when a blade was hanging out of the first one. So, instead, she did what had become natural to her, she prayed, seeking guidance and intercession from Pelor.

Illyria stood from her seat imagining the admonition of her long-lived people: “The events of this world unfold as they are meant to. To interfere is not to prevent death, only delay it. All must die, and death is beautiful. How will this have any great effect?” Having a life of some 300 years ahead of her, it was hard not to take this detached view of life and fall prey to the idea that this little life in front of her is so tiny, and, left unharmed, the halfling’s lifetime could easily fit five times in Illyria’s. Her people made decisions that lasted centuries. This tiny thing, huddled under the table, was a grain of sand dropped in the ocean, making no discernible or lasting ripples. And yet, Illyria wanted to know what her next moments held…

Drawing the demon-etched long sword from the hidden scabbard within the stumbling, one-eyed tiefling’s long coat (who had been making his way to the door), Illyria advanced toward the conflict. Though the sound of the fighting was cacophonous and would have masked the sound of a near-sighted cyclops approaching, the eladrin’s footfalls made no sound. She lithely slid between overturned tables and chairs, side-stepping spilled pilsners, and ducking flung tankards even though they were thrown from behind her. She thought about the mysterious book in her bag and the future magical revelations it promised. She thought about the magic that was the heartbeat of the Feywild, coursing through its denizens, through her. She thought back on that childhood swordplay, she remembered the eladrin children racing through the branches, 100 feet above the ground, swords at the ready, jumping from limb to limb, bough to bough, tree to tree. The breeze bustled and Fey candlelight glinted from fleeting sword blades…

Illyria, shook from her reverie on the word ‘blade’, searched her consciousness for the subconscious nudge. It was too late. The tarnished cheese knife was already underfoot, and Illyria went down, sword in hand, grabbing for purchase, wobbling to regain what verticality she could, all grace and elegance abandoned.

Three groans, a sickening crack and a painful crunch, the schlick sound of a sharp point entering flesh, the sound of more shattered glass, wood scraping against wood, and air forcefully escaping lungs were the sounds that Illyria heard as gravity took advantage.

As she fell forward, the ball of her right foot counteracted and raised from the ground. Just enough! Enough to dislodge the slick knife with just enough time to use the fleeting friction her toes still commanded to make one final course correction. Instead of using her foot to slow her descent, she pushed forward, giving herself enough momentum to somersault. Blade tucked flat against her back, right hand on grip at waist, blade along her spine, and tip poking well above the top of her head, to protect herself and innocent bystanders from the lethal edge.

A final schlick.

Illyria’s somersault ended with her in a kneeling position, the kind of kneel one demonstrates for a respected king with head bowed deeply, one hand behind, and one hand in front. The difference being that the hand at her back still held the tiefling’s cruel sword, the flat of the blade still along her spine, and the tip still pointing well above her head, which was currently ducked and pointed at a wide-eyed dragonborn.

Illyria could feel that the sword had found a mark, and in releasing it, found it did not move except to allow the grip to bounce slightly, counter-weighted by the torso in which the other end stuck. Regaining her posture, Illyria stood, surveying the scene in a second:

One of the tieflings Aerys had been fighting laid on the ground, holding what appeared to be some cracked ribs.

One of the tieflings that Faeslaightear had been trying to fight laid staring in horror at the bone that stuck out of his leg, his mouth making unsuccessful attempts at screaming. The other tiefling Faeslaightear had been fighting still stood near the door, groping for the handle through the tears in his remaining eye.

The two tieflings that had been advancing on Covey, stood facing Illyria’s direction, mouths agape, eyes fixed on her sword. Illyria followed the blade which continued to spring up and down, slowing to a throb, then a barely discernible vibration. Everyone stood frozen. Aerys wasn’t even breathing. The blade had missed his gut by an inch, passing between his body and the arm at his side, straight through the tiefling leader’a navel behind him.

Blood and bile leaked from the umbilical port, and a minute later, he had slumped to his knees and fallen to his back with the sword rising from his gut like a signpost. Had she done all this?

The door crashed open, slamming the one-eyed tiefling against the adjacent wall with such force, the door splintered where it had made contact with his head, and the tiefling slid down the wall, unconscious and temporarily unaware of his pain.

Framed in the doorway, a human male, obviously ready for battle, stood, surveyed the scene, and marched toward Illyria, unsheathing his battlesword in the process.

With the exception of the two tieflings moaning on the floor, he was the only movement in the room. Everyone else was frozen, processing this new addition.

Grabbing his sword with two hands and hefting it above his head, he yelled with a hard set face before pushing past Illyria and Aerys and driving the end of his blade through the all-but-dead face of the downed tiefling leader.

“His head is mine,” he barked at the two tieflings who still stood between their dead leader and Covey. “You have until I finish this ale to collect your injured and be gone.” Then, turning to the bar, he reached over, plucked Kelson up by the back of his shirt, and ordered, “Your least offensive mead, Barkeep!”

Kelson scurried to comply and the two tieflings began dragging off their fallen.

Then, the man known as Cabal turned to Illyria, although unable to make eye contact with her, and whispered loudly enough that she, Covey, and Aerys could hear, “One of their party had already escaped, a tiefling with a limp,” (Covey smiled, remembering it had been her dagger that dealt that blow, then frowned, remembering Pelor’s Word), “I turned to give chase when I heard the fight from within.”

Covey returned, “He’s surely gone for reinforcements. They are in league with Lord Warden Markelhay. The entire guard will come down on this place.”

The sound of Faeslaightear groaning from beneath a nearby table could be heard just before the sound of vomit hitting the wood floor and puddling.

Aerys replied, “We will stand and fight! I care not if the demons of all nine hells enter that door, the dishonor we would suffer from turning away…”

Illyria said nothing. She made decisions more quickly than any of her race she knew, but these creatures were driven from one course of action to another many times a minute.

Cabal countered, “It is utterly strange that any human lord warden would align himself with tieflings. I do not know enough of what is at play here. We should retreat far enough away that we can reassess the situation and gain tactical advantage.”

Aerys thought back to his days as a captain. His men followed him without hesitation. He knew the king’s favor had advanced him through the ranks a bit faster than was custom, but his men never doubted his devotion. Aerys loved battle. He loved the fight. He had never been one for endless discussions of strategy. He was a sword, an axe, a hammer. He dealt damage and could take it all day. He missed fighting with trained dragonborn at his side. Watching out for drunken elves, tiny clerics, and other civilians was not the battle he knew. Yes, he watched out for his men in battle, but they also watched out for themselves. He didn’t have to worry and devote so much of his attention to their attackers. Aerys had done poorly today. He knew that, but his honor was intact. The elf, the halfling, and even this eladrin were no worse for wear. He had done his duty. He had protected. And that was important, too. A shield for others. The human was right, this fight was over, for now. His job was to protect these new allies.

“You are right. Let us get to safety,” said Aerys.

Before the tieflings could return to collect the last of their injured, and before any reinforcements could be summoned, the dragonborn threw the crapulous elf over his shoulder and followed the human, the eladrin, and the halfling that had gotten them in so much trouble out the door of The Lucky Gnome Taphouse, leaving Cabal’s ordered tankard alone and undrunk on the bar.