Ronkur the Gnome awakens slowly, opening his big green eyes, stretching out in his small bed, and sighing at the thick blanket of wet coastal air that has crept in from the open window of his annex. Another warm front has hit Rettan, despite the nearness of Harvest’s End. In just another month, the citizens of Rettan will be expecting winter as the cold air and harsh western winds blow in from the Taurus Mountains to depositing a white sheet of snowfall that will inevitably turn to brown slush once mixed with the waters of King’s Cove.
However there is still work to be done before Ronkur and his fellow Rettanites can settle into their winter stasis, and today is Delivery Day, meaning the leftover Harvest from the Fertile Plains should be arriving at the Town Keep for citizens to browse the already picked over offerings. In fact, the stamping of feet and sounds of passing conversation can already be heard outside, signaling to Ronkur that he’s late. Stuffing his tiny feet into equally tiny leather boots, Ronkur runs a hand through his red wispy hair and takes a swig of cold coffee from this week’s pot, now nearly empty. Rushing downstairs with quick tapping feet, he fastens a belt on his grey tunic, barely noticing how loose it’s becoming, and opens his door to the cobble street, where he is promptly splashed by a large man tromping through a puddle.
“Ugh, watch it!” Ronkur half-heartedly chides the back of the man’s pants as the little Gnome is immediately sucked into the crowd. Keeping pace with the flow of foot traffic, he does his best to remain upright, his emerald eyes jumping back and forth between the uneven cobble stones and the boots on either side of him. By the time his section of the cavalcade is making the southern turn toward Town Keep, the bottom half of Ronkur’s tunic is nearly black with dirty water. With another sigh, he presses onward, shuffling sideways through the crowd toward a familiar voice.
“It’s the damned soil! If ye had better soil, sturdier ground ye know, we could build great passages, halls, mines even!” Through the many-colored forest of legs, Ronkur can spot just above his line of sight a bald Dwarf with a jet black beard speaking even further upwards to a Man who appears to be tolerating the conversation. “Ye ought t’ see the mines my kin ‘ave built on Renth. MILES wide, they are!” The Dwarf throws his hands apart, displaying the enormity of the aforementioned caverns, and hitting citizens’ hips on either side of himself.
“Bellith, you’ve never even seen Renth!” Ronkur shouts, careening into the Dwarf as he darts between legs and steadying himself on Bellith’s auburn tunic. “What would you know about mines, anyway? You’re a fisherman, like your father before ya!”
The Dwarf frowns, his lips lost in a jungle of black facial hair, before grabbing Ronkur by the collar, lifting him with one arm, and placing the Gnome ahead of himself on the path as they walk. “Aye, Ronk, an’ I fish t’ keep the folks like you from starvin’ all winter, seein’ as ye can’t make it to th’ Keep without gettin’ yerself covered in mud! Hmph.”
Now scurrying forward to keep Bellith’s boots from clipping his heels, Ronkur calls backwards as the crowd fans out into an open square before the Town Keep. “Don’t you worry about me. Soon as I sell my new inventions, I’ll have enough to move as far from the mud as I want.” Ronkur slows his pace to a casual walk, digging into a wet pocket to emerge with a scrap of cloth, upon which he’s inked a design of some sort, labeled with Gnomish runes and numbers.
“Rrright,” Bellith rolls the word on his tongue as his eyes follow suit, “an’ I’m sure th’ King ‘imself is gonna want one o’ yer… What is this one, anyway?” The pair stops moving now; the crowd has reached the great wooden doors of the Keep, still locked shut, and people are checking the Bjornen Star’s position to make sure the Harvest wagons aren’t late. Ronkur climbs up onto an empty ox cart to get a better look at the doors, and to be above someone’s head for once. After craning his neck a second, he speaks down to Bellith.
“This,” he waves the cloth before shoving it safely into a pocket once more, “is a diagram for a steam-powered, external combustion, dual-piston battering ram!” Ronkur smiles proudly, quickly expounding upon the explanation with receipt of Bellith’s blank stare. “It- it’s s- small, handheld even, a- and it-” The Gnome’s cheeks and forehead redden, matching his hair as he nervously rubs his hands together, speaking quickly and in a higher pitch.
“Lad,” Bellith cuts him off, shaking his head. “If it’s another one o’ yer trinkets fer the King’s Men, I’d stow it. One,” the Dwarf holds up a stubby gloved finger, “ye don’t think they got enough bright minds on how t’ make the best weapons an’ machines already? An’ two,” a second stubby fingers joins the first, “if they don’t, why would ye want t’ go givin’ the nobility more means by which t’ keep us down, eh?”
Ronkur swallows the knot in his throat and opens his mouth to rebut his friend’s points, but he is immediately cut off by a swell of noise and movement toward the great doors of the Keep. The carts have arrived.
“C’mon then,” Bellith offers to help Ronkur down from the cart sympathetically, “I’ll get ye a couple o’ radishes.”
.
== NOON == .
The dim glow of a half dozen candles drapes over Ronkur’s sullen face as he sits with chin in hands at Bellith’s table. His usually cheerful large eyes are now half shut and gloomy, the green tint darker with his sadness. Bellith is pacing back in forth in the common room, swearing occasionally and stopping only to take great gulps from a tankard of mead on the table top. The street noise is much quieter now, despite Bellith’s house being on the eastern street corner, sandwiched between two larger abodes and a small tavern.
“Worse than the damn Goblins, I say!” Bellith snatches a firebrand and lights it on the weak flame of the candles before shoving it angrily into the hearth, which springs to life quickly, displaying the rest of the cluttered common room, which appears to have been ransacked from the mess of muddy boot prints and upturned shelves. “An’ fer what? A couple o’ gold pieces, some fishin’ poles…” He stops speaking suddenly, turning to meet Ronkur’s once more wide eyes. “…No.”
The Dwarf lumbers across the room, throwing a broken chair aside and dropping to his knees before pulling back a floor rug. “NO! DAMN IT ALL, NO!” His fist connects with the stone floor, sending a tangible quake that jostles Ronkur from his chair. Bellith leans back as Ronkur approaches cautiously, already certain of what is beyond the Dwarf’s frame. A trap door under the rug… Unlocked.
“M- maybe th- they didn’t” Ronkur starts weakly, stopping as Bellith lifts the latch to reveal a shallow, empty floor safe. Bellith is nearly in tears and shaking in quiet rage.
“My only heirloom. My family’s treasure.” Bellith cuffs at his cheeks before rubbing his large fist. The knuckles are already bleeding through his glove. “Ronk, we gotta get it back. It’s my only reason fer bein’ in this damned town.”
The Gnome sets a hand on Bellith’s massive shoulder, flinching a bit with jealous pain at the last sentence. “Bellith, we’ll get your sword. Th- there can’t be m- more than two Dwarven blades i- in all of Rettan, an- and I’ll bet”
“Ronk,” Bellith cuts him off, as he has a habit of doing so. “What are we gonna do? You an’ I both know this weren’t a normal bandit.” Ronkur flinches again as Bellith goes on, his voice grim and full of despair. “This had t’ be the Rettan Thieves.”
Bellith rises slowly, picking up another chair and setting it upright near the table, where he falls upon it and reaches for his tankard. Ronkur stoops next to the floor safe, putting a small hand against the cool metal.
“W- w- well, Th- thieves or n- not, they can’t just get away with it.” He speaks pleadingly, as though some semblance of law enforcement existed in the small city.
Bellith busies himself with an apple from one of the bushels he carried away from the Keep. Ronkur absentmindedly feels the metal of the safe again, running his hand along it lengthwise until it nudges a scrap of parchment. Drawing it from the safe, he reads it, its words scrawled quickly in Common.
“No Honor, no Lineage, and no Loyalty. -RT” Ronkur crumples the parchment in anger for his friend. It’s not exactly a secret around Rettan that Bellith’s family was once full of proud blacksmiths, but now has dwindled to the lone Dwarf as a third generation fisherman, leaving him devoid of Dwarven Honor. The jab at his lineage, which Bellith can recount as far back as Bjornen, would cut deep at the unmarried, childless, well past his prime would-be suitor. And the Loyalty… Well, a Dwarf’s loyalty is everything. Ronkur can clearly recall Bellith on numerous occasions telling all who would listen tales of his great-great-grandfather standing with the Army of Dwarves in Renth against the Goblin Scourge, and his great-grandfather standing among kin and Men against the Black Evil of Shattered Rock. Every fighting Dwarf in Bellith’s family wielded the greatsword named Loyalty, and Bellith, who had never been in a fight his whole life, just had the blade taken from him. Ronkur could not let his friend know what slander was brought against him.
“L- listen, I’ll go grab some effects from my house, and we’ll get right to work on finding it.” Ronkur looks around the destroyed room. “All of it.” Bellith hardly acknowledges his friend’s brave offer, waving the apple at the Gnome as mead spills down his black beard.
.
== DUSK == .
Ronkur takes another deep breath, pressing his back to the damp bricks in the dark alley. For the third time, he checks his satchel to ensure he brought everything. Finding no increase of courage in another confirmation, he leans around the corner, peering toward the northern house. As the Bjornen Star sets over the Taurus Foothills, the Gnome can hardly see down the narrow street to the Halfling’s house, but he knows they’re inside. All of them. Or… at least some of them. The Rettan Thieves. This is one of their known Dens, and could very well be where Bellith’s sword is being hidden. Ronkur pulls the black hood over his head and takes a pair of mechanized gloves from his pack. The climb is infinitely easier wearing his inventions. Up the wall he goes, silently, until after a few short moments, he is standing on the roof, a black silhouette against the dusk sky, now eye level with the attic of the Thieves’ Den only three rooftops over.
With a click of his heels, Ronkur’s boots let out a small hiss, ensuring him the steam chambers in his soles are loaded. He charges suddenly across the rooftop, ticking over the shingles with each step. At the edge of the first roof, he grunts and leaps, his boot discharging a great amount of steam that propels him through the air and across the gap. Landing with a soft smack, he continues onward. Another set of ticking shingles, another leap, another discharge of steam, and now only one roof to go. Ronkur stops to get a better view of the Den’s attic, walking slowly up to a chimney for vantage and hiding.
Digging in his bag again, he emerges with a pair of crudely constructed goggles. Even with his great vision, Ronkur can hardly see into the opening. Placing them to his face, Ronkur twists a knob on the side, sliding different glass discs into and out of focus. The magnification setting needed leaves him with a cracked lens on his left eye, but the right gives enough vision to see into the dark entry above the common area. Boxes, beds, and weapons, but he can’t be sure which is Bellith’s Loyalty. The Dwarf would kill Ronkur if he knew what the Gnome was up to, especially on his own, but Bellith is terrible at sneaking, and even worse when drunk. At present, Bellith is VERY drunk.
With another deep breath, Ronkur prepares himself for a final sprint and launch. Replacing the goggles with a new contraption, an umbrella, the Gnome starts across the roof, jumping with the last step. His boots give off a loud hiss, but not loud enough. The chambers must be empty! With barely enough propulsion, Ronkur goes flapping through the open window, clipping his toe on the windowsill. At the last moment, he throws open his umbrella, the fortified iron frame cushioning his fall and absorbing the sound with its fur lined exterior.
“That went about as well as it could have,” Ronkur whispers to himself as he stands in the dark room. Knowing his courage won’t last forever, he quickly ensures that he is alone before moving a few boxes. With a pounding heart, he races to uncover as many shelves and boxes as he can, looking briefly inside each of them for the blade before returning its cover to the original position. A minute passes, then two, and he is no closer to finding Loyalty. Stepping quietly over to the far corner, Ronkur reaches to push aside a floor-to-ceiling hanging drape. A pommel! And a red gemstone!
Pulling the greatsword away from the wall, Ronkur stamps his feet in elation. The blade is nearly as tall as he is, but no matter. Ronkur sets his bag down once more, opening it and hefting the two-handed weapon upwards. The tip of the sword slides into the bag and down, down it goes until the open mouth of his Bag of Holding swallows up the weapon entirely.
“Wait until Bellith sees this!” Ronkur squeals softly, peeking into the bag one more time at the pommel. The red gemstone has been soaked with blood on countless occasions, Bellith always said. Every Dwarf worthy of bearing son in their family has wielded it in successful battle. Ronkur could almost see the glint in Bellith’s eyes as he imagined returning it safely to him. He’d be as bright as this jewel. The Gnome courses a finger over the gem, admiring the perfect cuts on its edges, the way the stone filled out the base of the pommel so well, the way the bright light shines off its surface… The light?! Oh no!
Turning with a shock, Ronkur sees a slightly taller figure standing in the doorway. He’s been discovered! The Gnome’s heart hammers against his chest as he grips the strap of his satchel and starts toward the window, away from the door.
THUMP.
Ronkur is stopped at once, colliding with another figure, much larger than the Halfling at the door. Looking up, he meets eyes with a brown-haired Man who grins down at him. Ronkur shakes in absolute fear, his jaw quivering open.
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” The Halfling speaks, stepping into the room with his lantern. The owner of this house, one of the three known Thieves’ Dens, approaches Ronkur with a light in one hand and a dagger in the other. “I stared for some time as well. You almost can’t take your eyes off it. Unless you’ve got no eyes…” The Halfling raises his dagger as the large Man snatches Ronkur by the shoulder and clamps his mouth shut. A large tear rolls down the Gnome’s cheek as he squirms uselessly, uttering muffled cries against the strong muzzle.
“Tell Bellith hello... if you can find him.”
The Bjornen Star sets fully over the peaks of the Taurus Mountains, covering Rettan in the black of night. The bright cluster of Vargen Stars, usually giving light to Zaelia during the evening, are covered by a low fog and thick mass of clouds. Tonight is exceptionally dark. But any vision is better than none at all. A single shriek escapes the Den, shrill and full of agony.
Map: i.imgur.com/YS2vXbS.jpg
Visual: i.imgur.com/fV0xvYV.jpg
Ronkur Shinestone of Rettan: i.imgur.com/YDgEsfw.jpg
Bellith Hardenson of Rettan: i.imgur.com/nhpBxNg.jpg
.
== DAWN ==
.
Ronkur the Gnome awakens slowly, opening his big green eyes, stretching out in his small bed, and sighing at the thick blanket of wet coastal air that has crept in from the open window of his annex. Another warm front has hit Rettan, despite the nearness of Harvest’s End. In just another month, the citizens of Rettan will be expecting winter as the cold air and harsh western winds blow in from the Taurus Mountains to depositing a white sheet of snowfall that will inevitably turn to brown slush once mixed with the waters of King’s Cove.
However there is still work to be done before Ronkur and his fellow Rettanites can settle into their winter stasis, and today is Delivery Day, meaning the leftover Harvest from the Fertile Plains should be arriving at the Town Keep for citizens to browse the already picked over offerings. In fact, the stamping of feet and sounds of passing conversation can already be heard outside, signaling to Ronkur that he’s late. Stuffing his tiny feet into equally tiny leather boots, Ronkur runs a hand through his red wispy hair and takes a swig of cold coffee from this week’s pot, now nearly empty. Rushing downstairs with quick tapping feet, he fastens a belt on his grey tunic, barely noticing how loose it’s becoming, and opens his door to the cobble street, where he is promptly splashed by a large man tromping through a puddle.
“Ugh, watch it!” Ronkur half-heartedly chides the back of the man’s pants as the little Gnome is immediately sucked into the crowd. Keeping pace with the flow of foot traffic, he does his best to remain upright, his emerald eyes jumping back and forth between the uneven cobble stones and the boots on either side of him. By the time his section of the cavalcade is making the southern turn toward Town Keep, the bottom half of Ronkur’s tunic is nearly black with dirty water. With another sigh, he presses onward, shuffling sideways through the crowd toward a familiar voice.
“It’s the damned soil! If ye had better soil, sturdier ground ye know, we could build great passages, halls, mines even!” Through the many-colored forest of legs, Ronkur can spot just above his line of sight a bald Dwarf with a jet black beard speaking even further upwards to a Man who appears to be tolerating the conversation. “Ye ought t’ see the mines my kin ‘ave built on Renth. MILES wide, they are!” The Dwarf throws his hands apart, displaying the enormity of the aforementioned caverns, and hitting citizens’ hips on either side of himself.
“Bellith, you’ve never even seen Renth!” Ronkur shouts, careening into the Dwarf as he darts between legs and steadying himself on Bellith’s auburn tunic. “What would you know about mines, anyway? You’re a fisherman, like your father before ya!”
The Dwarf frowns, his lips lost in a jungle of black facial hair, before grabbing Ronkur by the collar, lifting him with one arm, and placing the Gnome ahead of himself on the path as they walk. “Aye, Ronk, an’ I fish t’ keep the folks like you from starvin’ all winter, seein’ as ye can’t make it to th’ Keep without gettin’ yerself covered in mud! Hmph.”
Now scurrying forward to keep Bellith’s boots from clipping his heels, Ronkur calls backwards as the crowd fans out into an open square before the Town Keep. “Don’t you worry about me. Soon as I sell my new inventions, I’ll have enough to move as far from the mud as I want.” Ronkur slows his pace to a casual walk, digging into a wet pocket to emerge with a scrap of cloth, upon which he’s inked a design of some sort, labeled with Gnomish runes and numbers.
“Rrright,” Bellith rolls the word on his tongue as his eyes follow suit, “an’ I’m sure th’ King ‘imself is gonna want one o’ yer… What is this one, anyway?” The pair stops moving now; the crowd has reached the great wooden doors of the Keep, still locked shut, and people are checking the Bjornen Star’s position to make sure the Harvest wagons aren’t late. Ronkur climbs up onto an empty ox cart to get a better look at the doors, and to be above someone’s head for once. After craning his neck a second, he speaks down to Bellith.
“This,” he waves the cloth before shoving it safely into a pocket once more, “is a diagram for a steam-powered, external combustion, dual-piston battering ram!” Ronkur smiles proudly, quickly expounding upon the explanation with receipt of Bellith’s blank stare. “It- it’s s- small, handheld even, a- and it-” The Gnome’s cheeks and forehead redden, matching his hair as he nervously rubs his hands together, speaking quickly and in a higher pitch.
“Lad,” Bellith cuts him off, shaking his head. “If it’s another one o’ yer trinkets fer the King’s Men, I’d stow it. One,” the Dwarf holds up a stubby gloved finger, “ye don’t think they got enough bright minds on how t’ make the best weapons an’ machines already? An’ two,” a second stubby fingers joins the first, “if they don’t, why would ye want t’ go givin’ the nobility more means by which t’ keep us down, eh?”
Ronkur swallows the knot in his throat and opens his mouth to rebut his friend’s points, but he is immediately cut off by a swell of noise and movement toward the great doors of the Keep. The carts have arrived.
“C’mon then,” Bellith offers to help Ronkur down from the cart sympathetically, “I’ll get ye a couple o’ radishes.”
.
== NOON ==
.
The dim glow of a half dozen candles drapes over Ronkur’s sullen face as he sits with chin in hands at Bellith’s table. His usually cheerful large eyes are now half shut and gloomy, the green tint darker with his sadness. Bellith is pacing back in forth in the common room, swearing occasionally and stopping only to take great gulps from a tankard of mead on the table top. The street noise is much quieter now, despite Bellith’s house being on the eastern street corner, sandwiched between two larger abodes and a small tavern.
“Worse than the damn Goblins, I say!” Bellith snatches a firebrand and lights it on the weak flame of the candles before shoving it angrily into the hearth, which springs to life quickly, displaying the rest of the cluttered common room, which appears to have been ransacked from the mess of muddy boot prints and upturned shelves. “An’ fer what? A couple o’ gold pieces, some fishin’ poles…” He stops speaking suddenly, turning to meet Ronkur’s once more wide eyes. “…No.”
The Dwarf lumbers across the room, throwing a broken chair aside and dropping to his knees before pulling back a floor rug. “NO! DAMN IT ALL, NO!” His fist connects with the stone floor, sending a tangible quake that jostles Ronkur from his chair. Bellith leans back as Ronkur approaches cautiously, already certain of what is beyond the Dwarf’s frame. A trap door under the rug… Unlocked.
“M- maybe th- they didn’t” Ronkur starts weakly, stopping as Bellith lifts the latch to reveal a shallow, empty floor safe. Bellith is nearly in tears and shaking in quiet rage.
“My only heirloom. My family’s treasure.” Bellith cuffs at his cheeks before rubbing his large fist. The knuckles are already bleeding through his glove. “Ronk, we gotta get it back. It’s my only reason fer bein’ in this damned town.”
The Gnome sets a hand on Bellith’s massive shoulder, flinching a bit with jealous pain at the last sentence. “Bellith, we’ll get your sword. Th- there can’t be m- more than two Dwarven blades i- in all of Rettan, an- and I’ll bet”
“Ronk,” Bellith cuts him off, as he has a habit of doing so. “What are we gonna do? You an’ I both know this weren’t a normal bandit.” Ronkur flinches again as Bellith goes on, his voice grim and full of despair. “This had t’ be the Rettan Thieves.”
Bellith rises slowly, picking up another chair and setting it upright near the table, where he falls upon it and reaches for his tankard. Ronkur stoops next to the floor safe, putting a small hand against the cool metal.
“W- w- well, Th- thieves or n- not, they can’t just get away with it.” He speaks pleadingly, as though some semblance of law enforcement existed in the small city.
Bellith busies himself with an apple from one of the bushels he carried away from the Keep. Ronkur absentmindedly feels the metal of the safe again, running his hand along it lengthwise until it nudges a scrap of parchment. Drawing it from the safe, he reads it, its words scrawled quickly in Common.
“No Honor, no Lineage, and no Loyalty. -RT” Ronkur crumples the parchment in anger for his friend. It’s not exactly a secret around Rettan that Bellith’s family was once full of proud blacksmiths, but now has dwindled to the lone Dwarf as a third generation fisherman, leaving him devoid of Dwarven Honor. The jab at his lineage, which Bellith can recount as far back as Bjornen, would cut deep at the unmarried, childless, well past his prime would-be suitor. And the Loyalty… Well, a Dwarf’s loyalty is everything. Ronkur can clearly recall Bellith on numerous occasions telling all who would listen tales of his great-great-grandfather standing with the Army of Dwarves in Renth against the Goblin Scourge, and his great-grandfather standing among kin and Men against the Black Evil of Shattered Rock. Every fighting Dwarf in Bellith’s family wielded the greatsword named Loyalty, and Bellith, who had never been in a fight his whole life, just had the blade taken from him. Ronkur could not let his friend know what slander was brought against him.
“L- listen, I’ll go grab some effects from my house, and we’ll get right to work on finding it.” Ronkur looks around the destroyed room. “All of it.” Bellith hardly acknowledges his friend’s brave offer, waving the apple at the Gnome as mead spills down his black beard.
.
== DUSK ==
.
Ronkur takes another deep breath, pressing his back to the damp bricks in the dark alley. For the third time, he checks his satchel to ensure he brought everything. Finding no increase of courage in another confirmation, he leans around the corner, peering toward the northern house. As the Bjornen Star sets over the Taurus Foothills, the Gnome can hardly see down the narrow street to the Halfling’s house, but he knows they’re inside. All of them. Or… at least some of them. The Rettan Thieves. This is one of their known Dens, and could very well be where Bellith’s sword is being hidden. Ronkur pulls the black hood over his head and takes a pair of mechanized gloves from his pack. The climb is infinitely easier wearing his inventions. Up the wall he goes, silently, until after a few short moments, he is standing on the roof, a black silhouette against the dusk sky, now eye level with the attic of the Thieves’ Den only three rooftops over.
With a click of his heels, Ronkur’s boots let out a small hiss, ensuring him the steam chambers in his soles are loaded. He charges suddenly across the rooftop, ticking over the shingles with each step. At the edge of the first roof, he grunts and leaps, his boot discharging a great amount of steam that propels him through the air and across the gap. Landing with a soft smack, he continues onward. Another set of ticking shingles, another leap, another discharge of steam, and now only one roof to go. Ronkur stops to get a better view of the Den’s attic, walking slowly up to a chimney for vantage and hiding.
Digging in his bag again, he emerges with a pair of crudely constructed goggles. Even with his great vision, Ronkur can hardly see into the opening. Placing them to his face, Ronkur twists a knob on the side, sliding different glass discs into and out of focus. The magnification setting needed leaves him with a cracked lens on his left eye, but the right gives enough vision to see into the dark entry above the common area. Boxes, beds, and weapons, but he can’t be sure which is Bellith’s Loyalty. The Dwarf would kill Ronkur if he knew what the Gnome was up to, especially on his own, but Bellith is terrible at sneaking, and even worse when drunk. At present, Bellith is VERY drunk.
With another deep breath, Ronkur prepares himself for a final sprint and launch. Replacing the goggles with a new contraption, an umbrella, the Gnome starts across the roof, jumping with the last step. His boots give off a loud hiss, but not loud enough. The chambers must be empty! With barely enough propulsion, Ronkur goes flapping through the open window, clipping his toe on the windowsill. At the last moment, he throws open his umbrella, the fortified iron frame cushioning his fall and absorbing the sound with its fur lined exterior.
“That went about as well as it could have,” Ronkur whispers to himself as he stands in the dark room. Knowing his courage won’t last forever, he quickly ensures that he is alone before moving a few boxes. With a pounding heart, he races to uncover as many shelves and boxes as he can, looking briefly inside each of them for the blade before returning its cover to the original position. A minute passes, then two, and he is no closer to finding Loyalty. Stepping quietly over to the far corner, Ronkur reaches to push aside a floor-to-ceiling hanging drape. A pommel! And a red gemstone!
Pulling the greatsword away from the wall, Ronkur stamps his feet in elation. The blade is nearly as tall as he is, but no matter. Ronkur sets his bag down once more, opening it and hefting the two-handed weapon upwards. The tip of the sword slides into the bag and down, down it goes until the open mouth of his Bag of Holding swallows up the weapon entirely.
“Wait until Bellith sees this!” Ronkur squeals softly, peeking into the bag one more time at the pommel. The red gemstone has been soaked with blood on countless occasions, Bellith always said. Every Dwarf worthy of bearing son in their family has wielded it in successful battle. Ronkur could almost see the glint in Bellith’s eyes as he imagined returning it safely to him. He’d be as bright as this jewel. The Gnome courses a finger over the gem, admiring the perfect cuts on its edges, the way the stone filled out the base of the pommel so well, the way the bright light shines off its surface… The light?! Oh no!
Turning with a shock, Ronkur sees a slightly taller figure standing in the doorway. He’s been discovered! The Gnome’s heart hammers against his chest as he grips the strap of his satchel and starts toward the window, away from the door.
THUMP.
Ronkur is stopped at once, colliding with another figure, much larger than the Halfling at the door. Looking up, he meets eyes with a brown-haired Man who grins down at him. Ronkur shakes in absolute fear, his jaw quivering open.
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” The Halfling speaks, stepping into the room with his lantern. The owner of this house, one of the three known Thieves’ Dens, approaches Ronkur with a light in one hand and a dagger in the other. “I stared for some time as well. You almost can’t take your eyes off it. Unless you’ve got no eyes…” The Halfling raises his dagger as the large Man snatches Ronkur by the shoulder and clamps his mouth shut. A large tear rolls down the Gnome’s cheek as he squirms uselessly, uttering muffled cries against the strong muzzle.
“Tell Bellith hello... if you can find him.”
The Bjornen Star sets fully over the peaks of the Taurus Mountains, covering Rettan in the black of night. The bright cluster of Vargen Stars, usually giving light to Zaelia during the evening, are covered by a low fog and thick mass of clouds. Tonight is exceptionally dark. But any vision is better than none at all. A single shriek escapes the Den, shrill and full of agony.
.
== NIGHTFALL ==
.