Gutter Rat's Gambit - Chapter 1 - The Bastard Son

I was born a bastard halfling in the wretched city of Cloakmoor to a whore of a mother and a useless scoundrel of a father, who had bought my mother for the evening.  I was conceived during their pixie dust and ale fed one-night stand and came to be six months later. My mother, addicted to pixie dust and inconvenienced by having another mouth to feed, left me on the steps of a local temple.  Never again to see me or love me.  

You may be wondering – what is pixie dust? It is the vilest of powdery substances.  It’ll make you lose your mind and forget your troubles.  How do they make it you ask?  Pixie dust falls from the pixies' wings naturally. They gather it and use the powder to play pranks on unsuspecting people to get them to part with their wealth.  Well, some sadistic asshole realized you could pop off the poor pixies’ wings and grind them up into a finer powder. You could then use that powder to create an intoxicating euphoric experience, that will have you losing your mind.  In small doses it will temporarily knock you out and give you a euphoric feeling and in large doses it will destroy your life and probably kill you.  It’s sold almost exclusively in Cloakmoor to the less fortunate and to those who wish to numb their bleak reality.  

That temple in Cloakmoor was the only holy thing in that city of cutthroats and heathens.  It was built there long along by a monastic order of monks and offered salvation to those who sought it. It offered protection to the Coinless, those desperate forsaken souls who didn’t have the skills to be a part of Cloakmoor’s deadly game.  Most of the Coinless were lost and poor and turned to blood sports, alchemical addictions, prostitution, or worse, ended up in the gutter with their throat cut for no reason at all.  I was a Coinless, like my mother, and I swore to myself that I would not die one.  So, I did everything I could do at the temple to be better.

Well almost everything.  The priests taught me to read and write and read I did. Everything I could get my hands on.  They also taught me basic arithmetic as I often helped count the meager tithes that were donated to the temple.  You would have thought that by growing up surrounded by devout holiness that it would have rubbed off on me. It didn’t.  The priests kept saying I was special and that if I believed in their god I would never be forsaken.  But I was already forsaken, by the mother who had dropped me there because she didn’t want me.

What little I know of my parents was learned from the monks.  My mother was a regular of the temple dinners, where those with nothing came to receive a hot meal.  She was a prostitute by choice, and the monks saw her on several occasions with my father.  He was a pirate and a halfling of ill repute and what earnings he had he drank and gambled away. I’ve often wondered what my mother saw in him, if anything at all.  When I was about twelve years old and could take care of myself, I left one night and never returned. I took a few of my favorite books from their library on the way out.  So began my life as a thief.

Cloakmoor was built on an ancient city whose old streets were flooded by the river, leaving a city on top of a city.  It is ruled by a secretive council of seven members known as the Shrouded, who wear hooded black robes with black mesh to obscure their faces.  They rule with impunity and an iron fist.  Multiple bridges were built to travel over the waterways connecting the distinct districts. There were plenty of spots to hide, making it the perfect hideaway for thieves, spies, and those who wish not to be found. It is directly across the river from Daggerkeep, the human capital city of Rathmar, a country once called Sylvandor by the elves. 

I spent many suns on the streets of both cities begging for coin and taking coin purses with sleight of hand. Only from the wealthy though – they could stand to lose a few coins. I have my morals, and I refuse to take from those who have nothing to give.  I remember the day like it was yesterday. The day my luck changed for the better.

I was fifteen years old and had been living on the streets for three years.  I had just snagged a fat coin purse from a rather rude nobleman in the market of Daggerkeep and slipped away onto a side street.  I was halfway down it when there in the window for sale was a dice set.  Two wooden dice painted white with black dots indicating the numbers.  It came with a wooden cup and felt-lined wooden box for rolling them into.  In the coin purse was the exact amount for it.  An idea came to me in an instant – instead of stealing coin why not gamble for it?  So, I bought the dice set and went to a local tavern in Cloakmoor.  It was close to sunset by the time I arrived.  The tavern I chose was the Drowned Pirate, a haven for sailors and pirates alike.  It was built on the edge of the Whisper Docks, where illicit trade ships offloaded stolen goods to be fenced at The Turned Coin market. 

The Drowned Pirate was a place where sailors, smugglers, and cutthroats drank away their sins— or struck deals that would damn them even further.  The interior of the tavern was dimly lit by rusty old lanterns with black cages casting flickering shadows across the warped wooden walls.  The floors were stained from centuries of spilt ale, blood, and gods-know-what.  They creaked as you walked along them and rumor has it there are hidden compartments in the floor to hide illicit goods or the occasional body.  The scent of damp wood, strong liquor and river brine clung to everything and mixed with the ever-present smell of sweat and blood.  The ceiling was low, with thick crossbeams overhead hung with fishing nets, old ship lanterns, and the skeletal remains of a pirate.  If you believe the legend, the skeleton belongs to the very first pirate to ever step foot in the tavern.  He drowned his sorrows with the finest of ales and died at the bar.  So, the barkeep tossed him up in the netting to free up the barstool and as a warning not to die in the bar.  That was how the tavern got its name.  There was a low hum of whispered deals – broken only by the occasional shouting match, drunken brawl, or a knife suddenly meeting flesh.  I say all that to say this place wasn’t for the faint of heart.

I walked up to the long uneven bar nicknamed “The Plank” that sat against the back wall of the tavern.  I ordered an ale from the burly one-armed man named Barik.  He poured the ale into a chipped unpolished metal tankard.  He didn’t ask for payment, but I paid the man three copper pieces anyway.  I didn’t want to start a tab I couldn’t pay for and catch the sharp end of a knife in the belly. I took my seat at a table which had a slight wobble to it and took in my surroundings.  I looked up at the Wall of Regret.  The aptly named wall had rusty old daggers and broken swords jammed into the soft wood and crude carved warnings marking those who vanished after making a bad deal.

I hope I never make it onto that wall.

By the fireplace sat a large wooden chair stained with blood.  It was rumored to be the place the last man who cheated at cards was beaten to death.

In the back next to the bar was a large room where the Captain’s Table sat.  It was reserved for captains, guild leaders and those who could pay for the price of silence.  Along the edges of the room were the private booths, separated by tattered curtains.  There pirates, spies and assassins negotiated in hushed tones.  The tavern was busy tonight with patrons scattered about.  A few wenches were fetching tankards of ale and mead for the rowdy, unscrupulous crowd – their only tips the catcalling and groping of unpleasant bastards.

I placed my dice game on the table in front of me and sipped on my ale waiting for someone to come up and play.  Most paid me no mind.  But a few patrons eyed me up and down, but none dared approach for they knew the hustle.  I was on my third round of ale when a scrawny drunken sailor approached.  He wobbled back and forth as he walked towards me.  He looked at me with his one eye and threw three coppers on the table as he sat down.

“Alright mate let’s see what you got,” he slurred.