The Temptation of Gheeran

"You didn't kick him or anything?" Zejka asked, her look almost as threatening as Muffins' growl.

"Hell no. You know I like him. And he's clever enough not to get under my feet." I took a long gulp from my cup.

A hand clapped my shoulder and I almost choked on my tea.

"Here you are," Rokun said. "Done playing 'hard-to-get?'"

"What's so important?" I shot back.

"I think I have the perfect job for you. But time is of the essence. Ready to go? Where's your cane? Ach, never mind that." He all but hauled me out of my seat.

"Hey, what's up with you? I'm not done with my breakfast!"

"I say you are. We have a tailor to visit."

Perplexed, I let Rokun guide me through the streets of the Craftsmen's Quarter. We didn't talk much, which suited me just fine. I wasn't quite comfortable disclosing my little episode with Xanthul'ilia. Dealing with demons was a sticky topic, especially in a law-abiding city like Storm Harbour. Also, I didn't want to give Rokun any information he might use against me. In the decade since our last meeting, he had become even colder and more ruthless, almost like a dark elf, and I wondered if putting my trust in him wasn't a huge mistake.

I pretended to still be blind while checking my surroundings from under my hood. After the long darkness, seeing Storm Harbour's true colors was sobering. The grey winter skies and greyer stone buildings weighed upon my mind. I had envisioned everything much brighter, prettier than it was. The Quarter was hardly a slum, but there was enough squalor in the corners to be noticeable. Beggars, street urchins, shivering prostitutes in their much-too-flimsy garments, large puddles of unidentifiable liquids in unpaved alleyways and crumbling back yards.

I breathed a small sigh of relief when we entered the small tailor's shop near the Castle Ward, up towards the northern end of the crescent. The nobility lived in clean, spacious Castle Ward, and many craftsmen near that ward catered exclusively to their needs.

"Well, what's so important that you had to drag me here?" I asked Rokun while we waited for the tailor, a whip-thin human male who was busy fawning over two noblewomen. By their looks, they were mother and daughter, shopping for expensive and revealing evening attire. The tailor was presenting them a bodice with a deep neckline, made from some lacy, black material shot through with gold and studded with tiny crystal pieces.

"Yes, that will do nicely," the mother said. "I expect they will be ready by next week."

"As her Ladyship desires," the tailor drawled, handing off the garment to one of his staff. A few moments later, mother and daughter had gone, leaving the tailor with a sizeable bag of coins. He tied that to his belt and at last acknowledged us.

"So, what can I do for you?" The last word was spoken with such contempt, I felt like Harok visiting the Storm Lords. No, scratch that. Despite being a beggar, Keira Dunwall treated him much better than this tailor did us.

"You'd better watch your tone, or someone might find your tongue floating in the gutter tonight," Rokun told him. "I need two outfits fit for Ser Ethan's masquerade tonight."

"I only work on commission, and there is no chance—"

A dagger glinted against the tailor's neck, shutting him up. Rokun smiled thinly.

"On the other hand, maybe I could find the time to stitch something together," the tailor croaked.

"That's the spirit, man," Rokun grinned, stowing away his weapon. "I want one suit, green velvet tunic, leather vest and pants, high boots and a green hooded cloak. Then I need a black bodysuit, one-piece, with dark red stitching, an ornamented leather sword belt and matching leather vest. On top of that, a black silk cloak with ample hood and two face masks."

"You will be surprised to hear that I have at least the first few articles in stock. The bodysuit I need to make from scratch. Do you have the measurements?"

"Of course not. But you're able to get them off us, right?" Again, the dagger appeared as Rokun twirled the weapon between his fingers. The tailor nodded and gestured towards a back room. Rokun took my elbow and led me there.

The next hour or so we wasted while the tailor took our measurements. He nearly fainted when I slipped out of my cloak. He had heard about dark elves, and going by his reaction, he hadn't met Arach and the other followers of the Moon Maiden.

"We will be back before nightfall. Make sure our clothes are done by then," Rokun said by way of good-bye.

"Umm, what about my payment?" the tailor asked. Fool.

Rokun surprised me though. Instead of gutting that insolent human, he flicked a bag of coins the tailor's way. I had to fight to keep from chuckling. It was the same bag the noblewoman had given him earlier. While the tailor was busy measuring me, Rokun had stealthily cut the strings holding it to the tailor's belt.

"You're too generous," the tailor fawned before Rokun slammed the door in his face.

"Just because he serves the nobility he thinks he's better than us," the half-elf snarled under his breath.

"Mind telling me what this whole business is about? You're even more foul-tempered than usual."

"Well, I wouldn't have to be if we had more time, but since that half-Orc slut of yours nearly threw me out yesterday, I'm a bit under pressure. We have a job and I need your help."

"Even though I'm blind?"

"Especially since you're blind. No one would suspect you."

"Suspect me of what, exactly?"

Rokun had led me deeper into the Craftsmen's Quarter again until we turned down a narrow alley. A moment later, he rapped his knuckles against what looked to me like a solid wall. It swung inwards and a hooded, armed man looked us over. Rokun nodded at him and he let us pass. A few steps later, we were in a small room, nothing more than a table, a cabinet and a few chairs. The hooded man opted to remain outside. Rokun had me sit down, then he opened the cabinet. I heard glass clink, then he turned back to face me, two glasses of wine in his hands.

"What do you know about the current political situation in Storm Harbour?" he asked me as he handed me one of the glasses.

"Well, Storm Harbour is a city-state, ruled by five Storm Lords. Urs the Sailor, Ser Ethan Wildthorne, Lady Keira Dunwall, Father Corwyn of the House of Mercy and Ubrok Ironforge, a wealthy dwarven merchant and arms dealer, right?"

"Nice to see you're on top of things. Yes, these are the people ruling Storm Harbour, at least in name. The cleric and the dwarf show up at the Lords' Meet and cast their votes, but they mostly keep to themselves. Urs, Keira and Ser Ethan are the ones doing the obvious ruling, with receiving foreign diplomats or commanding the Guard and so forth."

"I remember you told the tailor we were going to a masquerade held by Ser Ethan, right?"

"Yup." Rokun smiled at me over the rim of his glass and I felt as if I had just passed some kind of test. "Someone wants to destabilize Storm Harbour, big time. That's where we come in."

"Just the two of us?"

"What happened to Gheeran, master assassin?" Rokun needled. "Just the two of us is plenty, considering it's just one mark. One dramatic death, at the right time and the right place, and the whole place will be in an uproar."

"So, what's the plan?" I took a sip from my wine. It was a dark red, heady and very sweet. Dangerous stuff.

"All eyes will be on Ser Ethan's house tonight. We leave one very obvious corpse and the whole of Storm Harbour will tremble. Ser Ethan will be discredited and the Storm Lords will have to choose a new member."

"Sounds intriguing," I admitted. I wasn't a stranger to politics. But back home, we wouldn't have wasted our time with "discrediting" an individual when we could have wiped out their entire House instead.

"Who's the unlucky corpse-to-be?"

"Moira Dunwall," Rokun said. I nearly dropped my glass. He raised an eyebrow. "What, you know her?"

"I- erm.. uh... I've met her once while learning the lay of the land," I lied. "Why her?"

"Because our client asked us to. We are to make it as dramatic as possible. Cut throat, white linen sheets, lots of blood, the whole package. They want her to be found."

"Any idea who the client may be?" I asked, trying to stall for time. I had to warn her! The least I could do for her saving my life. Normally, a drow wouldn't bother, but one thing Ya'tyrr had drilled into me, apart from his dick, was the concept of loyalty. She had saved me when she absolutely didn't have to, and-

Rokun slapped my shoulder.

"So, any questions?" the half-elf asked.

"Huh?"

"You haven't been paying attention again?" Rokun hissed. "Maybe I should do this alone, keep the whole purse for myself."

"No, no, wait," I said, fumbling for his arm and bowling my glass off the table. With a fragile tinkling, it shattered on the floor, unheeded by either one of us. If I was the one to do the deed, maybe I could foil this madness somehow. Moira didn't deserve to die, not after saving my life. And I was curious if she was sincere about her veiled offers. I was no stranger to mummery, so I twisted my lips into an eager grin and squeezed Rokun's arm. "Tell me again, please."

Rokun sighed. "All right, but don't make me repeat myself again. You've wasted enough of my time already while you were... unavailable. What was it you needed to know?"

"For starters, who's the client?"

Rokun squeezed his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. "She tried very hard not to be recognized. Full cloak, black face mask, hood, the whole package. Like in one of those bardic tales." He scoffed and took another sip from his wine. "But she made enough mistakes."

"She?"

"I'm dead sure it was a woman. She had that distinctive walk, and the cloak couldn't completely hide the swell of her breasts. And her driver forgot to wear something inconspicuous under that black cloak of his."

"So, any idea which House ordered the hit?"

"House Dunwall."

"You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm laughing? It's no secret Keira Dunwall has a grudge against her sister, the whole damn city knows that."

I had to agree. In my time at Dunwall Manor, I've heard them yell at each other often enough. Mostly through the door leading to my room, but the tone alone was enough to convince me that there was no love lost between them. And suddenly I felt right at home again. Sibling rivalries, especially those with a fatal ending, were all too commonplace in drow society.

"Fine then. What's our plan for tonight?" I dearly wished I hadn't destroyed the wine glass. Every fiber in me yearned for a drink.

"Simplicity itself. You try to get close to her, lead her into one of the back rooms, on the pretense of having some fun with her, then you use this," he slid an ornamented dagger over the table, the pommel forged to look like the crest of Ubrok Ironforge, "to off her. Make it obvious. White sheets, red blood, lots of drama."

"And then what? Won't they become suspicious? I mean, a blind dark elf is hard to miss, isn't he?"

"You will be surprised, friend." Rokun's smile worried me.

* * * *

I turned this way and that in front of the mirror, feeling ridiculous. The clothes fit, but I looked like a caricature of a drow warrior. The leather vest over my black silk bodysuit was burgundy-red and sported a cartload of sequins, the sword belt was made from a fine, silvery fabric and stitched with all manner of floral designs and the buckle was a stylized spider, done in gold. This was as far removed from the stealthy, no-frills clothing a drow warrior would wear than Rokun's forest elf getup for him. Although I had to admit, his extra-tight tights flattered his firm behind.

I was nervous. After the briefing, Rokun had dragged me to a food stall, to pass the time. I had no opportunity to sneak away and get a warning to Moira. So it all depended on me not messing up at the masquerade.

"Yes, this will do nicely," Rokun told the tailor, donning his face mask. Green, with silver leaves. Mine was blood-red, with black lines around tiny eye slits. Not that I needed them, the magic Xanthul'ilia used on me worked just fine even through the mask. But it covered up my empty eye sockets, my most distinctive facial feature. To the casual observer, I looked like an utterly ridiculous fop. Felt like it, too.

The human was tight-lipped, probably because of the prank Rokun had pulled this morning. Nonetheless, he had delivered, and the costume was surprisingly comfortable.

"Here, a little something for a job well done." The silver-haired half-elf pulled a shining ruby from his belt and tossed it towards the tailor, who snatched the gem out of the air and stared at it, awestruck.

"For... me?"

"Of course. Who knows when I might need your services again? Just keep your mouth shut and pretend you've never seen us, then everything will be fine. Understood?"

The tailor nodded happily.

"Fine then. One last detail. Here, Gheeran. I guess this is yours." Rokun slipped a ring into my hand. Even without looking at it, I recognized it as my blindsense focus. "All set, friend?"

Despite the turmoil of feelings, I tried my best to appear playful and eager. I slipped the ring onto my finger and snatched his elbow.

"Sure, let's dance."

We left the tailor's, only to be greeted by a large coach, pulled by four horses.

"You spared no expense tonight, huh?" I had to ask.

"Nope. We need to make an entrance, and this will make sure we'll get the attention we deserve." He pulled me towards the front end of the coach. "Sloane, did you bring the items I asked for?"

I ended up standing next to a horse's rear quarter. The animal began to snort nervously; I reached out and patted it's ample behind. "Shhhh, all is well." Bad idea, Gheeran. With a panicked neigh, the horse kicked. Only my honed reflexes saved me from a caved-in ribcage.

"What the—?" Rokun snapped as Sloane wrestled with the reins.

"No idea, dammit!" I lied. But then... It wasn't only Muffins, it seemed. That couldn't be a coincidence any more. I raised my hand and moved it towards the horses. Again, the animals became skittish. Tiny, insignificant part of my soul, huh?

"Get in the coach and try not to get killed," Rokun snapped, pulling me towards the door.

I climbed into the spacious cabin. One bench held several packages, so I took a seat on the unoccupied one, facing the coach's rear. Rokun climbed in behind me and rapped the roof sharply. The coach rattled off. We had barely made two corners as a huge explosion rocked the quarter. From under my hood, I looked out of the carriage's rear window. An angry orange plume of fire was raising into the night sky, and a moment later the cries of "Fire! Fire!" echoed through the neighbourhood.

I turned to look at Rokun. He was unwrapping one of the packages, his trademark smile tugging on one side of his mouth. "The tailor?" I asked, to keep my facade up.

"Just a little extra insurance. Can't have him tell the Guards who bought a certain pair of costumes, now can we?"

"What did you do?"

"The gem. Why do you think I was in such a hurry to get going? Once I activated it, we had about three minutes before the fireball went off. Here, this is for you." He pressed a long, heavy parcel into my hands.

I ripped it open and stared. It was a delicate duelling sword, the blade a long, sharp spike of metal, almost blunt in its simplicity. What the blade lacked in finery though, the elaborately wrought basket hilt made up. In the light filtering through the carriage's drapes, I could see gold filigree smelted onto the fist guard and an obscenely large gem making up the pommel. Shrugging, I slid it into the sheath on my sword belt.

"I look like a festive ornament," I complained.

"Just the look we were going for. After all, it's gonna be one hell of a party. Relax, you'll have fun."

I leaned back into the cushions. I had some serious doubts.

Part 4: Death and Betrayal

The mansion glowed. Not only were there lanterns everywhere, but the owner had gone so far as to have magical lights summoned to the house's window sills, bathing the whole structure in a swirling rainbow of ethereal hues. The large, round flower bed in the driveway seemed like one single pool of fire, made from hundreds of candles planted onto the frozen earth.

When we exited the coach, I could hear soft string music, wafting from the open doorway. And guarding said doorway were... Minotaurs? No way! How could anyone... Oh, wait. As we went closer, I could see that the guards flanking the double doors wore specially crafted helmets over brown tabards and bulky plate mails, making them look like the huge bull men. I tried to relax.

"I told you we were attending a masquerade, Gheeran," Rokun murmured. "If anybody asks about your hideously deformed visage, tell them you had a mage alter your appearance for extra shock value. You'll be a hit with the ladies."

Then we had reached the guards and Rokun pulled two envelopes from his cloak.

"Duke Rokun and companion, from the Duchy of Sunleaf," he announced. One guard took his envelopes and sliced them open with a talon from his glove, pulling out two elaborate pieces of parchment, gilded border and all.

"Welcome, sire, and have a wonderful night," the guard said, nodding his horned helmet and handing back our invitations. Poor guy, his neck muscles had to be killing him.

"Oh, we will, thank you." Rokun dragged me away.

"Sunleaf?" I asked. "Never heard of that."

"No wonder. That particular elven duchy was destroyed almost two hundred years ago by a drow raid. Plus, it's so far to the south, I doubt anyone would have noticed up here. Works every time."

"How do you know?"

"My mother told me Father came from there," Rokun said. "Let's not dwell on the past. Here comes the herald."

The "herald" looked like a rotting zombie, his skin a sickly green, his hair slicked back against his skull. What made this getup even more ridiculous than his exaggerated shuffling movements was the soil-encrusted livery he wore. When he was nearly in arm's reach, the stench caught up with us and I had to fight not to retch. The graveyard stench was shocking, and most of all, authentic. Either he had his costume soaked with alchemicals, or he had asked a mage to disguise him like this. Both choices would have been horribly expensive. Thanks to Ya'tyrr, I knew a bit about alchemy and the prices for exotic components, and Belard, our resident magician, never tired of reminding us how taxing and expensive his spells were.

The zombie had reached us and smiled, his mouth a spectacular, rotting display of crooked teeth.

"Welcome. I trust the gents have their invitations on hand?" the zombie drawled.

Rokun handed him the papers.

"Oh, splendid. If the gents would be so kind and follow me?"

We did, walking down a long hallway, our steps throwing harsh echoes off the marble walls. Every few feet, the naked stone was decorated by a lavish painting, depicting this meadow or that forest glade. Eventually, the herald had reached the doors to the ballroom. Behind them, we could hear the murmur of a hundred voices and the soft singing of stringed instruments. With a flourish, the herald pushed the doors open and I forgot to breathe.

The ballroom was filled with a sea of creatures. Directly in front of us, a scantily-clad elven princess danced with a bare-chested Orc barbarian, his black hair woven into an arm-thick braid. Next to that, a drow priestess, wearing precious little apart from a sheer black cape and violet fabric wrapped around her breasts and hips, was swaying next to a pirate, his whole getup an ensemble of clashing colors and gaudy jewellery. There were fake elves and too-tall dwarves with their bulky armors and massive beards, dryads wrapped in cloaks made from leaves and satyrs with their horns askance from too much jumping around and all manner of fantastic man-beast variants.