Life in the City of Doors is tough and don’t let any berk tell you otherwise. Any enclosed opening can be a portal meaning sods are constantly pouring in and out of the Cage. Factions vie for power with their hidden war called Kriegstanz occasionally spilling out in to the street and someone is going around writing private investigators like me in to the dead book.
As a profession we’re not too tight-nit, the Factions frown on anything resembling a guild and simply by the nature of the kind of work we do – this profession does not lend itself well to trusting others. Especially with all the cross-trading, sneaky, underhand and down-right unsavoury chivs that ply their skills in the darker recesses of the Cage. The Harmonium make out like they uphold the peace, the Fraternity of Law sit in lofty judgement and the Mercykillers gleefully execute the sentences meted out. ‘Course any berk and his mephit will lann you the chant that the Triad of Law is opposed to the Triad of Chaos and neither side is particularly keen on nosy sods poking their snouts in to things they’d rather be kept dark.
So it came as no surprise when a tout I know spilled the dark on how Sir Onyx Treadsteady got himself written in to the dead book. Even for a stone genasi he was no spring hatchling but we should have all got the message when his petrified corpse was found in the middle of rag-picker’s square. Some chiv had even hung his laundry out to dry on poor ol’ Onyx. The there was Raslagula, a canny blood with as many disguises as an incubus has chat-up lines. Whenever we met up to down some bub I’d frequently spend half the evening just trying to figure out which sod he was disguised at. Raslagula was always one for playing tricks and games. Poor bubber was delivered by courier to each one of us in the truth-seeking business with a Deck of Many Things tattooed on to his skin. It was only after we’d received over a dozen or more pieces that we put it together and tumbled to what had happened to him.
Two macabre executions was enough for pretty much anyone calling themselves a truth-seeker to catch a whiff of which way the Wind Dukes were facing. Suddenly the Cage got a lot quieter in our little community as most packed up their kips and skipped town. Rule of Three states that if you see two of the same, expect a third.
Three nights later Larius Quickgill was fished out of the Ditch. He’d tried to give his pursuers the laugh but they’d finally trapped him and turned his boots of leaping and springing against him. The Dustmen remarked in their cool and emotionless voices that the lucky sod had passed on to True Death. Given the choice of having a nice hot bath or having your boots of leaping and springing go off in two separate directions, well I know which one I’d be picking.
Anyway, the few truth-seekers left in town are planning a gathering to see if we can find out which ever knight of the post is behind these attacks. Personally I think they have about as much chance as a blind-folded high elf entering the Demon-web pits on a goblin pogo-stick. So instead I’ve decided to put out an ad with Harys Hatchis to see if I can recruit a team of investigators. It’s time we had some new bloods in the Cage kicking over some anthills and upping the tempo of the Kriegstanz. My dream of taking down one or two of the Golden Lords is all that keeps me going these days and I’ll be damned if I don’t go down like a gorgon in a tea shop.