In the dying light of a summer sunset, Dragonfall looked… peaceful. High above the still-busy streets of his home city, Manausius smiled quietly to himself. In truth, watching the city from his balcony in Naeval Manor was his favorite pastime. Below him, long purple shadows picked their way lazily through streets and alleyways, headed for homes and taverns. With the heat easing with the coming of night, one could actually sit back and relax. Hah! That’s an easy recipe for a quick death, boy! Atta’s lessons still echoed in his old head. True, whether in a Dock Ward alley or in the posh manors of Northside, one’s guard never dropped. Ho! Why do you think those Gund northmen call us the City of Invisible Daggers! Eh? But in this amber light, the noise of wagons and beasts and men died down and in that brief moment before night’s dangerous cloak swallowed them all, one could be at ease. Old man thoughts! Too many winters have dulled your steel, Manausius! Perhaps it was time you gave Eldrin charge of House affairs. He already manages the two spring caravans on the north-south road. Eldrin was a good son, true. His skillful donation to the Priests of Rauvin had gained them a good seat in the Tors Mercantilus, the Ministry of Trade. Even from his perch, the mighty foundations of the new Rauvinian Temple could be seen near the Dragonskull Gate. Priests are nothing but leeches, boy! They lie and steal as well as the Guild, they just call it woship! Another few summers perhaps and the Temple would be completed. Neither the Olydian Brotherhood nor the Southern Temple of Eidar were very pleased with the shift in fortunes that foretold. It was said that the priests of Rauvin were actively persecuted in faraway Gund these days: the northmen disliked priests whose canon encouraged the deflowering of maidens as “penance” to their god. Bah! We have no such scruples here! Manausius started to smile again, when a light draft wafted over his bald head. Dry marshes! Why do the maids leave the doors open? I’ll be bit by those little bastards for sure tonight! Those were his last thoughts when the darkness came.

Damn smell! He’d washed it off ten times if not twenty in running water and still it clung to his clothes! It was bad enough he’d had to wait hunched in an urn for five hours before the servants actually left the old man alone, but those nauseating medicinal salts had left a distinctive smell on him. And it was not just the discomfort of spending a evening smelling of old men and their doctors… an overly eager watch captain or an off-duty constable at the wrong tavern, and he’d be finding employment down in Marshpoint. Aside from that, the job had gone well. Meln now found himself walking calmly down the Street of Beggars, on his way to the Sleeping Dragon. Provided he could get a change of clothes and a warm bath, he might just enjoy himself this evening. The satisfaction of a smooth kill and the heavy bag of silver awaiting him lifted his mood somewhat. The information provided by the son had been precise: that little bastard had obviously been planning to off his father for some time. Eldrin Naeval had not only given him the servant’s daily schedule, but he’d been given a rather detailed map of the first and second levels of the manor!

“I give you this because I want it done clean with no other deaths,” the idiot had told him. “I trust, of course, in the integrity of the Guild. Should there ever be a burglary in Naeval Manor, I’ll know right where to look for the culprit.” So rich and so stupid! That map would earn him quite a little tip.

By the time Meln reached the Sleeping Dragon, night had fallen fully. He sped up the back stairs to the second floor rooms and quietly entered his rented room. A quick check of the door showed no one had entered; inside, the windows were likewise secure. The music and hubbub of the tavern below drifted through the floor into the darkened room as searched his pack for a crude bar of lye soap. He was about to head out to find a servant who could draw a bath when door was pounded heavily several times. Damn! What now? In an instant, he had drawn his cloak around him and leaped noiselessly into the overhead rafters. There he held still.

“Open this door in the name of the Dragon’s Constable! Open it now!” Constable!? How? He’d left no trace back at the manor, he was sure of that. He heard some mumbling he couldn’t make out in the hall. The voice he heard next explained everything, however.

“I’ve been told, yes… been told, he lairs here, yes… lairs here on occasion.” That child-like voice he could recognize anywhere! Felynn! Forgetting himself for a second, Meln almost screamed in frustration. That little bastard, no-good halfling! Three weeks ago he’d met the little hairy-footed bastard at a less-than-reputable establishment down in the Dock Ward. It had been a long night and Meln had been very, very drunk. As luck would have it, Felynn had been just as drunk and in a very agreeable mood. Over a pleasant and quick game of Spider’s Draw, Meln had suckered the little midget out of his horse, his sword and three of his rings. Again, as luck would have it, it turned out Felynn was the second son of House Chen, out for a little risqué spin around town. Ugh. Being harassed the next day by incompetent House henchmen had been unpleasant, but this was getting out of hand! And he had no intention of returning anything. Even his minor skills in the Arts had shown one of the rings to be magical.