Bottom of The Bottle is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers and Rumors For Silkgift, The City of Sails!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

Despite the name, Nightmare Alley didn’t look like much at a glance. The cobbled street was narrow and winding, and the buildings to either side were built mostly of stone, with wooden upper stories, lots of windows and tiled roofs. Oddly-colored smoke plumed out of various chimneys, and there were some rather loud bangs from one third story window, but other than that the neighborhood seemed rather harmless.

Appearances could be deceiving, though… especially in a place like this.

The Outlander found the address he’d been given down a side street that was little more than a wide crack between two of the houses. The narrow walking path was close, and it stank of refuse and slop water. The door at number 16 and a half was made of heavy timbers held together with iron banding, and while it bore an intimidating a lock on the outside, the Outlander was sure there was also a bar on the inside. There was no pull rope for a bell, but there was an odd mesh of brass over a hole in the wall. He leaned down, and heard a strange sound coming out of the metal mesh. It was a thick, panting, animal sound. A sound full of growling aggression and barely controlled anger.

“Renard,” the Outlander said into the mesh.

As if the name was a trigger, the snarls grew into a low roar. The door shook in its frame as something started hammering on the other side. Wood cracked, and one of the hinges bent out of true. Thinking quickly, the Outlander stood clear of the door, speaking rapidly into the mesh next to the door.

“Sunset. Moonrise. Starshine. Lullaby,” he said, speaking the sequence of words quickly, and clearly.

As soon as he finished speaking, the hammering on the door stopped. The enraged roars ceased, replaced with a low, pained moaning sound. Several moments later the Outlander heard panting breath, and raspy words come back through the speaking tube.

“Jace?” the voice asked through the grille. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Renard,” the Outlander said. “Is it safe?”

“Safe enough,” he said with a harsh chuckle. “Give me a moment.”

The Outlander waited, arms folded in the narrow alley. An argument broke out on the street where he’d come from, and all he could make out through the slurring were two men trying to quote mathematical formulae at once another. A cart filled with heavy barrels rolled by, pulled by an ogre with a harness across his chest and shoulders. The sun slid down a few more inches toward the horizon. Just as he was beginning to wonder if Renard was in danger, he heard grunting, and the sound of the bar being lifted out of its brackets. A moment later the door opened with a creak, and the Outlander was face to face with the man he’d come all the way to Silkgift to see.

There didn’t seem to be much to him, truth be told. Renard was a slight man with stooped shoulders, disheveled brown hair, and a rather average build. He was a head shorter than his visitor, and several days of salt and pepper stubble sat on his chin. He looked like any of a dozen other tinkerers and alchemists who made their home in this part of the city. Unlike those others, though, Renard was dressed in torn and tattered clothing that was much too big for him, and there was a sizable leg iron around his right ankle. The chain had been snapped with great force, and a short length of it dangled from the manacle like a dead snake. When Renard raised his gaze to his visitor’s face, his eyes were deep, dark and haunted.

“What happened?” The Outlander asked.

“I was trying a different treatment,” Renard said. “He was… I was growing resistant to the old formula. The alterations seemed to be working.”

The Outlander glanced past Renard’s shoulder. Deep gouges ran across the hardwood floor, and a steel cage had been rent asunder. The cage’s bars were all bent outward, as if whatever was being held inside had broken out. The Outlander turned his gaze to Renard, and he shrugged one shoulder, letting his gaze drop back to the floor.

“What brought you all this way?” Renard asked.

“I need your help,” The Outlander said.

Renard laughed. It was a bitter, angry sound. He flung a hand over his shoulder to indicate his broken laboratory. “I can’t even help myself, Jace. What is it you think I can do for you?”

“Gregor is here,” the Outlander said. Renard blinked.

“Did you… did you tell him your purpose in coming here?”

The Outlander smiled. “I daresay he knows.”

Renard swallowed hard, and looked back toward the wreck of his laboratory. He chewed on his lip for a moment; a nervous habit that even after all these years he hadn’t broken. The alchemist rubbed the back of his neck, and tilted his head. It was as if he was listening to a conversation only he could hear.

“Where are we going?” Renard asked.

“Hoardreach,” the Outlander responded.

Renard’s eyes widened. For a long moment he didn’t say anything. Neither did his guest.

“Is that where she went?” Renard asked.

“It is,” the Outlander replied.

“Ah,” was all Renard said. He swallowed, and nodded his head once. “Where are you staying? I need to… clean up. And prepare enough doses for the road.”

“You can find us in Great Ferry,” the Outlander said. “The Inn of The Red Ox.”

“I’ll be there by sunset,” Renard said.

“Good.” The Outlander favored the alchemist with a smile. “I’ve booked us passage for the morrow. The journey should be uneventful, if luck is with us.”

“I hope it is,” Renard said as he closed the door. “For once, I hope it is.”

The Outlander turned, and retraced his steps. He had assembled nearly all of his allies. The last, though, he felt would be the most difficult to persuade to his cause. But that would be a challenge he would face when they reached the City of Wyrms.