Dead Man’s Promise is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers & Rumors For Moüd, City of Bones!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The streets of Elmbarrow were long and winding, the pavers worn by centuries of baking sun, desert winds and the passage of thousands upon thousands of feet. Mausoleums stood in rows like faded soldiers, their names worn away to whispers and their banners reduced to bleached and tattered ruins. Grave markers were scattered about like broken teeth, watched over by the hooded gaze of obsidian grotesques who looked down from their plinths with grim, unsmiling faces. As the sun set, chill fingers crept through the air, spreading with the shadows and reaching for those brave or foolish enough to walk these paths beneath the gaze of the gibbous moon. Two figures walked along those paths, their steps silent, and their direction deliberate.

“I don’t really see why you need me for this,” Meran said.

“Because if I let you out of my sight, you’ll be gone in a puff of smoke,” her companion replied.

“Would it help if I gave you my word I would wait?” Meran asked.

“The word of a thief?” the outlander said, glancing at her. There was amusement in his voice, but not in his eyes as he regarded her, and readjusted his grip on his walking staff. “I would have returned to the room with my halberd, armor, spare boots and traveling trunk gone, with a note saying what you owed me and promising you’d pay it back.”

“I think I’m deep enough in your debt as it is,” Meran said, her voice carefully neutral. Her companion sighed, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I appreciate you’d rather be anywhere else than in this city, and in any part of this city except the place we’re going,” he said. “So when we conclude our business we’ll head to a tavern, and the first round’s on me.”

Meran eyed him suspiciously, pursing her lips. “And the second?”

“If you get through this without stabbing anyone, I’ll cover the second as well,” he agreed.

Before Meran could respond, they rounded a corner, and came face-to-face with their destination. A massive, obsidian structure that gleamed beneath the pale moon. The stone was old, but had resisted the test of time in ways few of its companions had. The lines of its corners were still sharp, and the characters carved all over it were still legible, though the language was old enough that few could understand it even in this city. Hanging on black iron chains from one end of the structure were lanterns that burned green in the darkness, lighting the top steps of a descending stairway. Maren glanced at the entrance, then back at her companion, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“After you,” she said.

“If you insist,” the outlander said, striding toward the entrance. Maren followed, her hands all but twitching toward her hidden blades, and her teeth clenched hard enough to make the muscles of her jaw stand out in stark relief. In that green light, it made her look something of a corpse herself.

A stone slab slid away silently at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a doorway. The companions entered, and stepped into a vision from a fever dream. Rows of skulls gleamed along the walls, their death’s head grins catching the light of torches and candles so it looked like they were laughing. Chandeliers of bone hung from heavy chains, and shadows swayed and slithered across the stones inside. Men and women in the garb of a dozen nations danced and chatted, drinking strange liquids from fluted glasses. Between them all clattered the shambling shapes of skeletons, wearing only the loosest funerary drapes as they served foods and drinks, collecting silver in the rattle cans hung inside their rib cages. A ghostly voice crooned from the stage as an ethereal woman sung a dirge that reached into the soul, and plucked right at the heart strings. The air was chill and clammy, and from down in the depths there was a barely audible groaning sound… as if the expansive crypt hungered to embrace the living who had ventured within.

It was, in other words, a typical night in the Tomb.

The two companions slid through the crowd, avoiding the undead creatures whenever possible. They ducked into side galleries, wove through chapels that had been turned into lounges and descended even further into the earth, wandering through catacombs that had been converted into wine cellars where couples sat in niches behind gossamer curtains, their silhouettes close as they spoke of private matters. A man sat on a high stool in the corner of the room, his fingers plucking away at the strings of his instrument. He was long and lean, with hair the color of spilled ink, and dressed in clothes a generation or two out of fashion. Maren was glancing around the room, wondering where her companion was leading her, when the outlander slid something out of his pocket. Silver glinted in his palm for a moment, and he flipped the item end-over-end in an arc toward the wooden bowl at the musician’s feet. Before it could fall, the bard’s arm snapped out, and he snatched the glint from the air.

“Been a long time,” the musician said as the final notes of his song faded away.

“Not that long,” the outlander said with a smile. “Do you remember what you told me when you gave me that ring?”

“I remember,” the pale man said. He shook his head slowly, just once, and let out a breath. Then he slid the ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. The silver skull gleamed, the empty sockets filled with unnatural shadows. As he curled that hand into a fist, those shadows bled out of the ring, weeping down the silver and sliding over the man’s skin before vanishing up the sleeve of his coat. He rolled out his neck with a sharp crack, slid his instrument off his lap, and stood. He opened a case that had been leaning against the wall, placed the guitar inside, and then carefully closed it. Standing up, he turned to Meran, and the outlander. “All right, let’s go.”

“That’s it?” Meran said, the words bursting out of her. “You’re not going to ask what the job is, or what he expects you to do?”

“Nope,” the man said, giving Meran a flash of strong, white teeth. “I’m a man of my word, and I told him that when he needed me, this side of the grave or the other, I’d be there.”

Meran’s eyes filled up with questions that trembled on her lips. When she opened her mouth, though, all she said was, “Three rounds. I expect three rounds for putting up with all your cloak and dagger nonsense.”

“Where did you find her?” the man with the tarnished silver ring asked. “I like her.”