A Tall Glass of Winter Wine is a piece of fiction from 100 Whispers & Rumors To Hear in Hoardreach, The City of Wyrms!, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The wind that swirled through the North District had claws, and it raked them over any patch of exposed skin it could find, digging at padded coats and fur cloaks as it tried to get at the warmth underneath. It wasn’t just the cold of a mountaintop, either… the chill in this part of the city was unnatural, and it went bone-deep. Frost spread over the windows and doors like creeping rot, and most people on the street were bundled to their eyes, with thick hoods pulled over their heads, and heavy boots wrapping their feet. Some, though, were dressed in light jackets, dresses or even shirt sleeves, as if they couldn’t feel the cold. One woman with her hair blowing in the wind had the blue-stained lips that testified to a regular use of potions, while a kobold in a leather jerkin had the sere, white scales of those born to the mountain peaks.

Most who seemed comfortable in the cold, though, bore the black-edged wyrm mark of Frost Fang, the dragon who claimed at least half of the district’s territory on any given day.

A man in layered leather and woolens, with a headscarf tied around his face, walked through the chill streets. He carried a hard-used quarterstaff, using it as a walking stick on the icy paving stones. Outlanders were fairly common in the City of Wyrms, even in the North District, and there was nothing truly curious about him at a glance. Those who met his eyes looked away quickly, though. They burned with purpose, determination and focus. They were the eyes of a man who would brook no obstacle to his course of action.

The outlander came to the doors of a huge longhouse that stood outside the walls of the city proper. Built of massive timbers, and a roof shingled in dark slate that captured the warmth of the sun, one of the narrow sides was a set of doors that were over twenty feet high, reinforced with steel bands the width of a man’s arm. A smaller, wicket door set inside one of the larger doors allowed more average-sized customers to make their way inside. The man knocked the head of his staff against the door, and a moment later he heard the sound of a heavy bar being drawn back. The door opened, and he stepped inside before the wind could beat him over the threshold.

The longhouse was dim inside, lit only by storm lanterns and candles that seemed to wilt like burning flowers in the chill. Wooden tables were scattered around, and those that had customers seated at them had fire-heated bricks placed beneath them to warm the area. A heavy bar with thick curtains that kept in the heat ran along one of the long walls, but the back of the place was a massive, stone fireplace so large half a dozen men could stand shoulder-to-shoulder inside it. Carved into the shape of a gigantic mouth, the flames that blazed inside of it were enough to banish the cold, and turn the frost on one’s clothes into a gentle trickle of tears.

A woman sat a dozen feet from that fire, one leg crossed over the other in a heavy, straight-backed chair. She was dressed in thick, whipcord trousers, with boots made from bearskin. Her tunic was made of the same material, edged in white fur. Her arms and face were bare, and she held a goblet in one hand as she gazed into the fire. Her skin was the pale blue of ice, and her hair was a soft white that held the fire’s glow until it drowned between the pale waves. Perhaps the most striking thing about her, though, was that if she’d stood her head would have brushed the rafters.

Even in a place like Hoardreach, Ravina Hundar stood out.

The outlander crossed the wide floor, skirting around the tables, and bypassing the bar entirely. He tapped his staff on the flagstones as he approached, the sound clearly marking him out. Despite that, the frost giantess didn’t turn her gaze from the flames. The outlander rested his hands on his staff, and looked up at her.

“It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it Ravina?” he asked.

The blue-skinned giant blinked, and turned her head to look at the man. She pursed her lips, and a frown line creased her forehead as she regarded him with eyes that had all the color and warmth of an iceberg. After a long moment a smile crooked one corner of her mouth.

“I know your voice,” Ravina said after a long moment. “Jace?”

The outlander pulled at the headscarf, letting it slide down around his neck. He offered the giant a smile and a bow, spreading his arms wide without taking his eyes off of her. Ravina slowly recrossed her legs, and took a long sip from her goblet.

“It’s a pleasure to lay my eyes on you once again, captain,” Jace said.

“If my memory serves, when last we met I threatened to throw you over the side of my ship,” Ravina said, idly swirling the dark wine in her glass.

“Your memory is as perfect as the rest of you,” Jace said, holding up a small, leather bag. He opened it, and spilled the contents into one hand. A collection of flawless rubies caught the light, winking in his palm. “However, if you’d allow, I’d like to buy you another drink and apologize to you properly.”

Ravina took a deeper drink from her goblet, and stood from her personal seat. She gestured toward a set of stairs that led up to the side table near her chair. Two strides took her to the bar, and she went down on one knee, setting her goblet on the ground. The barman swung over a barrel of winter wine using a chain hoist, emptying it into the cup. Once it was full, Ravina stood, hefted her glass, and returned to her seat.

“What is it you want this time, Jace?” she asked, taking a gulp that cost more than some men made in a year.

“Your forgiveness, of course,” Jace said.

“And?” Ravina asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, there is one other thing…” Jace said. “Would it be possible for you to find room on your next voyage for, say, four extra passengers?”

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.

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.”