In terror then I turned
My back upon the infernal band, and fled
To my own place, and closed my door; distraught
And like a drunkard who sees all things twice,
With feverish troubled spirit, chilly and sick,
Wounded by mystery and absurdity!
–The Seven Old Men, Charles Baudelaire
[Five years later.]
“Fuck!”
“Fuckity fuckity fuck!”
“Sheeeeeeeeeyit!”
A barrage of drum beats. A cymbal crash. The beating of a snare like a gunshot.
“Fuckity fuck and shititty shit! Stupid smug halfling smartass!”
You look out the window of your bedroom at the stone wall of the adjacent building. It’s still dark out. It’s not even dawn and your flatmate is losing his mind in the living room.
You roll out of bed, careful not to hit anything against your eyepatch.
“You think you’re pretty but you’re fucking shitty! Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!!!!!!!”
The pounding in your head is even worse than what Damien is doing to that drum kit. Straight, greasy white hair parted to one side, blank milky eyes, and pearlescent skin. The changeling is pouring his heart out, his trashy, rubbish heart out, in nothing but his belted black trousers, so you can see the ridges of his ribcage along his lanky sides. His gray nips are out in full force.
You raise your voice to compete with the din of his extended drum solo.
“What the hell are you doing, Fischer! I covered evenings last night! I barely got any sleep!”
The changeling rolls his playing to a drawn-out climax and turns to you after the last sounding of the cymbal fades.
“It’s such bullshit, Cirrus,” Damien says. “That bitch Kilchik stole my story!”
The headache diffuses into fatigue.
“What?”
“My story,” he repeats. “For the Gazetteer. I was scoping that piece for days. And that smartass hobbit gets her version of the story published just because she’s shagging the boss!”
You rub your temples. The wound where your right eye used to be is throbbing. Still, a vaguely familiar sensation washes over you.
“Why don’t you take it easy and I can chill you a cup of water?”
“You’re always trying to smooth out wrinkles, Cirrus. What if I want to keep those wrinkles? Hell, I have the right to be pissed. It’s favoritism, shit!”
He smacks a cymbal with his drumstick. You hear a banging come from the floorboards beneath your feet.
“Gods, Damien, you’re going to wake the dead.”
“That shitty old man downstairs would be better off dead. Yeah, you hear that, Baldwyn!”
“Stop stomping on the floor, Damien, you’re the one who started this. You’re going to piss him off again.”
It’s too late. Oily, chartreuse vapors begin to rise through the floorboards. You instinctively begin to hold your breath and run to open all the windows.
“Fuck!” Damien says, and inhales a whiff of the Stinking Cloud.
Damien Fischer makes a constitution saving throw: 11 + 0 = 11
Failure
The changeling keels over on the floor, gasping and heaving. You grab some parchment and begin fanning the fumes out of the room.
“Well,” you say, “at least that’ll take care of the roaches.”
You grab a metal cup and fill it with water from a pitcher. Concentrating just a little bit of your power into your fingertips, you chill the water until it’s ice cold. Bending over, you leave the cup next to Damien on the floor.
“Drink that and make sure to vent the place by the time I get back, okay?”
Damien groans.
———
You get dressed for your shift at the Redcap Tavern. In front of a cracked mirror you check your appearance. Heeled boots over long stockings. A skirt with a hole for your tail. A padded bustier under frilled green blouse. And a ribboned red kerchief nestled between your horns.
When you dreamed of city life, you never thought you’d make your living playing a lusty barmaid. But this single shift pays as much as all of Damien’s side gigs put together. You apply some powders to your face, check yourself in the mirror, and don a hooded cloak as you head out the door.
The vermin of the city watch you as you cross its musty streets. Rats in alleyways stop their rummaging and turn their heads toward you. Perched crows caw until you pass them. But among the throngs of people—Rowangrave City never sleeps—you are just one among many.
———
“I’m here, boss,” you say, throwing your cloak onto the entrance coat rack. A few heads turn as you uncover. It’s been five years, but you’re still not used to it—the gaze of cityfolk, not of hostility but of interest. Though you find the outfit a little humiliating, you have to admit that there is something nice about being admired.
You serve food and drink and make pleasant smalltalk with the tavern patrons. Some of them have been there since your night shift ended. Sleep deprived, you power through the morning shift.
“Nice thighs, tiefling,” an unfamiliar half-orc woman says as you serve her a stein.
You throw a friendly smile in her direction and make a bit of eye contact with her.
Performance check: 3 + 0 = 3
Failure
She sneers at you a bit and takes her drink. Shit, no tip.
As you turn to get back to work, you overhear the conversation at their table.
“Says there’s dragon nests at the foot of Tor Mountains. Abandoned now, what with things getting worse in the wilds. So he poached some dragon eggs and sold ‘em for a fortune to some wyvern riders.”
“Yah, good luck raising a hatchling dragon. Buncha madmen, that lot by Firefall are.”
You jot down a quick note in your notebook: Tor Mountains, dragon eggs, Firefall wyvern riders.
Your shift ends without incident early in the afternoon.
Cirrus gains 1 level of exhaustion.
———
It’s another day in Rowangrave City. As tired as you are, you don’t feel like going home to a hungover roommate and a fumigated living room, so you decide to kill some time.
What do you do?
A. Buy a pie for Old Baldwyn as a peace offering.
B. Explore the sprawling backstreets.
C. Visit the haunted library.
D. [Dark Gift] Commune with the vermin.
E. Grab a copy of the latest Ravenloft Gazetteer.