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The Viridian Eye may not be the seediest bar in Aestiva, but it’s far from the nicest establishment the Capital of Eastern Asklar has to offer. The furnishings are clean and in decent shape, but in any brighter light one would be able to see enough wear and tear to tell that the landlord doesn’t replace or refurbish anything until it falls into pieces. The clientele don't mind, they don't come here to be impressed by fancy furniture. They come here to buy drinks from a bartender who doesn't care where they got their money, but also runs an establishment where they're not likely to take a bottle to the head for accidentally looking at someone the wrong way. Outside, facing out onto the side-street, a sign with a painted close-up of an eye, the pigment long sun-faded from green to a washed-out blue, hangs over the door. It swings slightly as someone pushes the door open.
The woman doesn’t gaze out over the room as she enters. She pays no attention to the half-filled tables (it’s a Friday, but it’s early in the evening, they’ll fill up as the night goes on) or the folks ordering at the bar. She spares no glances to the purple-skinned tiefling trying and failing to chat up a young woman with curly blonde hair, or the almost identical twin halflings having a heated debate about the merits of various makes of riding tack with a man in a headscarf. She walks with intent, facing straight towards her destination. She knows where the person she's here to see is, and she knows that no-one is going to step into her path. An astute observer might notice that she leaves visible footprints behind her as she walks. But no one is looking at her, so no one sees the patches of warped and decayed wood that follow every step she takes. Her entrance was perfectly timed to make use of the exact moments when everyone in the room just so happened to be too engrossed in their own business to notice someone enter. That only happens twice tonight, so she had to be precise. The landlord’s going to be so mad when he finds out what happened to his floor.
She strides up to someone sitting alone at the bar who is.. difficult to describe. Not because there’s anything strange about them. No, they’re perfectly normal looking, if a bit on the thin side. What makes them difficult to describe is that there’s just nothing in particular about them that’s distinct enough to put into words. They’re very… ish. Their blond-ish, brown-ish hair(it’s hard to tell even in daylight, let alone the low lighting of the viridian eye)is tucked away in a tight braided bun that could be any length. Blue-ish, green-ish, grey-ish eyes look out from the most generic-looking face you’ve ever seen. It’s not an ugly face but not especially attractive either, just average. Perfectly average features that could belong to a very plain woman or a very pretty man. The only thing that might draw attention, the little mote of fire weaving its way around and between the fluttering fingers of their left hand, is hidden out of sight under the bar.
Kit1 didn’t come here alone. But they don’t know the first thing about horseriding – because they're allergic to horses – and it’s much more fun to watch Laurel fumble than it is to wingman him, so for now they’re sitting alone at the end of the bar watching their companions' antics instead of joining them. They’re not very perceptive, so they don’t notice someone walk up and stop next to where they’re seated at the end of the bar until she says their name to get their attention. It succeeds marvellously. No one’s said Kit’s full legal name out loud since the day they changed it, and hearing it unexpectedly almost startles them into dropping their drink. The tiny flame jumps out of their grasp, leaving a singe mark on the underside of the bar.
With an extremely elevated heart rate, they turn to see who the fuck knows their name, because Green promised she wouldn’t tell anyone. They take in her opulent dress with its mouldering skirts and rotten leathery bodice, the polypores growing out of the side of her neck, the tiny toadstools poking out from between the locks of mottled hair piled high on her head, and none of that bothers them at all. What makes them blink several times and rub their eyes is that they can only see one of her. Everything in their field of vision is multiplied at least a few times and overlaps everything else. It’s like someone took half a dozen photos of the room from different viewpoints on the same piece of film. So in other words, everything looks completely normal to them. Except for this woman. She’s just standing there, completely singular. Which to Kit’s mind, puts her squarely in the “Weird enough that you probably shouldn’t ask how she knows your name” category. They raise their glass in her direction.
“Ay, according to some. What brings you here this evening?” They're doing their best to stay casual. No one else in the room seems to be freaking out, so they’re attempting to keep up a calm demeanour as well.
“I am here to procure your services. I have something I need done, and you’re the exact person I need to do it.”
This puts Kit at ease, slightly. A weird lady with mushrooms growing out of her could have any number of reasons to be here, and if it wasn’t for business then they would probably be in trouble. But if she has a job for them, she probably isn't here to do something awful to them. When you have a skill set as unique as they do, you attract some rather interesting customers, and it pays to not stare too much.
“Of course, what can I do for you?”
“You’re going to want to write this down. I have, very particular instructions, that I would like followed to the letter.”
It throws them off a little to not know the general gist of the job, but Kit can appreciate someone who gets right down to business without worrying about small talk. A notebook and pencil appear from one of the many pockets that line their bulky clothing. They flick through it to find a blank page, and a sheet of parchment that definitely wasn’t in the cheap cardboard notepad when they bought it falls out and floats down to the table. Not one to ignore an obvious sign, they tuck the notebook away and hold the pencil poised above the parchment.
“Ready when you are”
They write down her instructions word for word. Disconcertingly, the page fills up with unfamiliar handwriting in a dark red that definitely isn’t graphite.
Go to the Initium town square at two hours past dawn. There you will find a handsome lordling, an old man with a blooming staff, and an amphibian with a comically oversized spoon.
Join their group, gain their trust, keep them safe, and aid them towards their goals.
Destroy the one with five faces and learn from the one with none.
When the privateer's song is done, and the Warp Keeper has bidden you goodnight; kill the half-elven cultist.
“Right. So uh..” This is by far the weirdest way anyone’s ever asked them to kill someone. What was wrong with ‘Otzar sold out my dealers to the watch, I want him face down in the harbour by morning, and make sure everyone knows it was me’? That was easy. Not always easy to do, nowadays people don't often spring for a hitman of their talents for targets that are easy pin down. But at least easy to understand. They have absolutely no idea what any of this means. Where to start?
“When did you want me in Initium? It’s about three days away by coach, but the roads can be unreliable this time of year, so if you want me there quicker I’ll need reimbursement for teleportation” She cocks her head slightly. What the fuck are they saying? A freaky lady with mushrooms growing out of her just told them to kill some cultists and they’re talking about travel reimbursements ? But this situation is so strange that the only way they can react to it is to find one aspect that they can understand and home in on it with intense focus.
“The time it will take you to travel to Initium will be exactly the time it will take the three people I described to be where they need to be for you to meet them. My instructions are clear, even if you don’t know what they mean yet. You will understand them when the moments arise.”
She speaks with such absolute certainty that Kit just fully accepts it. Sure, the mushroom witch can see the future. That might as well be true.
“Right so, for this kind of job-if there’s danger involved- I usually charge-”
“You will be paid 15,000 crown pieces. 5000 now, the rest upon completion of the task.” She places a musty bag on the bar, with the unmistakable heavy clink of coin. It’s scattered with moth holes, and the shine of platinum is visible even in the low light of the bar. Kit’s eyes go wide and any other clarifications they were going to request die in their throat with a small choking sound.
“Where do you want me to sign?”
They dig through their pockets once again. This feels too significant to sign in some cheap pencil they stole from a bookshop. They find a nice fountain pen(which they probably stole from a different bookshop) and carefully trace out the curving lines of their personal sigil. They haven’t signed anything with it in years, but a wizard never forgets their sigil.
The woman taps the space next to Kit’s sigil with one long fingernail. Mould spreads out from where she touched it. Creeping tendrils of mycelium embed themselves in the surface in a disgusting web. The smell of rotten parchment fades after a few seconds, but the roots remain, lettering just barely visible in the filigree of decay.
Kit squints at the letters, but they can’t identify the script before they’re overcome with a coughing fit. When they can breathe again, they look up and see no-one standing next to them. The bag of coins is still sitting on the bar though. They grab it and stuff it into their jacket. Casting ritual spells at bars gets them too many looks from strangers, and they didn’t prepare what is here today because why would they have prepared what is here for a night out? There’s probably something funky going on with the coins, but even if they are illusory they can probably spend at least a few before the glamour wears off.
The blonde woman has almost given up on entertaining this man. It's not that she doesn't like him. He's quite handsome, in that avante-garde way that tieflings often are. It's just that every time there's an moment where she might expect him to say something smooth or charming or flirtatious, he completely biffs it and says something stupid instead. She's about to let him down gently when several gold coins bounce onto the table. The person who tossed down this small fortune slings their arm around his shoulder as they drop into the seat next to him.
“Next round’s on me. Including those arseholes if they can stop squabbling about stirrups.” they say with a thumb pointed over their shoulder at a table of three people who look like they’re close to coming to blows. “This one’s got the social grace of a goose, but he’s a decent lay according to those who can look past his lacklustre charm. If you laugh at one of his jokes you’ll have him wrapped around your finger, and he can do wonders with that forked tongue. No pressure though, he’s not my type either.” She gives a bemused smile as they turn to him and ruffle his hair. “Listen mate, can you tell Green I won’t be at the Port run tomorrow? I gotta be out of town for a job”
The violet tiefling is turning a lovely shade of plum around the cheeks, but it’s clear that this kind of only mostly friendly teasing is normal between the two of them. “What should I tell her when she asks when you’ll be back?” He doesn’t ask where they’re going, or what kind of job. If it’s something they’re allowed to tell anyone about, they’ll spill all the interesting details in their usual post-paycheck carousing.
“Haven’t the foggiest. ‘Night!” they spring up from their stool and head towards the door with a wave.
One might expect their mood to shift to something less jovial. It wouldn’t be odd for their expression to drop into a serious glare as they leave a night out with their friends early to go kill someone. But Kit’s never been one to let someone’s else’s murder put a damper in their spirit. They hum a drinking song as they think about how best to get to this town square quickly without spending too much of this fantastic down payment or answering any prying questions about why they’re bringing a crossbow while “travelling to visit family”. Passing by a table near the door, they reach out and grab the flame of the candle. Tiny embroidered runes light up on their gloves as they bounce it between their fingertips to the rhythm of the song.
The door to the Viridian Eye swings shut behind them. A wooden sign shows a closeup of an eye that peers out onto the street, stained bright green with iridescent mould that shimmers in the light of the setting sun.
1. it’s not their birth name, or their legal name, but they’d rather you not know either of those, so we’ll respect their privacy and stick with the name they introduce themselves with. return to text