She stood outside the door of the House of Records, a six-foot tall half-orc wearing gleaming chain mail armor and the golden Sun Disc of the order of Amaunator. In her right hand was held the shining black greataxe she now called 'Headsplitter', in her left a large canvas sack containing all her material goods.
Her eyes were hooded and misty as she looked out over the city of Sigil, she stared as if by burning the image into her mind she could take some small part of it back home with her.
Her reverie was broken a moment later by a silky-smooth voice coming from the stairs leading up to the resident's quarters.
"Leaving? So soon?"
She turned to face the owner of the voice, a man with cold gray eyes and well kept black hair. His eyes shone with mirth that could in one breath be dry and in the next mocking. As usual he was grinning as he descended the stairs.
"You're not going to finish what you started?"
She returned the mans grin as she shook her head. "No, Mr. It's time to go home, I think."
The man stepped to the bar with a practiced grace and poured himself a drink. "Hm. I see. You were going to leave us without saying goodbye?"
The half-orc's grin faltered as she tried to think of an explanation. "Um, yes. I didn't want no one to be sad that I was going. I wanted them to have good memories of the things we did when I was here."
The man chuckled. "Good memories. Like the time you nearly died? Or the time you accused your friends of killing your friends? Or maybe--"
"No, like the time I met you and the others, and the time I helped the Father in the Temple of Anaumator. Like the time you helped me fight the bad men that wanted to hurt the nice lady. Those times were good, when we helped each other and helped people who needed helping. That's what you should remember."
The man laughed bitterly as he set his drink aside. "Those are the things you should forget, my dear. They make you weak."
She frowned at him, her rage, barely controlled when she became angry, struggling to rise to the surface. She forced it back, inch by inch, until it became no more than a smoldering spark.
"No, Mr. Those things make you strong. They make you want to help them who you like. The make you want to help your family."
The man shook his head, but remained silent. A moment later, more footsteps echoed on the stairs leading to the common room.
A girl of about 9 years, wearing a blue patterned dress and with her long, coppery red hair done up in ringlets, skipped down to the ground floor.
"I'm ready to go," she shouted.
The half-orc smiled at the sight of her friend, and happily scooped the fragile little girl into her arms. "Ok, then."
She looked for a moment to the man who sat at the bar, then turned toward the door leading to the street. As her foot crossed the open doorway, there came a whistle from the bar.
She turned just in time to catch a thrown bottle, inside was the semi-magical liquid that cured wounds overnight. She looked through the door to see who had launched the bottle, but the only person to be seen was the man, and his back was toward her.
She took a moment to inspect the bottle, written across the front in a fine, spidery script were the words 'good luck.'
She grinned as she turned back toward the streets. "Let's go home," She said to her friend.
Her eyes were hooded and misty as she looked out over the city of Sigil, she stared as if by burning the image into her mind she could take some small part of it back home with her.
Her reverie was broken a moment later by a silky-smooth voice coming from the stairs leading up to the resident's quarters.
"Leaving? So soon?"
She turned to face the owner of the voice, a man with cold gray eyes and well kept black hair. His eyes shone with mirth that could in one breath be dry and in the next mocking. As usual he was grinning as he descended the stairs.
"You're not going to finish what you started?"
She returned the mans grin as she shook her head. "No, Mr. It's time to go home, I think."
The man stepped to the bar with a practiced grace and poured himself a drink. "Hm. I see. You were going to leave us without saying goodbye?"
The half-orc's grin faltered as she tried to think of an explanation. "Um, yes. I didn't want no one to be sad that I was going. I wanted them to have good memories of the things we did when I was here."
The man chuckled. "Good memories. Like the time you nearly died? Or the time you accused your friends of killing your friends? Or maybe--"
"No, like the time I met you and the others, and the time I helped the Father in the Temple of Anaumator. Like the time you helped me fight the bad men that wanted to hurt the nice lady. Those times were good, when we helped each other and helped people who needed helping. That's what you should remember."
The man laughed bitterly as he set his drink aside. "Those are the things you should forget, my dear. They make you weak."
She frowned at him, her rage, barely controlled when she became angry, struggling to rise to the surface. She forced it back, inch by inch, until it became no more than a smoldering spark.
"No, Mr. Those things make you strong. They make you want to help them who you like. The make you want to help your family."
The man shook his head, but remained silent. A moment later, more footsteps echoed on the stairs leading to the common room.
A girl of about 9 years, wearing a blue patterned dress and with her long, coppery red hair done up in ringlets, skipped down to the ground floor.
"I'm ready to go," she shouted.
The half-orc smiled at the sight of her friend, and happily scooped the fragile little girl into her arms. "Ok, then."
She looked for a moment to the man who sat at the bar, then turned toward the door leading to the street. As her foot crossed the open doorway, there came a whistle from the bar.
She turned just in time to catch a thrown bottle, inside was the semi-magical liquid that cured wounds overnight. She looked through the door to see who had launched the bottle, but the only person to be seen was the man, and his back was toward her.
She took a moment to inspect the bottle, written across the front in a fine, spidery script were the words 'good luck.'
She grinned as she turned back toward the streets. "Let's go home," She said to her friend.
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