EQ Mafia Scenario: Dark Times (Game starts on 2/16/05)

“Well I still say we should mind our own affairs. What happens on the outside is none of our concern and besides, we have our own borders to protect.”

“So we’re to just let those outside the wall rot? How nice! Let the bodies of the dead pile up outside our gates! As long as we have a warm fire and full bellies, we should have no problems sleeping at night!”

“Spare me your dramatics. War is raging everywhere we turn outside of New Taanan. Are we supposed to interfere in each and every conflict that we catch wind of? Are we the guardians of all of Norrath, or merely city guards?”

“New Taanan is safe and prosperous. Now is our time to give generously to those who have given us so much. We may only be city guards, but we all took an oath of honor and I for one…”

Verileah raised her hand for the floor and suppressed a smirk as several reluctant mouths snapped shut at once and looked to her.

“What if I were to tell you that New Taanan is no longer a safe haven? What if I told you that this morning, in these very walls, a young brewer was murdered as he slept?”

Everyone began speaking at once. Shouts ranging from incredulity to fear to concern filled her ears until finally she had to pound the gavel for order. An Iksar guardian, past his prime and covered in deep scars, raised his hand for the floor.

“Speak plainly, Verileah. What has happened?”

“I found the lad this morning. And before you ask, this was no accident. From neck to groin he was split.”

“But who would commit such an outrageous act of cowardice?”

Verileah sighed and dropped a slip of parchment on the table for all to see. “We are very fortunate. His killers were kind enough to leave a note.”

~.~

Fahrnold sat very still as his wife ran the razor over his head. He would speak before his guild in less than an hour, and he felt it was important to show them that he had properly mourned and was now prepared to take on his responsibilities. He did not wince when the razor nicked his scalp; his thoughts wandered too far to dwell on physical comfort. His wife understood this, and did not speak as she shaved away the last of his long black hair.

~.~

The old Iksar picked up the parchment and held it up for all to see.



The room was suddenly uncomfortably quiet. A young human monk, too young to have experienced the terror this symbol brought, was the first to speak.

“I thought the Dark Heroes were all dead. How can this be?”

“The Dark Heroes may well all be dead, but their ideas are most certainly not. Don’t act so surprised; the warning signs have been there for months while we sat behind our walls and did nothing. The brutal murders, the mysterious disappearances…they left their signature many times before leaving this parchment.”

“But what do they want from us? What do they hope to accomplish by killing some helpless brewer boy?”

Verileah frowned at this. “I cannot state for certain…the boy was barely in his 30th season. I cannot imagine how he might have captured the Dark Heroes’ notice.”

The young monk lifted his head at this. “You say he was in his 30th season? What was his surname?”

“He was called Nightwalker. Roland Nightwalker.”

Several gasps were heard throughout the room. “The lad was one of –the- Nightwalkers? The most powerful family in Norrath?”

Before Verileah could mention her own thoughts, that Nightwalker was a common enough surname and it was a bit premature to jump to conclusions, the young monk spoke again.

“I knew Roland’s older brother, Fahrnold. They are indeed of the Nightwalkers.”

~.~

Lady Nightwalker frowned at the impertinent gnome who dared disturb her husband in his time of grief. A formidable woman, Lady Nightwalker towered over the tiny messenger, but he refused to leave without speaking to Fahrnold. In a silent war of crossed arms and deep scowls, finally a compromise was reached and the gnome handed Lady Nightwalker a note. She closed the door in his face.

A brief wave of black fury swept over Fahrnold’s face. The note drifted gently to the floor; by the time it had settled in the nest of hair by Fahrnold’s feet, his face was once again blank and emotionless.

~.~

“There are a thousand reasons for the Dark Heroes to wish harm upon the League of Mystics. I don’t doubt they simply wish to spread terror and chaos, but who can say for certain? Is there any chance they wished harm only on the Nightwalkers, and not the guild the family supports?”

Nidya, a high elf enchantress spoke up. “I’m afraid this is much more insidious than a family feud. My research shows a suspicious common link; all of the victims of killings this past week have ties to the League. While it appeared at first to be some sort of internal strife, now I am not so certain.”

“Internal strife? What do you mean? I saw no evidence…”

“The League of Mystics is not some ragtag band of travelers. They are the most organized, and the most protected, guild in this realm. Someone would have to know things that outsiders could not possible know. Where they camp. How they travel. When they are the most defenseless. Who their family members are. Don’t you see?”

The old Iksar sighed heavily. “I see your point, Nidya. But think of the implications! Dark Heroes disguised as Mystics, infiltrating their ranks, learning their secrets, killing them off one by one? We are no closer to finding the killers than we were before if we must sort them out from the good honest folk of the League.”

Verileah smiled darkly at this. “We must bide our time…and we must beat them at their own game.”

~.~

Fahrnold stood before the League of Mystics, the sun glinting off his newly shaven head, his face a mask to the world. Grief was a private matter and the guild knew that Fahrnold would not speak on the terrible pain of losing his only brother today. Though he had aged 10 years in a few hours, his thoughts were for his guild. The League kept its silence as Fahrnold spoke of treachery and vengeance. They did not stir when he spoke of rooting out the murderers from their beds as his brother had been, of slaughtering them in the night until every deceitful Mystic was dead. For the good of the guild, he said, and they simply looked him dead in the eye, hardly even blinking. When he was finished, they hurried away speaking in quick whispers.

~.~

“We will tell no one of our involvement. Nidya will disguise herself as a Mystic and join their ranks. We know we have at least one ally; we will ask that person to go into hiding while Nidya gathers evidence. Nidya will report to us each evening with the name of one Mystic she suspects of being a Dark Hero, and we will focus all of our efforts on discovering the identity of that one person. May the Tribunal help us if it is not enough, for I am afraid it is all we can do.”

“The League is strong. I am sure they will be taking their own measures to put a stop to this. They have that legendary healer with knowledge of secret arts unknown to us here. Not to mention some of the finest minds this world has ever seen.”

“Of course, we have no way of knowing which of these fine minds are the enemy.”

The young monk wrinkled his brow as he struggled to voice his concerns. “Do you think…are you concerned that the League will…retaliate in kind?”

Verileah shook her head. “The League is an honorable guild. They would never resort to internal violence to solve this matter. Though they may wish for justice, they are good and reasonable folk and will abide by the courts of law.”

The monk sighed wearily. “I hope for all our sakes you are right, but my heart tells blood will flow in rivers through these city streets before this is over. You may know the League…but I know Farhnold. He loved his brother deeply.”

~.~

No one noticed the small group huddled in a corner of the Ram’s Horn Inn. Normally, of course, a group such as this, a group speaking in hurried whispers and looking suspiciously around the room all the while, would end up drawing unwanted attention to themselves, thus defeating their purposes. In these dark times, however, it was perfectly ordinary for handfuls of people to gather for a brew to gossip over private matters. All over the city, in taverns and craft halls, one could see these little clusters of Mystics in secret conversation. Moreover, if someone were to, for whatever reason, wish to eavesdrop on this particular gathering, they would hear nothing more suspicious than speculation of who the traitors were, who couldn’t be trusted, who always had an odd way about them. Certainly no one would take enough interest to stretch their neck over the group and see that all the while they spoke, one of them was writing rapidly on a piece of parchment. And even if a curious onlooker had the audacity to deliberately stick his nose into other people’s business, they would be hard pressed to see anything of great significance to themselves in the small writing. Anything, that is, save a name, which of course many would recognize. He was, after all, the wealthiest in all the land, and isn’t it just a tragedy about his brother?