LOCATION

Slums: Refuse Quarter

You find yourself in the middle of the filthiest quarter in all the city, its southwestern corner. The hands of the street keepers somehow never seem to reach here, but then neither do the hands of the law. Outsiders are rare, and made unwelcome, in this community of miserable and wretched of Umbar, who drag out their lives here guarded by universal disdain and abhorrence. The streets are slippery with dirt and dung, and dumps of garbage are everywhere you look. As you round a particularly smelly one, you agree that Refuse Quarter - by which name it is known to the rest of the city - is quite appropriate a name.

The walls of Umbar are close by, rising to a great height that you estimate at a hundred and twenty feet. A strong tower stands at their southernmost spur not far from here; from it they run northeast and northwest respectively, and the shadows of the sentinels are ever oppressive above this dirty maze of little streets below...

Obvious exits:

Northwest

[Barzag:] The late winter sun has long since gone to its bed, and a chill envelops this, one of the least visited parts of the city. The filthy streets seem cold and cheerless - not empty, however. Figures slip in and out of the shadows, for some reason few choose to walk openly.

One such figure, form covered by a grey cloak, walks north in the direction of Karab Square, or perhaps towards the low grey-stone building that was once stables and now serves as a worker's hostel. In better repair than most buildings in the quarter, it nevertheless looks dingy and dirty.

[Arlanazir:] From one of the side streets comes a most unlikely sight. As a gleaming gem in a sea of mud, a litter borne by four well-muscled men comes into the slums area, the carriers' steps slow and plodding. Rich embroidered curtains mask the litter's occupant, though any slight breeze announces the presence of a woman by the perfume that accompanies the train. Soon, however, an almost shrill voice calls out from within, and the tip of a feathered fan opens--just barely--one of the curtains. "Stop!" the woman's voice commands, more than a little unruffled. "What is this. You idiots!" She can be heard to sniff, and then groan in an overwrought manner. "Stop this instant!" Of course, as she demands this--the bearers stop.

[Renzlitha:] Leaning against one of the many disheveled buildings in the square is the very sort of man you would never want to make friends with. Wearing a long, dark cloak that conciels his entire body but the head, he stands with a thoughtful grin on his face, one hand slowly twirling the little wisp of beard around in his fingers. His dark eyes seem to be looking everywhere ar once, making suire he misses nothing. With the unlikely appearance of the litter, his eyes stop their searching and are held captive by the sheer wierdness of it all....

[Barzag:] The sound of the voice does not go unnoticed by the street's other denizens either. Figures scuffle furtively in the shadows, and a few hands reach beneath cloaks or tunics - for weapons, perhaps? The grey-cloaked walker glances towards the litter, then steps back into the angle of a wall to watch the proceedings unobserved, lips twitching in what might be contempt at the woman's imperious tone.

[Arlanazir:] At last the woman peers out from the cover of gold-brocade and embroidered curtains. She holds a lace handkerchief to her nose, her grey eyes wide and intimating horror. "What is this?" she says again, looking about the area. "This is nowhere near the Star Arches." Under the cover of the handkerchief, the woman winces with the smell of the slums. "Do you not know the way?" she demands, looking to the two at the fore of the litter.

[Barzag:] Amber eyes gleam as the grey-cloaked figure stares at the litter, its occupant clearly visible in the soft light of the lanterns affixed to its corners. And while the smell of the slums may be distressing to some, for others the smell of perfume is an equal encumbrance. The grey-cloaked man's nose twitches and he gives a loud sneeze - so much for watching unobserved. He makes no move to step forward, though.

[Arlanazir:] With the uncertain shrug given by the two men who bear the litter before her, Arlanazir almost growls under her breath. "This will lead to the Arches," one finally says in a voice that bears something of uncertainty. "You are no better than four-legged beasts!" she says, her voice trembling with anger. Her shrewd gaze looks around the area, and seeing the grey-cloaked figure, she calls to him, waving her fan in an almost frantic motion. "You! You there. Yes, in the cloak. Come here."

[Barzag:] The grey-cloaked one raises his head, stares - and makes no move. Clearly the haughty woman's commands are of little importance to him.

From the other side of the litter, there is the harsh sound of laughter, and one man, perhaps encouraged by his fellows, steps forward to jeer, "Lost your way, pretty? Hey, this way - we can show you a good time." There are appreciative snickers from his two companions, though one at least seems more taken by the richly decorated litter than its occupant, and gazes avidly at the jewelled hangings.

[Arlanazir:] The rich lady within the litter is not impressed--either by the cloaked man's response or the jeering taunts. She makes one more appeal to any within the sound of her voice. "Will no one assist me?" she once again asks, waiting to see if any will come forward.

[Barzag:] The three jeerers fold their arms and hold their ground - this is their territory, after all, and doubtless they are not the only ones here in bitter envy of all the litter and its occupant represent. Surely the litter bearers must have known what they were about - one wonders, on seeing the rich woman's imperious manner, if their 'mistake' was deliberate.

And as for the grey-cloaked man? He makes no reply to the woman, nor does he join the other slum-dwellers. One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug as he steps back out into the dung-smeared roadway and slowly walks past the litter. The circle of lantern-light highlights his swarthy, oddly marred features, his eyes flickering warily back and forth between litter-bearers, noblewoman and the three locals.

[Arlanazir:] The line of the woman's mouth hardens, eyes narrow, and then, with another wave of her fan, she demands, pointing back the way they have come. "Turn around then. Quickly. Go back!" As if to add intensity to her command, she beats her hand upon one of the metal crossbars which creates the litter's frame. "Quickly!" she repeats. And with hardly a moment's hesitation, the strong bearers of the litter turn as directed and plod their way back, retracing their steps.

[Barzag:] To the north - the best way out of this maze of streets - a figure moves in the shadows, and another. The appearance of the litter has attracted a lot of attention. As the bearers pick up their burden and trot off, there is a barely audible sigh ... of disappointment? The trio of jeerers watch in a silence broken only by snorts, then turn to go back whence they came. One or two others, however, creep warily after the litter.

And the lone figure plods on, pulling his cloak tighter around him as a gust of night wind stirs the air, eyes never ceasing their vigil of the shadowed streets.

Participants:

BARZAG

For many, their first impression of Barzag is of a person of little importance in the world. His swarthy skin proclaims him a foreigner to Umbar, one of the race of Men known as Hillmen. At about six feet in height, he is taller than most of his kind, and this is complemented by a strong build; his well-muscled frame and calloused hands show that he is no stranger to hard work. Indeed, his shoulders are slightly stooped as if from carrying heavy loads. A mass of dark hair hangs to just above shoulder level, shadowing his face, and he wears a short beard, usually kept neatly trimmed. It cannot, however, hide this man's main distinguishing feature - a malformed lip, cloven and twisted so that his mouth appears to be set in a perpetual sneer. Above this, his features are evenly balanced - a long, straight nose, and a pair of amber eyes set beneath dark brows, bitterness all too often visible within their depths.

His clothes are scruffy, nondescript: trousers of some dark material, fading in many places, and a tunic of brown cloth that was obviously of good quality when new but is now worn and threadbare. The sharp-eyed might notice some sort of mark on his upper right arm, half-hidden by the short sleeve of his tunic. On his feet are a pair of scuffed leather moccasins. And he has one more item of clothing - clearly a valued possession. A grey woolen cloak, old but still serviceable, protects his form in inclement weather, and is carried rolled up and slung across the back at other times.

ARLANAZIR

RENZLITHA

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