He snapped his fingers and turned, walking out of the room.

His men snapped a neck in response.

He had loved many, despite racial differences and what-not, and had killed many in much the same fashion.  His cumbersome headdress had shown that he was a flamboyant individual, yet his style was never criticized.  His hands, along with most of his hardened, coiled body, were wrapped in his makeshift, enchanted armor.  Created by several of the, now dead, over minds of the enchanters’ circles in this, and many other cities.

“Where is Brimsley?”  His voice filled the souls of all who listened with a sense of satisfaction.  His younger years were most likely spent working with several octave trainers; no untrained voice could have had this effect on the world.  No voice could mask its true intentions so well.

To all those who knew this man, the voice was as welcome as the reaper herself.  Many had doubted that a voice had commanded so many deaths in its time on this plane.  No, the mere thought of one as vile as he made many soil themselves at the simple, ghastly thought.  It was the err of many that this man was not as vicious as many tales had brought to light, for the brief moments before they were silenced.

None, many thought not even the gods, knew his name, if his appearances were not themselves a misleading display.  He was a man of power, but his voice and demeanor changed much more than, what many could assume, a changeling could have pulled off.  “I do hate not knowing the answers to my inquiries.”

Another snap, a thump, and a set of replacing footsteps emanated from behind him.  A somewhat sleek, well toned man in a black hood kept pace.  “Sorry sir, it seams that Brimsley had given number eight seven three the slip.”

The man smiled as he pulled his glove, adjusting the claws at his fingertips.  “I care not for an update on the last gofer, but of the quandary in question.”  He pulled his hand up, halting the messenger at his side.  His voice changed to a grim tone, causing the new gofer to shiver in his boots.  “See to it that I needn’t have a conversation with a number eight seven five.  Find Brimsley and call for Alturent, I require an escort to my new hire’s quarters.”

The man humbly bowed low and waited for several moments after the boss had left the hallway.  He dared not smile, still hearing the grim tone in his master’s voice.  See to it that I needn’t have a conversation with a number eight seven five.  The numbers were not ranks, merely a way to keep a body count for the new approved gofer.  The count always stopped at nine nine nine, only to revert back to one.

They had lost count somewhere in the thousands of new number ‘ones.’

* * *

“You know that I don’t like having prisoners!  Why would you do that?”  The man known as Chris Coffer Warden was pacing in front of the fireplace, his face red from anger.

Doldrel let out a long sigh.  “He’s not a prisoner, he could leave whenever he wants!”  He sat, hunched over the sitting edge of a comfy golden chair, pressing his fingers into his eyes, trying to avert his mental pain with some from the physical plane.  “He just can’t leave at the moment.”

Chris pounded his fist on the table, “Can’t leave?”  He took a deep breath, his already high pitched voice growing higher.  “At the moment!  Why am I here if I’m not going to be paid attention to?  Hm?”  He pulled out his holy symbol and stormed upstairs, tightening the askew bandana on his head.  “Idiots!  I’m surrounded by idiots!”

Doldrel kept his eyes closed as he felt the penetrating gaze of De’arlevria upon him.  “You know he’s right.”  He heard her snicker.

“And so are we.”  She put her fur boots onto the table, drawing a disapproving stare from everyone, to which she snarled, deflecting the gaze.  She needed not her club to keep her colleagues in check.

Gormthmaw let out a long, powerful yell from his side of the table and stood up, following the cleric up the stairs, grumbling and grunting under his breath.

Doldrel looked over to the stairs, unsure of what had caused his comrade to react in this way.  Normally Gormthmaw places his legs on the table, unable to fit them below it, so the act could not have been of frustration.  One quick glance over to his female companion had shown him what type of frustration had caught his titan by the head.  De’arlevria had undone her vest and had made herself comfortably inviting, taunting her counterparts.  Doldrel kept his gaze high, feeling the same frustration, “Thank you for the display, Dee, but can you please not tempt those who won’t bite?”

De’arlevria smiled, “And why would I do something like that?  You men are of higher standards than a mere elf, are you not?”

Shielding his eyes, he kept the tremble from his voice.  “We are not above the carnal needs of men, I assure you, but we are also, by no means, fools!  We know of your strength, equaled only by your beauty.”

Sated by the remark, she retired to the southern hall, heading to her living quarters where her bear would most likely be.  “Where is the mutt?”

Doldrel shook his head, hearing a stifled laugh from the northern part of the room.  He quickly turned to view his acquaintance of only a few hours ago.  “Mr. Brigandstein!  How wonderful for you to come at this ungodly hour of the night.  Would you like some tea?”

Marsh’s outward appearance betrayed his captor.  He was overjoyed, any frustrations for this man was a victory for him.  “Where are my clothes?”  He was wearing his undergarments, but unarmed and uneasy at the thought of rogues in his presence.  “Why am I here?  Where is here?”

“Enough with the questions,” Doldrel cut in whilst pulling out a chair for the would-be prisoner.  “You are safe for the moment,” he added as he produced a cup from thin air.

Marsh apprehensively walked towards the man with the limp, black and white Mohawk.  He sat down to find no traps immediately constraining him (or delayed traps for that matter), but a comfy sitting place.  “Who was that harlot?  One of your bed-mates I assume?”  Marsh took the cup into his left hand to find that it was full of warm, sweet smelling tea.  He used his right hand to pet his bear companion.

“No, for if that were true, I would not be here to tell the tale.  That is our… how can I say it?  Brute?”  He leaned in closer to Marsh, “Is there a word for a female brute?”

“Brutess, I would suppose.”
“Bah, anyway, she is one of our cohorts when dealing with ruffians.”
Marsh nearly spit up his tea, “Her?  I suppose she may be powerful, but how-?”
“Have you ever heard of the late Muertemp, slayer of Kerkthgar, master of Breesbum, the land of champions?”
“She-?”
“Is she Muertemp?  No, merely the slayer of him, his people, followers and slaves alike.”
“How did you get her to join your, circle?”  At this point, Marsh’s hands were trembling enough to spill some tea and cause Mortenk’erul, the bear, some displeasure in the petting process.

“I came of my own free will, thank you very much.”

The two turned to regard the ‘brutess.’  She was wearing a form-fitting, tan night gown that was opaque enough to show her covered silhouette.  Doldrel let out a pained sigh, to which De’arlevria smirked.  She snapped her fingers and turned on her heel, leaving the men alone as the bear walked away.  Marsh noticed the hitch in the bear’s step.  He turned his head to regard the more informed man.

Doldrel, as if reading his thoughts hushed him to keep his mouth closed.  Despite the constant fun he had at spreading rumors, this was not one he cared to take part in.  De’arlevria was one to get ‘frisky’ with them in a torturous way at times, but he believed that entertaining such a thought would possibly be the end of him and his circle of ‘friends.’

“She has the ears of a hawk, speaking of such things are very, very unwise within these walls.  Now then, on to why you are here.”  Doldrel sat in his chair and pulled out a similar cup to the one he gave Marsh.  “The reason to why you’re here and why your pub is no more are linked in the fact that we caused it.”

Marsh could not keep his anger in check; he jumped out of his chair and toward the changeling, only to find that his back had adhered to the chair.  He fell back, tired of these tricks.  “Why?”

Doldrel smirked, “We didn’t help destroy it, directly at least.  We angered the wizard who set aflame to your establishment.  His name is unknown, but we call him Duhno.”

“Who angered him?”

“Our magnificent, malevolent malady of malcontent.”

“What did she do?”

“It wasn’t her, so to speak, more of me pretending to be her.”

Marsh had heard that changelings were odd creatures.  “What did you do?”

“Not what you think,” Doldrel sighed as he put his boots upon the table.  “Let us say that some pilfering had not proceeded as planned.”