Tale of the Beguiler
Sounds of music fills the street outside of the Blackpeak Manor. The annual ball is well underway, and chatter and laughter of Egophis’ richest inhabitants can be heard from well around.
The lights shining from inside the manor contrast the many dark corners of the city, like the one Yorovar finds himself in - it is on nights like these that the citizens of the lower city get reminded that they still live in the shadows of the upper city’s inhabitants. And it is on nights like these that some might wish to create a little chaos.
Across the street from the manor, Yorovar leans on the corner of one the dark alleyways. Someone who had heard of some of Yorovar’s former “exploits” had reached out to him, wanting to hire his services to infiltrate the ball and create some of this chaos. And while Yorovar doesn’t consider himself the mercenary type, you can never say no to money, and especially not the amount offered here.
Yorovar tweedles a little on his harp as he considers his options. Doing the deed and getting out in the disarray that would follow would not be particularly difficult. He had done it before, and he can do it again. However, it was the actual part of getting into the ball that was the tough part for him. As with the others, he’d done stuff like this before. Unlike the others, this part was often the one where things went wrong.
While Yorovar technically falls under the category of a bard, he never quite considered himself a traditional bard. A common trait of a bard was their silver tongue. Their ability to orchestrate their sentences to convince or deceive their conversation partner of whatever they so desired.
Yorovar had never quite learnt this.
But, he has a plan. With a string of his lute, his clothes and armor shift into a fine suit, well fit for someone of noble status. Following that, his face changes to match that of one of the nobles of the city. And with that, Yorovar steps out from the alley, and walks towards the guard standing by the door to the Manor, holding a list of names.
The guard looks up as Yorovar approaches.
“State your name.”
“Phelo Partley.”
The guard rifles through his list of names before looking up with a raised eyebrow at Yorovar, disguised still.
“Strange. Mr. Partley is no longer on the invitation list.”
“Well, that must be a mistake. I’m quite clearly here and ready for the ball.”
“No, I’m quite certain that Mr. Partley will not be showing up.”
Yorovar feels a drop of sweat making its way down his neck at the amount of pushback from the guard.
“Well, there must be some mistake, as again, I’m standing here in front of you, good sir.”
“Sure, you might be standing here looking like Mr. Partley, but you know… I was a guard for him for 4 years, and during that time, he did have the decency of knowing my name.”
Shit.
“Oh, of course! How could I forget… Murph, was it? You must forgive my memory lately, age isn’t doing me kindly.”
“Sure. Memory and age might explain that, but how do you explain the fact that Mr. Partley died a week ago?”
Shit.
“Uh. I.. Well.. I.. got better?”
“Yeah, I don’t quite buy it.”
With that, the guard sets down his list of names, and in a flash is drawing his sword.
And in this moment of panic and regret, Yorovar’s vision fades, as a spirit shows him a tale.
A backroom of a hidden bar in a back alley. In this room, a horned figure sits in his silk chair. One leg slumped over the armrest, he sits, waiting. Even though it is just him in the room, the air feels tense alone from the aura of confidence and poise this fiendish individual exudes.
He licks his lips, as an arrogant smile settles upon them, and he stares, almost seductively, at the door. Not long after, it opens. Led into the room are four individuals. An elf, a human, a goliath and a firbolg. They currently have few things in common, but as they lay eyes upon the man in the chair, they all share in the allure.
They walk, almost as if caught in a trance by the man, to the four chairs situated on the opposite side of the table to him. As he leans forward, they all almost instinctively do too. He talks, and they listen, suspended in this moment by his voice. As he finishes his line of sentences, he puts a piece of paper on the table in front of the individuals.
It is then they all have a moment of clarity. The request on this paper seems so outrageous that even the seductive nature of the man cannot fully keep their focus.
And yet, they cannot disengage from him completely. A singular moment of weakness, of doubt, is all the fiend needs. He looks into the eyes of the goliath, luring him in. One hand grabs his beard, while the other leans forward as he drags the two of them closer together. His lips reach the goliath’s ear as he whispers a cacophony of words into it, his tongue almost visibly silver.
As he draws back into his silk chair, the goliath doesn’t have it in him to resist the charm of the fiend. And so, he signs the contract on the table. Soon, the other three individuals follow, as the fiend’s silver tongue licks his lips once more.
As Yorovar fades back to his reality, he looks at the guard in front of him, with the sword drawn. But the guard doesn’t strike. The guard is looking at the disguise, and Yorovar senses a moment of weakness.
Of doubt.
And that’s all he needs. He grabs the wrist of the guard and pulls him close. As he does, he leans into the ear of the guard, and starts whispering his own cacophony of words. With the flow of sentences into the ear of the guard, Yorovar feels the sword-arm drop.
He leans back again, and sees the guard stare blankly into the space in front of him. And seeing this, Yorovar walks past, and into the manor. He drops his pretense of Phelo Partley, and licks his lips, his tongue having a fading silver shine.