Curse of the Crimson Throne

An Invitation

Prelude to Mayhem

Marcel de Germande downed another glass of Korvosan piss, the watery red filth barely qualifying as wine. He dropped a hand to his purse, still enough gold to live like a noble in this filthy city, but certainly not enough to live like a true Germande. He hadn’t even crossed blades with anything larger than a poxy rat. He took another slug of the sour wine, and was surprised to find a small card floating in the base of his goblet. He plucked the offending item from the cup, and was about to berate the serving staff when he noted the writing. Addressed to him directly, and offering a meeting. Well this was a turn up, might be a trap, folks round here knew he was flush. Oh well, he considered, if it was a trap it probably meant a fight at least. He smiled and tossed a coin to the barkeep, hefting his polearm as he went, it could be a good day yet.


Pellius Krupt polished keys, he polished keys at night, he polished keys in the morning, and right now, he was polishing keys in the middle of the day. Abadar was nothing if not predictable, and his clergy revelled in assigning acolytes repetitive chores, ‘Focuses the mind my boy!’ they would say. As he lifted yet another of the holy keys, his fingers caught on a small card, he picked it up for a closer look and was surprised to see his name, along with a time and a meeting place. The card itself seemed to be from a harrow deck, a strange item to find in the church of Abadar, more closely associated with occult, and the varisian nomads and certainly not normal for the holy house of the Judge of the Gods. It must be a test he decided, a test from a senior cleric. He dropped the polishing and stalked back to his quarters, unwrapping a parcel hidden beneath his bed. A crossbow, favoured weapon of Abadar, and something Pellius had been practising of late. A test, after all, could well be dangerous, and priests of Abadar were always prepared.


Archibald Perrywinkle ducked into his shop, a pair portly red imps spitting at him from the rooftop as he dashed inside, he could hear their foul cackling as he closed the rickety door. His office was a mess, papers littered the desks, and various case files overflowed their drawers. He sighed as he surveyed the little room, business hadn’t been kind recently, mysteries and murders were rife in Korvosa, but corpses didn’t pay, and no one was too keen to answer questions. Aside from following folks on behalf of their suspicious partners, there wasn’t a lot of work about for budding private investigators.

It was then that he noticed the card, tucked at an odd angle under threadbare welcome mat. He stalked over and picked the thing up. A harrow card. An offer of a meeting was scrawled in a faint, wavy hand, but the note was not signed. Strange indeed, but then there hadn’t been enough strange around here recently. There may be some coin in this, he decided, and perhaps even a real investigation to undertake. He smiled to himself, rubbed his hands together, and ducked back out into the bustling street, the two tittering imps hurling curses at him as he went.


This is great Tom!

An Invitation

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