[img=http://i.imgur.com/A6oBjWr.jpg]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjVFVB_8BLU]The Music of the Beybarids[/url]

[b]0500, Somewhere in the Sorry Slums, Port Babel, Babel[/b]

Torchlight leaked onto the street from a sandstone house, one much like the thousands of others nearby. But this building was no home or shop.

Inside, a crowd of three dozen cheered and jeered from behind a railing. What might have been an old inn had been re-purposed into a brawling pit, and in it were two chickens, knives tied to their bellies.

“Last chance to place your wager! Last chance to bet, fight will start on the sound of the bell!” cried a man on a podium. A sheet of stone marked with graphite listed numbers: 3 to 1 Tamul the Wily, 1.3 to 1 Fat Mamma.

A kender and a gnoll, just two parts of the the crowd, occupied the corner. The kender sat on a barrel, and took intermittent sips from a wine bottle he held. Though he tried to lean on the railing, his balance was kilted. Purple circles surrounded his droopy eyes. 

The gnoll was bouncing up and down, wide-eyed, salivating, panting, counting the coins in his satchel.

“Baddy?” mumbled the kender.

The gnoll did not notice. He was placing coins into a purse, and trying to place it in the podium-man's hand. “For Fat Mamma!” The man eventually saw the coins, took them, and handed the gnoll a parchment slip. The slip was marked with a red seal, and 'ten shillies' was written next to it in fresh ink.

“Hey, Baddy?” the kender repeated louder.

“What, Horus, what? Place bet! Fight 'gonna start!”

“What time is it?”

“Me no know. Why care? Look! Fight!”

The kender looked toward the door. Two windows were near it, but both were boarded up. The kender was aware of his inebriation and lack of sleep, as this is what prompted his question to Baddy in the first place, but he thought he could make out sunlight from behind the boarding planks. “How long have we been here?”

“You drunk!” Baddy let out the shrill laugh characteristic of his people. “I think hours.”

“But. . . how many?”

“I said hours. Few. Three. Four. I not know.”

“We got here at. . .” the kender paused to scratch his head “. . . got here at eighteen?”

The bell dinged twice. “Fight!” called the podium-man. The crowd erupted, as did Baddy, and the two frenzied animals tore into each other.

But Horus didn't care for the fight. They had been going on all night, with the same podium-man calling the same things in the same room since as far back into the night as he could remember. All Horus cared about was going outside.

“I'm 'gonna. . . take a walk,” he tried to say to Baddy, but the gnoll wasn't aware of anything other than the fight.

Horus set his bottle down and stumbled his way out the door. Dim orange light and hot, dry air hit him like a punch. 

Truly, how much time had passed? It looked like the sun was still setting. Had they only been in there for less than an hour?

But then, Horus realized where the sunlight came from: the eastern sky. Even in his state, that much was clear. And it dawned on him as the sun did: they had been in there from sunrise to sundown, even though there was something important that needed to be done.

He tried to piece together what he remembered. A mention of the place, a resting stop, but he couldn't remember what they needed to do. He shook his head. The only thing he could think about was a warm feather bed.

The kender stretched, and yawned. He would come back for Baddy later. The gnoll would probably still be there when he woke up.

Horus meandered along the streets, trying not to bump into anything. The torches in houses and on posts were being put out by men and women, rising to seize the day. Horus nearly tripped over an old homeless man, who wearily stuck a coin mug in his face. He was hoping to find the inn he had originally slept in, but any place at all would do.

He had to cross through an alleyway, and the stench of death overpowered him on entrance. A laughing gnoll was scratching the cheeks of an immobile man, pale, devoid of any warmth, surrounded by flies, and with skin caved in at parts of his body. The gnoll was drawing up dead flesh, as a child might with a cake, and sticking it in his mouth to suck it up. He didn't even notice Horus as he stumbled by, out through to the other side of the alley.

On the other end was a little hut set up next to the canal. Several young human boys, children, were inside. They were smoking lit leaves an old man was giving them. One of them started giggling, and charged out of the tent abruptly, full of energy, bouncing around the street like a rabbit. “The poppy will make us high! The poppy will make us high!” he kept calling. As he was bounding around, he took a misstep, and dropped into the canal. The current started to carry him away. The child was still laughing, repeating his phrase as the current dragged him further and further, either toward the ocean, or the sewers.

Horus made his way to a busier street after some time. People were awaking in earnest. Some were walking to the edge of the canal to take a shit on the stones, before wiping their ass with a few deft handstrokes. Horus hoped this was indeed the canal to the sewer.

The street itself was narrow, flanked on both sides by buildings at least three stories tall. One building on the right had no door, but merely a set of stairs, and columns made in the style of antiquity. Inside, a gnoll sat on a couch, caressing two beautiful human women, dressed in revealing silks. He, and other men on other couches, took puffs from their hookah, or sips from coffee cups, and chatted.

Horus dodged a man dressed in pink silk and jewels, beside a huge camel. Three camels were tied to each other behind his, each carrying boxes and sacks of trinkets. Horus swiped a silver kettle. It was the best he could manage as he was.

An ogre held a man by the throat, with a stone in his right hand. Two other ogres stood on either side. The man was bleeding profusely from the head, holding his hands out, trying to speak, flailing his legs. He was a man dressed in moth-eaten rags, with a thick black beard, and gnarly yellow teeth.

“You owe us. You borrowed from us. But you didn't plan to pay us back,” said the strangling ogre.

“I-I'm sorry. I want. . . to get work,” the man managed.

“When you say work, do you mean as a wallflower at the track? Or a dice roller?”

“Work. Want to stop. . . that.” The man looked to be near collapse. The ogre growled, then delivered a sudden blow with the stone, but this time to the solar-plex, then let the man's throat go. The man feel to ground, coughing blood, choking, but alive.

Horus continued on. Stall managed by of every race in the city lined the street. They called out goods and prices to create the grey noise of commerce. Horus swiped a wrapped stack of parchment for no particular reason. 

A man tapped Horus on the shoulder. “Would you like to buy a camel? Very cheap, very good camel, not too old.”

Horus shook his head. “What would I do with a camel?”

The man laughed. “Take it to the beach? It would be your camel, you could go where you wish with it.”

Horus turned away and continued on. The man went to pester someone else.

A very large shop occupied the attention of a crowd. 'Mobo and Son Goldsmiths' was written in shiny gold script above the store's door. Horus couldn't quite remember how, but he found a ruby pendant encased in gold, with an equally pure gold chain, hanging over his silver kettle. 

Horus saw what looked to be an inn. In painted white script was 'The Feather Inn' and a picture of a feather, drawn on a swinging signpost protruding over the street. 'Feather Beds, free meals to guests!' was written at the bottom of the sign. He made his way into the inn, up the stairs, past the crappy lock on the nearest room, and toppled over the bed.

Warm and feathered, just like he imagined.

~ * ~

[b]0800, The Feather Inn, Port Babel, Babel[/b]

“You are Garlo?” asked the Ogre. He wore a chain vest that encased a bulging belly, and held a pike in one hand. His feet were bare. His skin was tan, and bags drooped over his yellow eyes. His large figure cast a shadow over the table, even with the morning sunlight pouring in from the tavern windows.

“Aye,” Garlo replied. “Garlo Diamondeyes. You must be Saul.” The dwarf wore patched, tattered, hooded brown robes. His skin was pale and wrinkled. His eyes were the color of ice. They were transfixed on the air in front of them, oblivious to what lay beyond. Garlo gestured to the seat across from him. “Have a seat.” Saul tried to fit his bulky form over the chair, forcing him into a kind of fetal position. “Looking 'fer a bodyguard for my caravan.”

Saul grunted. “Where to?”

“The western deserts.”

“Sagev Sal?”

“Nay. Further.”

“There is no place further west.”

Garlo shook his head. “There is.”

“Villages, perhaps, but no place for a monk.”

“Who says I'm a monk?”

Saul shrugged. “You dress like one. You are a dwarf, and you are old.”

Garlo waved his hands over his self. “You see any pendants? I'm a merchant.”

Saul laughed. “Merchants dress in silk and jewels, not a potato sack!”

“Times are hard. You going to get me where I'm going, or you just going to keep 'laughin?”

“Tell me where we are going.”

“You wouldn't know.”

“We Ogres know the deserts better than any dwarf. Do not be prideful.”

“Whose prideful? Just leave 'gettin there to me.” Saul shifted in his seat, which creaked under his girth. The tavern door happened to be open. Outside, Garlo could make out a dozen Ogres, wearing padded leather armor, and carrying pikes.

“Those your men?”

Saul grunted.

“This is going to be a long journey. I don't know how long it'll take. If I had to guess, five days. Maybe a week, maybe longer.”

“Tell me where.”

The dwarf stared into the Ogre's rheumy yellow eyes, and those bloodshot orbs stared back into his. Garlo turned his head around. The few morning patrons of the sleepy inn ate breakfast with sedated conversation. No one was alone, no one looked to be watching them. There were no kender or gnolls. Garlo leaned over the table and spoke in a hushed voice, something between talking and whispering. “You know the snakemen?”

“I have never met one. I have seen them, but they do not speak.”

“Nay, they can speak. An old friend of mine introduced me to one.”

Saul arched an eyebrow. It was the first emotion Garlo had seen the ogre express. “Who was this friend?”

“Never you mind. So, my friend helped me talk to this snakeman. I just wanted to talk, just curious. I didn't expect to learn what I did.”

“Which was?”

“I'm 'gettin to it!” In his peripheral vision, Garlo thought he saw the two men at the other end of the tavern staring at him. He darted his head to them, but the men were relaxed, talking normally, hunched over their food. Garlo turned back to Saul. “The snakeman was named Tsseek. He was a merchant of sorts himself. Mind, they don't call 'em merchants, but that's the only word I know for 'em. Anyhow, he was there to look for some things to buy, and learn how to speak our language. He said he came from a city called S-thar-tiss-un. Hope I'm pronouncing that right.”

“And you wish to go to this place to trade?”

“Aye. Tsseek agreed to guide me to the city under the conditions that he keeps a third of my product, that the journey be secret, and that I do whatever he says.”

“You trust this snake-man?”

Garlo shook his head. 

“You do not trust him, yet you place your life and wealth in his hands?”

“I'm old, and desperate. Beggars can nay be choosers.”

 “I will not risk my men or myself without the right compensation.”

“And look who knows the desert so well. My coin is good as any. Tsseek will meet us outside the city gates, near the caravansary. If you're going to keep belly-achin, keep your arse warm on that chair. Otherwise, be there at sunset. That's all.”

The old dwarf grunted as he hoisted a backpack over his shoulder, and lept off the tavern chair, waltzing out into Babel's scorching morning sun.

~ * ~

[b]0830, the Harbor, Port Babel, Babel[/b]

The light blue water sloshed against the docks of port. Ogres and men moved crates from a nearby warehouse onto a caravel. The ship was ornately decorated, with a bow sculpted into the shape of a mermaid. Its flag was purple, with a large black paw taking up its center.

A gnoll stood overlooking the scene. He was hunchbacked, fidgeting with his criss-crossed paws. He was not dressed like most gnolls: he wore a long, navy blue velvet robe, with gold-and-silver-colored trim that gleaned in the sunlight. Large jewel earrings, some hoops, others solid stones, dangled from his large ears, which twitched involuntarily.

“Hey, jackal face!” cried a dockworker. The gnoll turned to the man. “It is two more ships like this that need filling, yes?”

“Yes, yes, two ships, like this one, down two docks, need ready quick, very quick.” The gnoll spoke quickly and panted equally fast. “Name not jackalface,” he added, “name Velvetpaws.”

“Hah, you gnolls all have face of jackal. We will call you jackalface.” The man left, laughing at his own joke.

The gnoll did not look like a jackal. He resembled a hyena, like most of his people. But Velvetpaws did not reply or give chase. He looked over to a nearby crate. 

It was a simple wooden crate, marked with a black paw on the side. It was filled with hay to protect the merchandise. Inside were heart-shaped vials of dark pink liquid. Velvetpaws picked up a vial, and cradled it in his hand, twisting it, turning it, spraying it into the air, spraying it across his body. He inhaled deeply of the misty cloud that formed, and let out a hacking cough mixed with the characteristic, heckling laugh of his people before pocketing the vial and looking out to the sea.

The waters beyond were dotted with dozens of tiny islands. Swaying palm trees and shifting sand covered them. Ships manoeuvred around them skillfully, against crashing waves, thick with white salt, heading forward toward the rising sun.

Velvetpaws gazed wide-eyed into the ocean beyond, fidgeting, licking his lips, panting.

~ * ~

[b]1900, Port Babel Caravansary, Babel[/b]

Tsseek hissed and growled. Mukad stood nearby, bobbing his head to the gibberish.

“The journey's length will depend on weather,” Mukad said, without moving his eyes away from Tsseek, who continued hissing, “but it will be dangerous no matter what.”

Mukad was a coastborn dwarf, native to Babel. He was strong, dark-eyed, tan-skinned and brown-bearded. He wore a loose purple velvet vest over his bare, muscular chest, and baggy cotton pants with worn sandals. A steel scimitar, sharpened to needle's edge, dangled from his hip, reflecting a blinding glare. Mukad was an old friend, but far younger than Garlo.

“If those bodyguards I hired don't lose their nerve, we can depart tonight, aye?”

“Aye. You did not tell them where we are going, did you?”

“He refused to escort us unless I told him.”

“No one shall escort us unless you do not tell them where it is we are going.”

“Cut me a break, I can'nee-” Garlo stopped when he saw Ogres approaching him. It was Saul. His men were on the backs of massive camels. Several camels carried nothing but crates and bags. “Speak of the devil.” Garlo walked up to Saul. “I thought this was too risky for you?” he said to him.

“As you said, dwarf; I am old and desperate. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

They chuckled, and smiled with bared teeth and furrowed brows.

~ * ~

[b]2300, the Harbor, Port Babel, Babel[/b]

The three purple-flagged ships were set to sail on the eve hour of midnight, under the Tower of Babel's guiding light.

At night, few pirates roamed the ends of the harbor. Some crews had been known to set anchor on inconspicuous islands close to shore, then assail merchant ships leaving fresh from port, but this was difficult and inconvenient to do in the dark.

Velvetpaws sat in the captain's cabin of his main ship: Brave Lucy. It was an old ship purchased on the credit of his bank loan, but it was the biggest of the three he had, and it would be enough to last the trip ahead.

The gnoll sat at a desk, illuminated by a half dozen candles, tracing lines over a map. The map displayed the whole land of Babel, including all its political boundaries and terrains, but more importantly it showed the coast, and all the islands and ocean currently known. Velvetpaws was diligently crossing lines on the map with a quill attached to a compass, when three knocks rapped on the cabin's closed oak door.

“Me busy. Important?”

“Ah, yes, sir it is very important.” Velvetpaws did not recognize the voice.

“Wait, I open!” The gnoll opened the cabinet under his desk, containing a dagger in a small scabbard. He quickly tied the scabbard under his robes, making sure it was covered, before walking over to the door, and peeking through its miniature port window.

A stone-faced desert ogre in a fine black robe, stood next to a young man, dressed in patterned silk, furs, and jewels. The man tapped his feet, left hand clutching his right wrist, and the the ogre stood straight. Velvetpaws cautiously opened the ajar, and peeked his head around.

“Yes? Who you two?”

The two looked down. The man arched an eyebrow. “Velvetpaws?” he said.

“Yes.”

“The merchant?”

“Yes-s-s.”

The man darted his head around the ship, quickly appraising it. He turned back to the gnoll, pointing an index finger to the deck. “And this is your ship?”

The gnoll heckled. “What you want?”

“Ah, well, I apologize. May we come in?” he gestured inside the cabin. Velvetpaws hesitated, but opened the door fully, and beckoned them inside as he stepped back over to his desk. The man and the ogre stepped in after him, closing the door behind them. They pulled up two chairs in front of the gnoll's desk. Velvepaws continued to draw on his map, not making eye contact with his two visitors.

“I apologize, it's just, we were expecting someone fitting a different description.”

“Name Velvetpaws. What you expect?” he heckled, “I not care. Say what you need.”

“Right. Well, sir, we represent the administration of Baron Black. I myself am a diplomat, and my friend here represents the Bank of the Despot.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, we've come here under information that you're mounting an expedition.”

“Yes, yes, I have three ships. Trade my wares to farther lands. Two ships go away from each other, on the coast. This ship go out to ocean. We leave soon, less than an hour, me drawing final things, important things.”

“It is fortunate, then, that we have caught you in time. Baron Black has asked your permission for us to accompany you on this voyage, and allow our other emissaries to travel your other two ships.”

“I cheeks burn red. Why? What Black want? He can't have my things. I bought them, he not steal them, I paid bodyguards.”

“Oh, no-no-no! You see, Black himself is taking an interest in exploring as well. I realize this is short notice, but he is quite avid to find new markets, for both his businesses, and private ones. To this end, he is willing to pay handsomely.”

“I not exploring. There other nations out there. More than in here. Nations in trees, in cold, under dirt.”

“We share your confidence and enthusiasm, which is why we wish to accompany you. Baron Black wishes to make diplomatic connections with any new peoples you may encounter. We, of course, expect most of the them to be primitives, but-”

Velvetpaws made a wheezy chortle. “Primitives not worth meeting. Kingdoms, big kingdoms, huge empires, bigger than us, better than us, they buy what I have.”

The ogre and man looked at each other for a moment, then turned back to the gnoll. “We do not discount the idea of, ah, a great nation beyond the seas, but you must be realistic in your predictions. What is it you are planning to trade, exactly?”

“Perfume, from the very bestest stills. Fine clothes, beautiful man robes and lady dresses. Salt, pepper, nutmeg. Velvet, silk, cotton. Ivory pendants, off the tusk of great elephants.”

The man chuckled. “And suppose we meet these great nations. You believe they will want all these things? That they will even like them?”

“They are great things. Anyone would want them.”

“Well, gnoll, if you believe so. We only mean to accompany you on your passage. We are allowed to pay you,” the man drew a small purse of coins, and laid them on the table. “This amount for the permission of our emissaries to accompany you on your voyage. Expenditures for their nourishment are to be taken up by yourself, however.”

Velvetpaws looked at the small bag of coins, and undid the drawstring tying the bag together with a sharp claw. A handful of shillies laid inside.

“Need better.”

“This is all we are authorized to pay, the price is non-negotiable.”

“Make things yes-negotiable. You not come if not.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Sir, negotiable means-”

“I know negotiable.”

The man looked about ready to speak, but before he could make a remark, the ogre spoke up.

“We will pay you a larger sum of coins for the purchase of our passage of our emissaries on your ships. We will pay for our own nourishment. This is not authorized: I am willing to pay these expenses of my own volition. I apologize for my companion's remarks; you must be aware of the animosity between your two peoples out in the deserts. This man is a Beybarid turned burgher, named Fara. I am Soke, and I wish only to represent the interests of my employers. We mean no ill-will to you, and wish for the greatest success on your journey. It is clear this is no half-baked voyage, which is what the original authorized amount perhaps had in mind.”

The gnoll nodded. “I like this deal better. Maybe that plan? Low ball, then make real deal? Familiar with the trick. Maybe employers to you set it up? I no care, not important, purse of gold guineas enough to come with me. No notes, not work all places. This all?” The ogre nodded. “Be all ready in half hour, or I leave without you.”

The man looked about ready to make another remark, as his eyes were wide and his hands poised in the sign to stop, but the ogre glared at the man, and grabbed his arm to drag him away.

Later that night, all three ships departed into the unknown.