Beyond the fortified borders of Aethelgard and Glimmerfall lays a vast, scarred stretch of flatland known simply as The Wild. This lawless expanse was a part of the Empire of Indoris in name only; in truth, it had no Ruler, and therefore, every man with a blade considered himself a ruler. In this place, Might was the only Right, and the definition of that Might shifted from person to person according to their perspective and priority. One's status as a King or a peasant in his own land meant nothing here; the Wild was a Great Leveler- a cesspool of crime and depravity that served, paradoxically, as a cradle for ingenuity and creativity.
In the Wild, one could find anything and buy anyone. Rebels, exiles, and the rejects of every civilized society would found refuge within its borders. The land itself remained neutral and secular, for there was no central governing body to enforce an ideology or a god. Many fools had tried to proclaim themselves the Lord of the Wild, only for their lifeless bodies to be discovered the next morning. No external power dared to capture the land, either. Most of the Continent's most lethal Assassin Guilds and Thieves Guilds held their headquarters there. Should any Empire or Kingdom move to conquer the Wild, they would find their important people in home dropping like flies within a week. Though these guilds lived in a state of perpetual friction, they were united in one cause- they would allow no Law to curb their independence. Thus, the Wild became a sanctuary for conspiracy, a battleground for spies, and the dark heart of the continent.
It was said that the Wild's streets were ruled by Khor-Vaal, the Demon of Rage, by day; but by night, the domain was surrendered to Salissar, the Demon of Lust. It was one such evening in the Wild, blessed by the honeyed whispers of Salissar, when a hooded figure could be seen walking hurriedly through the neon-lit filth of the main street. He was ignoring the predatory calls of the sirens lining the streets. Two Elven girls, apparently out of desperation, reached out to snag his sleeve as he passed.
"At least look at us, mister," they purred, as their voices were dripping with seductive honey, "I bet you haven't seen beauty like ours in a place as gray as this."
The man shook his arm free with a violent jerk. "Don't bother me. Cast your nets elsewhere," he hissed.
He could not move ahead, however. A massive Orc and a Panther Beastman, stepped into his path.
"Well, well," the Orc rumbled, "What's the hurry, little man? How dare you insult our pretties?"
"You think you're a saint? Better than us?" the Beastman chuckled, "You disrespected the girls. Now you'll apologize- and you'll pay for the privilege."
"Why, you subhuman scum…" the hooded figure hissed and waved his fist.
It was a mistake. The Beastman caught his wrist mid-air, and the beating that followed was barbaric and brutal. Once they had filled their hearts with his pain, they frisked him. Finding only a few coppers and a stray silver, the Orc spat on him and delivered a final, crushing kick to his belly. They walked away laughing, leaving the man broken in the dirt. He stayed there for a while, with dust and own blood in his mouth, before he could rise painfully to his feet. Dusting off his cloak which was now torn in various places, he limped toward a dingy tavern by the alley.
The bar was dimly lit, smelling of cheap ale and dirty customers. He found a corner table and sat, staring aimlessly at his table. An Orc tavern girl eventually approached him.
"Are you lost, darling?" she asked sweetly, "I can help you find your way to dreamland for a price."
The hooded man looked up, and whispered in a raspy voice, "The road was dusty, and I have a throat full of salt."
The girl stiffened for a fraction of a second. Then, relaxing her posture, she signaled him with a tilt of her head, "A heavy pour, then. My private stock is in the cellar. Move when I move, and keep your hands where I can see 'em."
The man let out a dry chuckle and followed her downstairs like a lecherous drunk chasing a prize. Once inside the storage room, he kicked the door shut behind them. The girl moved to the back wall and began a rhythmic knocking. It was a code that was immediately answered from the other side. A massive shelf groaned and slid aside, revealing a hidden passage. The girl gestured for him to enter before dragging the shelf back into place, returning to her usual business upstairs as if he had never existed.
The man walked down the dark hallway until he arrived at a big hall. A single candle was burning at the center of a massive table. Its tiny flame seemed insufficient to conquer the vast encroaching darkness around, but enough to reveal the silhouettes of those waiting. The hooded man slid into an empty seat.
"Good evening, all," he wheezed.
"Good evening, Bjorn," a cold and amused voice drifted from the shadows, "Though, judging by the state of your face, your evening has been anything but 'good.'"
"The Bistros are having a difficult time, it seems," another voice commented; this one sounded sharp and arrogant.
"Shut up, Cassian," the one they addressed as Bjorn hissed, clutching his bruised ribs, "You have no right to comment on my failures when you yourself are a walking disaster."
"Both of you! Stop bickering like curs!" the figure at the head of the table spoke, and the room went cold, "You have both disgraced our Ring. You have dismantled years of careful planning with your incompetence. The Master is not pleased with either of you."
"Forgive me, Leader, but I did all I could!" Bjorn sounded desperate now, his bravado dissipiating with every passing moment, "After my brother was arrested, I manipulated Bianca to lure the First Prince. I used every resource to stage the riot! But Azgar…"
"Don't you dare drag me into your mess, you cretin," a massive shadow at the end of the table roared. Azgar slammed his fist onto the wooden surface, the wood groaning under his strength, "I had shoved Elmsworth in the corner. I would break him soon. But, it was your people who ruined everything by killing Elmsworth prematurely!"
"The Duke is right," Cassian pressed, "You turned my scumbag of a brother into a martyr. You made my path to the crown nearly impossible. You've ruined the succession!"
"It wasn't my man! I swear it!" Bjorn pleaded, his voice was cracking.
"Who was it then?" the Speaker asked, leaning forward so the candlelight reveal the glimpse of a pale mask, "You killed everyone in your Household to hide your tracks, yet you cannot even name the shadow that assassinated the King."
"Why doesn't Cassian find out?" another hooded figure proposed from the side, "Surely the 'Rightful Heir' has at least one loyal dog left in the city who can identify the assailant?"
"No," Cassian replied, his arrogance finally starting to falter, "All my people are dead, imprisoned, or have fled like rats."
"Then you are merely dead meat," the Speaker replied, a terrifying tone of treachery could be noticed entering his voice, "No longer of any use to the Ring."
Cassian bolted upright, his chair moving back, "Wait! You need me! I am the blood of the Throne! Once Lorian is removed, I am the only one with a claim! Without me, there is no Veridia in your plan!"
"Can you walk into the city and claim that crown tonight?" Azgar sneered, rising from his seat. He moved with the grace of a snake, "No. You are a fugitive. But… your worthless son can. He is not a traitor in the eyes of the law. He won't irritate us with empty threats and aristocratic whining."
Before Cassian could react, Azgar's knife was pressed against his throat, drawing a thin red line of blood.
"If I am to die for my failure," Cassian gasped while writhing in pain and terror, "then so should Bjorn! And so should you, Azgar! You…."
Cassian never finished. With a sickeningly wet sound, a blade crossed his throat. A splatter of blood hit the table, and the lifeless body of the man who would be King slumped to the cold floor.
Bjorn began to shake. He felt the phantom edge of the blade on his own neck. "I promise," he whimpered, "I won't fail again. Please."
"Do not worry, boy," the Speaker now said in almost fatherly tone, "If I wanted you dead, my men would have finished the job in the street instead of merely bruising your ribs."
Bjorn's eyes widened. From the shadows behind the Speaker, the two Elven girls from the street stepped forward. They waved at Bjorn with mocking smiles.
"You are an idiot, Bjorn, and you have lost much," Azgar said, wiping his blade on Cassian's expensive cloak, "But unlike Cassian, you are not an arrogant prick. Because the world thinks you are dead, you are invisible. You will be our eyes and ears in Veridia. You will be our hand and our mouth."
"But… many know my face," Bjorn stammered, "The Watch, the Guilds… they will recognize me the moment I enter the gates."
The Speaker chuckled, "Don't worry about that, Bjorn. My boys will take care of it. By the time they are done, your own mother wouldn't recognize the man in the mirror."
On the Speaker's signal, the Orc and the Beastman appeared from the dark corners of the hall. They grabbed Bjorn by the shoulders and began dragging him back into the lightless tunnels. The meeting continued in the hall, drowned out only by Bjorn's muffled cries and the violent sounds of the 'transformation' beginning in the dark.