Welcome to High Fantasy Shorts! I am here to write high fantasy short stories based entirely off of randomly generated D&D characters. Due to the proprietary nature of many names and places, I have changed certain race names to less trademarked store-brand names, and I have started world building my own locales. Today's story focuses on a character named Douse, a level 1 character of water genasi waterskin descent. She lives in a megacity called Sythra: think Tokyo if Tokyo were Venice. To challenge myself, I'm going to leave a link to the character sheet at the end. Try to guess how you would build the character yourself, and see how close you get! If I do my job write (ha!) you should get close. If you don't, well, that's entirely my fault. Regardless, I hope you enjoy today's story, Blood in the Water.
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1.
Summer afternoons in Sythra were always a suffocating time. The dry season meant the sun's heat could beat down unimpeded along the myriad canals crisscrossing the massive city. Lack of rain made the water tables run low, allowing a buildup of sewer deposits to crust along the brick banks, a rank filth which clung cantankerous in spite of cleaning crews and scheduled dam releases. Residents didn't acclimate to the season so much as soldier through it. Complaining about the Sythran summer was a past-time raised to art, the collective suffering of rich and poor alike sublimated into a crude sarcasm famous the world over.
Sweltering in her one room apartment, the waterskin Douse lay simmering in sweat and misery. Normally, her athletic build and reputation for quick delivery would have found her a courier job at the itinerant worker's line along Canal 72, but this morning was a total bust. Her hopes sinking as the morn went long, she called it quits as the sun finished its inexorable climb to its apex. If one didn't get work by noon, one wouldn't get work - or lunch - at all. Douse's stomach rumbled. It would be a long wait till the evening food carts rolled out.
Right around White Hour, when the sun bleached the sky, a knock on the door started Douse out of her dazed repose. She peeled her eyes off the ceiling and lifted up on an elbow and waited. In Sythra, nothing good ever just came to you. A second knock, louder. Douse got up, swearing under her breath as she opened the door.
It took Douse a couple seconds to process what she was even looking at. A man, large in every sense of the word, stood panting in the wooden hallway, mopping sweat from his jowls with a cloth handkerchief. Douse reckoned the thick robes were doing the man no favors and clucked her tongue in disapproval. The wealthy of Sythra always had a tendency to trade comfort for show. Arm and floor length black velvet with blue trim marked the man as a secretariat for one of the Lower Echelon nobles.
"Oh, I do hope I have the right floor this time..." the secretariat said, heavy breaths breaking up thick speech. "I'm afraid to say, your building's floors are a bit off."
Douse rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, that's what happens when the city doesn't pay to shore up foundations here in Southside. Things kind of, you know, sag after a while."
The folds of the secretariat's face gathered in affront.
"My dear madam! I assure you, the City Council takes their budgeting very seriously, and allocate what they, in their grand wisdom, deem they can afford! There are many considerations they must balance and..."
Douse waved the objection away.
"Right, right, and their grand wisdom decided it was ok for our home to sink two floors deeper into the Haltan sands. Now, much as I love to discuss the niceties of Sythra's wise governance, I've got many considerations I have to balance, and all of them involve food. What's your deal? You serving a summons? Because I don't want one."
Somewhat shocked at the rebuke, the secretariat blinked a moment, then nodded.
"Ah, apologies, apologies. My name is Tolp, secretariat to Viscount Skye Pradzidy. You may be relieved to know I am not here on court orders, but rather with a job offer."
Douse halted a her sarcastic instincts and squinted in suspicion.
"Go on..."
"Yes, yes. Viscount Pradzidy told me he needed an urgent letter delivered today, post-haste. I was instructed to get the finest courier I could find. My queries along the canal businesses mostly turned up the same name: Douse. I sincerely hope you are her. I don't think my heart can survive another flight of stairs."
Douse's pride pulled her back straighter on hearing the good reviews.
"Sure, you've got the right gal. But I would have thought a viscount could afford an accredited courier."
"Indeed. Cost is hardly an issue. It's more a matter of the destination, see. The letter is to be taken to, oh I hope I have this right... "The Drowned Rat." I trust you know where it is?"
That answered her question immediately. No self respecting courier from the mail houses would step foot in The Dregs. If you stretched the word enough, The Drowned Rat could perhaps be called an "inn." It had rooms. It had things you could maybe call beds. Douse could only think of three reasons a Councilman would go to The Drowned Rat, all of which she preferred to pretend only happened in novels.
"Yeah, I know of it. Can't say I've had the misfortune to visit until now."
"Good, good... Now, it seems the recipient of this missive, Councilman Taggard, is spending some days at this place. What business he could possibly have there, I had the discretion not to ask. It's all rather inconvenient for Viscount Pradzidy. He needs the letter delivered by First Red of evening."
"Bit of a rush job, don't you think? You're asking a five hour run in four."
"Disappointing to hear. If you are not up for the job, I could go to another. It doesn't have to be you, it could be anybody. There was one name come up... Tal, I think it was?"
Douse didn't hesitate again.
"10 gold. Not a penny less."
She didn't know what shocked her more - that she had named such an extravagant price, or that the Secretariat paid it without question.
"Very well, so long as the job gets done. Half now, half later with proof of receipt. You can find our manor in the Emerald District, corner of Canals 22 and 30. Better to come in the morning. The viscount is hosting a party this evening and I'm afraid I will be in knots keeping everything running smoothly. This letter must be dreadfully important for him to require me to find a courier in person. Gods know it's made my day more stressful."
"Seems making stress for others is about all nobles are good at," she replied, taking the sealed letter. "Thanks for the work, Tolp, but I need to have left before lunch to bring this in on time. Mark me, though, it will get there."
"Quite, quite. Don't mind me, I'm just going to catch a breather."
But Douse had already left the hefty man behind, skipping down the stairs and out into the busying canals of Southside.
2.
Everybody eventually figures out their own route through Sythra and, once they find it, they cling to it like drowning sailors to flotsam. The winding streets and canals being what they are, it's a rare person who has the time to learn the ins and outs of the possible paths. Couriers, by necessity, learn many, but Douse had a special knack for getting around which even the accredited had difficulty matching.
She had also learned early that reading city traffic is much like reading a river's flow, had learned how to recognize when a jam was forming as opposed to a slowdown, to see the openings between clumps of people that would allow her to weave through the crowds, to hear the city's interminable construction and know to take the backroads or alleys and avoid a wait. It also helped that she could breathe underwater. This job, though, would take a little extra juice.
The use of a little magic to get from one side of the city to the other was rather routine. Performance enhancing alchemical cocktails were more of an open secret, and Douse took pride in not using them. Alas, no matter which routes she came up with, at best, she would arrive a half-hour late. There was too much on the line to let a trivial principle like that stop her.
Already picking her way through the crowds, she fumbled through a cloth pouch and pulled out a small cookie and took a bite, choking down a vague taste of dirt. Immediately, her run quickened as if her stride lengthened a half-foot. It wouldn't be enough. Keeping her eyes forward, tracking a current through the traffic, she popped open a vial of viscous black liquid and downed it in a go, flooding her with a rush of adrenaline as her pace doubled, her jog turning full sprint and then faster. Dashing through irritated cries of surprise and anger, she darted between couples and carpenters, around delivery boys and doormen, cutting through an alley, bounding over a bridge, and then, seeing a slowdown and hearing construction ahead, diving into a reservoir right as the fluid's effects wound down.
Swimming through the murky water, she kept her senses open and found a fast current marking the exit pipe of a filtration system. A quick flick of the wrist sent a pulse of magic into the water, reversing the flow. Going with the magical current, Douse felt a odd rush of excitement, a joy in moving and being free, of not knowing exactly where she was but, somehow, still feeling assured she would find her way. The pipe gradually ascended to a shallow mainline. From here, it was a straight shot, more or less, to The Dregs and, as long as she didn't stop running, she had enough macaroon to get her to The Drowned Rat with time to spare.
Douse hesitated to say today was going well, but she held out hope that it would end so. She smiled and kicked up the pace a bit, the promise of a full dinner keeping her hunger at bay.
3.
As great as the physical distance is from Douse's neighborhood to The Dregs, the financial disparity is greater. Where Worker's Row had grit, The Dregs had grime. Where the one had an occasional missed meal, the other had subsistence. Even the malfunctioning plumbing, maligned as it often was, was preferable to the stretches of waste sloughing through the poorest of Sythra's canals. Douse, seeing rust crumbling to holes along the iron pipes, knew she needed to make an exit. It was always a gamble taking the sewers to their end: leave too early, and you had to pass the Toll Wall; leave too late, and you were likely to fall headfirst into a pool of excrement.
Today, the five gold advance made the choice easy. Douse found a drain and climbed free, a little smellier for her efforts, but acceptably so given the locale. Toll Wall towered before her, a ramshackle construction of corrugated iron sheets bolted to chain fences. Just looking at it risked a tetanus infection. She walked up to a booth, plopped a gold piece into the hands of a supremely bored goblin, took her change (double counting, just in case) and entered The Dregs.
The sky was just turning to the oranges of evening, and Douse allowed herself a brief moment of relief. First Red wouldn't come for another 40 minutes, at least, and The Drowned Rat was right around the corner. She'd made better time than expected, although she chafed at knowing it took a booster to do it. Shaking off the ambivalent pride, Douse moved briskly, keeping one eye to the ground and the other behind her.
The mud roads made her miss potholes, but it wasn't long before she saw the decrepit building ahead. Two goblin children were stealing oil from lamppost reservoirs. A old man was shouting at a dog to stop barking. A woman spouting gibberish sat in a gutter. It was all bringing back too many memories Douse wished forgotten and yet she felt reluctant to enter the inn. A foreboding had settled in her stomach as soon as she had arrived to The Dregs, a feeling which often prefigured a flashback, but the gnawing dread never quite bloomed into panic. She knew to listen to her instincts, so she found a shadowed street corner and waited outside.
Ten, fifteen minutes passed. First Red wouldn't be long. Douse began fidgeting, hoping she wouldn't have to go inside. It did not escape her notice that the dog had not stopped barking the whole time.
"I'm not the only one whose instincts I should trust," Douse muttered to herself. She traced the dogs eyes to an open window on the second floor of The Drowned Rat. A curtain fluttered a bit. Douse went tense. Licking a finger and holding it to the air confirmed a suspicion. No wind. She backed closer to the dog, which made no notice of her approach and continued barking at the window. Douse thought she saw a a vague shape sitting on the window sill. The dog's persistence convinced her it wasn't an overactive imagination reacting to nerves.
A lamplighter approached a lamp near the window. Once the lamp was lit, Douse was certain. The yellow light of the oil lamp flickered strangely at the curtains, as if refracting through a glass. She reached down to pet the dog's scruff and shushed it. The dog quieted to a low growl. Flicking her hand at the lamppost, the small flame flared a moment, turning the heads of the lamplighter and the few passerby. Those were not her concern. More ominous was the startled gurgle from the windowsill, an unearthly squeak like steam whistling through a pipe.
From inside the room, Douse heard the voice of a man approaching the window.
"What's there? Hello?"
Douse didn't have time to shout a warning. A handsome man, far too well dressed for the area, cautiously peered outside. Right as he did, Douse heard the flapping of wings. The man threw his hand up as his throat burst open, the barbed tail of a small leathery creature materializing from nowhere and piercing his esophagus. As quickly as it appeared, the beast, something like a cross between a bat and a goblin, vanished.
Swearing to every god she knew, Douse shoved the dog towards a the brightest lit street she saw.
"Come on, boy! An imp's not for us to mess with!"
It refused to budge, its bark intensifying to a manic degree. Swearing again, Douse ran off into the light only to stop short at the sound of heavy boots marching towards the inn. She careened into a dumpster alley and listened as best as her frantic heartbeat would allow.
"Right, then. So Taggard should be breathin' through an extra hole in 'is wind pipe soon enough," came a gruff voice. "An if'n e'rry thing's gone silky, should be a courier right at the door. We scoop 'im up, we turn 'im in, an' we rollin' in cash moneys for a good while, right boys?"
Rough laughter. Another voice asked hesitantly, "An' if they'nt there?"
"Come off it, Rodgey. Y'always expectin' the worst of it."
"Yeah, but..."
"No buts, Rodgey boy. They'nt there, then they'nt there. It don't have to be them. Could be anybody'll do. Now come on! We eatin' steak tonight, boys!"
More laughter. Douse had gone pale. How she had kept from crying out, she would never know. Her mind was racing. Flight took over. Her feet scraped the dirt roads, buildings and alleys and side paths whirring by. No direction in particular other than away, as far and as fast as possible. Could any idea have settled into thought, it would be gratitude that in a neighborhood like The Dregs, a figure running desperately into the night was a scene too common to cause concern.
Slowly, drip by drip, First Red seeped blood across the sky.
4. Epilogue
Secretariat Tolp sat with hands folded on his desk as Chief Inspector Galarean paced the office's marbled floors in front of him.
"I just want to be sure, Tolp. You say it was a waterskin you hired, yes? Delivery due by First Red of last evening at The Drowned Rat. Recipient, Councilman Taggard."
"Yes, yes. All correct, my sir."
"And she hasn't returned to claim the remaining payment?"
"Not at all. I suspect she failed to deliver. She did say it was rather late in the day for the time table given. And, as this grim affair will confirm, it was not the safest of neighborhoods."
"But she had a knife."
"All couriers do. As do most residents of The Dregs... ah, I mean Lower Sythra, if my one visit there was any indication."
The Chief Inspector stopped pacing and squared his shoulders.
"And where were you last night?"
"Here, sir. The Viscount had a lavish affair hosting a charity ball which required my full attention. The staff and, if you will allow me some pride, many nobles of the Lower Echelon all surely agree it was a grand evening."
The Chief Inspector stood silent a beat, chewing at the inside of his cheek. A tough nut to crack, but he had patience. Truth had a way of running late.
"Alright," he said. "I suppose that covers it for now. If anything comes up..."
"You'll be the first to know," Tolp interjected.
"Right. Right... Thank you for your time."
The Chief Inspector left, brow furrowed as he closed the door behind him. For his part, Tolp gave no appearance of being perturbed other than a soft exhale.
"You know the secret to a good memory?" he asked, apparently to no one in particular. A bemused voice answered from behind him.
"I know several."
"Hm. Mine is, tell no lies," Tolp continued, nodding. "The courier escaped safely, I take it?"
"Indeed. Would you like me to find her?"
"No... No. It was a damn shame to get someone like her involved to begin with. I'm just glad to hear it didn't end poorly for her. Taggard, on the other hand..."
"Pradzidy has crossed a line, I agree. Any plans?"
"Things will move too quickly for plans. Snap elections begin tomorrow, and it's too tight a bet for comfort. If Earl Brody gets in, well... Things will become erratic. Best to wait and be ready to react."
"Very well. Shall I take my leave, sir?"
"Yes. I will be in touch when necessary."
Tolp found himself abruptly alone. He allowed himself a heavy sigh before moving to his paperwork. At the top of the pile was a formal request to budget foundation repairs for Worker's Row. Making sure all the i's were dotted and t's were crossed, Tolp notarized the form, sealed it, and called for a courier. It wasn't likely to make it through the pork barrel, but then, Douse had surprised him. Perhaps this would surprise him, too.
End
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Thanks for reading! If you made it this far and wanted to take a guess at Douse's build, here's a link to her character sheet on D&D Beyond.
https://ddb.ac/characters/40392910/dvwZoB
