The summer heat made the nighttime air thick and humid. It was yet another reason to quit this town. The streets weren’t deserted, but there weren’t many souls near the spot where she stood.

Razorvine coiled around a sign nailed above the frame of the door. It bore a crude depiction of a man’s body with arms and legs pulled off, splashes of red paint to simulate gore. In any other locale the sign would be tasteless, but it fit Curst perfectly.

Portnoy strolled out of the Quartered Man like a Dustman with a freshly-signed contract. He noticed her and flashed a crooked smile. Janna’s magic would have faded by now, but the thought was planted – now hormones and ego would take over.

“You said something about tasting your… peach?”

Revulsion crawled up her throat, but she forced her sultriest smile in response. As he approached, he seemed to take in her height for the first time. Janna was a tall one, and she relished how it threw men off their game. Portnoy couldn’t look down on her, at least not physically.

“I’m glad you came,” she lied. “It was a bit loud in there.”

“Loud? You should see my festhall back in Himinborg.” His former festhall, Janna mused.  He looked at their surroundings and back at her. “So, should we go back to your kip, or do you want me right here?”

Laughing softly, she took his right hand as if to lead him. With a practiced motion, she clasped a manacle to his wrist. Before he could react, she hooked his other arm and secured the other manacle. A short chain connected the two behind his back, with a length trailing off to the ground.

“What?” Portnoy exclaimed, realizing the error in his judgment. “Unhand me right now, you…”  His words trailed off as Janna kneed him in the stomach.  She seized him by the hair and looked in his eyes.

“The less you talk, the smoother this will go.” She reached for his purse and found it light. She expected as much. “Luckily, someone in Himinborg is paying well for you. Now here’s how this works…”

“Hey!,” a voice interrupted from the Quartered Man. One of Portnoy’s friends had stepped outside, the thick-necked one, probably wanting to spy on the action. Seeing his potential benefactor in chains, he stalked towards Janna with a menacing frown. She pushed the nobleman down against a  broken crate and stepped to face the man.

“Sorry, friend,” she said with mock sadness. “I don’t have time for you right now.”  He advanced and threw a punch, but Janna leaned back and let it go wide. Rapidly, she struck a few blows to his side. He wouldn’t be as easy as Portnoy. His meaty arm swung back and connected, sending her stumbling against a neighboring wall. She felt a sting on her cheek. That would swell later.

“Rotten bitch!” he yelled, reaching for her. She grabbed his left hand and twisted it sideways, causing him to snarl in pain. The palm of her other hand jammed into his throat, sending him backwards. Janna pushed to her feet.

The large man weighed his odds and drew a curved knife from his belt. A guy like him couldn’t honestly lose a fist fight, so he had to pull a blade. She should have taught him a messy lesson, but looking in the alley beyond him, she no longer saw Portnoy.

“Sil’makk Estus Thewan.”  Her words slid out, taking a life of their own. The large man’s eyes widened in confusion as his muscles seized up. He stood rigid, unable to move as she stepped before him.  She plucked the hooked blade from his hand and held it close to his face.

“I could bury this in your eye and there’s not a damned thing you could do about it.”  She sent the blade sailing over the roof of the Quartered Man. “Think on that next time.”  She ducked past him into the cluttered alley. There was no sign of the manacled nobleman.

“Shit.”

The Quartered Man was an angry boil on the arse of the city of Curst. Sour ale and cheap pipe-weed smoke weren’t the worst of it – it was the clientele. Cutthroats and anarchists rubbed shoulders with deposed nobility, all complaining about their misfortunes. A small group of demons played dice in a corner, hissing at patrons who drew too near. The tavern didn’t even have music.

Janna felt ill-at-ease in the Quartered Man. It wasn’t that other patrons watched her – they watched everybody. Something about this place kindled distrust and paranoia in a berk’s heart.  No, her discomfort was more of a dreaded anticipation of the task before her.

A few tables down, she could hear a group of conspirators centered around a thin-haired man with stories to tell. He spoke of his former glories as a duke (“duck” was how the word sounded to Janna), and the seat of wealth he no longer had. A terrible betrayal at the hands of his cousin had led to his exile in this godforsaken city. And of course, there were riches to be had, if only he could recruit more honorable men to his cause. Honorable? Here?

She wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. The middle-aged man, Rickard Portnoy, had repeated his tale four or five times since she had been there. She could recite it for him. Hells, she could improve it for him if needed. At this rate, she was surprised he had five bashers steadily listening to him speak. 

Slowly exhaling the breath she had been holding, Janna looked down at the leathers she was wearing. Adjustments were needed. She fiddled with the cords along the front of her jacket, easing them to allow more neckline to show. Her neckline, and a little more. She tried not to imagine the disapproving look in her mother’s eyes, but failed. A means to an end, that’s all. She downed the last of the watery ale and rose to stand. 

From her pack, she pulled out a dark wooden lute. A few eyes watched her actions, but more turned to her when she plucked at a few strings. She walked by a few tables, asking “Care for a song?” The responses were predictable: open derision from most, while others turned their gaze away from her in silence. She made her way to Portnoy’s table. He was explaining how his only needed a force of two-or three hundred men for some easy work.

“Care for a song, milord?”  She smiled, looking across the seated men and women, ending her gaze on Portnoy himself. He wore fine clothing, but his tailored coat was stained and an errant thread poked out from his collar. His lip curled, followed by a dispassionate “No.”

The man to his right, a dark-skinned brute with long-tangled hair, looked her up and down with appraisal. “Lord Portnoy, maybe you’d rather she warm your bed?” She smiled, inwardly wanting to drive her knee into his face. Portnoy took her in as well, but his eyes lingered on her hair – clean-shaven on the sides and stained a shade of fiery orange.

“I don’t lay with low-born women.” This earned laughs from the sycophants around him, a heavyset woman included. Janna maintained her smiling demeanor while changing her tact.

“You never know how delicious the fruit,” she said, strumming a specific chord on her lute, “if you don’t have a taste.”  With her eyes focused on Portnoy’s, she could feel the twist of magic.  There was a momentary connection, a hint of suggestion carefully woven into her words, and then it was done.

As the group pondered her quip, Janna turned and moved towards the back of the room. She made half-hearted offers of song as she passed other groups. A sodden drunk asked her to play, but she ignored him and casually moved to other tables. A few steps, past the pair of grey-skinned demons, and she was at a door to the outside. She glanced back and smiled. Lord Portnoy had risen and was following her path.

I’ve had that urge to write again. I need an outlet for creativity, and I’m in-between phases of painting miniatures. I’ve not run an RPG for over a year, and that’s weird for me – usually I can fill that creative void by planning adventures, writing up setting materials, etc.

So here I am. I’ve been going through a lot of Planescape material, both official published and from online resources, decades old (Mimir.net!) and new (Codex of the Infinite Planes by Dave Coulson), and it remains my favorite setting. So let’s give this a shot.

I’ll be posting small stories at a fairly frequent pace. We’ll see if I can keep up a respectable pace.