Outlaws of Alkenstar

Bartolomeu Damoro is an affluent merchant in Ebonridge with the ear of several powerful men — and, reportedly, the actual ear of at least one of them. He has seven sons. Nicoleus is the one who causes the most paperwork.

The family carries a light secret: the blood of the Empyreal Dragon Artomixilan runs through their line, the remnant of an illicit affair with a forgotten matriarch some four hundred years back. In most of the Damoro sons it is barely noticeable. In Nicoleus it is not subtle at all. The gold in his hair, the golden eyes, and — according to those with the senses for it — a detectable scent of divine magic that lingers about him like expensive cologne.

Bartolomeu, ever seeing opportunity where others see inconvenience, offered the boy to the Church of Shelyn. A church that seeks the inner brightness in all creatures, living and dead, seemed a reasonable fit. Nicoleus was accepted, trained, and put to work in a temple sanctuary. He had no appetite for religion whatsoever. He had a remarkable talent for healing and an instinct for comfort — for soothing the dying, singing for children, and offering a kind word to people who would not see morning. He became a favourite among patients and physicians alike, which he found deeply satisfying and also deeply insufficient.

On his nights off, he found taverns. He played banjo for food and drink and discovered something he liked considerably more than the church: applause. He was good, and he knew it, and he enjoyed knowing it. His fingers danced on the strings, his songs drew laughter, and the adoration suited him far better than the vestments.

Then his blood began to speak to him in a different register. Patients who should not have survived, survived. Wounds closed faster than they had any right to. Ethereal traces of magic appeared in the records and were difficult to explain. The church investigated. The dragon whose blood he carried turned out to be none other than Shelyn's own herald — which resolved the theological question while creating several new administrative ones.

Nicoleus, however, was already dreaming of the road. The opportunity came when young Esmeralda proved rather smitten and Nicoleus proved rather drunk. His father began negotiating a marriage with the efficiency of a man closing a trade deal, and paternity came creeping ever closer on the horizon.

Nicoleus hit the road. The road, as it turned out, led straight into trouble — but that was more or less what he had been hoping for.

Pug grew up on a small, stubborn farm on the red earth outside Alkenstar — halfway between two worlds, half-elf in a land skeptical of both. He never needed it to be remarkable. It was the one place he never had to justify who he was. He worked sunrise to dusk, coaxing life from an unforgiving landscape, and the land endured with him.

Then Ambrost Mugland arrived.

Mugland arrived with a smile too polished for the dust-choked outskirts, buying up neighbouring farms under the guise of help — rigged loans delivered with oily charm. When Pug refused to borrow, Mugland found other methods. Brush fires that couldn't quite be proven deliberate. Sabotaged irrigation lines. And finally the paperwork — forged signatures, manipulated ledgers, and a city official whose palm gleamed with fresh coin. By the time the dispute reached Alkenstar's courts, the verdict was predetermined.

He walked off the property with a bedroll, a composite shortbow, and the farming scythe that had been his father's. Given three days to leave the land he had bled for.

He drifted into Alkenstar and found work where he could — caravan guard, tavern enforcer, escort through rougher districts. The scythe was an odd choice of weapon. People laughed. They didn't laugh long. He trained, hardened, and learned to strike with precision instead of brute strength.

Beneath the grit and pragmatism, the old farmhand still lingers. He wants his land back. He wants justice. And he has not forgotten the name Ambrost Mugland.

"My life ain't none o' y'all's business. All ya need to know is I was gun running and Mugland screwed me over. Framed me for theft. Theft — of all the Lao Shu things to frame me for. I. did. not. steal. them. guns. That man's a cunt, plain and simple, uh-hmm. He needs bringing down a peg or two. I'm gonna cut that man's ankles... then I'm gonna cut his balls."

Snatch grew up in a small ratfolk camp on the edge of the desert, not far from Alkenstar. The folk there had nothing, and Snatch wanted more. With few prospects, he would literally have to take what he wanted — at least, that's what he told himself. He fell in with a lowlife posse of bandits and soon found he was a good shot and a good thief.

He also learned he couldn't trust anyone. Not even the people he thought had his back. When Mugland set him up, his posse threw him under the coach without a second thought.

He'll work with this new group to get some payback and make some coin. But it'll take a lot for them to earn his trust now.

Her full name is Tailor Silverbarrel. Almost no one calls her that anymore.

Growing up in Alkenstar, Swift spent her childhood darting between her father's shipping warehouses, rummaging through arcane magazines, and tinkering with whatever firearm components she could get her hands on. She was always quicker than good sense advised — quick to learn, quick to talk, quick to climb things she shouldn't. The nickname stuck like gun oil.

When her parents took an opportunity in distant Nex and uprooted the family, Swift refused to go. She had just been accepted to Blythir College — the place she had dreamed of since she first watched a spellcaster channel arcane force into a bullet with mathematical elegance. After a long evening of arguing, her parents reluctantly agreed. They suspected their daughter was rather like a spark thrown into dry shavings, and they were not wrong.

College suited her. She studied hard, partied harder, and spent more time in the firing ranges than in half her required classes. Her professors used words like "unconventional" and "reckless" and occasionally "please stop pointing that at me." Her talent was undeniable regardless. She could weave arcane glyphs into ammunition with an intuitive ease that startled her peers and infuriated more traditionalist faculty.

Then the accusations came. Theft of sensitive arcane property. Unauthorized experimentation. Damaged equipment. A list too ridiculous to be believed — yet the evidence seemed airtight. Within a week she was expelled, humiliated, and left without a future.

Swift started digging. Her investigation, beginning with angry stomping and ending with careful piecing together of clues, uncovered a name whispered with fear across Alkenstar: Ambrost Mugland. A corrupt businessman with fingers in every shady enterprise the city had to offer. Someone like him didn't target a halfling student by accident.

She hadn't stolen anything. She wasn't going to let him destroy her life. She would clear her name — and then make sure he paid in full.