A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Twenty-Second Day of the First Month 293 AC

The slums of Pentos are a noisome place, worse in some ways than Drowned Town for the fact that there is less water. You never thought you would miss the effluvia and the ever-present stink of rotting fish that seemed to get into everything, but compared to the ungodly small of offal, waste, and misery that hangs over 'the Swills' you would count Drowned Town a right proper place for a walk in the evening. Skeletal chickens peck at the ground in the feeble hope of some food, watched over by flinty eyed owners not much better fed than their charges while feral hogs and dogs root around in the rutted streets. Worst of all are the children, ragged and fearful as they peer out of darkened alleyways looking for charity... or a chance to ambush the unwary or unarmed. Oddly enough you do not even smell the acrid piss of tanneries, nor choking charcoal smoke, those crafts usually regaled to such places.

"This is worse than it has to be..." you finally say to Ser Richard in dawning horrified understanding. "This is the fate the magisters have graciously prepared for any bondsmen who might think that it is better to chance true freedom than their masters' 'protection'." You have known rage that burns bright as a dragon's breath many a time, but the thing that comes upon you with that understanding is slower, colder, but no less fierce for it, like forgefire perhaps.

"Fleabottom's not a lot better," the knight replies absently, his eyes moving to and for across the streets with no less diligence for knowing the strength the two of you could bring to bear if threatened. Your sworn sword is not one to bring less than his utmost at any time. "They don't take slaves there, though I'd wager some folk would prefer it to their lot."

You would like nothing better than to curse and spit... but there is little purpose. "There will be much need for better waterworks, then," you say, putting an end to the subject.


Having taken the guise of two scarred and well-armed sellswords, though with little of the rude splendor in gold and baubles the more successful of such men can have, the two of you are left to pass in peace until you find... well, you suppose you would call it a midden, a hill of refuse surrounded by low buildings, their walls of wattle and mud brick. There rising from the rotted earth a single pale stone stands like the skeletal finger of some accusing wraith.

"There's our marker, then," you sigh. As the sun begins to slide over the horizon the two of you slide into a alleyway and a moment later walk out though guarded by a glamour. At least now you understand why the instructions were that the documents had to be wrapped in oiled cloth and placed inside a solid iron chest.

"Nothing to it but to wait, then," Ser Richard notes. "Shitty place to do it, though." He takes a long drink from wine skin before handing it to you.

How long are you wiling to wait for someone to pick up the dead drop?

[] Until midnight

[] Until morning

[] Write in

OOC: Not a very meaty part, but this being a stakeout I need to know how long you guys are willing to wait.