T he Black Mug Bar was a dank, crowded building made of old plaster and uneven walls. Its drinks were often watered down and always overpriced, but despite this, it remained fully stocked with customers. Most were not there for the ale. In the back of the building was its real purpose. A guarded door led to an expansive and well-lit basement filled with the finest luxuries available. To enter, one needed a password, which changed every month, and to show a sigil proving membership. Harruq and Haern needed neither.

“What you say?” a burly man asked as they approached.

“Pissed off half-orc,” Harruq said. The guard shook his head.

“You two should leave. Nothing down there you want.”

“Oh yeah, there is,” the half-orc said, grabbing the man’s head and slamming it against the door. The guard slumped to the floor. The few patrons jumped to their feet, drawing weapons. Most were members of the Spider Guild, and donned gray cloaks similar to Haern’s.

The assassin whirled upon them, drawing his sabers.

“I have killed more men than all of you have combined,” he said, his blue eyes blazing. “Those wishing to live, leave now. Those who dare face the wrath of the Watcher, come now, and die.”

Uncertain glances were followed by disappearing cloaks. Soon only the barkeep remained. Harruq kicked the door, splintering the meager lock.

“There was a key on the guy you just clobbered,” the barkeep said, pouring himself a drink.

“Keys. Bah.”

Haern tossed the barkeep a silver coin.