The Drifting Blade of the Moon [Grimdark][Dark Fantasy][Sword and Sorcery]

For a full week, Zevryn tracked south through rolling, sun-bleached hills where the soil was seemingly fertilized by poor life choices and unfortunate travelers. By the seventh day, the air grew thick with the heavy scent of rotting kelp, unwashed humanity, and crushing sovereign debt. On the horizon, the towering white-stone walls of Port Vandermir rose like a monument to human greed, gleaming mockingly in the salt-cured haze.

As he trudged along the dusty cart-track skirting the dry olive groves, a wheezing wooden wagon rattled up behind him. The driver, an old man whose face looked like a dried prune left in a frying pan, wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat that had seen several wars and zero laundries, hauled back hard on the frayed reins.

The old man squinted through the glare, taking in Zev’s slate-grey skin, silver-white hair, and the matte-black blades strapped across his back. He didn’t flinch. A man who spends his life hauling turnips has seen stranger things, mostly in mirrors.

”A drow?” the old man rasped, spitting a stream of dark juice into the dirt. ”Walking to Port Vandermir? Must have lost a bet or your mind. Hop on the back before my mule drops dead of existential dread.”

Zev climbed quietly onto the wooden bed of the cart, settling his composite warbow and ranger’s sling bag beside a stack of damp, bitter cabbages.

As the cart lurched forward, the old man struck up a conversation, shouting back over the rhythmic clatter of wood and bone. Zev listened to the drone of municipal gossip before cutting straight to the point: how did a stranger make a living inside those pristine walls?

The old man cackled, a dry, hacking sound that suggested his lungs were lined with emery paper. ”What kind of living? Well, that depends entirely on how quickly you want your liver separated from your torso.”

He held up a gnarled, dirt-caked finger. ”Three ways for a newcomer to carve out a name here in Port Vandermir, my drow friend.

”First, you can sign on as a mercenary. The city’s got a dozen private companies always looking for hard steel, standard-issue dysentery, and breathing targets to absorb crossfire.

”Second, you can become an adventurer. That means taking official contracts off the guild boards to crawl into dark holes and murder things wealthy merchants are too cowardly to handle themselves. Great for your resume, terrible for your life expectancy.

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”And third...” The old man glanced back over his shoulder, his watery eyes twinkling with malicious amusement. ”...you can live as a blade in the underworld. Earn your keep as a hired throat-cutter for the syndicates, if that’s your taste.” He wheezed a dry laugh, eyeing Zev’s dark complexion with grim, gallows appreciation.

Zev sat in silence, weighing the cold options. The syndicates offered absolute shadows, but the guild boards offered variety. Either way, blood bought bread.

”Well, my friend,” the old man announced, reining in the wheezing beast as the massive sea-stone archway of Port Vandermir loomed overhead. The sharp stenches of fried fish and municipal corruption hung heavy in the damp air. ”This is the paradise of commerce. Just a small token to the gate guards, and we can enter. Stick close. I know these leeches, and they charge extra for exotic pets.”

At the checkpoint, a pair of armored city guards crossed their heavy pikes, their expressions sour with the natural joylessness of middle-management thugs.

”Halt. What’s the walking shadow supposed to be?” the lead guard demanded, poking a gauntleted finger toward Zev.

The old man flashed an easy, toothless grin. ”Just a harmless northern ranger, officer. Looking to fund his retirement through sudden, violent employment in Port Vandermir.”

As the guard grunted, extending an open palm for the municipal toll, Zev reached into his ranger’s bag. He pulled out a handful of heavy, silver-gleaming coins, freshly harvested from the dead bandit leader’s pouch, and dropped them silently into the old man’s open hand.

The old man looked down at the silver. His weathered face went completely slack. These weren’t the pathetic copper scraps locals used to grease palms; this was real, unadulterated bandit-wealth.

Recovering his composure with professional speed, the old man coughed into his fist, bowed his head low enough to risk a slipped disc, and tipped the heavy silver bounty directly into the guard’s official collection box.

The guard took one look at the shimmering pile of wealth, blinked in sheer disbelief, and broke into a grin wide enough to split his leather helmet strap.

”Move along,” the guard muttered, kicking the iron lever. The heavy portcullis groaned upward, welcoming another taxpayer into the meat-grinder.

Once the cart rolled past the threshold into the bustling, chaotic streets of Port Vandermir, Zev stepped lightly off the back.

”Thank you for the ride,” Zev said, his voice level.

The old man tipped his hat, tucking a stray silver piece deep into his waistcoat with a wink. ”Just a fellow entrepreneur sharing a carriage, my obsidian friend. May the god of fortune bless your blades, because you are going to need them.”

With a sharp nod, they parted ways into the roaring, merciless currents of the great maritime city.