"Shit. You want to know my story, huh?"
Dreggs leans back in his chair, sloshing ale dangerously close to the rim. "Long story. Stupid one, too. You sure you wanna hear it?"
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
"So there I was in Cheliax, right? Just mindin’ my own business—if you stretch the truth a bit—and this noble prick hires me to 'acquire' a map from some old ruin. Turns out the map was fake, the ruin wasn’t, and the guy wasn’t a noble. He was a cultist. A real robe-and-chanting, teeth-filed-down, blood-circle-on-the-floor cultist. Next thing I know, I’m tied to a chair in some cellar smelling like boiled meat and regret. I should’ve died. Probably. Or at least that’s what the alchemist said after I broke out and rolled through a cart of explosive candles. Got a nice eyebrow singe and a weeklong limp. Lucky, go figure."
He takes a sip, then grins over the mug.
"So I bolt. Only way out was this traveling circus headed to Absalom. I ‘borrowed’ the flute player’s outfit—he was drunk and unconscious, not dead, probably—and bluffed my way onboard. I planned to vanish the moment we hit the docks. Clean break. Fresh start. Maybe even a warm bed that didn’t smell like mildew and lies. But Absalom's got teeth, and I got mugged within two hours. That’s how I met Marnie—lovely woman, sharp with words and blades. She gave me a couch, two bad jobs, and no exit. That was six months ago. I’m still here. Still broke. Still alive."
He raises his mug in mock toast.
“Some gods just don’t know when to quit.”
Dreggs lets the silence settle for a moment, swirling the last mouthful of ale around like it’s got secrets.
“Anyway, Absalom’s a city that eats people like me. You either get smart or you get gone. I figured I’d do both—stay sharp, stay slippery, keep my head down. But the thing is, you spend enough nights crashing in borrowed lofts above bakeries and making coin off rats the size of dogs, and you start wanting… I don’t know. Something a bit less pathetic.”
He leans forward, lowering his voice like he's sharing something dangerous or embarrassing—or both.
“So one night, after one too many drinks and one too few coins, I wander into the Grand Lodge. Don’t ask me why. Probably thought I’d steal something shiny or sleep in a closet. But instead I end up talking to this old Pathfinder, half-blind, smells like ink and spice, right? He listens to me spin some nonsense about how I escaped a cult and fought off ‘six’—okay, maybe three—goblins with a bent sword and a barstool. And the bastard laughs. Says I’ve got ‘potential.’ Gives me a trial job. Real quiet stuff. Deliver this scroll. Spy on that meeting. Nothing too heroic. You know—my speed.”
He taps his chest with two fingers, grinning like he still can’t believe it.
“Been in ever since. Not the most loyal recruit, maybe. But I do the jobs, I stay alive, and every now and then, I even help people. Accidentally. Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
A pause. He considers something.
"Dont tell Jackal. Probably wouldn't get it."
Dreggs leans back in his chair, sloshing ale dangerously close to the rim. "Long story. Stupid one, too. You sure you wanna hear it?"
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
"So there I was in Cheliax, right? Just mindin’ my own business—if you stretch the truth a bit—and this noble prick hires me to 'acquire' a map from some old ruin. Turns out the map was fake, the ruin wasn’t, and the guy wasn’t a noble. He was a cultist. A real robe-and-chanting, teeth-filed-down, blood-circle-on-the-floor cultist. Next thing I know, I’m tied to a chair in some cellar smelling like boiled meat and regret. I should’ve died. Probably. Or at least that’s what the alchemist said after I broke out and rolled through a cart of explosive candles. Got a nice eyebrow singe and a weeklong limp. Lucky, go figure."
He takes a sip, then grins over the mug.
"So I bolt. Only way out was this traveling circus headed to Absalom. I ‘borrowed’ the flute player’s outfit—he was drunk and unconscious, not dead, probably—and bluffed my way onboard. I planned to vanish the moment we hit the docks. Clean break. Fresh start. Maybe even a warm bed that didn’t smell like mildew and lies. But Absalom's got teeth, and I got mugged within two hours. That’s how I met Marnie—lovely woman, sharp with words and blades. She gave me a couch, two bad jobs, and no exit. That was six months ago. I’m still here. Still broke. Still alive."
He raises his mug in mock toast.
“Some gods just don’t know when to quit.”
Dreggs lets the silence settle for a moment, swirling the last mouthful of ale around like it’s got secrets.
“Anyway, Absalom’s a city that eats people like me. You either get smart or you get gone. I figured I’d do both—stay sharp, stay slippery, keep my head down. But the thing is, you spend enough nights crashing in borrowed lofts above bakeries and making coin off rats the size of dogs, and you start wanting… I don’t know. Something a bit less pathetic.”
He leans forward, lowering his voice like he's sharing something dangerous or embarrassing—or both.
“So one night, after one too many drinks and one too few coins, I wander into the Grand Lodge. Don’t ask me why. Probably thought I’d steal something shiny or sleep in a closet. But instead I end up talking to this old Pathfinder, half-blind, smells like ink and spice, right? He listens to me spin some nonsense about how I escaped a cult and fought off ‘six’—okay, maybe three—goblins with a bent sword and a barstool. And the bastard laughs. Says I’ve got ‘potential.’ Gives me a trial job. Real quiet stuff. Deliver this scroll. Spy on that meeting. Nothing too heroic. You know—my speed.”
He taps his chest with two fingers, grinning like he still can’t believe it.
“Been in ever since. Not the most loyal recruit, maybe. But I do the jobs, I stay alive, and every now and then, I even help people. Accidentally. Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
A pause. He considers something.
"Dont tell Jackal. Probably wouldn't get it."
