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Greyhawk doesn’t care if you’re drunk. The streets are always hungry.
The night started like too many others: broke, drunk, and one bad idea from waking up in the gutters of Greyhawk. Rat-Blood found his two fellow thieves stumbling home from The Low Lantern, pockets empty, heads fogged with cheap ale.
That’s when he made his pitch.
"I found something. Real gold. An old stash down by the Wharf. It’s just sitting there. We only need to grab it before someone else does."
The others, drunk enough to believe anything that smelled like coin, followed.
Instead of treasure, they found Master Elbar Vorzt.
In the bowels of a rotting warehouse, beneath the stink of fish and saltwater, Vorzt waited. Pale. Cold. Dangerous. The wizard spun his web quickly — offering coin for cooperation. What he needed wasn’t muscle — it was discretion. The price of survival was simple:
Retrieve a lead-sealed box from a warehouse guarded by Thieves Guild men. Don’t open it. Don’t fail.
The trio agreed. Whether by greed or fear didn’t matter — Greyhawk rarely allows for both.
The warehouse stood under faint torchlight near the water's edge. Three Thieves Guild guards loitered out front — relaxed but armed, assuming no one would dare cross Guild turf.
The Half-Orc thief slipped into the shadows, climbing silently to the roof with practiced ease. When one of the guards stepped close, the Half-Orc struck — a perfect backstab, natural 20 — the blade biting deep, killing him instantly.
Without hesitation, the Half-Orc stripped the corpse and donned the man’s uniform, blending into the shadows above.
But trouble never stays far in Greyhawk.
The second Guild guard across the street noticed something wrong — a new face where an old one had stood. He crept forward to investigate.
Rat-Blood, ever the opportunist, tried to eliminate the problem quickly. From above, he lunged to tackle the man clean off the rooftop — but instead, Rat-Blood slipped and tumbled off the side himself, landing with a heavy splash into the black waters below.
Now fully exposed, both the Half-Orc and Halfling scrambled to recover the situation.
The Half-Orc, pressed for time, pulled a vial of acid and melted the rooftop hatch lock, but in his haste triggered an internal alarm. Inside, two more Guild enforcers were ready.
Smoke bombs filled the room as chaos erupted. The Half-Orc fired blind through the smoke with his hand crossbow. Another natural 20 — a perfect shot — dropping one guard instantly with a bolt through the throat.
But the Halfling wasn't so lucky. At the warehouse front, he was overpowered, kicked into the street, stabbed, and bleeding badly. Cornered and desperate, he pulled his Lock Freezing potion, hurling it into his attacker’s chest — instantly freezing the man solid in mid-strike.
Unfortunately, the Guild guard’s scream had already alerted the City Watch, and the bells were beginning to ring in the distance.
With minutes to spare, the trio ransacked the warehouse, finally laying hands on the lead-sealed box, heavy with whatever alchemical secrets Vorzt sought.
Beaten, bleeding, and one step ahead of the law, they slipped into the misty back alleys and vanished into Greyhawk’s midnight sprawl — delivering the package to Vorzt just before dawn.
The job was done — but nothing in Greyhawk is ever clean.
The streets are watching. The Guild is whispering. And Vorzt is far from finished.
