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History

The Baraque is the darkest part of town in every way. Tall buildings, cramped alleyways and darkness in the streets where dark souls ply their trade.
If you couldn't make it in the other parts of Conalin City, The Baraque is where you would end up.
While corrupt watchmen, decadent nobles, scheming merchants, and desolate urchins go about their daily business, four guilds operate in the shadows, each with their own agenda and its area of expertise.

The Thieves (Theft), The Butchers (Protection) , Les Voleurs (Breaking and entering), and The Salts (Assassination).

An uneasy peace exists between the guilds which was enacted after the last guild war ran rampant through the streets, and forced the leaders of each guild to meet and talk before they attracted the attention of the Conalin Guard.
The meetings were arranged on neutral ground by The Baraque High-men. This was not out of charity, as the corrupt High-men feared that intervention by the high Conalin Guard might ruin their lucrative business of bribes and smuggling.

But the recent disappearances of random high ranking members from each of the guilds has put a huge strain on the peace, and even The Baraque High-men are starting to become increasingly paranoid. A new war is in the making and its just a matter of time before the first dagger falls...


(This takes place in the medieval era. No guns.)

Profile Skeleton:



Try to choose weapons that go with your guild. They can all fight, but an agent of The Thieves wouldn't use a claymore.

The Story Thus Far:

As the story goes, I will try to keep this updated to fill in those who may join later.


- Jack, the leader of The Salts, sends one of his lead men (Connors) to investigate a disappearance site, and the other (McKinley) to The Thieves to find out if any of them have gone missing. He sends his best friend (Bradley) after McKinley; something's fishy.
- Laela, a senior agent of The Salts ponders the seemingly impending war
- Danny Cardiff, an agent of The Thieves, makes off with a noble's purse, but also notices someone jumping from rooftop to rooftop in The Thieves' territory. He makes to notify the Guildmaster of The Thieves.
- Gwyn, an agent of The Butchers, after completing her job went back to The Butchers' guild house to comfort a friend who's father has gone missing. She is now on her way home early in the morning.
- Jack finds out that the recent disappearances were not caused by The Thieves and that the Guildmaster of Les Voleurs (Cooper) needs to talk. He also sent a messenger to have Laela pursue The Wardens.
- Laela receives the message and makes her way to the city.
- Danny Cardiff attends a Thieves guild meeting and is assigned along with another agent to question The Salts about their motives.
- Gwyn heads home for the night and enters her home safely.
-Jack heads back to the guild hall and goes to sleep while trying to figure out what is going on. Bradley exits to speak to the Thieves (Diffy and Rathburn)
- Danny explains his presence slightly
- Bradley, Jack's friend and second in command, welcomes the two thieves for the night and shows them to their room. He asks why they are here.

"We are each our own devil,"

Though it had been dark for an hour or so, Gwyn was just leaving the Butchers' guildhouse. She'd spent the day with a new client who had needed to go down to the docks to pick up a package, but had feared any who saw him and tried to steal his goods. That was his story, in any case. It was not part of the job to pry, and Gwyn was not paid to ask questions. She suspected that his "goods" were not come by honestly, but smuggling was fairly common here, and judging by the size of his delivery, it was nothing particularly spectacular or heinous. Her charge was a scrawny breed of merchant scum that was also seen often in Conalin. He'd been a nervous sort, constantly fidgeting as they travelled through the city, and since he had given her no name, she referred to him as 'Twitch' in her mind. She often nicknamed her clients regardless, and was even quite fond of some of them, by now familiar with their different quirks.

She had guided Twitch back to his home in the Stonemarket just as night had fallen, but instead of going home, had returned to the guildhouse to check all was well. Several of their high-ranking members had disappeared in the past few months, so while tensions and suspicion between the guilds steadily climbed, within the guild the members drew comfort and support from one another. One of her friends' fathers was one of the missing men, so Gwyn and three other Butchers had dug out their reserve of whiskey and stayed up with the grieving young man. It was only when the air in the streets hung deadly quiet that Gwyn and the others left for home.

Her senses buzzed ever so slightly from the alcohol, just enough to keep her belly warm. The extra hours had made it so she wasn't as tipsy as before - Gwyn hated not being in control, and rarely drank as it was, especially in times like these. The silver and blue emblem of the Butchers blazed on her plain greenish-gray tunic, and she wore loose-fitting breeches of the same hue. Her boots were a no-nonsense brown, and thumped quietly on the stone path as she made her way towards her small living in the west corner of the Old District. Her brown hair was pulled back into her working style, a simple, short braid that just fell past her neck, bound tightly to her scalp. You learned quickly in her line of work that longer hair was a vanity that could get you killed, as it offered an easy place for an attacker to grab. On her belt was a plain brown trick-purse - pickpockets were abundant in this part of the city - which only held a few coppers. Her real purse was concealed beneath her uniform, and it held her wages earned that day, a tidy sum. Hooked into her belt as well was her trusty two-handed axe. Though she could use it skillfully, it was more for work and warning. If she were attacked while on her own despite the fact that she carried it, perhaps because an assailant thought to catch her off-guard before she could use it, she had half a dozen throwing daggers concealed on her person to employ first. Her face, though not overly unattractive, was set in a bland expression every Butcher learned. It was meant to keep her face as hard to remember as possible, in case any enemies of her clients decided to make her an enemy as well.

The night was calm, as it was just past three or so - the crime rate was highest in the late evening and early morning, but by this time, most criminals were holed up in their drinking dens or had retired for the night.

Most of them. Gwyn's steady brown eyes still scanned the street sharply, and her ears listened for any noise in the inky darkness.

"We are each our own devil,"

The route to Gwyn's home was straightforward enough, but another rule for Butchers was drilled into their skulls even before they took on regular duties - never develop patterns. Taking the same way to a dwelling was a sure way to end up outside your house with your neck slit. Plenty of enemies would attack at random, but the dangerous ones, the clever ones, would follow a Butcher home to see how he or she got in and out of the house, what dark corners they passed, where they were most relaxed. For her part, Gwyn had been grabbed by unfriendly hands twice as a young Butcher, barely two years in as a fully-fledged guard, because she forgot this important rule. Only her lightning reflexes and a chance passerby Butcher had kept her from being nothing more than another burial badge on the wall of deceased the Butchers kept. Each story was tacked next to the corrosponding badge, all of them constant, brutal reminders of the consequences of laziness. Few Butchers survived once, and even fewer were alive after a second encounter. Her folly when she was eighteen had turned Gwyn into a meticulously careful Butcher.

Tonight she took the shortest route, as it was late and she had been taking out-of-the-way routes for the past week or so. Her home was situated between the Butchers' and Thieves' guildhouses, just barely tucked into the limits of the Old Quarter. Gwyn reached it roughly a half hour after she had left the guildhouse, and warily eyed her quiet street as her boots softly thumped down onto the cobblestones. She hadn't used the front door of her house for awhile either, and deemed it safe enough, even though she had to turn her back to unlock it. As one hand pretended to fumble noisily with her key, her other lightly touched the handle of one of her thigh-knives, which was just hidden by the hem of her tunic. Her posture was slouched, a Butcher worn out from the strains of the day, ready to relax into her home, but Gwyn's muscles were tense, her ears pricked. It was in this same position she'd been attacked one of the two times as a teenager. She would never again be able to let her guard down until she was safe inside her house.

"Evenin' Gov'," Danny smiled his usual pleasend smile at the Salt that came to greet them, "Jus' wonderin' if your guildmaster'd be interested in a little 'eart to 'eart regardin' the strange disapperances what 'ave been goin' on lately." Danny held up O'Connell's crest, "This li'le mission comes right from the top, Gov', we wan' an end to this bollocks as much as you do. Bu', it's gettin' a li'le late, so if your boss don' wanna ge' outta bed a' this hour, we'll understand. An' if tha's the case, we wouldn' mind 'avin' a place to snooze for wha's lef' 'o the night."