The Butcher of Sharn

Chapter 1: Doc's place

Blood dripped from the gash across his chest. His vision swam, mind straining against the encroaching unconsciousness. Dimly, he was aware that he couldn't feel his arms. Strange, he thought, I should probably get that checked by Doc when I get home.

He looked up and saw a shadowy figure approach, features barely discernible through his hazy sight. He raised an arm to stop the figure, or rather attempted to before slumping back down onto the cold stone floor. The figure grabbed hold of his neck, hoisting him aloft. In a voice like gravel grinding in the gears of a great and terrible machine, the figure spoke.

"Begone."

He felt himself plummet, towers and bridges flashing past him. He felt a sudden impact and a sickening wet crunch, and the world went black.

Gunther woke with a start, slamming his head into the low ceiling above his cot. Cursing, he rubbed his forehead.

"That dream again?" he mumbled. Head thoroughly smacked and rubbed, he rose from his bed and got dressed, groggy and irritated from his sudden awakening. His ragged clothing hung loosely on his skinny frame, several sizes too large for him. He looked at his steel arms, moved all the joints, and suddenly his left elbow locked in position before the sword within sprung out of his palm, carving a gash in the wall in front of him. Cursing, he stuffed the telescoping blade back into his arm, and slammed the prosthetic into the wall. The elbow unlocked, protesting the rough treatment with a hiss of escaping air. Great, thought Gunther, another thing Doc'll have to fix. Oh well, guess I'll swing by there, he concluded. He opened the door to his apartment, and stepped out into the bustle of the city of towers.

An explosion of noise whirled around him, the city in full swing. It was rush hour, people zipped through the alley outside his apartment, high above in the sky airships ranging in size from vast to tiny soared, and the crier for the Sharn Inquisitive called out the headline of today's paper. Towers wound away into the sky, awestriking and imposing.
"Extra! Extra! The race of Eight Winds later today, mayor encourages Dura quarter residents living near to the cliffs to remain indoors until the race concludes! Only one copper!"

Gunther walked up to the small boy waving the papers and handed him a copper piece. The boy disinterestedly handed him a paper before continuing to call out to passersby.

Gunther read as he walked towards Doc's, skimming over the articles that seem to present less value, literal and metaphorical. Featured in today's issue was a special on the treasures of Sharn's museums, all in the higher layers. Gunther ripped those pages from the newspaper and stuffed them in his bag.

After a few minutes of walking, Gunther reached the entrance of Doc's clinic. The flickering arcane sigils on the sign outside projected the glowing words "DOC GRIM'S ARCANE REMEDIES AND MECHANICAL CONSTRUCTS" in glowing cursive font, with a much smaller, darker font after the "DOC" reading "unlicensed." Gunther pushed open the weathered old wood of the door with a loud creak, and climbed down the stairs to Doc's workshop. The sounds of gods know what tools emanated from the basement, as they always did at the clinic. He reached the bottom of the steps, and saw the figure of Doc hunched over a table with blue sparks blitzing out in a spray from whatever he was working on. He cleared his throat loudly, to no effect.

"Hey, Doc!" he shouted out to the man in front of him. Once again, no reaction.

"DOC!" he called out yet again. The man before him whipped around far faster than a man of his age would seem capable of. Doc flipped up the heavy darkened set of goggles on his face and looked at Gunther with the manic grin of a man with a few too many screws loose and a few too many sharp and dangerous tools in his possession.

"Ah, dear Gunnie! Please, have a seat, have a seat!" he said, gesticulating wildly with what Gunther could now see was a blazing hot welding gun. He took a step back from the doctor.