Those with diligent eyes and attentive ears heard loud and boisterous sounds of working in the deeper parts of the slums on the eve of January 21, 306 AC. Medium to large groups were seen moving in and out of an ancient looking building that had fallen to disrepair, bringing in boards, nails, hammers, and other tools for renovation. Children who had not gone to bed watched with awe as work was done, but parents were quick to recall them inside, for something truly sinister was being constructed. The building itself was not enormous, but it wasn’t small either. It had a tall structure but was not more than one floor, obviously using a high ceiling. Historians would recall that the building was previously used as an asylum for the mentally ill in the early first century after the Cataclysm, but it had been shut down once it began murdering inmates who were deemed too expensive to handle. Out of all the people walking in and out of the building, there was one peculiar character that stood out to onlookers, as an overseer. Ironically enough, he stood at no more than four and a half feet; he was an Aldor dwarf. His cheeks were dirty, and his face was weathered by the wrinkles of time. His head was balding, yet his mustache was thick and lightly topped with lice. The man directed the workers in their mission. He wore mittens as he stood in the cold throughout the night, and had a scarf wrapped around his neck. A black coat and similarly colored pants and dress shoes completed his appearance, though when the coat was unbuttoned, one might spy a white undershirt and a brief red tie. Soon, once the workers stopped rebuilding the decrepit parts of the building, they began to build something of a podium in the square in front of it. A crowd of gang leaders, members, and commonfolk alike began to approach and wonder whether they were going to receive a speech or not. Once the podium was finished, there was constructed an embarrassingly visible stack of boards and toolboxes behind the podium. Sure enough, the aforementioned Dwarf approached the podium with a sheaf of papers and a look that could wither steel. He stepped up the stack of items that had been provided for him and laid his papers down with care. The Dwarf coughed, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, before beginning his speech to the crowd. “Ladies, gentlemen, Ailor and non-Ailor,” he started, his voice coarse like sandpaper, “My name is Curth Foltz. To you, and more specifically your wonderful leaders in crime, I am the Secretary. This, as you may have already guessed,” he gestured to the building behind him, “Is the Court or Rats. Now, I beg that you bear with me as I explain what is happening. “I was a member of the Beggar’s Council before it fell to pieces. The rest of us all went our separate ways, with some of us even taking up honest livings. I have brought with me my men and guards to help me on the task that I have undertaken, which has been the restoration of the King of Rats, whose lineage apparently failed a little over a century ago. Within this building lay a throne and surrounding seating. None shall sit on the throne until I declare the true descendant of the King of Rats, and for that, you must show me that you have the mettle required of you to sit on the throne, for royalty does not flow through blood but through quality.” He paused, lifting up his papers for the crowd to see, but no writing could specifically be read, “I have here a list of things I need done by you. The collective scum of this city. Some of it may be easy, but as you escalate, it will become more difficult and life threatening. There will be rewards, but you should be pushing fervently for the highest reward- the Crown of the Rats. Every week, a new phase of these quests shall be placed on a noticeboard in the Court. Anyone may solve them, but keep in mind only a Crime Lord will be eligible to sit on the throne.” Curth smiled devilishly before continuing, “Permanent alliances between gangs are strictly prohibited, by the way. They can only be temporary. And if none of you are dead by the time this Slummish Town has a King, I will be extremely angry, not to mention disappointed.” With this, Curth Foltz stepped down from his podium as the crowd erupted into chaos, many of those present stunned at this announcement. The non-criminals were frightened about the possibility of becoming a target of the Court, and the criminals were excited about the same possibility. When checked, the first set of quests had not been posted yet, but the sinking feeling in the stomach told everyone that it would be soon. Frightfully soon.
Edward Jarsdel was intrigued when news of these announcements were brought to his table by his men. He plucked his sigg from his lips, exhaled the clouds of smoke aside, looked them in the eyes, and rather impatiently, perhaps even in a rush, ordered them to keep track of the quests that would follow. He stood from his chair as his men left the office, and turned to take a look at the business district of Regalia, thoughts clouding his mind, and possible rivalries that would surely come.
Rasmus Rasputin had lost his old gang in Ithania to guardsmen and was the only survivor. He sat drinking his problems away with some good rum when a letter came his way concerning this news. He smirked...then it turned to a grin. Perhaps gaining the Crown of Rats could reform some sort of power he had before, and help him reach his way up further than the gutters to somewhere a little more...lavish. It would be good to come home to Regalia as well, as it had been a long time since he had last entered the city. He booked the first ship he could, hopping on and heading out. He would need wits and people. People first, and then wits. Worthy soldiers willing to serve that mercenary esc order which worked so well in Ithania....well before it ended so horribly.
Jochund coughed, laughing when he heard the news, "Rat King? What a sh*tty counding title!" Of course, this dismissal did not last long- Jochund's opinion began to shift as he heard more and more excited chatter from various gangs and criminals. The more he realized others wanted the title, the more he wanted it.
The time had finally come. No longer was Ichabod going to be confined to a damn Emporium beneath the noses of those who sneered down upon him. No longer was blood going to be spilled from his body in vain. No longer would his push against those damn Viridian knights be for naught. Today was the day that he would surely begin his order and begin his assault on those who laughed at the old man with a hideous face. With a cheerful cackle and a dance with glee that was awfully spry for a man of his age, the arachnid of an elf went to work throwing papers and posters on whatever walls he could, even if that meant he had to collect a couple bruises along the way. The poor messenger that had told him this information was even given a gross peck upon the forehead as the demon left, heading right to work and wasting no time to put his power into play.
Leon/ The black king Would hear this announcement fully as he was leaning on the wall's at the emporium, His eye behind the mask would glare at the man and he said to himself "What a joke.." He said in his head. After a couple of second's he would leave the Emporium.
Nathanial Astrophell would have been pssing the crowd at this time hearing every word. "What could possibly go wrong?" he would say sarcastically to himself. Then, he ran off, wondering whether Regalia would still stand to even get to the last phase.
