(In tribute to George MacDonald Fraser, from whom Hubren Delmarek is mostly stolen)
Respected brothers of the Guard,
You have requested my account of the events of the evening, and it is only with great reluctance that I relate them to you. As it stands, I can hardly speak of such matters without shaking to the core, in fear for my life.
I know not whom these brigands may have been—I had never made their acquaintance. What fell purpose lured them out of doors at the murderers’ hour I shall not guess.
As for myself, I had recently parted company with a certain tavern wench who cast me from her abode when I tried to pay her for standard service. The whore was too good for the money if you’ll believe that—she sent me packing as soon as I flashed my coin—it was the damndest thing I ever saw. A big wench she was, too, but willing and wily—the sort of dangerous fun a young guardsman engages when he’s drunk enough to risk the bitch breaking his back. Young Hubren don’t go for the type on a good night, but as I said, the hour was late and pickings were slim. My recent adventures about and under the town had put a fear of death in me such that I wondered if I’d ever lie by a woman’s side again, and I’d be damned if I’d go to the grave in heat.
So there was the wench.
I was out in the street taking a piss when the bastards caught me with my pants around my ankles. They knew my name and my position and rank, and they were damned if they’d let that stop them, and they told me so.
“Who are you?” I said. “What do you want? Don’t you know that I’m an officer?”
They knew, they said, and they didn’t care. Said they had diplomatic immunity and there wasn’t a damn thing Waterdeep could do about it. Said they had a blank cheque in town, more or less.
Well, I wouldn’t be cowed by that. Not Hubren Delmarek. Waterdeep’s in my blood. Her spirit’s in my veins. I told the rogues I wouldn’t surrender without a fight.
Two of them began waving their hands and summoning their witchcraft, so I shot one in the face belly and tried to run the other through. The big one nearly took my ear off, but I got my guard up on time. The odds were falling out of my favor, so I cut the griffon free to distract them, but the damned thing leapt on the warrior and tore his head from his shoulders. After that, the others tried to escape and I ran one of them down. We wrestled and he resisted. He began to call his sorceries so I thrust his head against the street to render him senseless.
At this point, I wasn’t going to let the other one escape—not when he was the only witness. I tracked him to an inn and we fought a duel, which I won. As I made my way back to the aerie with my prisoner, we were attacked by another sorcerer, who slew my captive—doubtless to keep him from testifying—and he fell to the street. Before I could stop the griffon, he pounced upon the corpse and began tearing it to shreds.
Overall, it was an awful night that I’m surprised I survived. I was outnumbered and nearly murdered in the street by a Thayan conspiracy that still waits for the opportune moment to strike. I recommend an immediate doubling of the guard in those areas where Thayans congregate, and a trainer to discipline these damnable griffons. They really are quite dangerous, as I believe I have reported upon several occasions. My cousin still awaits the settlement for his hand.