I am Mordier. I was born and raised on the streets of Freeport, a shining example of the greed and deceit this world has to offer. Nineteen years of fending for myself have shown me all I need to know about the inhabitants of Norrath. Most people have fond memories of their loving mothers and hard working fathers. My mother was a tough woman, the toughest I've ever known. My father was the militia. If I ever find the soldier who fathered me, who took my mother against her will, his death will be slow and full of pain. My mother tried her best, but sometimes that's not enough you know? If she'd turned to the street she may still be alive, but she was too proud for that. She felt it was better to feed your child and starve herself than to degrade her body. Disease found her in a weakened state and she died quickly, a comfort to me.

Why should you care about my story? Frankly I don't care if you do, but I'm going to tell it. The musty smells of mortals fill my nostrils as I peer out of my ragged little hut. Freeport is my curse and my salvation at the same time. Throngs of people from every land flock to this area daily to buy and sell their wares. They don't give two looks to me as I slip out of my home. I used to hope and pray that they'd notice me and have pity, leave money in my bowl as I played a tune on my flute. Priests would stop sometimes to tell me of their ways, how they could help me become a man. I am wiser now. You can keep your coins and keep your gods, I ask for nothing and beg for no one. I am my own keeper, my own salvation. I am a product of every dwarf, elf, and human that has ever kicked over my bowl in a hurry to find a good sale.

You may think me shrewd, bitter and hard, but I am smart enough to know that such attributes will only get a man killed either by the sword or by the demons in his own head. That's a life lesson, one I was destined to learn the hard way. A few months back though I had an experience that made me pause in my ways.

It was late and they still hadn't shown, but I was used to waiting. With a payoff like I was promised, I could've waited for days without eating or drinking. Tucked back in the shadows of the room, I methodically turned a dagger over in my practiced hand. Like death, I had all the time in the world. What seemed like hours later the door opened and two very large orc guards walked into the room. Big, green and ugly, some things never change. Confident that the room was deserted one of them grunted something into the hallway and Lord Crush stepped in accompanied by another orc and a Tier'dal soldier. A dark elf, damn. What was he doing here I wondered? They quickly took seats at the oval stone table and began talking in earnest. Watching the Tier'dal stutter in broken orcish was almost enough entertainment for me to go home happy, but not quite. If the orcs had tried to speak in Tier'dal I may have burst out laughing but there was no chance of that, I could barely speak the language myself.

Suddenly the door burst in and two dwarves charged into the room. An orc head landed at my feet before I could even move, the body left jerking and twitching in its seat. I wasn't concerned though, more people only meant more to kill and that was fine with me. I had no beef with the dwarves but if they got in my way they would die. Life is often that simple. It looked like they were taking care of that part for me though. The dwarven cleric had tripped on a chest and lay sprawled on the floor, his mace clattering on the stone floor. The other found himself hard pressed by the remaining orc guards. Slipping out of the corner I turned my attention to Crush only to find the Dark elf had already begun to attack him. An interesting turn of events to say the least, dwarves and Tier'dal fighting together. Few people are a match one-on-one for a Tier'dal warrior and even fewer orcs are, but Lord Crush held his own until my blade plunged into the base of his skull. The Dark elf stepped back as Crush crumpled to the floor. His black gaze lingered another second on my dark visage before he turned to aid the dwarves.

I had to be fast. With my fingers dancing through Crush's clothing it was only a matter of seconds before I had what I came for. A map of the Crush compound and his insignia ring. The Deathfist needed both in order to implement their budding alliance with the ogres of Oggok. With Ogres controlling the compound the Tier'dal would be forced to recognize their power and strengthen their alliance. The death of Crush would only be a bonus. No one wants ogres on one side of them let alone two sides, even the proud dark elf nation. The Deathfist and Ogre alliance would, of course, collapse, before or after the Tier'dal showed them who was boss, but I didn't care as long as I got paid.

I turned to the door just in time to see the last orc skewered at the end of the Dark elf's black sword. The fallen dwarf had recovered and was healing his stubby comrade who was sitting in a pool of orc blood. Time for an exit. As I slipped towards the door a dark hand came down on my shoulder. Spinning around, my blades flashing, I slapped the Tier'dal hand away and fell into a crouch. "Give us the map and you may leave," said the Tier'dal. Sometimes even Dark elves make me laugh. "My exit for your life," I replied, flipping my blades end over end without effort. "We've got ye trapped human and we've no more taste fer blood today. Give us the map and leave with yer pride," the dwarven priest said even as he readied his mace. I grinned and stared; it was their move now. Suddenly the injured dwarf leaped to his feet and launched an attack at my back. I spun and punched in one fluid movement, his face met my fist, and he crumpled back onto the floor. The Tier'dal lead with his sword but I easily halted his advance. Weapons weaving, we parried back and forth in a dance. He was good, I gave him credit, but I was born with daggers in my hands, and he was slowly forced to fall back into the corner. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and both the Dark elf and I yelped in surprise as we tried to keep our bearings. "Damn clerics," I thought as a mace came crashing down on my back. "By hatred Grund", the Tier'dal exclaimed, "a little warning wouldn't hurt!" "Shut yer trap and get the map Nalfein," the dwarf commanded, "grab it while he's still on the floor, I'm not wantin' to mess with that one again today." To be underestimated is to be alive. As the Dark elf approached I swept my leg around, tripping the inkie while propelling myself into a standing position. The Dark elf slammed his head on the table and grunted once before slipping into blackness. Before Grundrikt could react my foot implanted his own mace into his knee and he howled in pain and rage as he fell to the floor.

Dilemmas are what life is all about. I'd reached this particular one many times before and usually reached the same conclusion. The more you leave dead, the fewer blades will find your back. But something about these three gave me pause. What circumstances brought a Tier'dal and two dwarves together? Why were they after the Crush map? And why hadn't they tried to kill me when they had a chance? I even felt some remorse about the broken nose I'd given the burly dwarf, named Kakanar, that had tried to bear hug me from behind. "I leave you with your lives," I stated flatly, "follow me and die." "Perhaps one day we will meet under better circumstances," I added and then quickly took my leave of the room.

This was my first meeting with a group called the Seekers of Lore. I didn't know that name yet, but soon it would become an anchor for my drifting world of violence. Nalfein, Grundrikt, and Kakanar; I would meet them again. Another story for another time…