A Sad Farewell
The player town on Fabernum’s outskirts seethed like a festering wound—sullen men cramming ill-gotten possessions into saddlebags, their curses sharp and venomous. The air was thick with resentment, the kind that simmered just below the surface, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. The law had driven them out, and now they were vagabonds once more, their freedom traded for the cold comfort of exile. The clank of weapons, the snort of burdened mounts, the sharp curses of men unused to being made to move.Many threw uneasy and resentful glances toward the now-vigilant guards—visible in the distance, yet mercifully just beyond the line of sight that might spur them into decisive action. An unspoken tension rippled through the crowd. A single step too far, a single wrong move, and the Emperor’s justice would fall upon them like a storm.
And then Jolly Jack Vance strolled in, as if he owned the place—because, well, he did! Or rather, he had, before deciding to sell up. His grin was as wide as the horizon, his war axe spinning lazily in one hand like a juggler’s trick. He moved with the swagger of a man who had never met a rule he couldn’t break or a law he couldn’t bend. This had been his town, his kingdom of chaos—and even now, as he prepared to leave it behind, he carried himself like a king in exile.
One house had gone to a woodcutter and bowyer, a poor fool his lads loved to gank—wood always fetched a fine price! And what could be more efficient than farming the woodcutters rather than the wood?
Another had gone to an adventurer, an eager little mite obsessed with the Spider Cave. That one had been especially profitable—why bother hacking through a nest of ghastly spiders, covering oneself in sticky ichor and goo, when one could simply cut down the fool who had already done all the dirty work?
It beat Jack, why people went through all that trouble—mining, chopping, toiling, sweating—when they could just kill the ones who did.
The fact that, were everyone as infallibly "logical" as he, there would be no one left to chop the wood, mine the ore, or kill the spiders…
…Well. That thought just never occurred to him.
Jolly Jack Vance sauntered into town—his town, not the neighbouring Fabernum—a grin splitting his weathered face, his war axe twirling effortlessly in one hand. It spun like a juggler’s pin, the wicked edge flashing in the midday sun, never slipping, never faltering. With every lazy flick of his wrist, the blade danced, biting the air but never his flesh.
Silence. Stares. Then someone spat into the dust.
“Not so glum, lads!” Jack called, voice rich with mirth, carrying easily over the bitter murmurs of his men. “Chin up! Treat it like a holiday! A grand old road trip for all the family!”
The axe spun over his head, a silver blur in the light, only to be caught behind his back with the other hand—a trick as effortless as it was unnecessary. His grin spread wide, gleaming, dangerously infectious.
And then the axe was gone—sailing across the yard like a thunderbolt, burying itself two inches deep in the doorpost, a hair’s breadth from where Lazy “Lucky” Bob was prying the house sign free, the one that proudly proclaimed this to be the base of the Jolly Gankers of the Carebearen.
“Bloody hell, Jack! Wot the f—?!” Lucky staggered back, clutching at his ear as though to check it was still there.
The yard held its breath.
Then, as if on cue, it exploded into riotous laughter.
Jack sighs, dramatically clutching his chest as if wounded. “Oh, come now! Where’s your spirit? Where's yer sense a humour? We’re not fleeing, my good fellows. We are venturing forth!” His eyes glint with something unreadable. “To Rash'Kel! And we shall carve our names into the very bones of that place!”
A few murmurs now, uncertain, but intrigued. He sees it—the spark, the ember of excitement buried beneath their resentment—and he fans it, because that is what Jolly Jack Vance does.
He claps a man on the shoulder—Sturgis the Sly, a longtime associate, a man with knives as sharp as his morals were dull. “Cheer up, Sturgis, my dear boy! You’ve always dreamed of an outlaw kingdom, haven’t you?”
Sturgis grunts. “Aye, but not one we had to build ourselves.”
Jack throws back his head and laughs. “Ohhh, my fine fellow, where’s the fun in that? Can you imagine it? Our very own den of villainy! Free of those pesky laws, no blues lurking ‘round every corner. A place where a man can be properly wicked without some righteous nitwit ruining the mood!”
Now the men are listening.
“So, my merry miscreants, my darling devils—shall we slink away like beaten dogs? Or shall we ride, heads high and blades sharper, toward a new dominion? A place where the law dares not tread, where every man is a king and every coin is ours for the taking!” His voice rose, carrying over the murmurs of his men like a clarion call. “Rash’Kel awaits, lads. And mark my words—we’ll carve our names into its very bones!”
A pause. Then—someone cheers. A few others take it up. The bitterness is still there, but Jack, damn him, has given it a direction.
A grand new lawless future awaits.
And Jolly Jack Vance will make damn sure they enjoy every minute of it. If not, he's got plenty of axes to go around!
From the outskirts of Fabernum, where the law walked tall and the streets rang with honest trade, eyes watched from the safety of doorways and shuttered windows. Farmers, merchants, and adventurers alike stood at the threshold of their livelihoods, peering out at the sullen commotion beyond the town’s protective gaze.
They had never dared to approach the outlaw settlement—not when it stood so brazenly within sight of Fabernum’s walls, and certainly not now, as it unraveled like a dying beast. The townsfolk watched from behind shutters and half-closed doors, their relief tempered by unease. The brigands were leaving, but not out of repentance or defeat. They were merely shifting their den, and the thought of what they might become in Rash’Kel sent a chill through the air. A pack of wolves, uprooted and cornered, was no less dangerous than one lying in wait.
Some whispered among themselves. Others simply stood, arms crossed, silent as the inevitable played out before them. The brigands were leaving. But not out of repentance. Not out of defeat. They were merely shifting their den.
And as much as the good folk of Fabernum might have relished the sight of them packing their saddlebags and cursing their misfortune, none dared celebrate.
Not yet.
Because Jolly Jack Vance was smiling.
And when a man like him smiled, it was never good news for anyone else.
When all the others resumed their unaccustomed labours, Jack’s easy smile vanished. He turned his war axe over in his hands, idly running a thumb along the keen edge, his gaze distant. The winds had changed.
He could feel it, taste it in the air—that bitter scent of old freedoms rotting under the weight of new laws. Once, this had been a paradise for men like him. A town on their doorstep, a bustling economy ripe for plundering, and the certainty that no crime was ever truly permanent. But now? The winds had changed, and Jack Vance was not a man who enjoyed being blown about by the whims of others.
But now?
A man could no longer wait out his sins. Murder counts clung like leeches, and even the greys, those nimble pickpockets who danced on the knife’s edge of legality, now found themselves marked for the chopping block. The moment a man dipped his toe into crime, he was stained until he scrubbed himself clean. That took time, effort, or coin—three things Jack preferred to spend on wine, women, and war.
And the guards… oh, the guards.
Once, a smart man could give them a wide berth while committing a crime—or stroll past them outright, grinning like a cat in the cream, even thumbing his nose if he so chose, while his (or her!) victim was still warm to the touch.
So long as the deed was done out of sight, that was all that mattered.
See no evil, hear no evil—such had been the clear philosophy of the fine upholders of the country’s “justice.”
Now, they hunted.
Their gaze, sharp as a headsman’s axe. Their law, absolute.
One wrong step—one careless dash past the eastern gate—and a man was dead before he hit the dirt.
But worst of all?
The market was lost.
Once, a man could kill in the morning and sell his wares by noon, washing the blood from his hands with the clink of clean, honest coin. But Fabernum’s traders no longer welcomed his kind. A red or grey could no longer waltz into town and peddle his wares.
No, now everything had to go through “a friend.” A proper, law-abiding merchant, a blue mule with clean hands and a dishonest heart.
It could be done, of course. But Jack despised extra steps. Efficiency was the mother of all crime, and bureaucracy was its nagging wife.
No, this place had turned sour.
Jack sighed, flicking the axe up in one deft movement, catching the haft as it spun. It was time to move.
He grinned at his men, hands on his hips. “Well, gentlemen,” he declared, sweeping his arms wide, “the kingdom of thieves is no longer welcome in the shadow of kings.” He cast one last glance at Fabernum’s walls. “So we shall build our own.”