The city of Portscab stretched before him like a living, breathing beast. From the high vantage of the eastern wall, the alleys and rooftops coiled and twisted like a labyrinth designed to confuse the unprepared. The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows that danced along the cobblestones, and the scent of roasting meat, wet timber, and smoke hung thick in the air. For someone uninitiated, the city might seem chaotic, even unwelcoming—but to him, it was ripe with opportunity. A place where skill, cunning, and silence could carve out a name, even a legend.
He adjusted the strap of the mask resting in the satchel at his side. It was small, unobtrusive at first glance—dull bone-white, smooth, with a thin crack etched along the left cheek. To a passerby, it could have seemed trivial, even decorative. But he knew better. The mask was more than protection; it was identity. It would allow him to step into the mercenary world without past attachments, without the baggage of a name. In time, whispers would carry it across the city: Shadeblade. The name would be his shield and his spear.
Descending from the eastern wall, he slipped into the streets. Portscab's lower districts were a mesh of narrow alleys, crooked stalls, and uneven cobblestones. Street vendors called out, hawking roasted meat skewers, dried fish, or the occasional pungent cheese from distant lands. The cacophony of merchant voices blended with the clatter of horse hooves and the occasional shouts of a town guard reminding some pickpocket of the law. He let his eyes roam without drawing attention, noting the familiar patterns of city life: the way merchants positioned their stalls for maximum visibility, how guards rotated patrols, and which streets offered a quick escape. Every detail mattered; in Portscab, a mistake could cost life as easily as coin.
A group of mercenaries huddled near a tavern entrance caught his attention. They were laughing and drinking, their weapons resting against the walls. Some of them bore the marks of old contracts: nicked armor, scars along forearms, and a certain confidence in their posture that only experience could bring. He lingered, unseen, observing the dynamics. Among them, a tall man with broad shoulders barked orders that seemed more playful than authoritative. The others responded with laughter, but it was the kind of camaraderie that only survives because all parties know the weight of steel. He made a mental note; these were the kinds of allies—or obstacles—he would need to understand before moving forward.
He paused at a food stall and watched the vendor deftly skewer pieces of meat over a small, flaming brazier. The simple act of cooking, mundane to most, became a lesson in timing, precision, and patience for him. His eyes flicked to the knife strapped at his side. Like the skewers, movement mattered. Too fast, and the outcome was sloppy; too slow, and the moment passed. He allowed himself a small smirk. The lessons of the street were clear, but subtle, and Portscab offered plenty of both.
Finding a quieter corner, he unpacked the mask and inspected it. Its smooth surface reflected the dying sunlight in a faint glow, and the crack along its cheek gave it character—a symbol of imperfection and experience. In this city, the mask would do more than conceal his face; it would speak for him. The street whispers would attribute deeds to the symbol before they could attach a face. It was a dangerous kind of anonymity, but he thrived in danger.
He fastened it onto his face for the first time, adjusting the straps to fit snugly. The world changed instantly. Shadows became deeper, edges sharper. People who passed on the street shifted uneasily, sensing an unfamiliar presence. He moved deliberately, allowing his steps to echo slightly, to leave a whisper of presence behind without revealing himself fully. The mask was not just a cover—it was a tool, a weapon, and a statement. In the weeks to come, it would earn its reputation before he ever needed to draw his blade.
His attention returned to the mercenary huddle by the tavern. One of them—a young man, barely twenty, with an untested confidence—mimicked a higher-ranking member's mannerisms and was immediately met with a harsh, laughing reprimand. A subtle game of observation, he thought. People always reveal themselves eventually, if one knows how to watch.
The first contract presented itself almost immediately. A small guild of merchants required protection on a delivery route through the outer districts. The pay was modest, but enough to start building credibility. He approached without haste, slipping into the conversation as though he belonged. The mask ensured no recognition, no attachment; he was simply Shadeblade, an unknown mercenary offering skill in exchange for coin. The merchants were hesitant at first—shadows hide motives—but the calm, measured confidence in his voice slowly drew them in.
As he walked with them toward the outer district, he observed more. Guards were distracted, focusing on trivial tasks, and he noted the best paths to avoid confrontation, the narrowest alleys, and the rooflines that could provide oversight. Every movement, every choice of step, was calculated. The mask did not just hide his face; it amplified perception, focusing both the observer and the observed.
A thought occurred to him: trust could only be measured, not given freely. The mercenaries he saw at the tavern earlier had earned trust through repetition, risk, and shared survival. It was not given by blood, title, or coin. It was something to be tested and proven. That principle would guide him through Portscab, through contracts, and through alliances yet to be formed.
Night fell fully, and the city took on a different rhythm. Shadows stretched across rooftops, the smell of smoke and cooked food became richer and heavier, and the murmurs of conversation softened into hushed tones. He found a small alley to wait while the merchants unloaded their wares, remaining unseen, noting every movement. The mask felt heavier now—not in weight, but in significance. It was no longer just a tool; it was the beginning of his presence in this city, the start of his legend. Shadeblade would be whispered before deeds, and deeds would follow, shaping perception before truth ever needed to.
Finally, as the merchants completed their delivery and paid him in advance, he allowed himself to relax slightly. His eyes scanned the darkened rooftops above, the streets below, and the few flickering lanterns illuminating paths. Portscab was a city of opportunities, threats, and lessons. The mask hid him, yes—but more importantly, it marked the start of something far larger than anonymity: a reputation, a symbol, a name whispered in the shadows.
As he slipped back into the main streets, moving among merchants and common folk, he noted the lessons of observation, patience, and discretion. This city, with its labyrinthine alleys, its chaotic crowds, and its subtle hierarchies, would become both a proving ground and a stage. Here, he would become Shadeblade—a name, a shadow, a force to be reckoned with. And for now, that was all he needed.