Harley Stroh wrote:
What Fosco said.
(Aside: these sorts of posts just demonstrate that DMs & players always bring more to the table than any writer or designer.)
Although without the writer or designer DMs & players wouldn't have have such excellent stages on which to enact their stories.
You sir, Mr. Harley Stroh, are "the man", official TM.
And so our story continues, we'll get through much of the backstory by chapter 10, I think. Thereafter there'll be a lot more in the way of rabid confrontation; and the further musings of the Friday Knights and their would-be assailants. Now read on...
The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest
Part 5: The Strength of Kord.
Ignaran was fed up at the Inn, it was a very nice Inn, the Blue Moon Alehouse, but it was just so full of people. Nimozaran had booked him a room, he'd slept little that night, eager to be about his business, and on edge still. The aged Wizard’s smile still haunted him, and it was noisy the city- and rude till the early hours of the morning. 
Eventually he'd got out of the Inn and taken a wander, although that hadn't gone too well either. An ugly man  had tried to sell him a 'hot dog', a comestible, some kind of sausage in a bread roll. The man was fairly insistent, and ugly with it, in the end Ignaran had bought two so as not to appear to be a tourist. He’d managed to eat less than half of one, burnt on the outside and raw on the inside- and it didn't taste at all of dog. It left him feeling queasy, a little like the city.
He'd made his way to the docks, which was an experience. He guessed that a good three-quarters of the language being put to good use there was expletives, the rest was anatomical in nature, and equally bewildering. He'd asked a total of six sober men how to get to Cutpurse Alley, their answers varied, favourite by far was a vague arm gesture to the right. One man asked him if he wanted to buy a cat, at least that's what Ignaran thought he'd asked, some cats perhaps. 
He found Cutpurse Alley, of course. In despair he’d looked up and in the distance spotted a tower, the upper floors of which were lost in a ripped black fog- 'that’d be the place' he thought, just after- 'stupid'. Look up, that's all he had to do. He made his way towards the tower, quickly and quietly- trying not to meet anyone’s eye. He had less than ten gold coins left; things were expensive when you had to pay for them. 
Ignaran got his first view of Cutpurse Alley, and the formidable gate that blocked the way - clearly someone didn't like unexpected visitors- perhaps they were shy. He'd cast around the alley for an hour or more, circled and back-tracked- explored. There were no other ways of approaching the tower; this was the only way in. The Druid mooched away from Cutpurse Alley, musing on the problem, he’d not got far however when something dawned on him. He looked back at the gate and grinned. There was no way in, save one perhaps, a more aerial route across the roofs.
“Ready?” Kullervo whispers.
“What?” Ignaran grips tight hold of the peaked roof, tiles beneath his feet skitter and slide.
“I said ready?” Kullervo tries again.
“Yes. I sup...”
But by then it's too late, Kullervo's legs a moment ago were jelly, the only thing keeping them from collapsing the certainty of his own voice. He pushes off, up and over, half-slides down the roof ahead and comes to a balanced halt, and then in one swift motion lets a dagger fly. Later he will remember not his poise, or agility, or even his accuracy- instead he will remember the sickening sound of the dagger hitting it's target.
A moment ago three guards marked time on the flat roof above Cutpurse Alley. Fat Alan has a pie, a beautiful pie , still warm. He bites into it, gravy explodes and runs down his chin, the roof of his mouth is on fire, hot lumps of meat and potato mashed into it. He chomps and wrestles with the meaty bolus trying desperately to swallow.
Squinty, the smaller guard, continues to stare out into the dark, his one good eye working like some demented lighthouse, in truth he can see maybe ten paces in daylight. Squinty overcompensates by hiding pins and coins, and the like in locales he frequents, and thus he appears eagle-eyed to those that accompany him to these set-ups. “Ah. A copper coin”, he would exclaim and bend to retrieve the previously planted coin- while his companions marvel at his keen eyesight. In truth he found one-in-twenty of the items he hid- it was a costly business being eagle-eyed.
The third guard, Kronk, is a mystery even unto himself. A round faced moon child with more than a little Orc in his blood, and, it had to be said, in his wide chin, pointed ears, pig-like snout, and hard ridged forehead. The aforementioned physical characteristics had almost been the death of him on numerous occasions- people didn't like Orcs. He was saved, again and again, by the fact that he weighed just the wrong side of two-hundred and fifty pounds, the most of which was corded muscle.
The guards went about their business- Fat Alan ate, Squinty squinted, and Krunk fired a golden arc of urine into the alley below- giggling slightly, all was well with their world.
Kullervo's knife arcs out, and spins, and spins, and sp... Thunk. And digs deep into Fat Alan's back, Alan falls- backwards, his pie tumbles skyward, his last motions a flailing attempt to grasp the spinning pastry.
Alan lands hard, in combination with badly.
Gravity helps the pie, which leads to a second, but much briefer-
Fat Alan lies still.
Ignaran hasn't moved, the Druid is paralysed- watching, he looks hard right.
“Give me Strength... Kord.” The last word a hushed whisper, the first three at maximum volume. Cathal sprints down the roof and launches himself into the air, crashes down on the far side of the alley, one foot smashes through tiles, dangles in space for a second, and then is ripped out and kicked forward- the pace is terrifying. In places the roof sags and trembles, the sound of unseen beams snapping and cracking; tiles are smashed, sundered or else sent slithering down into the alley below, like very hard rain. Cathal charges, and is at, and slightly above, the flat roof in seconds.
Kronk turns to stare, fumbles for his blade, but is far too slow, the warrior smashes an iron boot into the guard’s face breaking jaw, nose, eye socket- most everything. Cathal, blade before him, drops in and skewers the Half Orc, the tip of his longsword jutting a good ten inches through Krunk's back. The guard attempts desperately to push himself away from Cathal, to get free of the warrior's sword, one mailed arm shoots out and slams into his back, pushing the blade in deeper.
“You’re a big man, but you’re out of shape. For me it’s a full-time job. Now behave yourself... and die.” Cathal growls in a conspiratorial whisper.
Krunk gasps as Cathal withdraws the blade in a flurry of motion and, for good measure, butts the dying guard in the face- things burst and Krunk is dead before he hits the floor.
Cathal looks about, eventually spots Squinty, the little man, he's two roofs away, and moving at speed, his blade, and watch duty, abandoned.
“Secure.” Cathal confirms with a shout and a wave.
On the far roof Kullervo grins then suddenly feels very sick.
“You can get up now.” he calls back to Ignaran and swallows hard, the Druid gingerly emerges, all three adventurers wander to the edge of their respective roofs to inspect the damage below.
 The Brownbottle (see previous chapters) never sleeps, that is until about 4 AM when she slumps down in an alley and enters a state of meditation not too dissimilar to a coma- another hard night fighting crime over.
 Big Frank or Frankie, short for Frankenfurter; his marketing ethos is meat with menaces, aggressive marketing for Frankie means ramming a steaming sausage-in-a-bun in a potential customer's face, and then pointedly going for his dagger. It helps that Big Frank has so much scar tissue that his face looks like a poorly constructed jigsaw, one ear is a good three inches lower than the other, and faces in the opposite direction. Visitors to the city often mistake him for some kind of Golem.
 The man in question was a pimp, work the rest out yourself.
 A Druid needs feeding, and what nature doesn't supply the good folk of the nearest village or settlement make up for. Living off the land sounds very hunter-gatherer, but smarter Druids camp out near to humanoid settlements, especially ones with cake shops.
 A Mrs. Miggins “Crusty Special”, as the sign outside of Mrs. Miggins shop states “If you like biggins... try Miggin’s.” Bloody marketing men- the pies remain excellent however. Their best selling “Meat & Something” pies are the staple diet of the masses, most especially the drunken masses.