Between the shining sights of the main districts, far from the temples of blue marble and towers of white limestone, the river Adonne split the city right down the middle; a line of rich blue spanned by three broad stone bridges. And on its banks, clinging to the edges of the city like the mouldy crust on an old bread loaf, was a kingdom of makeshift docks and ramshackle buildings; brothels, gin houses, gambling dens and the like. All of it connected by a labyrinth of unpaved streets so narrow that the structures on either side seemed to loom over you, as though they were trying to swallow you whole.

This was the seedier part of Thalmont, and it didn't have an official name; it wasn't dedicated to some knight who patronised the people who worked the trades. So two names had stuck in place of it – the Gutter District, or the Dregs. Not quite slums, but still what the local tourist board didn't want you to know about. The kind of place where everyone was hostile because they weren't sure if you were going to pick their pocket as you passed, or take a more honest approach by just killing you and robbing your corpse.

This was the place Stalk called home; as much as he could call anywhere home these days. And he would have felt terrible about all the crime that happened down here... if he wasn't part of the problem.

Beneath his black cloak, his pockets and small backpack were stretching at the seams, and whenever he turned, the occasional gleam of light on yellow gold or soft silver flashed from his person, sending lines of reflected radiance across the walls of rotting wood and cracked stone that surrounded him.

His takings were mostly minor things; dropped coins that people were too busy to notice, along with the profits that market vendors were just giving away... or in other words, not supervising! Once or twice, he had even gotten lucky and found some drunkard passed out in an alley, too smashed to feel Stalk patting down their pockets or swiping jewellery off their fingers or their neck.

He had found a very fancy ring off some lout just moments ago that way – one that had "My one heart, Griselda" inscribed upon it, just next to the large spherical emerald on top...

All of these would put to good use with his flock, the Seekers of Flight – he only wished he'd had the time to grab more. The cities were perfect places to find things, and at this time of day, to not be found.

An hour or so had passed since he'd left the party, and the streets down here were bare – not doubt all the ne'er-do-wells were up plying their misdeeds among the celebrations further up in the city. The only occupants that remained with the shadows which that infested every nook and cranny where the soft, amber light of the setting sun dared not intrude; between cobblestones, under ragged canopies and around every corner.

Perfect places to hide. And not a moment too soon.

The thudding of heavy hobnail boots and the rattle of metal links echoed from down a narrow alley nestled between two houses, shattering the silence. Alarm shot through Stalk's body, and his head whirled around to look for cover. Seeing a scattered pile of old crates filled with rubbish he crouched down and hurried over to them, his taloned feet clambering up over one of them to get to cover.

As he ducked his hooded head down, finding a tiny slit between the two boxes to peer through, keeping himself motionless as he watched and waited.

A pair of men in chainmail armour and kettle-helms marched side-by-side into view, their surcoats depicting the royal sigil of the platinum dragon and the red. At their sides hung shortswords in wood and leather scabbards, and their right hands were gripped tall halberds whose gleaming steel heads seemed more like bronze as their surfaces reflected the light of the sky above.

They would have made for a dignified sight... if not for their conversation and the thick stench of ale that trailed behind them like a poisonous gas as they passed his hiding spot without batting an eye.

"'Ey! I'm goin' to the bear pits tomorrer. Ya wanna come with?" One of them asked the other, scratching at the roug

"Bah! Couldn't pay me enough!" the other retorted.

As they disappeared into the distance, none the wiser to his presence, Stalk found himself giving a soft, wheezy cackle. 'Brainless spuds, the lot of them...' he thought to himself.

Those two didn't have Milisevran accents, but Stalk knew by now that barely anyone in the Flicks, or Thalmont City Guard as they were officially known, was actually Milisevran. Most were individual sellsword and mercenaries from abroad who had wandered into this peaceful and prosperous nation and decided that it seemed like great place to get a free meal ticket.

After all, peace and prosperity meant very little crime going on and lots of coin to go around. Especially if you were willing to let what criminals did operate pay you a tidy sum to turn a blind eye.

Because of that, the Flicks rarely ever came down this way, and so anything that he swiped was unlikely to be reported. And even if it was, it wasn't like they'd even know that the Seekers were behind it, or where to look for them in the first place if they obtained a search warrant.

As such, he was more brazen than many thieves would have been if they'd just seen a guard come by when he climbed out from behind those crates. In truth, part of him wondered how many of the guards actually knew that his flock lived in the city.

A common wisdom amongst city-dwellers across Faerun was that kenku were like vermin – they cropped up wherever civilization lay as if they grew out of sewer scum or something. Of course, the plebs who spouted that nonsense knew nothing useful, so their mouths ended up just spewing bullshit instead of facts.

Some of these idiots were so ignorant they even sometimes called kenku 'rats with wings' simply because they looked like birds.

It was the reminder of their curse that stung more than the comparison, but it still wasn't flattering. And sometimes, if he was in a bad mood, Stalk would find the people who said such things about his people and crop their wagging tongues straight.

Speaking of his people, he still needed to return. Checking the surrounding alleys and windows with sight and hearing alike to make sure there were no prying eyes, he skittered through the dark to the location he needed to reach. Squeezing over a half-collapsed potter's shop that had long since been abandoned and ransacked, the broken remains of the brickwork scraping beneath his claws, he then scanned an area which seemed like the dead end of an alley, stopping at the edge of one of the milk-pale walls that separated the Dregs from the Craftsmen's District.

The sound of the blacksmiths and workmen's tools clanging and crashing on the others side of the wall echoed behind the wall ahead of him, drowning out all noise. The stone barrier's surface was blank and plain, save for a long pale line that ran diagonally across its surface. To others, it might have looked like a flaw in the brickwork.

But to the trained eye, meanwhile...

Checking over his shoulder, his heartbeat slowing when he neither saw nor heard a soul in sight all the way behind him, Stalk then leant against the wall, pressed the side of his head to the scratch, and ran his thumb-talon along the length of the line three times. When he did this, he pushed the tip of the claw as deep into the stone as it would go, to make as loud a scratching noise as possible – the entrance had been placed here so that the hammering of red-hot steel on the other side of the wall would drown out sounds he made.

Or rather, they made...

For a moment, there was silence on his side of the wall... but then a voice came from below him, beneath the unpaved, dirty ground.

"What is the word of the raven?"

Stalk crouched down and opened his beak. "Nevermore..." he whispered, giving the password.

Immediately, the sharp thud of door bolts being yanked aside trembled through his legs, and Stalk stepped back just in time for a square wooden trapdoor, covered in fake mud to look the same as the ground around it when closed, was pushed up to reveal a flight of steps leading underground... and another kenku!

Specifically a stoop-shouldered one with a brace of daggers hanging from his belt, his right hand resting upon the hilt of one while his left hand pushed the door open. On one of the steps beside him, a candle burned, making the kenku's pale blue cat eyes gleam as the orange flicker of light twinkled in the corner.

Others might have seen this as a threat. But Stalk knew this as his cousin's usual wary welcome.

"Croaker!" he remarked with a smile, crouching to climb into the open hatch. "Good to see you!"

"Welcome back, Stalk..." Croak replied sourly. "Or is it 'Sir Stalk' now?"

Hearing those words made Stalk laugh light-heartedly. "Word still gets around quickly, eh?" he remarked.

He should have known the flock would have seen his knighthood. While Croaker and a few others manned the entrance to the flock's lair, his other cousins and extended family were no doubt on the prowl now, either buying food and alchemical goods from seedy merchants or swiping them from shelves with masterful, practised ease. They acted as spies and lookouts too, keeping an ear to the ground in case something important was going on.

And of course, this being Milisevre, a knighting was a big deal. Fuck if Stalk knew why though – all Milton did was take him to a temple, tap him on the shoulder with his sword, and that was it. He didn't feel any different, nor had any god appeared to beseech him with his holy duty...

He still didn't like being on holy ground, though. Maybe the idea the gods were watching him soured the taste of his rise in station. It seemed to sour it for Croaker too, who clacked his beak and gave Stalk a look of suspicion.

"Just don't go getting' too uppity, you son of a tit."

With a smug, knowing grin at the corners of his beak, Stalk patted his fellow flock member on the chest. "Relax, I'm still plain old Stalk..." he said. "I just outrank you now, that's all."

Croaker's neck cracked as he reacted in an appalled manner. "Whaddya mean?" he snarled.

"Well, I'm nobility now, ain't I?" Stalk replied, smirking. "Whereas you're still a commoner."

That got him a shove on the shoulder. "Get down there, you bastard..." Croaker replied, trying to hide the smile at the corner of his beak. "And... welcome home."

Stalk felt his wry smirk fade when he heard that. "Good to be back, cousin," he told the Seeker's trusted watchman as he descended the stairs.

The stairwell was a tunnel of near pitch-black, but it didn't extend very far before it levelled out and opened out into a chamber, well-lit by the glow of ten stolen Gems of Brightness that were embedded in the walls that was surrounded from all sides and the roof above. The stonework was ancient, bordering on decrepit... but had been diligently cleaned and polished, and was supported by wooden beams that formed a forest of makeshift pillars.

And between those pillars, huddled in huts cobbled together from scavenged materials or making their way around doing their daily chores... were the Seekers of Flight.

Roughly five dozen kenkus were scattered around their flock's den, some on the same level as him, others below the brick walkways in the cleaned and thoroughly sterilized drainage area below. Where once this place had been flooded and piled up so badly with shit that the humans had to close it down, the Seekers had moved in and made it their own, creating their own little secret entrances in the darkness and using their alchemical skills to their advantages, either to brew potions that would melt any dirt of bacteria that remained, or to poison the filth that had made this old place their homes before they did, like otyughs and carrion crawlers.

Vermin replacing vermin, you could say. Or at least, vermin to humans – in truth, the flock had cleaned up this place better than those above ever could.

As he entered, Stalk smiled, though he tried not to breath too deeply – at the centre, there was an old circus tent set up, its colours faded and drab, with twisting, serpentine trails of black vapour wafting out of some holes cut in the top, wafting through the air and then dissolving into nothing, proving it was not natural smoke.

That was the tent of the Council of Elders, and that sight meant they were at work, brewing in hopes of finding the concoction that-

"Uncle Stalk!" was all he heard before something crashed down upon his back like a pouncing puma, its arms flung over his shoulders and its talons locking around his neck. Instinctively responding to the danger, Stalk hurled his body forward and stepped back, watching as his assailant whirled over his head to be caught around its slender ankle with one hand.

There, dangling like a hare in a trap, was his niece Sparrow Chirp, giggling gleefully as Stalk hung her upside down.

The corner of Stalk's mouth twisted upwards into a smirk, his eyes and beak both gleaming. "Nice to see you too, you little rapscallion!" he remarked, throwing out a hand to tickle her stomach with the backs of his knuckles. Sparrow Chirp squealed and writhed as he prodded and poked her, and when he put her down, she was on her feet in less than a second, hugging him around the waist once more.

"Woah, calm down kiddo!" he said, patting her fledging little head. "I've only been gone a few days..."

Sparrow Chirp shook her head before beaming up at him. "Happy!" she declared. Then, quicker than he could run even with his mutagens, the hyperactive little ball of energy sped to a nearby hut, where a female Kenku was washing clothes in a bucket. She wore a brown and white dress, with a tartan scarf of pine green and off-white about her neck and her bare, clawed feet protruding from under the hem of her skirt. The scales were worn and flaking off, and her black feathers were tipped with grey, revealing her age.

But Sparrow Chip still yanked on her hanging sleeve with one hand and pointed frantically with the other, calling, "Grandma, grandma! Uncle Stalk! Home!" Her speech was in broken Common, coming out in the voices of the three different kenkus she'd heard the words from.

A pang of sadness filled Stalk as he heard the kid still having to speak that way, but it was quickly swept aside by a tide of embarrassment as Bree, Sparrow Chip's grandmother came over and instantly started smothering him.

"Oh, Stalk, I'm so glad you're home!" she said, flicking his hood away with her beak and starting to affectionately pick at his plumage, the tip scraping at the skin beneath. Stalk bristled and tried twisting away from her as she did this, and as he made his escape attempt, the words of every teenager in history escaped his beak:

"Cut it out, mom!"

Chuckling in her throat, Bree pulled away, still beaming as she looked at him. "Sorry, dear. Old habits and all that..." she told him. Her gentle voice never failed to melt hearts, and it wasn't long before Stalk caved in.

"I know..." he said gently. "And... it's good to be back, mom." As he said that, he lowered his beak and pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. Bree did the same in response, embracing him with familiarity only a parent could have.

"My son..." she said before slowly and reluctantly pulling away. "Did your work go well?"

Stalk nodded. "It did. As far as I could see, apart from a distant gnoll pack that was quickly dealt with outside the city, and one dead chimera, the wilds of Milisevre are safe for us if we decide to look elsewhere for alchemical substances..." he explained.

Bree nodded happily. "Good. Well, now you're back, you can relax for a while..." she said, immediately going into 'doting mother' mode. "Warble and I are just about to make dinner, and your father should be back soon – he'll certainly be happy to see you too!"

Warble was Stalk's older sister, and was the mother of Sparrow Chirp and of Stalk's three nephews – the twins Wing Flap, Wind Rustle, and little Book Slam, who was little more than a hatchling. Just like their mother, Warble was very much a homebody and a family woman, and as he looked towards her and her husband Wheo's hut, he saw the little ball of fluff that was Book Slam curled up in his mother's arms. Where Flap and Rustle were, he didn't know – probably off with their dad, having father-son time.

Per Seeker tradition, chicks of the flock were named after noises at birth, as was the case with all kenku. However, when they came of age and started taking the mutagenic potions that allowed them to find their own voice, they would be permitted to choose a new name for themselves. Some kept their old names, like Warble and Stalk himself had, but many had chosen new names to reflect the regaining of their voice through the mutagens. Wheo had come over from a different flock and had been accepted into their ways, hence why he had his own name now...

The Seekers were the only flock in Toril, so far as was known, who could do this; because they were the only ones who had access to the mutagenic craft their ancestors had swiped so long ago from Mattheus Mercer and his colleague Jaffe Taliesin. That was the beginning of their work, and here in Milisevre, the flock had not only survived, but outright prospered. They had a safe home here with plentiful supplies to continue their work, trying all sorts of ingredients from what could be found the verdant forests and high mountains...

But they had not tried what he had in mind...

Raising a hand gently, Stalk reluctantly said. "Not for the time being, mom. I actually have to go and speak to father and the elders..."

"Why's that?" his mother asked him – clearly, she hadn't heard the news, which made Stalk smirk.

"I've thought of a new way of lifting our kind's curse, and I need to present it to the elders quickly!" he jabbered excitedly, heart pounding in his chest as he already started hurrying towards the flock's central tent. "Set some aside for me – I'll be back tonight!"

Bree looked incredibly confused, but Stalk was already in a jog before she could reply. He had to unveil his plan and then get back to the tournament grounds to meet his companions.

And so, skidded to a halt in front of the old circus tent, and with a final thought of 'Here's to hoping, Stalk,' he reached and pulled back the heavy fabric flap that guarded the entrance...

Walking into the council's demesne was like walking into a drug den; the air was bleary by smoky darkness, soaking in strong aromas, and heavy with the feeling of your own inferiority. Around the edge of the circular, domed room, buried in the stone wall, were eight alcoves, inside each of which, a gloomy figure roosted, their talons busily working away at the alchemical tools clustered around their feet and on ramshackle shelves nearby. Various bottles and flasks glimmered amidst the trails of pitch-black smoke that slithered through the air like eels, only to escape through the holes in the roof.

The Council of Elders were the eight greatest bloodhunters in the clan. Some were known for martial prowess, others for their wisdom... but all were revered masters of alchemy and had created some of their most successful mutagens in order to earn their status.

As he walked in, he saw the scattered glimmer of a few eyes rising to look upon him. While most of the elders continued their work, three pairs fixed their gazes upon him; one pair a pale green, one pair so near to black that it was only the faint twinkle on their surface that told Stalk they were there... and the last pair were a bright orange, just like his.

"Stalk." The orange eyes seemed to say, and as the kenku who owned them spoke, the rest of his face was soon revealed, his beak seeming to cut through the tendrils of darkness. He was a lithe yet robust kenku, sitting still as stone, though those who underestimated him would soon find that still spry as a mountain cat – precision kept him in place, not lethargy. His deep black feathers were tipped with grey, his beak tip worn and dulled, though these made him look more rugged and grizzled than anything. Robes of pale red covered his body and pooled about his legs, and a patterned tartan scarf of blue-green and off-white was draped around his neck.

Identical to the one Bree wore.

Stalk lowered his beak and closed his eyes – a gesture of respect. "Father," he said before reaching to his pockets. "I've brought more wealth back to the flock, and scouted the outlands as well. Any dangers that were there have been dealt with." As he spoke, he scooped out the contents of his pockets and placed them in piles on the floor, then removed his backpack and did the same.

To the left of his father, another one of the elders glanced up from grinding herbs in a mortal and pestle. This one was as wiry and hardy-looking as his father, but there were two major differences.

Firstly, there was a clump of white feathers around the left eye of the other elder, highlighting his blood-red gaze; and secondly, jutting out from his left armpit, below his arm... was another, fully-formed arm! Dextrous as the most practised pickpocket, that hand was stirring a potion in a jar until it turned from white to blue, while his other two hands clutched the mortar and pestle.

Stalk knew him instantly - Bardesh, the leader of the Seekers of Flight and a master of the mutagenic craft, hence his rank and his extra appendage. As he saw the piles of glittering gold and silver, each one large enough to fill a beer keg, his eyes glittered and his beak wrinkled into a smile.

"Your son does good work, Hark," he croaked to Stalk's father, and as Hark responded with a nod, Stalk felt a small glimmer of pride in his chest.

"You do indeed, my son..." was the start of his dad's reply. "But there is something else the elders and I wish to discuss with you."

His words made Stalk's whole body stiffen as if an electrical current had shot through him. And as he glanced around, he saw that now, every eye in the room was on him. Even Old Polgo blind, milky eyes seemed to turn his way as the eldest kenku in the flock, more vulture than raven, heard Hark's words.

"Is this about the Temple District?" Stalk asked as he looked around, trying not to sound like he was feigning innocence in front of his own father.

His father fixed him in place with his gaze, stern but not angry, though his silence was chilling.

"We have heard about you receiving a knighthood from a Milisevran knight..." Bardesh stated matter-of-factly as his three arms all paused their work. "A most unusual thing... and whose motives we do not understand."

"How do you think this benefits the flock, boy?" another elder barked at him, and Stalk rolled his eyes when he realized who it was.

It was Clash, a large, once-brawny kenku who had grown soft and doughy – the side effect of an experimental regenerative mutagen he took in his youth, hoping to stimulate the regrowth of his wings. It had made him almost as big and brawny as a dwarf, but now all that loose flesh meant that he sprawled like a leviathan in his seat; nearly unable to move, which made his already vicious and stubborn temperament even worse... if such a thing was even possible for the irascible old git.

"Tell us, son..." Hark said, more patiently. "Why did you choose to become a knight?"

Part of Stalk wanted to be all dramatic and say 'For the future of our people' or something like that... but he could never make such a heroic statement with a straight face. Besides, judging from the looks he was getting from the elders, it wasn't a good time for jokes.

"Because I have a plan..." he told them, placing his hands on his hips. "It's quite unorthodox and very risky... but I may just have figured out a way to lift our curse."

Those words swept through the chamber like a typhoon, making every kenku in sight perk up and fix their gazes upon him. Some of their eyes were wide with wonder, others narrowed with suspicion, and a few were wrinkling into a look of scepticism and uncertainty, including his father's.

Here went nothing...

"You're all aware of this tournament thing going on, I take it?" Stalk asked around. "Well-"

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to, boy." Clash snarled. "It makes you look stupid."

Hark gave Clash a sideways glare, though he kept his beak pointing towards Stalk. "Don't talk to my son that way, Clash."

Stalk smirked. "And don't interrupt me, you old pigeon..." he quickly added, his smirk only widening when Clash grumbled like a bulldog. He quickly continued his speech before anyone else could interrupt. "Anyways, I one thing I know that many of you might not is the reason for this tournament."

Arbaka, one of the female elders, scratched her cheek with her two-fingered crab-claw of a left hand. "Something about the Platinum Dragon, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yep. Specifically, they're choosing some knights to go looking for this sacred place called the Lake of Virtue, which is a big deal in Milisevran culture because it's where their king received a blessing from the Platinum Dragon," he explained. Winnin' team gets to go on a quest in search of it... and I've joined one of the teams!"

Clash fumed at this, and lunged forward in his seat, beak open as if to shout, but then old Polgo raised a hand

"Wait, hear him out. "He hasn't finished yet... or at least I think he hasn't." The doddering old sage's milky eyes stared into nothingness, but his wrinkled, spotty head was grinning broadly.

Stalk chuckled. "How is it that Polgo is the only one talking sense here?" he quipped, though Polgo was the only one to laugh. "And yes, there's more to it. I've been workin' with this local knight named Romain, and according to what he told me, there's an angel of Bahamut living in the Lake. In other words, a direct servant of a god."

Stalk spoke with no reverence or respect for Bahamut or his underling, only with ambition and desire for the power that they could grant. "The Platinum Dragon clearly don't know where the lake is, or I'm sure he'd have told one of his servants by now. Why not find it for him, and as a reward, ask for our curse to be lifted?"

There was a dangerous silence over the room as he pitched that idea; one that almost made him second-guess his chances of pulling this off. Bardesh and Hark were the quietest, looking pensive until Clash shattered the silence.

"Preposterous!" he bellowed, wobbling like a pot of jelly. "You... you cannot do such a thing! No god will do this for our kind! Do you not think we have tried holy magic to regain our wings, boy!"

Stalk folded his arms and stared Clash down. "I'd wager nothing this powerful, Clash. And even then, I intend to test my theory whether you like it or not. Last I checked, you're not in charge."

Clash bristled, his beak hanging open in a look of fury... but no sound came out. And when none of the other elders said a word either, he took that as them having no objections and moved to leave, intending to meet up with Romain and the others, and put his plan to save his people into motion.

"Stalk."

Bardesh's voice made him jar to a halt, and he turned back around to face their flock's leader – someone he did have some respect for. "Yes?"

Bardesh's eyes gleamed crimson, his look full of authority, but not disapproval as he raised a single finger on his third hand. "One question. Did you take oaths when you became a knight? Did you swear to serve King Charles? The Platinum Dragon? Any other god?"

That question ruffled Stalk's feathers more than it should have – not only because Bardesh was calling his loyalty into question, but the very idea that he would serve a god of his own free will was something that offended him.

He might have said the vows of knighthood, but words were wind. There was no meaning behind them.

"Those oaths were empty, Bardesh. The flock is my family, and we look out for our own," he stated, making sure to speak in his own voice instead of mimicking anyone else. "Everything else is secondary."

And with that, he left as quietly and quickly as he came.

Whatever glory or praise he got for winning the tournament and helping the others find the lake did nothing to entice him, unless King Charles and his caught knew how to lift a god's curse as well, or he was inundated with riches enough that the flock could expand their research.

He thought back to what Technus had been prattling on about back at Chateau Toussaint, about this 'Age of Iron' malarkey and the new age of prosperity it would bring to all living things. And it was all he could do not to scoff.

'How's turning everyone and everything into dreary metal cunts like 'im going to help anyone?' Stalk thought to himself. 'Especially if it means some goddess gets to have her way with everything. If that happens, we're all fucked.'

For the sake of self-awareness, he pondered briefly if his plan involving the Lake of Virtue was in the same vein as Technus' nonsensical prophecy... and quickly dismissed the notion.

'I'm serving a god's whims... I'm aligning my interests with a god temporarily for my own ends. And the ends of my companions as well, I guess...'

Stalk hadn't forgotten about those he'd returned to Milisevre with, and their wants and needs... but as he said, all of that was secondary. Most of all serving Bahamut.

For too long, the kenku had suffered at the whim of a deity, and at those who looked down upon them either as vermin or god-forsaken.

Now, he would perform the ultimate irony, the most perfect revenge. He would make a god do his bidding.

Just like with bribing the city guards, all it took to make anyone do anything was the right incentive.