Something’s brewing

The room is dark, save for a dim light cast by the oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling. A desk and two chairs on opposite sides round out the furniture. The desk has been cleared, save for the tools carefully laid out: plyers, a small hammer and chisel, and a few knives of varying sizes.
Menace takes it all in with an approving look, then takes one of the chairs, his back to the wall, leans back into the shadows and nods to Ishmael waiting at the door. “Bring him in.”

Ishmael opens the door and gives a sign, and a short, stocky dwarf is being led in by Bald Joe, hands tied behind his back and a burlap sack over his head. The hulking half-orc leads the dwarf to the chair, then kicks his legs away, causing the dwarf to fall onto the chair with a muffled yelp.

Menace takes a few moments to let his visitor settle in; there is no sound safe for the rapid and heavy breathing escaping from under the burlap sack. Menace nods again, and Joe yanks back the sack, then steps back into the shadows.
The dwarf blinks, then his eyes begin to dart over the room, the red tiefling sitting across from him, the desk, and settle on the tools with sick fascination. The lamp light gives their edges an unsettling quality.
It always does the trick.

The dwarf’s skin is dark grey, the wispy hair on his head pale as spider’s silk. The forehead is imprinted with intricate dwarven rune tattoos. The most surprising is the absence of a beard; a pale stubble adorns the cheeks, but the image of the traditional bushy dwarven beard has instead been tattooed onto the face as well where the real thing by rights should be - the bone-colored ink a sorry imitation. To anyone familiar with dwarven script and customs, the runes mark the duergar as a traitor to kin and clan - and Menace is very familiar with such things.

“Good evening, Mr Norris.”
Menace leans forward, the wolfish smile on his face. The dwarf’s beady eyes snap up to Menace for an instance, before being irrevocably drawn back to the tools displayed on the table before him as he begins to babble. “Look, whatever you think I did to you, or sold you, or owe you, I can make up for it, ok? No need for anything rash here, I can pay you, I promise!!”
He begins to wiggle, trying to escape his wrist bindings, but the heavy hand of Bald Joe on his shoulder has him wince and slink back into the chair, trying to make himself as small as he can.

“Oh, there is no need for that.”
Menace throws a quick glance at Joe, who undoes the bonds, then with exaggerated emphasis places the dwarf’s hands palms down onto the desk. A little wince escapes the dwarf called Norris as his skin touches the cold wood, inches away from the gleaming steel of the tools.

“There, that's better, isn't it?”
Menace continues to smile at Norris, Malice in his eyes that never leave his prey. “Now we can talk. Hands free, and comfortable. Every man needs his hands, after all.”
Norris’ eyes dart from desk to Menace and back. A bead of sweat rolls down his tattooed forehead. “What do you want from me?”

“You are a chemist, are you not? Been brewing toilet wine and dream dust in the sewers, and selling it in my town. Without permission.” Menace emphasises for effect, and it does not fail: Norris whimpers and tries to shrink further back into the chair. In his experience, when faced with the threat of inescapable pain, there are two types of men: those who crumble into blubbering almost instantaneously, and those who grow hard with defiance. This man is decidedly of the first category.

“But that is not all. Your reputation precedes you: cast out from Gracklstugh for poisoning the king’s nephew no less, shamed and shaved, and only escaped execution thanks to a fortuitous earthquake.” Menace picks up a small pruning knife and holds it to the light for inspection.
“You ran, and you made it to Kantas. Far away from all your troubles. A new life! A new beginning.” The wolfish smile grows wider, neat rows of pearly white teeth on display.
“And how lucky you have been! You ran into me.” He lightly tabs the blade onto Norris’ fingernail, who gasps in shock and pulls back with a whimper.

“I… I am sorry I didn't ask for permission! I didn't know I had to! Look, what do you want from me?! I’ll do anything!”

“What do I want?” Menace feigns surprise. “Why, how kind of you to ask. In fact, I was going to make you an offer. How would you like to work for me?”

Norris’ eyes go wide with confusion. “Wha- work for you?”

“Oh yes. I find myself in need of a talented chemist for a special project. I dabble in the art myself, you know, but I have so much to do, so many things to attend to. A trusted lab assistant is what I need. Someone with your… expertise.”


“You.. you want me to work for you?” Norris asks, his voice oscillating between fear and hope.

Menace leans forward smiling. “Indeed. Accept my offer of employment, and you join the ranks of my trusted employees. You will be well paid; protected; gain respect for your work. A new family - a new beginning. What do you think?”

Norris swallows. “And if I… refuse?”

“Well, then my next question would be which hand do you favor? Left or right?”

“I… my left hand? No wait, I accept!!”

Menace beams at him, tossing the knife back onto the table with a clatter. “Wonderful! I am a lefty too, so I know we will get along very well. Now come on, let me show you to our laboratory. We have something very special brewing right now that will benefit from your dedicated attention.”

Menace jumps up and pulls up the dwarf by the elbow, eliciting a small squawk. “Mr Norris, I can already tell,” he throws him a conspiratorial smile and wink, “this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

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DTA: Craft Feywild Torpor poison, with the help of a skilled hireling.