The entrance shimmered, evidence of a new arrival.  A human and an elf sitting together at a table near the sixty foot long bar turned their heads in unison to evaluate the new arrival.  Hopping into the Inn, the Gnome was laughing to himself while hastily slapping the smoking fringe of his cloak.  “Woah, now THAT was a close one”, the Gnome exclaimed loudly to no one in-particular.

 The Human smiled and turning to the Elf said, “That’d be Namblin”.  The Elf simply raised an eyebrow and lifted his smoking wine glass to his lips.

Frank’s Place sounds like a simple place but this Inn is far from it.   There is only one way to get to Frank’s and that is by using the portals.  And even with that bit of knowledge there are those that would kill to know the series of combinations it takes to arrive at this wonderful magical Inn.  King’s pay fortunes in failed attempts to find entrance to this mysterious Inn.   Frank’s place is reserved for only those who are the most powerful and legendary of all who live.  Often referred to as ‘The Last Dungeon’, Frank’s is where adventurers of the greatest abilities find refuge from the mundane. 

The tables are all different.  Some made from the finest gofer wood, inlaid with runes and trim that would put a master craftsman to shame.  Some seem to be made of solid polished stone, onyx, alabaster and granite.  The bar at the main level is sixty feet long and its top is nearly frictionless or at least as frictionless as it needs to be as the half-ogre bartender slides various concoctions down its length only to have them stop precisely where they are meant to.  Well endowed female half-elves gracefully maneuver from table to table serving the finest food and drink to Frank’s unique clientele.

No one is really sure how big Frank’s place is.  There is always a room available and there always seems to be just enough workers to offer the highest level of hospitality.  Platinum is the currency most used at Frank’s Place as those who do not have more than a few pouches of the highly prized coins are not going to find their way to this mysterious wonderland.    Adventurers who have reached the status worthy of finding their way to Frank’s Place are from many races, many religions and vary in alignment and loyalty, often times diametrically opposed to those at the next table.  There are dozens of such heroes and villains at Frank’s at any given time.

There are few rules here but they are always followed; always.  No fighting of any kind, although more than once Frank himself has had to step in to make sure this rule is not broken.  No magic, except for Frank that is, and this is enforced automatically by a powerful anti-magic dampening field that seems to infiltrate every corner of this adventurer’s resort.  Lastly and most important, no giving invitations without first receiving a blessing on the invite from Frank.  And that invitation is highly unlikely to be given.

Frank is nearly as big a mystery as his inn.  There is little question of his power when Frank enters the room.  He is a tall thin man with a bald head and deep set wrinkles that give evidence of his advanced age.  His robes glow lightly and seem to shimmer and change colors as they are gazed upon.  Frank’s most glaring attribute are his nearly glowing silver colored eyes.  Frank is rumored to be one of the two last silver-eyed mages and is caretaker of his magical Inn and all its patrons.  No one is quite certain what Frank’s real name is but it mutually agreed upon that it is certainly not Frank.

Satisfied that his cape was put out, Namblin the Gnome crossed the room to the bar nodding his head slightly at several people as he went.  The Gnome softly whistled as he walked, his attire was a mismatched combination of the rarest metal, like mythril chain, and cotton weaves that any pauper might wear.  Somehow it all worked for the little mystery however and just added to intrigue of the most successful ‘traveler’ ever known.  Travelers are those that maneuver through portals with amazing skill, finding the most hidden of places and greatest treasures.  For Namblin it has always been all about the uniqueness of the item however, actual treasure had little value for him other than its apparent need to indulge the finer things in life at places like Frank’s. 

The eight foot tall half-ogre bartender gave Namblin a warm smile and pulled a bottle from under the counter.  “Welcome back Namblin.  I assume you want your normal bottle.”  “Thanks Brux, I’m parched.  No matter how many times I run up against a red I can never get out easy.  I just wish they were more willing to trade, then I wouldn’t have to piss them off all the time.”  The Gnome poured a glass from the bottle of golden liquid, smiled at the glass and took a long steady draw.  “Ahhh, oh how I’ve missed you my darling”.

“Namblin, Vlad is looking for you and Frank would like to talk to you later when you have time.” 

“Ah, thanks, tell Frank I have something special for him”.  Tossing several platinum pieces on the bar top, Namblin turned and headed for the table with the Human and the Elf.

“Greetings Vlad”

“Hello Namblin.  I’d like you to meet Ruchneau, master of Tinya the silver arrow.”

“Mmm, well now that is something indeed.  Well met sir Ruchneau.”

“Well met Namblin and Rush will be just fine.”

“Ok, Rush it is.  So Vlad, did you get my message about the wizard Brovandian?”

“I did, thanks.  As a matter of fact he and Michael are already here.  They checked in a few hours ago.”

Ruchneau set his flute glass down and tapped his fingers gently on the table as he chimed in, “Vlad has filled me in on the quest at hand.  It seems that Leviticus has many enemies.  I do like this plan of joining forces to take him down once and for all.”

Namblin chuckled, “Humph, well that’s the stone in the creek at Pebble’s Crossing ain’t it?  Killing someone or something that is downright un-killable?  That silver-eyed is slippery and harder to trail than a fart in a hurricane.”

 Namblin’s crude humor seemingly lost on the elf, he pursued his train of thought, “I have heard that the leader of The Shadowmark may be joining us.  I’ve heard that his skill with a bow rivals my own”, the handsome elf said with a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Nope.  Not happening”, Namblin chirped.  “He and Kit both are up to their asses keeping King Torrin from destroying Mythgar.  It took a great deal of convincing from those two to get Bravo to come along“.

 “Too bad, I would have liked to fight alongside a brother of the bow.  I have firsthand knowledge of Kit.  Her family is held in high regard in Farfell.  The Church is lucky to have her and Mythgar twice so.”

 As the three companions, who would have appeared odd anywhere else, continued their conversation the entrance to the Inn shimmered once again.  Instinctively, Vladimir turned his head as Rush and Namblin continued on without regard to the new arrival.  At least until Vlad’s armored fist slammed the table.

“Son a of harpy!”, Vlad growled.

 A tall man who bore a striking resemblance to Frank strolled through the gate.  Evil wafted from the silver eyed human as he allowed a slight smile.  The smile revealed sharp fang shaped teeth, hinting at his true identity as he fixed his eyes on the human sitting with Namblin and the Elf whom he did not recognize.  The man did not hesitate as he confidently strolled across the room to the table where he most certainly was not welcome.

 “My old friend Vladimir”, the silver eyed one said with a feigned kindness.  “Namblin, it is good to see you and I cannot think of a better place to do so.”

 “Yep, back at you Levi”, Namblin cheerfully replied.  He didn’t seem bothered one bit by Leviticus, nor was he concerned about the fact that Vlad was obviously moments away from breaking every rule at Frank’s Place and likely getting himself killed in the process.

 “And, you”, Leviticus nodded towards the elf.  “I don’t believe we have met, I am Leviticus Greycloak.  Friend to those that would have me and oft misunderstood by those who won’t.”  His smile appeared to be quite genuine. 

“Ruchneau from the lands of Farfell”, Rush was polite but there was a hint of disgust in his voice.

 “Hmm, well so I do know of you after all and of course of Tinya”, a sudden hint of worry crossed Levi’s face and just quickly disappeared.

 “Well, I can see that you three are quite busy and I too have many matters to attend to.  As it happens and old ‘friend’ of mine has been chasing me about and I suppose I will endeavor to stay a step or two ahead of him for a bit longer”, Levi’s grin at Vlad could not be mistaken this time, it was meant to infuriate him and by all appearances the jab had hit its mark.  Vladimir was indeed chasing Leviticus and had been for many years.  No desire beyond ending his life for the betrayal of him and his friends many years gone by.  And now, with him mere feet away, there was precious little he could do and he knew it. 

 “Rot you worthless sack of dragon shit!  I will run a stake through your heart soon enough”, Vlad spat.

 “Ah, Vlad you always did have a way with words.  I must be off however; I believe my good brother awaits my arrival.  Good day Namblin and well met Ruchneau.”

 “See ya round Levi”, Namblin was quite enjoying the whole scene.  He is a Gnome after-all and a quite twisted one at that.

 “So,” Rush started quizzically, “That would be the one we hunt eh Vladimir?”

 “Yeah that’s him.  Not only a traitor to his fellow adventurers but a traitor to all the good races of Mythgar.”

 “Yes well, I’m honored to join the fight.  Tinya, I think will prove to be most useful against a vampiric demon. “

 “He doesn’t know yet but I found him”, Namblin made the comment in such an off-handed way you would have thought he was asking someone to pass the salt.

 “What!” Vlad nearly shouted.  “You know his home?  I suppose I should not be surprised.  Your tactics bewilder me Namblin but your results amaze me.”

 “Yeah well, thanks and all that, but you know what I want.  Once I take you to his lair I expect you will relinquish the ring.”

 “That was the agreement yes, but the ring is worthless.”

 “Now Lord Vladimir, I thought you knew me better than that.  Worthless is a state of mind.  One you humans tend to find yourselves in far too often.  A deal is a deal.”

 “Ok very good Nam.  When will you be prepared to take us?  Perhaps getting there while he is here would be an advantage.”

 “Nope.  I won’t be ready to go for at least a few days.  I’ve been gone too long from this place and I have certain…ah…things to attend to.”

 “If I didn’t need you Namblin I swear I would cut your head from your shoulders.”

 “Well Vladie if I weren’t ‘needed’ I’m afraid you would have to get in line for that privilege. “

 With that the Gnome rose gracefully from his seat and gave a slight bow to the two.  “Interesting fellow that Namblin”, Rucheanu said as the Gnome walked off.  “Interesting indeed”.

"I really don't have time for this right now Neb," the armored man said. The stink of exertion and killing rolled from him in waves as he sat on the floor, careless of the scratches that the stone wall of the ziggurat was doubtlessly making on the back of his breastplate. A helmet lay next to him, with series of vicious looking blades arrayed across the brow that would give the wearer a fierce visage. Even tossed aside, it radiated menace. The man scowled at the halfling that stood a few feet in front of him, and went back to scraping bits of clotted gore and filth from the runes deeply etched into his sword, periodically picking up a piece of coarse cloth cut from the cloak of a dead gnoll that had fallen perhaps ten paces to his right, and wiping the blade down with it.

"Your helmet looks really EVIL," the halfling remarked gleefully. He seemed momentarily mesmerized by the helm, though very little held the attention of the "Bard of Broden" for long, other than bad grog and prostitutes.At least he talked a good game about his numerous conquests amongst the ladies for hire. Corel had been witness to enough of the grog-drinking to attest to it, but not for the other. "Does it make you feel sort of ruthless and brutal when you wear it, knowing how it makes you look?"

The paladin sighed. "The only difference between a milk bucket and this helmet is that this helmet doesn't haul milk well, Neb, and you are altogether too concerned with aesthetics for your own good."

The halfling looked up with a impish grin on his too-pretty face. "At least it fits your head better than a milk bucket," he exclaimed.

"Debatable," Corel grunted in response.

"But seriously," Neb continued, as though he hadn't just been contradicted. The halfling never let resistance slow him down, even when he should, "you and I both know that we'll likely be dead within a week or so. We're lucky to have made it this long. Every day we're getting into something crazier and more unsurvivable than the day before. We aim to kill a demigod, for the love of Pelor, and odds are that if we live that long, we won't live past it. The lads that killed Orcus, they died to the man except the paladin that wielded that sword of yours. You don't really thing that you're going to live because he did, do you? Never mind that though, the important thing is that people are going to want to… demand to know who this hero was that led a band of stalwart adventurers… assassins… whatever to slay the God-King and set things right. If I don't leave that story behind, someone else will write it, and they'll get it all wrong. They'll make you sound like a proper popinjay with frilly armor and a prancy horse and small-clothes full of unicorns and honeycakes."

Corel's face softened and his shoulders shook as he silently laughed at the bard's excesses of imagination. But he didn't stop cleaning his sword–not for a minute. "I don't suppose I care what they say about me, once this blighted Kilason is sent back to the hateful Hell that vomited him out," the paladin's face hardened again. He glanced over at an over-sized mortar and pestle made from a dull, silvery metal streaked with black. "Now that we have that fancy mixing bowl, it is just a matter of time before the affair will be settled in any case. In any case, I am just one of seven of us. Who I am matters no more than any other."

"Grundenheim."

"What?"

"The 'fancy mixing bowl' is called Grundenheim. I like to call it Grindenheim, because it's for grinding."

The paladin paused for a moment and slow rubbed his face with his palm, a study in exasperation. "Does your mind ever go in one direction long enough to arrive at its original destination?" he asked rhetorically.

"There was this one time at Bard Academy," Neb began, enthusiastically, then stopped, "You're not going to distract me from my purpose, Corel Belarous, and don't think you can. Small is not stupid, regardless of what you human believe."

"I never said… I don't think," Corel stuttered out.

"Well of course you didn't think. If you thought, your rational mind would point out to you that I'm not stupid, and that therefore any fabricated correlation between size and intelligence might therefore be illusory, and… uh… damn. That helmet looks so evil! I wish I had one!"

When Neb looked up from the helmet a moment later, the paladin was slowly, repeatedly banging the back of his head against the ziggurat wall.

"That stonework is ancient you know," the halfling admonished mildly, "it might have some historical value so you should probably stop pulverizing it with your skull bone. So anyway, who you are does matter. You are a paladin of Pelor, his divinely hand-picked agent set upon his most-important mission. His angel came to us because of you. You give us legitimacy, not only in Pelor's eyes, but in the eyes of the people for whom we struggle. Without you we're just a group of guys who go around killing people and taking their stuff. With you, we're a group of guys that goes around killing people and taking their stuff for a higher purpose. Understand?"

Corel shook his head slowly. "Pelor give us all purpose Neb," the paladin explained in a soft, almost reverent voice, "He chose us, not me, because he sees within you, within them, even within Mister Horn, a courage and an essential decency that makes you worthy of bearing this burden for him. There may be many who are willing, and many who are able to do this, but only we are both. You are right Neb: we're probably going to die, but I'm not afraid of that, and I know you aren't either. I'm only afraid to fail."

"I'm not afraid of anything," the halfling pondered, drifting off into a distant place somewhere in his own mind, "Sometimes I wish that I could be; that I could panic and run and stop this almost-getting-killed stuff. I really want to live a long time. There's so much to do and see and learn, but I don't think I'm going to get to do or see or learn it. Maybe if I was able to be afraid, I would live long enough. Did you ever notice that gnoll blood tastes like chicken?" he asked, licking a spot of dark brown from the corner of his mouth.

The paladin chuckled. "I don't think being afraid would save you Neb. You're too inquisitive to live long. You should have been born a cat."

Neb pointed his finger at Corel. "You're afraid all the time. You're afraid that our bickering is going to break us up. You're afraid that others will see you in a moment of weakness and not respect you anymore. You're afraid that you'll lose Pelor's favor and he'll give the job to someone else. You're afraid that come tomorrow, one of us will be dead, and that it will be your fault. And whether you accept it or not, you're afraid that the name of Corel Belarous will fail to live up to this implausible standard that you've set for yourself. But every day, you get up and do the right thing, in spite of your fear. That's either courage or you're dumb as a pack o' de gravel, and either way it makes you well-qualified to lead our motley marauders."

"I'll think about what you said Neb," the paladin hoisted himself to his feet with an effort. He slid the beautiful sword back into its scabbard with a shhhhhhik sound, "but I'll not force myself onto someone who doesn't want to be lead."

The halfling rolled his eyes at the human towering above him. "I keep forgetting how young you are," he quipped, amused, "So young that you still think that leadership is a prize handed out at a fair rather than a burden forced upon the only one strong enough to carry it."

With that, the little man turned and strolled off toward the others, flipping a coin into the air and deftly catching it while whistling a snappy tune, a tune destined to someday become well-known to tavern patrons across the western empire, assuming the halfling lived long enough.