BEFORE . . .

Years before arriving in Iguana Shores, you and your closest friends were known by the dubious moniker, The Tribe. It was such a catchy name back home in the Land of Dobb and the mischief you performed while guised beneath the veil of that name seemed to buy you more respect and fame than the ill reputation that you probably deserved. But here and now, while you run for your lives in the dusty streets, an entire ocean away from that vaunted fame, you cannot help but to wish that the name bore no connection to you whatsoever.

But wish as you may, the name cannot be dissassociated with you or your compatriots. The Tribe - you are stuck with it, and all of the trouble that comes with it. For how were you to know that the golden city of Iguana Shores, the city of dreams, the land of hope, the famed metropolis that you worked so hard to journey to all of these years . . . how were you to know that this city would be nothing more than a despoiled pit of corruption where millions of other would-be-fortune-finders, drawn to these sandy beaches, lived in hot, dusty and penniless squalor. The City of Dreams . . . bah! This foul cesspool on the fringes of the Empire is but a trap for the hopeful, like moths to the flame they come. And you were no exception.

How were you to know, no sooner than the great transit ship that brought you here had left the harbor, that you were hopelessly trapped along with the rest of these filthy masses, in a city run by an evil despot, and destined not for fame and fortune, but for empty pockets - fleeced not by alley urchins, but by overpriced inns, wild parties and extensive taxes. How were you to know that Balthazar Rhett, this city's self-proclaimed czar, would soon snare you in his raggedy nets as so many millions before you.

True, the illusion was grand enough. The beaches were golden and the water was warm. The women were wild and the thousands of entertainers who paraded within the streets from sun-up to sun-up painted the perfect picture of mind-numbing hedonistic opportunity. How were you to know that those very same wild women and colorful entertainers were just the prettiest of the fish caught by Balthazar Rhett - but their debt was really no different than the rest of the filthy rabble behind the scenes who worked the fields for him, who worked the sewers for him, who ate dust for him, and who died for him, too.

How were you to know that the desperate bet you placed at the wigami table just yesterday in the name of The Tribe would seal your fate? How were you to know that the wigami tables were just as crooked as the lord of this city? And, most importantly, how were you to know that a five Golden Crown bet was not risking just five Dobbian gold coins -- but 5,000?

And now you run. You and your faithful friends, for none of you are safe within these city walls. Truth be told, you have no idead how far you must run beyond those walls before safe harbors are found, for none of you truly know how far the nets of Iguana Shores have been cast. How far does the influence of Balthazar Rhett really reach? All you know is that staying here to pay off your debt is nothing more than a life sentence. You would be wrinkled and grey before working off what you owe within these city walls - if you survived that long.

The little coin you have between you may be able to cover the exit tax required at the city gates, but Balthazar Rhett's Rat Patrol is loyal to a man (they have to be, having little choice in the matter), and you would certainly be spotted and hauled off to the fields, or worse, before getting a half-mile down one of those dusty roads out of town. The ships leaving the harbor are of no use either as none are allowed to take on passengers within the borders of Iguana Shores.

NOW . . .

And so now you wish for a miracle. After spending the night in hiding, covered in dirty rags and stink and laying low amongst the poorest of the city's poor, you now stand in line with nearly 50 other desperate men and women outside Smiling Jack Sampson's Thrift Shop Emporium and Day Labor Post Shop. In the days now gone of yesterday, you motley member of the once mighty Tribe, you could scarcely stifle a snicker at these poor sods who stood outside this shop in the unbearable heat just for a chance to snag one of the few job postings listed inside.

But that was another lifetime, want's it?

Now you stand in that very same line, wearing the very same desperate look as the others before you and you hope that today Lady Luck will be with you. If only you can be faster and stronger that the rest of this rabble in front of you, because Smiling Jack opens the door at 8-bells every morning, only the toughest will reach the posting board first. Well, looking at your competition you realize you have one thing in your favor - your bellies have only known hunger for a few hours....so, perhaps......

But just then you see running up the street in your direction two scantily dressed and familiar looking bronzed bodies. It's Trixie and Belle! Two of the beach party crowd you and The Tribe fell in with shortly after your arrival here.

"Hey, there you are!," Trixie shouts when she breathlessly reaches your side, "We thought we might find you here. Unfortunately, the Rat Patrol is thinking they might find you here too. They've been asking around for the Tribe all night and someone tipped them off that you might be here. You've got to hide!"

LINKS

DM Notes
Land of Dobb
The Empire