Recollecting distant ages long past, when the world was far simpler and less gloom n doomy, old Zeke still clearly recalls his Bronze years of adventuring. Once a trapper and locksmith hailing from his hilltop home near the Ledros Mountains, young Ezekiel found frequent work in the Dungeoneering racket. Following a ragtag group of mercenaries and graverobbers, he quickly made more gold than a commoner's dream, as most do early on in such risky business. By the gnomishly youthful age of 65, he'd retired from the business, finally having found honest work in running his own tavern; The "Nature's Calling" of Karthy, a speakeasy front for folk with a hankering for the kind of wares that one'd get put in the stocks for just mentioning them in public. Moonshine, traps, magical blasters, illegal scrying devices for ladies' bath houses; toothpicks, lockpicks, socks that fit, pipes and poisons; badgers, badgers, badgers, badgers, mushrooms, and snakes to throw at the squeamish; and a varied and unique collection of recreational alchemy and pranksteresque novelties. It came no suprise to him that his "Liquor Store" soon began to lure undesireables with anti-authoritarian credos. To be certain, such folk were his fondest customers, and with contraband for product, the tips came all the fatter. When a terror cell of Mistite fanatics came looking for boomsticks, Zeke happily obliged them and poured out their complimentary drinks. "The Wrath of Sean" they called themselves, in memory of the leader's father, Sean MaConnelly. Sean had been a martyr to the cause of revolution in Dregar against the unifying forces of Pranzis' court. Seeing the loss of personal liberties in the name of administration, the raising taxes to feed the fatcat nobles and their feudal lordship, the rich getting richer, the poor getting poorer and the cows squirting sour milk, the vigilante had taken it upon himself to raid armories and disperse their contents among the peasants and guerilla forces; a tactic that brought swift response from those in power. He had been drawn and quartered in Pranzis Square, buried facing downward beneath the cobblestones leading to the courthouse. "For one having evaded the pitter patter of lawmen all his life, tis only fitting that he forever feel the feet of order in the next!," sentenced the callous magistrate. And so a minor legend was born. The band's leader was the son of the great hero. Harcourt MaConnelly; who was just a wee boy of 8 when he'd seen his father's execution. A young Hobbit no more that 35 or 40, Harcourt's rage fueled his passion and made him quite the orator. Commanding a self-assured presence about him and scribing the songs of their triumphs, the young hobbit bard could spark the inferno of revolution in the hearts of common folk far and wide. Ordering a round of cheap barley whiskey and high quality firebombs for his men, the young vigilante made small talk with the Shadonite bartender. In truth, Harcourt had not merely arrived to the establishment for supplies. He had heard from his informant's of Ezekiel's bar room tales and his old exploits, and capable thieves of any faith make good bedfellows to revolution. Noting his disdain for the new taxes and the laws Zeke had to avoid in order to run his perfectly honest business, the son of martyrdom stoked the bartender's ego that he should get back at the stuffy suits of fiefdom. Wholeheartedly, Ezekiel Gortsmorpher agreed to collaberate with MaConnelly on a plan to publicly ridicule a local Karthyite duke. Though Karthy was not under the direct rulership of Pranzis, it had recently become sympathetic to many authoritarian concessions to the throne, such as allowing law officers of Dregar to be empowered to pursue and procure "enemies of the throne" on Rilara lands. In turn, the local lords gained tariff free passage for ships of trading companies under their direct ownership, an advantage that they used to undercut, bankrupt and buy out merchant middle-class held companies. The nobleman most responsible for these sanctions was Duke Gregor Menoit, owner of a large trading syndacate that covered routes to Point Harbor, Port Hampshire, Carosca and exclusive rights to Liellon, then a comparatively small frontiersman logging community just beginning to tap the High Forrest. This pompous, prissy wigged fuddy duddy was also responsible for hightened ale taxes, mandatory dry hours after 2 am for "public peace", liscences to bear weapons, laws against prostitution, public indecency, unregulated alchemy and tools of the trade. If it was fun, he was against it, except of course for whenever it happened in his own houshold. Well known for his feasts and debaucherous private festivals, Menoit wooed his fellow blue bloods with pomp and airs of superior refinery. Little fish eggs on rough, charcoal tasting wheat crackers crunched classily on the pearly white ivories of the engorged bourgeosie, nodding their heads in approval, oohing and ahing at their host's monthly hootinanny. Zeke snuck in the back door. Disguising himself in the uniform of his hired feast caterers, Zeke weaved and bobbed through the throng, handing out horderves to the masses. Thinking to spice things up, he took it upon himself to jam the locks to the chamberpot rooms, all the while spiking his tray with alchemically enchanced laxatives which produced firey results. On the way to his main objective, he also managed to snatch a few coinpurses, secretly slapped a few fair maidens' bottoms just to vanish amidst the dueling chivalry goons accusing eachother, and even spiked the punch with myconoid spores. The cr