The Realm of Silver, Late Autumn, 943.Of all the taverns in the Realm of Silver, The Hollow and Hearth ranked among the dimmest, the dingiest, the dirtiest, and the most dangerous. It had been around almost as long as the Realm, and had hardly changed for all that time; the same smell of smoke and stale beer hung in the air, the same stingy bottle-bottom bullseyes of glass still stood in its small windows, the floors were still covered in the same combination of sick and sawdust, and the same dusty kegs rested in their cradles behind the bar.
And of course, there were the brawls.
“What did you just say about my mother?!”
“I said your mother was a verrry classy lady, sah!”
“She was a
whore, you goblin bastard!”
A pair of bickering patrons crashed through one of the cheap wooden tables, sending their half-empty mugs to the floor to add to the stink of stale beer. One headbutted the other full in the nose, prompting a strong knee to the groin from his opponent. Equally infuriated, the two went rolling about in a tangle of filthy oaths and swinging limbs, to the raucous laughter and jeering of the other patrons observing the whole exchange.
“Those two idiots again,” Sorus Chantscar rolled her eyes at the sight of the brawl. Idly, she turned in her seat to face the reptilian figure opposite to her, careful to keep her playing cards hidden. “What is this, the third time this fortnight?”
“Fourth.” Degel answered. The Hand of Planegifts’ features were contorted oddly, an expressing of amusement crossing his snakelike face. His thin, membranous wings twitched idly at his back. “Fifth, if you count that time with Eman.”
Almost idly, he threw a couple more coins onto the pile in the centre of the table. “Five coppers says Vess loses this one.”
“You’re on.” Sorus grinned, the motion tugging the scar at the edge of her mouth. “Six coppers say Vess wins this one.”
Degel matched her grin with his own, serpentine fangs peeking out of his scaled lip. “Too easy.”
The brawl went on for about a minute more, the various patrons shouting encouragement and insults toward the fighters in equal measure. Blood and cracking bone joined the general stink and cacophony of the tavern as Vess seized Kamran by the head and slammed his face into the bar, breaking his nose and drawing an irate shout from the tavern’s owner. Kamran retaliated swiftly, seizing one of the glasses and smashing it into Vess’ face, sending him backward with a yelp of pain as blood began spraying from his face.
"Looks like you're buying me a drink after all, Degel." Sorus grinned, nodding toward the pile of copper and silver on the table.
Degel matched her grin with one of his own. “I wouldn’t think so, boss.”
As Vess closed in, broken glass in hand, Kamran’s lurching movement changed to a much more controlled step. He smoothly slid to the side to evade Vess’ swing, following it up with a straight punch that rocked his opponent’s head back on his shoulders and sent pain spiking down his ear. A second punch scattered several of his teeth across the bar, accompanied by a thin line of blood from his lips as he went staggering backwards. From there, the fight quickly turned in one direction, and it ended with Vess going down with a wet crack and a spray of blood as Kamran pistoned a fist into his nose, followed by a kick to the chest that sent him crashing into Sorus’ side of the table and scattered her cards in all directions.
The victorious man raised his bloodied knuckles aloft to cheers from his friends, insults from his opponent’s, and a stream of thunderous oaths from the infuriated Sorus.
“Gods’ teeth and damnation!” Sorus snarled, glaring at the insensate form of Vess as the semiconscious man was half-carried, half-dragged out of the tavern door.
“Better luck next time, Sorus.” Degel snickered, resting his open hand palm-up on the tabletop.
Sorus rolled her eyes but obeyed, flipping a silver coin through the air into the Hand’s waiting palm. He smirked as best as he could and nodded in appreciation, inclining his head slightly toward his partner before laying his hand of cards on the table. “Three of a kind.”
“You can’t be bloody serious, Degel.”
The Hand of Planegifts retorted with a gesture toward the small pile of bronze and silver coins heaped in the middle of the table. Simo rolled her eyes, scowling as she gathered the cards and began reshuffling the deck for the next round.
“Cheating bastard.” She muttered.
“Behold – a pot calling a kettle burnt-arse.” Degel retorted as he raked in his winnings, grinning.
Simo’s response – a particularly crude gesture and a suggestion to do something he knew was quite anatomically impossible – only made him grin wider as the scowling mercenary leaned back in her chair. She downed what was left of her ale before fixing him with a stare, her expression suddenly becoming serious and focused.
“We still need to find another job, Degel. Watching brawls ain’t going to put food on the table, and I doubt you want to go foraging wild again after last time.”
“Don’t remind me,” Degel groaned, clutching his stomach with a half-instinctual wince. “So many colours and I couldn’t hit any of them…”
“And that’s why I’m the brains around here,” Sorus drawled, smirking slightly at Degel’s mock-sour expression. “Now come on. Let’s get cracking.”
The bar was thick with customers, as was the usual. Behind the bar, Kima Wilfulpages lurked, wiping the glasses clean and listening to the customers’ grumbling. He was a broad, bulky figure with a face like a robber’s dog, always watching the brawls and the boozers with mean, cunning eyes and listening in for the latest chatter and rumours among the crowd. Landlord and bartender of the tavern, he was as much a feature of the pub as the brawls, the blood, and the beer staining the floor beneath them. By the sound of the gossip ringing out from the bar, the latest topic was the older nobility of the land, and the general antipathy toward them common among the local hamlet-dwellers.
“-ight you are, Kol.” He was saying one of the patrons, loud enough for the two mercenaries to hear from a distance. “Those noble-blood cowards are too soft to stand up to these fecking thralls. While we was slavin’ in the fields and getting et and dragged off’n the night, they just went and shut ‘emselves up in their castles, didn’t they? It were men like us that stood up to throw ‘em down, and who picked up th’ powers once they was gone. You reckon they’re gonna raise a finger t’help us when the boss is gone? They’re probably scheming to take the Silver Throne already!”
There was a general mutter of agreement from the customers around him. They were glad to have their worst fears confirmed, and Kima’s long, hard-earned reputation as one of the biggest men in the hamlet only amplified that feeling.
“Still, this is Omin Obin, ain’t it? We’ve lasted this long, nobs or not; we sorted out those bastards a’fore, and we’ll sort them out if they try something this time. All we need’s a proper one to lead us.”
Having finished his latest round of rabble-rousing, Kima returned to polishing a few of the unused glasses for a few seconds; he broke from the task at the sight of Sorus and Degel marching toward the bar, their armour and weapons immediately clearing a path through the patrons. Even half-drunk on Brimstone Reserve and thuggish as one had to be in The Hollow and Hearth, they weren’t quite brave enough to stand in the pair’s way.
“Chantscar,” Kima greeted her with a nod. “What d’you say to a pint of Brimstone Reserve?"
“’Fraid I’m not here for pleasure.” Sorus leaned forward slightly, interlacing her fingers on the bar’s wooden counter. She wouldn’t have taken the offer even if she was – she knew damn well that Willfulpages stuck rusty horseshoes in those kegs for ‘extra kick’, and half-suspected he thinned it with something other than water. “I’m here for work. Need something new, after that last mess.”
“Figured you’d say that,” Kima muttered, setting down the glass and withdrawing a thin stack of papers from a corner of the bar. He quickly leafed through the first few pages before nodding to himself and beginning to read. “Well, there’s a contract out a couple villages over – bear got into someone’s home, and they’re looking for someone to clear it out.”
Sorus met him with a bleak stare, tilting her head to the side. The scar on her cheek was twinging sharply again. Degel instinctually flinched beside her, almost absentmindedly raising a hand to a spot on his right arm where a patch of pale, scaleless flesh stood out among the charcoal plates. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Fair ‘nuff.” Kima nodded, clearly having expected her response. He flipped through a few more papers before drawing out the next one. “Old man Onefinger’s heading out on the trail north in a few days – been asking about guards for his caravans. A couple weeks’ work, and arguable pay.”
“No chance.” Degel shook his head before Sorus could speak, his serpentine features contorting into a grimace of distaste at the mention of the client’s name. “We’d be freezing our arses off for weeks and getting a few silvers at most. He’s a right cheapskate, and about as slippery as a thrall is savage.”
Sorus shook her head, concurring with Degel’s assessment. “That one’s out too, then.”
“Ain’t much more on offer, Chantscar.” Kima shook his head, grimacing slightly. He turned through a few more sheafs of parchment without comment, shook his head at another, and paused to tear yet another in half before discarding it over his shoulder. Annoyed, Sorus let out a low noise of frustration from deep in her throat and turned away, walking back toward her table.
“Wait,” He called out to her retreating back. Sorus turned, to see him standing with his head tilted slightly to the side, in the manner of one thinking on a decision. “I think I might have one more thing for you two…”
Kima turned his head and nodded to a far corner of the room where a slender figure was hunched over a table, hood up to shroud their features and a mug of ale resting beside one hand. They seemed deeply engrossed in writing on a piece of parchment, though the slight motions of their head belied their attentiveness to the room and the various patrons of the bar.
“Over there. Ain’t heard nothing since she walked in, but she was jawing about needin’ some muscle for a trip up northwards.”
The figure looked up as they approached, one eye flicking up to regard the pair of them.
“Heard you were looking for hired help.” Sorus opened bluntly, drawing up the chair opposite to them. Degel followed suit after a moment of hesitation, sitting down halfway between the two.
“Indeed, I am.” They replied, not raising their head up. “What of it?”
“Then I’d say we need to talk.” Sorus didn’t wait for a response, in favour of pulling up the nearest chair and seating herself. Degel followed after a moment, hunching down slightly so that he was eye to eye with their prospective client. Even so, their head was angled in such a manner that his reptilian eyes could make out none of the features beneath the hood. “’Bout the job you want doing, and our pay for it.”
“Presumptuous.” They muttered, but motioned in assent, nonetheless. “Very well. Shall we begin, then?”
“Aye. But – one thing. I prefer to look someone in th’ eye when doing a deal.” Sorus leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping up and down on the tabletop. “Make sure it’s a sincere one, y’know.”
Simo hesitated for a long moment before slowly nodding in understanding. “…Very well.”
She pulled her hood back to expose the features beneath, cocking her head slightly to the side. She was a young-looking woman, tall and narrow-featured. Her face was dappled with odd, dark marks resembling chains of V-shapes; another, dark as a puddle of spilled ink, lurked at the base of her throat. Despite her apparent youth, her hair was the whitish-grey of wood ash, streaked with the occasional black strand. She peered at them from her perch on the chair’s edge, hawkish eyes flicking across their features as though seeking any sign of untrustworthiness; her long fingers folded together before her with delicate care.
“I am Simo Cosmosclean.” She stated without preamble, tone precise and cultured, voice tinged with the accent of one native to the Hills of Echoing. Idly, her fingers traced the parchment laid out before her – a map of the Realm of Silver, annotated in deep scarlet. “I represent the interests of a medical and scholarly consortium, The Books of Curing, in a matter related to this district and the Realm beyond. This job will require a high degree of commitment – two weeks of travel, at least, and with significant risk of severe injury.”
“Aye?” Sorus grunted, turning slightly in her chair. “So, do tell me – why the hell should either of us join you?”
Simo, by way of answer, reached into her cloak and withdrew a bulging pouch from some inner pocket. She quickly undid the string binding it, before pulling the opening at its neck wide and tilting it toward them. Bright gold and silver coins spilled out onto the table in a glinting stream, the manifold faces of the law-giver staring up at them. Degel murmured an oath at the sight, Sorus meeting Simo’s eyes with an almost incredulous stare.
“You may consider this your reason why.” Simo replied, placing her hands evenly apart on the table. “This represents half of the payment for aiding me in this matter: fifty gold pieces, and a further eight silver. The remainder upon the conclusion of this business, in addition to any… compensation required.”
“What could be important enough for
this?” Sorus could barely believe the sight before her. The amount of coinage on the table before her was more than most mercenaries would make in a season of work.
“The exact particulars we can discuss later,” Simo answered, with an almost airy motion of one hand. Her features were guarded, betraying no hint of her thoughts. “But I will say this of our target: we will be hunting thralls.”
“Blood of the crows!” Sorus growled, an eyebrow shooing up into her hairline. Degel drew in a breath beside her, eyes widening and nostrils flaring in shock. “You speak like it’ll be no more than hunting beasts, or putting down a bandit pack!”
“If you do not consider yourself up to the task, then I will not judge you.” Simo shook her head, returning her attention to the parchment before her. “I wish you lu—”
“Hold on just a minute now!” Degel broke in with a surprisingly quick tone, shaking his head quickly. “Give me a minute to talk with Sorus here, if you’d please?”
The scholarly young woman nodded slightly, gesturing them off to the side. Degel wasted no time in seizing Sorus’ arm and half-pulling her off to the side, teeth poking out over his lips as he went. Sorus made to protest at his sudden action, but the Hand of Planegifts cut her off with a sharp glare from his reptilian eye.
“Come on, Sorus.” Degel shook his head, expression twisting into a half-grimace of frustration and muffled anger. “You know as well as I do, we can’t afford to turn this one down. Not after last month. We’re down to the damn wire as it is. And think of the reputation!”
“Reputation?”
“Aye, think about it!” Degel gestured with a scaled hand toward Simo, who had returned her interest to the map before her, engrossing herself in the black lines and scarlet script of the parchment. “Whoever’s pulling her strings – they’ve given her the right to toss more coinage than allus put together would make in a season at hunting down some thralls. That’s not the sign of a small backer, or one without some proper strong influence. If we do right by her – impress her with our work or hunt enough thralls or whatever…”
“You’re thinking she’ll put in a good word with her bosses,” Sorus breathed deeply as she realised where Degel was going, a grin making its way across her features. “Help us break into bigger and better things than guarding caravans and hunting wild beasts.”
“Precisely.” He hissed, an unmistakable element of hunger creeping into his voice. “We ain’t going to be a second Band of Wax; no chance of that. But if this job means we don’t have to take the karking Northern Trail again, I’m all for it.”
Sorus risked a glance back over her shoulder. Simo had not looked up from her map or sought to court any of the other mercenaries in the bar, instead busying herself with adding a new set of scrawling to the parchment with an inked quill. Grimacing, she turned her head back to the serpentine Hand, unable to keep her jaw from setting tightly. “You are certain about this?”
“Positive.” Degel nodded firmly, placing his scaled hand on her shoulder. “An’ I’ll bear the consequences if I’m wrong.”
“…Fine.” Sorus breathed out, giving him a half-rueful grin. “I’ll trust you on this one, my friend.”
Degel grinned and nodded back toward the table in answer, clapping her on the back as he began to walk. “Then let’s get to it.”
Simo glanced up at them as the two mercenaries re-took their seats. “I presume that the two of you have come to a decision?”
“Aye. Degel and I will take your job.” Sorus said, firmly. She placed her closed fist on the table with the click of metal against wood. “Just tell us what to do.”
“Excellent. For now, see to whatever needs the two of you have, and then return here for the night – we will leave at dawn.” Simo nodded. She raised her hand in salute to her new companions, flashing them a gap-toothed smile that pulled the marks on her cheek out of shape. “To fortune and to glory."
(Note: This is the first part of Turn 102. Next bit will be up once I can get the introductory part done.)
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409533 times)