Sunday, October 12, 2008

Ch 01: Poot's Angels

Five men had arrived early for a meeting with a man who was late.

They gathered in a warehouse on the outskirts of a small town, known as Red Rock for a distinctive landmark on the river. The town had formed as a trading outpost, fortuitously positioned at the intersection of two roads, both of which benefited from the Red Rock ferry. Travelers, just passing through, always outnumbered the locals, and what community did exist was perpetually drowning in the anonymity and transience that was its lifeblood.

All five, gathered in the warehouse, were transients who had made their way to Red Rock looking for exactly the kind of work that thrived on anonymity. A local operator, Pheg, had been looking for mercenaries and, one by one over the course of a week, met and interviewed each of the five, giving them this date and location for a meeting. Finding themselves in an empty warehouse, with no sign of Pheg or anyone else, they introduced themselves to the other complete strangers and chatted a bit.

Mairrethid, a human wizard, was the last of the five to assemble. He introduced himself to the others with an outgoing but not particularly charismatic smile. He was a tall man, wearing a long, double-breasted black leather coat buttoned all the way up to its high collar. His hair was closely cropped, under a narrow-brimmed cap, and one of his eyes was milky and failed to track with the other. He carried a mage’s staff in one hand and wore a dagger openly at his hip.

Mez, a goblin rogue, made the appropriate social rejoinders to Mairrethid and the others, but largely kept to himself. The tiny man was three-foot-five, with long ropey arms whose knuckles nearly touched the floor. His extensive body hair was a rusty brown fur, and a particularly red patch of longer hair was cropped into a close beard around his large, fanged mouth. His wide-set ears were pointy and moved independently towards every sound, like those of a mule, and each had several dull metal studs as piercings. He wore a loose-fitting black wool shirt, trousers, cloak, and a matching linen kerchief on his head, pulled down low over his brow to keep out the sun. All of this baggy black did a passingly adequate job of concealing leather armor and a half-dozen knives, as well as a small crossbow on his belt at the small of his back.

Gurnlocke Fisk, a dwarf warlock, had bronze skin, dark eyes, and a brown beard shot through with gray and red, trimmed into a short point. He was decked out in a light suit of leather armor, stained black and red, with an untailored wolf fur thrown over his shoulders. He leaned on a warhammer he had been using as a walking stick.

Fisk introduced himself as a student and aspiring master of the world’s mysteries. Mairrethid, himself a professed student of the arcane, pressed Fisk for greater detail but Fisk politely told him to keep his eyes in his own spellbook. Mairrethid tactfully shifted conversation to the quality of local metalcraft, which Fisk appeared not to have great interest in, though he was competent enough in the topic and polite enough in his manner to participate.

Gherota, a human fighter, didn’t say much to the others and rolled her eyes a lot. She looked more comfortable in her suit of scale mail than Mairrethid did in his high-collared coat. She was decked out with a heavy shield on her back and an assortment of weapons from her belt, most prominently a bastard sword with her left hand perpetually resting on the pommel.

Schlobrock, an ork shaman, was an enthusiastic participant in every conversation, though every time she opened her mouth to add something, a heavy accent and predilection for non sequitors left her mostly ignored by the others. Her thickly muscled frame was covered in chain mail, with enough specimens of flora and fauna dangling for drying and storage to completely obscure her figure. An oversized axe and a small quiver of javelins on her back were both visible and prominent.

A door swung open at the far end of the warehouse, heralding the entry of a squat, thick man. It wasn’t Pheg, but all five recognized him despite having been in Red Rock for less than two weeks. His named was Poot, and he controlled a large portion of the power, money and business in the town and its environs. For a man running late, he wasted surprisingly little time.

“Pheg tells me that the five of you are looking for work, and on my behalf invited you all here to meet with me.” Poot slid into a half-sitting position against a pile of grain sacks. “I’m going to tell you what I expect: capable men with a tolerance for personal danger and few compunctions around the use of violence in the pursuit of wealth and power. I work with people who have sense enough to stay on the right side of the law. If you can live up to that, I’m happy to meet you. Otherwise, use the door.”

The five gathered in front of Poot didn’t appear to have much to say in response.

“Here’s the job.” He tossed a folded parchment to Mairrethid. “I assume one of you five can read a map. It leads to a house up in the hills, currently used by a pack of goblin scum who stole something that belongs to me. There’s a sketch with the map; I’ll pay five-hundred gold for its return. The rest you take from those wolf-pup scum-suckers is yours.”

“You got a problem going up against goblins, Mez?” Gherota asked. Her voice was charged with accusation.

“Their flesh bleeds and their gold shines, like anyone else,” Mez replied. “However, I don’t take any job without money up front.”

“Did I say this was a job?” Poot retorted. “This is a try-out, not a job. Prove your mettle, and you’re eligible for a job. Try to find another buyer for the goods, and the guys I send after you will be the type I pay up front. Got it?”

Mez shrugged.

“I don’t expect you to have any questions, so I’ll leave you with that. Next time I see you, have my property.”

Poot promptly stood, turned, and walked out of the warehouse.

“He did say it was a job,” Mez grumbled, after Poot was gone.

“Seriously,” Gherota replied. “What a jerk.”

“What’ve we got?” Fisk asked, ignoring the others.

Mairrethid was already unfolding the map. A small sketch fell to the ground in the process. Mairrethid picked it up, looking at it first. “A small statue, probably part of some sort of primitive religious services, six inches high, stone.”

Fisk gestured for Mairrethid to pass it to him, and Mairrethid complied, shifting his attention to the map. “And it looks like we’re going on a nature hike. This house is a good fifty miles out, in the northern hills.”

“Ah,” Schlobrock cooed, grinning. “Nadure.”

“I want to know more about the target,” Mez said. “Think it’d piss off the boss if I asked a few questions about this location before we leave?”

“I’m of the same mind,” Mairrethid agreed, “but Poot said we aren’t supposed to have any more questions. He might be worried about the targets getting a warning before we’re able to make contact. But I’m new in town here, and I’m not even sure where to start asking questions.”

“You could just say you agree that it’d piss him off,” Gherota retorted with a snort. “And I agree. That man’s looking for excuses not to pay everyone he does business with.”

“If these goblins are working as highwaymen, then there should be word about ‘em all over town. If they are a little more clever and ambitious, they’ve got contacts here in Red Rock, and any questions we ask are likely to get back to them.” Mez scratched his chin, thinking.

Fisk made a suggestion, without looking away from the sketch of Poot’s missing statue. “Grab some low-ranking stable boy no one would miss, someone who goes to sleep every night with manure under his fingernails. Some guy who works with the teamsters and merchants. Follow him around until he’s alone, ask your questions, and then rob and murder him. If anyone in league with the target is smart enough to figure the crime for anything besides random violence, then we’re probably screwed anyway.”

“Are you zerious?” Schlobrock asked.

“Nah,” Fisk replied without missing a beat. “Stable boys are never worth robbing, for gold or information or anything else. Something they teach you in mustache-twirling academy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Gherota asked, “but I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

Fisk winked to Mez, and Mez stifled a chuckle.

“Mez has a point,” Mairrethid interrupted. “If Poot’s going against the wrong kind of people, we can’t give any sign of who we’re about to take on. I hate operating blind, but I don’t see an alternative.”

“If Poot’s going against the wrong kind of people,” Gherota asked, “why are we so eager to do the same?”

“Money,” Fisk answered, with finality. He changed the subject and held up the sketch of Poot’s statue. “This sketch depicts an ancient halfling fertility idol, less a part of religious services as the wizard suggested than a component in a magic ritual, probably a harvest prayer or something similarly profitable and harmless.”

“Ledz go,” Schlubrock urged. “We wazde dime here. Dalk on dhe road.”

“There’s wisdom in that,” Mez said, laughing.

“Poot didn’t appoint a leader or anything. It is dangerous to go into combat without a commander.” Mairrethid shrugged as he made his suggestion, “I would be pleased to offer my services in that regard.”

“I agree that we need a leader, but men who follow wizards into combat invariably die a horrible death.” Gherota shook her head. “I have experience in dozens of campaigns, and while I never thought of myself as much of an officer, I trust my own decisive judgment and I assure you that the rest of you can, too.”

Fisk rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you both believe giving orders to your comrades is a lofty burden, a sacrifice you’re willing to shoulder alone and whatever else. Half of dwarf religion is based around the same concept, but I’m afraid I have to call bull hockey on that. We’re not soldiers. We’re not warriors. And the only oath I serve is that I’ll serve no mortal before myself and take no order that doesn’t strike me as a particularly clever suggestion. So can it on the leadership crap.”

“Here here,” Mez applauded.

“Yeah,” Schlobrock added.

“You’re kinda a mercenary bastard, aren’t you?” Gherota asked.

Fisk grinned at her, the first time he had smiled since they met.

“Fair enough,” Mairrethid answered. “Do you want to take a vote then? Are we ready to leave town now, or wait for morning?”

“Now,” Mez said.

“Dwo nightz on dhe road ib we leabe now,” Schlobrock mused. “I zay leabe now.”

“I’ve got all my stuff with me, and I’m paid up at the tavern,” Gherota said. “Now’s good for me.”

“That’s a majority then, unless anyone wants to make a counterargument that has yet to be overruled?” Mairrethid asked.

“Good enough,” Fisk added after a moment of silence. “Should we take a vote on my stableboy idea?”

After another moment of silence, Fisk grumbled, “I was kidding. You guys have no sense of humor when it comes to slaughtering the innocent.”


Next Ch 02: Semi-Random Violence

No comments:

Post a Comment