Fall 35th, 512 AV
“Are you Wrenmae?”
Leaning back in his chair, the hypnotist regarded the man addressing him from across the table. The scar struck him first, a nasty line perforating his face into two sections. Green eyes held him with surprising force and all the body language of the brute seemed to suggest a competency in the art of murder. Even so, he respectfully held back, even deigned to politely address the hypnotist.
This was not a man looking to fight. This was a man looking for him.
“I have been called such,” He slid the mug he was drinking across to the empty seat, “Take a seat and tell me what you’re seeking.”
“My thanks,” he said taking the offered seat but not touching the mug, “My name is Alistair Rom, I represent the Hand of Recompense.”
“I am not aware of your organization.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Wrenmae quirked up an eyebrow, one hand edging off the table and below it, tapping on the hilt of his rapier. Alistair held up a hand and forced an insincere smile, “Peace. I am approaching you on recommendation from Hound. He says your stay in Sunberth is temporary.”
“Perhaps Hound speaks too much.”
“He also says you are a capable individual.”
“What kind of capable?”
“The problem solving kind.”
“I have been known to propose solutions.”
“I do not discuss solutions, I pay for them.”
“Does the hand of recompense compensate well?”
“We are fair.”
“Sunberth is not fair.”
“We are generous.”
“Rare.”
“Necessary.”
Wrenmae nodded, his right hand joining the left on the table again. “Very well, and what sort of solution are you looking to pay for?”
“A rogue agent of ours, Hadassah. A woman, long brown hair, brown eyes, quick with a bow and never goes anywhere without her cherrywood composite. She likes to frequent the Drunken Fish.”
“Why not handle it yourself?”
“She’s family. She knows our own. The Hand…rarely hires outside their ranks. She will not expect you.”
“And how do you expect it?”
“As effectively as possible.”
“And the payment?”
“Half now, half upon completion.”
“You know how to do business.”
“No one survives in Sunberth long who doesn’t.”
Wrenmae nodded. Fair knowledge. Alistair’s expression never changed, a grim slit set below a diagonal red scar crossing up onto his hairline. Reaching to his side, he pulled a bag from his belt and set it on the table. Coins clinked against coins and Wrenmae swiftly reached out and drew the bag toward him. Glancing inside, he marveled that not a single miza was not edged in gold. Looking up to Alistair, Wrenmae gave a single nod, pulling the coin off the table and tying it to his belt. When he looked up again, the man was already leaving the bar.
Charming fellow
Sense anything amiss, Zan?
Apart from how badly he smelled?
You can smell?
No. But I can imagine.
Try again, Zan, think. What about him seemed off?
I dunno, that he asked you?
Why?
You weren’t exactly known for killing lots of people back in the day.
That is one reason, yes. I think we have Hound to thank for that. The man has an uncomfortable amount of information on me. What else worried you?
That was about it.
With the information he received from Hound, he knows that I was a part of the Crimson Edge…a failed and derelict gang. Even so, he approached and paid me upfront, more than I would expect, to deal with a single girl in a known location.
You asked why he didn’t handle it himself.
And his reason was lacking. He could have paid a tenth of this to five desperate men. I’d say he has great faith in her skills, but I have not shown remarkable skills…at least not in places Hound could observe.
What does it mean?
It means we be careful, complete the job, and watch our backs.
Bet Hound doesn’t know we have one extra set of eyes on our side.
And that’s what I’m counting on.
Several bells later
A skeleton crew manned the Drunken Fish tonight. The usual drunks were strangely absent from the splintered seats and no one stopping in stayed much longer than it took to drain their glass. Not a one of them looked comfortable, each did so quickly, spoke little, and left after paying the exact amount owed to the barkeep. Wrenmae had been in the bar for a few bells now and the behavior had repeated itself all evening.
They planned to kill him and her.
He'd come to the conclusion two bells ago, sending Zan out to wait on the roof as insurance. They'd know the killers were coming before they showed up. That set, the hypnotist looked across the bar at his supposed target. The girl seemed worse for wear, dulled by spirits she cut a morose figure.
She was desireable, at least in the way that Sunberth women sometimes are...not the sort of meek mousey creature some of the thugs went poking for in the brothels, there was an energy about her that the alcohol couldn't quite quench. She had blood on her hands, she'd fed on the souls of her enemies before, she'd enjoyed stringing that bow. At least she sat like it.
The weight of her world falling around her and she still had the grit to sit as if expecting a fight.
Smiling to himself, Wrenmae stood and walked over to her table, sliding into the seat across from her.
"Tell me a story, girl," He said, tapping his pewter mug against the poorly polished tabletop, "How'd an archer like you come to slum so low?"
“Are you Wrenmae?”
Leaning back in his chair, the hypnotist regarded the man addressing him from across the table. The scar struck him first, a nasty line perforating his face into two sections. Green eyes held him with surprising force and all the body language of the brute seemed to suggest a competency in the art of murder. Even so, he respectfully held back, even deigned to politely address the hypnotist.
This was not a man looking to fight. This was a man looking for him.
“I have been called such,” He slid the mug he was drinking across to the empty seat, “Take a seat and tell me what you’re seeking.”
“My thanks,” he said taking the offered seat but not touching the mug, “My name is Alistair Rom, I represent the Hand of Recompense.”
“I am not aware of your organization.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Wrenmae quirked up an eyebrow, one hand edging off the table and below it, tapping on the hilt of his rapier. Alistair held up a hand and forced an insincere smile, “Peace. I am approaching you on recommendation from Hound. He says your stay in Sunberth is temporary.”
“Perhaps Hound speaks too much.”
“He also says you are a capable individual.”
“What kind of capable?”
“The problem solving kind.”
“I have been known to propose solutions.”
“I do not discuss solutions, I pay for them.”
“Does the hand of recompense compensate well?”
“We are fair.”
“Sunberth is not fair.”
“We are generous.”
“Rare.”
“Necessary.”
Wrenmae nodded, his right hand joining the left on the table again. “Very well, and what sort of solution are you looking to pay for?”
“A rogue agent of ours, Hadassah. A woman, long brown hair, brown eyes, quick with a bow and never goes anywhere without her cherrywood composite. She likes to frequent the Drunken Fish.”
“Why not handle it yourself?”
“She’s family. She knows our own. The Hand…rarely hires outside their ranks. She will not expect you.”
“And how do you expect it?”
“As effectively as possible.”
“And the payment?”
“Half now, half upon completion.”
“You know how to do business.”
“No one survives in Sunberth long who doesn’t.”
Wrenmae nodded. Fair knowledge. Alistair’s expression never changed, a grim slit set below a diagonal red scar crossing up onto his hairline. Reaching to his side, he pulled a bag from his belt and set it on the table. Coins clinked against coins and Wrenmae swiftly reached out and drew the bag toward him. Glancing inside, he marveled that not a single miza was not edged in gold. Looking up to Alistair, Wrenmae gave a single nod, pulling the coin off the table and tying it to his belt. When he looked up again, the man was already leaving the bar.
Charming fellow
Sense anything amiss, Zan?
Apart from how badly he smelled?
You can smell?
No. But I can imagine.
Try again, Zan, think. What about him seemed off?
I dunno, that he asked you?
Why?
You weren’t exactly known for killing lots of people back in the day.
That is one reason, yes. I think we have Hound to thank for that. The man has an uncomfortable amount of information on me. What else worried you?
That was about it.
With the information he received from Hound, he knows that I was a part of the Crimson Edge…a failed and derelict gang. Even so, he approached and paid me upfront, more than I would expect, to deal with a single girl in a known location.
You asked why he didn’t handle it himself.
And his reason was lacking. He could have paid a tenth of this to five desperate men. I’d say he has great faith in her skills, but I have not shown remarkable skills…at least not in places Hound could observe.
What does it mean?
It means we be careful, complete the job, and watch our backs.
Bet Hound doesn’t know we have one extra set of eyes on our side.
And that’s what I’m counting on.
Several bells later
A skeleton crew manned the Drunken Fish tonight. The usual drunks were strangely absent from the splintered seats and no one stopping in stayed much longer than it took to drain their glass. Not a one of them looked comfortable, each did so quickly, spoke little, and left after paying the exact amount owed to the barkeep. Wrenmae had been in the bar for a few bells now and the behavior had repeated itself all evening.
They planned to kill him and her.
He'd come to the conclusion two bells ago, sending Zan out to wait on the roof as insurance. They'd know the killers were coming before they showed up. That set, the hypnotist looked across the bar at his supposed target. The girl seemed worse for wear, dulled by spirits she cut a morose figure.
She was desireable, at least in the way that Sunberth women sometimes are...not the sort of meek mousey creature some of the thugs went poking for in the brothels, there was an energy about her that the alcohol couldn't quite quench. She had blood on her hands, she'd fed on the souls of her enemies before, she'd enjoyed stringing that bow. At least she sat like it.
The weight of her world falling around her and she still had the grit to sit as if expecting a fight.
Smiling to himself, Wrenmae stood and walked over to her table, sliding into the seat across from her.
"Tell me a story, girl," He said, tapping his pewter mug against the poorly polished tabletop, "How'd an archer like you come to slum so low?"
