In which Our Brave Company first meets, and is introduced to a man who needs their help
It began, as I said, in the last days of spring. Already the air was warm and the ground leafy. In the mountains the snows had retreated and in the plains crops were sewn and the ground alive with activity. In Asgra as always there was bustle, but in spring the bustle took on a new level of intensity in the mornings and evenings. Mostly during the day a climate of peace reigned as the city became too hot for activity and most people slept. In those times it could be truly said that Asgra did not come to life until the evening. As the sun completed her arch in the sky the masses would emerge from their mansions, houses, and hovels. They would go out to work or play in the twilight. Each day they looked forward to the shadows of the early evening.
They could not know, of course, that their civilization was but a shadow of the old Empire. Their Age, having begun some short three centuries ago, had been in twilight since its beginning. At that time only the elves in their zealously-guarded removes understood this.
This one evening in Asgra was as unremarkable as any evening can be in a city where a hundred plots and conspiracies could be found at any time. On a side street in the southern part of the city near the docks a number of patrons gathered at the Silver Serpent. This place was a local hangout for sellswords, thrill-seekers, and men of ill-repute, as well as a place of business for the same. The bar was kept by a ragged middle-aged man who, although his face was lined, still carried musculature and rugged bearing from years of traveling before. He had been running the bar for years to provide a place where adventurers might meet, relax, or find work without having to belong to one of the powerful theater guilds. Musicians, mercenaries, adventurers, and others in irregular professions frequented the place for exactly this reason. Behind the bar were the kitchen and a number of side rooms that could be converted into private meeting rooms for a fee. Tables and chairs were scattered about the dimly lit main room, but there was no table service. Piles of bread and meat were kept at the bar and patrons were expected to serve themselves after paying the fee, a silver coin. Those down on their luck were sometimes allowed to eat for a story or a song. There was also ale, that kept the place in business, mugs of which a silver coin would purchase two. The tavern keeper had a few bottles of finer stuff saved for more discerning customers but he did not advertise this. After hours the tavern would close its doors, the tables would be away, and patrons could purchase a mat on the floor for another two silver. Those desiring more privacy would find lodgings elsewhere.
As my story beings, this evening the Silver Serpent had only a few customers. Men and women sat around and talked quietly or drank alone, several were armed and although it was technically illegal to carry a weapon into a public house the few staff made no effort to persuade the customers to leave their weapons at the door. Near the middle of the room an area had been cleared to form a makeshift stage. Here a well-dressed young man played dissonant chords on a lute and sang with a loud voice; it was not clear from the non-reaction of the patrons if his music was well-received. A healthy, floridly dressed man, but so young as to be almost a boy, sat at the bar. He had come by some good fortune lately but that didn't exempt him from having to look for work, and he had received a message that he might find work here this evening.
As the evening darkened the sky others arrived and conversation began. It was in this unremarkable way that deeds both remarkable and peculiar became possible.
Just as the last light of day was retreating from the streets outside, and young man entered the Silver Serpent. He wore peculiar robes. They were a mixture of blue and white, but surprisingly were not as ornate as one would expect with the common flamboyance traditionally displayed by the nobles. It soon became quite clear that he was not of the noble caste of Asgra. In fact, his appearance clearly marked him as a foreigner to the area. His short black hair, spiked atop his head, as well as the distinguishing eyelids and broad nose revealed him as a traveler from the east; a man from the orient.
The cacophony inside the tavern twisted his features in distaste. It had been a long journey across the Valahir Mountains, and Doryu had grown to appreciate the serenity. He had reminded himself that this wouldn't last as he entered the city of Asgra in late afternoon, but he was not prepared for such a drastic change. Overcoming the initial shock, Doryu found an open spot at the bar near a clearly wealthy young man. He had been discouraged rather quickly with the nobles upon his arrival, who were somewhat less than welcoming to the foreigner; but all men deserve to be judged by their own deeds. So after handing over a silver piece, Doryu grabbed some bread and a small meal of fish, then took a seat beside the young gentleman.
Unaware of local customs, and the way such a foreigner would be received, he decided not to initiate conversation. Instead he bowed politely to the man as he approached and began to eat his meal in silence, trying to enjoy the music in spite of itself.
As the crowd began to settle into their normal nightly routine, a tall man left his table from the shadows carrying an empty mug. He purchased a second mug of ale and a meal. As he returned to his table, he passed under a lamp and people immediately noticed that the man had no ears. His short cropped, dark hair made it quite evident that he did not bother to hide the deformity. Aside from the obvious, he did not appear any different from the typical ruffian that lurked in the dark alleys of the city. Perhaps it was the battered, old leather armour or the lack of visible weapons, this grizzled, old man seemed unfriendly.
With a creak of leather or was it his joints, he settled into his chair. He glanced down at his backpack and gear, checking to see if it had been disturbed. He sighed; it had been a long journey and he had little of his money left after exchanging all his gold for a small handful of local silver. He just had to make sure that he did lose anything to any sticky fingers. A job would be the first line of business tomorrow, he pondered as he scratched at his beard. No, he realized, a shave and bath was the first order of business tomorrow. It looked like tonight, he could just relax, enjoy the show and find a room when the night grew late. So far, the local authorities did not seem to be concerned with his presence in the city. Perhaps the moneychanger did not contact the constabulary about an outlaw entering Asgra. Or, more likely, this city did not assume that all ear-less men were serial murderers. Different areas have different laws. Only time would tell...
As Kerith, a robust man dressed in heavy armor, entered the inn, his mouth seemed permanently set in a scowl. The scar on his chin showed he was a veteran of more than a few battles. He hated to part with his weapon, but he always followed rules to the best of his ability. He walked over to the bar and took a seat. He called the bartender over and asked, "Ya got any mutton? I feel like mutton tonight. If you don't, I suppose some pork will be ok. And bring me some water too."
The boisterous knight turned the nearest fellow customer and begun to strike up a conversation. "What kind of place are you Asgrans running around here. Last night, I was out camping near the main highway, just enjoying the scenery, when I hear ol' Gallant neigh real loud. I grab my hammer, and race to see some blasted brigand untying her. I yell for him to get away, but he ignores me. I run at him, screaming, but it don't phase him much. He hops unto my horse, my horse! and takes off. He must of have been one good rider, 'cause ol' Gallant don't let anyone ride her unless I tell her too. He takes off into the night. Poor Galant. I'll prob'ly never see her again. If I ever see that little fool again, he will be regretting ever touchin' my horse." He was shaking slightly with rage, his dark vivid blue eyes did not seem to focus anywhere and glance back and forth, as if the thief might be in the inn somewhere. He growled in anger, but said no more. He knew complaining about it wold not help the situation.
The young man would have stood a few inches short of six feet tall, if he had not been sitting, and the nature of his frame was hard to guess under the cloak and tunic. A great cloak, of wool dyed with the ink of the indigo flowers. A well-made item common among commoners that had met some level of wealth of late.
The fire-tanned skin, slightly different from the darkening of the sun, pointed to a smith's profession and the easy and casual strength he occasionally displayed certainly agreed with that reading. But the way his day-blue eyes roamed the room and, indeed, the very inn that he had chosen to come to, spoke of another trade altogether.
Gareth drank conservatively out of the mug, not wanting to lose the edge of alertness in this teeming city. The villages he had seen so far, even the towns, had no hold on the bulk and massiveness of Asgra. And if the wild places and barely tamed lands held ancient secrets and vicious dangers, the city had its own share in the complexity of its politics. He looked down at the money he had left over. Between outfitting himself, Appleseed and feeding them both, his resources had dwindled significantly. He was down around a hundred silver already.
That thought brought a smile to his face. Six years ago, one hundred silver would have seemed to be the greatest of dragon hoards. And now, he was worrying and counting out how many days of feed and rations remained before he would have to purchase new supplies.
Things had certainly changed.
If his flamboyant attire and well-groomed appearance were not enough to distinguish him from the typical dwarf, then certainly his scrawniness on the scale of brawniness would. His blue-steel black hair was woven in dreadlocks and his beard was meticulously trimmed in a goatee. Not only that, if one looked closely, his nails were neatly manicured -- and CLEAN. The keen observer would also notice how his midnight blue eyes took in the entire room and people there with a casual glance from beneath his bushy black eyebrows. His nose was aquiline and his cheeks and lips were a rosy hue. An old white scar ran the length of his right jaw.
His name was Boinker Surestriker and, in keeping with his name, he wore a striking ensemble. Outermost was a fine satin cape the color of his eyes with a flat black silk lining. Layered beneath that was midnight blue leather armor over which he wore a brocade vest. Depicted in a burst of colors reminiscent of a sunset were parrots in tropical foliage with silver threads outlining the pattern in the fabric. The vest was reversible. Though not visible, the other side was the same midnight blue as the cape and leather. Beneath the armor he wore an expensive brilliant, sea blue silk shirt. The right sleeve was solid while the left had bold white stripes. He had on a thick black belt with a matching pouch on it. His boots, though broken in, were polished and had a strap that crossed over and buckled on the outside of each one. A short sword in a scabbard (with a well-used hilt) hung from his left side and a dagger was sheathed on his right. Hangin on his right hip in a dual holster/quiver was a hand crossbow and bolts. His pants, a light wool gabardine, were such a dark red that they almost appeared black. Carrying his backpack, he strutted into The Silver Serpent like a preening parrot during a mating ritual. And, that was exactly what it was. Whenever he got paid for a job, he treated himself to a night out with the best food, drink, cigars and women money could buy. In between, on nights like this one, he settled for going to The Silver Serpent. The entertainment was okay. The ale and food there were good. Even better was the crowd of eager, attractive "ladies" who were drawn to the adventuring and rogue types that frequented the place and not just "tarts", though there were certainly some those. For the most part, the strumpets stayed in their own district. Either way, it all came down to the same thing. For the price of dinner and some expensive liquor, he gained the pleasure of female companionship for the evening.
Sitting smack dab in the middle of the Silver Serpent was a dowdy dwarf wearing supper and nursing his namesake between rough hewn hands. Bock O' Barrel came across as the quintessential dwarven warrior, bristling with axes and protected by a finely crafted breastplate and shield. Stretching across his proud chest from shoulder to hip was a bandoleer boasting four handy throwing axes and a light warhammer. But his most impressive weapon by far was the Dwarven Waraxe, wickedly sharp and ponderously heavy. The only indication he was more than a simple brawler was the silver medallion hanging around his neck engraved with the symbol of The-Boundless-Verlune. A thick mop of rust colored hair topped his head which was crowned by a conical metal helmet that seemed to bolted to his head. And when thick lips smacked over his frothy brew crooked teeth shone through in what only be described a bad imitation of a dirty smile.
Who in the tavern tonight would be selected for soul saving? A seed here, a whisper there and the word of Verlune-The-Wondrous would be inspiring yet another recruit. Surely not that old earless one, no doubt he could turn a deaf ear in more ways than one. The one whose mount was stolen looked promising, outspoken and a man of arms and armor, prime for the picking...
Quietly Bock bided his time for The-Ultimate-Warrior to guide his choice and then he would speak. Soon, very soon.
In the mean time the priest recalled the assassination attempt against himself in this very place a fortnight ago. That was the main reason he'd plunked himself down in the center of the drinking hall, for a good view of anything that happened. He considered the near fatal encounter with the assassin as a sign, perhaps even a bad one, but Bock didn't believe in luck and he was here to discover his path.
The proprietor, in response to Kerith's query pointed at the contents of a wooden platter at one end of the bar. "Mutton," he said. He filled a mug from a large barrel that probably contained rainwater. "A copper for the water, good sir, it don't come free from the sky about here." He could be heard muttering something about drinkers who don't drink as he turned away to help the next person, some exotic traveler from the utter east or west--a casual observer couldn't tell, who wore strangely plain but still bright blue and white robes. When Doryu asked for fish the bar keeper motioned one of his assistants to the kitchen. Two silver," he said.
Time passed. Nobody danced.
Any comment that might have been made on the music was too quiet to drift to the stage. One of the regulars, a stout young man in his early twenties, rose from where he was sitting with his two companions. He stared at the men sitting at the bar. He was probably a dock worker, but he looked like he might have other business on the side. He crossed the floor with a scowl on his face and stopped just behind Doryu.
"Yer nowt from aboot here." He said.
Doryu paused from eating his food and calmly turned where he sat. The stool creaked as it twisted on the floorboards. In a rather confrontational manner himself, Doryu stood up, almost brushing against the young man. Because of his height, Doryu could only see the man's chin and neck, but could smell the taint of his breath. With an outsider's accent, he spoke boldly.
"No," he said with determination, then reluctantly added "sir. I am not from around here ... but if you and your friends would like to welcome me here, perhaps I could purchase a round of drinks to celebrate."
The bar keeper, surprised at all the activity, directed his assistants to hurry with the drinks for the new arrivals. Gareth noticed that the old man's breath was quite stale when he leaned over to address him. "A fellow by the name of Dekherd mentioned you. Seems that you have made quite a bit of a reputation for yourself lately. Said he thought you might be able--help him with a bit of detective work--wanted someone with a good eye who could look out for 'emself in a tough spot. If--interested I'll wave him over when he drops by."
"Oh, you might want help too. Seems he might be wanting a bit of a team. But with all this bit of business tonight he might just be finding it."
Gareth blinked, not expecting a job so soon, and nodded to the barkeep looking around. "Yeah, help would be good to have," he said. "I'm more of a fighter than an ivestigator." It was true, but did not mean he hadn't done such jobs in the past. "Wave him over when he gets here," he said. He turned and looked at the fight getting ready to happen and stood up. The slight sound of a well-cared for breastplate and mail combination was heard as he slid off the stool for a moment. He paused a bit and wondered why he was doing this. "Hey," he said firmly. "I think you have the wrong table. You're here for the job right?" He gave the Tieng'Xu a look which urged him to play along with it.
At the same moment, the extravagantly dressed dwarf made his presence known among the conflict. He approached and stood next to the burly leader of the toughs opposite Doryu. "Ahhh, there you are. I see you have arrived. We have been waiting for you, my friend." Then, he looked the troublemaker straight in the eye and said, "Why don't you join us for a drink as my friend says?"
"Gen'lmen," the bar keeper interjected, "We don' allow no brawling here--if yev got differences that can't be settled by 'n ale yev can go outside." Although he was more than twice the age of most of his customers he looked like he still had the muscle to back up his statement. He caught the eye of the hired security man lounging by the door and gave an almost imperceptible wink. The bouncer didn't move, but an amused smile showed on his face. He had seen this kind of thing before.
A tense second passed.
Finally the dockworker broke into a broad laugh. "Oo, an' wots to keep me from ha'ing a drink wit my friend here." He recklessly thumped Doryu on the back. "Name's Jarek, n' these my friends here, git on over aboot here boys, these my friends here Eric n' Tood. Is from down east ysee, n' he works on the coast..."
As the situation diffused a few of the customers turned their attention back to their conversations. Some raised eyebrows were drawn, however, when Christoph plucked Jibblets' coin out of the air without so much as missing a beat. It was clear to any watcher that whatever (dubious? unrecognized?) songwriting talent he might have, the man had amazing reflexes. By the door two of the three hooded strangers who seemed to be following him waited almost motionlessly for the return of their companion who was still waiting by the bar.
Unable to contain helpself at this nonviolent turn of events Bock blurted out, "Paahh! An I was set ta be a just judge. When gauntlet tis thrown it be honor ta pick it up!" Standing up he waved his stubby finger in the direction that Trevek had run from. "Looks aye'll have ta oversee dem ruffians outside instead." As Bock pushed by the nearest of the two strangers that had been following Christoph, she reflexively pulled away and started to say something in protest. No protest was forthcoming, however, he was quick enough to catch a glimpse of her face--he saw silver earrings and clear, innocent blue eyes before she turned away. Her friend who had gone to the bar finally got the last of his ales and, holding them precariously, began to return. He passed Christoph on his way.
"You're going to have to make a decision, Artist," he said.
Christoph looked up from his drink as the man spoke to him. He glared at the retreating figure carrying drinks as he mumbled, "I wish this weather would pass me by." He shifted his lute slightly, bent his knees. He breathed in carefully and glanced at those who didn't yet know what was happening. "There is no decision to make, sir," he replied, but he did not know if the Watcher would hear.
The front door opened once more, bringing with it a gust of wind and an out-of breath runner. He slammed the door behind him and crossed the room to speak with the bar tender. He wore a black cape over a blue silk shirt and dark pants. His collar was stiffened after the fashion of the nobility and glittered with silver ornaments. In his broad hat he wore a feather, and at his side he wore a silver-handled rapier.
"Ferlest," hailed the man "You mangy old whoreson, go skin yourself. You didn't tell me that Alene's cousin Boris is back from the provinces. I just stepped outside for two minutes and ran straight into a pack of his thugs. I'm going upstairs and don't any of you desert-hopping-lizard-loving rascals tell him I'm here." He passed through the room. Just before the flamboyantly-dressed arrival reached the back door the bar keeper, Ferlest, called out to him. "Hey Trevek, nice--see you 'gain. So pleasant 'f yev--drop in, 'nall that. Now get a move on back afore he sees you in here. Oh, and that gen'lman Cornelius wanted you--see is here."
At the door now, Bock watched two of the thugs approach him where he stood at the door. "Let us through, Dwarf, we're come to see our friend," one of them sniggered sinisterly. The security man behind Bock nudged the dwarf's elbow, reminding him of his presence. When he opened the door to the outside he saw a group of at least four young men dressed simply, armed with clubs and knives. One of them appeared to be watching him and the others were looking at a second floor window in the tavern building. The runner, Trevek, veered from his path to pass behind the bar where he snatched one of the mugs of ale that was destined for Christoph's watchers. Ferlest didn't seen to mind. Trevek then departed through one of the back doors, slamming it behind him. A crash was heard as he passed through the kitchen, followed by a muffled string of obscenities.
Taking the thug at the door by surprise, Bock leaped forward and lashed out with his shield arm. The thug was struck in the face and staggered backwards although he did not fall. Blood could be seen on the thug's face; he put his hand to his nose and stared at it when it came away bloody. His companions reached for their weapons. A bolt from a crossbow flew past Bock and embedded itself in the wall.
When the security guard stepped forward to stand beside Bock a voice from a person unseen called out before they could begin the fight in earnest. "Stop," it said, "we will find another way. The watch will be here any minute." With obvious reluctance the visible thugs departed into the shadows and out of the range of Bock's vision.
The security guard, standing next to Bock, took a moment to congratulate the cleric on a good move. "Skillfully done," he said, "that was quite a hit there." He laughed earnestly and waved at Ferlest.
Ferlest introduced the man now sheepishly coming back down the stairs. "This--gen'lmen, is Dekherd Palahan Trevek, son of Senator Trevek. I believe--'as two dilemmas with which--may need a bit o' help. The first and most 'mmediate is that he--run afoul of Boris Elbrek and actually most of Boris' family, and must look to his safety for as long as 'e is in town. The second is 'e has told me--one of his associates has 'ad a bit of an extremely valuable item stolen from 'im an' understandably 'e wants it back. Fer reasons which--presume 'e will tell you when you agree 'e needs the whole thing done on the quiet."
Dekherd, smiling toothily, cut in. "Well, if you don't give the entire story away, I may clear this up. That nave Boris, may he dine on yak's bladder and sand, and I have a history of enmity going back a few years to my acquaintance with his cousin Alene. Seems he didn't like it. I can't really blame him for being protective but he never seemed to get over the fact that I am better looking than he is. So that rascal sends his thugs after me every chance he gets. There's not much the law can do about it unless they get caught red-handed, and even then he can always find more. It would be difficult to find a judge in the city who isn't in his pocket--or my father's, which would be just as bad."
"If I can just get back to my house in the city I will be quite safe. The house is well-guarded. If some of you tough-looking folks could walk with me there probably won't be any trouble. Then we can talk about the other job. Even if you don't take that I'll pay you for the trip, say, 5 gold a head."
And that, in as many words, is the unlikely course of events by which our Brave Companions first met.