Rhys' Pieces

Rhys' Pieces

Postby Dejicide » Fri Jul 17, 2015 1:57 am

"What'cha mean ya can't work it?!"

Myrkenwood, Myrkentown, Roggat's Taxidermy: it was an unassuming building with the rest on Merchant's Row. It was one of the more quiet of the shops on most days, poorly lit and barely hanging on aesthetically as the owner cared far too much about his craft than the looks of his place. It was hard to believe it was one of the best in town but Rhys knew. He had grown up with the man some decades ago, been friends even, kicking up the dirt in the street and finding entirely unwholesome things to do with their youth. But now Rhys stood in the shop his old friend Martin Roggat inherited from his father just less than ten years ago shouting at the man so loud that every passerby in the street outside could hear. Martin was a thin man in his middle ages, tall for a local, and fairly handsome when cleaned up and free of the labors of his career: much like the inside of his shop. The shop today, at this moment; however, was in a bit of disarray.

Thrown upon the front counter was the mangled, slain corpse of what looked to be a burly wolf man. Much of it had been poorly gutted long ago, weeks ago, and there was at least the thanks that many of the insides had fallen loose over the distance from it being slain to now. Pros and cons, however: it reeked terribly like any dead thing would after so long and it was a wonder how the short, burly Rhys was able to get it through town without a constable stopping him and telling him to put it on the fire. It was also a wonder how any man could have carried that stench with him for so long without with eyes, nose, and stomach spilling out in regular intervals. Martin had retched twice already and was shoving both his hands towards the door. It was a gesture that the stubborn, shorter man was either too hard-headed or ignorant to understand. "Rhys, get that damned thing out of here before I call the constable! I can't work with and I'm not about to even touch it to see if anything can be saved. Out! Out!"

Rhys Bronzeknob was a short, stocky man pushing forty years old and looking fifty. Just over five feet tall one's first thought would be that he was pudgy, short-limbed, and lazy; however, upon closer inspection and under a healthy layering of fat the man was an honest sort of burly. Travelling from town to town, selling his fists or axe, and making a living that way had a way of keeping a man in some sort of shape in spite of the years and bottle passed while doing so. In this summer heat he wore a simple white tunic stained in old sweat, blood, and filth of the thing he had thrown upon the counter. His square face might have been attractive once if not for the multitude of old scars acquired that were poorly hidden by a short dark beard and thick brows, though his cleanly shaved head (to hide his receding hair line) sported what looked like a fatal blow landed just over his right ear and bounced off the thick skull of his at one point. Thick leather gloves, boots, and leggings that served to only to make him appear thicker than he was were normal enough as well. A large travelling pack, broad headed axe, and his leather jerkin were thrown against the door haphazardly.

"I swear on my mother's grave, man, we used t'be friends! Take a look!" He was still shouting, overpowering the thinner man with volume alone. "I can pay!"

The shop's proprietor rested his hand on his face and exhaled a sigh. He was finished yelling at his childhood buddy and he was every kind of dissapointed. "I haven't seen you in nineteen years and your mom's alive, you hapless git. Moved to Gerstoke three summers ago."

"Oh. Right, then!" Finally the shouting ended and the burly man turned to leave, or so it appeared. Rhys would gather up his things excluding the long-dead gnoll, hefted up his axe in a hand, and turned to plot right back to the counter. "I'll go, I'll go, but I'm lookin' for work. Come on, for old time's sake?" A giant grin that was almost an apology came from the man and Martin didn't know any better. A name was given on the the promise that Rhys would not return. He would go see his mother, find a nice girl and settle down. Blort. Good enough for the old man who lifted up his axe and promptly chopped the black-furred paw of the similarly-built creature as Rhys free of it's arm and promptly shoved into the front of his vest. Now he turned to leave, post-haste, as Martin spewed obscenities at the retreating back of the Myrkentown mercenary.
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Re: Rhys' Pieces

Postby highawaywoman » Fri Jul 17, 2015 4:14 am

"This be feckin' perfec', Blort!" For once, the highwaywoman faced the one-eyed man with a grand smile on her mug. He'd done well. The two sat in a corner table within the gaming hell, but despite the dice that sat between them - neither was much interested in playing. They had other games to play. A piece of parchment was unrolled and upon it were the blueprints - the plans for the house that Stane, the old nob, had just recently purchased and was now living in.

"They gonna come at a price, Old and Homely." Hells, even Blort was pleased. It was hard to elicit much from Ailova in the way of praise or satisfaction. And if the woman was satisfied? Mayhap, she'd pay him better.

"I would imagine soo." A coin purse was slid across the table, as her other hand snapped up the plans and rolled them back up.

"Also. I know you be without a partner now. And I know of a feller lookin' for work. He be the type that wouldn't mind," Blort's voice dropped to the very lowest of whispers, "night-work".

This got her attention. The bottle at her side was momentarily forgotten, which gave Blort the opportunity to refill his worn leather mug. A possible partner? That was welcome news. She'd pulled jobs on her own before, but it was easier when one had the right partners about them. Less possibility for mistakes. Or more. It depended.

"Is tha' soo?" Ailova tugged at the brim of her hat, considering, "Same 'erms as befer. You dinnae ge' any cooin till I met the blooke and if'n 'e pans oou'? I pay ye fer foindin' 'im."

"The same terms, aye. I'll set up a meeting!" Blort stood, raising his mug in mock salute to the brigand. "Always a pleasure, Old and Homely!"

"Liokewise, Blort. Do me a 'urn?" A hand raised to slow him from his exit and pausing him before he went to spend his new purse on hoors. "If'n ye 'ear anythin' - anythin' in the way o' that she-devil that guards the oold noob? Pass i' aloon' posthaste, aye?"

"Of course!" Blort adjusted his eye-patch, thankful that it was such a simple request. Now! It was onto the hoors! He jiggled the coins, chortling over his good fortune. Old and Homely had become quite a profitable acquaintance.
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Re: Rhys' Pieces

Postby Dejicide » Fri Jul 17, 2015 5:03 am

He wouldn't remember the name of the inn he waited at, their pretension was stronger than their liquor. Lots of shiny things he couldn't take and a lot of being ignored: perhaps that's why that one-eyed contact he had been led to chose it, perhaps he just wanted to know that Rhys was really interested because if he wasn't, he'd have left some time ago. But no matter, in the time waiting he had found someone to talk to while he sipped at their water-whiskey in a habit that for once he wish he hadn't had. If it was there he would partake and if it tasted like someone had pissed into it normally it would just make him grumpier than drunk. If he wasn't already and that was the case so waiting was hardly a chore.

This particular woman who stared ahead at the bottles behind the bar was not a willing participant, simply unwilling to be rude enough to tell the grisled man to go shove something where he sat. Perhaps she was pretty, perhaps she wasn't, it didn't matter too much to Rhys: she was an ear. Old gnoll paw on bar top between them he had been busy for minutes, perhaps an hour, telling the tale of how he found it. He and some men he had worked with previously had been contracted in the south to dispatch a band of gnolls who were encroaching on Dunby, a tiny little hamlet that couldn't take care of themselves. Cattle and people were missing, invasions of homes were so common that the population was dwindling. The usually stupid, unorganized monsters had become ruthless, brazen, and almost tactical in their moves.

"My mates n' I were deep in fur, them dogs everywhere! Berkin' and poking and blood er'ywherr! O'cerse we were outnumbered but these things were stupid and easy to murder: most'f'm 'nyhow. Anyhoo I hear this howl, command, n' the noise I swear was in t'common tongue! Like boar partin' the weeds this giant black thing comes walkin' though t'ranks and points a claw't me while swingin' about this chain. I'd never seen a dog look't somethin' so... wrongly. The fucker was sizin' me up as he came at me and spoke more clearly'n I can, explainin' 'ow he was gonna eat me. Describin' 'ow he was gonna do it. Chilled me to the bone, it did. Ye ever hear somethin' like that other th'n some man tryin' to pick ya up? Eh? So anyhoo, dat's the bastard's paw. Nev'r seen or kill'd somethin' like it and it nearly got me. Mayhaps if'n it didn't spend all that time learnin' to talk shit I wouldn't be scratchin' my ass with it's digits. Oh, my mates? Er, I dunno. They're 'round. Here, there, over there... prolly in one piece."

The woman was much more relieved upon the arrival of Blort than he was at that point. There were many more stories and he was just getting started and while the interruption was brief, very brief for an exchange of words and a few coins the ear had vanished. A hefty sigh and bloodshot eyes regarded the bartender who had been staring at the ghastly, oozing paw on the surface of his bar for far too long. "Yeah, I know. I'mma leavin', I'd rather lick my buddy here than take 'nother sip." Surprisingly in his state it was easier for the stocky man to get out of his stool and on his way than it was for him to tip.
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