Rhys' Pieces
Posted: 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.
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.