Tales from a goblin-infested brewery (home of Jake Thrash and Badsider Brew), and a lawyer-infested sports bar (home of Kalamere Ar'Din and The Line).

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Black Wizard
Black Wizard
Posts: 1565
Joined: Mon Oct 31, 2005 11:45 pm
Location: Dragon's Gate


Post by Kalamere » Fri May 06, 2011 5:59 pm

The Line, Kal's office
May 2nd, 2011

“Five thousand six hundred ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. Seven hundred,” I counted aloud as one finger slid the final coins off the edge of my desk to fall with a familiar jingle amongst their brethren already resting in the pouch. The accumulation of silver and gold lying in the pouch made up the 2nd place winnings for one Sylus Kurgen in accordance with the terms of the DoS Madness pool. “Depressing,” I muttered while cinching the pouch and tossing it into the satchel with the other five.

The madness pool is an advertising event, so I don’t expect any take from it and I generally don’t much mind the payouts. Well, no more than anyone else would mind the need to distribute the twenty thousand plus silver coins peering at them, full of temptation, from the back corner of their safe for a month. The payout to Sylus though; I had to admit that one stung ever so slightly more. I’ve no issue with the man of course, in truth I barely knew him. He hadn’t even selected a winner though!

Irrational. I know. The coins were going to someone other than me anyway, so what did it matter? Oddly, telling myself that never seems to help. It’s the kind of thing that makes a bookie ponder means of getting a return. My mind quickly swept across various alternatives for exacting some form of … revenge? No, that’s not the right term. Justice? Sure. In my somewhat contorted ethical sense that probably fit. I discarded ideas as quickly as they came though, righting my internal compass and once again convincing myself to let it go. It all sounded too much. Except, there was the coincidental timing of Beltane events and… No. I almost certainly should not give that any consideration. Or much. Maybe just a little.

Freeing myself from that train of thought for the moment, I turned my eyes instead to the two figures hovering at my office door. The imposing figure of Rath is always the first to catch a glance. The half-ogre stood motionless, his suit neatly pressed and bearing a shiny black nametag which read: Rath: Credit Adjuster. “I see you’ve found the courier I requested,” I told him with a sigh.

In front of Rath stood a young man, perhaps in his late teens, tilting oddly to the side in his stance as the burden of Rath’s meaty hand weighed down one shoulder, I suspected to keep the youth from bolting. When I had requested Rath to go find me a messenger, I naively expected he might hire one. The wide eyed look of panic on this one’s face, however, told me he had simply been pressed into service. At his feet lie a discarded package, sure to cause me grief at a later time. One corner well dented in and the address smudged, I could make out the mark of the sender as Heart Note Parfumerie. The package contents had been disturbed from the scent of it. That or Rath had been rolling in someone’s flower garden again.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” I told him. He simply grunted in return and stared back at me with those flat black eyes of his. Oh well, at least I had a delivery boy, the rest was just details. I set the satchel at my new courier’s feet and imparted instructions for the delivery of the six pouches it contained.

“Each is labeled with an address,” I told him, “so they should be easy to find. It is important that Gwen be your last delivery. Is that understood?” I hoped for some nod of acknowledgement or a glimmer of a sign he was even listening in those wide, panic struck eyes. If Gwen was anywhere but last there was a chance he would find himself without the remaining deliveries to make, or the pouches would end up lighter than they should be. He blinked, which I determined was close enough.

Entrusting an unknown messenger with this sum of coin risked non-delivery even if he did remember to visit Gwen last. There was always the risk he might simply disappear with it. “Rath will accompany you, to ensure your safety,” I began, turning as I spoke to gaze across the trophies hung on the wall. I picked a scimitar off its hangers, the blade black and razor sharp. Turning it in hand to examine, I continued, “In the event you are separated,” which was likely to happen if Rath spotted anything shiny or furry along the way, “I’ll expect you to return here promptly once you’ve completed the task. I’ll want to pay you properly thereafter of course and return you to that lovely girlfriend of yours.” I wasn’t sure he had a lass waiting for him, but it was a calculated risk and based on his turning a further shade of white and beginning to sweat, I assumed I’d guessed correctly.

I nodded to Rath and the ogre guided the young man out of my office, stepping past Jerry who had made an appearance in the doorway shortly before I’d picked up the sword. “Subtle, boss. If you want, I could find you a brick to hit him with next time?” he quipped as I set the scimitar back to rest upon the wall.

Funny guy that bartender of mine. “Next time you can do the recruiting, Jer, and if they run away with the coin I can just take it out of your salary. Something you need?”

“As long as you don’t touch my tips, and yeah, got a message for ya boss.” He waved an envelope to demonstrate.

“Well? Don’t pretend you haven’t already read it.”

Jerry handed me the envelope and began, “It’s from Dyarhk.”


“Dyarhk,” he repeated. “I guess he’s a duelist? Somebody from the Arena?”

That rang a bell. I nodded, remembering I’d met the man once and had seen him on a few other occasions at the duels. I opened the envelope and began to scan the contents for myself.

“Apparently he has a challenge grant, whatever that is, and wants to take Battlefield Park from you.” Jerry shrugged and turned to walk back out towards the bar.

“Hold on.” I told him, having read the letter and now reaching for a pen. “Give me a minute and then you can deliver a response.”

“I thought we just grabbed random messengers off the street for that now?” he retorted, with a grin that just begged for a stabbing. “Besides, I’m a bartender not a delivery boy. You remember the last time you sent me on that type of errand.”

“Your choice, Jer. You can deliver my response or, if I lose, it’ll be your job to tell Teagan she has to move out of the manor.”

“Are you done writing yet?”
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