No Better Men (M)

[Valtxr]

(((Continued from Ain't Nothin')))



   Alan and Elan rode in the driver's seat of the passenger carriage. Sat next to one another. Four wagons followed them, filled with eighteen rough looking men and a stockpile of their guns, their swords, their ammunition. Some meager foodstuffs left over from the trip from Arca that went through Blackbane pass in the Kilanthro Mountains and through the Valley and finally into Reajh proper.
   They had everything they needed.
   Except the damn shipment. The whole reason for the journey to Arca in the first place.
   Elan hummed a peppy tune as Alan steered the carriage toward the upcoming city gates of Reajh. She had a knife in one hand, whittling away at what was once a block of wood, but now very much resembled a statuette of a person.
   Alan glanced over at his little sister. "Hey, looks like you almost done there, Gizmo."
   She smiled. Stuck her tongue partially out of her mouth as she concentrated. "Yup. Just a few finishing touches..."
   Alan watched her for a moment; the horses could walk straight on their own. She looked calm. Serene. Happy. Hard to believe she, along with Alan and the rest of the eighteen men, were about to get beaten to a pulp on their Master's order for failing to deliver the shipment. Shit, Alan knew for the longest while that Gizmo wasn't about this life. But what were they gonna do about it? Their Mom and Pop both sold them out to Laython. Mom had a gambling problem, and Pop had a whorehouse problem. Racked up a shitload of debt together. So they cut Alan and Elan loose. Sold them into slavery under Elliot Isaac Laython. Well, Master Laython—been that way for a good ten years or so now.
   Alan scratched his chin. One day, maybe one day, they'd have enough of their own money to buy their way out. Hell, enough for Gizmo at least. Alan could do this sort of job for life, son. He was made for shootin' thugs and ugly mugs. But Gizmo? Nah. She wanted out. He knew it. She was a builder, a crafter, a tinker-type, not a shooter. Most of the time she just tossed her pistol to Alan and started reloading his for him if shit got hairy. Hell, if Alan remembered right, she only fired her pistol twice in ten years. Missed both shots. Wasn't even fuckin' close either time. One of those shots accidently hit a chicken in the ass. Damn thing went squawkin' 'round like crazy. But it was all good. Alan Marky Marc Buckley put the shot where it needed to go: right between the eyes of the wacko farmer with the loaded rifle from his old army days. Mothafucker was so high on Ignis Root that it took him a minute to flop dead. Crazy sumbitch, that guy.
   That was the kind of shit that made it proof-positive that Gizmo needed out.
   "So who is it? That figure there." Alan asked, pointing to the wooden statuette.
   Elan grinned. "You."
   "Me?"
   "Yeah. You. You like it?"
   "Aw, come on, Gizmo, cut me some slack. You know I ain't that ugly."
   "Well, I still gotta paint it. It'll come out fine. You'll see."
   Alan laughed. Clapped her on the back. "I'm jus' teasin'. I know I got a handsome-ass, mothafuckin' face right here. I make all the ladies swoon and drop when I walk into the shop, ya feel me?"
   Elan giggled. Gave him some shit back. "Can't say I do. Haven't seen it happen yet."
   "That's 'cause you ain't seen my new moves yet, Gizmo. Gotta save the best ones for last. Just wait 'til we get done meetin' up with ol' Master Laython. I'll show you the slick tricks of a manly maestro at the most poppin' tavern in all Reajh. You wait. You'll see."
   Elan grinned again. "Yeah. I'll see. I'll see about five different women slap the hell out of you again."
   "All part of the plan. That ain't nothin' but the sweet sting of success."

* * * * *

   Back to Market Street. To the new brothel behind all the commotion of merchants hawking their wares and shoppers and people talking and walking and all that hubbub. The boss man used to spend most of his time in Uthlyn, at his other two brothels there. But now there was this one. Closer to the action or something. Whatever.
   Alan steered the carriage off the main path of Market Street. Down a dirt side street that went between the buildings built on the Street proper. The carriage and the rest of the wagon convoy pulled up in front of a large, nondescript, three-story building. Enough open space for all the wagons of the convoy to pull up and stop in front of the building.
   Alan jumped down from the carriage. As did Elan. The eighteen other men all did the same from the wagons.
   And they all entered the brothel.
   The main lounge was a big room. Suitably dim and relaxing on the eyes. Sweet aromas and perfumes permeated the air. Rugs and sofas and pillows everywhere, all various colors. Some distant moans of pleasure—too early in the day, so not all that wild yet. A staircase at the far end of the lounge, leading up.
   Alan and Elan and the eighteen men crowded into the lounge. Most sat down on the sofas. Alan and Elan stood. Elan put the wood statuette into her pocket.
   After a few minutes, one of Master Laython's bodyguards came down the stairs. The bald, dark-skinned man, Spectre. He had been expecting them to show at about this time.
   Spectre eyed the men. The downtrodden and anxious looks most of them had. Then, to Alan, said, "Where is the shipment?"
   "Stolen, my man. Right out from under our noses. Gotta find out what Master Laython wants us to do about that."
   Spectre closed his eyes. A hint of frustration and disappointment coming across his face. And he called out to the men of the lounge, "Two volunteers. Tell the working girls and clients inside the brothel to leave. Do this, and there will be no beating for you."
   Two men instantly jumped from their seats, much faster than the rest.
   "Right here!"
   "That's me! Me!"
   Spectre pointed to them. "You. You. Get it done. And watch the front doors when you're finished. Tell anybody who asks that we're closed temporarily."
   The two lucky men hurried, all but running from room to room and interrupting several different private moments to shoo the prostitutes and clients from the building.
   Then Spectre pointed at Alan and Elan. "Now. You and you. Come with me. Mr. Laython will want to speak with you both."
   And Spectre started back up the stairs.
   Alan saw the nervous look on Elan's face. Laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. A little reassuring shake.
   "Hey. Ain't nothin'. Remember. Tense up your stomach muscles. They like to knock the wind outta you first."
   She nodded. "Okay. I will."
   Alan grinned. "Thatta girl, Gizmo."
   And they started up the stairs after Spectre.
   Together.

[Wrathwyrm]

Now, Reajh was not a place you entered with a giant spider.  No, not even if you could convince them that he was a perfectly domesticated companion, which of course Concord was.  The truth is, however, is that Gary had an extra-good reason to not bring her in here.  The truth is, during a raid of the palace vaults - while a party was going on - Concord had charged in unexpectedly, getting over the perimeter walls and that of the palace's own with ease, because...well...spider.  They hadn't ever been charged by a Hunter Spider Queen, so the night guards were ill-prepared at the time.  Now, they might be more wary, so - as he had carefully-instructed Concord - they would have to be more clever in regards to sudden escape attempts, should any be required.

That is why, for now, Gary was alone.

He was not without his own ways, however.  For instance, he was currently in a very cunning disguise, perhaps his best, to date.  Yes, he was a short man, by all appearances, but it was done with such care that he could not hope to fail.  He was, at this time, a jovial jester.  Over his own clothes, he had on an overly-flamboyant-looking purple musketeer outfit, complete with passably-human-looking mask, which frankly was unflattering, but certainly had the look of a bald little fool.  He had a novelty toy gun, wooden sword, and noisemaker, as well.  He did NOT have the item on him.  That was with Concord.  So, here he was in the streets, pretending to be an absent-minded buffoon while he sniffed about.  Hmmm...  Too much scent in the city.  Concord could do it, but not him, not to this extent.  It was when he noticed a fair amount of unhappy-looking people out in the street that he decided to make his play.

"Why the frowny faces, sirs?  I thought this was happy place!"

"Not when they close it when you're halfway done, it's not.  Who the devil are you?"

"My name is James Batmire, but you can call me Juggalo Jim.  My card."

Yes, he had a card.  You find a decent scribe, you can get these things done.  This one read...

Juggalo Jim Batmire

Wit and Reparte', Antics Aplenty,
and Physical Feats for many to see!

(Monies Up Front!)

"Keep it.  I have more.  Why not accompany me to yon tavern across the street?  You talk, I listen and entertain."

Some would find this reasonable, while others couldn't be bothered.  Still, it would get him some information and he'd be able to sucker these humans out of some coin.  To the pub!

[Valtxr]

   The two lucky men stood by the front doors of the brothel outside. Their arms crossed. Their gazes quizzical when the odd man approached some of the clients that they had kicked out of the brothel early.
   The two men shared amused glances when the odd man made off to a tavern with some of the more adventurous clients from the brothel.
   "Who the fuck do you think that was?"
   "Beats me. There's all sorts of low-brow street acts around here."
   "Low-brow? Fuck you. Like you can read or something. Give me a break."
   "Whatever. As long as this nut keeps those blue-balled guys entertained, then it's all good with me."

   Up the stairs. Up the stairs. To the third floor.
   Alan and Elan reached the landing. Turned right and walked down the hallway. The sleek and polished wood door in front of them. Ghost, Laython's second bodyguard, stood beside the door. Two short strands of rope in her hands.
   "Turn around. Hands behind your back," Spectre said to them.
   "Yeah, yeah, I know. Same ol' song and dance," Alan said as he did what Spectre ordered. Elan complied as well.
   Ghost came up to them. Bound their hands tightly at the wrist. Spectre took their pistols and their daggers. Set the weapons on a nearby end table close to the office door.
   "Inside. Stand two paces from the table." Spectre said, opening the office door.
   They walked inside the office, Ghost giving Elan a rough push to get her moving. Just as ordered, Alan and Elan stopped exactly two paces from the big table in the center of the office. The kingly chair behind it empty. Spectre left to go and summon Master Laython. Ghost walked to the far end of the room, lighting the lantern hanging from the ceiling on her way. She slowly pulled the massive curtains of the wall-sized window shut, blocking out the natural light from the outside. Sealing away the sight of Reajh. Of freedom. Trapping them in the room.
   Elan swallowed.
   Alan kept his head high.
   Footsteps. Behind them. And Spectre came back into view briefly before he took his position behind Alan. And Ghost took hers behind Elan.
   More foosteps. Slow. Deliberate.
   Master Laython came around from behind them. Stopped by his ornate chair on the other side of the table. Took off his expensive jacket. Hung it on the back of the chair. Took a long moment to gradually sit down in his seat. Pulled it closer to the table. The dull screech of the chair legs on the floor.
   He rested his elbows on the table. Bridged his hands. Rested his nose on the bridge, his mouth hidden behind his entwined hands.
   He looked them over. His glare burning into Alan. Then Elan. Then Alan again.
   "Are you an imbecile?"
   "Boss?"
   "Well, that answers my question, but I'll ask you again to give you the benefit of the doubt. Are. You. An imbecile?"
   Alan shook his head. "No. No, boss."
   "Then where the hell is my shipment?"
   "Stolen. Boss."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Yes."
   "Did you check your pockets?"
   "Boss?"
   "YOUR POCKETS!" Alan and Elan both flinched. "Did you check them? Perhaps my shipment fell in there. How about inside your shoes? Or maybe, just maybe, it got mixed up with the bags of rice out in one of the wagons."
   Alan started to sweat a little. "Boss, we're pretty s—"
   Laython pounded the table with both of his palms. "Holy fucking shit, you didn't need to respond to that. Here's what I want you to answer. Are you ready? Here it is: Where...the hell...is my shipment?"
   "Someone stole—"
   "You said that already."
   "In the middle of the night, someone stole—"
   Laython stood up from his seat and slammed his hands on the table again. "You fucking said that already!"
   "Boss, I can get it back if—"
   "Stop," Laython said, slowly taking his seat again. He adjusted his nobleman's clothes. Straightened his posture. Glared at Alan. "Do you know...how much this item cost me? Hmm? Can you even hazard a guess? Can you even count that high? And there is...only...one of them. In the entire world. Years and years of time went into the forging of this item. Valuable time. And I do not have the luxury of being able to wait for a replacement to be made."
   Alan took in a breath of air. Said with a renewed confidence, "Boss, I'll hire a professional tracker with my own money. Set me up with one. I'll get your item back."
   Laython stared into Alan's eyes. And slowly shook his head.
   "No. You won't."
   The blade of a dagger sliced deeply across Alan's throat.

   "No!" Elan cried out.
   Ghost grabbed her by her bound wrists and by her hair. Bent her over and slammed her head down onto the table. Pinned her head in place with a heavy hand. And Spectre did the same with Alan.
   Elan and Alan. Their heads pinned down on the table. Forced to look at one another.
   "Alan!"
   Alan tried to say something. Gargled. And Spectre pulled back on Alan's head, opening up the wound on his neck further. The skin and muscles ripped and tore apart as his head arched back.
   A stream of blood shot out from Alan's neck and splattered on Elan's face. Got into her eye. She blinked rapidly, her breath frozen in her lungs. Another burst of blood. Painting her face red. Running down into her mouth.
   Elan shivered with shock and horror. Her words heavy in her throat. She wanted to say something. Couldn't. Her mouth open. Only a quiet, hollow, ragged gasp.
   Alan looked at her. As best he could. His eyes pleading. Begging for her to be okay. To make it.
   Blood pumped out onto the table. Pooled and spread and dripped off the edge. The soft and quickening patter of liquid streaming to the floor.
   Alan's body jerked violently. Shuddered. And his eyes fell away from Elan's. And he looked at nothing.
   The pool of blood reached Elan's cheek, pressed down against the table. Warm. The last remnant of her brother.
   Elan clenched her eyes shut. Her mouth still open. Her lips moved. Trying desperately to say his name. No sound. The breath tight and painful in her chest.
   Her body hitched. An overwhelming sorrow.
   The soft patter. Slowing down. No more blood dripping to the floor.
   Quiet.
   An empty silence.
   A voice. Next to her ear.
   Laython. "Do I have your attention?"

[Wrathwyrm]

Of course, Gary was completely unaware of all of this.  He was, at the time, telling them the one about the three men on one horse who kept falling off due to insufficient room on its back.  Turns out the horse had been a shapeshifter who jumped on all of them suddenly, going 'See how YOU like it!'.  Always good for a laugh, these twist-ending anecdotes.  He had - off and on - been asking innocent questions about happenings in the town, more now since he was currently juggling knives.

"I can juggle perfectly harmless things, of course, but for some reason people love to see the thrill of me possibly gutting myself like a fish!  Hah hah hah!  Never happens, though."

It was in this manner that he was able to learn all about the brothel's sudden closing, and that a some of 'Laython's men' going in.  Apparently, he was the owner, and he had some indentured servitude.  Really, this country is going to hell!  Now, these random people didn't know squat about the things that Mr. Laython, owner of the brothel, was up to...but there were always juicey rumors, and men getting drunk liked to talk about that.  'Course, they were also bragging about women they had had in there and complaining about being half-mast when they were halfway through foreplay.

It made Gary wonder, briefly, if he was ever going to settle down and raise three or four-dozen kids.  Probably not.  All gobs were his kin, and they needed him badly.  So, in comes the rumors about Mr. Laython this and Mr. Laython that.  Speculation all, but some of it was probably true.  And when he asked if Mr. Laython was a strong and powerful man, alot of heads went up and down.  Yes...that confirmed Gary's suspicions.  The thingy that he'd stolen was for a purpose.  This man was reaching high.  The Grand Duke, perhaps?

[Valtxr]

   "Y-Yes..." Elan managed through quivering lips.
   "Speak up."
   "Yes..." A tortured reply.
   "I can't hear you, Elan. Try again."
   "Yes!" she yelled as her body hitched and her legs trembled and tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes. Ripples in the pool of blood on the table as she sobbed.
   "Good." A pause. "Good."
   Spectre let go of Alan's corpse. Gravity took it. Dragged it down to the floor. A dull thump as her brother's body hit the wood. Spectre kneeled down and wiped his dagger clean on Alan's clothes. Stood back up.
   Laython sat back down in his chair. Ghost still had Elan bent over and her head pinned down on the table. She pulled back on Elan's hair, to bend Elan's neck enough so that she could make eye contact with Laython from her awkward, submissive position.
   "And now I will ask you," Laython said. "Where is my shipment?"
   "I know who took it! Please! Don't...don't..."
   Laython tilted his head forward. Glared at her from under his brow. "Tell me."
   "Gary Blight! I swear. Alan saw it. He did. He told me!"
   Laython glanced up at Ghost.
   And she lifted Elan's head off the table and slammed it back down. A white-hot flash of pain in Elan's skull. Blinding colors danced before her eyes. Some of the blood from the pool splashed from the force of the impact.
   "Blaming fairy tale creatures is not an ideal strategy," Laython said. "One last time. Where. Is. My. Shipment?"
   Elan tried to speak, but only a pitiful whimper escaped her throat. She rolled her head as much as Ghost would allow, burying her nose and her mouth into the blood on the table. Her body shook and rattled violently and sporadically. Beyond her control. A tiny trickle of urine ran down her legs.
   Her voice a mewling mess. Barely intelligible. "I'm sorry...Master Laython...I'm sorry. It was Gary Blight. Gary...Blight. Oh god. Please. Please..."
   Laython sighed. His eyes rolling around in the sockets as he considered her answer, and any future answers if pressed. He leaned forward in his seat. Elbows on the table. Arms crossed. "Look at me."
   Elan coughed and sobbed. The rush of air spraying her brother's blood about.
   "Look. At. Me."
   Ghost twisted Elan's head so that her left cheek was pressed against the table again. And she looked at Laython.
   "There. Now, listen carefully. I don't care who currently has my shipment. But within one week's time, you will present it to me. Here. On this table. Do you understand?"
   "Yes..."
   "Tell me how much time you have to recover my shipment."
   "One week."
   "How many days are in a week?"
   "S-Seven."
   "Which do you have? One week or seven days?"
   Elan swallowed. "They're...they're the same thing."
   Laython smirked. "Good. I suspect your brother would've gotten that question wrong. Now. Listen again. If one week has passed and you have not recovered my shipment, then you are to return here. And you will be killed swiftly. Do not make me come and find you. Now. Go ahead and ask me."
   "W-What?"
   Laython stood up again. Walked around the table again. Leaned in close again. His breath against the tiny hairs of her ear again.
   And he said quietly, "Ask me what will happen to you if you run."
   Elan's teeth chattered. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose. "What will happen...to me if I run?"
   "There are some men," Laython said, "who have been looking at you, Elan. Asking about you. Not the men you've been working with—men of stature. Prominence. Who know you are my slave. Desire is a powerful thing, Elan. They could have just about any woman they want...but they want you. And not just for the sex."
   Laython slowly walked back around to his side of the table. Placed his hands on it. Looked down into her eyes. "If, in one week's time, you attempt to flee, then I will turn you over to these men. I will feed you...piece by piece...to them. I cannot say how long they might keep you alive for their pleasure, but I promise you, that this would be a slow, painful, and dehumanizing death."
   He narrowed his eyes. "And do not try to get someone to help you escape, either. That would be a foolish mistake. Because I can guarantee you, Elan, that there are no better men in this world. Certainly not in Reajh. Everyone has a price, a weakness, or both. And I'll outbid any would-be savior's morals, or I'll have him and his family buried in unmarked graves. So don't waste my time."
   Laython sat back down in his chair. "One week. Back here. With or without my shipment. Now go and get yourself cleaned up."
   Ghost let go of her. Untied the rope binding her wrists behind her back.
   Elan stumbled. Fell backward onto her rear end. Took one last look at her brother and stood and covered her mouth with her hand and stumbled for the door and almost collapsed as she crossed through the threshold and back out into the hallway.

   Elan saw her reflection in the pail of water in the bathroom of the third floor of the brothel. Her face. Red. All red. Stained from hair to chin with her brother's blood.
   And as she washed her face and the water ran down her skin and dripped back into the pail and clouded it red and she lost sight of her reflection in the murk, it hit her. Everything. All at once.
   She pressed the towel hard against her face and into her mouth. Screamed a muffled scream into it. Her shoulders hitched and the tears burst from her eyes again. Her eyes shut.
   The silence of the room caved in around her as she ran short of breath.
   And she fell over onto her side.
   Lay there.
   On the bathroom floor for a long, lonely while.

   Her face cleaned up, a new set of her clothes on, Elan walked down the stairs to the main lounge.
   Alone.
   She passed by the men still waiting to be called up to Laython's office to be beaten by Spectre and Ghost. Left through the front door. Walked past the wagons outside. Walked down the dirt path back to Market Street.
   She stood there once she reached the Street. Watched the busy commoners going about their daily routine and chores and shopping trips under the afternoon sun.
   Elan stood there. Her face distraught.
   She reached into her pocket. Pulled out the wooden statuette of her brother.
   Looked at it. The confident face she had carved into it. Tried to smile.
   And placed it back into her pocket.

[Wrathwyrm]

Well, after a while, there was simply nothing more of interest to learn from the townspeople.  Why, the last thing that he had heard was that the duke had no idea who hit his vault.  Of course, between the runecaster, the knifey elf, the lich, and Concord crashing the party, could you blame them?  They ended up singing merry songs and forgetting - for a time - that they'd been cockblocked without refund.  And yes, the Ballad of Gary Blight DID come up, but so did The Amateur Sailor's Caterwaul.  Gary - or rather, Jim - was out of there afterwards.  That was, he figured, the last he would probably be able to get in terms of information.

At least, it seemed so until he saw a rather despondant figure.

Well, he certainly knew that person.  Or rather, he had seen her up in the mountains, along with all those other men.  It wasn't exactly hard to pick out.  She had been he only female present in the convoy.  She seemed quite put out, depressed even.  Oh, do we dare press her for information?  Oh yes, we most certainly do!  He wondered if he could get anything from her, though.  After all, she appeared devastated.  And distracted.  That is why he was able to sidle up to a wall nearby to lean against, hat tilted forwards so that even his disguised face wasn't exactly visible.  And then, he spoke up.

"A copper for your thoughts, lady?"

[Valtxr]

   Elan looked up to the sky. Lifted the small brim of her hat as she looked into the sun. Squinted as as the glare burned her eyes.
   Where could she even begin to look for a legend? A legend? It seemed an impossible task. Even if she could make some sort of flying contraption, even if she could use it fly as high as the sun, could see all Le-raana with the most advanced spyglass ever constructed, she probably wouldn't find him. Was he even real? Was he even around Reajh? She didn't have enough time to get to the Kilanthro Mountains and back, let alone conduct a search while she was there.
   Seven days. Seven rotations of the sun in the sky. That was it.
   It all seemed so small when she thought of it like that.
   Time. Life. Everything.
   She lowered her gaze. The afterimage of the sun burned in front of her eyes for a long moment.
   And then she heard a man speak.
   She looked over. Then down a bit. She was short, but the man was shorter.
   Elan tried again to smile. But it felt false. Dishonest. Wrong.
   So her mouth curled into a frown. "I'm sorry, Mister. I'm just...looking for a tavern. I need to..."
   Her sentence trailed off. She wanted to have a drink in Alan's memory. Have a mug of his favorite kind of ale, even though she was a total lightweight. But she didn't have any money of her own. Not on her. Alan had their meager stockpile of coin—boosted from the odd jobs Master Laython usually sent them on—back at their small room in the slave quarters of the estate. And that was a long walk across the whole city, to the better and cleaner parts of Reajh. Precious time.
   She felt the wooden statuette in her pocket. Pulled it out. Said, "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be a collector or something would you? One gold piece, for this figure here. I know it's not painted...but...that's half the fun."
   It pained her to ask. But Alan was the kind of guy who would've wanted a last drink in his honor.

[Wrathwyrm]

Gary had to tilt up his hat and look carefully to see what she was talking about.  Hmm, it kind of resembled the big fella she'd been with, up in the mountains.  It was actually a perfect replica, but at a distance, Gary wouldn't have been able to pick up details on the man.  No matter.

"Figurines?  Not my thing.  Mine is in entertainment."

He took off his hat with a flourish and did a fancy sort of bow as he introduced himself.

"James Bartholomew Batmire, jester-at-large, at your service."

He was a weird little bald man, now replacing his hat as he straightened up.

"But you can call me Jim.  As I was saying, I would have no use for such a thing, but as you seem a little distraught, perhaps a tale would do just as well.  I just cleaned up in yon tavern.  Why not talk and drink and unload what's weighin' ya down?"

Of course, narurally, Elan should be wary of small men offering drinks, but then this isn't Game of Thones...  An entertainer whose job it was to draw attention to oneself couldn't very well do anything sneaky.

[Valtxr]

   At first, Elan's spirits sank a little lower. The man didn't want to buy her statuette, and so the final drink in her brother's memory would have to wait.
   But then he introduced himself. James Bartholo...Jim. Jim was better.
   A jester. A jester who apparently straight-up offered to buy drinks for the two of them. It seemed that even in one's darkest hour, a small glimmer of hope could still be found.
   Her face flushed a little. "Oh. That's...awfully generous of you. Thanks. I, um...well I'd hate to impose, but does that tavern you mention serve firebrand ale? It's...for someone. I know that probably sounds a bit strange, but I have to drink that kind of ale. It's important."
   She waited a second for his response. Then remembered.
   "Oh! And my name is Elan. Elan Buckley. I'm sorry, it's hard to think straight." She closed her eyes. A tiny quiver of the lips as she tried to play it down. "Bad day."

   Laython watched Spectre pick up the man that he and Ghost had just finished beating. Watched him haul the man out of the office and toss him into the hallway.
   The office was clean again, save for some sweat stains and globs of saliva. Perhaps there was still a hint of blood from the mouths or noses of the men who had taken their beating. But Alan's body was gone, the mess cleaned up before the beatings began. Spectre had gone downstairs and offered two more men the opportunity to clean Laython's office and dispose of the body and be spared the beating. And, like before, two men eagerly volunteered.
   The story was simple, if the two men transporting Alan's body happened to be asked by the guard. Alan started getting a little too rough with one of the girls. Pulled a weapon on the bodyguards. Got his throat slit. Laython had to close down the brothel temporarily for the safety of his clients. What a shame. Didn't happen too often, but such an event was never out of the question when one ran a brothel. Lust could drive a man mad, after all.
   Laython leaned back in his chair. Watched Spectre and Ghost lower their masks and take a breather. A vigorous exercise, to go full force on so many men. And they weren't even half done yet.
   "Do either of you think there was any merit to Elan's story?" He said. "Speak freely."
   After permission was granted, Ghost shook her head. "No, sir. I think we may have pushed too hard. Sounded like she would say anything."
   Spectre wiped some sweat from his brow. "I'm not so sure, sir. I could see the fear in her eyes. Just the right amount. And she stuck to her story when pressed. Can't say I've ever heard of a 'Gary Blight' though."
   Laython smirked. "A character from a tavern song, fit only to amuse drunkards. But perhaps her brother did see something, and reported a few details erroneously. It's not out of the question that a single man may have been responsible; a miscalculation on my part, that the sheer numbers of mediocrity could prevail over someone who possesses true skill."
   "Question, sir," Spectre said.
   "Ask."
   "You think she'll actually find the man responsible?"
   Laython laughed. "Let's say that I have my doubts. No, no, Aden, that was just a bit of fun for me. I fully expect Elan to attempt to flee within a week's time. Not a terrible outcome; I could use her to pay off a few nagging favors. If she can be recovered alive, that is."
   Ghost anticipated the next topic. "Shall I put out the word for a professional tracker then, sir?"
   Laython nodded. "Yes. That would be ideal."

[Wrathwyrm]

"Ah, Firebrand...  The mark of the demon lord.  Yes, I believe they must.  This is Reajh, after all.  Everything can be found here."

Including whopping-huge sacks of loot for the enterprising Goblin.  Ah, that was such a good time...  They probably mobilized a small army after them, but eight legs were faster than four.  My my, was that a true glimmer in Gary's eye, just then?  Not a trick of the light or a metaphorical thing.  Actual yellow glimmer, briefly, before he led her in the promised direction as she spoke again.  Bad day?  Yes, he imagined so.  She didn't look beaten, so it must have been something else.  The distinct absence of the man she'd been with prior lent a possibility to Gary's mind.

"Yes, it seems alot of people were having a bad day today.  Brothel owner kicked out a bunch of clients unexpectedly.  As I said, I cleaned up earlier, since they needed something to get their minds off of it all."

Elan would probably recognize some of those regulars if any were coming out of the tavern or even still present there.  Nevertheless, if any of them asked, he was officially 'on break' and requested a couple of Firebrands be taken to one of their booths, where he and Elan could talk.

[Valtxr]

   Mark of the demon lord? Sounded intimidating. But Elan didn't think much of it. Alan drank the stuff all the time. Usually either until he blacked out or pissed himself. Elan wouldn't mind the former if a single mug of firebrand was too much to handle. Away with the world for a time. Spend some time in a far better place, all the sorrow of this life left behind. The refuge of dreamless sleep.
   And Elan completely missed the yellow glimmer. Stayed quiet as Jim mentioned the brothel owner.
   She perked up some when the tavern came into sight. A couple of the men who had been rushed out of Master Laython's brothel just came out of the door. Walked past the two of them.
   Elan entered the tavern with Jim.
   A lively atmosphere inside, for an afternoon. Probably due to the abrupt closing of the brothel. All the stools at the bar counter were occupied. Many of the tables, booths. Men talked and laughed and boasted and clinked their mugs together. A few women enjoyed the attention and gazes of the men that surrounded them at their tables. One man, a bit too drunk or overzealous to return to his table and his friends, tripped and dropped four full mugs of beer. The conversations all but stopped throughout the tavern as the beverages splashed all over the floor. The man's three friends howled out with a loud and in unison "Awwww!" and half of the tavern joined in. Someone in the crowd yelled, "Lick it up!"
   Elan sat down at the booth with Jim as conversations about the tavern resumed, and the normal social environment returned.
   And she sat there.
   For a long and awkward moment that she wasn't aware of.
   Until it finally struck her that she had in fact been sticking there and hadn't said anything.
   Her eyes widened as she realized it. "Oh! Sorry. I'm normally not this much of a shut-in. Really. It's...well..."
   She thought about it again. Being there, with Alan, in that room. That awful room. Her face down the table. The blood—
   Her eyes averted. A tortured look. Briefly.
   She blinked rapidly. Looked back at Jim. "So, uh, what brings a jester around here? I can't say I've run into many jesters around Reajh. Or, at all, as a matter of fact. I..."
   Elan couldn't. Just couldn't be herself. It was too soon. And it weighed far too heavily on her.
   She pinched her eyes shut. Her eyelashes wet. And she wiped her face and her eyes with the back of her hand.
   Her head lowered, she said something. Whispered it. A tiny sound, buried underneath the ambient noise of the tavern. As if she both did and did not want Jim to hear. Conflicted.
   "Can you keep a secret?"

[Wrathwyrm]

Gary had joined in the reaction over spilt beer by adding a cry of "The waste of it!" with a chortle.  It was no business of his own, nor important unless they spilled his drink too.  Then, he might have to lecture someone on the fine art of keeping one's drink in hand or in mouth, nowhere else.  He turned his attention back to Elan as she made her apology for being so quiet.

"Not at all.  Everyone has these moments.  Even me, one of wit and whimsy."

More times than you can imagine, thinking of the early days of his awareness.  They might've both had certain tortured looks, but Gary was wearing a mask.  How could you even be sure?  It was a good mask, but good enough to perfect all his subtle facial expressions?  Doubtful.  Still, as the woman attempted to make conversation, Gary was about to spin a whole new lie about Juggalo Jim Batmire when...well, obviously he wasn't going to need to.

Her distress was palpable.  Her problems were large, and Gary knew it even without questioning her.  She was definitely one of Laython's indentured servants, and definitely in a great deal of trouble because of him.  Now...this alone did not matter, in general, to Gary Blight.  But...if what he believed had happened had been done...

"Yes, I can keep a secret.  I'm not a clergyman, but tight lips are not restricted to the church.  Go on..."

[Valtxr]

   Their drinks made it to the table intact, the bartender taking a wide berth around the spilt beer and the man wiping it up with a rag.
   Elan looked at the mug placed in front of her. Stared down at the ale inside. She bit her bottom lip, the tips of her teeth only just visible.
   That would be a foolish mistake.
   Her right hand reach up and grabbed the handle of the mug. Her left hand wrapping around the front of it. She held it like that for a while. Didn't lift it.
   A slight shake of her head. Back and forth.
   There are no better men in this world.
   And she glanced up at Jim. Her brows curled in anguish. A lingering fear just behind the pupils of her eyes.
   "I'm a slave," she said. "And I want to escape my Master. But I'll die if I try."
   Elan lifted the mug and pressed it to her lips and tipped her head back and took three big gulps. A trickle of ale ran down her face. Dripped from her chin. She coughed harshly into the mug. Accidentally slammed the mug back down on the table, propelled forward in her seat by the force of her coughing fit. She held a hand to her throat, then slid it down her body and smacked her chest a few times.
   Sorry, Alan. I'll try not to spill anymore.

[Wrathwyrm]

'Jim' watched this display and listened intently to her words.  It was as he had guessed.  She was forced to work for Laython, and not in the brothel.  Not yet.  Otherwise, she wouldn't be going on special journeys to bring in special cargo for diabolical schemes.  So, she was a slave and she wanted to get out.  Gary could, once again, guess why.  He waited until Elan was done coughing before he said anything, and he began to drink his Fireband Ale a little more patiently than she did.

"You know, ales are not meant to be drank all at once, like that.  That's more of a beer and lager thing, or whiskey.  Ale is closer to wine, but not quite up to its snooty behavior.  At any rate, it is to be enjoyed."

He put the drink down for a moment talked more seriously, and in a lower voice, less Jim and more Gary in tone.

"I assume the owner is rather vindictive, a violent and perhaps obsessive personality, yes?"

Serendipity law or any forward-thinking and generous person would never be able to buy off that type of person, otherwise she would be gone by now.  He could see that much in her eyes.

"What exactly occurred that you find yourself feeling more endangered than usual?

[Valtxr]

   Elan wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. "I—" She coughed, and coughed, and coughed again. The burn in her throat abated some, but it was still there. "I think I just found that out the hard way."
   She left her mug on the table for the moment. At least until the initial burn died down some more. She said nothing to Jim's comment on her owner. Master Laython didn't like people talking about him, sharing details about his personal life and character, especially not his own underlings. That ingrained fear still held sway, and Elan stayed quiet.
   Then Jim had a follow-up question. Something she was far more happy to answer.
   "My Master had us on a mission. Just transporting something from Arca to Reajh. It...it was supposed to be easy. But..."
   A laugh. A short, tiny little laugh, more akin to a rush of air from the nose, but a laugh nonetheless. A piece of the real Elan coming through.
   "You'll probably think I'm silly if I tell you."
   Her throat still ached, but Elan grabbed hold of her ale and took another drink. Following Jim's advice, she went much slower with it this time and then set the mug back down. Still, she couldn't contain another couple of coughs as the alcohol blazed its way down to her stomach.
   "But it's real. My brother saw what happened. I know he did. He wouldn't lie."
   Elan glanced around the tavern. Eyed all of the other patrons as if they were all potential spies or eavesdroppers of a sort. Then back to Jim. She leaned forward, her arms crossed on the table.
   And in an almost conspiratorial way, she whispered to him, "It was Gary Blight. The Gary Blight. He robbed our convoy in the middle of the night. And...my Master...wasn't happy."

[Wrathwyrm]

Yes, Firebrand Ale will get back at you like that for mistreating it.  A harsh lesson, but fair.  Of course, she didn't answer his Laython question, because he'd already heard some bad rumors about the man and his servants, but the one after...  She leaned in closer to tell him, and he...admittely had to lean a bit on the table to do the same.  And she told him.  Of course, she told him.  So, he had been witnessed.  He had a feeling that the light drug didn't keep people from waking up if there was a sharp nose, and one of the men had gotten off a shot, in the confusion. 

'Jim' now sat back in his seat and did not say anything for a moment, taking a pull of his drink.  He could definitely put two and two together.  She was here without her brother, in desperate need of a drink.  She had a distressed and depressed look about her.  Yes...a familiar feeling.  No, it was not one of regret, per se.  The death of a human did not bother him.  However, there was a certain aspect about this which felt close to home.  Yes...home...  Oh, why not?  What harm could it do to speak it?

"Do you know why Gary Blight steals and steals so much?  So much, in fact, that people can scarcely believe that he's real?  There are tales, but I know the true one."

He extend an index finger now.

"Consider goblins, for a moment.  They will live practically anywhere, if given the chance, and once they settle down...it's a population explosion.  Humans and other races don't like that, especially if the gobs start playing rough.  However, when any of them do that sort of thing, it's laws and punishment, maybe even war.  When it's goblins, it's extermination."

He lowered his hand down to the table.

"They hire mercenaries, sellswords, adventurers - and they tell 'em 'Go there and kill every goblin you find'.  And you know what?  They do it.  But the survivors..."

Now, he criss-crossed his fingers.

"What if a goblin lived through such a horror show and - having to do just about anything to survive - ended up cursing humanity from the depths of a bitter well with no end?  What might he do for revenge?  What is something that goblins are very good at?  Why, stealing, of course.  And thus, a legend is born."

He now finished his ale, setting it down gently on the table.

"He killed your brother, didn't he?  You're barely holding yourself together, and that's why you want out of service so badly."

Uhhh, he wasn't sounding like he was a jester, just now...

[Valtxr]

   At least Jim didn't laugh at her. He actually seemed to be taking her quite seriously. She watched him take his drink, still with a persistent worry that a joke at her expense might be forming in his mind.
   But no. He was serious.
   "The true one?"
   Was...was Gary Blight real? Real, as in, really real? Not just a fanciful ballad character? If so, was he alive or...not? It was hard to tell with legendary icons; they almost universally seemed to take on a timeless quality.
   Elan found the possibility hard to consider, even though she was the one who brought up Gary Blight in the first place. But Alan did see something. She was sure of it.
   And she listened. Listened to the merry man tell a not-so-merry story. Elan had never seen a goblin before, much like she had never seen many of the fantastic creatures across the world. And so she had no idea these exterminations, these wholesale slaughters, were happening with alarming frequency. How could this be allowed to happen? It would be like if a marauding band of mercenaries and sellswords hired by another race came marching into a human town and massacred everyone. It'd be a tragedy, an outrage. Why was it somehow different the other way around?
   Elan frowned and spoke while Jim finished his ale. "That...that sounds awful. The songs and the tales all left that part out. The whole legend made it seem like...well, like Gary did what he did because he could, and that was it. I..."
   She trailed off. Looked down at her mug.
   But looked up again when Jim spoke again. When the jester turned from a merry-maker into a truth-teller.
   And it smacked Elan hard in the chest. Her mouth dropped open, and her throat constricted itself. Words and thoughts fled from her mind, and the raw fear and sorrow nested in their place.
   Yesterday, Alan was alive. Joking with her. Laughing with her. Comforting her.
   Today, Alan was dead. And he would never come back.
   Her mouth slowly closed as her lips started to tremble. She pinched her eyes shut, squeezing out the tears that had collected on the edges.
   And the fear. The fear of Master Laython kept her mouth shut.
   She couldn't bring herself to say it.
   But.
   She could nod. And nod she did.
   Elan lifted the mug and drank a little more of the firebrand ale. For her brother.

[Wrathwyrm]

He didn't need her reaction or her confirmation, but it was there.  Though she did not speak it, she had the will to admit it to another.  For her, there was hope.  She wanted to be free, and the first thing we must be free from is ourselves, our own doubts and limitations.  Gary learned his at a very young age.  That is why he was such a connoissuer of the alcoholic beverage.  The thought of it, the memory of it, would drive him to madness because of it.  At least, at a young age.  In these times of his adulthood, at least he could merely shake his head in disgust and say he had no choice...because there was no choice, unless you count dying.  He looked out at the tavern now, its gathered customers...

"Human beings - indeed, many likeminded beings - romanticize all kinds of things.  Good men, bad men, naughty men...  Women too, I'm sure.  They invent stories because they're bored, and because terrible realities could crush them into the ground, literally and figuratively.  Hell, he hires entertainers to keep him from considering how bad life can be, to remember that there are good times with the bad.  That alone is not wrong."

Was it her imagination, or was his voice taking on quite a new dynamic?  Not the rhythmic jester, but eloquent speech, even gentlemanly?  Perhaps he was just good with his voice.  Perhaps this was his real voice.  Perhaps he had a real voice that he'd trained himself to not use and cover with this one instead.  It was hard to tell.

"The problem is when it leads to self-delusion, bad thinking, like he is any better than any other being.  The people of Connlaoth eschew magic.  It is the devil's work or somesuch.  Naturally, they think similarly of non-human races.  I met a lich at a party once.  He was one of Connlaoth's marked servants.  An undying skeletal wizard, under the Grand Duke's thumb."

He shook his head, tsking as he did, and then looked Elan carefully in the eye.

"At any rate, let me tell you what is going to happen.  I am going to walk out of that door and to the outside of the city, a mile or so from its borders.  When I do, I suggest that you follow, if you wish to be free.  Know that we are not running, but planning, because I know the sort of man we are dealing with.  Now, finish your drink.  There's work to be done."

He hopped from his and went to pay for the drinks.  Was that the same man she walked in here with?

[Valtxr]

   The ale was starting to get to her. The warmth of the blood in her cheeks. The buzz in the back of her head.
   Jim seemed like a different man. Definitely talked like someone else. Had Elan come upon him like he was now, she'd never have guessed he was a jester. No more wit and whimsy here.
   Was it the alcohol playing tricks on her? Seemed unlikely, but hard to say for sure.
   Her face became quizzical. The people of Connlaoth? So he was a traveling jester? And...what? A lich? Wasn't that a Thanatos Isles thing? Huh? One of them? Here? With the Grand Duke himself? And Jim knew about it?
   Elan had little idea what Jim was truly talking about. But one thing was clear: he knew a lot more than she would have imagined.
   And she took another drink of her ale, enduring the burn in her throat. Less than half left in the mug.
   Let me tell you what is going to happen.
   Elan's heart stopped for a moment. Her breath frozen in her chest as she listened intently to every word Jim had to say. And she watched him leave his seat and go to the bar counter to pay for the drinks.
   Then she stared down at the table.
   If she wished to be free? Planning what? The sort of man we are dealing with? There was no way this was happening. Elan tended to look on the bright side of life whenever possible, but even she doubted her own luck just now. Jim did seem to know quite a bit about Gary Blight though. He even said that Gary often hired entertainers, and Jim was an entertainer himself. Made sense. But, if this was the case, then...then Gary was real. What sort of man was Gary, to warrant such seriousness from a jester? And for that matter, a man? Wasn't Gary a—
   Elan's eyes went wide.
   Oh, no. No, no, no. He...Jim...did he mean Master Laython? What did he intend to do? This could end badly. Badly for both of them.
   Elan crossed her arms on the table again and buried her face down into them.
   Master Laython had eyes and ears everywhere. He only needed to ask about her, and someone would volunteer the information. Tell him that she had been seen leaving Reajh. Maybe tell him that she had been conversing with a short, funny-looking man. Maybe somebody was watching her. Right now. Waiting for any hint of defection.
   Elan let out a ragged breath. Felt the heat of it as it spread across the table and her arms and her face.
   She wanted to be free. But she didn't want to die.
   A terribly conflicted mind.

   The last man limped out of Laython's office in the brothel.
   Laython had grown bored of the beatings. The first dozen or so were amusing, yes, but his mind had since drifted. He thought of pressing business matters:
   The repairs at his low-brow brothel in Uthlyn were almost complete. Some idiot had managed to start a fire in one of the rooms. It was either the working girl or the client, and both quite naturally had blamed the other. It didn't matter much; he had them both punished anyway. And for an interesting role reversal, he switched up the punishments on them. Had the working girl beaten to within an inch of her life, and had the slob of a client gang-raped by four uncouth types who could scarcely believe they were actually being paid to do it.
   An intriguing rumor on the streets as well. Word had it that Jessos "The Butcher" Rains, the late Mr. Deegan's former lieutenant herself, had been murdered. Stories conflicted as to the murderer's true identity, but that was of little importance. There was now an opportunity to seize control of the Pit, Rains' large drug operation and facility in the Niraya neighborhood. It could be done with minimal to zero casualties. After all, the Pit was much more valuable if it also came with its own work force as well.
   Ah, yes. And the Dampener. Perhaps Ghost would be able to secure a true professional to track down the thief or thieves who had taken it. Worthwhile help was increasingly difficult to procure these days. The ongoing civil war had either provided too much competition among potential employers, or had driven out the professionals to less tumultuous countries. A shame.
   "Ghost," Laython said as he straightened up in his seat, "Put out the word. See what's available."
   "Yes, sir."
   "Spectre." Laython sighed. "Get some of the men to watch the brothel. We'll reopen tomorrow. I promised Vanessa that I would return home to Uthlyn tonight for dinner."
   And, like Ghost, Spectre said, "Yes, sir."
   And they both left the office on their assigned tasks.

[Wrathwyrm]

Unlike Elan, Gary was not in distress or concern over the situation.  He had already made a decision on how this was to be handled.  Some things were technically more important than money.  Not many things, such as personal satisfaction over an undertaking achieved...if it was worth doing...or blood.  No, it wasn't that he cared about when humans die.  There were just some things that spoke to him a little more than others.  The story...  Yes, the story.  All true.  One small detail left out.  The important detail.

Gary paid the tavern owner and headed for the door.  As he did, he began to whistle...  It was a real somber tone, nothing like that of the jester from before.  Were it not for the look of him, the clothes and the face, he'd be almost unrecognizable.  He checked his daggers before pushing the door open.  He'd said what he had to say.  She had to have the strength to follow him down the wossname, that hole from a book.  He couldn't remember the title.  Probably something offensive about goblins.