The pair of guards out front of the Crooked Nail were bored individuals with little else to do but pretend to be important and stand, well, guard. Morgan knew them both well, or as well as anyone could know strangers that you did little to interact with, but he was still familiar enough with their presence, and they offered him a sense of security.
You see, at the Crooked Nail, it is forbiden to fight, that isn't to say that fights don't happen, only that they are swiftly and handily taken out of the tavern. Its a business afterall, and one can't just go about breaking chairs and tables in a business.
Morgan slid into a booth and fiddled with a menu before him, he knew what he wanted, he just needed to know that he could afford it.
"Drat," He said to no one in particular. The prices of the Menu had raised, and he was staring dead in the face a matter that things were going to have to change. The meal he was normally want to get, the B+B Special of a burger and beer, had been raised from its usual price of a single copper to now two. That was something of an annoyance, still it wasn't really his money.
He cracked open the pouch and inspected the contents. There were over a dozen small copper pieces, enough to feed him for the day, and keep his buzz going for the night. That was more than he could hope for on the best of days. This was certainly not the best of days. For that matter, it was coming onto the worst of the best of the worst, or something like that. He'd been thrown from his room, failed to find work, failed to rob an old woman, and had gotten into a fight. All before breakfast, which wasn't to say that it was early. Truth be told it was getting rather long into the day, but just that he hadn't eaten.
He remarked about the prices to the waiter who eventually came to see him, and was greeted with the saying, "times are hard, and money is tight." He was going to have to remember that, it was fairly decent over all as a line. He ordered his beer and burger and made to sit in the booth when a pair of other theives back from their recent foray into the business, were slapping the table and sharing a line of jokes, when they noticed the singlur entity seated, and decided to make their presence known.
"Afternoon, friend." One of them said. "Morgan right?"
"Thats right," He said wearily. He was safe here, and normally wouldn't have worried, but he wasn't familiar with these two, and that was concerning.
"Well, welcome back friend."
"Do I know you both?" He asked, he wasn't trying to be rude, just merely feel out the conversation. It wasn't usual that people were kind to one another in the city, so he hadn't been exactly ready for a conversation.
"I doubt it," Said the second man, a bit shorter with a longer nose. "but we know you."
"Oh aye," Said the first. "Names Chip,"
"And i'm Gunter." said Gunter. They brought their libations with them, so when they sloshed, quite adequetly, into the booth they let the frothing liquid spill out and over the surface. Morgan paid it no mind, he cared little for the two, but company at dinner was usually for the best. It kept the more strange ones from approaching in search of an adventurer. These two seemed nice enough.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
"Oh," Said chip, drawing the word out into a sentence. "We were just overhearing a bit of something about a row in another alley not far from here. Couple of the guys that Fisher was getting tired of came to a horrible fortune."
"What?" Said Morgan, playing up the confusion "They dead."
"Oh no," Gunter said, "just heard they crossed paths with old Morgan, and didn't manage to walk away."
"So its spread already," He admitted. "how do these rumours spread so quickly?"
In truth, Morgan knew how. The trade of secrets and information was so vast and neccessary throughout the city, that if it were to halt at any point, the entire place may collapse to the ground. So engraned into the society was the need for people to know about one another, that the guild of whispers had to come into existence just to keep the whole thing cordial. Without them, there was a certain element that tainted the whole thing.
"So," said Gunter eagerly "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That you beat them up in the streets for trying to rob an old woman?"
"No it-"
"Not a very good theif move," offered chip, folding his arms and nodding to himself. "not very good indeed."
"Look I-"
"Course," Said Gunter "they didn't exactly seem like the nicest of folks."
"No," said Chip, "S'pose not."
They turned back to Morgan, whose food had just arrived. He had already dug into the burger and was ripping away a piece to devour. The food was dry, but the condiments offered somehting in the way of taste. The beer was hoppy and tasted distinctly as if it had brewed with the intent of being the hoppiest thing around. He frowned and shoveled downt he slop, barely gasping for air between bites and gulps.
The others sat and watched the spectacle with concealed interest. They'd never seen a man, atleast not one who hadn't been starved for several days, eat like such a savage animal. There were few that actually did, and most were former soldiers.
"Where did you serve?" Asked Chip.
"Scuse?" Morgan asked, mouth full of burger and beer.
"You're a soldier, right?"
"I was," He said, voice as dry as the burger. "What of it?"
"Where'd you serve?" Chip repeated. "You must have a few stories from the time."
"So what if I do?" He asked,
"Well, you should tell us." Gunter added "We're old friends after all."
"Old Friends, eh?"
"Thick as thieves," Chip smirked. Morgan cursed under his breathe. He'd been foudn by a pair of newly pricked theives, living the life of robbing and whoring like it was the best thing in the world. One could always tell you'd found one, because they often compared work and wanted to hear stories of how the life was wonderful. It wasn't, but they didn't wish to hear it. Not until they had their own experiences of failure or loss, then they'd change and be just like the others.
"Fine," He said, giving in to their small amount of pestering. He wasn't shy about sharing his past, just that he'd come to enjoy the silence of eating alone, and as it were, that wasn't going to happen any time soon. "I was a soldier, yes. I served in the Desert."
"Did you ever see the Beetle city?"
"Once," Morgan said, trying to recall the day. "While on guard, I wanted to take a closer look, but well..."
"Amazing." Gunter said "Did you serve close to the tribes."
"Nah," Morgan took another long pull from the beer and suddenly wished he had a cigarette. He wasn't one to smoke often, but whent he beer tasted like washed out tar, you ended wishing for the real thing. "Got a smoke?"
One of the men produced a long thin case and extended it, Morgan accepted, opened it, and took the most crumpled looking one. He flicked his thumb and watched as the flame appeared in his hand. It was hot, and burned his finger slowly, mostly because he'd never managed to learn the proper way to defend against it. He lit the smoke quickly and shook his hand to wash away the fire.
"Thanks," He said through grit teeth, mouth wrapped around the cigarette.
"No problem," Said chip, pocketing the object. "Now, tell us more about-"
He told them about his time in the treasure convoy, seeing more gold in one night than most man woudl in their entire lives. He talked about the trade ships and caravans across the sands. The Sea Desert and his time with the Rushala. The Rushala... Formerly the most elite criminals under the employ of the Empire. Of course, he never mentioned that ther were as such, they were a secretive group and weren't known to speak often of their feats.
The night dragged on, and one beer became ten far more quickly than Morgan would have assumed was possible. He continued on with story after story, answering questions about the various commanders and leaders of the time, his opinion of them, and their resulting lack of any back bone to speak of. He was well and truly drunk by the time morning rolled around to show its ugly, bespectacled face.
"You know," Said a weary Chip, "You don't sound like much of a thief."
"Yeah," Said Gunter, just as sloppily as his companion. Morgan grumbled and looked away.
"Well," He said "It isn't about being the best thief in the city. Merful has that job, and its a handfull for him as is."
"Thats fair," said chip, "the man could stand to be a bit nicer."
"Still," Said Gunter, "I have to say. With a history like that, you've made rather a poor showing as a thief."
"Too right," Chip added with a nod, then said "Course we don't think any less of you for it."
"Course not," Morgan said with a plastered on grin. He knew a lie when he heard one.
Eventually the time came that he could no longer keep the sack at his side full of coins, and without any idea of how to refill it, and being the following day, Morgan, whose mind was fuzzy from the beer, made his way out the door of the tavern and towards the room he rented at the Inn. Of course, he'd forgotten all about the reason why he'd been kicked out that morning, and was sure that it was nothing to be concerned about.
As he walked back along the cobbled streets, filled as they were even in the mornings with the various beings that would occupy their times in the roads, he found that he had a strange sense of familiarity with things.
Everyone, whether they are magical or not, has something of an inate ability to predict the future. It isn't anything so special as to provide them with, say, the answers to test questions or the lucky numbers in the lottery, but it did provide them with strange visions occassionaly through the realm of what was and would be.
Morgan, being as he was far drunker than the normal being that would experience this, was completely unaware of the facts he was seeing, and instead treated it as a sense of dejavu, not too dissimilarly to those of the normal minded persuassion. Many refused to believe that the inherit magic was anything other than hot air.
So, as he stepped through the streets, pushing aside people in his drunken stupor and generally causing somewhat of a mess of things, he completely forgot the blade at his side. When he made the next turn and found a young woman standing there with a small sack of luggage and a confused look on her face, it didn't occur to him that he was in the same alleyway he'd gone to with the old woman.
"Excuse me," She said, rather pained in her words "But I'm trying to find the Caravan hub, is there anyway you can..." She stopped, her nose upturned at the scent of the man, then she frowned. "You're drunk,"
"So?" Morgan shot back.
"Look, I-"
"No," said Morgan, " So what if I'm drunk,"
"It doesn't matter, you're right." She said, quickly trying to get on the good side of the deranged drunken mess before her. "I need help getting to somewhere, do you think you could..."
Morgan stumbled on air and fell back against the wall.
"Right," She said.
"I can help you," Morgan slurred "What you want?"
"Caravans," She said the words slowly, piecing the syllabels together with visible strength. She was doing everything in her power not to run this man down, clearly annoyed is what I mean to say.
"Oh," Morgan said, "Right. Near the Ash Gate."
The City of Anun-Felrid was a remarkable feat of engineering. Its pride was nothing so simple as to be won by purely investing in the space, no it was far more difficult than that. The city was designed to be split up and sectioned off, so that in times of crisis they could erect barricades that could seperate sections from sections. The two exceptions to this rule were the river docks, and the Ash Gate, which were both set just outside of the range of several sections, and caused the planners no end of grief from those more symmetrically minded.
"The Ash Gate?"
"New in town then?" Morgan asked
"Just arrived today,"
Even in his drunken state, the rods within his mind that searched for gold or easy targets, were screaming their acknowledgement that this person was, for all tense and purposes, a sucker. She was simple and likely easy enough to con, if he could just sober himself up some, he could make enough money to go back and get drunk again.
"That so?" An air of control trying to slip its way into his voice. It didn't work, only because he still stumbled in the process of trying to walk three feet forward, and nearly ended up on his face.
"Indeed." She said. "Why?"
"It just so happens," Morgans tongue was thicker than he remembered "That I am a marvelous guide."
"Are guides normally dressed so poorly?"
Morgan inspected the trousers, shirt, and vest he wore. They were covered in patches and bits of dirt, but in all it wasn't any worse than he'd had on the regular. He brushed some flakes of the caked on grime off and smiled.
"Some are, yes."
"And do they normally smell of liqour?"
"I was at the tavern," He defended
"And are they normally so drunk?"
"It was a friends birthday," He lied. "Look, do you want to find the Ash Gate or not?"
"I do!" She snapped, a bit more forcefully than she intended. Morgan had made to walk away, but she had reached an arm out and grabbed his shoulder before he could turn. "Sorry, I just-" She wrenched her hand away when she realized the section she had grabbed was slightly damp from where he'd slammed against the wall. "I do, I need help."
"See," He said "Then I can help you."
"Morgan,"
"Fuck. Me. Running."
The voice, familiar as it was now, belonged to Jerome, who looked far more sure of himself this time than the other. Instead of the usual band of Philip and Lance, as well as a myriad of others he never cared to remember the names of, Jerome was backed by a quartet of strong, muscle-bound monsters of men. They were Hianders, stronger, taller, brutish in size and piggish in features. Their tusks protruded from their lower jaws, giving them an almost smiling look.
"What are you doing here?" Jerome asked. He searched over the pair and smiled. "Are we 'helping' again?"
"As a matter of fact," He started, but tripped on an outstretched cobble and fell back against the wall.
"Someones been enjoying themselves with my money."
"Your money?" Morgan asked "That was mine."
"You stole it from a client of ours."
"She gave it to me, as well as the blade."
"I'm very confused." The woman said. She looked over Morgan, then the man with several armed guards behind him, then decided that the drunk was likely her best option. "this man was just trying to help me find the caravans. Surely theres nothing so wrong with that,"
"Surely not," Jerome said "On most days. But you haven't paid the toll."
"Toll?" She asked "What toll."
"The one you need to pay to walk about our streets."
"I see," She said.
"Come now Jerome, just walk away from this." Morgan said. He didn't feel confident in his ability to talk things out, even when sober, but he wasn't about to just stand by and let things progress. He needed that money, and if defending this strange woman was the way he did that, then so be it.
"Shut up," He said. "Get him." He motioned for a pair of the hianders to step forward and grab him.
Morgan, as it has been stated, was a soldier. He was actually a rather competent soldier at that, and as such had learned about several fields of battle. About what to do when facing a superior enemy, about how to handle so many foes at once, about positioning and timing, but they had all come from one rule. Never fight drunk. He was, unfortunately, drunk, so all the information that he had kept away for times like these, were immediately forgotten.
He took a stance of half readiness to fight, and pulled the blade from its sheathe. He wasn't exactly prepared to fight with it, but he needed to look as if he were. The two hianders stopped, then laughed between each other, they towered over him by several heads and cast a wild shadow over his frame as they appraoched.
What came next was, to Morgan, a blur. In reality it was as follows.
The first of the Hianders, a fellow named Mort who had a habit of tending roses on the off days, stepped forward and went to plunge a fist into the mans chest. Morgan wobbled backward and dodged, without really meaning to, then with a single deft motion, swung the blade and lopped off the mans pinkie.
As his companion stepped back, finger not bleeding, the other Hiander, Deavo, pulled the mace from his side and swung. Morgan ducked in time to feel the force of the strike draw wind, just enough to give him a cool breeze and laze the feeling of the fight from his mind. Morgan closed his eyes and fell backward in time to avoid another strike.
When he hit the ground, he realized what was happening again and made the motions to move. His body, however, didn't respond in the normal way, and instead he remained on the ground. He rolled aside as the mace struck the cobblestones he'd just been resting on and he forced himself back up to his feet. By this time the others were beginning to join Deavo. The others, whose names are less important thant he fact that they are twins, were similarly armed with maces. In fact Mort had been the only creature un armed, and had subsequently become un-fingered.
"Lets talk about this," Morgan said wearily. "Like true gentleman."
"Get him damn it!" Jerome snapped.
Two more charged him, but in his stupor he couldn't quite find the way to counter. Instead, Morgan ducked down low and dodged a swing that, without control, flew around and struck one of the other Hianders in the head, knocking them unconcious. Morgan looked down at the sleeping man, then back to the pair that remained before him and said "Surely you can apologize for that later."
With blade still in hand and adrenaline slowly working the alchohal out of his system, Morgan made the quick motions of someone preparing to fight an immovable object, and readied for the coming blows. When they came, he ducked low once more and drove the edge of the dagger into the armpit of the creature on the right. Blood oozed from the wound and coated the blade in a slick wetness. He drew it out, and with a slash, cut an upward line from navel to neck on the last Hiander.
In the aftermath, Morgan alone stood standing as the crowd of Hianders around him either slumped off or lay bleeding profusely. Before Jerome could say anything or draw a weapon, Morgan had grabbed the woman by the arm and said "Follow me." Then darted off towards the Crooked Nail.
The pair of guards out front the Crooked Nail had changed over in the time since he'd left, which was surprising to him given it had been less than an hour. Still, he imagined that people needed to sleep and eat just like everyone else, whether they were a guard or not. So he pushed his way past the two new dissheveled and bored guards and made it inside.
He found a booth, similar to the one he'd taken earlier, and slid in. The woman, who had followed him the entire way, never falling more than a few steps behind, slid in across from him and held her bag next to her. She gave him an inquisative look and before prodding with "So what was all that about?"
"What?" He asked "The guards?"
"The people in the alleyway!" She slammed the table with her fist, drawing a round of cheers from a distant table.
"Welcome to Anun-Felrid." He said, shrugged, then added "got any money?"
"What for?" She asked
"For food, obviously." He said "aren't you hungry?"
"I ate not long ago,"
"Suite yourself," He looked around and contemplated calling over a server, but he didn't have any cash, and as of yet it was unlikely the woman would aid him.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Morgan," Morgan said, extending a grubby hand across the table. She accepted it gratefully and shook with a firmer grip than he'd expected.
"Artessa," The woman said.
"So, Artessa, what brings you to our great city?"
"I'm just passing through, actually." She said. "But I got held up in the interim and was on my way to the caravans. Turns out there was another plan for me,"
"Sorry about that." He offered. "Those guys can be quite a lot."
"So it seemed." She said, a frown spread across her face and she folded her arms. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Who were they?"
"Thieves, common criminals that would have taken it into their heads to have robbed you."
"So you saved me then?"
"Not exactly..." He said. "But in a way, yes I suppose I did. You're welcome."
"Funny," She said "It seemed like they were mainly after you."
"Well..." He trailed off "They may have been a bit more annoyed with me than interested in you, perhaps."
"Right." She drew the word out. "Do you often get in fights?"
"Not often," He lied. Truth of the matter, Morgan got in a fight a week, if not more. He wasn't exactly good at the whole 'staying out of trouble' business, but that didn't need to be the first thing that anyone knew of him. That was reserved for the terrible acount of taste that marked his outfits.
"But you can fight?" She persisted.
"I suppose." He said, "I used to be a soldier."
"What happened to you?" She asked "Injury?"
"Change of times." He said lamely "Surely there are more interesting things to talk about than my past? What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yes," He said "What about you and your goal."
"Goal?"
"What are you doing in Anun-Felrid? Besides going to the caravans."
"Thats it," She said. "I'm trying to get to Flarda."
Morgan stopped. Flarda was a coastal city across the ocean and nearly three months journey from their current location, assuming all went well on the travel, and that was assuming a lot. It was said that, on ceratin nights, sailors could look out over the ocean and see the lights of the City even from around the Equinswade. Morgan didn't believe it, mostly just because he'd never seen light travel over water, nor had he had much experience with the ocean and lights playing tricks on the eyes.
"Thats quite some distance." Morgan offered, "by yourself."
"Yes," She puffed up her chest and sat up straighter "I just haven't foudn the right guard."
"So it seems," He said absently. He was looking around at the groups of others from his mornings rousings. Certainly they were aware of what he was trying to do, and part of him thought that they'd come to ruin it. None did, though this was mostly due to the fact that they had forgoten all about him in the time between.
"What about you?" She asked.
"What about me?"
"What are you doing in the city?"
"I live here, I'll have you know that I own property here." He lied again. When one was concocting a story about themselves, it was best to keep the lies small but wide. "I'm a contributing member of the society."
"Oh," She said. "Sorry, then."
"For?"
"I had assumed you were homeless." She said, then added hastily "Mostly by the way you were dressed."
"Is there something wrong with my clothing?"
"No!" She said, a tad faster than she should have.
He inspected the outfit, it wasn't that the trousers and shirt were large... it was just that he'd lost some weight in the time since when they'd fit last. He wasn't to blame for that, surely there were others at fault. The cooks for one.
"I see." He said.
"So what do you do, Mr. Morgan."
"Just Morgan," He said. "I work here and there as a guide."
"Mhm." She said "Right."
"I do." He protested
"Of course, of course." Her arms, folded as they were, seemed to fold over again. Doubling her appearance of disconcert and absence of trust. "A guard with combat talent like that?"
"Just some left over skills from when I served."
"And how is business?" She asked, her voice creeking upward in tone "Been good? Yes?"
"Not especially..." He rubbed his neck and made a swirling motion with his other hand. "Times are hard. Things just aren't what they used to be."
"Oh, thats a shame. I suppose you've been doing this for sometime then, supporting a family no doubt."
"Nah," He said. "No such luck. Been by myself for a while."
Artessas face lit up like a candle and seemed to beam joy at his words. "So you're all alone then?"
"Yes?" He was beginning to worry about who he had just taken with him. "Why?"
"Well," She started, leaning back. "I'm going to Flarda, and like you said its a very far distance. I could use a guard, you said so yourself."
"Yes. That I did."
"So?"
He paused, the thought forming in his mind slowly, eventually filling the space with realization. "Me?"
"What do you say?"
"You hardly know me," He said. For some reason he felt the need to poke holes in her theory. He was a criminal and theif. He wasn't a good man or a protector. He was a bad person, all things considered. "I could be a criminal."
"You could be." She said. "But I don't think it matters. In fact, so long as you're loyal it may work to our benefit."
"Hows that?"
"No one will step up to fight a criminal, not unless they really can fight."
"I'm not seeing a positive here."
"Look, all I'm asking is for you to accompany me to Flarda, defend me should things get a little... worse, and keep me company."
"I don't..."
"I can pay you. Two silver a day?"
Two was more than he'd held in quite some time. The last was during a particularly productive gambling session that ended with his head mysteriously hurting the next day and his pockets being emptied. It was an instance he wasn't willing to repeat. Two silver a day. Just a weeks wages could put him up in a house with food and drink for a month. The trip to Flarda could take several months, by the time he'd arrive...
His brain ran the calculations faster than his lips could move, so when it was that he finally said "Uhm, sure?" He had already purchased mentally several new locations and planned a number of activities for himself on the return.
"Excellent." She said. She clapped her hands together and grabbed a few pieces of silver from a bag that seemed to vanish after she let it go. She slid them across the table and smiled. "Here, as a down payment on your services."
"Uh, thank you." He muttered. Absently he grabbed the coins and fiddled with the silver in his palms. It felt heavier than the copper coins. He knew it was worth more, but for some reason seeing and feeling the shape of the coins made the whole piece feel more real.
"So I imagine you'll need a day to pack and prepare. I'll give you a bit of time today to get your affairs in order while I book us passage on the caravan out of town. I'd say we could meet back up in about, oh, five hours. That ought to be enough, time." The words left her mouth almost in one breath.
"S-sure." He stammered. Suddenly he was feeling a tad overwhelmed. "I'll make sure to get my, uh, affairs, in order. As it were."
