Private Tales A walk on the dock.

[Salogan]

Sal could still taste the ale on his lips, the lingering tones of malt and various spices. It was his doing but he justified it. He needed to blend in, to appear as one of them. The task was a simple one, involving the exchange of coin and the emptying of pewter tankards against tables in a run down tavern on the wharf. Men howled, women took coin that was offered, and hands were played until there was nothing left. The jingle in a mans step was quickly replaced with a wobble, sauntering home with nothing but stink and empty pockets.

Sal had not fared well at the numerous rounds of cards but even as a pirate, he never had a knack for it. But it wasn’t money he was looking for, it was knowledge and rumors. These were a form of their own currency, sometimes a form of economics that an assassin could live on. A cornerstone, a means for momentum.

Between the tavern and the warehouses along the wharf, it was an uneven amalgamate of bare sodden soil and dirt covered planks of warped wood. Long rods of steel stood out from the ground, bent over like an old man’s hunch, and supported hexagonal lanterns at three meters height. A tall spindly figure moved up and down the piers like a quiet ghost, checking the candles to ensure the path was well lit.

This area had rumors of their own. Rapists and molesters, murders seeking an easy prize, and crime that leaked out from the bowels of the Shallows. It was odd that it could travel upstream, as it did, absorbing past the Outer City and into the heart of Alliria. But this was where the trades were made, where the pirates thrived, and the portcullis was rarely closed.

Sal took his time as he walked, unfolding the directions inscribed on the damp papyrus. The boards were bent and missing nails, the lapping of the Strait washed out any noise he could have made with his careful steps. The warehouse appeared unguarded but he assumed that was intentional. Standing at nearly 10 meters tall, the building was three times as long as it was wide and contained an inner berth for small vessel maneuvering on the back half. The muddy and boarded path sloped downward and curved into the back end of the building, ending the path at a small alcove that bled directly into the river.

Sal stood silently in the dark upon an abandoned pier. The signage indicated that the structure was abandoned, likely left for renovations that would never come. The boards rose and fell with the incoming chop, shimmying up and down the reinforced pylons with lazy groans. Even from this far away, he could hear the inner banter.

The fisherman was not alone. He and his gang numbered many and they spoke of many things. But Sal didn’t care for these words or those actions. His focus was on the crimes of slaving, right beneath the nose of Allirian law. And he had decided that this Fish Peddlers time was up, his severed finger would fetch a pretty purse.

And he would join the Pantheon, just like all those who came before him.

Grimolf Ozursson

 

[Grimolf Ozursson]

Grimolf snarled at his own situation as he practically slithered his massive frame through the shadows that surrounded the docks, careful not step on any of the questionable boards that could crack and crumble under his considerable weight. This had never been the plan. He had only intended to go as far as the Spine, the bounties around Molthal had been plentiful and there had been enough coin in question to keep Grimolf’s appetite for currency sated until he deemed it time to return to Nordengard. Unfortunately, plans never went as intended.

A weathered traveling merchant with a desperate look in his eyes approached Grimolf several miles south of the borders of Molthal where the Nordenfiil had been preparing to track down one of the blight orcs that the nearby bounty check station would pay good coin for. Oddly enough the old man didn’t even flinch with the tip of the Nord’s spear pricking his Adam’s apple. He explained that his son had been taken by a well established slaver and sold to the orc’s of Mothal. Grimolf spat on the ground and cut the man off before he could ask for his son to be rescued, “Your kind is weak.. Frail. The boy is dead or will be soon.” Evidently, the merchant had already come to that conclusion because he dropped a coin purse on the ground and told him the other half would come when the slaver’s head was brought to him. Grimolf could not turn down that amount of coin. Thus the trip to Alliria began.

Crouching low, Grimolf found the rickety shack that was supposedly where the fisherman and his gang of thugs held their meetings. Information wasn’t hard to come in Alliria when a dagger was involved. Drunkards spill all of their little secrets when their fingernails are removed one by one. That was the only good thing about this gods-forsaken city.
The humidity was the worst part for the Nordenfiil who was much more accustom to the drier and much colder climates. Sweat poured from his forehead tracing down through the red warpaint smeared across his eyes and nose. Pushing his own discomfort to back of his head, Grimolf pulled his spear from the leather holder on his back and slowly approached the shack but froze and turned his nose up to the sky. There was a scent that stood out among the plethora of other smells around the docks, someone else was here.

The problem with hunting a renown criminal is that there was usually more than one person that wanted the target dead. That meant competition and in this line of business usually led to violence. The beast within rattled it’s cage viciously at the thought of another potential altercation. He turned his back to the shack and dropped to one knee scanning his surroundings for whoever was encroaching on his contract.

 

[Salogan]

The pile supports sighed as the chop died back, as if mustering some audible form of relief from the tidal whipping. Sal had knelt against the pylon, finding something unexpected in his narrowed view. Golden eyes lifted from the cracked leather cowl, a suitable arrangement of garb for someone of his profession, as he surveyed the figure approaching the warehouse.

In his travels, Sal had known and been acquainted with a select number of the people from the North. Eretejva was a good distance away, a sequestered set of isles that boasted a robust land to match the people that descended their mountains. The earthen tones of musk filled the air, washing out some of the finer elements of saltwater, and gave the man’s position away to the keen and to the beast alike. It was a curious thing, seeing a figure like this skulking near the domain of a slaver. Sal found himself in a position that conflicted between inconvenience and interest.

If, as he suspected, this figure was here for some form of dispatching, then the path between Sal and the Fish Peddler had become suddenly burdened with solitary obstacle. From this distance, the light betrayed the man of furs and musk and gave the advantage to the Komodo. For he was not a frontal attack or boisterous sort, he clung to the shadows as his trade.

The firelight's, lighting the way of the path from the warehouse to the Fire and Stone tavern, flickered in the sudden exhalation of a strong wind. The sea-foam churned as an abrupt rain formed in loquacious pitter patter, clapping thick drops of rain against pier boards and mud alike. Sal bared his teeth in frustration, the scent of sod and soil replaced with something chemical or unearthly. But it behooved him in the same breath, obscuring the sound of his movement and killing the lights that would reveal him.

Crouching and taking the long way around, Sal found an adjacent building attached to the wharf, and quickly scaled the brick siding. Timing his step as he approached the edge of the roof, a lightning strike lit up the night and resounded with a thunderous cacophony. Jumping, he landed atop the building as he struck the red earth ceramic tiling. While he had made attempts to conceal the sound of his presence, he was sure the physical nature would have been illuminated with act of God forming overhead. Iasimu watched over him now as he moved delicately across the roofing, giving and taking in the simultaneous acts.

Such were the way of Gods, blessing and curses came hand-in-hand.

As he stepped lightly, there was laughter and screams that occurred in tandem below. Proximity brought the smell of blood to his attention, even with the swift deluge to wash things away. Suffering was an acute and chronic affliction of this building, soaking into the brick and mortar. And it needed a remedy.

Grimolf Ozursson

 

[Grimolf Ozursson]

As the rain began to fall Grimolf slowly stood up to his full height and removed his shield from its place on his back. His wild mane of hair plastering itself to his face and neck as the water slowly soaked his armor and body, the red warpaint washing down his face in a eerily resemblance of blood. The scent was faint now due to the precipitation dampening its potency but it was enough to catch a location every once in a while. Whomever this was had went on the offensive without any hesitation at all. That in itself was enough to partially earn Grimolf’s respect.

The possibility of a amateur trespassing on his contract quickly removed itself from the question. Despite not being able to catch sight of the stranger it was becoming increasing obvious that each movement was calculated. Anything outside of a professional would have rushed headlong into the fray from the initial contact but instead the stranger was sticking to the shadows and skirting the outskirts of what could very well end becoming a battlefield.

The Nord narrowed his eyes over his left shoulder and listened intently to the ongoing conversations inside the shack. Good, they weren’t showing any signs of the meeting ending soon. There was time to deal with this… problem. As lightning cracked across the sky in a blinding spider web of electricity Grimolf caught sight of his new ‘friend’ atop the tavern. A savage grin plastered itself across his face.

With surprising speed for his size, Grimolf burst forward and vaulted himself to the top of a pile of supply crates against the tavern’s stone wall and then up to the roof landing in a crouch. His shield immediately situated in front of him and his spear held out to the side in a ready position. Should this turn violent he was ready. Cold eyes scanned the figure and despite the leather cowl it became apparent that whatever race this man belonged to Grimolf was sure he had never crossed path with one.

“The Gods have seen it fit to set us on the same mark, Assassin.” Grimolf’s voice was cold and horse sounding closer to that of a beast rather than a man. Taking a risk, the warrior stood from his crouch but kept his shield and spear at the ready. “I am under a blood contract to take out the slaver for a good amount of coin. Reneging on that agreement is out of the question.” Nor was turning his back on an opportunity to make that much coin.

 

[Salogan]

He contemplated, as the brute landed on the roof with him, that this engagement wasn’t one worth having. The night was his ally, as was the storm, but he was never one for this sort of confrontation. Open winds and the open world didn’t favor him. Sal found comfort in tight corridors, poorly lit alley ways, or an enclosed space with many obstacles to climb or hide around. Quite steps would get him nowhere now.

Instead of immediately responding, Sal measured the man with quite breaths. And the words he had spoken. His scale covered hand, masked by a glove of knitted hide, gripped at the wooden handle on the blade at the small of his back. Enough of the metal was withdrawn on instinct, gleaming with every rare strike of lightning, to fully indicate the presence of the weapon. The Nord Man had a duplicitous nature, moving swifter and with greater ease than his body or size would initially hint. He was a big figure, even crouching and concealing his body behind the round shield. Sal was curious if the rumors of their changings were true, if the Svalen was an actual state of being.

“Gods…” Sal’s gaze of dirty gold departed from the other warrior to survey a crack in the clay roofing tile. He wondered how long this place had existed, how long it would continue to exist afterwards. He wondered if the Fish Peddler had a family, if there was justice in revisiting these crimes upon his own ilk. Would the Gods favor that decision or would they find it crass and overdone. Revenge was a delicate line and Sal knew not how to navigate it.

All he knew was that the Fish Peddler’s death was a long standing order, as demanded by the papyrus and inscribed directions. Only when it was washed in his blood, when the man’s index finger rested in the folds, could Sal consider his job done.

He looked back towards the Nordenfiir, an expression of disappointment ghosting across his thin lips. “What propels you? Justice or coin?”

He was ever attentive and his gaze shifted as the rabble within the building died down. Bald brows furrowed, the window for this dealing of death was coming to a close.

Grimolf Ozursson

 

[Grimolf Ozursson]

Eyes quickly shifting back and forth between the large frame of the evident interloper and the shack that contained his prey, Grimolf growled lowly as impatience began to set in. The longer the two of them stood atop the tavern and debated whether their quarrel was of greater importance than that of killing the slaver the less time either of them would have to complete the job. Once the odd looking fellow finally spoke the Nordenfiil focused all of his attention on him once again.

“Yes, the Gods. Or shit luck. Whichever you’d rather believe in.” He snarled before throwing his shield back over his shoulder and stood up straight, blatantly ignoring the man’s hand on the hilt of his own blade. Grimolf had fought enough battles to know when a man wasn’t committed to the fight before him and that suited him just fine. The last thing he needed was to draw more attention to himself within the walls of this giant city. There were many who didn’t take kindly to outsiders and would be delighted to see him hang or burn at the stake for disturbing what they considered their norm.

The odd man’s question caused Grimolf to raise a eyebrow, what was the driving reason that pushed him to do what it was he did? That answer was as simple as it ever would be. “Coin is the only reason I take these contracts.” He stated impatiently, “The job gets done, justice is served and I get paid. Don’t tell your stupid enough to be doing this shit for free?” Justice didn’t put whores in his bed or mead in his tankard, nor would it buy him passage back to his homeland when he deigned it time to return. Morals were nothing but a hindrance in this line of work.

Grimolf’s head snapped back to the shack as the noise inside died down and the door opened, light from lanterns inside beaming through the threshold and burning the darkness away. “I need the head for my payment. Do your job and I’ll do mine.” He said lowly before turning and stepping to the edge of the roof, careful not lose his footing on the now soaking wet tiles. He held his spear in a throwing position with a white knuckle grip and as the first man became visible in the doorway he let the spear fly with a grunt.

The deadly blur halted once it had ripped through the gang member’s chest with enough force to launch him back into the shack. As the cries of shock and rage echoed into the knight Grimolf looked back over his shoulder at the stranger with a savage grin, “Show me your mettle, strange one.” With that said the Nord launched himself from the rooftop and drew a short sword from his hip and the shield from his back, rushing forward with a vicious battlecry.

The time for blood was nigh.

Salogan

 

[Salogan]

By the route of the conversation, Sal had to assume that the man either knew very little of the Gods or perhaps a little too much. It was true that the Gods were likely afoot regarding their interaction, but it was obviously not a blessing for either. It was clear, on posture alone, that neither of the men needed each other's aid in order to end the life of needless Fish Peddler. Which meant that they were either to be ships passing in the night, or rocky outcroppings sent to smack against each other.

Entertainment for the Gods.

"Stupid enough, perhaps." He responded with a faint smirk as his attention followed that of the Hunters. Understanding his own true value, it was no large feat to also understand his own limitations. If pride and justice and redemption were his goals, then foolishness made for a welcome bedfellow.

Sal crouched as he flared out his drenched overcoat, watching the man as he prepared to fling the spear. The Komodo's tail whipped out, offering him a sudden sixth sense regarding balance and movement as he moved forward carefully, taking mindful steps on the ceramic descent. Just as the spear was launched and the Hunter turned to offer command, Sal leaped upward with a spring that approached magical. His aim wasn't the ground heading towards the shack but, instead, the slanted roof.

He landed with a nearly soundless thud as figures rushed out from the doorway. Taking this as his cue, he gripped the edging of the roof and propelled himself in through an opened glass pane on the back of the building. As he came to a stop, he quickly surveyed the room.

The men rushing out numbered nearly in a dozen and the shack was large enough to fit several long boats out of water. In the corner, three women and two children sat bound with feet and hands anchored to the ground by heavy rusted chain. Sal moved forward, absent hesitation, as a single throwing knife dug deep into the back of the neck of the slowest pursuer. The man fell to to the barren ground, within the shack, with a guff. Sal approached the figure pierced by the spear, now pinned to the back wall.

Placing his four digit hand on the shaft, he shushed the man pinned to the wall with a murmur, digging his shortblade deep into figures chest. His life left and Sal turned back to the group, half of whom were now keen to his presence. In the middle, the Fish Peddler stood with butchers blade in hand.

Grimolf Ozursson