Fate - First Reply Alms for the Poor

[Dante Storta]

Dante sucked his teeth as he took in the city of Elbion. The spires that stretched skyward seemed to reach for their pieces that still hung in the air. The visage was poetic, if you liked that kind of thing. The city looked other worldly to him. He’d spent his entire life in the sands staring at the cupola littered skyline of Lazular and now as he took in the famous city he had to say… Meh. If you’ve seen one place that was full of itself you’ve seen them all. The Sellsword hefted his pack, which he’d filled with spices of all varieties, and made his way toward the city.

The streets were cramped. Everywhere you turned someone was in your face trying to proffer some magical trinket, potion, or miracle salve. Though, truth be told, this was mostly his fault. He’d been trying to avoid the merchant district and had someone ended up walking right through it’s heart.

Gleaming steel caught his eye and Dante found himself admiring the craftsmanship of a short sword in the window of a shop. One of Bellatarra’s many catchphrases drifted through his memory, You can never have too many knives.

Dante clucked his tongue a couple of times weighing it out… then stepped through the door.

A few moments later he had a new dagger on his belt and the name of a tavern on his lips. He crossed a river loch and spotted the sign. There had to have been a Mermaid’s Pearl in every city with a port, but the nautical theme didn’t throw him off. He sideled up to the bar, ordered an ale, then asked the barkeep, “How much for a lay of the land here in the Magical City of Elbion? I’m looking for a spot of work.”

The barkeep took Dante in for a moment then asked, “You a bard or something?”
Dante forced himself to swallow his ale, cleared his throat and said, “No, I’m a sellsword.”

 

[Corvetius of Ruthgaard]

Spoiler: Music

"Pah! Another one."

Whoops and braying laughter erupted behind Dante. Upon turning, he would see a middle-aged man wearing an impressive chaperon of scarlet velvet laced with gold, and a similarly styled tunic with broad, frilled sleeves. About him sat three men-at-arms, faces about as beaten and kneaded as their crinkled gambersons, all big grins and small eyes. The man in finer silks whipped his hand out after a decisive swig from his mug, using Dante as the perfect demonstration of his conjecture, multiple jowls quivering from launching into an energised seminar:

"See, that's what I always find about sell-swords. They are oft better at selling themselves rather than swinging any blade!" Cue laughter from goons and much slapping on knees. "Always proffering their services like some quack alchemist or stray day labourer. Scarce able to pay for so much as a rusty gauntlet. Observe: the swordsman of today!" The hand traveled up and down, taking measure of Dante's profile. "All lean bones and flimsy, boiled leather. Where's the meat and plate, here? The military grit? The salt of discipline?!"

Dante Storta

 

[Dante Storta]

Dante’s incredulity died on his tongue as a voice rose up from behind him. He didn’t turn to see where it came from, not yet, he was familiar with naysayers and doubters alike. He knew how he looked, and he knew he was too fresh faced in this city of magicians and soothsayers to warrant anything more than what he was getting now.

After calming his temper Dante turned, a small smirk pulling on his lips, as if he was a part of the joke rather than the butt of it. One hand fell to the hilt of the new dagger at his belt while the other held his ale. He took a long drag on the amber drink, his dark eyes watching the pontificant as they theatrically waved their arms about.

As the dandy’s sermon came to it’s conclusion, Dante gave a little bow, which earned him a few jeers and a couple whoops of his own. He knew this guy felt untouchable, the cretins behind him made sure of that, but Storta knew a secret most men forgot… everyone bleeds when cut.

“It sounds like you’re in the market for quality, I take two docatto as a deposit— You wouldn't believe how many refined people end up being broker than mule scat at the end of the day— and of course there’s my retainer fee of a ten zoldo a week and I get double as soon as any fighting starts. Now, if your coffers aren't as deep as your clothing…” Dante looked the man over, his expression reminiscent of smelling a fart, “...is trying to suggest I understand,” he opened this statement up to the rest of the bar being sure to clock the three goons who obviously worked for fancy pants, “But, I’m afraid our conversations from this point forward has concluded and any continued slander will guarantee your chances of bodily harm.”

Dante’s little smirk spread into a sneer and he took another sip of his ale, utterly unbothered, and prepared for the inevitable violence that was to come.

Corvetius of Ruthgaard

 

[Corvetius of Ruthgaard]

"Market for-- take two docatto-- ten zoldo a week?!"

Corvetius spluttered out his indignation, and his company looked confused. Probably too many numbers tossed about for them. But as Lord Ruthgaard's prime bailiff, these numbers ran quick metrics in his mind, which was an outrageous sum for a lowly sellsword. Such coin could buy one a whole Lance of three men, for goodness sake!

He squinted and gave his men-at-arms a side glance. Thank Astra that most of them could barely count to ten, or they might start questioning their own rate of pay.

But now, it was time to put this rapscallion in his place. With ceremonial dignity, Corvetius finished his mug of ale, then slammed it down on the table in thorough punctuation. His chair scraped back, intentionally loud, gathering all the attention of the Mermaid's Pearl like one might methodically sweep up dust into a pile. He adjusted the belts crossing his midsection, puffing out his red velvet chest like a greater-sage grouse. In carefully orchestrated swagger, he sauntered around his own table, facing Dante -- man to man, eye to eye, resting a hand on the pommel of his own sheathed sword.

"Now you listen here, you scalawag. I don't know which high horse you think you've just dismounted, but I'll have you know who you're talking to. That might make you want to reconsider your uncouth words." He lifted a finger at Dante's face, insultingly close; one eye squinted with devilish calculation, the other widened in predatory glee. "You stand in the presence of Sir Corvetius Tinworth Pettybrand of Ruthgaard, serving Lord Ruthgaard, by the same name. And now I don't often go out of my way to teach commoners about courtesy, but so help me all the Gods, I shall make you swallow those words along with your piss-poor drink."

Slowly, his men rose and circled them; sharks smelling blood, fingers clenching in anticipation.

Dante Storta