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

 

[Dante Storta]

Dante’s expression never shifted. He wasn’t afraid of this blowhard, and he wasn’t afraid of his goons. The pomp and ceremony on display was exactly what one would expect from someone with no real power. They clung to the shreds of authority they could suckle from their betters and then spit their superiority on anyone they considered beneath them.

Storta saw the sideways glance. He weighed the look, was it an unspoken command or was that a tinge of nerves. With an unwarranted flourish, the pompous man downed the rest of his drink then slammed it down on the table. Dante was still at the bar, he hadn’t moved since this moron had started spouting his nonsense, but now he turned his head to the side talking out the side of his mouth while still keeping his eyes on Pomp incarnate, “Kinda rude of him to slam your mug on your table, aye?”

The Bartender was obviously trying to stay out of this, but there was something about disrespect that riled men who worked hard as hell to create a life with their own hands. His expression hardened a fraction. Imperceivable if you weren’t looking for it. The scrape of Pomp's chair recaptured the attention of the other patrons. The banter that had drummed back up was cut short and silence filled the room. The Pomp sauntered around his table and came for Dante.

The Sellsword’s smile didn’t falter. His eyes flicked to Pomp’s hand as it landed on the pommel of his blade. Dante’s sneer adopted a predatorial gleam. The finger waggled in his face enlisted no emotion because a dead man can’t offend. Storta shifted his weight, a small movement, insignificant to someone who didn't understand combat. A fleck of spit from the esteemed servant of a more powerful man landed on Storta’s boiled leather chest piece.

Pettybrand’s goons got up and fanned around them. They wouldn’t be able to get behind him without going behind the bar and the remark about the piss-poor drink hadn’t sat well with the owner of this establishment. Dante let his eyes flick to the sharks, he ran a little mental math and once he was satisfied, his gaze returned to Pettybrand, “Last warning.”

Corvetius of Ruthgaard

 

[Corvetius of Ruthgaard]

Corvetius looked him in the eye. Then he threw back his head and chuckled, looking at his men. One stared blankly back at him. Corvetius had to give him an encouraging clearing of his throat and overt expression. The man rapidly guffawed, leading the others to chortle. Four laughing faces around Dante.

"Listen to this! Last warning, he says," Corvetius said loudly, mocking Dante's low voice.

He smirked while the others cackled like imps. He knew even the most hardened sellsword couldn't afford to get into a scrap with a man of office. He saw right through his ploy. And even if he did, Corvetius wouldn't make the mistake of throwing the first punch. Let the sergeants-at-law grab testimony that it was this ruffian who first lay hands on him, if he was daft enough to make such a mistake. Despite his misgivings, Corvetius could see wit in those narrow eyes. No, this sellsword wouldn't commit such a grave error.

But one of Corvetius' own men did.

Perhaps emboldened by their shared chortle, one of them, Lampfrey, put his meaty, pasty hand on Dante's shoulder.

Dante Storta

 

[Dante Storta]

As Dante expected, Pettybrand backed off, but The Sellsword didn’t relax. Violence had rules when there were witnesses. So far, Pettybrand and his cadre had egged on the situation, they’d been pushing to goad him into an altercation and then point the finger when the law showed up, Dante hadn’t taken the bait, so now Pettybrand had to think of another way to come at him… at least until one of his goons made a grave error.

Lamphry’s hand landed hard on Dante’s shoulder and The Sellsword reacted instantly.

The hand that was on Dante’s new dagger came free then up and over the arm on his shoulder securing the big man in place at the elbow, while the hand holding his drink slammed into the thug’s thick face. The cup exploded under the impact of the hit, blood mixed with ale in a cocktail no one wanted to drink. Lamphry was unconscious the moment the cup smashed into his face, but Dante was the one sending the message now. The Sellsword hit the thug two more times in the face and then let his limp body fall.

The whole bloody affair played out in the space of a breath, the other thugs were frozen, caught somewhere between shock and building fury, a couple of riled dogs eagerly waiting on their master’s word. The bar was suddenly a powdered keg. Everyone was on edge, the fun of watching an official hassle a newcomer had faded and all that was left was a single question:

“Anyone else?”

Corvetius of Ruthgaard

 

[Corvetius of Ruthgaard]

Spoiler: Music

The three remaining men stood and gawked, too shocked to immediately react. Corvetius had taken a step back, face twitching with disbelief.

It took a stumbling second or two for Corvetius to find his words, much of his former pomp drained before brutal necessity:

"Well—well don't just stand there! he cried, pointing at Dante like a general might point at an enemy army, his other hand still resting indecisively on his swordhilt. "Hit him!"

With a mutual roar, the two remaining men-at-arms jumped Dante. One swung a mighty haymaker for Dante's face, seeking to launch him over the bar with his blow, while the other pulled a glinting dagger in a hiss of steel and reached out with his other hand to arrest the sellsword's dangerous swordarm.

Lampfrey drooled on the floor, eyes crawling up into their bloodied head.

Dante Storta

 

[Dante Storta]

Strota’s rhetorical words hung in the air for a beat before Pettybrand found his voice. The unmistakable quiver in his tone brought Dante more joy than it should have, but he didn’t have time to relish the moment.

Fury had a funny way of ruining good plans. The overly eager goons rushed to take Dante at the same time, but their lack of communication made their attempt a half hearted one. The haymaker coming for him was retribution incarnate, but it’s sloppy execution made the move easy to read. Dante slid in toward the good throwing the punch, then slipped under the attack putting himself on the Thug’s backside, and putting the punch thrower between his companion and Dante. The Sellsword drew his leg back and kicked Haymaker right in the posterior, sending him off balance and into his comrade.

The duo intertwined Haymaker trying to steady himself and Grabber still reaching for someone who was no longer there. They tangled like two new lovers, each squabbling to get their balance while locked in a dance neither of them was prepared for. Lamphry’s unconscious body still lay on the floor and without any encouragement from Dante, the pair tripped over their friend and toppled to the ground. The naked dagger in Grabber’s hand clattered to the floor.

A peel of laughter cut across the room like a spark of flame on dry tinder.

Dante held Pettybrand’s gaze, then shrugged saying, “Guess you get what you pay for.”

Corvetius of Ruthgaard

 

[Corvetius of Ruthgaard]

The men crumpled, cursed and rolled over one another, scrambling to find their footing. Laughter and snickers rippled through the tavern. Corvetius' finger was still halfway pointing at Dante, as if incapable of understanding how the simple order hit him had resulted in this debacle. Gradually, that hand hovered between an array of aborted gestures: halfway between a clenched fist, then pinched fingers and a shaking hand struggling to make heads or tails of what had just happened, then planted on his hat in a near flabberghasted faceplam, before finally sinking and landing on his moled chin, rubbing it in grave consideration. The bailiff, ever a man of counting coins, ran some quick arithmetic in his head. The price of a three-manned lance, hm, and he just mopped the floor with three of my lads . . .

His men-at-arms rose for another round, but Corvetius' hand whipped out in a flat palm, stunting their battlecries.

"No, no — enough of that."

"But he knocked Lampfrey's brains out, sir!"

"I reckon his brain matter is still very much confined to his skull, Peter. All three grains of it . . ." He muttered more quietly to himself. Eyes still narrowed in consideration from running numbers, Corvetius made a rapid, beckoning gesture at Dante. "Will you — ah — step outside with me, for a moment?" His hands raised, flat and placating. "I swear to you, no foul play. Boys, you have another round on me." He noticed Lampfrey still drooling on the floor, now forming a puddle of spit and blood, and clicked his tongue in annoyance, swiping his arm up and down at him. "And will someone splash some water in Lampfrey's face?! Get that man back up on his feet, for heavens' sake."

The man of taxes stepped outside the establishment, and if Dante followed, would promptly turn to him outside earshot of its patrons, face intensely mercantile:

"Now how much did you say you charged again, hmm?"

Dante Storta

 

[Dante Storta]

Satisfied that no one else was going to try to stab or bash his head in at the present, Dante leaned back against the bar. He turned to the barkeep, “Sorry about the mug, mate, mind putting that on his tab?”

The bartender grunted and Dante chose to assume that was an affirmative. He watched Pettybrand do his best to save face as his men finally started to straggle up from the ground. He stopped them, and they protested, but Ser Corvetius Tinworth Pettybrand of Ruthgaard seemed to have had a sudden change of heart.

Dante didn’t trust this old cogger as far as he could throw him, but his curiosity got the best of him and he decided to follow him outside, but not before getting another mug of ale. Wouldn’t do for a Sellsword to be seen fraternizing with an enemy without a weapon.

Pettybrand almost got a mug to the face when he swung around on Dante, but Storta managed to restrain the urge by taking a drink.

“Don’t waste my time,” said Dante, “You know exactly what my price is.”

Storta would let the Bailiff chew on that a moment before asking, “What are you really after?”

Corvetius of Ruthgaard