A job offer...(Brotherhood Closed to Storm)

[Jethro]

The bar stank, there was the smell of grease mixed with tobacco and other smoke, mixed with sweat and other body odors. The scenery wasn't much better in fact the entire setup was something of a cliche. ~Why was it when there was a mysterious message sent for clandestine people to meet it was in one of these places?~ wondered Jethro as he watched his surroundings.

Jethro preferred to not be in expected places and so he tended to move. The city of Ettermire had dried up for him and so he took the first scow out of Raiaera he didn't know where he was going until he was nearly a hundred sea miles from Ettermire. Even so when he reached Radasanth he was surprised to be met with a message. He was requested to meet someone for..."heavy work" cryptic and vague was the name of the game here.

He was getting restless. Had it been hours or minutes? was the question on hand looking out of the window he noticed that the shadows on the ground and changed position enough to have been hours. Under his skin Jethro could feel his swarm growing restless too they scrambled under his skin showing odd moving bumps randomly growing his skin before abruptly disappearing.

Jethro ordered some sort of fried fish with sweet potatoes on the side and a bottle of mead as he waited. The meal was simple and left a layer of film over his tongue. As meals in bars went it was about the average fare and he didn't complain he simply ate and waited. He was restless but not impatient he would either meet the gentleman in question by the nights end or by morning he would somewhere else. He wasn't sure where.

[Storm Veritas]

The bar jingled a gentle chime to welcome the entry of Storm Veritas, who strolled in with a cold gaze, squinted eyes, and uncharacteristic sobriety. The blast of warm air kissed his face with a great suddenness that stood far apart from the cool air of a moonless Coronian evening, and the underlying stench of mediocrity hit him in a wave. He was a long way from his ruling quarters of Whitevale, which was of course entirely by design.

By Am’aleh’s hairy tits! If I had known this place was the trash fire it really was, I would have just asked the big sonofabitch to meet me up in Radasanth or roll the die down in Whitevale.

Scanning the perimeter of the room, the experienced wizard took in the room as he tidily hung his overcoat on a large wooden rack by the door. As was typical in this little sphere of the world, there would be no barmaid to welcome the man in the meticulously tailored leathers to a table. His riding clothes were still fresh and clean, leaving him sharply contrasted from the general disarray which surrounded him.

There were a dozen or so patrons, enough to quantify a “public” place without being loud. The obvious contact sat by the window, a thick little man chewing mercilessly on something terrible and giving furtive glances about the place. Elsewhere, pairs and trios of exclusively men chewed on thick cigars and chattered mindlessly over tall, frothy beers.

Look at that little bastard! Glancing around, sober as a judge, thick as a goddamned powderkeg. If he’s half as tough as he is simple looking, he’s f*cking perfect!

Sliding into the makeshift bench opposite his obvious contact, Storm caught the wide-eyed young man with a simple grin. There was a certain confidence that came with power, and the electromancer wielded it with great pride. There was no reason to fear any of the punch-drunk morons that lingered about this place.

“Easy, fella. Had to get you out here, had to offer a place public, discrete, and simple. Gotta say I’m a little disappointed you’re not drinking; we’ll have to fix that.”

Storm motioned to a bartender who was now focused on him, gesturing “two” with his fingers before pinching to indicate that short glasses of something venomous were in order. The thin mage rapped eight fingertips across the thick wooden table opposite the smallish adventurer, chattering quickly with a low, confident voice.

“Name’s Storm, and I’m the reason you’re here. You may have heard some bad things about me; if not, you’re not missing much. No worries. I’ve become a recruiter of various talents, and have needs for men that understand a combination of a particular… physicality which accompanies discretion. Follow me?”

The drinks arrived from an off-put bartender, the wizard pressed four silver coins into his hand and covered the fingers with a shake. Feeling the heft of his tip, the stocky bartender smirked a bit, tapping two fingers to his brow before bidding the new tandem goodbye.

“I’ve heard a bit about you, but not enough. I need to know that you’re the type of talent I’m looking for. Think on it a moment.”

Wrapping two long fingers around the short glass of something murky red and suspicious looking, Veritas raised the shot and smiled.

“Sing your song, and drink to new beginnings, my friend!”

[Jethro]

Jethro took the proffered drink and unblinkingly downed it. Scratching his whiskers Jethro nodded and spoke; "There are only a few reasons why someone looks for me. They either need someone killed in a very unpleasant and memorable way or they need a shield. You being a mage of some potency." Jethro paused furrowed his brow and said "I know things. You don't need me as a shield so, who do you want me to kill?"

"As for my talents, they are not subtle. I can use chains, spears, bottles, or anything else at hand really but any mercenary can do that. What you want to know is what makes me worth more than a warm body. The dumb answer is I can extend barbed whips from my hands." Jethro raised his hand letting a hinged barb extend from his palm before retracting. "and can produce and control scarabs both as scouts and as a form of weapon." Jethro had less control of the scarabs than what he would like to let on and was disinclined to demonstrate that particular talent.

It wasn't that he thought his companion was in any way shape or form but the idea was pragmatic, straight forward and the most matter of fact way of going about things. To the more initiated he was a plague bearer which had given him the ability to manipulate his bio-mass into minor weapons and allowed him to breed voracious insects which will attack a target of his choosing.

After his explanation, Jethro took a bite of the fish, the idea crossed his mind that the grease used to fry the fish and potatoes had probably been used for the last five days. "Well, you can eat anything fried." Jethro mused swallowing a generous amount of the mead he had ordered previously.

[Storm Veritas]

The words of the dense little man were smooth, competent, and ultimately confusing for the well-traveled wizard. While it was of some relief that this fellow dropped his drink without so much as a batted eyelash, Storm found it a bit disconcerting that it was entirely mechanical – this mercenary didn’t savor the drink. It was likely this rough and tumble was not going to be a tremendous amount of fun.

“So whips and… well, -bugs-, then? That’s the specialty?” Squinting at his palm, Storm closed his fingers into a pinch, watching with passive interest as small electrical sparks danced gently across the tips.

“I’ll admit; it’s a long way from cliché. I’m not sure how in the hell those bugs will help you, but I don’t much wish to be on the receiving end, either.”

Eyes caught the food that the red potatoes and flaky brown chunk of fish. They looked appetizing enough, but carried a fair whiff of something foul which brought the wizard’s mind to many bad decisions made after too many glasses of whiskey.

Answering the first question, Storm sipped at his drink, allowing the crimson fluid to marinate about his tongue. It was surprisingly decent; smooth and balanced, he suspected it was wine that had been infused with something powerful.

“I don’t need someone killed, at least not directly. I also don’t need a simply bodyguard, or I’d just hire something big and stupid. These types are plentiful about the plains of Althanas!”

Gesturing to the bar, there were a dozen men who lumbered over their plates and glasses, of which no less than five exceeded six and a half feet high and three hundred pounds. The stranger couldn’t help but smile; none could doubt that bulk and sheer mass was in no short supply.

“I’ve become a bit of a political figure in Whitevale. It’s delicate work; I’m the face of the operations.” A gleaming smile atop his spectacular appearance confirmed such a claim. “Thing is, I grabbed the brass ring by force, but need to hold it with diplomacy. As you may have noticed, behind every tree sits some half-assed mercenary or apprentice archer with my name on a piece of paper.”

Another sip of the drink slipped smoothly down his throat. “Dealing with these rogues, these goddamned fools requires much more force than I’m prepared to showcase in front of the masses. The further I can put my activity behind me, the closer I can get to ruling with some degree of authenticity.”

It was obvious from the inaction on the other side of the table that ambiguous terms and conditions were unlikely to sanction an effective hire. This man was a hammer; he needed some nails.

“I need someone skilled in information extraction. Someone who knows how to deal with revolutionaries, rogues, and wannabe’s. Your hands will get dirty, but your pockets will get heavy. I also need someone who knows how to keep their memory short, eyes ahead, and mouth shut.

“Prove yourself, and let’s just say there’s room for significant growth within my little organization. Are you ready for auditions?”

[Jethro]

Almost as if on queue three of the men from the bar T-bone, Ribeye, and Sirloin had gotten up and began approaching, cracking their knuckles and popping their necks. It was almost enough to make Jethro roll his eyes. He nodded at his acquaintance "this is going to get ugly." If one looked closely one could see large bumps in his skin swarming excitedly. Standing up Jethro gripped the half full bottle of mead in his right hand by the neck and letting out a roar he smashed it into Ribeye's face. Following the momentum he doubled up his fist and threw a wild hay maker into Sirloins face connecting just under the eye sending top teeth scattering across the floor.

Jethro rared back and was about to drive the jagged end of what was left of the bottle into Ribeye's...eye but T-bone caught Jethro's arm and put him into a three quarter nelson putting pressure against the neck and shoulders. Sirloin recovered and threw a lightning fast cross sending Jethrows own blood splashing across a table and flatware. Jethro's eyes went wild and he kidcked Sirloin in the chest and pushed T-bone and himself back toppling the pair over the table. There was a very audible crunching sound as Jethro's shoulder was wrenched from its socket. In-spit of being bound, punched, and having his shoulder dislocated he some how maintained an iron tight grip on the bottles remains. So tight in fact that it had broke and dug into his palm.

Scrambling up to his hand and knees Jethro drove the jagged remains of the mead bottle into the first offending knee he saw! Right through the cartilage and connective tissue Sirloin will never dance again. Ribeye's foot met with Jethro's ribs sending him rolling under a table. Jethro scrambled through to the other side of the table and staggered up as T-bone threw the table out of the way. As T-bone closed Jethro grabbed a bar stool twisted and slammed the seat of the stool into T-bones face. More blood teeth and splinters flew through the air and scattered around and T-bone stumbled back into Ribeye and Sirloin.

There was a pause in the brawl as Jethro's three assailants untangled themselves. In the pause Jethro rolled his shoulder and slammed it into a near by pillar. There was a sickening grind and crunching sound that echoed through the bar as his shoulder was forced back into its socket. There was an incredible amount of cursing, screams, and animal like noises coming from the foursome. When Jethro reset his shoulder he picked up a trash barrel and smashed it into the beef trio. Ribeye being the most ambulatory of the three charged into Jethro and the two rolled into the kitchen followed by the other two Sirloin in the rear.

Thinking quickly Jethro grabbed the nearest thing he could a frying pan gripping it with both hand he swung it like an amateur sword fighter and swung it at Ribeye the pan and Ribeye met with an clang which rattled Jethro's wrists. The frying pan was dropped, Jethro grabbed Ribeye and drove his head into the cherry red hot griddle and held it there till it started to sizzle. By then T-bone had closed in close enough to punch Jethro off of Ribeye. Jethro staggered back into a pile of dirty dishes glasses, flatware, and pots and pans smashed and shattered in a cacophony of sound.

Jethro was surrounded and it didn't phase him one bit. Grabbing a steak knife and charged leapt at T-bone and drove it into T-bones eye and snapped it off at the hilt. T-bone and Jethro rolled back on the ground, thinking quick Jethro punched Sirloin in his injured knee. Sirloin howled in pain as Jethro staggered to the occasion once again. Ribeye in a rage his face burnt and boiled came charging over his compatriots. Jethro rolled over a table and tore off his duster grinning through the mud, the blood and the beer.

As Ribeye closed on Jethro, Jethro threw his duster between himself and Ribeye and thought ~well, my host wanted a show~ almost faster than a guy could blink a viciously barbed tentacle erupted from Jethro's hand ripped through his duster and struck Ribeye's shoulder. From Jethro's other hand rocketed another barbed tentacle that skipped under the table whipped up and lodged into Ribeye's thigh. Jethro's tentacle's retracted at the same time he yanked his arms back. Ribeye's middle met the table in an enormous crash causing Ribeye to projectile vomit and the barbs to be forcefully removed from his body along with muscle.

Jethro's eye was swelling shut, his nose was bleeding a river, he was covered in what ever Ribeye had ate and drank, his right arm was grinding and popping audibly again that yank doing more damage than he would let on and his ribs were either really bruised or broken; most likely both. Snapping a leg off of what was left of the table Jethro limp/strode back towards the kitchen towards Sirloin and when he was close enough swung for the fences snapping the leg in half over Sirloins skull. Looking at the bar tender with salamander like eyes he said "they'll pay for the mess" took a bottle of rotgut and went back to his seat and took a swig "So, did I pass the audition?" he asked as the bumps under his skin seemed to calm down.

[Storm Veritas]

The battle seemed to erupt from thin air; a group of three men that Storm had previously spoken with. The aging wizard expected one, perhaps two of them to spring into action, but it looked as though they operated as a group. Watching them work, a three-on-one display of cowardice should have felt more par for the course, particularly when considering the absence of skill. He didn’t even stand to watch the crashing, horrific violence; it was as good a test as any to see how the young fellow would handle a little hardship.

Big, slow, lumbering, and telegraphing punches. All they needed was a cheekful of chaw and they would have been Whitevale help. Glad they came all at once; single combat with one of these goddamned stooges would never qualify as sufficient vetting for talent.

Despite their collective ineptitude, the net mass of the three strangers allowed for Storm to watch the tough little tree-trunk work. He was quick, adaptive, and creative; showing an air of discretion as he left two of the three men alive. Storm had worked with others that showed no such sensibility; this might give the hired hand an air of flexibility that other tough-types would certainly lack. He wasn’t inordinately powerful; certainly the young tentacle slinger would fall before a Dahlios or a Ravenheart, but there was soft clay here. It was an air of promise, of potential.

“Well done, well done! As good a show as that is, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Lesson One: well-paid witnesses tend to have far shorter memories.”

Striding up from his seat, Storm looked upon the bartender, whose wild gaze felt a mix of desperation, fear, and fury. The scent of burning flesh emanating from the grilltop would certainly stifle any brazen foolishness, but the damage to the bar was comprehensive, and there was no way in hell the two men remaining could cover the repairs. He looked slightly grateful to be upright, however altogether aware of his financial ruin.

“My apologies for the mess, my friend. I didn’t expect anything like this when I spoke to those gents earlier. Do I need to introduce myself?” With a snap of his fingers, blue-white light danced across his palm, sizzling and crackling on top of itself. Just as quickly, the energy disappeared within his large, bony fist.

“No, sir… Err… yes. Mr. Veritas. Not that I –saw- you, of course.”

Diplomacy isn’t for everyone, my friend.

With a gleaming white smile, the magician rapidly pilfered a handful of something from his satchel as the bartender winced. Pinching his fingers, the wizard created a tall stack of shining golden crowns upon the table.

“Now, there’s enough here to build yourself a new goddamned bar and proper funeral and first aid for these fools. A bottle of Jormungstadt Rye, a little forgetfulness, and I think we’re square, no?”

Moments later, Storm and the wounded warrior strode out the front door of the bar, the electromancer taking a heavy swallow of the spiced whiskey before passing the large cask.

“We’ll need to hit Whitevale shortly, presuming terms will make sense on your end. Let’s set up camp shortly and get you fixed up. My horse can carry your battered ass if you’d like; have you met Attila?”

[Jethro]

Jethro, grimaced as he shouldered his spear letting a well crafted but cheap looking brass lantern hang from the spear head. He let the combined weight of the spear, and the lantern put weight on his partially reset shoulder pulling his gripping hand and elbow up and slowly his shoulder creaked, ground and eventually popped fully back into place. Breathing a sigh of relief and smiling genuinely for the fist time since the pair met "By the way I am Jethro. I can not remember if I gave you name or not." he mentioned.

Taking the bottle of booze from his new companion he took a slug and handed it back. "I'll thank you for the respite for the night to get my self cleaned off, and some of the soreness to wear off. As for the horse I would not mind meeting him but I think we wouldn't really agree on me riding him." He pointed with his chin toward a near by horse that had started to act nervous. "Most creatures that are not carrion eaters or plague bearers disagree with me being near by."

Jethro shrugged "I like horses and other creatures they just don't like me." he smiled and motioned for his compatriot to lead the way. Now one may think that Jethro being a biomancer would be interested in such things as insects, spores, molds and fungus' but really he was just as happy talking of other subjects. "If we should get lucky enough to get a braise of conies, or cotton tails I can make one hell of a stew. I just bought some supplies." He said nothing much a few turnips, a bag of lintels carrots and dried peas. It was enough to last him a day or two.

Rubbing his face Jethro mentioned "I should have stolen a stake from that tavern..." it was mostly a joke but still a raw steak on a swollen cheek was its own kind of magical.

[Storm Veritas]

“Jethro it is. Follow me, little big man. It’s easy to spot a man with a mangled face” Storm motioned for an alley that pulled back away from the main road between a pair of stone and mortar homes.

He pushed the lantern low as the new help proceeded, ensuring the flame was well beneath the base of the straw-capped thatch roofs of the simple homes. He also used the great black body of Attila to block the light from the window, a wall of dense black muscle overwhelming light pouring weakly from the glass panes before a townie bathroom. By the back of the house, the wizard drove the spear into the ground, peeking about to ensure there were no prying eyes available to spy them. A tall wooden fence, an elegant oak structure nearly high enough to block even Attila from sight, backed both homes. There were no windows out here, where they would serve no purpose.

“Let’s have a look.” With a literal snap of his fingers, a pop of white light bust into the air, a tiny wisp of brilliance that floated in the air above his shoulder. Scrutiny unto the wound of Jethro’s face elicited a less than sophisticated response. “Holy shit, yeesh!”

Smiling, the wizard rifled through the satchel which was slung under his left arm, pulling out a small vial of oil. Karuka O’Sheean had taught him first aid in Salvar a lifetime ago, and it had saved him from scarring and malformation more times than he could count. Hell, if it weren’t for her, Storm likely would be too ugly to get laid by now.

“OK, easy, this is going to burn a touch; it burns and then numbs, driving swelling away from injury. Just a second.” His fingertips shined with the oil upon him as he held them up to Jethro’s face.

This is going to burn like a son of a bitch.

His assessment correct, the skilled fighter winced in agony briefly as the ointment was applied, the liquified garm stomach bile bubbling for a moment over the wound before whitening and then flattening out. The wound clean, there was one step left.

“The next part sort of sucks. Look to Am’aleh for strength.”

His first finger extended to the wound as a pin-thin bolt of electricity fired out with laser-like precision, the heat searing the separation of two segments of skin that ran down the brawny warrior’s face. The split has only just ruptured moments ago; it was obvious the healing would be clean, total, and very likely devoid of a scar.

“There you go, my friend. Artwork.”

Smiling with a tender balance of satisfaction at good work and a nervous energy that he was about to be punched, the experienced adventurer rocked the weight of his athletic frame back on his heels. If he was going to get decked, he was ready to roll with the punch.

[Jethro]

Now one would expect any tough "tender mercies" elicit a violent response from Jethro and in truth the most base part of his brain did respond in such a way; but the rest of his brain reacted faster and what Jethro did as such a response was his eyes widened and dilated. After that he held stock still breathing deeply and evenly focusing on a point about a thousand yards away. There was not one twitch, not one flex of a muscle through the entire process. The pain Jethro felt was exquisite causing his ears to ring and goose bumps to raise on his skin and caused his swarm to scurry around under his skin.

After the healing was complete Jethro exhaled and growled "At one time in my past I had a bottle of acid smash across my back shattering the bottle and injecting the acid into the wounds. Just now was comparable to that experience." Shaking off the left overs of the impromptu healing Jethro indicated a direction to walk. It was randomish, he didn't really have an idea where they needed to go but forward was always a good direction.

There was sometimes a misconception on Jethro's part where people consider his way of life as something listless and with out a rudder; but that for those that don't know him so well. He moved on a meandering path kind of leading Storm, kind of following; from time to time a whisp would cross the light of Jethro's lantern and then zip off as soon as it found out it was tangible. Eventually the path that Jethro followed lead to a more well traveled path.

It was to be expected or at-least Jethro expected it that a group of highway men showed up. Swarthy types, skinny, dirty and messy hair they reminded the biomancer of himself really. Daggers drawn and blood lust in their eyes, it was going to be an awful night for the group of highway men. Jethro glared at the middle highwayman and fired off a tentacle at him, there was an instant an absolute instant there was this tremendous snicker snap which out paced the walking plagues own biomancy struck the middle highway man. There was the small of ozone and blood that wafted through the air as the lightning coursed through the group leaving holes through their bodies ranging from the size of the of Jethro's thumb to the size of his fist.

The biomancer blinked a few time wiped off the few splatters from his arm and nodded "Right, what is your real reason for needing me now?" he asked. Either way Jethro was getting paid for being a bodyguard for someone who really did not need it.

[Storm Veritas]

Storm had just finished dragging the last of the bodies behind the bush, finishing his work as the moonlight drove his action. Carefully rearranging armor to disguise the horrific electrical wounds, stabbing the hapless corpses about the neck and face. Should the rangers happen by, they wouldn’t look long for the killers of known bandits, so long as there had been an open skirmish.

Giant gaping holes of charred-flesh might be a touch more incriminating. Not too many sons of bitches can pull that trick off this side of the Thayne.

The wizard grinned once more incredulously at the casual nature with which he dispatched a handful of the brazen stupid. It was instinctual, natural, almost automatic; he simply extended a palm to the plebeian class and watched as electric white justice danced its way through their respective chestplates. There was sweet irony in the safety these morons took in light armor; it deflected oncoming weapons of the “stabby” and “smashy” variety, but offered absolutely no quarter from his elemental rage. To the contrary; the chestplates served as convenient hot-spots to pass his fury from fool to fool.

Turning his eyes to the impressive wielder of some bizarre bio-borne magics, the adventurer had been caught red handed in the category of “not wanting”.

“I need you because I can’t do what I just did to the people I wish to rule. I need them to respect me, but abject fear is a galvanizing force. If they believe that I’m capable of… well… that which I happen to be very well capable of, then paranoia will run wild through Whitevale.”

Rubbing his chin, Storm felt the rough feedback of the late evening coming on. His whiskers were rough and rugged, along with the skin which had borne them.

This one’s not as stupid as some of the others. Have to be a little more careful here.

“To those people, I am an enigma. Some have seen my abilities; most have not. I can’t go about blasting the face off of anyone that happens to annoy me, or the entire Coronian Army will land at my front fence. I need trusted men, capable of serving as muscle, who can handle the ugly work while my hands stay clean.”

The irony of his browned hands, positively drenched in the fast-drying blood of nearly a half-dozen absolute strangers wasn’t lost on him. A few splashes of water didn’t do much to rinse away his sins; he had left a bit of the evidence back on the grasses behind them; any apothecary worth his salt could piece together the grand mystery he had constructed in a few fleeting seconds.

The thickly-muscled newcomer rode along with a confidence; his narrow eyes viewing the words offered his way with a healthy dose of suspicion.

“So what do you think, kid? You want a chance to join the party? You’re looking better now; still got time to back out, no hard feelings…”