“You want me to kill… What exactly?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was almost surely insanity.

“I do not want you to kill anyone. Your duty will be to seek out information. You are in fact not allowed to kill except to preserve your own life and return to us the information desired.” My employer was an “elf”, pointy ears and all. Supposedly a ranger, he had approached me three days ago to investigate two individuals, one “Remoras Trueshot” was suspected of selling his compatriots into slavery. The other “Fedder Eislen” was supposedly the man he was selling them to.

“Your task is dangerous. We have arranged some minor assistance for you, as well as suitable equipment to make your life easier. This is a list of potential weaknesses in the slaving ring. Investigate them all, or not. The other item is a small work of magic. An amulet that will bring you safely from the enemy if it is broken. Anyone touching you will be brought along, so you must take care in its use, lest you bring your enemies with you.” He held up what was the equivalent of a case file in these parts, and passed me a small necklace.

“I’ll start looking into things tonight. Where can I find this “Remoras” character?” I knew where to start with this. My last job had been well away from here, but not so different in scope, a job to investigate a company rather than a person, but still an investigation. That job had turned exceedingly violent towards the end, and I was prepared for the same eventuality here.

“All of the information you need is contained in the document I have provided. I will take my leave. Please try not to get killed. If you succeed, I have more work for you.” He got up and left, crossing from the chair he had been seated at, and exiting through the main door. The house was small, and I was technically trespassing living here. But the owner was very (un?)dead at the moment, and I needed a place to stay. The fact that he would ask me not to get killed was slightly unsettling, even for one of the weirdo elves that cropped up all over around here.

“Yeah… I like living, thanks…” I looked at the sheets of paper; they were heavy cloth paper, like the few twentieth century bills I still held on to, and the script was flowing, and a general pain in the ass to read.

“Remoras Trueshot is headquartered at a large waterfront warehouse, where he holds meetings with the large refugee population, and gives speeches on a regular basis. It is also here that we believe he selects those who will depart Raiaera and be sold into slavery. Most are in fact humans that escaped the Horde, but a few are fellow Elves. It does not seem to bother him to…The fuck is that word supposed to be?” I was reading aloud, the only way I could figure out the damn elfy writing, but even phonetics and fifth grade cursive were failing me at this point.