Ignition
04-27-08, 03:44 PM
(Closed)
The sun was lazy. Tom had been awake for three hours already, and it was still dark. If there was one thing he despised about intercontinental travel, it was the way night and day changed. He had no home to get homesick for, and there was nothing in his past but mistakes that were best ignored. Tom didn’t have the luxury of picking at scars.
The temperature was another unfortunate aspect of Salvar, but the Istraloth native handled it well. The cold winter was certainly more tolerable than the gore fueled war that had recently preceded it. Tom had been fortunate enough to arrive in Salvar after the worst of it, and he had been careful to avoid population centers on his way to Knife’s Edge, but the remnants of violence in the city were palpable. Everyone, regardless of age and gender, seemed to have an affiliation with one of the gangs popping up in the city.
As Tom sat at a table by the window in the remnants of a tavern, he couldn’t but feel a bit out of place. The building, while untouched, no longer served ale and boarded travelers. It had turned into a refugee camp of sorts, people who had lost their homes now huddled up in the rooms above and came down and sat at the tables, carrying on despondent conversations with others without saying a single word. Tom didn’t much care for it. The only reason he remained there was because he was expecting a visit from a Ranger. It was a condition of his early release from prison that he help the Coronian government.
Still, the cigar aficionado was growing impatient. Tom had been at the tavern for a few days, aware that his recent grooming made him stand out conspicuously from the rest of the refugees. The official story that he offered was that he was a traveling merchant who had got caught in the crossfire, but he knew that story grew less and less believable the longer he stayed in the tavern. Eventually, he was going to be asked to pick a side in the internecine struggle plaguing Salvar, and that was something that the Istraloth native had limited interest in. The problems of other people weren’t his concern.
Tom was quickly growing impatient with his problem. He looked out the window onto a street that had snow on it for the first time in ages. With the weather mages destroyed, the city of Knife’s Edge was facing a winter crisper than anything it had experienced in years, almost as if nature wanted to remind the Salvarians that it had the final say over life and death.
“Another hour, and I’m out of here,” he decided, figuring that if he were to disappear to Dheathain or one of the other outer countries than the Coronian government would never be able to track him. If it wasn’t for how much he valued his word, Tom would have left already. Everything about the tavern was starting to get to him. The grubby faces of children who hadn’t been washed in weeks, the faint smells of blood and alcohol that competed for his attention, and the fact that he had slept sitting in the same wooden chair for the past two days were all starting to grate on Tom. He imagined that he smelled little better than the refugees, and that with a bit more time, he would be indistinguishable from them.
Not knowing what else to do with himself while he waited, Tom lit himself a cigar. He had already scanned the room numerous times, both for threats and for potential help, and had concluded that it was far too depressing. Even the snow shocked war torn streets were more inviting. “Once the cigar is done,” Tom told himself, revaluating his decision to wait a full hour. “You don’t need the morning light…”
Before Tom could exhale his first puff of smoke, a woman walked into the tavern. She was a presence, her gait and posture unaffected by the conflict and save for the few unavoidable blemishes of snow on the bottom of her cloak, her clothes were clean. Tom realized immediately that whether or not she was the Ranger, she was a person of interest.
Thumbing her nose at the state of the bar, the woman made her way over to Tom’s table. She paid glancing attention to a large man who moved up towards her, but disregarded him. Tom smiled, her demeanor was simultaneously intimidating and demeaning.
“You’re Carjack Capone?” she asked, approaching Tom. “You’re the only one in this place that could fit the part.”
Tom nodded. “Trouble getting to Branislav’s Hammer?” he asked. He had no interest in small talk, but he wanted to voice his displeasure.
“You’re not my only priority,” the Ranger replied, somewhat coldly. There were a few moments of awkward silence, as if she expected Tom to offer an apology, but getting none, she continued. “You know what’s at stake here,” she began. “Your freedom, but also, Corone’s reputation. We don’t like hiring criminals, but it seems that this is what it’s come down to.”
Tom nodded. He knew that any job that the Corone government would want a prisoner for was one where they wanted to keep their hands clean. His record of involvement with organized crime would allow the Rangers to deny all knowledge of him. He watched as the Ranger surveyed the room for eavesdroppers and then lowered her voice. “Truth is, we’re worried about Alerar. We think there is something going on there, their decisions haven’t made much sense as of late.”
Though Tom wondered what a discussion in Knife’s Edge might have to do with Salvarian politics, he did not seem nonplussed by the Ranger’s choice of words. He wondered if they suspected an Alerarian hand in the civil war.
“We want you to look around for mercenaries,” she continued. “Find people here who are working for Alerar. Try everywhere, hire yourself out, we don’t care about your methods, we just want to know what Alerar’s mercenaries are doing here.”
A slight smile flickered across Tom’s face for a brief second. He knew that in the Ranger’s eyes, he was little more than a low level gang member, and that she didn’t realize how much information she had given him. “They suspect ties,” he realized. “For some reason, they think Alerar should be behaving differently than they are. There is something going on here besides normal international politics.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Tom said. “Anywhere you want me to start?”
The Ranger nodded. “There is a library not too far from here, mostly unaffected by warfare. It’s called St. Akhilev’s Tome, and more often than not, the people in there aren’t Salvarians. I don’t know what condition this war has rendered the place to, but I suspect it’s still the locus of foreign activity. Start there.”
Tom nodded again, aware that his seemingly unenthused exterior would likely become grating for the Ranger if he kept it up much longer. “And where do we meet again?” he asked.
“Here, in two days,” the Ranger replied. “If Branislav’s is unavailable, then the tree out behind it.”
“Alright,” Tom agreed. He got up to leave. “Anything else?”
“No,” the Ranger said, somewhat startled by Tom’s brusque, businesslike demeanor. “That should be all…”
“Very well,” Tom said before disappearing out into the snow.
The sun was lazy. Tom had been awake for three hours already, and it was still dark. If there was one thing he despised about intercontinental travel, it was the way night and day changed. He had no home to get homesick for, and there was nothing in his past but mistakes that were best ignored. Tom didn’t have the luxury of picking at scars.
The temperature was another unfortunate aspect of Salvar, but the Istraloth native handled it well. The cold winter was certainly more tolerable than the gore fueled war that had recently preceded it. Tom had been fortunate enough to arrive in Salvar after the worst of it, and he had been careful to avoid population centers on his way to Knife’s Edge, but the remnants of violence in the city were palpable. Everyone, regardless of age and gender, seemed to have an affiliation with one of the gangs popping up in the city.
As Tom sat at a table by the window in the remnants of a tavern, he couldn’t but feel a bit out of place. The building, while untouched, no longer served ale and boarded travelers. It had turned into a refugee camp of sorts, people who had lost their homes now huddled up in the rooms above and came down and sat at the tables, carrying on despondent conversations with others without saying a single word. Tom didn’t much care for it. The only reason he remained there was because he was expecting a visit from a Ranger. It was a condition of his early release from prison that he help the Coronian government.
Still, the cigar aficionado was growing impatient. Tom had been at the tavern for a few days, aware that his recent grooming made him stand out conspicuously from the rest of the refugees. The official story that he offered was that he was a traveling merchant who had got caught in the crossfire, but he knew that story grew less and less believable the longer he stayed in the tavern. Eventually, he was going to be asked to pick a side in the internecine struggle plaguing Salvar, and that was something that the Istraloth native had limited interest in. The problems of other people weren’t his concern.
Tom was quickly growing impatient with his problem. He looked out the window onto a street that had snow on it for the first time in ages. With the weather mages destroyed, the city of Knife’s Edge was facing a winter crisper than anything it had experienced in years, almost as if nature wanted to remind the Salvarians that it had the final say over life and death.
“Another hour, and I’m out of here,” he decided, figuring that if he were to disappear to Dheathain or one of the other outer countries than the Coronian government would never be able to track him. If it wasn’t for how much he valued his word, Tom would have left already. Everything about the tavern was starting to get to him. The grubby faces of children who hadn’t been washed in weeks, the faint smells of blood and alcohol that competed for his attention, and the fact that he had slept sitting in the same wooden chair for the past two days were all starting to grate on Tom. He imagined that he smelled little better than the refugees, and that with a bit more time, he would be indistinguishable from them.
Not knowing what else to do with himself while he waited, Tom lit himself a cigar. He had already scanned the room numerous times, both for threats and for potential help, and had concluded that it was far too depressing. Even the snow shocked war torn streets were more inviting. “Once the cigar is done,” Tom told himself, revaluating his decision to wait a full hour. “You don’t need the morning light…”
Before Tom could exhale his first puff of smoke, a woman walked into the tavern. She was a presence, her gait and posture unaffected by the conflict and save for the few unavoidable blemishes of snow on the bottom of her cloak, her clothes were clean. Tom realized immediately that whether or not she was the Ranger, she was a person of interest.
Thumbing her nose at the state of the bar, the woman made her way over to Tom’s table. She paid glancing attention to a large man who moved up towards her, but disregarded him. Tom smiled, her demeanor was simultaneously intimidating and demeaning.
“You’re Carjack Capone?” she asked, approaching Tom. “You’re the only one in this place that could fit the part.”
Tom nodded. “Trouble getting to Branislav’s Hammer?” he asked. He had no interest in small talk, but he wanted to voice his displeasure.
“You’re not my only priority,” the Ranger replied, somewhat coldly. There were a few moments of awkward silence, as if she expected Tom to offer an apology, but getting none, she continued. “You know what’s at stake here,” she began. “Your freedom, but also, Corone’s reputation. We don’t like hiring criminals, but it seems that this is what it’s come down to.”
Tom nodded. He knew that any job that the Corone government would want a prisoner for was one where they wanted to keep their hands clean. His record of involvement with organized crime would allow the Rangers to deny all knowledge of him. He watched as the Ranger surveyed the room for eavesdroppers and then lowered her voice. “Truth is, we’re worried about Alerar. We think there is something going on there, their decisions haven’t made much sense as of late.”
Though Tom wondered what a discussion in Knife’s Edge might have to do with Salvarian politics, he did not seem nonplussed by the Ranger’s choice of words. He wondered if they suspected an Alerarian hand in the civil war.
“We want you to look around for mercenaries,” she continued. “Find people here who are working for Alerar. Try everywhere, hire yourself out, we don’t care about your methods, we just want to know what Alerar’s mercenaries are doing here.”
A slight smile flickered across Tom’s face for a brief second. He knew that in the Ranger’s eyes, he was little more than a low level gang member, and that she didn’t realize how much information she had given him. “They suspect ties,” he realized. “For some reason, they think Alerar should be behaving differently than they are. There is something going on here besides normal international politics.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Tom said. “Anywhere you want me to start?”
The Ranger nodded. “There is a library not too far from here, mostly unaffected by warfare. It’s called St. Akhilev’s Tome, and more often than not, the people in there aren’t Salvarians. I don’t know what condition this war has rendered the place to, but I suspect it’s still the locus of foreign activity. Start there.”
Tom nodded again, aware that his seemingly unenthused exterior would likely become grating for the Ranger if he kept it up much longer. “And where do we meet again?” he asked.
“Here, in two days,” the Ranger replied. “If Branislav’s is unavailable, then the tree out behind it.”
“Alright,” Tom agreed. He got up to leave. “Anything else?”
“No,” the Ranger said, somewhat startled by Tom’s brusque, businesslike demeanor. “That should be all…”
“Very well,” Tom said before disappearing out into the snow.