Via Dolorosa

The trio of men could scarcely have failed to notice that they were drawing attention. As they beat the cracked cobblestones of a particularly poor residential area children stopped playing to stare and curtains fluttered behind smudged windows. Dome-like pate and droopy jowls shining, Althalos finally called a stop in a urine-drenched alley between two inns that made half their incomes off whores. The only living soul in sight was a skinny junkie wrapped in a burlap cloak lying on a wooden bench, and he barely seemed to breathe at all.

"What were those kids starin' at, huh?" Caspar said, words rushing between quivering lips, "My Sari an' I wouldn' never 'ave raised babes to be so rude as 'at." The sailors exchanged what felt like the twelfth glance in as many minutes while their employer glared at them. Although his hands remained beneath his cloak, his eyes buffeted them like a gale at sea.

"Well? I'm waitin' on one o' you two to tell me where to go next. Considerin' I'm the only one who's never been to Reed's house!" The hired goons shifted their considerable weight awkwardly. Brom scratched at his coarse black hair as Rohan spoke up.

"Sorry, boss, I been there but I forget, all these houses look-"

A distinct dry slap echoed down the alley as Caspar clouted the man. Rohan rubbed at his stinging cheek, dumbly accepting the punishment while his shipmate stepped in.

"Don't worry Mister Althalos, I know where Reed lives. It's jus' a ways down, confusin' blocks aroun' here..." He trailed away under the fat man's withering stare.

"What a waste 'o time." Caspar clutched his head between two bloated palms. "Brom, you find Reed and those two idiots I sent to find 'im and bring 'em all back. No, wait," The merchant took a deep, wheezing breath of putrid air and re-arranged his thoughts. "On secon' thought, take piss-brains here with yeh. The others should spot that red mop of his a league away."

Althalos stormed away but hesitated at the mouth of the alley. A secretive glance into the voluminous folds of his cloak seemed to reassure him, and he waddled rapidly out of sight.

*

Phyr hadn't intended to spend any time reading Caspar Althalos' documents, but as the whisky warmed his blood he automatically scanned and organised the papers. As a long-time officer in the Aleraran Army, any chance to enjoy a drink came when he was assigned a stack of paperwork. Habit hard-wired in his brain, the drow had four small categorised stacks of a paper in front of him on an otherwise tidy desk before even noticing. He mulled over the information, little of it useful, that he had absorbed and stood up to fix himself another drink.

A breath of cold air penetrated the shack as the door opened and a human stepped in. Phyr's neck cracked audibly as he jerked his head around, hand plunged in to the depths of his rags, fingers closed on the warm hilt of the heavy bayonet stowed there, its blade keen and thirsty.

"Ah... is Master Althalos here?" the young human male spoke in a nervous, breaking voice.

Phyr relaxed his body but left his hand hidden, squinted at the boy and tried to concentrate. The warmth of the shack and the whisky had taken a toll on him; his mind felt like it was sinking into a swamp. The drow shook himself and looked the impatient creature before him up and down. Peasant's clothing, but good boots, and a leather scrip hung around one shoulder. A messenger then, or a small post office delivery boy.

"Mister Althalos hire me, help make neat." Phyr said in a strained voice, letting his natural tongue heavily inflect the words. It would make everything easier if the lad thought he barely spoke common. The ancient elf gestured at the tidy desk in front of him, and then waved his single arm hopelessly at the rest of the jumbled interior.

The messenger nodded slowly, as if it made absolute sense to him that Caspar Althalos had hired a crippled dark elf to do his bookkeeping. Certainly the man needed someone to teach him some organisational skills, but Phyr had neither seen nor heard of any other drow since his arrival in Corone. That was why he'd had his ear to the ground and heard about the secretive shipment coming in from Alerar.

"Well... will he be back soon?" The messenger moved a step closer to the desk as Phyr looked at him quizzically and cocked his head to one side, a bird examining a worm. "Mister Althalos," the boy said, his voice rising in pitch but not volume, "will he-" the lad pointed at the door, "come back-" indicated the desk, "soon?" On the last word the messenger seemed to lose faith in his pantomime abilities and half-turned to leave. Phyr bumped the desk with his knee and nodded twice quickly.

"Yes, ah, return before dark." Phyr swept his palm towards the failing light that filtered through the shacks single muddy window. A massive weight seemed to fall from the messenger's shoulders as he took a wax-sealed scroll out of his satchel and placed it carefully in the middle of the four stacks of parchment.

"Please make sure he gets this right away. My master impressed upon me it is of vital importance." Phyr returned to pretending to study the papers and ignored the boy's comical sign language, instead making a curt gesture for him to leave. After the door opened and shut, venting the room with more cold fishy air, Phyr jumped to his feet, knees popping like twin musket shots. He rummaged rapidly through the mess at the back until he found exactly what he was looking for

As wind howled outside Phyr had another drink and did some more things he'd trained for in a different life, and it left him smiling until suddenly the door opened again and he found himself face to face with Caspar Althalos.

*

With the haste and urgency of fire on a wet log, the River District of Radasanth’s lower south side had reluctantly sputtered to a state of wakefulness. Fishermen, sailors, and deckhands of all shapes and sizes labored to begin the routines which would carry them through the day. They were simple people, unfit, unskilled, or unmotivated for work upon the ocean which lay to the west. Many couldn’t afford to finance repairs to a leaky pair of waders, let alone to a seafaring vessel.

Wynken was glad for the activity, and used it to his advantage as he turned into an alleyway that would bring him in line with his mark. He had followed the two thugs, Stitch and Snitch, only a short distance before losing site of them as they advanced upon the street parallel his own. He moved between commercial establishments, bars and taverns mostly with a tackle or supply shop here and there. The shanties were on the north side of the cobbled street nearer the river.

They were some distance from the piers and further yet from the open market, but still the smell of river water and dead fish hung in the air to mingle with that of bread and seared breakfast meats as they were being served in the taverns. Wynken, who spent the previous evening waiting on Reed and then staking out his shack, hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. His belly rumbled softly, but the foul blend of odors did nothing for his appetite as they devilishly toyed with his stomach.

The street offered relative relief over the alley, which acted as a wind tunnel, and Wynken forced his discomfort from his mind to peer through the small gatherings of people. He was certain the goons hadn’t gotten ahead of him, and they were unlikely to turn back. So, when he failed to locate them on the street, Wynken set about checking the likely establishments.

‘There are only two or three possible options’, he thought as he considered the block they would have traversed between his last sighting. Wynken stood in the street staring at its storefronts, and just as he had decided which tavern was their most likely choice, he watched as Stitch and Snitch appeared at its window table. Looking over his shoulder, Wynken grinned at the realization that Reed’s shanty was still visible at this distance.

‘Perhaps they aren’t utter fools’.

Wynken’s stomach rumbled again and so he stepped into a neighboring inn and occupied a table which afforded him a view of the street. He ordered a bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and he waited.

Morning passed to afternoon which waned into evening. On several occasions, Wynken considered checking to ensure his two targets had maintained their watch but each time decided it better to merely wait. Now, Reed’s house could hardly be seen through the growing darkness, and Wynken second guessed his previous instincts. Getting up from his table, he dropped a few coins upon its top and made his way for the door.

Stepping out onto the street, Wynken looked down to the other tavern in time to see Stitch come bounding out of its entryway.

“Hey you baboon, ya better put out that fire.”

He had obviously consumed his share of alcohol and was yelling as he shambled toward two bulky individuals. Snitch was hot on his heels, half trying to calm his cohort but notably amused at his obnoxious behavior.

“Rohan, ya fiery-crotched bastard”, Stitch continued loudly to the chagrin of the red haired man. The four were closer then, and exchanging words that Wynken couldn’t hear. They were also distracted, slapping each other on the back and exchanging jokes, so Wynken had no trouble remaining inconspicuously attentive. He moved a bit closer and lit a cigarette.

“The boss is pretty angry you haven’ found Reed yet.” The men grew somber as the conversation turned from its original joviality.

“How bout I find my dagger in your face, Brom?” Stitch fixed the man with a glare, but he merely smiled in return. The two faced off, both on the edge of snapping. They had been in silent competition for Caspar's favor since he had hired the two new mercenaries.

Uninterested in a fight, Rohan spoke up then saying, “Althalos says we’re to find Reed, and the four of us are to bring him back to the office.”

“We’ve been watching his house all day. He aint there and hasn’t been there.” Snitch also saw the wisdom of forcing the topic to one of business. The other men had at least one hundred pounds on him, and he looked nervously from Stitch to Brom as they each weighed the words of their associates. “If Althalos doesn’t get that record, none of us are gettin paid”, the wiry man continued.

That was all it took to settle the hostility, and the four quickly laid out all that they knew in order to brainstorm a plan. It was akin to watching a fish out of water – the entire act was foreign, ungraceful, and markedly uncomfortable. In the end, their collective genius decided to walk the few blocks back to Reed’s house…just to have one more look around. Wynken rolled his eyes once more and followed.

The deceptive early-darkness of the cold season and warming sensation of the alcohol in his bloodstream caused Phyr to lose track of time. Years earlier, he would have had each second calculated down to a fraction, contingencies layered upon each other like good Aleraran plate-mail. However as the former prisoner gathered a cracked oil lamp from the rear of the shack and assembled it on a bare portion of his commandeered desk, the idea that someone might walk in on him slipped from his crinkled brain.

Adjusting the choke until it gave the tallest flame possible, Phyr produced his bayonet and held it above the fire until it glowed orange and radiated waves of heat. Balancing his dagger so its hilt lay on the desk and the blade pointed in to thin air, Phyr held it in place with one foot - his hips groaned, protesting the flexible feat - and used his hand to manoeuvre the scroll against the keen heated blade until the wax popped off, intact and unmarked. Never one to celebrate incomplete victories, he read the scroll three times fast, fixed its content temporarily in his memory palace, and then re-heated the dagger and reversed the process to replace the seal.

When Caspar Althalos entered the shack, he found a skeletal drow with waves of grey hair and only one arm seated at his desk, drinking his favourite rye, with a sealed scroll squared between two tidy stacks of paper.

Phyr wrinkled his nose partially at the fat man's slovenly breathing, and partially at the smell of fish guts that invaded the shack with him. Phyr had allowed his senses to become habituated to the slightly acrid lantern oil and the full-bodied brew he sipped and smelled as though it were a twenty-year vintage. Not visibly alarmed whatsoever, he held his bayonet out of sight below the desk and waited, glaring the expectation of a military officer's eyes across the room at Caspar.

Althalos slammed the door behind him and advanced one menacing step. The whole shack quivered beneath his bulk. Phyr hid his amusement as he watched the merchant's rubbery face twist through different emotions and shades. Finally Caspar seemed to regain some composure and opened his cavernous mouth to speak. Phyr cut him off with a furious salvo of precisely enunciated common.

"Ah, Master Althalos I presume. How kind of you to join me. It isn't often my master's servants make our wages by sitting around sipping swill." He considered the dregs of his tumbler, then downed them with a single gulp and smacked his lips. "Ahh... but I always appreciate native spirits. Now that you have your final instructions," his nose indicated the scroll on the desk as his hand prepared his garments for the biting cold outside, "I may be on my way. And of course, if this little delay effects the rest of my schedule at all, expect it to come out of whatever my master is paying you for your services."

As Phyr sidled past the frowning merchant, he sensed a tightening of the man's muscles, a flurry of hand movement beneath the cloak, and thought the man had a pistol. For a moment he was back in the Devil's Keep, surrounded by enemies on all sides, fighting for his life. And then the moment passed, Althalos removed bare hands from beneath his cloak and gestured harmlessly for Phyr to leave. The drow did so, but paused in the threshold, waiting in the mixture of warm and cold, savoury smells and foul odours. He sensed that Althalos would make a parting barb, some comment flung at his back meant to sting his pride. Such petty insults often gave a man's secrets away.

It came as he was shutting the door. Caspar poked his head out and seized the handle, a crocodile smile veiling worried eyes.

"I woulda' thought he'd at least let you call him by his name, instead of all that master nonsense!" The merchant's voice rang like a foghorn over the docks as Phyr stumped away, leaning heavily on his sick. His experienced mind whirred like a masterwork clock, sorting through everything he had read inside the shack and everything Caspar Althalos said. But for that last comment, it all fit together perfectly.

"Why would a cripple like me be on intimate terms with the kingpin? He wondered as he vanished into the thick crowds and crooked alleys that felt so much like home.

The house was empty, Wynken knew, so he didn’t bother following too closely. Reed was washed up onto the embankment, no doubt contributing to the Niema’s wretched odor by now; and the shanty’s contents had been methodically searched the night before. ‘They’ll be heading back this way before long’, Wynken thought as he lit another smoke and settled into the space between two of the neighboring shanties. There he leaned against its rickety wooden siding and strained to hear the men over the pub noise and gently rushing water.

Wynken watched as fishermen passed by, but they paid him no heed as they made their way either to or from the taverns which lined the southern side of the cobbled street. The sky was clear and the road free of fog. All that remained of the previous evening’s haze was a cloudy mist which hugged tightly the surface of the significantly cooled river. In a few days even that would be no more, and in a few weeks time the fishing season for those in the River District would begin to slow.

Wynken took a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it toward the river. It came to rest upon the wooden pier, and its embers shown a bright red in the gentle river breeze. Wynken briefly wondered if anyone at all would care if the entire decrepit borough were to be engulfed in flame, but his thoughts were disturbed by the familiar banter of the four goons as they approached upon the street. They too paid him no attention as they walked, and Wynken shadowed them once more.

“The boss isn’t gonna be happy ‘bout this”, he heard Brom report as Wynken dipped silently beneath the horizon of the gently sloping river bank.

The waters of the Niema in Radasanth's northern district smelled a little less like oily guts and a little more like the mountains the river stemmed from, but the buildings were built in smaller clusters there, and the earth barren. Vicious winds lashed Phyr's grim face as he trudged towards the warehouse which had been specified in Althalos' scroll. A few questions in the right tavern had netted the ancient drow all the information he needed.

Phyr crouched in the lee of the warehouse, putting his bony back against the harsh stone wall. His single scarred arm dipped into a pocket and brought out the half-full flask. Thumbing the cap off, he took a long pull of the fiery spirit to warm his blood and calm his nerves. Everything was in place. The shipment would arrive two hours before dawn the following morning. Now that he had seen the place, all that remained was to get some rest until then. So why were the short hairs at the nape of his neck standing at attention?

As he paced around the warehouse Phyr inspected both the building itself and the grounds nearby. It had two entrances, a front loading bay door that faced the road and the Niema river beyond, and a small back door which lead into a thicket of thorns. Twenty yards away the thicket gave way to lush evergreen trees carpeting the foothills which surrounded the Jagged Mountains like a gang of aspiring followers.

Completing a second circuit around the warehouse, Phyr decided he would approach from the east around midnight and bide his time under the wing of the evergreen trees, observing the warehouse at a safe distance until he saw the delivery completed.

Although the former soldier did not dare underestimate his opponents, he knew unquestionably that all mortal beings made mistakes. And if he happened to be nearby, there was none better to capitalise on even the tiniest infraction than Phyr Sa'resh.

"You're all fools, the lot of ya."

Caspar slammed his fist upon his ramshackle desk, causing the bottle of whiskey that Phyr had emptied to topple and shatter upon the floor. Wynken took in the scene from the barred window on the river side of the small building. The room was dark and the window at a poor angle for viewing, but he could hear well enough as Althalos continued berating his four hired hands.

“Reed is dead, found floatin' right under yer noses early this afternoon”, the merchant bellowed while waggling a chubby finger primarily in the direction of Stitch and Snitch. Brom smirked arrogantly to the disdain of the two mercenaries and inciting Althalos to greater heights of rage.

The man came out from behind his desk to stand fully before his henchmen. His flabby face was red and trembled with anger as he spoke. “The four o' you have been on the street all day, and a witless informant – a mere boy – told me o' Reed’s whereabouts just an hour ago.”

Althalos calmed slightly and Brom tried to interject on his own behalf, but Caspar continued to speak over the man’s hallow excuses. “Whoever killed Reed likely took the shippin' record”, he exclaimed matter-of-factly. “We wouldn’t even know what to expect or where to expect it if it weren’t for that same messenger boy". "Perhaps I should pay him your wages", the man said with a rhetorical chuckle.

Caspar had a chance encounter with the messenger as the lad made his way from his office. The boy, who often ran errands for Caspar’s small cartel, spotted the merchant and explained that he had left an important package upon his desk in the care of a strange drow. Althalos, of course, confirmed both to be true, though he still puzzled over the dark elf’s presence. The creature made no move against him, but the wary merchant was certain that he wasn’t who he claimed to have been.

Wynken continued to listen as Althalos fed more instructions to his goons, including the location of the delivery warehouse. “Don’t fail me this time, or I’ll be takin' it from your pay”, he warned upon instructing them to find the drow as well as the missing record. “Two of you secure the warehouse”, he pointed to Brom and Rohan before continuing, “and you two track down Reed’s killer”.

Wynken moved from the window then, and opened the record which had been destined for Reed. The shipping address there was the same that Althalos had given his men, but the task remained to find a way to profit from the delivery.

Phyr melted onto the hay-stuffed mattress as if his bones had turned to powder. The fifth and final inn he approached housed a clerk crooked enough to let a spare room at half the normal price, off the ledger. Usually the drow would not deign to pay for lodging at all, but he required at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, and he needed it right away. His muscles relaxed and his joints crackled as they settled, the most welcome of feelings after so many hours of mistreatment. Only one whimsical notion clouded his mind as it curled upon itself to rest, nestled in the clean smell of fresh straw. It was the memory of feeling watched somehow as he inspected the grounds around the warehouse.

*

Wedged in the nook of an ancient fir which had twisted its trunk to accommodate the seasons and sloped ground, Kron Sha'keth stared out over the Niema like a Lord of the land. The assassin's dark eyes scanned the grounds near the warehouse for movement. Even under the shroud of night and a hundred yards away he could count the whiskers on a rodent-creature which poked its head out from behind the building.

The rat reminded Kron of the other drow he had seen earlier in the evening. Although approximately his same height, the limping invalid would only be likened to Kron by a blind fool or a Coronian human. Where the one-armed beggar was withered and wasted Kron had never looked stronger. Since the murder of his brother he had poured his small amounts of spare time into additional training. Although he had left Alerar one of the crown's most revered assassins, his physique and skill with a blade would barely be recognisable upon his return home.

If I return.

Kron knew himself inside and out. In spite of of his unscrupulous confidence he knew he would not allow himself to leave Corone until he avenged his brother's death.

The mission in Corone had belonged to him and Shynt Sha'keth equally. The shipment Kron awaited contained all the supplies he needed to recruit and equip a sleeper cell within the populace of Radasanth. While the assassin brothers had devised the scheme together, it had been Kron's analytical mind that realised more control than chaos could be gained by creating a cadre as opposed to killing a few politicians and hopping the next airship back to Alerar. After long meetings with the Royal advisors, the operation had received full backing. It was a brilliant plan, and it would have already been put in motion if it weren't for one unfortunate human.

Joshua Cronen.

The name made Kron's blood boil. He had watched helplessly, trapped beneath a fractured cart, as the man foiled the Nomad Process and slew his brother in cold blood. If not for that bastard called Breaker the cell would already be established, panic would have seized the population of Radasanth, and Shynt would have been alive and playing his rightful role as trainer to the new recruits.

Instead Kron sat alone, freezing to the bone in a tree, putting his search for Cronen on hold so he could wait for his supplies. With Shynt's death his workload had doubled, trebled with the inclusion of the never-ending manhunt. Kron rarely slept more than an hour each day. He ate paranoia for breakfast and it stayed with him well past nightfall. Even something as simple as receiving a wretched shipment seemed complicated and dangerous. Who was the ancient drow who inspected the warehouse earlier? And who were the two slovenly louts who had arrived just before dark, entered the warehouse, and not shown themselves since?

Evidently I am paying that fat idiot too much, if he has funds to hire so many employees.

Kron sucked a deep breath of frigid air through his nostrils and leaned back against the tree, taking a brief break and rubbing his forehand with one callused black palm

Ah well. At least he is caring for my supplies. Perhaps I am too vigilant.

The sweetness of sap reminded him of home; the trees looked different here but smelled similar. Leaning forward again to patiently watch and wait, Kron dropped a hand unconsciously to his sword and eased the blade in its leather sheathe.

From the shadows of the building’s northern side, Wynken heard the door open and close as the four henchmen exited. He crept closer to the office’s corner but allowed it to obscure him from the view of the street ahead. The day’s light had waned, however the dark was not enough to conceal him. “How we gonna find Reed’s killer?”, he heard Stitch ask but only silence returned in answer from his comrade. Brom and Rohan had already moved off in the direction of the nearby bridge that would take them across the river and to the shipping warehouse, leaving the two alone.

Snitch rolled his eyes, certain that his compatriot’s head was empty save for the meat that comprised the remainder of his bulky frame. After a lengthy pause, he audibly determined that the bars and taverns surrounding the office and warehouse should be queried for clues as to the killer’s whereabouts. “How else do we find people”, he asked, not really expecting any answer.

Althalos, assuming Phyr had something to do with Reed’s disappearance, had detailed the dark elf’s appearance to the best of his recollection. “A one armed drow aint so hard to recall”, Snitch reasoned and his friend couldn’t disagree.

Wynken held his place as the two made their way down the street and disappeared into one of its many pubs. ‘Let the crippled elf fend for himself’, he thought moving to stand upon the doorway of Caspar’s office. He had wasted the day trailing the merchant’s goons, and wasn’t about to similarly squander the hours that remained before the shipment’s delivery. With all the grace and finesse possessed of one who survives by the art of nondetection, Wynken opened the door and slipped inside.

*

An hour or more had passed, and the two mercenaries had inquired every bartender and tavern keep on the River District’s south side. None had seen or heard of the drow, and Stitch was beginning to grow impatient. “Hows come we don’t just join Brom and them to receive the shipment?”

The man was concerned that the conceited Brom aspired to a greater position - one of more esteem and importance in the eyes or their employer. Snitch understood his friend well, and, in honesty, he felt the same. “It’s important to Caspar that we find this drow”, he lied but it drew a nod from his sullen friend. “Now let’s get moving. We’ve the north side to search, starting with those nearest to the warehouse.”

With that, the two hurried upstream and across the bridge to the northern borough. The structure was easily the most magnificent construct in the city’s forgotten River District. Strong beams and buttresses held fast against the current and reached high out of the water to support the arch-shaped bride. It was tall enough to allow most inland ships to pass underneath. However, it was built with an ingenious series of cables and pulleys which could hoist each end like a drawbridge and allow taller, seafaring vessels to pass. Wealthy merchants, ship owners, and politicians had lobbied for its construction; as it largely served to further increase their already considerable power. The fact that it benefitted the riverfolk was considered an inconvenient consequence – a necessary evil.

“Perhaps we’ll find him with enough time to still help with the shipment”, Snitch offered with little conviction. He doubted they’d find the drow at all, and after two more establishments proved unhelpful he found it increasingly difficult to hold his restless friend to task. “One more”, he said with a sigh. “If no one’s heard tell of him, we call it quits.” Again Stitch nodded his approval, and the two made their way toward a remote inn which sat on a quiet street somewhat removed from the bustle of the loading docks.

They had both given up on their fruitless mission, and hardly expected the nervous old inn keeper to provide them any hope. Something about the tone of his answer, the movement in his eyes, when questioned about the gimpy old drow, piqued the suspicion of the wary informant, Snitch. His nickname was well earned, after all, as the man was an expert at information gathering. "This old crank knows something, Stitch", the smaller fellow said confidently to his muscled friend. "Break a leg or both to make him feel like talking".

Stitch grinned from ear to ear, and the wrinkles in his forehead showed as disjointed lines as they contended with the scar there. The force wasn't necessary, as the old inn keeper showed no further reluctance and leaned in close to utter a room number.

Phyr's internal clock was still as accurate as any in Alerar. By the peak of the witching hour the old drow had roused himself, warmed his muscles and joints using basic callisthenics, and retrieved his possessions from where they were laid out on the floor. He preferred seeing all of his tools at once to stacking them on the cracked cabinet or stowing them in its wormholed drawers. Unlike the fresh mattress, it seemed the innkeepers did little to maintain their splintering walls and dishevelled furniture. Picking up his hardwood walking stick, he tapped the floorboards thrice for fortune then turned around and opened the door.

Stitch and Snitch stood bunched together in the corridor, the larger man's arm extended, moments from opening the door. The flickering light of a torch down the hall cast shadows across their coin-sized pupils and slack jaws.

A single thrust of the cane would have stunned them where they stood agape. Phyr could drop the stick and have his bayonet out and stabbing in less than a second. But in a heartbeat the tactician decided to let them live, and stepped aside, a welcoming smile on his face. See everything. Use everything.

"Come in gentlemen," he said in clipped common, taking them further off guard with his careful accent. They crowded in to the room and closed the door. Stitch stepped forward, his size the only thing that separated the two in Phyr's eyes. The heavyset lout glanced left as if recalling a rehearsed speech, and then tried to lock eyes with Phyr, a difficult task since the elf stood several inches taller.

"Reed was found floatin' in the river t'day, an' Althalos says yer' the one we oughta come after--" Phyrs laugh cut him off like shattering chains. The drow chuckled for several seconds as he desperately threw facts and guesswork together in his head.

"Indeed, that's what our dear fat friend said? My boy, do I look like I could throw a fully grown man in the river, much less murder one?" The interchangeable pair glanced at each other and Phyr's grip on his stick tightened, but no hostility followed. If anything they seemed to relax slightly. Good. They don't like thinking for themselves. Phyr pursed his lips and blew an exaggerated sigh, uncertain if they would be able to read his feigned facial cues.

"I warned my master about employing merchants of course, but he wanted a local middle man. At any rate it's your skills we sought, and the time has come for the first half of your final payment." Phyr hated parting with gold, and reserved it for situations in which there was no substitute motivator. Reaching into a small leather pouch concealed beneath his rags, the drow prduced two thick Aleraran crowns. They were made of gold with mythril folded into the core. The nigh indestructible white metal showed through as intricate filigree in the shape of a steam engine. Valued at twenty-five gold pieces each, the crowns made an impressive show of exotic wealth. Phyr handed both of the coins to Stitch then came out with two more and awarded them to Snitch. The smaller man pocketed his payment immediately and glanced nervously at the door. The larger, perhaps slower specimen, goggled at the foreign coins for several seconds before stowing them.

In a few short minutes Phyr had stirred their mushy brains so much that open expectancy replaced the suspicion in their eyes. With two weeks of pay in their pocket, their dog minds desired a task to perform. Phyr adopted a stern expression and took a half step closer, lowering his voice to a covert pitch. To borrow an old Dwarven phrase, he had them in the mine holding pickaxes. All that remained was to set them swinging.

"The nature of the goods being delivered is delicate to the point that my Master has several contingencies in place. You two are the most important. You must wait inside the warehouse until the crates have been delivered and picked up. If at any time you suspect a third party is attempting to gain access to the shipment, let the others fight them off. Your job in that case will be to remove as many crates as possible, starting with the heaviest, and conceal them in the north edge of the thicket behind the warehouse. Others who reside in the shadows will handle them from there. Whether or not this becomes necessary, once your task is completed meet me here again. I will be waiting with the other half of your salaries." The common tongue could be such a hindrance. Phyr almost wanted to explain the job a second time using simpler language, but decided not to push his luck. Already the ruffians were edging towards the door, eager to fetch what he commanded.

"What about Althalos?" Snitch whined, turning back on the threshold. "He'll still want us to be off lookin' for whoever did kill Reed..." Phyr snorted and tossed his matted grey hair dismissively.

"Tell that pig whatever he needs to hear in order to keep him quiet. Unless you'd rather be paid by him than me--" Phyr cut off in laughter as the door slammed shut behind them.

Interesting. His work for the night had just been halved, but it was still exceptionally dangerous. The number of unknown elements outweighed the known, and no tactician could be completely comfortable with that. Not sober, at least. Phyr sat on the bed, waiting awhile to give the goons a head start. Took out his flask, still half full of the pilfered rye, and thumbed off the cap. Just enough time for a drink. The friendly aroma and mulish kick assuaged his worries better than a partner's company.