“Forty-thousand, kind sirs.”

The request sent a roar of laughter amongst the large room. The city council meeting room in Radasanth was a gorgeous marble amphitheatre, recently reconstructed while sparing no expense in the wake of Radasanth’s siege. Eight elegantly dressed men of varying ages were bookended by two intimidating knights. An audience of some two hundred had gathered to boo and torment the man who led the charge against the city, although security ensured his (and their) collective safety.

“Forty-thousand crowns!? The offer was for -five- thousand! Do we need to call the guards!?”

Storm Veritas had expected an unpleasant response to his demands from Sir David Jacobsen, a half-witted Radasanthian councilor who held elected office more for his thick black hair than the dim bulb burning beneath it. Jacobsen looked about the hemisphere table to other councilors, a mixture of interest and scorn amongst them as they considered the circumstance. With a velvet voice, the aging diplomat began to plead his case, erstwhile fixing his cufflinks and keeping his collar razor-straight. He smiled, thinking of his last note exchanges with Shinsou, and considered how easy they both knew this negotiation would be.

“I understand, your budget is limited and you need to appease the masses.” Storm’s gleaming white teeth contrasted from his evenly tanned skin, giving the well-traveled adventurer a phony sheen of youth.

“I needn’t remind you that a year ago you’d have put my head on a pike before hearing me out. But if the rumors are true, and a Demon Gate has opened in Alerar, you need it closed and you need the key artifact - which appears to be some silly sword. Is letting it fall into the hands of Ettermire Leadership, or some red-skinned demonic abomination pulling down that prize and sticking it in their collective pockets your best bet? How would that fare amongst your constituents come election day?”

A droll murmur rolled about the audience; fear was the easiest motivator amongst cowards.

“And besides…” the dapper gentleman continued. “Would you prefer to send either of these incompetent fools as your champions? I’m sure they’d ride cheap, but you get what you pay for.” Storm gestured to the two distinguished knights on either side of the large table.

Without missing a beat, the knights strode forward swiftly, reaching for their swords with a rumble-clang. Their metal breastplates made them swimmingly perfect demonstrations, and with a wave of each hand Storm had the two large men floating harmlessly in the air, their feet flailing and shrieks echoing across the large, filled room. A loud mixture of gasps, shrieks, and laughter filled the busy room as guards rushed the stage to prevent a melee.

--------------

The sun shined brightly on Storm’s face the following morning, and with good reason. Pinching a small leather flask between his fingers, he took a slow draw of warm honey-mead. It was heavy, with a sweet aftertaste that danced about his tongue. A few pulls from the bottle would loosen him up, relaxing him before he could re-find his sea legs.

The council had conceded to his demand of forty-thousand crowns to destroy the portal and return the artifact sword, while sponsoring him with a ten-percent in kind donation to fund his efforts. This came in the shape of a large chartered vessel, ensuring safe, quick, and smooth travel across the sea for him, his three favorite Radasanthian prostitutes, a plentiful stock of food and more ale than even they could drink.

And no one drinks more than a Radasanth whore on shore leave.

Storm smiled into the eastern seas as he heard clamoring on the dock. The salty air had a fresh, healing scent that imbued a sense of immortality, as if the brine could heal all wounds. A few deckhands would shephard him across; good men well worth their salt that he’d sailed with before. They worked their checklist to ensure mast integrity, sail health, and hull condition.

A clambor had erupted behind him, and Storm spied an entirely average older man walking alongside an unmistakably massive pile of bones. Turning to whisper, Storm spoke quickly.

“Go. Go. Gotta go. Go go go go go go go. GO!”

It was almost too late; Connor Smithson had been scrambling at the tethers when the familiar face (face?) of Elite Optic and his human familiar was sighted at the bow of the next boat down. Storm presumed safely there was only one fifteen-foot skeleton traipsing about Althanas, and remembered this lethal atrocity from battle in the Lornius Corporate Challenge, years ago. The monster was actually noble, and more than capable, but was an absolute guarantee to sour the mood with the hired help waiting in Storm’s quarters below.

He must be going to collect the FIVE thousand crown prize. Let these folks pack up and I’ll catch them in Alerar. Be a real shame if he helped us do the heavy lifting and fall overboard on the way back. Do bones float?

Moving with the stealth of a lightly intoxicated ninja, Storm swiftly helped unravel the last rope from the metal cleat hitching the sprawling vessel to the dock. By lowering his body flat to the deck, he was able to use a very mild electromagnetic pulse upon the cleat to give himself and the crew a nice kick out into the calm waters.

Storm Veritas began to sail out upon his own vessel, laughing behind his teeth at the rabble behind him, scrambling to determine how best to pack an enormous undead animation into their tiny dingy.

Real shame, but I’ve got guests to attend to. I’ll see you folks soon enough, I’m sure.