Ride The Lightning
EXP: 166,794, Level: 17
Level completed: 83%,
EXP required for next Level: 3,206
A thin, well quaffed man of average height stood in the doorway in the central quarters of Whitevale. An oversized office was framed with narrow windows, which allowed only a small touch of moonlight into the resident therein. Finding the room had been simple enough, but the whole administrative building seemed otherwise vacant at this hour. As his father once told him, bad news aged worse than milk, and ripping off a bandage was always the lesser of two evils to the slow peel.
He nervously rapped his fingers across the paperwork he was holding, feeling the crisp edge of the folder against his long, slender digits. He was dizzy, sick with nerves as he shifted weight from foot to foot, reminding himself don’t lock your knees and remember to breathe! as guidance to prevent passing out. He had bad news to deliver, and the man who’d assumed the lead of the town could sense it.
“Enough with the bullshit soft-shoe routine. What in the blue fuck do you want!?†Behind a large wooden desk, his face lit by a long-wicked candle which seemed to cry upon itself in a timeless glob of wax, Storm Veritas looked weary. The once-adventurer had replaced the formerly omnipresent odors of aged, honeyed mead and venereal disease for slow-drying inkwells and whale oil lanterns. His face looked the part, appearing more drawn upon a yellowed, almost pallid complexion.
“Evening sir, Steven Nimitz, father of four here in town. M’lord, word from the Capital. It’s not my own message, sir.†Stalling, he looked to his shoes for answers.
“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I KNOW IT’S BAD! WHAT IS IT, BOY!?†The brief eruption from the officer pained both of them. Quieting, the seated wizard rubbed at his face, feeling the thick stubble upon his jawbone as he braced himself for the inevitable. His eyes raised, awaiting retort.
“Radasanth, sir. It appears there’s a lien against Whitevale based on damages.†Without further delay, the hesitant younger man carefully laid the folder of papers upon the edge of the leader’s desk. As the magician began to pore over details, Steven deliberately backpedaled, his heels searching for the framing of the door, tapping about and seeking escape. His eyes remained upon the tired Veritas, like a trainer cautiously gaining distance from his tiger. He noticed the wizard wave him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, brushing the air towards him. Knowing a golden opportunity, the man was but a shadow and memory before Storm Veritas could change his mind.
Coincidentally, Storm couldn’t help but grimace at the sight of this preposterous document. Radasanth had no leverage to collect money from Whitevale directly, but they could place restrictions, tariffs, and threaten further liens upon the other towns in Corone that Whitevale relied on. If Storm chose to continue his intended insubordination, they’d likely pressure other trading partners, perhaps Alerar to stop the influx of spice and technology.
Gods. Already giving twenty-five percent of my business to these brokering whores that skim from the top and bottom of every transaction. Maybe I’ll chop everything amongst them, and try to create a bidding war amongst them. Let them launder the exchanges outside the purview of Radasanth, and see if we can’t slice that skim a touch.
The wizard held the paper aloft, snapping his fingers to create a spark and watching the paper and ink catch above his desk. A lovely char smell filled the small room, casting a secondary light on the otherwise dark evening. As the papers burned, tiny fragments of newly blackened paper floated through the air, their red-orange rims fading before they slowly, dramatically settled upon the lacquered hickory desk.
OK, cute enough. Don’t burn the goddamned place down trying to be cute.
His smile fading, Storm pivoted slightly in his chair, dropping the quickly burning paper into the trash. He’d have his administrator call in the brokers in the morning; the moon was high and his temper was short. Negotiations would be tense, expensive, and annoying, but Storm would be cold in the ground before he would willingly split a single crown off his pile for the pigs in Radasanth.
Sighing with resignation, he shifted back in his chair, pulling from two pockets to produce a pipe in one hand and a healthy pinch of tobacco in the other. He was good at this, and knew he’d find a way to insulate Whitevale from Radasanth’s petulancy. He also loathed this sort of work, and gazed out the window to fantasize of a time where his Brotherhood business actually included action
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