FOURISH SEASONS AGO
EAST CONTINENT - PARTORA
ON A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
The night wind along the scarp is bitter sharp, and a few shadowy figures shudder their ways down the water's edge along the seawall to a particular inn, no more than a shack thrown up along the dockside really, and quiet for such a spot. Inside, a lone candle burns dull against a dirty window, and the door creaks as the first man, the largest, throws it open and peers inside.
"Just him, Boss," he says, breath foggy and damp along the edge of the candlelight, and he holds the door open as a far shorter and slighter figure slides in, followed by the others.
The Boss he addresses is cloaked and hooded in sable ermine, and shivers a great deal less as they step inside the frigid and mostly-empty common room. A long bar lines an interior wall, a few dingy tables and chairs are strewn about, but not a drop or crumb to be found on any but the one in the far back corner, the one that stands vanguard for a wrap-around seat that, while tattered, appears quite comfortable, by the thickness of the cushions and the foggy-breathed but quite relaxed figure that sits thereupon.
He, too, is clad in sable, but his cloak is worn and patchy. He flips up an eye patch to reveal a more-or-less normal-looking eye beneath, and the candlelight plays along a scarred and weathered face, a hawkish nose and a dyed-black beard, but it seems to reflect even more dully from the dark eyes than the dirty windows, those steady-gazing eyes behind which burn a far fiercer fire than the candle can hope to contest.
The slight one stands before the table, upon which sit but two cups and two plates of cold but well-dressed fish - his guards will have to wait for supper, it seems. He shivers, crosses his arms and speaks first. "You are the Bard?" he inquires with a hushed but shrill nervousness.
The Bard, otherwise still upon his threadbare throne, holds up his hands, scarred palms outward. "And you are?" he asks quietly.
The slight one shivers - no, bristles, his shoulders hunching up not from cold, but in indignant annoyance. "And I am?!" he squeaks wrathfully. "I?! Me?! Well, I'm... I'm Calculon! The one who sent you the letter!"
"Oh," says the Bard drily, scrunching his eyebrows and looking down to pull a long... thing, like... something wrapped in a leaf. Seemingly conjuring flame from his fingers, he sets one end on fire and places the other in his mouth. Great clouds of smoke begin to billow forth, which sets Calculon to hacking.
"Oh?!!? Oh?! Put that out, oh!!" Calculon squeals, covering his face. "Gross! Smoking!"
"The Mercantile Mongoose," the Bard replies with a wry grin. "I didn't expect you to be such a sensitive little fellow."
"Sensitive!!?" Calculon wheezes, his hand going from his face to the sword-hilt hidden under his cloak. The bulkier figures behind him begin to rise from their various dingy chairs, but an upraised finger from the Bard makes them pause.
Spliff between his teeth, Bard takes a long sip and exhales. From the right side of his mouth, he growls, "Look under the table."
One of the guards has a better angle than Calculon, and lets out a quiet "!@#$."
Calculon, wide-eyed, bends nearly in half and looks.
A miniature crossbow, fixed to the underside of the table, pointed right at a place you'd rather not be shot, and the Bard's finger deftly wrapped around the trigger.
He shoots up straight and smiles widely, big teeth shining out from his big round head.
"So, Mister Bard! Shall we talk business?!?!"
