| Subject: Aye, tis really sad. I've been here around two years too, I guess...And there's been a decline in storytelling for the most part...But on a hapier note, more of my story's INSIDE |
Author:
Sekin
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Date Posted: 22:10:20 10/28/04 Thu
In reply to:
Windy
's message, "Aye tis sad when the story tellers leave the fire place there are some great pieces and great stories to be told yet no one to tell them... I have been here 2 years and have read many but there is little left... Keep up with yours i enjoy it greatly!!!" on 10:14:07 10/28/04 Thu
Saloc watched the sun rise from his position in front of the enormous window, with a mixture of anger and impatience stamped onto his round face. The golden rays caught his stringy, graying hair in shafts of light and turned his eyes into shinning wells of fury. Twenty minutes had passed since dawn had began to beat back the night and still, the mercenary had not come. Saloc’s eyes were narrowed to slits and his jowls quivered with rage. More than he hated even his rivals, Saloc hated waiting.
He stood at the window only until he became bored with looking at the same brick houses that lined his street. Then he turned, moving surprisingly swiftly for his wide girth and strode back to the table that dominated the center of the lavish room. With a snort of disgust, he tried to pass more time with the game board and pieces, but Fool’s Dagger was a game that required one’s full concentration. Saloc gave up after he almost lost his King to his invisible opponent’s Recruit.
Heaving himself up and out of the cushioned chair, Saloc gave one last vexed glance at the climbing sun before his temper snapped. “Werlot!” he yelled.
His bodyguard slipped open the main door and slunk into the room from where he had been keeping watch outside. Werlot’s scarred face and thick-set body had given criminals even in Selim, enough warning to leave his prosperous merchant employer alone. Heavy on muscle, Saloc had concluded, short on brains. Then again, all a bodyguard needed to be successful was a skill with a weapon and obedience to their employer. Werlot had both.
“Are you sure that you told this Targon the right time to meet me?”
The bodyguard nodded a blunt head. “At dawn,” he said.
“And you told him to meet me here?”
Again, a nod. “At dawn,” I said, “meet my boss down in the last house on Folm Street.”
Saloc gritted his teeth. “And he hasn’t shown up yet? Impudent bastard!”
Werlot, sensing the merchant’s mood, hefted his sword eagerly. Saloc nodded. “Fine, if he does show up, go ahead. Beat him up a bit.”
The bodyguard’s face split into a bloodthirsty grin, but he asked, “And if he doesn’t show up at all? Then what?”
Saloc flicked a dismissive hand, “Then you have my permission to find him later today and cut off a lot more than just a few pieces of skin.”
Werlot chuckled as the joke hit home, then padded back outside to resume his watch. Saloc resigned himself to more waiting, his temper under severe strain. Taking an apple from a bowl on the table, he tossed it from hand to hand with fast, vicious throws. Suddenly, he flung it into the air and stabbed it neatly through the middle with his dagger as it came down.
Sliding up to sit on the table, Saloc chewed the apple, eating around the weapon’s blade as he surveyed the game of Fool’s Dagger. The board was divided into two halves, the land half and its counterpart, the sea. The game was mainly played by one person who assumed the role of his own opponent as well. Saloc thought for a moment. While he was winning on the sea side, his red pieces were suffering heavily on the land. Ignoring the juice running down his chin, Saloc hesitantly prodded the wooden Dragon figure into a square as a sacrificial piece. He moved the green Knight to take it, wincing slightly as he did so. Dragons were very good pieces.
Suddenly, there came a startled yell from outside that jolted him out of his game. Standing, Saloc heard the clash of blades ring out loudly and then the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the floor.
Angrily, Saloc began to stride to the door, wrenching the rest of the apple off his dagger. “Werlot! You idiot! I said beat him up a little, not kill him!” halfway to the door, Saloc froze. A figure too lean and too light haired to be his bodyguard, slipped into his house.
“Beat me up?” inquired the stranger dangerously.
“Havenard!” Saloc exclaimed, staring warily at the mercenary’s unsheathed sword. “You’re late, you son of a she-dog!”
Despite his excellent reflexes, Saloc couldn’t dodge Havenard’s ensuing move. Like a fleeting shadow, the man surged up to the merchant, grabbing the hand that held the dagger. With an expert twist, he began to bend Saloc’s wrist back towards breaking point. His green eyes remained on his victim’s strained face. “I don not respond well to threats and intimidation,” Havenard said almost calmly. I do not respond well or even tolerate it when people attempt to pry into my business. I was late, I’m here now, deal with it, and do not question me!”
Saloc’s pudgy face was almost completely white and twisted with pain. With one last increase of pressure, Havenard released his wrist and strode past him to sit down in the ornate chair. He put one foot up on the armrest and then studied Saloc mockingly as if daring the merchant to say anything.
Saloc sank down in a smaller, plainer, vacant chair. His face was impassive, but his eyes smoldered with wrath. He had wanted to show this impudent mercenary just who really held the power, but so far, Havenard was the one who was dishing out the punishments.
Rubbing a hand over his mouth and rough beard, and scratching at a white scar on his left cheek, Havenard studied the game board thoughtfully. He seemed to have forgotten Saloc’s presence. Saloc coughed softly to attract his attention. “Now, I have contacted you for a specific reason. This job-“
Havenard held up a finger to halt him. “Stupid move,” he said, indicating the Dragon piece that Saloc had been about to sacrifice.
“Thank you,” the merchant growled. “Now-“
“See, what anyone with half a brain would do, would be to move your Thief there.” His finger tapped an empty square. “Then you can take your opponent’s last Dragon on the next turn.” Light green eyes flicked upwards and the ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth.
Saloc slammed a fist down on the table as his temper got the better of him once again. “I know your reputation Havenard!” Color suffused into Saloc’s face. “You are a drunkard! What would a drunk know about playing a game reserved for the rich?”
The mercenary leaned back in his chair, refusing to rise to the bait. “Keep insulting me Saloc and you’ll be minus an employee…and a tongue.”
One sweep of his hand caused board and pieces to go flying as Saloc leaned forwards across the table. “Let us talk business then!”
“Agreed.”
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