Saturday, September 17, 2016

FLHTH Session 04 - Campaign Story: Tándir

Wherein a Street Urchin Gets Under My Skin Upon My Return to Folkestone's Landing

Twosday, First Hand of Readying, EE237
Tándir of Great Harbor
Folkestone's Landing, Wirost

I'd returned to Folkestone's Landing three turnings of the hand later. "Thank you," I said to the lad tending the stable where I boarded Stormlight, tossing him a handful of Dragons for the next month's boarding fees, arranging for delivery of my travel bags to my home, picked up my trusty leather backpack and entered the Soul Market. Little had changed in the three hands since I'd last been home.  The same familiar sights, smells and sounds were a welcome relief from the stockyards of Penrith's Point where I had had a very private conversation with a traveling storyteller and bard that had raised the ire of someone wealthy enough to afford my services and with the connections to contract said services.

Dodging around shoppers and tourists I wondered why I had accepted this last contact. I certainly didn't need the extra coin. It did enhance my reputation, of course, but was that even necessary anymore? I had a pretty good, if low, profile reputation. Bastion had always seen to that. I decided to inquire with Bastion the next time we talked. As the primary front man for my serivces he'd know if we still needed for me to take the odd local jobs.

"You're back. Where did you go?" she said, this time not even trying to cut the strings of my purse, just suddenly walking beside me. When I didn't reply she added, "What's your name?"

Pausing, looking past her olive-green eyes, I saw she was back to being filthy, her dark hair a disaster, face smudged. I could detect a sour odor rising from her as well. "You need a bath."

"Thanks," she said, pocketing the few Stags that I offered. "What's your name?"

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I asked. "Like a public bath?"

"Nope. What's your name? Are you ashamed of it? Is it Nulvog? Or Godaf?" she asked with apparent interest. "It's Uw, isn't it?"

"What's yours?" I asked. Now why did I ask that? I didn't need or want to know her name.

"Saafiyah. But I prefer Thistle. What's yours?"

She followed me up the stairs and crowded me when I unlocked the door to the apartment above the shop and, with no hesitation at all, strolled in. I was unaware at that point that Saafiyah had just decided to permanently move into my life.
"I did not invite you in," I told her with a frown, holding the door open for her to leave. She strolled around the main room ignoring me.

"I know."

With a sigh I shut the door. "And that reminds me. Where in Aesis' beard is my statue?"

Saafiyah bounced her rear down on the sitting couch as if testing it. "I sold it."

"To whom?"

"Trelbar."

Damn. That scumbag? "I'll go see him tomorrow. How much?"

"Six Stags."

It was worth a small fortune. Trelbar had ripped the girl off and I had no doubt he had known that when he'd handed over the coins to her. Trelbar was going to get a personal visit from me at which point he and I would have a conversation about a fence treating his clients fairly so that all involved profited.

Thirsty and now pissed off, I headed to the cupboard and grabbed an unopened jug of River Valley ale, Saafiyah following close behind. She didn't make a sound but I could tell nonetheless; a rank odor followed me. "You stink," I told her, before frowning and sitting down the ale. It had become stale in my absence.

"I know."

"So go wash yourself."

Opening the balcony doors off the main room, I stretched, bent, and leaned on the railing, watching the fascinating canvas of life that was the Soul Market. It was the oldest and busiest market amongst the the seven islands that made up the Mystshroud Chain, and certainly the most famous. With its narrow alleys, its frenetic activity, is miasma of aromas and the vitality it exuded every day it was likely second to only the King's Market of Great Harbour in all the known world. From the balcony I could see beyond the energy of the market to the waterfront district where a half dozen seafaring galleys were in port. Beyond, at sea, more ships waited at anchor for their turns to load or unload their precious cargos before sailing for Great Harbor or the major ports of the other islands. The view never failed to help me feel alive, even if just a bit. It always defied my belief to realize that only three hundred cycles previously Wirost had been untamed and ruled by tribal kobolds and orcs, humanoid races whose freedom was now on the brink of extinction.

Glancing over my shoulder I was pleased to see no sign of Saafiyah. Good. She'd finally got the message and left. What was with the child, anyway? I pulled over a chair and sat in the late afternoon shade. I filled the pipe I carried with me, lit it with a flint and steel striker. That first deep inhalation felt wonderful. I could almost feel the effects of the Iuna leaf residue, so named after the Goddess of Medicine, Healing and Mercy. I closed my eyes for a moment, embracing the calming effects of the tobacco. It was good to be home.

As I usually did, my mind went back over this most recent contract, searching for any flaws. Had I left a clue? Had I left traces that would reveal the storyteller's death as anything but an accident? If I had, I couldn't see it. The life I'd chosen, was really quite a lonesome profession. It required dispassion, cold calculation and distance from the world. I had always believed it had suited me rather well after my experiences in Great Harbor before I had fled to the Mystshroud Islands and eventually settled in Folkestone's Landing. I quite liked the odd hours and the new challenge that every contract provided. I liked the change in scenery that my work afforded me, as well. I had spent the first half of my life hardly ever stepping outside of the district I had been born in back in Great Harbor. Since my flight to the Mystshrouds I had traveled extensively, perhaps even more extensively than the wealthy aristocrats of my native land. While there were times between jobs that sometimes stretched for months, I didn't find them boring in the slightest. It allowed me to temporarily retire, as it were, and refine my craft. There were so many interesting ways of killing. In fact, I didn't think my victims quite appreciated the skill, respect and poetic justice I paid to them, selecting a mode of death most suited to their personalities or transgressions.

Dallen Holybrook, the recently deceased middle-aged and crooked bard who had cheated at games of chance one-too-many times, was a fastidious dresser and obsessive about his neatness and cleanliness. It was appropriate that he drown while bathing in the public bath of the inn I had finally caught up to him at. Of course, heart attacks do happen at odd times; at least those induced by the forced introduction of a heavy dose of Aislimare root into the system. But, had I covered myself? It was always the question that I returned to after completing a job.

Movement broke my chain of thought. The tobacco in my pipe had long since been exhausted and I realized that I had been lost in my own thoughts long enough that the sun was low in the sky. Saafiyah emerged onto the balcony wearing on of my baggy traveling shirts. She'd obviously been going through my things and I had been so involved in my own thoughts I hadn't even heard her return, hadn't heard the sound of my apartment door opening behind me. Was she really that good? More worrisome, was I becoming that oblivious to my surroundings?

"Better, yes?" she asked.

Her hair was still damp and for the first time I noticed it wasn't dirt-coloured at all. Saafiyah had rich dark burgundy hair that glinted with coppery gold strands in the late afternoon sunlight. She seemed to clean up into a diffferent girl altogether. The guttersnipe was gone, and I had no doubt that she was going to be a stunning image of of beauty one day when she grew up. I was still quite sure, based on her small stature, she was around eight cycles into her life, yet she talked as if she were older. Was it being on the stree tthat did it? I tried to remember what I had been like at her age, in her circumstances, fending for myself on the streets of the more disreputable districts of Great Harbor before the old man had taken me under his wing, provided a roof over my head, meals for my belly and nourishment for my mind in the form of alchemical instruction. Still, even then I was older than eight.

"That's my shirt that you're wearing."

"Yes."

"Where did you get it?" Now, exactly why did I ask that question? Was I trying to appear stupid? She got it from my solar. "I mean, why did you get it?" No, that's not really what I meant either, so I tried again. "I mean, where are your clothes and who told you you could take something that does not belong to you?"

She stood, leaning back, elbows on the black iron balcony railing, olive-green eyes studying me. "Are you done yet or do you have more?" she asked, smiling at me. It looked like she was mocking my articulateness.

"I'm not done by a long shot, kerl," I insisted, using the term that denoted a female of no standing or class in society. Kerl, and it's male gender variant "dern" were most often used in derogatory reference to slave stock.

My barb did not seem to faze her. "You did. You told me to go wash."

"Hmm. I don't remember saying anything about helping yourself to my clothing."

"You didn't tell me not to," she rationalized, pausing before adding, "Sorry?" with that enigmatic smile. I was absolutely convinced she had not one ounce of sorry in her; not one ounce.

I scoffed and shook my head.

"I went to the bath house on Gold Street," she began explaining.

"Gilded Flowers," I said. I had been there many times over the years. Like most public baths in the Soul Market it was staffed almost entirely by slave stock and offered numerous amenities besides the baths. It was also quite expensive. I frowned and felt for my coin purse only to find that it was not at my belt. I extended my hand, palm open.

The girl simply smiled as she reached behind her neck and untied the string before pulling the purse from beneath my shirt. "I had my clothes washed while I cleaned up but they hadn't dried yet and it was getting late," she continued to explain as she dropped my coin purse into my outstretched hand. "I couldn't very well run around in wet clothes, now could I? So I came back and borrowed one of your shirts while my clothes dry on the couch. You didn't say I couldn't."

While I paused to think up a rejoinder, Saafiyah left the balcony. She returned a moment later with two clay mugs. "Here," she said, handing me one. "Your ale was stale so I bought a flagon for you on the way back."

"Thanks." It wasn't until I'd taken my first drink from the mug that I realized she was now helping herself to my drinks, too. And ale, at that.

I was not impressed. I even found her wet, washed clothes hanging off of the back and sides of my couch. I realized, with a sigh, that she wasn't going anywhere until her clothes dried out. Grabbing them I took them to the balcony to dry faster.
An hour later she inhaled a meal that I had sent her to the market to fetch, packing away more than I could have consumed in two meals. I didn't feel guilty in the slightest when I pushed the re-dressed, bathed and over-fed guttersnipe out my front door. "Go home," I instructed. "And please stay there," I added before closing the door behind her.

Standing on the balcony, leaning on the railing with a freshly filled mug of ale in hand, watching locals and traveling merchants moving below, I enjoyed the peace. Saafiyah had kept up a running conversation despite my not answering her at all. She wasn't put off in the slightest that I wasn't participating; that I had barely registered her presence except when I had sent her to fetch dinner. Draining the ale, I wondered where she lived. Then I wondered why I was even interested in the answer to such a question? Why would I care? I didn't, I decided with a nod.

Sleep came easily.

I woke up suddenly. Normally, I'm exceptionally observant. Somehow, as I slept, I picked up on a small detail that niggled at my mind. I hated niggles. From my perch on the balcony I hadn't seen the girl leave the building. I should have seen her. Was she hiding in the building? Where? Somehow I wouldn't put it past her to wait for night before trying to slip back into my apartment. Slipping on my breeches I started out. Until I confirmed she'd left, I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I absolutely hated niggles. Like loose teeth I could never let them go, pushing and probing despite the discomfort they brought.

It wasn't hard to find her. All I did was open the apartment door. Saafiyah was curled up in the hall, sleeping on the old wooden floor, head on crossed arms. Something in my chest shifted. I didn't like the feeling, it was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I couldn't let her sleep there, even knowing that it was probably better than anywhere else she would have found to bed down for the night. Frowning, I picked her up gently. I was surprised when she didn't wake as I moved her to the couch and laid her down. Given the talents she had displayed thus far, I would have expected her to stir awake at the sound of my door opening. Leaving the common room, I paused, turned, looked at her and, with a sigh, fetched a blanket and pillow.

With a light blanket covering her I finally found sleep. My final thought was that come morning I'd need to have a stern talk with the kerl.

I woke to the smell of fresh bread. After a brief bout of confusion I remembered I had an unwelcome guest. Once dressed I found her with a pile of bread, smothered in butter. Butter smeared one of her cheeks and a half empty jug of goat's milk sat on the table in front of her.

"I fetched breakfast, Tándir," she said, stating what was already obvious while nodding at the loaf of bread.
Her olive-green eyes followed me as I tore a section of the bread off and ate. Munching, crumbs fell from her mouth to the table. I was not impressed by her table manners.

"Saafiyah, where do you live?"

"Here and there."

I knew, of course, that she was a street child, a guttersnipe, a gutter rat or any of a number of similarly derogatory terms; like most kids living on their wits she showed an abnormal confidence. Over our morning meal she happily chatted away, interrogating me, learning nothing yet seemingly satisfied. She managed to talk about everything but herself, deflecting my own questions with ease. I didn't push. When I filled a mug with the last of the ale she had brought the night before and retired to the balcony to warm myself in the morning sun it finally registered.

"Hey! How did you know my name is Tándir?" I asked over my shoulder. Getting no answer, I rose and went to find her. What was she doing now?

She was gone.

No comments:

Post a Comment

SotF Session 004: Sigfrido de'Zolezzi

Threesday, 4th Hand of Reaping Something astonishing happened, originally i left the inn to go back to the lair to collect the ears of ...