(Recycled this from a game that didn't happen. Might flesh it out more, if it meets with enough...
Technically, it's a Bonnet
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(Recycled this from a game that didn't happen. Might flesh it out more, if it meets with enough approval and inspiration strikes.)
TECHNICALLY, IT'S A BONNET
A day in the Life of Tam (Flavorful fluff for prurient perusal)
A penny dreadful of the most disreputable
and scandalous young strumpet leader
of the so-called
Guild of Negotiable Affection
SHOCKING!
VULGAR
NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART! Not for children under the age of 31, adults over the age of 31, or those with rheumatory palpitations. In fact, burn this pamphlet posthaste lest you risk corruption.
The place is called Grimbler's Finest. No one's quite sure where he hides his finest or what it may be, but everyone agrees that the sausages are pretty good. It's working class fare for working class prices, and she enjoys eating there sometimes. She is, after all, a working girl.
You wouldn't think she'd be eating there by choice, not to look at her. She's not the usual clientele by appearance alone. Her face is unlined and pretty, her hair's blonde, poofy, and arranged into a pixie cut, her body's slender and a bit short but still maintains a fair number of attractively highlighted curves, and her clothing is a cut above the neighborhood's standard. She's wearing a long green skirt that shows just a hint of stockinged ankle, flat and comfy shoes that are nonetheless fine quality, and a blouse with ruffles demurely hiding her cleavage.
Her concessions to accessory are a frilly green parasol and a sort of droopy hat that bears three flowers upon it. White carnations, their blooms standing out in the grime of the Chop street eatery that she's currently haunting.
Her ears are pointed. Some elven blood there, perhaps? Or something more exotic? Hard to tell. No earrings. No piercings whatsoever.
She doesn't look a day over twenty. Looks are deceiving.
The patrons of Grimbler's Finest all know her. They smiled when she came in and she smiled back, and then they gave her her space, and that's all she wanted really, besides a sausage-inna-bun platter with turnips on the side, and a hard, small roll of rye.
It's her moment of peace, in a day that has been, and will continue to be spent dealing with PEOPLE. Her minute of solitude, a break from the hullaballoo, the thousand and one problems that never quite go away, from, well, everything.
The fare is plain but the meat is never bad, and she knows the taste of every item of food on there by heart. Nonetheless she passes the ring over the plate and its accompanying cup of beer when it arrives, checks it, and nods with satisfaction.
And just as her dinner knife is ready to pierce something that probably had come from a pig at some point, the door to Grimbler's Finest opens again, and a mountain made of creaking leather walks in.
It's trouble, of course. He wouldn't interrupt unless it was trouble.
She looks up at him. He looks down at her. With a sigh, she puts coins on the table and leaves with him, the tiny little slip of a woman following the walking geography.
-----
He's shorter than he looks. Maybe a hair under six feet, with a thick frame. He just dresses in loose clothes, has a cloak and a jerkin filled with knives, saps, and other holdout weapons. That and an aggressive strut that reeks of violence, a way of glaring if you look at him... well, he dominates the street as he walks. His small beard is fast going grey, his head's shaved bald, and his face is scarred. His eyes size up everyone on the street as if he's looking for the most efficient way to kill everyone there.
He probably is. His name is Murdoch, and he is Tam's best friend in all the world.
"Nice hat."
"Technically it's a bonnet. What do we have, Mister Murdoch?"
"Firewilds gang."
"Oh, the new lot. What have they done?"
"Hit the Blue-whites."
"Hm. Impressive. What's this to do with us?"
"They took over Morley's to celebrate. Tula's in there. They ain't lettin' her leave. Morley hisself sent his cook to run and tell me. He knows we wouldn't take it well and dun't want trouble."
A frown, and a shadow over her eyes, far older then the rest of her. "Our guards?"
"None around. Workin' uptown todays on account o' the festival."
"Right, right. You and me, then?"
"Reckon so."
"Well. Almost like old times... Hm. The Blue and Whites, any survive?"
"A few. Scattered. Angry. Fearful."
"They still have a flophouse in the Mews?"
"That they do."
"It's not far, let's make a little side trip before we hit Morley's..."
-----
Morley's Drunkery is the most honest pub off of Chop street. The windows have never known the touch of glass, the regulars all have their favorite parts of the street outside to land on when they get bounced, and the benches and tables are either bolted down, or cheap and easily replaceable. It exists for one purpose and one purpose only, and it's damn good at it.
Right now it's full of laughing youths and grizzled men with red tattoos, and red articles of clothes scattered around. Typical Chop street gang, really.
She's surprised to note a few women in the crew. Well, it's a sign of progress, she supposes. Still, given the circumstances...
Tula's in the corner, shrunk down in her bench, surrounded by a table full of rowdies pushing drink on her and making suggestions. She's frightened, silent, trying to be invisible, but they're getting more frustrated and they're not taking no for an answer.
Tam takes in the scene in seconds, doing quick calculations. Ah, good. The table with the leader, a brawny man with flame tattoos on his face, is toward the center. That would be Char, she remembers. A small time thug with big time dreams. The side where Tula is seems to be packed with the lesser gang members, so there's a chance of getting Tula out of here with minimum conflict. Hm, plans B through D might not be necessary after all.
Then Char looks up. "Well! If it ain't the whore queen herself! Nice hat."
The pub roars with laughter. She smiles, tips her parasol to her shoulder, folds it.
"Technically, it's a bonnet. Queen, though? No. More of a first among equals deal, I think."
Murdoch's scowling behind her. She can tell by the way the nearest Firewild gangers are scooting backward and slowly edging hands toward weapons.
"Well then, First lady, what brings you to our little party?"
"Oh, my friend Tula is late for an appointment. Can't keep a customer waiting. So we'll just be walking her there-"
"Nah, I think she'll stay here."
She meets his eyes. He's drunk, high on the beating he just delivered to his rivals, riding the thrill of power. She knows that thrill, she's seen in it so many bullies over the years. Some can handle it. Others use it to justify any hurt they turn upon their victims. She's seen it so many times...
And every time it still turns her stomach.
"I fear I must insist." She taps her parasol on the floor. "But we'll kindly arrange for some more cheerful company to replace her. Standard prices of course, standard rules."
Shut your mouth and we can do this, you fool. Shut your mouth and agree, and you can go back with no face lost, and Tula gets out of a bad situation. Shut your mouth, and...
"Nah, I think not. Though if you want to take her place..." He grins.
Oh, he went there.
"Not an option for you, I fear. Now, we've got any number of young ladies and men who would-"
"You sayin' you're too good for me? For us?"
The gangers are scowling now, and standing up. Char stands, moves a few paces closer.
The mood's gone quite ugly.
She reaches into her cleavage, pulls out a heart-shaped locket. Pops it open, considers it, snaps it shut. *Click* "No. I'm anyone's. No better than most, worse in some cases, really. First among equals as I said, and everyone pulls their weight in the Guild after all. But there's rules, for me. You have to guess my price before you can pay it. One guess permitted per month."
Char laughs, gestures to a thin woman with burn scars on her hands. A second perhaps, or a floozy she lazily throws a pouch on the floor, and it spills open.
Gold, enough to buy a large house in a good part of the city. Probably some of their ill-gotten gains from the Blue and Whites.
*Click* Tam snaps the locket open and shut again. "I'm afraid you've guessed incorrectly. Well. Come, Tula, we're off then-"
"Heh." The leader moves closer, four of his bully-boys falling in behind him. "Well. How 'bout a kiss, then? One kiss, and Tula there gets to leave. Fair and square."
He never said anything about letting US leave, though. Of course.
"One kiss for Tula's freedom? Very well then." Her fingers twitch, and behind her, Murdoch chuckles.
Char grins, steps forward, and reaches for her... And Murdoch MOVES, grabs him, lifts the brawny goon into the air, and locks his lips onto Char's mouth.
The entire tavern freezes, shocked.
Well, save for Tula, who drops under the table and starts scurrying for the door. Good girl.
*Click, Snap* The locket opens, Tam glances in it again, then shuts it. Back it goes into her bosom.
Murdoch drops Char who lands, sputtering. There's a ripple of nervous laughter in the back and he flushes, red. Murdoch grins.
"You kiss like a virgin. I like that."
He tips Char a wink.
Tam shakes her head.
"Kiss delivered, deal done. Now, we'll be-"
And that's when Char draws a knife.
Well, tries to. There's a crunch-SNAP as Murdoch's heel staves in at least four of his ribs. He crumples like wet paper, screaming, and the Firewilds around him finally, FINALLY start to move.
Tam sighs. You try to be nice...
-----
The Firewilds fill the tavern, but it works against them. Too many in too tight a space, and half the tables and benches are bolted to the floor. They're drunk, they're sore from their last fight, and with their leader down they're uncoordinated.
Tam observes all of this from the doorway to the kitchen, with Morley peering out behind her, frightened.
There are those who would leap roaring into the crowd. Those who would go berserk and reduce the furniture to splinters around their foes. Those who would stretch forth mighty thews, grab someone, and proceed to beat a fucker with another fucker.
And then there's mister Murdoch.
He doesn't waste time with flashy.
He doesn't pick up chairs, tables, or anything like that.
He simply hits, and every time he hits, it maims or kills. Eyes are gouged. Calves are stamped in half. Stomachs are split, and bones crackle and snap like trees falling. Groins are crushed, jaws are knocked askew, and fingers are bitten off. Occasionally he'll draw a knife or take one from someone and leave it in someone else.
In return... Sure, if you were good or lucky you could hit him. Sure, you could hurt him. But he knew how to take the hits, he didn't let the pain slow him down, and he gave out much, much worse then he recieved. Too, he was armored under that leather vest. They weren't. He could be beaten, had before, but never easily and rarely without cost. To fight Murdoch, even if you won, was to lose something of value.
A foppish poet had once witnessed him fight, and compared him to a fox in a henhouse. No, Tam had corrected him. Mr. Murdoch's at the very least a wolverine, she'd said.
(The poet guessed the wrong price later on. Pity, he had seemed nice.)
Mister Murdoch tried his hand at being a gladiator once... It hadn't worked out. The fights were over too quick. There wasn't much to see before they were done. And he had never quite grasped the notion of fighting fair.
Well, Tam didn't have much use for it either, to tell the truth. But she grasped the notion at least. Just had no real use for it, that's all.
Still...
Murdoch was slower with each passing year. He kept his muscles strong, but they gave him more and more trouble as each winter came and went. Bones broken and reset and mended through magic or chirurgery, and never quite as good after.
The time would come when he'd struggle to get out of bed.
The time would come when his strength would leave him.
Age would succeed where hundreds of thugs had failed. She'd seen it before, and she'd see it again.
In ten years she'd probably be helping him up stairs.
In twenty years she'd be sitting by his bed, reading to him to keep him from going mad with idleness.
In thirty, if he made it that far, there'd be an unmarked gravestone in a quiet little cemetary. Far away from necromancers, or resurrection men, or other vultures. She'd promised him that.
Her hand found the pointed tip of one ear. Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last. Didn't make it easier. Never made it easier at all.
She winced as he took a punchdagger to the side, kept on fighting. He had things about halfway handled, she judged. Probably need a trip to the chirurgeon after, or a temple healing. With one part of her mind she was tallying costs. With another part... Yes. Yes, that would be how she would relieve some of the pressure on him. It would work best for the plan, anyway.
She screamed, and Morley jumped, frightened. The fight paused, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, and fled for the back stairs.
The deer draws predators from more vulnerable prey by feigning weakness...
And sure enough, a good portion of the remaining bully-boys followed.
The rest wondered why Murdoch was grinning. Well, while they still had time to wonder, anyway.
-----
They finally caught up with her in the alley outside, battering through the locked doors, cursing as they tread on the caltrops, and doubletracking as she lead them upstairs and downstairs, huffing and puffing as they went the long way around through the linked buildings.
They found her waiting at the end of the alley, nowhere to go, examining her locket. With a *Click-snap*, she put it away, twirled her parasol to her shoulder, and studied them, impassively.
The leader of the pack was the thin woman with the burned hands. She grinned with black teeth, as they closed in.
"We'll do ya over slow. Make an example. Char's down but he ent dead, and yer dog'll slit 'is own throat to get ya back. What's left of yer will spend the rest of its short life screamin', and sippin' soup through bowls held in broken hands."
"I see." Tam removed her hat, and held it over her belly with one hand. It flopped out around her, almost shield sized.
The thin woman snorted laughter. "Think I'll nail that stupid hat to yer skull after. Any last words, Queen Whore?"
"Well, yes. One, you shouldn't have left any of the Blue and Whites alive. They were eager to come work for ME when I offered. Especially after I promised them your blood if you didn't see reason."
That's when the Firewilds in the back of the alley started screaming, as forms dropped down from the low roofs above, with knives, and a thirst for vengeance. The thin woman whirled, cursed, then drew a knife and charged for Tam.
"And two..."
BLAM!
The woman dropped, as her blood painted the wall behind her. Tam regarded the smoldering hat sadly, then dropped it, to reveal the smoking blackpowder derringer in her other hand, the one she'd drawn while using the hat's long, floppy brim as cover.
"Technically it's a bonnet."
-----
They walked Tula back home, Tam supporting her with one arm as she wept with fear and the aftermath of adrenaline. Murdoch was limping, and had a fresh set of wounds, but he was grinning. It tore Tam up to see him so, but a few days rest and a doctor would see him right. The former Blue and Whites, now guards for the Guild, had reinforced him, as Tam knew they would. The gunshot hadn't just been a defense, it had been a signal.
Tam shrugged. Hey, she'd been willing to give the Firewilds a chance to back down and let Tula go. Everyone in Chop Street knew the rules... You don't keep the Guild workers if they want to leave. You don't keep pushing if they say no.
Sometimes people needed a reminder, was all.
They put Tula to bed in one of the upper rooms, let her sleep it off. When they got downstairs, Milo was waiting.
"Trouble," the handsome young man, said.
Tam sighed. Murdoch cursed. "Wot the fuck is it NOW?"
"Oronvee." That put them both to silence. Milo sighed. "Lord Fanter was talkative after my last visit. The Oronvee have taken the Jol-trum gate."Tam went to the cupboard, grabbed the oldest bottle of bourbon she had, and poured drinks. She and Murdoch collapsed into chairs around the table, and looked at each other, as Milo quietly accepted a glass, then left them to discuss.
"Nothing between the horde and Ascension but a long stretch of terrain, a few abandoned forts, whatever armies the new ruler can muster, and the prayers of the faithful."
"Yeah, we're fucked."
"You ever seen a city under siege, Murdoch? How's it go for anyone who's not worth a ransom?"
"In a word? Shitty. In three words? Really fucking shitty."
She sighed. "Well. We'll have to make preparations, then." She downed the last of her bourbon, sighed, and rose. "What a terrible day. My lunch interrupted, Tula terrorized, and a fresh round of bruises for you. AND I've lost my best hat."
"Tech'nic'ly it's a bonnet. WAS a bonnet."
She threw her glass at him as he laughed.
TECHNICALLY, IT'S A BONNET
A day in the Life of Tam (Flavorful fluff for prurient perusal)
A penny dreadful of the most disreputable
and scandalous young strumpet leader
of the so-called
Guild of Negotiable Affection
SHOCKING!
VULGAR
NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART! Not for children under the age of 31, adults over the age of 31, or those with rheumatory palpitations. In fact, burn this pamphlet posthaste lest you risk corruption.
The place is called Grimbler's Finest. No one's quite sure where he hides his finest or what it may be, but everyone agrees that the sausages are pretty good. It's working class fare for working class prices, and she enjoys eating there sometimes. She is, after all, a working girl.
You wouldn't think she'd be eating there by choice, not to look at her. She's not the usual clientele by appearance alone. Her face is unlined and pretty, her hair's blonde, poofy, and arranged into a pixie cut, her body's slender and a bit short but still maintains a fair number of attractively highlighted curves, and her clothing is a cut above the neighborhood's standard. She's wearing a long green skirt that shows just a hint of stockinged ankle, flat and comfy shoes that are nonetheless fine quality, and a blouse with ruffles demurely hiding her cleavage.
Her concessions to accessory are a frilly green parasol and a sort of droopy hat that bears three flowers upon it. White carnations, their blooms standing out in the grime of the Chop street eatery that she's currently haunting.
Her ears are pointed. Some elven blood there, perhaps? Or something more exotic? Hard to tell. No earrings. No piercings whatsoever.
She doesn't look a day over twenty. Looks are deceiving.
The patrons of Grimbler's Finest all know her. They smiled when she came in and she smiled back, and then they gave her her space, and that's all she wanted really, besides a sausage-inna-bun platter with turnips on the side, and a hard, small roll of rye.
It's her moment of peace, in a day that has been, and will continue to be spent dealing with PEOPLE. Her minute of solitude, a break from the hullaballoo, the thousand and one problems that never quite go away, from, well, everything.
The fare is plain but the meat is never bad, and she knows the taste of every item of food on there by heart. Nonetheless she passes the ring over the plate and its accompanying cup of beer when it arrives, checks it, and nods with satisfaction.
And just as her dinner knife is ready to pierce something that probably had come from a pig at some point, the door to Grimbler's Finest opens again, and a mountain made of creaking leather walks in.
It's trouble, of course. He wouldn't interrupt unless it was trouble.
She looks up at him. He looks down at her. With a sigh, she puts coins on the table and leaves with him, the tiny little slip of a woman following the walking geography.
-----
He's shorter than he looks. Maybe a hair under six feet, with a thick frame. He just dresses in loose clothes, has a cloak and a jerkin filled with knives, saps, and other holdout weapons. That and an aggressive strut that reeks of violence, a way of glaring if you look at him... well, he dominates the street as he walks. His small beard is fast going grey, his head's shaved bald, and his face is scarred. His eyes size up everyone on the street as if he's looking for the most efficient way to kill everyone there.
He probably is. His name is Murdoch, and he is Tam's best friend in all the world.
"Nice hat."
"Technically it's a bonnet. What do we have, Mister Murdoch?"
"Firewilds gang."
"Oh, the new lot. What have they done?"
"Hit the Blue-whites."
"Hm. Impressive. What's this to do with us?"
"They took over Morley's to celebrate. Tula's in there. They ain't lettin' her leave. Morley hisself sent his cook to run and tell me. He knows we wouldn't take it well and dun't want trouble."
A frown, and a shadow over her eyes, far older then the rest of her. "Our guards?"
"None around. Workin' uptown todays on account o' the festival."
"Right, right. You and me, then?"
"Reckon so."
"Well. Almost like old times... Hm. The Blue and Whites, any survive?"
"A few. Scattered. Angry. Fearful."
"They still have a flophouse in the Mews?"
"That they do."
"It's not far, let's make a little side trip before we hit Morley's..."
-----
Morley's Drunkery is the most honest pub off of Chop street. The windows have never known the touch of glass, the regulars all have their favorite parts of the street outside to land on when they get bounced, and the benches and tables are either bolted down, or cheap and easily replaceable. It exists for one purpose and one purpose only, and it's damn good at it.
Right now it's full of laughing youths and grizzled men with red tattoos, and red articles of clothes scattered around. Typical Chop street gang, really.
She's surprised to note a few women in the crew. Well, it's a sign of progress, she supposes. Still, given the circumstances...
Tula's in the corner, shrunk down in her bench, surrounded by a table full of rowdies pushing drink on her and making suggestions. She's frightened, silent, trying to be invisible, but they're getting more frustrated and they're not taking no for an answer.
Tam takes in the scene in seconds, doing quick calculations. Ah, good. The table with the leader, a brawny man with flame tattoos on his face, is toward the center. That would be Char, she remembers. A small time thug with big time dreams. The side where Tula is seems to be packed with the lesser gang members, so there's a chance of getting Tula out of here with minimum conflict. Hm, plans B through D might not be necessary after all.
Then Char looks up. "Well! If it ain't the whore queen herself! Nice hat."
The pub roars with laughter. She smiles, tips her parasol to her shoulder, folds it.
"Technically, it's a bonnet. Queen, though? No. More of a first among equals deal, I think."
Murdoch's scowling behind her. She can tell by the way the nearest Firewild gangers are scooting backward and slowly edging hands toward weapons.
"Well then, First lady, what brings you to our little party?"
"Oh, my friend Tula is late for an appointment. Can't keep a customer waiting. So we'll just be walking her there-"
"Nah, I think she'll stay here."
She meets his eyes. He's drunk, high on the beating he just delivered to his rivals, riding the thrill of power. She knows that thrill, she's seen in it so many bullies over the years. Some can handle it. Others use it to justify any hurt they turn upon their victims. She's seen it so many times...
And every time it still turns her stomach.
"I fear I must insist." She taps her parasol on the floor. "But we'll kindly arrange for some more cheerful company to replace her. Standard prices of course, standard rules."
Shut your mouth and we can do this, you fool. Shut your mouth and agree, and you can go back with no face lost, and Tula gets out of a bad situation. Shut your mouth, and...
"Nah, I think not. Though if you want to take her place..." He grins.
Oh, he went there.
"Not an option for you, I fear. Now, we've got any number of young ladies and men who would-"
"You sayin' you're too good for me? For us?"
The gangers are scowling now, and standing up. Char stands, moves a few paces closer.
The mood's gone quite ugly.
She reaches into her cleavage, pulls out a heart-shaped locket. Pops it open, considers it, snaps it shut. *Click* "No. I'm anyone's. No better than most, worse in some cases, really. First among equals as I said, and everyone pulls their weight in the Guild after all. But there's rules, for me. You have to guess my price before you can pay it. One guess permitted per month."
Char laughs, gestures to a thin woman with burn scars on her hands. A second perhaps, or a floozy she lazily throws a pouch on the floor, and it spills open.
Gold, enough to buy a large house in a good part of the city. Probably some of their ill-gotten gains from the Blue and Whites.
*Click* Tam snaps the locket open and shut again. "I'm afraid you've guessed incorrectly. Well. Come, Tula, we're off then-"
"Heh." The leader moves closer, four of his bully-boys falling in behind him. "Well. How 'bout a kiss, then? One kiss, and Tula there gets to leave. Fair and square."
He never said anything about letting US leave, though. Of course.
"One kiss for Tula's freedom? Very well then." Her fingers twitch, and behind her, Murdoch chuckles.
Char grins, steps forward, and reaches for her... And Murdoch MOVES, grabs him, lifts the brawny goon into the air, and locks his lips onto Char's mouth.
The entire tavern freezes, shocked.
Well, save for Tula, who drops under the table and starts scurrying for the door. Good girl.
*Click, Snap* The locket opens, Tam glances in it again, then shuts it. Back it goes into her bosom.
Murdoch drops Char who lands, sputtering. There's a ripple of nervous laughter in the back and he flushes, red. Murdoch grins.
"You kiss like a virgin. I like that."
He tips Char a wink.
Tam shakes her head.
"Kiss delivered, deal done. Now, we'll be-"
And that's when Char draws a knife.
Well, tries to. There's a crunch-SNAP as Murdoch's heel staves in at least four of his ribs. He crumples like wet paper, screaming, and the Firewilds around him finally, FINALLY start to move.
Tam sighs. You try to be nice...
-----
The Firewilds fill the tavern, but it works against them. Too many in too tight a space, and half the tables and benches are bolted to the floor. They're drunk, they're sore from their last fight, and with their leader down they're uncoordinated.
Tam observes all of this from the doorway to the kitchen, with Morley peering out behind her, frightened.
There are those who would leap roaring into the crowd. Those who would go berserk and reduce the furniture to splinters around their foes. Those who would stretch forth mighty thews, grab someone, and proceed to beat a fucker with another fucker.
And then there's mister Murdoch.
He doesn't waste time with flashy.
He doesn't pick up chairs, tables, or anything like that.
He simply hits, and every time he hits, it maims or kills. Eyes are gouged. Calves are stamped in half. Stomachs are split, and bones crackle and snap like trees falling. Groins are crushed, jaws are knocked askew, and fingers are bitten off. Occasionally he'll draw a knife or take one from someone and leave it in someone else.
In return... Sure, if you were good or lucky you could hit him. Sure, you could hurt him. But he knew how to take the hits, he didn't let the pain slow him down, and he gave out much, much worse then he recieved. Too, he was armored under that leather vest. They weren't. He could be beaten, had before, but never easily and rarely without cost. To fight Murdoch, even if you won, was to lose something of value.
A foppish poet had once witnessed him fight, and compared him to a fox in a henhouse. No, Tam had corrected him. Mr. Murdoch's at the very least a wolverine, she'd said.
(The poet guessed the wrong price later on. Pity, he had seemed nice.)
Mister Murdoch tried his hand at being a gladiator once... It hadn't worked out. The fights were over too quick. There wasn't much to see before they were done. And he had never quite grasped the notion of fighting fair.
Well, Tam didn't have much use for it either, to tell the truth. But she grasped the notion at least. Just had no real use for it, that's all.
Still...
Murdoch was slower with each passing year. He kept his muscles strong, but they gave him more and more trouble as each winter came and went. Bones broken and reset and mended through magic or chirurgery, and never quite as good after.
The time would come when he'd struggle to get out of bed.
The time would come when his strength would leave him.
Age would succeed where hundreds of thugs had failed. She'd seen it before, and she'd see it again.
In ten years she'd probably be helping him up stairs.
In twenty years she'd be sitting by his bed, reading to him to keep him from going mad with idleness.
In thirty, if he made it that far, there'd be an unmarked gravestone in a quiet little cemetary. Far away from necromancers, or resurrection men, or other vultures. She'd promised him that.
Her hand found the pointed tip of one ear. Wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last. Didn't make it easier. Never made it easier at all.
She winced as he took a punchdagger to the side, kept on fighting. He had things about halfway handled, she judged. Probably need a trip to the chirurgeon after, or a temple healing. With one part of her mind she was tallying costs. With another part... Yes. Yes, that would be how she would relieve some of the pressure on him. It would work best for the plan, anyway.
She screamed, and Morley jumped, frightened. The fight paused, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, and fled for the back stairs.
The deer draws predators from more vulnerable prey by feigning weakness...
And sure enough, a good portion of the remaining bully-boys followed.
The rest wondered why Murdoch was grinning. Well, while they still had time to wonder, anyway.
-----
They finally caught up with her in the alley outside, battering through the locked doors, cursing as they tread on the caltrops, and doubletracking as she lead them upstairs and downstairs, huffing and puffing as they went the long way around through the linked buildings.
They found her waiting at the end of the alley, nowhere to go, examining her locket. With a *Click-snap*, she put it away, twirled her parasol to her shoulder, and studied them, impassively.
The leader of the pack was the thin woman with the burned hands. She grinned with black teeth, as they closed in.
"We'll do ya over slow. Make an example. Char's down but he ent dead, and yer dog'll slit 'is own throat to get ya back. What's left of yer will spend the rest of its short life screamin', and sippin' soup through bowls held in broken hands."
"I see." Tam removed her hat, and held it over her belly with one hand. It flopped out around her, almost shield sized.
The thin woman snorted laughter. "Think I'll nail that stupid hat to yer skull after. Any last words, Queen Whore?"
"Well, yes. One, you shouldn't have left any of the Blue and Whites alive. They were eager to come work for ME when I offered. Especially after I promised them your blood if you didn't see reason."
That's when the Firewilds in the back of the alley started screaming, as forms dropped down from the low roofs above, with knives, and a thirst for vengeance. The thin woman whirled, cursed, then drew a knife and charged for Tam.
"And two..."
BLAM!
The woman dropped, as her blood painted the wall behind her. Tam regarded the smoldering hat sadly, then dropped it, to reveal the smoking blackpowder derringer in her other hand, the one she'd drawn while using the hat's long, floppy brim as cover.
"Technically it's a bonnet."
-----
They walked Tula back home, Tam supporting her with one arm as she wept with fear and the aftermath of adrenaline. Murdoch was limping, and had a fresh set of wounds, but he was grinning. It tore Tam up to see him so, but a few days rest and a doctor would see him right. The former Blue and Whites, now guards for the Guild, had reinforced him, as Tam knew they would. The gunshot hadn't just been a defense, it had been a signal.
Tam shrugged. Hey, she'd been willing to give the Firewilds a chance to back down and let Tula go. Everyone in Chop Street knew the rules... You don't keep the Guild workers if they want to leave. You don't keep pushing if they say no.
Sometimes people needed a reminder, was all.
They put Tula to bed in one of the upper rooms, let her sleep it off. When they got downstairs, Milo was waiting.
"Trouble," the handsome young man, said.
Tam sighed. Murdoch cursed. "Wot the fuck is it NOW?"
"Oronvee." That put them both to silence. Milo sighed. "Lord Fanter was talkative after my last visit. The Oronvee have taken the Jol-trum gate."Tam went to the cupboard, grabbed the oldest bottle of bourbon she had, and poured drinks. She and Murdoch collapsed into chairs around the table, and looked at each other, as Milo quietly accepted a glass, then left them to discuss.
"Nothing between the horde and Ascension but a long stretch of terrain, a few abandoned forts, whatever armies the new ruler can muster, and the prayers of the faithful."
"Yeah, we're fucked."
"You ever seen a city under siege, Murdoch? How's it go for anyone who's not worth a ransom?"
"In a word? Shitty. In three words? Really fucking shitty."
She sighed. "Well. We'll have to make preparations, then." She downed the last of her bourbon, sighed, and rose. "What a terrible day. My lunch interrupted, Tula terrorized, and a fresh round of bruises for you. AND I've lost my best hat."
"Tech'nic'ly it's a bonnet. WAS a bonnet."
She threw her glass at him as he laughed.
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This is really quite entertaining. I know its going to be a long time coming but I really want to know her price now. And if Murdoch has ever guessed it, and why there is such a peculiar rule around her. I'm only guessing it isn't around all of the working girls, but more has to do with the fact that she's probably more than just a little bit fey. I look forward to more.
- Location
- The INTERNET!
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
This is fascinating. Real flavors of Discworld there in places.
Her price is "More than you have."
This was very enjoyable, Lost Demiurge. I would certainly be interested in seeing some more of it. Well written, close enough to a standard fantasy setting to be recognizable but with enough little twists to feel unique, and most importantly interesting. Reading it made me think of other stories in the same vein that I've read. Bits of the Malazan books, when it isn't being epic military fantasy, or a slightly more modern feel to the city of Lankhmar with its Guilds and intrigue.
Biggest impression I got from it was something like Steven Brust's Taltos books. The kind of dry humor, casual descriptions of violence, and a protagonist who is maybe not on the right side of the law but is definitely not a bad person. Considering how much I enjoyed those books, this really was just a treat to read. So, thanks for that.
Biggest impression I got from it was something like Steven Brust's Taltos books. The kind of dry humor, casual descriptions of violence, and a protagonist who is maybe not on the right side of the law but is definitely not a bad person. Considering how much I enjoyed those books, this really was just a treat to read. So, thanks for that.
Chojomeka
Behold! QUEEN MONKE!
Hmm hey @Lost Demiurge is it an actual physical price or....is it more? Also that last line! 
I was going for a Terry Pratchett meets Glen Cook kind of style... it was more or less inspired by Glen Cook's "Garrett, PI" books. Fantasy noir in a gritty city.
@Chojomeka: No hints, sorry.
@Chojomeka: No hints, sorry.
Have you tried the Brust novels? If not I would definitely reccommend them. I think you would appreciate the main character if you are interested in that kind of style.
I haven't, and I should. They're classics of fantasy.
Might have to bite the bullet and buy them, the libraries never seem to have'em in stock...
Might have to bite the bullet and buy them, the libraries never seem to have'em in stock...
