The proprietor had nearly tripped over him when he arrived to open the smoke shop in the early morning. First thinking him a drunk or a ruffian he made as though to tell him off and away, but he noticed two things in succession that closed his lips.
The man sitting on his doorstep, grey-skinned and slimy with night sweat, was nursing a ragged, ruined arm.
Next to the broken man, still half-covered by the fog-thick shadows of the Lominsan pre-dawn, was a giant of a man. A roegadyn. The roegadyn.
"Ye'll be knowin' who we are, won't ye?" he rasped through a deep yawn. The proprietor nodded.
"Tried to poison me, 'e did," Styrm noted, indicating the man with the point of the previous night's dagger.
The shop owner's eyes went wide. "He wasn't...you weren't meant to--" He fell silent as the roe rose to standing, huge and slow like a storm on the horizon.
"Hells, we're past all that, we are. Ye're closed today. I'll want somethin' for the poke," he squeezed his poisoned palm," and 'im some'ut fer th' arm."
The shop owner only nodded and opened the door. He closed it behind the three of them.
______________
The Goodfellow? Styrm took a long drag on the pipe. It was a fine, fine smoke. The owner had talked, but he hadn't liked it. Still, he'd given Styrm the pipe and the leaf, for fear or for pity; Styrm wasn't sure.
He was surer than ever that Joz--Kink, ye bastard, she's Kink--was in some mess. He'd not ever seen the Goodfellow, no, but he'd heard the name back when he'd run jobs in Thanalan. Back when he'd met Taru.
Lalafell...robe...book...Kink...
Taru had brought him on as protection, bought his time outside the arena. Kodu Co. was putting a caravan through the Goodfellow's old territory and the merchants had insisted to Taru that he bring more muscle. There'd been no news of the Goodfellow in some while, but they were still nervous to make the way again.
Styrm, good for the job, had wanted more information. Taru didn't say much. The Fellow and him, there was some history there.
Not t' hurt me?
What did the Fellow know about him? Why did he care?
Don't be a shite, Styrm.
The night, the venom, the treatment, the smoke. His head swam. He sat down near the door. In or out, coming or going, they'd wake him. The shopkeeper would be sometime yet tidying up that arm. Shop was closed. He ought to sleep.Â
Joz...me...book...
To sleep. Just a bit. Sleep.
The man sitting on his doorstep, grey-skinned and slimy with night sweat, was nursing a ragged, ruined arm.
Next to the broken man, still half-covered by the fog-thick shadows of the Lominsan pre-dawn, was a giant of a man. A roegadyn. The roegadyn.
"Ye'll be knowin' who we are, won't ye?" he rasped through a deep yawn. The proprietor nodded.
"Tried to poison me, 'e did," Styrm noted, indicating the man with the point of the previous night's dagger.
The shop owner's eyes went wide. "He wasn't...you weren't meant to--" He fell silent as the roe rose to standing, huge and slow like a storm on the horizon.
"Hells, we're past all that, we are. Ye're closed today. I'll want somethin' for the poke," he squeezed his poisoned palm," and 'im some'ut fer th' arm."
The shop owner only nodded and opened the door. He closed it behind the three of them.
______________
The Goodfellow? Styrm took a long drag on the pipe. It was a fine, fine smoke. The owner had talked, but he hadn't liked it. Still, he'd given Styrm the pipe and the leaf, for fear or for pity; Styrm wasn't sure.
He was surer than ever that Joz--Kink, ye bastard, she's Kink--was in some mess. He'd not ever seen the Goodfellow, no, but he'd heard the name back when he'd run jobs in Thanalan. Back when he'd met Taru.
Lalafell...robe...book...Kink...
Taru had brought him on as protection, bought his time outside the arena. Kodu Co. was putting a caravan through the Goodfellow's old territory and the merchants had insisted to Taru that he bring more muscle. There'd been no news of the Goodfellow in some while, but they were still nervous to make the way again.
Styrm, good for the job, had wanted more information. Taru didn't say much. The Fellow and him, there was some history there.
Not t' hurt me?
What did the Fellow know about him? Why did he care?
Don't be a shite, Styrm.
The night, the venom, the treatment, the smoke. His head swam. He sat down near the door. In or out, coming or going, they'd wake him. The shopkeeper would be sometime yet tidying up that arm. Shop was closed. He ought to sleep.Â
Joz...me...book...
To sleep. Just a bit. Sleep.