Post by Tarq on Oct 24, 2008 21:00:39 GMT -5
“You know, I’ve only seen three people in my office since this whole mess started.” Raza Breakwater was a hundred and forty pounds of olive-green malice and profiteering, squeezed into a captain’s coat that had been tailored to fit a goblin at least ten years younger. Two whipcords of braided moustache dangled to the golden ruffs of his collar, which didn’t quite hide chins number two and three. “You know where the first two are?”
Tarquin ap Danwyrith shook his head. “Kinna say I do, Captain. Got a guess or twa, but.” The goblin leaned over his elegant desk, his eyes glinting in torchlight, and stabbed a thick finger to the window of his, for lack of a better word, cabin – more of a shipborne vault, almost half a battleship’s artillery space converted to his lair. Once she had been the Salt Eagle, a stalwart of Stormwind’s fleet, but war debts had occasioned her sale, conversion to the Half-Crown, and more or less permanent place at anchor in the docks of Booty Bay.
“Out there, with the rest of the fucking dead men,” he snarled. “I put ‘em in the fucking water, and lemme assure you, Mister Stratholme, they didn’t fucking drown, more’s the pity for them. And I made sure everyone knew it too.”
“I did hear summat ‘long those lines,” confessed Tarquin, resting his lanky frame against the cabin door. His eyes flicked left and right, to the two impassive goblin bruisers on either side of Breakwater’s desk. As goblins went, they were enormous specimens – so close to five feet, but built like dwarves. Nobody worth starting a fight with, without a very good reason.
“I’d hope so. So it beggars my imagination, then, Mister Stratholme, why knowing as much as they say you do, with legions of the fucking walking dead swarming all over my city, you’d go to all the trouble to come to my ship and take up an afternoon of my valuable time. Alone, no less.” Raza pronounced this last very smugly; like most people in his position, he understood the effects of a little bit of theatre on his reputation. It had gotten him where he was today.
“Brought the wife, did I no’?” Tarquin lifted an eyebrow. He was wearing a high-collared black greatcoat, thick leather that covered him from neck to ankle. That sort of thing was prudent these days, even if it did not make up for the definite imprudence of being alone in the office of one of Booty Bay’s most infamous crimelords.
Said crimelord snorted in disdain, which was an impressive noise with a nose like Raza Breakwater’s. “You sure did, with her eyepatch and deathmask and great big…swords, like I heard. And you sure did let my boys detain her on the dockside, and sure did arrange to meet her back in the port. Very, very fucking clever of you. With a brain like that on you, no wonder you’re so cocky.”
Tarquin didn’t say anything to that; he just smiled faintly and shrugged. He was the very picture of indolent confidence, in fact, hands hooked into his belt, tilted against the wall, an unlit cigarette tucked behind one gold-ringed ear. It was not the sort of show of respect that Raza Breakwater was used to, and it was very clearly deliberate. The goblin stared across the desk, a vein visibly swelling in his temple, and then spoke.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, then.” His cheese-grater voice was calm and amiable, and his bruisers tensed up – they knew the signs. “My boys are going to relieve you of the weapons we both know you got, and anything else interesting you got, and then you’re gonna ask me the question that got you all the way out here. Then…” Breakwater shrugged, loops and whorls of cloth-of-gold rustling against each other. “Well, not really sure yet. Let’s find out.”
The brawny goblins, iron-studded clubs in hand, took a step apiece, and then Tarquin raised a black-gloved hand from his belt, with the theatrical sweep and flourish of a stage conjurer. And like a conjuration, a crossbow fell into it. The lanky man arched one eyebrow. “Sorry, this belong t’yeh?”
It is worth noting that, with the walking dead swarming through Booty Bay and a quarter of the town in flames, even crime bosses were under a great deal of stress and tension. Raza Breakwater had barely slept for the past two days, and had in fact donned armor and cutlass to attend to a handful of the shambling zombies himself. So he could not be judged too harshly for his sluggish reaction, a full two seconds of gape-mouthed surprise, during which Tarquin reached behind him with his free hand and slammed home the lock on Raza’s own door.
At the end of these two seconds, something else entirely plummeted from the rafters – something that was, in fact, the finest marksman in Raza’s service. Also, not remotely conscious. He landed on one of the bodyguards, and while Tarquin crossed the floor with his lovely new crossbow leveled, one more something descended from the rafters onto the remaining bruiser. Something with an eyepatch, and a deathmask, and great big swords that remained at her belt as she demonstrated exactly why all of Breakwater’s sources had encouraged him to avoid this particular elf at all costs.
There wasn’t much else for the Captain of the Half-Crown to do with his eyes but watch and understand. It was inconvenient, though, because his eyes were consistently drawn to the crossbow that was steadily getting closer and closer, preceding the tall, grinning human that was doing the same. And when he was doing that, he wasn’t concentrating on working the steam pistol out from under his desk, and pulling back the hammer, and tilting it at just the proper angle to blow a hole in the massive oaken siding of his desk and straight through Tarquin ap Danwyrith’s belly as well.
So he really ought to have seen it coming when the pistol roared, and kicked, and blew a hole in the side of his desk, just like he’d expected – and Tarquin was already turned sideways, doing a slightly comical long-legged crab-shuffle the last few steps to his desk. While Breakwater was still contemplating the deep dent the pistol’s shot had left in his beautifully furnished and heavily reinforced office walls, the man reversed the crossbow and brought it down, stock-first, right across his braided moustaches. Blood splattered, teeth cracked, and stars filled his vision.
He recovered fairly quickly, of course – you don’t get to be someone like Raza Breakwater does by not shaking off anything and everything – but by that point, neither of his bruisers were on speaking terms with consciousness, and the ap Danwyriths were lounging on either side of him, while his boys hammered at the door and shouted threats and promises. Unfortunately, nobody without a battering ram or a portable cannon was going to get through that door.
Tarquin followed his gaze. “Yeh ken summat, Breakwater? Had the same problem when I set up m’own business in Stormwind. I had ta make the door decent, dinna want uninvited guests, but then what if the likes o’ this happened? What if my life depended on someone bein’ able ta get in an’ help me out?” He scratched his chin, frowning. “Damned if I kin remember how I solved that one. Ceil, darlin’, yeh recall?”
Up close, Ceil ap Danwyrith was everything Raza Breakwater had been promised – tight-curved and long-limbed under glistening black armor, a wicked smile on the youthful face under her crow-beaked mask, a single silver eye looking at him behind it and coming up unimpressed. “As I recall, love, you double-reinforced the door and made sure you didn’t let armed murderers into your office like some sort of rookie.”
The rogue snapped his fingers, looking moderately disappointed when his leather gloves muffled the effect. “S’right. Kent I figured it out one wey or t’other.” He looked at Raza, and he, too, seemed unimpressed. Disappointed, even. “Maybe I’ll change my mind when I, too, am fat an’ lazy an’ proud o’ bein’ so fuckin’ powerful I kin get away wi’ sloth an’ obesity. But I dinna expect I’ll ever be this bloody stupid.”
Raza found his voice, rasping outrage beneath his broken lips. “Fuck you, ap Danwyrith, you think you’ll walk out of here -”
It was to the benefit of his continued education that he remained conscious after Ceil reached out and slammed his face into his own desk. Raza had been hit harder in the past, even by unarmed foes, but it had been a very long time. He ought to have seen this coming, he realized woozily. How long had it been since anyone had challenged him this openly? Not, most likely, since the last time the Scourge had wandered parts of the continent unchecked.
Tarquin was speaking, not a foot from his many-notched ear, words unspooling out from between his gleaming teeth. “All yeh had ta do, yeh stupid shite, wis answer a single bloody question. Simple. Na harm t’yeh on it, either, an’ we’d’ve gone on air merry leavin’ yeh with naught but a headachey crossbow lad. But y’had ta think yirself so bloody hard that anyone payin’ a visit wis a prize waitin’ ta be plucked…”
“And think yourself so bloody clever that you could put one over on us.” Ceil finished for her husband, velvet voice all at odds with the trim muscle that he now knew very well filled those clothes. She slipped a hand into the pouch at her belt. “It’s downright unprofessional, Captain Breakwater, is what it is.”
“I admit, I might’ve been a little hasty,” Breakwater grated, watching Ceil warily while his foot felt around under the table. The pistol was still there, with three more shots to it, and if he could just hook one boot under it the next time they looked at each other, he’d have it in his hands, aimed and ready. Old and slow, maybe, but still quick enough to get one over on a couple of gloating –
All thought fled his mind when the elf’s gloved hand came out of her pouch. There was nothing in it but a small crystal vial, the sort rogues of their caliber used for deathweed and the like. And in the vial – a few scraps of bread. Bread that Raza Breakwater recognized; bread that everyone in Booty Bay would do well to recognize these days. Possibly everyone in Azeroth, from what he’d been hearing.
Tarquin’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked over into an unsmiling face, practically a placid still pool. “Had some fun, aright, but I came here on business – business yeh were too prideful foolish t’attend ta properly. So, then. We waste na mair time. All I’d like ta ken is wha’ ship dropped off those crates.”
“Which crates?” It was, in fact, a serious question. Raza Breakwater was unfamiliar with the sensation of true fear, so when those few scraps of bread hovered in his peripheral vision, all rational thought fled his mind.
“The crates that will have provided your next meal, if we’re not answered in ten seconds.” Ceil moved closer, fingers toying with the seal on the vial.
“Tell us all yeh ken on thit ship.”
“Eight seconds.”
“We been at askin’ all the day, an’ not a soul seems ta ken a thing.”
“Five seconds.”
“So, we figured, maun well ask the punter kens everythin’ happens in this city, huh?”
“Three. Two.”
“The Satisfaction!” Raza shrieked out, drawing a wince from Tarquin. His rationale returned to him, and the words came pouring out. “A brigantine, last port of call Ratchet! The crew was imprisoned when the outbreak started, last I heard they were still claming not to know anything! If they’re still alive, they’re in the Red Brig!”
Ceil and Tarquin exchanged a glance. “Unfortunate,” Ceil said drily. “That’s halfway across the bloody city.” Her husband shrugged, and after a moment’s consideration she shrugged back and turned back to the goblin. “Anything else, Captain?”
Raza had recovered himself somewhat, but his gaze was still fixed on that horrible little vial in her hand. “Nothing. Nothing. All my sources are on the west docks here, nobody wants to go anywhere further in.” He licked his lips and tasted blood. “Are you going all the way there?”
“Sorta hafta, d’we no’?” Tarquin shrugged. “All else aside – an’ b’lieve me, there’s a great deal else – Scourge is bad fir business. Sort o’ like ta find out where this started.” He reached up to scratch behind his ear, looked a little surprised and then gratified to find a cigarette there, and then sadly replaced it.
Breakwater wasn’t really sure where the next words came from. “I’m going to reach under my desk and get a steam-pistol,” he said slowly, “And hand it to you. Then I’m going to reach into the desk and get some shot, and hand that to you too.”
Again the glance, with that peculiar way of married couples, having an entire conversation between four (or three) voiceless eyes. Then Ceil stepped forward. “And I’m going to put a knife to your throat, because while I’d like to believe you, you are, of course, Captain Raza Breakwater of the Half-Crown.”
Oddly enough, hearing that made Raza feel a little better. He was, damn it all, and if this was the best he could do to get the bloody zombies out of his city, then he’d do it. The transaction was accomplished with no trouble; he barely even felt the cold kiss of steel at his throat, and didn’t bother to check where the knife disappeared to when it was gone. You could say this for Raza Breakwater – he knew when he was beat.
The pistol and shot disappeared beneath Tarquin’s coat, which could well have held six more. “Much obliged, Captain. All the same, b’lieve we’ll be takin’ the same way out the lady did in. Dinna wanna chance yir lads, pistol or no’.” He knelt, cupped his hands, and boosted his wife up to where she could grasp the rafters and haul herself up with apparently little effort. She reached down for him, and then they were both in the shadows of the catwalk, and then they were gone.
Raza waited, alone with his broken face and three unconscious bodyguards. The boys hammering at his door had gone mostly silent; maybe they were bringing up a ram. He waited until he felt the ship, his ship, list slightly, probably from two people leaping off the sides onto the boat that had brought at least one of them aboard. He took a moment to wish he knew any prayers, and then rose to open the door.
Tarquin ap Danwyrith shook his head. “Kinna say I do, Captain. Got a guess or twa, but.” The goblin leaned over his elegant desk, his eyes glinting in torchlight, and stabbed a thick finger to the window of his, for lack of a better word, cabin – more of a shipborne vault, almost half a battleship’s artillery space converted to his lair. Once she had been the Salt Eagle, a stalwart of Stormwind’s fleet, but war debts had occasioned her sale, conversion to the Half-Crown, and more or less permanent place at anchor in the docks of Booty Bay.
“Out there, with the rest of the fucking dead men,” he snarled. “I put ‘em in the fucking water, and lemme assure you, Mister Stratholme, they didn’t fucking drown, more’s the pity for them. And I made sure everyone knew it too.”
“I did hear summat ‘long those lines,” confessed Tarquin, resting his lanky frame against the cabin door. His eyes flicked left and right, to the two impassive goblin bruisers on either side of Breakwater’s desk. As goblins went, they were enormous specimens – so close to five feet, but built like dwarves. Nobody worth starting a fight with, without a very good reason.
“I’d hope so. So it beggars my imagination, then, Mister Stratholme, why knowing as much as they say you do, with legions of the fucking walking dead swarming all over my city, you’d go to all the trouble to come to my ship and take up an afternoon of my valuable time. Alone, no less.” Raza pronounced this last very smugly; like most people in his position, he understood the effects of a little bit of theatre on his reputation. It had gotten him where he was today.
“Brought the wife, did I no’?” Tarquin lifted an eyebrow. He was wearing a high-collared black greatcoat, thick leather that covered him from neck to ankle. That sort of thing was prudent these days, even if it did not make up for the definite imprudence of being alone in the office of one of Booty Bay’s most infamous crimelords.
Said crimelord snorted in disdain, which was an impressive noise with a nose like Raza Breakwater’s. “You sure did, with her eyepatch and deathmask and great big…swords, like I heard. And you sure did let my boys detain her on the dockside, and sure did arrange to meet her back in the port. Very, very fucking clever of you. With a brain like that on you, no wonder you’re so cocky.”
Tarquin didn’t say anything to that; he just smiled faintly and shrugged. He was the very picture of indolent confidence, in fact, hands hooked into his belt, tilted against the wall, an unlit cigarette tucked behind one gold-ringed ear. It was not the sort of show of respect that Raza Breakwater was used to, and it was very clearly deliberate. The goblin stared across the desk, a vein visibly swelling in his temple, and then spoke.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, then.” His cheese-grater voice was calm and amiable, and his bruisers tensed up – they knew the signs. “My boys are going to relieve you of the weapons we both know you got, and anything else interesting you got, and then you’re gonna ask me the question that got you all the way out here. Then…” Breakwater shrugged, loops and whorls of cloth-of-gold rustling against each other. “Well, not really sure yet. Let’s find out.”
The brawny goblins, iron-studded clubs in hand, took a step apiece, and then Tarquin raised a black-gloved hand from his belt, with the theatrical sweep and flourish of a stage conjurer. And like a conjuration, a crossbow fell into it. The lanky man arched one eyebrow. “Sorry, this belong t’yeh?”
It is worth noting that, with the walking dead swarming through Booty Bay and a quarter of the town in flames, even crime bosses were under a great deal of stress and tension. Raza Breakwater had barely slept for the past two days, and had in fact donned armor and cutlass to attend to a handful of the shambling zombies himself. So he could not be judged too harshly for his sluggish reaction, a full two seconds of gape-mouthed surprise, during which Tarquin reached behind him with his free hand and slammed home the lock on Raza’s own door.
At the end of these two seconds, something else entirely plummeted from the rafters – something that was, in fact, the finest marksman in Raza’s service. Also, not remotely conscious. He landed on one of the bodyguards, and while Tarquin crossed the floor with his lovely new crossbow leveled, one more something descended from the rafters onto the remaining bruiser. Something with an eyepatch, and a deathmask, and great big swords that remained at her belt as she demonstrated exactly why all of Breakwater’s sources had encouraged him to avoid this particular elf at all costs.
There wasn’t much else for the Captain of the Half-Crown to do with his eyes but watch and understand. It was inconvenient, though, because his eyes were consistently drawn to the crossbow that was steadily getting closer and closer, preceding the tall, grinning human that was doing the same. And when he was doing that, he wasn’t concentrating on working the steam pistol out from under his desk, and pulling back the hammer, and tilting it at just the proper angle to blow a hole in the massive oaken siding of his desk and straight through Tarquin ap Danwyrith’s belly as well.
So he really ought to have seen it coming when the pistol roared, and kicked, and blew a hole in the side of his desk, just like he’d expected – and Tarquin was already turned sideways, doing a slightly comical long-legged crab-shuffle the last few steps to his desk. While Breakwater was still contemplating the deep dent the pistol’s shot had left in his beautifully furnished and heavily reinforced office walls, the man reversed the crossbow and brought it down, stock-first, right across his braided moustaches. Blood splattered, teeth cracked, and stars filled his vision.
He recovered fairly quickly, of course – you don’t get to be someone like Raza Breakwater does by not shaking off anything and everything – but by that point, neither of his bruisers were on speaking terms with consciousness, and the ap Danwyriths were lounging on either side of him, while his boys hammered at the door and shouted threats and promises. Unfortunately, nobody without a battering ram or a portable cannon was going to get through that door.
Tarquin followed his gaze. “Yeh ken summat, Breakwater? Had the same problem when I set up m’own business in Stormwind. I had ta make the door decent, dinna want uninvited guests, but then what if the likes o’ this happened? What if my life depended on someone bein’ able ta get in an’ help me out?” He scratched his chin, frowning. “Damned if I kin remember how I solved that one. Ceil, darlin’, yeh recall?”
Up close, Ceil ap Danwyrith was everything Raza Breakwater had been promised – tight-curved and long-limbed under glistening black armor, a wicked smile on the youthful face under her crow-beaked mask, a single silver eye looking at him behind it and coming up unimpressed. “As I recall, love, you double-reinforced the door and made sure you didn’t let armed murderers into your office like some sort of rookie.”
The rogue snapped his fingers, looking moderately disappointed when his leather gloves muffled the effect. “S’right. Kent I figured it out one wey or t’other.” He looked at Raza, and he, too, seemed unimpressed. Disappointed, even. “Maybe I’ll change my mind when I, too, am fat an’ lazy an’ proud o’ bein’ so fuckin’ powerful I kin get away wi’ sloth an’ obesity. But I dinna expect I’ll ever be this bloody stupid.”
Raza found his voice, rasping outrage beneath his broken lips. “Fuck you, ap Danwyrith, you think you’ll walk out of here -”
It was to the benefit of his continued education that he remained conscious after Ceil reached out and slammed his face into his own desk. Raza had been hit harder in the past, even by unarmed foes, but it had been a very long time. He ought to have seen this coming, he realized woozily. How long had it been since anyone had challenged him this openly? Not, most likely, since the last time the Scourge had wandered parts of the continent unchecked.
Tarquin was speaking, not a foot from his many-notched ear, words unspooling out from between his gleaming teeth. “All yeh had ta do, yeh stupid shite, wis answer a single bloody question. Simple. Na harm t’yeh on it, either, an’ we’d’ve gone on air merry leavin’ yeh with naught but a headachey crossbow lad. But y’had ta think yirself so bloody hard that anyone payin’ a visit wis a prize waitin’ ta be plucked…”
“And think yourself so bloody clever that you could put one over on us.” Ceil finished for her husband, velvet voice all at odds with the trim muscle that he now knew very well filled those clothes. She slipped a hand into the pouch at her belt. “It’s downright unprofessional, Captain Breakwater, is what it is.”
“I admit, I might’ve been a little hasty,” Breakwater grated, watching Ceil warily while his foot felt around under the table. The pistol was still there, with three more shots to it, and if he could just hook one boot under it the next time they looked at each other, he’d have it in his hands, aimed and ready. Old and slow, maybe, but still quick enough to get one over on a couple of gloating –
All thought fled his mind when the elf’s gloved hand came out of her pouch. There was nothing in it but a small crystal vial, the sort rogues of their caliber used for deathweed and the like. And in the vial – a few scraps of bread. Bread that Raza Breakwater recognized; bread that everyone in Booty Bay would do well to recognize these days. Possibly everyone in Azeroth, from what he’d been hearing.
Tarquin’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked over into an unsmiling face, practically a placid still pool. “Had some fun, aright, but I came here on business – business yeh were too prideful foolish t’attend ta properly. So, then. We waste na mair time. All I’d like ta ken is wha’ ship dropped off those crates.”
“Which crates?” It was, in fact, a serious question. Raza Breakwater was unfamiliar with the sensation of true fear, so when those few scraps of bread hovered in his peripheral vision, all rational thought fled his mind.
“The crates that will have provided your next meal, if we’re not answered in ten seconds.” Ceil moved closer, fingers toying with the seal on the vial.
“Tell us all yeh ken on thit ship.”
“Eight seconds.”
“We been at askin’ all the day, an’ not a soul seems ta ken a thing.”
“Five seconds.”
“So, we figured, maun well ask the punter kens everythin’ happens in this city, huh?”
“Three. Two.”
“The Satisfaction!” Raza shrieked out, drawing a wince from Tarquin. His rationale returned to him, and the words came pouring out. “A brigantine, last port of call Ratchet! The crew was imprisoned when the outbreak started, last I heard they were still claming not to know anything! If they’re still alive, they’re in the Red Brig!”
Ceil and Tarquin exchanged a glance. “Unfortunate,” Ceil said drily. “That’s halfway across the bloody city.” Her husband shrugged, and after a moment’s consideration she shrugged back and turned back to the goblin. “Anything else, Captain?”
Raza had recovered himself somewhat, but his gaze was still fixed on that horrible little vial in her hand. “Nothing. Nothing. All my sources are on the west docks here, nobody wants to go anywhere further in.” He licked his lips and tasted blood. “Are you going all the way there?”
“Sorta hafta, d’we no’?” Tarquin shrugged. “All else aside – an’ b’lieve me, there’s a great deal else – Scourge is bad fir business. Sort o’ like ta find out where this started.” He reached up to scratch behind his ear, looked a little surprised and then gratified to find a cigarette there, and then sadly replaced it.
Breakwater wasn’t really sure where the next words came from. “I’m going to reach under my desk and get a steam-pistol,” he said slowly, “And hand it to you. Then I’m going to reach into the desk and get some shot, and hand that to you too.”
Again the glance, with that peculiar way of married couples, having an entire conversation between four (or three) voiceless eyes. Then Ceil stepped forward. “And I’m going to put a knife to your throat, because while I’d like to believe you, you are, of course, Captain Raza Breakwater of the Half-Crown.”
Oddly enough, hearing that made Raza feel a little better. He was, damn it all, and if this was the best he could do to get the bloody zombies out of his city, then he’d do it. The transaction was accomplished with no trouble; he barely even felt the cold kiss of steel at his throat, and didn’t bother to check where the knife disappeared to when it was gone. You could say this for Raza Breakwater – he knew when he was beat.
The pistol and shot disappeared beneath Tarquin’s coat, which could well have held six more. “Much obliged, Captain. All the same, b’lieve we’ll be takin’ the same way out the lady did in. Dinna wanna chance yir lads, pistol or no’.” He knelt, cupped his hands, and boosted his wife up to where she could grasp the rafters and haul herself up with apparently little effort. She reached down for him, and then they were both in the shadows of the catwalk, and then they were gone.
Raza waited, alone with his broken face and three unconscious bodyguards. The boys hammering at his door had gone mostly silent; maybe they were bringing up a ram. He waited until he felt the ship, his ship, list slightly, probably from two people leaping off the sides onto the boat that had brought at least one of them aboard. He took a moment to wish he knew any prayers, and then rose to open the door.
