You Never Can Tell [OPEN]

[Ze Flying Wraithetti Monstress]

If I had any more customers in here, I’d probably need to rent out a second building.

I leaned against the wall with a little smile on my lips as I watched the patrons maraud the bar where my nephew, Helaku, had finally made himself useful, apparently. After days of slow business with nothing but aging criminals who deliberately nursed their drinks, I’d been on the verge of pulling all my hair out. It wasn’t just the bar that was slow, either- with the infection growing worse and worse with each passing day, I would have thought that people would be flocking to Dras-Leona and filling my tavern, but apparently Dras-Leona was a little too north for the likes of them. And being a large city, meaning that food was imported rather than grown here, rumours of poisoned vegetables and such had sent about half the city fleeing to the countryside while the other half locked themselves up in their homes. I’d nearly wept with despair.

However, today had been different. After giving my worthless nephew the bar so I could take a walk to cool off, I’d returned to find Cutthroat’s Saloon happily bustling. I had no idea what he’d done to bring the entire city in here- not just criminals and vagrants, either- but I wanted him to keep at it. I decided to plough my way over to Helaku, which was easier said than done- with milling peasants drunk beyond any form of coherent thinking, I had to dodge groping, fist fights, and the occasional accusation of being someone’s mother. Besides then, Helaku had attracted some of my coworkers in the Enclave, and I had to pay my courtesies. By the time I finally reached the counter, I easily spotted Helaku- tall even for an elf at 6’7”, with a mop of blonde hair and a muscular form, he stuck out amid the roving humans. He had an enormous smile on his face as he passed tankards out by the dozen, failing to notice my arrival.

“Helaku, my brilliant one!” I gave him a rough slap on the shoulder. “The hell are you doing, kid? Giving ‘em away for free?”

… And then I thought about what I’d just said for a moment.

“Uncle?” Helaku looked at me nervously, his arms full of overflowing tankards. “Your face is a really creepy shade of purple.”
“Helaku,” I said tightly, forcing out a smile so huge I thought my lips would crack with the effort. “I notice there’s a lotta booze… and very little cash.”
“Well… yes…”
“Care to explain yourself?”
“Well… you said we needed customers, and what better way to attract customers than by having a free-for-all? Happy Hour?... Uncle, you don’t look so good. Maybe you should lie down?”
“GET ‘EM BACK!” I roared. “GET ‘EM ALL BACK, RIGHT NOW!”
“But, Uncle…”
“I SAID… now,” I whispered harshly.

I wasn’t as young as I’d used to be, and right about now I felt as old as Rhünon. Desperately trying not to wring Helaku’s neck like a wet rag or to scream at the patrons, I slowly sank into the nearest empty seat, burying my head in my arms. Clinging bitterly to the edge of the wooden table, I listened to Helaku apologetically informing the room that they actually would need to pay for all those drinks, and the groans of annoyance that followed. The clink of pennies put me a little bit at ease, but the much louder sound of half-empty tankards being returned and the masses sweeping out of the establishment quickly put me on edge again. When I finally worked up the courage to raise my head, I saw that the place was nearly empty. Feeling the strong urge to cry like a little girl, I collapsed onto the table again and swore under my breath into it.

I blamed that damned Kyemen Straethir. You’d think that a Dragon Rider paying a visit would increase traffic in an inn, but being a Varden Rider and probably the biggest thorn in the Empire’s side next to Eragon and Nasuada, he’d frightened off even my regulars. The fact that I owed him was even worse- my superiors were attacking me for info on the mission I was supposed to participate in for the friendly little coalition between the Varden and the Empire. Ooh, a little underground United Nations of the Ass-Wipes. This was going to come to a stickier end than the poor saps that were fed to Shruikan. It would be entertaining to watch, but it would be at a personal risk to myself- Straethir had forced me to represent the Varden. The Varden. That backwater dump of stupid upstarts was about as relevant as a headless chicken.

And here I was, fighting for their cause. I hadn’t really had a choice- it was be eaten by a fat green lizard or do as Straethir commanded. And he knew about my adopted daughter Iffy. As she grew, and became more beautiful by the day, I got more and more worried about her. Luckily, she preferred to stay in the tavern and serve the patrons rather than go out into the godforsaken city. And they all knew that if they groped so much as a hair on her head, I’d use their skins for my blanket at night. However, Dras-Leona was the vilest city in all of Alagaësia and then some. It was no place to raise someone as innocent as Iphigénie. Interestingly, it was because of her that Straethir had decided to spare my life when I’d tried to kill him all those months ago. Granted, I’d mistaken him for someone else, a woman on top of everything, but no one could hold a grudge better than an elf. But because I had Iffy, I was alive. Something about compassion being rare nowadays or some crap. Either way, I still owed Straethir for filling him up with poison darts.

I heard the door chime as someone either entered or left the Saloon, but as I listened closely, I heard footsteps approaching. I may have disguised my ears to look human, but that didn’t mean I’d lost my fine-tuned elven hearing- though, admittedly, the constant clamour of being in this inn every day might have dulled it a bit. The footsteps came closer until coming to a stop- only a foot or two away from me, I realized. The figure remained silent, but I got the notion that they were waiting for something. Figuring it was just another peasant on the hunt for free booze, I didn’t bother looking up. Instead, I just ran a hand through my dark hair and leaned backwards in my chair, my eyes closed.

“Welcome to Cutthroat’s Saloon. Despite what my idiot nephew might have told you, we’re not free. If that bothers you, go drink at the Muddy Rudder across the street. At least we don’t piss in our booze.”

Words;; 1160
Muse;; Bad, as I am SLEEPY.
Thoughts;; I left it pretty open-ended. I'm up for as many as three people jumping in!

[Arizae]

There were rumors on his streets; something new was entering the game. No longer were the lines clearly defined as Varden and Empire…no, now there were whispers of a hidden third party. Their recent actions were hurting his business. It was frustrating to a certain degree, and yet refreshing to have something new to work on. When he first returned to Dras-Leona from the wild there had been much to do. At times there were silent killings to take part in, but importantly there was information to gain. Duren’s sharp ears and shrewd mind had helped him succeed within the slaving world. Knowing more than your enemy always put you ahead, especially in the business world. It had taken a good amount of work in the streets but the half-elf was no in charge of most of the slaving operations in Dras-Leona. Which was saying something to be sure. He simply had the ears and anonymity it called for. It helped that he knew the city better than anyone. If there was a secret way through he knew of it, if there was a pub to be trusted…he would be there. Anyone that did not agree with his ‘business’ was quickly found and destroyed. By a quick slit of the throat, or Duren’s preferred method of blackmail. After several years of this work he had built a base of operations, everything ran smoothly and money was easy to make. Now there were whispers of disease and famine and Duren had to prepare before it hit his people.

First Duren had to secure a steady food supply. This was usually an overlooked fact. Slaves needed food, they should be healthy. That helped you build a good rep with the customer and a healthy slave always fetched a higher price. Some were scared that a strong healthy slave was a dangerous one…but Duren had his ways of suppression…and not one in his control dared cross him. Examples were easy to make and the half-elf was not above some of the more cruel tactics. Listen and you got food and cuffs that didn’t. Disobey and Duren would personally see to your personal hell. So now he had to make sure he had food for his slaves, keep the disease away from them. Once he kept the business remained strong it would flourish from the influx of farmers losing everything. Desperate people needed desperate measures to stay alive. A withered farm meant a need for a new occupation…new jobs were not so easy to find. The more the half-elf thought of it the more he knew he could benefit from this famine. He just hated having a variable out of his control, and if it went on too long…well his business would suffer. After all, many slaves were used on the larger farms by rich lords. If his products started dying off it would hurt as well. There was only so long he could warp this situation, and then he would be struggling along with the rest of the world. Duren had spent his time at the bottom, he was not going back. He would come out on top, whether the Varden, Empire, or this third party one out in the end. The young man smiled, a wicked grin creasing his face. Already he was on the inside of these operations. A party was coming up and he would be attending…with a group of both Varden and Empire looking to learn more on this other player. What competition could say the same?

Suddenly from the sky there came a hawk’s cry, to the untrained ear it was just any other hawk, but to Duren it was the voice of a friend. Ril had returned. Though he could not see her Duren knew her voice, the sound of her wings in the air, and he was glad of her presence. As she swept down he could hear the wind rush over her feathers, she called out again, not flying as a high this time. Before she had greeted him, now she was letting him know she was landing. He smiled softly, the one creature he could tolerate any time of the day was Ril. The sound of her wings grew greater as she broke into a dive, Duren could hear her rushing towards his head, and then she flared her wings like a parachute. For a moment she hovered, and then Ril gently landed on his left shoulder. That was her spot; Duren kept a leather pad on his shoulder to keep her sharp talons from digging into his skin. He also preferred to carry his staff in his left hand, this way he could easily give her scraps with his right. Already he had a bit of dried dear meat in hand and was offering it to her. Ril took it gently from him and went about tearing at it. Duren was able to walk smoothly so as not to upset the bird, and she was used to his movements so that she could balance easily. It was easy for them to live together even in the crowded streets of Dras-Leona.

For today the blind slavemaster was working on business. That started with a customary walk through some back alleys and busier streets. Listening for anything new and visiting certain informants spread throughout the city. Lately the third party attacking the Varden had not been Duren’s only worry. There was a new noble. A young upstart that decided he had morals. Hah! Morals in Dras-Leona, the thought was hilarious. Young Lord Tabot was trying to do away with slavery. Naturally all the older more experienced nobles kept their distance, they knew well enough that the slavers took care of them, and they needed to take care of the slavers. This…Tabot would learn the errors of his way. That or he would made an example. Everyone would be reminded again…it was no noble that ran Dras-Leona. Duren had not decided yet. The situation might yet be rectified and Tabot may be allowed to live, but the blind man simply didn’t know yet. He needed more information…so he took a walk. Today he was dressed normally. Which to Duren meant looking like a street beggar or some thief. Ragged brown cloak, stained from years of wear, worn leather boots and many pouches for holding numerous trinkets. Of course it was the only the cloak anyone saw. Duren kept himself bent over, the cowl dropping low over his face. His eyes were hidden, only the mess of black hair peeking out. He leaned heavily on the tall crooked staff, knowing just where to place his hand to avoid slivers. He was another regular on the street. Not a one would know the beggar prince was listening n on their conversations.

Unfortunately the day was getting increasingly warm and the streets were not as full as he had hoped they would be. Perhaps it was time to…and then he heard an excited shout. No special hearing was needed now. A pub was offering free beer. Was the owner crazy? He would be drunk out of house and home. Now who could be…and then he heard the name of this inn, Cutthroat’s. Duren knew it well…after all…those running that place was not normal. That and they were customers of prostitutes and other ilk. A very good place for doing business. It had been awhile since he had visited the saloon personally, but now seemed like an interesting time to do so. Duren knew the owner of the saloon, a Mr. Kieran Kolbjorn. He suspected the man was elf, he smelled like one, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man’s nephew was as well. As a matter of fact…Kieran might even know that Duren had elven blood. Elves were quite skilled at picking out their own kind. Well, if there was one thing Duren knew of Kieran it was that he loved his money. Always a stickler when trying to strike a deal…ah but this would be fun to see. Ol’ Kolbjorn losing precious money. Wonder what that Myrmidon Company would think of that…oh yes yet another thorn in his side. The monstrosity that was Myrmidon. Doing business with them was essential, but it could be frustrating. Darn Company thought they could control everything. Oh Duren had shown them, at least here in Dras-Leona with his own trade. They knew him and he knew them all too well. Who knows…they could be funding Tabot just trying to run him out of business. Then they would take over his operation, it wasn’t like the fools hadn’t tried before. Yes, he would head to Cutthroat’s.

He could hear the roar of the crowd from a great distance. At first the cries of happy drunks reached his ears, and then cries of fury. Ha! So Kieran had come home to an out of control inn. Duren would bet money Helaku had messed up. Even now angry customers were streaming past him, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breath. Poor Kolbjorn had not gotten there in nearly enough time. Duren was starting to doubt he would get anything decent to drink at the saloon. Eventually as he drew closer to the saloon the crowd died away and everything became deadly silent. So all the customers had been chased away. Angry at having free drinks refused…the situation was hilarious and Duren could not help but smirk. If this was the way the Myrmidon Company was run these days he would have little to fear from them. The familiar smell of alchohol hung in the air, fresh vomit was not far away, and the sweat from so many bodies in such a tight place remained in the stale air. The sound of footsteps further down the street was one of the few things to be heard, just within the door Duren could hear the crashing of some tankards, most likely cleaning up after the mess. Besides that, it was silent. The Cutthroat saloon was vacant now after the disappointment and anger.

Duren gingerly raised his right hand and opened to door. The familiar bell chimed loudly, making Ril ruffle her feathers in annoyance, and marking his entrance in a very annoying and bothersome way. Though Duren was able to dull his hearing loud noises did still bother him. Had e not been able to lessen his hearing slightly at times he would have surely gone deaf. And that would have been the death of him. Kieran was breathing some heavy sighs over at a table. This was easy enough to figure out by the placement of the sound. The half-elf didn’t bother to walk quietly, the bell had already announced his presence, but he was kind enough not to bang his staff onto the ground every time he stepped. He approached Kieran, for it had to be the owner. The sighs of distress and emptiness of the bar were clear signs of that. Besides, Duren had met the man before and he never forgot the sound of an individual’s breath, or more importantly their distinct smell. When he was approximately a step or two away from Kieran he stopped. Slowly he lowered the cowl covering his face, letting his useless eyes gaze at the man’s back. It took a second, but then Kieran finally spoke a few words. They sounded heavy, and there was bitterness in their tone, but that only made Duren smirk. The misfortune of others was most often his profit these days. Kieran was so depressed he did not even stand, didn’t care to look at his new customer. It was an amusing situation to say the least.

“Come now, not even a discount for one that can get you pretty ladies for the pigs that come here? And from the smell of things you might have to start pissing whiskey to make any crowns…”

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[Kite]

It had been many years since Clarus had breathed the air of Dras-Leona. Maybe a hundred, maybe more. He remembered the days where this city was the home of the human culture, where they worshipped Helgrind and the peak of human civilization was right here. The power had shifted, and Clarus along with it, to Uru’baen, and Clarus enjoyed it more up there.

Today, however, he had to deal with Dras-Leona and her merchants.

Clarus was in simple business attire. He wore his usual dress jacket and dress pants, both dyed black, with a white simple undershirt, black leather shoes, and black yarn socks. His dark clothing was offset by his dazzlingly crimson hair and the pale white skin. He had a presence in this outfit that he was told would not easily be forgotten. And he was fine with that. He had plenty of ways to defend himself. He had only been practicing magic for all of his six century long life. Due to that, the Shade took great pleasure in being “defenseless” around his competitors. They always felt the need to start something, and Clarus always ended it. That is, of course, one of the reasons he still lives.

Today, he had met with the major merchants of Dras-Leona, and they decided to take him to this pub to get on his good side. That was exactly what Clarus had imagined.

Funny how some things never changed… I could tell them stories of myself when I was young where I did the exact same thing. But, then of course, I would have to kill them. That would put a damper on our relationship as businessmen.

So, here they were, outside the Cutthroat’s. Clarus looks at this building and remembers what it was before. Obviously, it wasn’t as populated as it once was, but he didn’t mind so much. He was just here to discuss things with the merchant and drink some drinks. Vodka. That is his absolute favorite. He didn’t bring any with him, but he has much at his manor in Uru’baen. He nods to his fellow merchants, and speaks softly.*

You first, my dear colleagues.

*The men he is with all nod and smile, opening the door and Clarus follows them into the den. It is a
den, of course, and that doesn’t bother Clarus at all. He is more at home with a den of greedy thieves
then a normal bar patron. Which is, in part, the reason he works with merchants all the time. The spirits
feed off their greed. Clarus as a result almost gets high off the feeling. However, that was not of the
moment. He looks around the room and finds the cleanest table, then walks over to it and sits down. The merchants follow him, and he looks at them and feels a bit annoyed, then gets up and strolls to the bar. His heart skips a beat as he does, feeling their magical presence and their appearance. They are elves, or at least elven descent… and that could be bad for Clarus. They could very possibly see him for what he is. However, he gathers his composure and speaks in a slightly commanding air as if nothing was wrong.*

Vodka shots for our table. Three per person.