|
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Being a Play-by-Post WHERE-IN Benjamin Bruck, alias Benchak the Nightstalker (RPG Superstar 2010 Top 8 Finalist and Author of Works within the tomes Ultimate Combat, Advanced Race Guide, et al.), with the Game Mastering assistance of Ashton Sperry, alias N'wah (Founder of the fine Product, Pathfinder Paper Minis) Role-Play a Duo of Crime-Solvers in the vein of the Tele-Vised Production and Novel Series Cadfael utilizing Paizo Publishing, LLC's up-coming Mything Gaming Rules, as set within the Savage nation of Varisia, to the Delight of all Men, Women, and Children across the World.
|
|
The City: Magnimar. The Setting: Underbridge, 2nd Bell. The Plot: Murder.
Corran Jhaminksy, 34, Varisian, qat addict. Stumbling over the street, led only by greasy haze from neighboring bars, dockside warehouses, and frazzled memory, he walks back home. In one hand, a bottle of Abken rotgut. The other, a bloodied shiv. It's not his fault, naturally: a game of Towers got ugly, and he was forced to defend himself against those he rightfully called cheaters. Had to. They brought fists, but he was but one man. A smuggled shiv helped even the odds. 'Sides, Ol' Crabpaw will make it. Probably.
Then the bouncers and their saps and their rough dockside hands, hurling him out onto the street. Weren't my money good? he bawled. Ain' there no respec' in this town? The bouncers laughed and threw buttons from his torn coat at him. Yer money be good, but yer fast'ners be piles of s*&+e, came the reply. Desna's teets, but won't he show them what-for. One day he'll own that bar, and all the others that threw him out like trash. By 'er glorious teets, he says.
Spitting out his spent qat and reaching for another pinch, he leans upon the walls of an unruly flophouse, clutching his throbbing brain-pan. He takes a swig to dull it, gulps booze with the flavor of shoe-leather, and remnants of qat-leaf drain down his gullet. Oh, them spins. He'd crash here but them swindlers done took his last coin. Unni'nt give 'em 'alf a 'Vosan pinch ann'waye, rowdy arses, he says.
The spins again. No, no. More hands. Firm, softer? A moment of lightness, then a bone-crunching thud as he hits the alley floor. A hard boot connects with his neck, and he can no longer breathe. Or was that the landing? He can't tell. If only he could think... and the blood is leaving him... and it's all going gray.
|
|
Dockside, Two Days and 3 Bells Later...
The autumnal chill bites in early these days, but Gaston doesn't mind. He's got good work, honest work. No more rolling sodden bubbers for coin, he knows it. He's got a missus, and two wee ones who need consistent coin. And he needs them, by damn. Nothing to open a feller's eyes like a family.
Gaston Chumbucket, they call him. Pah. It's Chummley, rum-sodden fools. He works the dock just as hard as the others, don't he? But lose ONE leg to a reefclaw...
The net's oddly heavy this morning. This is small fish turf, and it's only the third throw of the day. Maybe bit of an old wreck; those come up a lot. Or dare he wish for a lost chest? Old Chelaxian coin from the past days? Knowing his luck, it's the entirety of Korvosa's lost boots-
Oh. Oh Gods.
Cap'n, we got a deader!
Cap'n Senzo hauls up from his cabin, cheroot firmly-in-teeth. Besmara's she-b&%%+#~s! Pull 'im up, boys, let's pull ter port. Maybe the Watch finder's fee'll make up fer lost wages on this'un. He knows it will. Watch Sergeant Lucerne is paying heavy to get to the bottom of all this. But skim a little off the top, and do the boys really need to know?
The body- what's left of it- is in sorry sight. The bay-crabs have had their fill of him, but enough remains to call it a him, if only in the former. Bloated and white and blue, it lies on deck, a hog-tied corpse whose ropes look a day from dissolution. Rotted, salt-encrusted clothes, and a reek to match. But above the shoulders...
'Ead 'im off at th' pass? Mer' like pass 'im off at th' 'ead...