Habit. Duty. Routine. Desperation.
There's any number of reasons for Mordecai to uphold his daily appearances at the City Mortuary. The coin is fair, and there is no shortage of the dead in Riddleport.
A familiar walk, Mordecai takes the same lonely route through the Rotgut district every morning. This morning he travels early enough to avoid contact with anyone. After a night of revelry, the entire district sleeps as the dead do.
But something strange was in the air this morning. As soon as he left his home, Mordecai could sense it. Was it a smell? Was the wind moving strangely today? The sensation was indescribable, yet present everywhere he walked.
So when he saw the lifeless body, carelessly thrown in an alley not so far from his home, he almost expected it.
Mordecai tilts his head and examines the scene, as if absorbing it's details for later recollection, eyes roving like an artists over the body of his latest subject.
How can these barbarians claim to be so opposed to the ways of necromancy, when they clearly have no respect for what they call the 'sanctity of life' or the disposition of their dead? Such wasteful arrogance and self-righteous hypocrisy!
Shaking his head at the incongruity of it all, Mordecai steps into the alleyway and examines the body more closely, firstly for hidden dangers, for whatever took this poor soul's life might remain dangerous, then for what precisely ended that life, and finally for any items of value that might remain unpilfered.
Securing any item that may be of worth, or use, or merely of interest, Mordecai drapes the body over his shoulder, being careful not get any spilled fluids or waste on his tunic, and carries it to the burial grounds. It seemed unwise to leave it to rot, and possibly attract plague or pestilence, or worse, nosy authorities, so close to where he slept...
The cause of death is pretty clear. Rolling the body over reveals a shattered skull, dried blood covering her head; a major blow to the back of the head probably did the poor thing in. But the fracture is large enough that she was either hit repeatedly, hit with a very dense object, or hit with a incredible amount of force. The truth of the affair probably includes all of those possibilities.
But the real disturbing quality of the murder is what happened to the body after the blow. It doesn't take a mortician's eye to notice something different about the body. Her sunken chest and abdomen belie an absence; the woman's entrails have been removed entirely.
Naked and gutted just like a fish at market, she's actually quite easy for Mordecai to carry. Most of the blood has thickened and coagulated; with the help of some discarded rags, Mordecai is able to avoid staining his clothing just as easily as he avoids people on his way to the mortuary.
He passes safely through the Rotgut district, until he approaches the familiar burial grounds. Here no one would question him transporting a body.
Mordecai is unsettled. Not from the situation, more from his own uncertainty as to why something like this would be done. A ghoul wouldn't have needed to bash her skull in, and would have preferred only certain organs, as well as devouring as many major muscles as it could ram down it's gullet. A parasite growing within her and tearing free would have left the heart and lungs behind, and *also* had no reason to bash her head.
He could think of no arcane ritual or religious rite that would require such an act, certainly none that could be performed in an alleyway, or would be performed by someone who wouldn't have better uses for a corpse.
It may indeed be the worst kind of death. Senseless. The work of a deranged mind.
Or there may indeed be many arcane or religious rites of which Mordecai was utterly unschooled, which intrigued him, and made him wonder what sort of benefits one could gain through the use of human viscera.
In any event, her slight weight was growing heavier than he had expected, and he brought her to the grounds and dumped her on the first undisturbed section of ground he could find. In the course of carting her corpse halfway across town, he had lost interest in giving her anything but the most perfunctory burial, and kicked the body petulantly as he prepared a shallow grave for her and rolled her into it.
Taking a moment to let the fit of pique fade, he reprimanded himself and said a few words commending her spirit to Urgathoas protection, skipping the pretense of consecrating her body with 'holy water.'
"...and as the flesh that you wore for such a short time in this world feeds new life, may your eternal spirit find solace in the hopes of returning in a purified state, to sate the hunger that is revenge upon the flesh of the one who wronged you, young one, in Her Grace."
Mordecai then pushed dirt over her body and reflected, not the for the first time, that he needed to find some sort of flunky to do this sort of physical labor, as he was tired of washing graveyard soil off of his hands and feeling a tightness in his lower back.
When Mordecai returns to the grey chapel-front after burying the murdered woman, he is immediately presented with his next task.
No dialogue, no ceremony, no ritual; this corpse had been rolled in on a cheap wagon and left there, still clothed and with two gold pieces on each of the eyes, and a silver on the mouth.
It was a kind of communication. A code that Mordecai had seen used before. It meant this death was a hired kill, and whoever buried it, should be hush hush. "Say nothin' cuz ya saw nothin'" is the operative phrase, mimed out by the coin bribe.
Another murder. But this was different. The motive behind this one is somewhat more understandable. In Riddleport, people had each other killed off for all manner of reasons. And that's what changed it; a reason.
The Rotgut Ripper murdered drunks and the homeless in a senseless manner. And Mordecai had to clean it up.
After the previous bit of work, and the unsettling realization that this young woman's death was indeed senseless, Mordecai is almost absurdly happy to have not just an old-fashioned murder-for-hire on his hands, but also at the consideration of being given some coin for his work. Truly, this assassin was both a gentleman and a professional!
He takes only a moment to idly determine the cause of death, more out of curiosity as to how this professional works than any real interest in the deceased.
He then sets to burying the mark, whistling as he works. Somehow the hard work of grave-digging seems so much less onerous when the promise of cold coin and a hot meal follows.
Mordecai finishes up the service, with the more traditional litany for a 'sanctioned' death, "And may the Pale Princess hold your soul safe, so that no lesser terror may interrupt your final journey into the endless night and the sweet embrace of oblivion." 'And don't come back,' he adds silently, collecting his 'pay.'
By the end of it, he's already salivating in anticipation of something with meat in it, a rare enough treat in this town, where the only meat commonly served is mucky-tasting fish, all-too-often of dubious quality. Shading his eyes, he checks to see if it's close enough to lunchtime to sneak off for a bite.
The deaders usually show up in the morning anyway, barring accidents. Most people die in the evening or over the night, and nobody wants a dead family member lying around the house during the heat of the day.
Collecting the coins from the body assists in identifying the cause of death; the poor sod's eyes and surrounding tissues were bruised and heavy with blood. Paired with a sharp line of bruising around the neck, the victim was obviously garroted. His eyes must have been close to popping from the pressure.
The digging is hard work, and it is certainly close enough to noon to legitimize eating. It would be a rare day indeed if more corpses showed up at the Mortuary this day.
Mordecai wrestles with the decision of whether to spend a lot of money or just a bit on lunch, since he has no intention of being a gravedigger for the rest of his life. He finally succeeds it wrestling down his impulse to blow his windfall on a celebratory feast (helped somewhat by the poor local cuisine, as he can't think of a meal in town that would be worth spending a gold coin on!).
He heads back to the Goblin to clean his hands, and ends up having the usual trencher of bread slathered with a thick peppery seafood 'gumbo' made from whatever parts of the fish and shellfish weren't suitable for sale. Wine would be wasted with such fare, as the heavily-spiced food sears taste buds into numbness, so he settles for an ale.
As his meal arrives, carried by a human serving-wench poorly disguised as a tiefling for some inexplicable reason, he quietly utters an incantation to his patron, calling for her blessing upon his daily meal. He doesn't invoke Urgathoa by name, but neither does he make any effort to conceal his 'grace.'
He glares at the meal in disapproval, regretting not seeking out something costlier, but more pleasing to the palate, before setting in, tearing chunks of the bread off and dipping it in the gumbo with a disgusted look.
Thrice-cursed Vudrans and their musky flavor! I should be dressed in silks and eating from plates worth more than this building!, he thinks bitterly.
Urgathoa's blessing does little to help the taste of the food, but Mordecai's growling stomach helps remind him of the necessity of eating such fare. For if there was one thing that Mordecai knew, it was hunger.
Just as he was about to reach for his cheap ale, a hand snatched it away from him, replacing it with a glass of dark red wine. The heady yet crisp notes of the brew catch his nose, and threaten to hold their own against the spice of the meal. Before he can react, he feels a gentle tapping of a metal object on his shoulder.
Spinning, he comes face to face with his vino-benefactor.
Tapping with his key arm, Saul Vencaskerkin cracks a toothy grin at Mordecai.
"Now now, you're not going to spend all your precious earnings on lunch, are you?", Saul jokes. "Because there's plenty of coin to be won tonight. And you need some coin to make some coin, is what I always say. Can I count on seeing you around tonight? Cheat the devil and take his gold is the name of the game!"
The first time someone snatched food away from him or startled him with a hand on his shoulder with her unnatural stealth, it was his Dark Lady, and so Mordecai reacts like a well-trained dog, showing no signs of alarm or protest, only turning to look up at the one-handed proprietor with an attentive half-smile, which quickly fades.
Upon hearing of the contest, the barmaid-dressed-like-a-fiend suddenly makes sense to him, and his smile becomes genuine, if lopsided.
"How much gold are we talking about cheating the devil out of, sir?" Mordecai asks, thinking not of gambling, a pursuit for which he has no skill at all, so much as many drunken fools gathered together and throwing coin about, and the many opportunities that this presents for mischief. Someone will reach for coins not their own, and there *will* be bloodshed, I need not seek my Princesses counsel to divine this night's portents...
If I lose a coin, I lose a coin. But I'll earn it back tomorrow digging the graves of those who lost less gracefully.
"Ah, that's a smile I was hoping for. There's a pot of 10,000 Silver Pieces to the winner of the tournament. There is a ten silver entrance fee though. I figure it's a good trade-off. For most, anyway. You look like a man with luck on his side, so let me make it your lucky day."
Saul rummages in his burgundy waist coat with his one good hand and eventually produces a small red ticket. He hands it to Mordecai.
The ticket plainly states that 'the bearer is to have his entrance fee waived upon entrance to the Gold Goblin Gambling Hall for the 'Cheat the Devil and Take his Gold' event'. The bottom of the ticket is signed in black ink with the initials S.V.
"You will come, won't you?"
Mordecai is surprised, and put on-guard, by the offer of a free entry into the competition. Nobody gives anything away for free, not in this town. What is the price you *aren't* mentioning, old man?
He smiles, perhaps a bit too broadly, accepting the ticket, "It would be my pleasure, sir. May it be a fortuitous night for both of us." he adds, raising the glass of wine in a toast.
"Well then! I shall see you tonight, and leave you to your meal. I have much to prepare. Good luck."
Saul heads off through the goblin, and quickly disappears out of sight.
The devil-costumed waitress comes to collect Mordecai's empty plate, smirking at him.
"Now, whatever did you say to him to get one of those tickets? He's only giving out a handful of them." She leans in to giggle in Mordecai's ear, "because that's all he can carry."
Moving to the next table she adds, "Either way, I wish I could work the sweet talk like you. I might not be working here, if that were the case."
Mordecai smiles conspiratorially at the waitresses whispered aside, appreciating the gallow's humor, but otherwise makes no comment, breaking eye-contact to return to his meal.
On second thought, perhaps I don't want to recruit others to help with the physical work. Interacting with the living has never been my strongest suit...
He tucks away his red ticket, irked that it's already drawn attention, and possibly marked him in the eyes of those who look for easy targets. He then nibbles at the bread, avoiding the spicy stew for several long minutes before he takes a few sips of the wine to cleanse his palate before stopping to slowly savor the rest of the wine.
Only after the wine is gone does he return to his meal, which has grown greasy and unpleasant as it has cooled.
Horrid choice. To hell with savoring the wine, finish the seafood first next time!
Mordecai considers heading to his room to have a nap before the evening's festivities, but realizes that anyone planning mischief may already be here, looking around discretely and marking the exits. Settling in to watch the surroundings, he orders a mug of water and gives the waitress a silver piece for the meal, telling her to keep the change, making sure to keep his face completely neutral, eye-contact brief and his tone flat as he does so, as he does not need the distraction of her thinking that he's propositioning her at this time.
Mordecai spends a considerable amount of time looking around the place, and notices quite a bit. He is sitting at a table on the main floor; during the earlier parts of the day, the Goblin tries to bring in a lunch crowd, and spreads a number of dining tables throughout the main gambling room.
He watches as the servers slowly clean up after each diner, and transform the space to provide for the bustling gambling hall that it will become that night. In rooms normally reserved for private rentals, tables are brought in and set up, in an effort to maximize the gambling opportunities.
Searching for eyes that might be on him, Mordecai's gaze floats upward. A light appears to be seen on the other side of the black cloth-draped ceiling for just a split second, but it is enough to make him look twice. Squinting his eyes, he thinks he can detect movement above him. Perhaps those casing the joint are right above him.
More succubi waitress seem to appear, helping set up and organize the event.
Saul is seen barking orders and waving his key-arm around to direct the help.
An empty brass birdcage is brought out and affixed to the ceiling, so as to hang just above a short podium.
A table is brought out and placed directly in front of the main entrance. Two costumed waitresses bring out a large stack of paper, and a handfull of quills and set them up on the table.
Most of the other patrons have cleared out by now, leaving Mordecai as one of the few people left alone at his table.
The same waitress who he had dealt with earlier came by the table again;"Don't feel rushed, sweetie. You don't have to leave or nuthin'. You do have to register though. Boss says everyone needs to register or it won't be legal like. It just takes a minute. When you get a chance, you go on over to those ladies, alright?", the waitress says with a wink.
At the waitresses urging, Mordecai seems to start awake. "My apologies, I was lost in thought."
He gets up and goes over to the registration personnel and presents his red ticket with a flourish, "I was told this is the place to have a *sinfully* good time?"
"That's for sure," the succubus winks at him, "you just need to fill out this registration form. The boss'll be back to explain everything in full when this whole thing starts. Registering all these people is gonna take time, though." She takes his red ticket and passes him a registration form, and quill filled with red ink.
Mordecai can hear a loud thunderclap from outside, and the soft pattering of rain that follows. The crowd begins rushing in, and the girls are re-arranging the table to accommodate all the new bodies at the registration table. Behind the table, armed guards stand nearby to either side of an immense treasure chest into which each patron’s entry fee is added.
"Thank you, miss. I'll just get out of your way while I read this." he says as he steps out of the way so that they can register other entrants.
The article does not appear to be a legally binding contract. In fact, no one at the Gold Goblin seems to care what name Mordecai signs on the contract. It strikes him as just another layer to the theatrics that are taking place for this event.
Satisfied, Mordecai signs the contact 'Thaeliss the Younger' and completes his registration as soon as possible, wanting to spend the remainder of his time checking out other gambling patrons and idly amusing himself with speculations as to whom is going to be a 'poor loser' and start something, and who among them would do the most damage, in such an event.
Basically, people-watching, only with a morbid slant.
The crowds begin to roll in, and most people start some unofficial preliminary gambling and drinking.
Beyond the registration table is the hall’s game floor. Dozens of gamblers, waitresses dressed as succubi, and bouncers begin to mill about the room, wandering amid tables offering various games while dealers shuffle cards, roll dice, and spin wheels. Moving through this throng are a dozen more of the barely clad, batwinged vixens serving drinks and batting coal-black eyelashes flirtatiously for tips. In the center of the chamber is a short podium atop which sits a massive gold chest affixed to the floor by similarly gaudy chains. On either side of it stands a bare-chested bouncer in the exotic garb of some foreign sultan’s court. Each stands with muscled arms crossed over his chest and with a naked scimitar of prodigious size tucked through his waistband. High above them, from the hall’s cloth-draped ceiling, hangs a brass birdcage that appears to be empty.
Mordecai takes a seat, and one of the waitresses asks him if he'd like another glass of wine.
"Just water for now, please. Wouldn't want to get too drunk, what with my soul hanging in the balance.," he replies with a rueful grin.