[This is my characters origins story, set in Korvosa, a few years before our Curse of the Crimson Throne campaign]
Kevan sighed as the small, rat like man in front of him tried to avoid informing him of an unfortunate turn of events, but evading the subject with such talent as to not have said much other than a string of half-excuses and apologies. “In the name of the gods, just get to the point already!” he burst out once his patience had finally expired.
“Well, you see sir, it looks like the apprentice you hired for that job at Pillar Hill, well, sir, as it happens, the way he was supposed to carry it out, sir, as per your instructions, of course…”
“Enough!” Kevan roared, slamming his fist into the worn wooden table in front of him. Apart from a cabinet and a set of drawers, also seemingly old and worn, it was one of the few pieces of furniture in the dimly lit room that did not look ready to fall apart. “Just tell me the outcome, and if you beat around the bush any longer I will make you shingle spider food.” His choice in employees, began to think Kevan, appeared to be lacking. As if competing with the other gangs, those part of the Cerulean Society and those working for the Varisian Sczarni, was not difficult enough.
Kevan had ambitions. His time as a Korvosa Guard had been very educational, but the lesson that had stuck the most was that criminals profit. Not only that, but if you become a good enough criminal in Korvosa, you practically became untouchable. Guards, on the other hand, don’t really amount to much, he thought. So when the time came he used his experience and his contacts and started his little enterprise. His plan was a simple one, but one he had seen work a number of times during his career as a Korvosa Guard: gather an efficient crew, prove yourself to the Cerulean Society, don’t step on any toes or make much of a mess as to draw unduly attention, and you were set to operate under the auspice of those who really ran the city. Become good enough at that, and you might even become a prominent member of society yourself.
Gathering a few useful members was simple enough, time patrolling the streets had aquatinted him with both ex-guards looking for new employment opportunities, or criminals smart enough to avoid ending in the dungeons. But in order to prosper, he needed to differentiate himself from the Dusters and the likes of them, thugs and ruffians only good for their talent in the use of brute force.
Korvosa attracts all kinds of people, especially young ambitious kids looking for power and greatness in the Acadamae. Sadly for many of them, not all are cut out for it. Some that don’t pass the exam end up at some of the other schools and universities to be found in Korvosa, but those were of no interest to Kevan. He was more interested in those that had a few years of experience and are forced out for other reasons, particularly those expelled. A recruit like that, an apprentice with already some good education under him or her who just had the world collapse under them is prime material for the kind of organization he had in mind. He knew what those wizards were capable of. Some could even instill incredible terror on you by simply touching you, he had seen it himself, a very useful skill in this line of work indeed.
The apprentice had seemed the perfect candidate. Third year in the Acadamae, Rique was competent in his learning, but then kicked out when caught sabotaging the work of a fellow alumni, or, as he would put it, getting retribution. Turns out the other student in question, a tall blond son of a noble had made a habit of picking with poor orphan Rique. Not willing to stand up for it any longer, Rique used magicks that were strictly prohibited, resulting in a couple of students in need of the attention of the school healers. Even though no serious or lasting damage had ensued, the use of forbidden magic coupled with the unfortunate choice in target meant that Rique was out on the street, friendless, family less, and without a copper pinch to his name. Kevan, who had eyes and ears in the local inns and taverns looking out for just such prospect, jumped at the opportunity. It took almost no effort to bring in Rique into the fold.
“Well, sir, it appears like the apprentice may have, ehm, killed someone.”
“Killed someone?” Kevan growled as his eyes bore into the small, rodent looking man shaking on the other side of the desk.
“Actually,” said the man, his hands nervously fidgeting, “it was actually two people. That he killed. Which he wasn’t supposed to. Right?”
Kevan rose from his chair with, thought the little man, more drama than was called for. “How do you know this? How did you come to this information? How long ago was this?” he asked between clenched teeth. Death of a rival was a serious enough crime in Korvosa, but the death of two innocent people, that carried extra weight, and heavier consequences.
“From Rique, sir. He just told me himself, it just happened a few hours ago, he came straight here and told me. The kid is up there shaking in his boots. He’s got a cursed smile on his face, looks like he might have gone mad, sir. Said he went to the marks house in Pillar Hill, was just going to give ol’ Spencer a scare, get him to subscribe to our services, just as you ordered. Sneaked in when the night was old enough and no more lights could be seen in the block. Turns out ol’ Spencer had company of the female sort. A surprise for sure, as we well knew he was unmarried.”
Kevan lowered himself forcefully onto his chair, let out a deep breath, and rubbed his temples. He had few little options. His small enterprise was just starting, and he was about to call in very big favors and put himself in considerable debt.
The Fisherman’s Contract (Black Badger Services Pt. 2)
Sav Dunid cursed and sucked his thumb. He was terrible with needles, and using them on hide and leather just multiplied the quantity of injuries one can sustain in the delicate and dangerous art of sewing. If he kept messingd up, it would be his armour that would get him killed, one pricked finger at a time. People wearing protective gear was not a very unusual sight in Korvosa, but still would peg you as some sort of rube or ruffian. Despite clashing with Korvosians colourful and stylish fashions, some still wore it out of actual concern for their well-being, others did it because it was their profession, and many more did it out of paranoia. No one wanted to end up at the gory end of an otyugh breaking out of the pits, or shingle spiders out for a stroll, or even a more violently inclined mugger. His armour needed a few adjustments to fit his half-elf frame, but more than that, Sav wanted to make it look less conspicuous. He did not want to appear as noticeable those times when he had to go around asking questions and talking to leads. Despite his best efforts, literally blood and sweat poured over his gear, all his attempts were utterly useless. The intention instantly defeated by the large two handed long sword he carried strapped to his back.
He did not hear the knock at first, his head automatically filtered out the usual noise of the crowded building he lived in. He could hear the footsteps and clockwork bustling of all of his neighbours, their routine almost comforting after some months living in the tenement flat over in Ridgefield. It was only when the knocks got louder, followed by a broken voice calling out that he looked up from his handiwork.
“Hello? Mister Black Badger? Anybody there?” He heard from behind the door. He rushed to put away the various blood-soaked linens and armour and ran towards the door. This was his first client ever, and he was not even close to ready. In fact, he only vaguely remembered talking to his friend Marps over a few ales at the Sticky Mermaid weeks ago, musing about his idea to start his own service instead of always going to the Guards and Sables for scrap work. The whole ‘Black Badger’ had been a joke. They had discovered a large angry badger living in the basement of the building when he moved in, and it had taken three guards plus Sav considerable effort, and uncountable bites and scratches, to finally get rid of the disgruntled tenant. Marps had suggested the name Black Badger Services while clearly drunk, and the results were a bad hangover the day after, and this knocking on his door a few weeks after.
Sav swung the door open and stood facing what looked like an old fisherman who, if his blood shot and swollen eyes were any indication, had been crying. He prided himself in his observation skills, even when details such as this were hard to miss.
“Yes? Can I help you?” He said, trying to conceal the eagerness from his voice. It was his first client after all, and he wanted to sound as professional as possible. The man stank of fish and, Sav thought, if sadness had a scent, that too.
“Mister Badger?” He cleared his throat. “I was told you were the man to see about…”
“No, no no no.” Interrupted Sav.
“Beg your pardon?” The old fisherman looked perplexed.
“The name is Sav Dunaid, not Black Badger. The name of the place is Black Badger Services, see?” He pointed to the crude picture on the outside wall. Sav had done the logo himself, and felt quite proud of it. Everyone else mistook it for a tar stain.
The old man’s confused face only seemed to get worse.
“Sorry, never mind about that, not important, come in, come in and tell me what it is you were told you should see me about.” Sav opened the door wide and gestured the old man through. He cleared the piles of discarded pieces of clothing, armour and assorted junk from the only working chair in the room and guided the old man to it. Sav rested on the desk opposite of it.
To Sav’s relief, the fisherman’s weary eyes hardly left the floor in front of him. His room was not ready to function as the offices of an investigator you could trust, and the assorted mess could be misconstrued as lack of professionalism by some. “So, what can I help you with, Mister…?”
“Inders, Nebb Inders,” the man replied. “My daughter, Margaret, she’s gone missing Mister Dunaid. The Guards won’t help, and her husband want’s nothing to do with her, accusing her of… of… of running away with her lover.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask, Mister Inders,” Sav said, “but, could she?” The sort of situation was, in Sav’s experience, not a very unusual phenomenon.
Inders took out a dirty handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. “Not me Margaret, sir, not with that no good Spencer her husband accuses her of cheatin’ with.” He said. “And even if she were as thick-skulled as to do something like that, she didn’t take a single thing, not her clothes, not anything. It just makes no sense sir.”
Cases like these were not uncommon in Korvosa. It was precisely the kind of scrap work the Guards were particularly good at ignoring. Usually they tended to solve themselves when both parties turned up a few days later, unable to stand the sight of each other any longer. Worst case scenario was a crime of passion, but more often than not it was just a matter of infidelity and a life of resentment between married couples and forbidden lovers. It was never as romantic as they would initially believe.
“It could just be that they decided to start a new life together somewhere else, far from Korvosa, leave it all behind. It’s been known to happen, y’know?” Sav insisted.
The old man shook his head and dabbed the tears in his eyes with the same handkerchief he had blown his nose with. Sav considered offering him a new one but decided against it. Besides, he had few to spare and most were covered in blood or oil.
“Not a chance sir. Not my girl. And Ol’Spencer may be lacking when it comes to decency, but he has a good job goin’ for ‘im hauling goods to the shops over at Eodred’s Walk, and an apartment all to ‘imself. Not likely to leave any of that behind!”
“Could it be they just went on a holiday? The first Wealday of Rova is upon us, maybe they wanted to get away from Crabfest and the stink?”
Inders shoulders slumped even further, something Sav would not have thought possible. If he seemed defeated when he walked through the door, he looked doubly so at the moment. “Nay, good sir. Something is amiss, I tell ye. I feel it in my bones. Something has happened to my poor Margaret, and no one is willing to help. Not the Guards, not her husband. You must help me Mister Dunaid. Please.”
Sav stood up from his resting position on the desk and approached the fisherman. “Mister Inders, I will find your daughter.” He said. The old man’s eyes lit up. Sav turned to the desk and rummaged through the debris covering the whole surface until he produced a piece of parchment. He began writing on it, paused to look at Nebb Inders, and said: “Mister Inders, you do realize that the outcome of this might not be the one you are hoping for? If she left of her own volition, she might not want to come back. If she went against her will, there might be…” he hesitated for a fraction of a second, “complications. Also, there is the matter of my fees. I require half the payment up front, for expenses and such, you understand. The rest upon conclusion of the contract. That is regardless of how the situation resolves itself, do you understand?”
The old man nodded and stood up. “Thank you Mister Dunid, thank you.” He said, taking Sav’s bandaged hand and shaking it vigorously. The smell of fish will be hard to wash off, thought Sav.
Nebb Inders scribbled his signature crudely on the parchment, fished a small pouch clinking with coins from one of his pockets, and tightly pressed it to Sav’s hands. He shuffled out of the untidy room, shoulders still shrunk and eyes still puffy, but seemingly slightly more at peace.
Sav had a job to do. Hopefully, he though, one less dangerous than trying to alter your own armour.