Denlo awaits Timothe’s return, sitting on his perch atop the cart. The wind blows ever so lightly from the north west, carrying with it the smell of the sea. Denlo can just barely make out the coast if he strains his vision, but the smell is still strong. Refreshing. Despite its name, the Coastal Thoroughfare strays from the actual coast, for most of the swath it cuts. Even moreso the spur off the Coastal into Irritea. Just lots of forests. And, after more than a week of that forest air, the smells of the sea were nice. The only smell he misses more is the one that awaits, just a few paces ahead. The delicious port city smells, the odor of rotting fish, wet leather, and smoky industry.
Below, in the cart’s driving seat, Alorrim is tense. He’s still expecting Denlo to do bandit-like acts to them. Not the trusting sort. He’s not from here, and doesn’t know how long things take. From the lack of strong elfish influence on his accent, Denlo thinks he’s probably from Nelgin, which would also explain the tension. Nelgin is a dwarfish city, through and through. The chaos of Irritea must seem worryingly chaotic by comparison. Below, at the rear of the cart, the mercenary captain stood ready. Erecka trusts Denlo much more than Alorrim does. Likely because he saved her life much more directly. She’s more afraid of thieves from the city. A foolish fear, as the thieves would wait until we enter. Easier, more people around for confusion and cover, fewer guards between the mark and the fence. But if she is this alert here, she’ll also be as alert as she can once we’ve entered the city. Below, in the cart, the mercenary gentleman somewhere between recovering and dying. When conscious enough to communicate, Ligato is by far the most pleasant of Denlo’s traveling companions for this journey. He reminds Denlo of Akvry, and not just in the racist, Elfkin all seem alike sort of way. He, too, uses humor and flamboyance to deflect from his problems. And he thinks everyone is better than they are.
It takes slightly longer than Denlo expects, but eventually everything is in place. Below, Timothe returns. “Sorry about the wait, there happens to be a censor here, so I had some additional paperwork,” Timothe says as he joins Allorim at the front of the cart.
A censor being in Irritea is less than ideal for him, but Denlo knows that anyone can be avoided. Keeping himself perched atop the cart and ready, Denlo puts back on his helmet, for effect. Scanning the crowds constantly, he hopes the threat of a creepy, armored person at the ready will keep most of the thieves at bay. After all, Erecka in the back looks like a common mercenary. A well paid, well trained mercenary, but a common mercenary nonetheless. Denlo, atop the cart like he is, looks something more an assassin than a common mercenary. And that should keep even some of the more bold thieves away.
Some combination of Denlo’s lurking and Erecka’s vigilant protection do manage to keep the thieves away as they make it to the merchant area near the docks. Alorrim stops the cart and with Timothe heads to the back, likely to get the not-quite-dying man out from their cart. Denlo slides off the cart from top to driving seat, to the ground. Erecka comes to meet him. “Friend,” she begins, not knowing his name, “Good work this trip. If you ever need a job…”
Denlo cuts her off, shaking his head. “You know that I’m no fighter, nor a mercenary. I’m really not mercenary material,” he insists. He’s just going to find someone to sell his sword to, then be on his way. The sword, not his sword, he reprimands his possessive instinct.
“Of course,” Erecka agrees, “And if you ever want a job, find me. Our company could use skilled help like your own.”
Taking off his masked helmet, Denlo smiles. “You don’t even know my name, and you’ll hire me?” he half-jokes, “That is an interesting approach to business.” Then, seeing the joke not hitting like he intends, he returns to seriousness. “But, with all sincerity, I hope you a good future, but my future lies away from this sort of thing. It must.”
“Very well,” Erecka relents, “Then I wish you good fortune in your own future, Mister Nofighter.” Then, she smirks, “An odd name, but I suppose you see our names as equally strange.”
Denlo shakes his head. “You’re as funny as I am,” he says, as a joking insult. From Erecka’s reaction, the insult hits slightly more than the joke. He adds, “Have a good life. And no offense, but I do hope we don’t run into each other again.” Then he heads towards Timothe and Allorim.
The pair of medics have already unloaded Ligato from the cart and seem to be waiting for Denlo to come by. Ligato, lying on the makeshift mobile bed, seems to have been eavesdropping. Timothe and Alorrim are having a quiet discussion. As Denlo approaches the pair, Timothe smiles and holds up a hand, as though to silence his partner. “Allorim, grab the payment for the man,” he says.
Denlo smiles back at the old man. “I would prefer it in smaller coinage, if it’s no trouble. Easier to spend, less likely to be noticed and get me robbed and murdered.”
“Not at all, my good man Kralvo.”
“Kralvo?” Denlo questions.
“Kralvo, of the Ysaultia-Olgorlin kinslums” the old medic repeats, “That’s your name, right?” Denlo continues to look confused at the medic, so he explains. “That’s your name. It says so on this piece of paper.” He hands Denlo a small pass. “Won’t work as ID, of course, but if the censor or their men happen to ask, that should get you out of answering questions you don’t want to answer.”
Denlo looks at the pass, taking it in his hand. It’s a formality, really. Just a small piece of paper stating the holder is from a different City, and therefore shouldn’t be counted in the local City. One of the simpler documents to forge, but having one signed and confirmable by a real guard is helpful. Bowing his head slightly towards Timothe, Denlo says, “Thank you very much.”
Alorrim comes back with a pouch. “Thank us by not screwing us over on this one,” he spits out aggressively as he hands over the pouch. Denlo takes it from the youthful dwarf. “It’s six silver forty copper. Sound good? Don’t care.”
Denlo looks inside. It looks about like what he said. Pulling out roughly ten copper, he tries to hand them back to the pair. “For the help.”
Timothe holds up a hand and shakes his head. “That was part of our payment to you. We agreed no questions, Kralvo.”
Putting the money back into the pouch, Denlo once again bows his head. “Then thank you for keeping your word. And may good fortune await you ahead.”
Timothe smiles. “It always does.”
As Denlo starts to walk away, Ligato chuckles. “Not a merc, eh?” he muses.
Denlo shakes his head. “I’m not.”
Ligato looks at him, questioningly smug. “Oh? Then what, good sir, was that?”
“Shut up,” Denlo mutters.
Ligato chuckles. “So rude. It is no wonder you prefer to be alone. For you, there is no choice, right?”
“There's a choice, I just don’t like you. After all, we met after your whole almost dying thing woke me up from a really nice nap.”
“In all fairness to me, that also woke me up from a really nice nap,” Ligato replies with a chuckle. “Don’t die too fast, it’ll make us look bad.”
“I won’t,” Denlo replies. Then, patting him on his nearly pulverized shoulder, he adds, “Don’t make me have to save your life again.”
Ligato winces in pain. “Mayhaps when next we meet, our roles shall be reversed, friend,” he says through the pain.
Denlo, shaking his head, starts to leave towards the city’s interior. “That’ll never happen, friend,” he says just before he leaves the merchant area. Then, flourishing on his cloak to cover his armor and sword, he walks out of the clearing into the crowd. Within seconds, he’s gone to any casual observer, as well as most ones with intention.
In any of the United Cities of Tolfirin and West Vyrroltea, it is easy enough to find the kinslums. If you know how to look. Even in the Elfish cities, it’s the same. There may be more Elfkin outside the slums in these cities than, say, Tiarta-Urgrin, but the kinslums are still there. Outsiders might think that people should follow many things from the rats, to the smells, to the criminals. Those are unpredictable, though. Rodents oft avoid the slums for more middle of the road accommodations, where they’re less likely to be eaten. Port cities have smells everywhere, so tracking by smell will always lead to somewhere along the docks. And most criminals don’t live in the kinslums, and those that do often spend their time outside them. Instead, follow the guards. Find a couple patrols, and the slums are where they walk around but not into when on their common patrols. Denlo finds the kinslums easy enough. He also, rather worriedly, notices a larger than usual amount of Authority guards about. Not that it matters to him at this point. When he walks the city, he’s beneath most people’s notice. He’s more concerned with them finding him once he’s stopped moving. Unlike the guards whose patrols Denlo tracks to find the kinslums, the Authority guards are heading into the slums as well. Hopefully they’re just doing censor work, but this is a larger group than Denlo remembers from two years ago when they did a survey of Tiarta-Urgrin. This worries Denlo some, but not much. It isn’t like anyone knows him. As far as anyone in town is concerned, he is simply Kralvo of Ysaultia-Olgorlin. And that’s who he’ll play to the T. But, before heading into them, he’s hungry and if Irritea is anything like Tiarta-Urgrin, he knows better than to go to an establishment within the slums.
Heading into a food and drinks establishment just outside the kinslums, on the dockside, he settles into a table. The bard playing is actually not bad. When the server comes over, he asks for a bowl of slop and a cup of grog. One of the sailors at the bar walks over to Denlo’s table as the hulking man awaits his food. “What are you doing here? This is a place for sailors, and you don’t look like you’ve spent a single hour at sea,” he says, hovering over the table opposite Denlo.
“I’m just here to eat a small meal and leave. Maybe enjoy the ambience while I eat,” Denlo says quietly, still hunching over, making himself small.
“Hey, let him be,” one of the sailor’s buddies says.
“Why should I?” the threatening sailor asks around. “It’s not like anyone would care if I start to beat on him.”
“You would,” Denlo says quietly as he starts to sit up straight. He moves and tenses his legs, readying himself to get to his feet in a fighting stance quickly. Even sitting as he is, Denlo is nearly as tall as the formerly looming man. Despite this, the man seems unfazed.
“Gentlemen,” the musician says to them, too friendly in tone to actually be friendly, “I see no need for anything uncouth or unpleasant to happen here.”
“Mind your business, bard,” the sailor spits.
Leaning in, he adds through his teeth, at a volume Denlo can just barely hear. “This is my business, ser. I for one, would prefer the guard not come by, and given the company you keep, I suspect you would as well.”
In a huff, the sailor stomps back over to his fellows. “I apologize for that man,” the musician says, temporarily seating himself at Denlo’s table. The server comes by with the meal and grog. “The name’s Renalt,” he says, sticking out a hand.
“Kralvo,” Denlo says, taking the man’s hand.
Renalt laughs. “Sure it is,” he says, seeming to know more than he’s letting on. “Well, enjoy your meal, I have a performance to finish, if I want a place to stay tonight.” And standing back up, he returns to playing. As he eats his food, Denlo watches the bard suspiciously.
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