13th of Cylus, 721
Previous ThreadGlynt was quick to put forth his honest opinion through his expressive features. He stood up nonchalantly, looked down at the mess of paper with twisted lips, then glanced back towards Peake with a sort of compassion the one-legged man couldn’t quite understand.
“Let’s finish this in my office,” Glynt said. He emptied then pocketed his pipe before turning around and moving to the end of the room. He nabbed a lit candle on his way there. Peake stood up with a drag of the chair, gave a little glance towards the Hatter, then followed.
Of the two doors in the end of this common instance, one was thus revealed to be Glynt’s office. A sturdy-looking, first locked then unlocked door lead to a dark, somewhat grim room, about the size of a bedroom. Glynt lit up a couple of candles here and there, and some light revealed all this to Peake, who waited in the doorway. The style of decoration was built upon the concept set by the Hall, with dark floors and dark woods everywhere. However, unlike the hall which lacked any sort of taste, this room had decorations and paintings to give the instance some life. A couple of vases and a realistic portrait of a bowl of fruit was its extent. The room was dark and seemed unused. It smelled of dust and damp, rotting wood. For furniture, there was only a large, imposing desk of a wood Peake couldn’t brand, a throne-like chair behind it and two regal-looking chairs before it – all weathered with age. A small, snow-trampled, barred window opposed the desk let only white permeate in the otherwise thick darkness. No plants were to be spotted, dead or alive, and thus it seemed a room as dead as those found in dreams.
Glynt sat on his throne and Peake sat before him. Their eyes gleamed in a manner almost conspiratory under the vague, fluttering candlelight. Glynt’s captivating eyes were matched evenly against Peake’s striking intensity. The nobleman still felt measured, seized up and regarded with more suspicions than he would’ve preferred.
“So this is what you offered the Falcons?” said Glynt.
“This is what I did for them,” Peake corrected.
“And now they’re dead.”
“I told you I had nothing to do with that. I was only there to watch them hang.”
“So you say, but you understand I can’t trust you.”
“So far as I’m told, your ship isn’t like the Falcons’. You told me.”
“It’s not, but it’s still sell-sword work. Our hands are dirty.”
“Do I look like a man with clean hands?” Peake quizzed.
Glynt’s eyes had been laid on Peake for so long throughout the afternoon it was almost as if he knew every inch of him. The scars, the scratches, the missing limb and the missing ears all told a story for whoever would let their eyes listen. “From what I understood,” Glynt continued. “You have certain morals that may interfere.”
“I don’t know about morality, but I do have rules,” Peake stated. He laid a palm flat against the desk, turned it around, made a fist then and drew a finger. “First, I’m not part of this company. I’m an external agent, like a contractor. I’m here for a very specific job.” He drew a second. “What the Reserves do is their busines, and I am not involved in their matters in any way – at least, in the public’s eyes.” A third finger. “I find out you’re pulling Three Sisters or trying some shady shit against children, I’ll break your necks and feed your bodies to swine.” A fourth finger. “I will employ drastic measures. I need to know you’re committed to what I’ve told you, and that you have some respect for my process and my plan.” And a final, fifth finger. “This is my work. If I find you are being dishonest or trying to cut me out, I’ll take my work with me and walk.”
Glynt considered this, in silence, for a while. So far, Peake had managed to see what had made the aging man last so long in a business branded as ‘doomed’ in Melrath. A smart, cautious, methodical, logical man. Glynt was an exception in a world of commonalities, an extraordinary man in an ordinary land. He could’ve become General of many armies, yet chose to practice sword and dagger prostitution.
“I agree,” Glynt said at last, shrugging his shoulders, and extending a hand. Peake took it, and shook it. Their handshake was as firm as the strength of their characters.
“Good,” Peake replied. “Then get ready to get rich.”
Glynt took his hand back, leaned comfortably against the rest, and changed his grave tone to something more casual. “So! What do you need to get started?”
“A couple of days to come up with a strategy and do some research. I’ll need money up front.”
“Money up front…” Glynt repeated. “Well, your rules right? How much?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll bill you. Do you have some contacts around Fensalir?”
“I know a few people here and there. I’m sure I can arrange something. Can’t offer any more insight unless I’m informed, you know.” Glynt paused. “Can I have a preview of your plans, or is it all a mystery?”
“I’ll start with interviewing your members. I want to measure their worth.”
“How?” Glynt asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s what your contacts will teach me to do or do themselves if I can’t be taught.”
“Interesting!” Glynt exclaimed. It seemed he was about to clap, but didn’t. The very idea was so strange it excited his old bones. “I’m sure I can set you up, don’t worry.”
“Do I look worried?” Peake asked, canting his head. He stood up at last, and Glynt mimicked him. “I’m going home to my woman and my children. I’ll be in touch.”
“Good,” Glynt replied, offering yet another firm handshake. “I’m looking forward to being filthy rich.”
“At least you’ve got the filthy going for you already, you old cunt,” replied Peake with a scoff.
“Takes one to know one, gimp,” wise-cracked the old man, smiling.
Peake headed for the door, but Glynt didn’t follow. “I’m still charging you for my work this afternoon, by the way.”
“Then I’m charging you for the milk!”
Peake scoffed again then left the office, closing the door behind him. The hall of the Reserves seems to have changed quite drastically since his last appearance. Hatter and Barb had sat themselves down on a table, eating a stew so thick it seemed made with whole, three-ounced potatoes and half a cow stuffed in each plate. The Charmer and the Rogue stood by the beds, practicing some sort of ball-like waltz steps. Surprisingly, it was the Charmer who seemed proficient at it rather than the young, strikingly handsome Rogue so far only known for his love of his novel. None of them regarded Peake, and he drifted by like a fart in the breeze. Peake thus retrieved his cane along with his cloak, wrapped himself snugly then headed for the exit. On his way there, the Charmer crept up close and trailed in his footsteps.
“Yu’s b’ gettin’ th’ job, th’n?” he asked Peake. His voice was fitting to his name, and his tone was as pleasant as a spoonful of honey dripping down the throat. His eyes, a strange crystal blue were full of life and enthusiasm, but not naïve in the slightest. The gimp thus found it hard to ignore or dismiss such a likable individual, even if he wanted to.
“I got it,” Peake confirmed, exiting the hall. After a doorway, there was a small corridor, it’s smell revealing the location of the latrine behind a nasty, filthy-looking shambled door, and past a second doorway was the entrance room as he remembered it. The Charmer still trailed after him.
“I’s b’ knowin’ yu’s t’b’ gettin’ ‘t. M’ th’rd eye’s b’en feelin’ ‘s so, ay’,” the bald man said. His head was so shiny it felt Cylus only happened because man was locked indoors. “I’s b’ Yinlin,” the Charmer offered a hand, which Peake took and shook. “I’s b’ welcomin’ yu’s t’ th’ M’untain Pride R’serves’, most k’ndly so, ay’.”
“Peake’s the name. Nice meeting you, but I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.”
“Ay’, ay’, I’s ain’t t’ b’ tryin’ t’ b’ ‘oldin’ yu’s ‘ere a’ all,” the Charmer said, with a bright smile and apologetic eyes. He had the charm of angels even if he spoke the tongue of devils. His accent reminded Peake of Draketh: a mouthful. The Charmer, or Yinlin, then stood by the exit, unlocked the locks and drew the bolts, then stood by for Peake to prepare himself.
The nobleman felt the cold even before seeing it. As soon as he nodded, Cylus’ breath hit him with a strength he had forgotten. Had he no survived the walk here, the prospect of being found frozen midway in his gait would’ve been realistic. Drawing a torch from the sconce, Peake ventured out into the dark and cold. However, a thick fire burned inside him, a fire of passion and of a calling he knew had been answered. Almost a whole world away from his born privileges, away from a name that had no power here, away from a family he would’ve died for and now in charge of a new one, Peake felt he was, once again, in the business he was born to direct: domination. Soon enough, he thought bitterly, this district would be his, then would this city. After that, the whole Melrath would fall under his fingers, and all the pies would be his to dip a digit and whoever opposed him would never be heard from again.
It was time to get back into the game he was born to play. A lot of work stood before him, a lot of effort and a lot of sweat. It was time to get his hands dirty, but then again, that’s how the work goes. At least, it does here, in this filthy land of heathens, wherein the one-legged Dragon will take flight and feed on its sheep.
