14 Ymiden, 720
Almund
Almund
No matter the urgency surrounding his visits to his hometown, Bond never could escape the required visitations insisted upon by his parents on that first day. He wholeheartedly believed that his Ma had an entire network of mothers and widows established across the entire breadth of the town, tasked solely to inform her of her son’s arrival. He felt the eyes watching him for windows and doorways, from the moment he passed into the town limits, all the way up to his old home’s doorsteps. If he tried to deviate from this, seeking shelter elsewhere within those first twenty-four breaks . . . well, needless to say, Bond had learned early on when he took up the transient lifestyle, that the consequences were severe. That first trial, no matter what, he was expected to visit his siblings, eat a homecooked meal, and sleep in his childhood bed. Only then was he free to pursue his own interests, without fear of any maternal-enlisted espionage derailing him.
Having paid his dues the trial before, Bond could now follow-up on the curiosity that had brought him home this time: The Court of Miracles. Four words on the tip of almost every man and woman in Almund, same as it had been in Scalvoris Town the day the news broke of the group’s daring heist. He had hoped the former Pirate capitol would prove more fruitful in regard to concrete details on this new organization, but there was very little beyond what he had already read in the newspapers. Bond had accompanied his father to work early that morning to start his search with the stevedores, but the only original sentiments they could relay was the frustration and outrage from Elements; The wayfarer could’ve assumed that from the get-go. From there, he had migrated through a handful of seedy hotspots, inserting himself in conversations involving the thieves in the Buckle & Chain, O’Rourkes, and the Sapphire Inn, again to little avail. It seemed everyone was rehashing the same slivers of information that seemed credible and boasting unbelievable exaggerations that only furthered muddled the truth.
Finally, accepting that perhaps he had followed-up too early on news, Bond shifted his attention to his own personal needs. Because he did not maintain any proper, long-term employment, it was necessary for him to seek out the occasional odd job. Almund was ripe with these one-time opportunities, especially those of questionable morality, so Bond knew that whenever fate brought him home, he needed to capitalize. After all, despite his strong aversion to mortal violence, he was by no means a saint. Someone raised in this town rarely was.
It was not Bond’s first time stepping through the front door of The Kennel, flashing a grin at the giant man who rose to greet him. “My my, Mister Guiscard, you’re looking a bit gray,” The wayfarer declared, offering a hand in greeting, “Been by the Doc to have that checked out?”
Dana Guiscard, the half-Ellune Kennel Master, reciprocated the greeting, squeezing Bond’s hand in a firm grip. He didn’t offer a smile, but his tone was at least friendly. “A poor comedian leads with the same joke in the same venue every times he visits,” Dana released the man, moving towards the stash of liquor sitting beside his desk. He poured the wayfarer a drink, continuing with his back turned. “What brings you back to Almund, Bond?”
“The rest of the island appreciated my humor even less than you did,” Bond responded, accepting the drink and moving to the cushioned chair that was positioned opposite Dana’s desk. “Thus, I find myself in need of temporary employment while I work on my new material.”
The Kennel Master smirked, taking his seat; only then did Bond take his own. “And are you in search of any specific task to help spark your creativity?”
Bond sipped at his whiskey, pondering the question for a brief trill. He thought about asking about The Court in this moment, but decided it wasn’t the opportune time. Before, in the taverns, he was one among many, less likely to stand out in the conversations. Here, though, such an inquiry emphasized his interest in a different way, and he did not know enough about the organization or Dana’s stance on them to risk it. “The usual,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair. “No personals. Beyond that, I don’t need to know any more than what the employer needs me to know, same as always.
The half-ellune stared at Bond for a trill longer than what felt normal, as if he were gauging the wayfarer, before nodding. “I think I might have something that’ll suit you, then.” Dana crossed the room, bending over a safe tucked away beneath a table, his frame shielding the combination from Bond, not that he was trying to learn it. When he rose, a nondescript package was in his hand. He passed it over to Bond.
Light as a feather.
“A courier job,” Dana said, snatching up a pen and a slip of paper. He passed the latter to Bond. “A dead drop at this address. They requested an armed handler to deter any sort of nuisances, and stated that any damage to the package, even accidental, would forfeit the deal. You’re to return to us for the payment upon completion.” A pause. “Same as always.”
Bond nodded, downing the rest of the whiskey and setting the cup on the edge of the table. There was no verbal confirmation needed. He had accepted the package from Dana; it was now his responsibility to get it to the dead drop. He was a Hound, now.
And he needed to go collect his fangs.
Having paid his dues the trial before, Bond could now follow-up on the curiosity that had brought him home this time: The Court of Miracles. Four words on the tip of almost every man and woman in Almund, same as it had been in Scalvoris Town the day the news broke of the group’s daring heist. He had hoped the former Pirate capitol would prove more fruitful in regard to concrete details on this new organization, but there was very little beyond what he had already read in the newspapers. Bond had accompanied his father to work early that morning to start his search with the stevedores, but the only original sentiments they could relay was the frustration and outrage from Elements; The wayfarer could’ve assumed that from the get-go. From there, he had migrated through a handful of seedy hotspots, inserting himself in conversations involving the thieves in the Buckle & Chain, O’Rourkes, and the Sapphire Inn, again to little avail. It seemed everyone was rehashing the same slivers of information that seemed credible and boasting unbelievable exaggerations that only furthered muddled the truth.
Finally, accepting that perhaps he had followed-up too early on news, Bond shifted his attention to his own personal needs. Because he did not maintain any proper, long-term employment, it was necessary for him to seek out the occasional odd job. Almund was ripe with these one-time opportunities, especially those of questionable morality, so Bond knew that whenever fate brought him home, he needed to capitalize. After all, despite his strong aversion to mortal violence, he was by no means a saint. Someone raised in this town rarely was.
It was not Bond’s first time stepping through the front door of The Kennel, flashing a grin at the giant man who rose to greet him. “My my, Mister Guiscard, you’re looking a bit gray,” The wayfarer declared, offering a hand in greeting, “Been by the Doc to have that checked out?”
Dana Guiscard, the half-Ellune Kennel Master, reciprocated the greeting, squeezing Bond’s hand in a firm grip. He didn’t offer a smile, but his tone was at least friendly. “A poor comedian leads with the same joke in the same venue every times he visits,” Dana released the man, moving towards the stash of liquor sitting beside his desk. He poured the wayfarer a drink, continuing with his back turned. “What brings you back to Almund, Bond?”
“The rest of the island appreciated my humor even less than you did,” Bond responded, accepting the drink and moving to the cushioned chair that was positioned opposite Dana’s desk. “Thus, I find myself in need of temporary employment while I work on my new material.”
The Kennel Master smirked, taking his seat; only then did Bond take his own. “And are you in search of any specific task to help spark your creativity?”
Bond sipped at his whiskey, pondering the question for a brief trill. He thought about asking about The Court in this moment, but decided it wasn’t the opportune time. Before, in the taverns, he was one among many, less likely to stand out in the conversations. Here, though, such an inquiry emphasized his interest in a different way, and he did not know enough about the organization or Dana’s stance on them to risk it. “The usual,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair. “No personals. Beyond that, I don’t need to know any more than what the employer needs me to know, same as always.
The half-ellune stared at Bond for a trill longer than what felt normal, as if he were gauging the wayfarer, before nodding. “I think I might have something that’ll suit you, then.” Dana crossed the room, bending over a safe tucked away beneath a table, his frame shielding the combination from Bond, not that he was trying to learn it. When he rose, a nondescript package was in his hand. He passed it over to Bond.
Light as a feather.
“A courier job,” Dana said, snatching up a pen and a slip of paper. He passed the latter to Bond. “A dead drop at this address. They requested an armed handler to deter any sort of nuisances, and stated that any damage to the package, even accidental, would forfeit the deal. You’re to return to us for the payment upon completion.” A pause. “Same as always.”
Bond nodded, downing the rest of the whiskey and setting the cup on the edge of the table. There was no verbal confirmation needed. He had accepted the package from Dana; it was now his responsibility to get it to the dead drop. He was a Hound, now.
And he needed to go collect his fangs.