To understand Pretzel Hobnob a person needed to know his past history. Pretzel had been born to the proud Bayleaf and Chocolate Hobnob approximately forty-two years ago. His mother was a dock brawler with a legendary temper. His father was a Smuggler [Note; there are Smugglers- people engaged in a criminal conspiracy to transport illegal substance A from farm B to dock C, and honest tradesmen attempting to cut overheads by avoiding certain ridiculous local customs like import duty. Pretzel's father was one of the former and very good at it too] who twenty years prior to Pretzel's existence had had the good sense to ally himself closely to then rising star of the Milosevic Clan, then lead by its greying matriarch Tito Milosevic. The Clan swiftly entrenched itself in eastern Hobbit town, as well as gaining control of the city's lucrative docks.
Young Pretzel grew up with his father doing a roaring trade in illegal spices and smuggled spell components. He was a member of Tito's inner circle, and so young Pretzel went to school with the children of the 'first family', as Tito's family was known. He studied conventionally by day, and by night was schooled in a very different manner by his two servant/bodyguards. He eventually graduated from Blairon University a year early at the tender age of twenty, with a first in advanced mathematics and household finances.
The Milosevic Clan has a tradition of allowing its children to select their own paths up the criminal ladder. Somewhat to his parents' surprise the young Pretzel plumped for assassination as a career. However they duly apprenticed him for one year with the human assassin Veron Nebiz to learn the basics, which he did. He proved highly adept at it, having inherited his mother's capacity for violence and his father's calculating nature. Eleven highly eventful years passed.
By the age of thirty-three Pretzel had built himself a reputation as one of the Milosevic Clan's finest killers. He had 'moved on' twenty-three 'clients', and much to his professional pride had only killed twelve others whilst going about it. He tattooed a blue skull onto his body every time a contract was completed. Eleven ran up each arm, and one was set in the base of his throat. In later years when he wished to intimidate he would casually unbutton his shirt collar and expose the blue skull to sight. Despite all this he grew restless. After his twenty-third client he went before Slobodan Milosevic, the new boss of the Clan and demanded a new challenge. An enraged Slobodan promptly posted him to run a remote mushroom-growing farm along the ill-defined northern border with the Blackvelt Principalities. He was shocked when one year later when the harvest report came in that the farm's production had doubled. Upon receiving six severed heads of double agents that had been working on the farm courtesy of a teleport scroll he began to perceive the advantages of having a financially aware assassin in the north. So was the accountant/assassin multi-class born.
Over the years since Pretzel had been rapidly promoted to a variety of different jobs, though his proudest achievement remained devising a fiendishly complex tax avoidance scheme for the Clan's books that had so far withstood five close inspections by Blairon's Internal Revenue Section. Rumour had it that anytime soon he would be removed from his current post administering all the northern drugs routes and sent back to Blairon to take his place amongst the circle of advisers that surrounded Slobodan when he stayed there. Certainly his deputy Minty was looking forward to the Mayor's next visit.
The party had fallen into a light doze by the time the door was finally flung back. Some time back the guard must have changed, for now it was a different set of surly guards framed in the doorway, and the Terrier wasn't present. One of them, smaller then the others was thrust into the room whilst his fellows stood well back, crossbows loaded and ready. Picking up himself the hobbit scowled bitterly back at his friends and dusted himself off.
Turning to face the adventurers he cleared his throat annoyingly and yelped in a high pitched squeaky voice "Mr Pretzel will see you now."
"Oh thank you, Mr Messenger," called out Ieannia "Personally I'd just like to say that my friends and I could not have waited one more second without your appearance."
At that one of the bigger guards at the door stepped through, his sword drawn. He was a scarred, wary man. With a swift kick he propelled the first Hobbit out of the cell then gestured with his sword for the party to follow suit. He gave the Ranger a tight smile, his eye darting back and forth watching for any desperate lunges.
"Just get out, lady. Slowly now. We're going to do this here thing peacefully, ain't gonna be trouble."
The party stood slowly, stretching their limbs and popping their stiff joints. The guards backed away from the entrance, still covering the prisoners with their crossbows. The group followed the leader's short figure as he led them across the courtyard of their prison to another whitewashed building, though this part of the complex was in noticeably better condition then the one they'd just left.
The leader half-jogged towards the building's plush entrance, nodding to the two huge Half-Orc guards stationed outside it. They stood apart, allowing the two groups through. The leader knocked once on the door, and a small portal opened. The chief guard leaned forwards and a whispered exchange took place. A question sounded from the portal. The leader rapidly became more agitated and his guards tense at the delay. Zorro didn't help matters by grinning evilly, then indicating first them then himself and making throat slashing motions with his hands.
Torfindel sensed the guard's jerkiness, and their nervousness about the fact that the group still had its hands free. He made a mental note of that, determined to use it should the opportunity arise. He was distracted from this nascent plan of action by the grudging opening of the doors. A sweating human man wearing nothing but sandals and a loincloth glared at them then gestured them inside. Conscious of the man's stare Torfindel strode forwards and stepped into a hall, huge by local standards, stretching away at least a hundred metres.
His senses where assaulted by a massive cacophony as over a hundred hobbits sat, stood or slouched the length of the hall, surrounding a single massive oaken table. It groaned under the weight of a mass of food which the hobbits where systematically demolishing. A variety of delicious smells assailed him, and Torfindel, who hadn't eaten since the morning felt a surge of hunger. Even Elves acknowledged Hobbits' prowess in the kitchen, although that was where they should stay as far as most were concerned. His mouth watering, he was curtly lead through the throng of Mafioso together with the rest of the party. Their guards looked on longingly at the feast and shot resentful looks at their prisoners. Carmina blew them a kiss.
At last, at the end of the hall the leader turned into a small side passage and stopped outside another set of doors. A long queue of petitioners came and went before their eyes. They waited unwillingly. Eventually it was their turn. A slot opened in the door in front of them and a voice rapped out a sharp order in Hobbitish from beyond the door. The leader replied with a single knock, and without further ado the door swung open to admit the party into the lair of the beast, the office of the great Pretzel Hobnob himself.
Carmina scanned the 'office' of the deputy Mayor with a bard's trained eyes. It was a long rectangular shape, all wooden floored and white washed walls. The far wall was dominated by a set of glass doors opening out onto the courtyard, currently shut and bolted. Red curtains partially covered the set, held back by velvet sashes. The room was lit by four large candles set on black stands, and an expensive dire bear skin rug covered the approach to the sole set of furniture in the room, a massive mahogany desk drowning under a pile of paper and a rickety chair, looking out of place in the wealthy surroundings.
On top of the chair sat a small figure, leaning his arms against the desk's surface. On either side of the desk stood Minty and the Terrier. In front stood two identical Half-Orc guards, naked from the waist up and coated in intricate blue swirls, naked blades in their massive hands. The slight glow coming from the steel indicated in no uncertain terms that the swords were magical. The seated man, who she guessed to be Pretzel, gestured vaguely at the guards accompanying the adventurers and they spread out across the room, still covering the party. Pretzel it seemed was taking no chances thought the bard, but she noticed that both she and Torfindel were ungagged and unbound. That Pretzel had failed to cut off their access to magic boosted the quick-witted woman's hopes slightly.
Carmina turned her face away from the guards and her eyes swept over Pretzel, her curiosity piqued at this, her first sight of their adversity. Pretzel was large for a hobbit and at 4' 10" he towered over most of the other hobbits, even the Terrier. He wore a loose white shirt after the fashion of junior officers abroad Blaironian ships. A thick leather belt swept round his waste, from which hung a leather purse, a dining pouch and knife and a sheathed dagger. His collar was open revealing the fading blue kill mark. Curly grey hair covered his head, spilling over a lined face dominated by a pair of startling blue eyes. A plain gold stud set in his left ear was his only jewellery. The face was a strong one, hard and etched with lines. But the expression was a serene, carefree one. His manner was a polite and refined. A man used to discussing whom to murder in the highest of company. He was probably as clean at the kill as he could be too, the bard judged.
She froze briefly in mid-stride as the deputy mayor's eyes caught hers. She felt his gaze slide over her, judging, weighing what he saw, then passing, moving onto the others. There had been a hint of magic in that stare, something that pressed on the consciousness. Perhaps he wasn't quite as unprotected as she wanted to think. She pondered the situation, trying to remember any specific tales of Pretzel where he'd been seen to use magic.
People tended to think of Carmina as a bit of an airhead. Her willingness to look for the good in all creatures, her optimism that no matter how terrible a situation was it would be alright in the end, her stunning looks and her caring and outgoing nature all combined to give most people an impression of a harmless charmer with nary a thought in her head. But then most people never considered how such a person could have survived in a place like Lower Wyrmling. Underneath the layers of outgoing fluff Carmina hid a sharp mind and a formidable memory. While being genuinely nice she combined it with the nerve of a cat and an obsession to travel and meet all the people she could, learning everything there was to know about them in the process. Adventurers who dismissed the Bard as a useless hanger-on had never considered where they were going to get the information about the huge scaled horror, [currently thundering towards them] and whether or not their swords could actually harm it. She combined all this with a handful of arcane spells, a passable skill with the rapier and a survival instinct honed after years as an urchin in Blairon's poor quarter. She was possibly mildly deranged, but so are all people, and if so it was insanity of a socially acceptable kind.
Pretzel stood as she and the others gathered two careful swords-lengths away from the Half-Orc bodyguards. She saw a smile flash briefly across his face quickly replaced by a studious expression. He raised his arms briefly in a welcoming gesture.
"Welcome friends," he said. His accent was pure uptown Blairon she noted. Fortunately his tone was calm- everyone else in the room was jittery to the point where she wouldn't be surprised if one of those bolts shot off by accident. She turned to Ieannia and whispered at her to watch Zorro. The Dwarf was actively sizing up the nearest guard for a spring.
"Drink for anyone?" asked Pretzel, holding up a flask from his desk.
"Thank you," mummered Carmina, accepting a glass of the amber spirit. Torfindel also accepted politely. The others shook their heads; Zorro with a muttered oath, Ieannia tight lipped. Pretzel raised his glass with pretended wistfulness.
"To absent friends," he smiled at Torfindel "I don't suppose you happen to know where your wizard friend has vanished to? My agents have been quite unable to trace her. Most disappointing. I had hoped we would all be here for our little reunion."
Carmina held her hands and face purposely immobile. She felt giddy and edgy all at once. So the Necromancer had escaped! She'd hoped of course...
Torfindel answered for the party.
"If she's any sense she'll be long out of here and away," he said with a grin "What a terrible pity you missed somebody. Not very efficient of you was it?"
The polite smile on Pretzel's face didn't waver for a second.
"Please try not to bait your hosts Master Torfindel," he said urbanely, "It is most impolite."
"Oh I am sorry," Torfindel smirked sarcastically. He was feeling strangely chirpy. The Unknown Necromancer had got away, and he here was here drinking Hobbit-brewed Whiskey in the office of the Deputy Mayor instead of being shot in the back of the head by the Terrier after a brutal interrogation. Something funny was going on here and Torfindel sensed an opportunity. Ice-cream had said something about a job...
Urg looked down curiously as his boss's ears started to twitch.
Carmina also sensed something was up. Her knowledge of Hobbit traditions was admittedly patchy but she was fairly sure they should have been dead by now. Hobbits weren't very forgiving if you made a deal with them and then failed to deliver. Pretzel's next words solved that mystery though.
"Apology accepted," he murmured "Please forgive your 'ahem' abduction, normally in such circumstances I like to give a days grace for those clever enough to run. However another matter came to my attention this morning and it was pointed out to me in no uncertain terms that a charming young man with whom we had had occasional dealings in the past was just the fellow to sort it out. Unfortunately he has disappeared since we contracted him, and so we are forced scrape the barrel somewhat and turn to you. I believe you owe us a sum of money yes?"
"Yes, but it was stolen from me-," began Torfindel.
Ignoring the Elf's explanations Pretzel started speaking again.
"Regardless of what happened you have not paid. This is unacceptable to us. Luckily for you we have a job for you. Should you survive you will be allowed to return here unmolested, all debts cleared. You may even resume trading again if you wish. If you refuse, well the normal penalty will have to apply."
Torfindel swallowed his throat abruptly dry. He was aware of just how close to death he'd actually come. If their agent hadn't gone missing he'd still be under a death sentence. But now his only way out would be to accept the job that had caused the agent's disappearance. It didn't sound like a job with a high survival chance.
"Why aren't you using your own people?" Carmina asked, breaking into his thoughts. The others nodded, or in Urg's case glowered.
Pretzel smiled thinly.
"I confess myself surprised," he said "Most groups would have wanted to know about the job first. A most perceptive question young lady. Perhaps there is some hope for you after all. The reason we cannot use our own people mistress, is that we need every single one of them here. Things have become...tense down in Blairon recently. Some of our fellow brethren, the Kostunitsas to be exact, have been under some misapprehension as to where the territory boundary ends. And alas, it has now extended to this place. They have bought up several properties here recently. We have reports of them bringing up Big People from Blairon. There have been incidents up in the woods between our pickers and theirs. The Mayor will be arriving here soon as has been rumoured. He is coming here for a final negotiation with Boris Kostunitsa. Nobody wants a war right now. When the matter is settled I will be leaving with him when he goes back to the capital, unless I somehow manage to slip up before then. The Kostunitsas won't move while I maintain my full strength in this town. But I can't spare two dozen bashers to go wandering off down into the Ratwarrens -"
Torfindel's Whiskey exited his mouth in a liquid jet that arced across the room and splattered on the bearskin rug. Carmina choked on her glass and began coughing violently whilst Ieannia pounded her back. Zorro began swearing heatedly under his breath, his hands fingering for an axe that wasn't there. Urg stood stock-still and drooled blankly.
The Ratwarrens!