Part II
"Twenty gold on the half-breed!" And laughter roared throughout the tavern.
"The Beast stands no chance!" Another cried out, choking on his own rusty bellowing.
Belthor twirled around his pistol, not paying the group of wannabe thugs any attention. His gun was a kind of cruddy piece of machinery, that would constantly jam up and even backfire at times. But when it worked, man, it packed a punch. The tiny rare musket-balls would make cheesecloth out of any armor, even the strongest steel plating. It was the pride of his being.
His jet-black medium length hair was slicked back with oil, an his sideburns were greasy with sweat. The halfling kicked off from the back wall, observing the brawl. A large half-orc the crowd had given the nickname of "The Half-Breed" was hammering his fist into the face of another well-liked goon self-named "The Beast." The Beast was a toned and muscular dwarf, with a long braided beard, his hair gold as the viscount's treasury.
Victory went to the half-orc, his green-gray skin glistening with sweat. Angry at his loss, The Beast kicked over a bar stool and slammed his fist on the counter demanding another glass of ale.
"Ah, victory is a sweet taste indeed." The Half-Breed exclaimed, throwing down a shot of whiskey.
"It was a cheap shot that caught me." The dwarf muttered, red in the face.
"A likely excuse for a barrel chested topling!"
"Don't you dare get-"
"Enough!" Belthor interjected, "Why don't we all shake hands and agree you are both very skilled warriors and call it a night, eh?" He skipped over, grabbing the arms of the men, giving them a tight squeeze, "I mean, c'mon look at these guns! Almost a shame they are put to waste here in some filthy tavern when they could be put to a more noble cause!"
"Such as?" The Half-Breed distrustfully asked, "What could possibly be the greater motivation than reputation?"
"Gold" Belthor said releasing the arms of the men, "That is not a good reason to leave this slum is it not?" Belthor had been the self proclaimed king of The Cunning Folly, and did not like having ruffians disturb his tavern.
"Where can we find this... Gold." The Beast asked, playing with his beard.
"The Legion of course!" The halfling raved, "Sign up together, as a pair you two would be near unstoppable!"
And with that the band of goons dispersed and The Half-Breed and The Beast took their thankful leave, gathering a jolly farewell before going off to the Legion. The Legion was an organization of mercenaries. Well-known and respected, The Legion had the Kingdom in the palm of it's hand. Little did the Viscount enjoy. He would constantly deny The Legion's grip on the economic system, and claimed his rule still directed the Kingdom. But it did not matter if he accepted it or not, everyone else knew. He had no real power. The cities bend to the will of the mercenary troops that occupy them.
After the majority of the patrons dispersed from The Cunning Folly, Belthor checked in with the owner in her private room.
"Now you are positive I cannot stay for one more night?" He begged, flipping a small coin purse unto the large oak table.
"Fine." Shylia sighed, "But only one more night, no exceptions. I expect you out before dawn's end." She took the coin purse and stabbed a short knife into the table, "Don't sleep in, you might not wake."
Belthor nodded, rubbing his throat, understanding her intentions, "Never fear my good lady I'll be out before the cock crows!" The small man walked back to the bar, it was raining now. You could always tell when it was raining, for the roof had been horribly shingled. Water pooled at the foot of the entrance. Without a warning the door slammed open, thundering as it smacked the wall. A female walked in, and the door creaked shut. She was drenched and shivering, and looked rather disappointed. She sat down at a bar stool and ordered a drink, holding back her tears. Noting the girl's depressive aura, Belthor took a seat next to the young lady, and asked her why she was so upset.
"The world was nothing as I had thought it." Atka replied, ringing out her over shirt. He laughed and ordered them both another round of mead.
"Oh? And what did you expect?"
"I don't know. Wizard's holding citizens captive. Smuggler's crossing the open road? Assassins around every corner?"
"What have you encountered my noble heroine?" Belthor joking slapped her back. Agitated, Atka whipped around and glared, then looking down at the mossy floor angrily whispered, "A few harmless hunters and a caravan."
"I see." Belthor smirked, hatching an idea. "Tell you what. I can bring you on a true adventure of fame and glory."
"There must be a catch," Atka looked up suspiciously, but hopefully, "Out here catches is all I've found."
"Oh but of course there is always a price to pay! All I ask of you is to keep an open mind..." The halfling pulled out a parchment from his pocket and unfolded it to the table, "...and keep your wits as sharp as your sword." On the paper was a coarse map, unskillfully drawn to say the least.
"Looks like it was drawn by a five year old." Atka scoffed, taking another swig.
"Looks can be deceivingly inaccurate." He pulled his shirt up a bit, over his arm, his muscular bicep bulging out, "Does it really look like I can lift a war-pony off the ground?" At that the tielfling smiled, knowing very well her appearance reflects little of her background said for her Mark of The Heart. Which she could only guess is known only by the elves in which case, other races might just see it as a normal tattoo.
After a few more round- only the Gods knew how many- Atka drunkenly agreed to join Belthor and his companions on their quest to retrieve some magical crystal sword she knew not the name of. They would ride out before the sun rose, out of this backwater town and to the capitol, where Belthor expected to purchase a ship and sail off to the location artlessly mapped out.
One night of talk, next thing she knew, she was off with a halfling and his posse to gain fortune and... infamy? Not what she had initially signed up for. Atka thought she'd be taking out slavers and and stealing from the rich to give to the poor, like in the old stories. The red-skinned girl instead found herself now signed with a company, one she barely knew, might she add, and what were her tasks? Petty thievery, gambling, working her ass off and for what? If she did not bring at least 20 gold to Belthor a day, then she'd be subject to a lashing.
Later, in the capitol city of Targ, there was a meeting for the squads of the East Wind Company. Belthor's unit, was named The Silver Spoils. They had always ranked last in earnings, and Belthor was determined to change that. Around a large oak table the small unit had taken their seats. Belthor in the largest chair, embroidered with their insignia. To his right sat a large scaley male dragonborn named Aragun, he was Atka's weapon master. She was fond of him, he seemed just about the only one with a shred of honor to his name. To Belthor's left, a tiny human girl, still she had a good foot and a half over the halfling con-man. Julia was trained in the dark magicks. Lastly, seated to the direct left of Atka, Gunnor. The worst of the entire lot. A pitiful tiefling that would make any level-headed pee-brain spit in his direction. The foolish archer thought himself so high and mighty, Atka constantly wished to knock him down to his proper size.
"So that's it, crew." Belthor tossed a chest in the center of the table, "The very last of it. Just enough to set us up with a small cutter. It'll need constant tending to, with only five crew on board."
"We won't be hiring crew-hands?" Aragon wedged his voice in, his massive hand lifting the chest singularly.
"Hmpt. You really think Belthor would waste his time buying hands when he gets us for practically nothing?" Juls chimed in, a spark of light dancing on the tips of her fingers.
"Speaking of which, where's our cut from working our arses off?" The dragonborn shaked the chest, the jingling of the coins lifting his spirits.
"All in time, friends!" Belthor smiled cunningly and waved the deed to the cutter in front of their faces, "What I gathered you for tonight is, the naming of the ship. It's bad luck to sail under a nameless lady."
"The Faceless Brute, perfect to strike fear into the hearts of our foes!" Gunnor excitedly leaned forward, he always liked when people "feared" him. Though Atka did not believe he was all that frightening. He was scrawny and light skinned, his horns barely peeking over his skull.
"Bahamut's Bounty" Aragon glowed with pride for his deity.
"No, no, no! None of that rubbish." Juls shot down their names quickly, her stunning looks easy tided them over, "I say we allow our newest member to make the decision, she's not gotten to put a real stamp on The Silver Spoils yet. Atka."
Atka looked around the table, as everyone fixed their gaze on her. She looked down, and found herself fiddling with her tail nervously. "Well." She grabbed the detailed blueprint of the ship from Belthor, examining it closely. Then it finally struck her. "The Red Remedy."
"The Red Remedy?" Gunnor repeated, "And how will that show our foes we wish to pillage and sunder them?"
"It won't." Belthor cut off Atka before she could answer, "They will see our ship and expect aid. When they think us friendly, they will let us aboard their ships, and that is when we will strike." He stroked his sideburns masterfully. "Good work Atka, knew I brought you for a good reason."
Atka nodded and turned away, the unit breaking apart. She had no intention to name the ship that for a deceptive reason. Aragon joined her at the bar of the tavern as she mumbled to him, "Is there truly no honor...?"