Scene 3 - The Beast Master
It's a long time before I can move again... in truth I feel like my brain has frozen over. But when I do come to, I very quickly realise the opportunity this clever seductress has offered me.
The Beast Master. He and I go back a long way. We'd even been uneasy ally's during a mountain raid on one of Baal's fortifications. His bond with animals proved incredibly useful, if not slightly disturbing, and the demons of Hell fell swiftly beneath the enraged predators of Sanctuary.
They weren't enough to protect him from one creature though; an enormous Thresh Lord, covered in more armour then a city gate battalion, chased The Beast Master down. The brute had bitten the man's leg off up to his thigh before a lucky blow caught it on the side of the head and released its jaws. Beast Master's adventuring days ended there; lying in a pool of his own blood on the soft snow of Mt. Arreat.
With Baal's defeat, The Beast Master had no real purpose left in our land, but no way of returning home either. So he opened up shop at the other end of town, offering his nature friends as body guards. Innocent enough business, right?
Not likely.
Fact of the matter is; there isn't much money in hiring out 'mercenaries', even if they are more willing to defend you to the death then the average man. No, The Beast Master needed a more lucrative way to live life in our fast-turning-rank city.
Remember those mob bosses I mentioned earlier? Not all of them dislike each other. Most actually have a profitable trafficking system flowing between towns, trading everything from the newly discovered 'Flower-Powder', to good old fashioned lab-made narcotics. Gotta love those alchemists; when the need for demon destroying liquids dries up, why not experiment with new ways to get high? It'd made them the richest folk in Sanctuary, so they must be doing something right.
The main - and possibly only - problem with trafficking these 'sensitive' goods, is the rogue and unchecked gangs. Usually made up of starving peasants or stoned youth, these gangs set up elaborate traps for mob carriers, using dogs to determine the ones carrying the drugs. The mobs suffered vast losses to groups like this, and here's where The Beast Master came to the rescue.
There's an old saying I've heard drifting on the streets: "Never store something up your own arse that you can store up someone else's." Very few rogue bands (even the 'tough' ones with those new-age piercings... crazy kids) are willing to mess with a six hundred pound Grizzly who's got his lower regions stuffed to the hilt with "Snuff". The mobs were all too happy to pay The Beast Master's modest fee.
Most average citizens know nothing of these affairs, and they're all too happy to concentrate on their own problems. Only over the course of my working years have I managed to piece together all the clues and see the bigger picture. I could do something about it I guess... I guess it could be kinda fun to see how long I can outrun a mob assassin too. I may be a reclusive loner with suicidal tendencies, but I'm not stupid.
Basically, I've been waiting almost three years now for an excuse to drop by and visit my old war buddy, The Beast Master. And now I had it.
Amelia, that sultry minx who'd walked in off the street and asked, from the bottom of her worried heart, for my help. I'll die doing her bidding, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go alone. I'm going to take every low life scum I can with me, kicking and screaming, down to join my brother.
The perfume from her hair still lingers, and suddenly I have the uncontrollable urge to see if I can catch one last glimpse of her. I run to the window and peer through the boards, my heated breath fogging up the murky glass.
No sign of her. Did she walk the other way? My heart sinks, and I'm about to turn, dejected, back to my desk, when suddenly she strides into view. It's definitely her; that unmistakable black hair and those pendulum hips. She could halt battles at their most chaotic.
Yet, as I stare with heart pounding, I see something interesting about to happen; a scenario that all men find both fascinating and amusing. Red Corset Corner Goddess is still under her lamp, apparently now trying to get a stain off her skirt. What will happen when two perfect specimens of the opposite sex meet on the street alone? Will they ignore each other? Pass obscenities? Will Amelia, the obviously 'higher' class woman, let slip a confident smirk?
I lean in, trying to clear dust from the window and succeeding only in smudging it more. I see Corset Goddess look up, following Amelia with her eyes. The dark haired beauty has ignored her so far, still casually making her way up town. Corset Goddess seems neutral in her gaze also.
I frown. Well, that was anti-climatic. No behind-the-back facial detest? No obscene hand gestures? Either women are being nicer to each other now days, or they're just not putting in the effort...
When you see things not meant for your eyes, it's like time slows down for a second. Like fate gives you an ultra-clear image of what you think you see, just so later you can realise how easily you took the bait. The lover you saw hugging a strange man, and later reprimand for cheating; of course it turns out to be her brother, or long lost third cousin removed. But in that one voyeuristic moment, you just feel so sure your first instincts are right. Such is the way of the human mind.
I see Amelia, her black hair fluttering in the storm wind, her long, thin legs gliding smoothly over the cobblestones. I see her turn her head, ever so slightly, and catch Corset Goddess's eye. There's a quick nod of the head, magnified by my fate slowed moment, which the blonde corner worker responds to, not in like, but with a quick finger raised at her side. It's made to look like a casual wave, perhaps shooing away an insect. At least, that's how a normal person would see it. Not to a man who can find things. That was a signal, loud and clear. Then time speeds up, and I swear I can see the Goddess smile, before she leaves her lamp post and slinks away into the darkness. Both women are out of sight seconds later, and I'm left feeling disturbed (and wholly unsatisfied).
Lying through her teeth in her 'rescue my sister' interview, now sharing silent messages with a Mistress of the Night? Miss Amelia with the Emerald Eyes is a woman of mystery, and she seems all too happy to leave me in the dark. Well, I don't like being played with, and when we meet again, I'll be getting some answers. Truthful ones.
But that was a task for the future. I leave the window and stroll quickly to the chest of drawers. I almost choke when I open the top one. Hmm, must be close to annual sock-wash time. Only wear the damn things to stop my boots from chafing...
I rummage around and find what I'm looking for; my tannery-made demon hide jacket. Cost a fortune to make, but it's got the best bits from every kill I made during the War against Destruction, and it's as tough as char-grilled steak. Drives the ladies wild (till they find out where it came from) but best of all it keeps those damn Arreat winds out.
One last thing: I go to my bed and bend down, searching in the darkness beneath. Dust... something unpleasant that may have been the remains of dinner a few weeks ago... the shining eyes of my fat rodent friend (sorry mate, no scraps tonight), and my hat. Little bastard was nesting in it. I haul it out and sc#!& the twigs and leaves out from inside. At least he's house trained. The ex-resident is glaring at me now, pondering whether to take a nip at my boots, or go scampering away further into the dark below my bed.
It makes me grin slightly as I place the wide brimmed hat over my balding head. I used to have a stylish black ponytail, but not anymore. Hair's the first thing to go when you age. Well, first thing after the waist line. I had abs once too. Still, now I have this handsome hat to replace all that, and everything in the world is right again.
Yeah, and angel farts smell like roses.
I open the door, and get hit by a wave of cold, smoky air. It's almost enough to turn an old hermit back, but there's something else in that air; the last wispy fragments of perfume.
I have an old friend to visit.
The Beast Master's quarters look far from pleasant. Nestled in a small mountain grotto about half a mile from Harrogath, surrounded by the remains of a rickety picket fence, the hut looks and smells like it hasn't been cleaned in perhaps thirty years. I suppose you could chalk that up mostly to the fertilized vegetable gardens out front. What better way to get rid of the daily piles of animal waste?
I step over the rusted bars of what I'm guessing was once a gate, and my boot sinks up to the ankle. Great. The path to his door is a muddy track through the snow, and I have to struggle to keep my footing in the slush. It'd be a real shame to break my neck before I have a chance to wring his.
From what I've heard, the place was originally a mine, though abandoned long before even I was born. The back of the hut actually rests against the grotto wall, and I know there's a large trail of caves leading deeper into the mountain which The Beast Master uses as keeps for his pets. It's the perfect place to raise a family... or hide, should someone be out for you furry skin. I hope he doesn't suspect I'm coming.
Standing on the stoop of his door, my hand pauses in mid-knock, considering what to do. Go ahead and announce my arrival? Let him know he has a visitor, one that's looking to split a few heads today? The pause is long enough for me to decide I should scout around a bit first, so I step back from the door and circle around the side of the hut.
I know from experience that the easy way is usually the most dangerous. Would you prefer to pick the snake up by the tail? Or get a bag and big stick first? Same goes when casing a situation. I slink against the walls of the hut, trying to stay out of sight, till I spot a window for viewing inside.
It's dark in there. I know I'm taking a big risk, but curiosity is always the hardest of urges to resist. That, and trying to keep your eyes from wandering to the chest of a passing female when you know she's not looking. Cautiously, I inch my way up to peer inside, the tip of my hat pushing up comically over my forehead.
Darkness. Is he home? Perhaps out the back, shifting more crap from the dens? My eyes are adjusting, and I can make out shapes. A desk, reminiscent of my own except his is covered in bird droppings, sits in the middle of the room. The owner of the poop swings happily in its cage above. The sides and corners of the room are cluttered with junk, but none of it is distinguishable in the gloom. It's a shame the fireplace isn't lit. Suddenly something big appears, something that hadn't been in my field of view seconds earlier. I try to pull back, but my reflexes have been a bit rusty lately.
SLAM! CRUNCH!
The window flies up, and a fist the size of a battering ram lunges out to connect with my chin. I'm hurled back three feet onto a patch of freshly fertilised vegies, and lay there, watching the sky dance before my eyes. The blow was so hard it made my teeth rattle to the roots, and I can already feel a whopper bruise rising to the occasion. My head falls to the side, and I see what looks like a carrot, pointing and laughing at me. They're all laughing at me. My only thought is; "How can he grow these in the snow?"
Slowly my head begins to right itself, and the strange post-concussion hallucinations begin to fade. I can still hear laughter, but it's not the vegetables. It's a deep, booming voice. One could say 'husky'. I manage to lift my head slightly and look back at the window.
The Beast Master is leaning out, grinning like a mad thing. His hair is greyer then I remember it, but there's a still a strand or two of that fiery red from his youth. He's got side-burns as well; quite becoming for a man his age. I groan and raise myself up onto one elbow, doing an injury check and discovering nothing but my pride is really hurt. The Beast Master is still chuckling, and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.
"Sorry about that," he booms, "but I honestly thought you'd be faster."
I get up from my knees and swagger unsteadily to the left.
"I am. Usually." I rub my jaw but manage a pained smirk. "How'd you know I was coming?"
He points to his face, and for just a second I see his ears grow large and furry, and his nose take on the slightest hint of black.
"Hearing of a wolf and a sense of smell to match, my friend," he mocks. "Though I can't say I remember stealth ever being your forte."
I give him a hand gesture that sums up my feelings better then words, and bend to pick up my hat. What is that on the brim? I decide its best not to enquire, and just flick it away.
An unexpected re-introduction to a man from my past, and so far it was going pretty well. True, he got the drop on me and bruised my ego from the start, but he actually seems friendly and eager for conversation. A mistake he may later regret, if all went as planned.
The Beast Master returns my gesture, and then motions to the door. I trudge through the sleet carefully, and hear him close the window forcefully behind. Seconds later, there's the snap of a bolt being drawn, and a loud creak as the door swings open. Beast Master's massive figure fills its frame, and he crosses his arms as I reach him.
"Long time, ay, Amergin?" I say with a forced a smile.
"Long time, Giles," Amergin the Beast Master responds, "me old war buddy. We have catching up to do."
Names. The labels we use for one another not only define who we are, they're the main piece of us to be passed down in history. Even after our actions are forgotten, names like "Morgrim the Dragon Slayer", "Carrion Corpse Purger", and "Pee Wee the Cross Legged Midget" are apt to be part of legend for generations to come.
Giles. Who the hell gave me a name like that? I would blame my parents, but as far as I know I never had any. Maybe I just congealed in a gutter somewhere. My life as an orphan wasn't too bad I guess; the only time I was ever punished was when I chucked one of my temper tantrums and beat my room mates into a submissive pulp. It did earn me the nickname 'Bruiser', which the other heroes adopted jokingly when I let it slip one day.
Calling The Beast Master by his true name also felt odd, almost disrespectful. He may be a low life drug trafficker now, but once he'd fought for the good of mankind against demons of indescribable horror. We called him The Beast Master back then, and, as far as I'm concerned, it'll be his name till the day he dies.
An event which may be closer then he suspects.
Though from the smug look on his face at the moment, I doubt he has even the slightest idea of what's coming. We sit in his dark room; I'm on the seat in front of the desk, trying to act natural. He's behind the desk, striking a pose very similar to my boredom one back home. The only real difference being that he has one foot on the desk edge. The other...
"You'd think with the new gadgets they're making these days, they could make something more comfortable then this splintery bloody thing." He waves the base of his wooden leg in front of my face, then drops it distastefully on the desk top. His footless stump stands out; a glaring abnormality that you just can't keep your eyes away from, despite the guilt you feel when you look. The Beast Master takes a swig of his expensive distilled liqueur, and offers the bottle to me. I take it gratefully.
"So what's news, Bruiser? What have you been up to during these long, dark years?" His question sounds genuine, but there's a mocking tinge in his tone. Almost like he knows my whole damn life is a failure, and how selling out brought him so much more success.
Those savvy clothes, the well stocked cabinet full of food and the finest drink. Exactly the kind I imagined old Malah to have, and just as good as I pictured too. I savour the flavour, swirling it around in my mouth for a good few seconds before swallowing and preparing to answer dear friend Amergin.
"Well," I begin, "after the war I had more treasure then I knew what to do with. I bought a nice home on a hill, decked it out with the finest of antiquities, then found a cute little missus to cosy up with every night. Three kids, a puppy and... no I've done squat since we last met. Living on grog, fried rabbit and sharing my shack with a rat. He's a cute rat though, if that makes any difference."
The Beast Master almost falls off his chair laughing at this. After awhile he manages to point ceiling ward, and choke through fits and gurgles.
"Yes, I've got a rat of my own. 'Cept he flies, and never shuts up."
Squwark "Feed me, ya lazy piece o' -"
"Quite a mouth on him," I smile, watching the bird swinging in his cage above our heads. "Who taught him those choice phrases?"
"Eh, we have gambling nights once a month. He just picks up what the boys have to say."
Squwark "Card up the sleeve, gut the cheating piece o' -"
"Bird! Enough!" The Beast Master tosses a scrunched piece of paper at the cage, and the babbling twitter-head goes silent.
I've drunk his good liqueur. I've made the idle chit chat. Time to get to business. I'm already mulling over the possible outcomes this scenario could have, and all of them include some various form of torture.
I never used to be this mean. Some things just push my buttons.
"You know, Beast Master, there was another reason I came here, besides 'catch-up' time and reminiscing over old war wounds. I'm looking for someone, and I've been told -"
Amergin puts up his hand and looks so grim I stop mid-sentence. Could he really be willing to spill this easily? Damn, and I was so looking forward to some rough stuff.
"I know exactly what you're going to say, Giles, but, before things get messy, let's go for a walk out the back. I have some friends I'd like to show you."
He picks his leg off the table and straps it firmly back on. Then he gets out of his chair and begins to hobble towards the back door. I sit where I am, unsure of what to do. Is this a trap? My instincts say yes, but there's no immediate alarm bells going off yet.
Shrugging at last, I get up and begin to follow him. Whatever he's got back here is probably worth a look anyway, and might offer up some more interesting information-extracting techniques. Plus, I'm not about to let him get the jump on me a second time.
Squwark "Wipe yer feet before you come in, ya dirty piece o' -"
I trudge along behind Amergin, through the long twisting caves, deep in the cliffs behind his shack. The smell of manure and wet fur hangs in the air so thick I can almost see it; a pale green mist wisping down the darkened corridors. Growls and yips of pain echo in the distance, and I suddenly discover a raw lump forming in my throat.
Do I really want to see this? What kind of conditions The Beast Master has been keeping his loyal pets in? The savage sounds are anything but happy and I can only assume the worst (call it a self-defence mechanism if you must, I just don't like being disappointed).
We round a bend, and come to a long illuminated tunnel. Barred doorways line the walls, and the stench of urine and rotten meat is almost overwhelming. The Beast Master continues to amble on, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly with the awkward movement of his wooden leg.
"These are my holding pens," he says, gesturing briefly to each door as we pass. I don't want to look in, but I can't help myself. And immediately wish I hadn't.
Each cell holds two, perhaps three wolves; skinny, ragged excuses for the muscle bound predators that had fought with us on Arreat. Their fur comes off in clumps, and every one of them has festering bite-wounds somewhere on their body. The unfortunate side affects of boredom, starvation, and being in close proximity to those in the same situation.
"Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks," The Beast Master mumbles. "I take them out for exercise occasionally, and the food is good. I should know; I eat it too."
It's lucky his back is to me, because there's no way I can prevent the look of disgust twisting my features. His voice contains no warmth, not even the slightest suggestion of caring. He's cold and indifferent, and I immediately began to wonder if all his dogs are barking up the same tree.
With the Wolf Pens behind us, the tunnel opens up into a larger room. Amergin pauses upon entry, and points to some bulging bags leaning against the far wall.
"Know what that is?"
I do, but I don't respond to his question. Flower Powder, and enough to send an army into fits of giggles for a month. I can't even begin to calculate the worth of a pile like this in gold, but I'm guessing if he sold it, old Amergin could afford to buy himself Arreat Mountain and still have enough left over to keep his drink cabinet full for generations to come.
Of course, he can't do that though. These bags do not belong to one person; they're an accumulated stash from countless towns, taking a brief pit stop before being dispersed around by The Beast Masters carriers. Each bag has a different mark on it, and I recognise a few of the mob sigils immediately. After all, they mark their goons as well, and there's been more than a few wandering around Harrogath lately.
To the left of the bags sits a strange contraption made of steel and wood that looks somewhat like a torture device. Pistons and spikes, straps and needles: all hovering over a central table and looking more sinister then a gaping demons maw. I grimace as The Beast Master walks over to the machine and pets it lovingly. He turns to me, smiling.
"This is my pride and joy, my technological masterpiece. With this darling I can stuff an arse a minute, should the need arise."
There's blood on the table, and I know I don't want a demonstration of the machines capabilities. Amergin snorts a chuckle, and leaves the room through another doorway. My danger senses are spiking wildly, but I suppress them. I try to keep calm by thinking reassuring thoughts: I'm ready for anything; he won't get the drop on me again; it's just the machine that's unnerved me, or the smells or the wolves.
But why is he showing me all this, and how he did he even know that I knew what he was up to? Whatever the case, I'm only going to follow him a little longer, then we're going to have a heart to heart talk.
I trail him silently through the next corridor - this one seems to be lined with bear cells, each in a similar or worse state then the wolves - and try to stay focused on his back. I swear it's gotten broader in the past few minutes, but I put it down to poor lighting. He's definitely moving faster though, and I'm power walking to keep up.
The corridor suddenly opens up into a large circular cavern that I can only describe as an underground arena. And although it's illuminated by numerous torches, it's almost not enough to reveal the gaping hole in the floor before I go plunging into it. I halt in time, one foot teetering in mid-air, hanging over a drop of almost fifteen feet. The Beast Master stands at the edge, chuckling, and I glare at him distastefully.
"Could have warned me."
"Where's the fun in that?" he smirks. He gestures to the hole, "Care to take a closer look?"
I lean in to try and see the bottom of the hole. It's dark, but I can make out the dusty ground, littered with what looks like branches. No, not branches. Bones. A barred door in the wall of the hole emits a smell worse then the bear and wolf pits combined, and suddenly sweat begins to break out on my forehead. The carcasses dangling from the rusty meat hooks on the cavern roof above are not helping to calm me. They're long dead, but I can still see the twisted horror in their faces, and also that they're missing a large portion of themselves. Like everything from the waist down, and "chewed off" is the only description that comes to mind.
Too late I realise Amergin's offer to take a closer look didn't involve just peering down into the hole. This is a trap, and I stupidly walked into it. Alert, my ass; he could have led me to the slaughterhouse and I would have handed him the knife.
"Oh, you clever bastard," I cry, and spin around to face the door; my escape. But something big and furry is already blocking my path. The seven foot bear standing on its hind legs - one made of flesh, the other, wood - grins at me, letting thick drops of saliva slide to the floor. One of its giant paws is already raised, claws shining in the torch light.
"Tough lucky, old war buddy," it growls in a voice only slightly resembling The Beast Master. Then the mighty paw comes down, and I'm falling through darkness.