In the law offices of Justiciar Law sat a minotaur. Short, coarse, tan fur coated him from head to hoof. Here and there were scars, revealing the ebony skin beneath, some quite faded with time. A full-bodied mane of coffee-brown ran from the crown of his head to the base of his thick neck. He kept it trimmed and short for the sake of professionalism, but it still shined with a natural luster that no product on the market could deliver. The plaque on his desk read: Ban’Koliath of Clan Ironroar.
The minotaur pulled out a polishing cloth and tin from his desk. He dipped a corner of the cloth into the tin and began to shine his pristine ivory horns. Minotaur were almost fanatical in the cleanliness and condition of their horns. It was one of the few traits he shared with his kind.
His dark chocolate-brown eyes slid towards the hall as he watched a human man and female elf couple emerge. It was highly irregular to see clients on the twenty-first floor, and even more so for them not to have an escort. He stood up to his full five feet in height as the pair walked past. When they entered the conference room a flurry of whispers began its way around the floor. He turned towards the sound of a door opening, causing Ban’Koliath to give a broad smile. Right on time, he thought.
A dwarf, Flint Opaljaw, who was getting on in years, came out from a corner office heading towards the break room. He was stocky but dressed in fine clothing that cut sharp lines on his bulky frame. His long gray beard was perfectly sculpted and braided. And the way he carried himself made it clear he was in a position of power.
Ban’Kolaith rose and followed the dwarf to the break room, his brown leather vest creaking as his muscles strained against it. Beneath the vest he wore no other shirt, keeping his heavy arms free of the additional encumbrance. Wielding the considerable battle hammer that rested against his desk required a great range of motion. His lower half was clad in the same leather, though only down to his knees so that the protruding tarsal joint remained exposed. Leather shoe-string lacing ran up the sides of his leggings, a requirement for any minotaur legwear to allow them to pass over such broad hooves.
“What's the situation with them?” Ban'Koliath asked quietly as he came into the break room.
“Word has it a Partner is coming down to talk to them,” Flint said, glancing up and then around the room to make sure they were alone. “Lot of the juniors are trying to whip their areas into shape. I doubt we’ll even see whoever it is they are sending. Probably the Titan if I know upper management. And with how nosey you are I’d have thought you’d have already known that Ban," the corner of his mouth curled up as he added, “You’re not getting old on me, are you?”
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“Well if I am, I’m aging like a dwarven wine. Sourer and fouler smelling every day!” Ban’Koliath shot back affably. Betraying none of the surprise he felt at the mention of a Partner coming down.
Flint let out a hearty laugh and fixed himself a cup of Jara Ink and took a sip of the steaming liquid with a sigh. He pulled out a flask from inside his jacket and tilted it into the mug, quickly replacing the flask. “Listen my friend, be careful with this one eh? I can’t place it exactly but something set these old knees of mine to tingling and you know what that means.”
Ban’Koliath folded his arms across his broad chest and considered the dwarf’s warning. Several years ago, Ban’Koliath had gotten involved in a case with some shady people. They had taken advantage of his juvenile knowledge and used it to their advantage. It had almost cost Ban’Koliath his Trial Rights card.
Flint had stepped in to help him out. He often used the guise of his aging body to dole out warnings and suggestions to those less experienced. “Oh if I were younger I’d have done this,” or the popular, “Arg my knees are acting up, but if they weren’t and it was my case…” It was a clever ruse to get around the sense of arrogant pride that was prevalent in many lawyours. It was one of the reasons Flint had taken to Ban’Koliath in the first place, his lack of arrogance. And it was why Ban’Koliath had chosen to trust the dwarf with his secrets.
“Thanks for the information, Flint. I haven’t seen the Partners active in a case since I arrived. It may be time for a sabbatical,” Ban’Koliath said.
The dwarf waved him off with a grunt, taking a deep gulp from his mug.
Ban’Koliath gave the dwarf’s shoulder a gentle pat before he left the break room. His mind combing over the sparse details he’d gotten. The man and elf didn’t look important. They clearly weren’t wealthy enough to warrant a visit from a Partner based on their clothing. And they lacked the confident swagger of the powerful. It left him with many questions and little time to formulate a plan.
The last time Ban’Koliath had heard of the Partners becoming involved in a case was when King Makarov, ruler of Raxal, came seeking aid for his fifth daughter, Princess Remora. Afterward, Justiciar Law got a lot more attention, becoming the go-to for many of Raxal’s rich and powerful. He needed to send a report and then see about speaking with the new clients.
Ban’Koliath collected his things, shrugging into his cloak and sliding the massive battle hammer into its clasp on his back. In truth, it was a standard hammer size for an average minotaur, something Ban’Koliath was not. He took the floortal to the lobby and stopped by the front desk to request that Sharlot hold his messages, also to ask about her ailing daughter.
After a brief but amicable exchange, he walked to the main floortal bank and took it down to the building lobby and out onto the street. He ignored the hushed whispers and stares from the tourists. He’d grown a thick skin about his height long ago and scarcely even noticed anymore. Wading through the foot traffic of the city Ban’Koliath hailed a carriage, directing the driver to the Armory District.