Rorik hated the nobility.

In his thirty years of life, he had never once come away from an encounter with a noble thinking, “Ah, maybe they’re not so bad.”

He wasn’t sure what irked him the most. The smug superiority, the casual dismissals, the disregard for others. The privilege they were born into and their ignorance for life's hardships.

No, what he hated the most was that they thought they were better than everyone else.

Maybe a few of them were, in fact, better than everyone else. He’d heard stories about the martial prowess of the Carcer house, how the cunning warriors of the Warden’s guild could ruthlessly hunt down and detain wanted criminals. Or the masterful artists of House Ludus, who produced the most amazing and innovative creations of the Crafter’s guild.

Maybe those nobles were, in fact, better than anyone else.

But as Rorik kneeled before the Lord and Lady Vesuvae, he knew for damn sure they weren’t.

You would assume that since each noble house controlled one of Patriam's guilds, they would each be at the apex of that guild’s ability. Some of them undoubtedly were, but as far as Rorik was concerned, the Vesuvae house simply owned the Adventurer’s guild. He could tell from a mile away they had no accolades which justified their position.

When he had entered their manor, (after being summoned there, of course, who cares what time is convenient for him?) he had been taken by a butler to the masters of the house. The well dressed man walked briskly and led him through the lavishly decorated rooms to the back doors, which opened out into a large, grassy garden. They were lounging next to a private lake, basking in the sun’s rays as servants scurried about with wine and trays of fresh fruit. When the butler announced Rorik’s presence as they crossed the distance, Charles Vesuvae gave him an impatient look as if offended by his presence. Despite the fact that the lord had requested said presence, of course. Rorik struggled to keep his posture meek and non-threatening, wanting desperately to wrap his gloved hands around the pompous man's throat.

The Lord and Lady lay beside each other on long, padded wooden chairs, which seemed to have been built specifically for sun-bathing. Because when you were a noble, that was exactly the sort of thing you could just have a carpenter design for you, naturally. They wore little clothes due to the heat, yet Rorik had little doubt that the thin robes they wore cost more than his entire outfit, hidden weapons included.

Neither of them stood. Why would they?

Regardless, Rorik kneeled. He hated acting meek before the people he so hated, but it was necessary for now. This would be Rorik’s first major job, after all.

Ever since he was young, Rorik desired wealth. Growing up in the slums had made him acutely aware of every copper he spent. Food was scarce, clothes were scarcer, and simple luxuries were non-existent. He had lived as a rat, scurrying about in the shadows with others of his kind, fighting over scraps of food.

Some lord, he was too young to remember which, rode into the slums in a gilded carriage surrounded by heavily armed guards. The man emerged from its interior, standing on a small platform elevated off the muddy street to give a speech to the starving masses about how their “plights would be fixed in time” and they simply had to “remain civil in the meanwhile.” The same worthless promises they'd been fed for years. But promises didn't sate hunger.

Rorik was only a boy at the time, but looking at the disgusted sneer on the nobleman’s plump face as he eyed the impoverished crowd sparked something dark inside him.

He’d joined the crowd in bombarding the man with rocks when they had finally turned violent from the lord’s passive-aggressive words. His carriage fled slowly, guards at the front culling swathes of rageful bystanders while the rear guards struggled under the assault of the vengeful masses. The carriage struggled to retreat out of the slums as frenzied people poured out of the alleys and buildings, brandishing makeshift weapons and violent grins as they swarmed the noble's guard.

Men and women attacked the chainmail-wearing soldiers with pipes, wooden planks or even just their bare fists. Their lack of firepower didn’t matter when there were hundreds of them. Rorik gleefully joined the mass of violent intent, battering away at the panicked soldiers as they tried and failed to retreat. Once one fell, knocked over by a well placed body slam, the formation fell apart. Peasants bounded through the gap like ravenous dogs, attacking the soldiers from behind and turning the panicked retreat into a massacre as the guards were suddenly surrounded on all sides by the writhing frenzy of bloodthirsty attackers. Rorik felt nothing but the shared bloodlust of the crowd as he joined ten others in stabbing a screaming man to death.

The noble didn't get away. His corpse was strung up, his carriage dismantled, and the griffins which pulled it were devoured.

After that? Well, the city guard cracked down on the slums hard. Dragging people out of their homes and executing them in the street for not being able to afford the taxes. Dropping alchemical bombs into the midst of rioters. Blood ran through the streets.

Until they encountered resistance. Not everyone took their abuse lying down. A group known as the Streetblades formed, a vast organisation spanning the entire slums. At their height, they were practically an army of their own right. Rorik had been recruited when he was a pre-teen, working his way up through the ranks over his teenage years. He was gangly, underfed, malnourished. But violence paid well, and soon he found himself building up his strength. From a rat to a wolf.

Once you kill one person, people tend to settle on one side of the coin. You’ll never kill again, or it becomes second nature. To Rorik, it was the latter. He worked as a Streetblades soldier, fighting in the streets for control of the slums every night against the nobility’s forces. It was a brutal life, but having a purpose, a job, a cause to fight for: it was liberating. Coins, companions, the grateful smiles of rescued citizens. They were bloody but good times.

Eventually though, he left. He could see the writing on the wall, either the Streetblades would seize control of the city and it would be razed to the ground by the combined forces of the ten houses, or they would be crushed and the city would fall back into the oppressive shithole it once was.

Rorik didn’t stick around to find out which way it went. He had fled, travelling across Patriam, seeking a new purpose. Killing was his one marketable skill, a skill which opened up a worrying amount of career options. Any army was out of the question, he'd be serving under a noble. A bodyguard job would have been nice, but mages were suddenly in fashion for that field.

Eventually, he settled on being a bounty hunter. It was a rather niche field, as the Warden's guild dealt with actual criminals and adventurers were usually hired to settle grudges. He'd considered becoming one himself, it was essentially just a job as a hired thug. Which sounds great, but the life expectancy wasn't great. At least as a bounty hunter he could pursue reasonable targets rather than monsters and innocent people.

However, in the last decade his luck hadn’t been great. He had gotten enough jobs to get by, sure, but they weren’t big paydays to give him the security he wanted in life. Merchants would only ever pay as much as they needed to, so unless he got hired by a noble or high ranking guild member he'd be stuck barely making ends meet.

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So it was for this reason that Rorik rambled about how honored he was to meet the Lord and Lady Vesuvae, and he was so thankful they had decided to seek his services. They were empty platitudes, mainly rehearsed lines he'd heard some asshole spout in the past. It made his skin crawl to do this, he’d chosen this career to avoid working for nobles. But until he could get work with powerful guild members, it was necessary.

“Yes, yes, you’re very welcome. We’ve been told you’re the best bounty hunter in Pangea, is that correct?”

Rorik wasn’t sure how to reply to that. He supposed so? The truth was, there wasn’t exactly a large market for bounty hunting. Most people simply hired adventurers to do their bidding. But he was trying to sell himself, so he confidently replied, “I can guarantee you I’m the best around, my lord. I am an expert in my field.”

The lord nodded and gave him an appraising look. Rorik was proud to admit he dressed for the part, people tended to take you more seriously if you looked like you were dangerous. He wore only dark colours, black and brown. His coat was long, coming down to his shins and concealing his numerous weapons. A wide-brimmed hat and cowl covering half his face hid his emotions as well, which Rorik took full advantage of by smirking as the lord clearly took in his appearance and judged him to look adequately professional. Lady Vesuvae simply ignored him, reading a book through black-tinted glasses.

Now that Rorik was in his thirties, he could actually pull off the look well. He cringed, remembering a young teenage version of himself attempting to look cool and getting beaten up by drunks. He hadn’t the skills nor the attitude to pull off such a persona, at the time.

“Hmm, yes. Well, this job is certainly one requiring a man of your skills. This is no simple matter, only the best in your field would suffice.” The lord sat up slightly in his lounge chair, assuming a serious expression as he nodded gravely at the bounty hunter.

Rorik felt himself getting excited. Was this going to be a real assassination? He knew those paid a lot, nobles taking covert action against each other was something they coughed up an extraordinary amount to do.

“I assure you, my lord, I shall not fail you. No man or woman can escape me. I have never failed to deliver a body.”

Slight exaggeration, of course. There was that one time when the merchant he had tied up in the caboose of the wagon had chewed through his bindings and fled out the back, or that other time when the girl had actually heard him coming and clocked him with a pipe before making off...

“Good. Then listen closely, for this is a matter of grave importance.”

Rorik leaned in close, grinning and imagining bags and bags of beautiful, shining gold. He’d waited all his life to get a hefty sum of riches, now was the time. He leaned forward slightly, gazing eagerly into the lord’s eyes.

“I need you to retrieve my daughter. She is but a young girl and has run away from home.”

Rorik stood and allowed his mind to process that.

What?

Perhaps the lord had simply worded his request strangely. Maybe he was a heartless bastard that wanted his daughter killed? Rorik decided to clarify; “You want me to retrieve your daughter’s body, my lord?”

“Yes. I want you to bring her home, safe and sound. She will be getting a long scolding and lesson on the importance of obeying her family, which I would encourage you to also impress upon her as you retrieve her.”

Oh.

He actually just wanted him to retrieve his daughter.

For fuck’s sake! Why didn’t he just hire an adventurer?! This wasn’t fucking bounty work! This wouldn’t pay shit! Rorik swore internally as his visions of riches faded away.

He had to go through with it now, of course. He had come too far and acted too grateful to simply decline without arousing suspicion from the nobles. And besides, they were nobles, surely they would pay well for a job like this. It was their daughter, after all. Surely they would cough up a hefty sum.

“Of… of course, my lord. And can I ask how much the payment for such a job would be?”

“The standard retrieval fee for a run-away child. Fifty gold.” The nobleman nodded, and reclined into his chair.

…

Rorik hated the nobility.

-

Perched on a wooden stool, he poured over the maps and notes he had scattered across the bartop. It was a quiet night, a Thursday, so the bar was mostly empty. A few other folk were strewn across the bartop, nursing ales in their calloused hands like injured men clutching healing potions. They talked quietly amongst themselves, or sat silent like himself, but they all left the hunter to his business. Except for one.

“Rorik I swear to god, you are not taking off again without paying your tab.” Allar’s bushy mustache bristled as he spoke. The large man leant onto the counter, squinting down at the top of Rorik’s hat as he scanned the largest map before flicking through a notebook.

“Allar, you know I’m good for it. This is the only pub where I can get a decent drink without paying an arm and a leg for it.” He murmured, brown eyes narrowing as they settled on his page detailing transport links before darting back to the map. It showed the whole of Pangea, a vaguely oval-shaped continent inhabited by a single nation. It was the only continent on Terra ruled by a single country, mainly due to its unique form of governance. Rather than a monarchy or dictatorship like some countries, Pangea was run by the ten noble houses who served under the Emperor. The mysterious ruler of Pangea seemingly kept peace by ensuring the noble houses fulfilled their roles without attempting to take over each other. Rorik slightly doubted it; Pangea had been around for hundreds of years and yet there was never another coronation for a new emperor since the first one. Many theorised it was the same man, a holy ruler blessed by the Goddess with eternal life. Rorik highly doubted that; he’d never seen evidence of a Goddess existing beyond the church’s ramblings.

“Rorik mate, are you struggling for money? Can you not pay it off, is that why you keep dodging this?” The barman’s large eyebrows sunk concernedly. Rorik sighed.

“I’m getting by.”

“You shouldn’t just be getting by. If you’d give up on whatever shady profession it is you do and take up an actual career, you’d be better off mate. I mean look at me,” Allar gestured around the room with his girthy arms, “Even when I have slow nights like this I don’t need to worry. It’s a stable job I’ve got here, a regular source of income. I’ve seen you jump in and out of poverty so many times they should invent a new social class for you.”

The hunter sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand as his eyes settled on the map once more, falling on the town of Highskyre. Surely she’d have went there, if anywhere? The town wasn’t too far from Porthome where the Vesuvae family lived, she could have made the journey in a couple days time, one if she got a wagon ride. “I’m not a people person like you, Allar. I’ve got one thing I’m good at and I damn well intend to use it.”

The large man sighed and idly cleaned a glass, casting a pitiful look over the hunter that made his fists clench. "You may be good at it Rorik, we both were once. But that doesn't mean you need to make violence your life. Move on. There's more to it than this."

Rorik shook his head. It was too late. Taking up a different career path this late in life was unthinkable to him. Allar might have left the Streetblades for a better life, but Rorik had made hia choice a long time ago to pursue a darker path in life.

Suddenly, an idea came to him. He flipped through his notebook before settling on a page with his contacts in the Merchant's guild. If anyone could tell him where she went it would be them.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by a meaty fist slamming down atop the map. Startled, he glanced up to meet the barkeep’s annoyed gaze.

“Are you listening to me, mate? I’m going to have to bar you if you can’t pay the tab off.”

Rorik groaned. “Come on, Allar! How much even is it?”

“Almost fifty gold at this point. I don’t think you’ve ever paid for a pint in here, mate.”

Rorik did a double-take at the man’s words, sighed, then laughed bitterly. “Well, I can pay that off after this next job.”

“You better.” The barkeep shook his head and returned to serving the few other patrons in at this time of night. Rorik returned to his map.

Several pints added to the tab later, and the hunter decided on a course of action.

He'd be on the girl's tail soon enough. She wouldn't escape him.