Highskyre was an odd town, flat rural landscape and rocky plateaus surrounding it on all sides. It looked especially odd on maps due to the bizarre contour lines of the landscape, a wide and flat expanse atop a tall mountain, rough fields giving way to sudden cliffs.
Some theorised the flat summit was a result of a great battle taking place there long ago. The Carcer house even claimed it was one of their ancestors that was responsible for the destruction, a powerful fire mage that exploded the area while battling a necromancer and their undead army atop the mountain. Doubtful, but theoretically possible.
Due to its altitude, Highskyre was a hub of transportation. Airborne vessels resembling ships with massive wings were launched over the cliff edges and using the altitude combined with fierce winds and air mages, could glide across all of Patriam. It was rather ingenious, actually, a marvel of modern engineering. Since the vessels couldn't be easily returned to Highskyre they were simply retrofitted into actual ships wherever they landed. As such, the town had a thriving industry of shipbuilding as well as people seeking transport across the country. If someone was looking to travel, you could be certain they would pass through the town at some point.
Rain battered the streets like a hail of arrows, sending people running for cover to avoid the downpour. It didn't rain often, but when it did the high altitude made it ferocious.
Naturally, this meant the tavern was packed. If people had to go indoors, of course they would come here. Better to take advantage of the rain and have a fun night rather than heading home alone.
It was for this reason that Rorik sat in the tavern's corner, carefully watching the door under his hat's brim as the townsfolk flowed in, shaking themselves off in the doorway like wet dogs. A steady stream of dripping people flowed to the bar and tables, ready to settle in for a night of drink and relaxation.
Rorik tapped the table he sat at with one gloved finger, rapping the rough wooden surface in a steady tempo. Quietly, he hummed as yet more people came in and his prey inevitably drew near. It was an old tune, a nursery rhyme about a drake hunting a child through the deep woods.
The occasional look was thrown his way, which he dutifully ignored. He didn't blame them, he did look rather suspicious being fully covered when everyone else was removing their soaking jackets and hats.
Eventually, his target entered. A chubby man in saturated heavy clothing who swiped a hand over his bald head as he entered, sending a spray of droplets across the oak floor.
When the man reached a table by the far wall, sat, and ordered a mug of mead, Rorik stood. He prowled through the tavern, weaving through patrons like a basilisk through the undergrowth. His heart raced slightly with the thrill of trapping his prey.
Eventually, he sat down at the man's table, sitting opposite him as the target looked up in confusion. The man shrugged off his jacket before casting the motionless hunter a befuddled look.
"Uh, you mind? There's plenty of other tables mate." He frowned, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as the bounty hunter reclined in his chair. Rorik chuckled slightly, too quietly to be heard through the cloth covering his mouth.
"I'm aware." He answered simply, his raspy voice clear despite the cowl he spoke through. He was almost glad he'd taken that minor wound to his throat when he was younger, it had left him with a perpetual rasp that tended to unease people. The target frowned, squinting at him slightly.
"Do I know you? I think I'd remember a sketchy looking guy like you. You going to try and sell me stardust or something? Cause I'm not interested."
"I'm here to take, not to give."
The man raised his eyebrows in concern.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders tensing as he stared at the hunter in mild alarm. Rorik noted his body language and gave a dragon's grin beneath the cloth covering his mouth and nose. Things like this were always easier when they were afraid.
"Do you keep a record of who you ferry?" He asked innocently. The man's alarm grew like his eyes did.
"How the fuck… Look, if you wanted to hire me you should have done it through the guild. I specifically operate through those guys to avoid creepy fuckers like you coming up to me like this." Rorik hummed slightly as the man spoke angrily, chubby cheeks bouncing as he swore like a furious seal. He had enough contacts in the Watcher's guild to know about the man's business. They had been his first port of call when he realised the noble girl must have used a more discreet service since none of the main transport businesses had any logs on her.
"If you do have a logbook, now's the time to give it to me." Rorik spoke slowly, a slight edge in his voice as he leaned forward, staring at the man intensely, his brown eyes hidden by the shadow his hat cast.
"Listen mate, I don't keep records of illegal transport. Why the fuck would I?" The driver crossed his arms. Rorik agreed with the man completely, only a moron would keep incriminating records like that. If the Merchant's guild found out about the man's transport business he'd be forced to back pay years of taxes that would no doubt leave him destitute. Running a shady business through the Watcher's guild was far, far cheaper, you only needed to pay a fraction of the usual tax to House Fures instead of the exorbitant fees House Divitiae charged for being a member of the Merchant's guild. They say crime doesn't pay, but that's a myth. It's far cheaper than the alternative.
But Rorik knew the man wouldn't have a logbook. He had just been setting up for a good scare.
"Then I hope you have a good memory. Because I need information about one of your passengers, and unless you can provide me a list of all the people you've ferried in the past month…" He leaned forward, elbows on the table as he allowed his coat to open slightly and reveal the multitude of knives he kept there. "Then I'm going to have to ask you specifically about who I'm looking for. And if I need to do that, then you'll need to not be able to tell anyone about that. There's very few ways I can guarantee you never speak of this, and I can assure you that none of them are pleasant for you."
The chubby man gulped, eying the hunter's array of knives before glancing at the doorway. His posture tensed.
Rorik chuckled, this time audibly as the driver's eyes snapped back to him.
"By all means, run away. It's been a while since I've had a proper hunt."
Slowly, the man's eyes stopped darting between him and the doorway and he sighed, grimacing as he settled back into his seat.
"Business has been slow. I can write you a list." He grumbled.
Rorik grinned victoriously as he slid a scrap of paper and a charcoal pen to the man.
One step closer to his real prey.
-
Hours later, Rorik sat at the Southridge Terminal, waiting for the airship that would take him to Listone. Once he was there, he'd need to trace the girl's steps, find out which way she went. If luck was on his side she might even still be in the town.
He laughed. Yeah right.
The Southridge terminal certainly wasn't the busiest of the four ports. Since Highskyre was right near the centre of Patriam, far more people travelled to the more developed areas of the country rather than the more recently settled south.
The flat outdoor area was shaped much like a traditional port, rows of walkways layed out for ships to dock between them, except with rounded platforms under them for the ships to sit on in the open air. A large sign near the edge noted the different times that the vessels would be departing from the airport, as well as which wharfs were for commerce or transport ships.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
It was a rather silly term, Rorik thought. A port was a place to access waters, so a place to access the sky was called an airport. What a specific word, where else would it ever be used besides in Highskyre?
He reclined on the wooden bench, looking around at the masses of travelling people. Many milled about like him, but others rushed desperately about, trying not to miss their flights. People from every walk of life filled the area: knights, scholars, merchants, even a noble. Rorik watched the lord from a distance, an imperious looking man that waited by the edge for his own private airship to depart. He wore church robes of the highest order, clearly marking him as a high bishop. In fact, if Rorik wasn't mistaken, he realised that might actually be the Archbishop, the head of House Alcrae and ruler of the church.
The bounty hunter felt a slight stir of excitement as he rose and walked towards the man. He had never and would never pass up an opportunity to market himself to a noble. Connections were key in his industry.
And if he wasn't mistaken, he might even have a bargaining chip to get himself noticed. From what rumors he’d heard, apparently House Vesuvae and House Alcrae hated each other.
Slowly, he approached the noble's entourage, pacing across the stone tiled floor of the open-air terminal at a sedate pace. Approaching a noble at any sort of threatening speed was a suicidal notion, one that would surely get you thrown over the cliff's edge by the noble's guards.
As he neared, one of the heavily armoured guards turned to face him, resting a hand on their blade's hilt by their side.
"Stop. No-one is allowed to approach the Archbishop." A feminine voice rang out from inside a steel helmet, the metal warping her voice to sound tinny and hollow. The guardswoman moved to block his path, looking down at him slightly.
Wow, Rorik hated being shorter than anyone. He despised having to look up to meet someone's gaze, it really fucked with the intimidating persona he wore. He came to a stop before the woman, standing up just a bit taller than usual.
"I need to talk to him." He answered simply, looking past her armoured form at the noble so he didn't have to gaze up at her.
"Are you insane? Fuck no. Just look at you! You're clearly an assassin or something!"
Well… yeah, Rorik couldn't deny that.
"Something like that. But no, I'm not here to harm him," Rorik paused as the guard looked ready to draw her blade. Maybe he shouldn't have said that, he thought, "look, can you just tell him I need an audience? Say it's to do with House Vesuvae."
Without the ability to see her face, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. A moment passed. Eventually, she turned, heading swiftly over to the Archbishop.
Rorik watched with rapt interest as she bowed and a short conversation followed. He saw the lord glance idly in his direction before waving a hand, dismissing the guard as she returned to Rorik a moment later.
"We'll have to take any weapons you have on you first." She said, holding out a gauntleted hand. He stared at it for a long moment before finally looking up at her, meeting her gaze through the slit in her helmet.
"You'll need a bucket."
Later, after the guards managed to acquire enough containers to hold his unending arsenal of weapons, he finally arrived before Lord Alcrae, feeling half his weight and practically naked despite the concealing clothing he wore. His poor knives, he missed them already.
The noble finally turned, meeting his gaze with piercing green eyes which seemed to lance through the shrouding darkness cast by Rorik's hat.
Fuck, the noble was tall. Rorik was pretty average height, but the Archbishop's head tilted downwards at a fairly steep angle to meet his gaze. If it wasn't for his uneasy feeling, Rorik would be furiously looking anywhere but at the man.
The bounty hunter found himself sweating slightly. Although the Lord and Lady Vesuvae were the heads of their noble house, they didn't carry the same prestige that Lord Alcrae did. The church was one of the most powerful organisations on Patriam, and while the Adventurer's guild certainly was too, House Vesuvae simply didn't feel competent in the way that House Alcrae did. The man Rorik stood before felt like a true lord, not the cheap imitation that Charles Vesuvae was.
"Out with it then." The archbishop said, levelling a steely gaze at him. The bluntness surprised Rorik slightly, but he quickly formed a response.
"My Lord, I believe I have been hired to do something that you may be interested in. I recently met with the Lord and Lady Vesuvae who hired me to-"
"Assassinate me? Typical." The lord scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'll pay you double whatever they offered you to return the favour."
Oh.
Rorik silently thanked the Goddess. Even if he didn't believe in her it felt appropriate at that moment.
"That would be negotiable, my lord."
"Knowing those cheap fools they probably paid you the bare minimum for such a task didn't they?"
Well, Rorik thought. He wasn't wrong.
"Yes, my lord."
"Perfect. Send me a scry of their bodies once the deed is done. If you actually succeed I'll gladly pay you the fifty thousand gold pieces." The lord spoke casually, tossing a scrying crystal to the stunned Rorik as if it wasn't a valuable magic item
The bounty hunter's mind took a second to process that. When it finally caught up, his tongue started flopping like a beached fish, the thought of fifty thousand gold dazzling his mind.
"YesmylordIwillnotfailyouI'lldeliverwhatyouwantandwouldneverbetrayyouandIpromiseIgotochurcheveryweekand-"
"Enough jabbering, boy. Off you go."
Bowing and spluttering thanks, Rorik quickly ran to recover his weapons.
After arming himself, he considered how best to go about his new task. He'd need access to the nobles themselves, of course, which meant he needed to get in the manor, past the guards, not raise the alarm…
...which he had done already. And would do again after returning with the daughter.
Meaning he still had to do the shitty kidnapping for fifty gold pieces.
Cursing as he walked up the docking ramp and boarded the large vessel he had awaited, he came to the same conclusion he always had.
Rorik hated the nobility. They always screwed him over somehow.
-
What was the world coming to?! He had his weapons confiscated again! Why couldn't you take a small armoury's worth of knives, hand-held crossbows and various poisons onto an airship? Damn kids these days, health and safety gone mad.
He sulked against the ship's railing, watching the rolling fields and forests pass below them like waves. He'd been to the south of Patriam before and it was wholly uninteresting in his opinion. Flat landscape inhabited by country bumpkins that couldn't tell a healing potion from moonshine.
Hey, moonshine would be a good name for a drug. Next time he talked to Darrun from the Watchers he'd recommend it to him, it'd sound great alongside stardust.
Idly, he turned the scrying crystal in his pockets, feeling its smooth surface and sharp edges in his palm. They certainly weren't the rarest magic item, that title went to the mythical 'bag of holding'. But the communication device was certainly valuable, an asset many would save their money for to get one.
Hey, why wait to tell Darrun when he could do it with this thing? The drug alchemist had one too. He fished it out of his pocket and stared intently at it, willing his message and recipient upon it.
"Hey."
A few seconds passed. The crystal flashed briefly before a message appeared on its surface, white text materialising just beneath it's surface. "Hi, who's this?"
"Rorik"
"Oh, hey man! How's it going? I thought you didn't own a crystal."
"Didn't until an hour ago. Lord Alcrae gave me it."
"???????"
Rorik chuckled at the man's reply. Darrun was another of Rorik's old friends from the Streetblades. The alchemist had made shoddy drugs from an early age, honing his craft over the years before eventually leaving around the same time Rorik did to go sell his services in the Watcher's guild.
"Don't worry about it. Hey, you ever thought of making a drug called moonshine? It'd be so thematic paired with stardust."
"Good idea! Might confuse the hillbillies though."
The hunter laughed quietly. "How's things at work?"
"Meh, business been kinda slow. Wardens are cracking down hard on us, especially in the big cities. Practically nothing's being sold in Steelhaven anymore."
"Huh. Aren't the Warden's meant to leave the drug trade mostly alone? They're meant to go after killers and thieves."
"Well, they're meant to. But apparently Dorian Carcer's gotten a stick up his ass, his wife's apparently trying to calm him down but he's been on a rampage recently. The Watchers have been taking a beating." Rorik tilted his head as he read the message. If the Wardens were getting uppity then that didn't bode well for him, considering he was in the middle of an assassination job.
"Damn Darrun, that's rough. Keep me updated, won't you? Got some business of my own I'm trying to get done."
"Something that could draw the attention of the Wardens?"
Rorik carefully considered for a moment before deciding to trust him. "Yes, its safe to say it will."
"Oooo, good for you my dude. I'll keep you posted."
"Thanks, Darrun."
He tucked away the glowing blue crystal away deep in his trenchcoat's pocket, next to the hat he kept beneath it to stop it blowing away in the howling winds. The gale made his short dark hair thrash around his head as he looked up to observe a flock of corvids passing the airship, wings outstretched to carry them on the same air current the ship sailed on.
His own dark wings would be shadowing the little mouse soon enough.