"I'll never tell you a damn thing!"

Funny, that always seems to be how these conversations go; I find someone with information, bring them to the same old cliff covered in gull guano with a nice view of the castle, dangle them like a piece of yarn, and somehow they always think I'm bluffing! I mean, of course I'm bluffing, I'm not THAT unhinged, but give my work a little more respect, dammit.

"You see, Tersly, that's not going to cut it for my clients. They're not in the business of taking no for an answer."

Another bluff. My 'clients' were poor old farmers that lived near the mountains, robbed of most of their seasonal wares by ol' Tersly here a few weeks ago; they couldn't afford to pay me, so they offered a percentage of the fruits and veggies I recover from this twit. I'm usually not a Robin Hood, Pro bono kind of guy. After all, I have a certain image I need to maintain around these parts; a vicious, gorgeous, conniving, gorgeous expert bounty hunter. You'd be surprised how much the gorgeous part helps in my line of work. However, times have been tough for everyone, and crime bosses and pirate kings just don't have enough funds lying around to hire experts like me... no matter how much begging or favors you try to cash. So, here I am, shaking this guy's horrifically stinky feet off a cliff, hoping I don't sneeze from the salty air and, well... you can figure out the rest. Anyway, back to Tersly!

"What kind of client would care about some produce?!" he screams.

"Oh, so you DO know what I'm talking about? Now we're getting somewhere!"

"Ah, come on now, Saint, I just did what I had to do. I have to eat just like everyone else! And what about my sister down south? She's alone pregnant right now; I couldn't leave her helpless!"

"I've known you for a decade, and we both know you have no sister."

"Damn, I was hoping you were too drunk that day to remember," he mutters.

"I may love a good, aged wine, but my memory never fails, old pal. Now, we can keep this civil, you tell me where you're hiding the goods, I return most of it, and let you keep enough to tide you over a month or so. Or..."

I drag Tersly back from the cliff (My arms were getting too tired from his squirming) and lay him flat on the cool rocks. I pull out my favorite shortblade, a little, blue-tinted dagger with a hilt modeled after a horse's head, and hold it to his neck, pressing ever so slightly as his breath quickens.

"...the crows get to feast for a month. Take your pick."

For some reason, the buffoon seems to have to think it over for a minute. I press a little harder (Just for the information! You didn't really think I'd kill him, did you? Besides, he's too good a gin rummy partner to just off.), and he spurts out an answer.

"F-fine! The old mill, n-near the Eastern edge of town! I knew no one would look there after it closed three months ago."

"Oh, you sly dog! Was that so hard," I chuckle before lifting to his feet and putting the blade back in my pocket. "Now, I can go and finish this job, and what happens if I don't smell fresh tomatoes at that mill, Tersly?"

"P-painful things..."

"Yes, exactly! Now, go get yourself a beer while I finish up, okay?"

I toss Tersly a coin and he quickly nods, darting off down the hill. I turn the other way and skip toward the mill. After ten minutes of walking through the grassy hillside, I see the mill in sight and catch a sniff of ripe tomato. I open the door and find stacks of cucumbers, melons, greens, berries, and tomatoes sitting right in the middle of the building. The guy didn't even hide them? Good lord, I thought I gave him better tips than that. I grab a cart by the side of the mill, load it up, and wheel it back to the farm near the mountains. The minute I near the old cottage, the old couple races (Honestly, more like shuffles) down the road. The old woman can barely speak when she reaches me, simply holding the fruit tight in her arms, while her husband shakes my hand and thanks me.

"I can't believe ya got 'em back! They're all in perfect condition! Ho-how did ya do it?"

"Ah, it was easy! Just had to press him a bit."

"Well, thank ya so much Ozzy. Your daddy would be proud of you helping us."

Ah, yes, nothing like the frail voice of an old man reminding you of a recently deceased parent. Funny enough, Dad's the one who gave me my favorite blade. Thought I'd join the army and use it to fight invaders to the kingdom. That's one thing I always loved that about my dad: His sense of humor. He passed last year when things started getting worse with the economy. He and my mom were bakers with a small shop in the square. Money was never overflowing, but I had a cute childhood with puffy little clothes and the like. Funny thing: When I started in this line of work and made the big bucks, I always tried helping them out, but he never accepted it. He wasn't angry at my choices in life, never turned me in, but he always refused the help; I'll never understand that to this day. 

When trade got worse last year and it got nearly impossible to receive sugar, or wheat, or any of the key ingredients for his recipes without having a fortune, they had to close down; it hurt my mom, but it broke my dad. He dropped two weeks later from a heart attack. That reminds me, I need to visit Mom this week and make sure she's alright; the neighbors help her, give her produce and grains when they can, but I still worry. Should probably give her some of these vegetables...

"Er, I'm sorry, Ozzy. Are you okay?"

The guy triggers my walk down memory lane and now he interrupts it? Absurd! He's too old to yell at, so I just nod and smile. He takes most of the fruits and vegetables out of the cart, but leave me three buckets of various foods.

"I hope this is enough for ya, Ozzy. We still have to try and sell some of this."

"I completely understand. This is perfect, thank you."

I grab the buckets, don my cowl over my head, and set off for home, deciding to visit Mom in the morning. It's mid-afternoon when I reach town again. I dart through town square, but take off my hood after realizing there was no one around to spot me; all that was around were empty stands of old shops. Every start of the week, the square used to be the heart of trade and be filled with markets, where families would come and celebrate and musicians shared their talents, but most folks experienced the same shit as my parents and had to stop. Hopefully, one day, they'll start the markets up again, and maybe my Mom could revive the family trade. It'll probably take a miracle and few royal dolts 'accidentally' falling in the river first, though.

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As I muse upon the possibility of high treason, I reach my humble abode on the northern border of town. It's a small hut covered in hodge-podge brick and stone, with a tall, thin chimney, and a thatched roof. It's not much, but it's home. And most people assume it's abandoned, so the guards and fellow rogues never come knocking. I walk up to the door, eager to kick my feet up, but something's wrong... The lock is too loose, and when I look through the window, I spot my favorite chair moved closer to the fireplace. I don't have any associates who pop in when I'm not home, so I know it's not a welcome party. I turn to leave, but I'm met with the sword of the King's Guard. How in the holy hell did they find me?!

Before I can ask that 'how', the guards push me through the door and force me to sit in one of my old wooden chairs. I turn to the other side of the house and, by the fireplace in my favorite cushioned chair, with a bright blue velvet robe so garish it'd make a songbird blush, is the biggest of the Royal dolts, the reason why this kingdom is nearly in flames: The King.

To be exact, King Connor Quist III of Vanedale. His family's entire royal history has been marked with bribery and short civil wars, but this Connor is by far the worst (At least the others knew how to bluff!)

"I wish you had told me you'd be visiting, your Majesty. I would've cleaned up a bit," I muse, trying to stifle my urge to lash at the fool. The king laughs and taps his fingers on my puffy chair's arm. Perfect, now I have to burn it; I'll never be able to get his stench out. The guards keep their swords close to my chest to keep me seated as Connor stands.

"We merely wanted to pop in, visit the famous folk hero Ozzy the Saint. You've become quite popular around the city."

"Popular, yes. Hero? No, thank you. If I wanted to be your kind of hero, I would've stayed in the army."

"Ah, yes, I remember the academy's records of your tenure. You were a star student but had a knack for assaulting your fellow soldiers."

"I was protecting the merchants they beat down once a week for extra cash, all allowed by your dear old dad, and kept very much alive by you. It got so bad that I realized there was no difference between the bandits and the powerful, so why not be on the side that makes more money? And knows how to keep it."

Oh, boy, we've struck a nerve now. Connor starts pacing my floor, scuffing up my nice oak, almost like he's deciding on how to insult me right back. He must come up blank, because he just sits back down and goes back to tapping his fingers.

"I didn't come here to argue, Orenson. I actually want to hire you."

"Hire me? Can you even afford me right now? Or am I collateral for another bad poker hand?"

"I need you to captain my ship on a voyage I'm planning," he says through gritted teeth. I'm not sure which is more painful for him: The ask, or the memory of all those poker losses. I'm honestly more stunned than him; when I was a latchkey teen in the academy, Connor was a pampered prince in school, but stories always slithered out about how much of a diva he was. He hated dirt, uncooked vegetables, lambs (What kind of backwards shit has to happen for you to hate LAMBS?), and most importantly, water. What would make him want to go on a cruise?

"Are you going on the ship or..."

"Of course. My royal court and I have been looking over some old maps, and we've decided on a new plan to help boost morale in the kingdom. We're going to explore the lands off of our coast, and bring exciting finds back for people to enjoy."

"Lands? There are no lands off our coast, except... oh, no. Even you're not that crazy, Quist. No one has even proven those islands exist."

"But there's enough evidence to support a search! We have their general location, and winds are perfect next week. Who knows what could be out there!"

"Bad things, very bad things. Have you ever heard of an exploration that didn't end in sickness and death? Much less one to a trio of islands with tribes of vicious creatures and powerful guardians that parents tell their children about at bedtime? You should be focusing on things that can actually help the folk around here, not old myths from booze-ridden sailors. Besides, why would you want me to bring you to the middle of nowhere? You have thousands of loyal boot-lickers."

"My trusted generals aren't the best navigators, but your academy notes say you were a master at the helm. You could get us there and back in a third of the time of anyone else. We may be in... dire straits as a kingdom right now, but there's enough in the treasury to leave you very happy after all this."

Happy? You know what'd make me happy? A nice mountain lodge, women who could make weaker men's hearts stop, my parents' bakery open again, and this guy out of my house. Taking the job could get me all four, though...

"And if I take this job, how safe do you really feel with that decision? I may like money, but you know I hate assholes more... metaphorical ones, anyway."

"Dear God, man, have some manners."

"I save manners for my mother and my-"

"Don't even finish that thought."

"Fine, but my points stands; I'd happily throw you and your men overboard at the slightest turbulence. Hell, I can see a very clear plan right now that would end with your guard on the left in a wheelchair, the one on the right buying a new eyepatch, and you, well... I haven't decided yet. What's your insurance, Quist?"

"Oh, I'm so glad you asked. You did say you save manners for your mother, yes?"

Connor turns to the window, and with a wave of his hand, the royal carriage rolls up to my door. His guards lift me out of the chair and push me to the window. Through the stained glass, I see something I prayed would never happen: My mother, in chains, held by two of Connor's grunts. She spots me but can't say a word. Her eyes tell me everything: "Don't give him a thing."

Even bound, threatened with prison because of my mangy arse, she still wants to protect me. But I can't let her do that.

"A search of her home is how we tracked you here in the first place, thanks to that map you left dear mummy so she could visit you," Connor gloats. 

"Would you really let an old widow rot in a cell just to get an, albeit fabulous and very well-trained, street thug to captain your vessel? Are you truly that self-centered, that vile?"

Connor stands and walks over to me, a pleased look on his face. He stops only a few inches from my nose and his mouth widens into a disgusting grin.

"Oh, Ozzy, I think you know the answer to that. It's simple: Any harm comes to me, or you don't comply, then she gets the royal treatment in the best cell I can find. Now, I really do need to get a crew lined up, so what will it be: Wealth and prestige thanks to service to your country, or Mommy becoming the prison punching bag all because of you?"

I'm silent for a while. I think about what'd my father say, probably telling me to not compromise myself for anyone, but I know those days are long gone. I think about my time in the academy, and why I left; I hated what the crown represented, and that will never change. And then my mother... I know many of the scum who sit in those cells. Some are political prisoners, sure, but most are criminals far worse than me. Very deranged, very angry criminals, with a good chunk there because of me. If she goes in that prison, she won't come out.

I force myself to look at Connor and take a deep breath, my choice made.

"Pack your good whiskey and make sure your crew can work the sails. I'll be at the castle at dawn."