ToastySpam
Legend
NOTE: This thread is old, unfinished, and requires revision - both in terms of canonicity and quality.
I find writing long, expository character profiles very tedious; so instead, as a way to provide backstory to Rufus, I'm going to release a series of short story segments. This first one was originally posted in the 'Roleplay Discussion' forum but after finding this one I believe it should be posted here.
Also, any criticism and feedback would be extremely helpful, as no-one can really improve without it. In the later ones it is going to be very important as they are going to be a lot more difficult to write.
Ta in advance.
ONE
The Angry Pike Inn in Mockingbay.
It is early in the morning, and the inn is empty, save for the bartender and a halfling named Rufus, who sits on a stool by the counter, slumped and resting his head on one hand. In his other, he flips a coin, and at the apex of each throw the rising sunlight catches it just a bit more.
On his last throw, he misses the coin, and it falls down beneath the floorboards. Rufus looks up and yawns.
“Sure is quiet in here, huh, Jeff?”
The bartender remains silent, staring with undisguised boredom at Rufus as he expertly and thoroughly washes his forty-third tankard.
Rufus laughs, a short, barking laugh, and says:
“Silent as ever. A guy could tell you anything and be safe in the knowledge that no-one would find out.”
Seemingly unimpressed, Jeff rubs his washcloth around the rim. It lets out a piercing screech.
“Well, ya know what? That’s just what I’m gonna do. It’s early in the morning, no-one’s around apart from you and me – the two best pals in the world. So whaddya say I tell you my life story?”
Without breaking eye contact, Jeff sets the forty-third tankard down behind him and gets to work on the forty-fourth.
“Cool. Then we’ll begin. I’d like to take you back to about 15 years ago, to a bar not that different from this one…”
A bar in the City slums. 15 years ago.
Angeir pushed his way through the tavern. He was a tall man, tall and thin, with a tight black goatee that looked fastened to a point and piercing, sharp blue eyes that cut their way out of an angular face.
“Coming through! Make way!”
In his arms he carried an object the size of a small yam, wrapped almost completely in a green cloak. Out of the top of the cloak poked a tiny, flesh coloured object that was impossible to make out in the dingy light of the tavern.
He kept fighting, pushing his way through the throng. Nobody noticed him or the package he cradled delicately to his chest – their attention was focused on a raised platform to the side of the tavern, on which an earthspawn and a bulky human were tearing each other apart, smashing bones with devastating blows and tearing away chunks of meat with their teeth. This fight was illegal – but it was in the Slums, in the grungy underside of the city, and no enforcer of the law would dare venture here.
Eventually, Angeir made it to the counter, behind which a middle-aged woman, both plump and muscled, was leaning on the counter, watching the fight, a drink in one hand.
Angeir set his bundle down on the counter. She spoke without turning to face him in a voice with the consistency of a gravel pit.
“What have you brought to me this time, darling boy?”
“A baby, Madam.”
She turned in surprise at that, and looked with a mixture of curiosity and disgust at the wrapped thing lying on her bar. She realised now that she could hear it screaming and wailing over the noise of the tavern.
She gulped down some of her drink.
“Ain’t babies supposed to be a little bigger?”
“He’s a halfling. They’re supposed to be small.”
She slammed her tankard down on the table.
“I damn well know halflings are small! But I wanna know why you brought him to me?”
“He was abandoned. Wrapped up in this cloak on the side of the street. If I hadn’t found him, he would’ve drowned in the gutter.”
The barkeep wiped her eyes in mock sadness.
“Well, boohoo.” She glared at him. “Babies die everyday.”
Angeir glanced down at the pathetic clump of flesh and cloak howling beneath him.
“I couldn’t just leave him there…”
She laughed cruelly at him.
“Oh, Angeir. You and your morals. Though, tell you what –” she took another swig “Alton mentioned something about wanting a halfling. Ya know, cause they’re small and quick and that.” She reached out to take the baby.
Angeir frowned at the suggestion, and seemed about to take it back, but she stopped him.
“Think about it. It’s either I give him to your boss, or you give him to a slave driver.”
Behind them, the crowd broke into a roar, as the earthspawn picked up the man and smashed him down over his knee. There was an audible crack as the vertebrae in his back snapped apart.
Angeir sighed, and let her cradle the child. She turned to take it into a back room.
“Watch the bar while I’m gone. Oh, and Angeir?” She looked over her shoulder at him, and he met her gaze. “Next time you find a baby lying in the gutter? Leave it to drown.”
I find writing long, expository character profiles very tedious; so instead, as a way to provide backstory to Rufus, I'm going to release a series of short story segments. This first one was originally posted in the 'Roleplay Discussion' forum but after finding this one I believe it should be posted here.
Also, any criticism and feedback would be extremely helpful, as no-one can really improve without it. In the later ones it is going to be very important as they are going to be a lot more difficult to write.
Ta in advance.
ONE
The Angry Pike Inn in Mockingbay.
It is early in the morning, and the inn is empty, save for the bartender and a halfling named Rufus, who sits on a stool by the counter, slumped and resting his head on one hand. In his other, he flips a coin, and at the apex of each throw the rising sunlight catches it just a bit more.
On his last throw, he misses the coin, and it falls down beneath the floorboards. Rufus looks up and yawns.
“Sure is quiet in here, huh, Jeff?”
The bartender remains silent, staring with undisguised boredom at Rufus as he expertly and thoroughly washes his forty-third tankard.
Rufus laughs, a short, barking laugh, and says:
“Silent as ever. A guy could tell you anything and be safe in the knowledge that no-one would find out.”
Seemingly unimpressed, Jeff rubs his washcloth around the rim. It lets out a piercing screech.
“Well, ya know what? That’s just what I’m gonna do. It’s early in the morning, no-one’s around apart from you and me – the two best pals in the world. So whaddya say I tell you my life story?”
Without breaking eye contact, Jeff sets the forty-third tankard down behind him and gets to work on the forty-fourth.
“Cool. Then we’ll begin. I’d like to take you back to about 15 years ago, to a bar not that different from this one…”
A bar in the City slums. 15 years ago.
Angeir pushed his way through the tavern. He was a tall man, tall and thin, with a tight black goatee that looked fastened to a point and piercing, sharp blue eyes that cut their way out of an angular face.
“Coming through! Make way!”
In his arms he carried an object the size of a small yam, wrapped almost completely in a green cloak. Out of the top of the cloak poked a tiny, flesh coloured object that was impossible to make out in the dingy light of the tavern.
He kept fighting, pushing his way through the throng. Nobody noticed him or the package he cradled delicately to his chest – their attention was focused on a raised platform to the side of the tavern, on which an earthspawn and a bulky human were tearing each other apart, smashing bones with devastating blows and tearing away chunks of meat with their teeth. This fight was illegal – but it was in the Slums, in the grungy underside of the city, and no enforcer of the law would dare venture here.
Eventually, Angeir made it to the counter, behind which a middle-aged woman, both plump and muscled, was leaning on the counter, watching the fight, a drink in one hand.
Angeir set his bundle down on the counter. She spoke without turning to face him in a voice with the consistency of a gravel pit.
“What have you brought to me this time, darling boy?”
“A baby, Madam.”
She turned in surprise at that, and looked with a mixture of curiosity and disgust at the wrapped thing lying on her bar. She realised now that she could hear it screaming and wailing over the noise of the tavern.
She gulped down some of her drink.
“Ain’t babies supposed to be a little bigger?”
“He’s a halfling. They’re supposed to be small.”
She slammed her tankard down on the table.
“I damn well know halflings are small! But I wanna know why you brought him to me?”
“He was abandoned. Wrapped up in this cloak on the side of the street. If I hadn’t found him, he would’ve drowned in the gutter.”
The barkeep wiped her eyes in mock sadness.
“Well, boohoo.” She glared at him. “Babies die everyday.”
Angeir glanced down at the pathetic clump of flesh and cloak howling beneath him.
“I couldn’t just leave him there…”
She laughed cruelly at him.
“Oh, Angeir. You and your morals. Though, tell you what –” she took another swig “Alton mentioned something about wanting a halfling. Ya know, cause they’re small and quick and that.” She reached out to take the baby.
Angeir frowned at the suggestion, and seemed about to take it back, but she stopped him.
“Think about it. It’s either I give him to your boss, or you give him to a slave driver.”
Behind them, the crowd broke into a roar, as the earthspawn picked up the man and smashed him down over his knee. There was an audible crack as the vertebrae in his back snapped apart.
Angeir sighed, and let her cradle the child. She turned to take it into a back room.
“Watch the bar while I’m gone. Oh, and Angeir?” She looked over her shoulder at him, and he met her gaze. “Next time you find a baby lying in the gutter? Leave it to drown.”
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