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Canon The Tale of Rufus Greenbottle

ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
ToastySpam
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.”
 
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ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
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TWO

The Angry Pike Inn in Mockingbay.


Jeff by now has finished wiping off his tankards and has moved on to scrubbing the polished, wooden surface of the counter, an annoying squeak emanating from each calculated thrust of the cloth.

Rufus glares at him.

“Hey, quit it! I’m telling you my life story here!”

Jeff drags the cloth along the entire width of the counter in one, drawn out squeal, maintaining eye contact with Rufus the entire time. Rufus sighs, and leans back on his chair, before realising that this is in fact a backless stool and not a chair, and spends a few desperate moments trying to regain his balance before crashing to the floor in a heap. Jeff ignores this and continues to clean.

Rufus quickly picks himself up and rights his stool, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Now, uh, where were we…”

Castle of the Rat King, 8 years ago.

The castle of the Rat King was not, in fact a castle. It was actually a small, fenced-off section of the City. A series of tall, mismatched iron poles with fierce barbs wormed their way around the sprawl of the Slums and connected together either side of Madam Spike’s tavern, which served as a gateway into the ‘castle’. From here, the Rat King could conduct his underground reign over the city and orchestrate all of his nefarious comings and goings.

The Rat King might have been the most popular of his monikers, but he was also known by other names. The Slum-dog, The Black Watchman – but to Angeir, he was just Alton. Or, more usually… father.

It was this man that Angeir now approached, not without some trepidation. He was in the throne room, at the top of an ugly, unstable tower in the centre of the castle, cobbled together from mud, and brick and any other cheap material that Alton could have brought in. He could afford better, of course. He likely had enough money to build himself a palace. But it was all about maintaining an appearance. If a snake is dirty enough to blend into the filth, then it won’t be spotted until sinks its fangs through someone’s boot.

Angeir opened his mouth to speak, but Alton beat him to it.

“How is the Halfling?”

Always the same question, without fail, for seven years. The Halfling.

Madam Spike had named him. Rufus was a Halfling name, she had said. And a Halfling baby should be given a Halfling name. His surname, Greenbottle – she hadn’t explained that. But she had insisted on it all the same, and Alton had always had a soft spot for Madam Spike – she was his sister, after all. So Rufus Greenbottle it was.

He became Angeir’s prodigy, of sorts. Alton had been eager to bring more Halflings into the castle, eager to have them join the ranks of his unofficial guild of thieves, and he took the sudden appearance of this gutter-baby as a sign that he was making the right decision. So Angeir trained him. Brought him up to be stealthy and quick. Brought him up to prefer shadows to sunlight. Brought him up to be a thief.

Some evenings, when he was in the privacy of his home, stuck deep into his fifth pint, Angeir would begin to feel guilty. Would wonder if he had done the right thing. And some evenings, he would make his way to where Rufus was boarded, interrupt whatever game he was playing with the other children, pull him aside, and ask him:

“How do you feel… about all this? About growing up here?”

And every time, Rufus would ask what he meant, say that of course he’s growing up here, this is where he belongs.

It was like he really did belong.

“The Halfling,” Alton repeated. “How is he?”

“Great, as always, father,” Angeir replied hastily, smiling. “He improves more everyday.

“And how is he getting along with the other children?”

“Well enough.”

Alton frowned at him, and gestured to the window.

“Then kindly tell me why Nikolas is pounding him into the mud?”

Rufus could taste blood. He didn’t have time to be scared, though – Nikolas’ foot was coming down again.

Nikolas was a hulking, barrel-shaped brute of a boy, with a hay-like fringe of blonde hair and the strength of a bull – or at least as close as a ten year-old boy could get to having the strength of a bull.

Rufus managed to roll out of the way of this one, and was rewarded for his efforts with a face-full of mud and gravel.

He could sense Nikolas preparing for another kick, and he forced himself to muster just enough strength to scramble forwards and give himself the time to stand up. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference height-wise – Nikolas was still twice as tall as him – but it gave him some manoeuvrability.

The pair faced each other, breathing hard. Both were crying – Rufus from the pain of his split lip and Nikolas from the pain of Rufus stealing his mother’s necklace.

“I gave you back,” Rufus managed. “I gave you back the necklace leave me alone.”

“No-one takes her necklace,” Nikolas bawled, “No one takes it and you took it and I’m gonna hurt you so bad…” He ran at Rufus again, but this time he was ready.

He had positioned himself so that he was below a low-hanging branch of the one tree in the garden. Before Nikolas even began to move, he crouched, leapt, and grabbed the branch. Pull and pull and pull… His muscles burned as he flipped himself up, scrabbling at the tree trunk with his feet, and on top of the branch. Victory! He was about to smile before he realised that he was now only at head height with Nikolas, who was reaching out the snap the branch.

Rufus had enough time to think

NO!

before the branch cracked apart and he tumbled down onto his back, winded. Nikolas could have hurt him seriously then, probably would have done, but before he could Angeir and Alton burst into the garden.

“You two!” Angeir shouted, his face red. “What are you doing?”

Even in his present state, when he looked over Rufus noticed that the gate was motionless, not swinging on its hinges as it would be if they had just entered the garden. That meant they had been watching them. THAT meant Angeir had seen his move with the tree – no, even better – ALTON had seen his move with the tree! Despite the pain he felt, a grin spread across his face.

“And you can wipe that smile off your face, boy,” Angeir snarled. “If Nikolas hadn’t already smacked you about, I would have given you a good hiding.”

Alton was still behind him, but he was silent, watchful. With one hand, he stroked his beard, seemingly in deep thought. Alton was always in deep thought.

“And as for you,“ Angeir continued to shout, this time directing his rage towards Nikolas, “You know better than to bully the other children. If we hadn’t come down, how far would you have gone? When would you have stopped? When his bones were broken? When he was dead?”

Nikolas looked down, his face flushed crimson with shame.

It was then that Alton stepped forward and spoke. His voice was much less full of emotion than Angeir’s. It felt cold, and calculating, and even though it was less aggressive, it was this voice that filled Rufus with fear.

“Both of you have disgraced yourselves and the castle. We do not beat one another, and we do not –“ He looked at Rufus “-steal from one another.”

Rufus was confused. He had taken the necklace from the boarding room less than an hour ago. He had made no plans, told no-one – how could Alton know what he had done? He wanted to ask, but the Rat King’s icy gaze kept him silent.
“It is inefficient. It depletes from our own resources. We are not common thieves, children. However –“

He paused, and seemed to study them for a moment. When he looked at Rufus, Rufus could feel goose bumps rising all over his body.

“Both of you show skill. Nikolas, your combat technique is good, but you need to learn to adapt when you are fighting an opponent who is smaller and quicker than you. You will not always have the element of surprise on your side. Rufus, your move with the tree was excellent. Had you not paused to congratulate yourself, you might have been able to escape. But remember – do not use these skill against each other. Use them in tandem against our prey. Otherwise you will only succeed in tearing yourselves apart.”

With that, he appraised them once more, before nodding slowly and turning to leave. Angeir stepped forward again.

“Both of you, back inside,” he began, shortly. “Dinner is in an hour. I expect both of you to have cleaned up and apologised to each other by then.”

“Did you hear that?” Rufus piped up, cheekily, as they moved towards the gate. “Alton said I had skill.”

“I heard it,” Angeir replied, and, somewhere underneath the layer of annoyance, Rufus thought he could detect pride.
 

ToastySpam

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Would have been posted last Sunday, but uh, technical difficulties were experienced. Voila:

THREE

The Angry Pike Inn in Mockingbay.

Rufus shifts in his seat, the wood squeaking as he does so.

“When are you gonna get some better stools?” he asks Jeff, whose only reply is another stony stare. “I mean, you just saw me fall off of this one. What jumped-up carpenter thought it was a good idea to design a chair without a back? It’s just asking for trouble!” He pauses, seeming proud of himself for making this bold statement, before leaning forward. “Now, could you just be a real dear and get me a peppermint tea? Put it on my ever-expanding tab.”

Jeff doesn’t show any signs of movement, particularly not in the peppermint tea-making side of things. Instead, he chucks his washcloth over his shoulder in a motion that has clearly had a lot of practice, as it lands perfectly on a hook above the bar.

“Right, you’ll do it in a bit. No worries,” says Rufus, unconcerned. “Now, let’s continue with my little tale. I think you need to hear about Vestara.”

Castle of the Rat King, 4 years ago.

Since their fight four years earlier, Rufus and Nikolas had actually grown closer as friends, something that surprised everyone – well, surprised everyone except for Alton, who made it his business not to be surprised. The two developed a sort of mutual respect for each other, and would lend a hand whenever the other faltered in training.

Usually, this meant that Nikolas would help out with Rufus’ sparring, showing him how to punch to maximum efficiency or how to swing your blade with just the right amount of force to disarm your opponent. Rufus, on the other hand, would support Nikolas in the art of stealth, helping him to wear the shadows as a cloak and make his footsteps indiscernible from raindrops falling into the gutter. Unfortunately, neither of them made a whole lot of extra progress, mostly due to Rufus, who was an insufferable student and an impatient teacher.

Despite their failings, both of them quickly rose to the top of the ranks. Each of them was able to cover the other’s weak spots, and as such they made a formidable team. Around the castle, they soon came to be known as ‘the bull and the fox’. Nikolas, of course, was the bull, and Rufus was the fox. They wore these nicknames with pride, like they were badges they had won, and, in a sense, they were.

It seemed that no-one else would ever match their talents. As they grew older, people began to drop out of the training sessions, either voluntarily or because Alton put their head in a sack and threw them into a wagon, so that they would wake up in a random part of the Slums outside the castle, disorientated and penniless. It seemed like it wouldn’t be long before Nikolas and Rufus were the only two left, and they were happy that way.

Or at least, it seemed like that until Vestara came along.

Vestara, like Rufus, was a Halfling, and she arrived at the castle during Rufus’ eleventh year (the equivalent of being about 14 years old for a human). No-one knew where she came from apart from Alton, not even Angeir, who had personally overseen her bringing in.

When she first showed up, she was quiet, thin, and pale, her head draped in a matt of dull black hair. An outsider to the group, she kept to herself. No children talked to her, and she didn’t talk to any of them. She had private training sessions and seemed to be held in some kind of special regard by Alton and Angeir, which made Rufus and Nikolas jealous.

As the days passed, she grew stronger, and her hair returned to a healthy dark sheen, and she began to look more like a regular girl – well, as regular as your average prodigy thief in training. One morning, when they were in the mess hall (which, like the ‘castle’, did not live up to its name and was actually not much more than a disused warehouse), Rufus and Nikolas approached her.

Rufus waved, and greeted her in his usual brash fashion.

“Hey, girl.”

She ignored him and continued to gnaw at a hunk of bread. Nikolas tried, in a more kind tone – which was his usual fashion.

“What’s your name? We haven’t talked before.”

“Vestara,” she replied, without looking up.

Nikolas smiled, his cheeks dimpling with pride

“Great! I’m Nikolas, and this –”

“I know who you are.”

Rufus decided to break into the conversation again.

“So, uh, I was wondering – why are you special? Why the private lessons, why the-”

She stood up, and looked him in the eye, held him there with her gaze.

“What can I do?” she asked, in a voice that was quiet but fierce and cut right through him.

He nodded, hardly daring to breathe.

A small smile snaked outwards across her face. Then, suddenly, she did something. Did something so quick that it was almost imperceptible. A second-long blur of movement, during which Rufus saw her extend her arm and then retract it again, and then a return to her normal position.

The bull and the fox turned synchronously to squint in the direction that she had pointed with her arm. There, in the wall on the other side of the room, were embedded three throwing knives, each an equal distance apart, still vibrating gently in the wood. It had been so quick and silent that nobody, aside from them, had noticed.

“I can do everything,” said Vestara, a small amount of smugness creeping into her words.

It turned out that she wasn’t far from wrong – where Rufus and Nikolas each had their own individual grey areas, Vestara at first didn’t seem to have any. She was an excellent thief, and an excellent warrior. It was hard to remember that she was only, as Rufus was, the Halfling equivalent of about 14 years old.

Like anyone, though, in the end she wasn’t infallible. But it turned out that her weakness was psychological as opposed to physical. If Nikolas was a bull and Rufus was a fox, she was a wounded tiger. It didn’t take a lot to make her snap, to push her into a fit of rage, or into a bout of heart wrenching sobbing. Whatever it was that had cut her so deep, it was clearly embedded into her conscience.

Luckily, she wasn’t alone, not anymore. Nikolas and Rufus, while at first they didn’t fully understand her, befriended her quickly. At first it was almost out of envy, out of a desire to learn from her and become better than her. But after a short while they realised that she was just fun to be around. She might have been strange, might have sometimes acted older than her years. But at the heart of it, she was just another kid – just another lonely kid who wanted friends.

After a few months had passed, Vestara began to join to the regular sessions. Her emotions, while still a raging ocean, were more under control now, and she clearly took pleasure in being able to practice what she had learned with (or against) someone her own age.

The Angry Pike Inn in Mockingbay.

“So…” says Rufus, leaning on the counter. “Sounds like things were going great, yeah?”

Jeff is now moving on to scrubbing other tables in the room. It is unclear if he can even hear Rufus.

“Well,” Rufus mutters, “That’s about to change.”
 
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ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
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FOUR

Castle of the Rat King, 3-4 years ago.


Madam Spike was dead.

It had happened quickly, so very quickly, over the course of about a month. She caught some kind of disease that had twisted her insides, collapsed her into a constantly bedridden, pathetic mass of bone and heaped skin. No matter how many doctors Alton brought in, no matter how many he killed in outbursts of rage, she didn’t get better.

And when she finally left this plane of existence, she did so in suffering. Not in her sleep, not in peace, but in a screeching, bony pile of fevered pain and confusion. Alton stayed with her until she moaned out her last breath, and for a long time afterwards. When he emerged, he was a changed man.

And not for the better.

Before he had been dangerous, deadly – it was part of his job, after all. But there had been some kind of fairness to him, some kind of respect for his comrades in the Slums. That sense of fairness died with his sister. Now he was wholly unpredictable. It was impossible to stay on the right side of him, because the ‘right side’ was constantly changing. On a whim, he might decide to have you slowly dunked headfirst into a blacksmith’s smelting chamber, and stand there breathing in the scent of your burning flesh and feeling nothing. He almost never spoke to Angeir, which was apparent to everyone. He had once been close to his father, once been a confidant of sorts, but now he rarely entered the same room. So when, one morning late in the fall, he invited Angeir up to his quarters, it was a surprise to everyone.

Rufus, in fact, was so intrigued by this, that he scaled the outside wall of the tower and positioned himself by the window, the shutters of which were open to the bitter cold. Most would be terrified of being so precariously balanced at a height such as this one, but this was what Rufus was good at, what he was trained for. It almost felt more natural than being on solid ground. He pricked his pointed ears, just making out the sound of footsteps from around the bricked corner of the window.

Angeir’s boots echoed creaks across the worn wooden floor of the throne room. He stood, and waited. Alton stood across the room from him, facing the wall. His jet black locks, streaked with grey, tumbled down onto the back of his hefty fur coat. The silence, apart from the faint noise of the city below, felt like it was crawling into Angeir’s throat; making its way down to the pit of his stomach; binding itself to the fear that lay coiled there.

After a few more agonizing moments, Alton turned. His gaze were the same sharp frost as Angeir’s. Then, he parted his thin, cracked lips and spoke, the words forming in his mouth before he said them, like an archer drawing back the bowstring.

“What do you see in your future, Angeir?”

“I’m sorry?”

Alton didn’t respond.

“My future… Well, to continue as I am now. To continue to serve you, to give out your orders to the initiates –”

“Really, Angeir?” Alton interrupted. “Is that honestly as far as your ambition stretches? What about when I’m dead, like Rosa?”

“Madam Spike? What does – ”

“Are you willing to take my place?”

Angeir steeled himself.

“Father. In the event of your death I will gladly lead the kingdom you have cultivated. But I have no intentions of- ”

“I knew it,” Alton growled, his hand dropping to the sword at his waist. “Traitor. Usurper.”

“No, no! Father, I wouldn’t dare – ”

“Do you think I am a fool?” Alton drew his blade. Angeir was unarmed, but felt unable to run. Outside, Rufus craned his neck to look through the window. “In the event of your death. If not for the fact that you were a coward, you would have killed me before now. Like… like you killed Rosa.”

“What? I didn’t – I never –”

“Do not lie to me, son.” He spat the word ‘son’ like it was a curse. “I know you must have poisoned her. As if a healthy woman could fall ill that easily. And I am your next target.”

A shocked tear leaked from the corner of Angeir’s left eye.

“You’re insane.”

“No,” Alton hissed. “I’m in grieving.” With that, he grabbed Angeir around the shoulder and thrust his blade forwards. The steel point forced its way through the centre of Angeir’s waist, emerging the other side. Blood ran down the metal’s edge and dripped from the point. Alton pulled the blade out, and Angeir fell to his knees.

“Father…” he croaked, and Alton seemed to hesitate. Rufus was frozen behind the window, staring at the bloody scene before him. Angeir’s eyes wavered around the room, until they connected with Rufus’ horrified gaze. He forced a small, encouraging smile, before Alton reeled back and decapitated him.

The head rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of smeared rose petals in its wake, before coming to a grisly stop, the nose squashed against the wooden boards.

Alton stood there over, breathing hard, over the body of his son. Huge, wrenching sobs crawled their way out of his lungs as he came to terms with what he had done in a moment of agonizing sanity.

Rufus fought the urge to run in. To put his hands around Alton’s throat and squeeze, make him pay. But he knew it would only end in his own death.

He forced himself to flip around and find purchase in between the lower bricks, feeling the salt of tears sting raw against his face, and began to make his way back down the tower.
 
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Spooksy_

Lord of Altera
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Holy shit.
This is honestly some of the best writing I have ever seen and I will gladly delete this comment if you need more space.

If you were to write a book I would pay a fortune for it, no joke.

Keep up the great work !
 

ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
ToastySpam
ToastySpam
Legend
Holy shit.
This is honestly some of the best writing I have ever seen and I will gladly delete this comment if you need more space.

If you were to write a book I would pay a fortune for it, no joke.

Keep up the great work !
Wow, not sure I deserve this praise :D I sure as hell appreciate it though, thank you!
 

ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
ToastySpam
ToastySpam
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Been a long while since I've continued this, just because of a lot of business going on irl. My time should be freed up more now, which means I can return to Rufus' story. And this time, return with some much-needed action. This one is a little long, so buckle up your fantasy seatbelts, boys and girls.

FIVE

The City, 2 years ago

Night crashed onto the city in a blanketing heap.
Liquid shadows poured down supports of rickety, rotted timber, patchy walls of wattle and daub. Shapes swirled and turned into one another, forming two-dimensional creatures of savage tooth and fang that hissed silently as they rippled across the surfaces that light was too afraid to touch.

Out of these hungry shadows and into the moonlight stepped Rufus. His green cloak drifted slightly behind him, catching small drafts, as he slunk across the street, the noise of boots on cobble silenced by a lifetime of practice. In his hand he carried a coiled grappling hook.

Once he had safely melted back into the darkness on the other side, he stopped, leaned against a wall, and began to uncoil the rope and assess the distance to the roof. Then, he began to swing the hook around on the end of the rope, thwip thwip thwip until it had gathered enough momentum to be thrown. The hook sailed up into the air, glinting as it passed through beams of moonlight. He’d angled his shot perfectly, and he felt a smug pride as it wrapped itself like a greedy snake around a stone chimney first time. It clattered – hopefully it wouldn’t be too loud, but he should be out of sight before anyone traced the sound to its source anyway.

When satisfied it could take his weight, he began to reverse-absail himself up the side of the storehouse, digging his feet into the rough wall. His muscles warmed under his skin, taking well to the task they had been built for.

Reaching the top, he let go of the rope and grabbed onto the outcropping of slate. He was lucky it hadn’t been raining – as it was, the surface of the roof was pretty smooth. Still, it was nothing he couldn’t handle, and he pulled himself up over the top, into a crouched position. He unhooked the grapple line and reeled it back into a coil, tucking it into his belt. It weighed him down, an annoyance, but he wouldn’t let it hold him back.

Standing up, he broke into a stealthy run, noiselessly bounding across the rooftop until he reached the edge and leapt into the air. The buildings in this part of the city were knit closely together – perfect for a bit of night-time parkour.


Not that far away, Nikolas and Vestara too crept through the streets. Rufus had his own job to fulfil – silencing an alarm – but their mission was a much more direct one. The goal was a jewellery store, a little off the town square. Both of them had their faces wrapped up in black cloth masks.

Outside the store, Nikolas froze for a moment as he glimpsed a series of tall, armoured shadows slumped against the wall. Guards.

Vestara saw his hesitation and gave a quiet chuckle, punching him in the arm.

“I spiked their drinks, remember? They wouldn’t wake up if they got slapped by a kraken.”

Nikolas laughed, too, but Vestara saw nervousness in it. He was a guy so muscular you could mistake him for an Earthspawn in the right light, but he was still scared of the dark. She often wondered if this line of work was right for him – but then, it wasn’t like he really had a choice.

They pushed open the door. The shop was a small, square space. It was pretty much an empty room, except for the counter which stood at the other side, displaying bejewelled necklaces and shiny bracelets through pristine glass. Each item of finery was attached to a pedestal by a wire. Behind it, a weedy looking silver elf was trying to keep himself awake by thumbing through old catalogues lit dimly by flickering candlelight. He looked up as they entered, not at first seeming to recognise them as intruders, and spoke in a high-pitched, rodent-like voice.

“Cullic? Is that –” his face dimmed with puzzled realisation. “You’re not –”

Nikolas allowed his steps to make noise now. His boots thumped intimidatingly as he strode across the room. He sized up the elf, before drawing a sword from the sheath that hung at his waist, holding the point steadily barely a few centimetres from the elf’s neck.

“I’m sorry about this,” the straw-haired thief apologised, not ingenuinely. “But we gotta rob you.”

He got the elf to stand up and move around in front of the desk. The shopkeeper’s eyes crossed over his nose as he tried to look at the blade of the sword, gulping like a fish.

“But you can’t – you’re not –”

Vestara produced a mallet from her belt and smashed the glass of the cabinet, careful and calculating. White fractures spiralled outwards from the points she hit almost gently, before a final hit reduced the case to shards.

The elf gasped, and his face went even whiter.

“But that’s –”

“Dwarven glass,” Vestara interrupted. “I know. Not all that tough when you know the right places.”

She tucked the little hammer back into her belt, switching it with a small knife. Leaning into the cabinet, she started to cut through the wires holding the jewellery.

Some colour returned to the elf’s face.

“That’s set off the alarms,” he squeaked triumphantly.

“Not if he’s done his job, it hasn’t,” muttered Vestara, half to herself.


The wealthiest of store-owners in the city could buy into a special system, used in case of emergency. They connected their shops, through various mechanical and perhaps magical means to a long, horn shaped tube that ran up through the brickwork, and into a nearby watchtower.

If a trigger was activated (which, in this case, was the jewellery tripwires) the respective horn would sound, alerting whoever was on guard in the watchtower, and anyone else within half a mile. But this time, nobody would be alerted.

Rufus had made sure of that.

First, a more blunt approach – putting the guard at the top of the tower to sleep with a well-placed dart from a blowpipe. Then, Rufus had scrambled up the side of the tower – which was uneven, and provided plenty of foot and handholds – and into the top, where exit to horn was located. There, he placed a carefully made wax mold into the end of the tube, and then poured a thick paste into it, which set quickly upon contact with the air. The alarm system was now sealed, aside from a slight vibration in the brass of the tube.

Rufus sat back for a moment against the wall to admire his handiwork.

“Man, I am just a master of my craft,” he said aloud, with no shortage of smug pride in his voice.


Vestara began to drop diamond encrusted rings and brooches into a sack. Nikolas made uncomfortable eye contact with the shopkeeper, and shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way.

The elf summoned up enough courage to speak once more:

“Look – listen to me – ”

“Not interested,” Vestara cut him off in a cheery tone. But the elf pressed on insistently.

“Someone else was supposed to be robbing this place tonight!”

Nikolas frowned. “Explain.”

The elf gulped. “I don’t own this place. I’m just a… clerk. But I made a deal with some Bears –”

Vestara swore. “Of course it would be the bloody Bears.”

“But, uh, I made a deal with them. They’d come in here, I’d let them take everything without raising the alarm, and then they’d a give me a decent cut as a reward.” He couldn’t stop a small sneer from appearing on his face. “My boss is a generous sort, too. He might even pay me compensation for my… trauma.”

Nikolas cast a worried look to Vestara. “If this is true – maybe we should leave.”

Vestara made an annoyed noise. “He’s bluffing. Just wants to save some of his merchandise so he can afford to buy himself another mansion.”

Nikolas looked back at the elf, who was vigorously shaking his head.

“I dunno. Sounds a little complicated to just be made up.”

Vestara was about to make a snarky retort about how pretty much everything would seem complicated to a big oaf like Nikolas, when a sly, deep voice peppered with gravel spoke from behind them.

“You should listen to your pal, little girl.”

Nikolas turned his head, keeping his sword up. Vestara turned around slowly, assessing the situation and trying her best to keep her head.

“I’m not a little girl.”

The speaker of the voice barked vicious laughter.

“Little boy then? Probably so ugly under that mask you can’t tell the difference.”

The man was a huge hunk of muscle and meat. Dirty hair hung in short, thin triangles across his forehead. When he opened his mouth to speak, it revealed that three of his teeth were missing. Around his neck hung a small, crude silver-coloured charm in the shape of a bear’s head, symbolising his membership of the Bears. These were a new gang of crooks that had entered the City only six months ago, and were already challenging the crumbling underworld of the Rat King.

He stepped further into the shop. Behind him filed in 5 others. Two of them had crossbows, aimed at Vestara and Nikolas.

“Actually,” Vestara replied, with anger in her voice, “I’m a Halfling. A Halfling that could beat your piss-ugly bear face into the ground if you weren’t hiding behind crossbows.”

The Bear laughed again. “Uh-huh. This is a good job you’ve pulled off here. You ain’t no ordinary thief – you two must be rats, yeah? Your time is over. Give us a few years, and we’ll be the ones running this town.”

Vestara looked as if she was about to explode. Nikolas cut in before she could react.

“Listen, it was a mistake, okay? You’re clearly in control here. We’ll leave all this,” he gestured at the sack of jewellery, “and you can let us go.”

The Bear didn’t laugh again, but instead broke into a frightening smile, slowly shaking his head. The moisture on his teeth glinted in the candlelight.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

He seemed about to say something else, but the elf spoke up. He seemed a little indignant, as if annoyed that he had been forgotten about.

“What about our deal, Curric?”

“Oh yeah, how could I forget about you,” Curric the Bear said with weary sarcasm, without looking away from Vestara. “Kill him.”

Nobody had a chance to respond. One of Curric’s men pulled the trigger on his crossbow and all of a sudden a bolt sprouted between the elf’s head. The force of it knocked him backwards, flipping over the top of the cabinet. Papers flew into the air, before sailing downwards.

Nikolas wiped some blood from his cheek. He had a gone a little pale. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Curric shrugged.

“Nope. But it’s easier just to off him.”

“Are we next?” Vestara asked, in a tone of dreary sarcasm to mask her fear.

Curric shook his head.

“We’re taking you.” He gestured to Nikolas. “Big lad like you, always useful.” Then his eyes slid to Vestara, and there was a malevolent pleasure in them. “And we always have a use for girls.”

Vestara shivered with anger and fear and dreadful anticipation. Memories of her life before being brought in to Alton’s kingdom flashed through her mind. Memories that were better buried.

“I won’t stop fighting,” she growled, half to herself. “I will fight you now, and if I live, I will fight you every day until I die.”

Nikolas said nothing, but held his sword at the ready.

Curric snorted. “Piss off. If you’re not gonna surrender yourselves, we’ll just kill-”

“’scuse me?”

Curric froze and turned around slowly. His men looked around, distracted.

Rufus leaned against the inside of the doorframe, a polite smile on his face, fingers interlaced leisurely over his chest.

“Sorry to disturb you fellas, but I, uh… Well, to tell the truth, I just needed to cause a distraction.”

Dark realisation fell across Curric’s face, and he started to bark an order, but by then it was far too late.

Vestara was already at one of the Bears, one of the two with a crossbow. He started to swivel to face her, but she spun into a kick, jumping upwards to gain the extra height. The heel of her boot smashed with deadly precision into his face, splintering his nose, bursting blood vessels. She fell with him, twisting her body into a defensive roll, reaching into the quiver tied to his belt and drawing out a bolt.

Nikolas had made it across the room, too. He was clumsier than Vestara, and the other Bear with a crossbow heard him coming. Before he could fire his weapon, however, Nikolas brought his blade down in a devastating swing. It cut deep into the wood of the crossbow stock, tugging the Bear’s arms down with nearly enough force to dislocate them. Nikolas let go of the hilt of his weapon and threw a solid punch right between his opponent’s eyes. They dropped like a stone, but there was already someone new coming at him. No time to grab his sword.

Rufus, meanwhile, was doing his best not to get killed. Curric had drawn a shortsword and was coming at him fast. He ducked out of the way of the first swing, using his small size to his advantage, and it cut into the side of the doorway. Curric hesitated momentarily, attempting to tug his sword free. It was all Rufus needed. He jumped, kicking off the doorframe, grabbing Curric’s shirt by the collar , and jerking him downwards, bashing his head into the hilt of his own sword, still stuck in the door. His eyes crossed, and he toppled like a debased statue.

Vestara was aware of someone making a move behind her. She spun, flicked her muscles from her biceps all the way to her wrist, spinning around him with a twist of her ankles. She plunged the crossbow bolt she had taken deep into her attacker’s calf muscle, just behind the knee. Blood started to ooze out of the wound. He screamed, crumpling, and she stood up fast, donkey-kicking him in the back of the head. He flew to the floor.

One assailant left, this one coming for Nikolas. He had a dagger in one hand, swept it down towards him. Nikolas caught him by the wrist and squeezed, firmly and sharply. The bear relaxed his grip on the weapon, threw his other arm forwards in a desperate punch. Nikolas caught that one, too, easier than the first. There was a look of almost self-disappointment in his eyes, a look that disappeared when Nikolas head-butted him in the face, feeling bone crack against his skull.

The three thieves stood unspeaking for a moment, breathing deeply, looking around the room like wounded animals. The moans of any Bears still conscious were the only other sounds in the room.

When she was certain the danger was clear, Vestara walked over to where Curric’s sword was buried in the doorframe, vibrating slightly. Still silent, she wrenched it from its position, weighing it in her hands. She looked down at Curric’s body.
There was a cold, vengeful fury burning behind her eyes.

She raised the blade of the stolen weapon above her shoulder.

“Wait!”

Rufus faced her, looked into her anger. She looked back at him with eyes that were only half-seeing.

In his mind, he could see Angeir. His mentor, kneeling before his own father on the dirty wooden boards of the final floor of the Rat King’s tower. Saw his head slowly roll, just a detached object, before coming to a gentle stop. Saw Alton’s face wet with tears, as some essence of what he had done reached him through a maddened haze.

“I won’t let us be killers,” Rufus said.

Vestara looked at Curric again, the sword still raised, her eyes still bitterly cold.

“He would have done worse to us,” she replied, in a voice that sounded like it didn’t belong to her.

Behind her, Nikolas unwedged his own sword from the fallen crossbow.

“Vesti – he’s right. If you start – if you start down that path, you my never stop.”

Vestara looked up at Rufus again, and he saw that her anger was now hot and melted. Mixed with fear. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears, and she let her arms drop to her sides. Curric’s sword fell from her loosened grip and clattered on to the floor like a discarded toy.

Rufus reached out, hesitantly, and took her hand. They stood like that for a while.
 
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ToastySpam

Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Legend
ToastySpam
ToastySpam
Legend
Taking a break from RPing as Rufus, and as such am also taking a break from this series. It may be continued at a later date, if I go back to using him IC.
 
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