Sicklefinger
10-11-2010, 01:43 AM
The high-noon sun glared down upon the merchant port of Bilgewater. Orc peons groaned and panted as they carried on the lowly task of carting goods from ship to warehouse, and warehouse to stand. The Bruisers seemed even more merciless this day, as they too were forced to stand out in the blistering heat. They were not only in charge of port security, but also to ‘motivate’ any peon who thought they deserved a short nap under a palm tree. The sound of haggling and barked orders was therefore punctuated periodically by muffled yell of said peons as the boot of a Bruiser met with their ribs.
A young Goblin strolled out of the largest warehouse, narrowing his eyes against the blazing sun, a scroll of his father’s inventory clutched in his hand. Kevrik Sicklefinger watched the line of peons hauling crates and barrels from a merchant ship, moving the goods into the warehouse. He silently checked off each item as the peons passed. Rosco Sicklefinger, Kevrik’s father, ran the most successful merchant chain in Bilgewater. He insisted Kevrik learn the tricks of the trade so that he may one day take over the business. During the afternoon Kevrik would manage inventory; and during the evening hours Rosco would teach him to read and understand the financial records. At the surprising age of eight, Kevrik was shaping up to be a fine merchant one day.
Kevrik, though he wished to live up to his father’s standards, had noticed something about himself that he kept secret from his old man for three years now. For reasons unknown to him, he could conjure fire that leapt from his hands at will. Not only that, but night after night he dreamed of shadowy figures, one, a short, spindly figure with a high pitched voice and hands of flame, another of deep monotone speech that resembled a ghost from the stories the sailors told, and a tall, silent figure who carried an enormous axe. The figures would always be blurred, except their eyes, which radiated with a menacing, but contained hostility. He told no one about these dreams, but they weighed on his mind nonetheless.
The blistering afternoon dragged on. Kevrik found himself checking the position of the sun in the sky every few minutes. As the sun began to win its race against the horizon, a ship approached an empty dock. It bore the look of any other merchant ship, except for the colors it was flying. The wrench, bomb, and gear on green gave away the vessel’s alliance to the Steamwheedle Cartel. After the ship dropped anchor, the captain descended down the gangplank to be met by the wharf-master. Angry bickering soon reached Kevrik’s ears. The Steamwheedle Cartel wanted to dock in Bilgewater Port to offload goods to be sold under their name, a not-so-subtle attempt to steal business away from Bilgewater merchants. Rosco Sicklefinger looked up from a transaction to observe the commotion, then proceeded to nod at a nearby Bruiser. On command, four guards flanked the wharf-master as he shouted at the Steamwheedle captain, “Git yer pompous ass off my dock an’ outta my harbor before I brain ya!” The Goblin captain glared angrily one last time at the wharf-master and his bodyguard of Bruisers before finally resigning to his quarters aboard ship. The wharf-master glared until the ship was but a dot in the distance, then spit and returned to his patrol.
Aboard the Steamwheedle ship, the captain stormed out of his cabin, beckoning to a Troll lounging against the railing starboard. Vor’Tan slouched over to the Goblin, sunlight gleaming off various scars as he moved. “Those damned Bilgewater vermin need to be taught a lesson in dealing with us. Take your partner and row back ashore. Send a message.” Gold traded hands, and Vor’Tan went below to rouse his partner. Minutes later they were drifting back ashore in a dinghy. As his lackey manned the oars, Vor’Tan set to putting a new edge on his favorite cutlass, grinning as he pondered how to best fulfill the task at hand: Murder a well-known Bilgewater merchant, leave the evidence public.
The sky had begun to take on a deep orange glow as the sun set when Kevrik heard the whistle signaling all the peons to call it a day. Minutes later he found himself following his father down the road to their house, a simple but well-furnished two story hut near the outskirts of town. After a quiet meal of roast boar, Rosco sent his son to the small study to go over the day’s transactions. He retired to his den, poured a glass of rum, and settled into his chair by the fireplace. An hour went by. Rosco’s eyelids were beginning to droop when a loud knock at the door echoed down the hallway. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the hall, looking to the front door to see it open, Kevrik standing in the shadows of the two Trolls who framed the entrance.
“Hey der, little mon, your daddy be home?” Vor’Tan looked up from leering at Kevrik to see Rosco stride down the hallway, grab Kevrik by the back of his shirt, and hurl him back into the study. He then turned to face the Trolls, “What the hell do ya want? If ya need supplies, you can wait til morning. Inn’s down the road.” Vor’tan grinned down at him, “We be set on supplies, mon. Da Steamwheedle ships by full of em.” He chuckled. “No our boss told us to use one o’ ya merchants here to be sendin’ a message, and looks like you drew da short straw, brudda.”
Rosco looked up at the Trolls. Since the conversation had begun, both were edging further inside the house, trying to flank him. He sighed. There really was no way out of this one. “Ok,” he said loudly, causing both Trolls to jump slightly. “You’ll see no struggle from me, so long as ya don’t harm the young one.” Vor’Tan grinned, “You not be in da position for bargainin’ old man, but I’m in a good mood. Ya got ten seconds to get da little mon outta here.” Rosco bolted for the study, both Trolls cackling behind him. He grabbed Kevrik and dragged him to the window, pushing it open. He looked down at his son, “Get outta here, and stay away.” Rosco threw Kevrik for the second time that evening, sending him flying outside and tumbling down the steep slope back towards the port. Kevrik pushed himself up and looked back to the house to see his father yell, “You better damn well listen, boy!” Then one of the Trolls ran into view, throwing a punch that caught Rosco in the temple. As the Goblin fell out of sight, the second Troll ran to the window, pointed a pistol at Kevrik, and squeezed the trigger. The slug whizzed by Kevrik’s head, narrowly missing his ear. He scrabbled through the dust frantically until he reached the cover of thick brush about a hundred yards from the hut.
Kevrik sat huddled in his fort of leaves and twigs, shivering uncontrollably. He could no longer hear whatever was going on up the hill. “And if I can’t hear it, nobody in town can either,” he thought to himself. Fifteen minutes passed before Kevrik heard the Trolls again, walking down the path back into town. They seemed in no hurry, conversing as if nothing was out of the ordinary as they passed Kevrik’s hiding place. A few minutes later, he crept from the brush and made his way back up the hill to the hut. At the front door he stood, transfixed.
He should have listened to his old man.
Rosco Sicklefinger’s lifeless corpse hung from the half open door by a dagger driven through his neck. Blood still trickled down to a spreading pool that dyed the dust a dark red. Kevrik stood horrified, staring at the body. A gust of wind whistled through the quiet house, slamming the door shut. A glinting piece of metal fell from Rosco’s mouth to land at Kevrik’s feet. Tearing his eyes from the spectacle, he bent down to pick it up. A silver coin bearing the Steamwheedle mark reflected moonlight in his hand. Anger flooded through Kevrik’s body, swallowing the grief. He clenched his small green hands into fists, feeling the coin’s edges dig into his flesh. He spun around and began running towards town, still shaking, but now with rage.
Close one. Kevrik flattened himself against the wall of the nearest building as he watched the Trolls enter the inn. He looked down and saw a round handle sticking out between two boards. He reached down and tugged, freeing a dull, rusty dagger no doubt left there after some tavern brawl who knows how long ago. He tucked it into his belt. A stroke of luck! He had a barely passable weapon. Kevrik entered the inn cautiously. The reek of drunken sailors and rum filled his nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he approached the front counter. The barkeep looked from side to side and finally down, trying to pinpoint the voice directed at him. “Um….. excuse me… which room are those big Trolls staying in? They left something at my father’s stand today.” The barkeep squinted down at Kevrik before grunting one word, “Five.” As Kevrik nodded and made his way through the crowd towards the stairs, the barkeep muttered to himself, “A Goblin returning lost possessions to random Trolls…. Gotta stop drinkin' on the job…”
Loud snoring echoed from under the door of Room 5. Kevrik couldn’t believe his luck. Slipping the dagger from his belt, he slid it through the crack in the door and lifted the latch inside. Grinning, he made his way to the nearest bed.
Vor’Tan awoke to the single most unpleasant sound in the world, though it wasn’t the first time he had heard it. Looking to the other bed, he saw a small figure standing on the chest of his partner, driving a knife repeatedly into his windpipe. The figure turned as Vor’Tan leapt up, moonlight shone on his face through the window. Vor’Tan snarled in recognition, “Little mon…” As he lunged for the young Goblin, Kevrik jumped from the bed, scurrying for the door. As his quick steps faded, Vor’Tan looked down. His partner choked as blood welled up in the torn mess that used to be his neck, his spine pretty much the only thing keeping his head attached. As the Troll’s eyes went blank, Vor’Tan spit and went to the window. “Too much heat now,” he thought as he dropped into the dark alley outside. One hour later he was rowing out to sea, replaying the memory of Kevrik stabbing his partner over and over in his head.
Two months later.
Kevrik woke up to a Bruiser prodding his ribs with the handle of his mace. “Yer wanted at the docks, lad.” Kevrik walked outside. He stayed in the Bruiser barracks now, his father’s house and business long gone, the latter split between a few of the other merchants in the port. As he strode past the last warehouse, the docks came into view, and Kevrik Sicklefinger’s jaw dropped.
The most magnificent ship he had ever seen was docked right in front of him. Crafted of dark mahogany that almost seemed polished, bristling with cannons, the Leviathan had arrived in Bilgewater. A Goblin in a bicorn hat walked down the gangplank, followed by an enormous grey Gnoll. The wharf-master ran down the dock shouting, “Now see here, ya can’t dock that ship there, merchant ships only! Git outta he-“ The Goblin stuck out his foot, tripping the wharf-master and sending him flying into the water. He approached the Bruiser who had roused Kevrik from bed, and after a few seconds of talking, he was pointed to the young Goblin. Handing his hat to the Gnoll, who let out a cackle of what seemed like elation, the Goblin walked over to Kevrik and glared down at him. “I am Gren Tal Hugo, and you must be the pipsqueak my little brother Rosco called a son.” He continued to stare at the confused young Goblin. “I agreed to look after you should anything happen to your daddy, not knowing I’d eventually be expected to keep the promise.” Gren Tal Hugo grunted. Kevrik glared up at him, “I have to go with you? Don’t bet on it.” Gren laughed. “You act like you got a choice, you snot-nosed little bastard.” He turned, retrieved his hat from the Gnoll, and nodded. The Gnoll hopped over to Kevrik and grabbed him around the waist, carrying him to the ship. Kevrik kicked and scratched at the arm of his so-called captor, but the Gnoll seemed unfazed.
Aboard the Leviathan, Gren Tal Hugo turned to the Gnoll, “Set sail Mr. Greypaw, let’s head home.” The Gnoll dropped Kevrik, saluted and set off a series of yelps and snarls that sent the crew scrambling. Kevrik stood, walked to the railing, and watched Bilgewater Port shrink slowly into the distance.
The End.
A young Goblin strolled out of the largest warehouse, narrowing his eyes against the blazing sun, a scroll of his father’s inventory clutched in his hand. Kevrik Sicklefinger watched the line of peons hauling crates and barrels from a merchant ship, moving the goods into the warehouse. He silently checked off each item as the peons passed. Rosco Sicklefinger, Kevrik’s father, ran the most successful merchant chain in Bilgewater. He insisted Kevrik learn the tricks of the trade so that he may one day take over the business. During the afternoon Kevrik would manage inventory; and during the evening hours Rosco would teach him to read and understand the financial records. At the surprising age of eight, Kevrik was shaping up to be a fine merchant one day.
Kevrik, though he wished to live up to his father’s standards, had noticed something about himself that he kept secret from his old man for three years now. For reasons unknown to him, he could conjure fire that leapt from his hands at will. Not only that, but night after night he dreamed of shadowy figures, one, a short, spindly figure with a high pitched voice and hands of flame, another of deep monotone speech that resembled a ghost from the stories the sailors told, and a tall, silent figure who carried an enormous axe. The figures would always be blurred, except their eyes, which radiated with a menacing, but contained hostility. He told no one about these dreams, but they weighed on his mind nonetheless.
The blistering afternoon dragged on. Kevrik found himself checking the position of the sun in the sky every few minutes. As the sun began to win its race against the horizon, a ship approached an empty dock. It bore the look of any other merchant ship, except for the colors it was flying. The wrench, bomb, and gear on green gave away the vessel’s alliance to the Steamwheedle Cartel. After the ship dropped anchor, the captain descended down the gangplank to be met by the wharf-master. Angry bickering soon reached Kevrik’s ears. The Steamwheedle Cartel wanted to dock in Bilgewater Port to offload goods to be sold under their name, a not-so-subtle attempt to steal business away from Bilgewater merchants. Rosco Sicklefinger looked up from a transaction to observe the commotion, then proceeded to nod at a nearby Bruiser. On command, four guards flanked the wharf-master as he shouted at the Steamwheedle captain, “Git yer pompous ass off my dock an’ outta my harbor before I brain ya!” The Goblin captain glared angrily one last time at the wharf-master and his bodyguard of Bruisers before finally resigning to his quarters aboard ship. The wharf-master glared until the ship was but a dot in the distance, then spit and returned to his patrol.
Aboard the Steamwheedle ship, the captain stormed out of his cabin, beckoning to a Troll lounging against the railing starboard. Vor’Tan slouched over to the Goblin, sunlight gleaming off various scars as he moved. “Those damned Bilgewater vermin need to be taught a lesson in dealing with us. Take your partner and row back ashore. Send a message.” Gold traded hands, and Vor’Tan went below to rouse his partner. Minutes later they were drifting back ashore in a dinghy. As his lackey manned the oars, Vor’Tan set to putting a new edge on his favorite cutlass, grinning as he pondered how to best fulfill the task at hand: Murder a well-known Bilgewater merchant, leave the evidence public.
The sky had begun to take on a deep orange glow as the sun set when Kevrik heard the whistle signaling all the peons to call it a day. Minutes later he found himself following his father down the road to their house, a simple but well-furnished two story hut near the outskirts of town. After a quiet meal of roast boar, Rosco sent his son to the small study to go over the day’s transactions. He retired to his den, poured a glass of rum, and settled into his chair by the fireplace. An hour went by. Rosco’s eyelids were beginning to droop when a loud knock at the door echoed down the hallway. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the hall, looking to the front door to see it open, Kevrik standing in the shadows of the two Trolls who framed the entrance.
“Hey der, little mon, your daddy be home?” Vor’Tan looked up from leering at Kevrik to see Rosco stride down the hallway, grab Kevrik by the back of his shirt, and hurl him back into the study. He then turned to face the Trolls, “What the hell do ya want? If ya need supplies, you can wait til morning. Inn’s down the road.” Vor’tan grinned down at him, “We be set on supplies, mon. Da Steamwheedle ships by full of em.” He chuckled. “No our boss told us to use one o’ ya merchants here to be sendin’ a message, and looks like you drew da short straw, brudda.”
Rosco looked up at the Trolls. Since the conversation had begun, both were edging further inside the house, trying to flank him. He sighed. There really was no way out of this one. “Ok,” he said loudly, causing both Trolls to jump slightly. “You’ll see no struggle from me, so long as ya don’t harm the young one.” Vor’Tan grinned, “You not be in da position for bargainin’ old man, but I’m in a good mood. Ya got ten seconds to get da little mon outta here.” Rosco bolted for the study, both Trolls cackling behind him. He grabbed Kevrik and dragged him to the window, pushing it open. He looked down at his son, “Get outta here, and stay away.” Rosco threw Kevrik for the second time that evening, sending him flying outside and tumbling down the steep slope back towards the port. Kevrik pushed himself up and looked back to the house to see his father yell, “You better damn well listen, boy!” Then one of the Trolls ran into view, throwing a punch that caught Rosco in the temple. As the Goblin fell out of sight, the second Troll ran to the window, pointed a pistol at Kevrik, and squeezed the trigger. The slug whizzed by Kevrik’s head, narrowly missing his ear. He scrabbled through the dust frantically until he reached the cover of thick brush about a hundred yards from the hut.
Kevrik sat huddled in his fort of leaves and twigs, shivering uncontrollably. He could no longer hear whatever was going on up the hill. “And if I can’t hear it, nobody in town can either,” he thought to himself. Fifteen minutes passed before Kevrik heard the Trolls again, walking down the path back into town. They seemed in no hurry, conversing as if nothing was out of the ordinary as they passed Kevrik’s hiding place. A few minutes later, he crept from the brush and made his way back up the hill to the hut. At the front door he stood, transfixed.
He should have listened to his old man.
Rosco Sicklefinger’s lifeless corpse hung from the half open door by a dagger driven through his neck. Blood still trickled down to a spreading pool that dyed the dust a dark red. Kevrik stood horrified, staring at the body. A gust of wind whistled through the quiet house, slamming the door shut. A glinting piece of metal fell from Rosco’s mouth to land at Kevrik’s feet. Tearing his eyes from the spectacle, he bent down to pick it up. A silver coin bearing the Steamwheedle mark reflected moonlight in his hand. Anger flooded through Kevrik’s body, swallowing the grief. He clenched his small green hands into fists, feeling the coin’s edges dig into his flesh. He spun around and began running towards town, still shaking, but now with rage.
Close one. Kevrik flattened himself against the wall of the nearest building as he watched the Trolls enter the inn. He looked down and saw a round handle sticking out between two boards. He reached down and tugged, freeing a dull, rusty dagger no doubt left there after some tavern brawl who knows how long ago. He tucked it into his belt. A stroke of luck! He had a barely passable weapon. Kevrik entered the inn cautiously. The reek of drunken sailors and rum filled his nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he approached the front counter. The barkeep looked from side to side and finally down, trying to pinpoint the voice directed at him. “Um….. excuse me… which room are those big Trolls staying in? They left something at my father’s stand today.” The barkeep squinted down at Kevrik before grunting one word, “Five.” As Kevrik nodded and made his way through the crowd towards the stairs, the barkeep muttered to himself, “A Goblin returning lost possessions to random Trolls…. Gotta stop drinkin' on the job…”
Loud snoring echoed from under the door of Room 5. Kevrik couldn’t believe his luck. Slipping the dagger from his belt, he slid it through the crack in the door and lifted the latch inside. Grinning, he made his way to the nearest bed.
Vor’Tan awoke to the single most unpleasant sound in the world, though it wasn’t the first time he had heard it. Looking to the other bed, he saw a small figure standing on the chest of his partner, driving a knife repeatedly into his windpipe. The figure turned as Vor’Tan leapt up, moonlight shone on his face through the window. Vor’Tan snarled in recognition, “Little mon…” As he lunged for the young Goblin, Kevrik jumped from the bed, scurrying for the door. As his quick steps faded, Vor’Tan looked down. His partner choked as blood welled up in the torn mess that used to be his neck, his spine pretty much the only thing keeping his head attached. As the Troll’s eyes went blank, Vor’Tan spit and went to the window. “Too much heat now,” he thought as he dropped into the dark alley outside. One hour later he was rowing out to sea, replaying the memory of Kevrik stabbing his partner over and over in his head.
Two months later.
Kevrik woke up to a Bruiser prodding his ribs with the handle of his mace. “Yer wanted at the docks, lad.” Kevrik walked outside. He stayed in the Bruiser barracks now, his father’s house and business long gone, the latter split between a few of the other merchants in the port. As he strode past the last warehouse, the docks came into view, and Kevrik Sicklefinger’s jaw dropped.
The most magnificent ship he had ever seen was docked right in front of him. Crafted of dark mahogany that almost seemed polished, bristling with cannons, the Leviathan had arrived in Bilgewater. A Goblin in a bicorn hat walked down the gangplank, followed by an enormous grey Gnoll. The wharf-master ran down the dock shouting, “Now see here, ya can’t dock that ship there, merchant ships only! Git outta he-“ The Goblin stuck out his foot, tripping the wharf-master and sending him flying into the water. He approached the Bruiser who had roused Kevrik from bed, and after a few seconds of talking, he was pointed to the young Goblin. Handing his hat to the Gnoll, who let out a cackle of what seemed like elation, the Goblin walked over to Kevrik and glared down at him. “I am Gren Tal Hugo, and you must be the pipsqueak my little brother Rosco called a son.” He continued to stare at the confused young Goblin. “I agreed to look after you should anything happen to your daddy, not knowing I’d eventually be expected to keep the promise.” Gren Tal Hugo grunted. Kevrik glared up at him, “I have to go with you? Don’t bet on it.” Gren laughed. “You act like you got a choice, you snot-nosed little bastard.” He turned, retrieved his hat from the Gnoll, and nodded. The Gnoll hopped over to Kevrik and grabbed him around the waist, carrying him to the ship. Kevrik kicked and scratched at the arm of his so-called captor, but the Gnoll seemed unfazed.
Aboard the Leviathan, Gren Tal Hugo turned to the Gnoll, “Set sail Mr. Greypaw, let’s head home.” The Gnoll dropped Kevrik, saluted and set off a series of yelps and snarls that sent the crew scrambling. Kevrik stood, walked to the railing, and watched Bilgewater Port shrink slowly into the distance.
The End.