A knock at the cramped living quarters of Jonathan Grayhawk startled him out of his concentrated focus, causing his soldering tool to jerk in his hands. A hot glob of tin solder found its way to a space between Grayhawk's gloves and jerkin sleeve, and he howled in pain after he managed a "Come in!"
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| Jonathan Grayhawk |
A woman cautiously opened the door, and leaned her head in, clearly spooked by his cry of pain.
"Sorry to bother you, but are you Jon Greyhawk, advertised as an 'Emotional Support Rogue' in the Blue Recluse?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, I am he. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable," Grayhawk confirmed.
The lady stepped in, stamping the snow from her boots. She looked around the chaotic mess dominating every flat surface. "Um.. where? Everything looks... occupied."
"Oh," Said Grayhawk, spreading an alchemical ointment for burns on his new scar, feeling the pain immediately recede. "Tell you what, head over to the Golden Keg, and I'll clean myself up and meet you there?" The Golden Keg was an inn located in the Dwarven District of Stormwind City.
"Very well, Master Grayhawk," she said as he whipped off the jerkin he wore at his often-dangerous workbench, and cast about for a suitable replacement. She paused as she withdrew, admiring the strong muscular back and shoulders while wincing at the scars, remnants of misadventures.
She pondered her decision to approach Grayhawk all the short walk on the cobblestones of the distance to the inn.
Cassandra Mallory was a woman of practicality, and practicality told her that she couldn’t fight anyone that wore shoes bigger than her waist. She was human, but she was short and lean. She could move like a panther at night, and her knives were just as sharp, but her size was a hinderance in a sustained fight. Even with the raises in the heel of her boot, Cassandra only came to about 5'3 at best. So what does a smart, enterprising young woman do?
Find a bigger weapon.
“My usual table Myrla. I’ll have company shortly.”
“Alright lass, I’ll tell Thaegra.”
Bounding up the stairs two at a time, she settled into her seat in the alongside the balcony and waited for Grayhawk to follow along.
* * * * *
Cassandra didn't have long to wait, as Grayhawk, now cowered from shoulders to knees in reinforced cour boli boiled leather armor, entered the in common room. Cassandra barely recognized him; the rather confused fellow she had left in his residence-cum-workshop was almost a completely different fellow. They moved differently, as if the bumbling engineer was a disguise... or this fellow was. This Grayhawk had a thick Kul Tiran cutlass and a dagger so long and think it was almost a shortsword. A flintlock, with clearly Gnomish enhancements, hung in a holster at his waist, counterbalanced by what she only could assume were some kind of grenades. The slightly confused look was gone from his eyes, which never stopped moving, taking in the entire room all at once, wary for threats. Sighting her, he strode purposefully to her side.
"Sorry for the inconvenience, Miss. I was knee-deep in a project, and apparently soldering myself to it was a painful miscalculation," he chuckled.
Cassandra smiled at him, a brilliant natural smile, “Oh that’s nothing. My uncle Glover was dead set on uncovering some lost recipe to create Vrykul metal… one hammer strike and his whole arm was nearly set ablaze. Thankfully he was wearing the right protection, or he and his whole forge would have probably been toasted!”
"You can never take too many precautions in the lab.. or anywhere else, for that matter," said Grayhawk with a smirk.
“No you can’t, which is why I’ve come seeking you.”
"Now that you have found me, what service may I perform for you?" asked Grayhawk
"Simple work. I need you to retrieve some gold that belongs to me, and to deliver a message along with it." Cassandra replied.
Grayhawk raised an eyebrow, hoping for elaboration. "This message... not a creative euphemism for death or grievous bodily harm, I trust?" Grayhawk was adept at the application of violence to achieve goals, but he drew the line at assassination.
Not that he had not, upon occasion, goaded some of lesser temper into beginning hostilities, requiring a final and thorough response.
"Ha! No no I don't mean that kind of message. Just a stern talking to and, a little property damage to make sure the message sticks in his little gnome head."
"A gnome? May I have the target's name and clan affiliation? There are some gnomes against whose interest I will not act," informed Grayhawk.
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| Camlek Overwire |
"Camlek," She said between bites of food when it arrived, "Camlek Overwire."
"...He's a fence, is he not?" asked Grayhawk.
Cassandra looked offended, "He would be so upset to hear you say that... He is a purveyor of hard to obtain items, and he treats his clients with fairness and honesty."
Grayhawk chuckled. "I am sure he pays bards well to make sure that everyone hears that about him, but he also reports to a fellow in Ironforge named Fenthwick... who works for some friends of mine." Grayhawk conveniently forgot to mention that his "friends" and Fenthwick worked for the Hall of Shadows, the brotherhood which spanned the cities of both Alliance and Horde, known as the Uncrowned.
"That may be, but he and I also share friends in the silver industry, and right now he is making me look very bad in the light he's been painting me in."
"I think it would take an act of the Titans to make you look anything less than incredibly desirable, but I digress..." commented Grayhawk. "How much does he own, how much would you settle for, and what, precisely, is the message?"
Cassandra counted with her fingers, adding and subtracting as she spoke, "The original payment of five hundred gold, plus item I originally procured for him, as well as an additional two hundred for the defamation... I guess I will settle for three hundred and the mold, but keep in mind that I intend to spilt with you what ever money you obtain from the miser. I will not settle for anything less than the mold. If you can only escape with one thing, grab that."
"Very good... can you describe - or better yet, draw me a sketch? - of the mold?" asked Grayhawk.
“I can do that. Do you have paper and charcoal?”
"As it so happens, I always carry a sketch pad and charcoal." Grayhawk guided her to a table, and unpacked his implements. One never knew when inspiration might strike, and Grayhawk prided himself on being prepared.
"This is the prime target, then? It's re-acquisition?"
“This is the silver mold, yes. The other one is your… leverage, should he not agree to give what is due.” She pointed to the urn-looking drawing, “Camlek adores that thing like a surrogate son. Surely he would rather hand over a few hundred gold than see it smashed into pieces too tiny to repair?”
"I begin to understand," Grayhawk said. He recognized the urn as a clan funerary vessel, venerated by a whole clan of relatives. Grayhawk wondered if she knew the significance, and if so, did she know that Grayhawk understood the significance. Was she aware that he had apprenticed under Gnomish Engineering Masters in Gnomeregan, and was considered family be the clans he had worked alongside after the Meltdown? If she did, she was taking a calculated risk as to how cheaply Grayhawk's loyalties could be purchased.
Cassandra sat back down at their table, taking a long draw of her drink before admitting, unprompted, “Let me be perfectly honest… I don’t… actually want the damn vase smashed. But he’s fucked me to the moons on this one and I have other investors looking over my shoulder that will do far worse to me if I can’t prove I’m not at fault. So the money, the mold, or the vase. That’s the job.”
"How much time do I have, and I am to receive only my cut of the cash recovered?"
“Let me say it this way. When and how much you get is directly proportionate to when and what I can pay you.”
"I suppose that is only fair - not that 'fair' is a business concept," commented Grayhawk. "How do I contact you when I am done?"
“Drop a message in a bottle down the well in Old Town,” Cassandra replied.
* * * * *
And thus began the least exciting part of locating an elusive quarry; canvassing the city.
Grayhawk looked for people who watched people; such people weere much more likely to notice someone slightly out of place, like a gnome on the streets of Stormwind. While not rare, they were uncommon, and likely to be noticed by people for whom people-watching was a hobby and habit,
From the Pig & Whistle to the Memorial Park to the Blue Recluse tavern, he found people to ask his question:
"Excuse me, may I have a moment of your time?"
If Grayhawk approached them with courtesy, most of the time they agreed to answer questions. Grayhawk would show them the sketch Cassandra had made, and ask " I am looking for a gnome, orange hair that is thin on top but sticks up in front, goatee mustache, sideburns, medium height (for a Gnome), pear-shaped, awfully quick wih a straight razor. Goes my Camlek Overwire, but is not above using false names."
If they were still amenable, he would continue "If you know of him, there is a bounty for information leading to his interrogation regarding some stolen goods he was trying to fence in Stormwind, I can be contacted through the management at the Blue Recluse." He would them give them his business card.
Slowly, the net was weaving would catch him something!
* * * * *
Grayhawk leaned against the wall on the building across from the Lion's Pride Inn, standing out of the heavy rain and grateful that the building was home to the village blacksmith. Grayhawk had spent the previous week canvassing Stormwind, searching for a gnome who had taken a silver mold of a vase... of sorts... from his client, who was very keen to have it back.
The money that the gnome owed her would have been nice as well.
In any case, word had come back through the street rats of the Old Town that the aforementioned gnome was ensconced in a room upstairs in the Lion's Pride, which was where things became dicey; the Lion's Pride Inn was perhaps the most infamous den of whoremongering and sexual indulgence in all of the Eastern Kingdoms, if not all of Azeroth.
Every town had some form of prostitution; in Lakeshire, there were bar staff (of both sexes) who took money in exchange for amorous congress (with both sexes). Booty Bay had several establishments where any manner of entertainment, however licentious, could be had - for a price.
What set Goldshire apart was the sheer... exuberance of both the patrons and the purveyors. All manner of races, of every sex and sexual orientation, could be found here, and what was not on display by professionals was often available at no charge from gifted (and enthusiastic) amatuers.
Grayhawk had no problem with any of that; the problem which he faced was that a haven of such indulgence was very well-protected, with both wards and armed bravos. Grayhawk was not afraid of conflict, whether with knives, swords, axs, maces, or even firearms; but the odds of slipping past the guards and breaking into Overwire's room long enough to achieve his client's goals were slim to the point of foolhardiness.
Fortunately, while Jonathan Grayhawk wasn't the sharpest blade in the armory, he had one advantage over so many others; he knew he wasn't. He didn't have to be; there were others who were not only sharper than he, but they were willing to assist Grayhawk for good, solid coin.
A voluptuous kaldorei woman, clad in gauzy scarves under a hooded cloak, exited the inn and crossed the street to where Grayhawk waited.
"Grayhawk?" she asked as she grew near.
"Yes ma'am," answered Grayhawk.
"Never assume..." she mumbled. "Come with me," she instructed, offering her hand. "We have limited time."
Jon took her hand, and followed. She led him into the inn, through the Common Room, and down a staircase to a corridor with several doors. Using a silver key, she opened one of the doors and led Jon into a chamber.
The room was decorated as a dungeon cell, with a slightly sloped floor leading to a drain. Leather manacles with steel chains hung down from a large, solid A-frame in the center of the room. There was a bed, also of thick, sturdy construction, with each bedpost having it's own set of steel and leather bindings. Along one wall was a rack of leather floggers and whips of various thicknesses, and lining the bottom of the rack were a number of potion bottles, presumably for healing
"Wait here," the kaldorei woman instructed Grayhawk. "I need to slip away to my room and change into my 'Naughty Nurse' costume and visit our target; the wine I am bringing him for 'healing' has a sleeping draught. I'll bring him down here, and you can ask him any questions you want, using whatever persuasions you want... no questions asked, so long as you leave him alive. These rooms are sound-proofed... for obvious reasons."
"Very good," Grayhawk handed her a large pouch of gold. "Your 'finder's fee', as agreed, and a bonus, as agreed."
"A patron who pays promptly... you are a gift from the Gods, Master Grayhawk," she replied. "A business doing pleasure with you. I shall return soon."
* * * * *
"Who the Fel are you, then?," the goblin growled as Grayhawk entered the small house by the dock on the Elwynn Forest river. Jerod's Landing was a boat landing on the Elwynn Forest bank of the Nazferiti river. The landing had until recently been run by the Defias Brotherhood, and they used it to smuggle stolen goods to and from Redridge Mountains and Westfall. While the Defias were gone, the route was still actively in use.
"I'm the guy here for that silver mold you got from the gnome fence," said Grayhawk from beneath ao orange Syndicate bandit mask. "Stealing from the Syndicate is a Bad Idea." The gnome had given up the answer to all of Grayhawk's questions before Grayhawk had even begun to apply pressure.
"Why Should I even pretend to be a tough guy? Just leave me enough to pay my bill and buy some dinner, and we're square!" said the gnome, good naturedly. "Easy come, easy go!"
"Oh yeah? We'll see about that!" snarled the goblin, blowing on an alarm whistle and drawing a wicked-looking dagger. Before he could do anything else, he found himself slightly cross-eyed, staring at the business end of Grayhawk's primed flintlock pistol.
"The patrol around the house was too strenuous for your friends, They're taking a nap," commented Grayhawk. He did not add that the nap had been caused by gas from an exploding grenade; the goblin didn't need to know. "Now, the silver mold, if you please?"
"I know of no silver mold," said the Dockmaster defiantly.
Grayhawk cocked the primed flintlock. "I'm sure it will show up after I blow your head to Goldshire. Three... two... "
"Oh, why didn't you say so?" smiled the Dockmaster. "It's right over there, third drawer." The goblin pointed to a desk with a roll-top. "Help yourself."
"Tell you what... Let's do this together, and the whole time I will have this flintlock pointed betwixt your ears," Grayhawk said. "That way there are no misunderstandings around things like poison needles, goblin explosives, or a holdout weapon you might be tempted to use, eh?"
The goblin grumbled the whole time, especially when Grayhawk chose to relieve the Dockmaster of his cashbox as well.
"Thief!" the goblin accused.
"Call it a fine for dealing in stolen property, I should leave your body as a warning to those who would steal from the Syndicate, but who knows? You might be useful in the future" Grayhawk misled as he tied the Dockmaster to his own desk chair. "If you yell real loud, your guards should be awake in a few hours."
* * * * *
(WIP)
