Post by damukag on Feb 29, 2008 15:33:55 GMT -5
((Well since the last one died, I've decided "screw that, I'm making it a story.
Which will probably die too.
Because of the same inactivity.
It'll just be my fault this time.))
“Come on troll. You’ve had enough to drink for tonight. It’s nearly three.”
People are always telling me that I need to stop drinking. I suppose they’re right, but I enjoy ale more than their company, so I usually ignore them. Usually it’s not the bartender though.
“Drink.”
I’m not a very talkative or boisterous drunk. Actually, most people find me to be depressing and quiet when I’m drunk. Actually, they find that I’m depressing and quiet when I’m sober too. Probably why I’m not much of a social drinker.
The goblin gave a sigh and filled the mug, passing it across the bar to me.
“Final call. You sure you’ve got the money to pay for all this?”
“Shure.”
The bar was a dirty, and run down affair. The kind of place where you have to wonder what that questionable looking human in the hood who keeps glancing at the door is really doing here. Not a good place to bring the family. It was nearly empty now, all the chairs put up on the tables. Only two people left, including me. Aside from mystery hood over there, everyone else left an hour ago and no new customer had come since.
My mug had been empty for a few minutes now, and I was getting a look from the goblin that meant I should probably go. I emptied one pocket of gold and nodded to the goblin. He didn’t say anything, just began counting the pile of coins one by one. I left without a word. Ten steps outside the door, it opened again. I turned quickly to see it.
-----
I’d say it was about six hours later that I woke up in an unfamiliar room with a headache the size of Kalimdor and a nice bump on the back of my head. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I was relieved to find that it wasn’t some dark dungeon or some dank and grimy cave. Actually it was a pretty nice room. It was richly furnished, well lit, there were even windows. Open windows. Definitely in my top five unfamiliar places to wake up.
I stood, yawning slightly and scratching my head. As I was deciding whether to escape through the window or go back to sleep, the door opened. In stepped the mystery man in the robe from the other night, sans robe and mystery. I was surprised to find that he was dressed in elegant clothing. He wore richly threaded black mageweave shirt and pants, with blackened leather gloves and a hat that covered a well kept mat of black hair. His eyes were the shade of blue that I wished I had, so that I could pull off the refined and intelligent look. Needless to say he had a very refined and intelligent look to him.
“Damukag. I have a job.”
Just like that. It starts so simple.
------
I’m not here to tell my life story, but in order to understand why all this happened and why I did what I did, you need to know some things about me.
I’ve always been a killer. My first job was serving with the Frostwolves in Alterac Valley, something I did for a good time longer than I wished to. Someone spends too much time in that place and they either get killed or loose their head. After about ten years of service, I finally left. Of course, my brilliant plan for getting out of Alterac Valley ended at ‘Get out of Alterac Valley’, and I was soon without any sort of job or money to my name. I worked as a bounty hunter and guard for a while, but I soon discovered two things. One, I’m much better at killing people than keeping them alive, and two, there’s much more money to be made on the other side of the law.
As an Ex-Frostwolf it wasn’t hard to get a job in the Cartel. From there I just moved up, and eventually learned enough to go out on my own. Things were looking fine until people started trying to kill me. It’s a bit enlightening, being on the other side of the blade. I decided it was time to get myself lost, and I guess the ones who’d been trying to get me out of the way were fine with that. I’ve been in and around Booty Bay since then, taking local jobs and doing my best to lay low (also not one of my stronger points). It was working out well, and I’d felt same (a problem in itself, I suppose).
Times change, and so do people. Now I was worth killing again. That’s what I thought, at least. In retrospect I can see this had very little to do with killing me.
The point is, I didn’t officially kill anymore. But hell, when you're broke, small things like that don't really mean anything.
------
"A job?"
"A job. A simple job."
His voice was sharp and cold as ice, with a detached monotone.
This is when a smart, good troll would tell the man he was out of the game, and wouldn't get back in for all the money in the world.
"Well you didn't have to kidnap me for that." I replied, rubbing the back of my head with a slight cringe.
I'm not a smart, good troll.
“We didn’t kidnap you. You were drunk outside the bar. You fell and hit your head.”
“Fell?”
“Yes.”
“and hit my head.”
“Yes.”
"Huh, usually when I do that the bump's on the front of my head." I replied with a smile that could have pierced steel.
His eyes narrowed, like he was seeing me for the first time and sizing me up. Not that I was much to see. People are telling me that I’m getting old, and so far people have been right about me. My blue hair is slowly turning white, and my once piercingly yellow eyes are getting duller every day. I figure that it’s only a few more years before I can pull of that ‘old wiseman’ look and settle down a bit. I’m wearing some old clothes that, while presentable and elegant when I first got them, are now torn in several places and faded. I don’t even fill them out anymore, either. My youthful muscle is gone. All I’ve got going for me are experience and a willingness to do anything to survive. I figure those’ll trump youth and determination any day.
“Yes.” He said after a long pause. “How curious.”
“Yeah. That’s a good word for it. Curious.”
We would have sat there staring holes into each others heads if he hadn’t finally spoken up.
“Four thousand gold.”
I nearly blinked. Nearly.
“Four thousand,” he repeated again to assure me I’d heard right, “for one job.”
By the spirits, this guy was either an idiot or insane. The most I’ve ever made for a single job was about four hundred, and that was back when I was actually good at what I did.
“Who’s this for?”
That’s suspicion kicking in. For that much there’s gotta be a catch. But the answer doesn’t matter. For that much I’d work for Tyrande F***ing Whisperwind.
“The Syndicate.”
Ah, there it is. The catch. You know those criminal masterminds who never get caught and are always one step ahead of everyone else? Well they have nightmares about the Syndicate. There was no way these guys were dealing with a washed up killer like me.
Now my eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“What do you mean? We have a job, we came to the person who does them.”
“Yeah, but you have people. You have rooms full of people. Why me?”
He gave a sigh, then stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Because you’re lazy and halfhearted. Because we need someone we’ve never worked with who’s so unprofessional that they’ll never imagine that we’d employ him.” He said, almost hissing with anger.
I glared at him. Just because it was true didn’t mean it didn’t anger me.
“Glad I meet your standards. What’s the job?” I said through clenched teeth.
By standard, asking this question means you're in completely. Once you know the target, you're either a tool or a liability. No going back until the job was taken care of.
“It’s simple.”
Which will probably die too.
Because of the same inactivity.
It'll just be my fault this time.))
“Come on troll. You’ve had enough to drink for tonight. It’s nearly three.”
People are always telling me that I need to stop drinking. I suppose they’re right, but I enjoy ale more than their company, so I usually ignore them. Usually it’s not the bartender though.
“Drink.”
I’m not a very talkative or boisterous drunk. Actually, most people find me to be depressing and quiet when I’m drunk. Actually, they find that I’m depressing and quiet when I’m sober too. Probably why I’m not much of a social drinker.
The goblin gave a sigh and filled the mug, passing it across the bar to me.
“Final call. You sure you’ve got the money to pay for all this?”
“Shure.”
The bar was a dirty, and run down affair. The kind of place where you have to wonder what that questionable looking human in the hood who keeps glancing at the door is really doing here. Not a good place to bring the family. It was nearly empty now, all the chairs put up on the tables. Only two people left, including me. Aside from mystery hood over there, everyone else left an hour ago and no new customer had come since.
My mug had been empty for a few minutes now, and I was getting a look from the goblin that meant I should probably go. I emptied one pocket of gold and nodded to the goblin. He didn’t say anything, just began counting the pile of coins one by one. I left without a word. Ten steps outside the door, it opened again. I turned quickly to see it.
-----
I’d say it was about six hours later that I woke up in an unfamiliar room with a headache the size of Kalimdor and a nice bump on the back of my head. After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I was relieved to find that it wasn’t some dark dungeon or some dank and grimy cave. Actually it was a pretty nice room. It was richly furnished, well lit, there were even windows. Open windows. Definitely in my top five unfamiliar places to wake up.
I stood, yawning slightly and scratching my head. As I was deciding whether to escape through the window or go back to sleep, the door opened. In stepped the mystery man in the robe from the other night, sans robe and mystery. I was surprised to find that he was dressed in elegant clothing. He wore richly threaded black mageweave shirt and pants, with blackened leather gloves and a hat that covered a well kept mat of black hair. His eyes were the shade of blue that I wished I had, so that I could pull off the refined and intelligent look. Needless to say he had a very refined and intelligent look to him.
“Damukag. I have a job.”
Just like that. It starts so simple.
------
I’m not here to tell my life story, but in order to understand why all this happened and why I did what I did, you need to know some things about me.
I’ve always been a killer. My first job was serving with the Frostwolves in Alterac Valley, something I did for a good time longer than I wished to. Someone spends too much time in that place and they either get killed or loose their head. After about ten years of service, I finally left. Of course, my brilliant plan for getting out of Alterac Valley ended at ‘Get out of Alterac Valley’, and I was soon without any sort of job or money to my name. I worked as a bounty hunter and guard for a while, but I soon discovered two things. One, I’m much better at killing people than keeping them alive, and two, there’s much more money to be made on the other side of the law.
As an Ex-Frostwolf it wasn’t hard to get a job in the Cartel. From there I just moved up, and eventually learned enough to go out on my own. Things were looking fine until people started trying to kill me. It’s a bit enlightening, being on the other side of the blade. I decided it was time to get myself lost, and I guess the ones who’d been trying to get me out of the way were fine with that. I’ve been in and around Booty Bay since then, taking local jobs and doing my best to lay low (also not one of my stronger points). It was working out well, and I’d felt same (a problem in itself, I suppose).
Times change, and so do people. Now I was worth killing again. That’s what I thought, at least. In retrospect I can see this had very little to do with killing me.
The point is, I didn’t officially kill anymore. But hell, when you're broke, small things like that don't really mean anything.
------
"A job?"
"A job. A simple job."
His voice was sharp and cold as ice, with a detached monotone.
This is when a smart, good troll would tell the man he was out of the game, and wouldn't get back in for all the money in the world.
"Well you didn't have to kidnap me for that." I replied, rubbing the back of my head with a slight cringe.
I'm not a smart, good troll.
“We didn’t kidnap you. You were drunk outside the bar. You fell and hit your head.”
“Fell?”
“Yes.”
“and hit my head.”
“Yes.”
"Huh, usually when I do that the bump's on the front of my head." I replied with a smile that could have pierced steel.
His eyes narrowed, like he was seeing me for the first time and sizing me up. Not that I was much to see. People are telling me that I’m getting old, and so far people have been right about me. My blue hair is slowly turning white, and my once piercingly yellow eyes are getting duller every day. I figure that it’s only a few more years before I can pull of that ‘old wiseman’ look and settle down a bit. I’m wearing some old clothes that, while presentable and elegant when I first got them, are now torn in several places and faded. I don’t even fill them out anymore, either. My youthful muscle is gone. All I’ve got going for me are experience and a willingness to do anything to survive. I figure those’ll trump youth and determination any day.
“Yes.” He said after a long pause. “How curious.”
“Yeah. That’s a good word for it. Curious.”
We would have sat there staring holes into each others heads if he hadn’t finally spoken up.
“Four thousand gold.”
I nearly blinked. Nearly.
“Four thousand,” he repeated again to assure me I’d heard right, “for one job.”
By the spirits, this guy was either an idiot or insane. The most I’ve ever made for a single job was about four hundred, and that was back when I was actually good at what I did.
“Who’s this for?”
That’s suspicion kicking in. For that much there’s gotta be a catch. But the answer doesn’t matter. For that much I’d work for Tyrande F***ing Whisperwind.
“The Syndicate.”
Ah, there it is. The catch. You know those criminal masterminds who never get caught and are always one step ahead of everyone else? Well they have nightmares about the Syndicate. There was no way these guys were dealing with a washed up killer like me.
Now my eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“What do you mean? We have a job, we came to the person who does them.”
“Yeah, but you have people. You have rooms full of people. Why me?”
He gave a sigh, then stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Because you’re lazy and halfhearted. Because we need someone we’ve never worked with who’s so unprofessional that they’ll never imagine that we’d employ him.” He said, almost hissing with anger.
I glared at him. Just because it was true didn’t mean it didn’t anger me.
“Glad I meet your standards. What’s the job?” I said through clenched teeth.
By standard, asking this question means you're in completely. Once you know the target, you're either a tool or a liability. No going back until the job was taken care of.
“It’s simple.”