Thar Shaddin

Autumn, 122PW

Of all the places in Apthoni, the dwarven city-states were the shittiest. By a long shot. It was saying something, because to Ysoria Pathfinder, Apthoni was the greatest province in all Eyropa, and probably the world. Ysoria had never left Eyropa, but that didn't matter: her pride in her province and empire was unmatched.

Until it came to the dwarven city states.

They were naturally mountainous, bracketed by semi-active volcanoes, undercut by numerous old and stable underground tunnels that intersected, at points, with live magma. They were dirty, ignoble, and dishonorable places, given to petty craftsmen and laborers who knew nothing of the finer things in life and, what was worse, had no desire to learn them. If Apthoni had an asshole, the dwarven city-states were it.

Ysoria had come south from Tennemark by way of Teutonia, fresh off a job that her bounty hunting group, Witchbane, was mid-through. The journey had been a long one, made nasty by autumn rains and some fae-creature migration that had clogged up the roads with fuzzy, hard-as-stone critters that the wagons couldn't run over and the guardsmen couldn't hurry along. There was something to be said about watching tough veterans of any number of skirmishes trying to move along innumerable knee-high balls of fluff and stone -- without using weapons, because none of the weapons on hand were capable of hurting them. It would have provided Ysoria with much amusement but for the prospect of her destination.

It wasn't a typical job, her getting split off from the rest of the group. They tended to do their bounties together. Ysoria tracked them down, the others killed or collected (as the bounty required), they went back to the capital of the empire in Teutonia (beautiful, crowded Poznan: always a sight for sore eyes, and an absolute misery to live in for any extended period of time) for paperwork and to harass Hans for whatever latest slip up he'd committed as their administrator in Poznan. Why they hadn't fired him years ago Ysoria hadn't a clue; probably had to do something with his ability to grease palms and soothe minds. Problem was, getting him to do anything was nigh impossible. Getting him to do necessary things right was impossible. Of course, finding a replacement would be just as hard.

They were imperial bounty hunters. Trained, licensed, and known. They were good at what they did.

Which was why, when it came to new members being integrated into the team, they were inevitably stuck alongside Ysoria, because her part in the bounty-hunting sense of things was the easiest. It was a good way of getting newbies to learn the ropes. Normally, it wasn't a problem.

Ysoria hated dwarves. Especially Malta dwarves. She would have argued this particular bounty out of the question, except that it was high-profile and one that they'd eyes on for the last seven months, waiting for enough of a lead to take it on. The local authorities in the Umoran city-state's capital, Umora, had that lead. So, while the rest of the team finished up the job in Tennemark, Ysoria was sent to Umora to meet up with the newbie and to collect enough information to begin the hunt.

Ysoria hated dwarves.

She'd traveled south through Aestuosum, the northern dwarven city-state, in order to reach the southern Umora. On the border between the two, in a shitty little checkpoint, was where she was supposed to meet Iolan.

There was a hotsprings nearby with a business squatting over it that charged exorbitant prices. As a result, the whole checkpoint smelled of sulphur and wet hair. There were three blacksmiths, each specializing in different things and each so necessary that to even question what they were doing in the back ass end of nowhere was to earn quiet glares and endless mutters. There was one inn, and one tavern, a lot of slippery, sucking mud, and a far off promise of green.

The dwarven city states were barren on their west coasts, rocky, with fields in the middle and wild, unmanageable vegetation on their eastern borders (Ysoria privately thought they left it like that to discourage outsiders, since no matter which direction you came in from it was guarunteed to be hellish travel, and they were a stubborn, spiteful people).

Ysoria had glued herself into the tavern. She wouldn't drink anything heavy (because finding a non-alcoholic beverage in a dwarven tavern was impossible) until she'd found Iolan, but she could indulge herself in a heavily spiced cider that wasn't aboslute ass to her tongue.

Hans had said Iolan would be in the tavern. Ysoria had been sitting there for three hours with no sign of another human.

With her luck, Hans would have sent him to a different checkpoint.

Iolan Kephla was not a happy man. In truth this was an apt description of him at any given moment in time, but today he was rather less happy than usual. It was always cold here, even in the summers, no matter what these sweating pigs said , there wasn't enough good booze to clean a wound let alone wet the tongue, their cheap oil had him cleaning his rifle twice as much to keep out the damp.

To top it all off his leg was aching. It always ached when he was between jobs. Stupid damn thing. Not enough that it refused to kill him, oh no, it had to torment him every chance it got too. He felt his head begin to throb with every jolt of the cart. Soon the voices would come again to taunt him. He took out his teeth and cleaned them absently on his sleeve. This bounty crap had better be worth it, he thought, setting the wooden dentures back in his mouth. Registering had been a massive drain on his time and his dwindling resources, but it sounded like it would be more interesting than chasing drunks, debtors and deserters for some local...whoever. It didn't matter what they called themselves it was all the one. Wastrels, looking down their noses at the animal from the East.

He glared at the drovers and the cart drivers around him, spitting onto the ground. They talked big but haul off and break one's teeth and suddenly it was all sulking and dark looks. Dear Matteo was short an ear too but he didn't display that as much. It warmed Iolan's heart to see the man try to talk. Apthonians, he thought, spitting again; specks on the mouth of a rabid dog. Their little empire wasn't a patch on the true Empire by any margin. Emperor knew how they'd made it this far without falling apart. They could all rot for what he cared. They couldn't even guard properly, not them, too busy drinking and smoking most of them.

He glanced around like always, front and back, quick and sharp. These passes were hell for caravans. Every road was a mess of ruts, boulders and fallen trees and blind corners where any bandit with a blade could hide behind and cause mischief. The caravan sowed and he hopped down from the cart, freeing and shouldering his weapon in one quick motion. He felt his knee crunch as the old wound met the wooden joint. It was a good pain. It reminded him that he was still alive when a lot of other good men weren't. He moved right , settling into the shadow of a wagon and taking careful aim, up and down. Why were they waiting? One boulder pushed onto a caravan and they'd have a mess that'd make those furry wotsits look like the joke of season or whatever they called it. He thought it was hilarious to see. WHy were they bloody waiting? He risked a glance to the head of the caravan. Some stumpy figures in chainmail were giving the drovers a hard time over something. Papers, probably, it was always papers with these bastards. Were they at the border then?

Iolan glanced back to the rear of the caravan, checking his weapon, his brow wrinkled in thought. He'd been sent a letter of course, saying who he was to meet and where but he couldn't read, so he'd had to ask around, or thump some heads until someone offered. From what he'd been able to understand it had been a coach house at some border. That was fair enough. Now it had not been any of the coach houses at the other borders, and he had asked. So logically it had to be this one or one after it. It stood to reason. Besides, he liked dwarves, or rather he disliked them less than he did others. They spoke rough, they drank too much and carried on like a crowd of belligerent idiots. It was like coming home.

A call went up ahead and the carts up front began rumbling forwards again. Iolan spat and reached into the cart for his pack and his crutch, shouldering the pack and sliding the crutch under his arm with practised ease. Border towns, he thought, glancing around for the other guards as they moved and he half stamped-half limped to keep pace. No sense running himself ragged now when there was drinking to be done. Border towns. Little more than a well with walls to keep the horses in really. But they'd have hot food and hopefully his contact would be here, whoever that was. Whistling to his employer, he held up his hand and caught the pouch of coins thrown his way. A few bishani. Barely enough to see him through. It had come to this. Swearing under his breath, he stamped into the coach house, glaring at all around him as he crossed to the counter.

"Drink," he said, to no-one in particular, "something strong."

The sight of another human, whether or not he was the one she wanted, was so heartening Ysoria had already slipped halfway off her stool before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated for a moment (even knowing and accepting that she must look the part of a fool), one foot on the ground. She lifted her free hand up to her eyepatch, ran her finger beneath the strap that bisected her eyebrow, and slowly slid the rest of her weight free of the stool. Might as well converse with the only person in the room. The rest was all hair and belching and drunken sloppiness, and her time was too precious to waste on any of those things.

Moving up alongside him, grimacing at the nearness to another . . . patron, she gave him a good look over. This was not a man she expected to be in bounty-hunting in any present capacity; he looked as if he'd done his stint and then some, and was well on his way to retiring in some shitty backwater after having blown most of his money on booze and cheap whores. Bounty-hunters, as a whole, were not particularly well known for their financial responsibility; Ysoria, certainly, had never been careful with her money. But this man? Surely she'd be better off than him when it was finally time to quit.

"Are you Iolan?" As a greeting, it wasn't anything fancy. But this man, she suspected, wouldn't be one for frilly or unnecessary words.

Iolan saw her approach from the corner of his eye. It wasn't difficult, since she stood a good head and shoulders above the rest of the patronage, but he was still careful. People tended to get these odd notions from time to time and one of that was that a man like Iolan was either gullible or easily frightened. Still, there was the off chance that she was his contact, so he kept calm. She looked about as settled as a Charger among mules too, which helped. Accepting the frothing mug of beer from the barman, he slid a few coins across the counter, barking a 'thank you' in Khazalid.

"Something to eat too?" He said, propping his crutch against the bar

Dropping his bag to the floor, he lowered himself onto a stool with a sigh and waited for her to make her mind up.The barman slid a bowl of unidentifiable stew and a chunk of black bread to him and he dropped a few more coins on the counter. Picking up his spoon, he began to eat with a will. It didn't matter what the stuff tasted like; it was filling and you ate it so you weren't hungry later. Grimacing, he worked his jaw slightly to keep his teeth aligned, inwardly cursing the damned things.

"Are you Iolan?"

He grunted and swallowed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, turning to look at her properly. Clean cut, no frills, but too much expense to be just a grunt was his assessment. She was dressed practically, but the gear was good quality and the few splashes of colour here and there were too good to be accidental. He hated the impression it made and wondered if he'd made yet another mistake taking this job. Still, money was money.

"I am," he said. "You the one the letter said'd meet me? I'd shake your hand but you look like you'd rather I didn't."

Taking a deep swig of his drink, he swallowed and coughed to clear his throat, enjoying the burn.

"So what's the job?"

"Escort," Ysoria looked at him. A nice long look. He didn't look like a whole lot, but then again, who was she to judge? "Dwarves." Distaste was evident in the way her lips curled over the word, in her tone, in the way she looked sidelong at the bartender. "Caravan. Headed south to Umora." She scratched at her neck, feeling as though some parasite or another was crawling along her skin. "Picking up information on a bounty in Umora while we're at it; there's new information to be had. We're scouting it. Caravan leaves in the morning. Questions?"

From the way she stood, she was eager to get out of there.

"I like dwarves," Iolan said, "they don't block your shot."

He chucked mirthlessly to himself and took another mouthful of his drink. One or two of the dwarves glared around at the comment and he grinned at them, narrowing his eyes. They seemed to be weighing their chances. He glared at them, willing them to try it, until they turned back to their drinks, scowling and grumbling in Khazalid. He turned and spat, ignoring the glares. To hell with them. To hell with all of them. They thought they were better than him. Pile of miserable, stinking, maggot-ridden...

He turned back to his employer, feeling her gaze and meeting it head on. Yes, he was battered, yes, he was scarred, yes, he wasn't spit and polish like the brawny kids that hung out by the carts, puffing their chests for the farm-girls, what difference did that make? He could track and he could kill and he would show no hesitation. Which would they rather have? He was a shooter, not a doorman, after all. But money was money and a job was a job. Biting back his first impulse, he grunted, putting down his drink.

"How early?"

Like dwarves.

The words stuck in her mind, turning and twisting and annoying Ysoria so that the rest of whatever he said was lost to the bar. She wasn't staring at him, she was staring through him, remembering it was best to keep a soft touch on new recruits until she could tell if it was worth her time to play hardball. Right then she wanted to crack his skull one good with the ball, and then let them see if he could keep up.

They really did need their vacancy filled.

She really didn't fancy two exercises shepherding recruits.

Ysoria looked away, conscious that he'd asked a question and entirely uncertain of what he'd said. Rather than ask, she decided to ignore him, and focus on practical matters instead. "You got a place t'sleep the night?"

There was a pause, which stretched as she stared at him, her expression changing quickly. He knew the look well, and he reached out slowly, wrapping his hand around the tankard as her jaw worked. She wasn't looking at him, though, she was looking through him. He felt his blood boil. How bloody dare she?! She was just like all the rest; puffed up and over fed, waiting to be popped. They thought they could brow beat him, thought he was stupid because he couldn't read and they thought a fancy coat would have you bowing and scraping in the dirt. He straightened, feet touching the floor as he raised himself from the stool. He almost willed her to try it, money be damned. It'd be worth it just to see her try to look down her nose with his crutch stuck up her arse. But he needed the money. In that pause, he heard a small sound behind him, a small, familiar sound. Someone had drawn a weapon.

Spirits-damned, drunken, half-formed bastards, he thought, grinning as he spotted his way out.

The stool clattered to the ground as he stood and spun violently, elbow cocked, and knocked the dwarf's hand aside, bringing the tankard down on it, hard. There might have been a scream, but he didn't hear it over the rushing in his ears. The dwarf, a youngish one, close to, dropped the knife he'd been holding and, in almost the same instant, Iolan's blade was out. Pressing it against the lad's throat with enough force to lift him out of his seat, Iolan snarled and practically spat in his face.

"Hands to yourself, you stunted filth, or I'll SLIT YOU!!"

He looked into watery eyes, wide with shock, anger and fear, wanting so very badly to cut him shorter. Stinking, snivelling round-eyed runts, the lot of them, and their beer stank of mud, coal and pig-shit. He held the lad there a moment, then, against his better judgement, shoved the boy back to his friend, who had a hand placed prohibitively on his own weapon, watching cautiously.

"What're you looking at, you half-formed stump?!"

Working his jaw to keep his teeth in place, he swore under his breath at the waste of beer and slid his kukri away with practiced ease. It may have tasted the way cesspits smelled but it was still beer and he preferred to have it in his belly rather than spilled across the counter. Draining what was left in the mug, he stomped back to his food, glancing at the woman, ears cocked. She'd asked him something about sleeping, but she hadn't answered his question either. What the hell was she implying? He turned his quid and spat again, his bile rising. He wasn't some milksop; if this hole didn't have a common room, then he'd find a dry ditch. He grunted, aware that he wasn't going to be told anything if she could get away with it.

"I'll manage," he said, dropping coins on the counter. "More beer."

He was going to have his fill and to hell with them, he thought, snatching up the new mug, then he'd check his things and be ready to go at dawn. Snorting, he turned back to his food.

It took Ysoria several seconds after the words had crossed her lips to fully comprehend what had just happened. It spoke badly of her reflexes that it had taken her that long, even, but she'd never been much for combat. Even so, even then, of all the things that the cripple could have done, that had been least of her expectations.

She was confused. Well, happy to see one of the half-men lain low -- and so smoothly! -- but she couldn't so easily forget his words. He liked dwarves. Right?

"I've a tent," she offered, slow, eyes moving back and forth on and around him, "if you're wantin' a place to sleep away from the...filth. If not, I'll see you here, at dawn."

She was trying very, very hard to keep her expression neutral, but couldn't help the little smile tugging at the left side of her lips.

He raised a tattered eyebrow at that question, taking a long, slow drink of his beer before belching loudly. His mind was still racing from the adrenaline, but even so, he was certain that he'd misheard that. There was another pause as he let that sink in and realized that she was probably serious. Ye gods. He blinked and then started laughing loudly, leaning against the counter. Not just a hard case slumming it with the plebs then, but one with a fancy for the violence too? He'd spotted the small smile after he'd put that stunty in his place, but he'd dismissed it; it didn't pay to get close to the bosses. Not in that way.

"You'd have to buy me dinner first," he said, with a mirthless smile, "besides, I have all that I need here."

Grog, grub and dwarves to beat into paste or until his arms went numb; what more could a person want? He could see those other two idiots muttering to one another in the grimy glasses behind the bar, and he knew they were going to try something again. In fact, he looked forward to it, and if he got to stick a blade in them over it, then so much the better. He took another drink. Half-formed, beer-soaked, stinking side-tables, all of them, he thought, his bile rising again. The night was young, after all. He cast another look at his new employer and worked his jaw painfully.

"Dawn then."

Ysoria stared at Iolan for several beats, eyebrows knitting together. She could have said something, corrected him, offered a taste of propriety . . . but she didn't. His assumptions could always come in handy later, especially if she decided he wasn't worth keeping. Especially if he turned out to be a dwarf-humper after all.

She grunted something, not unaware of the developing situation, and decided to play it safe and keep the hallowed name of the hunting group out of any possibilities for scandal, much as she'd like to see some heads knocked around. He wasn't on the roster just yet; she'd see what he did when left to his own devices.

"Dawn, then," she echoed with a nod, settling her debt and rising gingerly. She dusted her ass and arms as if clearing them of particularly stubborn cobwebs, and then left the tavern.

She hoped there were complaints of broken noses in the morning.

Dawn came eventually, lighting the sky piecemeal as the landscape snored soundly, wreathed in morning mist. Clad in the wispy stink of piss and horseshitthat infested everything about this hole of a country, Iolan waited by the door of the tavern, just another grey shadow in a pattern of shadows with not even a blink to give him away. He could feel the tell-tale twinge in his head that suggested more beer would have been welcome, but he pushed it aside, watching the approach. Patience was an old skill and hard one, but valuable nonetheless, and Iolan could be very patient when it came to hunting. Some of his warmest memories were of moments like that; crouched or stood in the shadow of a rock or tree, his thoughts a silent rumble, listening to the sounds of the world moving around him as his quarry's eyes looked past him. Just camoflage wasn't enough, that's what the youngers didn't get; you needed to will yourself invisible too. The right colours, mindset and stance and people's eyes did all the work for you, fitting you into the background. And when the background came to life and took their heads off with a well-timed shot...well, that was a whole different kind of satisfying.

He cocked his ears, aware that he was far from the only one pottering about at this hour, but none saw him. He did entertain a wonderful, warm feeling at the thought that some of the stuntys inside would be leaving short a useful amount of teeth and blood though. There had been a few unrelated knifings during the night and he'd had to sleep outside to get the smell of blood off of him, but it was worth it. Besides, any idiot who thought he was easy prey, one leg or no, had it coming as far as he was concerned. There was no need to get the law involved though, that would only complicate things. No, he'd just take what he felt was owed from their pockets, fingers, ears or teeth, and because he was such a generous person, he often gave the fingers back. Couldn't sell them, usually, and they weren't much for eating, so why not? With this cheery thought to warm him, he continued to wait for her ladyship to roll out of her tent and get going.

Ysoria was no hunter. The border town (though 'town' was generous) was stinking and backwards, and she was getting out of there as soon as she could. To that end, she rose, packed, dissembled the tent and had everything ready to go before she contacted the caravan leader.

Things progressed smoothly. It always amazed Ysoria how dwarves were capable of keeping themselves organized; they were like weasels with their underground warrens, crafty and ever-plotting. It was not impressive, however. Beastly as they were, they still had rudimentary intelligence that they utilized, even if it was subpar compared to normal people.

They were so filthy.

She found Iolan last, and surmised from his mien that he'd been waiting. He had the air that Diata sometimes held: cool, collected, patient -- as if he could have whatever he wanted so long as he kept still and quiet. It was a quality that bounty hunters needed, though more the ones getting physical then support like Ysoria. She wasn't so good at being coiled, waiting to strike. Still, she was a phenomenal tracker. Her abilities made sure of that.

"Ready?" She asked, though she knew he was.

Iolan straightened as she finally approached, lifting his pack onto his shoulder and stepping forth to meet her, his rifle at the ready. She looked even more ill at ease in the weak light than she had the night before if that were possible, and seemed to be trying to keep the stink of the place away by sheer force of will. Iolan didn't see the point of it at all: if you smelled like everything else, then you were that much harder to track. But then, she didn't look like she spent much time in the mud if she could avoid it either, so he wondered what exactly she brought to the table. He didn't wonder about it too much though, as stray thoughts were lethal in his line of work, and no doubt she was holding back to impress the poor beggar man with the fancy rifle.

"If you are," he said, working his jaw and jerking his head in the direction of the tavern. "I wouldn't go in there though. There was trouble last night."

Stepping past her, he took a look at their clients for this trip, turning and spitting on the ground in disgust. Some of the guards he recognized, after all most of the wagons were going in the same direction, and very few of them he respected. It was going to be a long walk from here and if he had to learn these half-masted pricks to watch themselves too, then they'd arrive tired and short a few bodies to boot. He almost smiled at the thought, before his natural scowl reasserted itself past the ache in his jaw. He was in the land of beer soaked half men, bringing some other beer soaked half men to a town full of them for some nob in shiny leathers. It was almost like being home again. Spitting, he stomped over to the carts and glanced back at the woman, suddenly and incongruously aware that he didn't know her name.

"Where do you want me?"

There was a snigger somewhere behind him and he spun, bringing his rifle up and cocking it in one fluid motion. The culprit, a youngish dwarf with a short, sandy beard and half an eyebrow froze as Iolan stared down the sights at him. Unlike everything else about him, Iolan's rifle was spotlessly clean and oiled, and it never so much as twitched in his hands. There was another one of those pauses and the lad's mate clouted him across the head and pulled him away. Snarling, Iolan lowered the weapon slightly and waited.

"I'm sure there was," Ysoria said, looking past him to the tavern.

She turned towards where the caravan was assembled, its master doing one final check of everything before the order was given to move. "Don't kill anyone with witnesses around," she tossed back over her shoulder. "Ain't got time for trouble."

Watching him boldly threaten dwarves was a whole bag of fun, but they were still within Apthoni, and there were laws about that sort of thing. They varied, depending on where you were, but it was much harder to pay off iron-bloods when it was their own you were killing. Plus, their reputation needed to be clean. No one wanted to hire bounty hunters who killed civilians, and the imperial government especially wouldn't want to license any group who had a few too many rumors floating about them. Or arrests.

His question ignored, Ysoria walked towards the tail end of the caravan; they were last minute additions, brought on thanks to a retainer with the trading company that, for all intents and purposes, owned the caravan master. It meant they could travel comfortably without needing to pay anything (they'd receive a small pittance, instead), but it didn't mean anyone liked their inclusion. Bounty hunters were not terribly well reputed as guards. Their placement at the end was indicative of this, as it meant choking on everyone else's dust.

At least the caravan master was an elven shifter several generations removed from Darleone.

The lead wagon started forward. All in all, there were nine wagons; a compact caravan, to be sure. It was going to be a boring trip.