A Criminal and his Friend

The rain hadn’t quite started in earnest as the pair approached the brothel. The taller of the pair had even tossed his hood back and revealed a bald head and a face that crinkled with a perpetual smile. The shorter one, barely rising to his companion’s waist, kept his hood pulled low over his face and his hands stuffed into his pockets. The bald man offered a wave to the bouncer standing at the door, before stepping aside to let a pair of elvish whores slip out, cigarettes in their hands.

Settling on either side of a low table, they ordered their drinks without asking what the selection was, patiently waiting for the waitress to deposit the beverages and depart before they resumed their conversation. “I don’t think there’s a choice. If we don’t go after it, someone else will.” The smaller figure spoke, his voice emerging in a rough but educated tone from under the hood.

“I understand that, but wasting resources and people on this will weaken our rivals, and if we don’t take the bait, we stand to be ascendant.” Despite the broad smile he wore, the bald man’s tone was calculating and his eyes sharp as they roamed the brothel. “We’re at the top of the pile right now. Spree’s a consistent cash-cow, and the higher in Vanheim are noticing how well we’ve done with it. Why rock the boat?”

The smaller figure took a sip of the ale. “Do you know how kobolds come into this world?” He questioned, not waiting on his opposite to shake his head before continuing. “When the time for hatching comes, all the eggs are piled in a pit. Those at the top of the pit, they scurry right out. Those under them, they can’t get out, not without something to climb atop. That something is the other hatchlings.” Taking another sip of the ale, he continued, “Moral is, you’re either climbing up, or being climbed on.”

“Meaning you don’t think we can rest easy despite our successes?” The bald man took a deep breath, the smile faltering. “Fine… on one condition: you have to figure out how to get it done, and convince me there’s a chance before you go. And no outsiders, I want this done quietly, and in-house if it’s to be done at all.”

There was a jangle of music from across the common room as music started up. One of the elves from outside was now on her knees between the legs of a portly Vanheim merchant, while the other was dancing atop a table.

The bald man did nothing to hide his interest, and even his smaller companion found himself enraptured by the display. “Do you see what I see?” Came the gravelly whisper.

The bald man coughed. “Talent. Coin. We should get her working in Vanheim.” He mused distractedly as the elf steadily shed clothing.

“Not that. The way she steps. The balance when she moves backward, the way her arms and legs always cross the centerline.” The smaller man chuckled to himself. “Someone learned fencing from an elvish duelist.”

The bald man scowled then, “Noble?”

The hooded one shook his head. “No, a servant girl or perhaps a retainer. It was common for them to practice in the yard with the rest of the household, or so I’m told. Still, I imagine she’d be fascinating to watch in a fight.”

Turning away from the show, the smaller figure fished a few silver coins from his pocket and set them on the table with a scaled hand. “Please, deliver my regards to the dancer.” He said to the passing waitress. She gave his hand a long glance, but then scurried along to deliver the coin.

The dance wound down, and the pair returned to their drinks. It wasn’t more than a few moments later when the common room erupted into chaos, burning metal and flesh filling the air while waves of heat washed over them. They’d instinctively overturned the table at the first sign of danger, and crouched behind it.

“Reminds me of that job in Yvrrn!” The bald man laughed, seemingly overjoyed at the excitement.

“None of your exes have tried to kill us yet.” The smaller of the pair pointed out.

“Night’s still young, Scragg!” There was a violent joy in the man’s face, his eyes darting around the sleepy brothel, as if seeing it for the first time that night. His body was in a loose crouch, ready for a burst of ****.

“Don’t remind me.” The blast seemed to have been singular, if devastating, and Scragg poked his head above the table. “Room’s clear, Ryker. You can quit cowering.”

The bald man, apparently named Ryker rose to his feet and surveyed the devastation. His eyes flicked from the two corpses, to the metal fragments lodged in every surface to the single survivor, a crying, naked elf. Already one of the bouncers was organizing the cleanup, sending the staff scurrying, and hustling away the survivor.

Ryker looked down to Scragg, seeing the small man rubbing his chin. “I know that look.” He stated.

“We need to speak with the girl.” Scragg growled. “Quickly.”

Ryker nodded, taking faith in Scragg’s unerring talent for seizing an opportunity. “Let’s have a conversation with the Madame then. Remind her who owns this place.”