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Do I Feel Lucky?; Well Do Ya, Punk?
Topic Started: Mon Mar 18, 2013 11:19 pm (209 Views)
Varien
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There really was nothing quite so bad as asking a former employer for a favor. Particularly if it was one that you happened to betray the last time around. But if experience held true, a wealthy lord had a conveniently short memory in desperate times. Varien straightened his borrowed uniform, smoothing out a forest of tan wrinkles that gathered across his thigh. He tried standing tall, sucking in his belly until the brass buttons lined up perfectly, puffing out his chest like a regular military dandy, but the inane posturing was foreign to him. Still, Varien had to admit, Kellen’s browns painted him quite a dashing figure. He smirked at himself in the tall mirror, catching the sidelong grin his reflection cast back at him. Posing pompously, he rested a hand on the gilded rapier at his waist and looked down his nose at the man who stared identically back.

The flap of heavy fabric interrupted his shallow introspection and he turned as a chubby ambassador entered the atrium of the great tent. The servant was ruddy-faced and rheumy-eyed, bearing a bald pate lined with a rim of black hair and deep stains of sweat marring his axillae and collar. He mopped away the perspiration beading upon his broad face before standing in rigid attention.

“Varien Garek,” he announced to the tented chamber as if addressing a great horde of petitioners.

The mercenary looked around the luxuriant scarlet vestibule, eyes lingering appreciatively on a velvet chair and a heavy silver candelabrum. They drifted unceremoniously about, but of course there was no one else in the room save himself. Arrogant bastard, this lord was, wasting time on pointless trivialities and worthless procedure when there was a war to be fought and gold to be earned. Finally Varien gestured at his chest in mock surprise. “Why good sir, I believe that is me!”

The cherubic man harrumphed and continued, “His August Lord, True Mayor of the City of Kellen, Scourge of the Horselord Clans, Protector of the People, Guardian of the Genteel...”

A dramatic pause for effect, no less. The more titles a man piled in front of his name the less he deserved them, if experience held true. Yet one must follow the man with the deepest pockets, and the khan's were turning up a little shallow as of late...

“...Norrick dan Vorren...”

The name still grated on him, being honest, but if you turn up sympathizing with your employer, it makes it a bucketload harder to turn on him if the opportunity necessitates it.

“...will see you now,” the chamberlain concluded. He flicked back the heavy curtain that separated the foyer of the giant tent from dan Vorren’s sitting room, and Varien ducked inside.

The outer room was paltry and bare compared to the garish décor inside. The mercenary’s eyes raised in surprise and greed as he trailed them over the horde. Teak counters, mahogany chests with fine silver inlays, a low-slung table draped in Istani silk, and upholstered chairs all glittered gold in the flickering lamplight. Scents of lavender and frankincense, saffron and cardamom kissed Varien’s nostrils and he breathed deeply, bathing himself in their decadence. In the middle of the room upon a grand chair painted gold and adorned in priceless azure magesilk, Norrick dan Vorren slouched. He was an average-looking man whose close cropped dark hair framed a kindly face and piercing green eyes. Handsome enough but not so much to be intimidating. In stark contrast to the gaudy furnishings, the noble was robed plainly in colorless canvas sackcloth. Ragged holes were cut into the fabric for his head and limbs and a frayed rope belt was cinched around his midsection. He inclined his head when Varien entered, and sparing no pretence, spoke.

“You know I think of myself as a common man, Garek,” he began, a soliloquy the mercenary had grown all too familiar with the last time he’d been in the man’s employ, “I do not wear fine clothes like those greedy vultures in Kellen...” he gestured at the rough fabric cloaking him, taking special heed not to wave his hand at the pretentious display of wealth that lurked about, “... and I eat with my own two humble hands, no gilded silver spoons in sight. I employ a skeletal crew of staff and no guards to protect my humble life. And of course, I look only for the best interests of the people. It is with a heavy heart that I am forced to unite our great nation in the crucible of war, for I know like few others how devastating it is for the farmers...”

Greedy bastard had never worked a day in his life. Varien would bet a small fortune dan Vorren didn’t even wipe his own arse.

“...But those warmongering horselords are content to burn and rape and murder my people!” he shouted, rising from his chair. Dan Vorren paused for a moment and let the crimson drain from his cheeks. “You are not the most reliable of men, Garek...” he turned away suddenly to one of the lavish tables beside him, pouring a dark, silky wine into a crystal goblet. “And to be brutally honest with you, I was quite... disappointed... when I’d learned you were to blame for my... holiday... from the city in the autumn...”

Holiday or harried retreat, it made little difference now.

Dan Vorren turned on his heel to face Varien. “...Quite disappointed indeed, that we should end our business before it was truly concluded. I even juggled the idea of severing our ties completely!”

If by severing ties completely he meant employing a half-dozen incompetent assassins to kill the mercenary in his sleep, Varien had to concede to the man. But Marcus had taken care of the would-be murderers quite nicely. The sellsword almost broke into a fit of belly-laughing at the thought of it all, but suppressed it with some difficulty.

“...Yet here you stand, bold enough... nay, foolish enough! ...to seek my employ once more? And this time you promise to deliver the khan’s head? Why, oh why, upon the endless fields of wheat, would I ever... trust... you?”

Varien slapped on his most cocksure grin and bowed in mock respect.

“There comes a time in every man’s life, be he great or small, be he short or tall, that he must take a gamble. A risk, if you will, a supplication to Lady Luck...”

Gambles, risks, supplications, call them what you will, Varien knew he’d taken a great one coming here. Dan Vorren surely had entertained thoughts of killing him on sight as soon as he’d entered the makeshift camp. The noble had good reason to, given the way their last contract had turned out, but he hadn’t. Varien latched on to that pitiful display of weakness, of curiosity, and once the mercenary had taken the bite, there was no going back.

“...And the turn for your hand at the cards is now. Let me lay down the situation for you, so we can be completely clear,” Varien smiled, “For none shall say that I wasn’t upfront! Khan Droggba has a thousand cavalry at his immediate disposal with a few... hundred more in reserve. All are stationed within two days of here. All are seasoned warriors who can ride hard all day and still fight as tough as sin all night. Even the worst rider among them can empty a quiver on horseback faster than you or your arbalests or any of the... two hundred horses? ...in your employ can close the gap and line up a single quarrel.”

Varien paced up to dan Vorren and lowered his voice to a throaty whisper.

“And ol’ boy Droggba is none too pleased that you killed his son last fall, none too pleased at all. He’s out for your blood, my lord, and though he sits as First Councilman in Kellen, we both know he’s more at home cutting off the heads of dapper nobles and torching farms. He will come for you. The only question is will it be tomorrow, or in a fortnight? Rest assured, my lord, it will be soon.”

The mercenary took a few steps back and waved his arm in a grand circle, “Now I know that our last... partnership... left a bit of a sour taste on your palate,” he smiled wolfishly, “But you need me if you’ve any hope of surviving the summer. I know Droggba, I know his men, and I know how you can bring that dog to heel.”

The noble’s lips were twisted in a deep frown, forehead furrowed and eyes slit dangerously. Perhaps seeking new employment had been too much a risk after all...

“Why do you offer this, Garek?” dan Vorren snarled. “Why do you come into my camp, make honeyed words with me, and then offer to end my troubles? I should have you stoned, drawn and quartered, tarred and feathered, crucified! Half the reason I admitted you was to whet my appetite for your grisly death at my own hand!”

“But the other half of you knows I’m right,” Varien finished. “The horselord clans are allied under Droggba, and under Droggba only. If he dies, they will descend upon themselves like a pack of jackals, tearing each other to shreds. The Clans are not meant to fight together, they are meant to fight amongst themselves. And they will, if Droggba dies. Even as we speak, a dozen chieftains grapple for his favor, kneel at his feet while elbowing their neighbor. If he dies, they’ll turn on each other.”

Dan Vorren smiled, a look of contempt and victory scribbled across his white teeth.

“I’m afraid you’ve finally said too much, Garek. I imagine you seek my coffers to fund your assassination? Trust me, mercenary, I’ve better trained killers than you.”

“Like the ones you threw at me after I sided with Droggba in the autumn? I assure you, my lord, you overestimate the abilities of your employees,” Varien grinned at the self-jest. “But I have intimate access to our mutual friend the khan, and I can orchestrate a very dramatic and very final end to his meteoric rise.”

Hopefully the paranoid fop would buy it. If not... best not to dwell there. He was all in on this little bet.

“Intimate, you say?” murmured dan Vorren as he stalked back to his chair. “You’d land the killing blow? Come now, Garek, we both know you’re no assassin.”

“Of course, your Excellency, I find that my hand quivers far less giving orders than carrying them out.” He rattled the sword at his hip. “And I find I’m better at shaking steel than drawing it. No, I won’t be your assassin, but that doesn’t mean I can’t employ one of my own. One very... very... close to the khan,” the mercenary winked. “Shame indeed to die in one’s own bed, but there are worse ways to go than beneath a woman.”

Dan Vorren cracked an even-toothed smile and ran a hand through his hair. He adjusted the knot on his belt for a moment, drawing out the pregnant silence. Trying to make Varien sweat.

“I may just have underestimated you, Garek, and I won’t make that mistake again. But I’ll warn you now,” the noble straightened in his gilded chair and narrowed his eyes, “Lest anyone call me anything other than upfront... if you fail me, I can assure you that your head will roll before mine.”

Varien smiled. He could already feel the comforting weight of gold in his purse, the smell of fresh metal on his fingertips. That satisfying tinkle it made when he spent it. “But of course, my lord, but of course... Now, you know my price...”

Sometimes it pays to gamble and sometimes Lady Luck turns her back on you. And sometimes a silver tongue makes all the difference.
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