RP:A Head Start

Part of the The Seven Sins of Sagittae Arc

Summary: In order to get ahead, Seteth must collect heads.

Venturil

Seteth did not know the land, but he still recognized something of its pulse. In some ways the world was the same wherever he went. Strange cultures, strange customs, strange climates… but the fundamental rule of survival was universal. Most people were out for themselves and no one else, no matter what platitudes they spewed. Most people, no matter where Seteth went, were ultimately the same. The thief’s magic shackles, chained to his wrists, pumped toxic spells into his veins. The feeling was not unlike a drug gone sour. Seteth’s employers (slavers, really, but he had to admire their achievement) demanded that he steal seven crystals from strange Hollow in order to earn his freedom. But with the toxins dimming the man’s vitality, he could not do it alone. He would need a network of contacts. Resources. It was going to be costly. Fortunately, Seteth did not need to know the land to know its pulse. And it wasn’t long until he found what he was looking for.

Seteth had felt for years that bounties were beneath him. He was a master thief, not a common mercenary. He was also, loath as he was to admit it even to himself, not much of a killer. He was far better at deception than decapitation. But he needed the work and he’d been counting on someone here in Hollow wanting heads to roll. The inevitable rule of civilization: some people do not like each other. In this particular case, a note at a tavern in the Kelay province had informed Seteth that creatures called razurath were wanted dead by a drow. All it took to learn the basics about these saurian freaks was a few bought drinks and a handful of coppers. Now he knew where to look. His daggers had been sharpened and he stood within the misty morning rain upon the barren plains of the Venturil province. In the distance, beyond the fog line, he could make out the shapes of trees. This would be his safest bet. He would need to cling from tree to tree stalking local razurath like a wolf. He had covered himself in scents of pine and mud and he crouched low with a hunter’s grace. Thieves, too, had this talent. Something near the trees made a telltale rustling sound. A shrill roar followed. Moments later, it was dead.

Seteth dropped the two heads in front of his contact in the burgs of Venturil. “You said this would be difficult,” he said coolly. Seteth’s contact wrinkled his nose with disdain. “Those aren’t soldiers. They’re tribal fodder. Young adults. Wanderers. If they’d been soldiers they would have fought like warriors. You would have known. And for the love of Ennui, I asked you to show me skulls, not whole scalps.” Seteth shrugged. “You did ask, yes.” Eamon spat and dropped five silvers into Seteth’s thin palm. “This is my pay?” Seteth frowned. “Don’t make me laugh. If you want more, I expect twenty per piece.” Eamon clenched a meaty fist and pulled Seteth by his shirt. “And if I refuse, what then? You’ll go for broke within a week. You need my coin more than I need your razurath heads.” Seteth barked a laugh. “Alright then. I’ll be on my way. I’m sure nothing will happen to you and yours now that two young razurath are dead half a kilometer’s sprint away.” He turned to walk out, opened the door and exited. “Wait!” Eamon growled and placed several more silver coins into the thief’s palm. “You’re a regular bandit. Maybe someday I’ll offer a bounty on your head instead.”

Seteth chuckled dryly. “And someone will take you up on that. And win. Truth be told, I’m not much of an opponent. But I have enough dirt on you, Eamon, to bury your business two meters under. One hint of treachery and you’ll spend the rest of your days pissing on mushrooms in a dungeon, forgotten to the world. Take the scalps. Before I sell them to the drow.” Eamon’s eyes flashed anger. That was one hypothesis resolved — the Venturilian knew about the Kelay province bounty request and wasn’t fond. It was time for Seteth to push his luck. He had even more dirt on Eamon now and he intended to till it. “You’re a trophy hunter,” Seteth said. “Except you’re a fraud. You hire people like me for pennies to do your work and then you fill the halls of high lords with tales of your alleged exploits.” Eamon growled. “And what if I am?” Seteth was already on his way out the door. Over his shoulder he said, “My pay just went up all over again.”

Seteth continued his work. Eamon’s failed attempt at haggling hadn’t fazed him; he would continue to hunt the young and foolish razurath who ventured too far into the forest on their own. What he hadn’t anticipated (though perhaps he ought to have) was competition. The new arrival moved near-weightlessly, their feet almost dancing on the leaves. They were far too stealthy for Seteth to predict their arrival at the scene. “This area is mine,” the vampire hissed. Their red eyes weren’t a necessary hint, because their fangs were proof positive. “You’re here for them too?” Seteth kept his tone curious to feign ignorance. It barely worked. “Why else would I waste my time stalking scalps and not blood? The razurath vitae is bitter and unkind.” The vampire was putting fancy phrasing on a stomachache. It was almost too much to bear, hearing the fool use words like “vitae” unironically. They truly were a fool; on the same request board in the same tavern in Hollow’s Kelay province, Seteth had spotted a request for dead vampires. Or was that an oxymoron? Seteth resisted the urge to chuckle.

Seteth hunted no further razurath that night. Or any night thereafter. Leading the vampire into one of his shrubbery snares was easier than wrapping the copper mesh around its neck. Hardest of all was the struggle. The vampire was far stronger than he; thankfully it was nowhere near as cunning. Before it could overpower him Seteth had stabbed it’s annoying cliche red eyes again and again and again. Hardest of all was severing the head from the neck. The vampire was thin beyond reason but its head was strangely stubborn. Seteth sullied his blue-and-white cuffs with its blood. “Bitter and unkind,” the thief muttered.

It rained on the road back east, turning dusty paths into mud. He would need new shoes to be sure. But with the money he would earn from this vampire’s demise, Seteth would be able to afford a dozen pairs of the finest footwear this Hollow had to offer if he so wished it. Carrying a vampire’s head thirty-odd kilometers through plains and wastes and caves was not something Seteth would have done before the limitations of his magic shackles had begun to dictate his actions, forcing him into the worst sorts of jobs. At least the rain felt pleasant and masked his whereabouts should Eamon have gotten nosy about Seteth’s failure to cash in on those stupid dinosaurs. Seteth stayed overnight at the tavern in the Kelay province. While there, he checked with the innkeeper to ensure the woman, Larewen Dragana, still craved heads for whatever dark purpose she was willing to part with her gold for. “Sure,” Mesthak said, “but you ought to take a look at more recent postings as well. An anonymous tipster has warned against anyone signing on with Dragana. Don’t call her House a home and all that.”

Seteth took a sip of his whiskey. “And what do you think about said anonymous tipster’s suggestion?” Mesthak, a thick and aging dwarf, did not meet the thief eye-to-eye. “Kid, I’ve been here long enough to know that calling any House a home has its downsides. Word to the wise: stay single.” Seteth could not help but laugh. In truth, he had no intention of “signing on” with anyone, let alone a vampiric organization seeking the skulls of other vampires. But he needed the gold and he had a vampire’s skull rotting upstairs in his rented room. (Powdered with herbs to keep the smell down to a minimum, but it had still been enough to warrant a middle-aged elven woman to complain.) Seteth left a few extra coppers with Mesthak for not booting him out earlier. “Be seeing you,” the dwarf said by way of goodbye. In better times, no dwarf would have seen Seteth unless the thief desired it, but now? “You will be,” he said glumly on his way out.

The Hanging Corpse practically owned up to its name. All things macabre lined its halls, from snakeskins and femurs to bawdy illustrations of orgies in the dark. The patronage was, unsurprisingly, silent and grim. Seteth hardly minded. Next to the hustle and bustle of Kelay’s lot, this was almost soothing. So long as he didn’t look too hard anywhere, at least. Or at anyone. But he couldn’t help noticing scrutinizing stares from several black-clad individuals toward the back, near the grand piano. He decided to wager a bet that here in Vailkrin might made right. “I have a delivery for House Dragana,” Seteth said, more loudly than usual. Not just the people in the back watched him now. “Leave it on the table and I’ll let her know,” the one-eyed barkeep muttered. “Sure.” Seteth dropped the stinking undead head on his table like a bag of marbles. If anyone in the Hanging Corpse hadn’t acknowledged him by now that changed in an instant. Seteth sat down, nursing his drink and nibbling away at some beef of dubious origin, the rolled eyes of the man he had met in the woods of Venturil glazed upward in front of him. “I’ll wait.”