RP:Chase the Magic Dragon

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Zendor is mopping the floor of Frostmaw Tavern to help pay for his tiny room when suddenly he gets a surprise visit from an old acquaintance named Alfred "Red" Gingerson. A man of theatrical flourish, Red accosts Zendor and takes him outside to a private location to discuss an assignment. Red is a fence, who sells assignments from anonymous clients to mercenaries like Zendor, for a fee, of course. Red gives Zendor a mysterious and dangerous task.

Frostmaw Tavern

Zendor had been, for some time, pushing a half frozen mophead around this tavern. The frozen spot near the entrance is becoming a well known hazard to most. Almost no one slips and falls anymore. Just as well, the area near the fire is known to be a puddle, and patrons are careful not to step too fiercely and cause a small wave to put out the embers. It's unfortunate for Drargon that he ever let Zendor stay here, because he's insistent on earning his keep, yet he has no way to pay for it and so has taken up this type of maintenance. Even while mopping diligently, he keeps an eye on the door and an ear to the ground.

Gevurah isn’t here! The cold disagrees with the drow’s constitution. Alfred “Red” Gingerson, however, is willing to brave the cold for a chance to cut a commission from someone else’s hard work. He heard Zendor’s moping and mopping ‘round these parts these days, and that’s the kind of desperation “Red” is so inclined to alleviate with a little mutual purse-filling. “Aye, my brother!” He claps Zendor on the back. “Glad you wrote me when you did.” Zendor didn’t. “I can’t stay in Frostmaw for long, y’see, and y’nearly missed me. I was preparing to leave the city on account of a time-sensitive matter. Would have left days ago if it weren’t for my wagon. Can’t find a decent, standard size nail in this over sized Giant city, y’see. Say, y’wouldn’t happen to have a nail and a spot of time to help an old brother out, eh?” The theatrical fence is already leading Zendor out the door, away from prying ears and looser lips.

Zendor allowed himself to be led out, if only not to arouse suspicion that this man was anything other than the buffoon he appeared to be. On his way out, he leaned the mop against the bar and told Drargon, "I'll be just a minute, Drargon!" Drargon waited for him to clear the threshold before taking the mop, snapping it in two, and throwing it in the fire. A cacophony of giants' cheers and applause rang out. Zendor was too focused on what was going on. "What's the matter with you Red? Can't manage to be just a tad more obnoxious, can ya?" Perhaps it was the alarming sense of nobility kept among his latest company that worried him. "I hate mopping floors, Red. I know you got a better nail for me to hammer than this dontcha?" Zendor knew Red for the man he was, a middle man with a good excuse. Probably the only reason Red ain't dead.

Outside the Eastern Gates

Red’s demeanor flips once he has escaped the public eye. He’s silent as he leads Zendor out of the city, foregoing all small talk and brotherhood. Why he feels the need to put on a show for a room full of strangers will go down as one of the many mysteries of his character. Zendor got off lucky. Red grins to himself as he reminisces about his favorite single act to date. He had to pull a drunk mercenary out of a bar. The bastard was too drunk to pick up on any subtlety, so Red decided to tell him that he could still smell the drunk’s wife on his fingers. Silver-lining: The drunk left the pub. Bruised-lining: Red’s face. Today, the only evidence of that episode is the tell-tale click of Red’s jaw whenever he grinds his teeth. If Zendor listens carefully, he can hear it now. Zendor leads them out past the Eastern Gate of Frostmaw. The guards glance at the men suspiciously, provoking Red’s inner dramatist. “I tell y’son, there’s gold buried in them Dwarven tunnels! As high as a Frost Giant!”

Zendor follows him silently, understanding his wish to be subtle. Were Zendor to hear the story, he would suggest that in fact it was Red who got off easy. He might be recognizable by his helmet, the spectacle he and the steward made with their fight. But perhaps that wasn't an unusual thing here anyway. So here, well beyond the gaze of any studious sentry, they might resume their contract. "Red, I was never a patient man. I understand the need for secrecy but I've already done more walking with you than I wanted." Zendor wasn't sure anyone liked Red. How could you like a man you couldn't trust? If you ask Zendor, he's just not right in the head. But only the people who know him don't trust him. That didn't mean they didn't admire his way of being trusted by everybody else.

Red waves a hand behind him to the fortress city. “The Snow Witch has spies everywhere. There isn’t a single shadow in that whole city that’s safe from her.” What’s a little flair for drama without a pinch of paranoia? Zendor is right in his diagnosis of Red’s tenuous mental health. “Alright, we’re far enough. Listen, you seem like a clever boy. I got a job that requires, uh, what’s the word? Tact. Tact, discretion, initiative. Got a client who’s willing to pay for information on a mark. Daily routine, affiliations, sphere of influence, as they say, interests, weaknesses, and so on. No killing or any of that messy business. Just gold for information. The mark was last seen in Kelay Tavern, but the client don’t know where he lives. Y’up for such an assignment? 3,000 after I take my finder’s fee.”

Zendor pretends to puzzle over the contract's specifics. "That's a lot of information on one person. Only 3000 for so much?" Of course the truth as Zendor already confessed, is that he's quite desperate for a new job. Remembering this, he forsakes any attempt at haggling. "Alright, I'll get it done. I'll get all the information 'the client' needs. Just give me the name of my new best friend, and I'll take care of it."

Red nods with false sympathy at Zendor’s disappointment in the price, as if the 3,000 is simply out of his control. He doesn’t haggle either, confident Zendor will bite. “Excellent.” His lips split into a weasel’s grin. “Pelarin is his name. No surname is known, but then again not many dragons use surnames that I’m aware. Not that I’m saying this Pelarin is a bona-fide dragon. No need to worry y’self. He might be a dragon, sure, but could as be one of those knock-off half dragons or whatnot. Y’ll be fine. Here’s 1,000 upfront so y’can get y’self set up.”