RP:Hard to Find Good Help

Summary: When Cesaria placed an advertisement for able-bodied adventurers, she didn't expect Larket to send Gorehilt, an unqualified cadet with a lot to learn about life... and death. Unfortunately for Cesaria, the unlikely interviewee is her one and only applicant. She takes on the half-orc amid many misgivings.

Hanging Corpse Tavern

Cesaria was in need of a mercenary. To that end, she had posted ads in all the major newspapers and tavern bulletin boards in Cenril and Vailkrin. Since then, a week had crept past her in the languid and stealthy way that all things creep in Vailkrin, and her advertisement failed to solicit a single applicant. Surely the drought was the result of an astrological misalignment (aka ‘bad luck’ to the layman). Unbeknownst to Cesaria, her ad had two flaws. First, the reward was listed as ‘Adventure generates its own rewards.’ In Cesaria’s native tongue, ‘generate’ is only used in the material sense. Furthermore, when ‘generate’ and ‘reward’ are paired, the meaning is clear: expect an abundance of wealth. And indeed, she believed the value of the treasures to be found on this adventure would far exceed any lump sum she could promise. She was oblivious to the common-tongue expression ‘Adventure is its own reward’ which promised fulfillment, a reward with a monetary value of zero. Second, the ad did not disclose her name and said only to meet the mysterious solicitor in The Hanging Corpse Tavern in Vailkrin during certain hours on certain days. Some readers suspected the ad was written by a hungry, if lazy, vampire. Oblivious to these flaws, Cesaria sat primly at a table facing the door of the tavern in a black double-breasted suit, wine-colored suede boots, and discreet ruby jewelry. Despite the fact that it was always evening in Vailkrin, Cesaria sipped coffee, ate toast and read the daily paper. As a human resident of Vailkrin, pretending the day was divided into morning, afternoon, evening helped her keep her sanity. It was her morning, though the undead patrons that caroused in the tavern would eternally disagree.

Gorehilt pushes brusquely into the tavern. He is a fully armed, fully armored, soot-stained soldier, and he's not here to carouse. His sharp, orange-red eyes give the tavern a quick sweep as he rolls his shoulders and twists his trunk in the manner of someone who is stiff from a long journey. Unhurriedly, he removes one guantlet, then the other, and by the time he has them both off and tucked beneath his arm, Gorehilt is staring directly at Cesaria. He looks... pleased? It's hard to tell, because more than anything, it seems like the half-orc is doing his best to look like he's being inconvenienced. As he walks toward Cesaria, he begins to tug something out from one of his bracers. "Hey." He thrusts a rolled sheet of paper at her. It's one of her flyers. "This is yours?" Gorehilt's eyes narrow as though daring her to affirm it.

Cesaria did not look up when the door opened. Only the mild hush of vampires suddenly enthralled by a freshly-arrived, loudly-pumping heart stirred her from her reading. Like the thirsty vampires, she stared at the half-orc with keen interest, though her interest differed from the undead’s. The armor, the weapons, the soot, the scowl, yes! This must be a mercenary come at last! Her attempt to hide her elation came too late. An eager smile flashed across her face, and her attempts to repress it would be given a C+ at best by a capable actor. The half-orc’s glower did little to scare off her mood, in part because one of the vampires present in the tavern served as Cesaria’s bodyguard. However, as Gorehilt approached her table and Cesaria was able to appraise his age, her smile faded. Will he need a permission slip from his parents for this? “Yes,” she replied.

Gorehilt nods, and his glower turns into a belligerent smirk. "They said to give you this." He tugs out a second piece of paper, tries a couple times to uncurl it, then pinches a crease in it so it will stay unfurled as he sets it in front of her. It's a writ bearing Larket's state seal. "Bet it known," it begins in flowery calligraphy, then continues in plainer, more legible script, "in good will and as a gesture of charitable military outreach, cadet errant GOREHILT offers to you his services as a ADVENTURER, GENERAL/UNSPECIFIED. Long life to you, your people, and the Noble Kingdom of Larket. Signed, {illegible scrawl}" The bottom is stamped with a wax signet which the well-informed eye will recognize as belonging to some commanding caste within Larket's military. It's the real deal, and it forms an unlikely contrast with the young, brash half orc warrior standing in front of her. Gorehilt crosses his arms across his chest. "At your disposal." Well, he certainly looks (and smells) like he's been disposed of. "This is a temporary thing," Gorehilt quickly adds. "I'm not on permanent assignment." That's a fine hello, isn't it? Behind his tusk, his mouth moves uncomfortably with the effort of restraint, and he stifles whatever he'd like to say next by grinding his teeth instead. Unable to bear the strain of maintaining eye contact with Cesaria, he darts another glance around him, and his green fingers drum anxiously on his arms. A quiet "pop" jerks his attention to the bar, and he watches the bartender pour a customer a dainty glass of... blood? Gorehilt hastily returns his attention to the table and the papers. He stiffens his neck with a "pop" of its own and takes a slow, even breath to steady himself.

Cesaria reviewed Gorehilt’s permission slip at length, her thoughts fixed on the word ‘Larket’ as if dwelling on it would suddenly call forth political facts she did not possess. A more politically-inclined mind would wonder if Larket had any political motivation in sending a cadet to Cesaria’s aid, but Cesaria’s mind was so politically disinclined that she could not name the King of Larket nor point to the kingdom on a map. (It’s near Vailkrin? What a small world!) The wax seal and the title of ‘cadet errant’ were equally gibberish to her. More concerning was the matter of Gorehilt’s young age, and his evident reluctance to be here. She appraised him again from head to toe and knew that despite her disappointment — how did the common expression go? Beggars cannot choose? Something like that. “Please, have a seat,” she said as she placed Gorehilt’s permission slip on the table between them and spun it around. It pivoted on the crease which Gorehilt pinched. Although she already knew she would hire him, she thought it best to interview him all the same. Perhaps the interview might scare him off and free them both from their disappointments. “Have you ever sailed before?” “Have you ever been to Rynvale Island?” “Have you ever explored graveyards, tombs or catacombs?” “Tell me about an encounter you’ve had with a ghost.” “Have you ever respectfully, temporarily relocated a corpse? If so, how did you ensure the dead were properly respected?”

Gorehilt stiffly takes the offered seat, but by the time Cesaria has gotten to her second question, he's relaxed into a lounging posture. "No, but I'm fine at swimming." "Never been. I've heard it's nice." "What do you mean 'explored'? I've been in them, yes." "I make it a point not to bug ghosts" Her last question makes his mouth draw tight, and he gradually shakes his head. "No, but I'm comfortable with bodies, if that's what you're asking." Gorehilt reaches up to scratch thoughtfully at his dreads. "All this death stuff you're getting at, I, well," one eye squints shut, "I've got my religious education. Vakmathras," he taps a religious emblem embossed on one of his pauldrons, "deals with that stuff, but I'm not sure, well..." Gorehilt looks around the tavern with a considerate air. "I'm preaching to the choir, right? I've got a lot to learn about this stuff, and they said this was the right place." Suddenly remembering his posture, Gorehilt straightens up and folds his hands on the table. "So here I am, like I said lady. At your disposal." The unstated undertone is, "we're doing you a favor."

Gorehilt’s responses did little to dissuade Cesaria from her first impression that he was quite inexperienced. Worse yet, her questions did little to dissuade him from joining her quest. The cadet had orders. The abysmal copywriter had no other options. “Cesaria,” she said when he called her ‘lady’. Though Gorehilt’s presumptuous posture and military-puffed confidence could not be missed, the soldier’s attitude bothered Cesaria none at all. Perhaps this young man and his kingdom were doing her a favor. Only the fates could say. The knowledge that whatever happened on this plane was influenced by cosmic, dark, and divine forces had freed Cesaria from expecting much of others and made her nearly unflappable. Gorehilt, on the other hand, seemed to expect her to be studied in the theology of Vakmatharas. More disappointment lies ahead for the young soldier. “Very well. We will meet here tomorrow morning. ...Ah, what I mean is, 9am Cenrili time. I keep my watch set to Cenril, I suggest you do the same.” She glanced at her watch. “It is 11:15 in the morning there now.” It is also 11:15 am in the morning in Larket, but Cesaria’s ignorance of geography and politics knew no bounds, both literally and figuratively. “We will travel to Cenril by coach, then board a chartered ship to Rynvale. I’ll tell you more about the mission after we’ve left.” She waved a gloved hand lazily to indicate the tavern full of keen ears. “Silas,” she gestured towards a vampire near the door, “will accompany us for most of the trip.” She dragged a finger across her lips thoughtfully as she considered what else he needed to know now. “Can your weapon pierce phantoms? If not, there’s an herbalist in town that sells essence of nightshade and moon wheat root for a few copper each. Buy some, and I’ll make an ointment you can put on your weapons to defend against malevolent spirits.” Her gaze drifted away from Gorehilt as she sighed and considered any other logistics without an ounce of anxiety about the adventure to come. No, nothing came to her calm mind. She gathered her things to signal the end of the meeting. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Gorehilt offers a thumbs-up to answer her introduction. He wears no watch and takes no notes. "I'll just rent a room here and get up with the sun. Or," his face contracts, "wait. Right, that doesn't work here. I'll, yeah, I'll be here. Got it." Silas gets a nod of acknowledgement and another thumbs-up. "Can my weapons do what now?" Gorehilt swivels back to face Cesaria. "Like cut ghosts?" It's something he's never considered. Aren't weapons useless? It looks like his education begins now. "Sure, I'll buy some. Thanks for the tip. So, just," Gorehilt twirls a finger in the air, "assume I'm going into this blind, is there anything else I should pick up? I've got a couple medals and a holy book, are those..." any good? In case it wasn't obvious already, Gorehilt's never been tested in the field against incorporeal enemies. "I know a banishing spell," he offers brightly in his defense. "Oh, and yeah, I do have a question. I brought my mount," Gorehilt gestures over his shoulder at the door. "I wouldn't trust her in catacombs, if that's where we're going. That... is where we're going? Or," he rubs his forehead, "details tomorrow, right. Anyway, I can stable her if I have to." He doesn't want to. "Hate to leave her, but she'd managed better in a stable than..." It seems he's rather attached to the creature.

Cesaria sat back down when it was clear Gorehilt’s inexperience exceeded her initial read. She squinted at his mention of medals and a holy book. When he asked if he should buy anything else, she dead-panned a joke, “Salt.” Then added more earnestly, though her tone remained unchanged, “Iron dust.” Good luck to Gorehilt in parsing jests from tips. “What do you mean by holy book? As in… The Minor Book of the Dead? It’s… Sure. Can’t hurt.” Although Cesaria did not carry with her The Minor Book of the Dead, she felt it unnecessary to disclose this. She had read The Book, of course, but her approach to death was bespoke. The medium had found the book light on the spirit, too heavy on the flesh. She flashed a smile for his sake when he mentioned the banishing spell, but he would be correct to read that she was not impressed. “You can bring the mount for most of the trip. I’ll have a donkey to carry my cello.” The woman brightened a little, too. “I just started learning to play the cello a few weeks ago. It’s a long trip, so I’d like to practice my scales to pass the time.” Gorehilt may notice that some distance behind Cesaria, Silas dragged a hand across his suddenly weary face as Cesaria revealed that the damned cello was coming with her.

Gorehilt misses the joke and counts off on his fingers. "Nightshade, moonroot, salt, iron dust, got it." That's a short enough shopping list to remember, he tells himself, repeating it again silently in his head. At the mention of the Minor Book of the Dead, Gorehilt grins a genuine, surprised smile. "You know it? Us cadets all get the annotated King Macon version," this is supposed to impress her, "revised." To have a cello along for practice seems like a quaint, fussy addition to the journey. She would. The implication of "practicing scales" is lost on Gorehilt, and though he misses Silas' gesture, the half-orc will have a whole voyage to appreciate the revelation when it comes. Mostly, he's just relieved to be able to bring Cinderback along. "No more questions." Gorehilt waves a level palm over the table, then begins rolling back up his papers. "Tomorrow, I'll be here." He stands, tucks the flyer and the writ back into his bracer, and clicks his heels. "Cesaria." Unless she says anything to call him back, he'll be tugging his gauntlets back on and turning for the door.

Cesaria felt no need to disabuse Gorehilt of his misunderstanding. Salt was generally useful as a reagent, and perhaps the food will be bland on the road. Can’t go wrong with salt. She noted the name ‘King Macon’ and safely assumed this was the King of Larket. She had never read that version of The Book and decided to get her hands on a copy before the trip. Perhaps this ‘King Macon’ also found The Minor Book of the Dead lacking with regard to the spirit and had filled in some blanks? She could only hope. “Hm,” she said in place of goodbye and watched Gorehilt leave without any more comment. After his departure, Cesaria was struck with a rare, politically-adjacent thought. What if King Macon, an apparent disciple of Vakmatharas and scholar of The Minor Book of the Dead, had somehow learned details of Cesaria’s quest? How could he possibly know what Cesaria was after? While it was impossible for King Macon to know any details of her specific plan, it would be trivial for a king to employ powerful oracles and scriers who could point him towards an artifact of great power. She would need to be coy with Gorehilt. Perhaps his true mission was to report back to his King any details about Cesaria’s mission, and even possibly steal The Fifth Movement! If that’s the case, the young cadet had already tipped his hand. Cesaria’s conjecture quickened into certainty in a manner of minutes. She would have to throw Gorehilt off the scent, while still making use of his services. She was up for the challenge.