RP:Thieves Reunion
Part of the Tales from the Row Arc
Synopsis: The Razor is reunited with Fibs, a former member of one of his criminal crews suspected of betrayal. Fibs lies his way back into Kingsly’s favor, and earns both a tour and debriefing of the current state of affairs of the city, an invitation to stay at Grot’s home until he’s settled, as well as an offer at a job which might well be some form of a test of Fibs’ current skills.
Characters: Grot, Fibs
Location: Cenril; The Whaler Bar, Grot’s hovel.
Another damn day in Cenril. Cold and windy, just like Grot. Whom, as it were, was bundled up in a tight fitting wool long-sleeved shirt, an old scarf, a derby hat and - oh yes. The pants. Clean pants, miraculously. At the bar, eating a meal. Minding his own, but armed to the god damn proverbial teeth. Daggers and a long blade on his back. An interesting blade at that. The man was full of some surprises, today he was looking rather blunt - start it, he'll damn well finish it.
Fibs would be found at the bar, seated but one stool from the bandit, radiating dispassion himself. Although, as fate would have it, he probably had alot less to complain about. The ochre-haired halfling was nursing a proportionately sized glass of vodka, at least relative to his size. He looked at the potato liquor as if he hated it, and then with a grimace, would take another small draught from its contents. He looked tired, as evidenced by the circles under his eyes, and yet he had no intention of resting. Hell, like he could in this place, sailors and fishmongers raising empty cheers every other minute. Fibs gazed into the ebbing sterile waves of his glass, muttering something, of which all that could be made out was, "..T'hell with the sea...keep my dinner down." Unconsciously he lifted his eyes to the fearsome-tempered Grot, lingering a bit long enough to be considered intrusive. He could swear that bloke looked familiar...
Grot looked around while he chewed. Force of habit. Years of people constantly trying to feckin' stab you, tended to do that yeah? Nawr. Kept being pulled to the right. There was a kid. At the bar. Drinking. Kept looking his way. "The bloody hell?" Muttered over a plate of cheap steak, after a sloshing of far cheaper ale. Bastard was in too good of a god damn brooding, happy mood to be disturbed by a midget. Feckin' short bastards. Only ever had two encounters with the bastards, and one earned him a damn brand. Smirk met plate, really, gaze fell toward the last couple of bites. A god damn sly-ass smirk. "Yeralittle'bastard ain't yeh?" If he was gonna keep feckin' looking, Kingsley was gonna talk. Get to the bottom of it real quick, with the Hobbit lacking a few less teeth more than likely.
Fibs persisted with his stare, empty and almost thoughtless as it were. Grot's rhetorical question garnered only a quizical quirk of one, shockingly red brow. The second inquiry proved a little more startling, enough to rattle the halfling out of his stupor and prompt a bit of a reaction. Raising one slender hand to scratch at the muttonchop on his cheek, Fib said in a voice marbled with phlegm and fatigue, "Eh, thought I knew you's'all." Maybe not the right words to say to a man with such a name for himself as The Razor. The barkeep gives Fibs a bit of an incredulous look before spitting into a glass and wiping it 'clean' with his apron. And the hobbit went on staring, as if something might spark his memory.
Grot paused between the rhetorical chewing of the rough meat, enough to spew out words with a mouth full of food - "Yera curious bugger innit? Feckin'like, onna'dem....hobbit folk right?" Hobbits didn't visit too often. The ones born and raised here, sure, not many left though. "Yer name ain't..." Fibs was familiar, truth there man - "Vesli? Versnay? Sommit? Familiar lil'fecker yeh are too."
Fibs gave Grot a smug frown for his question in regards to his race. He certainly wasn't going to argue with the man, that great broad blade on his back was enough of a dissuasion, and that much was clear. "Hedpen Nackldar," he quipped a little too quickly to the bandit's guesses. Yeah, right, like that name was recognizable, or even believable. Fibs snorts a bit, and buries his face again in his glass for a brief imbibing of the drink. "Been a long time sin'I come back home," he alludes, looking back up to Grot. He was a brawny fella, and tall too, bigger than most at least. Contemplating the possibility of a foggy history with the man, and hesitant-but-willing to take the risk should that be a toxic one, Fibs relents. "Mostly known as Fibs though." Now -that- was an exceptional name, and one well-earned. But he'd be damned if he could recall any more of his recollection of this man, just another familiar face, of which he encounters many.
Grot acted swift-like. But before that action took place, Fibs would see his expression, body language change - his head turned slowly toward the hobbit, eye twitched. "Fibs?" Twitch. Twitch, lip began curling into a snarl. "Mr. Fibs?!" Oh. That sure must sound familiar. "Mr. God-Damn-Leave-Me-To-Rot-In-A-CELL FIBS??!????"
Fibs definitely prompted the very reaction he most feared. It was true, he had a bit of a fault to his self-preserving nature, and the bandit's outrage did well to sober him up and bring to mind their history. Standing his ground with an embittered Grot was not his intention, but perhaps he could talk his way out of this as he'd done so many times in the past. It would be tough, though, if not just because this guy seemed like he'd suffered some personal as well as physical pain from the ordeal. "W-w-well now look here," he stammered, dropping the cup an inch or so to clatter on the bar top. "I didnae nothin' else -what was I s'posed to do?" Quickly his wit conjured an excuse. "I went to stash soma the loot and, when I got back they were all over th'damn place!"
Half-way there, to grab him by the scruff of the damn neck and pull him real close - the god damn hand was closing in and everything. That particular hand. With that particularly unpleasant feckin' brand. Well hell, he had one on the other hand. One on the back of his neck, forearm. Seems he always got out before the headsmen axe came down, but god damn - Murder. Stealing. Kidnapping. Extortion. Convictions riddled, nervy to just show them off - but that hand damn well paused half way. It turned to run through shaggy hair, other was a curled fist atop the bar. Rage and thought, that didn't really mix well with Kingsley. Rage and thinking, thoughts racing, raging, hell - you get the picture there. "Yer! You~ I had to....shyte! You dinnae even wan'feckin'know what I hadda do to get outta there! Yeh din'xactly come back fer me or nothin! We weren't pals or ruttin'family but hell man! Jes'leaving a god damn man to the midden heap like that!" He started reaching out again, well and full-ready to grab him by the scruff of the neck this time if the bugger didn't scamper off.
Fibs was quite comfortable lying under pressure, in fact, that's when his tongue was most glib. Grot's first motions to grapple him were too sudden to react to, and the little man sighed of relief when his hand retracted. Good, he was feeding his thoughts with Fib's, well, fibs. Truth be told, the knave made off with as much silver and stones as he could carry, and never looked back. But he didn't need to know that. Then Grot made to grab him again, and Fibs evades, slipping the clutching appendage by stepping off his stool and back -just- enough. "Wa'n't my 'tention to leave you there, Razor," pined the tiny thief. "Brodery, that fat ol' bloke came after me. They tole me he'd gut me if he got to me, so I skipped town." Plausible enough; Brodery was one of the gang in on the job, and probably would've been on the hunt for the hobbit. If anyone knew what happened to him, that is.
Grot took a great deal to simmer down after his proverbial water started boiling. It sure as hell was now, his face was turning feckin' red - his voice was already loud enough, practically a shout at this point. The boisterous bastard enough had guts to slip out of his stool like-wise to Fib's motion and approach him with slow, broiling step. "Yer'tellin'me dat fool, dat sot! He's the onna sold us out then?!" Oh yes, the bandit was eating this like sweets on winter solstice. "I'll....I'll kill'm!" Looked damn well ready to start with Fibs, was practically quivering here - "I'll gut'm up like a gorram fish, fillet dat bastard up! Yer not lying to me are you?!" Narrowed an eye, leaned in reaaaaal close-like to Fibs. Voice dropped, grew darker, "Cause I really hate me a god damn liar-midget."
Fibs was careful to not allow his pride surface a grin. He loved lying, and by hell he was good at it. The bandit was even expounding on the whole fabricated story -smooth as silk, he was. Nary a tremble as Grot leans in, giving Fibs not only a smell but a look at his least meal in his teeth. Without a falter, he nods, "Aye, 's'what I heard. Bet he wasn't thrown innat cell with ya, eh? Prolly hoped to get his fat finners on a bit o'the loot after he gave us the shaft." A peculiar noise passes through his child-like lips. "Psh. I got honor, you know. I felt awful 'bout leavin' town with all you in the clinker." He didn't even shrink back from the bandit's interrogative and intimidative posture. "But you unnerstand, I couldn't come back. They Brodery 'n the whole guard had an eye out fer me."
Grot liked talk about honor. His pa used to tell him stories about the theives code and Knights in shimmering armor and....battles and, all sorts of shyte. Filled his head full of these damn ideas, these damn ideas that he was still trying to make feckin' true to this day. Ain't never seen a knight, but hell if he'd ever slit a woman’s throat. Again, at least. Once was enough. Gods the blood, flush down a bit of cleavage - enough to make a man lose his stomach. "Eh." Took a long moment, one eye squinting - all bent over, looking at Fibs real hard. "Eh. Bastards. Bastards!" That had been the first time he'd actually HAD a noose around his neck 'fore he got away. Not the last certainly, but it'd been bad. No slap on the hand. "It all went wrong yeh? I mean, hell - killed dat old feck, he wunnit even s'posed to be home. Ain't kill even a minor merchant back den, wit out half tah'feckin'city on ya. Got-damn, better days." Better days, nostalgia bringing anger to a slow halt. "Wot tah'hell yeh doing back here Mr. Fibs? Ain't nothin' ruttin'here for yeh or...hell, any'o us anymore."
Fibs still did not tarnish his masquerade with a sigh or smile, but rather shakes his head, mimicking Grot's distemperment with his own. "It was all shot to shyte -should'a known when that door wa'n't locked, I said." He gives Grot a careful eye here, surmising his slowly subsiding anger. "Yeh, y'know -darkness makes th'best cover. Methinks there's a niche to fill, yea?" The little halfling blinks a few times. Damn, that was a close one, he thought that cleaver on the bandit's back would be bearing down on him minutes ago. "Seen some strange stuff 'round here past few days, but no luck in gettin' work. The hell happened t'this place? Hardly a man in business here!"
Grot raised his hand dismissively. Obviously he'd raised up right now, and had to bend over a bit to merely see the bastards eyes. Six and a half feet, hobbit, didn't really mix well. "Pockets." Came after the hand's gesture, "God damn sea dogs came in, feckin' three months or so ago. Took out tah'feckin'harbor and claimed it. Mosta-South Cenril too. Like a god damn war zone for a minute, feckin'hell if it wasn't." He sighed, subversive anger, "Den tah'Burnahm boys got mosta'tah North. Feckin'dat winged bastard Domint or woteva. Killed err'body off dat knew somethin'bout'somethin. Eh. City has gone to shyte. Pure shyte. Hell, you remember Geoff Burnham eh? Wos jes'a'feckin'minor lord backin yer time. Bastard survived. Heartless bastard." Kingsley has seething hatred for that one, and his gang. "Pockets Mr. Fibs. Pockets." Another waving of the hand, "Mosta tah'Gressional way got wiped out when dem lizardfolk did der shyte. Came back shortly after dat yeh? Missed out on it all." Conveniently behind a prison cell. Two years? Three? Hell, felt like he'd spent an age in there. "Feckin..." Hands thrown into air: "Pockets! Power! Shifting, hell, ain't fair much really. Err'body is starving, tryin'tah feckin'make do. Ain't no trade left, feckin hell if there ain't. Mah'turf is still straight yeh? Yerwelcome to it, gon'get yer throat slit anywhere else."
Fibs logs every bit of this information in his memory that he can; names are important around these parts, especially if you want to have the beat on all of them. The reference to Burnham recieved a nod, albeit one of significant surprise. Fibs decidedly took a seat, hoping Grot would follow suit. Get a crick in your neck looking up to talk like that. The mention of a power struggle definitely piques the knave's interest, an ample opportunity for a scheming body such as himself. Likewise, he alights at Grot's declaration of turf. Damn right he got lucky, went straight from being dissected to being in with his company. "Y'got a runnin' then?" he asks ponderously. Fibs definitely hadn't been in town long. Not that he hasn't been soaking up gossip and chips for playing, though.
Grot took his damn time following. Went back to the bar, took a quick bite of the last of the steak - grabbed ale, and chewed away on the trek to chair. He sat, looking quite the muscular fool with that hat on. Goatee was really starting to show now, the rest of his face was a light shade of black - unshaven, as usual, but only a days growth. Made'm look....rugged. Except the hat, the hat made him look like a tool. He was a feckin' hammer, he was, "I'll nail this damn city hard too." Muttered that bit aloud over his ale. A moment of brooding passed with an charismatic smile, stiff, but true: "Mah Row is small yeh, not runnin'much in town. Eh. Got sick folk. Burnham. He's behind it. I /know/ it." Truth was, he wasn't, raw sewage was - but Kingsley wasn't a god damn scientist, and figured that greedy ex-Merchant ring leader is capable. "Lots of folks dying. I tend to...intercept.....eh, packages...heading fer'....Gualon'r'Larket. Yeah." Like hell if he couldn't be tactful. "Kill bitches den steal der shyte, yep." Or not. "But eh, lookit, I owe you. Really. I do. Yer a real honorable fellow, for wot yeh did back'n - I sure as hell, well, I owes you one."
Fibs takes a great gulp of his neglected drink, cringing a good deal as it burns its way into his stomach. Talk of disease and death wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't new either. He looks over just as the glass knocks against the wooden surface. From the bit that Grot's divulged, however vague, it was apparent he's been carving himself a piece of the plate. And then to Fib's pleasant surprise, the bandit seems to offer a tinge of remorse. And for a pile of rot, too. Lies! "Eh, look, I didn' think I'd see y'agin, Kingsley. You get me some work, keep me busy, 'n I think we can help each other out, yeh?" Give this guy an inch and he'll reel it right in. "I'm sick'o pinchin' pockets and dippin' from people who prolly dun deserve it. I'm lookin' for ~work~," he says, with a good amount of emphasis on that last word.
Grot chuckled, "Work work work, blah blah feckin' blah Mr. Fibs." Made it sound like hogwash, "T'is a time for celebration, bloody hell iffin it ain't. Men of honor we are! Huzzah!" Mug rose high, well, then lowered in an abrupt cheer. "We'll...." Eh. Brooding resumed before Fibs could even respond, and quickly shifted. A mind not accustomed to thinking real hard was thinking. Really hard. "Argh. Yeah. Hell. Feckin' work. To be had. I figure. Stuffs glowing up north. Dem southern boys mind'r own for the most part. Few bad seeds. Dey ain't belong in my city though. Our city. Dis'place where I wos'raised'n, dese people I known since I was a littl'n. Eh. Not tah'place to talk 'bout such things. I gots a pad up town. Yeh needa'place tah crash'r....?"
Fibs shadowed Grot's salute with the last of his own drink. Tilted and sloshed, the last bit runs down his gullet. The halfling gives a curt, resolute nod at the words 'Our city'. "I reck'n yer right," he concurs, looking at the barkeep and remembering the words he spilled last night to that one bloke. Actually, that encounter seems to be a little clearer now. Fatigue tugged at his cognitive senses, and he nods again. "Aye, be damned if I shut m'eyes a wink since arrivin'. 'sides," he continues, shifting an indicative eye towards the keep, "We got some, er..reflectin' to do."
Grot half-started to stand up, waited for a second - "Mr. Fibs, I shall take you immidiately! Tally ho!" Voice rose with a theatrical melodrama, he stood vibrantly and struck a very stoic, rigid pose. Arm extended toward the north east, leg rose - like a hunting dog on to prey. "This way we shall go!" An idiot, true, death, sickness and starvation prevalent, true, but he had a way at pretending to be a noble - it looked rather amusing, in that stupid sort of way.
Fibs finds merit in his associate's theatrics, perhaps due to the level of alcohol in his bloodstream, but with a wave of his own arm like a sailor looking out to sea he follows in Grot's wake. Begrudgingly he would leave a few coins on the bar where he sat, and offering the hardworking barkeep a stiff nod, he vacates his establishment.
And then back at Grot's pad................
Grot blathered incessantly about the city. Knew just about every nook and cranny of the place, every dive, every alley, every shop. A few people waved, greeted him in the street the closer he came to his part of town. Many kept to their god damn selves, hawkers yelling loudly about the quality of their goods, beggars scrounging for a bit of copper. Nawr, Fibs would learn real quick there weren't no bloody riches to be had anymore, not on Beloy street. There was still wealth in the city, isolated as it was - but here, it was the slums of Cenril. The Row. The smell of the sea permeated over here, Kingsley leading them into a mostly deserted open market with more closed stalls than open, even at this prime part of the day. Weather likely. Not much to sell when people ain't got nothing to buy it with either. Through the eastern tip of the market, which sprawled out a haphazard rectangle of wooden shacks with cloth roof and down a side street heading south past a shop with a sign hanging just above the door. Two flowers knit together, a herb seller, a healer in these parts. She couldn't help those dying. Painfully, body turning to solid stone - as Kingsley would describe it at least. It was full-body psoriasis. Started from the inside, worked it's damn way out long after the body had died too. Sickening, couldn't seen one of it here - people had it, some people didn't. Contagious, but odd in it's own right. She couldn't help them. Tried. Old Lady Fresser tried real hard, provided comfort in those last painful hours - Kingsley heard it from his home on the more quiet of nights, which was just two buildings up and a quick right. He was still blathering on about the city, ceasing only to assure himself of his surroundings. Paranoid little bugger. Well. Kingsley wasn't little. But he was paranoid. Of people, more specifically 'asshats' poking holes in him with a god damn sharp stick. Up the alley, a post for a horse - hell, horse shyte on the ground at that. A bit of moist hay on the ground. A recent rain. Adon was no where to be seen, Kingsley's mount was well-to-do in a stable by now. Rain rot was quite a keen bastard to fight once it set in real good. "Here she is. Home sweet eh, home." Red shingles in dire need of repair rested against a wooden roof, with a gutter full of leaves and debris. The paint on the make-shift house, more of a hovel than anything, had long since began peeling and truth be told if the windows weren't so dirty you couldn't see through them. On the outside of the home, wedged on one of the two window's sils was a planter full of odd, random greenery. Herbs more than likely, good luck charm - perhaps secretly. "Yer figurin' I gots room'fer more'n two in there. Dis'be'tah safer n'hell too." Alley would only hold two or three abreast, could hold off a damned army in there - "I mean, ain't got but one room an' all but....ehhh, yer welcome to it til yeh get on'yer feet?" Didn't wait for an answer, headed inside and ushered Fibs within. A quick jaunt of the hand over his shoulder from the bandit was about all the hobbit could expect for an invitation.
Fibs tailed Grot closely, enjoying his new position in being ushered about town by a prominent figure. No more hiding and slipping through the crowds and the streets he had been so familiar with long ago. Hell, this place was forsaken. Beggars, filth, and just plain old decrepit atmosphere; guess Fibs didn't look too closely at it since arriving anon. Walking through excrement, both human and equine, the hobbit seems to have no qualms about his naked feet. He even kicked a few clobs of horse droppings on his way. The bandit's paranoia appears to be contagious itself, and Fibs found himself eyeing every shadowed nook they passed and looking over his shoulder for a possible pursuer. What did he have to worry about? He stood out, sure, but he was a nobody, the way he liked to be. Happily he walks through the squeeze-of-an-alley to Grot's door. He had listened to every minute detail of his companion's yammering, hoping to garner more information and understanding of the local affairs. But all in silence. "'s okay," he assures, "I ain't but half-a you anyhow." Passing into the shack, a proclaimed safe haven, the halfling relaxes. "Nice place t'stay low," he comments after stepping foot in its interior.
Grot patted the wall. More like several thundering smacks coming from a brute like him, but he didn't really seem to notice ~ "Treats meh feckin' good." Place was a mess, unkept, a bit dirty. Rather simple too. Two rooms, separated by a basic bead curtain. Privacy and all that. The other room had a few worn lounging pillows, three chairs, a table. A stove and a fireplace..All you really /needed/ to live comfortably. Kingsley had never known luxury, but he knew he wanted it. Every man did. Strewn about in haphazard, random places were little gems - a dagger here, unstrung bow there. Honing stone on the table, an old jar with oil near by. The bandit didn't have much comfort, but he had plenty of god damn weapons. None displayed, more so, used, if you catch the meaning there. The thin cleaver-like blade on his back, which stretched from hilt at tip of head to lower back at flat tip was the first to come off. Grot talked a bit here and there in the process, he was careful about it - damn thing was his baby. "Oi. Reckon, yeh, dis'place is as good as any. No guard needed, yeh, just a sound ear when yer'sleepin. Too wet to burn. Good season fer a god damn turf war, iffin you ask me." Bastard knew something about something, idiot or no, he knew something about killing. Charismatically, at that. "But eh. Not really fond of dem...book-type things." Couldn't read. Couldn't write. "So eh. Yeah. Gots a job fer'ya. Earn yer damn keep Mr. Fibs, yeh?" Shot a smile at him from the far side of the table he'd traversed to set the blade down. It barely went over the end, the home was small - the table obviously suited. "I needa damn map. Of Cenril. An up-to-date one. Yeh. You steals it, from where-ever tah'hell you find somethin' like dat." What was a library? Huh? "Yeh gots food and board fer's'long as yeh....need it. Figurin' like, I ain't no unfair fool, gon'lookin'fer takin'advantage of a man I'm indebted to." A curt nod, the daggers at his hips came next - figure, the damn things were nearly long enough to be a short sword. Set them beside the cleaver. "Dunno where dey are onna map. Got'm in my head yeah? Ain't good at dat feckin' talkerin' bit none." He eyed the hobbit, god damn midget he was, sternly. A brutish 'say something witty' worth of a warning, "Needa see it outside. My head." Started with the hidden blades then. Shoulders pressed against one another, pushing a blade down to his lower back - a few up the sleeves of that sweater, and obviously one in either boot. There. Comfortable. Still armed, but, hell, with about eight or twelve blades resting on the wooden table now...it'd be hard to tell.
Fibs seemed to not be perturbed in the least by the condition of the home, and in accordance to what Grot said, thin walls are a marked man's best friend. A quick glance about would make the hobbit mighty glad to be in this man's hospitable company; besides having enough armaments for an entire militia, Fibs probably wouldn't have lasted long in town if he didn't weasel his way out of Grot's wrath with that glib tongue of his. Damn, what did one man have to do with so many weapons? And then he's pulling more out, from heaven knows where. His house might be run down, but by hell the bandit could open up shop and strike up a living for a long time simply pawning his weapons. A bit of a chuckle escaped Fibs lips, and he listened intently to what he could offer in return for Grot's generosity. "Dun sound too difficult," he says, somewhat curious as to why the affluent bandit hadn't procured a map himself if he found it so important. The hobbit makes only one move to relieve himself of concealed weapons, and it is a dubious weapon at that. A piece of cane, no longer than two feet, with its pith bored out to make it hollow, emerges from beneath his cloak. He sets it on the table, looking like some child's toy beside Kingsley's array of blades. After said hollow tube follows a handful of steel needles, a carefully pinched clay cone affixed to the dull ends. A blowgun, to the discerning eye at least. Fibs drops the darts on the table, and they chime as they cascade atop one another. "Yer a reg'lar man'o'war I see," observes the thief, clearly impressed. He pulls his cloak from around his shoulders, and tosses it over the mess of cushions, making a finer bed for himself than any other he'd had of late. One iron dagger remains penchant from his waist, and he seems tentative to remove it. It's a pretty crude example of a blade, especially in comparison to Grot's collection. Fibs looks towards the man now, his face a little more serious in light of the bandit's jovial manner. "That there barkeep, I over'eard'm gossipin' last night..." He trails off, looking to his companion in order to gauge his interest.
Grot waved a hand, listened for a moment - then waved it again. "Later. Jes'get me tah'feckin'map, we'll talk. I needa'damn nap, gots shyte tah'do tah'night eh." He was passing behind the curtain, which after the fluttering of beads had stopped gave a rather false sense of privacy. Didn't take Kingsley long to fall asleep though, two minutes - all the crap the man had just talked about keeping a sound ear, he sure as hell was a heavy sleeper. Still had his boots on and all. Nemisis' potion had taken plenty out of him, he'd gained more but....he was tired, bit wired awake and....constantly hungry. It made for an odd blend of hyper-activity that he'd not been expecting from a healing potion. Regardless, if Fibs were to poke around in that desk - he'd find a perfectly good god damn map of Cenril, folded neatly, in a damn good condition. Kingsley. Idiot, or actor?