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Our Stories; On Origins
Topic Started: Mar 13 2009, 08:36 PM (605 Views)
Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz
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Hey, guys, I intend on trying to write up some of our gaming in a literature type format. I'd be pretty pumped if you guys joined me. I have a limited perspective, and seldom do I hear all that goes on, especially when Roland goes and interviews a captive, or Caius, Roland and Gideon meet together to discuss what a putz Malcom is. So in here, let's write some short posts that will amount to the stories of our characters. I am going to work on Malcom's origin some, and eventually get to what has been happening in our sessions. In addition, I will include some other things that happen to Malcom outside of our immediate plot, as he has a little backstory that, as of yet, has not quite caught up to him. I hope to intrigue y'all a little with the story, but it isn't critical at this moment to our story at large.

Anyhow, put some of your stories in this thread, and maybe we can put them all together into some coherent backstory-line and link it up with our current adventures which we can write in tandem.

So, without further adeiu...


Reasons for Leaving

“We need to talk,” Balgin said to his apprentice, who looked up from his work. The young man was working hard to construct a lock, and was nearly finished. It was by no means a complicated one, but he still had not quite mastered the skill involved in making it all fit together.
“Yes, sir?” he asked cautiously. Something about Balgin’s tone made him nervous. His master had always been stern, but kind. He taught him patiently, and was never harsh to him. But even at 16 years of age, the young apprentice was a good judge of people’s moods. And Balgin was upset.
“You’re a good kid. I know you’ve had trouble in your past, but I know you tried to do right. But I gotta say, son, I’m a little puzzled.” This was an uncommon situation for the apprentice. He had worked for Balgin the locksmith for a little over a year. Balgin had taken him in and sheltered him. He was the only one in the city who knew about his past, and he still accepted him. Protected him, even.
“How so, sir?” he was genuinely puzzled. He wasn’t sure what Balgin was talking about.
“When you first came to me, I agreed to hide you from your folks. I gave you a place to stay. I taught you a trade with the locks. I taught you the guitar. I thought you were happy with that.”
“I was, I mean, I am,” he replied.
“Why’d you do it then?” Balgin pleaded. The creases of his eyes tightened as he peered out at his apprentice, who merely shook his head. “Why did you join them?”
Oh, thought the apprentice, The League of the Swift.
“There’ll be nothing good coming of that, boy, let me tell you,” the master locksmith hissed. “We’re bloody locksmith’s! They are our polar opposites!” he groaned. Several silent tense moments followed. The boy had no response. His eyes were cast downward. “How long has it been.”
The boy sighed. Should he lie? He had no reason to. But still… No, Balgin had been good to him. He would not lie. “Since before I came to you,” he confided. “When I first came here, I needed to eat. I was afraid of going to anyone who knew my- who knew where I was from. So I started stealing. At first, it was just to eat, but then I was hoping I could get enough to find a place to stay.”
“And then they caught you, did they?” Balgin said knowingly.
“Aye,” he whimpered. “They did.”
“Should I believe you?”
The young man was mortified, and his heart tore. “Balgin,” he cried softly, “I’m sorry. They left me little choice. I had to join them or starve!” The boy’s chest shuddered as tears came unbidden to his eyes. Damn his tears. He would cry while begging or working for the League of the Swift. But those were fake. These tears were very real.
“So what, was I some kind of front for you then? To train you to pick locks and steal for the Swift? My labor is to stop these thugs, and here my apprentice is, one of them, and learning the trade from me!” he growled.
“I know, sir. I know.”
“You need to quit,” the shop owner said simply.
“The guild, or here?” he said with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“The guild, you fool! You must quit them. I can’t have any common thief working for me. I can’t do it. The very people you are stealing from are my own customers!”
“I can’t quit, Balgin. They’ll kill me. I know too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you said, you’re against them. If I quit and lived life as a normal person, yeah, sure, maybe, but I work for a bloody locksmith! If I quit them, I can’t stay here.”
“If you stay here, you can’t stay there.”

“You made your choice then.” The boy couldn’t decide if it were a question or a statement. Either one. It didn’t matter. “So where are you going to go then?” his master asked with a tinge of sadness.
“Here. There. I’m not really sure. I can’t stay here, though. I told you that.”
Balgin arched his eyebrow. “What do you mean? I said you couldn’t stay here if you stayed there.”
“And if I leave there, I can’t stay here. Either way it doesn’t work.”
“So, you’re leaving… the city?” the locksmith asked him, puzzled. “Why leave?”
“Balgin, you’ve been a good master. You’ve taught me about right and wrong. And living among the League of the Swift isn’t right for me. It just isn’t. The whole reason I came to City Name was because my family was doing what was evil. And so I leave them based on morals to, what, become a thief?”
The man nodded to him, “True, it is ironic. So what will you do, where will you go?”
The boy smiled, “I’m a better singer than employee. I make music better than I make locks. I’m going to sing. There’s a small group of entertainers leaving for another city in an hour or so. They said they’d let me come with them if I paid them a fee up front and if I took care of their horses and bags. They said they’ll listen to me sing on the road, and if I’m any good, they’ll let me open for them.”
Balgin brightened a little. “Thank you,” he said to the boy, confounding the lad.
“Thank you? Why?”
His master blushed through his graying beard. “You’re a good kid. I thought I was helping you along and teaching you what was right and wrong. But when all of this happened, I kind of lost hope in you. I thought I had failed you. So thank you for listening to me.”
A grin assaulted the young man’s face and overcame him. His face felt as if it would split, he was smiling so broadly. The middle aged locksmith smiled back and walked over to the till. He opened it and removed a pouch of coins. He walked back to his apprentice and handed it to him. “Here, lad. This should pay to get you with those entertainer friends of yours. And it will cover your food until you get started.”
The boy’s eyes widened as he felt the weight of the pouch in his hands. His experience as a cutpurse told him that there were at least thirty coins in there, probably silver. It was more than he’d ever had. “Thank you, Balgin. I… I…”
“Don’t thank me, young Malcom Xynides. You deserve a good start. You’re a good boy, and you’ve done me good the year you’ve been here.”
“No, Balgin Roderick. I stopped being Malcom Xynides two years ago. With your permission, on the road, I’ll be called Malcom Roderick.”
Balgin’s spine straightened as he perked up. “Malcom Roderick,” he mused. “You know, boy, I’ve never had a son, but if I did, I’d be proud if he was your ilk. I’d be honored if you went by my name.”
“Then Malcom Roderick it is,” he smiled back at his former master.
Edited by Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz, Mar 13 2009, 08:38 PM.
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This one needs a little work. It's kind of poor. I was pretty sleepy when I wrote it. I just wanted to get something down so I didn't lose momentum. Help me out if you have any ideas to make it better. I dunno if I should give all three of the thugs names or not. Anyhow, hopefully it's more enjoyable to read than it was to write. Good night now.

ADDENDUM - this was edited due to idiocy.

Coming of Age

Malcom was proud of himself. After traveling with a troupe of performers for a little over a year, he was out on his own. He had turned 17, and he celebrated by making his first solo performance at the Noble Harp, a pub in Brionne. Life was good.
It wasn’t too bad of a show. He was paid three gold pieces, which was probably the most he had earned in a single night ever. If he kept up like that, he was gonna be rich - he could perform three nights per week, and make three gold per night, then that was 9 gold pieces per week, which was enough for a great living. He strolled back to the apartment he had rented for the month whistling a little tune. Yeah, life was goo- WHAM!
The young troubadour staggered backwards as he was hit in the jaw by a meaty fist. His foot caught a patch of dirt and he fell to his backside. The guitar he carried struck the ground and slid away, causing Malcom to flinch, fearing it may be damaged. The bard looked up into laughing face of his assailant. “My, my, what do we have here boys? This town has a new pretty boy singer, does it?” The beefy owner of those words looked down on Malcom as two others flanked him. “You forgot to register with the guild, kid.”
“What do you mean?” Malcom asked as he shook a few stars from his visage.
One of the man's companions, a rat-like fellow, looked down at Malcom and cackled, “All bards have to register with the guild, now!”
“What do you mean?” the young man repeated. “There isn’t a guild for bards, I checked with the Commerce Guild.”
The original attacker, a man in his mid twenties appeared crowed to his companions, “He checked, boys. Well you didn’t check with us,” he grinned darkly. Malcom had heard tales of funny people living to the north and the east. Tales of beast-like men with noses like swine and arms like gorillas. Well, as he considered the porcine monstrosity before him, Malcom mused that the brawler was proof that these tales weren't just legend.
“Who are you guys?” Malcom said as he sat up. The three continued to peer menacingly at him, but made no further move against him.
“Name’s Bart,” the meathead answered. “And these are my boys. We’re with the High Ballers. And if you wanna play in Brionne, you gotta pay the Ballers, savey?”
“High Ballers? That’s the thief’s guild, isn’t it?” Malcom asked, mildly confused. “Why are you guys messing with bards?”
“We won the war, see?” the pig-man’s pet rat friend hissed. “We took the bards out, and they’re singing for us now, see?”
Malcom shook his head a bit more to continue to clear out the cobwebs leftover from Bart's right hook. He then sighed with resignation. He didn’t want to join another thief guild. The one at (city) had made him into something he knew he shouldn’t be. Balgin confirmed that to him. He just wanted to play music and write. He didn’t want to thieve anymore. But he had travelled far and long to get to Brionne. It was far enough away from the Citadel of Heaven that he thought it likely trouble wouldn’t follow him. Plus his father didn’t get along well people from these parts. So what should he do? He didn’t want to leave Brionne, but he didn’t want to join the High Ballers either. He spent several seconds considering this when his reverie was broken up by Bart lifting him several feet off of the ground by his vest and growling at him with onion scented breath, “So what’ll it be, boy?”
“You don’t want to cross us, see?” ratboy giggled. “We’re it, see! Bart and us can take care of you, see, you just need to pay up, now, see?”
“Yeah, I see,” he grunted, turning his head towards the rodent-like man. This provided an added benefit of avoiding Bart’s baited breath. Malcom began losing hope. He wasn’t much in a fight. Sure, once in a while he could surprise himself or others, but one on three was definitely not odds he would take. As he continued to consider, the third of the trio, who had thus far remained silent, came up to Malcom who was about a foot off the ground. He began rifling through his vest and took the three gold he had just earned from the Noble Harp. “Hey, stop that!” Malcom demanded. “You guys’re supposed to take a portion, not all of it!”
The three seemed amused. “Look at him, he’s being cute,” Bart said. “Well,” he said with an obviously false tone, “we all know that good ole Olly over at the Noble Harp pays his performers at least five gold pieces for a show, so we’re just taking some of it. It’s only half.”
3/5, thought Malcom. “Yeah, half, see? We’re just taking the guild’s share, see, and we’re reporting you to the guild, now, see?”
“I see.”
Bart released Malcom and he fell to his feet. He did not immediately stumble to the ground. That is, he didn't hit the ground until Bart buried a fist into his gut. “So long, Marcum,” he cackled as he walked off with his companions.
“Malcom,” he corrected quietly, and as he did so, he regretted it immediately.
The beast of a man stopped cold and turned slowly. “You say something?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I dunno. I thought I heard something. Did you guys hear anything?” The two thugs nodded as the three approached Malcom like wolves. “We’ve got a little smart alec here. OK, then,” he looked over to Malcom’s guitar laying a few feet to the bard's left. One of his wingmen sauntered over and retrieved the instrument for their ringleader. “Don’t ever correct me, hear me?” he demanded, and Malcom nodded. Then Bart swung the guitar at Malcom and broke it over his head. Malcom crumpled to the ground hearing the laughter of three street thugs as he lost consciousness.
Edited by Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz, Mar 16 2009, 02:17 PM.
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Wow. This needs some serious editing. I will do so. And just in case you missed some tidbits from my wall of shame (I rolled a 19 on my attempt for this post...):

Life was good... The performance was pretty good... pieces per week which was pretty good... - I deserve a 15 yard penalty for repetitive use of the word good, which is not good. Right click; scroll to thesaurus; click again; choose word. Good, Glenn, good.

His ankle caught a piece of dirt and he slipped landing on his backside. - I'm not sure a normal ankle is capable of this feat, or feet. I'm also not precisely sure what a piece of dirt is, but I'd recommend that you not step on one.

Malcom mused that was witnessing proof that these tales were more than legend. - I never should have clepped English in college. By the way, this guy isn't a half-orc, he just looks like one. And his friend isn't a wererat. That whole motif is way overplayed.

Bart released Malcom and he hit the ground. He did not immediately fall. - Just call me captain contradiction.

Hopefully, by the time you read this I will have corrected all that. The incompetency of it had me crying out of my cheeks (HAM reference for Bill - that was in a Vanessa post way back when).

On a related note, I am definitely wanting this kind of critique, as well as things like, "I think that having a third guy is unnecesary," or, "You should have given ratboy a name," or, "I wanted to know what color tunic Malcom was wearing." So please fire away if you have any input, and get your own dang stories in here too. One thing we might have to do is date the stories based on the timeline Marc gave us.
Edited by Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz, Mar 16 2009, 02:18 PM.
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I'll probably edit this a little, but it's all I could pinch off in my last 15 minutes of work. I wanted to introduce another concept towards the end, but in the past I have gotten yelled at for making posts longer than one and a half WORD pages. I was right around 1 1/2 when I cut it off, so maybe if I get time tomorrow I'll insert another post.

So think of this as a set up for the context of Malcom's future adventures. Notice the city he is in...


The Scammer

Malcom surveyed the street. He eyed his target, and looked about, nodding to his backup. He took a quick swig of cheap wine, taking care to spill ¾ of it on his dirty, ripped shirt. With a deep sigh, he hobbled out into the street.

“S’cuse me sir,” he slobbered as he stumbled into an important looking man rushing through the city square. “Could… could… could – HICCUP – you schlparl me-“ abruptly, Malcom started coughing on the man, who battled conflicting emotions of wanting to help, and wanting to get as far away from the young minstrel as possible. Malcom turned to the side and increased his coughing, but continued to grip the man’s overcoat with his left hand. His chest heaved with coughing until he nearly wretched.

The merchant’s eyes were wide with confusion and disgust as Malcom stood up, hiccupped again, and straightened himself out, never releasing his hold on the man’s overcoat. He turned his gaze towards the befuzzled man and said sheepishly, “mmmsssorry shir,” as he reached his right hand to the man’s face and attempted to wipe spittle off of his chin.

All at once, the young merchant shoved Malcom back from him, and he himself stumbled as Malcom attempted to maintain his grip on his jacket. As he did so, the merchant nearly fell over a young boy who was nearby. The boy was knocked to the ground by one of the merchant’s errant limbs, and Malcom flinched as the kid hit the pavement. “Hey, man,” he garbled, reaching back out towards the man and drawing attention from the youth. “No reason to hit a kid. I just need a little money for food and drink, man, just a little sumtin’ please?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot help you. I have important business to attend to,” he declared, gaining confidence as he backed away from Malcom. He looked down to help the boy he had knocked down, but the child was gone. “Hey, kid?” he said, raising his voice as he saw a short figure weaving rapidly through the crowded street. He shrugged and turned back towards Malcom, but he, too, was gone.

“Oh, damn,” he said with slow realization. He checked his money pouch at his side, and it was empty, having been slit from the bottom.

***

Malcom slowed to a meandering walk as he turned down Listeria Lane and then slid down the alleyway behind Paddies Pub. He reached the back of the pub, and gazed at a young boy who was grinning sheepishly. “He almost got me, he did. You covered me nice when that bloke knocked me over. I thought we was done, I did.”

Malcom laughed gently, “Yeah, ‘lil Pete, we did ok. So what was the take?” he asked as he went and sat on an overturned wooden box across from ‘lil Pete. For the last two years, ‘lil Pete and Malcom were partnered up working for the High Ballers. The thief’s guild in Brionne had accepted Malcom in after his initial run in with Bart, and Pete joined up around the same time. Initially, Malcom was just trying to make enough money to travel as an entertainer again, but he and Pete worked so well together that he had trouble moving on. No matter what he did, Malcom just kept finding himself being enmeshed in the life of a thief.

'Lil Pete and Malcom took an immediate liking to each other, and they worked together two or three days per week. Malcom wanted to break into the heavily regulated night shift – that’s where the real money was at – but thus far he had been rebuffed by some of the guild veterans, Bart among the foremost detractors. So Malcom and ‘lil Pete worked some small con jobs and cutpurse stints in some of the major town squares throughout the week. The guy they hit today, Malcom knew, probably had at least 20 silver on him, maybe more.

“Yeah, well,” Pete said quickly, “he had about 15 silver or so in his pouch, and I got all of it,” he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a small stash of coins.

The older thief looked at him skeptically. “Pete, don’t give me that nonsense. How much did he really have?”

The young man shrugged, “You’ve got me, boss. He had 17 silver and a few copper,” he admitted, but Malcom easily noted the tentative look in his eye.

The minstrel turned thief stood up from the box, and his foot caught the corner of it. As the wooden square scraped on the gravel, ‘lil Pete’s eyes guiltily raced to the box, and with a triumphant grin, Malcom used his foot to flip the box into the air. He caught it with both hands and shoved it into the chest of his young companion, pushing him back. Malcom stared greedily at a pile of glittering gold coins on the spot the box had occupied. “Well lookie here,” Malcom purred, lazily holding his anxious friend back with one hand. “You holding out on me again, ‘lil Pete? You know that’s a good way to get in trouble with the Ballers.”

“No, man, I wouldn’t, I mean, hey, now, I mean, no, I wouldn’t do that!”

“Oh. Alright then. Someone must've just left all this gold here. One man's bad luck is another's good,” he shrugged, scooping the pile of coins into his pouch, managing to count out 37 gold pieces as he did so. When he finished, he looked up at his compatriot, whose despairing eyes gazed longingly at Malcom’s pouch. “Got a problem, Pete?” The boy struggled. A sharp intake of breath seemed to indicate he would speak, but no words were forthcoming. He just stood there sheepishly. Malcom smiled. “It’s ok, man. We all have to make a living. But if one of the other guys caught you at scamming a fellow Baller, they wouldn’t be as easy on you. We’ll tell the guild the take was 30 gold and 21 silver. We give them their 30% - 10 gold, and 7 silver, and we each take the same for ourselves. And you let me have the extra 7 gold for keeping my mouth shut about you trying to scam me, ok? And I’ll buy you dinner.”

Relief shone off of ‘lil Pete’s face as he hungrily reached for his share, which Malcom willingly gave him. The two helped each other up the alleyway’s wall to the rooftop where they accessed the entryway to the Black Harbor – home of the Brionne Thief’s Guild.
Edited by Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz, Apr 15 2009, 05:07 PM.
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DMG
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Well done, again.
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For the life of me, I can't get to the concept I was itching to introduce. It will come up in the next post, I assure you.

Mystery Shopper

“Hey, kid, get outta here, I already paid my dues!” the old man behind the counter bellowed as Malcom meandered around the music store. Places to buy instruments were very rare in the Kingdom due to lack of demand, and only in a larger city such as Brionne could such a store be found.

“Relax, Jimmy, I’m not here on business, its pleasure. I’m looking for a new guitar.”

“Oi, you play?” Jimmy d’Orland was a cachectic looking man with stringy white hair and very effeminate mannerisms. His thin silk shirt practically hung off of his small frame, and his gray mustache was yellowing at its ends from constant exposure to tabac smoke. The instrument maker took a draw off of his pipe as he approached Malcom.

“Used to,” Malcom answered. It had been two years since Malcom had played a guitar. It was a difficult decision to join the High Ballers after he was assaulted by Bart. Unfortunately, Malcom only knew two or three things well – Locks, Music and Thieving. The local locksmith would not employ him, and he had no instrument, so the young man was left with thieving.

At first, Malcom was just doing it to get enough money for a new guitar. Then he’d get back on his feet, and start playing gigs again. But a decent guitar would cost him over 30 gold, and it was uncommon for a junior guild member to pull that much from a job. And even if he did, the guild would exercise some kind of new tax or fee to take it from him. But slowly, over time, Malcom had saved up over half of what it would take to buy a new guitar, and with his heist from yesterday will ‘lil Pete’s help, he had just over 30 gold now.

“You thinking of picking one up again?” Jimmy asked seductively. He ran his stringy fingers over the neck of one of his most beautiful creations, a six-stringed guitar made of what appeared to be cedar wood with a mildly glossy finish. It was inscribed with the name “Purlance.” Malcom noted the headstock that had leaf carvings and hints of some kind of mythical creature within. Other instruments in the store had a similar motif, but bordered on the tacky. This one, however, was artfully done, and Malcom fell in love with it immediately. His jaw slackened as he gazed at the Purlance. Within several moments, Malcom realized the abject awe he was displaying, and he rapidly regained his composure, but the damage was already done. “Ah, you like this one, eh? But do you have the 200 gold to pay for my pretty?”

The thought of 200 gold sobered Malcom immediately. “200 gold? You’ve got to be kidding me?”

Jimmy’s clutched at his chest as he feigned chest pains. A look of horror elicited from his face, and for several seconds he gasped for air as a fish might. He appeared genuinely hurt by Malcom’s words, but Malcom knew better. “C’mon, man, I bought one of Reolestrom’s in the capital four years ago for only 40 gold!” he lied. That guitar cost his father 80 gold.

“Pfah,” Jimmy spat, “Roelstrom is a fool. His work is disgusting,” he sneered falsely. Roelstrom was one of the finest guitar crafters in the kingdom. Malcom looked at the Purlance and shrugged. He turned to another guitar, clearly inferior, but at least adequate for his purposes. His mentioning of the Roelstrom was deliberate, for Malcom figured that if d’Orland thought Malcom could afford a Roelstrom, he could definitely afford one of his finer instruments. And if the guitar maker perceived that Malcom was an educated consumer, then he would never settle for, “that is nonsense, young man,” Jimmy spat. “You don’t want a piece of garbage like that when you could have this!”



Malcom changed his tact. “You know, it’d probably be worth 100, maybe not 200, though. Geesh, I can’t imagine another guitar coming close to the Purlance,” he said longingly. Knowing that he couldn’t presently afford the one guitar, he said, “I can’t imagine any guitar in here being ½, even, 1/3 as good as that one.”

“Pha!” d’Orland insisted, “The Purlance is my finest work. Nothing else I have is a quarter as good! It would pain me tremendously to part with it for 100 gold, but I do like you, young man.”

“Hmmm,” Malcom mused as he inspected the guitar. “This is four times as good as anything else you have?” The merchant nodded. “And you’d let me have it for only 100 gold?” He nodded again. “I’ll remember that. I don’t have a hundred gold, unfortunately, but I’ll sure as hell take that one for 25 gold,” he said, pointing at what he knew was a 50 gold guitar.

“Excuse me?” the merchant hissed.

“Well, you said that this one-“ he indicated the Purlance, “is worth a 100, and everything else is a quarter as good. 25 gold is a quarter of 100. But I tell you, sir, once I’m playing again with this not quite as fine, but still superior guitar, I will be back soon to either purchase your Purlance, or commission another.” He knew his argument wasn’t airtight, and he knew he had fast talked his way through much of it, but there was something to Malcom’s demeanor that won over the merchant. Bowing in defeat, he sold Malcom the inferior guitar for 25 gold. “May I play the Purlance in the back for a bit, sir? I really do hope to purchase it someday.” The merchant nodded and smiled at the musician as he nodded and waved him to one of the practice rooms. As Malcom sat in the back room, he was relieved that the creepy old man didn’t follow him in there.
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OK, here is what I've been trying to get to in the last three posts. I hope it's at least half way decent.

Mystery Shopper (Part II)

For nearly thirty minutes, Malcom’s fingers danced over the strings of the Purlance. He marveled at the instrument’s action, and admired the deep resonance of the wood. He rocked gently as he played, and even hummed at times. He sighed as he finished his final melody, and started to return to the main room of the store. As he did so, he overheard Jimmy d’Orland speaking with a man in the shop. A chill ran up Malcom’s spine as he heard the voice. It wasn’t a terribly distinct or abnormal voice, but there was something vaguely familiar.

“He was amazing! I heard him back west in city where Malcom is from. I wasn’t sure who to talk to about who was performing where, and I just wanted to find out if he was playing around here. His name was Malcom Xyn-“

“Roderick,” Malcom said, stepping out from the practice room. “Malcom Roderick. I stopped being called Xynides years ago.”

“Master Malcom…” the man said, startled. Slowly, Malcom recognized him as Theore, an advisor to his father back home.

“Thank you for your help, sir merchant,” Malcom said to Jimmy d’Orland, and he fixed his gaze firmly on Theore. “If we’re to speak, Theore, I’d rather it not be here. Come.” The troubadour strode confidently by the still unsteady advisor to Malcom’s father, who regained his composure and followed in Malcom’s wake.

Three doors down from the music shop was Paddies Pub. Paddies was a local hang out for some of the more respectable of the town’s thieves. He knew that he’d have back up if needed there. Theore followed silently, keeping up rather well. For years he had been tracking the son of his employer, and suddenly, he was found.

Tabac smoke greeted the duo as they entered Paddies. Malcom flinched as the bleating voice of Bart bellowed throughout the bar. It was too late to change venues, so Malcom sat at a table with Theore in tow. “What are you doing here, Theo?”

“It’s time to come home, Malcom.”

“Home? That place isn’t my home, Theore. It was a prison. I cannot live with him.”

“Do it for your sister, lad. She misses you.”

For a second Malcom hesitated as he remembered his sister, Valerie, whom he loved. But quickly, hatred of his father predominated. “Don’t use Val to manipulate me. I wouldn’t let father do that, and I won’t let you do that either. I’m not going back,” he declared.

“But Malcom, it’s all been arranged. The Duke of Some city, maybe Bas-Tyra has a lovely daughter. You can be sent to another city to-“

“No,” the bard growled softly. “My life will not serve the evil aims of my father.”

“Evil? You exaggerate, son. Your father is a great man. He rules a city with order and justice. He provides for his people, and he provides for his family. You are his son and he-“

“No,” he repeated. “I will not be a pawn to advance that man’s putrid policies. I am free, as are the citizens of the kingdom. And I will not be party to enslaving them to a decrepit government bureaucracy with my father at the helm,” he cried out angrily as he stood.

“Malcom,” Theore begged, grasping at the young man’s arm. “Please come back with me. I’m not the only one he sent after you. You’re lucky I found you first. The others won’t be so gentle.”

“Let them come,” he snarled as he stalked out of the pub before even seeing a waiter.
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The Chase

Malcolm finished the last stanza and the crowd exploded in applause. This is what he was meant to be doing. He stifled regrets over his day job long enough to enjoy the adulation. Niel, the pub owner rushed over to him and patted him on the back. Niel’s was full that night. Niel’s was full every night Malcolm played. The bard was glad to bring in business. He bowed once or twice, and he noticed three tables in the back, all of which startled him, each for separate reasons.

He couldn’t be sure, but in the balcony was what appeared to be a nobleman. The guild typically kept tabs on everyone coming in and out of the city, and there were no nobles presently visiting. This meant that it may be the baron himself seated in Niel’s. A powerfully built man sat at the table with his lovely wife. Four men stood guard over the table, eying everyone around them cautiously, but not threateningly. A few others kept to the shadows behind the baron.

Almost directly underneath the Baron was Bart. He and a few cronies were drinking heavily. Bart was not an avid fan of Malcolm’s music, and the bard still bristled under the memory of him destroying his first guitar. Malcolm typically performed wearing a disguise and carrying himself differently, partly to avoid scrutiny from merchants he may have stolen from on the streets, and partly to avoid guild scrutiny. But apparently Bart was aware of his mild deceit. Malcolm had paid the guild dues and gave 20% of his earnings to the guild as was required, so the problem wasn’t that. A conflict had simply been brewing between the two for a while ever since Malcolm began advancing in his skills and in his rank in the guild. Malcolm sighed, accepting that tonight a fight was brewing.

Lastly, Malcolm saw Theore, sitting at a table across the room from Bart, flanked by two men who were obviously undercover soldiers. Malcolm was disappointed in his father’s choice of agents. These two stuck out like sore thumbs. The troubadour’s joy was cut short by their presence, for he knew they were there to take him home.

As the applause ended, Malcolm left the stage and mingled for a few moments. Niel was never too far, and Malcolm excused himself from an admirer and pulled the barkeep aside. “Hey, Niel, can you help me out?”

“Of course.”

“Listen, I probably have to run. Is it ok if I leave my guitar here and pick it up either later on or tomorrow?”

“Not a problem, Master Roderick. Will you be collecting your payment then as well, or do you want it now?”

“Then is fine. Is it ok if I use that exit by the bathroom in the back?”

“Yes. Do you need help, young Malcolm?”

“I should be fine, but thank you.” Malcolm sauntered around, talking to a few more people, and made a show of drinking from a mug of Ale. He deliberately worked his way towards the restrooms, keeping his eye on Theore and Bart. He waited for a moment when both of their attention was elsewhere, but the moment was not coming. Eventually, Bart grew impatient and stood up, his cronies in tow. Malcolm decided to drop the show and made a beeline for the restroom. He didn’t stop to see if Theore and company were following.

When Malcolm turned down the hallway and was out of site from his pursuers, he sprinted to the back exit. As he did so he ran into a man coming out of the restroom. The man was knocked back into the wall, and Malcolm paused to apologize. He was taken aback for a moment as he saw the man suppress the impulse to strike out at the troubadour. The man was dressed in black, with his cowl back. A scar ran down the left side of his face, having damaged his eye permanently. Even with that debility, Malcolm noted that this was not a man to trifle with. “My apologies, milord,” Malcolm muttered as the man relaxed.

“Of course, Mr. Roderick. You had a fine performance this evening.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, wishing that he did not have to be rude. Nonetheless, he managed to slip out the back door before he noticed Bart enter the hallway. The troubadour found a mop and jammed into the door handle to prevent it from opening. He examined the alleyway for a place to climb up to the rooftops, but found no decent holds. He trotted deeper down the alleyway, away from the main street. He reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. He had three such knives on his person, and he was a fair hand at throwing them.

The fleeing thief rounded a corner and hid himself in a crook where the previous wall overlapped the next building slightly. He paused to listen and catch his breath. Fighting amongst guild members was discouraged, but not heavily enforced. Bart and his cronies were little more than thugs, and Malcolm suspected that he could take any one of them on a good day, but all three would be near impossible. He searched his mind for a safe place to go. His apartment was out of the question with Theore making an appearance.
They would be sure to go there to find him. He didn’t have any allies in the guild besides 'lil Pete, and he lived with Malcolm presently, so headquarters was out for the moment. He might just have to try and slip into the sewers and find a place to hole up there until things blew over. As he considered this, the sound of footsteps intruded upon his thoughts.

“Come out little Malcolm,” Bart’s gravelly voice intoned. “We won’t hurt your pretty little voice, boy.” The three thieves entered that portion of the alley, fanning out to perform a cursory search. As they did so, Malcolm spotted a drainage pipe hanging on the opposite side of the alley. The bard knew that Bart and his boys were not adept climbers. They were more of the bash and grab type thief. If Malcolm could get across the alleyway to the pipe, he could probably escape onto the rooftops.

The trio slowed as they searched the alley, with Bart in the middle. Malcolm realized that he would be seen by the nearest thug soon. Waiting to time his mad dash appropriately, the musician sprung from his hiding spot, loosing the knife at the closest man. It hit the thief in the shoulder, and Malcolm ran right by him. The troubadour approached Bart and raised a fist as if to hit him with a hook. Bart ducked down, and instead Malcolm leapt over the thug and planted a foot onto his opponent’s upper back. Malcolm vaulted himself over Bart and pushed himself high into the air, allowing him to grasp and climb the drain pipe that hung down on the opposite wall.

“Get him!” Bart wailed, and the third thief jumped up at Malcolm, missing the bard, but grasping the pipe. The tube creaked as both Malcolm and Bart’s crony climbed upwards, the performer easily outpacing the thug. He reached the roof, and Malcolm was off running. From what he could tell, Bart was trying to keep pace with him on the ground as the last thief followed him from above.

The chase was on. As Malcolm suspected, he was much quicker and more able when it came to a rooftop chase. There was no sign of the man Malcolm had hit with his knife. The city’s architecture forced Malcolm towards his original location – Niel’s. Once he was about three buildings ahead of his pursuit, Malcolm looked for some cover. He put a chimney between himself and his pursuit, and quickly assessed the possibility of climbing down the wall. The descent wouldn’t be ideal, but he would manage. Malcolm vaulted over the side and grabbed on to an outcropping demarcating the highest floor’s windows. He steadied his grasp and continued moving downward. Out of the corner of his eye on the main street, he saw Bart race by. As far as Malcolm could tell, he wasn’t seen by his pursuer.

When he was about five feet off the ground, Malcolm leapt of the wall so he could continue his escape. As he hit the ground, however, his ankle turned, and he heard a pop. Electrical pain shot up into his lower leg, and Malcolm fell to the ground in pain, reflexively drawing his ankle and leg towards his body.

A moment later, his rooftop pursuer leapt over the alleyway, but saw Malcolm below on the ground. “Bart!” he bellowed. “He’s down here!”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet and hobbled through the alleyway, towards the street. He knew he could not lose them in the backstreets anymore. He would instead seek solace in the crowds in the merchant and restaurant district. Leaning on the alley wall for support, he made slow time getting to the street. The other thief was climbing down in pursuit. Malcolm reached the road and hobbled straight into, “Theore!” Malcolm exclaimed.

His father’s agent drew back in shock, not expecting to find Malcolm so easily. The troubadour/thief barely kept from falling when he noticed the two guards with Theore move towards him. At that moment, Bart came around the corner, alongside of his rooftop ally, and charged Malcolm. The young singer tried to shift his weight to dodge, but his ankle gave way. The two oncoming thieves staggered over the falling Malcolm and crashed headlong into Theore’s guards. A scuffle ensued and Malcolm crawled back into the alleyway, hoping to lose everyone in the confusion. And as he did so, for the second time that night, he ran into another man.

The black-clad, scar-faced man in black held firmly onto Malcolm this time. “Didn’t we do this already?” he asked sarcastically. “You escaped. Good. Come,” he commanded, releasing Malcolm and walking purposefully down the alley. Malcolm remained motionless, unsure of what to do. “I’m not sure why they are pursuing you, but two of those men are no friend of my employer. Unless you can fend them all off yourself, then come.”

Malcolm did his best to follow, leaning on the building wall for support. The man waited patiently for him. Within a few long moments, they reached what Malcolm knew to be the back of a temple to YHWH. The black clad man touched the wall of the temple, and pushed. The wall slid to the side, revealing a hidden door that Malcolm never would have suspected was there.

“Go inside. You will find safety there.”

There really wasn’t much choice for Malcolm. He was injured and outnumbered. He had enemies from within the city, and without. There was no way of being sure if his father had sent anyone else for support, or who in the guild was sympathetic to Bart. With reluctance, Malcolm entered the temple.

* * *

“So, was our young troubadour ok, Detrius?”
“Yes, milord,” the man in black answered.
“What about his pursuers?”
“Two of them were just common thieves. They have been imprisoned, but will probably be let go in a day or two. Garic’s agents have been sent out of the city. One of them died in the struggle.”
“Pity. I hope that doesn’t raise Garic’s ire too much. Could you discern what they wanted?”
The man called Detrius sighed. “You know, milord, I don’t think they were here as spies. I think they wanted the boy.”
“The boy? But why?”
“They didn’t say. And truth be told, we were not anxious to question them. You asked us to be subtle, and we did not want to look like we were your agents. We posed as allies of the thief’s guild. I only hope that the other thugs didn’t give us away to them.” Detrius absently rubbed his facial scar, pondering this odd night.
“I suppose it’s for the best,” the man said. “So he’s with the priests now?”
“Yes, the priests, and a few of my brethren.”
“Keep an eye on him. You may want to recruit him to your cause.”
Detrius smiled, nodding. “You know me well, Baron Brittanicus. He is a fine minstrel.”
Edited by Gnomeo Knibbleschnitz, May 2 2009, 06:06 PM.
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DMG
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I like the turn of events. Very good, it kept me reading at a rapid pace wandering how things would pan out for young Malcom. The City is Grimwald in the Barony of Brionne.
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I changed a few names in there. I had to look up 'lil Pete's name, and then because I named the pub "Pete's" I changed that to "Niel's". I forget where I wanted to stick the city name in now. Oh well. Anyhow, I'm glad you liked it.
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