Chapter 5 - The Ruffians

Munch, chomp—gulp! An elderly and famished orc stuffed a massive chunk of delicious cake down his throat, his cheeks tightening from the sweetness. Sshashina's fluffy, sweet baked goods that were made with love elicited a moan of glee from the Elder.

"Mhm. As always, Sshashina-zir delivers. Oh so delectable, I can eat these for days from morning to night. They’re delicious, as fit as the sweet nectar of ambrosia for the Divine. Aren't I right, youngling?"

Gungmar nodded, licking the creamy goodness from his fingers as he finished up his third piece. He had the rare chance to enjoy a delicacy such as these when the Elder invited him for a snack: thanking him profusely, despite being just an errand boy. He had an inkling that the older orc appreciated his deed, a slight twinkle of respect shining in Harrfell's eyes.

The half-orc eyed the open package on the desk, with still many slices of cake and some honey-glazed portions inside. But he was getting full and was getting overwhelmed by the extreme amount of sugar in each piece, so he stopped. After all, he didn't want to become bloated.

Seeing that, Harrfell had a slight frown but inclined his head in understanding. He grabbed a piece of cloth and a bottle of water from a drawer, dampened the first-mentioned, and threw it to the half-orc, who began to wipe his hands clean.

"Never dry wipe, always use a slightly wet cloth." He explained and coughed a bit from quickly swallowing a slice. "Harpy's claws. So, where were we? Ah, don't want to grow too fat now, do we? That's quite alright, you've got to maintain that figure of yours." He pointed with a half-eaten slice—its icing and fruity bits dripping down— to Gungmar's abdomen, admiring its scar-riddled muscles. Harrfell slapped his gut in return, frowned, and just continued eating without care.

Gungmar noticed the Elder's belly jiggled a bit as he slapped it, and knew he had made the correct decision to stop. Because the frail orc, skinny and long in the tooth, had a gut despite his build. Skinny but with a fat belly: must be because of the irregular and high intake of sugar that the Elder has been consuming for who knows how long. Through unhealthy living and an unbalanced diet.

"Right, right." Harrfell suddenly voiced out, breaking Gungmar's self-absorbed thoughts. "We have chattered and eaten long enough. I have work to do." By that, he meant sleeping. He slapped his hands together, ridding the crumbs sticking to his palms, "I want you to repeat what we've discussed lest you forget about it, or it would be just my words passing through one ear to the other. Unremembered. Say it."

"Tomorrow. Plaza. Me and a few others. Together with the supply chain. And you, Elder, will handle all relevant paperwork." Gungmar said.

"Right, *munch*. Thatsh korekt. Sho, *gulp*, don't worry about that Skintear kid. I doubt an uninteresting boy like him will strike back at you, so rest assured. A vengeful disposition does run down in that family, but I wouldn't worry too much about it. He wouldn't dare disobey an order from high above—me." He chuckled.

Somewhat assured, Gungmar bowed his head hesitantly and thanked him.

Harrfell waved it off. "We're even for this package, you hear me? Oh, and, don't forget that promise of yours. Nothing leaves your mouth about this room. Not even a single word, other than your punishment. And, also... here." He grabbed a silver coin from a, you guessed it, drawer, and flipped it towards Gungmar.

Catching it, the half-orc thought it was just that: a silver coin, but when he looked closer at the design, he saw that it had the Elder's Seal engraved on it.

"Give that to the guide tomorrow and don't lose it. Otherwise, it'll be more work, and things will be a headache. For both of us." Gungmar obliged and stored it inside his rucksack's secure compartment.

"May the Winds of the West—of Home—guide you on your path, Gungmar." The Elder made a familiar gesture of a farewell to the half-orc. Wishing him luck in his future endeavors and obstacles.

Gungmar gave Harrfell a slight smile, bowed, and bid him adieu.

When the door closed with a creak, the Elder sagged in his chair and yawned. "That took hours. And I'm full now, but so tired." He dropped his usual mask of hardheaded self-importance, and eyed the package on the desk, with still many of its uneaten delicacies inside. "Huh, should have given some to the youngling." He pondered.

"But, oh well, more for me later." He muttered, closed it, and leaned back into his chair afterward, eyes drooping slowly. "My eyes hurt. Guess it's time for a nap."

Slowly, he began to dream about the mage-nomads cowering under his slippers, finally exacting his revenge. A smile spread across the sleeping Elder's face.

•••

On the way out, Gungmar gave the guardswoman a nod, who barely acknowledged his greeting. She handed his spear to him without saying anything else, and just nudged her head in the direction of the exit: toward the plaza. Undaunted, he left behind the domes after giving her thanks and a two-finger salute, both of which were unreciprocated.

As he walked away, he balanced the spear on his shoulders, arms over the shaft, as the ribbon whipped against the air. The afternoon sun, midway there to evening, had finally piped down its obstinate heat and was refreshing the half-orc with its cooling warmth and enlivening breeze in tandem with the wind.

Walking down the smooth stone floor giving way to the beautiful tiles of the plaza, he noticed that there seemed to be more people here than before. A crowd of greenskins was even congregating on a bench. Ah, no. Around a bench, rather: with the sole occupant of a little, male goblin sitting with one foot up, eyes lazily grazing around the plaza.

It was a stark contrast to the usual visitors of this peaceful place: the newcomers were dressed in shabby leather armor, baggy shirts and trousers, and tattered clothes with holes chewed out from the fabric by rats, no doubt. They were out of place here, much more so than the half-orc.

Gungmar saw that the plaza, despite its impressive size to accommodate more than just a single crowd, was divided into two distinct sides. On one side was the gossiping well-to-do, who were disgusted by the newcomers and were talking about them behind their back when they suddenly brought forth their filth from the slums, dirtying this peaceful setting. On the other side were the slew of beggars, thugs, and street urchins. And the goblin, who was partially obscured by the huddle that surrounded him.

The gods-ugly gatekeeper off to the side made no move to kick them out since they violated no particular rule. Just warily keeping an eye out on them in case they tried anything funny. And particularly lingering with an intense stare on the leader of the ruffians—the scruffy goblin, who was possibly the subject of interest from the many murmurs Gungmar heard around him.

Whispers, dirty looks, and snorts were directed at the goblin when he met their stares and just flashed his brilliant white teeth at them, unfazed The half-orc raised his opinion of the goblin, despite his despicable shape. At least the little greenskin had not a care for unsolicited impressions.

The goblin had a convincing yet certainly fake scar running down his cheek and jaw, and a ragged black cape that reached down to the soles of his boots. He had a charming grin, a ring with a fake, glittering gemstone, and hair tousled in black waves.

Dangling his arms over the bench's backrest, boredom was painted on his face. That was until he saw Gungmar's vermilion stare, blinked in recognition at seeing the half-orc, and casually but also quickly averted his eyes from a prolonged exchange of looks.

Finally, he thought, the guy's here for sure.

Grinning to himself, the goblin worked up a plan inside his head and eyed his hired lackeys around him to quickly shut up with a silencing glare. Undeterred, they disrespected his authority, until the goblin sighed and flicked a pebble from his pocket to an orc's vulnerable eye.

Cursing, the orc nevertheless quieted down, rubbing at his eye as the rest followed his lead.

"Jeez, you guys never do shut up, do ya? Anyway, the target's here. And, no, dumbass, don't look at him. Idiot. Trying to give our position away, huh!?" The roguish goblin hissed and kicked at the shin of another goblin, who groaned painfully at the unlooked-for strike.

"Yeah, that’s right. Cry me a river. We need to have the element of surprise on our side, understand?"

"But boss, we'z already get attention already. See? Many staring at us."

"Learn to fucking talk, Burak. But he's right, boss. We're already attracting attention as it is."

"So? As long as Two-Four doesn't have suspicions about us, then we're good to go. For all he knows, some slum rats just casually up and settled down here at Grantel's plaza. Out of place, sure, but we're just here to relax, don't we? Nothing weird about that." The goblin had a smug grin, waiting for his lackeys to praise him for his genius thinking.

They did not.

"It's still suspicious, boss. But I guess you have a point. Even Jurmak, that watchdog you always butt heads with, didn't even try to harass or boot us out like the usual."

"We're not at the market square or at the tavern, Xashir. You idiots always get rowdy at those places, and that's why the pig boots us out. Ya, dig? Good. Now, listen to me close."

The crowd of haggard greenskins huddled closer to their leader and heard his brilliant plan out.

"So, we go for Tactic 1? Or 3? Or 6?" Asked the leader.

"1 is gud, we beat him, and takes him back to Squall." Said the thuglike orc, Burak, in an almost intelligible sentence, rubbing at his eye that was still irritated from the sting of his boss' pebble strike.

"Did your bitch of a mother drop you on your head when you were a babe? Fuck no." Xashir, the hobgoblin with gaps in his teeth, smacked the thug's head as they both began to punch at each other in a minor mock-fight.

"So..." A goblin with a mohawk narrowly dodged a stray fist from his bumbling companions, and hissed at the pair of greenskins slugging it out in plain view. "Hey! Watch it! Damn meatheads. So, right, yeah, 3's good, boss. We lure him out, get away from the plaza—too many witnesses, obviously—and handle him back at the Squall." Said the goblin, still massaging his shin from the pain.

"You sure? The contract forbade killing, and we need witnesses so that we can get our bounty from a Raven. Humiliation or a straight-on attack's gotta be perfect—hey, Xashir, Burak, stop it now, or I'll gouge your eyeballs out!" The goblin threatened his lackeys into submission, who both stopped and were now nursing at the mild injuries that they inflicted on each other.

Groaning, the goblin leader ran his fingers through his hair. "Better. Can't I have a minute or two of some peace? And all you idiots did was attract more attention. Two-Four's staring at us like we're sacks of shit, and those moneybags looked even more disgusted with their curled frowns. Jeez. Listen, and listen close, hear me?" He whispered slowly, looking at each of his nine lackeys in the eyes, menacingly crimson.

"We do this my way, alright? My way." He repeated. "We're going for 6. Can’t believe I tried asking all of you for your ideas. When the rest of you are just silent twats and the others are fucking morons."

"Sorry boss.” All nine of his lackeys chimed in together.

“Yeah, sorry boss.” Mohawk repeated. “So, you mean the usual Aiden special, boss?"

"Quit it. I'm not playing around. It has and will always work out for us. Because I'm a genius." Aiden tapped a finger to his temple, smugly grinning at his similarly smug lackeys.

"Give me the dagger, Fern. And don't fuck it up, you rats." They all nodded in unison, as Aiden mentally prepared his oratory skills to perfection: adopting an entirely new persona of an adventurer.

Grinning, he gave the unaware half-orc a superior look. Dumbly staring at his motley crew.

Ten silver coins for the contract, eh? That's the highest-paying job I've ever seen. And taken. Suspicious too, but he's just one guy with that ribbon-tied spear of his. And there's ten of us. Hells, I'm thrilled. We'll be drinking and buying wenches all night, Aiden thought while smirking.

Complacency was starting to replace his usual cautiousness as he felt himself change. Not physically, nor magically, but to an entirely different person he copied. He remembered everything that he had heard, seen, and read about the adventurer.

The confident and arrogant, brash, womanizing, personality of Aiden Hellsseeker: a goblin adventurer of mythical might and glory.

"Time to get to work." The pretender-adventurer rubbed his hands in anticipation.