Author: Tarrak

Tarak Whiskeyjack looked every year of his age. At 56 the old city watchman should have retired or promoted years ago but he never quiet got around to it. His left wrist ached as he pushed open the heavy door to the changing room of the City Watch. The familiar smell of polished leather and old sweat greated him. Looking around the cluttered changing room he saw two of the younger watchmen. They glanced up briefly as the door opened but gave him no heed and went back to changing for their shift. Most of the other watchmen tended to steer clear of Whiskeyjack, supersticious as they were.

Whiskeyjack made his way to his locker in the back left corner. He’d been using this locker for over 30 years now, each item inside in its rightful place. Folded, stacked or tucked away in perfect handmade, well-worn compartments of his own design. He was always proud of his locker. He reached for his Sgt’s badge, he never could be bothered to try for the captain’s exams – too much hassle about legislation and not enough about the subtilties of the job. Besides, it took you off the street too much anyway. Molly had given up trying to press him years ago, the money was hardly worth the extra headaches and besdides the boys were grown and married themselves so it was just those two in their small half-acre plot by the river.

Whiskeyjack stood before the large noticeboard looking at the details of the shift. As always he was on his own for this rota – he preferred it that way and the watch captains knew better than to mess with 30 years of tried and tested. Partners tended to get in the way anyway, more of a burder than a boon. They say the wrong thign or they didn’t know the right people or too keen for advancement. There was a breed of new watchmen that wanted to take shortcuts and seemed to think they were better than the people they interacted with. Whiskeyjack ran his finger over the parchment nailed to the board to check the routes of the others this evening – his was blank as always, he crafted his own way through the city and tended to know where the trouble would be before it happened. He did this to make sure none of the younger ones would fail to do their proper round and instead languish in the nicer parts of town. Whiskeyjack grinned as his finger found the name he was looking for, Beryll’s young lad was on the Widdershin’s beat today. Not the roughest onee but definitley would need your wits about you. Whiskeyjack nodded to himself, he had promised Beryll he’d look out for the boy. He always had a habit of collecting strays and waistrals but given enough time he could set him up right. Most of the watch had been under his wing at one stage or another.

Whiskeyjack put on his cap and walked out of the guardroom. The chill night air whistled soflty through his armour. ‘Another night on the toon’ he thought. He always pulld the odd hours, the holidays. ‘Spending your retirement in the cold!’ was Molly’s oft recited refrain, he always corrected her ‘semi-retirement’. A bit less time on the beat but still active. Her business was booming these days, everyone needs a lawyer for something but he could never get his head around the intricacies of the law and, more importantly, the politics surroundind it all. He preferred the odd hours, the holidays – give the lads a bit of time with their young famalies, plus, it was the odd hours that people most had need of someone. Mostly just to listen, sometimes to help a wayward drunk home, now and then a purse to recover or a fight to break up.

Whiskeyjack tested his joints with a half squat, only moderate creaking. Warm up completed he hit the road through the old lanes and alleys making his way down from the watch keep into the heart of the city. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to navigate he knew them so well. Every stone, cobble and brick but more importantly the people between them. The joke was the streets here were paved in Whiskeyjack’s booth leather as hrough his wanderings of the city managed tto know all the twists and turns of the streets and the people in them. They joked that the streets here were paved with old whiskeyjack’s boot leather.

At the bottom of Widdershins street Whiskeyjack propped himself up against the wall of the Salt and Steele. Most of the punters would be in their beds by now but there’d be a few stragglers left behind, either drooling into their cups or fixing to cause trouble of some sort. If Beryll’s boy had left on time he’d be swinging by here in the next 30-45 minutes or so. Might as well nip inside and give a nod to Lottie and check up on her and her bairns, the blighting cough had taken them down hard and besides, on a cold night like this maybe a dram would help stave off the chills – up until now it was looking like a fairly slow night anyway.

Sitting at the bow of the ship sharing the first watch, the moons in the sky sank slowly, Throkk and Deruzz gazed upwards sharing a tankard.  It always refilled and the thick beer was growing on Throkk.  “Needs some blood” muttered Throkk.  Deruzz leaned across and took the tankard as a distant gull cried out in the twighlight. “My friend, you do know we don’t do that, we haven’t done that for years!”.  The boat listed further to the port side. Throkk gave a long inhale, flaring his nostrils. The air was heavier, more moisture in it. He knew instinctively he was nearing his destination. He raised his hand to give the signal to hoist the jib. He needn’t have done it. After all this time at sea the crew had a finely tuned sense for what Throkk wished for. This suited him, he was a man of few words and the crew of the Santoku had grown around him. He took a quiet satisfaction is the discipline he had instilled into the crew and the respect that he had earned. Throkk’s massive bulk had grown more lean these past weeks at sea and his thigh still ached from where it was pierced by a length of the ship. His blood had poured out from the artery nearly killing him, that very blood know stained the side of the Santoku. The crew were sure it gave the ship preternatural strength. The quartermaster took a long draft from the tankard and pointed to the horizon. “You’re tense Throkk, you’re clenching your jaw. We’re still two days out, are you sure you want to go through with this”. Throkk forced himself to release the tension in his muscles and turned. “Yes Deruzz, there is a great need. We must go. The Armada is no longer trapped but we cannot rest in Porta Verde. Not now”. Throkk cast a glance upwards to the third Moon, now alone in the sky. Closer it seemed. He didn’t dare tell of his visions, his nightly communications with his ancestral spirts, he didn’t want to believe it himself.

Deruzz broke the long silence, “Throkk…” he paused “we never discussed your… skill. We saw what you did to the Kraken it was godlike…”. Throkk snorted, “I nearly died. It died first though”. Deruzz paused, drawing closer “We have lost this ability. Please, tell me. Tell me about your rage. Where does it come from?  What does it feel like?”. Deruzz trailed off under Throkk’s gaze.  The grim redlight flickered and cast shadows over the two unlikely friends both mentoring the other, one on the Orcs of the modern age and the other on the Orcs of the past. The waves in the dark sloshed against the side of the ship as the sounds of a muted bell rang out marking the chage of the shift. Throkk picked up the stick he had been whittling and shaved another careful slice; the beginnings of a spoon. Deruzz lost hope of an answer and stood in the comfortable silence, he had grown used to this.

“It starts with a drumbeat.”  Throkk paused for a moment and sighed, staring into the distance at something only he could see.  His gaze lifting to the moon now, the light of it always reminded him of battle.

“It starts with a drumbeat. I can feel it in my chest as my heart increases, not panicked but steady, almost deliberately, like a drum, like music, beating out a rhythm, it calls to me.  I feel it in my chest and it grows. Harder, louder, trying to rip out of my ribs, like being lashed with a whip there.” Deruzz, held his breath, not wanting to break Throkk out from the distant stare and his uncharacteristic talkative mood.  “I can feel my blood thicken and my arms and lips go cold, the music rises to my ears, it sounds like a river in a cave pulsing.  I feel a hunger and sickness deep in the pit of my stomach.  My mouth dries out and I can taste metal. I can hear a song in the music, a beautiful note driving through me, ever movement feels like that of someone elses. Then darkness descends, the world turns to shades of black and white, the only colour is the deep red of blood.” Throkk looked up at Deruzz who couldn’t help but shift uneasily under that intense glare and step back as Throkk approached him.

“Everything is heightened even the pain, the pain is the most glorious of all. It drives the music to new heights.  It is like being underwater and all I can hear is my breathing and my heart growing faster, more urgent.  I can feel each sinew and fiber of my muscles and above it all is the hunger, that dark hunger that can only be satisfied by driving my spear through the heart of another foe.”

Throkk now towerd over Derruz grasping him by his shoulders, squeezing too tightly.  Throkk blinked and pulled himself back from the edge of the black rage, taking a staggering step backwards and stared off into the distance once more, as if willpower alone could make land appear.  Deruzz could feel his own heartbeat growning and swallowed.

“You appear to have broken your spoon dear friend”.  Deruzz gestured with the mug. Throkk looked down and unclenched his fists to reveal the shattered remains of the spoon and shook his head slowly.

“It was to be a gift for some old friends.”

Deruzz smiled,  “never mind, around you there are always more splinters in need of carving to be found”. Throkk grimmaced darkly and looked up once more to the lights of the moon.

In the back of his mind he could still hear the distant sound of the drums.

“Not good enough!”. Clinks boots clacked down the marbled hallway of the grand ballroom as his assistant Tanken tried to keep up. His scrawny body too lanky for the billowing robes of his station. Appointing this 16 year old to his right hand man had been one of many slaps in the face to the old ways but the kid was bright and honest, two rare commodities. A retinue of clerks and servants scrambled to keep up. Their scrolls flapping in a trail behind him. He paused suddenly for a second as the washermen looked up. This was the third time they had scrubbed the floors this week and it still wouldn’t get rid of the dark red stains. He knew some of that was his father’s blood. No time for that, not now, there’s never any time any more. Another emergency to sort out, complaints to deal with, factions to soothe or strategic promises to make. Clink hated the word bribe but that is essentially what they were. Mario played a clever game, spinning plated and pulling every so gently on every thread in the Palace.

Clink picked up the pace again, the welcome breather for the clerks was over too quickly as they all jostled for his attention. “The oilstains are on fire still and you’ve redirected the fire crews to the pits? We need the economic boost to ensure a strong and stable future..” clink waved his hand flippantly, “we need the people more, once they’re done we will enlist them to take care of the docks.” His voice was clipped and stern, it was getting more and more difficult to maintain his bardic charm. What was it now? 3, 4 days without sleep? His body ached and he knew that if he stopped moving he might not be able to start again. His cloak wrapped tightly around him as he ascended the stairs. The clerk’s knew not to follow to the Kaiser’s chambers. It transpired that the cure for the slow-acting poison was worse than the poison itself. The Kaiser was on his last legs as his system was learning to live without the Widow’s Crutch, so called because it was often used to kill off your husband in a natural and undetectable manner. He would likely be incapacitated for a month or more.

He entered the room past the two justicars and gave a faltering bow. Wilhelm stood by the bedside looking up as clink entered. The boysish looks of the heir were gone, his beard had grown white in parts lending a regal air, his once friendly eyes now caused clink to pause when they regarded him, it was as if all the joy had been bleached from the man as he kept vigil over his father. In the aftermath Wilhelm had appointed clink to be the Master of Accounts, the title still rankled for clink, definitely not fitting for the amount of responsibility it carried, not at all grand. All the administration that mario did and trained his whole life for was now on Clinks shoulders and he had to learn fast. This was made all the more difficult by Wilhelm’s purges. He was determined to eradicate any trace of Mario’s influence. It had taken Clink his best levels of tact with more than a few magically enhanced suggestions to at least make sure people had a trial, there were too many people caught up in Mario’s schemes accidentally or otherwise to put them all to death or every chambermaid, scullery boy and postal clerk would be on the block. The fires, the looting and the outbreak of disease where enough of a distraction without a coup being added into the mix.

Wilhelm flared his nostrils, “so, vat iz dis about the dockyards still burning?”. He clasped his hands behind his back raising his chin and peering at clink with one eyebrow raised “I appointed you to fix zis mess not ruin our economy!”

Clink sighed, he was doing that more and more these days. “Wilhelm my dear, you are listening to far too many boring people, I told you not to listen to boring people, you should sleep. You appointed me because I saved you, your father and this kingdom from the chaos that Mario caused! You have to trust me. There will be no good saving the glorious docks if we lose the support of the people, they have lived in fear for far too long”

“Zat is not what the cardanalis sayz”

“Ah… Well yes of course the Cardinalas would say that..”

“If I am to be king some day I must know all that happens under my rule” replied Wilhelm.

“Yes, of course…”

Wilhelm raised his hand cutting him off “zat will be all” he waved him away “and be sure to inform me of all your suggestions for my decision, I will have ze final say” clink blinked slowly, Wilhelm had certainly grown up but the influence of the church was still too strong for his liking. He would have to play this very carefully.

As he made his way back to the gaggle of clerks he chewed over his plans. First, save the people that’s what matters but he knew if he ignored the politics now he would be granting the other players too much of a head start. He couldn’t help but feel it would be better off with the others around but since the fall of Namthar they’ve all had their own roads to walk, at least for now while they try to research how to kill the moon. The ominous dark red alien moon even shone through the clouds these days spreading on the sky like the blood on the ball room floor. Some crackpots had taken to interpreting them and a new faith had sprung up with sub Optima seen as heralds of the new god to come, he’d even caught one of his messages grasping a necklace in the shape of Chortle. It was a bothersome distraction, one to add to the pile.

Clink made his way back from the chambers to his offices, a few weeks prior these belonged to Mario, they seemed grand then but now they felt like a cave. He didn’t dare to sit down as petition after petition came to him. The reduction in the food stores were alarming but the lowering water levels even more so. He’d have to send some sellswords to discover the reason for that, where were the moon pirates now? He’d lost track of them after the battle.

A slender young man approached and coughed. He wore the robes of the church of namthar. His thin eyebrows died white and grown long, slicked upwards and out beyond his ears made his dark waxy hair look like it had white streaks. He had made it a daily ritual to come here. Clink enjoyed giving him the run around.

“Cornelius, what do I owe the pleasure”

“Master of Accounts, the Cardanalis of the one true God, the church of Namthar has ordered you to appear before him and explain these new… songs.” He spat the last words from his mouth.

Clink rolled his eyes, he did that more these days too. He lent forward and took a deep breath, feeling the wood beneath his fingers. Mario did have exceptionally good taste.

“I’ve told you before. That’s not really how one asks someone to pop by for some wine and a chit chat. I don’t like being ordered to do anything! Least of all meet with an obease man wearing far too much lace who worships something I killed a few weeks ago. And as for the songs? You really think they were me? They are far too crass, weak imagery, poor timings, terrible pacing and rhyming ‘clod-tucker’ with ‘god-fucker’? So weak! No one calls farmers clod tuckers these days. Hmmm how about Obese treatsie, diet of cakes, pitfiful pontif, necrophiliac nonsense, all phrases that are better than that and I’m not even trying”

Cornelius gritted his teeth, he was growing accustomed to the daily admonishments but both of them knew that while clink had the favour of the Kaiser and Wilhelm he was largely impotent in ordering him to do anything.

“You would be well to remember your place in things tiefling, the church was here long before either of us and will outlast us both, you insolence will not be forgotten”, Cornelius rose his voice, he had gone too far this time.

The chamber was still, a few nearvous clerks looked on, this was the most open hostility there had been, a verbal slap on the cheek, an barely veiled threat. Clink looked up from the perfectly polished table and moved behind the chair, flicking his cloak out behind him as he dragged the chair out, sitting ceremoniously as he crossed his legs and placed them on the table as he slid a knife from his boot. The messenger gulped as a trickle of sweat rolled down to meet his moustache. Clink skewered an apple and began peeling slices off it slowly whole eyeing Cornelius intimidatingly.

“You’re welcome” he said through a fanged smile.

Cornelius blinked, confused at the seemingly innocent statement.

“You may pass the message to the Cardanalis that he is very welcome. His gratitude for my saving the city is greatly appreciated, and I relent, I shall give in to his wishes and send him an autograph” clink plucked a pen and scroll from a nearby scribe and cast his signature across the page.

Cornelius span on his heel spitting venomous words under his breath as he stormed out.

Clink couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t his wisest move but his smile broadened in genuine amusement as he hummed ‘clod-tucker, god-fucker’ to himself as he composed a new verse in his head. It really was hard to try write songs badly but the people loved them. Keep this up and the people will soon see the church for what they really were. Charlatans and thieves.

“Now, where were we? Ah yes, Tanken, pass me the latest draft of the new bill pass. The cardanalis will be thrilled to know his tax exemption is lifted in order to better fund the repairs and restitution of the city, how very pious of him”.

Welcome to the first post of the new blog! This could be a place where we up our game and actually link to game streams we record? Who knows.

I smell merchandising contracts.