By Frank Gori
Zool wore a tight
smile as his eyes swept the room once more.
Only those who spent enough time
with the Geato Abira would even notice the smile, as lizardman
reptilian faces were hard to read for mammals. It was his
all-business smile, one his employer Malleck would recognize.
Despite being a blacksmith, Zool wasn’t very muscular. His strength was
unremarkable and he was undersized, even for a Geato Abira male.
Sometimes mammals assumed he was an adolescent, or simply assumed he
was weak. Those who underestimated his abilities soon learned
otherwise; the broken sword tattooed on his sword arm signified his
skill at arms, though few recognized the meaning.
Malleck, Zool’s
employer, was of mixed heritage. The blend of elvish and orchish
traits seemed to work on the mammalian females. Zool was hopeless
with women and occasionally liked to watch Malleck work his charms in
hopes of learning something. Geato women found his mastery of steel
too feminine. Being a warrior was women’s work.
The Sawhorse Tavern
was a shit place for a meet. Place was crowded, and the spilt beer
and scattered oyster
shells would be murder on footwork if the night called for a
fight. Unsurprisingly, the furniture seemed to be of solid
construction, it was after all a carpenter’s bar. Zool made a
mental note of every chair, table, and stool that would hold his
weight, he also noted that the carved log booth corner Malleck chose
was too far from the exits for a quick escape. He flexed his sword
hand, if it things went south Zool and Malleck were going to have to
fight their way out of this dive. Part of him hoped for a fight.
The Blacksmith Guild
took him as a Sunder, accepted for his power of destruction rather
than his gifts as a creator. Zool was recognized for his abilities
rather then judged by his sex. His craft work on any object other
than horseshoes was entirely unsuitable for sale, and so he was most
commonly trusted with tool sharpening when they didn’t have sunder
work. He simply wasn’t gifted with the creative power of a Smith.
Dealing death was his gift.
Zool heard a song in
all metal, which defied explanation and was somehow tied to his
magic. Very few Magus could master the talents, but steel bent to his
will in a variety of ways. Zool could sense every scrap of metal
nearby, and could attract iron headed arrows to his shield. He could
lighten his armor, call his sword to his hand within ten feet, and
more easily part the armor of an enemy. His ability to cut steel like
paper was why he wore the Sunder badge, in some ways the dedication
he applied to his craft defined him.
Zool could move
through various fencing maneuvers with the fluidity of quicksilver
and the speed of a striking serpent. His techniques were unorthodox,
no other Sunder strapped a buckler to their sword arm melding defense
an offense in an intentional imbalance. He wore a tail spike that
sometimes drew laughter, but only with those who didn’t witness its
use.
Every Workman
carried his tools and most of those tools doubled as weapons. The bar
patrons were all armed, and about a third of the room carried blue
hatchets of high quality. A small group of them kept glancing at
Malleck, telegraphing their intent. One of them kept mindlessly
stroking his axe, which was just obvious. Given the numbers, Zool
didn’t like the odds. If things got dicey, he and Malleck would
both have to use magic. If the Chaos Man realized that, his reaction
would just make things worse.
Zool muttered to
Malleck, “you always bring me to the nicest places.” It was a
code, a heads up for his client to prepare for trouble. Zool shifted
his weight on his stool and quietly repositioned his hand. The stool
was far enough back so he could clear his scabbard on a cross draw.
Zool recognized the implications of the Workman’s impatience, they
were waiting for the mage.
Zool took a pull off
his hip flask, and new strength coursed through him. The five grunts
knew he made them and were boldly striding forward. Zool accessed the
floor space and made a decision. As he hopped forward to close on the
five orcs he spotted the crossbowman.
A swift act of will
and a flick of his wrist and he snapped the bolt out of the air, the
strike made a note that pleased Zool. Three of the group of five
that were to swarm in got tangled up by a clumsy waitress, making it
an uneven two against one, Zool decided
on the larger one first. Killing him quickly would put the odds even
more in Zool’s favor.
Just as he closed
with his intended foe, something struck the orc from behind and
killed him. One of the two tangled with the waitress was clutching
his heart and someone yelled “Shenanigans!”
A dagger flashed
past Zool and landed squarely in the throat of the crossbowman, and
about a dozen calm faced killers stood up as the rest of the bar
erupted into Chaos.
Zool smiled, hazard
pay was triple.
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