Idle Fists Are The Devil's Workshop (Work DTA)
Jul 1, 2022 18:01:05 GMT
Sparks-In-Shade and Velania Kalugina like this
Post by Leonida on Jul 1, 2022 18:01:05 GMT
Ralph’s hands are trembling as he peeks around the corner to look down the dark and empty street, fingers clenching the lockpicks so tightly the books of his digits are turning white. He turns the corner and dashes down the cobblestone street, weaving a path around the dim, yellow spots of light from hanging street lamps, then skids to a halt in front of a tall set of double doors. He can’t be sure if anyone is watching him right now — it’s his first time doing anything remotely like this — but as a halfling, his small size makes him naturally stealthy and, more importantly, naturally lucky. Or so he tells himself.
The warehouse doors are sealed with heavy chains and a huge padlock. The lockpicking tools in his hands seem so tiny in comparison, he wonders if they might break trying to bust this one open on account of his uncontrollably shaky hands. He begins muttering a prayer to Tymora under his breath as he takes the padlock with a clammy palm and slips the pick into the keyhole — this initial step taking up so much of his focus that he fails to notice the shadow descending upon him from the roof above until it is too late.
The heel of a boot lands full-force on the top of Ralph’s head, sending him toppling to the ground on his side. In between the black stars that now cloud his vision, through the throbbing pain in his head and the blood leaking out of his scalp, he can barely make out the menacing figure looming over his small, prone body; a glimpse of ashen skin, red hair, and eyes that burn like fire.
“Please,” he croaks out weakly to whomever is there. “Please. My house was destroyed in the war. I have a fam—”
The last thing Ralph sees before he blacks out is a massive, spectral, red fist slamming into his face.
Leonida finds the dwarven bruiser in a narrow, foul-stinking alleyway just before the break of dawn. She has a dark-bearded halfling draped over one shoulder and is dragging a heavily-bruised human man behind her, both unconscious, and she drops both in front of the dwarf like an offering.
He raises a brow as he bends down to inspect the halfling’s face. “Hm. Never seen this one ‘round here before,” he comments, a tone of mild intrigue breaking through the boredom in his voice.
“Dregs from Port Ffirst, probably,” says Leonida.
“Ah. Aye. Heard they were damaged pretty badly over there.”
“If there’s nothing else…”
The dwarf grunts and tosses a leather pouch at her. She catches it with a reflexively raised palm without even so much of a glance. It’s heavier than usual.
“Generous,” she remarks.
“Patriot ‘preciates your efforts. Come back next week, there’s always work to do in these parts.”
There’s always work to do, fullstop. Especially here in the Dawnlands. She reckons that by the next tenday, once everyone’s done crying about their losses, the adventuring business will kick-start once again. That’s likely why they’re so strong, she thinks. Unceasing conflict as well as unceasing work.
Leonida turns around and disappears into the shadows before the first rays of dawn can find her.
The warehouse doors are sealed with heavy chains and a huge padlock. The lockpicking tools in his hands seem so tiny in comparison, he wonders if they might break trying to bust this one open on account of his uncontrollably shaky hands. He begins muttering a prayer to Tymora under his breath as he takes the padlock with a clammy palm and slips the pick into the keyhole — this initial step taking up so much of his focus that he fails to notice the shadow descending upon him from the roof above until it is too late.
The heel of a boot lands full-force on the top of Ralph’s head, sending him toppling to the ground on his side. In between the black stars that now cloud his vision, through the throbbing pain in his head and the blood leaking out of his scalp, he can barely make out the menacing figure looming over his small, prone body; a glimpse of ashen skin, red hair, and eyes that burn like fire.
“Please,” he croaks out weakly to whomever is there. “Please. My house was destroyed in the war. I have a fam—”
The last thing Ralph sees before he blacks out is a massive, spectral, red fist slamming into his face.
Leonida finds the dwarven bruiser in a narrow, foul-stinking alleyway just before the break of dawn. She has a dark-bearded halfling draped over one shoulder and is dragging a heavily-bruised human man behind her, both unconscious, and she drops both in front of the dwarf like an offering.
He raises a brow as he bends down to inspect the halfling’s face. “Hm. Never seen this one ‘round here before,” he comments, a tone of mild intrigue breaking through the boredom in his voice.
“Dregs from Port Ffirst, probably,” says Leonida.
“Ah. Aye. Heard they were damaged pretty badly over there.”
“If there’s nothing else…”
The dwarf grunts and tosses a leather pouch at her. She catches it with a reflexively raised palm without even so much of a glance. It’s heavier than usual.
“Generous,” she remarks.
“Patriot ‘preciates your efforts. Come back next week, there’s always work to do in these parts.”
There’s always work to do, fullstop. Especially here in the Dawnlands. She reckons that by the next tenday, once everyone’s done crying about their losses, the adventuring business will kick-start once again. That’s likely why they’re so strong, she thinks. Unceasing conflict as well as unceasing work.
Leonida turns around and disappears into the shadows before the first rays of dawn can find her.