Bacon Macleod
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Interlude 3: Rumours
🕑 Added 2025-02-13 20:30:02 +0000 UTCJorn coughed weakly, trying to clear the thick wad of mucous that seemed to be choking him alive. Leaning one hand against the greasy stone wall of the alley, he doubled over—his head spinning as a ka-thunk rocked his chest. His heart skipping another beat, it had to be.
They were getting closer together.
He needed more shard.
It…it would be his soon. Even with the fucking beasts ruining the supply lines—even the thickest smuggler was a fucking rat, and too few were braving the wilds—Grave-eye would have some.
He always did. He was desperate enough that the prices would be worth it.
Besides, this time he wouldn’t owe the demon-spawn shit. He had info.
Everyone knew that Grave-eye liked info. Sure, he was a ruthlessly conniving bastard who would look best dressed in six strides of soil—a veritable plague on the city—but the man had shard.
Or at least, Jorn was almost certain he did. How could he not? Grave-eye had his fingers in every single pie in the city. Sure, he was a smaller player, but he was smart, had connections. Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him—or at least, thought he was useful.
It was honestly impressive how he’d managed to leverage a web of favours, deals, and alliances to keep himself safe in the middle of his enclave.
He had to have shard.
Just thinking about it was enough to get that metallic tingle on the back of his tongue, his mouth puckering at the very thought of it. That porcelain bite—shining a soft, impossible, grey. The sour taste of joy and acceptance.
The bitter fucking abscense of it.
Another thud rolled through him. Jorn crouched down, hugging his knees as he waited for the wave to pass.
He just…just had to get to Grave-eye. Even a flake would last him for a week—hells, a month!
Feeling himself grin at the thought of the poison, Jorn felt sick to his stomach. A delver, shivering in an alley as he dreamed of his next fix. Gods, he was gutless. Such a fucking bastard. A two-bit delver who was pathetic enough to get hooked on fucking shard—over a wench of all things!
But…it wasn’t all his fault. Cass had tricked him—told him it was just a bit of fun. Told him that she’d taken it for once or twice a year since she’d been a woman, without a hint of a craving. Liar. Then she’d died, and there was no fucking way he was dealing with that sober.
He’d lost Hosh in a delve three months later, and Talla the very next time he’d dared to step foot in those demon-spawned Depths after that.
Who could blame a man for grief?
Besides, it was the last time.
Jorn coughed, and the wad finally came free. Spluttering to the point of retching, he spat the slimy gristle onto the piss-streaked stone, and came up for a breath of sweet air—at least as close as you could get to it on this side of Deadacre.
With air, came clarity. Gods, what was he doing? He was a rat, a sellout—a fucking snake.
He should turn back. This was a step too low, even for a bastard like him. He could tell Ro—he’d never spoken to her, but he’d heard she was reasonable. Oh, she’d chuck him in a cell until he was good and dry, but she wouldn’t give him the boot.
She might if he went through with tonight.
There were a lot of opportunities out there now, for someone like him. Even a shit Scout with an Uncommon class could make something of themselves these days—plenty of things to grow strong against. Plus, the boys had been talking about pushing up through Bronze—making their way to Iron. There’d be good coin with that, enough to get him to the Dukedoms. Like he’d always wanted.
Ma would have wanted it too. Even if he could never visit her again, she’d want that for him.
He wouldn’t even have to delve. No more losing people to Guardians—just scoping out beasts, and running if it was too hard. He could do that, couldn’t he?
Just as he pushed against the alley wall, the damp grime feeling like shards of glass on his too-sensitive skin, his chest was rocked by another shuddering thump. Pain exploded, shooting down his arm and clawing its way up his neck.
No. No, he couldn’t. He’d die. He needed to taper—too much of a shock to the system to do it cold, not with how long he’d been on the poison.
But…but to taper he needed shard.
Fuck.
It was his life, or theirs. Hells, it wasn’t even their life! Just a few rumours really—stuff anyone could find out if they were watching closely.
Jorn gasped as a burning hot flush roared up his back, nearly heaving again as his nose ran down the back of his throat.
There was no choice. He had to see Grave-eye.
….
Grave-eye leaned back in his chair, the leather-lined recliner tilted back on an angle as he rested his boots on his desk. Ironwood desk, the top lined with suede made from a venomous cantel beast—only found in the eighth layer of a delve right in this very city.
Took a beating like nothing else, and it didn’t stain. A large bonus, in his line of work.
“Gorm, bring me a brandy.” he called to his hound who waited by the door to his office with a snap of his fingers. The brute grunted, but moved to obey, bowing his head to avoid the chandelier. Bloody ogre of a man—but keeping even a giant-blooded around had its uses.
He narrowed his eyes at the man's slouch, the slow, lackadaisical, pace of his walk to the liquor cabinet by his bookcase—that one had been engraved by elves of all things. Any slower, and he’d have the man found in a gutter. Already would have, if the half-brained dimwit wasn’t so annoyingly loyal.
“Oh, and fetch me my copy of ‘The Secret Lives of Antidevian Mistresses’ as well.” Grave-eye added with a wave of his hand as Gorm opened the liquor cabinet with a shocking lack of care—didn’t the moron know that the joiner who’d made that was dead, and elvish, it was a rare piece!
Gorm shuddered to a stop, his hands frozen halfway through opening the crystal decanter that held his brandy. A Mystral vintage—the best brandy came from the best wine, after all.
“Yer….what?” Gorm asked, staring at him with a complete lack of deference.
Grave-eye scowled, throwing his hands up in the air. “A book, you blithering fool! Right there! The red spine—imperial octavo, with the deckled edges and marbled boards.”
Gorm just stopped, staring at the bookcase as his eyes roved right over his book like the utter brainless lout he was.
“Right there, you fool! Second shelf from the top, five in from the right. Or do I need to teach you how to count, as well!” Grave-eye yelled, staring at his hound in disbelief. Utterly ridiculous. He’d have buried Gorm in a fucking latrine by now—if he hadn’t pocketed every bribe he’d been offered and then immediately turned it over with a list of who’d tried.
After a shocking display of mental agility, Gorm managed to find the book after his third set of directions, and brought him both his drink and his reading material.
Finally he could relax.
….
He’d only just gotten to his favourite chapter—’Seventy Silks for Sixteen Balls’—when he was rudely interrupted by someone hammering on his front door. They were heavy hits, carrying that desperate quality he had gotten so used to, and carried up the stairs to his study with inordinate ease.
Grave-eye sighed, his temple throbbing as he kicked his feet off the plush leather topper of his desk.
“Gorm, go see who that is. If they don’t have a good reason to be here, kill them…and break a few bones first for interrupting my book.” he said, dismissing his hound with a wave of his hand.
Swirling his brandy, Grave-eye took another sip of the amber liquid. It burned smooth, leaving the very same note of peaches and rock-melon on the back of his tongue that made the source vineyard so famous.
A few moments passed, and he heard his hound open his door for a moment, then close it again. He didn’t hear Gorm’s passage otherwise—the imbecile was terrifyingly quiet. He’d considered getting him fit with a bell, just to stop the amount of times he’d turned around to find the twit looming behind him like a statue—by the gods he had the brains of one.
His hound re-entered, stopping by the door and doing little else. Not entirely outside of the ordinary, to be honest.
“Well? Who was it?” he asked.
“Jorn.” Gorm replied.
“And I am supposed to know who the fuck that is how?” Grave-eye narrowed his eyes at his hound.
“Bronze delver, shard addict, Scout, last bought a full scrap from Fos nine weeks ago—nothing since.” Gorm replied, his voice the same low drone it always was.
He clucked his tongue. Now he remembered. A filthy gutter-rat of an addict, for sure—but the man had given him a few tasty morsels in the past. Hopefully, for his sake, he’d brought some today.
“Well, what did he want? Or is he lying dead in my lobby—because I thought I told you to stop leaving bodies there, it’ll stain the marble.”
Gorm shrugged. “Said he’s got something good, wants to trade it for some Shard. Wants five scrap of it.”
Five scrap? That was enough to keep even the most seasoned shard-vein juiced to their eyeballs for months. Let alone it was a clean three-thousand gold, alchemical products weren’t cheap, afterall. It had to be something good—or the man was lying.
Grave-eye paused, thinking on it more. In all likelihood the shard-vein was simply desperate, not that that was any great risk. He could deal with a bronze delver alone, let alone one strung out on shard of all things—Gorm would shatter him like the fine china he’d been forced to stop buying.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go fetch the gutter-rat!” Dead-eye dismissed his hound with a sniff, topping up his brandy from the decanter on his desk.
A moment later, and Jorn crossed the silence wards he’d had embedded in his walls—the low droning splutter of a shard-vein in deep withdrawal filling the halls of his home. Grave-eye scowled in disgust.
The bastard better have something good, or he was a dead little rat.
A single set of shuddering steps advanced up his stairs, walking over his finely woven and richly dyed rugs—no doubt tracking in all manner of disgusting filth—before they stopped outside of his office.
Gorm opened the door, shoving the shard-vein in. The rat stumbled, barely arresting himself before he slammed into his desk. Lucky, if he’d spilled even a single drop of his brandy, he wouldn’t even have waited to hear out the rat’s inevitably lying squeeks.
“Jorn.” Grave-eye said, dragging the rat's eyes to his own. “You have five seconds to start telling me why you interrupted my book before my hound starts breaking your fingers.”
The rat’s eyes widened, though they stayed pinpricks despite the light of the ward-lights. Fucking shard-veins, disgusting creatures.
“Yes Grave-eye, sorry Grave-eye. I…I came because I saw something you might be interested in, want to trade it for some shard. Tryna get off it you see, thought a big batch to help wean would be smart.” the rat yammered.
“I don’t want to hear what helps you sleep at night, you fool! What did you see?” Grave-eye growled, boring holes in the rat.
Jorn gulped, his throat quivering around some obstruction.
“Well, I was out on a mission, out Intshire ways…”
….
Grave-eye’s mind raced as he listened to Jorn's tale. Now this! This was something he could use.
Interesting. Very interesting indeed. This was worth a whole lot more than a few scraps. Now…how to profit.
Well, he had one thing left to do.
“Well, Jorn, this was a pleasant surprise indeed. Thank you for bringing this to my attention—though, pray tell, have you shared this with anyone else? This kind of info is most valuable when it is only in my hands.” he smiled at the shard-vein, even if it sickened him.
The rat’s eyes widened, no doubt surprised by his stunning display of grace. “N…no, Grave-eye—I swear to the gods!” the rat managed to somehow grow even more pallid and sweaty.
“No gods in this house, on the truth-stone if you please.” Grave-eye replied, tilting his head to the fine piece of runework that he had embedded into the top left of his desk.
The shard-vein nodded hurriedly, though his eyes rolled at the motion, swaying as if he was going to pass out. Still, he was obedient enough—for a rat—and placed his hand on the stone. “I swear that I have told my story to no one except you, Grave-eye.”
To Grave-eye’s delight, the stone shone green. A secret that was his alone, how splendid!
“Fantastic job, Jorn! You’ve done me a great service, I think one worthy of ten scraps, how does that sound?” Grave-eye forced himself to be sweet, even if it sickened him.
Like the simple minded beast it was, the rat's entire countenance morphed at the mention of even more shard than it had been expecting. Its face brightened, eyes becoming wide and bright as a smile of genuine happiness spread across his face.
“Oh thank you, Lord Grave-eye, you are too kind!” it spoke, falling to its knees as it clasped its hands.
“Yes, yes. Rewards to the faithful and all.” he replied, waving off its protestrations. “Gorm, fetch the man his gift.”
Gorm opened the cabinet behind him, before stepping forward.
The rat looked up, a wide smile on his face as he looked at the hound.
The hound buried a knife in the rat's face, blood spurting over his woven rostian rug.
“For fuck’s sake, Gorm! How many times have I told you to bludgeon them if they are on the carpets! Are you trying your hand at being a colourist?” Grave-eye cried, staring at the spreading pool that was soaking into the dense orange weave of his rug.
“Why are you standing there, you fool! You think because you remembered what ‘gift’ means that you’ve done a good job? Get it off my bloody carpet!”
Gorm grunted, bending down before he hoisted the body over his shoulder. The idiot that he was, he left a trail of blood his entire way out of the office.
Grave-eye sighed, turning away from the mess—thank the gods he knew a cleansing spell. Swirling his brandy as he stared into the hearth behind his desk, he thought on what he had just learned.
A smile grew on his face.
He’d need to confirm it for himself, of course. Keep an eye on things. But if it turned out to be correct? This could be the score of a lifetime.
Oh yes, this could turn into quite the profitable endeavour.
A/N: Unreliable narrators galore - I had so much fun writing this chapter, these characters suck ass
Comments
Szarekh Östwind
is this a shady person who will blackmail Kaius and co.?
DeadicatedReader
The bitter fucking abscense of it. -> absence tftc!
Crapgeezer
Ok, thats good to know at least! (Since i didn't remember where intshire was exactly)
gray matter
Well tbh I’m thinking a lower level Meles away from the dens might be worth a lot to the right/wrong people. Personally I don’t think they’ve thought about that enough. It might not actually be Kaius this is really about.
Bacon Macleod
“Well, I was out on a mission, out Intshire ways…” Kaius's spider mission was inbetween Intshire and Holsborough. Jorn is a scout.
Joshua Little
Thanks for the chapter.
Crapgeezer
I think I would have enjoyed this chapter more if the rumor was actually shown.
Hammy
okay, not going to lie but I like Gorm. And the duo him and Grave-Eye is actually kinda funny.
Tim Judge
I don't like Grave eye but I really want to try some of that brandy sounds delicious.
BelligerentGnu
Goddammit, Jorn, you idiot. You think Ro is too stupid to understand how to taper? Yes, I know it's an excuse, but it's a dumb excuse.
Memnun
tftc, excellent chapter. I would kill a god for Gorm
Jon Simpson
Hmm, now let me guess what, or who, the information in question was about?
