Today’s snippet, titled “No Rest for the Wicked, Part Two”, is a piece I wrote about an NPC in my Pathfinder Campaign (sort of the “King Maker” adventure path). The intention behind this was to illustrate events occurring in the world, but away from the PCs. They’re supposed to be writing their own pieces about actual in-game events. We shall see if any materialize.
      Be forewarned, there are mature themes and naughty language below.
– – – – – – – – – – –
      Topper Red hesitated before knocking on the doorjamb, for the storage room served two purposes these days. It held their supplies and it housed the Stag Lord’s second-in-command. Akiros Ismort kept a neat, minimal cot in the corner with a tiny writing desk next to it and a tall stand for his armor.
      “Always meant to ask you about that,” he said, keeping his tone light. “‘Scuse me, Akiros, didn’t mean to interrupt. Dovan sent-”
      Akiros was bent over his writing desk and for a long moment, he did not respond. When at last he rolled his shoulders back, sitting up and twisting on the stool, he turned his steely gaze to Topper Red and for just a moment, he smiled.
      “Ah, the Garlic Poet here in my humble abode. Honored.”
      He shifted awkwardly, never quite sure how much of Akiros’ words were sincere and how much were mocking him. Mostly mocking, he decided, but not all.
      “Yeah, I sure wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
      “Hells, boy, there are worse things. You reek of garlic and you tell tall tales like a street poet. Better I should call you Stinky or Rankmouth or maybe The Reeking Bard?” Akiros stood, scattering a bit of sand over the page of his book. He paused to dust it off and then hastily closed it, tucking it into a pouch that attached to his belt and his thigh. “No, I like Garlic Poet. Now, what have you been meaning to ask me?”
      Topper Red pushed his chin toward the full plate armor in the corner. It was old and had at one point been badly dented, but Akiros had obviously worked the kinks out with care and diligence. Still, the enamel – a deep, pine green – was chipped in places and no amount of polishing could disguise that.
      “Who’s armor is that? Your grand dad’s?”
      Akiros smirked, the long, pucked scar that stretched from above his left eyebrow to just above his left jaw crinkling. “You could say so. Its from another life.” He paused and his hand went to his belt. There was a leather purse there and Topper Red could not help but wonder what sort of token or momento the big warrior kept there for it was an odd size and definitely did not hold any shifting, jingling coin.
      “Never seen you wear it. Was just curious.”
      “Curiosity will get you killed, Teige.” The older man ran a hair through his hair; it hung to his shoulders and shot through with bits of silver, a perfect match to his immaculately trimmed beard, and always looked freshly combed. “Better to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, around here.”
      He nodded. “Sometimes I see more than I want to.”
      There was a sympathetic tone to Akiros’ voice when he replied. “Not what you expected when you left Pitax, eh? Figured you’d flit around from hamlet to croft to farm and back, bedding pretty young maids, robbing mean old men and drinking yourself silly?”
      Topper Red had to chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. If he were really honest with himself, Akiros had nailed it. He knew he wasn’t cut out to be a thief or burglar or cutpurse in the city, but the frontier? He had been sure it would be just like it was in the stories.
      It was not.
      “It is a shitty life. It is short and brutal and made for small, petty men with bitter, black souls. You’re not the type, Teige, and sooner or later, it will get you killed.”
      Topper Red chewed the inside of his cheek. Akiros was the only one who knew his given name and even then, he used it only rarely. He wished he was smarter or wiser, because he was pretty sure it meant something, he just did not know what.
      Clearing his throat, he nodded. “Uh, I suppose. Hey, um, are there any of those pastries left? Dovan wanted me to-”
      Akiros stepped across the room and lifted a rawhide satchel from a pile of goods. He fished around inside and after a moment, withdrew a cheesecloth package. Topper Red could smell the sweet cinnamon from where he stood and his belly rumbled. He imagined that if Fatiin had not fucked him over so royally, that he could be spending his Sundays sipping kafee and nibbling burata cookies at the Gracedawn Café in Pitax.
      He had let himself get distracted by the memories of those flavors dancing on his tongue and started like a rabbit when Akiros crushed the packet with his fist. “What do you know? None left.”
      “I- Oh hells.”
      “Don’t worry about it,” Akiros said, slapping him on the shoulder before stooping down to pull on his boots. “I’ll tell the tattooed prick they’re gone.”
      “Thank you, sir.”
      Akiros frowned. “Don’t call me sir, Teige. I haven’t been a proper sir for a fucking long time. And if I don’t find a way out of this dump, I never will be again.”
      Topper Red felt his jaw drop and hastily closed it.
      “You didn’t hear that, kid.”
      “No, si- uh, No, Akiros. Didn’t hear a thing.”
      “Good.” Akiros smoothed his hands down, across his belly. He seemed to be considering something, lost in thought. After a few heartbeats he lifted the key from around his neck and gestured for Topper Red to exit the storage room. “Grab that bit of venison on the shelf. Its about gone over, but it’ll do for Beaky.”
      With a grin on his face, Topper Red jogged across the room, snatched the hide-wrapped hunk of meat and headed toward the exit. He could feel the heavy silver token bouncing against his chest and suddenly he realized what had been bothering him.
      “Akiros – where’s your…?” he said, struggling for the word. “Uh, sigil.”
      The color drained suddenly from the older man’s face and for just the briefest of instants, Topper Red saw panic flooding into those grey eyes. That unguarded moment sent his heart into his belly and he felt ill.
      “Thanks, kid.” Akiros met his gaze and held it for a long moment. Again, Topper Red wished he was more insightful for he felt in his heart that the older man was trying to communicate something to him silently. At last, he nodded, just to break eye contact, and Akiros ruffled his hair. “Maybe we’ll call you Lifesaver instead, or the Garlic Guardian, eh?”
      Topper Red managed a smile and followed Akiros out into the hall. Akiros slung the silver token around his neck, then pulled the door shut behind him, locking it.
      “Let’s go, kid. There’s no rest for the wicked.”

– – – – – – – – – – –

Note: Image is “White skull of a stag with large horns on grass” by KateKray from SXC.hu