“Well, I never imagined a Dark Elf could be so rude!” Festan said in disgust, “Say, there are not many Dark Elves in Doljinaar and I know all the songs. You must be Shade! I wrote a song about you! Let me sing you my song! It’s called Shade, the Shadowpuff!” He pulled out a long curly widdlepipe. He put the pipe to his lips and said, “Let’s see it goes like—”
Shade clamped his hand over Festan’s little lips. Shadowpuff? Did the Faun just call him a Shadowpuff?
The Faun tried to speak, but his words came out muffled.
Shade said coldly, “You sing a song about me and I’ll carve that tongue out from between those flapping gums of yours!”
Festan pulled away. “Then what am I supposed to do, Mr. Shadowpuff?” He glanced around. “It looks like you killed all the other customers.”
“I don’t care! Buy a drink! That would help Bwedrig out. Just stop your ceaseless chattering!”
“Mmmmm…” He scratched his chin pondering. “Help Bwedrig out? Eh? Why didn’t I think of that?”
Shade was treated to a whole two seconds of peace.
“Ale!” Festan shattered that peace, “I need ale to help me think!”
Bwedrig poured the Faun a mug of steamy ale.
Festan pushed the mug aside. “Not a mug! Leave me a barrel.”
The barkeep asked doubtfully, “A barrel?”
“Yes, a barrel.”
“That will be five bloodstone pieces then,” he said in disbelief.
Festan surprised them both when he produced all five blood shillings. He put them down on the bar. Bwedrig lumbered over to a table behind him. He pulled a barrel off a back table and left it on the bar.
“That’s better,” Festan said. The Faun had already downed his first mug and stood up on his stool. He removed the lid and scooped his cup into the foaming barrel. He drank six more refills before he put the mug back down.
Bwedrig cocked his eyebrow.
The perfectly sober Faun climbed off of the barrel he had been standing on and wiped his chin. “Good, now I can hear myself think.”
‘I can’t,’ Shade thought. He fought to keep his hands off his blades. Could this Faun be any more annoying?
Festan gave the damaged tavern a brief appraisal. He erupted suddenly, “Oh, no, no no! This is all wrong! I have to do something to spruce this place up!” He paced the floor, with his hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought. “Let’s see, how could I get customers back? I know a good old-fashioned Faunish redecorating! I’ll bring in garland and streamers and confetti! Lots of confetti!”
Shade growled, “No confetti!”
“Why aren’t you a bossy Shadowpuff?” Festan piped back, “A little confetti wouldn’t hurt to brighten up your life.” He darted over to the doorway. “Let’s see what else? I got it—a bell that jingles when you open the door.” Shade heard him lift the battered wreckage of the door. “If there was a door.”
Shade’s blood boiled. He really, really didn’t like that stupid nickname. He spun around. “If you call me Shadowpuff one more time I’ll kill you.”
“You know, you can’t find much joy in life killing people, Master Shade,” he tried to say it respectfully, “you can’t see them dance or hear them sing. Why do you have to go around killing everyone?”
“That’s it! I only tolerated your presence because you bought a lot of ale from Bwedrig, you can play your songs just as long as you cease that infernal racket!”
“I can!” Festan darted back over to him. “I can play my songs!”
“Yes, you can play your songs,” Shade frowned. He was going to live to regret this. ‘Hours, Shade,’ he reminded himself, ‘you have only hours until you leave.’
“I can’t wait, I can’t wait!”
“And one more thing,” Shade added.
“Yes, Master Shade?”
He grabbed Festan by his collar. “No enchantments! I know you Fauns can charm other races with your music. If I hear even one note that makes my finger so much as tingle, I’ll slit your throat, you got that?”
“Ok, ok, I got it!” Festan pulled away. “You don’t have to ruffle my collar.” He retrieved his widdlepipe. He put it to his lips and announced the title of his first performance. “We’re going to start with Shade, the Shadowpuff.”
Shade jumped off his barrel. He dragged Festan by his collar kicking and screaming out the tavern and to the edge of the canal.
Shade closed his eyes and lost himself in the fanciful melodies of Festan’s widdlepipe. The Faun wasn’t all that bad, once he let go of his insistence on singing Shade’s poorly named tribute. It seemed dangling Festan a few times over the ledge had helped the Faun to resample a taste of some healthy fear. After that Festan got to playing. Festan played his widdlepipe next to the barrel he had ordered, which Bwedrig had relocated for him to the floor. Shade was shocked to see the barrel was nearly empty. Festan still showed no signs of drunkenness.
Festan’s music had worked, but perhaps it was also the fact that Shade hadn’t killed the Faun. A faint trickle of patrons had begun their slow and chary re-acquaintance with The Green Barrel. Of course, many still left upon sighting the assassin, but the occasional customer braved a short drink. Only one lanky Dervishman had the nerve to get drunk. The man lay in a puddle of his own vomit at the end of the bar. He had been snoring loudly for over an hour much to Shade’s grating annoyance. He remembered what it was like to deal with the living again.
Nosy onlookers poked their heads in through the holes in the wall. They shook their heads at the fools who ventured inside. It was a sparse crowd of heavyset Doelms, Drakor and men (mostly Braznians and Black Robes). Shade didn’t mind the return of business. In fact, he preferred it. The money he had given for repairs had put a considerable dent in the bounty promised him. It didn’t bother him too much, but he considered it foolish not to turn some form of a profit in his ventures. The conduct of spending beyond one’s worth was another pathetic human weakness that highlighted man’s irresponsible and overly compulsive nature.
The Dark Elf’s glowing yellow eyes swept over the dregs of Doljinn society and realized just how out of place such thoughts of self-accountability and discipline were in such a decadent setting such as this. Shade wondered at Warlord Lewd’s latest play. After the bounty and poisons failed, the deranged warlord had turned to his final act of desperation. He had turned to the Shaltearan elite—the Shaltearan Brotherhood. The Shaltearan Brotherhood was the most renowned guild of assassins in the world known for its unorthodox weapons and deadly efficiency. The true power of the brotherhood was found in its ability to melt into the endless masses of Doljinaar much like an Unseen blended into the shadows. An assassin could be anyone, strike from anywhere.
Shade had not seen much from the guild so far, just three worthless scraps from the Shaltearan Quarter here in Kurn he had dispatched with ease. The attacks had begun as the customers came back in. The first attempt on his life had come from an assassin disguised as a Barrelrunner. The man had lunged at him after pretending to deliver a barrel of ale. The next attack had been a dreamy-eyed teenager. Brash and stupid, the boy had thrown away his life before it began. The third was a beautiful Jintoan woman who had been wrapped in the cloaks of a harlot. She may have stood the best chance had Shade not erected his usual barricade of self-will utilized for resisting the charms, flattery and deceptions of women. In this she had been a master artisan. She would have made an effective killer. She certainly would have killed any man, but Shade was no man.
Shade shrugged. Festan did not express his appreciation for all the bloody interruptions, but the Dark Elf didn’t feel even a shred of guild. Not even for the woman or the boy. Amateurs. Cloaks as the guild called them. The Shaltearan Brotherhood had been using such initiation rites for centuries, turning green recruits out on the streets for a chance to prove their worth. They had no training. The brotherhood merely flung a cloak over their shoulders, slapped a dagger in their hand and pointed them toward a mark. Bagging a high profile target such as Shade would have certainly cemented their place in the order ‘Fools!’ he thought, ‘you signed your own death warrants the moment you tried to mark me!’