NOVEL NEXT A Lent Ear
A Lent Ear
Markus leaned back in his seat, taking a deep drag off his cigar as he listened to his latest pet project recount a tale of a rather disastrous journey. An unusually hostile response from an already particularly murderous dungeon serving as background for the main event certainly surprised him, but his thoughts whirled as he tried to piece together what could possibly have caused this.
A dungeon displaying unusual hostility right off the bat was strange, but it pointed to one of two things; either someone had recently come very close to damaging or conquering it's core, or it sensed an existential threat and was lashing out preemptively. The latter he had no explanation for; aside from, perhaps, the animate murder pit sensing the stalkers and deeming them dangerous enough for a generally heightened response. Which wouldn't really explain why both accounts he'd heard now made no mention of the dungeon attempting to oust the unexpected intruders.
The former, however, was both very worrying and easily explainable: other than the never dismissable chance of a roving lunatic, the only people with a vested interest in destroying or conquering that wretched pit would be rival gangs. Someone must have sent a powerful squad (likely leading a small army of mooks) to subjugate or destroy the dungeon, and in all likelihood they were still inside; whether that meant their cold corpses were being devoured by the hungering hovel or they were alive and heading towards the core, he had no way of knowing.
Combined with the recent attacks, there was no way he could interpret this as anything less than the opening hours of a war. Two different lieutenants from two different gangs intruding on his territory within as many weeks, both involved in strange attacks on his people and property? While their was never truly peace between the various factions controlling Sector Three, such overt and high level aggression was unusual. Maybe if Snorky and Jhast offered sufficient grease for his palm that could have been waved away as some lieutenants getting drunk and doing something foolish, but attacking a resource as valuable and volatile as a dungeon?
He could only take that as the opening salvo of a full blown war.
Which meant he needed to take stock of his assets, his known enemies and their assets, and what he could do to shift the board in his favour. He needed to call on allies and mercenaries, and ensure no one else got to either first. Every second in a war was critical, but these first few moments when half the players didn't know the fight was on were especially so; many maneuvers would become implausible if not moved towards now, when the fire was just heating up. Moves needed to be made immediately, before things got too hot.
He sent a glance to Rokharth and found the old monster already meeting his google-veiled eyes. He was unsurprised the ancient once-man connected the dots even faster than he did, one didn't live(ish) to be as old as him without being exceptionally quick on the uptake. The monstrous assassin nodded to his nominal leader, then faded back into the shadows cast by their tall table, disappearing as if he were never there.
Finally, with at least some preparations already on track, he turned back to the messenger, iron eyes sweeping over the diminutive creature. Markus had seen his ilk before, they were relatively common in places infested with vermin; places exactly like Malkaeth Sector Three, by no coincidence. What was less common was them being so level headed and rational as the specimen trying very hard to hide its nervousness before him.
Most people thought of rattan as little more than vermin, if on the larger and more dangerous end; stories abound of them eating pets, stealing food, and very rarely killing people, though usually only the vulnerable, like the sick, elderly, and children. They were weak and malevolent, practically born reavers and always enemies of the more agreeable parts of civilization (like cleanliness, and not getting eaten alive on the streets). Most people killed them on sight; if not out of sheer disdain alone, then out of fear of what they may become or what they might steal.
Markus was a bit more open minded, one had to be to worship Silxazar.
There was something off about the upright rat, or at least something that hadn't been there before. Normally he'd have to puzzle out what that difference was, but he liked to think himself a little more clever than that; the little assassin-in-training mentioned carving the rune of darkness with his own blood, and Rokharth had noticed him getting drawn in by said rune in training. That could mean a lot of things, but in his experience…
He leaned forward, leaning his elbows against the edge of his table, "You mentioned scrawling the rune of darkness, yes? Rokharth mentioned you were enthralled by that rune when he demonstrated it… Given you look remarkably alive, that must mean you awakened your cultivation." The rat started slightly, but nodded slowly in acknowledgement. "Hmm, there's a reason Rokharth told you not to mess around with that rune, but it seems you managed to break through the first stumbling block without falling into the abyss. You got lucky, very lucky; mosty people who try to take the first step into cultivation without any guidance like that find themselves completely overwhelmed by their element."
The gang boss shook his head, his mind briefly cast back to old friends and servants twisted into mad incarnations of uncontrolled elements before he recentered himself in the here and now. He could see his words had appropriately shaken the plucky little killer, "You'll need proper instruction if you don't want to wind up a mindless thrall of primordial darkness. Most people in your circumstances would never be able to find, let alone convince, a more experienced cultivator of their element to train them; you, however, are a Burnpike Lord, and we just so happen to have a fair few cultivators amongst our ranks. I'll get you set up with an instructor tomorrow; for now, you've had a rough fucking day, go get some grub and go sleep it off, eh?"
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The diminutive assassin didn't visibly glance around, simply bowing (just slightly too shallowly to be truly respectful, but Markus didn't really care) and turning to approach one of the banquet tables Markus made a point to always keep stocked. Having fresh food available in such quantity that the gang had multiple tables kept constantly full was a show of power, a display of wealth, and, most importantly, a display of magnanimity to encourage loyalty. It was the same justification the more level headed nobles use for slathering their homes in gold and jewels, but more appealing to his target audience; for the downtrodden and destitute living in the slums of Sector Three, a pile of food they could grab from at will was even more enticing than walls plastered with ground up jewels.
You always need to take the audience into account with such measures; these piles of food would mean nothing to the nobility in their ivory castles, but to the poor folk struggling to survive in this shit hole? A (practically) never ending banquet had convinced men and women to sell their souls to him, though usually not literally. Sure, it cost a not inconsiderable portion of the gang's income to maintain and required him to have staff who's whole role was cleaning up rotten food and making sure the plates were always hot, but the loyalty it inspired was more than worth it in his eyes. Besides, ordering food in bulk from the Farmer's Guild made it easier for them to slip illicit drugs into the same crates, especially the ones produced by said guild.
Steely eyes followed the little rat for a while, watching him pile two plates of food before glancing around for an empty table. He could see the moment the new recruit realized there were no fully empty tables, and began looking for smaller groups that wouldn't object to his presence. A small smile spread faintly across the jaded gang leader's lips as he saw one of the orange clad clandestine agents wave him over to a table filled with them; it was good to see they weren't visibly forging grudges over the unfortunate events that lead to them separating.
Of course, one glance at Cerikon had his smile fade when the orange haired man shook his head grimly; the half-demon may have had almost no understanding of emotions, but he had a mystical grasp of bonds, both positive and negative. "He doesn't hate them, but he absolutely is holding a grudge over them leaving him for dead like that."
Well, that was not exactly optimal; the little furball was just a bundle of grudges and hate so far. Now, if he discriminated against his crew for having negative outlooks on life, he'd never have any recruits; but even so, he knew well how important it was to foster bonds and positive feelings. A man who cares nothing for the place he lives will abandon it as soon as the wind turns, but a man who cares for what he stands before would die to keep it safe; that was exactly the kind of ethos he wanted his men to have, to feel more for this gang than just a source of income, but a home.
People abandon jobs for better ones, but they'll die for their home.
Part of that was fostering a certain sort of community amongst his subordinates, one of mutual aid rather than pure competition. Of course, he was under no illusions that the misbegotten and unwanted he gathered to his banner were truly the supportive types, but that didn't stop him from trying. Culture wasn't just a matter of policy, but of in-jokes and personal codes, of stories and shared experiences; such things can be encouraged, but attempts to force them will only ever spawn resentment.
That's why he took a more subtle hand, encouraging people to get along without overtly demanding it, quietly supporting endeavors to assist one another and better their territory. He wanted his people to feel proud to be Burnpikes, to see others wearing the colours as kin even if they don't consciously acknowledge it; subordinates that get along, that help each other to the greater benefit of the gang, are more effective after all. He wasn't worried about the various cliques and social groups rebelling against him enough to deliberately set them against each other, mainly because he'd seen gangs split apart along such lines when such measures were taken.
Besides, he had more than enough personal power to put down any rebellious factions.
Withholding a sigh, he finished off his glass of wine in one gulp and stood up from the table. Sending a glance at Cerikon he found the man following suit, though the fiery-eyed half-demon took the time to grab Korin by the hair, lift her face out of her soup bowl, and drag her along behind him. Markus didn't bother hiding an amused smirk, chuckling faintly; one had to take what pleasures they could, especially with a rather unpleasant meeting to come.
Sitting down at a table full of men who, from the right perspective, betrayed me not very long ago was a notably awkward experience, if seemingly only for me. Most just nodded amicably, and one even made to pat me on the back before pulling back with a laugh when I dodged. Roin grinned my way, "Well well, I'm impressed you got out of that shit show. That thing was… not of this world. Even just playing around with that mutated knight, it showed strange magic –or perhaps skills– like nothing I've seen before."
He shook his head, his expression appearing genuinely regretful (as if I'd ever believe such a thing; I'd be unsurprised if acting was a literal Skill), "I don't like leaving people behind, and I like taking casualties even less; we did both in that disaster. I'll give you my payment for the mission, in penance for ordering to leave you behind."
I blinked, genuinely slightly baffled to see such a gesture of… good will? I'm sure he has alternative motives, and quite plausibly the payout for this mission isn't high enough for him to care, but the gesture was still… somewhat appreciated, I suppose. Not that I really have anything to spend money on; I'm not even entirely sure this place even has a functioning economy and I am certain any legitimate businesses would not be willing to trade with my kind.
Still, I nodded in a manner that might conceivably have looked a lot more appreciative than I really was. Seeing this, he nodded back and settled into his food, turning to the man next to him and resuming his conversation. I blinked a few times, glancing around the table and seeing everyone else also going back to whatever they were doing before I showed up. With a shrug, I settled into eating my food and training my control over my flies by having them eat from the other plate I filled.