I ended up going super-overboard with the pre-Darenby section and so decided to give it a hider to separate it from the main post flow, since I didn’t just want to throw away all that hard work. Anyone who wants to embark down the rabbit hole and have a little more context surrounding why Hugh acts the way he does (and why he’s even on this quest) feel free to read. But if you want to just take him at a more surface level IC, let the secrets lie where they may and dig it up later at your leisure. ;)
2 Weeks Ago:
The Fertile Gourmand.
As always, Hugh preferred not to question the thought process behind that name, as he stepped inside one of his favorite haunts, sucking in a refreshing inhale at the succulent scent of boiling meats and buttery bread. The rattle of mostly wooden dinnerware and the hum of the tavern’s afternoon Bard stirred forth in the average visitor a sense of festive comradery.
Half tavern, half restaurant outright, the Fertile Gourmand was the pride and joy of the town of Weathersby… at least as far as the culinary went. It wasn’t anything a noble wouldn’t turn their nose up at, but the fact that a noble would even glance in its direction with consideration was worthy of acknowledgement.
As usual, the restaurant was far too bustling for Hugh’s tastes, but such was the price one paid for competence and discretion. Omnipresent noise like this made the task of holding secluded meetings all the easier, without fear of eavesdroppers. Of course, Hugh wasn’t here for a secret meeting, not exactly.
Weaving his way through packed tables, Hugh found himself a seat at one of the few empty stools at the main bar. As this was a place that adventuring groups tended to gather together, the most popular seating tended to be the large tables, which left the bar as the only place a lone traveler could usually hope to sit.
Across from him, behind the counter, a stocky dwarven woman bustled about taking orders and serving meals to the few customers that occupied the barstools. Hugh’s nose habitually wrinkled at the sight of several frothing beers in her hands, and the barkeep’s blue eyes sparkled with quick recognition at the sight of him. He didn’t know her age, but he could only assume it to be young to middle-aged by dwarven standards, considering that her auburn hair, currently pulled back into a tight bun, had yet to sprout any grey.
Hugh waited silently, idly considering the menu, as he shucked his backpack to the floor in front of him against the bar. Eventually, after a minute of watching the barkeep, she approached with a far too familiar grin on her lips.
“Got any work for me, Greta?” Hugh led, hoping against hope to head off any small talk. Such hopes were plainly in vain.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer!” Greta chortled, as she leaned over, one arm lying flat against the countertop.
“I’m sure,” Hugh replied wryly, already fighting to keep his expression from sagging at the barkeep’s usual exuberance. “But we’ve done this song and dance before. The work comes first; I’m in the market for something quick and clean, preferably tailored to my speciality. You know it well, so I’ll trust your discretion on the matter.” At her telling frown, he sighed and relented somewhat, rather unwilling to build any bad blood between himself and a valued contact, even though he would much rather she respect his desire to keep things at arm’s length. “If it makes you feel any better, I do have time to take a meal.” Hugh’s eyes panned over the menu displayed proudly upon the wall. “The roast beef and fried potato soup will do as well as a half-loaf of your cheese-stuffed bread. And hmmm, I’ve recently recovered from a broken arm, so some extra bone meal in the broth couldn’t hurt. Oh, and a mug of grape juice, thanks.”
Greta nodded. “Good to see you eating heavy today. Too little meat on those bones if you ask me.” The barkeep’s eyes had lightened at his acquiescence, and she quickly rattled off his order to the cook, before turning back to him. “So, broken arm, eh? That’s why you’ve been out of touch these past weeks?”
Hugh waggled his left arm, patting it for effect, as he rolled his eyes openly. “Hardly. The break was seen to by a temple healer, but I’ve been taking more low-risk jobs to make back the cost of hiring out those services.”
Greta brought her hands to her sternum in mock shock. “Oh dear, I didn’t know you had other informants on the side.” She batted her eyelashes dramatically.
“In your dreams, old hag,” Hugh instantly scoffed, grimacing.
“Well, I never!” Greta’s grin betrayed her true amusement on the matter, as she clucked her tongue. “You’ve really got to get yourself a girl-”
“Aaand, we’re officially done with this line of conversation,” Hugh snapped lightly, unable to hide his true irritation at the topic. He frowned at Greta’s unashamed smirk. “The jobs, Greta. Preferably something that doesn't involve giant boars… again.”
“So cautious,” Greta tutted, as she reached beneath the counter and shuffled through several sheets of parchment. “Wouldn’t need to be so picky if you’d just take some companions and find yourself a nice adventuring group.”
Hugh couldn’t help snorting. “Yes, because that’s worked out so very well every other time I tried it.” At Greta’s frown, he shook his head. “I’m a bounty hunter, not a treasure seeking tomb raider and certainly not a hero. There’s plenty of those already, and the Kingdom’s hardly any worse off if I find my fortunes elsewhere. Honestly, in my line of work, throwing more heads at the problem is only ever more trouble than it’s worth.”
Fortunately, Greta seemed to have sensed the futility of continuing this line of dialogue today and finally slid over several requests. Hugh poured over them with a discerning eye, weighing the pros and cons.
Slay dire wolf and pack harassing north-western hunting grounds. Great pay, high risk. Their speed would keep him from fleeing easily, and their sense of smell would make getting the drop on them… difficult. Hugh shot Greta something of a gimlet eye, to which she shrugged. Fair enough, they weren’t boars at least.
Kill or capture a band of bandits to the south of Weathersby. Estimated numbers are three dozen strong. Pay was fair, as they’d been harassing caravans, but it wasn’t anything notable. Probably posted by a merchant who didn’t have much coin to spare but wanted the threat eliminated before they made the journey. There was unfortunately little information about what sort of races the vagabonds had among them, but the fact that their attacks were said to occur only in broad daylight said plenty to Hugh. Taking advantage of his ancestral darkvision would serve him well here, and unless any of them turned out to have surprising training, outrunning them should be no issue. Those numbers though...
He filed that one away as a “maybe”.
The last one was for a wizard that was suspected to be dabbling in some of the less scrupulous aspects of necromancy. Single target, well known location and also a public figure. Normally, that would be an issue, but the bounty also called for an investigation. If proof of innocence could be found, then full pay would still be provided, but if none was to be had, then the target was to be eliminated. Hugh mulled it over. If the accusations were true, he’d also be dealing with undead most likely, not a great match-up. To say nothing of the nigh-suicidal task of infiltrating the sanctum of a properly dug-in wizard. [Alarm] spells would likely quickly become the least of his worries. Very high pay though....
Sighing, Hugh passed the wizard and dire wolf requests back. “I’ll handle the bandits then,” he grunted mulishly, shooting Greta a peeved look. “What’s with these requests? Surely, there’s something less… trying?”
“Couldn’t say, dearie. All the easy ones have been getting snapped up as of late. And before you ask, I’ve no clue why. Could merely be coincidence, but what I’ve left beyond these is either more risk than you like or too low paying to be worth your time,” Greta shrugged unapologetically, as she walked over, his meal in hand.
Hugh sighed, lifting the contract off the table and scooting his meal closer. “Nothing for it then. I’ll make it work.”
The clank of armor behind sounded all too late in the noisy tavern for Hugh to react, as the parchment was pulled firmly from his hand.
Who in the fuck darest-?!!
“Oh hoh!” a far too loud voice all but screamed in his ear, as Hugh whirled around to get a face-full of shining breastplate. He resisted the abrupt urge to flick a dart into the interloper’s eye.
Skin tanned by long days outside, impeccably brushed maple-brown hair, shining green eyes, and a massive grin, the knight or sellsword of some manner proudly settled a fist on his hip above his sheathed longsword, as his other hand held the contract up to his face. Once more, his voice boomed loudly enough that Hugh couldn’t help but flinch at the looks that was getting them both even above the normal ruckus of the rowdy establishment. “Slaying no-gooders in the service of our precious citizens! Is there a more righteous cause?” the knight declared almost rhetorically, before shooting a wink at one of the barmaids. “Save for… dragons perhaps?”
Yeah, this guy was clearly far too confident… and loud. Also, what the hell was that comparison?! Bandits vs dragons?! Could the context be any more different?!
Teeth grit, Hugh’s expression darkened, as he stood, still only able to come up to shoulder-height of the towering wall of metal and pomp that was the knight. Locking his flat brown eyes with sparkling green, Hugh quite deliberately reached over and snatched the parchment from only somewhat resistant fingers. “No.”
“Hugh-,” he could hear Greta starting to wind up for another one of her damned guilt-tripping rants and shot her a silencing glare, as he firmly sat back down and mostly turned away from the knight, still keeping the interloper within his peripheral vision.
“Not just no,” Hugh ground out, “but gods no. You could not pay me to work with someone like that. More to the point, I’d rather not split the reward.”
“Oh hoh?” the knight spoke up before Greta could say something else pointless. Graciously, the knight appeared to have toned down his volume… slightly, as he leered in a way that was probably meant to seem mocking in a friendly manner. Ridiculous. “You seem mighty confident for someone going after three dozen bandits alone.”
Mildly less irritated now that he had food to distract him, Hugh snorted around a mouthful of soup, taking his sweet time before swallowing. “As shocking as it may sound, between the two of us, I actually know what in the hells I’m doing. I’ve been at this kind of work most of my life.” He took a sip from his mug and shrugged. “Three dozen bandits isn’t a problem if you do it my way. To be honest, the only overconfident one here is you.” Hugh shot a raised brow in the knight’s direction, as he swallowed another bite of soup and took a pull from his mug. “What’s a sellsword with your kind of… energy doing alone?” Hugh made a show of looking over the room and snorted. “I certainly didn’t notice anyone approaching when you entered, nor do there appear to be any individuals with the dispositions of embarrassment that I’d expect from those with the misfortune to find themselves in your presence.”
To be honest, Hugh was exaggerating somewhat. Under different circumstances, he might have been willing to put up with such an absurdity in the form of a person, but this man had interrupted his meal and imposed upon his time and personal affairs. No, Hugh couldn’t be bothered with politeness for someone without even the slightest grasp of basic social courtesies. Indeed, he found to some satisfaction that the sellsword now sported a somewhat less bright grin, the rather spiteful words having struck home.
And yes, he was graciously ignoring the affront to his pride that was this absolute unit of an individual somehow sneaking up on him. How embarrassing.
Now then, if only this jester would leave.
After a moment, to Hugh’s chagrin, the knight shrugged and stepped over to seat himself heavily at the stool to his right. “Hah~! You’re pretty cutting with those words of yours. You a Bard?”
Hugh raised a brow, unsure where this was meant to be going, and shook his head lightly in denial, gesturing sarcastically, “Do I look the part? Oh dear, I must have left my lute at the circus.” He snapped his fingers with a roll of his eyes. “Drat.” He shrugged his shoulders. “More seriously, I make a habit of not attracting attention to myself in my line of work. Quite frankly, there’s no need to experiment. It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that our methodologies are incompatible.” He pointed his spoon at the knight. “You should look elsewhere for your fortunes.”
The knight’s expression twisted for a moment, before he sighed, turning to lean back against the counter and rest his elbows atop it. “Man, they never said it would be this hard to get a rogue. Usually, as long as there’s money in it, they’re on board.” He thoughtfully scratched lightly at a bit of stubble on his chin.
Hugh shot him a disbelieving look. “‘They’ who?” At the knight’s opening mouth, he waved him off. “You know what? No, I don’t need to know.” He shrugged. “Look, I’m not really a rogue, not in the sense of what so-called ‘adventurers’ widely acknowledge as required skills to be one.”
“That’s not the sense I got from you,” the sellsword replied with a sly grin. “You might do a good job of passing yourself off normally, but…” His hand pointed to the faded black tunic wrapping Hugh’s torso. “They don’t just make those for everyone. There’s a process or somethin’, and they’re not exactly mainstream fashion.” He leaned in closer with a rather painfully conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve come across a couple of your buddies a time or two. Definitely gave me some trouble… and scars. And you know, I’ve got some talent myself, ‘nough to notice you thinking about stickin’ me for a moment there.”
A trap?! Hugh had yet to run into any bounty hunters out for his head in particular, but he’d known they had to be coming. Strange that they’d not be more direct, but then again, that’s what they’d know he’d expect after all...
Hugh’s expression closed off, eyes flickering around the establishment, suddenly far more consciously aware of the various escape routes his subconscious had logged. Stairs, windows, doors. Over the counter? His peripheral vision now quite prioritized the knight’s still undrawn sword. Outwardly, he muttered just loud enough to be heard over the din of noise, “I’m not with them anymore. I got out of that line of work years ago.”
The knight grinned. “But you’ve still got the skills regardless.” He spread his hands guilelessly. “I don’t know much ‘bout them “martial artist” types, but your compatriots at least got me interested in them specifically. Big ol’ clan of rogues if I ever did see one!”
Hugh squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled slowly, meditatively, as he took another sip of his grape juice, trying to steady his adrenaline-pounding heart. So, this… person… wasn’t here for his head… probably. He’d keep a wary eye out regardless. “What…. exactly is the point of all this?”
The knight thrust his broad chest forward proudly, straightening his spine and laying a hand on his chest, declaring, “I, Kite Simmons, have a Dream!”
“Denied,” Hugh replied flatly, feeling some of the tension woosh out of himself, despite his best efforts. This idiot had some dangerous charisma.
“Oi,” chuckled the now named Kite, “Don’t be so quick about it.” He puffed up again, clearly not so quick to lose the wind from his sails, and he thrust out an upturned open hand. “I, Kite Simmons, am putting together a party of Heroic Adventurers, that we might seek fame and glory, carving our names into history!”
“Cute,” Hugh mumbled sarcastically through a mouthful of soup, swallowing. “Still ‘no’, though.” After a moment, he blinked and reminded himself of his cheese-stuffed baked bread. Best eat that now; it would surely cool faster than the soup.
Putting the nattering of the knight out of his mind for now, Hugh allowed his unwanted compatriot’s words to wash over him without comprehension, as he savored the buttery crunch of the finest loaf in town, licking his lips every now and again to snag every last crumb and any smidgeon of loose cheese that might have evaded its rightful home.
“-not even listening to me, are you?” Kite was saying at a miraculously normal volume, as Hugh finally came down from his food high.
Arching a brow at him, Hugh took a long pull from his mug and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Not really.” He shrugged and then frowned. “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand? What portion of this basic concept of civilised interaction is particularly broad enough to not penetrate your iron-clad skull?”
“Hah…” Kite exhaled with slumped shoulders. “Why is it always like this?”
Always? Never mind, that’s obvious. You come on way too strong!
Outwardly, Hugh grimaced, annoyed at the squeeze his stomach was making, that absurd little annoyance Millie called his ‘conscience’. Ignoring it, he sniffed, “Honestly, if no one will let you join their party, then you should change your approach. Obviously, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results in the definition of insanity.”
“Heh,” Kite straightened up, thumbing his nose proudly, “that’s why I’m putting together my own party of heroes!”
Hugh groaned and rolled his eyes. “There’s that word again: ‘heroes’. Somehow, I get the idea you’re aiming too high right now.” Clucking his tongue, he scoffed. “You’ll get much farther in life if you only take up tasks you’re certain to complete.”
KIte blinked. “Well, if heroes run away with everyone else, then who’s going to stay and fight?”
Hugh ground his jaw. “And that’s why they have such poor life expectancy, but that’s quite beside the point of this conversation. You want to come on this bounty hunt, and I’m saying no... emphatically. And that’s my final word on the matter.”
“What if I did things your way?”
“What.” It was less a question than it was an expression of shock, as Hugh’s brows shot up into his hairline. Obviously, this knucklehead was trying to play him, but the fact that he was even willing to attempt such underhanded tactics was… ironically a good sign to Hugh. Maybe there was some hope for this guy.
Kite squirmed in a way that looked quite strange coming from a six and a half foot behemoth of a man. “We can do things your way, and I’ll prove you wrong.” He frimed up his expression and clenched a fist. “Heroes are always making sacrifices like that, so I’ll prove you wrong.”
You’re repeating yourself, and… “basic common sense” isn’t a sacrifice… Hugh thought dryly.
“You’re an ametuer,” Hugh muttered in stark realization. This wasn’t just some idiot who’d managed to survive on grit, audacity and god-given luck; this was a complete novice. “Despite appearances, despite your gear, you’ve never ‘quested’ with anyone at all, have you? Have you so much as killed a goblin?” As a morbidly curious afterthought, he added, “How old are you?”
Kite grinned awkwardly, “Ah, 17 today! Finally got my old man’s blessing and everything!” He rapped his knuckles against the obviously brand new suit of plate armor.
THIS WALL OF MUSCLE WAS 17?!!
“Now that I’ve learned all I need to be a hero, the time to seek glory and fortune has arrived!” Kite clenched his fist and mustered a pose that he clearly thought looked heroic, but just appeared ridiculous while he was sitting down.
Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through his mouth. Sure, he was hardly one to talk, considering his own upbringing, but honestly, shouldn’t what was… probably a noble’s son with some unfortunately naive views of the world be under a much stricter hand? Surely, his father must know how badly this would go for him. Also, how did someone this completely green recognize his tunic?! Did they go after his family before?
“And sure, I… haven’t fought any monsters or villains yet,” Kite said, more subdued. “But I’m willing to learn!” he declared with a strained smile. “You’re pretty experienced, right?”
“A decade and more under my belt, yes,” Hugh allowed.
“Yeah,” Kite continued, “I hope you don’t mind, but I was looking for you specifically.” Hugh frowned at that. “Heard about you on the grapevine and that you didn’t have a group yet. Figured the two of us lone adventurers could form an amazing team-up!”
Hugh sighed, “Look, kid.” Kite looked mildly put-out by that. “I work alone for a very good reason. Doing things my way requires a delicate and deceptively straightforward balance that you cannot trust to more than one person… unless they happen to share my very particular skill set.”
“I can do it,” Kite stated firmly.
Hugh looked his heavily-armored boy up and down, before dryly replying, “I quite assure you, you cannot, not in that armor.”
“Huh?”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “Look, you were spot-on about my origins, but you seem to still be somehow overlooking the core principle of how they -I- fight.” At the boy’s blank look, he sighed. “Stealth.”
“Oh~.”
“Don’t ‘oh’ me. Can you sneak?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt it.”
“Oi! I’ve hidden from my tutor for hours!” That would explain some things.
“There really is no comparison…” Hugh drawled blandly, idly taking another bite of his soup, as he questioned what exactly he’d done to deserve this today.
Frustration mounting, Hugh huffed and squeezed his eyes closed. “Look, given that I am the senior adventurer between us and also apparently the only one with any actual clue how things work… if I let you come.” He held up a finger to forestall interruptions, eyes shooting open into a glare.. “If I let you come, I need you to do everything I say exactly as I say it, no exceptions, because you are liable to get us both killed if you don’t.” He paused, searching the boy’s face for some comprehension of the stakes. “Do you understand?”
“Don’t worry,” Kite grinned, “I’ll prove you wrong about me.”
Hugh inhaled sharply through his nose, wary of that wording. “I’m going to regret this.”
Greta’s look of approval burned like acid.
(/._./)
In hindsight, Hugh decided he really should have snuck out alone.
That is to say, yeah, he definitely regretted it.
Things had started off irritating and only went downhill from there.
To start, their pace had been utterly glacial. Even after being forced to waste Ki to cover Kite’s blatant tracks with [Pass Without Trace], he had still had to hammer the bare-bones basics of not loudly tearing through the fucking underbrush into the brat’s head. It had still taken them a full day to even find the bandits’ camp at all, since Kite managed to get himself lost every single time Hugh would head off to scout. The bandits had unfortunately managed to set themselves up into a rather defensible glade set into the side of a mountain, which left them with three of the four sides of the camp well shielded by a natural rock barrier.
There had been a small mercy in that, upon finding the camp, it had turned out the bandits’ numbers were only in the two dozen, instead of three.
All in all, it was looking like a difficult battle ahead of them, not that Hugh had any intention of fighting fair, much to Kite’s chagrin. The plan was simple: wait till nightfall and then quietly slit all their necks one at a time. The bulk of the work would fall to Hugh, but as the senior between them, that should only be natural. He didn’t expect to manage all of them before an alarm could be sounded, but he did think he could chop their numbers down to a comfortable six to ten before things got hairy. After that, Kite could come sweeping in to help mop up the rest. Short, sweet and to the point. What could go wrong?
Everything, as it so happened.
The bandits had posted guards, obviously. However, they also apparently had several of their number hunting or scouting out new targets for raiding at any given time. For Hugh, this would be no problem. In fact, their numbers being split might even have made it easier in the long run, allowing him to pick off the outliers before dealing with the main hive of villainy.
If only he didn’t have a massive shining beacon with him, glittering from the noonday sunlight.
A returning scout spotted them. Luckily, Hugh was on high alert already and spotted him at the same time. Quick as a whip, he had his shortbow drawn and an arrow nocked. Between one breath and the next, he could have gouged out the criminal’s throat… were it not for Kite spotting his action and whirling about with a thunderous warcry.
After that, things had quickly devolved.
The initial bandit was slain with trivial ease, but the remaining nearby camp was riled and came charging at them head-long. Hugh’s calls for a retreat were summarily ignored, as Kite charged in shouting some nonsense about “proving himself” and “justice”.
It didn’t really matter, all told, as Hugh wasn’t in a position to stay nearby to cover his glorified civilian of a partner. His arrows had quickly put the fear of god into the bandits in the initial moments of the conflict, and so, naturally, they attempted to swarm and corral him in particular. It didn’t work, but due to their sheer numbers, they got far too close to success for his liking time and again, persistently forcing him to give ground and flee further from the camp. He managed to pick off their archers first. After that, it was all a matter of going dark and carefully picking them off one at a time in a running battle that took the better part of 10 minutes, a small eternity for a fight.
Returning to the camp, he made short work of the remaining grumbling and alternatively celebrating (far too soon) bandits with the maximum distance advantage his bow could provide, but the damage was well and truly done. Kite was bleeding out, having been beaten and tortured to some degree even in the small time-frame.
(/._./)
“T-take i-it,” Kite choked out, a shaking hand holding out a bloodied letter with a broken wax seal.
As he took the letter with pinched fingers, Hugh grimaced at the waste of human resources, as the boy bled out in front of him, his gut torn open. A young man in the prime of his life, who could have done just about anything else with that life and gone on to know relative peace and happiness. Instead…
“T-the lech-letcher; icks what I w-wanted heroes for, a c-call to ad-”
The abrupt silence dragged on. Pulse checked. Yep, he was dead. What an utter waste. In real life, you didn’t get any last words.
Palming the letter in one hand, Hugh couldn’t help but scoff as he perused the contents. What utter nonsense. A job without listed pay? A threat the sender couldn’t even confirm to be real? And worse, neither the letter itself, nor the envelope, was addressed to anyone. It was like the sender had literally hurled it into the wind and hoped they would be lucky enough to receive aid… for a possibly imaginary threat. Certainly, as a matter of principle, Hugh could only applaud their paranoia, but open ended contracts like this with no guarantees… Geez. Only an idealist or thrill seeker would accept such a call on a whim.
Looking down at the fresh corpse, he clucked his tongue.
Yet another partner... dead…
“Honestly,” he sighed, surprised to feel a slight shudder in his chest, whatever that was about, “why do I even try?” He was only twenty-six, for Hades’s sake, so why in the hell did he feel so much older?
If there was anything that Hugh felt bad about that day it was that a young boy’s last sight was his own look of complete disdain.
Greta was going to be disappointed.
(/._./)
Inhale.
“He deserved better, y’know?”
Hugh ignored the illusion, as he completed his nightly meditations. The moonlight barely managed to illuminate an inn room draped in elongated shadows, the manifestation of [Pass Without Trace] crawling and writhing across every surface, as Hugh once more exercised the ever so steadily strengthening muscle that was his pool of Ki.
Exhale.
“If you were so worried, you could have waited longer, put together a proper adventuring party. Nobody needed to die.”
Hugh didn’t answer the figment of his imagination anymore. It was pointless. He’d long-since proven it could tell him nothing he did not already know. Besides, the fool would have rushed ahead himself if he had appeared to be stalling.
Inhale.
“Liar liar, pants on fire~! Why must we do this every time, Hughy~!
[Pass Without Trace] was in many ways his ideal state of mind. It was not so much concealment as it was blending and extending what was already there. It didn’t just manipulate the world, but instead brought the world and the subject together in harmony. In many ways, it was the closest magic could come to making you “one with the shadows”. Indeed, as shadows left no mark of their passing, so neither would you. That state of serene harmony was something no fool like Kite Simmons could ever understand. It was inevitable that such individuals that attempted to bend the world to their whims instead of working alongside it would always choke on their pride.
Honestly, he’d known from the start the futility of opposing a fool’s path. Why then had he bothered to stand in his way? Perhaps because it was momentarily inconvenient for him personally to do otherwise? Ultimately, Kite’s destiny was to be forgotten, like all those before him and all those to come. It was an ignoble end to be sure, but that was hardly Hugh’s fault. Their alliance was temporary from the start; if not with him, then the naive sellsword would have perished elsewhere in the same manner. Hugh smiled, satisfied with that conclusion.
Exh-
“So you can see the future now can you? Why didn’t you stop me from dy-”
Crack.
Hugh removed his fist from the now damaged floorboard, the brief spike of pain bringing that unproductive and artificial line of thought to a definitive end. There was a point at which he drew a line, and there it was. That was the line. Standing, he brought the ministrations of his Ki to a halt, observing as moonlight now illuminated freely his room.
His ancestral darkvision was an odd beast, he idly noted, striding towards the bed. He had his theories about how it worked. The nature of elves -and thus- the nature of Fey was not unfamiliar to him. Such creatures tended to possess an innate connection to the natural world in his experience, so while he had no special ability to sense Ki outside his own body, he could only theorize that his vision worked by observing the ever-present ambient Ki of the world, that which even the absence of light could not do away with. That said, even at its weakest, black, white and scales of definitive grey were always visible.
The bone-white letter stood out starkly atop the small writing desk, an ugly grey blotch staining the bottom-left corner of it.
Sighing heavily, he sat, the bed squeaking beneath him, glaring without any real heat at the letter. All of a sudden, he felt way too tired. Somehow, he couldn’t manage to get himself to burn the damned thing and be done with it.
“Y’know,” that damned voice came from somewhere behind him again, “here you are trying to honor my last wish, and you can’t even be bothered with a child you knowingly led to his death.”
“Shut up, Millie.”
Thankfully the voice was absent for the rest of the night, even in his dreams.
(/._./)
Present Day:
Darenby.
Today’s the day.
The Letter (and it deserved the capitals) lay innocuously atop the bedside writing desk, the red-brown stain that wrinkled the bottom-left corner standing out starkly in the daylight that poured into the simple accommodations. As ever, Hugh was cursed by his training and sheer ingrained habit to be a morning person, but that wasn’t the source of his ire this morning.
For the audacity of daring to herald this particular day, Hugh for once favored the sunrise with a withering glare out his window, clenching his jaw at the inescapable autumn chill, as he begrudgingly shed his tunic and grimaced at the cold that his muscles had yet to warm up enough of a defense against… as it had been these last four days in the rather appallingly sleepy town of Darenby.
Not appalling in that he particularly wished a calamity upon the people for no good reason, but this was looking more and more like a complete waste of his time.
He scratched at the week-old stubble across his jawline and frowned deeper. Long enough he could rather casually grasp it with a pinch. That was going to need taking care of if he didn’t want to look like a complete vagabond later. In fact… He gave himself a once over, a good sniff, ran his fingers through his shaggy, mud-brown hair, and then clucked his tongue. A bath too was clearly on the agenda.
So, in order: see about a drink, then stretches, aerobics, then… Wasn’t there supposed to be that beef special here? Ask about that. What else could he do before bathing? He’d really rather not go to the effort and then waste it getting sweaty again right after.
Actually, on second thought, stretches, aerobics, then the drink. Putting it off for last would give him a little extra motivation. Normally, he’d not chance things with hydration, but today was the day. He’d be going lighter on the training so as to not exhaust himself ahead of time, just in-case this bogus threat turned out to have some legitimacy and required immediate addressing. It’d be fine.
That settled, he hiked his pack up on one shoulder, a sweat-towel over the other and stepped into the hallway, passing but a single other earlybird, as he headed down into the main dining area. A sigh of relief left him, as the billowing warmth of the fireplace banished the lingering chill from his bones.
The Yawning Dog was a cozy little establishment and, dare he say it, even somewhat traditional if their tea flavors were anything to go by. Family owned and run, the humans here definitely knew their stuff and ran a tidy, quiet ship. Hugh had not the foggiest clue where they managed to get all the wide variety of tea flavors they had shipped from, but he certainly wasn’t complaining, nor particularly inclined to ask questions.
All he needed was his morning cup of sencha and warm fire. All the taste of going home without the unfortunate state of being there.
Place could stand to rely a little less on potatoes and pork in nearabouts every dish, but Hugh would take that trade for the tea. The lodgings weren’t bad either, comfortable and sufficient without any unnecessary pomp or frills. He could respect that.
Regarding Mrs. Brown, who apparently had the run of the place this morning, with a casual wave, Hugh dallied not, lest he procrastinate on leaving the comforting warmth of the hearth. Rolling his neck, he stepped into the outdoors shirtless, as was his habit every free day of training he could grasp. Overhead, there swayed lightly in the autumn wind a charming little hand-painted sign of a brown and white dog widely yawning.
Property rights could be tricky things, so out of a desire to step on as few toes as possible, Hugh made his way out of town at a light jog. His run was nothing serious of course; he hadn’t stretched yet. Speaking of which...
Arriving in his, as of late, new favorite glade, Hugh set his pack against the trunk of a tree and laid himself down in the center of the glade, grimacing at the chilly morning dew on the grass trickling into his bare back. With a huff, he began.
200 squats, 200 sit-ups, 200 crunches, 200 pull-ups with a tree, 200 lunges with each leg, 200 jumping jacks, 200 push-ups… To be frank, it took a while, the better part of an hour in fact, as he went to great lengths to ensure every muscle got its due.
And this was holding back. His physical strength had never been the best, but that was more down to how his body was naturally inclined to grow. So, he’d abandoned that path and focused on shoring up his stamina and raw skill. With enough of the latter, one need not overwhelming strength, merely the ability to identify weaknesses and punish them.
Honestly, Hugh didn’t know what he was going to do with the extra time today. He’d already explored everything he could these past four days since he arrived, gathering what sparse information could be had in this sleepy town. He’d avoided the Infamous Pear for the most part; it was too potentially central to the issues at hand. Instead, he’d spread his web elsewhere.
The One-Eyed stag was mostly patronized by foreigners for gambling and so had little in the way of local news to offer. Their info on the Sheriff had only yielded blatantly biased opinions, likely in whole because he was the chief lawmaker hearabouts. Hugh couldn’t say how much that might have reason to put him at odds with the patrons, but the information was there and opinionated as all get out.
And the Dancing Mare, even from a distance, was far too trying for his patience to brave for a second, so he’d not bothered stepping foot in there.
Oddly enough -perhaps coincidentally or perhaps not, it was the Yawning Dog where he managed to snag a hint of something worth investigating last night. Perhaps it was the variety of their herbal stock that had led them to being more in touch with such things, but there had been a strange lack of contact from outlying farmlands as of late. It could be a lead or completely unrelated to the Sheriff’s issue, but Hugh would bring the matter to attention regardless.
As he mulled over these things, his body practically moved on autopilot, slinging his backpack on, draping the sweat-towel over the back of his shoulders and settling into his morning jog around the town. As today was something of a relaxation day, Hugh decided he would run laps until he felt like stopping. No need to rush. He had till late nightfall to get his affairs in order, and the sun had only minutes ago fully passed up over the horizon.
Truly, he had no clue what to do with himself today.
As he settled into the familiar motions, his muscles nicely warmed up by this point in his routine, Hugh took a deep swig from his waterskin and found his mind drifting somewhat again, taking note of a couple other oddities that had stuck out these past couple days. Well, not so much “oddities” as “peculiarities”. Or perhaps “persons of note” was more concise?
In a town of everyday peasants and the occasional uniformed guard, anything different tended to stand out starkly. On occasion, he’d caught glimpse of a young woman -or at least, she looked so from a distance- swathed in flowing whites and creams in the form of a dress. Based on the looks she got sent her way from the residents, it was plain to see that she was new to town -though he couldn’t say by how much so. Their paths really didn’t cross much.
The other one was that strange woman and her… pig. Best way he could describe her was purple, far too much of it for his liking in all honesty, but color was a subjective thing. He hardly had room to talk. She’d arrived late yesterday, and Hugh’s circuitous jogging route had let him catch the tail end of her heading into the graveyard, which seemed an odd thing to do unless you were a local. And honestly, despite not normally being a betting man, he’d be tempted to bet on her foreign status. The looks people shot her were even more telling that with the other woman.
The letter had rather heavily implied in an almost mass-produced manner that other copies should be finding their ways into the hands of other adventurers. In other words, the two he’d seen thus far were either his soon-to-be co-conspirators… or perhaps the reason the Sheriff had seen fit to call for aid to begin with. One way or another, Hugh would remain open-minded and proceed as appropriate to the situation in development.
(/._./)
He returned to the Yawning Dog by noon, the sun now high in the sky and a decent sweat built up across his wiry torso. Shivering in bliss as the toasty inside air hit him, Hugh continued toweling himself off, as he stepped up to the front bar. “A cup of sencha if you please, Mrs. Brown, and could I inquire about the beef special? Is that on the menu today?”
The middle-aged woman hummed thoughtfully, as she handled a small brew, beginning to portion out a small mug of golden-green tea. “That it is. The special, young man, uses spicy peppers of a local kind. They’re in season for the time being.”
“Excellent.” Grinning amiably, Hugh slung his sweat-towel over his shoulder. “If it has beef, you’d have to work hard to ruin it for me. I’ll take a single serving then.”
“Right away,” she replied with a smile.
Taking his tea with a nod and shuffling away to a seat near to the fire, Hugh allowed the tension to fully drain from his body, slouching carelessly back in his chair. A sip of the warm brew brought a smile to his face and further banished the chill from his bones he hadn’t known he’d had. If there ever was a favorite tea of his, sencha at least made the top two with its balanced flavor, neither too sweet, nor too bitter. It had a rather sweet vegetal flavor and boasted a certain ability to grant a little energizing boost, a natural one that didn’t result in an energy crash later.
Receiving his meal with a nod and word of thanks, Hugh dug in to what would soon prove to be a bracing yet fulfilling dish. It was definitely worth the wait, and perhaps more importantly, it had him feeling just a little better about what was to come. At least now he could firmly say this trip hadn’t been a complete waste of time; he’d gotten a new favorite beef dish out of it!
He spent a comfortable hour winding down.
(/._./)
Next on the agenda was a shave and bath. Hugh wasn’t normally one given to procrastinating, and he’d no intention of changing his ways today.
First, the clothes.
Stripping down, he retrieved from his pack an everyday soapball, the unscented sort that any civilian could get their hands on cheaply. As efficiently and thoroughly as he could manage, Hugh then set about dipping his effects in a river and scrubbing them down, before slinging them over a tree branch to air dry in the autumn wind.
He took this opportunity to run through some of his martial arts techniques and forms, in part to maintain the skills naturally… but mostly to warm up his muscles as a buffer against what was next… that being a rather bracing bath in the chilled river waters. Needless to say, he didn’t waste any time there.
And finally, the shave.
Taking a small knife from his bag, one he kept sharpened for this purpose alone, Hugh leaned down towards his rippling reflection in the river and set about it. The end result was a bit patchy -as sliding his hands across his face and neck could attest to, but the end result wouldn’t look odd unless one were inclined to be particularly scrutinizing. Not a clean shave but close enough for Hugh’s purposes.
He spent the next hour and change meditating upon and exercising his Ki while he waited for his clothes to dry. After that, he unfortunately found himself definitively back at square one. With all other tasks of import completed and the sun past the mid-point of the sky, it was about time he got the lay of the land.
(/._./)
The Infamous Pear
Over the course of the past 4 days, Hugh had gone to some lengths to present himself as merely another traveler. As such, he’d made sure to visit the Infamous Pear at least once a day for a simple meal in preparation for today. The intention was to see that his presence would go unremarked, and he could spy on the supposed meeting place at his leisure. More to the point, if things started looking overmuch like a trap or ultimate waste of his time, he could simply leave and be on his way out of town, no one the wiser.
Hugh gratefully sighed, as the warmth of the hearth soaked into his wind-chilled -if dry- clothes. Accepting a cider from the far too energetic bartender and ignoring any dialogue not directly tied to the acquisition of the former, he plopped himself at the seat nearest to the empty Bard stage and, thus, the fireplace set into the back of it. His table, itself, provided an overall good view of the first floor of the inn. With a full view of the entire establishment and nearly no tables at all behind him, he was well positioned to be ready for anything.
Granted, there were certainly better spots if he didn’t want anyone coming up behind him, but those spots were a bit too far from both the bar to his left and the highly conspicuously reserved table of significant size to his right. He wanted to be able to eavesdrop easily on both.
Sipping his cider, he grimaced. Normally, he wasn’t one to be bothered by pulp, but this… swill was more chunky apple juice than anything else. Sighing, he set about the task of downing it anyway. It was a shame that the tea around here didn’t have a prayer of matching the Yawning Dog’s, but “waste not, want not” and all that rubbish. Plopping his bag atop the table and sliding his staff into his lap and out of immediate sight beneath the table, Hugh settled in for a long wait. Thankfully, he had experience with those.
Approximately three hours later, things suddenly started happening quite quickly.
A lavender-skinned tiefling, broad of shoulder and with a thick, well-trimmed beard, stepped in and strode straight to the bartender, asking quite directly about the “Arbalest party” as instructed in the letter. The bartender, quite obviously taking great joy in treating this whole matter with not a single whit of seriousness then proceeded to assault the poor foreigner with a less than subtle spiel that Hugh was rather tickled pink to have avoided. The tiefling, at least, seemed to be mildly amused by the exchange, as he headed straight to the reserved table, as predicted.
Although… He was easily tall enough to have a full head on Hugh. He was an obvious warrior of the more direct martial sort. And he had a longsword. Honestly that last one was much lesser in the grand scheme of things, but that was an unfortunate trio of similarities that he didn’t need slapping him in the face just yet. At least this guy looked far more… reserved and, far more importantly, experienced -if the prominent scar was anything to go by. Certainly though, he seemed confident -or at least invested- enough in his own appearance going by the jacket worn notably over his armor. Hugh would withhold judgement for now, but honestly, the fewer “fighters” he had to put up with, the better.
Soon after, came a much shorter blonde woman -if using the bartender’s own height as a scale was anything to go by, who was also unfortunately decked out in rather heavy looking armor. If the shield strapped to her back and sturdy mace were any indication, she unfortunately was also very much invested in about the furthest approach from stealth. On the upside, she compensated by clearly being some manner of holy woman. Hugh wasn’t really an expert, but the large amulet around her neck bespoke of something that was tickling his memory. Perhaps he’d studied it in passing, when he was… yeah, that was when.
Unfortunately, there was one last counterbalance to the counterbalance. She appeared to have a, dare he say it, noble bearing with high cheekbones and notably well cared for skin and hair. Certainly, he commiserated with the look of barely restrained disdain on her face, as she received her own version of the bartender’s rambles with far more patience than Hugh felt he was personally inclined to, but she also looked like she was half-way personally offended to be here.
Actually, scratch that, he commiserated with that too. What was he going on about again? Regardless, at the least, she seemed fairly professional, and Hugh could work with that, if nothing else. Besides which, if she was really a cleric of some note, then maybe... He’d take the opportunity if it was presented. For now, it would be best to discern if their personalities were compatible enough to ingratiate himself with her. Thoughts for another day.
Unfortunately, the string of apparent consummate professionals couldn’t last forever.
Mere moments later, the door of the inn slammed open, and the strangest (because somehow a regular color for her kind was strange, he was suddenly realizing)… and loudest tiefling he had ever seen flounced in like she owned the place. Hugh cringed in second-hand embarrassment, as she loudly declared her greetings and purpose to all and sundry. Secondly…
Were those pants transparent?! Nevermind the modesty of them, her clothing in its entirety was wholly inappropriate for autumn -going on winter- weather. How in the nine hells was she not shivering in her nonexistent boots? There’s no way something he could see through was any better at combating the chill than going bare-ass naked. Speaking of, was her top made of the same materia-
Nope, new topic, new thoughts, new places. Distraction? What distraction? Oh hey, there’s the newest member of this band of misfits coming right now!
Eh…?
That was… an absolute unit of a woman.
Sure, the purple tiefling was tall, but this lady… Hugh was sitting down, but even at a distance, he had the irritable urge to tilt his head upward, as the newcomer was forced to duck her head to even get inside and still managed to ram her helmet against the top of the doorframe, which creaked in protest.
If the bar had been loud in the face of the pale tiefling, then it was damn near dead silent in the face of this utter behemoth of a warrior. Floorboards audibly pleaded for their lives in the face of her enormous bulk and weight, as she ambled over and exchanged pleasantries with the bartender. As she strode over to the reserved table and sat down, removing her helmet, Hugh feared for the integrity of her chair.
Hugely tall? Check. Brunette. Double check. Armored up the wazoo and with a longsword? Triple check. Hey, there’s that anxiety again. Thank every god under the sun her equipment was obviously so well-used it was physically incapable of being properly maintained. But she’d damn well better not somehow be a fucking child, or he was going to actually lose it.
There was already a conversation being struck up amongst the “Arbalast party”, primarily driven by the energy of the disgustingly extroverted pale tiefling. Hugh was not looking forward to coming to her attention.
Regardless, he had little time to consider, as the door opened to admit, for once, a somewhat familiar face in the form of the strange woman that had arrived yesterday with her oddly docile swine.
By this point, Hugh was fairly sure that if he hadn’t sat where he was, his head would be on as much of a swivel as all the regular patrons, who looked fairly gobsmacked at the sudden burst of energy and otherness now seeping into this sleepy little tavern. In the meantime, he wondered if they were starting to get tired of swinging their gazes back and forth between the door and reserved table.
That aside, the newest stranger was, quite frankly, the “Bardiest Bard to ever Bard” if he had to put words to it, given more credence by the obvious stringed instrument case slung across her back. Draped in royal purples and blacks, she sauntered about with an easy confidence, as she conversed with the bartender and quickly went to insinuate herself amongst the growing party, her jaunty wide-brimmed and featured hat drawing the eyes almost as much as the… pig.
Hugh frowned. Certainly, “adventurers” were known to be eccentric, but that didn’t look like any old animal mascot. It didn’t act like a pig, for only the most well-trained swine wouldn’t have been poking around for scraps. It didn’t sound like a pig, for it was dead silent, not even a snuffle or snort to be heard. It didn’t smell like one either; as it passed nearby him with its cart, he caught a whiff of a strangely aromatic wood smoke, like a burning scented candle… or perfume. In fact, to some fair degree, the thing didn’t even look like a pig. The… creature was far too obviously gaunt and emaciated to be anything close to healthy, and the way the burlap so tightly concealed everything save for its tusks… Hugh was given to compare it to a mummy more than anything. It didn’t help that the wrap was tight enough that it gave lie to his sharp eyes the fact that the creature was either breathing lightly… or not at all.
Recalling the sight of the strange woman entering the graveyard yesterday during his evening jog, his eyes narrowed.
Worst case scenario, considering the near complete lack of operational security, the party the Sheriff had called forth to aid him was already compromised by enemy insurgents. Others would tell him he was too cautious. Well, most of them were dead now, where he wasn't; so in the end, who really got the last laugh?
Honestly, best case, this was all just a load of nonsense and paranoia on the client’s part.
Sighing, his attention was dragged away from that potentially budding disaster by a sixth notable arrival.
Just how many people did this guy invite?!
Honestly, he should have been expecting her, but she’d slipped his mind for a while. The young woman in pale creams and whites still wore a dress, but Hugh noted with approval the chocolate-brown leather breastplate, forearm bracers and boots. If there was ever a set of armor he would not malign, it was the leather sorts. Flexible, quiet and unobtrusive enough to sometimes be worn under other things without notice. Certainly, he didn’t need such things, and in fact, such armor would actually be a hindrance to someone so used to having a full range of flexible motion as he. But it was the thought that counted.
The young woman’s long shock of white hair was pulled up in such a way that it wouldn’t hinder her. Despite observing her from a distance before, their paths hadn’t crossed overmuch these past four days, certainly not enough to provoke conversation between them, nor for Hugh to have gotten a better grasp on her purpose. That purpose was now more than clear, as the Unicorn amulet standing out starkly against her breastplate proudly proclaimed.
Another holy woman, he noted, as she almost formally introduced herself to the now sizable group. Oddly enough, a dagger and component pouch hung from her hip. Well, with the cleric as comparison, it both was and wasn’t odd. Most spellcasters tended to avoid armor, as it often fouled up their movements when trying to cast, but most every caster that had the skill and training to use armor, went heavy and went for the best.
So, it was incredibly uncommon to see a spellcaster with light armor. No, not uncommon, outright rare was such an occurrence. And on a presumably holy magic caster as well? That had Hugh’s curiosity. More importantly than that, however, there was…
The blood drained from Hugh’s face at the Sprite.
The tiny fey was sitting proudly atop the shoulder of the self-introduced Mona. It had yet to speak thus far, but the look on its face bespoke of a certain level of petulance, to say nothing of the fact that it was a Fey. He wasn’t sure how much longer the whimsical creature would hold its tongue, nor why it would be doing so to begin with.
There were few more self-righteous Fey than Sprites. He’d know it better than most.
Once his heart had started beating again, Hugh pursed his lips and glanced out over the tavern, observing the brief lull in the chaos of strange arrivals. If there was ever a moment to jump in and prevent himself from losing a spot at both the literal and metaphorical table, it was now. As things were, there was still clearly space left to spare at the reserved table, but it would be best not to arrive last if at all possible. He was already likely to take a hit to his reputation with the group for his little waiting stunt, but by this point, the so-called group of “heroes” seemed overall competent enough to make this venture worth it.
Making a visual once-over of the hyper pale-skinned tiefling and the pack of just mostly ridiculously attractive people, he sighed in resignation and stood, leaving his mug, the cider long since polished off.
Time to face the music.
Without fanfare, he grabbed his quarterstaff, hiked his pack strap over one shoulder and strode right over. It was the work of six small steps at most to cross the distance, as he took in the looks he was getting and quite deliberately seated himself as far from the pale tiefling and the… pig as possible. Unfortunately, he was now by the holy woman and her Sprite, but that was a trade-off he’d take. As disinclined as he was to introduce himself at this stage while he still had no real proof that this whole venture was on the up and up, it would seem odd not to.
“Hugh. Just ‘Hugh’ is fine. My surname can be a mouthful,” he stated simply, setting his pack down and leaning his staff against the table. Feeling the urge to head off a couple particular questions, he added dryly, “Considering the lack of actionable intel in the letter, I had my doubts about whether this was even a legitimate contract and so decided to take a ‘wait and see’ approach. Honestly, the fact that our patron is clearly late for his own meeting isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.” He shrugged and threaded his fingers together atop the table before him. “Then again, the meeting time was also vague as hell to begin with, just like everything else about the letter.”
“They would tell you that your ally is the darkness, and so you must be dressed to match. I am here to relieve you of such delusions.”
A fairly scruffy young man seemingly in his mid-twenties with lightly sun-tanned skin, he stands at a height of 5'4", around the shorter end of human average, which leaves him notably standing face to face with womenfolk more often than not. At a first glance, he presents an almost boring and unremarkable air with his lightly stubbled jaw-line and barely-brushed mud-brown hair. At a much closer glance, his stubble seems slightly uneven in places, like he does his own shaving but lacks the tools to get a perfect close cut. With his lean, sprinter build (which is normally concealed by baggy clothes), this does tend to give him a sort of rugged "guy next door" look, which can be useful when wanting to come across less conspicuously.
He wears a faded black tunic, reminiscent of what one might expect to see at a distant monastery, with a grey, long sleeved undershirt. Brown trousers are tucked into tall brown boots that are wrapped with strips of cloth. A backpack’s bulk clearly bulges from beneath his brown knee-length traveler’s cloak, the hood more often than not lying limply bunched behind his head. Beneath his backpack, strapped horizontally to the small of his back, it is possible to catch glimpses of a shortbow and bulging quiver of arrows, and several pouches hang from a sash around his waist that secures his tunic. Aside from this, he appears to possess no other obvious weaponry beyond a sturdy auburn staff that he either uses as a walking stick or slings over his shoulders to casually rest his arms atop.
Though his expression is almost perpetually placid and closed off, he generally appears congenial and unhostile. Upon getting a closer look at him in motion, the occasional glimpse of ever so slightly pointed ears can be caught through his shaggy hair. In addition, he notably seems the quiet sort, both in demeanor and action, often moving near silently even when there is no good reason to. Indeed, his footfalls seem light as air, and his unremarkable appearance is clearly at odds with the easy grace he almost subconsciously moves with.
“Strike first. Strike once. Strike last.”
“If at any point you falter, retreat and reassess.”
“The only thing that matters is total, unconditional success.”
“This is what it means to walk the Way of Shadow.”
Almost obsessively goal-oriented, Hugh will typically give any and every excuse to avoid unnecessary distractions; and if out of excuses, he may simply refuse outright. Despite his skill with words and knack for reading a room, he seems the sort to be most comfortable alone with a good book and a crackling fire, content to merely watch festivities from a distance and absorb the energy from them at his leisure. Beyond his few hobbies, he seems to have little interest in anything but the current work and the job to follow it, forgoing most friendships and romance beyond forging several firm friendly acquaintanceships.
In nearabouts every situation, he most closely exemplifies the traits of an introverted realist, with a distinct lean towards paranoia, and he is always the first to exasperatedly pinch the bridge of his nose at the latest absurdity. He is a firm adherent to the age-old adage of “it’s better to have and not need, than need and not have”, and he takes great pains to prepare for as many possible eventualities as he can, both mentally and physically.
Hugh does his best to act as a voice of moderation in the face of recklessness and often plays devil’s advocate for more “efficient” and less moral options. He’s not the sort to insist on -or even necessarily propose- them, however, unless the alternative would invite unreasonable danger. Of course, “unreasonable” is a rather subjective term.
At the end of the day, “a job is a job”. He’ll do what it takes to complete the task before him, regardless of most conventional moral concerns. This is not to say that he possesses no standards. Certainly, though he will complete a contract by any means necessary, he prefers not to involve innocents, especially children. He will refuse most jobs that may compromise the health and well being of everyday people, and he will extract righteous vengeance or compensation from any employer that deliberately deceives him of the true nature of a task.
He places incomparable worth upon the sanctity of his state of mind, to the point that he will only drink or consume even something as tame as alcoholic beverages or foods as a last resort, where the other option is starvation. In the case that his mind is infringed upon in any manner, he will stop at nothing to deliver retribution upon the offender.
In conclusion, though he sometimes comes across as amoral or uncaring, his conscience tends to shove him in the right direction at the end of the day. He is not the easiest person to please and can be quite prickly early on in any new relationship, but comrades that actually manage to slide past his guard and into his favor will be pleasantly surprised to find that there are few more loyal than he. To him, true friendship is a contract of utmost importance, one he will never abandon.
-Warning: A dreadfully redacted backstory lurks here and may misrepresent the full context of Hugh's actions and feelings. :)
"I learned a valuable lesson that day, one I continue to learn each day that follows. Perhaps when my teachings are complete, I will finally obtain solace.”
A bounty hunter of some minor renown, rumor has it that Hugh Caphazath’s particular set of skills find their roots in assassination. Nevertheless, to the public and the law, he has remained a relatively well-behaved individual, considering the temperament of the average adventurer. He made himself a reputation for being incredibly goal-oriented and the sort to be, quite frankly, somewhat anal about achieving perfect success. That ideal in mind, he was normally loth to work with other adventurers if he had any say in the matter, as the unpredictability of their presences tended to grate at his sensibilities on the job. This mindset was more recently unfortunately reinforced by a nearly fatal co-op job.
Two weeks before the Sheriff’s declared meeting time, Hugh was finishing up recovering from a particularly disastrous job that left him with a broken arm. Having severely depleted his funds to hire a healer from the local temple, he sought out straight-forward bounty work through one of his contacts, a dwarven barkeep named Greta.
Unfortunately, during the course of deciding a job amongst the available bounties, his choice was hijacked by an excitable Fighter named Kite Simmons. Unable to deny the practicality of having aid while he may still be recovering, Hugh begrudgingly agreed to work with the frustrating individual. He quickly came to regret it.
While the mission itself was beyond simple: the killing or capturing of a band of bandits numbering some 2 dozen strong, Hugh’s plan to wait for nightfall and carefully dispose of them in their sleep was rudely ruined by Kite charging directly into the camp “heroically”. The element of surprise long lost, Hugh was forced to engage. With his speed and agility, he was able to evade the bandits and slowly but surely pick them off from a distance with arrows and darts.
Kite fared much more poorly, and by the time Hugh was able to safely approach the campsite once more -the remaining bandits dead or fled, Kite was bleeding out. In his last moments, the knight handed the rather disgruntled Hugh a bloodied letter and told him to answer the call for heroes in his place.
At the time, Hugh dismissed the idea completely as utter stupidity and went about tracking down and finishing off the rest of the bandits. However, as the day wore on and he received his reward from a rather decidedly disappointed Greta, he realized that a kernel of guilt had knotted up in his stomach.
Incensed by the realization that he somehow felt guilty for failing to stop an idiot from charging to his certain doom, Hugh slept on the matter and eventually settled on accepting the foolish knight’s last request. Replenishing his gear and double-checking his savings, Hugh sallied forth to meet the Sheriff of Darenby, hoping against hope that the unlisted compensation would make this entire debacle worth his time and guilt trip.
“Why do I like them? Perhaps it’s the… surety of it all, the patterns. Life and death; the beauty of a natural system of rebirth is without compare. To know with certainty what is to come is the greatest treasure. Nature is merely the grandest and most predictable cycle of them all. One merely needs to learn to understand it.”
Hugh is rather fond of simply sitting quietly and observing the fauna of various shapes and sizes. Watching nature at work is a simple, yet satisfying, hobby of his.
“Know your worth, and ensure your clients know it just as well. It is your prerogative what tasks you may undertake, but do not hasten to abandon humility. Your contract is your bond. Know your limits, and undertake only a task you shall complete or die trying.”
Likes: Napping beside a warm crackling fire. A flawless mission. Getting paid. Fruity drinks. Spring season. A good shave. Beef.
“A sound soul dwells within a sound mind and sound body.”
Dislikes: Cold weather. Extroverts. Alcoholic beverages and foods. Reckless individuals. “Winging it.” Beards. Anything that would manipulate his mind or body.
Hobbies: Cooking. Reading. Nature watching.
Notable Quotes: “My body is my temple, honed by rigorous trials and the cultivation of Ki. Alcohol is a vile, addictive poison to that temple, for it dulls the mind and flays the sensibilities as well. Such swill is fit only for disinfectant; nothing more, nothing less.” “The social contract known as 'friendship' is a fascinating one, and not to be entered lightly. It possesses many layers, most of which tend to be subjective in importance. I have only ever entered one such contract... for very good reason. Indeed, such contracts are quite personal and are best entered only once one has a full understanding of their co-signer.”
In an adventuring party, he tends towards support dps and utility, especially when stealth is involved. In an emergency, he is also capable of social intrigue, but situations that require deft diplomacy do not favor him.
Alright, @Sigil, I should finally be done here. Nothing more serious to edit. Grammar checks out, and I've included everything vital to present the PC properly. If I do anything else, it'll only be way later and likely only be expanding his "Extras" section and maybe smoothing a couple things over if better wording occurs to me.
As is though, 100% complete!
As for the story itself, I'm really enjoying these PC intros so far! The only one I haven't gotten around to finishing yet is Victoria the Bard, but the opening paragraphs of that one are actually pretty funny. XD
“They would tell you that your ally is the darkness, and so you must be dressed to match. I am here to relieve you of such delusions.”
A fairly scruffy young man seemingly in his mid-twenties with lightly sun-tanned skin, he stands at a height of 5'4", around the shorter end of human average, which leaves him notably standing face to face with womenfolk more often than not. At a first glance, he presents an almost boring and unremarkable air with his lightly stubbled jaw-line and barely-brushed mud-brown hair. At a much closer glance, his stubble seems slightly uneven in places, like he does his own shaving but lacks the tools to get a perfect close cut. With his lean, sprinter build (which is normally concealed by baggy clothes), this does tend to give him a sort of rugged "guy next door" look, which can be useful when wanting to come across less conspicuously.
He wears a faded black tunic, reminiscent of what one might expect to see at a distant monastery, with a grey, long sleeved undershirt. Brown trousers are tucked into tall brown boots that are wrapped with strips of cloth. A backpack’s bulk clearly bulges from beneath his brown knee-length traveler’s cloak, the hood more often than not lying limply bunched behind his head. Beneath his backpack, strapped horizontally to the small of his back, it is possible to catch glimpses of a shortbow and bulging quiver of arrows, and several pouches hang from a sash around his waist that secures his tunic. Aside from this, he appears to possess no other obvious weaponry beyond a sturdy auburn staff that he either uses as a walking stick or slings over his shoulders to casually rest his arms atop.
Though his expression is almost perpetually placid and closed off, he generally appears congenial and unhostile. Upon getting a closer look at him in motion, the occasional glimpse of ever so slightly pointed ears can be caught through his shaggy hair. In addition, he notably seems the quiet sort, both in demeanor and action, often moving near silently even when there is no good reason to. Indeed, his footfalls seem light as air, and his unremarkable appearance is clearly at odds with the easy grace he almost subconsciously moves with.
“Strike first. Strike once. Strike last.”
“If at any point you falter, retreat and reassess.”
“The only thing that matters is total, unconditional success.”
“This is what it means to walk the Way of Shadow.”
Almost obsessively goal-oriented, Hugh will typically give any and every excuse to avoid unnecessary distractions; and if out of excuses, he may simply refuse outright. Despite his skill with words and knack for reading a room, he seems the sort to be most comfortable alone with a good book and a crackling fire, content to merely watch festivities from a distance and absorb the energy from them at his leisure. Beyond his few hobbies, he seems to have little interest in anything but the current work and the job to follow it, forgoing most friendships and romance beyond forging several firm friendly acquaintanceships.
In nearabouts every situation, he most closely exemplifies the traits of an introverted realist, with a distinct lean towards paranoia, and he is always the first to exasperatedly pinch the bridge of his nose at the latest absurdity. He is a firm adherent to the age-old adage of “it’s better to have and not need, than need and not have”, and he takes great pains to prepare for as many possible eventualities as he can, both mentally and physically.
Hugh does his best to act as a voice of moderation in the face of recklessness and often plays devil’s advocate for more “efficient” and less moral options. He’s not the sort to insist on -or even necessarily propose- them, however, unless the alternative would invite unreasonable danger. Of course, “unreasonable” is a rather subjective term.
At the end of the day, “a job is a job”. He’ll do what it takes to complete the task before him, regardless of most conventional moral concerns. This is not to say that he possesses no standards. Certainly, though he will complete a contract by any means necessary, he prefers not to involve innocents, especially children. He will refuse most jobs that may compromise the health and well being of everyday people, and he will extract righteous vengeance or compensation from any employer that deliberately deceives him of the true nature of a task.
He places incomparable worth upon the sanctity of his state of mind, to the point that he will only drink or consume even something as tame as alcoholic beverages or foods as a last resort, where the other option is starvation. In the case that his mind is infringed upon in any manner, he will stop at nothing to deliver retribution upon the offender.
In conclusion, though he sometimes comes across as amoral or uncaring, his conscience tends to shove him in the right direction at the end of the day. He is not the easiest person to please and can be quite prickly early on in any new relationship, but comrades that actually manage to slide past his guard and into his favor will be pleasantly surprised to find that there are few more loyal than he. To him, true friendship is a contract of utmost importance, one he will never abandon.
-Warning: A dreadfully redacted backstory lurks here and may misrepresent the full context of Hugh's actions and feelings. :)
"I learned a valuable lesson that day, one I continue to learn each day that follows. Perhaps when my teachings are complete, I will finally obtain solace.”
A bounty hunter of some minor renown, rumor has it that Hugh Caphazath’s particular set of skills find their roots in assassination. Nevertheless, to the public and the law, he has remained a relatively well-behaved individual, considering the temperament of the average adventurer. He made himself a reputation for being incredibly goal-oriented and the sort to be, quite frankly, somewhat anal about achieving perfect success. That ideal in mind, he was normally loth to work with other adventurers if he had any say in the matter, as the unpredictability of their presences tended to grate at his sensibilities on the job. This mindset was more recently unfortunately reinforced by a nearly fatal co-op job.
Two weeks before the Sheriff’s declared meeting time, Hugh was finishing up recovering from a particularly disastrous job that left him with a broken arm. Having severely depleted his funds to hire a healer from the local temple, he sought out straight-forward bounty work through one of his contacts, a dwarven barkeep named Greta.
Unfortunately, during the course of deciding a job amongst the available bounties, his choice was hijacked by an excitable Fighter named Kite Simmons. Unable to deny the practicality of having aid while he may still be recovering, Hugh begrudgingly agreed to work with the frustrating individual. He quickly came to regret it.
While the mission itself was beyond simple: the killing or capturing of a band of bandits numbering some 2 dozen strong, Hugh’s plan to wait for nightfall and carefully dispose of them in their sleep was rudely ruined by Kite charging directly into the camp “heroically”. The element of surprise long lost, Hugh was forced to engage. With his speed and agility, he was able to evade the bandits and slowly but surely pick them off from a distance with arrows and darts.
Kite fared much more poorly, and by the time Hugh was able to safely approach the campsite once more -the remaining bandits dead or fled, Kite was bleeding out. In his last moments, the knight handed the rather disgruntled Hugh a bloodied letter and told him to answer the call for heroes in his place.
At the time, Hugh dismissed the idea completely as utter stupidity and went about tracking down and finishing off the rest of the bandits. However, as the day wore on and he received his reward from a rather decidedly disappointed Greta, he realized that a kernel of guilt had knotted up in his stomach.
Incensed by the realization that he somehow felt guilty for failing to stop an idiot from charging to his certain doom, Hugh slept on the matter and eventually settled on accepting the foolish knight’s last request. Replenishing his gear and double-checking his savings, Hugh sallied forth to meet the Sheriff of Darenby, hoping against hope that the unlisted compensation would make this entire debacle worth his time and guilt trip.
“Why do I like them? Perhaps it’s the… surety of it all, the patterns. Life and death; the beauty of a natural system of rebirth is without compare. To know with certainty what is to come is the greatest treasure. Nature is merely the grandest and most predictable cycle of them all. One merely needs to learn to understand it.”
Hugh is rather fond of simply sitting quietly and observing the fauna of various shapes and sizes. Watching nature at work is a simple, yet satisfying, hobby of his.
“Know your worth, and ensure your clients know it just as well. It is your prerogative what tasks you may undertake, but do not hasten to abandon humility. Your contract is your bond. Know your limits, and undertake only a task you shall complete or die trying.”
Likes: Napping beside a warm crackling fire. A flawless mission. Getting paid. Fruity drinks. Spring season. A good shave. Beef.
“A sound soul dwells within a sound mind and sound body.”
Dislikes: Cold weather. Extroverts. Alcoholic beverages and foods. Reckless individuals. “Winging it.” Beards. Anything that would manipulate his mind or body.
Hobbies: Cooking. Reading. Nature watching.
Notable Quotes: “My body is my temple, honed by rigorous trials and the cultivation of Ki. Alcohol is a vile, addictive poison to that temple, for it dulls the mind and flays the sensibilities as well. Such swill is fit only for disinfectant; nothing more, nothing less.” “The social contract known as 'friendship' is a fascinating one, and not to be entered lightly. It possesses many layers, most of which tend to be subjective in importance. I have only ever entered one such contract... for very good reason. Indeed, such contracts are quite personal and are best entered only once one has a full understanding of their co-signer.”
In an adventuring party, he tends towards support dps and utility, especially when stealth is involved. In an emergency, he is also capable of social intrigue, but situations that require deft diplomacy do not favor him.
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