Friday, July 6, 2012

Marva Gets Hired

Harold Barefoot, Sr (of the Bigglesfoot Barefeet) took another sip of his pint of ale (they sold it in pints!), and glanced around the bar.  The word amongst his employees was that this was the place to go to find a particular kind of person who could do particular kinds of things, and he was looking for the right person.  He had to send someone to that vile place, the Island of Yem, to find his son, and bring him home.

For starters, the rather large bag of gold, stamped with a multi-legged (and beautifully blue) crustacean had been more than enough to cover the refund that Harry had given the Suckston-Barefeet.  The other problem, though, was the note from his son.

Dear Father,
You should be receiving monies from a group known as the Scions of the Cerulean Shrimp.  I’ve contracted with them to do a bit of information gathering and (potentially) industrial espionage on the Isle of Yem. I directed them to send you the payment for the information I’m supplying them, as my current activities require the funds I’m getting locally.
On the other hand, I’ve sharpened my bow skills somewhat, and after slaying an evil Wizard (is there any other kind?) I have a nice new magic bow, that, while I’m sure it would settle our debt, is more useful to me in my current endeavors.
We’ve just contracted with someone to retrieve a small statue from a remote location, the payment of which is obsene even by your standards. Once I’ve done that, I hope to return to my family in Bigglesfoot, and invest the money wisely,
Many happy returns (at least 12%, if you know what I mean)
Your, son, Harry Barefoot

He’d crumpled the note when he’d seen it the first time, but smoothed it out afterwards.  His son was doing the work of a commoner!  Delving into places and retreiving things, shooting evil Wizards! That was work for the militia, or hirelings at least!  It was time to retrieve the boy, and for that he needed help.  

Probably from the militia, or a hireling at least.

He took a sip from his pint, and a tall, thin (yet still good-looking) redhead sat down across from him.  “Hiya, hot stuff,” she said. “How’s it hanging?”

Harold Barefoot thought about excusing himself, but he’d been in the bar for several hours and she was the first one to approach him for work.  He took a bigger sip of his ale, and started to tell the human what he wanted.

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